The Dodge City Trail Read online

  “You look like a cowboy,” he said cheerfully, “and you’re startin’ to sound like one too.”

  “If you don’t like the way I sound, stay away from me,” she snapped.

  “I didn’t say I didn’t like it. What we’ve been through today would make a preacher cuss. Long as I’m working you like a cowboy, I won’t complain if you talk and act like one. I would prefer that you don’t strip down to the hide at the river crossings, though.”

  “I’m planning to do exactly that,” she said defiantly. “It’s the only way I’ll ever get all this damn dirt off me.”

  “The worst of it’s over,” Dan said. “They’re tiring.”

  “So are the rest of us. Do you really think we can reach South Llano before dark?”

  “I don’t know,” Dan said. “If we don’t, it’ll mean dry camp. Tonight, if there’s even the slightest breeze from the north or northwest, you’ll see the damnedest stampede in Texas history.”

  “There’s always a little breeze after sundown.”

  “That’s why we’re pushing the herd,” Dan said. “If they stampede at the smell of water, some—probably the slower moving cows—will be gored or trampled.

  They’ll also be scattered for miles along the river, trying to get at the water.”

  “There’s the horse remuda and the wagons ahead,” Adeline said. “What’s going to become of them?”

  “I don’t aim to leave them in the path of twenty thousand thirsty cows,” Dan replied. “Two hours before sundown, I’ll send the wagons and the horse remuda on ahead, to the river. The wagons can go on across, and when the horses have been watered, they can be taken across to graze. Then when the longhorns finally reach water, there won’t be anything in their way.”

  “I like that,” Adeline said, “except for one thing. What about Indians? I believe Lieutenant Winters was telling the truth.”

  “So do I. Chato and his riders are somewhere ahead of us, and we’ll have to depend on them to defend our wagons and horse remuda, if need be. I believe they will, because the horse remuda belongs to them.”

  “I’d forgotten about that,” Adeline said, “and I feel better. Whatever they think of us, they won’t let the Comanches take their horses.”

  With the sun noon high, there still wasn’t a breath of air stirring, and the heat seemed more oppressive than ever. That, combined with the dust, had the herd bawling for water. As their thirst and frustration grew, the brutes began hooking at one another, and some of them had bloody flanks.

  “Damn it,” Wolf Bowdre said to nobody in particular, “the blowflies will eat ‘em alive.”

  When Dan judged the sun to be about two hours high, he rode ahead and talked to the horse wranglers.

  “I’m going to have Silas set the pace,” he told them. “Just follow the wagons. They’ll go on across the river. Keep the horses moving, but don’t let them run. When they’ve watered, take them across the river to graze.”

  Dan rode ahead, caught up to the lead wagon and explained to Silas what he was to do.

  “What about them Comanche the blue belly was talkin’ about?”

  “Chato and his men are somewhere ahead of us,” Dan said. “I think we can count on them. The horse remuda belongs to them, you know.”

  Silas nodded, grinned, and drove on.

  The bawling, cantankerous herd plodded on, defying all efforts to prod them into a faster gait. It became a futile race with time, and Dan’s eye was on the ever lowering sun. Since the wagons and the horses had gone on ahead, Dan rode to the point position. The long-horns had their heads down, their tongues lolling, but they still needed something or someone to follow. The oppressive heat seemed to rise out of the very earth, surrounding them, and not a breath of air stirred. The critical time would come after sundown, when a tantalizing wind from the northwest could bring a hint of water. In but a few seconds their cause could be lost, their efforts in vain, as the massive herd thundered across the plains, out of control.

  Repeatedly, Dan turned in his saddle, watching the lead steers. The faster gait, which he had fought to establish at the start of the day, had dwindled, until the herd appeared to be moving even more slowly than before. But there was nothing more the riders could do. The brutes bawled in dismal cacophony as they stumbled along a trail that seemed endless. The westering sun seemed to rest on the distant horizon for a few minutes, and then began to slip away in a burst of crimson glory. Dan removed his hat, sleeving the sweat from his eyes. He judged they had maybe an hour before a treacherous wind might betray them. With that thought in mind, he distanced himself from the herd, riding far enough ahead that he might escape a thundering, thirst-crazed avalanche if he had to.

