The Virginia City Trail Page 12

  “Thank you,” said Lorna, with a wan smile. “Did you . . . give my message to Cal . . . before . . .”

  “Before he was shot? Yes,” Story said, “I suggested he ride in and talk to you. He was riding here to do just that, when he was shot.”

  “Who would have shot Cal, Mr. Story?” Story could see suspicion dawning on her, and she stood up to face him, fire in her eyes. “Do you think he—my daddy—had Cal shot?”

  “No, Lorna,” said Story. “He doesn’t like Cal, but he didn’t have anything to do with that. Somebody has a grudge against me, somebody from my past. More than once he’s tried to ambush me, and now it seems he’s trying to hurt me by gunning down my riders.”

  “That’s terrible. What are you going to do?”

  “We’re going to set a trap for him,” Story said, “once the rain lets up. He’s used the storm as cover, and it’s been impossible to trail him, because of the mud and high water.”

  “Mr. Story, when Cal’s well, what . . . what do you think he’ll do about me?”

  “I don’t know,” said Story. “That’ll be up to Cal, but I believe he’ll do right by you. Just don’t push him. I think you’ll be surprised.”

  Not long after, Bill Petty rode into the canyon, finding the rest of the outfit anxious for news about Cal.

  “He’ll make it,” Petty said. “Nelson aims to keep a man in town, close by, for as long as Cal’s there. Every morning, one of us will ride in, stayin’ a day and a night. Lorna Flagg’s sittin’ with Cal now.”

  “That gal’s somethin’,” said Arch Rainey. “When old Cal comes out of it, he’s gonna think he’s died and gone to Heaven.”

  February 17, 1866. Fort Worth, Texas.

  For the first three days after Cal had been shot, Dr. Nagel came twice a day. It was past midnight of the second day when Cal awakened to find Arch Rainey beside him.

  “How long,” Cal muttered, “have I . . . been here?”

  “You’re into the third day,” said Arch. “You caught a bad one. Your hoss come gallopin’ into camp just a few minutes after Mr. Story rode in. It was him, Bill Petty, and Coon Tails that found you and brought you to town. The doc patched you up, and we been dosin’ you with laudanum regular, so’s you’d sleep. There’ll be somebody else from the outfit here to relieve me in the mornin’. Lorna’s been with you durin’ the daytime, ever’ day since you was brought in, and I reckon she’ll be back in the mornin’. God, but you’re one lucky hombre, and I don’t mean just because that slug didn’t finish you.”

  “The bushwhacker, I reckon,” said Cal.

  “That’s what Mr. Story thinks,” Arch said, “and he vows we’re goin’ to nail the bastard. But I can’t see how, until this damn rain lets up.”

  An hour after first light, Hitch Gould rode in to relieve Arch, and within minutes Lorna Flagg arrived.

  “I think I’ll go out and find me some hot coffee,” Hitch said, grinning at the girl. “With old Cal all hogtied in them bandages, I reckon you can handle him.” He went out and closed the door. Lorna ignored the chair and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “I was ridin’ in to see you,” said Cal, “and I . . . got delayed . . .”

  “I know,” Lorna said. “Mr. Story told me. He came to the house and got me. I was here almost by the time the doctor was.”

  “I’m surprised your daddy ain’t up here . . . givin’ us both hell,” said Cal.

  “It’s because Mr. Story went by the bank and gave him hell. Emma Baird was with him, and she said Mr. Story was magnificent. He stood up for you and for me, and he’s keeping a rider in town day and night, as long as you have to stay here. He was here himself, the first day and night after you were shot. I’ve done some thinking, Cal, and I have two things to say. First, I’m sorry that I embarrassed you that day in front of the bank. I acted like I was twelve years old, and I’ll never do that again. It hurts me to say this, because you’ll be leaving Texas . . . and me, but I believe you’ve done the right thing, joining Mr. Story’s trail drive. He cares about his riders, Cal, and whatever lies ahead—out there on the high plains—has to be better than what you’ve had here. . . .”

  “Lorna,” he said, “I . . . I’m so bound up, I can’t move anything but my hands. Please . . . come closer. . . .”

  She leaned closer until her eyes were looking into his.

