The Western Trail Read online

  “GRANT, MEET McCALEB”

  When the door swung open, a Union soldier stepped out. McCaleb got an arm around his throat, cut off his wind, and with the muzzle of his Colt, hit him just hard enough.

  “There’ll be another one,” McCaleb called to Cody.

  Again he positioned himself by the door. Again, it opened and a second soldier appeared.

  McCaleb caught him around the throat and silenced him with a swift blow of the Colt’s muzzle. McCaleb dragged the two unconscious men into the presidential coach. He closed the door behind him and advanced to the door ahead. He drew his Colt, turned the knob, and confronted the President of the United States….

  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 WESTERN TRAIL

  Ralph Compton

  Respectfully dedicated to:

  Miss Lena Goodnight, Quanah, Texas

  Ms. Pat Sikes, Claude, Texas

  Ms. Sue McClure, Nashville, Tennessee

  CONTENTS

  AUTHOR’S FOREWORD

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S FOREWORD

  In the aftermath of the Civil War, cash-starved Texans turned to the only resource they possessed in abundance: longhorn cows. Five million of them, wild or nearly so. Much of the western part of the nation was still designated as “territories,” including New Mexico, Colorado, Wyoming, Dakota, Idaho, Utah, and Oklahoma. The rails reached Abilene, Kansas, in 1867. Despite the hazards of trailing longhorns across some three hundred miles of Indian Territory, it was the Texas trail driver’s only access to the railroad.

  Charles Goodnight was the first Texas cattleman to see the advantages of blazing a new trail, to winter his herd on virgin range in New Mexico and Colorado, to seek more lucrative markets. While Goodnight needed money, he saw beyond that immediate need. In these sparsely inhabited, isolated “territories,” he saw the need for breeding stock, and the potential for a cattle empire.

  The opening of the Western trail finished what Goodnight had started. It ran northerly from San Antonio, across south-central Texas, skirted the border of Indian Territory, and, bearing a bit to the west at Fort Dodge, struck out for Ogallala, Nebraska. The northern leg continued across Dakota Territory to Fort Buford, located on the south bank of the Missouri, at the extreme western border of what would become North Dakota. The western leg of the trail veered from Ogallala to Cheyenne, where it swung north to Fort Laramie, and from there snaked its way across Wyoming Territory. It crossed the Powder River at Montana Territory’s southern border, ending at Miles City, at the confluence of the Powder and the Yellowstone rivers.

  While the Western trail barely touched the western boundary of Indian Territory, there were Indians in Wyoming, Montana, and Dakota territories. But despite the hazards, it was “seed” cattle from Texas that heralded the beginning of these uncharted territories as cattle country.

  In November 1867 the first Union Pacific train rolled into Cheyenne. By the end of 1868, end-of-track had reached the Utah line. May 10, 1869, the Union Pacific and Central Pacific tracks joined at Promontory Summit, Utah. The first transcontinental railroad was completed. Following the Fetterman massacre in 1866, and the Wagon Box fight in 1867, the Bozeman trail was closed. In April 1868 one of the most famous of Indian treaties was signed at Fort Laramie. The Indians would be moved north, away from the railroad. A popular consensus was that the railroad had eliminated the need for the Bozeman trail and its protective forts, thus solving the Indian problem. But these historic moves made little difference in the territories. Just as emigrants following the Bozeman trail hadn’t stayed, neither did most of those riding the Union Pacific trains. Despite the treaty, Indians—most notably the Arapaho and Shoshoni—still fought the white man and each other.

  The high plains, with their sage brush, mesquite, and buffalo grass, were unsuited to anything except grazing cattle or sheep. Prairie towns provided water tanks where thirsty locomotives drank, and a stop for bored passengers to eat and stretch their legs. But only Texas cowboys found the plains appealing enough to stay, and some of them did. Insofar as Texas trail drives were concerned, the coming of the railroad to the territories changed nothing. It was only a means of getting the cattle to market—if the new rancher survived long enough to have cattle to sell. The Indians continued to be a threat until 1874, the same year that Joseph F. Glidden received a patent for barbed wire. The days of the Texas trail drive were numbered.

