by John Shirley
“They’re not getting away with this, Mr. Durst!” Duff called in fury. He ran to one of the nervous horses staked nearby, loosed it from the stake, vaulted into the saddle, and six-gun in hand, rode toward the two men crouched on the ground by the rocks to the northeast.
“Harry!” Mase called, lifting his head enough to see past the oxen. “Harry Duff, get back here!”
“Oh, God, help that fool!” Ray muttered.
But Duff’s fire had hit one of the men—it was Cox staggering into view, holding his blood-spurting neck, even as he fired back. So did Donkey beside him.
Duff was riding down on them, still firing. Then a round from Cox caught him, and he jerked in the saddle, cried out, and fell heavily to the ground as his horse ran in terror off to the north.
“Damn you!” Denver Jimson blurted as he stepped right out into view beside Mase, aimed carefully, and shot Donkey through the heart.
Bullets struck the wooden seat of the wagon beside Denver, spitting splinters that cut at his face. Denver threw himself flat as a round cracked where he’d been a moment before. Mase stepped back for a shooting angle on the Crook and fired at the gun smoke. A bullet sang by his left ear, and he ducked under cover again.
Shots rang out from the other drovers sitting on their horses west of the herd. They fired their rifles at the rocky slope, where puffs of smoke showed in two places close together. Mase figured that Greer had gone around the other side of the Crook and climbed back up to a high bushwhacker’s position.
“Damned shame about Harry Duff,” Ray said, shaking his head as he reloaded his pistol. “He was a good hand and devilishly young. . . .”
Dollager was still struggling to control the oxen as Mase—fuming over the death of Harry Duff—made up his mind about what he was going to do. He ran back to his horse, calmed the nervous animal as best he could, and searched through his saddlebags. He came out with the oilcloth package, unwrapped the dynamite, and said, “Who’s got a lucifer?”
Hiram, leaning against the wagon, handed Mase four wooden matches. “You really going to fool with that stuff?”
“I got to get far enough down under the spring—I’ll need plenty of cover. Every last man of you needs to open fire soon’s I start. If I do it right, we should be okay here.”
“Not so sure of that,” Hiram said.
“They’re going to start firing toward the oxen from up there,” Mase said, holstering his gun. “The team will start running. It’s got to be done.”
As if confirming the prophecy, gunfire cracked from high in the rocks, striking the ground behind the oxen.
Taking all four sticks of dynamite in his left hand, Mase said, “Start firing!”
Denver, Hiram, Dorge, and Ray started firing at the rocks from every safe angle they could find, concentrating fire where the gun smoke showed.
Mase sprinted toward the pool under the spring, running across open ground, every step taking him closer to the ridge where the men above would find it harder to hit him without coming out and exposing themselves.
Three bullets slashed by, and a fourth one gouged the skin of his upper right arm. He ran—and the world seemed to slow down; the air seemed thick with imminence, and the metal taste of fear was in his mouth. Another bullet slashed by his left thigh, cutting a pocket, and then he was in the shelter of a boulder. Breathing hard, his chest heaving, he knelt down, put the dynamite on the ground, and lit two of the fuses. Then he got a good grip on the sticks with each hand, stood up, and threw them, loopingly overhand, as far up as he could. The possibility of one of them bouncing back down to him haunted him as he lit the other two and quickly threw them, straining to get them even farther up the boulder-snagged slope.
The cowboys were still firing at the top of the ridge; rifle shots were being returned as Mase ran to the right, sloshing through the pond up to his knees. Two little geysers thrown up by bullets rose beside him. He reached the farther bank, slogged up the muddy sides, and ran on, staying close to the boulders for cover from gunshots—
Two booming explosions came close together. Pieces of rock crackled down, boulders rumbled; then two more booming blasts, and a great roar set up behind him as a section of the Shepherd’s Crook collapsed, undermined by the explosions. There came the piercing shrieks of men from the rocks.
