‘Get back to your places, men!’ Stroup shouted.
He didn’t really need to give the command because most of them were still at their positions by the windows. This time, however, the shooting came not just from the front of the ranch house, where it was still concentrated, but from all sides; a furious cannonade that seemed to shake the house to its foundations. Bullets thudded into the walls of the building and began to ricochet around the interior, shattering objects to smithereens. Westoe had taken up his position by the upstairs study window and was firing as quickly as he could when he felt a sharp pain and staggered back, blood running down his cheek. It wasn’t serious and, ignoring it, he turned back and began pumping bullets into the yard outside, firing where he saw flame. He could hear the rattle of gunfire towards the back of the building and realized that some of the men had changed positions to meet the challenge there, but he doubted whether they would be able to hold the attackers off for much longer. A further crescendo of gunfire came from that direction and then, unexpectedly, there was a lull. He took the opportunity to peer out of the window and in the distance he thought he could discern a cloud of dust. At the same time, some of the attackers who were just out of range emerged from their places of concealment and moved towards their horses. In a few moments they had mounted and were riding away. From the back of the houses someone began to shout:
‘I think they’re callin’ it a day!’
He couldn’t understand what was happening Then, after a few moments, he heard the sound of hoof beats and his heart sank. If Rafe was about to bring up more of his men, they were doomed. The riders were getting closer. There were about five or six of them and they were coming up fast, seemingly oblivious of danger. Shots began to ring out, but it was impossible to say who was doing the shooting. He took the chance of exposing himself to gunfire in order to get a better look and when he recognized the slim figure of Bunch, he realized that they were not more of Rafe’s gunslicks, but some of the Barbed S men who had been absent when the attack began. As if that wasn’t enough, a moment later he almost rubbed his eyes in astonishment. Among the other riders he recognized two people he would never have expected to see again. One was the oldster, Ben Howe, and the other was the sheriff of Desolation Wells. He then realized that it was because of these two men that the gunslicks were moving away. He was expecting them to ride straight into the yard, but when they were a little distance they came to a halt, dismounted and took shelter. A fresh fusillade of shots rang out as a small group of horsemen came into view from around the side of the ranch house, spurring their horses in their haste to get away. Raising his rifle, he directed his fire towards them, but they had veered away and were already out of range. The firing from immediately in front of him had dwindled to almost nothing and after a few more minutes it died away altogether. In contrast to the previous cacophony of noise, the ensuing quiet was almost palpable.
Westoe remained at his post, watching for any further signs of activity, but nothing was happening. Then he heard movement from down below and the sound of the ranch house door being opened. A few moments later, Stroup emerged. It seemed to Westoe that he was taking a chance and he lifted his rifle to cover him. Stroup walked steadily forward till he stood out in the yard, fully exposed to a shot from any gunman who still remained. Tension hung in the air. Westoe made to leave his post and make his way downstairs, but then decided against it, thinking that he would do better to remain where he was. He stood with his rifle raised, his eyes searching the scene for any sign of movement which might betray the presence of a lingering gunslick. Unexpectedly, a voice rang out:
‘Get back inside! Don’t take any chances!’
By way of reply, Stroup raised his own voice, but it was to ask another question.
‘Rafe!’ he yelled. ‘I know it’s you. I don’t know why and I don’t care. If you’re still there, come out of hidin’. I’m tellin’ my men not to shoot anymore. I guarantee your safety. Only tell me why. I need to know what reason you had to do this.’
The echoes of his voice died away, but there was no reply; only the soughing of the wind and the snicker of a horse. The seconds ticked by and seemed to extend into infinity. Then Stroup shouted again.
‘Rafe. I’m still your father. You’re still my son. Come back to me and whatever it is, we can work it out.’
There was no response. Presently some people emerged from the ranch house at the same time as other figures – Bunch and the sheriff among them – came into view from where they had taken cover. Stroup raised his arms towards the heavens and then seemed momentarily to totter as Sumter came up behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Stroup’s head sank to his breast and it seemed to Westoe that a shudder shook him before he partly turned and let the deputy foreman lead him back towards the ranch house.
