Talon & Chantry 07 - North To The Rails (v5.0) by Louis L’Amour Read Free Book Online

cowboys on trail drives or roundups. The bucking horse was the first and most obvious, and Chantry was sure that would come his way again. The rattlesnake in the blankets was another…or something that might appear to be a snake.
    Worst of all, he had no friends in the crew, and Akin was the only one who even took the time to talk to him; but that might change. Slowly, he studied them in his mind, trying to pick out the ones who might at least stand for fair play.
    McKay…a short, stocky man with a shock of rusty brown curls and a hard-boned face. He was twenty-four or-five, a first-class bronc stomper and a good hand with cattle. A steady man, asking no favors of anyone, doing his share of the work and a little more. He packed a gun, and by all accounts could use it.
    Helvie…a quiet-mannered man, somewhat reserved, and four or five years older than McKay. A good hand from Illinois, four years a soldier in the frontier cavalry, a year as a freighter, and four years a cowhand.
    Hayden Gentry…called Hay Gent, from Uvalde, down in Texas, his family among the first settlers west of the Neuces. Long, lean, and tough as mule hide. Easy-going, full of humor, and fast with a gun, so it was said. Nobody wanted to be known as good with a gun around French, not unless he was a trouble-hunter.
    Rugger, Kincaid, and Koch were good hands, but they were cronies of French, and probably not one of them had been born with the name he was using. A bad lot, as were most of the others.
    Chantry rode on. The grass was dry, but there was plenty of it. Twice he saw buffalo, but only a few, and those were scattered out. Evidently they were on the outer edges of the great herd, or were forerunners of the herd.
    The country was open, slightly rolling. Ahead loomed Eagle Rock, near where they expected to bed down for the night. Twice, Chantry drew up. He had the eerie, uncomfortable feeling of being watched, but he could see nothing, hear nothing. Nor was there any movement within sight, only the brown grass on an occasional slope being bent by the wind.
    There were no fresh tracks.
    Suddenly wary, he swung his horse and rode off to the west, scouting for sign. He found nothing. Tracks of buffalo, occasionally old horse tracks. He stood in his stirrups and looked off toward the breaks of the Canadian, not far to the east.
    The creeks that flowed into the river had cut deep at places, and the sides were lined with heavy growth of trees and brush. In those breaks, Chantry reflected, an army could be hidden…it was something to consider.
    He was high on a grassy hill with nothing in sight for a far distance when he heard the cry—a faint, choking cry, like nothing human, and it came from not far off. The roan, head up, ears pricked, looked off toward the right, toward the breaks of the Canadian.
    Chantry waited, listening. Had it been human or animal? And if an animal, what kind could make such a sound? Suddenly he was sure the cry was human.
    Turning his horse, he started in the direction the roan had looked, and peered ahead for the first glimpse of whatever it was.
    He looked around slowly, studying the surroundings with infinite care. It might be a trap. He did not believe all he had heard of Indians, but he was cautious by nature. His horse walked forward, taking each step gingerly, as if ready to bolt. Obviously the roan did not like what it sensed was near.
    Chantry’s inclination was to turn and ride away, swiftly, for what lay before him was terror…perhaps horror. Instinctively he knew he should escape while it was still possible, but something urged him on…to see,
what?
    For a moment Chantry thought he could ride back, warn them of something ahead, and then approach this place with a dozen riders…yet what if there was nothing? He would have shown himself to be both a coward and a fool.
    No, he knew he could not go back, and he rode on, walking his horse. He could feel its reluctance in the tenseness of its muscles, its urge to turn