by J. T. Edson
The two parties swept together, converging with each raking stride of the horses. Red’s right hand twisted palm out and lifted the long-barrelled gun from leather and lined it, firing once. The nearest man gave a hoarse cry and rocked back in his saddle, then slowly crumpled sideways from the horse. Larry lined and fired twice. He saw the second of the men clutch at his shoulder and bring his horse to a one-handed halt, sliding it on to its rump to avoid the next shot which might be coming his way. The last man brought his horse to a halt also, swinging down from the saddle and tossing the reins over the horse’s head, then pulling the rifle from the saddleboot.
‘Yeeah!’ Red’s wild rebel yell shattered the air. His horse left the ground in a bound and lit down making better speed, while Larry’s bay flung itself out in a desperate attempt to keep up. ‘Flatten down over the horn, Larry!’ Red followed his yell with this warning. ‘Rifle!’
Larry did not understand for a moment, then he heard the flat slapping sound made by a close-passing bullet. He fanned the horse’s ears with his hat and the bay responded with a fresh burst of speed. He caught alongside Red and saw the other grinning. Red whirled the Colt on his finger, twisted it around and holstered it. ‘Just like home!’ he whooped. ‘We’re gaining on them, boy.’
The two horses were gaining on the herd, for a whiteface could not make the sort of speed a Texas longhorn could. The men urging the herd fired a few wild shots after the fast-riding cowhands but the range was too great. It was also getting too great for the man with the rifle for he was not shooting. He’d taken Larry’s hat off with one shot but that was the nearest he’d come to making a hit.
Topping the rim Red and Larry saw Wilben and his two oldest sons standing staring up at them. The nester and his boys were working at cutting hay and lines of it were ready for collecting in the wagon which stood without a team but nearly full, on a level piece of ground halfway down the slope.
There was no time for much at all. Red gave a yell of ‘Stampede, get to your house!’
Wilben might be plump but he was neither slow moving, nor slow thinking. He knew what that ominous rumbling was well enough and only needed the yelled warning to galvanise him into action. He snapped out an order and his sons started down the slope at a run with him following.
Red and Larry came down the slope and swung from their horses. Red bent and laid a hand on the hay. ‘Bone dry, Larry. Lay a pile of it along here and watch for the herd.’
Larry grabbed up a pitchfork and with Red working by his side made a long wall of hay. Wilben saw what was happening and guessed what Red was thinking of. He turned and came back, his oldest son, the one who’d been with him in town and who’d attracted Waco’s attention, followed him. They grabbed up their pitchforks and went to work. The lead steers of the herd came into sight over the rim top and Red barked, ‘Run for it all of you.’
There was no arguing now. The men started down the slope at a run. Larry suddenly realised Red was not with him. Then Sandy Wilben spun around, clutching his shoulder and stumbling. Larry grabbed the young nester by the arm, got him across his shoulders and went off as fast as he could.
Reaching into his pocket, Red took out a match and rasped it on his pants. He bent and applied the tiny tongue of flame to the hay, watching the fire leap from strand to strand. He ignored the shots which were now being thrown at him as the wind caught the flames, fanning them along the line of hay. He saw the half-crazed cattle boiling down the slope towards the leaping flames, still being hazed on by the masked men. He knew that nothing but fire would stop stampeding cattle and it needed to be a fair-sized fire at that. He did not know if the small fire would do the trick. There was no time to do anything more right now except hope. He turned and saw Wilben; Larry and the other boy were almost at the house.
The bay coyote horse was standing with reins hanging as it was trained to do but its ears were flattened back and it fiddle-footed as it felt the intense heat of the fire. He ran back to the horse, caught the saddlehorn and vaulted afork, catching up the reins and setting his Kelly petmakers to work. The horse left the ground and headed down the slope. He was halfway down the slope when the horse took lead and started to go down. Red kicked his feet free of the stirrup irons and landed running even as the horse hit the ground. He felt the wind of other shots as he raced down the slope, covering the ground with raking strides in spite of his high-heeled cowhand boots. The others were all in the house by now, Wilben holding the door open. Red dived the last few feet, right through the door and with perfect timing Wilben slammed the heavy wood closed. He heard the thuds as bullets struck the door but they could not pierce the thick timber. Then he turned and watched Red Blaze getting to his feet.
