The Virginia City Trail Read online

  “Some of ’em have had more’n a year to settle down,” said Quanah, “and that’ll have some influence on the others, I reckon. You think we’ll get out of here without more gunplay?”

  “I think so,” Story said. “When you gun down the leader of the pack, the rest of the coyotes generally head for the tall timber. I reckon it’ll take another three or four days to get the herd to our camp. I’m thinking of leaving Cal with you and riding on ahead. I’ll send one of the outfit back to meet you. He can bring another pack mule with more grub, and five Winchesters.”

  Story found Cal riding drag, and left him in charge of the drive. He then rode north, almost facing the rain that was again blowing out of the northwest. He was only a few miles south of camp when a horse nickered and his own answered. Story reined up, drawing his Henry from the boot. He was in the brush, along the river, and as the three riders approached the Brazos from the east, he thought he recognized Tom Allen’s roan. That the third rider was a woman, he was certain. Reassured, he rode on. Tom Allen shoved his rifle back into the boot and the three of them galloped their horses to meet Story.

  “Nels!” Allen shouted. “Where’s Cal?”

  “Headin’ this way,” Story replied, “bringing us five new riders and fifteen hundred cows.”

  “Nels,” said Allen, “this is Jasmine McDaniels. She’s got a thousand head, and they’re for sale if we can work out some differences.”

  7

  Well before they reached the camp on the Brazos, Nelson Story had heard what Jasmine McDaniels had to say.

  “Jasmine,” said Story kindly, “I can appreciate the problems you’re having with your brother, but I’ll be honest with you. I’d not want him on the trail with me unless he’s ready, willing, and able. From what you’re telling me, I’m not sure he qualifies at all.”

  “I feel the same way,” Jasmine said, “and I’m dead serious when I say that I’ll leave him behind to go to hell if he can’t be changed. In fact, if you’ll see that he’s paid for his half of the herd, I think we can take them all.”

  “Stay the night with us, then,” said Story. “Tomorrow we’ll take some riders with us and return to your place.”

  “Does that mean you’ll allow me to ride with the trail drive?”

  Story grinned. “I’ll go further than that. If you can ride, rope, and shoot, as well as holding your own with brawling, cussing cowboys, I’ll pay you the same as I’m paying them. Forty and found, with a hundred dollar bonus at the end of the drive. But I must warn you. There will be swollen rivers, and some of us may send our clothes across in the wagon. We’ll be crossing in our drawers, at best, or maybe nothing at all.”

  “Mr. Story,” said Jasmine, “if you’re trying to scare me away, you’re wasting your time. I’ve had almost two years of Bud bringing his drunken friends home. You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve awakened to find them three to a bed or piled on the floor, naked as jaybirds. Your cowboys won’t be a problem. Of course, I may be somewhat of a problem to them.”

  Story grinned. “I daresay you will.”

  They reached the camp on the Brazos well before dark. Sandy Bill outdid himself with supper. Story listened as Bill Petty told of the difficulty he and Hitch had encountered, and of the possibility that Curly Wells and Manuel Cardenas might be seeking to hire on as riders. Without mentioning Jasmine’s drunken brother, Story introduced her to those of the outfit she hadn’t met, telling them of the herd that he hoped to buy.

  “In the morning,” said Story, “here’s what must be done. Cal Snider and five other cowboys are driving fifteen hundred head of longhorns from Waco. They have only what’s left of the grub Cal and me took with us. They’re still maybe three days away, and I want to take them another pack mule with grub, and five Winchesters for the new riders. Bill, I want you and Hitch to ride south, taking the extra grub and Winchesters, and join that drive. I’ll take Arch and Tom, ride back with Jasmine and fetch her herd.”

  Story was amused at the change that came over the cow camp after Jasmine McDaniels arrived. Swearing was cut to a minimum, and any man who forgot was promptly reprimanded by his comrades.

  “By God,” said Coon Tails after a while, “it’s on-natural quiet in here. This is Thursday. Come Sunday, I reckon we’ll be ready fer Sunday school.”

  It was too much. They all laughed, Jasmine McDaniels the loudest of them all.

  February 9, 1866. On the Brazos.

