menu_book Chapter 2

That there wagon rolled up the trail and stopped in front of our cabin one morning, just after sun up. We all come out to see who it was, because strangers ain't common on Bear Creek, and not very often welcome, neither. There was a long, hungry-looking old coot driving, and four or five grove boys sticking

their heads out. Good morning, folks, said the old coot, taking off his hat. My name is Joshua Richardson. I'm heading the wagon train of immigrants, which is looking for a place to settle. The rest of them's camped three miles back down the trail.

Everybody we met in these here Humboldt mountings told us we'd have to see Mr. Roaring Bill Elkins about settling hereabouts. Be you him? I'm Bill Elkins, says Pap suspiciously. Well, Mr. Elkins, says old man Richardson, wagging his chin whiskers, we'd admire it

powerful if you folks would let us people settle somewheres about. Hmm, says Pap, pulling his beard. Where are you all from? Kansas, says old man Richardson. Wachita, says Pap, get my shotgun.

Don't you do no such thing, Wachy, says Ma. Don't be stubborn, William. The war's been over for years. That's what I say, hastily spoke up old man Richardson. Let bygones be bygones, I says.

What, says Pap ominously, is your honest opinion of General Sterling Price? One of nature's noblemen, declares old man Richardson earnestly. Hmm, says Pap, you seem to have considerable tact and hawse sense for a red leg, but they ain't no more room on Bear Creek for no more settlers, even if they was Democrats. They's nine or ten families now within a wretch of a hundred square miles, and I don't believe

in overcrowding the country. But we're plum tuckered out, wailed old man Richardson, and nowhere's to go. We have been driven from pillar to post by settlers which got here ahead of us and grabbed all the best land. They claims it whether they got any legal rights or not.

Legal rights be damned, snorted Pap. Shotgun rights is what goes in this country, but I know just the place for you. It's ten or fifteen days travel from here in Arizona. It's called Bowie Knife Canyon, and it's just right for farming people, which I judge you all to be.

We be, says old man Richardson, but how we gonna get there? My son Breckenridge will be plum delighted to guide you there, says Pap. Won't you Breckenridge? No I won't, I said. Why the tarnation have I got to be picked on to ride herd on a passel of tender-footed

mavericks? He'll get you there safe, says Pap, ignoring my remarks. He dotes on lending folks a helping hand, don't you Breckenridge? Seeing the futility of argument, I merely snarled and went to saddle Captain Kidd. I noticed old man Richardson and his boys looking at me in a very peculiar manner all

the time, and when I come out on Captain Kidd, him snorting and bucking and kicking the rails out of the corral like he always does, they turn kind of pale. And old man Richardson said, I wouldn't want to impose on your son, Mr. Elkins. After all, we wasn't intending to go to that there canyon in the first place. I'm guiding you to Bowie Knife Canyon, I roared.

Maybe you weren't going there before I saddled my horse, but you are now. Come on. I then cut loose onto the mule's feet with my .45s to kind of put some ginger in the critters, and they brayed and sawed off down the trail, just hitting the high places, with old man Richardson hanging on to the lines and bouncing all over the seat and his sons

rolling in the wagon bed. We come into the camp full tilt, and some of the men grabbed their guns, and the women hollered and jerked up their kids, and one feller was so excited he fell into a big pot of beans which was simmering over a fire, and squalled out that the engines was trying to burn him alive.

Old man Richardson had his feet braced against the front gate, pulling back on the lines as hard as he could and yelling bloody murder, but the mules had the bits betwixt their teeth, so I rode to their heads and grabbed them by the bridles and throwed them back onto their haunches. And old man Richardson ought to have knew that the stop would be sudden.

It weren't my fault he'd done a dive off the seat and hit on the wagon tongue on his head, and it weren't my fault neither that one of the mules kicked him and to other bid him before I could untangle him from amongst them. Mules is mean critters. How so ever you take them.

They hollered a-mazing, and he res up and mopped the blood off of his face and waved his arms and hollered, calm down everybody, this ain't nothing to get excited about. This gentleman is Mr. Breckenridge Elkins, which has kindly agreed to guide us to a land of milk and honey down in Arizona. They received the news without enthusiasm.

There was about fifty of them, mostly women, children, and half-grown youngins. They weren't more than a dozen fit fight men in the train. They all looked like they'd been on the trail a long time, and they was all some kin to old man Richardson, sons and daughters, grandchildren, nieces, nephews, their husbands and wives, and such like.

