by T. T. Flynn
Red was still kicking on the door when Jim reached the front of the roof. The guard below was cursing Red again and his voice broke in a choked yell as Jim's flying leap knocked him to the ground.
But the knife wasn't needed. Knocked flat, breathless, the guard groped clumsily for his gun. Jim grabbed it from the holster and struck hard with the barrel.
Red had left the door as Jim jerked off the guard's gun belt and buckled it on. The choked yell apparently had not spread alarm for the other ranch buildings were dark, quiet, as Hondo followed by Buckshot and Red dropped off the low roof.
"Carry him to the corral and tie leather on some horses," Jim panted. "Our guns ought to be in the house. I'll look. If we have to scatter, get to the Merriman Ranch if you can. Buckshot, here's the knife. Don't let this hombre yell."
Red Carney growled a promise: "He won't."
It was almost midnight. Jim's shadow was plain in the bright moonlight as he skirted the house to the front porch.
No guard challenged. The front door was locked. Jim tried a front window. His guess was right. These front windows had been unlocked when they were trapped. Probably because the place was so well guarded no one had bothered to lock them. Jim was inside a moment later, gun out, listening.
He could detect no sign of life inside the house. Their gun belts and guns were on the table where Salazar and Jack Black had put them. Jim put them out the window and then, striking matches, investigated other rooms. Clarkson was not in the house.
A shout of alarm out back near the bunkhouse and a gunshot sent him plunging back to the front windows. Other shots were crashing in the night and horses were galloping around the house as Jim went through the window.
Hondo's yell broke around the corner of the house: "Jim! Jim!"
Scooping up belts and guns, Jim ran out into the moonlight as Hondo and the others reined up. Buckshot was riding bareback. Hondo was leading another horse, bridled but not saddled. He jerked out an explanation as Jim passed up the guns.
"One of them woke up afore we could get all saddled! We didn't have no guns."
Red Carney's yell of satisfaction split the night as he grabbed his guns and yanked his horse back to the side of the house. "I'll show them something now!"
Red vanished toward the back of the house. His handgun hammered out. Other guns blasted reply.
Jim mounted bareback and called: "Ride toward town! I'll get Red!"
But Hondo and Buckshot followed him. At the back corner of the house Red was yelling defiance and shooting from the saddle. Men had spilled out of the bunkhouse and now were shooting from the nearest cover. Lead was slapping into the house walls, screaming closely as Jim yanked his nervous horse to Red.
"You want to get shot up for nothing? Come on!"
Buckshot and Hondo opened up, and Red emptied his gun again before he reined around to leave.
"That'll give 'em something to think about," he declared with satisfaction.
"We've got plenty to think about ourselves! Are you staying in this?"
"Git some action stirred up an 'watch me!" yelled Red.
"We'll scatter outside the Ladrone wire so they won't track us," Jim said crisply. "Meet again at the Hook 'n' Ladder." Jim rode beside Buckshot. "Here's your chance, old-timer. Every man who'll ride and fight is needed at the Hook 'n' Ladder quick. I want 'em all there by noon if possible. Tell 'em this is the chance to put Clarkson on the run. It's up to you to do this job. Hondo don't know them, an' Red wouldn't have much luck. Get help to spread the word ... and they'll need plenty of guns and shells."
"Now you're talkin'!" Buckshot yelled. "I been awaitin' fer this a long time! I'll git to Ben Kline's Bar T first! His men'll help spread the word!"
They found the Ladrone gate unguarded. "Clarkson's sent 'em out on his dirty work," Buckshot guessed.
They parted outside the wire.
Hondo started out with Jim, got directions, swung off by himself. Jim rode on alone, Indian style, planning what lay ahead if they were lucky.
Then as the moon dropped low, he reached Hook and Ladder grass. Bull Merriman's land. Lindy Lou's land, with Lindy Lou herself just ahead.
Dawn was pushing gray in the east when Jim looked from the last rise at Bull Merriman's big adobe house, outbuildings, windmills, and corrals down the slope.
The great grassy draw beyond fanned out into miles of rolling range. Nothing had changed. He himself might have been the old Jim Tennant, little more than a kid, riding with fast-beating heart for a word and laugh with Lindy Lou.
