by Elmer Kelton
Fear was beginning to choke the girl. “But where else can we take you?”
Again he tried to force himself up. This time, with Nell’s help, he made it. He sat weakly on the edge of the bed.
“I know a place. Clive Bannock probably won’t even know where it’s at. Even if he did, he’d never think to look there. We’ll go to Curly Kirkendall’s.”
The ride took an eternity, an eternity of agony for the man who slumped in the saddle, the blood sticky inside the rude bandage. Nell Owen rode beside him, holding him in the saddle by the strength of her own lithe body. Most of the time Scott was in semiconsciousness, yearning to tumble from the saddle and yield to the beckoning comfort of the cool earth.
“You have to stay awake, Scott!” Nell pleaded with him again and again. “You’re the only one who knows how to get there. You have to hold on!”
And somehow, long after daylight had surrendered to a pale sliver of moon, they found Curly’s dugout.
Curly Kirkendall strode out to meet them in the dull silver of the night. He cradled a rifle on his arm. His jaw dropped as he recognized the half-conscious man in the saddle. “Scott!
Nell’s eyes pleaded gently. “Please, Mr. Kirkendall. I know he’s been an enemy to you. But he needs help … needs it bad.”
Curly barked the names of two of his men, and they came running. Together they gently eased Scott out of the saddle. They carried him to the dugout and ducked as they packed him in through the low door.
“My bunk, boys,” Kirkendall said. Tensely he opened the shirt. “Bleeding some. Riding horseback that way could’ve killed him.” His voice rose in anger. “Why didn’t you at least use a wagon?”
Nell Owen’s face was sick with anxiety. “Too easy to trail. They might track us anyway.” Biting her pale lips as she rebound the bandage, she told Curly about the shooting of Fletch Bannock.
Gravely he nodded his head. “Don’t you worry, ma’am. Clive Bannock will turn this country upside down, but he wouldn’t think about coming here.” He knotted his fist. “And if he was just to luck onto us, he’ll wish to hell he hadn’t.”
Over in the corner a lank, black-stubbled man had been watching with sullen eyes. He dragged his feet across the dirt floor to Tillman’s bedside.
“Looky here, Curly,” he complained, “this Tillman has tried harder than anybody else in the high country to get us all sent off to the penitentiary. You mean you aim to keep him here now and protect him?”
Curly’s voice was even. “When we’re out shagging off Lazy D cattle, he’s an enemy, Bryce. But right now, as long as he’s in this camp, he’s a friend—the best friend I’ve got. And don’t you forget it for a minute.”
Though her body ached with weariness, Nell Owen sat in a camp-built rawhide chair and kept vigil beside Scott. She sat in silence, holding his still left hand tightly in her own. On a small cast iron stove a pot of coffee sat untouched. Occasionally her sleepless eyes drifted to the men who slept on rolled up blankets at the back side of the long dugout. Her body cried for rest, but she wouldn’t let herself relax. Scott might wake up. He might need her.
Near the back wall a blanket was flung aside and Curly Kirkendall stood up. She watched him with speculative eyes as he walked unsteadily to the stove and poured a cup of coffee. He frowned and ran his tongue along his lips.
“Cold,” he said disgustedly, and threw the coffee against the side of the dugout with the indifference to cleanliness that takes hold of men in camp.
He walked up behind the girl with concern in his face. “He doing any good?”
She nodded. “He’s resting all right.”
Curly Kirkendall placed his rough hand gently on her slender shoulder. “You ought to rest, too. I’ll roust Bryce off his bunk and make him go over in the corner with the rest of them. I’ll keep watch over Scott. I haven’t slept worth a plugged two cents anyway.”
Nell shook her head. “Thanks, but I’ll stay.”
Curly shrugged. “It’s up to you. But you look as miserable as a Mexican sheep thief.”
“I’ll stay by him, Curly. He stayed by me.”
Curly sat down on the edge of Scott’s bunk. An ironic smile began to play on his lips. Presently he said, “He’s lying there half dead, with the toughest man in the high country hunting him down to blow him apart. And yet I’d swap places with him in a minute, if I could.”
