The 7th Western Novel

by Francis W. Hilton

  He looked at the circle of faces around him. These were men who, when they had something to say, spoke plainly. They understood plain talk, and that was what Billy had given them. He saw them exchange glances.

  One of them, a fellow Billy knew as Will Pryor, cleared his throat self-consciously. “Condo,” he said, “ain’t none of us won’t admit we feel a little uneasy now and then ’bout what’s been happenin’ between you and Jase Thornhill. Personal troubles is somethin’ we got plenty of on our own. An’ the reasons you and Thornhill don’t get on ain’t none of our damn business. But I reckon I’m side in sayin’ that most of us feel thisaway about it—weren’t for you comin’ back just when Thornhill was ’bout to hornswoggle Old Thad out of his cows, wouldn’t none of us have a job right now. Some of us have worked for Thad Harper a long time, and we hated to see the old man lose out like that.”

  He paused a minute, seemingly embarrassed at what he had to say next. Then he cleared his throat again and went on. “But there’s somethin’ else. The mornin’ you left, Old Thad told us why you packed up—said you figured you was bringin’ too much trouble our way and that you wanted to settle things with Thornhill your way. I’m here to say, Condo, that there ain’t a man of us that don’t figure you done the square thing. So let’s look at it thisaway—you tried your level best to keep your personal fight outta this. But when Thornhill tried to pull that dirty deal on Old Thad, well—we seen that he’s a man that won’t stop till he gets his face pushed in. You did right by us, Condo, and from now on, by God, if Thornhill wants to get at you he’s damn well gonna have to put up with us, too!”

  There was a murmur of approval from the group, and more than one tense face relaxed in a grin now that Will Pryor had spoken what was in the minds of all.

  Billy sat quietly for a minute, gazing out at the cloud shadows moving in patches across the moonlit plains. He couldn’t trust his voice to answer because of the lump that had come into his throat. For Will Pryor’s speech had been more than just a vote of thanks for his having saved their jobs—it was a hard-won vote of confidence for Billy Condo. A vote that told him he had come up one more step on the ladder. That, no matter what had gone before, he was once more a Texan among his own kind.

  He knew how hard it had been for Will Pryor to make that speech. It had moved him deeply, and he knew that now the matter was closed. No more would be said, there Would be no perceptible change in their conduct toward each other—but down deep inside each man there would lie the firm comradeship that comes only with having fought for the right to be a friend.

  Billy pulled his hat down more firmly. “I reckon,” he said, clearing his throat to remove the hoarseness, “we’d better be movin’.”

  With a squeak of leather and the clop of shod hoofs on hard dry earth, they moved out across the swelling prairie, each man silent with his own thoughts.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Billy reined the dun to a halt and held Up his hand for the others to stop. Before them stretched a dry wash, cutting suddenly across the prairie like an open wound. Ahead of them lay several miles of open country. Just visible in the moonlit distance lay the dark growth of trees that marked the creek which flowed on past the headquarters of the Lazy S.

  Will Pryor drew alongside. “See somethin’, Condo?” he asked quietly.

  Billy shook his head. “That’s the point, Will. We’re getting awful close to Lazy S territory. Should’ve got wind of somethin’ before this.”

  They sat there for a long minute, each man’s eyes searching among the moving patches of cloud shadow for some sign of what they sought. There was nothing but the vast emptiness of the Texas night. Far off in the distance came the wail of a coyote, dying away on a quavering note that made the spine tingle.

  “What do you reckon’s happened?” Will asked.

  Billy frowned, pulling thoughtfully at his hat brim. “I don’t know.” He turned to the other riders. “Which one of you boys saw the Lazy S bunch standin’ around with saddle guns?”

  One of the men answered, “Tooker Cobb. He ain’t here. He’s helpin’ Shorty move them cows.”

  “I was just wonderin’,” Billy said slowly, “if they mightn’t have been getting ready to start off their own trail drive and was just takin’ those rifles along in case of Indians.”

  “That could be,” Will Pryor nodded.

