Fight for Powder Valley! (19 page)

They were less than a mile from their destination when they heard a galloping rider coming from the direction of Dutch Springs on a course that was taking him across their road directly in front of them.

Pat spurred his tired horse to a final burst of speed to intercept the lone rider. As they neared each other, he rose in the stirrups and shouted:

“Halloo ahead. Who's that?”

A voice came back thinly: “This is Hank Bates. Who're you?”

“Pat Stevens … and Ezra. Hold up a minute.”

The other rider slowed to allow Pat to reach him. Hank's voice was frankly incredulous, “Did you say Pat Stevens?” Then, “By golly! it
is
Pat. How'd you get here?”

Pat's horse stumbled and almost went down as he pulled up in the road. “No matter how we got here,” he snapped. “What's happenin'?”

“You're just in time for the fun if you ride fast,” Hank panted. “They're blowin' up the powderhouse at the dam site. Ain't got much time to get there …”

“Wait a minute.” Pat grabbed his arm. “What about Sam an' Biloff?”

“
What
about Sam? I thought he was in Denver. I thought you was
all
in Denver … in jail, the way I heard it.”

Pat's grip tightened on his arm. “The way
you
heard it? How?”

“Mr. Winters read all about it in his Denver newspaper this afternoon. About you getting arrested for jumpin' Biloff and about how the police was hot on the trail of Sam and Ezra. So when word got around that there wasn't no use waiting any longer for you to maybe fix things, the boys got together and headed up to blow up the powderhouse. It's built right on the edge of the crick where they're going to dam it, and it's full of dynamite and powder. The boys figure it'll blow such a hole in the ground they'll never get a dam built … and the engineers and workers are living in a bunkhouse right close by and some think the explosion will maybe blow all of them to kingdom come along with the powderhouse.”

Pat groaned aloud as he understood what was happening. Though Biloff's life was in no immediate danger, this was a far worse threatened disaster. If the Valley men succeeded in their plot and caused the wholesale slaughter of the dam workers,
nothing
could save the Valley.

He slid from his saddle, dragging Hank down to the ground with him. “My hawse is winded … an' unbuckle yore gun-belt. All I got is a peashooter I stole from a policeman. Give it to me,” he ground out. “I got no time to explain. I got to stop them from blowing up the powderhouse.”

He grabbed the gun-belt from Hank's numbed fingers and swung it about his waist. “You an' Ezra come along as fast as our hawses will bring you. Ezra will explain everything.”

He threw himself into Hank Bates' saddle and drove his spurs into the ribs of the comparatively fresh horse, leaned forward and drove him upward at headlong speed toward the construction camp and its flimsy powderhouse stacked high with barrels and cases of dangerous explosives.

17

The sage and mesquite of the valley gave way to low clumps of juniper and pine as the trail climbed swiftly upward. Pat spurred the horse on recklessly, trusting the animal to carry him to his destination.

He didn't know exactly where the construction camp was located, knew only its general position from talk he had heard in Dutch Springs. Hank Bates hadn't mentioned how many men were in the raiding party, nor how big a start they had on him.

Pat knew only that he had to get there in time and somehow break up the attack on the powderhouse. Nothing could possibly save the Valley if the hot-headed and irresponsible riders were allowed to carry out their reckless plan for the destruction of the dam site and the murder of innocent workmen in their sleep.

Pat caught himself praying for more speed as the horse's stride faltered beneath him. He roweled the animal without mercy, lying forward along his neck and straining his eyes through the night for some sign that he was approaching the camp.

His mount snorted and swerved aside suddenly. A nicker came from the darkness ahead. Then a match flared a hundred yards to Pat's left just as he made out the squat outline of buildings in that direction.

The tiny flare of the match leaped magically into a large yellow flame that flickered against the wooden sides of a low building. It was a gasoline-soaked torch being thrust upward toward a tiny barred window in the wall of the wooden powder magazine.

Pat dragged Hank's gun from his hip and flipped a bullet at the torch while he drove his horse toward the low building. The torch fell to the ground and Pat caught an instant's glimpse of a surprised face behind it in the night.

Guns barked from his right, and flame lashed at him from a dozen points. A bullet ricocheted from the steel saddle horn and another zinged off the handcuff dangling from his right wrist.

He saw dark forms slinking toward the door of the powderhouse, and he plunged his horse forward between them and their objective, swinging his leg off and crouching low in the left stirrup to put the animal's body between himself and the gunfire of the valley men.

The horse shuddered and stumbled forward as bullets crashed into his unprotected side.

Pat flung himself forward and hit the ground rolling. He reeled to his feet in front of the door that stood ajar, and threw two bullets over the heads of the advancing men.

He shouted hoarsely, “Hold it! It's Pat Stevens. Don't you hear me? This is Pat.”

He couldn't tell whether they heard him or not. A bullet thudded into the door behind him and another one tugged at the sleeve of his jacket.

He jerked the heavy door open and slid inside, stumbling over an open keg of powder. Hoarse shouts and a withering hail of bullets followed him through the door.

He knew it was impossible to make his voice heard above the din. He was trapped inside the powder magazine with two score angry men advancing from all directions to put fire to the building.

He slammed the door shut but made no attempt to bar it, poked Hank's gun through the crack and fired two more shots, again aiming them high so they would not hit one of his erstwhile friends.

At least, he thought grimly, the construction workers would be aroused to the danger. They would have a chance to escape from their beds before the entire countryside went up in a horrible explosion.

Light seared his eyeballs. He whirled to see a gasoline-soaked torch come hurtling in through the small window with its inadequate wooden crossbars.

The interior of the structure was lighted luridly for that one awful instant as Pat leaped forward and made a desperate grab that caught the flaming torch in mid-air. The scene was burned into his mind with such clarity that ever afterward he could close his eyes and see the open powder kegs, the carelessly piled cases of dynamite that littered the floor.

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.