Clay squeezed his eyes into a squint at the glare of the bright October day and raked a careful glance over the jumble of hills on the far side of the gorge. His gaze lingered on a deadfall made from the roots and branches of a huge pine uprooted by some previous winter storm. Had he seen a stirring there or was this waiting and wondering making him jumpy?
He looked away and back again. There was no sign of movement near the deadfall. The air hung still and quiet in the sunshine, without even a hint of a breeze. Clay grunted.
“Another few days of this and I’ll be seeing snipers in every shadow,” he told the dun. He gave it a slap. “Let’s get those cows down where they belong.”
The dun nickered softly and moved out onto the narrow trail. Clay rode with one hand on the butt of his rifle. He felt a little foolish, but the uneasy feeling stuck in his craw and he couldn’t cough it free.
He was nearly to the meadow when a rifle shot hammered through the still, cool air. Clay felt the whip of the bullet tug at the crown of his hat. He threw himself forward over the dun’s neck and lashed back with his heels. The dun surged forward as a second shot sent chips of rock flying just behind its kicking hoofs.
The trees fringing the meadow cut off the sun abruptly. Clay straightened up and reined the dun to a halt. He pulled his rifle from the boot and dropped to the ground. He hurried back to the first tree at the end of the trail. From here he could see the far side of the gorge. He stepped into the open and raked the distant slope with three quick shots. The echo of his firing boiled through the rocks and then faded away. The air hung silent and golden in the sunlight, mocking him emptily.
Clay stepped behind the protection of the tree and stared at the hillside. Nothing stirred. There was no hint at all that a man bent on killing him had been there a few moments before. Angrily, Clay strode back to the dun and mounted.
He left the cattle grazing and started down the trail leading to the meadow just below. A short distance along the trail, he reined to the right and forced the dun down a ridge that would bring them to the far side of the gorge where the sniper had hidden. He pushed the dun upslope until he decided he’d ridden as close as he dared to the deadfall. Then he left the saddle and went on foot.
He made his way surely, drawing on childhood memories for the fastest and easiest route to the point he wanted to reach. He approached the top of the slope and stopped. He dropped to his belly and slid cautiously over a hump of rock.
Now he looked down on the deadfall. There was no sign of movement, no sign of life. Clay climbed to his feet and worked his way from one barren upthrust of rock to the next until he reached the side of the deadfall. He squatted down, studying the ground carefully. It was hard packed but he could make out a long shallow gouge, as if someone had crawled along here, dragging the edge of his boot across the dirt.
Clay followed the gouge. It made a twisting, turning path that carried him into the center of the deadfall. Here soil-packed roots made a room, the roof high enough for Clay to kneel under without having to bend his head. Directly in front of him was a narrow opening where dirt had been pushed from between entangled roots. He squatted down and peered through the opening. The narrow trail he had ridden on was directly across from this spot. He looked down, hoping to find an empty cartridge case, but as usual the sniper had cleaned up after himself carefully.
Clay backed out of the deadfall and looked around speculatively. The man had gone westward, he decided. A narrow fold of land ran from the far end of the deadfall to a stand of stunted trees. By crawling west along this fold to the trees, the sniper could have got away without being seen from across the gorge.
Clay followed the fold until it reached the stand of trees. The forest duff had been disturbed, and he felt he was on the right track. He hurried along the upward pitch of land and almost missed the heelprint outlined sharply in a spot of moist dirt. He stopped abruptly and went to his knees. It was the same sign he had found before — a worn heelprint with a small puncture in the center.
Now he was sure he was following the sniper and he straightened up and moved on. He came out of the pines on top of a ridge. He saw where the sniper’s horse had been tied to a bush and his eyes picked out a nearby deer track that clearly showed the marks of fresh hoofprints.
Clay trotted along the ridge until he came to a point above that where he’d left the dun. He plunged down through a tangle of brush to the horse. He mounted and rode back eastward. As he remembered this chopped up land, the trails the sniper had to use led down into the valley only after making a wide sweep to avoid the high cliffs that surrounded the south side of Deadman Canyon. If he was right, he could follow the regular trails down to the bench and take a shortcut from there that might put him in the valley before the sniper could reach it.
