The Green River Trail Read online

  The following morning, the four Texans approached the livery with caution, wondering how they could feed Wovoka. They found him sitting cross-legged in the early morning sun, his back against the stable wall.

  “Wovoka,” said Lonnie, “it’s time for breakfast. We eat.”

  “Eat,” Wovoka said. “Much hungry.”

  It was still early, and there was nobody but the cook in the cafe they chose. Wovoka sat down calmly enough, waiting. The cook wasted no time getting to their table, and with his eyes on Wovoka, he spoke.

  “Gents, it ain’t my personal feelings, but most folks that comes in here takes a dim view of settin’ down with an Indian.”

  “He’s part of our outfit,” said Lonnie, “and he stays. The sooner you can get us some grub out here, the sooner we’ll be on our way. Bring us plenty of coffee. Scramble us two dozen eggs, and bring a couple of platters of ham. You got biscuits?”

  “Yeah,” the cook growled.

  “Bring us all of them,” Lonnie said.

  When the order came, Wovoka’s reluctance vanished like the morning dew. He ate like it might be the last meal he’d ever see. The four Texans served themselves, and Wovoka ate everything else.

  “My God,” said Kirby Lowe, “he never ate nothin’ but jerked beef all the way here. Didn’t Bridger ever feed him?”

  Wovoka kept eating, and Lonnie spoke to the cook.

  “Bring us another round.”

  “There ain’t no more biscuits,” the cook said. “You got ’em all.”

  “Then bring more ham, eggs, and coffee,” Lonnie said.

  It was with considerable relief that the distraught cook watched the five of them leave the cafe.

  “Well,” Lonnie said, “it’s time to meet with our kin and break the news. Since we’ll be here awhile, let’s each take a few days and start asking around for some cows for sale and some riders. We’ll meet at my pa’s place on July Fourth.”

  “When we find cows for sale,” said Kirby Lowe, “you want us to go ahead and buy?”

  “Up to a thousand head,” Lonnie said, “and get two or three bulls. See if the owner will allow us to leave the herd on his range until we’re ready to move ’em out.”

  “That may be the hard part “ said Dallas Weaver. “If Texas has had some dry years, it might be reason enough for an outfit selling stock. I think after we’ve bought ’em it’ll be up us to feed ’em.”

  “If that’s how it is,” Lonnie said, “don’t be quick to buy. Range may be scare.”

  “Why don’t we just find cows for sale, and see what we’ve learned when we come back together on July Fourth?” said Dirk McNelly.

  “I like that better,” Dallas Weaver said.

  “That might be best,” said Lonnie. “Kirby?”

  “I agree,” Kirby said. “If graze is a problem, we don’t want four thousand cows until we’re ready to head them north.”

  “It’s agreed, then,” said Lonnie. “Scout around. See what’s for sale and for how much. And be sure you ask about some riders. Each man will need at least three horses.”

  There the friends parted company. Each had kin less than an hour’s ride from San Antonio. Wovoka Shatiki rode with Lonnie, and when they approached the ranch house where Lonnie had grown up, Wovoka held back.

  “Come on, Wovoka,” Lonnie urged. “These are my kin. You’ll be welcome.”

  Seemingly against his better judgment, Wovoka rode on. Suddenly the door opened and Willard Kilgore stepped out on the porch. Mary, his wife, was right behind him.

  In seconds, Mary was down the steps, meeting Lonnie as he dismounted. Wovoka had reined up uncertainly.

  “Ma, Pa,” Lonnie said, “this is a friend of mine, Wovoka Shatiki. He’s Shoshone.”

  “Long as he ain’t Comanche,” said Willard. “Step down, Wovoka, and welcome.”

  Wovoka dismounted, seeming surprised when Willard Kilgore offered his hand. Wovoka took it, nodding to Mary. A warrior never shook the hand of a squaw.

  “Unsaddle your horses in the barn,” said Willard, “and come on to the house.”

  “Wovoka take horses,” the Indian said.

  Lonnie nodded, knowing what the Indian had in mind. He waited until Wovoka had led their horses toward the barn before he spoke.

  “Wovoka prefers the barn to a house. Let’s go on in.”

