Hickok

By Peter Wallace

Although this novel is a work of fiction most of the main characters are people that lived during this era in North America’s pioneering past. Those men and women that struggled far from the comforts of the larger cities to open up and to tame the vast wilderness that was known simply as ‘The Territories’, had rich stories to tell. I have spent many hours in fascinating research to flesh out some of these colourful characters that fired my own imagination in the early years of my youth giving me an ever-lasting love of the Wild West.

For my readers I have included much of my research at the conclusion of the narrative in the form of an appendix, a time line and a bibliography.

...Davis Tutt had chosen his ambush well, arriving first at the killing ground then choosing the most advantageous position, with the best field of fire. He stood his ground in front of The Court House directly across from Hickok and at its shadow’s edge; knowing that at this time of day his target would be in full sunlight. Hickok could sense that as the duel began Tutt would step forward into the glare, making it harder for him to aim true in that split second where life hangs...

Thus began one of the first recorded classic street gun duels that became the focus of the Hollywood western film dramas that have endured to the present day.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Foye
• Release date: Jun 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301873906

Peter Wallace

I began my writing career with thoughts of the 'Tales From The Hanged Man' while driving along the M5 heading south to my adopted home in Cornwall. We live there now part of the year and absolutely love everything about it. I write mainly for my own pleasure but if it gives a small measure of distraction to a reader then I am doubly happy.

Book preview

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* * * * *

Hickok

by

Peter Wallace

* * * * *

Hickok

…Davis Tutt had chosen his ambush well, arriving first at the killing ground then choosing the most advantageous position, with the best field of fire. He stood his ground in front of The Court House directly across from Hickok and at its shadow’s edge; knowing that at this time of day his target would be in full sunlight. Hickok could sense that as the duel began Tutt would step forward into the glare, making it harder for him to aim true in that split second where life hangs…

Thus began one of the first recorded classic street gun duels that became the focus of the Hollywood western film dramas that have endured to the present day.

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Smashwords Edition

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Author's Dedication

For my wife

Gill

and my family and friends who give their valuable time to

read, proof comment and criticise

my humble offerings.

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Preface

Although this novel is a work of fiction most of the main characters are people that lived during this era in North America’s pioneering past. Those men and women that struggled far from the comforts of the larger cities to open up and to tame the vast wilderness that was known simply as ‘The Territories’, had rich stories to tell. I have spent many hours in fascinating research to flesh out some of these colourful characters that fired my own imagination in the early years of my youth giving me an ever-lasting love of the Wild West.

For my readers I have included much of my research at the conclusion of the narrative in the form of an appendix, a time line and a bibliography.

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Chapter I: The Oregon Trail 1859

The mules slowed as the trail became engulfed by drifting sand, blown by the fierce desert wind, a buck-skinned driver stood with the reins firmly grasped in a gloved hand. With his teeth clenched tight together, his eyes half-closed against the stinging fusillade of sharp edged grit and fine sand; he whirled the leather-thonged whip around his coon-skinned capped head in a whirling arc. The whip slashed through the turbulent air faster than a striking rattler and cracked like a pistol shot across the heaving dusty backs of the leading mules. The eight mule team lurched in discordant response to the lead pair desperately trying to find better footing and increase their pace away from the biting serpent lashing at their dusty rumps.

Shift yer mangy hides! the driver yelled at the top of his gravelly voice, while bracing his legs to keep his balance in the bouncing wagon box. Git up here Billy Boy an’ grab these ‘ere ribbons.

His companion was much younger, only in his early twenties but already a ‘mule skinner’ of some experience; his weather tanned face testament to long hard days of wagon driving across hard terrain. Dragging down his gaudy neckerchief he opened his mouth to reply and almost choked in a cloud of roiling powdered sand.

Urggg … Jim, it’s Jim. That’s my name. Give ’em to me Gabe, he finally got out, as the bouncing wagon slewed crazily sideways.

Gerrup you critters… The whip cracked again at the tip of the lash, returning like a twisting snake in response to a flick of the muleskinners wrist. On the recovery stroke he glanced down scornfully at the younger man holding the reins. But his weathered and deeply lined face betrayed a ghost of a smile without parting his cracked lips. If he had done so, a line of misshapen and much abused, tobacco stained teeth would have been viewed. The driver answered tersely.

Me, I’m Jim, least ways thet’s my given. So you gotta be ‘Bill’, if’un you rides with me young’un. Ah’s allus calls my pard ‘Bill’, thet ways I don’t have to beat my memory cells much. Too much rot-gut over the years makes me fergit things and such, ah reckon.

Gabe was suddenly in a talkative mood as the dust swirled over them, coating their faces in fine particles. Bracing himself he stood up in the box, pulling his right arm back, wrist cocked, to crack the long whip again. The desert grit showered from his grease stained buckskins as he struggled to maintain his balance to keep his upright stance. The wagon lurched from side to side as it corkscrewed its way through the soft sand of the arroyo.

Git them mules Bill!

