Chancy

by Louis L'Amour

  From where I lay I could see the fire, which was down to red coals. There was some smoke drifting up, mingling with a mite of steam from the pot. All of a sudden I saw one of the Indians move under his blanket. He came out from under it like a snake, and he had a knife in his hand.

  I don't know what he had in mind. With an Indian, a body never knows. We had a lot of fixings around camp that an Indian could use, and to an Indian anybody not of his tribe is fair game. To his way of thinking, to stick a knife into each one of us would be a fine piece of business. But I wanted no trouble unless it was necessary, so I merely eared back the hammer of my Winchester.

  That Cheyenne froze as if somebody had nailed his feet to the ground, but I just got up, easy-like and walked over to the fire, seeming to pay him no mind. He could see the hammer was back on my Winchester, and he could make his own choices.

  He simply picked up a stick and began cutting some shavings to kindle up the fire, as if that had been his idea all the time ... and maybe it was.

  The fire began to blaze up and I poured him a cup of coffee and handed it across the fire to him—with my left hand. And he taken it, also with his left hand. I thought I glimpsed a bit of a twinkle in his eyes.

  We both drank coffee, and then Corbin came up to the fire. I could tell from his eyes that he, too, had been awake. And so could the Cheyenne. If he had lifted that knife to anybody, he would have been blasted right out of his tracks by at least two rifles and well he knew it.

  When daylight came the Indians rode off, and a few hours later they were back with some saddle stock. We made a swap, picking up six fresh ponies, and the Cheyennes left with us a buffalo quarter for good measure.

  We shook hands, that big Cheyenne and me, and grinned at each other. Neither of us was fooled, and each of us was liking the other.

  He had walked his horse some thirty yards when he turned in the saddle. "Where you go?"

  "Somewhere up on the Powder."

  "That's Cheyenne country."

  "We don't figure to cause any trouble. We're just going to run a few head of cattle up there. You come and see me. I'll have a beef for you."

  They rode away, and we watched them go, and then we started our cattle again.

  In the cool of the evening we came up to the red wall that Tom Hacker had told me about. We'd been taking our time, and the cattle were fat and sassy. The wall towered up above the grassy plain, barring all progress.

  "You say there's a hole in that? How far up?"

  "I'm guessing," Jim said, after studying the country and the wall, "but I'd say four, five miles north. The Middle Fork of the Powder runs through it, and it's a big, wide hole. That's not to say that a few riflemen couldn't hold it if they were of a mind to. There's water and grass in behind it ... good grazing along Buffalo or Spring creeks."

  A couple of hours later we rode through the Hole-in-the-Wall and let the herd spread out a mite along the Middle Fork. It was almost dark, but we let them eat a little before we bunched them for the night.

  Two days later we found the spot we were searching for, a hollow of the hills with some scattered trees and brush, and a creek that turned around under the edge of the fringing cliffs that shaded the water. It was good water, sweet and cold. There was good grass around, mostly blue grama on the flatlands and low hills, wheat-grass on the higher ridges.

  We turned the herd loose in the rock-walled basin and set to work to build a cabin under the trees. Hacker, Madden, and I did most of the building, while Handy Corbin and Jim Bigbear guarded the cattle. They sometimes killed an antelope or a deer, and once in a while a bufialo. The weeks passed quickly, and there was no sign of trouble.

  "You think we lost 'em?" Madden asked me.

  "No," I said, "they'll be coming."

  "I feel that you are right," Jim Bigbear commented soberly.

  As the best hand with an axe, I notched the logs for the cabin. We could expect cold winters, and we made the cabin tight and strong, allowing no chinks, and we built a good fireplace that would take a good-size log. But every day, no matter how heavy the work load, I managed to let one rider loose to explore the country. At night we'd talk about what he'd seen during the day, and as most cowhands have a good feeling for terrain and the general lay of the land, we soon began to get a picture of what it was like around our ranch.

  "We're going to have to cut hay," I told them, "so keep an eye out for some good meadows."

