“He’d kill me for that herd?”
“You must be dreamin’, man. Of course he will.
He’d kill his whole outfit for that herd. Right now I’d say the odds are a hundred to one against you makin’ the next fifty miles.”
They stopped talking then, but Tom Chantry considered the matter. French Williams was a known thief. He had killed men. He might offer an appearance of fair play for the look of the thing, but Bone was sure to be right. Somebody who rode with them would challenge him, and at his first move, would shoot and shoot to kill … any move Chantry made would be construed as a move for a gun—a move to shoot.
The only thing he could do was avoid carrying any weapon at all. He said as much.
McCarthy shrugged. “Worse comes to worst, they’ll get you out on the grass somewheres, shoot you, and plant a gun on you. It’s been done.”
He looked hard at Chantry. “Can you shoot? I mean, did you ever use a gun?”
“I can shoot. I’ve hunted a lot.”
“How about with a hand gun?”
“Yes. I’ve used one.”
“Can you draw? I mean, can you get a gun out of your holster without dropping it?”
“Yes. My father showed me when I was a youngster.
He had me practice. But I never liked it.”
“Just get it out, and no matter what he does, even if you get hit, you level that gun and shoot. Take your time, but make that first shot count. You may never get another one.”
“There’s no use to talk of it. I won’t be carrying a gun.”
“Well, in case you change your mind, you make that first one do the job. I’ve seen many a fast-draw artist who got his gun out quicker’n scat, an’ then put his first bullet right out in the dust betwixt ‘em, an’ never got another shot.”
Chantry pushed back from the table. “Here’s what I want you to do.” He put a twenty-dollar gold piece on the table. “Get yourself some grub, and then you keep an eye on the herd. You see whatever goes on, but you keep out of sight. If anything happens that you think I ought to know, you get in touch with me. I’ll be riding out from the herd every day.”
“All right.” Bone McCarthy stood up.
“You watch yourself, do you hear?”
The tawny plains swept away in all directions, a gently rolling stretch of grama and buffalo grass with patches of greasewood; over some of the higher levels the plain was dotted with Spanish bayonet, or yucca. Far off, the moving black mass of a small herd of buffalo showed against a brown slope, and in a gully the stark white of scattered bones.
The herd was behind him again and he rode warily, without his rifle, carrying only the bowie knife he carried for work around the camp, or casual use. His eyes swept the horizon, hesitating here and there … but nothing moved.
The dust held no tracks, and when he came up to the river bed he saw that it was dry and cracked into plate-sized slabs of gray mud, baked and crisp.
No water.
Chantry mopped the sweat from his face and squinted his eyes against the sun. It was mid-afternoon, and the herd had been without water since daybreak … there had been an expectation of water at this place.
French Williams had mentioned casually, in an offhand manner that they would water here. Had he known the creek was dry? Chantry suspected it, but had no way of knowing.
It was twenty miles to the next water, which meant a dry camp tonight, with a parched and restless herd, hard to hold. He glanced at the sun. Had they swung farther west? Williams was pointing the herd now. This morning it had been Koch.
Williams knew far more about the ways of cattle on a drive than Chantry would ever know, and he had driven over this country before … whether by this route or not, Chantry did not know. Undoubtedly the man had a plan of operation, and was not proceeding in a haphazard manner. He was a cool head, seemingly reckless and careless, but Chantry had quickly divined that the gunman was basically cautious.
He scanned the horizon again. Here at the river bank there was a little brush, and further away there were trees. Turning his horse down the dry watercourse, he walked it slowly toward the trees. There might be water down there, some isolated pool where he could at least water his horse.
Even while his senses were alert to the surroundings, he was considering his problem. He now had two assets in Sun Chief and Bone McCarthy, neither of them known to French Williams. But his greatest asset was the fact that French Williams underrated him, considered him a tenderfoot. He on his part was aware that Williams was a dangerous and treacherous adversary. That is, he knew from his own guesses and from what McCarthy had said, and it was enough to make him cautious.
Tall cottonwoods suddenly loomed ahead and the watercourse was so narrow that he could no longer proceed. Ahead of him it narrowed into a rocky channel, impassable for a horse, and fell off sharply into a canyon.
He rode up the bank and into the trees. There, in their dappling shade, he paused to listen.
The cottonwoods rustled, somewhere a crow cawed into the hot afternoon, and then he heard a low murmur, followed by a faint clink, as of metal on metal.
Dismounting, he tied his horse with a slipknot, and walked cautiously forward, moving from tree to tree. Back in the East he had often stalked game in the woods, and he knew how to move quietly.
Suddenly the ground dropped away before him and he was looking into a small, grassy park scattered with cottonwoods, with willows growing along the streambed. Near the edge of the willows two men sprawled lazily near a dying fire. They were too far off to identify them, but he had no need, for their horses were grazing nearby, and one of them was the horse he had ridden out of Las Vegas.
The Talrim boys! Hank and Bud Talrim, who had taken his horse at gun point.
He drew back, and carefully made his way to his horse. Mounting, he rode back the way he had come.
What were the Talrim boys doing here?
