framed before Reber fired him. God knows how many of Reber’s men are in
on it. They’re tryin’ to send ’em over the pass before anybody can get
out here to catch ’em.”
“But--but they know we’re here,” panted June.
“They sure do,” said Jack bitterly. “Keep out of line with the windows.
I’ve got the doors fastened and I’ve got two guns. But our best chance
is to lay low. We know too much for them to let us get out alive, June.
Their plans were upset when Reber sent you out here.”
“But won’t they be in such a hurry to get the cattle over the pass that
they’ll leave us alone?”
June’s answer came in the form of a bullet, which smashed out a pane of
glass and thudded into the rear wall of the room. Jack drew June back
against the wall, and they edged their way to the front of the room.
“Flat on the floor under the windows,” said Jack. “They’ll not shoot
that low.”
A shower of glass sprayed over them when a bullet tore through the
window casing.
“Shootin’ wild,” said Jack easily. “Listen to the cattle.”
They could hear the dull rumble of the moving herd, the soft bawling of
calves.
“They’re movin’ a mighty big herd,” said Jack. “It sure will hit Park
Reber hard.”
“You ought to be glad,” said June wearily.
“I wonder if I am? If it was anybody but his own men I might.”
“You believe in loyalty, Jack?”
“If yuh mean trustin’ a friend or an employee--yes.”
“You’ve been to school?”
Jack nodded shortly.
“Six years, June--in Cheyenne.”
“Who sent you there?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even know who paid for it. I was sent from the
reservation when I was about eight years old. I never went back there,
June. I was fourteen when I came here. I worked for Buck Priest quite a
while, and then I built me a place on Trapper Creek. I was goin’ to be a
cowman, and I had a good start, but Park Reber’s men killed off my
cattle. I’ve been in the valley eleven years.”
“You are twenty-five years old, Jack?”
“I think so.”
“Who was your father?”
He looked queerly at her. Another bullet smashed through the kitchen
window and ricocheted off the stove.
“I don’t know who he was,” said Jack. He ran his fingers along the
barrel of his six-shooter. “No one would tell me after I came back from
school. They said I was the son of a squaw-man.”
Jack sat up with his shoulders against the corner of the room. Some one
had come on the porch and was near the door. Jack leaned sidewise and
sent a bullet angling through the center panel. His shot was echoed by a
yelp and a curse.
“They’re still in there!” yelled a voice.
Bullets came through the door about two feet above the floor and more
came through the smashed windows. The opposite wall of the room was
beginning to show signs of wear. A bullet smashed the lamp, causing a
small shower of kerosene.
Some one was trying to open the kitchen door. Jack snaked along the wall
to the kitchen entrance and sent a bullet through the door just above
the knob. He heard a sharp cry and turned to see June, one hand across
her face. She had tried to follow him.
He rolled back to her and drew her back under the window. A bullet had
come through just below the sill, and had scored her temple just enough
to break the skin and raise a blue welt. She was dazed, bewildered. She
tried to get to her feet, but Jack pulled her down.
“You’re all right, June,” he told her. “It’s not serious. Stay down,
girl!”
He held to her with one hand. There was smoke drifting in through the
broken window--too much smoke to be caused by the shooting. Jack sniffed
at it.
Wood smoke! They had fired the ranchhouse!
He could hear the flames crackling now, and the smoke was getting
heavier. June was recovering, but it seemed that the injury had broken
her nerve. She began crying softly and Jack patted her on the arm.
“It’s all right, June,” he told her. “Don’t cry. You’ve got to hang on
to yore nerve, girl. They’ve set the house on fire. It’s do or die, I
guess. We can’t stay here and burn to death.”
The wall was getting hot. There was a little breeze, and the seasoned
old building was as dry as tinder. June blinked at him through her
tears. She understood what he was saying.
