"Your freedom." The old chief made a sign and pointed to the south. "Go. Do not let the sun come up on you in Comanche country."
Wyoming knew the old man would not go back on his word about freedom. He stepped forward. "I look for a man with yellow hair. I know he has been here. I know the great chief does not lie. Did he go east?"
"No."
"West?"
"No "
"North?"
"No."
"South?"
"With the vultures," the old chief said.
He made a sign with his hands and Wyoming was taken away by four strong braves. His shirt and guns were brought to him and he was placed on the stallion. Without a word of farewell, Wyoming turned away from the dead Kalhaachee and rode through the village, heading south.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was a week before Wyoming hit the Brazos. He lay up for two days and rested the stallion and himself, eating and sleeping in the protection of a clump of box-elders that grew at the banks of the big river.
The heel of his boot, shot off in Dodge City, had bothered him and he tried to repair it, finally giving up altogether. He had shot a small buffalo calf a day before crossing the river. He worked on the leather and carefully stretched and dried it in the sun for three days, then took it to the water and beat it with a rock, working it in the water until it softened. He splintered a shank bone to make a needle and cut out a pair of moccasins and began stitching them together.
The leather was still a little green in spite of his efforts to soften it, but he cut the slippers a little larger and loaded the inner shoe with hot coals while holding the leather in the water. It was a slow process, but the steaming worked and the leather was quickly tanned and soft. They pulled down to a snug fit over his feet and were a blessing after the heavy Texas boots.
He was still three hundred miles away from San Antonio and a few days away from the Brazos when he picked up fresh tracks of a recent rider. He got off the stallion and studied the clear impressions in the soft sand. Headed south, they could have been there for a week or more. And there was no way of telling if it had been Steel or not.
He followed the tracks for two days before they veered off to the west. And it was a definite move to the west, because the land below the Brazos was flat, green and loamy, and nothing to by-pass.
Wyoming hesitated. There was no guarantee that Steel would be in San Antonio when he got there, and he had not seen a rider, except for the Indians, since leaving the Pritchard cattle outfit. Could the man have changed his mind and decided to head west to Mexico instead of going to San Antonio?
Wyoming made his decision. He was low on shells and he needed coffee, sugar and a few other things. He was not prepared to make a long search to the west. He would go directly to San Antonio in the hope that Steel would be there.
He left the tracks that were as plain as newspaper print in the green country around the watershed of the Brazos and headed due south for San Antonio. Time was moving with him now. He would find Arky Steel. There didn't seem to be any hurry about anything now, not even finding Arky Steel. He would just keep going, looking, asking questions, and would find the man with the yellow hair soon enough.
"Let's go. Boss," he said to the stallion. "Straight as a stick to a big city."
He rode slowly, shooting to eat when he had to, working and reworking the leather moccasins as he rode, kneading them over his saddlehorn until they were as soft as the buckskin breeches and shirt he wore.
It was a big sky and a big country, much of it parched dry; spots of it, little hidden valleys and nests of green that were water-supplied by a year-round stream, made the eyes tear with the beauty of it.
The further south he got the more riders he saw, always at a distance. Several times he found himself in the middle of somebody's spread and he would move out of there quickly. The land south of the Colorado was deeded and owned nowadays, not like the way it was when Curly had brought him south and they had gone to New Orleans. He could remember the endless miles when all they could see were the cool green plains of grass and the spotted herds of buffalo.
Once they had even hunted off the Colorado, but the Comanches had driven them out.
Down, down, south, headed into the hot weather and past the adobe huts of the halfbreeds with their sloe-eyed children. South, on toward the south and the bright blue-green gulf, the rider and his golden palomino loped across the big country looking for a man.
