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Show m'f'y Vi HAFLOLD CHANNING wTr i tgft, v . . W.N.U. RELEASE yfiM L ,T mUS' de"Ver 3'000 "thorns to the Indian agent by September 1 or son to Tr taWe CntraCt- Lcw has son to bebeve tbat the Indian Supply Co. i toying to delay the Cross T Lew heads west, and successfully brings the "No, it's the Dakota Cheyenr.es. iney re out on a hunting permit after aft-er antelope. Six hundred of them, liut antelope are scarce. Trail beef is a lot easier." The lieutenant looked stern. "Don't ask me for help if you get caught. You Texans have got no right crossing the Nations Na-tions There's a treaty against that. "Sure, a treaty!" This boy was talking out Of a book. "Did any Texan sign it? I know. We ought to drive clean around by way of the Mississippi!" Lew grinned and stared on. "No hard feelings, Bub Come and get a good meal if you sight my camp." The Cheyennes loose were bad news. He understood about the Dakota Cheyennes. By what fool decision the government was set on making Northern Indians live in the South he didn't know. It wasn't home and they wouldn't stay. Only three years ago they had made a break in the dead of winter. Eleven hundred that time, leaving a swath of burned ranches and dead whites as far as Dakota. Troops brought them back. A great chief, Red Cloud, had led that break. Red Cloud was not here now; he was a guest at the Capitol in Washington where ladies of the Indian Friends' society were making mak-ing fools of themselves and a bigger one out of him. It was all in the papers. As good a way as any, Lew guessed, to tame a wild Cheyenne. Chey-enne. But there were young chiefs with the tribe, more dangerous even than the old one because they knew white men's tricks and had known white women. He could handle them if they stayed sober. Outtalk them and present a few old mossyhorns from the herd. But full of whisky-He whisky-He was back again at the counter, spreading out his coat. He stacked five silver dollars on the boards. "Right?" The man nodded and he rolled his coat around the bundle LEW BURNET has been engaged by TOM ARNOLD, owner of the Cross T, to act as traU boss on the drive from southern Texas to Ogallala in the spring of 1875. Tom with his son and daughter, STEVE and JOY, are moving to wyo- CHAPTER VIII i The Indian Supply Company's Open A might be among those herds held up on the south bank by the high water of the Red River. Or they may have crossed before the rains. He wanted to know some way without his own presence being known. Unless there had been a leak, his Cross T had vanished completely com-pletely as far as the Open A knew. Lew slid his horse down the high riverbank and then on the gravel shore rode at a lope again. Little side ravines began to cut the red wall in half an hour's riding. He came to Doan's flatboat ferry tied up because of the flood. He had seen no one. He rode on to a point that would bring him up behind the store and hid his horse in the willows. wil-lows. Noise of the crowd that had gathered gath-ered here floated off the rim. He walked directly up into it, the wild, mingled voices of two or three hundred hun-dred restless men spending their time and money in the only two ways that Doan's store offered. All tree growth in a circular area of a quarter of a mile had been cut for buildings and firewood. The dusty clearing was jammed. Saddled Sad-dled trail horses rimmed it in a solid line near the trees! In the shade of high Pittsburg freight outfits men squatted around card games and dice. He didn't see a bottle. They drank their whisky out of kegs. One group of horses separate from the others made him shake his head with an old disgust. They belonged to the army. He looked at the small hornless McClellan saddles, sad-dles, hung with enough gear of canteens, can-teens, rolled tents, hobbles and gun scabbards to weigh a horse down without carrying a man, and he thought again it was no wonder that the Indians, riding bareback and themselves half naked, could run circles around these troopers of Uncle Un-cle Sam's. Then this knowledge that the cavalry was here turned him sober. There had to be a good reason rea-son to bring a patrol this far south. He made a wide tour of the other horses but saw no Open A brand, and all the gambling men he passed were strangers to him. He nodded to some and walked through them toward the store. Near it a pile of bleached buffalo bones stood as high as a haystack. That meant the hoe-men hoe-men were trading here now. They gathered these skeletons left by the old-time hunters and brought them in the only crop many of them would ever harvest on their dry homesteads. Whoever Doan was he didn't know. This place was here before his first trip up the trail. But the man had built with certain knowledge of Indians and Texas weather. The "store was long, narrow, with red earth mounded over the low roof. As