Galloway (1970) (15 page)

"You'll wait a long time," Galloway said quietly.

Curly laughed and started for the trees. Galloway had to trot to keep up. Once he fell and Curly dragged him several yards before he stopped and allowed him to rise. And then just as he was on his feet, Curly jerked him sharply so that he hit the ground hard. Curly laughed. "How's it feel, Sackett? That ain't nothin' to what's comin'. How do your toes stand up to fire? Pa tried that on a Yankee one time who wouldn't tell us where he'd hidden his proud-ofs. He told us soon enough, but pa let the fire burn for awhile just to teach him a lesson."

They were well into the trees before Galloway saw his chance. Suddenly he darted to one side and ducked around a tree, taking a quick turn of the rope around the bole. The move was so sudden that Curly, who only had dallied the rope around the saddle horn was caught unawares. Curly was no cowhand, although he had worked cattle to some extent, and he was careless by nature. Galloway's quick move in snubbing the rope around the tree not only brought his horse up short, but gave Galloway the instant he needed. Holding the snub tight with one hand he hastily kicked and shook the rope loose.

Curly wheeled his horse with a yell, but Galloway had ducked around a tree with others growing close beside it and it took Curly just a minute to find a hole through which he could guide his horse.

Curly grabbed for his pistol but a branch interfered. Galloway shook off the rope and ducking around the tree, jumped for Curly. Trying to pull back from the tangle in which he found himself, Curly felt a sudden heave on his stirrup as his leg was thrown up. He started to fall and tried to grab a secure hold on the pommel, but Galloway hacked at the fingers and Curly lost his grip.

He hit the ground with one foot caught in a stirrup and the frightened horse, backing and rearing, swung out of the trees and broke into a run.

Galloway staggered back, caught himself against a tree and slowly recovered himself. The horse went racing back toward the town, with Curly bouncing at every jump.

Glancing quickly around, he found Curly's pistol where it had fallen among the leaves. Hastily he checked the cylinder. Only three cartridges. Damn a man who didn't reload!

Holding the pistol in his hand Galloway started back for Shalako, only some two hundred yards away. He limped as he walked for his leg had been badly bruised when he had been dragged over the edge of the boardwalk.

He came into the head of the street and saw Curly's horse stopped in front of the saloon. Alf and the other Dunn were unfastening the rope. Berglund was kneeling beside Curly.

Galloway was within forty yards of them before Alf looked up. "I want my gun, Alf. Take it out mighty careful and put it down on the boardwalk."

Alf Dunn looked at Galloway. Hatred burned within him. At his feet lay Curly, dragged, torn and battered, injured badly, possibly dying. Always before the Dunns had had it their own way, and his hatred was filled with frustration and disbelief. This had never happened to the Dunns, it could not be happening.

Success corrodes, and the Dunns--always brutal, always cruel, always fighting a hit-and-run battle--had enjoyed success. Before their enemies could gird against them they were gone, miles away and with no idea of returning. In those swift strikes at unprepared ranches or communities they had been swaggering, triumphant and confident. Then Curly had been whipped by Flagan Sackett, a man who had just gone through a punishing ordeal, Jobe had been wounded, and the old Bull himself ignored. Now Curly had been terribly hurt in their moment of triumph, and here came the man who had done it, ordering him to throw down his pistol. It was more than he could take. Alf said, "Pete, let's take him."

Berglund left the ground in a long dive that carried him across the body of Curly and into the sparse grass beyond.

Alf and Pete with one accord had gone for their guns. Galloway's gun came up and fired. Alf turned halfway around and Galloway fired a second tune. Alf Dunn backed up and sat down and Galloway's gun covered Pete even as Pete's gun came up. "Don't do it," Galloway said. "I'll kill you."

"And if he don't," a new voice said, "I will!" Berglund, sitting up now that he was out of gun range, looked at the shaggy-haired big man in the faded red shirt and the black vest. A sheepskin coat was tied back of the saddle and there was a Winchester in the boot. The big man looked unkempt and almost unreal, for there was about him a wild savagery that was somehow shocking.

