Free Maverick Marshall by Nelson Nye

suck of the wind put the lamp flame out. Frank heard the shots then, the distant yell, the rumble that followed it. Swearing in the testiness of temper, he ran over to the wall rack and jerked down a rifle. Pausing only to make sure it would take the shells in his belt, Frank hurried into the street.
    The night was wild with wind and tumult. The pounding rush of crazed cattle was like the roar of a giant falls. They were nearer now, coming fast, straight for town. He remembered with a sense of bleak irony telling Chavez that cows were the one thing he didn’t have to worry about. Looking around, Frank could see there were plenty of others coming out just as he was, armed to do battle for the town’s preservation. He caught faintly the excited whickering of horses where a dozen were still uneasily huddling in the grip of tied reins at the rack before the Flag. Why the hell didn’t some of those fools climb on them!
    The wind flapped his clothes, staggering him with its violence. Digging chin into his collar, he tried to beat his way against it, needing to get into the lee of something, knowing the danger of being trapped in the open. Already those fellows across the way had got under cover. Grit stung his eyes. Dust boiled up by the running herd got so thick he couldn’t see ten yards in front of him.
    He locked his teeth against their chatter, trying to find Fentriss’ barn. To move at all was like bucking a blizzard. Above the racket of hoofs, the shots and the bawling, Frank caught the screech of rending wood, the yells and crash as a building toppled. Those steers wouldn’t leave enough of this town for kindling.
    He found a wall and stumbled along it, drunkenly reeling, cursing floundering feet that wouldn’t track. He could almost feel the snorting breath of those beasts as the leaders funneled into the far end of the street, bawling, horns clacking. The gunshots sounded like cork stoppers popping. Frank reached the end of the wall and the wind hit him solidly, driving the breath back into him. The dust-laden gusts tore at him, half blinding him. He staggered through the stable’s door hole into a blackness impenetrable as lamp soot. Loose boards shook and rattled. The place was noisy with the clamor of frightened horses. Frank wiped his streaming eyes on the back of an abrasive wrist.
    Across the street through the blowing dust there were patterns of foggy radiance where turned-up lamps shone through the windows, but these didn’t make seeing any easier to speak of. The dust cleared a little as the gusts slid into a lull. The herd had been stopped, was beginning very slowly to revolve on itself; but Frank knew, without riders, how chancey was this respite, how swiftly those steers would run again should something upset them. He took his chance while he had it and darted into the open, thinking to get up on the roof of the Mercantile where he’d be able to see a little better.
    In the dust and confusion he miscalculated someway and wound up before the half-leaf doors of the Opal. He shouted for Gurden but got no answer. The stopped cattle were still milling in front of Minnie’s. He heard Chavez’s voice:
    “Douse them lamps before you burn up this town! Pronto!”
    This seemed to make sense to quite a number of folks. One by one the nearer lights winked out. The horses tied in front of the Flag had gone away with their hitchrail. Gurden hadn’t locked up; Frank saw the batwings flap as wind picked up the dust again with a howl. Something flapped, too, behind the herd. Frank felt the ground quiver under him as every steer in it suddenly churned into motion. Frank dived for the Opal.
    He knew where the lamps were. He got one, letting go of the rifle, and dragged a match across the seat of his pants. A lantern would have been better, but he took what he could get. His fastest wasn’t any too quick. There they came, boiling out of the dust with their eyes big as wash tubs. As Frank crossed the porch and ran