There had been no distant, answering gunshots, only those coming from Harry Brandon’s rifle. Anger surged through Starbuck. The lawman had gone ahead with his plan, opened up on the outlaws without giving them a chance to surrender. If one of them was Ben—
He swore harshly, rushed on toward what appeared to be a rocky summit a hundred yards farther up the trail. The others were close behind him—Able Rome to his right, Gilder to the left and Walt Moody, holding his broken arm slightly forward to prevent it from striking against his body as he ran, in the center and to the rear. Despite his injury, Walt was doing his part.
Brandon appeared suddenly on the crest, stepping from behind a wagon-size boulder that stood at the end of a straggling pile of lesser rocks. The lawman waved vigorously, signaling them to him.
“Got them boxed in a coulee—bottom of the slope!” he shouted as they drew near.
Stiff with anger, Shawn strode by him to the edge of the formation and threw his glance down the grade. A man lay in a small clearing at its base not far below. His hat had come off to reveal a shock of corn yellow hair. Both arms were outstretched, his hands empty. There was no doubt that he was dead.
“Opened up on me when I showed myself.”
At Brandon’s words Starbuck spun. His jaw was set to a hard line and his eyes were narrowed.
“We heard only your shots,” he said, accusation in his voice.
“You calling me a liar?” the lawman demanded.
Starbuck’s shoulders stirred. He should have expected Brandon to do as he’d planned. But it was too late to do anything about it now.
“The rest of them still down there?”
Brandon, head thrust forward belligerently, said, “Hell yes, they’re down there. You don’t believe it, step out there into the open.”
Shawn moved to the forward edge of the rocks, leveled his pistol and pressed off a shot. The bullet struck in the center of the coulee, showered twigs and dirt on the dead outlaw. Immediately two rifles laid their quick answers across the rolling echoes loosed by his weapon.
Brandon, mouth pulled into a sneer, nodded. “Reckon that ought to satisfy you.”
“That they’re there—not that they started the shooting,” Starbuck said coldly and turned back to the rocks.
“You men in the coulee—throw down your guns and step out where we can see you!” he called.
“Go to hell!” The reply floated lazily up the slope.
“You don’t have a chance. Quit now and we’ll see you get a fair trial.”
There was no response. Shawn brushed at the sweat on his face. “Is one of you Ben Starbuck? I’m his brother—Shawn.”
The rifles cracked again. Bullets caromed off the rocks with a weird, shrilling sound.
“You done?” Brandon asked in a low, scornful voice. “You ready for me to take over, Mr. Starbuck?”
Shawn pulled back from the rocks into the little hollow in which they’d gathered. The lawman had voided any possibility of talking the outlaws into surrendering. As for Ben, he was still unsure—but he had done all he could.
“It’s your posse,” he said.
“I’ll be obliged if you’ll keep remembering that,” the marshal replied, his tone heavy with sarcasm. He swung to Gilder and the others. “Now, I want you to spread out, start pouring lead into that coulee. Good chance we’ll wing them two that’s left.”
Able Rome immediately moved off to the right. Gilder and Walt Moody cut to the opposite direction. Shawn returned to where he had first looked down the slope, a place near center. He could see little point in following out the lawman’s plan; it would serve only to pin down the outlaws, eventually force them to abandon their positions, fall back into the surrounding brush and make a run for it.
But Brandon could have a plan in mind that he was not making known, and stationing himself, he rested his weapon on the flat, top surface of the boulder behind which he stood and began to fire. The others also opened up, as did the cornered outlaws, and for a time the mountains were filled with the thunder of guns.
“Hold up!” Brandon yelled, finally. “We ain’t doing no good—just wasting ammunition.”
The lawman drew back to where the massive pile of rocks gave him full protection from the men below. Pulling off his hat, he mopped at his forehead, glanced around.
