NORTH TO THE RAILS
Chapter 1
They could call it running away if they wanted to, but it made no sense to kill a man, or risk being killed over something so trivial. He had never used a gun against a man, and did not intend to begin now.
He glanced back, but the town lay far behind him, and there seemed to be no reason for pursuit.
Dawn would be breaking soon, and they would be expecting him on the street to face Dutch Akin, and Dutch would certainly be there, right in the middle of that Las Vegas street, a gun ready to his hand.
It was a savage custom, a ridiculous custom. His mother had been right to take him away from it, back to the eastern city where her family lived. She had never loved the West … not really.
He had been a fool to come west, even on business. But how could he have imagined he would run into trouble? Though he rarely took a drink, and was not inclined to argue, he had taken a drink while waiting for either Pearsall or Sparrow, and he had gotten into an argument. All right … he had made a mistake, but how was he to know they would make so much out of so little?
To hell with Dutch Akin, and with Las Vegas! He would be damned if he’d get himself killed over a few careless words in a saloon. It made no sense—no sense at all.
What would they say when they realized he was gone? When he failed to appear? At the thought, his ears reddened and he felt uncomfortable.
To hell with them! It was better to be a live coward than a dead hero.
Coward … the word rankled. Was he a coward? Had he been afraid? He searched himself for an answer, and found none. He did not believe he was a coward. He had come away to avoid a ridiculous situation … or was he just telling himself that? Was he not actually afraid?
He seemed to feel his father’s eyes upon him— those cool, thoughtful eyes that knew so well how to measure a man and judge what he had in him.
He remembered his father, the day they brought him home on a shutter, still alive, but badly shot up. There had been three men. One of them had taken a drink, waved a bottle, and staggered, but when Borden Chantry had come to arrest him the man suddenly dropped his bottle and two other men stepped from ambush, and his father had gone down in a wicked crossfire. He got off one shot, that was all. The three men had then fled the town.
His father had lived for two days in considerable pain before the doctor arrived from the fort; by the time he got there his father was dead.
It was as his mother had told him: if you lived by the gun you died by the gun.
But he remembered overhearing someone say as they left the cemetery, “I’d hate to be in their boots when Tom Chantry grows up!”
His father had been a cattleman, reasonably successful by any man’s standards, but then had come the great freeze-up, and when the snow melted his father was a poor man, and so were a lot of others. Cattlemen could always get credit, and when they sold their herds they paid up; only Pa had no herd to sell.
The men of the town respected him, knew he had a family to feed, and they also knew that he was a man good with a gun, so they offered him the job of town marshal.
For six years he ran the town, and kept it free of serious trouble. He rarely had to draw his gun, and several times he held his fire to give the other man a chance to drop his, and they usually did—all but one.
That man elected to fire … and missed.
Borden Chantry did not miss.
That was the shooting that led to his death, for the men who came up the trail to kill him were friends of the dead man, and they staged the ambush that wiped out Borden Chantry.
It did no good to remember all that. Tom Chantry touched his horse with a spur. It would soon be light and he wanted to be far away before they discovered he was gone. He had been a fool to come west in the first place. Both Ma and Doris had tried to talk him out of it, but there was a shortage of beef in the East and he had argued with Earnshaw that they could buy it on the plains. No use dealing with a middleman.
Doris’ father was Robert Earnshaw, a dealer in livestock in New York City. Lately he had branched out into real estate and banking, although livestock was still the backbone of his business. He had been quick to recognize the profit to be had if Tom Chantry could go west, buy cattle on the plains, and ship them east, and Tom had come west with his blessing.
Beef had been scarce in Kansas, but a cattleman told him of a herd that was being held outside of Las Vegas, New Mexico that still might be had. The owners, Pearsall and Sparrow, had been holding the cattle to speculate, but now were in a bind for money. Tom Chantry had immediately left for Las Vegas, sending a message ahead to make the appointment with the prospective sellers.
He had registered at the hotel and gone at once to the saloon where cattlemen were known to gather, and where Sparrow had said they would meet. While he waited, he had a drink.
Dutch Akin had come in, bumping him hard as he lurched up to the bar, then turning to glare at him with a muttered reference to a “dude.”
Tom Chantry ignored the rudeness, although he felt irritation mounting within him. He edged over a little without seeming to do so, giving Akin more room. He knew he should go, but he had come all this way to see Sparrow, and the man was expected. It was simple courtesy for him to wait … so he waited.
Chantry had finished his drink, hesitated, then ordered another. He had not eaten since early that morning and knew that he should not have that second drink, but he was embarrassed to stay at the bar without ordering.
By the time he had finished his drink Sparrow had not come, so he started to turn away from the bar. Without warning a rough hand grasped his shoulder.
Suddenly furious, Chantry turned around sharply. Akin was grinning at him. “Dude, diden you hyar me? I invited you to drink wi’me.”
“Sorry, I didn’t hear, but I’ve had enough, thank you.”
“”I’ve had enough, thank you.”” Akin put his hand on his hip and aped the words in a falsetto; then his voice changed. “I’ll tell you when you’ve had enough! Now belly up to the bar an’ drink!”
“No.”
The room was quiet. Every eye was on them. The
drunken man suddenly seemed to be no longer
drunk. “When Dutch Akin invites a man
to drink, he damn well better drink,”
Akin said evenly. “You drink, mister.”
“No.”
It was foolish. A ridiculous situation.
Tom Chantry was irritated with himself for remaining long enough to get involved, but there was no help for it now.
“I am sorry, my friend, but I have no wish for another drink. I was just leaving.”
“You’ll leave when I get damn good an’ ready for you to leave. Now belly up to the bar.”
Chantry merely glanced at him, then turned to leave the room. Again he felt the hand touch his shoulder, and this time his reaction was swift. He swung around quickly and, throwing his left hand back, took hold of the grasping arm and jerked hard.
Dutch Akin hit the floor with a crash, and as he realized what had been done to him his hand swept back for his gun.
“Dutch!” The sharp voice cut through the haze of anger in Dutch Akin’s brain.
A short, slender man in a business suit and a white hat was holding a gun in his hand. “The gentleman isn’t armed, Dutch. If you haven’t noticed that, you’d better. You draw that gun and I’ll put a hole into you.”
“This ain’t none of your affair, Sparrow. This is just me and him.”
Sparrow? Chantry turned his head to look. A man of about forty-five, well-dressed, cool, competent-looking. This was the man he had come to see.
“It is any man’s affair as long as this gentleman is not wearing a gun. If you shoot an unarmed man you’ll hang for it, Dutch. I’ll see that you do.”
Dutch got up slowly, holstering his pistol. “All right,” he said calmly. “All right, Sparrow. But I’ll be on the street at daybreak wearin’ this gun, and he better be armed, because if he ain’t I’ll break both his legs.”