Stampede!

by Matt Chisholm

  By this time, the colonel had bitten. He listened to the tale in rising anger.

  “By God,” he exclaimed and then again, “by God.”

  “But that ain’t all, colonel,” Sloan informed him, “that’s only the start of it.”

  The colonel declared that he couldn’t believe there was more, but Sloan plowed on.

  Farther up the trail, he had warned his fellow farmers and they had turned out in what force they could to keep the Texans and their herd away from their fenced land. But the Texans had swept them aside. Not satisfied at having cleared the opposition from their road, they had pursued the Kansas men and attacked them in their homes. A woman and a child had been injured and at least three men killed. Homes had been burned.

  The colonel was appalled.

  He rose.

  “Something must be done, gentlemen,” he declared in ringing tones, “and something shall be done.”

  “I have to tell you,” Sloan said, “that this man Storm is in town and he’s dangerous.”

  That was the best thing Sloan could have said.

  The colonel bridled. He smelled physical danger. It was a challenge to his manhood.

  “We’ll soon see,” he roared, “just how dangerous this damned Texan is.”

  He reached into a drawer and produced a large Remington pistol which he thrust into the waistband of his pants. Then he reached down a double-barreled greener from the wall. When he had placed his hard hat fair and square on his head, he intoned: “We shall now call upon other responsible gentlemen of this community.”

  They trooped out of the store. Sloan was smiling calmly to himself. If he knew Storm, the man would fight. If he fought men would get killed and the chances were that one of them would be Storm.

  Will Storm was down around the cattle-pens. There was dust and the stench of cows everywhere. He had never seen so many cows in one place before in all his life. He watched men loading the animals onto the cars, tried asking the shippers if they wanted to buy cattle, but always received the same answer. He wandered back into town, worked his way through the saloons, listening to talk, approaching dealers when he spotted them, received the same answer. Everybody had bought all the cattle they could handle. His one hope was that there were apparently some cattle-buyers who had ridden onto the plains south of town in search of herds to buy. A man told him that those were the gentry he should seek out. That gave him a little hope. He decided to get on his horse and leave town in search of them.

  He walked onto the street and headed for his horse.

  It was late, the sun was going down. His horse dozed. Will was weak with hunger and only now realized that he hadn’t eaten all day. He had lost all sense of time in his search. He untied his pony and stepped into the saddle. His spirits at that moment were at their lowest ebb.

  He turned his horse.

  Only then did he notice the crowd of men.

  At their head stood a tall man with a large black drooping mustache. In his hands was a double-barreled shotgun. Will didn’t miss the fact that every man there held a weapon some sort in his hands. Most of them were shotguns.

  Beyond the tall man with the black mustache was a face he knew. It was etched indelibly on his memory. It was the face of Sloan.

  Will’s heart turned over.

  He reckoned there must be twenty men there and they were all looking at him.

  He halted his horse and waited. There wasn’t anything else he could do. He knew from their faces and Sloan’s presence that they were after his hide. If he drew or made a break for it, he could be cut to red ribbons.

  “William Storm?” the man with the black mustache said.

  “That’s me,” said Will.

  “Get down off your horse, you’re under arrest.”

  Will didn’t ask what he was being arrested for. It wouldn’t help to know. Sloan was here and he had settled his hash. He stepped down from the saddle. A man came forward and took the line from his hand and led the horse away.

  “Search him.”

  Two men came forward. His gun was lifted from its holster. His pockets were searched.

  Sloan didn’t speak nor did he do anything. He just watched Will with enormous satisfaction in his eyes.

  “Where do we take him?” a man asked.

  The man with the black mustache bellowed: “Take him to my storeroom. He won’t break out of there in a hurry.” He turned to Will. “You made a mistake, mister. You made the biggest mistake of your life. This is not Texas and you’re about to discover the fact here. There may be no constituted law here, but there’s law right enough, as you will find.” He cleared his throat. “We are here to prevent this town becoming a second Baxter Springs.” That had been the first cow town of the West, the first place where the cattlemen of Texas had met the farmers of Kansas and the farmers had won—with shotguns. An army of them had halted the northward tide of cows through south-east Kansas.

