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Old Time Radio Westerns
Stampede on the Chisolm Trail – Adventure Trail (46-03-22)
00:19:56
Original Air Date: March 22, 1946Host: Andrew RhynesShow: Western StoriesPhone: (707) 98 OTRDW (6-8739) Exit music from: Roundup on the Prairie by Aaron Kenny https://bit.ly/3kTj0kK
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- [00:00]
Andrew Rines
Foreign welcome to the Old Time Radio Westerns. I'm your host, Andrew Rines. And let's get into this episode. This episode is going to be Western Trail. Original air date comes from March 22, 1946. There's not much on this episode. It is the only surviving episode from a series called Adventure Trail. I don't believe it was strictly a western. It does seem like it was supposed to be an all round mystery western, just a whole different genres rolled into one show. And this episode's entitled Stampede on the Chisholm Trail. Now remember, it does come from 1946, so it is going to be that B movie style. It's not hard cutting like we get on Gunsmoke or Fort Laramie. So let's get into it and. And I hope you enjoy.
- [01:24]
Adventure Man
Hello, gang. This is the Adventure Man, a new radio friend of yours. I'm going to be on hand every day at this time to bring you stories jam packed with adventure, suspense and mystery. Well, let's take a quick look at what's in store for you this evening in a story called Stampede on the Chisholm Trail. Jim wheeled his horse and drew his.45. He shouted, Maxwell, they're here. And fired two shots toward the sound he'd heard, exploding the cattle into a wild, plunging stampede. He heard Maxwell and the other three men go into action. And leaving the herd to them, he drove toward where the strange horse had been. Well, that's just a sample of Stampede on the Chisholm Trail. We'll get back to it in a minute. But first here's a message from our sponsor. And now let's get on to our story. One of the most famous and fabulous landmarks in the long and colorful history of the west is the Chisholm Trail, a route that the ranchers followed as they drove their great herds of cattle from the rich rangeland of the southern section of the plains country to the railroad centers of the north. Today, ancient wheel ruts in the arid soil of Texas and Kansas and the broken banks at the river crossings tell the story of hundreds of rattling chuck wagons and the passing of thousands of cattle. But there's little to tell of the passing of countless men who died along the trail, or of the honest fortunes lost and dishonest ones gained by those who matched wits and six gun skill in the fight of law against lawlessness. The fight around which our story tonight is woven. Young Jim Pryor was heading north on the trail one morning in the fall of 1860. A lean, tanned youth of 24, he'd been born and raised on the range, had lived the hard life of a cattleman, and as a result had grown quickly into manhood, fearless with strong sentiments about right and wrong and fighting ability to back it up. And Jim was riding straight into the opportunity to use that ability. It was in the middle of the afternoon when Jim caught up with the herd that had been ahead of him. It was spread out in front of him as he approached a good 450 or 500 head. He noticed first that there were no fringe riders. And then he saw what appeared to be the whole crew gathered in a group, some of them astride their ponies, others standing. Jim reined up, and even at that distance he could tell that anger was ruling the group. Arms were waved threateningly now and then, and the men moved fretfully. One of them in particular was obviously incensed. A big man. He walked to and fro, taking his sombrero off his bushy head and putting it back on. His arms rose and fell, and suddenly he walked up to another of the standing men, stood there for a second, and abruptly his right fist drew back, snaked out, and landed on the other's chin, dropping him to the dust. Then the group left. The fallen man put spurs to their horses, and threading their way through the herd, rode off to the north. Jim rode up to the figure on the ground after they'd left, dismounted, and pressed a wet bandana to the man's graying temples. He stirred and groaned, and when his eyes opened, Jim grinned at him. Don't appear that you got many friends in that bunch. Leastways, they ain't very careful of how they treat you. The man got slowly and painfully to his feet, slapped some of the dust from his clothes. He looked at Jim. What do you want? Well, it didn't take young Pryor long to explain that if there were anybody inside who looked like he wanted or