The Battle At Three-Cross (22 page)

The attack came with savage suddenness! The brush on four sides of the house erupted violently with orange fire. Shattering explosions rent the early-morning air. As Lance had expected, the bulk of the attack was concentrated at the front. Bullets thudded into the adobe house walls and ripped into sandbags. Lance caught one low, suppressed moan; that was the only sound uttered. True to Lance's instructions, the men were holding their fire, awaiting the attackers' closer approach. A second furious volley came from points nearer the front of the house.

Lance yelled as loud as he could, “Let 'em have it!”

Four sides of the building suddenly roared with gunfire. Cries of pain rose from the neighboring brush. Lance yelled exultantly: “We scored that time, fellers!” Rifles and six-shooters cracked madly. The battle was on. Lance sent another shot crashing from his gun. On both sides men were firing and reloading as fast as possible. From time to time Lance caught the booming of six-shooters from the rear of the house, though the attack from that direction was more or less desultory. Lance emptied his gun, loaded and reemptied it he didn't know how many times. He only realized the weapon was growing hot in his
hand. He felt a touch on his arm. Turning, he saw Katherine offering him a loaded Winchester in exchange for the depleted six-gun in his hand. “Good girl,” he grunted. “Better get back in the house though.”

Even while he jerked the Winchester to his shoulder and levered shot after shot from the barrel in the direction of flashes of fire from the brush he felt her fingers tugging at the cartridges in his belt as she reloaded the hand gun. He heard her cool voice saying something about “angry, droning hornets.” He remembered taking his six-shooter from her, and that was all at the time. She had passed on to her uncle.

Again and again Lance fired. Every time he glanced along the rim of the sandbags they seemed to be fringed with living flame. It was hot, sweaty work. Powder smoke hung low along the length of the gallery, stinging eyes and throats and nostrils with its acrid fumes. Sharp lances of flame stabbed viciously from the brush and trees. Now and then a man screamed in agony or yelped with sudden pain. By now the attackers were concentrating on the front of the house. Those within emerged to squeeze down among the men lined behind the barrier of sandbags.

Lance didn't know how long they'd been fighting, but suddenly he saw that the flashes of gunfire had changed from vivid orange to white and he realized it was daylight. He glanced along the gallery and saw several wounded and dead Yaquentes. Oscar had a bloody gash across the back of one hand; his left cheek bulged with lemon drops. Lanky's shirt sleeve had been slashed with flying slugs at two places. The building wall behind the fighters was
pockmarked as though it had withstood a storm of hailstones. Katherine was moving along the gallery, crouched low, lending such aid as she could to the wounded. Lance yelled at her to get back into the house. He didn't know what she said in reply. He didn't have time to listen just then.

A group of about thirty white-clothed forms under big straw sombreros, with bandoleers around their shoulders, came charging out of the brush, their gun muzzles spurting flame and smoke. Lance yelled, “Don't give an inch, hombres! Pour it on 'em!”

His men responded with a crashing torrent of lead that all but cut the attackers in two. For a brief instant all motion seemed to stand transfixed in the hideous din, and in that instant Lance caught a picture he never forgot. The attackers appeared to hesitate momentarily, then more than two thirds of them bent suddenly at the middle and pitched forward. Others turned and ran back for the brush. Several were limping frantically from the scene. The Yaquentes along the gallery gave a high-pitched yell and renewed their fire. Only a few of the attackers regained the shelter they had left less than a minute before.

Powder smoke hung like a gray blanket between the house and the brush. For a minute the firing of the attackers ceased, then burst forth with a renewed fury that caused the men behind the sandbags to crouch low. A steady, unceasing tattoo of flying lead drummed against the house wall. It seemed it would never stop.

Lance heard the professor's voice. “Like rain on a tin roof, what?”

“Some storm,” Lance grunted. He lifted his head a trifle to peer above the sandbags. Three bullets instantly drilled holes into his sombrero crown. Lance
dropped down with the maximum of haste but he had seen enough to puzzle him.