  In that moment, Will knew that his game could be up. He knew that this could end with a rope. He looked around. There were Texans within earshot, drovers who were witnessing the taking of one of their number. A man came forward, shouting angrily. A tall rangy man with a ginger mustache, his eyes excited. He carried a gun on his hip, but Will noticed he made no attempt to draw it. He would have been dead before he cleared it from leather. He made himself heard and that was all. Other men surged forward with him, but they stopped at a respectable distance from the shotguns.

  Colonel Foggee roared: “Look up the street, boys.”

  They looked up the street.

  There were more men, all sober and still, all armed. The Texans got the message. They gave out all the signs of men who would be content to stand and watch.

  Two men got a hold of Will and led him up the street. He didn’t resist them, but they pulled on him just the same. He knew that resistance on his part could start a general shooting. And that was something that was unthinkable. This street could be a shambles inside seconds.

  They led him through the line of armed men across the street around the corner and to the entrance of a store. Men crowded in behind them. He was pushed and pulled through the store to a room at the rear. He was hurled into this room and the door was slammed behind him. He heard a key turn in the lock.

  He looked around him. He was ruffled and angry. The manhandling had hurt his pride. The place he found himself in was a storeroom full of crates and sacks, piled almost to the roof. There was one small window and little light in there. He sat down on a sack of oats and put his head in his hands. What he needed now was a miracle and miracles weren’t exactly common place.

  He thought about Martha and his family and they seemed a long way off in another world.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Outside, the colonel set his guards. Bluntly, he told them that they were to open fire on any man who approached the improvised jail without authorization and they were to kill the prisoner if he tried to escape.

  He walked out onto the street and saw the Texas men gathered together outside the saloon. As they talked, they looked across to his store. In that moment, he knew a little regret that he had incarcerated the prisoner there. If it came to shooting, his store could suffer untold damage. But he trusted that it would not. The Texans were disorganized and the townspeople presented a formidable and united front. It was the shotguns that really did the trick.

  But just the same, he said to the men near him: “Watch those drovers. They could mean trouble.”

  The man said confidently: “We can handle it, colonel. They got to know once an’ for all, this is our town and we run things here.”

  “That’s the spirit,” said the colonel approvingly.

  Across the way, the ginger-haired Texan was saying: “We have to do somethin’ about this, men.”

  “But what?” a short, bandy-legged man wanted to know. “I don’t much fancy takin’ on them greeners.”

  There was a murmur of assent from the remainder. Most of them were fairly so
ber now and none of them fancied those greeners. The townsmen were under cover and they could sweep the street with impunity.

  “His outfit should ought to know about this,” Red said. “You know who he is?”

  “Sure I know who he is,” said a bald man with his front teeth missing. “That’s Will Storm of Live Oak County. Got a herd south of town.”

  “Will you ride out an’ tell ‘em?” Red demanded.

  “Sure will,” said the man. “Right this minute.”

  With that he walked away to fetch his horse. A number of other men who were bristling for a fight said they’d go along with him. If the Storm outfit were so minded as to ride into town and tree the place, why they’d ride right along with them. They all hurried to their horses and mounted. A few moments later, they swept out of town, showing their contempt for it by letting out some blood-curdling yells and, when they were clear of the shotguns, firing their belt-guns off in the air. The rest stared belligerently at the store and the men in front of it, shouted a few obscene and very Texan insults and retired into the saloon to console their hurt state pride in liquor.

  The bald-headed man, Dobie Sherring by name, led the small cavalcade to a spot about three miles south-west of town and there the riders found the herd contented on good grass. The wagon they perceived on a knoll off to one side and they swung toward it.

