The Virginia City Trail Read online

  “Lorna,” said Emma, “this is for you. Keep it dry, and don’t open it until you reach Montana Territory. Good luck, child.”

  The women embraced and wept, while Cal stood there waiting, more nervous than ever. Looking out the front window, he discovered Lorna had tied her horse to the hitch rail, right across the street from the bank! He turned to the girl as she was gathering up the few things she would take with her.

  “Why’n hell didn’t you leave your horse out back, with mine?”

  “Because Daddy knows I come to Emma’s three times a week, and I never come in the back way.”

  With that she stepped boldly out the front door, leaving Cal to go out the back way. He paused at the door.

  “Thank you, Emma. Thanks for everything.”

  He mounted and rode down the alley until he reached the next cross street. Lorna was waiting for him in a post oak thicket, beyond the York and Draper livery barn. They rode south and then southwest, catching up to the slow-moving herd. The riders who had met Lorna waved their hats at her as she approached.

  “Mr. Story,” Cal said, “I’d better ride drag with Lorna, until she’s used to the herd and the trail.”

  “Find Shanghai, then,” said Story, “and tell him to take over at point.”

  Story had plenty of riders, and he went about positioning them at swing and flank positions, and finally, drag. Cal and Lorna found themselves riding with Curly Wells, Oscar Fentress, Tom Allen, and Jasmine McDaniels. The rest of the outfit was strung out for a mile behind the spiraling herd, while Sandy Bill’s wagon was well ahead of it. The longhorns were kept four abreast for easier handling, the steers taking the lead because of their longer stride. While the sky was overcast, there was no more rain. Once they were well past Fort Worth, Story rode ahead, joining Shanghai Wolfington at point. Slowly they turned the herd slightly northeast. Cal anxiously watched the back trail, but as the day wore on, his confidence grew. When they bedded down the herd on the west fork of the Trinity, Story estimated they had traveled more than fifteen miles.

  “We’re off to a good start,” Tom Allen said. “I hope it’ll last.”

  “It won’t,” said Coon Tails. “See them thunderheads over yonder to the west? Tomorrer there’s gonna be rain, and from what I’ve see of Texas, mebbe a hell of a lot of it.”

  Jasmine McDaniels quickly made friends with Lorna Flagg, and the two of them found a place to spread their blankets. Story noted with approval that Lorna carried a revolver shoved under the waistband of her Levi’s. During supper, Lorna sat cross-legged next to Cal, balancing her tin plate like the cowboys.

  “We’ve got the first day behind us,” the girl said hopefully, “and he still hasn’t sent anybody after me.”

  “By the time he missed you, it would have been too late to come after you today,” Cal said. “Tomorrow’s the day we have to get behind us. If Coon Tails is right, and we’re buildin’ up to another storm, that’ll help.”

  “I can’t imagine what it’ll be like,” said Lorna, “riding through the wind and rain for months.”

  “That’s the easy part,” Cal said with a laugh. “When we come to the river crossings, you may see some cowboys in their drawers, longhandles, or nothin’ at all.”

  “If they can stand it, I can,” said Lorna. “Do naked cowboys look all that bad?”

  It was a difficult question for Cal. Jasmine McDaniels laughed, while Bud, Tom Allen, and Bill Petty were grinning. Cal went red from his hairline to the collar of his denim shirt.

  “I reckon that’s somethin’ you’ll have to judge for yourself,” Cal said with a grin, recovering his sense of humor.

  “We’ll nighthawk in three four-hour watches,” said Story. “Cal, you’re in charge of the first watch, Shanghai the second, and I’ll take the third. There’s rain in the air, and the storm may break before morning. If there’s thunder and lightning, we could have a stampede on our hands.”

