“You don’t have to spare my feelings,” she sighed. Moment by moment, she was regaining her composure, but it didn’t come easily. He felt her trembling ease, and she was still breathless, still haunted by her memories of those danger-filled minutes. “That look in your eyes, Jim. I’ve—seen it before. Dad looked at me that same way, a few years ago, when he realized my cowardice.”
“I’m sure Doc doesn’t believe you’re a coward,” he frowned.
“We were both in Uncle Steve’s emporium when it caught fire,” she murmured. “It wasn’t a big fire. Nobody was burned and there was very little damage. But I—I just went to pieces. Right before Dad’s eyes, I fell apart. And I could see how terribly disappointed he was. He probably wonders…”
“You’re taking too much for granted,” he chided.
“...wonders why I haven’t inherited my mother’s courage,” she went on. “Mother was always a very courageous woman. She came of hardy pioneer stock. And Dad is no weakling. He’s much tougher than he appears. So how—how could they have produced a coward, a weak-willed woman whose nerve fails her in every emergency...?”
“For gosh sakes, Nora,” he growled, shaking her gently. “Snap out of it. Somebody took a shot at us, and nobody enjoys being shot at.”
“A stronger woman,” she insisted, “would not have lost her nerve.”
“Well argue about that,” he suggested, “on our way back to town.”
Only then, as he made to help her up to the buggy-seat, did she remember his condition.
“You must be in pain! So much activity—so soon after Dad warned you!”
“It doesn’t feel all that bad,” he assured her.
“You’d better have him take a look at it,” she frowned, “as soon as we get back.”
He fetched the basket, but not until he had investigated the neatly-packed platters and tin mugs, and located the spent shell. It had splayed against one of the mugs, distorting it almost out of recognition. He extricated the ugly messenger of death with the aid of his jack-knife and, after a brief examination, made a guess as to its caliber. .44.40, most likely. It would be of little assistance in any attempt at locating his anonymous assailant, being one of the more popular varieties of cartridge; he used them in his own Winchester—he and several thousand other owners of those well-known rifles.
He knew a feeling of disappointment and disquiet, as he sat beside Nora, puffed at a cigarette and watched the passing scenery. He was disappointed that this pleasant diversion should have ended so violently, reducing the hapless Nora to a pallid caricature of her usual sunny self. And he was disquieted at the realization that this had been no accident, no practical joke. Somebody had made a very earnest effort to kill him. Why? He was a stranger in Pringle and the few locals with whom he had become acquainted had welcomed him as a friend. Could he be jumping to a conclusion? Might not that first bullet have been intended for Nora? No. Lying face-down near the buggy, she had presented a clear target to the rifle man on the ridge—who had triggered his next shots at her escort.
For Jim, it had become a mighty frustrating Sunday. Lynn Bissell had unobtrusively returned to Pringle well ahead of the picnickers, had returned his hired mount to the Gordon stable and was now checked into the Ashdown House, a boarding establishment located not far from the Pringle Hotel. He had formed the opinion that Jim was closely attached to the woman with whom he had visited Crow Butte. That being so, it didn’t seem likely he would quit town in the near future.
“Looks like you can afford to hang around, Rand,” he was thinking. “Well, so can I, big man. So can I.”
Doc Fenton was more than disgruntled at the condition of the plaster swathing the ex-sergeant’s brawny torso, insisted on removing it, prodding at the sore sectors of Jim’s ribs and then applying fresh adhesive, an experience more uncomfortable than painful for Jim. On the subject of his daughter’s nerves, the medico refused to be drawn out, beyond commenting,
“Some people are just naturally brave, and some aren’t. It’s as simple as that.”
“I could give you a lot of arguments, Doc,” drawled Jim. “I could quote cases of green troopers who never guessed how brave they could be until the chips were down and the shooting started.”
“Reflex action is hardly a fair test,” mumbled Doc. “Foolhardiness and courage aren’t necessarily one and the same.”
