He carefully dusted the binoculars’ lenses with his bandanna. Then he parted the dry grass, focused the binoculars, and looked through them at the Snake Bar punchers clustered in the dusty yard. With startling clarity the faces of the men sprang into view.
Blackmann was talking to them, obviously giving them their last instructions, judging from the intensity with which they listened. The punchers were all heavily armed, many with two cartridge belts crossing their chests. As Weathers swung his glasses over the faces of the punchers, one face was conspicuous in its absence—the kid’s. Abruptly about ten of the punchers swung onto their horses while the others stood back to watch. These others would be the rear guard, assigned to protect the Snake Bar, Weathers realized. In a moment the riders, with Blackmann at their head, emerged from the other side of the willows, smaller now as they headed out through the main gate. Weathers kept the glasses on them until they passed the creek. Beyond that point they cut northeast toward Snake Valley—and the Double B.
Weathers pushed himself carefully backward through the grass. His horse was tethered in a draw at the foot of the knoll. The Snake Bar riders had not seemed to be pushing their mounts very hard, which meant he might be able to cut around the hills and reach the Double B before the Snake Bar riders hit their target.
Below the crest of the knoll, Weathers turned about to race down the slope to his horse. The moment he turned the kid stepped out of a small clump of alders ten feet further down the slope. He was smiling thinly, his two Smith & Wessons gleaming in his small white hands.
“Seen enough?” he wanted to know.
Weathers’ first thought was to turn and run. But a disabling fear gripped him. He thought of the binoculars in his hands and realized he’d have to drop them before going for his own gun.
“Now, look, Kid ...” he said, putting his hand out and starting down the slope toward him. “There’s no need for you—”
The Smith & Wessons jumped in the kid’s hands, and as both slugs slammed into Weathers’ chest and knocked him flat on his back, Weathers found himself remembering with a sharp anguish that Steele had asked him to take extra good care of his binoculars. As the world tipped crazily under him, Weathers saw the kid reach down and slowly, deliberately remove the binoculars’ cord from around his neck.
Weathers tried to reach up to prevent the theft, but the kid scarcely noticed ... as Weathers slipped back off the tilting world into darkness ...
Betsy and Ben had been sent into Willow Creek to stay with Helen, and four men from two of the other ranches had been assigned to help Pike and Joshua bolster Double B’s defenses—two were from D Cross and two were from Triple H, McCracken’s spread. The four punchers were sitting now around the small table in the Double B bunkhouse, playing poker by the light of the dim, smoky coal oil lamp hanging from the rafter over their heads. They had all just been dealt reasonably good hands, but nothing spectacular.
Two jacks were all Bill Hays found of value in his hand, and now he looked across the table at Struthers. “I can open,” he told the dealer without too much enthusiasm.
Struthers chuckled. “You don’t seem too happy about it.”
“I ain’t, damn it! Not the way you three river boat gamblers are playing.”
“I’m in,” said Joe Sparrow quietly.
“Me, too,” said Ami Ketchum, Sparrow’s buddy from the Triple H. He was a round-faced amiable sort with dark red hair.
Hays watched both of them select three cards for discard and then glanced across the table at Struthers. As Struthers picked up the deck to deal again, Hays told him, “I’ll take three.” He said it reluctantly. It was an admission he had hated to make.
The bullet that smashed through the window pane at that moment caught the coal oil lamp in dead center. Flaming oil exploded over the four men, sending tiny bits of burning glass and wick to all parts of the small bunkhouse’s interior. But only for a moment, as the tiny, guttering flames winked out, plunging the bunkhouse into darkness.
All four men were on the floor by this time, their six-guns in their hands.
“Jesus!” said Ketchum softy.
Then they heard another shot, this one coming from the barn. It was followed by the whinny of a horse and the sound of its big body thrashing in its stall.
“They’re shooting the horses!” Sparrow cried.
