“My God,” Red replied, “I don’t envy her that. The hangover from that whiskey’s far worse than bein’ shot.”
Even with Hattie being wounded, the mood of the outfit was much improved. Buck and Haze were able to sit up, could eat, and the healing process had begun.
“Tomorrow,” said Port Guthrie, “we’ll go after the missing mules.”
“I’ll go with you,” Red said. “With Mac, Buck, and Haze here, and with that bunch of outlaws out of the way, the cabin should be secure enough.”
Port Guthrie, Emmett Budd, Saul Estrella, Gourd Snively, and Red McLean rode out the following morning in search of the missing mules.
“We had rain for two days after the varmints lit out,” Guthrie said, “so we can forget about follerin’ a trail. We’ll just have to ride along the river and look for ’em.”
“There was enough rain to fill ever’ dry creek an’ water hole for a hunnert miles,” said Gourd Snively. “We may be wastin’ our time huntin’ ’em along the river.”
“Maybe,” Guthrie agreed, “but it’s a good place to start. There’s generally more graze close to the river, especially this time of the year.”
“We’ll likely find all of ’em or none of ’em,” said Saul Estrella. “They’ll usually bunch together, whether they’re grazin’ or driftin’.”
“When they stampeded,” Red reminded them, “they were running into the storm, and no horse, mule, or cow will do that for long. After the thunder and lightning let up, I’d not be surprised if they all drifted with the storm.”
“That makes sense to me,” said Saul Estrella, “and if that’s the case, we’re ridin’ this river the wrong direction.”
“Maybe,” Port Guthrie said, “and if we don’t find some mule sign within the next few miles, we’ll take Red’s suggestion. We’re tryin’ to do it the easy way, follerin’ the river. If this don’t work, the hunt’s goin’ to get considerably more complicated.”
“I hope the jug-heads don’t wander too far into Indian Territory,” said Emmett Budd. “There was just a hell of a lot of them Comanches, and with the buffalo gone, some mule meat might tickle the fancy of Quanah Parker and his bunch.”
“I wish you hadn’t brought that up,” Red said.
“It’s a possibility we may have to consider,” said Port Guthrie, “if all else fails. We can make do with eight of the critters, by harnessin’ them four extra horses to one of the wagons, but we sure can’t manage with no less.”
“Many a good saddle horse ain’t worth a damn in harness,” Red said. “We’ll find the missing mules, unless they’ve been carved into Comanche steaks and eaten.”
After a two-hour westward ride, Port Guthrie reined up.
“Red’s idea is makin’ more sense all the time,” Guthrie said. “We’ve come twenty mile at least. If we’re goin’ to find them missin’ critters, we’d as well ride back the way we come. They must of drifted with the storm.”
They rode on in silence, every man of them aware of the consequences of losing half their mules. They rode past the cabin, following the river eastward. Having ridden almost fifteen miles, they discovered the first mule tracks.
“They been waterin’ here, where the riverbank is low,” said Guthrie, “and they’ve been here more’n once, from the tracks. That means they ain’t too far off.”
Some of the tracks were fresh and the animals had been to the river often enough to have left a broad trail. It led to the south, away from the river.
“They’ve found some good graze somewhere,” Gourd Snively observed.
The riders topped a rise, and from there they counted all twelve of the missing mules. Downwind from the mounted men, the mules lifted their heads, aware that they were being watched.
“Don’t nobody move,” said Guthrie. “Give the varmints time to get used to us being here. They been loose long enough they’re likely to scatter like wild turkeys if we move suddenly.”
The riders waited until the wary mules resumed their grazing. They hadn’t been free long enough to spook at the sight of mounted men.
“Let’s ride a mite closer,” Port Guthrie said. “If they act skittish, rein up and wait for ’em to settle down again.”
With Guthrie leading, the men rode a few yards closer, and again the mules ceased grazing and lifted their heads. The riders reined up until the mules again settled down.
“A mite closer,” said Red, “and we can rope five of ’em.”
