by Brett Waring
“Which one is it with the bullet in him?” Matthews growled as they made for the adobe bunkhouse.
“Rio,” Dekker replied briefly.
“Who got killed?”
“Hondo and Monk McCoy.”
Matthews grunted. “McCoy wasn’t much good anyways. Hondo seemed like a good man, though ... Would rather it’d been Rio than him.”
Dekker shrugged. “Can get rid of him any time you say.”
“Not yet. Need him around a spell. He’s our only living witness that Nash killed the others ... should he be needed.”
Dekker nodded and opened the thick bunkhouse door for Matthews, who walked straight in, looked around. He saw Rio sprawled on a bunk with one of the Indian roustabouts tying a crude bandage around the bullet wound in his upper arm. Rio nodded and tried to stand, knowing Matthews liked his underlings to show him some respect. He put out his good hand to steady himself against the upper bunk and his face went white with the effort. He swayed dizzily and looked in danger of falling. Matthews did not tell him he could sit down and the wounded man gritted his teeth, clung desperately to the upper bunk as he faced the big rancher. Dekker strolled across to stand beside Matthews.
“You never even scratched Nash with a bullet, huh?” the rancher asked.
Rio swallowed and shook his head slowly. “No, sir, Mr. Matthews. He got in amongst his steers in the river and we couldn’t ...”
“I don’t want to hear your excuses,” Matthews cut in fast. He gestured to the Indian who was standing by stoically. “Has he finished with your arm?” Rio nodded. “All right, get out,” the rancher told the Indian and the man silently gathered his rags and dish of water and padded out of the hut. Matthews put a cold gaze on Rio. “This has got to be dead right, in case a marshal comes in here. You saw Nash pull down my fence and when you hombres told him to quit, from my side of the river, remember, he started shooting ... You got it?”
“Yessir ... Only thing is ... ”
“That’s the story!” Matthews snapped. “No ifs and buts. Plain and simple, like I told you.”
Rio swallowed, nodding eagerly. “Yessir, but Hondo’s hoss is dead on Nash’s side of the river.”
“That’s a point, Cash,” Dekker said, smoking easily, refusing to show any man respect, silently enjoying Matthews’ anger at being addressed by his first name by one of his hired men. Dekker knew it galled him: that was why he did it.
Matthews tightened his mouth as he grudgingly nodded. “All right. Hondo’s dead anyway. He rode across to try and fix the fence and Nash shot him down cold: he was the first to be killed, right? ... Not that I figure we’ll have any trouble, but the goddamn marshals are turnin’ up everywhere these days. If it’s not them it’s these new-fangled Texas Rangers. Have to get our stories straight long before they come. You stick around the house for a couple of weeks, Rio. If your arm gives you trouble, ride into town to the sawbones. He can bill me.”
“Might be a good idea if he goes in to a medico, anyways, Cash,” suggested Dekker. “He can tell the story right then, get it planted long before we have to tell it to any lawman who shows up.”
Matthews frowned, not liking one of his henchmen out-thinking him, but he was smart enough to admit the wisdom of the suggestion.
“Right, Rio. That makes sense. Get that Injun roustabout to take you to town in the buckboard.” His voice hardened. “And don’t foul-up on that story.”
“I won’t,” Rio promised and sagged down onto his bunk, groaning as he clutched at his wounded arm. No sympathy showed on either Matthews’ or Dekker’s faces.
“Better not,” the rancher said curtly, then turned to Dekker. “Right, Vern. Get your crew. We’re riding against Clay Nash right now. No quarter, remember. I want the other goddamn sodbusters to sit up and take notice. If I finish Nash, they ought to get the message. If not, after the next one gets wiped out, they will.”
“You comin’ with us?” Dekker asked.
Matthews looked thoughtful for a long ten seconds, then nodded abruptly. “Think I will. It’s a mite more personal with Nash than the others. I’ll enjoy watching him go under.”
Matthews and Dekker left the bunkhouse without glancing again in Rio’s direction. The wounded man reached under his pillow and brought out a near-empty bottle of whisky. He drank deeply, glad he was going to be out of the fighting. He didn’t mind collecting big pay to rough up a few sodbusters, but once he started catching lead, he’d much rather stay right out of things. Like this deal with Nash. He was sure glad he wasn’t going to be in that. Nash wouldn’t go down easy and he’d take some M-Bar-M hands with him. But he couldn’t win.
