The Kid jerked his arm away from Jenkins and strode toward the poker table. He recognized Doc Conroy among the poker players at once. There was no mistaking the Irishman’s bulbous nose and the beet-red complexion streaked with a network of blue veins that gave him an unhealthy appearance.

  Three of the other players were strangers to the Kid. The fifth he recognized as a man whom he had known vaguely in the past, by unsavory reputation more than by personal contact—Pete Trobridge, owner of the saloon in which he stood.

  Things were whispered and rumored about Trobridge, but never said openly. He was a tall thin man, with a sallow complexion and close-set eyes. Drooping mustaches partially hid the slitted cruelty of his mouth. He had never been known to carry a gun on his person, yet he had a reputation for ruthlessness. It was said that if a stranger got drunk in his saloon he was never heard of again. Lots of other similar things were said about Pete Trobridge, but always behind his back.

  He glanced up at the Kid with flinty eyes as he neared the poker table. His eyes narrowed as he took in the Kid’s appearance; the two guns tied low for usage and not for decoration, the young stranger’s easy slouch as he approached the table, which contrasted with the hard, unblinking stare the Kid gave back to him.

  For an instant the Kid’s nerves froze. He thought Trobridge had recognized him. He remembered that this was the man Charlie had said saw him that fateful night when he left Sheriff Edwards’ dead body in the trail behind him and headed for the Border. Strange he couldn’t remember seeing another man in the trail that night. But Trobridge must have been there. Charlie said he had positively identified the new neck scarf Hugh Aiken was wearing.

  If Trobridge had said a word about that night, the Kid would have started shooting then and there. But the saloonkeeper filmed the curiosity in his eyes and asked:

  “Looking for someone?”

  “Doctor Conroy,” the Kid told him, making a pretense that he didn’t know the doctor.

  “The player at my right who is now trying to decide whether to call a bet of three dollars or throw his hand in,” Trobridge said.

  The doctor looked up in surprise and grunted, “Someone looking for me?” He threw his cards into the discards as he spoke.

  The Kid nodded. “I’d like a word with you private.”

  Conroy hesitated, began to shake his head.

  “Up at the front end of the bar will do,” the Rio Kid said hastily. “We can have a drink while we’re talking.”

  A broad smile spread over the doctor’s flushed face. “Indade and why not?” he assented in his deepest brogue. He pushed back his chair and stood up, wavering as he did so. He smiled happily and groped for the Kid’s shoulder, got hold of it for support, and went with him to the bar.

  The bartender already had a bottle of Irish whisky out when they got there. It was more than half full. The Kid shoved a five-dollar gold piece across to him and said, “We’ll be keeping the bottle.”

  The doctor’s bloodshot eyes shone with gratification. He waited until the Kid filled his glass, then lifted it in an unsteady hand and crooned, “Here’s to you, my fine young bucko, and may I drink many more to the same.” He nodded ceremoniously and downed the drink.

  Across the room the Kid saw Pete Trobridge’s eyes fastened upon them with more than idle curiosity. Then he saw Jenkins unobtrusively making his way to the far end of the bar, noted that the saloon-keeper got up from the poker table to join Jenkins. He had an idea Trobridge wanted to question Jenkins about him, but nothing that Jenkins could say would do any harm.

  He refilled the doctor’s glass and gave him his full attention. “A man’s been shot bad down the road. We want you to fix him up.”

  “Shot, eh? That’s no uncommon plague in these parts.” Conroy frowned and belched gently. “If he’s shot bad medical science can do nothing. If he’s not shot bad he doesn’t need me.” The doctor emptied his glass again and looked hopefully at the bottle.

  The Kid shook his head and recorked it. “Shot through the lungs,” he insisted. “Yo’re the best bullet man in Arizona. You can pull him through.”

  Doctor Conroy shook his head sadly. Tears formed in his eyes and splashed down the front of his dirty brocaded waistcoat. “Was the best bullet man in Arizona.” He held out a shaking hand for the Kid’s inspection. “Do you think a probe in those fingers is better than an instrument of death? Let your friend die in peace, lad. Don’t ask me to murder him.”

  “You lie,” said the Kid harshly. “You’ll sober up when the job’s there before you ready to be done. I’ve heard of you, Doctor Conroy.”

