Guardians of the Sage by Harry Sinclair Drago Page B

can take that kid back where you found him. If they want him—let the bunch that came over here last night come and get him. I said stay out—and I meant stay out. Get gain’, Montana!”
    Jim did not offer to move. Johnny would be back with their rifles in a minute. He was not thinking of him. His eyes were fastened on the butt of a six-gun peeping out of Gene Crockett’s holster. He knew he could draw it quickly enough. But what if it were empty?
    He felt he had to take that chance. His manner did not betray the thoughts racing through his mind.
    â€œI was taking him back to his folks,” he murmured evenly. “I—I reckon I’m not changing my mind!”
    His hand flashed out and closed over Gene’s gun as he whirled on them.
    â€œIt’s still my play,” he droned. “Get over there with Ike—and move fast, Reb!”
    Reb knew his man—and he stepped aside. In another minute Montana was in the saddle and riding across the flat, away from the rock. He heard Reb call to Johnny Lefleur. If Johnny had recovered his rifle he could pick him off at that distance.
    Strangely enough, Montana crossed the creek, five hundred yards away, without a shot being fired.
    Back at the rock, Reb was furious.
    â€œWhy didn’t you pick him off?” he roared. “You had all the chance in the world!”
    Johnny scratched his head reflectively.
    â€œNo,” he muttered, “if a gent’s got guts enough to ride in here and force a showdown like that on us, I ain’t gonna send a slug into him just to ease my feelio’s.”

C HAPTER XI WHERE THE DARK ANGEL WALKS
    I T WAS well on toward seven o’clock when Montana sighted the little huddle of buildings that was the Box C. He rode slowly, Gene’s lifeless body draped across his saddle bow. It was a beautiful blue and white morning, with the faintest of breezes stirring the sage. In the dazzling bright sunlight and clear, tonic air of early morning it was hard to believe that tragedy rode with him.
    They would see him, long before he arrived, and know what to expect. He felt sorry enough for Dan and Brent, but it was of Mother Crockett, rather than them, that he was thinking. Gene was her baby and, in the way of mothers, her dreams and hopes had centered about him. Men break the wilderness and other men raise monuments to them, but it is the pioneer mother who bears the brunt of it. He knew it. His own mother had been no exception. Uncomplaining, she had moved down the Snake and on to Oregon, helping her husband to win a home on the range.
    She had broken land with him, ridden after stock, with Jim in her arms, doing the work of a man as well as the drudgery of keeping a home together, applying herself with such ingenuity as a man seldom achieves. Neighbors had been non-existent. When, by chance, they moved in, Sam Montana had invariably felt the urge to drift on to a newer country where the opportunities were greater.
    For him it had held an avenue of escape. For his wife it had meant only moving on to even greater hardships. Through it all she had continued to smile, following him without question, but hugging to her heart the resolve that Jim’s life should be easier than theirs.
    â€œIt isn’t going to matter to her whether Gene was right or wrong,” he thought. “He’s gone, and she’s going to find it hard to go on.”
    When they saw him coming, Brent and the boys got into their saddles and rode out to meet him. A glance confirmed the fact that Gene was dead. Although no more than they expected, the truth shook their surly defiance, and their faces were white as they turned their horses to ride back with Montana. Brent tried ineffectually to hide his emotion.
    â€œThey’ll pay for this,” he muttered. “We ain’t done with ’em.”
    â€œHardly the time for talk of that sort,” Jim remonstrated. “You boys had no call to get mixed up