found, and he himself got down on hands and knees and swashed the single word on the porch floor beneath the hanging man.
Venganza! it read, each letter crudely stroked, foreign- looking. Revenge . Even the dull-witted Harley could spell that out, get the inference that he hadn't pumped a bullet into the Ranger at all. It was those damn Mexi cans. But some others, like Apgar, wondered about the eyewitnesses to the actual affair. What was their fast- thinking boss going to do about the unconscious, but still alive Mulchay? And the girl?
Jack Gibbons knew that a little explanation, like knowledge, was a dangerous thing. So he told them what to do.
At sundown Apgar was to set out for the Overlord spread. He should push his horse every minute of the way. He would find Gibbons at the ranch with Malcolm Lord, and excitedly report an invasion of Mulchay's place from across the river. So much for Apgar.
Riker was to stage the "raid" here. He was to watch the passage of time carefully —and one hour after Apgar started off he was to set fire to the outbuildings, and when they were ablaze put the torch to the main house.
"Cato," Gibbons said then, keeping his voice unemo tional, tactical —"Cato, your work is the blabbermouth. You still pack those Mex blades in your saddlebag?"
Cato, a lean and hungry-looking man, nodded.
"Then use one you can part with. Wait until the house is on fire, then drag him out beyond the porch. Leave the knife sticking in his heart where we can all see it."
Cato nodded again.
"After that all four of you clear out. We'll rendezvous at the MacKay ranch. Any questions?"
"That's the Ranger, the house, and the old man," Apgar said. "There's one other."
"She's my problem," Gibbons told him. "You and everybody else forget about her."
He said that with the same assurance he'd said every thing else, turned away from them before they could read the troubled indecision in his eyes. For Rosemarie certainly was his problem, and a mind-torturing one to solve under this kind of pressure. His coldly practical half demanded she be left here with Cato, warned him over and over that she was his damnation. But pride and pas sion bent him the other way, fed his hungry ego. The woman is yours, their strong voice insisted. A prize of war. Then, when he wavered again: What are you afraid of? You do run things. Or do you?
His thoughts had carried him to the back of the house, where Harley was standing guard over Rosemarie, and the girl in her turn was making Mulchay as comfortable as she could.
As soon as she saw him she stood up, almost by reflex action, and it was the defiance in her, the pure loathing for him that pushed Gibbons into his decision.
"You and I are leaving," he said to her.
"I'm staying with Angus . . ."
His fingers clamped on her upper arm, painfully, and he swung her around and half-dragged her out the rear door.
"You're going to learn one thing," Gibbons promised. "You're going to learn to jump when I tell you to."
He forced her to ride ahead of him along the river, to a line camp Mulchay and his neighbor Bryan shared for their common roundup. Rosemarie was ushered into the small, clapboard shack.
"See you tonight," Gibbons said. "By the light of the silvery moon." He closed the door and bolted it, and rode for Scotstown, there to instruct Lou Kersh about invoking the martial law, then on to Overlord to set the scene for the "invasion" of Mulchay's ranch.
FOURTEEN
LAUREN MacKay was a round, bustling, blue-eyed man who always had a great many important affairs to at tend to —tomorrow—and what kept him busy today was avoiding doing those things he had spoken of to Rose marie yesterday. Each morning he arose with the sun, ordered his favorite breakfast of flapjacks and boiled beef, and after the third cup of coffee studiously wrote out a list of chores that was invariably the same as the list he threw away the night before. Then he left the house, looking purposeful, and perhaps his eye
Venganza! it read, each letter crudely stroked, foreign- looking. Revenge . Even the dull-witted Harley could spell that out, get the inference that he hadn't pumped a bullet into the Ranger at all. It was those damn Mexi cans. But some others, like Apgar, wondered about the eyewitnesses to the actual affair. What was their fast- thinking boss going to do about the unconscious, but still alive Mulchay? And the girl?
Jack Gibbons knew that a little explanation, like knowledge, was a dangerous thing. So he told them what to do.
At sundown Apgar was to set out for the Overlord spread. He should push his horse every minute of the way. He would find Gibbons at the ranch with Malcolm Lord, and excitedly report an invasion of Mulchay's place from across the river. So much for Apgar.
Riker was to stage the "raid" here. He was to watch the passage of time carefully —and one hour after Apgar started off he was to set fire to the outbuildings, and when they were ablaze put the torch to the main house.
"Cato," Gibbons said then, keeping his voice unemo tional, tactical —"Cato, your work is the blabbermouth. You still pack those Mex blades in your saddlebag?"
Cato, a lean and hungry-looking man, nodded.
"Then use one you can part with. Wait until the house is on fire, then drag him out beyond the porch. Leave the knife sticking in his heart where we can all see it."
Cato nodded again.
"After that all four of you clear out. We'll rendezvous at the MacKay ranch. Any questions?"
"That's the Ranger, the house, and the old man," Apgar said. "There's one other."
"She's my problem," Gibbons told him. "You and everybody else forget about her."
He said that with the same assurance he'd said every thing else, turned away from them before they could read the troubled indecision in his eyes. For Rosemarie certainly was his problem, and a mind-torturing one to solve under this kind of pressure. His coldly practical half demanded she be left here with Cato, warned him over and over that she was his damnation. But pride and pas sion bent him the other way, fed his hungry ego. The woman is yours, their strong voice insisted. A prize of war. Then, when he wavered again: What are you afraid of? You do run things. Or do you?
His thoughts had carried him to the back of the house, where Harley was standing guard over Rosemarie, and the girl in her turn was making Mulchay as comfortable as she could.
As soon as she saw him she stood up, almost by reflex action, and it was the defiance in her, the pure loathing for him that pushed Gibbons into his decision.
"You and I are leaving," he said to her.
"I'm staying with Angus . . ."
His fingers clamped on her upper arm, painfully, and he swung her around and half-dragged her out the rear door.
"You're going to learn one thing," Gibbons promised. "You're going to learn to jump when I tell you to."
He forced her to ride ahead of him along the river, to a line camp Mulchay and his neighbor Bryan shared for their common roundup. Rosemarie was ushered into the small, clapboard shack.
"See you tonight," Gibbons said. "By the light of the silvery moon." He closed the door and bolted it, and rode for Scotstown, there to instruct Lou Kersh about invoking the martial law, then on to Overlord to set the scene for the "invasion" of Mulchay's ranch.
FOURTEEN
LAUREN MacKay was a round, bustling, blue-eyed man who always had a great many important affairs to at tend to —tomorrow—and what kept him busy today was avoiding doing those things he had spoken of to Rose marie yesterday. Each morning he arose with the sun, ordered his favorite breakfast of flapjacks and boiled beef, and after the third cup of coffee studiously wrote out a list of chores that was invariably the same as the list he threw away the night before. Then he left the house, looking purposeful, and perhaps his eye
Similar Books
