“Reckon he would,” Ezra opined. “Take me, now, if I wasn’t gettin’ old I’d …”

  “You wan’t no good when you was young,” Sam interrupted dourly. “Hard as I tried to teach you to shoot.”

  Sally appeared in the kitchen doorway and said, “Blow the horn for Dock to come in, Pat. Dinner’s ready.”

  Pat jumped up as if coiled springs propelled him. He stretched his long arms, yawned, and on his way to the shelf to get the horn, said:

  “It’s a rancher’s life for me. Turkey on the table and a soft bed to sleep in. No more fooling my belly chewin’ jerky.” He spoke loud enough for Sally to hear and chuckled as he passed between the two men on his way to the porch where he sounded three long blasts on the old cowhorn.

  A young boy’s voice answered, “Coming, Pop,” and presently Dock was running toward him with his new rifle on his shoulder and a cottontail swinging from his hand. “I got one,” he cried. “I was hurrying to show you.”

  “Good boy,” Pat bragged, and when his son reached the porch Pat took the limp rabbit and ordered him to wash up for dinner.

  Sally was thoughtfully silent during the meal. Now and then a mist swam in her eyes, and Pat noticed that she held her chin very firm when it came. No mention was made of Martha Sutton’s letter, but when dinner was over and Sally began stacking the plates, she said:

  “Poor dear Martha, my heart aches for her. It’s a shame,” she ended, controlling her voice with an effort, “that something can’t be done about those terrible bandits.”

  The three men looked uncomfortable but said nothing. Into the silence Dock poured childish questions, demanding to know why he couldn’t go to Dusty Canyon and kill them all with his new rifle.

  Sally answered all his questions at once. “You’re too young to understand, son. Finish your dinner so I can have your plate.”

  Dock said, “Aw, gosh,” rumpled his sun-tanned face in disgust and said no more.

  After the table was cleared and the dishes neatly stacked for washing, the presents from the Christmas tree were opened. Dock’s package from Ezra and Sam contained a pair of sheepskin chaps which he instantly put on, and after opening and exclaiming over numerous other small gifts, he went out and saddled his pony to ride the snowy range.

  A semblance of Christmas spirit had been maintained while the boy was in the room, but after he had gone no one made any attempt to hide his thoughts and feelings. Sally left the room with tears in her eyes.

  Pat opened a jug of wine and poured three glasses. For a while they drank and brooded. Then, as was inevitable when they were together, the talk drifted to their man-hunting conquests of other days and led up to the outlaws now menacing Dusty Canyon section.

  Though all three of them vowed never to take up the renegades’ trails again, there was a smoldering flame in Ezra’s one eye, bright hope in Pat’s clear gray eyes, while Sam’s were cold and black and calculating.

  Not long after dark came on, the ranch house became silent and was lighted only by the dying embers in the great fireplace. Sam and Ezra, at young Dock’s insistence, occupied two bunks in the boy’s room after stating that they would have to be on their way to the Bar ES before daylight broke in the morning.

  TWO

  Pat heard the clock strike five the next morning and eased himself from the bed to keep from waking Sally. The room was as dark as midnight, and his efforts to dress quietly were futile. He stumbled over a chair and it clattered to the floor.

  There was no hint of sleepiness in Sally’s voice when she said, “What are you getting up so early for, Pat?”

  “I sort of loafed around yesterday celebratin’,” he answered, “and I’ve got to get out early and attend to things. I’ll bet not a one of the punchers will be back early after carousing in town.”

  “Pat Stevens, are you trying to rig up some excuse for going after that gang of robbers in Dusty Canyon? You didn’t sleep much during the night.”

  Pat chuckled. “You didn’t sleep much yourself, old woman. Reckon we both had the jitters.”

  “Well, let me tell you right now …”

  “Sh-h-h,” Pat whispered. The muffled pounding of a horse’s hooves on snow interrupted their conversation. The sound rushed nearer and nearer toward the ranch house.

  “That horse is being ridden too hard,” Pat muttered. “I’ll just check up and see which one of the punchers is doing it.” He hastily struck a match and set flame to the wick of a lamp. By the time the horse was reined up at the front of the house he was on his way to the door.

