“Tell your boss I am coming for her. No more hide-and-seek. I am going to ride right up to her front door and blow her brains out.” The truth was, I had something a lot slower and a lot more painful in mind.
“You have your nerve!” Ike spat. “Let’s gun him, Jim. Here and now.”
Jim was studying me as if I had dropped from the sky. “No, Ike. We’ll do as he wants. Let him come. Because you and me and the rest of the boys will be there to welcome him with more lead than he can chew on in a month of Sundays.” He used his spurs.
His young pard reluctantly followed suit, glaring at me as they went past.
I had thrown down the gauntlet. It would end, one way or another, before dawn. The odds were not favorable, but I had been bucking the tiger for longer than I cared to recollect. The only difference was that this time I was sticking my head in the tiger’s mouth for me.
Chapter 25
Given a choice between her cows and herself, I was confident Gertrude Tanner would choose her own hide over her cattle. So I was not the least surprised to find another herd unattended by cowboys. She had called all her hands in to deal with me.
Given a choice between riding in alone or having help, I chose the help. So what if they had four legs and were some of the dumbest brutes in creation. That might seem harsh, but cows spend their days chomping grass into their bodies at one end and oozing it out the other end. It didn’t call for a lot of brains.
I approached the herd, circling so I was behind them, then let out with a whoop and a holler and waved my arms. My best guess was that there were about five hundred head, a lot of cows for one man to handle if I was on a cow trail headed for Dodge or Abilene. But all I needed to do was point them in the right direction and give them cause to panic, which cows were fond of doing anyway.
It helped that the cattle were accustomed to being herded. A few strayed off, but for the most part they stayed close together as I drifted them eastward. A pink flush blazed the sky with the promise of a new day. Another fifty or sixty head appeared and I reined over and gathered them up.
I would never make a good cowboy. Spending my days watching a bunch of cows graze and rest is not my notion of excitement. A cow chewing its cud is about as boring as any animal can get.
I didn’t like how cows smelled, either. They made it worse by constantly doing their business, one or the other, and the stink was enough to make you gag.
Come to think of it, cows were a lot like people, only they did not put on airs. More important, many had horns and weighed as much as horses and, when spooked, could be fearsome.
I had seen the aftermath of a stampede once. It was up in Montana. I came on an outfit out on the range the morning after a thunderstorm agitated their cattle to a feverish pitch of raw fear, and a bolt of lightning unleashed that fear in a flood of hooves, horns, and destruction. The cattle crashed right through the camp, smashing the chuck wagon to kindling, scattering the cavvy and trampling the cavvy man and five others into the ground. I saw the cavvy man, or what was left of him, a pulpy scarlet lump with shattered bones jutting like white spines. His head was so much goo with an eyeball in the middle. Only one. The other was missing.
Yes, sir. When it came to a stampede, the best a man could do was hunt cover and pray.
A mile from the ranch I had several hundred head. A tingle ran through me at what I was about to do. I could be as devious as Gertrude Tanner any day.
The sun was above the horizon when I drew the Remington. I aimed at the sky and triggered three shots while screeching like a berserk Comanche.
I once heard from an old buffalo hunter that buffalo can go from standing still to a dead run in the blink of an eye. Now I got to see cows do the same. The ones at the rear bolted, pushing against those in front of them, and they, in turn, pushed against the cows in front of them. It was like dominoes. Three shots, and my improvised army swept toward the buildings like Lee charging the north at Gettysburg.
It was a glorious feeling. I laughed and fired another shot. The pounding of thousands of hooves, the rumble of the ground, the lowing of the cattle, created a thunderous din. A cloud of thick dust rose in their wake, screening me as I reloaded.
Presently shouts broke out, and sporadic shots. Gertrude’s hands were trying to turn the herd. I imagined them stumbling from the bunkhouse, not quite awake and tugging into their clothes, to behold the horde bearing down on them.
I hoped Gerty was watching, maybe from an upstairs window, her heart in her throat. If she had a heart, that was. More than likely she had a block of ice. Ice certainly flowed through her veins. She was, without a doubt, the most ruthless person I had ever met, male or female, and that was saying a lot.
I looked up, and drew rein. The cows had slowed and were breaking to the right and left. I glimpsed the stable and the corral. A puncher was on the top rail, whooping and waving his hat. Cows passed under his boots, so close he could touch them with his toe if he wanted. Suddenly there was a loud crack and the fence began to sway. The press of cattle proved to be more than the rails could bear. With a splintering crash, the corral fell apart and the cowpoke on the top rail was pitched into their midst.
His screams were horrible.
I looped wide to reach the main house. The cattle should keep the cowboys busy long enough for me to pay my respects to Gertrude. I had never wanted to kill anyone as much as I hankered to kill her. It was all I could think of: her cowering before me, me shooting her in the knee, then the elbow, then the shoulder. That was for starters. Before I was through she would suffer as few ever suffered since the days of Noah and his ark.
The cloud of dust that hid me from the cowboys also hid the cowboys and the buildings from me. I thought I spied the cookhouse. I did see a shed splinter and split apart. Then the dust ahead partially cleared, and the main house loomed before me.
The cattle were being funneled between the house and corral. The north side was clear. As I brought Brisco to a halt, a revolver cracked. My hand leaped up of its own accord, my Remington replied, and a cowhand slumped over the sill of a window, his smoking revolver falling from fingers gone limp.
Springing down, I ran to the window, shoved him to the floor, and hooked a leg over and in. My spurs were still on, but no one would hear them jangle over the clamor outside.
The inner door was ajar. A glance showed the hallway was empty. I was debating which way to go when a yell from upstairs decided for me. My back to the wall, I sidled to the stairs.
The whole house seemed to be shaking. Beams creaked overhead. A door slammed, but where, I couldn’t say. I went up two steps at a stride and stopped short of the landing. More shouts drew me to a front bedroom. It had two windows. They were open, and crouched next to each was a cowboy. Not just any cowboys but my acquaintances from the ride out, Jim and Ike.
The racket made by the cattle was fading. From over by the bunkhouse came a holler. “Any sign of him?”
Jim cupped a hand to his mouth. “No! Not yet!” He leaned out the window and looked to the right and left. “Where in hell can he be?”
“I wouldn’t do that, were I you,” Ike said. “You’re a mighty tempting target.”
Jim drew back in and swore. “Why doesn’t he show himself?”
Ike endeared himself to me by saying, “Stark’s not dumb. What did you expect? That he’d waltz right into our gun sights?”
By then I was only a few feet behind them. I cleared my throat and said, “Only a greenhorn would do that.”
They spun, or began to, turning to stone when they saw the Remington. Ike looked as if he were about to lay an egg. Jim had more savvy and was not flustered, which made him the more dangerous of the pair.