"I've got a couple," Hacker said. "I can't say they'd be considered an education, but they're mighty good reading." He stoked his pipe. "I've got Mayne Reid's Afloat in the Forest, and Richardson's Beyond the Mississippi."
"I'd like to read them."
"Sure thing." He lighted his pipe. "When I left home I had four books. I swapped a McGuffey's Reader with a storekeeper in Missouri for a copy of Mountains and Molehills, by Frank Marryat. You'd never believe the number of times I've swapped books along the way. Two or three times in the army, half a dozen times out on the trail. Seems like everybody's hungry for reading, and there's mighty few books going around. I swapped that Marryat book to a gambler in Cheyenne, and three years later I was offered the very same book, with my name writ in it, in Beeville, Texas. It sure does beat all how some of these books get around."
We held the herd at that place for three days, keeping them off the horizon, and in the shallow valley along the stream. We rested ourselves and our horses, and the cattle seemed content to feed where they were. We ate, slept, yarned the hours away beside the fire; we repaired some gear, cleaned our guns, and watched the lazy cattle.
It was a good time, but in us all was the feeling that it could not last. We had been fortunate, but we were in Indian country, and somewhere out there were our enemies.
At daybreak on the third day we started them upstream, but moved them less than a mile, resting there for the last day on good fresh grass.
On the fourth day we started them again, moving them easily, letting them walk and graze, but keeping them all the time on the move toward the west. Jim, who was riding point, came back to the drag about an hour before noontime.
"I cut the trail of five shod horses," he said. "Maybe two days old ... came in from the south. One of them was Andy Miller's."
So they were with us again. They had missed our trail, but they would pick it up somewhere ahead. Over noon coffee I drew myself a rough map in the dirt. Northwest was Cheyenne, further north was Fort Laramie.
"We'll try to cross the Platte somewhere near Horsetail Creek," I told the men. "If anything happens to me, Hacker will take charge and you locate on the best grass you can find and wait for word from Tarlton."
Some folks think they'll live forever, but I wasn't one of them. How long a man lasts depends on how careful he is, and on the breaks of the game. Out here in this country a bullet or an arrow was only one way to go; there were many other ways—your horse could step in a prairie-dog hole when running; you could be gored by an outlaw steer, thrown by a horse, drowned in a river-crossing, caught in quicksand, or trampled in a stampede. To say nothing of rattlers or hydrophobia skunks—those skunks sometimes bit a man on the face when he was sleeping on the prairies. It was a rough, hard land, and we learned to walk careful and keep our eyes open, trusting in the Lord and a fast gun-hand.
We drove northwest while the sun blazed down and the dust clouds hung over our march, northwest across the sand dunes, over the swollen streams, up the long hills. Where water was scarce we lost some cattle, and the buzzards hung above us in the hot, empty sky. We sweated and swore and worked our horses to a frazzle, and slept when we had a chance.
And then the rains came, saving the herd and possibly ourselves, but turning the ground into a sea of mud, sometimes dimpled with the hard-striking hailstones. Tom Hacker's horse fell with him, and Tom's leg was scraped from hip to knee, his right arm badly wrenched.
Julesburg lay somewhere nearby, and we thought of it and longed for the food we could eat there that was not cooked by ourselves. We longed, too, to see other faces than those we saw every day. We drove the cattle into a hollow in the hills, rimmed by rocky cliffs. Tom, who was not able to ride with his bad leg, volunteered to stay with the herd while we rode into town. Jim offered to stay with him.
There was something inside me that warned me against Julesburg, and against leaving the herd with only two men. The town had a bad reputation, and the vicinity around was no better. But we needed supplies, and we needed the change, so Cotton, Corbin, and I rode into town.
This was the third town named Julesburg in the vicinity, and it was said by some to be the wickedest town in the country; from the beginning its history had been a bloody one.
