by Nelson Nye
This was not a particularly comforting thought.
For close-in fighting—and it would be that kind if he had any chance at all—Rafe would have much preferred to depend on his belt gun. He found it awkward to be toting a weapon in each fist, and he damn sure wasn't about to throw away that carbine. He stuck the pistol into the front of his pants and then, bent double, put another yard behind him.
It was slow, sweaty work and any moment, he thought bitterly, that cold-jawed Spangler might get into the gulch and touch off the brush. Or one of them muttering pukes up above might take it into his nut to look over. Even if the guy couldn't see him he would have to be deaf, if he come that close, not to know somebody was moving right under him.
But nobody looked. There was no sound of boots. The Bender crew, evidently, was too indifferent, too lazy or too cautious to move out of their tracks. Weren't muttering now, either. Rafe, straining his ears till he thought they'd snap off, couldn't hear a dang thing; and his back was killing him.
He eased down on his knees, nerves screwed so tight they was like piano wires. He put down his saddle gun to flex cramped fingers and rub the damp off them. The rim was so near he could pretty near touch it; about a yard to go. He got to chewing his lip, trying to figure which was like to hold the most chance—to bust right on into them or try to wriggle through.
He was still on his knees, trying to make up his mind, when the black loom of the cliff face dissolved into flickering shadows.
Rafe didn't wait for any leaden translations. Scooping up his carbine, he surged to his feet and scrambled over the rim in one wild leap. He was among them before Spangler's hardcases got hold of their wits enough to know what was happening.
They were all afoot. The meaty impact of Rafe's carbine dropped one like a bursted sack, sent a second man staggering; then, like a swarm of hornets, they were all over him, swinging and swearing, clawing like wildcats to get him down. There wasn't enough room now to club with his carbine; Rafe smashed the butt of it into somebody's face, brought up his knee into the groin of another. This thinned them a little. Then someone leaped on his back, almost knocking him down. A hand reached and tore at his neck, and somebody's shoulder caught him hard in the chest. Gasping, he got all his strength together, bracing his feet, and whirled, the flying legs of the man on his back clearing a path. The man's strangling grip broke loose and he was gone.
But so was most of Rafe's strength. His knees began to wabble. Fists beat against his back and he reeled through a kind of red fog sprung from nausea. Blows seemed to rain on him from every direction. The carbine was torn from his hands. There was the warm slippery taste of salt in his mouth, and he knew this was blood; and in the brightening glare from the roaring brush he saw their hate-twisted faces and their hands closing in again.
He got the six-shooter out of the waistband of his pants and slashed its barrel across the nearest face, laying it open from jaw to ear. The flames threw back the lifting wink of metal in several other fists but, with so many of their fellows in such close proximity, no one it seemed wanted to fire the first shot. Rafe, on his knees, had no such scruples. His pistol barked and somebody yelled; he fired again and a man, twisted half around, went down with both hands clapped to his neck. Another gun went off, another man collapsed. Rafe, lunging up, dived into the welter of kicking, plunging horses, managing to nab one that had stepped on its reins.
Lead sang over his head as he tore off the bridle and hurled himself up. The panicked horse was going full stride before even Rafe's leg settled over the saddle. With an arm round its neck he yelled in its ear like a half-crocked Apache. The ground flew past, the wind whipped off his hat, the shouting gun-pierced racket of Duke's crew was left behind.
XII
When Rafe got back enough wind and nerve to risk straightening up and having a look at his situation he must have been at least two miles north of the rim. The thunder of hoofs which he'd thought was pursuit turned out to be several of the Bender crew's horses which, swept up in the excitement, had come along with him.
He got his mount stopped and, while the horse blew, took a long edgy squint at his backtrail. The star filled night loomed vast and empty; then a voice said, seemingly right at his elbow, "Reckon I've growed enough gray hairs fer both of us!"
