you.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
FOOTHILLS was not a large town, but the thoroughness with which Lovell and Bishop searched it kept them engaged with the grueling chore until well past dusk. On each occasion when their paths crossed, Lovell's temperwas darker and more explosive. Because of this, which indicated the Washington detective was likely to shoot Steele on sight, Bishop's concern deepened - for it was his intention to take the wanted man alive to stand trial.
It was after seven when the unsuccessful search ended and the two lawmen met in front of Aaron Ross's livery stable. Both were bleary-eyed, with haggard faces and bowed shoulders.
“That's about it,” Bishop said with a deep sigh that was part a sign of weariness, part of relief. “There's no place else to look.”
Lovell eyed the deputy sheriff with disgust. “It was a mistake letting you ride with me,” he snarled. “If I'd been alone, he wouldn't have ducked out so quick. You, he knows.” He spun around and strode into the livery stable.
Bishop glanced up and down the street leading off the plaza and followed the city detective. The place smelled of kerosene, straw and horse droppings. In the light of two lamps, Clancy was adjusting the bridle of a saddled horse. Blake was being helped in readying his own mount by a short, thin man with a bald head and melancholy eyes. He was Ross, and his sad eyes became fixed on Lovell's glowering face as the lawmen halted in the doorway.
“His horse is still in the stall, marshal,” the little man announced with forced enthusiasm. “He ain't been in since you first come.”
“I told you, I'm not a marshal” Lovell hurled at Ross, then loped across the stable to the stall the liveryman had indicated with a nod.
Steele's bay gelding nuzzled the detective's hand eagerly, then snorted when he found no sugar. Ross gave the injured trooper a leg up into his saddle.
“You ready, Clancy?” Blake asked anxiously.
“Sure am,” the older trooper replied, grasping hold of his mount's bridle.
Bishop stepped out of the entrance to allow passage for the troopers. Then a flash of metal caught his eye and he took a step forward, knowing he would be too late.
“Lovell, don't!” he yelled. The gelding started to rear; sensing danger. But Lovell was an expert with the knife, fast and deadly. He plunged it towards the animal's head, allowing for instinctive movement, and angling the blade at the right degree. The deadly point penetrated deep into the horse's staring right eye, the cant of the blade directing it incisively into the brain. There was a thin, high wail, then a massive gout of blood which arched across Lovell's ducked shoulder. The detective retained his grip on the knife handle and the blade came free with a sucking sound as the dead animal collapsed to the floor of the stall.
Clancy and Blake spoke softly to the trembling horses, calming their agitation at the smell of blood. Then they joined Ross and Bishop in treating Lovell to states of revulsion. The detective turned slowly, and swung his mean-eyes glare from Clancy to Blake and back again.
“Law's business, soldiers,” he said, wiping the bloody blade on the bedroll hanging next to Steele's saddle. “Army ought to mind its own.”
“Sure, mister, sure,” Blake blurted. “Don't pay no heed to the uniforms,” Clancy said. “We ain't in the army no more.”
Blake led the way out of the stable, and Clancy was hard on his heels. The beat of galloping hooves was the only sound against the quiet of the town. Soon, even this was swallowed up by distance.
“My God,” Ross gasped, trembling. “What will I tell him if he comes back?”
“That his horse was lucky,” Lovell replied softly, sliding the knife back into its sheath at his armpit. “For him, it won't be fast.”
He moved to the door and Ross stumbled hurriedly out of his path. He leaned against the doorframe and started to roll a cigarette, looking with meanly
CHAPTER TWELVE
FOOTHILLS was not a large town, but the thoroughness with which Lovell and Bishop searched it kept them engaged with the grueling chore until well past dusk. On each occasion when their paths crossed, Lovell's temperwas darker and more explosive. Because of this, which indicated the Washington detective was likely to shoot Steele on sight, Bishop's concern deepened - for it was his intention to take the wanted man alive to stand trial.
It was after seven when the unsuccessful search ended and the two lawmen met in front of Aaron Ross's livery stable. Both were bleary-eyed, with haggard faces and bowed shoulders.
“That's about it,” Bishop said with a deep sigh that was part a sign of weariness, part of relief. “There's no place else to look.”
Lovell eyed the deputy sheriff with disgust. “It was a mistake letting you ride with me,” he snarled. “If I'd been alone, he wouldn't have ducked out so quick. You, he knows.” He spun around and strode into the livery stable.
Bishop glanced up and down the street leading off the plaza and followed the city detective. The place smelled of kerosene, straw and horse droppings. In the light of two lamps, Clancy was adjusting the bridle of a saddled horse. Blake was being helped in readying his own mount by a short, thin man with a bald head and melancholy eyes. He was Ross, and his sad eyes became fixed on Lovell's glowering face as the lawmen halted in the doorway.
“His horse is still in the stall, marshal,” the little man announced with forced enthusiasm. “He ain't been in since you first come.”
“I told you, I'm not a marshal” Lovell hurled at Ross, then loped across the stable to the stall the liveryman had indicated with a nod.
Steele's bay gelding nuzzled the detective's hand eagerly, then snorted when he found no sugar. Ross gave the injured trooper a leg up into his saddle.
“You ready, Clancy?” Blake asked anxiously.
“Sure am,” the older trooper replied, grasping hold of his mount's bridle.
Bishop stepped out of the entrance to allow passage for the troopers. Then a flash of metal caught his eye and he took a step forward, knowing he would be too late.
“Lovell, don't!” he yelled. The gelding started to rear; sensing danger. But Lovell was an expert with the knife, fast and deadly. He plunged it towards the animal's head, allowing for instinctive movement, and angling the blade at the right degree. The deadly point penetrated deep into the horse's staring right eye, the cant of the blade directing it incisively into the brain. There was a thin, high wail, then a massive gout of blood which arched across Lovell's ducked shoulder. The detective retained his grip on the knife handle and the blade came free with a sucking sound as the dead animal collapsed to the floor of the stall.
Clancy and Blake spoke softly to the trembling horses, calming their agitation at the smell of blood. Then they joined Ross and Bishop in treating Lovell to states of revulsion. The detective turned slowly, and swung his mean-eyes glare from Clancy to Blake and back again.
“Law's business, soldiers,” he said, wiping the bloody blade on the bedroll hanging next to Steele's saddle. “Army ought to mind its own.”
“Sure, mister, sure,” Blake blurted. “Don't pay no heed to the uniforms,” Clancy said. “We ain't in the army no more.”
Blake led the way out of the stable, and Clancy was hard on his heels. The beat of galloping hooves was the only sound against the quiet of the town. Soon, even this was swallowed up by distance.
“My God,” Ross gasped, trembling. “What will I tell him if he comes back?”
“That his horse was lucky,” Lovell replied softly, sliding the knife back into its sheath at his armpit. “For him, it won't be fast.”
He moved to the door and Ross stumbled hurriedly out of his path. He leaned against the doorframe and started to roll a cigarette, looking with meanly
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