They went directly south along the edge of the valley. Fifty yards and Sam halted the horse. A sorrel pony stood tied to some brush, spooking at the sound of gunfire and trying to break loose. Sam threw a leg over the apple and jumped to the ground, ran to this horse, tore the line loose and leapt into the saddle. McAllister shifted into his own saddle and together they ran north. The firing behind them died down.
“Where to?” Sam shouted.
“Across the valley and into the hills.”
They swung west, half-ran and half-slithered down the, wall of the valley, hit the flat and ran on. There was scattered timber here that offered them some cover and they reckoned they were out of sight of the men behind. They didn’t break pace till they were in the hills. There wasn’t time to hide their sign so they kept on going, though at a reduced pace now to save the horses. They didn’t stop till dark. They camped not far from water on good grass and slept with their animals tied to their wrists ready for an easy getaway.
Chapter 19
Dice Grotten knew the two men had gotten away. He rose to his feet, nerves relaxing after the shooting, and started to walk north. He wondered who the man shooting from the north was. Whoever it might be, the Negro had silenced him, probably for ever.
It was a matter of minutes, Grotten knew.
He pushed through the brush and looked down at the man lying there.
“Mike,” he said.
He bent and rolled his brother onto his back and saw where the bullet had entered his head. He felt for the heartbreat, but he knew there wasn’t a chance. Mike was dead all right.
He stood there for a while, the dreadful bitterness rising in him. Then he shouted for men. They came, dragging slowly up the hill, Forster with them.
“Carry him down,” Dice said woodenly.
Four men took Mike by the arms and legs and started down the hill with him. Forster came and put an arm around Dice’s shoulder.
“I know how you feel, Dice,” he said. “A man can’t say anything at a time like this.”
“Let me be,” Dice said and walked off alone.
Forster turned down into the valley, thinking.
Mike dead. The valley’s mine. I can stay. The Forster luck has turned at last. He could see himself at the head of a vast cattle empire, a man of influence, buying respectability and respect. In a second the vivid dream came. All he had to do now was to find those two Texas men and kill them. Sure, the valley was Dice’s now, but Dice was his man and Dice wasn’t immortal. He would sign a partnership with him willing the half-shares to each other in the event of their deaths.
He ordered a grave to be dug for Mike and two men started on it. Forster found a pretty spot under some trees for it. They would wait for Dice’s return before they buried Mike, then Forster would say some good words. It would all be done properly.
He visited the man who had been shot. He was in the small shack for he had been one of Mike’s men. He was shot through the flesh of the right buttock and, though in considerable pain, Forster did not think the wound to be serious. He told the man he would get a bonus. Forster then went out to view what he already considered to be his empire.
An hour later, Dice came down leading his horse. His face was blank of expression. He showed no emotion when the rough funeral was held for his brother. He helped shovel the dirt into the grave without a word. Then he called Nick Wetherby, told him to get fresh horses for them both and said: “We’re going to find those two men, Nick, and we don’t let up till we do.”
Nick didn’t like it. Those two men spelled danger for him of a kind he didn’t admire. But he knew better than to cross Dice in his present state of mind and went and saddled two fresh horses. The two men climbed the wall of the valley and Nick picked up the trail without any trouble. By dark they were following the clear tracks of the two horses across the valley. Meanwhile, Forster was facing his men.
As soon as Dice disappeared and Forster was without his strong right arm, Trig and Cowdrey moved in. They came to Forster at the smaller shack and the men came with them, including Mike’s rider and the Ute halfbreed.
Forster smiled at the sight of them.
“Well, men,” he said. “This looks like a deputation.”
“It is,” Trig said. He was uneasy at having to face Forster, but the fear of the two men in the hills was a stronger force. He wasn’t in this kind of game for thrills, he was in it for profit. It showed profit or he wanted out.
“What’s the trouble?” Forster asked.
“When do we get outa here?” Trig demanded.
