What would happen in Cedar now? Would the Hales hear of his visit to Nita? Had they any idea the two were old friends? He doubted that, and doubted they would know more than that he had gone to the Crystal Palace, a not unexpected thing, since the Mecca was controlled by Hale.
Slowly, as he lay awake, he turned over the various choices they had. They were outnumbered at least five to one, but that troubled him less than supplies.
There was game in the mountains, but not so much that it would not be seriously depleted by trying to live off it. Each of the families had some stores against bad weather or attack, yet none of them had enough. Supplies of food and ammunition were of first importance, and there was no chance in Cedar ... Or maybe there was.
An idea came to him, and he considered it from all angles, and somewhere during his considerations he fell asleep.
When he awakened again he lay for a few minutes watching the first graying of the night come to the Hat-field ranch. Slowly things became distinct. The peeled bars of the corral, and handmade shakes on the barn roof, the carefully hewn timbers of the log house. Parson Hatfield and his sons had expended much hard labor here, but everything was made with a loving touch. They had been building a home, not just a house.
He sat up. If he had his way about it, this would be their home as long as they wished to stay.
Chapter 6
The morning sun had scarcely lifted over the pines when the men gathered around the long table in the Hatfield home. Breakfast was over and the women had gone on to other work.
Trent sat at the foot of the table, making few comments. He was tired and stiff. One eye was black and badly swollen. He had four stitches taken in a cut on his cheekbone, and his lips and one ear was puffed and red. He was in no mood for conversation, yet it had to be. Looking at those around the table, he could not but wonder how many would be present when the time came to celebrate a victory, if there was to be one.
More than any of the others, he knew what lay ahead. The years since boyhood had dealt hardly with him, and on more than one occasion he had seen such troubles start, and so far he had lived to see them end. Many of those with whom he had worked and fought had not survived.
The five Hatfields were there. O'Hara and Bartram. The big Irishman was a game man who among other things had been a policeman in New York. Bartram was young, keen, and a man who had grown up, as most of them had, hunting meat for the table. He was excited by what lay ahead, and was ready for anything and everything.
Smithers was quiet and middle-aged, the oldest of them but for Parson himself. He was a small man, precise in his thinking and planning, avoiding trouble yet seemingly fearless. He was the best farmer of the lot, and the best businessman.
Two more rode in while they were sitting at breakfast. Jackson Hight was a wild-horse hunter, a former cowhand and buffalo hunter, and Steve Runyon a former miner.
Parson Hatfield cleared his throat. "This here meetin' better come to order. Them Haleses ain't about to wait until we uns get organized. There's a few things come first. We got to pick us a leader, and we got to find some way to get grub and ammunition."
Trent spoke up. "Parson? If I can put in a word. I believe it would be safer if we all came here, bringing what supplies and horses we can."
"And leave our places?" Smithers objected. "Why, they'd burn us out! They'd ruin our crops and run off our stock!"
"He's right," O'Hara agreed. "If we aren't there to defend them, they won't last long. That's playing right into their hands."
"Which of you feels qualified to defend himself against twenty gunmen? I don't feel I could. There isn't a place among yours where one man could stand off five men, let alone several times that many. You can only shoot out of one window at a time. They'll get around you, and you'd be dead within minutes.
"There's but two places among us that can be defended with any chance of winning. Mine and the Hatfields', and mine won't handle all the people we've got. Hatfield has more supplies on hand, he's got a place that can be defended, and there's already five men on the spot.
"If we get burned out, we can rebuild. Hell, there isn't a man here who hasn't already built more than once. But if you're dead, you aren't going to build anything."
"Strikes me as sensible," Hight said. "It's the old argument, 'united we stand, divided we fall,' so I move we all come together here."
"You may be right," O'Hara agreed. "Dick Moffit didn't do very well alone."
"That means I'll lose my barn!" Smithers protested.
Nobody said anything, and after a minute he said, "Well, I can always build a new one, even if it takes ten years."
