“Koch,” he said, “I don’t believe in killing men. I’ve no such feelings about giving one a whipping when he asks for it.”
For a moment the camp was slack-jawed with amazement. Koch stared at him. “You gone crazy? Are you talkin’ to me?”
“To you,” Chantry got to his feet. “Just take off your gun belt.”
Koch had the reputation of being a fist-fighter, and he liked to be known for it. He put down his plate and unbuckled his belt. “This here,” he said, “is goin’ to give me pleasure.”
He got up, placing his gun belt on the ground, and he swung from that position. The blow was totally unexpected, and caught Chantry on the chin. His heels flew up and he hit the dust on the back of his shoulders, Koch rushing up to stamp on him. The cowpuncher’s first kick was launched too soon and caught Chantry on the shoulder. It was the first time he had ever been kicked, and suddenly he realized that all he knew of fighting would do him no good unless he got into action fast.
Rolling over, he lunged to a crouching position and dived at Koch. The cowboy had been expecting Chantry to try to stand erect, and the sudden lunge made him step back quickly. On his high-heeled boots he staggered, and Chantry smashed into him.
Tom Chantry was lean and strong, and in good shape. He had boxed and wrestled a lot, but simply for fun. He had had only two fights since he was a man, both of them in the stockyards where he bought cattle, but the men with whom he had boxed and wrestled had been above average, and he knew how to handle himself.
Ugly with anger at being knocked into the dust, Koch was up quickly. He swung a looping right. Chantry saw it coming and stepped inside, smashing a right to the ribs that made the larger man gasp.
Koch grabbed him, tried to butt, then stamped on Chantry’s instep with his boot heel. A stabbing pain went through Chantry’s foot, and jerking back he threw the cowhand over his hip with a rolling hiplock.
Koch sprang to his feet and came in fast. He hit Chantry high on the cheek bone, splitting the skin. Another blow caught Chantry on the chin. Tom staggered, blocked a blow with his elbow, and countered with a stiff right to the body.
He was warmed up now, and suddenly he felt good. This was something he could do, and he liked to do it. Koch, at about one-ninety, was twenty pounds the heavier man, but he was slower. A skilled rough-and-tumble fighter, he knew nothing of boxing, and less of defense.
Tom Chantry had caught three brutally hard punches and was still on his feet. He had been down, but he had gotten up. He was sure Koch had hit him as hard as he was likely to, and he had taken the punches and was still coming.
He side-stepped as Koch swung, and hit the bigger man in the belly, but made no effort to follow it up. Koch wheeled, and came in slowly, looking for an opening. Tom feinted at the ribs, and when Koch dropped his hand, he hit him on the ear, splitting it and showering him with blood. When Koch’s hands came up, Tom whipped an uppercut to the wind.
His timing was right now, Koch might be a good man with a gun and a brawler with some success, but Tom was realizing now that boxing was not in Koch’s experience. He struck a stiff left to the face, and repeated it. He feinted another, then struck to the wind.
Koch moved in, and suddenly kicked for the groin. Chantry saw it just in time and, stepping back, tripped over an extended leg, whose leg he did not know. He staggered and fell, and Koch stamped at his head. Rolling away from Koch’s boot heel, Chantry caught a vicious backward kick from Koch’s Mexican spur, driven into the face.
Chantry lunged up from the ground. The viciousness of the attack appalled and infuriated him. He brushed a punch aside and smashed both hands to Koch’s face in short, wicked hooks, and then as the man staggered back, Chantry broke his nose with an overhand right.
Blood was running down the side of his face, but Tom Chantry had no thought now but to destroy. He feinted, smashed another right to the already broken nose, then hooked both hands to the wind in short, lifting punches, and an overhand right to the side of the neck.
Koch staggered, and Chantry moved in, left and right to the face. Koch fell back against the chuck wagon and Tom uppercut to the wind, then smashed another right to the face. Koch started to fall, but Chantry caught him by the shirt and held him while he hit him in the face. Then he dropped him into the dust.
Chantry turned, looking at the men crowded
around. “I don’t believe in killing,” he said,
“but that doesn’t mean I am yellow, or
afraid to fight. If anybody has any
argument they can step out now.”
French had been sitting back, one leg crossed over the other. He uncrossed them now and stood up. “You’ll leave us short-handed, Chantry, so you better leave it as it is.”
He looked at the holes in Chantry’s face made by the spur. “He drove it deep. You better have that looked at.”
Chantry went to his horse and leaned his head into the saddle, his breath coming in great, tearing gasps. Slowly his breathing came back to normal and he began to feel the cuts and bruises. He took water from the barrel on the chuck wagon and bathed his face and his raw knuckles.
He had nothing with which to treat the deep cuts in his cheek, so he bathed it with whiskey. Then he returned to his horse, swung into the saddle, and rode away.
His knuckles were raw and bleeding. When out of sight of the herd he turned toward the Canadian, and at a small branch that flowed down to the river he dismounted to wash the blood from his hands. Suddenly he looked up and saw an Indian in a black hat standing on the other bank, watching him. His rifle was still in its scabbard, a dozen yards away. In his confusion after the fight and in his desire to bathe his knuckles, he had not remembered to keep the rifle with him. The Indian, had he wanted to, could have killed him by now.
Tom got slowly to his feet, and the Indian said, “Me Pawnee. Friend.”
Chantry jerked his head to indicate the cattle, out of sight and some distance away. “I ride with the cattle.”
“You have fight?”
“Yes,” and with satisfaction he added, “I
won.”
The Pawnee sat down on a rock and took out the makings. When Chantry refused them, he began to build a cigarette. He gestured with the cigarette. “That is French Williams?”
“Yes.”
“His herd?”
“Mine … if I get to the railroad on
time. If I don’t stay with him all the way, it becomes his.”
The Pawnee looked at him. “He do this?”
“No. A man named Koch. I brought it on
myself.”
“Maybe.” The Indian lit his cigarette.
“Koch a bad man. I know.”
Tom Chantry was trying to remember what he knew of the Pawnees. Great fighting men, among the best trackers, and they worked with white men as allies. He studied the Indian but his decision was already formed, and he liked what he saw.
“You gamble big,” the Pawnee said, and added, “You do not go to Dodge?”
“Williams wanted to, but I’ve heard the railroad was coming on west. I did not tell him that and I do not believe he knows they have started building again. I think if we drive north, then east, we will meet it.”
The Pawnee considered. “But they are his men?
I think he will leave you. He will take his men.
What you do with cattle then?”
“I’ll drive the herd alone.” He was talking nonsense, and knew it. “Or find some other riders.”
He got to his feet. “Are you riding toward Clifton’s?”
“Yes.”
“Ride with me. Tell me about the country.”
And he added, “My father used to tell me the Pawnees were the bravest of warriors. He told me of the fight at Pawnee Rock.”
“It was a fight.”
“I am Tom Chantry.”
“Sun Chief.”
They rode for over an hour in silence,
and when Clifton’s was in sight Chantry said, “You want to work for me?”
“To herd cattle with French Williams?
No.”
“To scout for me.” He drew up. “Find the railroad and tell me where it is. Check the water holes and tell me where there is water. I would not want you to come into camp at all. Report to me when you can, but where no one will see.” He smiled. “Sun Chief, I want you to be my ace in the hole.”