Chapter VII: A Showdown

The trail to the store led across the level valley, tramped broad by the passing of many horse-herds; and as McIvor left the Rock House and rode out into the open, more than one watchful eye was upon him. Yet he jogged on at a fox-trot, never turning to look back at the gathering clan of the Scarboroughs; and as he neared the store a single horseman left the Bassetts and rode warily over to meet him. It was the first move in the great conflict which was sure to take place; when the Scarboroughs and Bassetts, after years of petty bickerings, would meet and fight it out. Time and again they had swooped down and challenged each other, only to withdraw with loud boasts and threats; but now that the sheep had invaded the Basin it was war, and war to the knife. For as cattle and sheep cannot live together, but one or the other is sure to take the range; so the Bassetts and the Scarboroughs could not live in Maverick Basin--and the first blow would start a bloody feud.

All this McIvor sensed, for years of mountain warfare had made him quick to read the minds of lawless men; but their battles were not his and as he approached the shabby store he dismounted and left his rifle on his horse. The store was a log cabin, set off to one side from the foundations of a house which had been burned; and within its loop-holed walls there was everything for sale, from horseshoes to cornmeal and whiskey. The storekeeper came out smiling and wringing his hands--a cringing little man with mouse-colored hair and a nervous, insinuating smile--but as he wrapped up his few purchases McIvor did not fail to notice that his eyes never left the door. There was a thud of hoofs without, a long, tense silence, and then a shadow fell across the doorway.

He came in sideways, a thickset, swarthy man with a sparse black beard and mustache, and as Hall looked up he met a pair of glittering eyes that searched him through and through.

"Good morning," he said, but the man did not answer and McIvor went on with his buying.

"Oh, er--Sharps," stammered the storekeeper, whose name was Johnson, "this is Mister--er----"

"Hall," replied McIvor without looking up, but the storekeeper was not to be discouraged. With all his fawning ways he had a name as a busybody and now he was starting to live up to it.

"Oh, yes--Hall," he cringed. "You're new in the Basin. Are you staying over at the Scarboroughs?"

"No," returned Hall, and the Indian eyes of Sharps Bassett seemed to stab him in the back for a liar. "I'm just going through," explained McIvor at length, and instantly the storekeeper asked where. Then, without waiting for the answer, he darted to the doorway, and Bassett stepped out behind him. Hall followed them quickly, for they were gazing to the south; and as he looked down the trail he saw the gunmen from the Rock House riding in with the Scarboroughs at their head. They came on at a gallop letting out shrill yips and yelps and rollicking about in their saddles; and as they thundered up to the store Sharps reached for his rifle and put his broad back to the wall.

"Oh, here you are!" sneered Isham as Sharps faced him stolidly. "Well, you sorry, black bastard, I want to warn ye for the last time not to bring them sheep into this Basin. This is a white man's country and you've got no business here nohow; but if you bring in them Mexicans we'll run them out first, and then we'll run _you_ out. What'd ye think you was going to do--shoot this man in the back while he was buying a plug of tobaccy? Well, we've got you, Mister Injun, this trip!"

Sharps grunted contemptuously and shifted his eyes and as the Texans followed his glance they saw two other horsemen, riding rapidly in from the east. They came on at a gallop, then reined in their fine horses and trotted gracefully up to the store. It was Winchester Bassett and Bill.

Bill was nothing but a boy, lighter complected than his brothers but with the same heavy, half-Indian face; and as he rode up beside Sharps he stuck out his chin and made a mouth at the swaggering Elmo.

"Hello there, Squirley!" he hailed insultingly, and Winchester told him to shut up. Winchester Bassett was tall and slenderly built, with a heavy black mustache and a lightning-like quickness of eye; but as he reproved his younger brother he had a smile of easy tolerance, and young Bill was by no means abashed. They both dropped to the ground and as they lined up beside Sharps the Texans reined their horses away. It was a challenge, a defiance to the whole Scarborough clan which had ridden up and surrounded their chief; and as the Scarboroughs gave back Winchester smiled again, for he saw that their bluff had been called. They had galloped over to the store to catch Sharps by himself and worry him as dogs do a wolf, but Sharps had stood them off and now they had joined him--three men against fifteen, but determined. And three men on foot, with the firm ground to shoot from, might easily come off the victors; for the horses of the Texans, being wild and half-broken, would jump at the very first shot.

