Chancy (1968) (7 page)

A man came out of a saloon up the street and staggered off. Somewhere I heard a door slam, and there was the tinpanny 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 tinpanny 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 cross-draw, 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 cross-draw 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 red-headed 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.

When we rode up to the herd Noah Gates was the only one in sight. He glanced from me to the riders following, and he asked, "You come for the rest of your cows?"

"Uh-huh." I hung one knee around the saddle horn. "What are you figuring on doing, Mr. Gates?" I asked.

When they saw we were acting friendly, the others began to appear. My boys had scattered out a little, putting themselves in good shape for a fight if need be--a fight with the oldsters, or with Kelsey if he showed up.

Gates chewed on his mustache. "We ain't decided. Some of us want to sell out here and now, but some want to drive on west, hunting for that green valley yonder."

"You've got about fifty head of yearlings in there," I said. "I'll buy them off you five dollars a head, cash on the line."

"Five dollars? I hear tell you got sixteen."

"Maybe so ... but they were full-grown steers. You won't get far selling yearlings--there's a glut on the market of everything right now. I want some breeding stock."

The upshot of it was that I made myself a deal at six dollars a head, and it was good young stuff that I bought. We cut out the best of them, strong enough to stand the drive west--and the winter to follow, I hoped. Over the fire Noah Gates told us the story about Queenie. She had come out from town, riding alone, and she had made an offer for the herd, a very small offer. When they refused to sell, she had threatened them. Gates had profited by my advice and they had forted up, and had done a better job than I'd expected, for they had gone back to the edge of the brush near a buffalo wallow and had dug sod to build a parapet.

Kelsey had ridden out and they had been ready for him. After a warning and one look around, Kelsey had ridden away.

"Ran 'em off, we did," Bowers said, excitedly. "They taken one look, and then they lit a shuck."

"So now what do you do?"

"We're pullin' out. We're goin' to take the herd west, like we planned. We've got money enough. We'll buy supplies, and then we'll head for Wyoming, like you're doin'."

"You think you've lost Kelsey?" I asked.

"You jokin'? Of course we've lost him. All he needed was a show of force. They won't come back."

"Not when you're out on the plains? With no fort?"

They exchanged a glance, then shrugged. "We'll gamble on it. Anyway, we're going to armor our chuck wagon. Double plank sides, with a couple of seasoned steer hides between the walls. We'll keep a couple of men ridin' the wagon with rifles."

We drank their coffee, cut our cattle out of the herd, and moved off. It needed only a few minutes to see that I had some hands who knew how to handle cattle. We drove due north, right out across the grass, and we pushed them hard for about eight or ten miles. When we bedded them down we were on a small creek where there was good water and grass.

"Jim, you take the first guard," I said. "I doubt if they'll find us this soon, so you'll be all right alone. Tom, you and Cotton take the second trick. I'll take the graveyard trick with Corbin."

The night passed quietly, and by sunup we were on the trail again. Jim helped start the cattle, then he rode off down our backtrail.

Handy Corbin pulled up beside me on the drag. "That Injun good on the trackin'?"

"The best I ever saw."

He glanced at my six-gun. "Are you any good with that?" he asked.

"I never had a chance to find out. I can put them where I want them, but I wouldn't rate as a really fast man."

"Don't try for that, then. Just get it out, no matter what, and make the first one count. Hell," he added, "half the fast men waste their first shot, anyway."

We rode on for half a mile or so, and then Corbin said, "You can leave it to me--the gun-fightin', I mean."

"You're that good?"

"Well," he answered with a grin, "I'm still alive."

Nobody was going to do my fighting for me; nonetheless I welcomed the feeling that this man stood ready and willing. There was no need to tell him I'd handle it. I've seen that circumstances have a way of dictating conditions, so that few men have any choice when the chips are down.

We had nigh onto six hundred head of cattle, mostly young stuff, but all of it was trail broke. I didn't have to do more than my share, for these men were all young. Tom Hacker was the oldest ... he was close to thirty. Handy Corbin was twenty-seven or -eight. They all knew cattle, and they were always ready to do their part, and a bit more.

The route we were taking was on the north side of the Smoky Hill River, and parallel to it. The grass was good, and we watered at streams that would flow into the Smoky Hill, or sometimes at ones that would flow into the Republican River or some other river to the north. I never had been up into that part of the country, so it was mostly hearsay with me. The only difference the streams made was that some were fresh and some were alkali.

In three days we made thirty-two miles, we figured. After the first day, we took it easy, and after that day we were driving over virgin grass. Once we saw a few buffalo in a grassy bottom, but on sighting us they had taken off, and we didn't give chase.

Cotton killed three wild turkeys on the third day out, so we had a change from the usual grub. That night it was windy and chilly, and there were coyotes around. Jim was restless, and a little short of sundown he mounted up and rode out. Hacker watched him go.

"There's a good Indian," he said. "You known him long?"

"Long enough," I answered. "He'll do to ride the river with."

Jim came back in time to take first guard, and I stood part of it with him, for I was some restless myself. We'd been lucky so far, but I had no faith in that, never being one to depend on luck. I knew Jim felt the same way, and maybe the others did. Tom Hacker and Cotton had their watch, and then it was Corbin's and my turn.

But when the night showed itself to be quiet, I had sent Corbin in to get some sleep. I had a feeling we were going to need all the rest we could get. I stood watch alone for the last two hours. When the stars were fading I came into camp to stir the fire into life and put on the coffeepot.