Joe Oscar Undaunted – 1876

By Denny Offner

This story was woven into the fabric of the history of the American frontier. Many of the
characters, including Joe Oscar, Davey Wall, the Big Timer, and Prairie Flower, are fictional.
Some of the characters, such as Charlie Rath and Grant Marsh, lived the frontier life. The story
begins in March 1876, concludes in August 1876, and follows the historic record. It is a story of the ordinary and extraordinary life of the period, of epic struggles for survival, of triumph and of heartbreak, of war and of tranquility, of hatred and of great kindness. It is a story of conflict, of the historic advancements and digressions that define the American frontier.

Ride with Joe Oscar and the Stewart herd of Texas longhorns across the Red River, up the
trail, past the Wichita Mountains, through Indian Territory, and on into Dodge City. Travel with Joe and Captain Grant Marsh from Saint Joseph Missouri to Fort Abraham Lincoln in the Dakota Territory on the steamer Josephine. Be part of the Seventh Cavalry expedition as they search for the Lakota along the Little Missouri, Yellowstone, and Little Bighorn rivers. Hunt with the Custers. Camp in the Wolf Mountains of the Montana Territory. Traverse the plains along with the buffalo, pronghorn, wolves, and grizzlies. Take the stage road into the Black Hills and Deadwood. Get to know Charlie Rath, the legendary Quanah Parker, Wyatt Earp, White Bull, George and Libbie Custer, and Wild Bill Hickok.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499057959

Denny Offner

Denny Offner is a native of Missouri, growing up near Saint Louis, where as a young boy, he collected Native American spear and arrow points, as well as other artifacts, from the fields and woods near his home. He has travelled extensively throughout the United States, especially the frontier states in the West. A retired Navy officer, Mr. Offner has travelled and lived in many places, including Italy, as well as many other countries in Europe. He has also spent considerable time in Japan. Mr. Offner earned a Bachelor of Arts degree in Philosophy from the University of Missouri, Saint Louis.

Book preview

Chapter 1

We were in Texas. We were youthful, and we had little responsibility. So it only made sense we sign on for this Stewart cattle drive up to Dodge, I was telling myself. As Davey said, just regular stuff for us to have a run at the drover business.

So we gathered wood and started a fire near Bernie’s chuck wagon set on the edge of a grove of pecan, oak, and big old vase-shaped elm trees.

Tomorrow would be a big day. Being a cold night, most of the other drovers were already wrapped in saddle blankets, asleep near the fire.

Eddie and Steve had just assumed the night watch. The cattle, all 3,177 of them, were herded in the fields to the south of the grove. The remuda, numbering over seventy horses, were staked out to the north, not far from Bernie’s wagon.

Under a calm prairie night shimmering with thousands of brilliant stars and a moon not even half full, we soon had an immense crackling fire, with flames dancing twenty feet and higher in the air, the gray and white smoke rolling mostly upward with just a whiff lingering close by the fire.

We were situated just a short few hundred feet south of the Red River, a few miles north of Eagle Flat, Texas, and about three miles upriver from where the North Fork flows into the Red River.

We had just finished packing up the wagon. Thirteen bedrolls. Our small arsenal included Sharps .50-caliber buffalo and sporting rifles, Winchester lever-action rifles—including my .45-.60—and the Colt .45 Peacemakers and other Colt revolvers favored by those Texans among us. All to be safely transported in the morning across the river by Bernie. Bernie Reilly stood about average in height and heavy around the shoulders and waist. He had a lot of curly white hair that was usually clean and usually disheveled. He wore a short white beard on his ruddy face, almost always with a smile. He wore no hat and was normally holding a cigar in between the first and second finger of his right hand, the same hand he frequently used to gesticulate when he was talking. Bernie’s shirt and pants were baggy. Bernie earlier told me he was two years older than Randy, which made him forty. He grew up in Eagle Flat with Randy and Steve and Eddie; according to Bernie some called the area Eagle Springs. Bernie spoke in that distinctive voice, maybe half an octave higher than the normal voice.

This crossing I’m travelling to in the morning, boys, is the only one within several miles each direction that is fitting for a wagon when the river gets so high and dangerous like it is now. I haven’t seen the river, but Eddie tells me it is a raging torrent of water, that he has never seen so much water in the river, that we ought to wait a few days until it is back to a more normal flow, that it is crazy to cross in the morning. He told me he would talk to Randy first thing tomorrow. From my Comanche friend, Silver Cloud, I first learned of the crossing, which is widely known among the Arapaho and Comanche. I suppose his people would use it to cross with their travois. It is a shallow, long flat table of rocks across the river bottom. The banks there are thick with mesquite, cottonwood, birch, catclaw, prickly pear cactus, and other brush, but there are trails up from either side of the river if you know where to look. There the river stretches wide. It’s sometimes hard to know where the banks start and stop.

