Longhorn Empire

by Bradford Scott

  “What in blazes?” demanded the sheriff as Brant crouched down beside him.

  “The Indians used to do it,” Brant chuckled. “If they could, I don’t see why we can’t.”

  The sheriff understood instantly. “Fire arrows!” he exclaimed. “By gosh, I’ve a notion it would work, if you could drop one onto the roof. Those roof boards and shingles are dry as tinder; they’d oughta burn easy. But son, you couldn’t ever shoot an arrow onto the roof from here with that thing.”

  “I know it,” Brant conceded. “But do you see that big boulder over past that string of bushes? If I was behind that rock I could do it easy.”

  “Uh-huh,” agreed the sheriff, “but you ain’t there, and a mighty slim chance of gettin’ there with them hellions in the house watchin’ every move. You’d be plugged before you got half way to that rock.”

  “Mebbe,” Brant conceded, “but I figure it’s worth riskin’. Pass the word to the boys to cut loose with everything they got on those chinks. Some of ’em are bound to put a slug or two through, and with lead whizzing around ’em, I’ve a notion those gents in the house won’t be up to their best at shooting.”

  “You’re taking one awful chance, but okay,” the sheriff agreed dubiously. “May save a heap of shootin’ later on, and I reckon it’s about our only chance to bag the lot of ’em. Go to it!”

  The word was passed along and the possemen redoubled their fire. Slugs pounded the logs. Brant saw dust and clay fly from the chinks between the logs in several places. With the firing at its height, he slipped from behind his shelter and ran at top speed for the boulder, bending almost double, weaving and zig-zagging. He had covered more than half the distance when the owlhoots in the house discovered him.

  A slug ripped his shirt sleeve. Two more, striking almost together, whisked his hat from his head. Another struck the heel of his boot and nearly knocked him off his feet. Still another drew blood from his scalp and the shock rendered him weak and dizzy for a moment. With a headlong dive he reached the shelter of the boulder and crouched behind it, trying to regain his breath. Then he carefully fitted an arrow to the string of his bow, struck a match and applied it to the powder smeared rug.

  The rag burned fiercely, snapping and sputtering. Brant raised the bow, drew the arrow to the head and let go. It described a flaming arc through the air and dropped squarely onto the roof. Two more fire arrows followed as swiftly as Brant could light them and bend the bow. He dared not lift his head to see if his ruse was successful, but a moment later the exultant whoops of his companions assured him that it was. Another moment and he could see the cloud of smoke that billowed up from the flaming roof.

  “Get set!” Sheriff Willingham’s voice rang above the din of the shooting. “They’ll be bulgin’ outa there in a minute. The roof’s already darn nigh to fallin’ in. Look at her crackle!”

  Brant drew his guns, every nerve tingling, every sense at hair-trigger. He could see the flames now, boiling up from the fiercely blazing roof. The air was thick with smoke and the pungent whiff of burning wood. The roar of the fire dimmed the cracking of the guns.

  “Here they come!” boomed the sheriff.

  Brant leaped to his feet. The besieged defenders were streaming out the front door, shooting as they came. Foremost were Phil Doran and Pink Hansen.

  Both Brant’s guns let loose with a rattling crash. Doran reeled backward and fell, his guns dropping from his nerveless hands. Hansen, his face a mask of hate and baffled fury, took deliberate aim at Brant. Brant pulled trigger at the same instant. A lock of black hair spun from the side of his head as his Colt bucked in his hand. Through the fog he saw Hansen spin around like a top, slew sideways and fall. Guns were cracking on all sides. Brant saw three of the owlhoots go down, two like crumpled sacks of old clothes, the third kicking and clawing in the dust. Then he was abruptly aware that the firing had ceased. As the smoke cleared, he saw five men standing in front of the burning ranch house, their hands raised high. They were bawling for mercy.

  “How’s it goin’ in back?” bellowed the sheriff.

  “We’ve got two here,” came the answer. “That’s all that came out this way.”

