North To The Rails Page 5

  Chantry felt himself go sick with shame, then fury. Suddenly he was in a killing rage.

  “Koch,” he said, “I’ll—“

  “Shut up!” French laid his voice across them like a lash. “Helvie will read. Chantry, you’d better get back to the wagon while you’re all together.”

  Chantry stood stiff, his anger vanished in the cold awareness that only Williams’ intervention had saved him from another shooting situation.

  “All right, but I hope you will notice that I was unarmed, yet the Indians did not attack me. If this man had done the same, perhaps—“

  Helvie interrupted impatiently. “He was unarmed too. Can’t you see? It didn’t save him. If you’ll look at the tracks … we followed them here. They raced beside him, striking, bedeviling him. Then they began the torture.

  “This man was a soldier—a deserter perhaps.

  He had no gun. They killed his horse.

  Didn’t you hear what the Indian said? The man had done nothing to them. He was a stranger, therefore an enemy. They were Kiowas. It did not matter that this man was a white man. Had he been a Ute he would have fared no better.”

  “You heard them? You were here?”

  “Why do you think they rode away? Because you were nice and peaceful. They left because they saw our guns on them from right over that ridge. We weren’t begging a fight, and under the conditions neither were they.”

  French turned his back on him and walked away as Akin appeared with a shovel.

  Tom Chantry hesitated, then swung into the saddle. He had made a fool of himself. Had not the others come when they did he might now be lying dead beside that dead man. Still, how could he know?

  Nonetheless, he was displeased with himself. In their eyes he had come off badly. At best, he had been inadequate, and he did not like the feeling that he was despised. They were competent men who knew their jobs, men of proven courage and stamina, accepted by each other. He had proved nothing to anyone. Not even to himself. In their eyes he was a man who failed to measure up. They did not think him worthy to read the final words over a dead man.

  It was hard to take, and he rode back to camp, ate, and turned in. Clifton House lay ahead, and there might be news. With luck the drive might be a short one.

  Clifton House was a stage stop and a gathering place for cattle. Suddenly, before falling asleep, he made up his mind. He would ride on ahead, reach Clifton House well before the herd, and gather what information was available. Undoubtedly the herd would stop for the night not far from there, but he might learn whatever was known in time to change their route.

  At daybreak he told Williams, “I’m riding to Clifton House. I’m expecting mail there.”

  “Better take somebody along to wipe your nose,” Koch remarked. “There’s some mighty mean men hang out at Clifton.”

  From one of the others he might have ignored it, but Koch was a sour, mean man with no breath of goodness in him, and after his remark of the day before Tom Chantry was in no mood for any more of it. He put down his cup.

  “Koch,” he said, “I don’t believe in killing men. I’ve no such feelings about giving one a whipping when he asks for it.”

  For a moment the camp was slack-jawed with amazement. Koch stared at him. “You gone crazy? Are you talkin’ to me?”

  “To you,” Chantry got to his feet. “Just take off your gun belt.”

  Koch had the reputation of being a fist-fighter, and he liked to be known for it. He put down his plate and unbuckled his belt. “This here,” he said, “is goin’ to give me pleasure.”

  He got up, placing his gun belt on the ground, and he swung from that position. The blow was totally unexpected, and caught Chantry on the chin. His heels flew up and he hit the dust on the back of his shoulders, Koch rushing up to stamp on him. The cowpuncher’s first kick was launched too soon and caught Chantry on the shoulder. It was the first time he had ever been kicked, and suddenly he realized that all he knew of fighting would do him no good unless he got into action fast.

  Rolling over, he lunged to a crouching position and dived at Koch. The cowboy had been expecting Chantry to try to stand erect, and the sudden lunge made him step back quickly. On his high-heeled boots he staggered, and Chantry smashed into him.

  Tom Chantry was lean and strong, and in good shape. He had boxed and wrestled a lot, but simply for fun. He had had only two fights since he was a man, both of them in the stockyards where he bought cattle, but the men with whom he had boxed and wrestled had been above average, and he knew how to handle himself.