  An hour before dawn the storm struck, but there was no thunder or lightning. Riders thonged down their hats to avoid losing them to the chill wind that whipped out of the northwest. The herd, almost facing the wind and rain, kept trying to mill, to turn their backs on the storm. Still they moved on, forcing the longhorns ahead. It was a chill, wet, miserable day, but Cal Snider was thankful for it. Sandy Bill had been up the trail before, and with just such a day in mind, he had brought along an eight-foot-wide strip of canvas, with tie ropes at each corner. Two of the corners he tied at the very top of the hindmost wagon bow. Stretching the canvas taut, he anchored the remaining corners to a pair of convenient cottonwoods. The wagon stood between Sandy Bill and the wind-blown rain, protecting the cook fire. The overhead canvas wasn’t large enough, so the outfit had to eat a few at a time, but it kept them out of the rain while they had their supper. Night came, but nobody slept. The canvas wrap that was part of every rider’s bedroll offered no protection when the very ground was a sea of water and mud. Story kept in touch with every rider, and to his satisfaction, nobody complained. Sandy Bill kept the supper fire alive, and when the coffee ran low, he started another pot. Weary of the incessant rain, riders could retreat to the canvas shelter for a few minutes, enjoying cups of hot coffee. Although the rain had slacked to a drizzle during the night, it was far from finished. More thunderheads rolling in from the west attested to that. After breakfast, Sandy Bill led out with the wagon, and the herd followed.

  “One thing fer shore,” Coon Tails said, “we shore as hell ain’t got t’ worry ’bout water.”

  As their third day on the trail came to an end, so did the rain. For a while, at least. For the first time in many nights the skies cleared to the extent that a few timid stars winked down.

  “Even with the miserable weather,” Story said, “we’ve covered at least fifty miles. Two more days and we should reach the Red.”

  Sandy Bill had managed to find some high ground for the night, and the riders who had completed their watch or had it ahead of them gratefully rolled in their blankets for much needed sleep. Cal spread his blankets near Lorna, and tired as she was, the girl was awake.

  “I’m free of him, Cal,” she said.

  “I hope so,” Cal replied, “but I won’t breathe easy till we cross the Red.”

  March 5, 1866. Red River.

  Dark clouds were again rolling in from the west when they first sighted the Red River. So great was the backwater, it seemed an ocean, and they were able to define the north bank only where trees and vegetation grew high enough to be seen.

  “God,” said Arch Rainey, in awe, “I never seen so much water all at once. Look at them waves.”

  The wind had risen, and there was the unmistakable feel of more rain in the air. It was then a little past noon, and Story had two choices. He could go ahead and attempt a crossing, or he could wait until the following morning, in the hope that the water might subside. With more rain coming, that seemed a forlorn hope, and Story acted accordingly.

  “We’ll go ahead and cross,” he said, “but I think we’ll divide the herd. Cal, you’ll take the first half and I’ll take the second. You’ll take eleven riders with you, and I’ll bring the rest with me. When we’re done with the herd, some of us will have to come back and float the wagon across. Throw your bedrolls in the wagon, along with your boots and any clothes you want kept dry. Strip down to whatever extent you like, but I’d suggest you not go beyond your drawers or longhandles. There are ladies present. Eleven of you can volunteer to go with Cal, and the rest of you will have no choice.”

  “We’re goin’,” said Wes Hardin. He rode forward, followed by Quickenpaugh, Greener, and Slim.

  “So are we,” Quanah Taylor said. Gus Odell, Virg Wooler, Dutch Mayfield, and Jules Dyer followed him.

  “I’m going with Cal,” Lorna said.

  “I’ll go,” said Jasmine McDaniels.

  “One more,” Story said.

  “I go,” said Oscar Fentress. “I be scairt of dis much water, an’ de longer I wait, de scairter I
be.”

  Hardin, Greener, and Slim shucked boots, hats, denim shirts, and Levi’s. They wore neither drawers or longhandles. Wearing his buckskins, making no move to follow their example, Quickenpaugh looked at the trio and laughed. Except for Lorna and Jasmine—and Oscar, who wore longhandles—the rest of the volunteers peeled down to their drawers. Several of them couldn’t help looking self-consciously at Lorna and Jasmine, who were doing their best not to laugh.

  “Well,” said Jasmine, “what do you think?”

  “I think they look better in their drawers,” Lorna said.

