Hullabaloo – a fast paced murder mystery

CHAPTER ONE

I wasn’t nervous—let’s get that absolutely straight.

Excited was the word, perhaps, for I was coming home, and I could see already, despite the darkness and the rain, things both familiar and friendly.

The air strip below, naturally—the plane was pointed for the landing.

And off to one side was the railroad, marked by moving, lighted coaches and, farther on, the high arch of the bridge, ablaze now.

I could see, very faintly in the distance, the thin memorial tower.

Yea boy, I was home.

For a week.

Seven days.

One hundred and sixty-eight hours.

In the same town with Wanda Barrow.

Softly the plane touched ground, and even at this point, so near the first discordant note, I had no psychic hint, no warning, no veiled doubt or presentiment. Look, I would say on the phone, this is Sergeant Jeff Mason.

Remember?

The guy who wants to marry you, honey—remember?

I could visualize Wanda at her phone.

She was very slim and little—and then I wondered if her answer would be yes, and if there’d be a honeymoon.

I faced at last the stern picture as it might and could be—and suddenly I was tense and cold, and the bubbles seemed to burst beneath me as I walked up the ramp and to the phone.

The woman who answered wasn’t Wanda.

I got it almost instantly, almost with her first hello.

Her voice was husky, strange— and she sounded scared as she said,

“Sergeant? Who is this? Not the—the police?”

The wires sang a moment. It was a vicious sound, like bees about to sting.

Wanda had a small suite on University Road, near the university, and this woman was very likely her landlady, but—police?

My picture of Wanda’s quiet street, the quiet house and people turned topsy-turvy.

“No. Sergeant in Uncle Sam’s Army,” I said. “Now how about Wanda? Will you please call her?”

The woman breathed again.

I should say she panted. It sounded like that—too fast, too ragged.

“Miss Barrow isn’t here,” she said

Now what do you suppose flashed through my mind.

Wanda had tried to meet me?

But with schedules and connections so uncertain I’d warned against this.

“She should be back, though, soon, by ten o’clock,” the woman went on quickly.

“She went across the campus just a while ago, to see a Mr. Sadler.”

And I spoke of omens!

Let’s say you’re young, twenty-six with freckles and red hair.

Let’s say you’ve come from the farmlands, with vitality if not graces, a swimming record and a coaching berth on the credit sheet, but— let’s say your girl met a man named Vern Sadler.

Nice, huh?

This Sadler had everything.

He was dark, he was handsome, he had money, it seemed.

He had medals and war wounds, for he’d fought against the Fascists in Spain.

I’d wired, written, phoned Wanda Barrow, Don’t decide until I get a furlough, and tonight I’d counted on—sincerity, I guess, a desperate plea.

Wanda would withhold decision, that I knew.

She’d promised me faithfully.

But she hadn’t sat beside her phone, to await my call.

She’d gone to see Vern Sadler.

There goes my apple cart, I thought, and caught the bus to town. Then I walked up the street, with time to spare.

This was October and it was raining, a sorry night, thick with mist and drizzle.

There was a drug store on the corner, a few blocks from Wanda’s address.

I skidded in.

I fell.

The floor was slippery near the door and the druggist looked at me.

You could see what he was thinking.

“Nice trip, soldier?” he said.

“Some black coffee?”

I changed a dime for nickels.

I marched back to the phone booth.

Everybody had cell phones but me, and public phones were too hard to come by.

By now Wanda surely would be home, and she’d say,

“Hello, Jeff, where are you?”

She’d be kind at least.

She always had been.

But it was the woman who answered again.

“Sergeant, it’s a quarter past ten,” she said.

Her voice had a new, high, queer ring.

“She’s like my own daughter,” she said. “I told her not to walk across the campus.”

Wanda had walked across the campus—the woman puzzled me. I thanked her, hung up— but why wouldn’t Wanda take the campus short cut? We always had, in days gone by, the evenings we had spent with our good friend Hillary Crain. I sat at the fountain a. while and got to talking with the druggist. He knew Vern Sadler.he was at the bottom of a V—two streets met, V-like, at this store, this corner. Up one, University Road, lived Wanda. Up the other. Fearing Drive, lived Sadler.

So this druggist knew both Sadler and Wanda, and he said abruptly,

“She must have been crazy, though, to cut across the campus.” I frowned.

Then I held up two fingers.

“The top of the V, see? She’s sensible.”

“Well anyway,” he said,

“I hope nothing has happened to her.” I looked at him. What the devil did he mean?

“Live around here ten years ago, soldier?”

“No,” I said, taut and cold inside suddenly.

“That time it was a kid, a killing. Why, I helped patrol the streets myself, night after night for two weeks. I had two children of my own, you know.”

He produced a newspaper and pointed to a word splashed across its front page:

“Mugger.”

“Three times now in the last couple of weeks,” he said.

“Always happens in this neighborhood. Soldier, there’s a screwball loose. He waylays people, he cracks ’em on the head. You mark my words, it’s going to end in another murder.”

 I got off the counter stool.

Not Wanda, I thought.

This druggist—his head was cocked to one side as he frowned and regarded me.

Not Wanda, I thought I walked back to the phone—and this time the woman was sobbing.

“Wanda promised,” she said. “And she always keeps her word. Ten o’clock, she said— I’m sure of it.”

There was a clicking sound, the woman’s teeth.

 I replaced the receiver.

Then I took a deep breath and paged the book and called Sadler.

Curiously, Mr. Sadler was not at home.

I know.

You’ll say this girl, Wanda Barrow, was going to write me off her list anyway, so she breaks a date with me, to keep one with the man it’s plain she’s going to marry.

You’ll say she went somewhere with Vern Sadler.

But you don’t know Wanda.

She’s a funny kid.

I mean, swell.

Say, you’re going to meet her at a place downtown.you don’t stand around a lobby or a corner.

The clock strikes and she’s there.

Her word is like Greenwich, like money in the bank.so I knew this was serious and that something might well have happened to her.

I walked rapidly up the right side of the V, Sadler’s side, up Fearing Drive.

Sadler lived in an apartment building, rambling Briarhill sandstone set well back in a lawn full of trees.

There was a circle drive.and this was high ground and by day you could look back and see far across the valley.

You could see, first, just across the street, the fine old home of Professor Hillary Crain, red brick with white trim, and a high wall all around it.

and then, off down the gentle slope, the University.

Between Crain’s home and the University buildings was the campus, the woods and a sparkle of blue, the lagoon.

I walked up Sadler’s drive, and the entrance was very swanky.a canopy, soft lights, a blonde at the switchboard.

She disapproved of my wet, wrinkled uniform.

She frowned as I leaned on her desk.

“I’m sorry. Mr. Sadler is out,” she said.

“He left about an hour ago.”

“That long?”

I frowned.

Wasn’t that approximately the time Wanda would have been coming to call upon him?

“You mean with the girl?”

“What girl?” the switchboard operator said.

It was warm in the tight little lobby. I shivered.

“But a girl came in to see him this evening. Maybe you know her—little, blonde, a Miss Barrow?”

She just looked at me. I wet my lips.

“No girl?”

“Sorry, soldier.”

“Okay,” I said.

“It’s okay.”

An hour lost.

The tree-lined drive seemed strange now and foreboding.a car turned and its lights revealed the dripping branches.

Tears clinging to the crooked bare limbs, I thought.

Then I crossed the street, passed Crain’s high wall, and here, once off the street and in the puddled lane, I ran.

“Wanda?” I called, to empty darkness—but had I thought she’d answer?

A hundred times we’d walked this lane together.

From Wanda’s house to Crain’s, where, until Vern Sadler came upon the scene, we would spend occasional evenings pleasantly. There was the time we’d paused here, on the high bald hill, the knob, just to stand in awe before the beauty of the valley.and sometimes we would veer off toward the woods, the spring, though never quite so far as the lagoon at night.

“Wanda!” I called.

Tonight the darkness taunted me.

Nine years ago, one day, I’d walked to the lagoon.

I’d walked softly through the woods, alone that time—and come upon a boy, a dumpy fellow with unruly hair and wearing a sweater much too small for him.

He had a stick under one arm and a crust of bread in one hand—there were ducks in the lagoon—and he was unaware of my presence and crooning to the ducks.

He was giggling and feeding crumbs to the ducks when they swam ashore and waddled up the bank to him.

Oh my God, I thought, don’t let it happen like that with Wanda!

The ducks had waddled ashore and the boy had rewarded their trust with sudden shrill yells, and when they ran, quacking their terror, he’d swung with his stick and he’d laughed and he’d hit them.

The path made a sharp turn.

I skidded and fell, full in the mud, in a puddle.

And then I saw the glow of a light off ahead, a small yellow ray that wavered and went out again instantly.

I heard footsteps and a figure was looming, a blot in the night.

It slowed, stiffened, paused warily.

“Who is there?” a voice, cold and precise, called.

I rose as the light flashed upon me.

“Jeff Mason!” the man gasped.

It was Professor Hillary Crain.

I knew his voice from the years of our friendship. I knew his habits.the lights often burned long at

“Crain’s madhouse”, the lab in Hillary Crain’s Department of Psychology.

And strange cries came from the

“madhouse’’ at night.and then, very late, the lights would go out, and Crain would emerge, tall, grey and lonely, to tramp to the red-walled redbrick house across the campus.

He was an international figure, perhaps best known for his endocrine theory, the glands with relation to psychopathology, and for his radical experiments with apes.

So it was he, not I, who had more than a right to surprise.

He hadn’t known I was home.

He surely had no expectation of coming upon me in the night like this, crouched and wet and covered with mud.

Yet, curiously, he seemed much more startled than surprised.

“She’s all right,” he said at once. “She’s alive.”

I echoed the word, grasped at it, grasped at his arm.

“Crain,” I cried, “what happened?”

“Coming home, I found her,” he said. “She was lying near here, near the spring.”

“Unconscious? From a blow?”

“Yes, Jeff.”

The scene flashed through my mind, the earlier, horrible scene. Wanda, slim and walking swiftly.

Wanda unaware that she was watched, and stalked.

I could feel her first sharp fear, and see her as she whirled, and then as she, no doubt, stood paralyzed.

She’d screamed.

The ducks quacked, and they ran, and he took his stick and hit them.

Still I held to Crain’s arm.

“The mugger?” I said.

“Come with me.” Crain’s voice was quiet and kind.

There was strength in it and reassurance, for Crain himself had known tragedy, and Crain knew the dangers rising out of fear.

“That’s what it was, sir, the mugger?” I said. We started up the path. I heard sirens and, far off below, I saw the slash of spotlights. Then other white eyes, cars bold with their number, raced crisscross on dark narrow streets, all with one goal, the campus.

“But where is Wanda now f”

“The hospital,” Crain said gently.

“I carried her, Jeff, and she came to promptly.

She was conscious when we got there.

Very likely they’ll permit you to see her at the hospital first thing in the morning. So she’s quite all right, Jeff, except—”

He turned his flashlight off, here on the wider path, on firmer ground.

“Except,” he repeated after a deep breath, “the night and what happened is a blank to her.”

CHAPTER TWO

We came to Crain’s high wall, and Crain’s man Varco was at the locked side gate to let us in.

I shivered when I saw again this great dark figure.

But then Varco had startled even so cosmopolitan a town as University City when Crain brought him back from Spain.

That was years ago, my second year at the university.

and Crain’s return had been as abrupt and strange as when he’d resigned and gone away.

Tongues wagged both times, of course.

Except for Franco and Spain’s civil war, it was conceded he might well have remained in that country.

He’d made many new friends over there.

Vern Sadler, who came to University City much later, was one of them.

But one day Crain returned abruptly to us.

His son, who had been ailing when he left, was dead he said.

A widower, he was a very lonely man from this time on.

He built a wall around himself, as indeed he built the high red wall around his home.

He lived with only Varco, the Moor, the giant of a man, the deaf mute with a pocked face who looked like one of Ali Baba’s Forty Thieves.

and save for his classes and the work he resumed at his

“madhouse,” save for the very few of us who were welcome at his home, no one really knew him.

Now, Varco held a small dim lantern.

And Varco’s white teeth and a nod were his greeting to me.

We walked a sheltered path, past dripping shrubbery, to a side door, to a small room, the library.

But I could see the great baronial hall, the fireplace so large an ox could have been roasted in it.

I could see the high hot flame, and a poker lying off alongside, a giant’s tool, worthy of that mass of stone, and of men like Crain—and Varco. Crain tossed his hat and raincoat aside.

“Will you be in town long?”

“A week, sir.”

“Where are you staying?”

I mentioned a hotel, though as yet I hadn’t registered.

“Nonsense. I’ve plenty of room. It’s quiet here. The walls have all been—” he hesitated, then added, soundproofed.” I thanked him, but of course I couldn’t stay with Crain.

“At any rate, you’ll want to wash up a bit,” he said.

He led me across the hall, to a lavatory, and from there, its door ajar, I heard him run up the steps, and Varco ran up the stairs also. It was at least twenty minutes before they returned.

Crain walked as with a great weight.

He was grey, as I’ve said, and his face was lined and thin tonight and tired.

But he came on to the library, smiling at me.

“You’re still a mess,” he said.

He referred to the mud on my uniform.

I grinned at him.

He saw that I was searching my pockets.

“Lose anything?” he said. I admitted,

“My pen. Apparently just before we met, when I fell. But it’s of no consequence, sir. I’m really worried about Wanda, this loss of memory. Is it serious?”

Crain was making himself comfortable.

“No, I hardly think so. X-rays were taken and I had a quick look, and happily the parietal bone was not fractured. She may experience headaches, dizziness, irritability—some of the minor symptoms, but amnesia itself ii certainly not unexpected following a blow like that. But quite frankly, I’m not convinced the amnesia results from trauma. I’m inclined to call Wanda’s loss of memory psychic hysteric, the result of some terrible shock.”

I sat down. A moment passed.

“Difficult to relieve, sir?” I said.

“No.”

There was a bottle and glasses before him, and Crain was pouring wine now.

“I think she’ll be all right. The treatment will be essentially psycho-analytic, and I intend to begin treatment as quickly as she is released from the hospital. Tomorrow, very likely. No, you’ve nothing to worry about. She‘ll be all right.”

I considered this, sighed and said then,

“I wonder what happened to Sadler?”

Crain stiffened. A

 drop of wine spilled on the rug as he turned to me sharply.

“Vern?”

“Yes, I take it he knew Wanda was coming to see him—”

Crain interrupted, and his voice surprised me, its harshness.

“What are you talking about?”

“Why, she was coming to see him tonight,” I said.

“So wouldn’t you say she had phoned him first, to be sure he was home? Or perhaps, he’d called and invited her over? Anyway, she never got to his place. I checked. And that makes it appear rather strange, don’t you think, that he left—”

Again Crain interrupted.

“To look for her?”

“Well, that’s the obvious interpretation, isn’t it?”

Crain was muttering under his breath.

He indicated the wine, that I was to serve myself, and crossed to his desk and picked up the phone.

The number he called was Sadler’s, and it was a man who answered, but not Sadler.

I would have known Sadler’s smooth voice anywhere.

This voice was deep and anything but smooth and Crain finally called the man

“Haine”.

They had a one-sided conversation, with Crain saying

“Yes,” tensely, several times.

Then he put down the phone and I noticed that his face was white, that his hands were shaking.

I noticed that now he looked at me queerly.

He turned back to his chair and his silence persisted until I couldn’t help but say,

“Well, sir? Sadler isn’t home?”

Crain opened a small teak casket.

He took a cigarette, lit it.

“Jeff, we’ve been friends a good many years—”

Something had happened to him.

I could hear it in his voice, in every word.

See it in every small gesture and in every taut line of his body.

He continued,

“I’ve known no love has been lost between you and Sadler—but Jeff, did you hate him?”

“Hate?” I sipped of the wine, frowning and cautious.

“No, that’s not the word. Aren’t you putting me in a bit of a spot ? He’s your friend.”

“I know.” Crain made a nervous motion, raised his wrist to look at his watch.

“Please be honest with me.”

“Well—I know I never trusted him. I think I feared him, sir, really. And of course you know why. I didn’t want to lose Wanda.”

“Were you about to lose her, Jeff? Is that why you came home?”

Still I sipped, and I could feel a tick-tock within me, my heart quickening, beginning to pound.

“Yes,” I said.

“Frankly I’m afraid that was going to be her answer tonight.”

“Sadler’s dead, Cliff,” Crain said.

 I just looked at him.

And at last he glanced down, at his glass, and lifted it and set it aside again.

“The police are there now, at his suite. Haine is homicide inspector.”

“Murdered?” I whispered the word.

“got Vern Sadler—Haine said that to me, Jeff, on the phone—and it happened, presumably, as you guessed, when Sadler went to search for Wanda. Haine said, ‘And this time we’ve got the mugger—’ ” Crain paused.

I wanted to shout,

“Hurry, man, what is the rest of it?” For I knew there was more. And I knew by his tautness, his whiteness and this delay, that it concerned me. Hurry matt, what is the rest of it? But perversely I said,

“Yes, I was afraid something had happened to him. His disability handicapped him, of course. He could scarcely have escaped by running—”

I couldn’t go on.

My lips were dry, my throat dry and aching.

Crain sighed.

“And Haine said, Jeff, ‘We found a fountain pen near the spring, not ten feet from the body.’ ”

My breath caught.

“A—a pen?”

“With J. Mason imprinted on it, Jeff.”

“But I—”

A gong began ringing.

Loudly.

Wildly, it seemed.

The gong reverberated in my mind.

There was a quick soft pit-pat of slippered feet in the hall, and Varco flashed past the open library door.

“But I can’t possibly be the mugger!” I cried.

“Anyone can see that, sir. Until tonight I’ve been on the Coast, in the Army.”

Crain shook his head.

“You’re confused. You’re not thinking clearly. It’s wholly obvious you had opportunity—they’ve discovered what would seem to be strong circumstantial evidence of that. So what more is needed to get a murder conviction? Motive—and that’s already established. You certainly had reason to hate and therefore to eliminate Sadler.”

“But surely you don’t believe this?”

“I?”

“That I killed him? That it was my intention to make the murder look like the—the mugger’s work?”

“Me?” Crain said again.

The cords were tight in his neck.

His neck?

Now I saw myself as others had seen me tonight.

The druggist, the switchboard operator, yes even Hillary Crain.

The evening spun through my mind, each little incident like threads in a shroud.

And the front door was opening—I heard it squealing on its hinges. The same deep voice I’d heard talking to Crain over the phone began speaking to Varco.

Then Crain picked up his glass again.

His hand clamped hard on it.

The slender, fragile thing broke.

He looked at his hand, the red wine like blood on it.

“Get out,” he said harshly. “The side door, while there is still time!”

Ooutside in the darkness, in the deep shadows of shrubbery and Crain’s wall, the phrase clung to my mind, bothered me.

Still time?

For what?

“Well, boys,’’ I could say to Haine’s men, “I’m the man you’re looking for. I’m Jeff Mason. But murder? That’s all a mistake. I was searching for Wanda and for Sadler when —”

How about it, Jeff Mason, I thought.

I walked slowly toward the street, my blood pounding.

Sure, I’d be pushed around.

For a few days I would live in hell, perhaps, but the police would surely turn up real clues and clear me by that time.

Well, wouldn’t they?

Wouldn’t they? Read about the guy who served twenty-six years in the pen, in Michigan.

He was innocent, too.

He believed, too, that justice would prevail—and it did, after twenty-six years.

“Break it up, boys,” I heard a voice say— and then I saw the cars, the people.

Kids, at this ungodly hour.

Women who’d come running with their babies.

Men calling loudly.

Still time. …

I turned around, walked toward the knob.

Two silhouettes appeared, coming from the campus.

I swerved, ran toward the spring, but there were lights by the spring—of course, the men of Haine’s technical squad.

I slipped aside, into the woods and, after running miles it seemed, threw myself flat on the ground.

Well, this is it, isn’t it?

Wanda’s landlady, the druggist, the switchboard operator — they’ll all testify.

Even Crain—and how will their testimony sound?

You’re going to take a whipping, kid—if you don’t hide out.

Later, I found the corporal’s cottage, the white one on the high bank of the river.

It was a quiet place.

Yet here the darkness taunted me, bred fancies and ideas.

Cars were turning off the highway?

There was someone outside, walking in the wet grass?

Whatever my exhaustion I couldn’t sleep.

I began to wonder about Wanda.

Suppose Crain had been wrong?

Suppose Wanda would become worse through the night?

I knew I couldn’t help, or call her.

With dawn, a plan formed in my mind.

Perhaps it was the gun, the .45 I found with the light of morning. The corporal’s gun.

Somehow the gun gave me new strength.

When it was night again I dressed in the corporal’s civvies and drove his car to town.

The plan was, simply, to contact the mugger’s earlier victims.

The names of the first two were Jones, a man of middle age, and a girl, a Miss Calkins.

I got the names and addresses from the newspapers.

Jones had lost only a wrist watch, despite that he’d carried considerable cash.

and from Miss Calkins only a gold compact had been taken.

Max Hunter, the third victim, was made of different stuff, however. He was cagey. He didn’t answer the door, so I had contacted him by phone.

“I can’t talk,” he said.

His voice cracked and rasped at me.

“I should run off my lip and get in a jam?” I said,

“Look, Mr. Hunter—”

“Who are you anyway?”

“Look,” I said, “all I want to know is what was taken from you.”

He grumbled.

His throat sounded froggy.

he cleared it.

“A lodge button.”

“A lodge button?” My mind spun. “From your coat lapel?”

“Who the devil are you ? ”

“Look,” I said. “According to the papers, you were walking home and you’d turned -off Fearing Drive—”

“Yeah, on the cross street, on what do you call it?”

“And stepped from behind a tree. Are you sure he didn’t drop out of the tree, in front of you?”

There was a short period of silence. I said,

“Mr. Hunter?”

And his voice came at last.

“I ran. I got konked and that’s all there is to it.”

The receiver clicked in my ear.

Then I called Crain, but Crain didn’t answer the phone himself. Instead:

“Jeff,” I heard, almost a whisper, “this is Wanda.”

She’d been discharged from the hospital at noon, and now we rode north on the Drive, Wanda and I, and the pickup had been easy. We’d set the time, and Wanda walked the block from Crain’s to a dark corner. She wore fur tonight, and she was blonde and beautiful and pale—I turned on the light to look at her.

“Keep going,” she said.

“Way out.”

“You’re all right?”

“Yes.”

I breathed again.

“But there’s another question. Do you believe in me?”

She said simply, “Isn’t it clear? I’m here.”

The car swayed half across the road. One other night we’d driven like this, under strain _63 and tension. And that night—

“Jeff,” she’d said,

“Vern Sadler’s going to stay in town. He’s going to live here.”

“With Crain?” I’d said, trying to sound casual.

Sadler had been Crain’s house guest at the time.

Sadler had but arrived in University City.

And from that night on Wanda had—well, she’d seemed doubtful. From that night on Vern Sadler had become a threat to me.

Wanda stirred now.

“Jeff, part of it’s clear. I called Vern last night. I phoned him a little before nine and asked him to come over—”

“Oh, a party for me? Company when I got there?”

She ignored it.

“But he couldn’t come,” she said.

“He’d had the doctor just last evening, for his leg again, the old wounds. Jeff, you know how hard walking was with him, so I tried to get a cab, but it was raining and I’d have had to wait—”

“Was seeing Sadler so important?” I broke

Her voice, when it came, was low.

“I’d decided,” she said.

“I felt I had to see him before you got home. I wasn’t going to marry him.”

I caught my breath.

But we’d come to a bridge, a curve.

a truck was passing several cars and coming toward us.

By the time die road was clear again, Wanda was saying,

“So I started across the campus— and it ends there, Jeff. It ends there.”

Suddenly she was trembling and close to me, her face pressed against my shoulder.

“I don’t know what happened, Jeff, none of it.”

I found her hand, held it. I tried to think of all I’d meant to say last night. But last night was gone. I pressed her hand and said,

“What does Crain say?” She’d gone to Crain tonight, of course, that he might help her with her memory. She didn’t answer.

“Hon?” She said at last, in a small frightened voice,

“Jeff, he wants to believe as I do—”

“He thinks that you witnessed the murder, and that this psychic block prevails now because you can’t, due to your love, face the situation?”

She didn’t answer.

“Did you see me?” I said.

“I don’t know!”

“You do know. Being alone with me tonight proves you do, subconsciously. Crain must see that.”

She whispered, “I love you, and nothing else matters.”

 We drove a while, and I was humble now.

I talked—nothing important, but each word chosen carefully, with purpose.

“Hon, lean back,” I said when new miles were behind us.

“Put your head on the back of the seat. Does your head hurt?”

“A little, a dull throb.”

“Then close your eyes. Relax. It’s calm now, and we’re safe now. Are you sleepy?”

“I—I could be.”

“Motor. Sounds good. Like it?”

“It’s smooth.”

“It sounds like rain.”

“Rain?”

“The rhythm. The smoothness. Hear the breaks in the pavement, darling? Like—footsteps in the rain?”

“No,” she said.

I tightened my grip on the wheel.

“But you’re walking in the rain, in the night like this, swiftly—”

“Swiftly?” she said.

“Yes, toward the knob—remember the knob?”

“Where we stood to look out across the valley?”

“Yes, the knob. Once there was moonlight shining, but last night it rained. The rain became excited and whispered, and then—then he came over the knob—”

I paused, not daring to breathe.

Her answer, long in coming, exploded.

“No! No, he came from the spring!”

“The spring?”

My heart skipped a beat.

“The trees?”

“Yes—dark like a tree and—and—”

“Big?” “Jeff!” she said.

I looked straight ahead, at the white ribbon of road.

“The rain, the night was afraid as he spoke to you—”

“No! No, he made s-sounds—”

 Chattering ? ”

“No!”

“Snarling?”

“No!”

“Like a dog might make, a whimper?”

“Yes—”

“And you stood frozen—”

She was panting, and she’d clutched at my arm, but I continued inexorably.

“Then the seconds ticked off and away, like the raindrops ticking away, until suddenly—”

“He took a step!”

“Toward you?”

“Yes?”

“Did you see him, his face?”

“Face? It—face? It was night, it was dark.”

“Hairy?”

“I—I whirled—”

“Did you run?”

She breathed,

“Oh my God—”

 I stopped the car. I took her in my arms.

I kissed her, and time passed and still we sat like that, close, until I’d stilled her trembling.

Then I said,

“There’s something more.”

“Don’t bring it back,” she pleaded.

“Something’s still missing,” I said.

“How?”

“Something you had last night and haven’t got now.”

Ten seconds. Twenty.

She gasped.

Her hand flew to her throat.

“My pin? I wondered today where I’d lost it—”

“You wore it last night? You’re sure?”

“Yes, Jeff, I’m sure!”

“Then listen. One more question. Judging from the size of the man and the sounds—”

“You mean could it have been Varco?” she whispered. I started the car.

I turned on the radio.

“And the mugger,” came suddenly over the radio, the tail end of a newscast, struck again tonight, but in a different section, far across town. The latest victim, strangely enough, was again a man named Maxie Hunter.”

CHAPTER THREE

So lightning never strikes twice.

And yet this seemed too pat and too much.

Max Hunter again, twice, in this city of thousands.

I drove Wanda back to town, and my conviction grew that the pattern was no longer insanely rational, as it had been.

This second attack on Hunter was wrong.

But I couldn’t get to Hunter tonight to test Hunter tonight and, depending upon how badly he was injured this time, perhaps not for several nights.

However would he be badly injured this time?

I returned, finally, to the corporal’s cottage, and with every hour now I knew I had to see Maxie Hunter, the kind of man he was. Little dark eyes?

Shifty?

Yes, I had to meet Max Hunter.

But the police were parked a block from his house when, in the darkness of the next evening, I drove up.

I drove on. I rode around a while and then tried again. Haine was no fool.

Haine had seen Hunter, and apparently the squad car was parked there to stay and watch him.

So I cut across town and got on a drug store phone.

Mr. Hunter said,

“Hello.” Mr. Hunter, recognizing my voice, was anything but surly tonight.

“You take it one time in Frisco,” he said, high, running words together, talking very swiftly.

“All I did was walk under a sign. The damn thing just went and fell down on me. Or you take it once I lit a cigarette. Now, pal, you light a cigarette and nothing ever happens to you, but with me—some damn fool went and turned the gas on in the house. I got no sense of smell. you see? Up she went, the whole kaboodle.”

“Mister,” Max Hunter said, with scarcely a pause,

“things always happen to me. Three years ago I was mugged in St. Louie. Yessir, lost eight hundred bucks—”

Mr. Hunter was talking too much.

“Did you lose anything last night?” I interrupted.

“Last night?”

It seemed he turned aside.

I could hear him breathing.

“Last night I was lucky, pal.”

“You weren’t even injured badly?”

“Nope, I was pretty lucky, pal.”

“And nothing was taken?”

“That’s right, not last night.”

I could hear him breathing. . . .

“You see, I got me a girl,” he was saying.

“She’s young. She’s just a kid. She lives on the south side—you see? Well, I always meet her down the street, by the alley, on account I was married once and ain’t got a divorce, and her pappy gets tough when you men,”

I could hear the breathing even while he talked.

So it wasn’t Hunter’s breathing.

He wasn’t alone.

“Hunter, listen—you stood by the alley, waiting? You faced the street, and the mugger came up behind you?”

“Sure, he—”

“Did you hear him? See him?”

“Now, you know,” he said,

“it’s a funny thing. I never—”

“So this time you didn’t run?”

“What’s the matter?” he said.

“Here I am, telling you, ain’t I, that I’m just standing by the alley—” I slammed up the receiver.

The booth door stuck. I heard a siren when finally I got it open.

By the time I’d crossed the floor and reached the street door a second siren wailed.

One from the north, one from the south—two police cars converging and both near.

I ran for my car.

The traffic light was red.

I cut it and turned east, down the side street.

Split seconds later the squad cars climbed the curb at the drug store.

By the skin of my teeth.

My teeth were chattering.

Now Haine’s men were near, very near, and sure soon to find and corner me.

This race was run—but won? The radio was on, played on. I heard only the sad notes.

For a little while I rode the dark streets aimlessly.

By now Wanda had gone back to Crain’s house, to wait again for me as we had arranged.

By now she would be worried, wondering what had happened.

I could see her in my mind, her restlessness.

and I could almost feel the tension there, beneath the snug warmth of Crain’s library.

I could see Crain in this visualized scene, his tired face, his tired eyes—then the slippered feet of Varco walked into my thoughts and stayed.

I rode aimlessly, and yet I knew these streets.

I knew each turn I made now brought the issue nearer.

The .45 automatic lay heavy in my pocket, and I touched it, but with a queer aversion.

And presently I came to Fearing Drive, and the evening had grown thin.

These were dark areas that I passed, houses locked, asleep.

All but Crain’s.

His lights burned bravely as I drove past, tense, attuned to danger. It was a glint in the shadows of a driveway that warned me.

My headlights had found, however briefly, grillwork, chrome, a hidden car— and that meant Haine again.

What do you call it, Hunter’s name for the side street.

It dipped and bridged the shallow stream, it twisted near the woods and narrowed to a lane.

I parked the car and cut, on foot, into the darkness.

Crain’s wall, the back gate, was my goal now.

And here the trees stood high and the wind moaned through naked branches.

And here the woods began to thin to meet the campus.

A rustic footbridge spanned the small lagoon.

I crossed it, and now I could hear the bubble of the spring, its fuss and urgency.

The night listened briefly with me, empty, inky.

The farther slope, the crooked path, led past the spot where Sadler’s body had been found.

I paused and shivered, and I could see the shadows of the University buildings, far down.

I could see the lonely outline of Crain’s “madhouse,” silent at this distance, brooding in the night.

Still I paused, disturbed.

I felt a tingling at my spine, a vague awareness.

It was a small scratching sound that came first.

A rabbit?

A small scampering creature?

I waited, and then the sound came again and this time I knew it. Padded feet on gravel.

I pulled the gun from my pocket.

The scratching was still off and up and away, from the knob that stood bold in the wan moonlight.

But the knob, queerly, was barren?

Of course I looked for the tall frame, the figure enormous—and drew in a quick breath when finally I saw approaching me something crawling on all fours.

The sound was fingers scratching at loose stone.

Fingers hunting for something, long lost.

A gold pin, perhaps, from Wanda’s blouse.

I listened and watched as the thing crawled ever closer, and audible now was its breathing, ragged as with rage and frustration. Suddenly, deliberately, I moved.

The blot stiffened, shot up to both knees.

The moon behind it revealed hanging arms and strong sloping shoulders.

The moonlight revealed a figure as from other ages, long removed.

Then its breathing stopped as it saw me.

It rose.

Seconds passed as it swayed on the path, and it was truly enormous.

Then the cries came, the cries Jones had heard, and Miss Calkins and Wanda, the whimpering sounds they had described to me—but with one sharp difference.

The weird voice was gleeful, and it crooned.

A few yards only separated us now.

It took a step toward me, one arm upraised, a stone clutched in pronged fingers.

I didn’t shout or spin or run or press the trigger of the gun.

The wordless yells came and rose and wavered.

“Drop that stone,” I said.

Drop that stick, I’d said that day at the lagoon.

Years ago.

And the boy with the unruly hair, the thick arms and the sweater too small for him, the curious creature who had crooned invitation to the ducks only to hit them, sobbed that day.

He’d dropped his stick that day, to stand before me bewildered and trembling —

“Drop that stone!” I said—and he trembled and the stone fell at last, and he sobbed.

We met Crain at the rear gate.

He took the docile hand from mine and led the way through the garden.

We came in by the side door, and Wanda stood in the library doorway.

She was staring at us.

“Jeff!” she said. I went to her, held her in my arms.

But Crain stayed on in the great hall, by the fire.

He moved a chair, for warmth.

Then he took the giant’s poker and raised a giant flame.

and his voice came to us softly.

A soothing, a kind, a sad voice.

He spoke as to a small child.

“Jeff, he told me,” Wanda began faintly.

“His son escaped tonight again, and he told me. He knew it was criminal to keep silent longer.”

I didn’t speak, and she continued,

“Varco is still out, searching. The police, their guns— that was Crain’s deadly fear, that the Look out of the window. Is it raining? If it isn’t, remember that some day it will police would have to shoot. But now it’s all over,” she said.

Her hand tightened on my arm as Crain came in.

“I suppose the day of reckoning had to come, sometime,” he said. His face was utterly white.

“I’ve tried in every way to postpone it since—since the boy was a child.” I’d planned to say,

“It was common knowledge there was something wrong with your son, and once you said he had died in Spain. Yet when you returned, you soundproofed the house. You built a wall around it, and you brought with you Varco, only too obviously a guard. The truth, Crain, was there, had anyone cared to see and read it—”

But I didn’t speak, for Crain seemed to have aged and lost his strength, and his anguish was naked and terrible as he stood nodding, dumb before this tragedy and seeing scenes far off.