  Ugly with anger at being knocked into the dust, Koch was up quickly. He swung a looping right. Chantry saw it coming and stepped inside, smashing a right to the ribs that made the larger man gasp.

  Koch grabbed him, tried to butt, then stamped on Chantry’s instep with his boot heel. A stabbing pain went through Chantry’s foot, and jerking back he threw the cowhand over his hip with a rolling hiplock.

  Koch sprang to his feet and came in fast. He hit Chantry high on the cheek bone, splitting the skin. Another blow caught Chantry on the chin. Tom staggered, blocked a blow with his elbow, and countered with a stiff right to the body.

  He was warmed up now, and suddenly he felt good. This was something he could do, and he liked to do it. Koch, at about one-ninety, was twenty pounds the heavier man, but he was slower. A skilled rough-and-tumble fighter, he knew nothing of boxing, and less of defense.

  Tom Chantry had caught three brutally hard punches and was still on his feet. He had been down, but he had gotten up. He was sure Koch had hit him as hard as he was likely to, and he had taken the punches and was still coming.

  He side-stepped as Koch swung, and hit the bigger man in the belly, but made no effort to follow it up. Koch wheeled, and came in slowly, looking for an opening. Tom feinted at the ribs, and when Koch dropped his hand, he hit him on the ear, splitting it and showering him with blood. When Koch’s hands came up, Tom whipped an uppercut to the wind.

  His timing was right now, Koch might be a good man with a gun and a brawler with some success, but Tom was realizing now that boxing was not in Koch’s experience. He struck a stiff left to the face, and repeated it. He feinted another, then struck to the wind.

  Koch moved in, and suddenly kicked for the groin. Chantry saw it just in time and, stepping back, tripped over an extended leg, whose leg he did not know. He staggered and fell, and Koch stamped at his head. Rolling away from Koch’s boot heel, Chantry caught a vicious backward kick from Koch’s Mexican spur, driven into the face.

  Chantry lunged up from the ground. The viciousness of the attack appalled and infuriated him. He brushed a punch aside and smashed both hands to Koch’s face in short, wicked hooks, and then as the man staggered back, Chantry broke his nose with an overhand right.

  Blood was running down the side of his face, but Tom Chantry had no thought now but to destroy. He feinted, smashed another right to the already broken nose, then hooked both hands to the wind in short, lifting punches, and an overhand right to the side of the neck.

  Koch staggered, and Chantry moved in, left and right to the face. Koch fell back against the chuck wagon and Tom uppercut to the wind, then smashed another right to the face. Koch started to fall, but Chantry caught him by the shirt and held him while he hit him in the face. Then he dropped him into the dust.

  Chantry turned, looking at the men crowded around. “I don’t believe in killing,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean I am yellow, or afraid to fight. If anybody has any argument they can step out now.”

  French had been sitting back, one leg crossed over the other. He uncrossed them now and stood up. “You’ll leave us short-handed, Chantry, so you better leave it as it is.”

  He looked at the holes in Chantry’s face made by the spur. “He drove it deep. You better have that looked at.”

  Chantry went to his horse and leaned his head into the saddle, his breath coming in great, tearing gasps. Slowly his breathing came back to normal and he
began to feel the cuts and bruises. He took water from the barrel on the chuck wagon and bathed his face and his raw knuckles.

  He had nothing with which to treat the deep cuts in his cheek, so he bathed it with whiskey. Then he returned to his horse, swung into the saddle, and rode away.

  His knuckles were raw and bleeding. When out of sight of the herd he turned toward the Canadian, and at a small branch that flowed down to the river he dismounted to wash the blood from his hands. Suddenly he looked up and saw an Indian in a black hat standing on the other bank, watching him. His rifle was still in its scabbard, a dozen yards away. In his confusion after the fight and in his desire to bathe his knuckles, he had not remembered to keep the rifle with him. The Indian, had he wanted to, could have killed him by now.

  Tom got slowly to his feet, and the Indian said, “Me Pawnee. Friend.”

  Chantry jerked his head to indicate the cattle, out of sight and some distance away. “I ride with the cattle.”

  “You have fight?”