  “Is one of them Kane?” Brant shouted.

  “Nope, ain’t seen him,” was the reply.

  “Must be inside burnin’ up,” put in the sheriff. “He ain’t here in front.”

  Brant thought differently. He bounded around the corner of the ranch house, and swore in exasperation. In the north end wall of the casa a section of a log had been removed, leaving an opening wide enough for a slender man to wriggle through. Even as Brant glanced about, a pounding of hoofs sounded.

  “There he goes!” roared Sheriff Willingham as Norman Kane’s tall bay flashed across an open space between two thickets.

  Brant raced to his horse, flung himself into the hull and sent Smoke crashing in pursuit.

  Kane was heading north by west, hoping undoubtedly to reach the hills and the New Mexico line. Brant knew, however, that he would have to ride some miles northward before an opening in the hills would provide him a line of escape. He sent Smoke forward at top speed, veering to the left the while, so as to get between Kane and the hills. It was tough going through the brush and the heavier and more powerful moros gained on the bay. Brant could see Kane glancing back from time to time, his face a white blur. He still rode north, edging westward the while, but soon it became apparent to both that he could never make the hills and safety before his pursuer came up with him. Abruptly he altered direction, heading the bay east for the near wire that enclosed his land.

  Brant saw the bay take the wire, soaring over the strand like a bird. He sent Smoke charging after him. Smoke cleared the wire with no difficulty. But now the open prairie was before them and the bay, bearing the lighter load, held his own. Try as he would, Brant could not close the gap between them. He fingered the stock of his rifle and shook his head. The distance was too great for anything like accurate shooting from the back of a racing horse. To use the Winchester, he would have to slow up, which would give the fugitive a chance to widen the distance between them.

  “And it’ll be dark soon now,” Brant muttered. “Let him get a mite more ahead of me and he’ll give me the slip once the night really shuts down. Can’t be at all sure of downing him at this range, and in this light. Nope, we’ve got to run it out.”

  He settled himself in the saddle and concentrated on getting the last hoof-beat of speed out of the flying moros.

  Smoke responded nobly, but the bay held his own, even drew away a trifle. Brant’s face set in bleak lines. Kane was gradually veering to the south. Once let him lose his pursuer and, under cover of darkness, he could circle west to the hills and safety.

  And then abruptly Brant saw something less than a mile ahead, something that he recognized. Barring the path of his quarry was a long, irregular crack in the level prairie. It was a canyon, one of the many offshoots of the Palo Duro. It was indeed little more than a crack, compared to the great gorge into which it emptied, but nevertheless it was more than thirty feet in width with perpendicular walls dropping down to the rocky floor hundreds of feet below.

  A moment later Kane sighted the widening gorge. Brant saw him rise in his stirrups and survey it coolly, then settle himself back in the hull and urge his mount to greater speed.

  “Blazes!” Brant muttered. “He’s going to try and jump it! He can’t do it, at least I don’t figure he can. Smoke might make it, but I don’t believe that bay can. Trail, feller, trail! We got to try to stop him!”

  Snorting, blowing, slugging his head above the bit, the great moros extended himself to the utmost. Eyes rolling red, his glorious black mane tossing in the wind of his passing, he gave his all in one final glorious burst of speed. Swiftly he closed the gap between him and the flying bay.

  But now the ominous gorge was close. Dusk was falling and the deep gulf was brimful of shadows. Brant saw Kane gather up his reins, ram his feet deep in the stirrups. He
raised his voice in a stentorian roar—

  “Don’t try it, Kane! Don’t try it! Pull up while you can!”

  Norman Kane glanced back. Brant caught the flash of his eyes. Then once more he faced to the front and sent his horse charging at the dark gulf.

  The bay never faltered. On he raced. Brant saw his muscles bunch for the leap. And then, on the very brink of the gorge, he stumbled. Gallantly he strove to recover. It was too late to turn. With an almost human scream, he launched himself forward through the air.

