Читать книгу Starlight Riders Boxed-Set 50 Western Classics in One Edition - Ernest Haycox - Страница 75

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If Fitz had obeyed orders—and Charterhouse believed that puncher was an utterly trustworthy wheelhorse—the Box M party was now halfway on the road to Fort Carson; so he increased the pace of his tired pony, stopping every few minutes to listen for the reverberation of hoof beats. Even yet he had not made up his mind; even yet Curly's movements puzzled him. All that he had overheard in Angels tended him to the belief that the renegades meant a play around Fort Carson. Logically this would be a raid on Box M beef and a drive into the secrecy of Dead Man Range. Out of his own knowledge Charterhouse understood there could be no easier way of picking a fight and of drawing a Box M posse after the missing stock and thus opening up a battle. He had thought this was what Curly meant to do.

But Curly had ridden toward Angels with his whole party, a move that bore no relation to the Box M cattle in the north. It was probable that Curly might have figured the game was up—that he, Charterhouse, had overheard the plan in Angels—and was preparing for it. Such being so, what then would the renegades do?

"Something, that's sure," reflected Clint. "There was entirely too much riding in and out of Dead Man, too many messengers covering the country to Shander and Angels and back. That outfit is pitched to fight, and when a scope of hard suckers get on their ears, they'll strike one way if they can't strike another. There's been a leak from the ranch. They knew I was riding. They may even know Fitz is bringing most of Box M's strength away from home quarters. Then the thing for them to do would be to circle around us and smash right into old John Nickum's front yard. They might be doing it this minute."

He had reasoned out the situation accurately. He knew he bad. Yet through all his thinking there was one qualifying, uncertain shadow of doubt—the fifth man at the morning meeting of outlaws in Dead Man's Pass. That man rode through all plans, all guesses, all probabilities. And so when Clint stopped and caught the approach of horsemen, he had very nearly reached a mental deadlock. The party swept on vigorously. Clint cut to the right to intercept them. They bore down, a compact and growing blur against the velvet curtain; fresh horses and fresh men hitting a stiff gait. He waited until his natural voice would reach them and then sent out a soft challenge. "Fitz?"

The party swirled around him, reining in noisily. Fitzgibbon's voice answered, as imperturbable and laconic as ever. "Yeah. Charterhouse? All right. We in time?"

Another voice broke through—Heck Seastrom's. "Hell's fire, Charterhouse, you wait until we can swap lies! I got a story to tell, damned if I ain't. Now where to?"

"This bunch feels heavier than twenty men," remarked Charterhouse.

"Yeah," agreed Fitz. "Thirty-one of us. I got to thinking and so did Sherry. Whole hog or none. We know Casabella pretty well, Charterhouse. And Manners sent over four fellows to stick around the place, late this afternoon. So Sherry kept four more of our bunch and told me to bring the rest along."

"So Manners is supporting Box M?" drawled Charter-house.

"A-huh. What's next?"

Charterhouse spoke quietly. "I just want you boys to know it is a gamble. I've watched Curly's outfit play around Carson all day long and don't know any more than I did this morning. He pulled out just before dark, heading for Shander's. Leaving the fort empty. He may be circling to hit Box M, or he may be laying down a screen of dust for himself. But there's just one item in my mind that decides me to gamble. I want you to know it before we ride back to Carson and hole up there. And wait for Curly to return. That's the plan."

"I might give you some information," broke in Seastrom. "I dragged hell's-half acre getting home from Angels. Had to do a lot of dodging this morning; and I was in an arroyo south of Shander's when that gentleman breezed by with his fifteen hands. They seemed to be making a big curve in the prairie for the lower tip of Dead Man."

Charterhouse considered it, putting together the stray pieces of the puzzle. A more definite snap came to his words. "That helps, Heck. It is still a gamble. I am taking all the responsibility for failure. That's all I'll say. Any objections?"

"You're the boss," muttered Fitzgibbon.

"Lead off," put in Seastrom. "One man's guess is as good as another in this country and you seem to guess pretty lucky. Bust the breeze."

