Gunsmoke

by T. T. Flynn

  That was all. There were no more shots. Magically the tunnel ahead was free from sound as they moved forward through a stench of powder smoke.

  Morrison spoke cautiously. "Here's where they went, I think. In this drift an' up a chute ... or around back in the tunnel, so they won't be trapped."

  Close ahead, Pop Marcy's voice hailed them. Morrison answered. Pop and his mine boss joined them-and Pop Marcy swore when he discovered who was there.

  "Only two of you? Burgess, you damn' fool, you shouldn't have come back here! Let's get out while we got a chance. Don't strike a light. Maybe they're waitin' for us. I know Nelse Halliday's mine as well as I do my own."

  Shorty would have wandered endlessly in that maze of tunnels and drifts, but these mining men were at home in the blackness. They returned the way they had come, climbing up the chutes, the ladders, ducking under the low roofs, going unerringly from the sixth level to the fourth level-without meeting the two miners who had caught Shorty and Morrison.

  A candle flame appeared ahead. It was Kathleen, waiting at the heaped rock barring the way back into the Gunsight Mine.

  Pop wasted no words. "Get ahead of us, Kathleen. We're in a hurry."

  They reached their own mine cage and crowded in. Pop pulled the signal rope. The cage rushed up with them. And only then did Pop admit that he was wounded.

  "Got a hole through my leg ... damn that young pup, Halliday. Old Nelse'd turn over in his grave if he knowed what was happening."

  "You shouldn't have gone into his mine, Pop," said Kathleen. "Didn't you know it was dangerous?"

  "I ain't afraid of Halliday," snapped Pop. "I had a hunch this afternoon why he was so set on buyin' the Gunsight. An' I was right. He cut the big vein we lost. He's been followin' it over into our rock ... thievin' our ore! He knowed he had a sure fortune if he could buy the Gunsight. An' he'd have a heap of trouble if it got out he was tunnelin' in Gunsight rock. That's why he's been breakin' his neck with every dirty trick to buy me out." Pop swore angrily. "Old Nelse was ornery ... but we had a heap of fun goin' after each other. It was me Old Nelse sent for when the timber caught his chest down in the Blackbird Mine an' Doc Cloud told him he had a couple of hours to live. Old Nelse give me one last cussin' out for old times' sake, an' then grabbed my hand an' told me it had been a heap of fun. He never figured this nephew they was smart enough to name after him would turn out to be so stinkin'. I didn't figure it myself, at first. But now I'll take his skin and hang it on the crown block over his shaft."

  The cage stopped with a jerk and the shaft house was there before them, with the crisp night air in their faces, and the bright moon making the night silver as Lannigan and another man from Pop's ranch met them.

  Lannigan was excited. "Any trouble below? Four men run this way from Halliday's mine like they meant trouble. They went back when they seen us waitin' for 'em. They just rode off a few minutes ago!"

  The Morrison brother who had been with Shorty sat heavily on a box by one of the derrick timbers.

  "I got to have Doc Cloud," he groaned. "I'm beat out ... can't do no more."

  "Where'd those four ride to?" Shorty asked, turning to Lannigan. "Into town?"

  Lannigan shook his head, waved toward the west. "I watched 'em cut off the road just before town. One looked like Nelse Halliday but I don't know the others, nor where they went."

  Shorty eyed Pop Marcy. "Gimme these men an' I'll do some trackin' after your beef."

  "If you got any sense," said Pop bluntly, "you'll start for the border."

  Shorty looked at Kathleen. She was pale, tired, and anxious And she was more subdued than he had ever seen her.

  "Ridin' to the border," said Shorty, "won't help me now. Catchin' your beef is the only thing that'll bring me any luck."

  "It's the only thing that'll help me, son. That's the only chance I got to protect my notes. I know Halliday's stealin' my ore. But he can hogtie me with the law, hold me up, an' get his hands on the mine if I don't have some money to fight him for a coupla months. But, hell, it ain't your business. An' I ain't any good tonight to help you."

  Shorty spoke to Lannigan: "How many men have you got here?"

  "Three ... an' me."

  "You willin' to shoot it out, if you catch up with any rustlers?"

  "You're talkin' like a damned fool!"

