Talon & Chantry 07 - North To The Rails (v5.0) (3 page)

“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.
^*

“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

A
FTER 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.”

They sat silent for several minutes and then Tom Chantry said, “I know what I am going to do.”

“What?”

“I’m going to buy cattle from those men if they will sell, and then I am going to hire French Williams to take them through for me.”

Luke Andress stared at him, then began to chuckle. “Boy, you’ve got nerve, I’ll say that for you! But you be careful of French! He won’t go into any deal unless he figures to come out ahead.”

There was no use wasting time. If the word had gotten around, they all knew he had backed out of a fight with Dutch Akin, and the only thing left for him was either to skip the country or take the bull by the horns. He got up, excused himself to Andress, and walked across the room.

Two men sat with French Williams, and they all looked up when he stopped at their table.

“French Williams? I am Tom Chantry.”

French looked up lazily. “I’ve heard of you.”

“Then they have told you that I backed down for Dutch Akin. The simple facts of the case are that I haven’t time to go around shooting every Tom, Dick, and Harry who wants to get drunk and start a fight. I came here to buy cattle. I hear that you and some of these other gentlemen have cattle for sale. I’ve also been told that I’ll never be able to hire a crew to take my herd to the railhead. But I don’t believe it.

“I want to buy what cattle you have for sale, and I’ll pay cash for them. I will also buy whatever cattle are for sale by any of the other gentlemen in this room on the same terms.”

“And how do you figure to get them to market?” French had scarcely moved. He was sitting back in his chair, staring up at Chantry, cool and calculating, almost insolent.

“I have been told by various people that you are a shrewd dealer, and that you are not to be trusted.” His voice was loud enough for others to hear, and they were all listening. “I have heard that anybody who gets into a cattle deal with you will lose his eyeteeth. I don’t believe it.”

French Williams’ expression had tightened a little as Chantry talked, but his eyes had never left Tom’s face.

“You don’t?”

“No, I do not. That is why I am offering you one-third of the sale price of the herd if you will drive my cattle to the railhead.”

For a moment there was silence in the saloon, and then French Williams chuckled. “Sit down,” he said. “I want to buy you a drink.”

“All right, and I’ll buy you one.”

Chantry sat down, and Williams’ black eyes glinted with amusement.

“You don’t think I’ll rook you?”

“No. I think you’re a man of your word.”

French eyed him curiously. “You’re either a damn fool or you’re pretty smart. Well, we’ll see who’s smart and who isn’t. You think I’m honest and I think you’ve got sand, so I’ll tell you what I’ll do.

“I will take your herd to the railhead for expenses…if you will come with us and stay all the way through. If you don’t stay with it, I take it all…every last steer.”

French was smiling, his black eyes taunting.

“That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

Chantry pushed the bottle toward him. “Pour your drink, French. We’re in business.”

“You’ll take it?”

“Of course.”

Chantry turned toward the bar. “Mr. Dauber? Let’s talk about cattle.”

Lee Dauber walked over to the table, a glass in his hand. “I can deliver. How do I know you can pay?”

Tom Chantry placed his letter of credit on the table. “There it is.”

Dauber dismissed it with a gesture. “A piece of paper. I go by a man’s word. You backed down for Dutch Akin. How do I know your word is good?”

French Williams looked up. “Lee?
I
say his word is good. Any argument?”

Lee Dauber shrugged. “Your funeral, French. All right, we’ll dicker. I’ve got a thousand head, give or take a few.”

For an hour the talk went on, and at the end of it Tom Chantry held title to twenty-two hundred head of cattle, stock for which he had paid with sums drawn from his letter of credit. Of the money behind that letter of credit only a little of it was his own; the remainder belonged to Earnshaw and Company.

With luck the drive would take them thirty days, perhaps a bit more or less; and if he made it through, he would have a herd whose price would not be less than fifty thousand dollars, of which two-thirds would be sheer profit. On the other hand, if he failed he would lose everything, and Earnshaw would take a heavy loss.

He was guessing on the time it would take to get the herd to the railhead, for he had never made a drive with cattle, although he knew something of the problems involved. Moreover, the railroad was moving west…he was not sure French Williams knew that, and he did not intend to tell him.

The railroad had been stalled at Dodge City for several years because of the financial depression and the inability to raise money for the investment. Now the rails had started moving again, and when he left the railroad he had been assured they could hold to a speed of about a mile a day, laying track. That might be optimistic…what he was going to need was information, information for himself alone.