He wriggled quickly across the floor, reached up and turned the knob, then pushed the door open. Almost at once a fusillade of shots sent bullets whining into the bunkhouse—all of them, fortunately, passing over the heads of the four men and whacking into the bunkhouse’s walls and posts.
The fusillade stopped. Bill Hays took a deep breath. “Thanks, Joe,” he said. “That open door gives us a lot more air in here.”
“And that’s just what we need,” said Struthers.
“This ain’t no joke,” said Ketchum. “A guy could get his head blown off.”
“I just thought of something,” said Bill Hays.
“Do tell me,” said Struthers. The man had crept to the side of the doorway and was peering out of the bunkhouse very carefully.
“Old man Hanson told me it would be a good idea to assign a look-out.”
“I think it’s too late now,” said Struthers. He glanced back at Bill Hays.
Hays thought he could see a smile on the man’s long face.
“Cover me, Bill,” Struthers said. “I’m going to try and make it to the barn. I’ll come in around the back.”
Hays nodded and moved up beside him. “Okay,” he said. “Wait’ll I give you the word.”
“You two guys are crazy,” said Ketchum.
“That’s right,” said Struthers, looking past Bill at Ketchum. “Crazy to get out of here. This place is going to burn pretty damn soon.”
“Ready?” Bill asked Struthers.
“Ready.”
“Now.”
Struthers’ long form darted out through the doorway. Leaning out into the cool damp night, Bill saw Struthers loping swiftly into the darkness toward the barn. Then its shadow swallowed him up. Abruptly three shots, their flashes winking at him from the dark open door of the stable, were fired in quick succession. Bill heard Struthers grunt, then fall heavily.
Suddenly furious, Bill leaned well out into the night and began firing at a point just below where he had seen the flashes. He was rewarded by a cry of pain and the sound of someone thrashing on the ground by the barn’s entrance.
“Tom! You all right?” Bill called.
But before he could get a reply, another furious fusillade sent slugs whining back at him out of the darkness. He ducked hastily back into the bunkhouse as the bullets sang past him through the open doorway and thudded into the walls and the furniture. Two window panes went almost simultaneously. This was followed almost immediately by a loud whump that came from the roof.
At once the night outside the bunkhouse lightened as the smell of burning shingles began to fill the cool night air. Abruptly the back of the barn blossomed into bright orange flame.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” cried Ketchum.
“Looks like Struthers was right,” said Joe Sparrow quietly as he moved up beside Bill Hays.
“You want to try it?” Bill asked.
Sparrow nodded. “Cover me. I’ll try to get around to the back of the bunkhouse. From there I can cover for you guys.”
Bill nodded.
Just then the sound of gunfire coming from the cabin increased in volume. Bill peeked out and saw a Snake Bar puncher staggering back in front of the cabin, a flaming torch in his hand. Another series of shots came from the cabin and the man dropped to the ground, the torch still burning, the fire from it spreading to the grass around his still body.
“Looks like someone woke up Pike and the Blackmann kid,” Sparrow said.
“Now’s a good time then,” said Bill. “Go ahead. Maybe we can make it to the cabin, give the old guy a hand.”
Sparrow nodded. “Now!” he cried, duck
ing out into the dancing night.
As he left, Bill leaned out and began throwing shots at the front of the barn and at every available hiding place where Snake Bar riders could have positioned themselves. He drew a withering answering volley and pulled back quickly, huddling on the ground as the bullets whined about his head. And then he heard firing coming from just behind the bunkhouse and realized Sparrow had made it.
Bill looked at Ketchum. “You want to go next?”
The fellow looked kind of green. But he nodded. Overhead the roof was showing slashes of red and down into the bunkhouse were coiling thick tendrils of black smoke. In a moment the flaming roof would be collapsing down upon them.
“So hurry it up then,” Bill said. “We ain’t got much time. I’ll cover for you.”
