“Man,” he said. “You’re being foolish. Hear —this isn’t Texas. This is Kansas. There’s law here an’ I’m the law.”
“There’s no way for me to know that,” Will said. “I don’t even know if this is a properly constituted county. Anybody can ride up here and say he’s the law. No, sir. I’m countin’ on you not bein’ the law. You’re just a two-bit freebooter makin’ a try for some cows. You turn around and go back where you come from.”
Sloan stared at him now as if he couldn’t believe his ears.
“You crazy?” he said.
“Whatever you like,” said Will, “but you light a shuck outa here.”
“I’ll take these cows,” the man said. “I’ll be back later to cut your herd further.”
Clay and Jody had drifted up. The sheriff didn’t miss the fact. Maybe a little apprehension came into his eyes then.
He turned to his two men.
“Drive ‘em off,” he ordered.
The men started to move.
Will said: “The cows stay where they’re at.”
“Now see here,” Sloan said. His calm seemed to be breaking a little. He could see that if he didn’t make a move now, it would be too late. He did a foolish thing. He drew his gun and pointed it at Will.
Mart said: “You’re a dead man.”
There was a terrible stillness. It seemed the big man sat his horse for a full minute without moving.
Will froze, expecting a shot in the guts at any moment. Mart sat to the rear of the three strangers, gun in hand, a look of utter peace on his face.
“Stalemate,” Sloan said.
“Checkmate,” Mart told him and fired.
It was a piece of virtuoso shooting. Will had never seen anything like it. He knew Mart was good, but not this good. This wasn’t the time for a killing and Mart knew it. He shot Sloan in the upper right arm. The big man dropped his gun to the ground and slumped in the saddle, his face ashen. The other two men looked deathly scared. The horses jumped.
Will’s men all drew their guns.
Will said, glancing nervously around at the cows, “Take their guns and their powder and ball. Move now.”
Clay, Jody and Joe moved. They collected revolvers, rifles and ammunition. Sloan didn’t say a word. He watched them out of terrible eyes, clutching at his wounded arm.
One of the strangers said angrily: “You can’t get away with this.”
Will said: “Now you three ride outa here. If you have any sense, you won’t come back. You do an’ we’ll kill you.”
Through clenched teeth, Sloan said: “I can raise a hundred men, Storm, two hundred. I’ll come back an’ wipe you out.”
Mart said: “Maybe I should of killed him, Will.”
“Maybe you should even now,” Will said and looked as if he were considering the matter. The two deputies looked pretty sick.
They knew what they would have done under similar circumstances.
“You have women along,” one of them said. “You don’t stand a chance with women along.”
The words acted like an electric shock on Will. His already pent-up nerves seemed to snap. He jumped down from his horse, took three paces to the man’s, caught him by the front of his clothes and tore him from the saddle. His sons had never seen such fury in him. The man tried to scramble to his feet and Will smashed his fist into his face.
“Touch my women,” he said, “an’ I’ll hang the hull bunch of you.”
He rushed at Sloan.
“You git,” he shouted, “an’ fast afore I change my mind about you.”
In obvious pain, Sloan turned his horse and rode away, not giving so much as a glance at the man on the ground. Will kicked this one to his feet and the fellow threw himself aboard his horse. The crew sat their horses and watched the three of them ride away.
Mart said: “We haven’t seen the last of them.”
Chapter Twelve
It seemed that Will had never had so much on his mind. If he had worried his way up through Texas and through the Nations, now his whole horizon seemed to be filled by the contorted face of a giant worry.
He had to consider his women and he cursed the day he had been weak enough to allow them to come along. He had to think of the herd and how it represented all their futures. He had to spare some thought too of the herds and their crews behind him.
The women were the raw spot. If he had men to spare he could have sent them ahead clear out of this country. But he didn’t have the men. Sitting brooding by the fire that night, he wondered if it were all worth it. What were three thousand head of cattle beside the safety of his women? He would like to have thought that jayhawkers would not make war on women, but he had seen some of the acts of the guerillas during the Civil War. Sloan must have been one of them, a man nurtured on blood and violence. Such men didn’t shirk from harming women, either for profit or pleasure. His blood ran cold when he thought of what could happen to them.
At the moment, he had set a strong guard and was trying to think his way through the problem. But he couldn’t set strong guards for long—the men had to have some sleep and God knew they were short enough on it already. Tired men couldn’t fight. Which raised another problem. Did he have the moral right to ask men to risk their lives for a bunch of his cows? They all had an interest in the cows, said another voice in his head.
Martha came and sat down beside him.
“Quit frettin’, Will,” she said. “It won’t get you any place.”
“There’s you an’ the girls,” he said. “I should never of brought you.”
She laid a hand on his arm.
“You didn’t bring us,” she said, “we came.”
He smiled at her wearily. He patted her hand.
“Is it worth it, girl?” he said.
“It’s worth it,” she said. “You’ve got to amount to something. You should always have amounted to something. Day after day I used to see you at home, fading away, Will. Now you’re building something. This is the man I loved when I was worth lookin’ at.”
“Finest lookin’ woman I ever did see,” said Will.
