Stampede!

by Matt Chisholm

  He came to the dip in the ground above the camp-site and there was the wagon. His horse came to a slithering halt and he was out of the saddle running before the animal stopped.

  A woman screamed: “No, no, go back, Will.”

  He saw Martha.

  There was a dark shape immediately behind her. An arm encircled her. It was a man.

  He halted.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A man’s voice came out of the gloom. “We’ve got your women, Storm.”

  He didn’t know what to do. He was helpless, hogtied. He had never been more helpless in his life.

  A man walked forward, a big man, with one arm still at his side. He knew it was Sloan with his wounded arm. Vaguely, he wondered how many men he had with him, what chances he had. Dark shapes came from behind the wagon. He counted them. There were four men all told. Kate and Melissa were there.

  Sloan reached him.

  “Drop your gun on the ground,” the man said.

  Will took his gun from leather and tossed it away.

  Sloan said: “I told you I’d come back.”

  Will stood there, still, fearful, not for himself, but for the women. Melissa was saying: “Papa, I’m scared. I don’t like these men.”

  Will said: “All right, Sloan. Anything you want—just so’s you let them go.”

  Sloan laughed. The sound was fruity and full.

  “I’ve got what I want. Everythin’. The women an’ the cattle. You was a damn fool, Storm. You shoulda let me cut the herd. But you was greedy. That’s the trouble with you honest men—you’re all greedy.”

  “My men’re out there,” Will said. “You won’t have it all your own way.”

  “They won’t do nothin’—not with me holdin’ the women. You’ll see to that.”

  Will tried to calm himself, to steady his voice. He tried to make it sound matter-of-fact when he said: “So what happens now?”

  Sloan chuckled.

  “This is the good bit,” he said. This what I really came back for. I pay you for the lead in my arm.”

  Will raised his eyes and looked at him.

  The giant was grinning, his eyes were ferocious in the moonlight. He raised his left hand and Will saw that he held a quirt in it. Will watched, fascinated. He saw the blow coming and seemed to be able to do nothing about it. The loaded butt of the whip struck him across the nose. He staggered back, his eyes welling with involuntary tears. Sloan hit him again. Something ripped loose inside Will and he hurled himself at the big man. He heard Sloan laugh and heard the laugh cut short as his bony fist smashed into the fleshy face.

  Sloan cursed and kicked.

  Will felt a red hot agony sear through his loins and the next moment he found himself on his back in the dust and could hear a woman screaming on and on.

  He tried to get to his feet and a great fist smashed into his face. He was weeping with rage now, paralyzed by the pain in his groin.

  He heard a man yell: “Kill him, Hank.”

  He didn’t doubt that he was near death. It didn’t seem to matter. He was beyond fear now. He got to his hands and knees, demanded effort from his will and staggered to his feet. His hand fumbled for his knife at the back of his belt, he searched around for Sloan, half-blinded with pain, found the great bulk of the man and went forward in a staggering charge.

  Sloan wasn’t there.

  Something struck him hard on the side of his head and he was down again, his mouth filled with dust. Somebody was laughing. He’d cut that God-damn laugh out of him . . . Spitting out dust, he tried to will himself to his feet again, but his body wouldn’t respond.

  Somebody was holding him and weeping. He knew that it was Martha and he wondered how the hell she had gotten there.

  He heard a sound, sharp, biting. It came again and again. A man’s voice was raised. Martha was holding his head against her breasts. There was a violent motion around him, his senses reeled and he tried to get a grip on himself.

  Then he passed out.

  Somebody was pouring water down his throat and he thought he’d choke on it. He protested, then he liked the coolness of the water and he started swallowing it avidly.

  A man said: “He’s all right, Martha, he’s all right.”

  He opened his eyes and saw the height of a man above him. He knew that it was Mart. Good old Mart.

  He was lying on the ground with something under his head. Martha was kneeling by him.

  Where were the men? Where was Sloan?

