Feud On The Mesa (9 page)

“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!”

C
aleb and Jack Britt sat beside the singing stove in the kitchen of Sally’s café, 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 café, 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
hombre’s
over his mad?”

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 fanning-out riders. That was like old Bull Bear. He didn’t want any fighting with the whites that would bring soldiers and swift retaliation, so he had shrewdly sent so many Crow warriors, armed and livid in war regalia, that the Texans would be awed and careful. Chandler looked at Caleb for a full minute as he rode up without saying a word. Run-ning Horse reined away toward his warriors, scattered around the vast, horn-rattling herd, with a warning in Crow in an undertone: “Killer. Bad man. Silent Outcast, be careful.” Doom affected not to hear and nodded to Chandler, who sneered and whirled his horse and abruptly rode away, leaving Caleb alone.

The drive was a bedlam of noise. The Texas cattle were half wild and cagey. Bellowing, rattling their great horns, and drumming a dull rumble over the soggy prairie, they moved out after the unexpected rest with the energy of 2,000 demons. For the first
five miles, the Texans and Crows alike were kept busy turning back bolters and lining out leaders on the dim, washy trail that led into the canon. The sky was as clear as a bell, but the warmth had not yet come out with the new sun.

The canon loomed up before them about ten o’clock, and the Crows made a sort of funnel out of themselves that steered the Texas cattle onto the narrow, slippery trail ahead. By the time the herd had gotten to the canon, however, most of their surplus energy had been consumed and they were, for the most part, content to follow the critter ahead and leave the bolting and dragging to the tail end of the herd. They moved over the treacherous ground with calm acceptance and the Indians led them along at a mile-eating, long-legged walk.

With the drag came Jeff Chandler, swollen-faced and as touchy as a sidewinder, several Texas drovers, Running Horse, about thirty Crow warriors, and Caleb Doom. The drag was reluctant about following the other critters into the pass, and it took a little maneuvering. In the course of the endeavor, Caleb’s big black horse nudged Chandler’s flashy sorrel. The Texan’s rabid eyes came up shooting fire as Caleb apologized and rode on along the trail. Chandler quirted his way up behind Caleb. The trail was too narrow for their horses to get abreast.

“Ya done that apurpose. Ah seen it. Rubbin’ in your piece o’ luck, ain’t ya, squawman!” Caleb bit back the gorge that arose within him and didn’t answer. The men were well along on the trail by now, Caleb directly behind the cattle with Chandler be-hind him, Chandler’s riders behind their employer and the silent, impassive Indians behind the Texans. Chandler’s anger increased when Caleb ignored his
taunt. “Damn squawman! Get daown offen that horse an ah’ll beat ya to death fer what ya done yes’tiddy”

Caleb didn’t move until Chandler’s screaming oaths were accompanied by his whistling quirt that cut through the butternut shirt and brought a quick rush of blood through the torn flesh. He was off his horse in a second and, as Chandler’s startled mount leaped forward, caught hold of the big man and yanked him bodily off the saddle. Chandler hit the ground with a roar of rage and dropped his quirt. Caleb was suddenly very white-faced. Whichever man went down this time would very likely pitch to his death off the narrow trail and into the canon far below where a faint, distance-muffled roar told the men on the trail that the rain had swollen a small creek to a torrential river.

Caleb heard a growled, guttural snarl behind him. He darted a quick look as Chandler rushed him. The Crows, slit-eyed and venomous, had their rifles poised and aimed at the nervous cowboys in front of them. Stealing the look at the enemies behind him almost cost Caleb his life. Chandler knocked him down by sheer body weight. He could feel the steel spring fingers grabbing at the cloth of his clothes. Chandler wanted to lift him high and throw him into the canon. He rolled and twisted frantically to avoid the tremendous bulk of the larger man. Hot, fetid breath was on the side of his face and he looked into a pair of bloodshot, rabid eyes. The shattered nose was beginning to drip blood from the violent exertions. Caleb flung up one arm and struck the Texan high on the head. It overbalanced Chandler and Caleb heaved mightily to complete the loss of balance. Springing up with the speed of a snake,
Caleb crouched, waiting. Chandler, remembering how he had been chopped down while getting to his feet the day before, rolled backward before rising.

