Buffalo Trail (25 page)

Quanah took the chiefs ahead with him, Gray Beard and Stone Calf and Medicine Water and Whirlwind. When they looked down, they gasped, because the sight was unprecedented in the history of the Comanche.

Spreading out along the banks of the wide red river were Comanche tipis in almost countless number, and beyond them were tipis of the Kiowa, distinctive for daubs of bright paint. A few hundred yards away on a low bluff was a mock white fort built from cottonwood logs, and also a wide lodge of wood with buffalo skulls spread across the brush roof and a high pole extending up beyond the roof, with the largest buffalo skull of all adorning it on top.

“What
is
this?” Gray Beard asked.

Quanah grinned. “Why, it's something new for the People. In honor of our friends the Cheyenne and Kiowa, to prove we respect all of your customs and beliefs as we do our own, we invite you now to join us in our first sun dance.”

I
n the last week of May, Billy Dixon called everyone at Adobe Walls together and tried to rally them. “The buffs are coming, we all know that,” he said. “It's just that winter was especially hard and spring came late. We need to quit bitching and scrapping among ourselves while we wait. Let's have some more games or something.”

“I'm tired of shooting at paper targets,” Brick Bond growled. “I came here to shoot buffalo. Or, failing that, any fools who annoy me.”

“Well, then, goddamn go back to Dodge City,” Billy said. “We got some wagons heading there this very morning. But afterward you won't have any better luck hunting. Nobody's seen any buffs around Dodge, either. If we'd stayed up there, we'd still be waiting on a herd just the same.”

“Billy's right,” Fred Leonard said. “A bit more patience is what is required.”

“It's all right for you to be patient, Fred,” Jim McKinley snapped. Premature baldness had left him the only hide man without long hair. “Every day, you take more of our markers for your food and notions. Same with Hanrahan for his beer and bitters, and with Jimmy Langton
and his pricey goods at the Rath store. If the herd never shows, what's it, really, to you? You're still making money every day that we wait.”

“Nobody makes you buy cans of soup or peaches or tomatoes for your meals. Go out and shoot a deer, get your own dinner instead of paying me for classier sustenance. If you've run up bills at my store, it's your fault and none of my own.”

“I'll not tolerate this situation much longer, and neither will a lot of the other boys,” McKinley said. “Billy Dixon, we all think you're a fine man. But we're approaching our limits here. You can't blame us for that.”

Billy's head bobbed in a rueful shake. “I know, Jim, I know. Tell you what—if there's no buffalo sign today, I'll take a few of my crew and ride east and south tomorrow. I won't stop this time until I find the herd, and then I'll ride back here pronto to report. That'll give everyone time to be set up just right as they finally arrive, so the shooting can commence at once and the hide sales immediately after.”

•   •   •

L
ATER THAT DAY
, McLendon found Bat slouched in the shade by the bank of the north creek, scribbling in his notebook.

“Are you going to ask Billy to ride along with him tomorrow?” he asked. “You could maybe work off some of your restlessness that way.”

Bat shrugged. “I'd like to, but my pride won't allow me to be told for a second time that I'm too inexperienced for such responsibility.”

“Go on and ask. Billy's sure to take you along.”

“Maybe so. Now I need to go off a minute and piss. It's sad when taking a piss is the highlight of a man's day.”

Bat wandered off into the brush. He left his notebook on the creek bank, and McLendon couldn't resist. He opened it to a random page. Bat's handwriting was surprisingly neat.

“At night the sky turns first from bright blue to pink and then deep violet. The colors so much resemble flowers that a floral fragrance seems to perfume the air. Against this colorful backdrop stand the hide men, all of them with long flowing hair and steely, determined gaze. There is about them a sense of resolution. These are men of considerable grit and experience who never tremble in the face of danger. Foremost among them is—”

“What the hell are you doing, McLendon?” Masterson screamed. Still fumbling at his trouser buttons, he dashed out of the brush and snatched the notebook from McLendon's hands. “What I write is private, goddammit. You know I don't want you reading it.”

“Why, it's really good, Bat. Jesus, you ought to be writing books or for a newspaper or something. I believe that you demonstrate evidence of real talent.”

Bat's attitude instantly shifted from aggrieved to bashful. He ducked his head and mumbled, “You think so?”

