The old man shook his head bleakly. “Ain’t being pushed out again,” he declared. “We’ll fight ’em.”
“You and how many? Twenty? Thirty? That head man at Paradise is running a railroad scam. Do you know what that means? He’ll buy himself an army if that’s what it takes.”
“I got kin.”
“Takes more than kin.” Falcon’s grin was as cold as a thaw breeze. “Believe me, I know about that.”
“Make your point, MacCallister.”
Falcon shrugged. “My point is, you Barlows aren’t alone any more. You don’t have to be. You can have allies if you’re willing to team up.”
“Never had nobody tote our load.” Cassius glared. “Why’d anybody do that?”
“It’s what neighbors do.”
MacCallister pointed westward, and the old man and his flankers turned. Atop the rise to the west were silhouettes—a dozen, then a dozen more, then more than could be counted at a glance. Some of them were mounted, many were not. They came onward, plodding down the long slopes where spring grass was greening. Men, women, and children they came, with their meager stock and a few old wagons, and they carried the tools and weapons they had at hand.
“Those folks might make neighbors, if you’ll let them,” Falcon said. “The man in the lead there is named Iverson. He and his folks have tried their hand at mining, up by Black Mesa. But the gold around here isn’t in the rocks. It’s in the fertile land. They see that now. They’re ready to settle in, if there’s neighbors here they can tolerate.”
Beyond Cassius and his sons, Becky Barlow pulled off her old hat and shook her head. Rich auburn hair cascaded to her shoulders. “Army?” she scoffed. “I don’t see any army yonder. All I see’s a bunch of fools with picks an’ shovels.”
Falcon shrugged. “It’s a start.”
Old Cassius shook his head. “What are we supposedto do with that bunch? Take ’em in?”
“Why not? Them and more like them. They’ll need all the help they can get ... but in return they’ll give their friendship, if you’re worth it. You and yours have had bad times, Barlow. Well, so have they.”
“Pretty sorry lookin’ bunch,” Becky Barlow allowed.“We don’t need strangers.”
“You’d be dead now if it hadn’t been for a stranger,” Falcon reminded her. “Have you forgottenJubal Mason?”
“Him? He happened along, is all.”
“Well, he’ll happen again. Him and his brothers. They’re up at Haymeadows Ranch. Might settle in there, if they have reason to. Might even join up with good neighbors.” He turned to the old man. “You ever study on the past, Mr. Barlow?”
“I read the Good Book,” Cassius admitted. “An’ maybe a mite more.”
“Well, a long time ago there was a fellow ... his name was like yours. Cassius. He showed how folks can take root on a land, and give a hand to their neighbors, and come fighting time it takes more than some army to put them off. You might think on that, while you say hello to your new neighbors.”
The old man turned himself full around, gazing out across the greening miles. It was a tempting notion—tohave neighbors beyond kin that one could count on. But hard times whispered of hard times past, and he shook his head.
“ ’Tain’t our concern,” he said, “what t’others do. Barlows won’t tolerate bein’ pushed, but I don’t reckon we’ll push none, either. Them in that town, they’ll let us alone or wish they had. But we ain’t takin’ no hand past that.”
MacCallister sighed. “Turtles hole up in their shells, Mr. Barlow,” he said. “But that doesn’t keep folks that want it from eating turtle soup. You can’t hide from men like that Paradise bunch, and you can’t stand alone. There’s people here that will help you, if you let them.”
Cassius shook his head again, with finality. “Barlowsquit expectin’ help a long time ago,” he said. “Don’t ask it, don’t want it. It ain’t our concern.”
“Then you don’t want neighbors?”
The old man gazed at him thoughtfully. “There’s land enough, I reckon. Not our affair if some want to settle it.” He looked up at one of his sons. “Mercy Cole an’ them are camped back at Rock Gulch,” he said. “An’ there’s a plenty hauled up north of Supply,lookin’ for places to light. Y’all get the word out. Land’s here for takin’, water for sharin’. Barlows get first claim, but anybody that’ll leave us alone is welcometo the rest.”