Yeah, Yeah, Hickok replied, deciding to humour the old fella before he fell off. The mule team was finding better ground now and control was becoming easier lessening the pressure on the wrists. The eight-mule wagon straightened as the trail levelled and now he could hear the yells and curses coming from further back in the covered area. The passengers were less than pleased with the comfort offered by their conveyance and were making their views known. Gabe looked back and cracked open his dried lips in a tight smile.

The day had been long and tiring for all of them, driving across rough territory, parched dry and shrivelled by the lack of rain. The trail from Maryville, where Hickok had first met Gabe and his mule train was fairly easy going at the start but progressively deteriorated the further they went west. Back there at the station the stockmen had actually called the driver, ‘Old Gabe’, his grizzled features making him look old enough to be George Washington’s Uncle. But the younger Hickok was wary of this imposing mountain man, who by all accounts was every bit as tough as the bears he once hunted. Many were in awe of the man and it was easy to see that he could handle a mule team like he was born to it.

The big orange sun was kissing the tops of the tops of the purple mountain range on the far horizon as Gabe brought the mules to a slower pace, sensing tiredness in their straining sinews. Their combined strength would be needed and sorely tested by the rugged terrain tomorrow. They could also be asked to pull them to safety should they run into an Arapaho warband looking for easy prey.

Chief Barking Wolf had the ear of the elders in the big tepee and was getting support from the young bucks eager to blood their lances. They were uneasy and chary of the white-eyes from where the great Sun God is birthed every new day. The wise men of the village saw their coming as an omen of dark days to come and foretold of wailing squaws lamenting the loss of suckling children dying of starvation at the empty breast. Already scouts had reported that the great buffalo herds though still as many as the leaves in the forest had strayed far away from their normal breeding grounds. The white man must be turned away from the land of their fathers, if not by treaty it must be by the arrow and the war lance, this was the counsel of the elders of the tribe.

Hickok’s sharp eyes spotted a buzzard circling above over to their left, in the last of the sun’s rays. Lifting an arm he pointed across to it. Gabe had seen it already, hardly anything escaped his notice on the trail, and his hand was held across his brow shading his eyes as he squinted against the glare.

Yep, ah seen it Bill, was all he said and taking the reins from Hickok he guided the wagon off the trail. He had reasoned that the bird of prey had seen a possible meal from its circle in the sky. It also meant that there was probably some vegetation nearby and even perhaps a watering hole. As an early rider of this trail, which one day soon would stretch as far as Oregon, he knew that there should be some water hereabouts even in the driest of seasons but without an accurate chart it would be a matter of some guess work. Shifting sand and violent storms distorted the landscape every year and he never used this part of the trail very often, preferring the wide-open spaces of Kansas. There were fewer surprises on the plains and being a sure shot with his favoured Sharps rifled musket he could knock the eye out of a squirrel at a hundred paces. A conflict between his musketry and a party of raiding Arapaho would be a declared ‘no contest’, but here … the outcome could be less certain?

The creek they found was wooded with strange stunted trees, whose bark had been partially flayed off by the hot abrasive winds that prevailed at this time of year. As the wagon stopped the nervousness of the mules indicated that there was water above ground, somewhere close. Gabe believed that they could actually smell it. A mule had led him to water several times in past dry seasons and he marvelled at their inborn instinct for survival. Lowering the reins he turned to his co-driver sitting alongside.

Don’t be fooled by the daft look of them long-eared critters Bill, they’re smarter than horses or cow ponies and will always lead you to water. Smart as paint they are.

With that statement of ‘fact’ he tossed the reins over to Hickok and leapt down from the box, landing on the harder ground with both feet together. For a couple of seconds he stood still, an ear cocked listening to the sounds of nature in the vicinity, then as Hickok watched fascinated, Gabe scuffed his ancient calf-length boots on the small reddish rocks near him. The frontiersman explained his strange behaviour as a precaution, he hated snakes and knowing that most of the ‘foul’ serpents were sensitive to vibrations his boot scraping would alert any lurking rattlers to his presence and that they would slither out of the way. It was an old scouting trick that he had learnt from Stalking Pony Man in his much younger days when he was trapping up in the Yellowstone Country. Gabe smiled at the memory of it now but then when they were caught out by a sudden blizzard and they had to hole up in cave after they battled to remove its original occupant, a young grizzly. The bear would not leave without a fight and old Stalking Pony did not want to kill it and anger the ‘Bear Spirit’, so in the end they gathered some green brush wood, piled it close to the cave entrance and smoked it out. When it came down to survival they were smarter than the bear, but he never trusted bears after that and gave them due respect.

The time spent with Stalking Pony Man was a valued lesson in survival craft and he learnt both the ways of the Redman and the world in which he lived. The old Indian was of the Crow nation and at one time passed the arduous initiation rites to become a shaman or medicine man, as the Whites would call him. He knew of natural herbs and essences, their many uses for both good and bad but he was much more than a tribal doctor. His knowledge was about the world around him, why the seasons changed, where the animals migrated to, when things would change by reading the subtle signs and the sounds and smells of the forest. Generations and generations of the People-of-the-Crow had passed the accumulative experiences of every year ever down to one that had ‘the sight’.

