There was no arguing with the man, and in not many minutes it would be too late; but Mike Shevlin knew better than to make a wrong move against Babcock now. The cowhand was tough and seasoned, and wily as an old wolf. And that reminded Shevlin of Winkler. Where was the old wolfer, anyway?
The livery stable was dark and still. It was almost as if all were serene. There was the smell of hay and manure, the pleasant smell of horses and a horse barn. The light of the lantern glowed feebly above the door.
It was past two o’clock in the morning; maybe almost three. A good two hours remained before daylight, ample time for whatever mischief was to be done under cover of darkness.
Now in the spaces between the buildings riders could be made out, three abreast in the first opening, two in the next. Others, judging by the sound, were walking their horses slowly up the street.
“Babcock,” Shevlin said, “you’re sitting in on a wake. Out there in that dusty street you’ll see the end of the cattle business in Rafter.
You’re a stubborn man, and you’ve been loyal for a long time to a shadow; but stop and think, man.
“You were at Rock Springs the night I whipped Ray. You know Ray never saw the time when he could stand with the big cattlemen in the old days, but he’s got Eve Bancroft convinced now that he was a big man. Babcock, be honest… did you ever know anybody who was afraid of Ray Hollister?” “That don’t cut no ice.” “You two worked together for a long time,” Mike went on, looking hard at Babcock, “but if you’d admit it to yourself, you were the one who built that outfit of his while Ray played the big man.
You did the work, managed the place, hired and fired most of the time.” Babcock made no reply. Shevlin looked along the street again. It was not over two hundred yards from here to the mine buildings, but from the moment the men passed the livery stable they would be in at least partial light for the rest of the distance. Anyone who passed this point in full view was a dead man.
“Bab, is Joe Holiday out there?” “What if he is?” “I recall a time when Joe pulled a crazy steer off you… saved your bacon. You going to let Joe get killed?” Babcock shifted his feet.
“Bab, you’re a good Injun when it comes to scouting. There was a time you’d never have walked into th with your eyes shut. You’d have scouted the lay-out before you made a move.” Shevlin was sure he had Babcock worried, and he pressed the advantage. “Bab, you can make fifty dollars mighty easy. I’ve got it here, and I’ll lay it two to one you’ll find fifty, maybe a hundred armed men up at the head of that street.” “You’re bluffin’.” “Call me.” Brazos spoke for the first time. “You call him, Babcock, and I’ll lay you another fifty you made you a bad bet. They’re up there all right.” “Hell,” Babcock said, “I couldn’t stop them! Ray’s got ’em itching for it. The way they feel they’d charge hell with a bucket of water.” The riders were coming on now, a solid rank of them, wall to wall on the street, walking their horses. And as they drew nearer, the rider waiting between the buildings started to move out to join them.
“Look!” exclaimed Brazos.
The silent cavalcade had stopped abruptly, almost opposite the livery stable.
A blocky, powerful figure had stepped from the restaurant, a toothpick between his teeth. He stood now in the center of the street–dark, silent, but somehow indomitable.
It was Wilson Hoyt.
CHAPTER 10
Hoyt wore two six-shooters, and a third was thrust into his waistband. In his hands was a Colt revolving shotgun.
He said not a word. He just stood there, letting them see him, letting them count the odds for themselves.
Every man there knew they could ride him down: the question was, who was to die in the process? How many shots could he get off before he went down?
The range was point-blank, and just enough to get a fair spread on his shot; they would be slugs, heavy enough to kill a man. If he could get off two shots he could empty three to six saddles at that range; and he might get out of the way and keep shooting.
Mike Shevlin, watching from the darkness, knew how they felt. Of the forty or so men out there, only two or three might die, but which ones?
Wilson Hoyt spoke suddenly, quietly, and he showed his shrewdness in not even glancing toward Ray Hollister. Hollister was the sort that would feel he had to prove himself, no matter who got killed; so Hoyt deliberately threw the responsibility to another.
