by L. P. Holmes
“Sure”—Buck nodded—“the tumblers are clickin’ into place. I reckon my hunch was good in sendin’ Jiggs and Shorty on a trip into the Kanab Basin to read a few brands.”
Donna understood. “You mean the cattle we’ve been losing might have been driven into the basin?”
“I’m guessin’ so.”
They were silent a moment. Donna took her courage into her hands. “Tell me,” she asked, “why were you and Whipple enemies before either of you ever came here? And why have you intimated that he … he wasn’t fit for me to speak to?”
Buck’s eyes met hers unwaveringly. “That’s somethin’ we’d all better forget, Miss Donna. You know now why I said that and that Whipple truly is a sneak and a rat. Let it go at that.”
She knew better than to press the point. It would avail her nothing. So she subjugated her piqued curiosity. “Very well. And thank you for being so generous about my … my foolishness last night.”
* * * * *
Jack Carleton rode up to the Red Mesa Ranch shortly before noon. He went directly to the small office and found Buck just in the act of sealing a letter.
It had taken Buck a long two hours to write that letter. Several times he had started it, only to crumple the sheets and toss them into the wooden box that acted as a catchall.
But he had finally finished it to his satisfaction. He tucked it into an inner pocket as the sheriff stamped in.
“I’m mad, Buck,” Carleton said abruptly, “and gettin’ madder all the time. I’ve made up my mind to carry the fight right into the enemy’s camp. I’m goin’ after Whipple, and when I find him, I’ll arrest him for attempted murder. What do you think of the scheme?”
“Great, Jack, and I got another charge to add to it.” Buck went on to tell of finding the traces of arsenic powder in Whipple’s saddlebags. “Also,” he ended, “once we get him behind the bars there’ll be another charge comin’ up. I’ll explain later. And, Jack, I sent Jiggs and Shorty on a trip into the Kanab Basin to look over some brands. It won’t surprise me none to find some Bar C cattle that a runnin’ iron had changed to an S C Connected. It’d be simple enough to run your iron into an S C Connected. Lookee here.”
Buck picked up a pencil and scrawled a few marks on a piece of paper. “Run the bar along until it touches the C. Then add a curve at each end of the bar and you got it. Savvy?”
Carleton nodded, his eyes going bleak.
“I savvy, right enough. That crowd sure were makin’ a merry jackass outta me. But they’re all done. I’m headin’ for the S C Connected right after dinner.”
“It might be wise for you to have company, Jack. I’ll amble along with you.”
“Good. Where’s Donna?”
“She was headin’ into the house, last I saw of her. Well, I’m goin’ over now to change the bandage on Red Scudder’s head. The ole fire-eater got a dirty wallop. C’mon, and say hello.”
They both disappeared into the bunkhouse.
* * * * *
At the same time, Donna crossed the patio to the office. Sevila had told her of her uncle’s arrival, and she wanted to see him. But the office was empty and Donna was just about to leave again, when her eye caught a scrawled line or two on a crumpled sheet of paper lying beside the desk. She picked it up and straightened it out. As she read, a slow, hot color beat up into her cheeks. The words ran:
Miss Laura Kane,
Navajo Springs,
Welkin Valley, Utah
Dear Laura,
Love gone bad is a hard thing to write about. But I owe you too much not to see that you and the baby get a square deal. I’ve found out …
It ended there, being one of the sheets Buck had started his letter on, then discarded.
Donna read it over twice and the crimson of her face faded to a dead, stricken white. Her lips quivered and a hurt choked gasp broke from her lips. For a moment she sagged against the desk.
Then her head came up and her blue eyes blazed. With jerky, fumbling emphasis she tore the paper to shreds and tossed them aside.
Then she walked stiffly back to her own room, where she locked the door and flung herself on her bed.
Later, she forced herself to the dinner table, where she managed, by a strong session of will power, to seem much of her old self.
However, when Buck addressed a remark to her, she favored him with a curt answer and a glance of such searing, blazing scorn and contempt that it left him completely bewildered and chilled.
