Savage Range (15 page)

“Yeah. It's a cave, kind of, with an overhang of rock.”

Jim nodded. “That'll give us time for my plan. But I want you to stay in the cave after we've pulled out.”

“What for?”

“Because if we make that rim, we won't have a horse left under us. I'll try to make the ridge back of the rim and fort up there. When we've drawn them up surroundin' us, you make a dash down the canyon.”

“For help?”

“Help, hell!” Jim said savagely. “The only help you can get is San Jon. They wouldn't be back here before midnight. By that time—”

“Yeah, I know,” the puncher said. “There won't be a man alive.”

Jim nodded curtly. “You've got to get horses.”

“How many?”

“About eight,” Jim said. “That's more'n we'll need when we finish here. I don't know how you'll get 'em. Can you do it?”

The puncher nodded.

“When you get 'em, leave them over to the west of the fight, some place where they're safe. When you've done that, you've got to come back to this cave for the saddles and bridles we'll leave. Can you do that?”

Again the puncher nodded.

“Then saddle those horses and make your way back to us on foot. If you can't get through, then build a fire on a height of land over to the south to tell us you're ready. When we see that fire, what's left of us will pull out for the horses, headin' due west of the ridge. You've got to pick us up somewhere out there in the dark and take us to the horses.” He paused, watching the puncher's face. “Can you do it, mister?”

“Hell, yes,” the man answered immediately.

“Then we'll rush the cave when the word's passed around.” He turned back to Mako and told him to pass the word around to break for the cave. Mako did. When Jim figured that time enough had elapsed, he rose up on one knee, rammed his gun in his belt, and broke free of the brush. His course was zigzag, from shelter to shelter. A rifleman on the rim tried to search him out, but Jim didn't give him enough time to sight.

Ahead of him, he saw the wide, high opening of the cave yawning darkly in the rock. It was a huge pocket eroded by the wind, big enough to shelter a dozen horses with ease.

When Jim achieved it, he quieted the horses while the others, one by one, either made the cave or did not. He did not want to watch them, to see that grim fear on their faces, for this was only the beginning. When the last man came through safely, they made a count. There had been eleven men here. There were eight now, only one of them hit besides Jim.

In the still shelter of the cave, with only the stamping of the restless horses to interrupt him, Jim told them his plan. He laid no blame on them for the attack, since what was done was done. But he explained a simple choice—either they could saddle up and try for the canyon mouth, running the fire of a dozen guns that were certain to be there, or else they could make a daring and fast try for the ridge beyond, with only these four riflemen to harry them. They voted for the ridge at once. They listened to Jim like children, and when he saw their blind faith in him, he could hardly make himself go on.

Every man here, he announced, was to fashion a hackamore of his lariat, leaving saddles and bridles here. He himself would lead the rush for the rim. Once outside the cave, they would turn up the slope, swinging under the necks of their horses, Indian fashion. It would give them the necessary half-minute protection, if they were lucky, until they achieved the boulders, and from there on it was every man for himself in the fight for the ridge. The first men up must silence the two rifles on this side of the rim. Every man must carry all the ammunition he could, for this would be a siege.

The firing outside had stopped. The Excelsior crew could afford to hold their fire until a last futile dash for the canyon mouth took place. In case the squatters didn't come out before dark, there was dynamite to take care of that.

Mako's puncher remained dismounted. When the others had made the hackamores and mounted, bending over because of the low ceiling, Jim pulled out his gun, looked around at them, and then gave the signal, putting his spurs to his horse.

At sight of them boiling out, fire from the rim opened up again. Jim, slung under his horse's neck, put his mount up the slope. Another rider passed him and, just short of the rocks, had his horse shot down. Jim saw him fall free and make the shelter of the boulders, rock splinters whipping up around him. Jim's horse only lasted a second longer, but once he had made the rocks, he pulled up his rifle and started to throw lead at the opposite rim. Under his scorching fire, the rifleman withdrew, and the other riders had a better chance. Three of them, fighting their lunging horses up that treacherous slope, in and out of the rock maze, almost made the rim before their horses were killed. The others, afoot, advanced swiftly, the racket of their gunfire a clanging bedlam in these rocks. Jim saw they were converging on one rifleman. He chose the other, almost directly over the cave. Passing from one rock to another, he soon saw that this man had not discovered him, but was shooting over his head at the others.

