His left hand was seared as he clung to the torch, holding it aloft to keep the licking flames from the open powder.
Somehow, he got his leather jacket off and smothered the torch enough to crack the door wide and fling it outside.
A chorus of derisive jeers and a blast from many guns answered the action.
They were close to the powderhouse now, kill-crazed men rushing forward to destroy the man who dared to thwart their murderous and destructive purpose single-handed.
He braced himself against the door, fought to get the bar in place, but there was a surge of battering bodies against it.
Another torch flared outside the window at his left, and he jerked his head to see an arm thrusting it through the opening.
He fired from his left hand with Hank’s gun and the torch fell inside atop a wooden case of dynamite.
At the same moment the door gave inward and the muzzle of a gun was pushed in to spit flame and lead past his shoulder.
He grabbed the hot barrel of the .45 with his free hand and gave a tremendous jerk, stepping backward to let the door fly open and shouting again:
“It’s Pat Stevens, you fools. Pat! Don’t you hear me?”
Men backed away in the darkness from the sagging door with a low muttering and cursing among themselves.
Shouts of awakened men came from the aroused construction workers in the bunkhouse near by. Lights gleamed from the windows and the crew of workmen streamed out to see what the shooting was all about.
Above the loud tumult, Pat heard a vicious crackling behind him. He whirled and leaped on the torch that was charring through the wooden top of the dynamite case, snatched it up by the wooden handle a moment before the flames ate through the thick wood to the explosive below.
A weird sight met his eyes at the rear of the shack as he turned weakly with the torch safe in the air.
Three faces stared at him over a waist-high row of dynamite cases. One of the faces was smeared with shoe-blacking with rolling eyes glittering in the lurid light of the torch.
The one beside him was old and wizened. A shrewd face with stiff chin whiskers and matted gray eyebrows.
And the third face faintly resembled the features that had once belonged to Judson Biloff. Grimed with dirt and contorted with terror, Pat would never have recognized him had he not realized in a flash who the trio must be from the description given him by the hostler in Hopewell Junction.
Pat didn’t try to figure out what the three men were doing in the back of the powder magazine. He didn’t waste any breath on questions. He knew only that the Lord had delivered his enemy unto him and that another opportunity like this would never come to him.
He strode toward them, brandishing his torch and demanding, “You, Biloff. Are you ready to die?”
“No! Stevens! For God’s sake keep that torch in the air above the dynamite. Surely you’re not going to destroy us now that you’ve risked your life to save us.”
Pat growled, “Maybe not. That depends on you.” Through the open door behind him he could hear the receding sound of gunfire as the Valley raiders retreated before the onslaught of the aroused construction workers.
“I’ll do anything. God above in His righteousness, hear me. I’ll do anything you ask. You’ve saved my life, Stevens. I can never repay you,” the terrified financier babbled.
“You can repay me all right. Sure, I saved your life.” Pat didn’t ruin the moment by admitting Biloff’s presence was a complete surprise to him. “I only saved it for one reason … because you’re the only man that can call off this dam-buildin’ … give us back our land … give the farmers back their money …”
“Of course I will. I’ll do anything. Sign anything. Only, for God’s sake throw that torch outside. If you care nothing for your own life I implore you to spare mine.”
Pat gave a grunt of disgust. “Awright. You’ve said it with two witnesses. An’ no charges against Sam, huh? You’ll swear you come with him of your own free will?”
“Of course! I’ll swear to anything if you’ll throw that cursed torch outside.”
Pat hesitated. He demanded of Sam and Jingle Joel, “You heard him? You can prove it?”
Sam said, “You bet we heard it,” and Jingle Joel bobbed his goatee up and down vigorously:
“You’ve made your point and made it well, but it’ll do us no good if we wake up in hell.”
A puzzled grin spread over Pat’s face. He strode to the door and threw the torch away where it could burn down safely.
Behind him in the dark interior he heard Jingle Joel saying gratefully, “Thank God for life and a jug that’s unbroken; let us all have a drink as a goodwill token.”
His words were followed by a pleasant sound of gurgling. It was interrupted by Sam stumbling toward Pat and proclaiming fervently, “Not me, fellers. I’ve done swore off applejack for the rest of my natural life.”
Pat laughed and caught him by the arm. “How in hell come you fellows here?” he demanded in a low tone.
“I dunno, rightly. It was that damn applejack. We started for the ranch but Biloff got a notion to take a look at the dam site. We was sleepy when we got here an’ jest crawled in the first door we saw to sleep it off. I shore didn’t know I had a case of dynamite for a pillow.
Behind them, Judson Biloff was saying happily, “Give me a drink, for I’m not to die, and when I’m drunk I shan’t swing high.” More and louder gurgling followed his pronouncement.
