The 7th Western Novel

by Francis W. Hilton

  Billy turned the roan and rode down the wash to the creek, then headed up it in the general direction of where they’d camped the wagons. It would take him longer to get back, but there was no point in letting the Comanche know he’d been discovered so soon. And by sticking to the little valleys and low places, Billy knew he could only be seen from the ridges. And since he figured the Comanche scout would be sticking to the low spots himself to keep hidden, there wasn’t much likelihood that he would see Billy Condo.

  It was nearly daylight, grey and dismal, when Billy circled the herd again and headed for the wagons. There were only two men on guard and he knew why when he saw the breakfast fire blazing away and the crowd around it. Even at that distance he could smell the aroma of coffee. He put the roan into a lope and started up the knoll. The way his belly felt, this was no time to take chances on a hungry crew getting too much of a start on him.

  He tied the roan to the tailgate of the bed wagon and unsaddled, carrying the rig almost to the fire with him before putting it down on a clump of grass. Then he took up a tin plate and cup and fell in line.

  Joe Metcalf came up. “Lordy, but you look like somethin’ the cat drug in.”

  “Thanks,” Billy grinned in spite of himself, “you look like hell yourself.”

  “Old Thad’s fit to be tied because you rode all night.”

  “I’ve stayed awake before.”

  “Here he comes now. Better get set for an ear-burnin’.”

  “Where the hell you been?” old Thad asked, poking at his teeth with a sharpened matchstick.

  Billy ignored the question in favor of his own. “Thad, how far is it to the nearest, cavalry post?”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Old Thad’s eyes narrowed. “What’re you drivin’ at, Condo?”

  Billy dipped beans onto his plate, chewing on a piece of sidemeat as he talked. “I’m drivin’ at the fact that we might need help from the United States Cavalry.”

  Joe Metcalf eyed him suspiciously. “You mean—Comanches?”

  Billy nodded, stepping to the fire and tipping coffee into his cup from the granite pot. “I picked up sign of a lone scout about four miles east of here.”

  “Do you reckon-he’d seen us?” Joe Metcalf asked.

  “Couldn’t miss a herd this big,” Billy said, gulping coffee.

  Everybody fell silent for a while. Finally Old Thad cleared his throat and said uneasily, “Only regular cavalry post I know of around here is Fort Nichols, up on the Santa Fe Trail. That’s nearly a hundred and fifty miles away.”

  Billy looked at him. “Is that the one Kit Carson set up a couple of years back to protect wagon trains on the Trail?”

  Thad told him it was.

  Billy drained the last of his coffee, then walked over and dumped his cup and plate in the wreck pan. When he came back he said lightly, “It might be that the Indians are having trouble amongst themselves. If that’s the case, we don’t need to worry.”

  But a few minutes later as he was roping out a mouse-colored horse from his string he remembered that it wasn’t very likely as simple as that. The cavalry had been pretty well drained by the War between the States, and the Indians hadn’t been kept too well in hand as a result. He had no idea how big the war party might be, but it wouldn’t take a very big one to play hell with a herd this size. Besides, the promise of beef and a few scalps would be a prize hard to pass up.

  When the herd was lined out and moving Billy rode up alongside Joe Metcalf. “I think if we keep ’em headed northeast we’ll be about right,” he told Joe.

  Metcalf was looking at him strangely. “What about it, Condo?”

  Billy read what was in the foreman’s mind. “You mean about the Comanches?”

  “Think they might try an attack?”

  Billy tugged at the too-tight battered hat he’d borrowed from the cook. “Well,” he began slowly, “we’re probably pretty well into Indian Territory right now. We won’t leave it until about fifteen miles beyond the Cimarron. Up till then, we can expect anything.”

  Joe Metcalf glanced back at the thirteen hundred head of longhorns strung out across the rolling plain. Billy knew what Joe was thinking, because the same thing was in his mind. It would be a job to get those cattle across the river under normal circumstances. And if the Comanche picked that time for an ambush…

  “When you reckon we’ll make the Cimarron?” Joe asked.

