Ben Tetlow was riding the point of his trail herd nearing Westwater. He was tired from the long ride and was about to bed down the herd when he heard a distant thunder. He drew up, listening. A rider cantered up. “Boss,” he said, “that sounds like���” He broke off, rising in his stirrups.
The sound was suddenly louder and the skyline was broken by bobbing heads and horns. Fear went through Ben like the shock of cold water. “Ride, damn it! Ride! It’s a stampede!”
There was no chance to stop the rush of cattle and they rode for their lives to get to the edge of the herd. The heads of the ten thousand cattle came up, eyes rolled, and then as the shock of charging cattle hit them they wheeled in their tracks and lit out at a dead run.
Ben Tetlow stared after them. All they could hope now was that weariness from the long march would have left the herd too tired to run far.
“What started ‘em?” he asked a rider who trotted up.
“Somebody tied burnin’ rags between then: horns.”
“Kilkenny.” Ben stared off to the north. “I wish Dad had never started this fuss.”
The rider was Swede Carlson. “The Old Man’s too high-handed, Ben.”
“Phin and Andy like it that way. Otherwise he might have slowed down a little.”
“You … you ain’t heard about Phin?”
Ben turned on him. “What about him?”
Swede explained, telling what he had heard of the gun battle in the street.
Phin dead! Ben was thinking more of his father than of Phin. He himself had always been closer to Andy but Phin had been a silent, hard working man. His father had told Ben that he took after his mother, and Ben had not been sorry. The Old Man had always been proud of his big sons, and now two were dead because of the path down which he had guided them.
“Where’ll it end, Swede?”
Carlson shrugged. “The Old Man’s usin’ his spurs too much, Ben. These folks have got their backs up. We’ve lost men. Two killed out on the range by nobody knows who. Killed with a knife.”
“I’m going to talk to Dad.”
“Won’t do you no good, Ben. He’s fierce mad now. And you know how Havalik is.”
The day dawned hot and still. Strong as was the Blaine house, it was also a trap. Any movement near the windows drew fire. Luckily, there was plenty of food in the house, but the water was outside. During the night they had succeeded in drawing three buckets of water, but the third one had spilled, warning the watchers, who opened fire.
Nobody felt like talking. There was no relief in sight and all knew how ruthless Jared Tetlow was.
Kilkenny was hidden between two peaks atop Black Steer Knoll, overlooking the town. With him was Brigo. Vainly he searched his mind for a solution. In the town below no life stirred except around the saloon and then only when drinks were sold to riders from the Forty. Through his glasses Kilkenny could see the location of the surrounding attackers.
“They’ll need water inside the house,” Brigo said. “The well is in the yard.”
Kilkenny could see what the Yaqui meant. The well was thirty feet from the house and surrounded by a stone coping three feet high. Once at the well a man would have shelter, but he could return only at the risk of his life.
Two riders appeared from the east and rode into town. Kilkenny swung his glasses. “Ben Tetlow, bringing news of the stampede.”
Below in the town a man moved near the edge of the woods at Blaine’s. “Get ready to run,” Lance said. “I’m going to show them they have friends outside.”
He nestled the rifle stock against his cheek. Heat waves danced in the air, giving it a curiously liquid appearance. Deceptive, but not too much so. The distance was no more than five hundred yards. The stock felt cool against his cheek.
The muzzle wavered slightly and Kilkenny held what he had on the trigger and as the muzzle steadied he squeezed off his shot. The rifle leaped in his hands and the man in the trees leaped forward, hands outflung, then sprawled on his face in the clearing beyond the edge of the trees.
Quickly, before any return fire could be directed Kilkenny dusted the woods with three more shots, and swinging his rifle he sent a shot into the street that made a walking man dive for shelter. Brigo pulled back and started toward the horses, with Kilkenny following, feeding shells into his gun.
Mounted, they rode swiftly across the plateau, then up Dry Wash to the butte. A glimpse toward the town showed riders fanning out into the hills to begin the pursuit. The shots had at least drawn away the attack on the house. A few minutes later, from behind a ridge, they saw Ben Tetlow ride east with ten or eleven men.
