End Of the Drive

RUSTLER ROUNDUP

Chapter I

Iudge Gardner Collins sat in his usual chair on the porch. The morning sunshine was warm and lazy, and it felt good just to be sitting, half awake and half asleep. Yet it was time Doc Finerty came up the street so they could cross over to Mother Boyle's for coffee.

Powis came out of his barbershop and sat down on the step. "Nice morning," he said. Then, glancing up the"" street and across, he nodded toward the black horse tied at the hitching rail in front of the stage station. "I see Finn Mahone's in town."

The judge nodded. "Rode in about an hour after daybreak. Reckon he's got another package at the stage station."

"What's he getting in those packages?" Powis wondered. "He gets more than anybody around here."

"Books, I reckon. He reads a lot."

Powis nodded. "I guess so." He looked around at the judge and scratched the back of his neck thoughtfully. "Seen anything more of Miss Kastelle?"

"Remy?" The judge let the front legs of his chair down.

"Uh-huh. She was in yesterday asking me if I'd heard if Brewster or Mclnnis were in town."

"I've lost some myself," Collins said. "Too many. But Pete Miller says he can't find any sign of them, and nobody else seems to."

"You know, Judge," Powis said thoughtfully, "one time two or three years back I cut hair for a trapper. He was passing through on the stage, an' stopped overnight. He told me he trapped in this country twenty years ago. Said there was some of the most beautiful valleys back behind the Highbinders anybody ever saw."

"Back in the Highbinders, was it?" Judge Collins stared thoughtfully at the distant, purple mountains. "That's Finn Mahone's country."

"That's right," Powis said.

Judge Collins looked down the street for Doc Finerty. He scowled to himself, only too aware of what Powis was hinting. The vanishing cattle had to go somewhere. If there were pastures back in the Highbinders, it would be a good place for them to be hidden, and where they could stay hidden for years.

That could only mean Finn Mahone.

When he looked around again, he was pleased to see Doc Finerty had rounded the corner by the Longhorn Saloon and was cutting across the street toward him. The judge got up and strolled out to meet him and they both turned toward Mother Boyle's.

Doc Finerty was five inches shorter than Judge Gardner Collins's lean six feet one inch. He was square built, but like many short, broad men he was quick moving and was never seen walking slow when by himself. He and the judge had been friends ever since they first met, some fifteen years before.

Finerty was an excellent surgeon and a better doctor than would have been expected in a western town like Laird. In the hit-and-miss manner of the frontier country, he practiced dentistry as well.

Judge Collins had studied law after leaving college, reading in the office of a frontier lawyer in Missouri. Twice, back in Kansas, he had been elected justice of the peace. In Laird his duties were diverse and interesting. He was the local magistrate. He married those interested, registered land titles and brands, and acted as a notary and general legal advisor.

There were five men in Laird who had considerable academic education. Aside from Judge Collins and Doc Finerty there were Pierce Logan, the town's mayor and one of the biggest ranchers; Dean Armstrong, editor and publisher of The Branding Iron; and Garfield Otis, who was, to put it less than mildly, a bum.

"I'm worried, Doc," the judge said, over their coffee. "Powis was hinting again that Finn Mahone might be rustling."

"You think he is?"

"No. Do you?"

"I doubt it. Still, you know how it is out here. Any-* thing could be possible. He does have a good deal of money. More than he would be expected to have, taking it easy like he does."

"If it was me," Doc said, "I'd look the other way. I'd look around that bunch up around Sonntag's place."

"They are pretty bad, all right." Judge Collins looked down at his coffee. "Dean was telling me that Byrn Sonntag killed a man over to Rico last week."

"Another?" Doc Finerty asked. "That's three he's killed this year. What was it you heard?"

"Dean didn't get much. He met the stage and Calkins told him. Said the man drew, but Sonntag killed him. Two shots, right through the heart."

"He's bad. Montana Kerr and Banty Hull are little better. Miller says he can't go after them unless they do something he knows about. If you ask me, he doesn't want to."

Finerty finished his cup. "I don't know as I blame him. If he did we'd need another marshal."

The door opened and they both looked up. The man who stepped in was so big he filled the door. His hair was long and hung around his ears, and he wore rugged outdoor clothing that, while used, was reasonably clean and of the best manufacture.

He took off his hat as he entered, and they noted the bullet hole in the flat brim of the gray Stetson. His two guns were worn with their butts reversed for a cross draw, for easier access while riding and to accommodate their long barrels.

"Hi, Doc! How are you, Judge?" He sat down beside them.

"Hello, Finn! That mountain life seems to agree with you!" Doc said. "I'm afraid you'll never give me any business."

Finn Mahone looked around and smiled quizzically. His lean brown face was strong, handsome in a rugged way. His eyes were green. "I came very near cashing in for good." He gestured at the bullet hole. "That happened a few days ago over in the Highbinders."

"I didn't think anybody ever went into that country but you. Who was it?" the judge asked.

"No idea. It wasn't quite my country. I was away over east, north of the Brewster place on the other side of Rawhide."

"Accident?" Finerty asked.

Mahone grinned. "Does it look like it? No, I think I came on someone who didn't want to be seen. I took out. Me, I'm not mad at anybody."

The door slammed open and hard little heels tapped on the floor. "Who owns that black stallion out here?"

"I do," Finn replied. He looked up, and felt the skin tighten around his eyes. He had never seen Remy Kas-telle before. He had not even heard of her.

She was tall, and her hair was like dark gold. Her eyes were brown, her skin lightly tanned. Finn Mahone put his coffee cup down slowly and half turned toward her.

He had rarely seen so beautiful a woman, nor one so obviously on a mission.

"I'd like to buy him!" she said. "What's your price?"

Finn Mahone was conscious of some irritation at her impulsiveness. "I have no price," he said, "and the horse is not for sale." A trace of a smile showed at the corners of his mouth.

"Well," she said, "I'll give you five hundred dollars."

"Not for five thousand," he said quietly. "I wouldn't, sell that horse any more ... any more than your father would sell you."

She smiled at that. "He might ... if the price was right," she said. "It might be a relief to him!"

She brushed on by him and sat down beside Judge Collins.

"Judge," she said, "what do you know about a man named Finn Mahone? Is he a rustler?"

There was a momentary silence, but before the judge could reply, Finn spoke up. "I doubt it, ma'am. He's too lazy. Rustlin' cows is awfully hot work."

"They've been rustling cows at night," Remy declared. "If you were from around here you would know that."

"Yes, ma'am," he said mildly, "I guess I would. Only sometimes they do it with a runnin' iron or a cinch ring.

Then they do it by day. They just alter the brands a little with a burn here, an' more there."

Finn Mahone got up. He said, "Ma'am, I reckon if I was going to start hunting rustlers in this country, I'd do it with a pen and ink."

He strolled outside, turning at the door as he put his hat on to look her up and down, very coolly, very impudently. Then he let the door slam after him. Across the room the back door of the restaurant opened as another man entered.

Remy felt her face grow hot. She was suddenly angry. "Well! Who was that?" she demanded.

"That was Finn Mahone," Doc Finerty said gently.

"Oh!" Remy Kastelle's ears reddened.

"Who?" The new voice cut across the room like a pistol shot. Texas Dowd was a tall man, as tall as Mahone or Judge Collins, but lean and wiry. His gray eyes were keen and level, his handlebar mustache dark and neatly twisted. He might have been thirty-five, but was nearer forty-five. He stood just inside the back door.

Stories had it that Texas Dowd was a bad man with a gun. He had been in the Laird River country but two years, and so far as anyone knew his gun had never been out of its holster. The Laird River country was beginning to know what Remy Kastelle and her father had found out, that Texas Dowd knew cattle. He also knew range, and he knew men.

"Finn Mahone," Judge Collins replied, aware that the name had found acute interest. "Know him?"

"Probably not," Dowd said. "He live around here?"

"No, back in the Highbinders. I've never seen his place, myself. They call it Crystal Valley. It's a rough sixty miles from here, out beyond your place." He nodded to Remy.

"Know where the Notch is? That rift in the wall?" Collins continued. "Well, the route to his place lies up that Notch. I've heard it said that no man should travel that trail at night, and no man by day who doesn't know it. It's said to be one of the most beautiful places in the world. Once in a while Mahone gets started talking about it, and he can tell you things ... but that trail would make your hair stand on end."

"He come down here often?" Dowd asked carefully.

"No. Not often. I've known three months to go by without us seeing him. His place is closer to Rico."

"Name sounded familiar," Dowd said. He looked around at Remy. "Are you ready to go, ma'am?"

"Mr. Dowd," Remy said, her eyes flashing, "I want that black stallion Mahone rides. That's the finest horse I ever saw!"

"Miss Kastelle," Finerty said, "don't get an idea Mahone's any ordinary cowhand or rancher. He's not. "If he said he wouldn't sell that horse, he meant it. Money means nothing to him."

Judge Collins glanced at Finerty as the two went out." "Doc, I've got an idea Dowd knows something about Finn Mahone. You notice that look in his eye?"

"Uh-huh." Doc lit a cigar. "Could be, at that. None of us know much about him. He's been here more than a year, too. Gettin' on for two years. And he has a sight of money."

"Now don't you be getting like Powis!" Judge Collins exclaimed. "I like the man. He's quiet, and he minds his own business. He also knows a good thing when he sees it. I don't blame Remy for wanting that horse. There isn't a better one in the country!"

Finn Mahone strode up the street to the Emporium. "Four boxes of forty-four rimfire," he said.

He watched while Harran got down the shells, but his mind was far away. He was remembering the girl. It had been a long time since he had seen a woman like that. Women of any kind were scarce in this country. For a moment, he stood staring at the shells, then he ordered a few other things, and gathering them up, went out to the black horse. Making a neat pack of them, he lashed them on behind the saddle. Then he turned and started across the street.

He worried there was going to be trouble. He could feel it building up all around him. He knew there were stories being told about him, and there was that hole in his hat. There was little animosity yet, but it would come. If they ever got back into the Highbinders and saw how many cattle he had, all hell would break loose.

Stopping for a moment in the sunlight in front of the Longhorn, he finished his cigarette. "Mahone?"

He turned.

Garfield Otis was a thin man, not tall, with a scholar's face. He had been a teacher once, a graduate of a world-famous university, a writer of intelligent but unread papers on the Battles of Belarius and the struggle for power in France during the Middle Ages. Now he was a hanger-on around barrooms, drunk much of the time, kept alive by a few odd jobs and the charity of friends.

He had no intimates, yet he talked sometimes with Collins or Finerty, and more often with young Dean Armstrong, the editor of The Branding Iron. Armstrong had read Poe, and he had read Lowell, and had read Goethe and Heine in the original German. He quickly sensed much of the story behind Otis. He occasionally bought him drinks, often food.

Otis, lonely and tired, also found friendship in the person of Lettie Mason, whose gambling hall was opposite the Town Hall, and Finn Mahone, the strange rider from the Highbinder Hills.

"How are you, Otis?" Finn said, smiling. "Nice morning, isn't it?"

"It is," Otis responded. He passed a trembling hand over his unshaven chin. "Finn, be careful. They are going to make trouble for you."

"Who?" Finn's eyes were intent.

"I was down at Lettie's. Alcorn was there. He's one of those ranchers from out beyond Rawhide. One of the bunch that runs with Sonntag. He said you were a rustler."

"Thanks, Otis." Finn frowned thoughtfully. "I reckoned something like that was comin'. Who was with him?"

"Big man named Leibman. Used to be a sort of a bruiser on the docks in New York. Lettie doesn't take, to him."

"She's a good judge of men." Finn hitched up his gun belts. "Reckon I'll trail out of town, Otis. Thanks again."."

At Lettie's he might have a run-in with some of the bunch from Rawhide, and he was not a trouble hunter. He knew what he was when aroused, and knew what could happen in this country. Scouting the hills as he always did, he had a very good idea of just what was going on. There was time for one drink, then he was heading out. He turned and walked into the Longhorn.

Red Eason was behind the bar himself this morning. He looked up as Mahone entered, and Finn noticed the change in his eyes.

"Rye," Finn said. He waited, his hands on the bar while the drink was poured. He was conscious of low voices in the back of the saloon and glanced up. Two men were sitting there at one of the card tables. One was a slender man of middle age with a lean, high-boned face. He was unshaven, and his eyes were watchful. The other was a big man, even bigger than Mahone was himself. The man's face was wide and flat, and his nose had been broken.

The big man got up from the table and walked toward him. At that moment the outer door opened and Dean Armstrong came in with Doc Finerty and Judge Collins. They halted as they saw the big man walking toward Mahone.

Armstrong's quick eyes shifted to Banty Hull. The small man was seated in a chair half behind the corner of the bar. If Mahone turned to face the big man who Armstrong knew to be named Leibman, his back would be toward Hull. Dean Armstrong rarely carried a gun, but he was glad he was packing one this morning.

Leibman stopped a few feet away from Mahone. "You Finn Mahone?" he demanded. "From back in the Highbinders?"

Mahone looked up. "That's my name. That's where I live." He saw that the other man had shifted until he was against the wall and Leibman was no longer between them.

"Hear you got a lot of cattle back in them hills," Leibman said. "Hear you been selling stock over to Rico."

"That's right."

"Funny thing, you havin' so many cows an' nobody knowin' about it."

"Not very funny. I don't recall that anybody from Laird has ever been back to see me. It's a pretty rough trail. You haven't been back there, either."

"No, but I been to Rico. I seen some of them cows you sold."

"Nice stock," Mahone said calmly. He knew what was coming, but Leibman wasn't wearing a gun.

"Some funny brands," Leibman said. "Looked like some of them had been altered."

"Leibman," Finn said quietly, "you came over here hunting' trouble. You'd know if you saw any of those cattle that none of them had but one brand. You know nobody else has seen them, so you think you can get away with an accusation and cover it up by trouble with me.

"You want trouble? All right, you've got it. If you say there was an altered brand on any of those cattle, you're a liar!"

Leibman sneered. "I ain't wearin' a gun!" he said. "Talk's cheap."

"Not with me, it isn't," Mahone said. "With me talk is right expensive. But I don't aim to mess up Brother Ea-son's bar, here. Nor do I aim to let your pal Alcorn slug me from behind or take a shot at me.

"So what we're going to do, you and me, is go outside in the street. You don't have a gun, so you can use your hands."

Without further hesitation he turned and walked into the street. "Judge," he said to Collins, "I'd admire if you'd sort of keep an eye on my back. Here's my guns." He unbuckled his belts and passed them to the judge. , Alcorn and Banty Hull, watched by Doc Finerty and Armstrong, looked uneasily at each other as they moved into the street. Mahone noticed the glance. This wasn't going the way they had planned.

