The Virginia City Trail Page 6

  “Coon Tails,” Story said, “the mule I took to town with me needs some doctoring. Bullet burn on his left flank.”

  “I’ll see to it,” Coon Tails said. “That got anything t’do with that ventilation in yer hat?”

  “It has,” said Story. “I’ll tell you about it after the mules have been unloaded.”

  The rain continued, and the outfit was thankful for the dry camp. When supper was over and they were down to final cups of coffee, Story told them of the ambush attempt and of his run-in with the sheriff.

  “Hell,” said Cal, “if he’s needin’ suspects, he can go after any Reb in Texas. Nobody likes a bloodsuckin’ tax man. Trouble is, folks that’d most like to see him dead ain’t got a gun and can’t get one.”

  “I’m not sure the killing of the tax collector isn’t the result of somebody’s attempt to gun me down,” Story said. “It was raining so hard, I couldn’t really see anything to shoot at. Whoever was shooting at me wouldn’t have been able to see much better. I’m wondering if this tax collector wasn’t gunned down by mistake, by somebody who thought he was me.”

  “It’s possible,” said Bill Petty, “if he was near here.”

  “If this hombre that’s gunnin’ for you rides around in a storm, what won’t he do in good weather?” Tom Allen said.

  “I’d welcome a chance to settle this grudge,” said Story, “whatever’s the cause of it. How do you identify a man in pouring rain? That tells me that whoever’s after me may gun down any one of us.”

  “Thanks to the Federals taking our guns,” Cal said, “some of us can’t even defend ourselves.”

  “After what happened today, I’m going to change that,” said Story. “I’m going to arm every man in the outfit. I’m not a Texan, and I don’t come under the jurisdiction of the Federal government, insofar as gun ownership is concerned.”

  “There’s bound to be some law against armin’ disenfranchised Texans,” Arch Rainey said. “If there ain’t, them Federals will make up one.”

  “We’ll take our chances with the Federal authorities,” said Story. “Captain Clark told me I could hire cowboys for a trail drive, and that riders would be allowed to leave Texas provided they sign papers swearing not to take up arms against the Union. If a man swears not to fight the Union, why shouldn’t he have a gun to defend himself against hostile Indians, outlaws, and killers?”

  “Makes sense to me,” Bill Petty said. “If there’s any to be had, every one of our riders ought to at least have a pistol.”

  “It’s my intention that every rider be armed with a Colt revolver and a repeating rifle before we begin the drive,” said Story. “After what happened today, it appears that bushwhacker’s not all that particular about who he kills. I can see now there’s some urgency in arming the outfit. Tomorrow we’ll ride back to Fort Worth for weapons and ammunition. Sandy Bill, we’ll need a wagon and team. May we use yours?”

  “On one condition,” said Bill. “When you buy them guns, don’t forget me.”

  February 5, 1866. On the Brazos.

  Dawn brought yet another day of rain, and along with it, Shanghai Wolfington’s herd. Story climbed down to the river to greet them.

  “Five hundred an’ fifteen,” Shanghai said. “Four hundred an’ five cows, hundred an’ six steers, an’ four bulls.”

  “Leave them here along the river,” said Story. “You and your riders come on up to the camp and dry out. You’re in time for breakfast.”

  Reaching the camp, Wolfington introduced Smokey Ellison and Oscar Fentress. Ellison’s most distinguishing feature was a carefully groomed longhorn moustache. Oscar Fentress removed his hat, revealing a completely bald head.

  “Smokey’s got more hair on his upper lip than Oscar’s got on his head,” Wolfington said.

  “Please t’meet you all,” Fentress said, shaking their hands and flashing each man a grin.

  “Shanghai,” said Story, “since you were here, there’s been a change in our situation. Perhaps a dangerous change. Since the three of you are joining the outfit, I want you to know what you’re up against.”

  Story told them of the attempted ambush in town, and of the second try during the storm the previous afternoon.

  “I’m taking the wagon into town today,” Story said. “I aim to buy or make arrangements to buy enough weapons to arm the outfit. At least a Colt for every man who doesn’t have one, if I have to order them from St. Louis or Kansas City.”

  “We’re Texans,” said Wolfington, “an’ we ain’t afraid of no man with a gun, long as we can shoot back. Right, boys?”

