Authors: Luke; Short
Marauders' Moon (25 page)
Buck crashed open the door to the bunk house, but he had no time to speak. The men were piling out of the two doors and the crescendo of gunfire rose until it seemed to rock the earth.
The Bannister riders were at a disadvantage. They were bunched, some still mounted, and the stampede that resulted was a fury of horseflesh and gunshots.
Some tried to break through and turn back, and rode over men in their frantic haste. Others forted down behind shot horses. Still others ran through the deepening dusk for the shelter of the burned house.
Webb flung open the door and dodged to the corner of the house. He picked out the gaudy shirt of Britt Bannister, afoot in that tangle of rearing horses and shooting men.
Recklessly Webb ran for that moil. Britt had fought his way out now and was running for the shelter of the ruined house.
A man shot at Webb from horseback, and Webb smashed his gun across the nose of the horse, which reared back into more milling riders. Now he was in this throng of men who were snarling and cursing and trying to free themselves. He did not shoot. He kept Britt Bannister in sight until he disappeared into the deep shadows of what was left of the burned-out house.
Webb followed him, diving through a door.
“Where's young Bannister?” he asked a man who was firing a rifle through a window.
The man turned. It was Perry Warren. Even as he recognized Webb, he nosed up his rifle and fired blindly. Webb shot and saw him go down, but he did not stop. He dashed into the next room, where a man was scrambling frantically through a window. And on into the next, which was a hall.
Down its dark length he saw someone move.
“Bannister!” Webb called. A racket of shots ripped orange in that darkness, and Webb felt something slam into his leg. He fell, his gun swinging up and exploding twice.
“Come and get me, damn you!” a man snarled. It was Bannister's voice.
Webb loaded his gun, lying there trying not to move more than was necessary. He had this house figured out now. This was the corridor where the stairs climbed to the second story.
The stairs were burned now, a heap of rubbish lying where they had once stood. The corridor, Bannister had obviously discovered, was a dead-end one.
Webb said quietly, “Come out of there with your hands up and you won't get shot, you fool!”
There was no answer. Webb called, “Bannister!”
A shot ripped out and the slug splintered into the rubble beside Webb's head.
“Come out of there!” Webb said. “You won't get shot.”
“Did that killer's gal put you up to that?” Bannister taunted.
Webb cursed him, a blind rage boiling up in him. He did not hear the gunfire outside, though it was swelling mightily in the lowering darkness. He called out, “She did, and I don't know why! But I won't shoot you! But if you don't come out of there, I'll come in and take you!”
There was no answer, only a slow moving back in the dark. Suddenly Bannister said, “All right, I'll surrender.”
Webb called, “Throw down those guns. Throw 'em loud, so I can hear 'em!”
He counted two distinct crashes of metal on dirt and rock and then he called, from where he lay, “Come out! With your hands up!”
He heard Bannister walking toward him. He could make out an indistinct bulk in the dark, two hands held over the head. Then the footsteps paused, not ten feet ahead of him.
“Where are you?” Bannister asked plaintively.
Webb rose. “Here. Come out andâ”
A blast of gunfire cut off his words. He fell to the floor, rolling against the wall. Despairingly he remembered his promise to Martha that Britt would not be killed. There was only one thing to do then and that was to pretend that Britt's treachery had worked. Rolling over on his face, he groaned softly and lay still.
Now he could hear Britt's first tentative step toward him. There were two more steps, and then Britt halted as if uncertain. There was a long silence, and then more confidently Britt moved toward him. Webb heard him halt above him, and now he felt Britt's boot in his side, trying to toe him over. Webb relaxed, giving slackly against the pressure of Britt's boot. It was dark here and Webb knew that Britt would strike a match to make sure he was dead. The only question was, would he shoot a second time before he struck the match?
The following seconds seemed endless as Webb waited. Now he heard Britt fumbling around in his pockets. There was a pause and Webb gathered himself. He knew that in the first flash of light Britt would be momentarily blinded and that would be the time to act.
Now he listened, and suddenly the rasp of a match being struck came to him. Webb rolled over, lunging for the gun that Britt held slackly at his side. Webb's big hand settled over the cylinder, and then the match died and Britt pulled savagely at his gun.
Webb knew only that he must keep his hand around the cylinder so that the hammer could not fall. He was on his knees now when Britt's savage kick caught him in the side. Webb grunted and now grasped the gun with his other hand. Britt was kicking furiously at him, but in the darkness his kicks were deflected off Webb's thigh.
Kneeling now, both hands on the gun, Webb gathered all his strength and twisted with both hands, at the same time falling to the floor. His weight, combined with the twisting motion, wrenched the gun out of Britt's hands.
On his face now, Webb threw the gun out of the way and then rose to his knees, diving at Britt's legs. Wrapping his arms around Britt's thighs, he drove his body forward, legs pumping. Suddenly he felt Britt smash into the wall. Britt had been slugging blindly, furiously, at his back, but at the impact the blows ceased. With leverage now, Webb lifted and with a mighty heave dumped Britt head first over his shoulder. Webb was half turned when he heard Britt grunt as he hit the floor. Webb dived then and found he was astride Britt's body, and he began slugging wildly.
