Savage Range (5 page)

Jim pulled up here and dismounted, and they rested in the dark, lighting smokes.

When the tobacco had taken the edge off their saddle weariness, Jim spoke.

“How many of you know the Star 88?”

All had seen it.

“Then this ought to be simple,” Jim said. “MaCumber and Ball and Scoville take the north rim of that cup. Get as low down on it as you can without kicking off rock to give them warning. I'll take Beauchamp and Miles on the south side. You got that?”

They murmured assent.

“Now, get this straight,” Jim said. “You're to get in your places and stay there. I'm goin' to fire that small hay barn for light. By the time it catches, I'll be up in the rocks on the south side. I'll strike a match when I get there. You strike one in answer to let me know you're set. Then I'll parley.”

There was a silence, and MaCumber spoke up. “Parley? I thought this was a fight.”

“Not your kind of a fight,” Jim said quietly. “I'm goin' to warn Cruver and his crew off the place and then fire it. They'll go, I reckon. If they don't, I'll fire the shack. Now here's what I want understood. This is no killin' affair. If they hole up, you got a right to pour lead into that shack to scare 'em. But once it starts to burn, hold your fire. Let every man in that crew make a break for his horse and ride out. Once they start, you high-tail it for our horses. All I want is to clean that swarm of hornets out. And I don't want blood doin' it. Savvy that?”

There was a long silence, during which nobody spoke.

Jim said, menace in his tone, “The
hombre
that don't understand better speak out now. Because I mean it.”

None answered, and Jim stood up. “All right. The place lies over this high ridge to the east. Scatter and find your holes.”

He led the way with Ben and Miles, a feeling of uneasiness within him. There was a granite-hard and secret hatred of him among these men that stirred him to anger. They were a dare, just as an ugly bronc was a dare. While a man couldn't make an ugly bronc like him, he could make it respect him. There had never been a showdown between the Excelsior crew and himself, but there would be, he thought grimly.

His calculation had been right. They came out on the hogback directly at the house, and looking down and to the east he could see the close lights of the shack. The bunkhouse was dark, arguing that the crew was settled for the evening in Cruver's company.

Stealthily, Jim led the way down off the rim. It was steep, but the boulders were large and not easily dislodged. When he was level with the end of the rincon, he indicated to Miles that he and Ben were to stay here. They were far above the roof of the house, perhaps seventy yards from it. Jim left his carbine and descended alone. He did not remember a dog about the place, so once on the level, he moved swiftly. Talk and laughter from the house drifted out into the chill air.

He passed the cookshack, walking carelessly and whistling, but the cook was in bed. He cut behind it to the small hay barn which, next to the cookshack, was the closest building to the house. It was a shed, rather, a roof on stilts sheltering a couple of tons of loose hay.

Swiftly, he pulled out handfuls of hay, trailing it on the ground to serve as a fuse. Then he lighted it, watched it flare up, and walked silently back to the talus of the mesa. By the time he had started to climb, the hay was afire. Its growing flame lighted the whole scene like a torch. Once in position beside Ben and Miles, he struck a match and, getting an answering flare from the opposite side of the rincon, he called loudly, “Cruver!”

For a second nothing happened, and then a man cautiously poked his head out the door. Catching sight of the fire, he turned and bawled back into the house.

Jim raised his gun and laid a shot across the doorstep. The lamp inside the house was extinguished immediately.

“Cruver!” he called. “Answer me!”

Silence, and then Cruver's full voice boomed out, “That's you, ain't it, Wade?”

Jim answered, “Clear out of this place, or we'll burn it on top of you!”

“What if we do?”

“Then walk to your horse corral and wait there till I tell you to go.”

There was a long silence. Finally, surprisingly, Cruver yelled, “All right.”

“Come ahead, then.”

The first man tentatively stepped across the sill. Drawing no fire, he decided it was safe and started nonchalantly toward the corral. Suddenly, from the other side of the rincon, a shot whipped out, and the Star 88 hand stumbled, fell on his knees, and then rolled on his back.

Black fury mounted in Jim. He raised his rifle, sighted it at the spot where the gun flame showed, and fired. There was a wild yell in the night, and then Ball's voice bawled, “Cut it out!”