Nell’s eyes widened in question. Curly’s gaze lifted levelly to her face.
“You bet your life, I’d swap with him. If I’d ever had anybody that thought as much of me as you do of him, I wouldn’t be living in a dirty dugout and running off other people’s cattle. No sir, I’d be the biggest man in the country, and there couldn’t anybody ever stop me.
“Don’t you ever leave him, ma’am. He needs you now, and he’ll keep on needing you.”
A faint smile brightened Nell Owen’s weary face. “If he ever wants me, I won’t be hard for him to find.”
Scott Tillman awoke before daylight, a circular saw whirring in his head and a dull, hammering pain in his shoulder. He felt a weight lying across his legs. He eased up enough to see Nell Owen asleep, still sitting in the chair, her upper body fallen forward onto the edge of the bed.
He knew without being told that she had sat there all night. His heart warmed to her, and he half smiled as he looked at her now peaceful face. He dared not move for fear of awakening her. So he lay there looking upward, his eyes fixed on the sod roof. He tried to think, tried to plan, fighting against the throbbing ache in his head.
But he knew there was no use. There was no better place in the country for him than this, until he was again able to ride and use a gun.
And Nell had to stay with him, or Clive Bannock would find her. No telling what he might do to make her tell where Scott was hiding.
Through the next two days he felt his strength coming back to him slowly but steadily as the buildup of water in a mountain lake. He got off the cot and tried walking a little. Every time he moved, Nell Owen was there ordering him to sit down again, at the same time holding him so he wouldn’t fall. It did no good to tell her he could stand alone. Anyway, he liked the touch of her hand, and enjoyed the quiet strength with which she held him.
“There’s time enough for you to go walking around when that wound is healed,” she said. “Right now, you’d better not try to get far away from me.”
He grinned. “By the time I’m well, I probably won’t want to.”
From the first, he knew Bryce Fancher didn’t like him. Even when he didn’t see them, he could feel the man’s hot eyes upon him. The showdown came after one of Curly’s men, Wilkes, rode in from High Land.
“They say Clive Bannock’s hunted this country high and low,” the man reported. “He’s been to every ranch and turned it upside down. Now he’s offered a thousand dollars for whoever tells him where Scott Tillman is at.”
Bryce Fancher whistled between his teeth and cut his eyes toward Scott. “A thousand dollars!”
A quick grin split his black-stubbled face, then gave way to excitement. “Look, Curly, there’s no need in us being fools. You don’t owe this fellow anything, not after the way he’s chased us around the last couple or three years. A thousand dollars! And all we got to do to get it is tell Clive Bannock where Tillman is.”
Curly Kirkendall trembled in anger. “Shut up, Bryce.”
Fancher’s face darkened. “You’re making a fool of yourself, Curly. But I don’t aim to. I’m going to see Bannock.”
Curly Kirkendall took one step forward and swung his fist so fast that Scott hardly saw it before Bryce Fancher’s head jerked from its impact. The outlaw struck the packed floor on his back and rolled over onto his hands. Blood swelled into a ruby bead on Fancher’s split lower lip.
“Get up, Bryce,” Curly gritted. “Say another word about this and I’ll lay your skull open with a gun barrel.”
Fancher swayed to his feet and stiffly moved out the door, his eyes burning.
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Curly jerked a thumb after him. “Better go keep an eye on him, Wilkes.”
Wilkes sauntered out after Fancher.
Scott raised up onto his elbow, the cot groaning under him. “You don’t have to fight my battles for me, Curly.”
Curly frowned. “Are you in any shape to fight them yourself?” He grinned then, and slapped Scott on the good shoulder. “Anyhow, you skinned a wildcat or two for me, back yonder.”
Nell Owen was working around the cast iron stove in the end of the dugout which served as a kitchen. Lying on his cot, Scott noticed how Curly’s eyes softened as he watched the girl. Something of the wild, happy-go-lucky light went out of them, and a pinched, regretful look took its place.
Curly’s mouth twisted in embarrassment as he caught Scott watching him.
“Scott,” he said presently, “there isn’t a girl from here to Canada that could beat her. I hope you know that.”
Scott nodded. “I know it.”
