Savage Range

by Short, Luke;

  “Here,” Mako Donaldson said.

  “Then fight!” Cruver said. “Just fight! This ain’t goin’ to be settled in the courts. Harvey Buckner is smart enough to know that he’d better stay out of a lawsuit or we might tell the court who he is. And we can’t tell who he is without tellin’ that we murdered Jim Buckner. So it’ll be settled with guns. We hold the place now. The only way we can keep on holdin’ it is to band up and wipe out Bonsell or anybody else Buckner sends in here. But we can’t do it by takin’ pot shots from our own windows at any jasper that rides onto the place.”

  Mako Donaldson listened in silence, his lined face bitter. After Cruver finished, none spoke. Mako said suddenly, “I wish to God we’d tried peaceful means with Jim Buckner instead of the way we did! I’ve regretted it all my life.”

  “Just part of your life,” Cruver sneered. “You still got some more regrettin’ to do.”

  Mako looked up at him, his glance unafraid. “You’re a brute, Cruver. You haven’t a heart or a mind or a conscience.”

  “Just the kill-or-be-killed instinct,” Cruver agreed blandly. “Only this time my instinct happens to need you, Mako—and all the rest of you.”

  “And if we don’t?”

  Cruver smiled more broadly now, showing strong yellow teeth. “It ain’t far to a U.S. marshal. And after I’ve told him who killed Jim Buckner, it ain’t far to a new country. And I ain’t afraid to start again, either, like the lot of you.”

  Mako said quietly, “I don’t think we ought to let you leave this house, Will-John.”

  Cruver really laughed then. “Let me!” he echoed. “Hell! You can’t stop me. If you put a slug through my head, I’d stand here long enough to nail five of you. And you’re too damned afraid of your yellow hides to take the chance.”

  Mako regarded him with quiet bitterness, and then dropped his glance. “That’s true—only too true, and you know it.”

  Cruver nodded cheerfully. It didn’t matter a whit to him whether these men hated or liked him, as long as they did his bidding. And he had been patient with them up till now. But that would stop.

  “I think I will go,” he drawled, rising, “and when I go out that door you better start thinkin’ how you can gang up on a U.S. marshal.” He looked around. As he turned, a gun appeared in his hand. He cocked it loudly and said, “Anybody aim to stop me?’

  None answered. He strode toward the door. One of the young men, Mako Donaldson’s son, made a tentative grab for his gun, but Cruver only swiveled his weapon toward him and grinned.

  “Come back here, Will-John,” Mako said. “You’ve got us licked and you know it.”

  “Have I, Boyd?” Cruver asked.

  Boyd nodded. “I never thought I’d see the day when I’d fight for you, Cruver, but I guess it’s come,” Boyd said quietly.

  “I guess it has,” Cruver agreed. “But not only—”

  He ceased talking, cocking his head to listen. “Someone just rode in,” he announced.

  They were silent, a little tense, listening to the approaching footsteps of a man walking rapidly. The door opened to admit a young man in dusty Levi’s.

  “Well, what’s happened, Custer?” Cruver asked.

  “Plenty,” Custer said. “There was a scrap went on over there.”

  Custer was the lookout posted by loose agreement of the squatters to report any activity at the Excelsior. It seemed that there had been a fight at the Excelsior. After the massacre of the squatters, it was common knowledge among them that Bonsell had cached five men in the second story of the Ulibarri house and had sent the rest into the hills, to make good his word to the sheriff. That these men were up there only temporarily, everyone knew. The five were there to guard Bonsell until, under the pretense of hiring an entire new crew, he could recruit more renegades. But something had happened. It was dark when it began. Bonsell was in the cookshack talking to the cook. Custer had seen that through his glasses.

  Then all of a sudden a rifleman hidden down by the barn had begun to pour lead into the cookshack. He broke the lamp on the second shot. Another rifleman over by the stacks joined in. The five men up in the house tried to go to Bonsell’s help, but a third rifleman stopped that. He poured lead into the door of the house so fast a rabbit couldn’t have got out. Furthermore, he kept it up all the time the other two were harrying Bonsell.

