“There won’t be a next time,” Davies replied angrily. “Take care of him, Pierce.”
Luke dropped his reins and he swung the Sharps rifle upward. He apparently had grown to trust that Morgan, who was usually a pretty calm riding horse. Usually, that is, but not always. Sprout had spent over a month helping me teach that stallion a variety of Kiowa tricks, and the kid was about to get his revenge.
At the sound of my whistle that Morgan started bucking like a Missouri mule sitting on a beehive. The heavy weight of Pierce’s rifle helped throw him backward off the bay, and every horse nearby was either kicked or spooked into a frenzy.
Three riders immediately toppled over sideways, and, as I galloped past, Davies was knocked from his saddle by my outstretched forearm. The chocolate roan reacted to my spurs in a flick, darting forward through the gap created by the stallion’s antics. We raced away with the Morgan in full pursuit, responding to my whistles.
I rode out through the pass, hesitating only long enough to spring the pulleys. As soon as we broke out of the trees, I jumped horses. The
The roan had been a good steady mount and, much to his credit, stayed right up with us the whole way, but I wanted to be riding that Morgan stallion. I knew what he was capable of in a pinch, and with that gang on my tail I was going to need all the lead time I could get. I knew there was no way Davies would hold back now. He would go after the McFarlens and take what he wanted, and there was no one around strong enough to stop him.
I had to reach the ranch in time to warn them. McFarlen needed to prepare for the attack, and I was determined to let him know where the herd was hidden, or die trying.
I was between the horns and the wall. Brett Davies and his bunch were after me, and somewhere ahead was a group of
Chapter Twenty-one
We came galloping through the trees, the stallion snorting like a demon possessed, the roan following right on his tail.
After racing through the gates of the McFarlen place, I fired a warning shot. It was a risky thing to do with nervous ranch hands around to fire back, but I hoped I was moving too fast for anyone to take clean aim.
I hauled rein and the Morgan slid about twenty feet, not stopping until his front hoofs were practically on the front doorstep. As I leaped from the saddle, several of the wranglers came running up from behind with their guns drawn.
I faced a large, bearded man standing on his front porch, cradling a sawed-off double-barreled twelve gauge in his arm.
“McFarlen?” I coughed. He nodded back at me. “There’s not much time to explain. Brett Davies and about fifty of his riders are right behind me and they’re aiming to burn you out. They’re the same ones who rustled your brother-in-law’s herd. Trust me, I was the scout for
McFarlen’s wife appeared in the doorway. She was a small, heavy-set, but attractive lady who I guessed to be in her late forties.
“Ana, git in the house and open the rifle case!” She disappeared inside as McFarlen turned around. He was about to gesture to one of his men, but the cowboy, already thinking ahead, had begun to slam closed the heavy shutters running the length of the house.
Being ex-military, McFarlen had built the ranch house as best he could in order to protect it from attack. Even so, with only eleven men, I knew it would be hard to hold it against a sudden massed assault.
Some of the men were already running through the door and taking positions at window slots that were cut into the shutters. A short stocky Oriental in a leather apron began desperately banging on a dinner chime. He was trying to attract the attention of the other wranglers still out in the far corral, to get them headed back to the big house.
“With that many coming at us, we’ll need to send someone for help,” McFarlen said, looking around desperately.
At precisely that moment a big bore rifle, probably a Sharps, rang out and one of McFarlen’s wranglers was flung forward to the ground, dead before his face ever smacked dirt. Any chance of getting outside help died with him. Other shots ricocheted on both sides of us.
Yanking the Henry from my saddle scabbard, I gave the bay a whack on the rump and wheeled toward the door, barely clearing it as three or four bullets splintered the jamb near my face. After slamming the door shut with my back, I slumped down and took stock of the situation around me.
Counting Mrs. McFarlen who held a Remington rifle in her arms like she knew how to use it, we made a total of thirteen. Some of the men were grabbing rifles out of a long wall rack and handing out boxes of ammunition. The rest had already started shooting back.
McFarlen positioned himself next to the far window. He had laid the shotgun by his side and was shouldering a long Springfield .45–70 Trapdoor rifle. The cabin walls were solid log and seemed strong enough, but we were taking a tremendous barrage of rifle fire. At this rate, it was only a matter of time before the windows and doors would splinter.
Eventually, I feared, Davies would either try to rush us in force or burn us out. I prayed the McFarlens’ outer storeroom had none of the blasting powder usually found on most ranches.
“Is there a cellar exit to the back, or an escape tunnel around here?” I asked hopefully.
McFarlen shook his head. “Never had the chance to finish one. Ever since we got here, I’ve been fighting just to finish the basic framework and to get the corrals put up.” His eyes never left the Springfield’s sights the whole time he spoke.
I managed to pick a rider off with my Henry, but there were plenty more to go around. I thought about our chances. It was hot and the only water available was from an outside well. Even though the house was inaccessible from two sides, we were outnumbered and boxed in.
“I’m open to suggestions!” McFarlen called out, similarly aware of the hopelessness of our predicament.
“Well, we could move back East and take up dairy farming,” I quipped. “I for one would be glad to go with you. You suppose they’ll let us leave here peacefully?”
Just then a large slug burst one of the shutters and took out the windpipe of a cowboy at the far end of the room.
“I doubt it.” McFalen shrugged, chambering another shell. He gestured toward his wife. “I wouldn’t mind this so much but for my Ana. She’s been as fine a wife as any man could hope for, and don’t deserve this.” His sadness, evident as he paused to watch her, was understandable.
She had long black hair worn in a bun on top. It was beginning to gray, but I thought it gave her face more character. Her bluish-gray calico dress was worn but clean, and she had on a full-length apron. Around her neck was an oversize silver crucifix, giving her the appearance of someone who was used to the finer things in life but who was now making do with less.
What I could see of the main room confirmed my suspicion that she kept both herself and her husband’s home as proper as their means allowed. I doubted that she was the type ever to complain, and was sure that, if need be, she would gladly give her life to save her husband. McFarlen was right, she didn’t deserve this.
Their home was pretty well shot up by now and most of us were holding low, unable to take careful aim without exposing ourselves. I made up my mind that I was not going to die on my knees, trapped inside this house.
“Maybe we could take this fight out to them and buy you enough time to slip her out of here,” I suggested.
“You might be able to hide out somewhere in back.”
I looked over as Mrs. McFarlen’s rifle bucked in her arms. “It’s not right for her to go out like this, but, judging by what I see, she won’t leave here without you.”
