North To The Rails

by Louis L'Amour

  There was no use in supposing. He was not going to escape his dilemma by sitting and worrying about it. What he had to do was try for a way out.

  He crawled up in the narrow hole once more, but this time he did not fight the rock. He felt with his fingers for the very top of the slab, and then he pushed.

  Nothing happened.

  He waited a moment, gathered strength, and pushed harder; the slab moved and a trickle of sand fell into the cave from above.

  A moment longer he waited, and then he pushed again. The slab moved outward a little more and fell, and the hole gaped at the top, letting in both light and air.

  Again he pushed … and a bullet clipped the top of the slab and spat sand into his face.

  “Stay there!” The unfamiliar voice was harsh.

  “You’re dead, so stay dead!”

  He backed away. He might chance a shot, but he would have to get far enough into the hole to be able to see a target outside before he could fire. On the other hand, they would have a target they could not easily miss.

  He put his rifle down carefully, felt for the sticks, and held a match to the frayed end of one. It caught, went out, but caught with the next match. Taking up his rifle and several other sticks, he went down the slope toward the back. The flame bent slightly back toward the way he had come. There was a draft here, a slight movement of air from somewhere ahead.

  He went on, moving as swiftly as he could. He found occasional small pieces of wood, changed sticks, lighting from his previous torch. He crossed the roomlike area and glimpsed several dark openings, but went on in the direction of the draft.

  There was a trickle of water on the cave floor, and he bent over and dampened his face. It cooled quickly from the movement of air. He had walked perhaps a hundred steps when he saw a faint gleam of light. He lighted another dry stick and hurried on.

  The gleam of light came from a small opening only a few yards ahead, but suddenly he came to an abrupt halt. For the light he saw was coming from an opening at the edge of a heavy canvas curtain, weighted at the bottom with a wooden pole. He went up to it and pulled it slightly aside.

  He looked around in amazement, then swore softly. He was standing at the back of the root cellar on the ranch where he had grown up. Before him was a wall of shelves. He started to move it, and found the wall turned on a pivot.

  The place was empty, dusty, long-undisturbed by anything other than pack rats. Here his family had stored vegetables they had raised in their small kitchen garden, and here, his father had always warned them, they were to take shelter in case of Indian attack.

  He remembered the day he had shown his father his cave that he called The Hole. His father had been properly astonished, properly admiring; and his father, he now knew, had known of it all the time.

  Now he knew where he was, and he knew where the ones outside must be. He checked his rifle and went to the door. It was half hidden behind the bole of a huge old cottonwood, and there was a little light coming through the crack where the boards of the door had shrunk. He peered out and could see nothing, but he did hear horses cropping grass.

  Rifle in his right hand, ready to fire, he moved the door with his left. Dust and sand fell, but it moved easily.

  Nothing out there but the trees and grass, the ruins of the barn, some scattered gray boards, and the brush beyond. Then to the right he glimpsed the horses, cropping the grass.

  He went up the last step, and moved out. He stood listening, but heard nothing.

  From behind the cottonwood he scouted the area carefully with eyes and ears. Nothing.

  He walked toward the horses, and took the bridle of the first one. He stepped into the saddle, and catching the bridle of the other, walked the horse carefully away. The men who watched the hole for him could continue to watch, but they would have a long wait.

  He rode to where he had left the dun. The horse was down, and dead. He swore bitterly. The dun had been a good horse, a noble horse, and he wanted to see no horse die. He stepped down, stripped his gear from the dead animal, and exchanged it for that on the horse he was riding. Then he mounted up.

  Leading the spare horse, he started north. The first thing to do was to find the herd.

  Chapter Eighteen

  FROM THE hill above Butte Springs he glimpsed some scattered cattle and rode toward them. He gathered them, taking it easy to save his horses; he led the extra mount so he could switch if need be. There were eighteen head, and he bunched them, then pushed on, gathering more.

