“He rushed me. I thought he was Blaine.”
Fox peered at Nevers curiously, then looked up at Angie. Slowly realization broke over him, and he looked from one to the other, then nodded, as if he had reached a decision.
“Get him out of the way,” he said shortly. “Blaine’s comin’.” He turned to his men. “Gag that girl, but be easy on her.”
Angie heard him speak, but not the words. The two men swung down as Nevers caught Otten’s body by the arm to drag it aside. The two hands walked toward her, apparently about to help Nevers. She did not suspect their purpose until suddenly they grabbed her. She tried to swing up the gun but it was wrested from her.
“You won’t be hurt,” Fox said. “We just don’t want you to warn Utah.”
Helplessly, she watched them scatter dust over the blood where Ben had fallen. She watched them lead the horses away and scatter dust over their tracks. She watched them carefully take their positions.
Russ Nevers inside the house…Lee Fox in the stable…his two riders, one in the corral and one behind a woodpile near the edge of the timber. There they were: five men and all ready to kill. And somewhere along the trails were Rink Witter and Hoerner.
*
UTAH BLAINE HAD been gone for more than twenty minutes when Ortmann heard the riders coming. He got a glimpse of them right away: Rink Witter and Hoerner.
Taking his time he drew a careful sight on Hoerner and fired. The shot was a miss, but it frightened the two and both of them jumped their horses into the brush. Coolly, using a rifle, Ortmann began to spray the brush, working his way across and then back, and jumping a shot from time to time.
Hoerner was flat on his face in the brush, hugging the ground. The bullets overhead had a nasty sound. “That ain’t Utah!” he said. “He’d have let us come closer!”
“I know it ain’t. Must be Ortmann.”
“What are we waitin’ for? Let’s get back. Blaine’s sure to go gal-huntin’ now.”
Rink Witter thought it over and decided Hoerner was right. Moreover, he did not like to think of Angie Kinyon alone with Nevers. The more he thought of it, the more he was sure she was not safe, that Nevers had wanted him away.
They worked their way back to their horses and both men mounted and headed away. Ortmann heard them going and swore softly. He hesitated, wanting to follow them, but he remembered Blaine’s admonition. No matter what, he was to stay put.
“That way,” Blaine had said grimly, “I won’t be worried about who I shoot at. I know I won’t have any friends out there!”
Ortmann fixed a meal and ate it at a table where he could watch the road. He sat that way until the sun faded and the night crawled down along the mountain sides.
*
NIGHT CAME TO the cabin in the sycamores. It gathered first in the stable, then in the yard under the trees. One by one the men slipped into the rear door of the house, ate and slipped back. Fox came and when he did, he checked the girl’s bonds, freed her of the gag and made her coffee.
“You take it easy,” he said “an’ you won’t get hurt.”
“Take it easy?” she asked bitterly. “While you kill a better man than all of you?”
The night drew on. A mocking bird spent most of it rehearsing in the sycamore nearest the house. Fox spent it lying on a horse blanket with a gun in his hand. Angie slept, awakened, then slept again.
On the bench among the cedars Utah Blaine was stretched out on his stomach. He had his blanket over him and he was comfortable despite the chill. He was exactly one thousand feet above the little ranch. From his vantage point he could see it plainly except for the places where the thick foliage of the sycamores prevented his getting a view of the yard and the back door.
Angie’s mare was in the corral, and his dun was there. Yet he saw nothing of Angie. He had arrived just before night, and after it was dark he could see nothing but the lights and shadows cast by the moon and the mountains. There had been a light in the house, in the kitchen. It continued to be in the kitchen except once when it was carried into another room and then back. Several times he heard a door close.
All the arrivals had reached the ranch before he had a chance to see them. Nevertheless, Blaine knew they would be watching this place. He drew back from the edge and lighted a cigarette. It was growing colder yet he dared not build a fire. Still, he would wait. If she was down there alone, she was all right. If she was not, there would be some sound, some warning.
He would wait until morning. That would be soon enough to go.
