The Santa Fe Trail Read online

  “Woody,” Pitkin said, “we’re going to unload those three packhorses. If I provide the necessary funds, will some of you see to the purchase of four good mules and a suitable wagon with canvas?”

  “We will,” said Woody, “and you’ll find that second wagon is a good investment.”

  2

  “Mr. Pitkin,” Kelly said, “before we put this behind us, there’s something you ought to know. I’ve seen some hard livin’, some turbulent times before, durin’, and after the war. I’ve made some enemies, and I can’t promise you there won’t be more hombres who’d like nothin’ better than seein’ me laid out in a pine box. But I can and will promise you this: I don’t aim to take water, to let them ventilate my carcass, if that’s what it takes to stay on the good side of you.”

  “Very well,” said Pitkin. “I have admitted I was wrong in questioning your judgment, and I will go one step farther, if that’s what it takes to satisfy you and your companions. I will not object to your defending yourselves in whatever manner you see fit, as long as I can depend on your loyalty to me and my daughters. To my brand, as you might say.”

  “You got it, Mr. Pitkin,” Kelly replied, “and I believe I can speak for everybody else. Am I right, gents?”

  “Right,” said the others, in almost a single voice.

  “One more thing,” Kelly said. “You’ll need a trail boss, and you should name him before you take the trail with the herd.”

  “Then why not the same trail boss who brought the herd from Texas?” Pitkin asked.

  “That’s Woody,” said Vic Brodie “He’s dependable, but there’s times he’s stubborn as hell. Beggin’ your pardon, ladies.”

  “Do it, Woody,” Gavin McCord said. “We’re all used to your cussedness.”

  “I’ll do it,” said Woody, “with the understanding that when I give an unpopular order, I don’t have to part somebody’s hair with the muzzle of my Colt, gettin’ it obeyed.”

  Everybody laughed, including the Pitkins, but Woody allowed his eyes to linger on each of them just long enough for them to realize he was dead serious. When they again were silent, he spoke.

  “There’s no point in moving out today, because we’ve jacked around and lost more than three hours. What we are going to do is prepare to leave at first light tomorrow. Pit, if you’re willing to buy a second wagon, with mules and harness, I’ll have Nip and Gavin ride into town and get it.”

  “I said I would,” Pitkin replied, “and I will. Here’s five hundred dollars. Will that be sufficient?”

  “Just about,” said Gavin. “Good mules are seventy-five to a hundred dollars apiece. I doubt the wagon will be any more costly than the chuck wagon.”

  “You and Nip get started, then,” Woody said. “Pit, do you have further business in Independence?”

  “Yes,” said Pitkin. “I have yet to close my account with the bank. If I am to purchase your herd, you must decide how you wish to be paid. Do you want gold, or will you be satisfied with a bank draft that can be cashed at the bank in Santa Fe? I intend to have all my funds transferred by the bank.”

  “Rusty, Gavin, Vic, Ash, will you accept a bank draft?” Woody asked “We’ll have no need of gold coin on the trail. It’ll just be somethin’ else to bother with.”

  “Bank draft,” said Gavin.

  Rusty, Vic, and Ash quickly agreed.

  “Pit,” Woody said, “why don’t you return to town with Gavin and Nip? There should be plenty of maps of the Santa Fe. Have you looked at them?”

  “Yes,” said Pitkin, “and they’re somewhat confusing. It seems there are two different trails. One—the mountain trail—goes through Colorado. The other—the desert trail—is a more direct route, by way of Fort Dodge, and across Indian Territory’s panhandle.”

  “Then get one of each,” Woody said, “and make your arrangements with the bank. While you’re doing that, Nip and Gavin can buy the wagon, the teams, and the harness. If there’s anything more you’ll be needing, the second wagon will provide some extra room.”

  “Dried apple, more pie,” said Gonzales, who had been listening.

  That brought a cheer of agreement from the rest of the outfit.

  “If it suits you, Pit,” Woody said, “when you have the wagon, get a greater supply of dried apples at the general store. Dried apple pie is about the only sweet a man can enjoy on the trail, and the fruit goes a long way, preventin’ scurvy.”

