Free Winds Blow West

by L. P. Holmes

  Drawing his men close about him, Bruce whispered his plan of battle. Butte Allen, Rowdy Turner, and Speck Morrison around the right-hand end of the willow fringe. Himself and Carp Bastion and Jim Lark around the left-hand end.

  “I’ll give them the chance to give up quietly. If they don’t take it, well … they’ve asked for it.”

  Now it was on hands and knees, then flat on their bellies, edging carefully along, pushing their rifles ahead of them. It was work to set a knot in a man’s stomach, make the hair on the back of his neck bristle, so taut and biting was the tension. Discovery at this point could spoil everything, for it was only a stride or two from firelight to complete darkness, and if they won those two strides, then the shadowy figures lounging around the blaze would be gone like flushed quail. And in this wilderness and outer dark, who could follow successfully?

  Bruce thought he never would get past the end of the willows. Yet he did, finally, and peered through the partial screen of the last sagging branch.

  Pitch Horgan he saw and recognized. And that lanky, gangling, hatchet-faced one beside him was Whip Thorpe, who had seen his brothers die on the street of Starlight and who had fled the scene in terror. But here he was, part of this dark and vicious gang, who struck in the dark and killed and robbed and despoiled. There were others Bruce did not recognize until he saw, a little farther back than the rest, a round, bullet head, thick-hatched with curly black hair. Curly Garms. Garms—who had walked among other settlers and proclaimed their cause as his—a traitor of the lowest sort.

  But where was Spelle? The one man above all others that Bruce wanted. Bruce, again, went over those he could see. There were some who lounged full length, and of these Bruce could not be sure. One of them might be Spelle. The camp was quiet. Only now and then did an occasional growling remark fall. There was a blackened coffee pot tucked close to the fire. Now Pitch Horgan, squatting before it, leaned over, poured some of the liquid into a cup, then hunkered back, nursing the cup between curved hands. He sipped from it, cursed harshly as the scalding liquid seared his tongue.

  At the far end of the willow fringe a stick cracked sharply. Horgan whirled, alert as a wolf. “What was that?” he rapped. “Who’s out there?”

  “Ease up, Pitch,” said Curly Garms. “You’re spooky as hell. Nothin’ out there. You’re still thinkin’ of last night.”

  “You’re damn right I am,” retorted Horgan. “I ain’t takin’ no chances, in spite of what you and Spelle say. This place is a good hideout camp, all right. But it could be a trap, too.”

  Curly Garms laughed. “You leave things up to Jason. He’s nobody’s fool. I know. I’ve worked with him a long time. He shoots square with them who work with him and he divvies even. You’ll get your share of what he drags out of that Land Office safe tonight. He’ll bring Edmunds’ share along with him, after he gets done with that damn spineless whelp. And we’ll get our cut apiece out of what Edmunds had. Jason knows what he’s doin’.”

  “Mebbe so,” said another of the gang, getting to his feet. “Just the same, Pitch is believing me when I say nothing is certain or safe as long as that Bruce Martell hombre is anywhere around. I can’t make the rest of you understand what that means. But I’m remembering Rawhide and Ravensdale. If you jingoes had been around those towns when Martell was working ’em, you’d be wiser men.”

  Garms said, still jibing, “You’ll be seein’ ghosts yet, Brazos. Speakin’ of Martell, when you makin’ another try for that brother of his, Pitch? Or have you given up that idea?”

  “Next raid night we call on him,” growled Horgan. “I ain’t givin’ up nothin’. Lip Matole was a good friend of mine. Young Martell downed him, and I’m goin’ to even up for Lip.”

  Brazos, still on his feet and listening carefully, drew a gun and started to prowl toward the far end of the willow fringe. “I’m taking a look, Pitch,” he said.

  Bruce Martell’s voice cut across the night like a keen-edged knife. “You’ll stop where you are, Brazos. Bruce Martell talking. We’re all around you. Don’t anybody move.”

  For a moment nobody did, frozen stark with surprise. Then, with a turn of his hand, Pitch Horgan upset the contents of his coffee cup into the heart of the fire, and the glow of it was diminished a good third in the wink of an eye. Then Horgan was clawing his way back toward the shadows, dragging at his gun.