  The sun was long gone and purple twilight approaching when Dan received the first hint of impending disaster. So weary was he that at first he didn’t notice, but the thirsty longhorns did. Their frenzied bellows seemed to come simultaneously from twenty thousand parched throats. There was a gentle breeze from the northwest, cooling to Dan’s sweaty, blistered face. There was a thunder of hooves as the thirsty longhorns responded, and Dan rode for his life. When the herd fanned out, they would come at him in a deadly swath a mile wide. He rode west until he was sure he was out of the path of the stampede. He waited until the danger was past, then rode back, catching up to the drag riders. Dejected, they sat their saddles amid the settling dust, watching the last of the herd vanish into the twilight.

  “A hard day for nothing,” Odessa Chambers sighed, “and God knows how many days rounding them up.”

  “One thing in our favor,” Dan said, “they won’t run beyond the water.”

  “No, but they might scatter the length of it,” Adeline said wearily.

  “That’s something we’ll have to contend with in the morning,” Dan replied. “It’ll be dark before we reach the river. Let’s ride.”

  Dan estimated the distance at five miles. Eventually they smelled smoke, evidence that they were nearing the river and their camp. Silas had a fire going, and somewhere beyond it was the sound of cattle splashing around in the river.

  “We got here with the wagons in time to fill all our pots and kegs with clear water,” Silas said. “Them thirsty varmints is likely to muddy it up for the rest of the night.”

  “Let’s hope they stand right there in it till daylight,” Monte Walsh said. “Last time the bastards stampeded, it took us a week to round ‘em up. Now we got twice as many.”

  Dan rode across the river to find the horse herd and see to the safety of the young wranglers. To his relief, he found them and their charges a quarter of a mile north of the river.

  “They was all watered and out of the way when the longhoras hit the water,” Denny said proudly.

  “The four of you handled it just right,” Dan said. “It’s something to keep in mind. If there’s a water problem somewhere along the trail, we may be faced with this again. The longhorns have settled down, so we can drive the horses a little closer to the river. By then supper should be ready.”

  Supper was mostly a silent affair. Nobody even wanted to think about tomorrow and the task of rounding up the scattered herd.

  “Watches tonight as usual,” Dan said, “but you can forget about the herd. Just stay close to camp, keep an eye on the wagons, and join the wranglers in seeing that nobody bothers the horses.”

  South Llano River. Wednesday, September 14, 1870.

  Daylight found Dan and the outfit mounting up to gather the scattered herd. He sought out Wolf Bowdre.

  “Wolf, you take nine men and ride east. I’ll take nine and ride west. I reckon we’ll find all these brutes strung out along the river, but there’s so many of them, they may be scattered three or four miles in each direction. Ride as far east as you see any cows, and gather them as you return. The rest of us will ride west, gathering as we return. We’ll meet, bringing as many together as we can. Once we have a tally and know how many are still out there, we’ll go looking for stragglers.”

&
nbsp; The plan proved effective, and even with the large herd, more than half had been gathered by the end of the day.

  “That was the easy part,” Dan said. “The rest of them have wandered away from the river to graze, or they’re hiding in the mesquite and the oak thickets. Tomorrow we’ll go looking for them.”

  “Might not be all that bad,” Garret Haddock said. “This is the closest water, and while cows ain’t all that smart, they’ll stay close enough to drink. When they’re wild, they usually go to water in the early mornin’, and this bunch ain’t all that tame. If we’re strung out up and down this river come daylight, we’ll grab a bunch of ‘em when they come to drink.”

  “That’s right,” Rufe Keeler said. “It’ll be easier than draggin’ the varmints out of the brush.”

  Supper was already under way when the big man on the black horse rode in. He wore polished black boots, Levi’s, and a white shirt with a fancy black string tie. A gray Stetson completed his attire. He had jet-black hair, pale blue eyes, and a tied-down Colt on his right hip. Dan met him a few yards from the supper fire.

