by Peter Dawson
“What good’ll it do us?” Blaze plainly didn’t like the idea of going so far afoot.
Clark shrugged. “We can’t miss any chances.”
Blaze agreed grudgingly and they started down the slope, the redhead soon out of sight among the trees off to the left. As soon as he was sure he couldn’t be seen, Clark broke into a run. He moved carelessly, so that when he neared the lower margin of the trees a Diamond crewman who had been standing at the front of the blacksmith shop had stepped around the building and was looking toward the hill, attracted by the sound of his coming.
Clark advanced boldly a few steps into the open and beckoned to the man. He was impatient over the other’s slow approach and showed it when he snapped: “Get Harper up here. Right away, Tillson.”
“He’s over at the house with Vanover.” The man’s face bore an ugly scar over the right eye. He wore a holstered gun, butt foremost, high at the left side of his waist.
“Get him anyway.”
Crossing the back lot toward the trees that screened the house, Tillson’s stride was no longer indifferent, proof of how much weight Clark’s curt order had carried.
Tillson was gone nearly five minutes. When he reappeared, he went across toward the bunkhouse and out of sight. Clark was about to call to him when Harper walked out of the trees.
“Anyone see you come out here?” was Clark’s first question.
“No. Vanover and the girl are still talkin’.”
“She’s back?” Clark asked, for Blaze hadn’t known when Jean was to return to Diamond.
“Rode in around noon. When I asked her where she’d been, she looked kind o’ funny and told me I needed a shave.” Harper ran a hand over his freshly shaven and hawkish face. “Didn’t want to talk. You know anything about it?”
“You’ll get that later,” Clark said. “Bonnyman’s goin’ to raid the layout tonight. It’ll probably be late. I’ll try and swing it so he’ll split his men. Maybe I’ll get the chance to send word over on exactly what to expect. In case I don’t, take halfyour men and . . .” “There won’t be no powder burned,” Harper drawled. “Vanover’s gettin’ ready to go see Bonnyman and make his peace with him. If I’m guessin’ right, he’ll try and have me jailed. Or at least Tillson. He’s the one who cut down that Anchor man this mornin’.”
“Don’t let Vanover see Bonnyman,” said Clark. “Keep him and the girl here. This fight has to come off, Neal. And you won’t lose a man if we work it right. After it’s over, later on tonight, you and your bunch can ride the pass across to Junction and hop that early morning express.”
“How do I keep from losin’ my men?”
“Easy enough. How many can you count on?”
“Only six. The regular crew is actin’ a little shy.” Harper smiled wryly.
“Then put four men about half a mile out the basin trail, the other two in the timber east of the house. They can pick off Bonnyman’s crew as they come in. Stick to that arrangement unless I get word in to change it.”
Harper’s smile broadened. “So it’s that easy, eh? Any particular scalps you’d like to collect?”
“Bonnyman’s.” Clark was going to let it go at that when he added, on impulse: And Charley Staples’s.” He could make doubly sure of getting the Singletree by having only Staples’s widow to deal with.
The gunman nodded. “This ought to call for sweetenin’ the kitty, hadn’t it?”
Clark unbuttoned his shirt and reached under it to unfasten a money belt. He let Harper see the bulging pouches of the belt but opened only one. He unwadded the bills he removed from it. “Here’s four hundred. You get four hundred more from Saygar on your way out. I’ll get it up to him later tonight.”
Harper frowned. “I don’t trust that jasper, boss,” he said, but took the proffered banknotes.
“You’ll get your dinero. Mike’s too deep in this to try a double-cross. Here’s another thing. You’re to head up to Saygar’s camp now. Get there as quick as you can and tell him Coyle and Joe Bonnyman are droppin’ in on him in a couple hours. Tell him Bonnyman’s primed to make him talk. He’ll know what to do.” “Bonnyman! I thought you said you . . .”
“I know,” Clark cut in. “But he’s still alive. We’ll make sure of him tonight. Got everything straight?”
“Do I get back down here before the ball starts rollin’?” “You’ll have plenty of time. And remember to keep Vanover here. You can do it without bein’ rough with the girl, too. Don’t let a man like Tillson handle it.”
