The passageway three hundred yards below was only wide enough to permit two horses abreast, and was brightly lighted with moonlight streaking through the gap.

  He dismounted and tied his horse to a sapling, drew his carbine from its boot and selected a flat rock overlooking the entrance in the sheltering shadow of a group of stunted pines. He laid the short rifle across his knees and settled himself to wait patiently. Sooner or later someone would attempt to pass in or out of that narrow gap below him. Until that happened he was prepared to play a waiting game, without even the solace of his corncob pipe which might betray his presence to some rustler riding night-guard on the herd in the valley.

  After leaving Charlie Barnes standing beside the corpse of Les Edwards, the Rio Kid changed from his northerly course to ride eastward toward the gate leading out of the Bar L range through which he had recently ridden. It was a little more direct route to Hidden Valley to ride northward, but he had already smashed the padlock on the gate to get in, and he decided he might as well ride out the same way and then skirt the eastern boundary fence to reach the narrow mountain pass he sought.

  He shook his head and frowned at the vague uneasiness that laid hold of him as he let Thunderbolt have his head up the long slope. He didn’t like Charlie’s evasiveness about Peggy. His old friend was holding something back from him. Why didn’t he want Hugh to visit his sister at once? The fact that she had been having a hard time of it in his absence didn’t make a good reason for him to stay away now. Wouldn’t his presence reassure her that her struggle to keep things going was at an end?

  The Kid was strongly tempted to disregard Charlie’s advice and turn Thunderbolt toward the Triangle A despite everything. He had to fight down the strong impulse by reminding himself of the need for caution. The need was doubly strong now—after Les Edwards’ murder. More important than anything else was to hide the fact that the Rio Kid had returned tonight—had been riding the Bar L range when young Edwards was murdered.

  He regretfully decided against trying to see Peggy at once. It would only make it harder on her if she knew about his return and had to keep it a secret.

  The black stallion thundered up to the crest of the ridge, and the Kid saw the iron gates swinging open in front of him just as he had left them. He decided there wasn’t any use advertising the fact that a stranger had shot off the lock and ridden through tonight, so he stopped and pulled the gates shut, looped the chain around them and hooked the useless padlock through two links so it would appear to any casual observer who didn’t inspect it closely that the gate was tightly locked.

  He was just straightening in the saddle after finishing that task when he heard a horse trotting down the outside of the fence toward him.

  The rider was so close that the Kid knew he must have seen him closing the gate, so he made no attempt to avoid the meeting, but waited for the other to come up, with one hand resting lightly on the butt of a gun against possible recognition.

  The rider tossed out a cheerful, “Howdy,” as he drew near, then leaned forward and peered at the Kid, asking doubtfully, “That you, Mart?”

  The Kid said, “No. This ain’t Mart,” and waited to see what would happen.

  “Yeh. I see it ain’t,” the stranger responded, reining up close in front of him. “Them two guns fooled me. But I reckon all you Bar L riders got a need to pack two guns, huh?” He threw back his head and laughed raucously, showing a pock-marked face and a wide gap in his lower front teeth.

  “How d’you know I’m a Bar L rider?” the Kid growled.

  “’Cause I saw you comin’ through that gate an’ lockin’ it behind you. Nobody but Bar L men has got keys, have they?”

  The Kid hesitated, then agreed with a thin smile, “No. I reckon yo’re right.”

  “No use us wastin’ time standin’ here palaverin,’” the other said briskly. “Boss sent me down to see why one of you didn’t come last night. Might’s well get started.”

  “Where?” the Kid grunted.

  The other looked at him in surprise. “You’re headed for Hidden Valley, ain’t you?”

  Taken completely by surprise, the Kid said, “Yes,” before he had time to catch himself.

  “Well then, what we waitin’ for?” The other wheeled his horse about to retrace his trail. The Rio Kid ranged forward beside him, his thoughts in a confused whirl. Now, what the blazes was the meaning of this? Why should someone be expecting him in Hidden Valley? Had Charlie deliberately planned to send him into a trap?

  No. It couldn’t be Charlie’s fault. This man thought he was a Bar L rider. But why would a Bar L rider be expected in Hidden Valley? Expected by whom?

