The two redheads were both on their feet staring at me, waiting.
“All right,” I said. “Pick him up and get off the place.”
“It was orders.”
“You could quit, couldn’t you?”
The stocky redhead stared at me. “He’ll be huntin’ you now. You won’t live long. You know what that is?” He indicated the youngster on the ground. “That’s Bodie Miller!”
The name was familiar. Bodie Miller had killed two men. He was known to be utterly vicious, and although he lacked seasoning he had it in him to be one of the worst.
The two redheads picked Miller off the ground and hoisted him into his saddle. Disarmed, they slowly walked their horses out of the Wash and took the trail for home.
The cattle were no cause for worry. They would not leave the good grass of the Wash nor of the feeder canyons from the east.
Jonathan Benaras rolled a smoke and hitched his one gallus higher on his shoulder after he had put the cigarette between his lips. He struck a match and lighted up.
“Well,” he said wryly, “they cain’t say you don’t walk in swingin’. You’ve tackled nigh ever’body in the country!”
When they were gone, riding home and talking about it, I studied the situation. There was nothing about it that I liked. Maclaren would be back … or the Finders would come, and I was one man alone.
SIX
It was no longer possible to defend the Two-Bar. No other decision was possible. Reluctantly, I decided that for the time, at least, I must have another place of retreat. Although I might remain at the ranch, I must be prepared to leave at an instant’s notice.
Before Ball was killed we had made plans for our last stand, if that became necessary, at an old cliff house in Two-Bar canyon. Ball and I had stored some food there, and now, digging around in the ruins, I found some undamaged canned stuff that I transported up there and concealed near the cliff house.
As I rode I tried to think a way out of the corner in which I found myself.
My only friends were the Benaras family, but this was not their fight, it was mine.
Across the east was broken country of canyons and desert, almost without water, a country brutal and heat-blistered, where a man might die under a blazing sun, choking with thirst … unless he knew the waterholes.
On the west were the holdings of the CP and the Boxed M.
Once, not many weeks ago, I would have been tempted to start hunting down the men who had killed my partner. Now I knew better.
The way to defeat them was to hold the ranch, to keep it for myself, as Ball had wished, to keep them from what they had hoped to gain by murder. To do this I must stay alive, I must think, plan.
Now young cattle ran on Two-Bar grass. They would be growing, fattening up. That much was done. But a new house must be built, new corrals. I must put down such solid roots that I could never be dislodged. And to have roots was a new thing for me.
Maclaren would, when possible, try to give the cover of right and legality to his actions. Finder was under no such compulsion. Yet they were equally dangerous.
Another thing. I must keep the good will of those few friends I had. The Benaras family were really all. But at Hattan’s Point there were people who, if not my friends, were not my enemies either. Key Chapin was not taking sides. Morally at least, I must have him on my side. Mrs. O’Hara was another.
Sheriff Tharp would not interfere in any ranch squabble. That Ball had told me. He would arrest outlaws, killers, and rustlers. It was up to property holders to settle their own arguments, gunplay or not. Yet if Tharp could find nothing in me to dislike, it would at least help. My fighting must be in self-defense.
All the following day I worked around the place, cleaning up the debris left by the fire, and rebuilding the corral, but keeping a careful lookout. Some of the saddle stock had escaped when the corrals were pulled down. These I rounded up and herded back to the corral with my mules.
One young steer had suffered a broken leg in the drive on the Boxed M camp, so I shot it and butchered the caracass, hanging up the beef until I could jerk it.
I cleaned out the spring near where the house had stood, and built several rifle pits against possible attack. Then, mounting up, I ended my day by scouting the vicinity. No riders were in sight. All was still. The young stock were making themselves happily at home in the knee-high grass.
Three times I spotted good defense areas and mapped out routes that would offer cover in going from one to the other. Being a practical man, I also looked for an escape route.
I slept in a sheltered place near the spring and at daybreak I rolled out of my blankets and saddled up.
The morning was clear and cool. In an hour the sun would be warming the hills, but now a coat was a comfortable thing. Reluctantly, I put out my fire and swung into the saddle. The buckskin was frisky and tugged at the bit, ready to go.
Rounding a bend, I suddenly saw a dozen riders coming toward me at a canter. Wheeling the buckskin, I slapped the spurs into his flanks and went up the Wash at a dead run. A bullet whined past my ear as I swung into a branch canyon and raced to the top of the plateau.
Behind me the racing horses ran past the canyon’s mouth. Then there was a shout as a rider saw me, and they turned back. By the time they entered the canyon mouth I was on top of the mesa.
It was the Finders, and they were out for blood.
I dropped to the ground and took a running dive for a rock, landing behind it and swinging my Winchester to my shoulder at the same time. The butt settled, I took a long breath, then squeezed off my shot.
A horse stumbled, throwing his rider over his head, and my second shot nailed the rider before he could rise. Firing as rapidly as I could aim, I sent a dozen bullets screaming down the canyon. They scattered for shelter, a wild melee of lunging horses and men.
The man I’d shot began to crawl, dragging a broken leg. He was out of it, so I let him go. Several horses had raced away, but two stood ground-hitched. On one of these was a big canteen. I emptied it with a shot. A foot showed and I triggered my Winchester. A bit of leather flew up and the foot was withdrawn.
Bullets ricocheted around me, but my position could not have been better. As long as I remained where I was they could neither advance nor retreat.
The sun was well up in the sky now, and the day promised to be hot. Where I lay there was a little shade from a rock overhang, and I had water on my saddle. They had neither. Digging out a little hollow in the sand, I settled down to be comfortable.
Several shots were fired, but they were not anxious to expose their position, and the shots were far off the mark.
Five … ten minutes passed. Then I saw a man trying to crawl back toward the canyon mouth.
I let him crawl … When he was a good twenty yards from shelter I sighted down the barrel and put one into the sand right ahead of him. He sprang to his feet and ducked for shelter. I splattered rock fragments into his face with a ricochet and he made a running dive for shelter, with another bullet helping him along.
“Looks like a hot day!” I called.
My voice carried well in the rocky canyon, and somebody swore viciously. I sat back and rolled a smoke. Nobody moved down below.
The canyon mouth was like an oven. Heat waves danced in the sun, the rocks became blistering. The hours marched slowly by. From time to time some restless soul made a move, but a quick shot would always change his mind. I drank from my canteen and moved a little with the shade.
“How long you figure you can keep us here?” someone yelled.
“I’ve got plenty of water and two hundred rounds of ammunition!”
One of them swore again, and there were shouted threats. Silence descended over the canyon. Knowing they could get no water must have aggravated their thirst. The sun swam in a coppery sea of heat, and the horizon was lost in heat waves. Sweat trickled down my face and down my body under the arms. Where I lay there was not only shade but a slight breeze, but where they lay the heat reflected off the canyon walls and all wind was shut off.