Leibman backed off and pulled off his shirt, displaying a hairy and powerfully muscled chest and shoulders.

Remy Kastelle came out of the Emporium and, noticing the crowd, was starting across the street when Pierce Logan walked up to her.

He was a tall man, perfectly dressed, suave and intelligent. "How do you do, Miss Kastelle!" he said, smiling.

She nodded up the street. "What's going on up there?"

Logan turned quickly, and his face tightened. "Looks like a fight starting," he said. "That's Leibman, but who can be fighting him?"

Then he saw Mahone. "It's that fellow from the Highbinders, Mahone."

"The one they're calling a rustler?" Remy turned quickly. She failed to note the momentary, pleased response to her reference to Mahone as a rustler. Her eyes quickened with interest. "He tricked me. I hope he takes a good beating!"

"He will!" Logan said dryly. "Leibman is a powerful brute. A rough-and-tumble fighter from the East."

"I'm not so sure." Texas Dowd had walked up behind them. He was looking past them gravely. "I think your man Leibman is in for a whipping."

Logan laughed, but glanced sharply at Dowd. He had never liked the Lazy K foreman. He had always had an unpleasant feeling that the tall, cold cattleman saw too much, and saw it too clearly. There was also a sound to Dowd's voice, something in his way of talking that caught in Logan's mind. Stirred memories of ... someone.

"Wouldn't want to bet, would you?" Logan asked.

"Yes, I'll bet."

Remy glanced around, surprised and puzzled. "Why, Mr. Dowd! I would never have imagined you to be a gambling man."

"I'm not," Dowd said.

"You think it's a sure thing, then?" Logan asked, incredulously.

"Yes," Dowd replied.

"Well, I think you're wrong for a hundred dollars,"

Logan said.

"All right." Dowd looked at Remy. "I'll be inside, buying what we need, Miss Remy."

"Aren't you even going to watch it?" Logan demanded.

"No," Dowd said. "I've seen it before." He turned and walked into the store.

"Well!" Logan looked at Remy, astonished. "That foreman of yours is a peculiar man."

"Yes." She looked after Dowd, disturbed. "He sounded like he had known something of Mahone before. Now let's go!"

"You aren't going to watch it?" Pierce Logan was shocked in spite of himself.

"Of course! I wouldn't miss it for the world!"

Finn Mahone knew fighters of Leibman's type. The man had won many fights. He had expected Mahone to avoid the issue, but Mahone's calm acceptance and his complete lack of excitement were disturbing the bigger man. Mahone pulled off his shirt.

Leibman's face hardened suddenly. If ever he had looked at a trained athlete's body, he was looking at it now. With a faint stir of doubt he realized he was facing no common puncher, no backwoods brawler. Then his confidence came back. He had never been whipped, never ...

He went in with a rush, half expecting Mahone to be the boxer type who might try to evade him. Finn Mahone had no intention of evading anything. As Leibman rushed, he took one step in and smashed Leibman's lips into pulp with a straight left. Then he ducked and threw a right to the body.

Stopped in his tracks, Leibman's eyes narrowed. He feinted and clubbed Mahone with a ponderous right. Mahone took it and never even wavered, then he leaped in, punching with both hands!

Slugging madly, neither man giving ground, they stood spraddle-legged in the dust punching with all their power. Leibman gave ground first, but it was to draw Finn on, and when Mahone rushed, Leibman caught him with a flying mare and threw him over his back!

Finn hit the ground in a cloud of dust, and as a roar went up from the crowd, he leaped to his feet and smashed Leibman back on his heels with a wicked right to the jaw. Leibman ducked under another punch and tried to throw Mahone with a rolling hip-lock. It failed when Mahone grabbed him and they both rumbled into the dust. Finn was up first, and stepped back, wiping the dust from his lips. Leibman charged, and Finn sidestepped, hooking a left to the bigger man's ear.

Leibman pulled his head down behind his shoulder. Then he rushed, feinted, and hit Mahone with a wicked left that knocked him into the dust. He went in, trying to kick, but Finn caught his foot and twisted, throwing Leibman off balance.

Finn was on his feet then, and the two men came together and began to slug. The big German was tough; he had served his apprenticeship in a hard school. He took a punch to the gut, gasped a long breath, and lunged. Then Finn stepped back and brought up a right uppercut that broke Leibman's nose.

Finn walked in, his left a flashing streak now. It stabbed and cut, ripping Leibman's face to ribbons. Suddenly, Judge Collins realized something that few in the crowd understood. Until now, Mahone had been playing with the big man. What happened after that moment was sheer murder.

The left was a lancet in the shape of a fist. The wicked right smashed again and again into Leibman's body, or clubbed his head. Once Finn caught Leibman by the arm and twisted him sharply, at the same time bringing up a smashing right uppercut. Punch-drunk and swaying, Leibman was a gory, beaten mass of flesh and blood.

Finn looked at him coolly, then measured him with a left and drove a right to the chin that sounded when it hit like an ax hitting a log. Leibman fell, all in one piece.

Without a word or a glance around, Finn walked to his saddle and picked up his shirt. Then he dug into his saddlebags and took out a worn towel. Judge Collins came over to him. "Better put these on first," he said.

Finn glanced at him sharply, then smiled. "I reckon I had," he said. He mopped himself with the towel, then slid into his shirt. With the guns strapped on his lean hips, he felt better.

His knuckles were skinned despite the hardness of his hands. He looked up at Collins. "Looks like they were figurin' on trouble."

"That's right. There's rumors around, son. You better watch yourself."

"Thanks." Mahone swung into the saddle. As he turned the horse he glanced to the boardwalk and saw the girl watching him. Beside her was a tall, handsome man with powerful shoulders. He smiled grimly, and turned the horse away down the street, walking him slowly.

Texas Dowd appeared at Logan's elbow. Pierce turned and handed him a hundred dollars. "You'd seen him fight before?" he asked.

Dowd shrugged. "Could be. He's fought before."

"Yes," Logan said thoughtfully, "he has." He glanced at Dowd again. "What do you know about him?"

Texas Dowd's face was inscrutable. "That he's a good man to leave alone," he said flatly.

Dowd turned stiffly and strode away. Nettled, Logan stared after him. "Where did you find him?" he asked.

Remy smiled faintly. "He came up over the border when I was away at school. Dad liked the way he played poker. He started working for us, and Dad made him foreman. There was a gunman around who was making trouble. I never really got it straight, but the gunman died. I heard Dad telling one of the hands about it."

Behind them Texas Dowd headed down the street. He made one brief stop at Lettie Mason's gambling hall and emerged tucking a single playing card into his breast pocket. Then he mounted his horse and rode hard down the trail toward the Highbinders ...

Finn Mahone walked the black only to the edge of town, then broke the stallion into a canter and rapidly put some miles behind him. Yet no matter how far or fast he rode, he could not leave the girl behind him. He had seen Remy Kastelle, and something about her gave him a lift, sent fire into his veins. Several times he was on the verge of wheeling the horse and heading back.

She was his nearest neighbor, her range running right up to the Rimrock. But beyond the Rimrock nobody ever tried to come. Finn slowed the black to a walk again, scowling as he rode. His holdings were eighty miles from Rawhide where Alcorn and Leibman lived. There was no reason for them jumping him, unless they needed a scapegoat. The talk about rustling was building up, and if they could pin it on him, there were plenty of people who would accept it as gospel.

People were always suspicious of anyone who kept to himself. Nobody knew the Highbinder country like he did. If they had guessed he had nearly five thousand acres of top grassland, there might have been others trying to horn in.

Crystal Valley, watered by Crystal Creek, which flowed into the Laird, was not just one valley, it was three. In the first, where his home was, there were scarcely three hundred acres. In the second there were more than a thousand acres, and in the third, over three thousand. There was always water here, even in the driest weather, and the grass always grew tall. Three times the number of cattle he now had could never have kept it down.

High, rocky walls with very few passes made it impossible for cattle to stray. The passes were okay for a man on foot, or in one or two cases, a man on a mountain horse, but nothing more.

After a while he reined in and looked off across the rolling country toward the Kastelle spread. It was a good ranch, and Remy was making it a better one' She knew cattle, or she had someone with her who did. He smiled bitterly because he knew just who that someone was.

Finn Mahone got down from his horse and rolled an'd lighted a cigarette. As he faced north, he looked toward the Kastelle ranch with its Lazy K brand. Southwest of him was Mclnnis and his Spur outfit. The Mclnnis ranch was small, but well handled, and until lately, prosperous.

East of him was the town of Laird, and south and just a short distance west of Laird, the P Slash L ranch of Pierce Logan.

Northeast of town was Van Brewster's Lazy S, and north of that, the hamlet of Rawhide. Rawhide was a settlement of ranchers, small ranchers such as Banty Hull, Alcorn, Leibman, Ringer Cobb, Ike Hibby, Frank Salter, and Montana Kerr. It was also the hangout of Byrn Sonntag.

He had not been joking when he suggested the best way to look for rustlers was with a pen and ink. There are few brands that cannot be altered, and it was a curious thing that the brands of the small group of cattlemen who centered in Rawhide could be changed very easily into Brewster's Lazy S or Mclnnis's Spur.

Finn Mahone was a restless man. There was little to do on his range much of the time, so when not reading or working around the place, he rode. And his riding had taken him far eastward along the ridge of the Highbinders, eastward almost as far as Rawhide.

Mounting, Finn turned the stallion toward the dim trail that led toward the Notch. It was a trail not traveled but by himself. A trail no one showed any desire to follow.

Ahead of him a Joshua tree thrust itself up from the plain. It was a lone sentinel, the only one of its kind in many miles. He glanced at it and was about to ride by when something caught his eye. He reined the horse around and rode closer. Thrust into the fiber of the tree was a playing card. A hole had been shot through each corner.

"Well, I'll be damned!" he said. "Texas Dowd. He finally figured out I was here " His comment to the stallion stopped abruptly, and he replaced the card, looking at it thoughtfully. Then, on a sudden inspiration, he wheeled the stallion and rode off fifty feet or so, then turned the horse again. His hand flashed and a gun was in it. He fired four times as rapidly as he could trigger the gun. Then he turned the horse and rode away.

There were four more holes in the card, just inside the others. A message had been sent, and now the reply given.

The great wall of the Rimrock loomed up on his left. It was a sheer, impossible precipice from two to six hundred feet high and running for all of twelve miles. For twenty miles further there was no way over except on foot. It was wild country across the Rim, and not even Finn Mahone had ever explored it thoroughly.

Straight ahead was the great rift in the wall. Sheer rock on one side, a steep slope on the other. Down the bottom ran the roaring, brawling Laird River, a tumbling rapids with many falls. The trail to Crystal Valley skirted the stream and the sheer cliff. Eight feet wide, it narrowed to four, and ran on for three miles, never wider than that.

After that it crossed the Laird three times, then disappeared at a long shale bank that offered no sign of a trail. The shale had a tendency to shift and slide at the slightest wrong move. It was that shale bank that defeated ingress to the valley. There was a way across. An outlaw had shown it to Finn, and he'd heard it from an Indian.

By sighting on the white blaze of a tree, and a certain thumb like projection of rock, one could make it across. Beneath the shale at this point there was a shelf of solid rock. A misstep and one was off into loose shale that would start to slide. It slid, steeper and steeper, for three hundred yards, then plunged off, a hundred feet below, into a snarl of lava pits.

Once across the slides, the trail was good for several miles, then wound through a confusion of canyons and washes. At the end one rode through a narrow stone bottleneck into the paradise that was Crystal Valley.

Finn Mahone dismounted at the Rimrock, and led his horse to the edge of the river. While the black was drinking, he let his eyes roam through the trees toward the Notch, then back over the broad miles of the Lazy K.

Remy Kastelle. The name made music in his mind. He remembered the flash of her eyes, her quick, capable walk.

The sun was warm, and he sat down on the bank of the stream and watched the water. Until now he had known peace, and peace was the one thing most to be desired. His cattle grew fat on the grassy valley lands, there were beaver and mink to be trapped, deer to be hunted. Occasionally, a little gold to be panned from corners and bends of the old creek bank. It had been an easy, happy, but lonely life.

It would be that no longer. For months now he had seen the trouble building in Laird Valley. He had listened to the gossip of ranch hands in Rico, the cattle buyers and the bartenders. He had heard stories of Byrn Sonntag, of Montana Kerr, of Ringer Cobb.

Simple ranchers? He had smiled at the idea. No man who knew the Big Bend country would ever suggest that, nor any man who had gone up the trail to Dodge and Hays. They were men whose names had legends built around. them men known for ruthless killing.

Frank Salter was just as bad. Lean and embittered, Salter had ridden with Quantrill's guerrillas, then he had trailed west and south. He had killed a man in Dimmit, another in Eagle Pass. He was nearly fifty now, but a sour, unhappy man with a rankling hatred for everything successful, everything peaceful.

Of them all, Sonntag was the worst. He was smooth, cold-blooded, with nerves like chilled steel. He had, the legends said, killed twenty-seven men.

Looking on from a distance Mahone had the perspective to see the truth. Until lately, there had been no suspicion of rustling. No tracks had been found; there had reportedly been no mysterious disappearances of cattle. The herds had been weeded patiently and with intelligence.

Abraham Mclnnis suddenly awakened to the realization that the thousand or more cattle he had believed to be in the brakes wfere not there. The rustlers had carefully worked cattle down on the range so there would always be cattle in sight. They had taken only a few at a time, and they had never taken a cow without its calf, and vice versa.

Mclnnis had gone to town and met with Brewster, and Van had returned to his own ranch. For three days he covered it as he had not covered it since the last roundup. At the very least, he was missing several hundred head of cattle. The same was true of Collins, the Kastelles, and Pierce Logan.

All of this was known to Finn Mahone. Stories got around in cattle country, and he was a man who listened much and remembered what he heard. Moreover, he could read trail sign like most men could read a newspaper.

He mounted the stallion and started over the trail for Crystal Valley.

Pierce Logan was disturbed. He was a cool, careful man who rarely made mistakes. He had moved the outlaws into Rawhide, had made sure they all had small holdings, had given them their brands. Then he had engineered, from his office in town and his ranch headquarters, the careful job of cattle theft that had been done. Byrn Sonntag was a man who would listen, and Byrn was a man who could give orders. The stealing had been so carefully done that it had been going on for a year before the first rumbles of suspicion were heard.

Even then, none of that suspicion was directed toward Rawhide. When Rawhide ranchers came to Laird they were quiet and well behaved. In Rawhide they had their own town, their own saloon, and when they felt like a bust, they went, under orders, to Rico.