*
FOX LIFTED HIS head suddenly. He heard footsteps within the house. He heard the boards creak softly. A door opened. He got to his feet and with a word to his men, moved swiftly.
Like a wraith he slipped into the house. By the shadow on the floor from the dimmed lamp he knew he was right. Nevers was standing over the horrified girl who could only stare at him. He was standing there, leering at her, his eyes wicked.
“This ain’t your station, Russ.”
Nevers’ face twisted with fury. He turned sharply. “Damn you, Lee! Why don’t you mind your own business?”
“This is my business.” Fox was calm but his eyes had started their queer burning. “I don’t want to get hung!”
“You go back where you belong!” Nevers said harshly.
“Not me,” Fox grinned. “I’m stayin’ here. You go to the stable.”
“Like hell!” Nevers exploded.
Lee Fox tipped his rifle ever so slightly until the muzzle was pointing at Nevers’ body. “Then shuck your gun, Russ. You go or one of us dies right here!”
Russ Nevers had never known such hatred as he now felt. He stared at Fox for a long instant. Then he wheeled. “Oh, hell! If you want to be a fool about it!”
He walked from the house and let the door slam behind him. Utah Blaine heard that door slam. It worried him.
Chapter 21
*
IN THE DARKNESS Utah Blaine came down the steep side of the bench. Instinctively, he felt that he was headed for a showdown. When the first gray appeared in the sky, he was standing in the brush not fifty yards from the corral, and no more than eighty yards from the cabin under the sycamores.
He took his time, lighting a cigarette and waiting, studying the house. There was no movement or sign of life for several minutes, and when it did come it was only a slow tendril of smoke lifting from the chimney. He studied it with furrowed brow, trying to recall if Angie had ever said anything about her hour of rising.
There was no wind and the sky was clear with promise of a very hot day. Utah was tired but ready. He could feel the alertness in his muscles, and that stillness and poise that always came to him in moments of great danger.
His wool shirt was stiff with sweat, dust, and dried blood. His body had the stale old feeling of being long without a bath. There was a stubble of coarse beard on his jaws, and as he stood there he could smell the stale sweat of his own body, the dryness of the parched leaves, the smell of fresh green leaves. He could hear the faint rustle of the river, not far off.
The slow tendril of smoke lifted lazily into the sky. Suddenly, the smoke grew blacker, and his eyes sharpened a little. He drew deep on the cigarette and watched. An oil-soaked cloth—something—suddenly the smoke broke sharply off. There was a puff, a break, another puff, another break!
Someone within the house—it could only be Angie—was signaling, warning him!
There was a sharp exclamation from the corral. A man Utah had not seen suddenly reared from behind the water trough and sprinted for the back door, cursing as he ran.
Utah Blaine smiled bleakly. “Good girl!” he said. “Oh, very good!”
Her ruse had been successful. He heard sharp talk, Angie’s voice, then another man interposed. He listened, but could not make out the words. The voice sounded like that of Lee Fox.
The man came out the back door, glanced hurriedly around and went in a crouching run toward the water trough where he vanished from
sight. The man was a rider for Fox. Blaine had seen him but once, but had heard the man called Machuk.
Thoughtfully, Utah surveyed the yard. There was a man in the corral. There was a man in the house and there would, without doubt, be one in the stable.
How many in all? Fox did not have as many hands as Nevers, but there could be six or seven men here. More likely there were four or five. And most serious of all, Rink Witter and Hoerner were unaccounted for. Utah finished his cigarette, dropped it and then carefully rubbed it out with his toe.
To hurry would be fatal. First he must find out for sure how many men were here, and unless he was mistaken he would soon have his chance. They had set a trap for him and were waiting, but that fire could only mean breakfast, coffee at least.
Utah grinned wryly, his green eyes lighting with a sort of ironic humor. He could do with some coffee himself. He studied the house speculatively, but the back door was covered by at least one man. Moreover, he could not move to the right because several magpies were scolding around and if he came closer would make enough fuss as to give him away.