The storm came up so suddenly that Wyoming did not have a chance to find cover. It happened that way in south Texas sometimes. Big black thunderheads would roll out of the horizon as if by some kind of magic and then drown to earth with a wall of water before breaking off and leaving the red clay earth soggy and six inches deep in mud, or beat all the leaves from a tree and leave it stripped as clean as if someone had gone and picked every single green thing. The grass and the brush would be flat on the ground and the whole earth would appear to be reeling from the sheer force of the water and wind as the storm bore down.
Wyoming pulled the stallion along, slogging through the water, thankful that he had the moccasins to keep his feet from being cut to ribbons. He headed for a stand of stunted oak low on the horizon.
Though it was about three in the afternoon, he could hardly see his way and he stumbled often, leaning heavily on the reins to keep from going down.
After what seemed like an eternity of stumbling around in the dark, finally he pulled into the protection of the stand of oaks and stood beside the stallion. The wind was fierce, and he could hardly keep his eyes open. The thunder startled the palomino so that Wyoming had to hold the animal tightly and talk to him, comforting the horse with gentle pats and strokes on his neck.
If it had not been for the lightning Wyoming would not have seen them at all. There was so much noise around him, with the wind whistling through the stunted oaks, the thunder, and the roar of the rain that he would have thought the noise part of the storm.
The lightning flashed jagged across the sky and ripped into the middle of the buffalo herd, filling the sky momentarily with perfect daylight. Wyoming saw the foaming black herd coming down on the chaparral like the tide from a dirty black ocean flowing up the beach. They were headed blindly but inexorably toward the chaparral.
"We've got to move, Boss," he said.
He swung into the saddle and turned the animal out of the protection of the oaks and urged the slipping pony ahead. The animal skidded several times and nearly went down. Another flash of lightning and a backward glance told Wyoming that the herd was gaining on him. There wasn't much distance between them and the growth of oak trees.
"Gidiyap, horse!" Wyoming yelled, laying the edge of the reins on the horse's flank. It was the first time he had whipped the horse and the big stallion responded to it with a sudden life that nearly threw Wyoming off his back.
They drove headlong into the darkness, Wyoming hanging onto the reins for dear life, his head low beside the animal's neck, trying desperately to see what was ahead.
A wall loomed up before him, like a dark shadow that was somehow solid.
Wyoming reined back tightly and brought the stallion to a stop and strained to see what it was. His heart gave a leap. It was a sheer hillock, sandy, a curious jutting in the middle of the valley grass country of south Texas.
Wyoming urged the pony up the side. The animal skidded, slipped and fell back. Wyoming started him up again, glancing back as lightning flashed at the nearing tide of maddened buffalo.
He dug his heels deep into the animal's ribs, kicking hard and snapping the reins hard on the animal's flanks.
The animal started up the side again, digging into the soft water-soaked sand until it found footing and ploughed upward. It lunged again and again, kicked back with its hind legs as the powerful forelegs pulled and dug in. Six feet from the top, Wyoming leaped from the animal's back and climbed to the top alone, grabbed the reins and pulled the animal up.
The big stallion, rel
ieved of the weight of Wyoming's two hundred pounds, jerked himself up to the top of the rise in two powerful pulls of his forelegs.
There was a snapping report, sharp, like that of a distant gunshot, then another and another. The lightning flashed at that moment and Wyoming could hardly believe his eyes, The herd of fear-crazed buffalo had plowed through the low dense growth of the chaparral and the report he heard was the snapping of the tree trunks—some of them eight inches in diameter.
The herd pounded down after him, then swarmed up to the sides of the hill. Some of them tried to climb, digging into the soft muddy sides, but fell back when they lost footing and landed at the bottom of the hillock to be stomped to death by the hundreds pressing below them.
Several of the animals gained the top, only to slip down the other side. Wyoming had to shoot half a dozen that turned in his direction. He emptied his Colt time and again point-blank into the bulks as they threw themselves around the small area on top of the hillock.
And then they were gone. Like a shadow the buffalo swept on past him, leaving death to the weakest in the herds and destruction to anything that got in its way.
