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  The gray horse ran through the tall grass, sweeping around groves of aspen and alder, keeping to the low ground. He splashed through a swale, crested a long low hill that cut athwart the valley, and turned at right angles down the draw toward the cover of the far-off trees. The cool wind whipped against his face, and he felt a breath of moist wind as it shifted, feeling for the course of the storm.

  The big horse was running smoothly, liking the feel of running as he always did, letting his powerful muscles out and stretching them. Leaning forward to break the wind and let the weight of his body help the running horse, Rock Bannon talked to the stallion, speaking softly. He knew the stallion loved his voice, for between horse and man there was that companionship and understanding that come only when they have known many trails together, shared the water of the same creeks, and raced over long swells of prairie as they were running now.

  Then he heard the distant sound of a rifle, followed by a roll of shots.

  “Bat, I hope to heaven you’re under cover,” he muttered. “I hope they didn’t surprise you.”

  He eased the horse’s running now because he might rush upon some of them sooner than he expected. He slid his rifle from the scabbard and raced into the trees. The sound of firing was nearer now. He slowed the horse to a walk, letting him take a blow, his eyes searching the brush. There was still some distance to go, but there was firing, and that meant that Bat was under cover. They had not caught him flat-footed at least.

  He swung the horse up into the rocks and slid from the saddle, easing forward to the rim of the shelf overhanging the line cabin. Lying facedown among the rocks, he could see puffs of smoke from the brush around the cabin. Waiting until he saw a gleam of light on a rifle, he fired.

  Almost instantly a man some distance away leaped up and started to run for a boulder. Swinging his rifle, he snapped a shot at him, and the man went to his knees, and then started to crawl for shelter.

  A rifle bellowed down below, and a shot glanced off a rock, kicking splinters into Bannon’s face. He eased back and worked down the slope a bit, studying the situation below. One man was wounded, at least.

  Suddenly a horseman leaped a horse from behind some trees and, dragging a flaming mass of brush, raced toward the cabin. It was a foolhardy thing to do, but instantly Bannon saw his purpose. The rifle fire had attracted Bat Chavez to the other side of the cabin. Rock lifted his own rifle and steadied it. A flashing instant of aim, and then he fired.

  The horseman threw up his arms and toppled back off the horse, right into the mass of flaming brush. He screamed once, horribly, and then rolled clear, fighting the fire in his garments and dragging himself in the dust. Another man rushed from the brush to aid him, and Rock held his fire.

  Suddenly there was a heavy roll of thunder. Looking around, he saw the clouds had come nearer, and now there was a sprinkle of rain. At the same instant he heard the pounding of horses’ hoofs. Snapping a quick shot at the brush, he heard a startled yell. Then the attackers broke from the brush and, scrambling to their saddles, charged away across the valley. At that moment, the rain broke with a thundering roar, a veritable cloudburst.

  Rushing to the steel-dust, he swung into the saddle. He put the animal around to a steep slide of shale and rode down to the barn near the corral. Johnny rushed up to him.

  “You all right?”

  “Yeah. How’s Bat?”

  “Don’t know. Red went in. You go ahead. I’ll fix your horse up.”

  Rock sprinted for the house and got in, slamming the door after him. Bat looked around, grinning widely.

  “Man, was I glad to hear that rifle of yours,” he said. “They had me surrounded. Lew wanted to get into it, but I was afraid his wound would open and start bleedin’ again. Well, we drove ’em off.”

  “You get anybody?”

  “Scratched a couple. Maybe got one. You got one that first shot. I seen him fall. That’ll be one down and two bad hurt, maybe four. Looks like we come out of that on top.”

  “I was headed for Poplar and saw them coming. I was afraid you’d be outside and they’d split up on you.”

  Chavez spat. “They mighty near did. I’d just been to the spring for water.”

  Rock stared into the fire. This would mean nothing one way or another. They had been turned back from the first attack, but they would not be convinced. He had killed a man. Who was it? That would matter a great deal, he knew. Certainly, if it was another of the settlers, he would have small chance of selling them on quitting.

