flanks. The horse broke into a hard run toward the mouth of the draw, desperately seeking to keep ahead of the surging wave of crazed beeves.
Clay and the dun reached the opening in the brush fence less than a dozen feet ahead of the first cattle. Clay put the horse through the narrow opening and reined it to the left, in an attempt to angle across the bench and reach the protection of the big rock by his camp. The dun stumbled as one hoof hit soft dirt at the edge of a chuckhole. It lost its stride and nearly went down as the herd hit the brush fence.
Clay jerked the dun’s head up. “Run!” he shouted over the crackling of the shattered fence.
The dun caught its stride and raced for the far side of the bench. A long-legged steer came out of nowhere and cut across the horse’s path. The dun pulled up short, neighing in terror. The abrupt stop lifted Clay out of the saddle. He hit the ground with his shoulder, grunting with shock as the air was driven out of his lungs. The dun galloped for the safety of the camp.
Clay scrambled to his feet and ran after the horse. Cattle were flowing over the bench now, scattering in blind panic. A head-tossing cow struck Clay’s back a glancing blow as she ran past. He stumbled and pitched forward. He hit the shoulder of rock, fell back, and staggered forward. He went to his knees at the edge of his cold campfire and then slid onto his face and lay still.
He could feel the dun’s moist nose nuzzling his neck and he sat up dazedly. Clay looked around and realized he must have blacked out. The moon had come up and the bench was flooded with its cold white light.
He staggered to his feet and went to his water supply. He poured icy water over his face and neck and took a long, deep drink. He walked to the edge of his camp and looked at the silent, empty bench. The cattle had disappeared. There was only the broken fence and the torn grass to show they had ever existed.
Days of work lost, Clay thought bitterly. Maybe a lot of the judge’s prime beef lost. He knew he would be lucky if he didn’t find more than one animal with a broken leg or worse come daylight.
As his head cleared, anger worked into him more deeply. He recalled the two rifle shots that came just before the stampede started. It was plain enough that someone had been watching him from the hills alongside the bench, and had sent a signal to whoever waited inside as soon as Clay rode into the canyon. Then the trap had been sprung.
The stampede could have been started for only one reason — to kill him and make his death look like an accident. And Clay knew only one man in the Wildhorse country who would have bothered with such a devious scheme — Kemp Vanner.
Clay caught the dun and climbed into the saddle. He headed the horse angrily down the trail leading to the hill road and Bick Damson’s house.
XII
D AMSON’S house lay dark and silent under the bright moon. Clay was about to ride past and on to town when a flicker of lantern light reflecting from the tops of pine trees caught his attention. He turned the dun to the left, up the rutted road that led to Damson’s mine.
He slowed the horse as he started up a low rise. If Damson knew that he was still alive, this could be a trap. The lights could have been put here by the mine to make him do just what he was doing — trespassing.
Damson and Vanner would like that, Clay thought. It would put him in a position where they could shoot him with justification. He shook his head, still unable to understand why Vanner was willing to go to such lengths to drive him out of the valley or kill him.
He neared the top of the rise and reined in the dun. Quietly, he slid to the ground and walked forward, moving in the shadow of tall pines lining the side of the road. He pulled up short when he could see down into the hollow where Damson had his mine.
Damson was there, framed in the light from a trio of lanterns hanging from the barren branch of a lightning-struck tree.
Clay and the dun reached the opening in the brush fence less than a dozen feet ahead of the first cattle. Clay put the horse through the narrow opening and reined it to the left, in an attempt to angle across the bench and reach the protection of the big rock by his camp. The dun stumbled as one hoof hit soft dirt at the edge of a chuckhole. It lost its stride and nearly went down as the herd hit the brush fence.
Clay jerked the dun’s head up. “Run!” he shouted over the crackling of the shattered fence.
The dun caught its stride and raced for the far side of the bench. A long-legged steer came out of nowhere and cut across the horse’s path. The dun pulled up short, neighing in terror. The abrupt stop lifted Clay out of the saddle. He hit the ground with his shoulder, grunting with shock as the air was driven out of his lungs. The dun galloped for the safety of the camp.
Clay scrambled to his feet and ran after the horse. Cattle were flowing over the bench now, scattering in blind panic. A head-tossing cow struck Clay’s back a glancing blow as she ran past. He stumbled and pitched forward. He hit the shoulder of rock, fell back, and staggered forward. He went to his knees at the edge of his cold campfire and then slid onto his face and lay still.
He could feel the dun’s moist nose nuzzling his neck and he sat up dazedly. Clay looked around and realized he must have blacked out. The moon had come up and the bench was flooded with its cold white light.
He staggered to his feet and went to his water supply. He poured icy water over his face and neck and took a long, deep drink. He walked to the edge of his camp and looked at the silent, empty bench. The cattle had disappeared. There was only the broken fence and the torn grass to show they had ever existed.
Days of work lost, Clay thought bitterly. Maybe a lot of the judge’s prime beef lost. He knew he would be lucky if he didn’t find more than one animal with a broken leg or worse come daylight.
As his head cleared, anger worked into him more deeply. He recalled the two rifle shots that came just before the stampede started. It was plain enough that someone had been watching him from the hills alongside the bench, and had sent a signal to whoever waited inside as soon as Clay rode into the canyon. Then the trap had been sprung.
The stampede could have been started for only one reason — to kill him and make his death look like an accident. And Clay knew only one man in the Wildhorse country who would have bothered with such a devious scheme — Kemp Vanner.
Clay caught the dun and climbed into the saddle. He headed the horse angrily down the trail leading to the hill road and Bick Damson’s house.
XII
D AMSON’S house lay dark and silent under the bright moon. Clay was about to ride past and on to town when a flicker of lantern light reflecting from the tops of pine trees caught his attention. He turned the dun to the left, up the rutted road that led to Damson’s mine.
He slowed the horse as he started up a low rise. If Damson knew that he was still alive, this could be a trap. The lights could have been put here by the mine to make him do just what he was doing — trespassing.
Damson and Vanner would like that, Clay thought. It would put him in a position where they could shoot him with justification. He shook his head, still unable to understand why Vanner was willing to go to such lengths to drive him out of the valley or kill him.
He neared the top of the rise and reined in the dun. Quietly, he slid to the ground and walked forward, moving in the shadow of tall pines lining the side of the road. He pulled up short when he could see down into the hollow where Damson had his mine.
Damson was there, framed in the light from a trio of lanterns hanging from the barren branch of a lightning-struck tree.
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