The wind lessened a bit, and then the rain began to fall more gently. Gradually it stopped altogether as the clouds rolled on overhead, leaving the sky blue again. In two hours it was over.
Wyoming remained on the hillock until the sky was blue and the sun burst out in a red finish to the black death. The land was soaking. The eye could pick out a thousand pools and see the sky reflected in it. And the vultures came soon afterwards. Out of nowhere, like camp followers after the tide of buffalo death, the big winged birds circled and cawed above the carcasses of the dead buffalo before dropping with a flapping of wings to fight and tear at the dead flesh.
The chaparral had been reduced to a tangle of brush and scattered splintered timbers. Not a thing was left standing.
Wyoming counted seventy-eight buffalo at the bottom of the sand ridge he had gained, not counting those he had shot. He wiped the palomino down with a ripped piece of his blanket, wringing it out dry over and over again as he turned to look at the golden-red sun dropping into the west, casting its reflection into the pools that dotted the land.
The herd had gone west. The half-mile-wide track looked as if it had been churned up by a giant plow, the bodies of the dead buffalo spotting the trail—and above it, the continuous circling of the vultures.
With the palomino wiped as dry as he could manage, Wyoming slipped into the saddle and nosed down the side of the ridge. And he headed south, nothing moved on the face of the big land. And there was no sound except the splashing of the golden stallion's hoofs in the pools.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Wyoming rode into sun-baked San Antonio with his eyes searching the horse racks for the dapple gray. He rode around the city for several hours, and finally stopped before a hotel. It was late in the day. The streets were filled with men in trail clothes like himself; men with ruffled shirt fronts and frock coats; ladies in paint and short dresses; ladies in full-length dresses and Spanish combs, parasols and elaborate fans. Men dressed in the skin-tight leather breeches of the Mexican vaquero, with lip mustaches and dangling spurs, smoking black cigars hardly bigger than a man's finger. The streets were filled with big six- and eight-team dray wagons, freighters and homesteader schooners; broadwheelers that had rolled west from St. Jo and Kansas City, Dallas and Fort Worth.
The railroad had not come to San Antonio yet and it had not pushed through to Fort Worth or Dallas. The cattle in the area were driven north to Dodge City, and this meant cowhands.
The heat had driven most people off the streets during the early part of the afternoon and these were coming back into the open, refreshed, eager for the night to come on and the lights to burn bright in the saloons and cantinas. There was money in San Antonio—cattle money, Mexican money, trader's money. There was nothing for two hundred or more miles to the east, nearly seven hundred to Santa Fe and more than six hundred due north to Dodge City. It was alone in the southwestern country. They all came here, to work, to play, to fight, gamble, and make money.
Wyoming untied his blankets and saddlebags and started toward the door of the hotel. Several men lounged in chairs near the door.
"You smell anything, Al?" one of the men said, as Wyoming passed.
"Like something died in the sun," the other answered.
Wyoming grinned. "Gents, I'm so glad to see something bigger than a buffalo wallow, you just ain't going to get me sore." He moved on inside the hotel amid the laughter of the men.
"I want a room," he said, "and a bath."
"I don't blame you," the gray-haired old woman behind the desk said. "I smelled some pretty ones in my day, but dad blame it, mister, you got 'em skint by a mile." She shoved the book toward him. "Can you write?"
"Watch me." Wyoming wrote his name neatly and without a flourish.
"Right nice hand, Mr. Jones." She gave him a key. "The dry-goods store is three doors down, if you want to buy yourself something clean to put on after you wash. That's a dollar for the bath and a dollar for the room," she said. "I'm Mrs. Crosby."
"Thank you, ma'am," Wyoming said and paid over the money. "I'll just get me something new."
"I'll have that stuff sent up to your room if you want," she said. "Nobody going to take it." She sniffed the air. "What you got in the saddlebag, anyway?"
"Dried buffalo jerky." Wyoming grinned. "I been out yonder."
