by Alan Lemay
He didn't know what to say. He knew Joan had no money, for she had paid her father's funeral expenses with her small savings. He shrugged his shoulders helplessly, for the girl's independence would not permit her to accept help from him.
Suddenly Joan smiled, and the flint went out of her soft, brown eyes. "I'll be all right, Lonny. Don't worry about me. 1 know how to take care of myself."
He swung into the saddle a moment later and rode past the cavvy where the men were unsaddling the horses. He heard a coarse laugh, and caught a few words of conversation.
"Some little spread the boss has picked up."
"Yeah, I reckon he'll start right out with sellin' off the stuff."
There was another laugh. Lon rode on, a deep frown clouding his brow. He knew hard men when he saw them, for he had served as deputy under Cass Carter before the old sheriff was downed from ambush as he rode homeward in the night. These men were hard. They were typical gunnies of the range who earned a precarious living, and died with their boots on. Lon couldn't savvy a man like Stoneham starting a dude ranch. Something was wrong somewhere.
He rode slowly back toward town, and his heart sank as he thought of Joan alone with these men. So absorbed was he in his gloomy thoughts that he scarcely noticed a rider approaching till the fellow drew up and spoke to him. Lon's eye glanced at the horse first, from force of habit, and his frown deepened. The animal was gaunt and covered with dried lather. It stood with flanks heaving and head down as though it had been ridden to the point of exhaustion. The brand was a T in a box, which did not belong in Lon's county.
Lon looked at the man. He was a pale-faced individual in a dirty blue serge suit. No chaps, boots, or spurs.
"1 beg your pardon, sir," the man spoke nervously. "But can you direct me to the ranch that is known as Tinplate? I believe that is merely a colloquial term. The place has a Circle B brand to distinguish its horses and cattle from those of other ranches."
Lon wanted to laugh.
"Straight ahead," he gestured over his shoulder. "Turn to the left when the trail forks, an' yuh can't miss it."
"Thank you, sir. 1 appreciate your kindness."
Lon looked back at the receding form as the man urged the exhausted horse down the trail toward Peaceful Valley. Then he shrugged his shoulders and rode on.
The stage had come in when Lon reached town, and he stopped at the post office for his mail. A letter from the sheriff from an adjoining county told of the escape of a killer, Drag Vincent. There was a five thousand dollar reward, dead or alive.
Lon's eyes widened as he read the description:
Medium height, pale-faced, talks like a book. Doesn't look like a Westerner, but has killed six men in Texas and one in Colorado. When he escaped from the Sherman County jail was wearing a blue suit. Has a slight squint to the left eye.
It was an exact description of the man Lon had met on the trail, and who had asked the way to the Tinplate. So that innocent-looking chap was the famous Drag Vincent.
Ten minutes later Lon hit the trail back with a fresh horse. He had heard much of this bandit killer who had built up a huge reputation as rustler and road agent. He was even suspected of robbing the local bank the night Sheriff Cass Carter was killed from ambush. No one had ever seen Vincent's face, at least not till he had been captured and put in the Sherman County jail.
Five thousand dollars' reward, dead or alive! Lon whistled. It was a big sum. Few men were worth that to any state, but this was a combination reward that had grown steadily larger as Drag Vincent's flaming gun had added to his toll of victims.
Dust was mantling its soft hand down over the prairie as Lon approached the Tinplate. He heard the soft lowing of cattle that is soothing to the heart of a cowboy, for it tells him all is well. A hundred or more prime four-year-olds were near the corral. Evidently Stoneham had lost no time in rounding up a herd to sell.
Again Lon felt a pang of regret that the Tinplate had passed into such hands. Like every cowboy, it was the kind of a spread he had held in his dreams. It was the place he wanted for Joan. There was the pretty, vine-covered porch, overlooking Peaceful Valley that lay like a flowered carpet below, the bunkhouse for the two men, the corrals and cavvy, the windmill tower and steel tanks, the.... He shook his head. It was too late. The Tinplate was gone, sold to a hard hombre who was going to get rid of most of the stuff and turn it into a dude ranch.
