Powder brewed what Kaintuck termed a mess of medicine and doped the others with it. Jimmy pronounced the cure as bad as the disease, but they swallowed it and showed steady improvement. For all that, it would be late afternoon before any of them would be fit for riding, to say nothing of a fight. Scanning the skies, Powder was satisfied. There were the makings of more rain in the high places of the thunder gods, weather being brewed. Storm had aided the raiders, but a debauch of the Olympian crowd might turn now to their advantage.
The others slept, rallying from exhaustion. A lone rider loped across the prairie, coming without subterfuge or deviation. Powder blinked as he recognized Laredo. The former foreman was taut as a sun-stretched strip of rawhide. Raw pride galled him like a saddle sore, and he lost no time in preliminaries.
“You hate my guts, Burns,” he said. “And I’d like nothin’ better than to see buzzards pick your bones. Which is neither here nor there, with things as they are.” His glance strayed toward the wagon, hunger in his eyes for even a glimpse of Mary Ellen, jerked back.
“The herd’s gone. You want to get it back. So do I. I’ve a bunch of fellows ridin’ with me, all of them achin’ to spill lead. One thing sure, if we get the critters away from that other outfit, we’ll need every gun we’ve got between us. How about it?”
This sounded like an offer of cooperation, but Powder was wary. “This crew of yours,” he probed. “What pay would you be askin’ for them?”
“Half the herd,” Laredo said tightly. “But,” he added grimly, “we’ll not be finicky about the cut. We’ll take enough extra from that red-headed devil to make it even.”
Here was temptation. On this issue of extra men might hinge success or failure. But it wasn’t a strong urge, and Powder couldn’t resist a probing question.
“Those fellows who are sidin’ you now—I take it you’re meanin’ No-Brand Burley’s crew?”
“What if I am?” Laredo growled. “A gun’s a gun!”
“With you, maybe,” Powder conceded. “Not when it comes to the McGills, though. Broadaxe is particular.”
Again, as earlier in the day, Laredo faced a man and ached to draw his gun and kill. And again he found himself lacking, with something gone out of him which he’d possessed in the old days and lost along with honor. Something snapped deep inside him. A part of the old Laredo had remained that morning. Men might still look upon his face and suppose they beheld the same man, but they would be mistaken. But out of habit his tongue sought to cover the change with bitter mockery.
“I’d ought to kill you,” he raged. “But there are other fool-killers, and after Red has finished you off, Mary Ellen will need help with her herd.” With that he turned and rode away, knowing the words for what they were, emptiness.
The early threat of the weather was fulfilled as the day grew old. To the west lay a vast curving basin, tipping shallowly toward the sluggish river. Above it the clouds gathered in a ragged splendor of colors which seemed compounded of over-hot brimstone. Powder, watching the storm build, was satisfied as he led his rejuvenated crew. It might be that the elements would fight for them today as they had done for men of old, swords of swift lightning out of an angry sky.
Now the swords were clashing out over the bowl, their sparks shattering the dark horizon, the rolling thunder of the grinding blades so loud even here that men, grouped close together, had to raise their voices to be understood.
Kaintuck understated it. “Rainin’, off there,” he said.
There was the look of a deluge. The edge of the storm wrapped itself around them in a drenching curtain, blanketing away the herd which was now close at hand. The cow ponies, uneasy with the rank feel of the storm, gave over being skittish and settled to business as they swept among the bunch of a hundred brands uneasily at graze. Here was Broadaxe, still more or less an entity among the greater herd, gathered at its rim. The riders moved among them, expecting challenge, ready for it when it came, but nothing happened. Presently they had Broadaxe on the move. Enough of other brands paced along with them to fill the lack for those which had strayed.
“Funny, no guards on the job,” Jimmy Dowst muttered unbelievingly. “We can’t be this lucky.”
It was the night all over again, but this time in reverse. But luck can spill both ways. The storm might have driven most of Red’s riders to shelter. Up ahead it was doing something else, and Powder got an inkling of what as the herd, well started, moved to a ragged run, urged on by the shouting men.
