Novel 1968 - Chancy (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  “It was back in the Cherokee Nation. I’d just come down out of Tennessee and had come up to this herd…Noah Gate’s outfit. They’d had trouble with some herd-cutters, led by a man posing as a sheriff and wearing a badge. I bought in with them, and when this man tried to run a bluff and drew on me, I killed him. He was wearing this gun.”

  “Alec Burgess wasn’t that kind of man,” somebody else was saying. “He was decent and law-abiding. Moreover, he was a dead shot with either hand. You’d play hell killing him unless you dry-gulched him.”

  “You’ve got witnesses, I suppose?” the marshal suggested to me.

  That stopped me. For there were no witnesses any more, none but Queenie, and she would take delight in lying to get me hung. “Noah Gates and his outfit were the only witnesses. They are dead…all of them, so far as I know.”

  “Then there isn’t even one witness?”

  “Marshal, the only person alive who could testify to what happened is Queenie, that redheaded daughter-in-law to Noah Gates, but she’s running with the wild bunch, the same outfit I’ve been hunting. And she’d swear me into hell any time she got a chance.”

  “Drop your gunbelt, Chancy,” the marshal said. “I’m taking you in.”

  “Will I get a trial?”

  “A trial?” the red-faced man sneered. “You don’t deserve any more of a trial than you gave Burgess. Why wait, Marshal? I’ve got a rope in my wagon. Let’s string him up!”

  There were several shouts of agreement, but the marshal turned quickly around. “There’ll be none of that,” he said sternly. “All right, Chancy. Drop your belt or I’ll shoot.”

  With careful fingers, I unbuckled, and there was a sinking in me when I did it. What chance was I going to have? I didn’t know any Burgess, nor even where the crime was supposed to have happened, nor how. But I had no witnesses, no defense, and it had happened somewhere back in the Territory or the Nation, and I had been there at the time.

  Of only one thing could I be sure. The man of whom they talked, this Alec Burgess, could not have been the man I killed, but how could I prove that? I had been accused and arrested simply because I wore a dead man’s gun.

  With the crowd following behind, the marshal took me down to the jail and locked me in the same cell from which I had released Corky Burdette.

  When that barred door slammed shut, I just dropped down on the bunk and stared blanky, too stunned to think about what had happened to me. From the muttering of the men outside I had an idea it wasn’t over…and all because of picking up a dead man’s gun.

  Bob Tarlton was sick in bed, and was not likely to hear of what had happened to me. The boys were out at the herd, and just standing guard over those cows would keep them busy. There was nobody around anywhere to whom I could look for help. But then, I had never been one to expect help. That’s one advantage of always being a loner, you’ve just got to do it yourself…whatever has to be done.

  The worst of it was, I didn’t even know what had happened. Seemed as if this Alec Burgess had been a well-thought-of man, and he’d gone east and been murdered. Well, that man I’d killed back there seemed a likely one to have done such a thing, but was he? After all, Burgess was some shakes with a gun, they said, and that would-be sheriff wasn’t a man to buck anything like that. A dry-gulch, maybe…and they’d as much as said that was the way it was. Still, there must have been more to it.

  The marshal had gone back to his desk and seated himself, his rifle lying across the desk in front of him. Then he began shuffling through some old “Wanted” posters.

  There was one window in the cell, with three iron bars. From the way the jail building stood, that window must look out on open country. Crow Creek was out there somewhere, and there was brush along the creek, and trees. How long would it take a man to cover that distance if he was out of here?

  “Don’t you get to thinkin’ you can break out of here,” the marshal said from behind me. “Those boys would hang you to the nearest tree right off. They thought a lot of Alec.”

  “Look,” I said, “no matter what bee you’ve got in your bonnet, I had nothing to do with killing this Alec Burgess. I took that gun off a would-be sheriff…probably the very star he was sporting came off Burgess. I lost my gun last night, so I dug this one out of my blanket roll. Now, if I’m going to be accused of murdering a man you might at least tell me something about what happened.”

