New Folks' Home: And Other Stories

  A step sounded in the corridor outside and Cornish spun around to face the door.

  Squint Douglas stood just inside the room, feet spread, hand poised above his gun.

  “So,” he said, and the drawn out word was a challenge and a shout of triumph.

  Cornish jerked back his hand until his fingers touched the grip of the Colt that Steve had loaned him.

  For a long moment the two men stood facing one another, each unmoving, eyes narrowed against the light, waiting for the slightest move to send them into action.

  “All right, Squint,” said Cornish. “Go ahead and make your play.”

  Squint stood as if rooted to the floor, like a man suddenly stricken into stone.

  “You’re just a yellow rat,” Cornish snarled. “Yellow to the core. You’d hang me when I didn’t have a chance. You’d tackle me when you had a couple of men to help you. But you won’t shoot it out when the breaks are even.”

  The twisted grin that twitched at Squint’s ugly face warned Cornish even before he heard the step behind him and he instinctively jerked his body to one side. The whizzing cane missed his head by a fraction of an inch, slammed into his shoulder so hard that he buckled at the knees.

  Through pain-dazed eyes, Cornish saw Squint’s gun coming out of leather, saw the leer of triumph that spread across his face. Knocked off balance by the blow from Armstrong’s cane, Cornish clawed desperately for the Colt hanging at his hip, found it even as the blast from Squint’s gun filled the room to bursting with a monstrous clap of thunder.

  The bullet brushed Cornish’s cheek, slammed into a bedpost behind him, breaking out a shower of splinters.

  Squint’s gun crashed again and Cornish felt the sting of lead slash across his ribs, heard the bullet smash into the mirror that hung upon the wall.

  Then his own gun was tilting in his hand and his finger was closing on the trigger. The run roared and slammed against his wrist and Cornish knew he would not have to shoot again.

  In the doorway, Squint stood with a blue hole in his forehead, stood for an instant before he toppled forward, dead.

  Cornish straightened from his crouch, stood looking at Armstrong through the stinging powder smoke that befogged the room.

  Armstrong’s pale lips moved thinly. “You killed him!”

  Cornish snarled back, motioned with his gun toward Squint’s lifeless body on the floor.

  “That’s what I was trying to tell you, Armstrong. That is what I meant. The Tumbling K had better not try to stop me selling wire.”

  Cornish moved toward the door, gun dangling in his hand. He stepped across Squint, but turned before he left.

  “Next time,” he told Armstrong, “when two men shoot it out don’t go mixing in with that cane of yours.”

  A crowd had gathered in the lobby downstairs and Cornish halted on the stairs, looking at the faces that stared up at him. Blank faces—some of them the faces of the men who had refused to drink at the Longhorn bar when Steve had set them up.

  “I just killed Squint,” said Cornish, almost conversationally. “Anyone know of anything they’d like to do about it?”

  None of them did, apparently. They parted and made a lane for him and he walked out onto the porch, crossed the sidewalk, vaulted to the saddle, went pounding down the street.

  The wagon stood in front of the Hays’ place at the south end of Cottonwood valley and Steve was lounging against one wheel when Cornish rode up.

  “You look all out of breath,” said Steve.

  Cornish didn’t answer, jerked his thumb toward the house.

  “How about it?”

  “Doc says we got to take old Bert to town where he can keep a close watch on him. We’ll fix up a bed inside the wagon and have to travel slow.”

  “Look,” said Cornish, “I got into a brush with Squint, had to shoot him.”

  “Dead, I hope,” said Steve.

  Cornish nodded. “The fat’s really in the fire, Steve. Do you want to stick with me?”

  “Ain’t got another blessed thing to do,” said Steve. “Look at that there wheat field. Cows plumb spoiled it. Makes you hot inside just to think of it.”

  “Soon as you get to town,” said Cornish, “get the barb wire I got stored in the railroad warehouse. I got enough to throw across the valley and stop those cows. Then come back as fast as you can. Head for the Narrows. Know where they are?”