  A loud, insistent knocking sounded on the front door. Surprised and puzzled, Pat reached it in two long strides, flung it open wide.

  The figure of a man stood in the pitch dark of the porch wearing a black hood and a long black robe. Without a word he caught Pat’s hand and thrust a piece of paper into it, and before Pat could recover from the shock, the figure whirled, ran across the porch and leaped on the horse. The animal galloped away, as hard ridden as when he approached.

  Pat’s first impulse was to race to the corral, saddle his own fastest horse and go after the man, but the slip of paper in his hand seemed of first importance. He hurried back to the bedroom where the lamp was burning, opened the rumpled note and smoothed it out on the table. He read:

  Pat Stevens effen you valyu yore life keep away from Dusty Canyun.

  “The hell you say,” Pat growled, addressing the black-robed figure whose horse’s hooves were fading in the distance.

  “What are you muttering about?” Sally asked from the bed. “Did something happen to one of the punchers?”

  Pat hastily explained about the hooded and robed visitor, then read the note to Sally. “Sounds as if there’s been talk about me going to Dusty Canyon,” he ended. “Maybe Martha expected I’d come after you got her letter, and told it around.”

  Sally was out of bed, shivering and hugging a heavy robe around her. “Let me see that note. What did the man say?”

  “Not a damned word,” Pat said. “It was all done so quick.” He hesitated thoughtfully while Sally read the note for herself, then he added, “It was so dark I couldn’t see anything. His horse looked black against the snow, but I suppose it could’ve been almost any color except white.” He spoke as though talking to himself, as if Sally was not in the room at all.

  She stood beside the table with her face pale and her eyes tortured as they stared at her husband’s angry face. “Pat … you’re not going,” she said softly, laying a trembling hand on his arm.

  “What?” Pat jumped. “Oh … ’course not, honey. I promised you, didn’t I?”

  His answer did not ease her fright. Sally knew they were just words and had nothing to do with what he was thinking.

  Pat sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at his wife. He perceived that her thoughts were in a panic of indecision, and he waited silently, relaxed and hopeful.

  Presently Sally said in an uncertain voice, “Maybe I ought to go … and be with Martha in this trouble. I might think of some way to help them get out … escape the bandits with some of the gold, at least.”

  “You?” Pat got up slowly from the bed and stood beside her. “Have you forgotten that you have a seven-year-old son to take care of? And do you think I’d let my wife go traipsin’ off to a place swarmin’ with bandits and killers? You’ll stay right here, Mrs. Patrick Stevens.”

  “And so will you, Mister Patrick Stevens,” Sally returned instantly and in a tone which brooked no argument.

  Pat caught her shoulders and turned her squarely toward him: He started to catch her stubborn little chin and raise her face, but she beat him to it. She threw her head back and their eyes met and held for a long time.

  He said, “Damn it, Sally, a man could go out and rid the whole world of thieves and then come home and have to back down before a little bit of a woman weighin’ not more’n a hundred and ten pounds.”

  Sally’s sense of humor surged up, drowning her determination. She laughed aloud and pulled Pat’s face down to kiss it tenderly.

  Pat said, “Why don’t we both go? You could stay with Martha and comfort her while …”

  Sally’s bright blond head moved slowly from side to side. Her eyes were steady upon his and they were not laughing now. She said, “We could take the train tomorrow to Pueblo, take the stage from there and go to Dusty Canyon. We’ll take what valises and carpetbags we can find and bring back as much gold as we can, and bring Martha and her father here for a while. But you’ll not trail any bandits.”

  “But there are other old men up there, Sally,” Pat argued, “who’ve worked as hard as old man Sutton. What about them? They’re in danger as long as the damned devil killers roam the canyon.”

  “You won’t take your guns,” Sally said calmly. “That will insure your staying out of trouble. Dock has got to have a father to raise him to be a true Westerner.” She flung her head back proudly and met his eyes levelly.

  Pat started to reply, but held his tongue. He swept her into his arms and kissed her, then asked:

  “What will we do with Dock while we’re gone?”

  “I’ll send him to Dutch Springs. He can stay with Mary Calkins. If we don’t get back before school starts, he can just stay on. I’ll get his clothes ready and he can ride his pony in.”