  Yet he was just as resolved now as before the attack. This thing must be stopped. It was never too late to try. The rain was roaring upon the roof. They would never expect him in a flood like that. They would be inside and expecting everyone else to be there, too. If he circled around and came down the cañon, it would be the best chance. If they were keeping watch at all, it would be from this direction. He would start in a few minutes. They were making coffee now ….

  *

  Sharon was outside when she saw the rain coming, and she waited for it, enjoying the cool air. Over the distant mountains across the valley, there were vivid streaks of lightning. It was already storming there, a frightful storm by all appearances.

  She was alone and glad of it. Mary had wanted her to come to the Collins house, where several of the women had gathered, but she knew she could not stand to be cooped up now. She was restless, worried. Her father was out there, and, for all his courage and willingness to go, Tom Crockett was no fighting man. He was not like Bannon. Strangely now, she was but little worried about him. He was hard, seemingly impervious to harm.

  Even now he might be over there across the valley. He might be killing her father, or her father might be shooting him. Twelve men had ridden away. Eight of them were settlers. Collins was dead and Dud Kitchen still too weak to ride, but the others had gone to a man. Mulholland, Satterfield, Pagones, Lamport, Purcell, Olsen, and Greene. And, of course, her father.

  Then the rain came, a scattering of big drops, and then the rolling wall of it. She turned and went inside. There were a few places where the roof was not too tight. She put pans under them and lighted a light, which she put on the table near the window. Her father’s leg was still not overly strong, and it worried her to think he was out there in this.

  She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, a tall, lovely girl with a great mass of red-gold hair done in two thick braids about her head, her face too pale, her eyes overly large.

  She heard them coming before she saw them. She watched a horseman break away from the others and cross the grass, now worn thin from much travel. When the horse was stabled, he came in, stamping his feet and slipping out of his slicker. His gray hat was black with rain, and she took it close to the fire. The coffee was ready, and she poured a cup, and then went for a bowl to get some thick soup for him.

  He sat down at the table, sat down suddenly, as if his legs had been cut off, and she noticed with a sudden qualm that he looked old, tired. His eyes lifted to hers and he smiled wanly.

  “Guess I’m no fighting man, Sharon,” he said. “I just wasn’t cut out for it. When that man fell into the flames today, I nearly wilted.”

  “Who was it?” she asked quickly. “One of our men?”

  “No, it was a teamster. One of the bunch that hangs around the saloon. His name was Osburn. We rushed the house, and one of the men inside opened fire. Wounded one of the men, first shot. We had the house surrounded, though, and would have had them in a few minutes. Then someone opened up on us from the cliff.

  “It was Bannon, I’m sure of that. He killed Hy Miller. Got him with his first shot, although how he saw him I can’t imagine. Then he wounded Satterfield. Shot him through the leg, about like I was. This Osburn got on a horse, and ….” His voice rambled on, and all she could think about was that her father was home, that her father was safe.

  After it all, when his voice had died away and he was eating the hot soup, she said: “And Bannon? Was he hurt?”
>
  “No, he wasn’t hurt. He never seems to get hurt. He’s a hard man, Sharon.”

  “But a good man, Father,” she said suddenly. “He’s a good man. Oh, I wish things were different.”

  “Don’t think it, Sharon,” her father said, shaking his head. “He’s not for you. He’s a wild, ruthless man, a man who lives by the gun. Collins is dead, and by one of this man’s friends, and they’ll never let up now, nor will we. It’s a war to the end.”

  “But why, Father? Why?” Sharon’s voice broke. “Oh, when I think that we might have gone by the other trail. We might have been in California now. Sometimes I believe that everything Bannon ever said about Mort Harper is true. All we’ve done is to come on here into this trap, and now our oxen are gone, all but the two you use to plow, and we’re in debt.”

  “I know.” Crockett stirred restlessly. “But it might have been as bad wherever we went. You must understand that. We may be mistaken in Mort. He’s done what he could, and he’s standing by us in this fight.”

  The fire flickered and hissed with the falling drops of rain in the chimney, and Sharon crossed and knelt beside the fire, liking the warm feel of it on her knees. She sat there, staring into the flames, hearing the unrelenting thunder of the rain, and wondering where Rock Bannon was.

