The Virginia City Trail Page 3

  They reached the hotel before the storm broke, and within minutes the wide dirt streets were awash with mud and high water. It was impossible to open the windows, for they were on the west side of the building and the rain came in slashing torrents. The heat was almost unbearable.

  “Come on,” said Story, “and let’s set on the porch until it slacks. Then we can at least open the windows.”

  But the downpour didn’t slack. The thunder and lightning abated, but the rain continued.

  “Tarnation,” Coon Tails said, “we got t’cross five rivers that I know of, startin’ with the Red. If’n this is a sample of what’s t’come, they’ll be backwater fer ten mile.”

  Story lay awake far into the night listening to the wind fling gusts of rain against the side of the hotel. While it did nothing to lessen his resolve, there was no denying the logic of old Coon Tails’s prophecy. Of all the dangers that lay ahead, swollen, treacherous rivers might be the most formidable.

  “She ain’t let up enough t’make no diff’rence,” said Coon Tails, peering out the fogged up window. “We’d best git our slickers ready.”

  “We don’t know where we’ll be going,” Story said, “until we’ve talked to Cal Snider. He should be waitin’ for us downstairs.”

  Snider was waiting, and he wasn’t alone. The two young cowboys with him hadn’t even begun to shave, and they shifted from one foot to the other as Cal introduced them.

  “This here’s Hitch Gould and Arch Rainey,” Cal said. “They been deprived somethin’ terrible. They was too young for the war, so they don’t know how to do nothin’ but wrassle cows.”

  The cowboys glared at Cal, furious with him for the less than flattering introduction. Story sensed their unease and spoke quickly.

  “Welcome, gents. There’s a pile of work and a long trail ahead of us. Let’s find some hot coffee, some breakfast, and then we’ll talk.”

  The water was up to, and in some places over, the boardwalk, as they donned slickers and sought a cafe. Finding one, they trooped in and took a large round table that accommodated the seven of them. Thanks to the still early hour and the pouring rain, the place wasn’t crowded. When the waiter arrived, Story ordered for them all.

  “Bring us a couple platters of fried eggs, plenty of ham, potatoes, and black coffee. When we’re done with that, bring us the whole thing, all over again.”

  “By God,” Coon Tails said, “I purely admire a outfit that don’t skimp on the grub. They ain’t nothin’ a man can’t do when his belly’s full.”

  “Cal,” said Story, “we’re needin’ a place to hole up while we gather a herd. You know this country. Where can we sleep dry and not be bothered while we’re buying cows?”

  “There’s a canyon maybe twenty miles south of here,” Cal said. “It’s on the Brazos, near Thorp Spring. Hitch and Arch used to work that range, and I reckon they’ll be more familiar with it than I am.”

  It was Snider’s way of drawing the uncomfortable newcomers into the conversation, making them part of the outfit. Story turned to them.

  “Yeah,” said Hitch, “it’s a long canyon with plenty of graze, and there’s considerable overhang beneath the west bank. We slept there, keepin’ dry through many a storm.”

  “There’s an almighty lot of water comin’ down out there,” Bill Petty said. “Won’t it flood us out durin’ heavy rains?”

  “Never has yet,” said Arch, “and this ain’t the first rainy spring we’ve had. It’s the kind of place you could hole up for months, with nobody knowin’ you was there.”

  “I hear the Comanches have been raisin’ hell in East Texas,” Tom Allen said. “Can we defend this canyon hideout without losin’ our scalps?”

  “Till hell freezes,” said Hitch. “Nobody can get at us, ’cept from the east wall of the canyon, and from there they can’t get a clear shot. Mostly the Comanches is farther south, botherin’ riders that’s wrasslin’ cows out of the brush. Charlie Goodnight and his outfit’s ropin’ ’em out of the brakes along the Brazos, somewhere south of Waco.”*

  “We’ll load up on supplies, then,” Story said, “and head for this canyon on the Brazos. From there we go looking for cows.”

  “I know where we can pick up maybe two hundred,” said Cal, “but like I said, they’ll come a few at a time. Hitch and Arch can get us some more, but it’ll still be a few here and a few there.”

  “If you’re needin’ a cook,” Arch Rainey said, “you can get old Sandy Bill. Grouchiest old varmint in East Texas, but there ain’t a better range cook.”

  “Get him,” said Story.

