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

Автор книги: Louis L'Amour

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

“Si.” Costa’s agreement was positive. “Senorita, did you notice his hands when he faced Seever? They were ready, carolita, to draw. This man has used the gun before. He is a strong man, carolita!”

“I think you are right. He is a strong man. . . .”

For two days nothing happened from the direction of town. Walt Seever and his hard-bitten companions might have vanished from the earth, but on the Rancho Casa Grande much was happening, and Tony Costa was whistling most of the time.

Jed Asbury’s formal education was slight but he knew men, and how to lead them, to get the results he wanted and he had practical knowledge.

He got up at five the morning after his conference with Carol, and when she awakened, old Maria, the cook, hastened to tell her that the senor was hard at work in the office. The door was open a crack, and when she came by she saw Jed, his curly hair on end, deep in the accounts of the ranch. Pinned up before him was a map of the Casa Grande holdings, and as he checked the disposition of cattle and horses he studied the map.

He ate a hurried breakfast and at eight o’clock was in the saddle. He ate his other meals at one of the line camps in the mountains, and rode in after dark.

In two days he spent twenty hours in the saddle.

On the third day he called Costa to the office, and asked Maria to request the presence of Carol. Puzzled and curious, she joined them.

Jed wore a white shirt, the black broadcloth trousers, and the silver guns. His face seemed to have hardened in those past two days, but when he smiled, it lighted up.

“You have been here longer than I,” he said to Carol, “and are in a sense, a partner.” Before she could speak he turned on Costa. “And you have been foreman here. I want you to remain foreman. However, I asked you both to be here because I am making some changes.”

He indicated a point on the map. “That narrow passage leads over the border of our land into open country and then the desert. I found cattle tracks there, going out. It might be rustlers. A little blasting up on the rocks above the gap will close it tight.”

Costa nodded. “You are correct, senor. That is a good move.”

“This field—” Jed indicated a large area in a broad valley not far from the house—“must be fenced off. We will plant it to flax.” “Flax, senor?” Costa was puzzled.

“Yes. There will be a good market for it.” He indicated a smaller area. “This piece we will plant to grapes, and all that hillside will support them. There will be times when we cannot depend entirely upon cattle or horses, and we must have other sources of income.”

Carol studied him in wonderment. He was moving fast, this new Michael Latch. He was getting things done. Already he had grasped the situation, accomplishing much.

“Also, Costa, we must have a roundup. Gather all the cattle, weed out all those over four years old and we’ll sell them. I found a lot of cattle back in the timber that run five to eight years old. . . .”

A few hours after he had ridden away, Carol walked down toward the blacksmith shop to talk with Pat Flood. He was an old seafaring man with a peg leg whom Uncle George had found on the beach in San Francisco, and he was a marvel with tools.

He glanced up from under his bushy gray brows as she drew near. He was cobbling a pair of boots.

Before she could speak he said:

“This here new boss, Latch—been to sea, ain’t he?”

She looked at him quickly. “What gave you that idea?”

“Seen him throw a bowline on a bight yesterday. Purtiest job I seen since I come ashore. He made that rope fast like he’d been doin’ it for years.”

“I expect many men handle ropes well,” she said.

“But not sailor fashion. He called it a line, too. ‘Hand me that line!’ he says. Me, I been ashore so long I’m callin’ them ropes myself, but not him. I’d stake my dinner he’s walked a deck. . . .”

Jed Asbury was riding to Noveno. He wanted to do several things he might not do so well, unless alone.

In the first place, he wanted to assay the feeling of the town toward the ranch, toward George Baca, and toward Walt Seever. He thought he might talk with a few people before they discovered who he was. Also, he was growing irritated at the delay in a showdown with Seever. His appearance in town alone might force that showdown, or allow Seever an opportunity if he felt he needed one.

Jed had never avoided trouble. He always went right to the heart of it. For this trip he was dressed for it, wearing a pair of worn gray trousers, boots, his silver guns, and a battered black hat. He hoped to pass as a drifting puncher.

