Four men rode across the Sierra Nevada, bound for southwestern Wyoming. Their pack mule followed on a lead rope. At twenty-three, Lonnie Kilgore was the oldest of the four. Dallas Weaver was a year younger, while Dirk McNelly and Kirby Lowe were both several months shy of twenty-one. They reined up on a ridge to rest the horses and the pack mule.
“I’m glad I got to see California once,” Dirk McNelly said, “but I’ve never been so glad to be leavin’ a place in my life. It ain’t natural, everything always bein’ green. I like to see the falling leaves.”
“I reckon you’ll be seeing plenty of them in Texas,” said Kirby Lowe. “Remember, in just four years each of us has come out of the California goldfields with more than ten thousand dollars. Raising cows in Texas, starving through the dry years, and fighting the Comanches, you wouldn’t see half that much coin if you lived to be a hundred.”
“That’s the gospel truth if I ever heard it,” Dallas Weaver said. “Trouble is, what are we goin’ to do with what we’ve earned? A couple of bad years in Texas could break us.”
“Then maybe we’d better not settle in Texas,” said Lonnie Kilgore. “Remember, on our way west, when we spent a couple of days at Jim Bridger’s trading post in Wyoming?”
“Yeah,” Dallas Weaver said. “Bridger’s an old mountain man, and what he don’t know about this high country likely ain’t worth knowing.”
“I’m thinking of something he said while we was there,” said Lonnie. “He talked about that range along the Green River in northeastern Utah, where the grass reaches up to a horse’s belly. He thought it would be grand for horses, cattle, or both. In the summer, herds of cattle could be driven into Washington, Oregon, Nevada, and California.”
“That ain’t all,” Kirby Lowe said. “It’ll be a while in coming, but the San Francisco newspapers was plumb full of stories about the building of the Union Pacific, a transcontinental railroad. It’ll run across southern Wyoming near where Bridger’s trading post is now. I doubt any of us will live long enough to see a railroad reach Texas.”
“A railroad can be as much a curse as a blessing,” said Dirk McNelly. “It’ll bring in droves of sodbusters, and it’ll mean the end of free range.”
“Forget about free range,” Lonnie Kilgore said. “We have money to buy land, and if the price is right, we can buy a lot of it. Once you got a title to it, nobody can root you out. That’s my thinking.”
“The farther we are from civilization, the less the land will cost,” said Dallas Weaver, “but I’m not sure about this Green River range. Bridger was already having trouble with the Mormons when we was there four years ago, and he ain’t even in Utah.”
“Once we’ve filed on land and have a title to it, it’s ours,” Lonnie Kilgore said. “I’m not one to fight with my neighbors, but I won’t be pushed around. I think we should talk to Bridger about this range, and unless somebody’s already claiming it, we should consider buying four sections—or maybe eight—depending on the price.”
“Eight sections!” said Kirby Lowe. “My God, that’s more than five thousand acres.”
“With the Green River running through it,” Dirk McNelly said. “I like that.”
“So do I,” Kirby Lowe said, “but before we settle out here, I’d like to ride to Texas and see my folks. I ain’t seen ’em since I was sixteen.”
“I ain’t so sure my folks will want to see me,” said Dirk McNelly. “My old man called me a fool for wantin’ to go gallavantin’ off to California. I had to sneak off in the middle of the night.”
“After we talk to Bridger, if all this still seems like a good idea, we’ll be going back to Texas,” Lonnie Kilgore said. “We’ll need cattle. We may have to rope the varmints out of the brush, but we can do that, if we must.”
“What about horses?” Kirby Lowe asked. “Even when it’s hard times in Texas, a good horse can set you back two hundred dollars.”
“There are some fine horses in California,” said Lonnie Kilgore. “Once we’ve brought a herd of longhorns from Texas, we can bring in some brood mares from California.”
“One thing we have to consider is the Indians,” Dallas Weaver said. “From what Jim Bridger said, the Utes and Paiutes don’t take kindly to whites coming into the territory.”
“By now,” said Kirby Lowe, “there ought to be enough Mormons there to keep them busy. At least the Wind River Shoshones are friendly.”