Rafe came around. The feller's dark shape wasn't a rope's throw away. He had his hands shoulder high and, though his chuckle was nervous, both of them looked empty. "You won't need that artillery. I'm the jigger that he'ped you bust loose. Hell—" he said when Rafe made no move to put up his pistol, "you sure didn't figger you done that all by yourself?"
Rafe, kneeing the captured horse in closer, growled, "Who're you?"
"Just one of the Bills. You can call me 'Brownwater'—ever'one else does."
Now that he was up near enough to make out things, Rafe could see by the way he spread over his saddle the feller had enough extra fat hanging on him to do a whole tribe of Papagos half the winter. He looked mighty near big as Bunny's pa, Pike, and had a mottled appearance like he'd got in the way of an upended paint bucket—freckles, probably. He had a chaw in one cheek and a wheeze to his voice and seemed altogether as unfit for the part he claimed to have played as a two-legged dog in a three-ring circus. Rafe said, suspicious, "How'd you get into this?"
"It's kind of a long story. I'm Lucy's beau. Was, anyways, till that brother of yours—"
"How'd you know I had any brother!"
Brownwater grinned. You could tell by the shine of his teeth. "I was in that harness room back of the tree when you was tryin' that day to git the prodigal's hug an' Duke kep'—"
"If you was there," Rafe growled, "tell me who got the paper."
"Duke grabbed it out of the Old Man's hand just before Spangler bended that gun over your head. Hell," the fat man said with his look juning jumpily into the black, "we better git whackin'!"
There was a whole heap of things Rafe was aching to know, but so long as he kept his eyes skinned and one fist wrapped about the handle of his shooter he reckoned it wouldn't hurt to ride a spell with this john. "All right," he grumbled, "lead out an' stay careful."
They pushed along at a lope, driving into the east for maybe three or four miles; then they eased up a bit bending south at a jog while the night got colder and a ground wind whined through the catclaw and pear.
When Brownwater pulled up to blow the horses Rafe had belted his pistol, had both hands in his pockets trying to thaw out the cramps. The fat man had his fists in plain sight, piled atop the horn of his saddle like they was hostages for good conduct. There wasn't anything to be heard but the wind, no thud of hoof pound, no whisper of shouts.
"Where are we?" Rafe asked.
"Gourd an' Vine. About four miles due north of headquarters. Figgered you'd be wantin' to auger some with your paw."
Rafe's brows squeezed down. "You hopin' to run me into a jackpot?"
"That bunch won't be along fer a while—"
"Says you!" Rafe jeered, and set the good hand to reaching back for his pistol.
The fat man sighed. "If I'd wanted you flattened would I of he'ped you git clear?"
Rafe scowled. If he could only get hold of an end of this thing, get it straight in his head what all this was about. "If you helped me, how come? You don't know me from Adam."
"Have to be blind not to know you're a Bender. Sticks out all over you an', from what Lucy's said—"
"If you heard anything at all you heard her say Rafe's dead!"
It was Bill's turn to frown. "She had her reasons. Man, you got to trust someone. Nobody can go it alone in this world! People, the most of 'em, ain't as bad as you think. You got to give them a chance. Lucy and me, we was fixin' to git married till Duke put his foot down—"
"Duke!" Rafe snorted. "It wasn't for him to say."
"Looks like he's kinda dim in your memory. Duke aims to git what Duke wants—even if he has t' bury half the golrammed county. He was powerful persuasive.
Some of what B
rownwater Bill went on to say was admittedly guesswork, but certain cold facts were pretty readily apparent. Spangler, a holy terror with a gun, and about the hardest formation a man was like to bump into, had been caught red-handed running off Bender horses. He'd been come onto by Rafe's brother and the banker, Alph Chilton, which same had lost no time getting out of that neighborhood. From this day on you couldn't have lured Chilton out of town on a bet.
That Duke was still enjoying good health, and Spangler still bullypussin' round as Bender range boss, was cause for considerable guarded talk and wonder, the more so since on the face of things the ranch was losing more stock than ever; was indeed in rather desperate plight with bills piled on bills and none of the merchants—not even the bank—being able to collect a thin dime on account.
