Wystan was still twisting around in his saddle when Kettle’s bay pounded through the early morning gloom. He’d been nervy, not ready to be taken off his guard, and within a few of the approaching horse’s big strides, he’d set himself to strike back. He wanted away from the Rio Bonito country, had made up his mind to shoot his way out if he had to. But he knew his men were coming from either flank and, knowing their professional abilities, he didn’t feel that insecure.
‘You got some sort o’ burr under your blanket?’ Wystan rumbled, used a tight smile to disguise the movement of his gun hand at the sudden confrontation.
‘Yeah, somethin’ like that,’ Kettle clipped back, knowing full well he had the advantage of surprise. ‘I’ve rode out here to return somethin’.’
The pair of running irons sailed through the air towards Wystan and he threw up an arm as a defending response.
‘What the hell are those?’ he yelled, realizing he’d been caught. He saw that Kettle’s hand rested on the butt of his Colt.
‘Keep very still, Wystan,’ Kettle threatened. ‘Make a move for that ol’ hog leg an’ I’ll just have to do what I got to do, without hearin’ your explanation.’
‘I ain’t got time for nonsense jawbonin’ with you, Kettle,’ Wystan snarled. ‘I got me a trail herd to run.’
Wystan’s men were now closing in. The man was thinking to hold Kettle up, keep his attention while their guns took him out. That’s what he was paying them fighting wages for. But then Wystan saw a few, well-armed Standing K men riding towards their own boss. Providing cover, more men had carbines with barrels lowered against their horses flanks. Wystan’s men had taken notice too, wondered whether they should have broken cover so soon.
‘So you ain’t got time to explain these irons, eh?’ Kettle said. ‘That’s a shame, but not a problem, ’cause the herd ain’t runnin’ anywhere until I’ve had me a closer look at ’em. Meantime, I suggest you an’ your friends draw off a piece.’
‘You’re as close to my steers as you’re goin’ to get,’ Wystan yelled. He wondered why his men’s pistols hadn’t started barking on either side of him. ‘Goddamnit,’ he swore; they all knew what they’d been hired for. He glanced to left and right, saw their stillness in the saddle. There was something wrong and he didn’t know what it was. ‘Goddamnit,’ he swore again directly at Kettle. ‘What the hell are you doin’ out here?’
‘Takin’ a look at my steers you’re thinkin’ o’ runnin’ off,’ Kettle gritted.
Wystan was instantly taken aback. Before he could think of a way to counter the outburst, Kettle was off again.
‘I know what’s been dotted with those irons. You burned a new brand onto my Standin’ K,’ Kettle charged. ‘But I ain’t a vindictive man, an’ most o’ the time I think the best o’ most everyone. It’s because I don’t normally take stuff that ain’t mine, I’ll be content with cuttin’ out them steers that are. What you do next’s up to you, but I wouldn’t do anythin’ else stupid, ’cause so far into this new day you been real lucky.’
Wystan had regained a degree of composure after discovering the identity of his challenger. ‘Listen, Kettle,’ he snarled back, ‘I appreciate your sense o’ justice, but shortly there’ll be upwards o’ thirty o’ my riders chargin’ in here, an’ they ain’t in the mood for an “excuse me”. For me, this ain’t personal, but they ain’t goin’ to see it that way.’
For all his hot-headedness, Hoope Kettle retained a thought for his men. He was waiting for the moment when, using surprise, they could match the speed of Wystan’s gunslingers. Besides, he remembered it was Hector Chaf or Ben McGovren that would start their big carouse. If he kicked off with any rash gunplay, it could wreck their best laid plans. So he grinned weakly, watched Wystan’s hand dropping imperceptibly lower.
‘That’s the trouble, I do see this sort o’ thing as personal,’ he returned, shaking his head. ‘An’ it just don’t seem fair,’ he added, continuing the weak grin at Wystan. But he was stalling, holding out for as long as he could, acting the loser.
‘Yeah, life’s a bitch, ain’t it?’ Wystan quipped. ‘We got the drop, an’ there ain’t a goddamn thing you can do about it. The point’s well through the pass now, an’ nothin’ could stop the rest from followin’.’
A moment later, the sharp report of a carbine cracked down from the pass. It was what Kettle ’punchers needed, and most of them responded.
Wystan jerked at the report, but managed to flash a hand to his gun, But Kettle had already fired, and his bullet smashed into the meat of Wystan’s right shoulder. He rowelled deep and the big bay closed the distance between the two men in little more than a single leap. Kettle pushed his Colt back into its holster, and grabbed for Wystan’s coat front. With his other hand he pulled his lariat off the saddle horn and flipped a loop around Wystan’s flagging body.
A bullet chewed across the flesh of Kettle’s lower arm. The man turned, but he only saw Ringo Chawke catch a bullet high in his chest. Wystan’s man made no sound, just crashed from the saddle, was dead before hitting the hard-packed dirt. Kettle swung back to his wounded prisoner, called for one of his riders to take the nervy horse’s reins.
‘Keep an eye on this goddamn cow thief,’ he rasped. ‘He’ll probably try an’ die on you, rather than face what’s comin’ to him. Get him to the Bonito, an’ wait there for me.’
Kettle pulled his Colt, again, confronted the ongoing fight. ‘Jeesus,’ he cursed out loud, ‘I’m a bear’s ass if this ain’t personal. They’re my goddamn steers.’
Most of the men who’d joined the Wystan payroll were considering the situation, the likely outcome. They were on fighting wages, but guarding the herd and running steers wasn’t quite the same as a chancy, hard-hosed gunfight.
Kettle sensed the dilemma. He looked around him with rising confidence, but rifles opened up from both flanks. At the crash of gunfire, the approaching cattle recoiled from the conflict. They jammed those ahead, created a roil behind them. Around the flanks, the frightened cattle had broken away from the main bunch, were running bug-eyed back across the flats. More followed on until the main herd was streaming that way. The rustlers were quick to take advantage of the running cover, and their fire became unpredictable and volatile, too dangerous for the Standing K men who were milling in a group.
Kettle made a quick assessment of the situation and decided to head for the right flank. He yelled at his men to follow and rowelled the bay. They let off a furious barrage of gunfire as they rode, but the rustlers were bulldogging, cutting between the irritated steers. Any lethal aiming was impossible, and it wasn’t long before the rustlers broke and hightailed it towards the ridge. Once there, they would regroup, head to the point of the nearest flank. Kettle yelled again and, as his men pounded into the chase, he waved an arm for them to spread out.
The day’s early breezes strengthened, and as the sun rose higher, dust clouds started to blow clear across that flank. Now, Kettle and his men could see all the way to the ridge. A group of Wystan’s men was running ahead, back firing as they went. Beyond them, a half-dozen more drew their rifles and prepared to give as good as they were getting. Kettle thought a couple of his men were missing but, quickly evaluating the mood of most others, he decided to continue with the attack. He hadn’t forgotten Wystan’s men out on the far flank, expecting that very soon they would round the herd. If they did, they would sweep around to the rear, where the Standing K men would be trapped, caught between two waves of gunfire.
Up ahead of the advancing riders, gunfire cracked, echoed along the walls of the Pass. Realizing it was one of Wystan’s men who had set off the fight, Owen Pruitt had quickly placed his men. For his own position, he chose what seemed a likely outcrop, but in the turmoil had misjudged its potential for cover. He watched Wystan’s point riders come through and thought he’d be overrun by their number. He cursed, for a long moment considered riding back to find proper cover. But Hector expected him to stay, so stay he would.