They was one real pretty gal, the old man's youngest daughter Betty, who weren't yet married. They just ate breakfast and was hitched up when we arrived, so we pulled out without no more delay. I rode along of old man Richardson's wagon, which went ahead with the others strung out behind, and he says to me, if this here Bowie Knife Canyon is such a remarkable place, why

ain't it already been settled? Aw, there was a settlement there, I said, but the Apaches killed some, and Mexican bandits killed some, and about three years ago the survivors got to fighting amongst themselves and just kind of killed each other off. He yanked his beard nervously and said, I don't know, I don't know, maybe we ought to

hunt a more peaceful spot than that there sounds like. You won't find no peaceful spots west of the Pecos, I assured him. Say no more about it. I've made up our minds that Bowie Knife Canyon is the place for y'all, and we're going there. I wouldn't think of arguing the point, he assured me hastily.

What towns does we pass on our way? Just one, I said, Warsmoke, right on the Arizona line. Tell your folks to keep out of it. It's a hangout for every kind of outlaw. I judge your boys ain't handy enough with weapons to mix in such company.

We don't want no trouble, says he. I'll tell them. So we rolled along, and the journey was pretty uneventful except for the usual mishaps which generally happens to tender feet. But we progressed until we was within striking distance of the Arizona border, and there

we hit a snag. The rear wagon bogged in a creek we had to cross a few miles north of the line. They'd been a head-rise and the wagons churned the mud, so the last one stuck fast. It was getting on toward sundown, and I told the others to go on and make camp a mile west of Warsmoke, and me and the folks in the wagon would follow when we got it out.

But that weren't easy. It was mired clean to the hubs, and the mules was up to their bellies. We pried and heaved and hauled and night was coming on, and finally I said, if I could get them cussed mules out of my way, I might accomplish something. So we unhitched them from the wagon, but they was stuck too, and I had to wait out

beside them and lift them out of the mud one by one and towed them to the bank. A mule is a helpless critter. But then with them out of the way, I laid hold of the tongue and hauled the wagon out of the creek in short order. Them Kansas people sure did look surprised.

I don't know why. Time we'd scraped the mud off of the wagon and us and hitched up the mules again, it was night, so it was long after dark. When we'd come up to the camp, the rest of the train had made in the place I told them. Old man Richardson come up to me, looking worried, and he says,

Mr. Elkins, some of the boys went into that there town in spite of what I told them. Don't worry, I says, I'll go get them. I clump on Captain Kidd without stopping to eat supper and rode over to Warsmoke and tied my haas outside the only saloon there was there. It was a small town and awfully hard looking.

As I went into the saloon, I seen the four Richardson boys, and they was surrounded by a gang of cutthroats and outlaws. There was a Mexican there too, a tall, slim cuss with a thin black mustache and gilt braid onto his jacket. So you think you saddle in Bowie Knife Canyon, eh?

He says. And one of the boys said, Well, that's what we was aiming to do. I think not, he said, grinning like a cougar, and I seen his hands steel to the ivory-handled guns at his hips. You never heard of Signor Gonzales Zamora?

No? Well, he is a big hombre in this country, and he has use for this canyon in his business. Start the fireworks whenever you're ready, Gomez, muttered a white desperado. We're back in your play. The Richardson boys didn't know what the deal was about, but they seen they was up

again in real trouble and they turned pale and looked around like trapped critters, seeing nothing but hostile faces and hands gripping guns. Who tell you you could settle this canyon? asked Gomez. Who bring you here?

Somebody from Kansas? Yes? No? No, I said, shouldering my way through the crowd. My folks come from Texas.

My granddaddy was at San Jacinto. You remember that? His hands fell away from his guns and his brown hide turned ashy. The rest of them renegades give back, muttering, Look out boys, it's Breckenridge Alkens. They all suddenly found they had business at the bar or playing cards or something,

and Gomez found his self standing alone. He licked his lips and looked sick, but he tried to keep up his bluff. You may be no like what I say about Señor Zamora, says he, but he's truth. If I tell him gringos come to Bowie Knife Canyon he get very mad. Well suppose you go and tell him now, I said, and so as to give him a good start I picked

him up and throwed him through the nearest window. He picked himself up and staggered away, streaming blood and mechs profanity, and them in the saloon maintained a kind of pallid silence. I hitched my guns forward and said to the escaped convict, which was tinned in bar, I says, You don't want me to pay for that window, do you?