  * Fort Worth had won the county seat election over Birdville in 1860, but the courthouse was never finished, because of the war. It was destroyed by fire in 1873.

  * Trail Drive Series No. 1, The Goodnight Trail

  2

  “Calvin Snider, what’n tarnation do you think you’re doing?”

  Story and his men were barely out of the cafe when she confronted them, a bundle of female fury in riding boots, denim shirt, and Levi’s pants. She had red hair, blue eyes, and was a good three years shy of being out of her teens.

  “If you must know, Lorna,” said Cal, embarrassed, “I’ve hired on with Mr. Story’s outfit. I’ll be riding north on a trail drive.”

  “You’ve quit your job with York and Draper,” she said accusingly. “The whole town’s talking about it.”

  “Some job,” Cal said hotly. “One meal a day, and sleepin’ in the hayloft. It’s none of the town’s business what I do, no more than it’s any of yours.”

  “Well, I don’t want you going,” she snapped. “I . . . I’ll make Daddy give you a job in the bank.”

  Hitch Gould and Arch Rainey had been grinning, obviously familiar with what had been a tempestuous relationship. Finally they gave in to their mirth, slapping their thighs with their hats. It was more than poor Cal could take. His face aflame with embarrassment, he turned to Story.

  “This here’s Lorna Flagg,” he said desperately. “She’s follered me her whole damn life, and I swear to God, I ain’t done nothin’ to encourage her.”

  “That’s a lie, Calvin,” said Lorna. “You went to war when I was thirteen and a half, and you were gone four years. Ever since you came back, you’ve been avoiding me. Now you’re going away again. Please, please don’t go.”

  She moved closer to Cal and a big tear rolled down her cheek. Cal seemed mesmerized, and when he became aware of her intentions, it was too late. She threw her arms around his neck, sending his hat tumbling along the muddy boardwalk. It was too much. Cal’s companions were roaring, even Story. Worse, despite the rain, others had been attracted by the commotion. Cal tore loose, grabbed his hat out of the mud, and was almost to the next cross street before Story and the rest of the riders caught up to him.

  “Lord,” said Hitch Gould, rolling his eyes, “I wisht I had Cal’s problem.”

  “God, I reckon,” Arch Rainey said. “I’d sleep in the hayloft and fork horse apples for the rest of my life.”

  “You possum-faced bastards,” Cal gritted.

  It was cowboy humor at its worst. Even Story got into the act.

  “Cal,” he said, eyes twinkling, “I wouldn’t want to lure you away from a career in banking.”

  “Aw, hell, Mr. Story,” said Cal pleadingly, “old man Flagg hates my guts. He’s always looked at me like I was some hairy-legged varmint that crawled out from under a rock.”

  “If old Cal was to haul down his Levi’s,” Hitch laughed, “I bet we’d find that little gal’s got her brand on both his flanks.”

  “Wisht she’d dab her loop on me,” Arch mourned.

  “Why, I’d worship the ground her daddy’s bank sets on.”

  “Mr. Story,” said Cal, “I’ll do anything you ask of me, but I ain’t about to come into town again ’fore we move out with the herd.”

  Mounted, Story led the way to the livery, where he bought two pack mules. From there they went to the mercantile for provis
ions.

  “Arch,” Story said, “were you serious about finding us a cook?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Arch. “His name’s William Sandifer, and he’s called Sandy Bill. A hoss rolled on him and he’s got a bad back, but he can cook. He’s lookin’ to hire on, but money’s mighty scarce. None of the outfits that went up the trail last fall had a cook. The riders took turns, and wasn’t none of ’em liked it. Sandy’s got a wagon and a team.”

  “Why don’t you go and get him, then,” Story said. “There’ll be extra pay for the use of his wagon and team. Have him bring the wagon into town and buy what he’ll need in the way of cooking pots, pans, skillets, and eating tools. Here’s some money.”

  “If’n that wagon ain’t got ’em, he’d best mount a water keg on each side,” said Coon Tails. “Don’t look like it’ll ever quit rainin’ here, but we might hit a dry stretch north o’ here.”

  “Good thinking,” Story said. “Now, Hitch, if you and Cal will lead us to that canyon on the Brazos, we’ll set up camp.”

