“There’s Sheriff Pendexter!” cried Fletcher. The sheriff popped out of The Texan saloon. Fletcher sent a bullet in His general direction, and the sheriff promptly dashed back into the saloon. The Barry brothers came out of the courthouse. Fletcher, looking over their heads, saw flames dancing inside. “Let’s give them hell now!” he said.
The five men mounted their horses and rode swiftly up the street, discharging their revolvers. At the end of the street, they reeled and galloped back. Guns began roaring from the saloons and various buildings, but the shooters inside were too timid to expose themselves and no damage was done. When they thundered past the courthouse on the return trip, flames were already roaring out through the windows. A half mile out of town, Fletcher halted his group. “There’ll be a posse after us,” he said. “We might as well teach them right now that it isn’t safe for posses to follow.”
The posse came inside of five minutes — seven or eight scattered riders. When they approached, the five guerrilla fighters dashed out of the woods at the edge of the road and charged, yelling and shooting. The posse scattered at the first charge, not even putting up a fight.
Fletcher would not let his men pursue. “We’ve done enough for this evening,” he said. “Now we’ve got to look for a hideout before Ozzie Kohl gets organized.” He chuckled. “The safest place to hide is right on the Kohl ranch. Ozzie won’t be looking for us there.”
They camped in a tiny grove of cottonwoods less than two miles from the Kohl ranch buildings. They picketed their horses nearby and kept watch. They were up with the dawn, shivering from the chill.
“Now,” said Fletcher, “it’s give Ozzie Kohl a taste of guerrilla warfare.”
They mounted and rode cautiously down toward the huddle of ranch buildings. A thread of smoke was rising from the chimney of the main house, but otherwise there was no sign of life about the place. They charged the buildings as they had charged Spring Valley the night before. They riddled them with bullets and then they were off, galloping toward the hills in the west.
“For a tough gang they certainly took that easy,” yelled Mitch Johnson as he rode beside Fletcher.
“That’s what I was thinking,” said Fletcher. At the top of a crest he pulled up his horse. “Look,” he said to Mitch. “There don’t seem to be more than a half dozen of them running around. And — they’re not even going for their horses.”
“You’d think there’s only them few down there,” commented Mitch, “instead of a big gang. You s’pose—?”
“I do,” said Fletcher. “There’s only a skeleton force at the ranch—”
“Then let’s ride back and give them what they gave Hawkinson and the others. We’ll burn—”
“Listen!”
Donny Fletcher held up his hand. His head was craned sidewards. His ears had heard gunfire, much gunfire. In the west.
Mitch Johnson heard it and said uneasily, “Sounds like shootin’ — over at Captain Morgan’s—”
“Come on!” cried Fletcher.
The little band put spurs to horses. Fletcher led them and he rode as he had not since the old Missouri days. The gunfire became louder, but more spasmodic. And then suddenly it stopped altogether. Fletcher didn’t like that at all.
Ethel Morgan was an early riser. She liked to ride on the range before the sun got too hot and as a rule was up and dressed by daybreak. This morning she was sipping the last of her breakfast coffee when she heard, outside, the clatter of many horses’ hoofs.
She went to the window and noted with astonishment, that a cavalcade of almost a score of riders was swirling about the ranchyard. She opened the door and stepped out to the veranda, just as her father came out of one of the bunkhouses and started toward the riders, some of whom were dismounting.
Behind the captain, Morgan cowboys filed out of the bunkhouse.
Eddie Kohl saw Ethel and dashed toward her. “Fine friends, you keep,” he exclaimed.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Ethel retorted coldly.
“That gunfighter, Fletcher. You and your old man left town with him the other night. Yah, you don’t know him and his gang went back and shot up the town last night?”
“I didn’t know it, but — perhaps he had cause. The things that have been happening around here—”
“That’s what we’re here to finish,” Eddie Kohl cut in, belligerently. “Me and my dad are sick and tired of being blamed for everything that happens. We—”
He broke off. A man cried out in anger in the group near the bunkhouse. Ethel looked quickly past Eddie and saw her father backing swiftly toward his own men who were lined up, facing the Kohl cowboys.
Eddie Kohl swore and strode toward where his father was haranguing the punchers. Ethel heard him snap at his father, “You keep your mouth shut. They’ve got their orders.”
Ozzie Kohl replied, “Don’t be a fool, Eddie. You’re carrying things too far.”
“Too far, hell!” sneered Eddie. “I’ve just begun.”
Ethel’s eyes widened in horror. Weak-chinned, colorless Eddie Kohl was showing a new side to himself. Why, he was actually dominating his Napoleonic minded father!
Then — even as she looked — she saw Eddie Kohl give his father a violent shove sidewards and go for his gun. She saw it come out of the holster, heard it roar — and then she saw her father pitch to the ground!
Ethel screamed.
She started forward and then the entire ranchyard exploded to gunfire. Captain Morgan’s men, outnumbered two to one and dismounted, were charging the Kohl riders. It was a foolish thing to do. The Kohl men milled for an instant, but then recovered and beat back the Morgan cowboys. Only half of them reached the shelter of the bunkhouses.
Ethel didn’t see the outcome of the fight. Eddie Kohl rushed toward her the moment hostilities began. She saw him coming, tried to avoid him, but he swooped down upon her, catching her arm so savagely he pulled her from her feet. Her knees hit the hard ground and still Eddie pulled.
“Come on,” he snarled. “I’m through foolin’ around with you.”
She fought to her feet and clawed the hand that gripped her arm. Eddie yelped in pain and struck her furiously in the face.
Then he caught her in his arms and lifted her off her feet. There was more strength in his lean body than Ethel had ever guessed. She kicked and fought him, but he held her securely, carrying her to a horse. A cowboy rushed to help Eddie Kohl, then another.
The last thing Ethel Morgan saw at her home was Eddie Kohl shoving his father away from him, as the latter attempted to wrestle with Eddie.
When Donny Fletcher and his small cavalcade charged down upon the Morgan Ranch the place was strangely quiet. It wasn’t until they had dismounted that anyone showed up. Then several men, gripping rifles came out of the bunkhouses.
“What you want here?” one of them demanded.
“This is Donny Fletcher,” cried Mitch Johnson. “And you know me. We’re friends of the captain. We—”
Donny Fletcher saw a dark wet spot on the ground, saw how the dust had been swirled up by struggling feet and hoofs. He said tensely, “What’s happened here? We heard shooting.”
The door of the ranchhouse opened. Captain Morgan, steadied by two men staggered out to the veranda. “Fletcher!” he called weakly.
Donny Fletcher ran to him. “You’re wounded!”
“I’ll be all right,” gasped Captain Morgan. “But Ethel — he’s got her.”
“Who — Ozzie Kohl?”
The face of Ozzie Kohl appeared suddenly behind Captain Morgan. “Eddie,” he said. “He’s gone mad. He shot the captain and—” His face twisted in anguish.