  “It looked to me,” Custer continued, “as if some of those Excelsior boys out in the hills had it in for Bonsell. They waited until he was by himself, away from his guards, and then jumped him.”

  “Then what happened?” Cruver asked impatiently.

  “Why, there was only one gun in the cookshack. While Bonsell was trying to reach the man in the stacks with it, the other man down by the barn snuck up and fired the shack.”

  What happened after that was a pretty close thing for Bonsell, Custer said. He stayed in the cookshack until it was nearly burned up. The Chinese cook decided he’d rather die by a slug than have the building fall in on top of him. He made a run for the house.

  “And they never even shot at him,” Custer said. “It was pretty plain they was savin’ their bullets for Bonsell. They waited until it looked like Bonsell was goin’ to be buried under burning timbers. And then he made a run for it.”

  “Did he make it?”

  “He did,” Custer said. “But I bet he thinks he’s dead right now. His shirt was on fire, and he slapped at it as he ran. They shot his hat off. They shot the gun out of his hand. I’d swear they took both heels off his boots. He fell down once, and the slugs threw dirt in his eyes. He dodged like an Indian, but they kept kickin’ up dirt in front of him. He made the door in one long dive and got splinters shot into his face from the doorframe. He stood in there and cussed so hard at them that all the grass died. After that, the three of them pulled out.”

  Cruver said slowly, “They did, eh? They could have killed him but they just wanted to scare him. That means they want more wages, and if I know Bonsell, he’ll take his time givin’ it to them.” He looked around at these men. “Well, if you’re goin’ to fight, now’s the time to do it, while they’re fightin’ among themselves.”

  “And that makes sense,” Mako Donaldson said.

  “Then hit the saddle,” Cruver announced briefly.

  Chapter Nine: RIVER OF DEATH

  Jim, Ben Beauchamp, and Phil Scoville met at the appointed place above the Excelsior. Jim was the last to come, and he was grinning when he crept behind the screen of cedars.

  Scoville said, “I’ve heard considerable cussin’ in my time, but Bonsell’s made my hair a little curly.”

  “He didn’t like it much, did he?” Jim asked.

  “Do you think we hit him?” Ben asked.

  Jim shook his head. “He could run all right. A hit man doesn’t run, not even if he’s scared.”

  They smoked while discussing the probabilities as to what Bonsell would do. Scoville believed he would call the crew together and mop up on the squatters, providing he believed that the ambush was at Cruver’s direction. As for his suspecting Jim, it was improbable, simply because there were three attackers. Even if word of Jim’s breaking out Ben last night had reached Bonsell—an unlikely thing, for Bonsell had not been in town this day—that would account for only two of the three attackers. And Scoville was certain that Bonsell did not know of his own desertion. The men in the hills came and went as they pleased, their safety being their own lookout. No, Bonsell would believe the attack was made by three squatters and he would strike immediately.

  Jim listened to Scoville’s opinion and disagreed with it, simply because he thought Bonsell was a more cautious man. He’d wait for daylight to strike, Jim thought.

  Finished with their smokes, they separated, each to watch the house from a different angle, for it was imperative that no move of Bonsell’s be missed.

  Alone, picking his way through the cedars, alert for any sound, Jim took stock of his fortunes so far. This was the first move in his plan. Scovi
lle’s advent was plain luck. Jim had taken him to Cope’s and ordered him to shave his beard. Here was a man who, unrecognizable with different clothes and smooth-shaven features, could circulate without drawing suspicion. Moreover, here was the man Harvey Buckner would seek out. Besides that, Jim found himself liking the man. His sincerity Jim never questioned. When he was cleaned up, he had the gentle features of a man harried by circumstance, quiet to moroseness, but possessed of a dry wit and quick, aggressive mind. Tonight, with a brand of sharpshooting that amazed Jim, he had proven invaluable. But with only Scoville and a green kid, he had to buck Bonsell’s crew and Cruver’s. Could he do it? And the image of Mary rose in his mind to strengthen him and confound him. He had to do it!