  “I’ll be leavin’ Texas, Lorna, but I won’t be leavin’ you. It won’t be easy on the trail, but I’m takin’ you with me.”

  Cal had expected her first reaction, as a big tear spilled from each of her eyes, but what followed changed his mind about a lot of things. Whatever hazards lay ahead, she seemed the equal of them. The freckled, twelve-year-old girl was gone forever, and in her place was all the woman Cal Snider could handle. Her lips met his in a lingering kiss and Cal forgot everything else . . .

  February 18, 1866. On the Brazos.

  “It’s time I was talking to Cal,” Story said. “I’ll ride in this morning and relieve Tom. There’s one idea I aim to pursue in town, which could lead us to the skunk that gunned down Cal, and Coon Tails, I’ll need your help. You can ride back to camp before dark.”

  “Senor Story,” said Manuel Cardenas, “you have had much on your mind, and we have been unable to talk. We do not wish to become a burden. Shall we stay or go?”

  “Sorry, Manuel,” Story said. “I’ve been neglecting you and Curly. All I really need to know is can the two of you ride, rope, and shoot?”

  “These things we can do, senor, but we have had only the rifle. We have had no experiencia with the pistola.”

  “There are new Colt revolvers here,” said Story. “Each of you take one and begin getting the feel of it. You’ll have some time to practice before we take the trail north.”

  “Si,” Cardenas said with a grin. “We will be ready.”

  Story spent a minute or two with the rest of the riders. Since Cal had been shot, Story had hardly spoken to any of them, and he sought to make up for it. Jasmine McDaniels seemed to have a genuine affection for Sandy Bill, and had been helping him prepare the meals. Bud and some of the other riders had begun helping Oscar Fentress fashion needed holsters and rifle boots from cowhide. Inactivity was getting to them, but they were making the best of it.

  “Coon Tails,” said Story as they rode toward town, “either we’re facing two different bushwhackers, or one that swaps rifles. The slug that killed the mule came from a Sharps .50, while the lead that struck Cal came from a Henry or a Winchester.”

  “Cal’s jist damn lucky the bastard didn’t git him with the Sharps,” Coon Tails said. “That buffalo slug would of cut him in half. If yer askin’ my opinion, they ain’t but one bushwhacker. The sneaky varmint’s jist switchin’ rifles t’throw you off’n the trail.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking,” said Story. “You don’t see many riders with two saddle guns, and I’m ashamed of myself for not having thought of this sooner. I want you to wander around town, paying particular attention to the saloons, looking at saddled horses. Don’t be too obvious. Look for a rifle boot with a Sharps. If you find one, position yourself so that you can see the man who claims that horse.”

  “Damn good idee,” Coon Tails said. “Sooner er later, this hombre’s got t’come t’town, if’n only t’ wet his whistle.”

  They split up when they reached town, Story taking his horse to the livery and walking from there to the hotel. He found Tom Allen sitting in the lobby.

  “He’s in good hands,” said Allen. “Lorna’s with him, and I got a mite tired hunkerin’ in the hall.”

  “You can ride on back to camp,” Story said. “Keep to the open plains as much as possible.”

  “By the way,” said Allen, “the bushwhacker ain’t the only danger out there. Yesterday evening, a rider come in from western Palo Pinto County with news of Comanche trouble. Somewhere along the Brazos, a rancher and his two sons was murdered and scalped. The wife hid in the brush and escaped to some neighboring ranch. Ca
ptain Clark sent some soldiers to investigate. While we don’t want to come off like buzzards preyin’ on the unfortunate, you could ask around and see if that rancher has cattle. If there’s only the wife left, I wouldn’t be surprised if she only wants to get the hell out of there.”

  “You’re right, Tom,” Story said. “I’d feel like a scavenger, so soon after the poor woman’s lost her family. But I’ll keep it in mind. Thanks.”

  Allen rode out, and Story mounted the steps to the hotel’s second floor. His hand on the knob, he was about to enter the room when he thought better of it and knocked. It was Lorna who eventually answered, and Story entered. She sat demurely on the chair beside the bed, but Story suspected she hadn’t been there when he’d knocked. Her face was flushed, and Cal looked anything but innocent.

  “Well,” said Story, grinning at the young rider, “besides having been shot, how do you feel?”

