Santa Fe Passage Read online

  “Onhey!” the savage grunted, and came for him, grizzly fashion, arms circled, big head swinging, angry voice growling. Onhey was the Sioux word for a coup struck in punishment, and it meant, literally, “I kill him first!”

  The white man hung in his crouch until the giant Indian was right over him, then drove his right fist up into the snarling red face, snapping his body straight up behind the blow. It was a lucky shot, taking the huge one chin-flush, dropping the reaching figure to its knees, momentarily stunned.

  Ducking around the dazed Indian, Kirby’s eyes sought the girl. She hadn’t moved. “Ha-ho,” he said in Sioux. “Thank you.” Then, quickly. “Niye osni tona leci? How many winters are you here? How old are you?”

  “Wicsemna sokowin,” she responded, wide-eyed, “seventeen.”

  “Woyuonihan!” Kirby bowed toward her, touching his left fingertips to his forehead. “I respect you!”

  With that he was gone, racing down the graded drive. Quick and light as a shadow, his tall figure faded. Behind him lanterns were beginning to bloom around the main house and, out toward the carriage house, voices to call back and forth across the darkness. Aurelie St. Clair remained motionless across the hay, her slant green eyes staring after the departed mountain man long after his lithe-swinging form had melted into the black of the driveway trees …

  Going over the stockade, Kirby grinned. From the hullabalo back there at St. Clair’s, he’d given himself that running start old Sam had predicted. The old buzzard had best have his stuff ready like he’d told him.

  For some reason, perhaps neither clear nor important, the young mountain man felt better than he had in four years. He’d gone a mile before he remembered the wild-eyed girl had shot him with the little Colt when he’d kissed her. The only reason he remembered the wound at all was that he suddenly became aware of the fact he still had the fancy little silver gun in his left hand.

  Kirby threw back his head and sucked in a big lungful of the balmy night. The war whoop that came with the night air when he spat it back out would have curled the hair on a wooden Indian. But the peaceful citizens of Mudville by the Mississippi never missed a snore.

  Drunk or crazy or up to their armpits in love, mountain men were no novelty in St. Louis.

  * * * *

  When Kirby got back to the Rocky Mountain House he detailed his adventure to Sam, laughing here and there as he went along. The old man didn’t join the laughs and when Kirby had finished, he laid it on him proper. “Dammit, ye’ve stirred up a mud-dobber’s nest, boy. It ain’t likely to be so all-fired funny come sunup!”

  “Whut’s to be done, Sam’l?”

  “Did anybody see ye? Besides the gal and the Injun?”

  “Nope.”

  “Wal, h’yar’s whut ye do. My room’s number three, upstairs. Scramble up thar and clean off thet shot scratch. Sneak yer possibles down h’yar and wait out in the shed, yonder. I’ll be along directly.”

  * * * *

  To Kirby, stretched out on a stack of cut hay in the corral shed, it seemed hours since Sam had gone. He wondered, idly, what the old man was up to, and just how bad a tight he himself should figure he was in. There wasn’t a lot of law in St. Louis, but there was enough of it that if old St. Clair wanted to get mean about having his niece mussed up, he could put Kirby away until the snow flew. The next thing he knew, Sam was shaking him awake.

  “Whut took ye so long?” asked Kirby, sleepy-eyed. “Ye had time to scout a village and steal six hosses. Whar ye bin?”

  “St. Clair’s.”

  “The hell!”

  “The hell, yes!” snapped Sam. “And I found me out plenty. Old Marcel he’s red-hot as a ruttin’ elk. Swears no lousehead mountain man is goin’ to get by with assaultin’ his leetle niece, Aurelie, and smackin’ her Injun maid on her jawbone.”

  “Injun maid!” Kirby’s denial was indignant. “I didn’t bust me no Injun but thet Sioux buck I told ye about. And thet son of a gun was a half a foot higher than a bull buffler!”

  “Thet ‘son of a gun,’” the acid of Sam’s statement etched the words on Kirby’s eardrums, “happens to have bin a ‘daughter of a gun.’ Sioux squaw. Name of Ptewaquin. Appears she raised the gal out to Fort St. Clair.”

  “Naw! Ptewaquin? The Packin’ Buffler? The Ox?” The younger man’s questions echoed with patent admiration. “By damn, ye jest cain’t beat Injuns fer namin’ things!”