Logan had understood that sooner or later there would be trouble. He had carefully planned what to do beforehand. He had dropped hints here and there about Finn Mahone, choosing him simply because he lived alone and consequently was a figure of mystery and spine suspicion. He had never mentioned Finn's name in connection with rustling. Only a couple of times he had wondered aloud what he found to do all the time, and elsewhere he had commented that whatever he did, it seemed to pay well.

Pierce Logan had seen Mahone but once before, and that time from a distance. He had no animosity toward him, choosing the man coldbloodedly because he was the best possible suspect.

His plan was simple. When Mahone was either shot, hung for rustling, or run out of the country, the pressure would be off, the ranchers would relax, and his plans could continue for some time before suspicion built up again. If in the process of placing the blame on Mahone he could remove some of the competition from the picture, so much the better. He had a few plans along those lines.

His was not a new idea. It was one he had pondered upon a good deal before he came west to Laird. He had scouted the country with care, and then had trusted the gathering of the men to Sonntag.

Everything had gone exactly as planned. His seeds of suspicion had fallen on fertile soil, and his rustlers had milked the range of over five thousand head of cattle before questions began to be asked. No big bunches had been taken, and he had been careful to leave no bawling cows or calves on the range. The cattle had been shoved down on the open country on the theory that as long as plenty of cattle were in sight, few questions would be asked. , Two things disturbed him now. One of them was the fact that Finn Mahone had proved to be a different type of man than he had believed. He had defeated Leibman easily and thoroughly, and in so doing had become something of a local hero. Moreover, the way he had done it had proved to Logan that he was not any ordinary small-time rancher, to be tricked and deluded. Also, despite himself, he was worried by what Dowd had said.

The unknown is always disturbing. Although he and Dowd had little to do with one another, Texas Dowd had the reputation of being a tough and capable man. The fact that he knew Mahone and had referred to him as dangerous worried Logan. In his foolproof scheme, he might have bagged some game he didn't want.

The second disturbing factor was Texas Dowd himself. Pierce Logan's easy affability, his personality, his money, and his carefully planned influence made no impression on Dowd. Logan knew this, and also knew that Dowd was suspicious of him. He doubted that Dowd had any reason for his suspicion. Yet, any suspicion was a dangerous thing.

Pierce Logan had been careful to see that some of his own cattle were rustled. He had deliberately planned that. It made no difference to him how they were sold; he got a big share of the money in any event, and it paid to avoid suspicion. Also, he had gone easy on the Lazy K, because Texas Dowd was a restless rider, a man forever watching his grazing land, forever noticing cattle. Also, Pierce Logan was pretty sure he would someday own the Lazy K.

Along with his plans for the Laird Valley, two other things were known only to Pierce Logan. One was that he was himself a fast man with a gun, with nine killings behind him. The second was that he could handle his fists.

He had seen Leibman fight before, and had always been quite sure he could whip him, if need be. Until today he had never seen a man he was not positive he could beat. Finn Mahone was a puzzle. Especially as he noted that Finn had never let himself go with Leibman. He had toyed with him, making a fight of it and obviously enjoying himself. Then suddenly, dramatically, he had cut him down.

Pierce Logan made his second decision that night. Earlier, he had decided that Dowd must be killed. That night he decided that his plans for Finn Mahone must be implemented quickly. Mahone must be used and then removed from the scene, thoroughly.

He got up and put on his wide white hat, then strolled out on the boardwalk, pausing to light a cigarette. It was a few minutes after sundown, and almost time to go to supper at Ma Boyle's. His gray eyes shifted, and saw the man dismounting behind the livery stable.

Logan finished his smoke, then stepped down off the porch and walked across to the stable. His own gray nickered when it saw him, and he walked in, putting a hand on the horse's flank. Byrn Sonntag was in the next stall.

Speaking softly, under his breath, Logan said, "Watch when Mahone makes his next shipment. Then get some altered brands into them and let me know as soon as it's done."

"Sure," Sonntag said. He passed over a sheaf of bills to Logan. "I already taken my cut," Sonntag said.

Logan felt a sharp annoyance, but stilled it. "Dowd," he said, "looks like trouble. Better have one of the boys take care of it."

Sonntag was quiet for a minute, then he replied.

"Yeah, an' it won't be easy. Dowd's hell on wheels with a gun."

Pierce Logan left pc barn and walked slowly down the street. He scowldd. It was the first time he had ever heard Sonntag hesitate over anything.

Byrn Sonntag was pleased beyond measure when he encountered Mexie Roberts in the Longhorn. He passed him the word, then went on and sat in on a poker game. When the game broke up several hours later he was a winner by some two hundred dollars.

Mexie Roberts joined him on the trail. He was a slight, brown man with a sly face. "You know Texas Dowd?" Sonntag demanded.

"Si." Roberts studied Sonntag.

"Kill him."

"How much?"

Sonntag hesitated. Then he drew out his winnings. "Two hundred," he said, "for a clean job ... one hundred now."

Chapter 2

The Rimrock that divided the open range of Laird Valley from Mahone's holdings was almost as steep and difficult to scale from the inside. Finn Mahone had often studied the mountains, and knew there was an old, long-unused path that seemed to lead toward the crest. His black stallion was a mountain-bred horse, and he took the trail without hesitation.

The steep mountainside was heavily timbered with pine, mingled with cedar and manzanita. The earth under the trees was buried deep under years and years of pine needles, except where here and there rock cropped out of the earth: the rough granite fingers of the mountain.

Several times he reined in to let the stallion breathe easier, and while resting the horse, he turned in the saddle to study the land around him. Below him, stretched out like something seen in a dream, were the three links in the Crystal Valley chain, and along the bottom the tumbling silver of Crystal Creek.

His stone cabin, built in a cleft of the mountain, was invisible from here, but he could just see the top of the dead pine that towered above the forest to mark the opening into the trail to Rico. It was a trail rarely used except when he drove his cattle to the railroad siding in the desert town.

Rico was as turbulent as Laird was peaceful, and it was a meeting ground of the cattlemen from Laird, the sheep men from the distant Ruby Hills, and the miners who worked a few claims in the Furbelows. Rico had no charms for Finn Mahone, and he avoided the town and the consequences of trouble there.

His occasional visits to Laird had built friendships. He had come to enjoy his contacts with Judge Collins, Doc Finerty, Dean Armstrong, and Otis.

Big, quiet, and slow to make friends, he had bought drinks for and accepted drinks from these men, and had, at the insistence of Otis, gone around to see Lettie Mason. Her house of entertainment was frowned upon by the respectable, but offered all Laird possessed in the way of theater and gambling. Lettie had heard Mahone was in town and sent Otis to bring him to call.

She was a woman of thirty-four who looked several years younger. She had lived in Richmond, New York, San Francisco, and New Orleans, and had for eight years of her life been married to a man of old but impoverished family who had turned to gambling as a business.

Lettie Mason had mfet three of the men in Laird before she came west. Two of these were Finn Mahone and Texas Dowd, and the third was Pierce Logan.

Since her arrival she had been in the company of Logan many times, and he had never acknowledged their previous meeting. After some time Lettie became convinced that he had forgotten the one night they met. It was not surprising, since he had been focused on the cards that her husband had been holding and she was introduced by her married name. Dowd was a frequent visitor at the rambling frame house across from the combination city hall and jail, but Mahone had been there only twice.

One other man in Laird knew a little about Lettie Mason. That man was Garfield Otis, who probably knew her better than all the rest. Otis, lonely, usually broke, and' always restless, found in her the understanding and warmth he needed. She fed him at times, gave him drinks more rarely, and confided in him upon all subjects. She was an intelligent, astute woman who knew a good deal about men and even more about business.

Finn Mahone, riding the mountainside above Crystal Valley, could look upon Laird with detachment. Consequently, his perspective was better. In a town where he had no allegiances and few friendships, he could see with clarity the shaping and aligning of forces. He was a man whom life had left keenly sensitive to impending trouble, and as he had seen it develop before, he knew the indications.

Until the fight with Leibman, he had believed he was merely a not-too-innocent bystander. Now he knew he was, whether he liked it or not, a participant. Behind the rising tide of trouble in the Laird basin there appeared to be a shrewd intelligence, the brain of a man or woman who knew what he or she wanted and how to get it.

Understanding nothing of that plan, Mahone could still detect the tightening of strings. Some purpose of the mind behind the trouble demanded that he, Finn Mahone, be marked as a rustler and eliminated.

He was nearing the crest and the trail had leveled off and emerged from the pine forest.

He must have another talk with Lettie. He knew her of old, and knew she was aware of all that happened around her, that men talked in her presence and she listened well. They had met in New Orleans in one of those sudden contacts deriving from the war. He had found her taking shelter in a doorway during a riot, and escorted her home. She was, he learned, making a success of gambling where her husband had failed. He had died, leaving her with little, but that little was a small amount of cash and a knowledge of gambling houses.

Her husband, who had drawn too slow in an altercation with another gambler, had tried to beat the game on his own. Lettie won a little, and then bought into a gambling house, preferring the house percentage to the risk of a single game. Kindhearted, yet capable and shrewd, she made money swiftly.

Finn reined in suddenly and spoke softly to the stallion. Before him was a little glade among the trees, a hollow where the water from a small stream gathered before trickling off into a rippling brook that eventually reached Crystal Creek. A man was coming out of the trees and walking down to the stream. The man lay down beside the stream and drank. Dismounting, Finn held the big horse motionless and stood behind a tree, watching.

When the man arose, Finn saw that he was an Indian, no longer young. Two braids fell over his shoulders from under the battered felt hat, and there was a knife and a pistol on his belt. \

The Indian looked around slowly, then turned and started back toward the woods. Yet some sense must have warned him he was being watched, for he stopped suddenly and turned to stare back in Finn's direction.

Moving carefully, Finn stepped from behind the tree and mounted his horse. Then he walked the horse down into the glade and toward the Indian.

The fellow stood there quietly, his black eyes steady, watching Finn approach. "How Kola?" Finn gave the Sioux greeting because he knew no other. He reined in. "Is your camp close by?"

The Indian gestured toward the trees, then turned and led the way. Sticks had been gathered for a fire, and some blankets were dropped on the ground. Obviously, the Indian had just arrived. Two paint ponies stood under the trees, and the Indian's new rifle, a Winchester, leaned against a tree.

Finn took out his tobacco and tossed it to the Indian. "Traveling far?"

"Much far." The Indian dug an old pipe from his pocket and stoked it with tobacco, then he gestured toward the valley. "Your house?"

"Yes, my house, my cows."

The Indian lit his pipe and smoked without speaking for several minutes. Finn rolled a cigarette and lighted it, waiting. The Indian nodded toward the valley. "My home ... once. Long time no home."

"You've come back, huh?" Finn took his cigarette from his lips and looked at the glowing end. "Plenty of beaver here. Why not stay?"

The Indian turned his head to look at him. "Your home now," he suggested.

"Sure," Mahone said. "But there's room enough for both of us. You don't run cattle, I don't trap beaver. You and me, friends, huh?"

The Indian studied the proposition. "Sure," he said, after a while. "Friends." Then he added, "Me Shoshone Charlie."

"My name's Finn Mahone." He grinned at the Indian. "You been to Rawhide ... the little town?"

"Rawhide no good. Rico no good. Plenty bad white man. Too much shootin'." Charlie nodded. "Already see two white man, ride much along big river. One white man tall, not much meat, bad cut like so," he indicated a point over the eye. "Other white man short, plenty thick. Bay pony."

Frank Salter and Banty Hull. They had been scouting the upper Laird River Canyon. That was on this side of Rico, and beyond the Rimrock from the Laird Valley. It was far off their own range. If they were scouting along there, the chances were they were looking for the route he took to Rico on his cattle drives. He forded the river in the bottom of that canyon.

"Thanks. Those men are plenty bad." Mahone watched the light changing on the mountainside across the Crystal Valley. The Indian knew plenty, and given time, might talk. He had a feeling he had won a friend in the old man.

"I'm headin' back," he said, "after a bit. Suppose you need sugar, tobacco? You come to see me. Plenty of coffee, too. I always have some in the pot, and if I'm not home, you get a cup and have some. Better not go into Rawhide, unless you have to." The Indian watched him as he rode away.

He was restless, knowing things were coming to a head. It disturbed him that Remy thought of him as a rustler. The girl had stirred him more deeply than he liked to admit. Yet, even as he thought of that, he knew it went further. She was so much the sort of person he had always wanted.

If he had read the bullet-marked playing card right, Texas Dowd finally knew he was on the range. The fact that he was riding for her would account for the excellent cattle she had, and the condition of her grass. In his months of riding the Highbinders, he had watched with interest the shifting of the Lazy K cattle. The ground was never grazed too long, and the cattle were moved from place to place with skill instead of allowing them to range freely. They had been shifted to the lowlands during the spring months and then, as hotter weather drew near, moved back where there was shade and greener grass from sub irrigated land near the hills.

Dowd would know that Finn Mahone was no rustler, whatever else he might think of him.

Once home, he stabled his horse, gave it a brisk rub-down, and went into the house. After a leisurely supper he brewed an extra pot of coffee, hot and black, and sat' down by the lamp. He picked up a book, but found himself thinking instead of the girl with golden hair who had watched his fight from the boardwalk. He recalled the flash of her eyes as he had told her he refused to sell the stallion. He sighed, and settled in to a few hours of reading.

In the rambling adobe house on the Lazy K, Remy walked into the spacious, high-ceilinged living room, and sat down. "Dad," she asked suddenly, "have you ever heard of a man named Mahone?"

Frenchy Kastelle sat up in his chair and put his book down. He was a lean, aristocratic man with white hair at his temples and dark, intelligent eyes. He was French mixed with California Spanish, and he had lived on the San Francisco waterfront in exciting and dangerous times. Finally, he had gone into the cattle business in Texas.

His knowledge of cattle was sketchy, but he got into a country where there was free range, and made the most of it. Yet he was just puttering along and breaking even when Texas Dowd rode over the border on a spent horse. The two became friends, and he hired the taciturn Texan as foreman. Few better cattlemen lived, and the ranch prospered, but newcomers began crowding in, and at Dowd's suggestion, they abandoned the ranch and moved westward to the distant Laird River Valley.

The route had been rough, and not unmarked with incident. Texas Dowd had proved himself a fighting man as well as a cattleman.

Frenchy knew how to appreciate a fighting man. Casual and easygoing in bearing, he was a wizard with cards and deadly with a gun. He was, he confessed, a man who loved his leisure. He was willing enough to leave his ranch management to the superior abilities and energies of Remy and Dowd.

He looked at his daughter with interest. For the past two years he had been aware that she was no longer a child, that she was a young lady with a mind of her own. He had looked at first with some disquiet, being entirely foreign to the problem of what to do about a young lady who was blossoming into such extravagant womanhood.

This was the first time she had ever manifested anything more than casual interest in any man, although Frenchy was well aware that Pierce Logan had been taking her to dances in Laird.

