Talon & Chantry 07 - North To The Rails (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  Slowly, the tension left him. The smell of the piñons and juniper, the coolness and quiet of the day, the slow circling of far-off buzzards, the cloud shadows on the hills began to soak into his being and left him rested and at peace. When he mounted up and started on once more, he was at one with the land.

  His first desire had been to get away from Las Vegas, but now that he was away he knew his best bet would have been to ride north toward Mora and thence to Cimarron, where there would be a lot of cattle.

  He reached the Santa Fe Trail again near Glorieta, skirted Santa Fe, and took the trail for Taos. The way he had left Las Vegas rankled. He did not like being considered a coward, and he did not believe he was one, but a good many people would believe so.

  But that was behind him. Once in Cimarron, he would buy the cattle, drive them to the railhead, and within a few hours after that he would be on his way back to Doris.

  Doris…

  He took his time. He camped when the mood was on him, and rode on again when he grew restless; when possible, he avoided the main trail.

  He was somewhere south of E-Town when he heard the horse. It was coming fast, and he pulled over to be out of the way.

  The horse was a blaze-faced roan, and it was carrying double. The riders pulled up when they saw him.

  “Howdy there, stranger! Comin’ fer?”

  “Santa Fe,” he replied.

  They were young, rough-looking, and one man had a bandaged arm.

  “See many folks on the trail?”

  “Nobody.”

  “You’ll likely see some. By this time there’s a-plenty of folks headin’ our way. We was in a shootin’ back yonder in Elizabethtown. Hank got himself winged and got his hoss kilt right under him. Good hoss, too.”

  “Bud,” Hank said, “you notice somethin’ peculiar? This gent ain’t wearin’ no gun.”

  “Rough country,” Bud commented. “If’n I was you, mister, I’d wear a gun. You never know who you’ll meet up with.”

  Chantry shrugged. “I don’t wear a gun. If you’ll pardon my saying so, I think guns lead to trouble.”

  “You hear that, Bud? He ain’t wearin’ no gun.”

  “Maybe guns do lead to trouble,” Bud said seriously, “but they’s times when not wearin’ one will.” Suddenly he held a pistol. “Git down off that hoss, mister.”

  “Now see here! I—”

  “You git down off that hoss or I’ll shoot you off, an’ I ain’t goin’ to tell you again.”

  Hank was grinning at him, his lean, unshaven face taunting. “He’ll do it, too, stranger. Bud here’s kilt four men. He’s one up on me.”

  “There’s no need for this,” Chantry said. “I’ve done you no harm.”

  He felt the sting of the nicked ear and then heard the blast of the pistol, although probably everything happened at once—the stab of flame, the report, the flash of pain from his ear.

  “Mister, I ain’t a-talkin’ just to hear the wind blow. You git down.”

  Slowly, carefully, Tom Chantry swung down from his horse. Inwardly he was seething, but he was frightened, too. The man had meant to kill him.

  Hank quickly dropped from his seat in back of Bud and swung up on Chantry’s horse. With a wild, derisive yell they rode off, and he stood in the trail staring after them.

  The place where they had come upon him was among scattered trees, but before him the country opened wide. It was high, lonely country, and ice still lay in the lake beside the trail. As far as he could see there was nothing—no house, no animal, no man. But he was alive. Had he been wearing a gun they might have killed him…or he might have killed one of them.

  An hour later he was still alone, still in wide, open country, but he seemed to be a little nearer the mountains that rimmed the high basin.

  That man had not missed by intention. He had wanted to kill. He had meant to kill. It was a shocking thing, an unreal thing. Chantry had held no weapon, had made no threatening gesture, and yet the men who had stolen his horse and his outfit would have killed him…and could have.

  Would they have robbed him had he been armed? His mind refused to acknowledge the thought, but there was that doubt, that uncertainty. Had he been armed they might have tried to get the drop on him, to take his gun, and then rob him.

