ribs, and without looking back, he and his three friends rode off toward the late afternoon sun.
Jeff and his friends traveled outa war-ravaged West Virginia, across the poor state of Kentucky’s valleys and hills, and then they decided they’d better spend the cold snowy winter months of 1867 holed up in Fayetteville Arkansas. They spent their days in the nearest saloon, playing dominos nearby the big potbellied stove and their nights sleeping snug in beds at the hotel next door, much to the delight of both Smitty and Bo.
None of the three boys had ever seen snow as deep as it was that year in Arkansas. Even the locals said it was a record winter’s snowfall. Jeff was impatient to get moving, but traveling in so much snow wasn’t something neither one of the three cared to do. None had any experience doing it, so they had no choice but to hunker down and wait until spring.
“We’re over that river on Colbert’s ten-cent ferry ride, boys,” Jeff remarked. “That was the Red River we just crossed, we’re in Texas now.”
“Whereabouts we headed for, Jeff?”
“Southwest, thataway, Bo. Sign back there says Fort Worth is a way west of here, so we’ll stop there. I wanna find me some ranchland to buy.”
They rode into Fort Worth about noon. The first saloon they stopped at had a lunch all laid out on a long table. Different kinds of breads, cheese wedges, hunks of different meats, a bowl of pickles, mustard, relishes, green onions, and some red melon slices. Fellers were crowded around, grabbing this and that, slapping themselves meats and things between two pieces of bread as fast as the assistant barkeep could restock his table.
They’d just had a serious shooting in the saloon when the three Virginia boys walked in. Two lawmen had ahold of a fellow who appeared to be drunk. They were leading him out the saloon by both his arms and walking ahead of two gents who were carrying a body out by its hands and feet.
“Help yerself to the food, gents! Don’t mind a little blood on our floor. I suggest you don’t slip and fall in it. Y’all can eat yer fill fer as long as you buy our beer,” he drawled, smiling with a cinnamon twig sticking out the corner of his mouth.
All three troopers bought beer, commandeered a table, and ate their fill. Then Jeff left to go find the land office while Smitty and Bo decided they’d stay and have more beer. “You two better not get in trouble,” Jeff told ’em before leaving the table.
“Down the street thataway, mister,” the townie pointed toward the land office, “you can’t miss it.” Once there, Jeff asked about good available ranchland to buy for cash.
“Nothing around here no more but some small farms left. All the good land has been bought up by hombres like you coming west after the war. I’s you, stranger, I’d hightail if farther west if I had cash. Heard tell there’s still prime land farther southwest of here. Ranchland is still available this side of the Chamisa Mountains in Casper County. Heard it was prime cattle country too.”
“How far is this place called Casper County?”
“Oh, about three hundred miles as the crow flies. After you pass the wide-open spaces, rivers, arroyos, mountains, a desert, a few Comanche, and a few Apache that you’ll likely have to fight. There’s a wagon train going thataway, day after tomorrow. You might get to ride along with them.”
“Where would I find this wagon train?”
“Try the wagon yard, west of town, that’s where it’ll start from. You’ll find it by its smell, just go outside, face the west, and then follow yer nose.”
“On a wagon train? Fightin’ Comanche? And Apache? I don’t I’d better. I’ve heard those fellers can be a real troublesome bunch, Jeff,” Bo exclaimed.
“Yeah, I’ve heard the same story, Bo, but I’m going anyway. The wagon master said he’d be glad to have our guns if we wanted to come along. He said, and I repeat, just bring yer own guns, food, horse feed, ridin’ horses, plus two extra ones if you can afford ’em. And when we’re besieged by the hostiles, have plenty ammunition, and you’ll be plumb welcome.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Does hostiles mean what I think it does, Jeff?”
“Yeah, I’m afraid it does, Bo.”
“You’re jokin’?” Bo asked. “I mean you really are jokin’ me! Ain’t ya?”
“No, I believe Jeff is plumb serious, Bo!” Smitty replied.
“Well, dang it, you goin’ with him, Smitty?”
“Yeah, I reckon I’ll go with Jeff. I sure don’t wanna stay in Fort Worth by myself.”
“Well, dang it, I guess I’ll hafta go too and learn to be an Injun fighter. But if y’all get me killed, I ain’t never gonna forgive neither one of you peckerwoods.”
Twenty-eight wagons left Fort Worth in early June and headed west. Jeff and his two friends rode along beside the wagons. Most all the settlers were grateful they were along. The first week out, they were treated to hearty breakfasts and suppers by various families. Most of the menfolk had fought in the war for one side or the other.
Some men could recognize whose side they’d fought for by the pants they were still wearing. Jeff and his two friends had shucked their Yankee issued britches in Fort Worth and were wearing plain blue denim shirts and Levi’s canvass pants when they’d left with the train. After the wagons had traveled beyond Fort Weatherford, Jeff and his two amigos were called upon to take their turns with the other men who would be standing watch at night.
About twenty miles west of Fort Griffin, their wagon train was attacked by a small band of Indians; their wagon master later said they were probably just hungry Comanche. The lead wagon’s red Kentucky mule took an arrow in his left rump, which promptly got the critter’s attention. One wagon driver took an arrow in his left thigh muscle, and three Indians took bullets that knocked them off their ponies but were carried off by their compadres.
Bo credited himself with shooting one Indian, although Smitty and Jeff said they’d been too dang scared to notice if they’d shot one or not. They’d both just kept firing their pistols as fast as they could pull their triggers. Everyone on the train was mighty cautious from that time on; everybody was kept busy looking over their shoulders watching all around and constantly scouting the horizons. Once they got past Fisher County, their wagon master turned the train toward the southwest. From there on, he said, all they had to worry about was Apache and dry water holes—in that order.
They never saw one single human till they got twenty miles from Fort Davis, and then they’d run into a band of Comancheros driving wagons with tall squeaking wooden wheels, who wanted to trade for guns and ammo. Their wagon master explained those men were outlaw Indian traders who’d take advantage of a fellow if he was alone or they were few in number. He told them there was no trade and to go on their way. They saw they were outgunned by the men in the train, so they rode on in their squeaking wheel wagons.
Forty-six days after leaving Fort Worth, the wagon master said, “There is Fort Davis up ahead, folks. You’re safe from the Apache now. Those soldier boys at that fort will protect you.” Jeff went looking for the land office.
“Yes, sir, the State of Texas will be glad to sell you some ranchland over in Casper County.”
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