  “Ye cain’t even tie them,” grumped Sam, continuing glumly. “Now, listen boy. St. Clair’s gettin’ out a warrant fer ye. And while I allow he’ll not haunt ye to the ends of the earth, it’s a gut-cinch ye’ve got to get out’n St. Louie.”

  “Is thet all, old salt?”

  “Not entire, boy. Seems St. Clair heered about the gal knockin’ some innycent footwalker into a mudhole up on the Square. He’s het about thet, too. Allows he’s had him his belly-ful. He ain’t bin able to get the gal into the convent nor to do a dang thing he wants did. So he’s packin’ her up and shippin’ her to his brother’s folks down to Santy Fee.”

  “Whut does the gal say?” Kirby’s apparent disinterest failed to take with Sam. The oldster watched him closely as he answered.

  * * * *

  “Why, she’s all fer it, boy. Says St. Louie is dead and jest ain’t bin covered up yet. Claims she ain’t see’d but one proper man since she left Fort St. Clair. And thet was the mountain man thet tanned her bottom.”

  “Damn ye, Sam!” Kirby felt the thrill of the old man’s words. “If ye’re lyin’ to me I’ll strangle ye barehanded!”

  “Wal, she said it!” defied his companion. “Though I allow she ain’t see’d many real men, callin’ ye fer a proper one.”

  “I allow thar’s somethin’ to thet,” the young trapper’s admission lifted cheerfully. “Whut ye aimin I should do now, Sam?”

  “Put yer plunder aboard thet bay geldin’, yonder, and skee-daddle. I’ll buy him fer ye, soon’s ye’re gone. Head down the river fer Westport. I’ll foller on the Belle.”

  “Happen ye’re right,” nodded Kirby soberly. “Whar’ll we meet?”

  “Wagon grounds, west of town. By the springs. Stay out’n town to let yer beard grow a mite before ye come in. Buy yerself a beaver hat to cover up yer hair. Thet cussed streak of white what’s growed in over thet Pied Noir War ax-wound would give ye away in a minute. And get rid of them upriver buckskins.” Sam caught up the bay while he talked, and Kirby slapped the saddle and bags on him. Mounting up, he leaned down to shake the old man’s hand.

  “See ye down the river, Sam.” Then, trying without notable success to sound nonchalant, “Say—most of them trains takin’ out fer Santy Fee are makin’ up in Westport nowadays, ain’t they?”

  “I reckon the gal will start from thar,” opined Sam, drily. “Mebbe ye kin wave her farewell as her wagons go past the springs. Thet is if old Marcel don’t ketch ye meantime.”

  “How fur is Santy Fee, Sam? From Westport?”

  “Oh, seven, eight hundred mile. Why fer? Ye ain’t thinkin’ nothin’, are ye?”

  “Jest thet I ain’t never bin thar.”

  “It’s a hell of a place,” grimaced Sam, letting down the corral bars.

  “Allus figgered I’d like to see it.”

  “Yep.” His accomplice stood aside to let the gelding pass out. “I calculate thet ‘allus’ of yers took aholdt of ye rather sudden. Mebbe so about five minutes ago!”

  2

  Sam had been in camp on the wagon grounds better than a week when he finally spotted what he was looking for: a solitary horseman jogging into the grounds from the east. The newcomer rode a good bay horse, topping him in such a way it didn’t take two looks to figure out where he had learned to ride. Two breeds sat a horse that way—mountain man and Indian.

  Sam relaxed, the crinkles around his eye corners multiplying into a vastly pleased grin. T
hat was some boy, that Kirby. Not many had his stuff. The old man put back his head and let loose a whicker it would have taken a Pawnee horse tracker to tell from the come-hither nickering of an eager mare.

  Down in the flat of the wagon grounds, Kirby rocked along to Old Brown’s swaying walk. The morning sun was sparkling bright, he had a passable horse under him, his new clothes were the best that gold money could buy, that smoky-looking St. Clair girl was somewhere near to hand, and he felt cockier than a sassback jaybird.

  These lifting thoughts were interrupted by a sociable mare whickering somewhere off across the camp. Raising his head, the young mountain man came forth with a stud-horse whistle that was like to pull the picket pin on every filly in Westport. When Sam called back for Kirby to spot him, he waved sign that he had, and put the gelding up the rise toward his friend. Sam’s sour greeting brought the meeting to sudden order.