soon as he walked in, even while his eyes caught little at first in the dim light, he had a quick sense of something wrong. The room was not crowded. Trail men took their drinks outside. He saw mostly, among the fifteen or twenty figures, the blue, yellow-striped uniforms uni-forms of the army moving across the damp clay floor. The talk was low; the smells of tobacco and liquor liq-uor and oiled leather were right. Then farther inside he knew. It was the big Swede's jovial voice he missed so quickly. Ole Soderlund wasn't here. He had counted on Ole. They were friends and they could talk, and that talk would never leak out of the Swede's head. A man he didn't know was on a high stool behind the counter at the back of the room. He was small and wore a black suit with a white shirt, oddly out of place in this frontier store. Shrewd eyes in a pinched face were watching him closely. He reached the counter. "Soderlund "Soder-lund gone?" Only a curt nod answered him. . "For good?" "Sold out." He could feel a guarded suspicion behind the shrewd eyes and he wondered. won-dered. Did he look like anything but another trail hand? "Something you want?" "Maybe," he said and turned away, putting aside for now the one question he had come here to ask. Tonight's celebration called for" a treat. He found the sardines on a shelf and took down fourteen cans. A trail crew always ran short of tobacco. He spread his rawhide coat and piled into it with the sardines sar-dines a five-pound box of Honey Tip Twist for the old men who chewed and a dozen cloth sacks of Dixie Durham for the smokers. Three army men stood around an open cracker barrel. He turned to one who had a lieutenant's gold bars. "What brings you boys so far south?" The lieutenant smiled. "Whisky." "Well" he grinned "there's plenty of it!" He looked at the smooth boyish face and thought the government never did show much sense. Like this youngster. A green West Pointer hardly twenty-two or three sent out here to cut his milk eeth on the Indians. ' Soberly the lieutenant was saying, "You're right, there's plenty here. Too much liquor too close to the reservation. res-ervation. I'll warn you. If you're going north don't load up your wagons wag-ons with more than you need. There's a tribe loose. If they cut your herd for beef don't trade them whisky instead." He nodded. "I see." What he saw was a reason for the new trade's trad-e's watchfulness. Ole Soderlund had never traded snake-juice across tne Red. But it could be a good 'ng if a man wanted to risk it. 'Comanches loose again?" he asked herd through the dangers from dust-storms dust-storms and drouth, to the banks of the Red River. Lew rides on to Doan's store, and Bnds that none of the other herds have crossed yet. Back at camp, he has another run-in with ED SPLANN. Pile, juicy meat coated with crisp batter. Over the fire pit two long combs of ribs were braising. Quarternight came in from the outer darkness and stopped to say, "I only left a two-man guard, Lew. Moonlight and Splann offered. Guess it's safe enough for a while." "I guess," he said. The line of men was already moving mov-ing past the fire pit. They loaded their tin plates with steaks and laid braised ribs on top. At the table they marked their places by dropping drop-ping their hats on the bedrolls drawn up for seats, came back to the pit again for beans and corn bread out of the Dutch ovens and pickles from the chuck-wagon keg. They poured blackstrap molasses over their bread and grinned when the cook tossed each one a can of sardines. But all talk soon died. Eating was a sober business. Only Joy said, "Lew, just like Christmas!" and smiled at him, her eyes lingering with a steady warmth as if to tell him something. He didn't understand the look, but this meal was like Christmas dinner, din-ner, that one time at home on the Cross T when crew and family ate together in the big front room. A ruddy glow from the pit flooded the bent dark and light and bald heads as if from the fireplace of the room, while branches of elm and oak arched a roof above them. He was halfway along the table with Rebel John, his inevitable partner, part-ner, at his right elbow. Tom Arnold occupied one end, Joy the other. He watched Tom. This was their last meal on Texas soil. He looked around the table and knew that some of these men, chances were, would never come back to it. He saw Joy watching him again. "What's the news from Doan's?" she asked. "Not much." The dress she had on tonight was suddenly familiar, made of fine cream-colored linen with a high collar and long sleeves. A narrow red ribbon drawn tight above her waist shaped a woman's full softness. She had worn that dress the night of the Ox Bow dance, when Clay Manning had told the world she was going to be his wife. "A dozen herds," he said, "held up south by the flood. Hoe-men are crowding in along the river. Saw a troop of yellow-legs