  “I’m Clay Allison,” the stranger said. “I have a place near Cimarron, New Mexico Territory.”

  “Step down,” Dan said. “We’re havin’ supper, and you’re welcome to join us if you like beans and beef.”

  “I didn’t know there was anything else,” Allison replied, dismounting.

  *In 1867, the United States Congress created a peace commission, hoping to negotiate fresh treaties with the Cheyennes, Arapahos, Comanches and Kiowas. In return for the tribes remaining peacefully on reservations, the new treaty would provide rations, clothing, housing and vocational training. In October, 1867, the commission took a huge wagon train of supplies to a village in southern Kansas, called Medicine Lodge. But only Chief Black Kettle and his tribe of Cheyennes attended the meeting, and the congress that had created the peace commission refused it further support. Ironically, Black Kettle—who had long sought peace with the white man—was brutally murdered in a pre-dawn attack on his village near the upper Washita River in what is now western Oklahoma. The attack was led by General George A. Custer and the U. S. Seventh Cavalry, taking place on November 27, 1868, a little more than a year after Black Kettle had signed the Medicine Lodge Treaty.

  9

  Clay Allison proved a most interesting guest. He was a handsome man, not more than thirty, and seemed to enjoy the furtive looks he drew from the women. Conversation came easy to him, and when Dan spoke of the Indian situation, Allison expanded on it.

  “I don’t blame Quanah Parker and the Comanches for their hostility,” Allison said. “He was right to back out of the Medicine Lodge Treaty. Not one provision of it was honored. The politicians in Washington promised food, clothing, and hunting grounds in return for peace with the Cheyennes, Arapahos, Comanches, and Kiowas. Not one of the promises were kept. When you’re beyond Fort Griffin, you’ll hear the boom of rifles to the west, and it won’t be Indian rifles. White men have killed off the rest of the buffalo, and now they’ve invaded the hunting grounds ceded to the Indians.”

  “I don’t doubt the truth of it,” Wolf Bowdre said, “but you can’t justify Quanah Parker and his Comanches attacking the forts and murdering whites who had nothing to do with violation of the treaties.”

  “I’m not tryin’ to,” Allison said. “What I’m saying is that the Indian makes no allowances for anything other than black or white. If you are not his friend, then you are his enemy. Let me give you an example of the white man’s treachery that destroyed forever any hope of peace with the Indians. Black Kettle, a Cheyenne chief, brought his people together in support of the Medicine Lodge Treaty. In November 1868, a year after the failed Medicine Lodge conference, Black Kettle and some of his people were camped on the upper Washita River.”*

  Allison paused, staring into the fire as though remembering. Then he continued.

  “At dawn there was an unprovoked attack on Black Kettle’s camp. The U.S. Seventh Cavalry, led by the man the Indians call Long Hair. George Armstrong Custer hit the camp from four directions. Black Kettle and his wife were gunned down, along with many women and children. As a final insult, Custer allowed his Indian scouts to scalp Black Kettle. That’s what the Indians have come to expect from the white man, and while I don’t agree with what they’re doing, I can understand their hatred.”

  “Put in those terms,” Dan said, “so can I. The Confederacy is suffering under its own Washington treaty, called the Reconstruction Act.”

  “I’m familiar with it,” Allison said. “I was there, along with some of my friends from Tennessee. When it was over, I came to Texas, only to learn I was about to end up under Washington’s thumb. Before the blue bellies showed up, I pulled out. New Mexico Territory ain’t all that bad.”

  “I reckon you’re plenty familiar with Goodnight’s drive through eastern New Mexico Territory into Colorado,” Skull Kimbrough said. “Tough trail, I reckon.”

  “I wouldn’t recommend it unless you’re plannin’ a ranch in the high country,” Allison said. “I was trying to

  make a go of it in southeastern Colorado at the time, and I met some of Goodnight’s pards in Santa Fe.’†

  “It’s time for the first watch,” Dan said, “and I reckon the rest of us had better call it a night. We have a hard day tomorrow.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll ride on to Fort Griffin with you,” Allison said. “Kind of tedious, ridin’ it by my lone-some, and there’s always a chance I’ll meet up with Quanah Parker and his amigos.”

