I was giving that some thought, too, and mean as these fools had acted against me, I wished them no harm. I did not know the full story, but from what Queenie and Noah Gates had said, it seemed clear that she must have been carrying on with Kelsey, and when Adam Gates had come upon them Kelsey had killed him, with her standing by.
“Whatever you figure to do,” I told them, “you’d best be planning. I’ve a notion that Kelsey is a fast-acting man.”
“We can ride into town and get Hickok,” Bowers suggested.
“He won’t leave town,” I said. “His job is keeping peace in the streets of Abilene.”
Queenie was staring at me, her eyes filled with meanness. “He’ll kill you,” she said, “and I’ll stand by to see it.”
“There was a man back in the Nation who had the same idea,” I said, “and he sleeps in a mighty cold bed tonight.”
Gates had no idea what to do. You can’t just up and run with a herd of cattle. They leave too wide a trail, and they are too slow. “He won’t dare,” he said finally. “We’re too close in a town. Folks wouldn’t stand for it.”
“Maybe so,” I said. “It’s your gamble.”
They stared at me then. “What about you?” Gates asked. “You’ve got a stake in this.”
“We’re going to cut out our cattle, and we’re going to sell…part of them, anyway.”
“And the others?”
“Maybe we’ll try for that green valley out younder.”
“What if they come up to you—just the two of you?”
“We’ll fight,” I said coolly, “and that’s what I’d advise you to do. The first thing I’d do would be to tie up that—”
But she was gone.
She had been standing near the wagon, but she must have slipped behind it, and from there she had ducked into a draw where she’d had her pony tied.
“She’d figured on it all along,” Gates said.
“She’s going to meet him,” I said, “and you can bet they’ll come back here.”
“What’ll we do?” Gates was asking himself that question as much as anybody else, but I answered him.
“You’ve got a choice. You can stay here and wait and fight, or you can try running. If you stay, the thing to do is have only one man in the open. Give your wounded men rifles, and let a couple more get into the wagon, too. Then the rest of you get down out of sight, and when they come up, cut them down.”
“We can’t do that.”
“Then you’ve got to run. Look,” I went on, “the Half-Circle X moved their herd this afternoon. You can start off, lose your tracks in theirs. It won’t keep them off you long, but you can buy yourself some time.”
“And you?”
“We’ll cut out our bunch and pull out. You lend us one man to help. You’ll want somebody to pick up your money after we make our sale, anyway. That way Kelsey might follow us, or he might follow you.”
There was nothing very good about the plan, but it was the best I could think of. There had been a lot of cattle moving over the grass, and following one herd wouldn’t be too easy. And not even Caxton Kelsey would be wanting to bust into a strange Texas herd and get himself shot at in hunting for us.
Ordinarily we couldn’t have done it in twice the time, but I’d noticed that a good many of our brands were grazing on the slope of the draw, and all I wanted at this point was a hundred head or so. If I could get that many into town and sell them, I could pay off for the herd. The rest would be so much gravy.
Reluctantly, Gates agreed, and even as he spoke, Jim was already moving. We rounded up about a hundred and fifty head and started them over the grass. We went due north and away from town, and drove the cattle down into a draw that curved around toward the bed of the Smoky Hill River.
We saw scattered cattle and a few cowhands rounding them up and pushing them back into the herd, but nothing else. We bunched the cattle in a hollow of the hills and, leaving Jim and the old man to hold them, I skirted the town and rode to the Drovers’ Cottage.
Most of the cattle buyers were in the saloon. There were a lot of cattle around Abilene that year, and I wasn’t expecting top prices. The stock we had cut out were mostly fat steers, in better shape than those that had been driven over the Chisholm Trail, and in much better shape than stock held on the prairies around Abilene. It had been a stormy year, cold and wet much of the time, and the grass had grown coarse and washed out. To the east it was much richer, and our stock had moved slowly for the greater part of the drive.