  He never made it. Someone at the far end of the willow fringe shot at the same moment Bruce did. The bullets crossed in Horgan’s body and he went down in a heap. Brazos didn’t have any better luck. He got off a single shot, letting it go blind and with no luck, for he had nothing to shoot at. But he was limned against the remaining glow of the fire and a second shot from the far end of the willows knocked him flat. This was the beginning of a deadly bedlam.

  The raiders’ camp was the apex of a very flat triangle. At each corner of the base of this same triangle were three Rocking A men who had not come this far for the purpose of wasting lead. They had the raiders in a crossfire and they made the most of it.

  Curly Garms never got off his heels. He just spun slowly around on them and fell over backward. Whip Thorpe, ever the cruel coward, lunged to stand erect and started to run. In midstride a bullet knocked him winding and he came down in a wild tossing sprawl of arms and legs.

  Another raider, trying to drop flat to the earth, didn’t get there quick enough. A slug smashed his shoulder and he lay, moaning, all semblance of toughness and fight knocked out of him. Another got a smashed leg and he was out of the fight, too. A single raider managed to get back to the center of the willow fringe and was fighting his way through it in a blind, terrified frenzy. No shots followed him, for he was directly in line between the two Rocking A forces.

  But Jim Lark jumped up and ran around behind the willows and was waiting for the fellow when he broke through. And with a swinging rifle barrel, Jim clubbed him down.

  That was the end of it. It was over almost before it had begun. Seconds only were needed to finish it. But Bruce Martell, as he raced in toward the sputtering fire, knew a certain savage anger that Jason Spelle, the one who had planned all this backlog of misery and cruelty, was not present to share the same roaring fate that had overcome his hirelings.

  Carp Bastion, racing up with Martell, yelled harshly, “Clean up, Bruce! We got the flock … all but Spelle. Did you hear what was said about Spelle?”

  “I heard. And I’ll be riding, soon as this is straightened out. I don’t know what time Spelle expects to be at the Land Office, but with luck I’ll be there waiting. Get that fire brighter.”

  There was a stack of dried driftwood piled nearby and a couple of armfuls of this on the fire soon had the flames leaping. Then the grim tally began.

  Pitch Horgan, Brazos, Whip Thorpe, and Curly Garms were done for. There was a man with a smashed shoulder, another with a leg likewise, and the one Jim Lark had clubbed down, who was still out. This one was tied up and the wounded men brought up to the fire. They were sick and fearful.

  “Do what you can for them, Butte,” said Bruce. “Couple of you locate their horses. Bring everybody into town. I’ll be waiting there for you … with Spelle, if I have any luck.” He leaned over one of the wounded renegades. “Was that the truth, what was said just before the fireworks started … that Spelle intends to rob the Land Office safe in Starlight tonight?”

  The renegade nodded. “That’s right.”

  “This the whole gang … excepting Spelle?” pressed Bruce. “Any guards out, east of here?”

  “No guards out,” was the mumbled, pain-twisted answer. “The whole gang … exceptin’ Spelle.” The wounded renegade broke into a spasm of cursing. “Spelle … he would get away.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” said Bruce. “He hasn’t … yet.”

  He turned to Butte and Carp and the others. “You boys know what to do. I’ll send Wilcox in with the horses. Me
, I’m going to see how much run that big black of mine has really got in it.”

  “Mebbe two would be better than one, Bruce,” suggested Carp anxiously.

  “Not for this chore,” replied Bruce grimly. “Spelle and me … I’ve felt from the first that it was written in the book. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  He hurried away into the dark, slipped and slid and floundered through the tricky blackness beside the rumbling narrows of the river. He sent a call ahead of him to tell Card Wilcox who it was coming in. Card was fairly dancing with impatience and uncertainty.

  “Sounded like a battle for a little there,” said Card. “What luck, Bruce?”

  “Good. We collected all but Spelle, and I’m on my way to pick him up in Starlight.”

  “Our boys … they all right?”