  “An interesting theory,” said Pitkin. “I shall do as you suggest. Unless you’re opposed to it, I believe we should keep these three extra horses. You don’t seem to have that many for the task ahead.”

  Woody laughed. “You’re becoming a mite more observant, Pit. We can use the extra horses.”

  “Father, while you are gone,” Naomi said, “Nell and I can sort out everything from those three pack horses. It will be so much easier, getting to what we need, with a second wagon.”

  Pitkin nodded and rode out, following Nip and Gavin.

  “The rest of you,” said Woody, “can unload those packhorses so Naomi and Nell can begin sorting out their things.”

  The Pitkin girls were amused, for the four cowboys all but fell over one another in their eagerness to reach the packhorses.

  Reaching town, Pitkin reined up at the bank.

  “We’ll bring the wagon here, Pit,” Gavin said.

  Pitkin nodded, looped the reins of his horse over the hitch rail and went on into the bank. Nip and Gavin watched him go, and Nip spoke.

  “He started off a mite rough, but damned if I don’t believe he’ll be a man to ride the river with.”

  “He’s learned the first important lesson,” said Gavin. “Either you bend or you break. There’s plenty of give and take on the Western frontier. If you don’t give, it takes.”

  In less than an hour, they had purchased the wagon, the necessary harness, and four mules. With Gavin leading Nip’s horse, Kelly drove the wagon to the bank. Pitkin had concluded his business and was waiting. Nip climbed down from the wagon box and passed the reins to Pitkin.

  “I’ll tie your horse behind the wagon,” said Kelly.

  Nip and Gavin rode on to the general store, Pitkin following with the wagon.

  “We’ll wait with the horses and the wagon,” Gavin said, “unless you need us.”

  “I must find some trail maps,” said Pitkin. “Why don’t you arrange for as much of the dried fruit as you think we’ll need?”

  When Pitkin returned with the maps, the wagon had been backed up to the loading dock. Two men from the store were loading a large wooden barrel.

  “I presume you bought enough,” Pitkin said.

  “It’ll have to do,” said Nip. “It’s all they had.”

  “A hundred and fifty dollars’ worth,” Gavin added.

  The storekeeper had his hand out, and Pitkin paid him. Without a word, he mounted the wagon box, following Gavin and Nip when they rode out. By the time they reached the herd, Gonzales had begun supper.

  “My God,” said Woody, when he saw the enormous barrel in the new wagon, “what’s in that?”

  “Dried apples,” Gavin replied, with a twinkle in his eyes. “We’d’ve got more, but that was all they had.”

  “A shame we don’t have some sourdough starter,” said Rusty, “but Gonzales started it workin’ just yesterday. We could use some dried apple pies for supper.”

  “You hombres didn’t dig deep enough in old Sam’s pack,” Nip said. “There’s a quart jar of starter in there, just beggin’ to be made into dried apple pies. I’ll go fetch it and get Gonzales started.”

  “Yeeehaaa,” Rusty shouted.

  Supper was a memorable affair, with plenty of the dried apple pies.

  “At first,” said Pitkin, “I suspected we were overdoing it with the dried apples. Now, however, I’m not sure we bought enough.”

  There were still several hours of daylight, and Woody wasted no time in getting down to business.

  “It’s time we had a look
at those trail maps, Pit, and weighed one route against the other.”

  Pitkin spread the two maps out on the grass, and they had been drawn large enough for the entire outfit to gather around.

  “Now,” said Pitkin, “you can see what I was trying to tell you. The mountain route—which the map refers to as the Upper Crossing—crosses the Cimarron River perhaps thirty miles west of Fort Dodge. It leads past Bent’s Fort through southern Colorado, and finally through Cimarron, New Mexico, to Santa Fe. I would Judge it to be at least two or three hundred miles farther than the desert route, which is called the Cimarron Cutoff.”

  “One thing I don’t understand,” Woody said. “Why in tarnation is the Cimarron Cutoff referred to as the desert route, when there are so many rivers to cross? There’s one stretch—from southwestern Kansas into Indian Territory’s panhandle—where the Santa Fe follows the Cimarron River for near a hundred miles.”

  “Yes,” said Pitkin, “but after crossing the Arkansas, what do you see between there and the Cimarron?”