  "Hit leather, then, an' come on," said Shorty.

  They had no trouble picking up the hoof prints that cut off the road to the west. The moonlight was bright on the white snow. They rode, five of them, at an easy gallop, following the plain trail. The lights of Lodeville dropped back and vanished. Then the lonely foothills were closing about them.

  Shorty breathed deeper of the cold clean air. Out here, under the open sky, a man could be himself. This was no rat hole far underground where you groped and stumbled blindly at every step.

  Miles farther on the road swung west again toward the valley, and they came to a wire gate through which the four riders had passed.

  When one of the men dismounted to open the gate, Lannigan said: "Nelse Halliday's south line fence, I think. I never rode up this way. Marcy men ain't been welcome on Halliday land since the old man died."

  "We're bringin' our own welcome," said Shorty grimly as he rode through. "A rat runs to his hole when he gets worried. Halliday must be sweatin' to head home so quick."

  His answer came in a shout that rolled down the slope at their left from bunching pinon pines 150 yards away.

  "Outside the fence, you men! You're trespassin' on Halliday land!"

  They were in the open, plain targets in the moonlight Lannigan cursed under his breath.

  "We're lookin' for Halliday!" Shorty called.

  "He ain't here! You'll have to see him in Lodeville tomorrow! He don't say where he goes!"

  "Reckon Halliday's up there?" suggested one of Lannigan's men.

  On the right of the road, 100 yards away, were more trees. "Scatter out an' follow me," Shorty ordered. He spurred in a gallop toward the trees without waiting to see if they would follow. A glance back showed them coming, fanning out as they raced for cover. And on the slope beyond the road, the rifle cracked thinly against the night.

  The vicious zing-g-g of the bullet passed close to Shorty. A second shot slapped him heavily on the left shoulder as he rode crouching. But he was still solidly in the saddle; it was only a hole through the shoulder muscles above the bad arm and he could still ride.

  The rifle was barking shot after shot. One of the men yelled. Shorty looked and saw a man reining up hard and turning back. And a second man. A riderless horse was galloping on up the slope, and behind the horse a dark patch was sprawled on the white snow.

  Shorty wrenched his horse around. The other rider threw himself from the saddle, holding the reins, and knelt by the fallen man.

  The hidden gun spoke again. The standing horse reared, staggered, plunged down to its knees, and heaved up with a lurch.

  Lannigan was the dismounted man. He was already clawing up behind one of his riders as Shorty reached the spot.

  "Carson's done for!" Lannigan shouted. "Top of his head blowed off! Get up there in the trees!"

  Low-hanging pinon branches crackled and cas caded snow as the men burst into the cover and came together near the top of the slope.

  The shots had stopped. The third man had caught the riderless horse. Cursing, Lannigan swung onto it.

  "That's one for Halliday!" he bit out. "We was warned off an' we didn't git! Chances are they'll be after us quick! Buck's dead! We ain't seen any rustlers! Now what the hell are we gonna do?"

  The third man was the short, slightly built Al, and he was resentful and angry. "This is what we get for hellin' off blind with this stranger!"

  Shorty shoved a bandanna under his shirt and over the shoulder to soak up the blood. Some of his cold fury was in his comment. "Got you all whipped already, has it? Chances are we'd have got him if we'd rode straight at him. He was alone. But I didn't know but what all fou
r of 'em were up there. You all came ready for trouble, didn't you? I put it to you plain before we started. Turnin' us back is what they want. If we circle out an' hit the road a couple of miles ahead, we can pick up their tracks again."

  "An' then what?" Lannigan growled. "Bushwhacked again, an' some more of us knocked over?"

  Shorty sneered at them. His shoulder was hurting; his cold fury was increasing.

  "I got a bullet through my shoulder an' a sleeve full of blood. They'll tell you in Lodeville I'm yellow ... but I'm ridin' on now. Go back an' tell Lodeville you run out when you heard a gun."

  They followed him across the ridge and through the pinons on the opposite slope. A mile lay behind them when they galloped four abreast down to the shallow current of a small stream.

  Ice crunched along the edge and their horses splashed into the cold current. Lannigan's sulky voice said: "Dog Creek ... it runs into Brandy Creek down on our land."