It took a lot to put Red off his stride and he grinned cheerily at Wilben’s plump, happy wife and his two daughters. The woman’s face was not cheerful now as she worked on her son’s shoulder.
‘What happened?’ Wilben asked as Red went to the window.
‘It turned them,’ Red replied. ‘I was scared they might not turn at the fire.’
‘What happened? How did the stampede start?’
‘It was our stock herd. Run off. Larry and me trailed the men who did it. They came this way.’
‘Rustlers?’
‘Nope, they took it to stampede it over your place.’
‘How do you figure that ‘out?’ Wilben studied the young man now.
‘Easy, they drove it right at your place. Had they been rustlers they’d have stayed clear of anywhere they could be seen.’
Wilben was not looking from the window and watching the remnants of the herd scattering away. ‘Why would they do a thing like that?’
‘To start up trouble between the cowhands and you. The same sort of way they tried when they raided the S.S.C. and killed young Silver.’
Sandy Wilben looked up. His face was scared and worried again. He opened his mouth, then closed it again and sat still as his mother did what she could with his wound.
The masked men were coming down the slope now, most of them holding rifles. They started to take up cover behind stumps, rocks and one landed behind the dead horse. Wilben watched this and said, ‘Looks like they want a fight.’
‘All right, we’ll make a try at giving them one,’ Red replied.
CHAPTER NINE
THE FIGHT AT WILBEN’S
THE Wilben house was built on the same lines as most other such places. The front of the house was one big room which served as dining and sitting-room. Behind this was a passage and on the other side of this, kitchen and bedrooms. Red did not need to be shown the rest of the house. One could guess what it was like. In his run down the slope he’d seen enough to know that only from the front, on the slope could any serious attack develop. The land at the back and the sides was too open and did not offer any cover for the attacking men.
The next thing to occupy Red’s attention was the state of defence the place was in. He saw they were not as well off as they might be. Wilben was holding a Henry rifle and his wife laid a box of .44 rimfire bullets out for him. This appeared to be his only weapon, apart from a long, old but beautifully chased, Kentucky rifle which hung on pegs over the fire. A powder horn scraped so thin that the level of the powder could be seen through the sides, and with a measure fitted to the top; and a bullet bag, hung over the gun. Red gave the old muzzle-loading gun little attention; he was thinking of cartridge weapons. He and Larry only carried their revolvers with them. Red cursed the inspiration which made him leave his old Spencer carbine behind. He was a good enough shot with either hand to make his Colts dangerous to the men if they came into anything like pistol range. They were armed with rifles and knowing the kind of men they were Red did not think they would take a single chance unless they were forced to do so.
A bullet slapped into the wall and Red flattened himself to took out of the window. The gunmen were settling down with their rifles at about sixty yards which was beyond anything like the range of their Colt guns. It
was also beyond the range at which the old Henry would be anything like accurate. The Henry was a fairly reliable repeating weapon and in its day was the best money could buy. However, even its most ardent supporters could not claim it was accurate over any range. The combination of the flat-nosed, two hundred and sixteen grain bullet and the weak, twenty-six grain powder charge made accuracy at ranges of over fifty yards uncertain to say the least.
The men on the slope were not much better off for most of them appeared to be armed with Winchester Model 73’s. These were a better all-round rifle than their grandfather, the Henry, but still did not have enough power to drive a ball through the thick log walls of the house.
‘Get your lady into the back of the house. Send your boy. He’s hurt and can’t help us any,’ Red said to Wilben, watching the slope all the time.
A man slid in behind a rock and Red knew straight off he was going to make trouble. That man was holding a Sharps Old Reliable rifle. The Sharps might be a singleshot weapon but it could be reloaded fast enough by a man who knew what be was doing. It would hold true at half a mile or more and would retain enough power to knock down a full grown buffalo bull at the end. The rifle roared and smoke rolled from behind the rock; the heavy .50 bullet came through the wall like it was tarpaper and gouged a splinter-throwing groove in the top of the oak table top.
