Longarm stood up, yawned, and walked to the door. The figure of Hawkins was a mere dot in the distance as he traveled toward the northwest. He turned back into the room. He said, “I guess I’d better think about getting ready to go.” He found the bottle of whiskey where he had left it in the kitchen and poured himself a half a glass. He put some water in it to make it last longer and then began sipping.
Mr. Goodman looked at him curiously. He said, “You pretty fond of that stuff, Marshal.”
Longarm shook his head. He said, “No, I drink it under doctor’s orders.”
“Doctor’s orders? What doctor ordered you to drink whiskey?”
Longarm said, “I never got his name. He was shaking so bad, with me pointing a gun at him, that he could barely write out the instructions of how much whiskey I was supposed to drink every day.”
They all laughed, though not very loud. They were all nervous and worried.
Tom Hunter stood up from the table. He had strapped on a gun belt with a revolver in a deep holster. He was obviously no gunman. He said, “Marshal, don’t you reckon it might be a good idea if I went with you to try and stop Myers? I can guarantee you he ain’t coming by himself. You’ll have two, three, maybe more to deal with. You might could use some help.”
Longarm shook his head. “I’m sure you’re a good and capable man, Tom. I’m sure you’re a very capable man at a lot of things, but this is the kind of business I’ve had a lot of experience in. Hawkins, bless his soul, might be in the middle of that bunch, and I’d rather it just be me doing the shooting. Nothing said against you, understand?”
“I catch your drift, and you’re probably right.”
“Beside that,” Longarm said. “If they get through me, there’s an excellent chance they might make straight for here. If that’s the case, you’re going to need all the guns you can muster. So I think it’s better if you stay here, Tom, as well as young Rufus and Mr. Goodman.”
He looked over at the young man. He said, “My horse ready, Rufus?”
“Yes, sir. He’s as ready as he’s going to get.”
Longarm got out his watch and looked at it. He said, “Then I reckon it’s time for me to be starting. Do we have a canteen handy? It might get a little warm out there, waiting.”
Rufus said, “I’ve already hung one on your saddle horn, Marshal. It ain’t but a gallon canteen, but it ought to do ya. Do you want to take along any grub?”
Longarm said, “I don’t reckon this is the kind of job that a man needs to take along his lunch. This ought to be over pretty quick. Well, I’ll be going now.” He gave them a nod and walked out the front door. He could feel the others coming out behind him. Without looking back, he mounted his roan gelding and reined him around toward the northwest.
Behind him, Tom Hunter said, “You’ll see Rocky Hill pretty quick after you go over a rise and down a valley and then up another rise. You can’t miss it. Then it’s about a mile on past that to that butte where you’ll be taking up your position.”
Longarm looked around at them. He said, “Keep our guest happy, and I’ll see if I can’t bring us in another boarder.” They mumbled and nodded and shuffled their feet and gave him a wave as he put the spurs to the roan and left at a high lope.
The butte was almost ideal for Longarm’s purposes. He was able to hide his horse behind a little rocky outcropping that was almost like a cave. He could peer around a ledge and have a clear view to the northwest toward the Myerses’ ranch where he hoped Jake Myers and George Hawkins would be coming from and coming soon. His watch said one o’clock and he was starting to worry. They should have been in sight.
He sat in the shade at the feet of his horse and took a little nip of whiskey and smoked a cigarillo. There was no one in sight to spot the slight trail of smoke that was drifting upward. He could only hope that Hawkins and the note were bait enough to fetch the big fish out of his little pond. Every ten minutes or so, he glanced around the ledge, hoping to see something. There was nothing the first several times he looked.
Finally, at one thirty, he was able to distinguish a group of black dots coming from the proper direction and heading his way. He took one more swallow of whiskey and put it back in his saddlebag, buckled it shut, and then took a drink of water out of the canteen. It had become lukewarm in the afternoon sunshine, but it was wet. He looked again. The dots were much closer, and there were more of them than he had hoped there would be. They had not come close enough yet for him to take a count, but he knew with a sinking heart that there were more than two or three. This, he thought, was going to be tougher than he expected.
He put a boot in his stirrup and mounted his horse, pulling him back farther behind the ledge. He took off his hat and peered around the edge of the rock. Now the riders were only a half mile to a mile off. As best he could, he could count six and there might have even been a seventh. He couldn’t tell who they were. Longarm wouldn’t have known Jake Myers if they had been in a poker game together, but he felt certain he would recognize the easy riding style of Hawkins.
Longarm got ready by tying a knot in his reins and dropping them behind the saddle horn. It appeared it would be a two-hand job, and he’d have to guide his pony with his knees. The horse had been well trained and he had no doubt that it would work out like that.
He took one last look and saw that the riders were only three or four hundred yards off. Now, he could see them clearly. Up front and in the middle was a big, heavyset man wearing a white Stetson hat and a gray beard. He was plump and heavy and looked to be at least sixty years old. Longarm had little doubt that the man was Jake Myers. Then he saw George Hawkins, riding a little behind and to the right of Myers. His heart sank as he counted the outriders. There were five of them, five gunmen. He was certain of that. Well, this was going to take some doing, he thought. He guessed that it might scare Hawkins a little more than Hawkins cared to be scared, but he didn’t know how else to go about it. He got his Winchester up out of the boot and got set, pulling back slightly on the reins to let the horse know that they were fixing to do something. He listened rather than looked. He could hear the hoofbeats of the horses going at a fast trot as they neared and then as they passed.
As they passed, he swung his horse out and put the spurs to him and circled the rock to his left, keeping on around the butte until he was in behind the party. He was some hundred or hundred and fifty yards behind them, but he didn’t care. It was going to be difficult shooting, but he thought he could manage it. He lifted his horse up into a slow gallop and raised up in his stirrups and threw the Winchester to his shoulder. He hated to shoot horses, but he didn’t know any other way outside of shooting the men in the back, and he wasn’t going to do that. What he hoped to do was burn the horses with a shot across the rump, enough to either cripple them temporarily or cause them to buck and change direction, perhaps throwing their riders.
