by Neil Hunter
Jim saw the yellow blossom of flame from the weapon and braced himself instinctively. His own rifle was coming up then, his finger squeezing the trigger. He felt the gun jerk as it fired, gripped his horse with his knees as the animal flinched from the muzzle blast. Jim knew he’d missed and swore softly as he levered another round into the breech.
The whole night lit up with the glare and flash of crisscrossing gunfire. The noise was deafening. Men yelled and swore. Horses squealed in terror.
Out of his saddle Jim found himself down behind an old and rotten tree trunk, with Jan Dorn beside him. The Dutchman, calm as ever, aimed and fired his rifle with mechanical precision. The only relaxing of his patience was a steady, almost inaudible stream of words in his native tongue.
The Boxed-O raiders had apparently decided to bunch together, for their entire outlay of gunfire originated from one area. Jim made it out as a jagged outcropping of eroded rock, overgrown with tangled brush, and it only took him a couple of minutes to realize that the way things were, the only thing that was going to happen was that both sides were about to use up a lot of firepower.
He found himself wondering how Rem Callender and Josh Keel were faring. He didn’t doubt their ability to defend themselves, but until he knew for sure how they were he realized he would never settle. His thoughts were rudely interrupted as a rifle slug hit the tree he was sheltering behind. Rotten wood exploded dustily above his head, showering him with slivers and chunks. Some Boxed-O rifleman was ranging in close — too close, Jim realized, as another slug hit the same spot. Bringing his own weapon up Jim returned fire, sighting in on the distant muzzle flash.
Off to his left the brush rattled and cracked. Jim spun in that direction, his rifle ready. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom he saw a tall, slim figure easing out of the waist-high undergrowth. A second man was close behind, and Jim breathed easier as he became recognizable.
‘Man, you really make a feller earn his pay,’ Rem Callender said. He eased himself down beside Jim, thumbing his hat back. There was a faint smile on his face and he seemed to be enjoying himself.
‘How’d it start?’ Jim asked.
‘They come over the hill trying to make like Indians,’ Callender said. ‘Only they made more noise than a rock in a rain-barrel. Josh an’ me gave them a warning which, naturally, they ignored. So we let ’em have a couple of shots to show we meant it. After that things got a mite noisier. When you arrived we figured we might as well join you.’
‘You see anything of Andy and Ben Nolan?’
Callender shook his head. ‘They around here?’
‘They rode up some time ahead of us. Andy was going to see if you were making out all right, and Ben was carrying on over to Boxed-O to have a talk with Olsen.’
‘Well they never got to us.’ Callender lost his smile. ‘Hope they didn’t get caught out in the open somewhere. Those Boxed-O boys have been shooting at every damn thing that moves.’
Before Jim could reply he heard a shout of alarm. He turned, crouched low, and moved along the line of men until he reached the one who had called.
‘Hank, you see something?’ The man shook his head. ‘Felt somethin’. Ground’s shakin’, Jim, I can feel it.’ He was an old-time Rocking-T puncher, a grizzled, leather-faced man who had lived in and ridden this country as far back as when the Indians were about. He was tracker, scout, hunter, and a lot besides. He was seldom wrong and nearly always made his decisions on an age-old instinct. He cocked his head a little now as he palmed the ground again. His sharp eyes were hard as he looked at Jim. ‘It’s the herd, Jim. They’s stampeding the herd. Boy, we’d better get the hell out of here, else we’ll all end up as close to mother-earth as a man can get without being buried under it.’
Stampede.
Shock immobilized Jim for a couple of seconds. In his mind he suddenly saw that huge herd on the run. He’d seen two stampedes in his time, and both had left him numb, overcome by the sheer destructive might that the normally placid steers could achieve in the collective strength of a stampede. The combined bulk and weight of countless bodies driven to a blind, panic-filled run could render men and horses helpless, could crush and destroy them in passing. He had seen wagons overturned and even buildings demolished.
Hank’s voice reached Jim again. ‘Jim? Boy, you hear me?’
Realization brought Jim out of it. ‘I hear you, Hank,’ he said. He began to move along the line of men. ‘All right, boys, let’s go. Move out fast. We got a runaway herd coming our way. Get to the high ground, and don’t waste time. Move out.’
