by Hank Madison
But he had the herd to worry about. The law of the range, he thought. He could hear the dead trail boss’s words sounding ghostly on the breeze. His feet slithered in the clinging mud, and he headed fast for the barn. There was a Winchester thirty-thirty in his saddle scabbard and he wanted to get his hands on it. At his back there was the crash of a shot, and a slug whined over his head. He flinched and ducked, and cannoned into the door post of the barn, rebounding and rolling in the mud. He scrambled to his feet as the gun continued to fire, and there was a sharp, lightning flash of pain somewhere at his back. A graze, he thought, and dived into the darkness of the open doorway of the barn. He hurled himself sideways as he recalled that when he came out of the bam a few moments earlier the lantern had been alight.
“Hold up there,” a harsh voice rasped. “Is that you, Doberman?”
Harlan hit the ground in a corner and rolled. He had to make noise, and was banking on the hesitation of the man standing in the darkness. He got to his feet, almost dazed by the fast-moving events, and started for the stall where his horse was tethered. He wanted that Winchester more than anything.
“Over by the door!” he yelled, hoping that his words would fluster the concealed man. “He’s out there with a gun.”
He reached the stall and grabbed at the spot where he had put his saddle. But a hand came out of the darkness and clutched at his wrist. Like lightning he tossed his right fist where he figured a chin should be. He connected, and hard on the sound of the sudden smack of knuckles connecting with flesh came a grunting moan. He struck again, viciously, his teeth clenched and his eyes starting from his head. He heard someone moving at his back, and icy tremors flashed along his spine. He was in a dead-fall all right. This was his tightest corner, and the odds were too long against him. He wouldn’t get out of this one alive. He didn’t even have a gun. But he intended taking some of these buzzards with him. He struck desperately, and connected with a stubbled jaw. The unknown man sank to the ground, and Harlan followed him down, fumbling at the man’s waist for a gun. A thrill touched him as he grasped a butt, and he dragged the weapon clear of leather and cocked it.
A dark shadow was almost upon him. Outside in the rain he could hear Doberman yelling in rage and pain. He levelled the Colt and squeezed the trigger, sickness in his stomach and fear in his heart. The flash of the weapon lit up the surrounding darkness, and a man confronting his spilled a gun from his hands and started to fall. In the searing flash, Harlan saw that it was one of the four men who had been in the trading post when he and Horn entered.
The darkness closed in again, and Harlan hurled himself to one side. He was not too soon. Orange flame spurted and lanced from the opposite corner, and the man he had rendered unconscious gave a short grunt as he stopped the lead intended for Harlan. Then a gun started up from another spot, and he dived flat, dragging air into his lungs, trying to keep a tight check on his fear. He returned fire quickly, thanking the memory of Sim Horn, for the man had taught him how to use a gun. He heard a wild cry, but was not taken in by it. He ducked back the other way as the second gun tried to get him, and heard the strike of lead all about him.
Doberman’s voice was shouting outside, and Harlan threw a glance at the open doorway, hoping to get a slimpse of the man. He would kill Doberman instantly if he set eyes upon the trader. It wouldn’t bother his conscience any, either.
The darkness was uneasy, and he could hear the moaning sigh of a badly hit man. But he didn’t care for their agony. He and Horn had walked into something they couldn’t handle, and the old trail boss was dead. Grief filled his mind, but he forced it away. There was a time to fight and a time to cry, and now he had to fight or he would be dead. He slithered away with a gun gripped tightly in his hand.
He wondered about the shells that Doberman had given him. Perhaps they were dud. He shook his head as he strained his eyes for sight of one of his enemies. He’d soon find out if they were okay. He would have to trust his life with them. There was no time for hoping or praying.
A flash cut through the darkness, and the long ribbon of orange flame seemed to spurt at him. Harlan replied without thinking, and sent two accurate shots into the spot where he judged the gunman to be. A slug seemed to breathe upon him from another direction, and he flattened himself and rolled on to his back, sending two slugs whining across the barn. Gunsmoke was thickening the air, strong and pungent, and he compressed his lips. He wasn’t used to this sort of thing, but he was getting accustomed pretty fast.
