Authors: Matt Chisholm
He kneed the dun forward.
“Where you goin'?” Sorenson demanded.
“To talk to Markham. There's just a chance he might see some sense.”
“You're wastin' your breath.”
“Likely.”
A man said: “Horses comin'.”
They turned in the saddle. Four men came out of the scattered brush and McAllister saw that it was McShannon and the three men he had taken to the line-camp. They rode up and one man showed that he had been shot through the arm.
McShannon looked grim. There were gunpowder marks on his face.
“How'd it go?” McAllister asked.
McShannon said: “We jumped âem, but they tried to fight. Four of âem. They winged Charlie here. We killed one of 'em. That kind of shook 'em up a mite. They reckoned this wasn't their fight. âPears Markham don't make his men overly loyal. We took their guns and they lit out goin' south. We burned the shack an' scattered the stock.”
McAllister nodded. So a man was dead. It had really started.
“Stay with Sorenson,” he told McShannon. “Luke and Thomas, you ride around on the other side of the creek and come up the creek bed to the rear of the house. That'll mean we have 'em surrounded.”
He touched the dun with the spurs and rode ahead.
They saw him coming long before he reached the house. He knew as soon as he drew near that Markham's main force was not there. That probably meant that it w*s out in the valley. Depression settled on him. Already the houses could
be burning. When he rode into the yard, men came out of the bunkhouses on either side of him with rifles in their hands. He counted six of them.
He knew that he was in a bad situation.
He sat his horse for a moment, undecided, but not showing his indecision. To the men who watched him, he looked cool and unhurried.
The door of the house opened and Markham walked onto the stoop. He was back in his old range clothes now and he looked his old froglike self. He looked at McAllister steadily and without anger for a moment before he spoke.
“Either you're a damn fool,” he said, “or you've a lot of nerve. But it don't make no difference, Sittin' there, you're a dead duck.”
McAllister ignored the words. Foley was not in the yard. That could mean the straw-boss was already riding with the men through the valley.
“Where's Foley?” he asked.
“It ain't none of your business,” Markham told him, “but he's ridin' line.”
One of the men near the bunk-house spoke.
“Let me cut him down, Mr. Markham.”
The rancher seemed to consider the possibility.
McAllister said: “If Foley's in the valley, Markham. I'm goin' to burn you out. If you don't play your cards right, you could end up dead.”
The anger that was never far from the surface, showed on Markham's face.
He said: “I've taken from you more'n I ever took from any man. I ain't takin' no more.”
McAllister smiled.
“You don't have no idea how much you've taken, Markham,” he said. “The whole valley's armed. Your southern line camp's burned, one of your men's dead and another wounded. The crew have ridden out. You couldn't hold their loyalty. This is the beginning of the end for you.”
Markham looked at him unbelievingly.
“You're lyin',” he said.
McAllister went on -
“This place is surrounded. Your boys try anything and they'll be cut down.”
The men looked over their shoulders instinctively. Even
Markham cast a hurried eye this way and that. Then suddenly, faster than McAllister thought the man could move, he slapped a hand down on the butt of his gun and drew it. The Colt's gun came to full cock and it pointed at McAllister's breast.
“Climb down off'n that horse,” Markham said.
McAllister sighed wearily.
“You're diggin' your own grave,” he said.
He threw a leg over the cantle and stepped down. The men with the rifles levelled their weapons at him.
Markham said: “Get into the house.”
McAllister wondered what the valley men would do. They could see, most of them, that Markham had him covered. He mounted the stoop and walked into the house. Markham walked in after him. McAllister wondered if the cowhands were scattering for cover. He knew that if the valley men opened fire now, Markham would kill him.
The hall of the house was dim after the brightness of the sunlight outside. He was aware that a woman stood in front of him.
She said: “Why, Mr. McAllister,” and he knew that it was Alvina. She saw the gun in her father's hand and drew her breath in sharply.