Westoe slowly lowered his rifle. Among all the other thoughts and emotions which were running through his brain, the dominant feeling was one of relief that he was spared the responsibility of having to tell Stroup about Rafe’s presence at the scene; whether Stroup realized that Rafe was responsible for the attack was another matter. He turned away from the window, becoming aware again of the cut to his face. For a second time he had been lucky. Footsteps passed on the landing and following the other defenders who had been positioned on the upper floor, he started to make his way downstairs when he suddenly remembered the sheriff. He couldn’t imagine what Snelgrove was doing there, but the way he had made his exit from Desolation Wells wouldn’t be likely to have endeared him to that representative of the law. The situation was complicated, but there was every chance that he might find himself under arrest.
Reaching the landing, he leaned out to see what was happening downstairs. Despite their success in beating off the attack, the atmosphere was muted. He could see Stroup standing a little apart, surrounded by a group of people. He seemed to have recovered something of his equilibrium. Westoe couldn’t see the sheriff, but as he placed his foot on the first step of the stairs one of the men talking to Stroup, who had his back to him, turned and with a shock he recognized Barnet. What was more to the point was that Barnet clearly recognized him. He hesitated for just a moment and then turned back, making his way along the corridor to one of the rooms facing the back of the building. He looked out. There was nobody around. The stable building was not far off and he figured he could make it there without being seen. It was quite a long drop to the ground, but the room overlooked a grassy patch and he reckoned he could make a soft landing. The window had been shattered by flying bullets and he quickly knocked out the last few sharp splinters of glass before climbing over the widow ledge and lowering himself as far as he could. For a moment he hung on and then released his grip. He hit the ground harder then he had expected, but nothing was broken. He picked himself up and was about to make his way to the stable door when he heard the whinny of a horse. He looked around, thinking hard of an excuse to explain his presence, when he suddenly breathed a huge sigh of relief. The whinny he had heard was from a riderless horse which, although it was standing at a little distance, he recognised as his own buckskin. It took only a few moments for him to reach it and whisper calming words into its ear. He swung himself into the saddle and, touching his spurs to its flanks, began to ride away from the ranch house.
He continued till darkness fell and then made camp. He lifted the saddle from the buckskin and picketed the horse on a patch of grass. He built a fire and made coffee. He was feeling hungry, but the best he could manage was a few strips of jerky he kept in his saddlebags. When he had finished, he built himself a smoke and sat by the fire to try and think things through. He wasn’t sure what to do next. One option was to make his way back to Leonae’s store and trading post. He would do that eventually, but the time now was not ripe. He had unfinished business with Stroup and the Barbed S. He could go back there and take his chances. Snelgrove would surely have realized he was not guilty of premeditated murder. However, he couldn’t be absolutely sure of that
. What was Snelgrove doing there in the first place? Maybe it was to arrest him and take him back to Desolation Wells. That could explain the presence of Drabble. The more he thought about it, the more confused he became. A few other things were pretty clear, however. One was that Rafe Stroup was up to no good. Another was that he was riding with a bunch of desperados who were responsible for most of the wrongdoing that had been taking place recently. He finished the cigarette and threw the stub into the fire. As he did so, his horse snickered. He looked up at its shadowy outline and thought he detected a shimmer of movement. Getting quickly to his feet, he moved back into the shadows and drew his Colt .44.
He hadn’t long to wait. After a few moments he heard the unmistakable soft tread of a boot and then a dim figure emerged from the bushes at the far side of the clearing. Although he was being furtive, the man wasn’t making a lot of effort to be silent. He moved slowly forwards till he fell within range of the flickering firelight, then Westoe recognized his stooping figure. Holstering his revolver, he stepped forwards. The man looked up at his approach and his hand dropped towards his gun belt before he recognized Westoe in turn.
‘Chet,’ he said. ‘It’s me, Ben Howe.’
‘You’re lucky I didn’t shoot,’ Westoe replied. ‘You were taking a big risk creeping up on me like that.’ He paused and then they both broke into a laugh. ‘Hell, what are you doin’ here, you old coot?’