We tied our horses at the hitching rail, but we led the pack animals around into the alley at the rear of the emporium where we expected to do our business. There we bought flour, sugar, dried fruit, coffee, and a dozen slabs of bacon, and I laid in a stock of papers and tobacco for those who smoked, and a big sack of hard candy. I also bought beans and rice, and a few cans of tomatoes. We packed it all on our pack animals, and had them ready to move out.
"Do you suppose they're in town?" Cotton asked.
"Who cares?" Corbin responded shortly. "If they come asking for it, they can have it."
"We're hunting no trouble," I said. "We'll eat, and then we'll ride out of town. Unless they come hunting us, we'll leave them alone."
Corbin stared at me. "What's the matter? You—"
"Don't say it." I was facing him. "I like you, Handy, and you're a good man, so don't say anything we'd both be sorry for. My first duty is to my partner and to those cattle, and I'm not getting myself or my men into a gun battle just to prove something to some no-accounts."
"Kelsey wouldn't like that," Corbin said with a grin. "You cauin' him a no-account."
"What else is he?" was my answer to that.
The streets were crowded with rigs and wagons, and it looked as if the hitching rail was lined with saddle stock wearing every brand west of the Mississippi. We joined the crowd along the boardwalk and worked our way to the Bon Ton Restaurant, a low-roofed building with a sign hung out over the street. Inside were long, family-style tables with benches along each side.
We found places, Handy and Cotton at one table, me across the room at another. We helped ourselves and set to eating. The dishes were enameled in blue, the cups the same. It was surely better than eating whilst squatting by a fire somewhere on the trail.
Of a sudden the door opened and Caxton Kelsey came in, LaSalle Prince with him. They crossed to a table and sat down, facing Cotton and Corbin. They hadn't seen me, for I was behind them.
Kelsey hadn't seen either Cotton Madden or Corbin riding with me, and they did not seem to notice them now. But I felt sure they knew they were there. They could have seen the brands on our saddle horses, right outside. And I noticed the careful way they were studying the rest of the crowd in the Bon Ton.
Usually I am a slow eater. Today I worked my way through a stack of grub in pretty fast style, knowing there might be little time before something happened. I refilled my cup from the coffeepot, and waited.
"Noticed some saddle stock outside wearing a Lazy TC," Kelsey commented. "Who's riding for that brand?"
Before Corbin or Madden could speak, I said, "That's my brand, Kelsey. Mine and Tarlton's. Have you got some business with us?"
He turned around very slowly and looked at me. "You haven't got Hickok here to protect you today, Chancy," he said.
"Now, that's odd. I had the idea he was protecting you."
There were at least forty people in the Bon Ton, and we had all their attention by now, so I decided to create some problems for him.
"I heard some renegades hit the Noah Gates herd," I said in a voice that could be heard by everyone there, "and they killed him and murdered his partners. Then they stole the herd."
I turned to glance around the room. "Too bad they were hard-up old men who drove clean up from Texas. Whoever murdered them must have been the lowest kind of coyotes."
Half a dozen voices spoke up in emphatic agreement. Then one man asked, "Do you have any idea who they were?"
"Well," I said, "the last of those old men ran to us for protection. He didn't quite make it, for he was dying when we found him, but his killer was right behind him, trying to finish him off."
"I hope you killed the skunk."
"He won't bother anybody again.
His name was Rad Miller, a brother to Andy Miller, and one of the outfit he runs with."
LaSalle Prince wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He threw his leg over the bench, keeping his back to me, and got to his feet. Fumbling in his pockets, he dug out a coin and put it on the table. All around me a buzz of conversation began, and I heard more than one man say, "They ought to be lynched!"
Caxton Kelsey was getting up, too, and I spoke again. "There's no place in the Territory for men of that stripe. I hope to see every one of them hang."
Nobody seemed inclined to argue the question, and Kelsey and LaSalle Prince were already out of the door.
Suddenly a man spoke up. "Why, I saw Andy Miller right here in town—not more'n two hours ago!"