  He slipped into a piñon thicket on the ridge to the north of the house. By daylight he would know if his ruse to goad Bonsell into open war had worked or whether he must cast about for some other plan.

  The lamps were lighted in the second story of the big house, behind pulled shades. The cookshack was entirely burned, an unsightly pile of dull-glowing ashes and twisted metal where it had once stood. Evidently, a conference was in session, for only a lone guard squatted by the big house’s doorway.

  Presently a man came down from upstairs and went down to the corral. He saddled and rode off west, toward the hills. That would be a messenger to the rest of the crew, and at the sight of him Jim’s hopes kindled.

  After that, there was nothing to do but wait. Jim squatted down against a piñon, rifle across his knees, and dozed and started and dozed again.

  It was in waking from one of these dozes that he heard the sound of someone walking behind him. It was a man, for he could hear the uncertain steps he was taking on the rocky ground.

  Jim sat utterly still, his nerves taut. This couldn’t be Ben or Scoville, or they would have whistled. The man came on, and in that thick darkness passed no less than five feet from Jim. He was making no great effort to be quiet, nor was he crashing brush. When he sky-lined himself, Jim could see he was carrying a rifle slacked in his arms.

  When he was past, Jim came to attention. He saw the man down the slope now, bellied down behind a boulder facing the house. The cigarette of the guard at the door glowed and faded in the night.

  Jim watched an interminable while. And then, down by the creek, an owl hooted. It was a good imitation, but it wasn’t the real thing.

  The man understood, however. He raised his gun, sighting it for a long time on the rock. He fired then, the shot crashing the night down. The cigarette the guard was smoking arched slowly to the ground, and Jim knew the shot had killed him.

  Immediately, as if all hell had let loose, a dozen rifles exploded into the night. From their flashes, Jim saw they had formed a rough circle and surrounded the Excelsior. The lights in the house were immediately extinguished, and afterward the first flames of fire began to lick up at the big barn.

  Bonsell, squatted against the wall of a second-story room in which five bedrolls were stretched on the floor, looked up at the sound of that first shot. He held a knife in his hand with which he was picking splinters out of his leg by the aid of the lantern on the floor. He looked up at the four men, who were seated on the blankets watching him.

  Without a word, he reached over and extinguished the lamp and said, “By God, they’re back.”

  Lunging to his feet, he rapped out orders. “Spread out over the top floor. Ed and me will take the east side. Morg, you and Dutch take the west. And Dutch, you’ll have to fight out the south end window, too.”

  There was a hurried tramping of feet as the men lunged for their rifles stacked in the corner. Bonsell, rifle in hand, plunged out the door into the long hall and came out in the north room. Already the window had been broken on the east side. To Ed, following him, he said, “Get over to that west window and fire at the gun flashes!”

  He stood just beside the window now, looking out. They had already fired the big barn, and the smaller outbuildings were catching. It wasn’t at this he was looking. He was counting the gun flashes. When he had spotted all within range, he went over to Ed’s window and counted those, too, then called through the hall to Dutch to count the ones he could see between the ridge and the well house.

  When he got the tally, he stood there, his face dark with fury, shaded softly by the glare of the fire coming through the gaping window. Thirteen men! That was too many for five men to fight, he thought.

  Without a word, he started shooting at the gun flashes. His aim was careless. All he wanted to do was expend shells. When he had shot fifty times, he called across the room to Ed.

  “Got any shells, Ed?”

  “No.”

  “Go get some.”

  “What about my place here?”

  “I’ll take your side. It’s so light on this side they’re afraid to show.”

  Ed tramped out of the room. Bonsell glanced once at the burning barn and the outbuildings. The flames had turned night into day, until he could see the whole surrounding countryside. Then he crossed swiftly to the west window. The ridge behind the house was lighted so brightly that he could see every branch of every tree. Only the shadow of the house, mounting part way up the hill, was black and secret. A man looking down at the house from the ridge could see nothing, since the glare would be in his eyes.

  He dropped his rifle, stepped out onto the gallery, climbed the railing, then swung down, hanging by his finger tips to the gallery porch.

