THE NIGHT RAID
THE moon was just going under a cloud when Rowan and his two companions
rode away from the Circle Diamond. They had plenty of time before the
appointed hour at the Three Pines. Since they expected to ride hard
during the night, they took now a leisurely road gait in and out among
the hills.
There was little conversation. Cole was not friendly toward Silcott,
though he had had no open break with him. He still remembered with
resentment that night when Larry had flirted so outrageously with Kate.
To Jack Cole’s simple mind the thing had carried the earmarks of
treachery. The two had been rather close. They had slept under the same
tarp many a time. He could not understand the vanity which had driven
Larry to a public exhibition of his power with women. But he and Kate
had talked the thing out, had quarrelled and made up. His sense of
dignity kept him from settling the matter with Silcott by the simple
primitive method of fisticuffs. Therefore he bottled up his sense of
injury under a manner of cool aloofness.
Yerby and Rogers were waiting for them beneath the largest of the big
pines.
“Better ’light, boys,” suggested the Texan. “I reckon we might as well
kinder talk things over. We aim to bend the law consid’able to-night. If
any of you lads is feelin’ tol’able anxious he’d better burn the wind
back to camp. Old Man Trouble is right ahaid of us on the trail. Now’s
the time to holler. No use bellyachin’ when it’s too late.”
“Think we’re quitters?” Larry demanded indignantly.
“No, son, I don’t allow you are. If I did you can bet them
fifteen-dollar boots of yours that you or Sam Yerby one wouldn’t be
here. What I’m sayin’ is that this is serious business. Take a good,
square look at it before you-all go ahaid.”
“Sam’s quite right,” assented McCoy. “We’re going on a sheep raid, and
against a desperate man. We’re going to kill his sheep—ride them
down—stampede them. It’s not a nice business, and the law is dead
against us. I don’t like it a bit, but I’m going because it is the only
way to pound sense into Tait’s fool head. We’ve got to do it or shut up
shop.”
Rowan spoke with a gravity that carried conviction. He was a man notable
even in that country which bred strong men. His steel-gray eyes looked
out unafraid upon a world still primitive enough to demand proofs of any
man who aspired to leadership among his fellows. McCoy had long since
demonstrated his fitness to lead. No man in the Fryingpan country
doubted this. Hence his words now carried weight.
“I stand pat,” said Silcott.
Cole nodded agreement.
“Good enough. But understand this: We’re not man-killers. Tait is a bad
lot, all right, but we’re not out to get him. We’re going to mask,
surprise the camp, hold it up, do our business, then get out. Is that
plain?”
“Plain as the Map of Texas brand,” assented Yerby with a grin. “Listens
fine, too. But what have you arranged for Tait to be doing while you-all
is making him a prisoner?”
“He’ll be sleeping, Sam. Here’s the layout. One of the herders and the
dogs will be with the sheep. We’ll slip right up to the wagon and
capture Tait first thing. He’s a heavy sleeper—always was. Once we get
him the rest will be easy.”
The Texan nodded. “Ought to go through as per plan if the sheep are far
enough from the wagon.”
“They’ll be far enough away so that the dogs won’t bark at us.”
“Who is that?” cried Rogers, pointing to the trail below.
All of them with one consent stopped to watch the horseman riding up out
of the darkness.
“It’s Hal Falkner,” Cole cried in a low voice.
“Falkner! What’s he doing here?” demanded McCoy. He whirled on Silcott.
“Did you tell him where we were to-night, Larry?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You told him something—that Tait had crossed the dead line and was
heading for Thunder Mountain.”
“I might have said that,” admitted Silcott a little sulkily.
“Did you tell any one else?”
“No. What’s ailin’ you, Mac?”
“Just this. I don’t want to go to the penitentiary because you can’t
keep your mouth shut, Larry. Falkner is the last man you ought to have
told. I don’t want him with us to-night. He’s too anxious to get at
Tait.”
“Oh, well, I guess he’ll be reasonable.”
Falkner rode up the trail out of the shadowy gloom. “Thought you’d lose
me, did you? Fine stuff, boys. How’s yore busted laig, Sam? And did you
get that important letter, Brad? I know you other lads got the cattle to
the Circle Diamond because I saw them there.”
“What do you want, Hal?” asked Rowan curtly.
“Me, Mac? Same as you. I want to shoot some pills into Mary’s little
lambs. Did you think I was riding for my health?”
“We don’t want you along with us. Our party’s made up.”
“Short and sweet, Mac. What’s the objection to my company?” demanded
Falkner frostily.
“No personal objection whatever, Hal. But we don’t want any one along
that has a grudge at Tait. We’re fighting for the range, and we don’t
intend to settle any individual scores.”
“Suits me. I expect I can square accounts with Joe Tait at the proper
time without lugging all you fellows along.”
McCoy looked directly at him. “This party is ducking trouble, not
looking for it, Hal. We intend to get the drop on Tait and hold him
prisoner till we’re through. Our only targets will be sheep.”
“Fine! I’ll take orders from you to-night, Rowan.”
