The Chisholm Trail Read online

“I didn’t grant you permission to dismount,” snapped Thomas.

  “Captain,” said Ten, “I don’t need permission to dismount. I’m not a Texan. I’m from Indian Territory, and I’m not about to surrender my weapons or those of my men. Taking any man’s guns and leaving him at the mercy of the Comanches is an unconscionable thing to do.”

  “Are you finished, Mister Chisholm?”

  “No, sir,” said Ten. “I’ll take responsibility for the men in my outfit. I want you to satisfy yourself as to who I am. You have the telegraph, and I want you to telegraph the commanding officer at Fort Smith and ask him about me. While you’re at it, you’re welcome to telegraph Fort Cobb, Fort Arbuckle, Fort Washita, Fort Towson, and Fort Gibson. Send your telegrams to the post quartermasters; they’ve contracted to buy the longhorns we’ve come here to gather. This is beef for the frontier outposts in Indian Territory.”

  For a moment Captain Thomas said nothing. When he finally spoke, the grim set of his jaw had relaxed a little.

  “You have permission to go about your business,” he said, “and in view of the Indian threat, you’ll be permitted to keep your weapons. But only on the condition that you’ll sign an oath not to take up arms against the Union.”

  They signed the necessary papers, and went in search of John Bowdrie’s saddle shop. Once they were safely out of the captain’s hearing, Marty spoke.

  “Injun, that took sand. You reckon he’ll telegraph them forts?”

  “No,” said Ten. “He knew I wasn’t bluffing.”

  Bowdrie’s place, when they found it, was closed. A written notice on the door directed them to Bowdrie’s house. He was a stooped, gray-haired old man who walked with a cane.

  “I got no new rigs,” he told them. “Some of th’ men that went to war wanted new saddles, an’ they traded in their old ones. I ain’t made a new kak since ’sixty-two. Rheumatism in my hands just ruint ’em.”

  He led them to the barn, to the tack room. Across one end there were poles upon which rested six well-worn, double-rigged Texas saddles.

  “They sold new for ten dollars,” he said, “and I can let you have ’em for four dollars apiece. Nothin’ wrong with ’em a little grease won’t cure, and I’ll provide th’ grease.”

  They spent most of the afternoon greasing and working the old leather into shape. Bowdrie seemed to enjoy the diversion, telling them of the old days and of the hard times in Texas during the war. They rode quietly out of Nacogdoches just before sundown, without seeing Captain Thomas or any of the Union soldiers.

  November 4, 1865, they reached the little town of Crockett, Texas. It crouched in a bend of the Trinity River, and consisted of a saloon, a blacksmith shop, and a general store.

  “Ma and Ed Satterly own the store,” said Marty. “Have from as far back as I can remember. Ma’s in charge of the post office, such as it is, and if there’s anything worth knowin’, she always finds out.”

  “Since they know you,” said Ten, “you do the talking for us. We need to know if there’s riders in these parts needin’ work, and if there’s anybody gatherin’ wild longhorns.”

  Ma Satterly was a slight, gray-haired woman who dipped snuff and wore wire-rimmed spectacles. She was maybe sixty-five, and would have been hard put to weigh ninety pounds, soaking wet. She sat in an old oak rocker that creaked with her every move. Most of the store’s shelves were bare, mute evidence of hard times and four long years of war. Ma seemed more than a little reserved, and not at all friendly, Ten thought. Her old eyes frosted when she looked at him, and he suspected the Indian was showing through. He recalled what Jesse Chisholm had told him. The Comanches had raised so much hell in Texas, every Indian was suspect. Marty introduced the outfit, and then asked about the possibility of finding riders to help with their gather.

  “They ain’t many folks left in these parts,” said Ma, “except them that’s too old an’ tired to git up an’ leave. Most of our young men that went off to war ain’t come back, and they ain’t comin’ back. Heard th’ blue bellies has already took over Waco.”

  Marty tried again.

  “Ma, have you heard of anybody else that’s gatherin’ these wild longhorns down in the brakes?”

