It was nearly night when he turned back toward the valley. Somewhere down there Cooney had his trap all set for Jesse Kenton. He was disturbed at his ambivalence; he was equally disturbed at not being able to make a decision on his action. Certainly he owed Kenton nothing but whatever trouble he could give him. Kenton, to a large measure was responsible for everything that had happened to him lately.
He put all these thoughts away because there was no point in thinking about them. What lay ahead of him he couldn't guess. In a vague way he thought that if he could keep Kenton alive the man might feel obligated to blow up his own dam and join him in bringing peace to the country. Sam knew suddenly that Fill McGee was right: the settlers could help save their herds. It meant bringing them into the life of the country, and, while Sam felt some reluctance at changing the established order, he knew it was inevitable. The knowledge was bitter but he accepted it.
The wind was slacking when Sam rode the horse around a barn-sized crumbling gray boulder and came on a steep slope dropping away into the valley. He abruptly stopped the horse, sitting motionless in his saddle, staring.
Down in the far distance of the valley riders appeared, emerging from the dark shadows of the trees, riding south. Sam counted them: twenty-one braves in a Crow war party.
In his mind he made a quick calculation of time and
distance. The war party would hit McGee's grove at dawn. He didn't try to reason why he knew the destination of the
war party. He simply put his horse in the direction that would permit his arrival at the grove before the farmers were attacked. That is, he would make it if the Crow made a night halt.
It was near morning when Sam spotted the glowing embers of camp fires in the grove. He got off the tired horse and
it put its head down, standing spraddle-legged in exhaustion. He walked on, carrying his rifle in the crook of his arm. The sky was just graying in the east when he came into the trees and reached the first wagon.
"Hey, there!" A man stepped down from the wagon carrying a shotgun. "Just hold it there, mister!"
Another man came from around the wagon. It was Pop Evans. He reached out and shoved the shotgun down. "Don't get hasty, Art," he said and stepped toward Sam.
"Crow war party," Sam said. "They'll hit you any minute now."
"How many?" Evans asked in a sick voice.
"I counted twenty-one. They may have picked up more braves on the way."
"What is it, Pop?" A woman's voice called sleepily from the darkness beyond the wagon.
Evans looked in that direction and swiveled his head back to Sam. "How—how much time we got?"
"I told you . . . they'll hit any minute. You'd better get all your people up—"
"It's a damn trick," the man called Art said without conviction. "They'd like us to get outta here, outta the country. Anything to get us stirred up, scared and runnin'. To hell with it. I'm goin' back to bed." He turned away.
Evans called, "No you don't, Art. This man ain't like them others."
Art stopped and turned slowly. "He's the one hit McWharter, ain't he? Near killed him with a pistol, I recollect." "Mac asked for it. Now git on, rouse everybody."
A child cried fretfully somewhere in the early dawn. The wind had died away and a stillness was on the land. The mountains to the east were rimmed with gold. A camp robber flew to the ground and began searching for a discarded morsel. Art, his broad red face revealed in the brightening light, said resignedly, "All right, I'll call 'em," and turned away.
"I don't know nothin' about Indian fightin'," Evans said. "They'll hit and run—unless they see they can finish the job."
Evans forced a laugh. "Well, you gonna take charge or what?"
"I hadn't thought about it. First thing to do is get the men stationed out of sight but ready to shoot."
The farmers were collecting now, a motley group of all ages, shapes and sizes. "All here, Art?" Evans called.
"All but Clevenger. He's comin' soon's his wife puts a new dressin' on his foot.
"Clevenger hit his foot with an axe," Evans said. "Infected." A man limped up to the circle. "All here, now." In a few words he explained to the men that the Crow were rising up, were heading for their camp in the grove.
"They'll be here any minute," he said. He put his hand on Sam's arm. "Mr. Harden'll tell us what to do."
They looked at Sam.
"First thing is to circle the grove—"
"I only got a dozen cartridges," a man interrupted.
My God,
Sam thought.
They'll never make it.
"Maybe that'll do. We put up a good fight right off, they'll not push it. Get out there and don't shoot until you see an Indian shooting at you or making a threatening move with a lance or bow and arrow. Likely, they'll bunch in that gully to the east. Those of you on the west move to the east side if the shooting starts there. Likewise, you staked on the east move if they attack from the west."
"I'm hungry," someone said.
"We'll take turns eating," Sam answered. "Just a few at a time. It'll be coffee and not much else until this is over."
The men moved out to take stations and the women began making a hasty breakfast. The children remained in the wagons. Sam and Evans squatted beside the only fire Sam permitted. The sun came up. The men moved in by twos, ate silently, and moved out again. The long shadows shortened.
Evans said, "Looks like they're not comin'," in a relieved voice. At that moment faint sounds of firing reached them. Sam jumped to his feet, staring.
"The town," he said. "They're hitting the town!"
Fillmore McGee walked out the back door of the hotel and sauntered across the space between the hotel and the corral. Charlie, the black buggy horse, trotted to the fence and poked his blaze-faced head over the top rail and whickered softly.
McGee walked slowly, his hands jammed deep in his pockets until he came to the pole fence. He leaned against it. Charlie nudged at him, wanting one of the bits of sugar, apple, or carrot that McGee habitually carried.
He absently rubbed Charlie's velvet nose and then straightened as Clay Bassett came swinging down the alley. There was something meaningful in Clay's stride. When McGee saw him come on purposefully he knew what to expect. He straightened his shoulders and stepped toward Clay, a small dread working its way into his stomach.
Bassett came on, his deepset gray eyes unfriendly. "Dammit, Fill, I'm gonna have to arrest Molly. It's agin the law to let a prisoner loose."
McGee was silent.
On the main street a farmer stopped at the alleyway and watched them. Another joined him, and then another. Soon a small group of men stood there, silent, waiting.
"Say somethin'," Clay said angrily.
McGee didn't answer. He kept his eyes on Bassett's face, trying to shape the words to fit his thoughts.
And then something happened. McGee was to say later that he thought he was having a nightmare in broad daylight when he heard the wild yells of the Crow and the rapid fire of a six-gun on the 'far end of town.
Clay Bassett turned and ran toward the street, awkward in his high heeled boots. McGee was right behind him. They both plunged through the group of men and stopped dead in their tracks.
"Godda mighty!" Clay whispered.
The street was full of Indians. They made a wild sweep down the street, screaming, dealing death right and left. They wheeled in a tangle of horseflesh at the south end of town and returned. Bassett saw a farmer go down with a lance in his chest. The lance flipped up, the feathers on the shaft fluttering in the breeze. The stunned men began firing at the Indians.