“That one wagon we placed out there”—he frowned—“it's only about thirty feet away. I figured it might help slow up a rush. I just saw several men break cover from the brush and run to get behind it. I wonder what they're up to. If they're figuring on charging us from there they'll get a surprise——”

He stopped. An object had been thrown from behind the wagon. Lance saw it skim the top of the sandbags and land among a group of Yaquentes. It looked like a tin can, but…

And then Lance didn't see the tin can any more. It abruptly disappeared in a burst of white fire and a deafening detonation. A cloud of thick, yellowish smoke enveloped the gallery. Small chunks of rock exploded viciously in all directions.

Lance exclaimed, “My God! They've made bombs and——”

He had no time to say more. A tomato can came hurtling through the air to land on the gallery. All in a split instant Lance saw the top had been tied down with hemp cord. From the opening where the can had been cut a length of fuse burned with a fierce sputtering sound. Lance pounced on the can, seized it, hurled it with all his might in the direction of the wagon behind which the bomb throwers were sheltered. He saw it land beneath the wagon. BOOM! Smoke and flame enveloped the wagon. Men rolled on the earth. Several scrambled frantically for the shielding brush.

A cheer ran along the gallery. By now the smoke had cleared. Several forms lay silent and bleeding behind the sandbags. “That's the game!” Lance yelled. “Throw those cans back when they come over!” He
glanced toward the wagon. It was tilted crazily on one side. One wheel was missing. Lance saw a movement up near the front of the vehicle. He thumbed one swift shot, not knowing whether or not he scored. He heard a sudden exclamation from the professor. Jones had gone the color of ashes. One hand was clapped to his forehead in sudden dismay.

“What's the matter?” Lance yelled through the din of gunfire. “Are you hit?”

The professor shook his head. He lowered the hand from his forehead, and Lance saw that his brow was beaded with tiny beads of perspiration. Jones looked sick. He gulped and stammered, “My—my
Echinopsis gregoriana
. Forgot all about it—all this excitement. If anything—should happen—great loss—to the world.”

He glanced fearfully over his shoulder, then a look of relief passed over his face as he saw the small wooden tub still intact on the recessed window sill. Heedless of the flying lead spattering against the adobe wall, the professor started for his beloved plant with the intention of removing it to the interior of the house.

“Professor!” Lance warned. “Stay down. You'll be hit!”

The warning came too late. Another tomato can came sailing in behind the sandbags. It bounced once on the gallery floor, then disappeared in a thunderous roar. Even as the smoke spread and billowed along the gallery Lance saw Jones stagger back and fall flat. Bits of rock rattled along the gallery floor and walls. Two Yaquentes were down. Tom Piper had been picked up as though hurled by some giant hand and dashed against the adobe wall to fall in a crumpled heap.

Lance moved swiftly through the drifting powder smoke and reached the professor's side. Jones was already staggering up. “Not hit,” he gasped. “Force of—explosion—floored me—that's all. Must get my
Echinopsis gregoriana
—place of safety.”

He broke away from Lance's restraining hands and started toward the window sill for his plant. Then he stopped short. An anguished moan left his lips. Bullets were whining all around him, but he didn't seem to notice them. He was speechless now. There wasn't any window sill there. The whole window was gone. Left only was a gaping hole in the adobe wall. The professor's plant had been blown to bits. Not even the slightest bit of earth in which it had been planted remained in sight though a few slivers of splintered wooden tub lay on the gallery floor.

For a brief moment the professor swayed unsteadily like one who has received a death blow. Suddenly his face reddened; his features became contorted with rage; his whole body stiffened. “The dirty blackguard scoundrels!” he stormed furiously, shaking a menacing fist toward the brush and trees. “They should be taught a lesson, what? By Christopher! I'll show them a thing or two! Destroy the greatest discovery of the century, will they? Not and escape unscathed, the low-lifed, hell-hound mongrels! Not while my name is Ulysses Zarathustra Jones!”