  “Charles Goodnight’s outfit,” she said. “They’re on th’ Brazos, somewheres south of Waco. Nobody else I know of, ’cept them Ward boys. I hear they’re ropin’ an’ brandin’ some wild critters. God only knows why. Nothin’ to be done with ’em. Their daddy’s a sorry old scutter that don’t know th’ meanin’ of honest work, an’ he’s livin’ with some Jezebel that belongs in a saloon or worse. Th’ lot of ’em lives in a shack downriver, eight or nine mile south of your old place.”

  “Thanks, Ma,” said Marty. “How’s Ed, and where is he?”

  “Not too good,” said Ma, without a trace of a smile. “Been dead an’ buried near six weeks.”

  They departed the store with as much grace as they could.

  “She’s changed some,” said Marty. “Still tore up over Ed, I reckon.”

  They mounted, and Marty led out downriver.

  “We learned two things, anyway,” said Herndon. “There’s wild longhorns on the Trinity for the taking, and there’s at least two riders that might throw in with us. Is that where we’re going? To talk to this pair of young cow wrasslers?”

  “That’s what I have in mind,” said Ten. “We were on our way to Marty’s old home place anyway, and it’s downriver, same as the Wards’.”

  Marty’s old home place had a forlorn beauty all its own. All that remained of the house was the chimney and a few blackened logs, scattered in a head-high stand of young cottonwoods. Angling in from the northwest was a creek that emptied into the Trinity. There was a natural ford, where the river ran little more than hock deep over a sandy bottom. Cow tracks were abundant on both banks of the Trinity and along the banks of the creek. From somewhere beyond where the house had stood, a cow bawled.

  “We’ll leave the horses here,” said Ten. “Somebody’s got some longhorns penned. Let’s take it slow.”

  “I just about know where they are,” said Marty. “The creek runs through a canyon, and with the ends fenced off, it’d make a good holding pen. I was thinkin’ we could use it.”

  They followed the creek and were within sight of the six-rail fence at the south end of the canyon when a voice halted them.

  “That’s far enough. I got you covered.”

  They waited, unmoving, until their challenger stepped out from behind a jumble of rocks on the far bank of the creek. He wore Levi’s pants, a faded blue flannel shirt, run-over boots, and an old black hat whose crown had a hole in it. Shaggy black hair was down to his collar and over his ears. The most impressive item of his attire was a .52 caliber Spencer, cocked and pointed at them. He paused.

  “Lou,” he bawled, “get over here. We got company.”

  Lou, carrying another Spencer .52, came trotting down the canyon. He drew up at the rail fence, poking the Spencer over one of the rails. This was the younger of the two, similarly dressed, but with unkempt curly red hair.

  “Now,” said the older, “who are you, and what do you want? Why are you sneaking around through the woods?”

  Before Ten could speak, Marty held up his hand for silence.

  “I’m Marty Brand, and I’m talkin’ for the outfit, because this is my old home place. I was born here, so I got a right to be here now. I lived here until I joined the Confederacy in ’sixty-one. Tenatse Chisholm is from Indian Territory, and this is his outfit. Our two pards is Wes Fedavo and Maynard Herndon.”

  “We’re here to gather wild longhorns,” said Ten. “Are you the Wards?”

  “Suppose we are,” replied Black Hair. “What’s it to you?”

  “We need cows and we need riders,” said Ten. “We thought you might join our gather.”

  “We have the start of a herd; why do we need you?”

  “The Union army’s going to occupy Texas,” said Ten. “On your own, you can’t get a herd o
ut of the state.”

  “But you can?”

  “I can,” said Ten. “I’m known at all the forts in Indian Territory, and they’ve agreed to buy the herd we’ll gather. Besides that, I’ve just gotten permission from Captain Thomas, the Union commander at Nacogdoches.”

  “Just what we needed in these parts,” snorted Lou. “A damn Yankee Injun that feeds at the same trough with blue bellies and carpetbaggers. Now git, all of you. If Chris won’t shoot, I will.”

  “Then you’d best start shootin’,” said Marty angrily. “Down the creek a ways, there’s two graves. That’s where my ma and pa is buried, and that gives me every right to be here. Now why don’t the two of you just lope your high hosses on out of here? And take your cows with you. This is my land.”

  “Back off, Lou,” said Chris. “He’s right. If he was lying, he wouldn’t know of those graves.”

  Chris took the Spencer off cock, lowered its muzzle and turned back to Marty.

