particular gold shipment. Steele had taken matters into his own hands. The wanton killing of Red Foley and the subsequent disaster which had overtaken the sheriff left him with mixed emotions.
But apparently Steele, having shown his hand, was willing to play along with him again, now that the sheriff was out of the way. Why else should he send Big Mule with word of what had happened? And the death of Locke did alter the situation.
Big Mule observed him as he talked. Cable was intent on the report, completely unsuspicious. A plan formed in the Mule's mind as they rode. Steele wanted an accident. Here it could be nicely contrived.
These were foothills, by comparison with the Wild Buttes, but fair-sized for all that, climbing toward the sun. They were on a narrow trail dug from the side of the hill, barely wide enough for a vehicle to travel. At intervals were turnouts where one wagon could wait for another to pass.
Ahead and below was a steep, grassy slope, shelving down sharply for thirty feet to Red Creek. The Red flowed placidly, undisturbed by the storm which had poured its waters into Queasy the day before. Bright-hued dragonflies sported above the water. A kingfisher gave its rattling cry from the opposite shore, perching upon the dead branch of a willow.
Big Mule, as befitted his size, rode a big horse. With a sharp touch of the spurs he swung it, knowing from experience that such spurring would set it to bucking and plunging. Expertly he turned the first lunge, to send it crashing against the plodding horse which Grant Cable rode.
Not until he glimpsed the triumphant look in Big Mule's eyes did Cable begin to suspect his danger, and by then it was too late.
Caught off-balance, the lighter cayuse was forced off the road in a quick shove. It tried frantically to regain its feet, to check its sliding plunge down the slope, but the hill was steep, the coat of grass as slick as a duck's back. Its feet had been knocked under by the shove, and there was no chance to regain them.
Big Mule watched, his hand close to his holstered gun, alert to the possible need for it. A look in both directions had assured him that no one else was around to see what was happening.
There would be no need for the gun. A mishap like this was a matter of chance or luck—good or bad, according to your way of looking at it. A horse might slip and take a tumble and land at the bottom of the slope, none the worse. Again, it might fall half the distance and break its neck.
This was even better. Big Mule saw the cayuse come to a jerky stop in the shallow edge of Red Creek. It kicked spasmodically, then was still, lying on its back, feet upraised, head twisted at a grotesque angle under it. To fall in such a manner was unusual, but the luck of the trail was never certain.
The kingfisher, squawking raucously, flew away, and the dragonflies, disturbed, moved a little farther downstream before they resumed their darting. Nothing else moved.
Grant Cable lay as unmoving as the horse. He was in the water, pinned down by the saddle-horn which bored into his chest, the weight of the dead cayuse upon it. His face was in a pool which flowed above his wide distended eyes.
14
King Steele broke stride, shocked. He had accepted the apparently established fact that Orin Locke was dead. To see him was unsettling.
Locke's clothes gave no indication that he had been caught by the cloudburst. That was a minor mystery. But there was no doubt in Steele's mind that Locke knew of the part Steele had been playing and of the reaction to be expected. Only the method was in doubt, and it behooved him to move first, to forestall this star toter.
Up to now it had been a risky game, but from now on it would be a contest with no holds barred, a fight to the death.
A crowd was beginning to collect, men who were equally surprised to see the sheriff alive. A crowd could be useful or dangerous, depending on how it was swayed. Nearly everyone would be friendly to the
But apparently Steele, having shown his hand, was willing to play along with him again, now that the sheriff was out of the way. Why else should he send Big Mule with word of what had happened? And the death of Locke did alter the situation.
Big Mule observed him as he talked. Cable was intent on the report, completely unsuspicious. A plan formed in the Mule's mind as they rode. Steele wanted an accident. Here it could be nicely contrived.
These were foothills, by comparison with the Wild Buttes, but fair-sized for all that, climbing toward the sun. They were on a narrow trail dug from the side of the hill, barely wide enough for a vehicle to travel. At intervals were turnouts where one wagon could wait for another to pass.
Ahead and below was a steep, grassy slope, shelving down sharply for thirty feet to Red Creek. The Red flowed placidly, undisturbed by the storm which had poured its waters into Queasy the day before. Bright-hued dragonflies sported above the water. A kingfisher gave its rattling cry from the opposite shore, perching upon the dead branch of a willow.
Big Mule, as befitted his size, rode a big horse. With a sharp touch of the spurs he swung it, knowing from experience that such spurring would set it to bucking and plunging. Expertly he turned the first lunge, to send it crashing against the plodding horse which Grant Cable rode.
Not until he glimpsed the triumphant look in Big Mule's eyes did Cable begin to suspect his danger, and by then it was too late.
Caught off-balance, the lighter cayuse was forced off the road in a quick shove. It tried frantically to regain its feet, to check its sliding plunge down the slope, but the hill was steep, the coat of grass as slick as a duck's back. Its feet had been knocked under by the shove, and there was no chance to regain them.
Big Mule watched, his hand close to his holstered gun, alert to the possible need for it. A look in both directions had assured him that no one else was around to see what was happening.
There would be no need for the gun. A mishap like this was a matter of chance or luck—good or bad, according to your way of looking at it. A horse might slip and take a tumble and land at the bottom of the slope, none the worse. Again, it might fall half the distance and break its neck.
This was even better. Big Mule saw the cayuse come to a jerky stop in the shallow edge of Red Creek. It kicked spasmodically, then was still, lying on its back, feet upraised, head twisted at a grotesque angle under it. To fall in such a manner was unusual, but the luck of the trail was never certain.
The kingfisher, squawking raucously, flew away, and the dragonflies, disturbed, moved a little farther downstream before they resumed their darting. Nothing else moved.
Grant Cable lay as unmoving as the horse. He was in the water, pinned down by the saddle-horn which bored into his chest, the weight of the dead cayuse upon it. His face was in a pool which flowed above his wide distended eyes.
14
King Steele broke stride, shocked. He had accepted the apparently established fact that Orin Locke was dead. To see him was unsettling.
Locke's clothes gave no indication that he had been caught by the cloudburst. That was a minor mystery. But there was no doubt in Steele's mind that Locke knew of the part Steele had been playing and of the reaction to be expected. Only the method was in doubt, and it behooved him to move first, to forestall this star toter.
Up to now it had been a risky game, but from now on it would be a contest with no holds barred, a fight to the death.
A crowd was beginning to collect, men who were equally surprised to see the sheriff alive. A crowd could be useful or dangerous, depending on how it was swayed. Nearly everyone would be friendly to the
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