Moving stiffly again, self-conscious of his new plaster corset, Jim spent an unsatisfying quarter-hour in the company of the genial Marshal Fenton. Just as unsatisfied was Benito, who hadn’t managed to get out of the lawman’s sight for one moment since Jim and Nora had departed for Crow Butte. On the porch of the Pringle Hotel, Jim found them playing checkers, and it seemed Benito had met his match, inasmuch as the old badge-toter was giving him a lesson in cheating.
Abe Fenton readily recognized the pen sketch of Jenner, but pointed out,
“He was only here about a half-day, and he moved right on south—and what difference, Jim? You ain’t ridin’ noplace, not until my sawbones brother says it’s okay.”
“I hate to admit your brother is right,” growled Jim. He described his close shave out by Crow Butte and, in conclusion, told the lawman, “I’m not ready to straddle that horse of mine—or any other critter—and I know it.”
“Be all of ten days,” opined the marshal, “before you set a saddle again.”
So thought the marshal of Pringle, and so thought Jim himself, until mid-afternoon of that Sunday.
An hour before, the horse ridden by Jason Keane had picked up a sharp stone in its left fore hoof. The gunfighter led the limping animal away from the regular trail and across fifty yards of soft ground to a stand of timber, before pausing to investigate the afflicted hoof with the point of a knife. For this reason, he missed sighting the rig driven by Toby Munce.
The northbound amateur assassins had skipped lunch. By 2.45 p.m. all three were hungry, and it was then Toby’s turn to quit the trail; he guided the team away to the right and through a screen of mesquite. A clearing within the brush looked to be an ideal site for a temporary camp, so Toby unharnessed the team while Phoebus rustled up a fire and Fiona began the preparation of a substantial meal.
Lounging by the fire, the stock of an old Sharps rifle tucked under his arm, Fiona’s devoted suitor indulged in a few words of self-praise.
“I guess I’m just about the best shot in all Colorado. By golly, that Rand feller won’t have a chance,, not a chance in the world—when I draw a bead on him...”
“You’ll likely miss him with your first half-dozen shots,” drawled Phoebus. “If you’re still alive after that, it’ll be just pure bad luck.”
“You oughtn’t discourage him, brother Phoebus,” chided the fat woman, “on accounta he’s the only gentleman-caller I ever had.”
“Trouble with this lazy brother of yours,” complained Toby, “he dunno talent when he sees it.”
“Talent,” sneered Phoebus. “I don’t see no talent.”
“I shoot better on a full belly,” mumbled Toby. “Just you wait till I’ve ate these fine vittles—and then you’ll-see.”
A short time later, having disposed of the meal dished up by Fiona, Toby and his chief critic quit the clearing and advanced to a low rise of ground. Atop it, in an orderly row along the skyline, Phoebus placed several targets. They consisted of four empty bean-cans, a discarded and very stale chunk of bread and a piece of tree bark some five inches square. Phoebus then seated himself on a flat rock, lit his corncob pipe and gestured for Toby to prove his ability.
“Go ahead—Buffalo Bill Cody. Impress me. I’m just a’ sittin’ here and a’waitin’ to get flabbergasted.”
“I’ll bet you think I couldn’t hit any of them targets from here,” accused Toby, raising his rifle and taking aim.
“How’d you get to be a mind reader?” leered Phoebus.
“Shuddup,” scowled Toby. “I’m aimin’.”
“While you’re aimin’,” Phoebus predicted, �
��Rand’ll likely pull a pistol outa his pants and put three-four slugs through your doggone brainless head.”
“Will you shuddup?” fumed Toby.
He stood tense, squinting along the barrel of his rifle, drawing a bead on the first bean-can. His pulse beat a little faster as his unwashed finger curled about the trigger. He licked his lips, took a deep breath, squeezed trigger.
There was no loud barking report from the old Sharps. The only sound that smote their ears was slight, but very audible—a click.
“Click!” grinned Phoebus. “’Scuse me for askin’, Mr. Buffalo Bill. Of course I ain’t no hotshot sharpshooter like you, but didn’t I hear somewheres that a gun’s gotta be loaded before you can shoot it?”
“I knew the consarn gun weren’t loaded!” raged Toby.
“Like hell you knew,” jeered Phoebus. “Go on, you blame fool. Load ’er up and let’s see if you can hit anything—I mean anything at all.”