A man of fame, and proud— the pain of such a child.

A man who’d fought with science for a cure and failed.

now he saw back through the years and found them desolate and empty.

He sighed at length and said,

“A child was murdered, years ago, a murder the police never solved. But one day a long time after that killing I discovered my son playing with a trinket, a ring. It was the ring the—the murdered child had worn, so then I knew. I knew my—my boy must never be free again. But I knew, too, I could not let the world know of this crack in my armor.”

Crack in his armor?

I frowned, puzzled that he should speak thus of something so beyond him.

Crack in his armor?

His pride, he meant, his failure to himself and science? But though he’d paused to take a deep breath, he continued,

“So I went abroad. Escape, Jeff, that’s what I’d wanted—”

I didn’t speak.

I couldn’t.

And still—from outside the library—the hall, we heard small giggling sounds, and I caught a flash view of the monster, Crain’s son, over Crain’s shoulder.

I saw him with the poker in his meaty hand, and he was chopping at the fireplace, at charred logs, at the wink and leap of flame.

“Trinkets fascinated him.” Crain’s voice came now as from a deep preoccupation.

“These recent attacks—that’s all he wanted, Jeff, trinkets. At first I refused to read of the —the muggings. I refused to believe he’d broken out, or see how that was possible. Then—tonight, shortly after Wanda arrived, we found his empty room, and we found his pitiful hoard, a compact, a wrist watch, a lodge button—”

Not Wanda’s pin?

He’d returned tonight to the spring, to paw the ground and hunt for Wanda’s pin?

This was a thought aside.

My conscious mind still failed to find solutions quite so easily.

Yet, I had to speak—my voice sounded cold and brutal to me.

I felt ill.

“What about Sadler?” I said. Crain looked at me. .

“And the mugging last night, on the south side of town?”

I reached for a cigarette, my fingers trembling.

The pack dropped.

I picked it up.

“That’s a loose end too, Crain?”

Still he looked at me.

I struck a match and the flame danced as I inhaled.

“For one thing, your son couldn’t possibly have crossed the city. So we must assume that attack wasn’t made by the mugger, as we know him. Well, what then? Was it front, camouflage, designed to draw attention away from this, the vital area?”

There was a pocket lighter lying on the desk.

Crain picked it up, snapped it, tossed it down again.

“Don’t forget the long arm of coincidence,” Crain said.

“I’m not forgetting coincidence. That Hunter was twice victim was very likely coincidental. I admit that, and explain it away as one of life’s imponderables. But is Hunter, the victim, important? Crain, I’m concerned with motive now—and method. Robbery wasn’t the motive, not in the second mugging of Hunter, for nothing was taken. Thus the pattern varied, and so too, curiously, did the method of attack, and that is where you twice made a terrible mistake, Crain—”

Wanda gasped and tugged at my arm, her lea, I think.

Yes, Hillary Crain was dear to her, as he’d always been to me.

But the bridges were burned.

I couldn’t turn back, or stop.

“Sadler couldn’t run,” I said.

The crackle of flame came suddenly, loudly, from the great fireplace. Crain’s gaze was locked with mine.

His eyes first turned away.

“What do you mean, Jeff?” he asked then in a flat, tired voice.

“That Sadler’s murder and the second attack on Hunter were planned to cover the first four assaults. That your son was admittedly, morbidly, attracted by light, glitter, trinkets—and one other thing, Crain, you didn’t mention. Movement. He never struck until the victim ran. Hunter didn’t run, the second time. Sadler couldn’t run. his leg, the old wounds, precluded it. Therefore your son didn’t mug Hunter the second time. And your son didn’t kill Vern Sadler.

“Isn’t it significant, Crain, that Sadler was with you in Spain? And conceivable he knew why you went to Spain? Certainly he knew your son had not died over there. So Sadler came to visit you in University City—and he stayed, a leech, I suspect, only too aware of your fear that the world would learn of your son and what he had done. Sadler, with no visible means of support, lived in luxury. Well, what was it, Crain, blackmail?

“I say he knew what had happened two nights ago, when Wanda failed to arrive at his suite. I say he crossed the street that night and came to you. He was less concerned with Wanda than with opportunity. He wanted to marry Wanda and he wanted more money, and the two of you went out to search for the mugger, and Wanda. And there was your opportunity.

“Finally, you were determined your son would never again escape. You believed the pressure could be cleverly removed from this area if you attacked someone far off, across town. You knew no one would question your alibi of having been at work the night of Sadler’s death, or last night at the hour of the Hunter attack. Crain, you killed Vern Sadler—”

 The gongs began ringing, the great clashing sounds so peculiar to Crain’s house.

When he said,

“That’s Varco. Please wait. I must let him in,” I was certain Crain would go quietly only to the side gate—

I blame myself for what happened.

True, Crain was a brilliant man.

It is fantastic to believe he could have missed the smallest psychological clue.

Although tension and fear can blind the mind of anyone.

Yet, I should have mentioned the ducks, the stories Jones, Hunter, Miss Calkins told.

I should have recalled all these things to Crain’s mind and thus made the thing plain.

And so I blame myself, and still.

but there is even yet another and a happy explanation.

His utter failure might have brought this brief disorganization.

Then the ringing gongs, the mad reverberation— I cannot believe he planned it.

For Crain turned from us.

He ran.

“Crain—” I called after him.

 It was already too late to stop him.

We heard the bellow, the savage roar, the glee.

Wanda was clinging to me, screaming, and I pushed her back. I tried to shut the door, to shut her in.

There was no time.

There were split seconds only if Crain were to be saved, for already that giant’s tool, the poker, was swinging in the giant’s hand.

I don’t remember pulling my gun but I had to pull the trigger.

What else could I do?

The gun kicked hard there in my hand, and Crain stumbled.

He fell, and for a breathless moment I thought the bullet had not saved him.

Then I saw him reach up to his shoulder.

The poker had missed his head.

One bullet

There was no sound from Crain’s son, no movement.

He lay on the floor, and the giggle was gone now, forever.

I called to Crain.

He stared at the body.

He didn’t hear me.

And suddenly I became aware that the ringing of the gongs had long since ceased, and somehow Varco had got in. He, passed Crain softly, and tears ran down his pocked cheeks unchecked. Gently he picked up the body. I touched Crain’s arm. I led Crain back into the library, to his desk. Remember words that he’d used?

“A crack in his armor?” The gold cigarette lighter lay there on his desk, and his hand began at once to inch toward it, furtively. It was very strange.

He hugged the lighter. He turned the lighter over, feeling of it He began to giggle, nervously. . . .

Noose Bait – a classic western action adventure

Chapter

Before the grave of old Ben Campbell was completely filled in by the two men who wielded the rusty shovels, Stuart Jordan was leaving the orchard.

Stuart Jordan had swung his tawny eyes over the huge crowd of neighbors and friends who had come to see Ben Campbell put to rest there on the vast Flying W ranch he had built.

But Stuart Jordan was not thinking of those things as he glanced about the crowd.

He had caught the eyes of certain Flying W men there in the crowd. Stuart Jordan signaled those men to follow, then turned and left the orchard, stalking towards the great, rambling ranch house that sat on a little knoll overlooking a vast sweep of valley.

Stuart Jordan cursed chokingly as he shambled along at a loose, gawky gait.

But it was not grief over the death of his foster father, old Ben Campbell, that choked Pope Jordan’s voice.

It was greed that made Jordan’s long, crooked-jawed face twitch and his voice thick.

Those men who had caught Jordan’s signal heard his swearing, and slowed down, reluctant to overtake him.

But at the corner of the mighty ranch house he stopped, turned about, and stood waiting while the three men he had signaled from the crowd came up to him.

“Well, it happened, Bill,” Stuart Jordan’s voice shook a little as he talked.

“Me, I’ve rodded this spread five years. Made it pay, too. And now that damned Rip Campbell will come back—be equal owner with me.”

The man addressed as Bill was a squat fellow, with coarse, battered features and black eyes that glowed strangely at the mention of Rip Campbell’s name.

“You—you sure, Stuart?” Bill grunted.

“You sure the old man give half the spread to that lousy nephew of his that he run off the place five year ago?”

“Of course I’m sure!” Stuart Jordan rasped through locked teeth.

“Damn it, I rode into Sage yesterday and had a talk with Lawyer Pryor. The law-sharp told me, boys, that Rip Campbell will own half this Rolling W spread—as long as he lives.”

Jordan put so much stress on those last few words that the three men before him stiffened, their eyes silently questioning.

For the first time in many hours Stuart Jordan grinned his tight-lipped grin, and there were smoldering lights deep in his tawny eyes.

Bill Martin, the hombre with the murderous black eyes, nodded his bristly black head slowly, a faint, knowing grin on his thick lips. On Bill Martin’s right stood Pancho Escobedo, a lithe Mexican who hummed softly through teeth that showed in a fixed, mirthless grin. Pancho Escobedos lean right hand tapped the pearl-gripped six-gun that was holstered low on his right thigh.

The third Flying W cowboy laughed harshly, and let his own calloused hands slide to twin gun butts as if he, too, understood the situation perfectly.

That third man was Dick Varson, a gangly, red-muzzled fellow who rode the Flying W rough string—a bronco buster.

“Only trouble is, Stuart, it may take us a long time to locate that Rip Campbell,” Dick Varson drawled.

“After you framed that horse stealing onto him five years ago and got him kicked off the place nobody has heard from him, have they?”

“Think I’m that big a fool?” Stuart Jordan grinned crookedly.

“I’ve kept tabs on Rip Campbell, fearing that some day this very thing might happen. Blood’s a sight thicker than water, and I figured that the old man might weaken one of these days and want to take that sniveling nephew of his back.”

“You know where the muchacho is, then?” Escobedo purred.

“You think, Senor Bill, Senor Dick and me, we should go pay him the visit, no?”

“Rip Campbell is down yonder on the Border, working for Pink Miller, bossing one of Miller’s ranches,” Stuart Jordan snarled.

“But you three won’t have to go after him. Lawyer Pryor wrote Rip Campbell a letter. And Campbell’s due here tomorrow morning some time.”

“Yeah?” Bill Martin grinned widely now.

“I’ve missed the pleasure of batting’ Campbell around since he left. When he shows up here—”

“He must not show up here,” Stuart Jordan cut in harshly.

“Listen, boys. String your bets with me and you’ll be took care of right. Ain’t we already made plenty of dinero on the side, even when that whining old buzzard of a Ben Campbell was alive?”

“Sure, Stuart!” Dick Varson shookStuart up heartily.

“You’ve played it straight with us three boys. We know you’ll do to ride the river with, feller, so tell us what you want done.”

The other two nodded agreement, and the ugly face of Stuart Jordan split into a wide grin.

“Fork your bronc0s and head for Buzzard Pass,” he clipped.

“That Rip Campbell will come up from the south—up through Buzzard Pass. And if you three was to be hid there in them big boulders I reckon Rip Campbell might have a sort of accident happen to him—a fatal one.”

“I get you. Stuart,” Bill Martin leered.

“Rip Campbell rides into some hot lead and dies sudden. But ain’t you coming along the enjoy the fun? If I remember, you sure hate that kid.”

“I’ve got to be with plenty of witnesses from now until somebody finds Rip Campbell’s carcass,” Stuart Jordan said.

“If I couldn’t prove a plumb solid alibi, there might be trouble.”

“But why we go now?” Pancho Escobedo asked.

“Tonight, she will be cold in those Buzzard Pass. If we go early tomorrow—”

“Can’t take a chance on him getting through, boys,” Stuart Jordan growled.

“By going now, you’ll be in Buzzard Pass a little before sundown. And if Rip Campbell got that letter and started right off, he could hit the pass some time tonight.”

“Stuart’s right, boys,” Dick Varson grunted.

“If that kid got a good fast horse under him and knows how to ride the critter without killing it too quick, he could hit Buzzard Pass some time tonight.”

“Yeah, and that’s about what’ll happen,” Stuart Jordan gritted.

“You fellers better take turns standing guard all night, so— Here comes the mourners, boys. Drift casual like, but get going soon as you can. Me, I’ve got to pull a long face and spend the rest of the afternoon telling these neighbors of ours how plumb tore up I am.” The crowd was coming from the orchard where old Ben Campbell had been put to rest.

Ranchers, cowboys, prospectors and a sprinkling of dry farmers, they filed slowly towards the great ranch house and mounted the wide porch where Stuart Jordan sat trying his best to look grieved. The men and women milled uneasily about, trying in their rough way to comfort the man they thought needed it.

“Ben was a fine man, Stuart,” a grizzled old ranchman said stiffly.

“He settled this country when it meant fighting Apaches as well as them devils that come up across the Line to raid this country that they still called theirs. This territory lost a mighty fine and straight-shooting man when old Ben Campbell cashed in his chips, Stuart.” “He—he was awful fine,” Stuart said, trying desperately to keep a sneer out of his gritty voice.

“Why, he taken me in when I was only a button and—and raised me like I was his own. Too bad his nephew, the only living kid he had, went horse thief. I think that helped kill pore old Ben if you ask me.” “Likely it did,” a man spoke up from the crowd.

“But Rip Campbell was always a right smart seeming lad. Wonder whatever made him steal them horses from his Uncle Ben and sell them across the Line down yonder?”

“What makes any gent turn thief?” another man demanded.

“Money, that’s what. Rip Campbell was only fifteen or so, but he had spent his life running around the country with his daddy, trading horses and the like. The kid had a bad start.”

“Just the same, that didn’t excuse him for stealing from his uncle,” Stuart Jordan growled.

“When Rip’s daddy died, old Ben taken the kid in and tried to do right by him.”

There was other such talk, then the people who had come to see their old friend laid in his last resting place filed down into the yard and out to where Billboards, buggies, wagons and saddled horses stood tied to the boles of a grove of cottonwood trees.

A few moments later the mourners were driving or riding away, and Stuart Jordan watched them with sneering contempt.

“Fools!” he mused.

“Within five years I’ll bust ever mother’s son of you, send you down the road talcang to yourselves. With that whining old Ben Campbell out of the way at last, I can run this country like it ought to be run.”

Stuart Jordan got to his feet, slogged across the porch, and entered the house.

A few moments later he sat at Ben Campbell’s battered old desk in the little office room, a glass of whiskey in one hand, a hard, gloating grin on his ugly face.

“I seen Pancho, Dick and Bill head west, towards Buzzard Pass,” he chuckled.

“So, here’s to your home coming, Rip Campbell. Here’s to the lead that’ll chaw your guts when you hit Buzzard Pass.”

And with a wicked grin on his thin lips, Stuart Jordan drank his toast to murder.

CHAPTER II

Bill Martin, Pancho Escobedo and Dick Varson were drunk by the time they reached Buzzard Pass.

They had come through the little town of Sage to buy supplies, for they expected to spend the night and perhaps part of the following day in Buzzard Pass.

But a close tally of the supplies they had bought would have shown more liquor than grub.

They had already opened the second quart, and were singing ribald songs and joshing about the murder they meant to do.

Meanwhile, their horses plodded up the winding trail that led to the high pass in the barren mountain range that separated the hills country from the harsh, waterless badlands beyond.

That second quart of whiskey was almost gone when the trio of killers finally dismounted in the pass, hid their horses in a pocket among a field of up-slanted granite boulders, and prepared to make camp.

“Go take a look down the south side, Pancho, just for luck,” Bill Martin ordered.

“You won’t see nothing but desert, I reckon. But we ain’t taking chances. With Rip Campbell turned into buzzard meat, Stuart Jordan and us three will be sitting pretty. Go take a look, Pancho, while Dick and me fix camp.”

The Mexican grinned crookedly, helped himself to a drink from the open bottle, then jingled his spurs down the pass, singing a ribald song as he walked.

But the song died suddenly in Pancho’s lean throat when he looked out and down upon the panoramic spread of desert that lay below him.

The drunken grin left his lean, pock-marked face, and a sizzling oath rasped from his twisting lips as he wheeled and ran back to where his gringo companions were fixing camp.

“He comes now!” Pancho cried breathlessly. “This muchacho is close, almost to the top.”

The others dropped what they were doing and began grabbing for Winchesters that were still in their saddle scabbards.

“Maybe some traveler,” Dick Varson muttered as he made sure his gun was loaded.

“Hell, boys, this’d be too much luck, getting our job over with so quick.” Charlie Kirk

“Nobody would be using this trail but Rip Campbell,” Bill Martin growled.

“They ain’t a ranch or nothing over this way, so if there’s a rider coming it’s that damned kid.”

The three of them rushed back to the pass as soon as Pancho had got his own Winchester.

They crouched behind boulders, watching the tedious progress of a rider below them.

The man was close as distances go, but it would be some time before his laboring horse came up into the pass.

The murderous trio cursed bitterly as they realized this, for they saw that the sun was already setting.

Light would remain here on the high mountains after the lowlands were in darkness, however, and the three killers settled themselves to wait.

Bill Martin produced a fresh bottle from inside his shirt, pried the cork out with a knife blade, and drank deeply.

The bottle went the rounds twice before the killers began grinning again as they had grinned before Pancho discovered that rider coming up the trail.

“Getting dusk down yonder in the low country,” Bill Martin grunted. “and when that son comes around that white boulder down yonder he’ll be in range. We’ll let him have it, boys, when he comes around that white rock.”

“We better wait until he comes closer, Bill,” Dick Varson frowned.

“I don’t like to shoot at a gent until I know he’s the one I’m after.”

“That gent coming yonder will be Rip Campbell,” Bill Martin grunted. “Strangers that come up from the Border stick to the stage road. When Rip Campbell gets this side of yonder white rock— There he is. Let him have it.”

A tall rider on a lathered brown horse had just ridden past the big white boulder.

Three Winchesters steadied against boulder edges, and three trigger fingers clamped down almost at the same moment.

The reverberating beat of the triple explosion rattled hollowly through the pass, echoing and re-echoing until the sound became a tiny whisper.

The rider on the lathered horse crashed backward, hands windmilling as he fell.

He lay there in the trail now, a dark huddle against the white boulder.

The three Winchesters spoke again, and that dark huddle twitched a little.

Bill Martin and his two companions ran back through the pass, sobered a little by what they had done.

They mounted and went spurring back down the trail, their singing forgotten as they fled under that nameless fear that goads the cold-blooded murderer.

As that murderous trio fled, the somber eyes of a lean-hipped, broad shouldered young man watched them go.

That somber-eyed youth’s sun bronzed face was pale and drawn.

Over his rough range clothing lay a thick coat of alkali dust.

But there was no dust or any other evidence of lack of care to be seen on the twin.45s that the lean youth slid back into the two low-slung holsters that had their tips thonged to his lean thighs.

That lean young cowboy with the somber black eyes who watched the three Flying W murderers flee was Rip Campbell.

He was crouched in on a narrow ledge, high above the trail that cut through the pass.

Rip Campbell had ridden into the south end of the pass just as the three Flying W men came into the north end.

He had heard them singing their songs, and had taken to the rocks through a narrow cut, not knowing just what to expect.

That man who lay dead back down the south slope was an officer of some sort; that much he knew.

Rip had been galloping towards the high pass two hours earlier, when his keen eyes had caught sight of a man turning quickly from the trail ahead of him.

Knowing from the man’s actions that he was up to some trick, Rip Campbell had quit the trail, skirted wide of the spot where the unknown rider had turned into a mesquite thicket, and made a run for the pass.

His great sorrel stallion had carried him past the ambush, but the fellow had sensed what was happening and given chase.

Through a pair of powerful glasses that he always carried in a pouch behind his saddle cantle, Rip Campbell had seen that his pursuer was wearing some law emblem on his flapping vest as he spurred in the stallion’s wake.

Rip Campbell had wondered, but that was all.

So far as he knew the law had no reason to be chasing him.

But with the knowledge that he had some mighty important business to attend to in Sage, he had kept ahead of the officer, knowing that he could find out what the man wanted when they got into Sage.

 So Rip Campbell had come into and almost into a death trap. T

he fact that an officer rode his back trail made him wonder when he heard men coming into the pass from the north.

Fearing a trap, Rip Campbell had cut up that water trough, left his stallion hidden in a brushy pocket, and clambered up to the ledge above the pass.

But before he got up there he heard rifles rattling briefly, then the pound of shod hoofs in the pass. He watched three men fleeing now.

“If that thick-set cuss on the pinto ain’t Bill Martin, I’m a sheep herder,” Rip growled.

“And the gent in the yellow shirt sure looks a heap like Dick Varson, Uncle Ben’s bronc0 stomper. Other one’s a Mexican, judging from his sombrero and fancy clothes. Ain’t been up in these parts long, or he’d get rid of his Mexican outfit in this brush country.”

Rip Campbell was working back along the ledge as he muttered those things.

He stopped suddenly, for he had made a sharp turn around a rock spire and could look back down the south slope.

He saw a rider less horse down there, and a huddled figure at the base of a big white boulder.

A low grunt came from Rip Campbell’s lips as he leaped down to a lower ledge, then swung around another spire, and skidded down a sharply slanted boulder to the head of a brush-choked draw.

His stallion whinnied softly as he approached, silky coat still dripping sweat from the hard race up to the pass.

“Looks like hell has done busted loose, Drifter,” Rip Campbell growled to his horse as he swung into the saddle.

“I expected trouble from Stuart Jordan and them sons he calls cowboys. But what they wanted to drill that officer for is more than I can see.”

Rip came out into the pass, glanced uneasily towards the south, and finally rode back that way.

He went down to the white rock, dismounted, and rolled the limp, huddled form over easily.

The light was failing fast now, and the long shadows were stealing softly up the scarred sides of the mountains. However, there remained still light enough for Rip Campbell to see the leathery face and grizzled hair of the murdered man.

There was a big deputy sheriff’s badge pinned to the dead man’s vest. Rip Campbell shuddered a little as he looked, for the whole chest and neck of the man was soggy with blood.

“Nothing I can do for you now, fella, so I’ll drift,” Rip Campbell said softly.

“But your boss will hear about this. Maybe you knew something on Bill Martin and Dick Varson.”

Rip mounted then, rode to the dead man’s horse, and looped up the animal’s trailing reins.

He sent the horse on ahead of him, through the pass and down the opposite side.

A little over two hours later Rip Campbell came riding into Sage, noticing with no particular interest that the squalid little huddle of adobe buildings was no different looking than it had been five years ago.

His wide, hard lips quirked sardonically as he headed into a hitch rack before a scaly little adobe that had a row of tiny, heavily barred windows down each side.

Rip wondered idly if big, booze soaked Charlie Kirk would still be the sheriff.

He nodded slightly as he stepped forward, for he saw that Charlie Kirk was indeed still the sheriff.

The big, flabby-bodied officer sat slumped behind his desk that was in one corner of the little Space he reserved as an office.

The sheriff looked up sleepily as Rip Campbell stepped through the door, blinked his watery blue eyes, and lifted one ponderous hand to paw a lock of straw-colored hair from his wide forehead.

“Howdy, Chuck,” Rip Campbell called with no particular welcome in his voice. “Is that a low-turned lamp glowing or is it your nose?”

“Huh?” came the sheriff’s heavy voice through the gloom. “Who are you and what you want? I’m busy.”

“Doing what?” Rip Campbell asked, and there was a snap to his voice that brought the ponderous sheriff up with a strangled oath. The sheriff searched himself for a match, found one at last, and lit a lamp that hung on the wall behind his desk.

He turned slowly, a little unsteady from an afternoon’s drinking.

He blinked his bloodshot little eyes, then stiffened slowly, loose, flabby lips stretching into a crooked grin.

“Well, well!” The sheriff’s voice was hoarse, sneering, as he looked Rip Campbell up and down insolently.

“So the local horse thief has grown up, has he? I—”

“Kirk, I’ll cram a fist down your gullet if you don’t watch out,” Rip Campbell rasped.

“You and some others are going to think twice afore you call me horse thief after I’ve straightened out a few things around here. But right now—”

“Sa-aa-y!” The sheriff snarled, heaving his vast bulk around the old desk to stand before Rip.

“You go popping off to me like that, youngster, and I’ll lam the stuffing outa you. I’ll— Say, where’s Roscoe, and why didn’t he take your guns?”

Rip Campbell tensed, somber eyes puckering.

“Who’s Roscoe?” he countered. “And what makes you think anybody was supposed to take my guns?”

“Roscoe Vail, my deputy,” the big sheriff growled, eyeing the twin six guns at Rip Campbell’s thighs uneasily.

“I—I sent Roscoe out to watch for you. I aim to keep the peace around here, Rip Campbell.”

“Are you loco drunk, or what?” Rip snapped.

“What business would you have sending a deputy after me, you over-fed booze-soaked fool?”

The sheriff’s pale little eyes rolled with anger, and a slow flush had spread over his beefy face.

But Rip Campbell didn’t noticing the sheriff particularly close just then.

His mind was shuttling back to what had happened in Buzzard Pass.

“I sent my deputy out after you so I could see you first thing and have a talk with you.” The sheriff’s voice was thunderous now.

“But you’re here, so—”

“And your deputy is dead up yonder on the south slope of Buzzard Pass,” Rip Campbell cut in quietly.

“He was murdered by— What the—”

The huge sheriff moved with a speed that few would have guessed a man of his bulk possessed.

His ponderous right fist held a cocked.45 now, and the muzzle of the Colt bored stiffly into Rip Campbell’s lean middle.

“Stuart Jordan warned me that you’d likely come back here and make trouble,” the sheriff thundered.

“So Deputy Roscoe Vail is dead, is he? Head for one of them cells back yonder, horse thief!”

CHAPTER III

Stuart Jordan strangled on the whiskey he was just pouring down his long neck when the doors of Cowboy’s Palace slapped shut behind Bill Martin, Pancho Escobedo and Dick Varson.

Jordan coughed loudly, swiped the back of a bony hand across his lips, and went up the long barroom in his loose-jointed stride.

“What the blazes?” he snarled harshly at the grinning trio.

“You three are drunk. I sent you out to do a job, and here you are hanging around town drunk.”

“Keep your shirt tucked in, Stuart,” Bill Martin chuckled hoarsely.

“Rip Campbell had a bad accident—”

“You—you mean that—” Bill Martin did not give Stuart Jordan time to finish.

Martin interrupted, and with a sneering grin on his thick lips told what had happened at Buzzard Pass.

“We let the son get close, then poured the lead to him,” Bill Martin finished.

“I reckon, Stuart, the drinks is on you.”

“And all you want!” Stuart Jordan grinned now, tawny eyes fairly shining.

“It’s a good thing I sent you three on up there. Step up, boys, and oil your gullets. But remember now, to watch your talk.”

Stuart led his already tipsy killers towards the bar that ran down one side of the room.

“Me, I’ve been right in here all evening, where plenty of men have seen me. Looks like smooth sledding for us four now, don’t it?” “Sure, it’s a gold mine we’ve got, Stuart,” Bill Martin growled.

“But we better not let the rest of the Rolling W boys in on the deal, had we?”

“No!” Stuart Jordan growled.

“You three is swell partners, and all I need to run this country like it needs to be run. Them other eight men that draws Rolling W pay won’t know a thing. Let them punch cattle for thirty per if they want to. Us four will be getting rich while they do it.”

“Those riches, they come soon, no?” Pancho Escobedo purred. “Me, I have the senorita in Sonora who have the eyes of the angel, the lips of honey, the heart of fire and—”

“And a dagger ready to slice your belly open if she hears about that senorita you’ve been singing them sick-calf songs to here in Sage,” Dick Varson cut in roughly.

“Better shy off from the gals, Pancho.”

“Bah!” Pancho sneered. “Always, my red-headed one, you make fun of the love. Some day—’’

“Some day,” Stuart Jordan growled, “you’ll wish you hadn’t been so handy at singing fool songs to” female women, Pancho. Forget the gals, boys, and drink up. Here’s to-,”

Stuart Jordan never finished the toast.

The saloon doors slapped open once more, and into the room charged Sheriff Charlie Kirk, his huge frame heaving down the floor like a ridiculously soft rubber ball.

The sheriff’s pale eyes were protruding, his flabby lips were open, and his face was the color of lard.

“Something’s wrong!” Stuart Jordan hissed, setting his untouched drink down hastily.

“If you three have bungled that job—”

The sheriff came steaming up, and the men farther along the bar hushed their talk to mosey forward.

Other men came from the gambling layouts at the back of the room, and Stuart Jordan cursed under his breath.

Something was mighty wrong.

Stuart knew, otherwise this drink guzzled sheriff would never show so much animation.

And deep within his miserable heart, Stuart Jordan felt sure that whatever was wrong had something to do with Rip Campbell and Buzzard Pass.

“I—I want a posse, quick!” the sheriff bawled when he had caught his breath.

He grabbed for a bottle that was near Dick Varson’s elbow, tilted it, and drank thirstily while the crowd before him stared in wonder. The sheriff set the bottle down, dragged a hand across his puffy lips, and blinked at the silent men who stood watching him.

“I said I wanted a posse!” he thundered.

“Rip Campbell killed Deputy Roscoe Vail up yonder in Buzzard Pass. Get horses— Ow!”

The sheriff’s voice ended in a yowl of pain.

He had started the bottle up to his lips once more.

But Stuart Jordan leaped forward, buried steely fingers in the sheriff’s flabby forearm and squeezed down until the bottle hit the rail before the bar and broke with a brittle tinkle.

“What you talking about?” Stuart Jordan gritted savagely.

“Keep your nose out of a bottle long enough to tell us what’s happened.”

“I—I dunno for sure what took place,” the sheriff snarled, yanking loose from Jordan.

“Rip Campbell come riding in and—and practically admitted that—that— Well, it must have been him killed my deputy, anyhow.” Stuart Jordan was white to the lips and trembling like a green horse under its first rider.

And, like a green horse, he was ready to explode into dynamic action.

His tawny eyes, thinned to hot crescents beneath his brows, shuttled swiftly to his three hirelings, who stood agape.

Jordan’s flattened nose flared white at the nostrils, and there was a sort of humming groan in his throat that struck fear to the hearts of his three hirelings.

Those three knew, just as Stuart Jordan knew, that the deputy sheriff was killed instead of Rip Campbell.

“I told you—” Dick Varson croaked suddenly.

Bill Martin’s knotty right fist described a short arc.

That fist traveled only a few inches, yet Dick Varson fell as if shot when it cracked against his crooked jaw.

“Keep your lip shut, Dick!”

Bill Martin’s voice held more pleading than anger as he looked down at the dazed bronco rider.

“That fool bet you and me made ain’t important at a time like this.”

“What’s going on?” Sheriff Kirk roared. “Martin, why did you wallop Varson? And what was he about to say?”

“Aw, Dick was aiming to rub it in a little, I reckon.” Bill Martin’s face was a sickly color, yet he forced something that looked like a grin to his lips.

“Dick Varson bet me a month’s pay that Rip Campbell would start trouble within twenty-four hours after he got back to this country. I called the bet, and I reckon Dick was ready to rub it in some, for it looks like that Campbell sure started something.”

Dick Varson got slowly to his feet, forced a grin to his lips, and looked with troubled eyes at the sheriff.

“I—I made a mistake, Sheriff,” he gulped.

“Bill’s right. A fool bet ain’t important at a time like this. You—you say Rip Campbell come in and give himself up?”

“He—he come in and I slung him in jail,” the big sheriff growled.

“But what I want now is a bunch to go with me and help pack pore Roscoe’s carcass in. When I get back I’ll make Rip Campbell sign a confession if I have to blister his feet with a hot iron.”

Voices lifted now as men surged forward to volunteer their services. Stuart Jordan and his three trusted hirelings moved with the general press of humanity towards the wide front doors.

But as the throng filed out, Stuart Jordan and his men fell out of line and moved swiftly away along the fronts of the scaly buildings. Not until they were well away from the milling crowd that was huddled before the Cowboy’s Palace did Stuart Jordan call a halt. He whirled on his three men, bony hands trembling above gun grips.

“You whey-brained and straddle legged idiots have sure played hell !’* Jordan snarled.

“How did it happen? Don’t stand there like so many warts on a log. Talk! How come you to kill that deputy?”

“We thought he was Rip Campbell, Stuart,” Bill Martin gulped.

“You might have made the same mistake. It was about dusk, and the light wasn’t so good, that deputy come riding up the trail, and we let him have it, thinking, of course, that we was doing’ Rip Campbell in.”

“I told Bill we ought to wait until that jasper got closer,” Dick Varson growled.

“But he was plumb certain that the gent coming up the trail would be nobody else but Rip Campbell, so—”

“So shut your trap!” Stuart Jordan cut in savagely.

“If Bill hadn’t batted you down in the saloon there a while ago, you would have said enough to hang us all. What’s got inter you fellas. If you’re going to start pulling’ such boners as this you’ll make noose bait out of us.”

“Stuart, I don’t know what to say about this mess,” Bill Martin’s voice sounded strained, nervous.

“But Maybe things ain’t so bad, at that. If we work it right that Rip Campbell can be took care of and made to shoulder the blame for that deputy’s death at the same time.”

“Such as how?” Stuart Jordan sneered.

“If you’ve got an idea you better be careful. It might slip through your skull and hatch plumb out before you could tell it.” Bill flushed, and there was a gleam in his eyes that meant rising anger. But at the moment he was too interested in a bunch of new ideas to give way to his temper.

“The sheriff and a big posse will be fogging out to Buzzard Pass after that deputy’s carcass.” Bill Martin grunted his words.

“You take Dick and Pancho, Stuart, and go with the posse.”

“What are you getting at?” Stuart Jordan snarled.

“If you think you can scan out when things look bad—”

“Watch that tongue of yours. Stuart,” Bill Martin snarled as he stepped slightly forward.

“I ain’t aiming to scan out for no reason— you included. But if you’ll do what I say I’ll stay here in town, plant a Winchester on Rip Campbell’s saddle that has been fired, then sneak around to the jail and put a bullet through that kid’s head.”

“And let the sheriff come back to a nice mystery, huh?” Stuart Jordan growled.

“Bill, you get worse all the time.”

“Yeah?” Bill Martin sneered.

“But get this through that knob you call a head, Stuart. I aim to get into the jail, find Rip Campbell’s six guns that the sheriff would have took off of him, and use one of the  youngster’s own pistols to drill him with. I’ll make it look like Rip Campbell got scared so bad he cheated the noose with one of his own guns.”

“Say, that might work,” Stuart Jordan whispered tensely.

“Scoot, Bill, and get at it. Yonder comes that fool posse down the street. Good hunting, feller.”

CHAPTER IV

Rip Campbell sat on 1 the edge of the narrow iron cot that was in his cell, smoking a cigarette that he did not exactly enjoy.

His eyes were angry, brooding.

