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  FURY OF THE STORM

  Lightning struck only a few yards away, and as though waiting for just such a signal, the horses and longhorns took the cue. As one, they struck out in a gallop, back toward the east. Lonnie and Dallas were in the lead, trying to get ahead of the stampede. Mindy leaped into the saddle of Becky’s horse, kicking the animal into a run. Lonnie and Dallas were directly in the path of the herd, waving their hats and firing their Colts.

  The fury of the storm, with its rolling thunder, drowned out the sound of the shooting. There was no stopping the stampede, and Lonnie galloped out of its path. But Dallas continued firing. Frightened by the shooting and the oncoming herd, his horse nickered, rearing. Dallas was flung from the saddle, while the frightened horse tried to get out of the path of the stampede. Dallas stood there as though stunned. The leaders of the stampede had already galloped past Lonnie, and while he kicked his horse into a gallop, there was no way he could reach Dallas in time. Then from the other side of the charging herd—just seconds ahead of the leaders—came Mindy on Becky’s bay horse. It seemed for a moment that Dallas and his rescuer were lost, but Mindy extended her hand, Dallas took it, and swung up to the saddle behind her …

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles

  by Ralph Compton

  The Trail Drive Series

  THE GOODNIGHT TRAIL

  THE WESTERN TRAIL

  THE CHISHOLM TRAIL

  THE BANDERA TRAIL

  THE CALIFORNIA TRAIL

  THE SHAWNEE TRAIL

  THE VIRGINIA CITY TRAIL

  THE DODGE CITY TRAIL

  THE OREGON TRAIL

  THE SANTA FE TRAIL

  THE OLD SPANISH TRAIL

  THE GREEN RIVER TRAIL

  THE DEADWOOD TRAIL

  The Sundown Riders Series

  NORTH TO THE BITTERROOT

  ACROSS THE RIO COLORADO

  THE WINCHESTER RUN

  THE GREEN RIVER TRAIL

  RALPH COMPTON

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks

  NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This is a work of fiction, based on actual trail drives of the Old West. Many of the characters appearing in the Trail Drive Series were very real, and some of the trail drives actually took place. But the reader should be aware that, in the developing of characters and events, some fictional litrerary license has been employed. While some of the characters and events herein are purely the creation of the author, every effort has been made to portray them with accuracy. However, the inherent dangers of the trail are real, sufficient unto themselves, and seldom has it been necessary to enhance their reality.

  THE GREEN RIVER TRAIL

  Copyright © 1999 by Ralph Compton.

  Trail map design by L.A. Hensley.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  ISBN: 0-312-97092-7

  Printed in the United States of America

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / October 1999

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  10 9 8 7 6 5

  AUTHOR’S FOREWORD

  Jim Bridger, just eighteen, had been working in St. Louis as a blacksmith when he joined William H. Ashley’s Missouri River Expedition. It was his introduction to the West, and he spent the next twenty years as a trader and fur trapper in Idaho, Colorado, and Utah.

  The fur trade began to die in the 1840s, leaving many of the mountain men such as Bridger at loose ends. But Oregon Territory had been opened in 1841, and Fort Laramie was the only major outpost between Independence and the end of two thousand miles of treacherous trail. Having long traded with the friendly Shoshones, Jim Bridger—aided by another mountain man, Louis Vasquez—built a trading post on Black’s Fork, where it fed into the Green. Bridger believed it would be a godsend to the Oregon-bound emigrants on the trail west, while drawing regular trade from Wyoming’s friendly tribe, the Wind River Shoshones. Bridger’s trading post prospered for four years.

  It was time for Mormons to find a home, and Brigham Young chose a remote spot in the valley of the Great Salt Lake in Utah. Preparations were made for the Saints to migrate by wagon and on foot with handcarts to carry their goods across a little-known wilderness.