The Rocking-T crew began to pull away from their firing positions, grabbing the dangling reins of their wide-eyed, nervous horses.
Above the fading gunfire from the Boxed-O crew there now came a new sound. Not one man had to be told what that sound was. The low, thundering rumble, rising with every passing second, heralded the imminent approach of the stampeding herd. A faint tremor passed through the very ground, a rippling vibration that a man could feel through his boots.
‘Move out, Rem,’ Jim said to Callender. He saw the man nod and ease away, Keel close by.
The thunder of the fast-approaching herd filled the night. Jim noticed, too, that the Boxed-O gunfire had ceased altogether now. Before he moved off himself he turned to look back across the meadow, and he saw the herd coming out of the darkness. To Jim it was a bobbing, swelling dark mass, but it was enough to tell him that every steer that had been driven up to the meadow was there. While he was still fairly safe yet, a cold knot of tension grew in his stomach. There was little anyone could do to stop that crazed mass of running beef. Down on the flat, with plenty of open space, a crew of good men might slow and turn a running herd. But not up here. Not on this treacherous, dark slope of the hills where a man had his hands full watching out for natural hazards.
Jim turned to follow his crew, hauling his horse close behind him as he pushed through heavy brush that snagged at his clothing. He could see the rising shale slope ahead of him where his men were sweating and straining in their attempt to get their own fidgety animals to safety. A hail of stones and dust showered Jim as he started up the slope. His boots sank ankle deep in the soft shale and his horse baulked a couple of times, sinking back on its hind-quarters and rolling its eyes at Jim; there was nothing faster on earth than a horse for picking up the scent of fear; just let the atmosphere heighten and a horse would be fiddle-string tight in seconds. Jim hauled on the reins, struggling to keep his balance at the same time. He almost lost the horse, but the animal gave a sudden upward lunge that threw it forward and it crested the slope with Jim still hanging onto the reins.
Below, where the Rocking-T crew had been only minutes before the earth was black with the heaving mass of cattle. Running wild and blind, the beasts smashed their way over rocks and through brush. The air was thick with dust and heavy with the rumbling, bawling noise of their passing.
Watching the seething flood of living beef pound its way into the night, Jim felt a clammy coldness dampen his skin. That had been as close as it ever needed to be. He felt a little weak, but he felt even greater the feeling of relief. Above the responsibility of running the ranch and its affairs was the responsibility he held for the lives and safety of the men who worked for him. Jim’s father had held this to be of great importance and he had drummed this into Jim every chance he got. The full meaning of his position had never fully revealed itself until right now, and Jim found himself prepared for it.
He stood and watched the herd pass by. Not until the tail end of the stampede had vanished down the gully did he turn to his crew.
‘Anybody hurt?’ was his first question.
From somewhere a voice said, ‘I cut mah finger somethin’ awful. They’s blood all over.’
A general round of laughter greeted the complaint, and Jan Dorn’s voice broke through. ‘Is not blood, Cotton, is only some of that redeye you drink all time.’
Jim grinned as more laughter filled the air. He pulled
his horse close and swung into the saddle. ‘While you’re all feeling so frisky, how about going down and seeing if we can pick up any of those Boxed-O trespassers?’
Men swung into saddles, checking handguns and rifles. The old puncher, Hank, pulled a wad of tobacco from his pocket and bit off a chunk. ‘Let’s go get em’, Jim.’
Rem Callender thumbed a final shell into his rifle. ‘Josh and me can pick our horses up when we get down. We’ll go on ahead, Jim.’
Jim nodded. He reined about and urged his horse on down the slope, letting the animal pick its own way. His crew strung out alongside of him, every man primed for action.
With the noise of the herd now far-gone, the night was quiet again. Had Boxed-O gone? It would have been an easy thing for them to have slipped away during the stampede. Jim found he was hoping they had on the one hand, for this would avoid any violent conflict, yet he felt that he had all the right in the world to strike back at the invaders. He found his emotions mixed, leaving him more than a little confused, and he had to realize finally that the only way to play this out was to take things as they came and to act accordingly.