And there was a sardonic twist to his mouth that would have made men who knew him well speak carefully while in his presence.

Rip Campbell was not the sort to go off half cocked, plunge into things without knowing exactly what he was doing.

But he was beginning to wonder now if letting the sheriff take his guns and lock him up wasn’t about the worst thing he could have done.

Rip Campbell had ridden north from the Border fully expecting trouble, for he knew in his own mind that Stuart Jordan would never share the vast Rolling W with him and not show resentment. Rip was prepared for that sort of trouble.

But he naturally had not figured on a deputy sheriff’s murder entangling him as it had.

Rip had submitted to arrest, feeling sure that the sheriff could not afford to hold him very long.

“I don’t pack a saddle gun, so I reckon the coroner’s examination of that deputy’s body will straighten this out,” he mused aloud.

“Still, that deputy was killed by Rolling W men. I wonder if Stuart Jordan thinks he can saddle a murder onto me as easy as he got Uncle Ben to accuse me of stealing Rolling W horses five years ago?” Rip got up, swore under his breath and flipped the dead cigarette butt over into one corner of the cell.

He walked to the little window which looked out upon the main street of the town and stood there, watching a big band of riders forming before the saloon.

Those riders moved on after a few minutes, and Rip paced away from the window.

There was no one else in the cells of the little jail, and the silence of the place made him creepy.

Every muscle in his body ached, for he had been in the saddle two days and a night.

He had stopped only when his stallion needed rest, and had slept little.

Yet he knew that he could not sleep now, for his mind was seething madly, struggling with the many facets of the problem before him. He paced restlessly up and down the narrow cell, brow furrowed, lean brown hands closing and unclosing as if he were working stiffness from them.

He stopped his pacing suddenly, however, for the shrill whistling of his sorrel stallion had arrested his attention.

The sheriff had taken the stallion and the slain deputy’s horse to a corral at the back of the jail, and turned them loose to feed at a hay rack.

Rip Campbell leaped to the little barred window of his cell now, pressed his face close to the bars, and peered out towards the corral.

He could see Drifter’s shapely head skimming along above the corral rails as the stallion raced about inside.

The moon that had risen a half hour before shed a good light, and Rip Campbell strained his face still harder against the bars, trying to see further into the corral.

The stallion was strictly a one man horse, and would act up if anyone except Rip Campbell got close to it.

Rip had heard Drifter’s protesting whistle often enough to know that a man was in that corral now.

Rip also knew that if that man tried to rope Drifter there would be trouble, for the stallion hated a rope, and would fight like a cornered wolf if someone tried to pile a loop on him.

The sorrel’s head kept skimming above the rails, and Rip Campbell realized that no one was trying to catch him.

But Rip stayed there watching until he saw a man swing over the corral fence and hit the ground on the outside.

There was nothing unusual in that, however, for the fellow might have been someone whom the sheriff had asked to look after the corralled horses.

That thought had barely come into Rip Campbell’s mind when he realized that such was not the case.

The man who had leaped to the ground outside the corral stood crouched, and Rip could see his hat swinging right and left, and knew that the fellow was making sure that no one had seen him climb out of that corral.

Rip stiffened to attention, an electric something playing along his nerves in a pleasantly tingling sensation.

There was something vaguely familiar about that hombre who stood crouched outside the corral fence.

But Rip Campbell could not say just what was familiar about the fellow until he saw him start forward suddenly in a peculiar rolling gait.

“Martin—Bill Martin!” Rip Campbell breathed the name as if it were a curse.

“Now what was that back shooting son doing’ in the corral?” Bill Martin was coming towards the jail at a fast walk, rolling his powerfully built body from side to side in a peculiar manner at each step.

Rip Campbell received another surprise then, for he saw Bill Martin disappear at the back of the jail building, and heard the stealthy squeal of the seldom used back door, which opened into the narrow little corridor that ran between the double row of small cells.

Rip whirled from the window, went to the iron-grilled door, and heard a heavy tread slogging up from the back of the room.

A moment later Bill Martin rocked into view, saw Rip, and stopped short.

Bill Martin stood there for a long time, his little black eyes raking Rip Campbell up and down.

A lamp hung on the wall between two cell doors that were almost opposite Rip’s cell.

The lamp threw plenty of light into Rip’s cell, lighting the lean height of him, throwing into sharp relief the rugged solidness of his bronzed face.

“Well, kid, you’ve grown a heap since you got run out of this country five years ago,” Bill Martin said at last.

“I’ll bet you could give me, or Stuart either, a good tussle now.”

“I didn’t used to give you two much of a tussle at that, did I, Bill?” Rip Campbell asked with a calm in his voice that masked his true feelings.

“You and Stuart used to whale me when you felt like it. Of course, I was only a button, while you two was grown men. Maybe I could give you a tussle now, at that.”

“Yeah?” Bill Martin leered.

“Lippy as ever, ain’t you? Kid, I’ve scorched your britches more than once for sassing me. If I didn’t have other plans right now, I’d take a Stuart at you.”

Before Rip could answer Bill Martin moved on up the narrow corridor and passed into the walled-off space at the front of the room which was the sheriff’s office.

Rip could hear him cursing under his breath, nerves raw from the evening’s strain.

He almost leaped at the sheriff’s desk and began yanking the drawers open in search of guns.

“That Campbell youngster used to pack two guns, like he figured he might some day know how to use them,” he muttered as he pawed through the heap of junk in the second drawer he had opened.

“The sheriff must have put— Ha-a-a!” Bill Martin had found a nearly full quart of whiskey in that drawer.

He yanked the cork, tilted the bottle to his thick lips, and drank thirstily.

He lowered the bottle, heaved a sigh, and opened another drawer.

He found twin.45s that were holstered and rolled up in shell-studded belts.

He looked down at the guns with a faint sneer, for he saw instantly that they were the same smoke-poles that Rip Campbell had once packed around in tattered holsters.

If Bill Martin had bothered to unsheath those guns he would have learned, however, that only the frames of the weapons the fifteen year-old Rip Campbell had carried so proudly remained.

Into those frames had been placed new barrels and new cylinders.

But Bill Martin recognized the guns by their worn old grips, and his mind inquired no further.

Reaching for the bottle of whiskey, he drank deeply once more, and stood scowling uncertainly towards the door that led back into the corridor where the cells were.

Martin was worried, but not because he was here to do a coldblooded murder.

Just how to do that murder and make it look like suicide was the problem that taxed his none too agile brain at the moment.

The simplest way, of course, was to walk back down the corridor to Rip Campbell’s cell and shoot him.

But that would not look like suicide, and Bill Martin had to reject the plan.

He helped himself to the bottle for the third time, and it was shy a pint of its fiery contents when Martin returned it to the cluttered drawer.

The whiskey was burning new life into his tough body, however, and his old crooked grin was back when he stalked towards the door once more.

He knew now what he must do, and lifted the big key ring from a nail on the wall near the door.

Bill Martin meant to free Rip Campbell from the cell, march him up into the sheriff’s office, and leave him lying there on the floor near the desk.

Martin grinned even wider when it occurred to him that he could put the key ring back where it belonged after his job was done and poke an old piece of wire into the lock of Rip Campbell’s cell.

No, he decided suddenly, he would not leave a piece of ordinary wire in the lock.

He’d straighten out one of the cot springs from the cot in Rip Campbell’s cell and leave that hanging in the cell door lock, as if Rip had improvised an implement that had freed him.

“I ain’t so dumb, at that,” Bill Martin congratulated himself as he went down the narrow corridor at his peculiar rolling gait.

He came to Rip’s cell door, opened it with the first key he tried, and stepped back.

Campbell got up slowly from his cot, somber eyes narrowed, lips tight against his teeth.

“What’s the idea, Bill?” Rip asked grimly. “Figure I’ve been in jail long enough, do you?”

“Sheriff said turn you loose,” Martin grunted.

“Come out of there and waltz up the corridor ahead of me. Don’t try nothing funny either.”

Rip Campbell bit back the retort that came to his lips, stepped from the cell, and went down along the corridor.

Not until he walked out into the sheriff’s office and saw his gun belts on the desk did he realize that he was walking into a trap.

One of his holsters was empty, and the cold fingers of dread squeezed at his heart.

He spun quickly, and found himself looking into one of his own big.45s.

Behind the cocked and leveled gun was Bill Martin’s face, twisted into a mask of sheer savagery.

“Got you, you damned little snake!” Bill Martin’s voice was hoarse, gloating.

“Here’s where Stuart Jordan gets full possession of the Rolling W. And when you’re found, it’ll look like suicide. I’m drilling you now, youngster!”

CHAPTER V

Despite the fact that he was face to face with death Rip Campbell kept his head.

In the brief space of time it took Bill Martin to make his gloating speech Campbell measured the distance to his other gun, which still lay there on the sheriff’s desk, holstered and rolled inside a shell studded belt.

Rip’s quick eye also measured the distance to Bill Martin’s jaw.

He saw that he had little if any chance of reaching either Bill Martin or that gun on the desk.

Bill Martin was panting, as if he had just run a short race.

There was cold murder shining in his hot eyes.

“Yeah, Bill, I reckon you’ve got me.” Rip Campbell’s voice was steady despite the horror that was stealing along his nerves.

“So Stuart put you up to this, figuring that he’d have the whole Rolling W if I was out of the way, eh?” Rip Campbell was playing desperately for time.

He had but one weapon, and it might prove puny indeed unless it could be used properly.

That one weapon was surprise —a shock that would cause Bill Martin to lose his head for a brief second, if it were handled right. Rip Campbell thought that he was not to get a chance at using that one weapon, however, for he saw Bill Martin’s trigger finger curl until the thick knuckles showed white.

Then that trigger finger relaxed, and Bill Martin’s hoarse laughter crackled through the room.

“Sure Stuart will get the Rolling W spread, kid,” he sneered.

“And it was me, not Stuart, that figured out this little play. With my Winchester planted on your saddle it will sure look like you drilled that dep—” Martin caught himself, swore harshly, and began squeezing on the trigger once more.

Rip Campbell laughed suddenly, though every nerve in him was fairly screaming for action, for escape from that blazing death that was about to spurt from the unwavering gun muzzle.

“Yeah, Bill, you’ll kill me—like you and them other two killed Deputy Vail in Buzzard Pass this afternoon!”

Rip Campbell exploded his little bombshell—played the only card he had to play.

And it had its desired effect, for Bill Martin came up from his crouch as if he had been kicked under the chin.

The Colt in his hand wobbled, and oaths ripped past his lips.

Rip Campbell leaped then, bronzed fists smashing out blows that landed with soggy sounds.

Bill Martin went back and down, triggering a slug into the ceiling as he fell.

When he rolled half over and righted himself he saw Rip Campbell leaping at the sheriff’s desk.

Bill Martin fired, but his haste was too great for accuracy.

His slug cut a dull streak across the top of the sheriff’s desk just as Rip Campbell whirled, white teeth flashing in what might have been either a grin or snarl.

Rip had his other Colt in his right fist now, and the weapon boomed just as Bill Martin tried to line the sights for a sure shot.

Martin rocked, lost his balance, and fell sidewise to the floor.

He squalled an oath that died in a gagging sound.

He was stone dead when Rip Campbell stepped over to him, yanked the gun from his lax fingers and stepped back.

Rip Campbell looked once at the swiftly widening red smear on the front of Bill Martin’s greasy flannel shirt, then spun back to the sheriff’s desk.

In a few deft motions Rip returned his hot guns to their holsters, wrapped the belts about them, and dropped them back into the desk drawer that stood open.

He closed the drawer, leaped down the hallway, and stepped into his cell.

Reaching back through the iron bars, he twisted the big key in the lock, then leaned hard against the bars and dangled the key ring in his fingers.

From outside came a hoarse voice and the sound of booted feet along the wooden sidewalk.

But Rip Campbell forced himself not to listen to those sounds.

It had occurred to him that being found outside his cell and having to admit that he had shot it out with Bill Martin would do anything but help his case in this country where he was already branded a horse thief.

But if he could get that damning key ring away from his cell door and let himself be found still securely locked in his cell, no jury under the sun would connect him with Bill Martin’s death.

But could he get those keys where he wanted them?

Rip could see Bill Martin’s frowzy black head and one out flung arm, for the squat murderer had fallen almost in the doorway that led from the cell block into the sheriff’s office.

If he could toss those keys straight up the corridor, and give them heave enough to carry them out into the sheriff’s office, no one would ever guess that he had been out of his cell.

“Finding his pet killer ready for Boot Hill with no suspect handy will sure throw a worry into Stuart Jordan, too,” Rip Campbell gritted.

“But can I heave this danged key ring that far?”

He balanced the big key ring carefully, swung it to and fro a time or two and let fly just as boots rattled at the front of the jail building. The key ring arched through the air, traveled on a true course for several feet, then at the last moment took a crazy side trip that brought it in violent contact with the facing of the corridor door.

But Rip Campbell had put power behind that toss.

The iron key ring jangled noisily, caromed off the door facing, and went skidding from view into the sheriff’s office.

Rip Campbell heaved a great sigh of relief and dragged a sleeve across his moist forehead just as the front door of the sheriff’s office crashed open.

Men spilled into the room—bartenders, cowboys and miners.

Their yells ceased instantly, and for a moment they stood in awed silence, looking down at the sprawled form of a man none of them would have matched gun-speed with.

“Hell’s bells, boys, somebody sure put the fixings on Bill Martin!” a man who wore the white coat and apron of a bartender cried hoarsely.

“Wonder who done it?”

“Rip Campbell was jailed here, so the sheriff said,” another voice put in,

“I’ll bet Campbell got out and Martin tried to stop him. We better—”

“Hey, what’s all the racket?” Rip Campbell yelled loudly.

“Who done all that shooting up there?”

Feet pounded rapidly over hard concrete, and a moment later the hallway between the grim little cells was packed with staring men. One grizzled hombre in the garb of a miner reached out, hooked gnarled fingers about the bars of Rip Campbell’s cell, and tugged sharply.

“If this young feller in this here cage is that Campbell hellion I’ve been hearing about all evening he sure didn’t drill nobody,” the old miner called loudly.

“Leastwise, he didn’t get out of his cell, for I seen the key ring up yonder in the sheriff’s office with that dead gent. This feller might have a gun in that cell with him, though.” T HAT suggestion started an uneasy motion among the men crowded into the hallway. Uneasy glances darted towards Rip Campbell, who stood looking stonily at the men before him.

“If anybody has got a key to this coop I’ll gladly stand searching,” Rip growled.

“But what was the shooting about? It ain’t nice to be woke up so rude-like when you’re plumb fagged out from a long ride.”

“Somebody drilled Bill Martin, Rip,” a thin voice answered.

“I’ll bet that makes you feel plumb bad, now don’t it?” Rip located the speaker—a thin, white-bearded old-timer who looked up at him out of sharp blue eyes.

Rip Campbell smiled faintly, for he remembered the little old man instantly as Nelse Varney, maker of the finest saddles to be found.

And Rip Campbell remembered suddenly that Nelse Varney had been friendly to him five years ago, when all other hands had seemed against him.

“Howdy, Mr. Varney,” Rip called, poking a lean hand through the bars. “Would you shake with a gent that’s called murderer and horse thief?” The little old saddle maker grasped the youth’s hand in a firm, brief grip, chuckling through his white beard as he looked up into Rip’s face.

“You’ve grown, boy,” he commented.

“Maybe some of the jaspers that used to boot you around will get a surprise, eh?”

“Not if this framed-up murder charge against me sticks!” Rip Campbell bit out.

“Looks like I’m scheduled to do a cottonwood jig, Mr. Varney.” WII OW come?” the old man JDL snapped, pressing closer to the bars. Rip Campbell glanced swiftly right and left. The excited crowd that had poured into the corridor a minute ago was now back in the sheriff’s office, talking loudly over the mystery of Bill Martin’s death.

“Mr. Varney, you was decent to me before,” Rip Campbell spoke suddenly, looking levelly down into the old saddle maker’s keen eyes.

“When my Uncle Ben brought me here to this country I didn’t stay but a few months. Why? Because a certain two-legged skunk framed a horse stealing onto me.”

“I wondered how a fifteen-year-old boy that didn’t know the country a-tall could drive off twenty head of good Rolling W horses, get them to the Border, and find a buyer all in three days,” old Nelse Varney grinned sourly.

“That’s the way I put it up to your Uncle Ben, son. But old Ben was so wrapped up in that sidewinder of a stepson of his that he wouldn’t listen to me. But what’s this new trouble you’re in? I heard that you drilled Deputy Roscoe Vail over in Buzzard Pass this afternoon. That right?”

“Wrong!” Rip rasped.

“But I know who did salt that deputy down. If I can get that whiskey-soaked sheriff to let me out of here I’ll start clearing a few things up for him.”

“Kirk used to be a good sheriff,” the old saddle maker shrugged,

“but the past few years he’s been hitting the booze too much to know his business. You told him what you know about the deputy’s death?”

“No,” Rip Campbell said tensely.

“And for gosh sakes, Mr. Varney, don’t you tell a soul what I’ve said. I’ve got to get some proof to back my word, for nobody in this country would believe me since I’m wearing the horse thief brand.”

“Well, son, I still say that you’re all right,” Nelse Varney gritted.

“I knew Dave Campbell, your daddy, right well. Dave and me, we rode some ranges together when we was young fellers. You’re Dave all over again—build, looks, disposition and gun speed.”

“Eh?” Rip Campbell started a little.

“How do you know anything about my gun speed, Mr. Varney? I was only a button when I was here.”

“I come down to the jail some little time ago, son, to have a talk with you, figuring that we’d be all alone, with the sheriff out of town,” the saddle maker smiled faintly up at Rip.

“But when I got here, I heard voices and decided to do a little peeking first. Seems I seen you waltz out of this corridor ahead of Bill Martin. I also seen Bill Martin try to cut you in two with lead, after hearing him tell you what he aimed to do.”

“Good gosh!” Rip Campbell’s voice was a horse whisper.

“Then—then you know—”

“From where I stood at the winder,” Nelse Varney cut in swiftly,

“it looked to me like you give that damned snake more of a break than he deserved. And don’t worry about that rifle he planted on your saddle, son. I taken a little trip out to the barn, that’s why I was late getting in here. Nice Myers hull you’ve got, even if it is fancied up with silver.”

“Whew!” Rip whistled softly. “Mr. Varney, I forgot about that rifle. You—you aim to tell the sheriff all this?”

“All what?” the little old man snapped sharply.

“All I know that’d interest Em Kirk any is that I come down here with a dozen other gents on hearing shots and found Bill Martin dead on the floor. Go to bed, son, and get some sleep.”

Before Rip Campbell could voice his thanks to this peppery old-timer who was his friend the chance was gone.

The old saddle maker turned and stamped away, melting into the sheriff’s office where the others were milling about excitedly.

CHAPTER VI

When Rip Campbell did finally sleep, it was the thought of a new friend in this country put him at rest.

Not until a heavy voice boomed in his ears did he awaken to see clean sunlight filtering through the narrow, barred window that was high in one wall of his cell.

He kicked the blanket that had covered him aside, reached for trousers and boots, dressing leisurely, despite the fact that Sheriff Kirk was cursing him through the bars of the cell door.

Rip Campbell turned at last towards the officer, combed lean fingers through his tangled black hair and reached for the making’s as a matter of morning habit.

He twisted a quirley, got it going, then sauntered towards the cell door.

“Morning, Sheriff,” he drawled, “you act like your stomach was sour, your liver torpid and your spleen was busting open. You’re pale, too—all but your nose. Got a headache?”

A snicker sounded behind the sheriff, and Rip Campbell saw for the first time that a bunch of men stood there in the narrow corridor with the sheriff.

“Smart, ain’t you?” the flabby officer growled. “Damn your thieving’ soul, Rip Campbell, what happened here last night? Who killed Bill Martin?”

“Why, I did,” Campbell grinned cheerfully at the weary eyed sheriff whose appearance showed that he had just got in from his trip to Buzzard Pass.

“I waltzed right out this here barred door, took a six-gun, and shot Mr. Martin, Sheriff. That’s gospel.”

And it most assuredly was gospel!

But Sheriff Kirk evidently did not think so.

His flabby face went dark with rage, and he banged the bars until the steel door rattled noisily.

“Stop telling lies and answer my question!” he roared.

“I’ve talked to over a dozen fellers that come down here when they heard the shooting. You was still locked in this cell, Rip Campbell, and the keys was plumb up yonder on the office floor. Who done that shooting?”

“Shucks, you don’t believe me, so I’ll not say anything else.” Rip chuckled softly.

“You going to let me out of here, or do I get you into a mess for locking me up without cause?”

The sheriff’s face went darker than ever, and Rip Campbell heard him cursing under his breath.

But the big officer was uneasy as well as angry, for his pale, bloodshot eyes rolled towards the crowd, then back, in a nervous way.

“That damned coroner claims that my deputy was killed by six rifle slugs entering him,” the sheriff croaked.

“Since your saddle don’t have a rifle on it I reckon I will have to turn you loose. But get this, Rip Campbell. I think you killed my deputy, and I’ll see you hang for it if it’s the last thing I ever do!”

The sheriff produced the big key ring, opened the door, and yanked it wide with a snarl.

Rip Campbell stalked out, somber eyes narrow as he watched the crowd back away.

He stalked on into the sheriff’s office, turned, and moved over close to the scarred old desk.

Bill Martin had been carried away, but there was still a dark red splotch on the concrete floor where he had lain.

“Well, what you waiting for?” Sheriff Kirk thundered as he waddled into the room. “Get out of here, you horse thief, before I—”

“I’ll take my guns, Sheriff,” Rip Campbell said softly.

“And don’t make any more noise with your mouth. Call me a horse thief just once more and I’ll knock some of the meanness out of you. Hand over my guns, or else make every other man in town shed his cutters.”

The sheriff started to answer, but something in the hunch of Rip Campbell’s husky shoulders and the glint of his somber eyes warned the officer that he had gone just about as far as he dared. Snarling oaths, the sheriff dropped into the chair behind his desk, yanked a drawer open, and lifted Rip Campbell’s belts and guns out.

He flung them onto the desk top, face white now with rage and the hellish craving for alcohol that had beset him for hours.

“Take your guns and clear out,” the sheriff snarled.

“But remember this. I’m riding your sign until I pin Roscoe Vail’s murder on you. It ain’t hard to hide a Winchester out yonder in that Buzzard Pass country. Now get!”

Rip Campbell settled the crisscrossed cartridge belts about his lean waist, shoved the holsters into place on his thighs and thonged them down.

Without another word he strolled out through the door and onto the wooden sidewalk.

His lips thinned suddenly, and his hands seemed to swing a little less freely at his sides.

For standing a few rods away were Stuart Jordan, Dick Varson and the Mexican, Pancho Escobedo, whose name Rip Campbell did not yet know.

He walked towards the trio in lithe, easy strides, humming a little under his breath, somber eyes unblinking.

“Well, you’ve come back, hey?” Stuart Jordan greeted hotly.

“What happened in that jail last night? Who snuck you a gun and left you kill Bill? Talk, you damned maverick, or I’ll—”

“You’ll what, Stuart?” Rip Campbell’s voice had a soft, silky tone that Jordan was to learn to dread. “It’s been a long time, Stuart, since I taken a beating off of you. Maybe I’ve outgrown the habit.”

“Bust him wide open, Stuart !” Dick Varson snarled,

“or give me the word and I’ll do it. He can’t hand you that kind of talk and get by with it, can he?”

“Keep your mouth shut, Dick!” Stuart Jordan snarled, slouching forward to stand before Rip Campbell.

“This kid seems to think he can sass me, so I’ll put him in his place. How’s this?”

“This” was an open-handed slap with power enough behind it to have dazed a man.

But the slap never landed on Rip Campbell’s mouth as Stuart Jordan had intended it to.

Campbell’s head rocked aside, and the next moment he was slithering forward, lean hands shooting out.

Stuart Jordan squalled in alarm, for he felt himself seized by the shoulder and whirled.

Those fingers on his shoulder bit down like steel brands, and Stuart Jordan began clawing at his guns, kicking backwards blindly with a spurred heel at the same time.

But before he could free himself from the powerful hand that bit his shoulder Stuart felt himself shooting upward and out.

Pancho Escobedo and Dick Varson were bawling oaths as they danced about, hands on guns.

Their swearing increased to a frenzy when Stuart Jordan came sailing through the air towards them, long arms wind milling wildly. Dick Varson and the Mexican tried to dodge, but were a split second too late.

Stuart Jordan’s lean body slewed sidewise in the air and swiped Dick Varson and the Mexican down as a scythe might cut two tough weeds at a single swing.

As the murderous trio went sprawling off the sidewalk and into the loose dirt of the street, Rip Campbell was over them, shucking guns from their holsters as they writhed apart.

Rip tossed the guns far out into the street as he took them, then stepped back, waiting until the three hombres untangled themselves and came boiling up.

A crowd had formed swiftly.

And there were three dust-smeared men clawing at empty holsters and trying dazedly to figure out what had happened to them.

Rip Campbell stepped forward suddenly, and there was the dull smack of flesh striking flesh when his lean right arm whipped out and up. Dick Varson sat down hard, bawling an oath as he grabbed at his chin.

But Pancho Escobedo and Stuart Jordan had gathered their wits now, and were rushing.

Rip Campbell knew that he would likely get himself whipped, for Stuart Jordan was a salty scrapper and the lean Mexican moved with a lithe, sure-footed tread that would be difficult to match.

But whipping or no whipping, Rip aimed to take full enjoyment of this little fracas.

Grinning, he stepped forward unexpectedly and smashed a left cross to Pancho Escobedo’s snarling lips that sent the Mexican crashing back into Dick Varson, who was just scrambling to his feet.

Dick and the Mexican went down, and Rip Campbell turned on Stuart Jordan.

He turned just in time to discover that he had failed to disarm Stuart completely, for Stuart was lunging at him now with a heavy-loaded quirt seized by the leash and already whipping down.

Before Rip could even try to dodge the loaded quirt, the stock crashed into his temple, and he flopped sidewise and down, weak in every muscle.

He tried to move but discovered that his body was leaden and refused to respond to the dim urges of his shock-fogged brain.

But Rip Campbell was not out, and could see Stuart Jordan stalking towards him, the quirt reversed now and ready to deal out stinging punishment.

Stuart Jordan’s voice was lifted for the benefit of the crowd that had formed.

“All right, horse thief,” he said, “here’s where I teach you some manners.”

The quirt crashed down, whistling like a bullet.

Rip Campbell felt it across his face, but knew little of the pain it inflicted.

He was skidding over the brink of unconsciousness.

CHAPTER VII

When Rip Campbell gained consciousness he was in the back of Nelse Varney’s saddle shop,

He was stretched out on the floor.

The little old saddle maker was standing over him, cussing in a steady whine that made his white beard bob and jerk convulsively. Rip sat up slowly, groaning at the pain in his lank body.

He felt as if a herd of cattle had stampeded over him, and there was a raw feeling to his whole face.

He lifted a lean and grimy hand, passed it down first one cheek then the other.

His trembling fingers encountered innumerable cuts and welts, and there was blood on his fingers when he looked at them.

“What happened?” he asked thickly, aware that even talking hurt.

“All I seem to remember is getting clouted with a quirt.”

“Here, have a look,” old Nelse Varney rasped, and snatched a rusty mirror from above a little wash bench that stood against the back wall of his shop.

Rip Campbell had a look—and yelped as if someone had prodded him with a hot pitchfork.

His face was swollen, distorted, smeared with blood and grime.

“Stuart Jordan quirt-whipped you and tromped you from head to foot before I got there and stuck my gun in his belly and backed him off!” the saddle maker snarled.

“Son, if you don’t shoot that sidewinder, I will. He’s down yonder in the Cowboy’s Palace now, making his brags that he’ll run you out of town afore sundown.”

Without a word Rip Campbell got to his feet, went to the wash bench, and sloshed water from a zinc Billet into a battered granite-ware basin.

He bathed his face and head carefully, dried on a clean towel that hung on a nail, and turned with a crooked grin on his battered face. Still without speaking he drew his twin guns, inspected them carefully, and replaced the shells that had been fired from each the night before.

“Don’t get so heated up about what happened, Mr. Varney.” Rip’s voice was calm as he finally spoke.

“Me, Maybe, I better get out of town before sundown. That Stuart Jordan is a plumb tough hombre, seems like.”

And with that Rip Campbell stepped out through the back door, leaving the old saddle maker standing with slack jaw and bulging eyes.

Rip Campbell even chuckled a little as he swung swiftly along a littered alleyway.

But as he chuckled there were lights in his eyes that spelled trouble for somebody.

“It’s tough on my feeling’s but I’m sort of glad that Stuart Jordan thinks he can still bully me all he pleases,” Rip drawled as he headed for the corral behind the jail.

“With the snake feeling plumb safe, Maybe I can get some of the things done that I’ve got to do.”

He reached the corral, whistled a greeting to the sorrel stallion, then crawled through the bars.

A few moments later he rode out of town, keeping to the backs of as many of the buildings as he could.

He chuckled once, for he saw the Mexican, Pancho Escobedo, watching him from a street corner.

Rip Campbell was heading south, as if he meant to ride back towards Buzzard Pass and the Border.

But once beyond the town he cut into rough country, and sent Drifter swinging north by west.

Something like two hours later he was jogging up the long, tree bordered lane that led to the great Flying W ranch house.

He saw men moving about the place, but paid them no heed as he passed the yard gate and went on towards the corral.

Rip Campbell’s keen eyes had caught a dust cloud lifting from that corral long before he reached the ranch.

He rode up to the corral now, stood high in the stirrups, and peered over the top bars.

He saw that there were close to a hundred head of horses in the large enclosure— Flying W horses that had unquestionably been brought in from the range within the last few days.

Rip heard boots pounding towards him from the ranch house, and turned to ride back, battered features flushed with excitement. Three cowboys were swarming towards him, their hands on guns as they ran.

Rip drew rein at the yard fence and waited for them to come steaming up.

“Hey, who in hell are you?” a grizzled, long-built cowboy demanded angrily.

“What you poking your snoot into yonder corral for?”

“Hey, Mack, look at that feller’s face!” another of the trio nudged the cowboy.

“Looks like he already poked his head into something that was none of his business, don’t it?”

“Who told you to corral them horses?” Rip Campbell snapped.

“Say, you trying to be funny?” Mack snorted.

“What business is it of yours when and why the Rolling W decides to corral its horses?”

“Oh, don’t mind me!” Rip’s voice was flat, biting.

“I’m only half owner of the place. The name’s Rip Campbell in case you don’t remember me, Mr. Mack Lacey.”

The grizzled Mack Lacey jumped nervously, brown eyes squinting keenly beneath shaggy brows.

“Howling hellions!” he laughed suddenly. “Rip, you’ve grown a heap! But with that face of yours all clawed up I never would have known you.”

There was no particular welcome in the cowboy’s voice.

In fact Mack Lacey seldom showed much interest in anything.

He had been ramrod of the mighty Flying W for years— until Stuart Jordan had taken his place.

Since that time old Mack had gone about his duties glumly, a soured man who looked upon life with bitterness in his heart.

“Never mind my face, Mack,” Rip clipped.

“I asked you how come them horses penned instead of being out on the range where they belong.”

“Stuart’s orders,” the puncher snorted disgustedly.

“He tells us boys to round them up and hold them here. I didn’t ask no questions.”

“But you could make a guess, I reckon, Mack,” a bow-legged little cowpoke beside old Mack snorted.

“Man, you know as well as I do that Stuart and them three running mates of his is fixing’ to take these horses across the Border like they have other bunches we rounded up. If I owned half this spread—”

“Button that lip of yours, Silas Freeman, afore you get your foot in your fool mouth!” old Mack cut in harshly.

“Better keep your ideas to yourself, runt.”

“Don’t listen to that sour-voiced old fossil. Silas!” Rip Campbell ripped out.

“Your speech interests me a heap, feller. So Stuart and his three side-kicks have been taking Rolling W stock across the Border right along, have they?”

“There, you buck-toothed little pest!” old Mack snarled.

“You’ve started something now, young feller. This fool Rip Campbell will go after Stuart, and Stuart will find out what you’ve said. Besides, you don’t know whether Stuart and his friends taken them horses across the Border or not.”

“I don’t?” Silas snapped, glancing uneasily at the gangly, towheaded Flying W puncher who stood beside him.

“Me and Tom Benson, here, followed that last night drive Stuart Jordan made to see where it went. Didn’t we, Tom?”

Tom grinned sheepishly, blue eyes shuttling guiltily towards old Mack’s stormy countenance.

“We sure did, Silas,” Tom Benson drawled to Rip Campbell.

“And, like you done said them horses went to the Border and across it.”

“Right interesting!” Rip Campbell bit out.

“Mack, go turn them horses out the corral yonder. I’ll—”

“You’ll get the devil, feller!” old Mack almost yelled.

“Yonder comes Pancho Escobedo, and he’s riding like he had fire in his eyes. I reckon you’ll get worse than your face scratched if you don’t scan out, Rip. That Escobedo is plenty ornery!”

CHAPTER VIII

Escobedo had fire in his eyes.

It was the of humiliation and that burned his and at sight of Campbell the Mexican’s hate mounted.

Escobedo’s lips were split and still bleeding where the fist of Rip Campbell had landed.

Through those split lips the man’s teeth gleamed like bits of china as he brought his foam-flecked gelding to a halt.

Pancho Escobedo’s slender right hand was hovering above the butt of the gun he wore as he flipped himself lithely from the saddle and struck the ground facing Rip Campbell.

Old Mack Lacey swore a rasping oath and got quickly out of line. Silas Freeman and the lank Tom Benson following suit.

“Hold on, Pancho!” old Mack called sharply.

“This is Rip Campbell, half owner of this spread now that his uncle has passed on. You better not—”

“Keep shut the mouth. Mack!” Escobedo’s voice was a thin whine.

“Me, I have meet this so brave hombre all ready.”

“So your name is Pancho Escobedo, eh?” Rip Campbell drawled, and his voice had that silky note.

“That name would look right good on a tombstone, Mr. Escobedo. Was you thinking of drawing that gun?”

“When I draw this gun, dog, you get the bullet in the gizzard!” Pancho snarled.

“Me, I watch when you leave the town, so that I, Pancho Escobedo, might follow and have the pleasure of avenging myself. You fool me for a time when you turn, but no trail is too hard for me to follow. So I have come.”

“And brought a right plain scent of skunk along with you,” Rip Campbell purred.

“Pancho, where do you want my lead to take you? If you ever touch the butt of that gun, you snake, I’ll kill you.”

“Pipe down, Rip!” old Mack called throatily.

“Damn it, that man is poison with his hardware. You ain’t got a chance against him, son.”

