The Hair-Trigger Kid by Max Brand (best sci fi novels of all time TXT) 📕

Chapter 42 - Heroes

The girl, watching with fascinated eyes, frozen in her saddle, saw the

gleam of a knife in the hands of Dolly Smith as it made the two quick

slashes which turned the Kid into a free, fighting man.

 

Then she heard the cry of her father’s voice, as he shouted: “Charge

them, boys! Blow them off the face of the earth! Charge ‘em! Charge ‘em!”

 

And there, behold, black and huge between her and the firelight, appeared

the form of John Milman as his horse rose for the leap and then sailed

over the top strand of the barbed wire.

 

“Charge ‘em” shrieked the higher, more piercing voice, and she saw little

Davey go over the fence a short distance away, an old revolver exploding

blindly, uselessly in his hand.

 

Bud Trainor shouted also. It was the whoop of a wild Indian. And he, too,

had taken that fence with a bound of his horse.

 

How the silver stallion shone as it sailed across the rose hue of the

firelight!

 

And Dixon’s twenty heroes?

 

There were not more than a dozen of them in that group, in the first

place. Others were off guarding the fence lines. But of the dozen who

were there, it seemed that not one took any care of standing up to fight

the thing out.

 

The surprise was complete.

 

They had seen that one of their best men, in the crisis, had gone over to

the enemy. And then there was the spectacle of the riders plunging over

the fence, shouting, calling out as if to a host, and looking greater

than human in that fantastic-like haze as they rushed through the dust

fog.

 

Dixon’s crowd did not lack leadership.

 

It was Champ Dixon himself who turned with a yell of fear and showed the

way. But he was fairly passed by most of the others in the flight that

followed.

 

Perhaps half a dozen wild shots plowed up the ground or uselessly whirred

through the air. And all in a trice the ground was vacant.

 

The Kid and Dolly Smith—for Smith had armed the Kid in the first moment

the latter’s hands were free—had not had to fire a shot.

 

It was mysterious; it was almost ludicrous. And as the formidable Dixon

mob vanished into the dark of the night, Bud Trainor, his nerves giving

way under the strain, began to laugh hysterically.

 

It seemed ridiculously easy, a thing that children could have done as

well, but the girl, sitting quietly there in the dark of the night,

understood perfectly. None but heroes could have done such a feat—and

heroes they were, little Davey Trainor most of all, and Bud, and her own

father. A tremor went through her, pulsing as if from the sound of a

deep, friendly voice at her ear.

 

There were other men of the Dixon-Shay outfit to be accounted for, and,

above all, there was the imminent danger that the fugitives, learning how

small a force had struck at them, would return to blot out this insolent

little group.

 

What could they do?

 

The inspiration came to her, then.

 

She drew the wire nippers from her pocket. Three clicks, three sounds

like the snapping of bowstrings, and there was a gateway made. Like

piled-up water at a breaking dam, the cattle poured through. Three more

clicks and another gate. And then—for the guards had fled from this side

of the fence line—the other cattle, maddened by the sight of their

compansions getting through toward the water, pressed forward in masses.

They put their tough chests against the barbs. Down they went. There were

cuts and gashes, but what of that? Water was more precious than blood to

these starved creatures, and sweeping in hordes through a dozen gaps,

they galloped for the water. The creek was black with them!

 

That was not all.

 

The stroke at the center of the Dixon camp had dissolved all its force,

it appeared. Even from the other fence line to the west of the creek, the

guards had withdrawn, and the cattle, inspired by the sight of their

fellows drinking on the opposite, shore, pressed in on the fence, and it

also went down in great sections.

 

Down they rushed. A vast bellowing arose. It sounded to the gir! like the

shouting of triumphant armies, legion on legion. Armies of right, which

had conquered, and the wrong had gone down!

 

She reined her horse away from a threatening rush of the cattle. In so

doing, she was forced into the small group which had taken shelter from

the invading beasts behind a specially strong section of the fencing.

 

Davey and Bud were secure in another spot.

 

And here she found herself with her father, and with the Kid. Dolly Smith

was near the fire itself, for the brightness of it turned the cows

easily, while they still were at a considerable distance.

 

The Kid was on one side of her now, and her father on the other, and

silently they watched the cows flooding down to the river, whose silver,

star-freckled face became all black and full of strange movements.

 

The bellowing died down. There were clashing of horns, and clacking of

hurrying, split hoofs. That was all. Even this disturbance grew less.

Even for all the thousands on the ranch, there was ample water in Hurry

Creek, and the starved animals were rapidly drinking to repletion.

 

Some of them, filled to bursting, lay down on the bank, unable to move

farther. And a quiet, profound joy and trust grew up in the girl as she

watched the thirsty cattle.

 

“Chapin,” said her father, “I’ve promised to tell Georgia. I want to tell

you, also. That day when you were six years old and the thieves came at

you out of the night—”

 

“Milman,” said the Kid, “you don’t need to tell me. Tonight has told me

by itself. When I saw you jump your horse over that fence, then I knew

that I was wrong.”

 

“Do you think that?”

 

“I know it.”

 

“I’ll tell you this much more. I’d gone north to buy cattle for the

ranch. We had a chance at a bargain in a big sale, up there. I made the

purchase. I started south on horseback, to see a huge section of the

range, and look out for likely places to buy grazing lands for the

southern drive. And, on the way, I made a fool of myself at a small town;

I met those fellows you found me with. I drank too much. And that same

night I rode south with them. They blundered onto your little outfit. I

think I was half foolish with liquor. It merely seemed to me a silly

practical joke. Then, the next morning, I realized. There was one of the

thieves named Turk Reming. He seemed a decent sort of a fellow. I had to

go on south. But I bought the entire lot of the cattle they had stolen,

and Reming swore that he could get the money back to the man who had been

plundered. I can only give you my word for that, my lad; and that I left

the cattle with a dealer in the next village, and that I went on south,

taking the mule along to carry my pack and make the going lighter for my

horse. I can’t really ask you to believe such a cock-and-bull story. It’s

the truth, but I know that no jury in the world ever would believe it!”

 

“Georgia,” said the Kid, “how about you, if you were on that jury?”

 

“She’s a prejudiced juror,” said Milman, “but—”

 

“I’m prejudiced, too,” said the Kid. “Georgia, have I got a good reason

to be?”

 

John Milman grew suddenly hot with discomfort, and very tense, and then

he heard his daughter say clearly, and in such a voice as he had never

heard from her before:

 

“Ben, you have all the reason in the world. All the reason that I can

give you!”

 

THE END