everything they’d done was useless.
Back toward the fire he could hear the growl of Idaho’s voice, the chinging of spur rowels, the slither of bit chains. He reached down, taking off his own spurs, which he wrapped in his neckerchief and thrust inside the front of his shirt while he listened, rummaging the night with his stare. Someplace to the left of him, deeper into the oaks, brush snapped again and a horse blew out a gusty breath and Grete, with nerves pulled tight as fiddle strings, lifted the pistol off his hip and went storming into the branch-black gloom.
Too late he glimpsed the solider dark of a man’s crouched shape lunging erect in his path, the in-swinging blur of an enlargening arm that he could not duck and could not stop short of. The world exploded inside his head, all falling lights, and he went spiralling down into a crackle of oak leaves and bent-over grass.
It was the shot pulled him out of it, its sound near enough to strike physically against him. He got a hand braced and pushed his chest off the ground, hearing the echoes break and run and, farther back, the shouts like dim whispers floating through the pound of feet.
He saw the grotesque dance of monstrous shadows and staggered up out of the clinging mists into a kaleidoscope whirl of brush, shapes, and faces. Blinding light fell over him and something pushed at his fist and something else tugged his memory; then the light fell away and became a held-up lantern, and a solidness directly in front of him was the accusing look of Ben Hollis. There was a ring of faces peering over Ben’s shoulder and a waiting sort of stillness which was indescribably ugly.
“Well,” Hollis prodded, “what have you got to say for yourself?”
Grete shook his head, trying to clear away the grogginess. He started to shove the girl’s brother-in-law aside and something came hard against his stomach.
Glancing down he saw the cocked gun in Ben’s fist and, under it, the twisted shape sprawled between them. French still looked like a character out of Scripture — and just about as dead.
SEVEN
“What happened?” Sary called, pushing a way through the ring of faces. Her own turned gray as wood ash when she discovered Irv French with a hole through his head.
“What does it look like?” Ben said, sneering. “He’s already tried once. This time he got the job done!”
“Are you trying to say Farraday…?”
“Here’s his gun,” Ben said. “I just took it away from him.”
She must have shown disbelief because Idaho said, “I seen that much.” A couple more of them nodded. Sary took the pistol and shook out four cartridges; the other shell stuck and showed the mark of the hammer. She tipped up the barrel and fetched the muzzle to her chin. “Look at Ben’s,” Grete said when he saw the way she eyed him.
Hollis, with a scornful laugh, passed over his gun without any argument, but could not forebear saying, “
I
got nothing to hide.”
Sary took the gun — a Schofield Smith & Wesson chambered for the .45 caliber center-fire cartridge — and, without touching the barrel-latch, moved it past her nose. Her eyes looked at Grete without any expression but he was willing to gamble it had not been fired. Still carrying Farraday’s unloaded Colt and its cartridges in her left hand she came around Rip and the Mexican to stop beside Grete, saying, “It wasn’t Ben’s pistol.”
Farraday stared at the man for a moment, cursing himself for underestimating Hollis. The fellow might have the lip of a muley cow and no more grit than you would find in a rabbit, but there wasn’t anything wrong with the wheels in his think-box. He was telling the others:
“I’ve been suspicious of this ranny right from the start. All that yap about tracks! Sary and I both looked. It seemed plain enough when neither one of us found ’em it was just something he’d cooked up to excuse jumping French.”
Glancing around he said grimly, “The real point of that
Back toward the fire he could hear the growl of Idaho’s voice, the chinging of spur rowels, the slither of bit chains. He reached down, taking off his own spurs, which he wrapped in his neckerchief and thrust inside the front of his shirt while he listened, rummaging the night with his stare. Someplace to the left of him, deeper into the oaks, brush snapped again and a horse blew out a gusty breath and Grete, with nerves pulled tight as fiddle strings, lifted the pistol off his hip and went storming into the branch-black gloom.
Too late he glimpsed the solider dark of a man’s crouched shape lunging erect in his path, the in-swinging blur of an enlargening arm that he could not duck and could not stop short of. The world exploded inside his head, all falling lights, and he went spiralling down into a crackle of oak leaves and bent-over grass.
It was the shot pulled him out of it, its sound near enough to strike physically against him. He got a hand braced and pushed his chest off the ground, hearing the echoes break and run and, farther back, the shouts like dim whispers floating through the pound of feet.
He saw the grotesque dance of monstrous shadows and staggered up out of the clinging mists into a kaleidoscope whirl of brush, shapes, and faces. Blinding light fell over him and something pushed at his fist and something else tugged his memory; then the light fell away and became a held-up lantern, and a solidness directly in front of him was the accusing look of Ben Hollis. There was a ring of faces peering over Ben’s shoulder and a waiting sort of stillness which was indescribably ugly.
“Well,” Hollis prodded, “what have you got to say for yourself?”
Grete shook his head, trying to clear away the grogginess. He started to shove the girl’s brother-in-law aside and something came hard against his stomach.
Glancing down he saw the cocked gun in Ben’s fist and, under it, the twisted shape sprawled between them. French still looked like a character out of Scripture — and just about as dead.
SEVEN
“What happened?” Sary called, pushing a way through the ring of faces. Her own turned gray as wood ash when she discovered Irv French with a hole through his head.
“What does it look like?” Ben said, sneering. “He’s already tried once. This time he got the job done!”
“Are you trying to say Farraday…?”
“Here’s his gun,” Ben said. “I just took it away from him.”
She must have shown disbelief because Idaho said, “I seen that much.” A couple more of them nodded. Sary took the pistol and shook out four cartridges; the other shell stuck and showed the mark of the hammer. She tipped up the barrel and fetched the muzzle to her chin. “Look at Ben’s,” Grete said when he saw the way she eyed him.
Hollis, with a scornful laugh, passed over his gun without any argument, but could not forebear saying, “
I
got nothing to hide.”
Sary took the gun — a Schofield Smith & Wesson chambered for the .45 caliber center-fire cartridge — and, without touching the barrel-latch, moved it past her nose. Her eyes looked at Grete without any expression but he was willing to gamble it had not been fired. Still carrying Farraday’s unloaded Colt and its cartridges in her left hand she came around Rip and the Mexican to stop beside Grete, saying, “It wasn’t Ben’s pistol.”
Farraday stared at the man for a moment, cursing himself for underestimating Hollis. The fellow might have the lip of a muley cow and no more grit than you would find in a rabbit, but there wasn’t anything wrong with the wheels in his think-box. He was telling the others:
“I’ve been suspicious of this ranny right from the start. All that yap about tracks! Sary and I both looked. It seemed plain enough when neither one of us found ’em it was just something he’d cooked up to excuse jumping French.”
Glancing around he said grimly, “The real point of that
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