Moad, I’d like you to ride with Lee and I. Hell, if the river is too wild, you may just have to carry my wagon across. I have some sturdy rope in case we have to make the crossing ferry style. We’ll leave here just before sunrise and be across the river by 9:00 a.m.

Chapter 2

Chilly was the predawn morning air. Randy Stewart posted himself on the south bank downriver from our crossing point. A little taller than average with wide shoulders, slim waist, and athletic build, he walked with a sort of fast-paced swagger. Holding his bay’s reins, he looked at his brother with those piercing blue eyes and said, Steve, when we move the herd into the river, I want you directly across from me on that north bank. Take Gus and Billy T. with you. And take care.

Steve, a stout man who stood a little shorter than his older brother, otherwise resembled Randy in appearance. Square jawed with high cheekbones, his demeanor was all business. He sat his sorrel mount with his back straight, nodded, signaled with his left hand, and the three of them plunged into the water just to the right of Randy.

OK, boys, let’s move. Bo, don’t forget we are Texans! said Randy, his blue eyes sparkling and gazing into the wrath of the river.

Directly in front of us, the rugged grandeur of the Red River, full from an early snowmelt, roared its tumbling rusty-colored froth to the east. Bunched behind us were those 3,177 head of fine Texas longhorn.

Eddie and I, riding together, approached Randy. I was told just yesterday by Randy I would be posted with Eddie, though we were barely acquainted. Eddie struck me as a sort of quiet and surly dynamo. I heard he had a short fuse with a tendency to throw a quick punch, especially when his adversary was looking the other way. I heard he was, with his short and thick stature, a brawler when the opportunity came along, which evidently was often. Randy and Steve likely overlooked Eddie’s mean streak because of their lifelong friendship. After all, his particular skills sometimes came in handy on the frontier.

Eddie, with that short curly blond hair and thick mustache underneath blond eyebrows and brown eyes and wearing that confident, surly, even look, spoke. With the roar of the river in front of us, he had to yell.

Looking directly into Randy’s piercing blue eyes, he exclaimed; Randy, what the hell, we want to go and mess with this river today? Last fall we crossed here with barely a foot of water in the river. Look at her—what the hell are you thinking?

Now, Eddie, Randy responded, think about it. We have a pretty good deal here. Soon these beeves will be across the river, all clean and washed off. No ticks. Besides, this here is a cattle drive. What the hell, let’s just get with it. I’m posting my two finest horsemen, you and Joe, downstream to cover my right flank. These animals are natural-born swimmers. You can take that to the bank. I need you two downstream to keep an eye for the likely event a few of these fine animals get confused and turn into the current. I don’t want to lose any of my cattle. Gentlemen, this is a tough assignment I’ve handed you. Watch out for each other.

As you say, Colonel. We’ll handle things downriver.

Randy headed off upriver.

Yesterday we had hand selected a few sturdy bulls that Enzo Nico was now placing at the front of the herd there on the south bank. Davey Wall was mounted just to the right of Enzo, where we were preparing to push the cattle across.

From deep down in my stomach a feeling of exhilarating excitement welled up, anticipating the thrill of moving the herd across this raging river. With the first rays of light from the rising sun off on our right, Enzo Nico splashed those longhorns into the river. The beeves followed their leaders and Davey Wall into the water, quickly forming a line of animals from the south bank, swimming maybe a couple of minutes, and then climbing out on the north bank where Steve and Gus and Billie T kept them moving along. These longhorns were doing proud their legacy as hardy swimmers, holding their heads up above that frigid, treacherous water, each following the lead of another.

Eddie and I held our horses in the river just into the shallowest point—downriver off the south bank. It was Eddie that saw that first steer panic. A beeve’s natural instinct call for allowing the current to push it along when swimming. As this steer panicked, he began swimming against the current. That current then turned the animal sideways and swept him into deeper water. Then the steer spooked two others, and all three animals were in that powerful, deep, dangerous current heading downriver.

Eddie was riding a sturdy swimmer. Guiding his sorrel downriver, he had a tight bead on the floundering trio. Now downriver some distance from the crossing herd, Eddie jerked his mount into the full raging power of the current. Within seconds, the sorrel began to struggle with some submerged snag, likely an uprooted tree. Suddenly, the horse stopped and then turned, or was pulled, to Eddie’s left. Facing that fierce current, Eddie lost his grip and his balance and tumbled on his back into the water.