Ahead was a dry watercourse—a turbulent creek in early spring when the snows raced for the river, a bed of dust from then until the snows came again. Now there was water in it, born of the storm. Water already grown turbulent, feeling its power, fretful of the narrow, confining banks, frantic to break loose. Behind, though the haze of storm curtained the view, the ears warned of more water, crowding relentlessly.
The thunder had stilled, the lightning was gone in a black vacuum of clouds hovering like an inverted bowl close above the earth. In that whispering silence of far-off pouring rain the other sound grew louder, a noise like strong wind moving, yet there was no wind.
Powder’s yell rang above it. “Cloudburst up above! Push them fast!”
Faces lost their color beneath the tan. They’d come expecting bullets and there had been no guns to challenge, but this could be worse. It was water that moved unseen toward them, the gathered force of a vast bowl which had been suddenly filled to overflowing. The early spill had crowded the banks of the dry stream bed. What was coming behind would crowd the quarter-mile of valley in similar fashion. Anything in its path would be a toy in ruthless hands.
Somehow they made it. Partly it was the contagion of terror, spreading to the herd, hastening the hoofs of the horses, a feel of danger close upon them. Water, burst out of the shrouding mist and surged around their feet, deepening as they splashed ahead, but the ground had an upward trend and they made it. Behind them the sun tore through the clouds for a look, and the whole was revealed in shattering majesty.
The new river swept, a quarter of a mile wide, swift and turbulent, with more water feeding from above, angry water unsure of itself but conscious of power. On the far shore was the bulk of the big herd, which they had not molested. Off there also rode a pair of horsemen at a furious gallop, but Powder had no time to spare for a second glance that way. There was trouble closer at hand.
Most of the McGill herd and all of the crew save one had outdistanced the racing stream and reached higher ground and safety. But one rider, the youngest and smallest, was in trouble. Billy Dowst’s horse had been caught.
Like a veteran of the trail, Billy sought to do as he’d heard was proper when crossing a flooded stream. To drop out of the saddle and swim beside the horse, holding to a stirrup or even the nag’s tail. He was in the act of trying this, and it would have worked had the horse held steady.
Panic gripped the cayuse. It plunged wildly and lost its footing at an unseen drop-off, then was caught in the tearing swirl of current and sucked out of sight. With a choking cry Billy went under.
Half the crew had seen it, but only Powder was close. He swung his horse and spurred, and the force of the current as it rose chest-high to the animal was like a solid wall. Billy bobbed to the surface, and Powder leaned and grabbed, and missed. He strained farther and lost his hold, and was in the water also, as the cayuse turned for the bank.
Luck brought him to the surface close at hand as Billy bobbed up a second time, and this time his grab found its mark, his fingers gripped a wrist. Doc came racing along the shore, and his loop twined out at them like a bent bow straightening to an arrow. It reached, and the cayuse dragged them shoreward.
Billy shook himself unsteadily and stood up, and his look followed that of most of the crew, now that this danger was past. Powder caught his breath. On the opposite shore he could see the two riders, much closer to the water now—near enough for easy recognition.
One was Sabine, leaning low along the neck of her pony, urging it to a more desperate effort. It was the same cayuse which Powder had caught for her in the morning, and the wiry pony was striving frantically to reach the doubtful haven of the river. But it was slowed by some injury, and game as was its try, the horsemen who pursued were covering the ground at three times the speed. Even at that distance, Big Red’s face showed in an angry twist, and he swung a lariat with deadly purpose.
The missing part of the story was suddenly clear to Powder, as it must be to the others of Broadaxe—the unexplained reason why there had been no interference while they took back their herd. Apparently Sabine had gone to their camp and been readily received. Now there could be no doubt that in a change of heart she had doctored their dinner even as she had doped the stew for Broadaxe.
Big Red’s rage was terrible. It twisted his face into the mask of a madman as he twirled his loop preparatory to the cast. Powder grabbed for his gun, and his hand came away empty, the gun gone somewhere in the hungry river. Even had it been there, it would be too water-soaked for likely firing, and the breath caught in his throat.
