Kicking off his boots and slinging his rifle on his back, he began swarming, ape-like, up the almost sheer wall. His outstretched arm grasped the lower end of the rope, just as the others in the canyon saw what he was doing, and opened a furious fire on the rim to cover his activities. The outlaw on the rope swore luridly, and went up with amazing agility, his flesh crawling with the momentary expectation of a bullet in his back.
The renewed firing had just the effect on Laramie that the climber had feared it would have — it drew him back to his breastwork. It was not until he was crouching behind his breastwork that it occurred to him that the volleys might have been intended to draw him away from the tunnel. So he spared only a limited glance over the rocks, for the bullets were winging so close that he dared not lift his head high. He did not see the man on the rope cover the last few feet in a scrambling rush, and haul himself over the rim, unslinging his rifle as he did so.
Laramie turned and headed back for the ledge whence he could see the opening. And as he did so, he brought himself into full view of the outlaw who was standing upright on the rim, by the stunted tree.
The whip-like crack of his Winchester reached Laramie an instant after he felt a numbing impact in his left shoulder. The shock of the blow knocked him off his feet, and his head hit hard against a rock. Even as he fell he heard the crashing of brush down the trail, and his last, hopeless thought was that Rawley and Harrison were returning. Then the impact of his head against the rock knocked all thought into a stunned blank.
* * *
8. BOOT-HILL TALK
AN outlaw came scrambling out of the tunnel with desperate haste, followed by another and another. One crouched, rifle in hand, glaring up at the wall, while the others tore away the smaller stones, and aided by those inside, rolled the boulder out of the entrance. Three men ran out of the tunnel and joined them.
Their firing roused Buck Laramie. He blinked and glared, then oriented himself. He saw five riders sweeping toward the tunnel, and six outlaws who had rushed out while he was unconscious, falling back into it for shelter; and he recognized the leader of the newcomers as Slim Jones, Joel Waters’ foreman. The old man had not failed him.
“Take cover, you fools!” Laramie yelled wildly, unheard in the din.
But the reckless punchers came straight on and ran into a blast of lead poured from the tunnel mouth into which the outlaws had disappeared. One of the waddies saved his life by a leap from the saddle as his horse fell with a bullet through its brain, and another man threw wide his arms and pitched on his head, dead before he hit the pebbles.
Then only did Slim and his wild crew swerve their horses out of line and fall back to cover. Laramie remembered the slug that had felled him, and turned to scan the canyon rim. He saw the man by the stunted tree then; the fellow was helping one of his companions up the same route he had taken, and evidently thought that his shot had settled Laramie, as he was making no effort at concealment. Laramie lifted his rifle and pulled the trigger — and the hammer fell with an empty click. He had no more rifle cartridges. Below him the punchers were futilely firing at the tunnel entrance, and the outlaws within were wisely holding their fire until they could see something to shoot at.
Laramie crawled along a few feet to put himself out of range of the rifleman on the rim, then shouted: “Slim! Swing wide of that trail and come up here with yore men!”
He was understood, for presently Slim and the three surviving punchers came crawling over the tangle of rocks, having necessarily abandoned their horses.
“‘Bout time you was gettin’ here,” grunted Laramie. “Gimme some .30- 30s.”
A handful of cartridges were shoved into his eager fingers.
“We come as soon as we could,” said Slim. “Had to ride to the ranch to round up these snake-hunters.”
“Where’s Waters?”
“I left him in San Leon, cussin’ a blue streak because he couldn’t get nobody to listen to him. Folks got no more sense’n cattle; just as easy to stampede and as hard to git millin’ once they bust loose.”
“What about Bob Anders?”
“Doctor said he was just creased; was just fixin’ to go over there when me and Joel come into town and he had to wait and dress Joel’s leg. Hadn’t come to hisself, last time the doc was there.”
Laramie breathed a sigh of relief. At least Bob Anders was going to live, even if he hadn’t been able to name the man who shot him. Soon Judy would know the truth. Laramie snapped into action.
“Unless Waters sends us more men, we’re licked. Tunnel’s cleared and men climbin’ the cliff.”