  Further conversation was interrupted by sounds of life in the big front room … the crackling of a fresh log fire and the tramp of heavy boots. Pat opened the door and saw Ezra and Sam warming themselves before the fire. He turned back to Sally and said:

  “While you get Dock’s things together I’ll build a fire in the kitchen stove and have it hot when you’re ready. Sam and Ezra can help me some around the corral in case none of the punchers’ve come back.”

  He was grinning gleefully when he closed the door and went out to join his old friends. “Mornin’, Sam, mornin’, Ezra. Looks like you’re goin’ to have to give me a hand so Sally and me can get off on the train today.”

  “We got to get along to the Bar ES,” Ezra stated flatly.

  “So, you’ve took to ridin’ them soft seats in trains ’stead o’ ridin’ leather,” Sam mourned.

  “Nex’ thing you know,” Ezra put in dolefully, “old man Stevens’ boy Patrick’ll be settin’ on a cushion teachin’ school. Allus knowed he’d ort’nta had so much edjication. Where you and Sally goin’ on a train?”

  “Dusty Canyon … least we’ll take the stage from Pueblo up the Canyon.” Pat spoke on his way to the kitchen where he laid kindling in the range, struck a match to it, then placed solid round sticks of oak on top and replaced the iron lid. He looked up to see Sam and Ezra regarding him craftily and with some hostility.

  “Dusty Canyon’s sorter straight down from Blue Mesa where old man Richards breeds them blue hawses, ain’t it?” Sam asked disinterestedly.

  Pat nodded. “I got my first pair from him. You thinkin’ about buyin’ some blues?”

  “Ezra’s been pesterin’ me ’about ’em off an’ on. He cain’t stand it if we get a dollar and got nothin’ to spend it for.”

  “I’d shore buy me a pair,” Ezra said, “if I wasn’t too old to collec’ some o’ that reward money for them Dusty Canyon robbers.” His one eye burned with a strange light in its deep socket. “Reckon you ain’t figgerin’ on none o’ that reward.” His voice was casual, his fingers busy with the makings of a cigarette.

  “Sally and me aim to go up there and bring Martha and her pa out of the canyon and get out ourselves.” Pat lifted the stove lid, saw that the big wood was burning with a roar, closed it and started toward the rear door.

  Sam was close behind. He said, dourly, “Sally shore is goin’ to make a mighty pretty widdy lady. That yeller hair o’ hern oughta go awful good with black.”

  Gray dawn was breaking over the ranch as they went down the slippery steps where fluffy snow had frozen into ice overnight.

  “Come spring and the snow melts,” Ezra spoke up, trailing Sam down the steps, “I’m goin’ to take m’self a trip up Dusty Canyon way to Blue Mesa and have a look at them blue hawses.”

  With his face averted, Pat grinned. They went on to the corral where two punchers were already busy with the work of feeding. Pat spoke to them, inquired about the other punchers, and asked whether they had had a good time, which he knew was merely a polite question, and scarcely waited for a reply.

  Sam and Ezra followed Pat to another corral and as they pitched hay to the horses, Pat said:

  “I’d sure appreciate it if one of you would keep an eye on the Lazy Mare while Sally and me are away. Old man Sutton is a stubborn cuss, and it might take longer’n we figure to get him to come away. Might not be a bad idea if one of you stayed here ’till we get back.”

  “Reckon they ain’t many young men in Dusty Canyon, ’cordin’ to Miss Martha’s letter to Sally,” Sam drawled, “but I reckon you could make up a posse ’round Pueblo.”

  “To hell with a posse,” Pat snorted, tossing a pitchfork of hay to a black stallion.

  By the time the feeding was finished Sally was ringing the breakfast bell. On the way back to the kitchen Pat talked volubly, while his eyes shone with glee. He gave explicit directions as to important ranch matters to be attended to in his absence. Just before they reached the steps, he said:

  “Even if I was going after the train robbers and the old-man killers, I couldn’t let you two go along. It’d be too dangerous. I got a note this mornin’ early warnin’ me not to go to Dusty Canyon.”