Brownwater had it there'd been a deal, and Rafe guessed there probably had; though one might think, all things considered, it would have left Spangler cracking the whip. Such, by Brownwater's tell, was not the case. Duke was in the driver's seat and steering the ranch hellbent for ruin.
"Ain't a lick of sense to it," the fat man declared. "Scowl an' growl till you're blue in the face, you can't make it stand up. But it does—it surely does! All the old hands is gone, all but me. Crew they got now is saltier'n Lot's wife, and with them kinda fellers it's cash on the barrelhead. I've thought mebbe the stole broncs is bein' sold over Duke's writin', but with all these toughs they got to pay an' feed where does Spangler come off? Now you tell me."
"I can't," Rafe scowled, and this was purely the truth. "I can't even see how come—if they run all the rest of the old bunch off an' Duke don't want you sweet-talkin' Luce—you're still on the spread an' still above ground."
"Chafes a mort of wear off a feller's mental axle, but I can tell you how one part of it's worked," Brownwater wheezed with a gusty sigh. "Spangler wants Luce, has threatened to ventilate my carcass if I even so much as open my mouth to her. Duke has been more or less keepin' him in line by promising she'll be Spangler's wife the day Duke gits full title to Gourd an' Vine. He's got Luce believin' the first time she crosses him I'll be turned into a colander an' she'll be turned over to Spangler. It's enough t'cramp rats but, believe me, it works."
The fat man hitched at his pants and spat gloomily. "Expect we better be shakin' some dust."
Rafe had put on his boots. Now he buckled on his spurs and kneed the Bender horse after Brownwater Bill. He would sure like to know what had happened to Bathsheba. A man hates to give up the things he's been used to.
As they rode on through the night the fat man's words kept tramping through his head in confusing tangle; even after he'd got them all pawed over, and got their gist about digested, there were gaps enough to drive a ten-mule hitch through. You could only assume that there were pieces still missing. No kind of threat from any pipsqueak like Duke was going to put much weight on a hard chunk like Spangler. The man would laugh in his face! It didn't look like, either—no matter how fierce an itch the guy might have for their sister, the promise of Luce, by itself, would put him to sawing second fiddle for Duke.
There had to be something else, something more, something Spangler would want to get his hands on even worse and which, at least so far, had been kept out of his reach.
It was just beginning to get light enough to see by—everything fused in dreary shadings of gray—when they caught their first glimpse of the buildings. Brownwater nodded his head. "Half a mile." He spat out his tobacco. "Shouldn't be no trouble unless they recognize you. Duke left two of Spangler's gunnies on tap in case the Ol' Man or Luce got minded t' hunt greener pasters." He tugged his hat lower over his eyes. "I'll lead the way."
Rafe's jaws tightened. That whole business back yonder—every last lucky part of it—could have been play-acted for Rafe Bender's special benefit. Duke was wily as a goddamn fox! And even if it wasn't, this self-styled 'Lucy's beau' could be working hand in glove with one of them to lead Rafe up like a lamb for the slaughter. Why'd he spit out his chaw! Was that tug he'd give to his hat a signal?
Rafe dropped back and let him have his way. Like Brownwater had said, a feller had to trust someone. When things started coming apart at the seams it was easy to imagine every gent and his uncle had a knife out for you. He'd been sure old Pike and that flossy-looking Bunny had been fixing to do him dirt. Made him flush now just to remember it. And he had given Spangler credit for greater savvy than he'd shown, so sure he wouldn't be up on that bluff he had dang near run right into him.
But he didn't have to foller this guy with his eyes shut!
He rubbed some warmth into his fist and took hold of his pistol, determined if this was a trap to make it cost them dear. With the other, stiffer hand he got the chin-strapped hat back onto his head, hauling down the brim to put his cheeks in deeper shadow. There wasn't much else he could do but keep his eyes peeled.
