BACK FROM THE DEAD
As in desert spaces the bodies of the dead draw vultures from hundreds
of miles, so the news of the battle, spread by some mysterious means,
brought the "neutrals" to the scene of the killing. They came from
distant canyons, from up under the Rim and from the west as far as
Clear Creek; and as they gazed at the dead cowboys they muttered among
themselves and glanced at the Bassetts, and Hall. There was awe and
wonder--and a new respect--in their eyes; for each man had been shot
stone dead. Two in the heart and one through the brain, and the horses
had been bucking like broncs. That was shooting--and done by the
Bassetts.
The story of Winchester's duel passed from lip to lip--how he had put
an underbit in Tucker's left ear and broken his arm when he reached
over. He it was who had shot Paine through the heart, unless the
preacher man had beat him to it; and Bill and Sharps must have got the
rest, because the wounds had all been made with a rifle. And so these
were the half-Indians that the Scarboroughs had been so scornful of and
had called the Dirty Black so-and-sos! They gazed and rode home, and
their neighbors returned just to look at the fighting Bassetts. Then
they gathered at the store, and what they said there was carried to the
crestfallen Scarboroughs.
No longer did they dare to ride over to the store and buy the drinks
for their gunmen, and the neutrals. A wave of resentment had been
roused up against them by the exposure of their treacherous plan,
and they kept close to the Rock House and waited. But they were far
from being whipped, and when Hall spoke of leaving he was warned that
they were watching the trails. So he lingered on from day to day,
hardly noticing the passage of time as he talked of the future with
Allifair. But though she smiled bravely and agreed to all his plans,
she had caught a trick from the watchful old squaw; and, whether they
strolled beneath the cottonwoods or rode out across the plain, her
eyes were always straying to the hills. Perhaps it was presentiment,
a premonition of coming bloodshed--or perhaps, having lived with the
Scarboroughs so long, she sensed what was going on--but each day she
grew more watchful, more apprehensive of danger, though she passed it
off with a smile.
As she passed through the doorway she glanced instinctively at the
bullet-holes where the Slash-knife men had shot up the house; and the
dark, bloody stains where three men had died sent a shudder through
her body as she passed. Old memories leapt up of other days when her
own kinsmen had been shot down at their doors, and when the man at
her side had come prowling back at night to shoot down even more. He
had killed her own kin, and her brothers had killed his; and now, like
a nightmare, another feud rose to thwart them, for the Scarboroughs
would shoot him on sight. For it was Hall, leaping out into the midst
of the killers, who had defeated them by spoiling their aim; and she,
by running away and revealing the plot, had added fresh fuel to their
hate. But they would not kill her--even the Scarboroughs had their
shame--all they would do would be to shoot down her lover. And so she
waited, and trembled.
For a week and more the Bassetts had kept close, sensing the mischief
in the air, but as the days wore by and the Scarboroughs did not
strike, their vigilance at last relaxed. None of the Scarboroughs had
been killed, it was not a blood-feud yet, but only some sheep-herders
on the side of the Bassetts and some cowboys employed by the
Scarboroughs. The old enmity remained and the Scarboroughs were
implacable, but the Bassetts were still for peace. They had proved
their worth as fighting men par excellence and were content to let
sleeping dogs lie. So, as all remained quiet, Winchester rode out
across the range; and the next day was Sharps' turn to go.
There had been a rain in the night and the morning was crystal clear,
all the hills stood out clean against the sky, and as the sun rose
up higher without revealing any ambush the men took their ropes and
stepped out. It was Sharps who went first, heading straight across the
flat to where his night-horse was circling its stake; and Winchester
and Bill had started after him when something called them back. Hall
ventured forth last of all, for Allifair had delayed him, and halfway
to his horse she called him again. He turned, but too late--there was a
volley from the hills and he and Sharps went down.
There was a silence, an aching moment when even the horses stood still;
and then, as Allifair sprang out to run to Hall, a strong hand hurled
her back. The door slammed behind her and as the bar fell in place she
heard Winchester's voice in the darkness.
"It's them Scarboroughs!" he cursed. "Don't you step outside the
door or they'll shoot you down like a dog. Bill, take that far
loop-hole--they're up on this first hill--and Dad, you watch the door."
He fumbled for his gun and hurried off to guard a port-hole, and Old
Henry took his post by the door. Within the darkened house there was
silence again, except for the wailing of Susie and the muttering of
the startled men. They were taken by surprise, and as they scanned the
empty landscape they imagined enemies springing up everywhere. Bill
watched the creek bed and Winchester the south hill; and Old Henry, his
voice plaintive, gave way to senile laments as he gazed at the body of
Sharps.
