“I argued with them. I argued with Bishop to give them a break, and now this happens. There were twelve men in that attack on us. At least twelve. Well, some of them died out there, but you and I both know that Harper didn’t have twelve men. Perhaps eight, at best. They came in here and killed two of our boys and wounded Bishop. That old man in there has been a father to me. He’s been more than most fathers. He’s been a guide and a teacher, and all I know I learned from him. He may die, and, if he does, the fault was mine for ever letting this bunch of squatters in here.”
The girl clasped her hands in distress. “Please, Rock!” she protested. “You can’t do this. Most of your men don’t know one from the other. The settlers would be killed whether they fought or not. Their homes will be burned.”
“If they don’t fight, they won’t be hurt,” he insisted stubbornly. “Next time that Harper attacks, he might get us all. Anyway, it looks to me like they were plenty willing to ride in on Harper’s coattails and get all they could while the getting was easy.”
“That’s not true,” she protested hotly. “They wanted to do the right thing. They thought they were doing the right thing. They believed Harper was honest.”
Rock slid into his buckskin coat and picked up his hat. His face was grim and hard. He could not look at Sharon. He knew if their eyes ever met it would tear the heart out of him. Yet he also knew he had waited too long now, that if he had resorted to guns long ago, so many things might not have happened. Springer might be living, and Turner, and Collins, the settler. He started for the door, picking up his rifle from where he had left it.
“Rock,” Sharon said, “if you go back, I will too. The first one of your men who puts a hand on a settler’s home, I’ll kill with my own rifle.”
For the first time he looked at her, and her eyes were flashing with pain and anger. “Go, then!” he said brutally. “But if you’re half as smart as I think you are, you’ll take your friends and head for the hills. Go! I’ll give you a start. Warn Harper, too, if you want. Let him know we’re coming. But if you want to save that precious pack of settlers, get them out of Poplar. Take to the hills until this is over … but be out of town before my boys ride in.”
He walked to the door and went out. She saw him stop by the corral and pick up a rope, and then go to the corral for the steel-dust. Running from the house, she threw herself into the saddle of her own black mare, which had been tied at the corner of the house. Spurring her to top speed, she sprang out on the long ride across the valley.
Rock Bannon did not look up or turn his head, but in his heart and mind the hard hoofs pounded like the pulse in his veins, pounded harder and harder, and then vanished with the dying sound of the running horse.
He saddled the steel-dust, and, as Bat Chavez walked from the house, Rock swung into the saddle. “Dave!” he yelled at the cook. “You watch over Hardy. We won’t be long gone.”
Abruptly he swung the stallion south. Chavez rode beside him, glancing from time to time at Rock. Finally, he burst out: “Bannon, I think that gal’s on the level. I sure do.”
“Yes?” Rock did not turn his head. “You let me worry about that.”
Chapter Nine
Pike Purcell was a grim and lonely man. He had been loitering all day around the saloon. Only that morning before riding away to the attack on the Bishop ranch house, in which he and Lamport had taken part, Dud Kitchen had told him about the bullet that killed Collins.
Pike was disturbed. His heart had not been in the fight at the ranch, and he had fired few shots. In fact, he and Lamport had been among the first to turn away from the fight. Purcell was thoroughly disillusioned with Mort Harper. The attack on the ranch had been poorly conceived and carried out even more poorly. Purcell didn’t fancy himself as a leader, but he knew he could have done better.
Men had died back there—too many of them. Pike Purcell had a one-track mind, and that one track was busy with cogitation over the story told him by Dud. He could verify the truth of the supposition. Mort Harper had been behind Collins. It worried him, and his loyalty, already shaken by inadequate leadership, found itself on uncertain ground.
On the ride back to Poplar had been little talk. The party was sullen and angry. Their attack had failed under the straight shooting of Bishop and Bannon. They were leaving six men behind, six men who were stone dead. Maybe they had killed two, but that didn’t compensate for six. Bishop was down, but how badly none of them knew.
Cap Mulholland had ridden in the attack as well. Never strongly inclined toward fighting, he had had no heart in this fight. He had even less now. Suddenly he was realizing with bitterness that he didn’t care if he ever saw Mort Harper again.
