“Thanks again.” The horses walked a dozen yards before Chantry spoke again. “Dutch, do you think I’m yellow? I’m asking a question, not trying to invite a fight.”
Dutch grinned, and then he said soberly, “No, I don’t think nothin’ of the kind. I might have. But not after the way you come up to me back there. I’d say you used better judgment than me back in Las Vegas.
“The only thing is,” he added, “you not carryin’ a gun makes a lot of them think you’re scared…and believe me, it won’t keep you out of trouble.”
“But we’re both alive, Dutch.”
“Uh-huh, and if it wasn’t for you one of us would be dead, but that cuts no ice. You just plain lucked out with the Talrim boys…they’d shoot you soon as look at you.”
When they rode into camp together several heads turned, but there was no comment. French noticed it, without smiling. He gave the impression of being coiled, ready to lash out.
He was eating when suddenly he put his plate down. “We got twenty-two hundred head, Chantry. You want more?”
“No…let’s move ’em out.”
“Daybreak?”
“Yes.”
“For Dodge?”
“No.”
They all looked up then, surprised. French was the most surprised of all, Chantry thought, for until that time Chantry had left all the handling of the cattle to him.
“We’ll take the longer route,” Chantry said, “by way of Clifton House.”
He realized he could not hope to compare his information about the area with that of French Williams, but they would not know how much or how little he knew, and must proceed accordingly.
“Have it your way,” French said mildly. “There’s more water, easier drives.” He grinned at him. “And it will take longer.”
Tom Chantry lay that night, looking up at the stars, and, tired as he was, there was little sleep in him. The way they would follow had been traveled by cattle herds occasionally, more often by pack trains, army commands, and mountain men, but every foot of it was alive with danger and trouble.
The men with whom he rode were silent toward him. They did not trust his courage, and were not prepared to respect his leadership. Most important, perhaps, he had a partner in whom he must trust to some extent, but who had everything to gain by not getting the cattle through on time, or at all.
Lying there in the darkness, he felt suddenly very much alone, but he remembered something his father had said. “Don’t ever be afraid of being alone, boy. The strongest man is he who stands alone.”
And then Pa had added, “To just that extent that you lean on somebody, or rely on them, to that extent you are a weaker man.”
Chapter 5
*
WHEN THE HERD moved out in the morning Tom Chantry rode on ahead.
The stars were still in the sky, and the cattle were a bobbing mass of black without shape or substance. Then as the gray sky grew paler, here and there a horn glistened in reflected light, or a balky steer moved out from the herd and had to be shoved back.
Slowly a few of the cattle moved out ahead and the herd strung out along the trail, not an impressive sight to anyone who had seen buffalo in their great masses on this same grass, but this slim north-pointing finger was a symbol of change in the West.
The cattle could not exist here until the buffalo were gone, but in their time many of the cattle would go, too. Even as they displaced the buffalo, the forerunners of their own replacements were building shacks and stringing fences west of the Mississippi. Lone cabins appeared, with occasionally a barn, and a field plowed up.
Better than the others, Chantry knew what that meant, for he had lived in the East. The buffalo had to give way to cattle to feed the growing population of eastern cities; in their turn the cattle would go because farmers wanted to grow crops, they wanted to plant corn, wheat, and rye on the ground where the grazing grass grew.
Nor could the Indian, free-roving as he was, compete in his hunting and food-gathering existence with the farmer, for the Indians needed thousands of acres for even a small group to exist, and on much less ground the farmer could grow crops for himself and for shipment east.
Tom Chantry thought of the disappearing buffalo with regret, but he could not deny the inevitable.
French moved up beside him. “They’re stringing out well, Chantry. We’re off to an easy start.” After a momentary pause he said, “Why’d you choose the long way? The Cut-Off is much the fastest. It’s drier, but we could make it. Were you scared, or just cautious?”
“Maybe a little of both. Why take the chance?”
French glanced at him. “It doesn’t seem to bother you much that the boys think you’re yellow.”
Chantry felt a quick surge of anger, but fought it down. His voice was calm when he replied. “It does bother me. There’s still enough of the kid in me for it to bother a lot, but I’ve got enough man in me not to be a damn fool about it.”
“You can’t duck a showdown. You can only postpone it.”
“Maybe. But when the showdown comes you’ll be the first to know.”
French looked at him sharply. “Are you saying that when you have a showdown it’ll be with me?”
“That’s hardly likely. I need you to get to Dodge. Anyway, I’m not a gunfighting man. Remember that.”
“I’ll be damned if I can figure you out, Chantry. You talk like a man with sand, but you sure don’t act up to it.”
“French, this will be a long drive. You know that better than I do. If I’m to get these cattle through I’d better stay alive, and I want you alive, too.”
“What if it comes to gun trouble?”
“They tell me you’re the fastest man in the country. I’ll leave the gunfighting to you.”
French Williams couldn’t leave it alone. “But you can shoot? I mean, you’re packing a Winchester…why?”
“Meat…we’ve men to feed, and I don’t want to butcher my own cattle if I can help it.”
