* * *
The U. S. Marshals stayed for a few days, then pulled out when no trouble came from Blake Vernon or Hugo Raner. The two ranchers waited forty-eight hours and then hit a homesteader and his family hard. They burned the house and barn and thought they’d killed everyone there. But the father had put two of his younger kids down in the root cellar. Rescuers from the Box H heard their faint cries while digging through the rubble and frantically dug the boy and girl out.
After Pete got the kids calmed down, the boy said, “Pa said to tell anyone who come after us that it was Raner and Blake. Is our ma and pa dead?”
“Yes, son,” Pete said gently. “I’m afraid so.”
But the kids were cried out for this day. They took the news stoically.
Pete washed the girl’s face with a wet cloth and smiled at her. “How’d you both like to come live with me and my wife?” he asked with a gentle smile. “We got a big house and plenty of room. How about it?”
The boy and girl nodded their heads, a solemn expression on their faces. The burly rancher swept them up in his arms and carried them to a wagon driven by one of his hands.
“Take them home, Don,” he said. “Tell the wife we just got a brand new family. I’ll be along directly.”
“Right, boss,” Don said with a grin. He handed the kids a sackful of Millie’s doughnuts. “Little something to snack on,” he told them, then clucked at the team.
Shorty walked up. “We got to stop this, boss. We got to do a little night-ridin’ of our own and put an end to this misery and grief. Blake and Hugo have gone slap-dab crazy.”
“If we do that, we can’t let the sheriff in on it. Linwood’s turned into a damn fine lawman and he’d put us in jail.”
Shorty grinned. “I know two lawmen who wouldn’t.”
Pete smiled. “Yeah. I do, too. Send one of the boys for them. Tell them Millie’s cookin’ supper. That’ll get them movin’ for sure.”
* * *
“Jack’ll get word of it and hit the ceiling,” Matt said, over coffee and cigars after supper.
They sat on the front porch, watching the last rays of sun dissolve into purple twilight.
“But if we do it right, we can hit them hard and get out fast and clean,” Pete said. “We can hit Hugo first. I think the farmers will go for it, especially Reed and those sharpshooting sons of his.”
“We can do it without losing a man, too,” Sam said.
“Oh?” Pete looked at him. “You got a plan?”
“Yes. We lay siege against the ranch and put some terror into them. We lay back three, four hundred yards with rifles and snipe at anything that moves.”
Pete nodded his head. “I got me a whole closet full of Springfield and Spencer rifles. But Lord, there ain’t none of them been fired in two or three years.”
“How about ammunition?” Matt asked.
“Two or three cases of it. We don’t have any worries there, although some of it’s so old we might have some misfires.”
“Let’s get to planning,” Matt said. “We’ll come out tomorrow about lunchtime and start drifting toward Lightning a few at a time. Come late afternoon, we’ll all be in place. Let’s get those Springfields out and start cleaning them up.”
One was gone from the rack.
Pete sighed. “I guess now we know who the sniper was,” he said. “I apologize, boys. I never thought to look in here after the sniper struck. It just never dawned on me that it could be Robert. Come to think of it, the day Blake was grazed on the head, most of the hands were out with the herds. Robert could have used Coop’s paint pony.” He shook his head. “Well, that’s past us. Come on, let’s get to work.”
* * *
On the ride back to town, Sam said, “Do you think the sniper was Robert?”
“I don’t know. I think Robert would have been smarter than to use a rifle from his dad’s gun closet. But the only one who knows is in the grave. Those Springfields were sure dirty.”
“Two hours to clean them,” Sam agreed. “But they’ll be invaluable tomorrow. Hugo and his nightriders have nothing that will reach that far.”
“We hope. We’ll know tomorrow.”
* * *
Charlie and Jack watched the brothers ride out the next morning. “They tell you where they were goin’?” Jack asked.
“Not a peep to me. And that’s unusual for them two.”
“They’re up to something. Trail them, Charlie. See which way they go at the crossroads. Then get back to me.”
“You think they might be plannin’ on doin’ some night-ridin’ of their own agin Blake and Hugo?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me none. And it wouldn’t surprise me none to find Pete Harris right in the middle of it.”