“We’ll crawl to the kitchen door,” he told her. “I’ll open the door and
jump out. Mebbe I can drive ’em back so you can get away. It’s our only
chance. They might let yuh go and figure on catchin’ yuh. I’ll stop ’em
as long as I can, June.”
They slid along the wall to the kitchen.
The shooting had stopped. Jack knew they were merely waiting for them to
try to make a break. Beside the door they stopped and Jack held out his
hand to her.
“Good-by, June. You stay here until I tell yuh when to come out--if I
last that long.”
“Good-by, Jack.” June’s face was white and drawn. “I forced you into
this. If it hadn’t been for me you’d be free.”
“Tha’s all right; it was a mistake, June. It’s all in the game. I reckon
I’d forgive you for anythin’. Good-by.”
He raised up from his haunches, grasped the door with his left hand and
gave it a jerk. It stuck fast. He dropped the gun in his holster and
grasped the door with both hands but it refused to open.
“Stay here, June,” he panted, dropping to his knees and crawled back to
the front door.
The room was full of smoke now.
He went to the door, got to his feet and tried to open it. He could
force it open about two inches--enough to see that a rope ran from the
knob to a porch-post.
A bullet smashed through the paneling and raked him along the forearm.
He dropped to his knees, coughing from the smoke, and crawled back to
June. His left forearm and hand were covered with blood.
“They’ve locked us in, June,” he said. “If we try to get through a
window they’ll riddle us.”
June merely stared at him, her mind refusing to work.
“You mean, we can’t get out--we’ve got to burn?”
Jack was staring at a spot in the center of the floor. There was a metal
ring sunk in the floor, and beyond it were two hinges--the roothouse
trap-door.
He sprawled over and dug the ring loose. With a heave he opened the
trap, and the odor of musty old vegetables filled the room. An old
ladder led down to the bottom. June went down first. There was more
shooting, but they could not hear the bullets now.
Jack left the trap open to give them a little light. The roothouse was
about six feet deep and of about the width of the kitchen. It was cool
down there, and no smoke penetrated. They took deep breaths to rid their
lungs of the smoke.
On one side was an accumulation of old boxes and barrels. Jack lighted a
match and almost shouted with joy. Behind those old boxes and barrels
was a stairway which led to an outside roothouse door.
He flung the boxes aside, clearing the disused stairway, a prayer in his
heart that the door might not be nailed down. They could hear the
snapping of the flames now, the hoarse shouts of men, the crackle of
guns.
Jack put his shoulder against the old slanting door and lifted enough to
find that it was not fastened down.
“We’ll beat ’em yet, June,” he panted. “The fire seems to be mostly at
the front of the house yet. We can stay here for a few minutes.”
June was swaying sidewise, and before Jack could spring to her
assistance she had fainted. He lifted her up and held her in his arms.
In falling she had struck her head against the corner of a box, cutting
it badly.
He tore the muffler from around his neck and bound it around her head.
Then he picked her up in his arms and staggered up the old steps, where
he hunched in as low as possible, bracing his right shoulder against the
door.
* * * * *
Park Reber did not lead his men straight for the Two Bar X, but took the
left-hand road and headed for the Circle S, where he decided to pick up
Jim Carlin and his men. He intended sending one man from there to the
Lightning to get the assistance of Nort Jackson and his crew. Reber was
going to have enough men to comb every inch of the country.
It was nearing daylight when they rode into the Circle S. The ranch was
deserted.
“Mebbe they’re chasin’ rustlers already,” said one of the men.
“More likely out doin’ a little rustlin’,” said Buck Priest grimly. His
face was the color of ashes, his left leg dangling uselessly from
outside the stirrup. The old man was living on his nerve now. Park Reber
scowled at him, but said nothing in reply to Priest’s sarcasm.
“Shall we go to the Lightnin’?” asked a cowboy.
“No,” said Reber shortly, and headed for the Two Bar X.