“Me, I figure different, Mack,” Rip called without turning his head.

“I’ve never seen a murderer yet that didn’t have a yellow streak up his back. And this fella is a murderer. I was mighty close to him and two others when they killed that deputy sheriff in Buzzard Pass yesterday.”

As that accusation had worked on Bill Martin the night before it now worked on Pancho Escobedo.

The Mexican’s breath came in a whistling gasp, and the color slowly drained from his coppery features, leaving him a dirty brown color. His ebony eyes dilated slowly, and Rip Campbell saw him begin to tremble violently.

As the Mexican shook in his boots, Rip Campbell stepped forward, swung a stiff, fast left uppercut, and stretched Pancho Escobedo full length in the dirt.

But that wiry Mexican bounced up at once, and hand pawing at his gun, Spanish oaths ripping from his twitching lips.

Rip Campbell grinned, stepped in close, and seized Escobedo by the gun wrist with one hand and by the trouser belt with the other. Pancho cried out, as Stuart Jordan had cried out once that day. The Mexican was lifted bodily, then slammed out and down as if he were a sack of grain.

Pancho hit the ground, dropped the gun he had finally succeeded in drawing, and began gasping audibly, breathless from the jolt. Rip Campbell stepped over to him, fastened steely fingers in his greasy shirt collar, and heaved him upright.

“Now, you two-bit, back-shooting specimen, you’re going to talk,” Rip rasped savagely.

“Why did you three murder that deputy yesterday? Talk, you snake, or I’ll start working on you like I meant it.”

To give emphasis to what he said, Rip shook the Mexican roughly, stopping only when Pancho Escobedo’s voice lifted in a wail of mercy.

Old Mack Lacey and the other two Flying W men were simply bug-eyed and tongue-tied with amazement.

They watched, but said no word while Pancho Escobedo stood panting like a spent runner, a frowzy, dusty, beaten bad man who had bullied them all.

“You followed me, intending to settle accounts with me, Escobedo,” Rip Campbell’s voice cut through the tense silence like the crackle of a distant gun exploding.

“You’ve found me, and been lucky. I should have let you make a play for your artillery, then drilled your hide full of holes. Start talking hombre. Why were you and them other two that I could name, up yonder in Buzzard Pass? Why did you kill that deputy sheriff?”

“Because I am a Mexican you beat me!” Pancho cried hoarsely.

“And those three yonder, they will not help me, though they have call me friend.”

“You’re a liar when you say I’m rough-handling’ you because you’re a Mexican, Escobedo!” Rip Campbell rapped out.

“Down yonder on the Border I’ve got some mighty fine friends who are Mexicans. And if one of them Mexicans was in my boots right now you’d be kicking around with a slug in your belly.”

“And what ever give you the idea that any of us boys would help you, Pancho?” Silas Freeman spoke up suddenly.

“You have abused us three more than once—when Stuart, Dick and Bill was handy to back your play. You got yourself tangled up with that wildcat, now finish your fighting.” We’ll finish up alongside his partner, Bill Martin, if he don’t start talking,” Rip Campbell growled, and gave Pancho Escobedo another shaking.

Again the Mexican yelled for mercy, and began talcang the moment he caught his breath.

The fight had suddenly gone out of him.

Yet there was a cunning in his eye that Rip Campbell did not miss.

And the very fact that Pancho talked so freely warned Rip that the oily devil had some scheme hidden up his sleeve.

“Those other two and me, we plan to kill you, not those fool deputy,” Pancho snarled at Rip defiantly.

“The light, it was not so good, so we make the mistake—”

“Stuart Jordan sent you three up there to get me, huh?” Rip gritted.

“Si, Stuart send us,” the Mexican grinned thinly.

“And now Stuart, he have the fits because Bill Martin is found dead. You do that, no?”

Rip Campbell’s shrug could have been either denial or admission. He was scowling darkly, mind working rapidly, trying to ferret out the reason for Escobedo’s sudden willingness to talk.

That the Mexican had told the absolute truth, Rip did not doubt in the least.

But why was Pancho so eager to tell what he knew?

Why was he grinning slyly even now?

What treachery was the murderous devil planning?

“What in blazes are you two talking about?” old Mack Lacey thundered suddenly.

“Rip, what’s this about a deputy sheriff getting killed? And did you say that Bill Martin got salted down?”

“I’ll explain later, Mack,” Rip growled.

“Right now, I’ve got me a slippery fella to deal with.”

“And now that I have talk, muchacho, what you do?” Pancho Escobedo almost chuckled as he spoke.

“You can not eat me, that is a fact. So what you do; take me to the sheriff?”

Campbell felt as if a weight had suddenly been lifted now.

Pancho Escobedo had blundered, had shown his hole card.

So Pancho expected to be carted into town and turned over to the sheriff, did he?

Rip Campbell laughed, and the sound was not pleasant.

The sheriff, blind to what actually went on around him, would never lock a friend of Stuart Jordan’s up on Rip Campbell’s say so.

Rip knew that.

He also knew that he had to keep Pancho Escobedo from reaching Stuart Jordan.

Let Stuart find out that Mack Lacey, Tom Benson and Silas Freeman had heard Escobedo’s confession, and the three punchers would be killed to keep their mouths shut.

Rip Campbell had sense enough to know that three more murders would not bother Stuart Jordan’s conscience in the least. Stuart was into this thing far enough already to draw a hangman’s noose if he was caught.

“Sorry, Pancho, but I’ll have to throw a hitch into your little plan,” Rip Campbell spoke sharply.

“The sheriff would turn you loose if I took you to him. So I’m taking you over to a place I know of where you’ll be safe until I—no you don’t!”

With a scream of rage the Mexican whirled and would have dived for his fallen gun.

But Rip Campbell drove a fist to the man’s ear that sent him flopping sidewise in a limp heap.

Rip picked Pancho up, threw him across the grey’s saddle, and lashed him there securely.

“What’s it all about, Campbell?” Tom Benson asked excitedly. “Me and Silas, here, is about to bust our belly bands, we’re that curious. What’s all this talk about murder and such?”

Rip Campbell explained briefly how the deputy had been killed the day before and who had done it.

He mentioned Bill Martin’s finish, but did not admit doing the job himself.

“You three can string your bets with me or not,” he told them flatly.

“Mack, you might be foreman of this spread again if my plans work out. On the other hand, I may wind up in Boot Hill. No can tell yet.”

“Stuart and them three he herded with has sure been tough on us three,” old Mack growled.

“I reckon, Rip, us boys will sort of string our bets with you!”

“Bueno, amigos!” Rip Campbell grinned tightly as Silas and Tom nodded their approval of old Mack’s decision.

“If you’re with me, saddle your best horses, let them broncos out of the corral yonder, and come on.”

“Coming!” Silas and Tom chorused.

“Yeah, me too!” old Mack growled. “But where we heading, Rip?”

“To snag us a sheriff!” Rip Campbell laughed coldly.

CHAPTER IX

Escobedo was a mighty sick hombre when Rip Campbell finally untied him from the saddle and hauled him to the ground.

Pancho snarled weakly as he was shoved towards the door of a stout little log cabin that was used as a Flying W line camp in the winter.

The cabin was a deep, well sheltered valley, above which craggy peaks towered in silent sentinel duty.

“You know where you are, Pancho, so don’t spend so much time gawking,” Rip growled.

“Inside, you buzzard, and make it snappy. I’ve got work to do.”

The Mexican tried groggily to resist by bracing his feet against the door sill.

Rip Campbell reached around him, opened the door, and gave the seat of his pants a sharp kick.

Pancho went into the one-roomed line shack with a sputtering snarl, lost his footing, and fell headlong.

“All right, Mack!” Rip Campbell called.

“Get those log chains and the locks and go to work. I’ll gouge out some chinking from this side.”

“What is this?” Pancho Escobedo snarled weakly as Rip stepped past him and began probing at the masonry in the log wall with a hatchet that had stood beside the wood box in one corner.

“You’ll find out what’s what soon enough, hombre,” Rip growled. Pancho spat an oath, but kept quiet, since a two hour ride across a saddle, face down, had made him mighty shaky.

He heard pounding outside the log shack, then saw daylight between logs as the mud and split stick chinking fell away.

Then some one from outside Stuart d a chain through, which Rip Campbell ran back out through another hole in the chinking on the upper side of the log under which the chain had appeared.

There was a moment’s wait, then an end of the chain was passed into the cabin again.

Rip Campbell took it this time, and reached a hand through the opened chinking.

A moment later he stepped towards Pancho Escobedo, stooped, and drew the chain about the Mexican’s neck snugly, yet not tight enough to choke him.

Pancho heard a dull click even as he reached up, but Rip Campbell was already stepping away, a mirthless grin on his lips.

“The padlock!” the Mexican cried as his fingers found the big lock that held the chain snugly about his neck.

“You have lock this chain to my neck, and for that I will keel you.”

“The other end is locked around that log in the wall over yonder, with the lock outside,” Rip Campbell snapped.

“You’ll not kill me or anybody else for a while, skunk. As we rode over here, old Mack told me how Stuart Jordan, Dick Varson, Bill Martin and you have been running off good-sized herds of Rolling W cattle and selling them across the Border.”

Rip Campbell turned suddenly and left the room, slamming the door on Pancho Escobedo’s strident cries for mercy.

There was nothing in the cabin with which the Mexican could free himself, for Rip had brought the hatchet out with him.

He tossed the hatchet aside now, closed the shack’s door, and ran the wooden peg down through the hasp to keep it shut.

Old Mack and the other two were there waiting, eyeing Rip Campbell a little uneasily.

“You—you sure you want to go ahead and capture the sheriff?” old Mack asked uneasily.

“Kirk is a sot, but he’ll fight, Rip. Maybe you better not try it.”

“It’s the only way, I tell you!” Rip bit out grimly.

“If we can get the sheriff out here with Pancho Escobedo and keep him until he sobers up, Maybe we can make him listen to reason.”

“Not Kirk,” old Mack argued, and was still arguing the same point when they came in sight of Sage some time later.

“You three better cut across and hit the main trail over yonder now,” Rip called.

“Mack, will you go through with your part? Will you coax that danged star holder out to that cabin where the Mexican is and then run off with his horse, like I told you to?” S three will do our best, Rip,” Mack Lacey answered. “But if you ask me, I think we’re getting ourselves in a peck of trouble.”

“Being in trouble won’t hurt you none,” Rip Campbell growled.

“Get going, boys. I’ll circle and come into town from the other side. If we pass each other on the street or anything just act like you never saw me before. But get that booze-hound that wears the law badge. He don’t know it, but he’s due to sober up.”

Rip Campbell was gone then, sending his great stallion away at a smoothly flowing gallop that brought a low murmur of applause from the three Flying W cowboys.

Rip circled as he had said he would, and a half hour later was jogging leisurely into Sage from the south.

He left Drifter ground anchored before a general store and walked up along the street, fully aware of the curious glances that were turned on him.

The story of his humiliation at Stuart Jordan’s hands had traveled over the town like wildfire, and Rip Campbell knew that his cut and bruised face would bear out even the wildest rumors that were going the rounds.

But such things bothered him little.

From the tail of his eye he saw old Mack and the other two Flying W cowboys, hanging around the sheriff’s office and watching the street.

“Kirk is out, so those three are waiting for him to come back instead of going up the street looking for him,” Rip muttered under his breath.

“Which shows that old Mack has got horse sense, even if he has taken too much abuse off Stuart Jordan and them others.” Rip turned into the mouth of a steep stairway suddenly and clumped up into a short, dingy hallway that ran before him like a gloomy tunnel.

He walked slowly along the corridor, saw a door lettered T. W. Pryor, Attorney at Law, and turned the knob.

Rip spent the better part of an hour with the frowzy little attorney, going over the affairs of the Flying W.

When Rip again reached the street he noticed with a quickening of pulse that the three Flying W men were no longer loafing in front of the sheriff’s office.

Their horses were gone, too, and Rip knew that they had carried out their part of the scheme by getting the sheriff out of town on some excuse or other.

“Keno!” he breathed.

“Now I’ll fork my Drifter horse, cut out across the range, and get to that cabin about the time Mack gets the sheriff there. And after that—”

Rip Campbell did not finish, for at that moment a shrill scream that was almost human lifted, and he whirled quickly, eyes shuttling to where he had left his horse.

A crowd was boiling around the stallion, a crowd that was trying to scatter as Drifter reared and snorted.

“Hey, clear away from that horse!” Rip yelled, and began running. He saw as he approached that there was one man who did not run. That man hung to Drifter’s bridle reins, and was beating at the stallion’s head with what looked like part of a wagon spoke.

Rip Campbell saw that the man who was abusing his horse was Dick Varson, the Flying W bronco tamer.

Something seemed to snap in Rip’s brain as he flung roughly through the crowd, seized Dick Varson by the nape of the neck, and yanked him savagely back.

Varson whirled, snarling an oath at this interruption.

“You, eh?” he bawled.

“Damn your measly hide, keep your hands off of me. I’m taming that stud if it’s the last thing I ever do.”

There were broken places in the scan across Drifter’s face where the stout club had landed.

Rip Campbell saw that, and his face became a white mask of rage. Dick Varson was swearing again, and the heavy club he held started up, aimed this time at Rip Campbell’s head.

Rip dodged, but in his white hot rage disregarded the real danger.

The club caught him a slanting blow across the neck and jaw, dropping him to the dirt.

Dick Varson rushed with a bellow of savage delight, booted feet swinging viciously.

Rip Campbell took two punishing blows in the ribs from those booted feet, then rolled clear, lurched up.

Dick Varson was at him instantly, club swinging, face split in a hideous grin.

The crowd that had formed to watch Dick Varson maul the stallion became wildly excited now, for it seemed certain that Rip Campbell would receive another beating.

But Rip’s first white hot anger had cooled to a smoldering fire, and his brain was working smoothly again.

He dodged clear of the whistling club this time, then stepped in swiftly and began ripping short, punishing blows to Dick Varson’s tough body.

The bronco stomper roared in rage, brought his club into play once more, and succeeded in landing a blow across Rip Campbell’s ribs that sent him reeling.

Dick Varson rushed madly, following his advantage with a yelp of triumph.

But Rip Campbell recovered his balance, sidestepped, and smashed a long right to Dick Varson’s face that all but upset him.

Rip drove a left to Varson’s stomach, and the bronc0-buster doubled over with a loud grunt.

Rip seized the club, give it a quick wrench, and tore it from the red-headed killer’s calloused fingers.

Rip tossed the cudgel aside, then stepped back, a slow, hard grin on his battered face.

“You figured to tame Drifter like you always tamed horses —by beating him half to death before you tried riding him.” Rip Campbell’s voice was so soft that many of the onlookers thought that he was not even angry.

“Dick, you used to beat me just for the fun of it. Here’s where I pay back some of that debt —with interest.”

“You—you jumped me when I wasn’t looking,” Dick Varson snarled.

“You’ve landed some lucky punches, kid, but I can lick you any time, anywhere.”

And with that Dick Varson rushed, sure of himself since he had beaten Rip Campbell severely many times.

But Rip Campbell had been just a youngster five years ago.

He was a man now—a cool-headed, hard muscled man who had ramrodded one of the toughest spreads along the Border for over two years.

Dick Varson found himself butting a veritable wall of flying fists that left him weak, dazed, sick.

Blood dribbled from his nose, his lips were smashed, and one eye was closing rapidly.

He staggered back, cursing hoarsely, trying to figure out just what had happened.

But Rip Campbell gave him no time to think.

Dick Varson fought wildly, yet his flailing fists landed few blows.

He realized suddenly that Rip Campbell was giving him the worst sort of a whipping by punching just hard enough to punish, and not hard enough to stun.

Reeling, bloody froth ringing his battered lips, Dick Varson staggered blindly this way and that, cursing in a steady, whining snarl.

Fear gripped him now, for it soaked through his twisted brain that he was not only being whipped but shamed before men who had cowered and slunk away at his fight talk more than once.

“By God, I’ll kill you!” he roared suddenly, and made a grab for the twin guns that banged against his hips.

But something seemed to explode inside his skull, and for some reason or other the guns were too heavy for him to lift.

Dimly, Dick Varson realized that Rip Campbell had finally delivered a stunning blow.

The bronco stomper was out cold when his battered, blood smeared face struck the dirt of the street.

Rip Campbell stepped back, panting heavily, hot lights dancing in his somber eyes.

The crowd that had watched in silence shifted uneasily under that penetrating stare.

Then a hoarse voice bawled something, and Stuart Jordan burrowed through the crowd, elbowing men roughly.

Stuart stopped short at what he saw, tawny eyes flaming dangerously as he hooked his bony hands above gun butts.

“You want some more of what I give you a while ago, huh?” Stuart Jordan snarled.

“You ought to be shot, just on general principles, Stuart,” Rip Campbell cut in almost softly.

“But I don’t think you’ll give me a chance to do it, fella. You usually hire your killing’s done, Stuart. Even if your hired gunnies do make mistakes sometimes. Deputy Roscoe Vail likely had a lot of friends around here. Stuart.”

A horrible and sickening fear leaped into the eyes of Stuart Jordan. His long-jawed face went the color of a dead fish’s belly, and with a hoarse word he turned to burrow back through the crowd and almost run towards the Cowboy’s Palace.

Rip Campbell watched the loose gaited rascal lope away, then turned to Drifter and ran an exploring hand over the stallion’s head and face.

There were welts and cuts in the scan, but Drifter, except for nervousness, seemed little the worse for his experience with Dick Varson.

Rip mounted to the silver crusted black saddle he had won in a Nogales rodeo, turned the stallion, and rode away through a lane that formed before him as the crowd shifted.

Rip Campbell brought his dull rowels into play then and Drifter shot down the street in mighty leaps.

Uneasiness rode with Rip Campbell as he left the town and started out across the open rangeland, for he had wasted too much time back there.

He had meant to be at the Flying W line camp where Pancho Escobedo was held prisoner by the time old Mack got the sheriff out there.

But that was out of the question now, for Rip had wasted a precious fifteen minutes giving Dick Varson a soundly deserved and much needed whipping.

That delay bothered Rip Campbell a lot as he tore across the rangeland, for he doubted if old Mack Lacey would go very far towards detaining the big sheriff.

Old Mack had taken abuse too long to have much sand, and Rip Campbell’s fears mounted with each passing minute.

And those fears became a certainty when at last he dipped into the deep valley and started towards the line cabin.

Four men were galloping down the creek bottom towards him —the three Flying W cowboys and the ponderous sheriff.

Rip Campbell saw that the Flying W men were bound to their saddles. He saw, too, that the big sheriff had spotted him.

Rip halted, a sense of baffled rage flooding him.

As he had feared, old Mack had lacked the sand to get the drop on the sheriff and keep him prisoner.

Mack’s eyes dropped sheepishly as he and the other two securely bound prisoners were led up.

The sheriff dropped the rope which led the three mounts of the captives.

“Where’s Pancho Escobedo?” Rip Campbell snarled savagely, although he already knew the answer.

“Loose!” Silas Freeman spat angrily.

“Old Mack wouldn’t let us go through with your plan, Rip. And this star-holder turned that Mexican loose and arrested us three.”

“You plumb right you’re under arrest!” the sheriff bawled, big face purple with rage.

“And you’ll suffer for helping’ chain a man by the neck to starve for grub and water. Rip Campbell, I want you for attempted murder.” The sheriff’s flabby fist was already lifting his gun as he spoke.

CHAPTER X

The Flying W men never saw Rip Campbell draw.

Rip’s right hand simply seemed to disappear from where it had rested idly on the saddle horn.

Then Campbell’s big stallion leaped forward, and there was a dull slapping sound.

Sheriff Charlie Kirk wilted slowly, his huge bulk quivering.

Old Mack Lacey and the other two Flying W men saw the gun in Rip Campbell’s fist then, and knew that that gun had traveled from Rip’s holster to the crown of the sheriff’s big head in a lightning stroke.

“Fast!” Silas Freeman gasped.

“I’ve seen some fast gunnies in my time, gents, but that was the fastest thing I ever run across. I didn’t even see that danged gun until Rip had already pole-axed the sheriff.”

Rip holstered the weapon, slid to the ground, and caught the huge sheriff who was slewing sidewise.

The sheriff was grunting hoarsely, but did not know what was taking place.

Rip Campbell disarmed him, pulled him to the ground, and hastily unsaddled the officer’s horse.

“Now I’ll get you three loose,” he rapped at the Flying W hands.

He produced a stock knife, ripped their bonds apart, then stepped back, pocketing the knife.

“Pile down, gents, and off saddle,” he growled.

“I’ll leave you stranded here with the sheriff.”

“What’s the idea?” Tom Benson protested.

“Us three will string our bets with you, honest we will.”

“I heard that before,” Rip clipped.

“But here you three were headed for jail. And Pancho Escobedo is loose. Pile off your horses, boys, afore I take a notion to help you off.”

That got action.

The three hit the ground with alacrity, and lost no time in stripping gear from their mounts.

Rip Campbell stepped aboard his stallion then, and sat for a moment looking somberly down at the three flushed but silent Flying W men.

“I ain’t sore at you men,” Rip said stiffly.

“You failed me, that’s certain. But I ain’t holding a grudge.”

“Then why dump us down here with this whiskey-soaked hog?” old Mack snarled.

“Rip, I’ve got my eyes open now. Last time I seen you, you was nothing but a spindly legged maverick that got the horse thief brand burnt onto him. You’re still a maverick, son, but about the handiest gent I ever seen with a smoke pole. If you’ll let me—”

“Thanks,” Rip Campbell cut in dryly. “But I’ll have to go it alone, boys. They ain’t but one course open to me now that Escobedo is loose. I’ve got to hit and hit quick— with mighty little chance of living to tell about it.”

“Hit what?” Silas Freeman yipped.

“If I follow your meaning—”

“Hit Stuart Jordan’s and his two remaining side-kicks!” Rip rasped.

“Mack, you called me a gun-handy maverick. Maybe I am handy with hardware, at that. But no matter how good a man gets, there’s always some gent just a little better.”

He wheeled then and was gone at a gallop, hugging under one arm the guns that had belonged to the Flying W men and the one that had belonged to the sheriff.

The Flying W guns had been in a gunny sack, slung across the sheriff’s saddle bow.

Rip Campbell had dropped the sheriff’s weapon into the bag with the others, and was now looking for a place to cache the hardware. He found the place just after topping out of the canyon, for he was riding along a little ledge.

Without dismounting he tossed the sacked guns back into a crevice in the bluff beside him, then rode on, brooding darkly.

Pancho Escobedo would, of course, head straight for town and report what had happened.

“Stuart will get Dick Varson percolating again, and the three of them will be after my hide,” he mused bitterly.

“Which means a gun smoke showdown, with me likely on the losing side.”

Rip Campbell topped out onto smoother ground, and found his gaze wandering off towards the south.

A curse bubbled in his throat as he realized that he was thinking of the Border.

Five years ago he had turned south from this Sage country when the same set of men framed him as they had framed him this time. He swung his stallion’s head sharply about, hard lights dancing in his hot eyes.

“I ain’t going to be spooked outa this country by Stuart Jordan again,” he rasped.

“Drifter, I need some grub under my belt afore I tackle them three sons. Come on, boy. I reckon I’ve got a right to go to the Flying W and wrestle a meal if I feel like it.”

Drifter struck a lope, while his master swayed in brooding silence. Once Rip sighted a band of horses skimming across a bald ridge towards higher country.

He grinned faintly, for those would be the Flying W horses he had liberated, heading back to their old haunts in the oak-clad, canyon-cut hills.

It would take Stuart Jordan some little time to round up those broncos again for a drive to the Border.

Or maybe Stuart would never round them up.

The thought was particularly pleasing to Rip Campbell, and he unconsciously let his free right hand drift down to caress the butt of the Colt he wore on that thigh.

“I’ll have it out with Stuart and his back-shooting partners once and for all,” Rip growled,

“I’ll get me a bit of grub at the ranch, then go hunt them three jaspers.”

But that hellish gun showdown was to come much sooner than Rip Campbell guessed.

He sighted the ranch after a while, and went galloping on towards it, lost in his own bitter thoughts.

Not until he was at the yard gate and starting to dismount did he take full notice of what was around him.

Some subtle something that lay in the air like an unpleasant odor stirred him out of his thoughts.

Rip Campbell became instantly alert, sniffing as if the thing that had moved him to watchfulness really had been an odor.

Then his flashing glance caught and held on the three sweat-plastered horses that stood to his left, tied to the boles of cottonwood trees.

Rip Campbell dropped to the ground—and a bullet cut the air above his head with a vicious, snarling death song.

From the kitchen window came a spurt of blue powder smoke, and the voice of a man was lifted in profane complaint over missing. Those things Rip Campbell heard and saw while his hand executed an up and down motion.

His hand landed on Drifter’s sleek rump sharply, and the stallion leaped away, snorting uneasily at the unaccustomed roughness of his master.

Rip Campbell leaped towards the big square post of the yard gate, a mirthless grin on his wide lips.

Three rifles were belching death at him from the big ranch house now.

But he was behind the protecting gate post, with nothing worse than a long rent in his left shirt sleeve where a bullet had come dangerously close to crippling him.

He had recognized those three sweaty mounts under the cottonwoods and knew that Stuart Jordan, Dick Varson and Pancho Escobedo were in the house even before Stuart Jordan’s profane voice roared out at him.

“Come out from behind that post with your Colt-hooks tickling the sky, Rip Campbell!” Stuart was shouting hoarsely.

“Come out or we’ll—”

“Coming!” Rip yipped—and kept his word.

But there was a spitting Colt in each fist, and three voices lifted in consternation as slugs hammered window panes into powdery fragments.

Stuart Jordan took a snap shot even as he jerked his ugly head back through the kitchen window.

If Stuart had not ducked so swiftly, he would have seen Rip Campbell crash forward as if yanked down by an unseen noose.

Rip lay there panting, smoking guns weaving from window to window along the nearest wall of the big ranch house.

His left leg was a numb and useless thing, and he could feel hot trickles of blood running from his thigh down across his clammy scan.

He hitched himself forward as swiftly as possible, teeth locked against the pain that was coming with the passing bullet shock to nerve and torn muscle.

He could move the leg some, and knew that the bone had not been broken.

But that leg would not hold him up even if he got to his feet and tried to run.

A shadow seemed to flit before the nearest window.

The movement was only a dim blur, yet Rip Campbell’s right hand Colt flipped over, roared and bounced.

Rip had pulled slightly ahead of the moving blur beyond the window.

At the roar of his gun a gurgling scream lifted from within the house, and there came the dull thud of a body striking the floor.

A Winchester streamed fire down at Rip Campbell from almost directly above, and he saw the smoking snout of the gun jiggle as the shooter levered frantically.

Then Rip was at the corner of the house, pulling himself up onto the great porch.

He gained his feet, and went reeling along the wall, white and sick from pain.

That wound in his thigh was bleeding bad, weakening him.

He knew that he had only a few more moments left in which to settle this thing.

One man had gone down in there, wounded or dead.

Which one of the trio it was hardly mattered.

There were still two more. Rip Campbell came to the door, turned the knob, and gave it a hard shove.

At the same moment he dropped flat, dived into the room on his belly, and listened to a deadly volley of whining bullets sing over his head.

Down the long living room from him stood Pancho Escobedo and Stuart Jordan, each wielding a pair of six-guns now instead of rifles.

“There! On the floor!” Stuart Jordan screamed, and slanted the muzzle of his guns down.

Escobedo had already seen, however, and was sending twin streamers of fire licking towards Rip Campbell’s sprawled figure. Rip felt splinters blasted into his face, and felt another slug sear across the side of his jaw.

Then his own.45s were kicking in his hands, adding to the din of those other four guns.

Screams, oaths, and the crash of blazing guns lifted all in one nightmarish minute.

But even in that din Rip Campbell heard the strident cowboy whoops which came from the yard behind him.

He dared not turn, however, for he was busy tossing his lean body from side to side across the floor, making himself as hard to hit as possible.

He saw the Mexican drop both guns, grab his middle, and stumble blindly into a wall.

Then Jordan was weaving, cursing wildly as he clawed at his chest with one hand and kept shooting with the other.

But Stuart’s shots were going wide by inches now, and he crumpled slowly, his face a hideously twisted mask of rage and hate as he fell kicking.

The guns stopped their racket so suddenly that Rip Campbell lay blinking, hardly believing that he was alive.

His face was a bloody mask, for a slug had cut a shallow groove above his left eyebrow.

But outside of that scratch and the flesh wound in his leg, he seemed all right.

“There, just inside the door. Good gosh, he’s—”

Rip Campbell snaked around, hot guns snapping to target.

Little Silas Freeman fell back into the arms of Sheriff Charlie Kirk with a yell of horror at the grinning red thing that was Campbell’s face,

The sheriff flung Silas aside, and stormed into the room, old Mack Lacey and Tom Benson at his heels.

Silas charged after them, but stopped beside Rip, eyes bulged out, jaw hanging open.

“Well, you sure raised hell here, Rip Campbell!” the big sheriff thundered.

“But I’ve got you this time. Drop them guns or I’ll put a bullet through your murdering heart!”

The sheriff had picked up a gun that had fallen from Stuart Jordan’s lifeless fingers.

Rip Campbell sat up wearily, laid his smoke-blackened guns aside, and crossed his hands in his lap.

“Stuart Jordon sent Bill Martin. Pancho Escobado and Dick Varson up to Buzzard Pass yesterday with orders to mow me down.” Rip’s voice was calm, tired.

“Them three mistook your deputy for me and killed him.”

“That’s a lie!” the sheriff roared.

“I sent Roscoe Vail out after you, aimed to put you under guard so you couldn’t start trouble when you showed up here. But you killed my deputy and hid the rifle you done it with. That was slick work, and you got by with it. But this mess here will hang you.”

“We told the sheriff all the truth, Rip, but he just won’t listen,” old Mack growled.

“He won’t believe that us three boys, Silas, Tom and me, heard Pancho confess all that.”

“No, I don’t believe it!”

The sheriff’s voice was a dangerous snarl as he shuttled towards Rip Campbell. “If you can convince a jury—”

“It’s—the—truth!”

The gasping, rattling voice jerked all eyes towards a door which led out into the dining room.

There, one blood-smeared hand braced against the door facing for support, stood Dick Varson.

The bronco buster’s harshly lined face was ashen and blood welled slowly from two neat holes in his leathery neck.

Rip Campbell remembered that shadowy movement behind the window at which he had sent a slug, and realized that that slug had left those two round holes in Dick Varson’s long neck. “I tried to—get Pancho and Bill to —wait until that rider—got close,” Dick Varson panted.

“Hell, this Rip Campbell—gun maverick—ain’t such a bad— hombre. Me and Stuart framed horse stealing on to him—five year ago—so his uncle would kick him off the place. Sheriff, I’m tellin’ it— plumb straight. Stuart Jordan has always stole— Rolling W stock. He wanted the—the whole spread—” Dick Varson tried to grin at Rip Campbell, then toppled forward, dead.

The big sheriff was staring uneasily about.

“Rip Campbell,” he gulped, “I— reckon that dying man’s statement clears you. I—hope you understand my feelings in this. You see, I,”

“You need a drink!” Rip Campbell rasped. “But first, let me show you something. Dick Varson didn’t have to bother. I was saving a gent that’ll talk and talk plenty.”

Rip Campbell stooped above the huddled form of Pancho Escobedo, fastened stout fingers in the man’s collar.

Pancho cried out shrilly, hands clamped to his middle.

But Rip Campbell dragged him mercilessly to his feet, backed him against the wall, and calmly ripped and yanked at the lithe man’s clothing until Pancho stood nude to the waist.

Across Escobedo’s middle ran a wicked red gash that dribbled dark blood.

“I figured I might need some talking done,” Rip Campbell’s voice rasped.

“So I burnt this skunk across the belly when I caught him standing right and was saving him. But Dick Varson squared up the bad things he had done and talked, so here’s some noose-fodder for you, Sheriff. Or can you stay sober long enough to hang him?”

“I been ornery, son, but nobody has ever justly called me a liar,” the huge sheriff said in a choked voice. “And I’m promising— Hey, good gosh!”

Rip Campbell swayed, and would have fallen but for the sheriff’s huge arm.

“Quick, Mack, help me get this boy onto the couch yonder,” the officer bawled.

“Silas, you guard that devil. If this boy is hurt bad—”

“Weak from loss of blood,” old Mack Lacey said with vast relief a few minutes later.

“He’ll live, all right. And what a spread this will be now that a real man is behind it. And he told me that I’d be foreman again, Sheriff.”

“It’s a good thing that horse of mine was gentle enough to be caught without trouble,” Silas Freeman called.

“I reckon Rip might have bled to death afore anybody come along if I hadn’t caught my pony and rounded up you fellers’ mounts.”

“You’re right, Silas,” the big sheriff called as he helped tighten a bandage about Rip Campbell’s punctured leg.

“And getting here in time to help save his life makes me figure that I’ve repaid him a little, anyhow, for the ornery way I treated him.”

THE END

Par for the Corpse

I wanted action.

Instead, I sat twiddling my thumbs in the police cruiser, swallowing dust from the trucks that rolled along the alley in back of the newly completed row of two-family houses.

The trucks carried building materials to further rows of similar houses under construction.

Every time they rumbled past, the air filled with dry lime from the pile where a sack had fallen off a truck and burst open.

 I wondered why the devil someone hadn’t shoveled it up and carried it away.

Life was a sequence of minor annoyances. It was a brisk fall day, the quail season was half over, and I still hadn’t taken my shotgun off the wall.

Jack, my Irish setter, moped around home wondering what was wrong with me.

There wasn’t anything wrong with me—except boredom.

Since Art Nelson fractured his right wrist and Jim Harrell went to the hospital for an appendectomy, I had been working sixteen hours a day, including days off.

My boss, Chief of Police Larry Sterns, was up against it and I had to help out.

The cruiser was parked at the side of the rough, pine shack that housed the field offices of the Stacy Construction Company, builders of the huge Windsor Village development.

The payroll truck was due in half an hour and I was assigned to Art Nelson’s regular job of hanging around while the dough was counted and passed out to the four or five hundred workmen.

Bill Nelson, paymaster for Stacy, stepped out of the shack and said:

“Hi, Danny.”

My answering grin froze when I saw his companion.

I nodded to Bill and said to the other man:

“Howdy, Mr. Gant.”

The stocky little man with the small blob of ruddy nose looked coldly at me, his pale blue eyes protruding slightly.

“Hello, Gumbo,” he said, shortly.

It burned Arlington Gant up to be called mister, and he knew that I knew it.

He liked to be called Captain, but I didn’t consider he rated it.

He’d organized a bunch of dumb young guys around Cherrydale into what he called a Home Protective Corps, after the National Guard was mobilized.

