The Shawnee Trail Read online

  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.”

  The Shawnee Trail is respectfully

  dedicated to Sidney Lee Linard, 1936-1994.

  Vaya con Dios, amigo.

  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 literary 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 SHAWNEE TRAIL

  Copyright © 1994 by Ralph Compton.

  Cover illustration by Bob Larkin.

  Map illustration on cover by Dennis Lyall.

  Cover type by Jim Lebbad.

  Map on p.vii by David Lindroth, based upon material supplied by the author.

  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, NY 10010.

  ISBN: 0-312-95241-4

  EAN: 9780312-95241-9

  Printed in the United States of America

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition/June 1994

  20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9

  AUTHOR’S FOREWORD

  In America, trailing cattle to market was common long before the longhorn era. It was done in Texas under Spanish and Mexican rule, and in the early days of the Republic, Texas longhorns were driven into Louisiana and points east. Trailing north began in the early 1840s, and the Shawnee Trail became the route most commonly used, for until 1861 St. Louis was the nearest railhead. The Shawnee led from Brownsville, in southwest Texas, and reaching the north, it kept to the high prairies. Herds swam the Red River at Rock Bluff Crossing, where a natural rock formation provided easy entry into the river. A sloping north bank offered a convenient exit into Indian Territory.

  Just why, or when, it was first called the Shawnee Trail is uncertain. Perhaps the name was taken from a Shawnee Indian village on the Texas side of the Red, below the crossing. Or it could have come from the Shawnee Hills, near which the trail passed before crossing the Canadian River. From Dallas to the Red the trail was first known as the Preston Road, taking its name from Captain William Preston, who was in charge of a company of men at Fort Johnson, a stockade and supply post built near the crossing in 1840.

  The Shawnee crossed the Red, veering northeast, toward Fort Washita. But the herds bypassed the fort a few miles to the east. The Shawnee and the Preston routes came together some fifty miles north of the Red, and the Shawnee crossed the Canadian River just before the joining of the north and south forks. Stretching across Creek country to the Arkansas, the trail crossed just above the mouth of the Neosho River and below the mouth of the Verdigris. The earliest trail crossed into Missouri just south of Baxter Springs, Kansas. In later years, after the railroad reached Sedalia and Kansas City, the Shawnee Trail followed the east bank of the Grand River almost to the Kansas line. Crossing to the east bank, it entered southeastern Kansas and continued north to the Missouri River. The trail then followed the Missouri to Kansas City, Sedalia, or St. Louis.

  By 1850, thanks to the Missouri Pacific Railroad at St. Louis, the Shawnee Trail had become the most important cattle route from Texas to the northern markets. But in June 1853 there was an outbreak of Texas fever, and angry cattlemen in western Missouri forced a herd of Texas longhorns to turn back. The Texas cattle carried ticks, and while they had no effect on the longhorns, the ticks were deadly to other cattle. In 1855 Missouri passed a law banning Texans and their tick-infested longhorns. The Kansas legislature soon adopted a similar law, but the courts of Missouri and Kansas did little to enforce these laws. Instead there were confrontations—some of them ugly—between Texas cattlemen and angry farmers and ranchers of Kansas and Missouri.

  But the tick fever controversy was only part of the problem. In Kansas and Missouri bands of terrorists—pro-slavery and abolitionist—were fanning the flames of war. And when war came in 1861, the Shawnee Trail was closed. On April 19 President Lincoln ordered a blockade of the coast of all seceding states, and further ordered, on August 16, that all trade with the South cease. During the war, except for a few eastward drives to feed Confederate soldiers, there was no movement of Texas cattle.

  When the North-South conflict finally ended, it was 1866 before war-weary Texans were able to gather their scattered cattle and again trail them north. But nothing had been done to resolve the tick fever problem, and Texas longhorns were as unwelcome as ever in Kansas and Missouri. Texans and their herds were met by armed men and forced to turn back. Some Texans died and many herds were stampeded or shot. The Union Pacific Railroad reached Abilene in 1867, and Joseph McCoy, a young Illinois cattle dealer, persuaded the governor of Kansas to lift the ban on Texas longhorns so that they might be trailed to the railroad at Abilene. Only then did the violence cease, for the Chisholm Trail became a more direct route to end-of-track. The old Shawnee Trail was closed Forever.