‘What do you think? Lookin’ for you, of course.’ They briefly embraced and then Westoe drew the oldster towards the fire.
‘I figure you could use some strong coffee,’ he said.
While he made a fresh brew, the oldster brought up his horse. ‘When I saw your camp-fire, I figured it must be you,’ he said. ‘All the same, I thought I’d better leave the roan at a distance.’ Westoe poured the coffee into two tin mugs then proffered his sack of Bull Durham and they both lit up.
‘You realize we’re a sittin’ target for any of those varmints who attacked the Barbed S?’ Howe commented.
‘I’d be happy if they came,’ Westoe replied. ‘I’d welcome the chance to even the score a little.’
‘Don’t worry. You’ll get it. They were talkin’ about organizin’ a posse to try and track ’em down when I left.’
‘I still don’t see what you were doin’ ridin’ in with the sheriff like that.’
‘Yeah. I guess it would have been kinda unexpected.’
‘Whatever it was, it saved the day. If you hadn’t showed up, I reckon we would have been overrun.’
‘Maybe. If so, it was probably the surprise element that did it.’
The oldster finished his coffee and Westoe poured him another. ‘Go on, then,’ he said. ‘Tell me what you were doin’ there.’
‘There’s not much to tell. After you left, I got to feelin’ kinda guilty about lettin’ you go.’
‘You didn’t let me go anywhere. It was my choice to ride to the Barbed S.’
‘Miss Leonae was mighty worried too,’ Howe replied somewhat inconsequentially. ‘Well, we were figurin’ what we should do when Sheriff Snelgrove and his deputy turned up, together with the foreman of the Barbed S.’
‘Barnet?’
‘Yeah, that’s him. Between them they’d cooked up some cockamamie story about you, but I soon put them right. I told them what happened at my place the day you came by. We told them a few other things, too. But we didn’t need to try and explain too hard, because the sheriff had a few things to say as well.’
‘Is he lookin’ to take me in?’ Westoe asked, but Howe ignored the question.
‘Seems like there’s been trouble in Desolation Wells too. There was a hold-up at the bank. Oh, yes. And one of the men you shot back there turned out to be some gunslinger by name of Dwayne Oliver. I figure that fact alone was enough to establish your credentials. Anyway, the upshot of it is that Snelgrove put two and two together and decided the time had come to visit the Barbed S. We were on our way when we heard the shootin’.’
When he had finished his account, he looked closely at Westoe in the dancing light of the flames. ‘Is that why you lit out?’ he asked. ‘Because you figured Snelgrove had come to take you in?’
‘That and a few other things. I needed time to think.’
‘Well, there ain’t much to think about now,’ the oldster replied. ‘After everythin’ that’s happened, I reckon we all know the way things stand.’ Westoe inhaled deeply.
‘What about Stroup?’ he said. ‘How is he?’
‘I’d say he’s been hit hard. He’s tryin’ to put a brave face on it, but he knows the score.’
‘I figured that from the way he spoke up when the fight ended, tryin’ to get through to Rafe.’
‘A lot of folks around here have known the truth about Rafe for a long time. Maybe Stroup did too. Maybe he just didn’t want to admit it. If he didn’t, he sure does now.’
‘Does he know I was the one shot Eben?’
‘He knows the truth. You can’t go blamin’ yourself.’ Westoe was quiet, thinking hard.
‘I need to get back and tell him,’ he said. ‘I need to talk to him face to face.’
‘You figure that would be the best thing, just at the moment while he’s still feelin’ raw?’
‘Don’t you?
‘No I don’t. I figure the best way would be to let the dust settle. But if that’s the way you want to play it …’
‘Why did you follow me here?’
‘To try and stop you doin’ anythin’ foolish.’
‘Like headin’ back to the Barbed S?’
‘I figure the thing to do would be for us both to head right back to the trading post. Believe me; Leonae would sure be pleased to see you.’
‘Nothin’ would suit me better. But I owe Stroup. I should have stuck around in the first place.’
