The Virginia City Trail Read online

  “That’s enough,” said Story. “This is not a fight to the death.”

  For just a moment Story’s eyes met Lorna’s, and they shared a similar thought. One day these two would meet, and only one would walk away. . . .

  12

  The rest of the outfit left Shadley alone, allowing him to rise if and when he was able. Even Hardin shied away from him. While Shadley had until midnight before his watch began, Cal had to saddle up, ignoring his hurts.

  “There’s enough of us without you,” Lorna said. “Can’t you take just this one night and rest?”

  “No,” said Cal, “I can’t. There ain’t no bones broke, and I won’t give that sonofabitch the satisfaction of thinkin’ he’s hurt me.”

  “But he has,” Lorna said, “and what I’m most afraid of is that he’ll shoot you in the back.”

  “I’ll make it a habit not to turn my back on him,” said Cal.

  The conversation ended when they met other riders circling the herd from the opposite direction. Lorna fell in with Jasmine McDaniels, and they rode together. Jasmine sensed Lorna’s fears and misgivings, and sought to reassure her.

  “Cal’s a man,” Jasmine said, “and there’s always some risk. It just goes with the territory. He’s proven he can handle himself in a fair fight, and like he said, he’ll have to be careful not to turn his back. You have a gun and you can use it. If he’s ever in real danger, and can’t watch his back, then do it for him. Naturally, you don’t breathe a word of this to Cal.”

  “Naturally,” Lorna said, laughing. There was the unspoken recognition of Cal’s pride.

  “I’ll be twenty-three in August,” said Jasmine, “and I’ve been around cowboys all my life. I think, ride, rope, shoot, and cuss like a cowboy, and there’s not a hell of a lot they can do that bothers me, but this Hardin and Shadley are a pair I wouldn’t trust as far as I could flap my arms and fly. They’re the kind that seem to have a mean streak a yard wide.”

  “As many riders as there are in the outfit,” Lorna said, “I suppose we should be thankful there’s only one Shadley and one Hardin. What do you think happened between Hardin and Curly Wells that led to their fight yesterday at suppertime?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Jasmine, “but there was some disagreement. Remember that brindle cow that broke loose and made it all the way back to drag? I think that was somehow the start of it, because Curly and Hardin were ahead of us, at flank and swing.”

  “We know what Hardin is,” Lorna said, “but what about Curly? He rode in with this Manuel Cardenas, and now you almost never see the two of them talk or even ride together.”

  “Bill Petty told me a little about Manuel and Curly,” said Jasmine, “and Curly’s an orphan. Manuel kind of took over when Curly’s daddy came down with lung fever, and now Manuel feels some responsibility for Curly. I’d say Curly wants to grow up and Manuel’s standing in the way.”

  “Curly’s awful small and thin,” Lorna said. “I was afraid Hardin would kill him.”

  “So was I,” said Jasmine, “but the little varmint’s snake-quick and hits considerably below the belt. Mr. Hardin may have lost some parts down there.”

  “Unless things have changed since he stripped to cross the river,” Lorna said, “he didn’t have much to lose.”

  Their combined laughter drew Cal’s attention, and he caught up to them.

  “I ain’t seen a hell of a lot to laugh at since we left Texas,” Cal said. “What’s so funny?”

  “We were just talking about how fast Curly Wells moves,” said Lorna, “and wondering what kind of shape old Wes was in, down there south of his belt buckle.”

  Cal said nothing. Lorna and Jasmine laughed, sensing his embarrassment.

  “Sorry, Cal,” said Jasmine. “I’ve corrupted her.”

  “And it only took a week,” Cal said. “By the time we get to the end of this drive, she’ll be so rough around the edges, we can hire on to punch cows, and she can sleep in the bunkhouse.”

  “No, thank you,” said Lorna. “I’ll sleep out in the brush, like civilized people. I’ve seen enough naked cowboys to last awhile.”

  “Don’t judge us all by Wes Hardin and that scroungy pair ridin’ with him,” Cal said. With that, he rode away, leaving them to discuss things he dared not even ponder. Secretly, though, Cal was pleased. Not only had Lorna adapted, she had become a credit to the outfit, for while she had been concerned about him during his fight with Shadley, she had kept her silence and allowed him to do what he had to.

