The Max Brand Megapack (233 page)

“And what in Sam Hill,” muttered Hugh Dawn, “d’you figure to win by wasting all that oil, son?”

“I’ll show you in a minute.”

He continued by lighting the lantern and taking off the chimney. Then he turned down the wick, so that there was only a quivering tongue tip of flame visible.

“They’s enough oil,” he explained, “to keep that lantern going till pretty near morning, if we don’t bum it no faster’n that.”

“I don’t foller you, Ronicky.”

“Well,” explained the other, “here I put a pile of this oil-soaked stuff in my corner, and there I put a pile of it alongside of you. Suppose they was to start a rush. The first one of us that sees a move gives a yell and instead of shooting grabs up the waste and passes it over the lantern. The minute the oil comes anywhere near that flame it will bust into fire, and we throw the stuff out through the windows. It’ll light up everything for a minute or two. It’ll make us miss a half second that we could of used for shooting, but it’ll also give us a chance to get in three or four aimed shots. I’d rather have one aimed shot than ten chance cracks at shadows.”

Hugh Dawn, as the idea struck home to him, gasped with pleasure.

“I been lying here waiting to die,” he admitted. “And now I figure that we got a ghost of a chance to keep ’em off. Just a ghost of a chance. But, Ronicky, ghosts can be mighty important things!”

There was another time of silence. The hour was now close to half past four in the morning, or thereabouts, and it was the period of greatest fatigue, when nervous reactions are slower, when the muscles are deadened for lack of sleep, and the mind is sick for weariness. And yet, once or twice at about this time, Ronicky heard humming.

After all, happiness is a comparative thing. Hugh Dawn had felt that he was to be slaughtered without a chance even to fight. The fighting chance was now to him almost as much as the promise of complete safety to most men. Ronicky, listening, wondered and admired.

“Suppose Jerry could look inside here and see you fighting for me, Ronicky. She’d have to change her mind about a couple of things, eh?”

“Not while Moon is there to talk to her. He won’t give her a chance to think. The skunk has double crossed me, Hugh. I was a fool ever to listen to him, but I took his word. He swore that if there was trouble coming, he’d never let his crowd jump me. Him and me would fight it out man to man. That’s why I come in—like a fool, partner! But here we are, both trapped, and me in no position to help the way I’d be if I was loose out there among the trees!”

“Maybe not, son. And if there was ever a square-shooter, it’s you, Ronicky. Look!” Dawn pointed suddenly. “I seen something move behind the trees.”

“And me!” answered Ronicky. “I think I hear somebody sneaking beside the other shack and—”

Suddenly he leaped up from his knees with a yell.

“Hugh! They’re at us!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The Attack

Ronicky had seen two low-moving shadows detach themselves from the front of the neighboring shack and start toward the front of his own at full speed, while from the window of the hut a rifleman began blazing away at his window. That hurricane of bullets, one after the other, should have the effect of making it lively for a marksman attempting to shoot from the aperture.

Ronicky scooped up a quantity of the waste and passed it over the lantern. Instantly the flames burst out, fed by the kerosene, and he hurled the armful, with the flames already sweeping back across his shirt, through the window and out into the night. It fell a considerable distance from the wall, and the wind, catching the flames, lifted them high so that all the surroundings were suddenly and brilliantly illumined.

It revealed the sharpshooter at the opposite window. It revealed the two skulkers midway between the fronts of the shacks. It showed, to the rear, three more breaking toward the shack at full speed. But one and all were checked. They yelled with astonishment and fear at this unexpected flood of light, while at the same time reechoed shouts of rage and fear from the other side of the house proved that Hugh Dawn had carried out his portion of the maneuver with equal success. Ronicky, aiming only at light, gained more than light. He derived the advantage of a surprise attack.

He began shooting—and shooting to kill. Across the room he heard the roaring of Hugh Dawn’s gun as the sturdy old warrior began pumping lead from two revolvers at the same time. Very well. He might make a terrific amount of noise, but it was hardly likely that he would do as much execution as this slender, keen-eyed fellow at the window, planting his shots and wasting few of them indeed.

