The Lazy H lay in a small hollow, a neat, low-slung stone house of five rooms, L-shaped and compact beneath the shading oak and elm trees watered by the river which burbled by on its course towards the Rio Grande, its banks not fifty yards from the house itself. Buck Cotton pulled his horse to a stop on the top of the slope, and dismounted, scanning the area in front of the house and the corral off on the southern side. There was no sign of a horse, no sign of movement. He nodded to himself, an eager smile playing around his lips.
‘I wonder where the Mex woman is?’ As if in answer to his question, a woman emerged from the house carrying a tub fall of washing which she hefted towards the pump in the yard, proceeding to energetically splash water upon the clothes in the tub.
Moving cautiously, Buck got to within a few yards of her before the woman looked up with startled eyes into the gaping barrel of Buck’s six-gun. Buck had a finger on his lips.
‘Don’t make a sound,’ he hissed ‘or…’He gestured with the gun. ‘Comprende?’ The woman nodded, her eyes wide with fear. ‘A donde es la señorita?’ Buck asked her. ‘Where’s the girl?’
The woman pointed towards the house. ‘En la casa,’ she said.
‘She alone?’
Another nod.
‘Right! Lead on inside,’ he told her, pointing with the gun. ‘Vamos!’ Looking fearfully over her shoulder, the woman shuffled towards the door. She went inside, turning sharply right as she did so, and Buck came in smoothly after her, blinking to adjust his eyes to the sudden gloom of the interior. He hardly saw the blur of movement; the chopping descent of the gun barrel wielded by Billy Hornby which cracked his wrist-bone like a dried twig, slashing the gun from his numb fingers. Buck Cotton’s reflexes were good, even so. He tried to move fast out of the way but stumbled backwards out into the sunlit yard, sprawling in the dirt, unable to help break the fall with his injured arm, and looked up to see Billy Hornby standing over him spraddle-legged, the heavy .45 cocked in his hand, only his thumb holding back the hammer, and a terrible fear possessed Buck Cotton. For the look on Hornby’s face was one of insane rage. Buck watched for perhaps ten endless seconds as Billy Hornby tried to force himself to release the hammer of the gun and kill the hated thing at his feet, but the boy could not do it. With something like a sigh, Billy’s tenseness abated, and the light came back into his eyes. Buck Cotton, sweating on the ground, knew that for the moment he would live. He tried to get up, but Billy lined the gun on him again.
‘Stay in the dirt where yu belong, yu sidewinder!’ he grated. ‘I still ain’t shore I didn’t ought to salivate yu.’
Buck lay still. Any argument with this fury-filled young man was useless. One wrong move and Billy would kill him.
‘Green figgered yu’d try somethin’ like this,’ Billy told him. ‘He said he had some trouble tryin’ to think like a rat, but once he got the hang of it, it was easy to guess what yore play’d be. I sent Jenny down to Fort Lane afore all this started, Bucky-boy. Which turns the tables a mite. That’s the on’y reason yu ain’t buzzard-bait already.’
Buck Cotton frowned up at his captor. ‘What yu ravin’ about, Hornby?’ he said.
‘Hell, I knew yu was dumb, Buck, but if yu can’t see it!’ Billy shook his head. ‘I do reckon yu can’t, at that. Yu was comin’ out here to try to kidnap Jenny, an’ use her as a hostage, right?’
Cotton shook his head. ‘I don’t know what yo’re talkin’ about,’ he mumbled.
‘Sez yu,’ was the impolite retort. ‘But now, instead o’ Jenny bein’ yore brother’s ace in the hole, it’s the other way round. Yo’re ours. It’ll be interestin’ to see how tough he gets with yu in our han’s.’
Fear struck at Buck Cotton’s vitals. Sim had warned him that if he failed to bring in the girl, he was finished. Knowing his brother, Buck was well aware that Sim would never bargain — he had said as much at the ranch.
‘Yo’re crazy!’ he cried, hoarsely. ‘Sim won’t do no deals with yu!’