‘Quick, ma’am!’ Red checked the woman’s objection to leaving her husband. ‘He’ll shoot this place plumb full of holes and with all of us here he’ll connect with some of it. The less here the less chance he has of doing any harm.’
‘Do as the young man says, Martha,’ Wilben said mildly. ‘He’s acting for the best.’
Another bullet from the Sharps hit the wall and burst clear through, kicking up splinters near Sandy Wilben’s feet. The young man was pale from the shock of his wound and from something more which was worrying him. His, mother came forward and helped him leave the room, then ushered the rest of the family out after. She came back to lay a hand on Larry’s, shoulder. ‘That was a brave thing you did out there young man. Thank you for saving my son.’
Larry blushed. He smiled at the woman. ‘Shucks, ma’am. I only did what he’d done for me. You best get out of here, ma’am.’
The window frame smashed as a bullet from the Sharps struck it, sending glass flying. Red ducked back instinctively, then growled, ‘We got to get that Sharps gun and get him fast.’
Larry took Mrs. Wilben, led her to the door of the room and opened it. He gave her a reassuring smile and said, ‘Don’t you go fretting, we’ll get you out of this and we’ll take care of your man for you. Ole Red there rode as a Lieutenant in the Texas Light Cavalry. He can handle any bunch like them.’
Closing the door on the woman Larry took his place by the other window and looked out. He took time to reload the empty chamber of his Colt and push a bullet into the usually empty sixth chamber. This was a safety precaution, for no man liked to carry a revolver loaded with six bullets when riding a horse. Red watched him with approval, Larry was growing up fast. He’d make a good foreman for the spread if Waco did not stay on at the end of the trouble.
Once more the Sharps rifle boomed and a hole appeared in the wall. Wilben gave a startled curse and ducked back, holding his face.
‘They get you?’ Red asked.
‘Splinters is all. We’ve got to stop him, Red.’
‘Mister, you’ve never been more right than now,’ Red turned and looked at the Kentucky rifle again. ‘The old gun work?’
‘Sure. Sandy bought it when we came out here. He’s kept it clean and uses it to bark squirrels with.’
‘Mind if I use it?’ Red darted across the room and lifted rifle, powder flask and bullet bag down. He hefted the bag and was relieved to find it was full of ready-moulded balls. Returning to the window he knelt down. ‘This old gun’s got the range over that Henry.’
‘What do you want me to do?’ Wilben was willing to let Red run the fight.
‘Keep their heads down. Don’t let them get in too close. Larry, you let a few shots off, not too many, we’ve only got the loads in our bullet loops to fall back on.’
Leaving the other two men to get on with their tasks Red started to load the old gun, working with a speed which showed he knew what he was doing. First he poured a measure of powder into the barrel from the flask. Opening the patch-box he took out a well-greased felt patch from the pile of them which filled the box. He put the patch in the muzzle of the rifle, took the roundest ball he could find, placed this on the patch and rammed both home. There was neither flurry nor nervousness in the way he acted. He primed the frizzen pan, checked the flint was held firmly. He hefted the rifle with appreciation, knowing it to be as fine an example of the gun-maker’s art as was ever made. He’d handled these fine, long, old rifles before and knew their secrets.
‘How’s she fire?’ he asked.
‘About three inch high and just a mite to the left at seventy-five yards.’ Wilben could see that here was a man who knew well how to shoot, a man who could handle the old Kentucky even better than he himself could.