  Suddenly he saw a thin, distant spiral of dust. It drew nearer and nearer, dissolved into a dozen hard-riding men. They drew up, the dust swirling around them.

  “Did you see two men?” one of them asked. “Two men on one horse?”

  “They are on two horses now. They stole mine at gun point.”

  “You mean you let ’em have it? Those were the Talrim boys…they murdered a man back yonder, and it ain’t the first.”

  “I had no choice. I wasn’t armed.”

  They stared at him. The bearded man shrugged. “This here’s no country to travel without a weapon.” He turned in his saddle. “Tell you what you do.” He pointed. “Over the hill yonder—maybe three miles—there’s a shack and a corral. You’ll find a couple of horses there.

  “You take one of them and ride on to Cimarron. Leave a note on the table in there…that’s the Andress cabin and the old man will understand. You can leave the horse for him in Cimarron, or just turn him loose. He’ll go home.”

  And then they were gone, and he was alone on the road, with the dust of the posse drifting around him.

  It was coming on to sundown when he reached the Andress cabin and caught up one of the horses he found there. There was no saddle, but he had ridden bareback before this. He twisted a hackamore from some rope and mounted up.

  Then, remembering the note, he swung down, tied the horse, and went inside the cabin. It was still and bare—a table, two chairs, a bunk in a corner, a few dog-eared magazines, and some old books. It was neat, everything was in its place.

  He sat down and, searching in vain for paper, finally took an envelope from his pocket and scratched a brief note on the back with a pencil he carried. He weighted the note down with a silver dollar to pay for the use of the horse, pulled the door shut after him, mounted again, and rode out on the trail to Cimarron.

  His face itched and, putting up a hand, he found there was dried blood from the nicked ear. He rubbed it away, then felt gingerly of the ear. The bleeding had stopped, but the ear was very tender. Moistening his handkerchief at his lips, he carefully wiped the dried blood away from the ear.

  That had been a narrow escape. It was pure luck that the shot had not killed him, and pure whim on the part of Bud Talrim that he had not fired a second shot to better effect.

  Tom Chantry shuddered…it was the same sudden reaction one has that usually draws the remark, “Somebody just stepped on your grave.”

  He might have been dead, and he might have been robbed, leaving no identification, with nothing to tell who he was or why he was here. It was appalling to consider how close he had come to an utterly useless death and a nameless grave. Back home nobody would ever have known what happened to him.

  He made his decision then. He was going to get out of this country, and he was going to get out by the first stage, the very first train. He was going back east and he was going to stay there and live in a civilized community.

  Since the shocking death of his father there had been no violence in his life. He had grown up first in a small New England village, going to school, fishing along the streams, hunting rabbits, squirrels, and then deer. He had gone to church, and had taken for granted the well-dressed, quiet-talking people, the neat streets, the well-ordered little town.

  He had been aware of the town officials, the local constable, and the talk of courts and trials. He knew the town had a jail, although it was rarely occupied by more than an occasional drunk. Later, in New York, the police had been more obvious. There were fire companies, and workmen to repair damage to the streets.

  With these memories in his mind, he had also been conscious now for several minutes of the drum of a horse’s hoofs on the trail behind hi
m. He turned to see a rider on a bay horse—the very bay he had seen in the Andress corral when he caught up the horse he was riding. The rider was a tall, straight old man with a white mustache and clear blue eyes.

  “Howdy, Chantry!” he called. “I’m Luke Andress. No need to leave that dollar. In this country if a man needs a horse all he needs to do is let a body know.”

  “Thank you.” Briefly, Tom Chantry explained.

  “Murderers,” Andress said; “savages. But you ought to carry a gun. If you’d had a gun they’d never have tried it…not to your face, anyway. Those Talrims are back-shootin’ murderers. At least, those two are.”

  “Do you think the posse will catch them?”

  “Them? No, they won’t—not by a durned sight. Those Talrims are a bad lot, but they’re mountain men. With two horses under them and what grub you had they’ll lose themselves in the mountains west of here. They’re better than Injuns when it comes to runnin’ an’ hidin’.”