He held the dun back until they were over the steepest pitches. Then he urged it to a faster pace until they were going at a hard gallop as they reached the level trail leading to the bench. Clay reined in at the far side of the bench, trying to recall the exact location of the shortcut he remembered. He turned to his right and rode downslope until a thick stand of timber blocked him. He backed the dun a short distance and circled the trees until he saw the faint, narrow track he remembered.
Now he moved swiftly again, following the faint track as it twisted dangerously down through thick brush and then across a barren stretch and finally joined with another, equally faint trail.
From here he could see a corner of his swampland and the judge’s dry south section. He looked down at the trail and elation surged in him. The surface of the ground showed the fresh tracks of the sniper’s horse clearly. They pointed uphill, telling Clay the man had come this way.
He felt the dun stir under him and he leaned forward, listening. He could hear the sounds of someone riding hard, coming from well above him. Clay smiled with soft savagery. Now it was his turn.
VII
HE BACKED the dun into a screen of trees and returned to the trail on foot. He crossed to the other side and climbed a low mound. He squatted down, keeping the hump of the mound between himself and the upper side of the trail.
He breathed softly, curbing his eagerness as he listened to the hoofbeats coming nearer. Now they were just a short distance above him. He lifted his head. The horseman was just a few feet away, riding with his head down and his hat pulled low. He was pushing his horse at a dangerous pace on the narrow, faint surface of the rough trail.
Clay drew his handgun and sent a shot in front of the racing horse. He called loudly, “You there! Hold it!”
The man jerked at the reins and lifted his head. He twisted toward Clay. Surprise froze Clay as he stared up at the slack features of Bert Coniff, one of the Winged L’s top hands.
Clay saw Coniff slap his hand down to his side and come up with his gun. Clay’s inclination was to shoot Coniff out of the saddle. Common sense kept him from doing it. He wanted the man alive. He dropped his gun and dove for Coniff’s leg. Coniff shouted as he lost his balance and slid out of the saddle.
Clay let his weight ride Coniff to the ground. He felt a shod hoof tick his hat as Coniff’s horse took fright and dashed down toward the valley.
Clay felt Coniff twist frantically under him in an effort to bring up his gun. He caught Coniff’s wrist in his fingers and squeezed down. Coniff cried out as the gun dropped to the dirt. Clay let loose of Coniff’s wrist and drove his fist into the slack-featured face, feeling cartilage and bone give under the angry force of his blow. Coniff threw up a knee in an agonized effort to shake Clay off him. Clay swung his fist again, burying it in the softness of Coniff’s stomach. Coniff gagged with pain and sagged back.
Clay crawled to his feet and picked up Coniff’s gun. Coniff rolled over and came to his knees. He stayed that way, his head hanging, while he gagged, gasping for air.
Clay got his own gun and put it in his holster. He turned back to Coniff. “On your feet,” he said.
Coniff lifted his head slowly. Blood ran f
rom his nose down over his mouth. He wiped it away with the back of his sleeve and stared at Clay. His eyes mirrored fright and pain.
Clay said softly, “Who hired you, Bert?”
Coniff shook his head slowly like an injured dog and got awkwardly to his feet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said thickly. “What’s the idea of jumping a man like that? You gone crazy?”
Clay hesitated, for the first time wondering if he might have made a mistake. He hadn’t known Bert Coniff long before he left the valley, but he remembered a pleasant enough man who did his work well with no more than the usual cowhand’s complaining. He could find no reason why a man like that, with a good job as long as he cared for it, would take the risks necessary to kill a man from ambush.
Clay said, “Step back in that soft spot over there, Bert, and I’ll let you know if I’m crazy or not.”
Coniff gaped at him. Clay took a step forward and Coniff backed up. Clay said, “Stop right there. All right, now move away.”