Jim yelled, “Hold your fire, damn you!”

Then he looked down at the shack again. The hit man had crawled back into the house.

“Cruver!”

“Go to hell, you bushwhacker!” Cruver yelled.

“Stay where you are if you don't want to get shot!” Jim called.

There was only one course left now. Cruver would not come out unless he was smoked out, since Jim had betrayed his word. And not one man in that shack would get out alive if those three across the rincon could help it. Still, angry reflection told Jim that the place would have to be burned unless Excelsior was to be laughed out of the country. And since Cruver had not put up a fight, Jim guessed that he had no guns in the house, but had left them in the bunkhouse. And that meant that Ball had not warned them.

Cursing bitterly, Jim slid down the mesa's talus again. His actions, plain as daylight, drew no fire from the house. First he let the horses out of the corral, then set about firing the place. With hay brought from the big barn, he set off the wagon shed, the big barn, the hay barn, the bunkhouse, and the cookshack.

A broken bale of hay he had saved out, and this he dragged back to the foot of the mesa. Calling Miles to help him, working like fury, he dragged the half bale up to where Ben Beauchamp, wide-eyed, was watching.

“Build a fire,” he ordered then. “Light that hay and then roll it down against the blind end of that shack. Make it fast. If they try to come out, let 'em go. Only, if you hit one of 'em, I'll kill you!”

He vanished into the night then on a dead run, bound for the other side of the rincon. Halfway across it, he saw the hay start its fiery descent down the slope. Gathering speed, scattering a tail of sparks like a meteor, it bounded up in the air, leaping and bumping over rocks, hit the flat, and, carried by its momentum, rolled against the end of the shack. It settled there, almost burned out, and then the flames started to lick at the bark of the bottom row of logs.

The whole night was lighted now, so he had no trouble picking out Scoville, Ball, and MaCumber nestled behind a high rock halfway down the slope.

“Clear out!” Jim ordered from the rim.

Obediently they toiled back up the slope. By the time they reached the rim, Ben and Miles had come.

Jim waited until the three of them were erect, and then he asked calmly, “Who shot that man?”

There was no answer. MaCumber eyed him sullenly, even smiling a little. With a flick of his wrist, Jim palmed up his six-gun and said, “Ben, hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” Ben said, his voice little and respectful now.

“Back off there fifteen yards, put a gun on this crew, and shoot the first man that tries to interfere.”

He waited until Ben had done so. “Miles,” Jim said. “Get over with the others.”

Miles stepped over to join the other three. “Shuck your guns, boys,” Jim drawled.

There was no mercy in his voice. Their guns dropped to the ground, and then he ordered them to step back.

“Now,” he announced, “Which one of you coyotes shot that man?”

There was still no answer.

Jim threw his gun aside. “Step out here, Ball. You're biggest; I'll start with you.”

“I never done it,” Ball protested.

“Who did?”

No answer. Jim stepped over and slugged Ball in the face, knocking him back into Miles's arms. Ball straightened up, holding his mouth, but he did not want to fight. “MaCumber,” he mumbled.

Jim's gaze shuttled to MaCumber, heavy and evil-looking in the glare of the burning buildings. “Well, well,” he drawled. “That right, Scoville?”

“Yeah.”

“Step out here,” Jim murmured to MaCumber.

For answer, MaCumber stooped and picked up a rock.

“Shall I let him have it?” Ben called.

“No,” Jim answered. He advanced toward MaCumber. “There's some of you stuffed Stetsons around here that don't know your master,” he drawled. “Watch and find out.”

MaCumber said, “I'll beat your damn brains out if you come another step, Wade!”

Jim slugged out suddenly with his left, but it was a feint. MaCumber, deceived by it, brought the rock down, aiming for Jim's shoulder. Jim wheeled away and tripped him, and when the man fell, he was on him.

They never got off the ground again. MaCumber tried to hug Jim for protection, but, astraddle him, Jim slugged him in the body till he let go. Then Jim raised his aim and drove hard, sickening blows into MaCumber's face. He felt the man's nose flatten under his knuckles, and then he drove a fist into his mouth. Finally, MaCumber quit. He whined, bubbling blood from his cut lips, his eyes wild and terrified. When Jim stepped off him, MaCumber sighed gently and started to sob, turning weakly on his face.