The men were tired, sleepy, hungry; they were willing to go anywhere to
stop for a while. They did not go back to the road, but cut across the
hills. Daylight came swiftly, and the sun was painting the tops of the
hills when they struck the road about a mile below the Two Bar X.
And here the road was a mass of cow tracks. Reber leaned forward in his
saddle, pointing at them.
“The trail of the rustlers,” he said. “They’re headin’ for the West Fork
pass.”
“Listen!” Nelson threw up his hand.
From far up the road they could hear the rattle of rifle shots.
“My ----!” exclaimed Reber. “The boys of the Two Bar X are tryin’ to
stop ’em! Come on!”
Some one lashed Buck Priest’s horse across the rump with a rope, and the
animal almost unseated the suffering old man. He gritted his teeth and
rode along with them. The men were riding with rifles in their hands
now.
About three hundred yards short of the Two Bar X, the road topped an
elevation around the point of a hill and, as they swung around this
point, Park Reber, riding at the head of his men, drew rein.
The whole front end of the ranchhouse was enveloped in flames, and
beyond the burning house the hills were full of cattle. They saw a man
running away from the corrals. He mounted a horse and headed for the
cattle.
A rifle bullet struck the ground in front of Reber’s horse and buzzed
angrily away. The riders separated like a covey of quail. Another bullet
thudded against a horse, and its rider flung himself free as the horse
reared up and fell backward.
Cowboys were dismounting as swiftly as possible, letting their horses
go; then they ran ahead, taking advantage of every bit of cover. Rifles
began to crack as the Reber men searched the corrals and sheds with
bullets.
Mounted men began riding from behind the stable, heading toward the
cattle.
“Get yore horses!” yelled Reber. “They’re headin’ for the pass.”
The men continued to shoot at the retreating cowboys. One of them
pitched sidewise off his horse, and his horse came back toward the
stable. Reber’s men mounted swiftly and swept down on the ranch.
A man ran from the stable-door, trying to get around the corner, but a
hail of bullets cut him down. He went flat on his side, rolled over and
fired one shot in return. Park Reber jerked back in his saddle and slid
to the ground.
At that same moment one of the men yelled warningly. The outside
roothouse door was flung open and out came Jack Silver, carrying June
Meline across one arm. He staggered, flung up his right hand to shoot at
them, but tripped over an old water-bucket and fell flat.
Several cowboys threw themselves upon him before he could get up, and
held him tightly. They yanked him to his feet, and others took charge of
June.
“Well, yuh got me, I guess,” panted Jack.
“I guess we have!” snorted a cowboy. “Yo’re all through, you dirty
half-breed.”
Jack shut his lips tightly.
“Reber’s been hit hard,” said one of the men. “That feller down at the
stable got him.”
They led Jack around to where Reber was lying. But Jack paid no
attention to Reber; he was staring at old Buck Priest, who was barely
able to sit in his saddle.
Park Reber had the men lift him to a sitting position. He looked at Jack
Silver closely.
“I swore I’d get you, Silver,” he said. “I started out last night to
clean out the valley. I don’t know how badly I’m hurt, but it’s bad
enough. But you’ve stolen your last cow, kidnaped your last woman. If
you’ve got any prayers to say you better say ’em.”
“I’m not prayin’,” said Jack coldly. “I never stole yore cows and I
never kidnaped any woman.”
“What else could yuh say?” cried Reber, and then to his men, “Run a rope
over the ridge-pole of the stable.”
The men hurried to do his bidding. Old Buck Priest had heard Reber’s
order, and it seemed to amuse him greatly.
“Goin’ to hang the lad, eh?” he laughed. “Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! That’s good!
Goin’ to die with that on yore dirty soul, eh? It’s like yuh, Reber.”
He turned to Jack, who was being held by two men.
“Reber’s men bushwhacked me last night, Jack. They killed Ken Mader.
Yesterday afternoon they killed O’Steen.”
“You lie!” declared Reber weakly. “You’re tryin’ to turn it around. You
stole my cattle and my men caught yuh.”
