Collection 1986 - The Trail To Crazy Man (v5.0) (29 page)

“That big feller looks man enough to do it by himself. But if he can pay, his money will look good to me.”

“He better watch his step. That Sabre ain’t no chicken with a pair of Colts. He downed Rollie Pinder, an’ I figure it was him done for Lyell over to the Reef.”

“It’ll be somethin’ when he an’ Bodie get together. Both faster than greased lightnin’.”

“Sabre won’t be around. Pinder figures on raidin’ that spread today. Sam wouldn’t help him because he’d promised Park. Pinder’ll hit ’em about sundown, an’ that’ll be the end of Sabre.”

W
AITING NO LONGER, I hurried back to my horse. If Pinder was to attack the Two Bar, Park would have to wait. Glancing at the sun, fear rose in my throat. It would be nip and tuck if I was to get back. Another idea came to me. I would rely on Mulvaney and the Benaras boys to protect the Two Bar. I would counterattack and hit the CP!

When I reached the CP, it lay deserted and still but for the cook, bald-headed and big bellied. He rushed from the door but I was on him too fast, and he dropped his rifle under the threat of my six-gun. Tying him up, I dropped him in a feed bin and went to the house. Finding a can of wagon grease, I smeared it thickly over the floor in front of both doors and more of it on the steps. Leaving the door partly open, I dumped red pepper into a pan and balanced it above the door, where the slightest push would send it cascading over whoever entered, filling the air with fine grains.

Opening the corral, I turned the horses loose and started them down the valley. Digging out all the coffee on the place, I packed it to take away, knowing how a cowhand dearly loves his coffee. It was my idea to make their lives as miserable as possible to get them thoroughly fed up with the fight. Pinder would not abandon the fight, but his hands might get sick of the discomfort.

Gathering a few sticks, I added them to the fire already laid, but under them I put a half dozen shotgun shells. In the tool shed were six sticks of powder and some fuse left from blasting rocks. Digging out a crack at one corner of the fireplace I put two sticks of dynamite into the crack and then ran the fuse within two inches of the fire and covered it with ashes. The shotgun shells would explode and scatter the fire, igniting, I hoped, the fuse.

A slow hour passed after I returned to a hideout in the brush. What was happening at the Two Bar? In any kind of fight, one has to have confidence in those fighting with him, and I had it in the men I’d left behind me. If one of them was killed, I vowed never to stop until all this crowd were finished.

Sweat trickled down my face. It was hot under the brush. Once a rattler crawled by within six or seven feet of me. A packrat stared at me and then moved on. Crows quarreled in the trees over my head. And then I saw the riders.

One look told me. Whatever had happened at the Two Bar, I knew these men were not victorious. There were nine in the group, and two were bandaged. One had his arm in a sling and one had his skull bound up. Another man was tied over a saddle, head and heels hanging. They rode down the hill and I lifted my rifle, waiting for them to get closer to the ranch. Then I fired three times as rapidly as I could squeeze off the shots.

O
NE HORSE SPRANG into the air, spun halfway around, scattering the group, and then fell, sending his rider sprawling. The others rushed for the shelter of the buildings, but just as they reached them one man toppled from his horse, hit the dirt like a sack of old clothes, and rolled over in the dust. He staggered to his feet and rushed toward the barn, fell again, and then got up and ran on.

Others made a break for the house, and the first one to hit those greasy steps was Jim Pinder. He hit them running. His feet flew out from under him and he hit the step on his chin!

With a yell, the others charged by him, and even at that distance I could hear the crash of their falling, their angry shouts, and then the roaring sneezes and gasping yells as the red pepper filled the air and bit into their nostrils.

Coolly, I proceeded to shoot out the windows and to knock the hinges off the door, and when Jim Pinder staggered to his feet and reached for his hat, I put a bullet through the hat. He jumped as if stung and grabbed for his pistol. He swung it up, and I fired again as he did. What happened to his shot I never knew, but he dropped the pistol with a yell and plunged for the door.

One man had ducked for the heavily planked water trough, and now he fired at me. He was invisible from my position, but I knew that he was somewhere under the trough, and so I drilled the trough with two quick shots, draining the water down upon him. He jumped to escape, and I put a bullet into the dust to left and right of his position. Like it or not, he had to lie there while all the water ran over him. A few scattered shots stampeded their horses, and then I settled down to wait for time to bring the real fireworks.

A few shots came my way after a while, but all were high or low, and none came close to me.

Taking my time, I loaded up for the second time and then rolled a smoke. My buckskin was in a low place and had cover from the shots. There was no way they could escape from the house to approach me. One wounded man had fallen near the barn, and I let him get up and limp toward it. Every once in a while somebody would fall inside the house. In the clear air I could hear the sound, and each time I couldn’t help but grin.

