Collection 1989 - Long Ride Home (v5.0) (7 page)

He scrambled to his feet with an inarticulate growl of fury. Claire, her face white, saw Neil Pratt hurl himself at Brady.

The Circle R foreman was a notorious brawler, a huge man weighing over two hundred. Brady could never have weighed more than one hundred and fifty. Slim, wiry, but with broad shoulders, Brady looked much smaller than the Circle R foreman.

Neil Pratt, blood trickling from his smashed lips, stared at Brady. “Why, you white-livered baby!” he sneered. “I'll beat you t' a pulp!”

Four Circle R riders sat their horses, watching with interest. Pratt walked in, his face ugly. Coolly, Van Brady waited for him. A cowhand from boyhood, he had been places and learned other things. Pratt lunged, but his right missed, and Brady stepped inside, smashing two wicked blows to the body, then whipping a right hook to Pratt's cheek that cut to the bone.

Furious, Pratt tried to grab him. Van Brady was smooth, easy on his feet, his lips set, he glided in and out, boxing coolly, battering Pratt with punch after punch. Claire, astonished, suddenly realized what an incredible thing was happening. The schoolteacher was whipping Pratt!

Pratt caught Brady with a right swing and knocked him against the 'dobe wall of the school; when he lunged after him, Brady's foot caught him in the chest and shoved him back. Then, before he could get set, Van Brady moved in, smashed a left jab into his teeth, and crossed a chopping right to the chin. Pratt ducked his head and charged, but Brady was out of the way, and a snapping left bit into Pratt's ear, making his head ring.

He whirled, glaring wildly, and Brady moved in, feinted Pratt into a right swing, and then smashed a right to the body. Pratt tried again and took a left and a right. Brady wasn't moving away now, he was weaving inside of Pratt's vicious punches and nailing the big foreman with blow after blow in the stomach.

Pratt's breath was coming heavily now. The cut on his cheekbone was staining his shirt with blood, his lips were pulpy, his ear swollen. He ducked his head and started in, but two fast left jabs cut his eyebrow, and a right smashed his nose.

With an oath, Lefty Brooks, one of the Circle R hands, dropped from his horse and started forward. “Hold it!” Stretch Magoon stepped around the corner of the school. “Jest set still an' watch this,” he said grimly. “You all reckoned Pratt was some shakes of a fighter. Wal, watch a man fifty pounds lighter beat his thick head in!”

Neil Pratt wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand; he was swaying on his feet. Somehow, something was wrong. In all his fights his huge fists or his great strength had won quickly. Here was a man who didn't run away, who was always in there close, cutting, stabbing, slicing him with knifing punches, yet he couldn't hit him!

Pratt spread his hands, trying to get close. Suddenly Brady's shoulder was invitingly close. He lunged to grab it, but somehow Brady caught his wrist, bent suddenly, and Pratt found himself flying through the air to land heavily on the turf a half-dozen feet away.

Van Brady was breathing easily, and he was smiling now. “Get up, Big Boy!” he said softly. “I want to show you what happens to men who bust into my classes!”

Pratt heaved himself heavily to his feet. Brady did not wait. He walked up to him, and hooked both hands hard to the head. Pratt started to fall, and Brady caught him by the hair and smashed him in the face with three wicked uppercuts. Then he let go and shoved, and Pratt toppled over on the ground.

“Take him,” Brady said to the Ritter hands, “take him home. He'll need a good, rest!”

Sullenly, the Ritter hands helped Pratt to a horse and started off. Van Brady turned, wiping the sweat from his face. His clothes were not mussed, not even his wavy hair. The children stood staring admiringly as he walked to the pump to wash his bloody fists.

“You did a job,” Magoon said solemnly. “I never seen a man fight like that. He couldn't hit you.”

“They call it boxing,” Van said, straightening up. “Fighting is just like punching cows or trapping fur. It has to be learned. It isn't anything fancy, it is just a lot of tricks learned over many years by a lot of different men, each one a good fighter. When you know a lot of them you become a skillful boxer.”

He looked up at Stretch. “Thanks,” he said, “for keeping that monkey off my back.”

“It won't be enough, though,” Magoon said. “You got t' get a gun. They'll be back. That Pratt is mean!”

The Circle R was standing around staring as Neil Pratt was helped from his horse. Both eyes were swollen tight shut. His face was a scarred and bloody mass.

