Riders of Judgment

by Frederick Manfred

  He sat down to the plank table again.

  It is now about three hours since the first shot. Tim is still alive. They are still shooting and are all around the cabin.

  He thought he heard the noise of someone running toward the cabin from the west. They were rushing him at last. Quick as a cat he leaped into his bedroom; peered out of the west window.

  There was nothing. Nothing. The space between the cabin and the bridge was clear. Nor was there anyone coming down the lane.

  He saw that the clouds had raised and that the sky had lightened some overhead. He could see the Big Stonies far to the west, where clouds streamed over a long comb of white peaks, past and over the Old Man and the Throne, whose very topmost tips were hidden. There was a storm on the other side of the Big Stonies because every few seconds sheet lightning played along the summits.

  As he looked at the old familiar peaks, it came to him that he would miss them more than all else, more than his little spread beside the Shaken Grass, more than Rory and her boys. The never tiring winds might hone and chisel the Big Stonies down a little each millennium, but so far as he was concerned, thirty years of him, they had always been there and they would always be there, pure, white, high. If a man held his head just right he was sure to hear the wind souning across them like a breath playing a harmonica.

  “ ’Tain’t possible. I will be alive tomorrow.”

  The slow turn of the seasons, would he never experience them again? Summer, when the yellow sickles of grama grass quivered in the heat. Fall, when the Good Lord got out his color box and showed what He could do. Winter, when it was silver and gray in the Bitterness valley and the Stonies always blue. Spring, the best of all, when all things, grass and sage, greasewood and buckbrush, red willows and gayfeathers, became a tender light green, so tender and so sweetly light green a man had to argue with his animal not to get down on all fours and join the grazing horses and cows.

  “ ’Tain’t possible.”

  He remembered the moonlit nights when he went hunting bighorn sheep under the Big Stonies, when the peaks above him seemed to glow with an inner fire of their own. He remembered the day when he sat just under the Throne looking down at the great Medicine Wheel, when it seemed to him he could see again the ancient dark ones come streaming up from the valleys to worship the sun.

  Sharp eyes behind the bridge caught a glimpse of him. Puffs of smoke broke out along and under the bridge and from the road ditch. Bullets rattled into the cabin like an avalanche of stones. Cain spotted several faces as they raised to fire. From the style of the hat, from the way they wore it cocked over the eye, from the knot in the bandanna, he guessed they were Texans. The big boys had to go to Texas for their gunmen? Maybe things hadn’t gone as planned for the big cattlemen at that. Maybe there was some hope after all for his Association boys if the big cattle kings had to hire men from other states to fight their battles for them.

  The meadowlark out in the pasture called from a low perch in a clump of greasewood. “Kuk, kuk,” it said, and then it rolled out a low wooden plaint, “b-r-r-r-r.”

  He wrote in his little red stock book.

  Boys, there is bullets coming in here like it was hail. Them fellows is in such shape I can’t get at them. They are shooting from behind the barn and the bridge and back of the cabin on the rise. Boys, they are all dead-hard men. They commenced firing without saying a word.

  The meadowlark called out again, this time cheerily, “Wheu! Wheu! See you in the morning, men!”

  He was looking out of the middle window, watching, waiting, eyes lidded low—when he suddenly saw something that made the animal in him rear up on two feet, ears out, mouth open. A stocky fellow had stepped out from behind the barn.

  Cain recognized him. It was Major Tascott, or Walrus, as the boys called him. Cain remembered a story the boys told about the major. On one of their escapade rides in Old Cheyenne, they’d had themselves too wild a fun and got haled into court by the local constable. Walrus was justice of the peace at the time and he sent them to the calaboose for a month. Later the boys learned that Walrus automatically sentenced anyone appearing in his court, no matter what the charge might be, on the theory that a man was probably guilty anyway, if not of the charge, then of something else.

  Walrus called, loud, “You there, Cain Hammett, come out!”

  Cain smiled some.

  “Come out and talk.”

  Cain smiled, grim.