Coniff wiped his sleeve across his face again and did as he was told. Clay looked down at the bootprints he had made in the soft dirt. One heel left a mark that was an exact match for the worn ones Clay had seen before.
“Look for yourself,” Clay said softly. “You left that heelprint with the little puncture in the middle back up by the deadfall today. And you left another one just like it near where you tried to shoot me the other night. Take a good look, Bert. That worn-down heel is going to put a rope around your neck.”
“You’re crazy!” Coniff blurted. “Why would I shoot at you? I was up here hunting deer.”
Anger drove Clay forward. He grabbed Coniff by the shirt front. “I want to know who hired you!” he yelled.
Coniff’s slack features went white with fear. He lifted his hands and batted at Clay’s wrist. “Leave me alone,” he cried. “You got no call to treat a man this way. I ain’t armed and you are. What chance have I got?”
Clay let loose of Coniff and stepped back. “If that’s the only thing bothering you, we’ll fix it,” he said. He tossed Coniff’s gun aside and unbuckled his own belt. He dropped it on the ground.
He started toward Coniff at a slow, deliberate walk. Coniff held his ground for a moment and then turned. He broke into a shambling run down the trail.
Clay took a long stride and launched himself in a tackle. He caught Coniff around the waist and swung him to the ground. Coniff twisted about and began to flail wildly with his fists. Clay slapped his arms aside and pinned them to the trail. His anger turned to disgust as he stared down into the fearridden features. This was a far cry from the Bert Coniff he had known, and he wondered what had happened to turn what had once been a man into this craven animal.
Clay said slowly, “Let’s start all over, Bert. Who hired you to keep people off my land? Damson? Did Bick Damson’s money get to you?”
Coniff shook his head.
Clay cocked a fist. Coniff said, “It won’t do you no good to beat me up. I ain’t got nothing to say. If you think I been shooting at you, run me down to the jail and bring charges.” Confidence surged into his voice as he talked. “Sure, that’s it. You got a case against me, bring a charge.”
Clay thought Coniff’s eagerness a little overdone. He was too anxious to put himself in Roy Ponders’ hands.
But there was nothing else he could do, Clay realized. Even if he had thought it would make Coniff talk, Clay knew beating the man would only make him despise himself. This was a job for the law now — Roy Ponders and Judge Lyles.
Clay could imagine how the judge would feel when he saw how one of his trusted hands had betrayed him. Clay sighed. Then he got up and pulled Coniff roughly to his feet. He pushed the man up the trail, “Let’s go,” he said angrily.
Coniff seemed to realize that he was no longer in danger of a beating. “You’re wasting your time,” he said. “I was up here to get me a deer and you can’t prove otherwise.”
Clay stopped to put on his gun and belt. “We’ll let the law decide,” he answered. He herded Coniff ahead of him to where the dun waited. He climbed into the saddle. “Now start walking.”
Coniff turned and stepped back onto the trail. He glanced back at Clay and then broke into a run, seeking to climb the low bank on the far side of the trail and reach the protection of the timber.
Clay urged the dun out of the trees, untying his rope from his saddlehorn as he rode. He fashioned a loop and threw it just as Coniff scrambled to the top of the bank. The rope settled around Coniffs body, pinning his arms to his sides. The force of his run pulled the loop taut. He snapped upright then went over backwards, tumbling down the bank and sprawling on the trail.
He surged to his feet and tried to run again. Clay brought the dun alongside him and took a few more turns about Coniff with the rope. He tied the free end to his saddlehorn.
“Walk or get dragged,” Clay said flatly. “It makes no difference to me.”
“I ain’t going to walk all the way to town,” Coniff cried. “It’s five miles.”
“Maybe your horse waited for you down the trail,” Clay said dryly. He kicked the dun into motion. Coniff waited until the rope stretched taut, then he started reluctantly forward.
They found his horse at the foot of the slope, eating rank grass growing along the edge of Clay’s swampland. Clay pulled Coniff’s rifle from the boot and then let Coniff work his way into the saddle.
