Текст книги "Desert Death-Song: A Collection of Western Stories"

Автор книги: Louis L'Amour

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

“His right hand!” the man stated positively, belligerently. “I seen it!”

“Thank you, pardner!” Tack said politely. “The gun was in John Gentry’s right hand—and John Gentry’s right hand had been paralyzed ever since Shiloh!”

“Huh!” The man who had seen the gun stepped back, his face whitening a little.

Somebody back in the crowd shouted out, “That’s right! You’re durn tootin’ that’s right! Never could use a rope, ’count of it!”

Tack looked around at the crowd and his eyes halted on the big man. He was going to break the power of Hardin, Olney and Soderman, and he was going to start right here.

“There’s goin’ to be an investigation,” he said loudly, “and it’ll begin down in Austin. Any of you fellers bought property from Hardin or Olney better get your money back.”

“Yuh’re talkin’ a lot!” The big man thrust toward him, his wide, heavy shoulders looking broad enough for two men. “Yuh said some of us were thieves!”

“Thieves and murderers,” Tack added. “If yuh’re one of the worms that crawl in Hardin’s tracks, that goes for you!”

The big man lunged. “Get him, Starr!” somebody shouted loudly.

CHAPTER THREE: Flood to Freedom

Tack Gentry suddenly felt a fierce surge of pure animal joy. He stepped back and then stepped in suddenly, and his right hand swung low and hard. It caught Starr as he was coming in, and caught him in the pit of the stomach. He grunted and stopped dead in his tracks, but Tack set himself and swung wickedly with both hands. His left smashed into Starr’s mouth, his right split a cut over his cheekbone. Starr staggered and fell back into the crowd. He came out of the crowd, shook his head and charged like a bull.

Tack weaved inside of the swinging fists and impaled the bigger man on a straight, hard left hand, then he crossed a wicked right to the cut cheek and gore cascaded down the man’s face. Tack stepped in, smashing both hands to the man’s body, then as Starr jabbed a thumb at his eye, Tack jerked his head aside and butted Starr in the face.

His nose broken, his cheek laid open to the bone, Starr staggered back, and Tack Gentry walked in, swinging with both hands. This was the beginning. This man worked for Hardin and he was going to be an example. When he left this room Starr’s face was going to be a sample of the crashing of Van Hardin’s power. With left and right he cut and slashed at the big man’s face, and Starr, overwhelmed by the attack, helpless after that first wicked body blow, crumpled under those smashing fists. He hit the floor suddenly and lay there, moaning softly.

A man shoved through the crowd, then stopped. It was Van Hardin. He looked down at the man on the floor, then his eyes dark with hate, lifted to meet Tack Gentry’s eyes.

“Lookin’ for trouble, are yuh?” he said.

“Only catchin’ up with some that started while I was gone, Van!” Tack said. He felt good. He was on the balls of his feet and ready. He had liked the jarring of blows, liked the feeling of combat. He was ready. “Yuh should have made sure I was dead, Hardin, before yuh tried to steal property from a kindly old man!”

“Nothing was stolen,” Van Hardin said evenly, calmly. “We took only what was ours, and in a strictly legal manner.”

“There will be an investigation,” Gentry replied bluntly, “from Austin. Then we’ll thrash the whole thing out.”

Hardin’s eyes sharpened and he was suddenly wary. “An investigation? What makes you think so?”

Tack was aware that Hardin was worried. “Because I’m startin’ it. I’m askin’ for it, and I’ll get it. There was a lot you didn’t know about that land yuh stole, Hardin. Yuh were like most crooks. Yuh could only see yore side of the question and it looked very simple and easy, but there’s always the thing yuh overlook, and you overlooked something”

The doors swung wide and Olney pushed into the room. He stopped, glancing from Hardin to Gentry. “What goes on here?” he demanded.

