by T. T. Flynn
The red glare leaped out on the night, and the posse riders scattered. Glass shattered in a house window. A rifle cracked out the window. A horse fell heavily, throwing the rider. The man scrambled up into a limping run, and Bent Hooker’s savage yell ordered his men: “They opened fire on the law! Let ’em have it!”
Guns opened up all around the house, crashing and roaring at the thin wood walls. There was no shelter inside that flimsy saw-wood house, not even shelter for a woman. If they weren’t all dead when the flames roasted them out, they’d run helplessly into the red fire glare—perfect targets for the posse guns. Shots were barking from the house, but the targets were falling farther back into the night. The house windows and doors were beginning to stand out sharply as the fire spread furiously.
Leatherneck was cursing in a wild monotone—and suddenly he was kneeling behind brush and rocks, shooting at every posse movement. Tom was beside him for a moment, and then he was off dodging among the bushes, searching for those shifty, shadowy targets whose red-splitting gun muzzles were blasting now both at the house and at the two cowmen. It was a madness, flaring as red, as savage as the flames Bent Hooker had kindled, and feeding wildly on the thought of that girl cornered in the house.
Over his sights Tom saw two vague shadows pitch off their horses. Another rider came galloping by in the brush. Tom’s quick swing around and upjerk of the rifle muzzle got that third man. The horse swerved wildly away from the guns and the flames.
On this side of the house, shots were slackening off as man after man was gunned out of the saddle. Bent Hooker’s voice rose wildly: “There’s a Gaylord man back of the bunkhouse!”
It was a melee of madness, and Hooker, yelling to his men, led the mad charge of half a dozen riders through the juniper brush. They were close when Tom saw them—a line of riders crashing through the brush in search of the guns that were cutting them down, and there was no chance to run from in front of them.
Tom waited a second—jerked up his hot rifle. The one horse coming directly at him plunged down, screaming as it died, tumbling over and over, and causing the riders on either side to swerve out. They had no chance to swing in again. The rush carried them past, guns hammering, blasting at the dim figure that had dropped to a crouch just ahead of the dead horse. Bullets kicked the ground around Tom. One plowed through his hat brim as he emptied his six-gun, and then the rush was past, the riders swinging off in the brush to reload and turn back.
As Tom reloaded, the scrambling figure of the thrown rider cursed wildly behind a bush as he staggered up and ran. Tom was panting heavily, wet with sweat although he had not run much. The flames leaped higher, and Leatherneck yelled nearby: “Tom! Where are you, Tom?”
“Here!”
Leatherneck came running—and they both stood listening to the earth-drumming pound of new hoofs beyond the house. The shooting beyond the house died away. Then riders were spurring through the red glare in full flight, and Leatherneck yipped: “Help comin’, Tom!”
VII
Those new riders stormed up like a fresh gale sweeping dead leaves away. Their first rush cleaned the place of Hooker men. Tom ran for the house and found the men inside already carrying Angus Gaylord out on a mattress and blankets. One dead man was carried out, also. But it was too late to get Obie, the cook, out of the kitchen.
Some of the new men dashed back and helped rush out furniture. Then a moment came when they could do nothing but fall back from the fiery heat and watch the house consumed. The glare made it easy to find dead and crippled members of the posse. Bent Hooker and Larsen were not among them.
Sam Dodge’s wrinkled face was stern as he came to the mattress where Angus Gaylord lay. “We seen the fire an’ knew hell was poppin’,” he said. “This’ll finish the Hookers. I brought the first bunch I could round up. There’ll be more comin’.”
From the mattress, Angus Gaylord spoke with new strength. “I hope it’s the end of the Hookers . . . all the Hookers.”
Dry-eyed, Betty Gaylord stood there by the mattress. Part of the house roof crashed in, and the mighty spout of flame and sparks threw a vivid red on her pale cheeks as she spoke to the grim, gun-hung men crowding around. “Tonight it was our house! Next time it may be one of your houses, your wives or children, if you antagonize the Hookers! They can’t stay on Sundown range now!”
Agreement swept those listeners like the flames Bent Hooker had started. Plans were discussed.
Betty Gaylord stepped out to Tom. “I was wrong, and I’m sorry. You were right, Tom Fortune. If there’s anything more I can say . . .”
