the Rider Of Ruby Hills (1986) (38 page)

Suddenly Trent smiled. "Hale," he said slowly, "I've heard you're a fightin' man. I hope that ain't a lie. I'm callin' you now. We fight, man to man, right here in this barroom, no holds barred, an' if I win, you leave the nesters alone. If you win, we all leave!"

King Bill wheeled, his eyes bulging. "You challenge me? You dirty-necked, nestin' renegade. No! I bargain with no man. You nesters get movin' or suffer the consequences."

"What's the matter, Bill?" Trent said slowly. "Afraid?"

For a long moment, there was deathly stillness in the room, while Hale's face grew darker and darker. Slowly then, he unbuckled his gunbelt. "You asked for it, nester," he sneered. "Now you get it."

He rushed. Trent had been watching, and as Hale rushed, he sidestepped quickly. Hale's rush missed, and Trent faced him, smiling.

"What's the matter, King. I'm right here!"

Hale rushed, and Trent stepped in with a left jab that split Hale's lips and showered him with blood. In a fury, Hale closed in and caught Trent with a powerful right swing that sent him staggering back on his heels. Blood staining his gray shirt, King Bill leaped at Trent, swinging with both hands. Trent crashed to the floor, rolled over, and got up. Another swing caught him, and he went down again, his head roaring with sound.

King Bill rushed in, aiming a vicious kick, but Trent rolled out of the way and scrambled up, groggy and hurt. Hale rushed, and Trent weaved inside of a swing and smashed a right and left to that massive body.

Hale grabbed Trent and hurled him into the bar with terrific power and then sprang close, swinging both fists to Trent's head. Trent slipped the first punch, but took the other one, and started to sag. King Bill set himself, a cold sneer on his face, and measured Trent with a left, aiming a ponderous right, but Trent pushed the left aside and smashed a wicked left upper- cut to Hale's wind.

The bigger man gasped and missed a right, and Trent stabbed another left to the bleeding mouth. Hale landed a right and knocked Trent rolling on the floor. Somebody kicked him wickedly in the ribs as he rolled against the feet of the crowd, and he came up staggering as Hale closed in. Hurt, gasping with pain, Trent clinched desperately and hung on.

Hale tore him loose, smashed a left to his head that split his cheekbone wide open, and then smashed him on the jaw with a powerful right. Again Trent stabbed that left to the mouth, ducked under a right and bored in, slamming away with both hands at close quarters.

Hale grabbed him and threw him then and rushed upon him, but even as he jumped at him, Trent caught Hale with a toe in the pit of the stomach and pitched him over on his head and shoulders.

King Bill staggered up, visibly shaken. Then Trent walked in. His face was streaming blood and his head was buzzing, but he could see Hale's face weaving before him. He walked in, deliberately lanced that bleeding mouth with a left, and then crossed a right that ripped the flesh over Hale's eye.

Dunn started forward, and with an oath, Hale waved him back. He put up his hands and walked in, his face twisted with hatred. Trent let him come, feinted, and then dropped a right under the big man's heart. Hale staggered, and Trent walked in, stabbed another left into the blood-covered face, and smashed another right to the wind.

Then he stood there and began to swing. Hale was swinging too, but his power was gone. Trent bored in, his head clearing, and he slammed punch after punch into the face and body of the tottering rancher. He was getting his second wind now, although he was hurt, and blood dripped from his face to his shirt. He brushed Hale's hands aside and crossed a driving right to the chin. Hale's knees buckled, but before he could fall, Trent hit him twice more, left and right to the chin. Then Hale crashed to the ground.

In the instant of silence that followed the fall of the King, a voice rang out. "You all just hold to where you're standin' now. I ain't a-wantin' to shoot nobody, but sure as my name's Quince Hatfield, the one to make the first move dies!"

The long rifle stared through the open window at them, and on the next windowsill they saw another. Nobody in the room moved.

In three steps, Trent was out of the room. The buckskin was standing at the edge of the walk with the other horses. Swinging into the saddle, he wrenched the rifle from the boot and with two quick shots, sent the chandelier crashing to the floor, plunging the Mecca into darkness. Then, the Hatfields at his side, he raced the buckskin toward the edge of town. When they slowed down, a mile out of town, Quince looked at him, grinning in the moonlight.

