by Arthur Kent
Justin looked up sharply as Frome pulled on his slicker. ‘Where are you going, Dave?’
Frome couldn’t bear to face Curly again. Not now. ‘Why, with you. What are we waiting for?’ He crossed to the corral and swung into the saddle of one of the horses there. He booted the Winchester and swung the bronc. He waited with the rain lashing down at him. Justin and the others mounted. Frome looked back once as they swung out of the yard, but only the two men left as Curly’s escort stood on the veranda. Curly hadn’t come to the door to see him ride away.
They galloped across sodden prairies, the rain hitting them head on. It trickled down their faces, and it found cracks in their slickers and sneaked down their shirt collars.
‘Who’d be a cowboy?’ a townee jeered. Nobody answered him. The thunderheads moved away for a time, showing the moon against a cushion of twinkling stars. Shadows about them took on substance in the light, became trees, brush, rock. They moved through cattle which stood stiff-legged and mournful in the tall wet grass and mud.
When they topped the hill above the Double Star headquarters, the thunderheads had rolled across the sky again, low above the gaunt cottonwoods, junipers and pine. The rain bounced at them and they made the descent in darkness.
Lights from ranch, bunkhouse and barns welcomed them as they swung in around the corrals. Men came from the buildings to meet them. Justin called, before dismounting, ‘Any news yet?’
The reply was in the negative. Frome and Justin hitched their broncs at the same pole. Justin said, ‘Something happen between you and Curly?’
Frome said, ‘What makes you ask?’
‘The way you heeled off. Still holding out on me, huh? A fine pal. But I soon got all the facts, didn’t I?’
Frome answered dryly, ‘Then there was no need for me to tell you.’
Justin laughed. ‘It’s a good job we’re pals, Dave.’
Men moved over to greet them. Frome could see they were in good morale by the way they joked with the sheriff.
‘First time I’ve seen the sheriff this early since election day,’ somebody said. Another chipped in, ‘After this, he’ll want us to back him for governor.’
Justin answered, ‘If you boys fight as well as you wisecrack, then I’ll allow you to vote for me when the elections come along.’
Frome moved across to the ranchhouse. He was on the stoop removing his slicker when Hesta appeared at the door. She came out, closing the door and cutting the light from there. Frome noticed that she was wearing a black lace blouse and dark grey skirt. Her face was without cosmetics.
Her hand touched his arm a moment. ‘How are you, Dave?’
Frome answered her whisper with a whisper. ‘Fine, Hesta, just fine.’ He paused. ‘I was sorry to hear about Glinton.’
Justin came across to the veranda, Hesta opened the door, and they went into the long room.
More than a dozen of the smaller ranchers and town prominents were gathered there. Frome greeted them, and Hesta left for the kitchen.
They found seats and were busy discussing the chances of finishing off Bennett and Speakman without outside help from the State, when Hesta and a maid brought them food. They were busy tucking into eggs and bacon when a Double Star rider galloped into the yard, swung from his spent bronc, and hurried into the house. He went straight to Justin, and announced that he had found the camp of the Bennett-Speakman group.
He had tracked them to Muleshoe Canyon Pass, and had seen many campfires burning in the brush-covered slopes. All the signs, he said, pointed to the use of the left slope as a more or less permanent camp.
Justin looked at the faces around them. ‘Right. Do we hit them in the Pass, or don’t we?’
‘We hit ’em,’ Frome said.
One of the ranchers raised a doubt. ‘If they’re on that left slope, then they’ve picked a good position to defend themselves. We could lose a lot of men hitting them there.’
Frome said, ‘The sooner we get there, the least they’ll expect us. I doubt if they’d be expecting attack for some time yet. Knowing Kyle’s mind, I’d say he’s pretty contemptuous of folk round here.’ Frome smiled. ‘He finds – or did find – most of us too slow.’
Justin said, ‘I think we should hit them right now. Anybody disagree with that? We’ll leave twenty men here, then hit Muleshoe Canyon Pass with every other gun we can muster.’