  The rain continued and visibility was limited to a few hundred feet. Arch Rainey rode west to the shack where William Sandifer lived, while Story and the rest of the outfit headed for the canyon on the Trinity. But their departure from town didn’t go unnoticed. Once they had vanished into the gray of the steadily falling rain, a single rider followed.

  “This is ideal,” said Story when they reached the canyon.

  “There’s already a bunch of dry firewood under that overhang,” said Hitch. “You don’t never know what the weather’s goin’ to do in Texas. You ride out at daylight, and it’s warm, maybe rainin’, and before you ride in at sundown, it’s cold enough to freeze the tail feathers off a paisano.”

  “I think we’ll need a place to conceal Sandy Bill’s wagon until we’re ready to begin the drive,” Story said. “The fewer people who know we’re here, the better off we’ll be.”

  “After we’ve unloaded and toted ever’thing to camp,” said Hitch, “there’s a thick bunch of willows upriver a ways. They’ll hide the wagon, I reckon.”

  By midday the rain had slowed to a drizzle, but the sky was still overcast and a southwesterly wind had a raw edge to it. It was late afternoon before Arch Rainey rode in ahead of William Sandifer’s wagon. There was easier access to the new camp from the canyon floor than from the rim, and Arch had wisely guided the wagon along the west bank of the Brazos into the canyon. Story and his companions made their way down the embankment to the wagon. William Sandifer’s hair was mostly gray, and he had keen gray eyes. He walked in a stilted manner, unable to bend his left knee, his back stiff.

  “Good, solid wagon,” Story said. “Watertight?”

  “Sealed her myself,” said Sandifer. “New canvas too.”

  “Good,” Story said. “I’m Nelson Story, and these two gents are friends from my bull-whacking days, Bill Petty and Tom Allen. You know the rest of these hombres, I reckon.”

  “I do,” said Sandifer. “I can doctor knife wounds, bullet wounds, snake bite, hangovers, and busted bones. I’m the best damn cook in Texas, and you can call me Sandy, Sandy Bill, or just Bill. I don’t answer to Greasy Belly, or Biscuit Shooter, and I don’t feed nobody between meals.”

  “Sandy Bill,” Story said, “welcome to the outfit. We’ll help you unload whatever you’ll need for temporary camp, and then I’d like for you to hide the wagon in that stand of willows upriver until we’re ready for the trail.”

  There was an ample supply of firewood under the overhang, proof that it had long been a convenient shelter from the elements. The shelf was forty feet long, a dozen feet to the rock above their heads, and of a depth that wind, rain, or snow couldn’t penetrate. The horses, along with Sandifer’s mules, were loosed to graze along the river within sight of their hole-in-the-wall camp.

  “Tomorrow,” said Story, “we’ll begin buying cows. Coon Tails, I want you here in camp with Sandy Bill. Cal, you’ll ride with me. Hitch will ride with Bill, and Arch will ride with Tom. Keep in mind that we’re needing horses and riders, as well as cows.”

  “With the goin’ rate ten dollars a head,” Tom Allen said, “I can afford two hundred.”

  “I’m figurin’ on that many for myself,” said Bill Petty.

  “Then we’ll shoot for a herd of thirty-four hundred,” Story said.

  As darkness drew near, there was a faraway rumble of thunder, and the rain intensified from a drizzle into a downpour. Sandy Bill proved himself to everybody’s satisfaction by treating them to a supper of Dutch oven biscuits, fried ham, beans, hot coffee, and dried apple pie.

  February 3, 1866. On the Brazos.

  By dawn the rain had slacked, but not much. There was a chill wind out of the northwest. Story and his friends from the high country donned their mackinaws and gloves, the Texas riders watching enviously.

  “Buy whatever cows you can,” Story said, “but arrange to leave them where they are, at least for a day or two. There’s a chance we may not be able to buy enough cows here. After we’ve bought all we can, we’ll run a tally. If we’re short, we’ll have to move farther south. I can’t see driving a herd of cows with us, only to have to drive them back again.”

  Story and Cal rode east, Hitch and Bill rode south, while Arch and Tom rode west.

  “First two hombres we’ll be talkin’ to is Russ Shadley and Mac Withers,” said Cal, “and I reckon I’d as well tell you they ain’t too well thought of around here. They laid back in the brush durin’ the war, not takin’ sides, but they did take ever’ damn cow they could get a loop on. Mine included, I reckon.”

