by Galloway
down and I figured he had the same idea I had. I rode out from the camp and he
was a-settin' there waiting for me.
"Figured you might like to look around," he said, and we started walking our
horses slow, keeping to the open ground where we made less sound. Once we drew
up to listen, and after a moment Charlie said, "Why you do that for those
Indians?"
"They're good folks," I said, "and this was their country. It's nobody's fault
as to what's happened. Wherever there's open country there'll be people coming
hungry for land, and it wouldn't have made much sense to let a lot of folks in
Europe starve to death when there was miles and miles of unused land awaiting.
"The Indian would have had a better deal, and should have but for a lot of
greedy white men and because of a few scalp-hungry Indians. There was right and
wrong on both sides. I'm doing no crying for the Indian. He made his fight but
he never could get enough guns and ammunition and the white men kept moving in,
but when old Powder Face came to me he came honest, and he told me who he was
and what he'd done, and I made him welcome. I figure those boys will make good
hands and as far as I'm concerned they're here forever."
After that we shut up and rode on, and pretty soon we noticed our horses ears go
up like they saw something or smelled something, and sure enough there was a
fire, and a half dozen men around it, and one young feller had that cat hide in
his hands and he was laughing at the way the herd took off. The rest of them
must have been off following the herd. I figured Powder Face and Nick Shadow
would take care of them.
"Charlie," I said, "you shoot the first one that moves."
When I spoke I spoke loud and you never saw a bunch of men come to stillness any
swifter. Then I stepped down there and I looked at the tall blond ranny with the
hide in his hands and I said, "You killed a good man tonight, a better man than
you'll ever be. So you drop that hide and go for your gun."
"Can I put the hide down first?"
"Any way you like," I said, "but have at it."
Me, I was mad clear through. They'd tried to wipe out our camp and kill us all.
It was pure-darn luck that they hadn't done it.
"You're a Sackett," this tall ranny said. "Well, Sackett, I'm Abel Dunn, and I'm
going to save Rocker his job."
He let go the hide and his hand swept down and closed over that six-shooter and
my gun stabbed flame at him twice, so close together they looked and sounded
like one. And he folded and went down.
"That's for Tyler," I said. "Now old Bull Dunn warned me out of the country. You
take Abel back to him wrapped in that cougar hide, and you tell Bull Dunn he can
leave the country or stay, it don't make me no mind, but if he stays he better
start goin' to Sunday School and actin' like it."
"You talk big," one of them said. "Wait until Rocker hears about this."
"You tell him," I said. "You just ride fast and tell him."
"You're the one better leave. You got no more herd than nothing."
"You wasted your time," I said. "My herd's down at the Mancos right now, and its
all in one piece and my boys are with it. You started your victory party a mite
too soon."
I could see several bottles around camp so I put bullets in them, and when one
of them thinking my gun was empty started to reach, Charlie Farnum put a bullet
through his arm.
Right there in front of them I shoved the shells out of that old Dance & Park
pistol and loaded up again. And then I went in there and emptied their guns,
dropping the shells into the fire and throwing their guns into the brush. Then I
taken off.
In about a minute shells began to pop and those Dunn people scrambled for
shelter.
Charlie Farnum and me we started east for the herd, riding together. When we
were a few miles off we started to sing, and we sang a dozen songs before we
shut up and left it to the coyotes.
That Charlie Farnum had a better voice than me.
For that matter, so did the coyotes.
Chapter XIV
On the second morning after the stampede, and knowing nothing whatever about it,
Galloway Sackett headed for town.
He chose a new route, avoiding the trail they had used, and crossing the La
Plata well above Shalako. He stayed in the trees and brush, keeping out of sight
until close to town, then he emerged from the woods behind the livery stable and
rode around in front of Berglund's place.
Crossing the street to the store he swung down and tied his horses. Inside he
ordered rice, beans, flour, and whatever it seemed likely they would need. He
sacked it up and loaded it on the packhorse.
The town was empty and still. Occasionally the music box from the saloon would
brighten the day with tin-panny music. In the distance there was snow on the
mountains. Galloway paused in tying his pack and stared at it, thinking he'd
like to go up there. He'd never been that high up in the mountains. It was then
he remembered Nick Shadow's story about the gold and diamonds.
He glanced thoughtfully toward the peaks. Now if he could just take a little
trip up there...
The rope came snaking from the shadows beside the store and the loop dropped
over his head, pinning his arms to his sides. He swore at himself for
daydreaming at such a time and made a desperate attempt to reach his gun. A jerk
from the rope sprawled him on the boardwalk, and then another loop fell over his
legs. He heard a laugh boom out and another rider rode out from behind the store
leading three horses.
He started to speak and they jerked him into the dust, dragging him a few feet.
Then one of them walked over and drew Galloway's gun from its scabbard and
thrust it behind his own waistband.