  A smile of cunning suffused the doctor’s bloated features. He appeared not to have taken offense at the Rio Kid’s words. His eyes fixed themselves avidly upon the bottle.

  “Perhaps a wee nip might steady my hand, lad.”

  The Kid shook his head and slid the bottle into his hip pocket. “Not a drop until you’re ready to go to work. Then one drink to steady you … an’ the rest of the bottle when the job’s done.”

  “You drive a hard bargain, lad.” The doctor shook his head sadly. “But the cause of humanity has ever been a cry I could not resist. Where is your friend who suffers from an excess of lead content in his system?”

  “I’ll take you there,” the Kid promised. He looked up to see Jenkins coming toward him wiping sweat from his face. The rustler had a sickly but relieved smile on his face. Trobridge was just resuming his seat at the poker table.

  “I’m having the doctor’s buckboard brought around,” Jenkins told the Kid. “It’ll be in front in a few minutes. Another drink while we’re waitin’?”

  “A short one for me an’ for the doctor,” the Kid warned.

  The swinging doors burst open behind them as they bellied up to the bar. An excited man started to rush past them, then shopped short when he saw Conroy.

  He grabbed the doctor’s sleeve and panted, “Yo’re wanted in Chapparell bad. Les Edwards has been shot … through thuh back.”

  He was a thin, hatchet-faced man wearing two guns. Jenkins turned to him with an exclamation of surprise while the other occupants of the saloon started to crowd forward to hear his news.

  Jenkins exclaimed, “Hell, it’s Mart, ain’t it? Hey, Kid! Look. It’s Mart from the Bar L.”

  The Rio Kid stood braced against the bar, eying Mart steadily. Everything depended on what happened during the next few seconds. If he let Mart denounce him as an impostor … as no Bar L rider … it would end every chance to get help to Hank. It would also mean the end of his attempt to solve the mystery of rustled Bar L cattle in Hidden Valley.

  The Kid nodded and his voice rasped through the silence. “Yeh. I see it’s Mart, awright. I tol’ you to come a-shootin’,” he flung at the hatchet-faced gunman angrily. “Go for yore guns so I’ll have a good excuse to kill you.”

  Mart’s jaw sagged open ludicrously. This attack from a man whom he had never seen before was so startling and unexpected that for a moment he was so taken by surprise that he couldn’t find any answer.

  He started to stammer, “B-b-but …”

  The Rio Kid cut him short before he could say any more and spoil the set-up he’d made for himself. He growled, “Shore, I know yo’re yellow. I figgered you’d tuck yore laigs an’ run like any other hound cur. But that ain’t goin’ to …”

  Mart fell into the trap with an instinctive gesture toward his guns.

  The Kid fired twice before Mart’s guns were clear of their holsters. The bullets smashed him sideways and to his knees. He exhaled one sobbing breath and then pitched face downward to the floor. The Kid turned away contemptuously and thumped the bar with the muzzle of a smoking gun.

  He snarled, “I allus set ’em up after I kill a man. Belly up, you buckaroos, an’ drink to Mart’s soul havin’ a fast trip to hell.”

  13

  The occupants of the saloon surged up to the bar and drank, partially because they were averse to turning down the chance at a free drink and partially because none of them cared to offend the strange gunman who had just demonstrated his ability on Mart.

  Only Pete Trobridge, the Kid noted through veiled eyes, refused his invitation. The saloon-keeper stayed in his chair at the poker table watching the whole scene with sardonic eyes.

  From the men around him at the bar the Rio Kid caught muttered comments while they downed the drinks he was paying for:

  “Les Edwards … shot through thuh back … like his Pappy before him … sheriffin’ is shore a dangerous pastime down Chapparell way … wonder is he daid … Mart didn’t have no chance tuh say … reckon not or he wouldn’t of come for Doc Conroy … new feller’s faster’n greased lightnin’ with his guns …”

  Standing shoulder to shoulder with the Kid at the bar, Jenkins was acutely nervous. As he lifted his glass he muttered, “Whyn’t you tell me you an’ Mart was on the outs? I mighta stepped in an’ stopped trouble if I’d knowed.…”

  “Why should I tell you?” the Kid asked cheerfully. “It was a private quarrel. No need for nobody to interfere. Mart’s been honin’ for this showdown … now he’s got it.”