needed anything, it was the bedraggled looking character standing in front of him. It took a little time for the story to come out, but when it did, Jim Pryor found himself with a new job. A job that promised nothing but a short future. A very short future. The man's name was Luther Maxwell, and according to his story, even before he had started the drive from his ranch below the Pecos river, he had received a warning that he'd never reach his destination, which was a railroad station that existed under the unhappy name of Desolation Junction. There was a man down there below the Pecos named Todd Malcolm, riding roughshod over the ranchers, rustling Beef, stealing horses and so far too smart to be caught. He'd warned Maxwell that he'd lose his herd and there was little doubt that he was the one who was planning to take it over. And now Maxwell, with only three men left, a cook and two handymen that looked like Malcolm's threat would be made good. Maxwell clenched his gnarled fist when he finished the story and stared off into the north. The lowering sun looked into his grizzled face and caught the hard glint in his eyes. My tarnation. I'll fight him alone if I have to. It was at that moment, admiring the fighting determination in the old man that young Prior decided to throw good sense over his shoulder and join Maxwell in the one sided battle. Half a thousand cattle to drive and a band of rustlers to fight. Heavy odds for five men. There was no help for them to call on out here. No law except the law of the six gun. The law of the Chisholm Trail. An uneasy night descended on the little group. The chill light of the stars showed the restless undulating outline of the herd moving, grazing, lowing in a kind of pent up nervousness. Jim knew that at night any herd was ripe for stampede. He knew that if anything, man or beast, started this bunch, he and the four with them would have to move fast to keep him from scattering. And that if Malcolm decided to jump them, they'd have to fight like a troop of cavalry. Now, with that unpleasant outlook, he and Maxwell rode out for their lonely vigil with the cattle. They eased their ponies to the edge of the herd and there they parted. Maxwell to ride around the bunch one way, young Prior to ride the other way. Well, aside from a few skulking coyotes, advantage to Jim's approach, the first part of the night was uneventful. Coming quietly to the cattle now and then, Jim rode easily around the herd, meeting Maxwell at regular intervals and leaving him again. Too quiet, young Prior thought. Too quiet. In his uneasiness he stopped his horse now and then to listen, feel the air and the darkness. He heard the cattle and the coyotes and heard Maxwell singing a cowboy's lullaby. He felt the wind, smelled the odors of the night. All normal things, but somehow it didn't feel right. Somehow something was wrong. He stopped. He heard something. Listen again. There it was. Unmistakably a horse snorted somewhere in the dark. Jim wheeled his horse and drew his.45. All reason for quiet gone. He shouted. Maxwell. They're here. Get behind the herd. Get em moving up the trail. Get em moving. He fired two Shots toward the noisy herd, floating the cattle into a wild, plunging stampede. He heard Maxwell and the other three men go into action and leaving the herd to them, he drove toward where he thought the strange horse had been. He caught a glimpse of a fleeting shadow but lost it in the darkness before he had time for a shot. The night echoed and re echoed the roar of six guns and the thunder of hooves. Nobody could stop a swerve those cattle. Now they were blind, terrified, plunging relentlessly ahead. Jim and Maxwell had stampeded the cattle themselves, but they were headed the right way toward Desolation Junction. The first round had fought Malcolm before he was out of his corner. There was a feeling of victory in Maxwell's small group the next morning. The cattle had run themselves out before dawn. And now it settled down to a steady mile, eating pace. Five men had won out over many times that number. Five men and 500 cattle. But both Jim Pryor and Maxwell knew that only a few hours would pass before they'd have to face Malcolm's men again. That was certain. So, choked with dust kicked up by the thousands of hoog weary and saddle sore, young Prior and Maxwell tried to work out a plan. Both of the men knew the country ahead of them. They discussed it now, trying to settle on which place would be a good spot from which Malcolm would attack. It's an old rule with men who fight other men. Put yourself in your enemy's shoes and doing that, discarding this place