Spangler's gunnies that found him still on his feet and still breathing; he was alive because sight was forced to travel a straight line. The rim overhung Rafe's placement a good arm's stretch. Even with the burning grass pushing the dark back, the rim's lip concealed him.
'Where is he?' Duke cried testily. Somebody else growled, 'There's his pack horse!' and Spangler said, 'He's down there someplace without he's got wings. We'll cover you, Brill. Go take a look.'
It got quiet again. Then Spangler cursed. 'Your feet froze, Brill, or is it jest your hearin'?'
'You think he's under that goddamn horse?'
'Send the Paiute.' That was Duke, brave as hell.
'All right, White-eye.' There was a shifting of feet, but nothing came of it. 'Your guts turned to fiddle strings, too?'
Spangler sounded like he was about fed up, but the breed, apparently, didn't want any part of it. With the grass burnt out the dark looked thicker than a buffalo coat. Spangler's voice, edged with fury, came impatiently through it. 'Duke, take Fentriss an' go round the other way. There's enough brush down there—'
'Not me,' Duke snarled. 'Who the hell you think you're talkin' to!'
You could feel the silence like a hand pushing at you. Then saddle leather skreaked, a horse moved off, and Rafe reckoned Spangler had gone himself. This did not greatly ease his tension or noticeably improve the look of his chances. Spangler, when he got into the gulch, would fire the brush, lighting up this trail like a barn afire. If Spangler couldn't see him—knowing Rafe couldn't watch two ways at once—one of those still up there with Duke likely could be induced to come down from above; or they might rush him. Rafe certain sure wouldn't want to wait for that.
Question was should he go up or down?
Below he might run into the range boss, above he would face a storm of lead. They must see this, too, and would expect him if he ran to try to get through below. No one but a wall-eyed drunk could hope to get by that bunch around Duke.
But if he tried to get back down into the roughs he was pretty near bound to be heard. With so much angry lead slashing around it was hard to see how all of it could miss him—and what about Spangler? A crack shot, probably, and knowing this range as Rafe never could. Looked like damned if he did and hell if he didn't.
Scowling, Rafe got out of his boots, removed their spurs and pushed them deep into his pockets. Looping the boots through his belt by their pull-straps he rebuckled it around him in such a manner the boots were held against his rump where they weren't so apt to go knocking into things. He looked again, long and wistful, in the direction his skewbald mare had bolted. Finally, clamping his jaws, he began gingerly picking his way toward the rim.
The cold shale-littered trail was hard on his feet. The quiet up on top where the crew stood waiting was even harder to endure, so greatly did the peril of discovery restrict each tentative impulse toward movement; and the strain got worse with every step put behind him.
He breathed a little freer when a murmured altercation briefly flared, but Duke's angry tones swiftly broke this up, Rafe having gained scarcely more than two yards. He still had about three more to go, and time was running out. If Spangler got his fire started before Rafe could manage to get over the lip, that old sweet chariot was going to swing low.
This was not a particularly comforting thought.
For close-in fighting—and it would be that kind if he had any chance at all—Rafe would have much preferred to depend on his belt gun. He found it awkward to be toting a weapon in each fist, and he damn sure wasn't about to throw away that carbine. He stuck the pistol into the front of his pants and then, bent double, put another yard behind him.
It was slow, sweaty work and any moment, he thought bitterly, that cold-jawed Spangler might get into the gulch and touch off the brush. Or one of them muttering pukes up above might take it into his nut to look over. Even if the guy couldn't see him he would have to be deaf, if he come that close, not to know somebody was moving right under him.
But nobody looked. There was no sound of boots. The Bender crew, evidently, was too indifferent, too lazy or too cautious to move out of their tracks. Weren't muttering now, either. Rafe, straining his ears till he thought they'd snap off, couldn't hear a dang thing; and his back was killing him.
He eased down on his knees, nerves screwed so tight they was like piano wires. He put down his saddle gun to flex cramped fingers and rub the damp off them. The rim was so near he could pretty near touch it; about a yard to go. He got to chewing his lip, trying to figure which was like to hold the most chance—to bust right on into them or try to wriggle through.
He was still on his knees, trying to make up his mind, when the black loom of the cliff face dissolved into flickering shadows.
Rafe didn't wait for any leaden translations. Scooping up his carbine, he surged to his feet and scrambled over the rim in one wild leap. He was among them before Spangler's hardcases got hold of their wits enough to know what was happening.
They were all afoot. The meaty impact of Rafe's carbine dropped one like a bursted sack, sent a second man staggering; then, like a swarm of hornets, they were all over him, swinging and swearing, clawing like wildcats to get him down. There wasn't enough room now to club with his carbine; Rafe smashed the butt of it into somebody's face, brought up his knee into the groin of another. This thinned them a little. Then someone leaped on his back, almost knocking him down. A hand reached and tore at his neck, and somebody's shoulder caught him hard in the chest. Gasping, he got all his strength together, bracing his feet, and whirled, the flying legs of the man on his back clearing a path. The man's strangling grip broke loose and he was gone.
But so was most of Rafe's strength. His knees began to wabble. Fists beat against his back and he reeled through a kind of red fog sprung from nausea. Blows seemed to rain on him from every direction. The carbine was torn from his hands. There was the warm slippery taste of salt in his mouth, and he knew this was blood; and in the brightening glare from the roaring brush he saw their hate-twisted faces and their hands closing in again.
He got the six-shooter out of the waistband of his pants and slashed its barrel across the nearest face, laying it open from jaw to ear. The flames threw back the lifting wink of metal in several other fists but, with so many of their fellows in such close proximity, no one it seemed wanted to fire the first shot. Rafe, on his knees, had no such scruples. His pistol barked and somebody yelled; he fired again and a man, twisted half around, went down with both hands clapped to his neck. Another gun went off, another man collapsed. Rafe, lunging up, dived into the