"Come on, then," snapped Charterhouse and turned in front of them.

The party gathered speed behind. Fitz was to his left, Seastrom to the right and chuckling softly as if it were some thundering fine midnight party. The stars winked clear and the crisp air fanned against them, carrying the pungency of sage and earth into their nostrils. Leather squealed and the jingle of those many bridle chains made a pleasant melody. Fort Carson broke the distance and presently the avenue of poplars loomed dead ahead. Charterhouse slowed to a walk, pressed on a few yards and halted.

"Seastrom—three men. Down the left side afoot. Three more with me to the right. Fitz, wait with the bunch. If there's a bust of guns, use your ears and judgment, but I think the place is still empty."

There was a soft dismounting and a swift filing off. Seastrom and his followers faded into the blur made by the line of officers' quarters. Clint swung to the opposite side and stopped at an open door of a barrack while his men overshot him and pressed on in quick, sure silence.

No sound came out of the building, no warning of crouched danger. Satisfied, he struck directly down the parade and closed upon the outlying sheds. Nothing here; turning, he saw one of Heck's searchers slide rapidly up. "Clear?"

"I think so."

"Go back and tell Fitz to come along."

Standing there, Clint thought he heard the tremor of moving bodies come along the air; he dropped to the ground. The invisible telegraph was alive, beating out its message, strengthening with each moment. He rose, hurrying back. Fitz led in the party. Charterhouse's word ran together, electric and urgent. "They're coming in. Hustle it, boys. Everybody out of the saddle and into the houses on the east side of the parade ground. Run the horses into that end shed—four men to hold 'em. String out a little so you've all got a good place to sling lead. Hustle it, now. And no firing until you bear me sing out."

"They're sure coming," grunted Fitz briefly.

"Here's where some of them handpicked lilies wilt on the stem," added Heck, strangely subdued. "Man, here's a scrap."

"I'm afraid so," said Charterhouse. "Lets clear out of this plaza. No shooting, boys, until I sound the word."

Standing with his back to a house wall, he listened to the renegades sweep out of the distance and bear down.

And in that lull he reviewed the past days with a queer clarity—old John Nickum dying bravely, the savage growl of Angels, all that trickery, all the vengeance of predatory men seeking to destroy and rob, the glistening evil in Shander's sickly eyes and the animal remorselessness of this callow Curly who advanced so hurriedly. All these facts and scenes flashed across Clint's mind, telling him as a thousand cold words could not that whatever happened this night was only the march of inevitable events, only the blossoming of that deadly flower—hate.

And while Clint's muscles tightened expectantly and his nerves slowly chilled and left him like a thing of stone, he still had time for regret. Men would fall. Good men and bad men. Lives that had so long savored God's fresh sun, keened the crispness of the prairie air, and moved in the vast, heady freedom of this open land, would be snuffed out in the roar of shots. What would be, would be. This was the price paid for safety and orderly justice. In the west it had always been so. Men who lived by the gun died by the gun. Defying all order and transgressing all rules of right, they courted death—and so would they receive it. And with that thought Clint Charterhouse settled his conscience and closed his mind.

A lesser man would have trembled and sickened; a man from a gentler country would have shuddered, flinched away. But all Clint's forefathers had struggled with the same problem from one frontier to another; his thinking was molded by the brutally clear and direct logic of the time. Men had to stand by and be responsible for their acts; men had to pay their bills. That was the whole story. Some day these things would not be, but for the present the rough-handed code prevailed. And he was of that large-boned, tough-fibered fighting type that, once having decided the course, moved ahead relentlessly. A son of the west.

The renegades pounded on, curving around the fort. Charterhouse, frozen against the wall, thought they were sweeping by and started to readjust his plan of battle. But it was only a sort of scouting movement. They circled, swung and started into the plaza from the north side. Heck Seastrom stirred slightly and Charterhouse heard the methodical Fitzgibbon sigh very softly. Curly's men filed past, slackened and bunched up. Men and horses made an irregular bulk out there. For a moment absolute silence reigned, broken at last by the voice of Curly.

"Well, Shander?"

"We'll wait a minute," replied Shander.

