The gunman at the end of the bar said carelessly, “We don’t care how you take it, kid.”
Handy Corbin had turned so he was facing the table, and Cotton Madden was looking at the two men who had come in behind us, but I wasn’t thinking about them. I was close up to the bar by then, and I backhanded the gunman across the mouth.
He wasn’t expecting anything like that. They thought they had us boxed, and that we’d back out or get gunned down. He was hardly through speaking when I struck, and I struck almighty fast. Like I’ve said, I’m figured to be an uncommonly strong man—my hands are hard, and there’s considerable muscle behind them.
It was a wicked blow, and he staggered back, tripping over a chair so that he fell against the wall, his lips split and dripping blood. Dazed, he put a hand to his mouth, and when he saw the blood he started to go for his gun.
What triggered my hands, I’ll never know, but an instant before he moved my rifle swung up and I shot into him just as his hand grasped his gun butt.
He turned a mite, drawing, and I reckon it saved his life for hanging, for my bullet struck his hip right above the holster, knocking him sideways. The bullet hit the hipbone, then glanced off and sheered a small chunk from the meaty part at the base of his gunhand.
My rifle was right on him and I’d worked the lever of the Winchester without even thinking of it. The muzzle was on his belly, and I wasn’t six feet away. He was shocked by the smash of the bullet, and he was scared. He was looking right into the hollow eye of death, and he knew it.
“Now just you wait,” he said, thickly, “you hold up there, mister. You ain’t hunting me.”
What was taking place behind me, I didn’t know, but that was up to Corbin and Madden, and I knew them both. They’d stand their ground. The truth was the suddenness of my shot kind of stunned those others. They’d reckoned this was their party, and the change in the state of things was too fast for them.
“I want to know where that hide came from,” I said, “and you’d better start talking.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the bartender’s hand drop off the bar and I swung my rifle barrel in a short, vicious chop that caught him on the side of the head. He dropped as if he’d been shot, and I brought my gun muzzle back on the gunman’s belly. “You’re talking, mister,” I said, “and you’d better make it clear the first time. I’m in no good mood.”
“I had no hand in it,” he said, gripping his wounded hand, which was oozing great drops of blood. “They drove some beef in here and peddled it for drinkin’ money.”
“Who was it? And when?”
“It was Satiday. There was three of them. Three men and a woman … a redheaded woman.”
“How many head?”
“Ten, twelve head, maybe.”
I looked at the bartender. “You bought them?”
While I was talking Corbin had stepped around the bar and taken up the shotgun the bartender kept there. He had picked the bartender up and was holding him with one hand. The big man had a nasty cut along his skull above his ear and a stunned glaze to his eyes. I had to ask the question again before he could answer.
“Uh-huh. I bought ’em.”
“You bought stolen stock,” I said, “and the going price in Abilene was twenty dollars a head. We’ll figure there was ten head, and that means you owe me two hundred dollars.”
He stared at me, trying to face me down. “I bought that stock,” he muttered. “I paid for ’em!”
“They were stolen cattle, and you knew it,” I said, “and they were my cattle. If you say they were not stolen, and that you didn’t know it, you’re a liar on both counts. Pay me.”
He hesitated, but Corbin shook him so his teeth rattled, and he fumbled in his pocket and counted out ten gold eagles on the bar.
“Write him out a bill of sale; Cotton,” I said, “and I’ll sign it.”
Corbin had shoved the bartender against the bar, and he was holding the shotgun on the other men. I waved the gunman around and he staggered over and fell into a chair at the table.
“You goin’ to let me do something about this hand?” he pleaded.
“Just as much as you’d have done for me.” I said. “If you’re alive when we leave here, you can do something about it then. Right now I want to know where those men went the ones who sold the cattle. And don’t waste any more time by saying you don’t know.”
One of the men at the table wet his lips. “Hell, it ain’t no sweat off us. They rode in from the south, and they went back that way. They were askin’ about another herd of Lazy TC cattle. We hadn’t seen ’em. He was also askin’ about you … if you’re Chancy.”
“I’m Chancy,” I said, “Otis Tom Chancy. And if you see those boys again, you tell ’em I’m looking for them. And if they’ve killed my partner, Bob Tarlton, I’ll see they hang.”
We started toward the door. “And that goes for anybody who lends them a hand, or buys any more cattle from them.”
Outside the air was cool. We swung into our saddles, Handy Corbin still carrying the shotgun. He glanced over at me as we started to ride away. “Mister,” he said, “you can sure build yourself a fire if you’ve got the right kindling.”
Chapter 8
At the sutler’s store, we split our supplies, taking what we could pack on one horse. We left the other supplies with him, and turned the rest of our stock into his corral. Briefly, I explained what had happened, and left word with him for Tarlton if he should happen to come in before we did … if he was still alive.
We followed a south-bound trail There was no use hunting for tracks until well away from the fort. Army patrols and folks coming and going would have trampled all sign into a mess of tracks imposed upon tracks.
Five miles south, when the tracks had thinned out, I described the tracks of Andy Miller’s horse and that big black of Kelsey’s to Cotton Madden and Handy Corbin. “We’ll camp tonight,” I said, “and in the morning Corbin will ride east and Cotton west. Five miles should do it. If either of you boys comes on the Kelsey lot, don’t start a war all by yourselves—cut the rest of us in on it.”
“You figure there’s been shootin’?” Cotton asked.
“I don’t know. Only Kelsey’s outfit seems to have a pattern of holding the main herd back in the hills, and driving a few head into town to sell. Like as not we’ll find the herd somewhere south of here.”
At daybreak, after a quick cup of coffee, we started out. When the others had gone, I taken my rifle from the scabbard and started south, leading the pack horse and studying the ground in long sweeps to right and left
Now, most Indians travel by landmarks, and if a body can figure which landmarks an Indian is using, he can afford to pay little attention to tracks on the ground. But these were white men, not as canny at hiding a trail as an Indian is, yet smart enough not to be taken lightly.
I moved slowly south. The sun climbed into the sky, the day grew warm. I found occasional buffalo tracks, and several small herds of antelope started up and ran off, but I saw no tracks of riders. I studied the terrain with care, for I was wary of ambush.
Suddenly in the eastern sky there rose a trail of smoke. Dismounting, I hurriedly put together a few clumps of sage and lighted them to signal Cotton Madden, in case he had not seen the original smoke.
Corbin hadn’t waited. Cotton rode up shortly after I came up to where he had been, and we found the remains of the fire and an arrow of stones indicating the trail, which was a good fifty feet from the fire.
Corbin’s own trail was alongside the trail of the four riders and two pack horses. We started on at a trot, for that trail was a good three to four days old. Evidently they were not worried about being followed, for their tracks led straight away, and surely they had not reason to suspect we were anywhere around, nor anybody else who might be interested in following them.
They had made their nooning under some cottonwoods beside a small stream, and from the looks of things they had taken their time. The tracks indicated that they had loafed about, perhaps napped a short time, and drank some beer. The bottles were close by. When Kelsey and the others had started on again, their pace was leisurely.