“You’re shot!” Jones pointed to Laramie’s shirt shoulder, soaked with blood.
“Forget it!” snapped Laramie. “Well, gimme that bandanna—” and while he knotted it into a crude bandage, he talked rapidly. “Three of you hombres stay here and watch that tunnel. Don’t let nobody out, d’you hear? Me and Slim are goin’ to circle around and argy with the gents climbin’ the cliffs. Come on, Slim.”
It was rough climbing, and Laramie’s shoulder burned like fire, with a dull throbbing that told him the lead was pressing near a bone. But he set his teeth and crawled over the rough rocks, keeping out of sight of the men in the canyon below, until they had reached a point beyond his tiny fort on the rim, and that much closer to the stunted tree.
They had kept below the crest and had not been sighted by the outlaws on the rim, who had been engrossed in knotting a second rope, brought up by the second man, to the end of the lariat tied to the tree. This had been dropped down the wall again, and now another outlaw was hanging to the rope and being drawn straight up the cliff like a water bucket by his two friends above.
Slim and Laramie fired almost simultaneously. Slim’s bullet burned the fingers of the man clinging to the lariat. He howled and let go the rope and fell fifteen feet to the canyon floor. Laramie winged one of the men on the cliff, but it did not affect his speed as he raced after his companion in a flight for cover. Bullets whizzed up from the canyon as the men below spotted Laramie and his companion. They ducked back, but relentlessly piled lead after the men fleeing along the rim of the cliff.
These worthies made no attempt to make a stand. They knew the lone defender had received reinforcements and they were not stopping to learn in what force. Laramie and Slim caught fleeting glimpses of the fugitives as they headed out through the hills.
“Let ’em go,” grunted Laramie. “Be no more trouble from that quarter, and I bet them rannies won’t try to climb that rope no more. Come on; I hear guns talkin’ back at the tunnel.”
Laramie and his companion reached the punchers on the ledge in time to see three horsemen streaking it down the trail, with lead humming after them. Three more figures lay sprawled about the mouth of the tunnel.
“They busted out on horseback,” grunted one of the men, kneeling and aiming after the fleeing men. “Come so fast we couldn’t stop ’em all — uh.”
His shot punctuated his remarks, and one of the fleeing horsemen swayed in his saddle. One of the others seemed to be wounded, as the three ducked into the trees and out of sight.
“Three more hit the trail,” grunted Slim.
“Not them,” predicted Laramie. “They was bound to see us — know they ain’t but five of us. They won’t go far; they’ll be sneakin’ back to pot us in the back when their pards start bustin’ out again.”
“No racket in the tunnel now.”
“They’re layin’ low for a spell. Too damn risky now. They didn’t have but six horses in the tunnel. They got to catch more and bring ’em to the tunnel before they can make the rush.
“They’ll wait till dark, and then we can’t stop ’em from gettin’ their cayuses into the tunnel. We can’t stop ’em from tearin’ out at this end, neither, unless we got more men. Slim, climb back up on the rim and lay down behind them rocks I stacked up. Watch that rope so nobody climbs it; we got to cut that, soon’s it gets dark. And don’t let no horses be brought
into the tunnel, if you can help it.”
Slim crawled away, and a few moments later his rifle began banging, and he yelled wrathfully: “They’re already at it!”
“Listen!” ejaculated Laramie suddenly.
Down the trail, out of sight among the trees sounded a thundering of hoofs, yells and shots.
The shots ceased, then after a pause, the hoofs swept on, and a crowd of men burst into view.
“Yippee!” whooped one of the punchers bounding into the air and swinging his hat. “Reinforcements, b’golly! It’s a regular army!”
“Looks like all San Leon was there!” bellowed another. “Hey, boys, don’t git in line with that tunnel mouth! Spread out along the trail — who’s them three fellers they got tied to their saddles?”
“The three snakes that broke loose from the tunnel!” yelped the third cowboy. “They scooped ’em in as they come! Looks like everybody’s there. There’s Charlie Ross, and Jim Watkins, the mayor, and Lon Evans, Mart Rawley’s bartender — reckon he didn’t know his boss was a crook — and by golly, look who’s leadin’ ‘em!”
