Clifford Simak - New Folks' Home - And Other Stories

Out ahead of him, Cornish saw a horse going down, its rider flying above its head. The man struck the ground and rolled like a rubber ball, then he was on his feet again, clutching for his second gun. A rifle hammered and the man went over, as if a mighty fist had struck him and slammed him back into the earth.

Suddenly the two remaining horsemen wheeled about, frightened horses fighting at the bits. Cornish gritted his teeth, fired his last shot. One of the horses reared, feet pawing empty air, then tumbled screaming to the ground as its hind legs gave way beneath it.

The wagon thundered past, screeching and groaning, while Steve and Molly Hays crouched with silent guns.

Fumbling, swearing to himself, Cornish spilled cartridges with clumsy fingers reloading on the run.

The man whose horse had fallen was up and running for a cedar brake. The other rider had wheeled about, was waiting with lifted gun, his horse dancing sidewise with mincing steps. A great, tall man, angular and powerful, who sat the saddle with an easy grace.

Titus! He was waiting there on his mincing horse and with his gun all ready. For fists had failed and a rope had failed—and now it was the gun.

Rage steeled Cornish as he raised his gun, tried to hold it true against the motion of his horse. And even as he raised it, Titus’ arm came down in a slow, smooth sweep and his gun spat fire.

The bullet whistled past Cornish’s head with a dull and wicked hum and the gun winked again. Cornish’s horse jumped, stung by the lead that raked along its withers and slammed with a drilling whistle into the stirrup leather, flicking Cornish’s boot.

Close, now, thought Cornish. Almost too close to miss. Titus’ gun flamed anew and Cornish worked the trigger. The blasts came almost as one and as the sound exploded in his ears, Cornish felt himself flying from the saddle of the racing horse.

Dully he felt the impact of his body striking ground, he felt himself descending into a roaring pit that was filled with flame that seemed to have no heat, but was a howling maelstrom of red, then winked into black ash.

Out of the silence came a sharp whiplash of sound. Cornish stirred, felt the life running back into his body, smelled the grass and earth, knew the warmth of the westering sun shining on his back.

The sound came again, the rasping crack of a distant rifle. Then another sound, nearer at hand, the rolling chortle of a churning six-gun.

Cornish was lying on his face and now he tried to roll over. The pain, which before that had been a dull, throbbing ache he scarcely noticed, mounted to a screaming thing. Cornish gasped and fell back on his face again, lay quivering to the pounding agony that thundered in his left shoulder.

For the first time he became conscious of the gun still clutched in his right hand—his grip must have frozen to it when Titus had shot him. He twisted his head to one side and moved his right hand up into the range of vision. He tilted his wrist to see that the muzzle was clear and not clogged by earth.

The rifle spanged and down the hillside Cornish saw the instinctive, nervous crouch of a man squatting behind a clump of cedars.

The man was not Titus. He was dumpy and broad, whereas Titus was gaunt and angular. It must be, he reasoned, the man whose horse he’d shot. The fellow, he remembered, had run for the cedar brake.

The rifle talked again and Cornish saw the cedars jerk and shake to the passage of the bullet that thudded into the hillside above the man in a shower of torn-up sod. The rifleman, whoever it was, knew where the man was hiding, probably was deliberately shooting to cover every angle of the hideout.

The man huddled tighter against the ground and again the cedars jerked as another bullet tore its way through the shield of green.

There was no sign of Titus. Yet Titus had to be there. Perhaps crouching behind some bush, hidden in some hollow, waiting for a chance at the hidden rifleman who had to be one of the three who had been riding in the barb wire-laden wagon.

Carefully, Cornish twisted his body about to bring his gun arm into play. Grimly he lined his sights on the man behind the cedars.

But he did not pull the trigger, although his finger tightened. It was almost as if something that walked the earth had stopped for a moment and told him not to shoot. Something that would not let him shoot a man with his back toward him. Then, too, there was Titus to consider. As long as Titus thought that he was dead, Titus wouldn’t shoot.

Out by the cedars, the man was crawling, inching his way along, crawling up the hill. Then, suddenly, he exploded from the ground and was upright, running, head down, long legs working like driving pistons, angling up the hill, ducking and dodging to confuse the hidden rifle.

A single driving thought snapped into Cornish’s mind, brought him to his feet in a blur of stumbling pain.

The man must not get away. If he did, the Tumbling K would know the story of the barb wire. And if the Tumbling K knew about the wire, its riders would sweep the valley clean in one swift stroke.

The hidden rifle chugged and a tiny fountain of dirt and grass gushed into the air wide of the running man.

The man ducked swiftly, ran like a startled rabbit, then jerked to a halt, straightened with a snarl upon his face, gun snapping up to point at Cornish.

Gritting his teeth, Cornish fought to keep his feet, fought to stand on the hill that was buckling and rolling. The man before him went around in circles and the scene was hazy.

Cornish tried to lift his gun and the gun was heavy in his grasp. And even as he tried to lift it, he knew that it was no go, that he couldn’t shoot it out, not with the way the ground crawled beneath his feet and the way his eyes refused to focus.

The gun in front of him was a red eye winking in the haze and he felt the stir of buzzing lead snarling past his face.

His own gun was bucking in his hand, but he knew the shots were wild. His knees buckled and he took a slow step forward to regain his balance, watching the snarl on the misty face behind the winking gun of his antagonist.

Then the man’s face froze and his body stiffened. From across the gully came the crashing snarl of the heavy rifle. The man sagged in the middle, jack-knifing like a rusty and reluctant hinge. The gun slid from nerveless fingers and the knees gave way and the man was down, a huddled figure in the wind-whipped grass.

Awkwardly, Cornish holstered his gun, tried to wipe away the mist that clung against his face, saw the fluttering blue of the gingham dress running down the opposite slope.

“Molly!” he croaked.

He went down the hill to meet her on unsteady legs, his bullet-smashed shoulder a roaring pain that filled half his brain with the howl of monstrous winds.

Near the bottom of the slope, she caught him, a reeling robot of a man. He leaned against her, amazed at the strength that held him up, that guided him to a place upon the ground.

“Titus!” he croaked.

“Titus got away.”

“Molly.”

“Hold still,” she snapped at him. “I’ve got to get this blood stopped.”

“Molly, you got to warn the nesters. Titus will wipe them out. He won’t wait for nothing now that he knows about the wire.”

“Soon as I get you fixed up,” she said.

“Steve?”

“Stringing wire,” she said. “I made them do it. I’m no good at building fence, but I can use a gun.”

“You stayed back to keep those two pinned down?”

“That’s right,” she said, “but I didn’t do so good. Titus got away.”

The match snicked against the stone and Cornish held it cupped in his one good hand. Squatting in the gully, he held the tiny flame close above the ground, moved it slowly to find the narrow-tired track of the wagon that had gone before him.