“That makes everything all right then,” put in Larry cheerfully.
McCoy still hesitated. He knew of Falkner’s gusty and ungovernable
temper, and suspected the bilious rancour of his ill will toward Tait.
“Oh, let him go,” decided Rogers impatiently. “One more won’t do any
harm, and we might need him. Falkner is not a fool. He knows we can’t
afford to shoot up Tait or his men.”
“Sure I know it. What’s the use of so much beefing? I’m going with you,
whether or no.”
“Looks like our anxious friend has elected himself one of us,” Sam
assented amiably.
Rowan was outvoted. He shrugged, and, against his better judgment, gave
up the point.
They rode hard across a rough, hilly country. The moon had gone under
scudding clouds. It had turned a good deal colder, and there was a feel
of rain in the air.
They were following no trail, but were cutting as near a bee-line as
possible over mountains, through gulches, and along washes. McCoy led
them with the sure instinct of the hillsman. The night was dark, and the
hill pockets they traversed were like one another as peas in a pod. But
there was never a moment when he hesitated as to direction.
The time was half-past two when Rogers struck a match and looked at his
watch.
“Bald Knob is less than a mile from here,” said McCoy. “We’ll mask now
in case we should bump into the camp sooner than we expect. Think we’d
better cut out talking. We’ve got to surprise them. If we don’t, Tait
will fight and that isn’t what we want.”
He drew from his pocket half a dozen bandannas. Each man made and fitted
his own mask from a handkerchief.
“The wind is from the north. That’s lucky, because we’ve got to get at
the camp from the south. The dogs couldn’t scent us even if they are
close to the wagons,” Rowan explained.
“The dogs will be with the sheep. I ain’t worried about them,” answered
Rogers.
They rode cautiously now, one after the other in single file. From a
ridge McCoy pointed out the sheep camp at the foot of Bald Knob.
“We’ll leave our horses in that clump of pines and creep forward to the
wagons,” he gave directions. “Remember, boys. No shooting. We’re going
to get the drop on Tait and take him prisoner. If we can’t do that, the
raid is off. We’re not killing human beings. Get that, Hal.”
Falkner nodded sulkily. “I told you I was taking orders from you
to-night, Mac.”
Under cover of a hill they rode into the pines and tied their horses.
McCoy deployed his men in such a way that they could move toward the
camp in a half circle. He put Cole on the extreme left, and next to him
Yerby, Rogers, Silcott, and Falkner in the order named. Rowan chose the
place on the right for himself, because it was nearest the wagons. He
stationed Falkner next to him so that he could keep an eye on him.
The raiders crept forward slowly through the brush. It was a damp, cold
night. Clouds in battalions were sweeping across the sky. McCoy, as he
moved forward, took advantage of all the cover he could find. He could
see Falkner as a dark shadow over to his left. Silcott was lost in the
gloom.
The sound of a shot shattered the stillness. Falkner, the rifle in his
hand smoking, let out the exultant “Yip—yip!” of a cowboy.
“Back to cover, boys!” yelled Rowan instantly.
He stumbled on a clump of grass and went down. Before he reached his
feet again the tragedy was under way. Another shot rang out—a
third—and a fourth.
Tait, revealed by a fugitive moon which had escaped from behind scudding
clouds, was in the door of the wagon, as he had often promised. The
rifle in his hand was pumping lead at the foes advancing toward him from
the brush. Flashes in the darkness told Rowan that the cattlemen were
answering his fire.
The head of the big sheepman lurched forward, and the rifle slid from
his hands out of the wagon to the ground. At the same moment another man
leaped from the wagon and started to run.
“Stop firing!” ordered McCoy sharply.
He ran forward to protect the retreat of the sheepman, but he was too
late. Falkner fired. The running figure doubled up like a jack-rabbit
and went down headfirst.
McCoy plunged straight for the second wagon. He could hear a herder
tumbling hastily out of it, and he stood directly between the man and
Falkner. The runner was, he knew, scuttling into the brush for safety.
“Let him go. Don’t shoot, Hal!” shouted McCoy.
Falkner, panting, eyes burning with the lust of battle, pulled up beside
Rowan.
“Whad you get in my way for?” he cried excitedly. “We got to make a
clean sweep now. Got to do it to save ourselves.”
“No. You can’t get the others without getting me first.” McCoy’s voice
rang sharp and dominant.
“But, man, don’t you see we’ve got to destroy the evidence against us?
Leggo my arm.”
Rowan’s fingers had fastened upon the wrist of the other like steel
clamps. His steady eyes were deadly in their intentness.
“You’ve got to kill me before you kill them. Understand?”
Yerby had reached the wagon. He spoke up at once: “Mac is right. We’ve
done too much killing already. Good Lord, how did it start?”
Falkner opened his lips to speak, then closed them again. He looked at
McCoy and waited savagely for the accusation. But none came. Rowan said
nothing.
“First I knew Tait was in the wagon door with his gun and we were all
shooting. But someone fired first and brought him out from the wagon. It
came from the right. Who was it, Mac?” demanded Rogers.