"I don't see why we been doing all this fool back and forward moving around the prairie. We've lost a lot of time. It's eight miles to Box M cattle and there'll be a hard ride into Dead Man with 'em. The night ain't so young, either."

"We'll wait a minute."

A few, soft phrases came from Curly, at which Shander sharply checked him. "Never mind. You know what I'm waiting for, but keep it under your tongue."

Heck punched Charterhouse in the ribs, and Charter-house saw men in the rear of Curly's bunch shift. An uneasy sentence ran along the entire line. "Say, ain't there horses up yonder? I thought I heard—"

Charterhouse took a pace forward and spoke, each word falling flatly. "You're trapped. Give in—or fight!"

"By God—!"

The night was streaked suddenly by tangled shadows as Curly's bunch broke, wheeled and raced for protection. A gun flash mushroomed out and then a long and ragged volley smashed into Fort Carson's walls, disturbing the long sleeping ghosts of fighters dead and gone. Charter-house was on his stomach, crying, "Let them have it—let them have it!" and Box M's solid, blasting reply overbore the echoes of that first fire from the renegades. Curly had gone stark mad, his yells shrill as those of a woman, unprintable and weird. He seemed to be beating back one of his own followers, forcing him from flight. Others were in a milling mass near the sheds; Box M men had run out from shelter to cut off retreat that way.

Curly yelled again. "Charterhouse—damn your soul! Stand out and meet me! Where are you—where are you?"

Charterhouse stood up. "Come ahead, Curly."

Lead smashed into the wall behind him like hail. Glass jangled and there was a ripping of wood. A horseman wheeled and aimed at him. It was Curly, still cursing.

Charterhouse met the man with point-blank bullets; the horse swerved, suddenly riderless and got tangled in the porch rail of an adjoining house. Other ponies, saddles empty, were stampeding around the empty plaza. Curly's men were badly split up; a part of them had dismounted and were fighting from individual coverts; another part, taking whatever leadership offered, rode over to a barrack across the plaza and tumbled inside.

Charterhouse called at Heck. "Pick up a few boys and get behind that thing. That's just the sort of a cage I want 'em in." And then, knowing the dispiriting power of a leader's death, he flung his words out into the frenzied plaza. "Curly's dead! Come on, Box M, crush those snipers! Get around—flank 'em—pour the lead!"

"Curly's dead!"

Three of the renegades, still mounted and boxed in one corner of the plaza, seemed to lose reason. They flung themselves diagonally over the open space and drove for liberty. Charterhouse fired; other guns roared in his ears, and he saw a saddle emptied. The other two got past.

There was a wicked slash of bullets down by the shed as the two survivors tried for the prairie and then another horse galloped aimlessly back without guidance. Box M was tasting victory. Punchers sallied out of their protection and alternately ducked and scurried over to smother the isolated snipers along the barracks. Heck was shouting tempestuously, "Come over here, Box M—we got this shebang tied in knots! Come on, you scorpions!"

Charterhouse ran across toward Heck's gang. A shadow leaped at him, missed and went by. He flung himself to the ground, dust in his face, feeling lead strike around his head. A sharp crack and a strangled cry—and Fitzgibbon was talking calmly.

"Hurt, Charterhouse?"

"No."

"You hadn't oughta be so brash. Watch out!"

Another pair of riders elected to fight clear, flashing out from the shadows. Hoofs grazed Charterhouse, a dangling stirrup knocked him down, and from the prairie came a long halloo of defiance. He got up and labored with his wind. A gun popped here and there, but the madness of the initial shock was dying. Seastrom yelled again for reinforcements. Some battle between individuals flared by the horse sheds and stopped abruptly. The snipers were quitting, some captured, some beyond capture, and some wriggling out to the prairie afoot. Box M began to concentrate on the barrack containing the bulk of Curly's gang. Charterhouse caught one of his men by the arm.

"Rip down some planks and start a fire here. A husky one to see by." Then he closed on the barrack and called out. "Slack off, Box M. Hold your lead. You Curly men—it's all over. Don't try to make a stand. We've got you crushed. Curly's dead. Throw down your guns."