  Beyond Plum Creek he could see still others scattered out and grazing. The day was warm and clear and his eyes ranged the country around, alert to sight any movement of men or animals. If he could gather enough of the herd he would start them toward the railroad, which must be north of him now, and near the river. He would drive what cattle he could gather, pick up some hands, and return to make a sweep of the plains.

  Beyond Granada Creek he could see the dusty trace that marked the Sante Fe Trail. By the time he was midway between Plum and Granada he had gathered more than a hundred head. Leaving them to graze, he trailed the reins of the horse he was riding and switched to the other. He left his first mount with the cattle, rode west, and began to gather more.

  Alternating horses he had by nightfall added another two hundred head to his herd, finding them often in bunches of a dozen or more. He pushed them north a couple of miles to fresh grass, and when they had begun to lie down, he made his own camp near a pool of water left from the recent rains in an arroyo that emptied into Plum Creek. He did not build a fire.

  With his horses picketed close by, he went to sleep, trusting to them to alert him to any danger. The night passed quietly, and before dawn he was up, saddled his horses, and rode out to continue his gather.

  A few cattle had drifted into the basin and he added them to what he had, then crossed the Sante Fe Trail into the breaks around the head of Wolf Creek. On the slope below him he saw some five hundred head of cattle bunched together, and two picketed horses. Keeping out of sight, he worked around on foot until he could see their camp.

  Two men were sleeping under a bank near some junipers. A thin tendril of smoke lifted from the remains of their fire. Recovering his horse, he rode in a small circle to a place among the junipers near them, and then crept down the slope until he was on the bank just above them.

  A dim path, evidently made by buffalo or antelope, went around the junipers and down into their camp. It was all he needed. Moving quietly, he made his way closer until he stood in their camp. Actually, his movements were practically silent.

  He picked up their rifles and put them behind him, then went to the sleeping men, each of whom had a six-shooter near him. As he bent over, holding his rifle in his right hand, and just about to reach with his left and pick up the nearest man’s gun belt, the man lunged up from his bed and grabbed at the rifle. As he lunged, Tom Chantry swung a short butt-stroke to the temple and the man dropped as though hit with an axe.

  Coolly, Chantry picked up the other gun belt, then booted the sleeping man in the ribs.

  He raised his head and said, “What the hell?”

  And then he saw Chantry standing over him.

  “Get up,” Chantry said. “And get your boots on. We’ve got some cattle to drive.”

  “Go to hell!”

  Chantry stooped suddenly, grabbed the man’s bed and jerked. As he tumbled from the blankets, Chantry stepped in and kicked him in the stomach.

  The man rolled over, retching.

  “Now get up and get your boots on,”

  Chantry repeated. “You’re going to find out what it means to steal another man’s cattle.”

  The rustler gasped for a few minutes. He looked at his companion. “What happened to him?”

  “He got a little ambitious. Maybe his skull is busted.”

  “An’ you don’t give a damn?”

  “No, I don’t. What happens to a thief is his own tough luck. When you start out to steal, you’re
anybody’s game, remember that. … Now you get your horse saddled. We’re driving these cattle.”

  “What about him?”

  “If he revives, he can help you. If he doesn’t, the buzzards will take care of him. Get moving.”

  Chantry backed to the fire and picked up the coffeepot. Some coffee sloshed in it, and he drank from the edge. Keeping a good distance, he let his eyes range the area, seeking out any possible cover.

  A groan from the other man alerted him, and he saw him stirring. He walked over and booted him. “Get up! Get into your boots.”

  “I’ll kill you for this!” the man growled.

  “Get into the saddle,” Chantry said. “If you drive those cattle and don’t get funny, I may let you live. Make a wrong move and I’ll shoot you. I’m out of patience.”

  With the two rustlers working under his rifle, Chantry gathered the bunch they had and drove them over to his own small herd, which had scattered a bit as they grazed.

  When the cattle were bunched with his own, he faced the two rustlers, staying fifty yards off from them. His rifle on them, he said, “What became of my riders?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” said the heavier of the two with a sneer.

