They were astride the horses and moving when the first shot sounded. It was over in the woods to the east of them, and it was followed by an outburst of firing.
Swinging his horse, Mabry put the black down the trail at a hard run. Just as he cleared the crest he heard another burst of firing, then a scream.
The two vans were drawn up as Healy had said, but now a man lay sprawled over a log, his head split open and his skull showing the raw red wound where a scalp had been jerked free.
The three Indians who had ridden from the cabin had been joined by four others. Three of them struggled with Janice at the door of the van. A white man lying on the ground tried to lift himself for a shot, but an Indian fired first and the man was slammed back to the earth. From within the van there was a heavy report.
Ignor- ing the Indians fighting with Janice, Mabry dropped to one knee as he slid from his horse. He took a careful breath, let it out, and squeezed off his shot.
An Indian sprang suddenly forward. His body slammed hard against the side of the van, then fell back. Instantly Mabry shifted his rifle to another Indian and fired.
One of those near Janice sprang away and grabbed at his rifle, which lay against a log. Healy shot and the Indian stumbled, then started forward again.
But Healy had shot from the back of his horse and now the pony went charging down the hill into the middle of the wild scramble around the vans. Mabry grabbed at the pommel as the black started, felt a tearing pain in his wounded side, and then was in the saddle and riding low like an Indian. Three Sioux were down and the others running. One took a snap shot and Mabry heard the sound of the bullet. He fired across the saddle, holding his rifle with one hand. Then he fired again, and the Indian went down. He swung the black and looked back at the vans. Healy was on the ground and fighting with an Indian. Dodie had come out of the wagon with a Colt in her hand, but Janice had been thrown across a pony and an Indian was mounted behind her.
The black was rested and corn-fed. Moreover, he liked to run. Mabry jumped him into a lunging run, angling across the course of the Sioux. As Mabry came up on him the Sioux threw Janice from him into a drift and swung to meet Mabry. As they came abreast, the lean, savagefaced Indian threw himself from his horse and hit Mabry. They went off the running horse into the snow. The Sioux struck viciously with his knife but the blade caught in Mabry’s buffalo coat. Mabry caught the Indian’s greasy hair and jerked his face down to meet the upward smash of Mabry’s skull in the crushing “Liverpool kiss” known to water-front and rough-and-tumble fighters. The brave fell back, his face streaming blood from a broken nose and smashed lips.
Heedless of the knife, Mabry swung. It was a wide swing and should not have landed, but it did. The Sioux went down, rolled over, and came up, his face a smear of blood. He threw himself at Mabry, his knife held low, cutting edge up. Mabry slapped the knife wrist aside to deflect the point, then caught the arm and threw the Indian over his hip, breaking his arm. The brave hit hard but came up again, his knife arm askew, and grabbed for his fallen rifle. Mabry shot him from the hip with his. 44 and the Indian stumbled three steps forward and slid on his face in the snow. Janice was on her knees, her hair fallen around her shoulders, her face haggard, her dress ripped.
His heart pounding wildly, Mabry spun around, his gun ready to chop down any further attackers. But what Indians remained alive were gone. He walked over and dropped beside Janice.
With a ragged sob, she fell into his arms. He held her, looking past her to the wagons. Dodie stood near them, shading her eyes toward them. Slow smoke lifted from the fire. There was the quiet of a fading winter afternoon, crisp and cold. The sky was gray, with only the dark line of crouching trees to offer relief. Singularly, nowhere was there violence.
It had come, smashing with its sudden horror, and then was gone. Gently Mabry lifted the sobbing girl to her feet.
Walking slowly to his horse, he retrieved his rifle from the snow. He could feel the wetness of blood inside his clothes, and the ache in his head beat heavily.
At the wagons Dodie waited for them. Her face was white and still. “There were seven,” she said.
“They took the horses.” Two Indians lay near the wagons. One of them sprawled at the foot of the step to the door.
Mabry glanced at the body. This Indian had been shot at point-blank range and his chest was covered with powder burns. Mabry glanced thoughtfully at Dodie, whoeast held the Colt. The man with his head split open was Wycoff. The other man was Griffin. He was fairly riddled with bullets. “He killed another one, I think,” Dodie said, “up under the trees. They came so suddenly, we-was “I know,” Mabry said. “Get what food there is. We’ve got to get away from here. They’ll be back.” “After that?” Healy asked.
“These were renegades, without squaws. They’ll be back.” Janice straightened, drawing away from him. With one hand she pushed her hair back. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I… It was just…” “Don’t think about it. Get ready to move.” He walked to the Indian at the step and, taking him by the heel, dragged him away. His blood made a red streak on the trampled snow and Janice turned her face away.
Slowly, holding an elbow against his bad side, Mabry picked up, the scattered weapons. Two Indian rifles and the rifle Wycoff had carried.
Griffin’s horse and rifle were gone, but Mabry unbuckled the cartridge belt and took the Colt. The Indian pony that Healy had ridden was gone too.
“We can’t go,” Janice protested.
“Maggie’s sick. She’s very sick.” “I’m sorry.” Mabry’s voice was harsh from his own pain.
“She’ll have to go. We can’t defend this place. We surprised them once. Next time they won’t be surprised.” Tom Healy came up quietly and took Janice by the arm. “You get the food. I’ll help Dodie with Maggie.” Janice hesitated. “You can’t bring her out like this! You can’t let her see those-those bodies.” Mabry turned impatiently. Every minute counted and his own weakness was growing. There was at least a chance at the cabin, which was strong and well built.
“She’ll have to stand it,” he replied sharply. “I haven’t time to conduct a funeral. Get her wrapped up and let’s get going!” Janice stared at him, her eyes revealing her contempt. She turned abruptly away.
Mabry looked to the hills. He felt sick and empty. He knew there were more Indians around. And he knew they would be coming back. They would be coming back, and they were just two men, with three women, one too ill to travel.
WITH JANICE on one side and Mabry on the other they held the sick woman upon the horse.
Maggie seemed only vaguely conscious of what was happening, and Mabry was worried. The sooner they got her into a house and in bed, the better.
Behind the saddle the black was piled high with blankets and quilts from the vans. Upon the Indian pony were supplies and the gold intended for Maguire in Butte.
Dodie walked ahead, carrying the shotgun.
Suddenly she stopped, hesitated a moment, and then called, “King?” Healy took his place beside the horse and Mabry walked up to Dodie. By now it was dark, and the sky was heavily overcast.
“I smell smoke.” Mabry lifted his head, testing the air. It was smoke, all right. And there was a smell he did not like. It was not merely wood smoke. Telling her to stay with the others and to bring them on carefully, he went on ahead. When he had gone several hundred yards, he stopped again. His imagination had reached ahead and he already knew what he would see.
Below him in the darkness a dozen small red eyes winked at the night. They were all that remained of the fire that had destroyed the cabin. Gone… and the barn also.
Alone in the darkness on the hill, he knew he faced his most desperate hour. For himself it was a small problem, not more than he had often faced. For the others, and particularly the sick woman, it was a matter of life or death.
He did not now think of Barker, long absent from