“They’ll be comin’ for us now,” Cap said.
“Shut up!” Lamport snapped. He was angry and filled with bitterness. He was the only one of the settlers who had thrown in completely with Harper’s crowd, and the foolishness of it was now apparent. Defeat and their own doubts were carrying on the rapid disintegration of the Harper forces. “You see what I saw?” he demanded. “That Crockett girl was there. She was the one dragged Bishop’s body back. I seen her!”
Harper’s head jerked up. “You lie!” he snapped viciously.
Lamport looked across at Harper. “Mort,” he said evenly, “don’t you tell me I lie.”
Harper shrugged. “All right, maybe she was there, but I’ve got to see it to believe it. How could she have beaten us to it?”
“How did Bannon beat us back?” Lamport demanded furiously. “He was supposed to be lost in the hills.”
“He must have come back over the mountain,” Gettes put in. He was one of the original Harper crowd. “He must have found a way through.”
“Bosh!” Harper spat. “Nothing human could have crossed that mountain last night. A man would be insane to try it.”
“Well,” Pike said grimly, “Bannon got there. I know good and well he never rode none of those cañons last night, so he must’ve come over the mountain. If any man could, he could.”
Harper’s eyes were hard. “You seem to think a lot of him,” he sneered.
“I hate him,” Pike snapped harshly. “I hate every step he takes, but he’s all man.”
Mort Harper’s face was cruel as he stared at Pike. But Purcell had ridden on, unnoticing.
Pike did not return to his cabin after they reached Poplar. Pike Purcell was as just as he was ignorant and opinionated. His one quality was loyalty, that and more than his share of courage. Dud Kitchen’s story kept cropping up. Did Harper own a small gun?
Suddenly he remembered. Shortly after they arrived at Poplar he had seen such a gun. It was a .34 Paterson, and Mort Harper had left it lying on his bed.
*
Harper was gone somewhere. The saloon was empty. Now was Purcell’s chance. He stepped in, glanced around, and then walked back to Harper’s quarters. The room was neat, and things were carefully arranged. He crossed to a rough wooden box on the far side of the room and lifted the lid. There were several boxes of .44s, and a smaller box. Opening it, he saw a series of neat rows of .34-caliber cartridges, and across the lead nose of each shell was a deep notch!
He picked up one of the shells and stepped back. His face was gray as he turned toward the door. He was just stepping through when Mort Harper came into the saloon.
Quick suspicion came into Mort’s eyes. “What are you doin’ in there?” he demanded.
“Huntin’ for polecat tracks,” Purcell said viciously. “I found ’em!” He tossed the shell on the table. It was the wrong move, for it left his right hand outstretched and far from his gun.
At such a time things happen instantaneously. Mort Harper’s hand flashed for his gun, and Purcell was late, far too late. He had his hand on the butt when the bullet struck him. He staggered back, hate blazing in his eyes, and sat down hard. He tugged at his gun, and Harper shot him again.
Staring down at the body of the tall, old mountaineer, Mort Harper saw the end of everyt
hing. So this was how things finished? An end to dreams, an end to ambition. He would never own Bishop’s Valley now. He would never own the greatest cattle empire in the West, a place where he would be a king on his own range, with nothing to control his actions but his own will.
He had despised Purcell for his foolishness in following him. He had led the settlers like sheep, but now they would survive and he would die. In a matter of hours, perhaps even minutes, Bannon would be coming, and then nothing would be left here but a ruin.
At that moment he heard a pounding of horse’s hoofs and looked up to see Sharon go flying past on her black mare.
There was something left. There was Sharon. Rock Bannon wanted her. Sudden resolution flooded him. She was one thing Bannon wouldn’t get! Mort Harper ran to his quarters, threw a few things together, and then walked out. Hastily, under cover of the pole barn, he saddled a fresh horse, loaded his gear aboard, swung into the saddle, and started up the cañon toward the Crockett home.