  Paradoxically, the great war that drove Texans to their knees put them on their feet. Forced from the land of their birth, they settled the territories and built cow country empires along the Western trail.

  PROLOGUE

  Benton McCaleb was from Red River County, Texas. He was but thirty years old, with straw-yellow hair and blue eyes. In his Texas boots he stood just four inches shy of seven feet. He wore a Colt .44 on his left hip, butt forward for a cross-hand draw. McCaleb had joined the Rangers in 1861. During his four-year enlistment he had met and become friends with Charles Goodnight, Brazos Gifford, and Will Elliot. It had been Goodnight’s dream to blaze a new trail from Texas to Colorado Territory, driving a herd of Texas longhorns through eastern New Mexico. The four friends left the Rangers in 1865. The Civil War had left Texas bankrupt, disenfranchised, and occupied by carpetbaggers and Union soldiers. Texas cattle, including Goodnight’s, had run wild during the war. With the trail drive in mind, Goodnight set out to recover the remnant of his original herd, along with the natural increase. He invited McCaleb, Brazos, and Will to gather a herd and trail with him. Short on money but long on ambition, the trio headed for the Trinity River brakes to rope wild longhorns. Once they reached southern Colorado, Goodnight chose to settle there and establish a ranch. But McCaleb’s outfit moved on, with plans to start a ranch in Wyoming, and from there, to take trail drives into Montana and Dakota territories.

  McCaleb’s herd of trailwise Texas longhorns was 2,400 strong. There were 1,950 big steers, while the rest was she-stuff and less-than-two-year-olds. Including McCaleb, the 6 outfit consisted of nine riders and a cook. There were his longtime friends and partners, Brazos Gifford and Will Elliot, young Monte Nance and his sister Rebecca, and a Lipan Apache know
n only as “Goose.” The newest riders were Jed and Stoney Vandiver, and Pen Rhodes, whom McCaleb had hired in Denver. Finally, there was Salty Reynolds, the cook.

  Now they were nearing Cheyenne, a town established by the Union Pacific as a division point for the railroad.

  “We’ll take them west of town,” shouted McCaleb, “and then back to the northeast. First decent graze and water, let’s bed them down.”

  Goose, the Lipan Apache, trotted his horse alongside McCaleb’s.

  “Iron horse come,” said Goose, proud of his newly acquired English.

  McCaleb grinned at the Indian, then waved his hat to halt the oncoming herd. There was as yet no sign of a train, or even the railroad, but if Goose said a train was coming, there would be a train. There was no point in risking a stampede by taking the herd any nearer the track. Then, diminished by distance but distinct, there was the low moan of a whistle, as the engineer signaled for the stop at Cheyenne. McCaleb and Goose trotted their horses toward the slow-moving herd. The flankers, Will and Brazos, had already moved to the point, and the longhorns were beginning to mill. The chuck wagon caught up to them and Salty reined his mules to a halt.

  “Want me t’ go ahead an’ git a head start on supper?”

  “No,” said McCaleb, “wait for the train to pass. Mules will stampede as quick as cows. Two of those jugheads hitched to the wagon like to have been the death of us. One night when we were crossing the Guadalupes, on our way back to Texas, they went crazy.”

  The train departed Cheyenne, heading west, and McCaleb feared they might already be too near the track. They were downwind, and as the train came closer, they could hear the wheels clacking over the coupling joints. There was a bellow from the locomotive’s whistle, and some of the cattle bellowed in response, almost as though they were answering it. From opposite directions the riders trotted their horses around the nervous cattle, until the great iron beast was swallowed by distance. When they reached the Union Pacific track, McCaleb trotted his horse across and waited for the herd. But as soon as they were close enough to see the unfamiliar track, the lead steers began to mill. Those behind bawled in confusion, and then decided to hightail it back the way they had come. McCaleb kicked his horse into a gallop, but there was no way he could head them. Monte and Rebecca were at drag, as were Pen, Jed, and Stoney. They rode like demons, swinging their lariats against dusty flanks and shouting their rebel yells.