  “Yes,” and with satisfaction he added, “I won.”

  The Pawnee sat down on a rock and took out the makings. When Chantry refused them, he began to build a cigarette. He gestured with the cigarette. “That is French Williams?”

  “Yes.”

  “His herd?”

  “Mine … if I get to the railroad on time. If I don’t stay with him all the way, it becomes his.”

  The Pawnee looked at him. “He do this?”

  “No. A man named Koch. I brought it on myself.”

  “Maybe.” The Indian lit his cigarette.

  “Koch a bad man. I know.”

  Tom Chantry was trying to remember what he knew of the Pawnees. Great fighting men, among the best trackers, and they worked with white men as allies. He studied the Indian but his decision was already formed, and he liked what he saw.

  “You gamble big,” the Pawnee said, and added, “You do not go to Dodge?”

  “Williams wanted to, but I’ve heard the railroad was coming on west. I did not tell him that and I do not believe he knows they have started building again. I think if we drive north, then east, we will meet it.”

  The Pawnee considered. “But they are his men?

  I think he will leave you. He will take his men.

  What you do with cattle then?”

  “I’ll drive the herd alone.” He was talking nonsense, and knew it. “Or find some other riders.”

  He got to his feet. “Are you riding toward Clifton’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ride with me. Tell me about the country.”

  And he added, “My father used to tell me the Pawnees were the bravest of warriors. He told me of the fight at Pawnee Rock.”

  “It was a fight.”

  “I am Tom Chantry.”

  “Sun Chief.”

  They rode for over an hour in silence, and when Clifton’s was in sight Chantry said, “You want to work for me?”

  “To herd cattle with French Williams? No.”

  “To scout for me.” He drew up. “Find the railroad and tell me where it is. Check the water holes and tell me where there is water. I would not want you to come into camp at all. Report to me when you can, but where no one will see.” He smiled. “Sun Chief, I want you to be my ace in the hole.”

  “All right. I do.”

  Tom Chantry reached in his pocket and withdrew a gold piece. “You ride for me and you will get another like this.”

  “I do. You keep. You pay all when finish.”

  He pulled off. “I ride now.”

  Clifton House loomed ahead, and Tom Chantry trotted his horse toward it. The stage had just stopped and some people were getting down. One of them was a girl.

  Chapter Seven

  TOM CHANTRY rode up to Clifton House and left his roan at the hitching rail. He glanced at the other horses … six saddled horses, and a buckboard. He had not yet acquired the westerners’ habit of noting brands.

  He went up the steps to the first-floor porch, and entered the door. Several men standing at the bar turned to glance at him, but none offered a greeting or comment. What his business was remained his business, no matter how curious they might be.

  Chantry ordered a beer, then turned to the man beside him. “Join me?”

  “Thanks.”

  He was a long-geared man in shotgun chaps and denim jacket, a faded blue shirt, and a tied-down gun. “It’s a dry country,” the man added.

  “I’m heading north. Do you know the country along the Picketwire?”

  “Some. I just come over it.”

  “Water up there?”

  “Enough. But no more than enough. The range is dryin’ up.” He lifted the beer. “Salud.”

  “Cheers.” Chantry drank, then said, “I’m Tom Chantry. Driving north with a trail herd.”

  “Bone McCarthy. I’m driftin’.”

  They talked in a desultory fashion, but with half his attention Chantry was listening for mention of the railroad.

  “Seems a shame,” McCarthy was saying.

  “What?”

  “Them Injuns. Takin’ the country off ‘em.

  In good times it must’ve been a fine life they had, huntin’ and fishin’, or driftin’ down the country on the trail of the buffalo. I ain’t sure what we’ll do to the country will be any better.”

  “Have you lived among them?”

  “Brought up around ‘em. I’ve fought ‘em off an’ on since I was a kid, and they’re good fighters. Maybe the best.”

  “But we’ve whipped them. The army has, I mean.”

  “Lucked out, I’d say. Mighty few Injuns have rifles, and never enough ammunition to last out a fight, but you never seen their like for creepin’, crawlin’, bein’ where they ain’t expected.

