by Ray Hogan
“This’ll do fine,” Lockett assured her, helping himself. “We can stock up when we go to town tomorrow.”
She came about slowly, her eyes meeting his. “If there is a tomorrow,” she said quietly.
He took a swallow of the coffee. It was strong, bitter, like a shot of raw whiskey. “Yeah, if there is,” he agreed.
She sat down on a box opposite him, poured herself a cup of the steaming liquid. “You don’t think much of our chances, do you?”
“I’ve seen times when the odds were better.”
Roxie sipped slowly at her cup. “I don’t want you to stay, Dade. This is my fight … and Clint’s. You’ve no reason to lose your life in it.”
There wasn’t. He knew that—actually he had less reason to help them because of what their father had done to him than if they’d been total strangers, but that now was something that had receded into the inner recesses of his mind and no longer seemed of importance while standing by them—by Roxie—was. “Reckon I’ll still hang around,” he said, and rising, chunks of bread and fried meat in his hand, he continued to look about the yard for suitable items with which to build the barricade.
A pile of rocks, barely visible in the half dark of the moonlight, caught his attention briefly. He discarded them as not being worth the labor involved in moving them. There were several small trees at the south end of the yard. Cut to proper length, the trunks and larger limbs could be made to serve. He forsook that thought, also; there was no axe available, it having been lost in the fire. Bolting down the last of the food and topping it off with a third cup of coffee, Lockett retraced his steps to the back yard and resumed the quest. Shortly he turned up a partly destroyed wine keg, probably once used by the Rakers for water, and a section of a door, its thick planking fairly intact, and half a dozen boards that had once been flooring.
Thus heartened, he worked steadily in the increasing glow of the moon at collecting and assembling his finds, and by midnight he had completed a fairly solid bulwark. Within it, he then arranged the trunks and boxes, placing the larger ones about at strategic points. That done, he moved Clint and his pallet into the confined area, paused then, and glanced around to see if anything had been overlooked. Weapons … It occurred to him that he had not seen the rifles and pistols, and the old shotgun the Rakers owned. He turned to Roxie.
“Your guns … where are they?”
“The raiders threw them into the fire,” she replied. “I thought you knew.”‘
Lockett shook his head, swore silently. That really put them in a bind; they had two pistols, his rifle, and perhaps twenty or thirty rounds of ammunition to go against half a dozen or more well-armed men. With the weapons the Rakers possessed, by being conservative with their supply of cartridges, and keeping low in the barricade, the odds might be somewhere near even.
“That makes it bad, doesn’t it?” Roxie said heavily, adding a handful of wood to the fire and settling down beside it.
“Not so good, for sure. We’ll have to make every shot count.”
“We will. Clint and I both learned to shoot.”
Dade glanced to where the boy lay. “I doubt if we can figure much on him. You do your best shooting with a rifle or a pistol?”
“Rifle.”
“I’ll give you mine. That’ll leave the two pistols for me.”
The girl sighed, her eyes lost in the fire. “It’s hard to believe that everything has changed so quickly,” she murmured. “In just a few days our lives have become so different.”
“That’s the way it works sometimes. You never know what’s just around the next bend in the road.”
“And Ed Cushman … that he was the one behind all of our trouble was hard to believe, too. But it’s easy to see now. It explains a lot of things that happened.”
“Reckon he’s fooled about everybody around here excepting the gunhands he’s got working for him. When this is all over, there’ll be some of them that’ll talk, and what they’ll say will likely clear up plenty of things folks didn’t understand. It’s about time we were getting some shut-eye.”
Roxie made no reply, just rose, took several blankets from a stack she had arranged, and began to set two beds on the ground at opposite sides of the fire. “No need of that for me,” Lockett said. “I’ll do my sleeping sitting up.”
The girl handed him a pair of the woolen covers, wordlessly continued to prepare her own pallet. That she was near exhaustion after the long, terrible day was evident in her every move.
