Dirksen had grown increasingly silent, and he avoided Langer and Slagle. Watching him, Jim was puzzled by the man, but could find no reason for his behavior unless the man was frightened by something. Finally, Jim pulled up alongside Jeeter.
The man glanced at him, and shook his head. “I don’t like this. Not even a little. She’s too quiet.”
Gary hesitated, waiting for the cowhand to continue, but he held his peace. Finally, Gary said, speaking slowly, “It is mighty quiet, but I see nothin’ wrong with that. I’m not hunting trouble.”
“Trouble,” Jeeter said dryly, “comes sometimes whether you hunt it or not. If anything breaks around this herd, take my advice an’ don’t ask no questions. Just scatter dust out of here!”
“Why are you warning me?” Gary asked.
Jeeter shrugged. “You seem like a right nice feller,” he said quietly. “Shame for you to get rung in on somethin’ as dirty as this when you had nothin’ to do with it.”
CHAPTER THREE: Boss of the Slash Four
Despite his questions, Jeeter would say no more, and finally Gary dropped back to the drag. There was little dust, due to the rains, but the drag was a rough deal for the herd was tired and they kept lagging back. Langer and Slagle, Jim observed, spent more time watching the hills than the cattle. Obviously, both men were as jumpy as Dirksen, and were expecting something. Toward dusk Red left the herd and rode up a canyon into the hills.
Slagle was still gone, and Jim was squatting by the fire watching Jeeter throw grub together when there was a sudden shot from the hills to the north.
Langer stopped his nervous pacing and faced the direction of the shot, his hand on his gun. Jim Gary got slowly to his feet, and he saw that Jeeter’s knuckles gripping the frying pan were white and hard.
Langer was first to relax. “Red must have got him a turkey,” he said, “few around here, and he was sayin’ earlier he’d sure like some.”
Nevertheless, Gary noted that Langer kept back from the firelight and had his rifle near at hand. There was a sound of an approaching horse and Langer slid his rifle across his knees, but it was Slagle, and he swung down, glancing toward the big man. “Shot at a turkey, an’ missed.” Then he added, looking right at Langer, “Nothin’ to worry about now. This time for sure.”
Dirksen got suddenly to his feet. “I’m quittin’, Red. I don’t like this a-tall, not none. I’m gettin’ out.”
Slagle’s eyes were flat and ugly. “Sit down an’ shut up, Jeeter,” he said impatiently, “tomorrow’s our last day. We’ll have a payday this side of Salt Creek an’ then if you want to blow, why you can blow out of here.”
Gary looked up. “I reckon you can have my time, then, too,” he said quietly, “I’m ridin’ west for Pleasant Valley.”
“You?” Langer snorted. “Pleasant Valley? You better stay somewhere where you can be took care of. They don’t sidestep trouble out there.”
Gray felt something rise within him, but he controlled his anger with an effort. “I didn’t ask you for any comment, Tobe,” he said quietly, “I can take care of myself.”
Langer sneered. “Why, you yaller skunk! I heard all about you! Just because your pappy was a fast man, you must think folks are skeered of you! You’re yaller as saffron! You ain’t duckin’ trouble, you’re just scared!”
Gary was on his feet, his face white. “All you’ve got to do, Tobe, if you want to lose some teeth, is to stand up!”
“What?” Langer leaped to his feet. “Why, you dirty—”
Jim Gary threw a roundhouse left. The punch was wide, but it came fast, and Langer was not expecting Jim to fight. Too late, he tried to duck, but the fist caught him on the nose, smashing it and showering the front of his shirt with gore.
The big man was tough, and he sprang in, swinging with both hands. Gary stood his ground, and began to fire punches with both fists. For a full minute the two big men stood toe to toe and slugged wickedly, and then Gary deliberately gave ground. Over eager, Langer leaped after him, and Gary brought up a wicked right that stood Tobe on his boot toes, then a looping left that knocked him into the fire.
With a cry, he leaped from the flames, his shirt smoking. Ruthlessly, Gary grabbed him by the shirt front and jerked him into a right hand to the stomach, then a right to the head, and shoving him away he split his ear with another looping left, smashing it like an over ripe tomato. Langer went down in a heap.
