saddle reading sign, seeing how many different horses had ridden by here. Probably weren’t good at sign. And they were sure of themselves. They knew how to do this, and Redmond didn’t. They’d probably spent a lifetime scaring clodhoppers.
And suddenly Redmond moved. He turned and ran around the wagon as if his knees wouldn’t bend. He looked again at the Winchester under the wagon seat. But he didn’t touch it. Probably scared to start trouble.
The riders came to a halt in front of him and ranged out in a single row of six. One of them, probably the squad leader, spoke to Redmond.
“What are you doing?” he said.
Redmond stared at him for a moment. The squad leader was tall and narrow, with sloping shoulders and a big hawkish nose.
“It’s my land,” he finally said.
Redmond’s voice was hoarse.
“You think so,” the squad leader said.
Redmond nodded. The squad leader took a big revolver out of his holster and held it easily by his side.
“What do you think,” the squad leader said, “’bout being buried on it.”
Redmond’s voice was squeaky.
“I don’t…” He started and didn’t finish.
He looked at the cottonwoods, where he knew I was.
“Say good-bye to it, pig farmer,” the squad leader said.
On the hill, Virgil Cole’s horse stepped out from behind the rocks with Virgil sitting in the saddle. The horse stopped. Virgil drew and fired in the easy, liquid way he had and shot the squad leader between the shoulder blades. The squad leader pitched forward and draped over his horse’s neck. The gun fell from his hand. The horse seemed disinterested. From behind the next hill down from Redmond, Cato and Rose came, pushing their horses hard, bent low over their horses’ necks. I took out the eight-gauge and pushed my horse out of the trees, through the shallow stream, and came at the squad’s right flank on a gallop. Virgil came somewhat more sedately down his hill and shot at least one more as he came. Redmond yanked the Winchester from under the wagon seat and dropped to the ground behind the wagon. I cut loose with the eight-gauge. It is not easy to shoot from a moving horse. But if you’re going to do it, an eight-gauge is the thing to do it with. The rider nearest me had his gun out and was turning toward me when the pellets hit him, about everywhere, and knocked him backward off his horse. The horse scrambled away from him as he fell, and then stopped and stood.
It was over very quick. Four of the deputies were on the ground by the time all of us reached the wagon. The other two were retreating at a gallop. One of the men on the ground was still moving in spasms. Cato rode over and from his horse shot the deputy in the head.
“Hate to see him suffer,” Cato said.
“You want to ride the other two down?” Rose said.
The two runners were already over the second hill.
“Nope,” Virgil said.
Redmond crawled out from under the wagon.
“I shot one,” he said. “I think I shot one.”
Virgil and I looked at each other.
“What?” Redmond said.
Virgil shook his head.
“Sort of ain’t considered, ah, sportin’,” Frank Rose said to him. “Counting up who shot who.”
“Like counting your money,” I said, “while you’re playing poker.”
“Why not?” Redmond said. “I don’t get it.”
Virgil looked at him briefly.
“No,” Virgil said, “you don’t.”
He turned his horse and began to ride north toward the lumber camp. Redmond stared after him.
“He’s just leavin’?” Redmond said. “Like that?”
Cato and Rose followed Virgil.
“Done what he came to do,” I said. “Hitch them mules up.”
“They’re all leavin’,” Redmond said.
“I rode out here with you,” I said. “I’ll ride back with you.”
“But they musta heard the shooting in Resolution,” Redmond said. “Won’t they be riding out here?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Take ’em a while to figure out it wasn’t them shootin’ you,” I said. “And when they do, they’ll stay where they are.”
“Stay in town?”
“Yep.”
“Why?”
“Odds are shrinking,” I said. “They’ll stay in town, protect themselves and Wolfson.”
“They won’t be coming after us?”
“Nope.”
Redmond was harnessing the mules.
“Jesus Christ,” he said. “It’s like they ain’t chasin’ us. It’s like now we’re chasin’ them.”
“Sorta like that,” I said.
70.
Frank Rose had liberated several bottles of whiskey from the Excelsior Saloon when he left. He and Cato and Virgil and I took one of them to our spot behind the rocks and passed it around.
“Redmond’s down there telling anybody he can get to hold still,” Rose said, “’bout the big battle out on his land.”
“His first time,” Virgil said.
“Think he actually fired that Winchester?” I said.
Nobody knew.
Above us the moon had waned into something a little more than half. There were a lot of stars, and we could see one another easily. I took some whiskey.
“So they’re down there hunkered behind their fucking barricades,” I said. “And we’re up here hunkerin’ behind ours.”
“And running low on food,” Rose said.
“Guess we got to go down and get them,” Virgil said.
Cato nodded and reached for the bottle.
“Think we should,” he said.
He drank, handed the bottle to Virgil, who drank.
“There’s still twelve of ’em by my count,” I said.
“Thirteen,” Rose said, “if Wolfson will fight.”
“Maybe we should keep sniping them off for a while longer, ” I said.
“Nope,” Virgil said. “They ain’t comin’ out. And I wanna go to Texas.”
“So we gotta go in,” I said.
“Yep.”
Nobody said anything. The bottle passed around some more. From the lumber camp we could hear an occasional domestic sound. Cook pot clattering. Children yelling.
“Think Redmond learned anything today?” I said.
“Nope,” Virgil said.