During their many nights spent together sat close to a campfire in the wilderness, they sometimes gazed up at the velvet sky and wondered about the stars as they crossed the heavens. Their discussions covered all manner of things about heaven and earth and the many folk tales that were told in the lodges of the Crow. They spoke together, not as two people from differing worlds but as a loving father might to a favourite son. The skills he learnt during those days would never be forgotten.

Dropping the tailboard at the back of the covered wagon, Gabe snatched the canvas aside in one sharp movement and spoke to the passengers sat behind them.

Out yer git and stretch yer bones. This is as far as we go today, but stay close to the wagon an’ don’t git to wandering off. There might be a young buck out there watching and awfully keen to test the edge on his scalping knife.

A frightened tired face peered cautiously out of the darker interior, hoping to see the solid stone walls of a pony change station and the welcoming face of its owner.

Mister Bridger, Sir … where exactly are we? Where are the facilities…?

Vessel what…?" the frontiersman responded, a broad gap-toothed grin splitting his frizzled greying beard, speckled with a day’s sand and grit.

 Mister …Jim, Jim Bridger, isn’t it?" said his companion, now alighting carefully from the stationary wagon as though it was a boat on water while looking backward to see where to place his polished leather boots least he step on a serpent or in some mule droppings.

Where are our lodgings to be this night? he demanded looking to each side with a worried bemused expression then turning back to face the driver.

Jim Bridger, frontiersman, or ‘Gabe’ as he was sometimes known in Kansas and Missouri, was tall and broad shouldered and although now at the ripe old age of fifty-eight years he looked every inch the western legend he was to become, stood there dressed in his dusty fringed buckskin. Squaring his shoulders he slowly removed his coon skin cap, with a ringed tail still attached, holding it in front of him in both hands like he was stood before a parson.

Well it’s like this, it’s gonna be dark soon and we gotta get a fire going an’ draw some water. These mules are just about worn out, now they don’t complain much, not like some and they give an honest day’s work; so I figure not to kill ’em today, ‘cos we are sure gonna need ‘em t’morrow. When we git done you kin both get up there an’ sleep in the wagon if you want.

Then where are we… , the fatter one began, not liking or understanding what he had just heard.

I suggest you do what you gotta while me an’ Bill over there git to watering them critters an’ get a fire going. Then mebee I’ll get a chance to trap some game, if not it’ll be biscuits an’ jerky.

That was all Bridger had to say on the matter and he made his way back to the mule team, scuffing and kicking as he went. The passengers were from the newly formed Pony Express Company, which were in the process of setting up way stations along ‘The Oregon Trail’, as they called it, though most folks in Missouri thought that it should be The Bridger Trail and called it such. Some stations had been built and many others were planned but up to now most of the completed ones were near population centres to attract investment from back East; but many more sites needed to be surveyed out here in the wilderness.

The ‘Stiff Shirts’, as Hickok called them, were soon busy sorting through their luggage for various items to freshen-up. The shorter of the two, the one with the pinched weasel face and the complexion of a mortician, choked and coughed while he flapped his hands at his Eastern style frock coat. The resulting clouds of dust aggravated his delicate membranes and sent his aching lungs into convulsion. The bout of coughing doubled him over causing him to grab at the side of the wagon for support. Seeing his fellow travellers plight the other passenger plucked a gunmetal flask from the inside pocket of his jacket and after removing the cork proffered it to him. Weasel Face accepted it gratefully and took a draught; the strong liquor causing his cheeks to redden. Hickok shook his head disparagingly, as good clear water from the spring trickling from a crack in a boulder close by would have been better advised.

Bridger had made off into the surrounding scrub without a word so Hickok busied himself with the chores that he was familiar with. Releasing the lead mules from the harness and leading them to where they could drink was his first priority, then when they were done he tied a picket line between two gnarled tree stumps. The other mules were getting impatient and were letting him know with their braying; by sundown he had them all strung out, watered and fed with a bag of meal from the wagon.

You all done Bill?

The mountain man appeared suddenly and soundlessly from the bush, carrying in front of him two rabbits and a wild turkey. Ah got yer supper while you bin playing with them critters.

Christ Gabe, you sure know how to jump a man, you always move quiet like an injun like that?

Yeah, don’t wanna put a scare into the local population.

Who…?

 Saw some sign back there, he indicated with a slight not of his fur capped head, ‘just a few braves looking fer dinner, same as us I reckon. Nothing to alarm them Townies about, but best keep an eye; can’t afford to lose any more hair." He chuckled, removing the cap and ruffling what was left of his thinning locks. Hickok held out a hand.

Gimme them cottontails Gabe and I’ll set to skinning; can’t roast ‘em with their jackets on.

 Bridger had set the fire close to the wagon deliberately and it was just big enough to cook by without any roaring flames. Choosing wood which would neither smoke heavy or flare-up was a necessary part of what he called ‘trail craft’, for when in hostile territory. His long musket was loaded and propped up against the wheel of the wagon and a horse pistol was stuck in the belt of his buckskins, it was a silent message to Hickok that he was taking precautions without any fuss. The two passengers they carried from The Pony Express Company had found the stream and had attended to washing their faces in large linen handkerchiefs, removing some of the grit and dust from their eyes and eyebrows. Hickok wondered why, because they sure weren’t invited to no dance and tomorrow would be just the same.