  Billy fell silent again, running his eyes out across the plains, searching for a telltale moving speck that might give a clue. But he found none.

  “I’ll tell you what,” he said, turning to the others. “If Thornhill has any ideas about stampeding those cows he’s almost got to pass along this way to get to them. Supposing, Will, you boys spread out along the lip of this wash. Those junipers down there will hide the horses. Then if Jase Thornhill and his bunch come along this way—well, I guess you know what’s best to do, Will. I don’t want anybody to get killed—there’s no sense in that. If you boys are well hid and let ’em have a few shots, they might change their minds and turn around. Nobody likes to ride up against an ambush, rifles or no rifles. But—if they seem dog-determined to make a fight out of it…”

  Will Pryor nodded. “If that’s what they want, they’ll get it.”

  Billy went on, “I got a hunch I’d just better ride on down and see if everything’s all right at the place. It’s not likely, but Jase might’ve taken a mind to go over and stir up some trouble with Thad—on account of my having laid a pistol barrel across his nose this afternoon.”

  “Want a couple of us to ride along?”

  Billy considered this. “No,” he said slowly, “I think if Jase does come this way, we’ll need everybody here. There’s still four men at the ranch, besides Thad and Joe Metcalf, and I reckon Mrs. Harper can shoot if she has to. But I’d feel better in my mind if I looked in and made sure everything’s all right.”

  “How long you reckon we ought to wait here?” Will Pryor asked.

  Billy looked for the North star. “If I’m not back by midnight, it’ll mean something’s wrong down at the place. Then you boys come a’runnin’. Otherwise I’ll come on back. If Jase hasn’t made a move by then we can catch up with the herd. I’ll bring Thad and Joe back with me so we can keep moving till the herd’s pretty well out of danger.”

  Will Pryor and the other riders turned and rode over to the clump of junipers to hide their mounts. Billy waved to , them and headed the dun down the bank and across the wash. On the other side, he turned for a look. There wasn’t a man or horse to be seen. He smiled to himself and headed south for the Circle 8, letting the horse stretch his legs and feeling the roar of the wind in his ears.

  * * * *

  At the crest of the rise Billy paused to let the dun catch its wind. Below, some three miles away, the buildings of the Circle 8 lay sprawled among the cottonwoods along the creek like so many wooden boxes. A feeling of relief surged through him to see how peaceful and quiet it was. The only movement was the steady passage of the cloud shadows as they moved across the land.

  Maybe, he thought, it was too quiet. His forehead wrinkled as he wondered about what Jase Thornhill was up to. It might be, he guessed, that he had been right about the rifles Tooker Cobb had seen—maybe the Lazy S had been getting organized in case of trouble passing through Indian Territory. Still, there was no telling what might be happening back where he had left Will Pryor’s bunch. He turned the dun and started threading his way down toward the Circle 8.

  On the flat, as he made his way across the creek and into the growth of trees, a vague uneasiness came over him. He tried to shrug it off, to tell himself it was just that he was tired after a long day spent mostly in the saddle. But it I wouldn’t go. He stopped once to listen, but there was only the faintest stirrings of leaves in the breeze. Even the frogs were quiet tonight.

  The frogs…! His heartbeat quickened. Ordinarily he would have heard the frogs croaking away in
nocturnal chorus. They would stop and wait, of course, until he had ridden past—but he would have heard them as he rode up. That meant one thing—somebody had passed this way not long before. If they had been there long, waiting for him maybe, the frogs would have started up again. But the wary frogs were quiet—had been quiet ever since he’d come within earshot of the creek. Billy reached down uneasily to finger the butt of his .44.

  The feeling wasn’t as reassuring as it should have been. It was one thing, he was thinking, to face a man with a gun in the open where you had a chance to draw, but nobody likes to ride into an ambush when… Funny, he’d said those exact words to Will Pryor not over half an hour before. Nobody likes to ride into an ambush. He thought back to the time he’d had his horse shot out from under him at Cedar Run… The sudden blaze of Confederate rifles from the leafy green, the whine of minie balls, the desperate, curdling fear that death would meet him with open arms before he could make the safety of the woods, the expectant tingling of his back muscles waiting for the hot, searing rupture of lead.

