The Green River Trail Page 7

  “Seventy-five of the varmints,” said Kirby Lowe, “and at least two-thirds of them are wearin’ Becky’s brand. If the natural increase continues to be that good, we may come out of here with a right smart of a herd.”

  “It’s lookin’ better than I expected,” Lonnie said. “Now we need to decide who’s on the first watch. The first watch will have to ride in, eat, and then return here, so the second watch can ride in, eat, get a little sleep, and take over at midnight. Any volunteers for the first watch?”

  “I’ll take it,” said Kirby Lowe.

  “So will I,” Dirk McNelly said.

  “Count me in,” said Gus Wilder.

  “I’ll stay,” Waco Talley said.

  “I’m stayin’ too,” said Sandy Orr.

  “All of you ride in for supper,” Lonnie said. “Then you’ll ride back, allowing the rest of us to ride in, eat, and get a little sleep. When we relieve you at midnight, you’ll ride in, catch some sleep, have your breakfast, and then relieve the second watch, so we can go eat. Since there have been rustlers working this range, don’t take any chances. Nobody except us has any business out here. If some varmint comes sneaking around and won’t identify himself, then don’t be afraid to shoot.”

  4

  On the Range. July 7, 1853.

  The third day on Becky’s range, the riders gathered more than three hundred cows, many of them unbranded, a result of natural increase.

  “With rustlers at work,” Dallas said, “I can’t understand why there’s so many without brands. Thieves ought to take them first.”

  “Maybe they’re bein’ driven across the border,” said Waco. “Mejicanos don’t care how many Texas brands a critter’s wearing, just like Texans don’t care a damn about brands on Mex cows and horses.”

  “Rustling can get you the rope in Texas,” Sandy Orr said. “It just don’t seem natural for a gent to risk gettin’ his neck stretched over a cow worth three dollars.”

  “There may be just one man involved,” said Lonnie. “He couldn’t drive more than a few cows at a time. That might explain why there are so many still here.”

  “Most folks in these parts won’t know we’re here gathering cows,” Benjamin Raines said. “The varmint that’s taking the cows might show up some night.”

  “I hope he does,” said Dallas.

  On the Range. July 9, 1853.

  By Saturday, the outfit had gathered 2,025 longhorns, almost half of which bore no brands. Some of the animals were bulls.

  “We’ve hit the jackpot,” Lonnie said. “We need only two thousand more cows to complete our herd. I think we’d better leave these where they are for next few days. Pa will need all his graze.”

  “Don’t forget,” said Kirby. “Laura and me’s gettin’ hitched come Monday. If all of you are there, who’s gonna be watching the herd?”

  “It’ll be in the daytime,” Lonnie said, “and I think this varmint does his rustling in the dark. I think we can all leave the herd long enough to watch you get fitted for a double harness. We’ll go with the usual watches tonight and tomorrow night. Monday, we’ll have to move the herd anyway. They’ll need new graze.”

  Saturday night—well after midnight—the five riders on the second watch hunkered down under the shadow of an oak. There was Lonnie Kilgore, Dallas Weaver, Benjamin Raines, Elliot Graves, and Justin Irwin. Suddenly one of their horses nickered, and all five men were on their feet, Colts in their hands. Afoot, they started around the herd toward some distant brush. The horse nickered again, and in the pale starlight, Lonnie raised his hand and issued a command.

  “Whoever you are, come out of there with your hands in the air. Otherwise, we’ll salt down that thicket with lead.”

  “Don’t shoot,” a nervous voice said. “I’m coming.”

  The man who emerged had his hands in the air, and even in the starlight, the riders could see the frightened face of Jess Odens.

  “You’re a good ways off your range, Jess,” Lonnie said. “Why?”

  “No law agin a man ridin’ across somebody else’s range,” said Odens.

  “There is, if he aims to take another man’s cows home with him,” Lonnie said.

  “I ain’t never took a cow that was branded,” said Odens. “A maverick’s as much mine as anybody’s.”

  “Not if it’s part of a natural increase on another man’s range,” Lonnie said.

  “You ain’t got nothin’ on me,” shouted Odens.

  “Dallas,” said Lonnie, “find his horse, and if he has saddlebags, check them out.”