Silence descended. Somewhere a man groaned and somewhere else was a bitter cursing. Out of the barrack came a sullen, tentative proposal.

"You fellows guarantee us a free ride to the county line, and we'll come."

"Guarantee nothing."

"We don't aim to step out and be shot down. We'll either get unhindered passage over the line or else we'll fight it out. We know Casabella politics."

The Box M man had accumulated his tinder-dry boards and some sort of kindling material. He struck a match, applied it, and sprang away. In dead silence the assembled punchers watched the fitful spiral of fire sputter, fall and catch hold. Charterhouse spoke again. "There will be no lynching and no shooting. Either surrender or else."

"Or else what?" jeered the voice. "We can punch some holes in you buzzards yet. Go to hell."

"You'll go to hell in a crackling blaze," said Charter-house. "See this little bonfire? If I put one of these burning planks against that barrack, you won't live fifteen minutes."

The trapped renegades debated. The spokesman tried again. "Well, what if we come out?"

"You are going to Angels and sleep in the jug until Box M gets ready either to put you on trial or kick you out of the county. It's apt to be the second choice, considering the state of jury trials in this neck of the woods."

"Your word for that?"

"My word for it."

"Ain't worth a hell of a lot," grumbled the spokesman.

"No? Well, it's the best you got on the subject, brother. This fire is getting large and comfortable."

"All right, we'll come."

Charterhouse motioned to the nearest Box M men to stand beside the barrack door. "All right, inside. Pop out one at a time, elbows stiff. Heck, you herd these brutes into shape. Better snag a rope around 'em somehow."

"Just leave that to me," agreed Heck.

Charterhouse skirted the leaping fire and walked back toward the sheds. Other Box M men were poking through the shadows, swearing morosely. One of them called toward the sheds. "Ain't there an old flat-bed wagon in there? Used to be."

"Yeah. What for?"

"What for? What in damnation you think for? For them that's past walking, of course. Drag it out. We can hook onto the tongue and haul it home with ropes."

Charterhouse felt weary. And when he saw a sprawled, still body in front of him he reached for his matches sadly. The single flare of light told him all he wanted to know. There lay all that remained of the swashbuckling, vainly immature savage known as Curly. A short life—and nothing to show for it but a stain of blood on the earth. Fitzgibbon, some yards off, had repeated the performance, and announced his discovery with an unusual departure from matter-of-factness. "Great Guns—Shander!"

"The roll of the crooked," muttered Charterhouse. "He was riding at the head of the party and caught the worst of the fire." Rather bitterly he summed up that rancher's career. "He had his range and he wanted more. Now he's got just six feet of it left." Sitting on a porch, he reviewed the scene before him. Seastrom was herding the surrendered party into a long row by the revealing rays of the fire. Suddenly he called out. "Hey, Clint, do you know we've got Mister Shander's riders here, too? Kit and caboodle. A clean sweep. Gents, I'm pleased to see you at this party. Nothing would suit me better than to see the bottom of your boots kicking the breeze. Being we're civilized folks, I reckon it ain't to be. But, by gosh, I'd like to—and you know my sentiments on the subject once for all." Half a dozen men were wheeling the flat-bed wagon toward the fire; somebody came by the flames with an armful of saddle blankets and Charterhouse saw the man's face furrowed and wet. Crying—

Clint stirred. Curly and Shander and Haggerty gone. Of the ringleaders known to the county only Studd and Wolfert remained. The back of the crooked bunch was broken. And yet this grim piece of business was unfinished. Would never be finished until that last showdown came with the man who—

Seastrom came over the plaza, calling, "Clint—hey, Clint. We're set to ride. What next?"

"How do we stand?"

Seastrom cleared his throat. "I reckon we'll have to add Ed Porn and Lou Lester to our boot hill. Dammit all, it's tough; I knew these two fellows like brothers. But I reckon they're riding a better range now. It's a chance we all take, ain't it?"

"So," mused Charterhouse.