  Everywhere he turned tonight the Kid was confronted with another dilemma. If Hidden Valley wasn’t deserted as he and Charlie thought, it wouldn’t make a very good hideout for him. Yet, that was the only way he had of making contact with Charlie. He felt utterly helpless as he rode along beside the pock-marked man without speaking. What the hell would it all lead to? What was the sinister secret of the Bar L that called for heavy fences and locked iron gates—and sent their riders out on secret rendezvous in the night?

  The other rider began talking in jerky phrases as they loped along side by side. “My name’s Jenkins. You’re new at the Bar L, I reckon?”

  “Yep. From down Texas-way.” The Kid intentionally broadened his drawl and tried to give it a Texas twang. “Mostly they call me the Kid back in the Big Bend.”

  “Big Bend, huh?” Jenkins nodded knowingly. “That’s a hell of a good country to be from, ’cordin’ to what I’ve heard tell.”

  The Kid said carefully, “I reckon mebby I’ll like it here in Arizony.”

  “Shore you will. Shore enuff. Action a-plenty an’ no lack of money, an’ plenty of red whisky an’ gals to spend it on.” Jenkins guffawed appreciatively, showing the gap in his front teeth that gave him the appearance of an imbecile when he laughed.

  “This here Hidden Valley,” said the Kid, feeling his way along, “I ain’t been up there before.”

  “She’s a sweet leetle layout. Sweet as a gal’s fust kiss in the spring. Been workin’ it for more’n three years now, an ain’t nobody suspects what’s goin’ on a-tall.”

  “Three years,” the Kid echoed sharply. “That’s a long time.”

  “I’ll say it is, but we take it easy, see? Don’t rush things an’ cause a ruckus that gets questions asked. This way, it’s safe as hell, an’ ain’t no reason why it cain’t go on for three-four more years without no one gettin’ wiser.”

  “That’s smart.”

  “You bet it is. The Boss is plenty smart. He don’t never tip his hand. Up yonder ahaid is where we cut into the mountains. Bar L range ends at this corner of the fence an’ there ain’t no more ranches along the way. Grass ain’t wuth a damn this high up, ’cept in pockets like Hidden Valley.”

  The Rio Kid nodded without answering. What would Jenkins say if he admitted he knew this terrain inside and out.

  Up that canyon there on the right was where he and Charlie had treed a bob-cat when he was twelve years old. They’d shot all their .22 bullets at the big cat without dislodging him from his perch, and Charlie had ridden in to the Triangle A to get Hank Greenow and his gun while Hugh stayed behind to keep the cat treed.

  A rush of boyhood memories came to him and brought a choking sensation in his throat. This narrowing trail he now rode with Jenkins had been regarded by Charlie and him as their own private back road. Even back in those days no one ever rode it except a couple of kids finding high adventure in the stillness and solitude of camping out in Hidden Valley where they could pretend they were pioneers and the only whites in a country infested by hostile Indian tribes.

  Bloody Gap, the only other exit from the valley, had gotten its name from an Indian massacre that had occurred there back in 1832 to a wagon train from El Paso that had gotten lost in the Arizona mountains.

  Around here some place—yes, just ahead where that lightning-struck lone pine was silhouetted against the moonlit sky—was where Hugh’s pony had thrown him once when they met a black bear unexpectedly blocking the trail. As Thunderbolt carried him swiftly past the remembered spot the Kid relived the terror of that moment while he lay helplessly in the trail with a sprained ankle and waited for the bear to lunge on him.

  Bruin hadn’t, of course. He had meandered on down the trail in his leisurely manner, paying not the slightest attention to the frightened lad at his mercy.

  The steep wooded walls of the narrow canyon were closing in on the riders now. The night air had the chill of the higher altitude, but it was clean and good in the Kid’s lungs. He and Jenkins galloped on together easily, and his companion pointed ahead to a tiny gap in the high wall of the mountain above them.

  “Yonder’s where we top out into the valley. She’s blocked with snow eight months out of the year, but the valley’s pertected on four sides an’ don’t freeze up bad.”

