The Winchester Run

  DIE LONELY, DIE HARD. . .

  “Hello the cabin!” called Red. “Anybody here?”

  Only silence greeted him. His Colt in his hand, he kicked the dead leaves away from the door and swung it inward. The cabin was larger than it appeared from the outside. Red could see an entrance—without a door—into another room. He made his way to the curtainless, doorless opening that led to the next room. Suddenly he halted, the macabre thing on the dirt floor drawing from him an involuntary gasp of surprise.

  Lying on its back, arms outflung, lay the skeleton of a man. The bony fingers of the right hand still gripped a Colt, and just above the eyeless sockets of the skull, there was what could only be a bullet hole . . .

  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

  WINCHESTER

  RUN

  Ralph Compton

  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 WINCHESTER RUN

  Trail map design by L. A. Hensley.

  Copyright © 1997 by Ralph Compton.

  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: 0-312-96320-3

  EAN: 80312-96320-0

  Printed in the United States of America

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / September 1997

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

  15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8

  AUTHOR’S FOREWORD

  The Atchison, Topeka, & Santa Fe railroad reached Dodge City, Kansas, in 1872. While such progress helped to advance the westward movement, there was still a need for the big freight wagon which had long been essential to the commerce of the Plains.

  The military outposts—forts—south of Dodge City were still dependent on the slow-but-sure wagons. Most prominent were the forts in north Texas—Fort Elliott, Fort Worth, and Fort Griffin, but there were others to the south, as well as in Indian Territory.

  Until 1874, when Quanah Parker and the last of the Comanches surrendered, there was almost constant danger from Indian attack. But when the Indian menace eventually came to an end, the looting and killing did not. While the Civil War had ended in 1865, the conflict had spawned renegades who had learned to kill. These men—dregs from both the blue and the gray—gathered in the wilds of Indian Territory. (It wouldn’t become the State of Oklahoma until 1907.)

  While the Chisholm Trail had come into use in 1868, and Texas herds were driven to the railroad in Wichita, little was done to civilize Indian Territory insofar as the numerous outlaws were concerned. They still galloped into southern Kansas and northern Texas, and after killing and looting, returned to their sanctuary in Indian Territory.

  The freight wagons, unlike those belonging to settlers on the Oregon Trail, relied on mules instead of oxen. While oxen could survive on grass, mules could not, requiring daily rations of grain. Caravans of wagons drawn by mules became known as “corn freight,” and those rare ones depending on the slower oxen were referred to as “grass freight.”

  While the hazards of freighting south were great, there was no shortage of teamsters. There were cowboys who had driven herds north and had gone broke in cattle towns, and ex-buffalo hunters, skinners, and bone pickers who suddenly had nothing else to do. Until railroads spider-webbed the West with track, the big wagons rumbled on, creating a place for themselves and their hell-for-leather teamsters in the pages of American history.

  PROLOGUE

  Kansas City, Missouri. September 10, 1873.

  “Nothin’ but a damn fool drinks whiskey while he’s playin’ poker,” said Mac Tunstall in disgust.

  He stood on the boardwalk outside the Star Saloon, with his three companions, Buck Prinz, Haze Sanderson, and Red McLean.

  “Now you tell us,” Red McLean said. “Why couldn’t you of come to that conclusion before we was dead broke?”

  “No use blamin’ it on the whiskey,” Haze Sanderson said. “We was cold sober when we decided to come here. If any of us had the sense God gave a goose, we’d of rode out of Wichita and went home when we was paid off at the end of the drive.”

  “Maybe we can find some kind of work,” said Mac. “We got our bedrolls, so we can skip the hotels. All we need is money for grub.”

  “Yeah,” Buck agreed. “Our horses can make it on grass, if we don’t push ’em.”

  “Well, I’m damned if I’ll swamp a saloon, even for grub,” Haze said. “Let’s look for something that’s halfway respectable, for God’s sake. We’re Texans.”

  “Broke and hungry Texans,” said Mac, “a hell of a long ways from Texas.”

  “I reckon we can all agree that we need work,” Buck said. “There’s bound to be some freight outfits in this town. Hell, we can hitch and unhitch teams, if nothin’ else.”

  They rode through the industrial part of town, stopping at the various warehouses in which a freight line was located. Not until they reached the fifth one did their luck change. Plains Freighting, in fact, had a sign posted, seeking drivers. One of the requirements—and this was underlined—was that men must be armed.

  “That’s us,” Mac said.

  They crowded into the small office, each of them six feet or over, dressed in range clothes. Thonged down on each rider’s hip was a .44–40 single-action Colt, purchased in Wichita, and all they had to show for four months’ trail wages. A middle-aged woman sat behind a desk, and they quickly removed their sweat-stained hats.

  “Ma’am,” said Mac, “we’re lookin’ for work. Your sign outside—”

  “You’ll want to talk to Hiram Yeager,” she replied. “Just a minute.”

  She walked down a hall and knocked on a door at the end of it. They heard a gruff voice answer the knock, and she disappeared inside. In seconds she returned, and with her was a nearly bald man in a town suit, wearing wire-rimmed spectacles.