Already, in his riding around the ranch and his conversations with the riders he had learned a good deal. He knew that the place to go in Noveno was the Gold Strike. He swung down and tied his horse to the hitching-rail and walked inside.

Three men were loafing against the bar. Immediately he recognized the big man with the hard face and the scar on his lip as Harry Strykes, the gunslick who had ridden with Seever. As Jed stepped up to the bar and ordered a drink, a man who was seated at a table got up slowly and walked up to Strykes.

“Never saw him afore,” he said.

Strykes walked around the man and stopped in front of Jed.

“So?” he sneered. “A smart trick of yore own, huh? Well, nobody cuts in on my boss. Go for yore gun, or go back to Texas!”

Jed did not move.

“I’ve no reason to kill you,” he said calmly. “I don’t like your tone, but I’m not going to touch a gun, because if I drew I’d shoot you so you’d take a long time to die. Instead, I’m going to teach you to have better sense than to speak to strangers as you have me.”

His right hand grabbed Strykes by the belt. He shoved back, then lifted, and his left toe hooked Strykes’ knee with a sharp kick. Strykes’ feet flew up and Jed jerked him free of the floor, his arms pawing wildly at the air. Jed dropped him flat on his back.

Strykes had been caught unawares, and he hit the floor so hard that for an instant he was stunned. Then with a curse he came off the floor.

CHAPTER FOUR: Cut Down to Size

Jed Asbury held his drink in his left hand, leaning carelessly against the bar. Harry Strykes stared at him, too furious for words. Then he lunged.

Jed’s left foot was on the brass rail, but as Strykes lunged and swung, Jed moved out from the bar to the full length of his straightened left leg. Strykes’ swing missed and the force of it threw his chest against the edge. Jed lifted the remainder of the glass of rye and tossed it in the man’s eyes.

Coolly he put the glass down and stepped away. He made no move to hit Strykes, merely waiting for him to paw the liquor out of his eyes. When he seemed about to get that done, Jed leaned forward and, with a sudden jerk, whipped open the man’s belt. Strykes’ trousers slid toward his knees, and he grabbed at them wildly. Jed pushed him, with the tips of his fingers. Strykes couldn’t stagger with his trousers around his knees, so he fell.

Jed turned and smiled.

“Sorry to have disturbed you, gentlemen! The name is Mike Latch. If you are ever out to Casa Grande, please call.”

Abruptly he walked out of the saloon, and behind him he heard roars of laughter as the men stared at Harry Strykes sprawling ludicrously on the floor.

Yet Jed had not forgotten the man who had stepped up to Strykes and said that he had never seen Jed before. Did that man know the real Michael Latch? If Walt Seever did know something of the covered wagon and the three murdered people, he would know that Jed Asbury was an impostor, and would be searching for the evidence. The vast and beautiful acres of Rancho Casa Grande were reason enough.

Riding homeward later, Jed Asbury mulled over the problem. There was every chance of eventual exposure, yet no one might ever come near who actually knew him.

His brief altercation with Strykes had got him nowhere. He probably had been observed when he had ridden into town, and that the stranger had known Latch, and had been ready to identify him. But the fight might have won Jed a few friends who enjoyed seeing a bully put in his place, and friends might be valuable in the months to come. The town as a whole had been noncommittal or frankly friendly with Seever, although Walt’s friends were the tough element.

Seever would fight, and Jed might be killed. So somehow he must find a way to give Carol a strong claim to the ranch. Failing in that, he must kill Walt Seever.

Jed Asbury had never killed a man except to protect himself or those dear to him. Deliberately to hunt a man down and shoot him was something he had never dreamed of doing. Yet it might be the only way. With a shock he realized he was thinking more of the girl than himself, and he scarcely knew her.

Apparently the stranger had identified him. Next time it might be a direct accusation in front of witnesses. Jed considered the problem all the way home. . . .

Unknown to Jed, Jim Pardo, one of the toughest hands on the ranch had followed him to Noveno. On his return Pardo reined in before the blacksmith shop and looked down at gigantic old Pat Flood. The blacksmith would have weighed three hundred pounds with two legs, and little of it fat. He loomed five inches over six feet and his hands were enormous. He rarely left his shop, his wooden leg giving him trouble.