“Gentry is accusin’ us of bein’ thieves,” Hardin said carelessly. Olney turned and faced Tack. “He’s in no position to accuse anybody of anything!” he said. “I’m arrestin’ him for murder!” There was a stir in the room, and Tack Gentry felt the sudden sickness of fear. “Murder? Are yuh crazy?” he demanded.

“I’m not, but you may be,” the sheriff said. “I’ve just come from the office of Anson Childe. He’s been murdered. Yuh were his last visitor. Yuh were observed sneaking into his place by the back stairs. I’m arresting yuh for murder.”

The room was suddenly still, and Tack Gentry felt the rise of hostility toward him. Many men had admired the courage of Anson Childe, many men had been helped by him. Frightened themselves, they had enjoyed his flouting of Hardin and Olney. Now he was dead, murdered.

“Childe was my friend!” Tack protested. “He was goin’ to Austin for me!”

Hardin laughed sarcastically. “Yuh mean he knew yuh had no case and refused to go, and in a fit of rage, yuh killed him. Yuh shot him.”

“Yuh’ll have to come with me,” Olney said grimly. “Yuh’ll get a fair trial.”

Silently, Tack looked at him. Swiftly, thoughts raced through his mind. There was no chance for escape. The crowd was too thick, he had no idea if there was a horse out front, although there no doubt was, and his own horse was in the livery stable. Olney relieved him of his gun belt and they started toward the door. Starr, leaning against the door post, his face raw as chewed beef, glared at him evilly.

“I’ll be seein’ yuh!” he said softly. “Soon!”

Solderman and Hardin had fallen in around him, and behind them two of Hardin’s roughs.

The jail was small, just four cells and an outer office. The door of one of the cells was opened and he was shoved inside. Hardin grinned at him. “This should settle the matter for Austin,” he said. “Childe had friends down there!”

Anson Childe murdered! Tack Gentry, numbed by the blow, stared at the stone wall. He had counted on Childe, counted on his stirring up an investigation. Once started, he possessed two aces in the hole he could use to defeat Hardin in court, but it demanded a court uncontrolled by Hardin.

With Childe’s death he had no friends on the outside. Betty had barely spoken to him when they met, and if she was going to work for Hardin in his dance hall, she must have changed much. Bill London was a cripple and unable to get around. Red Furness, for all his friendship, wouldn’t come out in the open. Tack had no illusions about the murder. By the time the case came to trial, they would have found ample evidence. They had his guns and they could fire two or three shots from them, whatever had been used on Childe. It would be a simple thing to frame him. Hardin would have no trouble in finding witnesses.

He was standing, staring out the small window, its lower sill just on the level of his eyes, when he heard a distant rumble of thunder and a jagged streak of lightning brightened the sky, then more thunder. The rains came slowly, softly, then in steadily increasing volume. The jail was still and empty. Sounds of music and occasional shouts sounded from the Longhorn, then the roar of rain drowned them out. He threw himself down on the cot in the corner of the room, and lulled by the falling rain, was soon asleep.

A long time later, he awakened. The rain was still falling, but above it was another sound. Listening, he suddenly realized what it was. The dry wash behind the town was running, probably bank full. Lying there in the darkness, he became aware of still another sound, of the nearer rushing of water. Lifting his head, he listened. Then he got to his feet and crossed the small cell.

Water was running under the corner of the jail. There had been a good deal of rain lately, and he had noted that the barrel at the corner of the jail had been full. It was overflowing and the water had evidently washed under the corner of the building.

He walked back and sat down on the bed, and as he listened to the water, an idea came to him suddenly. Tack got up and went to the corner of the cell, and striking a match, studied the wall and floor. Both were damp. He stamped on the stone flags of the door, but they were solid. He kicked the wall. It was also solid.

How thick were those walls? Judging by what he remembered of the door, the walls were all of eight inches thick, but how about the floor? Kneeling on the floor, he struck another match, studying the mortar around the corner flagstone.

