While he worked swiftly with one part of his mind actively engaged with the problem before him, the Rio Kid’s gaze kept straying to that old familiar brand on the horse’s left thigh—a large A inside of a larger triangle. It was as though the brand were burning itself into his brain, as though it were searing itself there for all time to come. First the son of Sheriff Edwards, and now Hank Greenow—on the first night of his return. What terrible curse rode with him; what had he done to deserve this fate when all he asked was a chance to prove his innocence of a crime he hadn’t committed?

  A black wrath slowly took possession of his lean frame as he led the Triangle A horse down the hillside with the body of Hank Greenow tied securely in the saddle. If there were only something he could fight back at; some human agency on which he could vent his futile anger!

  He and Jenkins mounted in the trail where they’d left their horses, and the Kid looped the end of the lead-rope over his saddlehorn. He knew the jolting ride down to the lighted cabin in the valley would probably finish Hank off, but that was a chance that had to be taken. It was the least he could do for the old man who had been like a second father to him in his youth.

  He lifted Thunderbolt into a gallop down the long steep slope, and Jenkins ranged forward beside him on his rested mount. The led horse snorted and balked at the unfamiliar feel of a rope dragging him forward, but had to follow at a lope or be choked by the slip-knot about his neck.

  When they reached the floor of the valley Jenkins gestured ahead toward a small bunch of cattle in the moonlight. “There they are,” he shouted above the drum of twelve galloping hooves. You ain’t got time to stop an’ look ’em over now, but you can see for yourself when you get time. Three hundred head scattered through the valley an’ nary a blotched hide among ’em.”

  He spoke with great pride in his voice, and the Kid squinted at the herd as they thundered past, striving to guess the secret of their presence here in Hidden Valley.

  Looked like all young stuff, as near as he could see. Yearlings, if the shimmery moonlight didn’t deceive him. About half and half heifers and steers, he decided, all comfortably sleek and in better condition than most stock wintered in that part of Arizona.

  What was it Tonita had said about the new owner of the Bar L hiring Mexicans to work in his hay-field? Cutting summer hay for winter feed? Could that be the answer to the way this stuff had wintered? But it couldn’t be Bar L stock. From the remarks Jenkins had made he was certain it was some sort of rustling scheme.

  Then he saw a Bar L brand on a fat yearling near the road as they passed. A clean unmarred brand burned into the animal’s hide. He sucked in his breath sharply and had all he could do to repress an exclamation of amazement. He watched carefully and saw another calf and then another bearing the same brand—and he could see no other markings on their smooth hides.

  If this was stolen Bar L stuff, why was he, supposed to be a Bar L rider, invited out to inspect them? This was the greatest mystery of all, yet it partially explained Jenkins’ remark back at the pass when he thought Hank was surprised to see a Bar L rider entering Hidden Valley.

  It didn’t make sense—unless Pelham’s own riders were helping rustle his stuff—and it was presumed he was one of those in on it. But if it was rustled Bar L stuff, why hadn’t they been run directly across the Border instead of being brought up here? The only way to reach the Border from Hidden Valley was back down the trail past the Bar L again; or beyond on the road through Bloody Gap and thence southward over the desert trail where there were few waterholes and it was a difficult dangerous job to move cattle except in the very early spring before the summer heat had dried up the streams.

  It sure didn’t make sense any way you looked at it. Charlie had mentioned that Henry Pelham was doing well on the Bar L, unbothered by rustlers. And Jenkins had said he and the others had been working this scheme for three years.

  The more you looked at every angle, the more incredible and impossible it appeared. But they were nearing the lighted cabin now, and the Kid switched his thoughts from the puzzle of the Bar L branded stock to the more immediate danger that confronted him. He didn’t know who would be there at the cabin. If there were any who recognized him he might have to start shooting in a hurry.

  When they pulled up in front of the aged log cabin that had been the scene of so much happiness in his youth, the Kid leaped off Thunderbolt and hurried back to Hank. The old fellow was still unconscious, but breathing feebly. Jenkins helped him untie the rope, and they carried him between them to the closed door of the cabin where Jenkins shouted loudly and kicked on the door.

