Chancy (1968) by Louis L'amour Page B

said. "Now they'll have to move on, but I don't believe they can outrun the story that will be told."
    When we rode up to the herd all was quiet, but we wasted no time. We saddled up fresh horses and moved the herd right out, driving due north.
    A man ramrodding a herd of mixed stuff has got to be a worrier. He has to worry about what might happen, so he will be ready for it if it does happen; and the only thing he can be downright sure of is that if what he was afraid of doesn't happen, something else will.
    Cattle are spooky, liable to scare themselves into a stampede at some sudden sound, some unexpected movement, at a flash of lightning or a rattle of pans. And every one of them seems gifted with a crazy imagination that sees ghosts, goblins, or wolves in every shadow. There may be hours on end when they plod placidly along, and then suddenly they'll be off and running and a longhorn steer can cover ground like a scared antelope.
    We'd been having it mighty easy so far. Our herd was trail broke, and for the greater part of the drive the grazing had been good; except for a few short drives there had been water a-plenty. But now we were entering upon a long, dusty drive over dry country, where it would be a long while between drinks.
    Kelsey and his outfit knew we were driving to Wyoming, for that had been no secret, and in a town like Abilene everybody knows what everybody else is doing, anyway. My hunch was they'd cut out for Cheyenne, spend some time around the saloons and gambling houses, and then ride south to meet us sometime during the last day or so of our drive .
    My guess was they'd hole up their stolen herd somewhere on a hide-out ranch run by some outlaw, and come on without it. They wanted my cattle, but most of all they wanted my hide. Now, it doesn't pay to trust too much to what you think the other fellow may do; he might do something different that would throw you off stride.
    We crossed the Lodgepole and drove north across the Chugwater Flats, making easy drives to save our horses. Twice we came upon wild mustangs, but they fled on our approach; then they trailed along, always curious, always at a distance.
    Jim Bigbear dropped back to where I was working the drag. No matter that I was bossing this drive--I stood my regular turn with the rest of them, and switched the bad jobs among us. The drag was the dustiest, dirtiest job of them all, and usually it was the hottest, unless the wind was stirring. Then the hottest place was on the lee side of the herd, where a body caught the heat thrown up by several hundred cattle.
    "This is Cheyenne country," Jim commented, "and you'll run into the Sioux up ahead. We'd best keep an eye out for trouble."
    We watered the herd, and then pushed on a couple of miles to bed them down. The best we would find was the gentle slope of a hill that offered a mite of protection from the wind.
    This night I saddled the buckskin and went to scouting. First of all, I wanted to get away from the herd, for I had some thinking to do. And next, Jim had been scouting now for weeks and it was high time I did some of it, just to get better acquainted with the country, if nothing else.
    When I had been scouting for nearly an hour the buckskin made his way down into a hollow among the hills. There were several cottonwoods there, and some willows there might be water.
    This was the route we would take tomorrow, and it would make it easy if we could water the herd well, and at the right time, so I walked the buckskin toward the trees.
    The sun was low down in the sky, painting the clouds with a vivid brush. It would soon be dusk. The cottonwoods dusted thek leaves together softly. There was no other sound but the soft thud of my horse's hoofs.
    An Indian, rifle in hand, stood silently awaiting me. Along the edge of the wood I then saw another, and another ... and another.
    There were at least six of them, and I was alone.

    Chapter 7
    My horse had continued to walk forward, and I lifted my right