Justice at Red River

by John Glasby

  Foran had determined upon his own revenge for his humiliating loss of face in town the previous night. Frank had seen a town after it had been hit by stampeding cattle only once in his career, but it was an experience not readily erased from the mind. Even now, he doubted if there would be sufficient time for him to warn the unsuspecting inhabitants of their imminent danger.

  Yet he had to try! He was in a position where he would come in sight of those men hazing that herd if he tried to head straight for town along the main trail, but that was a risk he would have to take. To skirt around them through the hills would take far too long. With a sharp intake of breath he brought down the rowels of his spurs hard, sorry for the horse as he did so, but knowing he had no other choice than to push the animal to its utmost limit. Fortunately the bay was a thoroughbred, otherwise he would never make it. The horse jumped into a run, its head down, ears flattened, shoes striking hard on the sunbaked earth.

  Ahead of him, a ragged burst of shots rang out and he heard the sharp, high-pitched yells of the men. Dust eddied and swirled about him as he broke along the forward edge of the herd. Frank’s heels drove hard against his horse’s flanks as it raced alongside the fringe of crazed beasts. Long horns swung dangerously close. The needle-sharp tip of one grazed along Frank’s thigh but he paid it no heed.

  Pushing his sight through the dust that choked and enveloped him, he caught sight of one of the riders, looming out of the haze. The other closed his mouth with a snap as he recognized Frank, then opened it again to yell a warning to his companions. Without pausing, Frank urged his mount straight at the other, tugging the Colt from its holster. As he drew alongside the man, he raised his arm, brought the heavy butt crashing down on the man’s skull. Without a sound the other toppled out of the saddle. There was no time to see whether or not he had fallen into the path of the onrushing herd. Tight packed and pounding along together, their wide horns almost locked into a net, the great beasts surged at him in a great tide, a living sea of monstrous flesh. A quick glance told him that the few precious seconds he had wasted with the gunman had lost the chance of getting clear of the forward swing of the stampede unless he did something drastic. Aiming deliberately, he put a slug between the eyes of the lead bull, dropped it in a threshing heap. The animals immediately behind continued to come on, some stumbling over the body, others swinging around it. For a few moments, however, their forward rush had been impeded. Grit clogged his mouth and throat, suffocating him. The throbbing roar behind his temples was a thunder almost equal to that of the herd. His eyes bulged from their sockets until the pressure was almost unbearable. He leaned forward, blinking in an effort to clear his eyeballs of the grit that rasped over them, threatening to blind him. His mount was now cutting its way obliquely across the forward rim of the herd and more than holding its own. Out of the edge of his vision, he had a picture of great, bobbing heads and staring eyes that filled his entire world; that and the ever-present dust which was still thickening in the air.

  Coughing and gasping for air, he crouched over his horse’s neck as it ran and it was this that saved him, for the slug that whined over his body just nicked his neck, bringing a faint trail of blood oozing from the narrow burn. He winced, risked a quick look over his shoulder, saw the man who had just ridden out of the dust. Jerking the Colt around, he loosed off a quick shot, missed, then lowered the gun as a surging bunch of steers split off from the main bulk and came between the rider and himself, cutting off his view of the other.

  A second slug whined after him as he finally broke free of the path of the herd, but with the increasing range and his mount’s swaying motion, he knew that it would take far better marksmen than these men to gun him down with revolvers. Ahead of him, he noticed the trail he was on ran through a narrow cleft between high rocks and he felt a shock of surprise as he noticed the man standing on an out-thrusting ledge of sandstone, the rifle already lifted to his shoulder, working the ejector with an ill-concealed haste. Frank snapped two shots at him. The first splashed rock within a foot of the other’s leg, the second hit the stock of the rifle, sending it spinning from his grasp. Five seconds later, Frank was riding through the narrow canyon.

