by Short, Luke;
MaCumber went over backward. Swiftly, noting only the livid bruises and cuts on the man’s face, a reminder of that night at the Star 88, Jim took his rifle and shells and ran for the ridge. The other rifleman was silenced now, but the two on the opposite rim were lacing out at them.
The ridge was flat-topped, perhaps thirty by forty feet at its peak, and was sprinkled thick with big boulders. Jim reached it first and counted the others that came over the rim and up the slope on the run.
He counted five men—Mako Donaldson and his son and three young punchers. Then no more came. They had lost three men in the canyon, two more on the slope. One man was getting horses; counting himself, there were six of them to make the fight from here on. Not a horse had lived through the storming of the rock rim.
Mako Donaldson, panting for breath, hunkered down behind a rock, while Jim took stock of their ammunition. There was enough to hold out till dark, he judged. He posted his men so that they had full command of all sides of the ridge, rearranging the smallest boulders so that they afforded protection. The ammunition was pooled in the center of the cleared space. There was a canteen which Jim had thought to bring along on his belt. Hunger would punish them, thirst, too, but they could hold out till night. If help didn’t come then, it didn’t matter.
Mako watched Jim with grave, tired eyes, and then Jim sat down to smoke.
“Funny,” Mako said at last. “Of all of those that murdered Jim Buckner, there’s only me and Will-John Cruver to tell the tale.”
Young Donaldson said bitterly, “Ain’t we paid for that, Dad?”
“I reckon,” Mako said, content. “All but me. And I’ll pay, too.”
Everything was quiet now. It was a sunny morning with only a faint smell of powder in the air to give a clue to what had happened. Not a man of the Excelsior crew was in sight, but Jim knew they would come. Bonsell was out to finish his job. And with Jim Wade as his quarry, he would not stop till every man was dead.
Jim considered the situation. The slope of the river was clear of trees, and the biggest rocks which would afford a man protection had rolled down to the base of the slope. Six men could hold the place forever, given enough food and water. Maybe they’d have to, he thought calmly.
Five minutes later a rifle cracked out, and the slug ricocheted harmlessly off a boulder. Two others joined in.
“That’s the beginnin’,” Jim said quietly. “Don’t shoot till you’re sure of a man. Remember, this ammunition has got to last till dark.” He smiled. “Settle down to it, boys, or this may be where you’ll be buried.”
Holding their fire, they watched the Excelsior riders surround the ridge. Seldom did they catch sight of a man, but only saw a swift-moving patch of his shirt, or the sun flash of a gun. There was nothing to shoot at, yet an implacable ring of riflemen was being thrown around the base of the ridge.
Presently a lone rifleman opened fire, and others slowly joined in. And Jim came to realize how well their fort had been chosen. Without bothering to return the fire, and with eyes glued to cracks in the boulders, the squatter crew waited, safe behind their wall of rock. When an Excelsior rifleman became a little too eager and showed himself, a slug would scare him back to cover. As long as daylight lasted, they were safe.
There were a dozen men shooting at them, the bulk of the Excelsior crew. But Max Bonsell was not going to waste men trying to capture a place that was impregnable in daylight. Darkness would afford him his opportunity.
The day dragged on, and by noon the rocks were warmed to an oven heat. The men sought what little shade there was and tried not to remember they were hungry and thirsty. The futile rifles hammered at them all day long, their slugs whistling harmlessly off into the blue.
Toward dark, Jim considered the situation. There was no moon tonight, which was to Bonsell’s advantage. But the situation was not entirely hopeless. He marked off the rocks on top of which each man of the crew was to take his position. The same darkness that afforded Bonsell cover would allow them freedom in showing themselves. Ammunition was distributed, and then Jim outlined his scheme.
“If we’re goin’ to get out of here,” he announced, “it’s got to be tonight. And we’ve got to sneak through that bunch of gunnies to get to our horses. Now if we return shot for shot all through the night here, it’s goin’ to look suspicious when our fire drops off as we sneak out of here. But if we don’t shoot much, if we let them carry the fight to us and hold our fire till the last minute, they’ll sort of get used to our not firin’. There’ll be long waits, minutes at a time when we don’t shoot a gun. We’ve got to get ’em used to that. Once that’s done, they won’t think it’s funny when we stop shootin’ to leave.”