But when he rode closer, Jim discovered that there had indeed been changes. The Merriman place looked older, shabbier, run down. Money and work had been skimped lately; you could almost see Henry Clarkson's fat hand squeezing the life and strength out of the spread Bull Merriman had built.
Repeated knocks on the front door brought steps inside, and Lindy Lou's voice beyond the door. "Who is it?"
"Got to see you, lady. There's trouble."
The door opened and Lindy Lou stood there slim, straight, and sleepy-eyed in a belted robe and beaded buckskin slippers. The tall, charro-dressed figure, bareheaded, dirty, drew a gasp from her.
"I'm looking for a lady who used to know Jim Tennant," Jim said solemnly. "A sweet, pretty girl who used to meet him at the Black Rocks and ride with him. She had a dimple an' a freckle on her nose an' she used to ..."
"Jim!" Lindy Lou cried. "Jim Tennant! It ... it is you!"
"Can I come in?"
Lindy Lou was laughing and crying. "They said you were dead, Jim. They ... they buried you. For years I've put flowers on your grave. And in the bank yesterday you looked at me like a Mexican who couldn't speak English. Jim, is this a nightmare and you a ghost?"
"I'll bet a ghost can't do this." Jim chuckled, then kissed her.
A sharp command from behind them rasped with threat.
"Leggo her! I'll kill you for this!"
Old Rip Stevens had pulled on overalls and riding boots and run from the bunkhouse with a rifle. Now he was ready to shoot as two more men rounded the house at a run with guns.
Lindy Lou was laughing and turning red. "Wait, Rip! This is Jim Tennant! It ... it's all right!"
"Who?" Rip almost yelled. He straightened, blinking, peering, and spoke wildly to the other two from the bunkhouse. "She says that's Jim Tennant who grabbed an' kissed her! Am I a-seeiri right an' a-hearin' right?"
Fogey Wilson was another oldster. Dan Coleman was middle-aged. Both had been on the Hook and Ladder, too, in the old days. Fogey Wilson eyed the two in the doorway and said dryly: "Don't see the lady balkin' or kickin' in the traces. Must be Jim, if you could get behind that dirty face an' them fancy clothes."
Jim looked ruefully at his hands and touched his face. "I forgot the dirt, boys. We cut through an adobe roof over at the Ladrone Ranch. Soon as you can dress and saddle, there's some riding to do quick, if Lindy Lou says the word."
"Whatever you think, Jim," Lindy Lou said, her eyes still full of wonder. "I'll dress and start breakfast while you wash and the others get ready. You can tell us about it."
When they were all together in the big kitchen, Jim talked fast, summing up the happenings of five years ago tersely.
"Fire was falling on my face when I woke up in that Antelope Canon barn. Wasn't a chance to fight and get away. You remember there was an iron wa ter tank over in a corner of the barn, with water for the horses when the canon went dry."
"We hauled that old tank to a windmill two years ago." Fogey Wilson nodded.
"Well, f crawled in and stayed under water between breaths while the barn burned down around me," Jim said. "It nearly boiled me anyway. The men outside were sure nobody was alive an' rode away till the fire cooled off, and, while they were gone, I crawled out and got away. And kept going." When he finished telling of the escape from the Ladrone Ranch, Jim said: "It's time to stop Henry Clarkson. I own part of the Ladrone now, but I need help. Get men here you can trust. I'll do the talking. It won't be ha
rd to get them interested. There'll be plenty of local brands on the cattle that Clarkson is starting over the border."
"I'll bet," old Rip Stevens growled. "Folks get no help from Lan Hanson, the sheriff. Miss Lindy Lou, you gonna back Jim up in this?"
"Of course I am, Rip. I've been wanting something like this to happen ... and I couldn't do it myself. Jim will."
"Jim'll make everything all right now," Dan Coleman drawled innocently.
"Of course he will." Then Lindy Lou blushed as Dan burst out laughing and old Rip and Fogey Wilson chuckled.
"You three laughing hyenas have got more to do than joshing Lindy Lou," Jim warned with a sheepish grin.
"Can't help it after watchin' her lookin' at you." Dan chuckled. "You come back to life an' brought her back to life, too. Things is different already. We'll scratch dirt an' make the dust fly now. Soon as we finish this grub, we'll hightail."