  “Whar’n hell ye bin?” The old man rapped the words. “Ye mighten as well know ye’ve missed the gal’s train. She’s done gone, boy!”

  “Naw! She ain’t! Ye ain’t sayin’ she’s actually gone a’ready!” Alarm ate up the youngster’s fading grin.

  “She ain’t, eh?”

  “Dammit, Sam. It’s only bin a week. I figgered—”

  “Wal, ye figgered wrong. Ordinary, it would have tooken them a week to make up the train. Ye kin see down thar on the flat whut a turrible mess it is gettin’ them wagons spanned out to travel in a line.”

  Kirby, following his friend’s thumb, looked down on the wagon grounds, nodding. For a square mile in every direction were wheeled rigs of all descriptions. And livestock! By heaven, there was no end to it. Herds and herds of it, grazing the bluestem grass clear up around the bend of Indian Creek. The young trapper, thinking he had seen some tall dirt and confusion in the big Sioux and Cheyenne buffalo camps, was amazed. “God A’mighty,” he shook his head at Sam, “I cain’t get over how they’re swarmin’ out west. Up on the river a man loses track.”

  “Ye ain’t bin down fer six springs, boy. Things have changed. Especially toward Santy Fee. Feller over to Westport was tellin’ me thet twenty trains went down the Trail last year, haulin’ out goods worth close to one hundred thousand dollars.”

  Kirby whistled softly. “Whut’s the trade mostly in, Sam?”

  “Everything!” the oldster replied knowingly, superior in his grasp of the current ranges of high finance. “Jest take this mornin’ fer instance. Feller told me he sold calico prints in Santy Fee last spring fer twenty dollars a yard. Calico prints thet was bought right h’yar in Westport for less’n five!”

  “Why, thet’s better’n four-fer-one,” declared Kirby, wild-eyed. “Sam, by God, ye’re goin’ to make our pile goin’ down thet trail!” The announcement jumped with the excitement of great decision dashingly taken.

  Sam didn’t quite dash after it. “Whut the hell ye mean, I’m goin’ to make our pile goin’ down thet trail?”

  “Why, we’re goin’ to throw in together and buy the biggest goddam Conestoga in Westport, or Kansas City, whatever they’re callin’ this place now, load her to the sheets with calico, span mules to her and haul her spang down to Santy Fee. We’ll get rich!”

  “Yep.” The way Sam spit showed he wasn’t spending their vast profits just yet. “Ye bin in St. Louie twenty-four hours and ye manage to cash yer plews fer nine dollars, get smacked into the gutter by the purtiest female west of Chicagy, whup her and fall in love while ye’re whuppin’, tangle rear ends with the richest old buzzard in the fur trade and skeedaddle out’n town on a quick-bought hoss!”

  The old man stopped to build up his wind, launched right back into his admiring review. “Now ye’ve bin in Westport twenty minutes and ye’ve made fifty thousand dollars. Not to mention gettin’ it into yer knucklehead to go shaggin’ off down the Santy Fee Trail after a chit of a gal, while old Sam stays behind and labors a ten-mule freight outfit along in yer dust. Happen ye’re full of hoss manure, boy!”

  Kirby laughed, throwing his arm around the oldster’s shoulders. Sam scowled blacker than ever, knowing he was done. When that boy laughed and cuddled up to you, you were through. “Whut about the gal, Sam? Ye know damn well I aim to ketch her. Ye mighten as well leave me have the trail, straight.”

  “I cain’t beat ye, young un. Ye know thet. But honest to Pete I sometimes wish ye’d have chose yerse’f another mother.”

  “I ain’t complainin’, Sam. Ye’re the best mother this jasper ever had!” The younger man’s smile was as unaffected as a barefoot hookey player’s, and the old man hauled down his flag with a helpless shrug, trying to let on as mean and grudging as he could.

  “Wal, she come down on the Belle with me. Her and the big Injun and old Marcel. They got in h’yar and found thet Blunt and St. Clair had jest put a train out fer Santy Fee and thet thar wouldn’t be another startin’ till June.

  “But then they run onto a Spaniard who’s mixed into their clan somehow, feller named Don Pedro Armijo. He’s a young slicker, handsome buzzard, big fer a Mex. Nephew to old Armijo whut’s Gov’ner of Santy Fee, I’m told.