Just now the place seemed to be slumbering in the deep twilight. No one was visible. The bunkhouse was dark. Lon knew that Stoneham must have fired the cowboys who had worked so long for Hank Tucker, and that they had pulled out for one of the other ranches.
What did Drag Vincent want at the Tinplate? Was he here now? Lon asked himself these questions as he swung to the ground and stood listening. It occurred to him that Stoneham and the other men might be part of Vincent's gang. If so, it would go hard with Lon when he tried to arrest the killer.
He touched the cedar handle of the .45 that swung low against his thigh. Then he strode straight for the house. He determined to go in through the front door, ready for whatever should come.
A burst of laughter came from within, and he paused. A voice rang out, the voice of Stoneham: "Come on, sweetheart, an' give us a kiss. I'm the boss, yuh know."
There was a cry as though from someone in pain. It was the voice of Joan. It tore every shred of caution from Lon. He darted forward, whipping out his gun as he ran.
A spear of orange flame seared out from the corner of the house, and a bullet fanned his face. He dropped to the ground just as a second shot snarled overhead.
He squeezed the trigger, and his gun roared. He had fired low, as he knew that he was apt to overshoot in the dark. There was a shout from inside the house, and the light went out. Lon sprang to his feet, determined to take a bullet if necessary. He charged straight for the door.
He expected another shot from the corner, but none came. Again sounded that stifled cry. It was to Lon as a red rag to a bull. Shouting an answer, he smashed into the door. It flew open, and he lurched into the pitch-black room.
Spangr
Red flame stabbed the darkness. The roar of the gun was almost deafening in the small room. Lon fired once at the flame, surged forward a pace, and stopped. He did not dare shoot again for fear of hitting Joan.
The stillness of death! He could hear no sound except the beating of his own heart. He wondered if the other men were there, or if they had slipped through an inner door, taking the girl with them.
"Joan," he whispered.
There was a stifled gasp nearby. He groped toward it as a gun thundered within six feet of him. Again Lon paused and listened, wondering at the fact that he had not been hit.
A voice called from the outside: "It's that tin-badge sheriff. He's in the house." The voice seemed to choke, and Lon was not surprised when it continued weakly: "He got me in the laig. 1 can't do nothin', Drag."
Drag! So the killer was here. Stoneham and the two other men were his tools.
Lon cursed himself for a fool. Instead of bringing a dozen straight-shooting cowboys with him, he had blundered into this den of outlaws alone. How differently old Cass Carter would have handled it!
Silently he inched his way forward, gun before him, ready to crack down at the slightest sound. He heard a stealthy step and paused. Someone bumped into him from the side. He swung. Then two powerful arms pinioned his own to his body.
"I got him!" roared a voice close to his ear.
Lon jerked backward with a terrific wrench. The arms held. He tried to use his knee, but the man tripped him, and he nearly went down. He stamped hard with his boot that met something soft. The voice bellowed a curse.
A light flared up. Lon caught a glimpse of a match, with the craggy face of John Stoneham leering above it. He set his teeth and put forth every ounce of his strength as he tried to pull out of the grip of those terrible arms.
He saw Joan in the corner, her eyes wide with terror, her arms bound to her sides, and
a gag twisted around her mouth.
A shadow trembled above him. Then a flash of red fire seemed to tear the earth apart. He went down - down! It seemed to him that he was sinking into the deep blackness of eternal night.
A voice brought him back to consciousness, the growling voice of John Stoneham. He opened his eyes. He was lying across a door that led into the darkened room adjoining. His hands were lashed behind him.
Stoneham stood there on unsteady feet, glass in hand. His face lit up in a devilish leer as he contemplated Joan.
Lon wondered if he were dreaming. Then he realized that Stoneham really was there before him. The man was drunk, and was bragging of his crimes.
"Yeah, I killed the sheriff the night we robbed the bank. It always pays to rub out the lawmen first. Yuh say he was yore dad, sweetheart. Too bad." He laughed shortly, then drew back his head and gulped down a fiery draught from the glass.
"I don't think yuh ought to blab about them things," snarled a low-browed giant who was standing against the wall. "Somethin' might go wrong. Yuh can't tell, Drag."