  After a little wait the door was opened by a bulky figure who wavered in the rectangle of yellow light on unsteady feet, peering out at them from a growth of shaggy black whiskers.

  “Drunk again,” Jenkins said acidly. “Get back outta the door, Sam, so’s we can bring this feller in.”

  Sam stepped back, steadying himself with a hand on the doorknob. He mumbled, “You bin long enuff gittin’ back, Jenks,” then swayed back and seated himself heavily in a cane-bottomed chair in front of a small table holding a litter of playing cards and poker chips, with a gallon jug of whisky sitting in the exact center.

  Jenkins snorted his disgust as he entered ahead of the Kid and led the way to a stack of filthy bedding in one corner, where they laid the old man down.

  There was a second occupant of the cabin sitting at the table opposite Sam. He was dark-featured, with the facial characteristics of an Indian, but with sandy hair and incongruous eyes of light blue. His thin lips twisted in a sneer as they followed Jenkins and the Kid with their burden.

  “What’d you do, Jenks? Pick a fight with some wanderin’ waddie you met up with? The Boss ain’t gonna like that.”

  Jenkins straightened from laying Hank down. Through compressed lips he observed, “If you’d lay off your whisky diet you wouldn’t make cracks like that.” He jerked a thumb toward the Rio Kid. “Meet the Kid, ridin’ for the Bar L. Slickest gun-hombre I ever met up with … bar none.”

  The half-breed’s eyes took on a tinge of yellow and began to glow queerly. His sneer widened. The Kid realized he was so full of whisky his back teeth were probably floating, but he was the kind of man who never showed his drunkenness outwardly.

  “Purty slick with his guns, huh?” sneered the breed. “Mebby he’ll get a chance to prove how fast he is.”

  “Be tough on you if you push him to it,” Jenkins warned unemotionally. He gestured toward Hank Greenow, related how the old man had tried to bushwhack them on the pass and the manner in which the Kid had thrown lead directly to the mark in the illusive moonlight without even a target to aim at. “An’ that’s shootin’ in any man’s language,” he ended emphatically.

  “Lucky, more-like,” sneered the breed. He transferred his surly gaze to Hank’s unconscious body. “What’d you bring him in for? The coyotes’d’ve cleaned his bones slick if you’d left him lay up there.”

  “One of us is ridin’ for Doc Conroy,” Jenkins said incisively. “We figger to keep him alive long enough to make him talk … find out what he knows … how come he was layin’ for us to come back.”

  The Rio Kid moved backward, lounging easily against the wall with both his hands swinging free. He was aware of an atmosphere of deadly hostility inside the cabin, and he couldn’t tell how much of it was directed at him and how much at Jenkins who appeared to be in charge. Both the bearded Sam and the half-breed wore holstered guns, but the breed was the real menace. It was evident he was in a nasty mood, just drunk enough to force the issue against anyone he turned against.

  When Jenkins finished speaking, the breed snarled, “The Boss ain’t gonna like us ridin’ for Conroy.”

  “He won’t care if he knows why,” Jenkins argued. The Kid noted keenly that his voice was losing its force under the yellowish glare from the breed’s vicious eyes. Beads of sweat stood on his forehead and he was beginning to adopt a placating attitude.

  “I say no!” the breed snarled. He thumped a muscular fist on the table. Sunken trenches appeared on his lean cheeks as hard muscles corded there. He was working himself up into a killing rage, and the Kid knew that Jenkins was afraid of him.

  Sam gathered up the deck of dirty cards in his big hands and nervously began shuffling them. He mumbled drunkenly, “Lesh play poker an’ have ’nother li’le drink. ’Nother li’le drink never did nobody no harm.” A broad smile spread over his bearded face as he reached for the jug.

  “You boys go ahead with your game,” Jenkins said quickly. “Me an’ the Kid’ll ride to Bloody Gap …”

  “I ain’t shore that the Kid’ll be ridin’ nowhere.” The breed transferred his venomous gaze to the Rio Kid who still leaned against the wall. His yellow-tinged eyes were unblinking, reptilian.

  The Kid laughed shortly. “I ain’t askin’ you can I or can’t I.” He shrugged and turned his gaze to Jenkins. “You comin’ with me or stayin’ here?”

