Talon & Chantry 07 - North To The Rails (v5.0) Read Online Free PDF

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    There was already a good gathering of cattle, and he could see various riders bringing in more. He passed near one rider, a tall, lean man with red hair, but the rider seemed not to notice him, although Chantry spoke.
    He rode up to the chuck wagon and swung down. French Williams was leaning back against his bedroll, smiling. And it was not a pleasant smile. It was taunting, challenging, showing, something that might be contempt, and might be curiosity. As Tom Chantry walked forward and started to speak, a man came from behind the chuck wagon. He stepped out and stopped, waiting.
    The man was Dutch Akin.
    Chapter 4
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    F OR A MOMENT all action was suspended. Tom Chantry could feel the heavy pounding of his heart, and his mouth was dry, but when he spoke his voice was clear and steady. “Hello, Dutch. Want some coffee?”
    This was what Chantry had not expected, yet it was what he might have expected from French Williams. And it was an indication of the extent to which Williams was prepared to go.
    “Don’t mind if I do,” Dutch said.
    Chantry picked up the pot and filled Dutch’s cup, then his own. “Sorry about the other night, Dutch,” he said, “but I had no reason to kill you, and I had no wish to die.”
    Dutch shrugged uncomfortably. Sober, he was not a belligerent man, nor was he given to talk. If you had a job to do, you did it. If you had a man to shoot, you shot him. But talking about it made him uneasy, wanting to be away and finished with it. “ ’S all right,” he said, gulping the coffee. “I got no argument with you.”
    French Williams sat up. If he was disappointed it did not show, and Tom Chantry doubted that he was. It had been in the nature of an experiment, and had they killed each other he would have been no more disturbed.
    Chantry indicated the cattle. “They’re in good shape. Some of your stuff?”
    “Uh-huh,” French said. “They’ve been held in the high meadows where there’s lots of good grama.” He glanced toward the horses. “I see you got yourself some horses. Two won’t be enough, you know.”
    Chantry’s expression was bland. “I had an idea you’d already selected some mounts for me, French, so I only bought two.”
    “You’d ride a horse I’d pick for you?”
    “Why not? Well, let’s just say I’d try.”
    The other hands who had been loafing about, obviously to see what would happen when he met Dutch Akin, now drifted off about their work. Tom Chantry drank his coffee slowly, studying the various men, watching the work, and enjoying the brief respite from what was to come.
    He was no cowhand and would not attempt to compete with them on their own ground. He could round up cattle, he could read brands, and so could make himself generally useful. He would not be an idler. It would be wise to move slowly at first, to see who could do what, and generally become acquainted.
    He had gained no ground by facing Dutch. He had simply done what had to be done, and he knew the hands would be waiting to see what kind of a man he was—and most of them, he felt sure, had made up their minds about that.
    As he watched the cattle the enormity of what he had undertaken slowly came over him. His own capital he was free to do with as he saw fit, but he had gambled a large sum that belonged to Earnshaw and Company. Therefore there was no choice. The herd must go through, and it must arrive in good shape and be sold to advantage…no matter what the cost to him.
    Riders were bringing in small bunches of cattle from draws and breaks. Saddling the dun, he rode out and helped here and there, at the same time noting the brands. All of those being held had come from French Williams’ own outfit. Some of the brands were fresh, but he saw no evidence of reworking.
    At daybreak he was on the range with the others, and was there when Lee Dauber’s cattle began to arrive. They came divided into three herds for easy handling, and Dauber moved them along at a good clip.