  But trouble lay ahead. In July 1847, the first settlers arrived at what is now Salt Lake City. They built shelters, planted crops, and through irrigation the desert began to thrive and blossom. But Gentiles—the name for non-Mormons—began arriving, and when gold was discovered in California, things went from bad to worse. Gold seekers, attempting to avoid the crossing of the treacherous South Pass, passed through territory Mormons saw as their own.

  After numerous clashes with Mormons, Bridger realized he must give up his trading post. There were good reasons for Bridger’s decision. First, there was the ever-present danger from militant Mormons, who were now within just a few miles of the trading post. Second, the army was planning to build more forts in the western territories. Third, the railroad would be coming, eliminating most of the need for frontier outposts, private or government-owned. The Union Pacific Railroad would open up the nation to commerce with the High Plains.

  In the spring of 1853, what Jim Bridger had foreseen came to pass. He and Louis Vasquez fled the trading post just ahead of a horde of Mormons who overran the trading post and captured it. Eventually, the trading post—or fort—would be sold to the United States government, and it would take soldiers to dislodge the Mormons. But as Bridger and Vasquez rode out for the last time, Bridger was content. He had become weary of being a storekeeper, and in the back of his mind was the lush graze along Green River in northeastern Utah. There a man could build a cattle or horse ranch that would be the envy of the frontier, if he chose to do so.

  The territory was rich in minerals. Coal, lead, gold, and silver were to be produced in great amounts, but the area developed slowly because of conflict that ensued between Mormons and the federal government. But copper was the chief metal. Bingham Canyon had the largest open-pit copper mine in the country. But both mining and smelting were controlled by big eastern-owned companies, resulting in a Mormon distrust of industrialization. In 1848, at the end of the Mexican War, the region passed to the United States, and a large area, of which the present state is a part, became Utah Territory. Congressional acts forbidding polygamy were passed in 1862, 1882, and 1887. Not until the religious group discontinued the practice did the territory become the state of Utah. The year was 1896.

  THE GREEN RIVER TRAIL

  PROLOGUE

  San Francisco, California. June 1, 1853.

  Four men rode across the Sierra Nevada, bound for southwestern Wyoming. Their pack mule followed on a lead rope. At twenty-three, Lonnie Kilgore was the oldest of the four. Dallas Weaver was a year younger, while Dirk McNelly and Kirby Lowe were both several months shy of twenty-one. They reined up on a ridge to rest the horses and the pack mule.

  “I’m glad I got to see California once,” Dirk McNelly said, “but I’ve never been so glad to be leavin’ a place in my life. It ain’t natural, everything always bein’ green. I like to see the falling leaves.”

  “I reckon you’ll be seeing plenty of them in Texas,” said Kirby Lowe. “Remember, in just four years each of us has come out of the California goldfields with mor
e than ten thousand dollars. Raising cows in Texas, starving through the dry years, and fighting the Comanches, you wouldn’t see half that much coin if you lived to be a hundred.”

  “That’s the gospel truth if I ever heard it,” Dallas Weaver said. “Trouble is, what are we goin’ to do with what we’ve earned? A couple of bad years in Texas could break us.”

  “Then maybe we’d better not settle in Texas,” said Lonnie Kilgore. “Remember, on our way west, when we spent a couple of days at Jim Bridger’s trading post in Wyoming?”

  “Yeah,” Dallas Weaver said. “Bridger’s an old mountain man, and what he don’t know about this high country likely ain’t worth knowing.”

  “I’m thinking of something he said while we was there,” said Lonnie. “He talked about that range along the Green River in northeastern Utah, where the grass reaches up to a horse’s belly. He thought it would be grand for horses, cattle, or both. In the summer, herds of cattle could be driven into Washington, Oregon, Nevada, and California.”

  “That ain’t all,” Kirby Lowe said. “It’ll be a while in coming, but the San Francisco newspapers was plumb full of stories about the building of the Union Pacific, a transcontinental railroad. It’ll run across southern Wyoming near where Bridger’s trading post is now. I doubt any of us will live long enough to see a railroad reach Texas.”

