The Second Western Novel

by Matt Rand

  Dave dashed back to the barrel, leaped up on it, pulled himself up to the window sill and peered out. He could see the barn, more of it than he had been able to see before, but because he could not see enough of it to make it worthwhile, he jumped down again. He scurried up the stairs to the door and listened there impatiently. He raised his head when he heard voices. He moved closer to the door and pressed his ear to it. They seemed to be coming closer. Then he heard approaching footsteps, and when someone came up to the door, he stepped back. A key grated in the lock. It turned, and the door was opened. Tom Cox’ big figure stood across the threshold from Dave. He had a rifle in one hand and a Colt in the other, that looked as if it belonged there.

  “Must be Ed Fowler’s outfit,” Tom said. “I kinda figgered we’d be hearing from them sooner or later.”

  “Ed Fowler?”

  “Yeah, Lee’s brother. A real ornery cuss, too.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What d’you wanna do, Moore? Stay where you are, or d’you wanna take a hand in this?”

  “You think they’ve come to get me, huh?”

  Cox’ shoulders lifted. “Don’t know any other reason for their bein’ here,” he replied.

  “All right,” Dave said simply. “Gimme a gun.”

  The men’s eyes met and hung for a moment, then Cox grunted and held out the rifle. “Here y’are,” he said.

  Dave took the rifle. Tom backed, holding the door for him. When Dave stepped into the kitchen, Tom moved around him and closed the door. Dave came to an abrupt stop. Standing near the table and looking at him with big, troubled eyes was a slim, erect girl.

  “Moore, this is my sister, Millie. She c’n handle a rifle with the best of us. She’ll cover the upstairs windows with you.”

  “All right,” Dave said, nodding, but he did not take his eyes from the girl.

  “He’s all yours, Millie. Go ahead, Moore. Go ’long with ’er,” Cox said and turned away.

  The girl turned without a word, and Dave, slinging the rifle under his arm, trooped out after her to the hallway and followed her up a single flight of stairs. When she stopped on the landing and looked at him again, he stopped, too. She was a real pretty girl, about eighteen, he judged.

  “Did you have anything to do with my brother’s murder?” Millie asked.

  “No, Ma’am.”

  “Do you know anything about it?”

  He shook his head.

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “I’m sure, Ma’am.”

  “You don’t look like a killer to me,” Millie said. “All right, you can take this room,” and she turned her head and nodded in its direction. “I’ll take the one beyond it. You’ll find extra cartridges on the floor near the window, a whole boxful of them. There’s glass on the floor, too, so be careful of it. And be careful of the broken pane in the window. If a bullet hits the frame, you’ll get a shower of bits of glass, and they can hurt a lot.”

  Dave nodded understandingly.

  “And don’t poke your head out!” Millie said severely.

  “I won’t, Ma’am.”

  “If you need me for anything, call me,” Millie instructed him, and added in a sudden rush of breathless words: “And don’t call me Ma’am!”

  “No, Ma’am,” Dave said gravely.

  Millie Cox blushed, wheeled away from Dave and went swiftly down the hall, her heels clicking rhythmically as she walked.

  Dave moved into the room Millie had pointed out and halted astride the threshold. There was a breath of cologne in the air, and its rich sweetness made him smile wryly and think of the saloon, of Jake and of the offensive, unaccountable smell in the place. This was a girl’s room. He saw that at a glance. There were framed pictures on the papered walls, an eye-arresting silk spread on the bed that looked as though it had been pulled up hastily over the bedclothes, and a pair of red-tipped slippers peeked out at him shyly from beneath the long, graceful folds of the spread.

  Dave’s gaze shifted to the window. One floor-length panel of a pair of fluffy white curtains hung alone from the top of the window frame. The other panel had been ripped off, and now it lay crumpled up against the side wall as though it had been slung there. The window shade had run up to the very top of the roller. Sunlight glinted on the upper half of the window pane, but the lower half was gone, save for a couple of jaggedy-edged slivers. The carpeting, a deep red or maroonish color, gleamed brightly with broken bits of glass. Dave came across the room and brushed the larger pieces away with his boot toe.