  “It won’t be at war that the white man whips ‘em. He’ll beat them with his store-bought things. When the Injun made all he needed he had no troubles to speak of, but the white man showed him all sorts of things he was greedy for, and now he wants ‘em. He has to get ‘em by war or by trade.”

  “Whiskey?”

  “That’s the least of it, believe me. Knives, guns, pots, pans, and such. The Indian was whipped the first time a white trader came amongst them to trade with things the Injun couldn’t make with his own hands.”

  “I hadn’t looked at it that way.”

  Bone McCarthy took a swallow of his beer.

  “You’re ridin’ with a herd? Whose?”

  “Mine … if I can stay with it to the railhead. French Williams is trail boss.”

  “Williams? You got you a live one, amigo. He’s hell on wheels with a gun.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Can’t say I do, but there’s talk goes up the trail. What did you mean when you said it was your herd if you stayed with it?”

  Chantry explained, and to leave nothing out he coolly told why he was forced to make such a deal, and also spoke of his feelings about guns.

  McCarthy listened in silence. It was obvious that the others at the bar, or some of them, heard what Chantry was saying. He did not care. He had acted as he saw fit.

  “You’re carryin’ some bruises. Did you get throwed?”

  “No. Because I wasn’t anxious to shoot, a man named Koch questioned my courage. We had a bit of a go-around. I whipped him.”

  He drank his beer. The conversation along the bar began again, and Chantry asked McCarthy, “Did you ever run across a Pawnee named Sun Chief?”

  “Uh-huh. Good man. He was one of Major North’s Pawnee scouts. Got wounded and had to drop out. Heard he was up and around again.”

  “I hired him to scout the trail for me, the trail to the railhead.”

  “You takin’ on anybody else? I’m rustlin’ work.”

  Tom Chantry drained his glass.

  “McCarthy, you heard my story. I’m not a man who believes in guns, and there are some who think I’m yellow. You still want to join me?”

  McCarthy shrugged. “Every
man’s entitled to think the way he chooses, the way I see it. I think you’re wrong, and I think the time’ll come when you’ll pay for it. What you’re sayin’ is that I got to take my own chances that you’d back me up in a tight spot, ain’t that it?”

  Chantry felt anger stir within him, and with it a feeling of resentment. Why could things never be simple? Yet, what would he do if it came to that? Supposing he was caught in a situation where he must fight or die? Or worse still, where he must fight or one of his men would die?

  “You’d have to gamble on it, McCarthy,” he said. “I believe a lot more can be done by reason than by guns.”

  “All right. You trust to reason,” McCarthy said, “but you won’t mind if I wear my guns, will you?”

  “As you like. I’m not a reformer.”

  McCarthy lifted his beer. “Luck,” he said. “You’re sure a-goin’ to need it.”

  He ordered another beer. “This’ll have to be the last,” he said. “I ain’t carryin’ any more money.” When the beer arrived he said, “Now that I’m workin’ for you, what do I do?”

  “Bring your beer along,” Chantry suggested, “and we’ll sit over there at the table. I’m going to order us a couple of dinners and you’re going to tell me every way you can think of that Williams might use to drive me off the herd.”

  For an hour they talked. Bone McCarthy was a cool, knowledgeable man with much experience on cattle drives and roundups. He ran through the possible ruses, one by one. Bad horses, Indian scares, maybe a rattlesnake in the bed. “He may even have put Koch up to jumpin’ you. It’s the sort of thing he might do.”

  After a while McCarthy was silent, but he seemed to have something on his mind that he hesitated to say.

  “What is it?” Chantry asked.

  Bone looked up at him, then filled both their coffee cups. “You know damn well what he’ll do, Chantry. He’ll have somebody brace you with a gun. He’ll catch you when you’re armed, and you’ll have no excuse.”

  “I simply won’t shoot.”

  Bone stared at him. “You don’t seem to read the sign,” he said. “If you don’t shoot, he’ll kill you … whoever French Williams gets to bully you into a fight. It won’t matter one damn what you do, whether you drop your gun or whatever, he’ll shoot, and shoot to kill.”