Last Train to Montana

By George D. Miller

This is a story of the Old West where human perseverance and downright doggedness of the brave and, at times, weary pilgrims nurtured their inner push to staying the trail west. This was to be the routine that was to form the settlers’ strength and resilience of the day. Doggedness of the lead wagon driver displaying his/her ability to place the empty wagon tongue always to the northwest, assuring their unerring starting direction, each morning. This is the story of such individuals, whose tragedies and romance along dusty rutted trails forever beaten into history by the multitude of wagons, horses, and oxen, placing their own stamp on the multitude of restless pilgrims who preceded them. This is a story on one heroic individual leading what would be his last wagon train to the mountain wilds of Montana. His firm hand in handling the settlers’ disputes and/or shoot-outs kept the train in order by maintaining his sense of right and wrong.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662455001

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Last Train to Montana

George D. Miller

Copyright © 2021 George D. Miller

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2021

ISBN 978-1-6624-5499-8 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-5500-1 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Big Hank Crowley

The Meeting

Never a Dull Moment

Arrows Hurt

Shaggy Beasts and More Problems

Missing Children and a Killer Cougar

Tragedy Strikes

One Last Scout

Finally! To Our New Home

Finally! To Our New Home

Dedicated to the wonderful memory of my beloved Rusty:

Joyce E. Miller

Loving wife, mother, and grandmother.

May 29, 1936–January 29, 2018

Acknowledgments

I would like to dedicate this short story to my wonderful, once redheaded wife, whose fading hair lent itself to one of the title characters, Rusty. Thanks for your understanding when I would disappear into my cave to write and for the numerous hours she spent proofreading my book.

Also, many thanks to my grand- and great-grandchildren, whose first names I used freely and adopted for characters throughout the book.

Last but not least, thanks to all those I bored with story plots and character talks and their free collaboration and support.

Prologue

It was a beautiful morning with the sun barely clawing itself over the distant mountains. In this half-light of dawn, the rugged cliffs seemed to open their arms to a beautiful display of pink and purple pastels, contrasting with the snow-capped peaks of the mountains, looking as if gentle fingers were tickling the sky. Although spring, the branches of the evergreen trees still had tiny icicles frozen to them caused by the slowly melting snow. Hanging from the branches, it seemed to lend an aura from Christmas passed. It was as if a Western fairy tale was being created as a welcome to a new nation of immigrants. As a gentle breeze wafted over the branches, the little icicles timbred in the early morning light, playing a welcoming song to the early risers.

The fresh morning dew had hardly a chance to dry upon the thick prairie grass, but breakfast had been finished and the utensils were all washed dried and replaced in their respective niches. With the time honored, Wagons ho being called by the wagon train master, the wagon train began slowly snaking out across the hardpan of the prairie to the happy cheering and singing of the immigrants anxious to start for their new home. The cottonwoods, looking as if snowballs were hanging from its limbs, gave a false perception that it wasn’t really spring but winter. Everyone had now settled into the mundane business of the day, guiding their wagons filled with their life’s belongings to the West. This was the most boring time of the journey. Sitting on the hard plank benches of the driver’s seat, holding the reins of a matched team of oxen in your hand while watching the swaying movement of the oxen’s hindquarters as they obediently leaned into their yokes, keeping the large houses on wheels moving at a steady pace. Conversation at times was near impossible as the alkali dust clouds created by the oxen’s hooves and the steel-rimmed wheels often choked the drivers and passengers. The dusty dirt trails they traveled on had been created years ago by the hooves of countless teams driven by hundreds of other immigrants bent on reaching their promised land in the far reaches of the American northwest.

Normally, the trip from Independence, Missouri, to Montana Territory would be about two thousand miles. Due to the fact that a train such as this would have to add about one thousand miles on to it. This was caused by the fact that the train was being pulled by oxen. The pace of the oxen was terribly slow compared to a horse or mule. But the convenience of using the oxen becomes apparent when you figure the amount of grass and water consumed by horses or mules compared to the minimal amount of dry grain and the much lesser need for water of the ox. The scouts were much more pleased with an oxen-driven train because their need to ride mile after mile to find grazing and water for the horses and mules was cut in half. Most of the wagons carried a good supply of dried grain for the oxen.

Within the next five minutes, the serenity of the moment was irreversibly broken. In the distance came a rider, his horse kicking up a considerable dust cloud. As he neared the train, you could see his horse lathered in sweat.

The wagon train scout, waving his Stetson, was yelling, Indians! Indians! Circle the wagons.

Big Hank Crowley, the wagon master, upon hearing the warning, immediately turned his horse and raced in a headlong gallop to the lead wagon.

Shouting at the top of his lungs, he yelled at Link, Turn your damned wagon around now and get the circle started.

Leaning as far out of his saddle as possible, the wagon master grasped the yoke of the lead ox, jerking its head around, causing the other ox of the pair to follow. One by one, the drivers, now beginning to panic, were standing in the boots of their wagons, reins in one hand and whips in the other, cussing and yelling at their teams to turn. The oxen, dumb beasts that they are, were also in a panic, their eyes bulging and nostrils flaring trying to get more oxygen into their systems to yank the large cumbersome Conestoga wagons from their straight line of travel and reverse their direction. Outriders and scouts had a difficult time with their horses shying with the bellowing from the other teams that could be heard up and down the line. You could hear the slap of leather reins against the rumps of the teams struggling to do what was commanded of them. Clods of dirt flew, sending a cloud of dust into the air as wagon wheels screeched with the wagons slowly turning, beginning to form a protective circle. Women and children screamed as they were jostled from one side of the wagon to the other, following the orders from the wagon master to get inside your wagon and keep your heads down!