Galloway backed off a few steps to where he could see the newcomer. "Howdy, Logan! Nice to see you!"

He swung his eyes back to Pete. "You'd better take Curly home," he said, "and you tell Bull Dunn we want no more trouble. You brought it to us and by now you ought to have your belly full."

Pete snorted. "You think the old Bull will take this? He'll come in here a-foggin' it, mind you."

"His funeral. You tell him what I said. 'There's no need for all this shootin' and shoutin'."

Berglund got up slowly from the ground. "You two come in and I'll buy you a drink." He glanced at Logan. "I take it you're a Sackett?"

"Logan Sackett, from Clinch Mountain." He jerked his thumb toward Galloway.

"He's a Cumberland Sackett. They're good people, too."

At the bar Berglund poured the drinks. "I think you boys are going to straighten out that Dunn outfit. They were riding roughshod over everybody."

"We want to ranch," Galloway said. "All we want is to make a home. If we get settled in, Tyrel and Orrin are coming up here. We'll have the whole family together."

Bull Dunn sat at the table in the long house and poured his tin cup half-full of whiskey, then replaced the jug on the table. "Stir up that fire," he said, speaking to no one in particular. "I want my coffee hot!"

An hour before, Pete Dunn had come in with the battered, half-alive body of Curly Dunn, and the body of Alf in which no life remained. And then, just a few minutes ago, Rocker had ridden in, leading the crew Bull had sent down to scatter the Sacketts' cattle.

Bull didn't need anyone to tell him they had failed. His eyes swept over the group of men wordlessly leading their horses into the corral.

"Where's Abel?" he asked, as Rocker swung off his horse in front of him.

"Dead. I wasn't there when it happened."

Bull turned on his heel and walked into the house. Now he was sitting at the head of the table, looking at what was left of his family and the few others he could trust.

The old Bull was shaken. For the first time in years things were going against him, and he was sure he knew why ... because he had elected to stop.

Why stop? Was he getting tired? He tasted the raw whiskey, then turned the glass in his fingers.

That Curly ... he couldn't do anything right. He goes into the woods with a tied-up man and comes out with his horse draggin' him.

"Vern," he glanced. Down the table at the sallow-faced young man, "you got it to do. Cut 'em down, one after the other."

Vern Huddy batted his eyes and looked sour, but offered no immediate comment. He had been studying out the country and he knew what he could do.

"That big man," he suggested, "the one Pete told of. That'll be Logan Sackett.

He's an outlaw gunfighter. You all lay off him. He's a tiger."

"Let's have it," Bull said suddenly, "how did they get through with those cattle? I want to know."

"They had more men than we expected," Rocker spoke quietly. He was a young man of medium height, medium build, who carried himself with pride. "One of them, at least, was an Indian."

"There were several Indians," Ollie Hammer said. "They seemed to come right out of the ground and they kept those cattle running straight right down to the river. We never had a chance to scatter them."

"What happened to Abel?"

"He tried to draw against a Sackett. It was Flagan, the one who whupped Curly.

Tin-Cup and me was with Rocker going after the cattle. There was no one else there who could take on Sackett."

Rocker had been toying with his cup. Now he lifted his eyes to his father. "Pa, we lost Abel. Curly is done up. If he lives he won't be any use to us until this here fight is all over. Jobe has got him a crippled arm. Alf is dead ... I figure we'd better rattle our hocks out of here."

For a moment there was dead silence. Several stole looks at Bull, all were shocked. It was the first time any of them had dared suggest such a thing, and Rocker was the only one who could say it without a blow.

"You're talkin' crazy. When did we ever run from a fight?"

"Never. But nobody but a fool bucks a stacked deck. Pa, you don't know these Sacketts. There's a good many of them around the country, and when one of them is in trouble, they'll all come. We haven't seen anything yet."