And in that minute the professor went thoroughly berserk. Seizing his gun from the gallery floor, he leaped over the sandbags and charged the enemy single-handed! Lance leaped to catch him but missed. “Professor!” he yelled. “Come back! You'll be killed! Oh, you fool, you!”

Behind him he heard Katherine's wailing. “Uncle Uly, come back!”

But their pleas accomplished nothing. Deaf to all entreaty, with but a single thought dominating his movements—that of annihilating the enemy—Jones dashed recklessly into the very teeth of the flame-spitting brush, bullets kicking up sand and gravel all around him as he plunged on!

Lance glanced in sudden dismay at the white men on the gallery. Their faces reflected the hopeless thought in his own mind. He snapped grimly, “Get ready for a lot of hell, fellers! We can't let him go it alone.”

But the Yaquentes on the gallery had already reached that decision. Wild, joyful, bloodcurdling yells left their throats as they leaped erect and vaulted over the sandbags, eager to catch up with the professor, in the belief that Jones was leading them in a charge against the enemy!

This was what Lance's Yaquentes wanted, the sort of action for which they had been impatiently waiting. Straight into a hailstone of fire they moved like some relentless, avenging juggernaut. For just an instant Lance stood as one paralyzed by the sight of the white-clothed forms, their guns spurting lances of flame as they shouted wild battle cries and closed in toward the enemy. Then Lance moved. “C'mon, waddies,” he yelled, “we can't let the Yaquentes get there first!”

Wild cowboy yells sounded above the rattle of gunfire as the men followed Lance from the gallery.
Bullets were whining like angry bees through the air, but the enemy was momentarily unsettled by the unexpected charge, and its aim was none too good. Lance and his men fanned out to cover a wide area, shooting as they ran. Here and there Lance saw a Yaquente drop, but the majority charged on in the direction taken by the professor who had, by this time, disappeared among the brush and trees.

Lance sprinted swiftly in the direction of the wagon from which the tin-can bombs had been hurled. Two men crouched in its shelter. One of them was lifting a can to throw in the midst of the Yaquentes who had just charged past. Lance flipped his six-shooter to one side, shooting by instinct rather than aim. He saw the man drop the can and pitch to the earth. A moment later, as he ran on, he heard a tremendous explosion from the direction of the wagon.

“Good work, Lance!” Oscar shouted, running a few feet from Lance's side.

They plunged into the brush together. All around them guns were cracking and roaring. Once or twice, through the trees, Lance caught glimpses of fleeing forms. The enemy was retreating toward a nest of rocks some distance farther on. Some of them were already there, shaking lead out of their gun muzzles.

Lance shouted to Oscar, “We've got 'em on the run anyway!”

The fighting raged in and out among the trees. Lockwood and Lanky weren't far from Lance and Oscar now. They were making every shot count. Abruptly Lance and Oscar rounded a high clump of prickly pear and nearly ran into the professor. Lance
heaved a long sigh of relief. Miraculously he was so far unwounded.

“Well, don't stand there gaping at me like a dummy,” Jones yelled angrily. “Can't you see I'm out of ammunition? Give me some cartridges!”

Lance handed him some cartridges from a pocket. Jones feverishly commenced to shove loads into his cylinder. “Took you long enough to get here,” he grunted, “but we've sure forced 'em back. Took 'em—by surprise—y'understand.” He gestured toward a low, rock-covered ridge lifting above the brush. “Most of 'em—retreated up there. If we can—only dislodge 'em—we got 'em—licked, by Christopher! Come on!”

They hadn't taken more than a half a dozen steps when Lance stumbled and plunged into a small ditch cut by the runoff of the rainy season. He started to rise, then, warned by a sudden noise, glanced around. Two of the enemy were cowering there, swarthy-faced, brutal-looking men who had been taken by surprise when the Three-Cross attacked. Then Lance's eyes opened wider. The two men had already thrown down their guns and were holding their hands in the air. But that wasn't what caught and held Lance's attention. He raised his voice in a sudden yell to Oscar and the professor who hadn't stopped to wait for Lance. “Hey, Oscar! Professor! Wait! Look what I found!”