  “A railroad can be as much a curse as a blessing,” said Dirk McNelly. “It’ll bring in droves of sodbusters, and it’ll mean the end of free range.”

  “Forget about free range,” Lonnie Kilgore said. “We have money to buy land, and if the price is right, we can buy a lot of it. Once you got a title to it, nobody can root you out. That’s my thinking.”

  “The farther we are from civilization, the less the land will cost,” said Dallas Weaver, “but I’m not sure about this Green River range. Bridger was already having trouble with the Mormons when we was there four years ago, and he ain’t even in Utah.”

  “Once we’ve filed on land and have a title to it, it’s ours,” Lonnie Kilgore said. “I’m not one to fight with my neighbors, but I won’t be pushed around. I think we should talk to Bridger about this range, and unless somebody’s already claiming it, we should consider buying four sections—or maybe eight—depending on the price.”

  “Eight sections!” said Kirby Lowe. “My God, that’s more than five thousand acres.”

  “With the Green River running through it,” Dirk McNelly said. “I like that.”

  “So do I,” Kirby Lowe said, “but before we settle out here, I’d like to ride to Texas and see my folks. I ain’t seen ’em since I was sixteen.”

  “I ain’t so sure my folks will want to see me,” said Dirk McNelly. “My old man called me a fool for wantin’ to go gallavantin’ off to California. I had to sneak off in the middle of the night.”

  “After we talk to Bridger, if all this still seems like a good idea, we’ll be going back to Texas,” Lonnie Kilgore said. “We’ll need cattle. We may have to rope the varmints out of the brush, but we can do that, if we must.”

  “What about horses?” Kirby Lowe asked. “Even when it’s hard times in Texas, a good horse can set you back two hundred dollars.”

  “There are some fine horses in California,” said Lonnie Kilgore. “Once we’ve brought a herd of longhorns from Texas, we can bring in some brood mares from California.”

  “One thing we have to consider is the Indians,” Dallas Weaver said. “From what Jim Bridger said, the Utes and Paiutes don’t take kindly to whites coming into the territory.”

  “By now,” said Kirby Lowe, “there ought to be enough Mormons there to keep them busy. At least the Wind River Shoshones are friendly.”

  “Yeah,” Dirk McNelly said, “but they’re too far north, in the Wind River Mountains.”

  “I think this is another case where we’ll have to depend on Jim Bridger’s advice,” said Lonnie Kilgore.

  The four of them rode on, still dressed as Texas cowboys, even after four long years in California. In each saddle boot there was a treasured Hawken rifle, and each of them had a tied-down Colt revolver on his right hip. Not until late afternoon did they discover they were being followed. Again, they had stopped to rest the horses, and it was Kirby Lowe who spoke.

  “Maybe my eyes are playin’ tricks on me, but I’d swear I saw some dust back yonder a ways, along our back trail.”

  “Whether you did or didn’t, this is no time to gamble,” said Lonnie Kilgore. “There’s always a horde of hombres around a gold camp who’d rather steal their gold than work for it. Remember last year, when three miners were bushwhacked when they rode out bound for home?”

  “Yeah,” Dallas Weaver said, “and the bushwhackers were never caught. I think we’d do well to ride on a ways and then double back. This ain’t the kind of country where a man rides unless he has to. We can set up a little welcomin’ party of our own.”

  “We’ll ride to the foot of this ridge,” said Lonnie Kilgore. “There we’ll leave the mule and our horses, doubling back on foot.”

  They rode on, leaving a clear trail for their pursuers. Reining up in a thicket, they tied the mule and their horses.

  “Dallas,” said Lonnie, “you and Dirk double back to the south and then west, keeping within range of the trail. Kirby, you and me will head north a ways, and then west. I’ll challenge these riders, and since we’ll be shooting from cover, we’ll let them make the first move. They could be other miners on their way home.”