There was a silence as Justin looked from face to face. The only sound was the beat of the rain on windows and roof. Dawn was a dirty grey blotter across the sky.
All the men nodded agreement with Justin. He got up, tugging at his shellbelt. ‘We ride in an hour, then!’
CHAPTER 17
Pale streamers of the sun slanted through holes in the low-hanging clouds as Frome and Justin, at the head of fifty riders, came to a stop on the prairie two miles out from Muleshoe Canyon Pass, which towered like a fortress through the rain.
Justin cuffed the wet from his face with his sleeves. ‘Seems very quiet and deserted, Dave.’
Frome saw the worry lining the sheriff’s face. ‘You think some kind of trap maybe?’
Justin shrugged. ‘I’d hate to be the lawman in charge of a fifty-man posse which rode into a trap and were massacred. We ought to scout a little. Send five or ten men in.’
Frome lifted in his saddle, resettled himself. ‘Where will that get us? We know they’re there, we’ve seen their fire smoke. If they’re setting a trap, they won’t open fire on five or six or even ten men. They’ll wait until they bottle the whole bunch.’
‘Then what do you suggest?’
Frome said, ‘I know the Pass. There’s nice tall grass in there and rocks at points right up to the left slope. What I suggest is that ten men – the best riflemen – go in first, sneak in, and get settled in cover. When the main party come in, they can sweep the slope with combined carbine fire.’
‘But say they don’t get in without being spotted?’
‘Then the main party’ll have to come in and support them.’
‘Just like they do it in the army, huh? OK, I’ll go for that.’
Frome said, ‘I’ll lead the sharpshooters.’
Justin said, ‘Now – wait a moment! I’m leading this party ... I’m the law ... I’ve got to do that kind of chore myself.’
Frome said, ‘You’re needed back here to lead in the main bunch.’ He grinned. ‘They’d be demoralized if you got killed. They need a fine, upright peace officer who’s a born leader to command them.’
‘Soft soap’ll get you nowhere,’ Justin said. ‘But, OK, you can lead. A quarter of an hour after you’ve entered the Pass, I’ll lead a charge in.’
‘Just like they do it in the army, huh?’
‘Just like it,’ said the sheriff. ‘Come to think of it, Dave, I think you’ve got the best part of the bargain. You’ll go in there on your belly with plenty of cover. I’ll go in leading a horse charge, right up front, with some forty carbines blazing at me... .’
Frome said, ‘But I’m needed in there. I’m a crack shot.’
Justin pulled a mock frown. ‘That’s what I thought. I’ll select the best shots.’ He swung his horse, moving down the line, and called out nine of the men. When he had grouped them to the right, he explained the plan.
They started moving with Frome in the lead. Justin called after Frome, ‘And no goddamned heroics, Dave.’
Frome answered, ‘I’ll watch it.’
‘Slightest sign of things going sour, you turn tail fast.’
Frome grinned. ‘Slightest sign of real trouble, and Kyle won’t see my rump for dust.’
Frome moved his bunch at a canter across the grasslands, turning towards the timbered slope that led eventually to the mouth of the Pass. The riders bunched up around him, nine men who looked alike in shapeless slickers, rain-sodden hats, and wet and bearded faces. Each hefted a carbine on his knee, and each had earned a county-wide reputation for using it effectively.
They neared the slope, raking its timber
with suspicious eyes. The grass was sodden beneath their ponies, and occasionally a bronc slid down in the mud. They began to climb up the slope, branches clawing at them and cascading them with water. They watched the rim, too, in case Bennett had placed a lookout this far from camp, but if he had he had not so far shown himself.
Halfway up the slope they turned their ponies, moving in Indian file along it to the mouth of the Pass. Long minutes later, they were within sight of the drop away which made the mouth of the Pass. They dismounted and tied their ponies to the brush. They grouped around Frome for last minute instructions. Frome told them that if things became too hot they would have to cross the canyon and work their way out in the brush. Since there was plenty of cover, he added, that should not be too difficult.
