Tom Chantry passed the reins to Sun Chief and stepped down, fighting his repugnance. He turned the body over. It was Paul, and he was not dead. His body twitched and his fluttering eyes opened wide.
“I did not even see them,” he said distinctly. “It was sundown, and I was looking for you.”
“We’ll take you to the herd,” Chantry said.
“They’re pretty handy with wounds.”
Paul’s eyes stared blankly. “I shouldn’t have listened to her. I should never have come. I never wanted money that much, but she did. She wanted money, or she wanted blood … I was never sure.”
Chantry knelt and started to slip an arm under him.
“No!”
He stopped, waiting, but whatever Paul had
been about to say was smothered in the blood that came from his mouth. He rolled over on his side, choking and gasping. “No,” he managed again … and died.
Chantry pulled a handful of dry grass and wiped the blood from his fingers. He looked at the body, and then walked to his horse.
He started to speak. “If we had a shovel
…”
“No time,” Sun Chief said. “We ride.”
He pointed. Two hills away were
Indians, a dozen of them, coming toward them.
Chantry turned his mount, and riding beside each other, they moved away, trotting their horses, not running them.
The Indians came on riding faster now. Chantry drew his rifle from the scabbard, letting them see the shine of it.
“No shoot,” Sun Chief said, but he was showing his own rifle.
The Indians came up to the body and drew up, looking after them.
They saw the fire before they reached the cattle. The herd was bunched for the night, and the men were around the chuck wagon, except for those on night herd and one man on a high knoll as lookout.
The herd was bunched in the open, the remuda held near a small patch of trees and brush.
Helvie was first to see Chantry. He looked from Chantry to Sun Chief, and back again. “Figured we’d seen the last of you,” he said dryly. “What happened?”
“I got dry-gulched,” Chantry answered.
“It wasn’t him,” Helvie said quickly.
“He ain’t left the herd.”
“Didn’t think it was. That doesn’t seem to be his style.”
“You’re smarter’n I thought.”
French William was standing near the fire,
watching as they rode in. “Howdy!” he said.
“Better eat up. We’re making a night
drive.”
“Where to?”
“South and west. There’s a bunch of Kiowas
north of here.”
“Heard of them.” Chantry poured coffee.
“They got you buffaloed?”
Williams turned his head quickly. “No.
It’s the wisest thing to do, that’s all.”
Chantry sipped his coffee. “They know you’re here,” he said, “so you aren’t fooling anybody. They can catch up any time they’ve a mind to. And,” he added, “there’s bunches of Indians south of here, too.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“Go north,” Chantry said, “right past Big
Timbers. No sense in letting them think we’re afraid of them.”
“All right,” William replied carelessly. “It might just work. If they ride out to talk, you going to make palaver with them?”
“I might,” Chantry replied.
“You do it,” William said. “I’d like to see
how an eastern gent gets along with Indians.” He glanced at Sun Chief. “Where’d you find him?”
“He’s been working for me right along,” Chantry answered calmly. “He was one of Frank North’s Pawnee scouts.”
“I know him,” French Williams said.
“He’s a damn good man.”
Suddenly a thought came to Chantry.
“French,” he asked, “does anybody want you dead?”
“Me? Maybe fifty people. Why?”
“Somebody tried to kill me, somebody I
don’t know. I don’t have any enemies that I can think of and nobody stands to gain if I die.”
“Why tie it to me?”
“There was a mention that if I was dead there’d
only be one more. Now, I don’t share anything with anybody but you.”
“The herd?”
Chantry shrugged. “I can’t think of anything
else.”
“What about your pa? Somebody killed him. With you back west again they might think you’ve come out here to wind that up.”
“It isn’t likely. That was a long time ago.”
Both of them were silent for a minute, and Tom listened abstractedly to the mutter of conversation around the fire.
“Anyway,” he added, “the girl wanted money. That’s what Paul said.”
“Paul?”
“The girl called him that.” Then, concisely,
Chantry told his experiences of the past few days: the dry gulching, his escape, the attempted killing in Trinidad … and Sparrow.
“What’s he doing in this?” French Williams asked. “I don’t figure Sparrow.”
“He said he wanted to see how I’d manage without using a gun.”
“That don’t make sense. I know Sparrow. He’s a no-time-for-fooling-around man. I never knew him to do anything like this before.” French looked at him quickly. “Is he any relation of yours?”
“No.”
“Then it certainly don’t make sense.
Unless,” he added, “he figures to pick up the herd himself.”
Chantry got up and threw the dregs of his coffee into the buffalo-chip fire. “I think it concerns you and me,” he said, “and nobody else.”
As he walked to the wagon for his bedroll, he glanced at the men, somber over their coffee, speaking little, their rough-hewn, unshaven faces thrown into relief by the firelight. They were a solid, capable lot. Even the bad ones were good men with the cattle, hard workers to a man … Suddenly, for the first time he felt a kinship with these men who shared with him what would in the East be considered as nothing less than an adventure. Here it was the day’s work, and little different from any other day’s.
All of them knew the Kiowas were out there, and every man among them knew the Kiowas for fearless, dreaded fighters, yet they were prepared to ride on, right past their encampment—or through it if necessary.
Some of these men were of a sort he might never have encountered had he not come west, and they were, in some cases, men whom he would not have chosen for friends, but when trouble showed they would be men who would stand by until death, if need be. For the first time he clearly understood what Sparrow had told him, what Lambert meant, and the others who had tried to tell him what the West was like.
These were hard, lonely men, driven by no man knew what impulses, what secret dreams or thoughts, and they came from all walks of life, all kinds of backgrounds. There was no pattern beyond the one of hardihood and courage.
“You know, French,” he said, when he went back to the fire, “no matter how it turns out, I’ll have learned a lot on this trip. I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.”
French looked up, a sudden smile on his face. “Maybe we’ll ride another trail, my friend, another trail besides this. You’ve come a long way since that night in Cimarron.”
Yes … yes, he had. But how much further was he to go? It might be no further than the camp of the Kiowas, nor as far as the railhead.
There was not much time left, not many days, not many miles, and then he would know.
Chapter 13
Dawn broke cold and gray. Tom
Chantry rolled out of his blankets, scrambled into his clothes, and tugged on his boots.
Helvie and McKay were at the wagon, plates held out for the cook. Chantry stood up, stamped his feet into his boots, and slung his gun belt around his waist. Helvie looked at it, but made no comment.
Rugger strolled up to the wagon, throwing a sour glance at the gun. “You strap that on an’ you may have to use it.”
“If I have to, I will,” Chantry said, and he added, “When this drive’s over, Rugger, if you have any money to bet, I’ll outshoot you for whatever you’ve got.”
Rugger stared at him. “Huh! You must think you’re good. I’ll take that bet.”
French Williams rolled out and sat up. “You’d better not, Rugger. I think Chantry can shoot. I think he’ll surprise the hell out of you.”
Rugger snorted, but he was less confident. If French thought Chantry could shoot, it was a good bet that he could. For French Williams made few mistakes in such matters.
“French, do you know Clay Spring?” Chantry asked.
“I been there a time or two. I guess everybody in this country knows it.”
“How about stopping there tonight?”
“I’d sort of figured on it.”
Williams was a neat, natty man who
looked well in whatever he wore. This morning he wore a blue army shirt, black jeans, and a flat-brimmed hat. His boots were almost new, and were decorated with large-roweled Mexican spurs. He wore his gun tied down. Chantry suspected that Williams had a better background than was implied by his conversation or by his way of life.