  Up and up! in a splendid curve, he shot toward the far lip of the gorge. He reached the apex of the arc while still many feet from safety. Brant’s breath exhaled in a whistling gasp—

  “Short!”

  Norman Kane twisted in the saddle, waved a mocking hand to his pursuer and rode grandly into eternity!

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Went out like a man!” Brant told Webb and Sheriff Willingham. “Hard as steel and cool as a dead snake to the last. Never turned a hair as he went down that canyon. A pity that a jigger who had just about everything that goes to make a man should turn to riding a crooked trail.”

  “You say you’d suspected him for quite a spell?” Webb remarked.

  “Yes,” Brant replied, “ever since he sliced off your best range like he did. It was legal, of course, but it was a mighty sharp practice just the same. And I’ve noticed that a jigger who goes in for sharp practices usually won’t hesitate to step across to the wrong side of the law if it fits in with his plans. Then that day we rode down to where he was building his ranch house, something else came to me. For quite a spell, I’d been puzzling over who in blazes could have informed Phil Doran that I was packing that dinero of yours. All of a sudden I realized it must have been Kane. He was present when the matter was discussed. That night he checked out of the hotel there in Dodge City. Of course he got ahead of me and lined Doran up. The day we found him and Cole there together, I asked him if Doran was enjoying good health when he left the Deadfall. Kane stiffened up and didn’t know how to answer. I was just about certain then, and, of course, when Doran and Hansen showed up in this section and Kane went into cahoots with them in opening up the Posthole, I was plumb sure. That business of his wire always being cut on the east side was another angle. Kane cut his own wire mostly, and let his own cows drift out onto our range.”

  “Why?” Webb asked.

  Brant chuckled. “That was pretty smooth,” he replied. “You’ll recollect Kane ’lowed some of his critters might still be maverickin’ around loose, after we’d rounded up all we could find? And you’ll remember, too, every now and then the boys would find a few more sliding around in the brush? Those were our cows, with the brands altered from Running W to Flying V. Our boys were plumb obliging and herded ’em right over to Kane. I’ve a notion he got quite a laugh out of that caper.”

  “The nervy sidewinder!” Webb growled.

  “By the way,” Brant asked, “did you find Cole Dawson cashed in?”

  “Dawson’s gone,” replied Webb. “I learned from our prisoners that he rode off several weeks ago and never come back.”

  “Glad to hear it,” said Brant. “For all his pigheadedness, I figure Dawson was an honest hombre. I reckon when he caught on to what Kane was pulling, he couldn’t abide it and trailed his rope. Chances are we’ll never see or hear tell of him again.”

  “That won’t make me feel bad,” grunted Webb.

  Two days later, Brant rode to the Bar O ranch-house. “Webb is taking me in with him as a partner,” he told Verna Loring. “I’ve talked him into breeding better stock, fencing his range and getting ready for the time when the cattle boom is going to bust and it’ll be hard going for any cowman who is caught with his twine tangled. Webb agrees I’m right but says he’s too old to make the changes by myself and that it’s up to me to carry on for him. We shook hands on it.

  “Reckon I’m in business for myself from now on. Feel sort of expansive. I’d build me a ranch-house for myself in the grove over east of the Running W casa if I could just get somebody to help me look after it.”

  Verna glanced up demurely through the silken veil of her long lashes.

  “Why, Austin,” she said, “I wouldn’t want you not to have your new ranch house!”

  Some time later, old Nate entered the room and shook his grizzled head in mock disapproval.

  “Son,” he chuckled, “it looks to me like you done got yourself hawgtied!”

  Other Leisure books by Bradford Scott:

  PANHANDLE PIONEER

  TEXAS RANGER

  TERROR STALKS THE BORDER

  Copyright

  A LEISURE BOOK®

  January 2009

  Published by special arrangement with Golden West Literary Agency.

  Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

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  Copyright © 1954 by Bradford Scott

  Copyright © renewed 1982 by Lily Scott

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