  There was a brassy taste in his mouth as he listened to the sighing of the leaves and strained his eyes in the gloomy shadows. He slid from the dun quietly and looped the reins over a willow branch. Then he started forward on foot. There was a metallic ching as one spur rowel rang against the other. He bent down swiftly and took them off.

  Through a break in the trees he could see the house and part of the corral. They were ghostly silent and unmoving, with not a sign to indicate that something might be wrong. But something was wrong—he could feel it in his bones, see it in the gloomy emptiness of the shadows. And, of course—there were the frogs.

  He held the .44 under his arm, cocked it silently. Stealthily, he began to move from tree to tree, keeping always to the shadows, putting each foot down slowly before trusting his weight on it. He felt cold, despite the warmth that hung on the night air, and he realized that he was soaking wet with sweat. Yet his lips felt dry and parched as he ran his tongue over them. His eyes probed every leaf and trunk and shadow, half expecting at any moment to see a bush explode with an orange light and feel the weight of lead slamming through his body.

  Suddenly he stopped.

  Nothing had moved. There had been no sound. Yet some instinct had made him stop. Something which told him that in the maze of shadow patterns on the ground, or in the arrangement of leaves and branches, something was there which shouldn’t have been.

  He froze, standing in the half light like a statue, yet conscious of the gentle tremor that passed through him. A mosquito hummed loudly in his ear and he wanted to swat it away so that he could hear, but he didn’t dare move. The humming stopped, and an instant later he felt the sudden sharpness of the sting on his cheek as the insect pierced his skin. The desire to reach up and dig at the place with his fingernails was overpowering. The muscles of his face twitched involuntarily with the irksome stinging.

  And then he saw it.

  To his left, so close to the shadow of the cottonwood that at first it seemed a part of the tree itself. It had moved, ever so slightly, detaching itself from the rest of the shadow for an instant before moving back and becoming immobile as before.

  Billy stood stock-still, the throbbing itching of the welt on his cheek forgotten. The shadow was beside him, a few feet away. He didn’t turn his head. He didn’t dare, just yet. Out of the corner of his eye he could make out the slope of shoulders, the curve of the back and the line of the legs pressed against the trunk. Whoever it was, they were behind him. Not far but behind—enough to give them the advantage.

  His mind refused to think. There was a dull throbbing in his brain. He fought down the insane desire to break for cover and shoot as he ran. That would be suicide. This way it was only death by torture. If he turned to shoot, whoever it was would be protected by the trunk of the tree. If he stood there, they could kill him at their own leisure.

  He waited, watching.

  The shadow moved again—ever so slightly. It was leaned forward, separated slightly from the tree trunk, looking him over. He could almost feel the eyes searching out his face.

  He measured the shadow on the ground, noticed how far it stood now from the tree. Maybe if he turned now, he could hit the man before he could pull back behind the tree.

  Billy tensed himself, waiting. A trickle of sweat ran down his nose, then clung to the end where it set up a maddening twitching of the nostrils as it swayed uncertainly before dropping. The shadow moved again, there was more moonlight showing now between it and the tree. He pivoted fast, gun arm stiff, felt the muscles of his right hand already contracting about the butt and trigger.

  “Billy!”

  He saw the glint of moonlight on the yellow hair beneath her hat and recognized the sound of her voice. Frantically he jerked at the gun as though he could stop the shot that was already on its way. The explosion shattered the stillness and the acrid smell of burnt powder mingled with damp odor of decayed leaves. Through the eddying smoke he saw Mary slipping to the ground, her slim fingers clutching at the bark of the cottonwood as she fell.

  He crossed to her swiftly, in horror of what he had done. Kneeling beside her he dropped the gun and lifted her gently from the ground, his eyes searching for the telltale darkening splotch. There was none that he could see. He whipped off his hat and pressed an ear against her heart, vaguely conscious of the firm swell of rounded breast against his face. His own heart surged at the fluttering beat in his ear. He slipped a hand beneath her head and held her close.