There was always the chance of some casual traveler relaying the knowledge, for it was certainly no secret, but rumors had been flying during all the time since construction stopped, and many western men had simply given up believing anything until they saw it.

Alone that night in his room, Tom Chantry stretched out on his bed, hands clasped behind his head, and thought the thing through.

He was under no illusions about French Williams. The man was hard as nails and dangerous as a rattler, but he was a man of fierce pride, and Chantry knew he had touched it when he called him a man of his word.

Obviously French was a gambler. It was a game of winner-take-all, and French was not the kind of man to enjoy losing. What he was gambling on was, in essence, Chantry’s staying quality. Tom Chantry was no fool, and he knew that French Williams would make it very rough.

Did Williams believe him a coward? That remained to be seen. More likely than not he had no thoughts on the matter, and cared less. He would test Chantry’s nerve with sadistic pleasure…and would be an interested observer of Chantry’s reactions.

Actually, French Williams was risking only his time. And he might like a ride to Dodge anyway. The risk was all for Tom Chantry; the gain, if he won, would be great. But had he any right to take such a risk with another man’s money?

They needed beef badly if they were to continue operations as planned. Tom Chantry considered the gamble he had taken and admitted, reluctantly, that he had been foolish. He had been challenged, and like any green kid he had accepted the challenge.

Now he must plan. He must try to foresee what French would do. The most obvious thing was the old western trick of giving him a bad horse to ride, and this he had every right to expect. It was usual for any tenderfoot on a cow ranch or a cattle drive to be given a bad horse just as a joke.

Well, let them try. He had been riding horses since he was a child, and even back east he had never quit riding. He had handled some pretty bad ones, but he doubted that he had tangled with anything like what they could give him out here, and he was sure they were even now planning on that.

He knew it was going to be rough, especially as he had taken water for Dutch Akin. No cowhand would consider that anything but cowardice, and they would have nothing but contempt for him.

At daybreak he was up, and after a quick breakfast he went to the livery stable and bought two horses. Both were tough and well-seasoned, and he paid premium prices for them. He bargained, but the horse dealer knew he wanted horses and knew what he wanted them for. He got good horses, and the price he finally paid was not as bad as he had expected. One was a line-back dun, the other a blue roan, both bigger than the usual cow horse, but agile enough. The dun was an excellent cutting horse, the blue roan was fair; both had the look of possessing staying quality. “Which I’d better have myself,” he said to himself.

He bought a used saddle, a blanket, and all the essential gear. At the general store he bought a slicker, a bedroll, and a little other equipment.

“You better have yourself a gun,” the storekeeper suggested.

Chantry shook his head, smiling. “I doubt if I’ll need it. I will have a Winchester, though. I’ve never killed a buffalo, and we might need the meat.”

He bought a Winchester ’73 and four hundred rounds of ammunition. “If I am going to use this,” he commented, “I’d better have some practice.”

“Better not try it near a cattle herd,” the storekeeper said dryly, “or you’ll have a stampede.”

They all thought him a tenderfoot, he reflected, and in one sense it was true, but he was western-born and a lot had soaked in that stayed with him. One did not live in the environment during the impressionable years and not retain something from it.

His father had been a man who talked of his work and his life, and he was a man who had known men and stock, who had pioneered in wild country. Had he been trying, even then, to instruct his son? After all, what did a father have to pass on to his children but his own personal reaction to the world? Of what use was experience if one could not pass on at least a little of what one had learned?

For the first time Tom Chantry thought of that, and suddenly he was seeing his father in a new light. Like many another son, he had failed to understand the true nature of the man who was his father until he himself began to cope with the problems of which life is made up.

T
HEY WERE TO make their gather and pool the cattle on the Vermejo River, east and a bit north of Cimarron, and their drive would begin from there.

He would go there and join them. He would ride his own horses, but if they suggested a bad one, he would try it. He could be thrown, but he could also get back on. Tom Chantry decided he knew what to expect, and he was prepared for it. The trouble was, he did not know French Williams.

He knew little enough about the Vermejo River. Only that it began somewhere in the Sangre de Cristos and flowed down from the mountains, across the old Santa Fe Trail to lose itself, so far as he knew, somewhere in the open country beyond.