No more than fifty yards from the corral, it was a low knoll covered with rocks and chaparral, backed by a few trees and some fallen logs. From one of these I had taken bark for kindling, and broken some small branches. Building up the fire and adding fresh fuel, I then retreated to the knoll and found the view I had of the corral and my camp was better than expected. Carefully I looked around, choosing several possible firing positions, for after firing, I must move at once. My movements could be covered by the way the hill fell away as well as by the brush and rocks.
Checking my field of fire, I settled down to wait, and was scarcely in position before I glimpsed three riders come out of the trees and ride slowly along the dim trail that led from the southwest. They were ambling along as if going nowhere, and in no hurry, yet I was suspicious. Where were they going?
The route they followed would bring them close to our camp, and the trail led on past and into one of the canyons that offered access to the valley beyond. Yet, at this hour, where were they going? There were ranches in the valley, and a stage stop at Calabasas.
Curiously I watched them draw nearer. As I watched, one of them drew his rifle from the scabbard. My own rifle eased forward. At the corral the black stallion was restless, and glancing that way, I saw he was not watching the three riders, but something off to my right, head up, ears standing. Turning sharply, I saw five riders, rifles in hand, less than a hundred yards away. While my attention had been riveted on the three riders, as was no doubt intended, the others were approaching under cover and from almost behind me. Eleven, Yacub Khan had said, and there were but eight in sight. Where were the others? By now they all must know I was not at the fire, and were waiting until I gave away my position.
They did not know how I was armed, but would assume I had a rifle, which, once fired, must then be reloaded. They would also assume that I had a pistol capable of five or six shots, depending on whether all cylinders were loaded. Thinking of that, I drew each pistol, for I had two, and in each I loaded the extra chambers while watching the riders.
The five had drawn up. One man was standing in his stirrups, peering around. That I was not in sight disturbed them. If they could surprise me, they need not fire a shot. Otherwise they could draw my fire and leave me with an empty rifle. That I had two pistols and my father’s shotgun loaded with slugs, they could not guess.
Monte and Jacob had expected to be back before sundown, and any firing would bring them on the run. Yet now I was alone, very alone. Where were the other riders?
The three riders drew abreast of our fire, but a good hundred yards off, then walked their horses past it. Glancing around swiftly, I saw the five riders were moving forward.
Sweat broke out on my brow. My heart was pounding heavily. What should I do? To shout a warning meant to give away my position, yet it went against the grain to shoot an unwarned man. Yet, they had come here to steal, and so were taking their own chances.
The three riders suddenly turned and started for my fire. The first of the five rode around the near corner of the corral and trotted his horse to the gate. He reached to unfasten it, and I yelled, “Get away from there!” Instantly I rolled over and three bullets struck into the brush or the log near which I’d been lying. Quickly I took aim at the rider at the gate. Just as he leaned over to pull the pin, I squeezed off my shot, the bullet directed at the small of his back right above the cantle of the saddle. The moment I fired, I dropped the rifle and, picking up the shotgun, fired one barrel at the rider nearest the fire.
He raised up in his stirrup, looked right at me although I was deep in the brush, and then, as his horse wheeled, he toppled from the saddle and fell at the fire’s edge.
They were gone, vanished! Two men lay on the ground, one near the fire, the other some distance away, where he had fallen from his running horse. Swiftly I reloaded my rifle, then the empty barrel of the shotgun. All was quiet. A stick fell in the fire, and sparks flew up. The horse of the man near the fire walked slowly away.
Moving carefully, I shifted my position to have a better view of the corral and the fire. I could see along both sides of the corral for most of the way, but some of the riders were grouped just beyond the end of it farthest from me. As the ground fell away there, I could not see them, although I could detect occasional movement. Nor did I dare fire, for the horses were milling about. Had they been loose in our pasture, the outlaws would have been driving them, a mile away by now.
Slowly the moments passed. I lay quiet, sweating, straining my ears for any sound. Some of them were pinned down at the end of the corral, and to emerge would bring them within sight, but where were the others? The sun was going down. It would soon be dusk, and then dark. They had only to wait. Uneasily I glanced over my shoulder. It was already growing dark under the trees. I saw nothing, heard nothing.
When I looked back, the man near the fire had moved. So he was not dead then, only wounded.
Again I looked over my shoulder, searching the trees and brush for some movement. There was nothing.
The wounded man at the fire had put out a hand, and digging his fingers into the earth, was trying to pull himself along the ground. His rifle had fallen from his hand when he was shot and lay in plain sight. Where were Jacob and Monte? How far could our shots be heard? Over a mile, I assumed, but could not be sure. I simply did not know, and so much depended on the terrain, the vegetation, and the general surroundings. I dried my sweaty palms on my shirtfront, and drawing my spare pistol, I placed it on a rock near my hand. The other was in my waistband.
Again I checked all around me… Nothing. The wounded man had crawled several feet. My eyes swept the trees. Our horses had bunched at my end of the corral, away from the outlaws.
How many were down there? Three? Four? Brush crackled behind me, and two men burst out not thirty feet away. Whipping around at the first sound, I fired the shotgun point-blank at the nearest man; then, forgetting the other barrel, I caught up the pistol and shot into the next man. A bullet burned my ear, another plunked into the earth beside me, and then I felt a sharp impact on my leg. I fired again, and that man went down. He got up, staggered a few steps, and fell again.
At that moment there was a burst of firing from out in front, then a second pounding of gunfire, and silence.
The fire smoldered, almost out. Slow smoke arose from the coals. The wounded man was gone. A dark spot in the dust near the fire showed where he had bled, and there were drops of blood further along. When I was attacked from behind, he had chosen the moment to stagger away. His tracks were visible from where I lay. The man hit with the shotgun slugs was dead; the other one was alive and conscious, his eyes wide open. “You goin’ to kill me?” he asked, his voice almost casual.
“You were trying to kill me,” I said, reloading the shotgun.
“You had us in a bind. We didn’t know where you was.”
“When a man sets out to be a thief, he sets himself up in a shooting gallery.
He’s any man’s target.
“I never saw so many damn fools,” I added. “Men risking their lives for so little. If you stole all those horses, with today’s market there wouldn’t be enough left for one good night in a saloon. Any man who would risk his life or prison for so little has got to be soft in the head. At least two men are dead, two who will never see another sunrise, eat another meal, or know another woman, and for what?”
“I don’t have to stand for no preachin’.”
“Like hell you don’t! You have to stand for whatever you get! You’ve got no more choice than a rabbit.”