When we ride, we ride fast. When we hit, we hit hard. Seastrom, I want you to take eight men, pack a little cold grub in your roll, and hit down the trail toward Angels. Make camp in the trees below the Bowlus place where the road from Dead Man cuts over the ridge to town. Keep out of sight. Curly's outfit and Shander's uses that trail a lot. Take whatever comes along."
Seastrom rose with a suppressed grin. "That sounds good to me," he stated. Manners shook his head.
"Not to me. It's a style of war I don't approve of. I'll lend a hand against any attack they make, but I won't send men bushwhacking, Charterhouse."
"Won't ask it," delcared Charterhouse. "But will you send one of your men for the doctor? I can't trust a single Box M man in Angels."
"I'm riding down there on a quick trip. I'll see to it." Manners swung to the saddle and gathered his riders. He studied the Box M crew thoughtfully. "You boys are hell-bent on fighting now. But when some of you get riddled, you'll see my policy is better. However, I'm not the boss. Whatever happens, I'll be keeping a watch on the ranch-house. There'll always be one of my men cruising around to see that nothing happens to Sherry. I'll hold you personally to account if anything does happen to her, Charterhouse. I'll be back tonight to take care of old John's funeral."
Clint nooded and watched the group swing south. Seastrom had gone about his chore enthusiastically and was even now bringing up his chosen riders. One of them went to the kitchen for cold grub.
Clint beckoned Seastrom apart from the rest and spoke a low warning. "Watch your flanks, Heck. Don't be taken by surprise."
Seastrom looked lazily at him. "I was wondering if you had some other reason for sending us down there."
"Sugar draws flies," said Clint. "Do what I tell you—and don't move away from that trail until you get word."
Seastrom winked blandly. "I guess you're dry behind the ears." He motioned his party to follow. They filed past the kitchen, got their provisions and posted along in pursuit of Manners' party.
Charterhouse turned back and spoke to Fitzgibbon. "You collect ten more hands, Fitz. We're riding another way. May not be back tonight. Now the rest of you," nodding at the assembled crew, "are to stick tight. Keep a strict watch and let nobody surprise you. Haggerty, you're in charge of quarters. Keep a guard out tonight. You've got about fifteen men and that's ample to stave off any sort of trouble."
"I reckon I know my business," grunted Haggerty.
So far Charterhouse had let the foreman's hostile talk pass unnoticed. He saw now it was time for him to challenge Haggerty so that the crew would know exactly where he stood.
"Listen, if I didn't think you knew your business, you'd be on your way. You work with me—or you take your time and walk. Is that clear?"
"I'm a Box M man," growled Haggerty. "And was one long before you came. I know what to do. I'll stick. But that ain't saying you and me won't settle our private argument some of these days."
"I'm looking forward to the time—with interest," drawled Charterhouse.
Haggerty glared harshly at him and stalked away. Fitzgibbon was organizing the second group of riders as quickly and efficiently as Seastrom had the first, but with only a tenth of the talk and energy. The more Charter-house saw of this quiet, unromantic little man the better he liked him. Haggerty had stopped by the barn and was talking to one of the men covertly; Clint paid a moment's attention and then went into the house and shut the door.
Sherry Nickum sat in a chair, looking at him with queerly set features. It seemed to Clint she had fought so hard to suppress the grief and tragic remembrance that the struggle had left her bereft of strength. Even so, his throat tightened from the effect of her slim, relaxed beauty, and he had difficulty in carrying out his calm announcement.
"I'm moving," said he. "Don't know when I'll be back, nor do I know what will happen. But we're riding, and it seems likely we'll lock horns with the renegades somewhere along the line. Maybe it appears as if we're hurrying the business unduly. For me, I see nothing but danger in further delay."
She rose from the chair and came to him, gray eyes blurring. "I want you to do what you think best. I'll hold up my part—"
Then she gave way at last, swaying against him, a wild burst of emotion beating against his chest. Like a father, he put his arms around her while the minutes went by and her body trembled to the torrent so suddenly released. Then the sound of her crying died in the quiet room and her voice came up, muffled and small.
"Sorry, but I had to get it out of me, Clint. I'm through now and the worst of the hurt is over. Take care of yourself. Be as kind and just as you can in this terrible business. That's all I can say. I've lived in Casabella too long ever to expect a happy ending. Always it has been black curses, killings, treachery and brutality. I will stay here, no matter what happens. And...be careful."
She drew away, and as he turned he caught one glimpse of her white, clear face. Then he was on the porch, finding his party ready. He mounted and led it north along the yard, halting once to give Haggerty a last order. "Get the handy man to turn out a box for Nickum—and the rest of it. Don't leave this place until you hear from me."
"Where'll you be?" challenged Haggerty, a glint of slyness in the sullen eyes.
"Somewhere north of here," replied Clint, and presseti on. He swept on out into the prairie. Some time after he looked back and discovered a rider cutting away from the ranch to the southwest; and he smiled grimly.
CHAPTER VIII
Blind Bowlus sat on his doorstep that evening and stirred uneasily the crisp air. During the late afternoon his sharp ears had picked up the tremble of riders going rapidly southward through the pines. The average man would have missed the sound but Bowlus, almost sightless, absorbed the news of the world through his ears with an ability approaching the miraculous. The average man, also, would have thought nothing about these casual rumors of hoofbeats. Here again Bowlus knew better. The very tempo of the air first interested, then warned him. Later he heard the brush crackling back of his place, dying so suddenly that he knew an ambush had been established. At dusk a single rider had passed completely around the clearing on a scout, whereupon Bowlus grunted scornfully, "Damn fool, I couldn't draw a bead on him, blind as I be. Nobody fools old Bowlus."
All this was preliminary. He ate his supper, full in the knowledge that this little clearing was the center around which forces groped and parried for advantage. Dusk passed into dark and for a short interval the world was in the spell of a deep, pervading stillness. Bowlus, true to his habits, smoked a pipe, cheeks slightly turned to catch the first faint runner of night's breeze. He loved to rest on the stoop and feel the universe absorb the dying day, to wait ifor the first sound of wind in the leaves and to catch, through the blurred windows of his soul, the first faint sparkle of stars. These were elementary pleasures, but all that Bowlus had left to him; and like some pagan he steeped himself in the peace and vast serenity of it. Yet not this evening; his sensitive mind was alive to the impalpable threats of forthcoming struggle, his solitude destroyed. And because he was part and parcel of the rangeland he clenched his old fists and shook them outward.
"If I had my sight back—just for a month, even—they could cut me down and be damned to 'em. I'd ride with Box M again, I would. I'd swallow smoke and sling lead and sweat blood, like they're sure going to do. Just one more lick, that's all I'd ask. Hell, better be dead than useless."
He drew in his arms and listened. A stray fragment of sound came slow and soft over the clearing. His dog, crouched by the steps, rose and stiffened. Bowlus said, "Shut up, Tige," and ran a hand over the beast to discover which way he pointed. The dog's muzzle was against the east, trembling with a suppressed growl. "You hush, Tige, and mind your own business." A bit of metal jingled. Then all this faded and was lost for a full five minutes. Bowlus grew rigid, teeth clamping around the stem of his pipe. Fear came to him, the first time in years of lonely living.