The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox. Ernest Haycox

      Williamson clucked his tongue in disgust. "Listen, Dave, if you were a horse I'd shoot you for bein' absolutely no good for further service. But since you're a Denver—the blackest and toughest breed of mortal fools I ever knew—I'll say you stick on your back for a week. Then you can do what you please. You will anyhow, so I might as well say it. Drink this, and don't bellyache."

      Denver obeyed, shuddering as he waved the empty glass away. "You'll make me sick yet. But, listen, you cut that week down to about three-four days, Doc. As a personal favor to me."

      "I'm not God," said Williamson, closing his bag. "But I'll drop around tomorrow and see if some packs and some massagin' won't work a little of the bruise out of you. Now, get some sleep."

      "Sleep—I'm so full of sleep I'd float," grumbled Denver fretfully. "Go on away and leave me alone."

      Williamson paused in the doorway. "Well," he mused, "I'm glad it wasn't worse." That was his only display of sentiment, his only admission of the deep concern he had felt for a man he loved. Closing the door quietly, he went out to treat Pete Atkins, who had taken a bullet through his leg in the fight.

      Denver stared at the ceiling, calculating his condition. A week was a long time to be helpless while Lou Redmain raced through the hills. If the renegade would just play 'possum for a while, it would be all right. But the thought was not worth entertaining. He knew Redmain. The man was a furnace of tempers. He had tasted blood, and like all killers, low or high, he would be lusting for more. Redmain had boasted on that night in the Wells—it seemed months back—that the sky was his limit. He wouldn't know enough to stop, and there was no audacious scheme he would turn away from.

      The fly, or one of its innumerable cousins, made a graceful loop through the air and came to rest on Denver's nose. Denver blew him away abstractedly. Then he lifted his sound right arm and considered it. He had the means of defense left him. Or attack either. One arm was better than no arm. And the right arm was a little better than the left one, though he had been trained from childhood to shoot with either. He waved it across from one side to another, feeling the stiff and aching resistance of his chest muscles. Changing tactics, he operated the member up and down—and woke more muscles to discomfort. There seemed to be no single square inch of his body free from hurt.

      "Must of lit on all four sides at once," he gloomed. "I recall Dann pluggin' my horse. I recall goin' down that slope like somebody that'd been sent for in a hurry. I bounced. Yeah, I sure did bounce. Anyhow, I faded to the sound of music and shootin'. I bet Dann would have stood on top of the ridge and made a target out of me all day long if the boys hadn't heard the ruction from the trees and come along. I must have been within hailin' distance of them that morning when I went into Tom's Hole. There's another item Redmain had figured down to the seventh decimal. He had it doped we'd come struggling out of the brush and take the shortest road home. And so he planted himself. No, by George, a week is too long. He'll be started on a campaign of ruin before I'm up."

      The renegade had uncanny perceptions of attack and defense. Denver was candid enough to admit his own mind didn't move as fast as Redmain's. Redmain was like a sharp sword, flashing in and out while he, Dave Denver, was as slow moving as a bludgeon. He didn't have the dash, the flair; he could only do as he always had done: beat doggedly ahead, take punishment, and keep going for the knockout blow. There was that difference between them; and the fight would be so waged. Until one of them got in the killing blow. No other end than that. A kill.

      The fly made another landing. Denver looked cross-eyed at the insect. "Oscar, I'm gettin' disgusted at you. Go play with your own friends." And he made a swipe at his nose that flexed all the mass of jangling ligaments in his body. He relaxed groaning.

      Patience was not one of his virtues, and when Lyle Bonnet brought in supper he was morose and irritable. "Roll me about five hundred cigarettes, Lyle, and pile 'em on the table. I've tried to do it one-handed and wasted three sacks of heifer dust."

      "Want me to spoon this nutriment into yuh?"

      "No," rasped Denver, "I'll spill my own soup on my own chin."

      Bonnet chuckled. "What big teeth yuh got, Grammaw. Well, I'll go eat and set half the crew to rollin' the aforesaid cigareets. There just ain't nothin' we ain't bright enough to do in this outfit."

      "Go 'way and let me think."

      Bonnet caught that one neatly. He raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Well, that'll be something different, anyhow." Grinning broadly, he departed.

      When, an hour later, he returned, Denver lay silent on the bed. So Bonnet put the cigarettes in a row, laid out a bunch of matches, turned down the lamp, and tiptoed away with the dishes. Denver, who only had his eyes closed, heard all this; and through his morose discontent he felt a warm glow of affection. Bonnet was as tough and devil-may-care as they made them; but he was a man. In the middle of the night when he drowsed he faintly heard the latch click and somebody come in for a moment.

      Next morning he was cheerful for a little while. Bonnet arrived to say he had sent out four of the outfit to settle down in convenient locations; he was taking all the rest on the ranch but five, to go out on the fake roundup.

      "Why leave five here?"

      Bonnet's reply was a little too casual. "Oh, just to hang around."

      Denver seized upon the suspicious manner instantly. "Spit it out. You've got something in your coco."

      "Shucks," grunted Bonnet and studied his cigarette. "Oh, well. If yuh got to know, I'm leavin' 'em for protection. Redmain done rode his bunch into Leverage's, scared the women, and made his brag generally. Eve—by golly, I hand it to her—took a pot shot at Dann, and Redmain burned a lot of stuff and killed off the saddle stock. That's why."

      Denver's body stiffened; the violet of his eyes began to suffuse. Bonnet hurried on. "Doggone it, I knowed it would just make things worse! Cut it out and calm down. No good bustin' an artery. I give orders to the fellas stayin' behind. They camp on the porch until I'm back."

      Denver thought it out, mastered his hot rage. "I can see what's smokin up now, Lyle. He'll never be satisfied at just plain revenge. Lord have mercy on the people he chooses to hurt. We've got to get busy. And we've got to have more men. Today you angle over to Steele's. Talk to Hominy. Tell him you're short- handed. Tell him the D Slash estate will stand back of the wages. Argue five men out of him. These five—" and he named them—"I know are absolutely to be trusted. When we get 'em down here we can break the news."

      "Good enough. Well, I'll have news by tonight."

      "You better have," said Denver. Bonnet went out. Denver waited until he heard the horses being saddled. Then he got into action.

      He swept away the bed covers and slowly drew his knees up, working them cautiously. He put his good arm under him, turned half over. He kicked half a dozen pillows to the floor, rolled on his face, and settled his feet to the carpet. And again by the aid of his useful arm he pushed himself straight.

      His head throbbed, his knees quivered a little. But he was up, and that was something to write home about. Supporting himself at the bedside, he stared with a thin-lipped triumph at the familiar walls. "Oscar," he grunted, "just take a look at this and tell your children. Maybe I wouldn't pass as a civilized specimen with my shirt tails a-flappin', but I guess a fellow's got a right to wear underclothes in his own bedroom."

      He sneezed, rousing a headache. Specks floated around the room and disappeared. He steadied himself, waited for his vision to clear, and decided it was time to do something else. So he put a foot forward and aimed for the dresser. It was not bad at all, excepting for a particular joint in his hip that seemed to bite him at each step. Arriving at the dresser, he peered into the mirror.

      "Good God, is that a face?"

      Within the cowling of bandages was half a forehead with a sort of cross-hatched pattern of scars, a skinned nose, a pair of puffy Ups, and two red-rimmed, groggy eyes. The eyes rolled owlishly, turned puzzled, turned cold. Denver swung away. "I look like I've been drunk since Lincoln was shot. Now, there's one more important test. If I can sit in that chair without breakin' my back—"

      He