“Gentry gets that job,” Harper said. “That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
Clark waited until Harper had walked back as far as the trees, out of six-gun range, before he turned his back and started up the slope. He had caught the narrow-eyed way in which the gunman eyed his money belt.
Saygar Wins a Hand
It was from across the Troublesome, the west bank, that Joe made his careful inspection of the outlaw camp. He was out of the saddle, holding the bay’s bridle close on the chance that the animal might try to signal the horses he knew must be across there somewhere.
It was obvious that Saygar’s men were making no attempt to hide their presence here, for a big blaze lit the shoulder of the timber-crested knoll, throwing into dark relief the nearest jack pines and glinting dully from the oily, mounded swells of the creek. Pecos worked by the fire, spending some minutes over a batch of biscuit dough that he finally dropped into a Dutch oven lifted above the coals by a forked stick. Several times Reibel and Whitey crossed boldly before the fire. Joe, well acquainted with the habits of men on the hoof, realized that they must be enjoying this brief relaxation from their wary ways that had put them here for the outwardly legitimate purpose of homesteading.
Knowing that they had relaxed their vigilance, and also that the roar of the stream would hide the approach of a rider, Joe rode downstream a short distance until he came to a point where the creek split up into two channels around a narrow neck of high ground. Here he put the bay across to the east bank, the water rising above the stirrups. Less than five minutes later he looked down from the timber above the camp to see Mike Saygar’s arrival.
Joe felt a keen disappointment at sight of Saygar, having hoped that he could talk with the others in the absence of their leader, whose shrewdness he respected highly. So he waited a long moment before he started down toward the camp, rearranging his ideas on what he was to do.
Chuck Reibel, who had led Saygar’s horse over to the rope corral, saw him first as he rode into the light and called to the others: “Heads up! We got company.”
Joe came on, reining in close to the other three at the fire. He caught Whitey’s angry scowl and the lift of the gunman’s hand that put it within finger spread of holster. Saygar’s look was the same impassive half smile of the other afternoon at Hoelseker’s cabin. Pecos merely turned and looked up at the newcomer, not bothering to stand, his expression politely curious.
“You again,” Saygar drawled.
“Yeah.” Joe got aground deliberately, moving slowly, keeping his hands in plain sight. “Where can I turn this horse in and feed him?” he asked as Reibel sauntered over into the light.
His question obviously surprised them. “Did we ask you to stay?” Saygar asked.
Joe tried to school his face to an expression of puzzlement. “Didn’t he tell you?” he asked.
“Didn’t who tell us what?” Saygar’s tone was cool, suspicious. “That I was to meet you here and wait until he showed. It’s set for tonight.”
Saygar’s glance narrowed. “This’s the first I’ve heard of it.” Joe shrugged. On impulse, he turned and handed his reins to Reibel, saying: “Grain him. He’s had a real workout this afternoon.”
Reibel hesitated only a moment, then took the reins. As he started off toward the corral, Saygar said flatly: “Stay set, Chuck!” Then to Joe: “What kind of a sandy you runnin’, Bonnyman?”
“Sandy?” Joe asked blandly. He laughed. “I see.
He didn’t get the word to you. Well, it doesn’t matter. I can give you the set-up. Diamond and Anchor swapped some lead this mornin’. Harper came out on top. So Bonnyman’s goin’ back with more men tonight. That is, if his crew’s in shape to.” He nodded in the general direction of the pass road. “He’s up there somewhere lookin’ for me. That was part of the job, to toll him up there after me until we could get ready for him. We’re supposed to go down to Diamond tonight, soon as we get the word. Harper doesn’t have enough men to handle this.”
It was Whitey who drawled into the following silence: “This must be what Clark was after when he had us push that herd into . . .”
As the youth spoke, Saygar wheeled, quick as a cat, and struck him across the mouth with an open hand. “You loose-mouthed pup,” he breathed. Ignoring Whitey, he faced Joe again. “Who let you in on this?” he asked tonelessly.
Joe was only vaguely aware that the outlaw had spoken, so intent was he on Whitey’s mention of Clark’s name. “What about Clark?” he demanded. “What’s he got to do with this?”
“Something Dunne told Chuck the other day when Chuck held the gun on him,” Saygar explained hastily.
But his answer lacked conviction. Joe stepped around him to face Whitey, whose pale-blue eyes were cloudy with mute rage as he stared venomously at Saygar.
