It was some time before Riley Sinclair
interrupted his pacing and, turning, strode over to
the dim outlines of the sleeping girl. She did
not speak, and, leaning close above her, he heard her
regular breathing.
Waiting until he was satisfied that
she slept, he began to move rapidly. First, with
long, soft steps he went to his saddle, which was
perched on a ridge of rock. This he raised with
infinite care, gathering up the stirrups and the cinches
so that nothing might drag or strike. With this
bundle secured, he once more went close to the figure
of the sleeper and this time dropped on one knee beside
her. He could see nothing distinctly by the starlight,
but her forehead gleamed with one faint highlight,
and there was the pale glimmer of one hand above the
blankets.
For the moment he almost abandoned
the plan on which he had resolved, which was no less
than to attempt to ride into Sour Creek and return
to the girl before she wakened in the dawn. But
suppose that he failed, and that she wakened to find
herself alone in the mountain wilderness? He
shuddered at the idea, yet he saw no other issue for
her than to attempt the execution of his plan.
He rose hastily and walked off, letting
his weight fall on his toes altogether, so that the
spurs might not jingle.
Even that brief rest had so far refreshed
his mustang that he was greeted with flattened ears
and flying heels. These efforts Sinclair met
with a smile and terrible whispered curses, whose familiar
sound seemed to soothe the horse. He saddled
at once, still using care to avoid noise, and swung
steeply down the side of the mountain. On the
descending trail, he could cut by one half the miles
they had traversed winding up the slope.
Recklessly he rode, giving the wise
pony its head most of the time, and only seeing that
it did not exceed a certain speed, for when a horse
passes a certain rate of going it becomes as reckless
as a drunken man. Once or twice they floundered
onto sheer gravel slides which the broncho took
by flinging back on its haunches and going down with
stiffly braced forelegs. But on the whole the
mustang took care of itself admirably.
In an amazingly short time they struck
the more placid footing of the valley, and Sinclair,
looking up, could not believe that he had been so
short a time ago at the top of the flat-crested mountain.
He gave little time to wondering,
however, but cut across the valley floor at a steady
lope. From the top of the mountain the lights
of Sour Creek were a close-gathered patch, from the
level they appeared as a scattering line. Sinclair
held straight toward them, keeping away to the left
so as to come onto the well-beaten trail which he knew
ran in that direction. He found it and let the
mustang drop back to a steady dogtrot; for, if the
journey to Sour Creek was now a short distance, there
would be a hard ride back to the flat-topped mountain
if he wished to accomplish his business and return
before the full dawn. He must be there by that
time, for who could tell what the girl might do when
she found herself alone. Therefore he saved the
cattle pony as much as possible.
He was fairly close to Sour Creek,
the lights fanning out broader and broader as he approached.
Suddenly two figures loomed up before him in the night.
He came near and made out a barelegged boy, riding
without a saddle and driving a cow before him.
He was a very angry herdsman, this boy. He kept
up a continual monologue directed at the cow and his
horse, and so he did not hear the approach of Riley
Sinclair until the outlaw was close upon him.
Then he hitched himself around, with his hand on the
hip of his old horse, swaying violently with the jerk
of the gait. He was glad of the company, it seemed.
“Evening, mister. You ain’t Hi Corson,
are you?”
“Nope, I ain’t Hi. Kind of late driving
that cow, ain’t you?”
The boy swore with shrill fluency.
“We bought old Spot over at
the Apwell place, and the darned old fool keeps breaking
down fences and running back every time she gets a
chance. Ain’t nothing so foolish as a cow.”
“Why don’t your dad sell her for beef?”
“Beef?” The boy laughed.
“Say, mister, I’d as soon try to chew leather.
They ain’t nothing but bones and skin and meanness
to old Spot. But she’s a good milker.
When she comes in fresh she gives pretty nigh onto
four gallons a milking.”
“Is that so!”
“Sure is! Hard to milk,
though. Kick the hat right off’n your head
if you don’t watch her. Never see such
a fool cow as old Spot! Hey!”
