Читать книгу The Complete Novels of Ernest Haycox - Ernest Haycox - Страница 94

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Stinger Dann kicked the ashes of his small fire together and ground them out. Sunlight streamed into the glade, the odor of bacon and coffee lingered faintly on—and Red- main's right-hand gunman greeted his fourth day of lone hunting with an accumulated moroseness.

There were two sides to Dann, neither of them any credit to him. In a pitched engagement, such as with the vigilantes and Denver, he let himself go with an unreasoning and tigerish fury, never considering safety, never slacking off in his desire to destroy and inflict pain. But in this present affair with Steers he was a different man altogether, stolidly patient enough to wait all year for his chance, and avoiding every false move. He might have forced the issue sooner, for he had seen Steve Steers two or three times from afar, and he recognized the fact that Steers was advertising his position and issuing a challenge. In each instance Dann recoiled from the setting, thinking a trap to exist, or considering the odds uneven. So he held back, waiting for the time when Steers, tired of the crossplay, would become reckless. Dann knew the occasion would arise. Because of that belief he kept to the high levels, out of the traveled areas, and changed locations each night. He had waited behind Shoshone Dome, watching the stage road. He had taken a covert position near the Copperhead bridge. Then, shifting his position, he had settled down near Nightingale's ranch. But of all places this was the least profitable. Steers was not using the ranch as a base. Therefore Dann moved south of Starlight and took to his present position, which was on a wooded butte commanding the end of Sundown Valley, the stage road, a half dozen forking trails, and the prairie.

He had another definite reason for holding off. Not being a fool, he knew no man in Redmain's shoes was to be trusted; in this illicit kind of a life it was dog eat dog, with no scruples shown. During the hours of solitude it had been borne upon Dann that he was practically stationed between two fires. No longer did he have the mass protection of the wild bunch. He was on his own, an isolated outlaw to be shot at. And what was to prevent the bullet from coming out of the wrong direction—Redmain's? Such things happened. He had been a valuable man to Redmain, but the chief treated him scurvily.

"He's afraid of me," grunted Dann to himself, watching the road below. "He's runnin' the bunch, and he don't want me to interfere. Higher they get, the more nervous they get. I can tell. He's took to watchin' his shadder—and that ain't healthy for anybody that crosses his path. But I was a sucker to leave. He meant somethin' by it. It wasn't just no case of gettin' Steers. Anybody could get that washed-out runt. Why pick me? Yeah, he had an idea, the slippery rat."

The sun rose higher, melting morning's dew. Three Leverage riders came around one side of the butte, patrolled as far as Starlight, and circled toward their ranch. Dann felt a strong desire to scatter them with his rifle, such being the rankling, surly state of his mind. And momentarily his resentment grew.

"I was a sucker to leave," he repeated. "Who's done all the hard work for Lou Redmain? Me. He gets the credit. And still he plays his own hand well enough to tell the wide world I shot Denver. I had ought to of stayed. It was smokin' up to a fight between me and him—and it only needed one bullet to settle him. That's my crowd, not his. He's afraid of me, that's what. Well, I'll get this job over with and go back. And we'll see who's—"

His roving glance came to focus. Beyond Starlight, a rider pursued the Sundown-Ysabel Junction road with a free gait. Dann crouched closer to the earth, sidling a little to keep the approaching man in view. He reached back for his rifle, considered the distance from butte to road, and slowly sent the bolt home on a shell. Tentatively he settled the gun to his shoulder. But in the very act of rehearsing the forthcoming scene he let the gun fall and scurried off to get a view of the reverse slope. The Leverage riders were still in sight. Dann watched them drift along, a scowl deepening on his red face. Then he returned to his original location and swept the green timber on the far side of the road, all the way up to the mouth of Starlight. That canyon was a tricky stretch of country. Denver country with Denver men in it; and the solitary rider had all that to his back as he loped ahead.

It was Steve Steers. Dann had recognized him at the first far glance. Steers rode with a peculiar flopping of elbows and a distinct swaying in the saddle; moreover, Steers had a favorite horse, colored like a blanket—a small horse that lifted his feet high. Dann leveled his gun on Steers, still engaged in the debate with himself. There was such a thing as missing his target, considering the distance; there was also the ever present possibility of a trap. Dann never forgot that item. And while he tarried, keeping his sight on Steers, the latter went rocketing through the throat of the hills, fell down the long grade, and was beyond reach. Dann cursed slowly, flipping over the rifle's safety. He watched Steers settle to a long straight course southward.

