Ride the Man Down (23 page)

Pulling up, he climbed out of the buggy in the darkness and ran a hand over the flank of the near horse. It was sweating heavily, and he could hear the labored breathing of them both.

He stood there in the dark, feeling an exasperation that was tinged with bewilderment. What was he, a storekeeper, doing on a rider's errand, anyway? A sense of futility enveloped him, and he looked about him. The land was dark, meaningless to his town eyes, and he had only a rough idea of where he was.

His first discouragement ebbing, he took stock of the situation. The need for haste was still acute, but with only a pair of stable-fat buggy horses there was nothing he could do. In his own mind he was racing Will Ballard, and there was no time to waste.

He climbed into the buggy again and drove on, watching the road for a landmark. He found one in the next mile: the turnoff to Ed Niles's old place, which he recognized. He had delivered a stove out here one Sunday years ago, but he did not know whose place it was now.

Turning off, he drove the quarter mile to the homesteader's building and pulled up in the dark yard. There was not even a dog around, and Priest's heart sank. He called out, however, in the fashion of the country: “Hello, the house!” No answer. He sat there in the buggy, anxious and baffled, and then he repeated the call with no hope of an answer.

He heard a stirring inside the house now, and the door creaked open and a man's voice said surlily, “Tucker ain't here.”

Priest had heard this voice recently, and his mind raced in trying to remember it. He had it “Danfelser!” he called shrilly. “Sam Danfelser!”

“Who is it?”

Priest was scrambling out of the buggy. Hurrying through the gate, he ripped his coat on a piece of wire, but he did not pause until he was on the porch.

“This is luck,” Priest said exultantly, and then, disliking enthusiasm in anybody, including himself, added, “You haven't bought this place, have you?”

“Tucker works for me.” Sam grunted surlily. “Why shouldn't I be here?”

Priest made out his big bulk in the doorway. He said without haste, “Will Ballard just left town. He's on his way to drive my cattle off that grass by Garretson's, and I wondered if you—”

Before he was finished speaking Sam Danfelser was in front of him and had his hand on Priest's arm. Sam was gently shaking him.

Priest poured out the story of Will's visit then, and Sam cut him short. He dodged back into the house, and lamplight bloomed.

Priest stood in the doorway, oblivious to the shoddy room, and finished his story while Sam pulled on his shirt and boots and strapped on his gun belt.

“Can I get a change of horses here?” Priest asked.

“There's mine and one of Tucker's in the corral,” Sam said curtly. “Come ahead.”

He did not hunt for a lantern but took the lamp and, shielding it with his hand against the breeze, tramped out to the corral.

There was the immediate problem then of a saddle for Priest. Sam settled that by giving him his own. He saddled one of Tucker's horses for Priest and then put the bridle on his own horse and led them both out into the night and blew out the light.

“Let me unhitch first,” Priest said.

“Hell with that!” Sam said roughly. “We're riding. Now.”

He vaulted on his horse, which he rode bareback, and waited for Priest to mount, and then they rode out, leaving the bays hitched to the buggy and standing in the darkness.

The remainder of the ride was a nightmare for Priest, who did not like saddle horses. They traveled steadily and eternally, rarely alternating a lope with the steady walk of their horses, and Sam was silent. He seemed able to feel his way in the night through this country, and Priest did not question his judgment once he had told him where the herd was located. Sometime close to daylight Sam called a halt. This was where Priest had said the herd would be, and it was senseless to look for them in the darkness.

Priest slacked out of the saddle and lay on the ground, blessedly resting. Sam was on his feet, and Priest could hear him pacing back and forth restlessly, waiting for dawn.

It had barely broken before they heard the distant bawling of cattle, and Sam was again on his horse. This time he did not wait for Priest, but rode off impatiently.

By full daybreak they had spotted the herd and the smoke from the breakfast fire near by.

Priest and Sam rode into camp and were greeted by Courteen and his men. Red looked curiously at Sam and extended the ancient invitation of the country.

“Light and eat, you two.”

