He stopped to give Pat a chance to absorb his words, to figure out for himself what they might mean.

  Pat said in a dead voice, “Another hawse went off from here loaded double?”

  “Tha’s what the tracks say, Pat. Looks like the other hawse was follerin’ the pinto from where I lost the trail las’ night. Cuttin’ back an’ forth behind the pinto on purpose to cover up the tracks so’s they couldn’t be follered. Then—right here—Dock unloaded onto the other hawse.”

  “Without stepping down to the ground?” Pat put in hoarsely.

  “Tha’s right.” Ezra didn’t look up at his old friend’s face. He knew what Pat was thinking. There was only one thing to think—that Dock had been lifted out of the pinto’s saddle. That his body had been transferred” to another horse and the pinto sent on home.

  “I don’t get it a-tall,” Ezra went on dubiously. “If Dock was hurt, how could he ride this far? Who’d take him onto his hawse if he was hurt an’ then not bring him home, or come to tell us about it? An’ there’s the K Bar ranch not more’n a mile away down yonder. If ’twas somebody that found Dock hurt out here, he’d shorely carry him right in to the K Bar—but the double-loaded hawse took off south, away from the K Bar. An’ there ain’t no other ranches south of here. Not for more’n fifty miles.”

  “Can you follow that other trail?”

  “A little ways anyhow.” Ezra stared thoughtfully southward. “But it ain’t more’n two or three miles till we hit into the rocky country where I’ll lose it shore as hell. Yuh see,” he went on apologetically, “I don’t know, personal, the hawse that’s carryin’ that double load. Not like I know the pinto’s tracks.”

  “Let’s try it,” Pat said angrily. “Follow the trail as far as you can.”

  “You betcha.” Ezra clambered into the saddle and started slowly southward. He kept his horse at a walk, leaning forward to watch the ground carefully, and it took them more than an hour to reach the series of low limestone hills where he had prophesied he’d lose the trail.

  He stopped and shook his head lugubriously when they got that far. “’Tain’t no use,” he announced helplessly. “I don’t believe no man could foller a hawse over these hills, Pat. It’s jest plumb guessin’ from here on out.”

  Pat shaded his eyes to stare ahead. They were on the upper slope of Powder Valley. From this point onward the terrain rose sharply toward towering peaks far in the distance. Ahead were sharp ridges and deep gullies where an army of men might hide for weeks from searching parties.

  “All right,” said Pat grimly. “We’ll have to start guessing. We’ll spread out—about half a mile apart. We promised Sally we wouldn’t come back without him,” he added sharply.

  Ezra said, “We’ll find him,” with a faith he didn’t feel, and the two men started out on their seemingly hopeless task.

  As the sun rose high at noon and then began to arc downward, the hopelessness of the search became more and more evident. In the long hours that passed they had succeeded in covering only a very small portion of the wide range that lay stretched out in front of them. And during that time Ezra did not once come upon another trace of the tracks he had followed up to the edge of the rocky hills. The double-loaded horse had been swallowed up in the vast expanse of broken wasteland, and there was no way to judge which direction it might have gone.

  The autumn sun was hovering just above the western horizon when Pat Stevens cut across to intercept Ezra and to announce hopelessly, “We might as well admit we’re whipped, an’ quit.” His face was grim and hard, showing the strain of long hours of searching during which the two men had been without food and water.

  “I reckon yo’re right,” Ezra agreed gruffly. They were at the north end of the line of rocky hills, a few miles west of the point where Ezra had lost the trail that morning. “Thing to do is tuh get word out tuhnight,” he told Pat earnestly. “Turn out every man that kin ride tomorrow. It was a fool trick for us two to try it ourselves today.”

  Pat admitted that Ezra was right. The same conviction had been growing in his mind all afternoon, but he had fought against it, forcing himself to go on because he didn’t know how he could ride home and face Sally.

  “You’d best go back to the ranch,” Ezra said as they turned their horses away from the search. “I’ll stop at the K Bar for a drink an’ something to eat. Then I’ll ride into town an’ pass the word out that we need help.”

  Pat agreed on that plan and they altered their course to head down toward the K Bar.