“No,” Guthrie said. “That would scare hell out of the others. We got to get among ’em, so’s we can bridle ’em. They ain’t used to bein’ roped, but they’ll all remember what a bridle is.”
Guthrie’s mule sense worked to perfection, and after five of the animals were bridled, the others submitted meekly, as though they believed it was expected of them.
“Port,” said Red admiringly, “when there’s mules to be reasoned with, I’ll shut my mouth, get out of the way, and stand back and watch.”
Guthrie laughed. “I’ve been around mules more’n I have people. I reckon the varmints has accepted me as one of them.”
The mules followed willingly on lead ropes. As the riders neared the cabin, there was a ragged cheer from the men who had remained behind. The return of the elusive mules was their assurance that they would again be taking the trail, leaving behind the cabin that had at times seemed a prison.
“From now on,” Guthrie said, “we’re goin’ to picket these critters. Emmett, Saul, and Gourd, help me settle ’em down and grain ’em.”
Red dismounted and hurried to the cabin, anxious about Hattie. He found she was still belly-down and still sleeping.
“She’s had her first dose of whiskey,” said Trinity. “Rachel and Elizabeth had to hold her while I poured the stuff down her.”
“The wound didn’t weaken her,” Mac said. “She fought like a bobcat.”
“I reckon that’s a good sign,” said Red. “We’ll be waiting for her to heal enough for us to take the trail.”
“I’m still a mite sore,” Buck said, “but I’m ready to get out of here.”
“So am I,” said Haze. “This was a great shelter when we needed one, but I want to be away, out on the plains.”
“When Hattie’s fever breaks,” Trinity said, “we’ll see how she feels about leaving. If she can lie belly-down in the wagon as well as she can in this bunk, then we can go.”
The Canadian River. October 20, 1873.
“I can’t see us remaining here another day on my account,” Hattie said, when she had slept off the effects of the whiskey. “Spread me some blankets in that wagon and let’s be on our way.”
The teamsters harnessed the mules, mounted their wagon boxes, and the big wagons again lumbered south. Each of the first four wagons had a horse loping behind on a lead rope. Trinity’s wagon was last in line. Red and Haze rode beside it, while Buck rode ahead of Port Guthrie’s lead wagon. Mac had ridden ahead to scout for water, having made sure all the water barrels had been filled before leaving the Canadian.
“Whoa up!” Guthrie shouted. It was time to rest the teams.
Hattie twisted around and raised her head above the wagon’s tailgate.
“Well,” said Red, “you’ve made the first two hours. Maybe eight more, and you can get out of there.”
“Lying belly-down, I can’t imagine the ground being any better than a wagon bed,” Hattie grunted, “except that the ground won’t be moving up, down, and sideways.”
When the teamsters were about to take the trail again, Mac rode in, and they waited for his report about the terrain ahead.
“The storm replenished some water holes and dry creeks,” said Mac. “There’s a good spring with a runoff that we should reach before sundown.”
“How about graze?” Guthrie asked.
“Close by, and not bad for this time of year,” said Mac. “It’ll do for tonight.”
Again the wagons moved on, Mac riding ahead.
“Rachel,” Trinity s
aid, “take over the reins for a while. I’m going to ride one of the extra horses.”
“I suppose you should,” said Rachel devilishly. “Mac looks terribly lonesome.”
“Oh, shut up,” Trinity said, “or I’ll tell Buck you’re having trouble with the teams and you’re wanting him to take the reins for you.”
“Oh, would you?” Rachel asked, in a pleading way.
Trinity could hear them laughing as she rode away, and it sounded like Hattie had taken part in the merriment. She trotted her horse alongside Mac’s, and he didn’t seem surprised to find her there.
“Tired of the wagon seat?” he asked.
“That, and Hattie’s grunting and groaning,” said Trinity. “Perhaps just tired of female company in general.”
“Come, now,” Mac said, “you’re betraying your own kind.”
“There’s times when my own kind can be a bother,” said Trinity. “Why is it that a man can be mortally wounded and the without a whimper, while a female with a scratch on her behind . . .”