  Lonnie spoke for more than an hour about what he and his friends planned to do.

  “But you’ve been gone four years,” Mary protested. “If you move all the way to Utah Territory, we may never see you again.”

  “Mary,” said Willard, “it’s the last frontier for a rancher. A man must be careful. Such an opportunity may not come again.”

  “I know,” Mary said sadly, “and there’s the talk of secession. Even war.”

  “War?” Lonnie asked. “What war?”

  “Just talk, so far,” said Willard. “The South don’t like the Federals denying them what they see as states’ rights. Southern states—especially those in the Deep South—already have threatened to secede from the Union. Texans—except for Sam Houston—is ready to take up arms and fight.”

  “My God,” Lonnie said, “it ain’t even ten years since Texas became a state, and it was all Houston’s doing. He fought like a dog for statehood.”

  “Sam says he’ll quit public office if Texas secedes,” said Willard.*

  “I can understand his feelings,” Lonnie said, “but I think there’s a limit to how much pushing around a man can take.”

  “I told Willard you’d say that,” said Mary sadly. “I hate to say it, but I’d rather have you ranching in the wilds of Utah than risk you being killed in a foolish war between the states.”

  “It’s still just talk,” Willard said. “I doubt there’ll be a war, but even if there is, you can’t be faulted for taking up ranching on a new range.”

  “We’ll need cattle and we’ll need riders,” said Lonnie, “and we’re prepared to pay.”

  “Then you should find plenty of both in Texas,” Willard said. “We’ll always be cattle-poor until there’s a way to get the critters to eastern markets.”

  “There’s talk of a transcontinental railroad,” said Lonnie.

  “I’ve heard that talk,” Willard said, “but when? I doubt I’ll live to see it.”

  “If there’s a war, I doubt any of us will,” said Lonnie.

  Dallas Weaver received much the same reception from his kin.

  “We hate to see you take up ranching so far away,” Otis Weaver said, “but a man has to have room to grow. When do you aim to start the drive?”

  “We’re not sure,” said Dallas. “We’ll need to hire maybe six riders, and of course we must find the cattle and some decent bulls. We’ll also need a couple more pack mules, and probably some horses.”

  “You won’t have any trouble finding riders,” Otis said. “Texas is full of eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds just chompin’ at the bit to make their mark in the world. But horses and mules may be a problem. With so much dry weather, most of the range has gone to hell, and few ranchers are keepin’ more animals than they need for their own work.”

  “We’ve considered that,” said Dallas. “We might have to wait until spring to begin the drive.”

  “Oh, I hope you do,” Elvie Weaver said. “There’s something you need to attend to before you start the drive. Do you remember Mindy Odens?”

  Dallas laughed. “I sure do. She was just a little shirttail girl when I left here, just barely thirteen. I half-expected her to sneak off and follow me.”

  “She might have been better off if she had,” said Elvie. “A year after you left, her Ma died, and since then, old Jess has become a drunkard and a scoundrel. When Mindy was sixteen, she ran away. She came here, and we let her stay until old Jess sent the sheriff to take her home. I think you should talk to her.”

  Dallas laughed uneasily. “Ma, when I left here, Mindy was a freckle-faced little girl with a chest as flat as a billiard table. S
he—”

  Otis Weaver laughed, and Elvie’s face went red with embarrassment. When she trusted herself to speak, she did.

  “Dallas, you’ve been away four years. The little girl you remember is a woman now, and if it wasn’t for her sot of a father, she could have any man she wants.”

  “That may be true,” said Dallas, “but she’s still not of age. You want me to ride over there, shoot her old daddy, and carry her away?”

  “I want you to ride over there and see her,” Elvie said. “What you do after that is up to you. Jess spends most of his time in town hanging around the saloons.”

  “I’ll talk to her,” said Dallas. “Tomorrow will be soon enough to begin the search for horses, mules, cattle, and riders.”

  When Dallas reached the Odens ranch, he was amazed at how run-down and unkempt the place looked. There was a single horse in a corral adjoining the barn. Behind the house someone was chopping wood. Dallas reined up, dismounted, and started around the house, and his first look at Mindy Odens took his breath away. She had gathered up an armload of stove wood and was about to head for the house when she saw Dallas. With a glad cry, she flung down the wood and ran to meet him. She flung herself at him, and he was so speechless, he said the first foolish thing that popped into his head.

