North To The Rails Page 9

  Paul opened the door quickly and went down the stairs, turning at the foot of the steps to walk back to the barn where he had left his horse.

  At the back of the building next door and some thirty yards away there were several old boxes and barrels. Crouching among them, and sheltered from the rain, Mobile Callahan, gambler, cowhand, and drifter, watched him go, and looking through the open door of the barn, he saw him lead his horse to the door.

  Paul was a slender man about five feet ten, weighing perhaps a hundred and fifty pounds, give or take a few. He wore two belt guns and there was a rifle in the scabbard on his saddle. This horse, too, was from Hazelton’s place.

  Mobile watched him go, and when he heard the hoofbeats die out, he studied the rooms in the building opposite. There was a lamp lighted now, and occasionally somebody moved back and forth between the light and the window.

  After a few minutes he got up and walked back to the hotel. Sparrow was waiting in the lobby.

  Mobile told him what he had seen, and Sparrow considered it. Taking two cigars from his pocket, he offered Mobile one of them, then bit the end from the other.

  “Mobile,” he said slowly,

  “I’ve heard it said around the cow camps that you’re a good man with a gun.”

  “That’s a reputation I never hunted, Mr. Sparrow, and it’s one I don’t want.”

  “I understand that. I don’t want just a gun. I want a man with judgment, and you always had that. I want you to ride up the trail and see that Chantry stays alive.”

  “He’s already got one man. He’s got Bone McCarthy working for him.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I saw Bone a while back. He was askin’ questions around. I just put two and two together.”

  “Just the same, I want you to help Chantry get through. I’ll pay you two hundred and fifty dollars to stay with him to the railhead.”

  Mobile drew on his cigar, and looked at Sparrow. He had known Sparrow for going on eight years, and had never known the man to make a foolish or an unnecessary move. “What’s your stake in this?” he asked. “Two hundred and fifty dollars—that’s seven, eight months’ wages for a top hand.”

  “I have my reasons.” Sparrow got to his feet. “You do that, Mobile. I don’t want you to get yourself killed, just be around a little while. I think Tom Chantry is riding into more trouble than he can handle. He’s a good man. Maybe as good a man as his father was. I want to see him have his chance.”

  After Sparrow had gone to his room Mobile sat alone in the lobby, drawing on his cigar. Presently he crossed to his table, picked up the deck, and began to deal the cards. He always thought better when he was handling cards.

  He shuffled the deck and dealt a hand, then turned them over and looked at them.

  Aces and eights … black aces and eights. The dead man’s hand.

  Who was to die? Was it him? Was it Chantry?

  Who?

  Chapter Eleven

  TOM CHANTRY opened his eyes and lay still. Slowly it came back to him. The shot out of nowhere, the missing horse, knife, and boots, his struggle to make it through the rain, and then the discovery by the two who intended to kill him … why, he didn’t know.

  He turned his head toward the door. The chair was propped under the knob.

  Throwing back the covers, he swung his feet to the floor, but when he tried to stand the pain brought cold sweat to his forehead. Dropping to his knees, he crawled to the door and removed the chair.

  When he eased the door open he found several packages wrapped in brown paper. He brought them into the room, and opened them on the bed. A dark red wool shirt, a black handkerchief for his neck, a pair of black jeans, and a wide belt. A couple of suits of underwear, another shirt, socks, and boots. There was also a gun belt and a holster containing a .44 Smith and Wesson, as well as several boxes of cartridges. There was a black, flat-brimmed hat and a fringed buckskin jacket, obviously Indian-made.

  The man named Mobile had brought him some salve and bandages the night before and Chantry treated his feet now with the salve, bandaged them, and slipped on the socks.

  The day clerk came down the hallway and rapped on the door. Chantry opened it, his right hand holding the pistol.

  “No need for that,” the clerk said. “I brought you this Winchester. Mr. Sparrow’s up and havin’ breakfast if you’d care to join him.”