"I reckon you all sure busted things wide open now!"

Trent nodded soberly. "I tried to make peace talk. When he wouldn't, I thought a good lickin' might show the townspeople the fight wasn't all one side. We're goin' to need friends."

"You done a good job!" Jesse said. "Parson'll sure wish he'd been along. He always said what Hale needed was a good whuppin'. Well, he sho' nuff had it tonight!"

Nothing, Trent realized, had been solved by the fight. Taking to the brush, they used every stratagem to ward off pursuit, although they knew it was exceedingly doubtful if any pursuit would be started against three armed men who were skilled woodsmen. Following them in the dark would be impossible and scarcely wise.

Three hours later, they swung down at the Hatfield cabin. A tall young man with broad shoulders stepped out of the darkness.

"It's us, Saul," Jesse said, "an' Trent done whipped King Bill Hale with his fists!"

Saul Hatfield strode up, smiling. "I reckon Paw will sure like to hear that!"

"They gone to bed?"

"Uh-huh. Lijah was on guard till a few minutes back. He just turned in to catch hisself some sleep afore mornin'."

"O'Hara get here?" Quince asked softly.

"Yeah. Him an' Smithers an' Bartram are here. Havin' a big confab, come mornin'."

Chapter
VI

The Rallying Call

The morning sun was lifting over the pines when the men gathered around the long table in the Hatfield home. Breakfast was over, and the women were at work. Trent sat quietly at the foot of the table, thoughtfully looking at the men around him. Yet even as he looked, he could not but wonder how many would be alive to enjoy the fruits of the victory, if victory it was to be.

The five Hatfields were all there. Big O'Hara was there, too, a huge man with great shoulders and mighty hands, a bull for strength and a good shot. Bartram, young, good-looking, and keen, would fight. He believed in what he was fighting for, and he had youth and energy enough to be looking forward to the struggle.

Smithers was middle-aged, quiet, a man who had lived a peaceful life, avoiding trouble, yet fearless. He was a small man, precise, and an excellent farmer, probably the best farmer of the lot.

Two more horsemen rode in while they were sitting down. Jackson Hight was a wild-horse hunter, former cowhand, and buffalo hunter; Steven Runyon was a former miner.

Parson Hatfield straightened up slowly. "I reckon this here meetin' better get started. Them Haleses ain't a-goin' to wait on us to get organized. I reckon they's a few things we got to do. We got to pick us a leader, an' we got to think of gettin' some food."

Trent spoke up. "Parson, if you'll let me have a word. We all better leave our places an' come here to yours. We better bring all the food an' horses we got up here."

"Leave our places?" Smithers objected. "Why, man, they'd burn us out if we aren't there to defend 'em. They'd ruin our crops."

"He's right," O'Hara said. "If we ain't on hand to defend 'em, they sure won't last long."

"Which of you feel qualified to stand off Hale's riders?" Trent asked dryly. "What man here could hold off ten or twenty men? I don't feel I could. I don't think the Parson could, alone. We've got to get together. Suppose they burn us out. We can build again, if we're alive to do it, an' we can band together and help each other build back. If you ain't alive, you ain't goin' to build very much!"

"Thet strikes me as bein' plumb sense," Hight said, leaning forward. "Looks to me like we got to sink or swim together. Hale's got too much power, an' we're too scattered. He ain't plannin' on us gettin' together. He's plannin' on wipin' us out one at a time. Together, we got a chance."

"Maybe you're right," O'Hara said slowly. "Dick Moffitt didn't do very well alone."

"This place can be defended," Trent said. "Aside from my own place, this is the easiest to defend of them all. Then, the house is the biggest and strongest. If we have to fall back from the rocks, the house can hold out."

"What about a leader?" Bartram asked. "We'd better get that settled. How about you, Parson?"

"No." Parson drew himself up. "I'm right flattered, right pleased. But I ain't your man. I move we choose Trent, here."

There was a moment's silence, and then O'Hara spoke up. "I second that motion. Trent's good for me. He whipped old King Bill."