  PROLOGUE

  March 1858. North of San Antonio, Texas, along the Rio Colorado.

  Long John Coons was curious as to the identity of the three riders. After all, this was his spread, the L-J Connected, and the trail was fresh. He forded the river and his horse was clambering up the opposite bank when a shot shattered the stillness. Lead nicked the brim of Long John’s Stetson, and he rolled out of the saddle, pulling his Colt and slapping his horse on its flank. The horse went on, trotting through the underbrush and low-hanging willows. Long John circled in the opposite direction, depending on the riderless horse to cover the sound of his own movement. Reaching the edge of the thicket, Long John could see three horses, but only two of the riders. They had roped a mealy-nosed, line backed, black, two-year-old heifer, and had the animal hogtied. But where was the third man? Until he knew, Long John couldn’t make a move. He waited, and his patience was rewarded when the third man emerged from the willows leading Long John’s horse. He spoke confidently to his companions.

  “He’s somewheres in the thicket. I nailed the bastard with one shot. You reckon that ain’t damn good shootin’?”

  “Bandy,” said a second man, “I admire modesty in a man. Somebody in your family got it all, ’cause you shore as hell ain’t got none.”

  “Them’s my sentiments too,” the third man said. “Only a damn fool counts coup on a kill he ain’t sure of. That hombre could have us under his gun this very minute.”

  “Yer damn right he could,” said Long John Coons, “an’ he has.” The cocked Colt was steady in Long John’s fist, and slowly the trio raised their hands.

  “Now,” said the lanky Long John, “I’m wantin’ to know what the three o’ ye are doin’ on my range, ropin’ my cows.”

  “We been ridin’ the grub line,” said one of the men, “an’ we’re damn near starved.”

  “I ain’t begrudgin’ a man beef if’n he’s hungry,” Long John said, “but I don’t see the need of brandin’ the critter ’fore ye kill an’ eat it. You, with the cinch ring. Now, most hombres don’t tote cinch rings around, less’n they aims to use ’em, an’ they’re mighty handy fer alterin’ brands. Like my L-J Connected, on that mealy-nosed critter. Hungry, ar
e ye?”

  “Damn you,” said the man called Bandy, “we ain’t needin’ your charity.”

  “That bein’ the case,” Long John said coldly, “I reckon we’ll jist call this what it is. Rustlin’. Ye hanker to be strung up, er gut-shot?”

  “Shut up, Bandy,” snarled one of his companions. “This gent’s holdin’ aces and we got a busted flush. You got us cold,” he said, turning to Long John. “We’re Texans, and we know the code, but what’n hell could we do with just one cow, ’cept cook an’ eat the critter?”

  “I’m countin’ that in yer favor,” said Long John, less hostile now. “I reckon they ain’t much use fer one cow, ’cept fer grub. Was I sure ye jaybirds was hungry grub-line riders, like ye say, maybe I’d have a place fer ye. I’m needin’ riders fer a drive up the Shawnee, to the railroad, in Missouri.”

  “Hell,” Bandy said, “there’s a shootin’ war goin’ on in Kansas and Missouri atwixt them pro-slavers and abolitionists. Besides that, ain’t you heard of the laws agin Texas longhorns, ’cause of tick fever?”

  “Ye ain’t tellin’ me nothin’ I don’t know,” said Long John, “an’ that war ye hear of in Kansas an’ Missouri is comin’ fer real. When it comes, it’ll likely close the Shawnee fer good, an’ I got to git me a herd to market ’fore that happens. Now I’m needin’ riders. Men with the bark on. Forty an’ found, all yer shells, an’ a hunnert dollar bonus fer ever’ man that finishes the drive to the railroad.”

  “Mister,” said the most apologetic member of the trio, “I’m Dent Briano. I’ll ride with you, and count it a privilege. These other peckerwoods is Bandy Darden and Quando Miller, an’ they can do their own talkin’.”