She pushed him away and said: “Fool.”
From beyond the circle of light from the fire, Mart’s voice came—
“Rider comin’, Will.”
Clay started up from his blankets, gun in hand. It was the one taken from Sloan earlier in the day.
“Mart, Clay,” Will called softly, “keep out of sight. Martha, into the wagon with you.”
Without a word, Martha headed for the wagon. Clay faded into the shadows. Will called to the rest of the men: “Stay still and keep your hands on your guns.”
Will stood up and listened. He could hear a horse walking in from the south. After a few minutes, it stopped and a voice called: “Hello, the camp.”
The voice sounded familiar.
“Who is this?” Will demanded.
“James Madders.”
It didn’t seem possible. He’d forgotten all about Madders, given him up for strayed a week back.
“Come ahead.”
A minute later, Madders was in camp, slip ping stiffly from the saddle, the men surrounding him. He looked ganted down to skin and bone. His horse didn’t look much better. They sat him down and Martha came hovering, pouring coffee, saying: “You poor man, you’re starved,” and the hard case Madders loved it all. He had never been the center of so much attention in his whole life.
He told his story.
He’d had one bit of ill-luck after another. He spent a couple of days mooching around in Indian country, then he’d had a brush with the Chicks and their police had arrested him. Maybe he’d been a little drunk at the time. It was possible. Maybe he had shot one of them. There’d been a white man there he’d known in the old days. He’d helped Madders escape. Farther north he’d gotten himself into trouble with the Wichitas. He sure was like a magnet to trouble. But he’d kept on after the herd and come up with a trail-boss named McDowell and his outfit. He’d st
ayed a few days with them and then they’d had a run in with the jayhawkers. There was a man killed and McDowell had gone on farther west. Madders had come on to find the Storms. Earlier in the day he had been stopped by some Kansas men. Maybe a dozen of them. He’d made a break for it and had managed to get clear of them. He reckoned he was lucky to be alive.
Will was pretty pleased that he had an extra man and Madders was a handy fellow who knew how to look after himself, in spite of his irresponsibility. If he did as he was told he would be a useful extra gun.
Will scarcely slept that night. It seemed that he was forever hearing a sound in the night that bade him investigate. He knew that Sloan would be back. The man was like a wounded cougar and it was then that the animal was at its most dangerous. He had been soft. He should have killed the man, shown these damn jay hawkers what to expect if they came nosing around here. That would have warned them off.
Or would it? Maybe it would have made them ride in here, killing.
He felt like hell when Martha woke him with what passed for coffee. He drank it and saddled up, putting the repeating rifle he had taken from Sloan in the boot on his saddle. At least they had gained some weapons from the Kansans. The rifle was a Henry and there was precious little ammunition for the weapon, but it was better than nothing.
The herd wandered on slowly north-east with Will and Mart acting as scouts, scouring the country for sign of possible attackers. They saw no sign all day. Nothing at all happened. They found poor water, but good grass for the cows that night and settled down in that vast monotonous dark waste to sleep. Martha was burning buffalo chips now, for there was little timber to be seen. Pieces of wood were collected jealously when found and slung in the leather beneath the wagon. As soon as they had eaten that night, the fire was extinguished. They would make it as hard as possible for the enemy to find them.
What Will expected was precisely what had happened down in Texas. There was really only one thorough way to steal a herd on the trail and that was to stampede it. If Sloan came back there would be a run. At least that might take the fight away from the women. And a run must come at night to be fully effective. They didn’t come last night, so, if they were coming at all, it must be tonight. Pretty soon they would be getting too near the settlements for raiding. The law might turn a blind eye to cattle-theft way out on the plains, but it couldn’t stomach mass shooting near the settlements. So tonight was the night.
“An’ by God,” Will told himself, “we’re goin’ to be ready for them.”
There would be no sleep that night for anybody. That was certain. He got his head close to Mart’s and Joe’s and talked. They agreed on their action. If possible, the attackers must be spotted before they got close in to the herd, for gunfire might set the herd off running. Will chose three men and scattered them wide around the herd—Joe to the east which was the most dangerous quarter; George to the west and slightly north; Pepe Mora, south. Will put two men on the herd, not enough, but all he could spare—Juan Mora and Meredith Quintin. He kept Mart, Manning Oaks, James Madders and himself in camp, horses saddled and ready to go. The women, he put in the wagon. It was stifling in there and there was little room, but it was the only fairly safe place he could think of. Martha had her double-barreled shotgun.
He sat with his back to a wagon-wheel and tried to doze, wanting to be as fresh as he could be when the time came. The night dragged on slowly. Midnight came and went.
He came fully awake to find a strange silence hung over the night.
The stars were bright above, a slim pale moon seemed to drift effortless through a tranquil sky.
Far off a coyote howled.
A small glow from a few feet away showed him where Mart smoked.
Will started to doze again.
Mart’s voice woke him—
“Will.”
He came awake with a start.
“Hear that?”
He listened and at first heard nothing.
Then faintly, the sound of hoofs reached him.