Then he felt in his pockets. There was nothing there he could use to dig that mortar. His pocket knife, his bowie knife, his keys, all were gone. Suddenly, he had an inspiration. Slipping off his wide leather belt, he began to dig at the mortar with the edge of his heavy brass belt buckle.

The mortar was damp, but he worked steadily. His hands slipped on the sweaty buckle and he skinned his fingers and knuckles on the rough stone floor, yet he persevered, scraping, scratching, digging out tiny fragments of mortar. From time to time he straightened up and stamped on the stone. It was solid as Gibraltar.

Five hours he scraped and scratched, digging until his belt buckle was no longer of use. He had scraped out almost two inches of mortar. Sweeping up the scattered grains of mortar, and digging some of the mud off his boots, he filled in the cracks as best he could. Then he walked to his bunk and sprawled out and was instantly asleep.

Early in the morning, he heard someone stirring around outside. Then Olney walked back to his cell and looked in at him. Starr followed in a few minutes carrying a plate of food and a pot of coffee. His face was badly bruised and swollen, his eyes were hot with hate. He put the food down, then walked away. Olney loitered.

“Gentry,” he said suddenly, “I hate to see a good hand in this spot.”

Tack looked up. “I’ll bet yuh do!” he said sarcastically.

“No use talkin’ that attitude,” Olney protested, “after all, yuh made trouble for us. Why couldn’t yuh leave well enough alone? Yuh were in the clear, yuh had a few dollars apparently, and yuh could do all right. Hardin took possession of those ranches legally. He can hold ’em, too.”

“We’ll see.”

“No, I mean it. He can. Why don’t yuh drop the whole thing?”

“Drop it?” Tack laughed. “How can I drop it? I’m in jail for murder now, and yuh know as well as I do I never killed Anson Childe. This trial will smoke the whole story out of its hole. I mean to see that it does.”

Olney winced, and Tack could see he had touched a tender spot. That was what they were afraid of. They had him now, but they didn’t want him, they wanted nothing so much as to be completely rid of him.

“Only make trouble for folks,” Olney protested, “yuh won’t get nowhere. Yuh can bet that if yuh go to trial we’ll have all the evidence we need.”

“Sure. I know I’ll be framed.”

“What can yuh expect?” Olney shrugged. “Yuh’re askin’ for it. Why don’t yuh play smart? If yuhd leave the country we could sort of arrange maybe to turn yuh loose.”

Tack looked up at him. “Yuh mean that?” Like blazes, he told himself. I can see yuh turnin’ me loose! And when I walked out yuhd have somebody there to smoke me down, shot escaping jail. Yeah, I know. “If I thought yuhd let me go—” he hesitated, angling to get Olney’s reaction.

The sheriff put his head close to the bars. “Yuh know me, Tack,” he whispered, “I don’t want to see you stick yore head in a noose! Sure, yuh spoke out of turn, and yuh tried to scare up trouble for us, but if yuhd leave, I think I could arrange it.”

“Just give me the chance,” Tack assured him. “Once I get out of here I’ll really start movin’!” And that’s no lie, he added to himself.

Olney went away, and the morning dragged slowly. They would let him go. He was praying now they would wait until the next day. Yet, even if they did permit him to escape, even if they did not have him shot as he was leaving, what could he do? Childe, his best means of assistance, was dead. At every turn he was stopped. They had the law, and they had the guns.

His talk the night before would have implanted doubts. His whipping of Starr would have pleased many, and some of them would realize that his arrest for the murder of Childe was a frame. Yet none of these people would do anything about it without leadership. None of them wanted his neck in a noose.

Olney dropped in later, and leaned close to the bars. “I’ll have something arranged by tomorrow,” he said.

Tack lay back on the bunk and fell asleep. All day the rain had continued without interruption except for a few minutes at a time. The hills would be soggy now, the trails bad. He could hear the wash running strongly, running like a river not thirty yards behind the jail.