Doberman was still yelling outside, cursing and threatening. Harlan eased himself to one knee. He wanted above all to take Doberman with him, but he dared not start throwing lead in the trader’s direction, for fear of collecting a slug from one of these others. He heard something clink in the darkness, and guessed that one of the others was trying to draw his fire. He didn’t know how many of them he had hit, or how many were left in the fight. His ears were ringing, almost deaf from the thunderous reports of the shooting.
“Have you got him?” Doberman yelled as the echoes faded. “Did you nail that sonofagun?”
The impulse to reply was strong in Harlan, but he gritted his teeth. The .45 in his hand was cocked and ready. He began to wonder if he had used up all the shots in it. He hadn’t counted the times he had fired, and gulped as fear threatened to swamp him. There were still two or three guns against him, and he was alone and afraid.
He felt for some of the shells that Doberman had given him, and carefully broke the big Colt. He restrained his breathing and sharpened his hearing. This was the critical moment. If they cut loose at him now he was finished. He reloaded, his eyes strained for movement, but there was none. The others were playing a waiting game. They had decided that he was dangerous, and they wouldn’t take any more chances.
Hot anger was bubbling up inside him. These men had killed a grand old Westerner in cold blood. Horn was lying around here somewhere, stiffening in the darkness, unaware that the son of his old friend and boss was fighting for his life, using the tactics which he had instilled in him. That would be ironic justice, Harlan thought, if he could nail Horn’s killer, using tactics which the dead man had taught him.
A shot hammered suddenly, taking him by surprise, and he ducked, tightening his grip on the gun. He saw the figure of a man outlined in the flash, and fired instantly. He knew he’d scored a hit, but bullets came at him from another angle, and he guessed that these two men left in here were expert at this grim business. He felt a slug touch his left elbow, and flicked his gun to cover the killer, but the flash died too quickly for him to fire, and his eyes were blinded by the inrushing darkness. He flattened himself and lay still. He could wait this out if he had to. His nerve would not fail him. He came from good fighting stock.
Doberman was still yelling, and Harlan was tempted to throw a slug through the wall of the barn where he figured the trader to be, but held his fire. The other gunman inside the barn would be praying for a chance like that.
Harlan lifted a hand and wiped sweat from his face. He made only the faintest rustling sound, but it was enough to draw fire. He clenched his teeth as a bullet smacked into the wall at his side, and replied quickly before the flash died. He scored a hit and heard a great cry following the dying echoes of the shooting. He pushed himself to his knees. This was it. He had better get moving now. He had winged them all except Doberman, and he could always come back for the trader. He pushed himself unsteadily to his feet and back against the wall. The horse at his side was standing nervously, and Harlan suddenly darted across the barn, his teeth clenched and every muscle in his body rigid in anticipation of the tearing lead which would smash the life from him. He dived into an opposite stall, rolling quickly, and blundered under the hooves of a prancing horse. He thrust himself to his feet and peered around. There was no reaction to his movement, and he began to wonder if he had beaten the four in there.
“Have you got him?” Doberman repeated, and Harlan moistened his lips. He had to get out of her
e. He reached up and untied the horse. The animal was still wearing its bridle, and Harlan backed the beast out of the stall and turned its head to the door. He smacked it hard with the palm of his hand and the animal went out fast. There was a series of tearing reports that made the barn shudder as Doberman opened fire. Harlan heard a whinny of pain from the horse, but the animal kept going. A dark figure moved into the doorway of the barn, and Harlan covered it.
“He got away,” the trader yelled angrily. “After all that, he got away.”
There was no reply, and Harlan wondered if any of the four men was foxing. He held his fire. He could wait this out now. Doberman still stood in the doorway, cursing and yelling. He saw the trader start to reload.
“You don’t need that gun any more, Doberman,” he called. “I’m still here. Drop it and you’ll live until we get to the nearest law.”
