They knew about where Charley Fenwick, the third Chase rider, was waiting with the three horses. They also knew he would be as wary as a fox, and for that reason, when they got two-thirds of the way out there, with those silently swelling high clouds begin-ning to coalesce and blot out more starlight, they split off, one going to the left, one to the right.
It was not hard to skyline the horses even in the deepening gloom, because one of them was gray— someone’s oversight; no night rider in his right mind would ride a gray horse on a dark night, if he did not want to be detected.
Rufe was to the east, to the right of where he and Jud had split up, and, as he started directly westward in the direction of that gray horse and the pair of darker lumpy silhouettes standing with the gray, he palmed his weapon while still holding the Winchester. The range was too close for a carbine. He walked another few yards, halted, dropped to one knee, and for a long while remained that way, separating silhouettes up ahead in an effort to define the one belonging to a man.
Suddenly someone softly called. “Smith? What the hell happened? I don’t see no fire.”
Jud answered, and Rufe thought he was lying prone because his bitter words appeared to rise up from the earth. “You son-of-a-bitch…make one little move and I’ll kill you.”
There was no way to mistake Jud’s earnestness. Rufe waited, but the dim shape ahead of him, facing away, standing a scant foot or two in front of the drowsing horses, took root.
Just to lend support to Jud’s bitter order, Rufe cocked his Colt exactly as he had done before, so that the sound would chill the blood of the man whose back was set squarely to Rufe.
It worked. The silhouette stiffened and froze in place. Rufe called over: “He’s all yours, Jud, if you want to disarm him!”
The cowboy waited until Jud was walking on up, then showed a different temperament from the other two, when he said: “Mister, you’re making one hell of a mistake. Chase’ll bury you on this mesa, and you won’t be the first he’s caught out for helpin’ that damned’breed woman.”
Jud said nothing. He disarmed the man, and, as Rufe walked up, Jud looked at him. “Rufe, this here is Mister Fenwick. Mister Fenwick, I’d admire for you to meet my partner, Rufe Miller. It was his bay horse you killed day before yesterday, and to be right honest with you, Mister Fenwick, I wouldn’t want to be standin’ in your boots right now.”
Rufe studied the range man. Charley Fenwick was a little heavier, just as tall as Rufe, and did not show fear at all when he turned from Jud toward Rufe. “That was your first warning,” he stated. “To-night was to be your second warning. That’s all Arlen Chase gives, two warnings…then he buries you.”
Rufe smiled as he ambled on up. When he swung, Charley Fenwick was looking him squarely in the eye, perhaps aware that trouble was on its way. But Rufe was as swift as a striking snake. His blow grated bone over bone up alongside Charley Fen-wick’s cheek bone, on up past his temple, and into his hair. The hat flopped outward, then fell, and its owner staggered, blinked rapidly, let out a roar of pain and fury, and backed away.
Rufe did not go after him, which was a mistake. The blow had only temporarily stunned Charley Fen-wick, who was a rugged man of iron will and stamina. He swore at Rufe, rolled up his shoulders as he started forward, fists cocked, and, when he was close enough, he launched himself like a muscle-and-bone projectile, which was the standard procedure among barroom brawlers. He also sprung his arms wide, like a bear, obviously intending to lock them around Rufe’s back.
Rufe did not yield an inch of ground. They came together with violent force. Fenwick’s impetus would have compelled a bull elk to give ground. Rufe was braced, legs sprung wide, but he still had to yield a little even as he fired blow after blow into Fenwick’s unprotected middle, and Rufe was one of those desperately lanky, sinewy men who had surprising strength and power.
He did not yield another foot, nor did he seem to be heeding the roars and wild punches of his adversary as he steadily went to work battering away at the heavier man’s soft parts.
Jud was standing to one side, arms folded, grin-ning from ear to ear. He had seen this happen be-fore. Rufe possessed a unique ability; most men who were so lightning fast lacked power. Rufe was very fast,
He had been struck several times, and Fenwick was one of those individuals whose blows, slow in arriving and not accurately sent, were bone bruising when they connected.
Rufe would have mottled flesh on his body for a week after this fight was ended, but right at the moment, when he was landing five-to-one with his adversary, he was conscious of very little actual pain as he concentrated on downing Charley Fenwick.
Then, unexpectedly, Rufe paused, dropped both arms, and jumped clear. Fenwick’s mouth was torn and his lower body was racked with pain. His eyes, partially glazed, still showed the smoke haze of battle, though. He raised a bruised fist to push off the blood from his chin, and waited.
Rufe said: “Jud, give the son-of-a-bitch back his gun.”
Jud’s savage smile froze. “What? What are you talking about?”
“Give him his gun, damn it. This isn’t pay enough for my little bay horse. I’m going to kill him.”
Jud did not move for a while, but eventually he un-crossed his arms and scowled. “He can hardly stand up, Rufe. He ain’t a match for a little old lady, right now.” Jud ambled over, cocked his head at Charley Fenwick, then without warning swung savagely from the buckle. Fenwick’s head went violently backward, his legs turned loose, and Fenwick fell.
Jud did not even turn as he leaned down. “Give me a hand pitching him across one of their horses, and let’s get back to the ranch.”
VII
By the time they got back to the barn and unceremoniously dumped unconscious Charley Fen-wick in the dirt, Rufe was well aware that he had been pummeled by a man whose blows had sledge-hammer power.
Without a word to the chained man propped out front, who watched their arrival with a slack jaw, they yanked loose the rigging from the three Chase horses, turned them into a corral, then prodded the tall youth who had been in possession of the oil-soaked rags up to his feet, and kept prodding until he had crow-hopped the full distance around front— where he saw the dirty, torn, and bloody lump lying a few feet in front of his chained companion. The tall youth sank down beside the other prisoner, round shoulders against the barn’s front wall, staring.
Jud went after a bucket of water while Rufe rolled a smoke, lit up, flexed his aching hands, and completely ignored the prisoners until Jud returned, and hurled the bucket’s full, cold contents upon Charley Fenwick. He was rewarded with a weak spluttering sound, a small fit of coughing, and that was all, so Jud upended the bucket, sat down upon it, and joined Rufe studying their pair of chained captives.
After a while Rufe put forth a question. “You boys think it’s funny as hell, charging by here firing into the buildings, don’t you?”
The lanky youth swallowed hard, and turned to the older rider, but the older man was already wary, so he did not answer, either. The youth looked up at Rufe. “No, sir, it ain’t funny.”
“Then why did you do it?”
“Well…. ”
Jud snorted in disgust. “I never figured Chase, or his men, any different. Anyone who makes war on a woman alone is plumb gutless.” He looked longest at the older cowboy. “We’re goin’ to may be set you loose, one at a time, give you back your guns, then my partner’n me’ll take turns bucking you…hand-guns only.”
The cowboy said: “Wait a minute. Personally I never aimed low. I’d shoot high along the walls. And I never really liked this way of doin’ it. If Chase wanted her out, all he had to do was come right on in some night, tie her up, and send her out of here, belly down, on one of the pack animals.”
“Sure,” agreed Rufe. “Or send you fellers over to burn her out.”