  The naked and near-naked riders cut out what they considered half the herd, and found the brutes unwilling to enter the seeming endless mass of swirling red water. Longhorns were characteristically reluctant to enter a river when they were unable to see the farthest bank. The leaders had to be virtually stampeded into the water. Even before they got the first half of the herd into the river, the rain started, and this time it was much, much colder. By the time all the cattle were in the water, the rain had changed to hail. Large, painful hail, as large as walnuts. Story and the riders remaining on the south bank took refuge under several cottonwoods, and were showered with small limbs and leaves, as the hailstones took their toll. There was no help for the horses, and Sandy Bill fought to hold the mules as they brayed and fought the harness. But the riders caught in the river suffered the most. Except for Lorna and Jasmine, none of them had even a hat to protect their heads. All they had going for them was that the longhorns were also being pelted by the bruising hail, and every one was imbued with a maddening desire to reach good, solid ground. By the time they were in shallow backwater, nearing the north bank of the Red, the hail had begun to subside. But it was replaced with freezing rain.

  “God,” said Shanghai, “I never seen such hail. Must be two or three inches deep.”

  “Come on,” Story said. “We have to get the rest of the herd across and come back for the wagon. Without clothes, those riders across the river are hurting.”

  Shanghai had dipped his hand into the rushing water, and looking at Story, he shook his head.

  “Cold, I reckon,” said Story.

  “Beyond that,” Wolfington said. “Hold your hand under for five minutes, and you can’t move your fingers. It may have hailed a hell of a lot worse upstream, an’ now it’s freezin’ rain. Run the herd into that, an’ you’ll drown the whole damn bunch, hosses an’ riders included.”

  Across the river, Cal Snider had just reached a similar conclusion.

  “Gents,” he said, “that water’s just pure ice. The rest of ’em can’t get over here, and we can’t get back over there.”

  “Damn,” said Greener, “the grub’s over there.”

  “Mah shirt an’ britches be over there,” Oscar said gloomily. “It take longer to starve den it do to freeze.”

  They looked at him, their teeth chattering, and nobody laughed.

  “Well, damn it,” Quanah Taylor said, “let’s don’t just stand here and freeze in our tracks. We got to have some shelter, if only from the wind.”

  “You got a point,” said Cal. “The damn cows are smarter than we are.”

  He started toward a distant thicket where the first half of the herd sought shelter from the freezing rain. His comrades followed, yelping in pain. The ground was still littered with hailstones, and beneath that there were rocks and other objects to torture bare feet. Fully clothed, with boots to protect their feet, Jasmine and Lorna followed the miserable cowboys. Ahead of them was a rise, and near the crest of it, a rocky backbone. There was a stone lip, an overhang, that faced the east. It offered shelter from the freezing rain, and more important, protection from the biting wind. There were ashes from an old fire, some slivers of resinous pine, and most of the log from which the kindling had been cut.

  “Now, by God,” Hardin said ungratefully, “who’s goin’ to swim the river and git some matches?” He turned his wolf grin on Cal Snider.

  “Mr. Hardin,” said Lorna, with as much contempt as she could muster, “you are lucky that women don’t have to strip naked to cross a river.” Unbuttoning the pocket of her shirt, she handed Cal an oilskin packet that contained a few sulfur and phosphorous matches. Quickenpaugh looked at the naked Hardin and laughed. Despite herself, Jasmine joined the Indian in his laughter, and Wes Hardin looked from one to the other, murder in his pale blue eyes. Cal took a pine sliver and tried to ignite one of the matches against a rock, but the head popped off.

  “Rock be wet,” Oscar said.

  “Well, hell,” said Cal, “they’ll all be wet.”

  “Not all,” Oscar said. He moved the pine log, revealing a flat stone beneath it. Cal tried another match, and it ignited immediately. He quickly lighted a sliver of pine, and soon had a promising blaze going. But the bulk of the pine log had rotted away, leaving only the heart, and it wouldn’t last long.

  “Hell,” said Hardin, “it’s rained ever’ day for the last month. Where you reckon we’ll find anything dry enough to burn?”

  “I don’t know,” Cal said, “but if we don’t come up with somethin’, it’ll be a long, cold night.”

  Their eventual salvation was an oak that had been struck by lightning. Some of the limbs, large as a man’s leg, had been split off from the trunk.

  “Damn it,” said Dutch Mayfield, “we need an ax. A bunch of them.”

