We have gone ahead to Fort Mallock. Come there with the money, as Kim has located a good ranch. I don’t know what we’d have done without 57 Iver, however, as ever since Father was killed, he has advised and helped me. The cattle are coming west with two of the most trustworthy hands, Chuck and Stan Jones.
Ruth
Replacing the wallet in his shirt, Ward McQueen swung into the saddle. He rode the black horse back to where his own horse waited, then leading his horse, he rode back to the camp.
Red Naify looked up at him, and then glanced at the horse, envy and greed shining in his eyes. Baldy looked up, too, and his eyes narrowed a little, but he said nothing. Bud Fox was already bunching the herd to start them moving.
Naify mounted up and joined him while McQueen ate. Twice he glanced up from his food to Baldy.
“Say,” he said finally, “where was Red when yuh first looked up after that shot?”
“Red?” Baldy looked up, and put his big red hands on his hips. “Red wasn’t in sight. Then I looked around, and he was standin’ there. He could’ve been there all the time, but I don’t think he was.”
McQueen nodded up the hillside. “There was a dead man up there. He’d been lookin’ us over from the cover of the trees. Right nice-lookin’ gent. No rustler.”
“Yuh think somebody’s pullin’ a steal?” Baldy asked shrewdly, stowing away the camp gear in the chuck wagon.
“Don’t you?” Ward said quietly.
“Uh-huh. So what happens?” Baldy
asked.
“My guess would be they don’t intend to let us have no part of the profits. To us, the deal is supposed to be on the level. We don’t know that it ain’t,” he added. “Actually, we don’t know a thing.”
“Uh-huh.” Baldy crawled up on the wagon, and McQueen tossed his now empty coffee cup into the back of the chuck wagon. “So we keep our eyes peeled, huh?”
“And a six-shooter handy,” McQueen agreed grimly.
He tied the black horse to the wagon, then swung aboard the roan as the chuck wagon rumbled out after the cattle. McQueen started the roan after the herd at a canter, scowling 59 thoughtfully.
The letter had referred to two trusted hands, Chuck and Stan Jones. Trusted men didn’t ride away and leave a herd. Not to go back to Montana or anywhere. What had happened to them, then? Where were they?
The trail wound slowly up toward the pass in the Toana range. The cattle moved slowly, reluctant to leave the green meadows bordering Pilot Creek. There was little time for thinking as two old steers had no intention of leaving the creek and made break after break trying to get away.
Late in the afternoon, Bud Fox rode up beside McQueen. He lighted a smoke, then glanced across the herd at Naify.
“Nice hoss yuh got back there,” he commented casually. “Hombre what owned him’s dead, I so’pose?”
“Uh-huh. I buried him. A darned good rifle shot killed him.”
Bud rode quietly. “Yuh know,” he said softly, “I been wonderin’ a mite. When Baldy and me come up the trail, we got us a glimpse of somethin’. Way north of where we was, but on the Montana trail. We seen us some buzzards circlin’—like maybe a dead critter was lyin’ there.”
“Or dead men.” Ward McQueen’s voice was grim. “Men who might object to what was goin’ to be done with these cows.”
“Uh-huh,” Fox agreed, “like that. Or maybe riders the boss didn’t have no intention of payin’. On a long drive, yuh know, ain’t nobody goin’ to be surprised if a cowpoke never comes back. He could’ve gone on to Californy, or maybe south of the Colorado country. Or he could’ve just started driftin’.”
The herd moved steadily westward, camping one night at Flower Lake, a grass-covered and spring-fed swamp, then moving on up the steep slopes of the Pequops through a scattered forest of mountain mahogany, juniper, and pi@non. Ward McQueen, his battered gray hat pulled low over his gray eyes, his lean-jawed face ever more quiet, ever more watchful.
Red Naify held to the point, rarely leaving it even for a few minutes. The blocky, hard-faced foreman rode cautiously, and 61 once, when they sighted several horsemen, he let the herd veer southward, away from them.
On the west side of the Pequops the herd ambled slowly across a sage-covered valley toward the distant violet and purple of mountains, and finally, almost in the shadow of the Humboldt Range, the herd was circled for a night stop on the edge of Snow Water Lake.