The trader spun quickly, shouting in sudden fear, and Harlan waited until the man had lifted his gun before firing. Then he let go three times, and the impact of the driving lead pushed the blocky figure clear out of the doorway. Doberman went backwards until he lost his balance. Then he fell heavily into the mud and lay still. Harlan waited tensely, but there was no shooting from any other quarter. He realised then that he had beaten five men at their own game, and wondered just how lucky he could be. He lurched forward out of the barn, and paused by the limp figure stretched out in the yard. The rain was hissing down, beating into the dead, upturned face, and the wind moaned around the barn. He checked that Doberman was dead before returning to the barn for his horse. Then he saddled the animal in the dark, listening for hostile sounds but hearing nothing. He climbed into his saddle in the barn, then sent the mount running for its life. He swept out into the rain and galloped away in the direction of the camp-site. There was no sound at his back, and no movement. The rain continued to pour down as if it would never stop again, and the wind howled eerily.
His thoughts now were for the cattle. Doberman had said something about the herd being attacked. He had to put the outfit on its guard. The rustlers wouldn’t hesitate to murder every last one of them if they were caught napping. The horse was hard put to maintain its feet. The ground was slippery, covered thickly with mud, and it halted their mad rush, cutting down the pace of the willing horse to little more than a half-run. The hooves smacked into the soft ground, and Harlan tightened his lips and cursed the weather for being against him.
As he neared the camp-site he thought he heard thunder, and cursed louder. That was the one thing they could do without. The herd would spook in a thunderstorm. He urged on the horse, shaking his head, unmindful of the rain and its attendent discomforts. The herd came first, he thought. That was the law of the range. Sim Horn had lived and died by that maxim.
Then he realised that the sound he could hear was not thunder, and an icy hand seemed to squeeze his heart. He pulled the horse to a slithery halt and stood up in the stirrups, trying to peer through the murk. He wasn’t far from the herd. He should be able to see the glow of the campfire, if the cook had managed to keep it going in this weather. But that noise! It couldn’t be thunder! There was no break in it. He clenched his teeth as he realised that it was the sound of the herd running.
Then he heard the bawling of the stampeding steers, and dropped back into his saddle and started the horse moving again. He cursed in despair and anger, and shook his head at the black thoughts building up in his mind. He swept up a slope, hit flat range, and saw the dark mass of the herd moving fast away from him. Guns were firing, and he didn’t know if they belonged to the rustlers shooting at his crew or to the cowboys trying to turn the herd.
The night was as black as a pit. Harlan was choked with anger and frustration. He raced recklessly through the darkness, taking risks that he wouldn’t dream of normally. Rain lashed his face and he cursed the elements. Everything had been against them on this trip. Every setback that could occur had happened, and now this, when they were within a week of their destination. He suddenly realised that he wasn’t wearing his slicker any more. He didn’t recall taking it off anywhere, but it was gone. He was soaked to the skin, and could begin to feel the deadly creeping of a chill into his system.
The ground had turned into a greasy mud-bath under the churning feet of the stampeding herd, and his horse had great difficulty in maintaining its balance. But Harlan kept going. Whatever happened he had to stay with the herd. He raked his horse with cruel spurs. He had to push the animal even if he killed it. He made ground on the herd, coming up slowly from behind, and caught a glimpse of bobbing horns and could smell the animals. A rider suddenly appeared in his vision, and Harlan lifted his gun. The horseman came straight at him, and Harlan settled himself in his saddle, cocking his gun.
“Cross H?” he yelled, knowing that one of his outfit would reply.
The answer came flickering readily out of the night. He felt the hot breath of the slug as it passed him, and he was replying before he realised it. His ears were deafened by the noise, and sang madly as he triggered desperately, almost willing his slugs to strike home. The next instant the rider was gone from his saddle, a thin shriek trailing away to be swallowed and blotted out by the thunderous hooves of the running herd.
