instant when I thought his rage might bring him to draw, but the instant passed, and slowly his muscles relaxed. This man was not going to risk dying. He was a killer from ambush, a sure-thing killer.
"Meharry," I said, "tell Flanagan there will be a passenger on the next train - a passenger who will ride in a cattle car."
He lay there, resting on one elbow, hating me.
"Take his gun, Mason. Then go out and look over his outfit. We're going to pay him for it and let him ride out of here without it."
"He'll buy another."
"No," I said, "he's going out of here broke. We'll send the money, and whatever he has in his pockets, to the post office in Joplin. He can pick it up there." But when we stood on the platform watching the caboose of the train disappearing down the track toward the east, I had no idea that this was the end of the Dutchman. He would be back. I had only postponed the inevitable.
"You should have killed him," D'Artaguette commented thoughtfully. "You should have taken the slightest move he made as excuse and killed him, once you had him on the floor. Nobody would have blamed you."
"That's my trouble," I replied. "I've killed men, but I am not a killer."
We went back inside, and as the afternoon had waned into dusk, we ordered supper and sat down to wait for it. Several times one of us went outside, and at last I saw Rowdy Lynch and Gallardo coming down the slope together. I hadn't been that relieved in a long time.
The sky turned blood-red, and the red bathed the hills in soft crimson or pink; the night closed around us and gathered the hills into shadow, and the stars lit up their lamps.
"Conn," Rowdy said, "we're late because we found some tracks out there."
Gallardo had been the first to cut a trail, and it was the trail of a single rider - not the Dutchman - and Gallardo had followed it, for it led where he had been directed to ride.
Rowdy Lynch, coming up from around the station, riding south, but east of the town, had come on the trail of a large herd of cattle. Following that trail, he had come on Gallardo, working out the puzzle of the tracks.
The lone horseman had met the point of the herd. Ordinarily he would never have found those tracks, because the following herd would have wiped them out; but after the meeting, the herd had been stopped, and turned back again to the south.
"South?" I exclaimed.
"That was the way of it, Conn. And to me it spells trouble."
That lone rider might have been somebody from the herd itself, somebody who had gone ahead to look out for a good holding ground, and for water. I suggested as much.
"No, that rider was George Darrough, that buffalo-hunter friend of McDonald's. I'd know that horse of his anywhere. He rides an appaloosa he swapped from some Indian some time or other, and that horse has the smallest, prettiest feet I ever did see. I've seen those tracks before. That rider was George Darrough."
"What do you think, Rowdy?"
"Why, I've been studying on it, all the way in here. Me and Gallardo figure we've put a loop on the idea. Darrough came out to pick up a herd."
"To ship from the town?"
"Maybe." He paused. "Conn, you ever seen what a stampeding herd can do to a wire fence?"
He was right, of course. A stampede of cattle could sweep such a fence out of existence. It could also trample anybody guarding that fence ... trample them, churn them into mud.
"We've got to go back, Conn." D'Artaguette's face was pale. "God almighty, they'll run the herd right over the boys!"
"Not if they are where they should be," I said, "and not if they shoot down some steers for a barricade." But Kate...
I was scared to death. If we rode, starting now, we could make it. The tracks were only a few hours old, and it would take time to move a herd, even a herd that maybe was being hurried along.
"Here comes Flanagan," somebody said, and looking around, I saw the red-haired telegrapher coming across the street.
He grinned, and shook a yellow sheet at us. "If you boys are
"Meharry," I said, "tell Flanagan there will be a passenger on the next train - a passenger who will ride in a cattle car."
He lay there, resting on one elbow, hating me.
"Take his gun, Mason. Then go out and look over his outfit. We're going to pay him for it and let him ride out of here without it."
"He'll buy another."
"No," I said, "he's going out of here broke. We'll send the money, and whatever he has in his pockets, to the post office in Joplin. He can pick it up there." But when we stood on the platform watching the caboose of the train disappearing down the track toward the east, I had no idea that this was the end of the Dutchman. He would be back. I had only postponed the inevitable.
"You should have killed him," D'Artaguette commented thoughtfully. "You should have taken the slightest move he made as excuse and killed him, once you had him on the floor. Nobody would have blamed you."
"That's my trouble," I replied. "I've killed men, but I am not a killer."
We went back inside, and as the afternoon had waned into dusk, we ordered supper and sat down to wait for it. Several times one of us went outside, and at last I saw Rowdy Lynch and Gallardo coming down the slope together. I hadn't been that relieved in a long time.
The sky turned blood-red, and the red bathed the hills in soft crimson or pink; the night closed around us and gathered the hills into shadow, and the stars lit up their lamps.
"Conn," Rowdy said, "we're late because we found some tracks out there."
Gallardo had been the first to cut a trail, and it was the trail of a single rider - not the Dutchman - and Gallardo had followed it, for it led where he had been directed to ride.
Rowdy Lynch, coming up from around the station, riding south, but east of the town, had come on the trail of a large herd of cattle. Following that trail, he had come on Gallardo, working out the puzzle of the tracks.
The lone horseman had met the point of the herd. Ordinarily he would never have found those tracks, because the following herd would have wiped them out; but after the meeting, the herd had been stopped, and turned back again to the south.
"South?" I exclaimed.
"That was the way of it, Conn. And to me it spells trouble."
That lone rider might have been somebody from the herd itself, somebody who had gone ahead to look out for a good holding ground, and for water. I suggested as much.
"No, that rider was George Darrough, that buffalo-hunter friend of McDonald's. I'd know that horse of his anywhere. He rides an appaloosa he swapped from some Indian some time or other, and that horse has the smallest, prettiest feet I ever did see. I've seen those tracks before. That rider was George Darrough."
"What do you think, Rowdy?"
"Why, I've been studying on it, all the way in here. Me and Gallardo figure we've put a loop on the idea. Darrough came out to pick up a herd."
"To ship from the town?"
"Maybe." He paused. "Conn, you ever seen what a stampeding herd can do to a wire fence?"
He was right, of course. A stampede of cattle could sweep such a fence out of existence. It could also trample anybody guarding that fence ... trample them, churn them into mud.
"We've got to go back, Conn." D'Artaguette's face was pale. "God almighty, they'll run the herd right over the boys!"
"Not if they are where they should be," I said, "and not if they shoot down some steers for a barricade." But Kate...
I was scared to death. If we rode, starting now, we could make it. The tracks were only a few hours old, and it would take time to move a herd, even a herd that maybe was being hurried along.
"Here comes Flanagan," somebody said, and looking around, I saw the red-haired telegrapher coming across the street.
He grinned, and shook a yellow sheet at us. "If you boys are
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