William Vance - The Raid at Crazyhorse

He shook his head again and saw Brad struggling to his feet with a murderous rage twisting his face. The squat, dark man came over on one knee and slammed his gun at Sam's head. Sam couldn't bring up enough strength to duck it and another explosion rocked him into darkness.

XI

A GROAN

was wrenched out of Sam with the pain that seemed to split his head apart. He tried to steady himself, to ease the jolting. He realized that he was riding his own horse. A man rode on either side of him and they kept him from falling from the saddle by pushing him back when he teetered from one side to the other. Not that he'd fall very far if they let him go. His legs were tied wider the horse's belly.

It all came back to him with a rush. "Cooney," he said, not recognizing the croak as his own voice.

A rider ahead drifted back when one of the men beside Sam called out.

Cooney said sympathetically, "You cumin' round?"

Sam didn't answer. His head was clearing and he looked around to get his bearings. The mountains were there, lined against the sky, and from their silhouette he knew they were out of Squaw Valley.

It suddenly occurred to him that maybe he could capitulate; tell Cooney the truth about Kenton. Have them pool their resources to fight off whatever it was Kenton was trying to do. He looked at Cooney's hard-jutting jaw and decided to wait.

Early-morning gray was all around them. Mists silvered the peaks in the distance when the sound of bawling cattle reached Sam. They broke out of cover and Sam saw the herd, held in a crook of the near-dry river; he saw the broad trail they made, grazing slowly up the valley.

The riders angled down toward where blue smoke from the fire behind the chuck wagon drifted slowly upward. Two men sat hunkered on the ground, eating from tin plates. The cook moved between the fire and the tailgate. Sam saw two riders out circling the herd. A crew of eight men, counting Cooney, plus the cook. It was hard to believe such a small crew had brought this size herd from Texas.

All of them dismounted except Harden. He sat his horse until Cooney came over and began untying the rope that held his legs under his mount's belly. The others gave him a spare glance and paid no further attention to him.

"I sure hated to do this," Cooney said candidly. "I jus' don't know no other way."

"It'll not help you any," Sam said.

"Well, maybe. Get down and have a bite to eat." Sam threw a long leg over his saddle horn and slipped to the ground. He almost fell, hanging on to his saddle.

The three men accompanying Cooney fell to eating voraciously, not paying any attention to Sam. Cooney brought Sam a plate of beans and a couple of sourdough biscuits and a tin cup of coffee. "It ain't what you started to have but it'll keep your belly from cavin' in," he said.

The three men finished eating, mounted, and went out to the herd, and with the two on guard duty began cutting out a sizable bunch. Sam guessed there were five hundred head in the herd they separated from the main bunch. This smaller group headed out of the valley and the two cowboys began circling the main herd again.

Sam saw then that the bedroll wagon was piled high with soogans. He counted ten and estimated that many out of sight. That meant Cooney had twice as many men as were in sight. He wondered where the others were.

While Sam was eating Cooney rummaged in his war bag and brought out a Colt pistol and gave it to the cook. Looking at Sam, he spoke to the cook. "You know what we're doin', Stump. Don't let him go no place."

Stump shoved the pistol in his waist band, nodded, and went on about his camp chores. Cooney mounted his horse and sat there for a moment looking at Sam. "We'll turn you loose when this is done," he said.

Sam shook his head. "I don't know what you're planning, but I'm betting it won't work."

Cooney suddenly grinned. "It'll work. I got most my men staked out around Crazyhorse. I'm rennin' this bunch in to

see

if Kenton's gonna jump me. He does and my men jump him. We'll settle this once and for all." He touched his horse with spurs and rode after the smaller herd now dipping into a land undulation.

Sitting there with a growing sense of urgency, Sam speculated on his next move. He owed Kenton nothing, but to let him ride into a trap was unthinkable. He had many things to do, none of which could be done while he was a prisoner in Cooney's cow camp.

Six feet separated him from the cook where the man squatted cleaning the bean pot. He speculated on his chances of jumping Stump while the man was busy. He hesitated; a better chance might come later. Yet it might not; he leaped from his sitting position, snatching at the pistol in Stump's belt. The pistol snagged and Stump, though surprised, struck at him with the bean pot and hit his shoulder. It was a numbing blow that sent him sprawling but he got the pistol. Stump was after him with the pot raised for another and finishing smash. Sam thrust the pistol up, cocking it. The spare metallic sound stopped the cook dead in his tracks, pot still upraised.

Scrambling to his feet, Sam headed for his horse, feeling sick and dizzy. He got the horse untied and mounted, keeping Stump covered. "I'll leave your gun in town at The Mint," he said. "Tell Cooney to turn back or he's in big trouble."

He raked the horse into a dead run, heading in the general direction of Crossroad Corners. He had no definite plans but town seemed to be the first stop. If he couldn't find Jesse Kenton there he'd have to get a fresh horse and ride on to the J Bar K. He didn't relish the idea; he'd been tired before but never this tired, never this hurt.

It was past ten o'clock by the clock in the bank window when he rode down the main street on a lathered, exhausted horse. The wind had risen and dust swept skyward in sheets, a brown pall that darkened the land. The streets were deserted except for a few horses huddled-together at the rack in front of The Mint. It seemed to Sam that the town was a dead, uninhabited place.

Sam dismounted in front of the hotel, looped the reins over the rail and walked into the empty lobby. He headed toward the ground floor rooms of the McGees, realizing that he was a hard-looking figure. His dark beard had grown for two or three days, giving his features a glowering quality. His clothes were dirty and torn and stained with his blood. He was covered with sweat-mixed dust that made muddy streaks at his armpits and collar.

He tapped on the door and heard the rapid footsteps within. The door swung open. She stared up at him, surprise washing over her smooth face.

"Sam!" She put out her hands and took his two hands and drew him into the room. "I—I didn't expect you. You've heard, then?"

Sam stared at her blankly for

a

moment, seeing something unusual in her face. "Heard what?" he asked and

a

sudden chill ran through him, leaving him cold and expectant.

"Dick," she said chokingly and started to cry. "He was shot and killed this morning.

XII

A NUMBING DOUBT

, coupled with a coldness in his veins, hit him like a sledgehammer. Then an almost unbearable sense of loss was followed swiftly by memories he made no effort to put down.

Molly had regained her composure as she related what had happened. At an early hour, shortly after dawn, she heard a voice calling Dick. She didn't recognize the voice. She went through the lobby and peered from the window.

There were two men out there on horses. No one else was in sight. The town still slept.

She heard Dick answer from an upstairs window and then the flame and shot. The two horsemen wheeled and galloped away. Cherry was screaming that Dick had been shot.

"They were just dark shapes, Sam. I didn't recognize either of them."