  Here Dog Creek made a long easy bend. On the inside of the bend, sand and rock formed a long flat bar that would be covered by boiling floodwater in the spring. There Lannigan stopped, pointing down and ahead. "Tracks," he said.

  Shorty saw the hoof marks in the snow. "Fresh sign," he judged. "Two men. They turned off the road, I reckon."

  Shorty rode to the lower end of the bar. The tracks entered the water and did not emerge on the other side. He galloped to the upper end of the bar. The tracks again entered the water, and once more did not come out on the other side. The men joined him.

  "They've been ridin' up the current to kill their sign," decided Shorty. "They cut across the bend here to save time. Chances are they'll get outta the water pretty quick now. This is what we want."

  They followed him again in spite of their doubts. Shorty himself was not too sure he wasn't being a reckless fool. He was losing blood. He couldn't ride on all night this way. They were on Halliday's land, and tonight Halliday was ready to kill. A dozen gunmen might be waiting ahead.

  They could turn back for help, but for Shorty Burgess at Lodeville was only a hang noose. The border was far away now for a hard-ridden horse and a smashed shoulder. And Nelse Halliday might, with a little time, be able to match any moves Pop Marcy could make. Ahead was the only way to go.

  They almost missed the spot where the two rid ers had jumped their horses out of the water onto a two-foot bank and ridden through a belt of snowweighted chamiso bushes.

  After that, the trail was plain in the moonlight, holding close to Dog Creek as it cut through the lower foothills. Not far away the white barrier of the mountains climbed to the high slopes where the summer range lay under deep snow. But the south slopes would again be bare after a few days of sunlight.

  They were, Shorty saw, riding between two low shoulders of a mountain into a canon where Dog Creek must rise.

  The tracks swung back to Dog Creek and again entered the shallow water. Barb wire suddenly barred their way. Lannigan dismounted on the bank.

  "A gate," he said. "Fixed here across the water. It's a hell of a place to have a gate."

  Shorty was looking down at the skim ice by the bank. "Plenty of ridin' in an' out of here," he declared. "An' cattle have been hazed through here since the snow. This must be what we've been lookin' for. This ain't a place where anybody comes in winter. The wire holds everything that's put beyond it. What comes in an' goes out through the water here doesn't leave tracks. A man can come up the creek here for miles an' not leave any sign."

  Lannigan said, as he closed the gate after them: "This is Halliday land. You don't think Halliday'd be crazy enough to throw rustled cattle back in here, do you?"

  "He'd be smart enough," said Shorty "It's the last place anybody'd look. Pop Marcy thought of the border himself. He was sure his cows went south instead of north. If Pop was sure of it, who else'd think different? Halliday's got to get Pop's mine. Once he gets his hands on Pop's ranch, it won't matter where Pop's beef is. Dog Creek runs down into Pop's ranch. Hell, cattle could be drifted up the creekbed a bunch at a time, an' nobody'd ever know it. We wouldn't be here now if we hadn't cut off the road an' hit that trail across the creek bend."

  "I'll have to see the beef," said Lannigan stubbornly.

  Shorty swung around in the saddle, listening. "You're gonna see something quick," he said. "Riders are comin' behind us fast. Hear 'em? Get up the canon!"

  The snow had tricked them, for the thudding rumble of hoofs was closer than Shorty had at first thought. Too close. They were still in the open, plain in the moonlight, when a yell beyond the fence told that they had been sighted. Guns blasted out at them.

  Over his shoulder Shorty saw a swirl of eight or ten riders boil to a stop on the other side of the gate.

  Lannigan's accusing shout rang out: "You've drawed us into a hell of a fix now!"

  And then they were racing up the slope beyond the creek, through junipers, cedars, and the first runty mountain pines. The chase was past the gate, stringing out after them. They were four, against twice their number, no better in these lonely mountain foothills than rabbits hunted by a yelping coyote pack. And after they were dead, it wouldn't matter much who was right or wrong. Nelse Halliday swung enough power, held enough cards to make that decision.

  Three steers bolted out of the brush ahead, then two more. And then another bunch. Cattle tracks were everywhere. Half an eye could see that a big herd had been thrown on this side of the fence, higher up toward the mountains than cattle would winter.