He withdrew into a shell of silence and absorbed himself with his food.
Immediately after the meal, he and the sheriff took the trail for the S C Connected Ranch.
* * * * *
The S C Connected showed none of the industry and thriftiness of the Red Mesa Ranch. The buildings were cheaply put up, unpainted, and weatherworn. The corrals sagged dispiritedly and many rails were missing. The main ranch house was a two-storied affair, roughly built with a single upstairs window looking down above the narrow porch.
When Buck and Sheriff Jack Carleton rode up, they thought the place was deserted. But as they reined in and dismounted before the house, Monk Canole waddled out to the porch, followed by Wolf Slonicker. Canole’s simian features drew into a taunting grin.
“Well, well,” he growled. “This is an honor. A visit from a neighbor and a friend … a very old and well-known friend.”
Buck’s eyes glinted icily. “Wrong, Canole,” he grated. “I pick my friends more careful than that.”
Canole’s grin changed to a snarl. “What’s on your minds?”
Carleton answered. “I’m lookin’ for Curly Whipple. If he’s around here, trot him out. I’m arrestin’ him.”
“Arrestin’ him!” exclaimed Canole with mock surprise. “What you arrestin’ Curly for? He ain’t broke no law.”
“If he hasn’t, he’ll have his chance to prove it,” said Carleton quietly. “I want him. Where is he?”
“Well, that’s just too bad,” broke in Slonicker’s nasal voice. “He ain’t here. We don’t know where he is. He ain’t been around for a couple of days.”
“Sorry I can’t take your word for that, Slonicker,” stated the sheriff. “I aim to look the premises over.”
“Where’s your search warrant?” blurted Canole.
Jack Carleton drew himself up very straight and his glance was flinty. He patted first his badge of office—then the gun hanging at his waist.
“These are good enough warrants for me, Canole. C’mon, Buck … we’ll tackle the house first.”
Things happened then, with thunderous rapidity. Buck never knew what it was that caused him to flash a glance upward toward that lone window above the porch. Perhaps it was some sixth sense, some instinct of perpetual watchfulness that had been inculcated in him through years of training and experience. At any rate, he did look up, straight into the muzzle of a Winchester, behind which were the narrowed eyes and snarl-twisted face of Curly Whipple.
Buck’s subsequent actions were purely reflex. He dropped to his knees beneath a slashing slug that jerked his hat as it passed. His own guns seemed to fairly leap from the holsters to his hands, and he blasted two shots in return, fired so close together that the reports blended in a single heavy cough.
The Winchester tipped out of the window and clattered on the low roof of the porch. Whipple toppled back from sight, his left shoulder limp and twitching.
Jack Carleton had not been far behind Buck in action. His gun was out and couched at his hip, the steady muzzle taking in Canole and Slonicker. It looked like Canole was about to draw.
“Steady!” barked Carleton. “Steady!”
Then he staggered—and a gun bellowed from off to one side. Buck had come to his feet, crouching—and he swung to face this new threat.
He saw Buzz Layton and Pete Vanalia advancing slowly from one of
the outbuildings. Perhaps twenty yards separated them and they were shooting steadily.
Lead hissed and ripped about Buck and Carleton, hungry—life-seeking. There was no mercy in Buck’s icy, unwinking gaze. He went into action with a speed that blurred the reports of his guns to a chopping, unbroken roll.
Layton was the first to go down, his arms thrown toward the sky before he toppled forward. Vanalia was harder to stop. Buck knew that his lead was going home. In fact, twice he saw gouts of dust jump from Vanalia’s shirt as the bullets struck. Yet the man seemed galvanized by some terrible hate that would not let him die. But though he kept his feet momentarily, his lead was flying wild and erratic. Then his eyes went slowly vacuous, his head dropped, and he crumpled down in a motionless heap.
Buck whirled to face Canole and Slonicker. From the corner of his eye he saw that Carleton was weaving drunkenly, though his gun still bore on the two renegade ranch owners.