  Presently, when he had stopped swinging, he dropped. He lit as lightly as a cat and rolled over in the grass against the wall. Nobody had so much as shot at him.

  In a moment he heard Ed’s voice calling softly from above, “Max! Max! Where are you?”

  The fools! he thought. They’d stick in that house wondering where he’d gone until Cruver and his crew set fire to it. Then they’d all be trapped like rats. He’d had one taste of that tonight, and he didn’t want more. If only those four fools would put up a good fight, giving him time for what he wanted to do!

  He lay there listening to the fury of gunfire all around him. Ed had gone back to his shooting. The fire was slowly dying, letting night creep in again.

  When the light had dimmed enough so that the ridge was just a black blur again, Bonsell moved. He crawled through the grass until he had achieved a tree. Then, dodging from one tree to the next, he made his way up the hill, aiming at a place between two riflemen.

  Once above them, he took out his six-gun and made his way straight to one of the squatters. In the darkness, no one could recognize him.

  He came up behind the squatter and said, “Where are the horses?”

  “Over the second ridge west. What the hell do you—”

  Bonsell shot. The man simply folded in on himself and dropped his head. After that, Bonsell made his way back to the horses, the concert of gunfire gradually diminishing in volume as he walked.

  He found the horses in an arroyo. The fools hadn’t bothered to leave a guard with them. He led one horse aside, then took out his knife and methodically cut the cinches of every saddle.

  Finished, he mounted and rode west, toward the hills. Not once did he think of those four in the house. They would serve their purpose, he hoped, if they contrived to stave off the burning of the house till daylight, giving him time to act.

  Less than half an hour later, he met the rest of the crew pounding up the trail headed for the Excelsior. They pulled up around him as he waited. He didn’t know whether or not they’d seen the flames from the burning buildings; he didn’t care.

  “We’re ridin’ out now!” he said harshly.

  “They raid the place again?” someone asked.

  “Yes. They caught the five of us. Put a knife in Blackie and sneaked upstairs. They got the rest of the boys. I made a dive out onto the gallery and jumped.” He spoke in a casual voice that lent itself well to his mock heroics. “I got to their horses,” he continued, “and cut the cinches. They’re there for a while.”

  “Then l
et’s go get ’em!” a man said.

  “You’ll do what I tell you!” Bonsell said coldly. “They can fort up on a ridge, mend the cinches, then turn around and chase us when they’re done. We won’t get anywhere that way.”

  “What do you aim to do, Max?” MaCumber asked.

  “Strike!” Bonsell said sharply. “Split up into four bunches, and ride to the spreads we missed the other time. There’s no one there now. I want you to burn their places first. After that, gather their cattle. They’ve pushed their beef close to the buildings already. I want you to drive that beef west, converging at Mimbres canyon. That’s central to every spread left. Haze the stuff hard. If any of it lags, shoot it! I want every walking head of beef you find pushed to the Mimbres rim by noon. Do you get it? Then ride!”

  Bonsell waited long enough to divide the men, then, heading one group himself, he set out for Boyd’s place. They rode like fury, and reached it just at daylight. It was deserted. Boyd had pushed all his herds into the big horse pasture, and they were packed in like matches in a box, bawling their lungs out to be turned loose. As soon as the barns were fired, Bonsell directed the pasture gate to be opened, and as the hungry longhorns boiled out, his men skillfully directed them up the valley toward Mimbres.

  It was a savage drive. The cattle were hungry and wanted to graze, but they were not allowed to. The stubborn ones were shot, and at the smell of their blood, the others became restive and wild. Bonsell tried every way he knew to start a stampede, and finally, when he killed a calf and dragged it past the flank, he succeeded.

  It worked perfectly. There was no place for the cattle to stampede except up the valley. With two men on swing, keeping them bunched, there was nothing to do but ride. Other small herds were picked up on the way, and when these threatened to stop the stampede, Bonsell shot them. By midmorning the cattle had run themselves out, but the Excelsior hands harried them frantic. There was no lagging. The whole valley floor for miles was strewn with their warm carcasses. A little after eleven they approached the Mimbres rim.