  “Damn you,” Odens snarled, “you got no right.”

  “We have every right,” said Lonnie.

  “There was some interesting stuff in his saddlebags,” Dallas said when he returned. “A pair of running irons.”

  “Hell,” said Odens, “them ain’t nothin’ but cinch rings. You can’t prove they ever been used for anything else.”

  “The hell we can’t,” Dallas said. “They’re blackened. They’ve been in a branding fire.”

  “I think we all know what this old coyote’s been up to and why he’s here tonight,” said Lonnie. “Gus, tie his hands behind him. Waco, get your lariat and fashion us a good, strong noose.”

  “No,” Odens bawled. “I ain’t done nothing.”

  “Dallas, fetch his horse,” said Lonnie.

  Dallas brought the horse. With the help of Gus Wilder, Lonnie hoisted the frightened Odens into the saddle. Waco had the noose ready, and standing up in his stirrups, he let it fall over Odens’s head.

  “Let me go,” Odens begged, “and you’ll never see me again. I … I’ll ride away.”

  “Lonnie,” said Dallas, “come here.”

  Lonnie joined his comrade, and Dallas spoke softly so nobody else could hear.

  “Lonnie, I know he’s a thieving, no-account old coyote, but he’s still Mindy’s pa. For her sake, I’m askin’ you not to do this.”

  Lonnie said nothing, and from the grim set of his jaw, Dallas didn’t think he was going to speak. When he finally did, it was to Odens.

  “Odens, you’re going to get more of a break than you deserve, because you’re Mindy’s pa, but that won’t work the next time. I aim to see to it that everybody within a hundred miles of San Antone knows you’re a damn thief. Waco, take off the noose. Dallas, free his hands.”

  Odens was openly weeping, and some of the cowboys turned away, refusing to witness such cowardice. Lonnie slapped Odens’s horse on the flank, and it galloped away into the darkness;

  Benjamin Raines laughed. “We really didn’t have enough evidence to string him up.”

  “No,” Lonnie said, “but I think we put the fear of God into him, which was exactly what I aimed to do.”

  “I’m obliged,” said Dallas. “I reckon he’ll come to a bad end, but for Mindy’s sake, I don’t want to be involved in it.”

  “We really ought to spread the word among the other ranchers,” Elliot Graves said. “After we’re gone, if Odens falls back on his thieving ways, everybody he steals from will have a chance to track down the old varmint.”

  “I aim for the county sheriff to know what we suspect,” said Lonnie. “I feel guilty, us lettin’ the old devil loose, because I think once a thief, always a thief. He may straighten up until we head out for Utah Territory and then revert to his old ways.”

  “Then somebody else can shoot or hang him,” Dallas said. “I reckon Mindy knows what he is, but I’d be obliged if none of you gents say anything about us findin’ him out here tonight. He’s hurt her enough.”

  “I won’t talk about it until I have to,” said Lonnie.

  “Neither will I,” Benjamin Raines said.

  “I’ll be quiet,” said Elliot Graves.

  “So will I,” Justin Irwin said.

  On the Range. July 10, 1853.

  Sunday was quiet, and except for watching the gathered herd, the outfit took the day off. With Gus Wilder, Waco Talley, Sandy Orr, Benjamin Raines, Elliot Graves, and J
ustin Irwin knowing the Holt range, the gather had been done swiftly and well.

  “I wouldn’t have dreamed there were that many cows,” said Becky during supper.

  “Well, I’m glad we didn’t find them all before you and me tied the knot,” Lonnie said. “I don’t reckon I’d like to have you think I was marrying you for your cows.”

  “If you did, you got a better deal than Dallas did,” said Mindy. “I don’t have a horse, and unless I can come up with some clothes, I’ll be stark naked before we get to Utah.”

  The men laughed, but it quickly faded, for the women all looked dead serious.

  “I reckon we’ll have to do some buying,” Lonnie said, “but not too much. With just three pack mules, we won’t have much room for anything but grub. Then when we arrive, we’ll likely have to survive the whole winter on what we take with us.”

  “I don’t think you can take that much grub on three mules,” said Willard Kilgore. “Not if you plan to eat during the drive. Am I free to suggest something?”