Chapter Twelve
Reaching the edge of the meadow Jim called a halt. He passed the order for his men to fan out, to cover as much ground as possible as they advanced. Riding forward in a long line abreast, the Rocking-T crew moved out across the silent, moon-dappled meadow.
It took only a minute for Jim to realize that Boxed-O had gone. Their aim tonight had only been to scatter Rocking-T’s herd. This they had done, and that was enough for them this time. A running fight had not been on their minds.
Once again Jim brought his crew to a halt. He sat listening to the night, his ears straining to catch any sound. He heard nothing. And he realized that there was nothing to hear. Then, as he prepared to give the order to move out, he caught the faintest whisper of sound sifting gently across the meadow. Puzzled he leaned forward in the saddle and his eyes caught the soft sway of movement that was rippling across the meadow grass. Jim realized that what he had heard was the sound of a breeze blowing through the meadow, and then he could feel it cutting through his shirt and chilling his sweat-damp body, it was a cold breeze, coming in over the hills from the far north.
A horse brushed in close to Jim’s and he glanced round. Jan Dorn, his broad face taut and thrust forward, was tasting the air. He nodded in satisfaction. ‘You feel her, Jim,’ he said, ‘you feel her?’
‘It’s for rain, Jim, boy,’ came the voice of the old puncher, Hank. ‘No other wind like it. Man, it’s goin’ to rain like hell let loose.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ Jim said. He raised his eyes to the sky and saw cloud scudding in from the north. Maybe Hank was right, he thought. He squared round in his saddle, faced his men. ‘Move out, boys, but take it slow and easy. It looks like Boxed-O has gone home, only let’s tread careful till we make sure.’
As he led his crew out again Jim saw Rem Callender moving forward on foot. Callender seemed to have spotted something. He stepped out into the open, rifle at the ready, moving smooth and fast. And then he was crouching, kneeling over something that lay in the long grass.
‘Jim, over here.’ Callender’s voice was brittle, urgent.
Urging his horse forward Jim rode out across the meadow. Reaching Callender he swung out of the saddle.
For a few seconds Jim wasn’t sure he was seeing the truth, but the illusion didn’t stay with him long. He realized bitterly that he was facing cold hard fact.
Andy Jacobs and Ben Nolan lay close together in the trampled grass. A few yards beyond lay the humped shape of a downed horse. A hot sickness welled up in Jim as he dropped to his knees. He threw an empty glance at Callender.
‘They’re in a bad way, Jim. Looks like the stampede caught ’em head on.’
Jim bent over Andy Jacobs, gently raising his head. He tried not to look at the torn, bloody mess that was Jacobs’ body. The white duster was in tatters and red with blood. ‘Andy? Andy, you hear me?’
Jacobs’ eyes opened slowly and he stared up at Jim. He seemed to be trying to bring his eyes into focus.
‘I walked right into this one, Jim,’ he said. Speaking was an effort, obviously painful. A trickle of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth, running down his chin.
‘Just hold on, Andy, we’ll get you home,’ Jim told him. ‘Just hold on.’
‘I’ll try, boy,’ Jacobs said, ‘but don’t set your heart on me getting there. God, Jim, but I hurt.’ He fell to coughing then, blood spilling from his slack mouth. He raised one of his shattered hands and clutched at Jim’s arm. His body arched convulsively, his face twisting in sudden, silent agony. He sought Jim’s face again with his eyes. ‘Don’t let it go, Jim. Don’t let the bastard take it. You hear me, Jim? Jim, you there?’ His eyes rolled upwards, a shuddering breath escaped him and he died before Jim could say a word.
Jim stayed where he was, cradling Jacobs’ body in his arms. It was a hard thing to accept. Andy Jacobs gone. A part of Rocking-T impossible to replace. For Jim Talman it was a heavy blow, and right then he felt lost and completely alone. Suddenly he felt weary and cold.
The Rocking-T crew gathered round in silence. Jacobs’ death was a shock for them all, and every man there had lost something. Jacobs had been a tough, uncompromising ramrod, hard when it mattered, but he’d been a friend to every Rocking-T rider and none of them would ever forget that.