  A couple of rifle shots thudded harmlessly against the side of the house. Rifle in hand, Dave crouched down at the window and stole a quick look outside. His eyes focused on the barn. Now, for the first time, he could see all of it, from the ground to the roof and from one end of the wall to the other. He probed the shadowy doorway with his eyes, and he searched the hayloft window directly above it, too, but there was no sign of anyone in either place.

  Then there was sudden movement, and Dave’s attention was attracted to it. A man appeared in the doorway of the building, a man with a gaudy yellow silk neckerchief that served to heighten the swarthiness of his face. He had a rifle in his hands. He raised it to his shoulder and appeared to be taking careful aim. Dave’s rifle snapped upward, too. It roared thunderously before the attacker was prepared to fire. He came staggering out of the barn and dropped his rifle. He spun around suddenly and fell against the wall. Then he slowly forced himself up, twisted around, took a single step and sprawled headlong in the grass that came up to the very base of the wall.

  After a minute or two, another man appeared in the doorway. He was a stocky, bandy-legged fellow. He glanced at the prone figure in the grass, raised his eyes and looked up at the house, apparently seeking the rifleman. Then darted out, skidded to a stop at the side of his fallen comrade and bent over him. He came erect shortly and dashed back into the barn. He poked his head out again; this time he had a Colt in his hand. Brightening sunlight ran along the barrel of his gun. The Colt swept upward, leveled and roared twice. The man lowered it and peered hard through the filmy haze of smoke that swirled gently around him and began to curl upward.

  Recklessly, the gunman came stamping out of the barn, swaggering a little. He stopped after a bit, looked toward the house and yelled something that Dave did not catch, but which he was certain was not particularly complimentary to the occupants. He strutted around in an ever-widening circle, halting every now and then to shout something else.

  Dave watched the man quietly. Then, stalking back to the barn, the man stopped just inside the doorway, raised his gun and fired twice. He did not miss with his last shot. A window pane on the lower floor fell in with a crash, and the man burst out laughing. But his laughter was short lived. A bullet from Tom Cox’ Colt struck him, and he dropped his gun, lurched drunkenly over the threshold and fell on his hands and knees. Slowly, he forced himself up. He swayed a little and shook his fist at the house. Tom’s second shot hit him squarely. He whipped about in an awkward circle, like a weed caught in a storm. His legs buckled under him, and he stumbled backward and fell in a heap.

  “That makes it two for us,” Dave muttered. “Wonder how many of them there are?”

  There was a cluster of brush just beyond the barn. When Dave thought he detected movement within it or behind it, he fired into it. Millie opened fire then, too. Their bullets swept it, and a couple of men came scrambling out. They scurried away like frightened rabbits, darted around the barn to the rear and out of range. A long and trying period of silence followed.

  Dave broke it by subjecting the brush to another blast of rifle fire that ranged from one end of the brush to the other. When he stopped to reload, Millie took up the task of discouraging any further thoughts of taking refuge in the brush. Their fire failed to uproot any more of their attackers, however, and after a while the silence returned, heavier, deeper and more oppressive than before and draped itself over the scene.

  Time passed uneventfu
lly. Slow, labored, dragging minutes finally became an hour, then a second one, a third and a fourth. Finally, it was noon, and the midday sun, a ball of seething fire and flame that cast off great waves of intense heat, halted directly overhead. Dave sweltered in the heat. He took off his flannel shirt and scaled it away. Minutes later he took off his undershirt and flung that away, too.

  Dave had just settled himself again, sitting cross-legged on the floor with the rifle across his knees, when he heard footsteps below. Someone was coming up the stairs. Dave twisted around and raised up on one knee. “Yeah?” he called.

  “It’s me, Moore, Tom Cox,” was the answer, and Dave sank down again.

  Cox came down the hallway and halted in the doorway. “You awright?”