Mase swerved to the south to escape the boulders. He ran through low shrubs, expecting to be shot at. But there were no more gunshots, none at all.
He reached a copse of mesquite and dodged behind it, crouching, and turned to see the big boulders rumbling and cracking down the hill, splashing into the pond. A great cloud of dust and mist rose. Some of the boulders to the west had been knocked loose, and as he watched, one of them rolled raggedly down to crunch into the rear right wheel of the wagon.
The drovers were running back from the chuck wagon; Dollager, close behind them, was helping Hiram along.
The rumbling and crashing went on. . . .
Then it stopped. All but the rising dust and little patters of gravel.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I liked Harry Duff,” Mase said as they all stood around Duff’s grave that night, lit only by the moon and stars. Hiram was there, too, leaning on a crutch that Dollager had made for him. Every man there had removed his hat and bowed his head. Jacob had constructed a cross of wood for the grave and carved Duff’s name on it, the year, and the words A Top Hand. It was the greatest compliment the men knew.
“He put his life on the line for us,” Mase went on. “He was as good a hand as any man here. Could be that he saved my life. We lost a good man when we lost our friend Harry Duff.” His throat contracted, so it was hard to talk, and he’d run out of words anyhow. So he looked over at Mick Dollager. “You wanted to say a few words, Mick?”
Dollager nodded. “I saw him ride out against men who were trying to kill us all—he rode straight at them! I thought of these lines from Shakespeare. ‘Disdaining fortune, with his brandished steel, which smoked with bloody execution, like valor’s minion carved out his passage . . . ’ And that is simply how it was, gentlemen. All that’s left to add is ‘We therefore commit his body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ.’”
“Amen,” the men murmured.
Somewhere, far across the prairie, coyotes yipped and howled.
Looking at the cross, Mase couldn’t help but feel the weight of it. He was boss, and he was responsible for the lives of his men. Maybe he shouldn’t have taken the Red Trail. If he had waited, like as not Harry Duff would still be alive. Then there was Hiram—who had gotten shot because he was going to warn Mase about the raid. He might yet die from his wounds if an infection set in. Mase had that on his shoulders, too.
He sighed. There was nothing for it but to try to make sure every man here got to Wichita safely.
Mase felt the sting of the deep graze he’d taken from a bullet. That pain reminded him of something. He cleared his throat and said, “Boys, those men were here to murder us—make no mistake about it. I’m grateful I had good men with me for that fight. Because we’re not the kind of men they were, we’ll bury their bodies. Not Greer and Fletcher—can’t be done. East Wind and I found their bodies in the rocks. Not enough left of them to be buried. Once we’ve buried the rest of ’em, we’ll start out after the herd.”
“I’ve scouted it some,” Pug said. “Most of them cattle are within a couple miles. They remembered the water, I expect. We’ll have to search wider for the others.”
“We’ll get the burying done, eat some supper, then get the main herd back here tonight,” Mase said. “Tomorrow, we’ll find the gang’s horses. I don’t want them left tied up in the woods. With any luck, we’ll head out for Wichita tomorrow around noon.”
“We’ve got to replace that wagon wheel, Mr. Durst,”
Dollager said.
“Is the axle intact?”
“It is, sir.”
“We’ve still got a spare wheel left,” Mase said. “We’ll get it on there in the morning. East Wind, you go on and help him with supper. The rest of you, let’s get some shovels and start dragging bodies. There’s five men to put in the ground.” He turned to Hiram. “Come on, Hiram.” His brother hobbled along beside him as they headed slowly toward the chuck wagon. Mase said, “Hiram—I haven’t had a chance to thank you for riding up here busted up like that. Must’ve hurt like hellfire all that way with a wound.”
“Wasn’t much fun, but I couldn’t have done different, Mase. What would Pa have said?”
“Right now he’d have said he was proud of what you did. I sure thank you for it. Now we’re going to get you bedded down in the wagon, and we’ll find you the best doc they have in Morrisville.”
