"Now Molly, that's about the most unnecessary advice
I
ever had," Sam answered, and climbed over the window sill. He dropped the twelve feet to the ground.
He landed hard, letting his legs sink, giving with his weight. He squatted there for a moment, looking around, then ran hard toward McGee who still struggled with the chain.
Sam grabbed McGee and pulled him away from the gate. "Damn it, Fill, you want to get yourself killed?"
McGee turned glazed eyes on Sam. "Charlie," he said. "They're gonna run Charlie offl"
"Where you mean to take him, in the hotel?"
McGee shook his head. "I didn't think," he said. "You know
I
can't let 'em get Charlie."
"I dunno," Sam said, "but you can stop 'em better from inside the hotel than you can out here." He gave McGee his carbine. "Take this and get back inside to help the others."
"Where you goin'?" McGee asked.
"To the grove and get those farmers to help. Together we can clean the Crow out of town before they burn us to the ground."
"Then take Charlie," McGee said eagerly. "He can outrun anything on four legs, Sam."
"No. Charlie's a buggy horse, Fill."
"He's any kind o' horse you want him to be. Mostly he's the fastest animal in Montana and you better believe it."
"All right, all right," Sam said impatiently. "Go on back inside and help hold them off."
He squatted against the fence and watched McGee hurry toward the hotel. When he had vanished inside the building, Sam slipped between the poles and pounded toward the small door in the side of the barn. He stopped there, putting his ear to the rough wood, listening. He went on to the door and raised the latch, pushing inward, the rusty hinges groaning. He waited to the count of ten and darted inside, his pistol cocked.
He stood there in the dimness and heard nothing except the stamp of a hoof and the crunching sound of a horse eating hay. He edged out past the partition that was the section of the first stall and looked at the two dead Indians in the wide door. They seemed to be embracing each other. Across the littered open space he saw Charlie's sleek black hindquarters. He darted across the passage and grabbed a bridle from a hook and went on in beside Charlie, talking in a low voice. The horse stopped eating and swung his head inquisitively and then resumed a calm rolling of his jaws. Sam slipped the bit and in a moment had the bridle buckled into place.
He led the big animal out into the passageway and vaulted on the bare back. Charlie snorted and pawed the ground, trying to get his head down.
"No you don't, you son of a gun," Sam muttered, and touched his spurs, lightly. The response was explosive. Charlie lunged ahead through the doorway and Sam reined sharp left to run him along the back of the main street buildings. He lay over Charlie's neck, talking speed into the powerful black. At the lower edge of town he heard a volley as guns crashed, a variety of sounds blending, screams and yells accompanying. There was movement here and there and Sam squeezed off a shot at a darting Crow, feeling Charlie flinch and speed up under him at the sound.
A flying wedge of Crow appeared, at right angles to his flight; he emptied his pistol, yelling and spurring Charlie, guiding him toward an opening in the buildings, an alley leading to the main street. He saw a warrior reel from the saddle but the rest of them kept going. Charlie thundered into the alley and Sam met a lone Crow afoot. He used the pistol like a club, parrying the lance thrust and then swinging the gun, slamming it into the painted face, destroying the features and knocking the man back against the wall. Charlie fled on through the alley and emerged on the street.
Sam hauled the horse up short as a caravan appeared in his eyesight. He hastily searched his belt for cartridges and found none. It was a nondescript, rag-tag mob that met his eye. The farmers from the grove, six men in a wagon that had had the cover ripped off it, several afoot, carrying rifles and shotguns, and more mounted on horses of varying sizes, shapes, and colors. The farmers fired as they advanced but they were rapidly running out of targets. The Crow were on the run.
These were the same men, most of them, that had hung Reno, but Sam didn't think about that. He was watching Clay Bassett race his roan to head off a fleeing Crow, saw the smoke and heard the crash of the gun, watching the warrior knocked from his horse.
And then it was over—the last few survivors of the young chief's band fleeing away up the gully, farmers and townsmen firing a hastening group of shots.
Clay rode up and dismounted, his high colored features even more flushed. He pushed his hat back and tightened his cinch, not looking at Sam. Finally, he turned. "Had to get out to camp," he said gruffly. "Worried about Hannah an' all—" He stopped speaking and jerked off his hat and slammed it against his leg. "Shoot, what I want to say, Sam, is I want my job back. I—I don't like bein' sheriff."
The people were coming out with a dazed look on their faces. Down by Ketterman's Livery someone pistoled a warrior that still lived.
"I dunno," Sam said. "We do need a sheriff, Clay. We'll see
."
"I didn't run out on anybody," Clay said doggedly. "I had to see Hannah was all right."
"She all right?"
Clay nodded. "Yep. We gonna get married, Sam."
"Good," Sam said. "Congratulations."
He rode through town, seeing with satisfaction that everyone was working to get things cleaned up. The farm women had been brought up and were busy taking care of the wounded, preparing a huge vat of soup, and making coffee. The farmers, town people, and the cattlemen were all working together. They were taking to one another in a warm and friendly way. It wouldn't last, Sam realized, but it was a start. They'd have to make adjustments but each had something to offer the other and that was what counted.
At the north edge of town he turned back, riding Charlie toward the hotel, suddenly thinking of Molly and wanting, with a strange yearning, to see her.
He was so deep in thought he didn't hear the voice until his name was repeated twice. He looked ahead to the hotel and saw Molly standing, looking in his direction. Another woman stood in a second floor window, looking out. It was Cherry. Then he swiveled his head and stared at the apparition in the alleyway, a carbine at his shoulder.
"Sam, I'm gonna kill you." Jesse Kenton spoke in a voice Sam had never heard before.
"My gun is empty," Sam said.
"Good. With your luck and mine I'd never stand a chance, Sam."
He drew the hammer back and Sam heard it click. He straightened in the saddle, waiting for the shock of the bullet. He heard a single shot and Kenton stiffened, looked at the sky with agonized eyes as he stumbled backward, trying to keep from falling. As he went down the rifle discharged skyward. Kenton didn't move after he struck the ground, the rifle still clutched in his hands.
Sam looked at the hotel window where he'd seen Cherry a moment before. She still stood there, holding a still-smoking rifle in her hand, standing motionless, staring. Dub Porter's face appeared behind Cherry. He took the rifle and waved his hand at Sam.
Sam slipped to the ground as Molly ran through the dust toward him. He came to meet her, seeing the eagerness in her eyes and then her outstretched arms went around his neck. He circled her waist with his arm, pulling her to him, kissing her hard on the mouth.
He raised his startled face to the sky as the first gentle drops of rain began falling. He took off his hat and walked Molly toward the hotel, his arm around her waist. He could feel the raindrops on his 'face and he could feel the warmth and love of the woman who walked beside him.
THE END