When full dark came, they took up their positions on top of their rocks. They were much more exposed here, in danger of sky-lining themselves for targets, but it was necessary risk. Jim argued them out of smoking at all, since their eyes, once keyed to the darkness, would be blinded by any match flare.
And they waited, their guns silent. A desultory fire was kept up by the Excelsior outfit. More than anything else, Jim wanted to bait Bonsell into thinking their ammunition was exhausted.
It was a strain, peering down into that darkness where everything was a slight variation of gray. A man’s nerves started to crawl, and he would jump at the merest sound.
Two full hours after dark, however, they were rewarded. Jim was watching on the side sloping into the canyon, simply because this was the side on which an attack would be least expected. For minutes now, he had been watching a shape down the slope that was just a little darker than the night. He thought he saw it move.
Then faintly there came to him the clink of a spur on rock.
When he was sure it was a man, or many men, he whispered to Mako, “They’re sneakin’ up my side.”
“Want help?”
“No. Stay where you are. Pass the word around. It may be a trick to get us all over on this side. Just forget about me and watch your own territory.”
The rifles below kept hammering away—and the dark blot grew larger on the slope. Jim watched it grimly, not moving. He was beginning to make out shapes now, but he made no move to raise his rifle. He didn’t want to make a mistake now.
At last, however, he could distinctly make out the forms of the attackers. They were more than halfway up the slope, just beginning to fan out.
He picked out the leader, took careful aim, and fired. He saw the man go down, heard his rifle clatter on the rock. The others fell on their faces, trying to hide. But Jim turned upon them, lacing shots low, so that rock splinters were kicked up in their faces. It was all over in a minute. Jim heard one of them call something, then there came a pounding of footsteps and the sliding of rock. He raked the slope with swift shots, and then all was silent again.
Immediately, Bonsell tried another plan. It was the old Indian way of fighting, taking advantage of each piece of cover, and carrying a running fight up the hill. Evidently, his men were set for it, for as soon as the first attackers were driven back, the second wave started.
This was more effective. Instead of stealth being used, this swift charge was designed to overwhelm them. A defender could only settle on one attacker, and while he was throwing shots at him, three others would advance up the hill, heckle him into turning his attention to them, while the first man advanced farther.
A kind of panic seized the squatters. Jim could tell by the number of their shots that they weren’t aiming, rather shooting out of desperation. There were no men climbing his side of the slope, but he did not crawl over to join the others. He dropped down to the floor of the ridge, put his shoulder to the smallest boulders, and teetered them over the edge.
It was a terrifying noise in the dark. The hollow booming thunder of their descent gained in volume as they picked up speed, until the ground shook. Then a crash among the trees, and a prolonged ripping of smashed brush and broken trees rose to join the noise of the gunfire.
The Excelsior
crew didn’t mind the gunfire. They could tell where their enemy was by the spot of his gun flash. But rocks were different. You could hear them, but you couldn’t see them, and every one sounded as if it was headed for you.
Jim worked violently, pushing whatever rocks he could find, taking no aim. He calculated on the sound and their invisibility to spread a terror through these men that guns could not.
And he was lucky. He rolled one large one over the side, then turned to hunt another. He had barely found it when he heard a man’s agonized scream rise over the clatter. It lifted in a long, piercing wail, trailing for three seconds in the night, and then it ceased abruptly. It sent a shiver down his spine.
And then the fire from the slope slacked off. He heard a man cursing wildly down at the base of the ridge. That would be Bonsell, taunting his men, driving them forward.
But they were cowed. Slowly, their gun flashes receded down the slope, showing less often as the Excelsior crew, afraid to make a target for a boulder, held their fire.