With careful haste made necessary by the situation, Jim circled wide, coming up to the right of the sniper. Almost at the rock rim, he cut back toward him.

The sniper was settled in a little pocket where he could command the valley. His gun was pointed southeast. Jim approached from the north. Crouching down against the rocks, he was not ten feet from this man. To achieve the pocket, however, there was a six-foot sheer of sandstone that he had to mount.

Gun in hand, he got his wind back, then swung himself up on the scarp. The man was lying on his belly, sighting his rifle. Jim's gun butt scraped loudly on the rock, and the man whirled at the sound.

It was MaCumber. For one part of a second, he looked at Jim, and then he swiveled his gun around, shooting wide from his hip in his haste for the mark. Jim, half his body over the edge, gun in hand, thumbed back the hammer, and MaCumber's body jogged abruptly. Surprise washed into his eyes. And then Jim, hanging there, emptied his gun at him.

MaCumber went over backward. Swiftly, noting only the livid bruises and cuts on the man's face, a reminder of that night at the Star 88, Jim took his rifle and shells and ran for the ridge. The other rifleman was silenced now, but the two on the opposite rim were lacing out at them.

The ridge was flat-topped, perhaps thirty by forty feet at its peak, and was sprinkled thick with big boulders. Jim reached it first and counted the others that came over the rim and up the slope on the run.

He counted five men—Mako Donaldson and his son and three young punchers. Then no more came. They had lost three men in the canyon, two more on the slope. One man was getting horses; counting himself, there were six of them to make the fight from here on. Not a horse had lived through the storming of the rock rim.

Mako Donaldson, panting for breath, hunkered down behind a rock, while Jim took stock of their ammunition. There was enough to hold out till dark, he judged. He posted his men so that they had full command of all sides of the ridge, rearranging the smallest boulders so that they afforded protection. The ammunition was pooled in the center of the cleared space. There was a canteen which Jim had thought to bring along on his belt. Hunger would punish them, thirst, too, but they could hold out till night. If help didn't come then, it didn't matter.

Mako watched Jim with grave, tired eyes, and then Jim sat down to smoke.

“Funny,” Mako said at last. “Of all of those that murdered Jim Buckner, there's only me and Will-John Cruver to tell the tale.”

Young Donaldson said bitterly, “Ain't we paid for that, Dad?”

“I reckon,” Mako said, content. “All but me. And I'll pay, too.”

Everything was quiet now. It was a sunny morning with only a faint smell of powder in the air to give a clue to what had happened. Not a man of the Excelsior crew was in sight, but Jim knew they would come. Bonsell was out to finish his job. And with Jim Wade as his quarry, he would not stop till every man was dead.

Jim considered the situation. The slope of the river was clear of trees, and the biggest rocks which would afford a man protection had rolled down to the base of the slope. Six men could hold the place forever, given enough food and water. Maybe they'd have to, he thought calmly.

Five minutes later a rifle cracked out, and the slug ricocheted harmlessly off a boulder. Two others joined in.

“That's the beginnin',” Jim said quietly. “Don't shoot till you're sure of a man. Remember, this ammunition has got to last till dark.” He smiled. “Settle down to it, boys, or this may be where you'll be buried.”

Holding their fire, they watched the Excelsior riders surround the ridge. Seldom did they catch sight of a man, but only saw a swift-moving patch of his shirt, or the sun flash of a gun. There was nothing to shoot at, yet an implacable ring of riflemen was being thrown around the base of the ridge.

Presently a lone rifleman opened fire, and others slowly joined in. And Jim came to realize how well their fort had been chosen. Without bothering to return the fire, and with eyes glued to cracks in the boulders, the squatter crew waited, safe behind their wall of rock. When an Excelsior rifleman became a little too eager and showed himself, a slug would scare him back to cover. As long as daylight lasted, they were safe.

