“Howdy, Chantry!” he called. “I’m Luke Andress. No need to leave that dollar. In this country if a man needs a horse all he needs to do is let a body know.”
“Thank you.” Briefly, Tom Chantry explained.
“Murderers,” Andress said;
“savages. But you ought to carry a gun. If you’d had a gun they’d never have tried it … not to your face, anyway. Those Talrims are back-shootin’ murderers. At least, those two are.”
“Do you think the posse will catch them?”
“Them? No, they won’t—not by a durned
sight. Those Talrims are a bad lot, but they’re mountain men. With two horses under them and what grub you had they’ll lose themselves in the mountains west of here. They’re better than Injuns when it comes to runnin’ an’ hidin’.”
Andress glanced at him. “You figuring on ranchin’ it?”
“No, I came out to buy cattle, and after what’s happened in the last few days I can’t get out of here fast enough.”
Andress was silent as they rode on for a short distance, and then he said, “It’s a good country, Chantry. It’s like any country when it’s young and growin’. It attracts the wild spirits, the loose-footed. Some of them settle down and become mighty good citizens, but there’s always the savages. You have ‘em back east, too.”
“Not like here.”
“Just like here … only you’ve got an
organized society, a police department, and law courts. The bad actor there knows he ain’t goin’ to get far if he starts cuttin’ up. Folks won’t stand for it. But you walk down the street back there and you can figure maybe two out of every five folks you pass are savages. They may not even know it themselves, but once the law breaks down you’d find out fast enough. First they’d prey on the peaceful ones, then on each other … it’s jungle law, boy, and don’t you forget it.
“Out here there’s nothin’ but local law, and a man can be as mean as he wants to until folks catch up with him, or until he meets some bigger, tougher man. This is raw country; the good folks are good because it’s their nature, and the bad can run to meanness until somebody fetches them up the short. That’s why you’d better arm yourself. If you’re goin’ to be in this country you’ll need a gun.”
“Guns lead to trouble.”
“Well,” Andress said dryly, “I can see
where not havin’ a gun led you to trouble.” He paused a moment. “The thieves and the killers are goin’ to have guns, so if the honest men don’t have ‘em they just make it easier for the vicious. But you hold to your way of thinkin’, boy, if you’ve a mind to. It’s your way, and you got a right to it.”
Cimarron showed up ahead, lights appearing, although it was not yet dark.
“Go to the St. James,” Andress said. “There are some cattlemen there almost every night. They come in to play cards, or to set around and talk. You’ll find some cattle, but if you’re not goin’ to carry a gun you’d better talk soft and stay clear of whiskey.”
A room, a bath, and a good dinner made a lot of difference. Tom Chantry stood before the mirror and combed his dark hair, then he straightened his tie and shrugged his coat into a neater set on his shoulders.
Now for business … a thousand head of steers and the crew to drive them to the railhead. With any kind of luck he could be on the train for New York within a matter of a few days.
The saloon at the St. James was not crowded, for the hour was early, but it was at this hour that most of the business was conducted by the clientele. The western saloon, Tom Chantry knew, was more than merely a drinking room; it was a clearing house for information as to trails, grazing conditions, Indian attitudes, and business and political considerations generally.
At the bar Tom introduced himself to Henry Lambert, who owned the St. James. Lambert had once been chef at the White House, brought there originally by Grant, for he had cooked for Grant during part of the war.
“I am interested in buying cattle, Mr.
Lambert. My name is Tom Chantry. If you
know of anyone—“
“Mr. Chantry”—Lambert’s face had stiffened slightly at the name—“I do know of cattle that might be for sale, but I would not advise you to buy them.”
Surprised, Tom turned toward him. “Would you mind telling me why? Buying cattle is why I came to Cimarron.”
“Mr. Chantry, I am a Frenchman, but I have become acquainted with the customs here. To buy the cattle would be easy, but you must get them to the railroad. I do not believe you could hire the men to do it.”
“You mean there aren’t any? At this time of year?”
“There are men, but they would not work for you, Mr. Chantry. I hope you will not take offense, for I am only telling you what is true. You see, there are no secrets in the West, and there has been talk, here in this bar, about how you failed to meet Dutch Akin.”
“But what has that to do with hiring a crew?”
“Mr. Chantry, it is a long, hard drive
from here to the end of the track. Much of it is through country where roving bands of Cheyenne, Comanche, and Kiowa may be found, and the Arapahoes too, I think. It is a hard country, without much water, with danger of sandstorms, stampedes, and other troubles. Men do not want to trust themselves to the leadership of a man whose courage is in question.”
Tom Chantry felt himself turn cold. He stared at the cup of coffee before him for several minutes before he spoke. “Mr. Lambert,” he said finally, “I am not a coward. I simply do not believe in carrying guns, and I do not believe in killing.”
Lambert shrugged. “I do not believe in
killing either, and yet a dozen men have died in this very
room, died with guns in their hands. *
* Actually 26 men are said to have been killed in that room during the wild days.
“There is too much killing, yet the fact
remains, that we live in a wild country, and one relatively lawless; and no man is willing to attempt a cattle drive that may demand the utmost in courage, with a man whose courage is suspect.”
When Chantry spoke his voice was hoarse.
“Thank you, Mr. Lambert,” he said.
He sat alone, staring at the coffee as it grew cold in the cup.
Chapter 3
After a short time the depression left him. He would not be defeated. If there were cattle for sale he meant to buy them and, somehow or other, get them to market.
Luckily the Talrim boys had not thought to rob him of anything but his horse and his outfit. That was what they needed, and the thought of going through his pockets had not occurred to them. He still had his letter of credit and the money he had been carrying.
He was considering his next move when Luke Andress came over to the table, carrying a beer. “Mind if I sit down?”
“Please do.”
“Had any luck?”
“No. And from what Lambert tells me I
couldn’t get the hands to drive a herd if I bought one.”
“So what are you goin’ to do?”
He considered that for a moment, and then said, “Mr.
Andress, I am going to buy cattle, and I am going to drive them through if I have to do it myself … alone.”
Andress chuckled. “You may have to, but I’ll tell you what. See that big gent over there at the bar? The one with the elk’s tooth on his watch chain? He’s got maybe five or six hundred head you could buy. Lee Dauber has eight or nine hundred head. I think you can dicker for ‘em.”
“Thanks.”
“Now here’s another thing. See that tall,
good-lookin’ fellow at the table yonder? That’s French Williams. He’d sell you beef … he’ll have seven or eight hundred head, but you’d better leave ‘em alone.”
“Why?”
“French is a mighty peculiar man. He’s
a smilin’, easy-talkin’, friendly man … almighty friendly. He sells a lot of beef, one time or another. He must have some uncommonly good bulls, because judgin’ by the amount of beef he sells each cow must be havin’ three calves.”
“I don’t want any brands that could be questioned.”
“Nobody will question French’s brand. Anyway,
he never puts a brand on anything that’s ever been branded before.”
Andress turned his beer stein on the table and said, “Boy, I don’t know why, but I like you. What I’ve told you about French could get me killed.”
“I won’t repeat it.”