The Essential Max Brand - 29 Westerns in One Edition. Max Brand

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      At the same instant the firing of Hugh Dawn stopped, and Ronicky wheeled toward his companion.

      “How many?” he whispered.

      “Nailed one, sure,” replied Hugh Dawn, breathing hard. “And you?”

      “Three!” murmured Ronicky. “Down, Hugh!”

      He followed his own precepts by flattening himself against the floor. Well for him that he did so! Scarcely was he down and Hugh crouched likewise in the far and shadowy corner of the hut, when a shadowy form darted into the open doorway and blazed away at the window where Ronicky had been standing. Too late the outlaw saw the target sprawled along the floor instead of erect, and changed his aim. Before he could get in a second shot Ronicky had fired for the sixth time, and the other, gasping with agony, spun over and disappeared through the doorway and into the outer night.

      Then came silence.

      “Did you turn ‘em?” whispered Ronicky.

      “Every one! One down and four went back—and a couple of them, I think, was nicked a little!”

      His exultation shook his voice. But Ronicky pointed to the rear of the house with a warning gesture.

      Of the eleven men of Moon’s band, four had fallen dead, or apparently dead, in the attack. Two had been badly wounded by Ronicky, and perhaps one or more of the others had been struck by the bullets of Hugh Dawn. In a word, where the odds had been, counting Jack Moon, twelve to two, they had suddenly shrunk through this rushing assault and its attendant casualties to the far less imposing total of seven to two. Of the seven, at least two were badly hurt. It left at the most not more than five fighting effectives. But Ronicky, not knowing that Jack Moon had deserted his men, and never dreaming but that he was the directing mind behind the rush, counted the odds still three to one.

      The attack had at least placed the outlaws in a superior position to that which they had held before. One wounded man and one man sound in body and limb were now under the rear wall of the shack, sheltered by their nearness to it against gunfire from Ronicky or Dawn. Moreover—an incalculable advantage—they could attack suddenly, and they could overhear any but the most secretly whispered communications of Ronicky and Dawn.

      That very nearness, however, suggested to Ronicky the next maneuver.

      “Watch that rear wall, Hugh!” he called loudly.

      “Two of the skunks are behind it and may fire through the logs. Watch it close!”

      He added in a sudden whisper at the very ear of his companion: “We’ve got to get out now, Hugh, or wait here and be stuck like rats in the morning. We got to get out! The only way is to make a break across the clearing. You see? They’ve got two men right under the rear wall now, and that makes it so’s we can’t shoot out from the back door. The rest of ‘em will come up on that side, and then they’ll have us six to two, and we’re goners at close range!”

      Hugh Dawn nodded.

      “Straight across the clearing when I give the word,” said Ronicky swiftly, taking command as though it had been agreed to put matters into his hands in the crisis. The older man nodded without a word and set his jaw grimly at the thought of that desperate venture.

      Ronicky, meantime, was calmly reloading his revolver, keeping the weapon which he had taken from the holster of Bud Kent as a reserve of ammunition. Hugh Dawn imitated the good example.

      The fire from the flaming waste was gradually decreasing. The oil which had made the flare so great had now been well nigh exhausted, and the hard light decreased in proportion; but it was still far too bright to admit of a rush for the safe darkness of the trees. A new and more dangerous expedient came to Ronicky Doone.

      “Watch well and keep your nerve,” he cautioned Dawn, still in the most guarded whisper. “I’m going to explore!”

      So saying, he dropped to his knees and boldly slid out from the front door of the little building and toward its left side. In that direction, as he had noted with a glance, the quantity of ignited waste which Hugh Dawn had thrown through the rear door had been far less than that which he himself had flung out. Accordingly, while that which he himself had tossed out was still blazing, the waste of Hugh Dawn was now a darkening mass of cinders casting hardly any light. In that direction, therefore, he hoped to escape observation.

      He stayed close to the wall, wriggling forward slowly and constantly scanning the trees before him in search of the glint of a rifle or revolver raised to shoot. But he caught no such deadly glimmer, and for sound there came only the stifled groaning of the wounded men.

      So he came, pushing his revolver before him in extended right hand, to the rear of the house and glanced around the corner. As he had expected, he found two men there. But their condition was not at all what he had anticipated. The one lay on his back with his arms cast out crosswise. Above him knelt the huge body of Silas Treat who was making gestures toward the forest as though silently to encourage his backward comrades to come to his aid in this advanced position.

      Perhaps they could not see him; perhaps their nerve was not up to undertaking. At any rate, no one had as yet ventured forth. As for the wounded man, it must be he who had stumbled when Ronicky fired the second time at the group of three; and he was far gone, if not fatally hurt. Not an arm’s length away was the immense back of Si Treat, seemingly confident that his closeness to the wall made attack from the house impossible.

      Ronicky shoved his revolver against the back of the giant’s neck. There was a quiver and then a stiffening in that immense body. Then Silas Treat turned his head slowly and without a sound stared into the face of Ronicky.

      Why they were not observed, Ronicky could not tell, unless the rest of the band had now shifted around to the shack from which the first of the assault had been launched.

      “Drop your gun!” commanded Ronicky, noting from the corner of his eye that the wounded man made no effort to interfere—perhaps he was swooning, as a matter of fact.

      Si Treat obeyed without a word, tossing the gun into the shadows.

      “Crawl past me,” whispered Ronicky to his captive, “and mind that you go slow so’s nobody can see you from the forest. With the first shot that’s fired, I sink a chunk of lead into your heart, Si! Now move!”

      Without answer Silas Treat began obediently to work his way around Ronicky, past the corner of the shack, and down its side until at Ronicky’s order he turned into the interior of the little house.

      “Now get back against that wall,” commanded Ronicky, “and keep your hands over your head. That’s right. Hugh, get that rope and tie him, and tie him hard. I ought to stick a knife into the skunk, and I will if he don’t talk out!”

      Hugh Dawn, muttering in his astonishment, obeyed and bound their formidable captive tightly. Si Treat, in the meantime, retained an immobile expression, as they could see by the last glimmer of the burning waste.

      “Now,” said Ronicky, “talk fast and talk straight. Part of what I’m going to ask you I already know. If I catch you in a lie, it’s the last word you speak. Understand?”

      Treat nodded.

      “First: Where’s the rest of ‘em?”

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