Jim looked up, his eyes still blazing. “Ball,” he drawled between panting breaths, “I'm goin' to whittle you down, too.”

But Ball wasn't fighting. Jim's first blow knocked him sprawling so that he teetered over the edge of the rock rim.

“Get up,” Jim said.

“Not me,” Ball said, making no move to rise. “I'm backin' water, Wade, and I don't care who knows it.”

Jim wheeled to confront Miles and Scoville. “I'll take you two jokers on together,” he offered, his voiced choked with fury.

Scoville raised a hand. “Not me, Wade. I know who cracks the whip around here.”

“Get your guns,” Jim taunted. “You're the kind of rats that don't feel like men without 'em. Get 'em, and we'll have a shoot-out now.”

“You can lick me there, too,” Scoville said mildly. “I wouldn't fight you for all the gold in Mexico, Wade. Now, cool down.”

Jim stood there, panting deeply, and the color came back into his face. Ball scrambled to his feet, evading Jim's hot glance.

“Well, that's settled,” Jim said quietly. “For money, marbles, or chalk, drunk or sober, day or night, with bricks, guns, fists, or bullwhips, I can lick the whole damn lot of you till you cry.”

He glared around at them to see if they agreed, and apparently they did.

“All right, pick MaCumber up,” Jim ordered and added, “you sorry damn bunch of tinhorn badmen.”

MaCumber came to at the horses. He held on drunkenly while they rode off down the arroyo, and not a word was spoken the rest of that night.

Jim Wade had impressed his ability on five of these fifteen, and he had done more than that with Ben Beauchamp. For even a kid, behind any sneer he could wear, knew a man when he saw one. Ben Beauchamp was Jim Wade's man for life, and he wanted, strangely enough, to tell Jim that in all humbleness.

Chapter Five:
“
TILL HELL WON
'
T HAVE ME
.”

At midnight, when they rode into the Excelsior, saddle-weary and hungry, it was dark. Before they entered the gate, they were challenged by a sentry Max Bonsell had stationed, for this was likely to be war now.

Jim tumbled into his blankets amid the tired snores of the crew. Before breakfast, he hunted out Bonsell and told him what had happened, and Bonsell listened, his face impassive, as Jim related the fight and the reason for it.

“You're right,” Bonsell said, when Jim finished. “Whip 'em into line.” He flipped his cigarette away. “I reckon you better ride into San Jon today and see what the town says.”

“Think that's wise?” Jim asked.

“You mean Haynes?” When Jim nodded, Max shrugged. “Suit yourself. Only my idea was to take the fight to him. If he thinks we're holin' up here afraid of him, he's liable to get wrong notions. Nobody's afraid of him, so what's the use of makin' him think we are? Of course”—he shrugged again—“you're runnin' this party. If you say no, then I'll forget it.”

Jim frowned in thought. Obviously, the man MaCumber had shot was not badly hurt or he could not have crawled back to the shack. Since the burning was justified under the circumstances, there was a fighter's wisdom in what Bonsell had said.

“I'll do that,” he murmured.

When the triangle clanged for breakfast and the crew assembled, they regarded Jim with a certain respect that had not been present before. Evidently the other ten men had been told by one of Jim's four that the ramrod was tough enough to make his orders stick.

After breakfast, Jim went down to the corral and saddled up. Ben Beauchamp followed him and, learning that he was riding to San Jon, asked if he could side him.

“Thinkin' of quittin'?” Jim asked.

Ben flushed and said immediately, “I'd stay here without wages, Jim.”

“Then why do you want to go in?”

Ben mumbled something and then raised his glance to Jim's eyes and held it there and said, “I'd like to see Lily and tell her she'll see somethin' different from me now.”

Jim nodded gravely and said, “Sure,” feeling a pity for this kid who had found the only self-respect he had ever known among a bunch of riffraff hardcases. He felt ashamed of himself for permitting it, too.

The road to San Jon was an open one, but Jim rode cautiously, watching the country ahead of him. Will-John Cruver was not a man to wait for a break; he was the kind who would force one. It was rolling country, thick with piñons and cedar, but from the ridges a man could see the valley ahead of him.