“Bob Anders!” ejaculated Laramie, staring at the pale-faced, but erect figure who, with bandaged head, rode ahead of the thirty or forty men who came clattering up the trail and swung wide through the brush to avoid the grim tunnel mouth. Anders saw him and waved his hand, and a deep yell of approbation rose from the men behind the sheriff. Laramie sighed deeply. A few hours ago these same men wanted to hang him.
Rifles were spitting from the tunnel, and the riders swung from their horses and began to take up positions on each side of the trail, as Anders took in the situation at a glance and snapped his orders. Rifles began to speak in answer to the shots of the outlaws. Laramie came clambering down the cliff to grasp Anders’ outstretched hand.
“I came to just about the time you hit town today, Laramie,” he said. “Was just tellin’ Judy it couldn’t been you that shot me, when all that hell busted loose and Judy run to help you out if she could. Time I could get my clothes on, and out-argy the doctor, and get on the streets, you was gone with these addle-heads chasin’ you. We had to wait till they give up the chase and come back, and then me and Judy and Joel Waters lit into ‘em. Time we got through talkin’ they was plumb whipped down and achin’ to take a hand in yore game.”
“I owe you all a lot, especially your sister. Where’s Rawley?” Laramie asked.
“We thought he was with us when we lit out after you,” the sheriff answered. “But when we started back we missed him.”
“Look out!” yelled Slim on the rim above them, pumping lead frantically. “They’re rushin’ for the tunnel on horses! Blame it, why ain’t somebody up here with me? I can’t stop ’em all—”
Evidently the gang inside the canyon had been whipped to desperation by the arrival of the reinforcements, for they came thundering through the tunnel laying down a barrage of lead as they came. It was sheer madness. They ran full into a blast of lead that piled screaming horses and writhing men in a red shambles. The survivors staggered back into the tunnel.
Struck by a sudden thought, Laramie groped among the bushes and hauled out the guard, Braxton, still bound and gagged. The fellow was conscious and glared balefully at his captor. Laramie tore the gag off, and demanded: “Where’s Harrison and Rawley?”
“Rawley rode for San Leon after you got away from us this mornin’,” growled Braxton sullenly. “Harrison’s gone, got scared and pulled out. I dunno where he went.”
“Yo’re lyin’,” accused Laramie.
“What’d you ast me for, if you know so much?” sneered Braxton, and lapsed in stubborn, hill-country silence, which Laramie knew nothing would break, so long as the man chose to hold his tongue.
“You mean Harrison’s in on this, Buck?” the sheriff exclaimed. “Joel told me about Rawley.”
“In on it?” Laramie laughed grimly. “Harrison is the kingpin, and Rawley is his chief sidewinder, I ain’t seen neither Harrison nor Rawley since I got here. Be just like them rats to double-cross their own men, and run off with the loot they’ve already got.
“But we still got this nest to clean out, and here’s my idea. Them that’s still alive in the canyon are denned up in or near the tunnel. Nobody nigh the cabin. If four or five of us can hole up in there, we’ll have ’em from both sides. We’ll tie some lariats together, and some of us will go down the walls and get in the cabin. We’ll scatter men along the rim to see none of ’em climb out, and we’ll leave plenty men here to hold the tunnel if they try that again — which they will, as soon as it begins to get dark, if we don’t scuttle ’em first.”
“You ought a been a general, cowboy. Me and Slim and a couple of my Bar X boys’ll go for the cabin. You better stay here; yore shoulder ain’t fit for tight-rope work and such.”
“She’s my hand,” growled Laramie. “I started dealin’ her and I aim to set in till the last pot’s raked in.”
“Yo’re the dealer,” acquiesced Anders. “Let’s go.”
Ten minutes later found the party of five clustered on the canyon rim. The sun had not yet set beyond the peaks, but the canyon below was in shadow. The spot Laramie had chosen for descent was some distance beyond the stunted tree. The rim there was higher, the wall even more precipitous. It had the advantage, however, of an outjut of rock that would partially serve to mask the descent of a man on a lariat from the view of the men lurking about the head of the canyon.