  “Cimarron Desert,” Woody said. “If this map’s drawn to proper scale, that’s maybe a five-day drive, at ten miles a day.”*

  “Yes,” said Pitkin, “that’s the price one pays for taking the more direct route. While I dare not think of myself as a frontiersman, I know that five days without water is beyond the endurance of man or beast.”

  “Yeah,” Vic Brodie said, “and by the time we get there, it’ll be the hottest part of the summer.”

  “What about it, trail boss?” said Rusty.

  “There are two water barrels mounted on each of the wagons,” Woody said, “and each of those barrels can be replaced with a larger one. We can utilize some of the extra room in the second wagon, carrying two extra water barrels. All these can be filled before we leave the Arkansas River. There should be enough water for our own use and for watering the horses and mules.”

  “You are a resourceful young man,” said Pitkin, “but what about the herd? They must have water, and there is no possible way we can carry that much.”

  “We’ll have to run ’em dry,” Woody replied. “If this Cimarron Desert is all that the name implies, there’ll be Just dry, flat plain, without drop-offs. We’ll have to scout ahead, to be sure, and we’ll trail the herd at night. And I mean all night, from dusk to dawn. By the time we allow them to rest, they’ll be exhausted, and that’s what it’ll take. You can’t get thirsty cattle to lie down. They’ll mill and bawl like lost souls, and if they’re goin’ to be on the move, it might as well be toward water.”

  “You seem to have a commendable knowledge of the beasts,” said Pitkin, admiringly.

  “That’s puttin’ the best possible face on it,” Woody said. “A shift of the wind could turn the herd around and send them stampeding m the wrong direction, but that’s all part of the risk. We’ll just have to hope their first whiff of water comes from the Cimarron, up ahead.”

  “Suppose, in spite of all we can do, they run the wrong way, and we lose them,” said Pitkin. “What do we do then?”

  “We round the varmints up and start all over again,” Woody said.

  “It sounds like a terrible risk, just to spare ourselves perhaps two hundred miles,” said Naomi.

  “It ain’t as risky as it seems, ma’am,” Rusty said. “We lost ’em three times comin’ up the trail from Texas. It’s just part of trail drivin’. Mostly, a stampede runs all the fat off of ’em, but some good graze puts it back.”

  “He’s right about that,” said Woody. “After runnin’ ’em dry, once we reach water, we generally take a couple of days’ rest before movin’ on.”

  “Someone must return to Independence for the extra water barrels, then,” Pitkin said.

  “You can take your wagon through there in the morning,” said Woody. “We’ll drive the herd west and meet you beyond town. I reckon you won’t have any trouble finding the Santa Fe Trail. Just follow the wagon ruts.”

  Naomi and Nell spent the last several hours of daylight packing their belongings in the second wagon. When it came time to turn in for the night, they unrolled their bedrolls beneath the wagon. Rusty, Gavin, and Vic took the first watch. Nip, Woody, and Ash would begin the second watch at midnight. Gonzales again proved his worth as a trail drive cook by filling the two-gallon coffee pot and suspending it over a bed of hot coals so the men on watch would have hot coffee.

  Breakfast was eaten in the first gray light of dawn. Nell and Naomi Pitkin surprised Woody with a request.

  “We have a lot of cows and not many riders,” Naomi said. “Where can we ride that will be helpful to you?”

  “Drag,” said Woody. “Directly behind the herd. There’ll always be a few cows tryin’ to quit the bunch and go back the way they came. If you can head them and send them back to the herd, the rest of us can devote all our efforts to keepin’ them bunched and movin’ ahead.”

  “We’ll really be doing something useful, then,” Nell said.

  “You most certainly will,” said Woody. “Otherwise, we’d only have one rider at drag, and he’d likely be run ragged.”

  “Gavin,” Woody said, “today I want you at drag. The Pitkin girls will be riding there too, and it’ll be your job to keep an eye on them.”

  “Damn,” said Rusty, “I reckon he won’t have any trouble doin’ that. Lucky varmint.”

  “Yeah,” Vic said, “why him?”

  “All right,” said Woody, “none of that. There’ll be a new man every day, so each of you will have a turn. Rusty, today I’ll want you and Ash ridin’ flank. Vic, you and Nip will be the swing riders. I’ll be at point, and the wagons will follow the herd.”