It was too late that night to do anything to change Biloff’s promises into fact, and besides, he was too drunk. But next morning, chastened and with an aching head, he followed Pat’s orders as arrangements were made to sell the bottom land back to the ranchers. A telegram was sent to Schultz, instructing him to bring the land-company records, a large sum in cash, and the company’s checkbook. Another telegram was dispatched to the Denver police, informing them that there was no cause for alarm in his departure, that he was merely taking several days’ holiday, and to drop all charges against Sam, Ezra and Pat.
By noon, a throng of ranchers had gathered in the street before Hopewell Junction’s little hotel, where Pat had spent the night guarding Biloff. They moved about, muttering and talking in low voices. All of them were armed—a sight unusual in Powder Valley. Pat knew it would not take much to set them off again, and he doubted he could prevent violence a fourth time. Biloff’s nerves, already wrecked by his experiences of the past few days, were strained more and more to the breaking point as the day wore on. At last, in the middle of the afternoon, Schultz arrived, clutching a bulging brief case in one hand and with the other clinging desperately to the buckboard driven by the sheriff, who had met him at the station. He was quickly brought into Biloff’s room, and the settlement began.
While Pat and the sheriff watched, Biloff wrote checks to all the farmers who had bought Powder Valley land, and letters explaining that the project had been called off. Joe Hartsell was sent for and handed his five hundred dollars, plus another two hundred to help the family over the winter. Biloff demurred at paying the extra two hundred, but Pat merely glanced idly out the window at the crowd in the street below. The significance of the glance was not wasted on the land-company president, and he hastily counted the money into Hartsell’s hand.
By this time it was late in the afternoon. Pat had the ranchers come in one by one, hand over the money they had been paid by Biloff, and receive the deeds to the bottom land in return. And when they had gone, Culver and his men were sent for and paid off. Before leaving, Culver came over to Pat and extended his hand.
“I want to thank you for saving all our lives last night, Stevens. And I’m sorry we had to meet on such disagreeable terms. Perhaps we’ll meet again some day—but not if I’m asked to build a dam in Powder Valley. Biloff’s actions have convinced me you were right about its not being farm land,” he said.
“Forget it,” Pat replied, shaking the proffered hand. “I was saving all our lives, really, including my own. A
nd you’re not to blame—you were only doing your job. Good-by, and come around to see us some time.”
To clinch matters, Biloff—though under pressure—signed a statement affirming that the settlement had been made of his own free will and not by coercion. It wasn’t exactly a legal way of doing things, Pat realized, but it was just, and would prevent Biloff from ever making trouble in Powder Valley again. When it was all over, he said to Biloff, “You can stay here tonight—but clear out early in the morning. You already made too much of a bad smell around here.”
“Stay here tonight? In this horrible place?” Biloff babbled. “Never! I want to leave now. And I hope nobody ever mentions Powder Valley to me again!” And escorted by the sheriff, he and Schultz left for the station to board the last train out for the day.
Wearily, Pat walked out of the hotel, to be faced by a sheepish mob of ranchers, headed by John Boyd. Boyd stepped forward and said, “We all want to thank you, Pat, for all you done. If you hadn’t stopped us, we’d of had the troopers in here sure. And it would of meant the end of the valley besides.”
Pat held up his hand. “Don’t thank me,” he replied. “I was to blame as much as any of you. But let this be a lesson to all of us—not to sell our bottom land no more to anybody, even if he says he wants it to raise giraffes. And now I want to go home. I’m mighty tired, and I’d like to see my wife—if she’ll have anything more to do with a jailbird and hobo like me,” he ended with a grin.
“Oh, Pat! You idiot!” came a voice at his elbow. “I’ve been waiting out here on the porch for you all afternoon. You’re coming home with me right now!”
“Sally!” he said, and grinned again, happily.
“No more talk now. Into the buckboard with you—and not another word till we get home.”
Meekly and silently, Pat climbed into the buckboard after helping Sally up, and submitted quietly when she took the reins out of his hands. As they drove out of town, with the sun’s last rays stretching the shadows of the buckboard’s wheels weirdly out of shape along the ground, his hand stole out and covered hers. She looked at him and smiled, and he took his hand away and put his arm around her.
About the Author
Brett Halliday (1904–1977) was the primary pseudonym of American author Davis Dresser. Halliday is best known for creating the Mike Shayne Mysteries. The novels, which follow the exploits of fictional PI Mike Shayne, have inspired several feature films, a radio series, and a television series.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1942 by William Morrow and Company, Inc.
Cover design by Andy Ross
ISBN: 978-1-4976-4379-6
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Fight for Powder Valley! Page 15