He turned again to Falcon. “Best I can do,” he said. “We’ll tend our own. What others do ain’t our concern.”
“By God,” Kurt Obermire swore, “there’s squatterspoppin’ out of the ground!”
Six miles out of Paradise, the vigilantes had crested a ridge and stopped there, in confusion. The Vigilance Committee had ridden out of Paradise in force, aiming for Rabbit Creek. They intended to clear out the last remaining squatters down there—the Barlow clan.
But even before they could see Rabbit Creek they saw settlements. In the distance was the smoke of dozens of cookfires, and closer in—spreading across the landscape all along the three little valleys that meandered down toward Rabbit Creek—were the canvas tents, wagontops, and fresh clearings of newly claimed homesteads.
Where there had been one squatter’s nest—the main Barlow place—now there were dozens, spread over two or three sections of prime land. Even from this distance—a mile from the nearest claim—the vigilantes could see movement. Riders ranged across the grasslands and the saged hills, going from one claim to another.
Where there had been one occupied claim and a few burned-out ruins around it, there was now a whole settlement of squatters. Like ants to a busted den, the settlers had moved in, bag and baggage, and begun rebuilding.
And not a one of them, Kurt knew, had bought a title from the Paradise Land Company.
“By God!” the big man muttered again. “Asa’s gonna go off like a bomb when he finds out about this!”
He thought of the map in O’Brien’s land office, and of the marks on it that showed the railway route that weasel Sypher had brought in, and his eyes widenedeven more. “By God in Heaven!” he roared.
Between this sprawl of “Barlow trash” down there on Rabbit Creek and that bunch of horse thieves up at Haymeadows, the whole “right-of-way” was litteredwith squatters at both ends, with Paradise right in the middle.
“Lord have mercy!” Kurt said.
“We been seen,” a rider said, pointing. A mile away, there were riders on a hill, bunched and lookingtheir way. Out across the sagebrush lands beyond,other riders were appearing, coming to face the intruders.
“I thought we had this whole valley cleaned out, just a month ago,” Tad Sands blustered. “All but them Barlows.”
“They want to play games?” Obermire muttered. “I’ll show ‘em games.” He waved a man forward. “Colby, take ten men and hit that nearest squat. Hit ’em hard and fast, then circle back here.”
As the vigilantes galloped away, yellow bandanas flapping like signals, Kurt pointed at another of his men. “You!” he ordered. “Take the rest of these boys and swing around. You see that claim yonder, where the burned barn is? You hit that, and shoot anythin’ that moves. Then head back here. Those riders out there will be followin’ you or Colby ... maybe both. I’ll be waitin’ under that bluff yonder. When you get back here, pile off an’ take cover. We’ll catch ‘em in a crossfire. They won’t know what hit ’em!”
NINETEEN
For a few moments, Obermire watched his gunmenmaking for the settlements. Sure enough, as he had figured, when the first bunch lit out the distantriders moved to intercept them. Then, when the second wave thundered south, the defenders milled in confusion, finally breaking into two groups, one after each vigilante band.
Obermire grinned in evil satisfaction. This was goingto be easy. His men might make it to the claims and do some killing, or they might not. It would be a close thing. Either way, they would draw in those squatters out there and then head back here with angry settlers hot on
their tails.
He had chosen his ground well. To his right was a hill eroded deep by a washout bluff. To the left were thickets of scrub cedar, crowding the crests of a dozen gullies that twisted and turned along the east side of a rising flat.
It was a fine place for an ambush. Plenty of cover for them that got here first, and a crossfire field to catch whoever followed.
He walked his horse into the cover of a cedar screen and dismounted. Up there, under that bluff, would be the best spot. From there he could direct his vigilantes’ fire, and pick off anybody who tried to stray west from the pursuit.
Carrying his rifle, Kurt worked his way up the clay bank slope and climbed the hill above the bluff. Shading his eyes, he squinted out across the hazed distance. His first group hadn’t made it to the exposedsettlement. A gang of fifteen or twenty riders had cut them off short of the watercourse and turned them back.
