“You’re lying!” Bender snarled.
Dusty Barron walked on. The sun was bright in the street, and little puffs of dust arose at every step. There were five horses tied to the hitch rail behind the three men. He found himself hoping none of them would be hit by a stray shot. To his right was Blue Riddle, walking even with him, his big hands hovering over his guns.
His eyes clung to Dick Lowe, riveted there as though he alone lived in the world. He could see the man drop into a half crouch, noticed the bulge of the tobacco sack in his breast pocket, the buttons down the two sides of his shirt. Under the brim of the hat he could see the straight bar of the man’s eyebrows and the hard gleam of the eyes beneath, and then suddenly the whole tableau dissolved into flaming, shattering action.
Lowe’s hand flashed for his gun and Dusty’s beat him by a hair’s breadth, but Dusty held his fire, lifting the gun slowly. Lowe’s quick shot flamed by his ear, and he winced inwardly at the proximity of death. Then the gunman fired again and the bullet tugged impatiently at his vest. He drew a long breath and squeezed off a shot, then another.
Lowe rose on tiptoes, opened his mouth widely as if to gasp for breath, seemed to hold himself there for a long moment, and then pitched over into the street.
Dusty’s gun swung with his eyes and he saw Bender was down on his knees, and so he opened up on McQuill. The cat man jerked convulsively, and then began to back away, his mouth working and his gun hammering. The man’s gun stopped firing, and he stared at it, pulled the trigger again, and then reached for a cartridge from his belt.
Barron stood, spraddle-legged, in the street and saw Cat’s hand fumble at his belt. The fingers came out with a cartridge and moved toward the gun, and then his eyes glazed and he dropped his iron. Turning, as though the whole affair had slipped his mind, he started for the saloon. He made three steps, and then lifted his foot, seemed to feel for the saloon step, and fell like a log across the rough board porch.
Blue Riddle was on his knees, blood staining a trouser leg. Bender was sprawled out in the dust, a darkening pool forming beneath him.
Suddenly the street was filled with people. Ruth ran up to Dusty and he slid his arm around her. With a shock, he remembered. “You said two men were looking for me. Who?”
“Only us.”
He turned, staring. Two big men were facing him, grinning. “Buck and Ben! How in tarnation did you two find me?”
Buck Barron grinned. “We was wonderin’ what happened to you. We come to town and had a mite of a ruckus with the Hickmans. What was left of them headed for El Paso in a mighty hurry ... both of ’em. Then an Injun kid come ridin’ up on a beat-up hoss and said you-all was in a sight of trouble, so we figgered we’d come along and see how you made out.”
“An Injun?” Dusty was puzzled.
“Yeah,” Riddle told him, “that was my doin’. I figgered you was headed for trouble, so I sent an Injun kid off after your brothers. Heck, if I’d knowed what you was like with a six-gun, I’d never have sent for ’em!”
Ben Barron grinned and rubbed at the stubble of whiskers. “An’ if we’d knowed there was on’y three, we’d never have come!” He looked from Dusty to Ruth. “Don’t look like you’ll be comin’ home right soon with that place at Gallo Gap an’ what you’ve got your arm around. But what’ll we tell Allie?”
“Allie?” Ruth drew away from him, eyes wide. “Who’s Allie? You didn’t tell me you had a girl!”
Dusty winked at his brothers. “Allie? She’s war chief of the Barron tribe. Allie’s my ma.” He turned to Riddle. “Blue, how’s about you sort of keepin’ an eye on that gap place for me for a week or so? I reckon I’d better take Ruth home for a spell. Allie, she sure sets a sight of store by weddin’s.”
Ruth’s answering pressure on his arm was all the answer he needed.
McQueen of the
Tumbling K
Ward McQueen reined in the strawberry roan and squinted his eyes against the sun. Salty sweat made his eyes smart, and he dabbed at them with the end of a bandanna. Kim Sartain was hazing a couple of rambunctious steers back into line. Bud Fox was walking his horse up the slope to where Ward waited, watching the drive.
Fox drew up alongside him and said: “Ward, d’you remember that old brindle ladino with the scarred hide? This here is his range, but we haven’t seen hide nor hair of him.”
“That’s one old mossyhorn I won’t forget in a hurry. He’s probably hiding back in one of the cañons. Have you cleaned them out yet?”
“Uhn-huh, we surely have. Baldy an’ me both worked ’em, and no sign of him. Makes a body mighty curious.”
“Yeah, I suppose you’ve got a point. It ain’t like him to be away from the action. He’d surely be down there makin’ trouble.” He paused, suddenly thoughtful. “Missed any other stock since I’ve been gone?”
Fox shrugged. “If there’s any missin’, it can’t be more than a few head, but you can bet if that old crowbait is gone, some others went with him. He ramrods a good-sized herd all by himself.”
Baldy Jackson joined them on the slope. He jerked his head to indicate a nearby cañon mouth. “Seen some mighty queer tracks over yonder,” he said, “like a man afoot.”