Oh no, says he, polishing away with his rag at a spittoon he must have thought was a beer mug. Oh no, no, no, no, we needed that window busted for the ventilation. Then everybody's satisfied, I suggested, and all the haas thieves and stagecoach bandits in the saloon give me a hearty agreement.

That's fine, I says, peace is what I aim to have if I have to lick everyone in the joint to get it. You boys get back to the camp. They was glad to do so, but I lingered at the bar and bought a drink for a train robber I had knowed at Chaud Ear once, and I said, Just who is this cussed Zamora that Max was

spielin' about? I don't know, says he, I never heard of him before. I wouldn't say you was lyin', I said tolerantly, you're just sufferin' from loss of memory. Frequently cases like that is cured and their memory is restored by a severe shock or jolt like a lick onto the head.

Now then, if I was to take my six-shooter butt and drive your head through that whiskey barrel with it, I bet it'd restore your memory right sudden. Hold on, says he in a hurry, I just remembered that Zamora is the boss of a gang of Mexicans. Which claims, Bowie Knife Canyon, he deals in horses. You mean, he steals horses, I says, and he says, I ain't arguin'.

Anyway the cabin is very convenient for his business, and if you dump them immigrants in his front yard, he'll be very much put out. He sure will, I agreed, as quick as I can get my hands on to him. I finished my drink and strode to the door and turned suddenly with a gun in each hand. The nine or ten fellers, which had drawed their guns aiming to shoot me in the back

as I went through the door, they dropped their weapons and threw up their hands and yelled, don't shoot! So I just shot the lights out then went out and got on to Captain Kidd whilst them idiots was hollering and falling over each other in the dark and rode out of war smoke, casually shattering a few window lights along the street as I went.

When I got back to camp the boys had already got there and the whole wagon train was holding their weapons and scared most to death. I'm mighty relieved to see you back safe, Mr. Elkins, says old man Richardson. We heard the shootin' and was afraid them bullies had killed you. Let's hitch up and pull out right now.

Them tender foots is beyond my comprehension. They'd have all pulled out in the dark if I'd let them, and I believe most of them stayed awake all night expecting to be butchered in their sleep. I didn't say nothing to them about Zamora. The boys hadn't understood what Gomez was talking about and they weren't no use getting

them worse scared than what they generally was. Well, we pulled out before daylight because I aimed to retch the canyon without another stop. We kept rolling and got there pretty late that night. It weren't really no canyon at all but a whopping big valley, well timbered and mighty

good water and grass. It was a perfect place for a settlement as I pointed out, but tender foots is powerful peculiar. I happened to pick our campsite that night on the spot where the Apaches wiped out a mule train of Mexicans six years before and it was too dark to see the bones scattered

around till next morning. Old man Richardson was using what he thought was a round rock for a pillar and when he woke up the next morning and found he'd been sleeping with his head on to a human skull he liked a throw to fit. And when I wanted to stop for the noon day meal in that there grove where the settlers

hanged them seven cattle rustlers three years before, them folks got the willies when they seen some of the ropes still sticking on to the limbs and wouldn't on no account eat their dinner there. You got no idea what peculiar folks them immigrants is till you saw some. Well, we stopped a few miles further on in another grove in the midst of a wide rolling

country of plenty of trees and tall grass and I didn't tell them that was where them outlaws murdered the three Grissom boys and their sleep. Old man Richardson said it looked like as good a place as any to locate the settlement but I told him we was going to look over the whole Dern Valley before we chose to spot. He kind of wilted and said at least for God's sake let them rest a few days.

I'd never seen folks which tired out so easy but I said all right and we camped there that night. I hadn't saw no signs of Zamora's gang since we come into the valley and thought likely they was all off stealing hosses somewhere, not that it made any difference. Early next morning Ned and Joe, the old man's boys, they wanted to go look for deer and

I told them not to go more than a mile from camp and be careful and they said they would and sought out to the south. I went back to the camp a mile or two to the creek where Jim Dornley ambushed Tom Harrigan four years before and taken me a swim. I stayed longer than I intended to.

It was such a relief to get away from them helpless tinder-foots for a while and when I rode back into camp I seen Ned approaching with a stranger, a young white man which carried his self with an air of great importance. Hey, Pap, hollered young Ned as we dismounted. Where's Mr. Elkins?

This feller says we can't stay in Bowie Knife Canyon. Who are you? I demanded, emerging from behind a wagon and the stranger's eyes bugged out as he seen me. My name's George Warren, says he.

