20

It was dark, and Slocum was walking back to the jail from the Hogback when a rifle sounded and a bullet kicked up dust near his feet. He ran like hell for the other side of the street and took a rolling dive for cover behind a corner in the sidewalk. After his roll stopped, he groaned from the pain it caused in his ribs. He eased the Colt out of his holster. Even that motion was painful because of the ribs. Who the hell had taken that shot at him? he wondered. It could have been Giddings, but he did not believe it. In the first place, Giddings was not carrying a rifle. In the second place, if it had been Giddings, the gunfighter would had to have gotten a rifle from someplace quick and then hurried outside after Slocum when Slocum left the saloon. The main thing though was that it just was not Giddings’s style. Slocum’s eyes roved up and down the sidewalk on the other side of the street, but he could not find any sign of the shooter.

He’d about had his fill of these back-shooting, bushwhacking, cowardly bastards around this town. Wasn’t there anyone who dared to face a man? Well, damn it, he meant to get this one, whoever the hell it was. The world would be a better place without him. He studied the street, and he saw no movement. If there had been anyone out and about, the shot had scared them inside. Where was the son of a bitch?

The shot had sounded to Slocum like it came from the other side of the street and high up, like maybe the shooter was on top of one of the buildings over there. His eyes were scanning the rooftops, but he could see no one. He did not want to get up though and give the bastard a second chance. Then he caught a glimpse of movement from down on the street. He looked and saw Holbrook stepping out of the sheriff’s office.

“Cy,” he called out. “Get back inside.”

The sheriff ducked back into the office just as a second shot rang out. It hit a few feet away from where Slocum lay hid. He had given away his position by shouting. He started scrunching backward in the dirt, until he had worked his way to between the two buildings there, and then he stood up. He moaned out loud because of the pain. Still he could not tell where the man might be hiding. He ran around behind the building and down to the far end of the street. Then he moved between the two buildings there till he was back at the street. If he was lucky, the shooter still thought that he was in the original place. He took a deep breath and ran across the street. About the time he made it, another shot was fired. The man had spotted him but too late to get off a good shot.

He hurried on around behind the buildings. There were three buildings with stairways on the backside. They all went up to second-story landings. There was no easy access to a rooftop. Maybe he was wrong about where the shots had come from. Maybe they had come from a second-story window, but he did not think so. He went to the nearest stairway and mounted the stairs. At the landing, he holstered his Colt and climbed up onto the rail. From there he could see over the edge of the roof. He did not see anyone, but he grabbed the roof anyway and wriggled his way up on top. It hurt like blazes. Then he pulled out his Colt again and started walking over the roof in a crouch. He had walked about halfway across the roof when he thought he saw a movement over on another roof, not the next one with a stairway, but the next one. It was four buildings down from where he was. He moved more cautiously, heading for the far edge of the roof at the front corner. The building was fronted by a facade that was like a wall from behind. Slocum hunched down behind it. He strained his eyes looking across three rooftops.

There was a man crouched there with a rifle. There was no mistake about it now. Slocum could not tell who the man was, but there was no question but that he was the shooter who had taken a couple of potshots at him. He raised his Colt, but he thought about it a second time. It would have been a long shot for a revolver. There was not much space between the buildings. He knew that he could make the jump. The question was could he make it quietly enough not to alert the man. Hell, he had to try it. He studied the roof of the next building. There was a tall and wide chimney poking out of the center of it. He would have to make for that.

He stood in a crouch and made a mighty leap, landing on his feet near the edge of the next roof and dropping almost immediately to his hands. He looked up quickly. The man seemed not to have noticed him. Staying in his crouch, Slocum walked hurriedly to the chimney. Now there was but one building between the two of them. He peeked around the edge of the chimney and saw the man moving. He seemed to be trying to locate Slocum down on the street. Slocum hurried on over to the far front corner of this building. He might be able to make his shot from there, but he didn’t like his chances. It would be a lucky shot if it hit its mark. He did not like relying on luck. He would have to make another leap, and this time, surely, the man would hear him. Well, he thought, there is nothing else for it.