“What happened?” Ritter demanded.

He was a tight-faced, hard-mouthed man with mean eyes. Some said he was a killer. That he had twenty killings behind him. He always wore two guns.

“That schoolteacher,” Brooks said, “the one that's livin' at the schoolhouse.”

Pete Ritter stepped down from the porch, his face livid. “Livin' at the schoolhouse?” he snapped. “Don't you know that's on the Shanahan place? Jest loaned for a school? You pack o' flea-brained dolts, that hombre may be a Shanahan!”

In her own room, Claire Ewing was reading a letter from Spanish John.

That hombre wot done the clown trik ridin ack was Shanahan Brady. He cum from Montana somewheres, but his pappy cum from Arizony, like us. He was a plumb salty hombre. For moren a year he was a prizefighter in Noo Yawk, an he done trick shootin in the show, too. If'n he's out thar, yuh tell the boys to lay off. He ain't no pilgrum.

The table was crowded when she walked in with the letter in her hands. Coolly, she read it.

“Why, that ornery coyote!” Magoon declared. “He done that ridin' ack afore! I got a good notion t' beat his…” The memory of Neil Pratt's face came back to him. “No,” he finished, “I guess I better not.”

“How'd you guess?” Ewing asked her.

“That riding. I saw him do it on a circus, back East, when I was in school. He was supposed to be a clown, nearly got bucked off all the time, but always stayed on.”

“Ritter'll guess,” Magoon said. “He'll run him off.”

Web Fancher shoved back from the table. He got up. “I ain't hongry,” he said, and disappeared through the door. A moment later there was a clatter of horse's hooves.

“Goin' t' warn Ritter. I wondered what that coyote was up to!” Ward said. He got up. “Well, ain't speakin' for nobody but myself, but I'm sidin' the teacher!”

I
N THE CAMP among the willows, Shan Brady was digging into his war bag. He had little time, he knew. Ritter would hear of this, and from all he had learned the Circle R boss would be smart enough to put two and two together. Besides, he might know that Old Mike had allowed the school to be built on his place.

They would come for him, and he wanted to be ready. He had never killed a man, and he didn't want to now. There were four, no, that Mexican in Sonora made five, who had tried to kill him. Each of them had lived through it, but each time they had collected a bullet in the hand or arm.

Digging deeper in the war bag he drew out twin cartridge belts and two heavy Colt .45's in black, silver-mounted holsters. The belt and holsters were rodeo, showman's gear. The guns were strictly business, and looked it.

With those guns he had shot cigarettes from men's mouths, shot buttons from their coats.

Rolling up a fresh smoke, he studied the situation. His position had not been chosen only for camping facilities, and not only because it was on the Shanahan place. It had been chosen for defense, as well.

Logs had rolled downstream during flood seasons, and he had found several of them in an excellent position. He had dragged more down close, and under the pretext of gathering wood, he had built several traps at strategic places. Now, working fast, he dragged up more logs and rolled them into place. The stream provided him with water, and he had plenty of grub. He had seen to that.

They had laughed at him for that, behind his back. “That teacher must think he's goin' t' feed an army!” they had said. But he was planning, laying in a supply of food.

His position was nicely chosen. From three sides he could see anyone who approached. The willows and the log wall gave him some concealment as well as cover.

It was an hour after daylight when he saw them coming, Pete Ritter himself in the lead. Behind him were six men, riding in a tight knot. When they were thirty yards away, he lifted his rifle and spoke, “Keep back, Ritter! I don't want any trouble from you!”

“You got trouble!” Ritter shouted angrily. “You get off that place, an' get out of the country!”

“I'm Shanahan Brady!” Shan yelled, “an' I'm stayin'! Come any closer, an' somebody gets hurt!”

“Let's go!” Ritter snarled angrily. “We'll run the durned fool clear over the border!”

He started forward. Shan threw down on him and fired four fast shots. They were timed, quick and accurate. The first shot dropped a horse, the second picked the hat from Ritter's head, taking a lock of hair with it, the third burned Lefty Brooks's gun hand, and he dropped his six-shooter and grabbed the hand to him with a curse of rage. The fourth shot took the lobe from a man's ear.

The attack broke and the riders turned and raced for shelter. Shan fired two more shots after them, dusting their heels.

