by Alan Lemay
Manley jammed the sagging door shut and blocked it by moving the old table against it. The high, narrow window faced the creek. He felt there was a chance to stand off the men until dark. If only they did not charge him in a body, or reach him with a bullet!
He knew the cabin would soon be the target for as hot a fire as twelve or fifteen expert riflemen could lay down, that bullets would smash through window and walls, seeking out every hole that relentless time had made in the mud chinks between the rough stones.
V
"BESIEGED"
Dale Manley looked about him. He realized there was not much shelter behind those stone walls with the wide chinks stopped with soft clay. The table was the only furniture except a rude cupboard, backless and rotted, that was nailed against the partition that divided the cabin.
What was in the other room? Dale needed some heavy furniture that could be stood against the wall, something that would give additional shelter from the hot lead that would rake the cabin from end to end.
He started to the door between the rooms. A bullet whipped in through the window. Its whine was echoed by the muffled report of a rifle from the trees. The cowboy dashed back to the wall. Peering cautiously out at the edge of the window, he pushed the muzzle of his rifle over the weather-beaten sill.
There was a slight movement in the brush at the edge of the stream.
Crash!
A man cried out hoarsely. He sprang to his feet, clawed the air, and pitched forward.
A dead silence followed. Then the prairie echoed to the driving, crashing drum of relentless, steady gunfire.
A thin tongue of flame shot out from a dense growth of willows, and Manley fired, aiming a little behind the flash. A man ducked back into the trees, and the cowboy swore softly to himself. He moved away from the window and knelt close to the wall in a corner. A hail of bullets smashed through the window, chipping splinters from the ancient casing. The clay chinking in the walls fell inward in lumps that gave off a dust as fine as smoke. A jagged hole appeared between the stones near Manley's head. After a moment, he peered through it. Streaks of orange flame pierced out from the shadows of the trees, sharp, quick streaks that flamed death at the little cabin.
Manley whipped up his rifle and fired through the hole. Then he lay flat and wriggled to the other corner. He knew he must keep moving in this unequal struggle. Every shot would bring back a fusillade of lead from those who were seeking his blood.
Steadily, relentlessly, the bullets tore into the cabin. Manley lay flat behind two large stones that had only a fine seam between them. He was comparatively safe there if his enemies did not charge the cabin. He did not know exactly how many were out there in the shelter of the trees. A dozen at least, not counting the man he had killed or wounded. He counted five spurts of flame at different places to the left. Four more came from directly ahead. He could not tell how many there were at the right, but it looked as though there were seven or eight.
The rifles crashed steadily from the woods. The window casing was a wreck now, and gaping holes appeared in the wall. One of them was low, down near the floor. Manley rolled to it. Straight ahead from a clump of bushes came the sharp crack of a gun. Thin wisps of smoke curled up in the still, dead air.
Into those bushes Manley poured his fire. His lips were set, and he swore softly as he yanked at the lever of his Winchester. He kept no count of his shots till the click of hammer against firing pin told him that the magazine was empty. With quick fingers he fed bullets through the slide. He didn't know if he had winged his man, but he intended to show them he was still alive and kicking.
The thought gave him an idea. Springing to his feet, he fired twice through the window, and then fell flat. A hail of bullets poured into the cabin above him. Then he cried out with a long, wailing cry.
The firing ceased. Manley could hear indistinct voices in the woods. They were exultant voices that called to one another with coarse jest.
Carefully the cowboy pushed the muzzle of his gun through a gaping hole in the wall. He waited silently. The minutes dragged by. There was no movement or sound from among the trees.
Finally a gray hat appeared above a thick buffalo bush. The cowboy grinned. He was not quite simple enough to be deceived by that trick. A head came into view, but Manley still held his fire. Another and another poked out between the thick branches. None of them belonged to Jeffries, the man he was seeking.
A man started forward, running toward the cabin. Evidently he was ambitious to finish the killing, if any finish were needed.