There was a deadfall behind him and he sat down on the slanting trunk of the tree and waited. He could hear the rattle of dishes within the house. Had it been Nevers in there he would have gone in. With Nevers there was a chance of bluffing him out of a shooting. If shooting there had to be, killing Nevers would not remain on his conscience. Lee Fox was another thing. There was no chance of bluffing any man on such a hair trigger as Fox. Moreover, Utah understood Fox’s position and appreciated it.
He took out the makings and built another cigarette, taking his time. Impatience now would ruin everything. Now that he was here, now that he could see, the waiting would be harder on them than on him. They would break first.
A half-dozen plans occurred to him and were dismissed as foolhardy or lacking in the possibility of a decisive result. He saw Angie come to the door and throw out some water, saw her hesitate just a minute, and then call out to Machuk. The Table Mountain rider got up from behind the trough and went to the house. Utah heard dishes rattle, and the sound spurred his own ravenous hunger. After awhile, Machuk slipped out and returned to his place behind the trough, calling as he did so to another man. Utah could not distinguish the name.
This man walked with a peculiar droop to one shoulder. He passed the corral, coming from somewhere near the woodpile. That pegged three of them. Where were the others? One in the stable, certainly.
After awhile the man with the drooping shoulder came out of the house. He paused near the trough and Blaine heard his voice clearly. “Lee figures it won’t be much longer.”
“I hope not. I’m full up to here with settin’ here in the dust.”
“Gonna be a hot day, too.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I gotta call Nevers.” The man moved on and paused at the stable.
Nevers crossed the yard to the back door. He looked ugly. His face was black with a stubble of beard and Utah Blaine studied him shrewdly. Nevers was hopping. He was ready to go, just any time. He was a strange combination of qualities. At no time a good man, he had been on the side of decency by accident only. Now he was over the edge. He would not go back.
Nevers entered the house and there was the rattle of dishes again, and then Nevers’ voice lifted. “Who’s off station now?” he demanded.
Somebody, probably Fox, spoke in a lower tone. Then Nevers replied, “Oh, yeah? You’ll butt in the wrong place, sometime, Lee! Damn you, I’ll—”
The words trailed off with some kind of an interruption, and then Utah heard an oath from the house. “What is she anyway? Nothin’ but a damned—”
“Don’t say it!” That was Fox, definitely. The man’s voice was sharp, dangerous. Utah tensed, ready to move forward. What was the matter with Nevers? Couldn’t he see the man was on a hair trigger? For that matter, Nevers was, too. But not like Lee Fox. In a fight between the two, Fox was top man—any time.
Nevers must have realized it, for he could be heard growling a little. Finally, he came from the house and walked back to the stable, picking his teeth and muttering.
Utah waited…and waited. There were no more. Four was all. And he had them all spotted.
This could be the showdown. He knew where Nevers was. If Nevers was out of it he might reach some settlement with Fox. The Table Mountain rancher was rational enough at times. It was Nevers then. Nevers was the man to get.
Angie was safe enough with Lee Fox. His brow furrowed. Where was Ben Otten? In town? On the run?
Utah moved back into the brush, taking plenty of time. He worked his way around through the brush, avoiding the corral, and making for the back of the stable. He was tempted to move up on the man behind the woodpile, but did not. Avoiding him, he finally reached the stable. Here he had to leave the brush and move out into the open. Moving carefully, he made it to the corner. Then he stepped past the corner to merge with the shadow of a giant tree. One more step and he could get inside the stable with Nevers.
The stable was of the lean-to variety: the front closed across two-thirds of its face, with doors open at each side. It was through one of these doors that Utah expected to step. He knew Nevers was watching from the other door. He could see occasional movement there.
Utah hesitated, then stepped out. Yet even as he stepped he heard a cold, triumphant voice behind him.
“Been watchin’ for you, Blaine!”
Utah turned, knowing what he would see. Rink Witter was standing there, not thirty yards away. He had come from the rocks near the trail from the river. Twenty yards further to the right was Hoerner.
Utah Blaine was cold and still. He was boxed: Nevers behind him, Witter and Hoerner in front; Fox at the house, and his two hands.