  Steve nodded. “East place to string a fence. Not more’n half a mile and trees you can use for posts.”

  “That’s the idea. And another thing. Can I keep your gun awhile? Had to leave so quick I couldn’t get my own.”

  “Sure,” said Steve. “Joe’s got lots of them. Damnest preacher ever I see. Got a bottle cached out and an arsenal of guns. Always figured preachers were downright peaceable.”

  Cornish swung his horse around, headed for the valley.

  Looking back, he saw Molly Hays standing in the doorway, watching after him.

  Chapter Four

  Stop Titus!

  Cornish squatted on his heels in the shade of a tree and rolled himself a smoke. Far below lay the valley of the Cottonwood, a burnished strip of green that ran between ochre-yellow hills. And spread across the valley, in a straggling line, thin in some places, bunched and fat in others, was the Tumbling K herd.

  Cornish struck the match against his thumbnail and lighted the smoke.

  Smart, he told himself. Smart as wolves. Letting the cattle move up the valley slowly, not pushing things too hard, not forcing a quick decision. Giving the nesters plenty of time to think it over, time to figure out what a range war meant. Let one family pile its possessions on a wagon and start moving out and the whole valley would follow, one by one, realizing that a divided force could not stand against the ranchers’ march.

  Smart and cold-blooded.

  Smoking quietly, he considered. The cattle would not reach the Narrows before dark, moving at the rate they were. That gave him time to string the wire under the cover of darkness, to talk the nesters over to the possibility of defending those thin strands of steel—a chance to make them see that wire gave them a chance to make a stand, to break the Tumbling K.

  Carefully he crushed out the cigarette, remounted the horse and moved along the hills.

  The sun had started down the western slope of the sky when he reached the Narrows, where the valley narrowed to a half mile throat between hundred foot bluffs cut by deep ravines gashing down to the valley floor. Sparse clumps of trees ran across the valley and for a moment, sitting his horse, he mapped out the fence line mentally, sketching it from tree to tree.

  He clucked to the horse and started down one of the gullies that led into the valley.

  A mile above the Narrows lay the Russell place and as he rode toward it, Cornish saw that at least a dozen horses stood slack hipped in front of the cabin, while men sat about on the doorstep and other perched on the corral fence.

  They watched him silently as he rode up, none of them offering greeting.

  “Howdy, men,” he said.

  They stared back stolidly, almost angrily.

  John Russell rose slowly from the doorstep, advanced a few paces toward him.

  “Cornish,” he said, gruffly, “you’re not wanted here.”

  “Still scared?” asked Cornish, softly.

  Russell bristled. “Not scared. Just sensible. What’s the use of fighting when the Tumbling K will buy us out.”

  “Buy you out?”

  “Sure, we talked with Titus. He made us an offer.”

  “You’re wrong,” Cornish declared. “They aren’t buying you out, they’re buying you off. Paying you nuisance money to get rid of you without too much trouble.”

  “We’re taking it,” snapped Russell. “We’re selling out!”

  “So you’re moving on,” said C
ornish. “You’re licked and moving on. You’ll look for a place as good as this and you may never find it. You’ll live out of a wagon and you’ll be without a home. You’ll go back to being wagon men again.”

  A great black-bearded man stepped up alongside Russell, face sullen and angry.

  “What would you have us do?” he asked and a threat ran through his words.

  “I’m offering you a way to stop the Tumbling K,” said Cornish. “I’m bringing out a load of wire. String it across the Narrows and stand back of it with guns. Serve notice on the Tumbling K that any man or critter that touches that wire is fair game.”

  “And you’ll grab a gun and stand there with us?” asked Russell, almost sarcastically.

  “Damn right I will!” Cornish snapped out.

  The black-bearded man slowly shook his head.

  “Ain’t no good,” he said.

  “Billings,” demanded Cornish, “can you think of a better way?”

  Russell’s hand dipped down deliberately, hauled out the six-gun that he wore.