"We will all help," Bartram replied.
"How about a leader?" Smithers asked. "How about you, Parson?"
"No, I'm obliged, but I ain't your man. I move we choose Trent here."
There was a moment of silence, and then O'Hara said, "I'll second that motion. After all, he whipped Hale."
Runyon shook his head. "No offense, Trent, but I don't know you. Fistfighting is one thing, handling a fight like this will be another. I've got no objections to Trent, but after all, Parson, you've done a lot of feudin'."
"That I have," Hatfield replied, "but let me say this here. Onct I was a sharpshooter and I rode with Jeb Stuart. One time ol' Jeb he sent us off on a special detail, and we'd been sent like that often, because we always got the job done. Well, this last time we got our socks whupped off us by a youngster Union officer. He only had half as many man as us, but he surely out-maneuvered us an' whupped us."
He poured coffee around the table, then put the pot down. "Point that I'm makin' is that that young Union officer who whupped us so bad, that was Trent here." He smiled slyly, eyes twinkling. "I never said nothin' to Trent about rememberin' him, because back then he had a different name than now, and a man's name is his own business."
"That's good enough for me," Runyon said. "If you say he's got the savvy, I'll take your word for it."
"All right." Trent wasted no time. "Mount up and go home, bring all you can load easy of ammunition and grub, but get back tonight. Two of you ride together as much as possible, and watch your back trail. They will be coming, you can depend upon it, and I want all of you back here alive. We need every man ... Don't try to fight unless you cannot get away, just come on to the Hatfields'."
Trent got to his feet. "We will let Hale make the first move. That isn't tactically sound, but we must have the law on our side. If they attack first, we have every right to defend ourselves.
"When Hale moves, we will move too. We've got twelve men--"
"Twelve?" Smithers looked around. "I count only eleven."
"Jack Moffit's number twelve," Trent replied. "I gave him a Sharps. Jack is fourteen, and at fourteen many of us have done a man's job. I'll stake my saddle that Jack Moffit will do his bit. I've seen him bark squirrels with a good rifle, and a squirrel's not as big as a man."
He paused. "We will have six hold this place, and six can do it. With the other six, or with four or whatever we need, we will strike back, go after grub ... whatever."
"That's the kind of talk I like," Smithers said. "I've not been a fighting man, but I dislike to think of my property destroyed when they get off scot-free. I am for striking out, but first we've got to think of food."
"Lije and Saul will go after deer. There are no better hunters in these parts. With what they can kill and what we have, we can get by for a few days. Then I will go after food myself."
"You?" O'Hara demanded. "Where will you get food?"
"Blazer. I'm not going to take all that time, either. I'm going across country, across the broken lands."
There was dead silence. Runyon leaned forward as if to speak, then sat back, shaking his head doubtfully. Smithers broke the silence. "I'll go with you," he said.
"Man," Hight protested, "even the Injuns shy away from that country. If there was any way across, I'd say take it, but men have tried, and died trying."
"There we
re Indians one time, old Indians, who knew a way across, and I think I know how it can be done. If I can do it, I need be gone only a few days at most."
Trent looked over at Jesse. "Do you want to watch Cedar? You and Quince, takin' turns? Don't take any chances, but when they start to move this way, bring us word. You can take that chestnut of mine. He's a racer, and loves rough going."
Jesse Hatfield got up and slipped from the room, taking up his rifle as he left.
"Jack"--Trent turned to Moffit--"you get up in the Eye and keep a good lookout on the Cedar trail. If you see anyone coming, give us a call."
He mounted the buckskin and took the trail for his own place. He knew what they were facing, but a plan of campaign was shaping itself in his thoughts. If they sat still, sooner or later they must be wiped out or starved out, and his own people would lose heart. They must learn to strike, and they must teach Hale that he was vulnerable.
All was still around his cabin when he rode in. There had been tracks on the trail, and he was not worried, as his was a most difficult place to reach.
