The man-killers

by Dane Coolidge

No longer did they dare to ride over to the store and buy the drinks for their gunmen, and the neutrals. A wave of resentment had been roused up against them by the exposure of their treacherous plan, and they kept close to the Rock House and waited. But they were far from being whipped, and when Hall spoke of leaving he was warned that they were watching the trails. So he lingered on from day to day, hardly noticing the passage of time as he talked of the future with Allifair. But though she smiled bravely and agreed to all his plans, she had caught a trick from the watchful old squaw; and, whether they strolled beneath the cottonwoods or rode out across the plain, her eyes were always straying to the hills. Perhaps it was presentiment, a premonition of coming bloodshed—or perhaps, having lived with the Scarboroughs so long, she sensed what was going on—but each day she grew more watchful, more apprehensive of danger, though she passed it off with a smile.

As she passed through the doorway she glanced instinctively at the bullet-holes where the Slash-knife men had shot up the house; and the dark, bloody stains where three men had died sent a shudder through her body as she passed. Old memories leapt up of other days when her own kinsmen had been shot down at their doors, and when the man at her side had come prowling back at night to shoot down even more. He had killed her own kin, and her brothers had killed his; and now, like a nightmare, another feud rose to thwart them, for the Scarboroughs would shoot him on sight. For it was Hall, leaping out into the midst of the killers, who had defeated them by spoiling their aim; and she, by running away and revealing the plot, had added fresh fuel to their hate. But they would not kill her—even the Scarboroughs had their shame—all they would do would be to shoot down her lover. And so she waited, and trembled.

For a week and more the Bassetts had kept close, sensing the mischief in the air, but as the days wore by and the Scarboroughs did not strike, their vigilance at last relaxed. None of the Scarboroughs had been killed, it was not a blood-feud yet, but only some sheep-herders on the side of the Bassetts and some cowboys employed by the Scarboroughs. The old enmity remained and the Scarboroughs were implacable, but the Bassetts were still for peace. They had proved their worth as fighting men par excellence and were content to let sleeping dogs lie. So, as all remained quiet, Winchester rode out across the range; and the next day was Sharps' turn to go.

There had been a rain in the night and the morning was crystal clear, all the hills stood out clean against the sky, and as the sun rose up higher without revealing any ambush the men took their ropes and stepped out. It was Sharps who went first, heading straight across the flat to where his night-horse was circling its stake; and Winchester and Bill had started after him when something called them back. Hall ventured forth last of all, for Allifair had delayed him, and halfway to his horse she called him again. He turned, but too late—there was a volley from the hills and he and Sharps went down.

There was a silence, an aching moment when even the horses stood still; and then, as Allifair sprang out to run to Hall, a strong hand hurled her back. The door slammed behind her and as the bar fell in place she heard Winchester's voice in the darkness.

"It's them Scarboroughs!" he cursed. "Don't you step outside the door or they'll shoot you down like a dog. Bill, take that far loop-hole—they're up on this first hill—and Dad, you watch the door."

He fumbled for his gun and hurried off to guard a port-hole, and Old Henry took his post by the door. Within the darkened house there was silence again, except for the wailing of Susie and the muttering of the startled men. They were taken by surprise, and as they scanned the empty landscape they imagined enemies springing up everywhere. Bill watched the creek bed and Winchester the south hill; and Old Henry, his voice plaintive, gave way to senile laments as he gazed at the body of Sharps.

"He's—he's alive, boys!" he quavered, as he saw the huge bulk move; and before they could stop him he had unbarred the door and dashed out into the open. The assassins on the hilltop seemed to hesitate from shame, or perhaps they were waiting to make sure; but as he passed out the gate a heavy rifle roared and the old man tottered and fell.

"Come back here!" shouted Winchester, snatching Allifair as she fled; and, while he was dragging her back, Old Susie eluded him and ran screaming to bring in her husband. He had risen on his knees but as she stooped to lift him up a second bullet, aimed deadly straight, almost tore him from her arms. Old Henry was struck dead, but she would not believe it; she dragged him back anyway, crying out against his murderers, while the men on the hill-top laughed.

"That's three of 'em!" they yelled, and Winchester barred the door again, for he feared that his mother would be next. The Scarboroughs had come to make good their boast and kill the last of the Bassetts; and the old Indian woman was no more to them than one of his barking dogs. They had come to kill them all, and even the gentle Allifair could not pass out that door and come back. They were killers, after all, these cowardly Scarboroughs, whom he had allowed to live too long; but killers in their own way, the sneaking, stealthy way of the Apaches, who hunted men down like game. Three men already had fallen before their guns; but he knew them, they would not fight in the open. They would not rush the house, and, while Bill kept a lookout, Winchester stood with his hand on the door.