Harlan tried to rein aside as the man’s horse came blundering into him. He dropped his gun as he grabbed desperately at his reins. Then there was a terrific impact, and his horse went down, screeching and thrashing. Harlan kicked his feet clear of his stirrups and tried to jump away. He landed on all fours, but the impetus of his leap carried him forward and his arms collapsed under his driving weight. His face hit the ground and mud plastered him. He rolled helplessly, and then his skull struck a rock. There was a bright flash like lightning inside his head. The whole world seemed to erupt. Then he was lost in the darkness, and sight and sound faded.
THREE
Harlan did not know how long he was unconscious, but when he came to it was still raining. The pitiless drops stung his face. His clothes were sodden. He felt so awful that he wished he were dead. But pain was rife inside his skull, and he made an effort to push himself up out of the clinging mud. The hooves of the stampeding cattle had turned the ground into a quagmire, and he opened his eyes and got unsteadily to his feet, slithering almost helplessly on the soft ground. He gazed around, aware that it was daybreak, but the grey world that confronted him made his spirits sink.
He looked around for his horse, and let his pent-up breath go in a long sigh. The animal was nowhere to be seen. The horse that had collided with them was gone as well, and he stared at the prone figure lying some feet away. He looked around for his gun and saw it sticking muzzle-first into the mud. He retrieved the weapon and wiped the mud off its steel by rubbing it on his coat. Then he checked it. It needed reloading, and he attended to that, his eyes squinted against the throbbing pain in his skull.
When he approached the still figure he was filled with emotion. He could see the man was dead before he reached him, and a sigh gusted through him. He had known this cattle-drive would be tough, but this was worse than any nightmare. He had started killing last night, and now his tally stood at around half a dozen, and it wasn’t finished yet, he thought grimly. These rustlers were going to feel the burn of his lead before he was through.
He picked up the dead man’s gun and checked it, stuffing it into his waistband. The world spun giddily when he turned sharply, alerted by some sound, and he lifted his gun when a rider loomed up quickly out of the murk, bearing down upon him. The rider’s hooves made a sodden sound on the churned-up range. Harlan cocked the Colt and drew a bead, then let his breath go and lowered the weapon. It was one of the outfit.
The horseman hesitated when he spotted Harlan, and made a quick movement with his hand to his hip, but he seemed to recognise the mud-plastered figure, and reined up and sprang out of his wet saddle. Harlan saw that it was Chuck Mallett, the youngest member of the Cross H outfit, and his own particular friend.
“Steve, what in heck are
you doing here?” the young cowboy cried, glancing at the dead man. “We’ve been hunting high and low for you. We went to the trading post and found Horn dead. Did you know about that? He lay dead in the barn, and there were five dead strangers around him.”
“I know about it,” Harlan replied wearily. “What’s been happening, Chuck? Has the herd gone?”
“It sure has,” came the bitter reply. “We didn’t know much about what hit us last night. Most of the boys are out riding now, rounding up what they can. But it’s sure gonna be a hell of a chore in this weather. We got two dead man. Al Rice was stomped to death and Jack Watt stopped a slug in the head. We’ve all been worried sick about you.”
Harlan stared into the cowboy’s taut, drawn face, and felt anger pulsate through him. It was followed by bitterness and disappointment. He reckoned that it was reaction to the dreadful incidents which had occurred, but he tightened his lips and took a hold on his screaming nerves.
“Let’s get back to the camp,” he said harshly. “I need a fresh horse. We’ll round up the herd, if those rustlers left it, and then see what we can do.”
They both wearily mounted the cow pony, and Mallett turned the animal towards the distant camp. The rain still slanted down, and Harlan gritted his teeth as he stared around at the dismal range. What the hell of a situation! He sighed. But the herd came first. He would have to forget his own misery and think about getting the herd gathered.
The camp was a pitiful sight. Mallett hauled the pony to a halt and they both dismounted. Harlan saw that the chuck-wagon was lying on its side, and all its contents had been tossed out into the rain. Food lay ruined in the mud. But there was a fire burning, and the old cook had a pot of coffee boiling and stew was simmering in the big pot. Harlan blew on his cold hands. He was soaked through and half frozen, and walked stiffly to the fire.