Leaving the buckskin ground-hitched, he went inside and loaded two sacks with food of various kinds. A couple of slabs of bacon, some beans, rice, and dried apples.
When he had slung them on a packhorse, he crossed to the nail where he kept his guns. For a moment he hesitated. Then he took them down and buckled the gun belts about his hips. Matters had gone too far now, and the time for peace was gone. He stood for a moment looking around the quiet room.
Lonely it undoubtedly was, but there was a peace and a stillness here that meant much. How many times he had sat watching the fire on his hearth, or sitting in the door and watching the shadows grow long over the meadow.
There were a half-dozen head of good saddle stock in the corral, and he drove them out and started them down the trail toward the Hatfields'.
Jackson Hight was the last one to reach the Hatfields'.
He came up the trail on a lathered horse, his face white with anger. "Too late!" he said. "They burned me out!" . He looked at Trent. "I tried, Trent, I honestly did, but there were six of them. I winged one, though!"
Smithers pointed off over the trees. They could see a column of smoke there. "O'Hara's place."
Jesse Hatfield rode in. 'Two bunches comin'. They figure to get here about sunup. I overheard their talk."
"All right, Jesse, you get some sleep. You too. Jack. Parson, you and Smithers stand watch, and Quince, I want you and Bartram to ride with me."
"War you all headed for?" Saul asked.
"Why, I was just sort of thinking about going to market! We'll need some groceries, so I thought we kind of might circle around and pay Leathers a visit."
"Count me in on that," Saul suggested.
"You get some sleep. The three of us will do it, and if we can't, four would be too many. You get some rest."
"I ain't so wearied from chasin' antelope that I can't take the ride," Saul insisted. "It's a bad town, and I can surely make myself useful."
"All right, then," Trent yielded. "I'll not deny we can use you."
There was a burst of light off to the south, then smoke, scarcely visible against the darkening sky. "There goes my place," Smithers commented ruefully, "and I had a good crop of potatoes comin' up, too."
"Don't worry about them," Trent replied. "I'll help you dig them when this is over."
Smithers watched the four men ride away, and shook his head. "He surely makes you believe, doesn't he? Somehow his just saying that makes me feel better."
Parson Hatfield took his cold pipe from his teeth and commenced to tamp it. "He means what he says, Smithers, and when he gets around to telling you who he is, you'll have more cause for believing him. There rides one of the most dangerous men in the country, and from all I hear, he never looked to be, it just come up on him."
"Maybe we can win, after all," Smithers said. "Parson, let's go in and have a cup of coffee."
Chapter 7
Trent led the way at a fast trot. The trail they took was a little-known game trail Lije Hatfield had located that led down off the mountain through aspen groves and into the pines. They rode cautiously, pulling up now and again to listen, and carrying their rifles in their hands for ready use.
They saw no one. It was a wild and broken country they came to finally, with great boulders everywhere and scattered cedar. The town lay not far away now but was still invisible.
Trent slowed the pace with more and more frequent stops. Their success depended on their getting into town unseen. Many of Hale's riders would be out looting and burning, and others would be sleeping. At this hour the town should be quiet. The Mecca and the Crystal Palace closed their doors at two in the morning, so all should be easy going if they took no chances.
Drawing up on a small knoll with the town below them, they could see only two or three lights. None of these were along the street except for one light in a room in the hotel where some drummer sat late over his accounts or perhaps over a dime novel.
Trent chose dusty lanes where a hoof would be unlikely to strike a stone, and he led the way past barns and corrals, weaving a careful way through outlying dwellings and garden plots toward the main street. Long since, knowing upon what a slender thread his existence hung, he had taken the time to notice these streets and lanes, mapping every exit in his mind.
He had also taken note where the barking dogs were apt to be, and his route avoided them. There was always the risk that some late rider might come upon them or some householder might step outside in time to see them.