Jan Dorn, his hat in his big hands, said, ‘We take Andy home, Jim.’ When Jim didn’t answer the Dutchman knelt beside him, a firm hand on Jim’s shoulder. ‘Is better we take him home, Jim. Is better for us all.’
‘He’s right, Jim,’ Rem Callender said. ‘Sheriff needs doctoring. He’s banged up pretty bad.’
Awareness came back into Jim’s eyes. He’d forgotten about Ben Nolan. A slow anger began to smolder in him. Olsen had a lot to answer for, by God, and answer he would.
Horses were brought up and willing hands helped to put the unconscious Nolan onto one, with a man in the saddle to keep him there. Andy Jacobs’ body was placed on another and somebody covered him with a blanket.
Jim called Jan Dorn to him. ‘Dutchy, ride for town. Find Doc Baily and get him out to Rocking-T.’
Dorn nodded and swung into the saddle. He reined his horse about and thundered off into the night.
‘Rem, you and Josh ride up to the spring. See if the boys are all right.’
‘Will do, Jim. You want us to take over from them?’
Jim nodded. ‘Do that, Rem.’
As Callender and Keel mounted up and rode out, Jim and the rest of the Rocking-T crew moved out and began the ride back home. For once the general banter and laughter was missing. A silence lay over the crew, a quietness that would be with them for a long time.
They reached the gully that marked their trail to the foot of the hills. The earth was torn and churned by the recent passing of the stampeding herd. A number of mutilated carcasses showed where cattle had stumbled, fallen and had been overwhelmed by the mass of the herd.
As they made their way down the gully, riding slowly over the treacherous ground, it began to rain. It was faint at first, then the few drops turned to many and the skies opened suddenly. Within minutes they were riding through a torrential downpour, a heavy, almost solid sheet of water that tumbled out of a sky turned ugly and black.
Jim turned his face to the darkened sky. Wide, swollen clouds filled the air, sullen and angry looking. There was no mistaking their shape. They were storm clouds, of the kind that meant rain and then more rain. Things had gone from one extreme to the other, he reflected. First drought and now the distinct possibility of everything being flooded by a prolonged spell of rain. Jim hunched his shoulders against the chill of the rain and the clammy cling of his soaked shirt. Nothing ever really changed, he thought, all that happened was that you changed one set of problems for another.
Behind him his crew rode in dejected silence, bodies held rigid against the cold and wet. T
heir thoughts were as black and somber as the sky above them, and more than one of them held thoughts of killing in their minds.
Some way beyond them the Rocking-T creek was beginning to fill. The rain sluiced down out of the heights, soaking the ground, then finding its natural way to the winding stream. The water level rose swiftly, breaching the banks as it splashed downstream. Reaching bottom it foamed its way across the shadowed range.
The drought was over, but the threatening violence and anger-heat remained as strong as ever. For a short time things might simmer, appear to cool down, and then the fuse would spark into life again. It had to come. It was as natural as day following night and just as unavoidable.
Chapter Thirteen
It was still raining the next morning when they buried Andy Jacobs. At the rear of the house, some way up a long, gentle slope where a few trees grew, the man who had given his life for Rocking-T was laid beside his former employer John Talman and Talman’s wife.
Every Rocking-T rider who wasn’t out on the range at the time was beside the grave, bare heads bowed as Jim read from the worn old Bible that had belonged to his father. Ruth was there too, standing beside her father, Garnett’s doctor, Nathan Baily.
The day was cold and grey, the sky showing no sign of clearing. Heavy clouds showed in abundance and the rain fell steadily, soaking everything and everybody.
Jim closed the Bible and raised his head. He’d said a lot, but he knew inside that there wasn’t enough time left in all their lives to say a complete thank you to Andy Jacobs. He turned his head to look at Ruth. Her face was wet from the rain — and from the tears that ran freely from her eyes.
‘Let’s go inside,’ Jim said quietly. He took Ruth’s arm and they went towards the house.
With the door closed against the rain they removed the shiny black slickers they’d worn. Doc Baily excused himself and went to look in on Ben Nolan. Since he’d arrived the night before Baily had hardly been away from Nolan’s side.