  The slope was rising. Scattered brush on the canon floor was well below them. The horses, hard ridden already, could not keep this pace for long. If they did make a stand, they'd be ringed in, put afoot, shot down one by one.

  The pursuit was slowly drawing up on them. Ahead somewhere were other men-at least the two men they had tracked. And probably more.

  Lannigan spurred close. "You're ridin' into a trap, damn you!" he bawled angrily. "You know what you're doin'?"

  Not far back, shots crashed out in scattered bursts as they were sighted briefly. Before there was a chance to answer Lannigan, Shorty saw the herd massed down beyond the creek on the canon floor. Against the whiter snow it was a dark blanket, crowding in together, milling slowly and nervously as the gunfire broke the peace of the cold, clear night. Shorty saw riders down there, trying to hold the cattle together. A campfire was winking cheerfully near the base of the opposite slope.

  Shorty yelled: "Hit 'em hard down there! This way!"

  Down the slope he took the galloping horse. Over his shoulder he saw they were following him, and he drew his gun as he spurred harder.

  They burst down out of the brush in a yelling avalanche that swept across the snow, ripped the dark creek water into turmoil, and bore down on the nervous cattle. Behind them guns barked and blasted as the pursuit followed.

  Two riders moved out from the cattle, uncertain, apparently, as to what was happening. Shorty rode at them, his gun ready in his hand. He made out the dark beard of the lead man. He was close before the man jerked up his rifle.

  At full gallop Shorty fired two shots at that clear target. The bearded man reeled in the saddle and his horse swerved down the canon.

  The rifle of the second rider slammed a hasty shot. It missed. Shorty's big-caliber bullet caught the horse. It lunged, squealed, and bolted back toward the stampeding cattle.

  It was bound to happen-for Shorty had been riding to make it happen. The stampede started with a terrified surge of movement and grew into a snorting, bellowing rush down the canon away from the shots and shouts sweeping out of the night. The compact mass fanned out. The deep rumbling drum of running hoofs beat out a sullen roar of sound. The canon and the mountain slope beyond seemed to shake as the stampede gathered speed, and the outer fringe swirled around Shorty's galloping horse and gathered it in.

  Any cowman knew the risk, knew what would happen if a horse stumbled and threw its rider under that mangling, stamping wave of hoofs. But the risk was no greater than the guns behind. Here in the m
idst of the stampede was cover of a sort. The Halliday men could only ride blindly and helplessly with that thundering wave of fear-crazed beef as it headed down out of the canon into the lower range. Halliday had gathered a juggernaut that now was out of any control.

  A grim smile flitted across Shorty's face as he gave his horse its head. Then stampeding madness was in the horse. It was running like a fresh animal, shoulder to shoulder with the surging backs that stretched out to right and left, and ahead and behind.

  Back in the moonlight Shorty saw other riders who had been sucked into the stampede, and still others were galloping on the fringe, helpless to do anything but follow. Ahead, to the right, were three riders who had been watching the cattle, and they also had been caught by the rush and carried along.

  The maddened cattle struck the fence, snapped all wires and swept on through the junipers and low pinons where the canon fanned out. Trees and bushes caused eddying swirls in the main rush. One of the men ahead galloped out of an eddy not twenty yards away, swerving over so that he was recognizable. His yell was a thin whisper in the roar of sound but the red lash of his gun was plain as he opened fire.

  Shot for shot they gunned it out across the tossing horns and backs, and it was not Shorty's horse that stumbled and went down.

  For an instant the man sprawled on the back of a big steer. His hands were plainly visible as he frantically clawed for a hold. A thin scream came from him as he slipped down out of sight-and that was the only sound as the rushing hoofs passed over the spot.

  Then the stampede began to scatter out through the pinons and broken ground, following the creek down into the lower country. Shorty worked his horse to the right. He caught sight of a rider near him, saw as they came closer together that it was Lannigan. He waved to Lannigan to bear on over to the right with him.

  The bleeding shoulder was sapping strength fast. There were moments of dizziness when Shorty hung to the saddle horn with his good hand. Now the pitons were growing thicker, so that a man could not see far, but as they worked steadily toward the other side of the stampede, they sighted a rider who tried to bear off away from them. Shorty followed, and Lannigan kept with him.