by Frank Bonham
Troy got a plate of food. As he ate, he thought of his small ranch high in the mountains. He loved this ranching life, the feeling of being suspended between earth and blue sky, part of each. The life had grace and beauty. There was something beautiful, even, in the weary clutter of the roundup camp, in the sear and smoke of a brand laid black on a red hide. In the lonely stillness of Defiance Mountain it was hard to remember that he had once made his living tracking down scared men with a gun.
Finished with his food, he stood up. “If anybody wants to go with Mike, go ahead. I’ve been wrong before.”
No one left. Still, as darkness closed, his mind rode with Saddler, going up to make his fight alone. If Mike bulled into it and got himself killed, he would have it on his conscience forever.
* * * * *
The cold awakened him. Needle-sharp, it had settled into the canyon. He lay, trying to rouse himself to get a horse blanket to throw over his bedroll. But then his mind was on Saddler and Fran Becket again. But, of course, no one would bother the girl. He sat up and rolled a cigarette. Saddler was the real worry. With his rashness, he would probably get himself shot or shoot someone else.
In the darkness, Gil spoke nervously: “I wish I’d gone up there, tonight. She’ll be scared stiff.”
“I told you that. And that jughead, Saddler,” Troy muttered.
“Still,” said Colonel Isaac Edwards from his blankets, “he’s one of the bunch.”
A rancher named Bob Briscoe spoke: “We never should have let him go. We came here together. We should stay together.”
“Mike quit the bunch,” Troy said. “The bunch didn’t quit him. I know what you mean, though. We could leave Gil with his sister and make Mike’s place by sunup.”
“Damn my aching bones,” the colonel groaned.
More men were sleepily sitting up. Colonel Edwards rose from his blankets, underwear-clad. He threw some brush on the fire. It smoked and blazed up.
“You’re wearing the badge, Colonel,” Troy said. “You and your aching bones will have to lead the parade. Let’s go.”
The colonel selected Gil, Bob Briscoe, and two other men in addition whose ranches were near Saddler’s A-Bar to accompany them. They saddled in the darkness. In the darkness they rode out. The horses worked hard in the cold, climbing a ridge and descending into a valley to leave Muddy Creek behind. High and far, a lobo howled.
The trail swept southwest, climbing, descending, climbing. The mountain chain—this sheer-walled island of timber in the desert—formed a long arm running north and south. They reached West Rim, a few hundred feet above the lonely high-country flats where Troy had his Government Springs Ranch. He had not seen his place in two weeks. He was homesick for the cluttered cabin and the long timbered bench.
Suddenly the colonel clutched his arm. “Moses and Aaron!” he exclaimed. “That there’s a fire!”
He had been riding ahead of Troy and had seen it first. There was a clutch at Troy’s heart like a muscular cramp, a hard grip of shock, and then a slackness. The colonel was wrong. It had been a fire. It had been a cabin, too, but now it was a puddle of coals.
Along the rim the horsemen lined up, gazing down at it. The wind, sweeping from the desert, was fragrant with smoke. The colonel looked around at them.
“Man, this is a long way from Mike’s place. If Jackson burned your cabin, Troy, it stands to reason he burned Mike’s and Gil’s on the way …”
Troy thought of the frightened girl spending her first night alone in the mountains. Without warning, Gil pulled out of line and started south on the trail to Cave Creek. The others followed.
The night was beginning to wear out when they came to the foot of the horse pasture in the gray cold. Long arms of timber reached into the pasture, and beyond. Troy could see the bulwarks of rock on the hillside above the sheds and corrals.
“Well, there it is,” Gil said.
The cabin had been set afire more recently, but only one wall remained. Gil loped up the meadow. As they rode into the yard, the girl appeared from the brush. Troy watched Gil embrace the girl and saw Fran’s face in the firelight, pallid and strained. And he wished by every tree in the mountains that he had not brought her up here.
“Did you see anybody?” Gil was asking her.
“Three men,” she said. “Something woke me and I looked out and saw three men riding away. The lean-to was already burning.”
“Jackson, Doyle, and Roth,” Gil said bitterly. “Get some things together, Sis. We’ll take you on to Mike Saddler’s and you can stay there.”