  “Count me in,” said Miller. “It wasn’t me or Dent that took a shot at you.”

  “I done it,” Darden said. “You still want me ridin’ with you?”

  “I allow a man one mistake,” said Long John, “but if ye ever throw lead at me again—fer any reason—ye better make it good the first shot. Elsewise, I’ll kill ye graveyard dead. Now ye ridin’ with us er not?”

  “I’ll ride,” Bandy Darden said, but his eyes were hard and cold. Long John could read sign, and somewhere on the long trail to Missouri, he could expect a showdown with Darden.

  “Cut that cow loose,” said Long John, “and let’s ride. Ye’ll git supper at the cook house, an’ they’ll be plenty of it.”

  Long John’s ranch consisted of a series of log buildings strung end to end, with a swift running creek passing near the barn. There was a rambling house with a front porch running the length of it. Next to that was the cook shack, and then a bunkhouse large enough to accommodate a dozen riders. Half a mile distant was the big log barn with hayloft, and at one end a corral with a six-rail-high fence. It angled across the creek, providing fresh water for the horses. It was near suppertime when Long John and his newly hired trio reined up before the bunkhouse, and only four of Long John’s crew ambled out to greet the new arrivals. There was Llano Dupree, Stoney Winters, Deuce Gitano, and an arrogant two-gun rider not even out of his teens, known only as “the Kid.”

  “New riders fer the trail drive,” bawled Long John. “Sky Pilot, three more fer supper.”

  “Wal, thank God,” growled the old cook, leaning out the cook shack door. “You be the answer to a man’s prayers, Long John Coons. I been shovelin’ out grub to this no-account bunch nineteen hours ever’ day, wonderin’ what’n hell I was goin’ to do with all my extry time.”

  Used to the old man’s grousing, Long John grinned at him and rode on to the house. After supper, except for their coffee cups, Long John’s dark-eyed, black-haired Cajun woman cleared the table. Suzanne had said nothing throughout the meal, and Long John well knew the reason. When she finally spoke, it was with the question Long John had expected.

  “Who are the new riders, and where did you get them?”

  “Darden, Miller, and Briano,” said Long John. “Hungry grub-line riders. Found ’em about to have supper off’n one of our heifers.”

  “Rustlers, then,” Suzanne snapped, her dark eyes flashing in the pale lamplight. “You’d hire these damn down-at-the-heels rustlers for the drive, but I’m not good enough, am I? Well, I ain’t stayin’ in Texas while you take a herd to Missouri. Maybe I’ll just go back to New Orleans, to the Quarter.”

  “Now, Suzy—” Long John began.

  “Stop calling me that!” Suzanne shouted. “You know I hate that name. It—It makes me feel like one of Madame Toussard’s whores.”

  “So ye keep tellin’ me,” Long John growled, “an’ I’m a mite fed up with ye spoutin’ off about Toussard’s whorehouse. I’m startin’ to wonder how’n hell ye got so familiar with the place.”

  Suzanne’s coffee cup was full, and she flung the steaming brew in Long John’s face. He kicked back his chair, lurched to his feet and whacked his head against the hanging lamp. His lean face white with fury, Long John seized the front of the girl’s shirt, dragging her bodily across the table. Equally furious, Suzanne went for Long John’s face, fingers splayed out like an eagle’s talons, but Long John had expected that. He snatched the front of her flannel shirt, using its long sleeves to imprison her flailing arms. He got a grip at the waist of her Levi’s with his big left hand and dragged the kicking, screeching Suzanne across the table belly down, flopping her across his knees. Holding her in place with his left hand, he used the right to lay some well-placed blows on her backside. Only when her furious yowls and swearing dwindled to genuine sobs did he relent. He allowed her to slide to the floor on her back. When her sobbing finally ceased, Long John helped her to her feet, easing her into the chair in which she’d been sitting. She sat sideways, favoring her sore bottom, her dark head bowed, tears still trailing down her cheeks. Long John knelt before her, looking up into her eyes, and spoke in a gentle voice few had ever heard.