  “All this killin’ ain’t so good,” Jenkins mourned. “Stirs things up … gets questions asked. With the sheriff gettin’ shot tonight on top of that …” He shook his head dismally to indicate his fear that Edwards’ death might somehow be thought to be tied up with these other killings.

  The Kid laughed cheerfully and slapped Jenkins on the back. “It’ll all come out in the wash. Le’s get Conroy outta here so he won’t get too full to dig that bullet outta Hank.”

  He nodded to the bartender for an accounting, pushing in front of the doctor as though by accident and forcing him back where he couldn’t reach the bottle again.

  He wasn’t aware that Trobridge had risen and come forward until he heard him speaking to Conroy behind his back, “Hadn’t you better be heading to Chapparell to tend to Les Edwards, Doc?”

  The Kid whirled about angrily. “Conroy’s got another job to do fust,” he stated flatly.

  Trobridge stroked his mustaches gently and studied the young man with a faint smile. “Taking a lot on yourself for a stranger, ain’t you?”

  “Not more’n I can carry,” the Kid assured him. “I got fust call on the doctor.”

  “I don’t think you understand the seriousness of this other call. The wounded man happens to be the sheriff of this county.”

  It was on the tip of the Kid’s tongue to retort that Les Edwards was beyond the need of medical attention, but he caught the slip in time. Wouldn’t do to admit that he had prior knowledge of the shooting. He changed his words to an emphatic statement:

  “One man’s life is jest as important as another’s.”

  “I can’t agree with you.” Trobridge was still smiling faintly. Every man in the saloon was watching and listening to the exchange between them. It seemed to the Kid that Trobridge was deliberately goading him on to make some sort of a damaging admission, and he was acutely aware of the danger of his position.

  “Our former sheriff died just three years ago with a bullet through his back,” Trobridge went on in that same mocking tone. “It’ll look bad if his son dies the same way.”

  “That ain’t my fault,” the Kid said harshly, wincing inwardly at the thought that his assertion would be branded a lie if those who heard him knew who he was. “I’m takin’ Doc Conroy with me.”

  “I don’t think so.” Trobridge turned away from him to two of the men standing near by. “Put the doctor in his buckboard and see that he gets to Chapparell at once.”

  The Kid’s bluff had been called by Trobridge, backed up by a dozen gunmen. He had managed to stay alive this long by knowing when not to butt his head against a stone wall. He shrugged his shoulders to admit defeat and said, “Awright. I reckon you win. Jest to show there’s no hard feelin’s, have a drink with me.”

  “I’ll do that,” Trobridge agreed, “but you can’t spend any more money here in my place.” His manner became instantly agreeable when the Kid backed down. He nodded to the bartender and said, “Fill them up out of my private stock.”

  The two men hustled Doctor Conroy out of the saloon to his buckboard. A swamper came from the rear to drag away Mart’s body, scattering sawdust over the blood on the floor. The others moved away from the Kid and Trobridge, Jenkins going with them reluctantly, looking back at the Kid with a questioning scowl.

  “You’ll do all right when you learn the ropes around here,” Trobridge told him. “New, ain’t you?”

  “Yeh.” The Kid leaned forward resting both his elbows on the bar, nursing his glass of mellow rich whisky from the owner’s private bottle between the palms of both hands.

  “How’d you happen to drift to the Bar L?”

  “Well, I … I knowed Henry Pelham before … in Mexico.” The Kid frowned down at his glass, pretending not to notice the small start of surprise from Trobridge that greeted his casual statement.

  “Mexico, eh? An’ he sent for you to come an’ ride for him?” Trobridge probed.

  “Not ezactly. I heard he’d set up ranchin’ here an’ thought he might could use a hand like me.” The Kid turned suddenly with an assumption of anger. “What’re all these questions for? I don’t owe you no information.”

  Trobridge held up a placating hand. “No need to get wringy over some questions. You got nuthin’ to hide from me, I reckon.”

  The Rio Kid frowned darkly. “I dunno,” he confessed truthfully. “I dunno where you figger in the set-up.”