  “You’re welcome to ride with us,” Dan said, “but you may be a while in gettin’ there. Half our herd’s scattered somewhere along this river, and we won’t be goin’ anywhere until we’ve rounded ‘em up.”

  “I’m not in that great a hurry,” Allison said. “I learned cow back in Tennessee. I’ll lend a hand.”

  “He’s a strange man,” Adeline said when Dan had unrolled his blankets near hers. “I think there’s more to him than meets the eye. If he lives in New Mexico, why is he going to Fort Griffin?”

  “We won’t know unless he chooses to tell us,” Dan said. “This is the frontier, and you don’t ask more of a man than he volunteers to tell you. But you’re right about one thing. He does have another side. I heard of him while I was with the Confederacy. He was with a company of Tennesseeans, and they fought like devils, Allison leading them.”

  “I like him,” Adeline said. “Despite what Quanah Parker and his band are doing, Clay Allison spoke of them with compassion, and I liked that.”

  “If we have a fight with them, I hope he still feels that way,” Dan said. “It’s the kind of situation that depends mostly on whose ox is bein’ gored.”

  Dan arose at midnight, taking his place on the second watch. Almost by the time he was in the saddle, there was the roar of a Colt. It came from the vicinity of the horse remuda, and Dan and his riders arrived to find their four young horse wranglers standing over the body of a man.

  “We didn’t do it,” Denny DeVoe said defensively as Dan and his companions dismounted.

  “I did it,” said Clay Allison from the shadows, “He was trying to get to the horses.”

  “You’re a mite sudden with a gun,” Dan said. “How did you know it wasn’t one of our men?”

  “He was afoot,” Allison said. “Your camp was asleep, except for the men on watch, and they’re all mounted. Turn him over and see if you recognize him.” Allison lighted a match.

  Dan rolled the man over and found himself looking into the swarthy face of a Mexican. The rest of Dan’s riders from the second watch gathered around, along with most of those who had been awakened by the shot.

  “Nobody I’ve ever seen before,” Dan said. “What’s a Mexican doing this far north, sneaking around our horse remuda in the middle of the night?”

  “Bigger question is, how’d the varmint get past us and to the horses?” Silas Hamby asked.

  “We didn’t see or near nothin’,
” Gid Kilgore said, “till the shot was fired, and we wasn’t asleep neither.”

  “Not the fault of you wranglers,” Dan said. “Wolf, get a blanket. You and me will tote this hombre away from camp until we can bury him tomorrow. Those of you on the second watch mount up, and the rest of you get what sleep you can. Tomorrow will be another long day.”

  On the banks of the Nueces, some twenty miles south of the trail drive, Santos Miguel Montoya and his Mexican band had made their camp. A hundred yards to the south was a second camp, that of Burton Ledoux and his two men, Loe Hagerman and Black Bill. First light was just minutes away.

  “That Mex that rode out last night ain’t come back,” Hagerman said. “What you reckon that means?”

  “How the hell should I know?” Ledoux snapped irritably. Used to easier living, the discomforts of the trail were getting to him.

  “I wish the whole damn lot would ride out and not come back,” Black Bill said. “I hate Mejicanos.”

  “Along with everybody else,” Hagerman observed.

  “Watch your mouth,” Black Bill said. “I ain’t takin’ nothin’ off of you.”

  “Both of you just shut the hell up,” Ledoux growled. “Here comes Montoya.”

  Black Bill eyed the Mexican with open contempt, while Montoya seemed to regard Black Bill with amusement. Montoya spoke.

  “Diego has not returned, Senor Ledoux.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Ledoux snapped. “What do you intend to do now?”

  “Nothing, senor. If Diego lives, he will return to us. If he does not, then finding his dead body will accomplish nothing.”

  “We were stuck here on the damn riverbank all day yesterday,” Ledoux fumed. “How much longer?”

  “Two more day,” Montoya said cheerfully. “Per’ap longer.”