Buffalo Trail (31 page)

O
n the night of June twenty-fifth, most of the men in Adobe Walls got drunk to some degree. Earlier that day, Billy Dixon and Jim Hanrahan had called everyone into the saloon to make an announcement.

“The main part of the herd is above and west of us now,” Billy said. “We've had a bad patch and lost some friends, but in general the hunting has been good, the best in more than a year. We're all making money. Now we got to think ahead a little. Going out in one big group has worked well. There's been no further sign of Indians. So maybe it's time to stop this going out and coming back in on the same day. Repeated trips cut down on shooting time.”

Billy suggested that all the remaining hunters and their crews buy supplies for a month and follow the herd north and west, making temporary camps as they went along. The teamsters would come as well. In two weeks their wagons would bring the hides back to Adobe Walls, where the merchants and their staffs kept the stores and blacksmith shop in operation. Fred Leonard would purchase the hides, crediting each hunting crew for its share. Then the teamsters would haul the hides
back to Dodge, drop them off at the railroad for shipment east, and return west to wherever the hunters were. Because the merchants would still be in place at Adobe Walls, the teamsters would stop there on the way back and pick up additional supplies for the crews. In two more weeks the cycle would be repeated. After that, the herd would probably turn back toward the east, and they'd kill all of the buffalo that they could before fall turned into winter and hunting season ended. Then everyone would close up Adobe Walls, return to Dodge City, and enjoy a comfortable winter spending their hard-earned money.

“This makes all the sense in the world,” Hanrahan added. “We're all businessmen here, and smart businessmen look for ways to maximize profit. We do it the way Billy just described, and everyone's pockets will be overflowing, because you'll always be right where the buffalo are.”

“Jim, I agree that you and Fred Leonard and the other shop men will have overflowing pockets, but the rest of us still haven't seen an actual coin,” Bermuda Carlyle said. “I think I speak for at least a few of the others when I say that there remain hard feelings about Fred's actions following the attacks. He acted like our credit with his store mattered for nothing. How can we be sure that while we're out in the wilds for all this time, he won't one day just skedaddle away with his ledgers and leave us empty-handed?”

“Why, I'd never—” Leonard said.

Carlyle snapped, “Yes, you would,” and took a threatening step toward him.

Billy stepped between them. “I had my own hard feelings with Fred about this, and we've come to a satisfactory agreement. After we head out—I think we'll need tomorrow to prepare; let's go on the twenty-seventh—Fred will travel back to Dodge with the teamsters and the first load of skins under the new arrangement. He's going to go to the bank
there and withdraw in cash all that's owed to everyone, then bring it back here to Adobe Walls. This means that, by the middle of July, any man who wishes can demand in cash all that he's got coming. Will that provide you with sufficient peace of mind?”

“It will,” Carlyle said. “I'll rest easy on it now.”

McLendon's heart gave a happy lurch. In mid-July he could quit Billy's crew, collect his earnings in cash from Fred Leonard—about five hundred dollars, he estimated—join the teamsters on their next trip to Dodge City, and then make his way to Mountain View and Gabrielle.

“Good thinking, Billy,” he yelled. “A fine solution!” McLendon's pleasure didn't extend to joining in the general rush to the bar to purchase celebratory drinks. He needed every cent to finance his trip to Arizona Territory and, hopefully, two fares to California after that. As McLendon watched the crowd descend on bartender Oscar Shepherd, he heard sniffling behind him. Hannah Olds was weeping into a linen handkerchief.

“Why, what is it, Mrs. Olds?” he asked.

“Oh, it's just that I'd hoped Mr. Dixon would say we're closing up this dreadful place now and going back home. My husband, William, is feeling even more poorly, and I haven't slept soundly since those men were butchered by the savages. This is no fit place for decent people, Mr. McLendon. There's the smell of death to it.”

McLendon patted her bony shoulder. “That's just the smell of hides. The stacks outside are easily fifty feet high, and the wind is blowing the stink in this direction. Don't despair. You heard Billy—in a matter of months you'll be back in Dodge.”

Mrs. Olds dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief. “I'm not so sure. This is an evil place. Well, these men may want some supper. I'd best get back to my kitchen.”

