into Dead Man with 'em. The night ain't so young, either."
"We'll wait a minute."
A few, soft phrases came from Curly, at which Shander sharply checked him. "Never mind. You know what I'm waiting for, but keep it under your tongue."
Heck punched Charterhouse in the ribs, and Charter-house saw men in the rear of Curly's bunch shift. An uneasy sentence ran along the entire line. "Say, ain't there horses up yonder? I thought I heard—"
Charterhouse took a pace forward and spoke, each word falling flatly. "You're trapped. Give in—or fight!"
"By God—!"
The night was streaked suddenly by tangled shadows as Curly's bunch broke, wheeled and raced for protection. A gun flash mushroomed out and then a long and ragged volley smashed into Fort Carson's walls, disturbing the long sleeping ghosts of fighters dead and gone. Charter-house was on his stomach, crying, "Let them have it—let them have it!" and Box M's solid, blasting reply overbore the echoes of that first fire from the renegades. Curly had gone stark mad, his yells shrill as those of a woman, unprintable and weird. He seemed to be beating back one of his own followers, forcing him from flight. Others were in a milling mass near the sheds; Box M men had run out from shelter to cut off retreat that way.
Curly yelled again. "Charterhouse—damn your soul! Stand out and meet me! Where are you—where are you?"
Charterhouse stood up. "Come ahead, Curly."
Lead smashed into the wall behind him like hail. Glass jangled and there was a ripping of wood. A horseman wheeled and aimed at him. It was Curly, still cursing.
Charterhouse met the man with point-blank bullets; the horse swerved, suddenly riderless and got tangled in the porch rail of an adjoining house. Other ponies, saddles empty, were stampeding around the empty plaza. Curly's men were badly split up; a part of them had dismounted and were fighting from individual coverts; another part, taking whatever leadership offered, rode over to a barrack across the plaza and tumbled inside.
Charterhouse called at Heck. "Pick up a few boys and get behind that thing. That's just the sort of a cage I want 'em in." And then, knowing the dispiriting power of a leader's death, he flung his words out into the frenzied plaza. "Curly's dead! Come on, Box M, crush those snipers! Get around—flank 'em—pour the lead!"
"Curly's dead!"
Three of the renegades, still mounted and boxed in one corner of the plaza, seemed to lose reason. They flung themselves diagonally over the open space and drove for liberty. Charterhouse fired; other guns roared in his ears, and he saw a saddle emptied. The other two got past.
There was a wicked slash of bullets down by the shed as the two survivors tried for the prairie and then another horse galloped aimlessly back without guidance. Box M was tasting victory. Punchers sallied out of their protection and alternately ducked and scurried over to smother the isolated snipers along the barracks. Heck was shouting tempestuously, "Come over here, Box M—we got this shebang tied in knots! Come on, you scorpions!"
Charterhouse ran across toward Heck's gang. A shadow leaped at him, missed and went by. He flung himself to the ground, dust in his face, feeling lead strike around his head. A sharp crack and a strangled cry—and Fitzgibbon was talking calmly.
"Hurt, Charterhouse?"
"No."
"You hadn't oughta be so brash. Watch out!"
Another pair of riders elected to fight clear, flashing out from the shadows. Hoofs grazed Charterhouse, a dangling stirrup knocked him down, and from the prairie came a long halloo of defiance. He got up and labored with his wind. A gun popped here and there, but the madness of the initial shock was dying. Seastrom yelled again for reinforcements. Some battle between individuals flared by the horse sheds and stopped abruptly. The snipers were quitting, some captured, some beyond capture, and some wriggling out to the prairie afoot. Box M began to concentrate on the barrack containing the bulk of Curly's gang. Charterhouse caught one of his men by the arm.
"Rip down some planks and start a fire here. A husky one to see by." Then he closed on the barrack and called out. "Slack off, Box M. Hold your lead. You Curly men—it's all over. Don't try to make a stand. We've got you crushed. Curly's dead. Throw down your guns."
Silence descended. Somewhere a man groaned and somewhere else was a bitter cursing. Out of the barrack came a sullen, tentative proposal.
"You fellows guarantee us a free ride to the county line, and we'll come."
"Guarantee nothing."
"We don't aim to step out and be shot down. We'll either get unhindered passage over the line or else we'll fight it out. We know Casabella politics."
The Box M man had accumulated his tinder-dry boards and some sort of kindling material. He struck a match, applied it, and sprang away. In dead silence the assembled punchers watched the fitful spiral of fire sputter, fall and catch hold. Charterhouse spoke again. "There will be no lynching and no shooting. Either surrender or else."
"Or else what?" jeered the voice. "We can punch some holes in you buzzards yet. Go to hell."
"You'll go to hell in a crackling blaze," said Charter-house. "See this little bonfire? If I put one of these burning planks against that barrack, you won't live fifteen minutes."
The trapped renegades debated. The spokesman tried again. "Well, what if we come out?"
"You are going to Angels and sleep in the jug until Box M gets ready either to put you on trial or kick you out of the county. It's apt to be the second choice, considering the state of jury trials in this neck of the woods."
"Your word for that?"
"My word for it."
"Ain't worth a hell of a lot," grumbled the spokesman.
"No? Well, it's the best you got on the subject, brother. This fire is getting large and comfortable."
"All right, we'll come."
Charterhouse motioned to the nearest Box M men to stand beside the barrack door. "All right, inside. Pop out one at a time, elbows stiff. Heck, you herd these brutes into shape. Better snag a rope around 'em somehow."
"Just leave that to me," agreed Heck.
Charterhouse skirted the leaping fire and walked back toward the sheds. Other Box M men were poking through the shadows, swearing morosely. One of them called toward the sheds. "Ain't there an old flat-bed wagon in there? Used to be."
"Yeah. What for?"
"What for? What in damnation you think for? For them that's past walking, of course. Drag it out. We can hook onto the tongue and haul it home with ropes."
Charterhouse felt weary. And when he saw a sprawled, still body in front of him he reached for his matches sadly. The single flare of light told him all he wanted to know. There lay all that remained of the swashbuckling, vainly immature savage known as Curly. A short life—and nothing to show for it but a stain of blood on the earth. Fitzgibbon, some yards off, had repeated the performance, and announced his discovery with an unusual departure from matter-of-factness. "Great Guns—Shander!"
"The roll of the crooked," muttered Charterhouse. "He was riding at the head of the party and caught the worst of the fire." Rather bitterly he summed up that rancher's career. "He had his range and he wanted more. Now he's got just six feet of it left." Sitting on a porch, he reviewed the scene before him. Seastrom was herding the surrendered party into a long row by the revealing rays of the fire. Suddenly he called out. "Hey, Clint, do you know we've got Mister Shander's riders here, too? Kit and caboodle. A clean sweep. Gents, I'm pleased to see you at this party. Nothing would suit me better than to see the bottom of your boots kicking the breeze. Being we're civilized folks, I reckon it ain't to be. But, by gosh, I'd like to—and you know my sentiments on the subject once for all." Half a dozen men were wheeling the flat-bed wagon toward the fire; somebody came by the flames with an armful of saddle blankets and Charterhouse saw the man's face furrowed and wet. Crying—