  “I’m Hiram Yeager,” he said. “Come on back to my office.”

  The four of them followed him, their boots clunking on the wooden floor. When they had all entered the office, Yeager closed the door and took the chair behind his desk.

  “Have a seat,” he said, nodding to half a dozen chairs to the right of the desk.

  “We’ll stand, if you don’t mind,” said Buck McLean. “We’re from Texas, and we’re all partial to lookin’ a man in the eye, when we talk business. You’re wantin’ drivers who can use guns. We got the new Winchesters and matchin’ Colts.”

  “Texans,” Yeager said. “You’ve come a long way looking for work.”

  “Oh, we had work as far as Wichita,” said Red McLean. “We come up with a Texas herd, and we’re . . . well, financially embarrassed. We’re lookin�
� to earn grub money to get us back to Texas.”

  Yeager laughed at their frankness. “Perhaps I have something that will interest you,” he said. “This particular assignment will take you all the way to Austin, Texas. Each of you will be paid a hundred dollars and your expenses, including food.”

  “Pardner,” said Haze Sanderson, “it ain’t often we drop our loops on such good luck.”

  “I hope you still feel that way after I’ve told you the rest of it,” Yeager replied. “Are you familiar with the new 1873 Winchester, and the 44–40 single action U.S. Army Colt, chambered to take the same cartridges?”

  “I reckon we are,” said Haze. “They’re the answer to a man’s prayer in an Indian fight.”

  “Then you can appreciate the value of the weapons,” Yeager said. “The U.S. Army’s repeating-rifle trials have been completed, and the government has adopted the new 1873 Winchester, whose shells interchange with the 44–40 single-action U.S. Army Colt. We’ve been commissioned to freight six hundred of these Colts, six hundred Winchesters, and a hundred and twenty thousand rounds of ammunition to Austin, Texas. These weapons are for use by the military in the state of Texas. There will be six wagons, for which we will provide teamsters. It will become the duty of you men to protect these wagons. Do you all have a saddle mount?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Haze.

  “These six wagons will be loaded at the ordnance depot at Fort Leavenworth,” Yeager said. “These wagons will then be loaded on railroad flatcars and taken to Dodge City, Kansas. From there, it will be wagons all the way to Austin, Texas. I’m sure you men, being Texans, can appreciate the potential danger of such a journey.”

  “My God, yes,” said Mac Tunstall. “If Quanah Parker and his Comanches managed to get their hands on all that firepower, they could run the U.S. Army plumb back across the Mississippi.”

  “That’s just part of it,” Red McLean added. “Don’t forget all them owl hoots roostin’ there in Indian Territory, looting wagons and killing the drivers.”

  “I’m glad you appreciate the potential danger,” said Yeager. “Now how do you feel about taking on the assignment?”

  “We’ve fought Indians and outlaws before,” Mac Tunstall said, “besides ridin’ all over hell after stampeded longhorns. If you’re satisfied with us, I reckon you’ve hired yourself some Texans. Am I right, pards?”

  “Right!” the three of them answered in a single voice.

  “Good,” said Yeager. “The train bearing the loaded wagons will leave here at six, on the morning of September fifteenth. My son-in-law, Watson Brandt, will be in charge of loading the wagons here, and unloading them in Dodge. Once the wagons take the trail to Austin, Watson will be wagon boss. You will take your orders from him. I’m going to pay each of you a twenty-five-dollar advance today. Watson will pay you the balance when the wagons reach Austin. For the rest of the time you’re in Kansas City, you may stable your horses in our barn. I’ll put you up in the Drover’s House, and you may take your meals in the hotel restaurant.”

  The four friends departed Yeager’s office in a high state of jubilation. Each of them had twenty-five dollars, the freight line would stable and feed their horses, while they had a signed letter from Yeager granting them free room and board while they remained in Kansas City.

  “I reckon the big Boss up yonder is lookin’ after broke and hungry Texans,” Haze Sanderson observed.

  But that was before they met their trail boss, Watson Brandt.

  Kansas City, Missouri. September 15, 1873.

  Mac, Buck, Haze, and Red reached the railroad yards at five o’clock, in time to have their horses loaded into a boxcar. The six loaded wagons were already there, and two were being taken aboard each of the three alotted flatcars. The railroad men seemed to know exactly what they were doing. The wheels of every wagon were chocked, and to prevent possible tipping over on curves, all four wheels of each wagon were chained to the side of the flatcars. The six bullwhackers Yeager had hired were there, and the Texans noticed all six men had a Winchester under his arm.

  “Let’s go say howdy to the bullwhackers,” Mac Tunstall suggested.

  The Texans were greeted with enthusiasm by the teamsters. There was Port Guthrie, Lafe Beard, Emmett Budd, Saul Estrella, Gourd Snively, and Smokey Foster.

  “Good to have you gents on our side,” said Smokey Foster. “From what I’ve seen of this Watson Brandt, I purely don’t like the varmint.”

