Savage Range (16 page)

The Excelsior crew didn't mind the gunfire. They could tell where their enemy was by the spot of his gun flash. But rocks were different. You could hear them, but you couldn't see them, and every one sounded as if it was headed for you.

Jim worked violently, pushing whatever rocks he could find, taking no aim. He calculated on the sound and their invisibility to spread a terror through these men that guns could not.

And he was lucky. He rolled one large one over the side, then turned to hunt another. He had barely found it when he heard a man's agonized scream rise over the clatter. It lifted in a long, piercing wail, trailing for three seconds in the night, and then it ceased abruptly. It sent a shiver down his spine.

And then the fire from the slope slacked off. He heard a man cursing wildly down at the base of the ridge. That would be Bonsell, taunting his men, driving them forward.

But they were cowed. Slowly, their gun flashes receded down the slope, showing less often as the Excelsior crew, afraid to make a target for a boulder, held their fire.

Jim watched breathlessly, and heard old Mako Donaldson chuckling. And then he lifted his glance, attracted by a dim point of light far to the south. As he watched, he saw a small fire flare up, burn for seconds, then die.

There was the puncher with their horses.

Jim, seizing the moment, gave swift orders to his men. “Get down here and roll rocks—every one you can find! Gang up on them; get some big ones rolling down every side!”

As they worked, he told them of seeing the fire. “We'll drive these gunnies so far back in the brush, they won't come out for an hour.”

He put his good shoulder against a big boulder and the others threw their weight beside him. The rock teetered, settled back, teetered again, and went over. The noise was monstrous. It went crashing down the slope in long, shattering leaps, a trail of sparks marking each place it hit. A wild yell, “Look out!” arose from the base of the ridge, and then the rock hit the first tree. It broke it off with the sound of rifleshot, and then plunged on. Tree after tree went down before its thunder, and for a full half minute afterward they could hear it smash its terrible course until momentum was gone.

Then they set to work with a will. There were no answering gunshots now. No man down there wanted to offer the flash of his gun as a target for a boulder.

When they had moved every boulder that was movable, Jim gave swift directions.

“Cut off down the west slope. Every boulder we find on the way, we'll push down. Come on, and quick about it!”

Max Bonsell's shout had come from the south side of the ridge. Jim felt certain that he had been forced to withdraw his men straight back out of range of the rocks, rather than order them to dodge. They made their silent way down the west slope now, shoving whatever boulders came in their path. There was no gunfire, not a sound except the rolling, leaping rumble of the boulders.

Once at the base of the hill, screened by the piñons and cedars, the six of them marched swiftly in Indian file, and ducked into the first arroyo they found. Its sand cushioned their footsteps. After they had walked for what Jim judged was five minutes, they rested, and sought a height of land. Once there, he sat down to wait.

Presently another small fire showed up for a moment straight ahead of them, and died almost as suddenly. But it was enough.

Fifteen minutes later, a voice softly hailed them. It was the puncher.

“The horses are waitin' just over the ridge,” he announced.

There were eight horses. There were seven men to ride them. Jim hadn't calculated badly.

When it came time to mount, Jim gave them the last bit of advice he was ever to give them.

“In your place, I'd hit for the mountains, and never stop ridin' till I was through them. Once through, I'd scatter.”

“To where?” Mako Donaldson murmured.

Jim didn't answer, for he knew how a country, however hostile and bitter, can grow into a man, become part of him. And this was the last time these men would ever see this range, or ever claim it for home.

Mako stepped into the saddle and regarded Jim musingly.

“And you, Wade,” he said, “what's left for you?”

“I'll stick,” Jim said. “I've got a score to settle. I'll settle it for you, too.”

“It strikes me we wouldn't be here to ride if it wasn't for you,” Mako said, and Jim made a deprecatory gesture that went unseen in the dark.

“I'm an old man,” Mako said. “I don't like to die in debt to a man. But I reckon I'll have to.” He put out his hand, and Jim shook it. “Thanks, friend,” Mako said.