Once, as they rode on, Troy pulled in beside the girl. “It’s a big order … but can you forgive me?” he asked.
A fresh amber light was spreading over the mountain slopes. Fran gazed ahead. “If there’s anyone to forgive, it’s myself. For ever coming here.”
Saddler’s headquarters, at the upper end of Pine Meadow, overlooked six miles of grass between fringes of blue timber. In the early dawn it was beautiful and still. Far down the meadow gleamed a large pond with a mill and race at the end of it. Among the near trees they could see smoke. Nobody was surprised to find Mike Saddler sitting on a boulder near the smoking shell of his cabin, a rifle across his knees. Wiley, his Basque cowpuncher, was drawing a cleaning rag through a carbine, and Bill Thorne, hands on hips, stood with his back to the newcomers, gazing at the cabin.
Saddler returned Troy’s stare. “What’s the matter?” he jeered. “Ain’t you ever seen a man burned out before?”
“Sure,” Troy said. “They burned Gil and me out, too.”
Saddler looked down at the gun and rubbed the bronze frame of it with his sleeve.
“Did you save anything?” Troy asked.
“Yeah.” Saddler glanced up as if he had heard something in Troy’s tone that offended him. “We saved one butter mold, that jackleg table yonder, and ourselves … just as the roof caved in. I got here about eight, and the fun started around the time I got to sleep.” He swore. “Help yourselves to grain for your horses, boys,” he said. “Plenty in the grain shed. Only they dumped lime in it.”
“See any of them?” Gil asked.
“Jackson and Doyle. We scouted down to the mill. They must’ve spent part of the night there after they finished their fun. Then we rode up to the ridge. There’s wagons coming up the grade.” Saddler called sharply to Joe Wiley: “Get done with honing that meat-getter! I mean to hit ’em where the road’s narrowest. That’s just below the pass, and about where they ought to be right now.”
He got up abruptly, slapped his hand over his rifle, and headed for a corral where his pony stood saddled. Colonel Edwards nodded at Troy. “Throw in with ’im?”
Killing was serious business. It bothered Troy that they did not know for sure that Jackson had burned them out. He glanced at Joe Wiley, the dark-faced cowboy he had never warmed to. Wiley was smiling to himself.
“I suppose so,” he said. “But let’s do it without shooting.” He heard Gil talking to Fran as he helped her to the ground.
“ … They won’t bother you here. You’ve got Troy’s carbine if you see anybody.”
The girl looked taut enough to snap like a wire. Awkwardly she held the gun Gil thrust at her. Full of enthusiasm and immature fight, Gil turned back to the others. You damned little fool, Troy thought. Throw a gun at her and leave her alone! Then, to his surprise, she turned helplessly to him.
“Troy?” she said. He rode over. “Do look out for him, please,” she said. “He’s so young … so foolish. Don’t let him get hurt.”
“No one’s going to get hurt,” Troy promised. “We’re going to hit those bull teams and spill them down the canyon. We’re sort of returning the compliment, you see.”
“I know. But if anything happened to him now …”
“I’ll stay with him. If I were you, I’d ride back in the trees and stay out of sight.”
From Saddler’s cabin a trail slanted up to a ridge. After following the ridge two miles, they reached a saddle through which Jackson’s old wagon road came to Pine Meadow. They turned back down the slope toward the meadow until they were just above the little sawmill Jackson had built years ago. Three horses stood by the pond. Two men were walking toward them—Tom Doyle and Jim Jackson. The range was about two hundred yards.
“We’ve got to hold them here,” Troy declared. “If they reach it to the wagons at the time we do, things might get tough.”
Saddler drew his carbine. “There were only two ponies down there before. Maybe Roth came up ahead of his wagons. OK, let’s hold ’em here. They won’t travel fast without horses.” He set the gun against his shoulder.
Troy slapped the rifle barrel aside. “Wait!” he snapped. “There’s a girl down there!”
He had just seen her coming from the cabin, a girl with black hair shining in the morning sun. Serena walked among the horses to pick up the reins of a long-legged black. He saw Jackson help her into the saddle.