  “Is Mobile around?”

  “Him? He’s around somewheres. He’s the kind you only see if he’s a good mind to have you see him.”

  Taking the rifle in his hand, Chantry went along the hall to the lobby, and across to the dining room. It was small, with just six oilcloth-covered tables, one of them long enough to seat a dozen, family style.

  Hobbling, Chantry crossed the room and sat down opposite Sparrow. “Thanks,” he said to the cattleman, “thanks for everything. I don’t know why you’ve done all this, but I appreciate it.”

  “Better eat while you’ve got the chance. You’re two, maybe three days behind your herd.”

  “One good day’s ride if I have a good horse.”

  “You’ll have one. But don’t forget you have enemies.” He glanced at the gun on Chantry’s hip. “You’re wearing a pistol?”

  Tom Chantry shrugged. “My sense of what’s right and just tells me I shouldn’t, but my sense of survival warns me I’d better.”

  He studied the cattleman. “Aren’t you off your beat? I mean, I didn’t think you operated this far north.”

  “Let’s just say I was curious. Stories get around, you know, and I heard about your run-in with the Talrims. After our conversation I was wondering how your convictions were matching up with the situation.”

  “And now you’ve seen. They’ve failed.”

  “Nothing of the kind. You have merely learned that a situation observed from a distance—a safe distance, I might add—is never the same as when met face to face. It is easy to say you do not believe in using guns when you have never faced a gun in the hands of another man, and you unarmed.

  “Understand one thing, Mr. Chantry. You can make laws against weapons but they will be observed only by those who don’t intend to use them anyway. The lawless can always smuggle or steal, or even make a gun. By refusing to wear a gun you allow the criminal to operate with impunity.”

  “We have the law.”

  “But even the law cannot be in your bedroom at night. But there are other things to consider. If you are not to lose your herd you must overtake it, and quickly. Believe me, French Williams will lose no time. He’ll drive that herd as he never has before.”

  “The worst of it is, he may not have far to go.”

  Sparrow looked at him sharply. “What’s that mean?”

  “The railroad is building west, and they’ll be moving fast.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Yes. The only thing I am not sure of is where they are now.” He glanced up from his pancakes. “That was my ace in the hole.”

  After that they ate in silence, but when Chantry finished his coffee and pushed back from the table, Sparrow said, “Understand me, Mr. Chantry. I approve of your stand on guns. Many a man has shot too hastily or been roped into a killing he wishes had never happened. You are wise to restrain your hand, so continue to be wise … but not foolish.”

  “What do I owe you? I mean for the clothes, the outfit?”

  “Nothing, if you lose your race. Put it down to the fact that I like a good contest. If you win, I’ll give you the bill. Now you’d better be riding.”

  The horse was a line-back dun, and a good one by the look of it. Mobile Callahan was idling nearby when Chantry came to pick up the horse. A slim, attractive-looking man with cool gray eyes and black hair, he wore a black suit, a fresh white shirt with a black tie, and a black hat. He was wearing a pistol, Chantry noted.

  “I’ve been through the town, Chantry,” he said, “and that Paul, whatever-his-name-is, has flown the coop. The girl’s still her
e, but I’ve a hunch if they tried twice they will try again, so watch your step.”

  Tom Chantry mounted and turned his horse toward the old Santa Fe Trail. The trail went north by east, but French Williams knew this country well and he might drive further to shorten the trail to Dodge.

  When he had gone scarcely more than a mile from town he swung from the trail, but when he had again gone no more than a mile he swung back toward it, scouting for sign as he rode. But he saw no tracks made since the rain.

  He was remembering things his father had taught him.

  At the time he had not thought of it as being taught. But on many occasions his father had often pointed out things along the trail, or told him stories of Indians and Indian fighting and trailing.