and that. They narrowed the possibilities to three. Three places from which Malcolm could attack. With the odds they had stacked against him, their only hope was in being sure. And the only way to be sure was to go to each of these three places and find out if Malcolm were there. Jim the cook and one of the handymen volunteered for the job. Each man to look into one of the possibilities. Each man standing a 1 out of 3 chance of facing Malcolm's gang alone. The Luther Maxwell waiting for the Scots to return. The hours seemed like days. One passed 60 long minutes, another. And then the cook came back. He found nothing. Another seemingly endless period of waiting while the sun slanted toward the western edges of the empty land. And then, riding wearily, young Jim Pryor joined them. He had found nothing more time. And finally they had to accept it. The handyman had run into Malcolm's men. Was he dead now? Or captured? He had traded one fate or the other for the information so badly needed. But now they were sure that Malcolm and his men were a few miles ahead in Skull Canyon. Skull Canyon. Both Prior and Maxwell knew the place near a river crossing, a short canyon on their right dead ended. In their mind's eye they could see the gang. There was a pocket on one side, an indentation in the canyon wall. That's where they'd be out of sight. The river crossing did away with the idea of trying to stampede the cattle by. They had to slow down for the river, and suddenly Jim had it. There wasn't time to argue the pros and cons of the plan. It had to work and they had to move fast. As Jim explained his plan to Maxwell, they goaded the weary cattle into a lumbering riot. They swept, swung them slowly out to the left, and soon they could see the mouth of Skull Canyon looking lonely and peaceful. Off to the right, they pushed the herd a little harder, a little faster, swinging out away from the canyon. Jim held his position. The other men shifted theirs, moving to the other side of the herd. They were almost abreast of the canyon and Jim was ready. He raised himself in his stirrups, he waved his hand in a signal, and Maxwell and his two men went off in action. Guns roaring, they pushed their horses into a gallop and started turning the head of the herd. Faster and faster they moved until they were headed directly toward the mouth of Skull Canyon. Young Friar reached the canyon in time to see Malcolm's men start out of their hiding place. When they saw the stampeding cattle bearing directly down on them, confusion hit their ranks. They scattered, some of them racing to the end of the canyon to attempt escape up the steep sides, others trying to cut in front of the herd, only to fall into the avalanche of heavy bodies. Jim saw two of them wheel their horses back into the pocket, and his glimpse was just long enough to let him recognize the man who had hit Maxwell back on the trail. The other man, Jim guessed, was Malcolm himself. He dropped from his horse and going partway up the canyon side, started toward the two. He reached down and loosened the six gun in his holster. Took a second or two to wipe the sweat out of his eyes as he reached the edge of the pocket. And then. Then he moved quickly into the open, crouched slightly, his arms bent a little at the elbow. I'm calling this hand, Malcolm. The two men world face and their gun hands streaking toward their hips. Prior's colt slid out of the leather in one easy lightning like movement. And at the same time he made one quick step to the left and the six gun ro. In a matter of seconds it was over. Malcolm jerked forward, took a step and crumpled. The other man whirled and fell as Jim's slug crashed through his shoulder. Young Pryor walked over to the two men as a precaution, kicked their guns out of reach. Didn't know five men could put up such a scrap, did you? Least away is five men and 500 dogies. And except to tell you that Malcolm and as many of his gang as could be rounded up were turned over to the sheriff when Jim and Maxwell and the herd arrived at Desolation Junction. Our story is over. Jim Pryor, with a few more silver dollars in his money belt, wandered on up the trail. Maybe we'll have another story about him someday. You like that? I want to give you an idea about tomorrow night's story in just a minute, but first our announcer has a word. Tomorrow night. Tomorrow night, our Adventure Trail leads to the airwave. Young Tom Elliot fought the controls. They were jammed. He couldn't get the plane out of the dive. Join us tomorrow night along Adventure Trail.
- [16:54]
Andrew Rines
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