A wagon train of us just came into the valley from the east yesterday. We're from Illinois. And by what right does you order people out of this canyon? I asked. We got the fightin'est man in the world guidin' us, says he.

I thought he was the biggest man in the world till I seen you. But he ain't to be fooled with. When he heard there was another train in the valley he sent me to tell you to git. You better, too, if you got any sense. We don't want no trouble, quavered old man Richardson.

You got a nerve, I snorted. And I pulled George Warren's hat down so the brim came off and hung around his neck like and turned him around and lifted him off the ground with a boot in the pants, then throwed him bodily onto his hoss. Go back and tell your champene that Bowie Knife Canyon belongs to us, I roared, slingin'

a few bullets around his hoss's feet. And we gives him one hour to hitch up and clear out. I'll git even for this, wept George Warren as he streaked it for his home range. You'll be sorry, you big pole cat. Just wait till I tell Mr. I couldn't catch what else he said.

No, I bet he's mad, says old man Richardson. We better go. After all, shut up, I roared. This here valley's our and I intends to defend our rights to it to the last drop of your blood.

Hitch them mules and swing the wagons in a circle. Pile your saddles and plunder betwixt the wheels. I got a I.D. you all fights better behind Breastworks. Did you see their camp, Ned? No, says he, but George Warren says it lies about three miles east of Iron.

Me and Joe got separated and I was swingin' east round the south end of that ridge over there. When I met this George Warren, he said he was out lookin' for a hoss before sunup and seen our camp, and went back and told their guide. And he sent him over to tell us to get out.

I'm worried about Joe, said old man Richardson. He ain't come back. I'll go look for him, I said. I'll also scout their camp, and if the odds ain't more than ten to one, we don't wait for them to attack.

We goes over and wipes them out pronto. Then we hangs their fool sculps on our wagon bows as a warning to other such scoundrels. Old man Richardson turned pale and his knees knocked together, but I told him sternly to get to work swingin' them wagons and climb on the Captain Kidd and lit out. Reason I hadn't saw the smoke of the Illinois camp was on account of a thick timbered ridge

which lay east of our camp. I swung round the south end of that ridge and headed east and I'd gone maybe a mile and a half when I saw a man ridin' toward me. When he seen me, he come lickety split and I could see the sun shinin' on his Winchester barrel.

I locked my 4590 and rode toward him and we met in the middle of an open flat, and suddenly we both lowered our whippens and pulled up, breast to breast, glarin' at each other. Breckenridge Elkins, says he. Cousin Barefield Buckner, says I. Are you the man which sent that un-licked cub of a George Warren to bring me a defiance?

Who else? He snarled. He always had an awful temper. Well, I says, this here is our valley. You all got to move on.

What you mean, move on? He yelled. I brung them pork critters all the way from Dodge City, Kansas, where I encountered them bein' tormented by some woodless buffalo hunters which is no longer in the land of the livin'.

I've led them through fire, flood, hostile engines, and white renegades. I promised to lead them into a land of milk and honey, and I've been firm with them, even when they weakened their sails, even when they begged on bended knee to be allowed to go back to Illinois. I wouldn't hear of it, because as I told him, I knowed what was best for him.

I had this canyon in mind all the time, and now you tells me to move on. Cousin Barefield rolled an eye and spit on his hand. I just waited. What sorta reply does you make to my request to go on and leave us in peace? He goes on.

George Warren come back to camp wearin' his hat brim around his neck and standin' up in the stirrups because he was too sorta settin' the saddle. So I set him fortifyin' the camp whilst I went forth to reconnoiter. That word I sent you I now repeats in person. You're my blood kin, but principles come first.

Me too, I said. A Nevada Elkins principles is as lofty as a Texas Buckner's any day. I whooped you a year ago in Cougarpaw. That's a cussed lie, gnashed he. You takin' a base advantage and land me with an oak log when I warn't expectin' it.

Be that as it may, says I, ignorin' the fact that you had just beamed me with a rock the size of a water bucket. The only way to settle this dispute is to fight it out like gents, but we've got to determine what weapons to use. The matter's too deep for fists.

I'd prefer butcher knives in a dark room, says he. Only they ain't no room. If we'd just had a couple of sawed-off shotguns or good double-bitted axes, I'd tell you, Breck, let's tie our left hands together and work on each other with our buoys. Nah, I says, I got a better I.D.