Curly Dunn still wore the fading blue marks left from the bruises Flagan had
given him, and there was a scarcely healed cut over his eye.
"We got us a Sackett, boys. Let's take him over into the tree and give him the
Injun treatment."
Arms and legs held tight by the nooses, there was not a thing he could do. If he
made a move they would jerk him and drag him, so he waited. Inwardly, he was
desperate.
Flagan was miles away with Nick Shadow and Parmalee. He could expect no help
from the townspeople who were trying to stay out of the trouble, and for which
he did not blame them. They could do nothing against the Dunns, who could simply
burn them out and ride on. Nor had he any reason to believe they even knew of
his situation. In any event the total population of Shalako at this moment
numbered just five people.
There was nobody to help him. He must not struggle, but must bide his time,
hoping to catch them off guard. If he struggled they would only jerk the ropes
tighter, making escape more difficult.
Curly swung his horse and started for the trees, the others following. Suddenly
one of them pulled up.
"Curly, we should ought to have us a bottle. This here may take some time, and
his sweatin' may make us thirsty."
"All right, go get it then. You got money?"
"I have," the other one broke in.
<
br /> "You two go an' get the liquor, but hurry back. You don't want to miss the fun.
Alf, you loosen that rope around his legs. I want him to walk to it."
Galloway made no move as Alf loosened the ropes. The two turned then and went
toward the saloon. Curly grinned at Galloway. "Here's where I get a little of my
own back. We're goin' to see how loud a Sackett can yell."
"You'll wait a long time," Galloway said quietly.
Curly laughed and started for the trees. Galloway had to trot to keep up. Once
he fell and Curly dragged him several yards before he stopped and allowed him to
rise. And then just as he was on his feet, Curly jerked him sharply so that he
hit the ground hard. Curly laughed. "How's it feel, Sackett? That ain't nothin'
to what's comin'. How do your toes stand up to fire? Pa tried that on a Yankee
one time who wouldn't tell us where he'd hidden his proud-ofs. He told us soon
enough, but pa let the fire burn for awhile just to teach him a lesson."
They were well into the trees before Galloway saw his chance. Suddenly he darted
to one side and ducked around a tree, taking a quick turn of the rope around the
bole. The move was so sudden that Curly, who only had dallied the rope around
the saddle horn was caught unawares. Curly was no cowhand, although he had
worked cattle to some extent, and he was careless by nature. Galloway's quick
move in snubbing the rope around the tree not only brought his horse up short,
but gave Galloway the instant he needed. Holding the snub tight with one hand he
hastily kicked and shook the rope loose.
Curly wheeled his horse with a yell, but Galloway had ducked around a tree with
others growing close beside it and it took Curly just a minute to find a hole
through which he could guide his horse.
Curly grabbed for his pistol but a branch interfered. Galloway shook off the
rope and ducking around the tree, jumped for Curly. Trying to pull back from the
tangle in which he found himself, Curly felt a sudden heave on his stirrup as
his leg was thrown up. He started to fall and tried to grab a secure hold on the
pommel, but Galloway hacked at the fingers and Curly lost his grip.
He hit the ground with one foot caught in a stirrup and the frightened horse,
backing and rearing, swung out of the trees and broke into a run.
Galloway staggered back, caught himself against a tree and slowly recovered
himself. The horse went racing back toward the town, with Curly bouncing at
every jump.
Glancing quickly around, he found Curly's pistol where it had fallen among the
leaves. Hastily he checked the cylinder. Only three cartridges. Damn a man who
didn't reload!
Holding the pistol in his hand Galloway started back for Shalako, only some two
hundred yards away. He limped as he walked for his leg had been badly bruised
when he had been dragged over the edge of the boardwalk.
He came into the head of the street and saw Curly's horse stopped in front of
the saloon. Alf and the other Dunn were unfastening the rope. Berglund was
kneeling beside Curly.
Galloway was within forty yards of them before Alf looked up. "I want my gun,
Alf. Take it out mighty careful and put it down on the boardwalk."
Alf Dunn looked at Galloway. Hatred burned within him. At his feet lay Curly,
dragged, torn and battered, injured badly, possibly dying. Always before the
Dunns had had it their own way, and his hatred was filled with frustration and
disbelief. This had never happened to the Dunns, it could not be happening.
Success corrodes, and the Dunns—always brutal, always cruel, always fighting a
hit-and-run battle—had enjoyed success. Before their enemies could gird against
them they were gone, miles away and with no idea of returning. In those swift
strikes at unprepared ranches or communities they had been swaggering,
triumphant and confident. Then Curly had been whipped by Flagan Sackett, a man
who had just gone through a punishing ordeal, Jobe had been wounded, and the old
Bull himself ignored. Now Curly had been terribly hurt in their moment of
triumph, and here came the man who had done it, ordering him to throw down his
pistol. It was more than he could take. Alf said, "Pete, let's take him."