  “Rustlers?”

  “No,” Cal said, “I can’t rightfully call ’em that. In Texas, unbranded cows are mavericks. Fair game for any hombre with a fast loop and a running iron.”

  “Even if they’re two, three, or four years old?”

  “Even then,” Cal sighed.

  “They ought to have a considerable herd by now,” said Story. “You reckon they’ll sell?”

  “Oh, they ain’t got that many now,” Cal said. “They didn’t fight against the Union, and when the Yankees needed beef, who do you reckon they bought it from? They’ll sell. Better to you than to the damn Yankees.”

  The place, when they reached it, was as much a rawhide outfit as Story had ever seen. The shack was built of logs, with a shake roof and a mud-and-stick chimney. A tattered cowhide anchored somewhere above the jamb served as a door. Cal reined up, Story following suit.

  “Hello the house,” Cal shouted.

  “Turn around,” said a voice somewhere behind them. “Do it slow, and keep your hands where I can see ’em.”

  Cal and Story reined their horses around until they were facing a stand of scrub oak fifty yards from the shack.

  “I reckon this ain’t a social call,” said the voice from the thicket, “so whadda you want, Snider?”

  “Shadley,” said Cal, “this is Nelson Story, and he’s buying cows. Are you selling?”

  Shadley came lumbering out of the thicket. He was maybe five-eight, long unshaven, heavily muscled. He wore a denim shirt, faded Levi’s, run-over boots, and a used-up flop hat. In his right fist he still clutched a cocked Colt.

  “Yeah,” he said, only a little less hostile, “I’ve got a few cows. Git down.” He eased the Colt off cock and holstered the weapon.

  “How many cows?” Cal asked.

  “I ain’t dealin’ with you, Snider,” Shadley growled. “While you was off playin’ sojer, your daddy called me a rustler, the old son of—”

  Cal moved like a striking rattler. His right fist slammed into Shadley’s jaw, lifting the heavier man off his feet. Shadley came down on his back in ankle-deep mud and lay there a moment, shaking his head. Then he went for his gun, but his hand froze on the butt of the Colt. He hadn’t seen Nelson Story move, but the big man had him covered.

  “In the high country,” Story said, “we don’t draw on an unarmed man. If that’s not the custom in Texas, it should be.”


  “It is,” said Cal angrily, “but I joined the Rebs. I ain’t allowed to have a gun, while this Yankee-lovin’ bastard—”

  “That’s enough,” Story said. “We’re here to buy cows, if we can. Get up, Shadley.”

  “Thirty head,” Shadley gritted, getting to his feet. “You’d ought to watch the comp’ny you keep, Mr. High Plains. That’ll be fifteen dollers a head, cash.”

  Cal Snider was so angry, words failed him. He just stood there fisting his hands and gritting his teeth. Story didn’t even consider it worthy of a response. He nodded to Cal and they were mounting their horses when a rider approached. He reined up and dismounted. He was slender and clean-shaven, almost the exact opposite of Russ Shadley, although he was dressed no better. He looked from Cal to Shadley, his eyes lingering on the swelling of Shadley’s jaw. Finally he turned to Story, and Story spoke.

  “I’m Nelson Story, in Texas to buy cows. Cal’s one of my riders, and he brought me here. We were just leaving.”

  “I know Cal,” said the young rider. “I’m Mac Withers. I’m pardners with this unsociable varmint, Shadley. God only knows why. We got cows to sell, but you don’t look like a man that’s made a deal.”

  “Not at fifteen dollars a head,” Cal said angrily. “It’s a poor excuse for a man who’d fall back on his dislike for me to cheat Mr. Story on a cattle deal.”

  “I agree,” said Withers, his eyes on Shadley. “We got thirty head, and the fifteen that’s mine are for sale at ten dollars a head.”

  “We’ll take them,” Story said, liking this young rider. “I’m hiring cowboys for a trail drive. Forty and found, with a hundred dollar bonus at the finish.”

  “You just hired yourself a cowboy,” said Withers. “Come on. We’ll cut out the cows and take ’em with us.”

  Russ Shadley looked from Withers to Story. All this was happening too fast for him. With poor grace he turned to Story.

  “All right,” he said, “I was wrong, usin’ my mad for Snider agin you. Take all the cows at ten dollars a head, and if you can use another rider, I’ll hire on.”