Pardo squinted after Jed and nodded. “He’ll do,” he said, swinging down.

Flood lighted his corncob pipe.

“Had him a run-in with Harry Strykes,” said Pardo.

Flood looked at Pardo, his gaze searching.

“Made a fool of Harry,” said Pardo.

“Whup him?”

“Not like he should of. But it was worse. He got him laughed at.” “Strykes will kill him for that.”

“Mebbe.” Pardo rolled a smoke and related the events of the brief visit in town.

“Mebbe Strykes will get smart and leave Latch alone,” he finished. “This here Mike Latch is no greenhorn. No man who’s green takes things easy like this hombre. Never even turned a hair when Strykes braced him. Harry didn’t have no idea what to do. Nossiree, yuh can place yore bets on this here boss of our’n. He’s got sand in his gizzard, and I’m bettin’ he’s a hand with a shootin’ iron. He’s braced trouble afore.”

Flood chewed on his pipe stem. “He’s deep,” he said.

“Old George always said young Latch was a book-readin’ hombre. Quiet-like.”

“Well,” Flood said thoughtfully, “this Latch is quiet enough, and he reads books. . . .”

Tony Costa learned of the incident from Pardo, and Maria related the story to Carol. Jed made no reference to it at supper. Costa hesitated as he arose from the table.

“Senor,” he said, “since Senor Baca’s death the senorita has allowed me to eat in the ranch house. If you wish, I can—”

Jed glanced up. “Forget it,” he said. “And unless you’re in a hurry, sit down.”

When Costa had seated himself, Jed lit a cigarette and leaned back.

“Yesterday I was over in Fall Valley,” he said, “and I saw some cattle over there, quite a lot of them, with a Bar O brand.”

Costa’s eye flared. “Bar O? Ah, then they try again! This brand, senor, belongs to a man with a big ranch—Frank Besovi. He is a big man, ver’ ugly man. Senor Baca has much troubles with him. Always he tries to take that valley, and if he gets that, he will try to take more. He has taken many ranches so.”

“Take some of the boys up there and throw that bunch of cattle back on his own range,” ordered Jed.

“There will be trouble, senor.”

“You afraid of trouble, Costa?” Jed Asbury asked quietly.

The foreman’s face sharpened. “No, senor!”

“Neither am I. Throw them back.”

When the punchers moved out in the morning, Jed mounted his own horse and, keeping to the timber, followed them. And there was going to be trouble. Jed saw that when they neared the valley.

Several punchers were grouped near a big man with a black beard. Their horses had a Bar O brand.

Jed rode out of the trees.

“I’ll take over, Costa,” he said. “I want to hear what Besovi has to say.”

“Besovi, he ver’ bad man!” Costa warned.

Jed Asbury knew trouble when he saw it and he knew that Besovi and his men had ridden in here for a showdown. He rode directly to them and pushed his big black right up against Besovi’s gray. The big man’s face flamed with rage.

“What yuh tryin’ to do?” he roared.

“Listen, Besovi!” Jed’s voice was cold and even. “Have your boys round up those cattle and run them back over that line– right now! If you don’t, I’ll make you run ’em over afoot!”

“What?” Besovi’s voice was an incredulous bellow.

“You heard me. Give the order.”

“I’ll see you in Tophet first!” Besovi roared.

Jed Asbury knew this could be settled in two ways. If he went for a gun there would be shooting on both sides and men would be killed. He chose the other way.

He grabbed Besovi by the beard and jerked the rancher sharply toward him. He kicked the big man’s foot free of the stirrup, then shoved hard. Besovi, caught by the sheer unexpectedness of the attack, went off his horse, and Jed hit the ground and was around the horses in a flash.

Besovi, his face white with anger, was lunging to his feet, his hand clawing for a gun.

“Afraid to fight with your hands?” Jed taunted.

Besovi glared, then unbuckled his gunbelts and handed them to the nearest horseman. Without hesitation, Jed unbuckled the silver guns and handed them to Costa.

Besovi started toward him with a sort of crabwise movement that made Jed’s eyes sharpen. He circled warily, looking the big man over.