•   •   •

A
FEW OF THEM
did buy supper for a dollar a plate. Despite her fatalistic mood, Mrs. Olds prepared a savory venison stew and hot, flaky biscuits. But most of the men wanted to drink. It was a relief to have a new plan, one that not only made sense but provided a time frame for leaving Adobe Walls for good. No one had really felt comfortable there since the raids on the outlying camps. Jim Hanrahan told Oscar Shepherd to pour with a liberal hand. By midnight almost every man in camp was at least tipsy, and a few were stumbling drunk. The only completely sober ones were William Olds, who'd long been in bed, and McLendon, who asked Billy Dixon, “Who's supposed to be out on guard tonight?”

Billy rarely took more than a few drinks, but tonight was an exception. After thinking for a moment, he replied, “I guess Masterson and Shorty Scheidler. You see them around?”

Bat and Shorty were seated at a table in the far corner of the saloon, passing a bottle back and forth. There was only about an inch of whiskey left in it.

“You two need to go out and stand watch,” McLendon said. “Let me take that bottle back to Oscar.”

Bat jerked the bottle out of McLendon's reach. “Don't be interrupting us, C.M. Me and Shorty are discussing opening our own whorehouse back in Dodge.”

“So we never have to do without women again,” Shorty said. “My pecker's so itchy, I can't hardly think straight.” He took the bottle from Bat and drained it.

“I doubt it's your pecker that's got you in this present condition,” McLendon said. “How can you two be watchful, drunk as you are?”

“Well, we can't,” Bat said. “Go tell Billy that we're indisposed.” He pronounced it “indishposhed.”

McLendon saw that Bat's eyes were glazed. Shorty's weren't. They burned with glassy intensity. Liquor turned Bat clownish, but Shorty, McLendon realized, was a mean drunk. “You two sit there,” he said. “I'll go speak to Billy.”

To McLendon's surprise, Billy wasn't concerned. “Ah, well, it's a party tonight. I expect that we're okay unguarded. There's been no sign of Indians. Let Shorty and Bat have their fun. In a little while, maybe you and I can go out and take a look. Meanwhile, have a drink.”

“Thanks anyway.”

“You're trying to save all your money to go see that girl in Arizona. Have something anyway. I'm buying.”

McLendon saw no reason to refuse Billy's generosity. He had a beer, and then another. They tasted good and Billy was willing to continue treating him. After a while he got caught up in the general hilarity. When some of them started singing “Buffalo Gals,” he sang, too, and then joined in the general merriment at how terrible he sounded. It occurred to him that these were fine people—even Shorty Scheidler, who kept drinking hard and looking meaner. If he hadn't had to rush off soon to Gabrielle, he might have been glad to remain in their company.

•   •   •

S
OMETIME AFTER MIDNIGHT
, Billy Tyler went outside to take a piss. A few minutes later, he stuck his head back inside the saloon door and yelped, “Looky here! See what we got ourselves!” Then he hauled in a cringing Indian woman, dragging her by the arm. She was crusted with filth and wore a ragged deerskin dress. Most of the men got up, clustered around her, and leered.

“The rest of you can look all you like, but I'm going first,” Bat Masterson announced. He was unsteady as he stepped forward and reached for the woman's arm.

Tyler tugged her back. “I'm the one that found her, Masterson. You can damn well wait.”

The Indian woman shrank away. Her head was bowed, and McLendon, watching from the fringe of the crowd, saw that there was a long scar on her neck. “Billy, what is this?” he asked Dixon. “They can't do what it looks like they're about to.”

“It's going to happen,” Billy said. “Stray squaw comes up on a camp like this, it means she's hungry and wants a handout after ever'body's done screwing her.”

“It's not right. If she's hungry, let's just give her some food.”

Billy looked past McLendon to where Masterson, Tyler, and now Mike McCabe were squabbling over the first turn. “It wouldn't do to deny the boys, C.M. This is just the way it is. She knew what was going to happen when she came here. What worries me more, she might not be all alone. Come on, you and me'll go out and take a look.”

“Billy, we can't let this happen.”

Billy nodded toward the others. Mike McCabe had apparently prevailed over Tyler and Bat. He grabbed the Indian woman by the hair and dragged her behind the bar. “Move out, Oscar,” he said to the bartender. “I need some room.”

“It's happening already, C.M.,” Billy said. “Let's get going. This is something we don't need to see.”