‘We’ll have to see about that,’ replied Billy grimly. ‘Either way, yu lose. Cotton. Yu ought to’ve stayed home with yore head down.’
The other stood up, trembling, his mind a seething mass of wild ideas. How could he break away from this menacing youth and get word to Sim without being killed? Would Sim accept that he had no way of bringing in the girl? A thought occurred to him and he voiced it.
‘How was yu so shore we wouldn’t all ride over here?’ he asked.
‘Wasn’t,’ Billy retorted succinctly. ‘If Manuela had seen more’n one man she was goin’ to give me the word. She woulda just told yu that Jenny wasn’t here. I woulda laid low till yu was gone. As it was, yu come alone. An’ now I’ve got yu, yu sonofabitch. I hope yo’re feelin’ fit.’
Buck Cotton frowned at this last remark. What had his fitness to do with anything? Seeing his captive’s puzzlement, Billy Hornby laughed aloud.
‘Yo’re wonderin’ why I said that?’ he grinned. ‘Shucks, that’s easy, Bucky-boy. Yo’re walkin’ to town.’
‘Walkin’!’ Buck Cotton’s face was horror-stricken. To have to walk more than fifty feet was something the average Westerner avoided like the plague — he would rather mount a horse to cross the street than cross it on foot. The high-heeled boots so practical for the man in the saddle were hardly designed for hiking, and the mere thought of the tramp into town filled Buck Cotton with anguish.
‘Yu wouldn’t … yu couldn’t make a man walk all that way!’ he gasped.
‘A man, mebbe not,’ was Billy’s sardonic retort. ‘Yu, that’s somethin’ else. Yu hardly qualify as a man in my books.’ He lifted the lariat from Buck’s horse, and shook the noose free. This he placed about the Cottonwood man’s neck.
‘Don’t go gettin’ any ideas about slidin’ off,’ Billy warned him. ‘Or yo’re likely to get that choked-up feelin’.’
He swung into the saddle and shook the rope.
‘Start walkin’,’ he commanded. ‘It’s a fair stretch to Cottontown.’
Stumbling, cursing, tears of frustrated rage in his eyes, Buck Cotton began his ignominious trek towards town. Behind him easy and watchful in the saddle, Billy Hornby followed the man, his eyes cold and without sympathy. Cotton, for his part, nursed his hatred. Hornby did not know that by die time they reached town Sim and his riders would be moving in on his friends. He might get a bad shock even yet. The thought buoyed him up, kept him moving forward at a shambling walk across the unlovely scrubland southeast of the town.
Bob Davis was guarding the window in the Oasis, his eyes sweeping up and down the empty street, watching for any movement which might indicate hostile action. But the town was empty and still. Even the few men who had emerged from their homes after the fight in the street were nowhere to be seen. ‘Gone to ground somewheres,’ Davis told himself. ‘Can’t say I blame ’em. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind joinin’ ’em.’ Aloud, he addressed a question to Sudden.
‘Yore guess is as good as mine, Bob,’ Sudden told him in reply. ‘If they rode out to try for the girl, Billy oughta be comin’ in hell-for-leather any minnit. Then we’ll know where they are. Otherwise, like I said, yore guess is as good as mine.’
‘I don’t like it,’ muttered Doc Hight. ‘It’s too damn quiet.’
The momentary silence which followed his words was broken then by the soft thud of hoofs approaching, and Sudden was on his feet in one swift surge, moving towards the batwing doors. Blass and the doctor moved quickly to their posts by the other window, and a gasp of surprise escaped the medico’s lips.
‘It’s the kid,’ he announced, unbelievingly. ‘An’ he’s got Bucky Cotton in front o’ him. Will yu look at him!’
The captured Cotton was indeed a sight to see. His clothes were covered with white gypsum dust, which had caked his face and been turned in places to mud by sweat or tears or both. His fine soft leather boots were tattered and one of the heels was missing, making him limp heavily. His hair was matted, and his eyes wild; a steady stream of curses mumbled from his dust-caked lips as he weaved about at the end of the rope held by Billy Hornby. The boy moved slowly up the street from the bridge, his eyes wary, gun out. He passed Doc Hight’s house and drew level with the jail, half turning his horse towards the saloon and nearly jerking the half-demented Buck Cotton off his feet.