He backed away from the facade, crouched low, studied the distance and made the jump, landing as before on his feet but dropping quickly to his hands. He righted himself fast and looked and saw the shooter turn. He had heard him and he had seen him. Slocum ran, dived and rolled, and a shot sounded, a bullet plowed into the roof. Slocum scrambled to his feet and ran firing his Colt toward the man. The first shot went wild. The second hit the mark. The man shrieked with pain and surprise and tried to crank another shell into the chamber of his rifle.

Close to the far edge of the roof, Slocum stopped running. He held up his Colt and took a more careful shot. This one hit the man in the chest, dead center. The man jerked, stumbled back a few steps, lost his balance and fell off of the roof on the far side. Slocum straightened up. He walked to the facade of this roof and looked toward the sheriff’s office.

“Cy,” he yelled. “I got him.”

He waited till he saw the sheriff come back out the door and look around.

“I’m up here, Cy.”

Holbrook spotted him.

“You all right?” he yelled.

“I’m all right, but that back-shooter ain’t. He’s on the far side of that next building.”

Holbrook started toward the body, and Slocum went to the back of the roof. He looked over the edge. There was no stairway on this one.

“Shit,” he said. He got down on his belly and squirmed out over the edge, lowering himself until he was hanging from the eaves by his two hands. He let himself dangle there a moment, wincing from the pain in his rib cage, and then he dropped. When he landed, he doubled up and fell to the ground. “Ah,” he groaned. He lay there in the dirt for a moment clenching his teeth and holding his sides. Then he stood up slowly, checked to make sure he had not lost his Colt along the way, and started walking toward where the man fell. As he rounded the corner of the building, he saw Holbrook standing over a body. He hobbled on over there and looked. It was the big man, the lynch mob leader.

“Damn,” said Slocum. “Some men are never satisfied.”

“He looks pretty satisfied now,” said Holbrook. “I’ll go get Riley.”

Slocum had started back toward the office when he saw Giddings there on the sidewalk.

“Good job, Slocum,” Giddings said.

“How would you know? I mighta shot him in the back.”

“I saw the whole thing,” Giddings said. “I came outside when I heard the first shot. I saw you run across the street, and I saw you jump from roof to roof. I saw it when the man turned on you with his rifle and you shot him. It was fair and square all right. It was a good job.”

Slocum turned to walk away.

“But the man was no professional,” Giddings said. “He was just a cowardly drygulcher. That’s all.”

Slocum stopped and turned back to face Giddings again.

“What was I supposed to make out of that?” he said.

“Nothing much. Just that you don’t want to try to shoot it out with me like that. Remember that. I won’t force it, Slocum. Don’t you either.”

 

Slocum and Holbrook were both sound asleep in the adjoining jail cells when someone came banging on the front door and screaming. They each jumped up, and Holbrook headed for the door to open it. Slocum grabbed his Colt.

“Fire,” the voice shouted. “Hurry up.”

Holbrook opened the door, and a man there said, “The Circle X range is in flames, Sheriff. I got to get all the help I can.”

He ran on down the street. Slocum got into his clothes as quickly as he could, and Holbrook was not far behind him. Both men headed for the stable. In a few minutes, they were mounted and riding toward the Circle X. By the time they reached the Zig Zag, they could see a few of Yates’s riders coming out to head over and help. They rode along with them. They could see the red sky ahead.

When they reached the fire, they saw a water wagon there. Men were soaking blankets and using them to beat on the flames. Other men were digging with shovels trying to create a fire break. Slocum grabbed a blanket and Holbrook took a shovel. Each man went to his own crew. The blaze was roaring, but the entire Circle X crew and apparently the whole crew from the Zig Zag were out, as well as a number of men from town. Slocum took note of how far from the ranch house the flames were, and he knew that if they did not stop it in time, it would take the ranch house out and then be on its way to the Zig Zag. He ignored the pain in his ribs and beat like hell at the fire. The heat was like a blast furnace, and the air was filled with choking smoke. Slocum beat against the flames until he thought that his ribs would crack open. He thought that his lungs would burst. He thought that the fight would never end, but at last it did.