Red Slagle had made no move to interfere, but his eyes were hard and curious as he stared up at Gary. “Now where,” he said, “did Ray get the idea that you wouldn’t fight?”
Gary spilled water from a canteen over his bloody knuckles. “Maybe he just figured wrong. Some folks don’t like trouble. That don’t mean they won’t fight when they have to.”
Langer pulled himself drunkenly to his feet and staggered toward the creek.
Red measured Jim with careful eyes. “What would you do,” he asked suddenly, “if Langer reached for a gun?”
Gary turned his level green eyes toward Slagle. “Why, I reckon I’d have to kill him,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I hope he ain’t so foolish.”
Dawn broke cold and gray and Jim Gary walked his horse up into the hills where he had heard the shot the night before. He knew that if Slagle saw him, he would be in trouble, but there was much he wanted to know.
Despite the light fall of rain the night before, there were still tracks. He followed those of Slagle’s bay until he found where they joined those of a larger horse. Walking the buckskin warily, Jim followed the trail. It came to a sudden end.
A horse was sprawled in a clearing, shot through the head. A dozen feet away lay an old man, a tall old man, his sightless eyes staring toward the lowering skies, his arms flung wide. Jim bent over him and saw that he had been shot three times through the chest. Three times. And the wound lower down was an older wound, several days old at least.
The horse wore a Slash Four brand. Things were beginning to make sense now. Going through the old man’s pockets. Jim found a worn envelope containing some tallies of cattle, and the envelope was addressed to Tom Blaze, Durango, Colo.
Tom Blaze … the Slash Four!
Tom Blaze, the pioneer Kiowa fighting cattleman who owned the Slash Four, one of the toughest outfits in the West! Why he had not connected the two Jim could not imagine, but the fact remained that the Slash Four had struck no responsive chord in his thoughts until now.
And Tom Blaze was dead.
Now it all fitted. The old Mother Hubbard saddle had been taken from Tom’s horse, for this was the second time he had been shot. Earlier, perhaps when the cattle had been stolen, they had shot him and left him for dead, yet they had been unable to leave the saddle behind, for a saddle was two or three month’s work for a cowhand, and not to be lightly left behind.
They had been sure of themselves, too. Sure until he saw Blaze, following them despite his wound. After that they had been worried, and Slagle must have sighted Blaze the afternoon before, then followed him and shot him down.
When the Slash Four found Tom Blaze dead all heck would break loose. Dirksen knew that, and that was why he wanted out, but fast. And it was why Red Slagle and Tobe Langer had pushed so hard to get the cattle to Salt Creek where they could be lost in larger herds, or in the breaks of the hills around the Double A.
When he rode the buckskin down to the fire the others were all up and moving around. Langer’s face was swollen and there were two deep cuts, one on his cheekbone, the other over an eye. He was sullen and refused to look toward Gary.
Slagle stared at the buckskin suspiciously, noticing the wetness on his legs from riding in the high grass and brush.
Whatever the segundo had in mind he never got a chance to say. Jim Gary poured a cup of coffee, but held it in his left hand. “Red, I want my money. I’m takin’ out.”
“Mind if I ask why?” Red’s eyes were level and waiting.
Gary knew that Slagle was a gun hand but the thought did not disturb him
. While he avoided trouble, it was never in him to be afraid, nor did his own skill permit it. While he had matched gun speed with only one man, he had that sure confidence that comes from unerring marksmanship and speed developed from long practice.
“No, I don’t mind. This morning I found Tom Blaze’s body, right where you killed him yesterday afternoon. I know that Slash Four outfit, and I don’t want to be any part of this bunch when they catch up to you.”
His frankness left Slagle uncertain. He had been prepared for evasion. This was not only sincerity, but it left Slagle unsure as to Gary’s actual stand. From his words Slagle assumed Gary was leaving from dislike of the fight rather than dislike of rustling.
“You stick with us, Jim,” he said, “you’re a good man, like Mart said. That Slash Four outfit won’t get wise, and there’ll be a nice split on this cattle deal.”
“I want no part of it,” Jim replied shortly. “I’m out. Let me have my money.”
