Buffalo Trail (20 page)

J
ust after dawn on Tuesday, McLendon reread the letter he was sending to Gabrielle. He'd spent most of the night laboring over it. After several failures to convey his feelings in lengthy, heartfelt fashion, he'd decided brevity would be best.

Dearest Gabrielle:

Your words are pleasing and I thank you for this chanse. You are always fair so of course you will be so to Joe Saint. He is a good man but I swear I will make you happyer. I am better than I was. I gess it would be hard to be worse.

I beleeve I have found a way to make enough money to get to you faster, I think maybe by summers end. I hope you will hold me in your heart untill that time.

I will send word when I am on my way.

All my love

Cash McLendon

He took the letter to the Pioneer Store to mail. McLendon expected a lengthy wait in line behind many of the hunters leaving that morning with Billy. Undoubtedly they'd be making last-minute purchases of necessaries. But when he got to the shop, he found only a clerk behind the counter.

“I expect the boys are either sleeping it off or else having one last coupling with the whores,” the clerk said when McLendon remarked on the lack of customers. “You folks are going to Indian country, after all. Not everybody's coming back.”

“The word is, the Indians have backed off,” McLendon said. “Billy Dixon says it's likely we'll be left to hunt in peace.”

“So Billy would have to say, since he was trying to convince others to come with him. Do you have plenty of ammunition for that shiny new Peacemaker you're carrying?”

“I do, thanks.” McLendon gave the clerk his letter. “Please be certain this goes out on today's train.” He put three pennies on the counter for postage, and added a dime tip.

The clerk pushed the dime back to him. “No gratuity necessary. I admire a man who's about to risk his life.”

“Well, I hope that I'm not,” McLendon said. He walked out of the shop with Indians much on his mind. Surely Billy wouldn't lie about such things to facilitate recruitment.

McLendon found Billy in front of Hanrahan's saloon. He was arguing with Bat and Shorty Scheidler. McLendon hadn't seen Bat since the night before. He'd whooped when he learned that McLendon was coming on Billy's expedition after all, and urged him to come along for a last-night-in-Dodge revel with whiskey and women. When McLendon declined, Bat went ahead without him. From his disheveled appearance as he yammered with Billy, Bat had overindulged considerably.

“I told you no, and that's the end of it,” Billy said to Masterson and Scheidler. He sounded frustrated.

“It makes all the sense in the world,” Bat pleaded. “Me and Shorty, we'll be in charge of it. You can have a share of the profits.”

“Absolutely not,” Billy said. “We're going down south on serious business. Last thing we need's some women for you tomcats to get to fighting over.”

“It won't be that way,” Bat pleaded. “We'll have it under control. And I personally think I shoot straighter in the daylight if I've had a woman on the night before.”

“Well, since you don't shoot straight at all, I assume you're still virgin and have yet to test your theory. No women.”

“Mrs. Olds is a woman, and she's coming,” Shorty argued.

Billy glared at him. “Mrs. Olds is going to be one of Mr. Rath's cooks. Anyway, none of the Rath people are part of this first bunch. They're going to follow along in a month or so, after we pick a site and get the camp going. Enough—you two have my answer. Masterson, go get your gear before I change my mind about having you on my crew. Scheidler, find your brother and start loading crates on your wagon. I hoped to leave by seven, and at this rate it will be nearly noon.”

Bat and Shorty stumbled off, trailing whiskey fumes in their wake. “Those two,” Billy said to McLendon. “All they care about is drink and whores. By the smell of their breath they've had plenty of the one, and now they want to take the other along on the expedition.”

“What? I miss your meaning.”

Billy sighed. He took off his hat and wiped his brow with a grimy handkerchief. “Young Bat and Shorty just came to me with a scheme to bring a dozen or so whores with us. They said they'd set up a tent at night and handle all the money arrangements. Lord save us from
fools. The sooner we're away from Dodge and all its temptations, the better.”