But Larry Sterns and I didn’t believe the cops needed any self-appointed fuehrer to help us maintain order in our quiet little city.

I often wondered where Gant got the money to keep up a flashy car and fairly expensive house.

He never did anything around Cherrydale except try to stir up prejudice against people he didn’t like and play politics—always on the losing side.

Sometimes, though, he’d disappear for a couple of days and he always had plenty of dough when he returned.

When Gant drove off, I asked Nixon whether the Home Protective Corps was going to take over the payroll policing.

Bill shot an accurate stream of tobacco juice at a piece of two-by-four and snickered.

“Maybe they better at that, the way the Cap’n talks about the police force,” he said.

“Seems as though you boys ain’t keeping proper track of the crooks around these parts.”

I said there weren’t any crooks around Cherrydale, and asked him what Gant wanted.

He shook his head.

“He’s dropped in several times the last week or so, but he never seemed to seek anything but conversation.

“By the way,” he added,

“I had to fire your pal, Tyler Davidson, the other evening.”

I scowled at him.

“What the hell for?”

“Just too shiftless to live,” he said.

“And then the so-and-so threatened to get even with me, after I’d kept him on two weeks longer than I should just because I was sorry for his wife.”

“Oh, Tyler’s all right,” I said.

“But he’s a ball player, not a brick-layer. You got to make allowances for a guy who’s an artist.”

“He sure could pound that old tomato,” admitted Bill.

“And what an arm! Man, those pegs from deep right field used to hit the catcher’s mitt on the line. It’s a shame he was kicked out of the league.”

“Tyler was the goat for the sharpshooters,” I said.

“He’d never got drunk during the playoff series with Chesterbrook if the gamblers hadn’t started him off by spiking his drinks.

I always thought the club should have given him another chance instead of blacklisting him.” Bill said:

“Well, he’s sure lost without his baseball. Just willing to set around and let his wife take in washing.”

I said that seemed to be the case and then looked around in surprise as Art Nelson pulled up in his coupe and got out. He was wearing his police uniform, but his wrist was still in a cast held- up by a sling over his shoulder.

“Looking for someone, Officer?” I inquired, politely.

“Yeh, you.” His gray eyes were quizzical.

“Go on, beat it. You’ve been wanting to hunt birds for a week. Here’s your chance. I’ll watch this joint while Bill short-changes the help.” I told him he was crazy, but he got stubborn.

And when Art got determined about something, his face looked like it had been hacked out of a piece of granite by someone that wasn’t too expert with the chisel.

Rough, but strong, if you know what I mean. I thought about Jack getting fat lolling around home and my protests got weaker.

Finally, I let Art give me a shove with his good hand, got into his coupe and drove off.

I’d give my right eye if I hadn’t.

Jack was delighted that I’d finally regained my senses, and galloped around like a fool pup when we started  out with the shotgun. I ignored his antics, knowing he’d settle down to business as soon as we got into the field.

He did, and we had a swell afternoon.

Jack found five coveys in all and I had a good bag when we turned down the rutted trail through the big woods toward the Nelson cottage on Sleepy Hollow Road.

Doris was out cutting flowers for the table.

I displayed the bag of quail.

“See,” I said, “I am a good provider. Now will you marry me?”

She pushed a wisp of reddish-brown hair into place and wrinkled her small nose at me.

“On that theory,” she pointed out, “It would be hard to choose between you and Jack.”

The setter grinned at her.

“At that,” she continued. “You might be better than that brother of mine. The big lummox promised to drive me into town to do some shopping, and now he’s disappeared with the car.”

“Your jalopy is parked down the road a mile or so,”

I informed her.

“Where we abandoned it when we hit into the fields. Meanwhile, your brother makes it possible for me to offer you half my birds by standing watchful guard over the Stacy payroll.”

There was a startled expression in her hazel eyes.

“Danny,” she said, sharply.

“You didn’t let Art go back to work with that wrist still in a cast?”

I sighed. .

“Need I point out how futile it is to argue with a Swede?” I said.

“Besides, Officer Nelson with one wrist is better than any other cop on the force with two.”

I was wrong—damnably wrong.

I got the news over home-made grape juice and cookies in the Nelsons’ pine-paneled living room.

I automatically turned the radio to the police wave-length and waited for the preliminary hum that showed a broadcast was coming.

Ed Schuster’s voice was vibrant with excitement as he started his announcement and I became tense.

I’d never heard anything but an impersonal drone from him before. It hit us squarely between the eyes and left us numb of mind and body.

It was a three-state alarm for two men—wanted for holdup and murder.

Two men in a black, panel-body delivery truck who snatched the Stacy payroll and shot and killed a policeman —Arthur Nelson — in their getaway.

The paymaster, Bill Nelson, had also been slain.

Schuster gave the usual warning to proceed with caution:

“These men are armed and may be expected to resist arrest. Number One is six feet, one hundred eighty pounds—”

But I was too dazed to hear any more.

Jack knew that something was terribly wrong.

His warm, brown eyes were anxious as he nuzzled my hand and whimpered tentatively.

I patted his silky, red head absently as my fingers curled with itching for the heavy .45 still slung in a hip holster, even on a hunting trip.

After seconds that seemed like eternity, I lifted miserable eyes to look at Doris.

All the color had been drained from her fresh, young face.

One hand was frozen in midair half way to her mouth.

Her lips were tight and her nostrils distended as she fought for control of herself.

Moisture was showing in her glazed eyes.

She caught my glance and her expression changed to a terrible hardness.

She stared at me without recognition for an instant as though I was something that had just crawled out from under a log.

Then she said with measured deliberation:

“Get out. Get out and don’t ever come back. You left a crippled man to do your work while you went hunting.”

I started up as hysteria came into her voice, but she waved me back imperiously.

“No! Don’t come near me—just get out. And never let me see you again.” It was like being lashed across the face with rawhide.

“Doris!” I pleaded.

“Don’t take it that way. It’s just one of those horrible senseless things. I’ll get them—before God, I’ll get them if it costs me my life!” She rose from her chair, steadied herself and walked into her bedroom without a backward glance. I called her mother from the kitchen, mumbled some sort of clumsy explanation, and rushed from the house.

T’VE SEEN my share of sudden death without losing a cop’s objectivity, but one long look at Art’s body was all I could take.

He had pitched forward on his face in the dusty alley and the back of his head, where the slug came out, was a bloody mess.

I thought of the twinkle in his gray eyes that belied the grimness of his set jaw when he was pretending to be tough with someone.

I went to the side of the paymaster’s shack and was sick.

Bill Nelson was dead inside the shack and his helper, a kid of about twenty, was having his head bandaged by an ambulance doctor.

I pushed in and questioned him before he was taken to the hospital. The stickup had been a smooth performance, indicating a job by professionals.

The kid hadn’t seen the first part of it, but apparently what had happened was this:

The armored truck which brought the dough had left, and Nelson and the kid were counting the money and stuffing it into pay envelopes.

Art was slouching outside the door.

A heavy truck carrying sewer pipe had just passed when a black, panel-body delivery truck pulled up and stopped.

The kid had given only a casual glance through the window and wasn’t sure, but he believed the only lettering on the truck said something like

“Gem Decorating Service.”

A tall, well-built man stepped out and asked Art where Job Number 56 was, remarking he had been called to patch up some plaster.

Art told the guy to inquire inside.

Meanwhile, the driver had got out and was wiping dust off the windshield, leaving the motor running.

The kid said he was slugged unconscious when he unsuspectingly reached for a handkerchief in his hip pocket just as the big bandit stepped inside the shack.

He hadn’t had a good look at either crook and, of course, didn’t know what happened from then on. But it appeared the kid’s unknowing false move had touched things off.

The big guy had shot Nelson—the driver had burned down Art—they had scooped up the dough in some sort of sack and beat it.

By now the place was jammed with company officials and workmen, but none of them had arrived in time to see more than the rear end of the delivery truck as it roared away.

The best Nixon’s helper could do in the way of description was the thought the big bandit was about six feet, one eighty pounds, dark complexion, wearing blue coveralls over a tan work shirt and a plasterer’s white peaked cap pulled down over his forehead.

The kid had a vague idea the driver had worn an oversize cap above large chauffeur’s goggles, a voluminous gray raincoat with collar up around the chin, and a tiny black moustache under a small nose. He was sure the driver was not over five feet six inches, but said the raincoat was too concealing for him to make any weight estimate. Larry Sterns showed up with a state trooper and the three of us went over the place, both inside and out, for clues.

We didn’t find any—at least any we could recognize.

The alley was too dusty to hold tire marks and neither bandit appeared to have dropped anything like they do in detective stories— not even a match book cover with a night club name on it.

We had Frenchy Le Prevost, our technical man, go over the shack for finger prints, but with no hope of finding any we could use. Larry Sterns was white with fury, but he didn’t take any of his rage out on me.

He would have been justified in kicking me off the force, but I guess he knew I’d already been punished worse than anything he could do to me.

After we’d finished our painstaking search, the chief told me to wait for him at the station. I slumped back into Art’s coupe, where Jack was waiting for me, and left.

I sat staring at the police radio, only half hearing Ed Schuster’s now weary voice repeating instructions to the men out on the dragnet. They thought the bridges across the river had been blocked in time to prevent an escape into the next state, which left the city and its western suburbs as the most likely location for the bandits’ hideout. They figured the pair hadn’t gone far out of town because of the state highway troopers.

The door banged open and Jack gave a warning growl, his neck hair bristling. I turned to see a man wearing a cab driver’s cap stumble in.

He skirted Jack warily and said to me bitterly,

“The dirty bastads got my cab and eighty- six Bills.”

I wearily pulled out a complaint form.

I didn’t give a damn about a cheap hacker stickup with Art dead and his killers at large.

“Okay, buddy,” I said.

“Let’s have it.”

His name was Joe Byers, he was twenty nine, and so forth.

But I jerked to attention when he told me he’d been hired at Twentieth and Overlea streets.

That was only ten blocks from the Stacy job.

His fares had directed him into the country, robbed him and taken his hack, leaving him tied to a tree.

I questioned him minutely about their description, and relaxed.

The man didn’t match up with the bandit leader’s description.

The cabbie said he was a little guy, about five feet six inches, one forty pounds and wearing a Homburg hat and brown suit.

His companion was a girl about five feet, ninety five pounds with dark hair and wearing a blue dress.

The cabbie squawked that a valuable diamond ring had been grabbed, along with his wallet and cab.

He said he had to get the dough back some way; it was company money.

The other details were short and to the point.

His passengers had directed him to leave the highway and go up Sleepy Hollow Road.

When safely away from houses, the man stuck a gun in his back. The girl lifted his wallet and ring.

Then they marched him into a nearby thicket and tied him to a tree.

“I thought they were going to kill me.”

Some fifteen minutes after he heard the cab drive away, he managed to work himself free.

He hiked back to the main highway and thumbed a ride into town. I. said:

“When did all this happen?”

He glanced at a fancy wristwatch and calculated.

“About an hour ago— that’d be about three twenty,” he told me. I told him we’d work on it and let him know.

He said he’d grab a bus to his apartment and wait until he heard from me.

“Nice looking mutt,” he said, glancing at Jack. “What’s its name?”

“He’s no mutt,” I said, shortly.

“That’s why his name is Jack.”

The setter lay languidly at my feet, but his eyes never left the hacker. The guy shrugged and said:

“Too bad he ain’t a bloodhound.”

Then he left. Larry Sterns came in after awhile looked at me morosely and went into his private office without saying anything.

I sat looking at my desktop.

I was frantic to get started on the trail of Art’s killers, but I had to have a plan of campaign.

And there seemed no place to start.

The state police would be scouring the highways, and the city cops would be probing into every part of town.

But none had the fervent personal interest that would drive them past the point of exhaustion, if necessary.

Daylight was fading when my brain wracking was interrupted by the brisk entrance of Arlington Gant.

He glared at me and said: “I might have expected to find you here doing nothing.”

I held my temper and asked him what he wanted.

He said nothing I could do, and demanded to see Sterns.

I called Larry.

“As my Home Protective Corps is not yet fully organized. Gant told him,

“I feel it my duty to turn over any clues to the police, incompetent as they are.”

“Never mind the cracks,” said Larry, quietly.

“What have you got?”

“Probably nothing of interest to your Boy Wonder here,” said Gant, looking at me scornfully.

“Merely the solution of the case that proves so baffling to the police.” He paused for effect and then went on:

“That bum, Tyler Davidson, was seen by one of my men a short while ago flashing a big bankroll in Porter’s poolroom. You may not know that Davidson was recently discharged by Nelson, the Stacy paymaster, and threatened to get even.”

Sterns looked thoughtful. News that Tyler had a bankroll was a surprise.

He’d never made any serious money since he was kicked out of professional baseball.

Gant’s pale eyes were vindictive.

“If a mere citizen may make a suggestion,” he added.

“It would be that you investigate any underworld connections of Officers Nelson and Gumbo. I don’t imagine this payroll robbery could have been planned and executed without collusion on the part of someone in authority.” I leaped forward, but Larry held me back with a massive paw on my arm.

“Son of a b—!” I grunted. “I’ll smash your face if you dare even hint Art Nelson had anything to do with that job—and Art burned down by those two timing thieves.”

“He could have been double-crossed by his own gang,” said Gant, coolly.

“It would also be interesting to know,” he went on, hurriedly,

“how it happened that the crippled officer Nelson happened to replace the uncrippled officer, Gumbo, just in time for the robbery.” I tore loose from Larry’s grasp and started for Gant.

It wasn’t too hard to break away, I noticed.

The self-appointed fuehrer backed up hurriedly and barked:

“Now, wait a minute, Gumbo. I don’t want to have to have you locked up—yet.”

I moved steadily toward him and he  scurried behind a desk. T

hen Larry halted me with a sharp command I couldn’t ignore.

“Hold it, Danny!” he ordered. “Later, maybe. But not in the station house.”

Gant looked at Larry menacingly.

“I don’t blame Gumbo for getting upset,” he sneered.

“I expect some things I’ve said hit pretty close to home. Meanwhile, I’m warning you my home protectors will be ready to take over this case within forty eight hours if the police haven’t solved it in that time—and I feel sure the public will back me up.”

He turned on his heel and left before Larry could reply.

The boss glanced at me, sighed and said:

“Hell.”

Then he walked back to his office and slammed the door.

Almost immediately there was a tap at the window to the side of the building.

I went over and found Tyler Davidson crouching in the shadows outside.

He put a finger to his lips as I started to speak and whispered quickly, “I heard what that feller said. Don’t believe him, Danny. He’s a southpaw all the way through. I never had nothing to do with no robbery. I been hunting all afternoon.”

He paused for emphasis and his brown eyes glowed at me.

“But, Danny,” he continued. “I did see Gant himself driving a black, panel-body truck into the big woods off Sleepy Hollow Road ’bout an hour ago.”

“The hell you did!” I said, startled.

I looked around to call Larry.

When I turned back, Tyler Davidson was slipping swiftly away into the shrubbery.

I just got a glimpse of his shaggy hair and the back of his ancient brown windbreaker when he disappeared.

I vaulted over the window sill, but he had too much of a start, and I returned empty-handed.

Larry sent some cops out to bring in both Gant and Davidson for questioning.

Then he and I chewed over what we’d been told by the pair.

“Mighty peculiar,” I said, thoughtfully, “how both Gant and Tyler seem to know stuff about the stickup that won’t be made public till the morning papers get out.

“For instance, how did Gant know about Tyler getting fired and threatening Nelson? And how did he know I was supposed to be on the job at Stacy’s today instead of Art?”

Larry stroked a stubble of beard and looked at me.

I went on:

“And how did Tyler know about a black panel-body truck being used in the holdup if he’s been hunting all afternoon? To say nothing of where did Tyler get the bankroll Gant said he had?”

“It’s also kind of funny how the only time Art happened to sub for you is the day a stickup is pulled,” mused Larry.

I glared at him.

“Now wait a minute,” he hurried on.

“Don’t get sore. I never believe nothing that fellow Gant says, but I’m thinking how it might look to the state cops—or the prosecutor.” The State police found the missing taxicab early the next morning. It had been driven into some woods off the main highway, several miles from where the driver said he was held up.

Neither Gant nor Davidson had been located yet, so I ran out to look at it.

There were no discernible clues and the cab was undamaged.

This wasn’t far from the big woods off Sleepy Hollow Road where Tyler said he saw Gant driving the truck, so I left the police cruiser alongside the highway and scouted across country.

Jack was with me and he couldn’t figure why I didn’t have the shotgun, but he was glad of a chance to romp without having to do any work.

I can always think better when I’m away from what passes for civilization and I mulled over the few facts we had as I strolled along under the high canopy of oaks, tulip poplars and occasional pines. There was plenty phony about the stories of both Gant and Davidson, yet the pot-bellied, red-nosed Gant didn’t seem to fit the description of either killer, and I couldn’t see the harmlessly eccentric Davidson as the murderer of a man who had been his friend.

I was more suspicious of the cab driver, even though his passengers didn’t fit what we believed to be the description of the bandits.

But I had nothing remotely resembling evidence.

The cabbie had said he’d lost a valuable ring as well as his wallet in the stickup, yet he was wearing an expensive wrist watch when he reported at the station— and I hadn’t been able to detect any mark on his fingers indicating he’d ever worn a ring.

Jack had shown he didn’t like the man, but that also wouldn’t prove anything in court.

Meanwhile, my friend since early boyhood, Art Nelson, lay on a cold undertaker’s slab with part of his face shot away, and Doris—the girl I planned to marry — was blaming me for her brother’s death. I thought of the happy times the three of us had enjoyed together and couldn’t realize it could never happen again.

I wanted to smash my fists against a tree trunk.

I didn’t find anything of interest until I reached the abandoned road over which stone once was hauled from a quarry deep in the woods. The thick mat of dead leaves had been disturbed.

People sometimes drove up here for picnics, but it was late in the year for that sort of thing now.

I followed the signs until I lost them on an outcropping of rock almost at the edge of the quarry, which long since had filled with water and now was used only as a summer swimming hole.

Jack had disappeared on private business and the hush of the forest was broken only by a squirrel scampering over dry leaves.

I was about to turn back when I realized there was a false element in the sylvan setting.

I looked around puzzled—then I got it.

There were splotches of oil on the surface of the quarry pool! Opaque shadows made it impossible to see much below the surface. I stripped off my clothes and tossed them over the nearest bush.

I nerved myself for the shock of cold water and dived in.

Down, down, I went until my fingers touched a smooth surface.

I made out the outline of a panel- body delivery truck!

My lungs were almost bursting and I came back to the surface to gulp in fresh air.

Then I went down again—three times in all.

But I could determine nothing except that there were no bodies in the driver’s compartment.

The rest must wait for a tow truck with winch and steel cable.

I shook water from my shivering body and went back for my clothes.

They were gone!

I was dumbfounded, then sore as hell.

I whistled for Jack and he showed up in a minute or two carrying my shorts.

There’s no denying a man’s best friend is his dog.

But the setter couldn’t tell me anything more and I spent twenty minutes looking for the rest of the stuff without any luck.

It had disappeared completely—including my gun and holster.

I couldn’t go back to the highway and be teased for the rest of my life.

Neither could I stay skulking in the woods.

I remembered an old shack once used by a hunt club and set out for it.

Maybe I could at least find a discarded pair of overalls.

Jack again slipped off on personal affairs.

I stopped to reconnoiter at the edge of the clearing in the rear of the shack and could see no signs of life.

But when I rounded the front corner, I froze in dismay.

A good-looking blonde clad in a nifty play suit sat in a rustic chair reading a true detective magazine.

She looked up and her eyes widened.

“I beg your pardon,” I blurted out.

“That’s all right with me,” she said, with a slight smile.

“But you better take them off before Mrs. Bethune sees you.”

“Them?” I said, still stunned.

“Yes, the shorts,” she said, impatiently. “She won’t like it for you to be wearing them.”

“You mean I should take them off?” I said, desperately.

She looked at me curiously, then laughed shortly.

“You mean because I’m dressed,” she said.

“We rent this place and even Mrs. Bethune admits it’s too chilly to sit out here in the woods without any clothes on.”

I was further out of my depth than ever, but I was beginning to be able to take in the scenery,

And it was worth seeing.

The blonde was a work of art.

Her shapely white legs had it all over those of the girl, on the magazine cover.

Dark, arched eyebrows, dark eyes and full, red lips made a striking contrast to her blonde hair.

There was nothing inexpert about the assistance nature had received.

The only incongruous note was where the left side of her face had been sunburned except for the upper part of her forehead and a white circle around her left eye.

Her nose had started to peel a little on the left side. S

he intercepted my stare and frowned.

“Someone stole the rest of my clothes,” I explained, hastily.

Her lips pursed in speculation and her eyes narrowed a bit.

“Just where did you come from?” she asked.

I gestured toward the woods.

“I was swimming in the old quarry. When I got out, my clothes were gone. I remembered this shack and thought I might at least find an old pair of trousers. But I never expected to see anyone here.”

She rose from her chair with a lithe movement.

“I’m afraid you’re trespassing,” she said bluntly.

“This is the Bethune Health Camp—for nudists.”

I looked around in alarm, but didn’t see any naked people coming at me from out of the woods.

“Where’s everybody?” I asked.

“The camp’s closed for the season,” she informed me.

“But my husband is a bird lover and Mrs. Bethune rented us this cottage for a few weeks. The regular camp members come only on weekends this time of year.”

“Then you’ve seen no one but Mrs. Bethune the last day or so?” I inquired.

“Of course not,” she said.

“Why?”

 I made an airy gesture.

“Nothing,” I said, carelessly. “One of my neighbors thought he saw a truck drive into the woods in this direction, and I just wondered what it would be doing around here.”

Her eyes flickered almost imperceptibly.

“A truck?” she said. “Why no, there’s been nothing—.”

She was interrupted by an angry oath and I turned to see a big guy striding out of the cottage doorway, bearing down on me in determined fashion.

He was well-muscled and wearing only sneakers, tan shorts and a blue polo shirt.

He had beetling black eyebrows and thin lips.

He glared at me and demanded to know what I was trying to pull.

The girl stepped back a pace or two.

I looked him over coolly and started to explain.

He cut me off curtly.

“Never mind the bull,” he barked. “I saw you making passes at Birdie.”

 I stuck my chin in his face and said:

“Now listen, mister—.”

It was a mistake.

It gave him a too good a target— and he had a left jab that flicked out with the power of Joe Louis.

I picked myself up and waded in, but my bare toe stubbed against a sharp rock and I was off balance when he sunk his right up to the wrist in my middle.

Birdie scooted up and grabbed his arm while I sat in the weeds, gasping for breath.

“No, no, Harry,” she whispered.

“Don’t you know better than to start anything around here.”

Harry grunted and watched me.

I sat up slowly and said if he’d wait just a minute we could go on where we left off.

Harry took a step forward, but the blonde jerked him by the arm fiercely and gave him a stinging slap in the face with her other hand.

He took it without a glance at her.

“Okay,” he said to her over his shoulder. “He can get out of here. But he better not snoop around here no more. Damned hicks.”

I got up, but the blonde pushed between us and faced me with alarmed eyes.

“Please go,” she begged. “He’s just so jealous.

I shrugged.

“All right,” I said, finally. “But I may see Harry again some time.”

She grabbed him tighter and he merely stood glaring as I walked back toward the woods.

I slipped behind some bushes and watched them.

They were scowling and whispering at each other.

They looked in my direction a couple of times, but I knew they couldn’t see me.

There seemed no use to spy any longer, so I imitated the call of the western meadowlark.

Jack soon loped up, tongue sweating, to find out what I wanted. Neither of the couple had glanced my way when I gave Jack the piercing whistle that was our private signal.

I still hadn’t solved the problem of clothing, but I got a break when I finally stumbled footsore out of the woods near Tom Elston’s place on Sleepy Hollow Road.

There was no one home, but the door was unlocked and I borrowed shoes from the porch and shirt and a pair of old trousers that were drying on a clothes line.

Tom didn’t have a phone, so I started up the road toward town. Then I got another surprise.

A late model brown coupe was parked off the road where a disused driveway had once penetrated the woods in the direction of the nudist camp.

The reason it was no longer used, I discovered, was because a plank bridge over a creek had been carried away by a flood and the only way to cross was by foot over some large flat stones. I noticed the only recent shoe prints were of two men—headed into the woods. Otherwise, the soft ground at the edge of the stream was undisturbed. Still no cars had passed and I trudged on toward town.

Jack suddenly shot ahead, yelping gleefully and I saw Doris Nelson picking apples off a Wine-sap tree by the road.

Jack loped up to her, panting with joy.

I’d bought him from Art as a pup, and he considered Doris almost as much his mistress as he did me his master. She was the only person except me he knew by name. Doris saw me and hastily averted her red-rimmed eyes. I hungered to take her in my arms and comfort her, but instead I stood stiffly a few feet away and said formally:

“Sorry to bother you, Doris, but I’m checking every angle on this case, and I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

She threw me a quick glance, looked away again and said:

“I can’t imagine how I could be of help to you—but go ahead.”

“This nudist camp in the woods,” I said.

“It’s a new one on me. What do you know about it?” She shrugged.

“Nothing special. It was started a few months ago and quite a few people came out until recently. The last week I’ve just seen the Woman who manages it and a young couple.”

Her voice was as cool and impersonal as if she were talking to a delivery boy she barely knew.

“Have either the woman or young couple been away from the camp recently?”

I asked.

“I haven’t seen the woman for several days,” she said.

“I saw the other two drive past in their coupe yesterday afternoon. They were headed toward the camp. I think they leave their car by the road and walk in from there.”

“Just the man and girl—no one with them?” I asked.

“As far as I know,” she said.

“I noticed the girl especially. She wasn’t wearing a hat and her hair was being blown all over.”

I made a fumbling attempt to lighten the atmosphere.

“I just met the blonde,” I said.

“She’s certainly attractive.” Doris gave me a scornful glance that made me squirm.

But I had to try to draw her out of her shell some way.

“She dolls herself up so,” I went on,

“that you’d think she was trying to get a man, instead of having one. Do you know if the fellow is really her husband?”

She elevated her nose.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” she said.

“If you are going in for nudists, it is wise to pick one with plenty of practice in putting on her face. Most of them look so leathery.”

I was getting a rise, and I grinned inwardly.

“Well, she was mighty friendly,” I said.

“Offered to help me in any way she could.”

Doris’ eyes were frostier than ever.

“You’d better go to her then,” she said, shortly.

“I’m sure you’ll find her a great help.”

And, before I could answer, she ran lightly but swiftly toward the house. I felt a little better as Jack and I continued up the road.

Larry Sterns was awaiting me impatiently and he became even more glum when I told him I didn’t have anything yet.

I said I thought I’d look up the cabbie and he nodded for me to go ahead, acting as though he thought it didn’t make much difference what I did.

I found the hacker at the address he’d given me.

He was in a dingy apartment reading the funny papers, his shoes off and a dead cigar in his mouth.

He greeted me casually.

“Locate my money yet?”

I shook my head and he grunted his disappointment.

“I sure need it,” he said. I looked him over thoughtfully and had an idea.

“Get your shoes on,” I said.

“I’ve got some suspects I want you to look over.”

He looked startled.

“No kidding,” he said.

“I’ll be right with you.” Jack sniffed at the hacker, then hopped into the back seat and lay with his head on his paws watching our every gesture.

I drove up the old road to the quarry and parked the car.

The cabbie gave no indication he’d ever been in that part of the world before and I said nothing of the truck in the quarry pool.

We walked on toward the cottage.

Jack saw a flicker of white tail and took it as a personal insult.

He bounded into the underbrush after the rabbit.

He knew we weren’t after birds and it was all right for him to play. I rapped on the front door of the cottage.

There was a moment’s silence before the blonde opened the door. Her eyes recognized me and then glanced quickly at the hacker.

I looked past her and saw a pile of canned food in a corner near the sink filled with dirty dishes.

I asked if we could come in a minute. Her eyes became watchful, but she said:

“I guess so. But what is it you want?”

I smiled at her pleasantly.

It wasn’t hard to do either.

She was wearing slacks and, judging from the contour of her shirt front, nothing under them.

“Just want to ask a few questions,” I said.

She stepped aside and we went in.

I sat down without waiting for an invitation.

There was a pair of shoes in front of my chair and they were covered with chalk-colored dust.

I stared at them and my stomach crawled toward my throat.

I wished fervently I’d replaced the gun stolen from me at the quarry. The girl looked at us questioningly.

The cabbie smirked at her and spoke before I could stop him.

“This cop made a mistake, lady,” he said. “He said he had some suspects for me to look at, but you sure ain’t one of them.”

The blonde’s face whitened under her artificial coloring.

“Cop?” she whispered.

I tried to make my smile innocent.

“Yeh,” I said.

“But the hacker’s got it all wrong. The suspects I want him to see are further down the road. I just stopped here to ask if you’d seen anything suspicious recently.”

It was a dumb stall, but the best I could think up in a hurry.

I only wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible—and get back with a gun.

All the pieces had fallen into a pattern and I thought I knew all the answers.

“If there’s nothing you can tell us,” I continued.

“We might as well be on our way.”

The girl’s face was expressionless, but I caught a look of sudden panic in the cabbie’s eyes and swung my head around swiftly. It was too late.

A crushing blow struck the base of my skull and I went out like a snuffed candle.

My last conscious thought was to recall that there was a closet door just behind my chair.

I was sprawled out on the floor like a sack of wheat when I finally came to.

The hacker was tied in a chair, his eyes wild with terror.

The blonde was expressing herself without reticence.

“From now on, I do the thinking,” she was telling the big guy, bitterly.

“You and your safe hideout in the woods! If we’d holed up in a nice apartment like I told you, no hillbilly cop would have stumbled onto us —and we’d been a hell of a lot more comfortable. Now we’re in a swell jam. We got to knock off a couple more guys and find a new place to lay low.”

I could sympathize with her annoyance.

The idea of knocking off some more guys didn’t appeal to me either. The floor was hard and I tried to  ease my position, but they heard the slight sound I made.

The girl got up with panther like grace.

Her sandals moved near me and I thought how I had always hated painted toenails on women.

I grabbed for her ankle, but I was still too foggy for good timing.

All I got was a kick in the mouth from a hard heel.

The big guy grunted.

“Take it easy, asshole,” he said, wearily. “We don’t want to have to bother messing you up first.”

I didn’t like the connotation of that “first,” but I didn’t say anything. There wasn’t much I could say—or do either.

I thought of Art Nelson with the back of his head shot off and was nauseated with helpless rage.

The hacker’s forehead was wet.

“Listen,” he pleaded.

“This guy don’t mean nothing to me. Let me out of this. I know how to keep my trap closed.”

They ignored him completely.

The blonde glared at me and said:

“How did a hick cop like you ever stumble onto our setup?”

I licked my bleeding lips where she’d kicked them and tried to grin.

“That wasn’t hard,” I said. “You gave me a lead the first time I talked to you.”

Her hard eyes looked me over balefully.

“You’re a liar,” she said, contemptuously.

The big guy was staring at her speculatively and I wondered if I could get them quarreling among themselves.

I’d heard a lot recently about this “divide and conquer” theory. I addressed him directly.

“Yes,” I said, chattily. “The blonde sure spilled the beans.”

“Keep talking,” he ordered, curtly.

“Well,” I said, “I got to thinking about the vague description of the bandit driver and it suddenly occurred to me that a big cap, goggles and long raincoat could easily be used to disguise the fact a girl was involved—and start the cops looking for two men. Then when I found the truck near this shack—”

The blonde interrupted me with some lurid language and the big guy growled at her to shut up.

Then he turned to me and said:

“Okay, wise guy, you made some lucky guesses. Only they turned out unlucky for you.”

He went on:

“Yeh, we heisted that Stacy job and Birdie figured we’d throw the cops off by making it look like two guys did it. She thinks we should use more psychology in our work. That’s what comes of reading a book.”

He looked at her with disgust, and she spit out a dirty expletive.

I tried to drag it out as much as possible, although we were buried so deep in the woods it looked like all the time in the world wouldn’t do me any good.

But I still had a chance to keep my promise to Doris and avenge Art as long as I was breathing.

I wouldn’t mind going so much if I could just take them with me.

“I had to put together a lot of little things,” I told them.

“The left side of Birdie’s face was sunburned, like she’d been cruising at the driver’s seat in a car —or truck. A circle around her eye was white, which could account for goggles. Then she’s supposed to be in a nudists’ camp and her cute legs are as pale as a whitewashed fence. Nudists are supposed to have a little tan on their hides.”

The big guy’s lips curled in a sardonic smile.

“It’s a shame to get rid of such a bright boy,” he said. “We’ll make it as painless as possible.”

I continued hurriedly.

“I began to get closer when I found you two had come out from town yesterday afternoon, yet the only fresh shoe marks coming this way past the creek were of two men. Another hint the blonde was wearing men’s stuff.”

The big guy was getting impatient.

“All right, all right,” he said. “We admit you’re smart. But what does it get you?”

He pulled out a short- barreled revolver and hefted it.

The cabbie moaned and passed out.

“Wait a minute,” I said, trying to fight off panic myself.

“Here’s the two main things that tripped you. First, the blonde said you were a bird lover, yet you paid no attention when I made this call from the edge of the woods near you. Listen.”

I wet my lips and gave the imitation of the western meadowlark.

I’d had an idea and was fighting for seconds now.

“Any bird lover,” I went on, “would have been surprised to hear that call in these parts and would have investigated. That was my first good proof there was something phony about you. Then the clincher came when I entered this room just now. Look!”

I pointed to the shoes covered with chalky dust.

Both turned their eyes automatically and I explained:

“Dry lime—stirred up from the pile spilled in front of the Stacy paymaster’s shack. Whoever wore those shoes killed Art Nelson!” That really got him.

He spun around toward me and brought up the gun.

The sights lined up with the bridge of my nose as steadily as if he was getting ready to knock down clay pipes in a shooting gallery.

“Wait a minute!” I yelled.

“Do you think I’d come here without being covered. Hell’s fire, the place is surrounded!”

It was an old lie and I was afraid it wouldn’t work.

It didn’t.

The big guy looked bored.

“You’ve been smart up to now,” he said. “Why spoil your record?” His finger started to tighten on the trigger and my throat constricted in sheer terror.

Cold sweat broke out on my forehead and I tensed myself to take it going at him.

Then everyone froze to attention.

In the breathless moment while we all awaited his shot, each of us heard a stealthy movement on the porch outside.

Everything happened at once.

As he swung toward the door, I yelled:

“Come and get them boys!”

Then I dived head-first out the window.

I was crashing through the glass before he could do more than snap a wild shot at my back.

It only clipped my arm. I rolled to my feet and ran frantically around the corner of the cottage.