  “Right,” Smokey Ellison agreed. “Hand me a Colt and some ammunition and I’ll side you till hell freezes.”

  “That be true for me, suh,” said Oscar Fentress. “I fight for my brand.”

  “You’re the kind of men I’m looking for,” Story said. “I’ll arm each of you with a Colt and with a repeating rifle, when they can be had.”

  “Reckon we got ’nough hombres here t’ watch the camp an’ the cows,” said Coon Tails. “Way that bushwhacker’s follerin’ you, I reckon I’d best ride along t’town an’ watch yer back.”

  “Thanks,” Story said. “I’ll appreciate your company.”

  “We’re gonna be a mite uneasy, just hunkered around doin’ nothin’,” said Shanghai.

  “I want all of you close to camp until you have weapons,” Story said. “Once you’re armed, I promise you we’ll be plenty busy. Come on, Coon Tails, and let’s harness the mules. I want this trip to town behind us.”

  They were well on their way to town when Story remembered he hadn’t delivered Lorna’s message to Cal.

  For a long time after leaving Story’s camp, neither Shadley or Withers spoke. When Shadley finally broke the prolonged silence, there was a sulky bitterness in his voice.

  “Fine pard you turned out to be. Throwed me down and stood up for that bastard, Cal Snider.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Russ,” Withers said wearily, “if you’re goin’ to walk on your hind legs like a man, start actin’ like one. If you hadn’t had a gun, Cal Snider would of stomped hell out of you.”

  “I ain’t done with Snider, not by a jugful.”

  “I ain’t surprised,” said Withers. “You hired on with Story’s outfit so you can fight with Cal Snider. By God, this Story hombre’s no short horn. He’s a malo salvaje from the high lonesome, and I’d bet my saddle he can tie a knot in your tail with one hand. If you’re of a mind to cause trouble on this drive, don’t look for me to side you.”

  “I ain’t lookin’ for you to do nothin’,” said Shadley. “We’ll work this cow gather, but far as Story’s outfit’s concerned, you ride your trail and I’ll ride mine.”

  “Bueno,” Withers said. “Bueno.”

  Wes Hardin and his companions rode in silence until they were well away from Story’s camp. When they reined up to rest their horses, it was Greener who spoke.

  “I thought you was a reg’lar catawampus, Hardin. This big bastard wants a bill of sale, an’ you fold like a wore-out Injun blanket.”

  Hardin twisted in his saddle, his horse face a mask of fury, his hands on the butts of his Colts.

  “Damn it,” said Slim, “pull in your horns, the both of you. Wes done the right thing. This Story hombre ain’t no dumb Yank. Me, I wouldn’t slope back into that canyon after them cows for a thousand pesos.”

  “By God,” said Hardin, his cold blue eyes still on Greener, “anytime you reckon you’re man enough to face me down, I’m ready.” Greener said nothing, and Hardin turned on Quickenpaugh. “You’re almighty quiet, you savage varmint. Ain’t you got nothin’ to say?”

  “Dinero,” Quickenpaugh said, with no change in expression, extending his hand.

  It struck Hardin as funny, and he slapped his thighs and laughed. From his Levi’s pocket he took the money he had received for the cows and removed a hundred dollars. This he passed to the Indian. Wordlessly he handed an equal share to Slim and Greener, and t
he four rode on.

  When Story and Coon Tails reached town, Story drove the wagon directly to the York and Draper store.

  “I reckon you ain’t goin’ through the army,” Coon Tails said.

  “Not unless I’m forced to,” said Story. He climbed down from the box, Coon Tails following, and they entered the store. York knew Story by now, and nodded a greeting.

  “I need weapons for my riders,” Story said bluntly. “Pistols at least, rifles as well, if you have them. What do you have?”

  “Nothin’ I can sell to you,” said York.

  “I’m from Montana Territory,” Story said. “I’m not a Texan.”

  “No,” said York, “but I am, and I’ll be here when you’re gone. I don’t aim to get on the bad side of the Federals by armin’ a bunch of Rebs.”

  “You’ll be selling to me,” Story said patiently, “and that relieves you of any responsibility.”

  “Responsibility for what?” Lot Higgins demanded. The troublesome lawman had come in unnoticed, and stood with his thumbs hooked in his pistol belt.