  “About nightfall,” Billy said.

  Old Thad came riding up, and Billy noticed he had the big .45-70 in its saddle boot. “If we had one of those apiece,” Billy said, nodding at the big rifle, “we wouldn’t have to worry about Indians.”

  “Maybe we should have taken those from Thornhill’s crew while we had the chance,” Joe said.

  “Reminds me,” Billy said, turning in the saddle and squinting off into the distance, “I wonder if Thornhill ever got his herd under way?”

  “If he did,” Thad snorted, “you can bet we’ll be hearin’ from him before too long.”

  Billy shook his head. “I doubt it. He’d be afraid to start any foolishness along the trail for fear he’d lose his own herd in the bargain.” Then he turned to Joe. “Keep moving them about this pace, if they’ll stand up to it. I’m going to ride up ahead and look around. I’d feel a whole lot better if we put the Cimarron behind us before dark sets in.”

  Up ahead, Billy noticed the country seemed flatter and more covered with brush. He recalled that it would be that way, off and on, until they got some distance north of the Cimarron. He was wishing he’d paid a little more attention to the country the times he’d passed through with his dad, but he guessed he remembered enough to get by. Once they got up into Kansas, he figured, there wouldn’t be too much to worry about.

  He kept his eyes busy as he rode, looking for some sign that would tell him the Comanche war party had passed ahead. Mainly, he was anxious to know the strength of it. That would mean a lot.

  After a while he left the open stretches of trail. The clouds were breaking now, and the sun came out, steaming the plains. He rode off at right angles through the brush. The Indians, he knew, would be too smart to cross the obvious trail the herd would use. More than likely they would travel in a wide circle to reach the river ahead of them without leaving sign.

  He found he was right. Some four miles to the right he found a shale ravine that told him what he wanted to know. This far from the herd, the Indians hadn’t bothered to cover their trail. Billy dismounted and squatted to examine the tracks. When he stood up again he felt a slight chill despite the blistering heat of the pre-noon August sun. From his best count he figured there were at least forty in the war party, maybe more. He led the mouse-colored horse into the shade of a greasewood clump and sat down to light a smoke and think things over.

  He had just poured tobacco into the paper when he noticed the mouse-colored horse prick its ears forward. Billy moved swiftly to cover the horse’s nostrils, but he was too late. The shrill whinny cut through the still air and echoed through the brush. Almost immediately an answering whinny came, but not from up ahead, as Billy had expected.

  Clasping one hand over the horse’s nose to cut off further cry, Billy let his other rest on the butt of his .44. He felt his heart pounding against his ribs as he glanced down the wash, half expecting to see an Indian pony emerge around the bend. It occurred to him that he might mount and ride, but he rejected the idea. Even if he got away it would leave the Indian scout—and he felt certain it was a scout sent out to cover the rear and mark the progress of the herd—knowing the trail had been watched. It would be up to him to see that the Comanche didn’t get back to tell his brothers. He smiled a little grimly at that, knowing the Comanche felt the same way about him. Turning cautiously, keeping an eye on the back trail, he led the mouse a little way into the brush and tied him there. Then he crawled back quietly to a spot w
here he could see the trail in both directions.

  Minutes passed, and there was only the angry hum of insects on the heated air. It had settled down to a matter of waiting. Billy wiped the sweat from his brow on the back of his forearm and glanced about him, marking in his memory the exact position of every stick of brush. When it came to playing the game this way, the Comanche had the advantage of generations of cunning. And Billy Condo damn well knew it. He pulled the .44 from its holster and cocked it silently under his arm.

  More minutes passed, and Billy became aware of a new danger. In the heat of the sun, now directly overhead, he found his eyelids growing heavy. The first realization brought him wide awake, nerves tingling. He couldn’t fall asleep! Not now! But it seemed such a long time since he’d closed his eyes. He thought of all that had happened, all the miles he’d ridden—his brain spun in the oppressive heat, he felt his eyelids growing heavier, shook his head to fight off the lassitude.

