The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox. Ernest Haycox

Heck was shouting tempestuously, "Come over here, Box M—we got this shebang tied in knots! Come on, you scorpions!"

      Charterhouse ran across toward Heck's gang. A shadow leaped at him, missed and went by. He flung himself to the ground, dust in his face, feeling lead strike around his head. A sharp crack and a strangled cry—and Fitzgibbon was talking calmly.

      "Hurt, Charterhouse?"

      "No."

      "You hadn't oughta be so brash. Watch out!"

      Another pair of riders elected to fight clear, flashing out from the shadows. Hoofs grazed Charterhouse, a dangling stirrup knocked him down, and from the prairie came a long halloo of defiance. He got up and labored with his wind. A gun popped here and there, but the madness of the initial shock was dying. Seastrom yelled again for reinforcements. Some battle between individuals flared by the horse sheds and stopped abruptly. The snipers were quitting, some captured, some beyond capture, and some wriggling out to the prairie afoot. Box M began to concentrate on the barrack containing the bulk of Curly's gang. Charterhouse caught one of his men by the arm.

      "Rip down some planks and start a fire here. A husky one to see by." Then he closed on the barrack and called out. "Slack off, Box M. Hold your lead. You Curly men—it's all over. Don't try to make a stand. We've got you crushed. Curly's dead. Throw down your guns."

      Silence descended. Somewhere a man groaned and somewhere else was a bitter cursing. Out of the barrack came a sullen, tentative proposal.

      "You fellows guarantee us a free ride to the county line, and we'll come."

      "Guarantee nothing."

      "We don't aim to step out and be shot down. We'll either get unhindered passage over the line or else we'll fight it out. We know Casabella politics."

      The Box M man had accumulated his tinder-dry boards and some sort of kindling material. He struck a match, applied it, and sprang away. In dead silence the assembled punchers watched the fitful spiral of fire sputter, fall and catch hold. Charterhouse spoke again. "There will be no lynching and no shooting. Either surrender or else."

      "Or else what?" jeered the voice. "We can punch some holes in you buzzards yet. Go to hell."

      "You'll go to hell in a crackling blaze," said Charter-house. "See this little bonfire? If I put one of these burning planks against that barrack, you won't live fifteen minutes."

      The trapped renegades debated. The spokesman tried again. "Well, what if we come out?"

      "You are going to Angels and sleep in the jug until Box M gets ready either to put you on trial or kick you out of the county. It's apt to be the second choice, considering the state of jury trials in this neck of the woods."

      "Your word for that?"

      "My word for it."

      "Ain't worth a hell of a lot," grumbled the spokesman.

      "No? Well, it's the best you got on the subject, brother. This fire is getting large and comfortable."

      "All right, we'll come."

      Charterhouse motioned to the nearest Box M men to stand beside the barrack door. "All right, inside. Pop out one at a time, elbows stiff. Heck, you herd these brutes into shape. Better snag a rope around 'em somehow."

      "Just leave that to me," agreed Heck.

      Charterhouse skirted the leaping fire and walked back toward the sheds. Other Box M men were poking through the shadows, swearing morosely. One of them called toward the sheds. "Ain't there an old flat-bed wagon in there? Used to be."

      "Yeah. What for?"

      "What for? What in damnation you think for? For them that's past walking, of course. Drag it out. We can hook onto the tongue and haul it home with ropes."

      Charterhouse felt weary. And when he saw a sprawled, still body in front of him he reached for his matches sadly. The single flare of light told him all he wanted to know. There lay all that remained of the swashbuckling, vainly immature savage known as Curly. A short life—and nothing to show for it but a stain of blood on the earth. Fitzgibbon, some yards off, had repeated the performance, and announced his discovery with an unusual departure from matter-of-factness. "Great Guns—Shander!"

      "The roll of the crooked," muttered Charterhouse. "He was riding at the head of the party and caught the worst of the fire." Rather bitterly he summed up that rancher's career. "He had his range and he wanted more. Now he's got just six feet of it left." Sitting on a porch, he reviewed the scene before him. Seastrom was herding the surrendered party into a long row by the revealing rays of the fire. Suddenly he called out. "Hey, Clint, do you know we've got Mister Shander's riders here, too? Kit and caboodle. A clean sweep. Gents, I'm pleased to see you at this party. Nothing would suit me better than to see the bottom of your boots kicking the breeze. Being we're civilized folks, I reckon it ain't to be. But, by gosh, I'd like to—and you know my sentiments on the subject once for all." Half a dozen men were wheeling the flat-bed wagon toward the fire; somebody came by the flames with an armful of saddle blankets and Charterhouse saw the man's face furrowed and wet. Crying—

      Clint stirred. Curly and Shander and Haggerty gone. Of the ringleaders known to the county only Studd and Wolfert remained. The back of the crooked bunch was broken. And yet this grim piece of business was unfinished. Would never be finished until that last showdown came with the man who—

      Seastrom came over the plaza, calling, "Clint—hey, Clint. We're set to ride. What next?"

      "How do we stand?"

      Seastrom cleared his throat. "I reckon we'll have to add Ed Porn and Lou Lester to our boot hill. Dammit all, it's tough; I knew these two fellows like brothers. But I reckon they're riding a better range now. It's a chance we all take, ain't it?"

      "So," mused Charterhouse.

      "I figure about ten of the wild bunch got away. That won't bother us any. They'll keep running until Casabella's damn far off. I know. As for them that had hard luck—"

      "Put them in a building and leave them till morning," cut in Charterhouse abruptly. "We'll be back then to see they get a decent burial. Now, Heck, you take part of the outfit and ride down to Angels with your herd. Stick 'em in the calaboose and if you see Studd or Wolfert there, do the same with those gentlemen. And rule the town until further orders."

      "Nothing I look forward to with more pleasure," grunted Seastrom.

      Fitz came out of the deeper darkness. "You take the rest of the fellows, and the wagon, and strike for home," Clint told him.

      "Where you going?" Seastrom wanted to know.

      "I'm staying here for a few minutes to think about it," droned Clint. "Well, you might as well hit the trail."

      Both Fitz and Seastrom hesitated, seeming to study out the meaning of Charterhouse's voice. Presently, without answer, they walked across the plaza. Charterhouse watched the horses come in and the rough roping of the renegades. Fitz collected his party and pulled out first, the wagon jolting rather clumsily at the head of the procession. In another short while Seastrom had lined his prisoners out between the barracks; he himself trotted back to Charterhouse.

      "Listen, don't expose yourself too much. Don't linger. Some of those fellows that flew the coop might come back to say by-by and have a shot at you. If I hear any such shots heaving across the prairie—"

      "If you hear any such shots," interrupted Charterhouse harshly, "keep right on going. Don't come back."

      Seastrom shifted in the saddle, softly swore and wheeled away. Charterhouse rose and crossed to the fire, kicking together the burning boards. A shower of hot sparks circled in the night. He watched them wink and vanish and then in slow weariness left the rim of light and settled on a barrack step. The rumor of the departing men died out, the smell of powder smoke faded in the air, and Fort Carson lay silent under the shadow of Dead Man's Ridge. There in the darkness, Clint rolled a cigarette and touched a match. The flare set off the stony triangle of his face, the cold flash of half-shut eyes—all the features