"Mahone?" He closed his book and placed it on the table. "Isn't he that chap who lives back in the mountains? Buys a lot of books, I hear."

He studied his daughter shrewdly. "Why this sudden interest?" |

"Oh, nothing. Only there was a fight today, and this Mahone fellow whipped that brute Leibman from over at Rawhide. Gave him an awful beating."

"Whipped Leibman?" Kastelle was incredulous. "I'd like to have seen that. Leibman used to fight on the coast, rough-and-tumble fights for a prize. He was a bruiser."

"Dowd won money on Mahone, and from the way he acts I think he knows something about him. He seemed so sure that he would beat Leibman."

"Then why not ask him?" Kastelle suggested.

"I know, Dad," she protested, "but he won't tell me anything. As far as that goes, I don't even know anything about Dowd!"

"Well, it is sometimes best not to ask too much about a man; judge him by his actions ... that's a courtesy that I have taken advantage of as much as anyone. Texas Dowd is the best damned cattleman that ever came west of the Mississippi, and that includes Jesse Chisholm, Shanghai Pierce, or any of them! What more do you want?"

"What do you know about him?" Remy demanded. "What did he do before he came to us? He had been shot, but who had done it? Who, in all this world, could make Texas Dowd run?"

Kastelle shrugged and lifted his eyebrows. "A man may run from many things, Remy. He may run from fear of killing as much as fear of death. Fewer run for that reason, but a good man might.

"I've never asked him any questions and he hasn't volunteered anything. However, there are a few things one may deduce. He's been in the army at some time, as one can see by the way he sits a horse and carries his shoulders. He's been in more than one fight, as he is too cool in the face of trouble not to have had experience.

"Moreover, he's been around a lot. He knows New Orleans and Natchez, for instance. He also knows something about St. Louis and Kansas City, and he's hunted buffalo. Also, he knows a good deal about Mexico and speaks Spanish fluently. We know all these things, but what is important is that he is not only our foreman but our friend. He has shown us that, and that is the only thing that has any real meaning."

Remy walked out on the wide flagstone terrace in front of the ranch house. The stars were very bright, and the breeze was cool. Looking off in the distance she could see the dark loom of the Highbinders, jagged along the skyline. She tried to tell herself she was only interested in Mahone because of that magnificent horse, but she knew it was untrue.

She detected a movement near the corrals, and saw Dowd's white shirt. She left the terrace and walked toward him across the hard-packed earth of the yard. "Texas!" she called.

He turned, a lean, broad-shouldered figure, the moonlight silver on his hat. "Howdy, Remy," he said. "Out late, ain't you?"

"Texas," she demanded abruptly, "what do you know about Finn Mahone?" Then hastily, to cover up "I mean, is he a rustler?"

Texas Dowd drew on his cigarette, and it glowed brightly. "No, ma'am, I don't guess he is. Howsoever, men change. He wouldn't have been once, but he might be now. But offhand, I'd say no. I'd have to be shown proof before I'd believe it."

"Where did you know him?"

"Don't rightly recall saying I did," Dowd said. "Maybe it was just a name that sounded familiar. Maybe he just looked like somebody I used to know."

"Where?" she persisted.

"Remy," Dowd said slowly, "I want to tell you something. You stay clear of Finn Mahone! He's a dangerous man, as dangerous to women in some respects as he is to men! I don't believe there's a man on this range could face him with a gun unless it was Byrn Sonntag."

"Not even you?"

He dropped his cigarette and toed it into the dust. "I don't know, Remy," he said quietly. He drew a long breath. "The hell of it is," he said, sighing bitterly, "I may have to find out."

He turned abruptly and walked away from her toward the bunkhouse. She started to speak, then hesitated, staring after him.

Remy Kastelle practically lived in the saddle. Her white mare, Roxie, loved exploring as much as she did,-but in the next few days Remy studiously avoided the wide ranges toward the Highbinders in the west. But, time and again she would find her eyes straying toward the high pinnacle that marked the entrance to the Notch.

Then one day she mounted and turned her horse toward the Rimrock. As she drew closer, her eyes lifted toward the great red wall of the mountain. It was like nothing she had ever seen. In all her riding she had never come this far to the west, although she was aware that Lazy K cattle fed as far as the wall itself.

When she drew near, she turned the mare and rode along toward the Notch. She was riding in that direction when she saw the bullet-marked card on the Joshua tree.

Curiously, she stared at it. This was not the first time she had seen a card with the corners drilled by bullets. Many times she had seen Texas Dowd shoot in just that way. It was the first time she had ever seen the other four bullet holes. She studied the card for a while, then shrugged and rode on. It meant nothing to her.

She rode on, and the sun was warm in her face. She knew she should be turning back, but was determined to see the Notch at close hand. A shoulder of the rock jutted out before her and she rounded it, and the air was suddenly filled with the rushing roar of the Laird River. To her left was a dim trail up through the pines. Scarcely thinking what she was doing she turned the white mare up the trail into the Notch.

Remy told herself she was riding this way because she wanted to see the Notch, and because she was curious about Crystal Valley. Carefully, she kept her mind away from Finn Mahone. The tall rider could mean nothing to her. He was just another small rancher, and a brawler in the bargain.

Yet Dowd's warning, and his obvious respect for Mahone, stuck in her mind. Who was Finn Mahone? What was he?

The trail dipped suddenly and she hesitated. Only eight feet wide here, and a sheer drop off to her right. The tracks of Mahone's stallion showed plainly. "If he did it, I can!" she told herself, and spoke to the horse. They moved on, and the trail narrowed, almost imperceptibly. Roxie shied nervously at the depth to her right, and Remy bit her lip thoughtfully as she studied the trail. It would be impossible to turn around now. For better or worse, she must keep going.

When the narrow trail finally ended she was nearing the bank of the Laird. She had heard that three crossings must be made, and she hesitated again, looking at the sky. There was going to be little time. The thought of going back over the trail in the dark frightened her.

She forded the Laird and rode up the opposite bank. The side from which she had just come was sheer cliff, towering upward to a height of nearly four hundred feet. The trail was narrow but solid, some fifteen feet above the tumbling Laird.

The country was wild and picturesque. In all her life she had never seen such magnificent heights of sheer rock, nor such roaring beauty as the rushing rapids below her. Tall trees towered against the sky, and when there was a glade or open hillside on her right the grass was green and thick. Entranced by the sheer beauty, she rode on, passing a waterfall that let the Laird go rolling over its brink in a smooth, glassy stream of power, thundering to the stones thirty feet below.

This was the country of which she had heard, the country that was almost unknown to the outside world. She pressed on, forgetful of the dwindling afternoon, and thinking only of the beauty of the landscape. She forded the Laird again, a swift, silent stream this time, and her-road came out under great trees, turning the afternoon into a dim twilight as though she rode through a magnificent cathedral of towering columns.

Roxie was as interested as she herself, the mare's ears forward, twitching and curious. They continued, came out in a steep-walled canyon, and forded the stream for the third time. Again it was white water, but slower than below. The trail took her out of the canyon then, and across a valley of some fifty acres, the river, wider and deeper, was backed up behind a natural dam until there was a small lake among the trees. A bird flew up from the water, but she caught only a glimpse and could not identify it.

Then suddenly the trail channeled again and she was in another narrow-mouthed canyon. Great crags leaned over the trail here, and the river was no longer near, but had taken a turn away to the right. Then, riding out of the canyon, she stopped, staring across the first of the dreaded shale banks.

Evening had come, although it was still light, and there was no sound but the soft whisper of the wind in the trees. This was a lonely land, a land where nothing seemed to move, nothing seemed to stir, not even a leaf.

Looking up, she saw the long, steep slide of shale, and looking down, she saw that the shale disappeared in growing darkness below. But when she looked off to the right now, there was no canyon wall, no river. There was only a vast and empty silence, and the somber shadows of twilight lying over a gloomy desert. These were the lava pits, a trackless, lifeless region of blowholes and jagged rock. It lay below her, something like a hundred feet below.

Roxie shied at the bank, and backed away nervously. There was a route across. That much Remy knew. Yet how it went, or how one knew where to enter, she could not guess. Hopelessness overwhelmed her, and anger, too. Anger at herself for failing now, and for persisting so long.

Fortunately, they would not be worried at home. She often rode to the Mclnnis ranch, or to Brewster's. Occasionally, she stayed all night. But the thought of staying in this lonely place at night frightened her. She did not want to turn around, yet the slate bank was appalling in its silent uncertainty.

Dismounting, she walked up to it, and stepped in with a tentative foot. Her boot sank, and almost at once the shale began to slide under her feet. She drew back, pale and disturbed.

Roxie pulled back nervously; the mare was obviously afraid and wanted none of it. Standing there, trying to make up her mind, Remy was suddenly startled.

A horseman was riding out of the darkness on the far side, and he rode now up to the edge of the awful dropoff into the lava pits. From across the distance she could hear he was singing, some low, melancholy song.

Remy stood still, her heart caught suddenly by the loneliness of the man, and the low, dreaming voice made the night seem suddenly alive with sadness. Stirred, she stood still, her lips parted as though to call, watching, and listening. It was only when he turned his horse to ride on that she became aware of herself.

She called out, and the man reined in his horse suddenly, and turned, listening. Then she called again. "Hey, over there! How do I get across?"

"What the devil?" It was Mahone. The realization made her eyes widen a little. "Who is it?" he demanded. "What are you doing here?"

"It's Remy Kastelle!" she said. "I started for a look at Crystal Valley! Can you help me over?"

He sat his horse, staring across the way, his face no more than a light spot in the darkness. She could almost imagine him swearing, and then he moved his horse to a new position. "All right," he called, "start toward me. Come straight along until I tell you to stop. How's that mare of yours? Is she skittish?"

"A little," Remy admitted, "but I think she'll be all right."

"Then come on."

Roxie hesitated, put a hoof into the shale, and snorted. Remy spoke soothingly, and the mare quieted. Mahone called again, and the sight of the stallion on the other side of the bank seemed to encourage the white mare. Gingerly she moved into the slate. It sank sickeningly, then seemed to reach solid footing. Stepping with infinite care, the mare moved on.

When they had gone something over twenty yards, Mahone called to her, and she reined in.

"Now be very careful!" he shouted. "See that tall pine up there? Turn her head and ride that way. Count her steps, and when she has gone thirty steps, stop her again."

Her heart pounding, Remy spoke to the mare, and Roxie moved out, very slowly. This was a climb, and the shale slid around her hooves. Once the mare slipped and seemed about to fall, but scrambled and got her feet under her once more.

When they had gone thirty steps, Mahone called again. When she looked, she saw he had shifted position. "Now ride right to me!" he said.

It was so dark now she could make him out only by his face and the brightness of some of the studs on the stallion's bridle. She turned again, and after stumbling and sliding for another fifty yards, the mare scrambled onto solid earth and stopped, trembling in every limb.

Remy slid to the ground and her knees melted under her. "I wouldn't do that again," she protested, "for all the money in the world! How do you ever live in such a place?"

Mahone laughed. "I like it!" he said. "Wait until you see Crystal Valley!"

She started to get up and he helped her. The touch of his hand made her start, and she looked up at him in the darkness, just distinguishing the outline of his face. She sensed his nearness and moved back, strangely disturbed. Something about this man did things to her, and she was angered by it.

"But what will we do?" she protested. "Isn't there another slide? Longer than this?"

He grinned and nodded. She saw his white teeth in the darkness. "Yes, there is, but I'll put a rope on your saddle horn for luck and lead the mare by the bridle reins."

"Are you trying to frighten me?" she flared.

"No, not a bit. If you were riding ahead of me, and my horse didn't know the trail, I'd want your rope on my saddle horn. This next slide is a dilly!"

They started on, and he rode rapidly, eager to get the last of the dim light. The sky was still a little gray. When they reached the edge of the slide it was abysmally dark. He reined in abruptly. "Too dark," he told her. "We'll get off and wait until the moon comes up. It should be over the rim in about an hour. By moonlight we can make it."

He walked over to some trees and tied the two horses loosely. Gathering some sticks, he built a fire. When the dry sticks blazed up, he looked across at her and grinned. "Seems sort of strange. This is the first time a woman's ever crossed that slate bank, unless it was some Indian.-"

Remy looked at him gravely, then stretched her hands toward the fire. Surprisingly, the evening was quite cool, and the air was damp. Mahone knelt beside the fire and fed dry sticks into it, then looked up at her. "Your name is Kastelle?" he said. "It's an odd name. It has a ring to it, somehow."

"Perhaps you knew my father?" she suggested. "Before we came here we lived in Texas, and before that he was a gambler in San Francisco, what used to be called the Barbary Coast. They called him Frenchy."

He was looking at the fire. "Frenchy Kastelle?" He shook his head thoughtfully. "Seems like I would remember."

"I gathered from what my foreman said today that you know him." Remy leaned back, looking at the fire. "His name is Texas Dowd."

"Did this Dowd say he knew me?"

"No, he didn't, but he won money on your fight. He won a bet from Pierce Logan. Logan was sure Leibman would win."

"This Pierce Logan must know Leibman," Mahone commented. "No man risks his money on a stranger."

It was something she had not considered. Still, Logan got around a good deal, and he might have met the big German. But she was not to be turned from her main interest. "That's why I thought Dowd knew you. He seemed so sure."

"He might know me. In cattle country men get to know others by name lots of times, or maybe you meet in a bar, or in passing."

"Were you ever in Mexico?" It was a shot in the dark, but she noticed that Finn picked up a stick and began poking Ilhe fire. Why, she could not have guessed, but suddenly she felt she had touched the nerve of the whole story.

"Mexico? I reckon most every man who lives along the border gets into Mexico. Right pretty country ... some of it. Fine folks, too."

They were silent for a moment.

"What's it like in there?" Remy indicated the trail toward Crystal Valley.

"Like a little bit of heaven," he said. "Quiet, peaceful, green ... the most beautiful spot I ever saw. There's something about living back in these hills that gives a man time to think, to consider. Then, I like to read. Back there I can sit on my porch for hours, or over a fire in the cabin, and read all I like."

"How about your cattle? Don't you ever work them?"

He shrugged, and poked thoughtfully at the fire. "They aren't much trouble," he said. "No other cattle can get to them. I brand the calves while out riding around.

Carry a running iron with me all the time. That way the work never gets much behind."

He stood up. "The moon's higher. We'd better go."

Remy knew one thing. She would never forget that night ride across that mile of treacherous shale. It was a ride she would never want to make alone, even by day. Yet she was dozing in her saddle and half asleep when they pulled up at the cabin.

"Go on in," he said. "I'll put up the horses."