  Sam snorted, a trumpet sound through his crooked nose. He spat his contempt in brown tobacco juice on the ground, while Ezra drawled:

  “That’s shore mighty kind o’ you, Mr. Stevens.”

  They went into the warm kitchen where Sally had crisp bacon and fluffy scrambled eggs piled high on big platters in the center of the table. Young Dock was scrubbed and shining, dressed for his pony trip to Dutch Springs, his eyes sparkling with anticipation.

  Sally was bending over the oven with the door down and the odor of freshly baked biscuits filled the room.

  Sam was saying, “Where the devil is that note you say you got from one of them varmints this mornin’?”

  Sally looked up, her face flushed from the oven’s heat. “Pat! You just keep that note in your pocket. Don’t go exciting Sam and Ezra about it. If either one of them gets on that train today, we are not going. All three of you would be in trouble in an hour after we got there if they went.”

  “Don’t you worry none ’bout me goin’, Miss Sally,” Ezra spoke up quickly in assuring tones, and sat down at the breakfast table.

  Sam glowered and dropped into a chair beside him. Pat sat at the head of the table, and presently the two punchers came in and silently took their places.

  It was an hour later when young Dock galloped away on his paint pony with his clothes in the saddlebags flapping against the pony’s flanks. His new chaps were warm against his stout legs as they urged the pony to go faster, and his shining new .22 rifle was lovingly and carefully balanced across the pommel.

  Sally watched him until he was out of sight. A mother’s prayer was on her lips when she climbed into the buckboard. She looked around for Pat but he was nowhere to be seen. She called to him and he answered from inside the house, “Coming, Sally.”

  Pat was standing before the fireplace smoothing the note which the mysterious hooded man had thrust into his hand early in the morning. He hastily propped it against an earthenware vase where Sam and Ezra could easily see it and laid a .30-calibre saddlegun in front of it. He then picked up a battered valise and two carpetbags from the floor and hurried out to take his place beside Sally in the buckboard.

  His face was very solemn as he took up the reins, touched the team of horses lightly with a whip, and they lurched away.

  THREE

  Sally never looked upon the small boxlike station depot with its crooked tin stovepipe sticking jauntily above the roof without thinking back to the June day when Pat had met her in the buckboard with Darky and Nigger, the two coal-black mustangs that reared and bucked at being hitched to a conveyance for the first time. That was more than eight years ago, and though Hopewell Junction had a few more houses, outwardly it was just as deserted today, and the landscape was bleak with snow. The foothills guarding the range were white, and the Spanish Peaks were two bright snowy sentinels gleaming in the sun.

  After helping Sally down from her high seat, Pat escorted her into the waiting room where a fat, squatty stove glowed red-hot in the center of the room. The air was smelly with stale smoke and the stench of two spittoons on the square of tin surrounding the stove, but its warmth was welcome to Sally’s half-frozen face and hands.

  Besides the station agent who sat in a cubbyhole behind a small window, there was only one other person in the station. He was a young man with dark eyes and a clear complexion, wearing a Stetson pulled low over his forehead. He was dressed in expensive black whipcords and polished black boots. A bright woolen scarf lay loosely around the collar of his white silk shirt. On a chair beside him was a heavy black overcoat, and on top of it a canvas-wrapped bundle tied with a small rope had a loop-handle by which it could be carried.

  Pat sized him up out of the corner of his eye while he drew a chair from a corner and seated Sally comfortably near the stove. The man was not more than twenty-three, he guessed, and was powerfully built without being stout. His hands were big, but the skin on them was smooth.

  A dude, thought Pat, but no weakling.

  Sally said, anxiously, “You’d better bring the valises and carpetbags in here before you put the horses and buckboard in the stable. They’re … heavy to carry so far.”

  “Don’t you worry about the bags,” Pat told her, wondering about her sudden concern for his strength. He could carry the three bags with three fingers and she knew it. “You stay in here and keep warm,” he added, “while I attend to things.” It would never do for her to discover the two Colt .44s before they reached their destination, and the trip would end right there in Hopewell if she should get a glimpse of Sam and Ezra before the train left for Pueblo. There was not the slightest doubt in his mind that they had left the Lazy Mare within a few minutes after he and Sally left.