“And if it proves out to be?” Charlie asked.
“I don’t know,” Jack admitted. “I just don’t know.”
Twventy-two
Charlie reported back to the sheriff. “They’re headin’ for Box H range. Any hands from there been in today?”
“No. Not a one. You think it’s about to pop tonight?”
Jack hesitated. The memory of dead farmers’ kids and abused women and trampled farm families and sheepmen filled his head. Orphaned children, numb with shock over seeing their parents killed, drifted before his eyes. He took a deep breath. “No, Charlie. I think those boys are goin’ out there to have supper and maybe Bodine is gonna spark that Millie some. That’s what I think. I don’t want any deputy outside of the town limits tonight. We’ll just stay close here, in case we’re needed.”
Charlie chuckled. “That’s what I was gonna suggest myself. Maybe play some checkers and hit the sack early.”
“Sounds like a real fine idea to me. I think I’ll eat early at Juan’s and head on back to my new quarters; do a little work there. That new school teacher, Mary? She’s comin’ by tonight to help me hang some curtains. And Charlie, I don’t want to be bothered unless it’s a real emergency. You know what I mean? Like if the President of the U-nited States comes to town, or something like that.”
Charlie smiled. “Yeah. I know just what you mean, Jack.”
“I think I’ll go down to Simmons and see if them curtains Mary picked out come in.”
“See you around, Jack.”
Charlie sat down on the bench in front of the office. He had him a hunch that either Hugo Raner or Blake Vernon and their hands was gonna be in for a long night.
* * *
Hugo Raner stepped out on his front porch for an after-supper cup of coffee and a smoke. He sat down. Still had about two hours of light left. He reached for his cup, which sat on a small table by his chair, and the cup exploded into a hundred pieces; hot coffee lashed his hand. Hugo hit the porch floor belly-down.
Rifle fire from long-barreled Springfields slammed into and through the windows of the bunkhouse, sending hands to the floor, scrambling for their guns. Rusty was caught between his foreman’s quarters and his personal outhouse; but the outhouse was much closer. He made a dash for the privy he’d just left.
Rusty made it just in time; a .45-caliber slug from a Springfield hissed wickedly past his head, so close he could feel the heat. Rusty flattened out on the cigarette-butt littered floor and cussed as slugs began slamming through the walls of the outhouse.
Hugo made it back inside his house and crawled to his gun closet. His Springfield was gone. “Damn it!” he yelled. “Who took my long-distance shooter?”
“Not me,” his son Carl said. The boy was kneeling on the floor, his six-guns in his hands.
“Put them damn fool things up,” father told son. “Hell’s fire, boy, can’t you hear the bark of them rifles? They’re Springfield breech-loaders. They can shoot a damn mile!”
“Well, what the hell are we gonna do?” the young man asked.
“Do? Keep our heads down. That’s Pete and his boys out there.” A slug shattered a window and smashed into a lamp. The smell of kerosene became strong in the room. “Pete used to coll
ect them things. Hell, the Army still uses ’em for their infantry.”
“Pa? I know where that Springfield is. Hubby’s got it.”
“Hubby?”
“You ’member I told you I thought I seen him stealin’ a broom from here a couple of months ago? That wasn’t no broom; that was your old Springfield.”
“But Hubby couldn’t be the sniper. Blake nearly got shot right between the eyes hisself.”
“Maybe he beat the fool again. You know how Hubby is. He just likes to kill.”
“Could be you’re right.” Hugo got him a Winchester and levered a round into the chamber.
“That ain’t gonna reach no half a mile either, Pa,” the young man said. There was raw hatred toward his father in his eyes.
“It makes me feel better,” Hugo grumbled.
“Maybe Red and his boys will hear the gunfire and come on the run?” And maybe you’ll catch a slug right between your eyes.
“Maybe. Since they got run out of Les’s county they move ’tween here and Blake’s spread. I don’t know for sure where they are right now.”
A slug smashed through the front door and roared down the hall to the kitchen. It clanked into a hanging cookpot and went howling around and around inside the pot until it lost momentum.