Pull back our hosses together, then ride for the opposite sides of the flat. When we get there we'll wheel and charge back, shootin' at each other with our Winchesters. Time they're empty, we'll be close enough to use our pistols, and when we've emptied them we'll be close enough to finish the fight with our buoys. Good I.D., agreed Barefield.

You always was a brainy, cultured sort of lobo if you wasn't so damn stubborn. Now me, I'm reasonable. And I'm wrong, I admit it. You ain't never admitted it so far, says I. I ain't never been wrong yet, he roared, and I'll carve the gizzard of the buzzard which

says I am. Come on, let's get goin'. So we started to gallop to the opposite sides of the flat when I heard a voice hollerin', Mr. Elkins, Mr. Elkins. Hold on, I says, that's Joe Richardson.

That minute Joe come tearin' out of the brush from the south on a Mustang I hadn't never seen before with a Mexican saddle and bridle on. He didn't have no hat in their shirt and his back was crisscrossed with bloody streaks. He likewise had a cut in his skull which dribbled blood down his face. Mexicans, he panicked.

I got separated from Ned and rode further than I should ought to had. About five miles down the canyon I run into a big gang of Mexicans. About thirty of them. One was that fella Gomez. Their leader was a big feller they called Zamora.

They grabbed me and taken my hoss and wolfed me with their quirks. Zamora said they was gonna wipe out every white man in the canyon. He said his scouts had brung him news of our camp and another east of Iron, and he aimed to destroy both of them at one sweep. Then they all got under their horses and headed north except one man which I believe they

left there to kill me before he followed them. He hit me with his six shooter and knocked me down, then put up his gun and started to cut my throat with his knife. But I wasn't unconscious like he thought, so I grabbed his gun and knocked him down with it and jumped on his hoss and lit out.

As I made for camp I heard you and this gent talking loud to each other and headed this way. Which camp was they going for first, I demanded. I don't know, he said. They talk mostly in Spanish I can't understand.

The duel will have to wait, I says. I'm heading for our camp. And me for mine, says Barefield. Listen, let's decide it this way. The one that scuppers the most creasers wins and the other takes his crowd and pulls out.

Bueno, I says, and headed for camp. The trees was dense. Them bandits could have passed either to the west or the east of us without us seeing them. I quickly left Joe and about a quarter mile further on I heard a sudden burst of firing and screaming and then silence.

A bit later I bust out of the trees into sight of the camp and I cussed earnestly. Instead of being drawn up in a circle with the men shooting from between the wheels and holding them bandits off like I expected, them darned wagons was strung out like they was heading back north. The hosses was cut loose from some of them and the mules was laying across the poles

of others, shot full of lead. Women was screaming and kids was squalling and I seen young Jack Richardson laying face down in the ashes of the campfire with his head in a puddle of blood. Old man Richardson come limping toward me with tears running down his face. Mexicans, he blubbered, they hit us like a hurricane.

Just a little while ago they shot Jack down like he was a dog. Three or four of the other boys has got knife slashes or bullet marks or bruises from loaded cord ends as they rolled off. They yelled they'd come back and kill us all. Why didn't you throw them wagons round like I told you?

I roared. We didn't want no fighting, he bawled. We decided to pull out of the valley and find some more peaceful place. And now Jack's dead and your stock scattered, I raged. Just because you didn't want to fight.

What the hell you ever cross the Pecos for if you didn't aim to fight nobody? You get the boys to gather in such stock as you got left. But them Mexicans taking Betty, he shrieked, tearing his scanty locks. Most of them headed east, but six or seven grabbed Betty right out of the wagon and rode off south with her, driving the hosses they stole from us.

Well get your weapons and follow me, I roared. For Lord's sake forget they is places where sheriffs and policemen protect you and make up your minds to fight. I'm going after Betty. I headed south as hard as Captain Kidd could run.

The reason I hadn't met the Mexicans as I rode back from the flat where I met Cousin Barefield was because they swung around the north end of the ridge when they headed east. I hadn't gone far when I heard a sudden burst of firing off to the east and figured they'd hit the Illinois camp, but I reckon Barefield had got there ahead of them. Still it didn't seem like the shooting was far enough off to be at the other camp, but

I didn't have no time to study it. Them gal thieves had a big start, but it didn't do no good. I hadn't rode over three miles till I heard the stolen hosses running ahead of me, and in a minute I bust out into an open flat and seen six Mexicans driving them critters at full speed and one of them was holding Betty onto the saddle in front of him.