"He's goin' to the Junction," decided Dann. "And that's the chance I been waitin' for. Once he's out of these hills I know blamed well there ain't anybody helpin' him. Now I got him just like I want!"

He rode down the butte side, shot across the road, and gained cover once more. Fifteen minutes later he appeared on the edge of the prairie, away off to the left rear of Steers, who had become a bobbing point in the distance. An arroyo stretched over the undulating land like an avenue; into the protection of this Dann descended, whipping his horse.

Steve Steers never rode abroad without unconsciously absorbing the details of the land. This was range training. And recently he had been especially vigilant because of his challenge to Dann. Whether or not Dann was gunning for him, he couldn't tell, for in all his roundabout riding during the last four days he had found no sign of the burly outlaw. But today he crossed the prairie in a fairly relaxed frame of mind. Outside of the broken stretch of country called the Sugar Loaves half way to the Junction and the Mogul canyon slightly farther on, there was no place for an ambusher to hide. These two geographical man-traps he put behind without accident. Once, quite a few miles to his left rear, he had picked up a moving object and then rather suddenly lost it, but it was like a ship sighting another ship down the horizon and he paid scant attention. Two hours from Starlight he reined in at the Junction and dismounted, a little dry, a little drowsy, and expecting nothing. The only definite thoughts he had in mind related to his errand, which was to send a telegram up to Salt Lake to a certain gentleman who specialized in doing detective work around stockyards. He had talked the matter over with Niland, and they had agreed it might be illuminating to have the man look into Fear Langdell's shipments as they arrived, more especially studying the flesh side of the brands after the steers had been skinned.

He walked toward the station house, contemplating the utter desolation of this pin point upon the map. A dripping water tank dominated Ysabel Junction, which was half the reason for there being a railroad stop here at all. The other half rested on the presence of a long series of cattle pens and loading chutes that ran the full length of about eighteen hundred yards of siding. There were also three bilious colored section shanties, now quite empty of life, and a few flimsy sheds. And this was the scene. Steve ambled through the open door of the station house with an increasing sense of weariness. The telegraph clacked crisply through the droning air, but when he passed from the waiting room into the agent's combined office and living quarters he found nobody present.

"A large and busy life," he reflected, easing himself into a chair. "I'd go nuts if I didn't have nothin' to do but watch the trains pass by. This and sheep herdin' is my idea of absolute zero in human activity. Now I wonder where that gazook has done gone and lost himself?"

He rolled a cigarette and tilted the chair against the wall, considering it easier to wait than to go out and shout. A fly buzzed around his head, and he closed his eyes. The telegraph chattered companionably for a while, then fell silent. The world was large, and there was plenty of time, a seasonable share of which slid painlessly by before Steve took cognizance of it. The telegraph rattled again, and though Steve knew absolutely nothing about Morse code, he thought he detected a regular sequence in the call. The reiteration of it made him slightly uneasy; rising, he walked along the walls and studied the pictures tacked profusely thereon, most of them women out of magazines. Some had clothes on.

"Mama," grinned Steve, knocking back his hat, "come save your son! This fella has got taste."

After a while even the undeniable novelty of art appreciation waned. Steve considered. "His hat's here, his coat's here, and so's his gun. There's his pipe. Well, I guess he's got more time than I have, so I better look. Funny thing, but the less a man's got to do the harder he is to find."

He went back through the waiting room and stepped to the cindered runway. Not a soul stood against the hard bright day. Outside of the Mexican houses and the open sheds there was no place of refuge available to the agent. Steve began to resent the cosmic indifference sweltering around him. He opened his mouth and emitted a strident bellow.

"Hey!"

No reply. Not even an echo. It appeared there was no power sufficiently strong to dent the overwhelming vacantness. Steve considered the water tank thoughtfully. "Wonder if he climbed up there to take a bath and couldn't get out? HEY!"

He swore mildly and started for the Mexican houses. "Well, if I got to find him, I got to find him. But the type of help this railroad company employs shore is scandalous." His boots ground audibly into the cinders, then struck soft sand. The first Mexican house lay a hundred yards down the track, while a short fifty feet to the left stood the gaunt ribs of the first loading pen. Steers reached for his tobacco and had grasped the package in his fingers when a shaft of hard cold warning plunged through the lethargy of his mind. His hand froze to the tobacco sack, his feet faltered. But an impulse raced like lightning to his lagging muscles, and he pressed on, keeping the same tempo. There could be no turning back to the shelter of the station house now. He was a broad, fair target, and no safety presented itself short of the loading pen, which in that same interval had drawn a thousand miles off. Sweat prickled his skin; then he was cold and nerveless. He felt his face cracking under the strain of maintaining it lazily indifferent. And the end window of the nearest Mexican shanty stared at him like the eye of death.