Manley brought his rifle to his shoulder, drew a fine sight on the moving right leg, and squeezed the trigger. The bullet stopped the man as he came head on. He flung face down, rolled over twice, and lay without moving. Manley knew he was not dead. He snapped two more shots at the men showing in the trees, but they dodged back, and he did not know if his fire had been effective.
For an hour or more Jeffries's gunnies poured shot after shot into the stone house. A red, distorted sun sank toward the horizon and touched the peaks of the blue hills. The round, red orb of the moon was visible in the eastern sky.
If Manley could hold out two hours longer, his friends would come. He wished they knew now that he was there waiting for them. If they should ride up on the other side of the stream, they would catch Jeffries and his men between two fires. And yet, after all, the range king who had outlawed the law might be too strong for them. They would be outnumbered two to one.
As though by order, the firing ceased. Manley lay at his porthole and looked out into the rapidly deepening twilight. He knew his enemies were up to something. Those men would not give up a fight against one man as long as the cattle king, thirsting for vengeance, was there to drive them on.
Presently he saw three men walk out of the trees far to the left, and as many more to the right. They were beyond gun range. Manley knew they were surrounding the cabin and would creep up as darkness fell. In the dim light it was no longer necessary for them to remain under cover of the trees.
Desperately the cowboy looked about him. He must cover all sides of the cabin at once. He rose to his feet and stepped softly to the door between the rooms. It was locked.
A bullet whipped in through the window and spanged against the wall within a foot of his head. Cursing softly, he sank to the floor and crawled back to his place. If Jeffries and his men came from the other side, Manley must meet them kneeling in a corner of the room. He would try and give a good account of himself before he died.
His lips twisted in a pathetic grin. What a surprise would await the boys if they came to the cabin in time. Here was their chance of meeting the man who had driven them like dogs from their ranches. Instead, perhaps, they would find only a shattered cabin, and Dale Manley's still body lying in the soft moonlight.
Prone on the floor, the cowboy shot with a slow deliberation at every flash that stabbed out from the trees. The sharp spang of his rifle echoed back from the green wall at the edge of the stream.
He listened for the sound of firearms from the other side of the cabin. Presently it came - a quick, muffled drumming of steady firing. From the adjoining room sounded the low snarl of a human voice that rose in volume and ended in a hoarse curse.
Manley sprang to his feet in surprise. There was someone in the other room of the cabin!
VI
"A STRANGE ALLY"
The snarling growl continued. Then Manley was startled by a boom the unmistakable discharge of a carbine. Again and again the gun roared. Whoever the man in the next room might be, he had come to Manley's aid at an opportune time.
The cowboy knelt close to the wall. Hope had taken the place of the dull despair that had obsessed him during the long struggle. It was not only the aid from the unknown in the next room. Manley's courage revived from the fact that a friend was behind him, and that he was not alone in his battle against the gunmen of Wade Jeffries.
He placed a steady stream of bullets into the trees, aiming jus
t behind the orange flashes flaming in the twilight that deepened as the struggle raged. He wondered how he could have escaped unscathed from the bullets that had smashed their way into the cabin through the long afternoon.
Slowly a wide patch of silver moonlight formed on the wall behind him. Then he saw them five riders close together coming over a slight rise. Another was a short distance away. His friends had come! The mysterious masked rider was with them. He watched them all pull up and stop. Evidently they were surprised at the ring of rifle fire, and the two guns that barked vicious answers from the cabin. If only Manley could tell them the situation. If only they knew that their enemy was before them! Then it occurred to him that he could use the distress signal that Jim Lessert had shown him. If any member of their little body was in danger, he could fire three times quickly, and then once more after a short pause. Manley threw up his rifle.
Crack' crack' crack! Interval. Crack!
Twice he repeated the signal. He knew the stabs of flame would be visible to his friends even though the reports might be merged with the steady fire around him. He loaded the rifle again and suddenly realized that his ammunition was running low.
