One-Man Massacre (16 page)

"But if you're outnumbered!"

"We've taken them on at twenty-to-one. We can do it
"again." He abruptly broke off the conversation, stormed
down the hall and out of the house with great determin
ation.

But Malcolm Lord wanted to be in on everything that
was happening, wanted a directing hand. He told Pedro
to get Foreman Southworth immediately. Pedro shook
his head.

"He is not here, se
n
or. The men they are at roundup."

Lord had forgotten.

"They're all out?"

"I think the Mister Billy is here," Pedro said. "The
Mister Southworth left him to manage. And there are
maybe three others in the bunkhouse."

"Get them, then. And tell Neale to arm everyone and
bring a horse around for me. Pronto!"

They came around, four of them, pronto.

"What's up, Mr. Lord?" Billy asked.

"There's trouble down at the river. At Mulchay's.
The Mex are trying to take over."

"Take over what, sir?"

The land, the people
—Texas! What in hell did you
think, Neale?"

Billy held his peace and his tongue. He hadn't been
to
town since that wild Saturday night, what with all
th
e special movement of the herds, but word had drifted
u
p to Overlord about the war being fought by Gibbons'
Militia. He'd grown up with Mexicans, known them all
his
life around Scotstown, but not until two weeks ago
h
ad he heard what dangerous, double-dealing buggers
t
hey
really were. Funny they should change just like
th
at
.

"Ride, Overlord!" Malcolm Lord shouted, leading four
a
p
prehensive, uncomfortably armed, and thoroughly un-
warlike
cowboys out of the plaza and down
trail toward
river.

SEVENTEEN

T
HE
sun
was just setting over the land when Buchanan
found Rosemarie's pegged-out horses at the base of the
mountain and rode one of them west along the riverside
—the only knowledge he had for the location of
Mulchay's place. There was still some aching stiffness
in his shoulder, and the saddle chafed the thigh wound, but he was riding again and he felt like a man who has
come home after a long trip.

Darkness came on swiftly and presently he came to a
fork in the main road. With the aid of a match he read
a signpost there: MacKay Ranch
—Lauren MacKay,
Owner, and went on again thoughtfully, not welcoming
the reminder of the girl. To his right was the outline of
a house, its windows darkened, but in his mind he saw
them lightened by lamps, curtained, and a tall, full-
bodied girl making a home of it.

Her man would be a rancher, and he'd work hard at
it because that was the only thing he wanted
—plus he
r
. Each year he'd build the house a little bigger—have to,
with kids running around in it—and the herd would get bigger, big enough for two drives a year, and when her
man went into Scotstown to cut the dust and play a lit
tl
e
table-stakes poker—why, the president of the bank wou
ld
tip his hat politely and every merchant along Trail Street 1
would come out of his store and wave real friendly.

Great life in store for somebody, Buchanan thought
.
"Come on, horse, move it!" he said aloud, giving
mare a squeeze of his knees. Who the hell cared al
bank presidents?

On and on he rode along the seemingly endless tra
ils
and now he began to worry that he had passed Mulchay's
place in the night. Hell, it must be two hours since he
started.

A bright glow suddenly lit up the night. Fire
—the
most dreaded sight in a summer so infernally dry as this
one. He dug his heels into the mare's sides now and she
responded with the fastest spurt she had.

The fire came from an outbuilding beyond the main
house, but even as Buchanan was racing toward it he
saw a figure running toward that house with a flaming
torch in his hand.

Buchanan swept the rifle free and fired it from the
crook of his elbow. He hadn't expected a hit and didn't
get one
—but the arsonist was made aware that he had
company coming, and the way he just stood there told
Buchanan he hadn't expected any from this direction. Those seconds of indecision cost him, for Buchanan
had been carried fifty feet closer to a brilliantly outlined
target that stood conveniently still. The rifle cracked
again, in dead earnest, quitting a man named John Riker
of all his troubles.

While Buchanan inherited fresh ones
—from the house
—as two hand guns tried to whipsaw him in a wild fusil
lade. He threw himself from the bolting, battle-shy horse
a
n
d ran jackknifed toward the shelter of the porch, ran
with such concentration that he was less than a stride
ram the dangling legs of the lynched Ranger before his
sta
rtled eyes saw them.

At the same time the porch door swung open and the
sin
gle-minded Cato came through, dragging the weakly
st
ru
ggling Mulchay. This was the way Gibbons had or
der
ed it, this was the way Gibbons would get it.

"Let him be, brother," Buchanan said, and Cato
turn
ed in surprise, as though the gunfight in progress
was
not supposed to concern him at all.