  “I ain’t sure,” Cal said, “until I’ve talked to you. How do you feel about havin’ a woman on the trail drive?”

  “I just hired Jasmine McDaniels as a rider,” said Story.

  “I thought about what you told me,” Cal said, “and I’m taking Lorna with me. We aim to settle in Montana Territory.”

  “Glad to hear it, Cal. It’ll be a hard trail, Lorna, but I believe you can conquer it. If you can ride and throw a loop, I’ll put you to herdin’ cows and pay you like a cowboy.”

  Lorna had been listening, wide-eyed, and when she moved, it took Story by surprise. She sprang out of the chair, grabbed him around the neck and kissed him. This time it was Story who was embarrassed. He went red, and Cal laughed. When Dr. Nagel came in, his answer to Story’s inquiry was optimistic.

  “Give him another week,” the doctor said, “and he can get up. But no hard riding, roping, or brawling.”

  To Story’s surprise, he found Coon Tails waiting for him on the boardwalk outside the hotel. For the second day in a row there was no rain.

  “By God,” Coon Tails said, “the third saloon I goes to, I sees this bay hoss tied outside, an’ they was a Sharps in the saddle boot. Reg’lar boot, it was, an’ the muzzle of the buffalo gun was stuck out a foot.”

  “You followed the man who claimed the horse?”

  “Shore did,” Coon Tails said. “He took a quart o’ rotgut with ’im, an’ I follered the varmint t’ a hotel called the Hondo, over yonder beyon’ that unfinished courthouse buildin’. Hoss he’s ridin’ is got a pitchfork brand on the left flank, an’ he ain’t ridin’ a cowboy saddle. Single rig. I’d reckon he’s about t’pile up fer a day o’ serious drinkin’, so we ain’t gonna lose the varmint.”

  “Now tell me something about the man,” said Story.

  “Mebbe six feet, black hair down t’ his collar, an’ a faceful o’ whiskers. Wearin’ what looked like wool britches, an’ a mackinaw coat kinda like yours. Pistol on the right side, tied down, butt t’ the front, an’ a flat crown hat with a chin strap. Boots wasn’t fancy. No spurs.”

  “Bueno,” Story said. “You didn’t miss a thing. We have a suspect, but no proof. We’ll have to trail him until he makes some hostile move.”

  “You want me t’stay on his tail, then, I reckon.”

  “No,” said Story, “I want you to ride back to camp and get Bill Petty, and the three of us will take turns watching that hotel. This man’s no short horn. He sees the same hombre there all the time, he’ll know we’re on to him. Tell Tom Allen he’s the segundo until I say different, and he’s to continue sending in a rider every day, as long as Cal’s laid up in the hotel. Tell him that he’s not to count on you, Bill Petty, or me, until we resolve this situation with the suspected bushwhacker. I’ll watch the hotel until you return with Petty. Where did this gent leave his horse?”

  “Kind of barn behin’ the hotel,” Coon Tails said. “Ain’t a livery. You got t’stable an’ feed yer own hoss.”

  “Ride, then,” said Story, “and when you and Bill return, I’ll be watching that hotel, but don’t join me there. I’ll be watching for you. Just ride past, so I’ll know you’re here, and we’ll meet here at the Fort Worth House. From then on, one of us will be watching for that hombre’s next move.”

  Coon Tails rode out and Story got his own horse from the livery. Careful not to take a direct route to the Hondo, he followed side streets until he was in a narrow alley that ran behind the place. Concealing the horse was most important. A man being watched would notice a horse as quick or quicker than a man, especially if the horse stayed in one place too long, or was seen there too often. The animal must remain saddled in case the suspected bushwhacker rode out unexpectedly. Story found an abandoned building across the alley from the rear of the hotel, and picketed the animal where it could graze without being seen unless somebody went looking for it. The old hotel where the suspect was holed up was single story and there was a back door, allowing easy access to the barn where the hotel’s occupants left their horses. A western man seldom walked anywhere, except to the outhouse, and since Story couldn’t watch both the front and back doors, he chose the back. The barn had wide double doors at each end, so that a hay wagon might be driven in and hay pitched to the loft.