  To their astonishment, as they rode up, they saw that there were women at the fire. They stopped their horses in astonishment and simply gaped. In all their experience, they had never heard tell of women with a cow-outfit.

  A fair-haired woman with a strong face and clear gray eyes greeted them and bid them dismount. They looked past her at the beautiful girl standing holding the hand of a younger girl. To say they were taken aback would be to understate the case. They were flabbergasted. Confused, they pulled their hats from their unkempt heads and stepped down from the saddle. A tall man with a gun on his hip came forward, other riders lounging by the fire got to their feet. Their eyes were wary.

  Dobie Sherring appointed himself spokesman.

  “Ma’am,” he said. “Dobie Sherring’s the name. Me an’ these here fellers, we just come out from town. We belong to cow crews, ma’am.”

  The Storm riders relaxed a little. They now knew that these men were fellow-Texans.

  The tall man said: “I’m Martin Storm. This here’s Mrs. Storm.”

  Sherring moved his feet uneasily. Like many of his kind, he was awed by the presence of respectable women. He turned his hat in his hand, felt all fingers and thumbs, didn’t know quite where to look.

  “Well, sir ... ma’am . . . it’s this way. Would you be Will Storm’s lady?”

  Suddenly, there was alarm in those gray eyes.

  “I am indeed,” Martha said.

  “I got bad ... I mean, I got news that ain’t too good, no matter which way you look at it,” Sherring said.

  He looked around for support.

  The big hand with the ginger mustache said: “No wish to alarm you, ma’am. But . . . well, I reckon your man’s been took.”

  Martha was really alarmed now.

  Mart Storm said: “Shoot, man. Let’s have it.”

  Between them, interrupting each other and turning to each other for support Sherring and the red-head told their story. There were supporting murmurs from the other Texans.

  The Storm riders joined the group.

  Mart asked: “Was there a very big man, feller with his arm in a sling, dark complected with a black beard around?”

  Sherring frowned, thinking. Then his face lightened.

  “Sure,” he said. “He didn’t say nothin’, but he was there all right. Wasn’t he there, men?”

  Sure, they agreed, he was there.

  Meredith Quintin spoke up: “What’re we waitin’ around here for? Let’s ride, Mart.”

  “Take it easy,” said Mart.

  “He’s right,” Manning Oaks said, sticking out his unshaven chin. “This calls for a war-party. We can raise a hundred men from the other outfits. Two hundred. That little ole town don’t stand a chance.”

  “Softly does it,” said Mart.

  “We’re here to side you,” said red-head.

  “Listen to Mart,” Martha said. She was trembling a little, but her mouth was firm. She looked around at Kate for support and Kate came to her side. The red-head blushed.

  Mart said: “We’re grateful, men, we sure are. But let me handle this my way. This is my line of country.”

  Dobie Sherring was staring at him.

  “Mart Storm,” he said and there was some awe in his voice. “I thought that name . . . mister, you ain’t the Mart Storm?”

  “I reckon,” Mart said.

  The men looked at him anew. This was Mart Storm who had given the blue-bellies a run for their money. Broken out of jail. Fast gun. Out of their class. They were ready to listen.

  “I’ll try it my way. Maybe I can get Will quietly outa town, no bones broken. We all ride in there, why that’s war. They could call in the army. These Yankees are rearing to go against us.”

  “He’s right,” said Martha.

  “Sure,” Sherring said. “He’s right. But heck . . . that town’s full of greeners, mister. A mouse couldn’t git in that there store.”

  “I’ll make my try tonight,” Mart said. “If’n I don’t pull it off, I’ll come yellin’ for help. All right. Just the same,” he added after a little thought, “I could do with some help.”

  He started talking. They listened. When he finished, their faces were bright with delight. His proposal appealed to them. They’d sure shake those damned Yankees up a mite. And no bones broken, no Texas bones, any road. Mrs. Storm offered them food, they declined politely and went to their horses. They headed back for town.

