The Virginia City Trail Page 13

  “That’s sharp thinkin’, Bill. I’ll be watching mighty close that last hour or two before first light, and you’ll have to do the same thing, when you take my place in the morning.”

  The rain had slacked to a drizzle when Story climbed up the ladder to the hayloft.

  “Wasn’t completely sure that was you,” said Coon Tails, easing down the hammer on his Colt. “Ain’t been nobody in er outta that back door, ’cept t’visit the outhouse. Might be a good idee t’git outta this loft an’ hide somewheres else b’fore first light. They’s six hosses down there, an’ somebody’s got t’fork down some hay fer ’em.”

  “I’ve thought of that,” Story said, “and you can always climb out on the roof if you have to disappear in a hurry. There’s a wide overhang.”

  Story made himself comfortable in the hay, preparing for a long six hours, thinking of what Bill Petty had said. It made sense, and combining that with Coon Tails’s admonition not to get caught in the loft by owners of the horses coming to feed them, Story decided to leave the loft while it was still dark. There were other points from which he could observe, although he couldn’t remain there for long. Besides, if the suspected bushwhacker rode away, minutes would count, and Story knew he could reach his horse much quicker if he wasn’t trapped in the barn.

  Well before first light Story climbed down the ladder and stood just inside the barn doors, facing the back door of the hotel. Suddenly the door opened and a man stepped out. In the predawn darkness there was only the dim light from the lamp inside the hotel’s back door, and that was soon closed. There had been only seconds for Story to glimpse the bearded face, the flat-crowned hat, but his sharp eyes had caught something far more important. Under the man’s arm there had been a long canvas-wrapped parcel that almost had to be a rifle. Story hurried to the other end of the barn, and dark as it was, hid himself in an empty stall. He held his breath, fearful that Bill Petty might arrive and enter the barn, unaware that the suspected bushwhacker was preparing to leave. Story heard the unmistakable sound of the man saddling his horse, and finally the creak of the barn doors as the animal was led out into the alley. Story crept through the doors at his end of the barn and ran for his horse. Leading it, he reached the alley in time to see the man ride past a lighted window that bled a little light into the rainy darkness.

  “Nels!”

  Despite the use of his name, there was a cocked Colt in his hand when Story turned to face Petty.

  “I got to the barn in time to see you leave it,” said Petty.

  “He’s ridin’ out,” Story said. “Come on. Soon as we know what direction, you ride back and get Coon Tails. I’ll keep him in sight.”

  They rode past the unfinished courthouse, past the Masonic hall, and when the pursued man reached the next cross street, he rode south.

  “Get Coon Tails and come on,” Story said. “I think this is our man.”

  The rider seemed in no hurry, so Petty and Coon Tails soon caught up.

  “The two of you continue following him at a distance,” said Story. “He seems to be following the west bank of the Brazos, but I believe somewhere between here and our camp, he’ll cross. I aim to cross to the east bank and get ahead of him, so that when he finally takes his position, we can maybe catch him in a cross fire.”

  “Wisht we knowed if he’s aimin’ t’ use that Sharps,” Coon Tails said. “He can cut us down ’fore we git close enough t’ even touch him.”

  “Maybe not,” said Story. “The rain’s getting harder, and he can’t hit what he can’t see. I’ll be somewhere ahead of him, and he won’t be expecting that.”

  Story found a point on the Brazos where he was able to swim his horse across, and reaching the east bank, set out at a fast gallop. He had no fear that the man they pursued could see him from the west bank. However, he kept half a mile distant from the river. Looking toward the Brazos, he could see nothing, but the wind was from the northwest. Eventually he caught the faint odor of wood smoke and realized he was past their camp on the west bank. He reined up, seeking cover. While the suspected bushwhacker might not see him, Story thought, he might spot the horse. The banks were far above the river, stony, and there was little vegetation. Story had to leave his horse well away from the east bank. Carrying his Henry, he walked close enough to see the west bank of the chasm. There were deep gullies that emptied into the Brazos, where the poor soil had eroded down to bare rock. Story found one deep enough to hide him from an adversary approaching from the north. There was water in the bottom, runoff from the rain rushing toward the Brazos, but Story was unmindful of it. He hunkered down, waiting.

