Talon & Chantry 07 - North To The Rails (v5.0) Page 13

  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 grunted. “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 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 ou
t 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.

  Crouching in the hole, he waited. Had he left any marks they could see? The sand of the basin had been churned by the feet of buffalo or cattle. But if the stone had left any fresh earth exposed—what then?

  What was most in his favor was the sheer unlikelihood of a cave or opening anywhere around. There was simply no probability of such a thing.

  As he crouched there he heard horses’ hoofs again, and muffled talk, then a woman’s voice. It was shrill, and he could make out the words faintly. “Nobody can vanish into nothing like that! He’s got to be here!”

  For a little while the muttered talk continued, then there was silence. He put a hand on his rifle and moved it about. Behind the ledge where it had been lying was a solid wall, but behind him and on the other side of him, he touched nothing.

  He listened, but there was now no sound outside. The air around him seemed fresh enough. He felt in his pocket and found a match, and struck it on the hammer of his rifle. The match flared, burned up brightly, and he peered around.

  The cave sloped down toward the back. Where he had crawled in, it was a narrow tunnel, no more than three feet across, and where he now stood it was a little more than six feet. Behind him, he had the impression of vastness, and from somewhere he heard the drip of water.

  When he had found this cave as a child he had shown it to his father, but there had never been time to explore it. How large it was or where it led he had no idea.

  From a few sticks, perhaps pulled in by some animal long ago, he selected a couple and lighted them. They were dry, and they burned well enough. He made his way down the slope and found himself in a fairly large room from which a passage led. At the bottom there was a pool of clear water. A small stream trickled into it, and this at one time must have been the spring he had drunk from as a boy, but the floor of the cave seemed to have fallen and the trickle of water no longer reached the surface at this point.

  He tasted the water and
found that it was cold and fresh. He drank, then drank again. Then he returned to the spot near the opening and sat in the dark and chewed on a piece of jerky. When it was finished, he crawled up in the hole and pushed against the slab of stone. It would not budge.

  He pushed again, but it did not move. Desperately, he lunged against it, but in the narrow passage it was difficult to exert any great force. Finally he drew back, struggling for breath.

  He sat down and fought against the panic that was welling up within him. He forced himself to think, remembering something his father had said. “Use your head, boy. That head of yours is the one thing that makes you different from an animal of any other kind. When you feel yourself getting scared, sit down, relax, and let yourself be calm. Then study it out. You will find an answer.”

  He sat quietly, and slowly the panic left him. That stone weighed no more than fifty or sixty pounds. It was several inches thick and it had slid down from above the hole. The old runoff water from the spring had fallen into the sandy basin, several inches lower than the hole. So if he put the pressure on the very top of the slab, it might be tipped forward and over.

  But what if those outside had found what he had done? Suppose they knew there was a hole here and that he had crawled in? And knowing that, suppose they had heaped earth over the rock, packed it in, to let him stay there and die?

  There was no use in supposing. He was not going to escape his dilemma by sitting and worrying about it. What he had to do was try for a way out.

  He crawled up in the narrow hole once more, but this time he did not fight the rock. He felt with his fingers for the very top of the slab, and then he pushed.

  Nothing happened.

  He waited a moment, gathered strength, and pushed harder; the slab moved and a trickle of sand fell into the cave from above.

  A moment longer he waited, and then he pushed again. The slab moved outward a little more and fell, and the hole gaped at the top, letting in both light and air.

  Again he pushed…and a bullet clipped the top of the slab and spat sand into his face.