T
HERE WAS A LIGHT
in the bunkhouse and one in the parlor at the Split S. Brad rode into the lamplight coming from the open bunkhouse door and swung to the ground. Nate Krouse came out, looking curious, and Brad thought how easy it would be for someone to take this place.
“Jordan,” Brad told him. He tossed his reins to Olaf and strode around to the front of the house. He could hear Krouse talking to Olaf, but the words were too low for him to catch.
June Grant let him in. He saw that the frown of worry had deepened in her forehead until an almost permanent groove had been cut there.
“I thought it might be Jim,” she said. “He was supposed to come,” She stepped aside, letting Brad by. “I have you to thank for the water?”
“No thanks needed,” he said. “It brought Quarles out of his hole.” He disliked telling her this, feeling that a good deal of the blame was on his head. But there was no other way.
“Parker’s outbuildings were burned. In town they think he was run out.”
She was very quiet, her hands hanging limply at her sides, her face slightly tilted so that the lamplight etched her gentle profile. “I knew the fire was Jim’s. But I — I kept hoping.”
Brad went on ruthlessly, “And Quarles is riding.” He told her what Faith had said. “He may come here first.”
June turned, starting for the door. “I’ll tell the men,” she said. “Dave isn’t here or he might — ”
“Arden is dead,” Brad said. “I found him on the trail up to the meadow.”
Her face twisted back over her shoulder, and for a moment her eyes tugged at his and then dropped away. “You — no, you didn’t.”
“Faith won’t believe that,” he told her.
“She was shocked,” June Grant said, and went out through the kitchen. Brad followed her and stepped to the yard just as she was calling the men from the bunkhouse.
“Quarles is riding on the town,” June said without preamble. “He may hit here first. He burned Jim out tonight.”
“Town?” Andy Toll echoed. His empty expression became startled and then worried. “Where can we go if he hits town?”
“You can stay here,” Brad said.
“Thirty men if he gets Sawhorse in, too,” Nate Krouse said. He spat at the ground and ducked his head, not looking at anyone.
“Or you can ride over the mountains and try to find another home,” Brad added.
“There ain’t no place,” Andy Toll said plaintively. He looked around, as if realizing a threat to his security for the first time. “What’s he want to bother us for?”
Nat Krouse lifted his head suddenly and walked into the bunkhouse. He came out strapping on a gun belt and awkwardly holding a carbine under one arm. There was a faint smile hovering on his lips as he looked past June Grant at Brad.
“I’m too old to find another home,” he said.
Jake Bannon had been silent, rocking back and forth on his toes, looking first at one thing and then at another. Now he said something inaudible and ducked into the bunkhouse. He came out, as Krouse had, with his guns.
“You’d better ride, Andy,” June Grant said. But there was a gladness in her voice directed at the other two men.
“Take Miss June into town and go on,” Brad said.
She spun around. “I’m not going to town! This is my home. I’ll be the last to leave it.”
“She can shoot, too,” Krouse remarked, as she started briskly toward the house. He spat a second time. “Tuck up your skirts and start riding, Andy.”
Andy Toll’s face worked. “What’s he want to do this for?” he demanded. There was no answer from anyone. He made an empty sound and walked slowly into the bunkhouse. Brad could see him through the door, pawing over his war bag. He came out and got two horses from the corral, saddling one and putting his pack on the other. He mounted.
June Grant came from the house and handed him some money. “Your wages,” she said. “Thanks, Andy, you’ve been a good hand.”
He took the money. “You didn’t hire me for fighting,” he blurted, and kicked at the horse he rode.
They watched him go out of the light into shadow, and finally there was only the sound of hoofs on the dry roadway. The last sound was the faint rumble of planks as he crossed the bridge.
“If they come, it’ll be soon,” Brad said. “Let’s get ready.”
“You’re helping?” June asked.
Brad looked at her. “Some people will think I caused it,” he said. “I’m helping.”
They were watching him, and he realized then it was not for censure but for leadership. He said, “Let’s get the horses where they’ll be safe but handy. That’s the first thing.”
They did so, choosing a place near the front of the house out of possible lines of fire, and in shadow. Each of the men made a pack and, with the greatest reluctance, June Grant did the same thing.
