Nora Roberts - North To The Rails.pdf - Nora Roberts - sinderella

NORTH TO THE RAILS

Chapter 1

They could call it running away if they wanted to, but it made no sense to kill a man, or risk being killed over something so trivial. He

had never used a gun against a man, and did not intend to begin now.

He glanced back, but the town lay far behind him, and there seemed to be no reason for pursuit.

Dawn would be breaking soon, and they would be expecting him on the street to face Dutch Akin, and Dutch would certainly be there,

right in the middle of that Las Vegas street, a gun ready to his hand.

It was a savage custom, a ridiculous custom. His mother had been right to take him away from it, back to the eastern city where her

family lived. She had never loved the West ... not really.

He had been a fool to come west, even on business. But how could he have imagined he would run into trouble? Though he rarely took a

drink, and was not inclined to argue, he had taken a drink while waiting for either Pearsall or Sparrow, and he had gotten into an

argument. All right ... he had made a mistake, but how was he to know they would make so much out of so little?

To hell with Dutch Akin, and with Las Vegas! He would be damned if he’d get himself killed over a few careless words in a saloon. It

made no sense—no sense at all.

What would they say when they realized he was gone? When he failed to appear? At the thought, his ears reddened and he felt

uncomfortable.

To hell with them! It was better to be a live coward than a dead hero.

Coward ... the word rankled. Was he a coward? Had he been afraid? He searched himself for an answer, and found none. He did not

believe he was a coward. He had come away to avoid a ridiculous situation ... or was he just telling himself that? Was he not actually

afraid?

He seemed to feel his father’s eyes upon him— those cool, thoughtful eyes that knew so well how to measure a man and judge what he

had in him.

He remembered his father, the day they brought him home on a shutter, still alive, but badly shot up. There had been three men. One of

them had taken a drink, waved a bottle, and staggered, but when Borden Chantry had come to arrest him the man suddenly dropped his

bottle and two other men stepped from ambush, and his father had gone down in a wicked crossfire. He got off one shot, that was all.

The three men had then fled the town.

His father had lived for two days in considerable pain before the doctor arrived from the fort; by the time he got there his father was dead.

It was as his mother had told him: if you lived by the gun you died by the gun.

But he remembered overhearing someone say as they left the cemetery, “I’d hate to be in their boots when Tom Chantry grows up!”

His father had been a cattleman, reasonably successful by any man’s standards, but then had come the great freeze-up, and when the

snow melted his father was a poor man, and so were a lot of others. Cattlemen could always get credit, and when they sold their herds

they paid up; only Pa had no herd to sell.

The men of the town respected him, knew he had a family to feed, and they also knew that he was a man good with a gun, so they

offered him the job of town marshal.

For six years he ran the town, and kept it free of serious trouble. He rarely had to draw his gun, and several times he held his fire to give

the other man a chance to drop his, and they usually did—all but one.

That man elected to fire ... and missed.

Borden Chantry did not miss.

That was the shooting that led to his death, for the men who came up the trail to kill him were friends of the dead man, and they staged

the ambush that wiped out Borden Chantry.

It did no good to remember all that. Tom Chantry touched his horse with a spur. It would soon be light and he wanted to be far away

before they discovered he was gone. He had been a fool to come west in the first place. Both Ma and Doris had tried to talk him out of

it, but there was a shortage of beef in the East and he had argued with Earnshaw that they could buy it on the plains. No use dealing

with a middleman.

Doris’ father was Robert Earnshaw, a dealer in livestock in New York City. Lately he had branched out into real estate and banking,

although livestock was still the backbone of his business. He had been quick to recognize the profit to be had if Tom Chantry could go

west, buy cattle on the plains, and ship them east, and Tom had come west with his blessing.

Beef had been scarce in Kansas, but a cattleman told him of a herd that was being held outside of Las Vegas, New Mexico that still

might be had. The owners, Pearsall and Sparrow, had been holding the cattle to speculate, but now were in a bind for money. Tom

Chantry had immediately left for Las Vegas, sending a message ahead to make the appointment with the prospective sellers.

He had registered at the hotel and gone at once to the saloon where cattlemen were known to gather, and where Sparrow had said they

would meet. While he waited, he had a drink.

Dutch Akin had come in, bumping him hard as he lurched up to the bar, then turning to glare at him with a muttered reference to a

“dude.”

Tom Chantry ignored the rudeness, although he felt irritation mounting within him. He edged over a little without seeming to do so, giving

Akin more room. He knew he should go, but he had come all this way to see Sparrow, and the man was expected. It was simple

courtesy for him to wait ... so he waited.

Chantry had finished his drink, hesitated, then ordered another. He had not eaten since early that morning and knew that he should not

have that second drink, but he was embarrassed to stay at the bar without ordering.

By the time he had finished his drink Sparrow had not come, so he started to turn away from the bar. Without warning a rough hand

grasped his shoulder.