That smells good Mr. Bridger, one ventured to say. Hickok could not see which as they both stood close to the fire, nervously peering into the gathering shadows around them, every so often.

What is it cooking there?

Good, honest prairie rabbit Mister, it’ll fill yer empty belly tonight. Don’t go wandering in that scrub no more ‘cos it’ll be as dark as pitch soon an’ I don’t wanna go searchin’ for you.

Bridger sat near the edge of the fire pit, flicking sand onto some logs that threatened to flare-up and occasionally turning the spit balanced on two forked branches set apart over the hot coals.

Git them plates Bill, these Gentlemen from the City here eats on proper tin.

Hickok handed out the metal plates and mugs, then stretching out a long leg, pushed the coffee pot closer to the hot glowing embers with the toe of his boot. A cloud of sparks drifted up into the cooling night sky as a result. The sudden display caused Bridger to be distracted from preparing some choice pieces of turkey and he looked up then frowned at Hickok saying nothing. Then reaching forward he held the spit in one hand and deftly sliced off a piece of roasted meat with a huge broad bladed knife.

Whoa …where’d you get that sword from Gabe? he ventured to ask.

T’aint a ‘sword’, young’un. It’s a knife, a big ‘un I admit, he replied sharply, smacking his lips as a sliver of tasty rabbit was transferred to salivating mouth.

Mmmm … tuck in fellas, he bade their travel companions to help themselves, before facing Hickok while brandishing the blade, now glistening with grease.

Yeah, got this made at Fort Hayes by the smithy there. The old boy told me that Colonel Jim Bowie had one just like it. Made mine from a broken sabre he did, done it up real fine. Carried it ever since.

The welcomed hot food disappeared from the plates fast, the city dwellers relishing a taste of western living. Once the strong coffee had gone the cups were refilled with some redeye whiskey offered by the bigger man with the florid face and walrus whiskers. They set to with some story telling from Jim Bridger, who was keen to recall the early days pioneering across The Great Plains and blazing trails. But the rigours of the day’s travel seeped into weary soft bodies and bedrolls were found and deployed near the fire. The men from back East were soon muttering their goodnights and bedding down, while Bridger and Hickok drew away to sit on an old fallen tree trunk, a few feet away to enjoy their own company.

Jim Bridger produced a pipe with a plain clay bowl from his beaded pouch slung round his neck and never far from him.

Ahh … he said, lighting up with the glowing tip of a slender twig brought from the fire, I rarely git a chance to draw on this. Was one of the few things ma Pappy ever gave me, God rest his bones.

Hickok never smoked, at least not then back in ’59, he just sat silent as a brave watching a skittish deer grazing. He watched the smoke curl up into the velvet sky, now inky black, dotted with many twinkling points of light. ‘Bill’ Hickok knew that they were stars up there, as a lad he had been taught so back in school in Troy Grove but he had no idea what they actually were. It intrigued him somewhat. Looking across at Bridger he could see that he had that far away dreamy look in his eyes and thought that he was replaying the days of his youth in his mind’s eye. At last he thought of what he wanted ask of the mountain man.

How come if you are ‘Jim’ Bridger, the folks call you Gabe?

Ah, wondered when you’d get around to that young fella, he replied, while tamping down the contents of the tobacco bowl with a callused forefinger.

Years back when trapping up in the ‘Yeller’, I could git lost fer months, ‘specially when the snows came in, sudden like. But somehow I could always find a cave or an old injun wikkiup for shelter and some game to trap. Some folks reckoned because Ma’s church goin’ of a Sunday, it was the angel Gabriel himself thet watched over me an’ brought me home safe, he paused to see how that sat with Hickok. Then he went on.

Yup, that’s how it started, then folks got to calling me ‘Gabe’, as short for Gabriel, I guess ‘cos they found it difficult to git their tongues round long words. Now me I find words no trouble at all, in any parlance. Frenchie, Spanish, Injun tongues, all the same, but I can’t write em down. Got no need, he laughed, not out here.

Now, I know Gabe, said the younger Hickok, getting up and stretching his long frame, all six feet of it. Shaking his shoulders and removing his hat allowed his long, shoulder length hair swing free. Removing the pipe from his lips, Bridger looked up.

Hey Bill, that’s some scalplock you got there. Better make sure it never decorates a Lakota lodge pole.

I’ll pay it some mind Gabe, Hickok promised with a grin.

The pair of them had struck up a cordial friendship, the younger man learning all the time from the mountain man, that was even now a frontier legend. Bill Hickok bent to his own bedroll and cast his eyes around looking for some soft sand to spread it on. Bridger rose too and stepped over to him, as lithe as a cat and spoke in a low tone.

Bill, spread yer roll over there by them critters, if’n you have a mind to. Them mules’ll warn you if there are any injuns about, then as an after-thought, he unhooked his ‘Bowie’ knife from his belt and handed it to Hickok.

Better have this fer a bit. I’ll spread my roll under the wagon an’ keep an eye open fer visitors. My pistols will be primed and ready an’ I’ll sleep light.