  “If you’re in risky country,” he used to say, “don’t let ‘em set you up. Swing off your trail, change directions, keep ‘em worried so they can’t lay for you. And study the sign. Watch wild animals and birds, they’ll tell you plenty. Most of all, trust to your horse, particularly if he’s from wild stock. If there’s anybody around, a horse will know it.”

  His father had never seemed to be teaching, and yet when he thought of it now he realized that Borden Chantry had said things that counted. “If you want to live easy in your mind, son,” he used to say, “be sure folks respect you. Saves a lot of trouble.”

  He was riding warily, alive to every shadow, every suspicion of movement. He avoided places where a man might easily lie in wait, and several times he changed direction.

  So it was that he glimpsed the pony tracks. They were off his line of travel, but his eyes caught a certain roughness in the grass and he swung his horse over to have a better look.

  Unshod ponies … at least six, perhaps more. He knew he was no match for six warriors of the Kiowa or Comanche tribes. Deliberately he turned his mount away, back-tracking them.

  He had gone no more than a quarter of a mile when he saw where the riders had drawn up their horses and stayed for several minutes, partly screened by a thick patch of willows and young cottonwoods. They had all been facing toward the wall of brush, obviously looking over it. At what? Not at him, for he had not come that way.

  Sitting his horse where they had sat theirs, he looked over the brush and could see nothing but a barren slope, empty of life.

  He found an opening in the wall of brush, worked his way through, and scouted the slope. Sure enough, he came upon the tracks of a lone horseman who had ambled along the slope unaware of the Indians watching him from cover.

  Tom Chantry back-tracked the rider, and saw that the tracks showed frequent hesitations, as though the rider had somebody under observation or was scouting a trail. Suddenly Tom realized the rider had been watching him! And now that rider was being stalked by Indians.

  Who could it be? Was this the man called Paul? Whoever it was, he now had problems of his own and Tom Chantry decided to let him deal with them as best he could.

  Keeping to open country, avoiding possible ambush spots, he rode hard, occasionally veering to confuse any watcher, his one idea being to catch up with the drive.

  The herd’s tracks were there, but they were a day or two old … it was difficult to tell for sure. Obviously, French was taking advantage of Chantry’s disappearance and was making time.

  Tom Chantry was becoming aware of something else. There was movement among the Indians. He came upon their sign several times, parties riding unshod ponies crossed the cattle trail, riding east, small parties riding to become one big party, gathering in the direction to which the cattle must be driven.

  Was it the cattle they were after? Or a drive upon the buffalo hunters in the Panhandle area? Or an effort, a last effort perhaps, to stop the rails?

  He slowed his pace. He must not encounter such a party, for if they were bound for an attack for any of those reasons they would not hesitate to kill him en route.

  By sundown the tracks of the cattle were fresher, and the cattle drive had veered toward the east, perhaps only to reach a water hole.

  Chantry circled a low hill, studying carefully for tracks, and when he saw none that went up the hill he made his way to the crest. There were boulders and low brush as well as half a dozen trees there, the only cover he had found in some distance. From the summit he could study the country all about in the last light.

  To the west there was nothing; it was broken, empty country with mountains rimming the skyline. All around him the horizon was empty, except that off to the northeast there was the faint glow of what must be a fire … the cattle herd?

  He was about to leave the hill when he heard, off in the distance, a burst of firing. Stare as he might, he could make out nothing, and he had swung into the saddle preparatory to riding off the hill when he heard a pound of hoofs.

  For several minutes he saw nothing, and then it was a lone rider, coming fast, low over his saddle. He swept by, turning toward the direction of the herd, and was scarcely past when a band of Indians, riding hard, followed.

  There were at least six in the bunch—in the now vague light he could not be sure of their number. He waited a moment longer, listening, and then rode down the hill and headed north.

  As he rode he made his decision. The thing to do was not to join the herd but to let the herd join him. He would ride ahead, make a dark camp somewhere along the line of travel the drive must follow, and when they came up to him, he would join them … in daylight, when there would be no mistakes.