She went up the steps and opened the door. It was dark but warm inside. She was struck at once by that warmth. An empty house, empty for hours on a chill night, shouldn't have been warm. She struck a light, and saw the candle on the table. When she lighted it, she turned slowly, half expecting to see someone in the room, but it was empty.

Puzzled, she walked to the fireplace and, with the poker, stirred the coals. They glowed red. Then she saw the coffeepot and, stooping, touched it with her hand. It was warm, almost hot.

She straightened then, and looked around. The room-was small, but comfortable, having none of the usual marks of bachelor quarters. Surprisingly, it was neat. The few clothes she saw were hung on pegs, the pots and pans were polished and shining, the dishes on the shelves were neatly stacked, and all was clean. Only one cup stood on the table. In it were a few coffee grounds.

Remy was standing there looking at that cup when Finn came in. He tossed his hat to a peg across the room and it caught. He glanced at the cup, then at her eyes. "We'll warm the coffee up," he said, "and then have something to eat."

She turned and looked at him thoughtfully. "The coffee," she said, and there was a question in her voice, "is warm. Almost hot!"

"Good," he said. She stared at him while he stirred the fire. "We'll eat right away, then."

"Can I help?"

"If you like." He got some plates down and put them on the table.

Why she should be disturbed, she didn't know. Obviously, there was someone else around. She had understood that Finn Mahone lived alone in the valley. Who was here with him? Where was she now?

Why must it be a woman? Remy didn't know why, but she wondered if it was. There was nothing effeminate about the room, yet it was almost too neat, too perfect. From her experience with cattlemen and cowhands, they usually lived in something that resembled a boar's nest. This was anything but that.

She looked up suddenly to see him watching her with a covert smile. "Would you like to see the rest of the house?" he suggested. She had the feeling that she amused him, and her spine stiffened.

"No, I don't think I'd care to! It isn't at all necessary!"

He grinned and picked up the candle. "Come on," he said.

She hesitated, then followed. She was curious.

The next room was a bedroom with a wide, spacious bed, much resembling an old four-poster. She thought it was, but when she drew nearer she could see it was homemade. On the floor was an Indian rug, and here, too, there were pegs on the walls. There were three pictures.

She started toward them, but he turned away and went into a third room. She followed him, then stopped. Here was a wide, homemade writing desk, and around her the walls were lined with books. The candlelight gleamed on the gold lettering, and she looked at them curiously. How her father would love this room! She could imagine his eyes lighting up at the sight of so many books. /

They returned to the other room and he got the coffee and filled two new cups. They ate, almost in silence, but Remy found her eyes straying again and again to that empty cup. If Finn Mahone noticed, he gave no sign.

When they had finished eating, she helped him stack the few dishes. Somewhere not far-off a wolf howled, a weird, yapping chorus that sounded like more than a dozen.

She stopped in the act of putting away the last of the food. "It's nice here," she said, "but so quiet. How do you ever stand it ... alone?"

"I manage." His smile was exasperating. "It is quiet, but I like the stillness."

The problem of the night was before them, but Remy avoided the thought, trying to appear quiet, assured. She should have been frightened or worried. She told herself that would be the maidenly thing. Yet she wasn't. She-was curious, and a little disturbed.

Sometimes she saw his eyes on her, calm and amused, and she wondered what he was thinking. No other man had ever upset her so much, nor had she met any other who was so difficult to read. Dowd was older, a simple? quiet man, and if he did not talk about some things, it was something she could understand. Somewhere he had been hurt, deeply hurt.

There was none of that in Finn Mahone. He was simply unreadable.

"You're going to have trouble, you know," she said suddenly.

"Trouble?" He accepted the word, seemed to revolve it in his mind. "I think so. It's been coming for some time.

But don't be sure it will only be for me. Before this is over, there will be trouble for all of us."

She looked at him, surprised. "How do you mean?"

He tossed a stick on the fire. "How long has this rustling been going on? They say some five thousand cattle have disappeared. I would say that is about ten percent of what there is on the range around here, yet who has actually seen any rustlers?

"Who has seen any cattle being moved? Who has heard of any being shipped? Why were there always cattle on the lower ranges, and none up in the canyons?"

"Why?" Remy watched him, curious and alert.

He looked up at her, and his eyes, she noted, were a strange darkish green. He ran his fingers through his hair. "Why? Because the rustlers have taken cattle slowly, carefully, a few at a time, and when they have taken them they have moved other cattle down from the canyons where they could be seen, so no suspicion would be aroused."

He looked at her with a wry smile. "Five thousand cattle are a lot of cattle! And they are gone. Gone like shadows or a bunch of ghosts. You think that doesn't take planning?"

"You know who is behind it?"

"No. But now that people are accusing me, I aim to find out!"

"We haven't lost many, Dowd says."

Finn nodded. "Want to know why? Because that foreman of yours is a right restless hombre. He keeps moving around. He's up in every canyon and draw on your range. He knows it like the back of his hand. They don't dare take any chances with him. Whoever is behind this rustling doesn't aim to get caught. He means to go on, handling as many cows as he can without suspicion."

"You're a strange man," Remy said suddenly.

He turned his head and looked at her, the firelight dancing and flickering on his cheek. "Why?"

"Oh, living here all alone. Having all those books, and yet fighting like you did down there in the street."

He shrugged. "It's not so strange. Many men who fight also read. As for living alone, it's better that way." His face darkened, and he got to his feet. "It saves trouble. I don't like killing."

"Have you killed so many?" Somehow she didn't believe so. Somehow it didn't seem possible.

"No, but there's one I don't want to kill," he said. "That's one reason I'm back here. That's one reason I'll stay here unless I have to come out."

Remy arose and stood facing him. How tall he was! He stood over her, and looked down, and for an instant their eyes met. She felt hot color rising over her face, and his hands lifted as if to take her by the arms. She stood very still, and her knees were trembling. Suddenly the room seemed to tilt, and she swayed, her eyes wide and dark.

He dropped his hands abruptly and went around the chairs toward the porch. "You sleep in there." He jerked a thumb toward the wide bed. "I'll stay out there with the horses for a while, then sleep in here by the fire."

He was gone. Remy stared after him, her lips parted, her heart beating fast. She knew with an awful lost and empty feeling that if he had taken hold of her at that moment he could have done as he pleased with her. She passed a hand over her brow, and hurried into the other room, closing the door.

Chapter 3

Pierce Logan had made his decision. A long conference with Sonntag and Frank Salter had convinced him that the time had come to make a definite move.

He disliked definite moves, yet had planned for them if it became necessary. His way had always been the careful way, to weed the range of cattle by taking a few here and a few there, until his own wealth grew, and the others were weakened. Then, bit by bit, to take what he wanted.

All in all the Rawhide outfit were making more money than they had ever made, but none of them were content. They wanted a lot of money quick, and they wanted action.

"If they don't git what they want, Pierce," Sonntag said, "they'll begin to drift. I know every man jack of 'em! They don't like none o' this piecin' along."

"Dowd's getting' suspicious," Salter said. His eyes were cold gray. Pierce Logan had an idea that the old guerrilla didn't like him. "We got t' git rid of Dowd!"

"That's been seen to," Sonntag said. "Any day now."

Pierce Logan had returned to Laird filled with disquiet and anger at his plans deliberately being altered, but it was an anger that slowly seeped away as a plan began to evolve in his mind. A plan whereby he could come out with most of the profits himself. If those fools insisted on starting an out-and-out war, he would appear to be an innocent bystander. His cowhands were men known on the range. None of them were rustlers. Logan had been careful to see to that, and to keep the rustlers off his ranch except when they were getting some of his own cattle. When that happened, he managed to see that his hands were busy elsewhere.

Several of the men who worked for him, like Nick James and Boo Hunter had ridden for Mclnnis or Judge Collins. They were known to be capable, trustworthy men. Carefully, Pierce Logan examined his own position. His meetings with Sonntag had always been secret, and there was no way anyone could connect him with the rustling.

Sonntag had done something about Texas Dowd. From what he had said, the foreman of the Lazy K would die very soon. When Dowd was out of the picture, his most formidable enemy would be removed. And in the meanwhile, he had the problem of pinning decisive evidence on Mahone.

So far as anyone knew he had avoided Rawhide. His connection with those ranchers was unknown. In any plans to move against the rustlers, as ranchers the Rawhide group would be included, and so know all the plans made against them. While considered a rough, tough crowd, no suspicion had been directed at them so far.

If anyone suspected them it would be Texas Dowd.

The only other possible joker in the deck would be Finn Mahone. Now, once suspicion was pinned on him, the Rawhide gang could hit the ranches hard, and it could be attributed to Mahone's "gang." Logan meant to sow that thought in the minds of the Laird ranchers: that Mahone had acquired a gang.

He was perfectly aware that Judge Collins, Doc Finerty, and Dean Armstrong did not believe Mahone a rustler. His evidence would have to convince even them.

Once the blame was saddled on the man from the Highbinders, he would turn the Rawhide bunch loose on some wholesale raids that would break Mclnnis and Brewster, Collins and Kastelle. The raids would still be carefully planned, but no longer would the rustlers take cattle in dribbles, and they would kill anyone who saw them.

The new plan was to clean up while they had Mahone to blame it on. When the big steal was over, when Mahone was shown to be guilty, then killed, and Logan was left in power, he would marry Remy Kastelle and own Laird Valley.

From there, a man might go far. He might, by conniving, be appointed governor of the Territory. He might do a lot of things. A man with money and no scruples could do much, and he meant to see that none remained behind to mark the trail he had taken to wealth.

But in all his speculations and planning he overlooked one man. He did not think of Garfield Otis.

Otis was a drunkard. A man who practically lived on whiskey. He neither intended nor wanted to swear off. He drank because he liked whiskey and because he wanted to forget what he would like to have done, and live in the present. He was always around, and a man who is always around and taken for granted by everyone hears a great deal. If he is a man of intelligence, he learns much more than people give him credit for.

Had Pierce Logan realized it, only one man in the Laird Valley suspected him. That man was Otis.

Texas Dowd smelled something odorous in the vicinity of Rawhide. He knew men, and if Banty Hull, Montana Kerr, and the rest were peaceful ranchers, then he was the next Emperor of China. He knew all about Sonntag. He did not like Logan, but did not suspect he was the brain behind the rustling.

Neither did Otis. But stumbling along the street one evening, Otis had seen Logan ostentatiously lighting a cigarette in front of his office. Later, he had seen him cross the street and enter the livery stable. Seated on the edge of the walk, he had seen Logan leave the stable, and a moment later a rider headed off across the country. The rider was a big man.

Otis was only mildly curious at the moment. Yet he wondered who the man was. The man had seemed very big, and in the Laird Valley country only five men were of that size. Logan himself, Judge Collins, Finn Mahone, Leibman, and Byrn Sonntag.

Dean Armstrong was bent over the desk when Otis opened the door. He looked up. "Hi, Otis!" he called cheerfully. "Come on back and sit down!"

"Mahone been in town?"

Dean shook his head. "Not that I know of. No, I'm sure he hasn't been back since the fight. He said he would bring me a book he was telling me about, and he never forgets, so I guess he hasn't been in."

Then the man wasn't Finn Mahone.

The idea had never been a practical one, anyway. What would Mahone want with Logan? And meeting him in secret? It wouldn't make sense. It had certainly not been Judge Collins. That left only Leibman and Byrn Sonntag. Otis shoved his hands down in his pockets and watched Armstrong's pen scratching over the paper. "Dean," he asked, "what do you know about Pierce Logan?"

"Logan?" Armstrong put his pen down and leaned his forearms on the desk. Then he shook his head. "Just what everyone knows. He's got one of the best ranches in the valley. Been here about two or three years. He owns the "* livery stable, and has a partnership in the hotel. I think he has a piece of the Longhorn, too."

Dean picked up his pen again, frowning at the paper. "Why?"

"Oh, just wondering. No reason. Nice-looking man. Do you suppose he'll marry that Kastelle girl?"

"Looks like it." Dean scowled again. Somehow the idea didn't appeal to him. "If he does he'll control over half the range in Laird Valley."

Otis was restless. He got up. "Yes, you're right about that. And if Mclnnis and Brewster decided to sell out, he would own it all." He turned to go.

"Wait a minute and I'll walk over to the Longhorn with you."

Then Armstrong glanced at Otis. "Have you eaten?"

Garfield Otis hesitated, then he turned and smiled. "Why, no. Come to think of it, I haven't."

"Then let's stop by Ma Boyle's and eat before we have a drink."

They walked out together, and Armstrong locked the door after him. Otis started to speak, and Dean noticed it. "What were you going to say?"

"Nothing. Just thinking what an empire Laird Valley would be if one man owned it. The finest cattle range in the world, all hemmed in by mountains ... like a world by itself!"

Armstrong was thoughtful. "You know," he said reflectively, "it would be one of the biggest cattle empires in the country. Probably the biggest."

Both men were silent on the way to Ma Boyle's. When they entered, the long table, still loaded with food at one end, was almost empty. Harran, who owned the Emporium, was there, and Doc Finerty. So was Powis.

Armstrong, pleased with himself at getting Otis to eat, sat down alongside Finerty. "How are you, Doc?" he asked. "Been out on the range?"

"Yeah, down to the Mains's place. She's ailing again." He sawed at his steak, then looked up. "Seen that durned Mexie Roberts down there. He was coyotin' down the range on that buckskin of his."

Marshal Pete Miller had come in. Miller was a lean, rangy man with a yellow mustache. A good officer in handling drunks and rowdy cowhands, he could do nothing about the rustlers. He overheard Doc's comment.

Rustler "Mexie, huh? He's a bad 'un. Nobody ain't never proved nothin' on him, but I always figgered he drygulched old Jack Hendry. Remember that?"

"I ought to!" Doc said. "Shot with a fifty-caliber Sharps! Never could rightly figure how that happened. No cover or tracks around there for almost a mile."

"A Sharps'll carry that far," Miller said. "Further, maybe. Them's a powerful shootin' gun."

"Sure," Doc agreed, "but who could hit a mark at that distance? That big old bullet's dropping feet, not just inches. That would take some shooting ... and he was drilled right through the heart."

"They believed it was a stray bullet, didn't they?" Powis asked. "I remember that's what they decided."

Garfield Otis listened thoughtfully. During the period in question he had lived in Laird, but his memory of the details of Jack Hendry's death was sketchy at best. One factor in the idea interested him, however. He-asked a-question to which he knew the answer. "What became of Hendry's ranch?"

"Sam, that no-good son of his, sold it," Harran said. "You recall that Sam Hendry? Probably drunk it all up by now. He sold out to Pierce Logan and took off."

"Best thing ever happened to this town!" Powis said. "Logan's really done some good here. That livery stable and hotel never was any good until he bought 'em."