"I’ll be fine Gabe, get yourself under. Thanks for the loan of your ‘knife’, said Hickok, holding the heavy weapon up and giving it a look that furrowed his brow.

The mules were quiet, except the lead mule that was of a nervous disposition. It unsettled Hickok and he thought to go look in case the mules had disturbed a rattler. After checking the picket line he found all secure and settled the team down. Finding a soft spot of ground between two pines he scraped a hollow with his boot making a snug pit in which to spend the night. A last brief look at the glowing star-field above his head in a clear cloudless sky was all he did before easing his body down into the hollow.

It was not long before aching tiredness crept through his bones and his hard worked muscles started to relax. Wrapped against a cold night air that was stirring the pines above his head his body began to give way to the drowsy sleepy feeling that was hard to ignore. Letting go he slipped into the welcome warmth of sleep after a tough day, eating dust and straining the sinews of his arms as he controlled the mule team.

He woke.

Hickok did not know how long he had slept but it seemed only a few minutes. The mules were stamping and pulling at the length of rope forming the picket line, he could see they were spooked about something. Lying completely still, regulating his breathing, that was a skill he had learnt during many hunting trips up in Illinois, he listened. Something was moving through the scrub, slowly and deliberately, raising his head slowly he cast a look back toward the wagon but he could see no movement. He could hear some deep sonorous snores coming from beneath the hooped canvass but underneath there was no sign that Jim Bridger had heard anything. The deep shadow beneath the wagon concealed everything.

Hickok reached for the sheathed Bowie knife and silently withdrew the remarkable blade; it felt uncommonly heavy in his hand. Hardly daring to draw breath he listened closely and waited for whatever it was to betray its presence. It was coming his way and it was no Indian; it made too much noise. Then he heard it. The sound chilled his beating heart, a low throaty growl and then he could smell it. The heavy musk of the bear smelt trouble for all of them. The animal had been attracted from a mile or more away by the faint smell of roasting rabbit and it was hungry. So hungry that its empty belly had encouraged it to leave the mountain slopes in search of food. The bear was smaller than a full grown Grizzly but an adult Brown Bear was still big enough to cause serious damage. The huge beast burst through the tangled bushes on all fours, its head down, moving its slavering jaws from side to side. The old bear was ravenous, pausing briefly nostrils flaring, it set for the dying fire.

The line of mules was going frantic, kicking out, throwing their heads and rolling their wild eyes. The bear suddenly reared up snarling and pawing the air, then dropping back down, bared its teeth in a snarl that demanded blood and blood meant food. Changing direction to avoid a ditch it shambled toward the wagon. This old man-of-the-woods carried many wounds, some ancient and scarred and others more recent and festering. The stench of corrupting flesh was strong around him, as he passed by; Hickok wrinkled his nose in disgust. The remains of a rusted trap jaw was still embedded in the back of a hind leg, causing the beast much pain, reducing its mobility to a hobble. The poor creature was living a living death, in constant distress and slowly starving. If it reached the wagon it could kill with a slash of its claws, each as long as a man’s hand. In the darkness the beast was the monster of the most frightening of nightmares. There was nothing else to do, Hickok acted.

Leaping cat-like from cover he landed squarely on the bear’s broad back, thrusting his fingers deep into the matted fur he gripped hard, evoking ferocious growls of anger from his mount. Roaring into the night it reared, slashing the air with naked claws, trying to rip and tear at its tormentor. The great broad head of the beast swung and twisted, mouth opening and snapping, spitting foul smelling froth and blood.

The commotion raised the slumbering camp, Bridger cussing as he grabbed his musket. On the back of the maddened bear, Hickok was desperate to hold on, to fall off now would be certain death in those terrible jaws. Then with a surge of effort in one swift movement, the heavy blade flashed briefly as he drove it with all his might into the animal’s thick neck, wrenching it sideways with both hands to kill it quickly. But it was a full minute of riding that thrashing beast before it crashed to the ground, knocking the wind from Hickok’s lungs. With a rasping gasp he gulped, searching for the rush of cool air to ease his heaving chest. In all the fear and excitement he had almost stopped breathing himself.

Bridger’s legs had enough youth left in them to charge when he had to and now he had to. Carrying his musket low he ran to the kill like the hunter of old. Looking down at the stricken beast he saw the bloodied handle of his knife jutting from its neck.

By Gabriel himself, that was some wild thing you did there Bill. I reckon you save us plenty of grief.

So saying, Bridger bent and reclaimed his knife, wiping the red blade with a flourish across his thigh. The look on his grizzled features was as proud as if he had slain it himself.

Get yersel’ up off the ground there ‘Wild Bill’… now there’s a name, well-earned I’d say, then reaching down and extending a thick rough hand, he hauled ‘Wild Bill’ Hickok to his unsteady feet. To be greeted and feted by the two white-faced, open-mouthed passengers after they had finished staring at the dead monster.

 Thanks Gabe, Hickok replied, as soon as he could speak coherently while dusting himself off. He just nodded to the Easterners, standing like ghosts in their long night-shirts. This was going to be a story that they would tell and re-tell, the rest of their lives, in every bar, saloon and at every family gathering. Saved by ‘Wild Bill’ Hickok on The Oregon Trail.