“Could be Joe,” he said and stood up. His legs felt cramped. One of the horses standing ready saddled whinnied. Will turned an ear to the herd. Faintly the song of one of the guards came.
Don’t let ‘em run tonight, he prayed.
He took out his gun and checked the loads.
The others were on their feet now, listening to the approaching hoofs. The horse was coming fast, too fast for a strange land in the night. The man was urgent.
A few minutes later, Joe walked his horse into camp. His face shone blackly in the moon light as he slipped from the saddle.
“They comin’,” he said.
Will lit a lamp and waved it, signaling to the pickets to come in.
A moment later, they heard Pepe Mora coming in from the south. Maybe George hadn’t seen the signal. No matter, they had to move.
“How many of ‘em?” Will asked.
“I dunno,” Joe said. “But a good many. They travelin’ steady. They ain’t hurryin’ none.”
“Is there a good place where we can jump ‘em?”
“Sho’.”
“Let’s go,” Will said. He found that he was as calm as he could want to be now that the time had come.
Saddle-leather creaked as men forked their horses. Martha put her head out of the wagon.
“Watch out for yourselves,” she called.
“See you soon,” Will said. The thought came to him that he might never see her again.
Joe led the way out into the moonlight. The men rode silently behind him.
They rode for no more than fifteen minutes before Joe stopped and said: “This the place.”
Somebody called softly: “Rider behind us.”
It turned out to be George who had followed them. Will took a quick look around. Joe had led them to the best place the plains country could offer—a natural break in the prairie on a rise of ground.
Will told George off to guard the horses with orders to come a-running when they were wanted. The rest of the men he scattered out along the break with their rifles in their hands.
He sought out Joe.
“Only one thing we forgot,” he said.
“What that?”
“This is a big country. How do we know they’ll come this way?”
“They headed this way. But they’s only one way to make sure.”
“What’s that?”
“Lead ‘em here.”
The Negro swung into the saddle.
Will said: “You’re out of your head, Joe.”
Joe gave a rare laugh.
“Took you a long time to know that, boss.”
He spurred the horse away and ran into the night. Will was left there cursing.
From his right came Jody’s voice—
“Don’t let ma hear that kinda talk, pa.”
Will got down on his belly and put his ear to the ground. He could hear the sound of Joe’s horse and over it a muffled shapeless sound. He knew the Kansans were coming.
“Any minute now,” he said. He felt his throat tighten. Everything hung on the next fifteen or so minutes. Men would be killed. Just for a few cows.
He heard Clay sing out: “Here comes Joe.”
He had no sooner spoken the words than they heard the popping of guns. Then the guns stopped and the drumming of the hoofs of a fast running horse reached them. Almost at once the sound of a great number of horses on the run reached them.
A moment later, Joe’s horse strained up the incline and he swept through them, rode a short distance, flung himself from the saddle and ran back to throw himself down beside Will.
“They dead ducks, boss,” he panted.
Suddenly a great mass of horsemen surged out of the night. Will sucked breath into his starved lungs.
“Fire,” he shouted.
Guns crashed all around him.
In the lead of the dark mass, a horse went down and a terrible scream rent the night air. Joe yelled savagely. The horsemen seemed to
stagger each in the middle of a pace; a man fell out of the saddle shouting hoarsely.
Then the mass disintegrated, men scattered, driven by terror and pain. Will, with his repeater rifle, levered and fired as fast as he could move, in a sudden frenzy of ferocity. All around him men with single-shots were hastily reloading and snapping off shots at the fleeing riders.
It was over almost as soon as it started. The men in the break stayed where they were for a moment, stilled by the sudden violence of the scene.
Will was the first to get to his feet.
He could hear the sound of the retreat. Below him a man groaned and groaned. Will found he was shaking. He walked down the slope and called back over his shoulder: “Fetch the horses.” A man shouted to George for the horses. Joe was beside Will. They found a dead man and a dead horse. Then they came on the wounded man. He’d been hit in the leg and he acted like he thought they would kill him. Joe wanted to kill him. That was just.
“Leave him be,” Will said and they walked together up the slope. George had come up with the horses and they climbed into their saddles. Will felt drained. The men were silent.
The wounded man called out: “I’m bleedin’ to death.”
Will sat his saddle, listening.
He heard a faint sound from the direction of the herd.
“What the hell was that?” he said.
Mart started his horse forward.
“Gunfire,” he yelled.
Every man there spurred or quirted his horse forward, but not before they had heard the ominous sound of three thousand cattle getting on the move and felt the earth shake beneath them.
They strained up a ridge and piled down the far side, their horses stretching out. Panic hit Will as he rode. The women were back there. He’d been suckered. Sloan had played the simplest trick on earth and got away with it. Will raged impotently. Pretty soon he saw a dark mass moving north in the moonlight, his eye caught the glitter of horns in the pale light.
He yelled to the men, pointing north and turned in the saddle to see riders peeling off and going after them. He kept straight on himself, heading for the wagons, fear for his women going icily through him.
An age passed divided only by the sound of his horse’s hoofs and the beating of his own heart. It seemed that he would never catch sight of the pale of the wagon-top. The sound of the herd died away in the distance.
Stampede! Page 10