Howe shrugged his shoulders. ‘I think you’re wrong,’ he said, ‘but if that’s the way you feel …’ Again, he left his sentence unfinished. Westoe finished his coffee. The night was chilly and he threw a few more sticks on the fire.
‘You’re forgettin’ somethin’,’ he said, as if there had been no break in the conversation.
‘Oh yeah? And what’s that?’
‘I’ve got as big a stake in dealin’ with Rafe and his gunslicks as anybody. Maybe more than some. If Snelgrove is goin’ after them, I aim to be right alongside.’
In the firelight he could see the oldster grin.
‘Now you’re makin’ sense,’ he said. ‘I reckon we can agree on that. I ain’t forgot what they did to my cabin.’
Rafe Stroup was a lot of bad things, but he was no fool. He realized that when he and his men left the Barbed S, they left a trail anybody could follow. It didn’t worry him. Even before they arrived back at their outlaw roost, he had a plan.
‘You figure they’ll come after us?’ Skinner asked.
‘Yup.’ Skinner looked a little uneasy.
‘Then maybe we should move on,’ he said. Rafe looked him up and down with barely concealed contempt.
‘“Move on”,’ he repeated. ‘The Bronco Boys don’t move on. They stand and fight.’ Skinner couldn’t help thinking that that was more than they had done at the ranch, but he didn’t say anything.
‘Don’t worry,’ Rafe continued. ‘Just think for a moment. What have we got that they ain’t got?’ Skinner looked blank.
‘Think man!’ Rafe repeated. ‘What was it gave us the edge when we hit that bank in Desolation Wells?’
Skinner racked his brains, but couldn’t come up with an answer. He looked somewhat fearfully at Rafe.
‘Dynamite!’ Rafe shouted. ‘We’ve got dynamite!’ Skinner summoned up a faint grin, but he was still uncertain of what Rafe was driving at.
‘Listen!’ Rafe hissed. ‘There’s only one way in and out of this place, leastways as far as anybody else is concerned. They’ve got to come up by the key-hole pass. So, all we have to do is to place the dynamite there and then we’ll blow ’em to kingdom come
.’
A light dawned in Skinner’s eyes. ‘Yeah,’ he muttered. Then a thought occurred to him and he thought he was being quite bright when he asked:
‘Why didn’t we use dynamite when we hit the Barbed S?’
Rafe’s face twisted in rage. ‘Are you stupid!’ he yelled. ‘I want the Barbed S for myself. It belongs to me. Why would I blow up my own ranch?’ The enthusiasm faded from Skinner’s eyes again.
‘Oh yeah, sorry,’ he mumbled.
‘I don’t know why I bother with you,’ Rafe snapped. His temper began to subside. He was feeling pleased with his plan and was not about to forego the opportunity of impressing Skinner further.
‘And this is what else we do,’ he said. ‘Just in case anything goes wrong and any of ’em get through, we’ll booby trap this place and blow ’em sky high again.’
‘But …’ Skinner began. Rafe held up his hand.
‘No buts,’ he said. ‘What does this place amount to after all? It’s only a few old buildin’s. We’ll soon find someplace else, an even better place. The hideout don’t matter. What matters is that the Bronco Boys carry on. What matters is that the Bronco Boys blaze their way clear across the territory and way beyond.’ He paused. ‘Besides,’ he said, ‘once we’ve dealt with anybody who dares come after us, we’ll have the Barbed S for our new roost.’
The idea struck him as amusing and he began to laugh. In a few moments Skinner joined him. Their raucous merriment rang out across the valley, increasing in strength to a demented cackling.
CHAPTER SIX
The immediate consequences of the attack on the Barbed S were apparent to Westoe and Howe – almost the moment they reached Barbed S property they were met by a trio of horsemen.
‘Just checkin’,’ one of them said. He turned to Howe. ‘I recognize Westoe, but I ain’t so sure about you.’
‘If it weren’t for me and Sheriff Snelgrove, you might not be here to argue the point,’ Howe rejoined.
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