  “This gent’s wantin’ guns, Sheriff. He’s hirin’ Reb cowboys, and I don’t aim to be responsible for the violation of Federal law.”

  “He’s no Texan,” said Higgins, “so he’s within his rights, buyin’ whatever he’s got money t’pay for. Anyhow, when did you git so almighty law-abidin’? I hear it was you that sold Colts an’ rifles to Wes Hardin an’ that bunch he rides with, an’ by God, one of them’s a cutthroat Comanche.”

  “I was within my rights,” York protested. “They didn’t fight against the Union.”

  “Neither did I,” said Story, “and I’m not a Texan. Besides, me and my riders will be leaving Texas once we’ve gathered a herd. Now I need two dozen Colt revolvers and an equal number of rifles, if you have them.” The sparks in Story’s eyes belied the gentleness of his words.

  “All right,” York said weakly, “I have the Colts.”

  “You got in eight cases of them new Winchester repeaters jist last week,” said Higgins. “As picky and law-abidin’ as you are, you can’t of sold ’em all.”

  “I have them,” York said uncomfortably, glaring at Higgins.

  “Two dozen Winchester repeaters, then,” said Story, “with five thousand rounds of ammunition. Similar amount of ammunition for the Colts too.”

  Higgins hung around, watching Story and Coon Tails carry the wooden cases of Winchesters out to the wagon. The ammunition was next, and when they were ready for the Colts, Story turned to York.

  “I don’t suppose you’d be generous enough to include a holster with each Colt, would you?” Story asked.

  “No,” said York, “I wouldn’t. Not even if I had them.”

  “Hell,” Coon Tails said, “we’ll skin a cow, tan the hide, an’ make our own. Let’s git outta here. I purely don’t like the smell o’ this place.”

  Lot Higgins laughed, watching them go.

  “I doubt we’ll be welcome in there after this,” Story said, laughing, “but we have the guns we need.”

  “I never reckoned that big-mouth Lot Higgins would do nothin’ t’ help us,” said Coon Tails. “Why you reckon he spoke up fer us?”

  “He didn’t,” Story said. “He was mostly hoorawing York, and using us to do it. Whether he intended to or not, he did us a good turn. I’d like to build a herd and leave Texas without ever coming back to this town. I’m a tolerant man, but I’ve had about enough of this Federal domination of Texas.”

  As Story and Coon Tails drove back to their camp on the Brazos, the clouds shifted, allowing the sun to peep through.

  “Look up yonder,” said Coon Tails. “What’n hell is that?”

  “The sun does shine in Texas,” Story said, laughing, “but I wouldn’t get too excited. Those thunderheads back yonder to the west are a sure sign of more rain, and I look for it by morning.”

  There was jubilation among the outfit when Story and Coon Tails drove into the canyon. Story reined up the team, positioning the wagon beneath the overhang that secured their camp.

  “Drop me the end of a pair of ropes,” Story said. “We have some crated Winchesters, Colts, and ammunition. Get ready to hoist it up.”

  Story and Coon Tails sent the Winchesters up first, securing one end of a rope to each end of the crates. When the Colts and all the ammunition had been hauled up, Story and Coon Tails returned the wagon to its place of concealment among the willows and loosed the mules to graze. By the time they reached the camp under the overhang, the riders had broken open the wooden cases and were into the new Winchesters.

  “My God,” said Cal, “they’re beauties.”

  “They’re supposed to replace the Henry,” Story said. “Brand new, and they’ll shoot seventeen times. I want each of you to have one, as well as a Colt revolver. We’re lacking holsters and pistol belts, though.”

  “We don’ be lackin’ for long,” said Oscar Fentress. “Gimme some good leather, some tools, an’ some idee of what you wants. I makes anything from belts an’ holsters to leather shirts an’ britches. I make pistol belts an’ holsters fer ever’body what wants ’em.”

  “We can use some fresh beef,” Story said. “We’ll kill a cow and tan the hide. Tomorrow, six of us will ride south on a week-long cow hunt. We now have enough cows to stir up some temptation. Coon Tails, I want you, Shanghai, Smokey, and Oscar to remain here, guarding the camp and the herd. Shanghai, I’m leaving you in charge of the stock, and Coon Tails, you’re in charge of the camp. Shanghai—Shadley and Withers may ride in with a few head of stock before I return. I’ll leave you some money to pay them. If Wes Hardin and his bunch drives in some cows, pay them as well, but only if you get a bill of sale.”