Mac laughed. “You said it was a bloody mess when you first looked at it.”
“There was a lot of blood,” Trinity said defensively, “and it looked worse than it was. The bullet was mostly spent from having passed through her right thigh, but I’d swear her bottom bled worse than your wound.”
“Given a choice,” said Mac, “I’d rather be shot just about anywhere else. I reckon it’s hell, not bein’ able to sit. How much longer do you think she’ll be on her belly?”
“Two or three more days, at least,” Trinity replied. “Isn’t there something else we can talk about?”
“Yes,” said Mac, “but you won’t like that any better.”
“We’ve survived two outlaw gangs,” Trinity said. “You’re expecting worse?”
“Maybe,” said Mac. “Indian Territory’s infested with renegades of every stripe, but we may encounter others as bad or worse in Texas.”
“I suppose you have a reason for believing that.”
“I do,” Mac replied. “You know the kind of cargo we’re taking to Austin. Before we left Kansas City, word had leaked out regarding these arms and ammunition, and before we even reached Dodge, there was a gang—a dozen strong—trying to stop the train. Then after we reached Dodge, the son-in-law of the owner of the freight line pulled a Judas and had his own bunch of outlaws try to steal the wagons.”
“That’s serious enough,” said Trinity, “but what does that have to do with Texas and the trouble you’re expecting there?”
“If word of this arms shipment leaked out in Kansas City,” Mac said, “I believe it all could have been common knowledge in Washington. Thanks to the telegraph, there’s a good possibility that every fort in Texas knows about us. I know Mr. Lincoln wanted us all to be one nation again, and with all due respect to him, there’s a bunch of varmints wearin’ Union blue that ought to be backed up against a wall and shot.”
“You believe we’re in danger from the military in Texas?”
“I don’t have any proof,” said Mac, “but after what happened in Dodge, I don’t trust even the military.”
“Then you’re taking some risk in going to Fort Griffin,” Trinity said.
“If they already know about us,” said Mac, “our stopping there won’t make any real difference. Anybody looking for us can find us.”
“My God,” Trinity said, “if we can’t trust our own soldiers . . .”
“I’m not saying we can’t trust any of them,” said Mac. “There’s a mix of good men who fought on both sides, but there’s some renegade Rebs who took the pledge that won’t forget and won’t forgive. They’re watching and waiting for an opportunity to pull off a coup that will cripple the Union, and the loss of this initial shipment of arms would just about do it. Especially if they fall into the hands of the nation’s enemies.”
“What do we do, how do we protect ourselves?”
“I’m not sure,” Mac said, “because I don’t know from what quarter such a move might come. I hope when we reach Fort Griffin I can meet with the post commander and see how much he already knows about where we’re going and what we’re hauling.”
“But we’re still a long way from Fort Griffin.”
“Yes,” said Mac, “and you’re wondering what might happen before we get there. I’m wondering the same thing. We’re just goin’ to have to keep our eyes open and our guns handy.”
“When are you going to warn the others?”
“Most of the men already have their suspicions,” Mac replied. “It’s something we’ll have to discuss before we cross the Red River. Please don’t involve Hattie, Elizabeth, and Rachel in this just yet.”
“You’re a trusting man, Mr. Tunstall.”
“Only when I believe that trust is justified, Mrs. McCoy.”
“Please don’t call me that.”
“Whatever you say,” Mac said. “But until we reach Fort Griffin, and you know—”
“Oh, damn Fort Griffin,” Trinity cried. “I’ve told you how I feel.”
She wheeled her horse and galloped away, riding wide of the wagons so the teamsters wouldn’t see the tears on her cheeks. Circling in behind her own wagon, sleeving the tears away, she dismounted. She climbed into the moving wagon and tied the horse’s reins to a wagon bow. Hattie wriggled toward the front of the wagon, making room, and it was she who spoke.
“You’ve been bawling. What did the brute do to you?”
“I have not been bawling,” Trinity snapped.
“Don’t lie to me,” said Hattie. “There’s streaks in the dirt on your face.”