Suddenly there was no more time. Brad heard it first — a low distant rumbling like far thunder. There was no doubt of it as the noise increased.
“They’re riding,” he said.
Krouse cocked his head. “Coming here, too. They’re in Biddle’s upper pasture now.”
Brad directed them quickly, putting Bannon and Krouse in the big barn and June in the upper part of the house. He stationed Olaf in the shadow of a great cotton-wood, where he would have a full sweep of the yard. The bunkhouse light went out, and those in the house as well.
From the barn loft, Nate Krouse said, “I’m kinda glad it’s come. It had to sooner or later.”
“Shoot only when there’s something to hit,” Brad warned, and rode his palomino back into shadow near the front of the house.
The silence came down heavily now, broken only by the steady thundering sound. Then that splintered, and Brad could catch the individual beat of horses moving fast over hard-packed earth. They were less than five minutes away, on Split S range, and riding downhill.
Krouse called, “Both crews coming.”
Brad drew his carbine and moved around to the north side of the house, stationing himself there against a protective corner of the kitchen wing. He judged that they would ride in between the two barns — the big one where Krouse and Bannon were, and the older, smaller one that was empty except for some cast-off saddle gear.
When they came it was in a long line, two and three abreast. The darkness obviously confused them, for they drew up with ten men in the yard and the others halting behind.
“Ride back,” Brad called to them. “There’s nothing here.”
“Jordan!” It was Quarles’ voice, and in the one word Brad could sense his surging, uncontrolled anger. Quarles had lost his iron grip on himself, Brad realized, and he was turning his unthinking rage on everything in his path, whereas he had turned it only on Parker before.
“Hit them!” Quarles shouted.
“That’s warning enough,” Brad said, and fired. On the echo of his shot four others came, almost simultaneously. There was a yelling and a whinny as a horse went down. One man swore in pain and another in anger. The horses in the yard began to mill as the men behind couldn’t get out of the way fast enough. Brad fired again. And from Olaf’s position another shot came.
Those in the yard were shooting now, but ineffectually against the dark. From the house and the barn loft, June and her men picked their targets carefully.
Quarles roared an order and the remaining men swung and formed, racing out of range behind the big barn. Shots were coming from the far edge of the yard; Brad heard one strike against the house. The men out there were shooting with rifles now.
Four men lay in the yard, one crawling through the dirt, the others still. A riderless horse was tugging to free his reins from a dead man’s grip, and another horse was down, kicking and making a screaming sound. A bullet from the attic stilled it.
The silence came and was broken again. “They’re circling,” Krouse called out. His gun made a spatting sound. “Torch,” he said.
His gun cracked again. Brad withdrew from his position and rode away from the house southward until he had a view of the area behind the barns. A man with a torch was riding in a weaving pattern, trying to work his fire up against whatever he could reach. He angled out of range of the men in the barn and was almost to the building when Brad’s careful shot drove him out of the saddle. He threw the torch as he fell, and it landed in dry grass that had been let grow raggedly behind the barn.
Brad stayed where he was, watching the fire grow, his eyes bleak with the realization of helplessness. Then the flames leaped high enough for him to be a target, and three guns crashed, driving him back. He wheeled into the yard and looked briefly down at the men on the ground. He knew none of them.
Brad worked his way back to the shadow of the house. He could hear the gentle crackle of flames even from where he sat his horse, and the smell of smoke was strong on the southwest wind. Without warning, the crackle grew to a roar and a spurt of flame shot into the air.
“Barn’s caught,” Jake Bannon cried in panic. And Brad saw him poised at the edge of the haymow. He stood an instant and then jumped, hit the ground ten feet below, staggered forward and ran for the horses.
“Not this barn,” Krouse shouted uselessly after him.
Someone shot from between the barns, and Bannon made a loop in the air and landed belly down in the dust. Brad fired at the man who had slipped quietly up. He got an answering shot and returned it, and the man came into the open holding his stomach and vomiting. Brad saw Nate Krouse poised above, and then Nate’s bullet drilled the man in the head, dropping him.
