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Nothing more was said, and within the hour they moved out. Yet Gary was restless and worried. He could feel the tenseness in the others and knew they, too, were disturbed. There was no sign of Mart Ray, who should be meeting them soon.
To make matters worse, the cattle were growing restive. The short drives had given them time to recover some of their energy and several of them, led by one big red steer, kept breaking for the brush. It was hot, miserable work. The clouds still hung low, threatening rain, but the air was sultry.
Jim Gary started the day with the lean gray horse he had ridden before, but by midafternoon he exchanged the worn out animal for his own buckskin. Sweat streamed down his body under his shirt, and he worked hard, harrying the irritable animals down the trail that now was lined with pinon and juniper, with a sprinkling of huge boulders. Ahead, a wide canyon opened, and not far beyond would be the spot where he expected to find Ray with the payoff money.
The big red steer suddenly made another bolt for the brush and the buckskin unwound so fast that it almost unseated Gary. He swore softly and let the horse take him after the steer and cut it back to the herd. As it swung back, he glanced up to see Langer and Red Slagle vanishing into the brush. Where Dirksen was he could not guess until he heard a wild yell.
Swinging around, he saw a dozen hard riding horsemen cutting down from the brush on both sides, and a glance told him that flight was useless. Nevertheless, Jeeter Dirksen tried it.
Slamming the spurs into his bronc, he lunged for the brush in the direction taken by Slagle and Langer, but he made no more than a dozen yards when a rattle of gunfire smashed him from the saddle. His slender body hit the ground rolling, flopped over one last time, and lay sprawled and sightless under the low gray clouds.
Gary rested his hands on his saddlehorn and stared gloomily at the strange little man, so badly miscast in this outlaw venture. Then horsemen closed in around him; his six-guns were jerked from their holsters, and his rifle from its scabbard.
“What’s the matter with you?” The voice was harsh. “Won’t that horse of yours run?”
Jim looked up into a pair of cold gray eyes in a leatherlike face. A neat gray mustache showed above a firm lipped mouth. Jim Gary smiled, although he had never felt less like it in his life. The horsemen surrounded him, and their guns were ready. “Never was much of a hand to run,” Jim said, “an’ I’ve done nothin’ to run for.”
“You call murderin’ my brother nothin’? You call stealin’ cattle nothin’? Sorry, friend, we don’t see things things alike. I call it hangin’.”
“So would I, on’y I haven’t done those things. I hired onto this oufit back down the line. Forty bucks to the head of Salt Creek Wash . . . an’ they ain’t paid me.”
“You’ll get paid!” The speaker was a lean, hard-faced young man. “With a rope!”
Another rider pushed a horse through the circle. “Who is this man, Uncle Dan? Why didn’t he try to get away?”
“Says he’s just a hired hand,” Uncle Dan commented.
“That’s probably what that dead man would have said, too!” the lean puncher said. “Let me an’ the boys have him under that cottonwood we seen. It had nice strong limbs.”
Gary had turned his head to look at the girl. Uncle Dan would be Dan Blaze, and this must be the daughter of the murdered man. She was tall, slim but rounded of limb and undeniably attractive, with color in her cheeks and a few scattered freckles over her nose. Her eyes were hazel and now looked hard and stormy.
“Did you folks find Tom Blaze’s body?” he asked. “They left him back yonder.” Lifting a hand carefully to his shirt pocket he drew out the envelope and tally sheets. “These were his.”
“What more do you need?” The lean puncher demanded. He pushed his horse against Jim’s and grabbed at the buckskin’s bridle. “Come on, boys!”
“Take it easy, Jerry!” Dan Blaze said sharply. “When I want him hung, I’ll say so.” His eyes shifted back to Jim. “You’re a mighty cool customer,” he said. “If your story’s straight, what are you doing with these?”
Briefly as possible, Jim explained the whole situation, and ended by saying, “What could I do? I still had forty bucks comin’, an’ I did my work, so I aim to collect.”
“You say there were three men with the herd? And the two who got away were Tobe Langer and Red Slagle?”
“That’s right,” Jim hesitated over Mart Ray, then said no more.
Blaze was staring at the herd, now he looked at Jim. “Why were these cattle branded AA? That’s a straight outfit. You know anything about that?”
Gary hesitated. Much as he had reason to believe Ray was not only one of these men but their leader, he hated to betray him. “Not much. I don’t know any of these outfits. I’m a Texas man.” Blaze smiled wryly. “You sound it. What’s your handle?”
“Jim Gary.”
The puncher named Jerry started as if struck. “Jim Gary?” he gasped, his voice incredulous. “The one who killed Sonoma?”
“Yeah, I reckon.”
Now they were all staring at him with new interest, for the two fights he had were ample to start his name growing a legend on the plains and desert. These punchers had heard of him, probably from some grub line rider or drifting puncher.
“Jim Gary,” Blaze mused, “we’ve heard about you. Old Steve’s son, aren’t you? I knew Steve.”
Jim looked up his eyes cold.”My father,” he said grimly, “was a mighty good man!”
Dan Blaze’s eyes warmed a little. “You’re right. He was.”
“What of it?” Jerry demanded sullenly. “The man’s a killer. We know that. We found him with the cattle. We found him with some of Tom’s stuff on him. What more do you want?”
The girl spoke suddenly. “There was another rider, one who joined you, then rode away. Who was he?”
There it was, and Jim suddenly knew he would not lie. “Mart Ray,” he said quietly, “of the Double A.”
“That’s a lie!” The girl flashed back. “What are you saying?”
“You got any proof of that?” Jerry demanded hotly. “You’re talkin’ about a friend of our’n.”
“He was a friend of mine, too.” Gary explained about Mart Ray. “Why don’t you turn me loose?” he suggested then. “I’ll go get Ray and bring him to you. Chances are Slagle and Tobe will be with him.”
“You’ll get him?” Jerry snorted. “That’s a good one, that is!”
“Tie him,” Dan Blaze said suddenly. “We’ll go into Salt Creek.”
CHAPTER FOUR: Hoofmarked for Justice
Riding behind Dan Blaze and his niece, whom he heard them call Kitty, Jim Gary was suddenly aware, almost for the first time, of the danger he was in. The fact that it had been averted for the moment was small consolation, for these were hard, desperate men, and one of them, perhaps more, had been slain.
Fear was something strange to him, and while he had known danger, it had passed over him leaving him almost untouched. This situation conveyed only a sense of unreality, and until now the idea that he might really be in danger scarcely seemed credible. Listening to these men, his mind changed about that. He realized belatedly that he was in the greatest danger of his life. If he had none of their talk to warn him, the mute evidence of Jeeter’s body was enough. And Jeeter had died yelling to him, trying to give him a warning so he might escape.
Now fear rode with him, a cold, clammy fear that stiffened his fingers and left his mouth dry and his stomach empty. Even the sight of the scattered buildings of the town of Salt Creek did not help, and when they rode up the street, the red of embarrassment crept up his neck at the shame of being led into the town, his hands tied behind him, like a cheap rustler.
Mart Ray was sitting on the steps and he shoved his hat back and got to his feet. Beside him was Red Slagle. There was no sign of Tobe Langer. “Howdy, Dan! What did you catch? A hoss thief?” Ray’s voice was genial, his eyes bland. “Looks like a big party for such a small catch!”