The Dodge City Trail Page 9

  “You been right at every turn in the trail,” Aubin Chambers said. “Tell us what you got in mind, and if any man don’t like it, let him come up with somethin’ better. Do any of you disagree with that?”

  “All right,” Dan said when they remained silent, “here’s what I think we should do once Chato and his men get here. During daylight hours, while all our riders are roping cattle, Chato and his riders will conceal themselves unless they’re needed. They’ll virtually surround the area, protecting our camp and the cattle we’ve gathered and branded. At night we’ll continue our two watches, but we’ll ride closer to camp. Chato and his men will ride an outer perimeter, with orders to cut down anybody trying to infiltrate their line. In other words, that’s all Chato and his riders will have to do, day or night. They’ll take Ledoux’s surprise attack and turn it around. Now if that rubs anybody’s hide the wrong way, you’re welcome to come up with somethin’ better.”

  “I like it,” Wolf Bowdre said, “but it’s purely defensive. How much are we goin’ to take before we hit Ledoux with a dose of his own medicine?”

  “We’re going to avoid any attacks on Ledoux,” Dan said, “because that would give him a perfect excuse to send the soldiers after us. As long as he’s attacking us, he’s abusing his position and we’re defending ourselves. He can’t legally accuse us of rustling, because we’re gathering only unbranded cows. Even a rustling charge won’t justify bringing in Union soldiers. No, we’ll defend ourselves, but we won’t go looking for a fight. Now that can change, once we’re out of Texas, where scalawags such as Ledoux don’t own the law, but until then we can only defend ourselves. I hope all of you can see my reason for doing no more than that.”

  “I can see it,” Silas said. “Even with Chato and his men, we can’t fight the soldiers, but by God, we can make believers of Ledoux’s night-ridin’ killers.”

  “I’m satisfied,” Aubin Chambers said, “as long as there are no more surprise attacks. This is what we should have done right from the start, and I’m sorry I opposed it.”

  “If there are no objections,” Dan said, “this is what we’ll ask of Chato and his riders.”

  The moon had set, and Dan judged it to be no more than an hour from first light when another rider from the second watch approached him. It was Palo.

  “Chato and his men are here,” he said softly. “I will ride and meet them.”

  Dan said nothing, and Palo was soon lost in the predawn darkness. Dan had heard nothing, and he wondered what Palo heard to alert him to the presence of the Mexican renegades.

  “What would you have us do, senor?” inquired a voice from the shadows.

  “Chato,” Dan said, “let me tell you what’s happened so far and what we are up against.”

  As briefly as he could, Dan told the Mexican of their race with time in the branding of cattle for the trail drive, of the sneak attack of the Ledoux riders, and of his plan to see that it didn’t happen again.

  “When these killer gringos come, we fight,” Chato said.

  “That’s it,” Dan said. “We don’t go looking for them, but if they come after us, gun them down.”

  “Si,” Chato said. “You will not see or hear us, senor, unless we are needed.”

  With that, he was gone. Palo laughed, and then he spoke quietly.

  “One can almost feel sorry for the Senor Ledoux’s men,” he said. “Chato and his companeros be Mejicano Indios. The cuchillo kills in silence.”

  Dan and his outfit soon learned that Chato’s words had been no idle boast. The Texans saw nothing of the Indian renegades, not even during daylight hours.

  “It’s hard to believe they’re here,” Adeline said. “We’ve seen no smoke, no horses, nothing.”

  “Believe me, they’re here,” Dan said, “and from what Palo tells me, they don’t always depend on guns. They carry Bowie knives and kill silently.”

  “Dear God,” Adeline said, “that’s terrible.”

  “No more terrible than Ledoux’s bunch pouring lead into our camp in the dead of night and killing Alesia Chambers,” Dan replied. “If they try it again, I want Chato and his boys to put the fear of God into them.”

  Uvalde, Texas. Friday, May 6, 1870.

  Burton Ledoux was meeting with Campbell and Vance, two of his most trusted men.

  “I want the two of you to pick eight riders,” Ledoux said, “and sometime tonight, visit that cow gather again. Take some more dynamite with you, and while you’re stampeding the herd, have the others blast hell out of the camp.”

