Leading the mare, Flint went down the outer passage through the lava, and was within a few yards of the trail when he heard voices. There were seven riders. They were Baldwin men.
Nothing lay in the direction they were taking but the Kaybar, unless they were going to Horse Springs, which was unlikely. Waiting a few minutes, he led the mare out, brushed away the tracks, and stepped into the leather.
The sky was tufted with bits of white cloud, the air was clear, and the sun was warm.
In Alamitos, on that morning, Porter Baldwin was opening a land office, advertising for sale cattle ranches, dry farms, and town-site lots.
In New York, Lottie Kettleman had found out that her husband had disappeared.
Near the lava beds Flint was trailing the seven Baldwin riders. They held to a tight bunch, riding slowly to stir no dust cloud. When they disappeared into the trees beyond North Plain, he took a direction diagonally away from them, but once under cover of the trees he turned north and rode swiftly to make up for time lost.
Their destination was now obvious. They were headed for the Kaybar headquarters. Flint could see the highest peak of the Zuni Mountains dead ahead, and knew that peak lay northwest from the Kaybar.
He thought of attempting to reach the ranch ahead of them, but doubted if the old mare would stand the run.
He rode with extreme care, holding his rifle across the saddle and ready for action. It was a custom-made rifle, built by a man who made weapons for the Grand Duke Alexis and others, and possessed extraordinary range and accuracy.
The Baldwin riders were holding close to the lava beds so he rode wide, using every bit of cover, and gained some ground. He was on the north slope of the Zuni Mountains when he came within sight of Kaybar, and glimpsed a dust cloud far away to the north indicating a second group of riders.
He stepped up his pace, cutting down the hillside and gaining a little ground by virtue of terrain. The riders along the lava beds started to trot their horses, and as if by prearrangement, those at the foot of the Zunis did also.
“All right, girl,” he said to the mare, “let’s see if you can run.”
He walked her out of the trees and started down the slope. He was at the apex of a triangle with riders coming up both sides toward him.
The mare started to trot. So far he had not been seen. Sensing his urgency, she began to go faster and faster. Now they were within sight of the ranch and on level ground. From behind he heard a shout, then a shot. The range was too great and he was not worried, but the mare stretched out and began to run.
At the ranch somebody ran into the yard and he saw sunlight on a rifle barrel. He talked to the mare and, glancing back, saw a rifle leveled. There was a dip in the ground off to the left. He swung over and dropped into it, hearing the bullet go by.
When he came out of the hollow he let the mare have her head and she started running all out, giving it everything she had. Old as she was, she was a fine horse and she loved to run.
Then the others broke from the brush and trees and, stretched out in a long line, swept down on the ranch, guns popping. Somebody fired from the ranch and then he was racing into the yard.
He swung an arm to indicate the attack was coming from all directions and then rode the mare to the stable and, dropping to the ground, ran back.
Johnny Otero was down behind a plank water trough, rifle ready, and Pete Gaddis came running from the bunkhouse carrying an extra cartridge belt.
Otero fired first and a gray horse running full tilt took a header, throwing its rider head over heels to the ground. The rider started to get up, and Otero fired again.
Riders rushed into the ranch yard and one man lifted a gun toward Otero. Flint fired his big game rifle and the man was lifted from the saddle and smashed to the ground. It was close range now. Dropping the rifle, he sprang into the open and emptied his six-shooter into the racing riders. Then he switched guns with a border shift, throwing the empty gun to his left hand, the loaded gun to his right, opening fire so swiftly there was almost no break in the sound.
Two saddles were emptied and a man riding away seemed to turn in the saddle and fall, his foot hanging in the stirrup.
The attack ended abruptly. Flames crackled up from a huge stack of hay. Otero had a bad burn across the top of his shoulder, but the defenders suffered no other injuries. Flint loaded his pistols and recovered his rifle.
At the stable he stripped the saddle from the mare and, taking a handful of hay, gave her a swift rubdown, then threw an old blanket over her. He put grain in the feed box and hay in the manger. He was coming out of the stall when pain seized him, knotting his stomach with agony. He doubled over, and caught the edge of the stall for support, then slid to his knees.
Johnny Otero stepped into the door. “Hey, did you get hit?”
Flint shook his head. Otero waited, uncertain, then backed out and went to the house. Slowly the attack passed. Flint pulled himself erect. He spat. There was blood on the hay.
He walked out of the barn, feeling weak and sick. He squinted his eyes against the sun and stood in the stable door for a minute, trying to fight his way back to composure.
Otero came from the bunkhouse carrying an extra rifle, a second pistol tucked into his waistband. He glanced curiously at Flint. “You all right?” he asked.
“All right,” Flint said briefly.
“There’s more guns in the house,” Otero said.
There was a burst of firing from the west and two riders came at the ranch on a dead run.
“Hold your fire!” Otero yelled. “That’s Julius!”
Julius Bent dropped from the saddle in time to catch the other rider as he fell. The wounded man had been shot twice, through the leg, and through the chest.
Flint walked around the ranch yard, studying the situation. The place was in good shape as long as daylight held, but with the small number of men they had to defend it, night attack was sure to end in disaster. The attackers could close in under cover of darkness and fire the buildings, then shoot down the defenders as they emerged.
No help could be expected from the outside. If Baldwin had thought to guard the telegraph station it was doubtful if the territorial government would know of what was going on until the fight was over, and then Baldwin could say it was a fight between the big ranches and squatters.
The telegraph station …
Jim Flint paused in his pacing. The place to beat Baldwin was New York. The telegraph made it almost next door.
He went to the house. “We’ve got to get out of here, as soon as it’s dark,” he told Nancy.
Gaddis nodded agreement. “He’s right. They’ll burn this place tonight whether we are in it or not.”
Burn the ranch? Nancy looked slowly around her, scarcely able to imagine life without this house. She had grown up here. There were marks of her uncle and father all around. Yet she knew that what Flint and Gaddis said was true.
“We will need all the grub we can get together,” she said, “and pack horses. I doubt if they will expect us to run.”
“Where’ll we go?” Gaddis asked mildly.
“There is only one place,” Nancy said. “We will go to the Hole-in-the-Wall.” She turned to explain to Flint. “It’s a lava-walled pasture — twelve thousand acres of it. I doubt if any of Baldwin’s men know it exists.”
Flint watched Nancy. He knew what this meant to her. This home was her life, her memories, all she had.
“We will have to take Flynn,” she said, “and Lee Thomas.”
Thomas, the wounded rider, grinned at Flint. “Hell, you get me on a horse, that’s all I ask. I rode twenty miles through a blizzard one time with a broke leg.”
When they were alone, Nancy turned to him. “Jim, I’m glad you’re here.”
“Yes,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”
At her quick glance, he added, “At a time like this.”
He walked outside. The sun was a ball of fire over the Continental Divide.
“You’ll make a fool of yourself,” he said aloud, “if you aren’t careful.”
Chapter 9
Lottie Kettleman stood rigidly before the bank window. “I do not understand you,” she protested. She was very pale. Inwardly she seethed with anger. “I …”