He could not remember the number of blows he took or gave. All he knew was that Britt bucked him off, that he clung to Britt, that they both rose and were finally erect, facing each other, striking blindly in the dark.
Maneuvering to his right, Webb suddenly saw Britt's form before him framed through a broken window against the lighter sky.
Savagely Webb drove his fist at Britt's head. The blow connected so solidly that the jolt traveled up to Webb's shoulder. Britt took two steps backward and the window sill caught him at the knee. Webb's lunge at him was almost too late, for Britt fell back through the window, Webb on top of him. Once on the ground, Britt did not move. Slowly Webb rose. He was aware now that the firing had ceased and that men were shouting to each other over by the bunk house, which now held a light. Suddenly a running form appeared out of the night in front of him, and he heard a girl's voice call, “Webb! Webb Cousins!”
Webb halted, his heart still thumping wildly. This would be Martha Tolleston, and he knew what her first question would be.
“Here,” Webb said. He saw her turn and before he could say more she had run into his arms. She held him tightly, burying her face in his chest, and Webb waited for the question.
Say it
, he thought.
Ask about him
.
“Are you hurt?” Martha asked.
“No,” Webb answered coldly. “Neither is he.”
Martha raised her head. “Who?”
“Britt. That's what you wanted to know, isn't it?”
There was a stirring at Webb's feet, and he looked down. Slowly Britt Bannister pulled himself to a sitting position, shaking his head. Gently Webb broke away from Martha, then reached down and hauled Bannister to his feet. He could not see the expression on Martha's face, but he said roughly, “There he is. I saved him for you.”
Martha was silent, and now Webb turned to Bannister. “Everyone pays up but you,” he said bitterly. “There she is and she wants you.”
“Do I?” Martha asked, a strange coldness in her voice.
Britt said grimly, “She may want me, but she hasn't got me.”
Martha said sharply, “Webb, what are you trying to do?”
“Just what you wanted me to,” Webb said bitterly. “Here he is all in one package, a little mussed, but still pretty.” He wheeled to walk away.
“Webb,” Martha's voice was more imploring than sharp. “Come back here!”
Webb halted and retraced his steps. “This is for you to hear,” Martha said. Now she half turned to Bannister. “Tell me something, Britt,” she demanded. “What turned you against me so suddenly?”
“You're a Tolleston,” Britt said.
“But I always was. You knew that.”
“I knew it,” Britt said thinly. “Trouble is I didn't know that your father helped kill my mother. I didn't know what trash you were.”
“Thank you, Britt,” Martha said softly. “For a while I thought we were the only two sane people in both our families. Now I know that I'm the only sane one. At least I'm sane enough that I can't hate you.”
“Sure,” Britt said derisively. “When do you plan to shoot me?”
At that moment Wardecker's voice called from the house, “Any Montana men left?”
Someone answered, “Two.”
“Tell 'em to hit the trail north now.”
“You'd better join them, Britt,” Martha said. “There's no place for you here. There never will be.”
Britt said thinly, “Suits me. The farther away I am from you the better I'll like it.” He wheeled and tramped off toward the bunk house and a horse.
Martha turned now to Webb. “Does that answer your question?”
“Did I ever ask one?”
“Yes. Not in words, but it was in your eyes. You wondered if I still loved Britt. Now do you know?”
“I reckon,” Webb said slowly. “Was that the only question you saw that I didn't ask?”
“If you want an honest answer, no. I saw another,” Martha said.
“Like to answer it?”
“Not before it's asked,” Martha said.
Webb drew her to him and asked it.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Luke Short is the pen name of Frederick Dilley Glidden (1908â1975), the bestselling, award-winning author of over fifty classic western novels and hundreds of short stories. Renowned for their action-packed story lines, multidimensional characters, and vibrant dialogue, Glidden's novels sold over thirty million copies. Ten of his novels, including
Blood on the Moon
,
Coroner Creek
, and
Ramrod
, were adapted for the screen. Glidden was the winner of a special Western Heritage Trustees Award and the Levi Strauss Golden Saddleman Award from the Western Writers of America.
Born in Kewanee, Illinois, Glidden graduated in 1930 from the University of Missouri where he studied journalism. After working for several newspapers, he became a trapper in Canada and, later, an archaeologist's assistant in New Mexico. His first story, “Six-Gun Lawyer,” was published in
Cowboy Stories
magazine in 1935 under the name F. D. Glidden. At the suggestion of his publisher, he used the pseudonym Luke Short, not realizing it was the name of a real gunman and gambler who was a friend of Doc Holliday and Wyatt Earp. In addition to his prolific writing career, Glidden worked for the Office of Strategic Services during World War II. He moved to Aspen, Colorado, in 1946, and became an active member of the Aspen Town Council, where he initiated the zoning laws that helped preserve the town.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1937, 1957, 1964 by Frederick D. Glidden
Published in serial form under the title “Silver Horn Breaks”
Cover design by Andy Ross
ISBN: 978-1-5040-4086-0
This edition published in 2016 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
180 Maiden Lane
New York, NY 10038