  “Not a scratch. Take the horses in. You’ll have to move ’em one at a time through the narrows, but you can make it. See you later, cowboy.”

  Then Bruce was up and riding. He pounded along the bench land, watching the run of the rim against the stars. When he came to the break they’d dropped down through, he set the black to the steep climb up the talus slide. The black poured willing strength into the climb, forehooves reaching and clawing, hind hooves driving, and haunches gathering and bunching powerfully. The final twenty feet were the worst, but the black made it and, with a snort of relief, jammed ahead across the tumbled badlands.

  Bruce held the willing animal back. This was no place to try and make speed. Horse and rider or both could easily be crippled in this rough and crazy tangle. If that should happen, then Jason Spelle would still be riding high. So Bruce chased the stars and dodged the shadows, and the black told him with a relieved snort when the worst was behind and open, rolling prairie lay ahead.

  Bruce leaned over and patted the black’s neck. “Now for it, big feller. You’ve always liked to run. Get your fill of it.”

  The black did, running with a long, smooth, reaching stride that was machinelike. Bruce rode high and easy in the saddle, helping the animal all he could. He kept his thoughts ahead, pushing away as best he could the grim picture of gunfire lancing and men dying violently about a guttering fire. It was a picture that would come back to him plenty of times in the future. Yet it was something that had to be done. The renegades had had their chance and would have it no other way. And because of it, settler families like the Carlings would sleep with peace and security in the future.

  The night air bored into Bruce’s face, chill and penetrating, but it was the kind of rich and vital air a horse could run on, and the rhythm of the black’s speeding hooves never faltered or broke, except at the times when Bruce pulled the willing animal down for a jogging mile before letting it loose for more of that driving, ground-eating stride.

  Ahead, settler fires lifted out of the dark, and Bruce dodged them at the best distance he could. Even so, when he passed one, a rifle snarled and a bullet snapped by overhead. Some alert and belligerent settler was taking no chances. The warning was to stay wide, and Bruce stayed.

  Despite the night’s chill, thin rolls of sweat foam had built up along the edges of the saddle blanket by the time the lights of Starlight winked in across the world. And Bruce wondered bleakly if he’d get there in time.

  Spelle’s way in would have been by the usual trail the renegades used to and from their hideout camp—east until out of the roughs, and then a wide circle that could come in directly south of town. It was logical to figure this would be so; and the later the hour, the quieter town would be for Spelle to slip in for his call on the safe of the Land Office. And on Cashel Edmunds, so Curly Garms had said. Edmunds was to be written off, because they knew he was a weakling and might give out more than was wise. This double chore, Spelle had selected for himself.

  Well, mused Bruce harshly, that was an angle the renegades should have thought of before. For Edmunds was already taken care of, and he’d already talked. As for the Land Office safe, there might be money in that and there might not. Maybe Pat Donovan and Sam Otten and Pete Martin had taken care of that, too. They were solid, honest men and would know what to do.

  Bruce brought the black in over the last mile slowly, letting the animal cool out gradually from that hard run. And when he stopped finally, it was at the corral in back of Donovan’s store. He tied the black and moved carefully up alongside the store to the street. There were a few lights here and there, in the Frontier, up at the hotel, and there was one in the store.

  Bruce’s first thought was to go into the store, to see Pat Donovan and find out what had been done with Edmunds. Then he hesitated. For all he knew, Spelle might already be in town, prowling the darker shadows, watching and waiting for the last life to drift off the street before making his try at the Land Office. If this were so, there was no telling what significance he might read in the sight of Bruce dropping in on Donovan at this hour of the night. He might get wary and drift out, and on returning to the renegade hangout find full evidence of what had happened, and so ride far beyond reach. Even if he bumped into Carp and the rest of the boys, he would still have the night to race away into and throw them off the trail. So, Bruce concluded finally, it was better to wait this thing out.

  But he had to get closer to the Land Office. So he went back and around until he came up to the rear of this place. Both front office and back room were dark and silent. Finding a black pocket from which he could watch the front of the place, Bruce settled down to the wait.