There I crouched, trembling and with blood streaming down my face from cuts in my forehead where I’d gone through the window.

There was no time to get across the clearing into the woods without being shot down from behind.

I grabbed up a heavy stick and waited.

The big guy knew I was unarmed.

He jumped out the window and raced recklessly after me.

I met him at the corner with a smashing blow on the head and he went down like and axed steer.

But the blonde had gone around the house the other way and was dispassionately drawing a bead on me with a heavy automatic when I turned to face her.

It probably was the same gun that killed Art Nelson.

Then there was a flash of red through the air behind her and Jack had her by the arm, hanging on grimly.

I got there in no seconds flat and caught her on the side of the chin with a right hook.

It was the first time I ever hit a woman.

The way I figured, if she had a gun on me, all bets were off.

I got them tied up with some rope from the cottage, but I was too busy to release the cabbie for the time being.

My arm was aching where the bullet had pinked me and my cut forehead hurt like fire as I sat down with all the guns to wait for the blonde and her boyfriend to regain consciousness.

Jack came up and licked my hand anxiously, eager to know if he had done right.

I kissed him smack on the end of his cold, wet nose, and he grinned at me in huge satisfaction, his tongue lolling out a foot.

“The guy that made that ‘man’s best friend’ crack certainly wasn’t fooling,” I told the setter.

“But, boy, I sure was worried whether you were close enough to hear our meadowlark whistle when I needed someone to distract those thugs. When you crept up to that front door to see what the boss wanted, you weren’t a second too soon.”

The blonde woke up and started to curse me.

I thought of Art Nelson and told her to keep still or I’d knock her teeth down her throat.

And I wasn’t fooling.

A gruff voice behind me said:

“Drop the gun and put your hands behind your neck.”

The man sounded like he wasn’t fooling, either.

I took a chance and looked around.

It was the red-nosed Gant.

He was aiming a big Luger at me.

I started to tell him off, but his wrist straightened and I hastily dropped my gun.

I told Jack to stay.

I didn’t want him shot.

“That’s better,” Gant said. Now maybe you can explain why you have assaulted my friends here.”

“Listen,” I told him in cold fury. “You’re interfering with an officer making an arrest. I’ll see you in the can for this.”

He looked a little uncertain, but the Lugar still pointed at my belt.

The blonde was edging toward the gun I’d dropped and the big guy was stirring from his nap.

Something had to be done—and quick!

It was done, but not by me.

A rock cracked Gant on the temple and he pitched forward to the ground.

I got to the gun a split second before the blonde.

She swore some more when I waved her back beside her boyfriend. Tyler Davidson ambled out of the woods and said:

“I guess the old peg can still mow them down at home plate, eh?”

I agreed with him, whole-heartedly.

He gave the blonde and her pal one curious glance and then calmly turned back to me.

“I found Gant’s truck back of the old Lewis barn,” he informed me.

“I stole all his guns and hid them He was pretty mad when he found them gone. Then I trailed him here through the woods.”

“Nice going,” I said, “but why the hell did you steal my clothes at the quarry?”

His eyes fell.

“Damn Gumbo,” he said, sheepishly, “how’d you know it was me?”

“Jack would have made a row if it wasn’t a friend, and I couldn’t figure any friend likely to be around there except you,” I told him.  

“I thought you were looking for me on account of what Gant said. And I couldn’t afford to let you catch me until I got the goods on him. So I thought I’d slow you up a little.”

I grinned at him.

“Did you really have a bankroll at the pool room?” I asked.

He looked startled.

“Keep that quiet,” he pleaded. “My wife’ll slay me if she ever finds out I didn’t quit playing’ the ponies, like I promised.”

Gant started to stir around and I shot him questions about his truck and the guns Tyler had spirited away.

He broke down and admitted they were part of an arsenal he was collecting for his secret vigilante band.

He swore they had nothing to do with the bandits.

The big guy interrupted us.

“Hell, no,” he sneered. “This crackpot never helped us any. He ran into me here in the woods the other day and wanted me to join some sort of a cult. I kidded him along to get rid of him. Personally, I never needed any mob to back up my plays.”

He turned to the girl, sourly.

“Particularly, it turns out, I didn’t need any dumb blonde to ball things up for me.”

The blonde spat at him.

I remembered the cabbie.

I told Gant to beat it.

I’d deal with him and his arsenal later.

Tyler held the guns on the bandits while I went inside and released the shaking hacker.

“Next time,” I said, “you probably won’t think it such a smart idea to report of phony holdup to take the company out of a few dollars.”

He looked stunned and asked how I found that out.

“I didn’t until you just admitted it,” I said.

“But I figured something of the sort when I found you laying around your apartment doing nothing. If you’d really been robbed, you should have been out scrambling to make some more dough.

“At first I thought you were in with the bandits, but I finally picked up enough odds and ends to convince myself they worked alone.” Tyler’s voice came from the yard.

“Hey, Gumbo, how long I got to hold this gun on these crooks? I got to get down town before the Racing Form is sold out.”

“Just wait till I write a note,” I told him.

I addressed it to Doris and asked her to phone for Larry Sterns and a couple more cops to come and get the bandits.

I added a postscript saying I’d be over as soon as I got my wounds dressed.

I knew that would have her softened up before I got there. I stuck the note in Jack’s mouth.

“Doris! Take it to Doris!” I commanded.

The dog looked at me approvingly.

I swear he winked knowingly.

Then he loped off through the woods, his ears flopping gaily.

The End

THE GUMBO FILES

More Work By the Author

The Gumbo Files

Rule of Thumb

No Body No Crime

Faint of Heart

PI Problems

Fair Play

Detective’s Blues

Worse Than Death

Ribald

Ruckus

Louche

Foible

Lucid

Guise

Pecadillo

Crash Corpse

Collection

Young Man’s Game

It was utterly silly for me to feel like that—getting prickles along my spine because it was just after dark, and I was going into an empty house and stay there.

All by myself, in the nasty dark.

“You dope, Danny Gumbo,” I thought.

I stopped at the gate and took a look around at the neighborhood.

It wasn’t much of a neighborhood. Just old houses and all dark.

If they were occupied, people went to bed early out here.

I took another gander at the house and didn’t particularly like it.

It had a mottled, leprous look, because the dim light from the street lamp on the corner passed through the bars, and dead trees in the front yard made stripes and blotches of shadow.

Before I went into the house, I made a round trip of the outside.

I found that the back door was closed and locked, and all the windows were closed.

There wasn’t any garage or shed out back.

Just a high wooden fence at the alley edge of the back yard.

Inside, there was a hallway leading back to a staircase, and just before the staircase were doorways opening to rooms on either side. The doorway on the left was a double one, with an old-fashioned sliding door, now shoved back into the wall.

I took a look around that room first, because that was the one in which I was to spend the night. It was just an empty room as far as I could see.

I looked around the rest of the house and didn’t see anything out of the way.

Just eight empty rooms.

There was a door that looked as if it might lead up to an attic, but it was locked, and my key didn’t fit.

Well, my instructions hadn’t been to search the house, anyway —just to spend the night in it, downstairs.

I went back down and got set for my vigil.

I’d had sense enough to bring a newspaper to sit on, so I spread it out on the bare floor and sat down.

I turned off my flashlight, because the batteries wouldn’t last if I kept it going all night.

I sat there for an hour, and nothing happened.

Every once in a while a train went by along the tracks just beyond the alley, and the whole house shook.

Another hour went by, and I was almost beginning to hope something would happen.

This was an easy way to earn twenty bucks, but if I ever took another assignment like this, I thought, I would bring a thermos bottle of java, extra flashlight batteries, and a good book.

Or a blonde.

I stood up to stretch and yawned.

It was the kind of yawn where you have to make a noise, low and loud and completely beyond control.

Then, with startling suddenness, there was a sound as if the house were falling down.

It wasn’t a train this time.

It was a noise that came from the stairs.

Yanking the flashlight out of my pocket, I flicked it on and threw its beam through the big double doorway.

I must have been pretty quick, because the guy was still falling when I got the light on him.

He ended up with his head on the floor of the hallway and his feet still on the bottom step of the stairs and lay there, limp and quiet, as though he were dead.

He was dead, all right, because when I got there and put my hand where his heart ought to be beating, it wasn’t.

If that final crack I’d heard had been his head hitting against the floor, there wasn’t any wonder about that.

There was a strong smell of cheap whiskey, the kind that’s peddled around the streets for two bits a pint.

And the concrete jungles was where he’d come from— there wasn’t much doubt about that.

His clothes were worn and dirty misfits, and his grayish hair was matted and unkempt.

One side of his face was ugly and swollen with a bruise that couldn’t have come from this fall.

Aside from that, his face was pasty gray.

Obviously, a bum.

But a corpse is a corpse, the law being no respecter of persons, and I’d have to notify the police about this one.

I wasn’t feeling any too cheerful as I went out and searched for a place where cell service worked.

Death is death, even if it’s only a drunken bum who’s killed himself. Anyway, I thought, maybe I’d found the answer to the haunted house angle.

If the homeless used it as a boarding house, that might account for the noises and lights—if it was on a basis of noises and lights that this house had got its reputation.

Powell hadn’t told me.

“I’d rather that you went there without any preconceptions. Imaginative people sometimes see what is not there,” he’d said,

“I’m not imaginative, Mr. Powell,” I’d cut in.

He smiled.

“Even unimaginative people sometimes tend to see and hear things they expect to see and hear—you understand?”

“I see what you mean,” I told him, “but I don’t agree. In my own case, I mean. A private detective doesn’t do any dreaming.”

“Even a private detective. I’ve talked this over with Mr. Wagner, our chairman, and he agrees. Anyway, what have you to gain by knowing what to expect tonight in the way of—uh— manifestations?”

“Nothing,” I’d admitted.

It took ten minutes to reach the high point of a hill that lined up my cell signal with a tower.

The house was in a dead zone.

Or maybe it’s the “ghosts,” I sniffed.

Then I remembered the reason I trekked out her and realized maybe there might be a new ghost in the mix.

After I’d made the call, I started back the six or seven blocks to the house.

The nearest squad car would be notified by radio, I figured, and if it was in the neighborhood, it would probably be there before I got back.

It was.

There was a police car parked in front.

Blocks away, I heard the siren of the police ambulance coming. Inside the house, I could see flashlights moving around, one upstairs and one downstairs.

The man upstairs must have heard my footsteps, for he threw up a window and leaned out, throwing the beam of his flashlight on me as I walked through the gate.

“Danny Gumbo,” he called out.

His face was in the shadow, but the voice was that of Sergeant Carroway.

“What the hell you doing here?”

“I put in the call, Sarge,” I called back. “I saw the guy fall down the stairs.”

“What guy?” he asked.

From the tone of his voice I knew he wasn’t ribbing me, but just the same I went on into the house on the double.

The body wasn’t there.

Sergeant Carroway came downstairs with a funny look on his face, and another officer—one I didn’t know—showed up from the room I’d been sitting in up to a half hour, or less, ago.

“He was lying right there!” I said and pointed out the spot. “And I saw him fall. Or anyway, I saw him land.”

“Sure he was dead?” asked the man I didn’t know.

“Sure I’m sure,” I said. “I put two fingers on his neck and everything. His heart wasn’t beating. He looked dead.”

“You an expert on the subject?”

I couldn’t tell if he was ribbing me or if he was a 24/7 jerk off.

Since I liked to give people the benefit of the doubt, sometimes, I kept my mouth closed.

Carroway was still looking at me with that goofy expression.

“You wouldn’t be kidding us, would you, Gumbo?” he said.

“Not about this,” I said.  “If it was a joke, why would I come back after calling it in?

“I suppose you had business here?”

I nodded.

“And my client had permission from the owner of the house for me to use it. I had a key.”

I showed it to him.

The ambulance was stopping out in front.

“Walt,” Carroway said to the other policeman, “go tell them it’s a false alarm.”

Then he said to me,

“Gumbo, you’ll have to go down to headquarters with us to make a report of this. And it ain’t going to do your rep any good. What were you looking for here tonight?”

“Ghosts,” I told him.

I even kept my face straight doing it.

His eyes narrowed a little.

“If you know this place is haunted,” he said, “didn’t you know that the ghost is supposed to be that of a bum who fell downstairs here fifteen years ago?”

“No, I didn’t know that,” I said.

“All right, so we’ll go in to headquarters. But first, is it okay if I take another look around this place, inside and out?”

“Sure. Take your time, and we’ll help you.”

I heard the ambulance drive away, and the cop named Walter came back in.

We went over the house thoroughly, even going up into the attic this time, as Carroway had a skeleton key that opened the door.

We looked outside in the yard and a block each way in the alley. Then I went back again and checked on whether the windows could be opened from the outside.

Several of them could be.

Someone could have got in easily enough.

Getting out would have been easier, for I hadn’t locked the front door when I went to phone.

We got into the squad car and drove downtown.

Of course, Captain Baker was on duty.

That was my luck. I’d tangled with Baker before, and he was going to make the most of this.

He was grinning before Carroway got halfway through his story. Then he wiped off the grin and glowered at me, pretending he wasn’t enjoying it.

“What’s your side of it, Gumbo?” he scowled.

I told him. I’ll admit it sounded rather incredible here at headquarters.

“And just what were you doing there?” he asked.

“I don’t think my client will have any objection to my telling,” I said,

“but can I phone him first? I’d like to be sure.”

He scowled and growled for a few minutes but then nodded, and I went out into the hall for some privacy.

I looked up Powell’s home number in my contacts and called it.

He sounded sleepy and annoyed when he answered, but when I told him the story, he was wide awake, all right.

“Sure,” he said, “tell the police anything they want to know. Then come on around here. I’ll wait up.”

I went back into Captain Baker’s office.

“It’s okay,” I told him. “I was hired by the Psychic Research Society. Or, by Mr. Norman Powell, acting for the society. I was to spend the night in that house—2134 Greene Street—and report on anything that happened—if anything did.”

Baker chuckled.

“And you say Powell didn’t tell you the history of the house?”

“No. He told me I’d be less likely to imagine things if I didn’t know the details. I gathered from Powell that he hadn’t considered this much of a job in itself, but he put me on it as a test of my nerve—or nerves. He had other work in mind.”

“What kind of other work?”

“The society—I hear it was organized recently to do a lot of investigating— fake mediums and reported phenomena of any sort. They expect to use a private detective. Me, I hope. Powell said they needed a man who wasn’t afraid of ghosts and bogies—who wasn’t superstitious. I’m not and I didn’t see a ghost tonight. A bum did fall down those stairs. The only answer is that I was mistaken in thinking he was dead.”

“Can’t you tell whether a guy’s dead or not?”

“I thought I could. Come to think of it, I still think he was dead.”

“Give us a description of the guy. We’ll make a check of the hospitals and the morgue, just in case.”

I gave him as good a description as I could.

Baker jotted it down.

Feeling like a fool, I made my escape.

II

Fortunately , Mr. Powell’s place was only a dozen blocks from headquarters, so I walked.

He had turned on the porch light and must have heard my footsteps, for he opened the door for me before I reached it.

He led me into a small room, obviously a den.

“Sit down, Gumbo,” he said and picked up a decanter. “Like a highball strong or medium?”

“Sorry,” I told him, “but when I’m working, I never drink.”

“Admirable. But let’s consider that you’re through working for now. Wouldn’t it be rather anti-climactic for you to go back there tonight?”

I grinned.

“All right, but don’t make it too strong. I am going back there after we’ve finished talking. I want to look around again and take my time at it.”

“What would you expect to find?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Powell.”

I took the drink he handed me and sipped it appreciatively.

“But I’m going to look through the house thoroughly and I’m going to walk a bit both ways along the tracks, particularly toward the yards. That fellow went somewhere.”

“Are you sure?”

“Am I sure? Oh, I see what you mean. Yes, I’m sure. I don’t believe in the supernatural.”

“You gave me only the rough story over the phone,” he said.

“Tell me everything that happened, from the time you entered the house.”

I did, talking slowly, trying to remember every little detail as well as I could.

When I finished, he asked,

“Was a train going by at the time you heard his fall?”

I thought a minute.

“I believe one had just gone by, but the sound had died away by the time he fell. The noise was startling and it came out of a silence.”

“Then he could have entered and gone upstairs while that train was passing, and you wouldn’t have heard.”

“I wouldn’t have heard unless he’d been pretty noisy about it. The tracks are just back of the house, and the whole place shook whenever a train passed.”

“But if he’d walked around upstairs just before he actually fell, you’d have heard that. The train had gone on. He must have stood still there at the head of the stairs, for a minute or two. At any rate, during the time between the train’s passing and the—uh—dying away of the sound.”

I nodded.

“That seems in line,” I said. “He was probably drunk, possibly ill, as well. After negotiating the stairs, he could have stood a minute at the top, feeling dizzy or faint, unable to go on, and then fallen.” “Exactly. But now the more serious difficulty. Your—uh—diagnosis of death. How sure were you?”

“I was plenty sure,” I said. “I put my hand inside his shirt to find out whether his heart was beating.”

“Was the skin warm or cold to the touch?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t touch his skin. He was wearing a slip-over undershirt, so I didn’t try to get my hand inside it. But I checked for a pulse on his neck and then held my hand right over where his heart should have been beating and I held it there long enough to be sure.”

“You don’t concede that you might have made a mistake? After all, you were startled. From his appearance and from the way he lay, you probably assumed he was dead. And the beating of a man’s heart, particularly a faint beating, isn’t something that thumps his chest up and down. It could be missed, especially if one didn’t expect to find it.”

The doorbell rang. Powell stood up.

 “I phoned Zack Wagner and waked him, too. He said he’d drop around. Please excuse me.”

I groaned mentally at the thought of going over the whole story again.

First, Carroway, then Baker, then Powell, and now Wagner.

But I didn’t really mind so much, because I was glad of the chance to meet Wagner.

He was the head of the Psychic Research group, and although Powell had hired me tentatively, he had given me to understand that whether or not I got the real job—a permanent assignment—depended on how their chairman, Zack Wagner, liked my work.

Mr. Wagner’ opinion of me would make the difference between twenty bucks for one night’s work or a lot of invoices from now on. The Psychic Research Society wasn’t a penny-ante outfit.

It had only a dozen or so members and only half that many active ones.

But the members, mostly, were prominent business men who could afford to gild their hobbyhorse.

Wagner was an attorney; Powell was the owner of a department store.

Stan Koch was an oil millionaire who, I’d heard, had been made a sucker of by several fake mystics and who had recanted his superstitions and was now helping expose as many fakers as he could find.

Those three I knew of, and one other, who wasn’t a business man. I’d never heard of Goldman, but he had a reputation as a no nonsense sort.

Goldman was retired now, but he still interested himself in exposing mediums and duplicating their tricks, in the Houdini tradition. Powell came back with Wagner, a big, slow-moving man, who looked stupid until you caught his eyes.

He introduced us, and Wagner held out his hand.

“I suppose Norman has pumped you dry, but can you stand telling it again?”

I grinned.

“My time is yours. You’re paying for it.”

 I let Powell talk me into having a second drink before I began.

The story was easier to tell this time.

Practice had made me perfect.

It was three o’clock by the time they got through with me.

Wagner had come in his car and when he learned that I intended to go back to the house on Green Street, he dropped me off there on his way home.

He asked me to report to him at his office whether or not I found anything of interest.

I went through the house and the yard with a fine-tooth comb and didn’t find a thing.

That struck me, before I’d finished the search, as being odd in more ways than one.

I mean that I had assumed, from the presence of the hobo, that tramps had known the house was empty and had used it.

But certainly they would have left some traces, and there were none.

It was getting light in the east by the time I finished.

I went out into the alley, had a fruitless look from one end of it to the other, and then climbed over the wire fence that separated the alley from the railroad property.

I walked on into the jungles.

I saw a few homeless huddled around fires, indistinct features wrapped in layers of ratty clothing.

They were cooking their breakfast around a common fire.

None of them even remotely resembled the man I had seen last night. I walked around the end of a string of reefers and there, sitting on the coupling of the last one, was a man I recognized. 

Shorty was a panhandler who had been around town longer than I had and who knew the underside of it better than he knew the palm of his hand.

It wasn’t easy for anyone to overlook him as they often did the denizens of the street.

Shorty was six and a half feet tall.

His eyes lighted up when he saw me and he waved.

“Say, Mr. Gumbo,” he said, “can you spare a buck?”

“Sure,” I said. I handed him a five. “Shorty, I’m looking for a guy. Just for information. He isn’t wanted.”

And I gave the best description I could. Shorty thought a minute, and then shook his head.

“Didn’t see a guy like that.”

“Shorty,” I said, “there’s a house just north of the tracks, about six blocks out that way.” I described it.

“Sure,” he said. “That joint’s haunted. What about it?”

“Anybody ever go there to camp?”

His eyes got wide.

“You kidding me, Mr. Gumbo? Sheesh, nobody would go any nearer that place than the tracks.”

“Okay. Listen, if you see the guy I described, drop around and let me know. It’s worth a Benji if you do.”

He nodded his lined face and gave a snaggletooth grin.

He would keep an eye out for a gray-haired tramp with a bruised face, all right.

A Benji would be a fortune for him.

I went home and slept till noon, and then waked myself up with a cold shower.

I decided to stop in at my own office before going to see Zack Wagner.

Not that there was likely to be anything of importance awaiting me there, but there might be something.

The office, incidentally, is only half mine, although my name is the only one on the door, and I pay all the rent.

The explanation is Beck Sharpe.

Beck Sharpe is a screwball.

I had known Beck for a long time, and we liked each other, maybe because we were pretty much opposites.

Beck’s a mystic and writes books about it.

I don’t mean he claims to be a medium or gazes into crystals.

But it’s his hobby, and he has a small income, so it doesn’t matter if most of his books aren’t published and if the ones that do see print don’t sell many copies.

Beck had suggested that the desk in my outer office would be an ideally secluded spot for him to do his writing, and in exchange for the use of it, he would answer my telephone and make a noise like a secretary.

That suited me fine.

It suited him fine too.

He was right about it being a secluded spot.

He had been answering an average of one phone call a day, which isn’t heavy labor to exchange for the use of an office to write in.

But my first real break, just yesterday, had come through Beck.

He knew a few members of the society and when he had learned that they intended to use professional help in their investigations, he had recommended me and talked Powell into giving me a crack at the job.

Beck looked up when I walked into the office, beaming at me through his thick spectacles.

“I’ve been hoping you’d come in, Gumbo,” he said. “Tell me about it.”

“How much did Powell tell you?” I asked.

“Powell? I haven’t seen Powell. All I know is what was in the news.”

I stood there, stunned, for a minute.

The news?

I hadn’t thought of the news and what they would do with a story like last night’s.

But where had they got it?

Surely, Powell or Wagner wouldn’t have given it to them.

The Psychic Research Society didn’t go in for publicity and surely they wouldn’t give the papers a half-baked, unproved story like that.

Then I remembered the way Captain Baker had grinned, and I had all the answer I needed.

I groaned.

I saw the papers laying on Beck’s desk and grabbed for them.

Both morning papers and the city edition, which comes out at noon, of one of the afternoon sheets.

I ddin’t have to hunt for it in any of them.

Editors’ minds must run in similar channels, for it was a boxed story on the front page of each of them.

One of them was headed: DETECTIVE VERSUS GHOST

Another exploited: MYSTERY OF THE VANISHING CORPSE

The third headline said: SHAMUS STALKS SPECTER

“Tell me all,” Beck begged.

“Shut up, Beck.”

The fourth estate had really gone to town on that story.

It was a joke, the way they told it.

A joke, that is, to everybody but me.

From now on, maybe the Psychic Research bunch would use my services, but nobody else in his right mind would.

“Give me a minute, Beck,” I said and dug my cell phone out of my pocket.

I called the morgue and the four hospitals that took emergency cases and I drew five blanks.

No john does brought in, drunk or injured, or both.

Another call told me that Wagner wasn’t in his office.

“Should I go wait, or do I go to his home?” I mused to myself and got an answer from Beck.

“His home. Listen, Danny, about this manifestation. Can you tell me about it?”

“All right,” I gave in.

“I’ll tell you. But let’s eat while we talk. I haven’t had breakfast, and you say you haven’t had lunch.”

 So, over eggs and coffee, I had to tell the story once more.

III

“There was a call for you,” Beck said.

“Stan Koch wants to see you this afternoon.” I whistled.

“The oil millionaire! Don’t tell me— Had he read the papers?”

“I suppose so,” Beck said.

“He’s a member of the society and he’d be interested. More interested than most of them because he’s less skeptical than most.”

“You know him, Beck?”

“Not me, Danny. I don’t move in such exalted circles. I know Powell and Wagner and Goldman, and that’s all. But I made an appointment for you to see Koch at four o’clock. Is that okay?”

“Sure,” I said. “Has he got an office?”

An hour later, at Wagner’ office, his secretary told me to go right in. Zack Wagner frowned when he saw me.

He shook hands with all the cheerfulness of an undertaker.

“Gumbo,” he said, “I’m afraid we won’t be able to use you any more. Not for a long time, anyway.”

I didn’t quite get it.

“I’m sorry if you don’t like my work, Mr. Wagner.”

“It’s not your work, at all, Mr. Gumbo. It’s the publicity. You’ve seen the papers, haven’t you? Our group doesn’t like publicity at all, and publicity of that kind, well—”

“Oh,” I said.

“It ties up with us. We want whatever investigator we use to remain undercover and not be known as a detective working for us. I’m sorry it happened. It’s partly my fault, I’ll admit. If it had occurred to me, we might have stopped that story. But you didn’t tell us you had seen any reporter.”

“I didn’t. But I should have guessed that Captain Baker would give them the story.”

I stopped, because there wasn’t any use in bellyaching over what an ass Baker had been.

“Maybe a few months from now,” Wagner said, “when this has blown over, we’ll be able to throw some work your way. Incidentally, you can bill us for two days instead of one. Powell wants to talk to you again, and Stan Koch wants to get the story from you firsthand, too.”

He smiled.

“So it’s only fair, since we’re taking up your full time today, practically, for us to pay you for it.”

 “Thanks,” I said, because two hundred bucks is good and it would pay the office rent for another two weeks.

I told him about my talk with Shorty and about my search of the Greene Street house.

Finally, I stood up to leave, and then thought of something.

“By the way,” I said, “if Shorty does find out who that fellow was— I mean, if I can prove to the police that I wasn’t seeing things and that a man really did fall down those stairs, does that change the picture any?”

He thought it over a minute.

“I believe it would—partially, at least. I’ll promise that the newspapers will eat the words of those stories they printed today, and that will put you and the society in quite a different light.”

After I left Wagner’ office, I phoned Powell and made an evening appointment.

Then I splurged on an Uber out to the expensive suburb where Stan Koch’s home was located.

I had thought butlers existed only in the movies, but a real butler let me into the Koch mansion and took my hat.

“Mr. Koch’s expecting you,” he said.

“He’s in—”

But Koch beat him to it by popping out of a doorway down the hall, much as a mouse would pop out of a hole.

He looked like a mouse, too.

I don’t know just why.

It wasn’t his size, for he was of average height and build.

Maybe It was because of his eyes. They were small and shiny, like shoe buttons.

And his manner was quick and furtive, fearful.

“You Danny Gumbo?” he said. “My study’s here. Come on in.”

He pulled up a chair for me with jerky movements, and then sat down on the edge of the desk.

“Powell told me about your experience,” he said.  “I know the facts about it. I want your opinion.”

“My opinion about what?”

“The significance of what happened, of course. Was it or was it not a psychic experience?”

“It was not,” I said.

“But how can you be so sure?”

“Because,” I told him, “I don’t believe in psychic experiences. There is a possible physical explanation, so I accept it.”

“So you’re a skeptic,” he said. “Would you care to earn five hundred dollars, Gumbo?”

I admitted that I would.

“It’s worth that to me to know what really happened last night. If you can prove one way or the other what happened, I’ll pay you that.” 1

I lookedat him curiously.

Five hundred bucks is a lot of money to pay out just to satisfy your curiosity.

Then I remembered it wasn’t much for him.

Five hundred dollars meant as much to Koch as five cents meant to me, and I’d sure give a nickel myself for that information.

I grinned at him.

“I’ll try,” I said, “but it doesn’t seem too good a chance. If that dead man’s still in town, I might find him, but if he took the next freight out, then I haven’t much hope. I take it that producing the gentleman in question would constitute proof.”

“Adequate proof, yes, if your experience was a physical one.”

“And if it wasn’t—I’m just asking out of curiosity, because I can’t believe that it wasn’t—how the devil would I prove it? Bring the ghost here?” He smiled, but I couldn’t tell whether there was humor in the smile or not.

“I imagine that the fact that you wouldn’t be able to bring it would prove the fact to you,” he said. “You’re suggesting that I repeat my stay at the house and see if somebody falls down the stairs again? Um—and if the same guy falls down again, I could sit on his chest and yell for help instead of leaving him. If he vanishes out from under me, he’s a ghost. That the idea?”

“It sounds absurd when you put it that way, I’ll admit.”

“And if I became convinced, through another experience, that it was a ghost, you’d take my word for it?”

“I would. I took the trouble to investigate you, Mr. Gumbo, before I phoned your office. I’m convinced that you are honest and sincere. I hope you’ll forgive me for investigating you.”

I laughed.

“Detectives are so used to investigating other people that it wouldn’t occur to one to feel hurt because someone investigated him. Fewer con men would make fortunes if investigations were more common.” “Exactly.” said Koch.

He hesitated before speaking again.

“I must admit that I have been victimized myself in the past. Several mystics from whom I have taken advice turned out not to be disinterested. By the way, is the society going to use you in further investigations of Joy Steiner?”

“Who is Joy Steiner?”

“A most remarkable medium and a— uh—extremely attractive one. Norman Powell found her. Incidentally, something she told me makes me particularly interested in what happened last night.” “Something she told you? What?”

“Several days ago she told me that an experience someone else was going to have would have a profound effect on my life.”

I didn’t get it.

I just looked at him.

“Don’t you see? Frankly, I have been wavering in my belief in the supernatural. It is difficult fully to credit phenomena in séances. But an unusual experience like yours— It would weigh a lot with me to be convinced beyond doubt that you really saw an apparition.”

Sucker, I thought.

No wonder Koch had been victimized if he was as gullible as all that.

A vague statement—

“An experience someone else is going to have soon will have a profound effect on your life.”

Anything could be made to fit a vague prediction like that. I went downtown, phoned the hospitals and morgue again—without luck— and then went to Norman Powell’s place to keep my appointment. Powell, it turned out, merely wanted a full account of what I had done after I left his house the night before, and most of what I told him was just a repetition of my talk with Koch.

I didn’t leave Powell until eleven.

I let him think I was going home.

I thought that the fewer people who knew I was going back to the house on Greene Street, the better.

I got there, and there was the house with its scabrous front of peeling gray paint, further mottled by the tree’s shadow.

A dead house and a dead tree.

I hesitated with one foot on the first step of the porch steps when I remembered that I hadn’t brought a flashlight with me.

Nothing was going to happen here tonight, I told myself, so why go in at all?

Why not go home and catch up on sleep?

At any rate, I told myself, I wouldn’t accomplish anything here tonight.

I wouldn’t be able to search the place and I would be at a disadvantage if anything did happen.

But what could happen, unless another manifestation of the supernatural?

“Another?” I asked myself. “What do you mean, you dope, by another?”

In spite of calling myself names, I was a bit afraid to go in.

That’s why I went.

It doesn’t do to give way to yourself in something like that. If you give in once, you’re sunk.

The door wasn’t locked.

I didn’t need the key, which was still in my pocket.

I tiptoed down the hall toward the stairs.

Don’t ask me why I tiptoed.

It was not because I thought anyone was there.

If anyone had been there, they would have heard me, anyway.

I got to the foot of the stairs.

“Hello, Danny,” a voice said in the semi-darkness.

I didn’t shriek.

Not too loud, anyway.

“Beck!” I exclaimed. “What the hell are you doing here?”

He laughed in the darkness.

“I had a hunch you’d show up here.”

“Beck,” I said, “I didn’t know I was coming here myself until late this afternoon. What made you so darn sure I’d come?”

“Don’t talk so loud, Danny. Come in here and sit down. Matter of fact, we mustn’t talk at all, after a while. Silence is almost as important as darkness. I’m hoping there will be a manifestation tonight.”

“Horse hockey!” I said. “There aren’t any— Oh, skip it!”

A haunted house isn’t the place to get into an argument about haunted houses, I thought.

“But you didn’t answer my question,” I said. “What made you think I’d come here?”

“Just a hunch,” said Beck.

“I didn’t come here to meet you, Danny. I’m expecting other company.”

“Other company?” I echoed blankly.

For an instant I thought he meant the ghost.

“Goldman,” said Beck, as though that explained everything.

“The magician?”

“Yes. Have you met him yet?” “No,” I said.

“The Psychic Research members I’ve met thus far are Powell, Wagner, and Stan Koch.”

“Goldman’s smarter,” said Beck.

“Powell and Wagner aren’t fools, but Goldman has methods which they lack. He knows the tricks of the trade inside out. He’s exposed dozens of mediums.”

“The devil you say. You admire him for that when you say you believe in mediums?”

“Don’t be an ass, Danny. Because I believe in psychic phenomena doesn’t mean I believe in fake mediums as well as real ones. And there are probably a hundred fakes to every known genuine one.”

“By the way,” I said, “if Goldman is coming here, how’d you know I wasn’t he?”

Beck laughed.

“Because of the noise you made tiptoeing around. Goldman would either walk openly, or I wouldn’t have heard him at all. He said he’d be late.”

Then, as abruptly as it had happened last night, the house fell down again— or seemed to!

Bump — thud — bump — bang!

Something was falling down the stairs.

I jumped up and I heard Beck gasp and get to his feet, too.

“Have you got a light?” I asked.

But by that time Beck had it on, and its spot, feebler than the bright light I’d the night before, shone through the double doorway and on the thing that lay at the foot of the stairs.

It was a body!

Again!

I ran toward it, and so did Beck.

Then, a yard away from it, I put out my hand to stop Beck.

“Wait,” I said.

“That’s not a man— that’s a wax figure!”

There was a chuckle from down the hall.

“Your eyesight is very good, my young friend,” said a voice that was not Beck’s.

Beck turned the flashlight that way.

“Hello, Goldman,” he said.

I’d have taken him for the devil, myself.

He had the face and the build for it, as well as the voice and the clothes.

A black top-hat and black magician’s cape.

He was tall and slender and had a long, thin face with a pointed chin.

There was a devilish grin on his face.

He stood so straight that you didn’t realize he was old until you noticed that his hair was pure white.

“And you’re Danny Gumbo, then?” he said. “Koch told me you’d be here, so I came along.”

“Just a minute,” I said. “This dummy never fell down the stairs. The wax would have cracked.”