"Vern will whittle 'em down."

"Maybe."

Vern's eyes came up sharply at the implied doubt. He started to speak, then held his silence.

"The Sacketts aren't nesters," Rocker continued. "They aren't just cow ranchers.

Every one of them is a woodsman. They grew up feuding and fighting and they know all the tricks. I've heard about them for years. Tyrel and Tell are probably the best hands with guns, although Logan may be as fast.

"Flagan, Galloway, and Orlando are all good. I don't know about Parm Sackett, the one who bought those cattle they are bringing in."

"Rocker," Bull said impatiently, "that's fool talk."

"Maybe. But why buck a stacked deck? I think our luck's run out."

Bull glared at Rocker, but he made no reply. He gulped whiskey, took the coffee chaser, and waited. Something would come to him. It always had.

This country was too good to leave. He had hated the flat plains of Kansas, although he knew it was great cattle and wheat country. He liked eastern Colorado and Texas no better. He had wanted to stop nowhere until he rode into the valley of the La Plata.

It had looked easy. The country was wide open to settlement. The town of Shalako was small enough to be comfortable, and there weren't too many people around.

They could move in, take what they wanted, and settle down to raise cattle and families. Controlling the largest number of voters he would be able to elect his own sheriff or marshal.

In just a few years they'd have some herds built up, stealing them down in New Mexico or Arizona if necessary, and they could hold this valley like a private place.

Then the Sacketts came in. They were warned, only they did not go. Curly had gone and picked himself a fight and gotten whipped, and that had been a blow.

Bull Dunn knew how important is the reputation for invincibility, and the defeat of Curly by a man in bad physical condition threw a shadow over that reputation.

Suddenly everything had gone wrong.

Worst of all, Rocker was failing him, and Rocker had always been the smartest in the lot, the smartest and the quietest. The rest of them, well they were a wild lot, obeying nobody but him, listening to nobody but him. And until now they had believed nothing could whip them. Bull Dunn was not that kind of a fool. It was good for them to believe that as long as he, who was the boss, knew better. Bull Dunn had seen quiet communities suddenly rise up in anger, and suddenly the trees began blossoming with hanged men.

He knew all about that. He had left Virginia City, up in Montana Territory, just before the hanging started. Just a hunch that he had, a sudden waking up in the morning with an urge to ride ... and he had ridden.

When the news reached him that Henry Plummer and the rest of them were left dancing at the end of a rope he had known he was right.

Had his senses dulled over the years? Was that what Rocker was feeling now? The Rocker had always been cautious, however. He was good with the six-shooter, probably the best Bull ever had seen, but he had a tendency to caution the others scoffed at, but not in front of the Rocker.

"All right, Rocker, you've been right before. We'll make one more try ... just one. If that doesn't work we'll ride north out of here, head for Brown's Hole."

Rocker Dunn was uneasy, but he knew there was no use arguing, as even this concession was more than he had hoped for. And of course, the old Bull might know what he was talking about.

Yet he could not but remember the broken, bleeding body of Curly ... he had never liked Curly, brother or no. There was something unhealthy about him.

Nonetheless, to see him come in like that... what was it about those Sacketts?

There was that Texas Ranger, McDonald, who said, "There's no stopping a man who knows he's in the right and keeps a-coming."

Maybe that was it.

Chapter
XV

The cattle came in before noon of the day following the fight in the streets of Shalako. They came in bunched nicely and moving well. Parmalee had brought them over the trail losing no flesh and ready for a final polish before cold weather set in.

Yet the work had just begun with the bringing of the cattle, and while the Indians rode herd, I taken Galloway, Nick, and Charlie Farnum out to make hay.

There were high meadows where the hay was good, and we bought extra scythes at the store in town and went to work. Galloway and me, we'd had a spell of this as boys, and we went down the line cutting a wide swath, swinging the blades to a fine rhythm. Nick and Charlie were new at it and made more work of it.