  “Oh, sure,” Dave answered. “A little hot. Otherwise I’m all right.”

  Cox nodded. “I’ll be back,” he said and wheeled out of the doorway.

  Dave heard the murmur of voices shortly, Millie’s and her brother’s. A minute later, Cox returned. He got down on his hands and knees, crawled to Dave’s side and squatted down.

  “Keep watchin’ outta the window while I talk,” Tom directed, and Dave’s eyes shifted away. “Not that I expect them to try anything now. They’ve had a pretty good sample of our shooting, so they’ll keep outta sight from now on, but when it gets good an’ dark, that’s when we’ll hafta be ready for them. That’s when I figger they’ll make their big play. They’ll surround the house, an’ rush it an’ try to bust in.”

  “Uh-huh,” Dave said without looking at him.

  “That’s when we’ll have our hands full.”

  “Yeah, I guess we will. How many o’ them d’you think there are?”

  “Oh, six or seven. Might be eight, though. That Fowler outfit is supposed to be a pretty good-sized one, y’know, so I don’t know f’r sure how many o’ them there are. What I do know is that we’re givin’ them damned good odds. But we’ve got one big advantage.”

  Dave shot a look at Cox.

  “We’re on the inside, behind walls, an’ they’ll be out in the open, and if there’s a moon tonight, they’ll have one helluva time gettin’ close enough to bust in.”

  “Supposing there isn’t a moon?”

  Cox shrugged. “Then we’ll still hafta give ’em hell,” he said simply. He got up on his knees, “One thing more, Moore.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I might have to ask you to give me a hand downstairs. That’s only if things get too hot f’r me to handle alone.”

  “All right.”

  “If you hear me holler, come a-runnin’.”

  “Right.”

  Tom crawled away. “Watch y’self,” he said as he neared the doorway.

  “I will,” Dave responded, and in the same breath he added grimly: “Believe me, I will!”

  Cox grinned at him over his shoulder. “You said that like you meant it.”

  Moore grunted.

  “Y’mean you’ve got plans for the future, huh?” Cox asked.

  “Some,” Dave replied.

  “Well, now that we’re on the subject,” Tom said gravely. “I have, too.” Cox got up on his feet and went out.

  Settling back again on the floor with his shoulder against the wall, Moore heard Cox stride down the hallway and go down the stairs. His heavy step faded out when he reached the lower floor. There was no further sound from any quarter. The deep silence had returned. To make certain that he was not offering himself as a target to anyone in the barn who might be looking for one, Dave squirmed backward a little.

  From time to time, though, Dave got up on his knees and inched forward to the window and stole a quick look outside. There was no sign of their attackers. It was apparent now that they had no intention of subjecting themselves any further to the rifle fire of the defenders. As Cox had predicted, it was plain that they would wait for nightfall when the darkness would shield them from the probing eyes of those in the house before they renewed their onslaught.

  The swarthy man, who had fallen before Dave’s rifle, lay stiffly still in the grass in front of the barn. The brandy-legged man, whom Tom had shot down and who had fallen backward inside the barn, had been pushed out. Now he lay sprawled out in the doorway, half inside and half out. A swarm of horseflies buzzed busily about the two bodies.

  Moving back again from the window and sinking down into his cross-legged position with a wearied sigh, Dave fell to thinking about the girl, Millie. This was hardly the sort of thing in which a young girl should be involved. He wondered if there were not some way for her to make her escape. One had to be realistic about things. What would happen to her if the Fowlers did succeed in breaking in and overpowering Tom and him? He had no way of knowing how the Fowlers would treat a woman prisoner if one happened to fall into their hands, but it was not too hard to imagine what her lot would be like.

  From what Dave had heard about the Fowler outfit, and from the little he had seen of them, he had already decided that they were not a very highly principled crew. He was sorry he had not thought of Millie Cox before when Cox was squatting beside him. That would have been the time to have mentioned it. On the other hand, it should not have been necessary for anyone else, a stranger particularly, to suggest that the girl be given an opportunity to save herself. Cox, himself, should have thought of it. Dave promised himself that he would speak of it to Tom if he came upstairs again. The hot sun, streaming into the room through the uncovered window, made Dave move back a little farther. He was wet now, wet through and through and there was no promise of relief.