  Meanwhile, Coon Tails was saying, “We’re so far behind, we can’t even see the varmint.”

  “Best leave it that way,” Petty replied. “We get close enough to see him, he can see us. He could always just ride on, and we couldn’t prove he was up to no good.”

  “We’ll play hell catchin’ him in a cross fire,” Coon Tails said, “with him an’ Story on t’other bank, an’ us over here. Mebbe we oughta cross.”

  “No,” said Petty. “Nels could be wrong. If we cross over there, and this hombre don’t, we could lose him. We’ll have to depend on Story to catch him at whatever he aims to do.”

  Story waited, counting on the bushwhacker to take his position somewhere along the east rim before he reached the gully in which he was hiding. If the man rode beyond where he was hiding, Story knew he would be discovered and all would be lost. Story could see a stone parapet along the lip of the canyon. Not only would it provide excellent cover, the stone would offer a convenient rest for the heavy Sharps.

  Even with the rain, the ground was flint-hard in places, and Story heard the horse before he could see either horse or rider. The horse slowed before reaching Story’s place of concealment, and Story sighed with relief. Taking off his hat, he eased up enough to see. The rider had dismounted and was removing the canvas from the rifle. Indeed it appeared to be the deadly Sharps. He hunkered down behind the upthrust stone, resting the heavy weapon in one position and then another. Finally he found one he liked, the Sharps angled almost vertical, and Story knew who he was gunning for. It had to be one of the cowboys who had been nighthawking, keeping the herd in the canyon. Story climbed out of the gully and was halfway to the bushwhacker when his horse nickered nervously.

  “Freeze,” Story said. “You’re covered.”

  But that wasn’t the killer’s way. Unsurpassed for long range killing, the Sharps was heavy and unwieldy up close. It went clattering down the wall of the canyon as the bushwhacker went for his Colt. Story drew his own right-hand Colt and fired twice, the lead slamming into the man just above his belt buckle. He lost his grip on the Colt and lay back, blood soaking the front of his denim shirt. Story holstered his Colt and stood looking down at the dying man.

  “Who are you?” Story asked, “and what have you against me?”

  “Alder Gulch, you bastard. You didn’t get . . . us . . . all.”

  It was his last words. Story left him there, taking his horse, then recovering his own. He rode downriver until he found a place shallow enough to cross. Troubled, he pondered the dying man’s words. “You didn’t get us all.” Did that mean there were others, that this menace might continue to stalk him and his outfit on the long trail north? When Story reached the west bank, he found Coon Tails and Bill Petty waiting for him. They had heard the shots and Story led the other man’s horse, so there were no questions. They rode into the canyon, leaving their horses beside the river and climbing up to the camp beneath the overhang. The rest of the outfit had heard the distant shots and were anxiously awaiting some explanation.

  “We caught the bushwhacker in the act,” Story told them. “He’s dead.”

  Their relief was such that Story didn’t diminish it by telling them of the dying man’s words and his own doubts. This might be the end of it, but he couldn’t be sure. There might be other killers awaiting him, vengeful men who had escaped the rope on that day
of reckoning in Alder Gulch. . . .

  Story had breakfast with his outfit and then rode back to Fort Worth. He believed Cal would be recovered enough to take the trail by March first, but they still lacked a substantial part of their herd. Story had a room at the hotel, and he hadn’t forgotten the unfortunate woman whose entire family had been murdered by Comanches. If she had stock to sell, then he certainly wouldn’t be out of line in bidding for it. Gus Odell had ridden in to take Quanah Taylor’s place outside Cal’s room, and Story met Quanah riding back to camp.

  “Heard you nailed the varmint that shot Cal,” Taylor said. “Bueno.”

  “Cal’s still on the mend, I reckon,” said Story.

  “I reckon,” Quanah said. “He’s rarin’ to get up and back to camp.”

  Story rode on to town, and when he reached the Fort Worth House, he asked about Whit McCulloch.

  “He’s still here,” said the desk clerk. “Room Eight, first floor.”

  Story knocked on the door and McCulloch opened it.

  “I just rode in from my cow camp,” said Story. “Have you had breakfast?”

  “No,” McCulloch said. “I was about to ask the Missus Hamby if she would join me. We ain’t talked yet, an’ we need to. I don’t care fer this town livin’.”