  “We’ve got you surrounded, Hammett. You haven’t got the chance of a good cold glass of water in hell. We know you’re alone in there. We’re bound to get you. Put down your guns and come out with your hands up.”

  Cain smiled.

  “Come out and we’ll give you a chance.”

  “A chance, my eye.” Cain’s left hand came up slow, almost casual. “And an awful hell to you, my fat friend.” He pulled the trigger. His .45 jumped and roared in the open window.

  Walrus ducked; jumped back out of sight. The bullet skipped harmlessly across the rippling pink waters of the Shaken Grass.

  Cain heard a long and shuddering groan behind him. It was like the welling groan of an old dog who hated to lay down his old bones yet once again on a hard floor.

  Cain knelt beside Tim. He touched his brow. “Tim.”

  There was no movement in the long hulk.

  Cain leaned down and put an ear to Tim’s high chest. There was no heartbeat. Cain next rolled back an eyelid. The red eye looked at him sightless. Huge Timberline lay dead.

  He was alone. For a second blind rage possessed him. He ran from window to window, firing the Winchester, ejecting and shoving in shells until the barrel began to blister his hands.

  Later, calming, he got a blanket from his bunk and spread it over Timberline, hiding the old friendly boar face.

  Tim is dead. He died at eleven by the clock. Boys, I feel pretty lonesome just now with Tim dead. I wish there was someone here with me so we could watch all sides at once. It is pretty hard doing it alone.

  Between rounds at the window he ate the pancakes he’d left uneaten in his plate in the morning. They were soggy with black molasses and bitter with dust from the ceiling.

  It is now noon by the clock. One of them ducks in the barn is throwing a rope at the door. He has a weight at the end. Now he is pulling it back and trying it again. I can’t figure what he has in mind to do. He can’t catch the door latch and hope to pull down the door, because it opens to the inside. I wish he would just stick his neck out a little more and I’d get him. He looks like Mitch Slaughter who is a good roper. They may fool around just long enough for me to get in a good shot before they leave.

  He turned over the page; wetted the point of his pencil.

  I just seen a smoke down by the barn. I guess they mean to fire it. They probably figure the wind will carry the burning brands to the cabin here and burn me out. They are dead-hard men. They won’t let me get away this time. Well, there will be a lot of new faces in hell with me tonight.

  He had just made the rounds of the windows again, when he heard galloping off to the southwest. Ears out, alert as a wolf, he went to look out of the bedroom window. There was a horse, with a man astride. The man was wearing flashy clothes. Then he recognized the flapping ends of the red sash. It was Harry. Harry was coming back. He had come back to help him.

  Then he saw that Harry was riding in easy, as if he didn’t realize what he was getting into. “Hell’s fire and little fishes! He don’t know about the raid then. Hah. Then he left us in the night for another reason. Glory be!” Cain nodded to himself. “Wal, and I forgive him for it. Even if it was Rory he went to see.”

  Cain shouted a warning. “Look out, Harry!” He yelled for all he was worth, letting his animal into it, willing his roar of a voice out through the window, far out, so it would explode all around Harry. “Look out!” Then, steady, he fired at the log railing of the bridge just ahead of Harry. The bullet landed just where he wanted it to hit. Splinters of raw wood shot up
.

  Harry either heard him or heard the shot. Or saw the splintering. Harry reined in, hard. His horse pawed the air.

  A barrage of shots cracked out. For once there was no sound of bullets rattling into the cabin. They popped all around Harry instead. Harry ducked instinctively; whirled his horse around. Spurring, he galloped up the creek a ways, again reined his horse, then shot across the creek, water splashing, and up the rise. The last thing Cain saw, running to the window on the barn side, was the top of Harry’s hat bobbing over the rise to the north toward Antelope, then gradually vanishing, bullets cracking all around him in the sagebrush. Off to the right, a good quarter of a mile away, bent on cutting him off, a half-dozen riders came galloping out of the draw.

  It is three by the clock now. I just saw Harry. They fired, at him but I think he got away. I seen lots of men from out of the stable and from behind the bridge run out and fire at him. I seen some on horseback take out after him. I don’t know if his horse is fast enough or not. If he gets away we are saved.