It would still end up a massacre.
Two – Ley Del La Fuga
CLAY NASH didn’t know when Matthews’ men would come but he was betting it would be pretty soon. Matthews would strike while the iron was hot and he knew that this time there would be no hit and run: it would be a fight to the finish.
Accordingly, he turned his steers loose in the general direction of the high pastures again: They’d wander up there at their own speed. Be better than putting them in the home pasture where Matthews’ men could get at them easily. But the marauders might think twice about having to ride up into the ranges after them if they were already scattered. He turned loose his remuda from the corrals, ground-hitched his chestnut at the rear of his cabin, against the stone fireplace: could be he’d need a mount in a hurry.
Nash made other preparations for the coming raid. He laid out his entire stock of ammunition and found he had nearly two hundred rounds of .44 caliber cartridges which would fit both his Winchester and his Colt, and that was counting the cartridges in his gun belt. He took down his double-barreled shotgun from the wall pegs and loaded it with Number 00 buckshot, large and lethal. He only had one carton of shot cartridges but he’d be keeping them for close work, anyway. He slipped a hunting knife into his boot top.
He had storm shutters for the windows and nailed these into place and, while he had hammer in hand, went to the rear of the cabin, by the fireplace and worked on a section of log there. He’d built this section in when finishing the cabin, figuring there could come a time when he’d need a rear exit other than the thick oak door. He’d sawn through two logs, joined them again with wooden wedges that could be hammered out, freeing the two sections and allowing them to fall outwards when kicked hard enough from the inside. There was room enough for a man to slide through then.
Nash knocked the wedges loose, tested that the logs hadn’t settled into the earth enough to jam up on him, and then he filled every bucket, pan and bowl in the place with water from the spring behind the cabin. He packed the chestnut’s saddlebags with food, filled the saddle canteen. As well, he filled a second canteen, a souvenir from the Civil War, and slung it across his chest by its weathered strap. He filled two separate flour sacks with what food he could carry easily and set them near the log section over near the fireplace.
After he’d barred the door, there was nothing to do but wait.
It never occurred to Nash that he could have simply ridden out and left his cabin and stock to Matthews, thereby saving his hide. No, the section was his to prove-up on, and he didn’t aim to let it go without a fight. If he had to die in his attempt to hold it, then so be it: it was better than showing his heels to a ruthless range baron like Matthews. For, no matter how many men Matthews sent against him, and no matter what the outcome of the fight, there wouldn’t be as many men riding back to M-Bar-M. He’d make sure of that.
He didn’t have long to wait. Nash had figured Matthews might wait until dark but it was only early afternoon now and the big rancher wanted to settle this matter fast. The raiders came up across the river, likely through the gap in the barbed wire fence. He couldn’t see a long way through the gun slits in the heavy shutters, but he could make out at least a dozen men.
Nash ran to the other shutter: a dozen men didn’t seem like a hell of a lot for Matthews to send, not for a final shootout. And he was
right. Seven more riders were coming down from the ranges and, even as he spotted them, he saw them riding in on his still-bunched steers as they made their leisurely way back into the hills. The raiders rode in with guns blazing and it was obvious right from the start that they didn’t mean to merely stampede and scatter the beeves. They were here to wipe Nash and his whole outfit off the face of Texas.
Clay Nash bared his teeth as he saw the raiders gunning down his steers, one by one, riding up alongside, leaning from the saddle and shooting them back of the ears. Steer after steer dropped. Maybe ten made it into the hills, running all out, horns tossing, eyes rolling. Be lucky if they stopped this side of the Red River, Nash reckoned, grimly. Thank God, he’d turned the remuda loose. But likely they wouldn’t have killed the horses. A horse’s life was more valuable than a man’s in this country. You might get away with killing a man under almost any circumstance outside of downright murder, but, by God, it was a hell of a lucky ranny who escaped being strung-up on the spot for stealing another man’s horse or killing it.
