“I sold him the horse,” Dolan said. “If anybody could make it, he could. I know the man.”
Tentatively Blaine tried the door, standing well to the side. Instantly a bullet smashed the wall within inches. Shorty, crouched near an open window, fired three shots as fast as he could lever the rifle. Another shot spattered glass and he ducked flat. “Think I nicked somebody,” he said. “He dropped his rifle.” For a few minutes the air was punctured with the staccato bark of guns. Then silence fell. The shooting did no damage in the strongly made house. Doc Blaine had stationed himself in his office with Cain Brockman at the other window. Brockman was far from recovered from his injuries but his huge body was amazingly tough and he refused to be coddled.
Dolan’s place was guarded by his own men, who welcomed the chance for action. From the edge of Black Mesa, Kilkenny watched the Forty riders heading toward the KR ranch house and supper. Two riders remained on guard. The cattle moved toward the waterhole, bunching as night drew on. He listened to the distant firing, trying to imagine what was happening. The sound was reassuring. It meant that his friends were holding out. And he knew the caliber of Dolan, Brockman and Blaine.
As dusk closed around he moved back to the gray horse and began to tighten the cinch. Suddenly he knew he was not alone. He could not have explained how he knew, for there had been no sound.
He dropped the stirrup into place, and let his eyes search the terrain. His head still lowered, he fooled with the saddle while watching the rocks. There was no cover behind him. Yet to move from the side of the horse would leave him in the open and, considering the situation, Kilkenny liked no part of it. Only two places before him offered cover, and one of these was far more likely than the other.
Turning his horse on a three-quarter angle, he started walking on the oblique toward the rocks, keeping on the far side of the horse. Quite near, he suddenly slapped the gray, vaulted to the saddle and shucked a gun in the same instant. The startled horse leaped past the rocks, and Kilkenny, gun poised, looked into the face of Jaime Brigo.
Brigo grinned up at him. “I knew it was you, senor, but there might have been someone else near.”
“You nearly got shot, compadre. Want to help me?” “Si.” The Yaqui looked curiously at the now hog-tied steers. “But I do not understand what it is you do.”
“It’s like this—“ Kilkenny explained his plan as briefly as possible.
“Good!” Jaime said. “We will do it.”
He caught Kilkenny’s sleeve. “Senor? The senorita? She is safe?”
“Safe. But let’s get busy. It will soon be time.”
Chapter 8
Swede Carlson of the Forty walked his horse slowly across the range toward the herd. The night had clouded over and the distant rumble of thunder hinted at the possibility of more rain. A hundred yards away he could see the dark outline of Slim’s angular figure slouching in the saddle.
Slim rode toward him. “I got the creeps!” he said, looking around. “It’s mighty dark, all of a sudden.”
Swede told him about the killing of Harry Lott and of Phin. “The old man’s turned mighty mean. Losin’ his second boy.”
“Yeah.” Slim glanced over the herd. They were restless over the imminent storm.
“Ben’s coming up the trail with ten thousand head.” An electric current seemed to run through the cattle and as if on signal they came suddenly to their feet. One instant the night was still and then the herd was up and running. Horns clashed and somebody shouted vainly. Swede swung his head as he fought his horse around. Rushing down upon the herd was a row of dancing, leaping lights!
With one mind the herd was gone. Swede caught a glimpse of Slim trying to swing his horse, saw a charging steer hit them broadside and saw Slim and his horse go down under the charging cattle, and then he was fighting blindly, instinctively, for his own life.
Under him the pony stretched out, running desperately while Swede tried to edge him over and escape from sure death under the pounding hoofs. Far behind, Kilkenny drew the gray to a halt. Brigo drew up beside him and they watched the herd go. “They asked for it,” Kilkenny said, “now they’ve got it.” Away in the darkness, Swede Carlson finally saw an opening and lunged his horse toward it. They got out of the herd and into the brush. He stopped there, his heart pounding. A steer ran past him, fire still blazing around one horn. Old sacking and grass had been rolled together and tied between the steer’s spreading horns, then set afire. Such a fire would not burn long and would blow or burn itself free before it could harm the cow. The flames had been all that was needed with the skittish herd.
Slim was dead and there was no telling how many more. It was not going to be a one-sided fight this time, Swede decided. From the town a rifle shot sounded, lost in the vast silence left behind after the rushing hoofs of the cattle. Dismally Swede turned back and began to search for the other riders. Far off, very far off, he could hear the running herd.
Ben Tetlow was riding the point of his trail herd nearing Westwater. He was tired from the long ride and was about to bed down the herd when he heard a distant thunder. He drew up, listening. A rider cantered up. “Boss,” he said, “that sounds like—“ He broke off, rising in his stirrups. The sound was suddenly louder and the skyline was broken by bobbing heads and horns. Fear went through Ben like the shock of cold water. “Ride, damn it! Ride! It’s a stampede!”
There was no chance to stop the rush of cattle and they rode for their lives to get to the edge of the herd. The heads of the ten thousand cattle came up, eyes rolled, and then as the shock of charging cattle hit them they wheeled in their tracks and lit out at a dead run.
Ben Tetlow stared after them. All they could hope now was that weariness from the long march would have left the herd too tired to run far. “What started ‘em?” he asked a rider who trotted up.
“Somebody tied burnin’ rags between then: horns.” “Kilkenny.” Ben stared off to the north. “I wish Dad had never started this fuss.”
The rider was Swede Carlson. “The Old Man’s too high-handed, Ben.”
“Phin and Andy like it that way. Otherwise he might have slowed down a little.”
“You … you ain’t heard about Phin?”
Ben turned on him. “What about him?”
Swede explained, telling what he had heard of the gun battle in the street. Phin dead! Ben was thinking more of his father than of Phin. He himself had always been closer to Andy but Phin had been a silent, hard working man. His father had told Ben that he took after his mother, and Ben had not been sorry. The Old Man had always been proud of his big sons, and now two were dead because of the path down which he had guided them.
“Where’ll it end, Swede?”
Carlson shrugged. “The Old Man’s usin’ his spurs too much, Ben. These folks have got their backs up. We’ve lost men. Two killed out on the range by nobody knows who. Killed with a knife.”
“I’m going to talk to Dad.”
“Won’t do you no good, Ben. He’s fierce mad now. And you know how Havalik is.” The day dawned hot and still. Strong as was the Blaine house, it was also a trap. Any movement near the windows drew fire. Luckily, there was plenty of food in the house, but the water was outside. During the night they had succeeded in drawing three buckets of water, but the third one had spilled, warning the watchers, who opened fire.
Nobody felt like talking. There was no relief in sight and all knew how ruthless Jared Tetlow was.
Kilkenny was hidden between two peaks atop Black Steer Knoll, overlooking the town. With him was Brigo. Vainly he searched his mind for a solution. In the town below no life stirred except around the saloon and then only when drinks were sold to riders from the Forty. Through his glasses Kilkenny could see the location of the surrounding attackers.
“They’ll need water inside the house,” Brigo said. “The well is in the yard.” Kilkenny could see what the Yaqui meant. The well was thirty feet from the house and surrounded by a stone coping three feet high. Once at the well a man would have shelter, but he could return only at the risk of his life. Two riders appeared from the east and rode into town. Kilkenny swung his glasses. “Ben Tetlow, bringing news of the stampede.” Below in the town a man moved near the edge of the woods at Blaine’s. “Get ready to run,” Lance said. “I’m going to show them they have friends outside.” He nestled the rifle stock against his cheek. Heat waves danced in the air, giving it a curiously liquid appearance. Deceptive, but not too much so. The distance was no more than five hundred yards. The stock felt cool against his cheek.