Fight for Powder Valley! by Brett Halliday Page A

behind him. “Got here just in time,” he exulted. “I shore wouldn’t of missed this for nothin’. An’ I knew you’d wanta be in on it, too, Pat. I told ’em they was crazy as coots when they talked around town about you throwin’ in with the plow-hands.”
    Pat said, “Get away from me, kid, if you want to stay clear of trouble.” The advancing riders were close, less than a hundred yards distant. They were riding at a slow trot that was more ominous in its grim purposefulness than a wild gallop would have been.
    â€œWhat yuh mean?” the puncher demanded, gaping at his boss. “I got a right to be in on the fun.”
    â€œFun, hell!” retorted Pat. “I’m warning you … don’t stay too close.” He rose in his stirrups and challenged the mass of riders, “Who’s that … headed where?”
    Above the jangle of spurs and thud of hoofs, he heard voices growling, “That’s Pat. Yeh … Stevens. Lookin’ fer trouble, mebbe …” They slowed in front of him and John Boyd’s voice came clearly above the muttering:
    â€œI reckon you know who we are and where we’re headed, Pat. You throwin’ in with us?”
    â€œTo burn out a woman and her kids?” There was hot scorn in Pat’s reply.
    â€œTo run them damn homesteaders out,” a rough voice bawled above Boyd’s. “Them that you an’ yore wife coddled in town.”
    â€œI know you, Jim Farrelly.” Pat dropped a hand to his gun. “You’re full of rot-gut whisky or you wouldn’t be talkin’ thataway.”
    â€œHe’s settin’ hisself ag’in us,” Farrelly shouted. “We’ve listened to Pat Stevens long enough, fellers. What are we waitin’ fer? Who’s got them wire cutters?”
    â€œFirst man cuts a strand of that fence gets dropped.” Pat’s voice cut through the night incisively. He drew a gun, hunched forward in the saddle. “You boys know me,” he pleaded.
    â€œShore, we know you. Too dang well.” Half a dozen voices were lifted angrily. John Boyd spurred his horse forward between them and Pat.
    â€œDon’t do it, Pat.” The older rancher’s face was resolute in the illusive light. “We got our minds made up. We listened to you before, but now we’re doing something.”
    â€œYou must be proud of yourselves,” Pat jeered. “Twenty of you to burn out one nester. Don’t be fools . Those are innocent people. They’re asleep down yonder.” He waved his arm toward the creek where the dying embers of a campfire glowed in the night. “It’s murder, John. You know it is.”
    â€œMurder or not, that’s the way it’s got to be.” John Boyd spoke with the fervor of deep conviction. “You can’t stop us, Pat. No use you gettin’ killed tryin’.”
    â€œI’d rather be killed tryin’ than keep on living knowin’ I didn’t try. They’ll send troops in here, John …”
    An ominous murmur from behind Boyd greeted Pat’s words. “Let ’em try it! We’ll take keer of the troops. This is Powder Valley, b’God. We’ll run things here.”
    â€œDon’t you see how it’ll be, John? Some of those men behind you are shootin’ drunk. It won’t end with burning the ’steaders out. There’ll be killin’. And there’s women and children down there.”
    â€œ We got women an’ childern too,” Jim Farrelly shouted. He spurred forward beside John Boyd drunkenly waving a gun. “We cain’t trust you no longer, Pat. If you wanta hunk of lead …”
    Pat drove his rowels into his horse’s side. The animal lunged forward against Farrelly’s mount and Pat slammed the barrel of his .45 against the drunken rancher’s chin. Farrelly slid sideways out of the saddle to the