In a couple of minutes Jan Dorn had all but two of the crew gathered round Jim. They sat silent and grim-faced as he told them what was liable to happen. The Rocking-T hands were not of the gun- hand breed as Olsen’s riders were, but Jim knew that if and when trouble reared its head they would fight as hard as any.
‘One thing,’ Jim concluded. ‘If we tangle with Olsen’s crew up there we won’t be playing for marbles. I won’t have time to issue orders so if anybody shoots at you remember you’ve got guns too. So shoot back and we’ll worry later. Understand?’
They nodded and murmured their agreement. Jim felt satisfied. He had a good bunch here and he hoped they would all come through unhurt.
‘Lead out, Dutchy,’ Jim said. ‘I’ll follow up.’
As the Rocking-T crew rode away Jim turned to Frank Spode. ‘I don’t expect you’ll be riding with us?’
‘No offence, Jim, but I don’t want to get involved any further.’
Jim understood. ‘That’s all right, Frank. Thanks anyway.’
Jerking his horse round, Jim set it out after the rest of his crew. He caught up with them as they reached the well-defined trail that led up to the high meadow. Taking the lead Jim gigged his horse up the rough, dusty trail. The way became steeper as they went higher, the slope curving its way out of the swells and hollows of the hill.
They had been riding for some ten minutes when the first shot rolled its sound into the night. It was followed by a second and then a short, heavy volley that rattled and popped its echoes around the slopes of the dark hills.
Fear and anger surged up in Jim; fear for the safety of his men, and anger at what Olsen’s men were doing. His emotions urged him on. Driving his heels in, Jim forced his horse on up the pale, moonlit trail. As he rode he reached down and yanked his rifle out of the boot. He cocked it one-handed and rode with it across his thighs.
The gunfire continued and the higher Jim got the louder it sounded. At times it was ragged, uneven, then maybe just one or two guns firing widely-spaced shots.
Reaching the place where the trail began to level Jim drew rein, bringing his laboring horse down to a slow walk. His crew, following close, did the same. They crested the final slope, coming into the meadow, knowing that once they did they would come into the view of the Boxed-O raiders.
‘Jim, on the right.’ Jan Dorn’s voice came from close to Jim’s side.
Jim’s head snapped round, eyes searching the gloom. For a time he could see only the blending mass of trees and brush merging with the denser background shadows. And then he saw one of the shadows move. It fused into the shape of a horse and rider. Jim stiffened. Was it a Rocking-T rider? Or was it a raider from Boxed-O? He got his answer moments later when the rider wheeled his horse, plunging it back through the brush.
‘Comin’ up the trail! Rocking-T!’ The rider’s warning rang loud and clear to every ear. And on the heels of his shout came the crack of a rifle.
Jim saw the yellow blossom of flame from the weapon and braced himself instinctively. His own rifle was coming up then, his finger squeezing the trigger. He felt the gun jerk as it fired, gripped his horse with his knees as the animal flinched from the muzzle blast. Jim knew he’d missed and swore softly as he levered another round into the breech.
The whole night lit up with the glare and flash of crisscrossing gunfire. The noise was deafening. Men yelled and swore. Horses squealed in terror.
Out of his saddle Jim found himself down behind an old and rotten tree trunk, with Jan Dorn beside him. The Dutchman, calm as ever, aimed and fired his rifle with mechanical precision. The only relaxing of his patience was a steady, almost inaudible stream of words in his native tongue.
The Boxed-O raiders had apparently decided to bunch together, for their entire outlay of gunfire originated from one area. Jim made it out as a jagged outcropping of eroded rock, overgrown with tangled brush, and it only took him a couple of minutes to realize that the way things were, the only thing that was going to happen was that both sides were about to use up a lot of firepower.
He found himself wondering how Rem Callender and Josh Keel were faring. He didn’t doubt their ability to defend themselves, but until he knew for sure how they were he realized he would never settle. His thoughts were rudely interrupted as a rifle slug hit the tree he was sheltering behind. Rotten wood exploded dustily above his head, showering him with slivers and chunks. Some Boxed-O rifleman was ranging in close — too close, Jim realized, as another slug hit the same spot. Bringing his own weapon up Jim returned fire, sighting in on the distant muzzle flash.
Off to his left the brush rattled and cracked. Jim spun in that direction, his rifle ready. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom he saw a tall, slim figure easing out of the waist-high undergrowth. A second man was close behind, and Jim breathed easier as he became recognizable.
‘Man, you really make a feller earn his pay,’ Rem Callender said. He eased himself down beside Jim, thumbing his hat back. There was a faint smile on his face and he seemed to be enjoying himself.
‘How’d it start?’ Jim asked.
‘They come over the hill trying to make like Indians,’ Callender said. ‘Only they made more noise than a rock in a rain-barrel. Josh an’ me gave them a warning which, naturally, they ignored. So we let ’em have a couple of shots to show we meant it. After that things got a mite noisier. When you arrived we figured we might as well join you.’
‘You see anything of Andy and Ben Nolan?’
Callender shook his head. ‘They around here?’
‘They rode up some time ahead of us. Andy was going to see if you were making out all right, and Ben was carrying on over to Boxed-O to have a talk with Olsen.’
‘Well they never got to us.’ Callender lost his smile. ‘Hope they didn’t get caught out in the open somewhere. Those Boxed-O boys have been shooting at every damn thing that moves.’
Before Jim could reply he heard a shout of alarm. He turned, crouched low, and moved along the line of men until he reached the one who had called.
