We’ll have him cut loose and out of there before the dust settles.”
Chuck said dryly, “Mister Keller would never think of us trying a plan like that, naturally.”
Joe looked at him sharply. “What are you driving at, boy?”
“Doesn’t look like much of a crew down there,” Chuck said. “Where are the rest of Keller’s men?”
Joe said, “We beat them up some at the Arkansas, and wounded Keller himself. Scum like that doesn’t stick with a man who leads them into a deadfall. It could be this is all he has left.”
“Maybe,” Chuck said, “but he seemed mighty cocky and confident when I talked with him in Jepson, confident enough to warn me off like he expected to make it stick —and he knows how many there are of us. And then there’s the question of who tied up the reins of Mike’s horse so he’d drift back to camp, and who smeared blood artistically over Mike’s saddle so we’d come charging to the rescue. And there’s Mike himself, hung up right in plain sight where any of us scouting around will be bound to see him being abused. And there’s the known fact that Mister Keller is a man who’s got a real fondness for ambushes. I figure this is a trap and Mike’s the bait. The big question is, what does Keller expect us to do?”
“Even so—”
Chuck said, “Mister Keller is also a man who’s aware that Texas cattle have been known to stampede upon occasion. He’s even taken advantage of the fact himself, once or twice. It’s the big weakness of any cow outfit. He’d hardly expect us to overlook it—with him camped right out there in the open, an inviting target for a bunch of wild steers. I figure the narrow end of that valley, down where that herd is, has more men and rifles right now than it has rabbits. He’s waiting for us to strike there.” Joe Paris said dubiously, “You’re doing an awful lot of figuring, seems to me.”
Chuck said, “We’re up against a figuring man. It’s up to us to out-figure him.”
“And how are you planning to do that?”
Chuck asked, “Sam, just how many men did you count down at the camp itself?”
“Why, there was Keller, the deputy, that fellow in black, and four others.”
“Seven in all,” Chuck said. “I guess he figures that’s enough to discourage any direct attack. But that one they call the Preacher drinks pretty hard. I don’t figure he’ll be much account; and I don’t expect our deputy friend, Reese, will be too eager to fight anybody else’s battles. There are five of us. . .
He frowned thoughtfully, working it out in his head. It wasn’t a kind of calculation he’d ever had to make before, and he was surprised that these older men, with their experience of war and battle, should be waiting respectfully to hear what he had to say. Then he understood. They were McAuliffe riders, as he’d pointed out to them earlier, and they were waiting for a McAuliffe to give the orders. They might not have the confidence in him that they’d had in the Old Man—with good reason —but he’d made his claim to leadership and they were prepared to let him prove it, if he could.
CHAPTER 30
Darkness was slow in coming. Waiting wasn’t easy. Chuck found himself remembering that once he’d envied these men who’d known the excitement and glory of war. In actuality, he understood now, it must have been very much like this: a lot of waiting, a lot of wondering what it would be like to stop a bullet, a lot of worrying about whether you were up to the task you’d been set—whether you’d figured things out right or made a mistake that would get a lot of men killed. It was no wonder the Old Man had come back changed, unable, with other things on his mind, to make allowances for the tender feelings of one fool boy.
Lying there, watching the sky turn dark above him, Chuck found himself wishing for the Old Man back, if only just for a minute or two, just long enough so he could tell him . . . But it was too late for that. The time to speak, he knew now, was when you first had the impulse and the chance. You couldn’t be sure the opportunity would ever come again.
It was dark enough now—or would be by the time they got into position—and he sat up and put his hat straight on his head. He pulled out the Remington pistol and checked the percussion caps and shoved the weapon back into the holster.
“Well,” he said, “I reckon Lacey and Turkey might as well be on their way.” He looked at the two men. “All you want to do is make noise,” he said. “Don’t expose yourselves needlessly, and don’t worry about the herd. If it runs, fine, but if those brutes are feeling stubborn, don’t get yourselves killed trying to get them moving. Just make the fellows up there think you’re trying to start a stampede. If I’m right, they’re expecting it, and it won’t take much to start them shooting. As soon as your ruckus starts, down the valley, we’ll hit the camp and try to get Miguel out.”