Despite Billy's impatience, it was just past noon before the massive wagon train finally set out. Much of the town turned out to see them off. Best wishes for a profitable hunt and dire prognostications of Indian massacres were called out in about equal number as whips cracked and horse and mule teams surged forward. In all, there were a hundred and ten men and seventy wagons, most of these belonging to the hide men. During hunts, they were used for transporting hides, but now they were loaded with every kind of foodstuff, tool, and ordnance. A. C. Myers was paying the hide men for the use of their wagons to convey his store stocks down south. Two dozen wagons were owned and driven by teamsters, who hired on for general transport during the trip. Another three wagons belonged to Tom O'Keefe, who intended to open a blacksmith shop at the new campsite. His massive anvil alone took up one whole wagon bed. About twenty men rode horses, with spare mounts tethered to wagons. A small herd of cattle was driven along—these would furnish beef and, in the case of four cows, milk for those who wanted it. Two dogs came along, too: Billy's red setter Fannie, who trotted alongside her master's horse, and Maurice, Isaac Scheidler's black Newfoundland.

Cash McLendon was pleased to be invited to ride with the Scheidlers on their wagon. He could have mounted one of Billy Dixon's spare horses, but he was never comfortable in the saddle. When he prepared to climb up on the wagon bench beside Isaac, though, Maurice yelped with excitement and leaped to attach himself to McLendon's leg.

“He still fancies you, C.M.,” Isaac said.

“He's like your brother and Bat Masterson with their whores,” McLendon joked as he pried the dog loose and shoved him back down in the street. Maurice took the rebuff as coyness rather than outright rejection, and launched himself at the leg a second time. McLendon, who
was nervous about going south and also on edge thinking of Gabrielle, didn't have the patience to keep the determined animal at bay. “Isaac, I believe I'll hitch a ride elsewhere,” he said. There was space on the bench of another nearby wagon, and McLendon asked the teamster at the reins if he might sit there. Receiving a nod in response, he climbed up. There was no time for immediate introductions. Billy finally had everyone ready, and hollered for them to move out. The wagons lurched forward over the bridge spanning the Arkansas River, and McLendon settled in for a long day. Billy had said it would probably take six or seven days to get wherever they were going in Indian Territory. Everything depended on finding just the right spot, which would include lots of water, good grazing, and proper sight lines for defense.

Despite Billy Dixon's problems getting everyone under way, McLendon thought that he was a good leader. Even during the first miles of the trip, there was a certain organization to the long procession. Billy, Bermuda Carlyle, and Mike McCabe, Billy's head skinner, rode out in front, with Bat Masterson tagging along. The other riders were spread out up and down the wagon train. Jim Hanrahan rode on a middle wagon, making sure that all the drivers kept in tight formation. Fred Leonard and Tom O'Keefe, both armed with Winchester repeaters, brought up the rear. The procession kept up an even pace. It helped that there weren't any hills or draws to speak of. Looking ahead, all McLendon could see was an endless mass of gray-green grass swaying in the breeze, and a few scattered trees. Because of the sameness up ahead, after a while there was little sense of actual progress.

McLendon thought about Gabrielle, imagining how she might react when she received his latest letter. Perhaps she'd write back the very same day. Freight service between Dodge and the new south camp would be in place almost immediately, and Heath Lee had promised he'd send along any mail directed to McLendon care of Hanrahan and Waters's
saloon. It was going to be hard working for Billy, no doubt about it, but if he made the kind of money he was anticipating—surely fifteen dollars a day, probably twenty—by the end of the hunting season, McLendon could travel in style to Mountain View in Arizona Territory.

He squirmed a little on the wagon bench. The hard wood plank was in itself uncomfortable, and there was an additional irritation. Just before leaving Dodge, Bat had talked McLendon into buying one of the new Colt Peacemakers. He traded in his old Navy Colt as part of the transaction. Bat said it was easier getting ammunition for the Peacemaker, and also it was a more reliable weapon in a fight: “If Indians come howling after your hair, you'd best be prepared to give a good account for yourself.” McLendon hated parting with the money—fourteen dollars for the gun, plus a small screwdriver that was included in the purchase for reasons that gun shop owner Zimmermann was unwilling to explain, took a considerable bite out of his current grubstake—but he couldn't win Gabrielle back unless he survived his Indian Territory sojourn. He wore the gun now on a holster attached to his belt, and the handle poked into his midsection. He tried to push the holster to an angle where the gun lay flat against his hip, but he couldn't manage it.

“Shovit round front,” someone said, and McLendon turned to see the driver smiling at him. This teamster was a portly man with very bad teeth.

“Beg your pardon?” McLendon said politely.

“Shovit round front.” The words sounded somewhat familiar, as though the fellow was speaking an alternative form of English.

“I don't understand.”

