Kitty climbed down from the buggy and asked faintly, “What are you going to do, Sam?”

  “I’m gonna buckle on my gun ’fore I start ridin’. I reckon I’ll stop in at the K Bar for a pow-wow on my way to the Lazy Mare.”

  15

  Night-darkness came on with interminable slowness while Pat and Ezra waited behind a thick clump of juniper overlooking the K Bar ranch house. Leaving their three horses securely tethered out of sight, the sheriff and his one-eyed companion had wriggled through the thicket to a point were they could look down on the ranch house unseen and watch every movement made by the three men below.

  They saw nothing to excite further suspicion. For a long time after they took up their vigil, the three men remained inside the house out of sight. Then, as the evening shadows lengthened, Timothy O’Connor and Gut-Luck Lasher came out and took care of the few evening chores necessary at a horse ranch, pumping a fresh supply of water into the long wooden trough, breaking bales of hay and tossing feed to the half dozen saddlehorses penned up in the corral.

  At the same time smoke began to curl up from the chimney of the kitchen stove, indicating that the owner was preparing supper while his two hands did the outside work.

  It was a peaceful scene—exactly as it might have been on any other evening at any similar ranch, with nothing whatever to indicate that anything out of the ordinary was afoot at the K Bar ranch.

  Waiting and watching silently was a terrible strain on Pat Stevens. Every fiber of his body cried out for immediate violent action. At this short distance he could see the insolent swagger of Gut-Luck as he went about his evening duties, and he had to grit his teeth and hold himself back forcibly from striding down the slope and backing up his questions with gunfire.

  But he knew Ezra was right. He knew the logical course was to lie concealed and await developments. If his son was already dead, his boyish body hidden out there somewhere in the wastelands behind the ranch, it wouldn’t help matters any to exact immediate vengeance. It wouldn’t bring Dock back to life. It wouldn’t give Sally back her son. If that were the case, vengeance would be no less sweet for postponing it a few hours.

  And if Dock was still alive and unharmed as Ezra believed, it was surely best to wait in the hope that the K Bar men would unwittingly lead them to the boy’s hiding place.

  Pat knew this reasoning was logical. He kept going over and over it in his mind—but he was still a father—and for the first time in his life he had a difficult time acceding to reason.

  Yet he knew Ezra’s interpretation of the hoof trails he had followed that day was a strong indication that. Dock had been alive and not a prisoner at the time when he discarded his pinto and mounted double on the K Bar horse. The fact that the pinto had gone ahead of the K Bar horse up to that point was a strong argument to support that belief. And it was, Pat thought, what Dock might have done under the circumstances. If he was determined to hide his trail from Ezra, the boy would have known some ruse like that would be the only way.

  The thing that Pat couldn’t figure out was why one of the K Bar men would have aided the boy to hide his trail. Neighbors didn’t generally help a young boy run away from home. No one else in Powder Valley would have done a thing like that. If Dock had been seen by another rancher and had told what he was doing, he would have been summarily escorted home.

  But Pat had an uneasy conviction that there was something sinister about the K Bar and its men that had something to do with turning Dock against his father. He had felt it before, when Dock had started visiting Crane every afternoon after school, and he had vaguely sensed it in the incident of the black colt which Crane had insisted should come as a gift from him rather than as a sale to Pat.

  It was all tied up somehow, Pat was convinced, with Judge Prink and the way he had given Crane possession of the ranch over Ezra’s prior claim. He didn’t see why this was so. It didn’t make sense. He didn’t know why anybody would want to antagonize him, nor why anybody would want to drive a wedge between father and son.

  Ezra nudged him and startled him out of his musings. “Look down yonder at the corral, Pat. D’yuh see what I see?”

  Pat narrowed his eyes and stared down through the gathering darkness toward the corral below. He muttered, “Looks like they’re saddlin’ up a hawse.”

  “Two hawses,” Ezra corrected him. “A blazed-face roan an’ that white-stockinged sorrel. The sorrel is the one that carried Dock off las’ night.”

  Pat nodded grimly. Ezra was right. The two K Bar hands were saddling up a pair of horses. He watched in silence while they led the saddled mounts up to the back of the ranch house and ground-tied them, then went inside.