“I do, and I'm a man who likes to read a lot. When the hunting season's over and you're back in Dodge or wherever, you should send some of this off to one of those magazines that have stories about the West. Bet you anything they'd buy what you've written, get it into print as fast as they could.”

“Really?” Bat said. “Well, then.”

“Will you let me read some more?”

“Another time, maybe. Meanwhile, don't tell any of the others about this, all right? They'd consider writing stories to be girlish.”

“What do they know? This is such a surprise. What you really want to be is a writer?”

“Who knows? For now, all I really want is to see the buffalo coming this way. I guess I
will
ask Billy to ride along.”

•   •   •

B
ACK IN CAMP
, McLendon considered his own situation, which wasn't good. He'd spurned a job with good, steady pay in Dodge to gamble on making much more money working for Billy Dixon. The expedition had left Dodge almost nine weeks before. Thirty-five dollars a week at nine weeks—even with a dollar and a half a day for a boardinghouse room and, say, another four or five dollars a week for meals and other necessities, why, he'd still have more than two hundred saved up for his journey to Gabrielle in Arizona Territory, with several more months of savings to come. Plenty of money. The reverse was true at Adobe Walls. He had absolutely no income and, try as he might, he still had to spend some of his remaining, dwindling funds each day—two bits, at least, for cheese and crackers, and every now and then he had to vary that bland fare with a can of soup or some of Old Man Keeler's stew. He liked and felt sorry for Hannah Olds, but her cooking didn't compare to Keeler's. Anyway, he was down to about eighty dollars, barely enough for his train and stage fare from Dodge to Mountain View, let alone a sufficient stake to stay awhile in that town and then get him and Gabrielle and maybe her sick father from there to California. Coming along with Billy Dixon instead of remaining and working in Dodge had been a mistake, just the latest in the long string that he'd made. It had all started back in St. Louis, when he'd abandoned Gabrielle for the chance to marry Ellen, the daughter of his rich boss Rupert Douglass. If only, back then, he'd done the decent thing, the right thing, how different his life now would be.

McLendon's plunge into recrimination and self-pity lasted into early afternoon. Bat bounced up and announced gleefully that Billy had given him permission to come along. He insisted on buying McLendon a beer in Hanrahan's saloon to celebrate. McLendon didn't particularly feel
like drinking, but Bat badgered him and it was something to do. Oscar Shepherd, Hanrahan's bartender, uncapped two beer bottles and shoved them across the counter. Bat gulped down his beer and called for another; McLendon sipped slowly.

“You need to come with Billy, too, C.M,” Bat said. “Get out of camp for a while. It'd do you good.”

“I think I'll stay behind and wait for you to come back with good news. Anyway, the Scheidler brothers and some other teamsters are due in from Dodge anytime now. They might see sign of the herd on their way in. Then Billy won't need to ride out tomorrow after all.”

“I almost hope they don't. I'm eager for some adventure, and it would be a thing to be the first who spots the herd.”

“Well, then, I hope it's you. But somebody better see something.”

•   •   •

A
HALF
-
DOZEN WAGONS
arrived late in the afternoon. They brought more supplies for the camp stores and saloon, and mail forwarded on by the Dodge City postmaster to those at Adobe Walls lucky enough to get some. McLendon was startled when Isaac Scheidler came looking for him with an envelope in his hand.

“C.M.? Here's something addressed to you.”

McLendon tore the envelope open and his hands trembled as he unfolded the single page inside. Gabrielle wrote,

April 12, 1874

I am in receipt of your new letter, and am pleased with the thought that you are coming, though apparently not as soon as I would wish. The end of summer seems a long way away.

You should not obsess so about money. It need not be an immediate consideration when you arrive here. Major Mulkins, who you will remember from Glorious, manages the hotel where I work. He is delighted that you are coming to Mountain View, and says that upon your arrival you may share his room at the hotel until you are able to otherwise situate yourself. Your meals may be taken free of charge with us at the hotel staff table, he adds. And, of course, it will cost you nothing but your time to share my company.

I repeat that I am making no promises. But I am eager to see you.

Fondly,

Gabrielle

McLendon's immediate impulse was to ride along on the next wagon heading back to Dodge City. From there, he'd go as far by train and stage as his remaining stake would take him, and walk the last miles if necessary. It would mean quitting Billy Dixon when he'd promised Billy back in Dodge that he wouldn't. But if Billy went out on the latest scout and didn't find the big buffalo herd, the expedition would be called off anyway. That would free McLendon from his obligation to Billy without requiring him to break his word. In the past, McLendon had broken promises as easily as he'd drawn breath. He'd promised Gabrielle that he'd changed for the better—now he had to prove it to himself, too, even if it meant delaying his rush to Gabrielle for another week or so.