Kilkenny drew rein. “Right now,” he said, “would be a good time to get our crowd out of there. Most of the Tetlow outfit are gone.”
Holding to low ground, they circled the town and rode back into Horsehead. The body of the man lay where it had fallen at the edge of the woods. “Switch saddles to fresh horses,” Kilkenny said. “Buck for me.”
Dolan stepped out as they swung down. “You’re taking a chance, man! The town’s lousy with Forty riders.”
Kilkenny explained, then added, “It’s time to take to the hills. We can fight from there. Stay here and sooner or later they’ll get you.” Dolan took his cigar from his teeth and knocked off the ash. “Of course,” he said. He turned and went inside. In a matter of a minute the corral was swarming with men.
Brigo walked to the door of Savory’s and pushed it open. Two startled Forty riders leaped to their feet. They turned their heads and their guns. Brigo fired and his first shot knocked a man to the floor, coughing from a chest wound. The second took a bullet through the hand and he dropped his rifle and stepped back, hands lifted.
Brigo gestured to Savory. “Fix his hand. And stay out of this or I’ll kill you!”
He walked out the door in time to see Kilkenny move into the center of the bridge. The shooting had drawn Jared Tetlow into the street and what he saw was Lance Kilkenny standing alone in the middle of the bridge. There was no mistaking the tall figure with the flat-crowned black hat.
Jared Tetlow looked down the street and felt a queer chill. Over a hundred and fifty yards separated them but there could be no mistake. The hills were covered with riders searching for this man and here he stood in the middle of town.
Defeatism was not familiar to Tetlow, yet now he felt its first premonitory wave. With all the armed men at his command he had failed to stop this man or bring him down.
“Tetlow!” Kilkenny’s voice sounded like a clarion in the silent clap-boarded street. “Take your cattle and leave the country! You brought this war. Now take it away or we’ll break you!”
Tetlow felt the heat on his shoulders. Sweat trickled down his leather-like cheeks. He was strangely alone, and then from deep within him came a welling, over-powering fury. It was loosed in one great cry of fury at his defeat, pain at the loss of his sons, and shock at what was happening to all he had lived by. “You!” he roared. “I’ll���”
Only the bridge was empty, and where Kilkenny had stood there were only dancing heat waves and a faint stirring of dust. Had he imagined it? Or had Kilkenny actually been there?
A redheaded cowhand with blunt features came into the door of the Diamond Palace. “I’ll give five hundred dollars to see that man dead!” Tetlow shouted.
The redhead’s eyes shifted. He remembered what he had heard about Kilkenny and drew back into the shadows of the saloon. Five hundred was a year’s wages, but a dead man couldn’t spend a dime.
In a close knot the defenders of the Blaine house began their retreat. Most of the Forty riders were gone from town, and those who remained had no desire to dare the guns of that tight little group. So the Blaine group rode west at an easy trot. Dolan, Blaine and Shorty led the group. Early, Ernleven and Macy brought up the rear. In the middle were Laurie Webster, Mrs. Carpenter, Mrs. Early and two other women surrounded by four men from Dolan’s. Kilkenny scouted ahead and Cain Brockman brought up the rear. Br
igo scouted on the far flanks.
Kilkenny had chosen the little lake as their first stop with some misgiving. If Havalik returned in time he might easily move across country and intercept them.
As they neared the lake, Kilkenny waited for them to come up to him. “Drink up, water the stock and fill your canteens. We’ll push on.”
“Tonight?” Early glanced doubtfully at his wife’s drawn face. She was not used to riding and they had come long miles since leaving Horsehead. “Tonight.” Kilkenny was positive. “It’s better to be dog-tired than dead. They’ll come after us and our only hope is my place.”
“Do they know this lake?” Dolan asked.