  His eyes searched mine, and then, reluctantly, he said, “You know better than me. All we know is that Burgess and four other men started for Fort Smith, escorting a wagon with a woman and her husband in it, and two prisoners who were riding the wagon.

  “Nobody heard nothing of Burgess and the others, and then their bodies were found. The prisoners were gone, cut loose. Burgess and the others had been ambushed, all of them killed, including the woman. Finding this gun was the first clue we’ve come across, but everybody will want your scalp now.”

  There was nothing in what he had told me that was of any help, but I could understand the feelings of the men who wished to hang me. A well-liked man had been killed, too. But it must have taken more than one man to bring it off, and they must have had a strong motive to try it.

  “Who were the prisoners?” I asked.

  “Hood Cuyler and Rad Miller.”

  “Rad Miller!” I came off the bed with a lunge that made the marshal step back from the bars. “Miller was one of the rustlers we’ve had trouble with! Do you think I’d risk my neck to help him get free?”

  “I thought of that, but you might have had a falling out since. Or your whole story may be a pack of lies.”

  “Rad Miller is dead. I killed him out on the plains when he was chasing one of the Gates outfit. Handy Corbin can tell you that, so can Cotton Madden.”

  “That’s another thing,” the marshal said calmly. “Handy Corbin is related to Prince, and we have reason to believe Prince was in on that deal.”

  “It doesn’t make sense. When we had the run-in with that would-be sheriff we’d never met up with Kelsey’s outfit.”

  The marshal shrugged. “No? You told me they’d been following the herd…that Kelsey was playing patty-cake with Gates’s daughter-in-law. How do you know there wasn’t some tie-up?”

  Of course, I did not know…could not know. In my mind they had been separate incidents, and I could not get rid of the notion. Still, that did not mean there mightn’t have been a tie-up. If the Kelsey outfit wanted to deliver Rad Miller, they might recruit help from anybody likely to take a hand…and that bunch there where the would-be sheriff tried to cut our herd had been a pack of outlaws.

  None of this was likely to do me any good. Folks out west, where there was only occasionally some kind of organized law, had a way of taking justice in their own hands on the least excuse. My neck would probably be stretched before anybody knew I was the wrong man…if they would ever know.

  Somehow, some way, I had to get out of this place.

  The marshal left me, and I was alone. The sun was warm outside…I worried about my horse, left standing at the hitching rail. I got up and tried the door. It was securely locked. The window bars were set solidly. From up the street I could occasionally hear laughter, the clink of glass, the rattle of a pump at a well, or the slam of a door.

  After a while I stretched out on my bunk to consider the situation. There had to be a way out, and I’m a man who has always believed that a man can think his way out of most things if he’ll only try hard enough. But no ideas came to me, and presently I fell asleep. When I awoke it was cooler, the sun was far down the sky…night was coming.

  And nighttime meant trouble. Men would be free from their work, they would gather in the saloons to discuss my case, and they would start drinking. I knew very well what a drunken mob could be like. From the barred door I could look across the office and out through a front window. All I could see was dust, brown grass, and the edge of a building.

  Gripping the bars of the door, I stared out through the
window. I was scared. Was I going to be strung up for something I had not done? Ending on a rope, as pa had done?

  My gunbelt and rifle were yonder in the corner of the office, the ivory-handled pistol still in its holster. They might have been ten miles away, for all the good they could do me.

  Up the street the tin-panny music box started once more. Two men rode along, and dust drifted from their passing. I paced the narrow cell.

  Suppose I did break out? They’d think me guilty for certain then. But if I stayed they might string me up, and they would never even know they’d done a wrong thing. I hadn’t any idea what I should do…or could do.

  I tried lying down on my bunk again, but I couldn’t sleep. Sitting up once more, I studied the matter. I had to get out and away—I couldn’t just sit here until they came after me.

  But what about the marshal? Would he stand by and let it happen? He did not seem the type. I had him figured for a good man, a solid man, who would stand four-square for what he believed…but he was only one man.