  “What about the extra horses and mules?” Vic asked.

  “They’ll have to trail with the tag end of the herd, same as they did comin’ up the trail from Texas,” said Woody. “We can’t afford the luxury of a horse wrangler.”

  “I’m ready,” Pitkin said, after he had harnessed the mules to his wagon. “Where am I to find these extra barrels, and how much should I pay for them?”

  “You should find them at the wagon yard,” said Woody. “If they don’t have them, I’d say they can tell you who does. They shouldn’t charge you more than two dollars apiece.”

  “One thing more,” Pitkin said. “Naomi and Nell are planning to ride directly behind the herd. Drag, you call it. Will they be safe there?”

  “Safer than anywhere else,” said Woody “They asked how they could help, and shorthanded as we are, we can use them. Gavin will ride with them today One of the outfit will be with them every day. Both wagons—you and Gonzales—will be following the herd, and we’ll be depending on the two of you to always look ahead. First sign of trouble, you can alert the rest of us by firing a shot. I’ll be riding point, leading the herd.”

  Pitkin seemed satisfied, and flicking the reins, sent the mules trotting toward town. The riders already had the herd bunched, and riding west, Woody got around them.

  “Move ’em out!” Woody shouted.

  Doubled lariats popped bovine flanks, and the herd began slowly moving west. There were stragglers who doubled back, keeping the drag riders busy. Watching Gavin, both the Pitkin girls soon got the idea, and did a fair job heading the bunch quitters.

  “Keep ’em bunched,” Gavin shouted. “Don’t let ’em lag and fall back.”

  After an hour of difficulty, the trail-wise herd settled down, and by noon, Woody could see water. According to the maps Pitkin had purchased, it was a tributary of the Osage River. They were a few miles west of Independence, and Woody led the herd on until they reached the endless ruts that were the Santa Fe Trail. Woody waved his hat, his signal to the riders to begin milling the herd. Here they would wait for Pitkin. The herd, already thirsty, took advantage of the convenient water. Pitkin soon arrived.

  “I had no trouble getting the barrels,” Pitkin said, “and I bought another two hundred pounds of grain at the general store. It seemed there might not be enough grain for the mules, wi
th two wagons.”

  “Good thinking, Pit,” said Woody. “There may be times when the graze is skimpy, and there’ll barely be enough for the herd. Let’s take another look at that map before we move on. I don’t recall seeing any water between the Osage and Neosho rivers.”

  “Where the trail crosses the Osage,” Nip Kelly said, “there’s four tributaries, spread out like the tines of a hayfork. If this is the first, it’s unlikely that we’ll travel any farther than the fourth one before sundown.”

  “This is the first,” said Pitkin. “I crossed no river from Independence to here.”

  “Then we should have water for tonight,” Woody said.

  “I learned something about the trail while I was in town,” said Pitkin. “Council Grove, which is probably a hundred miles west of here, is actually a small village. It is possibly our last contact with civilization until we reach Fort Union, in northeastern New Mexico. There is a cemetery, a restaurant, and the Last Chance Store.”

  “Head ’em up, move ’em out!” Woody shouted.

  Pitkin fell in behind the herd, following the chuck wagon, while Woody rode ahead to the point position. The herd settled down and there were fewer bunch quitters. Gavin was watching Naomi and Nell Pitkin covertly, and despite the clouds of dust, they actually seemed to be enjoying their small part in the drive. They had quickly followed Gavin’s example, their scarves covering nose and mouth as protection from the dust.

  From his wagon, Pitkin had been observing the movement ahead of him, and he marveled at the efficiency of so few men, as they kept the herd bunched and moving. He was fully aware of the effect this extravaganza was likely to have on his impressionable daughters. Following Nip Kelly’s gunfight, he thought Naomi and Nell eyed the man with something more than admiration for Kelly’s skill with a revolver. It raised possibilities Gladstone Pitkin just wasn’t ready to consider, and he forced himself to think of the probable difficulties on the long trail ahead.

  The herd had settled down to the extent that horses and riders were able to relax, and to Gavin McCord’s surprise, the Pitkin girls had caught up to him. Nell rode to his left, while Naomi rode to his right.