straight ahead over the silvered sweep of sage, so peaceful and seemingly so remote from violence.
But Pat knew the temper of his Valley neighbors, understood the seething anger that had been aroused in Dutch Springs that afternoon by his wife. He knew they were calling him a traitor tonight, that they were blaming him for the fact that the Hartsells had settled on the creek.
He couldnât blame them for that. He had forced them to listen to him these last few weeks, had averted an open outbreak between ranchers and employees of the land company by urging them to meet the situation by legal means instead of going outside the law.
Well, they had listened to him. For years the counsel of Pat Stevens had carried a lot of weight in Powder Valley. They had been willing to wait, to see if the hoe-men could be discouraged from settling by refusing to sell them the necessities of life from the only local store.
It had looked like a good idea, but that bubble was exploded now. They werenât willing to wait any longer, and a bloody civil war was certain to result from tonightâs raid. The threat of martial law hung over Powder Valley, the promise that troops would be brought in if the local sheriff was unable to enforce the law.
In short, there was going to be hell to pay.
This was what Pat had been desperately striving to avoidâand this was what he and Sally had brought on the peaceful Valley by her impulsive action in Dutch Springs.
Patâs thoughts were all mixed up as he thundered down the starlit road to meet the advancing group of men. It was the first time in his life he had ever hesitated to take direct action to achieve an end he believed to be right. But always before there had been a clean-cut line between what was right and what was wrong. Now there was no such line.
Certainly the Hartsells were not wrong. They were innocent victims, to be pitied rather than ridden against. And against the arguments of his fellow ranchers, Pat could feel no real anger against the engineer and his men. They were merely doing a job they were hired to do.
The only real enemies of the valley were the men who stood behind the scenes and pulled the strings: the officials of the land company who had tricked the ranchers out of their holdings and who were now tricking poor devils like Joe Hartsell out of their livesâ savings.
And they couldnât be touched. They were sitting secure behind mahogany desks in Denver, protected by the law while they exploited rancher and farmer alike. It made no difference to them how much blood flowed in Powder Valleyâhow many families like the Hartsells were burned out in the night. Their profits continued to flow in, no matter what happened in Powder Valley.
Hot anger against those higher-ups of the land company seethed through Pat Stevens as he spurred on through the night to meet his friends and neighbors who had turned against him. He had hated many men in the past, but never as he now hated Jud Biloff. He had met other men with flaming guns and shot them down with cold ruthlessness, but they had been men . They had taken their chances and received pay-men for their folly in hot lead. The president of the land company was in a different category. Jud Biloff was taking no chances with his own precious hide. A thousand men might die because of his scheming; mothers and children might starve or perish miserably from the coldâbut none of that could touch Jud Biloff.
A special hell should be created for men like Biloff, Pat told himself as he pounded on, and his seething thoughts planned how he might personally arrange such a hell for the financier.
Abruptly, he saw a dark mass of mounted men riding down the road ahead of him. He was meeting them almost opposite the padlocked gate leading in to the Hartsell property. He reined up in front of the advancing raiders, a single figure facing twenty armed and determined night-riders.
The young cowboy galloped up happily from
But Pat knew the temper of his Valley neighbors, understood the seething anger that had been aroused in Dutch Springs that afternoon by his wife. He knew they were calling him a traitor tonight, that they were blaming him for the fact that the Hartsells had settled on the creek.
He couldnât blame them for that. He had forced them to listen to him these last few weeks, had averted an open outbreak between ranchers and employees of the land company by urging them to meet the situation by legal means instead of going outside the law.
Well, they had listened to him. For years the counsel of Pat Stevens had carried a lot of weight in Powder Valley. They had been willing to wait, to see if the hoe-men could be discouraged from settling by refusing to sell them the necessities of life from the only local store.
It had looked like a good idea, but that bubble was exploded now. They werenât willing to wait any longer, and a bloody civil war was certain to result from tonightâs raid. The threat of martial law hung over Powder Valley, the promise that troops would be brought in if the local sheriff was unable to enforce the law.
In short, there was going to be hell to pay.
This was what Pat had been desperately striving to avoidâand this was what he and Sally had brought on the peaceful Valley by her impulsive action in Dutch Springs.
Patâs thoughts were all mixed up as he thundered down the starlit road to meet the advancing group of men. It was the first time in his life he had ever hesitated to take direct action to achieve an end he believed to be right. But always before there had been a clean-cut line between what was right and what was wrong. Now there was no such line.
Certainly the Hartsells were not wrong. They were innocent victims, to be pitied rather than ridden against. And against the arguments of his fellow ranchers, Pat could feel no real anger against the engineer and his men. They were merely doing a job they were hired to do.
The only real enemies of the valley were the men who stood behind the scenes and pulled the strings: the officials of the land company who had tricked the ranchers out of their holdings and who were now tricking poor devils like Joe Hartsell out of their livesâ savings.
And they couldnât be touched. They were sitting secure behind mahogany desks in Denver, protected by the law while they exploited rancher and farmer alike. It made no difference to them how much blood flowed in Powder Valleyâhow many families like the Hartsells were burned out in the night. Their profits continued to flow in, no matter what happened in Powder Valley.
Hot anger against those higher-ups of the land company seethed through Pat Stevens as he spurred on through the night to meet his friends and neighbors who had turned against him. He had hated many men in the past, but never as he now hated Jud Biloff. He had met other men with flaming guns and shot them down with cold ruthlessness, but they had been men . They had taken their chances and received pay-men for their folly in hot lead. The president of the land company was in a different category. Jud Biloff was taking no chances with his own precious hide. A thousand men might die because of his scheming; mothers and children might starve or perish miserably from the coldâbut none of that could touch Jud Biloff.
A special hell should be created for men like Biloff, Pat told himself as he pounded on, and his seething thoughts planned how he might personally arrange such a hell for the financier.
Abruptly, he saw a dark mass of mounted men riding down the road ahead of him. He was meeting them almost opposite the padlocked gate leading in to the Hartsell property. He reined up in front of the advancing raiders, a single figure facing twenty armed and determined night-riders.
The young cowboy galloped up happily from
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