Beyond Plum Creek he could see still others scattered out and grazing. The day was warm and clear and his eyes ranged the country around, alert to sight any movement of men or animals. If he could gather enough of the herd he would start them toward the railroad, which must be north of him now, and near the river. He would drive what cattle he could gather, pick up some hands, and return to make a sweep of the plains.
Beyond Granada Creek he could see the dusty trace that marked the Sante Fe Trail. By the time he was midway between Plum and Granada he had gathered more than a hundred head. Leaving them to graze, he trailed the reins of the horse he was riding and switched to the other. He left his first mount with the cattle, rode west, and began to gather more.
Alternating horses he had by nightfall added another two hundred head to his herd, finding them often in bunches of a dozen or more. He pushed them north a couple of miles to fresh grass, and when they had begun to lie down, he made his own camp near a pool of water left from the recent rains in an arroyo that emptied into Plum Creek. He did not build a fire.
With his horses picketed close by, he went to sleep, trusting to them to alert him to any danger. The night passed quietly, and before dawn he was up, saddled his horses, and rode out to continue his gather.
A few cattle had drifted into the basin and he added them to what he had, then crossed the Sante Fe Trail into the breaks around the head of Wolf Creek. On the slope below him he saw some five hundred head of cattle bunched together, and two picketed horses. Keeping out of sight, he worked around on foot until he could see their camp.
Two men were sleeping under a bank near some junipers. A thin tendril of smoke lifted from the remains of their fire. Recovering his horse, he rode in a small circle to a place among the junipers near them, and then crept down the slope until he was on the bank just above them.
A dim path, evidently made by buffalo or antelope, went around the junipers and down into their camp. It was all he needed. Moving quietly, he made his way closer until he stood in their camp. Actually, his movements were practically silent.
He picked up their rifles and put them behind him, then went to the sleeping men, each of whom had a six-shooter near him. As he bent over, holding his rifle in his right hand, and just about to reach with his left and pick up the nearest man’s gun belt, the man lunged up from his bed and grabbed at the rifle. As he lunged, Tom Chantry swung a short butt-stroke to the temple and the man dropped as though hit with an axe.
Coolly, Chantry picked up the other gun belt, then booted the sleeping man in the ribs.
He raised his head and said, “What the hell?”
And then he saw Chantry standing over him.
“Get up,” Chantry said. “And get your boots on. We’ve got some cattle to drive.”
“Go to hell!”
Chantry stooped suddenly, grabbed the man’s
bed and jerked. As he tumbled from the blankets, Chantry stepped in and kicked him in the stomach.
The man rolled over, retching.
“Now get up and get your boots on,”
Chantry repeated. “You’re going to find out what it means to steal another man’s cattle.”
The rustler gasped for a few minutes. He looked at his companion. “What happened to him?”
“He got a little ambitious. Maybe his skull is busted.”
“An’ you don’t give a damn?”
“No, I don’t. What happens to a thief
is his own tough luck. When you start out to steal, you’re anybody’s game, remember that. … Now you get your horse saddled. We’re driving these cattle.”
“What about him?”
“If he revives, he can help you. If he
doesn’t, the buzzards will take care of him.
Get moving.”
Chantry backed to the fire and picked up the coffeepot. Some coffee sloshed in it, and he drank from the edge. Keeping a good distance, he let his eyes range the area, seeking out any possible cover.
A groan from the other man alerted him, and he saw him stirring. He walked over and booted him. “Get up! Get into your boots.”
“I’ll kill you for this!” the man growled.
“Get into the saddle,” Chantry said. “If you
drive those cattle and don’t get funny, I may let you live. Make a wrong move and I’ll shoot you. I’m out of patience.”
With the two rustlers working under his rifle, Chantry gathered the bunch they had and drove them over to his own small herd, which had scattered a bit as they grazed.
When the cattle were bunched with his own, he faced the two rustlers, staying fifty yards off from them. His rifle on them, he said, “What became of my riders?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” said the heavier of the two with a sneer.
“Yes, I would.” Tom Chantry smiled pleasantly at them. “You boys can tell me or not, as you choose. I’ve got this rifle, and I can drop a running rabbit with it, and you boys make a good deal bigger target. You’re cow thieves—maybe murderers. Whether you get out of this alive depends on how you cooperate, and on my whim. I’ve a good notion to shoot you both where you stand. If you’re found dead out here nobody is going to ask questions. Of course, it would make it easier to handle the cattle if you boys work along and help.”
They looked at him, and they did not like what they saw. The rifle was ready, and they judged him as they would themselves. After all, why should he keep them alive?
“All right,” the bigger man agreed. “We’ll ride along and he’p with the cattle. An’ we’ll stay right with you up to the rails. But what then?”
Chantry shrugged. “I don’t want either of you. You help me get my cattle to the railhead, and then you can get out of the country as fast as you can ride. Start any sooner than within sight of the rails, and I’ll shoot you, wherever it is.”
Would he? At that moment Chantry had no idea. He knew that, come what might, he must get these cattle to the railroad.
He strapped their rifles to his own saddle, and their gun belts as well. They started the cattle, pointing them north. It could not be more than twenty miles to the railroad now, and probably was less.
For an hour they moved steadily. Chantry worked well back, out of the dust, his rifle ready to use at any sign of betrayal.
But they had no need for betrayal. For suddenly, without warning, a dozen riders appeared. They swept down upon him, four of them rushing at the herd, the others forming up near him, a few yards off. And they came at a time when his rifle was in his scabbard, the first time all morning when that had been the case.
Rugger was there, and Kincaid. Koch was there, grinning at him, a triumphant grin. The others were strangers. To his relief, not one of the men with whom he had worked so well, McKay, Hay Gent, or Helvie, was among them.
“Looks like you he’ped us round ‘em up,” Rugger said, “an’ we thank you for that. Now we’re takin’ them over.”
They were going to kill him. Koch would never have it otherwise, nor Rugger either, for that matter.
“Let me make you an offer, boys,” Chantry said pleasantly, and drew his gun.
They were off guard, his speed was greater than they expected, and their reaction time was against them. He drew, and shot Rugger out of the saddle, then switched the gun to Koch.
Koch’s rifle was coming up and Chantry’s bullet, aimed for his mid-section, hit the hammer and glanced upward, catching Koch under the chin. He toppled from his horse, blood streaming from his throat, and the horse went galloping away over the prairie.
Rugger was on the ground; Koch was gone. The others found themselves staring at a six-shooter that seemed to have come from nowhere.
“Shuck those guns!” Tom Chantry said.
“Or I’ll empty some saddles! Quick!”
Kincaid hesitated, and a bullet broke his arm at the elbow.
Reaching over to one of the captured holsters, Chantry took another six-shooter with his left hand.
There was no need for it. The others were loosening their gun belts. The shooting had happened so fast that not one of them had even had time to register the need for a draw.
“Now get out of here!”
With a thunder of hoofs, the riders were