“I’m about ready to find a bedroll,” Hiram admitted.
Mase asked in a low voice, “You think there’ll be a to-do around Leadton if Greer simply . . . goes missing?”
“There’ll be talk,” Hiram answered, “and there’ll be a search, too, I suppose. But no one’s heart will be broken.” He chuckled. “Hell, most of the town will be glad Greer is gone.”
“I’m trying to figure how much I should tell the territorial police about all this or maybe the marshal up in Morrisville.”
“You want my advice?”
“I do.”
“Tell them we were attacked by some known rustlers. Way I heard it, Rod Kelso is wanted in Dallas and Dodge City, too. The US marshal will know that. We can identify Kelso as one of the rustlers. Good chance Fletcher’s wanted somewhere. They’ll take our word on the rest, with all the witnesses we’ve got. No reason to mention Greer. Eventually, word about Fletcher and Kelso being dead will get down to Leadton, and folks know the sheriff was tied in with those owlhoots. The smart money will figure out Greer died an outlaw. And no one will give a damn.”
* * *
* * *
Gertrude Harning was pacing slowly back and forth in front of the closed door to her husband’s den. She badly wanted to talk to him, and she badly feared it, too.
At last Gertie took a deep breath and opened the door. She stepped inside and closed it behind her. Harning was at his desk writing a letter, probably yet another one to Judge Murray. He’d been sorely harassing the man of late.
Tom Harning scowled up at her. “Well?”
She swallowed hard and said, “Tom—I need a word with you.”
“So I guessed, Gertie. Out with it! I’m busy!”
She clasped her hands against her middle and said, “I’m going to take Mary and Len to stay with my aunt Lavinia.”
“What! For how long?”
“Why, until this matter between you and the Dursts is entirely resolved. At least that long.”
“That may take months! And she’s in Missouri! I will not have my children gone so long from me! I’m teaching Len how to be a man!”
“That’s part of the reason—your notion of manhood. The things you’ve been telling him. And then I saw him with Clement Adams! The killer was teaching Len to shoot! Adams told me it was your notion. Tom, Len is far too young to learn to shoot—but if he must, then you should teach him, not that . . . that man!”
“Indeed? What’s wrong with ‘that man’?”
“He’s a hired killer, Tom Harning, and you know it!”
Tom slammed a fist down on the desk, making her stiffen and take a step back. “Woman, you will listen to me! I have no time for your hand-wringing nonsense! Forget about Adams!” He leaned back in his chair, breathing hard, then opened a wooden box on the desk and took out a cigar. He fingered it, sniffed at it, but didn’t light it. At last he said a little more calmly, “I’ll be sending Adams on his way when the job’s done. Likely he won’t have to fire a shot. I’ve gotten Fuller at the bank to push for calling in the note on the Durst ranch. They have a delay, but it don’t amount to much.”
“Mr. Fuller did that? He does not seem to me the type to foreclose when someone’s out selling a herd!”
“Oh, well, now . . . there’s things you don’t know about our Mr. Fuller!” Harning’s voice carried a note of self-congratulation, even glee. “Fuller’s got a gambling problem. Misused some money from the bank! I found out and . . . well, he’ll do what I say if he wants me to stay quiet!”
“Oh, Tom—you blackmailed the man?”
He shrugged and chewed a moment on the unlit cigar. “What of it? It’s all for the best. Now, this nonsense about the children—I’ll hear no more of it. Leave me to finish my work.”
She shook her head. “I heard you talk to that man about killing Mase Durst, Tom. And now I’m hearing you talk of blackmail! I will not have my children in this house any longer.”
She turned to go, but in a few quick steps, he had her by the arm, spun her around, and slapped her across the face.
With a wail of pain and fear, she stumbled back and fell, striking the floor hard enough to knock the breath out of her.