"That's right," Harran agreed. "The town's at least got a hotel a woman can stop in now."

Otis walked to the Longhorn beside Armstrong, and they stood at the bar together and talked of Nathaniel Hawthorne and Walt Whitman. Armstrong returned to his work, and Garfield Otis, fortified by a few extra dollars, proceeded to get very, very drunk.

He had been drunk many times, but when he was drunk he often remembered things he had otherwise for gotten. Perhaps it was the subject of discussion at supper, perhaps it was only the liquor. More likely it was a combination of the two and Otis's worry over Finn Mahone, for out of it all came a memory. At noon the next day, when he awakened in the haymow at the livery barn, he still remembered.

At first he had believed it was a nightmare. He had been drunk that night, too. He had walked out on a grassy slope across the wash that ran along behind the livery stable and the Longhorn. Lying on the grass, he had fallen into a drunken stupor.

Seemingly a long time after, he had opened his eyes and heard a mumble of voices, and then something that sounded like a blow. He had fallen asleep again, and when he awakened once more, he heard the sound of a shovel grating on gravel. Crawling closer, he had seen a big man digging in the earth, and nearby lay something that seemed to be a body.

Frightened, he had stayed where he was until long after the man had moved away. Then he returned to his original bed and slept the night through. It wasn't until afternoon the next day that he remembered, and then he shrugged it off as a dream. The thought returned now, and with it came another.

For the first time, things were dovetailing in his mind. As the pieces began to fit together, realization swept over him, but no course of action seemed plain. His brain was muddled by liquor, and that dulled the knowledge his reason brought him, so he did nothing.

Remy Kastelle awakened with a start. For an instant she stared around the unfamiliar room, trying to recall where she was and all that had happened.

Quietly, she dressed, and only then saw the folded paper thrust under the door. She crossed the room and picked it up.

Had to take a run up to the next valley, be back about eight. There's hot water over the fire, and coffee in the pot.

When she had bathed and combed her hair, she poured a cup of coffee and went to the door.

She stopped dead still, her heart beating heavily and her eyes wide with wonder.

The stone cabin was on a ledge slightly above the valley, and she looked out across a valley of green, blowing grass toward a great, rust-red cliff scarred with white. It was crested with the deep green of cedars that at one place followed a ledge down across the face of the cliff for several hundred yards. Through the bottom of the valley ran Crystal Creek, silver and lovely under the-bright morning sun. In all her life she had seen no place more beautiful than this.

Looking down the rippling green of the grasslands, she saw the enormous stone towers that marked the entrance, a division in the wall that could have been scarcely more than fifty feet wide. From out on the porch, she could look up the valley toward where Crystal Creek cut through another entrance, this one at least two hundred yards across, looking into a still larger valley. Scattered white-face cattle grazed in the bottoms along the stream. Not the rawboned half-fed range cows she knew, but fat, heavy cattle.

As she looked, she saw a horseman come through that upper opening, a big man riding at a fast canter on a black stallion. She watched him, and something stirred deeply within her. So much so that, disturbed, she wrenched her eyes away and walked back into the kitchen. Putting down her cup she went into the bedroom to get her hat. Only then did she see the picture.

There were three, two of them landscapes. It was the third that caught her eyes. It was a portrait of a girl with soft dark eyes and dark hair, her face demure and lovely. Remy walked up to it, and stared thoughtfully.

A sister? No. A wife? A sweetheart?

She looked at the picture first because of curiosity, and then her eyes became calculating, as with true feminine instinct she gauged this woman's beauty against her own. Was this the girl he loved? Was this the reason he preferred to live alone?

Memory of the cup and the warm coffee returned to her. Was he alone?

The sound of the arriving horse jerked her attention from the picture, and hat in hand she walked out to the porch.

"Hi!" Mahone called. "Had some coffee?"

Remy nodded. "If you'll show me the way, I'll start back now."

"Better let me show you the rest of the valley," he suggested. "This is beautiful, but the upper valley is even more so."

"No. I often stay away all night. Father's used to it. But I always head back early. I stay at the Brewsters' occasionally, and sometimes with the Mclnnis family. Once even at Judge Collins's ranch."

She laughed. "The judge was really nervous. I'm afraid he thought I was compromised and that he might have to marry me!"

Finn looked at her, his eyes curious. "You're right. And I think you'd better be sure somebody knows where you are from now on."

"You think there'll be trouble?"

"Uh-huh." He was deadly serious now. "That valley is going to be on fire from one end to the other in a few weeks. Maybe even a few days. You mark my words."

Remy walked down to the corral while he roped Roxie and saddled her. "You know what they think, don't you?" she said.

"That I'm a rustler?" he asked. "Sure. I know that. But look around ... why would I rustle? And if I did, how would I get them in here?"

"There isn't any other way?"

"Not from Laird. I've got all the cattle I want. As long as I keep the varmints down there's nothing to worry me here."

"If they accuse you, and try to make trouble, what will you do?" Remy asked as they neared the slate slide again.

He shrugged, and his face was grim. "What can I do? I'll fight if I have to. I never rustled a cow in my life, and I'm not going to take any pushing around."

She looked at Finn thoughtfully. "Texas Dowd doesn't think you're a rustler, but he warned me to stay away from you, that you were dangerous ... to women."

Finn Mahone's head jerked around, and she could see the flare of anger in his eyes. "Oh, he did, did he? Yes, he would think that."

"Why did he say it?" she asked.

"Ask him," Finn replied bitterly. "He'll tell you. But he's wrong, and if he says that in public, I'll kill him!"

Remy tensed, and her eyes widened. There was something here she didn't understand. "Shall I tell him that, too?"

"Tell him anything you want to!" he snapped. "But tell him he's hunting the wrong man and he's a fool!"

"If there's trouble coming I'd like to think you were on our side," Remy said.

He looked at her cynically. "That cuts both ways, but Dowd wouldn't stay with you if I was. Dowd wants to kill me, Remy."

"And what about you?"

For a moment, he did not answer, then he said simply, "No, I don't want to kill anybody."

He was silent, leading the way down to the slide. They made it now, by daylight, without mishap, but Remy kept her eyes away from the depths beyond the rim.

"You said," Finn suggested suddenly, "that you wanted me on your side. Who do you think is on the other side?"

They were fording the Laird, and she looked around at him. "I don't know," she protested. "That's what makes the whole situation so bad. Nobody seems to know."

She left him at the opening of the Notch and rode on toward home. She was well aware what the people of Laird would say if they knew she had spent the night in Crystal Valley. The ranch people who knew her would think little of it, for she came and went on the range as freely as a man. But, in town, those people would be another matter.

She was halfway to the Lazy K ranch when she met Texas Dowd. He was wearing his flat-brimmed black hat and a gray shirt. With him were Stub and Roolin, two of the hands.

"We was lookin' for you, ma'am," Dowd said. "All hell's busted loose!"

"What do you mean?" Remy reined the mare around, frightened at the grimness of their manner.

"Somebody shot Abe Mclnnis last night. He went off up the valley, with that cowhand named Tony. When they didn't get back, Roolin here, who was up that way waitin' for him, rode up after him with Nick James, that hand of Logan's.

"They found 'em back in a narrow canyon near a brandin' fire. Tony was dead, shot three times through the belly, once in the head. Mclnnis had been shot twice. Doc says he might live; he's in purty bad shape."

"Who did it? Who could have done it?"

"I don't know who done it," Roolin said suddenly, harshly, "but he took off through the mountains ridin' a black stallion. There was another man or two with him. Abe evidently come up on 'em, an' they went t' shootin'."

"People in Laird's some upset," Dowd said. "Miller's gone out that way to have a look. Abe's got him a lot of friends around."

"I'd like to have a talk with Mahone!" Roolin said. "I got my own ideas about him!"

She started to speak, then hesitated. "Just when did it happen?"

"Near's we can figger it was late yesterday afternoon," Roolin offered. "Could have been evenin', but probably was earlier."

That could have been before she met Mahone at the slide. Where had he been coming from then? He had offered no explanation. Was there a trail out through one of the narrow canyons that opened up near where she had first seen him? If there was, he could have ridden the distance without trouble.

Brewster was at the ranch when she got there, accompanied by Dowd. Her father had put his book aside and his face was grave. He was a quiet man, but she knew from past experience that when stirred he was hard, bitterly hard, and a man who would fight to the last shell and the last drop of blood.

Van Brewster was a burly man, deep-voiced and hardbitten. His background was strictly pioneer. He had spent most of his life until now working in the plains country or the mountains, had soldiered, hunted, trapped, and fought Indians and rustlers.

"Abe was my friend!" he was saying as she entered, "and I aim to get the man responsible!"

Dowd drew back to one side of the room and thoughtfully rolled a cigarette. His eyes went from Kastelle to Brewster. He said nothing, invited nothing. A few minutes later, horses were heard in the ranch yard. "That'll be Logan an' Collins," Brewster said. "I told 'em we would meet here."

With them were Harran, the Emporium owner who ran a few cattle on the Collins range, and Dan Taggart, Mclnnis's foreman. All were grim and hard-faced, and all carried guns. "Miller's comin'," Taggart stated. "He's been on the range all day!"

"Find anything?" Harran asked.

"Some tracks," Taggart said, "mighty big hoss tracks. He thinks they were the tracks o' that stallion o' Mahone's!"

Dowd pushed away from the wall, his thumbs hooked in his belt. "Find 'em close to the body of either man? Or close to the fire?"

"Well, no," Taggart admitted. "Not right close't. They was under some trees, maybe fifty yards away. The horse could've been tied there, though."

"It could have," Dowd admitted, "or he could have come up there and looked around and rode off, either before then, or later."

"If it was later, why didn't he report it?" Taggart demanded.

"Well," Collins interrupted, "if you recall, he's scarcely been welcomed around Laird. Probably didn't figure it was any of his business! Or maybe he didn't know what was goin' on."

"You defendin' him?" Taggart demanded. "You want t' remember my boss is a-lyin' home durned near dead!"

"I do not want any accusations without proof!" Judge Collins said sharply. "Just because one man's hurt and another's dead, that doesn't make Mahone guilty if he's innocent!"

"Well," Taggart said dryly, "if I see Finn Mahone on that place again, I'm goin' to shoot first and ask questions after!"

Dowd smiled without humor. "Better make sure it's first," he said, "or you won't live long. Finn Mahone's no man to drag iron on unless you intend to kill him."

"You sound like you know him," Brewster suggested.

Footsteps sounded on the porch, and the door opened. Alcorn was standing there, and with him Ike Hibby, Montana Kerr, and Ringer Cobb, all of Rawhide.

"I do," Dowd said, staring at the newcomers. "I know he's a man you hadn't better accuse of rustlin' unless you're ready to fill your hand."

Ringer Cobb was narrow-hipped and wide-shouldered; a build typical of the western rider. His guns were slung low and tied down. He glanced across at Dowd. "If you're talkin' about Mahone," he said casu; ally, "I'll accuse him! All this talk of his bein' fast with a gun doesn't faze me none. I think he's rustlin'. He or his boys."

Judge Collins studied Cobb and pulled at his mustache. "What do you mean ... his boys?" he asked. "I've understood Mahone played a lone hand."

"So have we all," Harran agreed, "but how do we know?"

That was it, Remy admitted, how did they know? How about that cup on the table, and the still-warm fire? Where had Mahone gone when he rode off that morning?

"How would he get cattle back into that country?" she asked. "Any of you ever tried to go through that Notch?"

"He does it," Cobb said. He looked at the girl, his eyes speculative. "An' for all we know, there may be another route. Nobody ever gets back into that wild country below the Rimrock."

"Nobody but the hombre that killed Tony," Taggart said grimly. "He was in there."

"All this is getting' us nowhere," Brewster put in. "I've lost stock. It's been taken off my range without me ever guessin' until recent. I can't stand to lose no more."

"I think it's time we organized and did something," Alcorn spoke up.

"What?" Kastelle asked. He had been sitting back, idly shuffling cards and watching their faces as the men talked. His eyes returned several times to Pierce Logan. "What do you think, Logan?"

"I agree," Pierce said. He was immaculate today, perfectly groomed, and now his voice carried with a tone of decision, almost of command. "I think we should hire someone to handle this problem." He paused. "A range detective, and one who is good with a gun."

"That suits me!" Ike Hibby said emphatically. "That suits me right down t' the ground. If Mahone an' his boys are goin' t' work our cows, we got t' take steps!"

"You've said again that he has some men," Collins said. "Does anyone actually know that?"

"I do," Alcorn replied. "I seen him an' three others back in the Highbinders, two, three weeks ago. Strangers," he added.

Harran nodded. "He buys a powerful lot of ammunition. More than one man would use."

"Maybe," Kastelle suggested, smiling a little, "he's heard some of this kind of talk and has been getting ready for trouble."

"It's more than one man would use," Harran insisted.

"What about this range detective?" Brewster asked. "Who could we get?"

"Why not Byrn Sonntag?" Hibby suggested. "He's in the country, and he's not busy runnin' cows like the rest of us."

"Sonntag?" Collins burst out. "Why, the man's a notorious killer!"

"What do you want?" Cobb said. "A preacher?"

"It takes a man like that!" Brewster stated dogmatically. "If he finds a man rustlin', why bother with a trial?"

Pierce Logan said nothing, but inside he was glowing. This couldn't be going better ...

"You're bein' quiet, Logan," Brewster said. "What do you think?"

"Well," Logan said, shrugging, "it's up to you boys, but if Miller can't cope with it, then perhaps Sonntag could."

"Mahone's supposed t' be a bad man with a gun," Cobb said, "or so Dowd tells us. Well, Sonntag can handle him."

Kastelle looked up. "By the way," he said, "has anyone ever seen Mahone rustling? Has he been caught with any stolen stock? Has he been seen riding on anybody's range? What evidence is there?"

"Well," Brewster said, uneasily, "not any, rightly, but we know "

"We know nothing!" Collins said sharply. "Nothing at all! This suspicion stems from a lot of rumors. Nothing more."

"Where there's smoke there's fire!" Alcorn said. "I think Sonntag would be a good bet, myself."

"He could gather evidence," Logan admitted carefully. "We would then know what to do."

"You've not said what you think, ma'am." Taggart looked over at Remy. "Abe sets powerful store by what you think about stock. How do you figger this?"

"I don't believe Finn Mahone is a rustler," Remy said. "I think we should have plenty of evidence before we make any accusations. All we know is that we've missed stock and that Mahone keeps to himself."

Logan looked up, surprised. The feeling in Remy's voice aroused him, and he looked at her with new eyes. In the past few months he had taken his time with Remy, feeling he was the only man on the range at whom a girl of her type could look twice. Now, something in her voice made him suddenly alert.

