At once Lockett raked the chestnut with his spurs and, pivoting, doubled back across the yard to where the girl crouched over the wounded rancher. Throwing himself from the saddle, he kneeled beside her.
“Inside … we’re making mighty good targets out here,” he said, sliding his arms under the man’s body.
The girl turned her strained, taut face to him. She would be no more than eighteen, he guessed, and badly frightened. Lips tight, she nodded and, coming to her feet, started for the house. Lockett, rising, glanced at the man in his arms as he followed. About the same age as the girl, possibly a year or two older. Husband and wife—or brother and sister? Dade wondered as he stepped into the usual combination kitchen, dining, and living room area of the ranch house. Kicking the door shut with a heel, he glanced inquiringly at the girl.
“In there,” she replied, and pointed into an adjoining room.
Dade carried the boy into the area, laid him on the bed banked against the rear wall. He seemed barely conscious although his injury appeared to be no more than a bad flesh wound in the leg.
“There’s another one out back,” Lockett said then, moving toward the door.
The girl’s features stiffened. “Renzo! Did they kill …?”
“Don’t know. One of them rode him down. Could be he just got a bad bumping. I’ll fetch him,” Dade said, and then paused, made a motion at the windows. “Draw the shades. Got to block off the light.”
Continuing then, he crossed the room to the rear door, pulled it open, and stepped out onto the narrow landing. The old man was sitting up near the woodpile dazedly rubbing his head. Dade took him by the arm, pulled him upright.
“Let’s be getting inside,” he said and, hanging the slight figure over his shoulder, carried him into the house and deposited him in a worn, leather rocking chair standing in the center of the room.
“The little gal … the boy … they all right?”
At the oldster’s mumbled question Lockett stepped back, nodded. “Boy’s hurt some. Girl’s fine.”
He eyed the man critically. Renzo, she had called him. He was a small, wiry cowhand with a sharp, veined face, stringy gray mustache and beard, a cap of snow-white hair. He would be well up in his sixties, but despite his years, he seemed to be suffering from no more than the hard jolt given him by the night rider’s horse. Given a few more minutes he should be all right. Lockett started to ask about the raiders, decided it was not the time, and, turning about, glanced around the house. The girl had not bothered to pull the oilcloth shades that hung above the windows, had instead closed the wooden shutters. Her better judgment pleased Dade, and, moving up to the nearest, he opened it a narrow crack and looked out.
The yard, its hard-packed surface shining in the moonlight, was empty. It could mean the hooded raiders had pulled off, did not plan to make a second attack. If such had been their intention, it was only logical to think they would have struck before then, not held off and permitted those inside the house to get prepared. He hoped that was the case; he could then be on his way.
Closing the wooden panel, Dade locked it and crossed the room to the bedroom where the girl was working over the wounded man. A pan of steaming water, a bottle of some sort of antiseptic, and a stack of clean, white cloths were on a table nearby. She glanced around as he filled the doorway.
“Renzo … is he …?”
“Doing fine. Horse just knocked him flat. Probably could use a drink of whiskey more’n anything else. How’s your husband?”
She turned back to the chore of completing the bandage on the boy’s leg. “He’s my brother Clint,” she said. “My name’s Roxanne. We’re the Rakers.” She hesitated, added: “I’m … we’re grateful to you, Mister … Mister …?”
“Name’s Dade Lockett. You don’t owe me no thanks. Kind of odds you were up against called for help from anybody around. Just happened I was close by.”
The girl nodded, continued with the bandage. Lockett considered her with interest. She had a quiet, refined way of speaking that assured him she had come from some other part of the country—the East undoubtedly—and her name—Roxanne—that was a new one on him. He’d never heard it before. Roxanne Raker—it sure had a fine ring to it.
She looked up at him suddenly as if remembering something. “The whiskey,” she said, pointing toward the shelving in the far corner of the kitchen. “It’s up there.”
