“Does he know you?” asked Paul.
Jake and Jim shook their heads.
“Well, let’s not court trouble.” He beckoned the fat woman. “Three platters, please.”
The meal was stew again, and Paul began to wonder whether anything else was ever served at the Palace Restaurant.
When they had finished eating, Paul lit a cigar. “Get yourselves another drink. I’m going to the general store to shop. Bring up the horses in half an hour - we’ll start back then.”
He donned his heavy leather coat, put on his wide- brimmed, high-crown hat, and stepped outside, crunching through the snow covering the boards towards the general store. He had taken scarcely a dozen steps when suddenly he stopped.
They were riding in single file down the street, looking neither to the right nor to the left, their horses stepping high and proud, the thuds of their hooves deadened by the snow. Jaydee, the old man, was in the lead, his seamed, etched face a study in utter ruthlessness. Behind him rode Ben, the oldest of his brood, then the other six sons, all tall in their saddles, dark-faced, tight-lipped.
Tina rode at the rear, her back as straight as a ramrod, the thick braid of chestnut-colored hair reaching to her waist, those explosive green eyes barely visible under the forward tilt of her flat-topped Stetson hat.
Paul’s first instinct was to unbutton his coat to free the sixgun holstered at his waist, but then he remembered the words of Deputy Marshal Dave Cartright and let his hands hang limply by his sides.
They rode by slowly, the old man continuing to gaze straight ahead, too disciplined to look at anything but the point he had picked out in advance. But not the sons. As each came up, his eyes flicked to the yellow-haired man standing in the open, staring back levelly and steadily in turn, then each one’s eyes turned to the front.
There was a lump in his chest when Tina approached. His eyes clung to her, daring her to look at him, oblivious to the impression his fascinated stare might make on others, uncaring, just unable to look elsewhere while she was in view.
Her gaze remained as fixed as her father’s, and she rode by, lithe, magnificent, the sway of her supple body like a caress, the jut of her breasts visible under the fringed doeskin coat, the bullwhip coiled in her right hand.
His eyes followed her for a hundred yards, then he let out his breath in a great sigh and turned towards the general store.
The harassed owner greeted him warmly, pleased with the business corning from the Three Barbs. Paul waved him back to the two women purchasing some goods, then browsed about the store, intrigued with the hundreds of items that hung by cords from the rafters, lay on shelves and were piled on the floor. He studied traps for wolves and beaver and weasel, a new oil lantern called the ‘hurricane’, similar to those in Europe but much sturdier, a double-edged axe for woodsmen .
He lowered the axe to the floor, then turned slowly. It was the oldest one, Ben, whom Deputy Marshal Cartright had stopped from shooting him, and Sam, the knife fighter.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the women grab up their packages and slip past the two Birmans to the door.
He turned sideways to the brothers and said clearly to the store-owner, “I am going to take off my coat. I want you to witness that I am not reaching for a gun.” Without haste, he slipped out of his coat and let it drop to the floor, expecting at any moment to feel a bullet smash into him. When he turned back to them, they had also shed their coats and were standing eight or nine feet apart, their hands hovering close to their holstered guns.
“Well, now,” said Ben, the oldest one. “Look at the yeller-haired dude toting a handgun.” A pleased smile crossed his face. “And take a look at it, all tied down like he’s a real firecracker of a gunslinger.”
“What do you want?” asked Paul, shifting his left foot forward.
“And will you look at the way he moved his left foot,” exclaimed Ben. “Why, it seems to me that our yeller-haired dude has been taking lessons. What kind of lessons were they, dude, dancing lessons?” He cocked his head. “What do we want? Why, all we want to do is carve a little piece out of your ear. That’s all. We don’t aim to hurt you any or kill you. That wouldn’t be legal-like. Just a notch in your ear. We ain’t. never cut the ear of a duke before.”
“Well, if that’s all you’re after,” said Paul. “I don’t…”
Without the least warning, he whipped out his revolver. Ben made a stab for his weapon, but Paul’s first shot bored into his right shoulder, driving him back against the wall. His sixgun fell to the floor.