Getting to his feet Dade crossed to her, gently forced her to lie down, and then drew the covers over her. “Tomorrow’s a long ways off,” he said. “Best to forget about it now, figure to take care of it when it gets here.”
She smiled up at him, then frowned. “But you’re tired as I am … I know that.”
“Sort of used to it … anyway, I aim to do some sleeping myself. Don’t figure we’ll have any trouble till daylight, but if something does start stirring, I’ll wake you. The big thing is not to worry.”
Roxie gave him another worn smile and, reaching out her arms, caught him around the neck. Drawing him down, she kissed him.
“I won’t … Good night.”
“’Night,” Lockett replied huskily, and, rising, moved to the front of the barricade.
XVII
Draping the blankets over the side of the barricade, Lockett continued on to where the horses were standing, heads slung low, in the knee-high weeds and grass that fringed a small pond. Of his own volition the chestnut had joined the two Raker mounts and seen to his own watering and grazing. Loosening the gear on all and using halter ropes, he led the animals to a fairly large cottonwood tree at the upper end of the stock pond and picketed them securely. It was not likely they would stray since both grass and water were available, but with the promise of gunfire in the offing they could become frightened and bolt and they would be facing enough problems without finding themselves afoot should it become necessary to leave fast.
Pulling his rifle from the saddle boot, he returned to the barricade and settled down near the center of the forward wall. He had made that particular side more substantial than the others as Cushman and his killers could be expected to come in from that direction. They could fool him, of course, hit from the remaining sides as well, all of which he’d built up to fair strength. But the primary attack he felt certain would come from the front.
Hanging the blankets around his shoulders to stay the increasing chill of the night, Dade checked his pistol, and then the Henry rifle. Three weapons, including the one taken off Abe—and forty-three cartridges according to the count he’d made earlier. He smiled ruefully as he leaned the long gun against the low wall. Not much of an arsenal with which to make a stand against a gang of killers of the sort Cushman would bring—but with a little luck they just might make it. If not, well, a man couldn’t expect to live forever. He had to die sometime, somewhere, and one way was as good as another so long as he was on the move and not flat on his back in a bed just rotting away. Funny thing about it was, however, he’d be getting himself plowed under for the kids of the man he’d set out to kill. That was a big laugh when you stopped to think about it. After all that time he’d spent in the pen piling up hate and making plans to track Raker to the ends of the earth if necessary, and take his vengeance, he now wound up sitting alone in the half dark, waiting to swap lead with a bunch of hired gunslingers for Raker’s own son and daughter and the two-bit ranch the lousy sharp had bought with their money.
Dade shook his head in wonderment. How had he managed to jockey himself into such a bind? There’d been moments in the past when he’d gotten himself into tights, but they had been of his own making. Lockett shifted his attention to Clint. He was not resting well, stirring restlessly and muttering in a low voice. The boy needed a doctor, that was sure, and unless they could somehow get him to one the next day, it would likely
be too late.
His eyes moved on to the girl. She lay curled on her side, her smooth, almost angelic face turned toward him. The soft, lustrous moonlight on her skin gave it a creamy glow, accented her dark brows and lashes, caused her hair to look almost black. She had changed in the short time he had known her, Dade realized. That first day she had seemed a young woman completely out of her accustomed element and over her depth in trouble. Her natural place in life could only have been in some civilized city where lawn parties and masquerade balls and fine homes were the usual. She had fooled him some. The veneer of polite society had been thin, had likely begun to wear from that very first day when Charley Raker had brought her and Clint West from Indiana to join him on his ranch. It was probable that matters had gone fairly well at first with only an occasional hint to her of the harsh and raw realities that went hand-in-hand with living on the frontier. Trouble piled upon trouble, anxiety, fear, and the ever-present threat of hooded night riders had combined to alter her make-up and stiffen her resolve to fight for what was rightfully hers and her brother’s. And then when this last attack had come, leaving the ranch in blackened timbers and gray ashes, with Renzo Clark dead and Clint but little better off, the last transformation had taken place. She was now fully acquainted with the facts of life, aware that she was in a land where a man—and in her case, a woman—was compelled to stand and fight and be willing to die for what was right. A time ago Roxie Raker likely would not have considered such a brutal course, but that was in the distant past, and, come morning, he could expect to have her at his side at the barricade exchanging bullets with Cushman and his gunmen. The Roxanne of now bore small inner resemblance to that one of yesteryear.