Lockett retraced his steps into the adjoining room and made his way to the specified corner behind the stove. Searching about in the mason jars of preserved fruit and vegetables, he finally located a pint bottle of liquor. It had never been opened, he noticed, and, pulling the cork, he returned to where Renzo was slumped in the leather rocker. The old man nodded as Dade halted before him.
“Ain’t sure where you come from, friend, but I’m mighty thankful you showed up when you did.”
“Forget it,” Lockett said, and handed the bottle to him. “Take a swig at this. It’ll fix you up good.”
Renzo accepted the whiskey, downed a healthy swallow, and smiled. “Just the kind of medicine I was needing. Clint … you said he was some hurt.”
“Caught himself a slug in the leg. Be laid up for a spell. Nothing worse than that.”
Renzo heaved a sigh. “Real pleased to hear that. With him gone I just don’t know what the little gal would do. What about them jaspers? They still hanging around?”
“Maybe. No sign of them. Could be lying back in the brush, getting set to try again. You some kin to the Rakers?”
“Nope, just sort of a hired hand doing whatever’s needful.”
“You all the help they got?”
“Yep, just me.”
Lockett shook his head. A boy barely a man, a young girl clearly out of the world she ordinarily could be found in, and a stove-up old cowhand trying to run a ranch, small wonder they were having little if any success. He turned as the girl came into the room, carrying the pan of water and other medical items, stopped in front of Renzo, and peered anxiously at him.
“Don’t fret none,” the old man said quickly. “Ain’t nothing wrong with me. I been hurt worse shaving myself.”
Roxanne smiled, breaking the taut lines of her face. She was dark-haired, had light blue eyes, and a dusky skin. The dress she was wearing, a plain, cotton print, set off a good, well-proportioned figure.
“Your brother doing all right?” Lockett asked
“He’s in pain but there’s nothing serious. The wound was a clean one. The bullet went straight through.” The girl hesitated, faced Lockett. “I’m grateful to you for what you’ve done. I’m telling you so again because I really am. If you hadn’t come along … if we hadn’t got Clint inside, there’s no telling what those men would have done.”
“Ain’t hard to figure,” Renzo said grimly. “And it ain’t over yet.”
Lockett wheeled, crossed to the window. Again opening the shutter slightly, he studied the open ground fronting the ranch house and the line of brush fringing its far edge. There was no one to be seen. He turned, met the girl’s anxious gaze. “Think maybe they’ve given it up,” he said.
Her shoulders went down with relief, and, nodding, she moved on into the kitchen area. Renzo scratched at his jaw thoughtfully.
“Expect they’re gone for the night, but it sure ain’t over. Thing is they wasn’t looking for somebody like our friend here.”
“Folks call me Dade … Dade Lockett.”
The old cowpuncher extended his hand. “I’m Renzo Clark. Mighty pleased to know you.”
“Same here.”
“Like I said it sort’ve caught them flat-footed, and they ain’t sure what to do.”
Roxanne, emptying the pan of water out the back door, hung it on a nail in the wall, moved up to the stove. “They’ll know … and they’ll be back. Grosinger isn’t one to quit until he has what he wants.” The girl’s voice was low, laced with despair.
Renzo nodded solemnly. “That’s for certain, but I’m betting that bunch of his’ll be a mite careful next time they come a faunching in here. I didn’t see nothing, me getting knocked slantwise by that horse, but I could sure hear the shooting. You nick any of them, Dade?”
“A couple,” Lockett replied. “Not bad but they won’t be comfortable for a spell. You mind telling me what the ruckus is all about? And who’s Grosinger?”
Roxanne, in the act of setting plates, knives, forks, and other such items on the table, shrugged. “It’s a long story. Began when my father was killed … murdered,” she said. “We can talk about it after supper, that is, if you’ll stay and eat with us?”
Lockett smiled. “Sure wouldn’t want to put you out none.”
“You won’t be. There’s plenty and it’s all ready except for dishing it up.”
“Got me a whiff of it while I was out in the brush.”
“Then you’ll stay?” the girl pressed eagerly.
“Yes, ma’am,” Lockett said. “And I can tell right now it’s going to be a real treat.”