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Chapter II: Pony Express, Nebraska 1860

The old timber building alongside the sandy creek had been torn down months ago in the spring and a low lava brick structure had replaced it. The roof was sloped and made of over-lapping turf layers on a sturdy pine frame, to keep the inside warm during the winter snows and cool in the dry heat of summer. The new structure was very solid with thick walls and a roof that was proof against anything, even the fire-arrows of marauding Arapaho and Kiowa. Attacks from hostiles, as the army called them, could still be expected in these parts despite the push west by civilisation. The owner of the station, Dave McCanles, had made several changes to it in the hope of securing a contract to supply change horses for The Pony Express Company. The company was eager to expand their freight and mail service ever westward where prospectors, small farmers and homesteaders were hoping to find a new life.

He had heard that Cottonwood, over the border in Kansas, had been given the word that a station would be built there and now the Company was considering options further north in Nebraska. Last year back Jim Bridger had brought up a couple of surveyors, which gave a favourable report of the site. They could see it was protected from the harshness of the climate by the sloping rock sides of the creek and there was a good source of fresh water. Bridger’s relief driver, young ‘Bill’ Hickok had agreed to stay on at Rock Creek and help with the stock. Dave McCanles could see that Hickok had a way with him and was good around horses, he decided that he would be a big help when the change ponies arrived. Some of them were likely to be unbroken, having come straight off the plains, so a wrangler would have to know what he was about. Bill was certainly a reliable character, according to Bridger, recounting to McCanles the story of Wild Bill’s leap onto the rampaging bear, killing it with a single knife thrust.

McCanles had invested heavy into this venture with the new building and the acquisition of a string of ponies, but he still had one problem left, which was easy access to the station by wagon and horses. The creek could only be crossed way down stream where the river widened on a long arc with shallow gravel banks on either side. It was the nearest crossing point that could be forded without too much drama most times during the year. The problems came when heavy rain or snow-melt up country brought the river into spate, then it was impassable. The experienced riders of The Pony Express were bold enough to cross, swimming their mounts but the wily McCanles was thinking to the future and the coming of a stagecoach service. The Overland Stage Company was expanding its routes westwards as well as the freight companies eager for more business. They pushed the limit of their service a little further each year and the Oregon Trail would soon be a known as a ‘safe’ route through the wilderness. He reasoned that with an established station and with a little more investment it would be all he needed, but where would he find the backers with the cash to invest out here in the wilderness at the mercy of ‘blood thirsty savages’ and no Army fort close at hand?

The work was mundane but Bill Hickok was making a reasonable living, managing what stock McCanles had bought and keeping them in good health. A good supply of fresh water had been discovered at the rear of the station building so McCanles had a well dug and lined with stone. The ability to draw fresh water in the dry season would be a bonus both for the riders and ponies.

‘Hey Bill, buckboard coming!’ the rangy pock faced man sitting on the corral rail shouted back over his shoulder while pointing south down the trail.

Brink, the new man, was ever alert because he had never worked so far out of town and had a morbid fear of being scalped, mainly due to all the joshing by his pals back in Marysville. The new stockman was friendly enough and had fitted in really well at the station, showing a knowledge of horse flesh and what ails them. Setting the leather bucket on the ground Hickok shaded his eyes to follow the direction of Brink’s raised arm. The stranger’s approach was unhurried and cautious, the old horse picking his own way through the jumble of small rocks and scrub. Brink jumped down off the rail and untied the ponies from the fence poles to lead the ponies into the corral and dropping the crude latch at the closed gate turned to look at Hickok, hoping that if danger threatened, he would be the one to take action. These were uncertain times in the western territories with a lot of talk about war and anxious folks were nervy about the effect it would have on business. The politics of it all was a mite complicated for Brink to follow, confining his interest to the horses. He knew however that Bill Hickok had some experience on the trail when he was a muleskinner and had a nose for danger.

No need to fret yourself ‘Doc’, Hickok assured him, he ain’t no threat, probably a carpetbagger or a drummer, by the way he’s handling that rig.

Guess so Bill, said Brink, feeling better and less nervous about things. The name ‘Doc’ had stuck on him because around Rock Creek, he was the first to show concern and help and injured beast, especially the stock ponies. Somehow his manner calmed them and with a little gentle probing he could get an assessment of what was ailing the beast.

A long time back when Hickok spent time trapping and hunting in the high country things he found that things were not always as they first seemed. Up in the ‘Nations’, the Sioux were masters of disguise and a tranquil camp with a small cooking fire was not necessarily set for a friendly welcome. In no time he could be running from a deadly hail of arrows and half-crazed braves seeking to steal his horse, gun and lift his hair. Those long auburn locks would look handsome hanging from some buck’s lodge pole but Bill Hickok wasn’t about to lose it easily.

The buckboard was about two hundred yards or more off, staying close to the edge of the river, which was shallow at this time of the year. Hickok placed himself a few paces in front of the open door to the main building. The dark interior could conceal any number of guns ready to back his play, but he knew that today the inside was empty. Only he and Brink were there so it would be a bluff, a ruse that he would develop later during games of chance at the card table. Now the idea was just to give him an edge if he needed it.