  The sun slid below the horizon and dusk began to close down as they approached the ranch house. Ezra’s big body was hunched forward in the saddle and his eye was half closed in fatigue. They were less than a quarter of a mile from the ranch when he stiffened and gave a little grunt of surprise, staring down at the ground.

  He turned his head to see if his companion had noticed anything. But Pat was staring straight ahead, his face gaunt and drawn.

  Ezra remained relaxed in the saddle, but he was staring down at the ground keenly now, seeing things that no other man could possibly have seen. He didn’t say anything until they reached the ranch house and Gilbert Crane came out in the yard to welcome them. Then he told Pat, “I’ll take the hawses down to the trough for a drink while you palaver with Mr. Crane.”

  Pat swung out of the saddle and nodded curtly to Crane. He said, “I could do with a drink myself.”

  Crane was staring at the saddled pinto Ezra led off behind Pat’s horse. “Isn’t that Dock’s favorite pony?” he asked as he led Pat to a handpump and handed him a gourd dipper.

  Pat grunted, “Yep.” He held the dipper while Crane pumped water into it. He took a big swallow and sloshed it around inside his dry mouth, then swallowed a little.

  “We’ve been riding the hills back there all day looking for Dock,” he explained matter-of-factly. “His hawse came back without him last night.”

  “Couldn’t Ezra back-trail him? I’ve heard he was good at that.” Crane pumped another dipperful of cold water.

  Pat took a bigger drink, shaking his head. “Ezra lost the back trail an’ couldn’t pick it up. I’m obliged to you for the water.” He handed the dipper back. “An’ I’ll be obliged if you an’ your men will help us hunt Dock tomorrow. We aim to get everybody in Powder Valley out.”

  “Of course. We’ll be glad to. Do you think he’s hurt?”

  Pat said, “I don’t know.” He spoke slowly, as though each word hurt. “All we know is his pinto hawse came back without him on it.”

  He stepped forward to meet Ezra and take the reins of his horse. “Well, I reckon I’ll be ridin’ on.”

  Ezra said, “I’m ridin’ with you.”

  “I thought you were going to stay here and eat and then ride to Dutch Springs. I’m sure Crane will feed you—”

  “Of course,” Crane said quickly, but Ezra shook his head and glared at Pat and said loudly, “I’ve done changed m’ mind. I’m ridin’ with you.”

  Pat knew from his tone that he was trying to convey some secret without putting it into words. So he nodded and swung into the saddle, told Crane, “We’ll be obliged for your help tomorrow,” and rode away with Ezra by his side. As soon as they were out of earshot, he demanded, “Why in tunket—”

  “Wait a minute.” Ezra held up a big hand and looked back over his shoulder. “I didn’t tell you this, but when we was ridin’ up to the ranch we come on that hawse’s trail again—headed toward the K Bar.”

  “What hawse?”

  “The one we trailed away from where we lost Dock’s trail, the hawse that carried double away from there. But this hawse weren’t carryin’ double when he come back to the K Bar.”

  Pat said, “By God.” He started to wheel his horse around.

  Ezra caught his rein and kept him going straight ahead, growling, “We’re still in sight an’ I betcha that Crane feller is watchin’. That very hawse is in the K Bar corral right now,” he went on. “I didn’t tell you none of this ’cause I figgered you’d go crazy mad an’ jump ’em right there about Dock.”

  “Sure I would. I will. What in hell are you doing ridin’ away from there, Ezra? If they’ve got Dock—”

  “But they ain’t got him. Not at the ranch leastways. Don’t yuh see? That hawse was only carryin’ one when it came back. Whoever was ridin’ it carried Dock out somewheres an’ come back without him.”

  “That’s why I’m going back—”

  “No,” said Ezra firmly. For the first time in their long association he was assuming leadership because he knew Pat was incapable of reasoning clearly on a subject as close to him as his own son.

  “That’d be bad,” he argued. “Long as they don’t know we know, they won’t be scared. I figger it thisaway,” he went on swiftly before Pat could argue with him. “I don’ believe Dock was hurt when he changed hawses. Stands to reason he weren’t. He was ridin’ ahead of the other hawse up to that place. That means he was ridin’—not bein’ carried or tied in the saddle. Mebby you’ve done forgot he was runnin’ away from home,” he added grimly.

  Pat drew in a long breath. “Keep on talking.”