Clint Raker awoke with a start. He raised his aching head slightly, focused his haze-filled eyes upon the blanket-wrapped figure hunched on a box a few paces away. Lockett, he realized—on guard, watching and waiting for Ed Cushman and his men. He stirred angrily, brushed at his eyes and tried to ignore the giddiness that gripped him. He should be the one out there, not this grim-faced stranger who had ridden into their lives so unexpectedly and taken a hand in their troubles. Although Roxie was a bit older than he, it was he who had always been the head of the family and assumed the responsibilities that ordinarily a father would shoulder. But their father had rarely been home and he knew him mostly from letters containing money sent from some odd-sounding town far away in the West, or an occasional hurried visit while he was in the city on business. His mother never quite gave up on the hope of their settling down as a complete family someday, somewhere, but it never came to pass as she died one winter of lung fever. After that he and Roxie had gone to live with an aunt but that, too, was an uncertainty as the aunt had problems of her own to contend with. It had been a relief and a sort of rebirth actually when their father sent word and the necessary funds to bring them out to join him on the ranch he’d bought.
Clint stirred, rubbed nervously at his face. It was moist with sweat, clammy as was his entire body. The pain was only a dull ache now and the hot gnawing in his leg was of small consequence, but he couldn’t shake off the weakness that followed those moments when he would alternately burn with fever and then tremble with chills. He was saying nothing about it to Roxie or Dade Lockett. They had enough to worry about as it was. He’d simply fight it out and by morning force himself to take a hand in repelling the attack Lockett expected. He wasn’t too sure in his own mind that Cushman would launch such an attack; why should he? The ranch was lost, only burned wood and ashes remained of it. The livestock had been slaughtered and likely what was left of their herd had been stolen or perhaps also killed. But he was in no position to buck this stolid, hard-jawed man who had been so intent, at first, on fulfilling some quest of his own, and then suddenly and with no reason had changed his mind and decided to stay on and help them.
Clint’s thoughts wandered as he felt a spasm of chill sweep through his body. Clenching his fists, holding his arms rigidly to his sides, he sought to control the trembling, failed, and rode it out. Then, weak and gasping, odd words spilling from his lips, he lay motionlessly until once again his senses were back to normal.
Lockett—just why had he changed his plans? There had been a few moments before the decision had been made when he thought he’d recognized pure hate in the man’s deep-set eyes. It was as if it involved him and Roxie, but that was foolish thinking; he’d never seen or heard of Dade Lockett until he’d ridden into the yard that morning a few days ago and driven off Cushman’s riders. Was it Roxie who had brought about the change? Had he fallen in love with her, now wanted her for himself? A wry smile pulled down the corner of Clint’s mouth. The thought, the very idea that his sister could ever marry a man like Lockett—a girl well brought up by a gentle mother in genteel surroundings— was utterly ridiculous. Why, he was no more than a cold-blooded killer devoid of all human feeling and accustomed to getting what he wanted by whatever means necessary. There was no other explanation for his actions. Certainly no man, especially not an utter stranger, ever walked in willingly and offered to lay down his life for two persons he didn’t know. It would be up to him to stop Lockett, not permit him to ruin Roxie’s future—if there was to be one for any of them.