  How well the Rio Kid knew that. He and Charlie had got trapped by an early snowfall once, forced to remain two weeks alone in the cold whiteness of the valley until the warm sun of Indian summer melted the snow on the summit sufficiently for them to push through. Their supplies had run low but there had been a plenitude of snowshoe rabbits for the killing. There had been a feeling of high exaltation in being trapped in the mountain wilderness and forced to depend upon their guns for food to survive. He could still recall their regret when the snow melted and let them out.

  He and Jenkins were nearing the top of the long steep climb now. Jenkins’ shaggy horse was panting loudly and faltering in his stride, but the rhythm of Thunderbolt’s smooth fluid motion beneath the Kid was unbroken even though he had traveled more than fifty miles since sunrise that morning.

  Jenkins relaxed loosely in the saddle with a little sigh of relief when they reached the summit. “Downhill all the way now,” he announced. “See them lights in the cabin down below.”

  An instinct inside the Rio Kid warned him of an unseen and unfriendly presence on the slope above. Perhaps it was the click of the hammer of Hank Greenow’s gun, or a dislodged pebble beneath the old man’s boot-heel, but it was enough to cause him to lean low in the saddle and send Thunderbolt lunging ahead while he whipped out both guns and fired up the slope whence the warning of danger had come.

  The crash of his two guns was echoed simultaneously by a thunderous report from above, and angry flame lanced downward at the two riders.

  The Kid holstered his guns and jerked Thunderbolt up sharply when no second shot came from the slope.

  Cursing luridly, Jenkins pulled his own mount up, shouting, “What the hell, Kid? What’s happenin’?”

  “Looks like we was laid for up yonder,” the Kid said dryly, one hand still gripping the butt of a gun while his suspicious eyes searched Jenkins’ face. “Shore you don’t know nothin’ aboot it?”

  “Hell no. How’d I know? Gawd, that was fast work with yore guns. Reckon you got him?”

  “I reckon,” said the Rio Kid phlegmatically. “I don’t gen’ally miss at that range. Hol’ yore haws quiet a minute an’ listen.”

  They both quieted their horses and strained their ears for some sound from their would-be ambusher up the slope. A faint groan came to them, then stillness.

  The Kid stepped lithely from the saddle and dropped Thunderbolt’s reins. “Reckon I’ll take me a look-see.”

  Jenkins swung off behind him and followed up the slope a few paces in his rear.

  The Kid climbed cautiously, gave a low grunt of satisfaction when he glimpsed the figure of a man writhing in gun-shot agony in the shadow of a clump of pines.

  He stooped over the body and found himself staring unbelievingly into the seamed features of Hank Greenow.

  Hank’s teeth were drawn away from his lips and he stared back with grim hatred.

  His eyes widened and his expression changed. He opened his set teeth and a bloody froth bubbled out with the exhalation of a single word: “Hugh!”

  His head fell back and wrinkled lids came down over his eyes to hide them. His mouth went lax and more bubbles of bloody froth appeared on his lips.

  11

  Jenkins came panting up the slope behind the Rio Kid as he dropped to his knees beside old Hank Greenow and felt for his wound.

  “Got him, huh?” Jenkins exclaimed triumphantly. He peered over the Kid’s shoulder at Hank who now lay relaxed and quiet. “It’s that ol’ codger from the Triangle A spread,” he muttered. “How-come him to be hidin’ out up here, you reckon?”

  “How the hell should I know?” The Kid rocked back on his heels, staring down at Hank’s lined face. The Kid’s hand was sticky with blood from a bullet hole through the old man’s chest. He shuddered and tried to wipe it dry on a tuft of grass.

  “Know him, don’t you?” Jenkins queried with a subtle change in his manner. He drew back a little, squatting on the hillside with one hand close to his gun, his gaze queerly alert and guarded.

  The Kid tensed and a warning instinct rippled through him. Even in that awful moment of agonized sorrow, with old Hank dying before his eyes, the instinct of the hunted came to his aid. He knew he had to be careful. Jenkins’ suspicions had been aroused by something. One tiny slip might be fatal. Had Jenkins heard Hank call him by name before he slid into his coma? Would the man put two and two together, recalling the old story of Hugh Aiken who had fled across the Border from the Triangle A years ago?