  He drew a long breath and muttered, “That looks like the real goods. They’ve gone in to eat supper.”

  “We ain’t gonna have long tuh wait now,” Ezra predicted gleefully. “I betcha they’ll be ridin’ soon’s it gets dark. Shore wish we had a crack at that supper they’ll be settin’ down to,” he added wistfully. “Seems like I kin smell it plumb up here. Frijoles, I betcha, an’ fried yearlin’ steaks.”

  “I ain’t a mite hungry,” Pat protested.

  “Me neither. I’ve done got over bein’ hongry. It’s been so danged long sence my belly saw any vittles that it’s done forgot what they taste like,” Ezra mourned.

  Pat laughed shortly. He inched backward and sat up, then cupped a cigarette paper and poured tobacco into it. “We’d best get a smoke while they’re eating supper. We won’t dare to light up after we take out trailin’ them.”

  “I’ll make out with a fresh chaw,” Ezra grumbled. “Sorta keep m’ jaws in practice fer the time when they get somethin’ more nourishin’ to work on.”

  Pat shielded a match carefully and lit his cigarette. Stars came out overhead and a yellow light showed in the kitchen window of the ranch house below.

  Pat finished his cigarette and crushed the butt out with his boot heel. He and Ezra sat side by side without talking. They heard the back door of the ranch house open, and a figure stepped into the rectangle of light. It was followed by a second man. Then the door was slammed shut.

  Pat got up. He said softly, “This is it. You take the lead in trailing ’em, Ezra. Don’t lose ’em but be careful they don’t catch on they’re bein’ trailed.”

  Ezra didn’t say anything. He followed Pat back through the thicket to their saddled horses. Pat mounted and took up the pinto’s lead rope. He waited for Ezra to take the lead.

  Ezra reined over to him and whispered, “We don’t hafta foller too close. We know which direction the back-trail heads out.” He rode to the edge of the junipers and stopped his horse in the shadow. There was a thin arc of a moon in the sky, and the stars were very bright, shedding a faint shimmering radiance on the valley.

  They could distinctly hear the creak of saddle leather and the thud of hooves as the two K Bar riders rode past them not more than two hundred yards below. Ezra waited until the men were out of hearing before letting his horse forward out of the concealing shadow. Pat Stevens followed close behind. He could hear nothing to guide them, but he had seen Ezra on the trail too often to question him now.

  Ezra kept his horse at a walk for a time, then lifted him to a slow trot. Pat stayed close at his heels, leading Dock’s pinto behind.

  They covered several miles at this gait, with Ezra riding on confidently just as though it was bright daylight and he could see the two K Bar riders clearly.

  He didn’t hesitate when they reached the stretch of rocky hills where he had lost the trail that morning, but followed a devious, winding course that led them upward and to the right of the territory he and Pat had laboriously combed that day.

  It was more than an hour after they left the ranch when Ezra stopped his horse suddenly. Pat reined up beside him as Ezra stepped down from the saddle and lay down full-length on the rocky ground.

  Ezra lay immobile for a full minute before arising. “They’ve stopped,” he told Pat in a low tone. “’Bout half a mile ahead. Keep your hawse still till we find out what they’re gonna do.”

  They didn’t have long to wait. Ezra had scarcely finished speaking when a blob of light shone through the night from ahead.

  “Looks like a lamp inside a house,” Pat muttered. “But there ain’t rightly no houses up yonder.”

  “There’s that ol’ shack on Beaver Crik,” Ezra reminded him. “An’ that’s about where that light is at.”

  “That’s right.” Pat swore softly. He swung out of the saddle. “I’m goin’ up here, Ezra. Dock must be in that shack.”

  “Tha’s right. I’ll tie the hawses here an’ be right behind yuh.” Ezra caught the reins of Pat’s horse as the Powder Valley sheriff went forward over the rocky ground.

  Pat moved toward the rectangle of light as fast as caution would allow, driven by a fierce exultation now that the final accounting was near. He loosened his guns in their holsters, heartened by the feel of the smooth grips beneath his calloused hands.

  He moved forward in a straight line and his stride remained steady as he approached near the tiny lighted cabin. He didn’t bother to skulk around to the lighted window nor attempt to spy out the lay of the land.