The bartender at the Drovers’ directed me to Bob Tarlton, a tall, well-setup man in his late thirties. He was cool, handsome, and business-like. Briefly, I explained about my steers, how they had come up the Shawnee Trail where the grass was excellent and where there was no end of water.
He heard me out, and then said, “You understand there’s no shortage of cattle? The market is glutted. You’d be well advised to drive north or west, and graze your stock until the market is better.”
So I put my cards on the table, and he listened, smoking his cigar and looking out the window as I talked. I told him about the trouble in the Nation, and why I had to pay off right then. When I finished he turned around, gave me a straight, measuring look, and said, “Let’s ride out and have a look.”
When he stepped into the saddle he was packing a sixshooter and carrying a Winchester. He rode well, and there was no nonsense about the man. He rode around the cattle and through them, and he could see I’d told him true, that the stock was in good shape.
“All right,” he said. “I make it a hundred and forty-two head. Is that about right?”
“I haven’t counted them,” I said frankly, “but that’s about what I’d say.”
“I’ll give you sixteen dollars a head, and take delivery at the stockyards in Abilene.”
“It’s a deal.” I thrust out my head, and he took it.
He lit a cigar. “Your name is Chancy? What are your plans?”
“Well,” I said, “I’ve got some working capital now. And I still own five, six hundred head of mixed stuff. I figured to move west, find myself a place of my own, and go to ranching.”
“Have you thought about Wyoming? It’s a good country, and there’s water and grass.”
I rode up to Jim and said, “All right, let’s roll ’em.”
Jim skirted the cattle, bunching them up and starting them moving. I rode point with Tarlton.
“It’s a beautiful country,” he said, “and if you were so inclined we might discuss a partnership. If you’re going to ranch, you’ll need capital.”
There was sense in that, but somehow the idea of partner had not occurred to me. I was used to going it alone, and I told him so.
“Frankly, that’s what I like about you,” he said. “Ranching in this western country needs a man who can make decisions. You say you’ve got better than five hundred head. Well, prices on cattle are down right now, so suppose we figure your cattle at twenty dollars a head? That figures you’ll be coming in with a capital of ten thousand dollars and your work. I’ll match it with ten thousand and agree to contribute five hundred head of good breeding stock within the year. You’ll make the drive west, find the land, build whatever we need.”
There it was, laid out for me. It was the kind of chance a young man rarely got, and I’d done too little to earn it, it seemed to me.
“You don’t know anything about me,” I told him.
“I know enough.” He glanced over at me. “News travels fast in this country. We’d heard about the shooting back in Indian country before you ever got here, and before you mentioned a word of it to me.
“Hickok told me about how you came to him with the hat story. He liked it, and so did I. It showed you had respect for the law, and how you would use your brains to save a fight if you could. Your cattle are in good shape, and I think you’re just the partner I want.”
We rode on into town and turned the cattle in at the stockpens. Then we went to the bank together
and I collected my money and paid over the thousand dollars to the old man. “You tell Noah Gates I’ll be coming after the rest of my cattle,” I said. “I am going ranching in the western lands.”
Jim and I squatted on our heels along the stockpens and talked it out. “I’ll need you, Jim,” I said, “and I’d like to have you along. I figure you could take up some land close by, and work for Tarlton and me until you get going with a spread of your own. Fact is, I’ll start you with a few head and you can register your own brand.”
“Have you forgotten Caxton Kelsey?”
“Not even a little bit. That’s a bronc I’ve got to ride when the time comes. Meanwhile,” I said, “I’m not going to let worry over him rule my life. It seems to me that if a man is going to get anywhere in this life, he’d better start for somewhere, and have something definite in mind.”
“Do you know Wyoming?”
“No, but I’ve heard talk of it. One of the teamsters with a freight outfit I drove for soldiered up thataway, and had a lot to say about it. He was in the Wagon-Box Fight up yonder on the Bozeman Trail.”
“You’ll need some hands.”