  “Yes, I would.” Tom Chantry smiled pleasantly at them. “You boys can tell me or not, as you choose. I’ve got this rifle, and I can drop a running rabbit with it, and you boys make a good deal bigger target. You’re cow thieves—maybe murderers. Whether you get out of this alive depends on how you cooperate, and on my whim. I’ve a good notion to shoot you both where you stand. If you’re found dead out here nobody is going to ask questions. Of course, it would make it easier to handle the cattle if you boys work along and help.”

  They looked at him, and they did not like what they saw. The rifle was ready, and they judged him as they would themselves. After all, why should he keep them alive?

  “All right,” the bigger man agreed. “We’ll ride along and he’p with the cattle. An’ we’ll stay right with you up to the rails. But what then?”

  Chantry shrugged. “I don’t want either of you. You help me get my cattle to the railhead, and then you can get out of the country as fast as you can ride. Start any sooner than within sight of the rails, and I’ll shoot you, wherever it is.”

  Would he? At that moment Chantry had no idea. He knew that, come what might, he must get these cattle to the railroad.

  He strapped their rifles to his own saddle, and their gun belts as well. They started the cattle, pointing them north. It could not be more than twenty miles to the railroad now, and probably was less.

  For an hour they moved steadily. Chantry worked well back, out of the dust, his rifle ready to use at any sign of betrayal.

  But they had no need for betrayal. For suddenly, without warning, a dozen riders appeared. They swept down upon him, four of them rushing at the herd, the others forming up near him, a few yards off. And they came at a time when his rifle was in his scabbard, the first time all morning when that had been the case.

  Rugger was there, and Kincaid. Koch was there, grinning at him, a triumphant grin. The others were strangers. To his relief, not one of the men with whom he had worked so well, McKay, Hay Gent, or Helvie, was among them.

  “Looks like you he’ped us round ‘em up,” Rugger said, “an’ we thank you for that. Now we’re takin’ them over.”

  They were going to kill him. Koch would never have it otherwise, nor Rugger either, for that matter.

  “Let me make you an offer, boys,” Chantry said pleasantly, and drew his gun.

  They were off guard, his speed was greater than they expected, and their reaction time was against them. He drew, and shot Rugger out of the saddle, then switched the gun to Koch.

  Koch’s rifle was coming up and Chantry’s bullet, aimed for his mid-section, hit the hammer and glanced upward, catching Koch under the chin. He toppled from his horse, blood streaming from his throat, and the horse went galloping away over the prairie.

  Rugger was on the ground; Koch was gone. The others found themselves staring at a six-shooter that seemed to have come from nowhere.

  “Shuck those guns!” Tom Chantry said.

  “Or I’ll empty some saddles! Quick!”

  Kincaid hesitated, and a bullet broke his arm at the elbow.

  Reaching over to one of the captured holsters, Chantry took another six-shooter with his left hand.

  There was no need for it. The others were loosening their gun belts. The shooting had happened so fast that not one of them had even had time to register the need for a draw.

  “Now get out of here!”

  With a thunder of hoofs, the riders were streaking away. The men near him swung their horses and started to ride away, and he let them go.

  Once more he was alone with the cattle … and then he saw why the others had fled. Riding toward him in a long array, was a line of at least fifty Kiowa braves.

  Ahead of them they were driving several hundred head of cattle.

  Wolf Walker rode toward him, a dozen braves close behind. He stopped in a swirl of dust.

  “We come. We help. We drive wo-haws for friend.”

  “I thank you,” Chantry said.

  Slowly the herd bunched again. From somewhere came Old Brindle and stepped into the lead, and the cattle moved off slowly. From out of the draws other bunches of cattle came, driven by Kiowas. By nightfall the cattle all seemed to have been gathered.

  But Tom Chantry was worried. Where were French Williams and the others? Williams himself was an uncertain quantity, a man he had never trusted completely. Helvie, McKay, Gent, and Akin had all seemed good men, and dependable.