Kilkenny explained about the capture of Nita at this point. He had made his plans. There was doubt that the women would stand the long ride to the valley by the route they must take. His idea was to strike due north into the unknown country, then swing west to the valley. By so doing they might avoid or lose the Forty altogether. Mounting once more, he led them north until they struck a dim, ancient trail.
It would soon be dark and he was in known country. Far off on the skyline were the Blues, but what lay between he had no idea. The night was fresh and cool and there was a faint smell of sage in the air.
When the moon came out its pale yellow light lay upon a broken land of rock like a frozen sea of gigantic waves. Knowing the restlessness of Havalik, Kilkenny rested but little, pushing on toward the north. Finally, at daybreak they made dry camp. There was a little grass and the horses ate. The women fell asleep at once, and most of the men. Only Dolan seemed sleepless.
“Know where we are?” Macy asked. His own face looked tired and drawn.
“Roughly.” He nodded to indicate direction. “My place is over there.”
“How far?”
“As the crow flies, maybe ten miles. The way we’ll have to go, twice that far.”
Macy was worried. “Lance, this doesn’t look right to me. We should have stayed in town.”
“We couldn’t.” Dolan’s tone brooked no argument. “It was either that or be burned out. That would have come next.”
The sky was gray and the morning was cold and sharp due to the altitude. From a small peak Kilkenny studied their backtrail. Once he believed he saw far off dust, but he could not be sure.
All night his thoughts had been of Nita. Yet if she was undisturbed she would get along well. There was food, and there was water and ammunition. She was an uncommonly good shot with a rifle. She would be all right.
He could tell from the way the women got to their feet that they were still stiff and sore from the long ride. Yet there was no escape from it now. It was go on or die here. When all were mounted he led the way up the trail again. By midmorning they had crossed the flat and were headed toward a gap in the range.
There were a few cottonwoods in the bottoms, and the mountain mahogany was everywhere. Greasewood lessened and from time to time they saw a pine. Soon the number of pines increased, and twice he paused to allow the women rest. Before noon they struck an old Indian trail up the bottom of a smaller canyon. Most of the canteens were dry and the horses were suffering from thirst. A turn in the canyon left them looking up a long slope mantled with evergreens. Kilkenny headed up the slope and was overtaken by Macy.
“Mrs. Early’s just fainted. We’ve got to stop.”
“Carry her,” Kilkenny said. “There’s water ahead.”
Macy looked doubtfully at the slope and Kilkenny indicated the Indian trail he followed. “An Indian never made a trail without purpose. And look,” he pointed out a fain thread of game trail down the slope, “deer have been going the way we’re headed.” Within ten minutes they dismounted beside a clear mountain stream. The water was cold and sweet. All drank and drank again, then filled their canteens.
Bob Early came up to him. “We can’t go on. My wife’s all in and Mrs. Carpenter is quite ill.”
“All right. You’re close enough and safe enough.”
Picking up an ax, Lance walked into the surrounding pines. Forcing his way into a tight clump of second growth, all ten or twelve feet high, he cut down several close to the ground. Then he drew the tops of the surrounding trees down and tied them together until he stood under a living hut of green. With branches from the cut-down trees he wove a quick thatch over the hut. Cain and Bob lent a hand with the thatch and soon the hut was tight and strong. Then with more boughs they made several beds for the women.
Blaine walked around the hut. “First time I ever saw that done. I’m minded to stay here myself.”
“You’d better. I’ll go on ahead with Brigo and Cain.”
“Shorty and I’ll come with you,” Dolan said. “One of us can return for these people when they are feeling better.”
The trail was not easy. Crossing the creek, they found themselves facing a mountainside that could not be climbed on horseback. Circling, they were fronted by an even steeper cliff. Only after several hours of searching did they find a shallow creek that could be followed higher into the timbered mountains. When it seemed they had found a way through they were stopped by a ten-foot fall.
Brigo found a way around. Part of a cave had been cut by water. The ledge at the top had proved too hard for the slow-cutting water and as the rock below was softer, the stream had cut under, forming one more arch to add to those in the area. Riding under part of the fall and getting well splashed, they went under the arch and clambered up a steep rock slope and found good going before them.
