McAllister reckoned that he was in the Indian Nations, but he couldn’t be too sure. He wasn’t making good time and he was worried. The picture of Sam and the boys being ambushed was clear in his mind and all the time he rode he could see them being cut down and the cows run off. Physically, he wasn’t too good. Riding was hell and it didn’t seem to get any better as he went on. Every now and then he was forced to stop and rest from utter weakness. He despised himself for his inability to hit a good pace on the canelo. Just because of him some good men might be meeting their ends.
It was afternoon when he came on the cabin. It was a simple log affair, erected in rough country, timber around and water near. There was a truck garden and a small pen with a couple of crowbait ponies in it. Several dirty and half-naked Indian children played around the door and a slatternly woman appeared when he rode up. She didn’t speak English and she didn’t seem to understand his sign language when he tried it on her. He would have ridden on, but a man appeared in ragged whiteman’s garb. He carried a single-shot rifle in his hands and seemed fairly friendly. He was, he told McAllister, an Osage. He had scouted against the Cheyenne in earlier years and spoke a little of the language. His English being even worse than his Cheyenne, McAllister spoke to him in his halting Cheyenne.
Yes, the man told him, there had been cows this way of late. It seemed they had been moving west some four or five or maybe six days earlier. The man couldn’t remember. But cows there had been. Yes, there had been a black man with them and he seemed to be the chief. A good man; he had given the Indian tobacco and food. McAllister thanked him, gave him a little tobacco and went on his way.
He went north looking for sign and sure enough within the hour he found what he was looking for. A vast herd of cows had passed that way and he didn’t doubt that it was his own outfit. The discovery acted like a tonic for him. At once some of his depression lifted and somehow he managed to stick the horse going at a faster pace. So Sam had headed west as he said he would and would at some time or other head north across the plains which he hoped would be free of Jayhawkers. McAllister was tempted to try and save time by turning north-west and cutting off a corner, but he decided that it was too risky. At least if he stuck to this sign he was sure that he would come up with the outfit soon or late. But, he asked himself, would it be too late? And if he did come up with them and found them in trouble would there be anything he could do to help them? All he could do right now was keep on going and make the best time possible.
He was, he thought, still in the Nations when he camped that night. He would have gone through the dark but he was afraid of losing the trail and he was exhausted. He camped on good water and gave the canelo the last of the corn he had with him. It would be grass from now on for the animal. He ate little himself, for he wanted to sleep more than anything. He woke after a few hours, found himself in clear moonlight and decided that he must go on. So he saddled and rode through the night.
By dawn, the trail of his outfit brought him to the bank of a creek which he thought to be the Medicine Lodge. Here Sam had watered the animals in relays. McAllister thought from the state of the droppings that they had passed three or four days ago, but he couldn’t be sure. As they were traveling slowly, it gave him a chance of catching up. With luck, they might be no more than a day’s ride ahead. He watered the canelo, crossed the now swollen creek and went on. He was starting to feel the pace badly now and wondered if he would be able to stay in the saddle much longer. He dozed a little in the saddle as he went and that revived him a little.
Later in the day, well after noon the sign swung north, showing that now Sam thought he was safe from the Jayhawkers. He was risking a return to Kansas. Normally this would have made him safe, for he was well west of the country worked over by the Kansas men. But in this case, McAllister thought of the worst. He rested for an hour and then pushed on at a harder pace. But night overtook him and he was forced to stop and rest up again. By moonlight, he went on again an hour or so later and by midnight he came to water again and guessed that he had once more hit Medicine Lodge Creek. He reckoned, too, that he was well into Kansas territory.
Dawn found him still in the saddle and riding down on a small encampment of Indians who he found to be a mixed bunch of Cheyenne and Arapaho. They were feasting on cow-meat which they claimed had been given to them by some Texas men who had been driving a herd north. They described the outfit and now McAllister knew for sure that he was on the trail of his own outfit. The Indians were wary at first, but proved pretty friendly when they learned that he understood their tongue. He told them of how he had spent two winters in his boyhood in the camp of Many Horses and they shared their meat with him. He gave them tobacco of which they were greatly appreciative. When he rode on they gave him a merry send-off. It was a long time since he had seen Indians laugh and joke like human beings. Memories of his boyhood came back to him. He thought about his old man and wondered, not for the first time, if indeed his mother had been a Cheyenne woman of Many Horses’ group.
The sky cleared a little as he rode and the sun warmed his back. He reckoned he was feeling better than he had done for several days; something like his old self. He cheered considerably for he could see from the droppings that he was now not far behind the herd.