only see if he’s a good mind to have you see him.”
Taking the rifle in his hand, Chantry went along the hall to the lobby, and across to the dining room. It was small, with just six oilcloth-covered tables, one of them long enough to seat a dozen, family style.
Hobbling, Chantry crossed the room and sat down opposite Sparrow. “Thanks,” he said to the cattleman, “thanks for everything. I don’t know why you’ve done all this, but I appreciate it.”
“Better eat while you’ve got the chance.
You’re two, maybe three days behind your herd.”
“One good day’s ride if I have a good horse.”
“You’ll have one. But don’t forget you have enemies.” He glanced at the gun on Chantry’s hip. “You’re wearing a pistol?”
Tom Chantry shrugged. “My sense of what’s right and just tells me I shouldn’t, but my sense of survival warns me I’d better.”
He studied the cattleman. “Aren’t you off your beat? I mean, I didn’t think you operated this far north.”
“Let’s just say I was curious. Stories get around, you know, and I heard about your run-in with the Talrims. After our conversation I was wondering how your convictions were matching up with the situation.”
“And now you’ve seen. They’ve failed.”
“Nothing of the kind. You have merely learned that a
situation observed from a distance—a safe distance, I might add—is never the same as when met face to face. It is easy to say you do not believe in using guns when you have never faced a gun in the hands of another man, and you unarmed.
“Understand one thing, Mr. Chantry. You can make laws against weapons but they will be observed only by those who don’t intend to use them anyway. The lawless can always smuggle or steal, or even make a gun. By refusing to wear a gun you allow the criminal to operate with impunity.”
“We have the law.”
“But even the law cannot be in your bedroom at
night. But there are other things to consider. If you are not to lose your herd you must overtake it, and quickly. Believe me, French Williams will lose no time. He’ll drive that herd as he never has before.”
“The worst of it is, he may not have far to go.”
Sparrow looked at him sharply. “What’s that
mean?”
“The railroad is building west, and they’ll be moving fast.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Yes. The only thing I am not sure of is
where they are now.” He glanced up from his pancakes. “That was my ace in the hole.”
After that they ate in silence, but when Chantry finished his coffee and pushed back from the table, Sparrow said, “Understand me, Mr. Chantry. I approve of your stand on guns. Many a man has shot too hastily or been roped into a killing he wishes had never happened. You are wise to restrain your hand, so continue to be wise … but not foolish.”
“What do I owe you? I mean for the clothes, the outfit?”
“Nothing, if you lose your race. Put it down to the fact that I like a good contest. If you win, I’ll give you the bill. Now you’d better be riding.”
The horse was a line-back dun, and a good one by the look of it. Mobile Callahan was idling nearby when Chantry came to pick up the horse. A slim, attractive-looking man with cool gray eyes and black hair, he wore a black suit, a fresh white shirt with a black tie, and a black hat. He was wearing a pistol, Chantry noted.
“I’ve been through the town, Chantry,” he said, “and that Paul, whatever-his-name-is, has flown the coop. The girl’s still here, but I’ve a hunch if they tried twice they will try again, so watch your step.”
Tom Chantry mounted and turned his horse toward the old Santa Fe Trail. The trail went north by east, but French Williams knew this country well and he might drive further to shorten the trail to Dodge.
When he had gone scarcely more than a mile from town he swung from the trail, but when he had again gone no more than a mile he swung back toward it, scouting for sign as he rode. But he saw no tracks made since the rain.
He was remembering things his father had taught him.
At the time he had not thought of it as being taught. But on many occasions his father had often pointed out things along the trail, or told him stories of Indians and Indian fighting and trailing.
“If you’re in risky country,” he used to say, “don’t let ‘em set you up. Swing off your trail, change directions, keep ‘em worried so they can’t lay for you. And study the sign. Watch wild animals and birds, they’ll tell you plenty. Most of all, trust to your horse, particularly if he’s from wild stock. If there’s anybody around, a horse will know it.”
His father had never seemed to be teaching, and yet when he thought of it now he realized that Borden Chantry had said things that counted. “If you want to live easy in your mind, son,” he used to say, “be sure folks respect you. Saves a lot of trouble.”
He was riding warily, alive to every shadow, every suspicion of movement. He avoided places where a man might easily lie in wait, and several times he changed direction.
So it was that he glimpsed the pony tracks. They were off his line of travel, but his eyes caught a certain roughness in the grass and he swung his horse over to have a better look.
Unshod ponies … at least six, perhaps more. He knew he was no match for six warriors of the Kiowa or Comanche tribes. Deliberately he turned his mount away, back-tracking them.
He had gone no more than a quarter of a mile when he saw where the riders had drawn up their horses and stayed for several minutes, partly screened by a thick patch of willows and young cottonwoods. They had all been facing toward the wall of brush, obviously looking over it. At what? Not at him, for he had not come that way.
Sitting his horse where they had sat theirs, he looked over the brush and could see nothing but a barren slope, empty of life.
He found an opening in the wall of brush, worked his way through, and scouted the slope. Sure enough, he came upon the tracks of a lone horseman who had ambled along the slope unaware of the Indians watching him from cover.
Tom Chantry back-tracked the rider, and saw that the tracks showed frequent hesitations, as though the rider had somebody under observation or was scouting a trail. Suddenly Tom realized the rider had been watching him! And now that rider was being stalked by Indians.
Who could it be? Was this the man called Paul? Whoever it was, he now had problems of his own and Tom Chantry decided to let him deal with them as best he could.
Keeping to open country, avoiding possible ambush spots, he rode hard, occasionally veering to confuse any watcher, his one idea being to catch up with the drive.
The herd’s tracks were there, but they were a day or two old … it was difficult to tell for sure. Obviously, French was taking advantage of Chantry’s disappearance and was making time.
Tom Chantry was becoming aware of something else. There was movement among the Indians. He came upon their sign several times, parties riding unshod ponies crossed the cattle trail, riding east, small parties riding to become one big party, gathering in the direction to which the cattle must be driven.
Was it the cattle they were after? Or a drive upon the buffalo hunters in the Panhandle area? Or an effort, a last effort perhaps, to stop the rails?
He slowed his pace. He must not encounter such a party, for if they were bound for an attack for any of those reasons they would not hesitate to kill him en route.
By sundown the tracks of the cattle were fresher, and the cattle drive had veered toward the east, perhaps only to reach a water hole.
Chantry circled a low hill, studying carefully for tracks, and when he saw none that went up the hill he made his way to the crest. There were boulders and low brush as well as half a dozen trees there, the only cover he had found in some distance. From the summit he could study the country all about in the last light.
To the west there was nothing; it was broken, empty country with mountains rimming the skyline. All around him the horizon was empty, except that off to the northeast there was the faint glow of what must be a fire … the cattle herd?
He was about to leave the hill when he heard, off in the distance, a burst of firing. Stare as he might, he could make out nothing, and he had swung into the saddle preparatory to riding off the hill when he heard a pound of hoofs.