"Well," Brewster said irritably, "what's it to be? Are we goin' to do something or just ride home no better off than when we came?"

"I'm for hirin' Sonntag," Alcorn said seriously.

"Me, too," Cobb said.

"Count me in on that," Ike Hibby said. He lighted his pipe. "I'm only running a few cattle, but I've lost too much stock!"

"Put it to a vote," Logan suggested. "That's the democratic way."

Judge Gardner Collins, Kastelle, Remy, and Texas Dowd voted against it. Alcorn, Hibby, Cobb, Brewster, and Taggart voted for Sonntag.

"How about it, Logan?" Collins said. "Where do you stand?"

"Well," he said with evident reluctance, "if it comes to a vote, I'm with the boys on Sonntag. That looks like action."

"Then it's settled!" Brewster said. He got to his feet. "I'm a-git ting home." , "Mahone said something to me once," Remy said, in a puzzled tone. "He said the way to look for rustlers was with a pen and ink."

Ike Hibby jerked, and looked around hastily. Ringer Cobb's eyes narrowed, and strayed to Dowd. Texas Dowd was leaning against the wall again, and he looked back at Cobb, his eyes bright with malice.

Hibby shifted his feet. "Reckon I'll be headin' for home," he said. "Got a long ways t' go!"

Brewster picked up his hat and nodded good-bye to everyone. Alcorn and Ike glared at Remy, Alcorn licking his lips. "I don't figure I know what you mean, ma'am. But if anyone is accusin' anyone, it's us against Mahone. Not the other way around."

Slowly, they trooped out.

"Now what did I say?" Remy demanded, looking from her father to Dowd.

The tall Texan walked over and dropped into a chair. "You put your finger on the sore spot," he said grimly. "You blew the lid off the trouble in Laird!"

"Why, how do you mean?" she demanded, wide-eyed.

"Got a pen?" Texas said grimly.

She brought one out, and some paper. He looked up at her. "What's Abe's brand? A Spur, ain't it? Now look, an' I'll draw a Spur. Now what's Ike Hibby's brand? IH' joined. Now just you take a look, ma'am ..."

She looked at the rough drawing.

"You see what I mean? You take Abe's brand, add a mite more to the sides of the Spur to make it look like an I, then put a bar on the end of the Spur to make her look like the outside of the H."

Remy leaned over the table, excitedly. "But then, he could steal the Spur cattle and alter that brand without trouble!"

"Uh-huh, unless we caught him at it. Or unless we found some stock with altered brands. We ain't done either."

"You mean to say you've known this all the time?"

"I been thinkin' about it. But thinking something and havin' evidence ain't the same thing."

"But what about ours? The Lazy K?"

"It's probably made into a Box Diamond, and that's Ringer Cobb's brand. Brewster's Lazy S they change into a Lazy Eight."

"But then, that Rawhide crowd must be the rustlers!" Remy exclaimed.

"Uh-huh," Dowd agreed. "That's what I thought, but what can we prove?

"Something else, too," he added gravely. "Tonight the Rawhide bunch voted their own boss in as a paid, legal killer! Who's goin' to tell him where to stop? Or who he kills? Who will stop him once he's started?"

Chapter 4

Finn Mahone heard of the action of the Cattleman's Association when in Rico. He had made it a duty to visit Rico every so often, always hoping the man he had come west to find would show himself there again.

He had never seen the man for whom he was looking close up. He knew his name, that he had been a riverboat gambler, and that he was a wizard with cards and deadly with a pistol. He knew also that the man carried a derringer in his sleeve and was not above sneak-shooting a man.

Finn Mahone had trailed him from New Orleans to Natchez. All the time, the man had ridden a stolen steel-dust gelding. The man had ridden the big horse all the way to Santa Fe, where he traded it off for another animal. Mahone had bought the steel-dust from the new owner on a hunch and continued on.

Then he heard that a man answering the rough description had killed a man in Rico. But in Rico the trail was lost for good. Eventually, Finn had explored the Crystal Valley and settled down there. He was operating on a hunch that his man was somewhere around. He kept the big gelding, although he could not bring himself to ride it, and the horse grazed his upper pasture even now.

Ed Wheeling was in the Gold Spike Bar when he walked in. Wheeling greeted him with a smile. "How's it, Finn? Got any cattle? That last herd I bought from you was said to be the finest beef in Kansas City!"

"Thanks." Finn ordered a drink. "When do you want some? I reckon I can bring over a few. About a hundred head."

"That all you've got? I'll take them, and top prices any time you get them over here. What's this I hear about Sonntag being hired as a range detective?"

Mahone looked at him quickly. "Sonntag? That's bad."

"What I thought. The man's a killer. I saw him kill one man here in town only a few weeks ago. The man had an even break, if you can ever call it even when they go-against him."

Finn turned his glass in his fingers. "Wheeling, what do you know about this rustling?"

Wheeling glanced right and left, then touched his tongue to his lips. "Nothing, if anybody asks. Me, I don't buy any doubtful beef, but there's others do. I'll tell you this much. There's been some queer-looking brands shipped out of here. Good jobs, but they looked burned over to me."

"Who buys 'em?"

"Well, don't go saying I told you. Jim Hoff bought 'em, but then, he'd buy anything he could get cheap."

"Thanks." He tossed off his drink. "This Sonntag deal is liable to be bad for those folks over to Laird. Sonntag is boss of that Rawhide bunch." He glanced at Wheeling. "They run the Lazy Eight, Box Diamond, and IH connected, if that means anything to you."

"It does," Wheeling replied. "It means plenty!"

Finn left the saloon. What Wheeling had told him only confirmed what he had believed. There was brand altering being done somewhere around. And some, at least, were being sold in Rico. They would move against him now, he had no doubt of that. The employing of Sonntag. would give them a free rein. He wondered what the first move would be.

The noose was tightening now. Stopping in at the store he bought three hundred rounds of .44-caliber ammunition. His pistols had been modified to use the same ammunition as his Knight's Patent Winchester, which simplified things in that department.

He was just stowing it in his saddlebags when he saw Dean Armstrong. The newspaperman was coming toward him. "Howdy, Dean!" he said.

Armstrong's face was somber. "Watch yourself, Finn," he said. "I think Sonntag's gunning for you. I know Ringer Cobb is. He made his boast at the Cattleman's meeting that he would accuse you to your face."

"What happened at that meeting?"

"It was ramrodded, in a sense. Judge Collins, Kastelle, Remy, and Dowd voted against Sonntag. But Brewster and Taggart threw in with the Rawhide bunch."

"Taggart?"

"Abe Mclnnis's foreman. Abe was drygulched, wounded badly the same time they killed Tony Welt."

"Hadn't heard about that."

Armstrong looked at him quickly, worriedly. "Finn, > they've got you pegged for that job. It happened in one of the canyons in the wild country south of the Rimrock. They found the tracks of a big horse, and some of them say they saw your stallion in there."

"I might have been there," Finn admitted, "but not when any shooting took place."

He dug his toe into the dust. "Remy voted against Sonntag, huh?"

"Yes. In fact, Finn, she spoke right out in the meeting and said she didn't believe you were a rustler."

"What did Dowd say?"

"He was against Sonntag. But on the whole, he didn't have much to say. I think Texas Dowd believes in killing his own beef."

"You're damned right he does," Mahone said sharply. "That man's got more cold-blooded nerve than any I ever a saw!"

"What's between you two, anyway?" Dean demanded, looking curiously at Finn. "I'd think you two would be friends!"

Mahone shrugged. "That's the way things happen. We were friends once, Dean. For a long time. I know that man better than anyone in the world, and he should know me, but he's powerful set in his ways, and once he gets an idea in his head it's hell getting' it out."

Finn Mahone headed across the plateau in sooty darkness. Dean's information and what he had learned from Wheeling put the problem fairly in his hands. The Rawhide bunch were evidently out to get him. Ringer Cobb had made his boast, and he was the type of man to back it up if he could.

From the beginning there had been an effort to hang the rustling on him. While his living alone would be suspicious to some, Finn had an idea that more than a little planting of ideas had been going on over the range. There was deliberate malice behind it. It was not Dowd's way to stoop to such tactics. Texas Dowd would say nothing. He would wait, patiently, and then one of them would die.

A roving, solitary man all his life, Finn had found but one man he cared to ride the river with. That man was Texas Dowd. They had ridden a lot of rivers, and their two guns had blasted their way out of more than one spot of trouble.

Had there been a chance of talking to Dowd, he would have done it, but there was too much chance the man would shoot on sight. Cold, gray, and quiet, Dowd was a man of chilled steel, the best of friends, but the most bitter of enemies.

One thing was now clear. It was up to him to prove his innocence. It might be a help to ride into town and see Lettie. She always knew what was going on, and was one of the few friends he had. She, and Garfield Otis.

What was it Dean had said about Otis? "Funny about Otis, Finn," he'd said. "He hasn't had a drink in almost a week. Got something on his mind, but he won't talk."

The trail dipped down into the Laird River Canyon, and the sound of rushing water lifted to his ears. Rushing water and the vague dampness that lifted from the trembling river. He should have told Ed Wheeling to say nothing about his bringing the cattle. Ed was a talkative man, and an admirer of those fat white-faced steers of Finn's.

This would be where they would wait for him, here in the canyon. A couple of good riflemen here could stop the passage of any herd of cattle, or of any man.

The cabin on the ledge was very quiet when he rode in. As he swung down from the stallion's back, he remembered the morning Remy Kastelle had stood on the steps waiting for him, and how her hair had shone in the bright morning sun.

The cabin seemed dark and lonely when he went inside, and after he had eaten he sat down to read, but now there was no comfort in his books. He got up and strode outside, all the old restlessness rising within him, that driving urge to be moving on, to be going. He knew what was coming, knew that in what happened there would be heartbreak and sudden death.

Aware of all the tides of western change, Finn Mahone could see behind the rustling in Laird Valley a deep and devious plan. It was unlike any rustling he had seen before. It was no owl-hoot gang suddenly charging out of the night on a wild raid, nor was it some restless cowhands who wanted money for a splurge across the border This had been a careful, soundless, and trackless weeding of herds. Had it gone on undiscovered, it would have left the range drained of cattle, and the cattlemen broke.

He could see how skillfully the plan had been engineered. How careful the planning. As he studied what Dean had told him of the Cattleman's meeting, another thought occurred. The vote had been six to four to hire Sonntag. But what if Mclnnis had been there?

The dour New England Scotsman was not one for plunging into anything recklessly. He would never have accepted the hiring of Sonntag. Especially as Collins and the Kastelles had voted against it. This the leader of the rustlers must have figured. The shooting of Mclnnis had been deliberately planned and accomplished in cold blood.

Had Mclnnis been voting, Taggart either would not have been there to vote, or would have followed Abe's lead. Brewster, hotheaded and impulsive as he was, would have been tempered by the Mclnnis coolness. Then the vote would have been against hiring Sonntag! At the worst, it would have been a tie, and no action.

That the meeting had been called before the shooting of Abraham Mclnnis, Mahone knew.

He sat down suddenly and wrote out a short note, a note that showed the vote had Mclnnis been present. He added, Show this to the judge. Then he enclosed it in an envelope, and decided he would send it to the newspaper office by Shoshone Charlie.

Carefully, he oiled his guns and checked his rifle. Then he made up several small packs of food and laid out some ammunition. He was going to be ready for trouble now, for it was coming. He could wait, and they might never get to him, but he preferred to strike first. Also, he had his cattle to deliver.

Mexie Roberts was not a man who hurried. Small, dark, and careful, he moved like an Indian in the hills.

For several days now he had been studying the Lazy K

-from various vantage points. He had watched Texas Dowd carefully. Knowing the West as he did, he knew Dowd was a man whom one might never get a chance to shoot at twice. Mexie Roberts prided himself on never having to shoot more than once. His trade was killing, and he knew the tricks of his trade.

Lying on his belly in the dust among the clumps of greasewood, he watched every soul on the Lazy K. Shifting his glass from person to person, he soon began to learn their ways and their habits.

He was not worried about hitting Dowd, once he got him in his sights. The Sharps .50 he carried was a gun he understood like the working of his own right hand.

There was no mercy in Mexie Roberts. Killing was born in him as it is in a weasel or a hawk. He killed, and killed in cold blood. It was his pride that he had never been arrested, never tried, never even accused. Some men had their suspicions, but no man could offer evidence.

He had been given the job of killing Dowd, and there was in the job a measure of personal pride as well as the money. Texas Dowd was to Mexie Roberts what a Bengal tiger is to a big-game hunter. He was the final test. Hunting Dowd was hunting death in its most virulent form.

In a few days now, perhaps a few hours, he would be ready. Then Dowd would die, and when he died, there would be no one near to see where the shot came from, and Mexie Roberts would have his hideaway carefully chosen.

All over Laird Valley tides of trouble and danger were , rising. Men moved along the streets of Laird with cautious eyes, scanning each newcomer, watching, waiting.

In his office beside the barbershop, Judge Gardner Collins moved a man into the king row and crowned him. Doc Finerty rubbed his jaw and studied the board with thoughtful eyes. Neither man had his mind on the game.

"It was my fault," Collins said. "I should have stopped it. Don't know why I didn't realize how Brewster and Taggart would vote."

Dean Armstrong came in, glanced at the board, then placed a slip of paper on the checkerboard between them. "Found this under my door this morning," he said. "It's Mahone's handwriting."

For.

Against.

Ike Hibby.

Collins.

Ringer Cobb.

Kastelle.

Alcorn.

R. Kastelle.

Taggart.

Dowd.

Logan.

Brewster.

Had Abe Mclnnis. been there:

Ike Hibby.

Collins.

Ringer Cobb.

Kastelle.

Alcorn.

R. Kastelle.

Logan.

Dowd.

Brewster (?)

Mclnnis.

Taggart (?)

Show this to the judge.

Collins studied it thoughtfully. "I reckon he's got it figured proper," he said. "That would make it at worst a tie vote. Taggart would have gone along with his boss, I know that. Dan's hotheaded, but Abe always sort of calms him down and keeps him thinking straight."

"You see what it implies, don't you?" Dean indicated. "That Abe Mclnnis was drygulched on purpose!"

"Uh-huh," Finerty agreed, "it does. I agree."

"Let's call another meeting," Armstrong suggested, "and vote him out. You've got some stock running with the judge, haven't you, Doc? Enough to vote?"

"It wouldn't do," Collins said. "The Rawhide bunch wouldn't meet. We couldn't get a quorum now. No, he's in, and we might as well make the best of it. What's he been doing, Dean?"

"Riding all over the range so far. That's all."

Pierce Logan sat in his office. He wore a neatly pressed dark gray suit and a white vest. His white hat lay atop the safe nearby. As he sat, he fingered his mustache thoughtfully.