Darkness fell, he ate again, and then returned to his bunk. With a good lawyer and a fair judge he could beat them in court. He had an ace in the hole that would help, and another that might do the job.

He waited until the jail was silent and he could hear the usual sounds from the Longhorn. Then he got up and walked over to the corner. All day water had been running under the corner of the jail and must have excavated a fair sized hole by now. Tack knelt down and took from his pocket the fork he had secreted after his meal.

Olney, preoccupied with plans to allow Tack Gentry to escape, and sure that Tack was accepting the plan, had paid little attention to the returned plate.

On his knees, Tack dug out the loosely filled in dust and dirt, then began digging frantically at the hole. He worked steadily for an hour, then crossed to the bucket for a drink of water and to stretch, and then he returned to work.

Another hour passed. He got up and stamped on the stone. It seemed to sink under his feet. He bent his knees and jumped, coming down hard on his heels. The stone gave way so suddenly he almost went through. He caught himself, withdrew his feet from the hole, and bent over, striking a match. It was no more than six inches to the surface of the water, and even a glance told him it must be much deeper than he had believed.

He took another look, waited an instant, then lowered his feet into the water. The current jerked at them, and then he lowered his body through the hole and let go. Instantly, he was jerked away and literally thrown downstream. He caught a quick glimpse of a light from a window, and then he was whirling over and over. He grabbed frantically, hoping to get his hands on something, but they clutched only empty air. Frantically, he fought toward where there must be a bank, realizing he was in a roaring stream all of six feet deep. He struck nothing, and was thrown, almost hurtled downstream with what seemed to be overwhelming speed. Something black loomed near him and at the same instant the water caught at him, rushing with even greater power. He grabbed again at the blob of blackness and his hand caught a root.

Yet it was nothing secure, merely a huge cottonwood log rushing downstream. Working his way along it, he managed to get a leg over and crawled atop it. Fortunately, the log did not roll over.

Lying there in the blackness, he realized what must have happened. Behind the row of buildings that fronted on the street, of which the jail was one, was a shallow, sandy ditch. At one end of it the bluff reared up. The dry wash skirted one side of the triangle formed by the bluff, and the ditch formed the other. Water flowing off the bluff and off the roofs of the buildings and from the street of the town and the rise beyond it had flooded into the ditch, washing it deeper, yet now he knew he was in the current of the wash itself, now running bank full, a raging torrent.

A brief flash of lightning revealed the stream down which he was shooting like a chip in a mill race. Below, he knew, was Cathedral Gorge, a narrow, boulder-strewn gash in the mountain down which this wash would thunder like an express train. Tack had seen such logs go down it, smashing into boulders, hurled against the rocky walls, then shooting at last out into the open flat below the gorge. And he knew instantly that no living thing could hope to ride a charging log through the black, roaring depths of the gorge and come out anything but a mangled, lifeless pulp.

The log he was bestriding hit a wave and water drenched him, then the log whirled dizzily around a bend in the wash. Before him and around another bend he could hear the roar of the gorge. The log swung, then the driving roots ripped into a heap of debris at the bend of the wash, and the log swung wickedly across the current. Scrambling like a madman, Tack fought his way toward the roots, and then even as the log ripped loose, he hurled himself at the heap of debris.

He landed in a heap of broken boughs, felt something gouge him, and then scrambling, he made the rocks and clambered up into their shelter, lying there on a flat rock, gasping for breath.

CHAPTER FOUR: Return with Death

Along time later he got up. Something was wrong with his right leg. It felt numb and sore. He crawled over the rocks and stumbled over the muddy earth toward the partial shelter of a clump of trees.

He needed shelter, and he needed a gun. Tack Gentry knew now that he was free they would scour the country for him. They might believe him dead, but they would want to be certain. What he needed now was shelter, rest, and food. He needed to examine himself to see how badly he was injured, yet where could he turn?