Now the bright mist of fright and unshed tears glinted in her eyes. Somehow, at that moment, she seemed to Tom too tiny and small to have gone through all this. “Maybe it was my fault,” he answered. “Maybe I could have kept ’em away by staying in town.”
She had offered her hand. Tom was holding it. Neither was noticing that their hands were clinging as they looked at each other.
“It had to happen to someone sometime,” Betty said. “I can see that now.”
Leatherneck Jones appeared beside them, his old black hat pushed far back, his eyes squinting accusingly. “You two holding hands already?”
They snatched the hands apart. Tom felt the red in his face and saw the flush in Betty’s. And like a hot pain, the memory of those waiting prison years rushed over him. He’d forgotten the seventeen years still due. He’d allowed himself one moment of madness, which was futile torment now.
Tom swung away, fighting down the old sick feeling. He’d had his chance. He could have run from all this, could have hidden, let others fight their troubles. Then he might have had a chance at happiness. But now the chance had gone. He’d killed men, returned to the code of steel and lead. Home only a few hours—and he was a leader in the greatest fight that had ever swept the Sundown country. No matter what happened, or who won, Tom Fortune was done for. He’d broken his parole, and now he was going back to the pen, or taking it on the run for outlaw trails from which there’d be no return.
The flames began to die down. One of the wounded posse men died near Angus Gaylord, who he’d come to kill. Hard-eyed men ringed another wounded posse man, who decided to talk when he saw a rope uncoiled. The posse, he said, had been coming back from the stage when a rider from Dude Hooker had met them with details of the trouble in town, and word that Angus Gaylord and Tom Fortune had left for Gaylord’s ranch. Bent Hooker had called it murder, had turned his posse toward the Gaylord ranch.
Tom spoke to these friends of Gaylord and Sam Dodge, these small ranchers and their men. “This is only the start. Bent Hooker didn’t have a big posse, didn’t know he’d have any trouble. The Hookers have got plenty in these parts to fight for. Bent Hooker can’t stop. If he can’t prove himself right here, he’ll be wrong, and that’ll be the end of the Hookers.”
“He’s got to get you and Gaylord for killing Ben Tag to prove himself right,” Bob Lundgren made clear, “and, when we’re through, we’ll see who’s blamed for all the killings.”
But they had to wait for the word to spread, for more men to come. The time passed slowly. Tom had hoped to see Dan Walker, but Walker hadn’t come. The old Dan wouldn’t have skulked from trouble, and Tom was sad in the knowledge that a good partner was gone forever. Three-Finger Jack hadn’t come, either, but he’d be along later.
Then riders began to drift in. By twos, threes, and small groups, they converged on the Gaylord Ranch. The glowing ruins of the house fired them to anger. Several men had been stopped by riders, carrying word that Bent Hooker needed help to preserve law and order. The Sundown courthouse was the rallying point. Tom counted the men present—twenty-three good men now, primed to ride and fight. They might be enough.
A horse and buggy raced up and a man flung out, leaving a woman inside, and Dan Walker’s set face met Tom’s quick smile of relief.
“Nice to see you here, Dan.”
“You thought I wasn’t comin’,” guessed Dan heavily. �
��I got an idea I could do better in Sundown for a little.” Dan turned back to the buggy. “I brought a lot of answers along. Git down, Rosie.” She wore the same red dress under a coat, and she stepped lightly out of the buggy. The ends of a silk scarf on her head trailed over a shoulder, and the soft glow from the house embers let her face attain a fired beauty that the garish background of the Fish Hook Bar had denied. But the sullenness still lingered. Her look at the men crowding near had a smoldering defiance. She turned her head and stared at the great bed of coals where the house had been, and then spoke under her breath to Dan Walker, who nodded.
“Gentlemen,” Dan said, “most of you know Miss Rosie Jordan. She’s come out here to talk a little. I think you’d better listen.”
Dan again was a man, his old self. His look at the girl was the look of a man in love. Between those two now was a bond that had been lacking in the Fish Hook Bar. Used to men, she was not embarrassed. If anything, after she started speaking, her listeners were the embarrassed. Chin up, scornfully, Rosie Jordan said: “Ever since I came to Sundown, I’ve been wondering if any of you men had brains or backbone. I’ve watched the Hooker brothers run over you until it seemed like there wasn’t a real man on Sundown range. Just before I came, they got rid of Tom Fortune. He let them send him away like a sheep to the slaughterhouse, knowing all the time he was innocent.”
