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"His funeral. You tell him what I said. 'There's no need for all this
shootin'
and shoutin'."
Berglund got up slowly from the ground. "You two come in and I'll buy you a
drink." He glanced at Logan. "I take it you're a Sackett?"
"Logan Sackett, from Clinch Mountain." He jerked his thumb toward Galloway.
"He's a Cumberland Sackett. They're good people, too."
At the bar Berglund poured the drinks. "I think you boys are going to
straighten
out that Dunn outfit. They were riding roughshod over everybody."
"We want to ranch," Galloway said. "All we want is to make a home. If we get
settled in, Tyrel and Orrin are coming up here. We'll have the whole family
together."
Bull Dunn sat at the table in the long house and poured his tin cup half-full
of
whiskey, then replaced the jug on the table. "Stir up that fire," he said,
speaking to no one in particular. "I want my coffee hot!"
An hour before, Pete Dunn had come in with the battered, half-alive body of
Curly Dunn, and the body of Alf in which no life remained. And then, just a
few
minutes ago, Rocker had ridden in, leading the crew Bull had sent down to
scatter the Sacketts' cattle.
Bull didn't need anyone to tell him they had failed. His eyes swept over the
group of men wordlessly leading their horses into the corral.
"Where's Abel?" he asked, as Rocker swung off his horse in front of him.
"Dead. I wasn't there when it happened."
Bull turned on his heel and walked into the house. Now he was sitting at the
head of the table, looking at what was left of his family and the few others
he
could trust.
The old Bull was shaken. For the first time in years things were going
against
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him, and he was sure he knew why ... because he had elected to stop.
Why stop? Was he getting tired? He tasted the raw whiskey, then turned the
glass
in his fingers.
That Curly ... he couldn't do anything right. He goes into the woods with a
tied-up man and comes out with his horse draggin' him.
"Vern," he glanced.down the table at the sallow-faced young man, "you got it
to
do. Cut 'em down, one after the other."
Vern Huddy batted his eyes and looked sour, but offered no immediate comment.
He
had been studying out the country and he knew what he could do.
"That big man," he suggested, "the one Pete told of. That'll be Logan
Sackett.
He's an outlaw gunfighter. You all lay off him. He's a tiger."
"Let's have it," Bull said suddenly, "how did they get through with those
cattle? I want to know."
"They had more men than we expected," Rocker spoke quietly. He was a young
man
of medium height, medium build, who carried himself with pride. "One of them,
at
least, was an Indian."
"There were several Indians," Ollie Hammer said. "They seemed to come right
out
of the ground and they kept those cattle running straight right down to the
river. We never had a chance to scatter them."
"What happened to Abel?"
"He tried to draw against a Sackett. It was Flagan, the one who whupped
Curly.
Tin-Cup and me was with Rocker going after the cattle. There was no one else
there who could take on Sackett."
Rocker had been toying with his cup. Now he lifted his eyes to his father.
"Pa,
we lost Abel. Curly is done up. If he lives he won't be any use to us until
this
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here fight is all over. Jobe has got him a crippled arm. Alf is dead ... I
figure we'd better rattle our hocks out of here."
For a moment there was dead silence. Several stole looks at Bull, all were
shocked. It was the first time any of them had dared suggest such a thing,
and
Rocker was the only one who could say it without a blow.
"You're talkin' crazy. When did we ever run from a fight?"
"Never. But nobody but a fool bucks a stacked deck. Pa, you don't know these
Sacketts. There's a good many of them around the country, and when one of
them
is in trouble, they'll all come. We haven't seen anything yet."
"Vern will whittle 'em down."
"Maybe."
Vern's eyes came up sharply at the implied doubt. He started to speak, then
held
his silence.
"The Sacketts aren't nesters," Rocker continued. "They aren't just cow
ranchers.
Every one of them is a woodsman. They grew up feuding and fighting and they
know
all the tricks. I've heard about them for years. Tyrel and Tell are probably
the
best hands with guns, although Logan may be as fast.
"Flagan, Galloway, and Orlando are all good. I don't know about Parm Sackett,
the one who bought those cattle they are bringing in."
"Rocker," Bull said impatiently, "that's fool talk."
"Maybe. But why buck a stacked deck? I think our luck's run out."
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