  We snaked logs out of the timber, taking the fallen stuff wherever possible, and building a stack of wood against the coming whiter. And in all that time we saw nobody at all, not even an Indian.

  By the time the cool winds started to blow down off the mountains we had wood stacked near the cabin, hay stacked in the meadows, and near one of the cliffs that bordered our little basin we had built a shelter for cattle that used the wall of the cliff to keep the wind off them. We had worked hard and steady, and still no trouble.

  But I was worried. Not so much by what might happen when Caxton Kelsey and LaSalle Prince found us as by thinking of Tarlton's coming.

  When we made our deal in Abilene he had said he would join us with another herd this year. That meant he'd best be getting here soon if he was coming. There was no post office within many a mile, and it seemed as if the best chance to get some news was to ride to Cheyenne, or to Fort Laramie, which was a bit closer.

  Also, if he had a herd on the trail we'd best be keeping an eye out for it. All Tarlton knew was that we had come to Wyoming.

  Now, that wasn't so bad as it might sound, because cattle were so scarce in Wyoming in 1871 that word of mouth would tell him a good bit about where we'd gone. But he would never find this place without a guide.

  The upshot of it was that I started thinking of riding down the trail toward Fort Laramie. The work here was caught up. Now it was mostly a matter of keeping a watch on the cattle and riding careful because of Indians, so I put it up to them. "I'm fixing to take two men along," I said, "and you can draw cards for who's to go."

  Corbin and Hacker won, but Hacker tossed his winning king back on the deck. "Take Cotton along," he said. "He's younger, and he'll need a look at a girl before he holes in for the winter.''

  The leaves had turned, the grass had gone all brown, and the winds that blew down from the Big Horns were raw and cold. When a man starts riding out in that kind of weather it makes him wonder what he's done with his summer's wages.

  We went out of the Hole-in-the-Wall and lit a shuck for Fort Laramie. We had been riding no more than an hour when we crossed the first set of tracks—a dozen ponies, unshod, heading west, and a bit south.

  "No travois," Corbin said, "so they're not just moving to another camp. No women or kids along."

  "Might be a hunting party," Cotton Madden suggested.

  We rode on, but just before sundown we came on another bunch of tracks, also headed a little south of west ... only four riders this time.

  Nobody was taking any bets, but we were all doing some serious contemplating. So far, it didn't mean a thing, but there'd been talk here and there of the Cheyennes getting together, with rumors of them going on the warpath.

  Fort Laramie was the biggest army post I'd seen. It lay on the flat in a bend of the Laramie River, named for a French-Canadian trapper, Jacques La Ramee, who was killed by Indians in 1820. The fort had first been a fur-trading post, back in 1834, and folks bound west had stopped off there for many a year.

  It was quite a place, with a lot of buildings of all sorts scattered about, maybe half of them around the parade ground, the rest seemingly located without any plan. The hills around were brown with autumn, and most of the trees along the river had already shed their leaves.

  We rode up to the sutler's store, dismounted, tied our horses, and went inside. There were three men at the enlisted men's bar, only one of them a soldier.

  The bartender moved over to us, polishing a glass. "Rye," I said, "and some information."

  He filled our glasses, then
squinted through the cigarette smoke, resting both hands on the bar. "What do you want to know?" he asked.

  "We're expecting a herd of cattle ... a small herd. A man named Tarlton will probably bring them."

  "Cattle? We haven't seen a herd of cattle, not since I've been on the post. Only cattle I've seen was driven in here for our own use."

  One of the men at the bar, a stocky man in buckskins, turned half around. "Tarlton? The cattle buyer from Abilene? He rode out of Abilene before I did—that's a month ago."

  Corbin tossed off his drink. "We've got troubles, Chancy," he said. "He should have been here before this."

  "Any Indian trouble?" I asked.

  "None to speak of," the man in buckskins answered. "Of course, you know how it is with Indians, if they get notional. Where were the cattle headed?"

  Well, I hesitated. I knew the army looked with no favor on cattlemen moving into Indian country. "Up the country," I said finally.

  "You'd better have your own army then. The Sioux don't take to the white-eyes moving in amongst them."