There was smashing and banging inside the house, and I could imagine what was happening. They were looking for coffee and not finding it. A few minutes later a slow trickle of smoke came out the chimney. My head resting on the palm of one hand, I took a deep drag on my cigarette and waited happily for the explosion.

T
HEY CAME, AND suddenly. There was the sharp bark of a shotgun shell exploding and then a series of bangings as the others went off. Two men rushed from the door and charged for the barn. Bullets into the dust hurried them to shelter, and I laid back and laughed heartily. I’d never felt so good in my life, picturing the faces of those tired, disgruntled men, besieged in the cabin, unable to make coffee, sliding on the greasy floor, sneezing from the red pepper, ducking shotgun shells from the fire.

Not five minutes had passed when the powder went off with a terrific concussion. I had planted it better than I knew, for it not only cracked the fireplace but blew a hole in it from which smoke gulped and then trickled slowly.

Rising, I drifted back to my horse and headed for the ranch. Without doubt, the CP outfit was beginning to learn what war meant. Furthermore, I knew my methods were far more exasperating to the cowhands than out-and-out fight. Your true cowhand savors a good scrap, but he does not like discomfort or annoyance, and I knew that going without water, without good food, and without coffee would do more to end the fight than anything else. All the same, as I headed the gelding back toward the Two Bar, I knew that if any of my own boys had been killed I would retaliate in kind. There would be no other answer.

Mulvaney greeted me at the door. “Sure, Matt, you missed a good scrap! We give them lads the fight of their lives!”

Jolly and Jonathan looked up at me, Jolly grinning, the more serious Jonathan smiling faintly. Jolly showed me a bullet burn on his arm, the only scratch any of them had suffered.

They had been watching, taking turnabout, determined they would not be caught asleep while I was gone. The result was that they sighted the CP riders when they were still miles from the headquarters of the Two Bar. The Benaras boys began it with a skirmishers’ battle, firing from rocks and brush in a continual running fight. A half dozen times they drove the CP riders to shelter, killing two horses and wounding a man.

They had retreated steadily until in a position to be covered by Mulvaney, who was ready with all the spare arms loaded. From the bunkhouse they stood off the attack. They had so many loaded weapons that there was no break in their fire until the CP retreated.

“Somebody didn’t want to fight,” Jolly explained. “We seem ’em argufyin’, an’ then finally somebody else joined in an’ they backed out on Pinder. He was almighty sore, believe you me.”

Amid much laughter I told them about my own attack on the CP.

Mulvaney ended it suddenly. “Hey!” he turned swiftly. “I forgot to tell you. That catamount of a Bodie Miller done shot Canaval!”

“Is he dead?”

“Not the last we heard, but he’s hurt mighty bad. He took four bullets before he went down.”

“Miller?”

“Never got a scratch! That kid’s plumb poison, I tell you! Poison!”

IX

For a minute I considered that, and liked none of it. Canaval had been a man with whom I could reason. More than that, with Canaval at hand there had always been protection for Olga.

There was no time to be wasted now. Telling Mulvaney of what I had seen in the canyon, I turned my buckskin toward the Bar M. I wanted first of all to talk with Olga, and second to see Canaval. If the man was alive, I had to talk to him. The gun star of Bodie Miller was rising now, and I knew how he would react. This new shooting would only serve to convince him of his speed. The confidence he had lacked on our first meeting he would now have.

He would not wait long to kill again, and he would seek out some known gunfighter, for his reputation could grow now only by killing the good ones, and Canaval had been one of the fastest around. And who would that mean? Jim Pinder, Morgan Park, or myself. And knowing how he felt about me, I had an idea whom he would be seeking out.

Key Chapin was standing on the wide veranda of the Bar M house when I rode into the yard. Fox was loitering nearby, and he started toward me. “You ain’t wanted here, Sabre!” he told me brusquely. “Get off the place!”

“Don’t be a fool, man! I’ve come on business!”

He shook his head stubbornly. “Don’t make no difference! Start movin’ an’ don’t reach for a gun! You’re covered from the bunkhouse an’ the barn!”

“Fox,” I persisted, “I’ve no row with you, and you’re the last man in the world I’d like to kill, but I don’t like being pushed and you’re pushin’ me! I’ve got Bodie Miller an’ Morgan Park to take care of, as well as Jim Pinder! So get this straight. If you want to die, grab iron. Don’t ride me, Fox, because I won’t take it!”

My buckskin started, and Fox, his face a study in conflicting emotion, hesitated. Then a cool voice interposed. “Fox! Step back! Let the gentleman come up!”

It was Olga Maclaren.