  He tried to sit up and pain knifed through him. He cursed the weakness of his body.

  “The kids,” he said.

  Martha’s voice— “Melissa’s here.”

  “Kate?”

  Suddenly, Martha was on her feet and he heard terror in her voice— “Kate.”

  Mart’s voice rumbled.

  “They took her, Will.”

  He struggled to sit up and this time he managed it. His hands were shaking as if he had no power over them. Kate. Mart was hauling him to his feet. He leaned on his brother. Damn these hands of his.

  “Get after them,” he said.

  “No chance tonight,” Mart said.

  Rage consumed him. He yelled his curses at his brother, wanting to strike him, but not having the strength. That was his daughter out there with those men. He could hear Martha weeping from sheer terror and he cursed her too. He tried to reach his horse, still standing where he had left it, ground-hitched, but he fell on his face before he got there. He lay on his face, conquered by the weakness of his body.

  How he got through those few hours till dawn he would never know. He sat cold and still with his back against a wagon-wheel with nothing in his mind but Kate. Then, in the first light of dawn Martha came to him with hot coffee and the look on her face brought him a little to his senses. It came to him that she was suffering in the same way he was. Then he couldn’t see how he could have been so unfeeling. Contrition went through him. He touched her face with his horny hand and patted the ground beside him.

  “Melissa?” he asked.

  “Asleep in the wagon.”

  “Good. I’ll get Kate back for you, Martha,” he said. “Never you fear. I’ll get her back.”

  “I know you will,” she said, but he could see from her face that she didn’t believe it. She was seeing the same picture as he was. They’d find her body in a gully, used and dead. The thought of it made him want to vomit. He tried to get the picture from the eyes of his mind, but he couldn’t. He was filled with a paralyzing horror.

  Mart came and squatted in front of him.

  Will looked at his brother. For the first time, he saw Mart not as a boy, the younger brother. He saw him now for what he was, a grim-faced man, tired to the bone, pushing through to his middle years.

  “Some of the boys came in,” he said.

  Will tried to tell himself that it was his duty to think of the men. He was responsible for them. They looked to him.

  “They all right?” he asked.

  He knew they all hadn’t come in. Some of them might still be out there with the cows, some of them might be dead.

  “Joe’s here,” Mart said.

  “Our boys—Clay, Jody, George.”

  “Clay’s here. They winged him, but it ain’t too bad, Manning Oaks come in all bloody. Got creased, but he can ride.”

  Will got a grip on the spokes of the wheel and tried to get himself to his feet. Mart rose to help him, but he snarled: “Leave me be.” He stood crouched forward a little because his groin still pained him.

  “Clay stays with the wagon,” he said. “You, Joe and Mannin’—you come with me.”

  “You goin’ after ‘em?” Mart asked.

  “What you think?”

  “We need more men.”

  Will said: “It’s Sloan that’s goin’ to need more men. Do we have fresh horses?”

  “That’s about all we do have.”

  They brought him a stocky dun, a stayer and that pleased him. He looked at Mar
tha and she tried to smile. Clay stood there with his left arm in a bloody sling and wanted to come along too, but Will waved him aside.

  “Food in the wallets?” he asked. Mart nodded. “Joe, go find their sign.” Joe mounted and rode out. “Ammunition?”

  “Not enough,” Mart said.

  That couldn’t be helped. If they had to finish this with their bare hands they would. No longer did he care about his men’s lives, no longer did they seem his responsibility. Now there was only Kate, somewhere out there in danger.

  He stepped into the saddle. The dun stirred under him. He thought of his sons out there to the north and wondered if they were alive.

  He lifted the lines and walked the horse out of camp, looking for Joe, wondering if he had hit sign right off. But he saw that Joe had gotten no more than fifty yards. The time element was all wrong; his thoughts and his mental measurements were all mixed up. He wished to God he could clear his muzzy head. The pain that still knifed through his groin seemed to impede his thought.