There were a dozen men shooting at them, the bulk of the Excelsior crew. But Max Bonsell was not going to waste men trying to capture a place that was impregnable in daylight. Darkness would afford him his opportunity.

The day dragged on, and by noon the rocks were warmed to an oven heat. The men sought what little shade there was and tried not to remember they were hungry and thirsty. The futile rifles hammered at them all day long, their slugs whistling harmlessly off into the blue.

Toward dark, Jim considered the situation. There was no moon tonight, which was to Bonsell's advantage. But the situation was not entirely hopeless. He marked off the rocks on top of which each man of the crew was to take his position. The same darkness that afforded Bonsell cover would allow them freedom in showing themselves. Ammunition was distributed, and then Jim outlined his scheme.

“If we're goin' to get out of here,” he announced, “it's got to be tonight. And we've got to sneak through that bunch of gunnies to get to our horses. Now if we return shot for shot all through the night here, it's goin' to look suspicious when our fire drops off as we sneak out of here. But if we don't shoot much, if we let them carry the fight to us and hold our fire till the last minute, they'll sort of get used to our not firin'. There'll be long waits, minutes at a time when we don't shoot a gun. We've got to get 'em used to that. Once that's done, they won't think it's funny when we stop shootin' to leave.”

When full dark came, they took up their positions on top of their rocks. They were much more exposed here, in danger of sky-lining themselves for targets, but it was necessary risk. Jim argued them out of smoking at all, since their eyes, once keyed to the darkness, would be blinded by any match flare.

And they waited, their guns silent. A desultory fire was kept up by the Excelsior outfit. More than anything else, Jim wanted to bait Bonsell into thinking their ammunition was exhausted.

It was a strain, peering down into that darkness where everything was a slight variation of gray. A man's nerves started to crawl, and he would jump at the merest sound.

Two full hours after dark, however, they were rewarded. Jim was watching on the side sloping into the canyon, simply because this was the side on which an attack would be least expected. For minutes now, he had been watching a shape down the slope that was just a little darker than the night. He thought he saw it move.

Then faintly there came to him the clink of a spur on rock.

When he was sure it was a man, or many men, he whispered to Mako, “They're sneakin' up my side.”

“Want help?”

“No. Stay where you are. Pass the word around. It may be a trick to get us all over on this side. Just forget about me and watch your own territory.”

The rifles below kept hammering away—and the dark blot grew larger on the slope. Jim watched it grimly, not moving. He was beginning to make out shapes now, but he made no move to raise his rifle. He didn't want to make a mistake now.

At last, however, he could distinctly make out the forms of the attackers. They were more than halfway up the slope, just beginning to fan out.

He picked out the leader, took careful aim, and fired. He saw the man go down, heard his rifle clatter on the rock. The others fell on their faces, trying to hide. But Jim turned upon them, lacing shots low, so that rock splinters were kicked up in their faces. It was all over in a minute. Jim heard one of them call something, then there came a pounding of footsteps and the sliding of rock. He raked the slope with swift shots, and then all was silent again.

Immediately, Bonsell tried another plan. It was the old Indian way of fighting, taking advantage of each piece of cover, and carrying a running fight up the hill. Evidently, his men were set for it, for as soon as the first attackers were driven back, the second wave started.

This was more effective. Instead of stealth being used, this swift charge was designed to overwhelm them. A defender could only settle on one attacker, and while he was throwing shots at him, three others would advance up the hill, heckle him into turning his attention to them, while the first man advanced farther.

A kind of panic seized the squatters. Jim could tell by the number of their shots that they weren't aiming, rather shooting out of desperation. There were no men climbing his side of the slope, but he did not crawl over to join the others. He dropped down to the floor of the ridge, put his shoulder to the smallest boulders, and teetered them over the edge.

It was a terrifying noise in the dark. The hollow booming thunder of their descent gained in volume as they picked up speed, until the ground shook. Then a crash among the trees, and a prolonged ripping of smashed brush and broken trees rose to join the noise of the gunfire.