Cole and Silcott joined them. They had been examining the fallen men.
“Both of them are dead,” said Cole. “I can’t hardly believe it. But it’s
so. A bullet got Gilroy right through the heart.”
Rowan looked up quickly. He was white to the lips. “Gilroy? Did we kill
Gilroy?” He turned to Larry. “I thought you said he went home to-day.”
“He telephoned his wife he would be home to-night. Must have changed his
mind.”
“It cost him his life, poor devil!” Rogers broke out.
“I ain’t so sure it won’t cost us ours,” added Yerby quietly. “If I’d
known Gilroy was here to-night, Sam Yerby wouldn’t have gone raiding.”
“That’s right,” agreed Cole. “Tait is one proposition; Gilroy is
another. This whole country is going to buzz now. He has hundreds of
friends.”
All of them recognized the truth of this. The death of Tait alone would
have stirred no resentment. But Gilroy was an old-timer, a quiet,
well-respected man who had many friends. He had been sheriff of the
county some years before, and at the last election had been chosen
county commissioner.
“Who killed him?” asked Rogers again. “Who started this shooting? That’s
what I want to know.”
Rowan answered quietly: “The less we know about that the better, boys.
We’re all tied up together in this. In the excitement some of us have
gone too far. That can’t be helped now. We’ve got to see it out
together—got to stand back of each other. Before the law we’re all
guilty. The only thing to do is to let to-night’s work be a mystery that
is never solved. We’ll fix up a story and all stand by it.”
Yerby broke a long silence. “Well, boys, we better make our get-away. A
whole passell of sheriffs will be combing these hills for us soon.
Posses will be pouring in like buzzards to a water hole in the desert. I
reckon we had better fix up our alibis and then burn the wind for home.”
“Can’t start pushing on our reins any too quick to suit me,” Cole
assented.
“That’s the only thing to do,” agreed McCoy. “Sam, you and Brad had
better get back to your homes, where you’ve been sleeping all night if
any one asks you. Falkner, you go back with us to the ranch. We’ll fix
up a story about how you joined us there and bunked with Jack and
Larry.”
“What about these?” Rogers indicated with his hand the sprawling bodies
of the sheepmen. His voice was a whisper.
“We can’t do anything for them,” answered Rowan. “We’ve got to think of
ourselves. If we talk, if we make any mistakes, we’re going to pay the
price of what we’ve done. We can’t explain we didn’t intend to kill any
one. We’re all in this. The only thing to do is to stand together and
keep our mouths shut.”
Everybody was in a sudden hurry to be gone. They tramped back to the
pine grove, and hurriedly mounted, eager to put as many miles as
possible between them and what was lying at the foot of Bald Knob.
A light snow was already falling. They welcomed it for the protection it
offered.
“We’ve bumped into good luck to start with,” said Larry to Cole. “The
snow will blot out our tracks. They can’t trail us now.”
Cole nodded. “Yep. That’s so.”
But the thing that had been done chilled their spirits, and the dread as
to what was to come of it rested like a weight upon their hearts. Mile
after mile they rode, swiftly and silently. More than once Larry glanced
over his shoulder with a shudder. He could see the snow sifting into the
sightless eyes that stared up at the breaking dawn. Always he had
laughed at the superstitions which rode ignorant people, but now he was
careful not to bring up the rear of the little procession.
Once an elk crashed out of some brush fifty feet from them. The sudden
clamour shook their nerves with dread.
Falkner laughed, but there was only bravado in his voice. “I could ’a’
brought that elk down if it hadn’t been the closed season,” he said.
The man riding next him did not speak aloud the thought that flashed
through his mind—that it had been an open season on sheepmen an hour
before.
The party broke up at the Three Pines after a hurried agreement as to
plans. They were all to meet at the round-up. None of them was to know
anything about the raid until news of it came to the camp from outside.
Yerby and Rogers rode into the hills, the rest down to the Circle
Diamond.
They covered the ground fast, so as to get into the house before any one
was astir with the coming day. Already gray was sifting into the sky, a
warning that the night was ending.
Larry, riding beside McCoy, looked furtively at him and asked a question
just as they came in sight of the ranch.
“Who shot Gilroy, Mac?”
Rowan looked at him with bleak, expressionless eyes. “We all did.”
“Yes, but——” His whisper died away.
“None of us know who fired the shot. It doesn’t matter. Never forget one
thing, Larry. We’re all in the same boat. We sink or swim together.”
“Sure. But whoever it was——”
“We don’t know who it was,” McCoy lied. “We’re not going to try to find
out. Forget that, Larry.”
They stabled their horses and stole into the bunk house. Fortunately it
was empty, Rowan’s men being at the round-up. McCoy left them there and
returned to the house.
He met Mrs. Stovall in the corridor. She was on her way to the kitchen
to begin the day’s work.
“I’ve been out looking at one of the horses,” McCoy explained. “Colic,
looks like.”
The housekeeper made no comment. It passed through her mind that it was
odd he should take his rifle out with him to look at a sick horse.