‘Blast my eyes!’ crowed Blass,‘that kid’s shore got his share o’ sand. I’ll go an’ give him a hand!’
Sudden whirled to protest, but the bartender was already through the swing doors and out on the sidewalk, calling to the boy.
‘Billy!’ he yelled. ‘Yu shore —’
He never finished the sentence. A lance of flame blossomed from the jailhouse and then another.
Buck Cotton let out an animal sound, something between a scream and a shout, turning, stumbling to his knees, screeching ‘Sim! Sim!’ as the men in the saloon blasted a fusillade towards the unseen assassins across the street.
Blass had stopped as if he had run into a wall, and uncertainty made him hesitate for a fatal moment before he tried to turn on his heel and get back towards the saloon. A volley of shots took him off his feet and slammed him face down on the steps of the saloon, even as Billy yanked back on the rope around Buck Cotton’s neck, hauling the Cottonwood man backwards on his knees, eyes bugging and face contorted, fighting to breathe, his fingers scrabbling to tear the searing noose from his throat. Billy hauled his horse around as Sudden and his two companions laid down a slashing hail of lead across the windows and doors of the jail. Bullets whined off the adobe walls and for a moment there was a break in the firing from the ambushers. Billy was turned around now, yanking Buck Cotton backwards, half dragging him along the street as the boy tried to head for the cover of the stable. A ragged cheer escaped Doc Hight’s throat only to die stillborn as a hail of shots was loosed at Billy. He lurched in the saddle, fighting to stay on top of the horse, and then lurched again and went over the side, plowing down like a broken doll into the dirt of the street about ten yards from the front of the livery stable.
The panic-stricken horse, however, had not stopped. It sun fished for a moment as its rider slid from its back, then wheeled again, the rope around Buck Cotton’s neck looped to the saddle pommel twanging taut.
‘Stop that damn hoss!’ yelled a voice across the street in the jail, and a man dashed out, throwing himself prone, a rifle leveled at the horse. Sudden’s gun spoke and the man’s head fell forward, the rifle slipping from limp hands.
This shot brought a shuddering whinny from the terrified horse. Its ears went back and with a scream it lunged forward, stampeding across the street, hurtling through the gap between the jail and the sheriff’s house, dragging behind it a lurching, bumping, screaming bundle.
‘My Gawd!’ breathed Davis. ‘He never had a chance.’
‘He didn’t deserve one,’ snapped Sudden harshly. ‘Cover me! I’m goin’ to get the kid.’
Without another word, he vaulted out of the shattered window and had rolled twice, across the sidewalk and into the street, lighting on all fours, crouched, guns leveled, before Hight and Davis recovered from their astonishment and laid covering fire above his head. Sudden’s right hand gun barked twice as he moved fast and erratically, towards where the boy lay. Shots whined about him. One tugged at the sleeve of his shirt, another ruffled his hair. Gouts of dust and sand plunked into the air and still he was not harmed. He reached the boy’s side. Billy’s back was black with blood, and there was a dark stain beneath his head. A quick glance around revealed to Sudden that several figures were running into the street. He emptied a gun at them and they broke and scattered for buildings and doorways. Without wasting a moment, Sudden picked up the slumped body of Billy Hornby as though the burly youth had been but a child and slung him unceremoniously across his shoulder. Stumbling, half-falling, he ran for the door of the livery stable as more shots from the jailhouse whispered by him, and thunked into the wooden walls of the building. Once inside, Sudden laid the boy as gently as he could on to a pile of straw and wheeled to face the doorway, shooting at the running figures across by the jail until the hammer clicked flatly upon an empty chamber. They faded back out of sight and for a moment there was a brief respite. Sudden took advantage of this to push the heavy plank door shut, and then dropped the heavy timber bar into place behind it.
