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

shall we let Chantry?”
    “No!” Koch shouted. “I’ll be damned if he will! Not over a man who died like that!”
    Chantry felt himself go sick with shame, then fury. Suddenly he was in a killing rage. “Koch,” he said, “I’ll—”
    “Shut up!”
French laid his voice across them like a lash. “Helvie will read. Chantry, you’d better get back to the wagon while you’re all together.”
    Chantry stood stiff, his anger vanished in the cold awareness that only Williams’ intervention had saved him from another shooting situation.
    “All right, but I hope you will notice that I was unarmed, yet the Indians did not attack me. If this man had done the same, perhaps—”
    Helvie interrupted impatiently. “He was unarmed too. Can’t you see? It didn’t save him. If you’ll look at the tracks…we followed them here. They raced beside him, striking, bedeviling him. Then they began the torture.
    “This man was a soldier—a deserter perhaps. He had no gun. They killed his horse. Didn’t you hear what the Indian said? The man had done nothing to them. He was a stranger, therefore an enemy. They were Kiowas. It did not matter that this man was a white man. Had he been a Ute he would have fared no better.”
    “You
heard
them? You were
here?
”
    “Why do you think they rode away? Because you were nice and peaceful. They left because they saw our guns on them from right over that ridge. We weren’t begging a fight, and under the conditions neither were they.”
    French turned his back on him and walked away as Akin appeared with a shovel.
    Tom Chantry hesitated, then swung into the saddle. He had made a fool of himself. Had not the others come when they did he might now be lying dead beside that dead man. Still, how could he
know?
    Nonetheless, he was displeased with himself. In their eyes he had come off badly. At best, he had been inadequate, and he did not like the feeling that he was despised. They were competent men who knew their jobs, men of proven courage and stamina, accepted by each other. He had proved nothing to anyone. Not even to himself. In their eyes he was a man who failed to measure up. They did not think him worthy to read the final words over a dead man.
    It was hard to take, and he rode back to camp, ate, and turned in. Clifton House lay ahead, and there might be news. With luck the drive might be a short one.
    Clifton House was a stage stop and a gathering place for cattle. Suddenly, before falling asleep, he made up his mind. He would ride on ahead, reach Clifton House well before the herd, and gather what information was available. Undoubtedly the herd would stop for the night not far from there, but he might learn whatever was known in time to change their route.
    At daybreak he told Williams, “I’m riding to Clifton House. I’m expecting mail there.”
    “Better take somebody along to wipe your nose,” Koch remarked. “There’s some mighty mean men hang out at Clifton.”
    From one of the others he might have ignored it, but Koch was a sour, mean man with no breath of goodness in him, and after his remark of the day before Tom Chantry was in no mood for any more of it. He put down his cup.
    “Koch,” he said, “I don’t believe in killing men. I’ve no such feelings about giving one a whipping when he asks for it.”
    For a moment the camp was slack-jawed with amazement. Koch stared at him. “You gone crazy? Are you talkin’ to
me?
”
    “To you,” Chantry got to his feet. “Just take off your gun belt.”
    Koch had the reputation of being a fist-fighter, and he liked to be known for it. He put down his plate and unbuckled his belt. “This here,” he said, “is goin’ to give me pleasure.”
    He got up, placing his gun belt on the ground, and he swung from that position. The blow was totally unexpected, and caught Chantry on the chin. His heels flew up and he hit the dust on the back of his shoulders, Koch rushing up to stamp on him. The cowpuncher’s first kick