“Get up!” Tom snarled. “I’ll have no theatrics!” He came to her, grabbed her hand, and forced her to her feet. “You will forget about taking the children anywhere, Gertrude! Or I swear to heaven I’ll have you put in an asylum for the mad!”
Sobbing, Gertie pulled away and ran from the room.
* * *
* * *
A soft afternoon rain was falling, seventy-six days into the drive, when Mase caught sight of Morrisville up ahead. He reined in his horse atop a rise and looked the town over. It was several times bigger than Leadton, with some sizable buildings along the street winding up a high hill. A redbrick building that was probably a city hall stood with a cluster of other new buildings alongside the palisades of Fort Morris.
On the flats down below the hill were stock pens, grain silos, warehouses, and false-fronted buildings that were probably saloons. He could see farms and a ranch between here and the town. He’d have to figure out what was the acceptable route for a herd going past the town. He didn’t want to get in a tussle with some sodbuster over trampled sprouts. He’d known a drover to get a rump full of buckshot for less.
He heard hooves drumming behind him and turned to see Rufus Emmer riding up the trail. “Hey, boss! Pug sent me to ask if we should bed down the herd this side of town.”
“I expect we’d better. I’ll be taking Hiram in the chuck wagon up to town. We’ll get some supplies, and I can ask about where to take the drive, maybe out west of town a ways. . . . What’s that look on your face like an excited prairie dog?”
“Me? I just . . . wondered if . . . um . . .”
“Yes, yes, you can come along. You can help Dollager. Then maybe you can go with him to a saloon if you think you’re old enough and he’s willing to keep an eye on you.”
“Hot damn!” The boy grinned.
“I don’t want to hear about you getting drunk! Two glasses of beer, nothing else!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Go on and tell Pug what I said. And tell Dollager. I want him up here quick so we can get Hiram to a doctor.”
Rufus rode away, and Mase sat on his horse, thinking. They’d made Hiram as comfortable as they could in the back of the chuck wagon, but he had been doing poorly the last couple days. His fever was worse. Might need his wound cleaned and cauterized, which would take a good surgeon. The garrison would have the best doctor in the region. The commander probably wouldn’t let him treat civilians—not as a rule. But Mase calculated that if he spoke to the commander, he could trade a couple of beeves to get Hiram into the care of the Army surgeon.
He nodded to himself and spurred his horse toward town, deciding to ride up to the fort immediately and see if he could make the deal.
* * *
* * *
> Hiram opened his eyes and, looking out the garrison window, figured it was not long after noon. He was lying in bed, aching and tired, but the fever had receded. He sat up a little. It hurt some. He tried standing up—nope, that hurt too much. He sat back and glanced down at the stiches in his chest. The Army surgeon had done a nice, neat job. It didn’t look infected. He was starting to feel hungry, too. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? Maybe he’d have the last laugh on Mike Greer after all.
The door opened, and he heard his brother say, “Thank you, Sergeant.”
Mase came in, his hat in hand, a brown paper package in the other, a canteen on a strap over his shoulder. He smiled to see his brother sitting up. “Hiram.”
“Mase.”
He brought the canteen over and laid it down on the ticking. “Good and fresh. Got it from a spring outside of town.”
“Thanks.” Hiram lifted up the canteen and drank. He felt stronger just from that one long, clean drink. “Now, that’s better than what they give us here. I think they collect it in an old boot left out in the rain.” Mase chuckled and Hiram went on. “Where’s the herd, Mase?”
“Off west. We had to circle around the town.”
“You lost some cattle over me, I heard.”
“I guess you’re almost worth two cows.”
Hiram grinned. “I’d like to think so.”
Mase tore open the packaging and handed Hiram a new hat, more of a Texas-style Stetson. Hiram admired it for a moment and then put it on. The two men had the same hat size and it fit fine.
“That’s for when you get up and get ready to come down to Texas,” Mase said.
Hiram took the hat off and put it on his lap. “Thank you. Man don’t like to be without a hat. I’ve been thinking about what you said. About . . .”