Rafe's guide, without turning his head, said abruptly, "Duke's had the runnin' of this spread fer two years. He's aimin' to have it lock, stock an' barrel. Ain't nothin' he won't do except mebbe kill the Old Man outright an', if things gits rough, he could do that, too."
Worst of it was, the guy was probably right. Duke, in the past, had never let anything stand in the way when it came to something he figured he wanted. He was antigodlin, mean and revengeful. He might do a heap of backing and filling but there was also, deep in the hateful twisted core of him, a frightening persistence once he'd made up his mind. He hadn't no more scruples than a goddamn pistol.
Before he did anything else, Rafe guessed, he had better get Luce and his dad away from here.
When he looked up again they were coming into the bare open of the yard, if you could call this one. The grim fortress-like house, with its windowless outside walls, its parapets and ramparts, loomed dark and deserted. The walking hoofs of their horses sounded loud to Rafe as the clash of cymbals. But no one hailed. The tangle of pens showed bars down and empty.
Brownwater Bill, with his hat cuffed back, rode bold as you please to the great open gate and sat there, impassive, waiting for Rafe to come up. Inside he might be tore up as a breaking pen but his face anyway, in this leaden light, looked calm as a millpond. No matter which way he swung, the guy had guts. You had to give him that.
Rafe wished he could feel as sure of his own.
As he stopped his horse just back of the other a gunhung hardcase packing a rifle stepped out of the room to the right of the gate and, with a careless flap of the hand, was about to wave them on in when something about Rafe's look suddenly stiffened him. He sucked a lungful of air, his whole face springing open. Before he could yell or get his rifle fully up, Brownwater, diving from his saddle, came down on the feller like a ton of dropped meat. When Lucy's beau, panting, got up off the man, Spangler's hardcase was trussed hand and foot with twists of piggin' string snatched from Bill's belt, mouth stuffed with shirt tail, eyes looking wilder than a pulque-drunk squaw's.
"Inside—quick!" Brownwater wheezed, pawing around for his pistol.
A crack from Rafe's heel propelled his mount through the gate. Brownwater, dragging his horse, was quick to follow. As Rafe swung down, the fat man, whacking his animal out of the way, hurried back to catch hold of the gate. A gun went off, that slug striking the wood not an inch from his hand.
Rafe, spinning, felt a tug at his hat as the gun spoke again. Then Rafe's own pistol coughed. Across the patio a black-bearded six-footer wheeling out of a door hole jerked half around, flung out a fist and went down.
Brownwater, slamming shut the massive gate, skreaked a bar through the slots and let out a gusty "Whew!" as old Bender appeared, and Luce—white-cheeked and frantic—came flying to fling herself into Bill's arms.
"There, there," Brownwater mumbled, looking sheepish and tickled, trying awkwardly to pat her as he would a frightened filly. "Nothin' to git your wind up over—"
She cried indignantly, "You might have been killed!"
Rafe, starting toward his father, never heard another word. On
e foot up and one foot down, he stopped in midstride, all the breath knocked out of him.
XIII
Flabbergasted, jaw flopping, he stared like a snake had suddenly reared in his path. He let the lifted foot down with a blurted "Godlemighty!"
A delicious, humorously infectious laugh tumbled out of Bunny as she watched his scandalized stare take in her man's hickory shirt and the belted, wash-faded, brush-snagged Levi's that so fondly clung to her lithe, shapely legs. "Is that all you can dig up to say?"
Rafe gulped, red-faced, and his eyes swiveled away; and old Bender said in patient perplexity, "Is that you, Duke? What is she laughing at?"
Rafe didn't know if he were more upset by her brazen appearance or the gall of her presence. He was mad clear through. What did she think she was up to anyway, tagging him around like—like a dang fool squaw!
A clatter of hoofs broke across his harsh thoughts; and Bender now said with some asperity, "Will somebody tell me what's goin' on?"