“What about Clark?” Joe asked again.
Before Whitey could answer, Saygar reached out, laid a hand on Joe’s arm, and jerked him roughly around. In that moment Joe knew only that Whitey had made an attempt to couple Clark’s name with last night’s raid on the herd at the head of Rainbow Gorge. His one and only thought was that these men had planned this mention of Clark’s name for just such a circumstance, to confuse anyone who might connect them with the mounting trouble and be curious over their part in it. Here they were, four men who knew the answer he sought, trying to pin the guilt for their work on one of his best friends.
As Saygar’s hold jerked him off balance, Joe was thinking this, and suddenly he knew he would get nothing from these men unless he beat it out of them. He used the side fall of his frame to add surprise to his staggering lurch against Saygar. His Stetson fell aground. He rammed the outlaw hard with his shoulder, the shock setting up a burst of pain in his head. But he ignored that, his hand blurring to holster as Saygar stumbled and sprawled awkwardly backward to the ground. Whitey reached for his gun, saw he was too late, and jerked his hand away from his side. Beyond the blond killer, Pecos, still hunkered by the fire, remained motionless.
Joe’s glance whipped around to Reibel, to the gun arcing up into line with him. The expression of viciousness on Reibel’s face was eloquent of his danger. He dodged, bringing his own gun into line. Reibel’s .38 exploded deafeningly close. Joe felt the bullet’s tug at the sleeve of his shirt and he squeezed the trigger of the Colt. He didn’t hear his gun’s explosion, only saw the front of Reibel’s vest stir and the man driven backward in a wheeling fall. He didn’t look at Reibel again. He didn’t have to.
Saygar’s spurs scuffed long marks across the grassy sod as the outlaw got his feet under him and slowly came erect. Whitey stood awkwardly stooped at the waist, having frozen in that posture at the beginning of his draw. Pecos, some of the color gone from his face, now moved out of line with Joe and Whitey.
“I ain’t in on this, Bonnyman,” he said hoarsely.
Joe’s look settled on Saygar. He was breathing heavily, waiting for the last aching throb of his head to subside. “Now what was it about Clark?” he said flatly, taking a stride that brought him within arm’s reach of the outlaw. “Talk, Saygar,” he drawled. “This crease you had put in my skull is just a scratch to the one I’ll carve in yours if you don’t open up. Who paid you to push that herd down the gorge?”
“You’ve got one thing wrong, Bonnyman.” Saygar’s glance went to the bandage on Joe’s head. “No one of us did that. Unless . . .” He looked around at Whitey before asking: “When did it happen?”
“You sent a man after me that afternoon Clark and I got away from the cabin.”
Saygar’s anger seemed to vanish before the importance of denying this accusation. “You’re wrong, Bonnyman. I didn’t . . .”
Joe’s knuckles slashing him across the mouth cut off his words. His head rocked around and blood welled from his mouth. “Talk while you’re able, Saygar,” Joe said. Again he struck, this time harder. His fist caught the outlaw along the jaw, tilting the man’s head back.
Saygar’s long, heavy arms came up. He made an ungainly attempt at knocking Joe’s arm down, one that went wide of its mark. Joe hit him again, this time with his gun; it was a numbing short blow squarely on the thick muscle below Saygar’s neck. The outlaw groaned and, a hand clamped to his shoulder, sank to his knees.
Whitey had watched all this closely. Now he thought he saw his chance and the hand he had held rigid, clear of his side, once more started toward his Colt. Joe let that hand reach the handle of the .45 before he rocked his gun around and shot. Whitey spun halfway around, right arm dropping limply. He cursed savagely as he clamped his good hand to the spreading stain of crimson on his right shoulder.
Joe stood, straddle-legged, above Saygar. “Who had you do it?” he said tonelessly. “Who had you push that herd down the gorge?”
Saygar seemed to sense then that the gun in Joe’s hand was dangerous only as a club would have been, that Joe wouldn’t shoot him before he talked. As he pushed erect, all the cunning and viciousness of the outlaw’s nature came into play. A submissive look was on his face. He held up a hand.