around," he added add-ed but didn't say what they were there for. No use bringing up about the Dakota Cheyennes. He saw Clay, around the corner of the table at Joy's right, lift his blond head. "What outfits did you see?" "Strangers mostly." He waited, feeling there was another question in Clay's mind. But Clay dropped his head and went on eating. It was Steve, directly across the table, who brought out casually, "Didn't see the Open A, did you? Guess they're too far on." "No," he said, "don't think they are, Steve," and watched a change set instantly across the. boy's face. "They didn't have enough start on us. The river's been higher than it is now, maybe up for a week. You can tell that by ring marks on the trees." He saw the tight look grow. "We're even with them, I figure, and got a good chance to get ahead." He had been feeling better about Steve these past days. The hounded look of watching his back trail seemed to have gone, as if Steve felt easier somehow as they approached ap-proached the north line of Texas. But that look was there again now. In some way the Indian Supply herd being behind them, and not ahead, made a difference. Yet he was learning a man's guard and that boyish giveaway passed quickly. Only Tom Arnold showed he had caught it. He paused with a coffee cup half lifted, his puckered gaze fixed intently on his son. When Owl-Head had cut the pies exactly in halves and had given each man his piece he saw that the red-freckled red-freckled kid was not the only one who'd had plenty. Tom Arnold finished fin-ished part of his and sat there waiting, wait-ing, until the other plates rattled empty again. He stood up. "Lew," he said, "it's a shame to have anyone eat seconds at a meal like this. I'm going out to relieve Moonlight and Splann." He looked down at Steve. "You want to come along?" "Say!" Steve objected. "Why me? What's the rush anyway?" His back stiffened, his face going young and truculent. Never was a time, Lew thought, when the pup didn't show himself at his worst to his father. He expected the old flare between them. Instead, gently, Tom urged. "Come on, son. I want you to ride with me." There was a moment of remaining remain-ing stubbornness and challenge, and then he felt that Steve could find no way to meet his father's strangely quiet urging. In the outer rim of firelight the old man laid one arm across his boy's shoulder. They vanished into the dark like that, walking slowly. Lew uncrossed his legs and stretched them out and, making a cigarette in brown corn paper, he offered idly, "Anyone short on tobacco? to-bacco? I laid in a supply." He saw Clay swing his broad back to the table and sit there as if listening listen-ing off into the night. But no sound came from that direction, south, where the longhorns, well-watered and fed, were sleeping peacefully. And there was nothing to see. Clouds had blotted out the stars, filling fill-ing the world with absolute blackness black-ness beyond the circle of firelight (TO BE CONTINUED) "Who's looking for the Open A?" once more, and then, casually, he asked, "Has an Open A herd crossed here yet?" A thin hand reached out for the cartwheels and dropped them into an iron cashbox. "Who's looking for the Open A?" "I asked, didn't I?" "You did. That's what I want to know." He shrugged, warned. "Never mind. My question wasn't so important." im-portant." He walked out slowly, taking tak-ing his time, yet even more guarded, guard-ed, and threw a long look around the clearing before he turned toward the river. He had seen nothing. But as soon as he was gone a man whom he might have recognized stepped from behind the buffalo-bone pile and hurriedly entered the store. The late afternoon turned gray beneath a bank of thunderclouds. Dark niggerheads piled up. flat at the base, round on top. Loping back along the river bottom, that was his only troubling thought. A storm would spoil the evening's celebration. celebra-tion. , Night fell swiftly. He climbed up into the darkness of the flat shelf. Campfires of those herds at the crossing were out of sight now, but ahead was a single huge blaze to guide him. Still a mile off, he could see figures fig-ures moving in that wide circle of light Trees stood up above them tail and red. He caught a drift of music and grinned. An organ had never been played in this spot.be- Then someone must have heard his approach for all of the figures stood suddenly motionless, until he yelled, "Let her rip, boys! Go on with the dance!" He picketed his horse and walked in with his bundle. The cook met Wm as complaining as a wife "Where you been? Supper's gettin cJidP A white towel stood up around his bald brown head like a chef s hat. He wore a burlap sack '""' Lew said. He dumped his sardines on the endboard of the cLk wagon. Part of the meal was stacked there in a deep pan, Th" steaks floured and cooked qui iv in hot lard. They made a golden |