Betty? She was too far away and he had no horse. Red Furness? Possibly, but how much the man would or would not help he did not know. Yet thinking of Red made him think of Childe. There was a place for him. If he could only get to Childe’s quarters over the saloon!

Luckily, he had landed on the same side of the wash as the town. He was stiff and sore, and his leg was paining him grievously. Yet there was no time to be lost. What the hour was he had no idea, but he knew his progress would be slow, and he must be careful. The rain was pounding down, but he was so wet now that it made no difference.

How long it took him he never knew. He could have been no more than a mile from town, perhaps less, yet he walked, crawled, and pulled himself to the edge of town, then behind the buildings until he reached the dark back stairway to Anson Childe’s room. Step by step he crawled up. Luckily, the door was unlocked.

Once inside, he stood there in the darkness, listening. There was no sound. This room was windowless but for one very small and tightly curtained window at the top of the wall. Tack felt for the candle, found it, and fumbled for a match. When he had the candle alight, he started pulling off his clothes.

Naked, he dried himself with a towel, avoiding the injured leg. Then he found a bottle, and poured himself a drink. He tossed it off, then sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at his leg.

It almost made him sick to look at it. Hurled against a root or something in the dark, it had torn a great, mangled wound in the calf of his leg. No artery appeared to have been injured but in places his shinbone was visible through the ripped flesh. The wound in the calf was deeper. Cleansing it as best he could, he found a white shirt belonging to Childe, and bandaged his leg.

Exhausted, he fell asleep. When, he never recalled. Only hours later he awakened suddenly to find sunlight streaming through the door into the front room. His leg was stiff and sore, and when he moved it throbbed with pain. Using a cane he found hanging in the room, he pulled himself up and staggered to the door.

The curtains in the front room were up and sunlight streamed in. The rain seemed to be gone. From where he stood he could see into the street, and almost the first person he saw was Van Hardin. He was standing in front of the Longhorn talking to Soderman and the mustached man Tack had first seen at his own ranch.

The sight reminded him, and Tack hunted around for a gun. He found a pair of beautifully matched Colts, silver plated and ivory handled. He strapped them on with their ornate belt and holsters. Then, standing in a corner, he found a riot gun and a Henry rifle. He checked the loads in all the guns, found several boxes of ammunition for each of them, and emptied a box of .45s into the pockets of a pair of Childe’s pants he pulled on. Then he put a double handful of shotgun shells into the pockets of a leather jacket he found.

He sat down then, for he was weak and trembling.

His time was short. Sooner or later someone would come to this room. Someone would either think of it or someone would come to claim the room for himself. Red Furness had no idea he was there, so would probably not hesitate to let anyone come up.

He locked the door, then dug around and found a stale loaf of bread, some cheese, then lay down to rest. His leg was throbbing with pain, and he knew it needed care, and badly.

When he awakened, he studied the street from a vantage point well inside the room and to one side of the window. Several knots of men were standing around talking, more men than should have been in town at that hour. He recognized one or two of them as being old timers around. Twice he saw Olney ride by, and the sheriff was carrying a riot gun.

Starr and the mustached man were loafing in front of the Longhorn, and two other men Tack recognized as coming from the old London ranch were there.

He ate some more bread and cheese. He was just finishing his sandwich when a buckboard turned into the street, and his heart jumped when he saw Betty London was driving. Beside her in the seat was her father, Bill, worn and old, his hair white now, but he was wearing a gun!

Something was stirring down below. It began to look as if the lid was about to blow off. Yet Tack had no idea of his own status. He was an escaped prisoner, and as such could be shot on sight legally by Olney or Starr, who seemed to be a deputy. From the wary attitude of the Van Hardin men he knew that they were disturbed by their lack of knowledge of him.

Yet the day passed without incident, and finally he returned to the bunk and lay down after checking his guns once more. The time for the payoff was near, he knew that. It could come at any moment. He was lying there thinking about that and looking up at the rough plank ceiling when he heard the steps on the stairs.