“I figure half a dozen good men. You keep your eyes open, and I’ll do the same. I want men who savvy cattle, but who are willing to fight if need be.”
“Well,” Jim said dryly, “most of the broke cowhands around Abilene are from Texas and they cut their teeth on sixshooter steel.”
In the Drovers’ Cottage that evening over supper we drew up the papers, such as they were. A handshake would have done for either of us, but if anything happened to Tarlton he wanted it clear and clean for his heirs, back east.
Over coffee I told him about my plans for an education. “You’d be wise,” he agreed. “It’s a growing land, and an educated man with some drive can go far.”
It was pushing midnight when I left the Drovers’ and went out to the hitching rail. All was dark and still. Mounting up, I walked my horse up the street toward the Twin Livery Stable and rode in under the lantern that overhung the wide door.
Lights still shone from the doors of several places—the Alamo, the Bull’s Head, Downey’s, and Flynn’s, among others. Stripping the saddle from the buckskin, I tied him to the manger in a stall, put some corn in the box, and slung my Winchester muzzle-down from my shoulder by its sling. Not many western men used the sling, but I did, and I’d found that a man could swing a rifle into action from the shoulder, in that position, as swiftly as a man could draw. The rifle butt was just about level with the top of my shoulder, my hand on the action of the rifle.
A man came out of a saloon up the street and staggered off. Somewhere I heard a door slam, and there was the tin-panny sound of a music box at the Alamo.
My boots made no sound in the dust as I went along, for I had not reached the boardwalk. Now, I am by nature a cautious man, inclined not to trust appearances, whether in man or nature, and for a man with enemies that street was an almighty quiet place.
When I reached the shadow beside the first building, I stopped, giving study to the street ahead, and especially to dark doorways and alleys. I had no reason for suspicion beyond the fact that for a man with my enemies it would be wise to be watchful. And I’d never gone along a dark street in my life without being wary. So I stood there just waiting, watching to see who was going to move…if anybody.
Several minutes passed and all remained quiet, so I started on up the street, my boots now making echoing sounds on the walk.
Suddenly I saw a man standing half in the shadows, about fifty feet from the nearest lights. He was facing me. I could see the vague light on the side of his hat, a mite of his chin, and the gleam on the butt of his gun.
For the space of perhaps a minute we stood there, each of us half in darkness, half in shadow not quite so dark, each aware of the other, each poised for movement.
Up the street the sound of the tin-panny piano stopped, and there was a tinkle of broken glass.
“What’s the matter, mountain boy?” The man’s voice was low, unfamiliar. “Are you scared?”
Chapter 5
CURIOUSLY ENOUGH, I was not scared. I was not even worried. I could see his gun hand and the butt of his gun. He could not move without my knowing it, so I just waited. I did not speak.
I’d taken to carrying my gun on the left side for a crossdraw, and that meant he could see my gun, too. What he couldn’t see was the rifle, but even if he had he would not have worried, because nobody carried a rifle the way I did, and it looked as if it would be slow to use.
My silence seemed to make him uneasy, but if there was to be any shooting he was going to have to open the ball. I wanted no trouble in Hickok’s town. He had played fair with me, and I intended to do the same.
“I’m going to kill you, mountain boy,” came that voice again. “I’m going to put you down under the grass. I’m going to save Kelsey the trouble.”
Across the street from me a match flared, lighting a cigar. The voice that spoke there was clear. “Rad Miller, you get your pony and ride out of town, and don’t let me find you here again this year. I don’t like trouble-hunters.”
Miller hesitated only a moment, and then he walked toward me, and on past, muttering as he did so, “You’ll get it. He can’t protect you all the time.”
Hickok’s voice across the street said, “Obliged, Chancy. I don’t want gun fights in Abilene. Can I buy you a drink?”
We walked into the Alamo together and stood at the bar. When we had our drinks, he brushed the ashes from his cigar and, glancing at my Winchester, said, “Odd way to carry a rifle.” He looked at me thoughtfully from cold gray eyes. “You’d have killed him, Chancy.”
