Tom Chantry rode up to Clifton House and left his roan at the hitching rail.  He glanced at the other horses... six saddled horses, and a buckboard.  He had not yet acquired the westerners' habit of noting brands.

He went up the steps to the first-floor porch, and entered the door.  Several men standing at the bar turned to glance at him, but none offered a greeting or comment.  What his business was remained his business, no matter how curious they might be.

Chantry ordered a beer, then turned to the man beside him.  "Join me?"

"Thanks."

He was a long-geared man in shotgun chaps and denim jacket, a faded blue shirt, and a tied-down gun.  "It's a dry country," the man added.

"I'm heading north.  Do you know the country along the Picketwire?"

"Some.  I just come overit."

"Water up there?"

"Enough.  But no more than enough.  The range is dryin' up."  He lifted the beer.  "Salud."

"Cheers."  Chantry drank, then said, "I'm Tom Chanty.  Driving north with a trail herd."

"Bone McCarthy.  I'm driftin'."

They talked in a desultory fashion, but with half his attention Chantry was listening for mention of the railroad.

"Seems a shame," McCarthy was saying.

"What?"

"Them Injuns.  Takin' the country off 'em.  In good times it must've been a fine life they had, huntin' and fishin', or driftin' down the country on the trail of the buffalo.  I ain't sure what we'll do to the country will be any better."

"Have you lived among them?"

"Brought up around 'em.  I've fought 'em off an' on since I was a kid, and they're good fighters.  Maybe the best."

"But we've whipped them.  The army has, I mean."

"Lucked out, I'd say.  Mighty few Injuns have rifles and never enough ammunition to last out a fight, but you never seen their like for creepin', crawlin', bein' where they ain't expected.

"It won't be at war that the white man whips 'em.  He'll beat them with his store-bought things.  When the Injun made all he needed he had no troubles to speak of, but the white man showed him all sorts of things he was greedy for, and now he wants 'em.  He has to get 'em by war or by trade."

"Whiskey?"

"That's the least of it, believe me.  Knives, guns, pots, pans, and such.  The Indian was whipped the first time a white trader came amongst them to trade with things the Injun couldn't make with his own hands."

"I hadn't looked at it that way."

Bone McCarthy took a swallow of his beer. "You're ridin' with a herd?  Whose?"

"Mine... if I can stay with it to the railhead.  French Williams is trail boss."

"Williams?  You got you a live one, amigo.  He's hell on wheels with a gun."

"Do you know him?"