Turkey LeBow, still favoring the arm through which he’d been shot at the Arkansas, climbed into the saddle and looked down at Chuck skeptically.
“I don’t know about this,” he said. “Sending us every which way. . . . There’s seven men in that camp, and only three of you, remember.”
Lacey Wills, a small, round, cheerful, bowlegged rider, said, “Ah, hell, it’s as good a plan as any. If we start counting noses we’ll be too scared to move. Come on, Turkey.”
Chuck watched the two men ride off. He turned to the remaining two. “You’ve got it straight? The way I see it, they’ll be expecting us to try to follow the cattle in, taking advantage of the dust and confusion like Joe said. Instead, we’ll hit them before the herd ever moves, if it does move. We’ll ride straight for Miguel. Joe and I will hold them off while Sam cuts him down and gets him away—you can handle him alone, even if he’s unconscious, can’t you, Sam?”
“Yes, I handle him,” the big man said. “He is not so heavy; I carry him with one hand.”
“Two will do, for a choice,” Chuck said. “Just make it fast. We won’t be wanting to hang around and socialize with those bushwhackers. . . . Joe, what’s on your mind?”
“It’s a crazy idea,” the foreman said. Then he grinned abruptly. “But I’m damned if I can think of a better. . . .” Then they were moving at last, which was a relief. Joe led the way, taking advantage of the contours of the land to bring them towards the camp unseen in the deepening twilight. Every so often Keller’s campfire would be visible ahead of them with figures standing about it It seemed incredible that one of those figures would not look up and see them and give the alarm, but none did. Presently Joe halted in the shelter of a patch of brush.
“I figure this is as close as we’d better go until the music starts,” the foreman said softly. “Oh. Here’s something you may find a use for.”
He held out a revolver that gleamed dully in the darkness. Chuck took it, and looked at the foreman questioningly.
“It’s Dave’s, the mate to the one you’re packing,” Joe said. “Sometimes five shots ain’t quite enough. Stick it in your belt. It’s loaded and capped. I’ve got the Major’s. Hope you have no objections.”
“No,” Chuck said. “Of course I have no objections.” “Keep that extra weapon in reserve,” Joe said. “Nothing looks as foolish as a man trying to shoot two guns at once. You know what I miss at a time like this?”
“No,” Chuck said. “What?”
“That damned old cavalry saber. Never could do much damage with one, I’ll admit, but it gave a man something to hold onto after he’d shot his firearms empty. . . . What is it, Sam?”
“Miguel. I saw him move. At least there is still life in him.”
“Well, don’t stop to take his pulse when we get in there,” Joe said dryly. “I wonder what’s holding up the other boys. Maybe they’ve stopped for a hand of poker or something.” ”
It occurred to Chuck that the foreman was talking just a little too much, perhaps just to reassure the youngest member of the party—but perhaps the older man, even though he’d experienced many situations like this in his lifetime, also felt a certain constriction of the chest, a certain dryness of the mouth. It was a comforting thought. Chu
ck glanced at Sam Biederman and saw that even that normally stolid and phlegmatic rider was fiddling with his equipment in an unnecessary manner. Apparently his own sensations weren’t absolutely unique. . . .
The first shot came without warning. It sounded thin and far away. Then they heard the distant yip-yip-yipee of a cowboy trying to urge reluctant cattle into motion; and suddenly that whole end of the valley seemed to explode with gunfire.
Joe Paris let out a long breath, listening. “I sure hope those boys are keeping their heads down. Must be a dozen guns going off down there.”
“Yes,” Chuck said. “Well, I reckon it’s our turn now.”
There wasn’t any sense sitting around thinking about it; and for this last short ride Joe’s experience as an Indian fighter and cavalry scout was hardly needed to guide them. There was, in fact, no excuse for Chuck McAuliffe’s not getting the hell out there in front where he belonged and leading them straight into this trouble he’d picked out for them to sample. . . . Rather to his surprise, he found himself doing just that, kicking his horse into a run. His pistol was in his hand, but he did not shoot, not even after he was well within range. A gunshot would attract attention, and, engrossed with the fireworks down the valley, they hadn’t seen him yet.