The knife glinted briefly, started down toward Mul
chay
's body, and all the off-guard Buchanan could do
was
swing the rifle, like a club. It hit with a sharp crack
ing sound, splintering every bone in Cato's money arm,
changing the murderous thrust of the blade to a long
scratch along Mulchay's chest. Buchanan clubbed him
again, to be shed of him, and was primed to resume
matters with the pair still inside the house when a moan broke from old Mulchay's throat. It was a mournful little
sound, deep, quavering, and spoke of a condition far
more critical than Buchanan suspected.

As he bent to scoop the man in his arms a .45 blasted
thunderously, slamming its slug into a post exactly level
with where his head had just been. It went off again,
ripping up the board beside him, but now he had Mul
chay in his arms and was seeking the safety of the dark end of the porch. He made it down the steps there, kept
going across the side yard and into the sheltering grove
beyond.

"There it goes!" Apgar shouted, but Jack Gibbons had
already spotted the fire, was already congratulating himself on the military precision, the fine timing of the oper
ation. They were thirty
minutes distant, time aplenty
for the flames to do their work, for Cato to do his and
all of them be gone
—in pursuit of Mexicans, presumably.

Very nice, too, how Malcolm Lord had fallen in with
the scheme, how he followed close behind with his ow
n
party
—just so many more unassailable witnesses to the
"enemies'" atrocities.

It was a change from th
e near-disaster of Seth Keroon’s
appearance today to the clear triumph tonight
—and eve
n
up in Austin, though they would suspicion the truth,'
the situation would make them take heed of Jack Gib
bons and
tie
the governor's hands indefinitely. The
Ranger had been strung up by Mexicans. A Mex
blade
was in Angus Mulchay's heart, his place was gutted
fire—and no less a personage than Malcolm Lord to t
es
t
ify to it.

And when all the poor fools had ridden off, to ke
ep
his appointment at the line shack . . . Gibbons suddenly
frowned. That fire, he thought, should be growing bigger.
What were they doing at the house?

At the house they didn't know what they were doing. Inside the place
;
were Harley and Betters, but they knew
only the general plan, hadn't been given anything spe
cific to do as Riker and Cato had.

"Who is that scudder out there, anyhow?" Harley
asked when another minute of tight silence had passed.

"The hell with who he is," Betters growled. "I wanna know where he is."

"Heard him run off the porch. Damn, I had the son
of a bitch cold and he ducked."

"Is Cato dead, or what?"

"He ain't moved."

"Let's go have a look."

"Help yourself."

"What's the matter with you?" Betters demanded.

"I don't like that ri
fl
e," Harley admitted. "And what'd
Cato ever do for me?"

"For crissake, we can't stay pinned down in here!
Riker was supposed to have the house burnin' by now
—"
He broke off, cocked his head to a noise out front.
"What's that?"

It was the sound of wagon wheels, protesting against unaccustomed speed.

"It's the damn scudder," Harley announced. "High-
t
ailin' with the damn buckboard!"

Betters dashed out on
to the porch just as Buchanan rac
ed the old wagon abreast of the house. They opened
f
ire at each other on sight, but the moving target eluded
Setters. Buchanan's third shot spun the man halfway
ar
oun
d, dropped him to his knees. Harley saw that and
ducked out of the fire line and threw some token shots
af
ter the retreating wagon, but they passed overhead.

The racket ceased as suddenly as it had erupted, and
it took a few more moments of it before the idea got
through Harley's brain that he was the last able-bodied
man on the premises.

"Hey, Betters, you all right?" he called out suddenly.

"Oh, you useless son of a bitch," the voice answered
from the porch.

"Watch who you're callin' son of a bitch, buddy."

There was a sound of movement from Cato then.

"Cato
.
" Harley shouted, crossing to him and kneeling
down. "Cato, you hear me? Hey, Cato!" He peered
closely. "Jesus
—he looks like a mule tramped on him.
Cato, can you hear me?"

"Yeah," Cato said then.

"What are we gonna do?" Harley asked him.

The man pushed himself to his hands and knees and
held that position while he moved his head from side to
side experimentally.

"You got him, didn't you?" he asked Harley.

"Hell, no, we didn't. What are we gonna do?"

Cato climbed all the way up, looked balefully from
Harley to the prone figure of Betters.

"What happened to him?"

"Got plugged. And Riker's dead in the yard."

"Some deal Gibbons worked out," Cato said.

"Do we ride out?" Harley asked.

"Some smart deal," Cato said again, touching his face
tenderly, glancing at the figure dangling on the other
side of the porch. "Go around and get the fire started,"
he told Harley. "Then bring the horses."

Harley moved quickly, relieved now that someone was
directing things. When he reached Riker he didn't even
bother to search for life, just picked the torch from the
dust, got it lighted again from the blazing outbuilding
and carried it back to the main house. The dry wood
took the flame hungrily, noisily, and with a great whoosh
the entire roof went up.

He got the horses then, helped boost Betters into the
saddle and the three of them went off.