Over coffee I told him about my plans for an education. “You’d be wise,” he agreed. “It’s a growing land, and an educated man with some drive can go far.”
It was pushing midnight when I left the Drovers’ and went out to the hitching rail. All was dark and still. Mounting up, I walked my horse up the street toward the Twin Livery Stable and rode in under the lantern that overhung the wide door.
Lights still shone from the doors of several places—the Alamo, the Bull’s Head, Downey’s, and Flynn’s, among others. Stripping the saddle from the buckskin, I tied him to the manger in a stall, put some corn in the box, and slung my Winchester muzzle-down from my shoulder by its sling. Not many western men used the sling, but I did, and I’d found that a man could swing a rifle into action from the shoulder, in that position, as swiftly as a man could draw. The rifle butt was just about level with the top of my shoulder, my hand on the action of the rifle.
A man came out of a saloon up the street and staggered off. Somewhere I heard a door slam, and there was the tinpanny sound of a music box at the Alamo. My boots made no sound in the dust as I went along, for I had not reached the boardwalk. Now, I am by nature a cautious man, inclined not to trust appearances, whether in man or nature, and for a man with enemies that street was an almighty quiet place.
When I reached the shadow beside the first building, I stopped, giving study to the street ahead, and especially to dark doorways and alleys. I had no reason for suspicion beyond the fact that for a man with my enemies it would be wise to be watchful. And I’d never gone along a dark street in my life without being wary. So I stood there just waiting, watching to see who was going to move … if anybody.
Several minutes passed and all remained quiet, so I started on up the street, my boots now making echoing sounds on the walk.
Suddenly I saw a man standing half in the shadows, about fifty feet from the nearest lights. He was facing me. I could see the vague light on the side of his hat, a mite of his chin, and the gleam on the butt of his gun.
For the space of perhaps a minute we stood there, each of us half in darkness, half in shadow not quite so dark, each aware of the other, each poised for movement. Up the street the sound of the tinpanny piano stopped, and there was a tinkle of broken glass.
“What’s the matter, mountain boy?” The man’s voice was low, unfamiliar. “Are you scared?”
Chapter 5
Curiously enough, I was not scared. I was not even worried. I could see his gun hand and the butt of his gun. He could not move without my knowing it, so I just waited. I did not speak.
I’d taken to carrying my gun on the left side for a cross-draw, and that meant he could see my gun, too. What he couldn’t see was the rifle, but even if he had he would not have worried, because nobody carried a rifle the way I did, and it looked as if it would be slow to use.
My silence seemed to make him uneasy, but if there was to be any shooting he was going to have to open the ball. I wanted no trouble in Hickok’s town. He had played fair with me, and I intended to do the same.
“I’m going to kill you, mountain boy,” came that voice again. “I’m going to put you down under the grass. I’m going to save Kelsey the trouble.”
Across the street from me a match flared, lighting a cigar. The voice that spoke there was clear. “Rad Miller, you get your pony and ride out of town, and don’t let me find you here again this year. I don’t like trouble-hunters.”
Miller hesitated only a moment, and then he walked toward me, and on past, muttering as he did so, “You’ll get it. He can’t protect you all the time.”
Hickok’s voice across the street said, “Obliged, Chancy. I don’t want gun fights in Abilene. Can I buy you a drink?”
We walked into the Alamo together and stood at the bar. When we had our drinks, he brushed the ashes from his cigar and, glancing at my Winchester, said, “Odd way to carry a rifle.” He looked at me thoughtfully from cold gray eyes. “You’d have killed him, Chancy.”
“Maybe.”
“No maybe—you’d have done it. You’re one of the good ones. I can spot ’em a mile off.” Then he said, “You staying around town?”
“No. I’ve made a deal with Tarlton. I’m going west to ranch in Wyoming.”
“Good country. I’m going out to the Black Hills one of these days.”
We talked idly of Indians and buffalo, of stage driving and of Custer, whom he knew. I told him about my plans with Tarlton, and said that I’d need some hands.
“There’s a man here from Illinois,” Hickok said, “his brother was in the army with me. He’s hunting a job.”
“Can he shoot?”
“Yes, and he can handle horses and cattle. His name is Tom Hacker. As a boy he was a blacksmith’s helper, and later a smith himself. He rode with the cavalry for six or seven years.”
“Send him to me. He sounds like just what we’ll need.”
Hickok left me and went along, making his rounds. I stood watching a poker game, and then I went back to the hotel. When I went in, a stocky, well-setup man with leather-like skin and mild brown eyes was there waiting for me. With him was a wiry, narrow-hipped fellow of about my own age.
“Mr. Chancy?” the older man said. “I’m Tom Hacker. This here is my nephew, Cotton Madden. We’re rustling for work.”
“All right. We’re riding out in the morning to join the herd. You need any money?”
“No, sir. I’ve still got a few dollars.” He grinned. “I’ll be broke in the morning, though.”
I went up to my room. It wasn’t much, but it looked good to me. It was a front room looking out over the street, with a second window that looked on a small alleyway that separated the hotel from the building next door. There was a bed and a chair, and a washstand with a pitcher of water, a bar of soap, and a towel.
First thing, I pulled off my boots and put them beside the bed, then took off my shirt. I stood my rifle beside the washstand, and put my pistol on the bed, butt toward me. After I’d washed and combed my hair, I pulled off my pants and stretched out on the bed.
For the first time in days I was alone, with time to think. And for the first time in my life I had a definite goal. I had a partner, and I was going to take the herd west and locate a ranch. I had more money than I’d ever had in my life. And if I had the brains and the nerve to take advantage of my opportunity, I had a future.
Nothing about it would be easy. That country was still Indian country, and the white men who had drifted in there were mostly the lawless kind, ready for any kind of trouble. While I lay there stretched out on my back, I began to contemplate.
First, a corral. Then a dugout or a cabin, whichever seemed quickest and best … or if the weather was right we could start right away on a bunkhouse. I’d have to define my range, hunt a good bit to help out with the grub, and put up some hay for winter feeding. I’d have to build a shelter for my saddle, stock split logs, maybe, or poles, depending on what was to hand.
When I got up from the bed I belted on my six-gun and then put in almost an hour practicing the draw, both the cross-draw and a draw from the waistband. No getting around it, I was slower than I had any right to be, but there was nothing slow about the way I could get off a shot with my Winchester slung from my shoulder.
Finally, tired out, I stretched out on the bed again and slept.
When I came down the stairs in the freshness of morning, Jim Bigbear, Tom Hacker, and Cotton Madden were waiting for me. It was scarcely past daybreak, but the town was already alive and moving. We went into the restaurant, and a few minutes later Tarlton came in, another man with him.
This was a tall man with a drooping auburn mustache. He was so thin he would have had to stand twice in the same place to make a shadow. But he wore a six-gun as if he knew what it was for, and he carried a Winchester as if he was born to it.