It had been a long wait, and hard work, but now he was there. Only a few more weeks and he would be in possession of all he had hoped for. They would be shaky, dangerous weeks, but the danger would be of the sort he understood best.

He had come out of the carpetbag riots in New Orleans with money. Enough to come west in obvious prosperity. The little affair near New Orleans, one of those times when the ingrown rapacity of the man had let go like an explosion, had passed over without trouble. Since arriving in Laird he had bided his time. Now he was ready.

He was not worried about Texas Dowd. Sonntag had set something up, and it would be taken care of soon. Sonntag was range detective, and any killings he might commit would have a semblance of legality. There was opposition here in town, he knew. Judge Collins would be against him, but the judge was no longer young. Finerty could not stand against him, and as for Armstrong ... Logan didn't like Armstrong. At the first hint of trouble from The Branding Iron, he would have to have the presses smashed up.

His eyes shifted out the window, and suddenly, he stiffened.

A man was walking slowly along the sandy hillside beyond the livery barn and corrals. He was walking along as though studying the ground. Now and then he would halt, kneel down, and study it carefully, then he would rise and move on. Occasionally he would sift a little dirt through his fingers.

The man was Garfield Otis.

Pierce Logan put a hand to his brow. He was sweating. His heart pounding, he slid a hand in a drawer for a gun. Then drew it back. No, that wasn't the way.

But what could the old fool be looking for? Why would he be examining that hillside, of all places?

It had been years ago. Certainly, Otis could know nothing. Yet he watched him, and Logan knew for the first time what it meant to fear.

If he was discovered now, he was ruined. Not even the Rawhide bunch could save him. It was only his power and money that held them together, and if the lid blew off this !

Garfield Otis was wandering back down the wash now. He would be in the saloon in a few minutes. But no, Otis hadn't been drinking lately. And Otis was a friend of Mahone's.

Whatever was done must be done at once, and Logan knew there was only one thing that could be done. He got up and walked out into the street.

Finn Mahone had taken an old game trail east from the entrance to Crystal Valley. It led him down, and across a corner of the lava beds, then into the wild country of the Highbinders north of the Lazy K.

His stallion walked slowly, and Finn kept one hand near his walnut gun butt. The chance of seeing an enemy here was slight, although he had decided against trying the Notch. If anyone were to lie in wait for him, that would be the ideal spot.

The country in which he now rode was country where few horsemen ever went. The hillsides of the Highbinders were too grass less to draw cattle away from the fertile bottoms of the Lazy K range. This was a broken, partly timbered, and very rocky country that offered nothing to any man. Sheep or goats might have lived there; cattle could not.

Yet, when he was almost due north of the Lazy K ranch buildings, he stopped and swung down.

Coming out of the woods and turning into the small trail he followed were the recent tracks of a horse!

Finn loosened his gun in its holster and walked on, leading Fury. On second thought, he turned off the trail and chose a way under the pines, avoiding the dust where his tracks would be seen. When he had gone a little way further, he smelled smoke.

At first, it was just a faint suggestion, then he got a stronger whiff. Tying the stallion to a low branch, he worked his way cautiously through the brush. He had gone almost a hundred yards when he saw a faint blue haze rising from a hollow among the rocks.

Crawling out on a flat-topped rock that ended in a clump of manzanita, he lay on his belly and stared down into the hollow.

A fire, small and carefully built, burned among some stones. A coffeepot sat on the stones, being warmed. A buckskin horse was tethered nearby, and not far away, a grulla packhorse.

There was one man, and Finn watched him curiously. The man was small and dark, and at the moment Finn spotted him, he was fastening a long narrow piece of white cloth to a tree trunk. Peering at it, Finn could see that it had a cross printed on it near the top, and then graduated markings running down its length. At the bottom was a weight so that the strip would hang straight down.

When it was fastened, the small man carefully paced off a certain distance and marked the spot, then he picked up his rifle, a Sharps buffalo gun. Finn's brow furrowed.

Puzzled, Mahone watched the man carry his Sharps to the mark on the ground and rest the muzzle in the crotch of a forked stick he carried. Laying prone, the little man carefully aimed at the cloth strip and then proceeded to work the screw-adjustable peep sight that was fitted to the big gun up and down, making minute adjustments until it was lined up with one of the marks on the cloth.

"Well, I'll be forever damned!" Finn Mahone muttered. "That's a new one on me!" The dark man was calibrating his sights for a long shot over a previously measured distance.

When he was satisfied, the man left the rifle where it was and returned to his fire. He drank coffee, ate a little, and took a hurried look around. Then he put out his fire, scattered it, and carefully wiped out all footprints with a pine bough. For a half hour he worked until every mark of the camp had been obliterated.

Only then did he take his rifle. Mounting the buckskin, which with the packhorse had been led into the trail, he ! held his rifle with great care, then he moved off, walking the horse.

Finn Mahone got up quietly and walked back to his own horse. Moving carefully, he followed the strange rider. The man's every action gave evidence that he had no intention of riding far, and the only place close to j them was the Lazy K ranch!

Who, then, was the killer after? For Finn had noj doubts about the man's intentions. Remy? That would] serve no purpose, Frenchy Kastelle? Probably not.

Who, of all the men on this range, would be most dangerous to successful rustling? Texas Dowd. Who, on this range, might match guns with Sonntag or Ringer Cobb or Montana Kerr? Only, aside from himself, Texas Dowd. All of which meant that this man intended to kill Dowd.

His conclusion might be mistaken, but Finn could think of no logical alternative.

When they drew near the edge of the timber, Finn tied the stallion in a concealed position among the trees and, rifle in hand, moved out after the unknown sharpshooter.

The man had tied his horses with a slip knot and had vanished into the brush. Finn started to follow, then hesitated and walked back to the horses. Untying them, he retied the knot, and lashed it hard and fast. The man who rode these horses wasn't going to be getting away in a hurry!

Then, working with infinite care, Finn Mahone worked down along the marksman's trail.

He lost the trail on the edge of the brush. Here the man had moved into a gully, and whether he had gone up down, Finn could not tell. Yet from where he lay on the side of the bluff Finn had an excellent view of the grassy field between the Lazy K ranch buildings and the position he occupied. The sharpshooter would have to move out into position from here, and get into place to fire on the buildings.

Suddenly, Finn saw the man. He had come out of the gully and was snaking along the ground, keeping low in the grass, still handling his rifle with utmost care. When the man reached the top of a low knoll, his position would be excellent.

Only then did Mahone realize how carefully this had been planned. The way to the knoll was completely covered from observation from anywhere but this bluff. The man could never have been seen from the ranch.

The Sharps rifle, known to kill at distances up to a thousand yards, had occasionally been effective at even greater distances, as Billy Dixon had proved at the Battle of Adobe Wells. It used the most powerful black powder cartridges ever made, and fired up to 550 grains of lead with terrific force and remarkable accuracy.

With the distance deliberately paced off, probably late at night when all were asleep, the unknown marksman would know exactly how much his bullet would drop, and now the finely machined sight was set for precisely that range. One shot would be all he'd get at a target like Dowd, but as Finn correctly surmised, the man had no intention of firing more than one shot.

Mahone lost him, then found him again, and when he next sighted him he was on the crest of the knoll and settling into position. Finn eased his own rifle up, and waited.

There was little movement around the Lazy K. Occasionally someone appeared, then vanished. The man below lay perfectly still. Had Finn not known he was there, he could never have picked him out on the grassy, boulder-strewn knoll.

Then the ranch house door opened, and Finn lifted his head. Remy was walking down to the corrals. A hand led her white mare out, and the girl swung into the saddle and galloped away over the plains, riding west.

Finn's eyes followed her. How beautifully she rode! He had never seen a woman ride with such grace. Angry with himself, he wrenched his eyes away.

A man had come from the ranch house and was walking down to the corral. He wore an old black hat, but even at that distance Finn could recognize the straight carriage, the easy movement of the shoulders. Texas Dowd was a man difficult to forget and easy to pick out.

Mahone's eyes dropped. The man below was waiting for some particular thing, Finn could see that. All men are creatures of habit to some extent, and the marksman KUSTLER KOUNDUP / IO had evidently studied Dowd until he knew his every move.

No one else was in sight. The cowhand who led out Remy's horse had vanished, and the ranch lay hot in the glare of the sun. Dowd led out his horse and tied it to a rail of the corral fence. Then he brought out the saddle, and threw it on the horse's back. Dowd was standing with his back squarely to the sharpshooter now, but the man waited. Then, slowly he eased his rifle up and Finn, even at this distance, could almost see the man settling his cheek against the stock ready for his shot.

Finn lifted his rifle and triggered three fast shots at the figure below. Even as he fired, he heard the big rifle boom from the knoll, but his first shot must have come close, for the rifleman threw himself to one side.

Finn got a hasty glimpse of Dowd's horse rearing, but already his eyes were searching the grass below for the killer. The man had vanished as if he had dropped into the earth itself!

Riveting his eyes on the grass, Finn began to search it with infinite care, taking it section by section, but he could see nothing of the man. He suddenly realized this was no place for him. If Dowd was to find him here he would be sure it was Finn who had fired, and the sharpshooter was certainly making his getaway.

Scrambling through the brush, he started back to the -horses. Somehow in his rush he took a wrong turn, and though delayed only a minute or two longer than he had expected, he reached the horses just as the marksman appeared. The fellow rushed to the horses and jerked at the slip knot. It stuck, and then Finn said, "All right, turn around and throw up your hands!"

Mexie Roberts wheeled like a cornered rat and his hand flashed for his pistol. Finn's rifle blasted and Roberts staggered back, coughing, his eyes wide and staring.

He blinked once, very slowly, then sat down and rolled over, drawing his knees up tightly, and died.

Mahone wheeled and raced for his horse. Then he was in the saddle and heading down range as fast as he could ride. He had no desire to see Dowd now. The Texan would see what had happened from the tracks.

Meanwhile, there was business in town. If Sonntag was there, and looking for him, he could find him. Laird, he felt, was the center of things. Knowing as little as he did about all the people there, Finn had only a few ideas. He intended to learn what he could, and there were two sources on which he could rely: Lettie Mason and Otis.

Remy Kastelle, riding west, heard the sharp cracking report of the Winchester, followed by the heavy boom of the Sharps, then the Winchester twice again. She wheeled her horse and started back on a dead run. She was just reaching the ranch house when she saw Texas Dowd, gun in hand, leave the ranch at a gallop.

Swinging alongside she disregarded his motions to stay back, and rode on. Suddenly, he seemed to sight something in the grass, and wheeled, riding over to the knoll. He swung down from the horse and picked it up. It was Roberts's Sharps rifle.

He looked up at the girl, then removed his hat. The Sharps had torn a ragged gash in the brim. "Somebody shot at him," Dowd said, "or he'd a had me sure! I heard that first shot and jerked. This came next."

The grass was pressed down where Mexie had crushed it in his retreat. The route by which he had approached was not the return route. Mexie had been too cagey for that. Yet his return had been a flight, and Dowd followed, riding his horse until he came to the two horses and Roberts's body.

KUSTLER KOUNDUP / iVO

He rolled the man over, and Remy drew back, her face pale. "Who ... who is it?" she asked.

"I've seen him around. Name of Roberts. Shot twice, right through the heart." He looked up at her. His face was bleak and hard. "Not many men shoot like that!"

Texas stepped over the body and looked at the knot. "No hombre expectin' to leave in a hurry ever tied a horse like that!" he said. "Whoever shot him knew these horses were here. He tied that knot so if he was slow getting' back, this hombre wouldn't get away!"

Carefully, Dowd went through his pockets. There was some ninety dollars in bills. One, a twenty, was pasted together with a piece of pink paper. Dowd put them in his shirt pocket. Scouting around, he found the bush where the black stallion had been tied. His face stiffened as he looked. Then he lifted his eyes to the girl. "It's him, damn his soul!" he said bitterly.

"Who?"

"Finn Mahone! He seen this hombre cat-footin' around the hills. He followed him, an' when he saw what he was up to, he scared him out of there. Then he got back here, an' this hombre tried to shoot it out with him."

"Finn Mahone!" Remy stared at Dowd. "Then he saved your life, Tex!"

"Yeah." Tex stared at the tracks of the big horse. "That's the third time!"

"Tex," Remy said quickly, "what's between you and Mahone?"

Texas Dowd raised his eyes and looked at her. "He murdered my sister," he said coldly.

Chapter 5

Dan Taggart loped his sorrel pony toward the Mclnnis ranch. At the time Mexie Roberts was lying in wait for his shot at Dowd, Taggart had been inspecting cattle far to the south.

Taggart was a man of nearly forty who looked ten years older. Rarely clean shaven, he was grim, hard, and loyal. He was one of those riders who were the backbone of the cattle business. When he rode, he rode, in the parlance of the cattle country, "for the brand." In other words, his loyalty was not a thing to be taken lightly.

He was a man without imagination. Hardworking, ready to fight if need be, never hesitating at long hours or miserable conditions. Abe Mclnnis, who knew a good man when he saw one, had made Taggart foreman. It was the first position of responsibility Dan Taggart had ever held. He took it seriously, and he did more work than any two of his cowhands.

That day he had seen a heifer with a fresh brand. He got a loop on her, and inspected the brand. It was P Slash L, the Logan brand. There was nothing surprising about it, as the cattle of the two ranches grazed the same land in this area, and had done so without question for some time.

Nick James, who had formerly ridden for Mclnnis, saw Taggart pull down the heifer and rode over. He grinned at the older man. "Figger we're rustlin', Dan?"

"Nope." Taggart released the heifer and got up. "Just havin' a look. That Kastelle girl said something' the other day. Bothers me some."

"What was that?" James asked. He rolled a smoke and sat his horse, waiting.

Taggart rolled his quid and spat. "Said something' about this here Mahone feller sayin' if we was to hunt rustlers we should do it with a pen an' ink."

Nick looked at Taggart quickly, his eyes shrewd. "Yeah," he said, carefully, "not a bad idea. You got that Spur brand, Dan. Feller could make that over into a lot of things."

"Uh-huh," Taggart agreed. He picked up a bit of dead mesquite root. "Like an IH connected?"

Nick James's face was expressionless. He lighted his smoke. "Yeah," he said again, "you can do purty well with a Lazy K, too."

Taggart looked up. "Nick, I wouldn't say this to many people, but I reckon I got stampeded into doin' something' foolish the other night. First time I ever went to one of them Cattleman's meetin's, though." He looked up again. "I voted for Sonntag."

"Heard about it," Nick said gravely. "You seen The Branding Iron?"

"No, why?" Taggart looked up at Nick.

The P Slash L cowhand dug into his saddlebag. "Take a look then."

SONNTAG CHOSEN FOR RANGE