  Five: Gunsight

  Barely fifteen minutes ahead of the approaching stampede, Frank rode into Benton. The main street was crowded with people. Several glanced round in surprise as he raced along the dusty street. There was no time for any individual warnings. Somewhere close behind him. countless tons of beef and muscle were headed for this spot; lunging, bellowing, fear-crazed beasts, knowing nothing but the savage urge to blunder forward in a straight and undeviating line, smashing down everything that stood in their way.

  ‘Stampede!’ He yelled the warning at the top of his lungs, noticed the sudden, startled looks on the faces of the people on the boardwalks. He pointed behind him to add urgency to his words. Then they began to scatter. In some mysterious way, the windows on either side of the street had filled within seconds. A woman hustled two children across the street behind Frank as he slid from the saddle on the run outside the sheriffs office, yelling for Talbot.

  The other came running out at his call, a rifle in his hands. He looked up and down the street for a moment, his face apprehensive, then down at Frank.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked hoarsely. ‘What’s the trouble?’

  ‘Foran’s stampeded part of his herd out there. He’s headed it for the town. We’ve got to get everybody off the streets, and the horses before all of that beef hits town.’

  ‘Hell.’ The other swore sharply. He propped the rifle against the wooden upright. Running as swiftly as his legs would carry him, he ran along the street, waving his arms and yelling at any of the bystanders still out in the open. Within minutes, the town seemed miraculously cleared of life. Only Frank and Talbot remained on the street waiting for the unmistakable thunder of hooves to herald the approach of the stampede.

  ‘Anythin’ we can do to stop ’em?’ Talbot asked harshly. As yet there was no evidence of the disaster which threatened. ‘Maybe set up a barricade at the end of the street. It might divide most of ’em before they get into town.’

  Frank was dubious about this, having seen those steers on the run, but it did give them something of a chance, particularly if they could get a few men with rifles crouched behind it to drop some of the natural leaders of that herd.

  Nodding, he said sharply: ‘Try to get some men together. Tell them to bring guns. We may be able to turn ’em, but there isn’t much time. Another ten minutes and they’ll be here, racing through the main street.’ He shivered at the thought of all the tremendous damage which a thousand head of beef on the move could do to a town such as this which stood in their path.

  Working against time, with every second precious, they hauled wagons across the road at the very edge of town where low-roofed shanties led off to right and left of the street, forming a natural dividing point if only they could succeed in dropping the leaders and slowing the rest before they crashed through the barricade they were erecting.

  Talbot had wasted no time. Getting ten men together, they hauled and tugged the wagons and lengths of fencing into place. By the time they had finished, the thunder of the oncoming herd was clearly audible in the distance and through the twisted bars of metal and wood, they were able to make out the dust smoke that marked its position.

  ‘Everybody in position and knows what to do?’ Frank called loudly. He turned to glance in both directions at the men crouched down behind the barricade, their weapons at the ready, their faces grim, beaded with sweat and grimed with dirt. They nodded, steadied their weapons, shoulders hunched forward, the muscles of their faces working with the strain of waiting.

  ‘Hell,’ muttered Talbot again. ‘If this don’t work out, Frank, we’re liable to find ourselves smashed to pulp under those hooves.’

  ‘You think that thought hasn’t already occurred to me?’ Frank grunted. ‘I’ve been thinkin’ of nothing else.’ Lying there, he tried to fo
rget the aches and bruises in his limbs. The lack of sleep was beginning to take its toll of him too and it was increasingly difficult to concentrate.

  Drawing himself together, he forced his gaze through the dust smoke that rolled ominously towards the town. The thunder of hooves grew louder in his ears. Less than four hundred yards away now — three hundred. Watching the inexorable approach of the stampeding herd, Frank wondered briefly if anything on earth possessed the power to stop it. Their guns were pitifully few to make any impression on that wall of muscle. It was a highly dangerous moment. The first of the steers was less than a hundred and fifty yards away when he yelled harshly: ‘Open fire! Aim for the leaders.’