  He made his steps lighter as he neared the front door, stopped for a moment with his hand on the knob.

  The confused murmur of voices came to him through the wooden door. He knew his son was inside, with two armed and desperate men. It was going to take steady nerves and straight shooting——

  He turned the knob and jerked the door open, stepped forward into the lighted room with both guns clearing leather simultaneously.

  He caught a single clear impression of the room before the shooting started. A lighted lantern sat on a wooden box in the center. Dock’s white face stared at him from just beyond the lantern. At his left, Tim O’Connor was drinking out of a jug tipped up and resting in the crook of his right arm.

  Across from Tim, Gut-Luck Lasher whirled to face him. Pat saw the gunman’s contorted face and the flash of a hand downward to the deadly swiveled gun at his hip.

  Pat shot Gut-Luck in the middle of his fear-contorted face. The bullet smashed into his front teeth and rocked the gunman backward. With cold and ruthless precision, Pat Stevens fired twice more. Blood mushroomed from Gut-Luck’s forehead, and Pat’s third bullet tore away the side of his jaw.

  Dock screamed shrilly and Pat leaped sideways, swinging his guns in a swift arc. Timothy O’Connor dropped his jug of liquor and was clawing at a holstered gun on his hip.

  Pat shot the gun out of his hand, and Timothy promptly dropped to his knees and began pleading for mercy.

  Ezra pounded through the door at a run and Pat holstered his guns. He walked past the groveling man and confronted Dock. His eyes were bleak and his voice was hard when he said, “Well, son?”

  Dock straightened up manfully. He dug a grimy fist into his eye and choked back a sob and said, “Gee, I’m glad you came, Dad. I was gettin’—scared. If I’d had a hawse I’d of come home.”

  The bleakness went out of Pat’s eyes and a hungry look came into his face. He said, “Your mother missed you, son.”

  Dock came to him timidly. “I missed you both. I’m sorry I ran away. Gee, Dad! When you came in that door ashootin’, it was the best thing I ever did see.”

  Pat put his arm tightly around Dock’s shoulders. He turned to watch Ezra tying Timothy O’Connor’s hands behind him. He asked Ezra, “What does the old man say?”

  “Nothin’,” Ezra snorted angrily. “He jest says it’s all a mistake. That him an’ his pardner come out here to take Dock back home.”

  “They didn’t either,” said Dock excitedly. “I ast them to, first thing when they come, but Gut-Luck said I was to go on with Tim. And Tim was getting drunk. It looked to me like Gut-Luck wanted him to.”

  Pat said coldly, “Tie him up good, Ezra. We’ll leave ’em both inside and set this old shack on fire. Good riddance.”

  “No! You can’t do that,” Timothy cried. “You can’t leave me tied up. I’ll burn to death.”

  “That,” said Pat, “is a purty good idea.” He stepped forward and stood over the shaky old man. “If you don’t want yore tail scorched, start talking.”

  “I’ll talk,” Timothy whimpered. “I’ll tell you anything.”

  “What’s this all about?”

  “All what?”

  “Everything.” Pat made a savage gesture. “What’re you an’ yore boss an’ Gut-Luck doing here in Powder Valley? What’s Judge Prink got to do with it?”

  “I dunno. I swear I don’t. Crane offered me the job an’ promised me plenty of drinkin’ whiskey. That’s all I know.”

  “Why did you have Dock here?”

  “I dunno that neither. I swear I don’t. Gut-Luck done it. He brung Dock here las’ night. An’ Crane tol’ me to come out with him tonight. I was to pertend I was settin’ Dock on his way south, but I was to tie him up an’ leave him and come back. That’s all I know. I swear it is. Cross my heart.” The old drunkard began crying like a frightened child.

  Pat turned away from him angrily. “Load him on a hawse,” he directed Ezra, “and bring him in to the K Bar. I’m ridin’ that way to have a talk with Crane. You ride for home, Dock.”

  Gilbert Crane opened the front door and peered out anxiously when Pat rode up to the K Bar. He continued to stand in the doorway and his broad face looked worried when he recognized his visitor.

