Brack went deadly calm. He started organizing. So the Storms wanted it rough. Then he’d oblige them. He snapped orders, men hurried to obey. There were no supplies, they could all starve here if something wasn’t done quickly. With the burning of a house and all that was in it, a secure strong outfit was suddenly weak and insecure. It was a daunting thought.
A half-dozen men were told off to go and catch up the horses. They wouldn’t have gone far. Dwyer shouted names, men wheeled their horses away, searching for the sign of the scattered remuda. Hitch some of the saddle-horses to that wagon and get down to Spring Creek for supplies. Two men for that job. And let them move fast. The saddle-horses didn’t take to being hitched to a wagon and they played merry hell. Men’s tempers started to fray. Curses were heard.
The men had to eat. Dwyer was ordered to get a steer butchered. The cook was told to build an oven and get a fire going. There were enough supplies on the pack animals for a while. The cook didn’t know how to build an oven. Somebody show the heathen bastard. The place became a flurry of activity. Brack went off to one side by himself to watch and occasionally yell an order. He smoked cigars and he thought. But thinking wasn’t easy, he was too enraged to keep a clear head.
Finally, he called Dwyer to him.
‘First,’ he said, ‘we have to find the Storms.’
‘They could have lit out, Mr. Brack,’ Dwyer said.
‘They burned the house.’
‘Maybe that was just out of revenge. Hell, they daresn’t stick around here after this.’
‘There’s Mart Storm and that Negra. They have spunk. Never underestimate your enemy, Dwyer. No, they’re around here some place. My guess is they’re hid out in the hills to the west. So we have to find ’em. How do we go about that?’
‘We need a tracker. Some of the hands are good readin’ sign,’ the foreman suggested.
‘No, we need the best.’
‘There’s Pete Yewley.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Half-breed Ute. They’d know where to find him down at Spring Creek.’
‘Send that man Tristem with the wagon. He looks brighter than the rest. I want that breed back here by tomorrow at the latest.’
‘Yes, Mr. Brack.’
Dwyer walked off to inform Tristem who was getting the wagon ready for the trail. Ten minutes later, Tristem with a hand named George Twiney, drove out going north on the wagon. Brack was left to consider the problem of making a fighting force out of a bunch of cowhands. He looked across at the three gun-hands who were squatted talking among themselves, smoking, considering themselves too superior to be doing chores with the others. He smiled to himself. They’d be earning their keep before they were done.
Chapter Eleven
It was a fine day and it was good to be alive. Spring was in the air, the grass was up and green. Tristem and Twiney rode the heavily loaded wagon and half-dozen in the heat of the rising sun. As they had been ordered, they had kept moving. They had reached Spring Creek the previous evening and had obtained their stores from the newly established trading post. They’d downed a few well-deserved drinks, swapped news with Hiram Shuster, the store-owner, and discovered that the half-breed they sought was camped no more than a mile down the creek. Tristem went after him and found him lazing around there in company with his Indian wife and three or four half-naked brats. He had dickered a little over the price, finally come to an agreement and reluctantly said that he would set off for Broken Spur that very evening. Later he had ridden through Spring Creek on a ragged Indian pony and headed south. Tristem and Twiney, the wagon loaded, had set off at a slower pace after him. The horses were tired and they seemed to have settled down to be wagon-pullers.
It was half-way home that it happened.
It happened very quietly and they knew that there was nothing they could do about it. A grizzled Negro simply walked out on to the trail with a rifle in his hands and told them to pull up. They were correctly under the impression that if they didn’t do exactly as they were told they would be dead men. Neither of them were inclined to be dead heroes for the paltry sum of thirty dollars a month, so they obeyed. They climbed down on one side, as ordered, and shucked their guns into the dust of the trail. When the Negro told them to start walking north, they did so without an argument. In fact, they didn’t say one single word during the whole proceeding. They tramped off north with leaden hearts and already aching feet. Out of hearing of the Negro they agreed unanimously that given the chance at some future date, they would plant some well-placed lead in that man’s black hide. They agreed further that the act would give them exquisite pleasure.
As soon as they were around the bend in the trail, Joe Widbee got to work. He cut the horses from their traces and rigged them as best he could with straps and ropes to carry supplies. Then he loaded as much as he could on to their backs. That done, he pitched the remainder of the supplies from the wagon over the side of the trail into the rocks below and, with some physical effort, followed them with the wagon.
That done, he collected the gun-belts discarded by the cowhands and slung them with the rough packs on the horses, fetched his saddle-horse from the rocks and rode north along the trail leading his string of loaded Broken Spur horses behind him. A mile or more north of the point where he had stopped the wagon, he started down through the rocks and entered country so wild and broken, so overgrown with trees and brush that within minutes he was invisible from the trail above. He travelled steadily all the morning, then headed north along a narrow valley and came to water. This was a fast-running mountain stream that looked too rocky and fast to cross, but Joe had obviously planned his route and knew exactly what he was doing. He led his horses down into the water and crossed them at a spot where the water came no further than their knees. It wasn’t easy crossing them in the fast current, but he made it with some judicial cursing, landed safely on the far side and led them some fifty paces into the brush beyond. Now he halted and tied them, then returned back the way he had come and carefully wiped out his sign. When he went on, he angled south-east, finding his way through a tangle of country that would have puzzled a lesser man.