  “That’s a lowdown, dirty way to fight,” Campbell said.

  “By God,” Ledoux snarled, “I’m not paying you to like it, I’m paying you to do it. Anytime you don’t favor my methods, you can be replaced.”

  “I ain’t sayin’ I don’t favor ‘em,” Campbell said hastily.

  “Then keep your mouth shut and do what I tell you,” Ledoux said, easing his hand away from the butt of his Colt.

  Less than an hour before sundown the ten men saddled up and rode south. Having plenty of time, they spared their horses, and Vance passed along the orders given by Ledoux.

  “Me and Campbell will throw the dynamite,” Vance said, “and when it lets go, the rest of you cut loose with your guns. Three volleys should be enough. By then they’ll be shootin’ at your muzzle flashes.”

  The wind was out of the northwest, and the ten riders smelled smoke from the supper fire long before they were anywhere close to the camp they sought. Vance and Campbell reined up, and Vance spoke to the rest of the men.

  “We’ll wait awhile. Give them that ain’t on watch time to settle down in their blankets. We’ll picket the horses and get some shut-eye ourselves.”

  An hour shy of midnight, Vance gave the order to mount up, and the ten rode out toward the east. Eventually Vance and Campbell angled off to the north, while their companions rode southeast with the intention of circling the sleeping camp. Somewhere ahead a cow bawled, and Vance reached for a match to light the dynamite fuse. Suddenly he froze. He had heard something, like a long sigh, and then there was silence.

  “Campbell,” he hissed, “where’n hell are you?”

  Those were his last words. A burly arm caught him around the neck, and the muzzle of a Colt smashed against the side of his head. A keen Bowie slit his throat, silencing him forever. His horse trotted away, leaving him belly down, bleeding his life into the Texas sand. The rest of the riders waited, impatient for the dynamite blasts that would be their signal to open fire on the sleeping camp. But the blasts didn’t come. Each of the eight riders was stalked by a silent shadow, and their awareness of the danger came much too late. Like Vance and Campbell, they died in silence, victims of the deadly Bowie. The camp slept on, except for the men on watch, and they were unaware that death had come into their midst and had departed in silence.

  It was near dawn when Palo Elfego told Dan of the riders who had planned to attack the camp during the night.

  “But we heard nothing,” Dan said.

  “Chato and his companeros use the pistola only when there is need for it,” Palo said. “Those who came last night will not come again.”

  “All of them are dead?” Dan asked incredulously.

  “Si, senor,” Palo said. “It is as you wished.”

  “Ledoux will come looking for them and their horses.”

  “He will find neither,” Palo said. “The caballos are in Mexico.”

  “And the dead men?”

  “Do not ask, senor,” Palo said.

  Dan had some reservations about revealing the night’s grisly deeds to the rest of the outfit, but knew that he must. Having hired Chato and his men, the Texans were responsible for the brutal retribution.

  “They got what they deserved,” Aubin Chambers said. “Chato and his boys done exactly what we hired ‘em to do.”

  “Amen,” Rux Carper said. “When Ledoux sends another bunch, give ‘em the same damn treatment.”

  To a man they agreed
, but Dan had his doubts. Ledoux could not—would not—ignore the disappearance often men and their horses. If nothing else, he would appeal to the Union army.

  San Antonio, Texas. Monday, May 9, 1870.

  Burton Ledoux waited impatiently in the outer office until the commanding officer, Captain Dillard, agreed to see him. Ledoux then presented his problem, telling the captain of his missing men and asking for help.

  “Ledoux,” the officer said impatiently, “this post is already undermanned. Yesterday, the Comanches attacked a patrol and two men were killed. I am in no position to send soldiers in search of cowboys who simply rode away and never returned. With continual trouble along the border, they should have kept away from it. What was their business there, anyhow?”

  “There are ranchers in the area,” Ledoux said, “and we’re having trouble collecting taxes—”

  “Good God,” Captain Dillard shouted, “with the Comanches raising hell, and all of Texas short on soldiers and supplies, you expect the army to collect taxes? Get out of here, Ledoux. Get out.”