  “Why don’t you go talk to her, then,” said Story. “If she’s willing, then I’ll buy your breakfast and hers.”

  Story waited in the lobby until McCulloch returned. With him was a pale, gray-haired woman with lifeless eyes, who probably wasn’t as old as she looked.

  “Ellie, this is Nelson Story. He knows about your misfortune. He’s invitin’ us to breakfast.”

  “Mrs. Hamby, I’m sorry,” said Story. “I wish there was something I could do.”

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice breaking, “but there ain’t nothin’ nobody can do.”

  Story led them to a cafe, allowed them to order breakfast, and he then ordered coffee for himself. Ellie Hamby only picked at her food. Story felt sorry for her, and was about to suggest they go back to the hotel, when Whit McCulloch spoke.

  “Ellie, Mr. Story buys cows, an’ if you’re up to it, he’d like to maybe talk to you about buyin’ your herd.”

  “Oh, Lord,” Ellie cried, “I don’t know what to do. All I know is, I don’t never want to go back to that awful place. Never!”

  “I’ve talked to Cap’n Clark,” said McCulloch, “and the army will see that you get to New Orleans. From there you can take a boat back East, but you’ll need money. Why don’t you go ahead an’ sell the cows to Mr. Story, so’s you can go home?”

  “Whit, they’ll be scattered God knows where, and I don’t even know how many they was.”

  “Ellie,” said Story kindly, “do you recall how many head you had at the last tally?”

  “Eight hundred, I think,” Ellie said.

  “I’ll pay you for eight hundred head,” said Story, “and however scattered they are, we’ll round them up. Are they branded?”

  “Yes,” said Ellie, “they’re Boxed H. But that wouldn’t be fair to you. The Injuns may of took some of ’em. Maybe all of ’em.”

  “Ellie,” Story said, “I have an outfit of Texas cowboys. If you’ll sell those cows to me, I promise you we’ll find them. We’re needing horses too.”

  “We had nine good cow horses,” said Ellie. “They was branded Boxed H too.”

  “Injuns got the hosses,” Whit said. “We trailed ’em a ways, but they was too many of ’em.”

  “Ellie,” said Story, “I’ll pay you fifty dollars apiece for those horses, whether we recover them or not.”

  “Ed and my boys gentled them horses,” Ellie said, “and it hurts me just knowin’ they’re bein’ rode by them murderin’ Injuns. I’ll sell you the cows, Mr. Story, but I ain’t takin’ no money for the horses. If you can take ’em, they’re yours, and I hope you kill the murderin’ devils that stole ’em. It’ll comfort me, just knowin’ that Texas cowboys will be ridin’ our horses, ’stead of them damn Comanches.”

  “Story,” said McCulloch, “if you’ll ride out an’ git your boys together, you can ride back t’ Palo Pinto with me. While you’re gone, I’ll help Ellie write you a bill of sale for the cows.”

  Story saw them back to the hotel. Despite her loss, Ellie Hamby smiled at him as he took his leave. Just the possibility that the Comanches might be made to pay for what they had done had lifted her spirits more than the sale of the cattle, Story thought. When he reached the camp, he found that Wes Hardin’s outfit was there, with ten more cows.

  “We decided to give you a chance,” Hardin said arrogantly. “We’ll sign on for your trail drive.”

  “Thanks.” Story grinned. “The Indian too?”

  “I said we’d sign on,” Hardin growled, “and that means all of us.”

  “Good,” said Story. “You couldn’t have come at a better time. I’ve just bought a herd in Palo Pinto that may have been run off by the Comanches. If that’s the case, there may be some Indian fighting. We’ll ride in half an hour.”

  Story thought Hardin, Greener, and Slim received that information with mixed emotions, but when he looked at Quickenpaugh, the Indian laughed. Story then went about choosing the others who would ride with him.

  “Some of you must remain here in camp,” Story said. “You’ll need nighthawks for the cattle here in the canyon, and for another three or four days we’ll need a rider outside Cal’s door. Jasmine, Bud will ride with me, but I want you here in camp. Shanghai, I want you, Smokey, and Oscar here. Manuel, you and Curly will remain here, and so will Arch and Hitch. I don’t know how long we’ll be gone. I’m figuring at least ten days, with the time it’ll take to return with the herd.”