“Pa? This could go on all night,” son said to father.
“I know,” Hugo said disgustedly.
* * *
“Good move, you getting Reed and his boys in on this,” Matt said to Shorty. “They got one man pinned down in the outhouse and are slowly shooting the place to pieces.”
“That’s Rusty,” the foreman said. “I was lookin’ through field glasses when he made a run for the privy. There ain’t no better place than an outhouse for him to meet his Maker, ’cause he’s shore a real craphead.”
Laughing, Matt took a Springfield and a bandolier of ammunition and slowly worked his way into a better position. He figured he was about five hundred yards from the main house. He’d be well in range if any of the hands and hired guns had Spencers. Matt loaded up and flipped up the rear sight, pulling the 1873 military model Springfield to his shoulder. Movement by the bunkhouse had alerted him.
He wasn’t real sure, but it looked like somebody’s foot was exposed. He’d soon find out. He sighted in and pulled the trigger. It was a narrow miss, but it was close enough to force the Lightning hand to get his foot out of the way and for Matt to adjust the rear sight.
To see how true the rifle was, Matt sighted in the bucket hanging over the well. He blew a hole right through the bucket. Satisfied, he squirmed around and made his nest more comfortable. He looked for targets.
In the outhouse, Rusty was getting desperate. He’d jerked the two-hole seat off to give him some better protection, but the slugs were punching right through the old wood. He’d soon be dead if he didn’t do something. He sighed, knowing he had to get down in that pit so the earth would protect him.
The foreman wormed his way the short distance to the opening and slipped down into the pit, hanging onto the edge with all his might, and fighting the odor as he dangled. A slug plowed through the walls and very nearly took off one of Rusty’s fingers. He yelped and lost his grip. Hollering, he fell the short distance into the very odious darkness. Rusty landed with a splash. He was now safe from bullets. He was also waist-deep.
On the floor in his fine house, Hugo looked around him at the damage the long-distance shooters were doing. His fine imported pendulum clock had taken a direct hit, the expensive works stopped forever by a slug. The china cabinet was a mess, the fine china shattered by lead.
“Carl!’” he said. “Get word to that bunch of gunslingers we brung in from Texas to start earnin’ their pay. We can’t wait for Red to show up.” (Red wasn’t going to show up. Red was not only taking money from Hugo, he was also on Mayor Dale’s payroll and at the moment was busy rustling Hugo’s cattle.) “Holler for ’em to make a run for the brush behind the bunkhouse and work their way into the timber where them snipers is hidin’. Do it, boy.”
Carl passed the message and Del Monroe’s bunch made a break for the brush. The first to try it got turned around and around like a top as several riflemen sighted him in and cut him down. The hired gun lay dead only a few yards from the back door of the bunkhouse.
“Halp!” Rusty hollered.
“Where’s that comin’ from, boy?” Hugo asked his son.
“I can’t tell. Somewhere over yonder by the privy, I think.”
“Get me outta here!” Rusty squalled.
Hugo raised his head and a slug from a Springfield just missed his noggin, the bullet tearing a gouge out of the expensive dining room table Hugo—at his wife’s urgings—had brought in from Pennsylvania.
“Damn!” the rancher swore in helpless disgust, his nose buried in a rug.
A second gun-handler rushed from the bunkhouse, lead howling and popping and snapping all around him. He made the brush and went belly-down on the ground.
A third hired gun went down, a bullet in his leg. He crawled behind a tree and tried to shrink.
Two more guns that Hugo had brought in from Nevada made the brush.
Now the situation had changed slightly. But the men from the Box H still held the upper hand by far.
“Pa?” Carl called from the rear of the house.
“What is it now?”
“Come dark, they might try to burn the house.”
Hugo hadn’t thought of that. The boy was right—for a change. But the attackers would have to get real close for that, and Hugo doubted that Pete—and he was sure it was Pete and his hands, along with some nesters—would try that.
“Halp!” the faint shout overrode the firing.