  Andress glanced at him. “You figuring on ranchin’ it?”

  “No, I came out to buy cattle, and after what’s happened in the last few days I can’t get out of here fast enough.”

  Andress was silent as they rode on for a short distance, and then he said, “It’s a good country, Chantry. It’s like any country when it’s young and growin’. It attracts the wild spirits, the loose-footed. Some of them settle down and become mighty good citizens, but there’s always the savages. You have ’em back east, too.”

  “Not like here.”

  “Just like here…only you’ve got an organized society, a police department, and law courts. The bad actor there knows he ain’t goin’ to get far if he starts cuttin’ up. Folks won’t stand for it. But you walk down the street back there and you can figure maybe two out of every five folks you pass are savages. They may not even know it themselves, but once the law breaks down you’d find out fast enough. First they’d prey on the peaceful ones, then on each other…it’s jungle law, boy, and don’t you forget it.

  “Out here there’s nothin’ but local law, and a man can be as mean as he wants to until folks catch up with him, or until he meets some bigger, tougher man. This is raw country; the good folks are good because it’s their nature, and the bad can run to meanness until somebody fetches them up the short. That’s why you’d better arm yourself. If you’re goin’ to be in this country you’ll need a gun.”

  “Guns lead to trouble.”

  “Well,” Andress said dryly, “I can see where not havin’ a gun led you to trouble.” He paused a moment. “The thieves and the killers are goin’ to have guns, so if the honest men don’t have ’em they just make it easier for the vicious. But you hold to your way of thinkin’, boy, if you’ve a mind to. It’s your way, and you got a right to it.”

  Cimarron showed up ahead, lights appearing, although it was not yet dark.

  “Go to the St. James,” Andress said. “There are some cattlemen there almost every night. They come in to play cards, or to set around and talk. You’ll find some cattle, but if you’re not goin’ to carry a gun you’d better talk soft and stay clear of whiskey.”

  A room, a bath, and a good dinner made a lot of difference. Tom Chantry stood before the mirror and combed his dark hair, then he straightened his tie and shrugged his coat into a neater set on his shoulders.

  Now for business…a thousand head of steers and the crew to drive them to the railhead. With any kind of luck he could be on the train for New York within a matter of a few days.

  The saloon at the St. James was not crowded, for the hour was early, but it was at this hour that most of the business was conducted by the clientele. The western saloon, Tom Chantry knew, was more than merely a drinking room; it was a clearing house for information as to trails, grazing conditions, Indian attitudes, and business and political considerations generally.

  At the bar Tom introduced himself to Henry Lambert, who owned the St. James. Lambert had once been chef at the White House, brought there originally by Grant, for he had cooked for Grant during part of the war.

  “I am interested in buying cattle, Mr. Lambert. My name is Tom Chantry. If you know of anyone—”

  “Mr. Chantry”—Lambert’s face had stiffened slightly at the name—“I do know of cattle that might be for sale, but I would not advise you to buy them.”

  Surprised, Tom turned toward him. “Would you mind telling me why? Buying cattle is why I came to Cimarron.”

  “Mr. Chantry, I am a Frenchman, but I have become acquainted with the customs here. To buy the cattle would be easy, but you must get them to the railroad. I do not believe you could hire the men to do it.”

  “You mean there aren’t any? At this time of year?”

  “There are men, but they would not work for you, Mr. Chantry. I hope you will not take offense, for I am only telling you what is true. You see, there are no secrets in the West, and there has been talk, here in this bar, about how you failed to meet Dutch Akin.”

  “But what has that to do with hiring a crew?”

  “Mr. Chantry, it is a long, hard drive from here to the end of the track. Much of it is through country where roving bands of Cheyenne, Comanche, and Kiowa may be found, and the Arapahoes too, I think. It is a hard country, without much water, with danger of sandstorms, stampedes, and other troubles. Men do not want to trust themselves to the leadership of a man whose courage is in question.”