  The eyelids fluttered in the pale light that streamed from overhead. For an instant he saw the terror in her eyes as she remembered. Then it faded and she smiled up at him weakly.

  “I—I guess I fainted!”

  Relief flooded over him, but his face was grim. “Mary—what the devil are you doing down here at this time of night?”

  She sat up, seemingly reluctant to leave his embrace, but as though driven by something she remembered.

  “I—I guess I came to help you,” she stammered uncertainly.

  “What do you mean?”

  Mary put a hand to her forehead as if to steady her mind. “I—I’m not sure, Billy. It’s Jase again…” She looked up at him, her violet eyes searching his in supplication. “Oh, Billy! I don’t know what to do. Jase…tie seems crazy to kill…to kill you! What’s happened to him, Billy? Do you think…?”

  His face was a mask, expressionless, lips a thin line. “Where is he, Mary?”

  She nodded wearily in the direction of the silent buildings. “Over there…I heard him and Ackerman talking to the other riders. It was just after sundown. They accused you of rustling…by changing brands… They got the others all worked up…a lot of talk of how you’d kept Thad Harper from selling Jase a herd in a legitimate deal…said you’d stolen most of the cattle anyhow. Ace kept yelling about how you’d be a menace to their safety on the trail…and—and a lot of talk about you being a—a blue-belly traitor…”

  Billy’s face was grim, looked through the trees toward the buildings. “So they came to get me, is that it?”

  Mary looked at him, and he could see the mistiness in her eyes. “Billy—I—I didn’t know what to do… Jase is still my brother, and yet… They told the other riders they’d formed a vigilante committee…said no carpetbag law would convict you since you’d fought for the North. Everybody was all riled up when they left… Jase fed them whisky. They—they’ve come to hang you, Billy. I—I couldn’t let them… I didn’t know what I could do…didn’t know where you were. I followed them here and was waiting when you came along and…”

  Billy picked up his hat and the .44. “They’ve heard the shot. They’re probably wondering what’s going on.”

  He fell silent for a minute, trying to think what to do. Thad and his wife, and Joe Metcalf and the other four riders… He turned to Mary. “Did you follow right behind them?”

&n
bsp; She stood beside him now, her hand resting trustingly on his arm. Even with the feeling of concern that lay heavily inside him he couldn’t help thinking how pretty she looked standing there. She was slender and lithe—yet there was a fullness to her slenderness that even the fit of her divided riding skirt couldn’t hide. He tried to put his mind on what she was saying.

  “…followed as close as I could without letting them see me. I got here just after they did, I guess.”

  “Was there any shooting?”

  She shook her head. “I’d have heard it if there was.”

  Billy relaxed a little. Maybe there was still a chance. But how the hell could he hope to do anything—one man against…

  “How many were there, Mary?” he asked.

  “Jase and Ackerman and four others…six altogether. There was another bunch left, too. I don’t know where they went, though. Maybe out to where they’re gathering the trail herd. Still—they were all yelling and waving rifles.”

  Billy’s face was suddenly intent. “Rifles! Which way’d they go?”

  She looked up, startled. “Why—north, I think. Up towards Wolf Creek. Is something…?”

  Billy groaned inwardly. He had counted on what he’d told Will Pryor about coming after him if he wasn’t back by midnight and if nothing happened. Now there was no doubt in his mind but what the other bunch had run into Will’s ambush by now, and Will would probably be too busy or would expect him to come back on his own.

  He turned suddenly to Mary. “Where’d you leave your horse?”

  “Back there,” she said, pointing. “Just over the ridge. Why?”

  “I want you to do something for me. It won’t be easy, Mary—because it won’t be helping Jase a bit. In fact,” he said slowly, his voice growing hoarse with emotion, “it might get him killed!”

  She lifted her face to look into his eyes. He could see the indecision there—and the fear. Her lips trembled slightly and she asked, “What—what do you want me to do?”