  He jerked his head off his chest with a start and glanced quickly around. Surely he had barely nodded his head—he couldn’t have dozed for long. But—he wasn’t sure, and it scared him. If he fell asleep…

  He bit his lip until he tasted blood, and the pain brought full wakefulness But soon even that was only a dull throbbing in his lower lip, falling into the pattern with the buzzing of the insects and the shimmering of the heat over the grease-wood and shale. He felt himself nodding again.

  Something caught his eye and he jerked his head up. He saw it again, fluttering faintly in the heat, there, in the middle of the trail. It made him swear under his breath. The cigarette paper. The one he’d been holding in his hand when the whinny came. It was lying there in plain sight, a treacherous rectangle of white—a dead give-away that marked his hiding as plainly as if he had stood up and yelled, “Here I am!”

  He thought of sliding back through the brush, but changed his mind. Any movement now would be sure to bring a bullet or an arrow. Best to stay where he was. He shook his head as he felt himself nodding again. Dammit to hell, he’d have to stay awake!

  Across the shale bed something caught his eye. It wasn’t a movement he’d seen. It was a color. A faded bit of yellow that somehow failed to match with the greys and yellow-browns around it. It was indistinct. So much so that he couldn’t be sure he’d seen it. No!—there it was! It looked like… But, hell! he told himself—it couldn’t be. Not out here. Not all this way from…

  He took a closer look, then stood up suddenly, putting his gun away and grinning as he walked out of the brush and into the open.

  “All right, sergeant!” he called out. “Looks like we mistook each other for Comanches.”

  The spot of yellow moved, then emerged as three faded chevrons on a faded blue blouse. The trooper came forward, grinning his embarrassment and shifting his carbine to the crook of his arm.

  “When I heard your horse whinny,” the sergeant was saying, “I thought sure I’d run into an ambush.”

  Billy looked him over, his face plainly puzzled. “What’s the U. S. Cavalry doing way out here?”

  The sergeant pointed to the pony tracks in the shale. “Bunch of Comanches got drunk and cut up an Indian agent down in the Territory. All young bucks, spoilin’ for trouble. They’re the hot-heads that have kept trouble alive all along—a buck by the name of Joe Little Dog is the ringleader. The Indians are as anxious to get rid of him as we are so’s there can be peace.”

  “Where’s your post?” Billy asked. “I didn’t think…”

  The sergeant shook his head. “There isn’t any around here. Part of our job is to pick a spot for a fort. The old man kind of set his heart on that big fresh-water reservoir just south of here. It looks like it’d be a good water supply, all right. Matter of fact, the old man’s already named it Ft. Supply, even though it ain’t been officially established yet.” He switched the subject back to Billy, asking, “You live around here?”

  Billy shook his head. “Got a herd of cattle on the trail to Abilene. Picked up Indian sign last night, and again this morning. So I figured I’d better scout head and find out how many there were.”

  The sergeant appeared interested. “If you got cattle and are headed north, I’ll bet that’s why Joe Little Dog has headed up toward the Cimarron. I’ll bet…”

  Billy nodded. “I’ll bet the same thing,” he grinned. “And I was mighty puzzled about how to go about crossing that river with forty or fifty Indians lying in wait.”

  The sergeant jerked his thumb back toward the brush. “My mount’s back there. I’ll go get it, and I’d like for you to come along, if you will. The Old Man might like to ask you a few questions—maybe between us we can teach this Joe Little Dog a trick or two.”

  Billy went back for the mouse, wondering at how the drowsiness had suddenly left him. Still, he felt tired. Maybe, if he got back to the herd before too long, he could grab a couple of hours sleep in the bed wagon before they made the Cimarron. Whatever happened, he wanted to have his eyes wide open then.

  The sergeant was mounted and waiting when Billy rode the mouse out of the brush. Without a word they turned and started off down the back trail. Billy had to smile as he watched the way the sergeant rode, and it seemed odd to think he’d ever ridden a rig like that himself. It brought back to him again how easily he’d fallen back into the old range habits he’d learned as a kid.