Jed was at least thirty pounds lighter than Besovi, and the big man had power in those mighty shoulders. Yet it took more than power to win in this kind of a fight. Jed moved in, feinting. Besovi grabbed at his wrist and Jed pushed the hand aside and stiffened a left in his face.

Blood showed, and the Casa Grande men yelled. Pardo rolled his chewing in his jaws and watched. He had seen Besovi fight before. The big man kept moving in, and Jed was wary. Besovi had some plan of action. He was no wild, hit-or-miss fighter. Jed feinted, then stabbed two lefts to Besovi’s face so fast one punch had scarcely landed before the other smacked home. Pardo was surprised to see how Besovi’s head jerked under the impact.

Besovi moved in and when Jed led again, the bigger man went under the punch and leaped close, encircling Jed with his mighty arms. Jed’s quick leap back had been too slow, and he felt the power in that quick, grasping clutch. If those huge arms ever closed on him he would be in for trouble, so he kicked up both feet and fell.

The fall, sudden and unexpected, caught Besovi off balance, and he lunged on, losing his grip. Quickly he spun, but Jed was already on his feet. Besovi swung, however, and the punch caught Jed on the cheek bone. He took it standing, and Pardo’s mouth dropped open. Nobody had ever stood up under such a Besovi punch before.

Jed struck then, a left and right that cracked home solidly. The left opened the gash over Besovi’s eye a little more. The right landed on the chin, and the big man staggered. Jed moved in fast, threw both hands to the head. As the big r ancher’s hands came up to protect his face, Jed slugged him in the stomach.

Besovi got an arm around Jed and smashed him twice on the face with stiff, short-arm blows. Jed butted him hard, breaking free.

He was faster, and he caught the rancher behind the head and jerked Besovi’s face down to meet the right uppercut that broke his nose. Jed pushed him away then and hit him seven times before he could set himself. Besovi tried, like a huge blind bear, to swing, but Jed went under the punch and hit him in the stomach again.

Besovi staggered back, and Jed drew back and dropped his hands.

“You’ve had plenty, Besovi, and you’re too good a fighter to kill. You’d never quit. I could kill you but I’d probably break my hands. Did you take those cattle out of here?”

Besovi, standing unsteadily, wiped the blood from his eyes. He stared at Jed, unbelievingly.

“Well, I’ll be hanged!” he said. He blinked, then turned. “You heard the man,” he said. “Round up them cows. The fun’s over.” He turned back to Jed. “Yuh’re a fighter, by the eternal! Yuh could have beat me to death! Want to shake?”

“I’d never shake with a better man, or a tougher one!”

Their hands gripped, and suddenly Besovi began to laugh. He slapped his thigh and roared. His eyes twinkled at Jed.

“Come over for supper some night, will yuh? Ma’s been telling me this would happen. She’ll be right pleased to see yuh!”

CHAPTER FIVE: At Bay

The big rancher’s lips were split, there was a cut over his right eye, his cheek bone was cut under it. The other eye was slowly swelling shut. There was one bruise on Jed’s cheek bone. It would be bigger tomorrow, but it wasn’t enough to know he had been in a fight. Pardo studied his new boss carefully.

“Can’t figger him,” he told Flood later. “Is he scared to use them guns? Or does he just like to fight with his hands?”

“He’s smart,” Flood said. “Look, he’s made a friend of Besovi. If he’d beaten him to the ground, Besovi never would forgive him. He was savin’ face for Besovi, like they call it over China way. And what if he’d reached for guns?”

“Likely seven or eight wouldn’t have rode home tonight.” “Shore. This hombre is smart, that’s what he is!”

Jed, soaking his battered hands, was not so sure. Besovi might have gone for a gun, or one of his men might have. He had been lucky. He might not be so lucky next time.

Anyhow there was now one less enemy for the Casa Grande ranch. And perhaps a good friend.

If anything happened to him, Carol would need friends. Walt Seever was ominously quiet, and Jed had a feeling the man was waiting for proof that the man who called himself Michael Latch was not Michael Latch.

