“That's a poor reason for a man to risk his life,” Owen said flatly. “Is that the only reason you can offer?” What the hell! Dunc thought with the beginnings of anger. It's my life, ain't it? Do I have to have a reason for it?
But the stone-cold features of Toller's face stopped the outburst before he could put his thoughts into words. Instead, he swallowed nervously and said, “Well, Ike Brunner's lookin' to kill me. He'll do it, too, if I don't kill him first.”
And Owen said coldly, “If anything, that's a poorer reason than the first. I think you'd better go back with the Coopers.”
Stiffly Owen turned on his heel and started back toward the cabin, and Dunc stood stunned at this sudden turn of things. He had expected Owen to beg him not to go, but now things were turned around completely and he found himself begging for permission to stay. “Marshal!”
Owen paused and looked back. “Yes?”
“My common sense keeps tellin' me it's a fool thing to do, but I'd like to help out, if I can. Does the reason make any difference?”
“Yes,” Owen said, and the hard lines around his mouth seemed to soften just a little. “Arch Deland died without a reason. Anyhow, the reason he had wasn't good enough. I don't want that to happen again if I can help it.” He smiled the smallest smile that Dunc had ever seen. “You'd better catch the wagon, son.”
Owen started again toward the cabin, and once again Dunc called out. And he walked up to him, staring up into the bleakness of those pale eyes. “Marshal, I'm not very good at sayin' things, but not long ago my folks were run out of these hills, and they hadn't done a thing to be run out for. Now it's the Coopers, and tomorrow maybe it'll be somebody else. It makes me mad when I think about it; it ain't right. And still I can't hate every member of the gang that burned us out. Maybe Gabe Tanis set the fire with his own hand, but Gabe was a good man until a few months ago, and it don't stand to reason that a good man can change overnight.”
Dunc shook his head, as if puzzled by his own thoughts. “I don't know. Most of the gang members were hard-workin' farmers before Ike stirred them up. Ike told us that all outsiders were workin' to ruin us, and I guess most of us believed him. But you and your wife are outsiders and you don't want to ruin us, so Ike might be wrong about a lot of things. I don't know,” he said again. “It looks like one bad apple is ruinin' the barrel. Sooner or later the railroad people or somebody is goin' to bring an army up here and they're not goin' to know good people from bad; they'll clean us out like they did the Indians. Everybody but Ike, that is. Ike'll have plenty of time to get away if they try to take him with a big posse.”
It suddenly occurred to Dunc that probably this was the longest speech he had ever made in his life. It was not the incredible spring of words that amazed him, but the thoughts that had come out with the talk. And still there were other thoughts in his mind, about Leah, and the place of his own that he wanted. But these things he had held close to himself and did not attempt to put into words. He finished rather lamely, “Well, Marshal, I guess that's all I've got to say.”
And Owen looked at him in a strange way, a way in which no man had ever looked at him before, and he said, “All right, Dunc, we'd better get started.”
A few minutes later the two of them watched the wagon pull away from the cabin and rattle over the deep-rutted trail toward the far end of the draw.
Owen went into the silent cabin, where the venison still simmered in the fireplace, and with precise, machine-like movements he checked Arch's carbine and his own revolver. The two men ignored the packs, but filled their pockets with jerked beef and ammunition.
“It's up to you, Marshal,” Dunc said. “Do we head back toward Killer Ridge?”
“I don't think that will be necessary,” Owen said, gazing steadily through the open doorway. “Ike has his men up there.” He nodded toward a stone-capped bill perhaps a mile to the north.
“What?” Dunc went to the door and stared hard for several seconds before he saw the wisp of dust that indicated horses. “How long have you known about them?”
Owen shrugged. “Almost from the minute we reached this cabin. I doubt that Ike even bothered to trail us; he knew we had a wounded man and would make for this place.”
Dunc was vaguely worried but not frightened. “Why didn't they make their move long ago?”
“Waiting for the Coopers to leave, I suppose. Now Ike's got us where he wants us. From his position on the hill he can see every move we make, and I suspect that he has some of his men down watching the lower end of the draw. Are you sorry you didn't go with the Coopers, son?”
“I'm not sorry about anything,” Dunc said stiffly, “but I would like to have a fightin' chance. Do you aim to hole up in this cabin?”
Owen shook his head. “I'd guess that's just what Ike wants us to do; he could take his time and finish usoff as he pleases.” He pointed to the west, where ragged sandstone shelves jutted out from the sides of the hills. “I think we can make it. Ike's horses won't do him much good on those cliffs.”
Chapter Thirteen
Ike Brunner grinned savagely as he watched the Cooper wagon pull away from the cabin. It angered him to see the Coopers getting away scot-free, for he realized that it was a dangerous precedent to set. First the Lesters, now the Coopers, and maybe tomorrow some other family would take a notion to defy his hold on these hills. That could be a dangerous thing.
But Ike had not gained control of these people by acting on angry impulses. There came a time when a man had to give a little and gather his strength before rushing in for the kill. He could feel the gang's nervousness through the reins of fear and obligation with which he held it together. It was no longer a game of hit and run with them; it was deadly serious. They were thinking of Wes Longstreet, quick with a gun and completely game. But Wes and two others had died during the night, and that was something to think about.
Ike lifted his hand. “Gabe!” he said sharply, and Gabe Tanis rode up to the sandstone crest where the gang leader sat his gaudy paint. Now that Ike's brother and Wes Longstreet were dead, Gabe Tanis had gravitated to the position of second in command. “There go the Coopers,” Ike said. “They don't know how lucky they are to be alive.”
Gabe glanced over the distance at the wagon, then looked at Ike. “You can push the boys just so far. They don't take to the notion of killin' their own kind.”
“All right,” Ike said grudgingly, “the Coopers go.” He fixed his cold eyes on Gabe. “But not Dunc Lester.”
“I reckon,” Gabe said stiffly, “Dunc ain't one of us any more. A man that would kill a preacher, and then bring in the Reunion law to hunt us... I guess he ain't a hill boy any longer.” He paused, wiping the corners of his tobacco-stained mouth. “Looks like they got the buryin' done.”
Ike grinned. “All done. That leaves just two of them. Are the boys ready?”
Gabe nodded.
“You and Jed Hefflin take half the men,” Ike said, “swing around this ridge, and come up the draw on the east side of the cabin. I'll take the other half and cut them off from the other side.”
Gabe nodded again and started to rein around.