  Slowly my eyes ran around the room. The place was solidly built. There wasn’t so much as a crack I could get a finger into. I was locked in, tight as a sardine in a can.

  Out on the street, somebody whooped drunkenly. It was beginning now…how long before they came for me?

  Chapter 12

  SUDDENLY I HEARD the sound of horses’ hoofs, and looking out through the office window, I could see several riders coming into town. As they passed by, I saw that they were Caxton Kelsey, LaSalle Prince, Andy Miller, Queenie, and at least two others.

  They rode on by, into the town’s street. Now what was that about? Why would they risk coming here now? Or had they heard of my arrest? I asked that question of myself, then decided against it as too unlikely. They must have another reason, probably nothing more than a chance for a few drinks, a chance to buck a faro game.

  I paced the floor of my cell. If only I was free now, with a gun in my hand! But even if I was free, what could I do that would clear me of the charge against me? Queenie hated me, and she would cheerfully see me hang; and undoubtedly the others felt the same. Anyway, I didn’t want to be free if I had to leave this charge behind.

  So what to do? It always came back to that. I was here, a mob was undoubtedly forming up the street, and I had no idea whether the marshal would make an effort to stop them or not.

  There was no chance of getting a message out. No one even came close to the jail—the area around it was empty.

  Lights were coming on in the town. A long, low wind stirred the sage, bringing the wild, free smell of it to my nostrils.

  Was this the way it was going to end after all my dreams? After all my hopes of returning to face those who had killed my father? Was I to end as he had?

  Feverishly, I searched my cell again…there had to be a way out! I shook the bars of the door, but they were solid. I tried the bars of the window again, as I had before, and they, too, were firm.

  Somewhere along the line I must have dozed. I recall sitting down on the bunk and stretching out. The next thing I knew I was awake. It was still dark; outside I could hear a murmur, as of somebody talking.

  I got up quickly. Lights still showed bright in the town, and somewhere I heard a wild yell, then a smashing of glass, and coarse laughter. A rider went by, riding fast.

  Then I heard footsteps—somebody was coming toward the jail at a fast walk. The door opened, and I saw a body bulk briefly against the lights of the town, then the door closed.

  “Chancy?” It was the marshal. “You awake?”

  “You think I could sleep with that crowd liquoring up over there?”

  But I had been asleep, and I wondered for a moment how I could have relaxed that much. “Are they coming?” I asked.

  “They’re talking,” he said. “Maybe it’s all talk.”

  “Are you going to let me have a gun?”

  He considered that, while I could have counted a slow ten. “Maybe,” he said, “if it comes to that. Nobody’s ever taken a prisoner from me, and nobody is going to.”

  “I never killed Alec Burgess,” I told him again, “or even saw him. I’ll state that for a fact, and I’m not a lying man.”

  “Who are you, Chancy?” I couldn’t even see him clearly there in the dark, but I could see he held a rifle and was watching out the window.

  “Who?” Well, who was I, after all? “I’m nobody,” I said. “I’m a mountain boy who never had much but his health, some ugly memories, and a hope for the future. Back yonder,” I said, “they hung my pa for a horse thief, and a better man never lived. He wasn’t tough or mean; he was a mighty good man.”

  Sitting there in the darkness of the jail, I told the marshal about pa, and the horse business and the hanging.

  “I’ve always wanted to go back there,” I said. “I’ve wanted to go back there and show ’em.”

  “They tell me you can use a gun.”

  “I don’t want to use one in Tennessee. There isn’t anybody, anywhere, I’d want to kill. I just want to go back there and show them I’ve made good…and here I am about to get my neck stretched.”

  Just then we heard footsteps. They were slow, halting steps. A hand touched the latch, but the door was locked.

  “Marshal? Are you in there? Open up…this is Bob Tarlton.”

  The marshal opened the door, and Bob got himself through the door. He was walking with a cane, and carrying a rifle in his free hand.

  “Chancy? Are you there?” he said.

  “I’m here—and you ought to be back there in bed.”