He could see the ranchers spread out into a half-circle and ride downward to the stream two or three hundred yards below the cabin.
Evidently they had not been seen by Jeffries and his men, for the bullets still poured steadily into the cabin from all sides. The carbine in the next room roared out its challenge. Occasionally a hoarse voice jeered out a dare to Jeffries to come on. Whoever the man was, he was no coward. It seemed to Manley, too, that somewhere he had heard that voice.
Again the cowboy poured his shots into the trees, moving from place to place as the answering fire tore through the cracks in the wall and spanged against the stones. He pulled the last shell from his belt and shoved it through the slide. Four shots were left for the rifle, and there were six in his .44. Both rifle and revolver took the same ammunition.
He fired twice, and then watched the drama that was being acted out on the prairie. His friends reached the timber some distance below the scene of the fight. Doubtless, they would creep up under cover and catch Jeffries's men in a quick, furious charge. The gunnies out on the prairie had no horses, and could be attended to later.
Manley wanted to shout in his exultation. A grim fate seemed to be working for him.
He drew his six-gun and pulled the trigger. Its deep roar contrasted with the sharp crack of the long-barreled rifle. Again and again the roar shattered the stillness. Short of ammunition though he might be, he wanted to hold the attention of the men in the trees.
A sudden cheer sounded from the stream. A crash of gunfire followed. Seven men dashed out into the open in a straggling line, and came straight toward the cabin. Wade Jeffries's men had been flushed from cover, but Manley found himself in his greatest danger of the day. These men must not gain the cabin and take possession.
His gun jerked twice. The second bullet stopped one of the men as he dashed forward. He fell headlong and rolled over. Manley recognized Travis, who was the crooked deputy sheriff.
The others came on. Again Manley fired, and then dropped his .44 as the last shot was spent.
Crack!
Another man went down as Manley threw up his rifle and fired the two shots remaining. He saw the five men turn and dash around the cabin some distance away.
Breathing a sigh of relief, he realized he was safe for the moment. He was conscious of the firing outside. He looked through the window and saw the sharp stabs of flame leaping out from the trees. This time they were not aimed at the cabin, but at the men afoot who were dodging about on the prairie. The attackers had become the attacked. His friends had captured the horses and held the situation in hand.
A door creaked, and Manley turned. In the doorway, his burly form and flushed face plain in the moonlight that flooded the room, stood Gar Dixon. Manley stared at the .45 that the gunman held in his hand.
For long moments the two men stood looking at each other. The livid welts across Dixon's face showed black in the light of the moon.
"Dale Manley, by hell!" the gunman leered. "I got yuh at last. Huh beat me to the draw! Me, Gar Dixon! Yuh shot the gun out o' my hand last night. The man don't live that does that. Say yore prayers, cowboy, 'cause I'm shootin' at the count o' ten. Go for yore gun an' see what happens." He began counting in a low voice.
Manley looked into the beastly face before him. Unarmed, he had no chance against the enraged gunman who had been the terror of the border.
"Four...five...six...." Dixon counted slowly as though he were chanting a death song.
From outside the cabin came the steady crashing of rifles in the hands of desperate men.
"Seven...eight...nine...."
Manley sprang. Dixon's weapon was pointed a few inches above the cowboy's belt buckle.
The hammer fell, but there was no report. Dixon had forgotten, in his rage and drunken stupor, that his six-gun had been emptied by Talbot at the command of Wade Jeffries.
Like a raging demon, Manley came on. His fist smashed into the red face before him. Dixon staggered back through the doorway. Recovering, he stooped quickly, and a knife flashed out of his boot top. He lunged forward.
Manley dodged and avoided the sweep of the keen blade by a hair. His fist shot out and smacked against the side of the gunman's head. With a bellow of rage, Dixon turned. Again the blade flashed in the moonlight. A searing pain shot along the cowboy's side. He seized Dixon's wrist in his left hand and smashed into the leering face with his right.