  Story and his companions rode south at first light, and for a change there was no rain, not even a drizzle. There were two pack mules laden with provisions. One of them Hitch Gould and Bill Petty would take with them as they rode south to meet Cal Snider and the five new cowboys. Carefully wrapped in canvas were five new Winchesters. The second pack mule would go with Story as he, Tom, Arch, and Jasmine returned to her spread at Malakoff. The Brazos was swollen from the continuous rain, and they rode south along the west bank, seeking a place shallow enough to cross. There was no wind, and the blast seemed unusually loud in the early morning quiet. The pack mule Arch was leading dropped in its tracks, shot through the head. Story was out of his saddle in an instant, taking his Henry with him. The others were quick to follow.

  “He’s somewhere on the east bank,” said Bill Petty, “and usin’ a Sharps .50 at least. Our rifles can’t touch him from here.”

  “He’ll be long gone before we can get over there,” Story said, “high as the water is. Arch, ride back to camp and bring one of the extra horses.”

  “I could bring one of Sandy Bill’s mules,” said Arch.

  “No,” Story said, “I won’t risk his animals. We’ll make do with a horse.”

  “This is another of the hazards of joining my outfit,” said Story when Arch had ridden away.

  “What a foolish, cruel thing to do,” Jasmine said. “You mean this has happened before?”

  “This is the third time,” said Story, “but this is the first time he’s killed. The first and second attempts, he was shooting at me. I think now he’s trying to worry me, to remind me that my time’s coming.”

  “But why?”

  “I’m not sure,” Story said, “unless it’s to avenge the thieves and killers the vigilantes hanged in Montana Territory, back in ’sixty-four and ’sixty-five. I was captain of the miners’ vigilance committee, and I know some of the gang escaped. So I don’t know if this bushwhacking is the work of one man or two or three. I’m also not sure that he’s just gunning for me. He may be the vindictive kind who’ll kill anybody in the outfit. That’s what bothers me most.”

  “It’s a cowardly way to seek revenge,” Jasmine said, “stalking a man and shooting from cover. I appreciate your warning me, but I’m still going with you.”

  “Curly,” said Manuel Cardenas, “it is time to go. It is only through the kindness of Senor Story’s riders that we have had food. There is no more.”

  “Must we go, Manuel? I . . . I hate to leave him here. Him and Mama.”

  “They have gone to a better world,” Manuel said, “and that is what we must do. We have no food, no money, no stock, and except for the Senor Story’s trail drive, no hope. The trail will be hard, but no harder than this. You can rope and ride as well as I. We must go before the Senor Story has hired the riders he needs.”

  They rode east, toward the Brazos, reining up for a last look at the desolate cabin and the two graves beside the creek.

  “Vaya con Dios, senor and senora,” said Manuel.

  Things were not going well in Wes Hardin’s cow camp. In four days they had roped but four cows, and as the young riders sat beneath a rock overhang eating beans, they bitched among themselves.

  “We ain’t got but one choice,” said Greener, “and that’s to ride farther south. Either the cows is all movin’ downriver or they been roped out.”

  “We don’t find any betwixt here an’ Waco,” Slim said, “we can just purely forget the Brazos. Goodnight an’ his outfit’s workin’ downriver from Waco, an’ they won�
��t be leavin’ doodly for nobody else.”

  “It don’t matter whether they leave any cows or not,” said Hardin. “This Goodnight’s got enough riders to fight the Comanches. We ain’t.”

  “Him right,” Quickenpaugh said. “Comanch’ kill dead lak hell.”

  “Well, by God,” said Greener, “we decided we can’t foller the river south, an’ we ain’t doin’ no good here. What are we goin’ to do?”

  “I’ve had ’bout enough of the way things is in Texas,” said Hardin. “We been gettin’ around this Reconstruction thing, but there’ll be more and more blue bellies, and sooner or later they’ll start lookin’ slanch-eyed at us. I’m of a mind to hire on with this trail drive Story’s got planned.”

  “Damn him,” Greener said, “he talked to us like we wasn’t dry behind the ears, like we wasn’t man enough even to be considered.”

  “One more reason to go,” said Hardin. “No man talks down to me, without regrettin’ it.”

  “Hell,” Slim said, “I ain’t got nothin’ to prove to nobody. I say let’s give it another week. If we don’t do no better’n we done this week, then I reckon it’s time we rode some other trail.”