  Tom Chantry felt himself turn cold. He stared at the cup of coffee before him for several minutes before he spoke. “Mr. Lambert,” he said finally, “I am not a coward. I simply do not believe in carrying guns, and I do not believe in killing.”

  Lambert shrugged. “I do not believe in killing either, and yet a dozen men have died in this very room, died with guns in their hands.*

  “There is too much killing, yet the fact remains, that we live in a wild country, and one relatively lawless; and no man is willing to attempt a cattle drive that may demand the utmost in courage, with a man whose courage is suspect.”

  When Chantry spoke his voice was hoarse. “Thank you, Mr. Lambert,” he said.

  He sat alone, staring at the coffee as it grew cold in the cup.

  Chapter 3

  *

  AFTER A SHORT time the depression left him. He would not be defeated. If there were cattle for sale he meant to buy them and, somehow or other, get them to market.

  Luckily the Talrim boys had not thought to rob him of anything but his horse and his outfit. That was what they needed, and the thought of going through his pockets had not occurred to them. He still had his letter of credit and the money he had been carrying.

  He was considering his next move when Luke Andress came over to the table, carrying a beer. “Mind if I sit down?”

  “Please do.”

  “Had any luck?”

  “No. And from what Lambert tells me I couldn’t get the hands to drive a herd if I bought one.”

  “So what are you goin’ to do?”

  He considered that for a moment, and then said, “Mr. Andress, I am going to buy cattle, and I am going to drive them through if I have to do it myself…alone.”

  Andress chuckled. “You may have to, but I’ll tell you what. See that big gent over there at the bar? The one with the elk’s tooth on his watch chain? He’s got maybe five or six hundred head you could buy. Lee Dauber has eight or nine hundred head. I think you can dicker for ’em.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Now here’s another thing. See that tall, good-lookin’ fellow at the table yonder? That’s French Williams. He’d sell you beef…he’ll have seven or eight hundred head, but you’d better leave ’em alone.”

  “Why?”

  “French is a mighty peculiar man. He’s a smilin’, easy-talkin’, friendly man…almighty friendly. He sells a lot of beef, one time or another. He must have some uncommonly good bulls, because judgin’ by the amount of beef he sells each cow must be havin’ three calves.”

  “I don’t want any brand
s that could be questioned.”

  “Nobody will question French’s brand. Anyway, he never puts a brand on anything that’s ever been branded before.”

  Andress turned his beer stein on the table and said, “Boy, I don’t know why, but I like you. What I’ve told you about French could get me killed.”

  “I won’t repeat it.”

  They sat silent for several minutes and then Tom Chantry said, “I know what I am going to do.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to buy cattle from those men if they will sell, and then I am going to hire French Williams to take them through for me.”

  Luke Andress stared at him, then began to chuckle. “Boy, you’ve got nerve, I’ll say that for you! But you be careful of French! He won’t go into any deal unless he figures to come out ahead.”

  There was no use wasting time. If the word had gotten around, they all knew he had backed out of a fight with Dutch Akin, and the only thing left for him was either to skip the country or take the bull by the horns. He got up, excused himself to Andress, and walked across the room.

  Two men sat with French Williams, and they all looked up when he stopped at their table.

  “French Williams? I am Tom Chantry.”

  French looked up lazily. “I’ve heard of you.”

  “Then they have told you that I backed down for Dutch Akin. The simple facts of the case are that I haven’t time to go around shooting every Tom, Dick, and Harry who wants to get drunk and start a fight. I came here to buy cattle. I hear that you and some of these other gentlemen have cattle for sale. I’ve also been told that I’ll never be able to hire a crew to take my herd to the railhead. But I don’t believe it.

  “I want to buy what cattle you have for sale, and I’ll pay cash for them. I will also buy whatever cattle are for sale by any of the other gentlemen in this room on the same terms.”

  “And how do you figure to get them to market?” French had scarcely moved. He was sitting back in his chair, staring up at Chantry, cool and calculating, almost insolent.