  A ragged volley of gunfire rang out, the sound almost lost in the roar of hooves. Frank aimed carefully in contrast to the others who were blazing away frenziedly, fear driving them. He saw one of the leading bulls go down on to its knees as the heavy bullet took it between the eyes. It vanished at once under the onrushing tide of flesh which engulfed it, obliterated it within seconds. To Frank it seemed inevitable that the stampede urge was too strong within the animals and they would keep up their headlong plunge unchecked.

  Volley after volley crashed into the surging animals but with no visible effect, with no slowing of their forward, hammering run. Then, sweating from nervous exhaustion, he cringed at a sudden cavernous explosion that came from directly in front of him. Debris showered on to his prone body as he flung up a hand in front of his eyes in an attempt to shield his face. Seconds passed before he realized what had happened. On the boardwalk, right at the very end of the hastily thrown-up barricade, Herb Forrest, grinning toothlessly, had hurled a home-made bomb at the oncoming herd, a couple of fused sticks of dynamite tied together. Simple, but highly effective as it proved. Bellowing and plunging in frantic fear, the leading wave split, surging on either side of the wrinkle-edged crater which had been blown out of the dirt.

  The guns in the hands of the men crouched low behind the wagons splashed more flame, turning the cattle from their original direction, sending them scattering to either side. But now the men faced a new danger. Return fire spat at them as the riders, moving in along the curving flanks of the stampeding herd, opened up. Foiled in their original intention, they still meant to take some of the Benton men with them. Crouching low over the necks of their mounts, they raced towards the barrier, Firing as they came. One of the men next to Frank uttered a low, coughing moan, reeled back with a bullet in his shoulder, one hand up to his chest, blood trickling between his rigid fingers.

  Frank lifted his own gun, aimed high at the rider looming over him as the other attempted to put his mount over the tongue of the wagon. The bullet nicked the man’s neck, drew blood. He swayed in the saddle, hung on desperately with his knees as his mount reared suddenly, threatening to unseat him. The next moment, horse and rider had cleared the wagon tongue and, acting on instinct. Frank rose swiftly to his feet, caught the man by the arm and dragged him off the running horse. A revolver boomed from somewhere nearby and lead ricocheted off the ground between Frank’s feet. Then they were both on the ground, the gunman straining to bring the barrel of his Colt in line with Frank’s chest, his finger hard on the trigger. The grin that twisted his lips into a cruel line reflected all of the hatred and bestiality there was in his malicious nature.

  For a moment, the gun was dead centre of Frank’s chest and the outlaw grinned more widely, evidently enjoying his moment of mastery; but it was a moment over which he had lingered a little too long. A steer suddenly crashed into the side of the wagon, a fear-crazed animal that had broken from the main mass of the herd and pursued its forward rush. The animal ran into Frank’s opponent from the side, knocked his arm around and the bullet merely grazed his shoulder instead of going plumb through his heart. Before the Colt could blast again, Frank grabbed at the other’s wrists, thrust them back with a surge of superhuman strength, knowing that the other would not miss a second time. Before the man could steady himself, he kicked upward with his feet into the gunhawk’s stomach, heaved and rolled in the same motion, twisting the man over his head, to land with a dull thud in the dust a few feet behind.

  Swiftly, Frank grubbed in the dust for the gun which had dropped from his fist, determined to drop the other before he could collect his stunned senses; but when he turned his head, he saw that such a move was not necessary. The man lay where he had fallen, unmoving. Shaking his head to clear it, Frank crawled over to him, turned him over, then withdrew his hand sharply as he felt the sticky warmth of blood on his fingers. Easing the other up, he saw where the man had fallen heavily on the upthrusting stake, knew he had died instantly. Lowering the gunhawk to the floor, he turned back to the barricade. The Double Circle riders had fanned out now, were crouched down behind the broken-down shacks, half hidden in the swirling dust cloud of the drag where the remnants of the fleeing herd were disappearing into the distance around the perimeter of the town. There was no longer any real danger from the stampede apart from a handful of steers that had jumped the wagons and were racing pell-mell along the street, scattering a few of the townsfolk who had came out to see what was going on.