  Where would it all end? That boy, Wes Freeman, slain in the hills. Then Collins, and now Miller. Dud Kitchen recovering from a wound. Jim Satterfield down, and the whole affair only beginning and no end in sight. The door opened suddenly and without warning, and she whirled, coming to her feet with her eyes wide.

  Disappointment swept over her, and then fear. Pete Zapata was closing the door after him. He was smiling at her, his queer, flat face wet with rain, his narrow rattler’s eyes searching the corners of the room.

  “Not here?” he whispered hoarsely. “Pretty soon, maybe.”

  “Who … who do you mean?” she gasped.

  Tom Crockett was sitting up very straight, his eyes on the man. Zapata glanced at him with thinly veiled contempt, and then shrugged.

  “Who? That Rock Bannon. A few minutes ago he came down the cañon on his horse. Now he is here somewhere. Who knows? But soon he will come here, and when ….” He smiled, showing his yellow teeth between thick lips. His eyes shifted from Sharon to her father. “If one speaks to warn him, I’ll kill the other one, you see?”

  Fear left Sharon’s lips stiff, her eyes wide. Slowly she turned back to the fire. Bannon would come here. Zapata was right. She knew he would come here. If Rock had come again to Poplar, he would not leave without seeing her. He might come at any minute. She must think, she must somehow contrive to warn him—somehow!

  *

  The steel-dust liked the dim, shallow cave in which Rock had stopped him, but he didn’t like being left alone. He whimpered a little and made believe to snort with fear as Bannon started to move away, but when Rock spoke, the stallion quieted, resigned to what was to come.

  Rock Bannon moved out swiftly, keeping under the trees but working his way closer and closer to the house of Pagones. He didn’t know what he was getting into, but Pagones was the most reliable of them all, and the strongest one. If resistance to Harper was to come, it must come from him. Crockett lacked the force of character, even though he might have the will. Besides, Pagones knew that one of Harper’s men had shot down Dud Kitchen.

  Pagones hadn’t chosen his potential son-in-law. Mary had done that for herself, but Pagones couldn’t have found anyone he liked better. Dud was energetic, tireless, capable, and full of good humor. George Pagones, in his heart, had never felt sure of Mort Harper. He had listened with one part of his mind to Bannon’s protests, even while the smooth words of Harper beguiled him.

  Pagones had returned wet and tired. Like Crockett, he had no love of killing. He had seen Osburn tumble into the flames, and he had seen Miller killed. Knowing the trouble Miller had caused and how he had attacked Sharon while drunk, Pagones was not sorry to see him die. If it had to be someone, it might as well have been Miller. Yet seeing any man die is a shock, and he had been close to the man.

  Many men are aggressive and willing enough to fight, but when they see death strike suddenly and horribly, their courage oozes away. Pagones had the courage to defend himself, but his heart was not in this fight, and the action of the day had served to make him very thoughtful.

  Something was worrying Dud Kitchen. He had been noticing that for several days, yet there had been no chance to talk to him when the womenfolk were not around. He felt the need of talking to him now and got up and went into the room. He was there, beside the bed, when a breath of cold air struck him and he heard a startled gasp from his wife.

  Gun in hand, he stepped back to the door. Rock Bannon was closing it after him. He turned now and looked at the gun in Pagones’s hand. Bannon smiled grimly.

  “Well, you’ve got the drop on me, Pag. What happens now?”

  “What do you want here?” Pagones demanded sternly. “Don’t you know if you keep coming back, they’ll kill you?”

  “Just so it isn’t you, Pag,” Bannon said. “I always reckoned you a friend.”

  Pagones holstered his gun. “Come in,” he said. “I take it you’ve come to talk.”

  Mary and his wife stood facing him, their eyes shining with apprehension. There was a scuffling of feet from the other room, and then Dud Kitchen was in the doorway.

  “Howdy,” he said. “They’ll kill you, Rock. I heard Zapata say he was after you. He said he was going to get you next.”

