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the fact that Harvey wore both guns. "He's with Rooney by now."
"You spoke too soon, Tibbott," Harvey said, "the fight's just started."
Shorty Jones turned to face him. He was cocked for trouble and Stag Harvey
could see it. "Believe me, Stag, it's over. You and Kilburn better rattle your
hocks."
Harvey smiled. This man was tough and dangerous, but Harvey was not
interested in fighting for fun. He used his gun for pay; it was a cold, simple
business. "Maybe, Shorty. Maybe we will."
He opened the door to step out, and Colleen came in. Her face was pale, her
eyes dark with foreboding. "Bert!" she spoke quickly. "Where's Clay? Bert's
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dead!"
"Dead?" Several voices echoed the word, one of them Harvey's.
The batwing doors to the saloon fanned sharply and they looked around. "Who
was that? Who went out?"
"It was Shorty Jones." Ed Miller's voice was low, unintentionally dramatic.
"Better look to your holecard, Stag."
"Shorty? And Bert Garry dead? Then God help Pete Simmons!"
Stag Harvey stood on the street rolling a smoke. He was sweating, although
the night was cool. Better than anyone, he could appreciate what the death of
Bert Garry would mean to a tough outfit like the B-Bar. Ed's advice had been
good. It was time to look to their holecard. But where was Jack?
He lighted up, inhaled, and quickly ran over in his mind the places Jack
might be. They had not been sure that Clay was in town but he was.
Had it not been for the presence of Shorty, Stag might have gone upstairs
after Clay and played a lone hand. But Shorty was tough enough by himself, and
Sam Tinker would not sit idle, nor would Hardy Tibbotts. Innkeeper and lawyer,
but both had used guns in their time.
If the B-Bar was going on the warpath they had best get their job done and
split the breeze getting out of town.
Clay Bell had waited no longer than it took to pull on his boots and belt his
guns. He wanted to see Tibbott, but there was no time for talk with an attack
beginning at the ranch. He went down the back steps, crossed to the corral and
saddled up.
The fire was still burning when he started for Piety. There was dust
lingering in the air, dust from the passage of wagons.
It was not until he was nearly at the beginning of the climb up Piety
Mountain that he recalled he had asked Tibbott nothing about Washington! Too
late now that could wait. He took the trail up the mountain, and when at last
he topped the rise there was only the lingering of woodsmoke in the air, and
the few embers of the signal fire.
He started down the short trail to the ranch, and had scarcely taken it
before he heard, faint and far away, the sound of a rifle shot.
Chapter 15
Hank Rodney was no fool. Shortly after Shorty and Biff slipped away, he
became aware of the unusual silence around the place. A casual round of the
buildings and a check of saddles showed him the two riders were gone. It took
no great amount of imagination to guess their destination.
There was, he knew, no immediate danger of an attack, yet if Devitt realized
that he was alone he might attempt to force a way through.
He was too seasoned a campaigner to leave anything to doubt. Preparations for
an attack had been made long before this, but he made the rounds and checked
all the available weapons. Bert Garry's Winchester was in the bunkhouse. Hank
brought it to the house and loaded it.
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He had two Sharps .50 buffalo guns, a Spencer .56, and an express shotgun.
Again he studied the Gap. All was empty and still. He threw more hay to the
horses. Suddenly the ranch began to feel very lonely. Night came quickly in
the narrow space between the cliffs and the darkness crept down and engulfed
the ranch while the faroff hills were still touched with light.
Long since, every man on the ranch had learned the range to the opening of
the Gap. By day there was no cover in the last two hundred yards. By night it
was another story.
Somewhere a coyote yapped the moon. A wind stirred the cottonwood leaves, and
Hank Rooney walked up on the porch of the ranch house and sat down, looking
out at the hills.
One of the boys should have stayed. But he was not worried. If an attack came
he could stand them off for a good long while. He had protection and a good
field of fire . . . but it would soon be dark
The night came and held only silence. Above the towering black walls of the
Gap the sky seemed light, and stars hung like lanterns in the still sky.
A wind came down the pass and sent leaves skittering over the hard-packed
ground. He walked outside and went to the corrals. The horses seemed friendly
and close. Restlessly, he walked back. It was early, but he might catch a bit
of sleep.
He stretched out on a cot and stared up into the darkness. It semed
unnaturally still, but he was tired. . .
Suddenly, he was awake. How long he had slept he had no idea, but he came
awake with a start, instantly aware of distant sound. A wagon rolling over
stones. In the clear night air of the desert, channeled by the walls of the
Gap, he caught the sound from some distance.
With Garry's Winchester in his hand he went outside to the gate. Standing at
the corner of the stone chuckhouse, he strained his eyes into the darkness.
After a while he heard vague sounds. To a man who had fought Apaches and
Kiowas, these men seemed clumsy. He listened, judging their distance and
number.
Stepping around the corner of the bunkhouse he lit a cigar, took a deep draw,
and placed it on the windowsill ready to hand.
He was alone but he was not worried. He had fought before, from worse
positions. Like the time he and Red Jenkins had fought Comanches from a
buffalo wallow. Or the time three hands from the old Goodnight outfit ran into
a Kiowa war party. He chuckled, remembering. It would be like the old days.
A faint footfall sounded. Somebody was creeping up the Gap. He stepped around
the corner and took another long draw on his cigar, then picked up the
Winchester. When a footfall sounded again the rifle came smoothly to his
shoulder and he fired.
Running a half dozen steps, he fired again, and sprang back for a third and
fourth shot. He spaced his shots, shooting blindly down the Gap.
There was silence and then a stone rattled. He fired at the sound and heard a
yelp, whether of pain or only astonishment he could not say, but instantly
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there was a volley.
He was standing behind the gate post and was completely sheltered. The sound
of the shots racketed against the walls, and died away into dark silence. The
Gap was still. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]