“Yeah,” Dirk McNelly said, “but they’re too far north, in the Wind River Mountains.”
“I think this is another case where we’ll have to depend on Jim Bridger’s advice,” said Lonnie Kilgore.
The four of them rode on, still dressed as Texas cowboys, even after four long years in California. In each saddle boot there was a treasured Hawken rifle, and each of them had a tied-down Colt revolver on his right hip. Not until late afternoon did they discover they were being followed. Again, they had stopped to rest the horses, and it was Kirby Lowe who spoke.
“Maybe my eyes are playin’ tricks on me, but I’d swear I saw some dust back yonder a ways, along our back trail.”
“Whether you did or didn’t, this is no time to gamble,” said Lonnie Kilgore. “There’s always a horde of hombres around a gold camp who’d rather steal their gold than work for it. Remember last year, when three miners were bushwhacked when they rode out bound for home?”
“Yeah,” Dallas Weaver said, “and the bushwhackers were never caught. I think we’d do well to ride on a ways and then double back. This ain’t the kind of country where a man rides unless he has to. We can set up a little welcomin’ party of our own.”
“We’ll ride to the foot of this ridge,” said Lonnie Kilgore. “There we’ll leave the mule and our horses, doubling back on foot.”
They rode on, leaving a clear trail for their pursuers. Reining up in a thicket, they tied the mule and their horses.
“Dallas,” said Lonnie, “you and Dirk double back to the south and then west, keeping within range of the trail. Kirby, you and me will head north a ways, and then west. I’ll challenge these riders, and since we’ll be shooting from cover, we’ll let them make the first move. They could be other miners on their way home.”
“Well, hell,” Dirk McNelly said, “if they are, we still may have a fight on our hands. They’re likely to think we’re bushwhackers aimin’ to take their gold.”
“Maybe not,” said Lonnie Kilgore. “Bushwhackers don’t shout a warning.”
The four men separated in twos, taking the north and south sides of the back trail. A vengeful sun bore down on them, and the armpits of their shirts were soon soaked with sweat. They waited for more than an hour, their patience growing thin, before hearing the distinctive sound of trotting horses. There were four riders, and they looked like anything but miners. They rode on, and when they were within gun range, Lonnie Kilgore shouted a challenge.
“Rein up. Identify yourselves and tell us why you’re trailing us.”
There was a moment of shocked silence. Then, as one, the four went for their guns. It left the four friends from Texas little choice. Lonnie shot the lead man out of the saddle, while Dallas, Dirk, and Kirby accounted for the other three. Spooked by the shooting, their horses galloped down the ridge. There was dead silence, and none of the four who had been gunned down seemed alive.
“We might as well search them,” said Lonnie, “and see what we can find. Then we’ll go after their horses and search their saddlebags.”
“Lord, I hope they wasn’t miners on their way home,” Dirk McNelly said.
“I doubt they were,” said Lonnie Kilgore. “Bushwhackers wouldn’t have challenged them, and if they didn’t have mischief on their minds, they wouldn’t have gone for their guns. They made the first move, and it was the wrong one. When a man pulls iron, it’s evidence aplenty that he’s up to no good.”
Each of them searched one of the dead men, and it was Dallas Weaver who recognized one of them.
“This is Jake Doolin,” said Dallas. “He’s been hanging around for months, and as for mining, he ain’t hit a lick. There’s been some strong suspicions that he’s one of a pack of coyotes who kill miners for their pokes.”
“I’ve heard that,” Lonnie said, “but nobody said it too loud. There was no proof.”
“There is now,” said Kirby. “Sure as hell, the four of ’em aimed to kill and rob us.”
“Question is,” Dirk said, “what do we do with them? I can’t see ridin’ all the way back to San Francisco to tell the law what we done.”
“We’ll leave them where they lay,” said Lonnie, “and anything we find that we can use, we’ll take with us.”
Searching the bodies of the four men, they came up with more than a thousand dollars in gold coin.
“Unless somebody’s hit pay dirt in Texas, that’ll buy three hundred cows,” Dirk said.
“Now,” said Dallas, “let’s round up their horses. We can take them with us, and it’ll be the start of a remuda for the trail drive from Texas.”