Drag again! Lon realized the man had called the leader Drag. Were there two Drags, then?
The leader laughed and drank again. "We ain't takin' no chances," he leered. "We'll rub out the sheriff an' take the gal with us when we go. 1 want her. What's the use of bein' called king o' the outlaws unless yuh got a queen?"
"When are we goin' to leave?" asked a weak voice.
Lon could see the third man propped against a chair, a bandage around his thigh. He must have been the one hiding at the corner of the house.
"As soon as we sell the stuff."
Stoneham turned and looked at Lon. His eyes narrowed.
"I should 'a' shot him," he snarled viciously, "but 1 couldn't do it `cause I was scared o' hittin' Dave. What'll we do? Shoot him now or hang him?"
Joan gasped, and her head sank forward on her breast. She was sobbing softly, and she knew there was no use appealing to the better natures of these men.
"Mister Stoneham," she said behind the gag. Her voice was muffled, but her words could be understood. "You say you want me to go with you. 1...1 will go willingly if you ...you will let.. .Lon go free."
"Joan!"
Lon gnashed his teeth and tugged at his bonds till the blood spurted from his wrists. He saw the three men through a red mist. He would die willingly to save Joan from them.
The bandit leader threw back his head and roared out his drunken laugh.
"Yuh're comin' whether yuh want to or not, sweetheart," he informed the girl. "As for yore boy friend, here, we're havin' a nice little necktie party for him, same as he'd give us if he had a chance. We don't like sheriffs."
Almost insane as he was, it seemed to Lon that he heard a stealthy step behind him in the darkened room. He tried to listen calmly as the three men continued their conversation and passed around the bottle.
Then he felt something soft against his wrists, the touch of fingers groping. Suddenly the bonds loosened. A gun was thrust into his hand. What miracle was this?
He clutched the smooth handle of the gun with his numb fingers. He wondered if he could shoot straight enough to kill the bandit leader. He felt that with Stoneham dead Joan would be comparatively safe from the others.
"I don't think we ought to bother with hangin' him." It was the low-browed giant who had grappled with Lon. "1 move we shoot him right now an' bury the body in case someone comes."
"Hangin' ain't so good," agreed the wounded bandit. "We'd have to go a couple o' miles to find a tree."
"All right!" The leader threw up a coin and caught it. "Who'll shoot him.. .Dave or me? Sloe-gin is out of it 'cause he's hurt. Heads or tails, Dave?"
"Tails," growled the giant.
The leader spun the coin.
"Tails," he announced in a disappointed tone.
With a grin Dave drew his gun. "Yuh got the last one, Drag, so it's my turn, anyway."
He took a step forward. Lon grasped the handle of the gun that had been thrust into his hand. Some of the tingling sensation had gone from his fingers, and he shoved the first one into the trigger guard.
Slowly Dave brought down his arm, a wild light in his eyes.
Then Lon whipped out the weapon that he had held behind him. A streak of flame pierced out from the end of the gun. A black hole appeared squarely between the eyes of the leader. He turned partly around, crumpled, and sank to the floor. Lon got the man he wanted, regardless of consequences to himself.
There came a terrific blast from the adjoining room. Dave cried out. His knees buckled, and he went down. A load of slugs had been poured into his body.
Lon's gun had cracked down toward the remaining wounded man. The fellow stared wide eyed a moment and then put up his hands. Lon sprang to his feet, disarmed the outlaw, and leaped to Joan's side. He tore the bonds and gag from her, and then gathered her, half fainting, into his arms.
A man stepped in from the adjoining room. Lon stared. It was the white-faced stranger, the man described in the letter as Drag Vincent. He was carrying a double-barrel shotgun.
"My name is John Stoneham," he announced. "1 was held up and robbed by these three men four days ago. They took my horse and papers, among which was a deed to this ranch. They left me with a horse and saddle that 1 learned had been stolen by an outlaw named Drag Vincent. I was arrested. Arrested! Imagine it, sir.
"They called me this Drag Vincent, and there was nothing I could say to the idiots that would disclose to them their error. 1 was imprisoned, but managed to put a sleeping powder 1 had with me in the drink of the guard. 1 escaped. Not knowing where else to go, I came to this ranch, thinking 1 could remain here till my baggage arrived and I could prove my identity. My horse gave out, and 1 just got here a few minutes ago.