Red brought the rifle up, lining through the window. He felt the smooth curve of the butt nestle into his shoulder and. the balance the forty-inch barrel gave. He focused the V notch, of the backsight and pinhead sight at the tip of the barrel. His aim was not at the man but the small rock in front of where the Sharps user was hidden. The old rifle cracked. For an instant smoke obscured Red’s vision but it quickly dispersed and he saw a dark blotch on the rock right where it should be if Wilben called the sights right. Red was ready to take the Sharps user right now. Even as he primed and reloaded the Kentucky he marvelled at the way it held its accuracy. The gun held as true as the day, which was not just a couple of years back, when some gunsmith along the banks of the Ohio River made it in his small shop. It was still accurate enough to bring off the honoured, old time trick of barking a squirrel. Barking squirrels was a trick attributed to Daniel Boone and required a steady aim, also an accurate rifle. It came about in the old days. A man could only take one weapon along with him, mostly only possessed one, when he went hunting, bad whites and hostile Indians, a man took along his .45 calibre Kentucky rifle when he went out. A squirrel was a delicacy but when shot with a rifle like the Kentucky was messy. A man did not need to skin it out, the bullet spread the squirrel. So barking was discovered. To do it a man aimed, not at the squirrel but at the branch just under the animal. If the shot was made correctly the bark splinters flying up, killed it as well and more cleanly than a direct hit.
Waiting his chance Red lined the rifle. The man with the Sharps was getting over-confident through the lack of opposition to his long shooting rifle. He sent another bullet through the wall and watched the other members of his bunch moving closer in, soon they would be at a range where their Winchesters could also throw lead through the walls. He came up more leisurely and lined his gun carefully. One of the logs of the cabin looked as if it might be splitting and a couple more shots would speed the process.
Bringing the Kentucky up Red lined and fired, holding as steady as a rock even though bullets were coming through the window. The heavy boom of the Sharps was answered by the flatter bark of the Kentucky. The old muzzle loader kicked up and smoke hid Red’s man from him but, with the instinct of a good shot, Red knew he’d made a meat-pie-in-the-pot hit.
‘Yowee!’ Larry hooped. ‘You got him, Red!’
‘Clean through the chest, friend,’ Wilben went on, just as, enthusiastic at the shooting.
Red looked through the window and could see no sign of the man, although the Sharps rifle lay on this side of the rock. The gunmen on the slope certainly aimed to try and get the Sharps back. While the others poured lead down the slope and at the house, three darted for the rock. Wilben’s Henry beat a tattoo as fast as he could work the lever and fire it. One of the running men stopped in his tracks, then crumpled down, rolling over. The other two hurled themselves the last few feet and were behind t
he rock.
The barrel of a Winchester came into view around the side of the rock, trying to hook the Sharps and drag it in. Red tipped the bullet-pouch and spilled the balls into his hand. He examined them carefully and picked the most perfect. There was only going to be time for one shot and it needed to be accurate. That Sharps must not be allowed to fall into the hands of the gunmen again. Realising the value of the Sharps to their plans the men up the slope fired fast, sending their bullets through the windows in an attempt to hold the defenders down. It prevented any chance of the Kentucky being rested on the windowsill and for a shot like this a steadier rest than human arms was required.
Fast action was needed for the man was drawing the rifle slowly to a position where it could be grabbed by a quick, snatching arm. Red did not hesitate for a moment. ‘Larry, come over here and kneel down.’
Larry obeyed fast. He also knew the urgency of the situation and moved back into the room, kneeling in front of Red and allowing the barrel of the Kentucky to rest on his shoulder Red bent and lined the rifle, aiming up the slope to where he could see the rifle sliding along slowly, inching to where the men waited for it. The room reverberated to the crack of Wilben’s Henry as he recklessly exposed himself, trying to draw the fire from Red’s window and allow the Texan an uninterruped shot at the Sharps.
Calmly Red issued orders, his voice steadying Larry. ‘Down a mite, little more. Up a touch, now down. Hold it there!’
The sights lined, moving along the barrel of the Sharps, towards the breech, knowing this was the only place where a hit might permanently damage the rifle. Allowing for the slight cavagry of the sights Red squeezed the trigger. The sear released, the hammer fell, propelling flint down, kicking a spark into a frizzen and the priming powder. There was a faint hiss as the powder fired and ignited the charge in the barrel and sent the bullet winding up, patch catching in the rifling and turning it. The Kentucky rifle cracked and even through the smoke Red saw the Sharps kick but whether from his shot or the pull of the other rifle he could not tell. The men behind the rock must have guessed what was wrong for one shot out an arm and grabbed the Sharps, pulling it in.