If anyone saw the descent of the five invaders, there was no sign to show they had been discovered. Man after man they slid down the dangling rope and crouched at the foot, Winchesters ready. Laramie came last, clinging with one hand and gritting his teeth against the pain of his wounded shoulder. Then began the advance on the cabin.
That slow, tortuous crawl across the canyon floor seemed endless. Laramie counted the seconds, fearful that they would be seen, fearful that night would shut down before they were forted. The western rim of the canyon seemed crested with golden fire, contrasting with the blue shadows floating beneath it. He sighed gustily as they reached their goal, with still enough light for their purpose.
The cabin doors were shut, the windows closely shuttered.
“Let’s go!” Anders had one hand on the door, drawn Colt in the other.
“Wait,” grunted Laramie. “I stuck my head into a loop here once already today. You all stay here while I take a pasear around to the back and look things over from that side. Don’t go in till you hear me holler.”
Then Laramie was sneaking around the cabin, Indian-fashion, gun in hand. He was little more than half the distance to the back when he was paralyzed to hear a voice inside the cabin call out: “All clear!”
Before he could move or shout a warning, he heard Anders answer: “Comin’, Buck!” Then the front door slammed, and there was the sound of a sliding bolt, a yell of dismay from the Bar X men. With sick fury Laramie realized that somebody lurking inside the cabin had heard him giving his instructions and imitated his voice to trick the sheriff into entering. Confirmation came instantly, in a familiar voice — the voice of Ely Harrison!
“Now we can make terms, gentlemen!” shouted the banker, his voice rasping with ferocious exultation. “We’ve got your sheriff in a wolf-trap with hot lead teeth! You can give us road-belts to Mexico, or he’ll be deader than hell in three minutes!”
* * *
9. KILLER UNMASKED
LARAMIE was charging for the rear of the house before the triumphant shout ended. Anders would never agree to buying freedom for that gang to save his own life; and Laramie knew that whatever truce might be agreed upon, Harrison would never let the sheriff live.
The same thought motivated the savage attack of Slim Jones and the Bar X men on the front door; but that door happened to be of unusual strength. Nothing short of a log battering ram could smash it. The rear door was of ordinary thin paneling.
Bracing his good right shoulder to the shock, Laramie rammed his full charging weight against
the rear door. It crashed inward and he catapulted into the room gun-first.
He had a fleeting glimpse of a swarthy Mexican wheeling from the doorway that led into the main room, and then he ducked and jerked the trigger as a knife sang past his head. The roar of the .45 shook the narrow room and the knife thrower hit the planks and lay twitching.
With a lunging stride Laramie was through the door, into the main room. He caught a glimpse of men standing momentarily frozen, glaring up from their work of tying Bob Anders to a chair — Ely Harrison, another Mexican, and Mart Rawley.
For an infinitesimal tick of time the scene held — then blurred with gun-smoke as the .45s roared death across the narrow confines. Hot lead was a coal of hell burning its way through the flesh of Laramie’s already wounded shoulder. Bob Anders lurched out of the chair, rolling clumsily toward the wall. The room was a mad welter of sound and smoke in the last light of gathering dusk.
Laramie half rolled behind the partial cover of a cast iron stove, drawing his second gun. The Mexican fled to the bunk-room, howling, his broken left arm flopping. Mart Rawley backed after him at a stumbling run, shooting as he went; crouched inside the door he glared, awaiting his chance. But Harrison, already badly wounded, had gone berserk. Disdaining cover, or touched with madness, he came storming across the room, shooting as he came, spattering blood at every step. His eyes flamed through the drifting fog of smoke like those of a rabid wolf.
Laramie raised himself to his full height and faced him. Searing lead whined past his ear, jerked at his shirt, stung his thigh; but his own gun was burning red and Harrison was swaying in his stride like a bull which feels the matador’s steel. His last shot flamed almost in Laramie’s face, and then at close range a bullet split the cold heart of the devil of San Leon, and the greed and ambitions of Ely Harrison were over.
Delphi Works of Robert E. Howard (Illustrated) (Series Four) Page 255