by Neil Hunter
Searing heat fanned Jim’s face and he instinctively jerked his head to one side, avoiding the direct thrust of the flame. He was not wholly quick enough and the left side of his face suddenly burst into white-hot pain. He lunged forward at the torch-wielder as the man went for his gun.
The muzzle of Jim’s rifle was barely in line when he touched the trigger. He felt the rifle jerk in his hands, heard its crash of sound. Through misty eyes he saw the Boxed-O man spin away from him. Jim had shot from extreme close range, no more than a foot away, and the slug took the man just below his ribs on the left side, going right through him, angling slightly so that it came out at the base of the man’s spine.
As the Boxed-O man fell, Jim was engulfed by a wave of surging sickness. He leaned his back against the cook-shack wall. The whole left side of his face felt as if it were aflame. His eyes stung violently and his vision was impaired by the fact that everything seemed surrounded by pale, wavering colored bands. He wanted to stay where he was. He wanted to rest, to ease the pain in his face, but he knew that these things were impossible at the moment. Olsen’s men were not going to wait. They were here to cause upset and destruction, and they would if they were not stopped.
Jim knelt briefly beside the man he’d shot. There was nothing to be done, he saw. The man was dead. Straightening up Jim checked his rifle, wondering how many more would be dead before this was over.
A heavy outburst of gunfire sounded from over in Callender’s direction. Jim turned that way, crossing the exposed strip of ground to reach the cover of the bunkhouse. A rifle slug tore a jagged chunk of wood out of the log wall. Jim ran the length of the bunkhouse, easing off as he reached the far corner.
A few yards beyond the bunkhouse a flatbed wagon stood on open ground, one end up on wooden trestles. Rem Callender lay in the dust beside the wagon, exchanging shots with the Boxed-O raiders who could be heard by their rifle shots and seen only by the balls of powder smoke that followed each shot.
Before Jim could intervene the situation altered drastically, a number of things occurring simultaneously.
A Boxed-O man came to his feet and made a sudden dash for the cover of the house. He almost made it. Callender held his fire until the man was within yards of the house, then his rifle cracked sharply and the running man lost his balance and fell heavily.
In the same few seconds Josh Keel, with Dicken Hodges backing him, broke out from the cook shack, their rifle-fire driving the raiders down towards where Jim and Callender had positioned themselves.
And then, coming over the very same ridge that the Boxed-O raiders had used, a small knot of horsemen appeared, pushing their mounts hard as they swept down into Rocking-T’s yard.
Jim watched them apprehensively at first, then felt relief sweep over him as he recognized Jan Dorn leading them, with the thin figure of Saintly Jones close by. There were only five Rocking-T riders, but they were enough to tip the scales.
The Boxed-O raiders, seeing the fresh opposition approaching, quickly sized up the situation and decided that things were getting too chancy. As Jan Dorn led Rocking-T into the yard the raiders threw their guns down and stepped into the open, their hands held high.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The wounded were seen to first, and then the four dead Boxed-O men were wrapped in blankets and tied across their saddles.
While this was being done the five living and untouched of Olsen’s raiders were kept under close watch. Jim finally crossed over to where they were being guarded by Saintly Jones and another of Rocking-T’s riders, Henry Teal.
As they crossed the dusty yard, Rem Callender said, ‘I see we got Curly Browning in amongst our wild bunch here.’
Jim’s head came up. Things had been happening so fast he hadn’t paid too much attention to just who was in the raiding party. Now though, his red-rimmed eyes scanned the bunch of dusty, sweat-stained men who stood sullen-faced before him. For a moment he failed to locate Curly, but then he saw him. Jim felt his emotions jar. He was remembering the way Andy Jacobs had died, remembering how he’d found him. Two bullets in the back. Anger rose, swelled up in him. He could almost taste it in his mouth. His right hand moved, his fingers brushing the butt of his handgun. Then he realized what he was contemplating and he steeled himself against the thought. A gun-duel against a man like Curly Browning was nothing less than suicide. Browning was a full-time gunfighter. He lived with a gun, lived by the gun. Jim would be easy meat for him. No, Jim realized, not a shoot-out. Not with Curly. But there were other ways to settle matters. For the first time in his life Jim wanted to deliberately hurt a fellow man, hurt him so he never forgot it.