  “Wal, it appears this fancy rooster had bin headin’ the out-fit the gal jest missed, and had come back to pick hisse’f up another caravan captain. Seems his boss skinner, feller named Tuss McLawry, had hisse’f a go-round with the captain they had. Kilt him deader’n a froze buffler. Folks say Armijo claims it was a fair fight, but they’s plenty of local doubt.

  “Anyhow, Marcel done turned the gal over to Armijo. Last I see’d of them was Armijo and the gal and her Injun ridin’ past the springs, h’yar. Headin’ out to jine up with the train in Council Grove. And from the way him and the gal was grinnin’ and chinnin’ a feller would allow they’d knowed one another quite some spell.”

  “Ye say thar was jest the three of them?”

  “Yep. Apparently Armijo didn’t get hisse’f thet new captain. Fact is, fur as I know, the job’s still open.” He watched Kirby, sidelong, as he said it.

  “Sam, old saltbutt!” shouted Kirby, springing to his feet and throwing his chest out like a Dominicker rooster fixing to crow down every cockbird in the county, “ye’re lookin’ at the toughest, smartest, by-God wagon captain ever to work fer Blunt and St. Clair!”

  “Lord A’mighty!” admired Sam. “Now ye not only made yerse’f fifty thousand dollars this mornin’, but ye jest signed yerse’f on as wagon captain for the biggest freightin’ outfit in the Santy Fee trade. Dammit all, congratulations boy!”

  “Thank ye, Sam’l.” The young man bowed politely. “And now with yer kind permission, Mother—”

  “Go to hell!” snapped Sam. “I’ll buy us an outfit and foller along, damn ye. Fust camp’s Round Grove. Twenty-five mile due west. All ye got to do is stay in the wagon ruts, boy. And don’t let the Kaws take yer pony away from ye.”

  “Thanks, old-timer. See ye in Santy Fee. Giddap thar, Brown! Heee-yahh!”

  A burst of cheerful, melodious whistling, fading in over the departing dustplops of the gelding’s rhythmical trail gait, drifted back to the squinting Sam. The old trapper watched until the rider went out of sight and sound around the wooded bend of Indian Creek.

  “Funny thing,” he mused. “But it seems like hosses and women will sure make a man go to whistlin’. Grantin’ he’s still young enough to pucker I allow they sure will, anyways.”

  3

  The first leg of the trail was the 145 miles from Westport to Council Grove. Kirby pounded Old Brown every mile of the 145. He had himself a girl to catch and the trail between him and that green-eyed objective wasn’t of much importance.

  He made three sleeps: the first at Wakarusa Point, the dreaded “Narrows,” where he spent half the night helping snake three swamped-down Conestogas through the two-mile quagmire that made this part of the Trail a nightmare to the overloaded freighters; the second at Hundred-and-Ten-Mile Creek, where he was visit
ed by six Kaw bucks who sat to his fire all night, drinking his coffee and smoking his tobacco, and waiting for him to drop off to sleep so they could knock his head in and run off with his outfit; and the third at Big John Spring, where he struck a camp of Osages, employing the tedious hours of their company in fighting off the attentions of a toothless squaw who assured him with graphic gestures that she was by all odds the finest blanket companion on the entire South Road.

  Of this first part of his projected trip to New Mexico, Kirby made resolute and dubious summation: Kansas Territory had the muddiest mud and the lousiest Indians there was. Further summation: the Kaws could have it.

  But Council Grove was something else!

  The morning he left Big John Spring came up as blue as a snow-water lake, and twice as clear. He had but a short two-mile trot to the Grove and when he topped the last rise and saw it, he had to pull Old Brown up and give himself a long look.

  The Grove proper was better than a quarter-section in size and if ever a man saw more fine old hardwood trees he’d have a time remembering where. It for sure didn’t take a wagon boss to figure why Council Grove was the main outfitting place for the traffic down the Trail. Why, in that stand of timber a good hand with an ax could cut himself all the spare tongues, axletrees, wheelspokes and oxbows he’d be apt to need for six trips to Santa Fe!

  Inquiring at the first camp where he might find the Blunt and St. Clair outfit, he soon arrived at the information and, shortly afterward, at the destination described in it.

  The Company wagons were spanned out in a neat square, tongues out, on the west fringe of the Grove. As the young trapper rode in, he made passing note of several things: the work stock was tight-bunched not far off, the wagons were loaded and lashed, a meeting of the train crew was in progress about the main campfire, not a woman was in sight anywhere.