Dust hid the scene out there from view, but he knew what was happening when he heard the distant ragged crackle of gunfire. The boys were throwing some lead, to get the defenders involved. They would hold there a minute or two, then feign retreat and lead their opponents right back here.
There would be plenty of time to dig in. The defenderswere split and confused. They would hesitate to follow. Then they would see the pursuit of the second band off to their left, and they would join in. It was working perfectly.
For long minutes, Kurt Obermire stood on the hill and watched his plan unfold. Then he headed down to the edge of the bluff. It was time to lay his trap.
Glancing back toward the cedar brake, he saw his horse grazing contentedly on new spring grass. It was well-hidden there, except from above. Looking beyond, he caught his breath. Just beyond a scrub thicket, there was a second horse—a short-coupled paint barely discernible through the brush.
With a whispered oath, the big man crouched and raised his rifle, his eyes scanning the terrain all around. He saw nothing, and when he looked back, the paint was gone, too. It was higher up, and in thick cover, and when it moved it faded from sight as though it had never been there.
A stray, he told himself. It’s wandered into deeper cover. Again he surveyed the area, more carefully this time, letting his eyes rest on every feature, every clump and thicket, every clay bank and patch.
Nothing.
Satisfied that he was alone, he returned his attentionto the distant rolling hills, where dust feathers rose on the wind. From there he could see nothing, but he could guess what was happening. His first group was on its way back now, riding hard. But nobody was pursuing them. The squatters had brokenoff to go after the second bunch.
It was ideal. Colby and his ten men would arrive minutes before the rest. He would have a dozen men already in place here by the time the other twenty arrived, with squatters hard on their tails.
“Perfect,” Kurt muttered. “That’s just fine.”
Off to the right, down below the lip of the bluff, was a washout area where the loam and clay had been scoured away by some ancient flood. A tapered,almost vertical clay bank shouldered a cut in the hillside, with scrub brush above it and a talus fall below, offering a clear view to the south. From there he would be able to see and direct the killing.
He worked his way around a shoulder and found a path to climb down to the vantage point under the bluff.
He thought again of the paint horse he had glimpsed, just a hundred yards up from his own in the brushy draw, but put it from his mind as Colby’s riders appeared around a rise a quarter-mile away. They had already seen what was happening behind them, and were working their way northward, stayingoff the skyline.
Obermire took a hard look around him. Then he set his rifle down to wrestle a fallen cottonwood log around for cover. Powerful shoulders hunched, he half-lifted the heavy trunk and trundled it around.
A few yards away something buzzed angrily.
He dropped the tree and stepped back, but the rattlesnake slithered off into the sparse grass, headingaway. He stomped and trod the length of his little fort, from downslope to clay bank, and stirred up no more snakes.
He was just reaching for his rifle when something moved. From the corner of his eye he saw the facelessclay bank shift and separate, as though one small section of it had slid slightly to the side. He looked up, and that little section was a person—a small intensepresence so smeared with dry mud and dusty clay that even as it moved it was hard to see! Ten feet from Kurt Obermire, the clay-daubed figure crouched, raised a rifle, and fired.
The first shot shattered Obermire’s larynx, silencinghis cry in a spray of gore. The rifle’s action chattered,and a second shot rode the echoes of the first. The big man’s kneecap exploded, and he fell, still scrambling for his rifle. A third rapid shot punched into his shoulder, and his clawing hand went dead.
Helpless and bleeding, Obermire lay on the talus slope and watched in horror as the muddy figure methodically chambered another round in its dainty little rifle and fired again. Wave after wave of pain seared through the outlaw and convulsed in a scream that became only a gurgle through the blood pulsing from his ruined throat.
“Big yoneg, ” the clay-smeared figure scoffed. “Big an‘da’tsi.” Obermire squirmed, lashed out with his good hand. A rifle butt knocked it aside.
