streaking away. The men near him swung their horses and started to ride away, and he let them go.
Once more he was alone with the cattle … and then he saw why the others had fled. Riding toward him in a long array, was a line of at least fifty Kiowa braves.
Ahead of them they were driving several hundred head of cattle.
Wolf Walker rode toward him, a dozen braves close behind. He stopped in a swirl of dust.
“We come. We help. We drive wo-haws for friend.”
“I thank you,” Chantry said.
Slowly the herd bunched again. From somewhere came
Old Brindle and stepped into the lead, and the cattle moved off slowly. From out of the draws other bunches of cattle came, driven by Kiowas. By nightfall the cattle all seemed to have been gathered.
But Tom Chantry was worried. Where were French Williams and the others? Williams himself was an uncertain quantity, a man he had never trusted completely. Helvie, McKay, Gent, and Akin had all seemed good men, and dependable.
Behind it all, he was sure, were the operations of Sarah. She must have found and employed the Talrim brothers, and she must have recruited the others to help her … she would know what arguments to use. If what she wanted was ownership of the cattle, she would have clear title once he and Williams were out of the way.
But now there seemed no way she could win. The railroad was only a few miles away, and the Kiowas who guarded the cattle were fighting men, not to be trifled with. Chantry recalled what she had told Paul about not paying the men who helped her, and he was sure she had something of the sort in mind now.
She was not the sort to give up easily, but what could she do?
She must believe that the cards were all in her hands. She probably had French Williams a prisoner, or had killed him. And perhaps she still thought that Tom Chantry was trapped in The Hole.
Some of the outlaws who had been driving the cattle might have gotten in touch with her, but that he doubted.
What would she do now?
The cattle would be delivered at the railhead,
placed aboard cars there, and shipped east. It began to look as if Sarah was whipped, and French Williams, too.
And then he remembered that at the railhead were the men who had killed his father. What was he going to do about that? And what did they plan to do?
Chapter 19
The river was not far off now, and the railroad followed it. He pointed the way, occasionally glancing back to see if any enemies were in sight, but he trusted the Indians to alert him to any danger. This was the short-grass country, blue grama, buffalo grass, and some needle grasses. Patches of prickly pear appeared now and again, and yucca, often called soap weed from the Indians’ use of it, dotted the plains.
The cattle, seeming to sense the river with its abundance of water, moved steadily onward, and the Kiowas proved efficient herdsmen, working with the cattle as if born to it. They were magnificent horsemen and managed their quick ponies without effort.
Twice Chantry glimpsed antelope, and once a small bunch of buffalo, moving southward, away from the river. Suddenly, from far off, he heard a train whistle.
The Kiowas drew up to listen, and even the steers lifted their heads, staring wild-eyed, at the unfamiliar sound. A thin trail of smoke showed in the sky.
They topped out on a low rise and the river lay before them, and somewhat to the east of north, they saw a cluster of buildings and a train, its locomotive giving off the smoke he had seen.
There was a sudden flurry of action near the town, men running, and mounted men beginning to assemble.
Wolf Walker came up to Chantry. “They see us,” he said grimly. “Think we come for fight.”
“Hold them. I’ll ride ahead.”
He started down the slight slope at a
canter to meet the horsemen. He was nearly at the town when he came up to them, two dozen men armed and ready to fight.
“Take it easy, gentlemen!” he said. “Those Kiowas are driving my cattle for me.”
“Like hell!” blustered a huge bearded man.
“This here’s a squaw man—he’s one of them!”
“I’m not one of them, and I am driving these cattle from Cimarron to load on the steam cars. Rustlers scattered my herd and the Kiowas helped me gather them and drive them on. They have been very helpful.”
“I don’t believe that!” the big man
exclaimed. “I—“
Chantry swung his horse to face him. “My friend,” he said, “I am losing patience with you. If you say that again you’d better have a gun in your hand.”
The man started to speak, then stopped, but his eyes were ugly.
“Hold your horses, Butler,” another man said. “Sparrow told me about this man. He’s the one that stock buyer is waitin’ for. This here’s Tom Chantry.”
“Chantry!” Suddenly Butler was all
confidence. “You’re the one that took water from
Dutch Akin! Well, by—to was
“Mr. Butler,” Chantry interrupted, “you are right. I am the man who refused to fight a stranger against whom I had no animosity. Under the same circumstances I would do the same thing again.
“However, a few miles back along the trail you will find two men who attempted to take my cattle, Rugger and Koch. You will find them dead. I’m afraid their intentions caused me to develop some animosity very quickly, and you are now creating the same situation. If I were you I’d throttle down while you are still in a condition to do so.”
He turned to the other man. “Thank you, sir, for speaking up. I need a few good hands to take my herd and bring it in. The Kiowas would prefer not to come into town.”
“I’ll help.” The man turned in his saddle. “Joe? How about you, Bob and Sam? Want to help this man?”
Chantry rode back with them and cut out a
dozen steers. “Take them,” he told the
Kiowas, “but wait until I return.” And
he rode on to the town.
There was little enough there—a dozen flimsy shacks, two dozen sprawling tents.
Saloons, dance halls, general stores, a barber shop, horse dealers, stock buyers, and two hotel tents, as well as the private cars on sidings.
Chantry swung down in front of the big tent with a General Store sign and went inside. He said, “I want twenty blankets, twenty new hunting knives, and twenty packets of tobacco.”
“You a trader?”
“No,” he replied, “just a man paying off a
debt.”
A voice spoke behind him. “There are other kinds of debts. They all have to be paid.” It was Sparrow.
“I have met your Mr. Earnshaw. A fine gentleman, and a lovely daughter.” Sparrow studied him thoughtfully. “Mr. Chantry, I understand you and Miss Earnshaw are to be married?”
“We have discussed it.”
“Fine … fine. I am glad to hear it. And
then you will be going back east?”
Chantry hesitated. Was he? “I don’t know,” he said. “Temporarily, perhaps.”
“If you stay here there will be problems.”
“Why not? There are problems everywhere.”
“These are different. I understand you killed two
men on the trail?”
“It was necessary. I did not wish to do it.”
Sparrow was quiet for a moment, and then he said,
“Have you heard that the men who killed your father are here, in this town?”
“I heard it.”
“You intend to do nothing about it?”
“That was long ago, Mr. Sparrow. I
believe that circumstances will make them pay far better than I could. If they leave me alone, I’ll not disturb them.”
“You are right, I think,” Sparrow said, “in saying that circumstances can make them pay. For one reason or another, all of them have suffered.”
“You know them?”
“Yes.”
Chantry turned abruptly. “I must ride
back to the Indians. These are presents to pay them in some measure for what they have done. These things will be useful to them.”
“You amaze me, Mr. Chantry. Only a few weeks in this country, and the Kiowas, one of the bloodiest tribes on the plains, come to your assistance.”
“It was because of my father. Long ago when I was only a boy we lived out here. The Kiowas were always welcome on our ranch, and during bad times we fed them, although I suspect we could little afford it. We never had much, you know. And just when my father had built a herd that could make him wealthy, he was wiped out by a norther.”
Sparrow was silent. After a moment he said, “Your father was a good man. Those men who killed him little knew what kind of man he was, and they must not kill you.”