most times whoever was on the other end had it
a-comin’, but there was a time—“
He swung wide and brought a laggard steer back to the herd.
“There was a time when I killed a man that didn’t need killin’. It was in a poker game. Nobody blamed me for the shootin’, but it didn’t do me a damn bit o’ good to tell myself that I gave him ever’ chance—I knew I hadn’t. The gun came too easy to my hand.
“He had a wife and three kids, and he said her name when he was dyin’. …
“I did what I could for ‘em.”
Mobile Callahan was silent for a
few minutes. “I regret that shootin’, Mr.
Chantry, I surely do. I always have.”
Tom Chantry rode out to the point, thinking about what had happened. Where were French Williams and the others? Had they deserted him, or had they been taken away at gun point? Had he been doped that night, in the coffee?
By sundown they were nine miles west. Whoever had told him there were only three days of driving to go had been mistaken. Of course, there had been delays. There had been frequent stops, some of them overlong, and their route had not always been the most direct.
How far now? He wanted to ask Bone
McCarthy or Sun Chief, but they were scattered out and there was no chance. The herd had handled easily so far, but it seemed as if they were becoming aware that the riders were fewer. However, the old brindle steer stayed right on the line where his nose was pointed, heading toward the railroad as if he could smell the steam and the cinders.
The sun was low and it was time to circle for the night when the riders came upon them. A moment before they had been moving placidly enough, and then, almost out of nowhere, or out of the sinking sun, the charging horsemen, the thunder of guns, and the longhorns broke into a run.
Mobile Callahan was riding drag, Sun Chief was working the north side of the herd, and Bone McCarthy was on the south. Chantry himself was riding point, and when the herd broke he was swept along, riding at breakneck speed to keep from being trampled by the frightened, maddened cattle.
Somebody yelled, “Kill him! Kill Chantry!”
As the dust and the cattle closed around him he saw one person, sitting a horse alone on a small knoll, watching him. It was Sarah.
And then his world was filled with the thunder of hoofs, the shouts of men, the shots—and somewhere a scream of pain drowned by the roar of the stampede.
Chapter 17
There was no fighting the maddened rush of more than two thousand head of cattle. The sudden charge from out of the sun, the burst of firing, and the cattle were gone. His only hope was to run, to keep ahead of them, and to pray that his horse would keep its feet. If the horse fell …
He was surrounded by tossing horns, and there seemed no chance to break out of the herd. There was nothing to do but run with them until the impetus of the charge was broken and the cattle stopped of their own volition.
Suddenly the sun was gone, but the red glow remained in the sky. He had his six-shooter out, ready to kill a steer to pile them up if he could, but so far the dun was keeping its feet and was running freely. He had no idea how far they had run, but he knew that his horse could not hold such a pace for long.
A gap showed between the steer ahead and the steer to the right, and Chantry put the dun over, hoping he might work his way free of the herd. Even in this moment of danger the thought came to him: who had screamed back there? The stampede must have caught somebody and trampled him down.
Then he found another gap, eased into it, and suddenly he was at the edge of the herd and was fighting his way free of it. He had run another half-mile before he was out of the press of cattle and running the flank.
He slowed the dun, watching the herd stream by. The time was not right for turning it, and anyway he did not have the man power. His best bet was to let them run, then as they slowed down, begin gradually turning them to point them north once more.
The stars were out; the sky was black above, the earth was black below. The cattle were slowing now, the fever run out of them, and the fear gone.
He listened, and above the steady pound of hoofs he heard only the occasional clack of horns bashing together. No voices, no other sound.
He moved in close to the herd now, and began to sing to them, trying to calm them, and pushing a little toward the east as he did so. Slowly, the cattle turned before him. He saw a few scattered ones, and swung wide to intercept them, turning them back into the herd.
As he had them streaming out toward the east, suddenly three riders topped out on a knoll. Instantly he recognized one of them—it was Sarah!
And the Talrims!
At the same instant a shot rang out from behind
him, he felt a solid blow on the cantle of his saddle, and heard a bullet whine off into the distance. He managed one quick glance over his shoulder and saw four riders closing in from behind. Sarah and the Talrims all threw up their rifles at once, and he slapped spurs to his horse.
The dun was running its heart out now. It went over the hill and down a ridge, and Chantry saw ahead of him several tall cottonwoods. He almost pulled up.
Though the trees were a good mile off, he saw in the scene something more, something familiar.
It was home! The home ranch!
A bullet kicked dust just head of him, and he
threw one wild glance over his shoulder. Fanned out behind him were seven or eight riders. Another was closing in from the flank.
A volley came from behind, and he felt the dun stumble. He raced into the trees, swung around and pulled up, staring at his old home.
Only the shell remained. The roof had partly fallen in, some of the logs had been pulled from the end wall to build a fire. The old barn where he had once played was gone; there were only the charred remains.
He heard the pound of hoofs and swung his horse around. There was no place here to make a stand. He could only run until—
The Hole … it rushed into his mind.
He had not thought of The Hole in years. Was it
still there? Was it large enough to take a man? He shucked his rifle from the scabbard and rode the staggering dun down the draw, then kicked free of the saddle, and dropped. As he did so, he grabbed at the saddlebags and had barely got them when the dun slid to a stand, half falling.
“Sorry, old boy, I can’t help you now!”
He ducked and ran.
He saw the brush where he had played at Indian as a child; the ditch cut by runoff water was larger now. He ran along it, safely hidden now, as he had been then. He went over the slight rise and into a buffalo wallow. The wind had scoured it deeper; he crawled, slid, and worked his way ahead.
He could hear them yelling and swearing as they searched around the ruins of the old house. He went over the narrow ridge and saw the spot before him.
The sound of hoofs was not far off, and he heard an angry shout. “His horse is down! We got him!”
He ran up to the place. No water. No spring any longer … only a sandy basin about a dozen feet across and a slab of rock where the hole should have been.
He grabbed the rock with both hands and stood it on edge. There was a hole there, scarcely large enough for a man—but it was a hole.
Was it deep enough? His only chance was to try. He turned around and backed into it, kicking obstructions away. When he got in all the way he pulled his Winchester in after him.
He found a ledge on which to place the rifle, then reaching out he grasped the slab. At first it refused to budge. He dug at its base and it slid forward, falling over the opening, closing him in. …
He was buried alive.
Literally, he was buried. Could he push the
stone outward again? Could he dig around it? As he remembered, there had been a solid ledge there.