Following Eddie at a short distance, I plunged my big paint into the current and threw my hat to the spot where Eddie went under. My thought was for Eddie. Once underwater, his only hope was me.

I rode the current, guiding my horse downriver and following my hat, now tumbling in the froth, searching the surface. Then things seemed to slow down for me. Minutes passed. We swam back and forth between the banks in that cold and roaring water, allowing the river to push us downriver as Eddie would be pushed, taking care not to lose sight of that hat. I could feel the heart of that big paint pounding. Then there Eddie was in a roll of the water. Moving to him, I pulled Eddie up by his collar with my left hand and threw him in front of me on the neck of the horse and then pushed to the north bank. As I pulled him from my horse, I knew we had lost Eddie by the way his limp, lifeless arms flopped down on my shoulders.

Chapter 3

None of us drovers proved very handy with a shovel. Working with the two spades from his wagon that Bernie had earlier left us, we dug a hole in the red clay of the north bank, a hole deep enough and wide enough so that Eddie would not be disturbed by any of the many critters that called this part of Indian Territory home.

Because we had sent with Bernie the bedrolls and most of the saddle blankets and whatever we might have otherwise used to wrap Eddie, some went and gathered timber from the riverbank. Gus and Finbar carefully cut and trimmed the wood, and using also some rope, we gently wrapped the wood around Eddie so as to fashion a sort of frontier coffin. We placed his coffin in that hole, and we filled Eddie’s grave with brush and tightly packed red clay. We marked the site with a cross fashioned by Steve from some off-white driftwood recently deposited high on the bank.

It was known among us that Eddie liked the watch at night, with the stars bright and the herd calm. There he lay, proud drover, standing watch on this new Dodge Trail.

Chapter 4

We all gathered around. Randy somberly removed his hat and, in a wide, sweeping motion, gestured toward Eddie. The boss spoke. His voice was calm and even; the sparkle in his blue eyes subdued.

Boys, sometimes life is fired at us point-blank. Early this morning, just a while ago, we moved the herd across this wild river. We all made it across, the herd, the horses, the boys, except one. We all knew Eddie as a fighting man and that he handled himself well. He had our backs when things got rough. A few of us here today maybe would never have made it back across Emmitsburg Road and out of Gettysburg that rainy July day in 1863 without Eddie. Like some others of us, maybe from the war, he did seem to carry a burden deep in his soul. Eddie was a good friend. We leave him here, overlooking the Red River and the Dodge Trail and this prairie—an altogether fitting resting place for Eddie. Today we hope that the Lord is nearby. This morning, the yoke Eddie bore has been lifted, and his burden made light. Lord, we place Eddie’s spirit in your hands.

Steve proceeded on his harmonica with a powerful rendition of Dixie. Then the boys moved off toward the herd.

That is how it went. It was still the chilly morning of Friday, March 17, 1876.

Randy approached. He wore a serious look on his face. His voice was uncharacteristically soft.

Joe, he said, I want to thank you again for risking your neck, heading downriver and pulling Eddie out. That was some kind of horsemanship in this roaring current.

Boss, all I really did was let the current take me as it takes a twig or a tree branch, guide my horse to Eddie, lift him out by his collar, and throw him in front of my saddle.

I saw more effort than as you say, Joe. You rushed undaunted into the riskiest rapids of that river, after a guy you had only met a few days ago. If you would not have caught up to Eddie, he would have washed downriver and, in this current, likely never been found. I’ll be sure to mention this to his sister, Denise.

Thank you, Randy.

Fine. Now let’s get our herd moving north.

Randy turned his back, mounted that bay colt of his, and headed on up from the bank toward the herd and the rest of the boys.

I lingered a minute by Eddie’s grave. My horse neighed as I climbed the saddle. From little more than a twig on a young elm standing near the bank, a yellow breasted meadowlark sang over and over the short few notes of her melody. High in the still-azure-blue morning Red River sky, a lone golden eagle circled and shrieked. I followed Randy’s lead up the trail.

Chapter 5

Following these early morning events, with the boys overlooking the herd just off the north bank of the Red River, I caught back up with Randy and saw that Bernie and Moad and Lee Roth had rejoined us. The boss spoke up.