It was that blasted Gomez. I come swooping down onto him with a six-shooter in my right hand and a bowie knife in my left. One kid needed no guiding. He'd smelt blood and fire and he'd come like a hurricane on Judgment Day with his main flying and his hooves burning the grass.

The Mexicans seen I'd ride them down before they could get across the flat and they turned to meet me, shooting as they come. But Mexicans always was rotten shots. As we'd come together I let bam three times with my .45 and three, says I. One of them rode at me from the side and clubbed his rifle and hit at my head, but

I ducked and made one swipe with my bowie. Four, says I. Then the others turned and hightailed it, letting the stolen hosses run where they wanted to. One of them headed south and I was crowding Gomez so close he whirled round and lit a

shuck west. Keep back or I kill the girl, he howled, lifting a knife, but I shot it out of his hand and he gave a yowl and let go of her and she fell off into the high grass. He kept fogging it. I pulled up to see if Betty was hurt, but she weren't, just scared.

The grass cushioned her fall. I seen her pap and such of the boys as was able to ride was all coming at a high run, so I left her to them and taken in after Gomez again. Pretty soon he looked back and seen me overhauling him so he riched for his Winchester, which he'd evidently just thought of using, when about that time his hoss stepped into a prairie

dog hole and throwed him over his head. Gomez never twitched after he hit the ground. I turned around and rode back, cussing disgustedly, because a Elkins is ever truthful, and I couldn't honestly count Gomez in my record. But I thought I'd scuttled that coyote that runs south, so I headed in that direction.

I hadn't gone far when I heard a lot of hosses running somewhere ahead of me into the east, and then presently I bust out of the trees and come onto a flat which run to the mouth of a narrow gorge opening into the main canyon. On the left wall of this gorge mouth there was a ledge about fifty foot up, and there was a log cabin on that ledge with loopholes in the walls.

The only way up onto the ledge was a log ladder, and about twenty Mexicans was running their hosses toward it across the flat. Just as I reached the edge of the bushes, they got to the foot of the wall and jumped off their hosses and ran up that ladder like monkeys, letting their hosses run anyways. I seen a big feller with gold ornaments on his sombrero which I figured was Zamora, but

before I could unlimber my Winchester, they was all in the cabin and slammed the door. The next minute cousin Barefield busted out of the trees a few hundred yards east of where I was and started recklessly across the flat. Immediately all them Mexicans started shooting at him and he grudgingly retired into the brush again with terrible language.

I yelled and rode toward him, keeping to the trees. How many you got? He bellowed as soon as he seen me. Four, I says, and he grinned like a timber wolf and says, I got five. I was riding for my camp when I heard the shooting behind me, so I noted it was your

camp they hit first. I turned round to go back and help you out. When did I ever ask you for any help? I bristled. Then he said, but pretty soon I seen a gang of Mexicans coming round the north end of

the ridge, so I'd taken cover and shot five of them out of their saddles. They must have noted it was me because they hightailed it. How could they know that, you conceited jackass? I snorted. They run off because they probably thought a whole gang had ambushed them.

Old man Richardson and his boys had rode up whilst we was talking, and now he broke in with some heat and said, that ain't the question. The point is we got them hemmed up on that ledge for the time being and can get away before they come down and massacre us. What you talking about?

I roared. We're the ones which is in need of getting away. If any massacring is did around here, we does it. It's flying in the face of Providence, he bled. But I told him sternly to shut up and Barefield says, send somebody over to my camp to bring

my warriors. So I told Ned to go and he pulled out. Then me and Barefield studied the situation, setting our horses in the open whilst bullets from the cabin whistled all around us and the Richardsons hid in the brush and begged us to be careful.

That ledge is sheer on all sides, says Barefield. Nobody couldn't climb down onto it from the cliff and anybody trying to climb that ladder in the teeth of twenty Winchesters would be plumb crazy. But I says, look, Barefield, how the ledge overhangs about ten foot to the left of that ladder.

A man could stand at the foot of the bluff there and them coyotes couldn't see to shooting. says Barefield. He could sling his rope up over that spur of rock at the rim and they couldn't shoot it off. Only way to get to it would be to come out of the cabin and wrench down and cut it with

a knife. Door opens toward the ladder and there ain't no door in the wall on that side. A man could climb right up onto the ledge before they noticed. If they didn't shoot him through the loopholes as he come over the rim, you stay here and shoot him when they tries to cut the rope, I says.

