when he saw the filthy, ragged apparition before him. He recognized Caleb as the killer of his foreman and a dry tongue flickered over his rain-washed face. “What’s the name of that big
“Jeff Chandler. He’s the owner o’ the cattle. He’s a big man down in…. ”
“Who was the other feller? The one I killed?”
“Powder Hudson. He was the foreman o’ Chandler’s trail drives.”
“What’s your name?”
“Buck Gleason.”
“Got a good pair of lungs, Buck?”
“I reckon, why?”
“Go over to the edge of the false front, where you were, an’ holler out for Chandler.”
“Like hell,” the answer came from a white and frightened face. “You won’t make no Judas outen me. I ain’t callin’ Jeff out so’s you can gun him down.”
“I’m not going to shoot him, Buck. I want to palaver about movin’ the herd out o’ here. The Crows just gave permission to cross their land. Now holler out!”
The cowboy stood undecidedly and Caleb’s big gun came up persuasively. The Texan licked his lips again and turned away. He went to the edge of the false front, cupped his hand over his mouth, and yelled for Chandler. The gunfire dropped off as the fighters down below looked for the man behind the voice. Again Gleason yelled, and this time an answer came back. Gleason turned and looked hopefully at Caleb. “Now what?”
“Tell him to come out an’ palaver.”
It took a little yelling back and forth, but finally Chandler came hesitatingly out of the livery barn and the gunmen held their fire when Caleb yelled for them to hold off. Pushing Gleason up beside him, Caleb stepped into full view on the roof. He felt a glow of satisfaction at the swollen, purplish, blood-splattered appearance of the massive cowman.
“Chandler, the Crows have just agreed to let your herd go on up north, providin’ you’ll agree to let’em guide you the way they want you to go.”
Chandler’s baleful eyes recognized the dripping figure on the roof as the “squawman”. His big fists opened and closed convulsively. For a long moment, he didn’t reply. Then he shrugged slightly. He’d like nothing better than to fight the Lodgepole men until they were all dead, then fire their miserable little town, but right now the cattle were the important thing. He shrugged again grimly and his sullen eyes were vicious above the wreckage of his face. He’d come back another time and wipe this Yankee scum off the face of the earth. “All right. Put up your guns an’ help us move our cattle out an’ we’ll go.”
Lodgepole came back to stilted life. The wounded were cared for in the Longhorn Saloon where benches were collected hastily and assembled into hard beds. The dead were duly identified and turned over to their respective allies for burial. Jeff Chandler, indignant more than pained, stood bitterly in the middle of the room talking to Jack Britt and Caleb, writhing inwardly under the stares of his cowboys and the Lodgepole men alike, his clothing splattered with the blood from his broken nose and purplish eyes.
“Bull Bear is down in the cafe. He says you can cross the Crow country if you’ll go by way of Canon del Muerto, thus staying off the hunting grounds of his people. He also said that he’d let you pass only if you’ll let Crow warriors act as guides,” Caleb said.
“Where is this Injun?”
“I’ll go get him.” Caleb turned abruptly and left the cluttered, uncomfortable atmosphere of the Long-horn, where both factions were eyeing each other sullenly and tending to the injured.
Jack Britt frowned as he surveyed the big man’s face. “Want some clean water an’ salve fer your face?”
Chandler’s brows contracted in a thunderous expression. “No, damn ya!”
Britt shrugged and moved away, leaving the Texan alone in the noisy, tense room while he went among the Lodgepole men. When Caleb returned with Bull Bear, resplendent in a fiery red blanket and carrying a brand new Henry repeating rifle, Britt drifted back to the little group that had gathered around Chandler. The Texan glowered at the straight, square-jawed Indian. “Who d’ya think ya are, redskin, tellin’ Texans where they can cross…?”
“None o’ that!” Everyone turned and looked at the speaker. Marshal Holt, livid-faced and ramrod erect, was standing in the doorway. “You got your terms, Texan. Either take’em or leave’em!” There was no mistaking the raging fury behind the words. Holt’s anger at being kept out of the fight showed on his face and no one in the room doubted his eagerness or ability to go for the tied-down guns on his legs.
Chandler swapped hard stares with him, saw no compromise in the rabid, faded eyes, and shrugged, turning back to Bull Bear. “We’ll be ready to drive out with th’ dawn. Have your men thar!”
VI
Caleb and Jack Britt sat beside the singing stove in the kitchen of Sally’s cafe, drinking coffee. Bull Bear drank one cup and left after agreeing to have his warriors at the Texan’s camp before sunup.
“Caleb, you look sort o’ used up.” Britt’s critical eyes scanned the filthy, ragged scarecrow beside him. He turned to Sally. “Ain’t you got a dry shirt an’ maybe a pair o’ britches aroun’ here some place he could borrow?”
Sally shook her head as she poured the second cup of steaming coffee into the heavy white mugs. There was a mantle of dark red in her cheeks. “No. Of course not. This is a cafe, not a clothing store.”
Caleb smiled lopsidedly “I’ll go down to the general store in a few minutes an’ get something dry. Jack, ya reckon that Chandler
Britt shook his head gravely. “No. Not by a damned sight. He’s a hard man, Caleb. I’ve seen a lot just like him. They never give up.”
“Reckon I’ll sort o’ go along with’em on their drive then. Don’t want’em pickin’ trouble with the Crows.”
Britt set his empty coffee cup down and got up in his soggy clothes. “Well, that’d be a damned quick fight. Old Bull Bear’s got about five to one with them Texans.” He shook his head again. “He may be a sorehead, but I don’t think he’s that mad. Well, I gotta get back to the ranch. If you ride over the canon with’em, Caleb, you probably won’t be back till tomorrow night. I’ll see you at the Lincoln House then.” He opened the back door and stepped out into the rain with a wry shake of his head. “It’ll take me till then to get wrung out.” The door closed behind him, and Caleb looked over at Sally.
“Scared?” he asked.
“Of course. Caleb, you ask the silliest questions some times.” She blushed at her own boldness and got off her chair briskly. “I’ll go over to the emporium and get you some new clothes.” He watched her walk out of the room with an amused smile on his face. It would be interesting to see what she brought back.
When Caleb finally returned to the cold room in the Lincoln House, his side ached. Not so much from the bullet groove under his ribs as from the laughter that had threatened to engulf him at Sally’s indignation when he wouldn’t wear the elegant, ankle-choker pants and shiny derby she had bought. He had left her as he had the night before, under the whiplash of her tongue, gone to the emporium him-self, and purchased a new pair of California pants and a butternut shirt, then gone to his room and laughed himself to sleep.
Dawn was a pink wraith of cleanliness over the steaming, wet world when Caleb mounted his black gelding and rode south out of Lodgepole. The new clothes were a little stiff and he ruefully looked at them in the light of day and wished he had his old fringed shirt back. The mud was slippery and heavy on his horse’s hoofs as he rode. He was almost within smelling distance of the Texas cow camp when he was joined by a Crow Indian who came silently out of the brush and reined in beside him. He recognized the youth as the painted warrior he had seen in Bull Bear’s teepee two days before.
“I remember you, but don’t know your name.”
“Running Horse.”
Caleb nodded as he digested and filed the name. “Running Horse, how many Crows ride with the Texas cattle?”
“Many. Bull Bear say half the warriors must go. Many Crow warriors, not many white cowmen. No fight.”
Caleb smiled softly as they rode into the Texas cow camp and saw Jeff Chandler giving orders to his