He chuckled again.

“Beck was right about you, Gumbo. You do think quickly. No, it didn’t fall down the stairs. I placed it there. The sound of the fall is a recorded sound effect. I played it on a speaker around the corner.”

“But why?” I wanted to know. “What’s it all about?”

He strolled forward toward us, and I noticed that the thick crepe-rubber soles of his shoes made no sound at all.

“To eliminate a possibility, Mr. Gumbo I hope you’ll forgive me. But I wanted to be sure that no one had played a practical joke on you last night.”

“It wasn’t any dummy I saw and touched last night if that’s what you mean,” I said.

“That’s what I meant, and I believe you now. Not only did you spot the deception before you came within reach of it, but you kept your head enough to realize that, being wax, it could not have fallen and remained intact.”

“Anyone would have thought of that, wouldn’t they?”

“Later, yes. Not at once. Was your flashlight in good condition?”

“Brighter than Beck’s,” I said.

“Do you know any reason why someone would have wanted to—uh—impose on me in that particular way last night?”

I thought he hesitated before he shook his head.

We watched while Goldman moved the dummy out of the hallway. Then, using a bright flashlight of his own, he bent over to examine the floor at the foot of the stairs.

I had looked there, too, but I hadn’t used a magnifying glass. Goldman did.

He said,

“Ah!” finally.

I couldn’t see anything there from where I stood and I bent closer. He handed me the glass and pointed to a spot.

I knelt beside him and looked.

There were a few grains of a white powder.

With infinite care, Goldman gathered what he could of them into a tiny envelope. I asked what he thought it was.

“I don’t know,” he said, “but I’ll guess. Talcum powder. I’ll show it to a chemist tomorrow.”

“Talcum powder?” I thought hard.

“But bums don’t use talcum. Unless— Goldman, did the original tramp who died here have gray hair?”

The magician grinned.

“He did, my boy, he did. Our minds, I see are running in the same channel.”

Maybe they did, I thought, but mine didn’t run very far.

If someone had wanted the bum of last night to fit whatever description of the original one was recorded, then talcum powder could easily turn dark hair gray.

But why?

If Goldman had any idea about that, he was miles ahead of me.

“You think the body I found last night was made up to resemble that man who died here?”

“To the extent of the hair, yes I’ve checked into the records, and no photograph was taken of that body. I don’t imagine any actual make-up was used. If it was, I think there’d be traces of grease-paint here as well as powder.”

Beck came over to join us.

“Goldman,” he said, “did someone powder that fellow’s hair, or did he do it himself?”

“We’ll ask him,” Goldman said.

Beck’s eyes widened.

“I hadn’t thought of that. Goldman, that suggestion from you! I thought you didn’t believe in the supernatural.” The magician chuckled.

“I don’t believe, Beck. But he might give us an answer anyway. What do you say to a séance at my place tomorrow night?”

“Just the three of us?” Beck asked.

“Oh, no. We’ll ask any of the society members who want to come and make it a real circle. I’ve been promising them one, told them I’d duplicate the materialization technique Walter Atwell used to use—until I caught him at it. It will be highly educational, I assure you. You can come, Gumbo?”

I told him it would take a shotgun to keep me away.

Nothing more happened that night.

IV

The next day I chased down a few blind alleys, including a trip to the jungles to see Shorty, and then caught a few hours’ sleep before I looked up Beck to go to Goldman’s with him.

Goldman’s place was a bachelor flat.

He had taken all the furniture out of one room, leaving it utterly bare, except for eight plain chairs and a small table with a speaker and a few boxes and pieces of paraphernalia in one corner.

Wagner and Koch were there when I arrived, as was another member of the society whom I had not yet met and who was introduced to me as Harold Phelan.

Powell was the last to arrive.

A few minutes later, Goldman took the floor.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “most of you were at the séance given by the medium, Atwell, at which we exposed some of his tricks. But some of you had attended previous séances of his at which I was not present. You, Mr. Koch, in particular, wanted to know how he could have achieved certain effects at those previous séances. Tonight I’ll try to duplicate them and explain them afterward.”

Koch, I saw, was sitting on the edge of his chair, all excited attention.

He watched Goldman as a mouse might watch a cat.

The magician cleared his throat.

“We’ll try to duplicate the procedure and precautions which I’ve been told you used at those séances. Two of you— let’s say Koch and Powell—may search me and examine my clothing, while the rest of you search the room. You brought rope to tie me with, Wagner?”

Zack Wagner nodded.

“The same rope we used on Atwell.”

I took a moment to swallow.

These men meant business.

We all went into the empty room and subdivided among us the work of examining and sealing the room. Meanwhile, Koch and Powell frisked Goldman.

At Goldman’s instructions, we put the speaker in a corner of the room and near it the other objects that had been on the table.

I saw now that they were a speaking trumpet and tambourine.

Then the table went into the center of the room and the seven chairs in a circle about it.

Wagner and Powell then tied Goldman in the arm chair, using thin clothesline and tying his wrists tightly to the arms of the chair and his ankles to the legs.

 “All but one of you sit down now,” Goldman directed.

“You, Powell, start the speaker, then turn off the light. Be sure you can find your way to the empty chair before you push the switch.” The speaker started grinding out Lead Kindly Light, and the light switch clicked.

Utter darkness.

The speaker played about a minute, then stopped abruptly as though someone had lifted off the needle.

The sudden silence was almost startling.

Complete silence and complete blackness.

Time seemed to have no existence in that void.

My imagination began to play tricks.

My eyes tried to make shapes out of darker splotches of darkness. And this, I thought, is an avowedly fake séance.

What must be the psychological effect of the real thing upon those who believe in it?

The speaker started again, taking up at just the point where it had broken off before.

I heard someone whisper, “The table!” and I reached forward for it.

It wasn’t where it should have been.

I raised my hands, and the backs of them touched the bottom of it.

It had evidently been made to levitate and seemed to be rocking.

The tambourine in the corner rattled, and the table fell, thudding against the carpet.

The speaker reached the end of Lead Kindly Light and stopped. Somewhere in the room a bell tinkled softly.

Again, utter silence and blackness for a while.

Then a voice.

Not Goldman’s voice.

Itt must have been his, of course, but it didn’t sound like it at all.

It was a rough, coarse voice, with a plaintive whine in it.

“Why’d he do it to me, I ask you,” it said. “Killed me, just like that. To kill a guy for nothing.”

“Who are you?” asked Koch’s voice.

“You wouldn’t know my name, mister. He didn’t kill me because of who I was. He just killed me. That’s what gets me.”

The whine was stronger now.

“If I’d done anything, it’d been different. Even if I’d had any dough to get bumped off for, then there’d be some reason, see?”

I was looking toward Goldman—I guess we all were—or toward the place where Goldman ought to be if he were still in the chair.

There was something white in the darkness.

A white, misty substance.

Something that shimmered as though it were faintly luminous.

It looked vaguely like a human face—not Goldman’s face.

Koch’s voice:

“Can you materialize? Can you show yourself to us?”

 Lord, I thought, is Stan Koch nuts?

Can he be believing in this, despite the fact that he knows Goldman is putting on a show for us?

Then I got the answer.

They had probably been told to act as they had at the séances with the medium, Atwell.

Koch must have acted as an interlocutor at those séances and was taking the same part now.

“I’m tryin’, mister. He killed me first, see, and then we was on the stairway to the attic. Him and me, and me dead. When a train goes by, see? And out we come.”

A white shimmer that might have been a face, a shimmering blank in lit which the imagination pictured features.

“And at the top of the stairs, blamed if he don’t—”

Then the shimmer wasn’t there any more, and the voice had stopped.

My eyes strained into the darkness, and I saw, or thought I saw, a white horizontal line.

A chair creaked.

Then silence and blackness again.

A minute or two, maybe three or four.

Then Beck’s voice said,

“Goldman?” quietly. “Goldman, if you don’t answer me, I’m going to turn on the lights.”

There wasn’t any answer.

I heard Beck’s chair scrape the carpet softly, and then, as Beck walked toward the switch, Koch, Powell, and Wagner seemingly all started to talk at the same time.

The light clicked on, blinding us for a second.

Then I could see again.

Goldman was in the chair, all right, but he was dead.

Strangled.

A strip of white cheesecloth was pulled tightly around his throat, the ends hanging down over the back of the chair.

The piece of cheesecloth, probably slightly impregnated with some luminous dyestuff, which had been the ectoplasm of a moment ago, had been snatched out of his hand and used to garrote him.

I was the first to reach him and to snatch it away.

But his breath and his heart had already stopped.

V

The rest of that night was police and questioning.

It was almost dawn when they released us.

Released us only because they could find no cause to suspect one of us more than they suspected another.

Six of us, besides Goldman, had been sealed in that room.

Each of the six had had equal opportunity to walk behind Goldman in the dark and strangle him with that cheesecloth, easy to see in the dark, jerked from his hand.

We were released with strict orders not to leave town.

But we were not placed under bond, and I gathered that the police would be only too happy to have someone confess guilt by trying to run away.

Beck and I had breakfast together and read the morning papers.

“Beck,” I said, “I’m through in this town, anyway. My best friend wouldn’t hire me to find a lost dog. I won’t be able to earn enough as a detective to buy red ink to keep my accounts with.”

“It isn’t as bad as that, Danny.”

“It’s worse,” I said.

“It’s worse because they’re right. I’m supposed to be a detective, and what do I detect? I ought to get a job as a dishwasher or a street cleaner and do some good in the world.”

“Don’t be a ass, Danny. You’re too tired to think straight. Go home and get some sleep.”

He was right.

My eyes were dry, itchy.

I imagined red rimmed and half closed.

I went home and went to sleep.

I awoke at four in the afternoon and when I had taken a shower and shaved, I felt better.

Something, too, was knocking at the door of my mind—something that made a noise like an idea.

I sat quietly so that I wouldn’t frighten it away.

It was a million-dollar idea, maybe.

The million dollars was Stan Koch’s.

“Gumbo,” I told myself, “when there’s a crime, it’s because of money or women, and there aren’t any women in this case. But there’s money. Koch’s millions, and he has several of them. Somebody might take a lot of trouble to separate him from one of them.”

With that idea, things began to make some sense.

Assume that my little experience of night before last, with the vanishing corpse, had accomplished its object.

What had been its results?

Stan Koch had told me that he had been victimized by mystics until he wasn’t sure any more what was true in spiritualism and what wasn’t.

Also, my apparent encounter with an authenticated ghost had had a profound effect upon him.

I had been sent as an impartial and skeptical observer by the impartial and skeptical Society for Psychic Research.

Why wouldn’t that little play have been a fattening of the fatted calf for another slaughter?

Too, a medium—one Joy Steiner, a curvaceous number with an inviting eye, as I had found out— had predicted to Koch that something of the sort would happen.

So another effect was the increase of his faith in the vivacious Joy Steiner.

And who had “found” Joy Steiner but the man who had sent me to that haunted house?

I went quickly over to Beck’s place.

He was still asleep, but I dragged him out of bed.

I needed to bounce this off somebody.

He listened.

“Powell?” he asked. “Could be. I’ve heard his stores have been running in the red lately. But how would he get money from Koch?”

“Not directly, of course. He would work through some shady stockbroker or get him interested in a promotion scheme. Look, Koch’s a natural-born sucker for spooks. Once he had faith in a medium again, she could lead him around by the nose. Especially if she had what this Steiner woman has got.”

“Um,” said Beck.

“Will you play that record once more—and slowly?”

I sat down on the edge of his bed and went over my idea while he dressed.

“Powell introduces Koch to a medium named Joy Steiner,” I said,

“for the purpose of victimizing him through the medium’s advice. But it has to be a slow build-up and with no spectacular phenomena, because if she starts throwing ectoplasm around, Goldman will be on her like a ton of bricks.

“Anyway, Koch’s wavering. That gives Powell an idea. Suppose a duly- hired skeptical investigator for the society sees a bona fide ghost—that fulfills Joy’s prediction and will have a profound effect on Koch, all right. It’d be the turning point for him. Probably the society had been discussing investigating that house.

“You recommend me to him for work, and he sends me there. But meanwhile, earlier in the evening, he went there himself and he’s upstairs in the attic stairway. Around midnight, when a train’s going by, he carries the corpse to the head of the stairs, and when the noise of the train has died down, he lets it tumble down the steps.”

Beck nodded slowly.

“Do you think he killed somebody just for that purpose?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Goldman evidently figured it that way. It’s possible that he obtained a corpse some other way, but Goldman might have been right. What’s a bum’s life compared with a crack at a million bucks or so? Anyway, Goldman was near enough right to get himself killed for his pains.”

Beck drew in his breath slowly.

“If Goldman hadn’t been so dramatic about his method of revealing what he knew, he’d be alive, all right.”

“Look, Beck,” I said. I handed him an evening paper I had bought on the way from my place to his.

I pointed out a boxed item in the middle of the story about the Goldman murder.

The heading was: MILLIONAIRE OFFERS REWARD.

The article under it, only a paragraph long, told that Stan Koch had offered a reward of five thousand dollars for proof that would result in the conviction of the murderer of Goldman.

“Funny wording,” Beck said when he had read it.

“Not so funny,” I told him, “when you consider what worries Koch the most— not who killed Goldman but whether or not Goldman was killed by a human being. He offered me five hundred dollars for proof, one way or the other, whether or not it was a ghost I saw at the Greene Street house.”

“oh,” Beck sucked in his breath

“Yes, he honestly thinks there’s a possibility that spirits may have resented Goldman’s mocking of them and taken him for a ride. And he’d give five grand—which means less to him than five bucks to us—to be sure about it.”

“Beck,” I said, “how’d you like to split that reward with me? Are you willing to take a wild chance?”

His eyes brightened.

“Take a chance? Why, for half of five grand, I’d take a chance on shooting Niagara Falls in a canoe with a leaky bottom.”

“Do you know where Goldman kept his props? That dummy and the speaker he used night before last at the Green Street house?” Beck nodded.

“At a stage props warehouse downtown.”

“Could you get them?”

“Sure. I know the man who runs the place. He’d lend them to me.” “All right. Here’s what I want you to do, Beck. Be in the Greene Street house, hid- den, with that dummy and the speaker that Goldman used there, at eleven o’clock this evening.”

“You mean you think you can get Powell there tonight and startle him into a confession or something?”

“I can get him there,” I said, “through Koch. If he’s guilty, having a ghost fall down those stairs is going to give him the screaming meemies for a moment or so, isn’t it? If I jump in with both feet at the right moment, he might talk.”

“It might work,” said Beck thoughtfully.

“And it might not,” I admitted.

“But what else is a better bet? We’ll be confronting him before Koch, and his reaction may convince Koch even if Powell doesn’t crack. I’ll have Wagner there, too, for a witness.”

“That’s figuring the angles pretty fine, Danny.”

“You be in that house around eleven o’clock, ready to duplicate the trick Goldman pulled. I’ll take care of the rest.”

When I left Beck, I realized that it was too early to start pulling strings for the eleven o’clock date on Greene Street.

I knew that Koch would cancel anything else to go there with me, and Powell and Wagner would go, too, if Koch wanted them to.

But I didn’t want to give Powell time to think about why I was getting him there.

So I killed time until a little after ten o’clock and then I phoned Koch.

“I want to collect that five hundred dollars you offered me for proof of whether or not that business on Greene Street was genuine,” I told him.

He sounded excited, all right.

“Which is it, Gumbo?” I stalled.

“I’d rather show you. Can you meet me there, and bring Powell and Wagner with you? They’re interested, too.”

“Why, yes, I can come. And I believe they will, too.”

“I’ll meet the three of you in front of the house in question at eleven, or as soon after as you can all get there.”

“All right. I’ll leave now and pick up Wagner and Powell on my way.” I walked from downtown to Greene Street, thinking I had time to get there a few minutes early to check with Beck.

But the walk took longer than I figured it would, and Koch’s car, with the three men in it, was pulling up to the curb when I got there.

But I could count on Beck, even without a check-up.

He’d had five hours since I had left his room, plenty of time to get the paraphernalia and establish himself in the house.

Again I managed to avoid answering a direct question from Koch.

I led the three of them into the house and along the hallway into the room across from the foot of the stairs.

I had two flashlights with me, a bright one and one that I had doctored down to be very, very dim.

The latter was in my pocket, ready for use at the right minute.

I kept the beam of my flashlight carefully away from the direction of the double doorway and the stairs beyond. Beck would be placing the dummy there now.

I was talking without saying anything.

“. . . and this is the room I waited in, three nights ago. It was just about this time that I got here, and of course I made a preliminary search of the house and then sat down.”

I couldn’t have kept it up much longer, but I didn’t have to.

The crashing noise of a fall downstairs, right behind us—a familiar sound to me now, for this was the third time I had heard it and I was expecting it.

But the others jumped, and I pretended to jump, too, and dropped the flashlight, flicking off the switch as I let go of it.

I pulled the dim flashlight out of my pocket and switched it on, swinging it around to play on the dummy that was laying at the foot of the stairs.

In that dim glow, it wouldn’t show up as a dummy.

It wasn’t one.

Goldman’s or any other.

It was the man, the bum, the corpse I had seen there three nights ago when this whole ghastly mess had started.

The bum whose reek of alcohol had nearly knocked me down when I had bent over him and felt for his heart beats.

The gray suit, the white hair, the huge, ugly bruise on the face—

I should have been watching Powell’s face, but I wasn’t, because the corpse was moving!

It rolled over, face down, from the sprawl in which it lay, and then began crawling toward us.

With awkward motions, its dead eyes wide open and staring, it crawled, foot after foot, as though in great agony.

As it crawled toward us, we all took a step backward.

Koch and I were in the center, Wagner on one side, and Powell on the other.

For just that frozen second before it occurred to me that Beck had bettered our idea, had used Goldman’s speaker for the sound effect but had made himself up instead of using Goldman’s wax figure, I was scared stiff.

That idea of crawling, dragging himself toward us, was great.

Only the thing on the floor wasn’t crawling toward Powell.

Zack Wagner was backed into the far corner of the room now.

The thing was crawling toward him, inexorably.

Why would Beck do that?

Then I saw Wagner’ face; and in it, I saw my own mistake.

The crawling corpse came nearer, and Wagner screamed in terror, kept screaming:

“Get back! You’re dead— I killed—”

And then, Beck and I were having early breakfast or late dinner, or something—and between us, on the table, was Stan Koch’s check for five thousand, five hundred dollars.

Both rewards in one neat package.

Beck was pouring vinegar over his pancakes in the belief, soon to be abandoned, that it was syrup.

“But, Danny,” he said, “how could I have got in touch with you to tell you? I just had to go ahead.”

“I was goofy,” I said. “I went off half- cocked. The reward ought to be all yours, instead of half.”

“Forget that. You solved the thing, only you picked the wrong guy. I’d never have figured out that motivation in a thousand years. But after you left my place, I saw you were right, except that everything you laid to Powell went double for Wagner.”

“Sure,” I said. “I can see it now. Wagner is a lawyer, handled work for Koch direct and wouldn’t have to work through a third party to scam him as Powell would have had to do. Wagner has even less money than Powell, so a million would look even bigger to him. Also, Wagner knew that Powell was sending me to keep vigil at the Greene Street house that night. As head of the society, he was on the inside.”

“And although Powell was the one who introduced the medium, Joy Steiner, to the group,” Beck said,

“Wagner could have engineered that easily enough. If she was his confederate, the last thing he’d want to do would be to sponsor her himself.”

Beck took a bite of pancake—with vinegar—and his next remarks must remain off the record.

When things had subsided, I said:

“But the thing that should have made me think again is that Powell is under average size and not too husky. Wagner is a big guy. It took strength to carry that body upstairs, and it took strong hands to choke a man the way he choked Goldman at the séance when Goldman started to expose him.”

I sighed and said again:

“Yes, Beck, I was a dope. But thanks to you, I’ve got half of fifty-five hundred —let’s see, that’s twenty-seven fifty—to back the agency. Watch my smoke from now on. Particularly with the newspapers apologizing. What are you going to do with your half?

Beck grinned.

“Gumbo,” he said, “I’ve had more fun the last three days than in the ten years before then. If we leave that check in one chunk, could you use a partner?”

“Could I?”

I said and I reached for the creamer and put some into my coffee.

“This could be the start of something.”

The End

High Range Revenge

CHAPTER ONE

Forest Fires had been destroying a lot of valuable timber and blackening the summer range on the Forest Reserve and ranchers had _ been forced to move their livestock’ out.

Old-timers claimed it was the driest summer they’d ever seen in Montana.

Prairie ranges were parched, the waterholes dried up and big creeks shrank to a trickle that crept laboriously along between boggy banks.

And over it all hung the smoke pall from the forest fires.

The night was breathless and sultry and the full moon was a blood-red ball in the star-hidden sky.

It was long past midnight but still an hour or two before dawn when Rip Campbell heard a hound baying.

Then more hounds took up the night song and the deep baying reminded him of

“Uncle Tom’s Cabin” and of Eliza crossing the ice with little Eva in her arms and the bloodhounds baying on her trail. The thought made him grin flatly in the darkness.

Then one of the hound pack began howling and other dogs took it up and; though the night was sultry hot, Rip Campbell shivered. Because a howling dog is a sign that somebody is going to die.

He slid his saddle carbine part ways out of its scabbard, then shoved it back.

But when he let his horse travel on at a running walk down the wagon trail from the wide flat bench to the ranch below, he kept his right hand near his six-shooter.

Finally the log buildings and pole corrals took on black shapes in the red-tinted moonlight and he reined up in front of the big log barn with a pack of perhaps twenty big hounds surrounding him and his horse and keeping him in the saddle.

Some of the hounds were slick haired and showed the great Dane strain.

Others were shaggy, longer headed and rangy, like Irish -wolfhounds.

Two were big ourangoutang Airdale bear dogs.

Most of the younger dogs were a savage mixture of all three breeds. There wasn’t a wagging tail in the lot and whenever Rip Campbell moved in his saddle their big white fangs bared. Not a light had showed at the long log bunkhouse or the small whitewashed log cabin alongside it or at the big two-storied log house with the vine-screened porch.

And nobody showed up to call off the dogs that acted as though they would tear him apart if he swung from his saddle.

But Rip Campbell knew he had been sighted, that more than one pair of eyes had watched him ride down off the bench and past the corrals and scattered buildings to the big log barn.

This was the Valentine ranch and a few miles back yonder, where the wagon road crossed the creek, Rip had ridden up along the sign post and the lettering, black on white, was big and bold enough to be made out even in the red moonlight.

It read: VALENTINE RANGE. KEEP OFF. THIS MEANS YOU.

Eyes had watched him.

The hound pack had warned the ranch of his coming.

Over in the big house grizzled Zeke Valentine had quit snoring at the first deep-toned baying of Old Cloe, the only bloodhound on the place.

Valentine moved with a swift sureness in the darkness of his big bedroom.

First he took his battered old Stetson from the bedpost and jammed it on his tousled gray head.

He pulled on his pants, tucking most of the tail of his nightshirt into the waistband and hitching one gallus up over a burly shoulder.

Then he took his looped cartridge belt with its holstered six-shooter from the hedpost where his hat also hung and buckled it around his wide middle and grunted as he pulled on his boots.

He reached out and, without groping, found the half-empty bottle of rye on the table beside his bed and he pulled the cork and drank deeply.

Then, corking the bottle, he picked up a double-barreled sawed off shotgun on his-way out into the dark hallway.

A young woman stood at the far end of the hallway, a lighted candle in her hand.

She had on a crimson silk wrapper fastened around her waist by a broad black silk sash.

Her blue-black hair, parted in the middle, was pulled back and plaited into a pair of heavy braids that hung below the sash.

Her face was long with faint shadows under the high cheekbones, almost heavy black brows, heavily fringed eyes as green as deep lake water and a high-bridged, well shaped nose.

Polly Valentine was strikingly beautiful, tall, slender, proud-looking.

There was a silver’ mounted gun in her hand, and she handled it like an expert, her long tapering fingers almost caressing the carved ivory handle.

Behind her stood a coal-black great Dane with ears trimmed to a point.

“Visitors, Uncle Zeke?” a soft, husky voice.

“Somebody don’t believe in signs. Put out that damn light.”

With a smile that showed her white teeth, Polly blew out the flickering candlelight and followed him out onto the wide, vine-covered veranda.

Below the veranda gravel crunched under high-heeled boots.

A man’s flat-toned voice came up to them,

“Lone horse backer, Zeke.”

“Damn it all, Troy!” Valentine’s voice was a growl.

“Sing out sooner She had after this. Want to get that head of yours blown off? Where’s Richard?”

“Rick,” said Troy, the Valentine ramrod,

“Is sleeping off his town jag.”

“Some day.” growled Zeke Valentine,

“I’m going to double me a wet rope and whip that whelp off my range and plumb back to Texas. Drunk, shiftless. He should be ramrodding the outfit I got to leave him and his sister when I kick the bucket. But no, by Devil! I got to hire me a damned gun-slinging tough cowhand to ramrod this spread. Well, what the devil you hanging around here for, Troy? Get down there to the barn and earn them fighting wages you’re drawing. That’s what I’m paying you ten times your worth for.

“Not to come mooning around my niece,” Troy muttered something and stalked away.

Tall, wide-shouldered, lean-flanked, he had the gait of a cowpuncher.

Darkness hid the sinister glint in his pale-gray eyes, the twist of his thin-lipped mouth under its neatly trimmed black mustache.

A handsome man, Troy.

Black Irish or part Injun, old Zeke Valentine claimed.

A crackerjack cowhand anywhere you put him, Troy handled his tough cowhands with a brutal efficiency.

And he was rank swift poison with a gun.

He had a six-shooter in one hand now.

A coiled shot-loaded blacksnake whip in the other. The whip was for the dogs.

It was the only way he could handle the hound pack.

Deep inside him he was afraid of the dogs which belonged to Polly Valentine. 

Polly saw the blacksnake in Troy’s hand as he walked swiftly away and was lost in the black smoky shadows of the night.

Her laugh was soft, mirthless, husky.

And she reached down with one hand and rubbed the stiff hackles of the Dane’s neck and shoulders.

“Hate him, don’t you, Devil?” she said softly.

“One of these times,” growled Zeke Valentine,

“them blasted hounds of yours will kill somebody. A man can’t step out the door without them following him.”

“Because they like you, Uncle Zeke. And they like Rick. Must be your whiskey odor. You growl and snarl at them but they wag their tails like fool pups. They don’t trust Troy, though.”

“Who does? Them dogs has sense. You coming?”

Valentine headed for the barn.

Rip Campbell sat his horse in the dim red moonlight, the hound pack eyeing him in white-fanged silence.

Then he saw the tall man walking toward him, a six-shooter in his hand,

“Your hounds”—Rip kept his hand on his gun “got me treed like a possum.”

“Step down, stranger.”

“I’ll leave jobs like that to Daniel in his lions den, mister.”

“Back!” Troy’s voice was sharp edged.

“Back to your den!”

The wide popper of the blacksnake cracked like a pistol.

The hound pack turned on the ramrod, snarling, teeth bared.

The blacksnake hissed and cracked.

A big wiry-haired brindle hound crouched 19 ’ as though he was going to spring at Troy.

Then Polly Valentine’s husky voice sounded.

“‘Here, boys. Come to heel!”

The big dogs circled past Troy and his whip and surrounded the girl who came on slowly out of the night’s shadows.

She stood there in the silk wrapper as blood red as the moon and her husky voice was low-toned with fury.

“Throw away that whip, Troy. If ever you hit one of my dogs, I’ll let them at you.”

“If ever they tackle me, Ley they’ll be the deadest pack of mongrels you ever seen when I’m done shooting.”

Troy kept his blacksnake.

Rip Campbell was staring at the girl, inarticulate, slack-jawed, awed by the sight of her exotic beauty.

You might expect to see such a woman on the stage.

But not on a Montana cattle ranch,

He pulled off his hat, suddenly aware of the fact that he hadn’t shaved for a week and that his hair was sweat-matted and needed cutting.

He felt awkward and clumsy and tongue-tied.

“Who in blazes are you, stranger?” Big Zeke Valentine stalked past the girl and her hound pack, the sawed-off shotgun in the crook of his arm and his eyes slits of steel under ragged brows.

“Where’s the rest of your night-riding outfit?”

“I’m alone. Headed for a town called Prairie. Took the wrong fork in the wagon trail.”

“What fetches you here?” seen Valentine.

“A played-out leg-weary gelding. If you’ll stake me to a fresh horse I’} travel along.”

“You read the sign at the roundup crossing on Valentine Crick,” growled the big grizzled cowman.

“It was dark, mister.”

Rip Campbell saw them eyeing him as he sat his horse.

The big cowman.

The six-foot Troy.

The red-gowned girl with the dogs.

Sweat bathed him and there was a cold feeling in the pit of his empty stomach.

He hadn’t eaten since yesterday.

Hadn’t slept for two nights.

Pain from his freshly healed bullet wounds clawed at his back and thighs.

Above the stubble of dusty and sweat-grimed dirty yellow whiskers his skin was a sweat beaded gray color and his bloodshot blue-gray eyes were deep sunken in dark sockets.

He was near the point of exhaustion.

He should have taken the advice of those Wyoming doctors and stayed another two weeks or a month eyen, in the Wind River hospital.

He’d traveled the last hundred miles on his nerve.

It was catching up with him now.

Right now when he needed all his strength and wits.

He was hanging onto the saddle horn, swaying a little, fighting off the black waves of dizziness.

“Drunk.” Old Zeke Valentine’s growl sounded dimly in Rip’s ears.

“He’s not drunk, Uncle Zeke. Sick. Hurt. There he goes. Grab him before he hits the ground, Troy!”

Rip Campbell slid his feet from the stirrups and hung onto the saddle horn, keeping his hold on it as his right leg swung across the saddle cantle.

He was standing on both feet, still hanging to the saddle horn when he passed out, an apologetic grin on his wide, tight-lipped mouth. He came alive with the burning taste of raw whiskey in his throat. The biggest, blackest, most vicious looking dog he had ever seen in his life was standing over him.

The dog licked his whiskered blunt jaw and Rip heard a girl’s soft, husky laugh.

“You big softy . . . sissy—”

Rip Campbell grinned: ashamedly and tried to sit up.

He was lying on a big wide couch covered with a Navajo blanket.

In a huge room with varnished log walls and polished hardwood floor.

A big lamp burned on a huge table that was littered with books.

“Not you,” said the girl.

“Devil. First time he ever made up like that to anybody. That’s a welcome, stranger. And the best recommendation you could get around these parts, so far as I’m concerned. I’m Polly Valentine. Who are you?”

“Rip Campbell. Called Rip, mostly.”

She poured him a stiff drink.

He was rubbing the Dane’s head behind the pointed ears.

The dog’s yellow eyes stared at him.

The tail did not wag.

But the cold wet muzzle shoved into the sweaty dusty bristle of his whiskers.

Rip took the filled glass from the girl and he had to hold it in both hands.

The whiskey went down like liquid fire.

And when it melted the cold lump inside his belly and fired the blood in his veins he sat up.

Polly Valentine had changed into a soft gray dress and coiled the two bed braids like a crown on her head.

She smiled faintly, her green eyes watching him with faint amusement.

“Just a stranger in a strange land,” she said in her husky voice,

“Just drifting through, Rip?”

“Sort of.”

Pain shot through his back and down into his thighs like a knife stab in the back.

He winced a little. :

“Hurt?” Polly asked softly.

And poured whiskey from a cut glass decanter into the glass he still held.

“Kind of lame.”

He gulped down the drink and shook his head and handed her the empty glass.

“That’s all I can take on an empty stomach.”

“When did you eat last?”

“Yesterday about daybreak.”

She nodded and crossed over to the table and lifted a big white cloth from hot food.

“There’s water and soap and a clean towel in the washroom yonder.”

She pointed to a door in the corner of the big room.

“Can you make it?”

Rip said he reckoned he could.

The big black Dane followed him across the room.

There was a big pitcher of hot water.

Another pitcher of cold water.

He spent about five minutes washing up, grinning at his reflection in the shaving mirror.

There was a shaving outfit there and he stropped the razor and lathered his face and shaved quickly, nicking himself in two or three places.

But he was clean-shaved and not quite so tough-looking when he walked out of the washroom.

He was half tipsy and felt good for the first time in days.

Polly Valentine filled two cups with strong black coffee and motioned with the coffeepot for him to sit down.

Half a dozen fried eggs, fried potatoes and bacon were heaped on a plate and there were hot biscuits with chokecherry jam on the table that was set with a red-and white-checkered cloth and solid silver.

Rip tried not to wolf his grub.

Polly Valentine sat across from him sipping black coffee and looking too beautiful to be real.

On the table beyond Rip’s reach was his cartridge belt and holstered gun.

“Uncle Zeke and Troy are eating breakfast with the men,” Polly said.

“They’ll be here soon. So get your story straight.”

“What story?” he countered. The girl’s green eyes were watching him narrowly. Her red mouth smiled at him, There was mockery in her smile.

“Whatever your story is.”

She reached into a pocket of the gray dress and took out a law badge.

“United States Deputy Marshal” was engraved on the metal.

She tossed it across the table to him.

“I found it in your pocket—before Troy frisked you. Lucky. Troy doesn’t like law officers. Nor does Zeke Valentine. So don’t pin that badge on your shirt. And if you want it this way, I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

Dee dos face flushed redly.

“Gosh . That’s mighty nice of you, ma’am. But I’m not—”

“Polly is my name, Rip—when they’re not around. And don’t thank me. There’s a motive behind my secrecy. I might need you. You and your law. Is it a deal?”

Rip Campbell looked straight into the girl’s green eyes.

He read something like terror there.

But only for the briefest fraction of a moment.

“It’s a deal,’ he heard himself telling Polly Valentine.

“I knew you couldn’t fool Devil. Look at him. The big clown.”

The big black Dane shoved his massive head in Rip’s lap.

Rip scratched the dog’s neck.

Then the dog walked around to where Polly sat in a huge leather chair and shoved his head in her lap. _

“If ever Troy tried to lay a hand on him,” said Polly quietly,

“Devil would tear his throat out, Or if ever Troy forgot himself and touched me, the pack would tear him apart. Dogs are like that; you can’t buy their loyalty or friendship. And it takes more than a blacksnake or gun to stop that pack. Later on, Ill make ~ you acquainted with them all. If Brin takes you on as a friend, the rest of the pack will let you Bre or he’ll shake their hides off. . . Had enough to eat, Rip?”

“That’s the best bait of grub I ever tackled.”

Rip Campbell grinned and reached for tobacco and papers.

He was tongue-tied again when he tried to thank her.

And before he could get his tongue untied the front door opened, and a tall, lean, handsome-looking young cowpuncher in his early twenties lurched into the room, shut the door behind him and leaned against it.