The three of them galloped off in high spirits a few minutes later. A while later Red Carney, and then Hondo arrived. Lindy Lou gave them breakfast.
"We'd better get out to the bunkhouse and catch a nap," Jim decided. "Lindy Lou can shake us out if any of Clarkson's men show up."
It was past noon when Dongie Taylor, of the small Rafter B Ranch, shouted them out and gave Jim a mighty handshake as he rolled off the bunk.
"You're a sight for eyes, Jim," he said heartily. "Come out and make talk! There's a bunch been waitin' for you to wake up and more coming."
Dongie Taylor had been a friend in the old days. Besides him, better than a dozen men had already ridden in. Some Jim had known. Some were strangers. None of them looked prosperous. Hard work and worry marked most of them. But they had brought guns and a show of hopeful spirit as Jim shook hands and answered questions that were fired at him.
Another two hours doubled their number. Horses had been watered, fed, and rested. Guns were looked to. Lindy Lou was kept busy feeding each new arrival.
Jim was smiling when he stepped into the hot kitchen where Lindy Lou was still working.
"It's better than I hoped. They're ready to ride and fight."
"You've given them hope again," Lindy Lou told him "You own part of the Ladrone Ranch now ... and you're ready to fight on their side. The law's on their side and they see what they can do if they get together and follow you. Oh, Jim, we can't fail now. This is the last chance."
"I know," Jim agreed soberly. "And we won't fail."
"Jim ... if anything happens to you . . ." Lindy Lou's voice caught. "I thought you were dead once. I ... I couldn't stand it again."
Flour smudged the cheek Jim tipped up to kiss. He was smiling.
"When we leave, you start watching. I'll be back ... to stay."
"Jim, the sheriff's coming with some men!" a shout outside warned.
Four riders were nearing the men out by the bunkhouse and corrals when Jim joined them.
"He's got Coly Johnson, his deputy, an' them two men from the Ladrone he keeps deputized," one of the men declared uneasily. "Likely there's a bunch of Ladrone men somewhere close."
"I'll do the talking," Jim said. "Back me up is all I ask, boys."
Lan Hanson, the sheriff, was a new man on the range, a big man, beardless, weathered, with a steeltrap mouth and two six-guns. Coly Johnson, Hanson's deputy, was lanky, raw-boned, with a loose smile that might have meant anything as he reined up beside the sheriff. The other two men looked as hard as Jack Black, leader of the Ladrone gunmen.
"Howdy, men. Something going on here?" Hanson asked civilly enough as he looked around the gathered crowd.
Jim saw the two gunmen go tense and exchange satisfied glances as he stepped forward. They knew the charro suit and were looking for him.
"We're glad to see you, Sheriff," Jim said. "This is a posse ready to look for rustlers. You can swear them in and they'll be ready to help you."
Hanson's face hardened. "I'll call my own posse together when I need it. Who are you?"
"I'm Jim Tennant, part owner of the Ladrone Ranch. We'll know each other better before long. Right now it's rustlers we're looking for ... and you're the man to lead us."
The sheriff nodded. "Rustlers is right. I've got a warrant...."
"Wait a minute, Sheriff!" Jim broke in. "Hondo, Red?"
"We got 'em covered, Jim!" Hondo answered over to the right. And Red Carney's voice on the left was cold and vicious: "I'll gut-shoot Shorty Thomas soon as that son of a bitch touches his gun! An' I'll get that deputy the next shot!"
Shorty Thomas, Jim surmised, would be the Ladrone gunman whose tense arm moved hastily away from his body when he heard Red.
"What is this?" the sheriff exploded angrily. "Are all you men going against the law?"
Jim chuckled. "We're helping the law. Throw down your guns, and that warrant, too. And then get ready to deputize and lead us. You're the law and we're back of you, Hanson."
"No, you won't," Jim cut in again. "We're the ones that are backing you today, not Henry Clarkson. Shuck the guns and deputize us."
"Are you men with this law dodger?" Lan Hanson demanded, glaring at the ranchers.
"They're with the law and waiting to be deputized," Jim said. "I'm the one who's telling you to do it quick."
"No, you ain't, Jim!" Dongie Taylor yelled. "We're all saying so, too! If it's law dodgers Hanson wants, we'll help him find them!"