  “You can’t go alone,” Jenkins reminded him. “Bein’ a stranger here …”

  “I reckon I can find the road to Bloody Gap.”

  “I say no.” The breed kicked back his chair and stood up. “Let that old man die.”

  Hank writhed just then, and moaned in pain.

  The Kid folded his arms and said in a low deliberate monotone, “To hell with you, breed.…”

  When that insulting word left his lips the other went for his gun.

  The Kid slammed one hand down hard on the butt of his holstered gun, swiveling the muzzle upward and thumbing the hammer in a single motion.

  The small room reverberated with the crash of his .45. The breed swayed on his feet, still tugging to get his gun free, shot through the belly and numbed by the terrific impact of the heavy slug.

  The Kid laughed softly. With his holstered gun still tilted at his hip he fired again and a round hole appeared as if by magic in the center of the breed’s forehead.

  He toppled forward slowly, as though unwilling to the end to admit defeat, and his stringy frame made a dull thud as it struck the floor. His limbs twitched, and then he was still.

  The Rio Kid said, “There’s one that won’t be needin’ Doc Conroy.” He glanced toward Jenkins. “You ridin’ with me?”

  “God’l’mighty! The Boss shore ain’t gonna like this,” Jenkins muttered. “That’s Half-Breed Joe you killed. Sixteen notches in the butt of his gun.”

  “Half-Breed Joe?” The Kid scowled. He tilted his head and a far-away look came into his eyes. He frowned and started to reply, then his expression cleared. He recalled now where he had heard that name before—in connection with another name he had heard this evening for the first time in years. The name of Henry Pelham hadn’t jogged his memory, but the two of them in conjunction brought it all back clearly. It just made the whole enigma worse, however.

  Hank Greenow moaned again. The Kid made a decisive gesture as though to brush away all the questions bothering him. They would have to wait until later, until he had time to add some things up and see what they totaled. He turned to the door, saying:

  “I’m ridin’ to Bloody Gap.”

  “I better go with you,” Jenkins decided reluctantly, following him out. “Have to see the Boss an’ tell him about Half-Breed Joe … an’ he shore ain’t gonna like it one little bit.”

  12

  The Rio Kid was on the trail out of Hidden Valley with Jenkins before he fully realized what this trip to Bloody Gap might mean to him. Under the stress of his anxiety over Hank Greenow he had completely forgotten that he was a fugitive with a price on his head and might easily be recognized in Bloody Gap.

  Moreover, he had allowed himself to forget for a moment that Les Edwards had been murdered tonight and the smart thing for him to do was to keep under cover for a few days to avoid being suspected of that killing also.

  But it was too late to think about those things now. From the talk back at the cabin it appeared that the Boss hung out in Bloody Gap, and it was likely that he might veto the idea of taking Doctor Conroy to Hidden Valley when Jenkins put the proposition up to him. In that case, the Kid was determined to override the Boss’s objections and bring the doctor to Hank if he had to kidnap him to accomplish his object. After all, he reminded himself, it was entirely possible that he might ride in and out of Bloody Gap without being recognized as Hugh Aiken. Few reputable citizens of Chapparell or ranchers from the other side of the mountains frequented the place. It had a bad reputation as a hangout for desperadoes and gunmen, and few of those who might have known Hugh Aiken in the past were likely to be alive three years later to recognize him. The high mortality rate among Western gunmen was enough to practically assure that.

  Jenkins remained morosely silent on the ride up from Hidden Valley to reach the main road running between Chapparell and Bloody Gap. The Kid noticed this change in his companion but made no mention of it until their horses were panting up the last steep incline leading directly into Bloody Gap. He could wait no longer.

  Then he asked angrily, “What’s eatin’ on you anyhow? Ever since I blasted Half-Breed Joe back yonder you’ve been sulkin’ like you’d lost yore best friend. An’ if I read the signs right, Joe wasn’t no friend of yours.”

  “He shore wasn’t,” Jenkins disclaimed hastily. “More’n once I’ve wondered how much longer I could stand bein’ cooped up in that cabin with him. Had a mean streak a mile wide, Joe did. Full of liquor he was meaner’n a gila monster.”

  “Then what you grievin’ ’bout?”