Markham said: “Get to your room.”
When she didn't move, McAllister said: “Go ahead, girl. You can only do me harm, standin' there.”
She turned then and mounted the stairs.
“If what you say's true,” Markham said, “an' the valley men are out there, they fire one shot an' I kill you.”
“You can do that,” McAllister told him. “But you can't stop this. You burn one more house in the valley, you kill one man an' they'll clean you out.”
Markham went to the door and opened it a little, not taking his eyes from McAllister.
“Jones,” he shouted, “come on in here.”
A moment later, the man Jones appeared, carbine in hand. Markham said: “Cover this man, Jones. I'm goin' out to talk to them bastards out there.”
Jones grinned a little and centered the carbine on McAllister. Markham walked out onto the stoop and Jones said: “Make some play, man. It'll be a pleasure.”
McAllister said: “You're goin' to get yourself killed for wages.”
The man sneered without speaking.
McAllister was facing the stairs. Jones's back was to them. Over the man's head, McAllister saw the flutter of a skirt and raised his eyes, saw Alvina on the stairs with a cushion in her hands.
“Jones,” she called.
The man started to turn his head, but thought better of it. Alvina lifted the cushion and threw it with all her strengh at his head.
McAllister moved. With every nerve in his body screaming against the insanity of it, he dove to one side and forward. The man managed to fire the rifle once before McAllister was on him.
Outside, the sound of the shot brought Markham's bellows as he gave his ultimatum to the valley men to a halt. McAllister's charging weight hurled Jones back against the first stair. He tripped and went down with the big man on top of him. McAllister drove his fist into the face beneath him.
As he did so, firing broke out at a distance. He heard cries of fright and anger from the yard. Feet pounded, the door was thrown open and Markham appeared. McAllister turned, swung Jones's rifle and said: “Drop the gun, Markham, quick.”
Markham halted, looked terribly tempted to try a shot, but thought better of it. His Colt hit the floor. He looked from Jones's inert body on the stairs to his daughter above.
“Christ,” he said, “have you turned against me, child?”
Alvina stepped over Jones's body and faced her father.
“Likely my man's out there,” she said.
“Your man? What in hell're you talkin' about?”
“Kiowa McShannon.”
“That saddlebum!”
“He's the man I'm goin' to marry.”
McAllister picked up the Colt and prodded Markham out onto the stoop. There was a man lying kicking in the dust of the yard.
McAllister shouted: “Come on out, you Markham riders. I have the boss here under my gun.”
A stray shot hummed by from the other side of the corral and McAllister guessed that was from a valley man who
couldn't see what was going on. He bawled for him to stop firing and ordered them all to come on in.
Men started to come out of the bunkhouses. Slowly, the valley men started to advance on the house. They were cautious and their guns were ready in their hands. The Markham riders clustered sullenly in the center of the yard and the valley men scattered all around them. McAllister saw McShannon lift a hand in greeting to Alvina who had come out onto the stoop. McAllister sent a couple of men into the house to bring Jones out. The man could walk on his own two feet, but he didn't look happy. He complained that his jaw had been broken. Markham stood silent and bitter.
Lucy came out from the house and stood by Alvina. She fluttered a smile in Jack Owen's direction. Markham caught it and glowered.
“What happens now?” he demanded at last.
McAllister said: “We wait for your men to come in. If they've burned down in the valley, we finish you here. We'll burn your house and kill your cattle.”
Markham looked at him aghast.
“You wouldn't dare.”
“Try us.”
Time ticked by till McAllister asked: “Is it too late to stop Foley?”
Markham looked stricken.
“He was going to hit the Dowell place at dawn.”
Sorenson said: “You could send a man an' stop them from going any further, Markham. If you stopped there, we might live an' let live. But, by God, if you've harmed a hair of a valley man's head I vote we hang this whole mangy crew.” When they heard this, the girls on the stoop went white.