The dozen or so raiders coming up from the river sat back while the steer killing was taking place and Nash knew they meant him to see that, to savvy right from the outset that this time they aimed to ride clear over him and stomp him into the ground. Well, he’d expected it, but he hadn’t figured on his herd being slaughtered, only stampeded. It wasn’t cattlemen doing the killing: it was Dekker’s hard bunch. They wouldn’t lose any sleep over the chore.
He recognized Cash Matthews in the front line of the rannies strung out just beyond gun range and he was mildly surprised.
The riders started forward at a signal from Dekker, leaving Matthews sitting his bloodstock Arab stallion alone, out of gun range, an observer only. Nash saw him lift a small pair of army field glasses from a saddlebag and put them to his eyes. Matthews mightn’t be riding in close enough to get shot at, but he sure didn’t aim to miss anything, either.
They swept in, a long line, already shooting, at the limits of gun range. He heard the bullets falling in near-spent flight against the logs, a couple rattling on the river stone fireplace, too weak to ricochet. Nash picked up his Winchester. He had fifteen shots in the tubular magazine and one already in the breech. He thumbed back the hammer and put the barrel through the slit in the shutter. He tried to get a sight on Dekker but couldn’t see the man and picked a rider forking a pinto. He held fire, ignoring the few bullets that thudded into the heavy shutter, drawing his bead carefully. He wasn’t about to waste any of his precious supply of cartridges. Nash held off while the pinto’s rider galloped ten yards closer. Then he squeezed off the shot carefully and saw the man pitch from the saddle, throwing his arms out wildly just before he hit the ground and rolled. A man forking a jet-black mount, yanked his horse almost bodily aside so as to miss the downed man. Nash blew him out of the saddle with his second shot. Then splinters flew from the edge of the slit and a piece of disintegrating bullet ripped into Nash’s forehead above his left eye.
The blood flowed and he wiped it away irritably. They were yelling wildly out there now, riding around the front and sides of the cabin like Indians, pouring lead into the building, making him keep his head down. He knew why. The second bunch, the steer killers, would be busy at the outbuildings, the corrals, tearing them down, maybe setting fire to them.
He smelled smoke and knew he was right. They were burning him out. Next would come the cabin and the whole crew would be able to concentrate on that. He thought he heard a horse whicker from behind the cabin, ran to the rear shutter but couldn’t see out. He’d ground-hitched the chestnut in too close to the fireplace to get a look at its position from the restricted view through the shutter’s slit. Bullets were spattering against the logs and thick timber of the doors and shutters. He wouldn’t have to worry about lead flying wildly about inside the cabin, but if they kept up such an intense fire, he wouldn’t be able to shoot back, either. Someone would be concentrating on the gun slits, waiting for the rifle barrel to appear and then they’d cut loose, mangling the timber around the slit, forcing him to withdraw without firing a shot.
There was only one way they could get him out of the cabin and that was by fire. He knew it and Dekker would know it by now, too. And, to set fire to the place, they would have to ride in close. He set the rifle aside abruptly and grabbed up the shotgun, checking the loads automatically. Bullets thudded in broken rhythm against the shutter on the left front side and he figured that this was the side they were moving in from. Well, he had to be able to see at whatever risk so he stood back and discharged one barrel of the shotgun. The roar in the enclosed room was deafening and a large chunk of the heavy shutter was blown out by the charge of buckshot.
It was a hole about six or seven inches across, maybe the same height, and it gave him a better view of the yard, showing him several riders galloping in with torches lit and swinging to keep the flames fanned. He shoved the shotgun through the hole and squeezed off the second barrel. The leading rider lifted out of leather as if pulled by a string, sailing like a rag doll for several feet before striking hard and rolling. The others veered away instinctively without throwing their torches. He heard Dekker’s voice roaring at them to get in close again and toss those torches onto the cabin’s shingle roof. By that time, Nash had reloaded both barrels.