Cap Mulholland watched him go, unaware of what was happening. Dud Kitchen had heard the shots and had returned for his own guns. He watched Harper stop at the Crockett place, unaware of the stuffed saddlebags. When he saw the man swing down, he was not surprised.
Sharon had caught Jim Satterfield in the open and told him they should flee the village at once. At this moment Satterfield was headed for the Pagoneses’ house as fast as he could move. Sharon ran into her house, looking for her father, but as usual he was in the fields. There was not a moment to lose. She ran out and was about to swing into the saddle when Mort Harper dismounted at the front steps. He heard her speak to the horse and stepped around the house.
“Sharon,” he said, “you’re just in time.”
She halted. “What do you mean?” she demanded coolly.
He rushed to her excitedly. “We’re leaving! We must get away now. Just you and me. The Bishop crowd will be coming soon, and they’ll leave nothing here. We still have time to get away.”
“I’m going to get my father now,” she said. “Then we’ll go to the hills.”
“There’s no time for that … he’ll get along. You come with me.” Harper was excited, and he did not see the danger lights in Sharon’s eyes.
“Go where?” she inquired.
Mort Harper stared at her impatiently. “Away! Anywhere for the time being. Later we can go on to California together, and ….”
“Aren’t you taking too much for granted?” She reached for the black mare’s bridle. “I’m not going with you, Mort. I’m not going anywhere with you.”
It was a real shock. He stared at her, unbelieving and impatient. “Don’t be foolish!” he snapped. “There’s nothing here for you. You were practically promised to me. If it’s marriage you want, don’t worry about that. We can go on to California and be married there.”
“It is marriage I want, Mort, but not to you. Never to you. For a little while I was as bad as the others, and I believed in you. Then I saw the kind of men you had around you, how you’d deliberately led us here to use us for your own ends. No, Mort. I’m not marrying you and I’m not going away with you.” She made no attempt to veil the contempt in her voice. “If you’re afraid, you’d better get started. I’m going for my father.”
Suddenly he was calm, dangerously calm. “So? It’s that Rock Bannon, is it? I never thought you’d take that ignorant cowhand seriously. Or,” he sneered, “is it your way of getting Bishop’s Valley?”
“Get out!” she said. “Get out now! Dad and Pagones will be here in a moment, and, when I tell them what you’ve said, they’ll kill you.”
“Kill me? Those two?” He laughed. Then his face stiffened. “All right, I’ll get out, but you’re coming with me!”
He moved so swiftly she had no chance to defend herself. He stepped toward her suddenly and she saw his fist start. The shock of the blow was scarcely greater than the shock of the fact that he had struck her. Dimly she realized he had thrown her into the saddle and was lashing her there. She thought she struggled, but she lived those moments only in a half world of consciousness, a half world soon pounded into oblivion by the drum of racing horses ….
*
It was Satterfield who finally got Crockett from the fields. The Bishop riders were already in sight when Tom raced into his house, caught up his rifle, and called for Sharon. She was gone, and he noted that her black mare was gone. She was away, that was the main thing. With Jim, he ran out into the field, where he was joined by Pagones, his wife and daughter, and Dud Kitchen.
The others were coming. It was a flight, and there was no time to prepare or take anything but what lay at hand. Cap Mulholland, his face sullen, went with them, his wife beside him. The Olsens and Greene joined them, and in a compact group they turned away toward the timber along the hillside.
Lamport did not go. He had no idea that Mort Harper was gone. John Kies was in his store, awaiting the uncertain turn of events. Kies had worked with Mort before, and he trusted the younger man’s skill and judgment.
It was over. It was finished. Lamport stared cynically at the long buildings of the town. Probably it was just as well, for he would do better in the gold fields. Steady day-to-day work had never appealed to him. Pike Purcell had been an honest but misguided man. Lamport was neither. From the first he had sensed the crooked grain in the timber of Mort Harper, but he didn’t care.
Lamport felt that he was self-sufficient. He would stay in as long as the profits looked good, and he would get out when the luck turned against them. He had seen the brilliant conception of theft that had flowered in the brain of Mort Harper. He saw what owning that valley could mean.
