“Miss Kermitt”—McQueen’s tone was cold—“is my boss. She is also a lady. Don’t get any funny notions.”
The redhead chuckled. “Yeah, and our boss is a ladies’ man. He knows how to handle ’em.” Deliberately he turned his back on Baldy. “Ever been foreman on a place like this, Dodson. Maybe you or me will have a new job.”
Ward walked into the bunk house. Bud Fox was loitering beside the window. He, too, had been watching the pair.
“Don’t seem the friendly type,” Bud commented, pouring warm water into the tin wash basin. “Almost like they wanted trouble.”
“What would be the idea of that?” Ward inquired.
Bud was splashing in the basin and made no reply, but Ward wondered. Certainly their attitude was not typical. He glanced toward the house, and his lips tightened. Jim Yount was a slick-talking sort and probably a woman would think him good-looking.
Out beyond the ranch house was a distant light, which would be Gelvin’s store in Manner house. Gelvin had ranched the country beyond Newton’s. Suddenly McQueen made up his mind. After chow he would ride into Manner house and have a little talk with Gelvin.
Supper was served in the ranch house as always and was a quiet meal but for Ruth and Jim Yount, who laughed and talked at the head of the table.
Ward, seated opposite Yount, had little to say. Baldy, Bud, and Tennessee sat in strict silence. Only Red Lund, seated beside Pete Dodson, occasionally ventured a remark. At the foot of the table, lean, wiry Kim Sartain let his eyes rove from face to face.
When supper was over, Ward moved outside into the moonlight and Kim followed. “What goes on?” Kim whispered. “I never did see anybody so quiet.”
Ward explained, adding: “Yount may be a cattle buyer, but the two riders with him are no average cowpunchers. Red Lund is a gunhand if I ever saw one, and Dodson’s right off the Owlhoot Trail or I miss my guess.” He hitched his belt. “I’m ridin’ into town. Keep an eye on things, will you?”
“I’ll do that.” He lowered his tone. “That Lund now? I don’t cotton to him. Nor Yount,” he added.
Gelvin’s store was closed but McQueen knew where to find him. Swinging down from the saddle, he tied his horse and pushed through the batwing doors. Abel was polishing glasses behind the bar, and Gelvin was at a table with Dave Cormack, Logan Keane, and a tall, lean-bodied stranger. They were playing poker.
Two other strangers lounged at the bar. They turned to look at him as he came in.
“Howdy, Ward! How’s things at the Tumblin’ K?”
The two men at the bar turned abruptly and looked at Ward again, quick, searching glances. He had started to speak to Gelvin, but something warned him and instead he walked to the bar.
“Pretty good,” he replied. “Diggin’ some stuff out of the breaks today. Tough work. All right for a brushpopper, but I like open country.”
He tossed off his drink, watching the two men in the bar mirror. “They tell me there’s good range beyond Newton’s. I think I’ll ride over and see if there’s any lyin’ around loose.”
Gelvin glanced up. He was a short, rather handsome man with a keen, intelligent face.
“There’s plenty that you can have for the taking. That country is going back to desert as fast as it can. Sand moving in, streams drying up. You can ride a hundred miles and never find a drink. Why”—he picked up the cards and began to shuffle them—“old Coyote Benny Chait came in two or three weeks ago. He was heading out of the country. He got euchred out of his ranch by some slick card handler. He was laughin’ at the man who won it, said he’d get enough of the country in a hurry.”
The two men at the bar had turned and were listening to Gelvin. One of them started to speak and the other put a cautioning hand on his arm.
“Who was it won the ranch? Did he say?”
“Sure.” Gelvin began to deal. “Some driftin’ cardsharp by the name of…”
“You talk too much!” The larger of the two men at the bar stepped toward the card table. “What d’you know about the country beyond Newton’s?”
Startled by the unprovoked attack, Gelvin turned in his chair. His eyes went from one to the other of the two men. Ward McQueen had picked up the bottle.
“What is this?” Gelvin asked, keeping his tone even.
These men did not seem to be drunk, yet he was experienced enough to know he was in trouble, serious trouble. “What did I say? I was just commenting on the country beyond Newton’s.”