He ducked as lead sprayed splinters from the shutter, shoved the shotgun through and triggered one barrel to the right, turned fast and, no more than a split-second later, fired off the second barrel. He heard the high-pitched, agonized squealing of a stricken horse and through the gun smoke, saw a ranny crawling away with a bloody arm flapping uselessly against his side. A horse was down and threshing as Nash reloaded but he heard the first torch strike the shingles even as he thumbed home the shells. He let loose with both barrels as riders raced in, but the torches were coming from all sides now and he could hear the flames taking hold on the tinder-dry shingles, smell the hot resin and the scented pine-smoke. He could keep on shooting till sundown now and it wouldn’t make any difference: the cabin was afire. Nothing would change that. He threw a couple of pans of water up against the shingles of the roof where smoke and sparks were already showing but there were a half-dozen other places that had taken hold, too. They’d eased off on the shooting, too, knowing they’d achieved their objective. The fire would drive him out sooner or later. All they had to do now was sit back and wait for the inevitable.
Nash dropped the shotgun, grabbed his rifle and ran for the getaway log section beside the fireplace. He snatched up a flour-sack of grub, moved the Civil War canteen of water to his back and kicked hard at the log section. It took a deal of kicking and the smoke and flames were eating through the roof by then, blazing shingles dropping down into the cabin interior and setting alight the meager furniture. The log section fell away at last and he slid through swiftly, rifle at the ready as he wormed out, close against the stone of the fireplace for protection. Almost instantly he saw that the chestnut was dead, either by accident or design, he couldn’t know.
The rear door of the cabin was on the far side of the fireplace and he figured they’d be watching that, so he stood up against the stone chimney, rifle in one hand, grub sack in the other, gauging the distance to the nearest clump of timber. It was a stand of cottonwood, maybe ten yards off. He’d be spotted long before he made it, but the other way was nothing but open ground. Even when he made the timber, he wasn’t sure there was anywhere much to go. It was on a ridge. He could put that between him and the raiders, but it would be only temporarily, for they’d top the rise on their mounts before he’d cleared the ridge completely on the far side. They’d ride him down on the flats beyond.
A blazing shingle and peeling bark, afire, dropped down beside him, making him jump. Well, he had a burning cabin at his back so he couldn’t stay where he was for much longer. Best get going and trust to luck.
Nash made his dash, going down along the remainder of the cabin wall then sprinting for the trees. He made ma
ybe four yards before he was clear enough to be spotted and it was Matthews’ voice he heard bawling orders.
“There he goes, you blamed idiots!” roared the rancher, voice harsh with anger. “Bring him down! By God, if he gets away, I’ll have some scalps!”
He heard the rattle of gunfire, saw dust spouting around his feet and ahead of him. He felt the air-whip of lead as it zipped past his head. And all the time he was zigzagging for the shelter of the trees and they didn’t seem to be getting any closer. His lungs were burning and the blood roared in his ears as his legs pounded on the first lift of land on the knoll. He lengthened his stride as bullets whipped and tore through the brush, chewed bark off the first cottonwood. Nash was almost there, figuring he’d make a headlong dive for cover after another few steps ... but he never made it.
A chance shot tore the heel off his left boot, kicking the leg out from under him and he crashed sideways, twisting so that he hit the ground on his shoulder. He rolled over onto his back, retaining his grip on the rifle, breath gusting from him.
Riders were coming in, guns out, aiming to finish him. He brought the rifle around, triggering as fast as he could work the lever, digging in his boots and thrusting himself closer to the protection of the trees even as he fired. His lead was mainly wild but he saw one man topple from the saddle and stagger upright again, clawing at his side as he limped away. Then he saw the leaves of the cottonwood above and knew the protection of the trunk was only a couple of feet away. But it was too far. A bullet smashed the rifle from his hand, numbing his fingers, jarring his wrist.
He fought to get his Colt out of leather but his hand was too numbed to hold it and he dropped it on the ground. He twisted his body to grab it up but Vern Dekker came pounding up the knoll on his big horse, leaned down with a smoking rifle and laid the barrel across Nash’s head. The cowboy rolled, dazed, lights dancing and shooting behind his eyes, pain burning through his brain. Then Dekker quit his saddle just long enough to tighten a loop of his rope around Nash’s boots and the cowboy tried to sit up and wrench the rope free with his still-numbed hands. Dekker leapt back aboard his horse, yelling wildly as his foot hit the stirrup.