The old barn was burning faster now, pushed by the breeze and its own ancient dryness. Brad called, “Come down,” to Krouse, who disappeared from the haymow. In a moment he reached the yard, hesitated, and raced for the protection of the bunkhouse. A gun began to spit, spurting dust around his feet, but he danced his way into darkness, and the gun ceased.
Shortly he came alongside Brad, his voice coming harshly through his winded breathing. “That barn’ll light the whole place up in a minute.”
“Gives us something to aim by,” Brad answered.
“All right,” Krouse said, and retreated.
Shots began to come from behind now, and Brad realized they were circled. He heard Olaf’s answer, and then Nate Krouse shooting from near the bunkhouse. There was the sound of an attic window going up and June Grant’s carbine was loud.
Brad pushed his carbine into the boot and drew his .44. Turning the palomino, he worked outward in darkness. He saw a man sliding Indian-fashion through the grass. Brad shot, and the man stopped, his gun in one out-stretched hand.
Brad worked the edges, finding some advantage in this sniping, but knowing it could not go on. The barn was burning harder and brighter, throwing its light farther with each minute. There was an explosion of tinder-dry wood, and before long the bunkhouse roof caught and it, too, began to roar.
Time seemed to stand still as Quarles’ men worked in and out, also keeping to shadow, and aiming for the house. There were only sporadic shots now from both sides. Brad was near the veranda when he caught the sound of rushing hoofs, and turned to see a small group spearheading for the edge of the yard. He shouted, “Olaf!” and fired into the group. Olaf’s carbine took up the fight, and the men broke, splitting and fading to the sides. Olaf rode from his protection, still firing, and Brad rode off at an angle, reaching the two men who had broken to the north. He knocked one man sidewise in the saddle, and felt the sharp stabbing pain of lead burning his arm before both men dipped down out of sight.
A great tongue of flame leaped high as a section of barn roof crashed in throwing heat and sparks far around it. Brad wheeled his horse to get back into shadow, and came against another rider. He swung his gun about when he recognized Faith McFee. Her horse was heavily lathered and, even in the dimness, Brad could see the signs of strain and weariness on her face.
He pulled her into deeper shadow. “What are you doing here?”
“What is there for me in town?” she asked. He did not answer. And she went on, “Molly Teehan brought Jim Parker in to the Doc. He was run out as you were.” There was a blank emptiness in her voice. “Keinlan told my ancle that it was Dave who did it, not Quarles.”
Brad rocked in the saddle. “It’s Quarles doing this,” he said. “Are we getting help?”
Her voice was bitter. “When I left Molly Teehan had only two men rounded up. The rest were running for holes.”
Brad rode away from the house a short way and called softly to June Grant. In a moment she came down, slipping through shadow to him. He told her what Faith had reported.
“Ride out of here. Tell Molly Teehan to take Jim Parker back to the gap where he’ll be safe. He’ll have a chance there.”
“And you?”
“I’ll work the edges for a while,” Brad said. “Maybe we can hold them here until the town’s ready. If it ever is.”
“I’m staying,” she said flatly.
Brad worked shells into his gun. The shots were scattered now. “You can rebuild a home. You can’t rebuild a man. You go see to Parker.”
Faith McFee rode up. “They’re not sending help,” she said to June.
June Grant moved away beside Faith’s horse, her straight back bowed, her head down. Brad pushed the palomino around to the far side of the house where no firelight yet reached and kept watch again.
After a while Faith rode up to him. “She’s below the bridge,” she said.
“You should have gone. There’s nothing for you here.”
“Someone to ride with,” she said. He could see her face only briefly, but her expression was set.
“The man who shot Arden,” he told her.
“No,” she answered. “I heard the truth. It was Nick Biddle. Before I got to town I knew I was wrong.” There was no apology in her voice.
Brad looked away. He was seeing her now as he had visualized all women during his drifting life. Quiet and grave and steady — someone to stand by a man.
“This is foolishness,” he said sharply. “Ride while you can.”
A splatter of shots cut off her reply. From over where Olaf would be, a drumming of gunfire rose. And two quick bursts came from the south where Krouse had ridden.
Brad felt lead whip at his hatbrim and the flash was almost upon him. He said savagely, “Ride back,” to Faith, and answered the shot.