“That man sounds desperate,” Hugo said. “He must really be in a world of crap.” At the time, Hugo had no idea how true his words were.
One of Pete’s hands, with a wicked sense of humor, was concentrating his fire on the huge dinner bell mounted by the side of the house. Once a minute he rang the bell from a thousand yards away. It was beginning to get on Hugo’s nerves.
“Halp!” Rusty hollered.
Clang!
“That’s Rusty, Pa,” Carl called. “He must be up to his knees in trouble.”
Further than that.
“Damn it!” Hugo muttered.
Clang!
“Damn you, Pete!” Hugo screamed. He had worked his way to a window, but wisely stayed close to the wall. I’ll kill you for this.”
“And I’ll kill you too!” Carl yelled.
Hugo shook his head. Sometimes he felt his son was about on a level with Hubby.
Clang!
The Nevada gunslinger on Hugo’s payroll had worked his way deep into the timber in front of the ranchhouse. He was grinning as he made his way forward, his hands filled with Colts.
“Pphsst!” the sound came from behind him.
The gunslick turned just in time to catch the buttplate from a Springfield on the side of his jaw. He hit the earth out cold and with his jaw broken. Joe Reed took the man’s gunbelt and guns. Then he worked his boots off and stripped him right down to bare skin. He left him naked on the ground. As an afterthought, Joe tossed the man’s hat down beside him. It wasn’t right to take a man’s hat.
Sam was concentrating his fire on the gate to the corral. He was very careful not to hit a horse, but he had shattered the wooden gate latch with careful fire. Now he went to work on the hinges. At this distance he wasn’t always sure he’d hit the hinges, but he was certain he was accurate about half the time. Sam carefully sighted in and pulled the trigger. The gate crashed open and the horses were off and running for anywhere that would get them away from the booming of guns and the snapping of flying lead.
The first gunfighter to make the brush from the bunkhouse bellied down in the tall grass and sparse timber and tried to locate a target. He caught movement out of the corner of one eye and rolled to one side.
Coop was about twenty-five feet away, both hand
s filled with guns. The gunslick lifted his rifle just as Coop cut loose. The gunhandler didn’t know it, but Coop couldn’t hit a mountain with a cannon at point-blank range. But what he could do was fill the air with lead flying in all directions.
“Jesus Christ!” the hired gun hollered, and began frantically rolling. He rolled off the edge of a slope and kept on rolling, losing his rifle, his six-guns, and his hat on the long roll down to where the cook dumped the garbage. He landed in a pile of fermenting boiled cabbage, rotting, fly-infested meat, and assorted odds and ends of discarded food. He was just about in as sad a shape as Rusty.
Clang!
Coop had reloaded and was lying on the crest of the ridge, firing at the weaponless gunslick slipping and sliding and cussing and falling down as he tried to extricate himself from the stinking piles of garbage. Everytime he thought he was free, Coop would accidentally come close with lead and he would have to belly down in the mess.
Another hired gun who had safely exited the bunkhouse found himself facing Pete Harris. Pete put two rounds of .45’s in the gunfighter’s belly and assured the good citizens of the West that the man would never again hire out his guns.
Quite by accident, all the men behind the Springfields fired at the ranchhouse, front and back. One slug sent splinters into Carl’s face and another slug grazed Hugo’s right buttocks, bringing a roar of pain from the man—more shock and anger than pain, for the wound was little more than a scratch.
The rifle fire was then directed at the bunkhouse, where most of Hugo’s hands were still huddled, pinned down hard. One heavy slug struck the stovepipe and tore it loose, sending clouds of soot drifting all over the place. Another slug knocked a leg loose and sent the stove toppling over. The door opened and red-hot coals spilled onto the floor, igniting a pile of dirty clothes.
“Fire!” a Lightning hand yelled.
“Fire at what?” a hired gun snarled.
“No, you igit! The bunkhouse is on fire!”
A hand jumped up and a slug caught him in the shoulder and knocked him flat on the floor. The men crawled on their hands and knees to the smoking fire and beat at it with their hats until someone located a bucket of water and put out the flames.
Gunsmoke and Gold Page 18