Jim shook hands all around. None of these men, closemouthed and inarticulate, tried to thank him. It was understood, and that's the way he wanted to have it.

When they were gone, he listened until the last sound of their retreat gave way to the dim rattle of gunfire in the east. Bonsell was making another attack, and this time he would carry the ridge—to find it empty. It was time to ride.

He mounted wearily and headed for San Jon. He had partly corrected a mistake that would have ridden his every waking hour the rest of his life, he thought.

Chapter Thirteen:
FORGED CORNERS

Scoville was mending a bridle, sitting out on the back steps of Lily's house and letting the sun warm him. He was whistling softly, a token of a good breakfast just finished and peace in his heart.

He saw a man ride up the alley, turn, and pause at the rear of the blacksmith shop. Scoville didn't know him, and he regarded him idly as the man leaned over the horn of his saddle and exchanged words with Tom Beauchamp. He saw Tom gesture toward the house. The man dismounted, left his horse, and approached the house with a saddle-stiff, rolling gait that told of many hours in the saddle.

When he was close, Scoville nodded civilly. “Howdy.”

The man didn't answer. He had a narrow head, clamped on his neck by the squarest jaw Scoville had ever seen. The blond beard-stubble on his cheeks couldn't soften the line of that jaw, and his close-set eyes announced to the world that he didn't give a damn whether anyone liked the set of his jaw or not.

“I come from Cope's saloon,” he said meagerly. “They told me I'd find a, man by the name of Peters lives here.”

Peters! That was the name with which Cope had signed his letter to Buckner! Scoville looked up at the man, and he didn't like him, didn't like anything about him, not even the suggestively low set of the twin guns on his thighs.

“Yeah? Maybe he does,” he answered.

“You Peters?”

“What if I am?”

The man looked about him and then said one word in a lowered voice. “Buckner.”

Scoville spat carefully. “I'd heard it rumored that Buckner was a fine figure of a man. And if you're a fine figure of a man, cowboy, then my taste runs to women.”

The man's eyes veiled over. “I'm not Buckner.”

“That's what I think. I was just tryin' to tell you.”

“Buckner's outside of town, down in the bottoms.”

“That's fine,” Scoville said.

“He'd like to talk to you.”

“What's stoppin' him? You know where I am, don't you?”

The man's feet shifted faintly, his impatience mounting. “If you'd get on a horse, we'd be out there in ten minutes.”

Scoville spat again. “You've forgot somethin', haven't you?”

“Like what?”

“Like money. You know—what you get drunk with, what you buy horses with, what puts fat in the head, like yours.”

The man still held his temper. “If you want money, talk to Buckner.”

Scoville leaned his elbows on the step above him and turned his face up to the man. “What's your name, mister?”

“Warren. Ray Warren.”

“Well, Ray Warren,” Scoville drawled, “you look like a man that's seen the elephant and hear'n the owl hoot. You must have been in a store, once in your life, anyway. You know in a store you buy somethin' and give the man money for it. It's a custom.”

Warren said, “I told you Buckner will talk about that when we get out there.”

“That's just it,” Scoville said. “Did you ever see a storekeeper follow a customer home; then set down and talk about the price of what he wants to buy? You see, I'm the storekeeper in this case. You're the customer. You come to me—with money.”

“How much?”

“A couple of hundred to start with.”

“I ain't got it.”

“Go get it. I don't sell to broke people.”

Warren regarded Scoville a long moment, a look of cold disgust on his face. “Ever hear of a customer tellin' a storekeeper what he thought of highway robbery over a counter?” he asked softly.

“Can't say I have.”

“I heard one threaten to beat hell out of a storekeeper once, just because he didn't like the way he talked.”

“And I saw a storekeeper take a customer apart once, just to see what caused that loud noise inside him. Know what it was? It was just a lot of hot air that smelled like a skunk and barked like a coyote and had a long woolly tail tucked under its legs, like a sheep.”

Warren's face didn't change. “I'll be back,” he said.

“Oh, don't bother comin' if it's any trouble,” Scoville said innocently. “I won't miss you.”