  Trobridge laughed and emptied his glass. “Don’t worry your head over it too much. Man that slings lead with both hands like you don’t need too much brains.”

  He sauntered off across the room and the Kid followed him with bleak eyes. He didn’t like that kind of a crack, but for the moment he was too busy trying to absorb the information he had gathered from Trobridge to start any further trouble.

  There wasn’t anything definite—and that was the most peculiar part of it. All he could get hold of tonight was a series of vagrant hints and half-spoken ideas. Every time he thought he’d found two of them that fitted together he immediately discovered another piece that threw the others out of balance.

  He vented himself of a disgusted grunt and emptied his glass of good whisky. It warmed his belly, arousing him to the need for immediate action. He stepped away from the bar, caught Jenkins’ eyes from the back of the room. He jerked his head in a signal for the other to join him, then sauntered out between the swinging doors.

  He was in the saddle impatiently waiting when Jenkins emerged a few minutes later. He said, “Le’s be ridin’,” before Jenkins could ask any questions, reined Thunderbolt away from the rail. He held the black stallion down to an easy lope until Jenkins galloped up alongside him, then let the eager black out into his stride.

  Jenkins had to spur his mount to keep up the pace. “What’s your hurry?” he panted. “We can’t do no good back in Hidden Valley without a doctor.”

  “That’s why,” the Kid shouted above the thunder of hooves, “I’m hurryin’. I figger we can jest aboot catch Doc Conroy’s buckboard on the road before we come to the turnoff to Hidden Valley.”

  “You mean you’re goin’ to try to stop the doc from goin’ on to Chapparell?”

  “Not try. I’m goin’ to stop him. We need him more’n that kid sheriff does.”

  “Those two fellers that rode with him are bad,” Jenkins warned. “They’ll be hell-bent on takin’ Doc to Chapparell.”

  “They’ll be hell-bent, awright, if they try to stop me from grabbin’ him,” the Kid growled. He leaned low in the saddle and urged Thunderbolt to increased speed, wasting no more breath on argument with the timid Jenkins.

  His companion slowly dropped to the rear as Thunderbolt really got into his stride, and Jenkins was a full quarter of a mile behind when the Kid approached the point where the road forked to dip over into Hidden Valley.

  He had cut his figuring mighty thin fooling around back in the saloon and letting the buckboard get a long head start, but Thunderbolt’s speed had made up the difference and he glimpsed the rig ahead of him in the moonlight as it neared the turning-off point.

  He whooped loudly as he reined up beside the fast-moving vehicle, leaned from the shadow to shout, “Yo’re turnin’ off here, fellers. To the left up ahaid this side of the ridge.”

  “The hell yuh say. This is thuh road to Chapparell an’ we’re stayin’ on it,” was the surly response of the driver, cracking his blacksnake over the backs of the team.

  The Kid hesitated. Doctor Conroy was in the seat between the two men sent by Trobridge to see that he reached Chapparell. If he shot it out with the two men, managed to kill them both, the team would surely bolt and smash the vehicle on the rocks beside the road—and the doctor with it.

  There was only one chance the Kid could see, and he took it without hesitation.

  He whipped out his left-hand gun and covered the two men, spurred Thunderbolt up in front of the team and herded them off the main road onto the rough way leading down into Hidden Valley.

  The men cursed loudly behind him on the buckboard, and he caught the glint of steel in the moonlight as one of them attempted to sneak a gun from its holster without being seen.

  The Kid fired back without warning and the man gave a yelp of pain, and his gun clattered to the ground.

  With the team headed into the Hidden Valley road, the Kid dropped back to a position beside the driver and ordered, “Whip ’em into a run. We ain’t got no time to waste, an’ I ain’t foolin’.”

  14

  It didn’t require any further admonition from the Kid to convince the driver that he was in earnest. Twice tonight he had witnessed the Kid’s deadly accuracy with his guns, and now, under that menace, he braced himself and gave all his strength and driving skill to the task of keeping the rocking vehicle upright in its mad dash down the twisting road into Hidden Valley.

  On the other side of Doctor Conroy, the driver’s companion was whimpering with pain and nursing his broken right wrist from the terrific jolting it was receiving; while Jenkins spurred his horse from behind, vainly trying to catch up with the flying buckboard.