The door was smashed in. But had the building been frame instead of adobe, they never would have gotten out. Houston took his pony through the door and handed the halter to the nearest man, then plunged back inside to help Dawes, calling for the others to come and help. Dawes was down and unconscious because of the smoke.
They got Dawes outside, and finally got the four horses outside which had been stabled. Black smoke was rolling through the windows and door. Hay and straw were burning. The rafters and window frames were afire. There was nothing to do except let the fire burn itself out.
Houston examined his pony and found him unharmed. As the smoke thinned, he managed to get his bridle and saddle and some of Dawes’ stuff outside the barn, with the men helping.
* * * *
Dawn came to show a smoking, gutted stable. The rear door had not burned, and they found it had been barricaded as the front door had been.
“Plain enough!” Houston said. “Somebody wanted us to be burned to death, or killed by smoke. Wanted it for me, I mean, and didn’t care if Dawes went along with me.”
Dawes, still half sick and with his eyes flaming with rage, stood beside him.
“This is enough!” the stableman howled. “I’m bucklin’ on a gun soon as I can find one! I ain’t had any hand in the ruckus around here, but now I’ve been dragged into it. When my stable is set afire and ruined, and me almost killed, it’s time for me to get in the fightin’! Time for men in Vista to run their own business and not be dictated to by anybody.”
He mentioned no names. But everybody knew he meant Sid Jarles and the Three S bunch.
* * * *
Houston ate breakfast at the trading post and praised Clara Brandell’s cooking until the girl’s eyes glowed. Houston’s pony was tied to the hitch-rail out in front. He had his gun-belt and gun, but had lost his blankets, coat, and hat in the fire.
Dawes had calmed down some after turning his rescued horses into the town’s makeshift corral. He and some of his friends were cleaning up the debris at the stable and burning it. The stable was nothing now but fire-scorched adobe walls.
Men of the town were walking around and talking to one another in low tones. They glanced often at the mouth of the south trail, from which direction Sid Jarles and his men would come if they rode into town.
“Somebody sure tried to burn me to death,” Houston told Brandell and Clara. “I like to do my fightin’ out in the open.”
“There’ll be trouble when Sid Jarles comes to town—and he’ll come,” Clara said.
“I’m hopin’ so,” Houston declared. “I want to see that hombre.”
“He’ll probably have his killer, Jake Walters, with him,” Brandell warned. “Some more of his men, too. Ned, this is—well, I’m a little afraid for you.”
“Shucks!” Houston scoffed. “You just ’tend to the tradin’ post. And you, Clara, keep out of dangerous places. My name’s on the sign now, and I’ve got a right to defend my property and business. I’m mad, too, which helps a lot. Bein’ shot at from the dark, and then somebody tryin’ to burn me to death—that’s enough to make any man mad.”
* * * *
Ned Houston finished his breakfast and walked through the storeroom and out upon the street. Making and lighting a cigarette, he went across to the saloon. Most of the men of the town were gathered there now, with the exception of those who were helping Dawes.
“If there’d been a wind, the whole town might have burned,” the saloon man was saying.
“Mebbe Dawes set it afire with his pipe,” another man said.
“After barricadin’ the doors on the outside?” Houston asked, as he stepped forward. “If you’re afraid to speak out and say who you think is responsible, don’t talk at all. And if you’re tryin’ to defend the man who done it—”
“Me, I ain’t takin’ sides in any ruckus,” the saloon man quickly interrupted.
“There’s times when everybody should take sides,” Houston said. “That’s when some hombre ain’t playin’ fair.”
“Them’s my sentiments” The speaker was Silky Gadley, the gambler. He wore a gun-belt beneath his long black coat, which was unusual for him. “If men want to fight, and do it fair and square, that’s their business. When they don’t play fair and square, it’s every decent man’s business to go after ’em—”
“I want to see this Sid Jarles if he comes to town,” Houston said, “I come over to ask all you to tell him that. I never believe in postponin’ a showdown. I’ll be at the tradin’ post.”
He left the saloon and returned to the store. With Clara to help him, he got busy cleaning and rearranging some of the stock, while Brandell sat in a rocking chair at the rear end of the counter. Both Houston and Clara knew they were working merely to keep their nerves down under the tension of waiting.
* * * *
It was mid-morning when riders came into town off the south trail. Sid Jarles rode ahead. Jake Walters was with him, as were five other men. They dismounted in front of the saloon and tied their horses, slapped the dust from their shoulders and tucked their riding gauntlets away as they stepped up on the plank walk.
Houston watched through the window as Clara pointed out the men to him. Sid Jarles was a tall, powerfully built man with graying hair. Jake Walters was short, heavy in body. Ed Foster was one of the other five.
The Three S men went into the saloon. Some of the townsmen emerged and hurried away, as if from a place of trouble. Houston saw Dawes coming down the street, and noticed that the stableman was wearing a gun. Houston stepped outside quickly and called to him, and Dawes crossed to the trading post.
“Don’t start anything, Dawes,” Houston said. “Let Jarles start it, if it’s got to be started.”
“If he had me burned out—”
“If he did, it was ’cause I was sleepin’ in your stable. Whoever set the fire was after me.”
“You can’t fight Jarles and his gang alone. Jake Walters is with him.”
“And five others,” Houston said.
The Three S men were still in the saloon. Sam Finch came along the walk, striding quickly, glancing across at the trading post, and then darting into the saloon to find Jarles. Houston turned to reenter the trading post, and Dawes followed him.
Thus, by disobeying Jarles’ orders, Dawes put himself on Houston’s side. The stableman bought something he did not need—from a shelf at the front so anybody across the street could see him plainly. Then he went outside and leaned against one of the awning posts and rolled a cigarette.
“This waiting—” Clara said to Houston.
“Yeah, waitin’ is always the worst part,” Houston admitted. “Keeps you keyed up, huh?”
“I hope—that is—” she muttered hesitantly.
“You can speak right out, if the cat ain’t got your tongue.”
“Well—I hope nothing bad happens to you. Because you must be all right, if Mr. Jim Penroy trusts you so. He and Dad have been friends since they were boys, and always promised to help each other.”
“Jim Penroy picked me up and gave me a home when my folks died,” Houston explained. “If I can be half as good a man as he is, I’ll be pretty good.”
“I’m sorry you had to come to us when there’s trouble,” she told him. “Vista is only a crossroads town, but the back country is fine, with more people coming in. We do a pretty good business when things are