They emerged suddenly into the valley not fifty yards from the house. Nita was standing on the steps looking toward them, a rifle in her hands.
Her recognition was immediate and she turned at once and went back into the house. When she emerged they were swinging from their saddles. “I’ve coffee on, Lance. It will be ready in a few minutes.”
He could see the relief in her eyes and he pressed her arm gently. As the others looked around he quietly explained the situation. Brockman had sat down at once, his face showing the exhaustion of the long trip after his injuries. Only his great strength and iron resistance could have stood up under the punishment.
Shorty remained only to eat and to rest a little. Then he mounted up and started back.
The night came slowly and the dusk seemed to remain over long. Kilkenny had gone to sleep in the bedroom, exhausted after his long ordeal, almost without sleep. Dolan sat with Cain and Brigo on the steps, watching the shadows gather under the lodgepole pines. The air was cool at that altitude and hour, but none of them thought of going inside.
The situation was brutally apparent to them all. They had gained a respite, but Jared Tetlow would never stop until they were dead. Not only had he lost a second son but he had been thwarted, and it was galling to a man of his ego and firm belief in his own strength and rightness.
Horsehead lay quiet. In the lobby of the Westwater Hotel, Jared Tetlow sat in a huge leather chair, his face old and bitter. Several heavily armed men loitered on the steps outside.
The town was his. The range was his. He, Jared Tetlow, had taken them and he would hold them. Yet his cattle were scattered, two of his sons were dead, and he had lost men. Jared Tetlow knew nothing of military tactics. He did not know that the end result of all tactics is not only victory but the destruction of the enemy’s power to strike back.
Yet, despite his victory, some subconscious realization of his position left him uneasy. Despite his possessions of the range and the town, Kilkenny was alive. Brigo and Cain Brockman were alive. Dolan, Blaine���all of them had gotten safely away. They would not run. He knew fighting men when he saw them and he knew they were not defeated. They would be waiting somewhere for a chance to strike again. And so these men outside guarded him.
Two of his sons remained. Andy, the tough one. The gun slinger. And Ben, the quiet one. Perhaps, the thought came unbidden to his mind, perhaps Ben was right after all? It galled him to think of Ben being right, yet looking back down the years it had always been Ben who tal
ked prudence and peace. And he was the only cattleman of the lot. Phin had never been more than a steady worker. Bud had been a trouble hunter, Andy the fighting man. But it was Ben who had managed the herds, sold the cattle, assured their prosperity.
Jared Tetlow stared at his gnarled hands and a kind of anger welled up within him. No matter. Their cattle were here, on good grass, and no gunfighter could stop him. This would pass. He would win, somehow, and time, like the grass, would cover all scars. If the law did come in he would show them his herds, his ranch, and the quiet countryside where before there had been only these shabby holdings. This was a land for the strong, and he was strong.
He got up from his chair and strode across the room. His own cook was in Ernleven’s kitchen, but the food was merely rough ranch fare. Why had the big Frenchman chosen to join Kilkenny?
The waitress had refused to come to work and the stores had not opened. He held the town in the palm of his hand but the town was an empty shell.
Happy Jack Harrow walked into the dining room, looked around, then swore. Tetlow glanced up. “Set down. There’ll be grub soon.”
“Yeah? But what kind of grub? I’m no chuckline rider!”
Tetlow did not resent the remark. “Seen times I’d been glad to get it.”
“Any news?”
“No.”
“They got away?”
“Seems like.”
“Why not let ‘em go, then? What’ll you do if you get ‘em?” Harrow had not slept well. He was doing his own worrying now. He had not sided with Early, but he liked the man, and he liked his wife. Doc Blaine was solid, too. Looking around him Harrow found no comfort in the situation. “What about the women? Do you plan to murder them?”
“Hush that talk,” Tetlow replied irritably. “What has to be done will be done.”
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