  “I wish you would,” Lonnie said. “You’ve just given us something else to worry about during the drive.”

  “Sorry,” said Willard, “but you must face facts. You have three mules. Why don’t you find one more and take a wagon? Fit one with a new canvas top, and fill it with food.”*

  “That’s an almighty good idea,” Dallas said, “except that we aimed to travel to Laramie and from there along the Oregon Trail a ways. That’ll take us across South Pass, and it’s pure hell on wagons.”

  “Maybe it’s a better idea than we think,” said Lonnie. “Instead of going to Laramie and following the Oregon Trail, suppose we blaze our own trail? We could travel across New Mexico Territory and southern Colorado Territory, entering Green River range from the east, instead of the north.”

  “It’ll be a lot easier, cooking from a wagon than from pack mules,” Gus Wilder said.

  “You shouldn’t have any trouble finding a wagon for sale,” said Mary Kilgore.

  “Whoa,” Lonnie said. “Before we make too many plans for a wagon, let’s see if we’re all in agreement. Remember, we’ll need a fourth mule. Anybody against the idea of using a wagon instead of pack mules?”

  Nobody disagreed.

  “That’s settled, then,” said Lonnie. “Now, who can drive a four-mule hitch?”

  “We all can, and you know it,” Dirk McNelly said. “I reckon what you’re asking is who wants to drive one.”

  “I reckon I am,” said Lonnie.

  “I can handle a four-mule hitch,” Becky Holt said.

  “So can I,” said Mindy. “Why don’t we take turns in the wagon, leaving the riders free to trail the herd?”

  “That would end the need for an extra horse,” Becky said. “When I’m with the wagon, she can ride my horse.”

  “Then we’d better get busy tracking down a fourth mule,” said Dallas.

  “I hate to pour cold water on anybody’s cook fire,” Benjamin Raines said, “but there’s something we ain’t talked about, and it’s bothering me.”

  “Then let’s talk about it,” said Lonnie.

  “I was up to Fort Laramie once,” Raines said, “and it was early October. I was ready to ride south when it started snowing. The damnedest snowstorm I ever saw, and the wind was so cold, it burned your face. The temperature dropped fifty degrees, just in a matter of hours. I was holed up at Laramie a week before my horse could travel. Now we aim to go into this High Plains country, and by the time we leave here, I don’t look for us to have more than two months before snow flies. I figure we’ll be well into October just getting there, and as much as I favor taking a wagonload of grub, the wagon will slow us down. You can drive a cow just about anywhere, but not a wagon. That means we’ll have to drive the herd along a trail that will allow the wagon and mules to follow.”

  “You should have thought of that before we decided to take a wagon,” said Lonnie.

  “It’s no more his fault than the fault of any of the rest of us,” Dallas said. “We’ve all been so caught up in the drive, we’ve overlooked the obvious. What Ben’s said is entirely possible, and I reckon we’d better begin thinking about what we aim to do.”

  “We could wait until spring,” said Dirk McNelly.

  “I thought the same thing,” Lonnie replied. “But remember what Bridger told us about those Mormons about to move in on his trading post? Suppose we wait until spring and then discover that they have settled on our range along Green River?”

  “Why, they can’t do that,” said Kirby Lowe. “We’ll have title to it.”

  “The hell they can’t,” Lonnie said. “Possession has always been nine-tenths of the law, and there may be hundreds of them, compared to the few of us. We can’t wait for spring. Whatever it takes, we must get to Green River and get dug in before too many know we’re coming.”

  “Dear Lord,” said Mary Kilgore, “I can’t believe you’ll have to fight for range after you’ve bought and paid for it. Is there no law?”

  “No nearer than Oregon or California to the west, and Fort Laramie to the east,” Lonnie said. “The Mormons went to Utah to escape the government’s bothering them, and I think the government considers it good riddance. Utah may never become a state. We’ll be strictly on our own, I think.”

  It was a sobering thought, and for a while, nobody spoke.

  “We can take some extra canvas with us,” suggested Waco. “Then if we’re caught out in the open, we can set up some windbreaks. Besides, if we’re blazing our own trail, we might find some arroyos deep enough for shelter.”

