And then I caught a quick sound, a gasping of breath, a slight wheezing
sigh.
Bob Carstairs stood in the doorway, his face mottled, his eyes
protruding, his chest heaving, and his hands resting on the guns at his
side. Beside him, and slightly to one side, were the two killers who had
escorted Ed Boswell to town, who had remained behind at the gambling
hall. Their faces were working and twisting with the excitement of the
moment, in an effort to lend speed to their flying hands.
But I was ready. My own guns were out. They would have drawn and fired
without compunction while I had my back to them, but now that I had seen
them, now that the laboring lungs of Bob Carstairs had given me a
warning, they hesitated.
Bob Carstairs squirmed slightly, his face paling, the big bulk shifting
to one foot then the other, his hands working, ever nearer to his guns,
indecision in his eyes, fear in his heart, and treachery in his mind. He
would mask the moves of the two men behind him with the bulk of his
body, would throw himself to one side at the proper time and leave me to
face the blazing guns of the other killers.
And he did just that, but his body moved slowly, clumsily. The guns of
the killers blazed, but mine as well, and I have noticed that it is hard
for men to shoot straight when they are face to face with a man who is
known for straight, cool shooting.
Their craven natures told. Nights of carousal, days of indolent
laziness, years of dissipation, all had left their marks in a nervous
system which could not properly co-ordinate at the critical time, in
spirits which lacked the moral courage to go down into the valley of the
shadow in equal combat.
One bullet hit me in the flesh of the arm, one tore through my coat, but
my own bullets crashed forth with deadly accuracy.
Ten seconds later and we were in the yard. A whistle and my black was
with me, and I speedily located another horse. The pursuing cowpunchers
had rushed to the scene of the latest burst of firing, and there was
something in what they saw there which gave them a check. Ed Boswell was
dead. The four killers whom he had kept in his service as a bodyguard,
as hired murderers, reputed to be the swiftest and most accurate shots
on the Border, had been sprawled face down upon the floor. Bob Carstairs
was lying on his back, his glazed eyes staring upward in startled
incredulity, his black heart stilled forever, and, out in the darkness,
Black Barr waited with loaded guns. It was not a situation which made
these hired land-grabbers feel any too enthusiastic about pursuit. They
hesitated, held back, leaderless, each waiting for the other, and each
questioning in his own mind whether there remained any incentive for him
to risk his life against the death which lurked in the darkness.
Oh, yes, they came, but it was a half-hearted pursuit, and the
scattering volleys which rattled forth upon the still night air were
more for the sake of keeping up their own spirits than for the purpose
of actually accomplishing any damage.
By common consent we swung in a great half circle, headed toward the
homestead. We were cleaning things up, paying off old scores, righting
wrongs, and I wanted the girl to have possession of that homestead.
To myself I was grateful for the trace of Indian blood in the girl. She
rode proudly, swiftly, with none of the hysterical thanks or babbling
comment which might have characterized another girl.
And so we rode, stirrup to stirrup, the floor of the valley slipping
beneath the hoofs of our mounts, the sand and gravel rattling on the
sage and cacti, while the pursuit dropped behind, and, finally, turned
back.
Out in the darkness there gleamed a flickering light. Even as we
watched, the light took on new body and a tongue of flame licked
greedily upward against the dark background of silhouetted hills. It was
the camp fire of the watchers who guarded the homestead, seeking to
retain possession at all costs.
“You will stay back here until I call,” I told the girl, the first words
I had spoken since leaving the Half Box outfit.
Her face was a white blur in the starlight, and I could not see the
expression, but I could and did see the sudden uptilting of the chin,
the set of the shoulders. She swung her horse even closer and came on,
running stride for stride, her stirrup leather actually touching mine at
times. Useless to argue with such a girl. The veneer of civilization had
given to her merely a feeling of independence, a will to do as she
wished, a sex emancipation. At heart she was a savage.
Together we pounded up to the barbed wire barrier which had been
erected. There were shadowy forms to receive us, men rolling out of
blankets at a whispered summons, the watchers who had been doing sentry
duty, tending the fire.
From the confidence of the man who came forward to meet us, I was
satisfied that riflemen were concealed in the darkness, ready to shoot
us down at the first sign of trouble. I wasted no time.
“I am Black Barr, and I have with me the owner of this homestead. I want
possession.”
The very crispness of the message puzzled the man for a moment. He
parried for time.
“You’ll have to see Ed Boswell. We’re taking our orders from him.”
“I have seen Ed Boswell,” I said slowly, evenly.
“What did _he_ say?” asked the guard.
“He is dead,” I retorted gravely.
From the darkness there came a slight stirring, no motion which could be
sensed, but a vague feeling of psychic unrest as when invisible men
shift their positions uncomfortably, peer doubtfully at each other.
I gathered that the force had been somewhat reduced to take part in the
visit to the card-room at the Green Leaf. The very fact of my presence
there with the girl at my side told them much. They were rapidly losing
heart.
“You’ll have to see Bob Carstairs, then.”