The stranger brought the rig to a halt in front of Hickok, the old grey horse standing quietly, knowing what was expected of him. The man was dressed in an old style frock coat, stained and dusted with the grime of travel, sat holding the reins in his lap for a moment, a tiredness of years showing on his stubbly face. Behind the plain plank seat on the boards was a large battered trunk bound with leather and iron, and a ragged carpetbag. The driver did not raise his head then, he seemed more concerned with the state of his clothes. Dropping the reins at his feet, he removed the army-issue gauntlets placing them on the seat next to him and began to dust himself off. The ritual was amusing to watch for the stockmen, who worked continually in the harsh surroundings without a thought about their clothes. A single clean set of duds was all they needed and that was for the once-a-month visit to town, with a few dollars in the pocket itching to be spent unwisely. Taking notice now as to where he had arrived he saw the tall, lean man standing in the shade of the building, motionless and eyeing him coldly.

Phineas J. Freemont, at your service Sir, purveyor of the finest handguns, knives and such that man has ever produced, he announced.

Without waiting for a response he sprang into life, dismounting quickly by swinging his long legs round in one movement and sliding out of the seat continuing his patter with hardly drawing another breath.

"We are indeed well met this fine day, can I impose upon your good nature and allow me to rest a spell and drink a draught of the good Lord’s bounty?

Brink had positioned himself on Hickok’s shoulder, as a henchman might, cleared his throat and hawked up a gob of bile, which he spat into the dust at his own feet. Hickok had not moved, his hands motionless, thumbs hooked into the front of his belt. He spoke slowly, his eyes narrowing while fixed on the stranger, his head held steady.

Fetch Mister Freemont some water Doc, we’ll parley awhile in the shade here.

His tone was deliberately flat and unemotional while he weighed the man’s intentions. The drummers he had seen before were in frontier towns and ramshackle miner’s camps and either drunk or leaving town fast, having run short of credit. This fellow had a confidence about him and a look of hard times past. Stepping to the side he indicated the rough wooden trestle that was against the lava-brick wall, under the over-hanging eaves. Prudently he kept facing the newcomer as he drew out a stool from beneath the table then sat on it while pointing to another. The drummer hauled the carpetbag off the back of the buckboard and using both hands on the grip, heaving it up onto the decking, the exertion making beads of sweat run down his reddening cheeks. Removing his wide-brimmed hat he flapped it in front of him, while mopping his face with a square of red silk.

Doc Brink returned with a pale of water and a dipping ladle, setting it on the table between them. He stood back a pace wondering about the stranger, who was now sitting back tucking his silk away and reaching for the ladle to slake his thirst.

Thank you kindly my man, this water will be just fine, thanked the drummer sipping from the cup. Hickok scrutinised Freemont carefully as he drank, not engaging him in conversation. After several gulping swallows Fremont allowed the ladle to fall back carelessly into the pail.

Well, now to business, he announced, leaning forward to the dusty bag near the toe of his boot and dragging it towards him.

I see you fella’s aren’t wearing side arms out so far in this wild country, so maybe I can help you there. See what I’ve got here for you. He said this while looking at the surrounding scrub as if expecting warring Kiowa to appear on cue.

The drummer, confident with his sales patter continued as he attended to the opening of his bag. After spreading a green cloth on the table he laid out his wares. Hickok had never seen these types of guns close-up before; they fascinated him. The bag contained a variety of handguns, Navy Colts, Remington’s and even a pair of Derringers. It was not long before Freemont was handing the weapons around and he could see from the looks on their faces that he had potential customers, but the question was … Did they have Federal dollars? Coins, that is, double eagles and the like, he did not care to accept paper money as he had no confidence in it. Much of it was just ‘scrip’; originally issued to the Army enlisted men when coinage was short and depending which territory or state you were in was whether it was acceptable or not.

The stockmen hefted the guns, testing their weight and balance, carefully inspecting each one but after trying a couple of Colts Brink shook his head, he had lost interest. Horses and ponies were enough for him, guns were only for survival in an emergency and if he had a good fit mount under him he could run, run forever if he must.

Now this is a fine piece, dear friend, said the drummer, turning to proffer a Remington 44, single action, butt first and was surprised to see only Hickok standing there. His other ‘customer’ had picked up the bucket and walked off. Bill Hickok took the pistol, weighing it appreciatively, finding the balance of the weapon suiting him and looking along the barrel to sight on an invisible target.

Your friend, he has no need of a fine pistol? the drummer enquired now fearing a customer was already lost.