  “Get going, Cornish,” he said, “before I let you have it. We don’t want to see any more of you or your damned barb wire. If it hadn’t been for your barb wire talk we’d kept on peaceable. It was you that go the mess stirred up.”

  Cornish flicked his eyes from face to face, read the same answer in all of them. Slowly, he wheeled the horse about and rode away, back toward the Narrows.

  So this is the end of it, he thought. What was the use of trying to fight when the men you fought for didn’t want to fight—when all they wanted to do was run off with their tails between their legs.

  He could well understand their not wanting to fight, not wanting to subject their families to the terrors of range war—the burning cabin and the gutted buildings, the flaming haystacks and the swift shot in the dark, the man coming home draped across the saddle.

  But there had to be a time when men would fight. There had to be something that was worth fighting for. And the valley of the Cottonwood, he told himself, must be one of those things, one of those principles, one of those rights for which men always had been willing to haul out their guns.

  The horse climbed slowly up the gully that led to the heights above the Narrows. Cornish, slumped in the saddle, thinking, rocked with the horse’s careful pace along the rocky slope.

  At first the sound meant nothing—a sharp, short pinging sound that was dimmed by distance—just another sound with the shrill singing of the insects in cliff-side bushes, the chatter of a squirrel down among the cedars.

  Then it came again and he jerked erect.

  A shot!

  The sound came again, the sharp, spiteful spitting of a high power rifle—and on its heels the crash of whipping six-guns.

  Cornish yelled at the horse and the animal plunged up the trail, sending a shower of pebbles rattling down the gully.

  The guns were an empty rattle in the wind as Cornish topped the bluffs and the horse lengthened out into a racing gallop.

  A mile beyond, as they topped a ridge, Cornish saw the wagon, saw the riders who raced beside it with their smoking six-guns.

  Joe Wicks stood in the wagon’s front, beard flying in the wind, whip lashing at the crowbait team. The tattered canvas looked like shredded sails, jerking on the bows set in the wagon’s bed and the team was running like scared rabbits.

  The wheels hit a hidden rock and the wagon lurched, sailed for a good six feet with all four wheels off the ground, struck the ground and bounced soggily. The team kept on running as Joe Wicks yelled and shrieked.

  Crouched beside Wicks, smoking rifle leveled, squatted Steve. Beside Steve was another figure—gingham and golden hair, and as Cornish watched in frozen wonder the girl raised a gun and fired.

  The horse was plunging down the slope and Cornish yelled—a savage yell jerked from the bottom of his lungs.

  Ahead of him the six-guns yammered as the riders rushed the wagon and the two rifles talked back huskily. One of the bows holding up the canvas buckled, hit and splintered by a bullet.

  Cornish stiffened himself in the saddle, brought up his gun and fired.

  Splinters flew from the wagon box and a bullet, glancing off a tire, whined its way into the sky.

  The rifles crashed with a steady tempo and powder-smoke swirled like a crazy cloud above the bouncing wagon.

  Out ahead of him, Cornish saw a horse going down, its rider flying above its head. The man struck the ground and rolled like a rubber ball, then he was on his feet again, clutching for his second gun. A rifle hammered and the man went over, as if a mighty fist had struck him and slammed him back into the earth.

  Suddenly the two remaining horsemen wheeled about, frightened horses fighting at the bits. Cornish gritted his teeth, fired his last shot. One of the horses reared, feet pawing empty air, then tumbled screaming to the ground as its hind legs gave way beneath it.

  The wagon thundered past, screeching and groaning, while Steve and Molly Hays crouched with silent guns.

  Fumbling, swearing to himself, Cornish spilled cartridges with clumsy fingers reloading on the run.

  The man whose horse had fallen was up and running for a cedar brake. The other rider had wheeled about, was waiting with lifted gun, his horse dancing sidewise with mincing steps. A great, tall man, angular and powerful, who sat the saddle with an easy grace.

  Titus! He was waiting there on his mincing horse and with his gun all ready. For fists had failed and a rope had failed—and now it was the gun.