“I figure they’re forted up behind something that we ain’t seeing. Got to get at them from the side.” He paused, pointed to a lesser scatter of rocks at the far end of narrow plateau to their right. “Want one of you to get over there. Maybe we can get them in a sort of crossfire.”
Shawn frowned. There was no way a man could reach the point indicated without fully exposing himself.
“It’d be suicide,” he snapped. “Nobody could cross that flat without getting cut down. Be smarter for us to separate, work our way around in a circle, come in on that coulee from all sides.”
“They’d pull out on us, if we was to try that, and it’d take too much time.”
“It’ll beat getting somebody killed—”
“Goddammit!” Brandon exploded. “You trying to run this outfit again?”
“Start showing sense and—”
“I can make it,” Rome cut in abruptly. “Cover me.” Shawn whirled to the man. Able’s eyes were bright and there was the look on his round face of a small boy about to take a dare.
“Don’t be a fool—you won’t get halfway—”
“Move out—you’re covered!” Brandon shouted, and hurrying to the rocks began to fire into the coulee.
Rome, flinging a quick smile at Starbuck, darted into the open. Bent low, he started across the rounded surface of the ridge-like flat, running erratically, dodging from side to side. The outlaws opened up at once. Bullets dug into the ground at his feet, spanged off into space as they glanced against rocks.
Brandon’s shots, supported by those of the remaining posse members, did nothing to deter them. Evidently they were well protected, as the lawman had thought. “He’s hit!”
At Moody’s yell, Shawn came about. Rome was down on one knee, was struggling to crawl, gain the protection of the rocks. Another slug smashed into him, knocked him flat. He stirred feebly, tried to rise.
“I’ll get him,” Walt Moody said quietly and holstering his pistol, rushed out onto the flat.
“No!” Starbuck yelled. “Too late to help—”
But Moody, following Able Rome’s example, was already beyond the rocks, running fast, swerving from side to side. Almost to Rome’s unmoving shape, he hesitated in stride as a bullet caught him. His body jerked as half a dozen more drove in him, spun him around and sent him sprawling.
An abrupt hush fell across the slope. Harry Brandon cursed in a low voice. “Goddammit to hell.”
Shawn stared at him. “What did you expect? They didn’t stand a chance out there.”
Brandon shook his head, spat. “The nigra might’ve made it—with a little luck.”
He swung back to the rock looked down into the coulee. “Ain’t but one thing to do,” he murmured as if thinking aloud. “That’s slip up on them from the side.”
Shawn stirred wearily. It was what he had wanted to do at the beginning but the marshal had waved off the suggestion. Now, after the lives of the two men had been spent, he was willing to try it.
“Little late to think of that,” he said coldly.
Brandon shrugged. “Nobody said this was going to be a picnic. They knew what they was liable to run into.”
“Maybe, but I don’t think they counted on dying for nothing.”
Starbuck mulled his own words over in his mind. Able Rome had seemed uncommonly anxious to take the risk that had cost him his life. Had he, in those brief moments, visualized some goal he felt was worth an attempt to reach? To prove himself the equal or better than any white man had been an obsession with him; had this been the means of confirming that avowal?
And Walt Moody ... whatever it was that had twisted and tormented him and made of him a morose, frustrated man had been washed away by his act of bravery. Shawn wished now that he had been able to talk more with him, that he had not failed him that night by falling asleep. Perhaps he could have helped—and he would have had a better understanding of the man.
“You two stay put here,” Brandon said, leaning his empty rifle against the rocks. His voice was low, firm. “That’s a order.”
Starbuck turned his attention on the lawman. “You going down there after them?”
“I aim to circle, come in from behind. Every little bit you throw a few shots into that coulee, make them think we’re still up here. Understand?”
Shawn nodded.
“I get things set, I’ll yell for you—and the both of you come running down that slope fast as you can. That clear?”
“We’ll be ready,” Starbuck said, glancing at Gilder.
“Just don’t waste no time when you hear me,” the lawman said, and cutting back to the trail, turned off and disappeared into the brush and trees.