Of course, they might have gone anywhere. But they were escaping from the law, and one would imagine they would keep on running. Instead, they had for some reason circled back and were now here, close by his herd.
Curious, he rode back to the herd, switched his saddle to his other horse, and rode out again. Glancing back, he saw Williams staring after him, but he rode ahead directly east from the herd, cutting for sign. He had gone only three miles when he found it—the tracks of two riders, tracks not many hours old, and one set was the tracks of his own horse.
All right. So they had come up from the south, but that was necessary, for when he had met them they were heading south. He back-tracked them for several miles on a route parallel to the herd. On at least one occasion they had ridden high enough on a low hill to look over and watch the herd.
In itself, that meant nothing. They could have heard the lowing of the cattle and simply come to take a look. On the other hand, it was worth thinking about. Was it simply coincidence?
He had to remember that French Williams had gone to the trouble of locating and hiring Dutch Akin. Had he somehow gotten in touch with the Talrim boys? were they to be his ace in the hole?
They were known murderers … wanted men. Would they kill for hire? They would. They would even kill simply to kill.
He swung his horse from their trail and started back to the drive.
For the first time he found himself wanting a gun. He was a fool, he told himself. With such men as the Talrims one did not reason. One did not sit down and discuss their mutual problems, because there were none. These men were killers.
This was a different land from the East, ruled by a different set of principles. The circumstances and conditions were different; it was a land to which law had not yet come, nor the restraints that society can exercise upon its members.
Heretofore he had been protected, one man of many who were protected by law, by the pressures of society, by fear of retribution. He had not had to fear, for other men stood between him and danger, but here there were no such men. A man was expected to s
tand on his own feet, to protect himself.
He was realizing how cheap are the principles for which we do not have to fight, how easy it is to establish codes when all the while our freedom to talk had been fought forand bled for by others.
Tom Chantry was no fool. He had won his battle with Dutch Akin by restraint and reason, but he was wise enough to know that neither of these would prevail against such men as the Talrim boys. Reason or restraint would seem weakness to them, and they were the kind to strike quickly when they discovered weakness. They had been quick to take his horse when they discovered he did not carry a gun, and they had shot at him, almost casually, as an afterthought, not caring greatly whether they killed or not.
He looked off in the direction in which his cattle had gone, then touched his spur lightly to his horse’s ribs. He would go back. It was time. There were decisions to be made.
Chapter Eight
THE CATTLE moved north with the rising of the sun, stirring the dust across the short-grass prairies, blue grama with occasional patches of little bluestem and curly-leaved sedge, and on some slopes a scattering of prickly pear. The cattle moved slowly, grazing as they walked, and Tom Chantry rode the drag, considering his problem.
Dutch Akin switched horses and rode back to join him, lifting a hand as he passed, hitching his bandana over his nose to keep out the dust.
It was very hot. McKay went by, circling to bring a bunch-quitter back to the drive. When he had driven the steer where he belonged he dropped back, riding beside Chantry.
They had fallen back to be clear of some of the dust and to keep an eye on any laggards that might cut out for the flanks.
“Quite a whippin’ you gave Koch,” McKay commented, “an’ he had it comin’.”
“There’s a difference,” Chantry said, “between a man who doesn’t want to kill anybody and a man who’s afraid. He just wasn’t reading the sign right.”
“You be careful,” McKay said. “He’s been talkin’ that it ain’t over.”
At the nooning Chantry rode in to switch horses, and got his saddle on the little buckskin that was one of the horses allotted for him to ride. He planned to scout wide of the herd that day, as he went to the wagon for his rifle.
As he stepped up to the wagon he heard Koch grumbling about something nearby, then heard his voice suddenly grow quiet. He read nothing into it, but had just drawn his rifle clear of the wagon when Koch said, “All right, you blasted tenderfoot! Now you got a gun, turn an’ start shootin’.”
The rifle barrel was in Tom’s left hand, which gripped it close to the fore-sight. Koch was not more than a dozen feet from him, and Tom wheeled sharply, swinging the rifle. As he came around he let it go, sending it flying toward the big man’s face.
Koch ducked and Tom Chantry lunged at him. The big man staggered, caught his balance and swung the gun around, but it went off of itself before he brought it into line. With the smashing report the cattle suddenly lunged and were running.
Chantry hit Koch with his shoulder, knocked him sprawling, then fell on him, knees in the big man’s belly. Without moving a knee, Chantry swung two hard punches at his face. Then he leaped back and, as Koch started to rise, smashed him in the face with his knee.
Men had leaped to the saddle and were plunging after the stampeding cattle, which were frightened by the sudden shot.
Chantry waited a moment for Koch to get up, but thoroughly angry now, he walked up to him and struck him twice in the face before Koch could lift his hands, hit him in the belly, and then when he started to fall forward, brought a hammer blow down on his kidneys.
“You’re fired, Koch,” he said. “Get your outfit and get out. I don’t ever want to see you around again … anywhere.” Chantry picked up his rifle and walked to his horse.
He rode out, swept wide, and began gathering cattle, pushing them toward the center. He gathered about twenty head, and then came upon a bunch that had slowed to a walk, and started them all back. Hay Gent joined him with a dozen head.
