The Sky-Liners

Chapter 11

We rode away down the mountain to a hollow in the hills, sheltered by overhanging cliffs and a wall of pines, and made camp there where we could have a fire.

"I figure if we go down to the ranch we'll get so shot full of holes our hides wouldn't be worth tanning," Galloway said. "That outfit's all laid out for an ambush, so let's leave 'em wait."

"Seems to me a likely time to be thinkin' of them cattle," Cap suggested.

"Now, there's a good thought. Let's dab a loop on some and check out the brand."

So we settled down over coffee and bacon to consider. It stood to reason that if most of their crowd were waiting for us to show up, there would be only a few watching the cattle, if any at all. In these mountain valleys, with plenty of grass and water, cattle needed no watching.

The upshot of it was that when the sky lightened with another day coming, we saddled up and went off. The only one who was upset by our decision was Judith.

"This isn't taking me any closer to Pa!" she objected. "I wish I could find a man like Ivanhoe or the Black Knight! He would ride right down there and bring Pa back!"

"You know," I said, "I don't carry any banners for the Fetchen boys, but if the Black Knight was to ride down amongst them in his tin suit he'd have a sieve for an overcoat. Those Fetchens may run short on morals, but morals don't win no turkey-shoots! I know those boys, and they could part your hair with the first bullet and trim around your ears with the next two.

"If you want to choose up heroes to help you, you'd be a sight better off to pick on Robin Hood or Rob Roy. My pa always said you should never walk into a man when he's set for punching. Better to go around him and work him out of balance."

"Well, while they're waiting for us to come down on 'em, we'll simply round up and drive off a few head of cattle. Then we might sort of scout around down to Sharp's place at Buzzard Roost. I'll lay a bet Fetchen has somebody staked out down there to bring him word."

By the time the sun was high we were at Buzzard Roost and sitting alongside the stove eating crackers and sardines, and I mentioned the Reynolds outfit I'd scarcely said the name before Sharp was giving us the story.

The Reynolds gang had buried a treasure, some said, somewhere near the Spanish Peaks. They were right over there to the south of us, only a few miles away.

Contrary to what some folks said, they hadn't been a very bloody outfit. Fact was, it was claimed they'd killed nobody in their robberies. Reynolds had some reputation as an outlaw before the war began, and then supposedly he was recruited by the South to loot Colorado of its gold and silver shipments. "There's been a lot of talk about how much he stole," Sharp said, "and how much they buried when the law caught up with them; but no matter what anybody says there's small chance they had over seventy thousand dollars."

"That's a lot," Galloway said, kind of dryly. "That's more money than I'm likely to see in this lifetime."

"Do you think it's there?" Cap asked.

Sharp shrugged. "It's certain they hadn't anything on 'em when they were caught, and they hadn't much time to hide it unless they hid it very soon after taking it - which could be."

Judith wasn't talking, she was just sitting there looking solemn and kind of scared too, yet knowing her I had a feeling she was scared less for herself than for her Pa. It came to me that I should try, by some trick, to get him away from the ranch.

That was easy said, but the little valley was bounded by pretty high mountains, and getting in and out of such a guarded place would be next to impossible.

Cap drifted off somewhere, and Galloway did, too, while I sat with Judith. I said to her, "Don't you worry. He's all right, and we'll have him out of there in no time."

"Flagan, I just couldn't imagine he would be like this - James Fetchen, I mean."

For a minute I couldn't place James Fetchen, we were so used to calling him Black. Then I said, "How could you know? All you'd seen of him was a tall, fine-looking man riding by on a horse. Believe me, you can't always tell a coyote by his holler. But that Fetchen outfit was known all over the mountains by the trouble they caused, by the shootings and cuttings they'd been in."

Judith left me, to talk with Sharp's wife, and I walked out on the stoop, looking about for Galloway and Cap, but I saw neither one of them. I don't know what made me do it, but I reached my fingers back and slipped the rawhide loop off my six-gun, freeing it for quick use, if need be.

There's times when nothing is more companionable than a six-shooter, and I had an uneasy feeling, almost as if somebody was walking on my grave, or maybe digging one for me.

The sunlight was bright on Buzzard Roost, and on the mountains all around. A dog trotted lazily across the dusty road, and far up the valley I could see cattle feeding on the grass on the lower slopes of Little Sheep. Everything looked peaceful enough.

There seemed no particular reason why I should feel this way just now. Black Fetchen and his kin had reason for wanting to stake out my hide, but it seemed to me they were in no hurry. That outfit was sure of itself. They'd been in shooting scrapes before and they had come out on top, and they figured they would again. Winning can make folks confident ... or it can make them cautious.

Here and there I'd come out ahead a few times, but it only made me careful. There's too much that can happen - the twig that deflects your bullet just enough, the time you don't quite get the right grasp on the gun butt, the dust that blows in your eyes ... Anyway, there's things can happen to the fastest of men and to the best shots. So I was cautious.

And then there's the gun itself. No man in his right mind will play with a gun. I've seen show-offs doing fancy spins and all that. No real gun-fighter ever did. With a hair-trigger, he'd be likely to blow a hole in his belly. The gun-fighter knows enough of guns to be wary of them. He treats them with respect. A pistol was never made for anything except killing, and a gun-fighter never draws a gun unless to shoot, and he shoots to kill. And he doesn't go around trying to gun up a score. That's only done by tin-horns. Nor does he ever notch his gun, another tin-horn trick.

All the while these thoughts were sort of in the back of my mind, I had my eyes searching for a lookout, if there was one. It seemed likely that the Fetchens would have somebody around who could keep a watch on Buzzard Roost, for anybody coming or going in that country just naturally rode by there, or stopped off.

