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 to 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.