  “All right.” Rock dropped into a chair, his right-hand holster in his lap, the ivory gun butt near his right hand. His dark blue shirt was open at the neck, his leather jacket unbuttoned. The candle-and firelight flickered on the bright butts of the cartridges in his twin belts.

  Dud’s face was very pale, but somehow Rock sensed that Dud was glad to see him, and it made him feel better and made the talk come easier. Pagones’s cheekbones glistened in the firelight, and his eyes were steady on Bannon’s face as he waited for him to begin. It was very still in the room. A drop of water fell into the fire and hissed itself into extinction.

  Mary Pagones stooped, her freckles dark against the pallor of her face, and dropped a handful of small sticks on the fire.

  “Pag,” Bannon began slowly, “I’ve never wanted this fight. I don’t think you have. I don’t think Crockett did, either, or Dud here. There’s no use me trying to talk to Tom. He’s a good man and he knows what he wants, but he hasn’t force enough to make it stick. He couldn’t stand against Harper. There’s only one man here can do that, Pagones, and that’s you.”

  “Harper’s my friend,” Pagones said evenly. “He led us here. This is his fight and ours.”

  “You don’t believe that,” Rock said. “Not down inside, you don’t. Collins’s death brought you into it. That made it your fight and Crockett’s fight. The truth is, all you men want is homes. That’s what your wife wants, and Mary. That’s what Sharon wants, too. That’s what Cap wants, and the rest of them.

  “What Mort Harper wants is land and power. He intends to have them, no matter who dies or when. I’ve been here before to try to stop this trouble. I’m here again now.

  “One of our men died first, and he was a good boy. He was murdered, Pagones, murdered like no man in the wagon train would kill any man. Purcell didn’t like me. Neither did Lamport. Cap was your leader, but he listened too quick to that glib tongue of Harper’s.”

  “We all did,” Dud said. “I listened, too. I listened for a while, anyway.” Mary moved up behind his chair and put her hand on his shoulder. He looked up quickly, and she smiled.

  “Get to the point,” Pagones said. All that Bannon said was true. He knew it as well as Rock. He had listened to Harper, but secretly he had always been afraid that Bannon was right. He had been afraid of this trail. They had no oxen now, and they had no money. They were here, and they could not escape.

  Rock leaned a hand on his knee. “Pagones, my
boys say they didn’t kill Collins.”

  Chapter Seven

  Dud Kitchen drew in his breath, and Mary looked at him in sudden apprehension.

  “What’s that you say?” Pagones demanded.

  “I repeat. I talked to my boys, and they say they didn’t kill Collins. Bat Chavez couldn’t see anything, but Zapata, Stark, and Murray weren’t even facing toward Collins then. They say they didn’t kill him.”

  “There was a lot of shootin’,” Pagones said. “Anything might’ve happened.”

  “That’s right,” Bannon agreed. “But my boys don’t think they shot Collins, and that leaves a big question.”

  “It don’t leave no question for me!” Dud flared suddenly. “I saw that wound of Collins’s! And he was shot in the back!”

  Pagones’s face hardened. He stared down at the floor, his jaw muscles working. Was nothing ever simple anymore? Was there nothing on which a man could depend? How had he got into this mess, anyway? What should he do?

  “Who do you think?” he asked. “You mean Zapata?”

  Their eyes were all on Rock Bannon, waiting, tense. “No,” he said. “I mean Mort Harper.”

  “But, man, that’s crazy!” Pagones leaped to his feet. “What would be the object? Is there any reason why he would kill a man on his own side?”

  “You know the answer to that as well as I,” Bannon said. He got up, too. “He wanted you in this fight, and that was the only way he could get you. Purcell and Lamport were fire-eaters. They were in, but they weren’t enough. He wanted the rest of you, the good, sober, industrious citizens, the men whose reputations at home were good, the men who would look honest to the military if they ever came West.”

  “I saw that wound,” Kitchen repeated. “Collins was killed with a small gun, a small gun with flat-nose or split-ended bullets.”

  “Who has such a gun?” Pagones said. “You all know that Harper carries a Dragoon, like the rest of us.”