Through misted eyes, Kurt squinted up at the small figure. A kid! Just a grubby half-grown Indian kid. Even standing over him, despising him, the boy was hard to see. He was smeared head to toe with mud—stripes and swatches of dark mud, drying dust, and reddish bank clay. Even in motion, the kid seemed part of the terrain.
“You beat my father to death, an’da’tsi, ”the figure said. “Do you remember?”
On the talus slope, the outlaw writhed and gurgled,his life pulsing from him with each spurt of dark blood.
“I am the rattlesnake,” the kid said. “Remember that. When the worms ask who gave them your rot, you tell them it was a Cherokee rattler.”
The final shot from the small, high-powered rifle was the last sound Kurt Obermire ever heard.
Colby’s vigilantes found what was left of the big man. They had heard the shooting moments before as they came up the draw, and now they stared down at the mutilated corpse of their leader and cast wary glances at the shrubbery all around. There was no one there. Whoever had killed Kurt Obermire was gone, leaving no more trace than a spring breeze leaves in passing.
“Look at them holes,” they muttered among themselves. “It’s like Folly Downs was. Just shot to hell with little holes. It’s devil work, is what it is.”
They found Obermire’s horse and hoisted the dead man across its saddle. By then the rest of the vigilantes were there. The settlers behind them had veered off, alerted by the whiplash echoes of gunfire.
Colby and some others circled around for a time, searching for sign. Then a few of them headed back toward Paradise, taking Obermire’s body with them.
Most of them, though, decided to go with Colby and Tad Sands, who were itching now to get at those squatters down along the creeks and draws. These were hired guns, most of them wanted men with nowhere else to go and little to lose. There was little loyalty among them, and less friendship, but they rode for the wages and would go on doing that until the wages ran out.
Colby had been put in charge. Now he stayed in charge, and the killing fever ran high in him. He had seen the money that came from the big overlandwagon, and he knew what it meant. There were high stakes here, and a railroad coming. Obermire had failed to dominate the land, and the man who succeeded would stand to share in the profits.
Not all of the Vigilance Committee would take ordersfrom Colby, but some would.
Off in the sloping hills, the little army of settlers that had outguessed Kurt Obermire and somehow avoided his trap began to disperse. There was work to do, and most of those squatters were farmers beforethey were fighters. They had families to see to, game to shoot, sheds to build, and cabins to begin.
By the time the sun was quartering in the west, th
ere was no sign of the mounted men who had been patrolling from stead to stead. Colby and his yellow-bands made a cold meal, saddled their mounts, and headed out, but not for Paradise. Colby had read the taunting signs about horses for sale posted by an A&M Land and Cattle Company, at Haymeadows Ranch. He didn’t know where that was, but if it was in No Man’s Land it shouldn’t be too hard to find.
Vincent Colby had been willing to ride for the colonel as long as the money was good and prospectsbright. But He had seen the vigilantes thrown back twice now, and he didn’t have a good feeling about that. Jackson was dead, and Obermire was dead. If the colonel had his way, Colby might wind up dead, too, for nothing but wages.
So he would do things his own way, now. First there were horses to be taken, and maybe other livestock,too. Colby knew people across the line who paid good money for critters, and no questions asked.
He was tired of working for wages. It was the leaderswho got rich, not the hired gunnies. Maybe when the vigilantes were through, Colby could be calling the shots. And maybe that wagonful of money and the railroad profits it represented would be as much his as the colonel’s.
Colby was no fool. He knew the odds in going up against any of Asa Parker’s bunch. Each one of them—Casper Wilkerson with his shotgun, and the rest with their handguns—was sudden enough to make any man back off, if he could.
Folly Downs and Kurt Obermire were dead now, but it was from a rifle. No man had ever stood up to either of them with a revolver and lived.
Colby had wondered from time to time whether he might beat Tuck Kelly to the draw if it ever came to that. But even if he could—and somehow escape Casper Wilkerson’s greener—there was still that crazy deadly Billy Challis out there somewhere.
And there was the only man Billy was afraid of—Asa Parker himself.
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