"He's--he's alive, boys!" he quavered, as he saw the huge bulk move;
and before they could stop him he had unbarred the door and dashed out
into the open. The assassins on the hilltop seemed to hesitate from
shame, or perhaps they were waiting to make sure; but as he passed out
the gate a heavy rifle roared and the old man tottered and fell.
"Come back here!" shouted Winchester, snatching Allifair as she fled;
and, while he was dragging her back, Old Susie eluded him and ran
screaming to bring in her husband. He had risen on his knees but as
she stooped to lift him up a second bullet, aimed deadly straight,
almost tore him from her arms. Old Henry was struck dead, but she would
not believe it; she dragged him back anyway, crying out against his
murderers, while the men on the hill-top laughed.
"That's three of 'em!" they yelled, and Winchester barred the door
again, for he feared that his mother would be next. The Scarboroughs
had come to make good their boast and kill the last of the Bassetts;
and the old Indian woman was no more to them than one of his barking
dogs. They had come to kill them all, and even the gentle Allifair
could not pass out that door and come back. They were killers, after
all, these cowardly Scarboroughs, whom he had allowed to live too
long; but killers in their own way, the sneaking, stealthy way of the
Apaches, who hunted men down like game. Three men already had fallen
before their guns; but he knew them, they would not fight in the
open. They would not rush the house, and, while Bill kept a lookout,
Winchester stood with his hand on the door.
Outside, on the plain, Hall McIvor lay limp where he had dropped at the
first fatal volley; but Sharps, groaning and grunting like a huge,
wounded bear, was clawing the earth with his hands. He did not call
out, but inched feebly towards the house, and Winchester turned away.
The men on the hill were letting Sharps live in order to trap both him
and Bill; for before they could reach Sharps the Scarboroughs would
shoot them down, and then they would finish him. It was a part of their
system, figured out to a nicety, but Winchester and Bill did not go
out. They stayed by their loop-holes, searching the hill-top for some
movement that would reveal the cunning ambush of the enemy.
The sun came out hot and Sharps sank back exhausted; his black head
heaved, and he was dead. Of all the Bassetts, the Scarboroughs had
feared him most, and now that he was gone they hooted. Winchester and
Bill, by their loop-holes inside the house, still watched the hillside,
so ominously barren of life; but not a man moved and they did not fire
a cartridge, for they would need them all, if they lived. They were
outnumbered and surrounded, and when night fell their enemies would
creep down close. They would slip up to the house, which two men could
not guard, and fire it or break down the door; and then the Bassetts,
if they lived that long, might hope to avenge their dead.
In the corner old Susie sat swaying back and forth while she mourned
over the body of her husband, and at the loop-hole by the door Allifair
gazed out through her tears at the form which had once been her lover.
He lay on his face in a shallow hole, where the hogs in rooting had
dug out a wallow in a slight depression in the ground. Her first
madness was gone now and she knew better than to go near him; for
before she could rush out and bring in his body they would riddle it
again with bullets. It was better to wait, though it wrung her heart to
do so, until night should bring its black shroud, and then she could go
forth and take him in her arms and weep out the anguish in her breast.
She closed her eyes in prayer--though for what she did not know, since
all that she lived for was lost--but as she looked out again she
thought she saw his body move, his hand draw slowly back! She stepped
to the door, which had been barred against her, and pulled it open to
see. Yes, his body had moved, but at the snouting of a huge hog which
even now was grunting in his face!
With a cry she flung the heavy door wide open and dashed out to save
his dear body. To be mangled by hogs, and within sight of those who
loved him--her anger swept her forth before she knew it. So swiftly did
she run that she had reached down and caught him up before the first
shot rang out, and, knowing their purpose, she shielded him with her
body while the bullets smashed spitefully all about her. They were
trying to frighten her, to make her drop her burden or expose him to a
last vengeful shot, but the blood of Southern feudists ran strong in
her veins and she faced the hill disdainfully. Then, as she gathered
him closer and started for the house, the storm of bullets ceased.
Winchester and Bill had marked down their men and their rifles were
clearing the hill.
She dragged him through the doorway and sank down, half-fainting--and
when she came to he was alive. Alive and smiling, though with grim
lines about his mouth and a terrible intentness in his eyes.
"My sweetheart," he murmured, stooping to kiss her once more, and then
he lifted her up. Yes, her lover who had been dead, had come back to
life, to cherish and protect her still; and asking no questions she
drew down his head and tried to kiss the anger from his eyes.