  Careful that he wasn’t being observed, Story entered the barn, found the ladder to the loft, and climbed up there. From his lofty perch he could’see the back door of the hotel and the narrow street that ran in front of it, so he would know when Coon Tails and Bill Petty had returned. If he was discovered, he could always pretend he’d had a snootful at one of the saloons and was sleeping it off. If they were forced to watch the hotel for more than a day or two, the loft would prove a welcome shelter, for already a new herd of thunderheads were gathering to the west.

  A little more than two hours after Coon Tails had ridden out, he and Bill Petty rode past the hotel. Story waited until they were well out of sight before climbing down from the loft and seeking his horse. By the time he reached the Fort Worth House, Coon Tails and Petty were waiting for him.

  “I’ve been in the hayloft of the barn behind the hotel,” Story said, “and it’s a good observation point. Nobody left the hotel, at least not by the back door. While you can’t see the front door, you can see the street. Not many hombres will walk if they can ride, and the horses are all in the barn behind the hotel. This is going to be almighty boring, especially if it lasts more than a day or two, and that’s why three of us are going to devote all our time to it. We’ll take it in six-hour watches. You’re on for six hours, and off twelve. If this suspected bush-whacker rides out, don’t try to trail him alone. Notice the direction he’s riding, and the three of us will trail him. We’ll take another room here, on the first floor, so that when you’re not on watch, you’ll have a place to sleep. Bill, you can take the first turn, and one of us will relieve you at six o’clock this evening. Just be sure to leave your horse where it can’t be seen from the hotel, and if this hombre rides out, you shag it back here and let us know.”

  So began what Nelson Story hoped was a showdown with the bushwhacker. He took another hotel room at the Fort Worth House, and leaving Coon Tails there, returned to the room occupied by Cal. Quanah Taylor sat outside the door on a three-legged stool.

  “Kind of crowded in there, I reckon,” said Story.

  “Yes, sir,” Taylor grinned, “and I wouldn’t wanta get in the way. She’s some woman, and Cal Snider’s the luckiest son that ever forked a hoss.”

  9

  February 19, 1866. Fort Worth, Texas.

  Late that afternoon, Captain Clark’s detachment of soldiers rode in, bringing with them the lone survivor of the Comanche attack in Palo Pinto County. The distraught woman was led into the lobby of the hotel, and Story spoke to a grizzled old-timer who had ridden in with the soldiers.

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  “I reckon not. I’m Whit McCulloch, an’ it was my place she come to fer help. She run nearly ten mile, an’ time me an’ my boys got to her place, wasn’t nothin’ left but ashes an’ dead bodies. We
buried her dead. My missus wanted me to ride in with her, so’s she wouldn’t be amongst strangers. We’re puttin’ her up here for a few days, hopin’ she’ll git to herself. She just wants to go back East, to her family, an’ she’ll need money. Nothin’ left but their stock, an’ we need to know what she wants done.”

  “I’m registered here at the hotel,” Story said, “and I’m buying cattle and horses. When she’s able to talk about it, if she wants to sell, I’ll buy the stock. My name is Nelson Story. Will you be here awhile?”

  “At least till she’s able to talk fer herself, an’ can settle her affairs enough to git home to her family. She’s got a right smart of a herd, and they was some hosses, but the Comanches took ’em.”

  “I have Room Six on the first floor,” said Story. “If I’m not there, one of my riders will be.”

  At half past five Story sent Coon Tails to relieve Bill Petty. Story would take the watch from midnight to dawn. No sooner had Petty reached the Fort Worth House, when the storm that had been building since early morning broke. It roared out of the northwest, the wind-driven rain beating against the windows, turning the already muddy streets into an all too familiar quagmire.

  “Thank God for that hayloft,” Petty said. “If that’s our bushwhacker, I doubt he’ll be ridin’ in this kind of weather.”

  “We can’t count on that,” said Story. “It was just about this kind of day when he plugged my hat and grazed my mule, and not much better the day he ambushed Cal. But in a way, it’s good that he prefers this kind of weather, because it’ll limit him to daylight. In the rain, he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face at night.”

  “Hey,” Petty said, “when you think about it, he’s followin’ a kind of pattern. It wasn’t raining that mornin’ he killed the mule, but it was just a little past first light. That’s about the same time of day he shot Cal. That means he could be ridin’ out just before or just after first light.”