things done proper.”
He glanced at Orrin, wearing several days’ growth of beard, his clothes dusty.
“I’ll bet!” he sneered.
“Better fill your canteens,” I told Judas. “We may make a dry camp tonight.”
“All right, Mr. Sackett,” he said.
The sandy-haired man jerked as if slapped. “What was that? What did you call
him?”
“Sackett,” Judas said.
The other men backed off now, spreading out a little. The sandy-haired man’s
face was pale. “Now, see here,” he said. “I’m just drivin’ these horses across
country. Hired by a man,” he said nervously. “We were hired to drive these
horses.”
“Where’s the man who hired you?”
“He’s comin’ along. There’s a bunch of them. They’ll be along directly.”
“What’s his name?” Orrin demanded suddenly.
The man hesitated. “Charley McCaire,” he said finally.
Orrin glanced at me. McCaire was a gunfighter, a man with a reputation as a
troublemaker, but one who so far had always kept on the good side of the law. He
ranched in Arizona now, but he had several brothers who still lived in New
Mexico and Texas.
“Orrin,” I said, “keep an eye on these boys. I’m going to ride over and have a
better look at those horses.”
“Like hell you are!” the man said harshly. “You leave that herd alone!”
“Sit quiet,” Orrin advised. “We’re just wondering why the name Sackett upset you
so.”
Well, I trotted my appaloosa over to those horses and skirted around them a
couple of times, then I bunched them a mite and rode back.
“Blotted,” I said, “and a poor job. They read 888 and they should read Slash
SS.”
“Tyrel’s road brand,” Orrin said. “Well, I’ll be damned!”
CHAPTER XI
The man’s face was tight. “Now, you see here!” he said. “I—”
“Shut up,” Orrin said sternly. His eyes went from one face to the other. “As of
this moment you are all under arrest. I am making a citizen’s arrest. Under the
circumstances, if you do not offer resistance, I may be able to save you from
hanging.”
“We’ll see about that!” the sandy-haired man yelled angrily. “You talk to
Charley McCaire! And there he comes!”
Judas and the Tinker had spread out a little, facing the cattle drivers. Orrin
an’ me, we just naturally turned around to face the riders coming up to us.
There were seven in the group, and a salty-looking bunch they were.
McCaire was a big man, rawboned and strong. Once you had a look at him you had
no doubt who was in command. A weathered face, high cheekbones, and a great beak
of a nose above a tight, hard mouth and a strong jaw.
“What the hell’s goin’ on here?” he demanded.
“Mr. McCaire? I am Orrin Sackett. I have just made an arrest of these men, found
with stolen horses.”
“Stolen horses?” McCaire’s voice was harsh. “Those horses carry my brand.”
“Every brand is blotted,” I said calmly. “Three Eights over a Slash SS. That’s
Tyrel Sackett’s road brand.”
Now a man expecting trouble had better not miss anything. To the right of
McCaire, there was a younger man with lean, flashy good looks about him—one of
those men you sometimes see who just doesn’t seem to hang together, and he was
acting a mite itchy and tight around the mouth.
As I looked, his horse sort of fidgeted around, and I saw that gent’s hand drop
to his gun.
“McCaire! You tell that man to get his hand off his gun! There needn’t be any
shooting here, but if he wants it, he can have it.”
McCaire’s head swiveled around and his voice rapped like a gavel. “Get your hand
off that gun, Boley!” He turned to the rest of his men. “Nobody starts shooting
here until I do! Get that?”
Then he turned his eyes back to me, and, brother, those eyes of his, cold gray
against his dark, wind-burned features, looked into me like a couple of gun
muzzles. “Who’re you?”
“William Tell Sackett’s the name. Brother to Orrin here, and to Tyrel, whose
horses these are.”
“Those ain’t nobody’s horses but Charley’s,” Boley said.
Orrin ignored him. “Mr. McCaire, you’re known as a hard man but a fair one. You
can read brands as well as any man … and those are raw brands, Mr. McCaire,
and there isn’t a horse in that lot under four years old, nor are they mustangs.