  "I thought that was Cheyenne country."

  "Sioux, Cheyenne, it makes no difference. They'll have your hair if you try to live in that country." He paused. "A man might make peace with the Cheyennes, although they are great fighters when given cause. But I don't believe the devil himself, nor the good Lord, for that matter, could make peace with the Sioux. They live to fight, and believe me, friend, they fight well."

  Of their fighting ability I had no doubt, but I hoped to live among them in peace. The buffalo were going, anybody could see that, and maybe we could trade with the Indians maybe even get them to ranching on shares.

  What worried me right now was Tarlton. He should have arrived near Fort Laramie by now, or he should have gone on north, and we had cut no trail coming south.

  We went outside. It was pleasantly warm in the sunshine, cool in the shade. I glanced at the sky, and it gave promise of fair weather. But I had no idea what to do. Seems to me a lot of folks want to be leaders, but almighty few of them realize that decisions don't come easy. We could wait here, hoping Tarlton would show up, or we could scout toward Nebraska, or even send out a man to ride west and try to cut any trail they might have made.

  Finally I decided to sit tight and keep my boys together. Meanwhile I would try to find out if any patrols or army details had been sent out, and to learn what they knew. That meant caution, for if the army had to notice us officially, we'd be in the soup for sure.

  I couldn't stop thinking of Tarlton. He was a good man, but he was a city man. I had no idea who he had with him, or how good they were, and I knew a good part of my own success had been because of the men I'd had with me. Especially because of the uncanny skill of Jim Bigbear and the steadiness of Tom Hacker. But every man had done his share.

  Also, the more I heard of the Sioux and the Cheyennes, the more worried I became for the herd and the men left with it. I not only wanted to find Tarlton, but I wanted to be back with the outfit. The Indians would surely know where they were, and might come down upon them at any time.

  We went back into the sutler's store and bought what we could, letting him hold it for us until we decided to leave. To the other things, we added ammunition. I had no idea how much we'd need, but I bought a thousand rounds.

  The sutler stared. "You figuring on starting a war?"

  "Buffalo huntin'," I lied. "I heard there was a big lot of them over west and to the south."

  Probably he didn't believe me, but he let us have what we wanted.

  We stayed at the post for two full days, checking every rumor we heard, talking to the soldiers who returned from the routine patrols. But all the while we heard nothing.

  When the news came it was bad—very bad.

  I was sitting with Corbin at a table in the sutler's saloon when Cotton came in. He crossed right over to the table and pulled back a chair. "Chancy"—he spoke in a low tone, but I could see the others watching, guessing something was in the wind—"I seen a cowhide hangin' on a fence yonder." He jerked his head to indicate the direction of Hog Town. "It's carryin' a Lazy TC!"

  "You sure?" I asked it, but I was only buying time to consider, for I knew he was sure. No cowhand was apt to mistake something like that.

  "I'm sure," he said. "I'd have started askin' folks about it, but decided I'd best get back here and report to you."

  "Good man," I said. "Let's go over there."

  We got up and went outside to our horses. As we mounted up, I glanced over by the commissary. There was a man standing there watching us, and there was something vaguely familiar about him, but I gave it no special thought at the moment.

  The Hog Ranch was a saloon, trading post, and hotel just off the post at the western end. Later it would become a more elaborate setup, I suppose, but right then it was a pretty miserable place, offering the soldiers some rot-gut whiskey, a change of food, and occasionally, a woman or two imported from bigger towns where they hadn't been able to stand the competition. Officially, it didn't even exist, but every man on the post knew it was there, and knew it as a hangout for some rough types.

  We rode up and dismounted in front of the saloon. Cotton glanced toward the fence, and whispered to us. "They've taken it in. The hide's gone."

  We walked into the saloon, and a much less knowing man than any of us could have seen that they had staked us out and all but nailed our hides to the wall.

  The bartender was a big man, inclined toward jowls and belly, with sleeves rolled up and a dirty apron on. At the end of the bar a sour-faced man with a tied-down gun was standing. Two other men sat at a table, and one of them had his hand under the flap of his coat. Two more men came in the door behind us as we stepped in and looked around.