Six of them. “This is it, Utah,” he whispered to himself. “You’ve played out your hand.”
Yet even as he thought this, his mind was working. There was no chance for him to come out of this alive. The thing to do was take the right ones with him. Rink, definitely. Rink and Nevers. That meant a quick shot at Rink—but not too quick. Then a turn and a shot that would nail Nevers.
After that, if he was still alive, he could get into the stable. But all this meant ignoring the fire of four men, one of them a killer for hire—Hoerner—a man skilled in his business.
Utah Blaine stood beside the tree, his feet apart, his head lowered just a little, and he looked across the hot bare ground of morning at the blazing blue-white eyes of Rink Witter. All was very still. In the house a floor board creaked. Somewhere a magpie called. And Utah Blaine knew the girl he loved was in that house…depending on him.
Then mounting within him he felt it, the old driving, the surge of fury that came with the fight, the old berserk feeling of the warrior facing great odds. Suddenly doubt and fear and waiting were shed from him, and in that moment he was what he had been created for: a fighting man—a fighting man alone, facing great odds, and fighting for the things he valued.
He looked, and then suddenly he started to chuckle. It started deep down within him, a sort of ironic humor, that he, Utah Blaine, after all his careful figuring had been trapped, surrounded. He laughed, and the sound cracked the stillness like a bullet shattering thin glass.
“Glad to see you here, Rink,” he said. “I was afraid you’d be late for the party!”
“I’m goin’ to send you to hell, Blaine!” Rink’s voice was low, cold.
Utah Blaine wanted to shatter that coldness. He wanted to break that dangerous icy calm. “You?” Utah put a sneer in his voice. “Why, Rink, without help you never saw the day you could send me anywhere! I’ve seen you draw, Rink. You’re a wash-woman, so beggarly slow I’d be ashamed to acknowledge you a Western man. You—a gunfighter?”
He laughed again. “As for sendin’ me to hell, with all this help you might do it. But you know what, Rink? If I go to hell I’ll slide through the door on the blood I drain from you an’ Nevers. I’ll take you two sidewinders right along, I’l
l—” He had been talking to get them off edge, and now—“take you!”
Incredibly fast, his hands flashed for their guns. Rink was ready, but the talk had thrown him off. Yet even without that split second of hesitation he could never have beaten that blurring swift movement of hands, the guns that sprang up. His own gun muzzle was only rising when he saw those twin guns and knew that he was dead.
He knew it with an instant of awful recognition. It seemed that in that instant as if the distance was bridged and he was looking right into the blazing green eyes of Blaine. Then he saw the flame blossom at the gun muzzle and he felt the bullet hit him, felt himself stagger. But he kept on drawing. And then the second bullet, a flicker of an instant behind the first, hit him in the hip and he started to fall.
His gun came out and he fired and the bullet hit the tree with a thud. With an awful despairing he realized he was not going to get even one bullet into Blaine, and then he screamed. He screamed and lunged up and fired again and again, his bullets going wild as death drew a veil over his sight and pulled him down…down…down.
Blaine had turned. Those two shots had rapped out as one and he spun, getting partial shelter from the tree, and in the instant of turning he saw an incredible thing: instead of firing at him, Nevers lifted his gun and shot Lee Fox in the stomach!
Fox stared at him, his eyes enormously wide, the whites showing as he staggered down the steps, trying to get his gun up. “I should—I should have—killed you!” His head turned slowly, with a sort of ponderous dignity and he looked at Blaine. “Kill him,” he said distinctly. “He is too vile to live!” And Lee Fox fell, hitting the ground and rolling over.
Hoerner was running and now he was behind Blaine. He fired rapidly into Utah’s back. He shot once…twice…three times.
The yard broke into a thunder of shooting and Blaine, shot through and through, staggered out from the tree. He slammed a shot into Nevers that ripped the rancher’s shoulder; a second shot that knocked the gun from his hand. Turning, Blaine dropped to one knee, red haze in his eyes, and smashed out shots at Hoerner.
Novel 1954 - Utah Blaine (As Jim Mayo) (v5.0) Page 16