“Take it easy, Jack,” Buck advised, his voice cracking. “I’m watchin’ these two now.”
As though Buck’s voice had severed some supporting fiber, Sheriff Jack Carleton sighed and toppled over.
Meeting Buck’s eyes, Canole and Slonicker went white and shaken. Canole licked his lips. His hands went up and he fell back a step.
“Don’t … don’t shoot,” he gasped. “We quit … we quit.”
For a moment things hung in a balance. Buck’s eyes were scorching—filmed with cold fire. His hooked thumbs curled about the hammer spurs of his guns, drawing them back—poised—ready.
Canole spoke again, his words a mere whisper. “I tell you we quit. Gawd! Don’t shoot!”
Buck shook his head, as though to clear it of some gruesome mist. Slowly he relaxed.
“Unbuckle those gun belts and let ’em drop,” he said, “an’ watch your hands. You’re dancin’ on the edge of hell right now … and it’s yawnin’ for you. Quick! Do it!”
The buckles were ripped open and the guns thudded to the porch floor.
“Now back up … against that wall … and put your hands high … high!”
The order was obeyed as quickly and implicitly as the others.
Buck stepped over beside Carleton and dropped on one knee. He holstered his left-hand gun, then fumbled with his free hand until it rested over Carleton’s heart. Relief shone in his eyes. Carleton was alive, his heart beating steady and strong.
“Canole,” snapped Buck. “Come here. Tell me where he’s hurt … and how bad. Quick!”
Buck stepped aside, keeping his eyes on both of the renegades.
Kneeling at Carlton’s side, Canole reported: “In the chest…pretty high up. Bullet went clear through. Serious … but not necessarily fatal.”
Buck nodded.
“Slonicker, go upstairs and bring Whipple down. I’m countin’ sixty. If you ain’t back by that time … or if you try some kind of a break, I’m wipin’ out Canole right where he stands. That’s gospel. Get goin’.”
Slonicker nodded, and went into the house.
In half the specified time he was back, with Whipple draped over his shoulder.
“Is he dead?” snapped Buck.
“No. Just gone under. His shoulder is smashed up pretty bad.”
“Okay. Now get water and bandages. Remember … Canole pays if you slip.”
Slonicker made no slip. He was muttering to himself: “What a tiger. Gawd, what a tiger.”
While Buck watched, Carleton and Whipple were laid on the porch and their wounds washed and bandaged. When the job was done, Buck nodded.
“I see a buckboard down by the corrals. Slonicker, go harness some horses to it. We’re headin’ for Cedarville with these two men. Hurry up. Canole … you stay put. You’re still my hostage.”
Monk Canole sweat blood for ten long minutes. Though a partner of his, Slonicker was no model of honor and virtue to Canole, and there was nothing to keep Slonicker from jumping a horse and tearing out. Buck could not leave and Slonicker could have made a getaway. And Canole knew that he would pay—just as Buck had promised. There was no mercy in this icy-eyed terror. But Canole’s fears were groundless. Evidently Slonicker was too stunned—too completely cowed for the moment to pull any act of treachery. He soon came back, driving the buckboard.
Blankets were piled thickly in the back of the conveyance. Carleton and Whipple were lifted in, side by side. Then, with Canole and Slonicker in the seat, the rig started for Cedarville.
Buck brought up the rear in the saddle, watchful, ever alert, and leading Jack Carleton’s horse.
VII
A handy rider brought word to Donna of what had happened. In reply she covered the distance between the ranch and town faster than she had ever traveled it before.
When she arrived in Cedarville, Buck met her at the door of Carleton’s office, grave and reserved and still of face.
“Jack’ll make out all right,” he answered to her first incoherent question. “The doctor has just finished with him. But he can’t be disturbed at present. He’s sleepin’.”
Donna insisted on seeing her uncle with her own eyes, then obediently left the room where the wounded man lay.
Now she faced Buck across the office.
“How did it happen and who did it?” she demanded.