“Youkin unnerstand.” The man dropped the reins and grabbed McLendon's holster. “Shovit round
front
.” He yanked the holster along McLendon's belt until the gun rested between his legs. So long as McLendon's legs were slightly spread, the handle didn't poke into him anymore.

“Yew geddown, yankit back t'thuh sahd.”

McLendon began to discern parts of words jammed together. “Yes. When I get down, I'll return the holster to its original position. Meanwhile, this is much more comfortable. Thank you.”

The driver nodded amiably. “Mirkle Jones,” he said, drawing out the
s
in his surname like a lingering
z
. “Good ta meecha.”

McLendon gave his own name, and they shook hands. Jones's heavy paw was thick with callus, which McLendon suspected came from decades of handling wagon reins. “My pleasure, Mr. Jones. Thanks for letting me ride with you.”

Jones grinned again. His teeth were very yellow and crooked. “Dahg humpt ya on t'other one.”

“That's true. Its name is Maurice and it's had at my leg before. But now that I'm riding with you, Maurice can direct his romantic intentions elsewhere.”

Jones chuckled companionably and then jostled along in silence. McLendon sneaked surreptitious glances at the hefty man, whose skin didn't seem entirely white but wasn't dark enough to mark him as a mulatto. His features didn't strike McLendon as Mexican or Indian. He very much wanted to know Jones's ancestry, but felt it would be rude to ask. Perhaps, he thought, he could inquire about the man's name instead.

“Mirkle,” McLendon said. “Now, that's an unusual name.”

“Niverherd uv anuffer.”

“Me, neither,” McLendon said. He was catching on to Jones's unique phrasings. “Can I ask how you came by it?”

“Mumma. She uz old whin I come, dint espek havin a chile. So aftah, Mumma alluz called me her mirkle baby.”

“Ah,” McLendon said, and amused himself with that until Billy Dixon called out for everyone to take a break and rest the wagon teams. They'd been on the trail for about three hours. While Mirkle Jones watered his horses, McLendon wandered off to a spot a few dozen yards
away where many of the other men, including Bat Masterson, were relieving themselves. The men took turns pissing and standing guard. Even this early on the journey, they worried about Indians.

“It's a grand day, isn't it?” Bat exulted as he and McLendon stood side by side, splashing the grass. “Adventure and riches, C.M., ain't nothin' like it. You ought to hop down off that wagon bench and get up on horseback, ride in front with Billy Dixon and me.”

“Thanks anyway.” McLendon finished pissing and buttoned his pants. “I'm an adequate horseman at best, and better off on the wagon. Are we making good progress, Bat?”

“I'll say we are. Only mid-afternoon, and Dodge City is already almost out of sight.”

McLendon looked back north and saw the grainy silhouette of Dodge on the apparently endless horizon. “It's like we've hardly left.”

“It's a trick of the terrain, being so flat and all. I'll bet we're averaging four miles an hour. Keep it up, we'll be deep in Indian Territory sometime tomorrow.”

“Not exactly a comforting thought.”

“The thing is, be vigilant but not afraid. We've a hundred guns in our party. The Indians would be wise to fear us.”

McLendon shook his head. “Well, then, I hope someone tells them how they should feel.”

On the first night, they stopped at a place Billy Dixon called Crooked Creek. There was water to refill barrels and canteens, and plenty of grass for the wagon teams and livestock. To McLendon, the expedition took on what seemed to be a party mood. Everyone was jolly, exulting about the great times ahead. Men gathered around a dozen different campfires, where they cooked bacon and biscuits, brewed coffee in battered tin pots, and exchanged tales of past adventures. McLendon found
himself in a group that included Billy, Jim Hanrahan, Mirkle Jones, a dozen other hide men and their crew members, and Bat, who seemed determined never to be far from Billy's side. Fannie, Billy's dog, lay quietly at her master's feet. Billy fed her bits of bacon, then checked her paws for thorns and cuts. Brick Bond was in the group, too, which concerned McLendon, but even Bond seemed caught up in the spirit of good fellowship. He'd fought in the Civil War, for the South, and regaled the group for a while with stories of great battles. A couple of crewmen had served the Union, and they told war stories too. McLendon feared that Bond would take offense, but he didn't. In contrast to all the arguments McLendon had heard back in Arizona Territory about the war and politics, the men around this campfire seemed content to recall the conflict as an experience worth remembering but not regretting.