"I figure about ten of the wild bunch got away. That won't bother us any. They'll keep running until Casabella's damn far off. I know. As for them that had hard luck—"

"Put them in a building and leave them till morning," cut in Charterhouse abruptly. "We'll be back then to see they get a decent burial. Now, Heck, you take part of the outfit and ride down to Angels with your herd. Stick 'em in the calaboose and if you see Studd or Wolfert there, do the same with those gentlemen. And rule the town until further orders."

"Nothing I look forward to with more pleasure," grunted Seastrom.

Fitz came out of the deeper darkness. "You take the rest of the fellows, and the wagon, and strike for home," Clint told him.

"Where you going?" Seastrom wanted to know.

"I'm staying here for a few minutes to think about it," droned Clint. "Well, you might as well hit the trail."

Both Fitz and Seastrom hesitated, seeming to study out the meaning of Charterhouse's voice. Presently, without answer, they walked across the plaza. Charterhouse watched the horses come in and the rough roping of the renegades. Fitz collected his party and pulled out first, the wagon jolting rather clumsily at the head of the procession. In another short while Seastrom had lined his prisoners out between the barracks; he himself trotted back to Charterhouse.

"Listen, don't expose yourself too much. Don't linger. Some of those fellows that flew the coop might come back to say by-by and have a shot at you. If I hear any such shots heaving across the prairie—"

"If you hear any such shots," interrupted Charterhouse harshly, "keep right on going. Don't come back."

Seastrom shifted in the saddle, softly swore and wheeled away. Charterhouse rose and crossed to the fire, kicking together the burning boards. A shower of hot sparks circled in the night. He watched them wink and vanish and then in slow weariness left the rim of light and settled on a barrack step. The rumor of the departing men died out, the smell of powder smoke faded in the air, and Fort Carson lay silent under the shadow of Dead Man's Ridge. There in the darkness, Clint rolled a cigarette and touched a match. The flare set off the stony triangle of his face, the cold flash of half-shut eyes—all the features drawn with suspense and grim unpleasantness. The match went out and he leaned back to hear the small sounds of night rise from the earth. His cigarette tip glowed and dimmed, but he held it so that no tell-tale light escaped the cup of his hand. Thus he waited, never stirring.

Nor did he move twenty-odd minutes later when the rhythmic advance of a rider sounded down the line of poplars, slacked and became a slow walk. Man and horse cut across the plaza. Steel glinted, and a tall form swayed to one side of the saddle. Charterhouse let a long, slow sigh escape him; this was the end, the climax, the tragic conclusion of Casabella's old story. Good men and bad men, strong men and weak men—Casabella took them all, touched them with its flame of unreason and tempted them to ruin through their weaknesses.

The tall form slipped from the saddle and came into the circle of light. A hand rose and tipped back the broad- brimmed hat. A fringe of yellow hair gleamed to the light. Buck Manners' bold, reckless face stared across the flame tips.

"I knew you'd come," drawled Charterhouse.

Manners started, whirled, and flung himself back again. "Who is it?" he challenged.

"Charterhouse—waiting for you."

Manners' eyes flashed. He bulked larger, more formidable. "So? What the devil has been going on around here? I heard the shooting away off and rode like a condemned man. What happened? Good gosh, man, I have told you before I didn't believe in your policy. If you've brought on a fight—"

Charterhouse rose and came into the light. He tossed away the cigarette like a man come to a definite conclusion. "We'll omit all the preliminaries. You can drop the curtain, Manners. I saw behind it this morning up on the ridge when you rode down to meet Shander and the others."

Manners' face slowly hardened, slowly abandoned all the easy, reckless freedom. "You alone?" he muttered.

"I waited for you. The rest have gone. There's just one question puzzling me. Having all the chips you ever would need, what was your idea in dealing from the bottom of the deck?"

"Does it matter?"

"I wondered," replied Charterhouse, seeming sleepy. "My guess is you like to be the strong man, the top of the heap. I saw it at Angels when we muscled down."

"You're wise," droned Manners. "Too wise. You're the first to guess anywheres near right. But even you don't know what kind of hell fire and torture comes from a man's conscience."