  March 8, 1866. Indian Territory.

  The day dawned dark and dreary, and there was an ominous quiet. Not a breath of air stirred, and there was a distant rumble of thunder that seemed to reverberate from one horizon to the other.

  “We’re in for a bad one,” Story said. “We’ll leave the herd bunched and try to finish our breakfast before the storm breaks.”

  Like golden fingers of fire, lightning leaped from one horizon to the other. The riders circled the herd, but there was no calming the longhorns. They lowed like lost souls as the first few drops of rain came on the wings of a rising wind. Thunder had become almost continuous, but the lightning seemed to have diminished.

  “She’s gonna give us billy hell,” Coon Tails shouted. “They’s gonna be ground lightnin’.”

  When it came, it was worse than any of them had imagined. Great balls of blue and green fire literally rained from the heavens. They bounded about like crazed tumbleweeds, some of them the size of a man’s hat, while the others seemed as large as wagon wheels. Lightning danced on the tips of cows’ horns, while the manes and ears of the horses seemed afire with blue, green, and gold flames. A huge ball of lightning struck a pine and it exploded like a cannon. The horses went crazy and took to frog-walking just as the longhorns began to run. Bawling in terror, they lit out toward the east like hell wouldn’t have it. Not a rider was able to pursue the herd, and three—Oscar Fentress, Gus Odell, and Tom Allen—were bucked off and left afoot. By the time the horses had been calmed, the worst of the storm had passed, except for the rain. It hit them in wind-whipped waves, and the riders took what shelter there was beneath oak and poplar trees.

  “God,” said Coon Tails, “I never seen such a storm. She’s likely t’blow like this fer half a day.”

  “Let’s hope not,” Shanghai said, “or them cows will be drinkin’ out of the Mississippi ’fore we catch up to ’em.”

  “Maybe not,” said Story. “They’re mostly trailwise. This was the first really bad thunder and lightning we’ve had, and that’s what spooked them. I think they’ll soon tire themselves out.”

  “They drift before the wind and the rain,” Manuel Cardenas said, “but we soon catch up to them.”

  Eventually the force of the wind diminished and the rain became just a steady downpour. Story studied the lead-gray sky and judged they might wait the rest of the day without much change.

  “Let’s ride,” said Story. “We’re not likely to get any wetter, and the longer we wait, the farther they’ll drift. Oscar, Gus, and Tom, just stand fast. Soon as we catch up your horses, one of us will bring them to you.”

  The rest of the outfit rode out, and within two or three miles they saw the three runaway horses. The animals didn’t resist when the riders went after them, and Bill Petty led them back to the trio of riders who had been left afoot. Petty, Tom, Oscar, and Gus soon caught up to the rest of the outfit. As Story had predicted, the herd had soon begun to tire, and within five miles most of the herd was found grazing. One cow wandered about, bawling disconsolately.

  “That’s one of the three that dropped a calf,” said Virg Wooler. “It’s been lost or trampled.”

  The wind had died, and it wasn’t difficult to get the herd moving west. Along the way they discovered the remains of the calf, trampled in the stampede. Story rode ahead, roped the bloody mess and dragged it well out of the path of the herd. Many a herd had stampeded at the smell of blood. When they reached the wagon, Sandy Bill was
ready. Story rode out ahead of the wagon, and when he had traveled less than ten miles, was brought up short by the bawling of a cow somewhere ahead. It seemed highly unlikely they had caught up to one of the herds ahead of them, but that seemed the case, unless a bunch quitter had made good its escape. Story rode on, discovering not one cow, but three of them. They stood looking southward, as though undecided as to where they wished to go. Story continued on, and the three ran ahead of him.

  “Rein up, pilgrim,” said an unseen voice, “and keep your hands where I can see ’em.”

  Story did as bidden. A few yards ahead a grizzled rider rode out of the brush, a Winchester across his saddle. When he spoke again, it was with a question.

  “You drivin’ my cows, or followin’ ’em?”

  “Following them,” Story said. “I have a herd of my own down the back trail, and I’m scouting ahead. Your cows came as a total surprise.”