  "There was a hide on the fence out there," I said. "I want to know where it came from."

  Nobody said anything at all. They just looked at us, waiting.

  "Somebody might have found a stray," I said, "and I am going to take it that way if you tell me where you got it."

  The gunman at the end of the bar said carelessly, "We don't care how you take it, kid."

  Handy Corbin had turned so he was facing the table, and Cotton Madden was looking at the two men who had come in behind us, but I wasn't thinking about them. I was close up to the bar by then, and I backhanded the gunman across the mouth.

  He wasn't expecting anything like that. They thought they had us boxed, and that we'd back out or get gunned down. He was hardly through speaking when I struck, and I struck almighty fast. Like I've said, I'm figured to be an uncommonly strong man—my hands are hard, and there's considerable muscle behind them.

  It was a wicked blow, and he staggered back, tripping over a chair so that he fell against the wall, his lips split and dripping blood. Dazed, he put a hand to his mouth, and when he saw the blood he started to go for his gun.

  What triggered my hands, I'll never know, but an instant before he moved my rifle swung up and I shot into him just as his hand grasped his gun butt.

  He turned a mite, drawing, and I reckon it saved his life for hanging, for my bullet struck his hip right above the holster, knocking him sideways. The bullet hit the hipbone, then glanced off and sheered a small chunk from the meaty part at the base of his gunhand.

  My rifle was right on him and I'd worked the lever of the Winchester without even thinking of it. The muzzle was on his belly, and I wasn't six feet away. He was shocked by the smash of the bullet, and he was scared. He was looking right into the hollow eye of death, and he knew it.

  "Now just you wait," he said, thickly, "you hold up there, mister. You ain't hunting me."

  What was taking place behind me, I didn't know, but that was up to Corbin and Madden, and I knew them both. They'd stand their ground. The truth was the suddenness of my shot kind of stunned those others. They'd reckoned this was their party, and the change in the state of things was too fast for them.

  "I want to know where that hide came from," I said, "a
nd you'd better start talking."

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw the bartender's hand drop off the bar and I swung my rifle barrel in a short, vicious chop that caught him on the side of the head. He dropped as if he'd been shot, and I brought my gun muzzle back on the gunman's belly. "You're talking, mister," I said, "and you'd better make it clear the first time. I'm in no good mood."

  "I had no hand in it," he said, gripping his wounded hand, which was oozing great drops of blood. "They drove some beef in here and peddled it for drinkin' money."

  "Who was it? And when?"

  "It was Satiday. There was three of them. Three men and a woman ... a redheaded woman."

  "How many head?"

  "Ten, twelve head, maybe."

  I looked at the bartender. "You bought them?"

  While I was talking Corbin had stepped around the bar and taken up the shotgun the bartender kept there. He had picked the bartender up and was holding him with one hand. The big man had a nasty cut along his skull above his ear and a stunned glaze to his eyes. I had to ask the question again before he could answer.

  "Uh-huh. I bought 'em."

  "You bought stolen stock," I said, "and the going price in Abilene was twenty dollars a head. We'll figure there was ten head, and that means you owe me two hundred dollars."

  He stared at me, trying to face me down. "I bought that stock," he muttered. "I paid for 'em!"

  "They were stolen cattle, and you knew it," I said, "and they were my cattle. If you say they were not stolen, and that you didn't know it, you're a liar on both counts. Pay me."

  He hesitated, but Corbin shook him so his teeth rattled, and he fumbled in his pocket and counted out ten gold eagles on the bar.

  "Write him out a bill of sale; Cotton," I said, "and I'll sign it."

  Corbin had shoved the bartender against the bar, and he was holding the shotgun on the other men. I waved the gunman around and he staggered over and fell into a chair at the table.

  "You goin' to let me do something about this hand?" he pleaded.

  "Just as much as you'd have done for me." I said. "If you're alive when we leave here, you can do something about it then. Right now I want to know where those men went the ones who sold the cattle. And don't waste any more time by saying you don't know."