"Trapped, yuh lousy fool!" he cried to himself. "One move out of place and yore dead as a last year's snake skin! My God, why don't yuh think! Now, now—keep goin'—a little more—a little more! Don't run for it yet! Don't—run—for—it—yet!" And while he kept cautioning himself and throttling the impulse to panic it seemed he was standing dead still. The apertures between the corral bars were like so many mouths jeering at him. The silence of Ysabel Junction had drawn to an awful thinness, ready to burst with a roar like the crack of doom when Dann's gun spoke. And for every yard he gained to safety there was also a yard shortened between himself and the unseen weapon.

A small voice inside his brain said distinctly, "Now!" Steve leaped aside, lunged for the corral, leaped again, and heard a gun's fury booming out of the section house. He fell to the ground, rolled against the base of the corral, sucking dust into his lungs. Bullets ripped madly through the posts, knocked off splinters, sent up sand sprays a foot beyond his head. Steve weathered through it. The shots ran out. Dann cried furious from the shanty, "Yuh wanted this, Steers! Stand up and get it!"

"No more shells in the rifle," thought Steve and jumped to his feet. Dann leaped through the door of the shanty and crossed the open area to the side of the corral before Steve could set himself for an answer. The outlaw had resorted to his revolver; he sent another bullet over the compound but it ripped the wood behind Steve.

"That's one," muttered Steve and retreated to the back line of the corrals. Dann was retreating also, ducking under the loading chutes. Steve paralleled him. Dann stopped and dropped down. Steve did likewise.

"If he's tryin' to draw me into them corrals," grunted Steve, tasting sweat, "he's got another guess comin'. But—"

He crawled on and came to a narrow alley. Dann was waiting there and opened up again. Steve rolled back. "That's numbers two and three—too close."

"Steers—I'll meet yuh out in the open, at yonder end!"

Steers said nothing. He passed his arm into the open, drew the fourth bullet, and heard Dann retreating again on the run.

"Tryin' to get far enough off to load—damn him!" He delayed only a moment longer, or until he sighted Dann through the bars. Rising, he took the alleyway on a gallop. Dann whirled back, fired, and came to a stand. Steers thought, "He's got me hipped again. He's all set and aimed. Well, what of it?" And he fell out of the alley. Dann's last bullet ripped through the fullness of Steve's coat; and then Steve stopped and faced Dann directly.

"Steers," said Dann, throwing open the cylinder of his gun, "I'm out of cartridges. If yuh want to be a man—"

"Yeah?" was Steve's toneless answer. He lifted his weapon, aimed, and fired.

Dann trembled, fell to his knees. He tried to hold himself up by his hands. They gave way under him. He struck on a shoulder point and tipped to his side. Steve walked up, looking at the outlaw without the trace of feeling, with no more compassion or consideration, than he would have given to a fallen leaf.

"Dyin', Dann?"

"Cashin' in—by God!" breathed Dann. All the ruddiness faded before that final gray of death.

"Good. It won't be necessary to waste another shot. Die quick. I despise lookin' at yuh."

"Framed," coughed Dann. "Me. I made a mistake. Listen—I'll square it with Lou Redmain. Listen. He's goin' to burn Sundown."

"When?" said Steve. But Dann was dead, and as his muscles gave way and he settled on his stomach he seemed to shake his head.

Steve turned around. The station agent stood half in and half out of the Mexican shanty. Catching the scene he ran toward the station, calling back, "Dann held me in there—and that condemned key's been tappin' for half an hour!"

Going by the shanty, Steve saw Dann's horse also crowded inside. He led it out and left it beside his own. Automatically he reached up for his tobacco and then remembered he had flung it down beside the corner of the corral. He went back; it had been a full square sack once, but there was nothing left now but a few shreds of fabric and a ball of tobacco bearing his finger marks. He kicked it away and walked into the station. The agent's nerves were jerking him around in a sort of St. Vitus's dance. "I'm quittin'," he told Steve. "Feel bad? Of course I feel bad. You'd feel bad, too, if you lived in a joint where nothin' moved except your pulse—then all of a sudden something like this hit you in the face. I'm through! Here—this just came over the wire. You goin' to Sundown? Well, take it in. Save waitin' three hours for the stage. It's to Ed Storm at the bank. He'll want to know. Pay-day money shipment comin' to him."