They had stopped the fire, but the air was still heavy and thick with smoke, and the tired firefighters were hacking and coughing, picking up and loading their equipment, staggering from exhaustion and rubbing their stinging, red eyes. X. Jones found Sim Yates and shook his hand.

“Sim,” he said, “I’da never made it without your help. Thanks to you.”

“It’s all right,” said Yates. “You’da done the same for me. How bad do you think you’re hurt by this?”

“It’s hard to say. The sun’ll be up soon. I’ll ride out over it and see how bad it is.”

“Just from what I see,” Yates said, “you’ve lost a lot of grass. If you need it, you can drive your critters over on my range.”

“Thank you, Sim. Thanks a lot.”

With the job all done, Slocum began to really notice the pain again. He found Holbrook and walked over to join him. “How you feeling?” he asked.

“I thought I was all right as long as I was busy,” Holbrook said. “I’m sure enough feeling it now though.”

Slocum laughed. “I know it ain’t funny,” he said. “I know it because that’s the way I’m feeling, too.”

Both men laughed. They walked to their horses. Old X. Jones had already mounted up. He had named four men to stay out on the range and watch for any new outbreak. Then he hollered out for all to hear, “Come by the ranch house to rest up and get a drink and some breakfast. All of you.”

Holbrook and Slocum rode to the Circle X ranch house and went inside. At first they drank water. Then they drank coffee. At last they had a drink of whiskey with X. Then breakfast was ready, and they sat down to eat. When they had finished, they got up to make room for more of the men, and then went out on the porch with another cup of coffee. X. came out to join them. They all found chairs and sat down. Even over at the ranch house, the air was smoky.

“I sure do appreciate the way everyone turned out to help,” Jones said.

“Hell, X.,” said Holbrook, “you know we wouldn’t set on our ass in town while your place was burning.”

“I still appreciate it.”

“And I appreciate your good cooking and good coffee and—”

“Good whiskey,” said Slocum. “I don’t normally drink it this time of day, but it sure was good just the same.”

“There’s more,” said Jones.

“No, thanks,” said Slocum. “Coffee’s fine just now.”

“Sun’ll be up in a few minutes,” Jones said. “I’ll be riding out to survey the damage.”

“If you don’t mind,” Holbrook said, looking at Slocum, “we’ll ride along.”

“No, I don’t mind,” Jones said. “Does this mean you’re suspicioning some meanness behind this?”

“With the trouble that’s been going on, X., you never know. I just don’t want to overlook anything. That’s all.”

“Why, if I was to think that some son of a bitch done this to me on purpose,” Jones said, “I’d skin him alive and feed his carcass to my coon dogs. I’d—”

“We don’t know anything, X. I just want to ride out with you and look around. That’s all.”

“Well, ride along and welcome.”

They finished their coffee, and Jones went in the house to make his excuses to everyone and to tell them to stay as long as they liked. Then he went back out, and he and Holbrook and Slocum mounted up their horses and headed back out to where the fire had been. Jones halloed his four riders. They each said that everything seemed to be all right. As far as they could see, everything was black. They rode into it. At last they came to the far side. They rode onto good grass. They reached the place where the fire had started. There were no trees. No brush. They sat there staring for a few minutes. Jones was the first one to speak.

“It looks to me like I’ll have to take ole Sim up on his offer,” he said.

“What was that?” Holbrook asked.

“He told me if I had lost too much grass, to drive my cows over on his place. Looks like I’ll have to do that.”

“Yeah,” Holbrook said. “It looks that way.”

“It looks like something else to me,” said Slocum.

“What are you talking about?” Holbrook said.

“Well, it’s a clear night. No lightning. The fire started somewhere around here. That’s for sure.” He paused and looked at the other two men. The eastern sky was red and pink and purple along the horizon. Both other men waited for Slocum to continue.

“I just can’t see any way in hell a fire would get started out here,” Slocum said.

“I get you,” said Holbrook. “Unless someone started it deliberate.”

“That’s right,” said Slocum. “I’d bet my boots on it.”