Berglund left the ground in a long dive that carried him across the body of
Curly and into the sparse grass beyond.
Alf and Pete with one accord had gone for their guns. Galloway's gun came up and
fired. Alf turned halfway around and Galloway fired a second tune. Alf Dunn
backed up and sat down and Galloway's gun covered Pete even as Pete's gun came
up. "Don't do it," Galloway said. "I'll kill you."
"And if he don't," a new voice said, "I will!" Berglund, sitting up now that he
was out of gun range, looked at the shaggy-haired big man in the faded red shirt
and the black vest. A sheepskin coat was tied back of the saddle and there was a
Winchester in the boot. The big man looked unkempt and almost unreal, for there
was about him a wild savagery that was somehow shocking.
Galloway backed off a few steps to where he could see the newcomer. "Howdy,
Logan! Nice to see you!"
He swung his eyes back to Pete. "You'd better take Curly home," he said, "and
you tell Bull Dunn we want no more trouble. You brought it to us and by now you
ought to have your belly full."
Pete snorted. "You think the old Bull will take this? He'll come in here
a-foggin' it, mind you."
"His funeral. You tell him what I said. 'There's no need for all this shootin'
and shoutin'."
Berglund got up slowly from the ground. "You two come in and I'll buy you a
drink." He glanced at Logan. "I take it you're a Sackett?"
"Logan Sackett, from Clinch Mountain." He jerked his thumb toward Galloway.
"He's a Cumberland Sackett. They're good people, too."
At the bar Berglund poured the drinks. "I think you boys are going to straighten
out that Dunn outfit. They were riding roughshod over everybody."
"We want to ranch," Galloway said. "All we want is to make a home. If we get
settled in, Tyrel and Orrin are coming up here. We'll have the whole family
together."
Bull Dunn sat at the table in the long house and poured his tin cup half-full of
whiskey, then replaced the jug on the table. "Stir up that fire," he said,
speaking to no one in particular. "I want my coffee hot!"
An hour before, Pete Dunn had come in with the battered, half-alive body of
Curly Dunn, and the body of Alf in which no life remained. And then, just a few
minutes ago, Rocker had ridden in, leading the crew Bull had sent down to
scatter the Sacketts' cattle.
Bull didn't need anyone to tell him they had failed. His eyes swept over the
group of men wordlessly leading their horses into the corral.
"Where's Abel?" he asked, as Rocker swung off his horse in front of him.
"Dead. I wasn't there when it happened."
Bull turned on his heel and walked into the house. Now he was sitting at the
head of the table, looking at what was left of his family and the few others he
could trust.
The old Bull was shaken. For the first time in years things were going against
him, and he was sure he knew why ... because he had elected
to stop.
Why stop? Was he getting tired? He tasted the raw whiskey, then turned the glass
in his fingers.
That Curly ... he couldn't do anything right. He goes into the woods with a
tied-up man and comes out with his horse draggin' him.
"Vern," he glanced.down the table at the sallow-faced young man, "you got it to
do. Cut 'em down, one after the other."
Vern Huddy batted his eyes and looked sour, but offered no immediate comment. He
had been studying out the country and he knew what he could do.
"That big man," he suggested, "the one Pete told of. That'll be Logan Sackett.
He's an outlaw gunfighter. You all lay off him. He's a tiger."
"Let's have it," Bull said suddenly, "how did they get through with those
cattle? I want to know."
"They had more men than we expected," Rocker spoke quietly. He was a young man
of medium height, medium build, who carried himself with pride. "One of them, at
least, was an Indian."
"There were several Indians," Ollie Hammer said. "They seemed to come right out
of the ground and they kept those cattle running straight right down to the
river. We never had a chance to scatter them."
"What happened to Abel?"
"He tried to draw against a Sackett. It was Flagan, the one who whupped Curly.
Tin-Cup and me was with Rocker going after the cattle. There was no one else
there who could take on Sackett."
Rocker had been toying with his cup. Now he lifted his eyes to his father. "Pa,
we lost Abel. Curly is done up. If he lives he won't be any use to us until this
here fight is all over. Jobe has got him a crippled arm. Alf is dead ... I
figure we'd better rattle our hocks out of here."
For a moment there was dead silence. Several stole looks at Bull, all were
shocked. It was the first time any of them had dared suggest such a thing, and
Rocker was the only one who could say it without a blow.
"You're talkin' crazy. When did we ever run from a fight?"
"Never. But nobody but a fool bucks a stacked deck. Pa, you don't know these
Sacketts. There's a good many of them around the country, and when one of them
is in trouble, they'll all come. We haven't seen anything yet."
"Vern will whittle 'em down."
"Maybe."
Vern's eyes came up sharply at the implied doubt. He started to speak, then held