Runyon looked thoughtfully at Trent. "I don't know this gent," he said slowly. "I ain't got any objections to him. But how do we know he's our man? You've done a power of feudin', Parson. You should know this kind of fightin'."

"I do," Parson drawled. "But I ain't got the savvy Trent has. First, lemme say this here. I ain't been here all my life. I was a sharpshooter with the Confederate Army, an' later I rid with Jeb Stuart. Well, we was only whipped once, an' that was by a youngster of a Union officer. He whipped our socks off with half as many men-an' that officer was Trent here."

Trent's eyes turned slowly to Parson, who sat there staring at him, his eyes twinkling. "I reckon," Hatfield went on, "Trent is some surprised. I ain't said nothin' to him about knowin' him, specially when his name wasn't Trent, but I knowed him from the first time I seen him."

"That's good enough for me," Runyon said flatly. "You say he's got the savvy, I'll take your word for it."

Trent leaned over the table. "All right. All of you mount up and go home. Watch your trail carefully. When you get home, load up and get back. Those of you who can, ride together. Get back here with everything you want to save, but especially with all the grub you've got. But get back, and quick."

He got to his feet. "We're goin' to let Hale make the first move, but we're goin' to have a Hatfield watchin' the town. When Hale moves, we're goin' to move, too. We've got twelve men-"

"Twelve?" Smithers looked around. "I count eleven."

"Jackie Moffitt's the twelfth," Trent said quietly. "I gave him a Sharps. He's fourteen. Many of you at fourteen did a man's job. I'll stake my saddle that Jackie Moffitt will do his part. He can hit squirrels with that gun, an' a man's not so big. He'll do.

"Like I say, we've got twelve men. Six of them can hold this place. With the other six, or maybe with four, we'll strike back. I don't know how you feel, but I feel no man ever won a war by sittin' on his royal American tail, an' we're not a-goin' to."

"That's good talk," Smithers said quietly, "I'm not a warlike man, but I don't want to think of my place being burned when they go scot-free. I'm for striking back, but we've got to think of food."

"I've thought of that. Lije an' Saul Hatfield are goin' out today after some deer. They know where they are, an' neither of them is goin' to miss any shots. With the food we have, we can get by a few days. Then I'm goin' after some myself!"

"You?" O'Hara stated. "Where you figger on gettin' this grub?"

"Blazer." He looked down at his hands on the table and then looked up. "I'm not goin' to spend three days, either. I'm goin' through Smoky Desert!"

There was dead silence. Runyon leaned forward, starting to speak, but then he sat back shaking his head. It was Smithers who broke the silence.

"I'll go with you," he said quietly.

"But, man!" Hight protested. "There ain't no way through that desert, an' if there was-"

"The Indians used to go through," Trent said quietly, "and I think I know how. If it can be done, I could reach Blazer in a little over a day an' start back the same night."

He looked over at Jesse Hatfield. "You want to watch Cedar? I reckon you know how to Indian. Don't take any chances, but keep an eye on 'em. You take that chestnut of mine. He's a racer. You take that horse, an' when they move, you take the back trails for here."

Jesse Hatfield got up and slipped from the room. Then Trent said, "All right, start rolling. Get back here when you can."

He walked outside and saddled the buckskin. Jackie sauntered up, the Sharps in the hollow of his arm.

"Jackie," Trent said, "you get up there in the eye, an' keep a lookout on the Cedar trail." Mounting, he rode out of the hollow at a lope and swung into the trail toward his own cabin.

He knew what they were facing, but already in his mind the plan of campaign was taking shape. If they sat still, sooner or later they must be wiped out, and sooner or later his own men would lose heart. They must strike back. Hale must be made to learn that he could not win all the time, that he must lose, too.

All was quiet and green around the little cabin, and he rode up, swinging down. He stepped through, hurriedly put his grub into sacks, and hung it on a packhorse. Then he hesitated. Slowly, he walked across to the peg on the cupboard. For a long minute he looked at the guns hanging there. Then he reached up and took them down. He buckled them on, heavy- hearted and feeling lost and empty.