TALKING-TALBOT-Chapter-01

Oh, how cruel! Make him stop! Somebody make him stop!” A lot of several hundred horses was being loaded on a train at a siding in Texas, destined for the British troops in France.

It was a scene of excitement, noise, and bustle; frightened horses plunging, biting, kicking, squealing; men shouting and swearing.

A party of men and women, betrayed by their dress as strangers, were sitting their horses, grouped together, watching the proceedings with a lively interest.

The horses were all broken, but terror and excitement had made them restless and difficult to handle. Most of the men, recognizing the state the animals were in, were gentle with them, but one big, evil-looking fellow seemed to know no other method but that of violence, and finally had undertaken to drive a high-spirited, terrified horse into the car by kicking it brutally.

It was one of the ladies of the party who had voiced her horror, appealing to the gentleman near her, a man who sat his horse in a fine, military way.

“Make him stop, colonel!”

“The fellow’s a bally brute,” said the colonel, but hesitated in indecision.

Before he could have done anything, even had he moved quickly, another man had acted. With a swift, easy stride he was by the man’s side, his hand on his arm.

“Stop that!” he said quietly.

Buck Corson, in the habit of doing as he pleased, shook off the hand and delivered the kick he had started. The next instant he was caught in a grip of steel and sent sprawling in the dust.

He fell almost under the feet of the horses of the spectators. He poured out a string of oaths as he scrambled to his feet, and would have had his gun out if two men hadn’t caught him, crying out warningly as if with one voice:

“You fool! It’s Talkin’ Talbot.”

Buck stared foolishly; then swallowed and sneaked away to another part of the place. Talbot, meanwhile, seemed to pay no attention to the man; but, having quickly secured the horse, was carefully running his hand over its belly to ascertain whether or not it had been hurt. Satisfied that it was uninjured, he petted it for a moment, and then led it gently up the gangplank.

“Talking Talbot!” murmured the young woman who had cried out. “What a funny name!”

“What a splendid specimen of a man!” said an older woman. “Who is he, Mr. Trenchard?” she turned to a ranchman who was one of the party.

Bob Trenchard smiled as all the faces were turned in curiosity to catch his answer. “He’s generally called Talking Talbot. He’s the owner of a ranch

near here, and he was clever enough to know that horses would be in demand in Europe, and to buy them up all over the country as soon as war was declared.”

“Is he what you call a ‘bad’ man out here?” asked the young woman in a low tone, looking with mingled admiration and fear at Talbot, who was now moving away from the group.

“No,” laughed Trenchard; “he’s a good citizen.”

“Well,” persisted the girl, “I noticed that ruffian was frightened the instant he heard his name.”

“He sure was. Talbot’s a terror to that sort. The fellow came with a lot of horses, I reckon, and didn’t know Talbot by sight. He knew him by name all right, though.”

“He looks capable—what?” said Colonel St. John. The colonel was the purchasing agent for the British government.

“We think he’s mighty capable, colonel,” answered Trenchard. “He’s Johnny on the spot if you know what that means.”

“I cawn’t say I do, but I’d like to.”

“Well,” hesitated Trenchard, “it’s like this: if there’s anything that needs to be done he’s always doing it by the time other people are coming to the conclusion they’ll get together and tackle it.

“This was a bad country when he came out here seven years ago. You never knew when your horses were going to be rustled. He’d been here a year, I reckon, and we were all talking about getting together and putting an end to the way things were going. He didn’t do any talking at all, but just got out and shot up a few rustlers in that terribly quiet way of his.”

“You mean he killed them?” cried the girl.

“He never killed one of them; didn’t have to. The first time he came on a rustler with some of his horses the man started to draw his gun. He got it out, but he never lifted it; Talbot’s bullet shattered his thumb. Everybody thought it was an accident until the same thing happened to the next man. After five of ’em had their right hands shot up we all knew it was done on purpose.”

“My word!” said Colonel St. John. “That’s good shooting.”

“Oh, he’s some shot all right; the quickest gun thrower in Texas. Why, there was a real bad man heard about him—a cow-puncher from down near the border—and nothing would do but he must come hunting Talbot. Some of us heard about him and warned Talbot.”