“You lied!” The big man’s hand was near his gun. “You lied! That country ain’t goin’ back! It’s as good as it ever was!”
Gelvin was a stubborn man. This man was trying to provoke a fight, but Gelvin had no intention of being killed over a trifle. “I did not lie,” he replied coolly. “I lived in that country for ten years. I came in with the first white men, and I’ve talked with the Indians who were there earlier. I know of what I speak.”
“Then you’re sayin’ I’m a liar?” The big man’s hand spread over his gun.
Ward McQueen turned in one swift movement. His right hand knocked the bottle spinning toward the second man and he kept swinging around, his right hand grabbing the big man by the belt. With a heave he swung the big man off balance and whirled him, staggering, into the smaller man who had sprung back to avoid the bottle.
The big man staggered again, fell, and then came up with a grunt of fury. Reaching his feet, his hand went to his gun, then froze. He was looking into a gun in Ward McQueen’s hand.
“That was a private conversation,” Ward said mildly. “In this town we don’t interfere. Understand?”
“If you didn’t have the drop on me, you wouldn’t be talkin’ so big!”
Ward dropped his six-gun into its holster. “All right, now you’ve got an even break.”
The two men faced him, and suddenly neither liked what they saw. This was no time for bravery, they decided.
“We ain’t lookin’ for trouble,” the smaller man said. “We just rode into town for a drink.”
“Then ride out,” Ward replied. “And don’t butt into conversations that don’t concern you.”
“Hollier ’n’ me... ,” the big man started to speak, but then suddenly stopped and started for the door.
Ward stepped back toward the bar. “Thanks, Gelvin. You told me something I needed to know.”
“I don’t get it,” Gelvin protested. “What made them mad?”
“That card shark you mentioned? His name wouldn’t be Jim Yount, would it?”
“Of course! How did you know?”
The tall stranger playing cards with Gelvin glanced up and their eyes met. “You wouldn’t be the Ward McQueen from down Texas way, would you?”
“That’s where I’m from. Why?”
The man smiled pleasantly. “You cut a wide swath down thataway. I heard about your run-in with the Maravillas Cañon outfit.”
McQueen was cautious when he took the trail to the Tumbling K, but he saw nothing of the two men in the saloon. Hollier—he was the smaller one. There had been a Hollier who escaped from a lynch mob down Uvalde way a few years back. He had trailed around with a man called Packer, and the larger of these two men had a P burned on his holster with a branding iron.
What was Jim Yount’s game? Obviously the two men from the saloon were connected with him somehow. They had seemed anxious Yount’s name not be spoken, and they seemed eager to quiet any talk about the range beyond Newton’s.
The available facts were few. Yount had won a ranch in a poker game. Gelvin implied the game was crooked. The ranch he won was going back to desert. In other words, he had won nothing but trouble. What came next?
The logical thing for a man of Yount’s stamp was to shrug off the whole affair and go on about his business. He was not doing that, which implied some sort of a plan. Lund and Dodson would make likely companions to Packer and Hollier. Yount was talking of buying cattle, but he was not the sort to throw good money after bad. Did they plan to rustle the ca
ttle?
One thing was sure. It was time he got back to the ranch to alert the boys for trouble. It would be coming sooner, perhaps, because of what happened to -night. But what about Ruth? Was she taken with Yount? Or simply talking business and being polite? Did he dare express his doubts to her?
The Tumbling K foreman was riding into the ranch yard when the shot rang out. Something had struck a wicked blow on his head, and he was already falling when he heard the shot.
His head felt constricted, as if a tight band had been drawn around his temples. Slowly, fighting every inch of the way, he battled his way to consciousness. His lids fluttered, then closed, too weak to force themselves open. He struggled against the heaviness and finally got his eyes open. He was lying on his back in a vague half light. The air felt damp, cool.
Awareness came. He was in a cave or mine tunnel. Turning his head carefully, he looked around. He was lying on a crude pallet on a sandy floor. Some twenty feet away was a narrow shaft of light. Nearby his gun belt hung on a peg driven into the wall and his rifle leaned against the wall.
The rift of light was blotted out and someone crawled into the cave. A man came up and threw down an armful of wood. Then he lighted a lantern and glanced at McQueen.