King Bill, secure in his power, would never suspect the nesters of trying to enter his town or approach his ranch. He would be expecting them along the overland route to Blazer, and without doubt that was observed. That they would ride right into the heart of his domain, he would never believe.
"Bartram," Trent whispered, "you and Saul take the packhorses behind the store. Keep them quiet, but don't try to get into the store or anything. If something goes wrong and there's shooting, get out of town, and get fast. Don't worry about us. It will be every man for himself."
He turned in his saddle. "Quince, we're going to get Leathers."
"Why not just bust in?" Saul asked. "We can find what we need."
"No," Trent said, "he's going to wait on us, and we are not only going to pay him but we are going to get a signed receipt. We are not thieves. There will be big trouble over all this, and when inquiries are made, I want us to have coppered every ace. Let him do the unlawful things, we'll stick to the safe side and be able to show we did.
"We will get him down here and we will pay cash on the barrel head for everything we get."
Leaving their horses with the others, they soft-footed it to the storekeeper's home, not over a hundred yards off. Quince, big as he was, moved like a ghost through the night, and several times Trent had to look around to make sure he was actually with him.
There was no moon. There were stars, and a few scattered clouds. The store buildings along the street were ominously dark against the sky.
Reaching the white picket fence around Leathers' home, he did not make the mistake of opening the gate, which would probably creak, but simply stepped over the fence.
There was a faint smell of lilac in the air, and the grass was damp. They paused when in the shadow of the porch and listened. A mockingbird sang interminably in a tree across the street, but there was no other sound.
Ever so gently he lifted one foot and put it down carefully on a step. Lifting himself with the muscles of the other leg, he took up the other foot and put it down cautiously. There was no sound. Inch by inch he worked his way across the porch and into the house.
Two people slept inside, Leathers and his wife. His wife was a fat, comfortable woman, and was one of those who idolized King Bill Hale. To her he was all a man should be, and she was much impressed by his swagger, his grandiose manner, and his style of living. He was, she was convinced, a great man.
Once, shor
tly after his arrival in Cedar, Trent had been in this house. He had come to get Leathers to return to the store, as he needed supplies after-hours. As his was a large order, Leathers was pleased to comply. Therefore Trent had some knowledge of the layout of the rooms.
The door he now opened gently was to the kitchen; from there a door led to a hallway, and from it a door to a living room, rarely used, and the bedroom. In that room Leathers would be sleeping with his wife.
Once inside the kitchen, he paused. Leathers kept a cat, but no dog, for which he was profoundly grateful. He moved quietly into the hall and paused to listen to the breathing in the next room. He could distinguish the slow, heavy breathing of Elsa Leathers and the jerky, somewhat erratic breathing of Leathers himself. The kitchen and the hallway smelled faintly of onions and homemade soap.
Drawing a large handkerchief from his pocket, he tied it across his face. Leathers would soon know who he was, but he hoped the immediate shock of a masked man would keep him silent. Then he slid his six-gun into his hand and stepped through the door into the bedroom. For an instant Elsa Leathers' breathing caught, hesitated, then continued. He heaved a sigh of relief. If she awakened, she would surely start screaming and all his carefully worked-out plans and his long ride would go for naught.
Alongside the bed he put the cold muzzle of the gun under the storekeeper's nose. Almost instantly his eyes opened. Trent saw the man's eyes turn toward him, then focus on what must be only a tall black figure in a flat-brimmed hat, masked and with gleaming eyes and a pistol.
Trent leaned down and whispered, "Get up quietly!"
Very carefully Leathers eased out of the bed. Trent gestured for him to pull on his pants and the slippers that lay alongside the bed. Then he indicated the door. Ever so softly, Leathers preceded him through the door.
Once outside, he turned on Trent. "What's the matter? What d' you want me for?"
"It's just a matter of groceries. You open your store and give us what we want, and you may live until morning. In fact, you step light and do what you're told, and you won't have any trouble at all. Make one squawk, and Til bend this six-shooter over your head."
the Mountain Valley War (1978) Page 5