The instant Paul saw his shot strike Ben, he turned towards Sam. Sam’s gun was only halfway out of his holster, his eyes wide with surprise at the suddenness of the action and the speed with which Paul had shot Ben.
“Draw, damn you!” snapped Paul, white with anger.
Sam took a deep breath and slowly raised his hand away from his gun, lifting it chest high in a sign of surrender.
Paul’s eyes shifted back to Ben, leaning against the wall, watching him with no expression whatsoever. “Kick your gun towards me,” ordered Paul. Ben straightened up and pushed it with the tip of his boot. “Now back to the wall.” Ben did so.
“You!” said Paul to Sam. “Drop your gunbelt.” With his right hand still held up, Sam untied the hold-down thong and unbuckled his belt, letting it fall to the floor. “Come here,” growled Paul.
When he approached to within six feet, Paul ordered him to stop. Then coolly raising his revolver, Paul shot off the lobe of Sam’s right ear. Sam’s head snapped back and his face paled.
“Get back beside Ben,” said Paul, still furious. “Shopkeeper,” he called out over his shoulder to the store-owner.
“Yes,. Mr. Sanderson,” said the owner.
“Divide ten boxes of rifle cartridges and ten boxes of sixgun cartridges in three sacks, quickly.”
A figure approaching the front of the store made Paul tense, then he relaxed as Jake walked in, his heavy coat unbuttoned for easy access to his sixgun. His eyes took in the situation at a glance.
“I thought I heard shooting as I came down the street.” He looked at the blood staining Ben’s shoulder and Sam holding his torn ear. “Did you outgun these randiesT he asked in surprise.
“I drew first,” explained Paul. “They were going to notch my ear. Where are the other Birmans?”
“At one of the saloons down the street.” He opened the door a crack and peered out. “I don’t see any of them, but we’d better get out of here in a hurry?
“Where are the horses?”
“Right beside the store. Jim has ‘em.”
“Watch these two.” While Jake guarded the Birmans, Paul paid for the cartridges, picked up the three sacks, and threw Ben and Sam’s revolvers into a storage room. “Let’s go,” he said to Jake, then backing cut, they passed through the door and broke into a run for their horses,
Jim didn’t .need to be told that something was wrong as they swiftly mounted. He grabbed one of the sacks containing the cartridges when it was tossed to him and took off after the speeding Paul and Jake.
Once out of town, they slowed down long enough to place the shells in their saddlebags, then they were off again, their horses laboring through the many drifts which had built up over the road since morning.
Less than an hour out, Jim said, “Oh, oh, We got company.”
Paul and Jake looked back. A mile behind them were several bulky figures leaning forward in their saddles to press on their mounts.
“It’s the Birmans,” said Jim, shading his eyes from the glare of the sun reflected from the snow. “Seven of them.”
“They must have left the girl and Ben behind,” said Jake.
Nope, not the girl,” said Jim. “She’s right there - at the tail end.”
“Sam and Ben must be missing,” remarked Paul. “Ben certainly couldn’t ride with a bullet in his shoulder and Sam must be tending him.” He slowed his horse to a walk. “Give ours a breather,” he said to the oth
ers. “We have another hour to ride.”
When the Birmans closed to half a mile, Paul quickened his mount’s gait to a trot. For ten minutes they held this pace, allowing the Birmans to gain another hundred yards or so. By now they were clearly identifiable, the old man leading his brood, his arm rising and falling as he struck his horse with a quirt.
“They’re using our path,” said Jim.
Paul had to chuckle. “I forbid them to.” He pointed ahead to the sign denoting the beginning of his property. “Maybe that will stop them.”
Jake laughed. “I hope you can think up a good joke when they catch up with us.”
“I’ll try,” said Paul. “Jim, run your horse ahead of us to open a trail. When he tires, pull him to one side. Jake, when Jim slows down, catch up and take the lead. I’ll see what I can do about the Birmans once they cross onto Three Barbs land.”
Jim promptly cantered ahead, making a path for them to ride along more easily. A few minutes later, they saw Jim’s horse flagging.