“You try any fancy tricks and you’ll learn what a roped steer feels like,” Clay said. “Start riding.”
Coniff squirmed his arms around in front of his body and managed to get the reins into his hands. He started his horse forward sullenly.
“You make a man feel like dirt,” he complained.
Clay said only, “Just head for town.”
He glanced around as they came into the valley. He could see some of the Winged L men haying in a distant pasture, but they were too far away to see what was going on.
They neared the new fencing which marked the edge of Damson’s land. Clay saw the bulky figure of Ben Pike some distance ahead. Pike was working on a corner fence post with a hammer and a bag of staples, but he stopped quickly enough when he saw Clay and Coniff coming steadily down the road.
He took a long, gape-mouthed look and then broke for his horse. Clay reached down for his rifle. He let it fall back into the boot as he saw Pike rein his horse around and head for Damson’s big house.
Trouble, Clay thought. Pike would have gone to tell Damson or Vanner what had happened.
Clay urged the dun to more speed. Coniff tried to hold his horse back, and Clay swung around to him. “Don’t count on Damson helping you,” he said. “If you’re working for him and he gets the idea you might talk, he’ll shoot you first and think up a reason later.”
Coniff kicked frantically at his horse, sending it galloping up the road.
VIII
BICK DAMSON drove his big palomino at top speed the three miles from his place into town. He followed the hill road, making a wide swing so that he came into the alley behind the Cattlemen’s Bar from the far side of town. He rode the horse into a small barn and got hurriedly out of the saddle. He strode across the alley and into the rear door of the Cattlemen’s.
He was in a narrow hallway with the door to the barroom straight ahead and a flight of stairs leading upward on his left. He climbed the stairs two at a time and entered a door at the top.
The room was fitted out as a combination parlor and office. Molly Doane was seated behind a desk, making entries in a ledger. She looked up coldly as Damson shut the door behind him.
“This is my room,” she said. “You’ve been told to come in here only when you’re invited. You have a room of your own. Use it.”
“Where’s Vanner?” he demanded. “I got to talk to him.”
“Downstairs eating his supper,” she answered. She went back to her work. “Now get out of here.”
“Don’t get so high and mighty with me,” Damson shou
ted. “It’s my money that put you here. Go tell Vanner I want him and be quick about it!”
She paid no attention to him and he strode angrily to the desk, one hand lifted. Molly opened a desk drawer and brought out a small gun. Only then did she lift her head and look at Damson.
He stopped abruptly. “By God,” he whispered. “I think you’d like a reason for shooting me.” He took a backward step. “Put that thing away and listen to me. All hell’s going to bust loose pretty soon. Get Vanner up here.”
Molly stood up. “Go to your own room and I’ll bring him.” She looked around at the expensive furniture. “I don’t want you in here, dirtying up the only decent things I ever owned.”
Damson backed to ward the door. “Someday Vanner’ll get tired of you. Then you’ll be glad to have me around. And anyone else you can get.”
Fear touched Molly Doane’s eyes briefly. She turned hurriedly away from Damson’s gaze. “Just get out,” she said.
Damson jerked open the door and strode down the hall to a room that had been set aside for him. He hurried to a sideboard and poured himself a big drink of whiskey. He downed it and took the bottle and glass to a chair. He poured a second drink and gulped it angrily. Then he slumped back, staring impatiently at the door.
Vanner came into the room quietly. He glanced at Damson and took a chair near him. “You were told to keep out of Molly’s room,” he said.
“Whose money bought this place for her?” Damson demanded. “Who — ” He waved the question aside. “Listen,” he said. “Clay Belden’s got Bert Coniff hog-tied and he’s bringing him into town. I told you we shouldn’t wait to get rid of Belden.”
He poured himself a third drink and swallowed it jerkily. “Coniff’ll talk and then what?” He pushed himself forward in the chair, glaring at Vanner. “You’re always bragging about how many brains you got. How you made me rich and you’re going to fix it so one of these days I’ll own the whole valley. All right, if you’re so smart, figure out what we do right now.”
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