  There was a rumble of assent from the other teamsters, and the four Texans focused their attention on Brandt. He was squat, heavy-muscled, with a bristly black beard, and had busied himself offering unnecessary guidance and shouting commands at the railroad employees who were securing the wagons on the flatcars. The train consisted of the locomotive, a tender, a boxcar, a passenger car, the three flatcars, and a caboose.

  “I don’t like the way this train’s bein’ made up,” Mac Tunstall said. “Whose idea is it to put the passenger car and caboose on the tag end of the train? Damn it, the passenger coach should be coupled behind the tender. Then two of us can watch the rails ahead, and the other two can keep their eyes on the backtrail, from the caboose.”

  “I suspect the varmint responsible for the makeup of the train is Watson Brandt,” said Port Guthrie. “He seems to be havin’ his way in everything else.”

  “There’s Hiram Yeager,” Saul Estrella said. “Why don’t you talk to him?”

  “I will,” said Mac.

  He sought out Yeager, who had just arrived, before he could reach Watson Brandt. Yeager listened while the Texan talked, nodding his head in understanding.

  “Come on,” Yeager said, when Mac had finished. “Watson can have the position of the cars changed. I’m sure he hasn’t considered the possibility of trouble between here and Dodge City.”

  “Well, he should,” said Mac. “Outlaws who know about this can dynamite the track and stop the train.”

  “This shouldn’t be common knowledge,” Yeager replied. “I have instructed Watson to observe the utmost secrecy.”

  But before they could reach Watson Brandt, a tall man in town clothes confronted them. He spoke to Yeager.

  “I’m Kevin Watts, from the Kansas City Liberty-Tribune. We understand this is the first shipment of the 1873 Winchester recently adopted by the U.S. Army, and the new 44–40 single-action army Colts. Where are they going, and how many are being shipped?”

  “I have nothing to say,” Yeager replied angrily.

  He went on, Mac right behind him, and when they reached Watson Brandt, Yeager did not bother introducing Mac Tunstall.

  “Watson,” Yeager said, “I specifically told you not to breathe a word of this to the newspapers. Why are there reporters here, asking questions?”

  “I don’t know,” said Brandt, shrugging his shoulders. Brandt turned away, obviously dismissing Yeager, who refused to be dismissed.

  “Watson!”

  Irritated, Brandt again faced Yeager, who wasted no time.

  “This is Mac Tunstall, one of the outriders,” Yeager said, “and he has a suggestion which I believe has merit. He believes the passenger coach should be coupled on behind the tender, instead of to the caboose.”

  “Oh?” said Brandt, seeming to notice Tunstall for the first time. “I suppose you have a reason.”

  “I do,” Mac replied, his eyes meeting Brandt’s. “We aim to post two men with Winchesters in the passenger coach to protect the front of the train, and two in the caboose, to protect the rear of the train. A mite difficult, with both the passenger coach and the caboose coupled together, at the tag end of the train.”

  “That will take time,” said Brandt. “The train’s already made up, and to change it now will throw it off schedule. This is a damn-fool, unnecessary change.”

  “Take the time,” Yeager said. “The idea has merit, and I happen to agree with Mr. Tunstall. This is not a regular run, but a special. There’s a two-hour gap between it and the eastbound, which should allow you ple
nty of time to reach the siding in Dodge. Now whatever it takes, get with it and couple that passenger car on behind the tender.”

  Brandt’s face was crimson with anger, and before he turned away, he cast a look at Mac Tunstall which said he wasn’t going to forget.

  “Position your men as you see fit, Mr. Tunstall,” said Yeager.

  Yeager headed for the dispatcher’s office, while Tunstall returned to his companions and the teamsters, all of whom had been watching with interest.

  “We couldn’t hear the words,” Port Guthrie said, “but it looked mighty like the little coyote got a dressin’-down.”

  Mac laughed. “He did. The passenger car will be coupled behind the tender. Turned out that Mr. Yeager agrees with me. He was also givin’ Brandt hell, because word of this shipment of arms has been leaked out to the newspapers. Three reporters are here, and our Mr. Brandt denies any responsibility.”

  “None of us has said a word to anybody,” Emmett Budd declared.

  “And none of us,” Buck Prinz said. “Hell, but for Yeager himself, we don’t know anybody in this town.”

  “However it happened,” said Mac, “the cat’s out of the bag. If these hombres from the newspaper found out, so could anybody else. We’ll have to keep a close watch ahead and behind, from here to Dodge. Anybody of a mind to snatch these wagonloads of guns and shells can dynamite the tracks and stop the train.”

  Whatever Watson Brandt’s objections, he had the passenger coach uncoupled from the caboose and coupled on behind the tender. Once it had been done, he approached Mac with an arrogance that did little to impress those who beheld it.

  “I hope you’re satisfied,” he told Mac. “If you don’t like this particular locomotive, I can swap it for another.”

  “The truth is, I don’t like you, Brandt,” Mac said, “but I’ll try to tolerate you. Just don’t push your luck.”

  Tunstall’s three companions and the bullwhackers looked on in amusement, trying hard to suppress their grins. Nobody spoke until Brandt had stomped angrily away.