He’d best get some rest now, at least try to. When morning came, he’d take steps to get Roxie out of there. It would be easy if Cushman didn’t show up with the idea of making an attack; he’d simply force Roxie to take what they could of their belongings, and with the money they’d received from the sale of the cattle to Pogue head out for Mule Springs and there catch a stagecoach for Indiana. If the rancher did ride in with his killers ready to complete the job of wiping them out once and for all, he’d call for a truce and stop everything before it got started. After he explained to Cushman that they were moving on, leaving it all to him, they would be able to depart in peace—and Dade Lockett, thus shut out, would continue on his way to fulfill whatever purpose it was that had brought him here in the first place. Meanwhile, he’d get some sleep—if possible. He’d need all his strength.
Roxie opened her eyes slowly. It was still half dark, that dull gray hour before sunrise and cold was biting deeply into her body. Drawing the blankets tighter about her, she peered through the gloom at Dade. He was a hunched shape perched atop one of the boxes he’d dragged up to the front of the barricade. She wondered if he was asleep. Likely he was only partly so, probably being one of those who possessed the faculty for resting and dozing without ever completely losing consciousness. There was a vast difference in men, she had discovered, particularly between those she had known back home in Indiana, and the ones she’d met after coming to the ranch. Where had he come from, and where was he going—and why? That puzzled her along with the reason for his abrupt decision to forsake his own purpose and stand by her and Clint in their struggle against Ed Cushman. Lockett had given her his reasons, to be sure, but they were a bit beyond her understanding.
Learning much of Dade Lockett, his past and future, was not an easy task. He kept such things to himself, and the deep reserve, almost a hurt in his eyes, prevented one from prying. It didn’t matter anyway who or what he was; he was heaven-sent and had it not been for him appearing when he did matters would have been far different at that moment than they were. Whether it would have been better or worse for them was difficult to tell. That her own life would have been scarred and unalterably changed after being forced to be the bush mate of half a dozen of Cushman’s men was unquestionable. She would have survived, she supposed; she had heard of other women being raped and later picking up the threads of their lives and going on. It seemed you didn’t give up.
Renzo Clark, that old and trusted friend of her father’s and subsequently of Clint and her, and who had been of such help, would still be alive. Clint would be suffering with no more than a simple leg wound instead of being half out of his mind from the clubbing he’d taken. Maybe it would have been better if Dade Lockett hadn’t shown up—but there
was no point in thinking about it now. What had happened was done with and there was no turning back; all they could do was meet what came next and hope for the best. She held little fear. That emotion had long since been driven from her being and she looked ahead to things in a philosophical, come-what-may sort of determination. She would have the answers, meet the emergencies—with Dade Lockett’s help—and somehow come out the winner. She was certain that was how it would end; in fact, she was determined that it should.
Her glance drifted to her brother. Poor Clint! He had hated the life their father had imposed upon them, preferring the city where he could work at some regular job, wear clean, stylish clothes, and be a part of what some foolishly called the social whirl. She had been a part of it once, too, but now, looking back, it all seemed so shallow, so useless, and she wondered if it had ever really appealed to her. It had been important to her mother and it had been drummed into her daily that a girl must participate in such activities, that she must be seen often in all the right places with the right beaux as her escorts. What a contrast between the boys she had been associated with there, and who so often professed their undying love for her, and Dade Lockett. She smiled, thinking of the start it would give the people back home if they could see him, talk with him, and know how she felt about him.
Roxie sobered at that thought. How did she feel about Dade Lockett? Was she in love with him—a man she’d met only a few, short days ago, one she knew nothing about other than that he was willing to die for her. Did that mean he was in love with her—or was it another example of that peculiar gallantry she’d learned that most Western men accorded women, placing them on a pedestal and risking all to see that no harm came to them? Whatever Lockett’s motivation, it was something that would be determined later. As for her own feelings toward him, that would have to wait; the only matter for consideration and of importance now was the showdown with Ed Cushman, turning him back, killing him if necessary to maintain possession of what was rightfully hers.