Jim watched breathlessly, and heard old Mako Donaldson chuckling. And then he lifted his glance, attracted by a dim point of light far to the south. As he watched, he saw a small fire flare up, burn for seconds, then die.
There was the puncher with their horses.
Jim, seizing the moment, gave swift orders to his men. “Get down here and roll rocks—every one you can find! Gang up on them; get some big ones rolling down every side!”
As they worked, he told them of seeing the fire. “We’ll drive these gunnies so far back in the brush, they won’t come out for an hour.”
He put his good shoulder against a big boulder and the others threw their weight beside him. The rock teetered, settled back, teetered again, and went over. The noise was monstrous. It went crashing down the slope in long, shattering leaps, a trail of sparks marking each place it hit. A wild yell, “Look out!” arose from the base of the ridge, and then the rock hit the first tree. It broke it off with the sound of rifleshot, and then plunged on. Tree after tree went down before its thunder, and for a full half minute afterward they could hear it smash its terrible course until momentum was gone.
Then they set to work with a will. There were no answering gunshots now. No man down there wanted to offer the flash of his gun as a target for a boulder.
When they had moved every boulder that was movable, Jim gave swift directions.
“Cut off down the west slope. Every boulder we find on the way, we’ll push down. Come on, and quick about it!”
Max Bonsell’s shout had come from the south side of the ridge. Jim felt certain that he had been forced to withdraw his men straight back out of range of the rocks, rather than order them to dodge. They made their silent way down the west slope now, shoving whatever boulders came in their path. There was no gunfire, not a sound except the rolling, leaping rumble of the boulders.
Once at the base of the hill, screened by the piñons and cedars, the six of them marched swiftly in Indian file, and ducked into the first arroyo they found. Its sand cushioned their footsteps. After they had walked for what Jim judged was five minutes, they rested, and sought a height of land. Once there, he sat down to wait.
Presently another small fire showed up for a moment straight ahead of them, and died almost as suddenly. But it was enough.
Fifteen minutes later, a voice softly hailed them. It was the puncher.
“The horses are waitin’ just over the ridge,” he announced.
There were eight horses. There were seven men to ride them. Jim hadn’t calculated badly.
When it came time to mount, Jim gave them the last bit of advice he was ever to give them.
“In your place, I’d hit for the mountains, and never stop ridin’ till I was through them. Once through, I’d scatter.”
“To where?” Mako Donaldson murmured.
Jim didn’t answer, for he knew how a country, however hostile and bitter, can grow into a man, become part of him. And this was the last time these men would ever see this range, or ever claim it for home.
Mako stepped into the saddle and regarded Jim musingly.
“And you, Wade,” he said, “what’s left for you?”
“I’ll stick,” Jim said. “I’ve got a score to settle. I’ll settle it for you, too.”
“It strikes me we wouldn’t be here to ride if it wasn’t for you,” Mako said, and Jim made a deprecatory gesture that went unseen in the dark.
“I’m an old man,” Mako said. “I don’t like to die in debt to a man. But I reckon I’ll have to.” He put out his hand, and Jim shook it. “Thanks, friend,” Mako said.
Jim shook hands all around. None of these men, closemouthed and inarticulate, tried to thank him. It was understood, and that’s the way he wanted to have it.
When they were gone, he listened until the last sound of their retreat gave way to the dim rattle of gunfire in the east. Bonsell was making another attack, and this time he would carry the ridge—to find it empty. It was time to ride.
He mounted wearily and headed for San Jon. He had partly corrected a mistake that would have ridden his every waking hour the rest of his life, he thought.
Chapter Thirteen: FORGED CORNERS
Scoville was mending a bridle, sitting out on the back steps of Lily’s house and letting the sun warm him. He was whistling softly, a token of a good breakfast just finished and peace in his heart.
He saw a man ride up the alley, turn, and pause at the rear of the blacksmith shop. Scoville didn’t know him, and he regarded him idly as the man leaned over the horn of his saddle and exchanged words with Tom Beauchamp. He saw Tom gesture toward the house. The man dismounted, left his horse, and approached the house with a saddle-stiff, rolling gait that told of many hours in the saddle.