  When he caught up with the Negro, he said: “For Christ sake hurry it up, Joe.”

  Joe did no more than turn his eyes on him for a moment. Nothing would hurry him. There was only one way to be sure of sign and that was his way in his own sweet time. Will looked around. Manning Oaks sat his sorrel, patient, waiting, a bloody rag around his head, peeking out from under his hat. Mart watched Joe. Could the four of them do it? Could four men ride down a bunch of murderous jayhawkers? Could they get Kate from them before they killed her? It was going to take all the skill and cunning they had in them. They would have to be bloody and ruthless. That was one thing in his favor, he told himself. He wouldn’t have any qualms. He would do anything to these men that had to be done and his conscience wouldn’t pain him one title.

  Waiting, he filled his pipe and fired it. The tobacco tasted like burning straw, but he persisted. Joe was circling slowly, eyes to the ground.

  Finally, he straightened up and gave a low call, beckoning them to him with a wave of his hand. They urged their horses forward.

  “They’s a mess of sign,” Joe said. “They come in and they went out this way. But I reckon I got ‘em to rights. Won’t be too hard for a while. They was in an almighty hurry. Later maybe they’ll try to hide it. But you can’t hide much in this plains country. We’ll have ‘em, boss, don’t you fret.”

  “Get on,” said Will.

  They set off south, Joe in the lead like a sniffing hound.

  Will’s mind started with his thoughts, putting himself in the places of the fleeing men. He knew that flight was faster than pursuit. Always was and always would be. The fleeing men knew where they were going, it stood to reason. The pursuit had to smell around and that took time. But maybe the situation wasn’t too bad. Like Joe said you couldn’t hide too much in this plains country. It was wide open and you could go on forever without finding good cover. Or that was the impression Will had. Before the day was out, he would know for sure. Whatever happened, they must come up with Sloan before he halted and had the chance to do Kate some harm.

  The thoughts went further, ticking over in time to the jogging of the dun.

  Sloan would have to stop pretty soon. The whole purpose of his actions was to gain possession of the herd. Therefore at one point his speed must slow itself to the speed of the herd. Kate was the negotiating price.

  As he rode, pictures came into his mind of Kate through the years and it seemed, for the first time, that he saw the girl as an individual in her own right. He saw her as a little girl on the day he had gone off to war. And she had cried because her mother had cried. He saw her forking her first horse. He saw her growing up strong and capable like a boy. Yet she had never ceased to be very much a girl, she had never failed to be feminine. In spite of her strength she had always been extraordinarily gentle, thoughtful of others. He prevented his mind from going on, or tried to. He was becoming maudlin.

  Then a sudden terrible terror went through him again and he saw himself failing to save her, saw her dead and the horror was so great that he had to look around him with a new brightness so that he could wash out the picture in his mind’s eye.

  Mile after mile, the horses swung across the prairie, the dun going at a mile-eating fox-trot, tireless. He didn’t know for how many miles they kept the pace and always Joe was there in the lead confident that he was following the right trail, never slackening till noon when they stopped at water where the men they were following had stopped.

  Will slipped from the dun and eased the girth.

  “Joe,” he said, “how much can you tell? Did anything happen here?”

  Joe blinked at him.

  “No, man,” he said. “They didn’t stop no longer than it took the hosses to drink. They sure was in a hurry.”

  Will felt relief and hoped that Joe was telling him the truth.

  Mart and Manning Oaks looked dead on their feet.

  As soon as men and horses had relieved their thirst, Will got them on the move again. Once more they swung across the vast sea of grass, pounding through the heat, watching the shimmer of the heat that sent the horizon into crazy shapes, seeing the pools of water that weren’t there, the clumps of trees that existed only in their minds.

  Then suddenly, the country changed. It did it without warning. They were on the shallow roll of the shoulder of land before they were aware of it.

  Instinct told Will to stop.

  “Joe,” he called.