  Ledoux left Captain Dillard’s office in a fury. He would hire more men, men who wouldn’t ride away and leave him looking foolish. He went directly to the Broken Spoke Saloon, where he found Snell and Epps, an unsavory pair whose services he had bought before.

  “I have a job for you,” he told them. “I want you to hire eight more men. Fighting men. I’ll pay fifty dollars to each of them, and a hundred dollars to each of you. Now here’s what I want you to do … ”

  The outfit didn’t finish Sloan Kuykendall’s gather until the following Sunday, thanks to the stampede and the two days lost gathering the scattered longhorns. On Monday they branded a thousand and fifteen head, and at first light the next morning they moved on to Boyce Trevino’s spread. Wolf Bowdre rode alongside Dan, and they talked.

  “You know,” Bowdre said, “since we can’t come back to Texas, I’ve been thinking about claiming me some land in Kansas, or maybe the high plains, and startin’ me a ranch. I could sell off half the herd at Dodge City, keepin’ some cows and a bull or two.”

  “I think we should all consider that,” Dan said. “If we don’t, what are we going to do once we’ve sold our cows? A man needs roots, someplace to call home, and we’ve lost that in Texas.”

  “You reckon we’ve hurt Ledoux enough to keep him off our backs?”

  “No,” Dan said, “but I don’t think he’ll be able to drag the Union army into his fight. All he can claim is that ten of his men vanished without a trace. There are no bodies, and most important, no horses. He can’t prove we’ve harmed them in any way, thanks to Chato. But he can hire more men. There are renegades aplenty, Confederate and Union. While Ledoux can’t prove anything, he’ll know we’re responsible for the disappearance of his men, and he won’t let any grass grow under his feet. I look for Chato and his boys to have more visitors one night this week.”

  Maverick County, Texas. Thursday, May 12, 1870.

  Following the directions given them by Burton Ledoux, Snell, Epps, and their eight hired guns had no trouble locating Dan Ember and his outfit. It was near sundown, and the attackers had concealed themselves among the mesquite a safe distance from the gathered herd. Beyond it they could see the white of canvas shelters and the smoke from supper fires.

  “Damnation,” said one of the men, “they got enough people to start up a town.”

  “Just get some idea of how they’re spread out and where the cows are,” Epps said. “Once they’re settled down for the night, we’re to pour lead into the camp and scatter the cows from here to yonder. They’ll have nighthawks, but we’ll take ‘em by surprise. We’ll stay out of range of their pistols, and by the time they unlimber their rifles, we’ll be gone.”

  But it didn’t quite work out that way. The attackers waited until the stars said it was midnight, and then made their move. Approaching the camp, they split up, and it was their undoing. Chato and his companeros were swift, silent, deadly. Each furtive rider was swept from his saddle, knifed, and left to die. Chato and his men caught each horse before it became spooked and galloped away. With the dawn, only brown patches of dried blood would remain, swiftly vanishing evidence that death had come calling in the night.

  The riders were saddling up for the next day’s gather when Palo approached Dan with news of the past night’s attackers and their grisly end. Palo held up both hands, the fingers spread. He then passed a finger across his throat.

  “They come,” he said, “and they die.”

  Dan didn’t even bother inquiring about the bodies or the horses. After the day’s gather was done, when supper was over, he told the rest of the outfit of the latest attempted raid. This time they seemed more shocked.

  “My God,” Monte Walsh said, “how long’s he gonna keep sendin’ men after us, and havin’ none of ‘em come back?”

  “I doubt there’ll be any more,” Dan said. “Not at night, anyway. I won’t be surprised if we’re visited by Mr. Ledoux himself, in daylight.”

  “What do you reckon that’ll mean?” Tobe Barnfield asked.

  “Two things,” Dan said. “First, he hasn’t been able to drag the army into his fight against us, and second, he’ll be hopin’ to discover how his killers keep disappearing without a trace. With that in mind, Palo, I have a message for Chato. Tell him if one, two, or three riders approach the camp in the daylight, to let them come. Chato and his companeros are to remain under cover. We’re not ready for Ledoux to discover them, and they’re far more useful to us against surprise attacks at night.”

  Maverick County, Texas. Monday, May 16, 1870.

  “Rider comin’,” Ward McNelly shouted.