“She’s Jackson’s worry,” Saddler growled.
“If you raise that rifle …,” Troy warned.
“Who’s raising it?” Saddler retorted, winking at the others. “If we can’t handle them here, we can handle them across the ridge.”
He sent his pony lunging up the hillside. Gil caught the fight fever and whipped his horse with his hat as he tried to catch up with him. Even the colonel strung along. They crossed the ridge and rode through brush for a mile before coming in sight of the wagon road. It lay below them, angling steeply along the mountainside. Troy heard the bronze jingling of team bells. Gil and the others gathered about Saddler.
“The first wagons are carrying the supplies,” the rancher told them. “The log trailers come last. A man to a wagon ought to swing it. Hit ’em hard, flog the teams over, and keep riding. We’ll meet at Sheep Bridge and head back to camp.” He paused. “There comes Jackson and his filly,” he said.
Jim Jackson jogged down the road behind his daughter. His big jaw was set. Troy had the impression that Jackson was starting the girl home—that she had come up without permission and he had taken her in hand. Behind the cowman rode Tom Doyle, short and strong, his hat pulled down, his coat collar turned up. He slipped a bottle from his coat, drew the cork with his teeth, and took a drink.
The trio rode out of sight.
“Now, we wait,” Saddler said through his teeth. He glanced along the line of horsemen in the brush. The road was fifty feet below. They waited. The first bull team appeared, heads low and swinging. Wooden axles squealed. A horseman swerved around the ox team and took his place at the head of the train. Tom Doyle had come back.
XI
Another wagon passed, but there was no sign of Serena or Jackson. Saddler tugged the brim of his sombrero down like a man about to step into the wind.
“Are we straight on it?” he asked. “A man to a wagon. Slug any ’whacker that makes trouble. Cameron, maybe you’d better get back with the women and kids. This is going to be all fight, no talk.”
“Fine,” Troy said. “I’ll take Doyle. Unless you’d counted on him.”
Saddler looked surprised. “He’s yours,” he said.
Troy had planned to keep Gil with him, but as Saddler spurred down the hill, Gil went with the rancher. Troy started down. He saw a dozen gaunt wagons. One wagon was filled with workmen. He slanted down the hillside until he was just above Doyle. The gunman was rolling a cigarette. Troy hit the road and spurred up behind him. Just then the teamster in back of him bawled: “Doyle! Behind you!”
Doyle dropped his tobacco and his body wrenched around. He had the reflexes of an animal. His hand swept to his gun as Troy swung at his head. He pulled the gun clear but the bullet blasted into the ground. Troy piled onto the gunman and they fell and landed on the hillside. Doyle’s gun got lost as they began rolling. Troy hung on and tried to get a blow at his chin, but holding Doyle was like wrestling a pig. Doyle was muscular and thick-bodied and he fought viciously.
They struck a boulder and sprawled apart. Up on the road bullwhackers were shouting and a wagon went over with a splintering crash. He heard a shot, heard Saddler bawling like a cavalry sergeant. Then he saw Doyle coming up and went after him. Doyle got set and threw a roundhouse swing at his head. Troy went under it and smashed Doyle hard on the chin. The gunman sat down. Above them another wagon toppled among the rocks and a man bawled in terror. Tom Doyle came up, dazed but stubborn. Troy went in grimly, a long dusty man with blood on his face. He sank his fist in Doyle’s belly and whipped an uppercut to his chin that tipped the gunman’s face up. Doyle fell straight back. He lay on the slope with one leg twisted under him.
A shot cracked nastily. Then there were more reports and a long screaming ricochet. Troy could see nothing for dust. He remembered his promise to Fran to watch out for Gil, and hoped she could not hear the shots. A man shouted: “Git, boys! Git!” It sounded like the colonel.
Troy ran for his horse. He rode through the dust, trying to follow the running horses in a giant confusion of crates, wagon wheels, and dazed teamsters. Ahead of him a bay horse was trying to run. Its rider had fallen, but the man’s boot had caught in the stirrup. Troy caught the animal by the reins and held it while he worked the rider’s boot from the stirrup. The horse went pitching into the woods and Troy knelt by the man.