They soon found the four horses grazing and caught them without difficulty. There was a rifle in each saddle boot. But the saddlebags were a disappointment, for there was only a change of clothing, clean socks, and jerked beef.
“They didn’t aim to travel far from town,” Lonnie said. “They’d ride just far enough to do their killing and robbing, and be back at the gold camp before dark.”
“It’d be a shame, leaving these four good horses and saddles,” said Dirk, “but there’s a little matter of us having no bills of sale on any of ’em. They’re all branded, too.”
“Mex brands,” Lonnie said. “They likely were stolen somewhere below the border, and as long as these four dead coyotes have been hanging around San Francisco, I doubt anybody’s asked for a bill of sale. We’ll take those four horses with us on lead ropes.”
The four friends rode out. Three of the men had the newly acquired horses on leads, while Lonnie Kilgore led the fourth horse and the pack mule. They made camp for the night near a water hole in Nevada. They poured water on their small fire well before dark.
“I have some serious doubts about the direction we’re headed,” Lonnie said. “I think we ought to ride due north and take the Oregon Trail to Bridger’s trading post. Remember, when we was there before, Bridger told us the Mormons was settling around the Great Salt Lake? If we ride a straight line from here to Bridger’s, we’ll be passing right through the Mormon settlements.”
“It’ll take us maybe a day longer,” said Dallas, “and we’d come out somewhere in Idaho, I reckon.”*
“Them Mormons has had four years to settle out here since we talked to Bridger,” Dirk said. “There must be thousands of ’em by now. I kinda like that idea of ridin’ north from here, and then taking the Oregon Trail to Bridger’s.”
“One thing wrong with that,” Kirby said. “We’ll have to cross South Pass.”
“That won’t be a problem,” said Lonnie, “since we have no wagons. Horses and mules can make it, even if we have to dismount and lead them. If we settle along the Green, I’ll gamble that we’ll be in trouble with the Mormons soon enough. I think we’d do well to go north from here until we reach the Oregon Trail. Even with crossing South Pass, we can still make it in about six days.”
“I like that,” Dallas said. “Nothing but a fool fights, if he can avoid it.”
“I’ll go along,” said Dirk. “We’ll likely have all the Mormon trouble we can handle after we bring that trail drive from Texas.”
“Count me in,” Kirby said. “We got to claim the land, get us a herd of cows and some prime horses. Then will be soon enough to fight with anybody that don’t like us.”
They had reached an agreement, and there seemed little else to do except roll in their blankets and get some sleep.
It had been ten years since Oregon Territory had been settled, and deep wagon ruts marked the trail. There was also a litter of horse and mule bones, attesting to the devilish terrain.
“I’ve always heard it said that nothin’ breakable ever got across South Pass without bein’ broke,” said Kirby Lowe. “Look at all the glass.”
“I think we ought to dismount and lead all the horses across,” Lonnie said. “We’ll get there sometime tomorrow.”
“How far you reckon it is from here to Bridger’s trading post?” Dirk asked.
“Maybe two hundred and fifty miles,” said Lonnie. “It’ll take us a mite longer than the six days we was countin’ on, but I think there’ll be less risk. I want to talk to Bridger before we get too involved in the troubles of the territory.”
The sun was two hours high when the four Texans approached the log building that was Jim Bridger’s trading post. Suddenly there was the sound of a shot, and lead thunked into a pine just ahead of the four horsemen.
“Rein up and identify yourselves,” a voice commanded.
“We’re Texans, on our way home from California,” Lonnie shouted.
“Dismount and come on,” said the voice, “and don’t make no funny moves.”
The four dismounted and, leading their horses and the pack mule, reached the front of the trading post. The door opened, and Louis Vasquez stepped out, a Hawken rifle under his arm. Lonnie spoke.
“You’re Louis Vasquez, and four years ago, on our way to California, we spent two days and nights here. I’m Lonnie Kilgore, and my amigos are Dallas Weaver, Dirk McNelly, and Kirby Lowe.”
“I remember them, Louis,” said Bridger from the gloom of the trading post. “Put your horses in the corral and come in.”
Bridger had lighted a coal oil lamp to dispel the gloom within the building. There were surprisingly few goods remaining in the trading post.