He arose so suddenly that a twinge of pain shot through the weight that had become his leg. The steps were on the front stairs, not the back. A quick glance from the window told him it was Betty London.

What did she want here?

Her hand fell on the knob and it turned. He eased off the bed and turned the key in the lock. She hesitated just an instant, and then stepped in. When their eyes met hers went wide and her face went white to the lips.

“You!” she gasped. “Oh, Tack! What have you been doing! Where have you been!”

She started toward him, but he backed up and sat down on the bed. “Wait. Do they know I’m up here?” he demanded harshly.

“No, Tack. I came up to see if some papers were here, some papers I gave to Anson Childe before he was—murdered.”

“Yuh think I did that?” he demanded.

“No, of course not!” Her eyes held a question. “Tack, what’s the matter? Don’t you like me anymore?”

“Don’t I like yuh?” His lips twisted with bitterness. “Lady, yuh’ve got a nerve to ask that! I come back and find my girl about to go dancin’ in a cheap saloon dance hall, and—”

“I needed money, Tack,” Betty said quietly. “Dad needed care. We didn’t have any money. Everything we had was lost when we lost the ranch. Hardin offered me the job. He said he wouldn’t let anybody molest me.”

“What about him?”

“I could take care of him.” She looked at him, puzzled. “Tack, what’s the matter? Why are you sitting down? Are you hurt?”

“My leg.” He shook his head as she started forward. “Don’t bother about it, there’s no time. What are they saying down there? What’s all the crowd in town? Give it to me, quick!”

“Some of them think you were drowned in escaping from jail. I don’t think Van Hardin thinks that, nor Olney. They seem very disturbed. The crowd is in town for Childe’s funeral, and because some of them think you were murdered once Olney got you in jail. Some of our friends.”

“Betty!” The call came from the street below. It was Van Hardin’s voice.

“Don’t answer!” Tack Gentry got up. His dark green eyes were hard. “I want him to come up.”

Betty waited, her eyes wide, listening. Footsteps sounded on the stairway, then the door shoved open. “Bet—” Van Hardin’s voice died out and he stood there, one hand on the door knob, starring at Tack.

“Howdy, Hardin,” Tack said, “I was hopin’ yuh’d come.”

Van Hardin said nothing. His powerful shoulders filled the open door, his eyes were set, and the shock was fading from them now.

“Got a few things to tell yuh, Hardin,” Tack continued gently, “before yuh go out of this feet first I want yuh to know what a sucker yuh’ve been.”

“A sucker I’ve been?” Hardin laughed. “What chance have yuh got? The street down there is full of my men. Yuh’ve friends there, too, but they lack leadership, they don’t know what to do. My men have their orders. And then, I won’t have any trouble with yuh, Gentry. Yore old friends around here told me all about yuh. Soft, like that uncle of yores.”

“Ever hear of Black Jack Paris, Hardin?”

“The gunman? Of course, but what’s he got to do with yuh?”

“Nothin’, now. He did once, up in Ellsworth, Kansas. They dug a bed for him next mornin’, Hardin. He was too slow. Yuh said I was soft? Well, maybe I was once. Maybe in spots I still am, but yuh see, since the folks around here have seen me I’ve been over the cattle trails, been doin’ some Injun fightin’ and rustler killin’. It makes a sight of change in a man, Hardin.

“That ain’t what I wanted yuh to know. I wanted yuh to know what a fool yuh were, tryin’ to steal this ranch. Yuh see, the land in our home ranch wasn’t like the rest of this land, Hardin.”

“What do you mean?” Hardin demanded suspiciously.

“Why, yuh’re the smart boy,” Tack drawled easily, “yuh should have checked before takin’ so much for granted. Yuh see, the Gentry ranch was a land grant. My grandmother, she was a Basque, see? The land came to us through her family, and the will she left was that it would belong to us as long as any of us lived, that it couldn’t be sold or traded, and in case we all died, it was to go to the State of Texas!”