“Nobody's eating,” Sam announced flatly. “I want that fire put out too. Now.”

Courteen had a rough retort on his lips when Priest cut in with his news. Will Ballard was on his way to move the herd, and they had ridden all night to warn them. The fire was instantly put out.

Sam cut in then, saying, “How many men you got, Red?”

“Six.”

Sam grunted. “Break up camp then. I'm going to take a look here.”

Sam rode out toward the cattle, and Courteen watched Priest dismount painfully. Red said resentfully, “What's he got to do with this?”

“Let him run it,” Priest said wearily. “He's out to get Ballard. That's all that counts, isn't it?” When Red nodded Priest added, “Better break camp in a hurry, Red. Don't cross him.”

There was little work to be done, and the tarps and bedrolls were speedily rolled and packed on the pack horses.

Sam returned then, dismounted, and came up to Priest and Red, who were watching him curiously. The six men of Red's crew kept in the background, taking turns drinking from the coffeepot which they had salvaged before the fire was put out.

Sam looked about him now, saw a bare patch of soil a few feet away, and went over and knelt by it, scowling deeply.

Priest and Courteen followed him, and when they had stood silently beside him for some minutes Sam began to speak.

“Over there on the other side of the herd, about a half mile, is an arroyo. Did you see it, Red?” He made a long mark with his finger in the dirt. Red nodded.

“We're all going to hole up there—horses, men, everything. We'll leave two men in sight to ride herd. You got that?”

“Sure,” Red said a little irritably.

Sam was oblivious to anything Red might say now. He stared at him with a kind of terrible concentration, as if he were daring him to misunderstand or disobey.

“I want the herd moved over close to that arroyo,” Sam said in the same insistent voice. He drew again. “I want it held there close to it. I want your two riders to be between the herd and the arroyo when Will Ballard comes. That will make him come around close to the wash to talk to them.” He paused. “I want you to give me the first shot at him,” he said flatly. “Afterward you can do anything you want—but that's the way it'll be. Understand?”

“Sure, sure,” Red said softly, and this time his reply was not irritable.

Red swiftly explained to his men. Leaving two of them on guard, Red, Sam, Priest, and the four others circled the herd, which was grazing placidly now, and sought the arroyo.

It was some fourteen feet deep, with steeply sloping sides. Both rims of it were fringed by buckbrush and chamiso.

Sam told off one man to lead the horses up the wash, and then he stationed the others along the rim for perhaps seventy-five yards so that they were completely hidden.

Afterward he settled down in the buckbrush close to the rim to wait. Priest, who was next to him, tiredly studied his face.

It was patient, almost in repose. Sam himself sat utterly still, his head cocked a little to pick up any sound above the murmurous pulling of grass of the cattle as they ate beyond the rim.

Priest watched him a moment and then found himself not wanting to watch. He fingered the tear in his coat now but did not see it.

The man's crazy
, he thought, and he found it oddly frightening to discover this in the bright, silent sunrise.

Mel Young said, “He's got 'em bunched,” and looked over at Will and Jim Young. The three of them had topped a small knoll a half mile from the herd and had watched it for some minutes.

Will said, “How many men do you make out riding herd?” And when they agreed on two he was silent a moment. The green, tawny flats here stretched out in an almost unbroken evenness for a few miles until they were broken by the up-thrust of the Indigos' foothills. Will scanned them carefully and saw no other riders. The cottony tips of thunderheads were peeping over the vaulting peaks of the Indigos already, Will noted idly, and he marked a coming rain.

He straightened in his saddle then and reached for his sack of tobacco. “Let's watch a minute,” he murmured.