Calmly, he reloaded. “That was the beginning,” he said. “Now we'll get the real thing.”

Chewing on a biscuit, he waited. Suddenly, he glanced at the biscuit. “That Claire girl,” he said, “can cook, too! Who'd a thought it?”

The morning wore on. Several times, he sized up the rocky slope behind him. That was the danger point. Yet he had built his log wall higher there, and he had a plan.

Suddenly, rifles began to pop and shots were dusting the logs around him. He waited. Then he glimpsed, four hundred yards away, what seemed to be a man's leg. He fired, and heard a yell of pain.

Suddenly, a shot rang out from behind him and a bullet thudded into the log within an inch of his head. Hurriedly, he rolled over into the shelter of the log wall. No sooner there than getting to his knees he crawled into the willows away from camp, then slid into the streambed.

Rising behind the shelter of the banks, he ran swiftly upstream. Rounding a bend, he crawled up behind some boulders, then drifted along the slope. Panting, he dropped into place behind a granite boulder and peered around the edge.

A man he recognized as one of those who had come to the school with Pratt was lying thirty yards away, rifle in hand. Shan fired instantly, burning the sniper's ribs with a bullet. The man let out a yell of alarm and scrambled to his feet and started to run.

Lying still, Shan hazed the fellow downhill, cutting his clothes to ribbons, twice knocking him down with shots at his heels.

“All right!” The voice was cold, triumphant. “The fun's over! Git up!”

Turning, he saw Pete Ritter standing behind him, gun in hand. With him were Lefty Brooks and a man Brady recognized as Web Fancher from the Ewing ranch. “I figgered you might use that crickbed!” Pete sneered. “Figgered I might use it my ownself. Now we got you. Fust, you go back t' the ranch an' we let Neil get his evens with you. Then you start, for the state line.…You never get there!”

It was now or never. Shan Brady knew that instantly. Once they got their hands on him he was through. Ritter had him covered, but…his hands were a blur as they swept down for the guns.

Somebody yelled, and he saw Pete's eyes blazing behind a red-mouthed gun. Something hit him in the shoulder, and he shot, and even as he triggered his first six-gun, he realized that what he had always feared was not happening…he was not losing his head!

Coolly as though on exhibition, he was shooting. Ritter wavered in front of him, and suddenly he saw other Circle R riders appearing, and there seemed to be a roaring of guns behind him. Gunsmoke filled the air.

Fancher was down on his hands and knees, a pool of blood forming under him; Ritter was gone; and Lefty Brooks was backing up, his shirt turning dark, his face pale.

Then, suddenly as it began, it was over. He stepped back, and then a hand dropped on his shoulder. He turned. It was Magoon.

“Some shootin'!” Magoon said, grinning. Curly Ward and big Frank Ewing were also closing in, all with ready guns. “You took Ritter an' Brooks out of there! I got Fancher! That yeller belly of a traitor! Eatin' our grub an' working for Ritter!”

Claire rode up the slope, her hair blowing in the wind. She carried a rifle. He looked up at her. “You, too? I didn't' know women ever fought in this man's country?”

“They do when their men—!” Her face flushed. “I mean they do when their schools are in danger! After all, you're our best teacher in years!”

He turned and started down the slope with her. “Reckon that old Shanahan place could be fixed up?” he asked. “I think it'd be a good place t' have the teachers live, don't you? It could be mighty liveable.”

“Why, yes, but…,” she stopped.

“Oh, we'd get a preacher down from Hurston!” he said, grinning. “That would make it all sort of legal, and everything. Of course,” he added, remembering the biscuits, “you'd have to find time to cook, too!”

She flushed. Then laughed. “For you, I think I could!”

Shan Brady looked down at the house Old Mike had built. It was a nice house. It was a very nice house. With some curtains in the window, and the smell of cooking.…

THE TOWN NO GUNS COULD TAME

CHAPTER 1

Town Tamer Wanted!

T
HE MINER CALLED Perry stepped from the bucket and leaned his pick and shovel against a boulder. He was a big man with broad shoulders and narrow hips. Despite the wet, clinging diggin' clothes, he moved with the ease and freedom of a big cat. His greenish eyes turned toward Doc Greenley, banker, postmaster, and saloon man of Basin City, who was talking with the other townsmen.