“All right, Jake, you take over,” said Paul, stopping his horse and unslinging his rifle. The Birmans were now over the boundary line and less than a quarter of a mile behind. He aimed straight for the old man, knowing it would be a lucky shot if he hit from this distance, and fired twice in quick succession. The bullets must have whistled close by, for immediately Jaydee bent. lower over his mount’s neck.
He was too hard a target to hit, so Paul lowered his sights. He knew the westerners’ feelings about horses, that they were only less sacred than their women, but these animals bore men who carried rifles, and their inviolability was secondary to the need for keeping those rifles out of effective shooting range.
He fired twice again, his heart leaping at the sight of the old man’s horse slowing abruptly and limping. He triggered off another shot at the next man in line, and was rewarded to see the Birmans slacken speed and spread out. Seconds later, shots rang out from the pursuers. Paul whirled his horse about and kicked it into a canter, then grasped the reins in his teeth while he reloaded his rifle. When he caught up to Jim, he slowed to a trot and looked back. He had gained over a hundred yards in the exchange of fire. The old man had dismounted at the place where his horse had been wounded and was inspecting the injury. The rest of his brood were back in single file, hot on their trail.
During the next ten minutes, Paul employed his delaying tactics twice more, gaining yet another hundred yards. When the ranch buildings came into view, he gave the sign to run flat-out, and, spurring their exhausted horses, they reached shelter before the Birmans could come within accurate rifle range. They rode their mounts directly into the small house, the door being held open by an excited Mr. Blatherbell.
Jumping to the floor, Paul motioned for the animals to be led into a bedroom, then he looked out a window. The Birmans had stopped chasing them and had ridden back out of shooting distance themselves. They were gathered in a group, talking. As he watched, two of them rode in an arc to their left-hand side around the ranch buildings to a knoll where they dismounted with their rifles in their hands. Two others rode in an arc to their right-hand side, also taking up positions.
The door opened and Ned limped in. “What happened?” he asked Paul..
“Had a fight with two of the Birmans in town. The rest of the family chased us back here.”
Mr. Blatherbell heaved a sigh. “I am glad you are safe, Your Grace. But six of them - they certainly cannot bother you now.”
“That was yesterday,” said Jim, standing by the window. “There’s just been a new deal of the cards.”
They all rushed to the windows and looked out. Jim was quite right, for approaching the two Birmans waiting on the road was Jaydee, mounted on a new horse, leading up Sam and thirty or so heavily armed men.
CHAPTER X
It was no contest, that Paul knew an hour later. With well-drilled competence, the gunfighters surrounded the buildings and opened fire, sending bullets through windows, door panels, even blasting holes in the adobe brick. The hardest hit was the bunkhouse sheltering Ned, Emil, Walt, Li Chang, the three cowboys and the six Mexicans. Although those inside had bales of hay to shield them from direct fire, a number of Birman’s sharp-shooters had positioned themselves on the highest ground within rifle range and were pouring in angled fire. Within an hour one of the young cowboys had been shot dead and two of the Mexicans wounded - both seriously.
Paul attached a white cloth to a stick and waved it out of the window. Little by little the shooting died down.
“Birman!” he shouted.
A few minutes passed before he was answered. “That you, Sanderson?”
“Yes. I have six Mexican vaqueros who have nothing to do with this fight. Two are wounded. Will you let them through?”
“Sure, Sanderson. Send them out.”
“He’s going to kill them,” warned Jake, softly. “That’s his nature.”
“Under a flag of truce?” asked Paul. “He wouldn’t dare?
Jake shrugged and turned away.
“What do you think?” called Paul to Ned.
Ned spoke to the Mexicans. “They want out,” he called back, “but they’re afraid of Birman’s bunch.”
“Birman,” called Paul. “What guarantee do you give for their safety?”
“You’re the one that’s asking favors, Sanderson, not me. Either send them out or we’ll start shooting again.”
“We’ll send them out one by one. Do you agree?”
“You sure don’t trust a man’s word, do you, Sanderson? All right, send them out one by one.”
“Ned,” called Paul. The vaqueros will have to decide what they wish to do.”
There was more discussion in the bunkhouse. “Two of them want to make the first try - together.”