But no shot would be fired--or not at that time--for Isham had given the word to stand back; and as the gunmen grinned and weakened even Sharps' snake-like eyes took on a glint that was Indian for a smile. He was all Indian, this eldest of the fighting Bassett tribe, slow and stolid but immovable as a wall. No matter what the odds, Sharps Bassett would never run; and his old battered rifle had killed more bears and lions than any other gun in the country. He stood there now like a grizzly bear at bay; and Bill, seeing the Texans filing in for a drink, turned his eyes to the smart-Aleck Elmo.

"Put down that gun," he challenged, as Elmo began to roll his pistol, "and I'll come over there and whip you."

"I don't haf to!" retorted Elmo, raising his pistol with a flourish and riding out past a tree; and as he whirled his horse he put six shots into the tree trunk, coming by it on the gallop.

"Beat that!" he said, "and I'll show you some real shooting. I can put up a six-spot and shoot out every pip with my horse going by on the run."

"Don't you worry!" bantered Bill, "I kin shoot straight enough; as you'll find out, if it comes to a showdown. I thought you was going to do something!"

He laughed as a Texan told him gruffly to hush up, and then he returned to Elmo.

"Put up that danged smoke-house," he called out hectoringly, "you ain't got the guts to use it. Jest meet me halfway and I'll fight you, fist and skull--for the drinks or for nothing at all."

He laid off his belt, with the two six-shooters hung loose in it, and stepped out into the open, but Elmo declined to fight. Some of the gunmen urged him on, but he had fought Bill once before and come off second best.

"Aw, come away, Bill," jeered Winchester, "can't you see he's afraid to fight ye? Come on, let's go back home."

"Well, you're so danged fresh," flared up Isham stepping forward, "you come, and I'll fight you myself."

"Nope, don't want no trouble," answered Winchester quietly, "git your horse, Bill--we'll be going home."

"You're skeered!" taunted Isham, laying off his belted pistols and rolling up his sleeves defiantly, but Winchester only smiled.

"You might gang me," he said, but, as Isham began to whoop, Sharps Bassett suddenly laid off his belt. Shaking the black hair from his eyes he advanced without a word, his neck swelling like a blow-snake's with rage.

"I'll fight ye!" he rumbled, and Isham backed away, then turned and made a jump for his guns.

"You dirty, black scoundrel!" he yelled in a false fury, "don't you think I seen that knife in your boot? I wouldn't dirty my hands on a nigger like you, nohow--because that's all you are, a damned nigger!"

Sharps stood in the open, his huge fists still clenched, his eyes turning red with savage rage; then he, too, wheeled and reached for his guns. There was a silence, and the gunmen that Isham had hired crouched low and waited for the break; but before a hand had moved a man stepped swiftly forward and took his place beside the Bassetts. It was Hall McIvor and as the Texans paused to glance at him the tenseness of the moment was broken. A new emotion stepped in, to break the psychic wave that was sweeping them on towards a killing.

"What are you doing--over there?" demanded Isham roughly, and Hall fixed him with his piercing black eyes.

"I'm here to fight," he answered quietly. "This is no quarrel of mine, but when fifteen men pitch on three I'm going to help them, right or wrong."

"You half-Injun rascal!" burst out Isham accusingly, "I said all the time you was here to join the Bassetts--and now, by Godfrey, look at him!"

He turned to Meshackatee, who was looking on in wonder, and pointed a scornful hand at their ex-prisoner; but McIvor's blood was up and, as Isham continued to point, he leapt over and slapped him in the face.

"Take that!" he said, "and if you pretend to be a gentleman draw your gun and we'll shoot this out!"

He stood expectant, his slim hand poised and waiting above the butt of a well-worn pistol, but Scarborough did not go for his gun. He hesitated and as McIvor saw the fear in his eyes he stepped back with a thin-lipped smile.

"In my country," he said, "we settle our differences of opinion by stepping off ten paces, then turn and shoot. I say you are a coward, a blustering fool and no gentleman--do you accept my challenge, or not?"

"Aw, you're crazy," muttered Isham, backing off into the crowd, and McIvor let it pass. But when the Scarboroughs were gone he glanced swiftly at Winchester Bassett, who responded with his unruffled smile.