Ketchum nodded, moved up beside Bill, took a couple of deep breaths and with his gun out and ready, darted into the night. Bill leaned out and began shooting wildly to give the man cover and felt the hammer of his Colt slam down on empty cylinders after only two shots. He swore and pulled back into the bunkhouse. Sitting up with his back to the wall, he began to reload.
Behind him the firing was sporadic, but constant. He had almost finished reloading when the bullet that killed him angled through the flimsy door jamb, slammed into the side of his chest, struck a rib and slanted up into his heart. Bill Hays felt as if someone had kicked him in the chest. He started to cry out, but the cry never left his lips.
He was dead before his body sagged over onto the floor and a moment later a shower of flaming shingles covered his body as the bunkhouse roof began its collapse inward ...
Wolf pulled up abruptly, the four D Cross riders coming to a halt around him. Like him they had caught sight of the feverish glow in the night sky over the Double B. They had not yet reached Snake Creek and had been riding to Double B to increase the small force already there, but it was obvious now that they were too late. Blackmann had already made his move. With a tightening in his chest, Wolf thought of Pike and Joshua—and the others trapped even at that moment perhaps in those flaming buildings.
“Rhett,” Wolf called to one of the younger punchers. “Get back to Steele and the others. Tell him Blackmann’s out of his pen. We have him now if we hurry.”
Rhett nodded, hauled his mount around and left them at full gallop. Wolf then dug spurs to his black and headed toward Double B as fast as his mount would carry him, the three remaining riders stringing out behind him through the moonless night.
Blackmann had kept well back as he and the kid directed the fire fight from the cottonwoods. Now—with the barn, the wagon shed, the bunkhouse a smoldering ruin and the roof of the cabin ablaze—he swung up onto his horse, a grim smile on his lined face.
For better than three years this Double B had stuck in his craw; with the death of Ben Hanson and his wife the place had become an intolerable embarrassment. Now it was gone, wiped from the face of this land—only a black stain remaining. He’d already dispatched five riders to sweep Double B’s cattle from this valley. Now all that remained was to finish Caulder. He would spare Hanson if the old fool would allow him to—but of course Hanson had too much guts for his own good. That was Hanson’s problem, however, not his.
He glanced over at the kid. “Let’s ride up and get this over with.”
The kid had mounted also and without a word he nudged his animal forward. The two rode through the gate, pulling up in front of the cabin. The flames had spread from the roof to the walls by this time; and all the windows had been shot out.
For the last ten minutes or so not a single shot had come from within the place. Either they were out of ammunition or they were both dead. He had no doubt who was in there: Pike Hanson and his hired gun, Caulder. The men they had trapped earlier in the bunkhouse were all accounted for, now that his own men had found the fourth body smoldering in the ruined bunkhouse.
Blackmann lifted his Colt out of its holster and fired into the night sky. “All right in there! Come on out before you roast! We’ll give you safe passage!”
The kid glanced at him wolfishly as he said this. Blackmann pretended not to notice. Then he fired a second time into the air. Behind him Blackmann heard his men, mounted now, riding up behind him.
The fierce heat from the fire above and around Josh caused rivulets of sweat to pour out of his thick hair and down his face and neck. At his father’s second shot, he peered once more out of the corner window. He had only a single bullet left in his carbine and had been saving it for this moment. Behind him, wounded severely, Pike was propped up deep in the mouth of the fireplace, unconscious. Josh had thrown soaked blankets over him, but it would not be enough in this ferocious heat.
A third shot thundered in the night and again Josh heard his father’s harsh voice: “Better come out now, Caulder—while you still can!”
Josh knew he could fire upon his father from the window—but he would have only that one shot and the darkness combined with the shifting light from the flames made it better than even chance he would miss.
And he did not want to miss.
Josh left the window and stood up. To protect himself from the heat pouring down on him from the ceiling, he had put on an ancient sombrero Pike had stashed in a corner, and over his shoulders he had thrown a poncho after dousing it with what water had remained in their canteens. Even so the heat smote him like a fist the moment he started back to the fireplace for Pike.