“He called me Mrs. McCoy,” Trinity said.
“Oh, that is serious,” said Hattie, in mock sympathy. “He still thinks of you as used goods, a married woman.”
On the wagon box, Rachel and Elizabeth had been all ears, and they joined Hattie in a burst of laughter. Trinity responded with some choice words that might have embarrassed Mac Tunstall, had he heard, but Trinity’s three mischievous companions laughed all the harder.
As Mac had predicted, the wagons reached the spring before sundown, allowing them time to gather wood and prepare supper before dark.
“We’ll leave the fire burned down to just coals, to keep the coffee hot,” Mac said. “I don’t know who might see the fire after dark, but we can’t afford to take chances. We’ll continue with three watches, as before. Port, you gents take the first two watches, three of you at a time. Red, Buck, Haze, and me will take the last watch.”
A few minutes after the third watch began, Hattie, Rachel, and Elizabeth quietly left the wagon. Trinity knew where they were going, but she stubbornly refused to follow their example. Let Mac Tunstall wonder where she was, and if he cared enough, perhaps he would come looking for her. But when an hour had passed, there was no sign of him. She stamped her foot, swore under her breath, swallowed her pride, and stalked to the farthest wagon where she expected him to be. Only he wasn’t there. She started around the wagon, but froze at the sound of a Colt being cocked behind her.
“Damn you,” she hissed, “you knew it was me.”
“How was I to know?” he taunted. “It’s black as the underside of a stove lid, and you could have been a Comanche.”
“Well, you could have come to me,” she snapped.
“Oh, but I couldn’t” said Mac. “I’m on watch, and the rest of the camp’s covered. Besides, it was you that got a burr under your tail and run off.”
“I did not run off. I simply returned to my wagon.”
“Then why are you so hacked off at me?”
“You called me Mrs. McCoy, after all I’ve . . . all we’ve . . .”
“I don’t know how old you are, and I don’t care.” Mac said, “but you’re old enough that you have no business playing games.”
Seizing her by the shoulders, he kissed her long and hard.
“How dare you,” she said, breaking his grip. “I . . . I’ll . . .”
“You’ll do what?�
� he demanded.
She threw her arms around him, returning his kiss two-fold.
“That’s your best answer so far,” he said, when she finally let him go.
Elsewhere within the camp, Red leaned against a wagon and Hattie stood beside him.
“I’m so glad to be off my belly and out of that wagon,” Hattie said, “I’ll never tire of standing. I’m hoping by tomorrow I’ll be able to sit.”
“Will you have a scar?” Red asked.
“Perhaps,” said Hattie. “Will it bother you?”
“I reckon not,” Red replied, “if mine don’t bother you.”
“I don’t know,” she teased. “It depends on where they are.”
“You’ll have to wait,” said Red. “The time ain’t right.”
“When will it be right? After Fort Griffin?”
“I reckon,” Red said. “Some things deserve a man’s undivided attention, and I reckon I can’t devote all mine to you until we get these wagons to Austin.”
“That’s a relief,” said Hattie. “I was afraid . . . something else . . . was coming between us.”
“Not what you’re thinking,” Red said. “I’m expecting trouble either before we get to Fort Griffin, or somewhere between Fort Griffin and Austin.”
“Oh, I hope not,” said Hattie, “after the trouble we’ve had. How many more outlaws can there be?”
“Entirely too many,” Red replied.
“I was scared to death when you were shot,” Rachel said. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”
Buck laughed. “It ain’t the kind of thing a man chooses. You was all that fearful, just for a galoot like me?”
“I was,” said Rachel. “I was so afraid, my eyes were out of focus, and I couldn’t have found my backside with both hands. If it hadn’t been for Trinity and Port Guthrie, you’d have bled to death.”
“This is the frontier,” Buck said. “You got to get over that. Next time I’m shot, Port and Trinity may not be there. It may all depend on you.”
“I’ll try,” said Rachel, moving closer to him. “Lord, I’ll be glad when we finally reach Fort Griffin.”
The Winchester Run Page 16