"Peeping through the curtain, 1 found this Drag Vincent and his men were here before me, bent on mischief as usual. 1 made my way in through the back door and found a revolver and shotgun hanging on the kitchen wall. You know the rest."
He paused and looked at Lon inquiringly.
The sheriff held out his hand. "You came jest in time, partner. I'll never be able to repay what you did for me an' Joan. 1 shore wish you success with the Tinplate."
"Success! You insult me, sir. 1 shall sell the place immediately. The...the...I beg your pardon, sir...the people are entirely too primitive and violent for the purpose 1 had in mind. If you know of a buyer for this ranch, 1 will sell very cheap."
A week later Lon stood with his arms about the girl he loved. They looked down over smiling Peaceful Valley.
"In spite of all, dear," Joan whispered as she looked up with shining eyes, "1 love this beautiful place."
"Yeah," he answered happily, "especially now that 1 have you, an' we both call it home."
Cantrell turned his head to look at the girl who rode beside him in the raw dusk. Her profile under the brim of her broad hat did not show its usual lively color, and the black scarf tied to frame her face made her look pale and curiously fragile. A background of raw rock and stunted juniper somehow makes a woman seem a strange and infinitely precious thing, as much a center of her setting as if she were a source of light. Having turned his eyes to Marjory Andrews's face, Cantrell found it almost impossible to turn away.
Cantrell didn't know what Marjory was doing here in the wet, raw wind of the twilight. She had met him, as if by chance, at the fork of the trail. She was always on a horse, always appearing where you would expect only men and horses to be, and these reluctantly, by the laws of work and circumstance. He did not question; the presence of Marjory Andrews any place was a gift of fortune, and to be accepted as such in unquestioning gratitude.
"Yesterday," the girl said slowly, "was my birthday."
The cowboy turned sleet-blue eyes straight ahead, and slapped his romal against his chaps, but he said nothing.
After a moment she went on: "Last night we had a party for my birthday. You knew about that. And you weren't there."
&nbs
p; There was a reason why he had not been there. But he considered, as a cold gust of rain whipped across their faces, that he could not very well tell her that it angered him to see her with Jim Grover. Jim Grover was young, strong, square set, and could work like the devil. He already had his own cow outfit. He was striking his roots deep into the range upon which he had been born. Tom Cantrell, ne'er-do-well, wandering cowpuncher, saddle bum, had no call to criticize the likes of him. But if Marjory were going to dance half the night with this Jim Grover, Cantrell did not want to be around.
"1 wanted to see how the stock wintered up in the Standing Horse," he said. "It's too far to take a good look in one day. I spread my bedroll there."
"And, of course," she said, "no other time would do."
Cantrell sat tall and straight up in his saddle, rigidly facing the trail. He made his voice an expressionless drawl: "1'm just a cowhand. I don't hardly have a right to be thinking about birthdays, not with any work to be done." It sounded thin, and it was thin; but he supposed she couldn't go around it.
Yet she chose to go around it. She looked sidewise at him, and it seemed to him that he could feel the vital gray warmth of her eyes as definitely as a physical touch. "But you did think about my birthday. These are lovely reins you made me, the nicest 1 ever saw. Where did you learn to work rawhide like that?"
"Oh, an old Indian showed me the weave, once, in the Sierra Madres, and the knots 1 got from another Indian, once, in the Coeur d'Alene." He was moved to an unexpected confession. "1 reckon 1 would have been gone from here three weeks back, only I wanted to finish those bridle reins."
"Gone? Why?" Marjory seemed startled, which was odd. She must have known before now that he would be moving on. "Don't you like our outfit? Isn't your job good enough?"
He hesitated. This girl had always lived in this one valley. There wasn't a chance in the world that he could explain to her how, when the geese began going over, his blankets fretted him at night so that he could not sleep, and the trail pull became an irresistible hunger, jerking the heart out of him until he turned shaky and almost physically sick. He had been on the trail since he was fourteen years old.