  “You may be in fer a lot of surprises. I got twelve hunnert of the bastards scattered from hell to breakfast. Worst storm I ever seen. Damn herd split three ways. Some run north, some run east, an’ the rest lit out to the south. This purely ain’t a good time to bring another herd up the trail.”

  “I agree,” said Story, “but I don’t aim to go back to Texas. I’m Nelson Story, and if any of your herd mixes with mine, you’re welcome to them. Are yours branded?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “D-M connected. I’m Dillard McLean, from San Antone.”

  “With your herd split three ways,” said Story, “you’re likely to be here awhile. We’ll move on. You’re welcome to ride in and look over our herd at any time, and you can cut out any cows wearing your brand.”

  “That’s fair,” said McLean. “I’m obliged.”

  Story turned his horse and rode back the way he’d come. This was an entirely new development, one he didn’t like. There was no help for it, of course, for nobody wanted a stampede. Now he had to consider the possibility that, if the storm had been far-reaching, some or all the other herds on the trail ahead might have stampeded. Any delays would further diminish the graze on which they all must depend. When he told the rest of the outfit of this new development, they were equally dismayed.

  “Maybe we can get ahead of some of them,” Shanghai said.

  “I doubt it,” Story replied. “They may be pretty well strung out from here to Sedalia, and the longer they’re delayed, the less graze there’ll be for our herd. We’ll just have to move on and see what happens.”

  But when trouble came, it was from a source nobody expected. The herd was strung out for a mile. The sky was still overcast, and there was almost a certainty of more rain. Cal, Lorna, Jasmine, Oscar, and Bud were riding drag. Suddenly, from somewhere ahead, there was a single shot.

  “Trouble,” said Bud McDaniels.

  “Bud, come with me,” Cal said. “The rest of you stay with the drag.”

  Cal and Bud rode at a fast gallop along the right flank, and by the time they could see the riderless horse, they saw Nelson Story riding hard. The three of them arrived at the same moment, their eyes on the rider who lay on his back in the mud. It was Curly Wells, and blood had already soaked the left side of his shirt to his belt. In his right hand was his Colt.

  “That bastard Hardin,” said Cal.

  “I’ll ride ahead and stop the herd,” Story said. “Cal, you and Bud bring him to the wagon.”

  Before Cal and Bud got the wounded Curly to the wagon, Story had circled the leaders, and the herd had begun to bunch. Aware that something was wrong, the rest of the riders rode to the wagon, arriving just as Cal and Bud appeared with Curly. Wes Hardin was the only rider missing, leaving no doubt as to who had shot Curly.

  “Let’s take a rope and go after the bastard,” Quanah Taylor suggested.

  “No,” said Story. “Curly had his gun in his hand, so it must have been an even break. When we’ve taken care of Curly, maybe we’ll go after Hardin.”

  Sandy Bill had let down the tailgate of the wagon, and Curly Wells was of such short stature, they stretched him out on it, on his back. Manuel Cardenas had pushed his way as near as possible. Swiftly Cal unbuttoned Curly’s too-big shirt, while Bud unhooked the belt and unbuttoned the Levi’s. When the clothes were peeled away, they all caught their breaths in shock. Not at the extent of the young rider’s wound, but because Curly Wells was a woman!

  “Great God Almighty,” Shanghai Wolfington said.

  As shocked as the rest, Story said nothing. Instead he turned to the Mexican, Manuel Cardenas, who seemed more dismayed than anybody else.

  “I did not know, Senor Story,” Manuel pleaded. “I swear by the blessed virgin, I did not know.”

  “All of you get the hell out of the way,” said Jasmine McDaniels, “and I’ll see to her.”

  Surprisingly, they did. Even Story.

  “Sandy Bill,” Jasmine said, “bring the medicine chest.”

  “I’ve never done anything like this before,” said Lorna, “but I’ll help if I can.”

  “Get some blankets,” Jasmine said. “While we’re deciding what to do, the poor girl shouldn’t have to lie here naked before everybody.”

  Sandy Bill brought the medicine chest, and Lorna placed it on the ground, beneath the wagon’s tailgate. Sandy Bill looked doubtfully at Jasmine.