"You bet we're with you, Tennant!" Dongie was supported. And a third man shouted: "We'll all of us make sure they don't try no tricks! We know who gives Lan Hanson orders!"
Glowering before the threatening crowd, Hanson surrendered his guns, handed down a folded warrant calling for the arrest of Jim Tennant, and surlily deputized them all.
"You men'll be sorry for this," he promised angrily.
"For years we've been sorrier over other things," Dongie Taylor retorted. "Jim, we're ready to cut Ladrone cattle an' read brands."
Hanson and his men were put in the lead where they could be watched. The ranchers, twenty-three strong, were laughing, talking, exuberant as they swept down the wide grassy draw and headed toward Ladrone land. Lindy Lou had been right. These men had new life, new hope. They were believing Jim Tennant, backing him, looking for him to catch Henry Clarkson outside the law.
Jim rode beside Dongie Taylor and repeated his plans.
"Clarkson sent men west toward Ladrone Mountain. We'll find them over that way helping those vaqueros. And we'll find plenty of cattle that don't belong on Ladrone land. It may take gun play to cut them out and make sure. But we'll do it if these men don't back out."
"They won't," Dongie promised. "Look at them."
Jim looked around, and nodded with satisfaction.
Two hours hard riding brought them to the Ladrone line fence and an armed rider who came galloping to the wire with a shouted warning: "Nobody's allowed inside this fence!"
"This is a sheriff's posse!" Jim called. "Ride back and tell Clarkson we're coming! Tell him Jim Tennant's with the sheriff!"
The man wheeled his horse and spurred into a gallop toward the west.
Jim chuckled as one of the men cut wire to let them through.
"I didn't know whether he'd do it or not. Hanson, that's where I thought we'd find him. Over toward Ladrone Mountain. You ready to make arrests?"
Hanson was still ugly. "I'll make arrests," he said darkly, "and it won't be rustlers. Clarkson don't stand for rustlers on his land. And the law and the folks who elected me won't stand for this."
Some of the men looked uneasy when they heard that. Jim gave them something else to think about. "That man'll get out of sight," he warned.
The Ladrone man had left at a full gallop and kept going. Jim called off the pursuit in less than a mile.
"We'll run our horses out. He's making a beeline for the Gray Ghost Canon trail. We'll find what we're after."
A little later one of the men called: "That feller's slowed down! See him walkin' his horse on that second rise?"
Jim frowned when he saw that
the man was right. Hondo rode over and spoke from a mouth corner: "Funny that feller slowed down when he did. Wouldn't be wantin' us to foller him, would he?"
"That just struck me," Jim admitted.
A little later a man pointed ahead and called: "Ain't that trail dust to the left of that shoulder of the mountain?"
Most of them could see the faint drifting haze low down against Ladrone Mountain. Only a sizable beef or horse herd trailing on dry ground would lift such a steady haze of dust. The Ladrone guard was still heading toward the spot.
Spirits lifted once more and the men rode faster. But the sun was already sliding down on Ladrone Mountain and the dust was far ahead. Then the sun was gone and purple shadows were preceding twilight when they reached the strung-out trail herd of several hundred head.
Two Mexican vaqueros in high-peaked straw sombreros riding drag stared impassively as the armed riders galloped past. The chunky dark-faced man who came spurring back with two more vaqueros was Salazar. He stared malignantly at Jim Tennant.
"Get these cattle ready for a cut!" Jim ordered curtly.
"What ees?" Salazar protested as he was surrounded. "Thees cattle we buy from Ladrone Ranch."
"Where's Clarkson?"
"Wuien sabe?" Salazar shrugged. "Senor Clarkson take money to hees bank, I theenk. Si. Hees bank. You wan' bill of sale for thees cattle?"
"Never mind a bill of sale! Get 'em ready for a cut!"
"I don't like this, Jim," Hondo said in a low voice. "Ain't one of Clarkson's men here. The brands I've seen so far look all right."
Jim nodded glumly. "Looks like Clarkson's pulled a trick. We'll cut 'em and make sure."
Disappointment grew on expectant faces as the herd was bunched and inspected in the fading light. Here was no fight, no rustlers, no crooked work to pin on the Ladrone outfit. Here was a small trail herd branded right, sold legally, and heading peacefully south. Lan Hanson was sneering with satisfaction when the cut was over.