  “You used to have freckles.”

  She laughed. “Now just a few on my nose. I used to be flat-chested, too. Am I still as ugly as I was when you went away?”

  He held her at arm’s length and looked at her. Her light hair was like newly grown corn silk, while her eyes matched the bluebonnets on the Texas plains. He swallowed hard a time or two before he was able to speak. When he did, it was straight from the heart.

  “Mindy Odens, you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

  “Thank you,” she said, pleased. “Come on in the house where it’s a little cooler. Pa’s gone to town.”

  There was coffee left over from breakfast, and Mindy stirred up the fire in the stove. She then sat down on the other side of the table facing Dallas.

  “I was sorry to hear of your ma’s passing,” said Dallas.

  “She was all that kept Pa straight,” Mindy said, “and she was just worn out. When she was gone, Pa just went straight to hell. He spends his days in town, begging drinks in the saloons or running up a bar tab where he can get credit. Now tell me about you. Are you back for good?”

  “No,” said Dallas.

  He dreaded telling her of the proposed drive to the Green River range and his intention of remaining there, but she would find out soon enough. So he told her, and long before he was finished, tears crept out the corners of her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Finally there was nothing more to be told, and there was a long, uncomfortable silence. Mindy finally spoke, and her voice trembled.

  “Dallas, when you go, take me with you. I won’t ask anything of you except a roof over my head and something to eat. I’m a good cook, and I can chop my own wood.”

  “I wish I could take you with me,” Dallas said, “but if my memory serves me right, you’re still only seventeen. Your pa would just send the law after you.”

  “Let him,” said Mindy defiantly. “I’ll show the sheriff what I should have shown him already.”

  She got up from the table and peeled the long dress over her head, leaving her wearing only her boots. Struck dumb, Dallas sat there as she turned first one way and then the other. From her shoulders to her knees, her body was a mass of welts and scars. Some of them were crusted with dried blood.

  “Great God Almighty,” Dallas said, his voice trembling with anger. “Your Pa did that?”

  “Yes,” said Mindy. “Every morning before he leaves for town. I’m leaving here, if I have to go to San Antonio or Austin and become a whore.”

  “Hush that kind of talk,” Dallas said. “You’re going back to my pa’s place with me, and when we’re ready to begin the drive, you’ll go to Utah.”

  “But what can you do if Pa sends the law after me?”

  “If all else fails,” said Dallas, “you can show—or threaten to show—the sheriff those scars all over you. Has he … hurt you in any other way?”

  “No,” Mindy said, “but he’s tried. He comes in drunk, tells me I have to take Ma’s place, and tries to get in bed with me. I’ve had to leave the house and sleep in the barn.”

  “That settles it,” said Dallas. “You’re not coming back here, if I have to shoot the old varmint. Gather up what clothes you have.”

  “I don’t have much,” Mindy said. “I haven’t had a new dress since Ma died.”

  “You’ll need cowboy clothes for the trail drive,” said Dallas, “and we can get them in town. Is that your horse in the corral?”

  “Yes,” Mindy said, “but he’s wind-broke, thanks to Pa. My saddle’s in the barn.”

  “Wind-broke or not, we’ll take our time, taking him with us. Before we begin the trail drive, we’ll have to get you a better horse,” said Dallas.

  Overcome with emotion, Mindy flung herself at Dallas, still wearing only her boots.

  “Whoa,” Dallas said. “Let me get used to you before you lay too much temptation on me. Take one of your pa’s shirts and a pair of Levi’s, so you can ride astraddle.”

  Placing her hands on his shoulders, she leaned back and looked into his eyes.

  “I’m not ugly, then?”

  “Ugly, hell,” said Dallas. “You’re beautiful. Now get some riding clothes on. You’re making it more and more difficult for me to be a gentleman.”

  She laughed, and went about rounding up something to wear.

