“Thanks,” Bates said.
Graham raised up to look outside, and he could see a few people moving around. He took a couple of shots at them, but didn’t hit anyone. He took another look at Bates. Bates’s eyes were closed and he was breathing in shallow, gasping breaths.
Graham moved over to another part of the cabin and began writing.
Me and Bates was fixin breakfast when the attack come. Emmitt had already went down to the crick after water and when he did not come back Cooter went to see what the matter was and he didn’t come back neither. Bates started to go see what was keepin the two of them but I told him I think there might be someone out there that wasn’t lettin the other two come back. Then suddenly shootin started and Bates looked out the winder and said, “Damn it’s the yeller kerchief rustlers.” Then Bates got shot but he didn’t get kilt yet.
Over the next two hours, the shooting continued, heavier sometimes than others, but never so light as to give Graham the idea that if he tried to leave he could make it. But he wouldn’t leave anyway, not with Bates too badly hurt to leave with him.
“Bates?” Graham called. “Bates, how are you doin’?”
“I ain’t doin’ all that well,” Bates replied, the pain evident in his voice.
“Don’t you be dyin’ on me now, pard, you hear me? I don’t want to be left all alone here.”
There were several more shots and the bullets sounded like pebbles rattling off the thick-sided line shack.
“You reckon Emmitt an’ Cooter is dead already?” Bates asked.
“I reckon so.”
“I’m goin’ to die too, ain’t I?”
“Pard, I reckon both of us are goin’ to die,” Graham replied.
“Yeah. Well, at least me ’n you had us a woman. Emmitt never had him one a-tall. Wish we could’a got him to town and done what we was goin’ to do.”
Bates grew quiet after that, and Graham went back to his writing.
It is now about two hours since the first shot. Bates is still alive, but he is in awful bad shape. They are still shootin and are all around the house. Boy’s, there are bullets coming in like hail. Them fellows is all hid behind rocks and such so good that I can’t get at them. They are shootin from the crick and from the back of the house.
“Bates, I know you’re bad hit, but if you could look out the back and just tell me if they are comin’. It’s kind of hard me tryin’ to hold ’em off all alone like this. Bates?”
Graham went over and put his ear on Bates’s chest to listen for a heartbeat, but he got none.
“You sons of bitches!” Graham shouted through the broken window. He raised up and fired several rounds, but they were fired in frustration only. He knew he didn’t hit anything. Nor could he. Then he saw them pull up a wagon and start loading it with brush and weed. That didn’t look good to him.
He sat back down and started writing again. He was writing now just out of a sense of need to keep himself from going mad with fear.
Bates is dead. He died at about 9 o:clock. And now I can see them loadin brush and wood and such onto a wagon. They got the tongue drawed up and the wagon is pointed toward the shack. I think maybe they might be fixin to set fire to the wagon and push it down the hill toward the line shack. I don’t think they intend to let me get away.
Emmitt and Cooter never did come back. I don’t know if they was kilt or not, but I reckon they was. What with them gone and Bates dead, I’m feelin pretty lonesome just now, and I don’t mind tellin you I’m pretty dam scairt too. I wish there was someone here with me so we could watch all sides at oncet. They may fool around until I get a good shot before they roll the wagon down at me. I’d love to get at least one of the bastards. I tell you this. I ain’t goin to let myself get all burnt up in here. Before they roll that wagon down here, I’m goin to run out of the house, and when I do, I’m goin to come out shootin.
For the time being, the shooting had stopped, except for one or two shots thrown toward the cabin every minute or so just to keep Graham trapped inside. Raising up, he could see them quite clearly now. He thought he recognized one of them.
I see twelve or fifteen men. One looks like Sam Logan, but I don’t know if it is or not. If I had me a pair of glasses I might know some of these men.
I’ve got to look out.
Well, they have just got through shelling the house again like hail. And they got the fire goin good on the wagon and are fixin to push it down on me. Its time for me to go. Goodbye boys, if I don’t never see you again.
The wagon came rolling down toward the line shack, hopped up over the low front porch, then crashed into the side. Within moments the line shack was on fire, and though there were no flames inside yet, the smoke was so thick that Graham could scarcely breathe. Coughing and with his eyes watering and burning, Graham picked up Bates’s pistol so that he had two guns. He entertained the hope that because there was so much smoke, it might cover his escape. Holding on to that thought, Graham cocked both pistols, then kicked the door open and dashed outside, firing both pistols.
There was very little smoke outside, most of it being whipped in through the little cabin by the wind. As a result, Graham found himself standing in the open, looking at a ring of men, all wearing yellow kerchiefs. With a shout of rage and fear, Graham continued to blaze away as at least six of the rustlers fired at him. He felt the first two bullets plunge into his body, but the third hit him in the forehead and his world went black.
Chapter Five
Frewen was in the study of his house reading a letter from London when Clara came into the study.
“Clara, guess what,” Frewen said, looking up from the letter. “Your sister Jennie is coming to visit you.”
“Oh,” Clara said. “What wonderful news that is!”
“I wonder how she will take to the Wild West,” Frewen said.
“I’m sure she will get along splendidly,” Clara said. “After all, we are Americans, you know.”
“Yes, I know, dear,” Frewen replied. “But neither you nor Lady Churchill were exactly raised in a log cabin.”
Clara laughed. “I may not have been raised in one,” she said. “But I am living in one now.”
“You call this a log cabin? You have hurt my feelings,” Frewen said, exaggerating a pout.
“This is a wonderful log cabin, and I love it,” Clara said. “Does Jennie say in the letter that she will be bringing her child?”
“Yes, the little brat will be with her,” Frewen said.
“He is not a little brat,” Clara defended. “Winnie is a wonderful child and smart as a whip. Why, with his intelligence, background, and upbringing, I predict that he will do great things some day.”
“Ha! Winston Churchill doing great things? That will be the day.”
There was a knock at the door to the study and looking toward it, Frewen saw his gentleman’s gentleman.
“Yes, Benjamin?”
“M’Lord, Mr. Morrison would have a word with you.”
Myron Morrison, foreman of the Powder River Cattle Company, was a big man with gray hair and beard. Enlisting in the Union army as a private, he was a major when the war ended, and with no family and no place to call home, he had come West. After a few “adventures” as Morrison called them (he was never specific about his “adventures” and Frewen had never asked), he began working as a cowboy and now was the foreman of one of the biggest ranches in Wyoming.
“Then by all means, show him in.”
Frewen had a smile on his face as he stood to greet his foreman, but when Morrison came in, he had a grim expression on his face.
“Mr. Morrison, what is it?” Frewen asked, his own smile replaced by an expression of concern.