Buffalo Trail (21 page)

“They're not at each other's throats about North and South, Billy,” he whispered to Dixon.

“Of course not. We're all men out making our livings now. None of us give a damn about politics or who was at fault in the war. We just want to shoot buffalo.”

When the stories were told and the coffee was gone, McLendon thought that everyone would turn in. Instead, Mirkle fetched a fiddle from his wagon and began playing a sprightly tune. To McLendon's absolute astonishment, most of the grizzled hunters and crewmen jumped up to dance. Some of them formed couples and whirled arm in arm. Even Billy stood and bounced a little, though he rebuffed Bat when Masterson tried to dance with him. McLendon stood but didn't dance. He felt a bit uncomfortable.

When Mirkle stopped sawing on his fiddle, Jim Hanrahan recited a poem as the others listened. Then one of the skinners sang a mournful song about being alone on the prairie. When he was done, Hanrahan
said, “Well, I guess that's it for tonight. Some of you others will step up tomorrow.”

“What's that mean?” McLendon asked Bat.

“Rule of the hunting trail. Everybody has to take turns entertaining. That includes you, C.M. You better start thinking of an appropriate performance.”

“Hell, Bat, I don't think I know any poems, and I sure can't sing.”

“Refusal's not allowed, so come up with something. Ever'body else will.”

All around, McLendon could hear singing, and a few other fiddles. Someone was wailing on a harmonica, which the hide men called a French harp. But soon the night grew quiet. Billy posted guards—everyone would take a nightlong turn sometime on the trip south, he said—and the remaining travelers rolled up in blankets by the campfires or under the wagons. McLendon knew he wouldn't sleep, so he volunteered to join Bat on guard duty.

“What am I looking for?” he asked.

“Just any movement out of the ordinary. I don't expect any Indians. We're not that far south. If there's to be trouble, it won't come now. That's why we're wise to pull first night duty. Stay alert all the same.”

“I will.”

“That's good, because I've had a long day and not much sleep last night, what with saying good-bye to some of Dodge's finest working girls. Nudge me if you have occasion, but not otherwise.”

“But Billy said we're all supposed to stay awake.”

“Well, don't tell him, then. I'm a light sleeper and will snap to instantly, should circumstances so require.”

It seemed to McLendon that Masterson didn't take guard duty seriously enough, but Bat was asleep before he could debate the point.

•   •   •

B
Y LATE MORNING
of the second day, they reached the Cimarron River. Billy called a halt and walked up to the riverbank, staring down into the water. McLendon jumped down from Mirkle Jones's wagon and joined him.

“This is commonly called the Dead Line,” Billy said. “When we cross over, we're truly in Indian country. I notice a couple of the boys have thought about it some and are pulling their wagons around to return to Dodge. If you're of a mind to do something of that sort, now's the time. After this, you can be certain that the Co-manch and their other red brethren will be watching every move, eager to pick off anyone who strays.”

McLendon reflexively looked around. “I said I'd come work for you and be loyal. I'm not turning back.”

Billy chuckled. “You want to, though.”

“I want the money more.”

“Because of your girl. I swear, she must be delightful. Well, take a piss and eat a cracker. Getting across here won't be easy, and we'll need every available man in the water helping guide the animals.”

“It doesn't look very deep.”

“It isn't, but it's not the water itself that's the problem. The sand underneath it is soft and shifty. It can suck something down without a trace. A box of tools tips in off a wagon, we're like to never find it. Horse puts a hoof wrong, it's in up to the withers and done for if we can't pull it out. Trick is, take off your boots and keep your feet moving at all times.”

It took almost three hours. One of the cattle got stuck in the sand and couldn't be extracted. Old Man Keeler, coming along to be cook in the Myers and Leonard store, took a long knife and cut the bellowing
animal's throat. He tried to hack off some meat but was stymied by the river's soft sand bed and constant current.

“Waste of good beef,” he complained. He rinsed the blood off his knife and plodded to the far bank.

