Talon & Chantry 07 - North To The Rails (v5.0) (15 page)

“Keep your eyes open,” Tom said. “We’re riding into trouble.”

“What’s that mean?” French asked.

“I cut sign on half a dozen riders, maybe more. They passed us only a few minutes back and didn’t come in to talk.”

French Williams rode a few minutes in silence. “So you figure something’s building up?”

“You bet I do. I think somebody hopes to grab this herd before we get to Big Timbers.”

“That means tonight.”

“Or today. Or on the drive tomorrow.”

Williams said no more, and rode on. Tom Chantry dropped back, and as he passed Helvie he said again, “Keep your eyes open. We’re riding into trouble.”

“Kiowas?”

“Maybe somebody closer to home.”

Helvie shot him a quick look. “If you mean French, I ride for the brand.”

“But who is the brand here? Is it French? Is it me? Or the herd?”

Helvie was silent a moment, considering that. Then he said, “The herd. I’m a cattleman.”

“I’ll ask nothing more. We both signed on to take this herd all the way.”

“McKay will stand.”

“I think so too. And I think Dutch will.”

Helvie glanced at him. “Dutch? Yes, I think he will. You’re not mentioning Rugger or Kincaid.”

“No, I’m not. I don’t know about them, but they’ve been doing a lot of getting together this morning.” And he told Helvie about the note Rugger had left, and the Talrims picking it up. He also told him about the fresh trail, just over the ridge from the herd. “Maybe I’m chasing wild geese,” he said, finally, “but I’m going to ride loose and listen.”

Sun Chief hung well back from the drag, urging those steers that lingered behind, but never closing in tight on the drag. Seeing him there gave Chantry reassurance, for he had great respect for the Pawnee and his awareness of what went on.

But where was McCarthy?

Twice they saw Indians, but they were only watching. If they planned an attack they were content to wait until the cattle were driven to them.

Were they aware of those other watchers? Chantry asked Sun Chief. “They know,” he answered.

Chantry pulled his horse around the herd and rode toward the point. He drew up alongside Rugger. “How’re they going?”

“All right.” Rugger spoke sullenly, not inviting conversation.

“Keep your eyes open,” Chantry said. “We’re in Kiowa country.”

“I know that.”

“There’s some outlaws around, too,” Chantry added casually, “but we needn’t worry about them. We can handle them.”

Rugger stared at him, narrow-eyed. “Outlaws? There ain’t no outlaws around here.”

“What about Bill Coe’s outfit from Robber’s Roost? Or the Talrim brothers?”

“They ain’t likely to be around,” Rugger said.

“No?”

As he turned his horse he smiled at Rugger. What he had hoped to accomplish was little enough, but he might have sowed seeds of doubt in Rugger’s mind. At least, he felt that he had worried him, and Rugger might attempt to call off the impending raid, if that was what was planned.

But the day passed quietly, and the herd had kept moving north. It was sundown when they were circled and bedded down in a small bend of Clay Creek. The creek was no longer running bank full, but had dropped to a small stream at the bottom of the creek bed, enough to water the cattle.

While the others watched over the cattle, Hay Gent and Chantry rode out to scout the country around. Sun Chief had already vanished into the gathering dusk. From the crest of the ridge, a mile back from the camping ground and some two hundred feet higher, they scanned the surrounding territory. There was nothing to be seen.

“Could be an army out there,” Gent commented. “There’s lots of dips and hollows.”

“Sleep light,” Chantry advised. “Tonight and tomorrow will be the danger time.”

While Rugger and McKay watched the cattle, grazing on the easy slope along the stream, the others ate hurriedly; then Helvie, Hay Gent, and Akin went out while the others came in to eat.

Tom Chantry wasted no time. He ate, drank an extra cup of coffee, and then rolled in his blankets.

The cook had promised to wake him at midnight, but he awoke shortly before that. For a moment he lay perfectly still, listening. He heard no sound…not a snore, not the crackle of burning wood…nothing.

Suddenly alert, he strained his ears…nothing. Very carefully he sat up. The fire was there, burned down to coals now. The wagon was there, the red light from the fire throwing black shadows of its spokes. The bedrolls were there, but all were empty.

He put his hand to his gun…but there was no gun.

Slowly, he got to his feet and moved one quick step into the deeper shadow of the brush.

His mouth was dry, his head throbbed dully.

He had been doped…
the coffee.

He stepped back to his bedroll and slid his Winchester from the blankets. That they had been unable to get, for he had been almost lying on it. Holding it in one hand, he picked up his boots with the other, and stepped back into the shadows. Putting down the rifle, he pulled on his boots, shrugged into a coat, and then took up his hat and rifle.

He edged around the fire and started toward the remuda. It was gone…all the horses gone.

He stood for a minute trying to clear his dulled mind…he had suspected an attempt to stampede the herd, and he had tied the line-back dun out in the brush, saddled and ready.

Now he slipped back there like a ghost…the dun was there, a good fifty yards back in the brush along the route by which they had come.

He tightened the cinch and stepped into the saddle, coiling the picket rope as he sat there, thinking.

Then he rode out to the cattle. And they were there, bedded down and quiet; but no riders rode around them, no voices sang.

Oddly, at that moment he remembered his own curiosity about why cowpunchers sang to cattle. The answer was simple enough. The longhorn steer is a wild animal, quick to stampede, and the men riding herd at night sang so that the cattle would not be surprised at the sound of their approach. Hearing the familiar voices reassured the animals, and they continued to doze or sleep. Trail drivers sang during the night watch more for the sake of the cattle than for their own amusement.