Forster said: “As soon as those two Texans’re caught, you can take your cut and go.”
“If they’re caught,” Trig told him, “there’s no cause to git. We want out now in case they ain’t caught.”
“Two men scare you, Trig?”
“Sure, they scare me. They shot three men and killed one. Ain’t that enough?”
“They won’t kill any more. Dice is after them and you know Dice.”
“He’s been after ’em a good many days now. Them two fellers is playin’ ducks and drakes with us, Forster. Give us our cut and we’ll go.”
Forster said smoothly and gently: “We’re all in this together, Trig. Nobody goes.”
Cowdrey said: “Can you stop us?”
“That’s a good point,” Forster said. “And the answer’s: ‘Yes, I can.’”
A man on the left of the group drew his gun and said: “Buck this, Forster.”
Forster smiled. He was the master of himself and would be the master of these men at any second. This was the kind of situation he understood. This called for cool nerve in the face of danger and that he had never lacked.
“I can buck that any time I want, Jim,” he said. “No need for this kind of thing. We’re all friends here. Hell, fellows, we’ve been through a lot together. Trig, I’ll make a deal with you. Twenty head a man and you can leave when you like. But consider this – the valley belongs to Dice now. This is a good safe headquarters for us. We could operate for years from here. There’s trail herds coming up from Texas. We can build up a cattle empire here. There’s land west of here for anybody who wants it. There’s real opportunity here for anybody who has the brains to see it. The Indians are being cleared out fast. Each one of you can have his own spread.”
Trig was taking it in, thinking. He had never amounted to much. This could be his chance. He started to reply to Forster, but the captain, now the attention of all the men was on Trig, moved. His hand slapped down on the butt of his belt-gun, the Colt leapt from leather, swung right and fired. The man with the gun in his hand staggered back and fell. Every man there froze.
Somebody said: “My God.”
Through his teeth, Forster said: “I never allow a man to draw on me.” He cocked the gun and held it idly. Men stepped back hastily. “Nothing’s altered, boys. My offer still stands. We catch the Texans and we dig in here.”
Trig said: “You’re the boss, captain.” His face was stiff with apprehension.
“Good. Now bury that and get back to work. Soon Dice’ll be sending word he’s found the Texans. Then we go wipe them out.”
They scattered.
That evening Nick rode back to say that they had picked up the trail of the two Texans and Dice wanted every man that could be mustered. Forster called the men together and told them to get mounted. He found that he was two men short. One was the Ute halfbreed and one was one of his own men. The fact seriously worried Forster because his man who was missing was Trig and he was good with a gun. That left him with eight, nine counting Mike’s rider and that did not seem too much for those two Texas men. They were both hellers and had proved it.
They rode out with the dark and none of them liked that, every man there suspecting that they would ride into an ambush. And they weren’t far wrong.
* * *
Both men were tense. Both Sam and McAllister knew they were coming to the showdown. They talked it over and both agreed that
running wouldn’t win their game for them. They watched their back trail and knew that two men were after them. They discussed ambushing these two, but agreed that the game was too small. These two were only an advanced guard. More would follow and when they did the two partners would be waiting for them. Toward dark, they knew they were right. They had the men spotted in a gully. One of them stayed there, while the other rode back fast into the valley. He would be going for reinforcements. The two went on, laying a plain trail. Not hurrying, but saving their horses for a turn of speed when they would most need it. Both experienced a tightening of the nerves now because they knew that the climax was being reached and this time they would have to finish the enemy. They were in wild broken country and this was ideal for the kind of fighting they had in mind. By mutual agreement they moved at the speed that would bring them to a fight in daylight in the kind of country that would suit them.
An hour after dawn, they halted, tied their horses, ate some of their beef and washed it down with mountain water, had a smoke from their precious store of tobacco and walked back along their trail. They picked a canyon that would offer their hunters little cover.
