"Keep inside," he advised. "Them Teehannos will pot you if you show yourself in the door. Leave 'im alone—I ain't worried about Winchester."
"But this town is dangerous," protested McIvor. "We three ought to get together. I believe there's a reward—and a big one too—on the head of every one of us."
"Come over here in the corner," beckoned Meshackatee, and they took seats at a table in the rear. "Now listen," he said, "we stay here all night. You're dead right—the damned burg is dangerous. These officers in town, the city marshal and such, have crept plumb under the house. It's Texas Day—or was. But here's the hell of it—I've got it straight enough they're jest waiting for one of us to leave. We're safe, here in town, but the minute we leave—well, I'm thinking about writing my will."
"I can't understand it," said McIvor at last, "and yet, in a way, I can. Miz Zoolah came ahead and hired all these gunmen and then Isham broke cover and joined her. He's got a ranch out here somewhere——"
"That's where Winchester is," whispered Meshackatee. "They don't know he's come down. He's out looking over the ground."
"Just where is this ranch?" asked Hall after a pause, and when Meshackatee told him he fell silent. The night dragged on slowly and the games of chance closed, they watched and slept by turns; but as the morning drew near Hall rose up quietly and slipped out by the back way to the corral. In the box stall he found his horse and led him quickly to the street, then mounted and rode off through the darkness. Something told him to go back, to turn and ride for the hills, to seek out Allifair and never come back; but something else urged him on, something warned him to strike now, before his enemies could kill him by treachery. In the river-bottom silt his horse's feet were muffled, he threaded the ghostly roadways in silence; and at the fourth cross-road south he turned to the west, taking shelter beneath the blackness of tall cottonwoods.
It was the darkness before the dawn when he sighted the place and knew it by the baying of hounds and, finding some waste land nearby covered with mesquite trees and high weeds, he took cover and waited for the light. But now that he was still his heart grew sick and he almost repented of his purpose. A little more patience, a few more days of grace, and Meshackatee or Winchester might kill Isham. But no, that was wrong, for even in one day Isham's gunmen might shoot down all three of them. The time to strike was now, before they had recovered from their surprise and had a chance to lay other plans; and the man to strike was Isham, the head and front of the gang, the man whose cunning and hate urged them on. Three times already Hall had set out to kill him and each time had been diverted from his purpose. This time he would die if he failed.
As the sun came up he crept to the edge of the wild land and searched the Scarborough ranch with his glasses; and already they were astir, loading some wheat sacks on a hay-wagon, rearranging them, making a trench down the middle. He lay watching them curiously, trying to divine their zealous interest in the loading of that grist for the mill; but when the horses were hitched up he was suddenly enlightened, for Isham climbed up on the load. It was a traveling fort, a barricade on wheels; and as he settled down and took the reins they handed him up his guns and opened the gate to the road. Men that Hall had not seen now appeared from their ambush, hurrying to catch up their mounts and follow; and while they were saddling Isham drove out the gate and turned his team towards town.
Hall drew back from his lookout and ran to his horse, then hurried to a place by the road; but as the wagon came toward him he could see nothing but Isham's feet—he was concealed behind a wall of solid wheat. He hesitated, for there were loop-holes between the piled-up sacks and Isham would have him at his mercy; and yet, if he allowed this chance to slip by——. He crouched back, confused and distrait. But while he weighed the chances against him there was a stir across the road, a rush and a breaking of brush; and from the cover of the mesquite thicket a horseman burst out and went charging down on the wagon. Isham rose up to scramble back, but the horseman was upon him, he fired twice, never slackening his pace; and then, without a pause he reined back into the brush and went plunging away through the trees. Hall drew back trembling—it was Winchester Bassett, and who ever knew Winchester to miss?
At the shooting the heavy farm-team shied and cramped the wheels, but now with reins dangling they went galloping up the road, spilling off grain-sacks in their terrified flight. There was a yell from the ranch-house, the patter of pursuing hoof-beats; and as the Texans dashed past, Hall ran for his horse and was lost in the thicket of mesquites. Isham Scarborough was dead and Winchester had killed him, but there was still the law to be reckoned with. There would be a search for the murderer, a hue-and-cry through the wastelands, perhaps later a marking down of tracks; and while Winchester had fired the shots it would go hard with Hall if he were caught near the scene of the crime. Winchester had counted his life as nothing, charging out like a whirlwind and winning by his very audacity; but now he would flee as swiftly as he had come, leaving nothing but his horse-tracks by the road. Hall spurred through the thickets and came out on a section-line, but as he was about to take flight he paused.