“Git up!” Puma snapped, and the young man rose painfully. “Walk out of here, get on your horse, and ride. Don’t never let me see you within a hundred miles of this place whilst this little war is wagin’. ’Cause ifn I do, I’ll kill you on the spot. You understand all that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Git!”
The young man got.
Puma turned around, facing the men in the room. “Anybody else here work for the Circle 45? If you do, make your peace with the Almighty, ’cause you’re dyin’ today.”
“That son of a bitch is crazy!” a man whispered.
“Shut up,” his buddy whispered.
Puma smiled. “Lee? You step on outside and get ready to shoot anyone who tries to mount a horse wearin’ a Circle 45 brand.”
Sheriff Black smiled grudgingly. These old boys were putting on the pressure and screwing it down tight. The pot might take the steam a while longer, but everything was coming to a head and it had to blow the lid off soon.
He cut his eyes to Jensen. The man was leaning up against the bar, a slight smile on his lips. In a strange way, he’s enjoying this, Harris thought. Then he thought: well, why shouldn’t he? He was halfway raised by the likes of these randy, uncurried, wild ol’ mountain men. Their philosophy is his own.
None of the Circle 45 hands made any attempt to move toward the door. They did not doubt to a person that Lee Staples would shoot them down like a rabid animal if they went near any horse wearing Clint Black’s brand.
Smoke cut his eyes to Tall Mosley. “See you around, Tall.”
“Yeah,” Tall said. “Bet on it.”
Smoke walked out of the barroom, followed by Al Martine, Carbone, then Huggie and Del. Puma was the last one to leave, cautiously backing out, a wicked grin on his face.
Harris came out to the boardwalk a moment later.
“Think I won’t shoot you if you interfere?” Puma asked the sheriff.
Harris slowly shook his head. “No, Puma. I don’t doubt it for a second.”
“That’s good, Sheriff,” the old mountain man said. “’Cause me and Lee is gonna bring this here little pimple to a head.” His grin turned into a smile. “And we got a few more surprises to spring on you.”
“I can hardly wait,” Harris said drily.
Puma cackled out laughter. “Course your no-count brother ain’t gonna like it a bit.”
“You gun my brother down, without it being a fair shooting, or any other man in my jurisdiction for that matter, and you’ll face murder charges.”
“Hee, hee, hee,” Puma cackled. “And you think you be so keen with the high country you think you could find me out yonder in the lonesome?”
“No,” Harris said honestly. “I imagine you could lose yourself back there and I’d never find you. I’m just telling you what the charges will be, that’s all.”
“I think you a good man, Sheriff,” Puma told him. “Took you awhile to come to that, from all that I hear about you and your no-count brother, but you made a clean break. Now you ponder this bit of advice: don’t confuse bravery and duty with foolhardiness. You just sit back and concentrate on catchin’ chicken thieves and footpadders. Stay out of our way. And if you’re thinkin’ ’bout tryin’ to ’rrest any of us, from Smoke Jensen to me, think agin. ’Cause it ain’t gonna happen.”
“I’ll do my job,” Harris said stiffly. “This is not eighteen-thirty, Puma. It’s halfway civilized out here now.”
Puma spat his contempt for that remark. “If it was civilized, men like your brother would be rottin’ in the grave instead of hay-rassin’ decent folk.”
“You break the law, and I’ll arrest you, Puma.”
“You’ll never do such of a thing.”
Harris turned, stepped off the boardwalk, and walked to his office.
“What other surprises do you have in store, Puma?” Smoke asked.
“Hee, hee, hee,” Puma cackled mysteriously.
24
Those few hired guns who had ridden their own horses into town rode back to the ranch to get any horse that didn’t have a Circle 45 brand on it. They had taken Puma at his word, which was wise, for the old mountain man had meant what he said, Sheriff Black or no Sheriff Black.
“He what?” Bronco and Clint both screamed at the news.
Tall Mosley repeated what Puma had threatened, and added, “He meant it, Boss. That old man wasn’t kiddin’. I got to get some horses for the boys back in town.”
“Oh, go on, get them,” Clint said, shaking his head. “I should have guessed something like this would happen. I’ll be glad when those old coots are all dead. But Al Martine and Carbone? I can’t figure that. They were after Jensen not that long ago.”
“They switched sides,” Tall said. “I know the story. Martine and Carbone stopped hirin’ their guns and went to ranchin’ down in Mexico. Got them a right nice spread, so I hear. Call it the M/C. And believe me, they don’t have no trouble with rustlers or bandits.”
“Get the horses for the men,” Bronco said. When Tall had left the room, he said to Clint, “You really think that crazy old coot will shoot anyone ridin’ a Circle 45 horse?”
“Oh, yes,” Clint said without hesitation. “But I’ve got horses with every kind of brand you can imagine. And I have bills of sale for them. That’s no worry. Let’s walk outside to the porch. Stuffy in here.”
The rancher and foreman stepped out on the porch and a rifle barked, the slug howling off the stone of the house. Clint and Bronco hit the floor. Another slug, fired from a different direction, came screaming over their heads. A coyote yipped and a wolf replied in a howl.
“Those damned old coots brought friends with them,” Bronco said. “That’s no coyote or wolf.”
Tall Mosley and a few others, caught in the corral, could do nothing except stay low in the dirt, crouched behind whatever cover they could find. Which was precious little.
“Crawl back toward the door,” Clint said. “We can make the house.”
A hand came galloping in from the range and he went galloping back out as long-barreled Springfield rifles, with a range of over three thousand yards, began barking. One knocked his saddle horn off—and another blew his hat off his head. He laid down on the horse’s neck and got the hell gone from there.
The old mountain men on the ridges began making life miserable for those in the house and the hands in the bunkhouses. Stove pipes were knocked loose and windows were shattered. Doors were soon rendered useless as the lead knocked out great chunks of wood. Outhouses were riddled with heavy caliber lead and the horses in the corral screamed and reared and panicked and knocked down the gate. They went thundering out to open range, away from the frightening gunfire and the howling bullets.
Clint Black and Bronco Ford could do nothing except seek cover behind the stone of the house and cuss.
Back in town, the Circle 45 hands sat in the saloon and wondered when in the hell Tall and the others would get back with horses they could ride out on. Not a one of them even remotely considered attempting to mount up on a horse wearing the Circle 45 brand.
Smoke, Martine, Carbone, Huggie, Del, Puma, and Lee waited across the street from the saloon. Waited and watched and smiled at the plight of the hired guns. Harris Black and his deputies sat on the edge of the high boardwalk in front of the sheriff’s office.
And the citizens of the town, men, women, and kids, passed by the saloon in a never-ending stream, pointing and laughing at the grounded gunnies, while the hired guns drank whiskey and got madder by the minute.
“It’s comin’ to a head, Sheriff,” a deputy said. “We ought to stop them people over there. They’re gonna make them gunnies mad and they’ll be a killin’.”