Rugger was apparently telling the Talrims their direction of travel, and warning them about the Kiowas at Big Timbers. But what else? Despite himself, Chantry was worried. There might be some other meaning which he did not grasp, some other reason for the message.
When the two riders had disappeared over the ridge in the direction of Clay Spring, he rode out of the willows and followed the herd.
The drive to Two Buttes was an easy one, and Chantry rode the drag all the last half. They bunched the cattle on the plain north of the Buttes, avoiding the breaks along the canyon that lay just to the south.
Twice during the last part of the drive they saw Indians. Two of them sat on a ridge watching, apparently unworried about being seen. That night the camp was quiet.
“What do you think, French?” Akin said at last. “Will they tackle us?”
Williams shrugged. “Maybe yes, maybe no. From what I hear, that passel of Kiowas shapes up like a war party, and if they want beef there isn’t any closer than we are. The same goes for scalps. They know they’ve tackled my drives a couple of times with no luck, so that may steer ‘em off, but I doubt it.”
“I think we’re in for a fight,” McKay agreed.
Chantry sipped his coffee, listened to the talk, and watched Rugger. When he had finished eating, Rugger strolled over to where Kincaid was repairing a broken bridle. For several minutes they talked in low tones, and nobody seemed to be paying any attention. Williams was lying on his back, his hat over his eyes.
Rugger and Kincaid were two of Williams’ boys … did Williams know what was going on? Was this a part of a plan? The Talrims had kept pace with them for days, and Chantry was sure they were Williams’ ace in the hole. A shoot-out at the last minute; and with Chantry dead the cattle belonged to Williams.
Suddenly he remembered the girl Sarah … where did she figure in all of this? Did she know that Paul was dead? Had she given up whatever she was trying to do?
She had wanted Tom Chantry dead because then only one man would stand between her and what she wanted, and that one man had to be French Williams. Yet French professed to know nothing about her … or was it Paul?
Had he ever mentioned Sarah’s name to French?
He suddenly said to French, “We’ve never talked about your background.”
Williams’ eyes were level and cold. “And we are not planning to,” he said.
“I was thinking about Paul,” Chantry went on. “We need not talk about it, but you had better do some thinking about it.”
“I do not know anyone named Paul.”
“And there was the girl named Sarah,” Chantry
continued.
Williams stared at him. “Sarah? Sarah and Paul? It can’t be.”
“Those were the names. They spoke of killing me, and then added that there would be only one man left. Williams, the only thing you and I have in common are those cattle. If both of us die before we get to the railhead, who gets the cattle?”
The cynical amusement was gone from Williams’ eyes. His face looked drawn.
“You wouldn’t have gotten to Dodge,” he said, “so the cattle would belong to me. And if I died … no, it is absurd! I can’t believe it.”
“Sarah would be nineteen or twenty,” Chantry said; “Paul a few years older.”
“And Paul is dead? The Kiowas killed him?”
“Yes.”
“Then it is over,” he muttered, half
to himself. “That will be an end to it.”
“I don’t think so,” Chantry insisted quietly. “The girl was the stronger one. She was the one who was pushing hardest. Without her I don’t believe Paul would have done anything; nor do I believe she will quit.”
Williams stared at Tom. “I thought they had forgotten me,” he said. “Now they find me again, and it is for this!”
They were alone—the others had gone out on night guard, or were asleep. “I wanted to go back some day,” Williams said gloomily. “It is not a place to forget. My boyhood was there, and where a man has lived as a boy … he has feelings for it.”
“My first home was out here somewhere,” Chantry said. “I never knew exactly where … I think it was over east of here. You know how it is … plains are plains; and afterward my mother never would talk about it. Pa was well-off until that norther wiped him out and we had to move into town.”
“I always wanted to go back,” Williams said. “I had a good time as a boy.”
“You can always go back.”
“You have much to learn, my friend. No one ever
really goes back, for when you return you are not the same as when you left, and everything is different, and strange. You look about where everything ought to be familiar, but nothing is right. I know, my friend. But still I did want to go back.”
“What have Sarah and Paul to do with it?”
Williams shrugged. “Perhaps nothing. But I do
not think there is much to go back to if they have come so far to kill me. … Yes, I know them. They are the children of my cousin. With me, they are the last of our line. My father always told me I should avoid them. … They were no good, he said, and he should know, for he came of the same family.”
“What about your mother and father?”
“Dead. My mother died when I was very small—
my father only a few years ago. My mother was lovely … she came of an old, old line. My father was a common soldier who rose from the ranks to become an officer. That is not an easy thing to do in the French Army. As a boy he dreamed of going off to India, of becoming a general.
“Actually he served in Africa, and lost an arm there. He came home then, married my mother, and bought a farm … call it an estate if you will. His own family he did not like, and he avoided my mother’s family as well.
“They had refused to sanction the marriage until it became obvious that my mother would refuse to obey, and then they sanctioned it, but unwillingly. Later, after my father was visited by some of France’s foremost military men, their attitude changed, but he was a proud man and would have none of it.
“He had the devil’s own temper, and my own was like it. When I was not yet sixteen the arrogant nephew of an important man demanded that I hold his horse, and I refused. He attempted to horse-whip me, and although he was three years older and larger, I pulled him from his horse and gave him a beating. I thought I’d killed him, so I went home and put a few things together to run away.
“My father came to stand in the door. He asked me about it, and I told him. He said that if I wished to stay he would face them beside me, but I refused. Then he offered me a dozen gold coins, but I knew they were all he had, and I refused that too. Finally we split them, and I shook his hand and left. I never saw him again.”
“That was in France?”
“Yes.”
“But the name Williams? It doesn’t fit.”
“It was a name I took when I needed a name in
a hurry, that’s all.”
“What do you think our chances are now with the Kiowas?”
“You can never tell about Indians. They might attack, and they might not. They might try to stampede the herd, and then get us one by one as we try to round them up. This is a war party, hunting trouble. The other tribes who pulled out knew that, and did not want to be involved. If we put on a bold face we might ride right through them.”
“I’m going into their camp,” Chantry said.
French stared at him. “You’re crazy.”
“I’ve heard that an Indian would never kill
a man who came willingly into his camp. Maybe before or after, but never in camp unless he is brought in as a prisoner.”
“Yes, but you just might find an Indian who didn’t think that way.”
“In the meantime, you boys can drive the cattle right on … by going east.”
“I know where Dodge is.” Williams threw his cigar into the flames. “If you’ve got nerve enough you might bring it off, but I wouldn’t want to bet on it.”
Chantry got to his feet. “I’m turning in.” He paused for a moment, and then asked casually, “How much do you trust Rugger?”
“Rugger? He works for me, but I don’t trust anybody. Including you.”