excited voices trailed in his wake from the saloon all the way down to the livery barn. The half-breed hostler flashed a brilliant smile at him as he walked back and looked in at his drowsing black horse, sleek and shiny and comfortable, a big flake of fragrant timothy hay still untouched in the worn manger.
“Good fight. I heard about it.”
Caleb was mildly irritated that the news had traveled so quickly. He nodded and ignored the quick look of anticipation. “Saddle my horse and hang the bridle on the saddle horn. Tie him in his stall. I may have to use him in a hurry. Understand?”
The half-breed nodded importantly. He now had a secret that the other loungers would know nothing about.
Caleb turned and walked out of the wide opening of the barn. Somewhere a rifle cracked and Caleb heard the ripping tear of the heavy slug as it plowed its way into the wall beside him. He threw himself backward, ran into the barn again, down the long, dirt-paved aisle between the stalls, past the startled hostler, and out the back end. It was beginning to rain again and a freshet of cool, invigorating air blew into his face, fragrant with the smell of wet, moldy earth and sage.
Caleb’s fringed hunting shirt darkened as the rain fell on it. He stalked slowly, warily around in back of the stores and avoided the rubbish and refuse piles, alive with shiny bluebottle flies, with effortless grace. The Texans were back for blood. He was opposite the Longhorn Saloon when the throbbing rumble of loping horses came to his ears. He stepped around in front of the building he had been using as a screen as a large host of heavily armed men swung up to the hitch rail and dismounted. Two tight-faced men were left to watch the horses and the rest of the riders surged into the saloon. Caleb stepped out into plain sight and both the Texans left with the horses saw him at the same time. One made a slight, bird-like jerk toward his gun and growled. The second man said something in a breathless voice and the first man stopped his dip. Caleb held them both with his cold stare and neither man moved. The speed of the scout’s draw had made a deep impression on the Texan who had been present at the recent killing, and he had stopped the green cowboy just in time.
IV
All of Lodgepole, it seemed, had expected the Texans to return. There was only the gentle whisper of the light drizzle to break the awful silence in the town. Even as far away as Caleb was, he could hear the stentorian roar of a big, deep-chested man in the saloon.
“Ah want the squawman who done shot mah fo’-man an’, b’ Gawd, iffen y’all don’t produce him right naow, I’ll tear this heah li’l dung heap daown aroun’ yuah ears.”
There was the brittle silence again, then Caleb heard the scuffling boots and tinkling spurs as the Texans came through the batwing doors. They were beside their horses before the horse guard pointed at him and yelled in a high, hysterical voice: “Thar he stan’s! Over thar ag’in’ that store. He’s the feller as shot down Powder Hudson.”
The Texans all went into action at the same time. It was a fair certainty that they were letting off pent-up steam, because at least a dozen of them couldn’t have seen the horse guard point to him. Caleb singled out a massive, flashily dressed man with an ex-plosive, blustering face. His gun was clear of its holster before the horse guard had stopped speaking. The big man swore thunderously and filled his hand. Caleb’s shot sent the big pistol flashing back-ward out of his hand, then Caleb disappeared down the slim alley between the two buildings. The Texan roared in rage and pain and leaped on his horse. “Comb th’ town. Teah th’ damned thang daown, but get me thet squawman. Ah’ll give a hunnert dollars gold to th’ cowboy that brings me that
Marshal Holt had heard the firing and was just emerging from his office when a covey of the red-eyed cowboys swung past. One of them turned sideways in the saddle and fired a careless shot at the marshal. With one smooth motion, the marshal’s gun was flaming. The rider went off over backward and his frightened horse ran after the others, stirrups flapping and head high.