The men were still in reasonably good spirits that night, but the overall mood was subdued from the day before. Everyone gathered around campfires to eat, dance, and sing, but this time guards were posted as soon as the expedition stopped. McLendon managed to avoid having to entertain, and also tried to quiz Mirkle Jones on his ancestry.

“I don't know much about my forebears, Mr. Jones,” he said. “I was orphaned early on the streets of St. Louis and so never heard family history. But what of yourself?”

Old Man Keeler had baked huge, crusty biscuits in a Dutch oven and slathered them with honey before he passed them around the campfire. Jones had one jammed in his mouth, rendering his speech even more incomprehensible.

“Ahm fruh Loozyanna,” he said. A few wet crumbs popped free past his lips. “
Kree
-ole.” McLendon wasn't certain of the term, though he'd heard the word before. Whatever race or culture it described, he felt that he liked it, if its people were all as friendly and kind-spirited as Mirkle Jones. He bid the bulky teamster good night and rolled up in a blanket near the fire. The combination of fresh air and a long, hard day wore McLendon down sufficiently so that he slept most of the night.

•   •   •

O
N THE THIRD DAY
, they saw their first Indians. The land was broken up now by banks of hills, and suddenly Bermuda Carlyle whistled shrilly and pointed ahead toward a far-off crest. Everyone stared in the direction. Seated on the bench of Mirkle Jones's wagon, McLendon, squinting, made out the figures of three men on horseback. From such distance,
he couldn't discern many details. They leaned comfortably forward on their mounts, like hunters determining if recently sighted prey was worth pursuing. McLendon couldn't tell if they wore feathers in their hair. Both had something long and narrow in their hands—lances? Rifles? He wasn't certain. The Indians didn't try to disguise their presence. They remained stock-still as the long procession of whites passed about three-quarters of a mile east from where they watched.

“Figure a few us of should ride over there, run 'em off?” Fred Leonard asked Billy. “Arrogant bastards is what they are.”

“Nope, it wouldn't do any good,” Billy said. “Those are just the ones we can see right now. There are bound to be more in the vicinity. You've not yet spent much time out in this country, Mr. Leonard. There will always be Indians about. We need to remain vigilant so that they only watch rather than attack us.”

The sight of the Indians made McLendon so nervous that he didn't wander off with the other men to relieve himself during trail breaks. Despite the pressure from his bladder, he stayed on the wagon bench the entire day, occasionally checking his Colt Peacemaker to reassure himself that it was loaded. He doubted he could hit any Indian he shot at, but he wanted to be ready in case he had to try. That night, Billy made a point of reminding everyone that the Indians were unlikely to attack such a large, well-armed party. But McLendon noticed that Billy also assigned the most experienced hide men and crew members to guard duty. Nobody sang or otherwise entertained around the campfires. The company was on alert.

•   •   •

N
O ONE SAW OR HEARD
anything suspicious that night. The next day, Friday, they moved forward warily. Billy sent scouts ahead; they periodically reported back that there were no Indian sightings, even at a distance. Still, everyone in the wagon caravan remained tense. Even Bat
Masterson seemed anxious. During a short trail break, he passed McLendon a canteen of water and said, “We're smack in no-man's-land now.”

McLendon gulped the water. It was warm, much like the slight breeze. Everyone said the weather now was warmer than usual, in contrast to the harsh winter just concluded. But McLendon had spent time out in the high desert of Arizona Territory and knew what real molten heat was like. “What do you mean, ‘no-man's-land'?”

“We're far enough away from Dodge and any Army posts so that we're on our own. We get into something with the Indians, we'll have to fight our own way out of it.”

“You knew that all along.”

Bat took a long drink from the canteen. “What we know in town and what we feel out here are two different things. I'll be glad when we get where we're going and put up some buildings with stout walls. Billy says it'll be maybe three, four more days. And then we can— Jesus Christ, look over there.”

McLendon looked. A hundred yards to the west, on a low ridge where nothing had been just moments before, stood a half-dozen Indians. Each held a lance in one hand and the reins of a pony in the other. Most of them had bows and quivers of arrows slung over their shoulders. There was paint on their faces and bodies, yellow and blue mostly. All around him McLendon heard metallic clicks as the hide men and their crews cocked rifles.