  “Dock’s purty smart,” Ezra reminded him. “He musta knowed I’d get on the trail of that pinto. So when he met up with a feller on another hawse—a K Bar hawse—him an’ this feller figgered out a way to throw me off the trail. An’ I’m guessin’ they got Dock hid out somewheres in the hills an’ll be ridin’ out to him tuhnight.”

  He turned in the saddle to look back again. “We’re outta sight now. We kin circle back in behind the ranch an’ hide an’ see what happens. Better to let ’em lead us to Dock than to have a shootin’ an’ mebby kill the very one that knows where Dock is hid out.”

  And for the first time in their comradeship Pat was glad to let Ezra take the lead. He agreed, “I’ll play it your way till midnight. If they haven’t made a move by then I’ll ride down an’ start askin’ questions.”

  12

  There weren’t many people in the hotel dining room the next morning when Sam Sloan came down to breakfast. Judge J. Worthington Prink was one of the few. He had a napkin tucked under his chin and was enjoying a double stack of hotcakes while he nibbled at side orders of fried eggs and ham and hashed brown potatoes.

  On a sudden impulse Sam passed up several vacant tables and stopped in front of the judge with his hand on the back of a chair. He drawled, “Good mornin’, jedge. I reckon this here seat ain’t taken.”

  The judge mumbled “Good morning.” He pursed his lips and looked around the almost deserted dining room and then back at Sam Sloan. He said, “No. That seat isn’t taken.”

  Sam nodded and seated himself. “Me, I kinda like company fer breakfas’,” he confided. “Seems like it makes m’ food taste better.”

  The judge said “That so?” in a tone that indicated Sam’s company at his table wasn’t going to increase his enjoyment of breakfast.

  Sam said “Yep,” cheerfully, and told the waitress, “Ham an’. With hot biscuits if you got ’em. An’ coffee.”

  The girl smiled and went away.

  “Yes siree,” said Sam. “It’s sorta nice to have somebody from the outside to talk to. A man gits tired of seein’ the same ol’ faces year in an’ year out.”

  The judge forked in a mouthful of hotcake dripping with butter and sirup, and then crammed in half a fried egg behind it. He began to munch rhythmically while his little beady eyes studied Sam without particular interest.

  “Lotsa new faces around Dutch Springs nowadays though,” Sam went on. “There’s that bunch out to the K Bar, an’ the new schoolma’am an’ her uncle. Mostly from Denver, I hear tell. Yo’re from Denver too, ain’t you, jedge? I reckon you knowed ’em in the city before you come here.”

  Judge Prink swallowed a big gulp of food and cleared his throat. “Denver is quite a large city. People aren’t all neighbors there as they are in Dutch Springs.”

  “Shore. I know that. But I reckon most of the impawtant people git to know each other. Like that Mr. Crane an’ the Deever man.”

  “I had met Mr. Crane in a business way,” the judge admitted. “Mr. Deever was a stranger to me until we became acquainted through Miss Constance when I arranged for her to come to Dutch Springs as the new teacher.”

  “An’ this here Windy Rivers,” Sam went on. “I don’t reckon none of you woulda knowed him. Bein’ jest a gamblin’ man.”

  “I,” said the judge, “am not a gambling man.” He filled his mouth again to indicate that his part of the conversation was ended.

  “But I betcha mebby Crane knowed him in Denver,” said Sam cheerily. “Crane bein’ what I’d figger a sportin’ feller. An’ you know what I think, jedge?”

  Judge Prink reluctantly shook his head.

  Sam glanced around the dining room and lowered his voice confidentially. “I figger that Rivers feller is as crooked as a dog’s hind laig. I figger he’s waitin’ out these little games till a big ’un comes along. I’ve a mind tuh tell Tom Dasher he’d better watch his step playin’ stud poker with Windy.”

  Judge Prink emptied his mouth hastily, becoming bluish in the face as he gulped his food down. In his best legal voice he inquired, “Have you any legal basis for your assumption?”

  “Come again?” Sam frowned in bewilderment.

  “What reason have you for thinking Rivers is not an honest gambler?”

  “Oh. I dunno. Jest a idee I got watchin’ him play.”

  “Have you discovered any irregularities?” the judge asked sternly.

