“Chancy, this is Handy Corbin,” Tarlton said. “You’ll find him a good man.”
Tarlton had brought along the last two mule loads of grub we were packing west, and within the hour we had headed out along the Smoky Hill River.
Busy as I’d been, I had been giving some thought to that red-headed woman, and also to the Millers and Caxton Kelsey. They wanted that herd, and they didn’t size up to be the sort who would tuck their tails and run at the least thing.
When we rode up to the herd Noah Gates was the only one in sight. He glanced from me to the riders following, and he asked, “You come for the rest of your cows?”
“Uh-huh.” I hung one knee around the saddle horn. “What are you figuring on doing, Mr. Gates?” I asked.
When they saw we were acting friendly, the others began to appear. My boys had scattered out a little, putting themselves in good shape for a fight if need be—a fight with the oldsters, or with Kelsey if he showed up.
Gates chewed on his mustache. “We ain’t decided. Some of us want to sell out here and now, but some want to drive on west, hunting for that green valley yonder.”
“You’ve got about fifty head of yearlings in there,” I said. “I’ll buy them off you five dollars a head, cash on the line.”
“Five dollars? I hear tell you got sixteen.”
“Maybe so … but they were full-grown steers. You won’t get far selling yearlings—there’s a glut on the market of everything right now. I want some breeding stock.”
The upshot of it was that I made myself a deal at six dollars a head, and it was good young stuff that I bought. We cut out the best of them, strong enough to stand the drive west—and the winter to follow, I hoped. Over the fire Noah Gates told us the story about Queenie. She had come out from town, riding alone, and she had made an offer for the herd, a very small offer. When they refused to sell, she had threatened them. Gates had profited by my advice and they had forted up, and had done a better job than I’d expected, for they had gone back to the edge of the brush near a buffalo wallow and had dug sod to build a parapet.
Kelsey had ridden out and they had been ready for him. After a warning and one look around, Kelsey had ridden away.
“Ran ’em off, we did,” Bowers said, excitedly. “They taken one look, and then they lit a shuck.”
“So now what do you do?”
“We’re pullin’ out. We’re goin’ to take the herd west, like we planned. We’ve got money enough. We’ll buy supplies, and then we’ll head for Wyoming, like you’re doin’.”
“You think you’ve lost Kelsey?” I asked.
“You jokin’? Of course we’ve lost him. All he needed was a show of force. They won’t come back.”
“Not when you’re out on the plains? With no fort?”
They exchanged a glance, then shrugged. “We’ll gamble on it. Anyway, we’re going to armor our chuck wagon. Double plank sides, with a couple of seasoned steer hides between the walls. We’ll keep a couple of men ridin’ the wagon with rifles.”
We drank their coffee, cut our cattle out of the herd, and moved off. It needed only a few minutes to see that I had some hands who knew how to handle cattle. We drove due north, right out across the grass, and we pushed them hard for about eight or ten miles. When we bedded them down we were on a small creek where there was good water and grass.
“Jim, you take the first guard,” I said. “I doubt if they’ll find us this soon, so you’ll be all right alone. Tom, you and Cotton take the second trick. I’ll take the graveyard trick with Corbin.”
The night passed quietly, and by sunup we were on the trail again. Jim helped start the cattle, then he rode off down our backtrail.
Handy Corbin pulled up beside me on the drag. “That Injun good on the trackin’?”
“The best I ever saw.”
He glanced at my six-gun. “Are you any good with that?” he asked.
“I never had a chance to find out. I can put them where I want them, but I wouldn’t rate as a really fast man.”
“Don’t try for that, then. Just get it out, no matter what, and make the first one count. Hell,” he added, “half the fast men waste their first shot, anyway.”
We rode on for half a mile or so, and then Corbin said, “You can leave it to me—the gun-fightin’, I mean.”
“You’re that good?”
“Well,” he answered with a grin, “I’m still alive.”
Nobody was going to do my fighting for me; nonetheless I welcomed the feeling that this man stood ready and willing. There was no need to tell him I’d handle it. I’ve seen that circumstances have a way of dictating conditions, so that few men have any choice when the chips are down.
We had nigh onto six hundred head of cattle, mostly young stuff, but all of it was trail broke. I didn’t have to do more than my share, for these men were all young. Tom Hacker was the oldest … he was close to thirty. Handy Corbin was twenty-seven or -eight. They all knew cattle, and they were always ready to do their part, and a bit more.
The route we were taking was on the north side of the Smoky Hill River, and parallel to it. The grass was good, and we watered at streams that would flow into the Smoky Hill, or sometimes at ones that would flow into the Republican River or some other river to the north. I never had been up into that part of the country, so it was mostly hearsay with me. The only difference the streams made was that some were fresh and some were alkali.
In three days we made thirty-two miles, we figured. After the first day, we took it easy, and after that day we were driving over virgin grass. Once we saw a few buffalo in a grassy bottom, but on sighting us they had taken off, and we didn’t give chase.
Cotton killed three wild turkeys on the third day out, so we had a change from the usual grub. That night it was windy and chilly, and there were coyotes around. Jim was restless, and a little short of sundown he mounted up and rode out. Hacker watched him go.
“There’s a good Indian,” he said. “You known him long?”
“Long enough,” I answered. “He’ll do to ride the river with.”
Jim came back in time to take first guard, and I stood part of it with him, for I was some restless myself. We’d been lucky so far, but I had no faith in that, never being one to depend on luck. I knew Jim felt the same way, and maybe the others did. Tom Hacker and Cotton had their watch, and then it was Corbin’s and my turn.
But when the night showed itself to be quiet, I had sent Corbin in to get some sleep. I had a feeling we were going to need all the rest we could get. I stood watch alone for the last two hours. When the stars were fading I came into camp to stir the fire into life and put on the coffeepot.
The truth of the matter was that I liked being alone out there in the early morning. I liked seeing the night pale and the stars wink out one by one, like candles snuffed by a quiet wind. I liked seeing the pink color the east and the dark trees begin to take on shape. At times like this I felt the way the Indians must have felt, for this was a country to be alone in—a broad, beautiful land with the grass bending to the faint stirring of wind, and the steers rising from the ground, humping their backs to stretch out the stiffness of night, looking around and beginning to crop grass a little.
I liked the sound of the grass being cropped, and thought this was a fine land to rear children in, to see a man’s sons grow tall, breathing deep of the fresh air, drinking cold stream water, and smelling bacon frying.
Out there, I heard a stirring in the brush, and the cattle looked up, ears pricked, wary against danger. I spoke to them softly, walking my horse through them toward the sound, and then the brush parted and up from the stream came a huge old buffalo bull, his great head shaggy and wild. He stood for a minute, trying the wind and looking at us, but I held the buckskin still, not wanting to spook the old fellow, who looked to have had trouble enough in his time.