Buck explained briefly. “Either Layton or Vanalia got Jack,” he ended.
“And … and you killed … Layton and Vanalia?” she whispered thickly, unconsciously recoiling a step, while her eyes went to Buck’s lean hands that were deftly rolling a cigarette. It was as though she expected to see them bathed in crimson.
Buck did not miss the significance of her actions. But his expression did not change.
“Yeah,” he answered. “I killed ’em. I tried to rock off Whipple, too … but it was a snap shot and I just crippled his shoulder. They tag me as a … a killer. I reckon I am. But … I reckon even a killer has his uses. Your uncle wouldn’t be alive right now … if I hadn’t been with him.”
Donna would have answered, but an interruption came.
Curt Daggett walked in the door, his crafty lips twined about a black stogy. He was puffing at it nervously.
“What’s all this foolishness I hear about Canole and Slonicker and Whipple being locked up?” he demanded.
“They are,” answered Buck crisply.
“Under what authority?”
“This.” Buck tapped one gun.
“And where … may I ask … do you fit into the picture?” rasped Daggett, in bare sarcasm.
“Just where I stand, Daggett. I’m runnin’ Jack Carleton’s affairs until he’s well enough to run ’em himself. Furthermore … you keep that long nose of yours out of ’em. I’ve heard all about you. As far as I can see there ain’t a bit of lily polish anywhere on you. My straight opinion is … you ought to be in the lockup yourself. And unless you watch your step, I’ll put you there.”
Daggett’s laugh was a trifle forced. “That’s pretty high-handed talk, young fellow.”
“I’ll make it stick. If you think I’m wrong … the next move is up to you. Make your bluff stand … or shut up. I’m not much of a hand at law. To me it’s good only as long as it works in the right direction. When it doesn’t … I pass it by. You can’t bluff me.”
“But you can’t keep those men in jail. They’ve—”
“I’m keepin’ them there, just the same,” broke in Buck curtly. “Now save your breath. You can’t get ’em out and you can’t go in and talk to ’em. In fact … you can’t do a thing but get out of here and mind your own business. I’m dead for sleep. Be on your way.”
Daggett was fairly shivering with rage, but he left the office.
Buck turned to Donna. “What I told him about needin’ sleep was true,” he said gruffly—but not without gentleness. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m curlin’ up on that bunk in the
corner and catchin’ some shut-eye. You best go over to the hotel and get yourself a room for the night. I’ll make sure the doctor keeps you posted about any changes in Jack.”
For a moment the haggard weariness of his face almost softened Donna. She was on the verge of kinder words. But she caught herself, nodded, and left.
* * * * *
It was dark when Buck awoke. He sat up abruptly, as though some foreign sound had broken his slumber. For a long moment he listened. The only echo that came to his ears was the rapidly diminishing cadence of swiftly moving hoofs on the street outside. Some cowpunchers probably, on their way back home.
He started to lie down again, but that queer sense of something wrong pulled him upright once more.
He rolled and lit a cigarette, inhaled a moment, then shrugged and got to his feet. He tiptoed to the rear quarters of the office and looked in. The doctor and Donna were there, bending over Jack Carleton.
Donna looked up, and shook her head at the gleam of alarm in Buck’s eyes.
“We’re just checking up,” she whispered. “He’s doing splendidly.”
Buck nodded and closed the door. He went to the front portal and threw it open, looking out upon the dark world. Still, that feeling of something being wrong plagued him. He thought suddenly of his prisoners.
Striding quickly over to the jail, he unlocked the door and opened it.
“Everything all right in here?” he barked.
There was no answer. Buck drew a gun with one hand and lit a match with the other. As the meager light flared he stared around. A low curse broke from his lips. There was but one man in that jail where there should have been three.
This one was Curly Whipple, stretched flat on his back on one of the bunks. And a heavy-hafted Bowie knife was buried to the hilt in his breast.
A single glance showed that Whipple was dead. Buck turned away, scratching another match.