Naify rode back. “Bed ‘em down here,” he said. “We’ll spend the night and let ‘em feed some more. No use losin’ too much beef on this move.”
“Where’s Mallock?” McQueen asked suddenly.
Naify turned his head and looked squarely
at him. “Don’t worry about it. We ain’t
goin’ near Mallockffwas
Thoughtfully, Ward watched Red ride away. Red Naify knew nothing of the letter in McQueen’s pocket. In that simple statement he had given himself away. The girl was waiting at Fort Mallock for the cattle. Iver Hoyt was probably with her. He was the trusted adviser, and he was stealing her herd!
In McQueen’s pocket, given him by a friend before he ever started for this country, was a map. It showed Mallock, the fort built only a short time before, to be not far beyond the Humboldt Mountains. He made a sudden decision.
Wheeling his horse, he rode to the chuck wagon, where Baldy had unhitched the team. The cattle were drinking, and Bud Fox was sitting his horse nearby, rolling a smoke.
“Listen,” he said, reining in the roan beside the wagon. “I’m ridin’ out of here. I got me an idea. You two better keep plenty close watch. I figger this is where she happens!”
Fox nodded. “Red said he’d be back sometime tomorrow or the day after. That we was to sit tight. Where yuh goin’?”
“Fort Mallock. I’m ridin’ the black.”
It was dark when the black horse cantered down
the dusty street of the little community that had grown up around the Fort. Ward McQueen rode up to the hitching rail and swung down. He hitched his belt and loosened his guns. He had just stepped up on the walk when a wiry, broad-shouldered man stepped out from the bat-wing doors.
For an instant the man stood stock-st, his eyes on the black horse, then his eyes 63 shifted to McQueen.
“Yore hoss, podner?” he queried gently.
McQueen felt something inside him tighten.
There was something in the faint suggestion of that voice that warned him. This man was dangerous.
“I’m ridin’ him,” he replied quietly.
“Where’d yuh get him?” the stranger asked,
stepping away from in front of the door.
“Before I answer that,” McQueen said quietly, “so’pose yuh tell me why yuh ask and who yuh are.”
The young man stared back at him, and McQueen decided there was something in the black eyes and brown, young face that he liked.
“My name,” the young man said evenly, “is Kim Sartain. And the man who owned that hoss, and that saddle, was a friend of mine!”
“So yuh’re Kim,” McQueen said softly.
“Yuh know an hombre name of Iver Hoyt?”
Sartain’s face darkened and his eyes grew cautious. “Yeah, I know him. A friend of yores?”
“No.” McQueen looked at him thoughtfully.
“Yuh know where Ruth Kermitt is?”
“Yeah.”
“Then take me to her. I’ll talk there.”
Leading the black horse, Ward McQueen
followed Kim. The young man walked alongside him, his left side toward McQueen, who grinned to himself at this precaution.
“Yuh don’t take no chances, Sartain,” he said. “But I think we’re on the same side.”
Kim’s hard face did not relent. “I’ll know that when yuh tell me where yuh got that hoss.”
McQueen tied the horse to a hitching rail, followed Sartain into a small hotel, and into a back parlor, a small, comfortably furnished room. There was a girl sitting on the divan, and she rose quickly when they came in.
McQueen halted, his face suddenly blank. He had expected anything but the tall, lovely girl who faced him. Probably twenty years old, she was erect, poised, and lovely, her black hair gathered in a loose knot at the nape of her neck, her blue eyes wide.
Kim spoke, his voice flat. “This hombre hones to talk with yuh, ma’am. He 65 rode into town on Dan’s hoss.”
“Ma’am,” McQueen said quietly, “I’m afraid I’m bringin’ bad news.”
“It’s Dan! Something’s happened to Dan!” Ruth Kermitt came toward him quickly. “What is it? Please tell me now!”
McQueen’s face flushed, then paled a little.
“He’s—he’s been killed, ma’am. Shotffwas
Her face turned deathly white, and she fell back a step, her eyes still wide. Swiftly, Kim crossed to her side.
“Ma’am,” he said. “Better hold yoreself together. We got to get this hombre’s yarn. He may need killin’ hisself.” He spoke this last in a low, dangerous tone.