There was no reckless confidence on the big man’s face now. He was white with a seething hatred, but his eyes were diabolically cunning. Doom circled a little, staying away from the edge of the trail. Chandler roared an oath and charged. Caleb met him desperately, braced and doggedly set. His fists flashed out like pile drivers. Still the Texan came in, slowed a little, but still reaching for a handhold that would enable him to throw Caleb into the canon. Again the hard fists popped and ricocheted off the driving hulk of bone and muscle. This time Chandler, hurt, stopped and swung. The blow swooshed through the air and Caleb rolled his head. Still, the knuckles flashed past his ear with a tearing sound and the scout felt his blood running down over the torn shirt. He dropped low and rolled his shoulder with a slashing uppercut that sunk solidly into the big man’s stomach. Chandler’s eyes opened wide for a second and he gasped hoarsely, stepping away with a wobbly lurch.

Caleb, fighting the fight of his life, cold and unmerciful, moved in to follow up the injury done by his last strike. The Texan was looking anxious now, his face beaded in small, luminous drops of agonizing sweat. He threw out a massive arm to ward Caleb off. Caleb started to slide under it and slipped in the mud. He went down flat on his face, instinctively rolled sideways toward the edge of the canon trail just as Chandler’s boot smashed into his unprotected ribs. A fuzzy red shroud began to descend over his sight. An awful stitch of pain shot through him when he tried to breathe. Chandler roared a gasping,
desperate cry of victory and threw himself on the prone, half-conscious form of the scout. Doom rolled away from the edge of the trail by instinct. Consuming waves of nausea were coming up out of his bowels and sweeping over him. He locked his teeth and fought against them as he came groggily to one knee. Chandler, missing his victim with his body’s throw and roll, clambered up to his knees, wiped the thick, heavy mud from his hands and face, then lurched to his feet as Caleb straightened up.

The frontiersman’s fists felt like lead weights as he forced them out defensively. The stitch in his side was making him desperately sick and he bent almost double to get relief. Chandler, recovered from his own abuse, was smiling triumphantly as he came in slowly, teeth bared through the puffy flesh of his face. The little eyes, sunken and overshadowed by the mounds of injured flesh, were vicious, like the eyes of a murderous weasel confronting a helpless victim, livid, anticipatory, and merciless.

Chandler was swearing in a husky undertone. The voice was the only sound on the high trail overlooking the gorge below. Somewhere, far ahead, the bellowing of cattle floated back to the rigid watchers. The monotonous profanity was even and regularly spaced. Caleb watched the big body coming in. He planted his feet and forced himself almost erect, catching his breath with the effort. There could be no maneuvering or side-stepping now. His legs were rubber and his lungs were bellows of tortured, out-raged flesh. Chandler was almost close enough now. Caleb forgot some of his agony in the desperation of what was ahead. Suddenly the big man lunged for-ward. The leaden fists swung methodically, one after the other. Caleb had the very rare ability of being able
to hit as hard with one fist as he could with the other. Chandler rushed against the bruising knuckles. He pushed in trying to beat aside the pummeling fists, but they came through the air like the pendulum of a gigantic clock of bone and muscle. He slowed a little and still the fists slashed and jarred and thudded. He stopped altogether, a sob in his throat, swinging his own massive arms. Still the desperate, persistent knuckles smashed into him. His face was struck again and again and his head snapped back savagely with each blow. Now his mouth was open and a gorge of blood swelled out of it. Caleb took a step for-ward, still swinging with that ghastly, ashen look of the damned in his half-blind eyes. Another step for-ward and Chandler’s big arms slowed and finally fell to his sides. Caleb walked forward, flat-footed, and fired all that remained in his body, one tremendous, earth-jarring swing that would have torn the head off a lesser man. Chandler was out on his feet, but he took an instinctive step backward to escape the next blow, which could never come. It was one step too far, and his great body suddenly disappeared over the edge of the trail as Caleb went slowly down to his knees, shaking his head lollingly from one side to the other, fighting doggedly for the consciousness that was slipping from him, driven by a subconscious urging that was warning him insanely of a peril that no longer existed.

Sally and Jack Britt were drinking their second pot of coffee when Caleb opened his eyes. The red film was gone, but the side ache was a biting, searing jolt of agony with each breath.

Britt looked down at him anxiously. “How ya feel, Caleb?”

“Alive, but in small pieces.”

The grizzled old cowman sighed loudly and looked weakly over at Sally. “Alive, he says, girl.”