The humiliated Toby tore the lining of his jacket in his urgent haste to empty a pocket. Fumbling, he dropped a couple of shells while getting the Sharps loaded. Then, at last, he was ready to demonstrate his marksmanship.
“Watch this,” he smugly offered his future brother-in-law, “and you’ll maybe learn somethin’.”
“Hold on—just one itty-bitty minute,” drawled Phoebus. He had been seated at a right-angle to the line of fire. Now, in feigned apprehension, he rose up and pussyfooted around until he was standing directly behind Toby. “I figure this here’s the only safe place.”
“Ain’t you the comical one!” scowled Toby.
“Keep your squinty li’l eyes front, Toby boy,” ordered Phoebus. “I don’t want you pointin’ that shooter anywheres near where I’m at.”
Again, Toby took aim. His first target was the last bean can to the left, and he was certain he had it in his sights. After he had squeezed trigger, he wasn’t quite as certain. That can didn’t budge an inch. He jerked backward from the recoil and forced to concede the bullet must have sped high above the line of targets. To the accompaniment of raucous laughter from Phoebus, he struggled to reload.
But there was never a bullet fired that didn’t have to end its flight somewhere, and that slug from Toby Munce’s rifle traveled quite a distance, all the way to the sea of brown moving across the flats, approaching from the east and advancing toward the settlement of Pringle. The Double G herd was moving along in orderly fashion, despite the torment of dust and heat and the temptation of the smell of water already in the nostrils of the bawling beeves. It has been said by old time cattlemen that it doesn’t take much to spook a herd and start a stampede. All it took, on this occasion, was that wild bullet from Toby Munce’s Sharps, because it skimmed the rump of a plodding steer not far from the first line of west-bound animals. In shock and pain, that steer broke into a hard run. barging forward. Automatically and at frightening speed, the other animals followed suit.
One of the men riding point was the trail-boss, the lithe and alert Gil Goodwin, only twenty-seven years old but already a veteran cattleman. He was first to detect the change in the atmosphere, the sudden increase of speed. In a matter of seconds, the entire herd of 3000 panicked steers was surging westward, raising dust, bellowing. Rising in his stirrups, Gil began delivering his orders, trying to raise his voice above the increasing din of pounding hooves.
“Move ahead of ’em, boys! If we can’t stop ’em or turn ’em —heaven help Pringle!”
And so, while Toby Munce used up all his spare cartridges in an abortive attempt to hit any of his targets, the Double G herd surged toward Pringle at breakneck speed, and the thunder of those pounding hooves was carried far and wide by the changing wind. On their way back to where Fiona awaited them, Toby interrupted Phoebus’s drawled insults long enough to remark on the far-away but ominous noise.
“How come there’s thunder if the sky’s so clear?”
“I’ll allow that’s a mystery,” shrugged Phoebus. “Like, f’rinstance, what makes little Toby think he can shoot, when he couldn’t hit the barn wall even if he leaned agin it...?”
When the first distant rumble of thunder reached the danger-conditioned ears of Big Jim, he was relaxing in a boardwalk chair in the heart of town, chain-smoking, thinking about the incident that had so rudely marred an otherwise pleasant Sunday morning. Benito lounged nearby, singing softly, accompanying himself by strumming his battered and tuneless guitar. From the window of his room at the Ashdown House, Lynn Bissell was watching them. The killer had reached for his rifle and was assuring himself that here was an ideal opportunity for him to complete his deadly mission swiftly and surely, when Jim abruptly rose from his seat. Just as Bissell began sighting, the big man turned and walked a few paces, a movement by which he unwittingly saved his own life, because it placed a stalled wagon between himself and that window where Bissell crouched. Bissell cursed bitterly and lowered his weapon.
The Mex’s song was interrupted in mid-chorus. He stopped strumming, eyed the big man expectantly. “Something troubles you, Amigo Jim?”
“Listen!” breathed Jim.
Benito cocked an ear.
“Much thunder, I think.”
“If that’s thunder,” frowned Jim, “where’s the lightning?” He stared eastward, his rugged visage set in a grim expression. “This morning the señorita showed me the dust of a trail-herd. That dust hung all along the horizon—so it must be sizeable, a mighty big herd.”