  He turned over another narrow page.

  I shot at them ducks in the barn just now. I think I got one. I must go and look again.

  He wetted the pencil point; scrounged around uneasy on his hide-bottom chair.

  It doesn’t look as if there is much show of my getting away. I see a dozen men standing across the river. One of them is Hunt. I took a long shot but missed. I hope they didn’t catch Harry.

  Still later he turned yet another page.

  They are shelling the home like hail. I must go and look. It may be a trick.

  He heard a noise behind the house. He looked. They had pulled a trick all right. He came back and wrote some more.

  They managed to get a rope onto Hambone’s buckboard while I was busy on this side. They got it behind the barn now. I hear them splitting wood. I hear them hammering. I guess they are going to fire the house tonight. I guess I will leave Tim and make break when night comes, if alive.

  He took off his black hat and hung it on a peg behind the door. He took down the black hair quirt he’d made out of Lonesome’s mane and tail and stuck it in his pocket. He took off his boots and looked at them fondly and then slipped on an extra pair of socks. If he had to make a run for it, he would go as light-footed as possible, with yet enough on to protect a little against pricklepear cactus.

  Clayborne

  Hunt handed Clabe the ax. “Get to work.”

  Clabe said, slow, dull, “What—am—I—to—do—with—this?”

  “Cut some kindling out of them knotty boards in the mangers.”

  “What—are—you—going—to—do?”

  “Make a go-devil?”

  “ ‘Go-devil’?”

  “Yes.” Hunt’s eyes glittered. “We’re going to load down Hambone’s buckboard with dry hay and wood. Then we’re going to roll it against the cabin and fire it. We will get that left-handed son of Satan yet.”

  “You—are—going—to—smoke—him—out.”

  “Yes. We would have dynamited him out but that durn Perley Gates let the caps get wet when he cracked into that stone this morning.”

  “You—are—going—to—smoke—him—out.”

  “Chop wood, you big lummox. Bat, will you help him get started? Mitch and me will nail some heavy planks onto the back of this buckboard here. For protection. Make a kind of ark of safety out of it. We plan to push it backwards toward the cabin, so he can’t hit us while we’re pushing it, using the tongue to steer it with.”

  Clabe fell to, slowly, swinging the ax. Bat gathered up the raw broken pieces of knotty wood, slowly.

  Jesse and Irv held up the boards on the tail of the buckboard while Hunt and Mitch hammered them in place. All four worked away swiftly, grimly.

  The meadowlark out in the meadow called for his mate. He caroled sweetly. “Here’s the place! Here’s the place!”

  Walrus came strutting in. “Men, I’ve got another idea. I figure that if Hammett makes a run for it, he’ll try one of two things. He’ll either take the meadow to the east, the side we left unprotected, or he’ll skedaddle straight south for a ravine that cuts back through the ridge. He’ll figure that once he gets into the ravine, he can hold us off. In fact, he is almost sure to try for the ravine instead of the meadow. He’s smart enough to guess by now that we got the meadow set for crossfire. So I want two men to hide back in that ravine, in the sagebrush, one on each side. I will give that job to Mitch and Hunt here, the best shots we got.”

  “What if he don’t try either of them two?” Mitch asked, rifle at ready. “Because I want to be the one to send him to hell.”

  “Listen, Mister Mitch Slaughter, I’m not picking you because you got the best revenge. I’m picking you because you’re the best shot.”

  Mitch fell into sullen silence.

  “In case Hammett makes a break to get back up the creek, we’ll have plenty of men waiting for him there too.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Hunt said. “We’ll take the ravine.”

  “All right. Now the rest of you. Listen. When that cabin starts to burn, I want every man jack of you to be ready to fire at Hammett the second he shows in that door!”

  Just then Clabe caught sight of Bat’s eyes. Bat was crying.

  Clabe broke inside. He took the ax and smashed it into a six-by-eight timber support. “I’m—through!” Clabe said, slow. He spoke the word “through” with such vehemence that spittle shot from his mouth in a shower. “I—can’t—stand—it—any—more.”

