By sundown all was in order. The window shutters had been examined and strengthened where necessary. Doors both front and rear were reinforced with crossbars. An extra supply of water and stove wood was on hand and the arsenal, consisting of two rifles, the single-barreled shotgun, and an old converted Colt pistol, was ready. There was ammunition enough for two dozen or so rounds each.
“These were all the bullets I could find,” Roxie said later when Lockett was going through the supply.
“Reckon we can hold them off sure enough,” Renzo stated confidently, hefting one of the long guns.
“We will,” Clint Raker said.
Dade turned in surprise with the others. Raker, clad only in pants and undershirt, supporting himself by leaning on the back of a chair, faced them from the doorway of the bedroom.
Roxanne frowned disapprovingly at him. “You know you shouldn’t be up.”
Clint shook his head, his features pale and drawn. “I’m not a baby, and I want you to stop treating me like one.”
Dade smiled at the younger man. It was his first good look at him—a tall, lean youngster with a thick shock of blond hair capping his head. He had the same blue eyes as his sister. “Best you save up your strength,” he said. “Could be needing it tomorrow or the next day.”
“Intend to,” Clint replied, “but I wanted you to know we’re obliged to you for your help.”
Dade Lockett’s shoulders stirred indifferently.
“Like Roxie told you, if we can get those steers to Pogue and collect, then we’ve got a chance to make it.” Clint paused, glanced through a rear window. Smoke was still rising from the embers of the barn. “Assuming, of course, that we can keep them from burning us out completely.”
“It’ll be different if they try it again,” Renzo said. “They caught us flat-footed this morning. Next time we’ll be ready.”
“And we’ll have to keep on being ready,” Roxie added quietly. “At least until we can convince Grosinger that we’re willing to fight to hold what’s ours.”
Dade Lockett made no comment. The Rakers were in for a tough go and his being there wasn’t going to make all that much difference in the odds. He could only expect to even things up a bit.
“You’ve got to get back in bed …”
“All right, all right, but first there’s something I got to ask Lockett.”
Dade nodded to the boy. “Fire away.”
“I’d like to know why you changed your mind about coming back to help us. There some special reason?”
Lockett stiffened slightly at Raker’s tone. He glanced at Roxie. She was staring at her brother, a deep frown on her face. “Is it important that I have one?”
“Far as I’m concerned it is,” Clint snapped. “I don’t figure anybody’s going to be doing us favors unless they’re getting something back.”
“Well, I don’t see it that way,” Roxie said in a clipped voice. “Dade will get paid, of course, for driving the herd to Pogue’s just as we promised. I don’t think he expects anything else.”
“And you figure he’s going to put his life on the line for what we offered to pay him? I don’t! He’s got something more working.”
Lockett brushed aside the temper rising within him, turned, dropped back to the table in the center of the room, and began pawing through the ammunition piled on it.
“There’ll be no more of that kind of talk,” he heard Roxie say firmly. “You get in that bed … and you stay there. If I need you, I’ll call you.”
Clint mumbled a reply of some sort, the words inaudible to Dade, but he wheeled about and with the girl’s assistance retreated into the adjoining room.
“You’ve got to ’scuse the boy,” Renzo said, moving up to Lockett’s side. “Feeling poorly like he is, he just ain’t thinking straight.”
“Means nothing to me. I’m not sure why I did come back, but it wasn’t because I figured to get something out of doing it.”
“I know that, and so does the little gal … and that’s who counts, her. She’s the one running this outfit. Has been ever since Charley got hisself killed. A lot like him she is … plenty of sand and smart, too. Maybe it don’t show much but it’s there.”
Lockett shifted his attention to the adjoining bedroom. He could hear Roxie talking to Clint in a low, stern voice. Whatever the subject, she was making her point in no uncertain terms. Dade nodded to the old cowhand. “Beginning to realize that,” he said. “Makes me feel some better about things around here.”
* * * * *
By midmorning the next day Lockett had cut out fifty head from the Rakers’ small herd and was moving west with them. It was a two-day drive, he’d been told, and he should encounter no problems; there was ample grass and water for the beef, and since Pogue’s Box-B Ranch lay in an opposite direction to the holdings of John Grosinger, it was doubtful the Diamond G owner would even know the drive was under way. For a time the herd moved steadily along over a grassy plain, and then, late in the afternoon, they reached short hill country. It was not so easy from there on as the steers kept striking off in singles and doubles into the numerous draws taxing Dade’s patience and the quickness of the chestnut. But eventually he got the cattle through the brushy hogback and was again in a broad valley.
At dark he halted in a swale where a spring formed a fairly good pond. The steers settled, he built a small fire for coffee, and digging into his saddlebags for the sack of lunch Roxie had prepared, he ate a hurried meal. By that time the following day, he calculated, he should be at Pogue’s with the herd. He’d not wait for the succeeding morning to begin the return trip, would instead pull out for the Raker place as soon as he had the cash in hand. Leaving them, despite the precautions he had taken, weighed heavily on his mind.