  There were groans of disappointment from those being left behind. When Story again rode out, he had with him Wes Hardin, Slim, Greener, Quickenpaugh, Tom Allen, Bill Petty, Bud McDaniels, Quanah Taylor, Virg Wooler, Dutch Mayfield, Jules Dyer, and Coon Tails. Each man carried a rifle, a Colt revolver, and ammunition for both. Tom Allen and Bill Petty led mules bearing packsaddles. They would be loaded with provisions in town. Whit McCulloch was waiting, and he had Story’s bill of sale. The rain had ceased, the clouds had broken up, and a meek sun was making occasional appearances. It was almost noon.

  “How many miles ahead of us?” Story asked.

  “Mebbe fifty,” said McCulloch. “We set out now, we can make it ’fore dark.”

  “Two of my riders are at the mercantile getting provisions,” Story said. “When that’s done, we can ride.”

  While they were waiting, Cal Snider stepped out on the hotel porch, with Gus Odell and Lorna following.

  “He was threatening to get up and come down here jaybird naked,” Lorna said, “if I didn’t fetch his clothes and boots.”

  “Well, hell,” said Cal, “I ain’t ridin’ with the outfit. I just come down to see ’em off. If I wasn’t able to be up, I wouldn’t be.”

  “The doctor thought you needed more time,” Story said, “and I’ll let you argue that with him. At least stay here until he dismisses you. By then, I think we’ll have the rest of the herd, and we’ll be ready for the trail.”

  Allen and Petty arrived with the loaded pack mules, but before they were able to ride out, a Union soldier rode up.

  “Mr. Story, Captain Clark wants to talk to you.”

  “Damn it,” said Story, “we’re ready to ride. I don’t suppose it can wait until I return?”

  “No, sir,” the soldier said.

  “Stand fast,” Story told the outfit. He rode out, following the soldier, and when they reached Captain Clark’s tent, the officer was standing before it, waiting. The soldier saluted.

  “At ease, soldier,” said the officer. He then turned to Story, who hadn’t dismounted. Clark didn’t mince words.

  “When you arrived here, Story, I believe I told you I wasn’t opposed to your hiring Texans, as long as they signed papers promising no further conflict with the Union. That, of course
, is to allow them to legally bear arms. Now I am told you have a veritable army of men here in town, armed to the teeth. Nobody has signed the required papers. Until they do, every Texan bearing arms is in violation of the law and subject to arrest.”

  “We were about to ride out for two weeks,” said Story. “I suppose it would be foolish of me to suggest you delay this until we return.”

  “It would,” said Clark.

  “I’ll get them, then,” Story said, striving to hold his temper. “Are you prepared to witness their signatures?”

  “I am,” said Clark.

  Without another word Story rode back to the hotel and spoke to his riders.

  “Captain Clark insists that all of you who are Texans sign papers agreeing not to take up arms against the Union. Otherwise, your being armed puts you in violation of the law and subject to arrest. Clark’s waiting to witness your signatures. It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”

  “Hell,” said Wes Hardin angrily, “some of us ain’t fought again’ the damn Union.”

  “No matter,” said Story. “This is not the time or the place to argue the point. Sign, and let’s be done with this foolishness.”

  “The Injun can’t write,” Greener said.

  “He can make his mark,” said Story, “and Clark can witness it. Cal, that includes you and Gus. Let’s go.”

  “I have a gun,” Lorna said, “and I’m going with you on the drive.”

  “Let it wait,” said Story. “You might unleash a whole new bunch of Federal dogs we don’t know about.”

  When they reached Captain Clark’s tent, he had set up a folding table and chair, with inkwell and quill. Cal signed first, followed by Quanah Taylor, Gus Odell, Virg Wooler, Dutch Mayfield, and Jules Dyer. Wes Hardin, Greener, and Slim signed, leaving Quickenpaugh for the last. Story grinned at the expression on Clark’s face when he saw the Indian. It was a paradox, with Comanches having murdered three people in less than a week, while this lone Indian was signing papers to legally bear arms. The significance of it wasn’t lost on Quickenpaugh. When he had made his mark and Clark had witnessed it, the Indian’s obsidian eyes met those of the military man, and Quickenpaugh had a question.