  The Negro turned in the saddle and Will signed to him. Joe turned and rode back to him.

  “What do you make of it?”

  Joe held a hand up for silence.

  “Hear that?”

  They all listened, holding their breath.

  Distantly, they heard a faint sound.

  “Cows,” Manning Oaks said.

  “Stay here,” Will told them, “I’m goin’ ahead to have a look around.” He borrowed Mart’s glass and rode slowly ahead, wary and watchful.

  The ground now seemed to roll away from beneath him. There was a chance that he could be seen from miles off. The buffalo grass swept away for as far as the eye could see. He turned east, his eye caught by a faint almost imperceptible movement.

  There was a gray wisp, threading its way on the hot air. Again he thought he heard a cow bawl. Again the movement. He stopped his horse and put Mart’s glass to his eye.

  He saw them then. At first, he thought they were cows, but on more careful inspection, he saw they were buffalo. And yet he could have sworn that the sound that had reached his ears had come from a longhorn.

  He put the glass on the smoke, followed it down to its source. Now his eye picked out more movement, small moving dots. Men. The rays of the sun hit something that glittered.

  He dismounted from the dun in case he showed above the skyline and kept his glass fixed on the small moving objects. His mind returned to Kate, dwelling on her more closely than it had ever done before.

  He had been wrong over the girl. The neighbors had thought him crazy to allow her to grow up like a boy. They had been deeply shocked that he had allowed her to ride astride like a man. Her wearing pants on the trail had shocked the men. He could see that now. Had he lowered his daughter in their eyes?

  Had he been a self-opinionated fool? Had he ruined his daughter by allowing her such extreme freedom? If he ever got her back . . . things would be different.

  What did he mean— “if”?

  If she was anywhere in this accursed country, he would have her back with her mother again.

  Something was moving in the north.

  He swung the glass.

  Now he was sure of what he was looking at. This moving mass was cattle with their escort of riders. They were longhorns. Were they his?

  They were moving faster than he would have driven them and they were moving toward the spiraling smoke. He prayed that Sloan was down there. He prayed that Kate was still unharmed. One part of the situation demanded that he should move with exquisite ca
ution, another part demanded that he move quickly.

  He put the glass over the country carefully again, looking for landmarks, searching out cover. Directly to the south, he found what he wanted. A dark line that denoted a riverbed, timber. Cover. It wound its way east, would maybe give them cover to come near the smoke. But what if it wasn’t Sloan down there? He would be wasting precious time, exposing Kate to the animals down there longer than she need be.

  Keep your head, man. Stay cool. How the hell could you stay cool with a young daughter placed as she was?

  He put the glass away and walked over the shoulder of the land, leading the dun behind him, dragging his booted feet through the heavy clumps of buffalo grass.

  They were all watching him as he approached them.

  “It could be the ones we want,” he said. “I don’t know. We have to take a chance. They have a fire goin’. There’s a crick over yonder. Timber. That’ll give us cover.”

  “I’ll scout some,” Joe said.

  “Sure, go ahead. Work your way back a mite, case you git spotted.”

  Joe got to his feet and led his horse away. They started after him, watched him swing up into the saddle and ride on south, going down to the black line of the water-course. After a while, they lost him.

  When they had ridden a mile to the creek, they found buffalo down there. Will didn’t doubt that they had been split from the main herd by the movement of men and cattle on the plain. The poor-sighted animals lumbered away south at the approach of the horsemen. Will hoped that the movement hadn’t been spotted by the men to the east, but he thought there was little chance of that, for the distance was great.

  They stopped at the creek amongst the trees, watered their horses, drank a little themselves and washed their faces with the cool liquid. It seemed to revive their tired bodies a little. They didn’t talk. They followed the water east, twisting and turning with it, the earthy walls of the gorge rearing high on either hand of them, overgrown with brush and trees, the skylight showing high above them. As they went forward the air became cold and dank. They couldn’t help shivering slightly.