  “Comprender,” said Shanghai. “No bill of sale from Shadley and Withers?”

  “No,” Story said. “They’re already part of the outfit. I have reasons for wanting a bill of sale from Hardin and his riders.”

  “I been hearin’ talk,” said Shanghai, “so I respect them reasons.”

  February 6, 1866. On the Brazos, north of Waco.

  Story’s prophecy proved itself, and when they arose before first light, they could hear the scream of the wind and the sound of rain pounding the eastern rim of the canyon.

  “Good day for ridin’,” said Cal. “In Texas, the only other choice you got is havin’ the sun bake your brains and burn you the color of an old saddle.”

  “I was bawn the color of a old saddle,” Oscar said. “I go downhill fum there.”

  “Cal, you’ll ride with me,” Story said. “Hitch will ride with Bill, and Arch will ride with Tom. We’ll return here no later than a week from today. Remember, you’re only asking for commitments. We’ll pay for the cows when we go after them, or when the ranchers deliver them to us, and in either case that will be sometime after February twelfth. Whether or not you’re out for the week depends on circumstances. We’ll fan out, like we did the first time, but we’ll swap directions. Cal and me will ride south, toward Waco. Hitch and Bill will ride west, while Arch and Tom ride east. Avoid trouble if you can. Especially gun trouble. Now let’s ride.”

  Cal and Story followed the Brazos, riding wide of the area where they believed Wes Hardin and his riders had established their cow camp. If the hard-bitten young riders chose to join Story’s outfit, he intended for it to be their decision. The last thing he wished to have them believe was that he was pursuing them. Once they were well on the way, Story told Cal of his meeting with Lorna Flagg. He mentioned none of the violence surrounding their meeting, conveying only the message the girl had sent. They rode in silence for a while. It was Cal’s turn to speak, if he chose to. When he did, it came as a question.

  “Mr. Story, what do you think I should do? About Lorna.”

  “I don’t know, Cal. That’s a decision only you can make, and I doubt you’ll be able to make it by avoiding Lorna. I think you should ride in and talk to her, find out what she wants.”

  “Hell, I know what she wa
nts. She wants me.”

  “She’s a pretty girl,” Story said. “She could drop a loop on any cowboy from the Rio Grande to the Yellowstone. Can you honestly say you don’t want her?”

  “No, sir,” Cal said, “if things was different. Before I come back from the war, Lorna’s mama left. Went back East, and that’s the last anybody’s seen of her. Old Amos Flagg branded her a fast woman, a whore, and by the time I got back to Texas, he was treatin’ Lorna the same way. He’s a powerful man in this town, always suckin’ up to the Reconstructionists, and he’s down on everybody and everything that was part of the Confederacy. Suppose—and I’m just supposin’—I tried to make a go of it with Lorna, how far do you reckon I’d get? I got no money, no stake, and Amos Flagg hatin’ the very ground I walk on.”

  “So for Lorna’s sake, you’re avoiding her.”

  “What choice have I had?” said Cal bitterly. “Was I to be seen with her, old man Flagg would give her hell at home, and he’d figger some new way of gettin’ at me.”

  “From what I’ve seen and heard, he’s giving her hell already,” Story said. “Lorna told me she’ll be eighteen in two more months, and she’ll be leaving. You’ll be leaving Texas too, and she wants to talk to you before you go. If the two of you moved farther west, to the high plains, would that help?”

  “Just gettin’ out of a town dominated by Amos Flagg would help, if I was sure that wasn’t her only reason for goin’. How do I know Lorna ain’t takin’ a leaf from her mama’s book, just lookin’ for a way out? Hell, she’d foller a sheepman just to get away from her iron-fisted old daddy, and I’d not blame her.”

  “I think she’s pretty enough, woman enough, to have any man she wants,” said Story. “When we return to camp, why don’t you ride in and talk to her?”

  “And tell her what? That she’s welcome to give up a roof over her head, decent grub, and fine clothes? For months on the trail with cussing, bitching cowboys, a chance to drown during a river crossing or stampede, or scalping and mutilation by hostile Indians?”