A rider was coming toward them, walking his horse, and singing Tenting Tonight On the Old Camp Ground.
It was Mobile Callahan.
Chapter 16
“Looks to me, Chantry, like you could use a good hand,” Callahan said. “I’ve been round and about, and up the trail a time or two, and I’m a fair hand with a rope or a gun.”
“You’ve got a job.”
“Don’t want you should worry about that. Mr.
Sparrow is payin’ me plenty to help you get to the railhead.”
“Sparrow? Paying you?”
“Uh-huh. He some kin o’ yours?”
“No.”
Mobile glanced toward the Indians. “You’ve
got to figure on them, of course, but what you really need are horses. What happened?”
Chantry explained in as few words as possible, his eyes straying from the cattle to the Indians.
“You think it was French Williams?”
Chantry shrugged. “The Talrims are around,
and I think Rugger was planning something with somebody else. All I know is that everything I’ve got is riding with this herd; and worse yet, everything my boss has got is, too. If we can bring it in we can make something; and if not, a good man and his daughter have gone down with us.”
They rode on in silence, keeping moving constantly, but trying to save their horses as much as possible.
At intervals all four men got off and walked. By noon they could see the trees along the Arkansas, the looming tops of the Big Timbers. They circled the herd, and while the cattle were resting they built a fire.
“I’m going on into the Indian camp,” Chantry told them. “I said I was going, and I must. I don’t know what they are planning, but my chances are as good there as here. Stay with the herd, but if you’re attacked, scatter and run for it. We can always get together and fight again. I don’t want to lose any of you.”
“If you go into that camp,” McCarthy warned, “you’ll lose your hair.”
“Maybe.” He hesitated, finishing his coffee. “On the other hand, I might make a deal for some horses. You can help me cut out about six head of good beef. I’ll drive them in for a gift to Wolf Walker.”
From the knolls the Indians watched as the men cut out the beef, and they followed Chantry when he started for the Big Timbers with them.
Suddenly, four Indians came riding down to him. They drew up.
“I am going to your camp,” Chantry said, speaking slowly. “I take a present to Wolf Walker. To He-Who-Walks-With-Wolves.”
One older buck with a strong profile demanded, “Why you do this?”
“I am Tom Chantry. The Wolf Walker and I fought. It was a good fight. He fought with great strength. It is good that we be friends.”
Nothing more was said, but the Kiowas closed in around him and around the cattle. Soon they dipped down, forded the river as far as an island, then went on to the further bank and were among the cottonwoods.
The huge trees were scattered, and the grass was thick beneath them. There was much shade, and the small fallen branches and twigs provided kindling for fires. Here and there were dead trees, and he could see where some had been felled in the past.
Suddenly the lodges were before him. This was the sort of camp the Kiowas or Comanches preferred, among open timber. The Sioux liked their camps near water, but away from timber because of their dread of ambush. The Osage, Omahas, and Shawnees preferred dense thickets.
As they rode in, women and children came from the lodges, from among the trees, and from the banks of the streams. Several warriors strode up to Chantry and one grasped his bridle with a strong hand.
“I come to make talk with the Wolf Walker,” he said.
An Indian pushed back the flap of his tipi and stood up. It was the Wolf Walker.
“I bring you a gift,” Tom Chantry said, and he gestured toward the cattle. “We fought well, you and I.” He held out his hand. “I am Tom Chantry.”
An older Indian who stood nearby grunted and said something to those who stood about him.
Wolf Walker said, “Red Buffalo speaks your name. But he speak Bor-den.”
“Borden Chantry was my father.” Suddenly Tom remembered the Indians who had come often to the ranch when the weather was cold and hunting was bad. His father had fed them, had traded horses with them.
“The Kiowas were our good friends,” he said. “They came often to my father’s lodge. I was papoose.”
The old Indian granted. “Come! Eat!”
Chantry dismounted and followed the older Indian
to his lodge. Others followed them, and they sat cross-legged on the floor.
“Where you go?” the old Indian presently demanded.
“To the Wagon-That-Smokes,” Chantry said, “to ship the cattle to my people who are hungry.”
“You men … where they go?”
He shrugged. “Some friends, some no friends to me.
They steal my horses. They wish to steal cattle … the wo-haws,” he added, remembering the Indian name for oxen.
As he ate with them, they asked of his father. “He is dead,” he said. “Three men killed him— long ago.”
“You kill them now?”
“I have lost their sign. Many years I was far
away.” He gestured toward the east. “They are gone. Maybe dead.”
“No dead,” the old Indian said quietly. “Me know them. Two men are where iron trail ends.”
“What!” he exclaimed. He was not sure they had understood, or that he had. “You say the men who killed my father are at the railhead?”
“I say. Five men now. Three big men”
* he indicated the rusty stain on a pot—
“hair like so.” He tapped the rusty spot.
“One who has no scalp, one the Little Bird.”
It made no sense, but he was not interested now in the men who had killed his father; that was all water under the bridge. Nor did he believe he would find them at the railhead. All he wanted now was freedom from attack, and he believed he had won that.
Any man who entered an Indian village of his own volition was safe as long as he remained there. Though anyone outside the tribe was a potential enemy, peace within the village was of first importance. As there had been no chance of outrunning the Kiowas with a trail herd, his best chance had been to come among them. Without a doubt they believed he had returned to avenge his father; had he denied it they would have lost respect for him, and any friendship they might have had would be gone.
Until now he had almost forgotten that his father had been a friend of the Kiowas, one of the fiercest of all the Plains tribes. He had traded with them, fed them when they were hungry, sheltered them often, and interceded for them with the Army. He had done it out of respect and admiration, not in fear, and this the Indians knew. It followed that they would have known who killed him.
He got to his feet. “I will come again to your village,” he said. “My father was your friend, and so shall I be.”
He turned to Wolf Walker and thrust out his hand. “Someday we will hunt together.”
The Indian took his hand, and the black eyes gleamed.
Turning his back, Chantry went out, and an Indian boy held his horse. He stepped into the saddle, raised his right hand, and rode away.
When he got back to the herd the cattle were moving. The riders came back and gathered around him—Callahan, Sun Chief, and McCarthy. “What happened?” Mobile asked.
He explained, and then added, “They told me the men who killed my father are at the railhead.”
“Waitin’ for you?” Mobile asked.
“After all these years? Why?”
“When you’ve lived a few years longer you’ll
no longer wonder at the motives of men. They’re mixed, Mr. Chantry. And sometimes they don’t know the why of them, themselves.” After a moment, he went on. “Sometimes a man regrets. You ever know regret, Mr. Chantry? I have. It is a powerful motive, a mighty powerful one with some folks.”
“And maybe they think you’ve come back to hunt them down,” McCarthy commented ironically. “Maybe they just figure to get you before you get them.”
After a moment Mobile Callahan said, “Did you see them? Would you know them now?”
He considered that a moment. “I don’t know. One of them was slight, and young. The other two— well, one of them was very big, and red-headed. But I doubt if I would know them now. It has been a long time.”
“Being gun-handy is a risky thing, Mr.
Chantry,” Callahan said. “If a gun comes
easy to your hand you’re apt to let it happen when it
shouldn’t. I’ve used a gun a time or two, and