Guns Of the Timberlands (1955) (15 page)

The late stage rumbled to a stop at the stage station and Stag Harvey, loafing on the street with two belted guns, watched a big, loose-jointed man in a rumpled suit get down from the stage carrying a worn leather traveling bag.

"How are you, Stag? Clay around?"

"Down to the hotel, I think."

"You might as well light a shuck, Stag. The war's over. At least, it will be when I talk to Judge Riley."

"Maybe." Stag smiled past his cigarette. "That'll be no good news for Jack an' me. We need money."

Tibbott started on, then caught by a sudden thought, he stopped abruptly. "Stag, never knew you to wear two guns unless you were working."

Stag Harvey straightened from the post. "You can tell Clay that, Tibbott. Tell him I'm workin'. Both Jack an' me."

"Don't do it, Stag."

"You tell him."

"Stag, he don't wear that gun for show. He's no pilgrim."

"Didn't figure so."

Hardy Tibbott walked on, more swiftly now. It was good to be back, but he did not like to think of that man standing back there by the stage station. With either Kilburn or Harvey, Bell might have a chance, but with both? Ed Miller looked up as the tired man dropped his bag. "Hey! Bell's been askin' for you, almost every day. He was beginning to believe you were dead."

"Dead tired, is all."

He looked around at Sam Tinker. "Stag Harvey's wearing both guns."

"The hell you say!"

"Saw some wagons leaving for the Gap, too." Sam Tinker turned on his chair. "Ed, you get up those stairs and tell Clay! Quick now!"

The door shoved open and Shorty Jones came in. His barrel chest spread the wool shirt taut over its muscles. He looked quickly around the room, then at Tibbott. "The boss will be glad to see you."

"Who's at the ranch, Shorty?"

"Rooney. Coffin came in with me."

"Coffin's gone back." The speaker was a tall, lazy-looking man. "Shuttin' my hen house when I saw him ease down the alley and then go hell a-whoopin' into the desert."

Stag Harvey pushed open the door and came in, glancing around as if to check those present. His eyes went to Jones. There was no love lost between the two, but Stag jerked his head toward the Gap.

"Looks like a fire on Piety. Can't see the fire, but there's a reflection."

"That's Coffin." Shorty tucked his thumbs behind his belt. He had not missed 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 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.

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 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.

"Quite a party," he told himself. "Must be a dozen or more."

Something had been forcing itself upon his consciousness for some time, and suddenly he realized what it was. On the far wall of the Gap was a vague reflection, yet instantly he placed it.

The signal fire on Piety!

A warm feeling came over him and some of the loneliness vanished. The boys knew, and the boys were coming. Jud Devitt would pay for this night's work.

Down the Gap there was a faint stir. Instantly, he fired. He heard the bullet smack rock and ricochet, and a dozen rifles replied. Somewhere behind him hoofs pounded and then a horse raced down the Gap and a voice called out, "Hold it, Hank! It's me!"

Coffin swung down as a rifle shot, aimed at the voice, howled high and far.

"I lit the fire on Piety. The boys are comin'."

"How'd you know?"

"Saw 'em loading up. Couldn't find Shorty."

There was a long silence and Hank Rooney retrieved and relighted his cigar. In the shelter of the chuckhouse he smoked and waited.

"Hank . . . ?"

"Yeah?"

"Feller up there on the sidewall. He's tryin' to Injun us. How many times will he bounce?"

"He'll fall clean."

"Bet you a seegar. There's a boulder up there on that face."

"You got a bet."

The Winchester stabbed flame. They heard a grunting cry, a rattle of rocks, and the man fell. He hit ground solidly like a sack of flour.

"You owe me," Hank said.

Bullets screamed overhead and several smacked against the chuckhouse. "Hey--where's Mahafee?"

"Aw, the old coot went back up the pass. He's got him a couple of wire traps. Tryin' to catch some quail. He ain't back."

Hank walked to the house and brought out the two Sharps rifles and the Spencer. Coffin was using his own Winchester.

Far up the pass behind them they heard the sound of horses. Neither man made a comment, but each had been listening, and each knew the boys were coming. Yet the first man to come into the yard came from Piety way. It was Clay Bell.

"Get set," Hank whispered suddenly. "They're fixin' to rush."

There was a sudden pound of running feet and a scramble of gravel. All three men opened up, firing low and fast. The rifles stabbed flame into the darkness and the acrid smell of gunpowder was in the air. Lead hailed around them, but the rush broke.

Even as they heard retreating feet, Jackson and Brown lode into the yard and sprang down, rifles in hand. "Ain't over, is it?" Brown pleaded. Mahafee came into the yard behind them. He said nothing, merely went into his kitchen and began to make coffee.

"Don't reckon they've quit," Rooney said, "but they lost their stomach for it."

Clay waited, listening. Out in the darkness he heard a faint groan.

Holding their rifles high for greater distance, all five men fired, their shots racketing down the Gap. Far down a man cried out, and someone cursed wickedly. Then there was silence.

"What's the matter?" Coffin yelled, tauntingly. "You boys leavin' so soon? We ain't had a chance to be hospitable yet!"

The echo died, and there was no other sound. The men waited, Hank Rooney smoking placidly.

"Light up, Hank," Clay said finally, "let's see what we've got."

Hank walked to the end of the prepared fuse and knelt. He drew deep on his cigar and the end glowed. He touched it to the fuse, which spluttered into flame that ate its way along. Suddenly the long piles of stacked brush burst into flame. In the bright light they could see three men lying upon the ground. One man had been trying to drag himself away, but when the brush burst into flame he held himself still.

"For Gawd's sake, don't shoot! We're through!" Brown caught Bell's arm. "Listen!" In the distance they could hear the sound of wagons. A yell came, then the sound of hoofs on stone and the rumble of wheels.

"Pullin' out," Brown said. He swore softly, bitterly. "Figured we'd have us a battle."

Bill Coffin spoke, his voice reflective. "As I recall, Devitt bought those broncs off Wheeler. Mighty skittish, they were."

The air was pregnant with speculation. "Mighty skittish," Jackson agreed, and in his voice was a sudden lighting of hope.