“Walt Kelly,” he said, “you turn this outfit around and ride back where you came from.” “Get out of the way, Hoyt!” “Don’t be a damn’ fool, Walt,” Hoyt replied in a reasonable tone. “You know this is my job. Did you ever hear of me quitting on the job?” Mike Shevlin stepped out from the stable. “Back up, boys. That crowd up the street are waiting there in the dark, just praying for you to ride up.” Eyes had turned toward him. Some of them were hard, hating eyes, some questioning, some even hopeful.
In any such crowd there are always a few who do not want the thing to happen, who are wishing for something, anything, to stop it before it goes too far. These found their hope in Hoyt, and now in Shevlin’s backing of Hoyt.
But Ray Hollister had been ignored too long. “He’s a damn’ liar!” he yelled.
“There’s nobody up there! Come on, let’s go!” There was a noticeable surge in the crowd, and Hoyt’s shotgun lifted. “If any of you boys are friendly to Walt Kelly,” he said, “you’d better tell him goodbye… and there’s a couple more had better say it for themselves.” Hoyt had made his mistake. As a crowd, they could hold back and acquire no blame, but now he had named an individual, and one of the best among them. Walt Kelly could not hold back now.
“Damn you, Hoyt!” he said. “Get out of the way. I’m riding!” “What about Arch, Walt?” Shevlin’s voice carried easily.
All his life Walt Kelly had been father as well as big brother to Archer Kelly. And it was Arch’s name that made him hesitate now.
At that instant a rider thrust forward from the crowd. It was Eve Bancroft, and her face was white with fury. “You yellow-livered coyotes!” Her voice was hoarse with anger. “Come on, Ray! We’ll show ’em!” She slapped the spurs to her horse and he leaped forward. Hoyt sprang to grab her bridle, but she was past him and charging up the street.
Ray Hollister made one lunge to follow, then pulled up.
Eve Bancroft, her gun blazing, went up the street, and the waiting miners could not see she was a woman. She rode full-tilt into a ripping wall of lead that struck her from the saddle, tearing with hot metal claws at her flesh. She half-turned before she fell clear, and the scream that tore from her throat, a scream of agony and despair, echoed in the street.
From the darkness where the miners lay, a voice called out in horror. “It’s a woman! My God, we’ve killed a woman!” The eyes of the cattlemen looked at the still figure lying in the street a hundred yards away. And then as one man they looked at Ray Hollister.
Every man of them knew that Eve Bancroft had ridden up the street because she believed in Hollister, and she had invited him to ride with her.
He sat his horse, staring at her body as if he couldn’t believe it, scarcely aware as the riders one by one turned and rode away. He had brought her to this, and in the moment of need, he had failed her. He had let her ride alone.
Hoyt moved suddenly. “Hollister, get out of here. If I ever see you again I’ll shoot you like a mad dog. I’ll kill you where you stand.” People, mysteriously absent until now, began to appear on the street. Two of the women went to Eve’s body. Nobody needed to ask if she was dead, for no one could have ridden into t burst of fire and survived.
Shevlin moved up beside Hoyt. “I tried to stop her!” Hoyt said. “Damn it, I tried!” “Nobody could have stopped her then,” Shevlin said. “Nobody but Ray.” People were gathering in clusters on the street, talking. Ben Stowe was nowhere in sight.
“He didn’t do a damn’ thing,” Hoyt said.
“He just sat there and watched her go.” “He started,” somebody said. “He started, and then he quit… he quit cold.” Mike Shevlin turned away, but Hoyt stopped him. “Do you think this will end it?” “Has anything changed?” Shevlin asked. “A girl’s dead that should be alive, but the situation’s the same. Hoyt, you take it from me. Throw Ben Stowe in jail. Then call a meeting of half a dozen of your best citizens and get this thing cleaned up.” Hoyt hesitated, staring gloomily before him.