Gentlemen, we’re in Indian Territory now. A few years ago, some days’ ride to the north and east of us along Medicine Lodge Creek, the federal government worked out a deal with the Kiowa, Comanche, and some of the other tribes. With that deal and by treaty, this land is the land of those tribes. Due to some differences these last two or three years between the tribes and the federal army, including depredations committed by both sides, the army has, for the most part, shown the tribes that it is best for all that we coexist peacefully on this land. Keep in mind there are rogue Indians as well as occasional young braves not willing to listen to the tribal chiefs and elders. There are also outlaws and horse thieves scattered about, so we need to keep our guard up. By and large, though, the Indians we encounter these next few weeks are not hostile. Since this land belongs to the tribes, chiefs, such as the Comanche Quanah Parker, expect payment with a few beeves from us for crossing. I’m in favor of these payments. That sort of cooperation, handled properly and with respect, can make allies and go a long way out here on the prairie. Now let’s get this mighty thundering herd of ours headed north.

Thus began our trek into Indian Territory on this new trail some were calling the Dodge Trail. We knew the route to be fairly direct to the rail head in Dodge City, taking into account the need for wood and for water.

The herd was restless, with their familiar grunts and bellows. They were ready to move on after the early morning excitement. The plains opened up north of us, and we found we were climbing a slight rise out of the Red River valley. Within a couple of hours, the herd, with their gait brisk and their manner calm, had formed a line extending probably more than three miles. As we neared the time to stop for the day, we topped the rise; and still under a clear sky, we could make out mountains a ways off to the north and east.

Off in the distance, I could see Bernie had found a likely spot to park his wagon and had unhitched his mules. As was his habit, he pointed the wagon tongue toward the north. Later on, when it got dark, he would point that tongue at the North Star. He told me a couple of days ago that the tongue helps Randy get his bearing before first light in the morning. I went ahead and rode over toward the wagon. My horse was soon matching strides with Gus’s palomino colt. Gus, who was twelve years old, resembled his dad, except for his cool, alert gray eyes and his compact stature. His face was more rounded then Randy’s. His hair was brown, worn to his shoulders. Both father and son were blessed with big thick shoulders. As was frequently the way he rode, he was standing in his stirrups.

Where is your dad, Gus?

I just saw him. He and Steve rode off to the east scouting around for signs of game. I’m sure he’ll be back here soon enough. I’m gonna head over and check on the horses. See you in a while, Joe.

I came upon Bernie as he had just opened the back end of the wagon and was setting the table legs. Working quickly, I saw him reach in one drawer of his chuck box I knew for a knife, as he had a big hunk of beef, which he was about to whack up into some steaks, which he would grill after we got the fire going. Bernie knew so much about things. I enjoyed helping him however I could, just so we could talk. Davey helped around the wagon also.

Hi there, Joe, Bernie said. I heard you had a busy day.

A busy day and a sad day.

Just then, Davey walked up. Davey had a sure steady gait, resembling even a panther. Davey stood an average height. He had an athletic build with strong arms and a slender waist. He had curly black hair and a full-trimmed black beard, peered intently from quick and steady brown eyes below those full black eyebrows and usually with a slight smile, like he was glad to see you.

Folks would say I had many of the same physical characteristics of my friend Davey. We were both twenty years old. Actually, Davey’s birthday being in January and mine in July, right now I was nineteen. My hair was blond and my eyes were gray. I usually wore a few days’ growth on my face, not one to shave every morning. We were both left handed. We both carried a Colt Peacemaker. I wore mine where I could get to it right quick if needed. Davey wore his where he thought it looked good—a little lower on his thigh.

Bernie greeted Davey, Howdy, podner. Welcome to our little home on the prairie.

I glanced at the stenciled plank of wood Bernie had tacked on the top of his chuck box, which read: Home on the Range.

So did Moad carry your wagon across the river, or did you ride across? asked Davey.

Lee and I rode across. Moad insisted on wading with his big steed and rope to the north bank, in case the wagon needed settling when we hit that current. He made out as if he was concerned about Billy T.’s vodka. However, knowing Moad to be a practical man, I figure he wanted to take care our formidable arsenal and all that ammunition did not get wet. I think Moad aims to do some hunting these next few weeks.

You didn’t say nothing to me about vodka, I said.

Oh yeah. Fact is, Billy T. made a bidness deal with Randy a few days ago when he joined us. At his insistence, Billy T. is not on the payroll. Way that Billy T. figures, he joined us for the thrill of the drive, so it wouldn’t be right he took Randy’s money. Billy T. insisted he ride only his own horses, which would be those six fine, shiny coal-black stallions Gus is watching out for in our remuda. Billy T. also firmly insisted we bring the two cases of vodka that are so carefully packed with velvet and brass tacks and such and set under my bench on the wagon. No one but Billy T. is allowed into that vodka. Randy reluctantly agreed.

Crazy Russian, that Billy T, I said.