  Rage steeled Cornish as he raised his gun, tried to hold it true against the motion of his horse. And even as he raised it, Titus’ arm came down in a slow, smooth sweep and his gun spat fire.

  The bullet whistled past Cornish’s head with a dull and wicked hum and the gun winked again. Cornish’s horse jumped, stung by the lead that raked along its withers and slammed with a drilling whistle into the stirrup leather, flicking Cornish’s boot.

  Close, now, thought Cornish. Almost too close to miss. Titus’ gun flamed anew and Cornish worked the trigger. The blasts came almost as one and as the sound exploded in his ears, Cornish felt himself flying from the saddle of the racing horse.

  Dully he felt the impact of his body striking ground, he felt himself descending into a roaring pit that was filled with flame that seemed to have no heat, but was a howling maelstrom of red, then winked into black ash.

  Out of the silence came a sharp whiplash of sound. Cornish stirred, felt the life running back into his body, smelled the grass and earth, knew the warmth of the westering sun shining on his back.

  The sound came again, the rasping crack of a distant rifle. Then another sound, nearer at hand, the rolling chortle of a churning six-gun.

  Cornish was lying on his face and now he tried to roll over. The pain, which before that had been a dull, throbbing ache he scarcely noticed, mounted to a screaming thing. Cornish gasped and fell back on his face again, lay quivering to the pounding agony that thundered in his left shoulder.

  For the first time he became conscious of the gun still clutched in his right hand—his grip must have frozen to it when Titus had shot him. He twisted his head to one side and moved his right hand up into the range of vision. He tilted his wrist to see that the muzzle was clear and not clogged by earth.

  The rifle spanged and down the hillside Cornish saw the instinctive, nervous crouch of a man squatting behind a clump of cedars.

  The man was not Titus. He was dumpy and broad, whereas Titus was gaunt and angular. It must be, he reasoned, the man whose horse he’d shot. The fellow, he remembered, had run for the cedar brake.

  The rifle talked again and Cornish saw the cedars jerk and shake to the passage of the bullet that thudded into the hillside above the man in a shower of torn-up sod. The rifleman, whoever it was, knew where the man was hiding, probably was deliberately shooting to cover
every angle of the hideout.

  The man huddled tighter against the ground and again the cedars jerked as another bullet tore its way through the shield of green.

  There was no sign of Titus. Yet Titus had to be there. Perhaps crouching behind some bush, hidden in some hollow, waiting for a chance at the hidden rifleman who had to be one of the three who had been riding in the barb wire-laden wagon.

  Carefully, Cornish twisted his body about to bring his gun arm into play. Grimly he lined his sights on the man behind the cedars.

  But he did not pull the trigger, although his finger tightened. It was almost as if something that walked the earth had stopped for a moment and told him not to shoot. Something that would not let him shoot a man with his back toward him. Then, too, there was Titus to consider. As long as Titus thought that he was dead, Titus wouldn’t shoot.

  Out by the cedars, the man was crawling, inching his way along, crawling up the hill. Then, suddenly, he exploded from the ground and was upright, running, head down, long legs working like driving pistons, angling up the hill, ducking and dodging to confuse the hidden rifle.

  A single driving thought snapped into Cornish’s mind, brought him to his feet in a blur of stumbling pain.

  The man must not get away. If he did, the Tumbling K would know the story of the barb wire. And if the Tumbling K knew about the wire, its riders would sweep the valley clean in one swift stroke.

  The hidden rifle chugged and a tiny fountain of dirt and grass gushed into the air wide of the running man.

  The man ducked swiftly, ran like a startled rabbit, then jerked to a halt, straightened with a snarl upon his face, gun snapping up to point at Cornish.

  Gritting his teeth, Cornish fought to keep his feet, fought to stand on the hill that was buckling and rolling. The man before him went around in circles and the scene was hazy.

  Cornish tried to lift his gun and the gun was heavy in his grasp. And even as he tried to lift it, he knew that it was no go, that he couldn’t shoot it out, not with the way the ground crawled beneath his feet and the way his eyes refused to focus.