During the afternoon, he halted in a maze of rocks and brush and spent some time caching his supplies, doing the job carefully and without hurry. He retained ammunition for the rifles and revolvers, loading his saddle-bags to capacity and even slinging a box or two from the horn of his saddle. At a time like this, a man needed lead more than anything. That done to his satisfaction, chewing jerky in the saddle, he led his string of horses out in a westerly direction, reached a slow-running stream in the late afternoon and took them down it, going with the current and covering a fair distance while it was still light. He led them out of water on to a pebbly beach, then over rock and to a stretch of shale. He was now in rocky broken hills that would provide any searcher with little sign. This way, he travelled some distance before he suddenly turned south-east back on himself in a curve and let the horses reach grass from a north-westerly direction. At last, satisfied that he had given any tracker, however skilful, a good run for his money, he freed the horses and let them drift as they wished.
Turning, he retracted his steps. His horse was starting to tire, for, with the ammunition, it was carrying a good load, but he kept it stepping out smartly, reached the stream that he had used during the afternoon and worked his way back along it. He stayed in the water no longer than thirty minutes before he turned east, crossed rock to grass, travelled a short distance and returned on foot to wipe out sign from the rock to where he had left his horse.
He now rode on east at a trot, darkness overtaking him as he went. Although it was almost full dark, he moved forward without hesitation, probing the hills with a sureness that belonged to a man who had lived among them all his life. This way he went on for maybe a couple of hours until he was in the heart of a wild country that was a tangle of rocks, brush and timber. He halted and waited till he heard a voice call softly: ‘Over here, Joe.’
> He stepped down from the saddle and wearily led his horse forward. In a moment, he was beside Will Storm and they were treading their way through the rocks to the small camp. They didn’t speak till Joe had off-saddled and his horse was rolling on the patch of green sward among the rocks. It was a well-concealed spot and Will had a small bright fire going. Joe smelled coffee and his stomach reacted. Will poured him a cup and they squatted, sipping the bitter reviving liquid.
‘Well,’ Will said, ‘how’d it go?’
‘Fine,’ Joe told him and related his success. Will nodded with satisfaction. They now had ample supplies of food and ammunition. They could survive for a while without touching civilization and leaving trace. They had directed Brack’s attention to the east and that was what they both wanted. Mart and the women were in the hills to the west of the valleys. Will wasn’t too happy about their being there, but it was the best arrangement he could think of. Mart was badly wounded and there was danger in that direction from wild animals and Indians, but at least they were comparatively safe from Brack. While Will and Joe continued to hit Broken Spur, Brack would be forced to leave them alone.
‘You have luck?’ Joe asked.
Will nodded.
‘Caught a couple of line-riders in a small cabin about ten miles south-west of here. I took their boots and set ’em walkin’. Burned the cabin, scattered the horses and brought back their supplies. They were pretty mad. But I reckon they was thankful I didn’t kill ’em. When I first lined up my gun on them they sure looked like men expectin’ to die.’
Joe chuckled.
‘Brack’s sure goin’ to come a-lookin’ for us’ns,’ he said.
Will said: ‘We keep on the move. We lie quiet for a few days then we hit ’em again. They don’t know how many we are. They can’t know Mart’s hurt.’
‘Don’t you forget,’ Joe said, ‘that Brack can buy the best.’
‘I ain’t forgettin’ for one little minute,’ Will assured him.
‘Only one way to end this,’ Joe said. ‘Kill Brack. With him dead, there ain’t no fight.’
Will didn’t say anything. Joe knew what he was thinking. Will was too damned soft for this kind of thing. Fighting Brack this way was like fighting a man with one hand tied behind your back. Brack would kill them both if he could. Hang them. Any one of that army the man had down there in the valley would kill either one of them on sight.
‘I’m tellin’ you right now,’ Joe said. ‘I git that sonovabitch Brack in my sights, I blow his head off.’
Will looked troubled, but he didn’t say anything. Joe wondered what he could do to turn this man into a killer. Because that was what he had to be to win this one.
Will smiled.
‘One thing, Joe,’ he said, ‘we got ’em mighty worried.’
‘Sure,’ Joe snarled. ‘They goin’ to leave you have the valley because they worried.’
‘You’ll see,’ Will told him. ‘Brack ain’t God.’
Joe didn’t argue about that. Brack to him looked mighty like the Devil himself.
The talk stopped as it will between two men who know each other well and where there is total trust. They ate, cleaned their dishes in near-by water, checked the horses and retired to their blankets.