Riding up to them now, he began to sing softly, just loud enough so they could hear him. Slowly he swung around the herd, then made a second circle, farther out. He was looking for anybody or anything he might find. But he found nothing.

What had happened? Had they abandoned him, and the cattle? Had they all been spirited away by Indians? If so, why had he been left? Was this part of Williams’ game to win the herd? And what could he do now? What could he do alone?

As dawn began to break he rode back to the camp. He found no signs of struggle. The bedrolls lay as they had been left. Evidently the men had got up, pulled on their boots, and walked quietly away, whether of their own volition or under the threat of a gun he had no way of knowing.

Going to the chuck wagon he dug out a side of bacon, filled a small sack with coffee, a couple of loaves of bread, and some odds and ends. He took a spare coffeepot, his cup, and whatever else he might need. Then he rode back to the herd.

The cattle were already up and stretching, grazing a little. The brindle steer that had been the leader since the third day had moved out and, head up, was waiting.

“All right, boy, let’s go!” Chantry said, and he started off, riding point. The brindle steer followed. Slowly, the others fell in behind, broken to the trail by long days of driving.

How long he could keep them together he did not know. The brindle steer pointed north toward the Big Timbers, and Tom Chantry circled back, driving in the laggards. The herd was moving.

Warily, he rode back to the point, watching the country around, which was relatively open.

What had he been expected to do? Cut and run? Start scouting for them and leave the cattle? Left to themselves, the herd would soon scatter, and no doubt they would soon realize he was alone and begin to fall out of the drive anyway. All he had going for him was that brindle steer and the ingrained habit of the days on the trail. But for the time the cattle moved off willingly enough.

The cattle had been moving steadily for nearly an hour when the Indians appeared.

First there was one, then another, then a dozen. They lined the crest of the low rise half a mile on his left and watched him.

They could see he was alone, one man and a great herd of cattle, held together only by the habit of the trail.

Suddenly from out of a draw, Sun Chief appeared. He rode to the drag, bunching those cattle that were beginning to lag and scatter.

A moment later, Bone McCarthy came from the shadow of a juniper on a low ridge, and rode down to the flank, and the cattle moved on toward Big Timbers and the Arkansas River.

At noon the Indians were still with them, watching. Bone circled around and turned the point inward, and between them they bunched the cattle. With Sun Chief and Chantry standing guard, Bone McCarthy fried some bacon and made coffee.

“I found your railhead,” Bone told him. “It’s this side of the Colorado line, coming on about a mile a day, more or less. I found something else, too. I found a telegram for you.”

He handed the hand-written message to Chantry. It was brief and to the point.

Reverses here. Without the herd I have nothing. All depends on you. Doris sends love.

Earnshaw.

“Did you read this?”

“Couldn’t help it, open like that. Besides, I figured if I lost it I’d still know what it had to say.…Tough.”

“He’s a good man, Bone. I can’t let him down.”

“Three men? More than two thousand head of stock, no remuda, and those Kiowas lookin’ down our necks? Man, you’ve bought yourself a big job.”

Chantry glanced toward the ridge. The Kiowas were there, watching, and somewhere nearby he could be sure the outlaws who wanted his cattle were watching too.

But most of all, he thought of French Williams. No matter what the man had been, Chantry had always, deep down within himself, believed that French would play his hand out, fair and square.

They rode out to the cattle and Sun Chief came to the fire.

The Kiowas were still out there, more of them now, and the Big Timbers were not far ahead, where he had promised to visit the Wolf Walker.

“Boss?” McCarthy said.

“What?”

“We got company.”

Chantry turned in the direction McCarthy indicated.

A rider was coming toward them, walking his horse, and singing
Tenting Tonight On the Old Camp Ground.

It was Mobile Callahan.

Chapter 16

L
OOKS TO ME, Chantry, like you could use a good hand,” Callahan said. “I’ve been round and about, and up the trail a time or two, and I’m a fair hand with a rope or a gun.”

“You’ve got a job.”

“Don’t want you should worry about that. Mr. Sparrow is payin’ me plenty to help you get to the railhead.”

“Sparrow?
Paying
you?”

“Uh-huh. He some kin o’ yours?”

“No.”

Mobile glanced toward the Indians. “You’ve got to figure on them, of course, but what you really need are horses. What happened?”

Chantry explained in as few words as possible, his eyes straying from the cattle to the Indians.

“You think it was French Williams?”

Chantry shrugged. “The Talrims are around, and I think Rugger was planning something with somebody else. All I know is that everything I’ve got is riding with this herd; and worse yet, everything my boss has got is, too. If we can bring it in we can make something; and if not, a good man and his daughter have gone down with us.”

They rode on in silence, keeping moving constantly, but trying to save their horses as much as possible.

At intervals all four men got off and walked. By noon they could see the trees along the Arkansas, the looming tops of the Big Timbers. They circled the herd, and while the cattle were resting they built a fire.

“I’m going on into the Indian camp,” Chantry told them. “I said I was going, and I must. I don’t know what they are planning, but my chances are as good there as here. Stay with the herd, but if you’re at tacked, scatter and run for it. We can always get together and fight again. I don’t want to lose any of you.”

“If you go into that camp,” McCarthy warned, “you’ll lose your hair.”

“Maybe.” He hesitated, finishing his coffee. “On the other hand, I might make a deal for some horses. You can help me cut out about six head of good beef. I’ll drive them in for a gift to Wolf Walker.”

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.