  Pat walked straight toward him without saying anything. Crane held his ground until Pat was only one step away, then he moved back, saying with heavy irony, “It looks like you’re coming in.”

  Pat said, “That’s right.” Inside the living room, he announced calmly, “Yore gun slinger is dead.”

  “Gut-Luck?” Crane appeared to shrink under Pat’s hard gaze.

  “That’s right. An’ the other fellow blabbed us an earful.”

  Crane made an effort to regain control of himself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Neither of my men are here.”

  “I know where they are. We followed them tonight, out to the Beaver Creek cabin.”

  Crane moved back and groped behind him for a chair. His florid face lost some of its color. “You trailed them?”

  “That’s right.” Pat kept his voice at a monotone. “Gut-Luck wasn’t so lucky with that fancy shootin’ iron of his.”

  Crane’s knees buckled under him. He slid down into a chair. “There wasn’t any call for shooting,” he protested. “They were just keeping your boy hid out a day or so for a little joke.”

  “There’s a hell of a lot more to it than that,” Pat said shortly. “What’s yore hook-up with Prink?”

  “I don’t know what you mean. I told you—”

  “A lot of lies,” Pat interrupted savagely. “There’s somethin’ funny goin’ on and I mean to know what it is.” He slid his hand down to one of his guns. “I’d just as leave kill you too, Crane.”

  “No. You’ve got no right to do that. There’s nothing between me and Judge Prink. I swear there isn’t.”

  “He’s lyin’,” came in a low, throaty voice from the door. Pat whirled to see Sam Sloan entering grimly.

  “I jest got word Dock was gone,” Sam went on. “I think mebby this skunk knows somethin’ about it, Pat. I heard him talking to Jedge Prink in the jedge’s hotel room last night. And that gambler was in there too. They was talkin’ about Dock, an’—”

  “No,” moaned Crane. “There’s some mistake.”

  Pat said, “Shut up,” without looking at him. “I’ve found Dock,” he told Sam, “an’ now I’m trailin’ down whatever slimy goings-on there is between Crane an’ the judge.”

  “An’ Deever an’ the schoolma’am,” Sam put in angrily. “They’re all of ’em in cahoots, Pat. And Windy Rivers, too.”

  “It’s a lie,” Crane cried out loudly.

  Neither man paid any attention to him. Pat said, “Get yore rope, Sam.”

  Sam went out to his horse to take the coiled lariat down from his saddle.

  Ezra came trotting into the yard while Sam was getting his rope. He was leading a horse with Timothy O’Connor tied belly-down across the saddle. His single eye gleamed happily when he saw Sam Sloan, but he betrayed no surprise or pleasure in his greeting, “How come you allus figger on gettin’ around when the shootin’s all over?”

  Sam grinned broadly. “I figger this here shootin’s jest about tuh get started.” He ran into the house with his coiled rope.

  “Toss the loop around his neck,” Pat said savagely. “We’ll ride him into town that way if we don’t take a notion to throw the other end over a cottonwood limb before we get there.”

  Sam complied happily, cutting off a short end of the rope to tie Crane’s hands behind him. Ezra came to the door while he was doing that, and complained to Pat:

  “That ol’ feller has done passed out. I brung him in tied to the saddle.”

  “Untie him and bring him in here,” Pat directed. “We’ll use his hawse to ride Mr. Crane into town on.”

  Sam Sloan dragged Gilbert Crane out with a noose around his neck while Ezra lugged the unconscious Tim O’Connor into the house and dumped him unceremoniously on the floor. A few minutes later the procession started for Dutch Springs with Pat in the lead. Sam was right behind with a lead-rope from Crane’s horse tied to his saddle horn; and Ezra brought up the rear with the lariat stretching from Crane’s neck to his saddle horn.

  16

  The buggy was about a mile from Dutch Springs and the sun was just going down when Rudd Fleming reached over and took one of Connie Dawson’s hands in his. He held it firmly for a moment without saying anything, continuing a silence that had held both of them for ten or fifteen minutes.

  Connie didn’t try to take her hand from his. She turned her head slowly and looked at his face. He was looking straight ahead, and he was frowning.

  He felt her gaze and he turned to look into her eyes. He said gravely, “I think I’m going to propose to you.”