Several men got up hurriedly, paid for their meals, and left. Handy Corbin looked over at me as I filled my cup again. "I can't quite figure you out, Chancy," he said. "You like to blew the lid off the whole thing."
I shrugged. "They won't sell any Gates cattle around here. They've got a stolen herd, but they've also got themselves a full-sized problem on what to do with it."
A big bearded man slammed down his cup and stood up. "You mean those two were among 'em?"
"The ringleaders," I said.
"Well, why the billy-be-damned didn't you say so?" he exploded. "We could have nailed 'em."
"One of those men was Caxton Kelsey," I said; "the other was LaSalle Prince. You want me to start a gun battle in here with that outfit?"
He let the air out of him and dropped back on the bench. "No, I don't—I surely don't. But you took a chance."
"I made 'em leave," I said. "Now they'll have to move on, but I don't believe they can outrun the story that will be told."
When we rode up to the herd all was quiet, but we wasted no time. We saddled up fresh horses and moved the herd right out, driving due north.
A man ramrodding a herd of mixed stuff has got to be a worrier. He has to worry about what might happen, so he will be ready for it if it does happen; and the only thing he can be downright sure of is that if what he was afraid of doesn't happen, something else will.
Cattle are spooky, liable to scare themselves into a stampede at some sudden sound, some unexpected movement, at a flash of lightning or a rattle of pans. And every one of them seems gifted with a crazy imagination that sees ghosts, goblins, or wolves in every shadow. There may be hours on end when they plod placidly along, and then suddenly they'll be off and running and a longhorn steer can cover ground like a scared antelope.
We'd been having it mighty easy so far. Our herd was trail broke, and for the greater part of the drive the grazing had been good; except for a few short drives there had been water a-plenty. But now we were entering upon a long, dusty drive over dry country, where it would be a long while between drinks.
Kelsey and his outfit knew we were driving to Wyoming, for that had been no secret, and in a town like Abilene everybody knows what everybody else is doing, anyway. My hunch was they'd cut out for Cheyenne, spend some time around the saloons and gambling houses, and then ride south to meet us sometime during the last day or so of our drive .
My guess was they'd hole up their stolen herd somewhere on a hide-out ranch run by some outlaw, and come on without it. They wanted my cattle, but most of all they wanted my hide. Now, it doesn't pay to trust too much to what you think the other fellow may do; he might do something different that would throw you off stride.
We crossed the Lodgepole and drove north across the Chugwater Flats, making easy drives to save our horses. Twice we came upon wild mustangs, but they fled on our approach; then they trailed along, always curious, always at a distance.
Jim Bigbear dropped back to where I was working the drag. No matter that I was bossing this drive—I stood my regular turn with the rest of them, and switched the bad jobs among us. The drag was the dustiest, dirtiest job of them all, and usually it was the hottest, unless the wind was stirring. Then the hottest place was on the lee side of the herd, where a body caught the heat thrown up by several hundred cattle.
"This is Cheyenne country," Jim commented, "and you'll run into the Sioux up ahead. We'd best keep an eye out for trouble."
We watered the herd, and then pushed on a couple of miles to bed them down. The best we would find was the gentle slope of a hill that offered a mite of protection from the wind.
This night I saddled the buckskin and went to scouting. First of all, I wanted to get away from the herd, for I had some thinking to do. And next, Jim had been scouting now for weeks and it was high time I did some of it, just to get better acquainted with the country, if nothing else.
When I had been scouting for nearly an hour the buckskin made his way down into a hollow among the hills. There were several cottonwoods there, and some willows there might be water.
This was the route we would take tomorrow, and it would make it easy if we could water the herd well, and at the right time, so I walked the buckskin toward the trees.
The sun was low down in the sky, painting the clouds with a vivid brush. It would soon be dusk. The cottonwoods dusted thek leaves together softly. There was no other sound but the soft thud of my horse's hoofs.
An Indian, rifle in hand, stood silently awaiting me. Along the edge of the wood I then saw another, and another ... and another.