With a glance at the still-unconscious boy, he methodically reloaded his guns, moving across to one of the windows facing the street for a guarded glance outside. The street was empty and still. A frown touched his forehead for a moment. He wondered whether the storekeeper and the doctor had managed to make good their escape. They had agreed earlier that if for any reason their group was split, that the three townsmen would try to escape to Fort Lane. Two, now, Sudden told himself bitterly. Blass had taken three or four bullets, had never known what hit him. He turned at the sound of movement, and found Billy sitting up groggily on the pile of straw. He was touching the bullet burn across his forehead gingerly, unaware of the wound in his chest.
‘Jim…’ he began weakly. ‘I had Buck … Cotton. Then all hell broke loose.’
‘I’m a mite cross with yu, Billy,’ Sudden told him severely. ‘Yu shore ought to’ve knowed better than to ride into town as if yu was leadin’ a parade. If things wasn’t so busy right now, I shore might be tempted to.’ He broke off as Billy’s smile faded and the boy slid backwards in a dead faint.
With a final brief look at the still empty street, Sudden moved over to the boy’s side and stripped off the blood-soaked shirt. The wound in Billy’s shoulder was an ugly one. A bullet had drilled a ragged hole through from just above his shoulder blade in the back to below the collarbone in the front. Another had burned a track across his scalp.
‘Lost plenty o’ blood,’ Sudden surmised, ‘but it didn’t hit bone. He’s a lucky boy. Half an inch lower down, an’ him and Buck Cotton’d be meetin’ up again.’
He took the shirt over to where the water barrel stood by the horse stalls, washing it cut thoroughly and then tearing it into wide strips. From these he made a rough compress and bandage, and then scouted about the dusty stable for a moment or two, returning with a handful of cobwebs from a corner.
‘Injun medicine’s the on’y kind I savvy, Billy,’ he told the inert figure. ‘I’m shore hopin’ that ol’ Paiute knowed what he was talkin’ about!’
He pressed the cobwebs against the wound and then laid the wet compress over them. He wiped away the rest of the blood, and repeated the operation at the back where the bullet had entered. He then bound the boy’s shoulder as well as he could, so that the boy’s arm was held close against his chest. If he moved while he was unconscious he wouldn’t start the bleeding again.
‘Well, I hope it holds yu, kid,’ Sudden muttered. ‘Now: how do we get out o’ this place?’
He cast his eyes hopefully about the stable. It was more or less square shaped, a one-story edifice of timber with a peaked roof below which heavy timber rafters ran parallel to form a sort of false ceiling. From these hung saddles and bridles, harness, and tools. Sudden wondered idly where the hostler was. ‘Run for the ol’ Fort, more’n likely,’ he guessed. The sidewalls had no windows in them, and the back of the stable was equipped only with a small, heavily-barred door and a tiny window which was, he noted with satisfaction, barred and shuttered. The huge front doors, wide enough when swung back to admit a wagon and team, were flanked by larger windows, both of which were already shattered and splintered by the hail of bullets which had followed Sudden’s rescue dash. Huge slivers of wood had been driven through the heavy doors by Cotton’s men’s bullets.
‘Time to take another gander,’ Sudden informed nobody in particular, and edged over towards the shattered window. Taking his hat from his head he poked it forward on the end of his gun barrel until it could be clearly seen from outside. A tremendous fusillade of shots burst out, snatching the hat off the gun-barrel, chopping pieces of wood from the window frame, and chunking into the walls.
Sudden shook his head. ‘Never liked that hat, anyhow,’ he said. He was worried about the two men who had been brave enough to stand up against the Cotton crew with him. They were alone. Maybe even now, Sim Cotton’s men were outflanking the saloon, ready to shoot down like a mad dog anything that moved inside. The puncher cursed aloud.
‘Damned if I help ’em an’ damned if I don’t’ he said. ‘No shootin’ goin’ on … so somethin’ must be brewin’. But what?’
As if in answer to his question, someone rapped urgently on the rear door. Gun cocked, Green slid over towards it.