And then a cry burst from the throat of little Johnson. “Yip-yip-yee-ow-ooo!” It was a blood curdling scream, coming from away down in a man’s throat. It filled every corner of the little saloon, burst through the doors and windows and stopped men out on the street.
Donny Fletcher’s mouth fell open and he gasped in utter astonishment. He had not heard that yell in more than eight years, but he knew and recognized it. He would know it to his dying day.
It was the yell of the guerrilla. The terrifying cry that had chilled the blood of men and women for four years, that, to this day would blanch the faces of men who had heard it before.
He started forward. The name and face of Mitch Johnson had been dimmed by the years. The guerrilla yell refreshed his memory.
He dove across the room. He caught the arm of the flank attacker as it was launched at the back of Mitch Johnson’s head. He caught the arm and jerked on it so viciously the man whirled around. And then Fletcher’s hard fist crashed into his face.
Looking over Johnson’s head, big Pendexter saw Fletcher and yelled. “Keep outta this!”
Fletcher stepped forward, shoved hard against the big man’s face, then, as he let go of Johnson and fell back, smashed a terrific blow into Pendexter’s face. The big man reeled back, hit the wall and ricocheted from it, to the floor.
“Mitch Johnson!” Fletcher said.
“Donny Fletcher!”
“Up with ’em!” thundered a voice.
Fletcher whirled, his hands going instinctively to his hips. But there was nothing there. He looked at the double-barreled shotgun in the hands of the bandy-legged man just inside the door and his hands went slowly up over his shoulders. Beside him, Mitch Johnson cursed and also raised his hands.
“Back away,” ordered the man with the shotgun.
“Pendexter started it,” Mitch Johnson exclaimed. “Put down that gun, Andy Todd, and I’ll give you some of what Pendexter got. Or me and Donny’ll wait until Pendexter and Lempke get up and then we’ll fight the three of you. With fists, knives or guns. You take your pick—”
“You shut your mouth!” snapped Andy Todd.
Lempke was groaning and stirring on the floor. Big Pendexter, cursing, was already on his knees, climbing up.
“You’ll go to jail for this, Mitch Johnson,” he snarled.
“Jail?” whispered Donny Fletcher.
“He’s the sheriff,” replied Mitch. “An’ Lempke and Todd’re deputies. Didn’t — you know?”
“No.” Fletcher sighed. Then he half turned to Sheriff Pendexter who had made his feet. “I didn’t know you were the sheriff. I didn’t think sheriffs beat up fellows half their size.”
“You didn’t, eh?” sneered the sheriff. “We’ll talk that over — in jail. Come on!”
Mitch Johnson had a gun, but under the threat of the shotgun and the sheriff’s double weapons he surrendered it. Pendexter grunted when he learned Fletcher had no weapon.
The two of them, Johnson and Fletcher, were herded to a small, one-story adobe building almost directly across the street from the saloon. The interior consisted of one room, divided in two by iron bars. There was a desk and a couple of chairs in the main section. Behind the desk sat a man in a mussed Prince Albert and shapeless hat. He was bearded and his eyes were bloodshot. He seemed to have the jitters.
“Judge Hite,” said the sheriff when they all crowded into the adobe building, “got a couple prisoners to try.”
“What’s the charges?” asked the jittery judge.
“Resistin’ arrest—”
“Fifty dollars fine, each,” the judge said promptly.
“That ain’t all,” said the sheriff, sourly. “Attackin’ officers’ of the law — and cattle rustlin’—”
“You lie like hell!” burst out Mitch Johnson. “You can’t prove nothin’ like that.”
“The hell I can’t,” roared the sheriff. “Me and Lempke found a hide with the okay brand tacked on the wall of your shack.”
“What of it? I butchered it to eat — not to sell. Ain’t no law against that. Ever’body does it. Allus have and—”
“It’s stoppin’,” declared the sheriff. “The time’s come when you got to pay for the beef you eat. Ozzie Kohl’s good and sore about—”
“D’you buy the beef you eat?” demanded little Mitch Johnson.
The sheriff scowled. “I ain’t on trial. It’s you, you little runt.”
Johnson bristled and the judge intervened hastily. “Maybe you’d better drop the beef charge, Sheriff, After all, folks have been taking their food where they found it. Well — fifty dollars more apiece for assault. How’s that?”
“I won’t pay it!” cried Mitch Johnson.
“Then you’ll stay in jail until you do,” said the sheriff, grimly. “And it’ll be my pleasure to have you.”
“I haven’t got a hundred dollars,” protested Johnson.
“I’ll pay the fine,” volunteered Donny Fletcher.
The sheriff looked swiftly at Fletcher. “You got a hundred dollars to pay for yourself and another hundred for him?”
Fletcher reached into a pocket of his alkali stained trousers. He brought out a handful of gold coins and counted out ten double-eagles and dropped them on the desk before the judge.
“I guess that fixes things,” he said quietly.
The sheriff grunted. “For now. But you, Johnson, if you want good advice, you’ll pack your soogans and pull out of this county. You ain’t wanted here, an’—”
“An’ I’m a propity owner,” snapped Johnson. “You and Ozzie Kohl can’t run me out.”
“I’ve warned you.” Sheriff Pendexter glanced significantly at Fletcher. “An’ you — if you’re a friend of Johnson’s, you ain’t welcome around here.”
“I was just passing through,” Fletcher replied steadily, “but now that I’ve seen your country, maybe I’ll stick around awhile.”
Outside, little Mitch Johnson gripped Donny Fletcher’s arm. “Donny, how’d you ever come to ride into this country?”
“I’ve been in a lot of places, Mitch. I travel a lot. And you, Mitch, you’re settled here?”
Johnson scowled. “I squatted on a patch of land here. I make out, but this Ozzie Kohl you heard about, he’s been tryin’ to squeeze me off my place. That’s what the trouble’s been about Sheriff Pendexter’s owned by Ozzie Kohl.”
“I’ve heard that once before, today,” said Fletcher. “This Kohl must be an important man hereabouts.”
“He thinks he’s a cattle king. He sends twenty-thirty thousand head of beeves up to Kansas every year. Last year or so he’s been tryin’ to hog this range for himself. Hell, he’s got a half million acres right now.”
“How many acres have you got?”
Mitch Johnson chuckled. “I squatted on about a hundred and sixty. I’ve got a water hole, though, that Kohl wants. And he gets sore when I butcher a beef now and then. Hell, a man’s got to eat. No one in this country ever objected to a hungry man killing a steer.”
“You don’t have any of your own steers then?” Fletcher shook his head. “Where’s the percentage in hanging on to your place if you don’t raise anything on it?”
“The percentage is that it’s right in the middle of a pretty good range and it’s got water. I figure somebody — mebbe Kohl — will give me money for the place.”
“Same old Mitch,” grunted Fletcher.
They got their horses, mounted and rode out of Spring Valley. Then Mitch Johnson asked, “Seen any of the boys from Missouri lately?”
“I haven’t been in Missouri since ’66.” Fletcher sighed. “They made things pretty hot for us there — specially after Arch Clements and some of the boys held up that bank in Liberty.”