“Come out of it, did you? Man, I thought you never would.”
He was lean and old, with twinkling blue eyes and almost white hair. He was long and tall. Ward noted the footgear suddenly. This was the man they had trailed up the cañon!
“Who are you?” he demanded.
The man smiled and squatted on his heels. “Charlie Quayle’s the name. Used to ride for Chait, over beyond Newton’s.”
“You’re the one we trailed up the cañon the other day. Yesterday, I believe it was.”
“I’m the man, all right, but it wasn’t yesterday. You’ve been lyin’ here all of two weeks, delirious most of the time. I was beginning to believe you’d never come out of it.”
“Two weeks?” McQueen struggled to sit up, but the effort was too much. He sank back. “Two weeks? They’ll figure I’m dead back at the ranch. Why did you bring me here? Who shot me?”
“Hold your horses. I’ve got to wash up and fix some grub.” He poured water in a basin and began to wash his face and hands. As he dried his hands, he explained. “You was shot, and I ain’t sure who done it. Two of them rustlin’ hands of Yount’s packed you to the cañon and dropped you into the wash. Then they caved sand over you and some brush. But they weren’t about to do more than need be, so figurin’ you were sure enough dead, they rode off. I was almighty curious to know who’d been killed, so I pulled the brush away and dug into the pile and found you was still alive. I packed you up here, and mister, it took some packin’. You’re a mighty heavy man.”
“Were you trailin’ them when they shot me?”
“No. To tell you the truth, I was scoutin’ the layout at the ranch, figurin’ to steal some coffee when I heard the shot. Then I saw them carry you off, so I follered.” Quayle lighted his pipe. “There’s been some changes,” he added. “You friend Sartain has been fired. So have Fox and that bald-headed gent. Tennessee had a run-in with Lund and Lund killed him. Picked a fight, and then beat him to the draw. Yount is real friendly with Ruth Kermitt, and he’s runnin’ the ranch. One or more of those tough gunmen of his is there all the time.”
Ward lay back on his pallet. Kim Sartain fired! It didn’t seem reasonable. Kim had been with Ruth Kermitt longer than any of them. He had been with them when Ruth and her brother came over the trail from Montana. Kim had been with her through all that trouble at Pi lot Range when Ward himself had first joined them. Kim had always ridden for the brand. Now he had been fired, run off the place. And Tennessee killed!
What sort of girl was Ruth Kermitt? She had fired her oldest and most loyal hands and taken on a bunch of rustlers with a tinhorn gambler for boss. And to think he had been getting soft on her! He’d actually been thinking she was the girl for him, and the only reason he’d held off was because he had no money, nothing to offer a woman. Well, this showed what a fool he would have been.
“You’ve got a hard head,” Quayle was saying, “or you’d be dead by now. That bullet hit right over your eye and skidded around your skull under the skin. Laid your scalp open. You had a concussion, too. I know the signs. And you lost blood.”
“I’ve got to get out of here,” Ward said. “I’ve got to see Ruth Kermitt.”
“You’d be better off to sit tight and get well. Right now she’s right busy with that there Yount. Rides all over the range with him, holdin’ hands more’n half the time. Everybody’s seen ’em. And if she fired all the rest of her hands, you can be sure she doesn’t want her foreman back.”
He was right, of course. What good would it do even to talk to a woman who would fire such loyal hands as she’d had?
“Where d’ you fit into all this?”
Quayle sliced bacon into a frying pan. “Like I told you. I rode for Chait. Yount rooked him out of his ranch, but as a matter of fact Chait was glad to get shut of it. When Yount found what he’d won, he was sore. Me, I’d saved me nigh on a year’s wages an’ was fixin’ to set up for myself. One of those hands of Yount’s, he seen the money and trailed me down, said it was ranch money. We had us a fight and they got some lead into me. I got away an’ holed up in this here cañon.”
All day McQueen rested in the cave, his mind busy with the problem. But what could he do? If Ruth Kermitt had made her choice, it was no longer any business of his. The best thing he could do was to get his horse and ride out of there, just drop the whole thing.