He pulled aside the no longer very damp blankets and reached into the fireplace for the old man. As he pulled him out and slung him over his shoulder, he heard Pike groan. The old man had been shot in the arm and in the back and had lost a lot of blood. He turned about and headed for the door.
When he reached it he heard his father call out again and fire another shot, this one sending a bullet through what had been left of a window pane. As the glass shattered, exploding shards of glass throughout the cabin, Josh pushed open the door and stepped out into the cool night, Pike over his left shoulder, his carbine in his right hand.
“All right, Caulder!” his father ordered, after Josh had taken almost three strides from the cabin. “Put down Pike and drop that rifle.”
“You heard him,” said the kid quietly as he cocked both his Smith & Wessons. The sound this made was sharp and clean in the night air.
But Josh took a few more steps before he stopped and put Pike down upon the cool grass as gently as he could. Pike groaned loudly and his eyes fluttered open. Josh—his rifle still in his right hand—stood erect again and as he looked at his father, he realized that at this distance the shadow of the sombrero’s brim so hid his face that his father still thought he was dealing with Wolf Caulder.
Josh started to walk toward his father.
“Hold it right there!” the man cried. He fired quickly and a chunk of turf flew up at Josh’s feet.
Josh stopped.
“The next one will be a mite higher,” said Blackmann.
Josh took a deep breath, reached up and knocked the sombrero off his head and looked up at his father. The man gasped. Then Josh quickly swung his rifle up and caught his father’s chest in its sights.
But he couldn’t pull the trigger. He couldn’t shoot down his own father!
The night exploded as first one slug, then another caught Josh in the chest. He felt himself being hurled backward. The kid was about to fire a third time when Blackmann—with one quick furious swipe—knocked the kid backward off his horse.
Then the man leaped from his horse and raced to Josh’s side. Josh felt his eyes closing as his father reached under his head and tried to lift him in his arms. His head felt so heavy, and though he could hear his father’s tortured cries, they came from a great distance ... and he was tired ... much too tired to answer.
Furious, the kid fumbled in the grass for his revolvers, then scrambled to his feet. Pushing his horse’s rump angrily out of the way, he took a quick step toward Blackmann.
Then he stopped. The man was on his knees by
his son, taking it pretty hard. This surprised the kid. Blackmann had referred to his son as a traitor more than once during the past day or so as his cold anger at his son’s betrayal seemed to have burned out for good any love he had had for the boy.
Abruptly Blackmann jumped to his feet and whirled to face the kid, his six-gun in his right hand, his eyes wild. “You killed him!” he cried. “You couldn’t wait to strike him down! But I know you! You’re my punishment! You’re the angel of death—the pale rider!”
And he began firing at the kid. In his rage, however, his first shots went wild. That was all the kid allowed him. Ducking back, astonished at Blackmann’s wild words, he withdrew both Smith & Wessons and fired twice at Blackmann. He caught the man waist high with both bullets. Then as the older man was flung to the ground beside his son, the kid let his suppressed rage vent itself completely as he strode closer to the man writhing on the ground in front of him and pumped bullet after bullet into his roiling form.
At last, the kid’s fury spent, he pulled back and found himself circled by Snake Bar riders—and recognized at once his danger.
“What the hell, Kid! You just killed the Old Man!” cried one of the riders.
“That’s right,” said the kid reasonably. “I killed the pious, hypocritical son of a bitch. Did you think I was going to stand there and let him cut me down just to please you?”
This did not satisfy the men. The circle of horsemen around him did not waver. In a moment, the kid knew, their still warm revolvers would be in their hands again to avenge the death of the man they had followed for so many years.
“All right, then,” the kid told them, his voice cold but reasoning. “But now he’s dead. And so is his son. That means it’s all over for the Snake Bar. But follow me, and I’ll show you more gold than you can spend in a year in Kansas City. It’s back there waiting for us at Snake Bar!”
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