They rose before dawn, cooked themselves a good breakfast. They were both men who could forego food when necessary, but who both saw no sense in going without unless circumstances forced them. They knew that in the days that followed they would be eating light and travelling hard. Soon after first light, they each picked a strong horse from the animals they had with them, saddled up and rode out. They kept to the ridges, riding high and watching the country for movement. They were seeking the enemy and might save a whole lot of time and trouble if they spotted the enemy looking for them. They were intent on retaining the initiative they had gained. Pressure would be put on Broken Spur, judicious pressure, the pressure of action and that of inaction. They would worry the enemy when they hit him and when they didn’t hit him. Brack’s men had to feel that they risked their lives every time they rode into the mountains, that they were at risk as they ate and as they slept. Fear must be put into them until the idea penetrated their heads that it was a wise thing to do to ride clear out of the country.
Neither man fooled themselves that it would be easy. Both secretly suspected that it was impossible. The odds were appalling. Both knew that they were fighting Ed Brack’s pride. The man could not afford to be defeated; his whole reputation rested upon his strength and his power. His men were countless and his coffers bottomless. He could buy an army to fight them if it proved necessary. If necessary, he could fight his way through this spring and summer and start again in the new spring. Will knew that Joe could be right - a good many men would have to die before this was ended. Ed Brack was banking on the fact that Will would not have the grit to get himself into something like that. Grimly, to himself, Will said that Brack was horribly wrong. There was no man on earth so stubborn as Will Storm when his back was to the wall.
His one great fear was for Martha and the girls. And the wounded Mart. They were his terribly weak flank and he prayed fervently that Brack would not find it. At the moment it looked like things were going Will’s way, yet the truth had to be faced that Brack was occupying his own valley and Will had been driven from his. He and Joe had to hold on, hitting Brack whenever they could, taking no chances until Clay and the crew came in from Texas. Will’s strength would then be increased, but then also he would have to be faced by the fact that the mode of fighting would have to be changed. He would also have several thousand head of cattle to worry about.
They travelled through the day, warily, sighting once a lone prospector with a couple of burros creeping along a valley floor on foot far below them. The only other thing that lived up here was game. They would have liked to shoot for the pot, but they dared not, for they were coming near Brack’s valley.
They timed their approach nicely. Or rather Joe did, for Will left such things to the expert. They came out above the blackened ruins of Brack’s headquarters the right amount of time before dusk and edged their way down the mountain, meaning to hit them in the light and escape in the dark, perpetually hitting them from the east to pull them away from the west.
They approached as close as they could on their horses, then dismounted and tied their animals. Both men were tensed up. They knew that by this time a man like Brack would have his men fully organized. Will and Joe would have to get in close for good shooting and there was always the chance that they would be cut off from their horses. If that happened, there was a rope awaiting them.
‘Now you do like I say,’ Will said. I’ll do the shootin’. You watch no bastard gits around behind me an’ shoots me up the butt.’
Joe nodded and looked like a man who thought the other man crazy. His approach to a problem like this was simple. Both of you crept up as close as you could, you fired as fast and as accurately as you knew how and you killed as many men as you could. That way there would be less to hit you later. But Will didn’t see it that way. More fool him.
They took their rifles from their saddle-boots, checked them and started down the hillside. When they had walked for a while, they once more came in sight of the ruined headquarters. Will stopped. He picked his spot carefully.
‘You got a good view from here. You stay here. I’m goin’ to work my way forward and a bit to the right.’
Joe nodded.
Will went on down and was soon lost to view.
He stopped a good way below Joe and lay down on a natural ledge of rock immediately above the camp. From here he had a perfect view unobstructed by rocks and brush. He reckoned he could hit two-three men before he lit a shuck. He knew that this was probably the last chance of such an attack. After this Brack, if he had any sense, would have pickets out.
There were maybe eight or ten men in the camp below. He reckoned nobody in the camp would be feeling too cheerful right now, not with their supply wagon taken
off them. And by now they would have had the news that their easterly line camp had been burned down. They would be starting to feel the pressure. After this maybe some of them would be demanding their time.
Will jacked a round into the breech of his rifle and chose his targets. He’d start with the men nearest cover and work inward towards the open ground. That way, he would catch the most. He wondered if one of them was Ed Brack. It might make a lot of difference to the operation if he were out of action for a while.
There was a fellow leading a horse out of the rocks towards the camp. He was the nearest and made a comparatively easy shot. It was so easy, Will felt a little sorry for the man. He put aside the pity when he remembered that there wasn’t a man down there who wouldn’t put a rope around his neck for wages.
He lined his rifle up.
In a second the peace of the scene would be broken. All hell would be let loose. The smoke drifted. A horse whinnied, the sound carrying on the still near-to-dusk air.
He fired.
The man’s left leg was knocked from under him. He clutched at the horse, the animal shied away from him and he measured his length on the ground.
The whole scene seemed to explode after a second’s inaction. For that second every man there was still, head jerked around eyes staring, trying to locate the shot, fright touching them.
The hit man yelled.
A man started running. A difficult target. Will had levered and fired. Missed. The man’s legs were working frantically. Will jacked and fired again.
The man seemed to trip on his own feet. He tumbled over and over.
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