  Instinctive habit made him reach for his smoking materials, and he had a cigarette half built before he realized this wouldn’t do. He crumpled the cigarette in his fingers and let the fragments sift away.

  He wished he had news of Brink Carling’s condition. He wondered how Hack Asbell had made out, if he’d been able to move Carling to some sort of shelter. As he thought about how it had been when he had carried Tracy Carling into Hack’s cabin up at headquarters, a swift warmth swept through him. Old Hack was all right—the pure quill. He had taken Tracy in his arms and comforted her like she was a little child of his own. Tough and crusty and grim as he might be on the surface, Hack had a big warm heart, once he chose to open it. And he had opened it to that grief-racked, terrified settler girl. Yeah, Hack would do to take along.

  There was another angle that carried a big measure of satisfaction. In her grief and terror, Tracy Carling had turned to the Rocking A for help, which, boiled down, meant that she had turned to him, Bruce Martell.

  A couple of settlers came out of the Frontier, climbed into the spring wagon tied in front, and went spinning out of town. It had been the last rig on the street and its departure held a significance. It was as though the town were empty, now, and could close up for the night.

  The light in the hotel went out. Soon after, Pat Donovan’s store went dark. Only the light in the Frontier hung on. A wind came in across the miles from the Lodestones to take over full occupancy of the street. It brought a sense of movement, but no sound. Bruce pulled his neck deeper into his collar against the chill.

  Indecision began to gnaw. Maybe Spelle had hit town, done his shady business, and gone again by this time. Maybe something had warned him off. Maybe …

  Bruce stiffened. Against the dark blur of the front of the Land Office there was movement, solid movement. There had been no sound and all had been quiet there just a moment ago. But now … Bruce came to his feet in a slow, careful lift. He slid his belt gun out of the holster. Then he waited. He had to be sure about this. The old, singing chill swept through him, a chill that was at the same time a strange, thin heat. It had always been this way in the flint-hard moments before gun smoke would roll.

  There was the sound of muffled fumbling at the Land Office door. Then movement again, scuffing around as though to go down the side of the place toward a window. Bruce moved forward, two full long strides, and voiced his challenge.

  “Spelle! This way!”

&
nbsp; Came the droning, explosive curse of surprise. “Martell, by God!”

  Strange, indeed, the instinctive recognition that was here. Through the waiting darkness it flowed like a current—direct, bitter, beyond mistake. Behind it lay the machinations of an inscrutable destiny, which moved men through life, laid out the trails they must follow, cast them one against the other at a time and place of its own choosing. And this was the time; this was the place. It was something that had been written in the book long ago.

  Bruce flung further words, waiting. “You’re through, Spelle. I just came from Loco Mono Creek. Rocking A was with me. Your gang is wiped out. And now … you.”

  Bruce dropped to a knee as he spoke. A split second later Spelle’s gun flamed, and the report of it was a hollow coughing blast across the night. Again and again that stabbing gun flame and the hard, rolling thunder of its voice. And it placed the indistinct figure behind it.

  Old and wise in this sort of deadly business, Bruce had waited for this. Spelle, he knew, was shooting at his voice, and a voice in the dark was a shifty target at best. But gun flame was a positive thing, and the man who threw it had to be behind it. So now, with his target precisely placed, Bruce shot twice. And knew that he had hit both times.

  He heard the thin, indrawn gasp of a man hard hit, heard the muffled slithering of his fall, and the thump of the earth taking him.

  Bruce went forward, conscious of none of the stir of alarm that was beginning to run through the aroused town. For all his concentration was pointed at what lay in front of him. He came up to the spot, scratched a match, and held it low. The match flickered out and Bruce straightened up, knowing the letdown from a high, bright tension. This trail was ended.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The light was on again in Pat Donovan’s store. Midnight was well past, and the slow cold hours of the early morning were running their course. Sam Otten and Pete Martin, roused in their camps by a messenger Pat Donovan had sent, had arrived but a few minutes ago. Bruce Martell, held in the mood of a grim, dark taciturnity, perched on one end of Donovan’s counter, smoking endless cigarettes. Otten and Martin and Donovan gathered quietly, a little apart, subdued, saying little.