“Yes, Silent Outcast. The Indian has little left, but what he has, he must plan to keep.” The powerful shoulders rose and fell eloquently and Caleb grudgingly admitted that, in reversed places, he, too, would act the same way. “Without our hunting lands and our hereditary homes, we are a lost people.”
Doom nodded sadly. “This is so.” He arose slowly and the two Indians looked at him in impassive silence. “I am sorry.”
As he turned to leave, Bull Bear spoke softly. “Silent Outcast, you are the Indian’s brother. You, alone of your race, understand their side. May your God protect you in trouble ahead.” Caleb nodded in salute, and left the teepee. As the gentle sound of his horse’s shod hoofs sent back a retreating dull echo, Bull Bear turned to the younger man at his side. “In these troubled times, the Crows must stay out of trouble. When the white skins fight, they are like blind snakes. They strike out at anything. See that the fighting clans are told of this.” He looked broodingly out the teepee flap where Caleb had so recently left. “Remember Silent Outcast well, Running Horse. He is the true friend of the Indian and a great fighting man. His coups are many and his gun never misses. He is your white brother.”
II
When Caleb rode back into Lodgepole, dusk was falling. There was a small knot of loafers hanging around the livery barn when he put up his horse. When he walked past them on his way to the Lincoln House, he heard a snatch of conversation: “Well, they can’t stop here. The boys are orga-nizin’ to run’em off.”
Caleb’s face was bitter when he strode into the hotel. Jack Britt motioned him to a chair beside him, looked inquiringly into Caleb’s face, and read his answer. He shook his head gravely. “You don’t have to tell me. I can see it on your face.”
“I don’t blame the Indians, in a way.”
Britt’s blunt jaw locked irritably. “To hell with’em. It wouldn’t hurt nothin’ if them cattle went through their lousy huntin’ ground.” He shrugged. “But if they say no, then that’s it, I reckon.”
Doom could sense the tension in the air. “Any-thin’ interestin’ happen while I was up at the Indian camp?”
Britt swore irritably in a low voice. “A little flurry o’ excitement. Some o’ the boys heard about the Texas herd an’ come a-roarin’ into town spittin’ fire and damnation. I collared’em an’ told’em to sit it out an’ we’d see what happens next. No sense bustin’ into trouble when it’s comin’ anyway.”
“That all?”
“Not quite. The Texas critters are bedded down on this side o’ the sink. Feller name o’ Chandler, big raw-boned, rawhide sort o’ fellow, is their trail boss. He rode into town this afternoon an’ the boys sent him Tome. I told him the situation an’ he sort o’ laughed.”
“What’d he say?”
“Bout what I figgered he’d say,” Britt answered. “He didn’t have enough men to fight the whole damned Crow nation, but that he had more’n enough for me to see that his cows weren’t run off the range by a bunch of local cowboys. An’ if he couldn’t go through the Crow land until he had worked up a big bribe for’em, he’d have to feed his critters offen our feed. Said he was sorry as hell about it, but that’s the way it was.”
Caleb got up and stretched. It had been a long day for him. “I’m goin’ to get some sleep. Tonight’ll probably be about the best for sleepin’ for the next few days.”
Brit nodded wryly. “You’re more’n likely right at that, Caleb. Well, I’m goin’ back out to the ranch to-night, but I’ll be back in Lodgepole by the time you’ve eaten breakfast. Don’t want to miss nothin’, y’know.”
Caleb ate at Sally Tate’s café. It was a very frugal place with hard puncheon benches along a low counter of new fir. Sally was the orphaned daughter of some emigrants that didn’t make it. She was a honey blonde with level, violet blue eyes, a luscious full mouth, and a figure that made all the Lodgepole cowboys sigh. Her nose wrinkled across the tiny saddle of freckles when she saw Caleb enter.
He smiled back. “Sally, you’re the prettiest woman in this café, y’know it?”
Her laugh was disturbing in a throaty way. “An’ you’re the prettiest man. Chili beans?”
“I reckon.”
Caleb ate slowly and Sally leaned over the counter. “Caleb, is there something wrong in Lodgepole?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Every cowboy who’s been in here today acts like he’s afraid to kid me.”
Caleb’s deep eyes squinted in amusement. “Well, I’d say that was the best sign in the world. There’s a Texas herd camped on this side of the sink.”
“Oh.” It sounded very small and the large violet eyes were on him with an unusual gravity. “Are you mixed up in it?”
“Uh, well, not exactly. I’m not a cattleman. I’m an old friend of Jack Britt’s though. He and I used to scout for the Army together.”
Sally’s taffy hair waved when she nodded. “If Jack gets into it, you will, too, because he’s your compadre, is that it?”
“Well, sort of. Y’see___”
Sally straightened with an exasperated look on her face. “You men! You’re like little children. This is no concern of yours, Caleb Doom. Besides, if there’s trouble, you might get hurt.” Sally caught herself and blushed wildly.
Caleb looked up, a spoonful of chili beans poised in his hand. At that precise moment, the door slammed gently and Sally’s flustered face raised and her eyes went quickly over the tall, recklessly smiling two-gun man who was drinking in her freshness with languid, bold eyes. The newcomer frowned a little and his small, dark eyes read Sally’s embarrassment and his Lauran Paine gaze dropped abruptly to Caleb’s broad back. “This here squawman botherin’ you, ma’am?”
Caleb felt the sting of the insinuation. Many new-comers to the northern country thought every white man who wore fringed buckskin was a squawman. Most, however, were very careful with the term. Graveyards all over the West were populated by men who had insulted others by calling them squawmen. The stranger saw the horror in Sally’s eyes and didn’t wait for her answer. With two large steps, he was be-side Caleb and a talon-like hand grabbed for the scout’s shoulder. “In Texas, we don’t tolerate no insultin’ o’ women, squawman!”
Caleb was out from under the reaching fingers of steel, on his feet, facing the man. Texan was stamped all over him. He was obviously one of the drovers with the Texas herd. Caleb noted the two tied-down guns, too. Texas gunfighter. He shook his head slowly and his eyes were frosty. “This young lady happens to be a friend of mine, an’, if I were you, Texan, I’d go easy on that squawman term up here.”
There was a sneer on the tall man’s face. “Y’would, would ya? Well down in Texas….”
“You’re not down in Texas now.”
The man’s face darkened. He looked contemptuously at the smaller man for a second, then one long, wiry fist shot out. Caleb rolled with it and the blow glanced off his shoulder. The Texan was making a very common and fatal error. He was over confidently underestimating the man in front of him. Caleb had fought the best brawlers on the frontier, Indian and white, and he was respected by both. He moved forward on the balls of his feet with the speed of light, and a massively muscled arm shot out. The Texan looked surprised when it smashed into his stomach. He went over a little to take some of the shock out of the blow.
Sally Tate, ashen-faced and horrified, was rigid be-hind the counter as the tall Texan swore violently and lunged at Caleb. The scout wasn’t there when the stranger’s ham-like fist, a bludgeon of bone and sinew, whipped into the hot atmosphere. Caleb stepped clear of the furiously charging gunman, ducked under the long arms, and bore in. He shot a rock-like fist into the Texan’s stomach that stopped the larger man. Before the gunman could recover, another bone and muscle piston crashed into his chest, and the third, as the Texan was rocking back on his high boot heels, slammed into his jaw like the kick of a mule. There was a loud popping sound, sharp and clear in the charged atmosphere, and the Texan went down half in, half out of the café, his head and shoulders lying through the half-opened door.