  “Bueno,” said Quickenpaugh. “We wait.”

  Cal and his riders slept little their first night on the trail. Except for an occasional coyote, they heard nothing. The rain ceased during the night, and come the dawn, they even found enough dry wood for a fire. Hot coffee and food lifted their spirits considerably.

  “Mr. Story was right,” said Gus Odell. “Gun down one coyote, and it puts the fear of God into the rest. If anybody was comin’ after us, they’d of been here by now.”

  “Still,” Cal said, “we’ll ride careful and keep our guns handy. Sometime today we’ll have more grub, and you gents will have new Winchesters.”

  Bill Petty and Hitch Gould proved him right, riding in late that afternoon. Cal introduced the new riders, and the men were jubilant as they got the feel of the new Winchesters.

  “Fifty rounds of ammunition for each of you,” Bill Petty said. “That’ll be plenty to get us back to camp, unless we run into a tribe of Comanches.”

  Petty then told them of the thousand head of cows Story hoped to buy from Jasmine McDaniels, and that Story, Arch, and Tom were on their way to the girl’s ranch, near Malakoff. He also told them of Jasmine Mc-Daniels’s intention of joining the drive.

  “God,” said Cal, “I got the feelin’ this trail drive’s goin’ to be something for the history books.”

  He didn’t know how right he was. . . .

  “We might as well stop in Corsicana,” Jasmine said. “If Bud’s piled up in jail again, drunk, I’ll know what I have to do.”

  But the girl was in for a surprise. Bud wasn’t there, nor had Sheriff Eli Steam seen him. It was late afternoon when they neared the house and a rider rode in from the east, meeting them.

  “It’s Bud!” cried Jasmine.

  Jasmine dismounted and stood there speechless. Bud McDaniels not only looked like a working cowboy, he was cold sober. Story, Arch, and Tom had dismounted, and the girl regained enough of her composure to introduce them.

  “Howdy,” said Bud. “If we’re sellin’ the herd, I reckon we ought to know for sure how many we got. I been runnin’ a tally.”

  Jasmine looked from Story to Arch to Tom, wondering, in view of all she’d told them about Bud’s unsavory habits, how they’d react to this change in him. Story was the first to respond.

  “Good thinking,” said Story. “If we start the gather in the morning at first light, we can start the drive north before dark.”

  Arch and Tom, following Story’s lead, were cordial to McDaniels, and Jasmine flashed them grateful looks.

  “Bud,” Jasmine said, “help them unload the packhorse and stable and feed all their animals. I’ll get supper started.”

  As the night wore on, Arch Rainey and Tom Allen found themselves liking Bud McDaniels. He was as outspoken as his sister, and told them harrowing tales of his days with the Confederacy. It had a profound effect on Story, and Jasmine could see his doubts diminishing. When Tom Allen caught her eye and winked, she blushed, and Arch Rainey just sat there grinning.

  “We’d better call it a night,” said Story. “Tomorrow will be a long day.”

  “Mr. Story,” Jasmine said, “you can sleep with Bud. Arch and Tom can have the room that belonged to Daddy.”

  Story closed the bedroom door and turned to find Bud easing a whiskey bottle under the bed with the toe of his boot.

  “Don’t bother,” said Story. “I know about it.”

  “I ain’t proud of it,” said Bud, “if that makes any difference.”

  “We’ve all done things we’re not proud of,” Story said, “but a man puts them behind him and rides another trail.”

  “That’s what I aim to do,” said Bud.

  “Bueno,” Story said. “Now blow out that lamp and let’s get some sleep.”

  February 10, 1866. Malakoff, Texas.

  The rain started again sometime during the night, but it didn’t slow the gather, which began right after breakfast. Story was elated to find a large number of steers in the gather, most of them two-year-olds and older. He had an opportunity to observe Bud and Jasmine and their handling of the longhorns, and wasn’t disappointed. The ground was muddy, slippery, and a steadily falling rain added to the hazard. Jasmine’s horse went down, and the girl slid out of the saddle, remounting when the animal regained its feet. Story nodded approvingly. This pair would do. The gather went well, but because of the rain, they didn’t finish in time to take the trail.

