“You don’t have to trust me. You know what I’m doing, and what I’m after.”
“What about Rugger? Why do you ask about him?”
“You figure it out. He’s your man.”
When Tom Chantry stretched out in his bed he
looked up at the sky and started to think about what he would do next, but somehow he fell asleep.
The fire crackled, then hissed as a few drops fell. It began to rain quietly and, without waking up, Chantry burrowed deeper into his bedroll.
Chapter 15
The camp was quiet as the men climbed out of their bedrolls in the morning, packed them up, and stowed them in the chuck wagon. The rain had stopped, but the sky was gray and thunder rambled in the distant hills.
French Williams, Chantry noted, avoided him, as if he regretted having talked so much the previous evening. Chantry took only coffee for breakfast, saddled up, and the herd was moving before the night guard had finished breakfast.
Undoubtedly the Kiowas knew of every move they made, and would be discussing the sudden shift from driving east to pushing the cattle north to the Big Timbers. Sun Chief had told him a good deal about the Indian ways, and it was this that had decided Chantry on riding into the Kiowa camp.
He would wait until almost the last minute so that his ride to the camp would take him only a little time. During that time he would be in danger … every yard he gained would be a yard won.
Nobody talked, and the cattle did not seem interested in grazing. They seemed to want to move on, and by now they were well broken to the day’s travel, except for a couple of well-known bunch-quitters, and they could be watched.
McKay dropped back beside Chantry.
“We’re goin’ on past the bend of the Clay,” he said. “Frenchy says we’ll be drivin’ sixteen to eighteen miles today.”
“The Clay? Does it swing this far east?”
“Uh-huh, an’ then it points right north for the
Republican.”
McKay rode on and the herd moved ahead steadily, occasionally trotting. Obviously Williams was hoping to drive far enough so that he could hit the Big Timbers early in the day.
By mid-morning they crossed the Santa Fe Trail, cut deep with the marks of freighters’ wagons and the countless pack trains that had come this way.
Once, far ahead on a knoll, they saw two mounted Indians watching them, but it was not the Kiowas Chantry was considering today. He drew up, mopping the sweat from his forehead and watching the cattle go by. He was thinking of the note left by Rugger and picked up by the Talrims.
2 Butes … Big Timbers …
Kiwas at Big Timbers … What did it mean? Merely that their next stop was to be Two Buttes?, and that they were headed for Big Timbers from there? Or did the message mean something else? Apparently the Talrims were watching the herd and would know where it was going. Perhaps the last phrase was the important one Kiowas at Big Timbers.
Was it a warning? Or was it a suggestion that if anything was to be done it must be done before the Kiowas could beat them to it?
Did they plan to kill him? Or to steal the herd?
If it was killing they wanted, it would certainly be best for them to wait and see if the Kiowas would not do it for them, and if nothing happened at Big Timbers there was still a chance to do what they wanted, and even blame the Indians for it.
If it was the herd they wanted, they had best steal it at once, before the Kiowas could act. But three men could not take a herd from this crowd unless they had some others working with them.
Was this a move planned by French Williams himself? Still, he had seemed genuinely puzzled over Chantry’s comment on Rugger.
Chantry let the herd move on ahead. He was riding the blue roan, and if trouble developed its speed would put him into the action without delay; and by riding well back he was able to survey the entire herd as well as the hills around.
Chantry decided he must watch Rugger. If anything was to happen the man’s actions would betray him. He let his eyes range the hills, and sweep the draws on either side, as much at least as he could see of them.
The country was deceptively open-looking, but there were draws on either side, the beds of intermittent streams, that would make good places of concealment for an ambush.
He suddenly thought of Bone McCarthy. Where was he? Had he simply pulled off on his own? Had he been ambushed perhaps to meet the same fate as Paul?
Several times during the morning Chantry saw Rugger and Kincaid meet, confer briefly, and return to their jobs. It was nothing to be remarked … it happened a dozen times a day during such long drives, but now his mind was alert with suspicion.
Sun Chief fell back beside him for a short time. The Pawnee had proved a good hand on the drive, working along with the herd in between brief scouting forays into the hills.
Alone on an isolated knob, Chantry stood in his stirrups and let his eyes range the country. The feel of it was coming back—this was the land where he had been a boy, and certainly the place could not have been far from here.
This was a land where a man could grow, where he could build. He found himself wishing he could have known it as the Indians had. He glanced again toward the herd. Rugger and Kincaid were together again.
He was turning his mount to ride back to the drag when he saw the black, muddy trail where a party of riders had gone down the draw to his right. Swinging his horse, he rode down to read sign. There had been perhaps five or six riders, and they must have gone by only minutes before he had reached the crest of the knoll.
Honest men did not avoid a trail drive. They would ride down to pass the time of day, at least. He tried to single out tracks, but he saw no evidence of the Talrims. But all were shod horses, and by the length of their strides they were good stock, running stock.
Tom Chantry skirted the knoll and cut down along the slope, not heading for the drag, but for French Williams, who was riding point.
Williams turned as he approached, no
welcome in his eyes.
“Keep your eyes open,” Tom said.
“We’re riding into trouble.”
“What’s that mean?” French asked.
“I cut sign on half a dozen riders,
maybe more. They passed us only a few minutes back and didn’t come in to talk.”
French Williams rode a few minutes in silence. “So you figure something’s building up?”
“You bet I do. I think somebody hopes to grab this herd before we get to Big Timbers.”
“That means tonight.”
“Or today. Or on the drive tomorrow.”
Williams said no more, and rode on. Tom
Chantry dropped back, and as he passed Helvie he said again, “Keep your eyes open. We’re riding into trouble.”
“Kiowas?”
“Maybe somebody closer to home.”
Helvie shot him a quick look. “If you mean
French, I ride for the brand.”
“But who is the brand here? Is it French? Is it me? Or the herd?”
Helvie was silent a moment, considering that.
Then he said, “The herd. I’m a cattleman.”
“I’ll ask nothing more. We both signed on to take this herd all the way.”
“McKay will stand.”
“I think so too. And I think Dutch will.”
Helvie glanced at him. “Dutch? Yes,
I think he will. You’re not mentioning Rugger or Kincaid.”
“No, I’m not. I don’t know about them, but they’ve been doing a lot of getting together this morning.” And he told Helvie about the note Rugger had left, and the Talrims picking it up. He also told him about the fresh trail, just over the ridge from the herd. “Maybe I’m chasing wild geese,” he said, finally, “but I’m going to ride loose and listen.”
Sun Chief hung well back from the drag, urging those steers that lingered behind, but never closing in tight on the drag. Seeing him there gave Chantry reassurance, for he had great respect for the Pawnee and his awareness of what went on.
But where was McCarthy?
Twice they saw Indians, but they were only
watching. If they planned an attack they were content to wait until the cattle were driven to them.
were they aware of those other watchers? Chantry asked Sun Chief. “They know,” he answered.
Chantry pulled his horse around the herd and rode toward the point. He drew up alongside Rugger. “How’re they going?”
“All right.” Rugger spoke sullenly, not inviting conversation.