  Finally the resistance took hold and the herd began to turn, but the pursuing drag riders didn’t let up. McCaleb thought he knew what they were trying to do. He wheeled his horse and pounded back toward the railroad. Goose, Will, and Brazos were right behind him. They galloped across the track well ahead of the herd and fanned out, facing the oncoming cattle. If they wanted to run, then let the momentum of the stampede take them across the railroad! If there was any reluctance on the part of the lead steers, it was wasted, because the rest of the herd kept coming. McCaleb, Will, Brazos, and Goose advanced, swinging their lariats. Seeing the riders, the herd began to slow and then to mill. The drag riders continued swatting the stragglers, lest they pause, balking at the unfamiliar rails and ties. McCaleb circled the herd, grinning at his riders who had turned it.

  “I saw that happen once before,” said Pen Rhodes. “Took two days to get them danged cows across the railroad. Ain’t often an outfit gets any good out of a stampede, like we just did.”

  They drove past Cheyenne and headed northeast, putting them just north of the town. They soon found excellent graze, and bedded down the herd along a bank-full stream that someday would be called Lodge Pole Creek.

  “I purely like this country,” McCaleb told them. “Eventually, we’ll take trail drives into Montana and Dakota territories, but we’ll have to winter somewhere. We’ll need a place to call home. Why can’t we do here what Goodnight did in southern Colorado? We’ll have it all to ourselves.”

  He should have known better.

  1

  June 2, 1868. Wyoming Territory

  The herd grazed peacefully along Lodge Pole Creek. They were still an hour away from sundown, but Salty went ahead with supper.

  “I can’t wait to see the shops and the town,” said Rebecca Nance. “Just imagine how much better everything will be with the railroad here. Can’t we stay here a few days?”

  “I’d planned to,” said McCaleb. “I’ll need to visit the bank and the land office, and I expect the chuck wagon’s mighty bare. Right, Salty?”

  “Dang right,” said the garrulous old cook. “After th’ feed we just had, they ain’t no bacon t’ go with th’ beans we ain’t got, an’ no coffee t’ drink with th’ dried apple pie, even if’n we had th’ apples t’ make ’em.”

  “In the morning, then,” said McCaleb, “we’ll see what Cheyenne has to offer.”

  They gathered around the chuck wagon, enjoying their coffee. They were a good outfit, McCaleb reflected. It was a time for remembering, and he let his thoughts touch on each of them and the trails they’d ridden together. First, there was Brazos Gifford and Will Elliot. They were closer to McCaleb than brothers. They would have given their lives for McCaleb, and he’d have done no less for them.

  Brazos Gifford was a redheaded, quick-tempered, Spanish-speaking cowboy from south Texas. He wore a gray, flat-crowned hat, tilted low over his green eyes. The rest of his garb consisted of denim shirt, Levi’s pants, and rough-out, high-heeled boots. Will Elliot had curly black hair, gray eyes, and a quick sense of humor. Will was educated. His father had been a lawyer before the war, and Will could hold his own in a frontier courtroom. Will was from Waco, and except for a wide-brim, pinch-crease black Stetson, he wore the same range clothes as Brazos. Each man carried a tied-down .44 Colt low on his right hip, and like Benton McCaleb, each carried a sixteen-shot Henry repeating rifle in his saddle boot. Brazos was twenty-nine, just a year younger than McCaleb, while Will was a year older.