Link, driving the lead wagon, was finally able to bring his rig to a sliding halt, standing in the boot of the wagon, his foot pushing hard against the brake handle, he pulled hard on the traces, yelling Whoa to his team. Once the wagon skidded to a halt, Link quickly wrapped the reins from the yoke around the brake handle and grabbed for his Winchester rifle from the rack just behind the driver’s seat, cranking a shell into the chamber as he slid down into the driver’s boot almost under the seat of the wagon with his head and carbine just barely showing. Squinting, he could see alkaline dust clouds forming around the wagons and thought he could hear the distant banshee-like yells of the oncoming red hoard. Every muscle in his body was now taut as he was looking to draw a bead on the first redskin to show himself. He could plainly hear the buzz of the bullet instead of the bark of the rifle that fired it, then…everything went black!

Tossing and turning from memories of the Indian attack still in his mind, Link sat straight up in bed, his body covered in sweat, gingerly reaching up for the imaginary bandage on his head wound. Finding no bandages, he finally realized that he was indeed still in his own bed. Then smiling to himself said, "Whew! That was too real for comfort."

It was early morning, and Lincoln Miller was still in bed at his family’s ranch house. Still in his skivvies, he slid out of bed and padded barefoot through the living room and opened the front door. The sun was struggling to bring the light of day to the secluded valley, but the coolness of the morning caused a slight intake of his breath. Breathing a sigh of relief, the thought of the nightmare attack was beginning to wane. Although the beginning of April, a cool breeze rustled through the cottonwoods. He shivered while looking out over the small spread and marveled at the majestic still snow-covered peaks of the nearby Rocky Mountain range. Holy mackerel, he thought, its colder than a well digger’s ass. I guess I had better get myself dressed and rustle up some grub and get ready to leave. It’ll be at least three days of travel before I reach the river. Even though he was reluctant to leave the ranch, he did have a little twinge in his belly in anticipation of the upcoming stern-wheeler boat trip, the first of his life. Finishing his breakfast and now fully dressed, he went to the barn to saddle up his horse. Trying his bundle of clean clothes and bedroll behind the cantle, making sure his Winchester 44/40 was secure in the scabbard, he fastened his gun belt and gun around his waist, then checked his Colt .44 to see if it were fully loaded. He then mounted his horse and headed down the Old Trail toward Great Falls to the south.

It was a slow ride in the new snow, so he gave his horse it’s head and let him pick the pace he wanted to travel. Not really paying much attention to where he was, the horse automatically stopped. What’s wrong, old son? he said to his horse but then, a quick look around, found the horse stopped at the little graveyard, where both of his parents were interred. Sitting, relaxed with his leg over the pommel of his saddle, closing his eyes, he could, in his mind, vividly see the circumstances of the day his parents met their violent death down at Sutter’s Crossing. He could clearly see his mother setting the breakfast table and his father sitting patiently, waiting for Mom to pour his coffee. Mom yelled at me that breakfast was ready and to get my butt in gear before everything got cold. Link had no way of knowing that those words would be the last he would ever hear from his mother.

When he came into the room, Dad gave him the evil eye because he interrupted the normal flow of mornings in the house. They bowed their heads and prayed, and then Mom served one of her super breakfasts of ham, taters, flapjacks, hinkle berries, and coffee. This was a special breakfast as they were going down near Becker’s crossing to chop down a long needle pine tree that she had her eye on for Christmas. She kept continually saying how nice it would look, all decorated, standing near the fireplace. Mom was a typical mom—a little on the heavy side and wore an apron most days of her life. She was an excellent cook and felt slighted if you didn’t finish everything on your plate. Everyone loved her. Dad, what can he say about Dad? He was a regular guy standing about five-feet-five-inches tall and weighed about two hundred pounds. He had very wide shoulders and relatively no neck and looked like a walking stump. He was strong as an ox but had a volatile temper when the right buttons were pushed. Once finished eating, Link went to the barn to tend the critters. As he slid the door open, the horse began their early morning nickering, telling him to hurry up and feed them. He cautiously climbed the icy barn ladder and kicked an ample supply of hay down into the horses feed through. Sliding back down the ladder, he took the ax from its place near the trough and broke the ice covering their water bucket. After pouring an ample amount of water in their trough, he scooped two cans full of oats for them. Once they finished eating, he led them one by one out of the barn and hitched them in their places in the front of the wagon. Then he drove the wagon to the back door.

Mom was anxious to go, so he jumped down and helped her get up over the wheel and to her seat. Pop came next, letting the door slam shut with a bang. Mom looked at him and just shook her head. After reaching the crossing, Mom and Dad got out of the wagon and, hand in hand, started the laborious climb up to where the pine was growing. After trudging quite a bit, they finally reached the tree Mom so dearly wanted. Dad put his hand out to take an ax from me, but frowning, he handed it right back. Link looked at the ax and saw how dull it was. He gave him the second one which met his approval. Then he began his trek back down the mountain to the wagon to sharpen the other ax. Not long after he got to the wagon, he could see Dad chopping away but also heard a tremble from inside the mountain. He looked up near the top and noticed an overhang that was beginning to vibrate. He yelled Mom, Dad, and as Dad looked up, he motioned toward the overhang. Dad shook his head in understanding and went right back to chopping