  “Girl, I care fer ye, an’ that’s why I ain’t wantin’ ye on the drive. I look fer the Shawnee to be hell with the lid off. It’ll be man’s work.”

  Slowly Suzanne’s arms reached for Long John, and he held her close for a while before either of them spoke.

  “I can ride, rope, and shoot as good as any man,” said the girl. “Am I all that different?”

  “Ye are,” Long John said, grinning up at her, “an’ in ways that matter the most. I never had, an’ never hoped to have, a woman the likes o’ ye. Any woman takin’ a look at my ugly mug was off an’ runnin’ t’other way. Damn it, I purely can’t afford fer nothin’ to happen to ye.”

  “An’ I can’t afford fer nothin’ to happen to ye,” she said, laughing, imitating his drawl. “That’s why I’m going with you on this trail drive to Missouri. My God, Long John, you have maybe three riders I’d trust not to turn on you in a showdown. Please take me with you, if only to watch your back.”

  “Go, then,” Long John said with a sigh. “What ye jist said matches my gut feelin’ that we’ll be ridin’ into trouble. ’Fore we git to the railroad we’re likely to need ever’ damn gun in the outfit, an’ then some.”

  “I’m sorry I . . . I threw the coffee, Long John. You have a right to know why I . . . I did that, why I . . . why I hate that name you’ve been calling me. It—Suzy—was my name when I . . . when I was at Madame Toussard’s.”

  After all these months—with Long John caring for her, believing in her—why had she told him? Her hands trembled, and the frantic thudding of her heart seemed to vibrate her entire body. For a long moment Long John Coons said nothing, and Suzanne looked fearfully into his pale blue eyes. It was as though Long John looked beyond her, into some private hell she had created for him. Finally his eyes softened and he spoke.

  “I reckon we all done some things we ain’t proud of. Ye got sand, girl, an’ all I can see is what an’ who ye are now. I never knowed anybody by that other name. Ye’ll always be Suzanne to me.”

  1

  Long John Coons stood an inch over six feet, without his hat and Texas boots. His Colt six-shooter was t
honged low on his right hip, and his Bowie hung down his back beneath his shirt, Indian fashion, from a rawhide thong around his neck. While Long John’s mama was a Louisiana conjuring woman, his daddy had been a hell-for-leather Texan who had died at San Jacinto. Long John had his daddy’s pale blue eyes and his swiftness with Colt and Bowie.

  In 1850 Gil and Van Austin, owners of land grants from the Bandera Mountains east to the Rio Colorado, had taken a herd of Texas longhorns to hungry miners in the California goldfields. Long John had been part of that historic drive. The Austins had been generous to their riders, paying them in cows because there had been little money in Texas in the years after the war with Mexico. More than a hundred of the cows sold in California had belonged to Long John. Near Fort Yuma, Arizona Territory, a band of Mexican outlaws had murdered Bo, Long John’s friend, and the vengeful Cajun had gunned down the gang to the last man. There had been a substantial reward, and that, combined with the sale of his cows, had allowed Long John to return to Texas with more than $12,000.*

  Long John had bought several grants along the Colorado, some seed cattle from the Austins, and a few blooded horses from Clay Duval’s Winged M. Duval and his friends, Gil and Van Austin, had brought the famed Mendoza horses—along with five thousand Spanish longhorns—from Mexico in 1844.**

  Suzanne, Long John’s Cajun woman, was twenty-five, half a dozen years younger than Long John. The two had met in California, and Long John had known nothing about the girl, but she seemed interested in him, and wished to return to New Orleans. But when they reached Texas, Suzanne had remained with Long John, and only when they’d had an occasional fight did the girl threaten to return to New Orleans. By the time Long John learned of her unsavory past, she’d become so much a part of his life that he found himself unable to part with her. Suzanne was a foot shorter than Long John, her eyes as black as her hair. Her temper equaled Long John’s, and there were times when she swore at him, and he at her. But on this day—the last day of March 1858—they rode in peace, bound for the Austin grants, near Bandera.