“So?” prodded the Mex;
“That thunder keeps getting louder,” said Jim. “It could mean the herd is headed this way—stampeding.” He jerked a thumb impatiently. “Take a quick look at this little town, cucaracha, and ask yourself how much damage a couple thousand hard-running steers could do.”
“¡Por Dios!” gasped Benito, leaping to his feet.
At that very moment, as though Jim’s mood of foreboding were contagious, several townsmen came Rustling into the street. Doc Fenton, his brother and brother-in-law were well to the fore and, almost immediately, a rider entered Pringle from its north end, pounding along the street on a lathered pony. He was youthful, obviously a farm-boy, and his young face was pale with alarm, his eyes dilated.
Jim stepped off the boardwalk with Benito tagging him. As they reached the excited group, they heard portion of the lad’s warning.
“...big herd, Marshal. Must be two-three thousand—and I dunno how we’re ever gonna stop ’em…”
“Coming straight toward Pringle?” demanded Doc.
“As far as your eye can see, there ain’t nothin’ but cattle,” declared their informant. “They’ll hit town like water out of a busted dam—and they’ll be here real soon...!”
Jim hadn’t paused. He kept going, still tagged by the Mex, and he was the first to reach the livery stable operated by the father of little Leroy; he was straddling the black stallion and Benito was helping himself to somebody’s sorrel colt, when five of the townmen came hustling in. Right away, Doc spotted the big man and began a reproach.
“Jim—not you, of all people!”
“It’s an emergency, Doc, and I don’t aim to stay out of it,” growled Jim.
“Let him come, for Pete’s sakes, Matt,” growled the marshal. “Those trail-herders are gonna need all the help they can get.”
“Just to mount a horse while two of your ribs are cracked—that’s bad enough,” fretted Doc. “To ride is worse—especially if you ride fast!”
But Jim wasn’t listening. Throughout his hectic and eventful army career, he had seen more than his share of devastation, some of it caused by artillery fire, some of it by the headlong charges of fighting cavalry hurled at well-defended strongholds. He had not yet seen the ruins of a town trampled by a thousand or more rampaging steers, nor had he any wish to do so. For this reason, he could not disassociate himself from this crisis.
He swung astride, wincing from the dragging sensation caused by the plaster against his bare flesh. To the marshal he called a suggestion, as he hustl
ed the big charcoal along the passage between the stalls.
“You better leave somebody in town to warn the people. All women and kids ought to take shelter in the cellars—in case we can’t turn that herd back.”
“Hell, yes!” Abe Fenton nodded in eager agreement.
“Hey, Donovan! Bailey! And you, Dobie! Go pass the word to everybody, and move fast, for Pete’s sakes!”
By way of the side alleys, Jim rode at speed to Pringle’s eastern outskirts with Benito racing the sorrel level with the big charcoal and some ten grim-visaged towners strung out behind them, Atop a rise less than a hundred yards from the first buildings, they reined up with their horses milling; they stared eastward and were stunned by the magnitude of the task in store for them. The beeves were coming on fast; it was as though a gigantic brown rug was being unrolled across the plain, moving inexorably toward them. Doc Fenton, a man who had seen much hardship in his day, shuddered nevertheless; he was visualizing how the town would look if this bawling, horn-tossing Juggernaut passed over it.
“It can’t be done!” groaned an ashen-faced local. “Look at all those cowhands! Look how they ride up to head ’em off—-but they can’t do it! And there’s nothing we can do!”
“That’s no way to talk, Dave,” chided the marshal. “Not at a time like this.”
“I can see only one way of turning ’em back,” growled Jim. “We can try it, but we don’t have time to argue about it. We’ll have to do it right away.”
“You name it, big man,” urged another towner. “We’re listenin’.”
“I see a lot of brush down there,” said Jim, pointing. “If we can reach it before those steers trample it—and if we can get it burning...”
“Hey, that could do it!” whooped Abe Fenton. “Show ’em fire! That’s the only thing that’ll make ’em stop now!”
“They’re in panic,” nodded Jim, as he started Hank moving again. “We have to throw a bigger scare into ’em.”
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