“I ain’t got it,” Red said simply. “Ray pays us all off. I carry no money around. Come on, Jim, lend us a hand. We’ve only today, then we’ll be at the head of Salt Creek Wash and get paid off.”
Gary hesitated. He did need the money, for he was broke and would need grub before he could go on west. Since he had come this far, another day would scarcely matter. “All right, I’ll finish the drive.”
Nothing more was said, and within the hour they moved out. Yet Gary was restless and worried. He could feel the tenseness in the others and knew they, too, were disturbed. There was no sign of Mart Ray, who should be meeting them soon.
To make matters worse, the cattle were growing restive. The short drives had given them time to recover some of their energy and several of them, led by one big red steer, kept breaking for the brush. It was hot, miserable work. The clouds still hung low, threatening rain, but the air was sultry.
Jim Gary started the day with the lean gray horse he had ridden before, but by midafternoon he exchanged the worn out animal for his own buckskin. Sweat streamed down his body under his shirt, and he worked hard, harrying the irritable animals down the trail that now was lined with pinon and juniper, with a sprinkling of huge boulders. Ahead, a wide canyon opened, and not far beyond would be the spot where he expected to find Ray with the payoff money.
The big red steer suddenly made another bolt for the brush and the buckskin unwound so fast that it almost unseated Gary. He swore softly and let the horse take him after the steer and cut it back to the herd. As it swung back, he glanced up to see Langer and Red Slagle vanishing into the brush. Where Dirksen was he could not guess until he heard a wild yell.
Swinging around, he saw a dozen hard riding horsemen cutting down from the brush on both sides, and a glance told him that flight was useless. Nevertheless, Jeeter Dirksen tried it.
Slamming the spurs into his bronc, he lunged for the brush in the direction taken by Slagle and Langer, but he made no more than a dozen yards when a rattle of gunfire smashed him from the saddle. His slender body hit the ground rolling, flopped over one last time, and lay sprawled and sightless under the low gray clouds.
Gary rested his hands on his saddlehorn and stared gloomily at the strange little man, so badly miscast in this outlaw venture. Then horsemen closed in around him; his six-guns were jerked from their holsters, and his rifle from its scabbard.
“What’s the matter with you?” The voice was harsh. “Won’t that horse of yours run?”
Jim looked up into a pair of cold gray eyes in a leatherlike face. A neat gray mustache showed above a firm lipped mouth. Jim Gary smiled, although he had never felt less like it in his life. The horsemen surrounded him, and their guns were ready. “Never was much of a hand to run,” Jim said, “an’ I’ve done nothin’ to run for.”
“You call murderin’ my brother nothin’? You call stealin’ cattle nothin’? Sorry, friend, we don’t see things things alike. I call it hangin’.”
“So would I, on’y I haven’t done those things. I hired onto this oufit back down the line. Forty bucks to the head of Salt Creek Wash … an’ they ain’t paid me.”
“You’ll get paid!” The speaker was a lean, hard-faced young man. “With a rope!”
Another rider pushed a horse through the circle. “Who is this man, Uncle Dan? Why didn’t he try to get away?”
“Says he’s just a hired hand,” Uncle Dan commented.
“That’s probably what that dead man would have said, too!” the lean puncher said. “Let me an’ the boys have him under that cottonwood we seen. It had nice strong limbs.”
Gary had turned his head to look at the girl. Uncle Dan would be Dan Blaze, and this must be the daughter of the murdered man. She was tall, slim but rounded of limb and undeniably attractive, with color in her cheeks and a few scattered freckles over her nose. Her eyes were hazel and now looked hard and stormy.
“Did you folks find Tom Blaze’s body?” he asked. “They left him back yonder.” Lifting a hand carefully to his shirt pocket he drew out the envelope and tally sheets. “These were his.”
“What more do you need?” The lean puncher demanded. He pushed his horse against Jim’s and grabbed at the buckskin’s bridle. “Come on, boys!”
“Take it easy, Jerry!” Dan Blaze said sharply. “When I want him hung, I’ll say so.” His eyes shifted back to Jim. “You’re a mighty cool customer,” he said. “If your story’s straight, what are you doing with these?”