  “Me? I’m not grievin’ for Joe none. Only thing is …” Jenkins hesitated, his jaw tightening grimly.

  “Spill it,” the Kid urged harshly. “We’re nigh to Bloody Gap. Yo’re scairt of the feller you call the Boss, huh?”

  “What if I am?” Jenkins blazed. “He’s hell on wheels when he gets mad … and he shore ain’t gonna like the news that a Bar L rider blasted Half-Breed Joe.”

  “S’pose you let me worry ’bout that,” drawled the Kid.

  “That’s easy to say, but the Boss is liable to take it outta my hide fust,” Jenkins mourned.

  “Lemme tell him then. You keep yore trap shut an’ I’ll take all the blame. I ain’t scared of him.”

  “You don’t know the Boss,” Jenkins reminded him dolefully.

  The Rio Kid said, “I’m shore lookin’ forward to it,” with a note of deep sincerity in his voice that caused Jenkins to turn and look at him with a puzzled expression.

  “It ain’t lucky to talk out loud about the Boss here in Bloody Gap,” he warned hastily. “Ain’t but a few hereabouts guess what goes on in Hidden Valley or that the Boss has any hand in it.”

  They topped the last rise and the tiny mountain village lay spread out in front of them. Little more than a wide spot in the road, the town of Bloody Gap consisted of half a dozen frame buildings on either side of the road that formed the hamlet’s main street.

  Only one building was lighted at this hour of the night. It was the largest building in town, a two-story structure with a saloon and dance-hall below, sleeping rooms above for any travelers foolish enough to seek shelter, and for a place to drag off drunks after they had imbibed too freely at the bar below.

  A dozen or more saddled horses stood patiently at the hitchrack outside the saloon, and. Jenkins pulled up there, suggesting, “Likely find Doc Conroy here. If he ain’t, they’ll know where he’s at.”

  The Rio Kid nodded agreement, his face an expressionless mask. Music and loud laughter came out of the swinging doors beyond the hitchrack. A tense feeling of excitement gripped the Kid as he tied Thunderbolt and prepared to enter behind Jenkins.

  This was the moment he had waited for and feared for three years. It wasn’t quite like facing a similar crowd in a Chapparell saloon, but there was the same danger here in a lesser degree. He felt keyed-up, ready for any sort of a showdown. He was through with skulking. He was going to walk in with his head up, and let his guns talk for him if need be.

  His stride was deliberate and steady as he crossed the rotting board walk behind Jenkins. Instinctively, his hands went to gun-butts at his hips to loosen the weapons in their holsters and assure himself there wouldn’t be any drag that would lose him a precious fraction of a second if it came down to shooting.

  A blast of hot air and the stench of bad liquor smote them in the faces when they pushed through the swinging doors. Half a dozen armed men were at the bar, and five others were seated around a poker table against the opposite wall. Beyond the bar was a small polished dance floor on which two girls in flaring short skirts and painted faces cavorted with a couple of bearded men in the garb of miners from the copper district farther north in the mountains.

  The men at the bar glanced at them incuriously as they entered, but none of them said anything. The bartender was a fat moon-faced man. He greeted Jenkins heartily, as though he knew him well, “What’ll it be, gents?”

  Standing beside Jenkins the Kid said, “Whisky,” and casually flipped a silver dollar onto the wet mahogany.

  When the bartender set a bottle and two glasses in front of them, the Kid poured the glass full to the brim and Jenkins leaned forward to ask in a low voice, “Doc Conroy around tonight?”

  “You bet your sweet life the doc’s around.” The bartender laughed jovially and nodded his bald head toward the poker table. “Setting in on a little game an’ losing his pants, I reckon.” He laughed again and recorked the bottle after the Kid set it down.

  The Rio Kid picked up his drink and started toward the poker table. Jenkins caught his sleeve and pulled him back. “Don’t be in too big a hurry. Doc don’t like to be disturbed …”

  The Kid said, “To hell with that.… A man’s dyin’,” in a loud, angry voice. He stood a couple of feet back from the bar and let his gaze rove down the row of faces that turned to look at him when he said that. None of the men at the bar looked familiar. None of them appeared to recognize him.