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Slagle was still gone, and Jim was squatting by the fire watching Jeeter throw grub together when there was a sudden shot from the hills to the north.
Langer stopped his nervous pacing and faced the direction of the shot, his hand on his gun. Jim Gary got slowly to his feet, and he saw that Jeeter’s knuckles gripping the frying pan were white and hard.
Langer was first to relax. “Red must have got him a turkey,” he said, “few around here, and he was sayin’ earlier he’d sure like some.”
Nevertheless, Gary noted that Langer kept back from the firelight and had his rifle near at hand. There was a sound of an approaching horse and Langer slid his rifle across his knees, but it was Slagle, and he swung down, glancing toward the big man. “Shot at a turkey, an’ missed.” Then he added, looking right at Langer, “Nothin’ to worry about now. This time for sure.”
Dirksen got suddenly to his feet. “I’m quittin’, Red. I don’t like this a-tall, not none. I’m gettin’ out.”
Slagle’s eyes were flat and ugly. “Sit down an’ shut up, Jeeter,” he said impatiently, “tomorrow’s our last day. We’ll have a payday this side of Salt Creek an’ then if you want to blow, why you can blow out of here.”
Gary looked up. “I reckon you can have my time, then, too,” he said quietly, “I’m ridin’ west for Pleasant Valley.”
“You?” Langer snorted. “Pleasant Valley? You better stay somewhere where you can be took care of. They don’t side-step trouble out there.”
Gray felt something rise within him, but he controlled his anger with an effort. “I didn’t ask you for any comment, Tobe,” he said quietly, “I can take care of myself.”
Langer sneered. “Why, you yaller skunk! I heard all about you! Just because your pappy was a fast man, you must think folks are skeered of you! You’re yaller as saffron! You ain’t duckin’ trouble, you’re just scared!”
Gary was on his feet, his face white. “All you’ve got to do, Tobe, if you want to lose some teeth, is to stand up!”
“What?” Langer leaped to his feet. “Why, you dirty—”
Jim Gary threw a roundhouse left. The punch was wide, but it came fast, and Langer was not expecting Jim to fight. Too late, he tried to duck, but the fist caught him on the nose, smashing it and showering the front of his shirt with gore.
The big man was tough, and he sprang in, swinging with both hands. Gary stood his ground, and began to fire punches with both fists. For a full minute the two big men stood toe to toe and slugged wickedly, and then Gary deliberately gave ground. Over eager, Langer leaped after him, and Gary brought up a wicked right that stood Tobe on his boot toes, then a looping left that knocked him into the fire.
With a cry, he leaped from the flames, his shirt smoking. Ruthlessly, Gary grabbed him by the shirt front and jerked him into a right hand to the stomach, then a right to the head, and shoving him away he split his ear with another looping left, smashing it like an over ripe tomato. Langer went down in a heap.
Red Slagle had made no move to interfere, but his eyes were hard and curious as he stared up at Gary. “Now where,” he said, “did Ray get the idea that you wouldn’t fight?”
Gary spilled water from a canteen over his bloody knuckles. “Maybe he just figured wrong. Some folks don’t like trouble. That don’t mean they won’t fight when they have to.”
Langer pulled himself drunkenly to his feet and staggered toward the creek.
Red measured Jim with careful eyes. “What would you do,” he asked suddenly, “if Langer reached for a gun?”
Gary turned his level green eyes toward Slagle. “Why, I reckon I’d have to kill him,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I hope he ain’t so foolish.”
Dawn broke cold and gray and Jim Gary walked his horse up into the hills where he had heard the shot the night before. He knew that if Slagle saw him, he would be in trouble, but there was much he wanted to know.
Despite the light fall of rain the night before, there were still tracks. He followed those of Slagle’s bay until he found where they joined those of a larger horse. Walking the buckskin warily, Jim followed the trail. It came to a sudden end.
A horse was sprawled in a clearing, shot through the head. A dozen feet away lay an old man, a tall old man, his sightless eyes staring toward the lowering skies, his arms flung wide. Jim bent over him and saw that he had been shot three times through the chest. Three times. And the wound lower down was an older wound, several days old at least.
The horse wore a Slash Four brand. Things were begi
Tom Blaze . . . the Slash Four!
Tom Blaze, the pioneer Kiowa fighting cattleman who owned the Slash Four, one of the toughest outfits in the West! Why he had not co
And Tom Blaze was dead.
Now it all fitted. The old Mother Hubbard saddle had been taken from Tom’s horse, for this was the second time he had been shot. Earlier, perhaps when the cattle had been stolen, they had shot him and left him for dead, yet they had been unable to leave the saddle behind, for a saddle was two or three month’s work for a cowhand, and not to be lightly left behind.
They had been sure of themselves, too. Sure until he saw Blaze, following them despite his wound. After that they had been worried, and Slagle must have sighted Blaze the afternoon before, then followed him and shot him down.
When the Slash Four found Tom Blaze dead all heck would break loose. Dirksen knew that, and that was why he wanted out, but fast. And it was why Red Slagle and Tobe Langer had pushed so hard to get the cattle to Salt Creek where they could be lost in larger herds, or in the breaks of the hills around the Double A.
When he rode the buckskin down to the fire the others were all up and moving around. Langer’s face was swollen and there were two deep cuts, one on his cheekbone, the other over an eye. He was sullen and refused to look toward Gary.
Slagle stared at the buckskin suspiciously, noticing the wetness on his legs from riding in the high grass and brush.
Whatever the segundo had in mind he never got a chance to say. Jim Gary poured a cup of coffee, but held it in his left hand. “Red, I want my money. I’m takin’ out.”
“Mind if I ask why?” Red’s eyes were level and waiting.
Gary knew that Slagle was a gun hand but the thought did not disturb him. While he avoided trouble, it was never in him to be afraid, nor did his own skill permit it. While he had matched gun speed with only one man, he had that sure confidence that comes from unerring marksmanship and speed developed from long practice.
“No, I don’t mind. This morning I found Tom Blaze’s body, right where you killed him yesterday afternoon. I know that Slash Four outfit, and I don’t want to be any part of this bunch when they catch up to you.”
His frankness left Slagle uncertain. He had been prepared for evasion. This was not only sincerity, but it left Slagle unsure as to Gary’s actual stand. From his words Slagle assumed Gary was leaving from dislike of the fight rather than dislike of rustling.
“You stick with us, Jim,” he said, “you’re a good man, like Mart said. That Slash Four outfit won’t get wise, and there’ll be a nice split on this cattle deal.”
“I want no part of it,” Jim replied shortly. “I’m out. Let me have my money.”
“I ain’t got it,” Red said simply. “Ray pays us all off. I carry no money around. Come on, Jim, lend us a hand. We’ve only today, then we’ll be at the head of Salt Creek Wash and get paid off.”
Gary hesitated. He did need the money, for he was broke and would need grub before he could go on west. Since he had come this far, another day would scarcely matter. “All right, I’ll finish the drive.”