  “Well, hell,” Dirk McNelly said, “if they are, we still may have a fight on our hands. They’re likely to think we’re bushwhackers aimin’ to take their gold.”

  “Maybe not,” said Lonnie Kilgore. “Bushwhackers don’t shout a warning.”

  The four men separated in twos, taking the north and south sides of the back trail. A vengeful sun bore down on them, and the armpits of their shirts were soon soaked with sweat. They waited for more than an hour, their patience growing thin, before hearing the distinctive sound of trotting horses. There were four riders, and they looked like anything but miners. They rode on, and when they were within gun range, Lonnie Kilgore shouted a challenge.

  “Rein up. Identify yourselves and tell us why you’re trailing us.”

  There was a moment of shocked silence. Then, as one, the four went for their guns. It left the four friends from Texas little choice. Lonnie shot the lead man out of the saddle, while Dallas, Dirk, and Kirby accounted for the other three. Spooked by the shooting, their horses galloped down the ridge. There was dead silence, and none of the four who had been gunned down seemed alive.

  “We might as well search them,” said Lonnie, “and see what we can find. Then we’ll go after their horses and search their saddlebags.”

  “Lord, I hope they wasn’t miners on their way home,” Dirk McNelly said.

  “I doubt they were,” said Lonnie Kilgore. “Bushwhackers wouldn’t have challenged them, and if they didn’t have mischief on their minds, they wouldn’t have gone for their guns. They made the first move, and it was the wrong one. When a man pulls iron, it’s evidence aplenty that he’s up to no good.”

  Each of them searched one of the dead men, and it was Dallas Weaver who recognized one of them.

  “This is Jake Doolin,” said Dallas. “He’s been hanging around for months, and as for mining, he ain’t hit a lick. There’s been some strong suspicions that he’s one of a pack of coyotes who kill miners for their pokes.”

  “I’ve heard that,” Lonnie said, “but nobody said it too loud. There was no proof.”

  “There is now,” said Kirby. “Sure as hell, the four of ’em aimed to kill and rob us.”

  “Question is,” Dirk said, “what do we do with them? I can’t see ridin’ all the way back to San Francisco to tell the law what we done.”

  “We’ll leave them where they lay,” said Lonnie, “and anything we find that we can use, we’ll take with us.”

  Searching the bodies of the four men, they came
up with more than a thousand dollars in gold coin.

  “Unless somebody’s hit pay dirt in Texas, that’ll buy three hundred cows,” Dirk said.

  “Now,” said Dallas, “let’s round up their horses. We can take them with us, and it’ll be the start of a remuda for the trail drive from Texas.”

  They soon found the four horses grazing and caught them without difficulty. There was a rifle in each saddle boot. But the saddlebags were a disappointment, for there was only a change of clothing, clean socks, and jerked beef.

  “They didn’t aim to travel far from town,” Lonnie said. “They’d ride just far enough to do their killing and robbing, and be back at the gold camp before dark.”

  “It’d be a shame, leaving these four good horses and saddles,” said Dirk, “but there’s a little matter of us having no bills of sale on any of ’em. They’re all branded, too.”

  “Mex brands,” Lonnie said. “They likely were stolen somewhere below the border, and as long as these four dead coyotes have been hanging around San Francisco, I doubt anybody’s asked for a bill of sale. We’ll take those four horses with us on lead ropes.”

  The four friends rode out. Three of the men had the newly acquired horses on leads, while Lonnie Kilgore led the fourth horse and the pack mule. They made camp for the night near a water hole in Nevada. They poured water on their small fire well before dark.

  “I have some serious doubts about the direction we’re headed,” Lonnie said. “I think we ought to ride due north and take the Oregon Trail to Bridger’s trading post. Remember, when we was there before, Bridger told us the Mormons was settling around the Great Salt Lake? If we ride a straight line from here to Bridger’s, we’ll be passing right through the Mormon settlements.”

  “It’ll take us maybe a day longer,” said Dallas, “and we’d come out somewhere in Idaho, I reckon.”*