"I can guess," said Charterhouse. "But only a fool would expect to keep his crooked trail secret."

"I chose my men well. Haggerty, Shander, Wolfert, Studd and Curly—they were the only ones who knew my part. The others never caught on. There isn't a man on my own outfit, nor a man on Box M, nor any other living soul in Casabella that knows. Unless you have told!"

"I keep my own counsel."

"I figured so. When I left Box M early this morning, before dawn, I knew you'd come on toward Carson to spy. I set Curly's men to drag the prairie and find you. When they failed I knew there was just one thing left—let you go through with your scheme of fighting. You overheard Curly's plan in Angels. You figured to have your Box M men follow you up tonight and cut into Curly after dark. I knew that. There is nothing I don't know. So I decided to let you go ahead."

"So I'd get a bullet and forget what I'd learned?" suggested Charterhouse. "Well, there was a sense in that. Easier to catch a man by letting him go ahead with his own idea than to chase him. I will admit you had me puzzled. All this horsing around the prairie left me some dubious. Didn't know if Curly was going through with his original business or if he was going to cut behind me and hit Box M. There was just one thing that turned the scales, Manners. I'm giving you credit for one good quality. And that good quality tripped you."

"You knew I'd never let Curly attack the house Sherry Nickum was in!" cried Manners.

"That turned the scales," admitted Charterhouse. "So I hit back for Carson and waited. But I don't understand. Knowing what you did know, why did you let me bait the trap for Curly and Shander?"

Manners stood like a dragoon, magnificent body stiff and square. The firelight darkened his cheeks and accented the brooding flame in his eyes. He seemed to be thinking out his answer and it came slowly. "Because they were getting beyond my control. I wanted them destroyed."

"You succeeded," was Charterhouse's grim answer. "They're destroyed. And so is Haggerty. Which leaves Wolfert and Studd."

"Wolfert was killed in Angels at noon. I had him killed. Studd—Studd will not talk, not if they put him in screws and crack his bones. But he will go, too."

"And that," went on Charterhouse softly, "leaves me."

They stood silent, the licking fire between. Manners lifted his chin. "I would rather die this minute than have Sherry know the truth about me."

"Yet your orders killed her dad—and probably her brother."

A spasm of pain came over Manners' face. "Didn't I tell you," he cried, "I'm answering my conscience for all that? Listen, Charterhouse. You and I are alike. Both physically strong men. Both old in the game. Yet there you are and here I am. You ought to get down on your knees and thank God you weren't born with a kink like me.

"If you had wiped 'em all out, taken Box M, ruled the county, married the girl—you still couldn't have kept her from knowing about you, soon or late."

"I believed I could," muttered Manners. "I believed I could. Because I love her."

"No. There's a difference between you deeper than Red Draw. No man ever was born who could fool a woman."

"I would rather die than have her know," repeated Manners. "You understand the answer to that?"

"It's why I waited for you," said Charterhouse evenly.

"Then there is no need to delay longer. If you are killed, it shall be laid to the door of a Curly man. If I am killed, any story is good enough. Only I'll ask you as a gentleman to seal your knowledge of me forever."

"Agreed," was Charterhouse's laconic answer. "I am sorry I can't wish you luck."

"You're a cool one," said Manners. "How shall we settle the draw?"

"Suggest we back away from the fire to the rim of light."

Manners stared intently over the flames; he seemed to be trying to frame a last phrase but it never came out. So he took his cue from Charterhouse and slowly stepped to the rear. They halted on the edge of light, the flickering blaze between them.

"Can you see me?" asked Clint.

"Clear enough," muttered the ranchman, towering full length.

"And the signal—"

"I need no favor from you," retorted Manners. "I will wait your draw."

"Then," droned Charterhouse, "fire."

The night breeze scooped the flame tips into a red curling tongue that for the instant rose between them, shutting out sight. Through this crimson film the bullets passed and the roar ran away into the eerie corners of the fort, dying with a remote whisper. There was no more firing. The flames sank and Charterhouse, never stirring, saw a yellow hatless head cushioned against the earth as if asleep. In that solitary glance he knew all there was to be known. Nor did he tarry. He slipped back the gun and strode for the sheds, found his horse and swung away from Carson. With the outline of the poplars and building behind he spoke softly to the tired beast and set it to a stiff gallop.