  Around a bend some three miles farther down they saw the troop, in a column of twos, and the sergeant broke into a smart lope with Billy close behind. Billy watched the column halt as its point rider approached with the strange cowhand in tow. He couldn’t help feeling a surge of pride once more at the sight of the well-ordered men and mounts. The sergeant slowed to a walk and whispered hoarsely, “The Old Man’s a full general, in case you…”

  Billy turned in surprise. “A general! In command of a troop?”

  “This is only part of his command. Like I told you, he’s looking for a place to establish a fort in this part of the Indian Territory and…”

  But Billy wasn’t listening. He was watching the ramrod straight man on the bay horse sitting at the head of the column. There was something about the man’s carriage, something about the way he sat his horse…

  Billy swore softly. “Well I’ll be damned!”

  He hung back a little, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth as the sergeant rode up and saluted. “Sir, I ran across this cowboy while riding point just now. He has a herd of cattle in the vicinity, driving them to Abilene, and he’d noticed Indian sign before…”

  The older man interrupted with a polite wave of his hand. “Thank you, Sergeant Brooks,” he said, and then eased his horse forward and smiled as he extended his hand to Billy. “For a moment your changed mode of dress had me puzzled, but I’d recognize that smile anyplace. The name is… No, don’t tell me—Condo, that’s it. Sergeant William Condo—am I right?”

  Billy’s grin spread wider as he gripped the outstretched hand. “Ex-sergeant, General Sheridan,” Billy laughed. “I’m surprised you’d remember me, sir!”

  “Remember? Hah!—of course I remember. Let’s see—Cedar Run, wasn’t it, that you discovered the whereabouts of the Rebel force single-handed? As a result we were able to rout the enemy from the Shenandoah Valley. No, Condo—I haven’t forgotten.”

  Billy felt his face grow a little warm. “Sir, that’s the politest way that I ever heard to say I stumbled into an ambush and nearly got the pants shot off me!”

  The general’s laughter rang heartily above that of the other officers and men and he clapped Billy soundly on the back. “There’ll be time to reminisce later, I’m sure. Now—suppose you tell us, Mister Condo, what you know about our Comanche friends up ahead.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The afternoon sun had started its long swing down toward the horizon when Billy spotted the dust from the herd. He stopped long enough to wipe the sweat an
d dust from his face, then eased the mouse across the fiat to where the two point riders were urging the leaders away from the spotty bunch grass that grew along the trail. Joe Metcalf was the first to spot him and came riding over.

  “Lordy, Condo, I thought you’d fell asleep under a mesquite bush! Where the hell you been? We’d begun to think…”

  Billy grinned at him. “I didn’t aim to be gone so long, Joe,” he said laconically, “but it took me longer than I expected to locate a troop of cavalry. And now that I have, I think I’ll curl up in the bed wagon and catch…”

  Joe turned to Thad Harper who had just come up. “The heat’s plumb got him, Thad. Look how flushed his face is—and he’s mumblin’ a lot of truck about a troop of cavalry!”

  Old Thad looked at him suspiciously. “Billy, you’d better get some sleep. Time we get to the Cimarron you’ll be wishin’ we did have a cavalry troop with us. I figure we might find a Comanche or two sittin’ waitin’ for us when we try to cross the Cimarron.”

  Billy swept off the hat that didn’t fit and made a low bow. “General Philip Sheridan sends his compliments, and would we be so kind as to distract the attention of the Comanche with our sidearm fire when we reach the river so that…

  Old Thad’s brows furrowed. “What the hell’s eatin’ you, Condo?”

  Billy laughed out loud, then his face grew serious and he told them what had happened.

  “…and,” he concluded, “if things go the way we figure, it’ll be the Comanche, not us, that’s due for a surprise when we push this bunch of cows across the Cimarron.”

  Old Thad’s face wrinkled into a pleased grin. “Well, sir, if there’s anybody in this outfit holdin’ a grudge against the Union Army, they’re doggone sure goin’ to lose it ’fore this day is over!”