  Leaving the cafe Dirk McNelly set out for the Chad Tilden place. There he would inquire about mules, horses, and cattle for sale. He secretly hoped he might have a chance to see Tilden’s daughter, April. The girl was within a year of Dirk’s own age, and when he had tried to see her before leaving for California, Chad Tilden had asked him to leave. Now, he thought with some satisfaction, April would be of age. When he was within sight of the house, he could see Chad Tilden was on the front porch waiting. Dirk reined up, and Tilden spoke.

  “What business do you have here, McNelly?”

  “I’m interested in buyin’ some mules, some horses, and maybe a thousand cows, if you got any to sell,” said Dirk. “Lonnie Kilgore, Dallas Weaver, Kirby Lowe, and me have more than five thousand acres in Utah, and we’re taking up ranching there.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Tilden said ungraciously. “None of you ever amounted to anything in these parts. I might have three hundred cows to sell, but no mules or horses. That is, if the money is there.”

  “The money will be there, if the price is right.” said Dirk. “We aim to compare prices, and we’ll let you know. Do you mind if I say hello to April while I’m here?”

  “She’s gone riding,” Tilden said stiffly, “and I don’t know when she’ll be back.”

  Dirk wheeled his horse and rode back the way he had come. He wasn’t more than a mile from the house when a horse nickered somewhere ahead of him. His mount answered, and Dirk reined up.

  “Dirk?” a female voice inquired.

  “Yeah,” said Dirk. “Is that you, April?”

  To answer his question, the girl rode out into a clearing ahead. She had been sixteen when Dirk had left for California four years ago. She had since matured beyond his wildest dreams, and Dirk rode forward to meet her.

  “I’d just started out for a ride when I saw you coming,” April said, “so I waited. As you probably learned, Pa still doesn’t think too highly of you.”

  “I can understand why he might have felt that way before,” said Dirk. “I was sixteen, with nothing ahead of me but Pa’s ten-cow rawhide outfit. But I’m back from California, with money to buy horses, mules, and cattle. Lonnie, Dallas, Kirby, and me own eight full sections of land alongside the Green River in Utah.”

  “You told Pa that?” April asked.

  “Yes,” said Dirk. “Beyond agreeing to maybe sell some cows, I can’
t see that it makes any difference to him. He still ain’t wantin’ me to see you.”

  “Do you want to see me?”

  “It’s all I’ve thought about for four years,” Dirk said. “I was hoping that me changing from a thirty-and-found rider to the owner of a ranch might make a difference, but I got an idea that your Pa just don’t like me.”

  “I liked you when you were a thirty-and-found rider,” said April. “You were always a gentlemen, and I felt safe with you. I can’t say the same about some of the other men my Pa allows to hang around. I’m of age, and I can ride where I want. Name a place, and I’ll meet you there.”

  “I’m staying with my ma and pa until we can buy the horses, mules, and cows we’ll be needing for the trail drive to Utah,” Dirk said.

  “If I ride over there after dark, will your family consider me a brazen, wayward girl?”

  “No,” said Dirk. “I’ve told ’em your pa doesn’t like me, but my folks like you, and I can promise you that you’ll be welcome anytime.”

  “Then I’ll ride over there and meet you after dark,” April said.

  They parted, and Dirk had forgotten all about mules, horses, cows, and the proposed drive to the Green River range. His heart felt strangely light, and he didn’t care if it did take them all winter to ready the trail drive. He promised himself he wouldn’t leave Texas until April Tilden rode beside him.

  Riding into Neal and Elene Upton’s ranch, Kirby Lowe received an enthusiastic welcome, for the Uptons were friends with Kirby’s kin, Burke and Tilda. The Uptons had a young son, as well as a daughter—Laura—who was near Kirby’s own age. They had in no way discouraged his seeing Laura, and he believed she liked him. He had dismounted and was climbing the steps to the front porch when the front door burst open and Laura shouted a greeting. She grabbed him, kissing him hard, to the amusement of her parents.

  “You left when I was just sixteen,” Laura said, “and I never expected to see you again. Have you come back to stay?”

  “No,” said Kirby. “I own twelve hundred and eighty acres of good graze, and I’m back to buy some mules, horses, and cattle. Let’s set a while, and I’ll tell you all about it”