The loop shot out, but it wavered and faltered just above the head of the girl, poised for a moment and fell back, and Red twisted in the saddle and went slack. The report of the gun reached Powder’s ears, and looking upstream he saw a rifle in the hands of Kaintuck, a miracle shot at that speed and distance. Red spilled out of the saddle to the rain-soaked earth as the girl’s horse reached the river.
Kaintuck’s job was only half done, and he was losing no time. An urge greater than the pressure of the moment drove him, something as old as the race, primeval, not to be denied. It was nothing which he could have put into words, not even consciously in his thoughts, but it came out of the mists of dawn on many a weary morning, from the rising smokes of camp fires, or in the echo of a coyote baying to the moon; a half-sensed hunger, now a driving purpose which took no account of the pushing water into which he forced his horse.
Moments before it had made a plaything of Powder and his cayuse. The force was scarcely slackening as the run-off from the bowl continued. But Sabine’s nag would be helpless in such a tide. Kaintuck drove ahead.
Powder watched like the others, helpless to aid, doubt struggling with admiration. Kaintuck was not to be denied. He reached her as her own horse floundered and was helpless. For a mile the current swept them downstream, now out of sight, then reappearing when hope seemed lost. And finally Kaintuck brought her back, held close in his arms.
Only as his horse made it wearily to shore did the big cowboy grow diffident. And then it was that Sabine reached up and drew his head down to hers.
“That’s just interest,” she said. “For I cain’t no-ways pay nor thank you.” She looked around at the others who had gathered as the scarlet-faced Kaintuck dismounted and assisted her to her feet, and despite her dripping hair, her soaked garments, there was new dignity and humility about her.
“I reckon you all hate me, and I’ve got it coming,” she said. “Though I did give that double-crossin’ crew some of the same. And then you, Kaintuck, you risked your life for me—”
“And I’d do it again!” Kaintuck declared, sudden boldness on his tongue, staring at her as if scales had fallen from his eyes. “Since you ain’t a married woman, you’re going to be, soon as we can find us a preacher somewhere. If you ain’t welcome here, then I’ll ride with you.”
“We couldn’t spare either of you—now,” Powder said, coming up, and Sabine colored to match the scarlet of Kaintuck’s face. But her smile, if tremulous, was steady for the big cowboy.
“You’re all purely too good to me,” she said, “but I wouldn’t dispute what you say, Kaintuck dear.”
It had grown too big for him, the hate which swelled inside his skull. Laredo had moments of sickness, remembering the man he had been, knowing what he had become. But it was as though a stranger stood off at the side, watching with impersonal regard, making no effort to interfere.
His followers, those men who had ridden once with No-Brand Burley, had all left him. His leadership had taken them to the jaws of death, where they’d watched him crawl in escape. Now he was alone.
Not quite alone. He looked in amazement and blinked again at the sunken-eyed scarecrow who had appeared out of nowhere, and for a moment his tongue faltered uncertainly over the name.
“Ormsby!” he said. “I thought you were dead!”
“I am.” Ormsby’s voice was as mocking as his smile, a death mask on a skin-taut face. “I died under the hoofs of that damned herd, and it’s only my ghost that’s come back—seekin’ revenge! And I’ve come to you because we both want the same!”
Laredo shivered, but there was eagerness in his voice. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“Plenty,” Ormsby assured him. “I’ve brought back Burley—he was ridin’ away, and I heard you say once that Boake Queen would pay good money to hang him. He’ll be a start—but only a start.”
The one face matched the other. Laredo nodded. “Go on.”
“We’ll get the girl,” Ormsby added. “Mary Ellen. Queen wants her, too. We deliver them both to him—and we get both things we want!”
Laredo’s tongue rasped across dry lips, but he didn’t pretend to misunderstand. Revenge, that came first, even above money. But the change in him had made him more cautious, with the fears of the hunted.
“We couldn’t make it,” he pointed out. “Not with the girl. Powder, Jimmy—the whole damned crew would be on our tails. They’d hunt us down.”
“They’ll hunt us to their death,” Ormsby promised. “You ever heard of the Buzzard’s Border?”