‘Hank, you see something?’ The man shook his head. ‘Felt somethin’. Ground’s shakin’, Jim, I can feel it.’ He was an old-time Rocking-T puncher, a grizzled, leather-faced man who had lived in and ridden this country as far back as when the Indians were about. He was tracker, scout, hunter, and a lot besides. He was seldom wrong and nearly always made his decisions on an age-old instinct. He cocked his head a little now as he palmed the ground again. His sharp eyes were hard as he looked at Jim. ‘It’s the herd, Jim. They’s stampeding the herd. Boy, we’d better get the hell out of here, else we’ll all end up as close to mother-earth as a man can get without being buried under it.’
Stampede.
Shock immobilized Jim for a couple of seconds. In his mind he suddenly saw that huge herd on the run. He’d seen two stampedes in his time, and both had left him numb, overcome by the sheer destructive might that the normally placid steers could achieve in the collective strength of a stampede. The combined bulk and weight of countless bodies driven to a blind, panic-filled run could render men and horses helpless, could crush and destroy them in passing. He had seen wagons overturned and even buildings demolished.
Hank’s voice reached Jim again. ‘Jim? Boy, you hear me?’
Realization brought Jim out of it. ‘I hear you, Hank,’ he said. He began to move along the line of men. ‘All right, boys, let’s go. Move out fast. We got a runaway herd coming our way. Get to the high ground, and don’t waste time. Move out.’
The Rocking-T crew began to pull away from their firing positions, grabbing the dangling reins of their wide-eyed, nervous horses.
Above the fading gunfire from the Boxed-O crew there now came a new sound. Not one man had to be told what that sound was. The low, thundering rumble, rising with every passing second, heralded the imminent approach of the stampeding herd. A faint tremor passed through the very ground, a rippling vibration that a man could feel through his boots.
‘Move out, Rem,’ Jim said to Callender. He saw the man nod and ease away, Keel close by.
The thunder of the fast-approaching herd filled the night. Jim noticed, too, that the Boxed-O gunfire had ceased altogether now. Before he moved off himself he turned to look back across the meadow, and he saw the herd coming out of the darkness. To Jim it was a bobbing, swelling dark mass, but it was enough to tell him that every steer that had been driven up to the meadow was there. While he was still fairly safe yet, a cold knot of tension grew in his stomach. There was little anyone could do to stop that crazed mass of running beef. Down on the flat, with plenty of open space, a crew of good men might slow and turn a running herd. But not up here. Not on this treacherous, dark slope of the hills where a man had his hands full watching out for natural hazards.
Jim turned to follow his crew, hauling his horse close behind him as he pushed through heavy brush that snagged at his clothing. He could see the rising shale slope ahead of him where his men were sweating and straining in their attempt to get their own fidgety animals to safety. A hail of stones and dust showered Jim as he started up the slope. His boots sank ankle deep in the soft shale and his horse baulked a couple of times, sinking back on its hind-quarters and rolling its eyes at Jim; there was nothing faster on earth than a horse for picking up the scent of fear; just let the atmosphere heighten and a horse would be fiddle-string tight in seconds. Jim hauled on the reins, struggling to keep his balance at the same time. He almost lost the horse, but the animal gave a sudden upward lunge that threw it forward and it crested the slope with Jim still hanging onto the reins.
Below, where the Rocking-T crew had been only minutes before the earth was black with the heaving mass of cattle. Running wild and blind, the beasts smashed their way over rocks and through brush. The air was thick with dust and heavy with the rumbling, bawling noise of their passing.
Watching the seething flood of living beef pound its way into the night, Jim felt a clammy coldness dampen his skin. That had been as close as it ever needed to be. He felt a little weak, but he felt even greater the feeling of relief. Above the responsibility of running the ranch and its affairs was the responsibility he held for the lives and safety of the men who worked for him. Jim’s father had held this to be of great importance and he had drummed this into Jim every chance he got. The full meaning of his position had never fully revealed itself until right now, and Jim found himself prepared for it.
He stood and watched the herd pass by. Not until the tail end of the stampede had vanished down the gully did he turn to his crew.
‘Anybody hurt?’ was his first question.
From somewhere a voice said, ‘I cut mah finger somethin’ awful. They’s blood all over.’
A general round of laughter greeted the complaint, and Jan Dorn’s voice broke through. ‘Is not blood, Cotton, is only some of that redeye you drink all time.’
Jim grinned as more laughter filled the air. He pulled his horse close and swung into the saddle. ‘While you’re all feeling so frisky, how about going down and seeing if we can pick up any of those Boxed-O trespassers?’
Men swung into saddles, checking handguns and rifles. The old puncher, Hank, pulled a wad of tobacco from his pocket and bit off a chunk. ‘Let’s go get em’, Jim.’
Rem Callender thumbed a final shell into his rifle. ‘Josh and me can pick our horses up when we get down. We’ll go on ahead, Jim.’
Jim nodded. He reined about and urged his horse on down the slope, letting the animal pick its own way. His crew strung out alongside of him, every man primed for action.
With the noise of the herd now far-gone, the night was quiet again. Had Boxed-O gone? It would have been an easy thing for them to have slipped away during the stampede. Jim found he was hoping they had on the one hand, for this would avoid any violent conflict, yet he felt that he had all the right in the world to strike back at the invaders. He found his emotions mixed, leaving him more than a little confused, and he had to realize finally that the only way to play this out was to take things as they came and to act accordingly.