Now he was at the lowest point above the river, and from now on he would be climbing a little, pushing his foot along the slanting cable. Carefully, he worked him-, self along. He could see the loom of the cliff on the opposite side.
Was there a good place to get off? Would the rock be wet and slippery? He remembered climbing out of a cliff dwelling once when the ladder stopped below the top of the boulder against which it rested, a smooth, polished boulder, and he had to work himself to the edge, turn himself around, and clinging to that polished surface, feel for the steps of the ladder with a fivehundred-foot drop behind him. He had not liked it then, and would not now.
Little by little he edged along until he was under the loom of the cliff, and he was trembling when he stepped off the cable into the safety of a rocky cavern at the cable’s end. He was so relieved to be safely across that he did not immediately notice the Indian who sat awaiting him. The Navajo got up and without a word led him along a trail to a cabin built in a branch canyon. Tethered at the door of the cabin was a huge bay stallion. With a wave for the Indian, Mike stepped into the saddle and was off, the stallion taking the trail it obviously knew. Would Perrin travel by night? Bastian doubted it. After all, what was the reason for hurry? His victims awaited him, practically helpless, and with no warning of what impended. The trail led steadily upward. No doubt Curry himself had ridden this horse. It obviously knew where it was going, and he was eager to be there.
As the trail widened the horse broke into a swinging lope that ate up the ground.
The country was rugged, red rock, cedar, and occasional flats where the purple sage grew, only not purple tonight, merely dark patches here and there. As for the cedar, he could smell it, and the pinyons, too. Dawn came slowly, breaking through long streaks of gray cloud. He drew up at a pool of snow water and drank, then let the stallion drink. He took a strip of jerky from his small pack and chewed on it while he unslung his rifle and edged it into the boot.
His approach must be with great care. He was not sure as to the exact position of the ranch, and Perrin might already be there. As he drew nearer he must ride slower to make the beat of his horse’s hoofs less loud. He knew the men he was facing, and they were skilled and dangerous fighting men.
The shadows were almost gone, but the sun was not yet up. Mike slowed the stallion to a walk although the animal tugged at the bit, eager to go. Now he must listen, listen for any sound, a movement, a distant shot Drusilla Ragan brushed her hair thoughtfully, then pinned it up. She could hear her mother moving in the next room, and the Mexican girls who cared for the house were tidying up. .
Juliana was outside talking to the young blond cowboy who had been hired to gentle some horses.
Suddenly Drusilla heard Juliana’s footsteps. She came into the door, cheeks glowing.
“Aren’t you ready? I’m famished!” “I’ll be along.” Then. as Juliana turned away, she asked, “What did you think of him, Julie? That cowboy or whatever he was who got the buckboard for us? Wasn’t he the best-looking thing you ever saw?” “Oh? You mean Mike Bastian? I was wondering why you were mooning around in here. Usually you’re the first one up. Yes, I expect he is good looking.
And you know something? He reminded me of pa. Oh, not in looks, but some of his mannerisms.” Drusilla was no sooner seated at breakfast than she decided to ask Uncle Voyle about Mike Bastian again.
Ragan knew the girls had met Mike Bastian in Weaver, and he knew about the gold train, so he tried to keep his expression bland.
“Did you say his name was Bastian? I don’t place it. You said he was wearing buckskins? Sounds more like a hunter than a cowboy, but you can never tell.” “He’s probably a hunter from up in the Kaibab. It’s unlikely you will see him again. It’s pretty wild up there on the other side of the canyon.” “The driver of the buckboard said there were outlaws up there,” Juliana said.
“It could be. It is very wild up there,” and he added truthfully, “I’ve never been up there.” He lifted his head, listening for a moment. He thought he had heard horses coming, but it was too soon for Ben to arrive. If anyone else stopped by he would have to get rid of them, and promptly.
Visitors, however, were extremely rare.
Then he heard the sound again, closer. He got up quickly. “Stay here!” He spoke more sharply than intended.
His immediate fear was a posse, and then he recognized Kerb Perrin. He had seen Perrin many times, but doubted if Perrin had ever seen him or had any idea who he was. There were several riders, and they were Ben’s men, but Ben had always assured him the outlaws knew nothing of the V-Bar or his connection to it.
He walked out on the porch. “How are you?” He spoke mildly, suddenly aware that he was not even wearing a gun. “Anything I can do for you?” Where were his hands? Why had the sentry not warned him?
“You can make as little trouble as possible,” Kerb Perrin said harshly. “You can stay out of the way and maybe you won’t get hurt. We heard there were women here. We want them and we want your cattle.” Voyle Ragan stood tall and alone. “My advice is for you to ride out of here, and ride fast.
You aren’t welcome.” He paused, stalling for time. “The only women here are decent women, who are visitors.” Ducrow slid from his horse and shucked his Winchester. At that moment Garfield appeared at the corner of the corral. “All right!” he shouted.
“Back off therel” The others were on the ground, spreading out.
Garfield was cool. He stepped out, his rifle up. “Back off, I saidl” He saw a movement and his eyes flickered and Ducraw shot across the saddle. Garfield took the bullet and fired back. A man beyond Ducrow spun and fell, Garfield worked the lever on his rifle and Ducrow shot into him. The cowhand backed up, going to his knees, fighting to get his rifle up. Another shot knocked him over, yet he still struggled. Ignoring the shooting, Kerb Perrin started up the steps and Voyle Ragan hit him in the mouth. The blow was sudden, unexpected, and it landed flush. Perrin put his hand to his mouth and brought it away, bloody. “For that, I shall kill youl” “Not yet, Perrinl” The voice had the ring of challenge, and Kerb knew it at once. He was shocked. Bastian here?
He had left Bastian a prisoner at Toadstool Canyon, so how could he be here, of all places? And if he was free that meant Ben Curry was back in the saddle.
He must kill Mike Bastian and kill him now) “You’re making fools of yourselves) Ben Curry is not through and this place is under his protection! He sent me to stop you. All those who get in the saddle and ride out of here now will be in the clear. If you don’t want to fight Ben Curry get going, and get going nocul” Kerb Perrin went for his gun.
Kerb Perrin knew he was going to kill Mike Bastian. There had never been a time when he was not sure of his skill with a gun, and now even more so. Who did this kid think he was, anyway? Kerb Perrin was smiling as his hand dropped to his gun, yet even as his gun cleared its holster he saw a stab of flame from the muzzle of Bastian’s gun and something slugged him hard in the midsection. Staggered and perplexed, he took a step backward. Whatever hit him had knocked his gun out of line, and the shot he fired went into the dirt out in front of him. He lifted his gun to swing it into line when something hit him again, half turning him.
What was wrong? He struggled with his gun, which was suddenly very heavy. There was a strange feeling in his stomach, something, never experienced before. Suddenly he was on his knees and could not remember how he got there. A dark pool was forming near his knees, and he must have slipped.
He started to rise. He was to kill Mike Bastian, he had to kill him. He peered across the space between them. Bastian was standing with a gun in his hand, holding his fire. What was the matter with Bastian? Did he think he, Kerb Perrin, needed time? He lunged to his feet and stood swaying. His legs felt numb and he was having a hard time getting his breath. That blood . . . it was his blood! He had been shot. Mike Bastian had beaten him. Beaten him? Like WE His gun muzzle started to lift, then fell from his fingers. He had another gun. He would- He reached for it and fell into the dust. His eyes opened wide, he tried to scream a protest but no sound came.