“That’s a country they say no man can cross.”
“That’s what they say,” Ormsby agreed, and grinned unpleasantly. “We’ll let them prove it. Listen!” He glanced around, as though fearful that even this wilderness might have ears, and his tones grew eager. Laredo listened, doubtfully at first, then with increasing interest. What he heard he liked, even while something sickened deep within him.
The Broadaxe herd was three days farther to the north, beyond the flood, when finally they sighted it. The camp lay silent beneath a sliver of moon. The herd, off half a mile or so, was as near to stillness at this hour as they ever became. The faint, hushed singing of the night riders drifted like an echo on the air. They were far enough away to be no problem; the last shift had changed and everyone was deep in sleep, the last embers of the cookfire long since cold.
Mary Ellen’s wagon stood, as usual, somewhat apart from the chuck wagon and the sleeping crew. The pair of them rode, circling, leaving their mounts and the extra horses they had brought hidden in a grove of brush.
They reached the wagon and were inside, one at either end. Both saw, to their amazement, that Mary Ellen was not alone, and Laredo recognized the other girl as Sabine. She presented a problem, but after a moment he was obscurely pleased. Deep within him something of the former Laredo still lived, and he’d hated this part, one woman alone among men across a stretch of hell. With Sabine for companion, it would be better.
This was the tricky moment, when a scream could bring ruin. But Laredo had lived on the same ranch with Mary Ellen long enough to learn something of her habits, and he’d picked up more on the trail. She wakened easily, instantly alert, when he spoke in guarded tones, but she sat up, her eyes widening, as she saw the leveled gun he held, the shadow of his companion at her feet.
“You’ll dress and ride,” Laredo instructed, and his tone held warning. “Both of you. If there’s an alarm, we’ll wipe out the whole crew before they know what’s going on.”
Mary Ellen made no outcry. She could feel the desperation in this man who once had been her friend and foreman for her father’s outfit. A tautness of savagery could be sensed in both of them, for now she recognized the emaciated form of Ormsby. They’d empty their guns at the first hint of trouble, and the others, Powder, Kaintuck, Jimmy, would die before they had a chance to resist.
Her palm across Sabine’s mouth checked any outcry, and Sabine, awake in turn, understood. She looked distressed as Laredo repeated his order.
“But with you watchin’ us—” she whispered.
The gesture of the gun was the only answer. In fumbling fear they obeyed, calculating the risks and the chances. Mary Ellen shook her head in warning. So far as purpose went, they were dealing with madmen, past all point of fear or caring.
They reached the waiting horses and mounted, riding out from camp with guns a glittering menace and the stars faint in the deepening dark. No one about the dead ashes stirred as they went, and Mary Ellen was uncertain whether to feel relief or dismay. This couldn’t be real. It was a dream, a nightmare from which she must presently awake. But there was not much relief when, far out of sight of the camp, they came to where a man waited, tied and hopeless, and Laredo cut him loose and put him on another horse.
“This is No-Brand Burley, ladies,” he said with elaborate mockery. “Makes five of us in all, a nice, cozy party to travel. And you ladies to sort of chaperon each other.”
Sabine spoke for the first time. “Have you taken leave of your senses, Mr. Scott?”
Laredo’s laugh was a bark. “Call it that if you like,” he agreed. “I’d have thought so a few weeks back. But I’m not the man I was then, and I see things different. Now let’s get some matters straight. You’re going with us—to Montana, but by a different route than you’d planned. If anybody catches up, which isn’t likely, it’ll be just too bad.”
Mary Ellen shivered. He was right when he said he wasn’t the man he had been at the Red.
“I wanted you, Mary Ellen,” Laredo went on, his voice taut, curiously squeezed of emotion. “But you wouldn’t have me. Well, you’re worth more now some other way, so you don’t need to worry, either of you, so long as you don’t make us any trouble. You’re goods to be delivered, like Burley, and worth more undamaged.”
“Where are you taking us?” Mary Ellen asked, and sensed the answer in advance.
“To the man who’ll pay plenty for you,” Laredo boasted. “Boake Queen!”