mercifully beyond any hurt from the flames. But with Ray and himself it was different.
He must get outside, with Ray, and soon. Moving his brother again would not be good for the injury, but it was not a question of choice. Locke ran back to the bedroom, raised the window, then picked Ray up in his arms.
The flames were close enough on either side to give plenty of light for any watchers. As he started to climb out the window, a bullet shattered the glass almost beside his head.
Locke dodged instinctively, flinching away from the impact of the bullet. That shot had not been intended as a warning, to drive him back and hold him in the burning house; it had been aimed to kill. But the flickering, uncertain light and his own movements had caused a near miss.
Inside, he hesitated, feeling a frenzy of despair. If he had been alone he could have chanced it, running fast, shooting back at whoever was out there. The odds would be against him, but there would be at least a fighting chance.
With each second of delay the chances of failure grew, as the fire spread. Not only would it trap him, but as the light blotted up the last patches of shadow, the gunman out there would have a perfect target.
The killer would need only to keep back in the shadows, beyond the fringe of light, to pick Orin off at leisure if he tried to run for it.
Alone, he would have had a chance; but he wasn't alone. To move falteringly with the burden of Ray in his arms was to be shot down. To remain was for both of them to die. Yet he couldn't desert Ray in this extremity. Ray had played the part of a man tonight, and had made at least partial atonement for the past.
This was a strange homecoming. The old house was doomed. Coolly he weighed the odds. He might try it alone; if there was a single gunman, and he had a lot of luck, Orin might be able to locate him and down him as bullets were poured at himself. But that was in the event of a single gunman. There were probably several; there had been six in the vigilance committee.
Even if there was only one, and he got him, it would be too late by then to return and get Ray out. The flames were moving at whirlwind speed.
It was beginning to get hot, as the three fires, seeking to join in one holocaust, began to make themselves felt. The house was old and as dry as bleached bones on the prairie.
Locke moved back to the bullet-shattered window. He would have preferred another bullet to waiting for the flames. As though anxious to oblige, another one whined past, so close that he could hear it. The killer was over-eager, but there was nothing to shoot back at, no visible target.
He gathered Ray in his arms again and waited; the light was now so strong that they were clearly outlined. There was no fresh shot. What did happen was the last thing that he had expected, on a par with the other events of the wild night.
A figure on horseback came galloping, straight toward and through the closing ring of flame, her hair catching and reflecting the light in mad disarray. It was Reta Cable. Her horse fought the bit, hating the flames, but she forced it ahead with a superb demonstration of horsemanship.
Quickly, Locke stepped outside. Before, he had been partially sheltered by the walls, but now the heat beat with a furnace breath. Seeing and recognizing them, Reta slipped from the saddle, holding to her terrified horse, shouting for him to get on it with Ray.
There was no time for argument, so Locke obeyed. Mounting with a burden in his arms, while the horse tried to plunge, was all that he could manage. There had been no more shooting since Reta had appeared. Probably, while she remained, there would be none.
Settled in the saddle, he held Ray with one arm and took the reins with the other, holding the horse to a steady pace as they dodged back through the all but closing wall of fire, which seemed to make a final effort to bar the way. Reta ran alongside, limping, but remaining there, Locke realized, to give them
He must get outside, with Ray, and soon. Moving his brother again would not be good for the injury, but it was not a question of choice. Locke ran back to the bedroom, raised the window, then picked Ray up in his arms.
The flames were close enough on either side to give plenty of light for any watchers. As he started to climb out the window, a bullet shattered the glass almost beside his head.
Locke dodged instinctively, flinching away from the impact of the bullet. That shot had not been intended as a warning, to drive him back and hold him in the burning house; it had been aimed to kill. But the flickering, uncertain light and his own movements had caused a near miss.
Inside, he hesitated, feeling a frenzy of despair. If he had been alone he could have chanced it, running fast, shooting back at whoever was out there. The odds would be against him, but there would be at least a fighting chance.
With each second of delay the chances of failure grew, as the fire spread. Not only would it trap him, but as the light blotted up the last patches of shadow, the gunman out there would have a perfect target.
The killer would need only to keep back in the shadows, beyond the fringe of light, to pick Orin off at leisure if he tried to run for it.
Alone, he would have had a chance; but he wasn't alone. To move falteringly with the burden of Ray in his arms was to be shot down. To remain was for both of them to die. Yet he couldn't desert Ray in this extremity. Ray had played the part of a man tonight, and had made at least partial atonement for the past.
This was a strange homecoming. The old house was doomed. Coolly he weighed the odds. He might try it alone; if there was a single gunman, and he had a lot of luck, Orin might be able to locate him and down him as bullets were poured at himself. But that was in the event of a single gunman. There were probably several; there had been six in the vigilance committee.
Even if there was only one, and he got him, it would be too late by then to return and get Ray out. The flames were moving at whirlwind speed.
It was beginning to get hot, as the three fires, seeking to join in one holocaust, began to make themselves felt. The house was old and as dry as bleached bones on the prairie.
Locke moved back to the bullet-shattered window. He would have preferred another bullet to waiting for the flames. As though anxious to oblige, another one whined past, so close that he could hear it. The killer was over-eager, but there was nothing to shoot back at, no visible target.
He gathered Ray in his arms again and waited; the light was now so strong that they were clearly outlined. There was no fresh shot. What did happen was the last thing that he had expected, on a par with the other events of the wild night.
A figure on horseback came galloping, straight toward and through the closing ring of flame, her hair catching and reflecting the light in mad disarray. It was Reta Cable. Her horse fought the bit, hating the flames, but she forced it ahead with a superb demonstration of horsemanship.
Quickly, Locke stepped outside. Before, he had been partially sheltered by the walls, but now the heat beat with a furnace breath. Seeing and recognizing them, Reta slipped from the saddle, holding to her terrified horse, shouting for him to get on it with Ray.
There was no time for argument, so Locke obeyed. Mounting with a burden in his arms, while the horse tried to plunge, was all that he could manage. There had been no more shooting since Reta had appeared. Probably, while she remained, there would be none.
Settled in the saddle, he held Ray with one arm and took the reins with the other, holding the horse to a steady pace as they dodged back through the all but closing wall of fire, which seemed to make a final effort to bar the way. Reta ran alongside, limping, but remaining there, Locke realized, to give them
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