“Can you hit anything?”
“Well,” Chantry said seriously, “the man who sold me the rifle said that if I’d point it in the right direction I’d have a pretty good chance. Of course, he said, I’d have to hold steady. I’ll give it a try sometime.”
French was silent, uncertain whether Chantry was serious or not. “What else did they tell you about me?” he asked finally.
“You know what they’d be likely to say. That your cows were the best in the country, giving you four or five calves a year…that sort of thing.”
French grinned. “Maybe I’m just lucky,” he said. He stood in his stirrups to scan the country ahead. “Why’d you pick me, then?”
“Because they said you might steal a man’s cows, but you’d never cheat at cards. They said whatever else you were, you were a man of your word. Also, they said you had guts and knew cattle. I decided you were the man I wanted.”
French swung his horse and rode back along the line of the drive.
Chantry, after a moment of hesitation, rode on ahead at a fast trot. He wanted to see the country, and if anybody was coming down the trail he wanted to see them first. He needed to know, needed desperately to know about that railroad.
He topped out on the low ridge that crossed the trail. Far off to the east he could see a moving black patch, some scattered black spots that must be buffalo. Nearer, there was nothing.
The sky was fantastically clear…no clouds, and a view that carried the eye away to a vast distance. The roan tugged at the bit, eager to be moving, but Chantry waited, studying the land. This was what he must do…he must learn to see, not merely to look. We must learn to recognize the things at which he looked, and to draw conclusions from them. Out here a man’s life might depend upon it.
Despite his feelings about carrying a gun, he found himself occasionally wishing he had one. It was a kind of insurance.
Now, feeling alone upon the plains, facing the situation in which he had placed himself, he had time to be afr
aid. He could not help but think of what he was risking for himself and for Earnshaw, gambling that he could stay with the herd to its shipping point. The presence of Dutch Akin was a hint as to the lengths to which French Williams would go to drive him off.
Had French expected him to turn tail and run? It was more than likely. But he had not run, and now the next move was up to French.
Turning in his saddle, he looked back at the long line of cattle. He was more than a mile in advance of the drive and from where he sat he could see it to advantage. The men riding drag appeared only occasionally through the dust, but the flankers on either side he could see easily, and the two men riding point. Off to the east was the chuck wagon, and not far behind it the wranglers with the horse herd.
Twenty-two hundred head, give or take a few, and fifteen men to ride herd on them—sixteen, including himself. And ahead of them twenty to thirty days’ drive, depending on conditions, and on how far west the railroad had progressed.
Aside from choosing the destination, he could do little in the way of planning. Their final destination was in his hands; the management of the herd and the men was up to French.
The season was well along. Here and there water holes would be drying up, but for most of the early part of the drive they would be near the Canadian or some of its branches.
To the east was buffalo country, and Indian country as well, and before very long they must turn east; at no time would they be safe either from Indians or from rustlers.
Chantry did not believe French would try to steal the herd…too many people knew the circumstances of their bargain, and French would deem it a personal failure to win by any means other than driving Chantry from the herd…or so Chantry believed.
For that reason, he must be wary of tricks. Searching back into his childhood, he tried to remember the tricks played by cowboys on trail drives or roundups. The bucking horse was the first and most obvious, and Chantry was sure that would come his way again. The rattlesnake in the blankets was another…or something that might appear to be a snake.
Worst of all, he had no friends in the crew, and Akin was the only one who even took the time to talk to him; but that might change. Slowly, he studied them in his mind, trying to pick out the ones who might at least stand for fair play.
McKay…a short, stocky man with a shock of rusty brown curls and a hard-boned face. He was twenty-four or-five, a first-class bronc stomper and a good hand with cattle. A steady man, asking no favors of anyone, doing his share of the work and a little more. He packed a gun, and by all accounts could use it.
Helvie…a quiet-mannered man, somewhat reserved, and four or five years older than McKay. A good hand from Illinois, four years a soldier in the frontier cavalry, a year as a freighter, and four years a cowhand.
Hayden Gentry…called Hay Gent, from Uvalde, down in Texas, his family among the first settlers west of the Neuces. Long, lean, and tough as mule hide. Easy-going, full of humor, and fast with a gun, so it was said. Nobody wanted to be known as good with a gun around French, not unless he was a trouble-hunter.
Rugger, Kincaid, and Koch were good hands, but they were cronies of French, and probably not one of them had been born with the name he was using. A bad lot, as were most of the others.
Chantry rode on. The grass was dry, but there was plenty of it. Twice he saw buffalo, but only a few, and those were scattered out. Evidently they were on the outer edges of the great herd, or were forerunners of the herd.
The country was open, slightly rolling. Ahead loomed Eagle Rock, near where they expected to bed down for the night. Twice, Chantry drew up. He had the eerie, uncomfortable feeling of being watched, but he could see nothing, hear nothing. Nor was there any movement within sight, only the brown grass on an occasional slope being bent by the wind.
There were no fresh tracks.