That gave Jed an idea. It was a game at which two could play.

Carol was saddling her own horse when he walked out in the morning. She glanced at him quickly, noting the bruise on his face.

“You seem to have a faculty of getting into trouble!” she said, smiling at him.

He grinned at her as he led his black gelding out. “I don’t aim to hunt for trouble,” he said, “but it don’t pay to try to duck it, then it just piles up bigger and bigger until a lot of little troubles become one great big one. Sometimes too big to handle.”

“You seem to have made a friend of Besovi,” she suggested, looking at him curiously.

“Why not? He’s a good man, just too used to taking all he can put his hands on, but he’ll be a good neighbor.” He hesitated, not looking at her, afraid his eyes might give him away. “If anything should happen to me, you’d need friends. I think Besovi would help you.”

Her eyes softened. “Thank you—Mike.” She hesitated just a little over the name. “You have already done so much that Uncle George talked of doing.”

Costa was out gathering the herd Jed wanted to sell, and Pardo had gone with Tony. Jed did not ask Carol where she was going, but watched her ride away toward the valley. Then he threw the saddle on his own horse and cinched up. At the sound of horses’ hoofs, he turned.

Walt Seever was riding into the yard, and with him were Harry Strykes, Gin Feeley, and the man who had spoken to Strykes in the bar. Realizing suddenly that he wore no guns, Jed felt naked and helpless and there was no one around the ranch-house that he knew of.

Seever drew rein and leaned on the pommel of his saddle. “Howdy!” he said slowly, savoring his triumph. “Howdy, Jed!” No muscle changed on Jed Asbury’s face. He stood, hands at his sides, waiting. If it came to trouble, he was going right at Seever.

“Purty smart play,” Seever said, “if it hadn’t been for me suspicionin’ yuh might have got away with it.”

Jed waited, watching.

“Now,” Seever said, “yore play’s finished. I suppose we should let yuh get on yore hoss and ride, but we ain’t goin’ to.”

“You mean to kill me like you did Latch and his friends?” Seever’s face tightened. “Purty smart hombre, ain’t yuh? But when yuh said that, yuh signed yore death warrant, sonny!”

“I suppose your yellow-faced friend there was one of the men you sent to kill Latch,” Jed said. “He looks the kind.”

“Let me kill him, Walt!” begged the man with the yellow complexion. “Just let me kill him!”

“What I want to know is where you got them guns?” Walt demanded.

“Out of the wagon, of course!” Jed smiled. “The men you sent to stop Latch before he could get here to claim the estate, messed things up. The Indians had me, but I got away. I found clothes at the wagon. It was as simple as that.”

Seever nodded. “Like I figgered. Now when we get rid of you, nobody’ll know what happened, and I’ll claim Casa Grande!” Jed chuckled. “Thieves like you always forget the important things. Like I said, that outfit you sent messed up the deal. What are you going to do about Arden?”

“Arden?” Walt Seever’s face tightened. “Who the devil is Arden?”

Jed laughed softly. He had worked inches nearer, merely shifting his feet and his weight, They might get him, but he was going to kill Walt Seever.

He chuckled. “Why, Seever, Arden is a girl, and a mighty nice one! She was with Latch when he was killed!”

“A girl?” Seever turned sharply. “Clark, yuh said there was two men and a middle-aged woman!”

“That’s all there was!” Clark said flatly.

“You killed three of them,” said Jack, “but Arden had gone out on the prairie to gather some wild onions. When you opened up on the wagon, she hid in the grass. I found her.”

“That’s a lie!” Clark bellowed. “There was only the three of them!”

“What about those fancy clothes you threw around huntin’ in the wagon?” Jed asked coolly. “Think they were old woman’s clothes?”

Walt’s face darkened with fury. “Cuss you, Clark! Yuh said yuh got all of ’em!”

“There wasn’t no girl!” Clark said feebly. “Anyway, I didn’t see none!”

“There was, and she’s in Santa Fe, plenty safe there, waitin’ for word from me. Somebody will have to answer if I turn up missing, and it looks like you, Walt! You can’t win! You ain’t got a chance.” Seever’s face was ugly. “Anyway,” he said, “we’ve got yuh dead to rights, and yuh die now!”