Steve looked at the shaky symbols on the open sheet of paper. There were only four of them, reading as follows:

ABACUS SIN EULOGIZE HAROLD

"How do yuh know?" inquired Steve.

"Because I know. Now, what about that fellow—Dann?"

"Here's somethin' I want yuh to send over the wire for me," said Steve. "I wrote it down."

"Listen—I won't stay around here with that body out there! I won't touch him!"

"There's the message," said Steve, laying it on the agent's table. "Here's two dollars. And if a thing like that upsets yuh, friend, Yellow Hill is sure no place for you."

"Ain't you got any nerves?"

"Nerves?" grunted Steve. His voice began to grow thin on him. "Yeah, but I ain't proud of 'em. They don't help atall. A man in this country with nerves ain't got no more chance than a snowball in hell."

"I almost went bughouse," said the agent, squirming in his chair. "Him a pushin' me against the wall of that shanty with his gun! Say, he was a cold cucumber! I heard you, and there I was, not able to do a single thing but listen for you to die!"

"Well," said Steve, "it's pretty simple. You die or he dies. And there ain't no great amount of time decidin' who is who. If yuh live there's nothin' to worry about. Otherwise yuh can't worry. Say, you got a drink around here, a drink of hard liquor? No? All right, I reckon I can stagger home without it. I'm leavin' Dann's pony. If the wild bunch don't come along tonight the sheriff will. Send the message through."

He rolled out to his horse and turned north across the prairie, eyes half closed to the glare of the sun. Unconsciously, he began to sway in the saddle, moving his arm from side to side, screwing up his face, touching the butt of his gun. Not until his dragging spurs set the pony to curvetting did Steve realize what he was doing; he quelled himself sternly.

"Here, here. This is all over with. Why fight the battle again? He's dead. I'm alive. He missed me with twelve slugs, and I killed him with one, which I never expected to do. He could beat me to the play any day in the week, any hour in the day. If he'd stood right out to plain sight, announced himself, and walked forward on even ground, I'd be dead now. But no. He had to make a sure thing out of it. He had to foller his sneakin', treacherous nature. And so here I am, safe and sound—and a million years old."

Lassitude crept through his body, he sat in the saddle like a half-filled sack of meal. His cigarette had no taste to it, and his senses refused to reach out into the world as they were wont to do. Never in the twenty-five years of his life had he felt more weary. "Gettin' a touch of the grippe," he surmised, not knowing that in the few minutes of action by Ysabel Junction he had used up the energy of a week's hard labor. And so sluggish were his thoughts that he had passed Mogul Canyon before they broke out of this furrow of reasoning into another.

"I never thought," he mused, "I could ever stand over a man and find pleasure in watchin' him die. Never thought I'd ever reach the point of holdin' a gun on him for a second shot in case the first wasn't enough. Starin' at him with no more feelin' than 'sif he was a snake. Glad to see him go—and tellin' him so. Man's got to be pretty far along to do a thing like that. I reckon I must be different than I figgered I was. Worse or better—the Lord knows. But I'll never ride as light and easy. Not no more." And long afterward, as he entered the first lip of the hills and felt the shadow of the pines fall on him, he added, "What difference does it make? What good have I gone an' done? Denver's no more. Redmain still rides—and here I am."

He pulled himself from these dismal reflections with effort. He was approaching Starlight, approaching a horseman who jogged out of the timbered slopes of the canyon. The horseman stopped on the road and turned, waiting. Steve considered this suspiciously but kept his gait. Presently he discovered it was Lyle Bonnet. Lyle lifted a hand and swept forward, reining abreast. Enormous relief registered on his face.

"Yuh feather-footed, sword-swallerin' brush jumper. Where yuh been? Where ain't yuh been? I been pokin' into every prairie-dog hole, bear den, and holler stump in the country. I been lookin' for yuh. Tell a man!"

"Here I am," said Steve and sat silent.

Lyle Bonnet looked at the man more closely. This was not the same Steve. No flicker of harum-scarum humor moved in the pale blue eyes, no drawling melody played through the answer. This fellow who rested woodenly in the saddle and stared back mirthlessly, mouth pinched together, was an uncomfortable stranger; and Lyle Bonnet had the queer sensation of seeing somebody who was Steve's counterpart.