  He answered Jenkins’ question in a steady, deliberate voice, “What makes you think I know him?”

  “’Count of what he said when he first saw you. I heard him plain with my own ears. He said, ‘you,’ an’ then passed out ’fore he could say any more.”

  Relief flooded through the Rio Kid. His identity wasn’t exposed—yet. Jenkins had mistaken Hank’s pronunciation of his name for “you.” He fitted his reply to Jenkins’ interpretation of what he had heard.

  He nodded. “Cain’t say I really know him. Met him today an’ we talked a little. He acted s’prised tuh see me here tonight.”

  “He knowed you were ridin’ for the Bar L, I reckon?” Jenkins’ vigilance relaxed a trifle at the Kid’s easy explanation.

  “Yeh. I reckon he knowed that.”

  “That’s how-come he said ‘you’ surprised like.” Jenkins nodded sagely. He removed his hand from his gun-butt, all his quick suspicion dissipated. He chuckled, “He couldn’t figger what a Bar L rider’d be doin’ here in Hidden Valley.” He leaned forward to peer down at Hank’s ashen face, asking with casual interest, “Is he dead or just possumin’?”

  “Neither, I don’t think. But he won’t live long ’less we get him to a sawbones quick. I plugged him through the lungs.”

  “Good shootin’.” Jenkins nodded approvingly. “Plumb what the ol’ fool deserved for sneakin’ up here at night an’ layin’ in wait for us. What you talkin’ about a sawbones for? Lemme knock him in the head just to make shore he’s finished an’ we’ll leave him lay here.”

  Inwardly, the Kid recoiled at his companion’s monstrous proposal. But he hid his true feelings, putting up a bluff as coolly as though he backed a pair of deuces against three aces at a poker table. “That don’t make sense,” he protested. “Looks to me like we had oughtta keep him alive an’ ask him some questions … find out who else knows he was comin’ here tonight … jest how much he knows an’ who he’s told aboot it.”

  Jenkins slapped his thigh and nodded. “That’s smart thinkin’. Shore, we better not leave him layin’ here daid. You reckon a doc could bring him around so’s he could talk?”

  “I dunno,” the Rio Kid responded truthfully. “He’s shot bad.”

  Jenkins sprang to his feet, assuming charge. “His haws is tied back here. We’ll load him on an’ take him in to camp. If he’s still alive when we get there, somebody can ride to Bloody Gap for Doc Conroy. Catch Conroy halfway sober an’ he’s as good at pluggin’ up bullet holes as any man in Arizona.”

  Doctor Conroy? The Kid remembered him vaguely from his boyhood. A bluff red-faced Irishman who believed the human system could subsist for long intervals on alcohol in lieu of food and who had dedicated himself to proving his pet theory. An able surgeon when, as Jenkins said, he could be caught halfway sober.

  The Kid nodded agreement. If Doc Conroy had taken up his abode in Bloody Gap it was certain that most of his practice consisted in plugging up bullet holes. He suggested to Jenkins: “Lead his haws over here an’ we’ll tie him into the saddle.”

  He bent over Hank Greenow again while Jenkins climbed the slope to the sapling where Hank had tied his horse. The old man’s eyes were closed and he looked at peace. His breathing was steady and unlabored. The Kid got out his bandanna and made a thick pad which he placed over the wound in Hank’s chest to check further external bleeding. He could do nothing to stop the internal flow. He knew the old man was badly wounded but he also knew the toughness of his fiber. He had seen other men with similar holes in their chests live to get over it.

  What accident had brought Hank here tonight—this one night of all nights? Or had it been an accident? He recalled Charlie’s evasiveness while discussing conditions at the Triangle A. Did that have anything to do with what was going on here in Hidden Valley? He hadn’t been able to get much real information out of Jenkins yet, and he couldn’t afford to tip his hand at this stage of the game by asking direct questions.

  What had Jenkins meant by his chuckling assertion that Hank had been astonished to see him because he couldn’t figure what a Bar L rider would be doing there?

  He got a firm grip on Hank’s shoulders and stood up, dragging the old foreman’s lax body erect as Jenkins led the horse up. Together, they settled Hank belly-down across the saddle, and looped a rope from dangling arms and legs underneath the animal.