“You must have been doing a landslide business,” Lonnie Kilgore said, looking at the small stock that remained.
“No,” said Bridger. “I’m abandoning the post. It’s just a matter of days before it’ll be overrun with Mormons. I have an Indian friend keeping me posted as to their progress. Wovoka?”
The Indian seemed to materialize out of the shadows, a Hawken rifle under his arm.
Bridger spoke. “This is Wovoka Shatiki, a Shoshone. Wovoka, this is Dallas Weaver, Lonnie Kilgore, Dirk McNelly, and Kirby Lowe. They’re returning from California on their way to Texas.”
Without hesitation, Dallas extended his hand and the Indian took it. The procedure continued, with Lonnie, Dirk, and Kirby taking the Shoshone’s hand.
“I reckon the Mormon situation has worsened since we were last here,” Lonnie Kilgore said.
“It has,” said Bridger. “Wovoka’s been watching them, and time’s running out.”
“They come,” Wovoka said. “Ten suns, mebbe.”
“If it’s any of my business,” said Lonnie, “where do you aim to go from here?”
“I reckon Vasquez and me will ride north and spend some time with Wovoka’s people, the Wind River Shoshones. When this territory opens up—and it will—the government will need scouts. Me and Louis aim to be ready.”
“That’s mainly the reason we came back this way,” Lonnie Kilgore said. “We wanted to discuss with you the possibility of buying title to maybe eight sections of land along Green River, to the east of here. We would return to Texas and bring a herd of longhorns. But we’re a mite skittish about buyin’ into a range war.”
“I doubt it’ll come to that,” Bridger said. “Utah’s been declared a territory of the United States, and it’ll be just a matter of time until the Federals in Washington have to put a stop to all the hell-raising.”*
“In Texas,” said Dallas Weaver, “we ain’t above some hell-raising ourselves, if there’s no other way. This Green River range is soundin’ better to me all the time.”
“If you can buy title to the land and hire enough riders to defend it, I don’t believe you’ll be sorry,” Bridger said. “I reckon a man’s religious beliefs is his business, but it ain’t wrote down nowhere that a bunch like these Mormons can take over a whole territory and drive everybody else out.”
“That’s about the way we feel,” said Lonnie Kilgore. “That is, if nobody’s claimed the Green River range.”
“Nobody has,” Bridger said. “The Mormons are mostly settled east of there, around the Great Salt Lake, but that ain’t stopped them from laying claim to the whole territory.”
“Well, I’ll challenge any man who tries to run me off land after I’ve bought and paid for it,” said Dallas Weaver. “How do the rest of you feel?”
“I’m with you until hell freezes,” Lonnie Kilgore said.
“Count me in,” said Dirk McNelly and Kirby Lowe in a single voice.
“Ugh,” said Wovoka Shatiki, obviously pleased.
“Wovoka wants to stay and fight,” Louis Vasquez said.
“Wovoka,” Bridger said, “maybe you ought to join these hombres, if they settle along the Green. I think there’ll be some fighting before this thing is over.”
“No drive cow,” said Wovoka. “Not be squaw.”
The men resisted the urge to laugh. Lonnie Kilgore spoke to the Indian.
“You won’t be driving cows, amigo. We’re goin’ to need a scout while we’re trailing a herd from Texas. Our next drive will be from California. We’ll be bringing in a herd of horses. How do you feel about them?”
“Bueno,” Wovoka said. “Horse good.”
“Wovoka can gentle any horse alive,” said Bridger. “If he does nothing else, you’ll do well to include him in your outfit. He don’t like the idea of going with Louis and me to the Shoshone village until the government decides to hire us as scouts.”
“I think I can speak for us all,” Lonnie Kilgore said, “as long as Wovoka joining our outfit won’t leave you at a disadvantage.”
“It won’t,” said Bridger. “Louis and me have many friends among the Wind River Shoshones.”
“If we aim to buy Green River land, where do we start?” Kirby Lowe asked.
“The nearest government outpost is Fort Laramie,” said Bridger. “Captain Stoddard is the post commander there, and I know him well. Tell him what you want and that you’re there on my recommendation.”