  Behind it all, he was sure, were the operations of Sarah. She must have found and employed the Talrim brothers, and she must have recruited the others to help her … she would know what arguments to use. If what she wanted was ownership of the cattle, she would have clear title once he and Williams were out of the way.

  But now there seemed no way she could win. The railroad was only a few miles away, and the Kiowas who guarded the cattle were fighting men, not to be trifled with. Chantry recalled what she had told Paul about not paying the men who helped her, and he was sure she had something of the sort in mind now.

  She was not the sort to give up easily, but what could she do?

  She must believe that the cards were all in her hands. She probably had French Williams a prisoner, or had killed him. And perhaps she still thought that Tom Chantry was trapped in The Hole.

  Some of the outlaws who had been driving the cattle might have gotten in touch with her, but that he doubted.

  What would she do now?

  The cattle would be delivered at the railhead, placed aboard cars there, and shipped east. It began to look as if Sarah was whipped, and French Williams, too.

  And then he remembered that at the railhead were the men who had killed his father. What was he going to do about that? And what did they plan to do?

  Chapter Nineteen

  THE RIVER was not far off now, and the railroad followed it. He pointed the way, occasionally glancing back to see if any enemies were in sight, but he trusted the Indians to alert him to any danger. This was the short-grass country, blue grama, buffalo grass, and some needle grasses. Patches of prickly pear appeared now and again, and yucca, often called soap weed from the Indians’ use of it, dotted the plains.

  The cattle, seeming to sense the river with its abundance of water, moved steadily onward, and the Kiowas proved efficient herdsmen, working with the cattle as if born to it. They were magnificent horsemen and managed their quick ponies without effort.

  Twice Chantry glimpsed antelope, and once a small bunch of buffalo, moving southward, away from the river. Suddenly, from far off, he heard a train whistle.

  The Kiowas drew up to listen, and even the steers lifted their heads, staring wild-eyed, at the unfamiliar sound. A thin trail of smoke showed in the sky.

  They topped out on a low rise and the river
lay before them, and somewhat to the east of north, they saw a cluster of buildings and a train, its locomotive giving off the smoke he had seen.

  There was a sudden flurry of action near the town, men running, and mounted men beginning to assemble.

  Wolf Walker came up to Chantry. “They see us,” he said grimly. “Think we come for fight.”

  “Hold them. I’ll ride ahead.”

  He started down the slight slope at a canter to meet the horsemen. He was nearly at the town when he came up to them, two dozen men armed and ready to fight.

  “Take it easy, gentlemen!” he said. “Those Kiowas are driving my cattle for me.”

  “Like hell!” blustered a huge bearded man.

  “This here’s a squaw man—he’s one of them!”

  “I’m not one of them, and I am driving these cattle from Cimarron to load on the steam cars. Rustlers scattered my herd and the Kiowas helped me gather them and drive them on. They have been very helpful.”

  “I don’t believe that!” the big man exclaimed. “I—“

  Chantry swung his horse to face him. “My friend,” he said, “I am losing patience with you. If you say that again you’d better have a gun in your hand.”

  The man started to speak, then stopped, but his eyes were ugly.

  “Hold your horses, Butler,” another man said. “Sparrow told me about this man. He’s the one that stock buyer is waitin’ for. This here’s Tom Chantry.”

  “Chantry!” Suddenly Butler was all confidence. “You’re the one that took water from Dutch Akin! Well, by—to was

  “Mr. Butler,” Chantry interrupted, “you are right. I am the man who refused to fight a stranger against whom I had no animosity. Under the same circumstances I would do the same thing again.

  “However, a few miles back along the trail you will find two men who attempted to take my cattle, Rugger and Koch. You will find them dead. I’m afraid their intentions caused me to develop some animosity very quickly, and you are now creating the same situation. If I were you I’d throttle down while you are still in a condition to do so.”

  He turned to the other man. “Thank you, sir, for speaking up. I need a few good hands to take my herd and bring it in. The Kiowas would prefer not to come into town.”