  It was suppertime, and the gather was finished for the day. Dan Ember turned to Wolf Bowdre. Bowdre would speak for the outfit, lest Dan be recognized. The single rider was Burton Ledoux, and Bowdre stepped out to meet him. He waited, offering no greeting, and didn’t ask Ledoux to step down. Ledoux reined up and came right to the point.

  “Some of my men rode down this way,” Ledoux said, “and I haven’t seen them since. Have any of you seen them?”

  “No,” Bowdre said truthfully, “we haven’t. The last contact we had with your men, they shot up our camp in the middle of the night and stampeded our herd. Aubin Chambers’s daughter was killed and some of our people were wounded.”

  “You have no proof my men did that,” Ledoux said indignantly.

  “Nobody else had any reason to,” Bowdre replied. “Now get the hell out of here. You’re not welcome.”

  Ledoux wheeled his horse and rode out.

  “I got a feeling we ain’t seen the last of him,” Rufe Keeler said.

  “But what can he do?” Kirby Wilkerson asked.

  “I don’t know,” Dan said, “but he’ll think of something.”

  7

  Furious, Burton Ledoux rode back to San Antonio. He visited one saloon after another, talking to hard-eyed men who were drifters or on the dodge. Wherever he went, he was eyed with suspicion, and he soon learned the reason.

  “I know Epps an’ Snell,” a bearded man told him, “an’ last time I seen ‘em, they was lookin’ for gun throwers to ride for you. It was a one night job, an’ they was comin’ back here. It’s been near a week, and I ain’t seen ‘em. The pay’s short an’ the job’s damn permanent. Git away from me, Ledoux.”

  Ledoux stalked out of the saloon, at a loss as to where to turn. He had two men at the cabin near Uvalde, but of what use were they? Something had gone wrong, and he had no idea what the problem was or what he had to do to solve it. He bought a bottle at a saloon, took a room in a hotel, and got stinking drunk.

  Following Ledoux’s visit, the outfit settled down to roping cattle, and managed to finish Boyce Trevino’s gather a day early.

  “Accordin’ to my figures,” Silas said, “today’s May twenty-second. We got three gathers done, and we’re four days behind. That’s figurin’ five days for the gather and a day for the brandin’.”
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br />   “We’ll work like hell,” Skull Kimbrough said, “and finish early on some of them gathers yet to be done. This damn wound kept me laid up, but I can ride and rope now.”

  “Skull not be with us,” Palo Elfego said dryly. “That why we lose time.”

  On Monday, May 23, the outfit began Ward McNelly’s gather, and by the end of the first day, Dan tallied 251 head.

  “We’ll gain another day here,” Wolf Bowdre said. His gather would be next.

  San Antonio, Texas. May 23, 1870.

  Burton Ledoux awoke with a hangover for which there was but one sure cure. The Texas Saloon was the nearest to his hotel, and that’s where he headed. He bought a bottle, was given a glass, and made his way to a table. It was nearly noon and the place was virtually deserted, for those who had more civilized places to be were absent. Ledoux downed one drink and was contemplating a second. He had ignored several men at the bar. Now one of them took his glass and sauntered toward Ledoux’s table. He kicked back a chair, sat down, and poured himself a drink from Ledoux’s bottle. Ledoux glared at him through bleary eyes.

  “Who the hell are you,” he snarled, “and what do you want?”

  “Per’ap some talk,” said the arrogant newcomer. He was Mexican, although he was dressed more like a Texan.

  “Then talk,” Ledoux snarled.

  “You are the Senor Ledoux?” the Mexican inquired.

  “I am,” Ledoux said.

  “I am Santos Miguel Montoya. I ’ave hear of you and your troubles, senor. Ah, but you are ambitious. Or per’ap I should say greedy.”

  “How the hell do you know so much about me?” Ledoux growled, becoming alarmed.

  Montoya laughed softly, sipping his drink. “I know many things, senor. I know of the Tejanos who rope and brand the vaca for the drive north, and I know that you seek to stop them. Twice you ‘ave sent men with guns, but these men and their caballos ‘ave disappear. And now”—Montoya paused for that maddening laugh— “men fear you. To ride for the Senor Ledoux is to die.”