You go to hell, he roared. I see through your hellish plot. You aims to get up there and kill all them Mex's before I has a chance at them. You thinks you'll out with me. By golly, I got my rights and—

Ah, shut up, I says disgustedly. We'll both go. I hollered to old man Richardson. You all lay low in the brush and shoot at every Mex which comes out of the cabin. What you gonna do now, he hollered.

Don't be rash. But me and Barefield was already heading for the ledge at a dead run. This move surprised the Mex's because they know we couldn't figure to ride our hosses up that ladder. Being surprised, they shot wild and all they done was graze my scalp and nick Barefield's

ear. Then just as they began to get their range and start trimming us closed, we swerved aside and thundered in under the overhanging rock. We clumb off and tied our horses well apart, otherwise they had started fighting each other. The Mex's above us was yelling most amazing but they couldn't even see us, much less

shoot us. I whirled my lariat, which is plenty longer and stronger than the average lasso, and roped the spur of rock which jutted up just below the rim. I'll go up first, I says, and Barefield showed his teeth and drawed his bully knife. You won't neither, says he.

We'll cut cards. Hot man wins. So we squatted and old man Richardson yelled from the trees, For God's sake, what are you doing now? They're fixing to roll rocks down onto you.

You tend to your own business, I advised him, and shuffled the cards which Barefield hauled out of his britches. As it turned out, the Mex's had a supply of boulders in the cabin. They just opened the door and rolled them toward the rim, but they shot off the ledge and hit beyond us.

Barefield cut and yelled, Ace! You can't beat that. I can equal it, I says, and drawed an ace of diamonds. Ah, wins, he clamored.

Hearts beats diamonds. That rule don't apply here, I says. It were a draw, and why you, says Barefield, leaning forward to grab the deck, and just then a rock about the size of a bushel basket come bounding over the ledge and hit a projection, which turned its course.

So instead of shooting over us, it fell straight down and hit Barefield, smacked between the ears. It stunned him for an instant, and I jumped up and started climbing the rope, ignoring more rocks which was thundering down. I was about halfway up when Barefield came to, and he rizzed with a beller of rage.

Why you dirty double-crossing, so-and-so, says he, and started throwing rocks at me. They was an awful racket. The Mex's howling, guns banging, Barefield cussing, and old man Richardson wailing. They're crazy, I tell you. They're both crazy as mud hens.

I think everybody west of the Pegasus must be maniacs. Barefield grabbed the rope and started climbing up behind me, and about that time one of the Mex's run to cut the rope. But for once my idiotic followers was on the job. He ran into about seven bullets that hit him all at once, and fell down just above the

spur where the loop was caught onto. So when I retched my arm over the rim to pull myself up, they couldn't see me on account of the body. But just as I was pulling myself up, they let go of a boulder at random, and it bounded along and bounced over the dead Mexican and hit me right smack in the face.

It was about as big as a pumpkin. I give an infuriated beller and swarmed up onto the ledge, and it surprised them so that most of them missed me clean. I only got one slug through the arm. Before they had time to shoot again, I made a jump to the wall and flattened myself between

the loopholes, and grabbed the rifle barrels they poked through the loopholes and bent them and ruined them. Barefield was coming up the rope right behind me, so I grabbed hold of the logs and tore that whole side of the wall out, and the roof fell in and the other walls come apart. In an instant all you could see was logs falling and rolling and Mexicans busting out into

the open. Some got pinned by the fallen logs and some was shot by my embattled Kansans and Barefield's Illinois Warriors, which had just come up, and some fell off the ledge and broke their fool necks. One of them ran again me and tried to stab me, so I throwed him after them, which had

already fell off the ledge and hollered, Five for me, Barefield! Expletive deleted, says Barefield, arriving onto the scene with blood in his eye. And his buoy in his hand. Seeing which, a big Mexican made for him with a butcher knife, which was poor judgment on

his part, and in about the flick of a Mustang's tail, Barefield had a sixth man to his credit. Now this made me mad. I seen some of the Mexicans was climbing down the ladder, so I run after them, and one turned around and missed me so close with a shotgun he burnt my eyebrows. I'd taken it away from him and hit him over the head with it and yelled,

Six for me too, cousin Barefield! Look out! he yelled. Zamora's getting away! I seen Zamora had tied a rope to the back side of the ledge and was sliding down it. He dropped the last ten feet and run for a corral which was full of horses back up the

gorge behind the ledge. We seen the other Mexicans was all laid out or running off up the valley, pursued by our immigrants. So I went down the ladder and Barefield slid down my rope. Zamora's rope wouldn't have held our weight.