  The afternoon wore away slowly. The morning hours had seemed unending; the afternoon was even longer. The heat increased. At about four o’clock, or possibly four-thirty, the sun was at its very hottest. It was so stifling, breathing became a toll-exacting effort. Then, suddenly, the heat seemed to taper off, and just as suddenly the sun was gone. A tiny breeze came up and rustled the grass. The first long-fingered shadows appeared. They lengthened, reaching out with surprising swiftness to drape themselves over everything. It began to get dark. The hushed, oppressive silence deepened, keeping pace with the gathering twilight There seemed to be no pause, no interlude between dusk, evening and night. One seemed to follow immediately behind the other. Then it was night, and darkness obscured everything.

  Dave crept to the window and peered out. He could not see anything. He raised his gaze. There were no stars in the sky and no moon. Grimly he told himself that the night had been made to order for the attackers.

  Then the curtain of silence was whipped aside. There was a deafening, thunderous roar of gunfire. The house was blasted from top to bottom, and it rocked under the withering fire that swelled to an overpowering pitch. Windows fell in, and doors were splintered and torn from their hinges and sent toppling. Plaster was ripped from the ceilings and walls. Minutes after the furious attack got under way, the house was a shambles. Still the fury of the assault mounted, until it seemed as if Heaven would collapse under the onslaught.

  “Moore!” Millie called suddenly from the doorway. Startled, Dave twisted around instantly. “Yeah?” he called. He could see her shadowy figure.

  “Can you see them?” the girl asked.

  “Nope,” Dave replied. “They’re really pourin’ it into us, aren’t they?”

  “It’s—it’s awful!”

  Millie was frightened. There was fear in her voice.

  “Look,” Dave said. “Suppose you stay in here with me, huh? There’s no point in you stayin’ in that other room by yourself.” Millie made no response.

  “Come on,” Dave urged. “Get down on your hands and knees, and crawl over to me. Here, here’s my hand.”

  Dave thrust it out to the girl. There was movement in answer to it. She came crawling across the floor, and he reached out for her. Her hand brushed his, grasped it and clung to it, and he guided her to his side and backed with her to the wall.

  “Get down low,” Dave directed. “I’ll do the watching for both of us.
”

  Millie sank down. Dave moved away from her to the window and raised his rifle and fired, subjecting the barn and the brush to a blasting. When his rifle was empty, he moved back again. Hastily he reloaded it.

  “All, right now?” Dave asked.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  The attackers’ fire continued, falling off only briefly for reloading then resuming, swelling and rising again to deafening proportions.

  “Hope your brother’s all right,” Dave said. “He’s facing the worst part of this.”

  “Tom can take care of himself,” Millie answered.

  “I could tell that the minute I saw him.”

  The roar of guns prevented further talk. Then, during one of the lulls, Dave turned to Millie. “Maybe I oughta take a look downstairs,” he suggested. “Seems to me it’s awf’lly quiet down there all of a sudden.”

  “You—you don’t think—”

  Millie’s voice faltered and died out as though she did not dare speak the frightening thought that had come to her.

  “’Course not,” Dave said quickly in an effort to reassure her. “You stay right here. I’ll only be a minute. All right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s your rifle? Leave it in the other room?”

  “I’m afraid I must have.”

  “That’s all right. We don’t need it. If we do, we can get it.”

  Dave pushed his rifle into Millie’s hands.

  “Hold on to it till I get back,” Dave told her. With that, he crawled away to the doorway, got up on his feet when he reached it and stepped into the hallway. It was dark and gloomy out there, and he followed the wall to the stairs and made his way down, one step at a time. It was just as dark on the lower floor. He groped his way around the stairs to the open doorway that led into the kitchen. When the portieres slapped gently against him, he knew he was in the kitchen.