  If Benton McCaleb lived to be a hundred, he’d never forget the volatile situation he, Brazos, and Will had ridden into three years ago, when they’d gone to the Trinity River brakes to gather a herd of wild longhorns. While the Comanche Indians were the scourge of East Texas and would have been trouble enough, that hadn’t been the worst of it. York Nance, a shameless old reprobate run out of Missouri for mule rustling, had a shack on the Trinity. He also had a son, a daughter, and a shaky alliance with the Comanches. Not only had he been selling them rotgut whiskey, he’d devised a nefarious scheme to supply them with new Spencer rifles! Worse, he had half promised his daughter to Blue Feather, a Comanche chief. McCaleb had an immediate falling out with York Nance, and the old man’s dishonest ways had eventually driven Monte and Rebecca away.

  Monte, the old man’s twenty-one-year-old son, was a swaggering, hot-tempered kid who fancied himself a fast gun. He challenged McCaleb, went for his gun, and was wounded. Rebecca, Nance’s twenty-eight-year-old daughter, had been a mother to Monte since his birth, and went after McCaleb. Thus their first meeting resulted in a kicking, scratching, clawing fight that ended with McCaleb dunking the furious Rebecca in the river. Despite instant hostility between the temperamental girl and McCaleb, a relationship developed. Rebecca Nance had green eyes, dark hair, callused hands, and not the foggiest notion of how to be a lady. Motherless since she was five, she could ride, rope, and shoot like a cowboy. And she swore like a bull whacker. But she was as charming as she was beautiful. McCaleb’s outfit yielded to her plea; she and Monte had added their small herd to McCaleb’s gather. From Texas to Colorado, McCaleb had endured Rebecca’s stormy moods and the outfit’s bullyragging, only to have the girl become infatuated with an unscrupulous Colorado cattleman, Jonathan Wickliffe. McCaleb had found himself facing hired guns on a Denver street, had been wounded, and had ended up in jail. Only when Rebecca had discovered Wickliffe’s plan to kill McCaleb had he managed to reclaim her.

  While young Monte Nance became faster and more deadly with a Colt, he was also improving his skills at the poker table. It
was a volatile mix, which drew McCaleb’s outfit into an alliance with gunfighter Clay Allison and led to a shootout with crooked gamblers in Santa Fe. There, they met the stove-up old cook, Salty Reynolds. Salty was trapped behind a lunch counter, longing to return to the range, but unable to ride. McCaleb, tired of pack mules, had bought a chuck wagon and had hired the crippled old rider. Salty had graying hair, watery blue eyes, and a sharp tongue that hid a soft heart.

  The most enigmatic of McCaleb’s outfit was a Comanche-hating Lipan Apache they knew only as Ganos. “Goose,” half-starved and near death, was about to be burned at the stake by Comanches. Scouting the Trinity River brakes, McCaleb, Brazos, and Will had gunned down his captors, freeing the Indian. Goose had remained, riding, roping, and scouting. Goose adapted, becoming deadly quick with a Colt and a consummate gambler, but always an Indian. His constant companion was a foot-long bowie knife, razor-keen, for the scalping of his enemies.

  Following the gunfight in Denver, McCaleb had spent the night in jail, pending a hearing. While there, he’d lent a sympathetic ear to three young Texas cowboys in an adjoining cell. The oldest was Pendleton Rhodes. Pen was a studious, quick-witted half-breed from Waco. He had jet-black hair, dark eyes, and a sense of humor. His companions were blue-eyed, tow-headed brothers from San Antonio, Jed and Stoney Vandiver. Stoney was youngest, just twenty-two. Jed was twenty-four, a year younger than Pen Rhodes. The trio had come up the trail from Texas, had sold their horses in Ellsworth, and had ridden the train to Denver. They had gone to a whorehouse, had been given doctored drinks, and robbed. They retaliated by wrecking the place. Benton McCaleb had been impressed with them and had paid for their release. In the summer of 1868, when McCaleb rode out of Denver, Jed, Stoney, and Pen rode with him.