"Well, you don't need it here, son. I'll just have it given to the cats, if they can eat it."
Wyoming grinned, picked up the carbine and walked back outside.
"Here's that smell again," Al said. "Think for sure something died?"
"Might be."
The men turned to stare at Wyoming, taking in his size, the hardness of his jaw and the cut of the Colt on his hip. "Don't reckon there's enough soap in San Antonio to get rid of that smell. Must be natural," a man said. He was lounging apart from the rest. A neat, big man, wearing a matched set of ivory-handled Colts.
"Now, you might be right, friend," Wyoming said. "But about the only thing that can stand the smell of a skunk is another skunk."
The man leaned forward. "Son, you got a lot of lip."
He was older than Wyoming thought, but he was hard.
"I aim to keep it, too," Wyoming said.
"You won't if you keep talking like you just done," the man said. He stood up. He was a good head taller than Wyoming, and weighed at least sixty more pounds.
Wyoming smiled and looked over the man's head. He turned to look at the others who were waiting to see what would develop. "My, you got a pretty high pile of buffalo chips here in your town!"
"Meaning me?" the big man said.
"Meaning you," Wyoming said. He held the carbine level with his left hand, finger on the trigger.
"You figure to stay a while, mister?" the big man asked.
"That ain't none of your business."
"It might be." He looked down at the carbine. "I'll see you around." The man turned around and started away.
"You can run," Wyoming said easily, "but you can't hide."
The men along the wall sucked in their breath together, looking at Wyoming and then at the big man, who turned slowly and stared right at Wyoming, almost as if he were trying to see through him. "That carbine makes you a big man, is that it?"
"It helps, but I don't need it."
The big man began unbuckling his belt. The guns were handed to a man.
Wyoming let the carbine slip through his fingers and stood it up against the wall. He unbuckled his belt and while his hands were tugging at the buckle, the big man rushed in and swung.
Wyoming stepped back, drew the Colt and slammed it down hard on the man's neck. The big man dropped like a stone and lay still.
Wyoming spun the Colt on his finger and slipped it back into the leather and picked up the carbine. "When he comes to," Wyoming said to the man holding the brace of matched guns, "tel
l him my name's Wyoming Jones and I'm staying at the hotel. If he comes for me again, with his mouth, fists or guns, I'll kill him."
"I'll tell him, Mr. Jones," the man said and stood up so Wyoming could walk past them to the dry-goods store.
Wyoming was reluctant to give up the comfort of the calfskin moccasins for boots, but when he slipped his foot into the carefully made tooled-leather boots he knew he could not wear the Indian footgear any longer. He bought whipcord pants and a homespun shirt and a neckerchief.
His bath was ready for him when he returned and he slipped into the tub of soapy water and soaked for a while before he began to scrub, slowly, carefully. He was dressed and shaved and about ready to take a look at the town when the door opened and three men stepped inside. One of them carried a carbine.
"Gigi wants to see you," one of the men said. He held the gun. "Don't bother to wear your iron. You won't need it."
"Who's Gigi?"
"You met him downstairs and pistol-whipped him," the second man said. "You going to come or do we have to take you?"
"I don't reckon you can take me if I don't want to go," Wyoming said. "Unless you figure to pull down on me and make it feet first."
"We can do that too, if we have to," the man said, bringing up the gun. "Move."
"Ain't going a step, mister," Wyoming, said, grinning back at him. "I ain't got no business with your big friend."
"He thinks so. Now let's go!"
"What does he want with me?" Wyoming asked. He had not moved. He sat back against the chest of drawers and stared at the three men. "I don't like people barging into my room with guns telling me I'm going to have to go somewhere."
They knew what they were doing. They stepped forward, one on either side of Wyoming, and closed in. The man with the carbine stepped in and tried to bring the gun down on his head. Wyoming kicked him in the stomach with the toe of the stiff new boot and ducked as the man on his left swung.
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