  “That’s dry, dead oak,” Cal said. “An ax would just bounce off. We’ll drag some of these big limbs to the fire, put the butt ends together and let ’em burn.”

  There was much groaning and cursing as sore feet got sorer. Bare arms, legs, and backs were clawed by vicious briars and thistles that seemed to have been waiting all their lives for such a glorious opportunity. But Cal’s advice had been good. Once the butt ends of the heavy oak limbs had been dragged together and a fire of resinous pine built beneath them, the heavy oak bark soon dried out enough to catch fire. The hard wood underneath was already dry, and there was soon a satisfactory blaze. With the stone behind them to deflect the heat, they began to feel better. Once the original fire had created a large bed of coals, Cal used a large flat stone to move some of the coals a dozen feet from the first fire and start another.

  “Thank you,” said Jasmine. “Now Lorna and me can stay warm without being surrounded by naked cowboys.”

  “You’d better enjoy this naked cowboy while you can,” Gus Odell said. “The next river we cross, I ain’t partin’ with a damn thing but my Colt. There’s worse things than wet britches an’ boots, and that’s no britches and no boots.”

  “Amen, brother,” said Virg Wooler.

  * Over red water

  11

  On the south bank of the Red, Story and the rest of the outfit could see the glow of the fire.

  “God knows how they got it started,” Story said, “but they have a fire. This freezing rain can’t last forever, and soon as the temperature of the Red rises enough, we’ll take the rest of the herd across.”

  The rain did end during the night, and by dawn the water was still cold, but not unbearably so. The remaining longhorns, as had their comrades the day before, had to literally be driven into the water. Once started, however, they crossed without difficulty. The sky was still overcast, and while there was no immediate threat of rain, the promise of it was in the wind. Cal and his comrades were waiting when Story and the rest of the outfit rode out on the north bank.

  “I reckon,” said Story, his eyes on Jasmine and Lorna, “you hombres have had a hard lesson. What I want to know is how in tarnation you started the fire.”

  “Lorna had an oilskin of matches,” Cal said, with a sheepish grin.

  “Except for Lorna and Jasmine,” said Story, “you all look pretty well used up. The rest of us will bring the wagon across, so’s you can get decent while Sandy Bill’s gettin’ breakfast.”

  Hitch Gould and Arch Rainey unhitched the mules and drove them across first. Tom Allen, Bill Petty, and Smokey Ellison secured their laria
ts to the upriver side of the wagon, so the force of the water wouldn’t topple it or sweep it away. Bud McDaniels and Shanghai Wolfington tied their lariats one to each end of the doubletree. Sandy Bill sat on the wagon box. When Bud and Shanghai pulled the wagon beyond the backwater, the swift current almost toppled it, despite four horsemen attempting to steady it. But the lariats held fast, and the riders regained control. The very instant the wagon rolled up on the north bank, there was a mad scramble for Levi’s, shirts, boots, and hats. Breakfast was a hurried affair, but Manuel Cardenas made a discovery that would delay them even more.

  “Calves, Senor Story,” said the Mexican. “Three of them, from the cows that first crossed the river.”

  “Are they able to stand, Manuel?” Story asked.

  “Si,” Cardenas said, “but not so well.”

  “We’ll give them a while, then,” said Story.

  “Give ’em four hours from when they was dropped,” Shanghai said, “an’ they can git along pretty good.”

  “Since we’ll be here awhile,” Jasmine said, “Lorna and me are going up the river a ways and clean up.”

  “Not too far,” Story cautioned. “We’re in Indian Territory now.”

  “Heavens,” said Jasmine as they made their way along the Red, “this river is dirty. I have mud in places I can’t even decently talk about.”

  “So do I,” Lorna said. “I’d change clothes, but what’s the use? Before the day’s over, it’ll be raining on us again.”

  “Quiet,” said Jasmine, taking Lorna’s arm. “I heard something.”

  The backwater from the Red had reached some post oak thickets, and it was from one of these that the riders emerged.

  “My God,” Jasmine whispered, “Indians!”

  They rode two abreast, and their stealth indicated that they were well aware of the riders and the herd.