“And yore men shot Sam Herd yesterday, Priest,” declared Nelson.
“Lies!” panted Buck. “All lies! We didn’t know Herd was dead until we
met yuh at the forks of the road, Nelson.”
“The rope’s ready, Park,” called one of the men.
One of the cowboys threw a noose around Jack’s neck, but he did not
quiver. He was probably the coolest man in the crowd.
“Have you said yore prayer?” asked Reber.
Jack shut his lips tightly.
“All right,” said Reber weakly.
“I wish you’d wait until June Meline recovers,” said Jack. “She might
have somethin’ to say.”
“Your time is up, Silver.”
“Yuh better not hang him,” said Buck Priest. “You’ll be sorry, Reber.
Ain’t there nothin’ that can save him?”
“Not a thing, Priest.”
“All right, Reber. Go ahead and hang him. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Hang him, you
dirty old pup! Hang yore own son, and be ---- to yuh! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”
In spite of his weakness, Reber jerked forward, staring at Buck Priest.
Jack Silver stumbled forward, his eyes on the curiously twisted features
of the old cattleman. Reber tore his gaze away and looked at Jack
Silver.
“You lie, Priest!” he said.
“I don’t lie! He’s your son, Park. His mother died when he was born and
he was nursed by a squaw. Ask him who his father was--he don’t know, I
tell yuh!”
Jack shook his head.
“I kept track of him, Park,” said Priest. “I shipped him to school and
paid for it. I wanted an ace in the hole. You’ve always wondered if
there was a child. Look at him, Reber. He’s yore own flesh and
blood--and you’re goin’ to hang him! Let’s get it over with, Reber. I
want to see you hang yore own son.”
Reber shut his eyes, and after a few moments the tears trickled down his
cheeks. The wound was sapping his strength. It was a long way to a
doctor, and he knew he couldn’t live till one came.
One of his men came bustling into the crowd.
“Hey,” he shouted, “that fellow down by the stable is Bell, of this
ranch, and the one on the hill up there is Bob Cliff, of the Lightnin’!
What does it mean?”
“It means that Reber’s own men planned to clean him out,” said Jack
Silver. “They kidnaped June Meline. I found her and brought her here.
Last night Bell killed McLeese. He was on the porch and he’s burned up
by this time. I think you’ll find that the Circle X, Lightnin’ and Two
Bar X outfits were makin’ a big steal, but circumstances blocked ’em.”
Reber opened his eyes and stared at Jack.
“Is that all true, Jack?” he asked.
“The girl’s awake,” burst in one of the men.
They brought her over to Reber. She saw the rope around Jack’s neck.
“He--he saved me!” she said hoarsely to Reber. “Jack Silver wasn’t to
blame. It was your own men. Oh, you’ve been hurt again!”
Reber leaned back and his face was very white now.
“Come in close, boys,” he said weakly. “Listen to what I’m sayin’. No
time to write. Jack Silver is my son. Everything I own belongs to him. I
think Buck Priest taught him to hate me. I--I didn’t kill off his herd
of cattle. Mebbe my men did it. But it’s all right now. He owns this
valley and everything else I have.
“Get Buck Priest to a doctor. I don’t hate him any more. He gave me back
my son. Jack--come closer. This--is--June. She’s--fine. I--I--”
His head fell forward on his chest.
* * * * *
There was little left of the old ranchhouse when Jack Silver and June
Meline stood beside the body of Park Reber, who seemed to be smiling in
his sleep. Nelson came up to Jack and held out his hand.
“You’ll have to hire new crews, Jack,” he said. “I imagine a lot of
Diamond R men went over the West Fork pass this mornin’.”
“Let ’em go,” said Jack. “There’s been enough killin’.”
He put his good arm around June and they went down toward the stables,
where the men were rigging a stretcher to carry Buck Priest back to his
ranch.
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the May 15, 1927 issue of
Adventure magazine.]