His hand moved back for his gun, but before Jed Asbury could move a muscle, a shot rang out. Seever yelled in surprise. From behind Jed came Pat Flood’s voice.

“Better keep yore hands away from yore guns, Walt. I can shoot the buttons off yore shirt with this here rifle. And in case it ain’t enough, I got me a scattergun right alongside me. You hombres unbuckle yore belts real careful. You first, Seever!”

Jed dropped back swiftly and picked up the sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun.

The men shed their guns.

“Now get off them hosses!” Flood ordered.

They dismounted and Flood, without shifting his eyes, asked: “What yuh want done with ’em, Boss? Should we shoot the pack of coyotes?”

“No.” Jed smiled. “Let them walk back to town. All except Clark. I want to talk to Clark.”

“You can’t get away with this!” Seever’s face turned an ugly red.

“Ssh!” Jed said gently. “Just look at this shotgun again! It’s mighty persuasive.”

Three men started trooping back to town. Clark, his face ashen, stood with his hands up and his jaw slack.

“Let me go!” he pleaded abjectly. “They’ll kill me!”

Jed gathered up the guns and strolled back to the blacksmith shop. Flood was holding the rifle on the trembling Clark as they followed.

“How much did you hear?” Jed asked Flood.

“All of it,” the big blacksmith said bluntly. “But my memory’s mighty poor. I judge a man by the way he handles himself in a rough sea. You’ve been workin’ for the good of the ship—ridin’ for the brand, as they say it in cattle country. I ain’t interested in anything else.”

“Thanks,” Jed turned to Clark. “You’ve got one chance to live, and you shouldn’t have that. Tell us what happened, who sent you, what you did.” Out of the side of his mouth he said, “Take this down.”

“I got paper and pencil,” the blacksmith said. “Always keep a log.”

“All right, Clark,” Jed said. “A complete confession.”

“Seever will kill me, I tell yuh!” Clark pleaded.

Jed stared at him coldly. “You can die right here, or you can have your horse and thirty minutes’ start. Make your choice.” Clark hesitated, and when he spoke his voice was so low they scarcely could hear.

“I was broke, and Seever came to Ogden and told me I was to find this wagon that was just startin’ west from St. Louis. We was to head ’em off and make shore they never got here. I never knew there was no woman along. Not even one. I didn’t want to kill no woman.”

“Who was with yuh?” Flood demanded.

“Hombre name of Quindry. Another name of Cal Santon. I met up with ’em in Laramie.”

Jed’s exclamation brought Flood’s head up. “You know ’em?” “Yeah.” Jed nodded grimly. “I killed Buck Santon, Cal’s brother. He was a crooked gambler!”

“Then you was the hombre they was huntin’!” Clark said, astonished.

“Where are they now?”

“Headin’ west. Seever sent for ’em for some reason. Guess he figured they’d come in here and prove you was somebody different than yuh said yuh was. He didn’t guess you knowed ’em, though.”

“Seever ordered the killing?”

“Shore.”

A few more questions, and the confession was completed. “All right,” Jed told him. “Sign it.”

Pat Flood had the paper spread, and Clark scratched his name on it.

“Now,” Jed said, “much as I hate to let a killer go, I gave my promise. Get on your horse. You’ve got thirty minutes’ start. Make the most of it.”

“Do I get my gun!” Clark pleaded.

“No. Get out of here before I change my mind.”

Clark fairly threw himself at the nearest horse. Bent low he spurred the horse and they went out of the ranch yard on a dead run.

Flood handed the confession to Jed. “Yuh goin’ to use it?” Jed hesitated. “Not right now. I’m going to put it in the safe in the house. Then if Carol ever needs it, she can use it. If I brought it out now it would also prove I’m not Michael Latch!”

Flood nodded. “I knowed yuh wasn’t,” he said. “Old George told me a good deal about his nephew, and he never went to sea. But the other day I spotted yuh tyin’ a bowline on a bight, and yuh handled that line like a sailor. A few other things showed me yuh’d been around more’n Latch had.”