Curly’s face hardened in self-condemnation. “In my time I’ve known more girls than you could count out of a gate in an hour. And yet, somehow, I haven’t known a one. Maybe if I had…”
Bitterly, he said something under his breath and dropped his cigarette. He got up and stomped out the door.
Scott looked after him a moment. Then his eyes drifted back to Nell Owen. A proud smile touched his face as he eased his head wearily back down upon his pillow.
Curly’s excited voice brought him up again. “Scott! Nell! You got to get out of here. Bryce Fancher’s gone, and you can guess where he went!”
Nell Owen’s face paled a second. Then she was over it. “March! Pike! Get the horses saddled.” Her voice was as strong as it had ever been. “What do you think, Scott? Can you make it?”
“I guess so.” Anger swelled in him. “But I’m getting tired of running like a scared rabbit. I’m half a mind to stay here.”
Nell ripped off the old bandage and bound a new one in its place. “Don’t argue with me, Scott Tillman. You’re still not in any shape to stand up against Clive Bannock. Besides, if you stayed it would mean more trouble for Curly. I’d say he’s got about all he needs.”
March and Pike rode their horses up to the dugout door, leading Nell’s and Scott’s. Scott glimpsed the man named Wilkes, being helped back from the barn, a bloody streak down the side of his head.
Boosted up into his saddle, Scott almost swayed off on the opposite side. Then he got his balance. The saddle and the feel of a strong horse beneath him settled him some and bolstered his confidence.
Curly looked levelly at him. “Scott, I got a notion you’ll get your association now. What’s happened the last few days ought to pull the ranches together against Bannock. They’ll listen to you now.
“I want you to know that I’m fixing to leave this country. When all the ranches pull together, there isn’t any room for me anymore. That’s the way with the High Land bunch, too. When they see a strong association lined up against them, they’ll clear out as quick as they can get their horses saddled.”
Curly took off his hat. A lock of unruly red hair fell across his forehead as he turned to Nell. Without a word, he leaned forward and kissed her surprised face.
“Take care of our friend there,” he said grinning, nodding toward Scott.
“I will,” she said. Then to Scott, “Which way do you want to go?”
“The Lazy D.”
Her face dropped a little, and he knew what she was thinking. Wilma Dixon. But she nodded and said, “The Lazy D it is.”
Before the three men and the girl topped their horses over the rise and dropped down out of sight of the camp, Scott looked back. He saw Curly Kirkendall still standing there, watching them. Or, Scott thought, watching Nell …
Darkness was almost upon them when they heard the noise. It drifted in from behind them, so faint they could hardly catch it. Nell Owen stepped out of the saddle and stood listening. Her face was grave. “Gunfire,” she said.
Scott’s heart froze. “Curly’s camp. Bannock!”
Without hesitation he reined his horse back around. Nell Owen tried to stop him. “Whatever happens, Scott, we can’t get there in time to do any good. And you won’t stand a chance against the bunch Bannock will have with him.”
He wasted no breath in argument. “I’m going back.”
Anguish was in her face, but she knew what a man had to do, and she said nothing more. She rode at his side as the four of them spurred back toward Curly’s dugout, reeling the miles off behind them.
They found nothing but dead silence at the camp, a silence unbroken except by the faint crackle of flames inside the dugout.
Scott’s teeth clenched. “He wrecked it all. He set fire to what would burn and tore up the rest.”
There were bodies around the camp. In the darkness they managed to find three. All had been Curly’s men. Scott and Nell called and searched but could not find the outlaw leader.
“He’s lying out there dead someplace, and it’s too dark for us to see him,” Scott gritted. His left fist hammered in futile rage against his saddle horn.
“It was a massacre.”
“Come on, Scott,” Nell said quietly. “We can’t do any good here.”
He lowered his head. “No, I guess not. But it isn’t over. Curly, I promise you, it isn’t over.”
The moon rode high above the big rock house of the Lazy D when Scott, Nell, and the two old cowpunchers kneed their horses between the high poles of the front gate and trotted them up to the yard fence. Lamplight shone bright and welcome through the curtained windows.
Scott started to swing down by himself, but Nell protested quickly and caught his shoulder.