They waited an hour, one on either side, both knowing how they would fight, both terribly aware that every shot would have to count because they were now dangerously low on shells.
They heard the sound of approaching horses and both sank deep into cover. McAllister jacked a round into the breech of the Henry and watched the first man come into view. The range was nothing. He could have picked any part of the man’s body for a target.
The man was on a bay horse, riding loosely. McAllister thought he was a half-Indian, though he was dressed entirely as a whiteman. He carried a carbine across his saddlebow. When he had come but a short way from cover, he stopped and looked around him uneasily.
He smells trouble, McAllister thought.
The man stayed still for two or three minutes. Another man came into sight and McAllister saw that this man was Grotten. The ’breed held up his right hand and Grotten stopped. He looked around at the walls of the canyon. He didn’t like the look of things either. McAllister cursed. Dammit, they had chosen too obvious a spot. These men were old campaigners.
Grotten called something. The halfbreed turned his horse and walked it slowly back around the canyon’s bend from sight. Sam’s head popped up into view. McAllister signed to him. Sam disappeared again. They would be playing a lone game from now on.
McAllister wormed his way back through the rocks and started silently north roughly in the direction of the men hunting him, knowing that he would sight them quickly.
And he did.
They were dismounted and there were four of them, climbing and sweating in the now warming sun. They were a hundred yards below and north of McAllister. He carefully inspected the terrain, wanting all four men in the open. Now they were scrambling through rocks awkwardly with their rifles. In twenty yards they would come to a bare shoulder of the hill. It was small but large enough to allow all four men to be without cover. They came on; McAllister hugged cover and raised his rifle. If he opened this right, he could have all four of them. The hunters would never recover from such a blow.
The first man came into view. This was the halfbreed. The second man was taller. Forster. When they came to the shoulder they waited a moment to get their breaths, then came on at a faster pace, Forster urging the men on.
Take the rear one first, McAllister thought.
They were strung out, several paces between them. Just right for neat shooting. And this wasn’t the time for nice feelings. When one of those men went down they had to stay down.
He sighted the rear man and squeezed the trigger.
The shot echoed eerily through the hills. The man seemed to go stiff under the impact of the shot, dropped his rifle and fell on his face. The other men froze for a moment, then their legs were working to take them out of danger. Forster was shouting. McAllister swung the Henry, fired again and missed. Quickly levering, he sighted the man going away from him and fired again. This time he had more luck. The man seemed to trip over his own feet; he hit the slope of the shoulder and rolled. McAllister didn’t stop; he swung on Forster as the man reached the edge of the shoulder and dove for cover. The shot chipped rock as the man disappeared. Firing broke out on the other side of the canyon and McAllister knew that Sam had also met the enemy.
He shifted fast to the left, going on hands and knees. He passed his rifle to his left hand and drew the Remington. Now was the time to start saving on shells. Two were down and he had Forster and the halfbreed. Forster started firing as soon as he was under cover, shooting like a man who had powder to burn. Suddenly, the intiative passed from McAllister to Forster and McAllister did not like that. Doubled up he swung around to Forster’s flank. The rifle fire followed him. Dust and stone chipped and flew. He halted, peered through rocks and brush, saw his adversary, snapped a shot and ran forward a dozen yards till he was on the edge of the grassy shoulder. A rifle opened up on him from the right and he knew that was the halfbreed.
He got down low, crawled a dozen paces back the way he had come, peered out from cover, sighted the man’s hat, aimed carefully with the Remington below it and fired. It was a long shot for a belt-gun, but McAllister liked a long shot. The hat disappeared and he heard the man calling out desperately that he was hit.
Forster ignored the call for help. McAllister heard him breaking away for lower ground, snapped a shot at him as he glimpsed his retreating back and missed.
He stood up.
A shot came from the shoulder. One of the wounded men had fired.
McAllister called out—
“Throw your gun down, mister, or you’re dead.”