He wished now he could have held off on the drive until the danger of another raid by Grosinger’s men had passed. But there was no way of knowing just when the masked riders would come again—that day, perhaps, or possibly not for a week, and delaying could have been a waste of time. Too, holding off could have cost Roxie and her brother the sale of the cattle to Bern Pogue since he wanted them on hand before he began his annual drive to the railhead, and getting the cash for the beef was of the utmost importance to the Rakers. He guessed, when you came right down to it, there really had been no choice. But he worried about it, nevertheless. Despite the fact the three of them, forted up inside the house and well-armed, could undoubtedly give a good account of themselves should an attack come, he still had fears. None of them knew how to cope with men such as rode for Grosinger and who, safe behind masks, would not hesitate to kill to accomplish the job they had been hired to do. And fire—that was his chief worry. The raiders had employed it once; unquestionably they would make use of it again—this time on the ranch house itself. He had taken care to warn Roxie and Renzo Clark to keep a sharp watch from the windows if the raiders did strike again, to be certain that none of them was allowed to get near. Since there were three of them, assuming Clint could take his place in the defense, it should be possible to maintain a close watch on all four sides of the house except at night under the cover of darkness
Disturbed, Lockett rose, stored away the remainder of his food supply, and mounting the chestnut, circled the herd restlessly. The cattle were content, and after a time he cut back over the route he had covered, rode to the crest of a fair-size hill, and for a while kept his eyes turned to the northeast, the direction in which the Raker Ranch lay. Later he began to doze fitfully, rousing now and then to scan the sky for any telltale glow that would indicate fire, and when morning finally came after a night that had aroused no alarm, he heaved a sigh of relief, and, stepping again into the saddle, dropped back to the herd. The Rakers had apparently gotten through the dark hours with no trouble.
Taking time only to make coffee, Dade soon had the cattle once more on the move, pointed due west across a vast flat. The grass was thinner here, had a burned, gray look rather than the rich green of the valley, but the steers drove well regardless, and by noon he had the herd well across the seemingly endless expanse. He should be seeing signs of Pogue’s cattle or perhaps a rider or two, he thought, and then remembering that it was the time of year when stock was being gathered for a trail drive, reckoned that all hands were likely busy at that task.
Around midafternoon, as the herd moved slowly down a deep-cut arroyo under a sun that had warmed greatly, Dade caught sight of several riders. Box-B men, he supposed, and settled back in satisfaction and relief. Evidently he was near Pogue’s ranch house. Moving on ahead of the herd, he rode up onto the left bank of the wash where he could be seen. At once the riders pushed forward. Apparently they had been waiting for him.
That was good. He could use the help. Dropping back down into the wash, now that his presence had been established, Lockett resumed his position at the side and slightly behind the herd where the dust was at a minimum. It shouldn’t take long now to complete the delivery to Bern Pogue, collect the money promised, and head back to the Rakers. He had made better time than expected, and with luck and riding straight through he should reach the ranch by midnight, or shortly afterward.
Then what? It had been in his mind to hang around the Raker place for a few days, see if he could help some in forcing John Grosinger to back off, forget about taking over the Raker property. But matters had changed a bit. Clint, plainly, was suspicious of him and his intentions, and while this bothered him not at all, he felt he would as soon not be a party in a family quarrel between Roxie and her brother that could erupt because of him. As Renzo had said …
The sharp, decisive crack of a rifle cut through Dade Lockett’s thoughts. Startled, he reached for his pistol and spurred ahead. The riders he’d assumed were Pogue’s were rushing in on him from both sides of the arroyo. He cursed savagely. They weren’t cowhands—all were now wearing flour sacks over their heads. Raiders! Whipping up his pistol, Dade fired at the nearest, twisted, threw a shot at the one on the opposite side. The sandy cut rocked with the blast of his weapon and of those being used by the hooded riders. Suddenly the cattle were all about him, running hard. He jammed his pistol into its holster, began to work the nervously plunging chestnut toward the edge of the flowing mass of clicking horns, colored hides, and wildly rolling eyes.
The gelding reached the fringe, broke clear of the now thoroughly stampeded herd. Lockett brought out his gun, turned again to face the men who had caused it. He’d been lucky; had the chestnut been more to the center of the arroyo when the run started the chances were he’d not have gotten out so quickly—if at all. Abruptly a rider loomed up through the dust ahead of him. Another wheeled into view a stride beyond him. Lockett fired twice, saw one flinch but the other was a clean miss. He triggered again, now aware of a third man racing along the bank of the wash above him. He twisted about, steadied his weapon on his left forearm. The chestnut, pounding hard over the uneven ground was making it almost impossible to get in an accurate shot—and with a half a dozen men closing in on him, he had to make every bullet count. He pressed off the shot, saw the rider jerk back, and then consciousness was torn from him as a shocking blow smashed into the side of his head, knocking him from the saddle.