Such horses would have been branded long since.”
McCaire turned in the saddle to an older man near him. “Tom, let’s go have a
look.” He said to the others, “You boys just sit your saddles and don’t start
anything.”
Orrin started to ride off with them and glanced at me. I grinned at him. “I’ll
just sort of sit here, too, Orrin. No reason these boys should get lonesome.”
Boley looked past me at Judas, then at the Tinker. “Who are them?” he demanded.
“What kinda people are you, anyhow?”
The Tinker smiled, flashing his white teeth, his eyes faintly ironic. “I’m a
gypsy, if you’d enjoy knowing, and they call me the Tinker. I fix things,” he
added. “I put things together to make them work, but I can take them apart,
too.” He took his knife from its scabbard. “Sometimes I take things apart so
they never work again.” He dropped the knife back to its sheath.
Judas said nothing, merely looking at them, his eyes steady, his hands still.
Charley McCaire was at the horses now, him and that segundo of his. He would be
able to see those were blotted brands, but a whole lot depended on whether he
wanted to see them or not. We could always shoot one of the horses and skin him
to look at the back of the hide—they read right that way. Trouble was, I didn’t
want to shoot no horse and wanted nobody else to. Moreover, there was no reason.
The brands had been blotted, all right. They hadn’t taken the trouble to burn
over the old brand, just added to it. So a blind man could see what had been
done. But supposin’ he didn’t want to see? To recognize the fact would
incriminate several of his own men and would also mean a respectable loss of the
cash money such horses would bring.
Charley McCaire was a strong-tempered man, and what happened depended on how
that temper veered. Me, I meant to be ready. Horse stealing was a hanging matter
anywhere west of the Mississippi and some places east of it. It was also a
shooting matter, and I had an idea this Boley gent knew aplenty about how those
brands were burned.
Suddenly, McCaire reined around and came back on a lope.
Orrin followed just behind Tom. When we were all together again, Charley turned
to face us. “Ride off,” he said. “We’re through talkin’.”
“Charley,” Tom said, “look here, man, I—”
“Are you ridin’ for the brand or agin it?” Charley’s face was flushed and angry.
“If you ain’t with us, ride out of here.”
“Charley! Think! You’ve always been an honest man, and by the lord harry, you
know those brands are—”
Boley’s hand dropped for his gun … mine was covering him. “You draw that,” I
said, “and when she clears leather you’ll be belly up to the sky.”
Nobody moved. “All right, Charley,” Tom said, “I’ve rode for your brand for nigh
onto twelve year now, but I’m quittin’. You just keep what you owe me because a
man cheap enough to read those brands wrong is nobody whose money I want.”
“Tom!” It was a protest.
“No.”
“Go to hell, then!”
“That’s your route, Charley, not mine.”
Tom turned his horse and rode slowly away over the bunch grass.
My gun was still in my hand. Boley was pale around the gills. He fancied himself
with a six-gun, I could see that, but he wasn’t up to it.
“That’s a mighty rough trail you’re choosin’ for yourself,” I said casually.
“This is a flat-out steal, McCaire, if you can bring it off.”
“Don’t be a fool! We outnumber you three to one!”
“You better look at your hole card, mister,” I told him. “I’m already holding a
gun. Now I don’t know how the rest of your boys will make out, but I’ll lay you
five to one you an’ Boley are dead.”
“Take ’em, Uncle Charley,” Boley said. “There’s only two of ’em. That nigger
won’t stand. Neither will the other one.”
“If you think I won’t stand, suh,” Judas said politely, “why don’t you just step
out to one side an’ let just the two of us try it?”
Boley started to move, then stopped, his eyes on Judas Priest’s gun. It was a
Colt revolving shotgun.
“Finally got around to looking, did you? This here weapon holds four ca’tridges
… an’ if I can hit a duck on the wing I believe I can hit a man in a saddle.”