‘Curly Browning, step out here,’ Jim called. ‘You’re safe enough. We don’t deal in back shooting at Rocking-T.’
Curly Browning stepped to the front and faced Jim openly, still cocky enough to sneer at Jim’s remark despite his position.
‘You accusing me of something, Talman?’
‘Damn right I am,’ Jim said. ‘You killed Andy Jacobs and every man here knows it.’
‘Who me?’ Curly looked hurt. He turned his gaze on to Callender. ‘Hello, Rem. It’s been a long time.’
‘Not long enough,’ Callender said.
‘Hell, you still sore about that little mix-up we had over at Kittyhawk?’
‘Seems I recall a couple of fellers turned up with slugs in their backs over there as well,’ Callender remarked.
Curly’s face hardened suddenly. He threw a hard look at Jim. ‘The hell with you bastards. One thing you ain’t got is proof.’
‘I’ve all the proof I want,’ Jim said, ‘and that’s all I need for the whipping I’m going to give you.’
The coldness in Curly’s eyes turned to excited pleasure. ‘Why surely,’ he said, smiling slowly.
Jim turned to one side while he removed his gun belt and handed it to Rem Callender.
‘Jim, you watch him,’ came the soft-spoken warning from Callender. ‘He fights to win and he fights dirty.’
‘I’ll watch him,’ Jim said. He took off his hat. To all who were watching he said, ‘Stay out of this. No interference.’
He squared round to find Curly. The man was standing motionless, his arms at his sides, big hands bunched into heavy fists. As Jim approached him, Curly suddenly broke into action. He moved fast, his fists coming up seemingly out of nowhere. One caught Jim across the left cheek. The side of Jim’s face, already sore from the torch-burn, burst into fresh pain. Tears blinded Jim’s eyes and he backed off. Then Curly’s second punch caught him a wicked clout on the jaw. Dizziness clouded Jim’s senses for a few seconds, and in that time Curly slammed home some hard, swift punches to Jim’s body and stomach.
Jim fell back, hoping to gain a little time to allow him to clear his head. But Curly was not giving him any time, he realized. Hard, smashing blows struck him from every angle. Jim felt himself being driven constantly backwards and he knew that if he let Curly carry on this way it would be over fast.
Shaking his throbbing head Jim peered through the veil of tears that clouded his vision. In plain frustration he wiped his hand over his eyes and blinked violently. And suddenly he could see clearly. He wasn’t sure for how long, but he knew that he had to make full use of this chance.
Curly, a taut smile on his face, was halfway through a wild, roundhouse punch at Jim’s head when Jim halted his retreat. Throwing up his left arm Jim blocked Curly’s punch, then threw a hard right to Curly’s mouth. Jim felt his knuckles split on contact. Curly gave a strangled grunt as Jim’s fist drove his lips back into his teeth. Blood began to flow freely from Curly’s torn lips. The blow stopped Curly for one brief second, and it was long enough for Jim to follow up with a slashing left to Curly’s broad stomach.
Wind erupted noisily from Curly’s bloody lips. He buckled forward, and Jim thought he was going down. He moved in to be close to Curly, but some inner instinct made him pause. At the back of his mind he was remembering Callender’s warning. His own caution
had come to the fore as well and Jim stepped back and to one side, waiting but ready for any move that Curly might put into action.
Curly had plainly been waiting for Jim to step in close. When he didn’t, Curly was left bent over, his hands clasped against his stomach in mock agony. He found himself temporarily high and dry. Sudden rage rose in him and he straightened up abruptly, his broad face more flushed from anger than from pain. His eyes sought Jim, found him and fixed on him. Curly’s lips moved in a silent curse and he began to stalk Jim.
Wiping his hands down his pants Jim held his ground, only moving to keep Curly before him. His face burned with pain and the taste of blood was strong in his mouth. A dull ache was spreading across his left side and he knew that his wound had reopened. He wanted no more than to be able to rest, but he knew that there was no chance of that until he had finished with Curly — one way or the other.