When he was close, Scoville nodded civilly. “Howdy.”
The man didn’t answer. He had a narrow head, clamped on his neck by the squarest jaw Scoville had ever seen. The blond beard-stubble on his cheeks couldn’t soften the line of that jaw, and his close-set eyes announced to the world that he didn’t give a damn whether anyone liked the set of his jaw or not.
“I come from Cope’s saloon,” he said meagerly. “They told me I’d find a, man by the name of Peters lives here.”
Peters! That was the name with which Cope had signed his letter to Buckner! Scoville looked up at the man, and he didn’t like him, didn’t like anything about him, not even the suggestively low set of the twin guns on his thighs.
“Yeah? Maybe he does,” he answered.
“You Peters?”
“What if I am?”
The man looked about him and then said one word in a lowered voice. “Buckner.”
Scoville spat carefully. “I’d heard it rumored that Buckner was a fine figure of a man. And if you’re a fine figure of a man, cowboy, then my taste runs to women.”
The man’s eyes veiled over. “I’m not Buckner.”
“That’s what I think. I was just tryin’ to tell you.”
“Buckner’s outside of town, down in the bottoms.”
“That’s fine,” Scoville said.
“He’d like to talk to you.”
“What’s stoppin’ him? You know where I am, don’t you?”
The man’s feet shifted faintly, his impatience mounting. “If you’d get on a horse, we’d be out there in ten minutes.”
Scoville spat again. “You’ve forgot somethin’, haven’t you?”
“Like what?”
“Like money. You know—what you get drunk with, what you buy horses with, what puts fat in the head, like yours.”
The man still held his temper. “If you want money, talk to Buckner.”
Scoville leaned his elbows on the step above him and turned his face up to the man. “What’s your name, mister?”
“Warren. Ray Warren.”
“Well, Ray Warren,” Scoville drawled, “you look like a man that’s seen the elephant and hear’n the owl hoot. You must have been in a store, once in
your life, anyway. You know in a store you buy somethin’ and give the man money for it. It’s a custom.”
Warren said, “I told you Buckner will talk about that when we get out there.”
“That’s just it,” Scoville said. “Did you ever see a storekeeper follow a customer home; then set down and talk about the price of what he wants to buy? You see, I’m the storekeeper in this case. You’re the customer. You come to me—with money.”
“How much?”
“A couple of hundred to start with.”
“I ain’t got it.”
“Go get it. I don’t sell to broke people.”
Warren regarded Scoville a long moment, a look of cold disgust on his face. “Ever hear of a customer tellin’ a storekeeper what he thought of highway robbery over a counter?” he asked softly.
“Can’t say I have.”
“I heard one threaten to beat hell out of a storekeeper once, just because he didn’t like the way he talked.”
“And I saw a storekeeper take a customer apart once, just to see what caused that loud noise inside him. Know what it was? It was just a lot of hot air that smelled like a skunk and barked like a coyote and had a long woolly tail tucked under its legs, like a sheep.”
Warren’s face didn’t change. “I’ll be back,” he said.
“Oh, don’t bother comin’ if it’s any trouble,” Scoville said innocently. “I won’t miss you.”
When Warren had gone, Scoville’s face relaxed into a grin. He heard a noise behind him and glanced up at the door. Lily was standing just inside it, her eyes dancing with laughter.
“Did anybody ever tell you,” she said, laughing, “that your manners in public aren’t much different from a terrier dog’s?”
Scoville grinned and said, “No, ma’am,” and Lily came out to sit with him.
“You see,” Scoville drawled, “for nearly a week now, me and Ben have been sweatin’ out there on the grant. We’ve burned charcoal and buried it for them fake corner markers. We’ve dug up the old corners and smoothed ’em out and toted those stone markers over to put in the new charcoal. We’ve sweat and got plenty dirty and cussed and ate cold grub and rode until I near to wore my saddle out. I reckon we’re due for a little fun, so I might’s well have it with this jughead.”