Carbines raised, they slipped and skidded down the slope and moved in a crouch for the mouth of the Pass. A mile and a half away, little dots above the grass, the posse sat and waited and watched. They went through the drenched grass, heads down, and moved in between the towering sides. The grass was high around them, concealing all but their faces. Then the slopes on either side fell away, fire smoke wafted from the mouths of caves in the timbered slopes. Nothing – nobody – moved up there.
Now they fanned out, rustling through the grass, boots coated in mud, faces glistening with the wet that shook from the grass tops. Frome moved in a duck-like crouch, knees almost together, feet splayed out. Fine crystals of water bounced on his face and hands and burst. His grip on his carbine was slippery. The cold dampness seemed to reach every part of him.
Halfway to his objective, a cluster of rocks just out from the slope, he looked for signs of a possible planned ambush. He watched the slope behind him, but there was no sign of movement there. He looked and listened for horses picketed close at hand, for if Kyle was setting an ambush, he would need ponies to hit them from the sides. He neither saw nor heard horses nearby.
He was almost at his objective when he saw the first movement on the slope. A man appeared at the mouth of a cave, stretching his arms and yawning. The man gave every appearance of having just been asleep. If Kyle was laying an ambush, Frome reflected, then he was certainly going in for stage effects.
Then Frome ran into difficulties. The ground rose in front of him, but the grass remained at the same height. He had reached a slight rise, and it put him head and shoulders above the grass. He quickly dropped and guessed that several other men would have to do the same.
He found himself bellying through a pea-green world of slime and mud and smell. It was stifling. The greasy mass seemed to beat in on him as if to suffocate him. He raised his head every yard to suck in air and scrutinize the slope. The minutes dragged by. It seemed like ages since he had flopped down. He began to worry about the time . . . wondering if he would be in place before Justin struck.
The sweat ran from him and mixed with the rain. He began to take less care, dragging down the stalks to clear a passage. Then suddenly the colour scheme ahead of him changed, suddenly he was there as a grey mass appeared a yard in front of him. He had reached the rocks. He moved ahead swiftly now. He came up the face of the rock, breathing heavily and rested against them. A slight scurrying in the grass a few feet from him, and a boy in a rain-glossened slicker pulled himself free, his tongue licking at his lips.
Frome recognized him as one of the sharpshooters selected by Justin, but didn’t know his name. He took his place beside Frome without speaking, wiping the wet from a Spencer seven-shot with a neckerchief. When he had finished, he said, ‘Can’t be no fun being a worm, Mister Frome.’
Frome didn’t reply. He had taken a tip from the youngster and, with a neckerchief, was wiping some of the wet from his rifle. He looked up the slope while working. He undid his slicker, opening it wide, broke open the box of carbine bullets and let them fall loose in his pocket.
As he finished, he heard the distant beat of hoofs. An excitement gripped him. And the youth. They leaned forward on the rocks. They poked their carbines over the rim, pointing up the slope. And they waited.
The hoofbeats became louder. Suddenly they were like the roll of thunder. Still no movement on the slope. Frome lived an anxious moment. Then he realized the rain and the cold would have driven Bennett’s men deep into the caves ... but there should be a lookout ... somewhere.
And then came the bark of a carbine. Three times the carbine roared. The echo of the shots clattered across the canyon. Frome raked the slope looking for the tell-tale smoke from the sentry’s rifle. But the nearest he got to it was smoke snatching high above a cluster of cottonwoods near to the canyon’s rim.
He had to forget the sentry as men came spilling from the mouths of the caves, men with carbines, slipping and diving for cover in the brush. Frome’s rifle stock slapped his shoulder. He aimed on a man and squeezed. Other shots rattled out along the grass around him. The sound hung sluggishly on the damp air. Frome jerked the guard, swinging the rifle, pressing the trigger on another target. A man took his slug in the head as he stood poised in a cave mouth. Frome’s movements became mechanical. He worked the guard and then he fired, pumping slugs up the slope at second intervals. Another hit sent a man spilling from a narrow ledge clutching a smashed elbow. A third went head over heels as Frome’s slug punched his legs from beneath him, folding him into brush.