Suddenly furious, Chantry turned around sharply. Akin was grinning at him. “Dude, diden you hyar me? I invited you to drink wi’me.”

“Sorry, I didn’t hear, but I’ve had enough, thank you.”

“”I’ve had enough, thank you.”” Akin put his hand on his hip and aped the words in a falsetto; then his voice changed. “I’ll tell you when

you’ve had enough! Now belly up to the bar an’ drink!”

“No.”

The room was quiet. Every eye was on them. The

drunken man suddenly seemed to be no longer

drunk. “When Dutch Akin invites a man

to drink, he damn well better drink,”

Akin said evenly. “You drink, mister.”

“No.”

It was foolish. A ridiculous situation.

Tom Chantry was irritated with himself for remaining long enough to get involved, but there was no help for it now.

“I am sorry, my friend, but I have no wish for another drink. I was just leaving.”

“You’ll leave when I get damn good an’ ready for you to leave. Now belly up to the bar.”

Chantry merely glanced at him, then turned to leave the room. Again he felt the hand touch his shoulder, and this time his reaction was

swift. He swung around quickly and, throwing his left hand back, took hold of the grasping arm and jerked hard.

Dutch Akin hit the floor with a crash, and as he realized what had been done to him his hand swept back for his gun.

“Dutch!” The sharp voice cut through the haze of anger in Dutch Akin’s brain.

A short, slender man in a business suit and a white hat was holding a gun in his hand. “The gentleman isn’t armed, Dutch. If you haven’t

noticed that, you’d better. You draw that gun and I’ll put a hole into you.”

“This ain’t none of your affair, Sparrow. This is just me and him.”

Sparrow? Chantry turned his head to look. A man of about forty-five, well-dressed, cool, competent-looking. This was the man he had

come to see.

“It is any man’s affair as long as this gentleman is not wearing a gun. If you shoot an unarmed man you’ll hang for it, Dutch. I’ll see that

you do.”

Dutch got up slowly, holstering his pistol. “All right,” he said calmly. “All right, Sparrow. But I’ll be on the street at daybreak wearin’ this

gun, and he better be armed, because if he ain’t I’ll break both his legs.”

Dutch turned sharply and walked from the room.

Chantry held out his hand. “Tom Chantry

here, Mr. Sparrow. Thank you—thank you very much.”

They walked back to the hotel together. “Bad case, that Akin,” Sparrow commented, “a real trouble-maker. But he’s good with a gun, so

be careful.”

Chantry shrugged. “I doubt if I ever see him again. Actually, you are the man I came to see. I understand you have a herd of beef outside

of town that you might sell.”

“I might.” They had reached the deserted porch of the hotel. Sparrow bit the end from a cigar. “But you are mistaken if you think Akin

won’t show. The man may be a trouble-maker and a loud-mouth, but he’s got sand, and he’s killed a man or two. You can expect him.”

“It’s absurd, Mr. Sparrow. The whole affair was uncalled for. He will have forgotten all about it in the morning.”

Sparrow lighted his cigar, threw the match into the dust, and then spoke around the cigar. “No, Mr. Chantry, he will not have forgotten it.

Nor will anyone else. Come hell or high water, Dutch Akin will be in the street tomorrow, and if you don’t own a pistol you had better buy

or borrow one. You’ll need it.”

“Are you seriously suggesting that I be out there in the street? That I engage in a duel with this—this ape?”

Sparrow glanced at him. “Are you by any chance related to Borden Chantry?”

“I am his son.”

“Then I would think—“

Suddenly, Tom Chantry was impatient.

“Mr. Sparrow, I came to Las Vegas to see you, to make you an offer for your cattle. The firm I represent, Earnshaw and Company, is an

eastern firm, and until now we have done our business through others. We’ve hoped to set up some business connections out here and

buy cattle at the source. We had hoped to buy your herd. I did not come out here to be involved in brawls or shootings, or anything of

that sort. I dislike violence, and will have nothing to do with this affair.”

“I see.”

Sparrow’s manner had grown cool. “I

knew your father,” he said after a minute, “and I respected him. I was not interested in selling cattle at this time, and we’re holding them

on good grass so there is no need. However, I thought that the son of Borden Chantry and I might strike a bargain.”

“And we are ready, sir.”

“You went east soon after your father’s death,

didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The situation back east is very different from out

here, Mr. Chantry. Money is not always the only consideration. Out here we place emphasis upon the basic virtues, and I have noticed

that the more organized our lives become the less attention we pay to such things as courage and loyalty. Organization seems to

eliminate the necessity for such things, but out here they are the very stuff of life.”

“And what does that mean?”

“Simply this: that a man’s courage or lack

of it is a matter of economic importance in the West. There are few ventures that can be attempted out here where courage is not a

necessity, and anyone engaged in such a venture has a right to know the courage of those who are to share the risk.”

“What you are saying is that if I do not meet Dutch Akin tomorrow I had better go back east?”