“For heaven's sakes,” Alvina said, “let a man ride to the valley and stop them.”
“It's up to you, Markham,” McShannon said.
Everybody there looked at Markham. The man looked as though agonising mental convulsions were taking place in his head. For the first time in his life he had come on a situation which would not allow him to have his own way. Every fiber of his being demanded that he go ahead and have his way with the valley. Only on the valley grass would he find winter feed for his herds. Every man there knew that he wanted to have his animals on high range in summer and to winter them
on the lowlands. All that stood in his way were a dozen little men. But little men that might not only burn him out, but put a rope around his neck. Survival was the first law of all and Markham wanted to survive. Maybe even then he was planning to retreat so that he could come back and fight another day.
He looked at one of the men.
“Catch up a horse and ride to Foley,” he said flatly. “Go into the valley at McAllister's place and work north. That way you'll be bounden to meet up with him. Tell him how things are here. Tell him to come on back.”
The man turned and walked away. Within minutes, he went out of the yard on a horse, going fast.
One of the valley men said: “An' Foley best not start anything when he gets here.”
Markham tried to wither him with a look.
“You got me beat this round,” he said, “but keep your trap shut, friend. I'll remember your face.”
Sorenson walked up to Markham.
“Markham,” he said, “you're my size an' my age. For a long time I wanted you without your guns behind you. We have any sass from you an' I'll jamb your teeth down your throat.”
Alvina protested.
“My father's beaten,” she said. “Leave him be now.”
Markham turned on her like an enraged bull.
“I ain't beat,” he said through his teeth. “I ain't even started.”
McAllister said: “You'd best consider yourself beat, for your own sake.” He turned to the two girls. “Ladies, you'd be wise to start gettin' your gear out here. There's a good chance the house will be gone by dawn.”
Markham didn't say anything to that. He gave McAllister a deadly look and sat down on the stoop step with his head in his hands. McAllister gave orders for the valley men to disarm the Markham riders, to search both the bunkhouses and the main house for arms. Within a short time there was an impressive arsenal of weapons piled in the yard. The valley men then roped the cowhands together and sat them down against one of the bunkhouse walls. Markham watched all this with a wooden face, not stirring from his position.
Then came a period of waiting. After a couple of hours,
during which time the two girls brought hot coffee to both the captors and captives, McAllister asked McShannon to ride along the valley trail and see if he could spot any riders approaching. McShannon mounted his sorrel and rode out. The remainder of the men lounged around the yard, waiting, hating it, not knowing what had happened to their homes in the valley. McAllister prowled around the yard, still wondering if he had done the right thing, starting to ask himself if it wouldn't have been wiser to have stayed in the valley and to have ambushed Foley and his men.
Every now and then he stopped to listen for the sound of an approaching horse. The light began to fade. He began to feel in his bones that it was too late. The valley had been ravaged. Foley had reached Sorenson's house and was laying siege to it. He looked at Markham and knew how terrible would be the revenge of the valley men if this had happened. And McAllister's wife was Markham's sister. McShannon and Owen both wanted his daughters for their wives. All that could come out of this was bitterness.
He heard a horse.
It was coming fast. He heard one of the girls cry out and looked up to see Alvina looking across the yard toward the trail, hoping that it was McShannon come back safely.
The horseman came lunging out of the darkness, pulling up his horse in the middle of the yard. It was McShannon.
He swung down from the saddle and said: “They're comin'.”
“How long?” McAllister asked.
“Five minutes. No more.”
The wounded man who lay against the wall of the bunkhouse groaned. The men sitting near him, tensed. Markham stood up. Every nerve in him was raw and every man there knew it. McAllister told the valley men to get under cover.
“No shootin' unless you have to,” he ordered. “You girls
get in the house.” Alvina and Lucy obeyed him without a word.
Everybody went still when they heard the hoofs. They looked at each other in surprise, for the five minutes McShannon had mentioned hadn't passed.