Impatience overrode Curly’s caution then. He was not a man to whom waiting came easily. In any kind of fight Curly was the type who bulled straight in, using animal-cunning and brute strength. It was a way that brought him a lot of pain, but Curly knew no other and it suited him.
He came at Jim now in a lunge, his big fists swinging wildly. Jim waited until the last moment, then stepped easily to one side, and at the same time he slammed his right fist deep into Curly’s stomach. This time there was no faking as Curly went on his knees, gagging violently. Jim turned and got a firm grip on Curly’s shirt collar. Yanking the man upright Jim spun Curly round, then released his hold. Unable to stop himself Curly slammed bodily into the rough plank wall of the bunkhouse. Curly clawed at the wall to stop himself falling. Regaining his balance he pushed away from the side of the building and rubbed at the side of his face where the rough boards had scraped his skin raw.
Before Curly had completed his first step away from the wall Jim was on him, his fists sledging hard, punishing blows to Curly’s face and body. Curly found himself slammed hard back against the bunkhouse wall, while Jim’s fists drove at him relentlessly. When Curly raised his hands to ward off the blows Jim batted them aside without pause. Curly’s knees began to sag. In sheer desperation he let himself slide down the wall until his knees touched the ground. Jim’s battering ceased momentarily and in that moment Curly threw himself to one side, rolling as he hit the ground.
As Jim turned he realized his mistake too late. Still on the ground Curly drove his booted feet up at Jim’s body. In an attempt to avoid the blow, Jim twisted to one side. Even so Curly’s boots caught him a stunning blow on the left hip, driving him back against the bunkhouse wall. Off balance Jim stumbled and went to his knees.
Curly was on his own feet by then. Two strides and he was towering over Jim. There was a killing rage in Curly’s eyes as he drove his knees into Jim’s chest, then followed up with a slamming backhander across Jim’s face. Curly reached down and grabbed a handful of Jim’s hair. Yanking Jim’s head back Curly drove his fist into Jim’s mouth.
A burst of pain followed by a spreading numbness engulfed the lower half of Jim’s face. He could feel blood coursing freely down his chin from his split lips. He shook his throbbing head, blinking his eyes, and in the second that he opened them again he saw Curly, standing over him, his fist already descending for another blow. Jim threw up his hands in an attempt to ward off the fist. It seemed he would fail, but then one hand got a grip on Curly’s wrist. Jim gripped the wrist with both hands, twisting with everything he’d got. A cry burst from Curly’s lips as his arm was twisted against the joint. He fought against the pressure for a moment, then let himself go. Jim swung to his feet, following through the movement by letting go with one hand and sledging a smashing blow to the side of Curly’s head, sending the man sprawling in the dust.
Curly twisted over on to his back, pawing dust from his eyes. He scrambled to his feet hastily, seeking Jim. To Curly, the fist that struck him seemed to come out of nowhere. It caught him across the jaw and sent him reeling back. He saw Jim coming at him and lashed out wildly. One fist caught Jim a glancing blow on his left cheek, high up, over the bone, and the skin split, blood welling from it instantly.
The pain from the newly-opened gash went unnoticed as Jim continued his advance. Some inner strength drove him on to try and finish this thing. Curly was in full retreat now. He had almost given up trying to ward off Jim’s savage blows. His face was streaked with blood, his eyes swollen and puffed. Jim’s violent attack was taking its toll of Curly’s strength. Repeated blows aimed at his ribs and stomach had rendered him almost helpless.
Staggering now Curly lost his footing and went down on his hands and knees. He stayed where he was, his head hanging, blood dripping from him into the dust. He looked like some old bull tasting defeat for the first time.
Watching him Jim realized that he felt no pity for the man. Surprised at himself, he wondered if all this trouble was souring him, hardening his feelings and emotions. The thought angered him, and he moved forward to where Curly was starting to get up.
Jim waited until Curly was on his feet, then he launched a slamming blow to Curly’s stomach. Curly buckled forward at the waist and as his head came down Jim’s right fist caught his jaw at the end of a sledging swing. The impact drove Curly upright. He twisted to one side and crashed face down in the dust, one arm bent awkwardly beneath his motionless body.