“Exactly that. We will agree the circumstances are disagreeable, but such things cannot be avoided, and you have no choice.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Sparrow shrugged. “It does not matter what you

believe. Your father understood, and he lived by the code.”

“And died by it.”

“That sometimes happens.”

“Then,” Tom Chantry replied quietly,

“I am in the wrong country. I have no desire to kill ... or to be killed. I shall go to Dutch Akin and apologize.”

“He will despise you.”

“Very well, but that will be the end of it.”

Sparrow drew on his cigar, then took it from his

mouth as though it suddenly had a bad taste. “No, Mr. Chantry, that will not be the end. It will be only the beginning. The bullies will

know you are fair game, that you will not fight, and therefore are to be bullied with impunity. The decent people will simply ignore you,

the bullies will hunt you down, and some of them will keep on pushing just to see how much you can take before you do fight.

“Understand this, Mr. Chantry, the love of peace and the unwillingness to fight never kept anyone out of trouble.”

They left it at that, but during the night Tom Chantry made his decision.

Turning now in the saddle, he looked back again. There was nothing—nothing at all.

All around were the vast sky and the open prairie. To the north there were mountains, ahead was a broken, rugged country. It was not

until then that he realized what he had done.

He had ridden west, not east.

Chapter 2

To the east lay home, friends, security from all this. His mother and Doris were in the East, his job and his future were there. Yet he had

ridden west. Why?

What impulse had caused him to turn west when east was the logical direction? Was there some urge within him to avoid security? To

avoid escape?

His choice back there had been simple.

To use a gun, or not to use it.

He did not think he had actually been afraid, but how was he to know? Sparrow’s attitude could be that of everyone west of the

Mississippi, and of many of those east of it. Such a story would get around, of course, and even those who commended him for good

judgment would suspect his courage.

By turning west he had escaped nothing but the immediate meeting with Dutch Akin, for the situation might arise again. If so, would he

run again? How often could he run?

But that was not the important thing now. He had come west to buy cattle that could be shipped east. If he could not get them in Las

Vegas he must find them elsewhere, and that meant he might ride north to the Wyoming country and ship over the Union Pacific.

Earnshaw had advanced the money for his trip west, and he carried a draft against Earnshaw’s bank with which to pay for the cattle. It

was his duty to complete the business that had brought him here;

Earnshaw was depending on him.

Tom Chantry considered the situation. Santa Fe lay to the west, not over three days’ ride, he believed. It was doubtful if the required

cattle could be found there; and if found they must be driven to the railhead, which meant a drive through Las Vegas—something he

could not consider at this time.

His logical course was to strike north, but first he must have bedding, supplies, and a pack horse.

The horse he had purchased at the livery stable seemed a good one, and Tom Chantry was an experienced judge of horseflesh. He had

bought and sold stock for Earnshaw long enough to be.

Ahead of him lay the stage station at Kearney’s Gap; lights showed in the windows, although the sky was gray with dawn’s first light.

He turned his mount and rode up to the hitch rack.

Behind the house he heard the squeak and complaint of a windlass. He walked to the edge of the porch and looked past the corner. A

man with rumpled hair, his suspenders hanging loose, had just drawn a bucket of water.

“Howdy!” he said cheerfully. “Coffee’s on. Be fryin’ eggs. Come in an’ set.”

How much time did he have? Traveling would begin at daybreak, and the stage would be coming from Las Vegas shortly after. He did

not want to be here when it arrived.

Over coffee he spoke of Santa Fe and Socorro.

“If’n you’re headin’ for Socorro now,” the stage tender said, “you’re headin’ right. But a man who wanted to get to Santa Fe a-horseback

is a plumb fool to ride the trail. Right yonder”—he pointed—“is a good horseback or pack trail across the mountains. Rougher, but a

whole sight shorter. Thisaway you swing south and take a big bend. No need. You headin’ for Santa Fe?”

“Socorro,” Chantry said, “but I’m traveling light. You haven’t got any trade goods, have you?”

“A mite. Sell some of the Injuns once in a while. What was you needin’?”

Less than half an hour later, with two blankets, a sack of grub, and a bowie knife to cut firewood, Chantry headed west. When out of

sight of the station he turned abruptly from the road and cut back into the brush to find the other trail.

He found it at Agua Zarca and followed it toward the crossing of the Tecolote at San Geronimo. Without leaving the saddle, he removed

his coat, stripped off his white shirt, and donned a dark red shirt bought at the stage station. Then he tied his coat behind his saddle.

At noon, well back in the scattered pi@nions <mailto:pi@nions> , he unsaddled, watered his horse at a seep, made coffee, and ate a

couple of dry biscuits.

Slowly, the tension left him. The smell of the pi@nons <mailto:pi@nons> 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

him. 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. *

· Actually 26 men are said to have been killed in that room during the wild days.

“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.

Nora Roberts - North To The Rails.pdf

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