He hadn’t thought of that.
“Sí, sí. T’at Peery an’ hees hombres. T’ey seguir—mucho rapidez!”
“Any of your men left, besides you and this other?”
“No! Ningún!”
“Suppose you build as much fire as you can out here in front while I’m stopping this egg’s bleeding, Milk River.”
The lad looked disappointed.
“Ain’t we going to bushwack them waddies none?”
“Not unless we have to.”
By the time I had put a couple of tourniquets on the Mexican, Milk River had a roaring fire lighting the buildings and most of the saucer in which they sat. I had intended stowing ’Nacio and Milk River indoors, in case I couldn’t make Peery talk sense. But there wasn’t time. I had just started to explain my plan to Milk River when Peery’s bass voice came from outside the ring of light.
“Put ’em up, everybody!”
XIV
“Easy!” I cautioned Milk River, and stood up. But I didn’t raise my hands.
“The excitement’s over,” I called. “Come on down.”
Ten minutes passed. Peery rode into the light. His square-jawed face was grime-streaked and grim. His horse was muddy lather all over. His guns were in his hands.
Behind him rode Dunne—as dirty, as grim, as ready with his firearms.
Nobody followed Dunne. The others were spread around us in the darkness, then.
Peery leaned over his pony’s head to look at Big ’Nacio, who was lying breathlessly still on the ground.
“Dead?”
“No—a slug through hand and leg. I’ve got some of his friends under lock and key indoors.”
Mad red rims showed around Peery’s eyes in the firelight.
“You can keep the others,” he said harshly. “This hombre will do us.”
I didn’t misunderstand him.
“I’m keeping all of them.”
“I ain’t got a damned bit of confidence in you,” Peery growled down at me. “You ain’t done nothing since you been here, and it ain’t likely you ever will. I’m making sure that this Big ’Nacio’s riding stops right here. I’m taking care of him myself.”
“Nothing stirring!”
“How you figuring on keeping me from taking him?” he laughed viciously at me. “You don’t think me and Irish are alone, do you? If you don’t believe you’re corralled, make a play!”
I believed him, but—
“That doesn’t make any difference. If I were a grub-line rider, or a desert rat, or any lone guy with no connections, you’d rub me out quick enough. But I’m not, and you know I’m not. I’m counting on that. You’ve got to kill me to take ’Nacio. That’s flat! I don’t think you want him bad enough to go that far. Right or wrong, I’m playing it that way.”
He stared at me for a while. Then his knees urged his horse toward the Mexican, ’Nacio sat up and began pleading with me to save him.
Slowly I raised my right hand to my shoulder-holstered gun.
“Drop it!” Peery ordered, both his guns close to my head.
I grinned at him, took my gun out slowly, slowly turned it until it was level between his two.
We held that pose long enough to work up a good sweat apiece. It wasn’t restful!
A queer light flickered in his red-rimmed eyes.
I didn’t guess what was coming until too late.
His left-hand gun swung away from me—exploded.
A hole opened in the top of Big ’Nacio’s head. He pitched over on his side.
The grinning Milk River shot Peery out of the saddle.
I was under Peery’s right-hand gun when it went off. I was scrambling under his rearing horse’s feet.
Dunne’s revolvers coughed.
“Inside!” I yelled to Milk River, and put two bullets into Dunne’s pony.
Rifle bullets sang every which way across, around, under, over us.
Inside the lighted doorway Milk River hugged the floor, spouting fire and lead from both hands.
Dunne’s horse was down. Dunne got up—caught both hands to his face—went down beside his horse.
Milk River turned off the fireworks long enough for me to dash over him into the house.
While I smashed the lamp chimney, blew out the flame, he slammed the door.
Bullets made music on door and wall.
“Did I do right, shooting that jigger?” Milk River asked.
“Good work!” I lied.
There was no use bellyaching over what was done, but I hadn’t wanted Peery dead. Dunne’s death was unnecessary, too. The proper place for guns is after talk has failed, and I hadn’t run out of words by any means when this brown-skinned lad had gone into action.
The bullets stopped punching holes in our door.
“The boys have got their heads together,” Milk River guessed. “They can’t have a hell of a lot of caps left if they’ve been snapping them at ’Nacio since early morning.”
I found a white handkerchief in my pocket and began stuffing one corner in a rifle muzzle.
“What’s for that?” Milk River asked.
“Talk.” I moved to the door. “And you’re to hold your hand until I’m through.”
“I never seen such a hombre for making talk,” he complained.
I opened the door a cautious crack. Nothing happened. I eased the rifle through the crack and waved it in the light of the still burning fire. Nothing happened. I opened the door and stepped out.
“Send somebody down to talk!” I yelled at the outer darkness.
A voice I didn’t recognize cursed bitterly, and began a threat:
“We’ll give yuh—”
It broke off in silence.
Metal glinted off to one side.
Buck Small, his bulging eyes dark-circled, a smear of blood on one cheek, came into the light.
“What are you people figuring on doing?” I asked.
He looked sullenly at me.
“We’re figurin’ on gettin’ that Milk River party. We ain’t got nothin’ against you. You’re doin’ what you’re paid to do. But Milk River hadn’t ought of killed Peery!”
Milk River bounced stiff-legged out of the door.
“Any time you want any part of me, you pop-eyed this-and-that, all you got to do is name it!”
Small’s hands curved toward his holstered guns.
“Cut it!” I growled at Milk River, getting in front of him, pushing him back to the door. “I’ve got work to do. I can’t waste time watching you boys cut up. This is no