  He dropped into the marshal’s chair, and I could hear his ragged breathing. “Let him out, Marshal.” He spoke with an effort. “I’ll stand good for him.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, the marshal unlocked the cell door. Crossing to the corner, I picked up my gun belt and slung it about my hips, then I took up the rifle. It was dark in the room, our eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, and we could dimly make out one another.

  “One thing,” I said: “that girl Queenie is in town. She could tell the truth about this if she would. She’s got no use for me, but she was there when I killed that man who was packing this gun. She saw it happen.”

  Nobody said anything. We could hear the shouts from the town, and then the sound of a door slamming. We could hear them coming, stumbling and swearing. These were the riffraff—drifters, no-accounts. I knew the type, for I had seen them before, many of them good enough men when sober, but now as a mob they were beyond reasoning, thinking only of a good man gone, and a prisoner who might get away with it.

  “Why don’t you two leave?” I suggested. “It’s me they want.”

  “We’re partners,” Tarlton said. “Remember?”

  The marshal made no reply; he merely opened the window and closed the heavy shutters, and then opened a loophole in the shutter.

  “All right, out there!” he shouted. “Turn right around and go back! There’ll be no lynching tonight!”

  They kept coming, and he fired into the ground, well ahead of them. “Back up, now!” he said loudly. “I’m not alone, and if you want a fight you can have it.”

  They stopped and stood there in the darkness, a tight knot of men, muttering among themselves.

  “Turn him out, Marshal!” one man called. “Turn him out and we’ll give him what he’s got coming!”

  “Not tonight you won’t!” It was another voice, speaking from the roof top. “I’m up here with a Colt repeatin’ shotgun, an’ I can cut your front rank down with my first two shots!”

  It was Handy Corbin—I would have known his voice anywhere. He must have brought my shotgun from camp. And he was right: at that range that shotgun would kill or maim half a dozen at each firing. It didn’t carry bird shot, but buckshot of .38 caliber.

  Bob Tarlton stood up and opened the door. “Forget it, boys. We don’t want to hurt anybody, but we’ve got an open field of fire and you wouldn’t have a chance.”

  Drunk
as they were, they knew they were up against at least three men, maybe more. Muttering, they backed off. Some of those in the front rank began to ease off, trying to put other men in front of them. Those in the rear began drifting back toward the saloon. In a few minutes the space in front of the jail was empty.

  The marshal lighted a lamp. Reluctantly, I laid my rifle on the table, then started to unbelt my pistol.

  “Hold that,” the marshal said. “You keep your rifle. I’ll need that pistol for evidence.”

  “Thanks. There’s a herd of cattle out yonder, and a long trail ahead of us. If you want me, I’ll be at the Hole-in-the-Wall. You just come up there or send a messenger and I’ll come down.…I’m not guilty of anything except defending a herd from bunch-cutters.”

  “You go ahead,” the marshal said. “I believe you, but there’ll have to be a hearing.”

  “The crime wasn’t committed in your jurisdiction, Marshal,” Tarlton said quietly, “and the story of that shooting was well known in Kansas. I’d heard it before I ever met Otis Tom Chancy.”

  We walked back toward the doctor’s office together, and we had gone fifty yards before I remembered Handy Corbin. Letting go of Tarlton, I turned to go back, but there Corbin was, only a few yards behind us.

  “You huntin’ me?” he said. “I figured to trail along an’ make sure you got home safe. You got enemies, boy.”

  “I know—I saw Kelsey and his crowd ride in.”

  We had reached the door of the doctor’s office by then. Corbin grinned at me, but his eyes were serious. “I wasn’t talking about them,” he said; “I was referring to some other folks.”

  I couldn’t figure out who he meant. He walked along a few steps and then said, “You know the railroad has men back east recruitin’ settlers—dirt farmers, most of them. They’ve promised ’em big farms, rich soil…land that’s almost for the taking. Well, they’ve convinced a lot of folks, and some of the crooked land speculators have been back there, too.