"Yeah, there yuh are," grumbled Bonnet, "and I reckon it don't mean nothin' to yuh that I've just naturally trotted the hocks off six horses tryin' to locate yuh. Looks to me like yuh ain't had no sleep since the Fourth of July, 1887. Where was yuh?"

"Doin' a chore," said Steve and again let the silence fall.

"My, my," observed Bonnet. "Talkative cuss. Well, come on to the ranch."

"What for?"

"There's been some developments," was Bonnet's evasive answer. "In fact, there's a sorta meetin' to discuss topics of mutual benefit and interest."

Steve considered it and nodded. "Let's go, then," was all he said.

Bonnet led him up Starlight at a rapid clip. Once he drew away from Steve and turned to discover the man lagging beside the canyon, head lifted as if scanning the far ridge. But Steve came on, and presently they arrived at the crest overlooking the D Slash yard. Right beside the trail was the fresh rectangle of earth marking Denver's false grave. Steve passed it hurriedly, cheeks like stone, and trotted up to the house porch.

"Who's at this meetin'?" he wanted to know.

Bonnet indicated the house negligently. "Go on in."

Steve pushed the door open, started to cross the sill, and stopped like a man shot through the heart. Denver stood in the center of the room, supporting himself with a cane; and Denver attacked him instantly, bluntly, severely.

"Where in the name of common sense have you been? What business have you got ridin' like a wild man through the country, challengin' all the tough eggs as if you were Wild Bill in person? Don't leer at me like that. It's a fine situation when a man can't find his friends in time of need without sending a posse out. Come in and shut the door."

Bonnet was directly behind Steve. Steve swung on his heels, pushed Bonnet aside with a curse, and walked to the far end of the porch. Bonnet went inside.

"It looks to me," he remarked, "as if you was goin' to get both ears chawed off in a minute."

Denver grinned wryly. "Well, I had to say somethin' to take the edge off this reunion, didn't I? I suppose he'll give me fits, and I suppose I've got to grin and bear it."

A weird honking sound came from the porch. "What's that?" demanded Bonnet, starting out.

Denver checked him. "No, stay here. Steve's just blowin' his nose. Sentiment seems to affect his breathin'. Where'd you find him?"

"Comin' out of the prairie, lookin' like Israel's last child, like the sole survivor of the flood, like the fella who'd forgot his name. What I mean, he was sorta that way, if yuh gather me."

"In parts and by slow stages," grunted Denver. "Stick with me and don't let him strike a cripple. Here he comes."

Steve stood in the doorway, thumbs hooked in his belt. His face was drawn together in an enormous scowl.

"So yuh come back, Mister Denver?" he stated coldly. "They didn't have no wings in heaven yore size, and hell wouldn't let yuh in. Just a big overgrown practical joker, that's what. My, my, I thought I'd die of laughin' when I heard you'd kicked the bucket. Listen, Denver, you got no title to have any friends. In so far as I'm concerned yuh might just as well climb back in the grave. Imagine a man—"

"It's his voice," opined Denver, nodding to Bonnet. "But that face ain't familiar."

"Never mind my face," snapped Steve. "Yores won't bear much daylight, Mister Denver."

"Think of that, Bonnet," grieved Dave. "Think of that kind of talk from a man I practically raised from poverty."

Steve yelled, "What in the name o' Jupiter did yuh go and do it for?"

Denver smiled—a rare and warming smile that drew the resentment out of Steve like a poultice. "I know it hurts. But somebody had to be hurt. I wanted it thoroughly advertised around this country I was dead. And I think you made a pretty good advertisement."

"So I wasn't to be trusted?" Steve grumbled. "You had a part to play, Steve."

"Never do that again," warned the puncher.

"You hear? Never do that again."

"All right," agreed Denver. "I'm lucky to get off like that. But what's this foolishness I hear about you?"

"That's more of the part I was to play," retorted Steve.

"Well, don't go gunning for Dann," admonished Denver. "When we take him into camp it will be along with the rest."

"You won't never take him to camp, Dave," said Steve gently.

Bonnet and Denver looked more closely at Steve. Bonnet said, "Say, was that why yuh come up from the prairie lookin' like yu'd swallowed a lemon?"

"You met him?" challenged Denver.

"Yeah," muttered Steve. "At Ysabel Junction. He laid a trap, and I walked into it like a fool kid. He took twelve shots. I got him with one. And laughed in his face when he died."