“Maybe.”
“No maybe…you’d have done it. You’re one of the good ones. I can spot ’em a mile off.” Then he said, “You staying around town?”
“No. I’ve made a deal with Tarlton. I’m going west to ranch in Wyoming.”
“Good country. I’m going out to the Black Hills one of these days.”
We talked idly of Indians and buffalo, of stage driving and of Custer, whom he knew. I told him about my plans with Tarlton, and said that I’d need some hands.
“There’s a man here from Illinois,” Hickok said, “his brother was in the army with me. He’s hunting a job.”
“Can he shoot?”
“Yes…and he can handle horses and cattle. His name is Tom Hacker. As a boy he was a blacksmith’s helper, and later a smith himself. He rode with the cavalry for six or seven years.”
“Send him to me. He sounds like just what we’ll need.”
Hickok left me and went along, making his rounds. I stood watching a poker game, and then I went back to the hotel. When I went in, a stocky, well-setup man with leather-like skin and mild brown eyes was there waiting for me. With him was a wiry, narrow-hipped fellow of about my own age.
“Mr. Chancy?” the older man said. “I’m Tom Hacker. This here is my nephew, Cotton Madden. We’re rustling for work.”
“All right. We’re riding out in the morning to join the herd. You need any money?”
“No, sir. I’ve still got a few dollars.” He grinned. “I’ll be broke in the morning, though.”
I went up to my room. It wasn’t much, but it looked good to me. It was a front room looking out over the street, with a second window that looked on a small alleyway that separated the hotel from the building next door. There was a bed and a chair, and a washstand with a pitcher of water, a bar of soap, and a towel.
First thing, I pulled off my boots and put them beside the bed, then took off my shirt. I stood my rifle beside the washstand, and put my pistol on the bed, butt toward me. After I’d washed and combed my hair, I pulled off my pants and stretched out on the bed.
For the first time in days I was alone, with time to think. And for the first time in my life I had a definite goal. I had a partner, and I was going to take the herd west and locate a ranch. I had more money than I’d ever had in my life. And
if I had the brains and the nerve to take advantage of my opportunity, I had a future.
Nothing about it would be easy. That country was still Indian country, and the white men who had drifted in there were mostly the lawless kind, ready for any kind of trouble. While I lay there stretched out on my back, I began to contemplate.
First, a corral. Then a dugout or a cabin, whichever seemed quickest and best…or if the weather was right we could start right away on a bunkhouse. I’d have to define my range, hunt a good bit to help out with the grub, and put up some hay for winter feeding. I’d have to build a shelter for my saddle stock…split logs, maybe, or poles, depending on what was to hand.
When I got up from the bed I belted on my six-gun and then put in almost an hour practicing the draw, both the crossdraw and a draw from the waistband. No getting around it, I was slower than I had any right to be, but there was nothing slow about the way I could get off a shot with my Winchester slung from my shoulder.
Finally, tired out, I stretched out on the bed again and slept.
When I came down the stairs in the freshness of morning, Jim Bigbear, Tom Hacker, and Cotton Madden were waiting for me. It was scarcely past daybreak, but the town was already alive and moving. We went into the restaurant, and a few minutes later Tarlton came in, another man with him.
This was a tall man with a drooping auburn mustache. He was so thin he would have had to stand twice in the same place to make a shadow. But he wore a six-gun as if he knew what it was for, and he carried a Winchester as if he was born to it.
“Chancy, this is Handy Corbin,” Tarlton said. “You’ll find him a good man.”
Tarlton had brought along the last two mule loads of grub we were packing west, and within the hour we had headed out along the Smoky Hill River.
Busy as I’d been, I had been giving some thought to that redheaded woman, and also to the Millers and Caxton Kelsey. They wanted that herd, and they didn’t size up to be the sort who would tuck their tails and run at the least thing.
Novel 1968 - Chancy (v5.0) Page 5