One glance along the slope showed Frome that the rest of the men were scoring. He saw several desperadoes folding or spinning from the ledges, dead or wounded. But now he was slowing; now he had to search for his targets as Bennett’s men gained cover. And now slugs began to whip towards him. And behind him, their horses hoofs now muffled by the thick grass, Justin brought the posse in at a gallop, with bullets ripping amongst them.
A bullet scythed a runnel in the grass inches from Frome’s head. Instinctively he lifted his head and saw the breeze waft gunsmoke from the cottonwoods. Guessing that the man might be in the branches of the tallest tree, Frome swung his rifle that way, and pumped four shells into its branches. A moment later a man, still clutching a carbine, fell eight-foot to the ground, rolled off a ledge and crashed some twenty feet down the slope.
Frome lowered his aim, pumping the rest of his shots into the thickets just beneath the cave mouths above which gunsmoke was clouding. Then he found his carbine empty. He swung, jacking home fresh shells, and looked across the basin as he did so.
He saw Justin, low in the saddle, and he saw the rest of the posse fanned out behind him. He saw two riderless horses. He saw a pony go down and throw a rider heavily. He saw a Double Star puncher clutch at his face as he was kicked backwards off his pony by a high calibre rifle bullet. As he swung to pump more shells up the slope, he saw two ponies, almost level with him, go down and throw their riders. The two riders, however, came scrambling through the grass to join them, rifles ready in their hands. With the reinforcements, with four rifles behind the rocks, Frome instructed the men to keep firing into the brush, and not to wait until they sighted targets. The men responded. Four carbines spattered flame, covering the brush below the caves with a stream of lead.
More rifles joined in the battle. A minute later, reloading his rifle with sweat-slippery fingers, Frome saw that more of the posse had dismounted now. Some had shot their ponies and were using them as barriers. Some were down behind rocks or just bellying down in grass. Something like forty carbines were sending lead among Bennett and Speakman’s crew.
Frome decided it was time to move. He slapped the shoulder of the youth beside him. He thumbed towards the slope, and then he moved. He shafted down into the tall grass beyond the rock formation, and the youth dropped at his heels. He began to belly through the grass. The earth was alive with sounds. The drum of hoofs echoed up at him as spooked ponies raced and curved across the battleground.
The youth came up beside Frome and smiled. They began to climb upwards as the slope began. Then suddenly the youth was jerking on Frome’s sleeve and pointing. Frome couldn’t hear what the boy was saying above the din of ba
ttle, but he saw that he was scared. Turning, then, he saw the horsemen. Three men, bunched in half a dozen horses, were coming down from timber on the slope at a mad speed, trying to break out from the trap.
Frome slapped his rifle to his shoulder, fired, and a pony went down. The kid fired and a man was smacked from his saddle. Frome fired and dropped the next man. The ponies swerved sharply, turning, ignoring the rein. The third man had disappeared when the dust kicked up by the crashing horse-hoofs had cleared.
They made no attempt to hide now from the men on the slopes. With the brush only some ten yards ahead, Frome decided to run for it. He raced forward with the youth hard behind him. Bullets savaged the ground around them. Then they were hidden from the men on the slope by the jutting overhang of the brush. They hit the muddy wall. Frome looked up into the tangled mass, looking for a way through. Finally he found what appeared to be a narrow water washout. He sprang up, clawing at brush, the mud caking up beneath his slipping boots. He got a firm grip, placed legs over a stumpy pine, and, bending, dragged the youth up.
Then he bellied down and began to push through the darkness under the brush. Mud and slime sucked at him. His carbine was slippery with it. They wormed on, moving fast. Frome saw daylight in the foliage a dozen yards ahead, clawing towards it, using branches as a hold. The ground climbed steeply. He was sweating when he reached it. Propping his legs against a gnarled root, he heaved the boy on to the ledge beside him. He poked his head carefully into the open. Behind a felled pine twenty feet to his left, he saw a Bennett man pumping shots down into the basin. He worked the brush open that way by lifting it with his rifle. Propping it up, he whispered to the boy, ‘Get him.’
Pale of face, the boy levelled and fired; the man toppled forward over the rim.