“All right.” He turned to Jake, Jim, Mr. Blatherbell, Mr. Poopendal and Mr. Snoddergas. “If Birman’s men start shooting, try to cover them?”
Two figures darted from the bunkhouse and ran to the lean-to. Paul breathed more easily when they were not fired at. A few minutes later, the lean-to door opened and the two Mexicans came riding out, bent double over their horses” necks, beating them with sticks.
They got halfway to the Birman line when suddenly a volley of shots rang out. Bullets struck the Mexicans from all angles, knocking them off their horses. They lay limp as rag dolls, blood staining the white carpet of snow.
“Damn, damn,” hissed Paul, his face contorted with rage.
“Hey, Sanderson,” yelled Birman, chuckling. “When are you sending out the others?”
“Bastard!” shouted Paul. “Murdering bastard I’ll see you hang for this!”
His voice was drowned as the gunfighters resumed firing.
It was just before sundown when Jim said, “Will you come and look at this.”
Paul crept over to his window and looked out. About fifteen men were coming up the road, escorting two wagons. They stopped out of range of rifle fire and began to unload.
“Tents,” said Jim. “And stoves. The second one, it’s a chuck wagon. Looks like they’re going to stay a spell.”
Paul, impressed with Jim’s keen sight, said, “Can you pinpoint the positions of the men around us?”
“I’ve got ten or twelve located, but I know what you have in mind and it won’t work. Those randies keep moving from place to place.”
A scraping noise at the door made them stiffen with alarm. Paul went over to it. “Who’s there?”
“It’s Walt, Mr. Sanderson. Let me in.”
Paul unbarred the door and Walt crawled inside, a crude bandage tied around his forearm. “How did you get here without being seen?” asked Paul.
“There’s a little fold in the ground most of the way between here and the bunkhouse. If you stay real low, you can get through.”
“How are conditions over there?”
“One of those wounded Mexes - he died a while ago. Li Chang - he got hit in the cheek. Not bad, though. Ned can use some rifle ammu
nition. Not that we get much of a chance to use it. Every time we rise up to shoot, half a dozen of them pepper the window.”
Paul placed five boxes of cartridges in a sack. “Here’s two hundred and fifty rounds. Tell Ned to use it sparingly.”
.”Mr. Sanderson,” said Walt. “There’s another fold in the ground just outside the cook-shack. It goes to a ravine behind us. I think I can sneak out, come dark?
“It’s fifteen miles to Rijos. That’s pretty far without a horse - if you are able to get through their lines.”
“I reckon so, Mr. Sanderson, but we ain’t getting any stronger just sitting about. Ned wants me to get the deputy marshal over here right away?
Paul smiled at the red-headed, freckle-faced youth. “All right, Walt, do your best, and take all our thanks and wishes for God’s speed with you.” As Walt turned to the door, Paul said, “Wait? He called Jim over, to him. “You’d better go back with Walt. Ned will need help.”
“I would like permission to go along, too, Your Grace,” said Mr. Poopendal, stepping forward, “I have some experience of tending wounds.”
Paul looked at him with the same smile he had given Walt. “Very well, Mr. Poopendal. But do take care.”
When the three men had crawled out through the door, the others waited without speaking for several minutes, dreading to hear a sudden burst of gunfire. The only sounds were the occasional thuds of the gunfighters” bullets seeking a chance victim.
After what seemed an eternity, they heard Ned call out. “Paul, do you remember what we needed?”
“Yes,” shouted Paul.
“We found them,” yelled Ned.
The men in the house relaxed.
The battle continued throughout the evening without a pause. For supper, Mr. Blatherbell brought out cheese, bread and wine that he had stored away. They ate in shifts, Mr. Blatherbell and Paul, then Jake and Mr. Snoddergas, each shift moving from window to window to look out and fire whenever they could. Actually, there was not very much to aim at, for the gunfighters kept well hidden and changed their positions often. Paul cautioned everyone to fire as little as possible, since the flash of a shot brought a fusillade of answering shots. The small house looked like it had been through a major bombardment. The window frames were splintered, the door panels were split, many large holes had been gouged out of the walls.
The Cossack Cowboy Page 15