McLendon and Billy took their rifles—Billy had the .44 Sharps, and McLendon a Winchester. They walked cautiously out into the meadow, squinting into the darkness. McLendon was slightly drunk and Billy more so. Still, for about an hour they explored the camp perimeter, occasionally tripping over roots and rocks and falling on their faces.

“Think we ought to follow the creek for a bit, maybe look up on the bluff?” McLendon asked.

“Maybe the creek. Bluff's almost a mile away; don't want to go that
far.” When they didn't see anything along the creek, Billy said what the hell, they ought to go back.

“Do you think they're finished with her?” asked McLendon.

“I hope so. But most of the boys seem to be possessed by rutting fever. That squaw's had a hard time for certain.”

•   •   •

W
HEN THEY GOT BACK
, the saloon was mostly empty. Some of the men were sprawled out asleep in front of it; it was too hot to sleep inside. Oscar Shepherd paused as he stacked glasses to say that “the party” had moved over to the Myers and Leonard's store, where there was more room.

“Some more of them wanted to have at that squaw, and I told them I needed to get back behind the bar 'cause I had work to do,” he said. “She's such a pitiful thing too. Dirty and bad smelling. But they didn't care about that.”

“I believe I'll just turn in outside,” Billy said to McLendon. “I'm going to sleep under my remaining wagon. You ought to do the same, C.M. Whatever they're doing with that woman, you got to let it go.”

“I know you're right. I'm just thinking that if they're done with her, I'd make sure that she got something to eat.”

“Do as you think best, but if they're still sporting with her, don't interfere. That's how you get shot.”

•   •   •

I
N THE MORE EXPANSIVE
Myers and Leonard's store, McLendon saw that in a back corner some of the men had made a rudimentary mattress from gunny sacks of rice and beans. The Indian woman was splayed on her back there, and Shorty Scheidler grunted as his body heaved between her legs. She emitted occasional mews of discomfort. A
few drunks watched. Bat Masterson sat on the floor, his back propped against the store counter.

“You come to have a go at her, C.M.?” he asked, struggling to stay upright.

“Oh, Bat,” McLendon said. “Did you have to use her like that?”

“She's just a goddamn Indian. It wasn't even all that good. She just lay there.” Bat slumped forward and for a moment McLendon thought that he'd passed out. But then he raised his head again and mumbled, “I prefer white whores to red ones.”

McLendon shook his head in disgust as Shorty Scheidler gave a long, loud groan and collapsed on top of the Indian woman, who lay limply beneath him, her deerskin garment crumpled near her feet. McLendon thought she might have passed out, but then it seemed to him that although her body was still, her eyes were flitting everywhere, and the expression in them was anything but submissive. It was only an impression, and the next moment, when he looked again, her eyes were closed.

“Come on, Shorty,” McLendon said. He reached down and shook Scheidler's shoulder. There was a raw, gamy odor of sex. “You can get off her now. You had your fun. Let's give her some food and let her go.”

Shorty pushed himself up on his knees. His grimy pants and stained drawers were lowered down around his ankles, and his limp member glistened in the glow of a kerosene lantern on the counter. “Not yet. I want some more.” Beneath him, the Indian woman lay passive. Her bare body was splattered with sweat and semen. “For a dirty squaw, she ain't bad looking, even with that neck scar. Pretty good titties, don't you think?” There was satisfaction in Shorty's tone, and threat too. McLendon still had his Winchester in his hand and wondered if he might need to use it.

“From the look of you, you won't be able to do anything for some time,” McLendon said, trying to sound reasonable rather than
confrontational. “Come on, let her go. We've got a big day tomorrow, packing up for the long trip and so forth. You need your sleep.”

“That's my concern and none of your own. I'll keep her here as long as I please.” The woman stirred and tried to sit up. Almost casually, Shorty struck her in the face with the back of his hand, and there was a thud as her skull bounced off the floor. “Go away, McLendon.” The woman moaned, and Shorty pulled his hand back to hit her again. As he did, McLendon smashed the butt of his rifle against Scheidler's skull and knocked him off her. He was sure that the blow would knock the diminutive teamster unconscious, but Scheidler rolled over and lurched to his feet. Screaming incoherently, he tackled McLendon and they tumbled over Bat Masterson, who screamed in his turn and reached for his pistol. McLendon's rifle was knocked from his hand. Scheidler punched McLendon twice in the face, hard, and was about to do it again, when Masterson pushed the barrel of the gun against his neck.