  Hunt whirled around. He snarled, “You overgrown coward! You’re not through.” Hunt dropped his hammer and ran over and grabbed the ax by the handle and tried to jerk it out of the timber.

  But Clabe had sunk it in so deep Hunt couldn’t budge it.

  Clabe said, low, “Leave—that—ax—be!”

  Hunt whirled again. He drew on Clabe. “Pull it out! Get! Hurry!”

  Bat saw the drawn gun. He stepped back out of range. And in so doing, he stumbled over a fork and fell on his back in the hay.

  “Draw—on—me—will—you,” Clabe said, slow, gathering. “Why—you—murdering—killer—I’ll—teach—you—to—draw—on—me.” With huge slow steps, with huge slow hands, Clabe grabbed the ax by the handle and in a single springy motion jerked it free. He raised it over his head, the blade flashing against the ceiling, and advanced on Hunt.

  “Clabe!” Walrus roared. “Hunt!”

  Hunt shot. The bullet mashed into Clabe’s belly.

  “Liza!” Clabe dropped the ax. Like a bear outraged, he tore at his wound. His eyes opened very wide and white. “Liza!” He stumbled forward. He picked up the ax again and raised it, flashing. He staggered; wobbled to one side; swung the ax. Swerving with him, the ax came down with a rush and cleaved Bat’s hatted head in two.

  Hunt shot again.

  Liza.

  Cain

  It is not night yet. They have made a go-devil. They have loaded down the buckboard with hay and wood. They are rolling it to the house. The men are in such shape behind them planks I can’t get at them. I smell smoke.

  He heard the fire against the house gathering and growing. He thought: “‘Tain’t possible. It ain’t happening to me. It’s some other time. It ain’t now.”

  Smoke began to seep into the cabin around the window. He thought: “It is true. In a minute I’ll have to make a run for it.”

  The north wall became hot. He thought: “Well, if I have to go, I’m going to live it up to the very last. Full. Die fighting. Hold a high note and sing it for all I’m worth.”

  Flames began to lick along the ceiling. He thought: “Just the same, my neighbor is my god.”

  His skin began to prickle all over. Sparks spat off in his head. His eyes glowed white.

  Not without humor did he notice that they’d rolled the buck-board well away from the door. They were inviting him to make a run for it across the meadow to the east.

  He sat down to the table yet once more. He wetted the pencil
point. He wrote each letter carefully, hard, painfully, as if he meant to print it through the little red stock book into the very wood underneath.

  The house is all fired.

  Good-bye, boys, if I never see you again.

  Cain Hammett

  He closed the little red book and stuck it in a shirt pocket and buttoned it down. He looked around. The old cork-dry walls and ceiling were already raging with jumping flames. Smoke was swooshing down toward the floor.

  He made a last survey of his home. From the south window he noticed that the north-by-northwest wind was carrying the yellow-tinged black smoke from the burning house’low across the meadow toward the south. He saw how it trailed straight for a ravine that led back through the ridge.

  An idea came to him. Instead of making his run across the meadow where they were all set for him, he would hit for the ravine. Jump out and run inside the low trailing dark smoke. Cloud his trail. They would have a tough time making out his black clothes in the smoke. And once he got to the ravine, he’d have them all behind him. There was even a chance he might hold them at bay in the ravine until he got help or until night fell and he could sneak away. He recalled there was a side gully a ways into the ravine. He’d dart into that and wait for them to come after him. Even if there wasn’t a chance to save himself, he could at least bring down a good dozen men with his .45 and the Winchester. They would know they had been in a fight.

  He stepped over to Timberline and, lifting the blanket in the thick smoky suffocating haze, had a last look at the old friendly whiskered face.

  Heat seared down at him from the blazing roaring roof. Roof dirt began to fall all around. Tightening up his cartridge belt another notch, making sure of his .45, making sure the Winchester was loaded, he ran to the low door by the wood stove and on hands and knees crawled into the dugout. The dugout had a low dirt roof. It would be the last place to burn.