Still, if the herd wasn't coming, McLendon wanted to be among the first to know it and get on his way. He found Billy in the Rath store and asked to come along on the final scout for the buffalo.

“It'll be a hard ride,” Billy said. “As I recall, you're none too comfortable in the saddle.”

“I don't care. I want to go.”

“All right. We leave at dawn.”

•   •   •

D
AWN ARRIVED EARLY
. The first muted paling of the eastern sky came about four-thirty in the morning, and by five it was light enough for Billy, McLendon, Bat, Frenchy, and Charley Armitage to ride out of camp. They brought with them enough provisions for a week—coffee, bacon, a few cans of tomatoes, and the ingredients for biscuits that Frenchy would bake in the Dutch oven strapped to his saddle. Billy said they'd vary their diet with game; there were plenty of deer and birds about. Billy and Charley had Sharps Big Fifties. Frenchy had an older, smaller-caliber Sharps. Bat had a shotgun. McLendon had only his Colt Peacemaker. The other four carried Peacemakers too. Because they needed to maintain a steady pace without distractions, Billy left his red setter closed up in a stall at camp. Fannie's howls followed them as they left.

All morning they rode through alternately rugged and undulating country, always moving east and a little south. McLendon did his best to ignore the chafing of his legs against the sides of his horse, and the occasional bruising of his tailbone when he bounced in the saddle. Someday soon, he might never have to ride a horse again. It was something to hope for.

He and Bat brought up the rear, keeping alert for Indians, while Billy, Frenchy, and Charley scanned the horizon ahead for buffalo. No one saw anything, so their brief pause for lunch included tomatoes and cold bacon but little conversation. There seemed to be nothing to say. With every mile, Billy's expression grew grimmer.

They made almost thirty miles that day, and made camp for the night
in a gully near a water hole. They refilled their canteens, ate Frenchy's biscuits and more bacon, then curled up in their blankets by the campfire. Billy assigned Bat and Charley to night guard duty, Bat for the first four hours and then Charley until they broke camp at dawn.

“Co-manch love nothing more than absconding with horses from white camps,” Billy said. “Be alert for any noise. But, Bat, that don't mean go blasting off ever' time you think you hear something.”

“I'd rather shoot right away than delay to my eventual regret,” Bat said. “I know how to stand watch, Billy.”

Accustomed to bedding down on the trail, Charley and Frenchy fell asleep right away. McLendon sat up for a while with Billy, who sipped coffee from a tin cup and stared into the campfire.

“I've been wondering,” McLendon said to him. “You don't know exactly where the big buffalo herd is, but you're pretty sure it's south and east of here?”

“That's correct.”

“Well, why do we stick at the Adobe Walls camp, then? Why not just pack everything up and everybody keep moving in this direction, and we keep going until we find the buffalo? At some point we would, and then we can set up permanent camp and kill them to our hearts' content.”

Billy swished coffee in his mouth. “It ain't that simple, C.M. You got to remember the distances involved. Now, tell me—if we keep on going in this direction, how far until we strike the nearest town with a railroad?”

“Let me think. Well, I'm not sure that there is one.”

“And that's the problem. It's not enough to kill bunches of buffs and take their hides. From there, we got to get the hides to the railroad for shipment east. The companies there, the manufacturers who turn the hides into machine belts and the like, they need to get fresh hides in a
timely manner. If they can't, they'll use other materials. Adobe Walls is absolutely the farthest we can hunt from Dodge, which is the nearest railroad hub, and still get the hides shipped back there in time to get them east and satisfy the manufacturers.”

“And if we keep riding this way and never see any buffalo at all?”

“You already know. That's why we got to pray that very soon the buffs make their tardy way along the Canadian near our camp there, or else we'll all head home with empty pockets. Now, let's get some shut-eye. Long day tomorrow.”

•   •   •

A
S THEY RODE ALONG
late the next morning, Frenchy let out a whoop. McLendon thought that maybe he'd spotted buffalo, but instead the crew cook pointed excitedly at what appeared to be clumps of wild grass.