“Stand easy but watchful,” Billy called. “Probably just some young bucks looking for a handout.”

For several long moments, the Indians and white men stood watching each other. Then, at an almost stately pace, the Indians walked toward the wagons. McLendon was mesmerized. These wild Indians were real human beings; he could see drops of sweat on their brows.

Billy, Bermuda Carlyle, Jim Hanrahan, and Fred Leonard walked out
a few paces to meet them. One of the Indians said something—to McLendon, it sounded more like guttural grunting than actual words. Billy spread his arms in a universal signal:
I don't understand.
The Indian nodded as though this was the response that he expected. He gestured toward the wagons.

“Them's Kioway,” whispered Old Man Keeler, who was standing near McLendon and Masterson. “You can tell from the hair, all cut on one side and long on t'other. Nasty pieces a work.”

Billy extended a hand toward the Indians, palm up:
Wait here.
He walked to a wagon, rummaged in the bed, and extracted some small packets of coffee and sugar. The Indians waited; McLendon could see them glancing up and down the line of wagons and riders.

“Shit, Billy, the sonsabitches are counting our guns,” a teamster hissed.

“Be glad that they are,” Billy said quietly. “Now they can pass the word among their people that we're too well armed to attack.” He went back to the Indians and gave the sacks to the one who seemed to be the leader. Then he gestured:
Go away.
With considerable dignity, the Indians turned and led their horses back toward the ridge where they had first appeared. Then they dropped the reins of their horses. For one panic-stricken moment, McLendon thought they were reaching for their bows to shoot, but instead they turned their backs, yanked down their breechclouts, and exposed their buttocks to the white audience. Then, uttering derisive shrieks, they disappeared down the far side of the ridge. Most of the expedition members couldn't help but laugh.

“Cheeky bastards,” Bat cracked, and that evoked a second round of laughter.

•   •   •

O
N THE FIFTH DAY
they reached the mouth of Palo Duro Creek. The land was harsh now; there were steep slopes instead of gentle hills, and
precipitous canyons rather than gracefully curved arroyos. Billy said that they were very near where he'd seen the sign of all the buffalo during his winter scouting expedition. “Tomorrow, Monday at the latest, we'll strike the Canadian and find ourselves just the right place to roost.” McLendon was glad to hear it. His ass ached from the hard wagon bench, and as much as he liked Mirkle Jones, the teamster from Louisiana was too hard to understand when he talked. McLendon was used to Bat Masterson's more comprehensible yammering. Still, Jones was a generous traveling companion, sharing with McLendon little snacks he had tucked away in his wagon bed. McLendon especially appreciated the gift of hard candies to suck. That was a much better-tasting way to alleviate thirst than gulping down brackish canteen water.

Besides serving as a landmark that the trip was almost over, everyone was glad to arrive at the creek because it was surrounded with high green grass. As a result of the harsh winter and intemperate spring heat, much of the grassland they'd crossed so far was stunted and sparse. The saddle horses, pack animals, and wagon teams hadn't grazed well. Now there would be an opportunity to crop their fill, giving them plenty of strength for the final leg of the expedition. The animals sensed the bounty ahead; their nostrils flared and they surged forward.

Billy asked Bermuda Carlyle and Jim Hanrahan to ride ahead and pick a prime campsite by the river. They came back with disturbing news.

“Somebody's already got a camp in place,” Hanrahan said. “If you look close over there, you can just see a thread of smoke from a small fire. We heard some ponies whickering.”

“Indians?” Billy asked.

“We didn't go close enough to see. Thought we'd come back, tell you, then maybe go forward again with a few more guns, just in case.”

Billy pulled his Sharps “Big Fifty” from the scabbard on his saddle.
“All right, then. Brick Bond, Mike McCabe, get your guns and come with Bermuda, Jim, and me. Ever'body else, stay back. You hear shooting, come on fast, but remember to leave behind enough men to guard the wagons.”

Bat said, “Billy, I'm coming too. I want some action.”

“It's your hair,” Billy said. “And if it's Indians and trouble starts, don't go using me for cover.”