Oscar and the professor turned and came running back. Lance pointed. The professor gave one wild shout of unholy glee. He took in the supply of powder, chunks of rock, fuses, tin cans, with which the two men had been manufacturing bombs. At one side was a stacked pile of bombs ready for lighting.

“Now we've got 'em!” Lance yelled. He thrust matches into the hands of the two prisoners. “You light 'em; we throw 'em,” he ordered. “Otherwise we'll be plugging you—savvy?”

Whether the two Indians understood the words or not, they at least caught the idea—and they obeyed.

That was really the beginning of the end. The Indians struck matches. Lance, Oscar and the professor held fuses to the flame and then exercised their throwing arms. Tin-can bombs went hurtling through the air to land in the nest of rocks on the ridge.

Kr-
umph! Kr-
ummph!
Krump! Krump! Kr-
r-ummph!
The very earth shook as the bombs exploded, hurling broken rock in all directions. Leaves and branches went shooting into the air. Yellowish smoke rose in dense clouds.
Kr-
umpkr-
umph-
krumph—h-
h!
Three bombs had landed at the same instant.

Abruptly the ridge commenced to erupt men. They scattered in all directions, voicing wild, frantic cries. Lockwood and Lanky came plunging through the brush, eyes wide with astonishment.

“What's going on here?” Lockwood demanded. Then as he saw the depleted pile of bombs he caught the idea, and he and Lanky went into action. By this time the gunfire had fallen off considerably.

“We've got 'em licked!” Lance yelled triumphantly. “Get Horatio and his men to round up the prisoners—what's left of 'em——”

He paused suddenly. Through the trees he had caught sight of a man making a getaway on horse back. Fletcher! Without stopping to explain, Lance leaped in swift pursuit. He fought his way through a tangle of brush to a small clearing. Several horses were tethered there Lance picked out a likely-looking
buckskin, gathered up its reins and vaulted to the saddle. Plunging in his spurs, he got under way.

It was slow going for a few minutes, dodging mesquite and prickly-pear clumps. Then suddenly the way opened. He was on the road that led to Muletero. Of Fletcher there was no sign.

Lance gave the buckskin the spurs again. The horse responded nobly, leaping out in great space-devouring strides. The wind whipped into Lance's face. Prickly pear, mesquite, yucca flowed past on either side with a panoramic monotony. The buckskin was giving all it had now. Lance patted its neck in admiration. “By cripes, horse! You're a goer!” They speeded on, mile after mile.

Suddenly Lance saw the houses of Muletero. A cloud of dust moving swiftly through the town caught his eye. Fletcher! The man was riding hard in a final desperate attempt to escape. Once he glanced back and saw Lance in speedy pursuit. Lance saw Fletcher's arm rise and fall as he beat his horse over the head in an effort to draw more speed from the beast.

“Damn skunk,” Lance muttered. “That's no way to treat a horse that's trying to help you.”

He caught a glimpse of houses and open-mouthed Mexicans as he flashed through Muletero. That was about all he saw of the town, then he was in open country again. That dust cloud being kicked up ahead wasn't so far away now.

Suddenly Fletcher turned in his saddle. Lance crouched low. He heard the sharp whine of a bullet past his ears, saw the white flash of fire. Again Fletcher unleashed his lead and again he missed. Lance was rapidly closing the distance between them
now. He saw Fletcher reach to his cartridge belt and judged the man was reloading.

“I'd sure like to take you alive, mister,” Lance grunted. He glanced down at the lariat on his saddle. It was of rawhide. Lance preferred Manila hemp, but rawhide would have to do. He grasped the lariat and commenced to shake out a loop, meanwhile urging his pony to greater efforts as he swiftly closed in on the fleeing rider.

Twice the loop circled about Lance's head, each time widening in size. Abruptly he released his cast, made his dally about the saddle horn and watched the rope sail through the air. “Straight and true for Fletcher's head,” Lance thought. “It will probably get him around the shoulders.” At the same instant, turning to throw another shot at Lance, Fletcher saw the rope dropping swiftly through the air. He twisted to one side in an effort to dodge it. The loop settled and tightened about the neck of Fletcher's horse.