We saw Randy and Steve ride in. The two were standing next to us a few minutes later, along with Enzo, Bo, and Billy T., all having dropped their horses with Gus.

Steve spoke. We saw fresh sign of a few buffalo and pronghorn up ahead, and these tracked off to the north and west. We also saw fresh sign of a few unshod ponies, heading off into the mountains. A little curious as to the careless way these Indians rode, not like the Comanche in this area.

There is real good grass about twelve miles north of here, Randy interjected, buffalo grass, side oats, and big bluestem, a beeves favorite. Bernie, let’s see if we can get an early start in the morning. We’ll push the herd and get to that grass tomorrow afternoon. I intend to let the stock fatten up maybe three days before starting up the trail again.

Joe, Randy continued, I want you to take Davey and Moad the morning after we arrive in that good grass and ride into those mountains. We know the deer is thick there, especially in those pin oak groves. There is plenty of game where y’all will be headed. Bernie, go ahead and give these youngsters a requisition.

If you shoot an elk, my buddy Bernie was speaking, be sure it is small enough to pack out. We could boil or roast some quail. Shoot you some nice black-tailed deer. Pronghorn are great eating, though they’ll likely be running by the time you see them. You’ll see plenty of turkey, so you may as well bring some back. If you see buffalo, let them be. The fact is we will likely see buffalo on up the trail. Those big gray wolves run with the buffalo. Shoot every gray wolf you see. Skin ’em. Their fur’s worth maybe $10 a hide in Dodge, and we could use the money for the general fund. Don’t worry about the wolf carcass. That is the ravens’ responsibility. If you see a bear, let him be. The meat not worth the effort.

Bernie continued, No beaver. They taste exactly like what they eat, which is plants and such. If you see a hedgehog or porcupine or skunk or rattler, best let them be, though skunk can be good eating if you know what you’re doing. No foxes, wood rats, squirrels, prairie chickens, or coons. If you see a badger, best let him be. You do not want to upset a badger. Also, let the ducks and geese be. No use being greedy.

Bernie, Dave asked, what is the general fund?

Generally used for beer money when we roll into Dodge.

So shoot big gray wolves.

Kill them any way you can, Davey. Bernie winked at Moad, just joining us.

Moad was big, maybe about six feet tall. He had enormous strength.

His shoulders and arms were massive, his waist not small, though he was sensitive to that particular fact. His hair was brown, which he wore shoulder length. He shaved often, almost every day. He was probably ten years older than me. His large torso was not in proportion to his short legs, and he barely had a neck, which what little neck he had was thick. He had a big round head. Moad was usually smiling with those white teeth and thin lips under a smallish nose and wide brown eyes. His arms, in proportion to the rest of the man, were short, his hands of average size. His legs were heavy and powerful, and he likely had to special order his shoes as his feet were real big. As one might expect, he spoke in a deep gravelly voice, usually with a friendly inflection.

Moad said to Randy, We’ll need some good packhorses.

Gus replied, I’ve got three steeds for you. They’re not Belgians, but they’re strong enough, believe me. Plus three good stallions for the ride.

Bernie added, I’ve also got something in mind, Moad. I’ll talk to you later about it.

Finally, Bo, Enzo, and Billy T., who together had been riding drag all day, were milling about the wagon.

You boys learn anything riding with Bo today? Bernie asked.

The beeves move in the direction and manner Bo wants, yet Bo motions almost without notice. He rides smoothly and quietly, sees much and disturbs little, spoke Enzo.

Enzo Nico was from Sardegna and was proving to be an expert horseman, maybe the best horseman out of the bunch of us on the drive. He was an older man, possibly fifty years old. Shorter than average height, he wore that thick gray hair to his shoulders. With a full beard extending to his chest, which he sometimes stroked, he peered stoically with those piercing gray eyes beneath thick gray eyebrows. His head somewhat larger than average and with a short neck, his short powerful arms and small hands extended from a strong barrel chest yet with a slim waist belying his age. With his muscular legs on which he strolled with a surprisingly athletic walk, he did present a formidable appearance.

The herd was calm today. Never know why. Maybe it was the sunny weather and the calm breeze, observed Bo. I sure enjoyed riding with you and Billy T. today. I learned a few things from y’all today

Bo and Enzo stood about the same height. Bo had a round face, a thick neck, a big chest, and a thick waist. He was muscular, with very quick reflexes. His hair was curly black, had big brown eyes and a pug nose. Big strong legs. Bo was part of the extended Stewart family. Randy had bought Bo from his neighbor and then legally made him a free man at the age of twelve, just before Randy left for the war.

Randy, Bo continued, "if it’s