I gave thought to where I'd hole up if I was to keep a watch on the place. It would be best to find a place on a hillside, or somewhere a man could keep out of sight while seeing all who came and went. That naturally cut down on the possibilities.

I began to feel that somebody was watching me - I could feel it somehow in my bones. Judith, she came out and walked up to me. "Flagan - " she began, but I cut her off.

"Go back inside," I said. "Take your time, but you get inside and stay there till I come."

"What's wrong?"

"Judith! Damn it, get inside!"

"Flagan Sackett, you can't talk to me like that! Who do you think - "

Sunlight made a slanting light on a gun barrel in the brush not a hundred and fifty feet away. It was a far shot for a six-gun, but I'd hit targets at a greater distance than that.

With my left hand I swept Judith back toward the door, and my right went down for my gun just as the other gun muzzle stabbed flame. It was the movement to push Judith out of the way that saved my bacon, for that bullet whipped by my ear, stinging me as it went.

My six-gun was up and hammering shots. I was holding high because of the distance, and I let three bullets go in one roll of sound, as fast and slick as I could thumb back the hammer and let it drop.

Then I ran forward three steps, and took one to the side and fired again, holding a mite higher because he might be up and running. I was firing at the place I'd seen the flare of the gun muzzle, but was scattering my shots to have a better chance of scoring a hit.

The battering explosion of the shots died away, leaving a sudden silence, a silence in which the ears cried out for sound. I stood there, gun poised, aware that it was empty, but hesitating to betray the fact to my enemy, whoever he was.

Slowly I lowered the gun muzzle, and as unobtrusively as possible I opened the loading-gate with my thumb and worked the ejector, pushing the empty shell from the cylinder. Instantly, I fed a cartridge into place, then ejected another, and repeated this until the gun was reloaded. In all that time there was no sound, nor was there any movement in the brush.

Unwilling to take my eyes from the brush, I wondered where Cap and Galloway might be.

And had Judith been hit? I felt quite sure she had not, but a body never knew, when there was shooting taking place.

Warily, I took a step toward the brush, but nothing happened.

Off on my right Galloway suddenly spoke. "I think you got him, boy."

Walking slowly toward the brush, I had to make several climbing steps as I got close to it. There was an outcropping of rock, with thick, thorny brush growing around and over it, and several low trees nearby. The whole clump was no more than thirty or forty yards across, and just about as deep.

First thing I saw was the rifle. It was a Henry .44 and there was a fresh groove down the stock, cut by a bullet. There was blood on the leaves, but nothing else.

Gun in hand, I eased into the brush and stood still, listening. It was so quiet I seemed to be hearing my own heart beat Somewhere off across country a crow cawed; otherwise there was silence. Then the door of the trading post opened and I heard boot heels on the boards.

My eyes scanned the brush, but I could see no sign of anyone there. Parting the branches with my left hand, I stepped past another bush. On a leaf there was a bright crimson spot ... fresh blood. Just beyond it was a barely visible track of a boot heel in the soft earth. I was expecting a shot at any moment. It was one of those places where a man figures he's being watched by somebody he can't see.

Then I saw a slight reddish smear on the bark of a tree where the wounded man had leaned. He was hit pretty good, it looked like, although a man can sometimes bleed a good bit from a mighty inconsiderable wound.

I could tell that the man I hunted had gone right on through the brush. I followed through and suddenly came to the other side.

For about fifty yards ahead the country was open, and a quick glance told me that nothing stirred there. Standing under cover of the brush, I began to scan the ground with care, searching every clump of grass or cluster of small rocks - anywhere a man might be concealed.

The ground on this side of the knoll sloped away for several feet, and this place was invisible from the trading post. A man might slip down from the mountain, or come around the base and ease into the brush, leave his horse and get right tip to that knoll without anybody being the wiser.

Pistol ready, I walked slowly toward the further trees, my eyes scanning the terrain all around me. Twice I saw flecks of blood.

Beyond the trees, on a small patch of grass, I saw where a horse had been tied on a short rope. By the look of the grass he had been tied there several times, each time feeding close around him. Whoever tied the horse had allowed him just enough rope to crop a little grass without giving him more rope than a man could catch up along with the reins, in one quick move.

Whoever had been watching there must have suddenly decided to try his shot. It must have seemed like a copper-riveted cinch, catching me out like that. Only my move in getting Judith out of the way had saved me.

Galloway had come up behind me. "You're bleedin', Flagan," he said.

I put my hand to my ear, which had been smarting some, and brought it away bloody. From the feel of it, the bullet had just grazed the top of the ear.

We followed the rider back into the hills a short way, then lost his trail on a dusty stretch. We found no more blood, and from the way he'd moved in going to his horse I figured he hadn't been hurt more than I had been.

When we got back to the trading post, Evan Hawkes was there, making plans with Tom Sharp for the roundup.

It turned out they had friends in common, stock-buyers and the like. There were eight or ten other cattlemen around the country who were all close friends of Sharp, and all of them had come to be wary of the Fetchen boys.

"One thing I want understood," Hawkes said. "This is our fight. They opened the ball, now we're going to play the tune and they'll dance to our music."

"Seems to me you're outnumbered," said Dobie Wiles. He was the hard-bitten foreman of the Slash B. "And it seems to me that JBF Connected brand will cover our brand as well as yours."

"They left blood on the Kansas grass," Galloway said, "blood of the Half-Box H. I figure Hawkes has first call."

He gave a slow grin. "And that includes us."