Greg Talbot had not returned by the end of the afternoon. The beginnings of doubt nudged McAllister lightly, but he was not too worried, for it was possible that Talbot was having trouble with the horses and was being forced to take his time. McAllister’s instinct was to ride a way to meet him, but he knew better than to leave his place for any length of time at all. His sharp eye had caught the glitter of glass in bright sunlight up on the ridge where the Larned riders had looked down on the house-building. Once his rifle was off this place, those riders would come pouring down over the ridge.
Full dark came down and still Talbot had not returned. By now McAllister was anxious. Just the same, as he rightly told himself, the man could easily have been delayed by the horses for at least another day. He was most likely having his work cut out, driving those horses without help. If he had managed to catch and tail them, that would be another matter. When there was a small bunch of horses to be moved, some mustangers tied them head to tail, so that they could be more easily driven or led. But Talbot knew all the tricks of the trade. If anybody could make it, it would be him. He was a born survivor.
Then McAllister thought of the army of riders Larned had working for him. He needed that number to ride a range that covered most of this county and some of the next. That made the odds appallingly heavy. If they decided to go after Talbot in force he did not stand a chance. McAllister began to feel bad because he had not insisted that he go along. He sat in front of the house, smoking his pipe and waiting.
But Talbot did not come that night. He came in the next day from the west at a leisurely pace, leading a long line of horses which he had tailed. When McAllister asked him why he had been so long, he found a lugubrious grin.
“Had a run in with some of them Larned boys. They was lookin’ real tough. Wa-al, enough to spook a tenderfoot. There was five, six of ’em. They wasn’t too sure what to do next when I didn’t spook. Last night in the dark they got real bold and tried to jump me. Tried to run off the stock, too. But they lost their enthusiasm when I knocked one over.”
McAllister asked: “How bad was he hurt?” It was an important question. On the answer rested the shape this fight would take from here on.
Talbot replied: “I killed him dead, boy.” He saw the expression on McAllister’s face and knew what he was thinking. “You’re wrong, son. It’s killin’ time now. We been playin’ patsy with them bastards long enough. Now they respect us. The men’re thinkin’ about it right this minute. Nobody likes to be dead. Specially for wages.”
“Well, it’s done,” said McAllister, “an’ talk won’t undo it. Thanks, anyway, Greg. Maybe you should drift out of the country for a while till this blows over.”
Talbot hawked and spat.
“If you’re funnin’,” he said, “I ain’t laughin’.”
And that was that.
The rest of the day they spent cutting hay while the whole horse herd grazed free. Both men kept their saddle horses near, both to catch up stray horses and to head for the house if trouble came. They worked clear through the day without sight or sound of another human. Except for the watcher on the ridge.
Night passed uneventfully. Both men knew they were supposed to be lulled into a false sense of security. The following morning, they went further afield to cut hay. McAllister wanted to extend the corral and keep the whole caballada fenced for a while. That meant he needed plenty of hay. It was grueling work under the blistering sun, but they stayed with it, working their way further and further from the house. During the morning, a vehicle passed on the distant trail. Through his glass, McAllister saw Billington once more driving Helena and her mother. He thought the ladies waved. During the morning he strolled into a motte of trees and, under their cover, took a good look at the man on the ridge through his glass. It was a cowhand, all right, though the distance was too great for him to recognize the man in his prone position. McAllister was very curious about what lay on the far side of that ridge.
Later in the morning when both men were at least a half-mile from the house, McAllister, from behind a low ridge, once more put his glass on the watcher. Or tried to without success—the man was gone.
McAllister whistled shrilly.
Talbot straightened from grass-cutting and turned.
“Their lookout’s gone.”
Talbot did not need any second bidding. He started for his horse. Oscar obeyed the whistle at once and headed for McAllister. Within seconds, both men were in the saddle and racing for the house.
No sooner had they started off than McAllister shouted for Talbot to go ahead.
He cursed himself for a fool and turned back for the loose horses. Maybe that was just what Larned wanted—for him to leave the horses unattended. He whooped around the herd, getting them on the run. The old mare lined out for the corral. Already she knew where home was. The stud started acting the boss and they were on their way. As they neared the house, McAllister thought he heard the thin, slamming report of a rifle above the rattle and roll of the horses’ hooves. Talbot was piling from the saddle and running into the house, his carbine in hand. McAllister spotted a wisp of smoke drifting on the light breeze to the west of the house.
He looked at the he of the land, searching for movement nearer at hand. However, when he found it, it was not close but came from the ridge where the watchers had been stationed. Seven or eight men rode down from the ridge, crossed the flat at a steady run and disappeared into the trees and brush that lined the creek on either hand. An obvious move. Under cover of the creek the men could come within a quarter-mile or less of the house under cover. He had a little time. He led the old bell-mare into the corral and most of the other animals willingly followed her. A few lively geldings tried to duck out for freedom but he caught them at it and drove them back. Within a few minutes he had the whole bunch inside. He tied the saddle-horse to the fence and walked down to the creek. He walked along the creek bed for a hundred paces and waited, the bank at his left shoulder and the water by his right foot.
As they came around the bend in the creek, he shot the first man. The horse seemed to jump as the Henry delivered the bullet and the man was thrown clear and into the water. The water was churned to foam as men tried to get back under cover. Two men came back after a while and caught the wounded man under either arm and bore him out of sight.
My God, McAllister thought, how many men have to get hurt before Larned pulls out?
He worked his way silently to the bend in the creek behind which the men had disappeared. The riders had pulled back a hundred or so paces and were now all dismounted. Two were facing McAllister, the rest seemed to be engaged in a fierce argument.
“Pull out, men,” McAllister shouted, “or we’ll end with a funeral.”
One of the men facing him, stood up, and fired, shouting on the tail-end of the shot: “Your funeral.”
McAllister ducked into cover. He knew the tall man who had fired at him. That was Slim Larkin. The man was a professional. Which meant that at least one of them could shoot. McAllister withdrew from the position, mounted the bank and went forward once more, now concealed by the trees and undergrowth from the men down by the water. As soon as he came to a gap in the green, he fired and quickly backpedalled. Then he lay flat and listened. He heard the men mounting and riding away. He wondered if Larkin had gone with them. He stayed still for a while and then worked his way forward, alert for an instant shot. But he found nobody. He crossed the creek, climbed the far bank, then worked his way to still higher ground. He could hear Talbot firing from the house. Larkin and the rest of the crew, one of them lying on his belly over a horse, were working their way up the ridge. A moment later he watched them disappear.
He walked back to the house and came under fire as he neared it. He climbed in a rear window out of sight of the marksmen and joined Talbot.
They exchanged shots till dark and then the shooting stopped. McAllister put on his moccasins and scouted the trees on the western ridge. He found signs where five men had been, but no sign of the men themselves. He circled a mile into the west and so home without finding any further trace except for their tracks going out.
Talbot said: “If that’s the best they can do …”
McAllister said: “I ain’t foolin’ myself that’s the best they can do. I saw Slim Larkin there. He’s a man who can learn a lesson.”