Vaguely he remembered the fat cheeks like a squirrel’s, the receding chin and heavy-lidded eyes. Roth had called him Deke. His eyes were open but filming. There was a deep wound in his neck but the blood had stopped pumping from it.
A horse was galloping on the road. Troy dashed to his horse and cut downward through the trees after the others. After he covered a couple of hundred feet, he came upon a downed horse trying to rise. A short distance beyond he heard a man running. It was Gil. He spurred up to him and Gil pivoted and swung a Colt. Troy scarcely knew the scared features.
Gil began babbling the story. “Never shot that fellow, Troy. I was firing at the ground, trying to scare him …”
As the horse moved on, Troy asked sharply: “Did you kill him? You ought to know.”
“I don’t know, Troy! Honest to God! He began shooting at me and Mike and Joe Wiley, and he hit my horse. We all shot back and he dropped.”
“Where’s your carbine?”
“Lost it. When my horse went down.”
Among the trees, Troy saw the horse that the logger had been riding. It had stopped in a thicket. They moved in on it and Gil caught the bridle and scrambled into the saddle. As they left the thicket, a rider came through some junipers above them and halted. Gil’s gun was already shakily lining out. With an oath, Troy knocked his arm down.
“It’s Serena Jackson! Now, straighten out. Put that thing away.”
He rode to meet the girl. “Troy!” she cried. “What is it? What’s happened?”
“I’m not sure. But a man was hurt.”
Troy saw her eyes fill.
“Why did you do it? Didn’t you know what would happen?”
“We thought we could do it without any fuss,” he said. “Just a quick raid and we’d take off. Serena, I’ve got to get Gil out of here. His horse and gun are back there. Roth will be after him with a rope.”
“It won’t do any good to get him out of the mountains. Dad will find him wherever he goes.”
“If we can get him to town, though …”
“Do you think they won’t find him there?” Serena said. “He can’t hide in someone’s home, and Dad will go through every store in town. And of course if Gil’s killed a man, he’ll have to pay for it.”
“Yes … after he’s been tried. But I never was much for lynch law.”
“Nor am I.” She frowned, then brightened. “Do you know where I’d go, if I were Gil? To Fred Stiles’ church.”
“Churches have
been searched before.”
“But this church,” she said, “has a belfry which has been boarded up for months. You see, I gave Reverend Stiles a bell. He’s kept it as a surprise for his first service. Gil could hide there. I don’t think it would occur to anyone.”
Troy drew a deep breath. He took her face between his hands.
“You’re a good girl,” he said. “You’re as smart as any two men I know.”
She closed her eyes, and he kissed her. He felt her trembling. He wanted to say everything was going to come out all right, but she knew as well as he that something good had ended and that the new thing that had started would change them all.
Her eyes opened and she tried to smile. “Smart?” she asked. “Is that all? What girl wants to be smart?”
“Smart,” he said, “and beautiful, and wonderful on top of that.”
“Now,” she said, sitting back, “you can go on.”
Suddenly he remembered Fran Becket. Not far away men were shouting. Jim Jackson would be coming along soon. “Will you do one other thing? Gil’s sister is at Saddler’s. Three of us were burned out last night and we left her there. Will you take her to town with you?”
She smiled slightly. “It’s an odd request, you know. I hope you’re asking the favor for Gil and not yourself.”
“It’s for the girl. This has been pretty rough for her.”
“I know. Tell Gil she’ll be all right.”
“I said you were a good girl.” Troy smiled. “Now, if you’d just tell your father you saw Gil and me swap horses, I think he’d have a chance. If they take off after anybody, it will be me.”
* * * * *
Three miles from where they had attacked the wagons, Mike Saddler and the others drew up by Sheep Bridge where the wagon road crossed Muddy Creek. Saddler glanced at Joe Wiley and closed one eye. Bill Thorne wiped his mouth with his sleeve and Saddler wondered which one of them had killed Deke Howard, the logger. Because he knew he hadn’t and it didn’t seem likely that Gil could have hit him with a Colt at that range.