  “Good thinking, Waco,” Lonnie said. “We’re going to have to begin thinking of ways we can make it, instead of dwelling on reasons why we can’t.”

  “That’s exactly right,” said Willard Kilgore, “and the sooner you get started, the better will be your chance that you’ll reach your range before the snow comes. I think tomorrow you should split up, some of you buying more cows, one or two buying a wagon with some extra canvas, and some of you looking for that fourth mule.”

  “Damn,” Kirby Lowe said, “what about Laura and me? We’re gettin’ married.”

  “Preacher Henderson’s supposed to be here in the morning,” said Lonnie. “It won’t take five minutes for him to read from the book. You can nuzzle up to Laura after we’ve got this drive ready for the trail. Tomorrow, right after the vows, all of us will get busy, like Pa suggested.”

  “Remember,” Dirk said, “I have somewhere to go in the morning, before the preacher reads from the book.”

  “Then get an early start,” said Lonnie. “Time is short.”

  The Kilgore Ranch. July 11, 1853.

  Preacher Henderson did indeed arrive early. Dirk had not returned, having been gone a little more than an hour. Laura Upton was already there, with her parents, Neal and Elene.

  “We’re waiting for Dirk,” Lonnie said. “I don’t know what he had to do that was so all-fired important, but he insisted on being here for the marrying.”

  “He’d better come on,” said Dallas. “On top of everything else, we have to move those cows to better graze.”

  Meanwhile, Dirk had arrived at the stream where he and April had always met, and found her waiting there. Her second horse bore a neatly tied canvas-wrapped pack.

  “I reckon this is it,” Dirk said. “Do you still aim to go through with it?”

  “Yes,” said April.

  Dirk nodded, and when he led out, April followed.

  At the Kilgore ranch, everybody was on edge, especially Kirby Lowe. He was roundly cursing Dirk McNelly when Lonnie spoke.

  “Dust over yonder. Somebody’s coming.”

  “Two riders,” Dallas observed. “One of ’em’s Dirk, but who’s the other?”

  “A woman,” said Mindy.

  “She’s right,” Kirby Lowe said. “Has old Dirk been pulling the wool over our eyes?”

  “We’ll soon know,” said Lonnie.

  The two riders reined up. Dirk dismoun
ted first and helped April down. Only then did he speak, and he was brief and to the point.

  “Folks, this is April Tilden. We aim to get hitched along with Kirby and Laura. I’ll let them of you that don’t know her introduce yourselves.”

  “We know April very well,” said Mary Kilgore, “but this comes as a total surprise. This is a time for a family to be together, April. Where’s Chad and Edith, your folks?”

  “At home, I suppose,” April replied, her eyes on the toes of her dusty boots.

  “April’s of age, and she’s doing this on her own,” said Dirk. “Before we rode west to California, her Pa called me a thirty-dollar-a-month line rider, and told me to make myself scarce. I don’t think he’d settle for anything less than seeing me strung up or gut-shot.”

  “We did the only thing we could do,” April said defiantly.

  “Things have changed considerably,” said Willard Kilgore. “Dirk’s no longer a bacon-and-beans, thirty-dollar cowboy. He’ll own a ranch, and the cattle to stock it. I predict that Chad and Edith Tilden will change their minds about a lot of things.”

  “Maybe,” Dirk said, “but April and me don’t aim to gamble on it.”

  April nodded. Her eyes were dry, and there was a grim set to her jaw.

  “Then let us get on with the ceremony,” said Preacher Henderson.

  The ceremony was short, and at its conclusion, Lonnie Kilgore spoke.

  “We have many things to attend to. April, you and Laura are to remain here. We’ll all be staying here until we begin the trail drive.”

  “Come on, April, and let’s all sit on the porch,” Mindy said. “We likely won’t see them until after dark.”

  Lonnie and his outfit mounted and rode out, leaving Willard and Mary Kilgore alone.

  “I know April’s of age,” said Mary, “but I’m worried.”

  “About what?” Willard asked.

  “That Chad Tilden may come looking for April. With a gun,” said Mary.

  “Legally, he can’t do anything,” Willard said. “If he shows up, I’ll talk some sense into him. Don’t mention Chad around April.”