War on the Cimarron by Luke; Short Page B

of water into the night and called over his shoulder, “Don’t you believe the damn liar, Scott,” and laughed and disappeared from sight. There was utter silence then.
    Frank stirred and said, “Bring your rope, Red,” and started for the house, Red behind him. Ten yards from it Frank paused again. The ground-floor windows were uncurtained, and through them they could see a segment of a table and two men, both with cards in their hands. Corb was one, and he had his face to the hallway door.
    Frank moved on ahead and stepped noiselessly through the open doorway into the bare hallway. A rectangle of naked plaster was lighted by the glare of the unshaded lamp in the next room, and now the talk was audible. It was careless, murmurous talk of idle card playing and it droned on uninterrupted.
    Frank slipped his Colt .45 out his waistband and, once it was leveled, stepped into the room doorway, squinting against the sudden glare of light. He said nothing, waiting, noting another door in the side wall and the two windows.
    The talk ribboned on above the muffled slap of cards being dealt. It was fifteen seconds before Corb reached into a pocket of his unbuttoned vest for a match and lighted his short stub of cigar. The cigar was so short that he tilted his head back, and then he saw Frank.
    His match, almost touching the cigar, remained motionless, and his black baleful eyes studied Frank curiously, and they were unafraid. The talk welled up around him, and still Corb held the match.
    When it burned him he dropped it on the table, and it still flamed. The player next to Corb slapped it out and looked up at Corb and then swiveled his head to see Frank. The others saw him, one by one, and each turned to look at the doorway, and the talking from these five men died.
    â€œKeep your hands on the table,” Frank said gently. “All right, Red. Take their guns.”
    Corb’s wicked little eyes marked Red as he stepped past Frank. Then he looked at Frank until Red had taken every gun and methodically thrown it through the window into the yard outside.
    Corb said then, in a curious impatient voice, “I don’t get it.”
    â€œI’m after my corn, Corb.”
    â€œCorn?”
    â€œI tried in Reno, but I reckon I leased my land from the wrong man,” Frank said gently. “Barnes offered me some, but he changed his mind. So I thought I’d borrow from a neighbor. You run horses. You have some.”
    Corb’s riders quit looking at Frank and turned to regard Corb. He said to Frank, “Take it.”
    â€œI aim to,” Frank murmured. “But I’m no hand at freightin’. Neither is Shibe.”
    Corb’s attention narrowed. “Rob,” he said, “go harness a team and take the spring wagon.”
    One of Corb’s riders shoved his chair back and was rising.
    Frank said sharply, “Sit down!” and the man sank down in his chair.
    Frank went on, watching Corb. “You peddle the corn in this country, Corb. Maybe you better freight it for us too.”
    As his words died he heard a door slam somewhere in the rear of the house, and he looked at Red. “Get down,” he said, and he backed against the wall to one side of the door. Red squatted on the floor, hidden from the door by the table.
    Every man in the room was watching Frank, waiting to see if this was the time to break. Their faces were hard and angry and wickedly calculating.
    The footsteps swung into the hall, and the man called Rob shoved his chair back imperceptibly, gathering his feet under him. Frank smiled derisively then and moved his gun to point directly at him, and the man subsided, his lips moving. The steps were coming down the hall now and were almost at the doorway, and now they were at the doorway when Corb yelled, “Watch out, Steve!”
    Almost in the same second the man in the hall must have realized by the attitude of the others that there was someone in the