No, I guess not, said Hickok spinning the cylinder then holding it up, barrel upright, the cylinder next to his ear. The smooth whirring sound meant that the pistol was well made and that the cylinder ran true and less likely to jam. It was something that old man Harvey, who owned the gun shop next door to his father’s general store, had shown him. This was specially necessary for a Remington piece like this because he had heard that they were prone to jamming but then, along with the mis-fire of a bad load, it was a common occurrence for side-arms at the time. Sensing he still had a possible buyer, Freemont wanted to press home the sale, he had a lot of old stock to shift this trip and he absolutely hated the hot dusty journeys through the western territories. There was danger out here with ‘wild’ Indians and bandits and such as he often reminded himself and already he wished he was back closer to a busy town where there was some resemblance of civilisation. But business on the road was hard and back East the folks there relied upon the appointed Constables to keep the peace. Out West it was different, a different country so to speak and in his view, needed much taming. Most of the ‘towns’ he found were little more than shanty structures, a mish-mash of canvas tents and clapper-board huts.

Here, he said, digging a box of ammunition out of a deep side pocket, why not try a spell of target practice. A piece like that needs to be fired.

Leading the way, Freemont stepped out of the cooling shade and walked away from the station building, heading for a sizeable boulder nearly the height of a man, stooping to pick up a fist-sized rock on the way. Reaching up he set it atop the boulder, about where a man’s head would be and strode back to Hickok. Passing the box to his customer he invited him to load up.

Take careful aim Sir and fire … squeeze her gently now, he said in a soft voice, suddenly sounding more like a church parson.

This was the first time Bill Hickok had held a loaded Remington, it would not be his last. Naturally he adopted a balanced stance, one foot placed firmly in front of the other and turning his body such that he was almost side on to the target. Slowly he stretched out his right arm before him, gun, wrist, elbow, arm forming a straight line. His eye aligned the gun sight to the intended target making little adjustment for trajectory; this would come with practice. Somehow he knew when to squeeze the trigger and how to smoothly apply the pressure.

The explosion in his hand was loud, much louder than expected. The gun kicked in recoil but he held it firm and fired again. The first shot was low by a hand’s breadth but the second clipped the side of the small rock, sending it spinning into the thorn bushes beyond. Two startled birds took flight into the blue and a thoughtful Hickok watched them go. The excited drummer broke into his thoughts.

Great shooting, what a gun eh? Freemont was well pleased, now to clinch the deal, he thought, I’ll be pleased to sell you this fine gun at a bargain price for Federal dollars, I can tell you suits the piece, right off.

There was no decision for Hickok to take, he had not been paid for two months, which was not unusual for the boss, Dave McCanles. He simply did not have the ready dollars in his poke.

Sorry, haven’t got it, was all he said, handing the pistol back to the drummer and walking back to the station house without another word. Phineas Freemont was shocked, he could not believe that he had just lost his only chance of a sale in five days. Sweeping of his hat he slammed it into the dirt at his feet.

* * * * *

The day was cooling down fast as the sun’s red-copper disc dropped ever lower in the sky, bringing some relief after the heat of the day. Doc Brink and Bill Hickok had the ponies settled, fed and watered, a fresh mount saddled and tethered at the corral gate. The arrival times of the Express riders were never certain but they knew one would be due tonight, maybe soon. Hickok was satisfied that they were all done and he had checked that the corral latch was secure, when some imperceptible nuance in the air around him, or perhaps it was a sudden stillness that caused him to look up and scan the trail to the west. Was that dust or smoke he could see, that was not there a moment ago?

Then he heard, no mistaking that sound, wild whoops and yips, yells of triumph that made the hairs on the back of his neck bristle.

Doc, Doc! Get the guns, close up ….Arapaho!

Hickok had made his ground and was flinging himself from the porch decking through the doorway. Brink was inside slamming the wooden shutters tight and dropping heavy iron bars across the window openings. On the far side of the room was the gun box, which Hickok was now next to, undoing the catch and opening it none too gently, allowing the lid to slam against the rough wall. Reaching inside he pulled out a couple horse pistols of some vintage. They were single shot flintlocks, of the sort that had been standard issue to the Pony Express riders and had been in use for ten years ago or more. McCanles probably got them cheap somewhere. Their main weapons of defence were the three Springfield muskets, also flintlocks, which normally stood in the back room and an even older scatter-gun. At the bottom of the box was a scruffy leather ammunition pouch containing plenty of powder, cap and ball. Hickok wondered how effective it would be because it had lain there for some time. He guessed that he would soon know.

They took the weapons loading each one in turn, spreading the remainder of the cap and ball on the table in the centre of the room. Stuffing a pistol in his belt and grabbing a musket, Hickok decided on a quick look up the trail, keeping low he stepped through the door.

You wanna lose yer hair Bill? screamed Brink, his fraying nerves on edge.

Not just yet Doc, he replied then turning back he saw the wagon, the driver crouching low in his seat, urging the horse to even more speed. An outrider rode in his dust, head bent down by his mount’s neck while turning and firing at the horsemen following them. The driver guided the horse close to the steep-sided bank of the creek rising on his left side but the soft sand and tiredness of the horse was slowing the wagon down. The outrider pulled level with the struggling horse and bending low in the saddle, took the head harness in a gloved hand pulling its plunging head up. Hickok braced himself against a roof support post, the musket held ready, loaded and primed, but as yet he had no clear target.

The dust cloud kicked up by the approaching buckboard and chasing horsemen, obscured everything, he waited. They had almost reached the perimeter fence line when he could see that it was the drummer’s buck-board, heading straight for him, the outrider taking control