“We’re obliged,” Lonnie said. “Since you’re giving up the post, why don’t you and Louis take up a couple of sections alongside ours?”
Bridger laughed. “Louis and me are wanderers. We been here thirty years, and since we started this trading post, it’s the longest we’ve been in one place. Once we leave here, we aim to ride to Fort Laramie and have Captain Stoddard pass along the word that the United States government has got itself a pair of scouts.”
“He’s right,” said Louis Vasquez. “I’ll never stay this long in one place again, unless I’m buried there.”
Come the dawn, the four Texans decided not to delay their departure. They would ride on to Fort Laramie.
“A good idea,” said Bridger. “Get your titles to that Green River graze as soon as you can. When you get dug in, Louis and me will ride down there for some of that good Texas beef. On the trail to Texas and on the way back with the herd, let Wovoka scout ahead. He can track a lizard across solid rock, and he’s a dead shot with a Hawken or Colt.”
In a silent farewell, Bridger and Vasquez extended their hands, and Wovoka Shatiki took them. He then followed the four Texans out to the corral, waiting for them to saddle their horses.
“Wovoka,” Lonnie said, “you’re welcome to ride any of these four horses on lead ropes, if you choose to. They belonged to some gents that tried to bushwhack us, and they won’t be needin’ them no more.”
The grin never reached the Indian’s lips, but it was in his eyes. It was a kind of justice he appreciated, and he nodded. The five men mounted and rode eastward. Fort Laramie was two hundred miles distant.
“Bridger’s right about that,” Captain Stoddard said, when the Texans met with him. “The army’s ready to hire scouts, and they prefer mountain men.”
“Bueno,” said Lonnie. “Bridger said him and Louis Vasquez will be ridin’ over to see you within the next few days. Now let’s get down to our reason for being here.”
“Go ahead,” Captain Stoddard said.
“We aim to settle along the Green River in northeastern Utah,” Lonnie said. “We’re on our way to Texas for a herd of cattle and reckoned we’d better secure the land first.”
“I suppose Bridger made you aware of the … ah … unrest in Utah Territory,” Stoddard said.
“He did,” said Lonnie, “and that’s why we want title to our spread. If it’s ours legally, we’ll be within our rights shootin’ any varmints trying to take it from us.”
“That’s exactly right,” Captain Stoddard said, “and the government will welcome your settling there. I can mark off your holdings on a land map, give you a receipt for your money, and lock it in my office safe until it can be taken to the nearest U.S. land office. I believe the range you have in mind can be had for a dollar an acre. Generally, whites are reluctant to settle anywhere in Utah Territory because of the constant trouble there.”
“We want a total of eight sections,” said Lonnie, “with four on each side of the Green, adjoining. That’s twelve hundred and eighty dollars each, and we’re prepared to pay right now.”
The four Texans had brought in their saddlebags, and each proceeded to count out the correct amount on Captain Stoddard’s desk. Stoddard then wrote each of them a receipt.
“By the time you return from Texas,” Captain Stoddard said, “I should have the deeds for you. One of you can ride up here and get them. Good luck.”
“We’re obliged,” said Dallas Weaver. “Now we need to visit your sutler’s store.”
“Go ahead, and welcome,” Captain Stoddard said.
Wovoka Shatiki had waited for them, remaining with the horses, outside the sutler’s. As the Texans approached, there were half a dozen whites gathered there, and Wovoka had his back to the wall and a Colt in his hand.
“That’s enough,” said Lonnie quietly. “You men back off.”
“You bastard,” said one of the threatening whites, “is this your damn Indian?”
“He’s nobody’s Indian,” Lonnie said coldly. “He’s a man in his own right, and he’s part of my outfit. Move in on him, and the four of us are right behind you.”
In the silence that followed, there were distinctive snicks as the four Texans drew and cocked their Colts. Without a word, keeping their hands away from their weapons, all the whites backed away. Wovoka holstered his Colt. His dark eyes met those of the four men he had chosen to ride with. They had sided with him, claimed him as one of their outfit, and Wovoka Shatiki would not forget.
*Near the present-day town of Twin Falls, Idaho.
*The government sent soldiers in 1857. The confrontation ended peacefully.