We grabbed our horses and lit out up the gorge, around a bend of which Zamora was just disappearing. He had a fast horse and a long start, but I'd overtook him within the first mile. Only Captain Kidd kept trying to stop and fight Barefield's horse, which was about as big and mean as he was. After we'd run about five miles and come out of the gorge onto a high plateau, I got

far enough ahead of Barefield so Captain Kidd forgot about his horse. Then he settled down to business and run Zamora's horse right off his legs. There was a steep slope on one side of us and a five hundred foot drop on the other. And Zamora seen his horse was winded, so he jumped off and started up the slope on foot. Me and Barefield jumped off too and ran after him.

Each one of us got him by a leg as he was climbing up a ledge. Let go my prisoner! Roared Barefield. He's my meat, I snarled. This makes me seven.

I wins. You lie! Bellared Barefield, jerking Zamora away from me and hitting me over the head with him. This made me so mad I grabbed Zamora and throwed him in Barefield's face. His spurs jabbed Barefield in the belly and my cousin gave a maddened beller and fell

on me fist and tush. And in the battle which followed we forgot all about Zamora till we heard a man scream. He'd snuck away and tried to mount Captain Kidd. We stopped fighting and looked around just in time to see Captain Kidd kicking him in the belly and knocking clean over the edge of the cliff.

Says Barefield disgustedly. That decides nothing. And our score is a draw. It was my hoss which done it, I said. It ought to count for me.

Over my corpse it will! Roared Barefield. But look here. It's nearly night. Let's get back to the camps before my followers start cutting your Kansans throats.

Whatever fight is to be fought to decide who owns the canyon, it's betwixt you and me, not them. All right, I said, if my Kansas boys ain't already killed all your idiots, we'll fight this out somewhere where we got better light and more room. But I just expect to find your Illinoisons writhing in their gore.

Don't worry about them, he snarled. They're as wild as painters when they smell gore. I only hope they ain't killed all your Kansas mavericks. So we pulled for the valley. When we got there it was dark, and as we rode out of the gorge we seen fires going

on the flat and folks dancing around them. And Fiddles was going at a great rate. What the hell is this, Ballard Barefield? And then old man Richardson come up to us overflowing with good spirits. Glad to see you gents, he says.

This is a great night. The pack weren't killed after all, just creased. We come out of that great fight, whole and sound. But what you doing? roared Barefield.

What's my people doing here? Oh, says old man Richardson, we got together after you gents left and agreed the valley was big enough for both parties, so we decide to join together into one settlement and we're celebrating. Them Illinois people is fine folks.

They're as peace loving as we are. Bloodthirsty painters, I sneers to cousin Barefield. I ain't no bigger liar than you, Eyre, he says more in sorrow than in anger. Come on, they ain't nothing more we can do. We are swamped in a mess of pacifism.

The race is degenerating. Let's head for Bear Creek. This atmosphere of brotherly love is more than I can stand. We sat our hosses there a minute and watched them pilgrims dance and listen to them singing. I squint across at cousin Barefield's face and doggone if it didn't look almost human

in the firelight. He hauls out his plug at the backer and offers me first chaw. Then we headed yonderly, riding stirrup to stirrup. We've been ten miles before Captain Kidd wretches over and bites cousin Barefield's hoss on the neck.

Barefield's hoss bites back and by accident Captain Kidd kicks cousin Barefield on the ankle. He lets out a howl and tumps me over the head and I hit him and then we get our arms around each other and roll in the brush in a tangle. We've fit for two hours I reckon and we've been fighting yet if we hadn't scrambled under

Captain Kidd's hoofs where he was feeding. He kicked cousin Barefield one way and me the other. I got up after a while and went hunting my hat. The brush crackled and in the moonlight I could see cousin Barefield on his hands and knees.

Where are ye, cousin Breckinridge? says he. Are you all right? Well maybe my clothes was torn more than his was and a lip split and a rib or two busted, but I could still see, which is more than he could say with both of his eyes swoll that way.

Sure I'm all right I says. How are you cousin Barefield? He let out a groan and tried to get up. He made her on the second heave and stood there swaying. Why I'm fine he says.

Plum fine. I feel a whole lot better Breck. I was afraid for a minute back there, whilst we was riding along, that that daggone brotherly love would turn out to be catching. End of Pilgrims to the Pecos.