"I have killed him," he said mechanically. "The man's dead. And Sherry loved him. Good or bad, she loved him. And never in a thousand years will she forget or forgive me."

He raced by the wagon with its four accompanying riders without a hail. All the way back he seemed detached from himself, numb of mind, scarcely conscious he owned a body. There was but one throbbing, clanging idea in his head: the job was done, Manners was dead, and the girl waited for his return. Charterhouse turned square with the beckoning ranch lights and galloped into the yard, finding Fitz already arrived. He got stiffly down and started for the porch.

"Fitz—will you throw my gear over my own horse?"

"Traveling's done forthe night," grunted the puncher. "Not for me, Fitz. Not tonight, or any other night, I reckon. Bring the black around. I'm going into the house, just for a minute."

He knocked at the door and heard Sherry's voice. Passing through, he saw her rising from a chair, some strange, bright glow of beauty spreading over those fine features. And the picture, the last he knew he should ever see, gripped him in the throat and tied his tongue. She was speaking swiftly, yet half of the words he never heard.

"—never again, Clint."

"No," he repeated, "never again, I reckon. Sherry, I have finished my chore. There is nothing more to do."

"I think," she said gravely, "there will always be something for you to do, Clint. And never anybody else quite able to do it but you."

The sound of her voice made pure melody. He gripped his hat between his big hands, pressing on. "You asked me to do what had to be done."

"You have, Clint."

"So," he muttered. "More. I must tell you—Buck Manners is dead at Fort Carson."

"Clint—"

"We matched guns, and he lost."

"But, Clint, he wasn't—"

"I had to come. No help for it, no choice. And after such a thing, there can't be any place on Box M for me. I am riding out, Sherry."

She was quite still, resting her body against the fireplace mantel, never letting her eyes turn from him, whitecheeked and again with that look of tragedy on her face. It shook him, it made the room impossible to be in.

"Think of me as charitably as you can. And good-bye."

He hurried through the door. Fitz was just bringing up his horse. Clint sprang to the saddle. "So long, Fitz. Turn down my plate at the table. Tell the boys I admire 'em like brothers."

And he was away, never hearing Fitzgibbon's muttered curiosity. The black surged fresh beneath him and he drove south at a headlong gait, not knowing why the haste was necessary nor understanding when he would stop. The prairie took him, the air turned crisper and the remote stars gleamed down. He forgot the passage of time, he was hardly conscious of his destination until trees were about him and then he discovered a meadow with a cabin in it. Bowing' place. He pulled himself out of the abyss of his thoughts to find himself mortally tired. He slid down, unsaddled and picketed the horse; going into the cabin, he stumbled to the bed and drew his saddle blanket over him. In that first moment of relaxation, he stared at the ceiling and summed up in slow, bitter words all that Casabella had done for him.

"I have had my fling. Now I can go back to work—and say good-bye to fine dreams." Then he was asleep.

When Clint woke, the fresh fine sun was pouring into Bowlus' window. He turned on the bunk and lifted himself suddenly. The door was open, as he had left it the night before. Sherry Nickum sat quietly on the steps, watching him with a small, wistful smile.

"I have been waiting for you to sleep it out," said she. "Now that you're up, I think I can find some coffee and bacon on the shelf. We will eat—for I haven't had time for breakfast either—and then we will ride home in the sun. You gave me no time to say anything last night. So I had one of the boys follow and find where you went. And here I am. Clint, there is a long time ahead of us for explaining and so we will do none of it now. But you can't run away from me. There isn't any border far enough removed I won't follow you across. You see, I happen to know how you feel and I have known it for some time. As for me, you have your answer, or I wouldn't be here."

A slow smile came over his face. "Last night, Sherry, I thought I was an old man waiting to die."

"I think I can change that, Clint. You have always been saddled with responsibilities. So I am saddling you with more. Come run Box M—and me."