They had Marta’s money, and now they wanted her ranch, and probably her.
He wondered if Tomason had thought of Creet and the girl. With his shrewd eyes, Brett had long been aware of Creet’s desire for the girl, and he had watched the man speculatively appraising Marta on more than one occasion. Tomason, for all his gun skill, was no match for Creet.
The outlaw was a cold-blooded killer, and he was a deadly hand with a six-gun. Only Brett Larane might match him in gunplay, andof that fact only two men were aware—Larane himself, and Joe Creet.
Creet knew that Larane had a reputation in Hays and Tascosa, a fact unknown to Tomason or to any of the others in the Valley of the Sun country or the Saxon Hills. Larane had backed down the Catfish Kid on two occasions, and Jesse Evans, Billy the Kid’s former pal and later enemy, had backed down for him. In that tough and hard-bitten crowd that included Hendry Brown, Frank Valley, and Dave Rudabaugh, Brett Larane had been left strictly alone.
Two things he must do now. He must at all costs recover the money for Marta, and he must kill Joe Creet and Gay Tomason.
Had he been a well man, he might have handled the situation without gunfire. But in his present shape, with no knowledge of how long he would be around, he dared take no chances. If he did not live, he must be sure that the others died. And he must be sure that if he was to be sick or crippled, none of the three were around to take advantage of his and the girl’s helplessness.
He knew the risk he was taking, but at all costs he had to have water. He had ridden for hours now without a drink, and the water earlier had scarcely been sufficient to refresh him after his long thirst. Moreover, he must know who was at the ranch, and what was happening there.
Leaving the buckskin tethered in the aspens, he moved carefully toward the ranch house.
At the spring he lowered himself to the ground and drank long and deeply. Lifting his head, he studied the situation with care, then turned toward the bunkhouse. He must first know who was on the grounds. At a window, flattened against the side of the building, he glanced within.
Joe Creet was hunched over the table, and Indian Frank sat on the edge of a bunk. Gay Tomason was tipped back against the wall in a chair. “What I say”—Tomason was speaking–?is we split the money now. Then you hombres take a good-sized herd and leave me here. That’s fair enough.”
Creet’s dry chuckle was a warning to Brett Larane, who knew his man, but Gay saw nothing in it. “Sure, that’s fair enough,” Joe agreed, “in fact, that’s more than fair. But who wants to be fair?”
Tomason’s smile faded. “Well, let’s have your idea, then!” he demanded sharply. “I’ve stated my case.”
“My idea?” Creet chuckled again, and his small black eyes were pinned on Tomason with contempt. “I want the money, and the girl.”
Tomason’s chair legs hit the floor, his face was dark with angry blood. “She’s mine!” he said furiously. “She’s in love with me, and she wants me! She doesn’t enter into this!”
“Doesn’t she?” Creet sneered. “I say she does. I’d kill”—he stared at Tomason–?fora woman like that as quick as for money. I’d even kill you, Gay.”
Their eyes held, and Brett watched, fascinated. He saw what was in Creet’s mind, and he could sense the evil triumph within the man at this moment. Joe Creet liked nothing and hated everything. He was a man eaten by a cancer of jealousy and hatred, and now he was savoring his triumph over the handsome Gay Tomason.
“So? That’s the way it is?” Larane knew what Tomason was going to do. The man did have courage, of a kind, and now he laughed suddenly. “Why, I might have guessed you’d never play fair with any man, Joe! I might have known that as soon as I helped you put Brett out of the way, I would come next.
“I see things different, myself. I wouldn’t kill for any woman. You can have her. Now, if you like.”
Tomason chuckled as he finished speaking, and leaned his elbows on his knees. “Let’s forget her and split the money. If you insist on Marta, there’s no reason for me staying around.”
“Sure.” Joe Creet got up slowly, smiling with hard eyes. “I think that’s just what I’ll do. Go up an’ see her now.” He turned on his heel with a last sneering glance at Gay, and stepped toward the door.
It was a trap, but Tomason was too intent on his own subterfuge, for as Creet’s back turned to him Gay Tomason went for his gun and started to his feet in the same moment. And then Indian Frank buried his knife to the haft in the back of Tomason’s neck!
The big cowhand gasped, his mouth opening and closing. He tried to lift his gun. But at the grunt of Indian Frank as he drove home the knife, Creet wheeled like a cat and shattered Gay’s wrist with a sweeping blow of his gun barrel. Tomason’s gun crashed to the floor, and the cowhand stood swaying, then his knees buckled under him, and he went down. Deliberately, Creet kicked him in the stomach, then the face.
“Good job,” Creet said, grinning at his crony. “Now we’ll have the money, and the girl.” He looked up at the Indian. “And I mean both of us. Let’s eat, and then we’ll go up.”
Carefully, Brett Larane eased away from the cabin wall. On cat feet he started for the house, and when he got to the door, he tried the knob. It was not locked. Opening it, he stepped in.
Marta heard the creak of the door and looked up. Her eyes went wide in startled horror. He lifted his finger to his lips. Then he got to the table and dropped into a chair. In gasping ^ws, he told her of the shooting on the trail, of his own wounds, andofthe murder of Gay Tomason.
His face was deathly pale, and he felt sick and empty. He tried holding his hands steady, and his lips stiffened as he felt them tremble. He could never hope to shoot accurately enough to kill both men before they got him. He needed time—time. And there was no time. They were coming now, in just a few minutes.
Yet there was a chance. If he could keep them in the cabin, prevent them from getting out … He looked up. “Where’s my rifle?” he asked hoarsely. With the rifle he could pin them down, hold them back, possibly kill them at a distance. Away from Marta.
“They took it, Brett. Creet came in with Gay, said there was a coyote he wanted to kill. There isn’t a gun in the house except the one you’re wearing.”
For money and a girl … they believed they had killed him, they knew they had killed Gay. They would stop at nothing, and they had been sure Marta had no weapons. The minutes fled, and he stared wildly from the girl to the window, trying desperately to think. Some way to stop them! There had to be a way! There just had to be!
His dwindling strength had mostly been dissipated on the long ride home. He knew, with an awful fear for Marta, that he could never get to the bunkhouse again. He doubted if he could cross the room. The sweat stood out on his face, and in the pale light he looked ghastly.
Slumped in the chair, his breath came in long gasps. His head throbbed, and the rat’s teeth of agony bit into his side. He tried to force his fevered mind to function, to wrest from it one idea, anything, that might help.
When Creet saw him there, he was going to shoot. The outlaw would give him no chance to plan, to think. Nor would he hesitate. Creet knew him too well. He would, at first glimpse, realize Brett Larane’s tragic weakness. There would be no second chance. Joe Creet must die before he cleared the doorstep, while he was stepping across it. Brett frowned against the pain, and his thoughts struggled with the problem.
He had no strength to lift a gun, no strength to hold a gun even, nor did he dare risk Marta’s life by allowing her to use his gun. There was in his mind no thought of fair play, for there was nothing fair about any of this. It was murder, ugly and brutal, that they planned.
They had not thought of fair play when they ambushed him. Creet hadn’t thought of fair play when he lured Gay Tomason into a chance at his back while Indian Frank sneaked up with his knife. If he was to save Marta and the ranch he had worked for, it must be now, and by any means.