  “No-o-o. Not that I kin put a finger on. But I betcha I’m kerrect. Stands to reason he wouldn’t be wastin’ his time here jest to play honest dollar-limit poker.”

  Judge Prink cleared his throat portentously. “Let me give you some free legal advice, Mr. Sloan. As district judge it’s my sworn duty to warn you against making a libelous statement impugning any man’s character.”

  Sam said helplessly, “Them triple-jointed words are way over m’ haid.”

  “I’m advising you to keep your mouth shut unless you have proof to back up your belief that Rivers is dishonest. He could sue you for libel and slander, Mr. Sloan.”

  “Is that a fac’?” Sam shook his head wonderingly. “Times has shore changed. Back in my day that’d only call fer shootin’. So you reckon he’d sue me, huh?”

  “I advise you not to make the test.”

  Sam’s breakfast order came just then. As he ate it thoughtfully, the judge finished his own enormous breakfast, got up and waddled away with a curt nod for Sam.

  Sam Sloan grinned to himself as he went on eating alone. Looked like he had kind of got the judge’s goat. There was some sort of funny business going on, all right. The judge had been mighty quick to stick up for Windy Rivers. Sam thought Pat would be interested in hearing about it.

  It was noon when Sam thundered up to the lonely little Pony Express station by the side of the road south from Dutch Springs. He leaned forward on the back of his flying horse and shaded his eyes to peer ahead as he neared the station swiftly. Ever since old Jeff Harkness had taken over from Ezra the job of tending the way-station, Sam had been afraid that some day he would come galloping up and there would be no rider mounted on a fresh horse and waiting to grab the mail bags without the loss of an instant. For Jeff was almost at the doddering age and wasn’t any too trustworthy, and Sam Sloan had a deep pride in the mail service and in the speedy schedule he helped to maintain.

  Today he nodded with satisfaction when he saw that everything was as it should be at the station. There was Bill Livermore in the saddle by the side of the road waiting to make the next lap southward. And old Jeff was standing beside Bill’s horse ready to grab the bags and transfer them to Bill’s horse behind his light saddle without the loss of more than a few seconds of precious time.

  Sam reached behind him and unbuckled the bags when he was a hundred yards away. He swept up with undiminished speed and stopped his horse on a dime, tossing the bags into Jeff’s arms. The old man threw them over Bill’s horse and tightened two buckles, and Bill put spurs to his mount, leaping away in a burst of speed and a thick cloud of dust.

  Sam wearily slid out of the saddle and said “Hi, old-timer,” to Jeff. Jeff was looking at his watch, and his leathery old face beamed with satisfaction as he announced proudly, “We cut nigh onto half a minute off our best record this mawnin’.”

  Sam said, “That’s good. Give my hawse an extra pint of oats an’ a good rub-down.” He turned away slowly toward the open door of the four-room frame shack with its lean-to kitchen.

  His seamed face broke into a broad grin when he saw Kitty in the doorway waiting for him. When he first took the job after marrying Kitty Lane, this moment of greeting after an overnight absence had been hallowed and wonderful. She was always in the doorway to greet him and Sam always felt a thrill of gratification and happiness when he saw her there.

  But lately Kitty hadn’t been in the doorway to meet him when he rode in from Dutch Springs. Sam couldn’t understand it, and it worried him because he thought maybe it was an indication that she didn’t love him any more. She had been getting that way ever since she learned she was going to be a mother. She sat around and rested a lot, and didn’t seem to be near as interested in things as she had been. Yet, she didn’t seem to be sick. That’s what Sam couldn’t understand. She had taken to talking sort of queerly too, about religion and things like that. Sam vaguely realized it had something to do with approaching motherhood, but it worried him just the same.

  Now, he got a warm glowy feeling inside him when he saw his attractive wife framed in the doorway just as she had always been during the honeymoon period. The only difference was that she looked lots prettier to Sam. He never could get over the wonder of her prettiness—and him so ugly. He didn’t see how any woman could love an ugly sawed-off runt like him, much less the prettiest girl in the state.

  She smiled at him just like in the beginning, and held up her lips for his kiss.

  Sam put his arm around her and kissed her as though she were something fragile and might break in two if he wasn’t mighty careful.