Instantly, true to its training, the buckskin pony stiffened its legs, dug in its hoofs in a long, sliding halt that sent sand and gravel flying in all directions. The rope went taut, tightening about the neck of Fletcher's horse and stopping the beast so suddenly all four hoofs left the earth as it crashed down. Fletcher had already loosened his feet from stirrups and landed, catlike, running toward Lance, his right hand spitting smoke and flame.

Lance swung down from the saddle. He fired. Missed. Two bullets from Fletcher's gun came dangerously close, the second one cutting the neckerchief below Lance's left ear.

Even as Lance thumbed a second shot from his
six-shooter he was thinking, “My God! The man's fast!” He saw dust spurt from Fletcher's vest, saw the amazed look that crossed Fletcher's features. Fletcher's next shot blended with Lance's. Lance felt the sombrero jerk on his head and knew that one had been close too. Through the haze of smoke from the guns he saw Fletcher's body go rigid, pulling him up on his boot toes. Fletcher half turned, one hand clawing at his breast, then he crumpled in a lifeless heap.

Methodically Lance plugged out empty shells and replaced them in his gun cylinder as he moved toward the body. “Lord knows,” he said grimly, “I tried to take you alive, Fletcher, but you wouldn't have it that way. I reckon it wasn't meant to be.”

It was nearing noon when Lance again came within sight of the ranch house. Considerable clearing up had already been done. Oscar and Trunk-Strap Kelly, aided by Lanky, Huareztjio and a bunch of Yaquentes were working at the edge of the brush clearing away the last remnants of battle. Oscar looked up as Lance approached. He said solemnly, “Have a lemon drop? They're good for that shaky feeling.”

Lance took a lemon drop. He said, “Where's the rest?”

“The professor and Miss Gregory are in the house. She's bathing a scratch he got on one hand. Lockwood is down in the bunk house, which same we've turned into a hospital. Ethan is right good at treatin' wounds, you know, and there's a first-aid kit. No—none of our men were hurt bad. Tom Piper's got a couple of ribs and an arm broken. Hub Owen got his hair parted with a bullet. Most of the losses were on the other side. Horatio's got some of his gang doing a job of burying back in the hills. The
Yaquentes took some prisoners back to their village. We found both Larry Johnson and Luke Ordway dead. That's Ordway's buckskin you're riding.”

“It's one sweet pony,” Lance said.

“I don't see Fletcher's horse.”

“I tried to take him alive. Only succeeded in breaking his bronc's neck.”

“We knew you'd be back right soon,” Oscar said gravely. “It was nice going, Lance, all of it.”

Huareztjio pushed up, grinning, and took Lance's hand. Lance returned the friendly clasp, touched spurs to his pony and moved on.

The professor was waiting for Lance at the edge of the gallery. One hand was bandaged. He held out his right hand as Lance climbed stiffly down from the saddle. “Back safe—thank God,” he said jerkily. “Made a fool of myself—lost my head, what?”

Lance said, “It's a damn good thing you did. You started the ball rolling. It was you that turned the tide our way.”

Jones smiled shyly. “Good ruckus, what? Enjoyed it—fact.”

“Only thing I'm sorry for,” Lance said awkwardly, “is the loss of your cactus plant. That was really tough.”

“Regrettable,” Jones said philosophically, though his eyes looked a trifle moist, “but not vital, y'understand. Now I know it exists—search for another
Echinopsis gregoriana
. Katherine wants to—spend honeymoon here. Hope you won't mind—having an old fool about cacti—around the house. She's waiting for you, Lance. Better go in. Now that the dust has settled—peaceful days ahead, what?”

Lance passed through the doorway into the big room. It was cool and dim within. He saw movement
and her hair like yellow pollen dust. The girl's face was luminous in the purple shadows. He felt her heart beating against his own, and her arms were warm about his neck. After a time he said unsteadily, “Now that the dust has settled…”