It was over now. He had lived and worked with Purcell, but he had no regret for the man. Long ago he had sensed that Harper would kill him someday. Of all the settlers, Lamport was the only one who had read Harper aright, perhaps because they were of the same feeling.
Yet there was a difference. Lamport’s hate was a tangible, deadly thing. Harper could hate and he could fight, but Harper was completely involved with himself. He could plot, wait, and strike like a rattler. Lamport had courage with his hate, and that was why he was not running now. He was waiting, waiting in the full knowledge of what he faced.
His hate for Rock Bannon had begun when Bannon rode so much with Sharon. It had persisted, developing from something much deeper than any rivalry over a woman. It developed from the rivalry of two strong men, of two fighting men, each of whom recognizes in the other a worthy and dangerous foe.
Lamport had always understood Harper. Of all those that had surrounded him, Lamport was the only one Mort Harper had feared. Pete Zapata he had always believed he could kill. Lamport was the one man with whom he avoided trouble. He even avoided conversation with him when possible. He knew Lamport was dangerous, and he knew he would face him down if it came to that.
He was a big man, as tall as Rock Bannon, and twenty pounds heavier. When he walked, his head thrust forward somewhat and he stared at the world from pale blue eyes beneath projecting shelves of beetling brows. In his great shoulders there was a massive, slumbering power. Lamport’s strength had long since made him contemptuous of other men, and his natural skill with a gun had added to that contempt. He was a man as brutal as his heavy jaw, as fierce as the light in his pale eyes.
Surly and sullen, he made friends with no one. In the biting envy and cantankerousness of Pike Purcell he had found companionship if no more. Lamport was not a loyal man. Purcell’s death meant nothing to him. He waited for Rock Bannon now, filled with hatred for the victor in the fight, the man who would win.
Thinking back now, Lamport could see that Rock had always held the winning hand. He had known about Bishop, was a kin to him, had known what awaited here. Also, from the start his assay of Harper’s character had been correct.
From the beginning, Lamport had accepted the partnership with Purcell, rode with the wagon train because it was a way West, and threw in with Harper for profit. In it all, he
respected but one man, the man he was now waiting to kill.
When he heard the horses coming, he poured another drink in the deserted bar. Somewhere around, there were three or four more men. The rest had vanished like snow in a desert sun. Hitching his guns into place, he walked to the door and out on the plank porch.
John Kies’s white face stared at him from an open window of the store.
“Where’s Mort?” Kies said. “That’s them coming now.”
Lamport chuckled and spat into the dust. He scratched the stubble on his heavy jaw and grinned sardonically at Kies.
“He’s around, I reckon, or maybe he blowed out. The rest of ’em have.”
Stark fear came into the storekeeper’s face. “No! No, they can’t have!” he protested. “They’ll have an ambush! They’ll ….”
“You’re crazy.” Lamport sneered. “This show is busted. You should know that. That’s Bannon comin’ now, and, when that crowd of his gets through, there won’t be one stick on another in this town.”
“But the settlers!” Kies wailed. “They’ll stop him.”
Lamport grinned at him. “The settlers have took to the hills. They are gone. Me, I’m waitin’ to kill Rock Bannon. Then, if I can fight off his boys, I’m goin’.”
They came up the street, walking their horses. Rock was in the lead, his rifle across his saddle bow. To his right was Bat Chavez, battle hungry as always. To his left was Red, riding loosely on a paint pony. Behind them, in a mounted skirmishing line, came a dozen hard-bitten Indian-fighting plainsmen, riders for the first big cow spread north of Texas.
A rifle shot rang out suddenly from a cabin in the back of the store, then another. A horse staggered and went down, and Bat Chavez wheeled his horse and with four riders raced toward the cabin. The man who waited there lost his head suddenly and bolted.
A lean blond rider in a Mexican jacket swept down on him, rope twirling. It shot out, and the horse went racing by, and the burly teamster’s body was a bounding thing, leaping and tumbling through the cactus after the racing horse. Chavez swung at once, and turned back toward the saloon. The riders fanned out and started going through the town. Where they went, there were gunshots, then smoke.
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