“Dead tired, is all.”
He looked around at Sam Tinker. “Stag Harvey’s wearing both guns.”
“The hell you say!”
“Saw some wagons leaving for the Gap, too.” Sam Tinker turned on his chair. “Ed, you get up those stairs and tell Clay! Quick now!”
The door shoved open and Shorty Jones came in. His barrel chest spread the wool shirt taut over its muscles. He looked quickly around the room, then at Tibbott. “The boss will be glad to see you.”
“Who’s at the ranch, Shorty?”
“Rooney. Coffin came in with me.”
“Coffin’s gone back.” The speaker was a tall, lazy-looking man. “Shuttin’ my hen house when I saw him ease down the alley and then go hell a-whoopin’ into the desert.”
Stag Harvey pushed open the door and came in, glancing around as if to check those present. His eyes went to Jones. There was no love lost between the two, but Stag jerked his head toward the Gap.
“Looks like a fire on Piety. Can’t see the fire, but there’s a reflection.”
“That’s Coffin.” Shorty tucked his thumbs behind his belt. He had not missed the fact that Harvey wore both guns. “He’s with Rooney by now.”
“You spoke too soon, Tibbott,” Harvey said, “the fight’s just started.”
Shorty Jones turned to face him. He was cocked for trouble and Stag Harvey could see it. “Believe me, Stag, it’s over. You and Kilburn better rattle your hocks.”
Harvey smiled. This man was tough and dangerous, but Harvey was not interested in fighting for fun. He used his gun for pay; it was a cold, simple business. “Maybe, Shorty. Maybe we will.”
He opened the door to step out, and Colleen came in. Her face was pale, her eyes dark with foreboding. “Bert!” she spoke quickly. “Where’s Clay? Bert’s dead!”
“Dead?” Several voices echoed the word, one of them Harvey’s.
The batwing doors to the saloon fanned sharply and they looked around. “Who was that? Who went out?”
“It was Shorty Jones.” Ed Miller’s voice was low, unintentionally dramatic. “Better look to your holecard, Stag.”
“Shorty? And Bert Garry dead? Then God help Pete Simmons!”
Stag Harvey stood on the street rolling a smoke. He was sweating, although the night was cool. Better than anyone, he could appreciate what the death of Bert Garry would mean to a tough outfit like the B-Bar. Ed’s advice had been good. It was time to look to their holecard. But where was Jack?
He lighted up, inhaled, and quickly ran over in his mind the places Jack might be. They had not been sure that Clay was in town—but he was.
Had it not been for the presence of Shorty, Stag might have gone upstairs after Clay and played a lone hand. But Shorty was tough enough by himself, and Sam Tinker would not sit idle, nor would Hardy Tibbotts. Innkeeper and lawyer, but both had used guns in their time.
If the B-Bar was going on the warpath they had best get their job done and split the breeze getting out of town.
Clay Bell had waited no longer than it took to pull on his boots and belt his guns. He wanted to see Tibbott, but there was no time for talk with an attack beginning at the ranch. He went down the back steps, crossed to the corral and saddled up.
The fire was still burning when he started for Piety. There was dust lingering in the air, dust from the passage of wagons.
It was not until he was nearly at the beginning of the climb up Piety Mountain that he recalled he had asked Tibbott nothing about Washington! Too late now—that could wait. He took the trail up the mountain, and when at last he topped the rise there was only the lingering of woodsmoke in the air, and the few embers of the signal fire.
He started down the short trail to the ranch, and had scarcely taken it before he heard, faint and far away, the sound of a rifle shot.
Chapter 15
Hank Rodney was no fool. Shortly after Shorty and Biff slipped away, he became aware of the unusual silence around the place. A casual round of the buildings and a check of saddles showed him the two riders were gone. It took no great amount of imagination to guess their destination.
There was, he knew, no immediate danger of an attack, yet if Devitt realized that he was alone he might attempt to force a way through.
He was too seasoned a campaigner to leave anything to doubt. Preparations for an attack had been made long before this, but he made the rounds and checked all the available weapons. Bert Garry’s Winchester was in the bunkhouse. Hank brought it to the house and loaded it.
He had two Sharps .50 buffalo guns, a Spencer .56, and an express shotgun.
Again he studied the Gap. All was empty and still. He threw more hay to the horses. Suddenly the ranch began to feel very lonely. Night came quickly in the narrow space between the cliffs and the darkness crept down and engulfed the ranch while the faroff hills were still touched with light.
Long since, every man on the ranch had learned the range to the opening of the Gap. By day there was no cover in the last two hundred yards. By night it was another story.
Somewhere a coyote yapped the moon. A wind stirred the cottonwood leaves, and Hank Rooney walked up on the porch of the ranch house and sat down, looking out at the hills.
One of the boys should have stayed. But he was not worried. If an attack came he could stand them off for a good long while. He had protection and a good field of fire . . . but it would soon be dark
The night came and held only silence. Above the towering black walls of the Gap the sky seemed light, and stars hung like lanterns in the still sky.
A wind came down the pass and sent leaves skittering over the hard-packed ground. He walked outside and went to the corrals. The horses seemed friendly and close. Restlessly, he walked back. It was early, but he might catch a bit of sleep.
He stretched out on a cot and stared up into the darkness. It semed unnaturally still, but he was tired. . .
Suddenly, he was awake. How long he had slept he had no idea, but he came awake with a start, instantly aware of distant sound. A wagon rolling over stones. In the clear night air of the desert, channeled by the walls of the Gap, he caught the sound from some distance.
With Garry’s Winchester in his hand he went outside to the gate. Standing at the corner of the stone chuckhouse, he strained his eyes into the darkness.
After a while he heard vague sounds. To a man who had fought Apaches and Kiowas, these men seemed clumsy. He listened, judging their distance and number.
Stepping around the corner of the bunkhouse he lit a cigar, took a deep draw, and placed it on the windowsill ready to hand.
He was alone but he was not worried. He had fought before, from worse positions. Like the time he and Red Jenkins had fought Comanches from a buffalo wallow. Or the time three hands from the old Goodnight outfit ran into a Kiowa war party. He chuckled, remembering. It would be like the old days.
A faint footfall sounded. Somebody was creeping up the Gap. He stepped around the corner and took another long draw on his cigar, then picked up the Winchester. When a footfall sounded again the rifle came smoothly to his shoulder and he fired.
Running a half dozen steps, he fired again, and sprang back for a third and fourth shot. He spaced his shots, shooting blindly down the Gap.
There was silence and then a stone rattled. He fired at the sound and heard a yelp, whether of pain or only astonishment he could not say, but instantly there was a volley.
He was standing behind the gate post and was completely sheltered. The sound of the shots racketed against the walls, and died away into dark silence. The Gap was still.
“Quite a party,” he told himself. “Must be a dozen or more.”
Something had been forcing itself upon his consciousness for some time, and suddenly he realized what it was. On the far wall of the Gap was a vague reflection, yet instantly he placed it.
The signal fire on Piety!
A warm feeling came over him and some of the loneliness vanished. The boys knew, and the boys were coming. Jud Devitt would pay for this night’s work.
Down the Gap there was a faint stir. Instantly, he fired. He heard the bullet smack rock and ricochet, and a dozen rifles replied. Somewhere behind him hoofs pounded and then a horse raced down the Gap and a voice called out, “Hold it, Hank! It’s me!”