Quiet came to the room. Denver tapped his cane on the floor, lips compressing. "You took a whale of a chance, Steve," he said finally.

"Consider that next time you play dead on me," replied Steve. Then his puckered face was swept up in a grin. He walked forward and struck Denver on the chest. "Yuh wildcat, they got to use dynamite to remove yuh from this mortal map! Well, here I am—and what's next?"

Denver smiled again. "Bonnet, here's our Stevie back home again."

"Listen," added Steve, "I got somethin' to say. Dann died thinkin' Redmain had framed him. So he squealed, and you can take it for what it may be worth. He said Redmain was plannin' to hit Sundown and burn it to the sills."

"When?" demanded Denver and Bonnet in unison.

"He died on me and didn't tell."

Denver limped around the room. "I wish I knew where Redmain was hiding. None of the boys are able to pick up a smell. We've got to find out. We've got to do it, in a hurry. Burn Sundown? If that's in his head, he'll never stop short of fillin' his promise. Not Lou Redmain. He'll destroy right and left."

Steve put a hand in his coat pocket and pulled out the station agent's telegram. For a moment he puzzled over it. "Oh, yeah," he murmured. "I've got to drag into town with this. Agent said it was somethin' for Ed Storm. Money comin' in for the pay days."

Denver stopped in his tracks. "When?"

"This is code, but the agent seemed to know. He said Saturday."

Denver drew a deep breath. "All right. If we can't find Redmain's date of attack, we'll make one. We'll make it worth his while to come in on Saturday—after the money arrives. You go give the message to Ed. Then go get a few drinks—"

Steve lifted a protesting hand. "I never want to see liquor any more."

"—Get a few drinks and let your tongue waggle. Mention about the money in Grogan's. Mention the date. The news will get to Redmain. Never worry about that. And it'll be all the bait he needs to set off his raid."

"Then what?" insisted Steve.

"Then you go back to Nightingale's and mind your business until I send you word to come. When I do, waste no time."

"What'm I goin' to tell Ed Storm? He won't like it."

"Al Niland knows Storm. Have Al explain."

"Explain what?" Steve wanted to know. "And do yuh put the job of tellin' Al yore still alive on me? Ain't I had trouble aplenty?"

"Tell Al the whole story. But get him off in a private place to do it. Then, when he stops swearin', you tell him this: He is to go to Storm, explain that the news of the shipment has leaked. He is to ask Storm to take absolutely no step toward extra defense of the bank, nor to take any measure that would draw suspicion. Everything is to go on as before. But when Redmain comes to town that day, I will be there—with men."

Bonnet broke in. "That's drawin' things down to a fine point, Dave. Supposin' Redmain don't wait for the money to get to the bank. Supposin' he holds up the stage out in the hills?"

"If he has set his mind to destroy Sundown," said Denver, "he will do it. And it's my belief he'd wait until the money was in the bank and so be able to kill two birds with one stone."

"Burnin' Sundown sounds to me like the dream of a wild man," said Bonnet. "I don't see how he figures to have the chance of a one-armed Chinaman."

"He will ride into town with more than thirty men," Denver answered. "Who would try to stop him?"

Steve agreed. "An organized party always has got the bulge. People in town will sit tight and say nothin'—hopin' the trouble will blow over."

"That's it," said Denver. "They will be covered in a hurry. Redmain will hit the bank, drop a half dozen matches and be on his way. And when a substantial fire starts through those buildings Sundown is gone."

"I still think yore drawin' things too fine," objected Bonnet. "A single leak—and blooey for us."

"It will be a gamble," said Denver, eyes narrowing. "But that's the best we can do. If we don't do it I'm afraid of the consequences. Better ride, Steve. It's gettin' late. And try to look sad."

"That ain't hard," opined Steve, "considerin' I got to tell Niland yore alive."

Bonnet still doubted.

"And how you goin' to get near Sundown on Saturday without bein' seen?"

"That's the gamble," replied Denver.

"I know a bigger one," reflected Bonnet. "Which is you tryin' to fight in your present shape. Foolish."

"Forty-eight hours from now I'll be a well man," stated Denver.

"And mebbe stone dead on the forty-ninth," said Bonnet moodily. "This fella Redmain never answers to reason. That's why I think somethin's haywire in all this schemin'. It don't sound right."

Denver shrugged his shoulders. "Either Redmain's makin' a mistake or I am. We'll soon find out."