The man gave him a despairing look and threw his gun clear. McAllister walked warily out into the open. The halfbreed walked out with his hands above his head, blood streaming down his face. He looked like a man deep in shock. McAllister’s nerves were strung tight. The two wounded men on the shoulder were sitting up and looking wretched.
McAllister said: “Get your gun-belts off. Rifle shells on the ground. And if you have any tobacco, I’ll have that too.”
Silently the men obeyed him.
McAllister went on, speaking to the halfbreed: “Patch these men up. Get ’em down to their horses. You’re out of this fight, hear? I see you around with a gun in your hand and you’re mutton.”
They nodded dumbly.
The firing was still going on to the other side of the canyon. The halfbreed was down on one knee, putting a tourniquet around a man’s thigh. The man was moaning. McAllister scooped up the gun-belts, got rifle shells into his pockets. Then he was backing out of there, whistling shrilly to tell Sam that he was pulling back to the horses. Once in cover, he turned and ran. The firing on the other side of the canyon spluttered away to silence and he knew that Sam was on the move too. He reached the horses and untied them, impatient for Sam’s return. Within minutes, the Negro came in sight, scrambling through the rocks. His face was bloody and his eyes were those of a man who has been through an ordeal. He shoved the rifle in the saddleboot and heaved himself onto the saddle.
“How was it?” McAllister asked.
“Ain’t sure,” Sam replied, “but I think one killed and one wounded.”
“Nice work.”
They started off and Sam asked: “Where to?”
“The ranch. When them boys get home, it ain’t goin’ to be there.”
Sam laughed. The laugh shook a little.
“This is sure my birthday.”
They rode south, then swung east down the side of the valley, pushing their horses. Nobody followed them. When they hit the flat, they gave the horses their heads and they ran.
Chapter 20
Dice Grotten was consumed by a bitter rage as he pounded through the rocks. Brush tore at him, but he ignored it. A bullet from the Negro’s gun had nicked his arm and the whole limb was numbed, but he ignored that too. The only thought t
hat occupied his mind was to see the Negro and his partner dead. He halted as he found something lying across his path. A man. He dropped on one knee and rolled him over, just as so short a while before he had rolled over his brother. The man was dead, drilled neatly through the temple.
Dice got to his feet and bellowed like an enraged bull. Where was the man who had done this? Find him, find him. A man staggered through the brush.
“Seen the nigger?” Dice demanded.
“He lit out,” the man told him. Dice cursed insanely. He turned and walked back the way he had come. Another man joined them, his face drawn, his eyes a little wild. They tramped along together till they reached the horses. Not long after Forster and Nick Wetherby appeared.
Grotton looked at his leader’s face and didn’t like what he saw there. Forster’s eyes were bloodshot. Grotton glanced at Nick and saw that his face was caked with drying blood. Two other men slowly came up, one limping badly, the other holding a bloody arm.
Grotten said with a kind of despair: “Two men did this to us. Just two men. What kind of men are they?”
“Did you lose any?”
“Charlie Burton’s dead.”
They lifted their heads as they heard the distant clatter of horses’ hoofs on loose stone.
Grotten took command.
“Nick,” he said, “pick up their trail. We get on it and we stay on it, till we kill ’em. Mount up all of you.”
Nick said: “I’m hurt bad, Dice.”
“I wouldn’t care if you were dying,” Grotten told him. “You pick up that trail.”
The halfbreed stared at him for a moment, then walked to his horse and pulled himself onto the saddle. The other men followed suit. Grotten beckoned to Nick and the halfbreed led the way out. He rode along the canyon floor and climbed to the high ground above the south end and here he found the sign he wanted. He pointed and headed out. Every now and then he stopped and hunted around when the sign was lost on rock, but pretty soon he reached the valley and from then on the tracks were clear on the soft earth. They led out into the valley going east. After a while Grotten exclaimed: “My God, captain, they’re heading for headquarters.”
Kill McAllister Page 14