It was well after dark before Quayle returned, but he had news and was eager to talk.
“That Yount is takin’ over the country! He went into Manner house last night, huntin’ Gelvin, but Gelvin had gone off with that stranger friend of his that he plays poker with all the time. Yount had words with Dave Cormack and killed him. They say this Yount is greased lightning with a gun. Then Lund an’ Pete Dodson pistol-whipped Logan Keane. Yount told them he was runnin’ the Tumblin’ K and was going to marry Ruth Kermitt, and he was fed up with the talk about him and his men. He thinks he’s got that town treed, an’ maybe he has. Takes some folks a long time to get riled.”
Ruth to marry Jim Yount! Ward felt a sharp pang. He realized suddenly that he was in love with Ruth. Now that he realized it, he knew he had been in love with her for a long time. And she was to marry Yount.
“Did you see anything of Kim Sartain?”
“No,” Quayle replied, “but I heard the three of them rode over into the range beyond Newton’s.”
Ward McQueen was up at daybreak. He rolled out of his blankets, and, although his head ached, he felt better. No matter. It was time to be up and doing. His long period of illness had at least given him rest, and his strength was such that he recovered rapidly. He oiled his guns and reloaded them. Quayle watched him preparing to travel but said nothing until he pulled on his boots. “Better wait until sundown if you’re huntin’ trouble,” he said. “I got a hoss for you. Stashed him down in the brush.”
“A horse? Good for you! I’m going to have a look at the ranch. This deal doesn’t figure right to me.”
“Nor me.” Quayle knocked the ash from his pipe. “I seen that girl’s face today. They rid past as I lay in the brush. She surely didn’t look like a happy woman. Not like she was ridin’ with a man she loved. Maybe she ain’t willin’.”
“I don’t like to think she’d take up with a man like Yount. Well, to night I ride.”
“We ride,” Quayle insisted. “I didn’t like gettin’ shot up any more than you-all. I’m in this fight, too.”
“I can use the help, but what I’d really like you to do is hunt down Kim Sartain and the others. I can use their help. Get them back here for a showdown. Warn them it won’t be pretty.”
Where Quayle had found the quick-stepping buckskin Ward neither knew nor cared. He needed a horse desperately, and the buckskin was not only a horse
but a very good one.
What ever Yount’s game was he had been fast and thorough. He had moved in on the Tumbling K, had Ward McQueen dry-gulched, had Ruth Kermitt fire her old hands, replaced them with his own men, and then rode into Manner house and quieted all outward opposition by killing Dave Cormack and beating another man. If there was to have been opposition, it would have been Cormack and Keane who would have led it. Tennessee, too, had been killed, but Tennessee was not known in town, and that might be passed off as a simple dispute between cowhands. Yount had proved to be fast, ruthless, and quick of decision. As he acted with the real or apparent consent of Ruth Kermitt, there was nothing to he done by the townspeople in the village of Manner house.
Probably, with Cormack and Keane out of the picture and Gelvin off God knew where, they were not inclined to do anything. None of them was suffering any personal loss, and nothing was to be gained by bucking a man already proven to be dangerous. Obviously the gambler was in control. He had erred in only two things. He had failed to kill Charlie Quayle and to make sure that McQueen was dead.
The buckskin had a liking for the trail and moved out fast. Ward rode toward the Tumbling K, keeping out of sight. Quayle had ridden off earlier in the day to find Kim, Baldy, and Bud Fox. The latter two were good cowhands and trustworthy, but the slim, dark-faced youngster, Kim Sartain, was one of the fastest men with a gun Ward had ever seen.
“With him,” Ward told the buckskin, “I’d tackle an army.”
He left the buckskin in a clump of willows near the stream, and then crossed on stepping-stones, working his way through the brush toward the Tumbling K ranch house.
He had no plan of action, or anything on which to base a plan. If he could find Ruth and talk to her, or if he could figure out what it was that Yount was trying to accomplish, it would be a beginning.
The windows were brightly lit. For a time he lay in the brush studying the situation. An error now would be fatal, if not to him, at least to their plans.
There would be someone around, he was sure. Quayle had said one of the gunmen was always on the ranch, for the gambler was a careful man.
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