  Manning Oaks said: “You ain’t doin’ it alone, Mart. I’m comin’ along.”

  Mart said coldly: “You didn’t git an invite.”

  Martha said: “You can’t go alone, Mart. Let some of the boys come along.”

  “No,” Mart said, “it’s better my way.”

  There was some more argument, tempers rose a little, but there was no changing Mart’s mind. He was in charge while Will was gone and what he said went. Curtly, he asked for somebody to catch up a horse for Will. He’d need something fast that could stay. George picked up a rope and headed for the remuda.

  Some fifteen minutes later, Mart rode out of camp riding his favorite gray and leading a tough-looking little bay. The horse and saddle that had taken Will into town would have to be abandoned.

  As he rode, Mart hummed a little tune to himself. This was sure his line of country.

  When he reached the town, the place was going full blast. Nobody took any heed of a man riding down the street leading a riderless horse. Sherring had given him a good description of the town, the position of the store where Will was jailed, but Mart wanted to see for himself. He was a strange mixture of recklessness and carefulness. Both in their turn had been the means of staying alive.

  He rode past the store and gave it a careful once over, noted the armed men on the street and didn’t doubt that there were more inside. He knew nothing about the rear of the place, but he would make that lack good before he started. If there was a door around there, maybe that was the way to get in. Whether Will was bound or not would make a difference. He would have to play a lot of this by ear.

  He turned around and went back until he reached the railroad tracks. He followed these along and found himself, or so he thought, somewhere to the rear of the store. He entered a street that seemed to be composed mostly of brothels. He could see half-naked women at the lighted windows; there were drunken men on the street. He hoped that his two horses wouldn’t be lifted. That was a chance he had to take. But there were other horses tied up and down the street and if he and Will were pushed they could help themselves to two of those. A man could get himself shot doing that, but the lead would most likely be flying, any road.

  After s
ome searching he found what he was pretty sure was the back of the store. There was a small loading platform there and a door. So far so good. Mart stood leaning idly against a wall like any drunk would and waited for his eyes to become accustomed to full dark. After a while he perceived a man standing to the rear of the building with a gun in his hands. That was one who would have to be dealt with. At the side of the store, to the right of him, was a short alley. At the other end of it, Mart could see the lights of the street beyond.

  Behind him some revelers went by, singing.

  Farther off some happy man fired his gun into the air several times.

  Mart walked down a block, made his way onto the street on which the store stood and walked past it on the other side of the street. There were four men outside now. Some had gone off to their beds. That was a little better. He walked into the saloon and there found Dobie Sherring and his friends. He was greeted warmly and accepted the drink thrust into his hand. He drank the liquor gratefully and felt its warmth plunge through his system. He talked for a little while and they leaned their heads toward him. He was offered another drink and declined it. He wanted a clear head.

  “Well, boys,” he said, “I’ll maybe not see you again. So you have my thanks. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  They shook his hand and he left.

  He didn’t hurry. He checked the time with his watch and slowly circled through the town till he was at the rear of the store again. He waited ten minutes and in that time, the guard was changed. The new man walked up and down just like a soldier with his shotgun on his shoulder.

  Mart waited.

  He found that he was very calm just as he always was when there was anything like this on hand.

  He was starting to get a little impatient when he heard what he had been waiting for.

  “Fire.”

  He grinned briefly to himself.

  He heard the cry again and again. Fire was the great fear in towns of this kind. Dry as tinder, the frame houses could spread fire like sun-dried prairie grass. He could feel the panic rushing through the town like a live thing as he waited there. The behavior of the guard at the rear of the store was laughable. He ran toward Mart, halted, stood irresolute torn between his duty and his inclination. Beyond him, Mart could hear men on the move. Behind him booted feet sounded on the street. Behind him, too, there was a red glow in the sky. Flames licked above the roof tops. The boys had started the fire right in the heart of the red light district.