  Frank studied the terrain through narrowed eyes. As far as he could judge, ten men were hidden behind the shanties in well-concealed positions from which they could lay a barrage of fire across the end of the street without exposing themselves overmuch to return fire.

  ‘We’ve got to get our fire at their rear and flanks if we’re to do any damage,’ he said decisively. He looked to either side. The dust still hung heavy and thick in the air and would afford them a little cover. ‘We’ll set up two men here, behind the wagons to afford us coverin’ fire. Sheriff — when they cut loose, you take three of the men and cut low into the alley yonder, which should bring you out to the side of the shanties and above them. The rest of us will swing around to the left.’ He saw the men nod, albeit a little reluctantly. They had been brought into this affair merely to stand by the barricade and try to prevent a stampeding herd from sweeping unchecked into a defenceless town and wreaking terrible damage. Now they were being asked to do the one thing they had always shied at in the past — go up against Witney Foran’s professional gunmen.

  ‘You want I should use another couple of these sticks of dynamite, Marshal?’ asked Forrest, still grinning. The oldster appeared to be thoroughly enjoying himself in stark contrast to the others.

  Frank cast a practised glance in the direction of the nearest shack, then shook his head. ‘Much too far, old-timer,’ he affirmed. ‘Even I couldn’t hit that hut from here.’

  ‘Could be one of us might get close enough,’ suggested Talbot, squinting through the enshrouding dust.

  ‘It’s possible.’ He looked round at Forrest. ‘Get a couple of those bombs ready, Herb. We’ll take ’em with us. If we do get a chance to use ’em, it might turn things in our favour.’

  When the sticks of dynamite were ready, he nodded to the two men who were to remain behind the wagons. ‘Get set to chop those places to matchwood,’ he said tightly. ‘Everybody just remember. Those hombres out there are workin’ to orders from Foran. If we don’t beat ’em here and now, we may never get another chance to hit him as hard as this. OK, get movin’.’

  Rapidly conceived, the plan was just as quickly put into action. But like so many plans it did not go through without some errors. The vicious bellow of the covering fire was the signal for the two groups of men to rush for the comparative safety of the narrow alleys on either side of the street. Frank scuttled across, keeping behind the wagons laid across the entrance as far as possible, hearing the waspish hum of lead striking all around him as the Double Circle men opened up. Slugs ripped along the walls of the nearby buildings, smashed through windows just above his head as he flung himself headlong into the dirt for the last ten feet, his chest striking the ground hard, legs doubling up as more gunfire smashed into the earth behind him. A ricochet whined off a wall, hummed dangerously close to his head as he wrig
gled forward. Moments later, the other men joined him, but the last man across never made it. A savage, blustering hail of lead struck his body, spun him violently around while he was still five feet from safety and pitched him sprawling on to his face. His body twitched convulsively for a few seconds, then became still.

  Thrusting himself to his feet, Frank gestured the others to follow him, knowing the reason for their sudden hesitation as they stared with wide-open eyes at the dead man lying in the street.

  ‘Just keep moving!’ he ordered harshly. ‘If you give up now, we’ll all be just as dead as he is.’

  Somehow, his words got through to their frightened brains. They followed him automatically, faces twisted into tight, grim masks. The men behind the barrier were still pouring a hail of shots into the flimsy wooden walls of the shanties, but their fire seemed to be giving the men there little trouble so far. Gasping dust-laden air down into his tortured lungs, scarcely able to make out anything through the haze, Frank staggered to the end of the alley, pressed his body close to the wall as he risked a quick look around the corner of the abandoned grain store at the very end. From where he stood, it was just possible to make out the legs and bottom half of a man’s body where he lay on his stomach behind an inverted rain barrel, some thirty yards away. He could see nothing of the other Double Circle rannies, but the steadily increasing volume of gunfire told him that, for the most part, they were still unhurt and securely concealed.