“I’ve had enough,” he whined. “Let me get my wind and . . .” He threw himself headlong at Joe, his long arms locking about Joe’s waist, all the terrific power of his heavy shoulders tightening that bear-like hold. Joe’s back arched. He tried to club Saygar alongside the head with the gun, but the man’s skull was thrusting at his chest, too close to get in a telling blow. Joe forgot the gun and let it fall as he brought his knee up hard into Saygar’s groin. The outlaw groaned in pain but his hold didn’t slacken. Pain as sharp as a burn coursed down Joe’s spine as his back muscles were wrenched. Again he brought his knee up; when that failed to break Saygar’s back-breaking hold, he tramped hard on the outlaw’s boots, twisting his heels.
Saygar’s howl of pain echoed back from the trees. Suddenly his arms came loose and he sank to the ground, writhing in pain. Joe snatched up his gun, seeing that Pecos had moved over to where Whitey sat and was reaching for the blond youth’s Colt.
“You’re next,” he drawled, and advanced a step toward Pecos, who drew his hand quickly away from the .45.
From close to Joe’s left came a gun’s low-throated roar. A numbing shock paralyzed Joe’s gun hand. The heavy Colt spun from his grasp. He wheeled, in time to see a stranger walk into the circle of firelight.
Alongside, Saygar said: “Nice work, Harper.”
This was the Diamond foreman Blaze Coyle had spoken of with such open scorn and dislike. The mark of the killer was on Harper, Joe saw, for the man’s hawkish, scarred face was as inscrutable as a rock slab, his pale-green eyes cloudy and expressionless. He held his gun carelessly, and, as he advanced toward Saygar, he drawled: “Thought you might want him whole, Mike.”
With that casual proof of the expertness of Harper’s aim, Joe knew he had lost. A moment later, Pecos had the groaning Whitey’s .45 and Saygar was facing him, the light of cold fury in his eyes.
“Brother, let’s see how fine you whittle down,” Saygar said simply. Then he struck.
Joe took that first blow on the point of his turning shoulder, answering with a stiff uppercut that jarred Saygar to his boot heels. But the outlaw was sure of winning now. He merely shook his head to clear his reeling senses, and then came at Joe head down, slugging. And still Joe held him off, dodging the brutal drive of the outlaw’s heavy fists, making the swift slashing of his own fists count. Two rapid jabs drove the wind from Saygar’s lungs; another at the base of the neck threw him off ba
lance. Joe was cocked on toes, arm drawn back for a finishing looping right to the jaw, when Harper stepped in and calmly tripped him.
Saygar hit Joe as the latter’s knees struck the ground, hit him with all the drive of his heavy body behind his rock-knuckled fist. A bright burst of light blotted out Joe’s vision. From then on he didn’t feel the blows. His arms fell to his sides and Saygar beat him into unconsciousness with the ease of a man whipping a child.
When Joe lay at his feet, bleeding from nose and mouth, Saygar motioned to Pecos. “Roll him over the bank,” he ordered harshly.
“Looks like I hit here at about the right time,” Harper drawled, the glance he directed down at Joe tinged with admiration. “Who is he?”
“Joe Bonnyman.”
Harper whistled softly. “There’s a reward out on him.”
“You want to collect it?” Saygar asked savagely, for the knowledge that Joe would have licked him still rankled.
Harper shrugged. “Do it your way, Mike,” he drawled, and watched Pecos lift Joe by the arms and drag him the thirty feet across to the edge of the high bank that dropped into the roiling waters of the Troublesome.
Pecos hesitated there, plainly disliking his job. Saygar came over and said sharply: “What’re you waitin’ on?” Only then did Pecos give a quick thrust of his boot that rolled Joe off the bank. He didn’t look down to make sure of what happened but turned and, the color gone from his face, walked over to see what he could do for Whitey.
Saygar saw Joe’s loosely rolling frame swallowed by the black waters of the creek. A wicked down-lipped grin touched his heavy features. “Wonder where they’ll find him?” he asked Harper, and walked over to the fire.
Return from the Dead
The numbing chill of the water brought Joe back to consciousness with a lung-constricting shock. He swallowed water and would have drowned but for the fact that his head rolled above the surface of the angry waters at that moment, letting his lungs suck in the air he was starving for. By the time his head went under again, he was enough aware of what was happening to him to hold his breath.