“You’re already getting too big for your britches. You wait till we help you down.”
She was smiling, but it was a thin smile that did a poor job of hiding anxiety.
Wilma Dixon answered the knock on the door. Her eyes widened in unbelief as the splash of lamplight spilled across Scott’s face.
He saw her tremble as her gaze fell upon his tightly bound shoulder.
“Scott!” she breathed. Her blue eyes went to Nell. “Bring him in,” she said quickly.
Inside, Wilma Dixon leaned against Scott and began to cry. “I thought … I thought … Oh, Scott, I didn’t know what to think.”
“I’m all right,” he told her gently, his good hand on her arm.
Nell turned away quickly, but not before Scott saw the sick look in her eyes.
Footsteps thumped upon the porch. Scott turned toward them, and Wilma Dixon stepped back. Doug McKinney pushed through the door. His jaw sagged in surprise. His eyes made a quick sweep over Scott, Nell, and the two cowhands. They were hard eyes when McKinney wanted them to be. But right now there was no hardness in them.
He stood back uncertainly. “Scott,” he said, “it’s good to see you.”
There was evident embarrassment in the way he stood stiffly, a wan smile creeping across his face. “It doesn’t come easy to admit I’ve been wrong, Scott. But I was. I’d like to shake your hand, if you’ll let me.”
Scott shoved forward his left hand.
“Bannock burned me out,” Doug McKinney said. “He’s been like a wild man since you … since Fletch was killed. I’ve been afraid he might hurt Wilma, seeing as you used to be foreman here. So I moved my men over here.”
“What about your own place?” Scott asked.
Doug shrugged. “Wilma’s more important to me than anything else.” The hardness came back into his eyes. “But I’ll tell you, Scott, it’s gone about as far as it can go. All the ranchers in the high country are ready to do something … anything. And it’s going to have to be done quick.”
Scott knotted his fist. His gaze moved from Doug to Wilma and then to Nell Owen. For a long moment he regarded her, his heart warming. Doug McKinney had abandoned his ranch to be able to protect Wilma Dixon. Nell Owen had left her own place to the heavy hand of Clive Bannock so she could save Sco
tt.
Scott turned back to Doug McKinney. “You say the ranchers are all ready, Doug. Would they, come and come quick if we sent the word, if there was somebody to ride in front and know what he was doing?”
Sudden interest leaped into McKinney’s eyes. “They would.”
Confidence began to surge into Scott Tillman as he thought out his plan. “Then we’ll start, Doug, now—tonight!”
He leaned forward, eagerness burning new color into the face that had paled from pain. “Here’s how I see it. High Land is where most of Clive Bannock’s strength is. That’s where he gets the renegades to do his cattle-running and his burning-out. He’s got the county law siding him because they think he’s a cinch to come out a winner.
“But they’re wrong. We’re going to clean up High Land first. It’ll be like cutting off Bannock’s right arm. Then whatever we have to do about Bannock won’t be half as hard. He knows he can cut us out one by one and whip us. But if we can all work together, he can’t whip us, Doug. That’s why he did everything he could to undermine the association and keep us fighting one another.”
Enthusiasm was a spark that struck from a word and burst into bright flame among the group huddled in the lamplit parlor. Futile anger had been riding them all, and suddenly now they could see purpose ahead.
Only Wilma Dixon held back. “Scott, you’ve always been the one who was most against violence. Don’t you know High Land won’t give in easily? There’ll be blood spilled in its streets, and some of it will be ours.”
Scott shook his head. “I don’t think so. Curly said something to me. He said that as long as the ranchers were fighting each other, he’d do all right. But if they ever got together, if they ever formed a real association, he was going to clear out as fast as he could get his horse saddled. And he said he wouldn’t be the only one. I think we can run a bluff on High Land. I think we can whip it without having to fire a shot.”
At midmorning the first cow outfit arrived in High Land. Turk Dedecker, cardsharp and occasional cow thief, was out behind his picket shack washing his face in cold water in an effort to clear his pounding, drink-swollen head. He heard the splash of horses wading across the boggy river and looked up quickly, wiping the water from his red-veined face with a dirty, frayed towel.