First of all he fired not at the onrushing forms, but directed his attention to the man at the opposite window. For he possessed a rifle, and he could take advantage of the flaring light from the waste, as it burned, to drive home a fatal shot. Straight at him Ronicky drove his first bullet, and he saw the other fling up his arms and sink from sight without a word.

In the meantime, the two men in the front had, after their moment of hesitation on being flooded with light, resumed their forward run, and another stride would take them into shelter around the corner of the hut. One of these Ronicky nailed midstride and saw the fellow pitch to his fate with a shrill scream of pain. But his companion shot out of view behind the corner of the logs.

There would be a future danger, for the man was now under the wall, and the logs protected him fully as much as they protected the men inside the hut.

Ronicky gave that danger only a fleeting thought. He had whirled, and now he looked to the south, where the three had been sweeping up from the woods.

His first bullet went wild—the sudden change of direction had thrown him off. His second bullet made the middle man of the three stagger and reel, but the ruffian kept on running. His third shot sent the left-hand fellow whirling about, and he dropped on his face. Before he could fire again, both of the survivors of the rush were under the protection of the walls.

At the same instant the firing of Hugh Dawn stopped, and Ronicky wheeled toward his companion.

“How many?” he whispered.

“Nailed one, sure,” replied Hugh Dawn, breathing hard. “And you?”

“Three!” murmured Ronicky. “Down, Hugh!”

He followed his own precepts by flattening himself against the floor. Well for him that he did so! Scarcely was he down and Hugh crouched likewise in the far and shadowy corner of the hut, when a shadowy form darted into the open doorway and blazed away at the window where Ronicky had been standing. Too late the outlaw saw the target sprawled along the floor instead of erect, and changed his aim. Before he could get in a second shot Ronicky had fired for the sixth time, and the other, gasping with agony, spun over and disappeared through the doorway and into the outer night.

Then came silence.

“Did you turn ’em?” whispered Ronicky.

“Every one! One down and four went back—and a couple of them, I think, was nicked a little!”

His exultation shook his voice. But Ronicky pointed to the rear of the house with a warning gesture.

Of the eleven men of Moon’s band, four had fallen dead, or apparently dead, in the attack. Two had been badly wounded by Ronicky, and perhaps one or more of the others had been struck by the bullets of Hugh Dawn. In a word, where the odds had been, counting Jack Moon, twelve to two, they had suddenly shrunk through this rushing assault and its attendant casualties to the far less imposing total of seven to two. Of the seven, at least two were badly hurt. It left at the most not more than five fighting effectives. But Ronicky, not knowing that Jack Moon had deserted his men, and never dreaming but that he was the directing mind behind the rush, counted the odds still three to one.

The attack had at least placed the outlaws in a superior position to that which they had held before. One wounded man and one man sound in body and limb were now under the rear wall of the shack, sheltered by their nearness to it against gunfire from Ronicky or Dawn. Moreover—an incalculable advantage—they could attack suddenly, and they could overhear any but the most secretly whispered communications of Ronicky and Dawn.

That very nearness, however, suggested to Ronicky the next maneuver.

“Watch that rear wall, Hugh!” he called loudly.

“Two of the skunks are behind it and may fire through the logs. Watch it close!”

He added in a sudden whisper at the very ear of his companion: “We’ve got to get out now, Hugh, or wait here and be stuck like rats in the morning. We got to get out! The only way is to make a break across the clearing. You see? They’ve got two men right under the rear wall now, and that makes it so’s we can’t shoot out from the back door. The rest of ’em will come up on that side, and then they’ll have us six to two, and we’re goners at close range!”

Hugh Dawn nodded.

“Straight across the clearing when I give the word,” said Ronicky swiftly, taking command as though it had been agreed to put matters into his hands in the crisis. The older man nodded without a word and set his jaw grimly at the thought of that desperate venture.

Ronicky, meantime, was calmly reloading his revolver, keeping the weapon which he had taken from the holster of Bud Kent as a reserve of ammunition. Hugh Dawn imitated the good example.

The fire from the flaming waste was gradually decreasing. The oil which had made the flare so great had now been well nigh exhausted, and the hard light decreased in proportion; but it was still far too bright to admit of a rush for the safe darkness of the trees. A new and more dangerous expedient came to Ronicky Doone.