Dixon howled with pain and rage. Blood spouted from his nose. Again and again Manley smashed into the face before him. He clung desperately to Dixon's wrist, trying to twist it and make the gunny drop the knife. Dixon smashed out with his fist, and a flash of flame seemed to envelop the room as Manley was taken fairly between the eyes.
Grimly, furiously, they clinched and stood, straining every muscle. Knee to knee, their teeth clenched, their muscles stood out like ropes with their Gargantuan efforts. Manley was fighting for his life, and he knew he was fighting against a more powerful man than himself. Only his lithe quickness saved him again and again. Dixon wrenched his knife hand free. He raised the blade high for the blow that would finish the struggle. Again Manley caught the wrist, and Dixon bellowed a curse.
Manley threw his right arm around the huge waist and tried to trip the gunman. A big fist came down again and again on his face and unprotected head. The blows hurt, but Dale Manley gritted his teeth and wrenched and tore at the barrel of a body that was hard as nails. Like a leech, he clung to the waist that held the flashing blade.
They crashed into the table that was propped against the door, and nearly went down. Desperately Manley tried to throw his antagonist, and desperately Dixon struggled to free his knife hand.
The shooting on the outside of the cabin stopped suddenly, but the two did not notice the strange silence that followed the long afternoon and evening of constant gunfire.
Dixon lunged forward with a herculean effort that bent Manley backward over the table. Curses spewed from the gunman's lips. Desperately he struck downward at Manley's head.
The cowboy threw out a leg and felt it touch Dixon's behind the knee. He threw all his strength into a desperate heave. Dixon was thrown off balance and went down flat on his back. A terrible cry rent the silence of the night. Dixon rose upward with a frenzied movement, then sank back and lay still. Manley knew the gunman had fallen on the knife.
He stood panting with his terrible exertions. His shirt was torn from his back. Blood was streaming down his face, and his clothing was wet from the wound in his side. He heard voices from outside the cabin. He pushed the table to one side, jerked open the door, and then staggered weakly out into the moonlight.
VII
"THE MASKED STRANGER"
Wade Jeffries stood there defiantly. His head was bare, and he was unarmed. Jim Lessert and cal Stewart were at his side.
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br /> Far off across the plain, four or five men were hastening away on foot. They were the last of the gunnies who had chased Manley to this place. The ground was dotted at intervals with the still forms of the others.
Far to the right something seemed to be moving against the horizon, but Manley gave it not a thought as he watched the drama that was unfolding before him. Wade Jeffries was speaking. Cool, collected, his thin, handsome face seemed doubly pale in the white light.
"All right, yuh got me," he was saying, "and I'll give in. Huh can't kill me in cold blood, so I'm Willie' to do my share. I'll give huh back yore ranches and stock, and pay for the damage. How's that?"
"How do we know huh won't run us out again as soon as we turn huh loose?" asked Connel.
"I'll fire my gunnies and hire honest cowboys. I'll put up a peace bond of a hundred thousand dollars, and the war will be over for good."
Perhaps Jeffries was more frightened than he appeared to be, for his proposition was better than anyone there would have expected.
"If yuh don't trust me," he went on, "I'll buy huh out at a fair price. We'll have ever'thing appraised by cattlemen from the other side of the divide, and I'll pay whatever they say. Ain't that fair?"
Bart Connel turned to the others. "Huh all heard it," he stated. "Has anybody any objections?"
"I have!"
The voice rang out like a pistol shot in the still night. The masked stranger stepped forward into the circle.
Manley shuddered as he looked again at that cloaked form. Again he had the feeling that here was a being sprung from the grave, and that he had no fit place in a world of sunlight and shadow and beauty.
The man's hand went to his head, and the mask fell. He turned his face full to the brilliant moon.
The sight of that face sent a shiver of horror crinkling up and down Manley's spine. Once seen, it was a face that never could be forgotten - a face that would haunt a man's dreams to his dying day.