Tom interrupted. “I couldn’t prove it.”
“If you’d had any brains then, you’d have suspected who was behind it,” she told him coolly. “And if you’d had half the backbone Dan’s boasted you had, you’d have taken a gun and found proof you were innocent.”
“From whom?”
“That happened before I got here . . . but I’ve heard a few things. Try your gun on Bent Hooker,” she threw at him, and went on to the others: “I came to Sundown and met Dan, and saw something in him I thought I loved, even though I was drinking. But the Hookers got Dan, too . . . got his land and left him with handouts of cheap whiskey to keep him happy. It was all I could do to keep from despising him.”
Dan’s set face flushed, but he took it like the truth he deserved, standing silently with the others while Rosie Jordan went on: “I heard things around that Hooker saloon. The brothers never had watched their talk around me. They thought I didn’t count. I knew Bent Hooker was disturbed when he was notified that Tom Fortune was coming home. I heard him tell Dude Hooker something would have to be done to get Fortune back in prison quickly, before he made trouble. I heard something said about a holdup, and heard Ben Tag’s name mentioned. When Tom Fortune showed up at the saloon, I was almost ready to warn him . . . until he tried to get out of that fight with Larsen. Then I wasn’t sure he didn’t whip Larsen simply because he was cornered. But when Duke Hooker told me he’d settle Gaylord quickly, I let Dan know about it, hoping he’d be man enough to do something. Then next thing I knew, Tom Fortune had stopped Ben Tag and helped Gaylord get out of town.”
Rosie Jordan drew a deep breath. “That was what I’d been waiting for . . . men who’d fight the Hookers. Dan came to me and ordered me to tell what I knew, and said he was going to join Tom Fortune and Mister Gaylord and back them up. So I left the Hookers and came, too.”
Sam Dodge demanded suspiciously: “How come you got such a turn ag’in’ the Hookers all of a sudden?”
Rosie Jordan looked at Sam Dodge a long moment. “I ran away from home at sixteen to marry Kid Hooker. All I got out of it was singing in Hooker saloons.”
Sam Dodge removed his hat. “Excuse an old man’s foolish questions, ma’am. I reckon we know all we need to know.”
Dan Walker reached for Rosie Jordan’s hand, and she said, pointing to the red ruins that had been a house: “You’ve heard enough. That fire should be enough. If you don’t deal with Bent Hooker, Dude Hooker, and K-Kid Hooker now . . . you’ll all be s-singing in a Hooker s-saloon before you know it.”
Rosie Jordan was biting back sobs as Dan Walker’s arm went around her to hold her close. Somebody cheered; others took it up. Betty Gaylord, moving toward the saloon girl, paused beside Tom with shining eyes.
“I think she’s grand, Tom. No wonder she hates the Hookers. We’ll take Father somewhere tonight. I want her to go with us until all this is over.”
“And Dan comes for her.” Tom laughed.
“Of course. They’re in love. Look at them.”
Dan had his happiness. Tom turned away, glad, putting his own feelings aside.
Four more riders cantered in. Twenty-seven now—and when they counted noses, there was no holding them back.
Betty Gaylord refused more help; other men would be along shortly. Tom slapped his saddle on a fresh Gaylord horse. Cinches were tightened, guns given a last inspection, and they headed into the night. Some would be wounded, some would die before morning—but they rode exultantly for Sundown, to end Hooker law.
Talk died away as the miles passed. The thudding hoofs and the creak of saddle gear blended into a low, grim monotone. When Tom lifted his voice, the sound carried.
“Miss Gaylord will tell the men coming after us to tie a handkerchief on the left arm, so we can tally. We’ll do the same. We want Bent Hooker and Dude Hooker. No other trouble.”
“Yep,” said Sam Dodge. “We’re peaceable . . . unless trouble’s thrown at us.”
“Bent Hooker’ll be close to the courthouse,” Tom said. “He’s not a fool. If he’s cornered, he can lock us out, hold us off, and wait for help. He’s still the law. Give me twenty minutes’ start to give him a surprise before you get there.”