“What happened back there?” Gent asked.
“With Koch? I whipped him again, and then I fired him.”
“What if he won’t stay fired?”
“He will.”
“But if he don’t?”
“Then I’ll whip him again, and again, until he stays fired.”
Gent made no comment, and they drove the cattle in, meeting McKay, Helvie, and Rugger also bringing in cattle. It was the work of hours, but slowly the cattle were all gathered.
“We’ll move on,” French said. “Maybe there’s water up ahead.” He looked around. “Where’s Koch?”
They were all listening. “I fired him,” Chantry replied. “That shot started the stampede. This is no place to be settling personal grudges.”
Williams looked at him thoughtfully.
“We’ll be short-handed,” he said. And he added, “He’ll carry a grudge. Likely he’ll lay for you.”
“He’ll have company then,” Chantry said.
“What’s that mean?” Williams asked quickly.
“Men leave tracks, French. I’m not so much a tenderfoot that I can’t read sign.”
They were all looking at him, but he left it at that, and the cattle started to move.
Riding out from the herd, he found a promontory and rode cautiously up the side to look over the ridge and survey the country. A few miles ahead and off to the right of the trail there was a hollow with a touch of deeper green.
Half an hour later he came up to it, a wide slough boggy along the sides, but with water a-plenty. Skirting it, he found it had a gravelly shore, and turned back to guide the herd.
“Water?” French was skeptical. “I don’t know of any water around here.”
“You do now,” Chantry said. “Hay, turn the herd.”
Hay Gent glanced at Williams, who merely shrugged, so the herd swung. By the time the cattle had watered and a few head had been snaked out of the mud it was coming on to sundown, and over by the chuck wagon there was a fire going.
There was little talk around the fire. The men were dog-tired, and when they had eaten they hunted their bedrolls. French alone loitered at the fire, smoking. From time to time he glanced across at Tom Chantry.
“You are a difficult man, my friend,” he said at last. “Whatever else you may be, you are not a coward.”
“Thanks.”
“I will win, however. It’s a long way to Dodge.”
“It is that.” Chantry looked up from his coffee. “And when you get there, I’ll be with you.”
French’s gaze hardened, then he laughed. “You might be at that,” he replied cheerfully, “and if you are, I’ll give you credit for it.”
“You’ll need the credit,” Chantry replied.
“I’ll have the cash.”
He got a plate and his food, and sat down a bit away from the fire. If they didn’t accept him, the hell with them—he could go his own way. But there was something in him that was different now; he had grown harder, tougher. The wide plains and the long winds of morning were having their effect; but French Williams, the Talrim boys, and Koch had contributed … yes, and Sparrow back there at Las Vegas, and Bone McCarthy at Clifton’s. These men had experienced far more living in the West than he had. Perhaps, he thought reluctantly, perhaps his thinking needed a bit of revision.
How much of what he believed about not using guns was left over from that bitter day when they brought his father home on a shutter? Or was it what his mother had taught him? Deep in grief over the death of his father, she had shrunk from the possibility of such an end for her son.
Killing was wrong—on that score he could not change. However, there was no law here except the law enforced by men with guns, and did such men as the Talrims, and even such men as Williams himself, understand any other law?
If a man would not put restrictions upon himself, if he would not conform to the necessary limits that allow people to live together in peace, then he must not be allowe
d to infringe on the liberties of those who wanted to live in peace. And that might lead to violence, even to killing.
The trouble was that back east men had lived so long in a society that demanded order and conformity that they failed to understand that there were societies where violence was the rule, and where there were men to whom only the fear of retribution placed a bridle on their license.
But Tom Chantry knew there was more than his father behind him, for the fighting tradition of the Chantrys did not begin with him, nor with his grandfather, who had stood with LaFitte and Jackson at the battle of New Orleans. There were generations before that, who had crossed over from Ireland.
The principal thing he had learned was that simply because he himself did not believe in violence was no reason that others would feel the same. In the future he must be more wary. But what if the Talrim boys’ presence was not coincidence? What if French had arranged for them to be near? What if French intended the Talrim boys to eliminate him?
At daybreak he was out riding the drag, and when he broke off he caught up another horse from the remuda. This was a grulla mustang, small but wiry.
“Watch him, amigo,” Dutch Akin whispered. “That one is mean.”
The little mouse-colored horse stood quiet until saddled, but just as Chantry put his foot in the stirrup and rested his weight on it to swing to the saddle, the little horse folded up like a closing knife and then snapped open viciously. Tom Chantry slapped into the saddle as the horse came down, was almost thrown as it sun-fished wickedly, then crow-hopped for half a dozen jumps, and switched ends suddenly. More by luck than anything else, Tom stayed in the saddle. He had ridden spirited horses, but nothing that bucked like this. Just as he was sure he was going to have to grab for the pommel with both hands, the grulla stopped bucking, ran a few steps, and settled down.
Chantry rode over to the chuck wagon and, taking his rifle, shoved it into the saddle scabbard. Then he turned and rode out on the plains.
North To The Rails Page 6