For a long minute Jim stood where he was. His arms hung at his sides, his head sagged forward. He felt completely exhausted, utterly spent. His body ached from head to foot, every part of him seemed to be hurt one way or another. It wouldn’t have taken much to have put him down right then, he realized.
When he moved it was with deliberate caution. Even so he showed nothing of what he felt. Turning to where Rem Callender stood he retrieved his gun rig and strapped it on with fingers that felt broken in every joint.
To the gathered Boxed-O men he said, ‘I want you men off Rocking-T range as fast as your horses can carry you. Tell Olsen what’s gone off here today. Tell him this is what will happen every time he tries a trick like this. I’d advise all of you to think again before you take any more of his orders. If he’s crazy enough to keep trying that’s his worry. But remember it’s you men who’re carrying the grief home every time. If it was me I’d be figuring whether it was worth the money I was being paid.’
He glanced at Callender. ‘Rem, you and the boys see these fellers on their way, will you?’
Callender nodded. ‘Pleasure, Jim.’ He motioned to a couple of the Boxed-O men. ‘You boys can come and pick up Curly. Seems as how he’s a slight weary of a sudden.’
Turning away, Jim crossed to the house. He let himself in through the kitchen, making his way to the bedroom. Something broke with a brittle snap under his boot, but Jim barely noticed it, or the other damage done by the Boxed-O rifle fire.
Jim crossed the bedroom, reached the bed, and let himself down onto it. He rolled onto his back and lay listening to the muted sounds that drifted to him from beyond the window. He lay and listened, trying to relax, trying to forget the pain, and without realizing it he let himself be taken over by sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Four
In the days that followed Boxed-O’s abortive raid on Rocking-T, Philip Olsen felt his world starting to crumble around him. Things began to happen that were almost too fast for him.
On the day after the raid, a rider thundered into the Boxed-O yard. Man and horse were both tired and filthy. Olsen came out of the house as the rider almost fell out of his saddle. Olsen had already recognized the man as one of the men he’d sent out on the drive, and he sensed there was something wrong.
‘Kirby, what’re you doing here? What’s happened?’
Red-rimmed eyes focused wearily on Olsen’s angry face. ‘We got hit,’ he said. ‘Just beyond Colter’s Basin.’
‘Hit? Bad?’
‘Herd got scattered to hell and back. Boys are having a rough time tryin’ to gather ’em. That country is just one big mess of brush and ravines.
I come to get help.’
‘You see who hit you?’
Kirby nodded. ‘Rocking-T. Jim Talman was there himself.’
A black rage caught Olsen in its grip. For a moment he was at a loss for words. Then he became aware of Kirby’s intense gaze. Olsen cleared his mind, ran a big hand through his hair.
‘Get the crew together, Kirby, every single man. I want them ready to ride within the hour.’
He turned away before Kirby could say any more. As he made his way back to the house he saw Curly Browning emerge from the barn. Curly’s face still bore the marks from the beating Jim Talman had given him. Olsen called Curly over and told him what was happening. Anger colored Curly’s face as he listened.
‘Goddam, we ought to burn Rocking-T to the ground and put ropes round the necks of every man who rides for it.’
‘Like the last time?’ Olsen asked.
The color in Curly’s face darkened visibly. Olsen’s words had bit deep. He opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. He listened in silence while Olsen gave him his orders.
Returning to the house Olsen made his way to his study and poured a drink. He took it over to his desk and sat down, deep in thought.
First he had to see to the herd. Without it he was practically finished. He had more money in that herd than he liked to think about. Getting it onto Boxed-O range was the most urgent of the matters he had to attend to. After that would come his settlement with Jim Talman. He knew, here and now, that there was only one way to deal with Talman. Once he had the herd safely on Boxed-O he would take a ride into town and have a few words with Dunc Howser and Cal Jarrett. Olsen drained his glass, turned out of the study and started up the stairs.
He left the house some time later and found his crew mounted and ready, his own horse waiting. Climbing into his saddle Olsen nodded to Kirby. ‘Lead the way,’ he said.
Kirby gigged his fresh horse into motion and the Boxed-O crew thundered out of the yard, leaving only silence and a shifting haze of dust in their wake.