Taking advantage of this diversion
in the attention of her guardian, Spot had ambled
off to the side of the road. The boy darted his
horse after her and sent her trotting down the trail,
with clicking hoofs and long, sweeping steps that
scuffed up a stifling dust.
“Ain’t very good to heat
a milker up by running ’em, son,” reproved
Sinclair.
“I know it ain’t.
But it wouldn’t make me sorry if old Spot just
nacherally dropped down dead — she gives me
that much trouble. Look at her now, doggone her!”
Spot had turned broadside to them
and waited for the boy to catch up before she would
take another forward step.
“You just coming in to Sour Creek?”
“Yep, I’m strange to this town.”
“Well, you sure couldn’t have picked a
more fussed-up time.”
“How come?”
“Well, you hear about the killing of Quade,
I reckon?”
“Not a word.”
“You ain’t? Where you been these
days?”
“Oh, yonder in the hills.”
“Chipping rocks, eh? Well,
Quade was a gent that lived out the norm trail, and
he had a fuss with the schoolteacher over Sally Bent,
and the schoolteacher up and murders Quade, and they
raise a posse and go out to hang Gaspar, the teacher,
and they’re kept from it by a stranger called
Sinclair; when the sheriff comes to get Gaspar and
hang him legal and all, that Sinclair sticks up the
sheriff and takes Gaspar away, and now they’re
both outlawed, I hear tell, and they’s a price
on their heads.”
The lad brought it out in one huge
sentence, sputtering over the words in his haste.
“How much of a price?”
“I dunno. It keeps growing.
Everybody around Woodville and Sour Creek is chipping
in to raise that price. They sure want to get
Gaspar and Sinclair bad. Gaspar ain’t much.
He’s a kind of sissy, but Sinclair is a killer — and
then some.”
Sinclair raised his head to the black,
solemn mountains. Then he looked back to his
companion.
“Why, has he killed anybody lately?”
“He left one for dead right today!”
“You don’t mean it! He sure must
be bad.”
“Oh, he’s bad, right enough.
They was a gent named Cartwright come into town today
with his head all banged up. He’d met up
with Gaspar and Sinclair in the hills, not knowing
nothing about them. Got into an argument with
Sinclair, and, not being armed, he had it out with
fists. He was beating up Sinclair pretty bad — him
being a good deal of a man — when Gaspar
sneaks up and whangs him on the back of the head with
the butt of his Colt. They rode off and left him
for dead. But pretty soon he wakes up. He
comes on into Sour Creek, rarin’ and tearin’
and huntin’ for revenge. Sure will be a
bad mess if he meets up with Sinclair ag’in!”
“Reckon it had ought to be,”
replied Sinclair. “Like to see this gent
that waded into two outlaws with his bare fists.”
“He’s a man, right enough.
Got a room up in the hotel. Must have a pile
of money, because he took the big room onto the north
end of the hotel, the room that’s as big as
a house. Nothin’ else suited him at all.
Dad told me.”
“I ain’t got nothing particular
on hand,” murmured Sinclair. “Maybe
I can get in on this manhunt — if they ain’t
started already.”
The boy laughed. “Everybody
in town has been trying to get in on that manhunt,
but it ain’t any use. Sheriff Kern has got
a handpicked posse — every one a fightin’
fool, Dad says. Wish you luck, though. They
ain’t starting till the morning. Well, here’s
where I branch off. S’long! Hey, Spot,
you old fool, git along, will you?”
Sinclair watched the youngster fade
into the gloom behind the ambling cow, then he struck
on toward Sour Creek; but, before he reached the main
street, he wound off to the left and let his horse
drift slowly beyond the outlying houses.
His problem had become greatly complicated
by the information from the boy. He had a double
purpose, which was to see Cartwright in the first
place, and then Sandersen, for these were the separate
stumbling blocks for Jig and for himself. For
Cartwright he saw a solution, through which he could
avoid a killing, but Sandersen must die.
He skirted behind the most northerly
outlying shed of the hotel, dismounted there, and
threw the reins. Then he slipped back into the
shadow of the main building. Directly above him
he saw three dark windows bunched together. This
must be Cartwright’s room.