CHAPTER XVII
Con Vallian was laboring under no delusions. Dobbs might and might not do as he had said, but knowing the man Con believed he would if he could. Dobbs would rustle a few head here and there but Con had heard nothing about Dobbs that indicated he was vicious or brutal.
Con returned to his horse and waited there, thinking out the situation. If the Shabbitt outfit rode right in as expected, and if Duncan McKaskel would shoot from ambush there was every chance the odds might be cut drastically. Of the two Susanna was more apt to shoot than Duncan.
Nobody needed to draw any pictures for Susanna. She had seen those men when she came through town, they had tried then to kill her husband, and attack their camp. Susanna had discarded lady-like restraint when she bashed Booster McCutcheon across the nose with a club.
Con chuckled. Well, one thing about her. When she detided to swing she really laid it in there with both hands.
What now?
They had moved up to be within striking distance, and this time they would be coming for blood. They had had a long trek across country, had run into trouble, had their numbers trimmed down somewhat, and were in no mood for trifling.
Then there was the Huron.
Con debated approaching their camp, but the Huron had ears like a cat, and a sixth sense that might warn him of any movement he did not otherwise detect. It was foolish to ask for trouble.
He mounted, then walked his horse away along the stream, making almost no sound on the soft earth. From time to time he paused to listen. Finally, he rode to the hidden corral among the aspen where McKaskel kept his mules.
All was still. He left his horse in the deepest shadow, and taking his rifle moved out to a point on the bank where he could cover the open ground near the cabin, and then he waited.
The night was still. He could hear the rustling of the water from the creek, a faint stirring among the leaves, and once he glimpsed a night-hawk diving and swirling in the air above him. He wiped his palms on his shut front and took up his rifle again.
Something moved! The faintest shadow of movement, near the cabin! He eased his position a little, lying stretched out on the ground, and slowly put the rifle on target, digging his left elbow into the soft loam. He was glad he had a cartridge in the chamber for the sound of loading would be sharp and clear on such a night, in such a place.
There was a faint light from the cabin, a flickering of fire from the hearth. Somebody or something was checking the cabin.
He shifted his gaze, letting his eyes roam over the open ground before the cabin, down to the trees along the stream, and then he saw them.
They were not coming as he had expected, riding in a tight group down the trail, but were coming from the trees in a skirmish line, and they were walking their horses. Only a faint stirring in the dark warned him, only a suggestion of movement.
He shot a quick glance toward the cabin. The Huron? Perhaps… but gone now.
He looked back, praying that McKaskel was alert, for the renegades were scattered and moving with almost no sound. Nor were they clearly visible.
Turning slightly he brought his rifle to bear, tried to estimate the height and distance, then aimed where he believed a rider’s body would be. He let his finger tighten slowly on the trigger, and then the rifle leaped and the sharp report split the night. From below there was a sudden wild yell, and the horsemen charged.
On the instant another rifle bellowed from the McKaskel position, and a man cried out, then swore. Another shot… Con had rolled over three times, now he held his fire, waiting for a shot from the attackers. They had vanished.
A sudden rush on discovery, a scattering, and a few return shots, fired at random. One bullet had struck the earth near him, another ricocheted off a branch above his head.
He pulled back quickly, moved down slope on the steep bank, and crouched among the young trees, waiting. A man lay sprawled on the grass down there. His riderless horse had run off across the stream.
They had charged the house, circled swiftly as they realized their mistake, and were now scattered, undoubtedly stalking him and McKaskel as well.
How many were out of it? Only the one? And was he done for, or merely lying quiet until he could make a dash for shelter?
Con eased back a little under the trees. They had offered no shelter and only a slight concealment, but the field of fire had been excellent.
Who was down? So much could depend on that. If it was Red Hyle… or Purdy. Small chance!
He worked his way down the steep slope among the trees until he reached the level of the cabin. At least two of the attackers had gone over the edge into the area around the beaver ponds. There was soft ground there, with scattered logs, as well as much standing timber, gray and ghost-like in the pale light of the moon.
Suddenly, McKaskel or someone from the ambush, fired.
Instantly four or five rifles replied, riddling the trees and brush with lead. Con swore at the action, but took the opportunity. He fired quickly at the nearest flash. Shifting his rifle, he shot again at a point where another shot had come from.
A bullet clipped leaves above his head. He fired again, at the flash, then slid swiftly through the brush, working his way to the edge of the beaver ponds.
There, except for the standing trees which were scattered, there was little cover. The fallen trees were old and bare. He hesitated, then moved out among them, working his way toward the other side. Twice he had to crouch behind an old dead stump when he heard movement. He also heard someone swear, and the muttering of a man in pain.
He could distinguish nothing, nor could he hear a voice clearly enough to place it.
His foot slipped as he crossed a narrow stretch of sand and his boot came down on stone. He slipped, and the boot went into the water.
A bullet clipped a chip from a log almost at his feet, and he took a long step, merging with a narrow-leafed cottonwood on the bank. He had crossed the ponds, and now-
Nothing happened.
Near the bases of the trees there were long dark piles of dead branches, logs, slabs of bark-refuse left by the last high water or, perhaps by the floods over the years. He crouched near them, watching for some movement.
Suddenly, off to his left he heard the pounding of hoofs. Men had ridden away. At least two, probably more. A trick? A device to get him to stand up and move so he could be killed? Or had they abandoned the fight?
He waited while the minutes went slowly by. There was no other sound, not so much as a whisper of movement. An owl swung low over the beaver ponds and winged by, unalarmed. Still, he remained where he was.
After a while he moved stealthily forward, waited, then moved again. There was nothing, no sound, no movement.
Suddenly, from further off, he heard another horse, a lone rider this time, start off. Hoofbeats dwindled and the sound faded out.
From where he now stood he could see a horse standing with an empty saddle. He could see the reflected light from the polished leather. Out on the grass some thirty yards from the cabin he could see the dark shape of what appeared to be a body.
Warily he moved around through the trees, doubly careful, for he was now in enemy country and did not wish to be shot by McKaskel.
By the time another half hour had gone by he had worked his way around the ambush position, and then slipped through the slender white aspens to the place of ambush.
It was empty. They were gone. In the darkness he could see nothing. Squatting, he ran his ringers swiftly over the leaves that had been the wild animal bed. Nothing… no blood, no weapons, no bodies.
Why had they pulled out? Or had they been taken by force?
To move around searching would be to wipe out what sign they might have left, so he pulled back and strode across the moonlit grass toward the fallen man.
With a boot toe, he rolled him over. The man’s hat fell off, and his face turned up to the sky. Booster McCutcheon, with a bullet hole through his skull and his body caked with blood from other wounds.