doctor pronto!"
They looked up as Curly and Ringo returned from their search. Curly said, "No one else on the place. Just two dead gunnies and that dirty sidewinder." He nudged Dawes' body with a contemptuous boot toe. "There's a buckboard in the shed. Come on, Ringo; let's find some broncs and hitch up quick."
They had Bill's body in a nest of blankets in the buckboard when Sheriff Peters and his posse crashed into the yard. Kirby quickly told them all that had happened. "Reckon he cleared his name some before that skunk shot him in the back. If he ever comes to, he'll tell us the rest of his story."
The sheriff's leathery old countenance broke into a smile. "Danged if I ever could hook up the name Street with rustlin'. Looks like he plumb cleaned out this place. We'll finish the job at H Bar D."
"I'll take Bill home," Kirby said quickly. "Then me and the boys will come in through the meadow and maybe catch any hombres that try to make their getaway toward the river. We ought to make it about the time you start the fireworks on the other end. Could you spare someone to ride back to town and bring Doc Williams out to Wagon?"
And so they brought Bill Street back to Wagon, a long, quiet figure in the bottom of a buckboard. They carried him gently into the house and into his old room. "There isn't time to talk, Maria. Just take good care of him." He hurried to rejoin his waiting crew, but not before Jen had come into his arms. "Come home to me," she whispered against his lips.
As they rode toward the river trail, Kirby's heart was singing. Bill had cleared his name and had done it with honor. Even if he died of his wound, his death would be an honorable one. The trouble that had been so long in building was disappearing. And Jen was waiting for him… at home. He felt like yelling in sheer relief, and his expression must have mirrored his thoughts, for Josh, Curly and Ringo were all smiling, although somewhat grimly, as they thundered through the ford, water flying in sheets of muddy spray as they passed. Across the river on Lazy B again, they pulled in their horses for a brief blow. As they did so they exchanged questioning looks. They had all heard it… the distant crash of gunfire.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The rattle of distant gunfire brought worried frowns to their foreheads as the Wagon crew crossed the meadow. They were slowed down by the herd in the hideout pasture. They had to weave in and out of the peacefully grazing animals, and one or twice they had to drive a close-bunched jag of cows out of the way with the end of their ropes. When they were all but stopped, waiting for a belligerent steer to make way, Curly voiced the thought of all. "Holy smoke," he said in amazement, "look at the size of this gather. There must be seven or eight hundred head in here from brands as far away as the Galeyville range. Somebody has sure got a heap of explainin' to do."
"Ain't it so!" Ringo spoke up. "Sure glad I ain't one of the gents who'll have to do the answerin'. I've always said I wanted to die with my boots on, but not with a rope makin' 'em do a dance six feet in the air!"
Josh gave them a wry grin. "If the sound of those guns goin' off up ahead means anything, I don't guess there'll be many left to stretch a rope."
As they strained to catch the faint echoes of gunfire, Josh led them to the little creek bed which served the rustlers as an exit during their midnight drives. The guns had flared in intensity, then died out completely.
As Peters had told them, the dry creek bed made a rocky but effective trail. Once or twice it dwindled to a narrow gap as it passed between huge boulders. It was as they were passing in the shadow of two great rocks on either side of the trail that they caught the sound of shod hoof ringing against stone. The trail ahead was blocked from their view. Kirby signaled for them to stop, then motioned them to follow Josh as he pulled as far over to one side of the trail as possible. They waited
They looked up as Curly and Ringo returned from their search. Curly said, "No one else on the place. Just two dead gunnies and that dirty sidewinder." He nudged Dawes' body with a contemptuous boot toe. "There's a buckboard in the shed. Come on, Ringo; let's find some broncs and hitch up quick."
They had Bill's body in a nest of blankets in the buckboard when Sheriff Peters and his posse crashed into the yard. Kirby quickly told them all that had happened. "Reckon he cleared his name some before that skunk shot him in the back. If he ever comes to, he'll tell us the rest of his story."
The sheriff's leathery old countenance broke into a smile. "Danged if I ever could hook up the name Street with rustlin'. Looks like he plumb cleaned out this place. We'll finish the job at H Bar D."
"I'll take Bill home," Kirby said quickly. "Then me and the boys will come in through the meadow and maybe catch any hombres that try to make their getaway toward the river. We ought to make it about the time you start the fireworks on the other end. Could you spare someone to ride back to town and bring Doc Williams out to Wagon?"
And so they brought Bill Street back to Wagon, a long, quiet figure in the bottom of a buckboard. They carried him gently into the house and into his old room. "There isn't time to talk, Maria. Just take good care of him." He hurried to rejoin his waiting crew, but not before Jen had come into his arms. "Come home to me," she whispered against his lips.
As they rode toward the river trail, Kirby's heart was singing. Bill had cleared his name and had done it with honor. Even if he died of his wound, his death would be an honorable one. The trouble that had been so long in building was disappearing. And Jen was waiting for him… at home. He felt like yelling in sheer relief, and his expression must have mirrored his thoughts, for Josh, Curly and Ringo were all smiling, although somewhat grimly, as they thundered through the ford, water flying in sheets of muddy spray as they passed. Across the river on Lazy B again, they pulled in their horses for a brief blow. As they did so they exchanged questioning looks. They had all heard it… the distant crash of gunfire.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The rattle of distant gunfire brought worried frowns to their foreheads as the Wagon crew crossed the meadow. They were slowed down by the herd in the hideout pasture. They had to weave in and out of the peacefully grazing animals, and one or twice they had to drive a close-bunched jag of cows out of the way with the end of their ropes. When they were all but stopped, waiting for a belligerent steer to make way, Curly voiced the thought of all. "Holy smoke," he said in amazement, "look at the size of this gather. There must be seven or eight hundred head in here from brands as far away as the Galeyville range. Somebody has sure got a heap of explainin' to do."
"Ain't it so!" Ringo spoke up. "Sure glad I ain't one of the gents who'll have to do the answerin'. I've always said I wanted to die with my boots on, but not with a rope makin' 'em do a dance six feet in the air!"
Josh gave them a wry grin. "If the sound of those guns goin' off up ahead means anything, I don't guess there'll be many left to stretch a rope."
As they strained to catch the faint echoes of gunfire, Josh led them to the little creek bed which served the rustlers as an exit during their midnight drives. The guns had flared in intensity, then died out completely.
As Peters had told them, the dry creek bed made a rocky but effective trail. Once or twice it dwindled to a narrow gap as it passed between huge boulders. It was as they were passing in the shadow of two great rocks on either side of the trail that they caught the sound of shod hoof ringing against stone. The trail ahead was blocked from their view. Kirby signaled for them to stop, then motioned them to follow Josh as he pulled as far over to one side of the trail as possible. They waited
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