The Complete Novels of Ernest Haycox. Ernest Haycox

was up—that he, Charterhouse, had overheard the plan in Angels—and was preparing for it. Such being so, what then would the renegades do?

      "Something, that's sure," reflected Clint. "There was entirely too much riding in and out of Dead Man, too many messengers covering the country to Shander and Angels and back. That outfit is pitched to fight, and when a scope of hard suckers get on their ears, they'll strike one way if they can't strike another. There's been a leak from the ranch. They knew I was riding. They may even know Fitz is bringing most of Box M's strength away from home quarters. Then the thing for them to do would be to circle around us and smash right into old John Nickum's front yard. They might be doing it this minute."

      He had reasoned out the situation accurately. He knew he bad. Yet through all his thinking there was one qualifying, uncertain shadow of doubt—the fifth man at the morning meeting of outlaws in Dead Man's Pass. That man rode through all plans, all guesses, all probabilities. And so when Clint stopped and caught the approach of horsemen, he had very nearly reached a mental deadlock. The party swept on vigorously. Clint cut to the right to intercept them. They bore down, a compact and growing blur against the velvet curtain; fresh horses and fresh men hitting a stiff gait. He waited until his natural voice would reach them and then sent out a soft challenge. "Fitz?"

      The party swirled around him, reining in noisily. Fitzgibbon's voice answered, as imperturbable and laconic as ever. "Yeah. Charterhouse? All right. We in time?"

      Another voice broke through—Heck Seastrom's. "Hell's fire, Charterhouse, you wait until we can swap lies! I got a story to tell, damned if I ain't. Now where to?"

      "This bunch feels heavier than twenty men," remarked Charterhouse.

      "Yeah," agreed Fitz. "Thirty-one of us. I got to thinking and so did Sherry. Whole hog or none. We know Casabella pretty well, Charterhouse. And Manners sent over four fellows to stick around the place, late this afternoon. So Sherry kept four more of our bunch and told me to bring the rest along."

      "So Manners is supporting Box M?" drawled Charter-house.

      "A-huh. What's next?"

      Charterhouse spoke quietly. "I just want you boys to know it is a gamble. I've watched Curly's outfit play around Carson all day long and don't know any more than I did this morning. He pulled out just before dark, heading for Shander's. Leaving the fort empty. He may be circling to hit Box M, or he may be laying down a screen of dust for himself. But there's just one item in my mind that decides me to gamble. I want you to know it before we ride back to Carson and hole up there. And wait for Curly to return. That's the plan."

      "I might give you some information," broke in Seastrom. "I dragged hell's-half acre getting home from Angels. Had to do a lot of dodging this morning; and I was in an arroyo south of Shander's when that gentleman breezed by with his fifteen hands. They seemed to be making a big curve in the prairie for the lower tip of Dead Man."

      Charterhouse considered it, putting together the stray pieces of the puzzle. A more definite snap came to his words. "That helps, Heck. It is still a gamble. I am taking all the responsibility for failure. That's all I'll say. Any objections?"

      "You're the boss," muttered Fitzgibbon.

      "Lead off," put in Seastrom. "One man's guess is as good as another in this country and you seem to guess pretty lucky. Bust the breeze."

      "Come on, then," snapped Charterhouse and turned in front of them.

      The party gathered speed behind. Fitz was to his left, Seastrom to the right and chuckling softly as if it were some thundering fine midnight party. The stars winked clear and the crisp air fanned against them, carrying the pungency of sage and earth into their nostrils. Leather squealed and the jingle of those many bridle chains made a pleasant melody. Fort Carson broke the distance and presently the avenue of poplars loomed dead ahead. Charterhouse slowed to a walk, pressed on a few yards and halted.

      "Seastrom—three men. Down the left side afoot. Three more with me to the right. Fitz, wait with the bunch. If there's a bust of guns, use your ears and judgment, but I think the place is still empty."

      There was a soft dismounting and a swift filing off. Seastrom and his followers faded into the blur made by the line of officers' quarters. Clint swung to the opposite side and stopped at an open door of a barrack while his men overshot him and pressed on in quick, sure silence.

      No sound came out of the building, no warning of crouched danger. Satisfied, he struck directly down the parade and closed upon the outlying sheds. Nothing here; turning, he saw one of Heck's searchers slide rapidly up. "Clear?"

      "I think so."

      "Go back and tell Fitz to come along."

      Standing there, Clint thought he heard the tremor of moving bodies come along the air; he dropped to the ground. The invisible telegraph was alive, beating out its message, strengthening with each moment. He rose, hurrying back. Fitz led in the party. Charterhouse's word ran together, electric and urgent. "They're coming in. Hustle it, boys. Everybody out of the saddle and into the houses on the east side of the parade ground. Run the horses into that end shed—four men to hold 'em. String out a little so you've all got a good place to sling lead. Hustle it, now. And no firing until you bear me sing out."

      "They're sure coming," grunted Fitz briefly.

      "Here's where some of them handpicked lilies wilt on the stem," added Heck, strangely subdued. "Man, here's a scrap."

      "I'm afraid so," said Charterhouse. "Lets clear out of this plaza. No shooting, boys, until I sound the word."

      Standing with his back to a house wall, he listened to the renegades sweep out of the distance and bear down.

      And in that lull he reviewed the past days with a queer clarity—old John Nickum dying bravely, the savage growl of Angels, all that trickery, all the vengeance of predatory men seeking to destroy and rob, the glistening evil in Shander's sickly eyes and the animal remorselessness of this callow Curly who advanced so hurriedly. All these facts and scenes flashed across Clint's mind, telling him as a thousand cold words could not that whatever happened this night was only the march of inevitable events, only the blossoming of that deadly flower—hate.

      And while Clint's muscles tightened expectantly and his nerves slowly chilled and left him like a thing of stone, he still had time for regret. Men would fall. Good men and bad men. Lives that had so long savored God's fresh sun, keened the crispness of the prairie air, and moved in the vast, heady freedom of this open land, would be snuffed out in the roar of shots. What would be, would be. This was the price paid for safety and orderly justice. In the west it had always been so. Men who lived by the gun died by the gun. Defying all order and transgressing all rules of right, they courted death—and so would they receive it. And with that thought Clint Charterhouse settled his conscience and closed his mind.

      A lesser man would have trembled and sickened; a man from a gentler country would have shuddered, flinched away. But all Clint's forefathers had struggled with the same problem from one frontier to another; his thinking was molded by the brutally clear and direct logic of the time. Men had to stand by and be responsible for their acts; men had to pay their bills. That was the whole story. Some day these things would not be, but for the present the rough-handed code prevailed. And he was of that large-boned, tough-fibered fighting type that, once having decided the course, moved ahead relentlessly. A son of the west.

      The renegades pounded on, curving around the fort. Charterhouse, frozen against the wall, thought they were sweeping by and started to readjust his plan of battle. But it was only a sort of scouting movement. They circled, swung and started into the plaza from the north side. Heck Seastrom stirred slightly and Charterhouse heard the methodical Fitzgibbon sigh very softly. Curly's men filed past, slackened and bunched up. Men and horses made an irregular bulk out there. For a moment absolute silence reigned, broken at last by the voice of Curly.

      "Well, Shander?"

      "We'll wait a minute," replied Shander.

      "I don't see why we been doing all this fool back and forward moving around the prairie. We've lost a lot of time. It's eight miles to Box M