All hell broke loose. Lodgepole seemed finally to let go its pent-up emotion. Rifles cracked and pistols roared. The Texans, embattled and savage, shot indiscriminately at anything that moved. Two stray dogs and one saddle horse lay where they had been cut down in the deserted street, not far from the cowboy who had been shot off his horse by Marshal Holt. From the Longhorn Saloon, spiteful pistol fire erupted. The Lodgepole cowmen sought targets with little chance of success. The fight had swirled almost out of range. With a sizzling oath, one of the younger Lodgepole riders darted through the batwing doors while the others watched. They all wanted to get out- side, but feared the consequences of leaving as long as the Texans were loose on the town. The rider ran about fifty feet, when a ragged volley of rifle fire rattled up and down the road. He crumpled in a heap, and the drizzling rain diluted the little pools of blood that formed around his dead body.
Britt wagged his head. “Not that way, boys. It’s murder goin’ out the front. See if they ain’t a back way.”
There was, the bartender showed it to them, and singly and in pairs the Lodgepole men got away from the besieged saloon. With the scattered de-fenders slipping through town, the fight became general. Marshal Holt was very effectively bottled up in his office, however, and his furious oaths rang over the intermittent gunfire. Storming and fuming, the fighting lawman challenged one and all of the malcontents to fight him. All he got in the way of replies was a bouquet of bullets that kept him indoors.
Caleb had scaled the back wall of the general store. He could hear the spurs of the running Texans below him. In the smattering of gunfire, he heard one Texan swear plainly and another laugh. Squirming along, prone, Caleb risked a peek over the edge of the building. One Texan was exploring his rump, which had been grazed by a rifle slug. He had holstered his gun and was alternating between swearing with feeling and groaning. The second cowboy was hunkered low behind a half-filled water barrel. Even as Caleb watched, the man levered his rifle and pumped a shot into the window of Sally Tate’s cafe.
Caleb eased his .44 over the edge of the roof and spoke: “You, there, pull up your britches an’ help your pardner climb up here.”
To say the Texans were startled would be putting it incorrectly. They were dumbfounded. Awkwardly they clambered up to Caleb, who kept them covered. Once on the roof, he ordered them both to lie down, then disarmed and tied them with their own belts. Gags were made from their neckerchiefs and handkerchiefs, and the frontiersman smiled saturninely at them as he dropped off the roof.
Caleb was taking advantage of every foot of cover among the refuse piles and out buildings on his way to the livery stable. The rain was coming down now in a heavy drizzle that was cold in contrast to the former heat. The gun butt was slippery in his hand. Up ahead, two men were backing around the end of a building, and the scout hastily ducked into an out-house until he saw whether they were Lodgepole men or Texans. Unfortunately for Caleb, the out-house turned out to be occupied by another hiding fighter. With an alarmed oath, the man fired his gun as Caleb spun away as far as the tight confines of the building would allow. The bullet scored a thin, hot scratch under Doom’s ribs. He felt it as he fired back and the tiny shack rocked on its hollowed-out foundations. The door fell on its hinges as Caleb’s body went against it and he fell outside in the slippery mud. The two men farther down turned white-faced at the eruption of the two shots. With an oath, one of them fired and missed. The word —“Squawman!”— split the air and Doom rolled as fast as he could in the muck, finally getting to one knee.
The Texans were the brace of horse guards he had seen in front of the saloon. The older one was firing with frantic haste and no attempt at accuracy. Caleb ran as he crouched, his gun spitting fire. The older man went down, and the younger jumped and fled. A rifle crashed behind him and Caleb went down into the mud as he whirled. Standing, spraddle-legged, a Winchester carbine held waist high in both hands, the big, florid-looking Texan levered and fired again. Caleb threw two quick shots at the man, jumped to his feet, and ran zigzag for the dark interior of the livery barn. It was shadowy and dark in-side, but the sour smell of powder smoke rode the atmosphere like a warning.
Jack Britt could hear Marshal Holt cursing in an embittered monologue and a little wry smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Nothing could be quite so annoying to one of the marshal’s fire-eating propensities as to be bottled up inside his own office when a gunfight was going on in town. He hugged the wall of the Lincoln House closer as a rifle flamed off toward the livery stable. There were two muffled pistol shots from behind the barn and down a little way, and Jack wondered who had gotten caught back there. He soon forgot, however, when a Lodge-