When Warren had gone, Scoville's face relaxed into a grin. He heard a noise behind him and glanced up at the door. Lily was standing just inside it, her eyes dancing with laughter.

“Did anybody ever tell you,” she said, laughing, “that your manners in public aren't much different from a terrier dog's?”

Scoville grinned and said, “No, ma'am,” and Lily came out to sit with him.

“You see,” Scoville drawled, “for nearly a week now, me and Ben have been sweatin' out there on the grant. We've burned charcoal and buried it for them fake corner markers. We've dug up the old corners and smoothed 'em out and toted those stone markers over to put in the new charcoal. We've sweat and got plenty dirty and cussed and ate cold grub and rode until I near to wore my saddle out. I reckon we're due for a little fun, so I might's well have it with this jughead.”

“He looked like a rough customer,” Lily said, a little worry creeping into her eyes.

“Yeah,” Scoville said carelessly. “Every time I see one of them steely-eyed gunnies walkin' around on his hind legs with a I-dare-you-to-do-it look in his eyes, I just can't help twistin' his tail.”

“Be careful, Phil,” Lily said suddenly. “If he works for Buckner, we can be sure he's just as crooked as his boss. After he's got the information from you that he wants, he'll probably turn on you and pistol-whip you.”

Scoville looked at her, his eyes surprised and hurt. “Pistol-whip me? That stuffed Stetson? Why, lady, I'll tie him in a knot and pin him on your hat, if you give the word.”

Lily looked fondly at him. She understood that beneath his levity there was a real contempt for men like Warren, and that these men stirred up a fearless hatred in him. Moreover, he was a better man than they were, as his handling of Cruver proved. Other times, his real gentleness showed.

Warren returned in a half hour, and Scoville was still mending his bridle.

At sight of Warren, Scoville grinned. “If he trusted you with two hundred bucks out of his sight, he's a bigger sucker than you are for not runnin' away with it.”

Warren unsmilingly handed him a stack of gold pieces. Scoville pocketed them and went out and saddled his horse.

Buckner's camp was down-river, a couple of miles off the stage road.

Scoville sized up the man before he dismounted among the cottonwoods. Buckner was an impressive-looking man, and not all his impressiveness stemmed from his rich black suit, now covered with dust, and his fine hand-tooled boots. He had a thin and sensitive face, untanned by wind or weather, and his hair was white and thick.
This was what Mary Buckner's father looked like,
Scoville thought. Only the man who sired Mary would have had eyes not quite so calculating, and his chin would have been a little firmer. Also, he would not have had that arrogant, impatient cast to his face, or if he had, he would have apologized for it with a smile. Harvey Buckner did no such thing.

He said, “You're Peters?”

Scoville got down. “Sometimes,” he drawled. “Sometimes not. It depends on who I'm talkin' to.”

“Are you the man who wrote me about Bonsell?”

Scoville wanted to be cross-grained. He was going to enjoy this. “Depends on who you are,” he said. “I didn't catch the name.”

Buckner looked faintly irritated. “Buckner, of course. James Buckner.” He held up the letter. “Answer my question. Are you the man who wrote me this letter?”

“Depends,” Scoville said. “I ain't seen the letter yet.”

Buckner walked over and handed him the letter. Scoville looked at it and said, “I might have.”

“Well, I've paid you good money for information. I want that information.”

“You only paid me a little less than half. It'll cost you another three hundred to get what you want.”

Buckner looked over at Warren, who shrugged. Then, without protest, he opened his shirt to disclose a money belt. He took it off and dumped its contents on a blanket, which flanked a cold fire. From the pile of gold coins, he counted out another three hundred dollars in gold eagles and passed them over to Scoville.

Scoville, unwilling to pass up the chance to tender an insult, picked three coins at random, tested them with his teeth, and then pocketed them.

“All right. What do you want to know?”

“You said Bonsell had changed the boundaries of the Ulibarri grant. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I done the work myself.”

Buckner's eyes narrowed. “How did you do it?”