two-gun marshal, dying in performance of his duties." He stepped out into the sunshine and halted in staring amazement. Sheriff Orin Locke was just emerging from the hardware store, his belt stuffed with cartridges which gleamed with newness.
Big Mule lost no time in riding out of town, swinging to the east and south, down through a placid foothill country where Red Creek flowed. Once out of town, he made camp and slept the rest of the night.
"No reason why a man should wear himself out hustlin'," he assured his horse. "I get plenty tired of always being on the jump. And another thing. Once this job's done, I'm gonna have me a few drinks of whiskey. Killin' is dry business."
It was nearing mid-forenoon when he unexpectedly encountered Grant Cable. The boss of the Three Sevens was riding north, alone, even as Big Mule rode south.
For the first time in his career, Cable was a prey to doubts and uncertainties. Across the years he had been sure of himself, knowing what he wanted and how to get it. His mind had been trained to follow a devious course, doing it so adroitly that he had long filled a dual role without even his daughter suspecting him. It had seemed that he was far too clever ever to need to worry.
His talk with Reta had shocked him out of his complacency, and the subsequent interview with Locke had jarred him to the depths of his being. When you played such a game, you dealt, of necessity, with men of little scruple. So it was well to remember that what the other fellow might do was unpredictable.
But he had forgotten his own rule, and King Steele had pulled a switch, with the result that the sheriff was no longer under their control. What worried Cable was not so much what might happen to himself as the dire possibility which Locke had suggested—what would happen to Reta when she found out?
He had welcomed the chance to go to the roundup, so as to have a few days' delay before facing the issue. But as soon as he arrived at Red Creek, he had realized that dodging settled nothing.
This had to be faced and fought through, and the sooner the better. After a sleepless night, Cable saddled a horse and started north again, his mind made up.
He'd side with the sheriff, since that was what Reta wanted. What might come of such a course was obscured by uncertainty, but for the first time in years his mind was at peace. As he rode, he toyed with the idea of making restitution to certain victims of past injustices, chief among them Ginny Landers. But that, so far, was only an idea.
He recognized Big Mule without surprise. The Mule was probably bringing a message from Steele. Cable pulled up. "Howdy, Big," he greeted him.
Big Mule knew luck when he met it on the trail. At the roundup, among men from many outfits, it might be difficult to contrive the proper sort of "accident" and at the same time make certain that it was of a sufficiently final nature. Here, with just the two of them on a lonely road, it could be simpler.
"Howdy, Grant," Mule returned affably, and pulled to a stop also. "You headin' back already?"
"Thought I would," Cable agreed. "You got some news?"
"Yeah." Mule nodded. "Just for you." He swung his own horse. "If you're headin' back, that saves me from going any farther."
Cable's suspicions were not aroused. "What is it?" he asked.
"Been a cloudburst up that way since you left," Big Mule explained, and went on to recite the series of events as they were commonly known, giving also the inside details which Cable would expect—how the attackers had been beaten off by the sheriff, who had unexpectedly been with the stage; how Locke had killed three of the quartette; the escape of the one outlaw and subsequent pursuit of the stage; how, as they had been certain of success, the cloudburst had struck, forcing them to flee for their lives.
Cable listened, appalled. This was the plan which he had outlined to Steele, but later he had told Steele that they would make no attempt to take this
Big Mule lost no time in riding out of town, swinging to the east and south, down through a placid foothill country where Red Creek flowed. Once out of town, he made camp and slept the rest of the night.
"No reason why a man should wear himself out hustlin'," he assured his horse. "I get plenty tired of always being on the jump. And another thing. Once this job's done, I'm gonna have me a few drinks of whiskey. Killin' is dry business."
It was nearing mid-forenoon when he unexpectedly encountered Grant Cable. The boss of the Three Sevens was riding north, alone, even as Big Mule rode south.
For the first time in his career, Cable was a prey to doubts and uncertainties. Across the years he had been sure of himself, knowing what he wanted and how to get it. His mind had been trained to follow a devious course, doing it so adroitly that he had long filled a dual role without even his daughter suspecting him. It had seemed that he was far too clever ever to need to worry.
His talk with Reta had shocked him out of his complacency, and the subsequent interview with Locke had jarred him to the depths of his being. When you played such a game, you dealt, of necessity, with men of little scruple. So it was well to remember that what the other fellow might do was unpredictable.
But he had forgotten his own rule, and King Steele had pulled a switch, with the result that the sheriff was no longer under their control. What worried Cable was not so much what might happen to himself as the dire possibility which Locke had suggested—what would happen to Reta when she found out?
He had welcomed the chance to go to the roundup, so as to have a few days' delay before facing the issue. But as soon as he arrived at Red Creek, he had realized that dodging settled nothing.
This had to be faced and fought through, and the sooner the better. After a sleepless night, Cable saddled a horse and started north again, his mind made up.
He'd side with the sheriff, since that was what Reta wanted. What might come of such a course was obscured by uncertainty, but for the first time in years his mind was at peace. As he rode, he toyed with the idea of making restitution to certain victims of past injustices, chief among them Ginny Landers. But that, so far, was only an idea.
He recognized Big Mule without surprise. The Mule was probably bringing a message from Steele. Cable pulled up. "Howdy, Big," he greeted him.
Big Mule knew luck when he met it on the trail. At the roundup, among men from many outfits, it might be difficult to contrive the proper sort of "accident" and at the same time make certain that it was of a sufficiently final nature. Here, with just the two of them on a lonely road, it could be simpler.
"Howdy, Grant," Mule returned affably, and pulled to a stop also. "You headin' back already?"
"Thought I would," Cable agreed. "You got some news?"
"Yeah." Mule nodded. "Just for you." He swung his own horse. "If you're headin' back, that saves me from going any farther."
Cable's suspicions were not aroused. "What is it?" he asked.
"Been a cloudburst up that way since you left," Big Mule explained, and went on to recite the series of events as they were commonly known, giving also the inside details which Cable would expect—how the attackers had been beaten off by the sheriff, who had unexpectedly been with the stage; how Locke had killed three of the quartette; the escape of the one outlaw and subsequent pursuit of the stage; how, as they had been certain of success, the cloudburst had struck, forcing them to flee for their lives.
Cable listened, appalled. This was the plan which he had outlined to Steele, but later he had told Steele that they would make no attempt to take this
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