  “We’ve put a mighty lot of work into that holding pen. We didn’t know this land belonged to anybody. I reckon I’m asking a lot, but would you let us go on using this holding pen?”

  “I’d be inclined to,” said Marty, “if you was workin’ with us.”

  “Damn it,” shouted Lou, “we won’t beg!”

  “Lou, just shut up,” said Chris, turning back to Marty.

  “We can’t join your gather because we have…other commitments. Downriver about fifteen miles there’s a crook in the Trinity where the water backs up into a bigger canyon than this.”

  “And you’re wantin’ us to go there,” said Ten. “Why?”

  “Because our daddy, Brady Ward, ain’t a sociable or neighborly man. Get too close, and he’ll give you hell. It’s the way he is.”

  Ten looked at Marty. Marty shrugged.

  “We’ll ride downriver,” said Ten, “and have a look at this canyon. If it’s a bigger one, it’ll better suit our purpose.”

  They reached the horses before anybody spoke.

  “Thank God one of ’em had some sense,” said Marty. “I reckon that young hellion would of just shot us, no questions asked. He must be a lot like his unsociable old daddy.”

  “I’ve always been suspicious of folks like these,” said Herndon. “They live back in the woods, and get nasty if anybody comes around. Makes me wonder if there’s something crooked goin’ on.”

  “I believe Chris was bein’ honest with us,” said Wes. “Them words had the sound of truth. Anyhow, we’re still up against it for riders.”

  “Short-handed or not,” said Ten, “we’ll dig in and start ropin’ longhorns. Later on, we’ll mosey upriver when they’re away from that holdin’ pen. I’d like to know how many longhorns they have. There’s somethin’ uneasy about that pair. Before we’re done, they’ll be wantin’ to join our gather.”

  They passed the Ward cabin, and it looked forbidding and silent. Less than a mile south, they found tracks where seven shod horses had forded the river to the east bank. Wes said what they all were thinking.

  “For a man that don’t like visitors, he has a mighty lot of them.”

  They continued downriver until they found the canyon.

  “It’s lots bigger than the one the Wards are usin’,” said Marty, “and that’s good. But if there’s lots of rain, that may not be so good. The Trinity could flood and scatter our fence from here to yonder.”

  “We’ll risk it,” said Ten. “We’ll have to move out in March, and that ought to be too early for spring rains.”

  “Before we worry about the fence bein’ washed away,” said Herndon, “we have to figure a way to build it. We need a pick, a shovel, and an axe.”

  “The Wards ought to have them tools,” said Marty. “They’re squattin’ on my old place, so they owe us. Why don’t we ride back up there and just borrow their tools?”

  “Why not?” said Ten. “Wes, you go with him. If the Wards get ornery, don’t push it. Just ride on to Satterly’s store. Ma buried Ed, so she’s got to have some diggin’ tools. If she won’t make us the loan of them, then buy ’em. Here’s twenty dollars.”

  The double eagle winked in the sun. Marty palmed the coin and grinned. “With this,” he said, “I could likely buy the whole damn store, plus bed privileges with Ma.”

  “Just bring us the diggin’ tools,” said Ten, “and keep Ma for yourself.”

  Marty and Wes reined up almost a mile south of the Wards’ holding pen.

  “We’ll leave the horses here,” said Marty, “and hoof it the rest of the way. That pair’s too damn handy with them rifles to suit me.”

  They reached the creek without seeing or hearing anything. Following the stream, they came to a willow thicket a few yards below the south end of the holding pen. There was a splashing of water and the sound of voices.

  “We come at a good time,” whispered Marty. “They’re takin’ a swim.”

  “In November?”

  “Folks get dirty in November just like in July,” said Marty. “Besides, it’s plenty warm enough. We’re sweatin’, ain’t we? Come on, let’s surprise ’em.”

  They crept along the creek bank, dodging low-hanging limbs and long, snaky, green briars. Finally free of the tangle, they stepped out and came face-to-face with the Wards. And as it turned out, the Wards weren’t the only ones surprised. They stood in the knee-deep water staring at Marty and Wes. Marty and Wes stared back, awestruck, petrified. Before them stood two shapely, stark-naked females!

  13

  Chris and Lou recovered first, dropping into the water and concealing themselves as best they could. Once the shock had worn off, Marty saw the humor in the situation and laughed.