  To the north there had seemed to be a low rim of darkness … a line of trees? The river? He knew the Purgatoire took a bend somewhere ahead of him, and it was probably the trees along that stream, partly hidden by the depth of the river bed.

  How far had he come? His route had see-sawed back and forth so often that he had lost track of distance in his effort to avoid an ambush. Probably he was no more than sixteen or seventeen miles from Trinidad.

  In the gathering dark he continued his way north, growing more and more wary as he neared the river. Several times he drew up to listen into the night, but he heard no sound except the faint rustle of wind.

  The first stars appeared. The ground fell away slightly and he saw the dark wall of the trees. Descending into the river bottom, he could feel the coolness rising from the water. He walked his horse along in the darkness, every sense keyed for trouble.

  He had drawn his pistol as he went under the trees, and he allowed the horse to go forward to find his own way, which it seemed to be doing without hesitation, ears pricked and alert.

  He was apparently on some sort of trail, for the horse’s hoofs fell evenly, and the dun held to a good, fast walk. Suddenly water gleamed gray before him.

  The dun stopped and its head came up. It seemed about to whinny when Chantry spoke sharply but softly. “No! Steady, boy! Steady!”

  Although the dun jerked its head impatiently, it made no sound.

  Then he caught the smell … woodsmoke.

  Somebody, somewhere quite near, had a fire going.

  The smell was faint, but with it there was something more.

  Coffee …!

  Chantry, gun in hand, walked the dun forward toward the gray water, toward the fire he could not see.

  Chapter Twelve

  THERE IS a subtle awareness in the night. The darkness around you does not sleep; it is awake, alert, sensing. It is alive to movement, and feels the changes in the air, the smell, the temperature.

  The trees are aware, and the bushes. The birds and small animals are aware, and they listen, hesitant, suspecting. Awareness of danger is an element of their being. It is like their breathing, like the blood in their veins, and one who lives much with the wilderness becomes so aware, too. Living with stillness, he detects sounds unheard by the casual passers-by, sees things they do not see, catches odors too faint for their nostrils. Half of woodcraft is attention, and all of survival.

  Tom Chantry had been bred in the West, and in the East he had spent much time in the woods, but what was happening to
him now was different, strange and exciting. For the first time he was not in the night, but was a part of the night. He had come in recent days of scouting, riding, suffering, and struggle to a point where he belonged to all this.

  Only a short time ago he had ridden, unseeing, past things that seemed of no importance to him, but now he sensed them. His ear was learning the difference between a movement of the wind and that of a small animal or bird. His eye was quick to catch the difference between a bird that flew up from fear and one going about its usual business. He could detect, by the changes in temperature, hollows or creek beds before he came up to them, for they were cooler in this weather, more humid.

  Chantry walked his horse a few steps, then drew up, waiting.

  He felt a faint stir from the wind, lost the scent of coffee for a moment, found it again. He heard no sound, and he felt that the man who had the fire was moving silently or was listening. The scent of the coffee was enough to tell him the man was awake.

  A slight dampness, a coolness, coming to his right cheek indicated a hollow or a spring close by. He turned his mount ever so slightly and edged it through the trees. His gun was still in his hand, and he was ready.

  It might, of course, be the Talrims, but he did not think so. They would be closer to the herd, watching for him, or carrying out whatever they meant to do. Whoever it was, he was prepared.

  The gleam of the fire caught his eye, and there it was, not twenty feet off, in a hollow below some brush. He drew up again and waited. When he at last heard a sound, it was a voice.

  “Welcome to my fire. I am Sun Chief.”

  The Indian materialized from the shadows and Tom Chantry dismounted, holding out his hand, and the Pawnee took it.

  “There is coffee. In the light I would look for you, but you find me first.”

  He took Chantry’s dun and stripped the saddle from it, picketing the horse in a small glade close by. Then he came back to the fire, where Chantry had already filled his cup.