store and bought what we could, letting him hold it for us until we decided to leave. To the other things, we added ammunition. I had no idea how much we'd need, but I bought a thousand rounds.
The sutler stared. "You figuring on starting a war?"
"Buffalo huntin'," I lied. "I heard there was a big lot of them over west and to the south."
Probably he didn't believe me, but he let us have what we wanted.
We stayed at the post for two full days, checking every rumor we heard, talking to the soldiers who returned from the routine patrols. But all the while we heard nothing.
When the news came it was bad--very bad.
I was sitting with Corbin at a table in the sutler's saloon when Cotton came in. He crossed right over to the table and pulled back a chair. "Chancy"--he spoke in a low tone, but I could see the others watching, guessing something was in the wind--"I seen a cowhide hangin' on a fence yonder." He jerked his head to indicate the direction of Hog Town. "It's carryin' a Lazy TC!"
"You sure?" I asked it, but I was only buying time to consider, for I knew he was sure. No cowhand was apt to mistake something like that.
"I'm sure," he said. "I'd have started askin' folks about it, but decided I'd best get back here and report to you."
"Good man," I said. "Let's go over there."
We got up and went outside to our horses. As we mounted up, I glanced over by the commissary. There was a man standing there watching us, and there was something vaguely familiar about him, but I gave it no special thought at the moment.
The Hog Ranch was a saloon, trading post, and hotel just off the post at the western end. Later it would become a more elaborate setup, I suppose, but right then it was a pretty miserable place, offering the soldiers some rot-gut whiskey, a change of food, and occasionally, a woman or two imported from bigger towns where they hadn't been able to stand the competition. Officially, it didn't even exist, but every man on the post knew it was there, and knew it as a hangout for some rough types.
We rode up and dismounted in front of the saloon. Cotton glanced toward the fence, and whispered to us. "They've taken it in. The hide's gone."
We walked into the saloon, and a much less knowing man than any of us could have seen that they had staked us out and all but nailed our hides to the wall.
The bartender was a big man, inclined toward jowls and belly, with sleeves rolled up and a dirty apron on. At the end of the bar a sour-faced man with a tied-down gun was standing. Two other men sat at a table, and one of them had his hand under the flap of his coat. Two more men came in the door behind us as we stepped in and looked around.
"There was a hide on the fence out there," I said. "I want to know where it came from."
Nobody said anything at all. They just looked at us, waiting.
"Somebody might have found a stray," I said, "and I am going to take it that way if you tell me where you got it."
The gunman at the end of the bar said carelessly, "We don't care how you take it, kid."
Handy Corbin had turned so he was facing the table, and Cotton Madden was looking at the two men who had come in behind us, but I wasn't thinking about them. I was close up to the bar by then, and I backhanded the gunman across the mouth.
He wasn't expecting anything like that. They thought they had us boxed, and that we'd back out or get gunned down. He was hardly through speaking when I struck, and I struck almighty fast. Like I've said, I'm figured to be an uncommonly strong man--my hands are hard, and there's considerable muscle behind them.
It was a wicked blow, and he staggered back, tripping over a chair so that he fell against the wall, his lips split and dripping blood. Dazed, he put a hand to his mouth, and when he saw the blood he started to go for his gun.
What triggered my hands, I'll never know, but an instant before he moved my rifle swung up and I shot into him just as his hand grasped his gun butt.
He turned a mite,
The sutler stared. "You figuring on starting a war?"
"Buffalo huntin'," I lied. "I heard there was a big lot of them over west and to the south."
Probably he didn't believe me, but he let us have what we wanted.
We stayed at the post for two full days, checking every rumor we heard, talking to the soldiers who returned from the routine patrols. But all the while we heard nothing.
When the news came it was bad--very bad.
I was sitting with Corbin at a table in the sutler's saloon when Cotton came in. He crossed right over to the table and pulled back a chair. "Chancy"--he spoke in a low tone, but I could see the others watching, guessing something was in the wind--"I seen a cowhide hangin' on a fence yonder." He jerked his head to indicate the direction of Hog Town. "It's carryin' a Lazy TC!"
"You sure?" I asked it, but I was only buying time to consider, for I knew he was sure. No cowhand was apt to mistake something like that.
"I'm sure," he said. "I'd have started askin' folks about it, but decided I'd best get back here and report to you."
"Good man," I said. "Let's go over there."
We got up and went outside to our horses. As we mounted up, I glanced over by the commissary. There was a man standing there watching us, and there was something vaguely familiar about him, but I gave it no special thought at the moment.
The Hog Ranch was a saloon, trading post, and hotel just off the post at the western end. Later it would become a more elaborate setup, I suppose, but right then it was a pretty miserable place, offering the soldiers some rot-gut whiskey, a change of food, and occasionally, a woman or two imported from bigger towns where they hadn't been able to stand the competition. Officially, it didn't even exist, but every man on the post knew it was there, and knew it as a hangout for some rough types.
We rode up and dismounted in front of the saloon. Cotton glanced toward the fence, and whispered to us. "They've taken it in. The hide's gone."
We walked into the saloon, and a much less knowing man than any of us could have seen that they had staked us out and all but nailed our hides to the wall.
The bartender was a big man, inclined toward jowls and belly, with sleeves rolled up and a dirty apron on. At the end of the bar a sour-faced man with a tied-down gun was standing. Two other men sat at a table, and one of them had his hand under the flap of his coat. Two more men came in the door behind us as we stepped in and looked around.
"There was a hide on the fence out there," I said. "I want to know where it came from."
Nobody said anything at all. They just looked at us, waiting.
"Somebody might have found a stray," I said, "and I am going to take it that way if you tell me where you got it."
The gunman at the end of the bar said carelessly, "We don't care how you take it, kid."
Handy Corbin had turned so he was facing the table, and Cotton Madden was looking at the two men who had come in behind us, but I wasn't thinking about them. I was close up to the bar by then, and I backhanded the gunman across the mouth.
He wasn't expecting anything like that. They thought they had us boxed, and that we'd back out or get gunned down. He was hardly through speaking when I struck, and I struck almighty fast. Like I've said, I'm figured to be an uncommonly strong man--my hands are hard, and there's considerable muscle behind them.
It was a wicked blow, and he staggered back, tripping over a chair so that he fell against the wall, his lips split and dripping blood. Dazed, he put a hand to his mouth, and when he saw the blood he started to go for his gun.
What triggered my hands, I'll never know, but an instant before he moved my rifle swung up and I shot into him just as his hand grasped his gun butt.
He turned a mite,
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