  “We’d as well spend the night here,” Story said, “and start tomorrow at first light. No point sleeping in the rain if you don’t have to. Besides, the herd shouldn’t scatter, being on home range.”

  “Tomorrow we ought to reach the canyon where our camp is,” Cal said.

  They were driving the herd along the west bank of the Brazos. With the high water, the river acted as a natural barrier, keeping the herd on course with a minimum of effort.

  “Tell us again where this trail drive’s goin’ and where it’s gonna end,” said Virg Wooler.

  “From what Mr. Story tells me,” Cal said, “we’re going to Quincy, Illinois. He aims to sell part of the herd there, and take the rest on to Virginia City, Montana Territory.”

  “I’ve heard a little about that high country,” said Quanah. “It sounds like the place where a man can make some big tracks, without nobody botherin’ him.”

  “I can’t say I won’t never come back to Texas,” Cal said, “but it’ll be a while. I got nothin’ here.”

  “That reminds me,” said Bill Petty. “Nelson said you’ve got unfinished business in Fort Worth, and that when you get the herd back to camp, you can ride on into town.”

  “You’d better,” Hitch said, “or that unfinished business will come lookin’ for you.”

  February 11, 1866. Cow camp on the Brazos.

  As Nelson Story and his riders took the trail north, Manuel Cardenas and Curly Wells arrived at Story’s camp on the Brazos. When the pair had dismounted, Cardenas spoke to Coon Tails, who had climbed down to the river to greet them.

  “I am Manuel Cardenas and this is Curly Wells. We have come to speak to the Senor Story. We wish to hire on as riders for the trail drive.”

  “Story ain’t here,” Coon Tails said, “an’ we ain’t lookin’ for him fer maybe five days. He’s bringin’ a herd of cows from south o’ here. We been expectin’ you. Unsaddle yer hosses, shoulder yer saddles, an’ come on up t’ the camp. We was about t’have breakfast.”

  When the pair reached the camp, Coon Tails introduced them to Sandy Bill, Smokey Ellison, Oscar Fentress, and Shanghai Wolfington.

  “Jist make yerselves to home,” Coon Tails said. “Ain’t a damn thing t’do ’cept watch the river rise, or watch Oscar a-cuttin’ an’ a-lacin’ whatever the hell he’s makin’ outta that cowhide.”

  “I make rifle boot
s fer them what needs ’em,” said Oscar.

  “Yeah,” Coon Tails said, “that reminds me. Mr. Story’s got Winchesters an’ Colts fer them that needs ’em. How you fixed fer guns?”

  “We have only the Henry rifle, senor,” said Cardenas, “and we have almost no shells.”

  “Mr. Story carries a Henry,” Coon Tails said, “an’ we got shells. We got extry Colts too, an’ enough Winchesters so’s you both kin have a long gun.”

  “Gracias,” said Cardenas, “but let us wait until the Senor Story returns. Until then we do not know that he wants us.”

  February 12, 1866. On the Brazos.

  Late in the afternoon, Cal Snider and his seven riders scattered the fifteen hundred head of longhorns along the Brazos, within the canyon where Story’s camp was.

  “We’re gettin’ enough cows that we’re gonna have to do some nighthawkin’,” Cal said. “Some of these brutes might get homesick and go skalleyhootin’ down the river. I reckon a pair of us ought to ride this canyon ever’ night, at least until Mr. Story gets back and tells us different.”

  “That’s smart thinking,” said Bill Petty. “There’s enough of us to take it in three four-hour watches, two riders at a time.”

  When Cal, Petty, Hitch, and the five new riders had loosed their horses along the river, they all climbed up to the shelf beneath the overhang. Cal introduced the new riders to the rest of the outfit, and Petty introduced Curly Wells and Manuel Cardenas to the five newcomers. Young Curly seemed shy, saying little, while Cardenas fitted in almost immediately.

  February 13, 1866. Following the Brazos north.

  “I’d say we’ve come at least forty miles,” Story said at the end of their third day on the trail. “In the morning, we’ll head slightly northwest, and we shouldn’t be more than two days’ drive from our camp on the Brazos.”

  In Story’s absence, Cal Snider assumed the role of segundo. He chose himself and Quanah Taylor for the first watch, Bill Petty and Hitch Gould for the second, and Tom Allen and Arch Rainey for the third.