  “You ever done this before, ma’am?”

  “No,” said Jasmine, “but when I was fifteen, I drove a Comanche arrow on through my daddy’s hip, and nursed him through three days of fever.”

  There was a cowhide slung under the wagon in which Sandy Bill carried dry wood. He soon had a fire going, with a pot of water on to boil. Cal Snider, Bud McDaniels, and Quanah Taylor went to Story with a request.

  “Mr. Story,” said Cal, “we’d like to trail Hardin for a ways, at least far enough to find out which way he went. There’ll be rain before dark, washing out all sign.”

  Story saw the anger in their eyes, understood their need to do something, for their feelings were his own.

  “Go on,” Story said, “but ride careful. He’s the kind who might welcome pursuit, then hole up and gun you down from cover. You’ll never catch him in the dark, so don’t try it.”

  When they had ridden away, Story sought out Greener, Slim, and Quickenpaugh.

  “I’m not blaming the rest of you for what Hardin did,” said Story, “but you’ve ridden with him for a while, and I’d like to know your feelings.”

  “He had the sand to sell wild cows to the blue bellies,” Slim said, “and there wasn’t no money anywheres else. You told us how it was when we hired on. I don’t aim to go gunnin’ for nobody, unless they come after us first.”

  “That goes for me,” Greener said.

  Finally Story turned to the Indian, who had listened solemnly to the exchange between his companions and Story.

  “Dinero,” said Quickenpaugh. “Quickenpaugh want much dinero.”

  It was an all-inclusive statement that might cover anything from robbing banks to holding up stages, but Quickenpaugh said no more. As Story turned away, the Indian laughed.

  Jasmine covered Curly to the hips with a blanket and covered her upper body with a second blanket, leaving bare only the angry wound in the side. Lifting the girl, she felt for an exit wound, sighing with relief when she found one.

  “Bad?” Lorna asked.

  “Lots of blood,” said Jasmine, “but the slug went on through. If we can clean it, stop the bleeding, and disinfect it, she’ll make it. Is there any whiskey in that medicine box?”

  “Quart,” Sandy Bill said, from inside the wagon. “That water oughta be boilin’ by now. You’ll be needin’ cloth for cleanin’, and for bandages. I got a bolt of white muslin in here.”

  “Thank you,” said Jasmine. “Cut me some pieces a yard long, to bathe the wound. Then I’ll need a piece four or five yards long, to go around her middle, to bind the wound.”

  Lorna returned with the pot of boiling water, and Sandy Bill provided the requested muslin to bathe
the wound. Curly groaned as the hot cloth was applied. As one cloth cooled, Jasmine dipped another in the hot water. Lorna raised the girl just enough for Jasmine to bathe the exit wound. Finally, Lorna handed Jasmine a bottle of evil-smelling disinfectant, and Jasmine doused the wound with it. Curly’s groans became more pronounced.

  “Stuff burns like hell,” Sandy Bill said helpfully, “but it’s doin’ some good.”

  Jasmine made two thick pads of the muslin, soaking them both with the disinfectant. A pad was placed over each wound, and with Lorna lifting the wounded Curly, Jasmine repeatedly wrapped the muslin around the girl’s thin middle.

  “Now, Sandy Bill,” said Jasmine, when the bandage had been tied securely in place, “I need one more favor of you.”

  “What?” Sandy Bill asked.

  “Fix a bed in the wagon for Curly.”

  “They purely ain’t room in here,” Sandy Bill complained.

  “Make room,” said Jasmine. “She won’t need that much room. You aim to leave her lie on this wagon tailgate, with a storm on the way?”

  “I reckon not,” Sandy Bill said, and began rearranging things behind the puckered canvas.

  Jasmine and Lorna took all the blankets and wrapped Curly from her feet to the tip of her chin. When Sandy Bill was ready and had loosed the canvas pucker, Jasmine and Lorna lifted Curly inside. Sandy Bill had made a bed of blankets, and small as Curly was, there was barely room for her. It meant Sandy Bill would be out in the rain with the rest of them, if he slept at all, but the grouchy old cook said nothing. Seeing Curly being taken inside the wagon, the rest of the outfit again surged forward, Story among them.