Ward McQueen saddled up and rode out toward the herd. He was very thoughtful. There seemed not a thing wrong, and yet he couldn’t help feeling that something was very wrong. He shook his head. Baldy Jackson might or might not be off the owlhoot, but there was someone around whom Baldy didn’t trust.
Idly, he let the roan circle the herd, bringing a few straying steers closer to the main herd. There was plenty of grass. It was a nice, comfortable spot to hole up for a few days.
Suddenly, an hour later, as the sun was just out of sight, he had an idea. He picked one of the steers away from the herd and, riding in, roped it. In a matter of seconds the young steer was 49 tied. With a bit of stick he dug into the dirt on one hoof. A few minutes of examination, and he got up and turned the steer loose. It struggled erect and hiked back to the herd.
Ward McQueen mounted again, his face thoughtful. That critter had never crossed the alkali desert! There was no caked alkali dust on the hoof, none of it in the hair on the animal’s leg. Wherever the cattle had come from, it hadn’t been across the vast, salt plain where animals sank to their knees in the ashy waste. They had traveled in fairly good country, which meant they had come down from the north.
There was three hundred head of prime beef here, and it had been moved through pretty good country.
It was almost two o’clock in the morning and he had started back toward the camp when he saw the lean height of young Bud Fox walking toward him. He spotted him in the moonlight and reined in, waiting.
“How’s it go?” Bud asked cheerfully. “I woke up and thought maybe yuh’d like some coffee?” He held up a cup and held another for himself.
McQueen swung down and ground-hitched the roan.
“Tastes mighty good!” he said, after a pull at the coffee. He glanced up at Bud. “How long you and Baldy been with this herd?”
“Not long,” Bud said. “We joined ‘em here,
too. We was ridin’ down from the Blue
Mountains, up Oregon way. Hoyt and
Naify was already here. Said they’d been here a couple of days. Had two punchers when they come, they told us, but the punchers quit and headed for Montana.”
“Yuh ever punch cows in Montana?”
McQueen asked.
“Nope. Not me.”
McQueen watched Bud walk back to camp
and then forked the roan and started off, walking the
horse. The stories of Baldy and Bud sounded
straight enough. Baldy was admittedly from New
Mexico and Arizona. Bud Fox said he had
never ridden in Montana, and he looked like a
southern rider. On the other hand, Red Naify,
the foreman, who said he had driven in from Wyoming,
rode a big horse and carried a thick, hemp
lariat. Both were more typical of Montana
cowhands. 51
It was almost daylight when McQueen heard the shot.
He had rounded the herd and was nearing the willows when the sudden spang of a rifle stabbed the stillness.
The one shot, then silence.
Touching spurs to the roan, he whipped it through the
willows to the camp. Red Naify was standing, pistol in hand, at the edge of the firelight, staring into the darkness.
Both Baldy and Bud were sitting up in their blankets, and Baldy had his rifle in his hand.
“Where’d that shot come from?” McQueen demanded.
“Up on the mountain. It was some distance off,”
Naify said.
“Sounded close by to me,” Bud retorted. “I’da sworn it was right close up in them trees.”
“It was up on the mountain,” Naify growled. He looked around at McQueen. “Them cows all right?”
“Sure thing. I’ll go back.”
“Wait.” Fox rolled out of his blankets.
“I’ll go out. You been out all night.”
“We’re movin’ in a couple of hours,” Red Naify said. “You two will do the drivin’. Let him go back.”
Ward McQueen turned the roan and rode back to the herd. It was not yet daylight. He could see the campfire flickering through the trees.
The herd was quiet. Some of the cattle had started up at the shot, but the stillness had quieted them again. Most of them were bedded down. With a quick glance toward the fire, McQueen turned the roan toward the mountain.
Skirting some clumps of pi@non and juniper, he rode into the trees. It was gray, and the ground could be seen, but not well. He knew what he was looking for. If there had been a man, there must have been a horse. Perhaps the shot had been a miss. In any event, there had been no sound of movement in the stillness that followed. The roan’s ears were keen, and he had given no indication of hearing anything.
He was riding through a clump of mazanita when he heard a horse stamp. He caught his own horse’s nose, then ground-hitched it, and walked through the trees.
It was a fine-looking black horse, 53 all of sixteen hands high, with a silver-mounted saddle. A Winchester #’gc was in the scabbard, and the saddlebags were hand-tooled leather.
Working away from the horse, McQueen started toward the edge of the woods. He was still well under cover when he saw the dark outline of the body. He glanced around, listened, then moved closer. He knelt in the gray dimness of dawn. The man was dead.
He was a young man, dressed in neat, expensive black. He wore one gun and it was in its holster. Gently, McQueen rolled the man on his back. He had been handsome as well as young, with a refined, sensitive face. Not, somehow, a Western face.
Slipping his hand inside the man’s coat, McQueen withdrew a flat wallet. On it, in neat gold lettering, was the name Dan Kermitt. Inside, there was a sheaf of bills and other papers.
Suddenly McQueen heard a light footstep. Quickly, he slid the wallet into his shirt and stood up. Red Naify was standing on the edge of the woods.
“Looks like somebody got who he was shootin’ at,” McQueen drawled quietly. “Know him?”
Naify walked forward on cat feet. He looked down, then he shrugged.
“Never saw him afore!” He looked up, his piglike eyes gleaming. It was light enough now for McQueen to see their change of expression. “Did you kill him?”
“Me?” For an instant McQueen was startled.
“No. I never saw this hombre before.”
“Yuh could’ve,” Red said, insinuatingly.
“There wasn’t nobody to see.”
“So could you,” McQueen said quietly. “So could you!”
“I got an alibi.” Red grinned suddenly. “What the devil? I don’t care who killed him. Injuns, probably. Find anythin’ on him?”
“Never looked,” McQueen replied carefully. How much had Red seen?
Naify stooped over the body and fanned it with swift, skillful fingers. In the right-hand pocket he found a small wallet containing a few bills and some gold coin. Ward McQueen stared at it thoughtfully, and when Naify 55 straightened, he asked a question.
“Anythin’ to tell who he was?”
“Not a thing. I’ll jest keep this until
somebody calls for it.” He pocketed the money.
“Yuh want to bury him?”
“Yeah. I’ll bury him.” McQueen stared down at the body. This was no place to bury a nice young man like this. But then, the West did strange things to people, bringing a strange grave to many a man.
“Hey.” Red paused. “He should have a hoss.
I better have a look around.”
“Leave it to me,” McQueen said quietly.
“You got the money. I already found the hoss.”
Red Naify hesitated, andfor an instant his face was harsh and cruel. McQueen watched him, waiting. It was coming, sooner or later, and it could be now as well as later.
Naify shrugged, and started to turn away, then looked back. “Was it—the hoss, I mean—a big black?”
“Yeah,” McQueen told him, unsmiling.
“So yuh did know him?”
Naify’s face darkened. “No. Only I seen somebody follerin’ us that was ridin’ a big black. Could’ve been him.” He strode off toward camp.
Carrying the young man to a wash in the steep bank, he placed the body on the bottom, then caved dirt over it.
“Not much of a grave, friend,” he said softly, “but I’ll come back an’ do her proper.” He turned and as he walked away he added quietly, “And when I do, amigo, yuh can rest easy.”
Standing in the brush near the black horse, he took out the flat leather wallet and opened it. He thrust his hand inside, then gulped in amazement. He was staring down at a sheaf of thousand-dollar bills!
Swiftly, he counted. Twenty-five of them, all new and crisp. There were two letters and a few odds and ends of no importance. He opened one letter, in feminine handwriting. It was short and to the point.