“Does Carol know?”

“Don’t reckon she does,” Flood said thoughtfully. “But she’s a mighty knowin’ young lady! Smart, that’s what she is!”

If Cal Santon and Quindry were headed west, Seever must have telegraphed them. They would certainly ally themselves with Seever against Jed Asbury. As if there wasn’t trouble enough!

CHAPTER SIX: For the Brand

Costa and Jim Pardo rode into the yard and Costa trotted his horse over to Jed who was wearing the silver guns now.

“The cattle, senor, are many!” Costa said. “More than we think for! We come to see if the Willow Springs crew can help us.” “They should be through,” Jed said. “Is Miss Carol still out there with you?”

“No, senor,” Costa said. “She has gone to Noveno.”

Jed turned abruptly toward his waiting horse. “Come on! We’re goin’ to town!”

Seever would stop at nothing now, and if Santon and Quindry had arrived, Jed’s work would be cut out for him. Santon was a feudist. There was every chance he had been well on his way West, following Jed Asbury before Seever’s message had intercepted him. No doubt Seever had known how to reach the gambler, and he must be here now, and seen him, Jed Asbury, since Seever twice had called him “Jed.”

Noveno lay basking in a warm, pleasant sun. In the distance the Sierras lifted their snow-crowned ramparts against the sky, the white of snow and the gray of rock merging into the deep green of the pines.

A man who was loitering in front of the Gold Strike stepped through the doors as Jed and his companions rode into the street. Then Walt Seever appeared in the doorway, careless, nonchalant.

Seever was smiling. “Huntin’ somethin’?” he asked. His small eyes glinted with cruel amusement. “Figgered yuh’d be in before long. We just sort of detained that girl so’s yuh’d come in. We can turn her loose now. We got what we want—you and yore salty friends in town!”

Jed swung down without replying. His eyes swept the street and the windows. This was a trap, and they had walked right into it.

“There’s a gent in front of the express office, Boss,” Pardo said softly.

“Thanks.”

Jed was watching Seever. The trouble would start with him. He moved away from his horse. There was no time to see what Costa and Pardo were doing, but he knew they would be where it was best for them to be.

Thinking of Pardo’s long, leathery face and cold eyes, he smiled a little. Costa would take care of himself, but Jim Pardo would do more. That old ladino was battle-wise and tough.

“Well, Seever,” Jed said. “I’m glad you saved me the trouble of hunting you up.”

Seever was standing on the board walk, a big man with a stubble of black beard on his granite-hard, wide-jawed face.

“Figgered this would save us both trouble,” he drawled. “Folks hereabouts don’t take to outsiders, Jed, especially when the outsider tries to run a blazer on us. The folks around here would a mite sooner have a tough ranny like me runnin’ that spread than an outsider. Shuck yore guns, get on yore horses, and ride out of town, and we’ll let yuh go.”

“Don’t do that, Boss!” Pardo interrupted. “He’ll kill yuh as soon as yore guns drop!”

“I know. That’s the kind of a rat he is. Cal Santon’s in town, too, and he can’t forget I killed that card-shark brother of his . . . No, Seever, the ranch goes to Miss Carol. If we shoot it out, you may get me, but I promise you—you’ll die first!”

Seever’s voice dropped to a hoarse snarl. “I’ll kill—”

“Look out!” Pardo yelled.

Jed sprang back as the rifle roared from the window over the livery barn, yet even as he moved his hands swept down for the silver guns. They came up, spouting flame and spraying death.

Seever, struck in the chest, staggered back, his own gunfire pounding the dust at his feet, the horses near him leaping and snorting, wild-eyed with fear.

Oblivious to the bellowing gunfire behind and around him, Jed centered his attention on Walt Seever who was bending slowly at the knees, his face still twisted with hatred. When he finally crumpled on the board walk, Jed Asbury, feeling cold inside, hating the sight of this thing he had done, waited, watching and ready.

Slowly the gun dribbled from Seever’s fingers and the man rolled over, his arm and head hanging over the edge of the walk. Blood gathered on the parched gray boards, and discolored the dust.