Suddenly wary, he swung his horse and rode off to the west, scouting for sign. He found nothing. Tracks of buffalo, occasionally old horse tracks. He stood in his stirrups and looked off toward the breaks of the Canadian, not far to the east.
The creeks that flowed into the river had cut deep at places, and the sides were lined with heavy growth of trees and brush. In those breaks, Chantry reflected, an army could be hidden…it was something to consider.
He was high on a grassy hill with nothing in sight for a far distance when he heard the cry—a faint, choking cry, like nothing human, and it came from not far off. The roan, head up, ears pricked, looked off toward the right, toward the breaks of the Canadian.
Chantry waited, listening. Had it been human or animal? And if an animal, what kind could make such a sound? Suddenly he was sure the cry was human.
Turning his horse, he started in the direction the roan had looked, and peered ahead for the first glimpse of whatever it was.
He looked around slowly, studying the surroundings with infinite care. It might be a trap. He did not believe all he had heard of Indians, but he was cautious by nature. His horse walked forward, taking each step gingerly, as if ready to bolt. Obviously the roan did not like what it sensed was near.
Chantry’s inclination was to turn and ride away, swiftly, for what lay before him was terror…perhaps horror. Instinctively he knew he should escape while it was still possible, but something urged him on…to see, what?
For a moment Chantry thought he could ride back, warn them of something ahead, and then approach this place with a dozen riders…yet what if there was nothing? He would have shown himself to be both a coward and a fool.
No, he knew he could not go back, and he rode on, walking his horse. He could feel its reluctance in the tenseness of its muscles, its urge to turn away.
Suddenly they topped the low rise and he was looking into a shallow place that sloped away with increasing steepness toward the river, but Chantry did not see that. All he saw was the man staked out before him. He dismounted and took a step nearer.
The man was stripped naked, hands and legs outspread, each ankle and each wrist tied to a stake. Already the sun had turned the white flesh a deep red in ugly burns, but burns could be as nothing to him, for he had been horribly mutilated.
In each thigh there was a deep gash along the top of the muscle from the hip to the knee. His stomach had been cut open and piled full of rock. The sides of his face were cut, and the muscles of his biceps. For a frozen moment Tom Chantry stared, shocked motionless, and then, of a sudden, his horse shied violently.
Turning sharply, he saw himself facing half a dozen Indians. He saw them, saw their hands still bloody from the deed before them, and realized his rifle was in its scabbard on the saddle. It was no more than six feet away, but it might have been as many miles. If he made a move toward it, they could kill him. Would they?
Before him was the evidence. They had killed this man. No doubt he had fought them, no doubt he was an enemy taken in battle. As for himself, if he was to survive he must face them down. He spoke suddenly, keeping his tone moderate.
“This was not a good thing to do,” he said, speaking carefully. “One man could do you no harm.”
One of the Indians spoke, surprisingly, in English. “He do nothing to us. We find track. We follow. We kill.”
“Why?”
The Indian appeared to think the question foolish. He replied simply, “Why not?”
“Go. I will bury him.”
“All right.” The Indian said something to the others and they chuckled. “All right. You bury. Only him not dead yet.” Then admiringly, “He strong man. He no cry, no beg. He laugh, he swear. Strong man.”
What was he saying? The tortured man was not dead.
“I will bury him,” he repeated. “You go.”
“We watch,” the Indian replied. Then he said, “You strong like him?”
“Go,” he said, fighting down the horror and the fear that crept up within him. “Go.” And surprisingly, they went.
He stood for a moment, staring after them, not willing to accept what his eyes told h
im. Then from behind him there was a shuddering groan. Chantry turned sharply.
The tortured man said, “If you got any water, I’d like it.”
The tone was calm, controlled.
“You—you’re alive?”
“It ain’t for long. You git me that water and I’ll be obliged.”
Chantry turned swiftly to his horse and the canteen on the saddle horn. Kneeling beside the man, he held it to his lips. Feverishly, the man drank. For a moment he lay quiet and then he said, “I reckon that’s the best thing I ever tasted.”
“I’ll untie you. I’ll—”
“No! Don’t you pay it no mind.” The eyes opened and looked at him calmly. “I’m dead, man, can’t you see?” And then he added, “I beat ’em! I beat those red devils at their own game! I never whimpered!
“You tell ’em that at the fort!” His voice was suddenly hoarse. “You tell ’em McGuinness never whimpered! Tell ’em that!”
“The chuck wagon is coming,” Chantry said. “We have medicine, we—”
“Don’t be a damn fool,” the man said. “You tell ’em at the fort. You tell ’em—”
His voice faded away and his eyes suddenly were still. Chantry straightened to his feet. The man was dead…
Chapter 6
*
IS HE GONE?”
Chantry faced sharply around. French Williams, Dutch Akin, Gent, Helvie, and Koch were on the rise behind him. All carried rifles.
“How could he be alive?”
“There wasn’t much give in him,” Hay Gent commented. “A man like that might live through anything.”
“Ride to the wagon, Dutch,” Williams said, “and bring up a shovel. We’ll do the honors.”
He glanced at Helvie. “You want to say the words? Or shall we let Chantry?”
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