Briefly as possible, Jim explained the whole situation, and ended by saying, “What could I do? I still had forty bucks comin’, an’ I did my work, so I aim to collect.”
“You say there were three men with the herd? And the two who got away were Tobe Langer and Red Slagle?”
“That’s right,” Jim hesitated over Mart Ray, then said no more.
Blaze was staring at the herd, now he looked at Jim. “Why were these cattle branded AA? That’s a straight outfit. You know anything about that?”
Gary hesitated. Much as he had reason to believe Ray was not only one of these men but their leader, he hated to betray him. “Not much. I don’t know any of these outfits. I’m a Texas man.” Blaze smiled wryly. “You sound it. What’s your handle?”
“Jim Gary.”
The puncher named Jerry started as if struck. “Jim Gary?” he gasped, his voice incredulous. “The one who killed Sonoma?”
“Yeah, I reckon.”
Now they were all staring at him with new interest, for the two fights he had were ample to start his name growing a legend on the plains and desert. These punchers had heard of him, probably from some grub line rider or drifting puncher.
“Jim Gary,” Blaze mused, “we’ve heard about you. Old Steve’s son, aren’t you? I knew Steve.”
Jim looked up his eyes cold.”My father,” he said grimly, “was a mighty good man!”
Dan Blaze’s eyes warmed a little. “You’re right. He was.”
“What of it?” Jerry demanded sullenly. “The man’s a killer. We know that. We found him with the cattle. We found him with some of Tom’s stuff on him. What more do you want?”
The girl spoke suddenly. “There was another rider, one who joined you, then rode away. Who was he?”
There it was, and Jim suddenly knew he would not lie. “Mart Ray,” he said quietly, “of the Double A.”
“That’s a lie!” The girl flashed back. “What are you saying?”
“You got any proof of that?” Jerry demanded hotly. “You’re talkin’ about a friend of our’n.”
“He was a friend of mine, too.” Gary explained about Mart Ray. “Why don’t you turn me loose?” he suggested then. “I’ll go get Ray and bring him to you. Chances are Slagle and Tobe will be with him.”
“You’ll get him?” Jerry snorted. “That’s a good one, that is!”
“Tie him,” Dan Blaze said suddenly. “We’ll go into Salt Creek.”
CHAPTER FOUR: Hoofmarked for Justice
Riding behind Dan Blaze and his niece, whom he heard them
call Kitty, Jim Gary was suddenly aware, almost for the first time, of the danger he was in. The fact that it had been averted for the moment was small consolation, for these were hard, desperate men, and one of them, perhaps more, had been slain.
Fear was something strange to him, and while he had known danger, it had passed over him leaving him almost untouched. This situation conveyed only a sense of unreality, and until now the idea that he might really be in danger scarcely seemed credible. Listening to these men, his mind changed about that. He realized belatedly that he was in the greatest danger of his life. If he had none of their talk to warn him, the mute evidence of Jeeter’s body was enough. And Jeeter had died yelling to him, trying to give him a warning so he might escape.
Now fear rode with him, a cold, clammy fear that stiffened his fingers and left his mouth dry and his stomach empty. Even the sight of the scattered buildings of the town of Salt Creek did not help, and when they rode up the street, the red of embarrassment crept up his neck at the shame of being led into the town, his hands tied behind him, like a cheap rustler.
Mart Ray was sitting on the steps and he shoved his hat back and got to his feet. Beside him was Red Slagle. There was no sign of Tobe Langer. “Howdy, Dan! What did you catch? A hoss thief?” Ray’s voice was genial, his eyes bland. “Looks like a big party for such a small catch!”
Blaze reined in his horse and stopped the little cavalcade. His eyes went from Mart to Slagle. “How long have you been here, Red?” he demanded.
“Me?” Slagle was innocent. “No more’n about fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. Just rode in from the Double A. Somethin’ wrong?”
Blaze turned his cold eyes on Jim Gary, then looked back to Ray. “We found a herd of Slash Four cattle east of here, Mart. They were wearin’ a Double A brand worked over our Slash Four. How do you explain it?”
Ray shrugged. “I don’t,” he said simply. “How does that hombre you got with you explain it?”
Kitty Blaze spoke up quickly. “Mart, did you ever see this man before? Did you?”
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