  “You sneakin’ coyotes,” shouted Lou, “just you wait’ll I get out of here and get my rifle!”

  “That bein’ the case,” said Marty, “you’ll be in there till dark. If I’m gonna be shot when you get out, then I aim to keep you in there as long as I can. I reckon I’ll just stand right here. When the sun goes down, that water’s gonna get plumb cold.”

  “It already is,” said Chris, her teeth chattering. “Please, go somewhere so we can get out of here. Then we’ll talk.”

  “You quit beggin’ them bastards!” said the redheaded Lou.

  “Lou, just hush!” snapped Chris. “What’s done is done.”

  Marty and Wes made their way back through the thicket, forgetting the low-hanging limbs and briars. Breaking free, they sleeved the sweat from their eyes and looked at one another.

  “Hell’s bells on a tomcat,” breathed Marty. “Did you ever see the like?”

  “Never,” said Wes. “I wouldn’t mind knowin’ that little woodpecker some better, if she could get that Spencer off her mind. You reckon they’ll come out shootin’?”

  “No,” said Marty. “I don’t think it shook the oldest one all that much. She wanted to talk to us before we left this mornin’, but she was afraid to. Now, I expect we’ll find out what their trouble is.”

  When they finally emerged, dressed, Lou blushed from her hairline to her shirt collar. It was a while before she could look at them.

  “Honest to God,” said Marty, “we didn’t come here with anything in mind except to maybe borrow some diggin’ tools and an axe. We got to fence both ends of that canyon.”

  “I believe you,” said Chris. “Lou and I…we’ve had some…bad experiences with men. Daddy makes us cut our hair and dress this way….”

  “If you’re goin’ to tell them anything,” said Lou, overcoming her embarrassment, “tell them the truth. Our daddy lives with a whore he met in a saloon. It’s her that makes us dress like men. She looks like purgatory with the lid off, and she can’t bear havin’ us around.”

  “So you’re draggin’ wild cows out of the brush,” said Marty, “just to stay out of the house.”

  “That’s kind of how it started,” said Chris. “Then we thought—somehow—we might build us a little herd and sell them. For enough to…to get away.”

&
nbsp; “Now,” said Lou bitterly, “that—that woman has convinced Daddy he ought to drive the herd to Louisiana once we have five hundred head. She wants money to take a boat to St. Louis. She don’t aim for us to go, but Daddy’s such a fool, he can’t see that.”

  “That’s why we need to keep our cows where they are,” said Chris. “They don’t know of the hundred and fifty head we have here in your canyon. There’s a smaller gather—about thirty head—on a creek four or five miles east of the house.”

  “I reckon that’s why you didn’t want us goin’ near the house,” said Wes. “Or did it have somethin’ to do with them seven riders that crossed the river just south of your place?”

  “We don’t know—” began Chris.

  “Yes, we do,” interrupted Lou. “You started this, so they might as well hear the rest of it. Those men are thieves and killers who rode with William Quantrill. He was run out of Texas last spring, but these cutthroats didn’t go with him. They’re livin’ in a shack back in the woods, and from there they raid as far away as Louisiana. Afterward, this is where they hide out. Once a month our dear daddy takes a pair of packhorses to Beaumont. They pay him to bring in their grub, whiskey, and ammunition.”

  Chris sighed. “Now you know the whole rotten story. We’re trapped here, gathering a herd for someone else.”

  “Maybe not,” said Marty. “Let me talk to Ten about this. Suppose we could add your herd to our gather and take you on our trail drive into Indian Territory? Would you go?”

  “My God, yes!” cried Lou. “But the Quantrill bunch would be on your trail. Bertha, Daddy’s woman, is in awful thick with those thieves and killers. It’s them that’ll be driving the herd to Louisiana, pretending to be honest cowboys. If you tried to take us and our cows with you, they’d never let you out of here alive.”

  “We’re goin’ to talk to Ten,” said Marty. “He’s a gambler, and he wins more often than he loses. Now, if you’ll loan us them fence-buildin’ tools, we’ll ride back and see what he’s got to say about this situation.”

  “Just keep the tools,” said Chris. “We’ll ride downriver in a few days and get them. Then the rest of your outfit can meet Christabel and Louise.”