guns," Ginny said. "I've oiled and dried them, and I think they're in good working order, though I doubt if your cartridges will be dependable."
"I'll stop at the hardware store and get a fresh supply," he answered, amazed anew at her attention to every small detail. She realized that a gun meant a lot to a man in that town, and doubly so to him. He had not told her about Ted Foley or the attack on the stage, giving only enough details of the flood for her to understand. Even so, she had a good notion what was happening in Highpoint, the savage cross-currents between which he had been caught.
It came to him that there were many things which he wanted to tell her, matters which all at once had become vital to them, but this was neither the time nor the place.
"I'm not going to try and thank you, Ginny," he said. "Not now. Later, there's a lot I'll want to say."
"I'll be ready," she promised. "Don't forget those cartridges," she warned.
13
Fury had shaken King Steele as an earthquake crumples the earth's crust. The failure of his men, and the certainty that the gold shipment was lost, burst upon him like an incredible chapter from a tale of Arabian Nights. That one man could so circumvent the many arrayed against him was all but unthinkable.
Nothing had worked as Steele planned, but some of the events might be shaped to his own ends. With luck, the whole episode might prove more profitable than otherwise.
"You say the sheriff's dead?" he demanded. "Are you sure?"
Big Mule nodded. The name had been foisted upon him both because of his physical size and his stubbornness, and it had clung after his real name had been conveniently forgotten.
"There ain't a trace of him to be found," he said. "And if you'd seen how that water come down, and the stuff it washed, the way it buried the stage—" He shrugged. "We found two o' the stage team half a mile away. They'd been washed there an' lodged on a bank, six feet higher'n the valley floor. Yeah, I reckon he's under that pile somewhere."
"It sounds that way," Steele conceded. Since events had taken this turn, it might be time to crowd his luck. One bold stroke could give him control of the Wild Buttes.
"The whole thing, of course," he added, "was an accident."
Big Mule eyed him sharply, then grinned heavily. "Yeah," he agreed. "Sure was. Some accident."
"Do you know where Cable is?" Steele asked, and Big Mule studied him carefully. The question sounded irrevelant, as though he were changing the subject, but Big Mule knew his employer too well to be fooled.
"Yeah," he agreed. "He's down Red Creek way. Gone to the roundup."
"Accidents sometimes happen at a roundup," Steele mused. "Fatal accidents."
Big Mule's lips tightened, then slowly spread to reveal a row of stained teeth.
"Yeah," he conceded. "Sometimes they do."
"I like accidents better—when they look like accidents," Steele added. "It ought to be a good night for ridin' south, Big."
Big Mule stood and stretched mighty arms, flexing fingers like well stuffed sausages.
"Reckon I'll be moseyin'," he said, and went out.
Many men rode for a look at the place where the cloudburst had poured down, shaking their heads at the devastation. The area was comparatively narrow, a circle only a few miles in circumference. But inside the circle the water had really spilled.
It was not a matter of public knowledge that Locke had been out there or that he had had anything to do with the stage. But since his bed had not been slept in, and there was no trace of him, it was assumed that he must have gone that way and been trapped.
Not too much about the real happenings of the day before was known. The vigilante guards had ridden for hours, watching the lumber wagon, before someone discovered that their freight was only a dummy box, far too light in weight to contain the gold which it was supposed to hold.
"So you got caught in your own rope," Steele decided. "Well, that being so, we'll let you rest in peace, the great
"I'll stop at the hardware store and get a fresh supply," he answered, amazed anew at her attention to every small detail. She realized that a gun meant a lot to a man in that town, and doubly so to him. He had not told her about Ted Foley or the attack on the stage, giving only enough details of the flood for her to understand. Even so, she had a good notion what was happening in Highpoint, the savage cross-currents between which he had been caught.
It came to him that there were many things which he wanted to tell her, matters which all at once had become vital to them, but this was neither the time nor the place.
"I'm not going to try and thank you, Ginny," he said. "Not now. Later, there's a lot I'll want to say."
"I'll be ready," she promised. "Don't forget those cartridges," she warned.
13
Fury had shaken King Steele as an earthquake crumples the earth's crust. The failure of his men, and the certainty that the gold shipment was lost, burst upon him like an incredible chapter from a tale of Arabian Nights. That one man could so circumvent the many arrayed against him was all but unthinkable.
Nothing had worked as Steele planned, but some of the events might be shaped to his own ends. With luck, the whole episode might prove more profitable than otherwise.
"You say the sheriff's dead?" he demanded. "Are you sure?"
Big Mule nodded. The name had been foisted upon him both because of his physical size and his stubbornness, and it had clung after his real name had been conveniently forgotten.
"There ain't a trace of him to be found," he said. "And if you'd seen how that water come down, and the stuff it washed, the way it buried the stage—" He shrugged. "We found two o' the stage team half a mile away. They'd been washed there an' lodged on a bank, six feet higher'n the valley floor. Yeah, I reckon he's under that pile somewhere."
"It sounds that way," Steele conceded. Since events had taken this turn, it might be time to crowd his luck. One bold stroke could give him control of the Wild Buttes.
"The whole thing, of course," he added, "was an accident."
Big Mule eyed him sharply, then grinned heavily. "Yeah," he agreed. "Sure was. Some accident."
"Do you know where Cable is?" Steele asked, and Big Mule studied him carefully. The question sounded irrevelant, as though he were changing the subject, but Big Mule knew his employer too well to be fooled.
"Yeah," he agreed. "He's down Red Creek way. Gone to the roundup."
"Accidents sometimes happen at a roundup," Steele mused. "Fatal accidents."
Big Mule's lips tightened, then slowly spread to reveal a row of stained teeth.
"Yeah," he conceded. "Sometimes they do."
"I like accidents better—when they look like accidents," Steele added. "It ought to be a good night for ridin' south, Big."
Big Mule stood and stretched mighty arms, flexing fingers like well stuffed sausages.
"Reckon I'll be moseyin'," he said, and went out.
Many men rode for a look at the place where the cloudburst had poured down, shaking their heads at the devastation. The area was comparatively narrow, a circle only a few miles in circumference. But inside the circle the water had really spilled.
It was not a matter of public knowledge that Locke had been out there or that he had had anything to do with the stage. But since his bed had not been slept in, and there was no trace of him, it was assumed that he must have gone that way and been trapped.
Not too much about the real happenings of the day before was known. The vigilante guards had ridden for hours, watching the lumber wagon, before someone discovered that their freight was only a dummy box, far too light in weight to contain the gold which it was supposed to hold.
"So you got caught in your own rope," Steele decided. "Well, that being so, we'll let you rest in peace, the great
Similar Books