There were at least six of them, and I was alone.
Chapter 7
MY HORSE HAD continued to walk forward, and I lifted my right hand, palm out. Closing my fist, I then raised the index and middle fingers together, and lifted them beside my face in the sign for friend. The Indians waited, making no move.
Now, there's mighty few Indians can resist a good horse trade, and what we needed most right now was a few horses. I had a feeling these Indians could use some beef, so as I drew nearer I made the sign for trade, raising the two fore-fingers and crossing the wrists so the fingers pointed in opposite directions, and sawed the wrists back and forth a couple of times. There were some variations of these signs among plains and mountain tribes, but they mattered little.
These were Cheyennes, I could see that, and a fine-looking lot, too, warriors every one of them. They were wearing no paint, and one of them had an antelope quarter and some other meat from the animal tied in the skin behind his saddle.
One of the Indians spoke suddenly. "Who you?"
"Otis Tom Chancy. I'm driving cattle, and we could use some horses. I figured we might swap—beef for horses."
He studied me, and then looked at the horse I was riding. Indicating the buckskin, he said, "Him Injun horse."
"I swapped for him," I said. "Got him from a Shawnee."
"What name this Shawnee?"
"Jim Bigbear. He's riding with me."
"How you know sign talk?"
"I grew up with the Cherokees." Here I made the sign for friend, then touched the fingers to my lips, which indicated brother.
Turning my horse, I motioned for them to follow, and after the briefest hesitation they trailed along behind, riding easily, but warily.
As this was Indian country we were going into, it seemed to me a good idea to try to be friends. A man can fight if he has to, but the worst thing he can do is to go looking for trouble. Of course he can make a fool of himself by assuming the other fellow wants peace, too, and this is a mistake sometimes made, for many Indians have nothing to gain except through war.
Jim saw us coming, and when we rode into camp everybody was relaxing, but at the same time everybody was armed and ready. You can be sure those Cheyennes noticed it, too.
Grub was on the fire, and Tom took one look at the Indians and started slicing chunks of beef. We sat around the fire and the Cheyennes put away the best part of a side of buffalo and a gallon or so of coffee before we settled down to palavering about horses.
Corbin sidled over to me. "You going to let them stay in camp all night?"
It was a problem, but I saw no way around it. I wanted horses, but I also wanted the Indians t
o know we were not afraid of them—and that if necessary we would fight.
By the time darkness was closing in we had made us a swap of beef for horses. They would ride back to their camp for the horses, and then we would make the swap. But we wanted good horses this was the point I made. Good stock, or no trade.
As a matter of fact, I needed those horses almighty bad. Ours were worn down from overwork, and we were nearing the country where I planned to settle. Once there, we would have to keep a constant watch on our herds or Indians would run them off, and at the same time we would have to be building corrals, a cabin for ourselves, and some kind of shelter for our saddle stock.
Jim Bigbear was taking the first guard, and when he rode out the Cheyennes watched him go. These Indians looked fit for any kind of a scrap. We were five to their six, but aside from our six-shooters we were no better armed.
Tom and Cotton turned in, and the Indians rolled up in their blankets, but none of us was fooled. We knew they would be awake, or at least some of them would. After a while, Handy Corbin went to his blankets, and I sat alone by the fire, rifle across my knees.
It was quiet ... we heard nothing but a coyote howling in the far-off distance. The cattle bedded down and seemed content. After a time I went to my blankets and turned in, but I kept a six-gun in my hand, and my rifle close by.
Cotton got up shortly before midnight, added some water to the coffee, and Tom joined him. Cotton rode out to relieve Jim, and after having his coffee, Tom went out, too. Jim idled about the fire and I went to sleep with him still there. We had agreed amongst us that either Tom or Cotton would ride up to the fire off and on during the night to sort of keep an eye on things after Jim turned in.
It was about two hours after midnight that I woke up. It was time for Handy and me to relieve the others. For a few minutes I lay still, just listening, studying the night with my ears.
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