Charging in, Chuck got a brief picture of the camp in the firelight. Miguel was hanging motionless from the wagon tongue, ignored. Will Reese and Paine—whom he’d last seen in Amanda Netherton’s room—stood close together by the fire. Some of the other hands had moved a little out of the light where their vision would not be impaired. One man had just brought up a horse for Jack Keller, who was preparing to mount.
It was Keller who saw him first. As the bearded man’s face turned towards him, Chuck swung his pistol up and fired. Keller’s horse reared, breaking free of the man who held it; Keller himself managed to get a foot in the stirrup and a hand on the horn and was carried out of the light in this manner by the wildly bucking animal. Another man turned and fired at the oncoming riders. Chuck shot again and missed, and the gun-flame almost scorched his face as he rode the man down. The rest were all running now, scattering into the darkness. Behind him, he heard Joe Paris’ revolver speak. Joe’s voice shouted, with the bark of a cavalry sergeant:
“Back here, kid! Keep your mount under control, damn it!”
Chuck wheeled his pony. Somebody shot at him from outside the circle of firelight and he fired back. That was three loads gone out of five, he reminded himself. The big figure of Sam Biederman was at the wagon, knife in hand. A shadowy shape showed beyond, and Chuck spurred his pony hard and fired again. A gun blazed in answer, and he shot at the flash and shoved the empty pistol into the holster and snatched out the extra gun Joe had given him—Dave’s gun. There was no difference in the balance of the weapons. His pony, charging past Sam Biederman, shied at something on the ground: a dark, inert, human shape. Apparently one of his bullets, at least, had found a target.
He cut back again, and passed Joe Paris—the two of them weaving a protective pattern in front of the wagon —and there was a new sound in the air: a rumbling, threatening sound, like that of an avalanche starting down the mountain.
“There go those damn longhorns!” Chuck shouted. “Sam, get going! They’re off and running! They’re headed this way!”
Sam had the limp figure of Miguel across his horse, and was swinging into the saddle. Chuck heard a bullet go by with a nasty, cracking sound. He saw the flare of the muzzle-flame from the comer of his eye, and twisted to shoot back.
“Come on, kid! Time to leave!” Joe Paris shouted.
The rumble of the stampede was louder now. Sam Biederman was riding off into the dark, with Joe hovering protectively behind him. Chuck started to follow, but the wind of a bullet beat against his ear, and he looked back to see a rider come past the fire at a dead run—a bearded man on a tall bay horse. The flash of this man’s gun was round and orange as he shot again.
Chuck hauled his pony around and took careful aim. Don't think about it, or worry about whether ifs right or wrong, Amanda Netherton had said. At the moment, the advice seemed moderately superfluous. When the sights were steady and clear in the firelight, he pressed the trigger, and Dave’s pistol fired. Jack Keller spilled from the saddle, and now the ground was shaking with the thunder of the stampede, and the lead steers were lunging into the light, and it was time to leave for sure.
He caught up with Joe and Sam Biederman near the foot of the north ridge. They stopped in the willows by a small stream. Chuck and Joe dismounted and went forward to take Miguel as Sam eased him down. The little Mexican rider stirred.
“Mother of God!” he said irritably. “That is no way to ride a horse! What does that big Dutchman think, that I am part of his saddle?”
Joe chuckled. “Well, I don’t reckon we have to worry about him. He’s too tough to—”
He broke off abruptly, reaching for his gun, but a voice from the bushes said sharply: “Hold it, Texan. You’re covered by six rifles!” The voice was familiar, and Chuck recognized the lean shape of Sheriff Kincaid, coming forward through the darkness. “I thought you were on your way home, son,” the sheriff said irritably. “I told you I was taking care of it, didn’t I? What do you mean, busting in here in front of my posse and raising hell? I ought to arrest the whole lot of you!”
CHAPTER 31
The buggy came across the meadows in the middle of the morning, giving a wide berth to the grazing cattle. There was nothing in the peaceful scene to arouse memories of the violence of two nights before, except some hoofprints in the earth, and, down the valley, an overturned and half-burned wagon—the stampeding herd had shoved it over into the fire.