He fashioned a cigarette and lighted it and then crossed his arms and leaned on the saddle horn, pulling his feet from the stirrups. A weariness sat on his shoulders like a leaden weight, and he shut his eyes for a moment. He had a deep iron longing for sleep that was getting harder to conquer each day, and he wondered thinly how long he could stick this out. How long had he been at it, anyway? He tried to count the days and could hot; they were blurred together, night jumbled with day, and only a few images stood out to give them reality. One of them, oddly, was the picture of Celia at Cavanaugh's that night when they had planned. The other real thing was the presence of the Youngs, tough, patient, loyal. Now he recalled Ike's warning when he had taken on the two rawhiders as Hatchet hands and he smiled to himself. These two had more than taken Ike's place. Without them he and Celia would have been helpless. Tiredly, now, he wondered what Sara's and Bide's next move would be and if Kneen had given his warning yet. Now the smoke from his cigarette stung his nose, and his mind seemed to tell his hand to take the cigarette away, and yet he did not move.

Then he heard Jim Young's quiet whisper, “The big fella's asleep, Mel.”

Will seemed to fight his way up to the surface of his weariness and he opened his eyes, hauling himself erect in the saddle. He glanced at Mel Young, and Mel said, “Nothin' more, Will.”

Will had to concentrate a moment to understand what Mel was talking about, painstakingly searching in memory for what he had said last. It came to him then that they were scanning the country, looking for more of Red's men, and he was all right again then.

“Two of Red's men were never much trouble,” he murmured, and he put his horse down onto the flats, and the Young boys fell in beside him.

Presently they approached the herd, and Will saw the two riders plainly on the other side of the cattle. They saw him and the Youngs and yet they made no move to approach them.

Will's attention narrowed now as he tried to understand this. Were the two of them counting on him and the Youngs splitting up to circle the herd, which was stretched out in a long line, and then picking them off separately?

Will said quietly, “Stick together,” and then he reined up. “Where's Red?” he called.

The riders stared at him silently, and then one of them answered, “In town.”

Will said, “Tell him he can get his cattle at Hatchet. We're driving 'em off.”

Still the riders did not move, and Will decided abruptly to go to them. He put his horse forward now, aiming through the herd, and the outermost cattle on the edge of the herd that were watching him turned against the others and started to move into it. Other cattle, in turn, moved with them, until the herd began to move ahead of Will.

Then the shot came—flat, vicious, close. Will felt the whisper of air close to his ear, saw the puff of smoke from behind a low chamiso, and for the first time saw the arroyo.

He understood in one swift, savage moment that this arroyo held Red and his men and that he had walked into a trap.

He yanked his gun out and took a snap shot at one of the punchers who had turned his horse toward the arroyo and he yelled, “Stampede 'em!” to the Young boys. Already the cattle were moving away from them toward the arroyo, and Jim Young let out a whoop and pulled his gun.

Now the whole arroyo for fifty yards seemed to open up in concerted fire. The cattle on the arroyo edge of the herd turned away from it, but the mass of the herd was already moving against them, and the few could not buck the gathering momentum of the many. The Youngs, not needing explanations, had fanned out in opposite directions against the flank of the herd and were shooting over the heads of the panicking cattle.

Will sent another shot at the lone puncher, who, from his rearing horse, was shooting wildly into the oncoming herd. Will saw the horse go over, heard the man's wild yell above the bawling cattle, and then the rising thunder of the running herd seemed to drown all else. The second puncher had vanished into the arroyo.

Will raced to the side now, shooting over the cattle. On the far side the cattle that were trying to stem the tide were pawing wildly and rearing up over the heads of the others, but the herd still moved indomitably against them.

Will's gun clicked on empty now, and he rammed it in the waistband of his overalls and pulled out his rifle.

Through the dust he looked across the herd and saw a puncher scramble up the far side of the arroyo and light out across the flats. Will shot at him and missed and shot again and missed, and then he looked to the right and saw Jim Young bearing down on him, yelling wildly and shooting his gun over the heads of the stampeding cattle.

Will put his horse close to the cattle again now and again let his gun off into the moil of dust that was rising from the stampede. And then, as if the earth had opened up to swallow them, the cattle in front of him seemed to sink into the ground. Will yanked back on the reins, and his horse reared sideways and away.

He got one brief sickening look at the arroyo bottom. It was a struggling, boiling mass of downed, bawling, fighting cattle that were trampling each other underfoot in a wild attempt to scramble out the other side.