Van Hardin stared. “What?” he gasped. “What kind of fool deal is this yuh’re givin’ me?”

“Fool deal is right,” Tack said quietly. “Yuh see, the State of Texas knows no Gentry would sell or trade, knowin’ we couldn’t, so if somebody else showed up with the land, they were bound to ask a sight of questions. Sooner or later they’d have got around to askin’ yuh how come.”

Hardin seemed stunned. From the street below there was a sound of horses’ hooves.

Then a voice said from Tack’s left, “Yuh better get out, Van. There’s talkin’ to be done in the street. I want Tack Gentry!” Tack’s head jerked around. It was Soderman. The short squinty eyed man was staring at him, gun in hand. He heard Hardin turn and bolt out of the room; saw resolution in Soderman’s eyes. Hurling himself toward the wall, Gentry’s hand flashed for his pistol.

A gun blasted in the room with a roar like a cannon and Gentry felt the angry whip of the bullet, and then he fired twice, low down.

Soderman fell back against the door jamb, both hands grabbing at his stomach, just below his belt buckle. “Yuh shot me!” he gasped, round eyed. “Yuh shot—me!”

“Like you did my uncle,” Tack said coolly. “Only yuh had better than an even break, and he had no break at all.”

Gentry could feel blood from the opened wound trickling down his leg. He glanced at Betty. “I’ve got to get down there,” he said, “he’s a slick talker.”

Van Hardin was standing down in the street. Beside him was Olney and nearby was Starr. Other men, a half dozen of them, loitered nearby.

Slowly, Tack Gentry began stumping down the stair. All eyes looked up. Red Furness saw him and spoke out, “Tack, these three men are Rangers come down from Austin to make some inquiries.”

Hardin pointed at Gentry. “He’s wanted for murdering Anson Childe! Also, for jail breaking, and unless I’m much mistaken he has killed another man up there in Childe’s office!”

The Ranger looked at him curiously, then one of them glanced at Hardin, “Yuh all the hombre what lays claim to the Gentry place?”

Hardin swallowed quickly, then his eyes shifted. “No, that was Soderman. The man who was upstairs.”

Hardin looked at Tack Gentry. With the Rangers here he knew his game was played out. He smiled suddenly. “Yuh’ve nothin’ on me at all, gents,” he said coolly. “Soderman killed John Gentry and laid claim to his ranch. I don’t know nothin’ about it.”

“Yuh engineered it!” Bill London burst out. “Same as yuh did the stealin’ of my ranch!”

“Yuh’ve no proof,” Hardin sneered. “Not a particle! My name is on no papers, and yuh have no evidence.”

Coolly, he strode across to his black horse and swung into the saddle. He was smiling gently, but there was sneering triumph behind the smile. “Yuh’ve nothin’ on me, not a thing!”

“Don’t let him get away!” Bill London shouted. “He’s the wust one of the whole kit and kaboodle of ’em!”

“But he’s right!” the Ranger protested. “In all the papers we’ve found, there’s not a single item to tie him up. If he’s in it, he’s been almighty smart.”

“Then arrest him for horse stealin’!” Tack Gentry said. “That’s my black horse he’s on!”

Hardin’s face went cold, then he smiled. “Why, that’s crazy! That’s foolish,” he said, “this is my horse. I reared him from a colt. Anybody could be mistaken, ’cause one black horse is like another. My brand’s on him, and yuh can all see it’s an old brand.” Tack Gentry stepped out in front of the black horse. “Button!” he said sharply. “Button!”

At the familiar voice, the black horse’s head jerked up. “Button!” Tack called. “Hut! Hut!”

As the name and the sharp command rolled out, Button reacted like an explosion of dynamite. He jumped straight up in the air and came down hard, then he sunfished wildly, and Van Hardin hit the dirt in a heap.

“Button!” Tack commanded. “Go get Blackie!”