Sheriff Kincaid stopped the buggy in the shade of the nearest trees, spoke to the girl beside him, got out, and walked over to the McAuliffe wagon, which had been brought up to this place. Chuck, who’d scrambled to find a shirt when he realized the sheriff was not alone, heard him speak to Turkey LeBow, who was mending gear by the fire.
“Your Mexican friend is getting along fine,” Kincaid said. “He says not to worry, he’ll catch up with you, wherever you are, as soon as the doctor lets him out of bed.” There was a little pause, as if the sheriff were looking around for someone. “Where’s McAuliffe?”
“The Old Man?” Turkey said. “Why, he was here just a minute ago. . . .”
Chuck stood quite still for a moment. In the parlance of the trail, the boss of the outfit was the Old Man, regardless of age. . . . Chuck drew a deep breath, tucked his shirt in, and came around the wagon.
“Well, we got the cattle rounded up for you again, sheriff,” he said. “It was the least we could do, after upsetting your plans.”
The sheriff shrugged. “As it turned out, it made no real difference. Keller’s dead; we’re rid of him. I did want to see which way they’d move before I closed in on them; but we have the testimony of your rider to the effect that they were planning to violate the quarantine, and some of the men we rounded up are beginning to talk to save their skins. By the time they come to trial, we’ll have worse crimes to hang on them than driving a bunch of steers the wrong direction.” Kincaid hesitated. “Will Reese got away. I got word this morning that a man of his description had been seen joining up with a party heading for the gold fields. I don’t figure we’ll see him again.” The sheriff glanced towards the buggy under the trees. “There’s nothing for him to come back to here, that’s for sure.”
Chuck said, “I guess it’s just as well, although some of the men would still like to get their hands on him.”
“Now, about these cattle,” the sheriff said. “There’s no question about ownership. Whatever Keller was, they were legally acquired by him, and this man Paine we have in jail seems to’ve been his legal partner, with papers to prove it. No doubt they fixed it that way for some swindle or other, but that’s the way it stands. So Mr. Paine owns these longhorns. However, he isn’t likely to be taking an active part in the livestock business any time soo
n, and it seems like he’s willing to part with the herd at a reasonable price. Three dollars a head was the figure he mentioned—that would give him back the money his partner paid out, to use for hiring a lawyer and such. I reckon you could drive the price down a bit if you had a mind. Mister Paine is hardly in a position to bargain.”
Chuck found himself remembering a dismal hotel room, and the still figure in the bed, and the Preacher’s voice saying: I was . . . quite fond of her, myself. In a fatherly way, of course. He owed the man in jail a debt of sorts. Certainly, he did not want to take advantage of the other’s troubles.
He said, “I’d like to pay Mr. Paine’s price in full, Sheriff. However, I simply haven’t got that much left. There was the fine to pay and provisions to buy. . . .”
Kincaid said, “Well, it just so happens I have a few hundred dollars saved up for a likely investment. I figure between us we can manage to meet the figure, that is, if you don’t mind going shares with a Yankee. . . . Oh, I’m not handing out charity, son. I got some more news. Seems there’s a fellow named McCoy who’s got an arrangement with the railroad for shipping cattle from a small town out north and west of here somewhere.” “West?” Chuck asked quickly. “Here in Kansas?”
The sheriff chuckled. “I thought you’d prick up your ears. That’s right, I said west, outside the quarantine area, or at least out where there’s hardly any settlement to bother you. You head west until you hit an old trail used by Jesse Chisholm, the trader, and follow it north to the railroad. . . . Abilene, that’s the name of the town. Mr. Joseph G. McCoy, in Abilene, Kansas. He’s sent out handbills asking for cattle. Says he can ship them as fast as they come. Good prices, too, twenty-five to thirty-five dollars a head. So you see, I expect to get my money back with a profit.”
Chuck said, “You will, sir! And thank you—”
The sheriff said gruffly, “It’s a business proposition pure and simple, no call for thanks. Well, I could use a cup of that coffee. . . . No, no, I’ll help myself.”
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