“Watch well and keep your nerve,” he cautioned Dawn, still in the most guarded whisper. “I’m going to explore!”

So saying, he dropped to his knees and boldly slid out from the front door of the little building and toward its left side. In that direction, as he had noted with a glance, the quantity of ignited waste which Hugh Dawn had thrown through the rear door had been far less than that which he himself had flung out. Accordingly, while that which he himself had tossed out was still blazing, the waste of Hugh Dawn was now a darkening mass of cinders casting hardly any light. In that direction, therefore, he hoped to escape observation.

He stayed close to the wall, wriggling forward slowly and constantly scanning the trees before him in search of the glint of a rifle or revolver raised to shoot. But he caught no such deadly glimmer, and for sound there came only the stifled groaning of the wounded men.

So he came, pushing his revolver before him in extended right hand, to the rear of the house and glanced around the corner. As he had expected, he found two men there. But their condition was not at all what he had anticipated. The one lay on his back with his arms cast out crosswise. Above him knelt the huge body of Silas Treat who was making gestures toward the forest as though silently to encourage his backward comrades to come to his aid in this advanced position.

Perhaps they could not see him; perhaps their nerve was not up to undertaking. At any rate, no one had as yet ventured forth. As for the wounded man, it must be he who had stumbled when Ronicky fired the second time at the group of three; and he was far gone, if not fatally hurt. Not an arm’s length away was the immense back of Si Treat, seemingly confident that his closeness to the wall made attack from the house impossible.

Ronicky shoved his revolver against the back of the giant’s neck. There was a quiver and then a stiffening in that immense body. Then Silas Treat turned his head slowly and without a sound stared into the face of Ronicky.

Why they were not observed, Ronicky could not tell, unless the rest of the band had now shifted around to the shack from which the first of the assault had been launched.

“Drop your gun!” commanded Ronicky, noting from the corner of his eye that the wounded man made no effort to interfere—perhaps he was swooning, as a matter of fact.

Si Treat obeyed without a word, tossing the gun into the shadows.

“Crawl past me,” whispered Ronicky to his captive, “and mind that you go slow so’s nobody can see you from the forest. With the first shot that’s fired, I sink a chunk of lead into your heart, Si! Now move!”

Without answer Silas Treat began obediently to work his way around Ronicky, past the corner of the shack, and down its side until at Ronicky’s order he turned into the interior of the little house.

“Now get back against that wall,” commanded Ronicky, “and keep your hands over your head. That’s right. Hugh, get that rope and tie him, and tie him hard. I ought to stick a knife into the skunk, and I will if he don’t talk out!”

Hugh Dawn, muttering in his astonishment, obeyed and bound their formidable captive tightly. Si Treat, in the meantime, retained an immobile expression, as they could see by the last glimmer of the burning waste.

“Now,” said Ronicky, “talk fast and talk straight. Part of what I’m going to ask you I already know. If I catch you in a lie, it’s the last word you speak. Understand?”

Treat nodded.

“First: Where’s the rest of ’em?”

“Gone blind,” said the big man savagely, “or else you’d be dead sure, Doone! But they’re gone blind. Most like they’ve sneaked back in the trees to tie up some little cut places where they got nicked. They ain’t got the nerve of Baldy McNair. He kept coming after he was drilled for fair.”

“That’s Baldy lying behind the house?”

“That’s him.”

“Are any of ’em in the shack next to us here?”

“Nope. Not a soul, unless they sneaked there, and I didn’t see ’em. But they won’t come that close. They’re licked! The yaller dogs! They’re licked, or they’d of follered me, and then we’d of had you!”

“Maybe,” said Ronicky, stumbling in his haste to get at the desired information, “but Where’s Jack Moon? Did he go down?”

“Moon? I dunno where he is. Maybe he’s deserted. I left him in that little clearing up the hill with the girl. Maybe he’s run off with her. He ain’t showed up since we started the party.”

Ronicky Doone groaned.

“Gone off with Jerry?”

Hugh Dawn inhaled audibly. “It’s a lie!” he cried.