“We’ll go have a look,” McQueen said. “A man afoot in this country? It isn’t likely.”
He started the roan across the narrow valley, with Baldy and Bud following.
The cañon was narrow and high-walled. Parts of it were choked with brush and fallen rock, with only the winding watercourse to offer a trail. In the spreading fan of sand where the wash emptied into the valley, Baldy drew up.
Ward looked down at the tracks Baldy indicated. “Yes, they do look odd,” said Ward. “Fixed him some homemade footgear. Wonder if that’s his blood or some critter?” Leading the roan, he followed the tracks up the dry streambed.
After a few minutes, he halted. “He’s been hurt. Look at the tracks headed this way. Fairly long, steady stride. I’d guess he’s a tall man. But see here? Goin’ back, the steps are shorter an’ he’s staggerin’. He stopped twice in twenty yards, each time to lean against something.”
“Reckon we’d better follow him?” Baldy looked at the jumble of boulders and crowded brush. “If he doesn’t aim to be ketched, he could make us a powerful lot of trouble.”
“We’ll follow him anyway. Baldy, you go back an’ help the boys. Tell Kim an’ Tennessee where we’re at. Bud will stay with me. Maybe we can track him down, an’ he should be grateful. It looks like he’s hurt bad.”
They moved along cautiously for another 100 yards. Bud Fox stopped, mopping his face. “He doesn’t figure on bein’ followed. He’s makin’ a try at losin’ his trail. Even tried to wipe out a spot of blood.”
Ward McQueen paused and looked up the watercourse with keen, probing eyes. There was something wrong about all this. He had been riding this range for months now and believed he knew it well, yet he remembered no such man as this must be, and had seen no such tracks. Obviously the man was injured. Just as obviously he was trying, even in his weakened condition, to obliterate his trail. That meant that he expected to be followed and that those who followed were enemies.
Pausing to study the terrain, he ran over in his mind the possibilities from among those who he knew. Who might the injured man be? And who did he fear?
They moved on, working out the trail in the close, hot air of the cañon. The tracks split suddenly and disappeared on a wide ledge of stone where the cañon divided into two.
“We’re stuck,” Fox said. “He won’t leave tracks with those makeshift shoes of his, and there’s nowhere he can go up the cañons.”
The right-hand branch ended in a steep, rocky slide, impossible to climb without hours of struggle, and the left branch ended against the sheer face of a cliff against whose base lay a heaped-up pile of boulders and rocky débris.
“He may h
ave doubled back or hidden in the brush,” Fox added.
Ward shrugged. “Let’s go back. He doesn’t want to be found, but hurt like he is, he’s apt to die out here without care.”
Deliberately he had spoken loudly. Turning their mounts, they rode back down the cañon to rejoin the herd.
* * * * *
Ruth Kermitt was waiting on the steps when they left the grassy bottom and rode up to the bunkhouse. With her was a slender, narrow-faced man in a black frock coat. As Ward drew up, the man’s all-encompassing glance took him in, then slid away.
“Ward, this is Jim Yount. He’s buying cattle and wants to look at the herd you just brought in.”
“Howdy,” Ward said agreeably. He glanced at Yount’s horse, and then at the tied-down gun.
Two more men sat on the steps of the bunkhouse. A big man in a checkered shirt and a slim redhead with a rifle across his knees.
“We’re looking to buy five hundred to a thousand head,” Yount commented. “We heard you had good stock.”
“Beef?”
“No, breeding stock, mostly. We’re stockin’ a ranch. I’m locatin’ the other side of Newton’s place.”
Ward commented: “We have some cattle. Or rather, Miss Kermitt has. I’m just the foreman.”
“Oh?” Yount looked around at Ruth with a quick, flashing smile. “Miss, is it? Or are you a widow?”
“Miss. My brother and I came here together, but he was killed.”
“Hard for a young woman to run a ranch alone, isn’t it?” His smile was sympathetic.
“Miss Kermitt does very well,” Ward replied coolly, “and she isn’t exactly alone.”
“Oh?” Yount glanced at McQueen, one eyebrow lifted. “No,” he said after a minute, “I don’t expect you could say she was alone as long as she had cattle on the place, and cowhands.”
Ruth got up quickly, not liking the look on Ward’s face. “Mister Yount? Wouldn’t you like some coffee? Then we can talk business.”
When they had gone inside, Ward McQueen turned on his heel and walked to the bunkhouse, leading his horse. He was mad and he didn’t care who knew it. The thin-faced redhead looked at him as he drew near.
“What’s the matter, friend? Somebody steal your girl?”
Ward McQueen halted and turned slowly. Baldy Jackson got up quickly and moved out of line. The move put him at the corner of the bunkhouse, leaving Yount’s riders at the apex of a triangle of which McQueen and himself formed the two corners.
“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 bunkhouse. 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 Mannerhouse. Gelvin had ranched the country beyond Newton’s. Suddenly McQueen made up his mind. After chow he would ride into Mannerhouse 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 gun hand 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.
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