“Yes,” cried the young woman; “and then?”

“Talbot was quiet for a moment, then asked where the man was. We told him the man was in the town. He saddled his horse without a word, and rode up to town. We followed. It was easy enough to find the fellow; strangers are known right off, you see. He was standing in front of a saloon, talking.

“I reckon some one told him Talbot was coming, for he stepped out as if he was going to stop Talbot. Well, Talbot was off his horse in a minute, and you may be sure there wasn’t anybody behind either of them.

“‘So you’re Talkin’ Talbot,’ said the gunman.

“‘So-called,’ answered Talbot, very even.

“They watched each other steadily. I think there was something in Talbot that got the other fellow’s nerve. Anyhow, he gave a quick glance around, as if he didn’t half like the situation, Talbot all the while cold as ice.

“‘I bin lookin’ fer you,’ said the other fellow.

“‘I’m here,’ was all Talbot said. “‘I hear you’re some gun thrower,’ said the other.

“‘Well?’ demanded Talbot.

“‘I’m goin’ to find out,’ was the answer, and what followed was so quick you couldn’t see it; but that fellow’s bullet hit the dust within two inches of Talbot’s foot.”

“And Talbot’s?” queried the girl. “Where did his hit?”

“Went clean through the fellow’s hand, breaking two bones.”

They all turned and looked at Talbot, who was moving about quietly, directing the loading. He was quite six feet in height, but so well proportioned that he did not look tall. He moved like a man who had enormous reserves of muscular power. He spoke seldom, but his manner was masterful.

“Why do they call him Talking Talbot?” asked the girl, whose curiosity was stimulated by her admiration. “Is it because he is so silent?”

The rancher laughed. “I reckon the name sticks for that reason, and partly because of the T. T. Alliterative, you see; easy to say. No, the boys got to saying that Talbot talked with his gun, and so the name came.”

“He jolly well knows how to handle a horse,” said the colonel.

“You bet he does,” was the enthusiastic response. “Men, too. Why, Mrs. Martin, you must remember when Chester Talbot ”

“Is that Chester Talbot?” cried the lady.

“That’s Chester Talbot. Why, colonel, he went to one of the small colleges back East, and was famous as half back on the football team. His last year they made him captain; and that year the team cleaned up everything—Harvard, Yale, Princeton, every one of them. Wasn’t defeated once. The papers were full of it”

“And he’s been out here all these years,” commented Mrs. Martin. “He disappeared in a sensational sort of way, and this is the first I’ve heard of him.” “Oh, please do tell us about it!” cried the girl. “He just fits into a romance.”

Mrs. Martin, seeing they were all interested, shrugged her shoulders and told the story: “It isn’t much, though it created a lot of interest at the time. As Mr. Trenchard says, he was a famous football hero. His father was a multimillionaire, and failed—went all to pieces—just as Ches Talbot was graduated. He was engaged to Margaret Cranston—you know the Cranstons—and she threw him over. Then the story was that he took to drinking and went down into the gutter.”

“Good gracious! He doesn’t look it,” exclaimed the girl.

“He never touches liquor,” said Trenchard.

“Well, that was the story; and he disappeared, anyhow. And to think of his coming out here! You say he’s making a success?”

“Sure thing. He’d make a success of anything he undertook.”

“I wish,” said Colonel St. John, “he’d undertake to land those horses in France for me.”

“Not likely. Have you asked him?”

“Ya-as.”

“He refused?”

“He looked at me—I never saw such eyes—as if to make sure I was in earnest. What? Then he smiled and walked away. Never said a word; not a bally word.”

“But you understood him?” laughed Trenchard.

“Jolly well I did,” laughed the colonel. “Felt like a bally ass, too. What? But he’s just the man for it.”

“He delivers them in New York, doesn’t he?” demanded Trenchard.

“Ya-as. I pay him there.”

“He goes to New York?” cried Mrs. Martin. “I wonder if he’ll call on his old friends? I must write and tell all about him. Is he married?”

“No, and never looks at a marriageable woman. I reckon I know why,

now. Always thought there was a story.”