Murphy turned and attacked his tree from another angle, a move that brought him face to face with Bardoul’s position. He swung his axe, then straightened and brushed his hand across his brow, eager to let Matt know he was ready for anything.
Mart’s eyes shifted to Phillips, and he jumped when he saw the Indian fighter was gone! Bardoul faded back into the brush and slid his knife from its scabbard. He moved stealthily from tree to tree, then crouched behind the earth matted roots of a huge deadfall. He had only to wait a minute or so when he saw Phillips.
The Portugee moved purposefully through the brush, but making no effort at concealment. When he drew near the place from which the loon call might have come, he paused and leaned his rifle against a tree. Turning then, he walked away some twenty feet and seated himself against a tree trunk. Taking out his pipe, he lit it.
His meaning was obvious enough. He was perfectly aware that Matt Bardoul or someone was in the woods near him, and he wanted them to feel there was nothing to fear from him. Matt waited, uncertain. After a moment had passed, Phillips took his pipe from his mouth and said, “If it’s you, Bardoul, ye can talk. That call sounded like yours.”
Matt spoke only loud enough for the Portugee to hear him. “You have been a good man, Phillips, but go against me now, and I’ll kill you.”
“I’ve a short gun under my shirt,” Phillips replied, “but you could beat me, and unless I’m some mistook you’ll have a knife handy that you could kill me with by throwin’ before I could get my gun into action. Come out, or stay where you are, but listen:
“The women are all right, but today is the last of their free time. I’ve spoken for them, arguin’ that the men would work better and make no trouble if their women were unmolested, but Massey’s restless and some irritated at that wildcat of a Coyle gal. She’s not been so easy as he’d expected.
“I’m with you, all the way. Murphy knows that, for we’ve talked it over some, and so does Stark, and we’ve a plan, but it is not such a good one.”
Bardoul moved out of the brush and Phillips grinned at him. “You look to have been through some grief your ownself,” he said, “and you’re right in trustin’ no man. In the past I’ve been a hard man at times, but once you’ve a taste of being a hero, it makes things different somehow. It gives a man something to live up to.”
Matt set on his heels. “Phillips, if you’re right there is no time to waste. We had better get down there and take over this minute. We’ve got to get rifles and those shotguns in the hands of our own men, and this lot of timber fallers are as good as any we could find.”
“With luck we’ll do it all right. The rest of the guns are in the smaller of the two finished buildings. That’s where Massey is. The women are in the other building. He’s got thirty men down there altogether, and a rough lot they are, the ragtag an’ bobtail of the mountain country. He thinks I’m with him, and I’ve been hunting for the lot of them, getting them fresh meat.
“The man’s mad, Bardoul. He’s a crazy killer, that one. Safe for no man, and quick to kill. The way he killed Deane … I didn’t see the first of it. When I came up, Logan was already down and Massey over him, standing there cold blooded and shooting into him, slow, timed shots, picking his places.
“He’s mean to get along with as a ruttin’ moose, and he’ll kill anything or anybody that crosses him.
“Oh, he’s Sun Boyne, all right! He’s bragged of it! Talks of the killings along the Trace when he was a boy. There’s blood on his hands, and a sight of it.”
Swiftly, Bardoul outlined the plan he had worked out and Phillips nodded. Finally, he took his pipe from his mouth and scratched his cheek with the stem. “Maybe she’ll work, anyway, we’ve got to try. We’ve no choice, for Massey will be wild tonight. The Coyle gal got away from him last night and he finally gave up and went back to his own quarters, but he was as mean as a she-grizzly with cubs.
“Bat Hammer, Stahl, and the rest of them are almighty worked up about Massey not givin’ them the Stark girls and that gal of Tolliver’s.”
Portugee Phillips got to his feet and started back toward the clearing and at a safe distance, Matt followed. Phillips went right into the clearing and crossed to Murphy and although Matt could not see the exchange of looks, Phillips must have given Murphy an almost imperceptible nod as he strolled by and engaged his guard in conversation. On cat feet, Bardoul worked through the trees and brush behind the guard.
Once, the man started to turn as though his ears had detected some subtle sound, but Phillips touched his arm and the guard looked back. Matt raised up behind him and put the point of his knife against the man’s left side. “Move,” he whispered, “and you’ll get this knife between your ribs!”
The guard stiffened as if struck, and Phillips reached up and took the shotgun from his hands, tossing it to Murphy. Then shielding the guard from observation with his own square built body, Phillips stripped off the man’s gun belts. Holding the knife with his left hand, Matt slipped his six gun from its holster and slapped the man over the head. Coolly then, he dragged the man back into the brush and tied him.
The action had been swift and silent, occupying a few seconds only and nobody seemed to have noticed a thing but the ever wary Jeb Stark. He straightened from his work, and his eyes went from Murphy to Bardoul, and then he walked toward his own guard. Then he pointed, and said to the guard, “How would that tree over there be?”
As the guard’s head turned away, Matt and Murphy closed in on the remaining guard. The man gave a stifled gasp, and Jeb’s guard started to turn. The distance was too great for a blow, but Jeb held his axe with a grip close to the head. He threw it, butt foremost, hurling it with all his strength. It caught the guard on the temple and he went down in a heap. Swiftly, Stark bent over him, getting his guns.
The ring of axes stopped, but Buff whirled. “Work, damn you!” he said hoarsely. “Keep those axes going. There must be no warning now!”
Swiftly, as the axes rang, Matt distributed the guns among the men. The first four he ordered to hide their guns under their shirts, while oxen were hooked to the nearest logs. “Haul that load down where Barney Coyle and Stark are working,” Matt told them. “You walk alongside with Phillips acting as your guard.”
The whip cracked and the logs started to move, one man driving, the others trooping along behind. Matt waited, his Winchester ready, in case there was a sudden alarm, but there was none and all the men continued to work quietly.
Moving from tree to tree, Matt went down into the valley and circled the log house where Massey made headquarters. At any moment the battle would open, and he must get as close to Massey as possible when the showdown came. As he rounded the cabin he saw the logs stop near Barney and Stark, and their guard turned to look into a drawn pistol.
Clive Massey appeared suddenly in the doorway of his cabin, and stepped out, walking rapidly toward the building where the women were kept. He walked like a man who had made up his mind. As he got to the door of the other building, he turned and shouted: “Bat! Stahl! Come on, you two! You’ve been belly aching about the women, now …” Whatever else was said was lost to Mart’s ears as the two men drew nearer, and then all three went into the house.
Matt darted across the hard packed earth toward the wall in time to hear a cry of protest. An outlaw walked around from behind the wagon where he had slept, all unaware of what was happening. He was a big man with his powerfully muscled shoulders bulging the inadequate cloth of his shirt. His face was a stubble of beard, and he looked irritable and mean.
He stepped out, rubbing his eyes, and then one hand stopped moving and his eyes flared wide. With an oath, his hand swept down for his gun. Bardoul was standing facing him one instant, and the next instant Mart’s gun was bucking.