Sam Dodge said: “Go ahead, Tom. We’ll need fast thinkin’ tonight.”
Dan Walker said: “I’ll trail along.”
“After me!” Leatherneck warned flatly. “I’m shore backin’ Tom up.”
In the end the three of them went, racing ahead, circling Sundown, fording the San Carlos River below town, entering town on blowing horses from a quarter where Gaylord men would hardly be coming. Sundown should have been sleeping. But house windows were lighted, and beyond the courthouse the town was alive like a Saturday evening. Courthouse hitch racks were full. Groups of men loitered in front of the two-story brick building.
Dan was doubtful. “Look at the men he’s got already.”
Leatherneck spat audibly. “Mebbe they ain’t all Hooker men.”
“Sure to be until we know different,” Tom muttered. “Chances are they’ve got men posted at the other end of town. Tie up along here. We’ll scatter. Dan can make it. Likely he won’t be bothered. You keep out of sight, Leatherneck.”
“What you aim to do, Tom?”
“I’ve got an idea. Tell you about it if I have any luck.”
They tied reins to cottonwood saplings along the street. Dan’s gritty voice had an edge as he split off from the men. “I’ll be huntin’ Kid Hooker tonight,” he said.
“Good huntin’, Tom,” said Leatherneck before he faded off into the night.
Good hunting! Only a trio of reckless fools would come into town like this, hunting for a sheriff savagely determined to get them. Tom’s lips split in a thin grin as he walked slowly forward through the darkness. He flexed his hands, dried the palms against his legs, fixed the new gray sombrero on his head. Tom Fortune was washed up anyway. He had nothing to look forward to, nothing to lose, nothing to risk. He could take a fool chance.
Great cottonwoods made black shade in the courthouse yard. A faint square of light marked a barred door window at the back of the courthouse. From the deep shadows beside the door, a gruff voice challenged sharply.
“Whatcha want back here?”
Another man stirred—two of them—and both had guns out.
“Heard there was trouble an’ the sheriff was callin’ for men,” Tom said easily.
“Around to the front. The sheriff’s swearin’ in men in his office. What’s your name?”
“Are you askin’ names tonight or countin’ guns?”
“Both.”
“Name of Ac
e Falkner. I been staying a few days with my cousin, Ed Falkner, who runs the grocery store. Ed woke me up an’ said there was a chance to get in the fun.” That was all right; everybody knew old Whispering Ed Falkner.
A reply lashed back: “Whisperin’ Ed shore did well if he sent you over to join the posse! Stick ’em up! Ed’s been dead an’ buried for over a year!”
Tom’s hands flew up. “You win,” he growled. “I would hafta pick a dead man. Let’s go see Bent Hooker an’ get it over with.”
“Who’n hell are you?” was the gruff demand as they moved to his side, guns on him, to disarm him.
“Bent Hooker’ll tell you.”
His rifle was snatched away, the six-gun jerked from the holster. A gun muzzle prodded him as he was shoved toward the door. Tom was at the doorsteps when the gun slipped against his side, crashing flame and shock that seared through to the skin. A helpless trigger finger had done that as the man pitched forward. On the other side, a strangled oath ripped out, a shoulder brushed Tom roughly as a gun crashed out behind him—and suddenly quiet fell as Tom whirled around. Down, too, was that second man, down like magic—for two more men stood there in their places, and one of them was cursing under his breath.
“Why’n hell so slow gun-slappin’ him down, Dan? I mighty near tasted that bullet when it went by!”
“Leatherneck . . . Dan!”
“Uhn-huh,” Dan chortled. “You didn’t think we’d let you take a pasear alone under Bent Hooker’s nose? Look what happened right off.”
The two Hooker guards had been neatly clubbed unconscious. Tom wanted to swear, but all he could do was chuckle helplessly and bite out urgently: “You two idiots made a hell of a mess. I knew they’d be guarding this back door. I walked up and said Whispering Ed Falkner sent me to join Hooker’s posse.”
“Ed Falkner’s dead an’ buried!” said Leatherneck disgustedly.
“I heard so tonight,” agreed Tom. “I wanted ’em to take me in to Bent Hooker. It was the only way I could get in his office and face him. It isn’t too late now. Stick your guns in my back and rush me in. Make out like you’re Hooker men. We’ve got a chance. Quick.”