His curly dark chestnut hair was rumpled, sweat damp, his bloodshot green-gray eyes a little glazed.

His tailored gray flannel shirt and whipcord pants were rumpled and spotted with spilled liquor.

A stubble of reddish whiskers marred the clean line of his jaw.

“Listen, sis, | got to have five thousand bucks. The tinhorns took me—”

Then he saw Rip Campbell and he stiffened, staring suspiciously.

“Who’s he, Polly?”

His voice was suddenly harsh.

“A stranger, Rick. He got lost on his way to town. Take your hand off your gun. You look silly. Better wash up.”

“I’ve got to see you alone.”

His voice was sullen. .

“To the tune of five thousand dollars.”

She turned to Rip Campbell.

“My brother, Richard Valentine. Rick, for short. Sober, he’s a good kid. Drunk, he’s a mess. He’s got a hangover now that’s a prize winner. . . . Rick, this is Rip Campbell. Uncle Zeke and Troy are going to put him through the mill directly. Wash the cobwebs away and sit in on the session. But keep your ante out of it.”

Rick Valentine headed for the decanter.

He poured himself two big drinks and downed them fast.

The glazed look went out of his eyes and he grinned.

It was a boyish kind of grin but weak.

“You won’t let me down, sis?”

“Not if you’ll sober up and quit gambling, Pull yourself up by the old boot straps, bub. Or you’ll be going down the road talking to yourself, Unless you like staying on here as a forty-a-month cowhand and calling Troy ‘Mister… Troy has that batch of I.0.U.’s you wrote out for the tinhorn gamblers at Prairie.”

“Where’d he—who—”

“Troy? Don’t ask me how he got hold of them. He offered them to me for a price. Now go clean up.”

But Rick Valentine did not go.

He stood there, long legs spread, his brows pulled into a twisted scowl, blinking the glazed film from his eyes, fighting to sober up.

“What kind of a price did that damned Troy hang on my lousy gambling paper, sis?”

Rick Valentine forgot his tough swagger.’ The sulky, sullen tone was gone from his voice. He spoke quietly and his gray green eyes were clearing and he looked as though he could be dangerous. Polly smiled faintly.

“Troy must have seen the road-show troupers play ‘The Drunkard.” He’s playing the heavy villain. He demands the gal’s hand in marriage—with the Valentine outfit thrown in for boot.”

“And if you don’t see eye to eye with him, he’ll take my gambling debts to Uncle Zeke?”

“You’re catching on, bub.”

“Tell Troy,” said Rick Valentine, “to go to hell. If he gets bothersome, sic your dogs on the big gun-slinger. Let him hand those tinhorn I.0.U.’s over to Uncle Zeke. I’ll take my medicine. And I’ll pay off Troy with his own kind of coin.”

He slapped his gun butt.

Polly shook her head.

“Maybe that’s just the kind of a play Troy wants you to make. Gun fighting is his trade. You wouldn’t have a sheepherder’s chance.”

She turned to Rip Campbell.

“Am I right?”

“Sounds like this Troy gent is playing for high stakes. No holds barred.”

“Who sold this stranger chips in the game, Polly?” Rick scowled, :

“I did.”

Polly lowered her voice.

“But Troy’s dealing from a cold deck. Swap guns with Rip. Troy salted the cartridges in his. Quick. And reload Rip’s gun if you aim to use. it.”

Rick Valentine stared hard at Rip Campbell.

Then at his sister.

Sliding his six-shooter from its holster, he swapped it for the gun on the table.

He shoved Rip Campbell’s gun into his holster, leaving his six-shooter in Rip’s holster with its filled cartridge belt on the big table. The guns were alike, black-handled Colt .45’s.

“Troy doesn’t know I watched him substitute doctored cartridges in your gun,” Polly told Rip Campbell.

“He’ll try to crowd you into making a gun play, so don’t let him pull you into the trap. But if you have no other choice, draw first and shoot to kill. At least you’ll have a loaded gun in your hand. And Troy will figure it’s harmless as a shooting iron.”

“Who is this gent?” repeated Rick Valentine.

“I don’t know,” Polly said.

“But he’s on my side. Now clean up.”

When her brother had gone, Rick reached for the whiskey, then changed his mind with a grimace.

His tough swagger was gone when he walked away.

But it seemed to Rip Campbell that young Rick Valentine was more of a man when he left the room than he’d been when he made his tipsy entrance.

“Rick’s a spoiled brat,” said Polly

“Wild. Wants to be tough but hasn’t what it takes to back the play. And Troy prods him on. Troy would like to see Rick Valentine get killed in a saloon brawl. Just as he’d like to see a gun fight between Uncle Zeke and old Ward Dixon, with Zeke Valentine on the losing end. Then Troy would marry Polly Valentine and the Valentine outfit. His tough cowhands would wipe out the Dixons. Old Ward and Ward’s son Jimmy. Troy has his eye on the Dixon Quarter Circle D outfit. . . . Troy’s ambitious, no?”

“Just a country boy trying to get along in the world.”

Troy stood in the doorway, a flat lipped grin on his face, his hand on his gun.

Polly whirled around.

Rip Campbell turned his head and he wondered how long the Valentine ramrod had been standing there.

Boot heels clumped and big grizzled Zeke Valentine followed Troy into the room.

The cowman’s steel gray eyes narrowed under his ragged gray brows, Old Zeb was a huge man, big as a silvertip grizzly, and he moved with a grizzly’s heavy speed.

Powerful, ruthless, domineering, his voice a barrel-chested growl.

“Have any trouble with the fellow, Polly?”

“No trouble at all, Uncle Zeke. 1 gave him a drink of your liquor and fed him. Like fattening something for the slaughterer.”

Her green eyes looked past Zeke Valentine to Troy.

The big hawk-beaked ramrod grinned faintly.

Old Zeke growled into his ragged gray mustache and poured himself a drink and gulped it down.

“Better you went outside a while, Polly,” he said,

“Me and Troy want a talk with this fellow.”

“{ don’t mind your cussing, Uncle Zeke. I’ll sit in the corner.”

“You’ll get out. And take your blasted dog along,”

Polly shrugged her shoulders.

The Dane followed her out of the room and the door closed behind her and the big dog.

“Buckle on your gun, mister,” Troy flatly.

It was daylight outside now sad Zeke Valentine pulled aside the heavy said curtains to let the light into the room.

Then he blew out the lamp.

The early morning light filtered in, gray and smoke-laden from the distant forest fire.

And the sun rose like a blood-red fire ball in the smoke shrouded sky.

Then the big grizzled cowman stood on widespread legs, thumbs hooked in his sagging cartridge belt, his sweat-marked hat pulled at a slant on his grizzled head.

His eyes were slits of glittering steel.

He growled out his questions.

“You ain’t deaf dumb nor blind, stranger. You read that warning sign last night. You know there’s a cattle war going on between my outfit and Ward Dixon’s layout. Montana’s got too cramped to hold me and that damned land-grabbing, water stealing cattle thief. I had to hire Troy and his tough outfit to buck range again the gun-packing cowhands that damn old scoundrel Ward Dixon imported from Wyoming, Ralph Millsap and his renegades—as mangy a pack of coyote things as ever roamed the earth unhung. Them night riding renegades has us suspicious of strangers. This is your first and last chance to spread your cards face up. I’ve read them. Commence talking.”

Rip Campbell stared into the cowman’s eyes without flinching. Stared until old Zeke Valentine was the first to look away.

Then Troy broke the heavy uneasy silence.

Troy stood a few feet away, his hand on his gun, and in a flat-toned voice he began cursing.

His pale gray eyes narrowed.

Thin-lipped mouth twisting, he called Rip Campbell every foul fighting name he could think of.

And old Zeke Valentine stood back a ways watching.

Rip Campbell sat in his big leather chair.

Rolling a cigarette, he lit it and let the smoke drift from his nostrils. It was as if he were listening to something that was no concern of his.

And it was Troy, not Rip who weakened first.

Sweat beaded Troy’s lean dark face and trickled down from under his tilted hat.

His voice got dry and rasping.

A heavy rush of blood colored his almost swarthy skin and his pale eyes congested.

Bloodshot, they mirrored the pent-up fury that lifted his voice from its toneless pitch to a loud rasping shout.

“You gutless coward! A gun! Fill your hand!”

But Rip Campbell made no gun move.

Just sat back in his chair, his both hands resting on the big leather arms.

Tobacco smoke drifting lazily from his nostrils.

Relaxed, indifferent, until Troy pulled his six-shooter.

Then Rip Campbell’s gun hand moved—so fast that neither Troy nor Zeke Valentine realized he was going into action.

Because Rip Campbell’s right arm and hand moved and the rest of his body remained relaxed and stretched out in the big chair.

And then his six-shooter was gripped in his hand and it never lifted more than to tilt its blued steel barrel.

Then it spat flame.

Its heavy .45 slug hit the cylinder of Troy’s gun and tore it from the big ramrod’s hand with an explosion that sent the gun spinning through the air to land in a far corner.

Troy’s gun hand, torn, bleeding, flipped crazily in the air.

Shock, pain, bewilderment and sudden fear drained the color from his dark sweaty face and his pale eyes widened.

He grabbed his injured hand and held it and backed towards the door.

The crashing gun echoes died in the room and there was the pungent odor of burnt gunpowder.

Rip Campbell was on his feet now and his gun pointed at old Zeke Valentine’s big belly.

“Take it easy, big mister,” Rip Campbell told the cowman.

“I don’t like this kind of ruckus. Better tell your pack tough ramrod to slow up. Looks to me like he’s backing the seat of his britches into that black hound dog’s face.”

The door had opened and Polly stood there in the hallway.

The big Dane blocked the doorway, teeth bared, growling softly, yellow eyes watching Troy.

Troy turned his head.

When he saw the dog he froze in his tracks.

Polly Valentine’s face looked pale but she was smiling now and the color came back into her cheeks.

“Shooting always excites him.”

Her hand was on the Dane’s massive head.

Troy glared at her.

He cut a swift look at the gun in Rip Campbell’s hand, then back at the girl.

He opened his mouth to say something, but changed his mind and clamped his jaws shut.

Rick Valentine came down the hallway.

He had washed up and put on clean overalls and a clean shirt and he looked cold sober when he pushed past his sister, rubbed the dog’s hackles and walked into the big room.

He grinned at Troy’s injured hand.

A taunting kind of grin.

Then his gray-green eyes hardened.

“My sister says you’ve been bothering her, Troy. Some kind of slimy blackmail. You’ve got about five thousand dollars’ worth of my tinhorn gambling paper. Did you buy up my I.0.U.’s from your tinhorn friends? Or are you acting as their agent to collect what I lost to them?”

“They was fixing to take it up,” said Troy,

“With Zeke. I heard.”

“Uncle Zeke tell you he was done paying your booze and poker bills. So I bought up your gambling paper. Trying to do you a favor.”

“You lie, Troy,” said Rick Valentine.

“You tried to blackmail my sister into marrying you. What you need is a horsewhipping. I’ll give you one.”

He walked over to the table where Troy had left his blacksnake,

Then Rick pulled a roll of money from his pocket, tossed it on the table and picked up the loaded blacksnake.

“Lay my gambling paper there on the table, Troy. And pick up the money.”

Troy hesitated, murder glinting in his pale eyes. The blacksnake whip hissed as Rick Valentine flipped it back.

Then the heavy whip lashed out and before Troy could lift his arms to ward it off, it cut him across the face and slashed back and struck again, leaving a welt and a trickle of blood across Troy’s ‘face.

And Polly had to hold onto the big black Dane or the dog would have torn Troy’s throat out.

The dog was growling and whimpering, fangs bared, trembling in its savage eagerness to kill the man he hated.

Rick Valentine coiled the blacksnake whip and grinned mirthlessly.

“That’s just a small sample, Troy. Now lay my gambling notes on the table and take your money. And if ever you speak to my sister again. I’ll kill you.”

Troy’s face was bone-white and the whip welts ridged his skin.

He turned and glared at Zeke Valentine.

“It’s your deal.” Troy’s voice was rasping, thick,

“Take over.”

Rip Campbell had been watching the big grizzled cowman from the corner of his eye.

Zeke Valentine had stood there in his big tracks, motionless, his puckered steel-gray eyes glinting and a faint grin twitching the corners of his mouth under the drooping gray mustache.

“When a man like you, Troy, a big tough ramrod that travels on his hard rep, takes a whipping of any kind, he’s through. He’s wore out his usefulness. You lost your gun, Troy. Better saddle your private and hit the trail.”

Troy looked like a man who had just been kicked hard in the belly. Letting go his injured hand, he reached into his pocket and took out some soiled-looking folded papers and tossed them on the table.

He picked up the money without bothering to count it and shoved it into his pocket.

His pale eyes, bloodshot, slitted, cut a brief contemptuous look at young Rick Valentine and it was like the flick of a whip.

Then he looked at Polly and there was a cold, vicious threat in the long look he gave her.

Rip Campbell felt the hard impact of Troy’s stare and grinned crookedly at the big ramrod.

“Loaded, wasn’t it, Troy?” Rip said softly.

Troy forced a thin-lipped grin.

“Keep it loaded. I’ll make you use it again.”

Then Troy turned on Zeke Valentine and he voiced his threat flattened,

“This is going to cost you your Valentine outfit, Zeke.”

Turning, Troy walked across the # room and let himself out the front door.

They heard him call out to his men.

“Saddle your private horses, boys. We’re headed for town and hirin’ out to Ward Dixon.”

Big grizzled Zeke Valentine poured himself a stiff drink and downed it.

Then he glared at Rip Campbell.

“You shore played hell, young feller. Throwing me short-handed that away. Troy was a valuable man. You’ll have to be almighty good to fill his boots.”

There was a twinkling glint in his steely eyes.

“Meaning just what, sir?”

“You’re ramrodding this outfit. What’s your name?”

“Rip Campbell, sir. Rip.”

“Ever run a cow outfit, Rip?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Troy fired what cowhands I had working for me. They wasn’t tough enough, he claimed, to get the job done. I kind of pensioned them off— without Troy knowing. Rick can locate them and fetch them back. They ain’t what you’d call fighting men. But I reckon in a tight they kin dig into their bedrolls and warsacks and haul out a gun apiece. You won’t have to get them drunk to make them tackle Troy and them tough hands he fetched along to take their places when he fired them old rannyhans. The damn old sons is camped down on the river, catfishing, and roundsiding. Some of Ward Dixon’s old hands threw in with them. They was let out when Ward Dixon hired Ralph Millsap for a ramrod. Millsap claimed he couldn’t use them all. They call them mossyhorns. Rick can hire them back.”

“Offer them fighting wages, Rick,” said Rip.

“And tell them I still got the seat left in my britches.”

Rip grinned at Zeke Valentine, then at Polly.

“I stayed all night at their camp. They told me the dogs would bite.” Zeke Valentine gave him a hard look, then told Polly she’d better call her hounds before Troy and his outfit commenced killing the dogs they all hated.

Polly whistled and the hall filled with hounds.

They came piling into the big room.

“IT had them in my room,” she said,

“just in case.”

Then she tossed six cartridges on the table and told Zeke and Rip to pry the lead bullets out.

Rip opened them with his jackknife blade.

None of the cartridges had any powder in the brass shells.

Polly told her uncle she’d seen Troy put the cartridges in Rip’s six shooter. Rick had given her the cartridges from Rip Campbell’s gun after swapping the six-shooter.

“Troy aimed to murder Rip,” Polly said quietly.

“Right here in my ranch house!”

“Why?” Rick put the question bluntly.

“Troy,” said Rip Campbell, “don’t like strangers. Let it go at that.” Rick Valentine had been edging towards the big table and Rip Campbell thought it was the whiskey he was after.

Then he saw Rick reach out with a furtive show of carelessness and pick up the folded I. O. U.’s Troy had laid there.

But before Rick could destroy the papers his sister said something in a low tone to the Dane.

Without a sound or show of ferocity the big dog grabbed Rick’s wrist and held it and it was only when the young cowman tried to yank free that the big Dane’s fangs clamped tighter, but still not deep enough to tear the skin.

Rick Valentine’s face whitened.

Polly smiled faintly and walked over unhurriedly and took the several folded papers from her brother’s hand.

“Don’t be a sneaking cheat, bub.” Her voice was quiet-toned. She nodded to the Dane and he let go.

“They’re mine. My money bought them.”

Polly put the folded papers in her pocket without looking at them.

Rick’s face was livid and he rubbed his wrist where the big dog’s teeth had clamped.

Zeke Valentine had gone out onto the porch and saw nothing of the strange little byplay inside the room.

“It ain’t any of my business,” said Rip Campbell, “but if it was me, I’d check them I. 0. U.’s against the. The money I paid for them.”

Polly’s smile chilled. But she took the folded papers out of her pocket and glanced at them quickly.

“Five notes. Each for a thousand dollars. Right, bub?”

“And each of them”—there was a nasty tone to Rick Valentine’s voice. “made out to Jim Dixon. Right, sis.”

His eyes held hers.

Polly’s face reddened and her head tilted high.

Rip Campbell turned and walked out onto the big veranda to join old Zeb Valentine.

“Yonder,” growled Zeke Valentine, “go Troy and his outfit. It’s all yours now, Rip.”

There was something almighty wrong there at the Valentine ranch. Something dark and ugly and sinister.

Brief glimpses of it came to light, then were hidden again before Rip Campbell got a good look at what he’d seen.

Rick’s drinking; his gambling debts; the look in his eyes when he said those I.0.U. notes were made out to Jim Dixon.

And the flush that had colored Polly’s face, the hard bright-green glint in her eyes as though she wanted to slap her brother’s mouth shut.

Getting rid of Troy was only the beginning.

Rip Campbell had smoked Troy and his renegades out into the open. But from now on he’d have to watch his step. Get a line on things. Trust nobody. Trust Polly Valentine least of all because she was as dangerous as she was beautiful.

Polly and her big black Dane Devil.

Her hound pack.

Polly had seen that law badge and had drawn her own conclusions, Let it ride like that.

She’d said she needed Rip’s help.

But getting rid of Troy might have been what she meant.

Rip Campbell had a notion that somehow Polly Valentine had double-crossed the ramrod.

That Troy had let her watch him doctor Rip Campbell’s six-shooter, then left her to ride close-herd on the stranger.

And Polly had played both ends against the middle, gambling that Rip Campbell would kill Troy with Rick’s gun.

Rip had watched her narrowly when she opened the door and stood with the big black Dane.

She’d showed her disappointment at seeing Troy alive after that shot.

Polly Valentine had a cold-blooded streak in her beautiful make-up. Even as her brother Rick was weak.

In her own clever way she had pitted Rip Campbell against Troy because she wanted to get rid of Troy.

The big handsome ramrod was getting the upper hand here at the ranch, getting too tight a tail holt on the outfit and perhaps jockeying Polly into a pocket.

Polly couldn’t, wouldn’t stand for Troy or anyone to get the upper hand.

She wanted to hold the whip.

Rip Campbell warned himself that he’d have to watch his step or he’d fall in love with Polly Valentine.

Rip Campbell bedded down and slept until supper time.

Rick had pulled out, gone to fetch the old crew of cowhands Troy had fired.

Polly had saddled her horse and ridden away with her pack of hounds.

When Rip Campbell, shaved, scrubbed with hot water and soap, his wiry black hair trimmed by the Chinese cook, he put on the clean clothes Rick had given him from an ample wardrobe, and went to the house to have a medicine talk with Zeke Valentine.

The big cowman motioned him towards the whiskey and a big leather chair.

Then he fired what he figured was a verbal gunshot.

“Got a law badge in your pocket, ain’t you, Rip?”

Rip Campbell poured himself a drink and grinned.

“My dad’s law badge. I’m packing it for luck. They murdered him when he cut the sign of some cattle rustlers that was trailing a big drive of stolen cattle out of Wyoming into Montana. And they shot me up some. You got some of them stolen cattle now in your Heart iron, Zeke. Ward Dixon put the rest of them in his Quarter Circle D brand. Troy and Ralph Millsap made the dicker for Zeke Valentine and Ward Dixon. Stop me when I get on the wrong trail.”

“Go right on talking, young feller.”

“This range war between Zeke Valentine and Ward Dixon,” Rip Campbell held his drink in his hand,

“It shore fools the natives, don’t it, Zeke?”

The remark caught the big grizzled cowman swallowing a big shot of raw whiskey.

He choked and sputtered and coughed.

Then, when he was through coughing, he leaned forward in his heavy leather chair, his slitted steely eyes peering through bushy brows.

“Right now, by Jehoshaphat,” he growled, “it’s fooling me and Ward Dixon!”

His big fist slammed down on the arm of his leather chair.

“How long has it been, Zeke, since you rode away from your home ranch alone?”

“Too long. If I ride out alone, day or night, I get shot at and hardly missed. I don’t know what in thunder goes on out on my own range. I got a weak-spined, gutless nephew. I got a niece that keeps a pack of dogs that’Il drag a man off his horse and chaw his throat out if she gives them such orders. That damned Troy and his tough hands been running my outfit for me. Till you showed up. You got shut of Troy. What’s your next move, young fellow?”

“I’m riding over to the Quarter Circle D home ranch,” said Rip Campbell.

“If my luck holds, I aim to smoke out Ralph Millsap like I crowded Troy into the open.”

“Lone-handed?”

“Lone-handed.” ‘Rip nodded,

“That’s the only way I kin get the job done.”

“Meaning, Rip, you can’t trust nobody but yourself?”

Rip Campbell nodded.

“Myself ain’t picking’s.”

“Meaning Polly?” chuckled Zeke Valentine. Rip Campbell’s tanned face colored darkly. His grin was lopsided.

“Meaning Polly.”

“You cold-trailed them stolen cattle here, Rip. Could be you might send me and Ward Dixon to the pen

“And trusting for taking delivery on them cattle that’s now wearing my Heart and Ward Dixon’s Quarter Circle D and the brands hardly haired-over. The Deer Lodge pen wouldn’t be much worse than being held prisoner on my own home ranch. But I got a notion that ain’t your game, son.”

“No, sir. I’d trust you and Ward Dixon all the way down the line. You’re both old-timers. Cowmen. No better, no worse than other big cattle outfits. It don’t matter right now how you and Ward Dixon got messed up in the cattle rustling. It’s Troy and Ralph Millsap I’m after.”

“Why the devil didn’t you kill Troy when you had your chance, son?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Rip.

“Except that I knew that Polly Valentine expected me to kill Troy. So instead I just pulled his, fangs and watched the results.” —

“Satisfied with them results, Rip?”

“Not plumb satisfied. Puzzled. I got to fit the chunks of that puzzle together. I might be giving Troy and Ralph Millsap enough rope to hang their selves.”” »

“Providing they don’t lynch you with that rope.”

“Yes, sir. It was Polly told you I had a law badge, Zeke?”

“Yep. She warned me. Then took her damn hounds and rode off.”

“Rode off,” said Rip Campbell, his voice hard, tainted with bitterness, “to warn Jim Dixon.”

“Maybe. Or maybe so just to warn Ward Dixon. Hard to figure what Polly will do.”

“It was Jim Dixon,” said Rip Campbell slowly, “who took delivery on the stolen cattle. Paid Troy and Ralph Millsap. Cash on the barrel head. Rick was representing for the Valentine Heart iron when the cattle were branded at the: camp on the Missouri River where Rick’s gone to gather your old crew of cowhands. Where was Polly?”

“Here. Right here at the home ranch. With her dogs. Riding close herd on men Ward Dixon. The three of us playing poker. Polly raking in the big jackpots. And every time me or Ward started out a. door, there’d be one of them damned. hounds barring the way.”

Zeke Valentine cussed into his ragged gray mustache, poured himself another drink and downed it.

Rip Campbell grimed flatly.

“That’s all I want to know, Zeke.”

Rip downed his drink and got to his feet, hitching up his cartridge belt with its holstered six-shooter.

He was packing his own gun again.

“I’m pulling out now for the Quarter Circle D home ranch, Zeke. I just saw Polly ride up to the barn with her hound pack. So she’ll be here to ride herd on you. And your job will be to keep her from trailing me when I pull out.”

Zeke Valentine nodded.

“You got guts, Rip. And I hope you got the horse sense to go with them guts. Come a tight, you can bank on me. Tell Ward Dixon what me and you been talking over and old Ward will back any play you make. I’ll shake on it.”

They gripped hands and Rip left the big grizzled cowman standing there with a fresh drink in his hand.

Polly met Rip at the barn.

The Dane shoved his massive head into Rip’s hand.

The big brindle pack leader circled him warily, then sniffed his hand and let Rip scratch his scarred head and ragged ears.

Then the other hounds made their friendly overtures.

While Polly, dressed in shabby riding clothes looked on smiling, the hardness gone from her black-fringed deep green eyes.

“You’re the only man they ever picked out for me, Rip. Reckon there’s something prophetic in it?”

Rip Campbell felt his face and ears redden hotly.

“Not,” he said boldly, watching her eyes,

“While I got tough competition like Jim Dixon.”

Polly still smiled.

But the soft gay sparkle died in her eyes and left them as cold as deep winter ice.

“You and Uncle Zeke must have had quite a medicine talk.”

Her husky voice was quiet.

“I told him about your law badge.”

“Yeah. I know. Thoughtful of you.”

Polly pulled off her buckskin gauntlet gloves.

She slapped the leg of her shabby leather divided skirt.

Her almost heavy black brows knit into a level line.

“Where were you thinking of going?” she asked coldly.

“Riding. Horse and dogs need the exercise.”

“Before supper?”

“I ate a lone supper.”

“If I told the dogs to keep you out of the barn—”

“I’d hate to shoot that big black Dane. I like dogs. They like me. The black ’un is the only one you could make charge me. Zeke Valentine hired me to ramrod his outfit, riding. I’m giving the orders here now. Not taking them. Let’s try to get along that away.”

Rip Campbell grinned faintly, his eyes watching hers.

And he saw the hard glitter melt in the. girl’s green eyes.

Watched them darken with something like fear.

Then she reached out and took his hand.

“You give the orders, Rip. Have to put it another way. I’m afraid. Afraid they’ll kill you if you ride away from here alone. Like they’ve threatened to kill Uncle Zeke. He’s told you, perhaps, that he’s. a prisoner here on his own home ranch. I’ve had to keep him here. For his own protection. Those men are playing for keeps. Don’t ride away from here alone, Rip. They’ll murder you!”

“Then it’s all in a day’s while: Polly. You ride herd on Zeke. I’m taking a little pasear. I’m going to make war medicine with an old-time cattleman named Ward Dixon.”

Polly Valentine clung tightly to his hand.

Hers was cold.

And there was no doubting the fear in her eyes.

“No. No, Rip. Not alone. They’ll bushwhack you. Troy and his renegades. Or if you get past them you’ll be stopped at the Dixon drift fence. The gates along that fence are padlocked. Ralph Millsap’s tough cowhands are riding fence there. They’ll shoot you out of your saddle.”

“I’ve dodged gun traps before now. It’ll be dark. That red moon don’t shed much light. I know what I’m riding into. I aim to shoot first if I’m stopped. It’s all in the game, lady.”

“What is your game?”

“Killing off men that have needed killing for a long time. Men like Troy. And Ralph Millsap. Maybe so like Jim Dixon.”

“No. You’re wrong about Jim Dixon. I rode there today. I went there to see Jim Dixon. About Rick’s gambling debts. To find out why those I.0.U. notes were made doesn’t drink. out to Jim. Because Jim Dixon is no tinhorn gambler. Penny ante is Jim’s speed. He’s no fast gun fighter, either. Give Jim Dixon a fair chance, Rip. He never hurt you. You can’t hold a grudge against a man you don’t even know. You’re a law officer. Killing men is part of your trade. But if you kill Jim Dixon, then you’re hiding behind a law badge to do plain murder. Why didn’t you kill Troy?”

“That’s what Zeke Valentine asked me. He’ll tell you my answer to that one. Jim Dixon will get his fair chance to clear himself. I don’t particularly enjoy shooting a man. Where’ll I find him?”

“I don’t know. Ralph Millsap stopped me at the big gate, Troy had been to see Millsap. He turned me back. He said Jim Dixon was in town on a drunk. He lied. Jim Not that much. There’s trouble coming, Why didn’t you kill. Troy when I gave you the chance?”

“Ask your Uncle Zeke. So long. Polly. See you when I get back.”

The red moon was almost hidden tonight in the smoke-filled sky. Rip Campbell rode with his hand near his gun.

Several times he rode out and around places where bushwhackers might be waiting.

Two or three times he heard little groups of night riding men before they heard or sighted him.

That was the advantage of playing it lone-handed.

One lone rider can dodge and twist and get through where even two men might be discovered.

Rip’s only disadvantage was not knowing the country.

But he had a general idea of its topography.

He knew where the Quarter Circle D home ranch lay and the location of the drift fence.

And he was riding a big grain-fed Quarter Circle D gelding.

The horse would take him there if he kept a slack rein.

Polly had staked Rip to the big brown gelding.

And when she knew he was bound to go alone, she gave him an accurate description of the country between the two ranches and the location of several secret key gates in the barbed-wire drift fence.

Places where the fence crossed cut coulees and the wires were so fastened to the fence posts that the key staples could be lifted and the wires raised and a man could lead his horse under the wires and key them back in place on the posts.

There was the off chance, she said, that Ralph Millsap’s fence riders knew about the key gates Jim Dixon had made in the drift fence long before Millsap moved in to take over with his renegades. Jim Dixon and Polly used those hidden gates.

Even Rick knew nothing about them.

Only Jim Dixon and Polly Valentine.

Rip Campbell had winced a little inside when Polly spoke so_intimately of Jim Dixon.

But when he got ready to mount, she had put her arms around his neck and kissed him.

Hard.

Bruising her soft lips against his mouth.

A sob in her throat and her green eyes misted with unshed tears.

And Rip had held her and kissed her hungrily, roughly, clumsily.

“Come back, Rip,” she’d whispered, her voice husky.

Rip Campbell would come back if he had to shoot every mile of the trail back to the Valentine ranch.

No girl had ever moved him like that.

But Polly Valentine was no girl.

She was a woman.

Older, the twenty-five-year-old Rip Campbell suspected, than he was.

There were tiny lines etched around the corners of her green eyes and her red-lipped mouth.

Polly Valentine could be as old as thirty.

Too old for Rip Campbell.

“Get a tail holt on yourself, Rip.” he told himself savagely.

But his heart pounded hot blood through his veins.

He’d fight his way through hell to get back to the green-eyed, black-haired, red-lipped Polly.

And she was in love with Jim Dixon.

“She as much as told me so. Hang onto your bushy tail, Rip. Come out of it.”

The big pole gate in the drift fence loomed up.

So close ahead that he sucked in his breath through clenched teeth and slid his six-shooter from its holster.

He sighted the man on horseback, there on the other side of the pole gate.

He sensed, rather than saw the man lift his gun, and he shot a split-second before the man’s gun spat fire.

Shot to kill.

The man’s horse whirled and stampeded.

The rider went over backwards and landed with a heavy crash on his head and shoulders and lay there motionless.

Rip Campbell spurred up to the gate. Its chain hung down, the padlock open.

The man he’d shot must have just unlocked the big padlock and had been about to open the pole gate and ride through.

Maybe he’d killed Jim Dixon.

No time to stop.

Anyway, he wouldn’t know Jim Dixon if he found him dead.

Rip Campbell leaned from his saddle and pulled the long wooden gate pin.

Riding through, he shut and padlocked the gate behind him and lifted the big brown gelding to a run.

He heard a man shout, another man yell back some kind of reply.

And Rip Campbell rode like the devil was at his heels.

The dead man’s horse had fouled its dragging bridle reins in some brush.

Rip Campbell quit the wagon road and kept to the brush.

It was only about five miles to the ranch and he slowed down to a long trot, letting the big brown gelding get its wind.

Then he pulled up when he sighted the dim blobs of lighted cabin windows.

He rode in behind the heavy willow thicket that flanked the creek, left his horse there, and went on afoot, his saddle carbine in the crook of his left arm.

He made out the scattered buildings and pole corrals.

A light showed dimly behind drawn blinds in the main house.

A rambling one-storied log house.

Rip opened the door without knocking.

His six-shooter was in his right hand, carbine in the crook of his left arm.

Then he stood rooted in his tracks.

The door opened directly into a large room.

A big lamp was set on a large table and a girl of about nineteen sat in a rocking chair reading a book.

She had curly topper-colored hair and a lot of freckles and dark-brown eyes.

She was wearing a clean but faded blue flannel man’s shirt and faded Levi overalls and a pair of shabby boots that hung by silver mounted spurs from the scarred edge of the heavy home-made table.

She let the book lower, marking the place with her forefinger, and grinned boyishly at him, showing white teeth.

“Whew!”

Her full red lips pursed in a whistle.

“Scared me green. I’m reading Sherlock Holmes and the Hound of the Baskervilles. Out on the moor; that big slavering hound. Like Polly Valentine’s black Devil. … Take off your hat and rest your guns, mister. If you’re looking for Jim, he ain’t here. If it’s Ward you’re gunning for, he’s got you covered.”

The rowels of the silver-mounted spurs raked the scarred table top. The girl opened the book again and read, or pretended to read.

“Regular bookworm,” drawled a man’s voice from behind a huge multicolored Navajo rug that shut off the hallway.

“But a top cowhand anywhere you put her. And she’s a good sure hand with a green bronco. Cooks a bang-up meal when she’s a mind to, and makes all her own clothes. And there’s a horse and saddle goes with her.Her name’s Dizzy.

Rip Campbell had shoved his six shooter back into its holster and leaned his saddle carbine against the wall and pulled his hat off.

He stood there awkwardly, red-eared, his hat in his hand.

The man who came out from behind the curtain shoved a_ longbarreled six-shooter into its open holster.

He was short, wiry, with a leathery face, graying red hair and puckered bright black eyes that missed no detail of Rip’s looks.

“You ain’t one of Ralph Millsap’s renegades.”

He was soft-spoken with an easy grin.

“Maybe Jim sent you?”

“No, sir. I rode over from the Valentine place. . . . We got rid of Troy. I’m ramrodding the outfit. Hiring back Zeke’s old hands. I come here to see what kin be done about smoking out Ralph Millsap. . Kind of clean up both outfits. My name’s Rip Campbell—”

“Your name is mud!”

Troy’s rasping voice came from the doorway.

Rip Campbell had not shut the door.

It had swung open behind him and Troy stood there, grinning, a gun in his left hand, the whip welts ridged on his dark face.

“You’re smart,” Troy stepped inside, his gun pointed at Rip Campbell’s belly.

And the tall rawboned cowpuncher who crowded in behind Troy was, Rip reckoned, Ralph Millsap.

Ralph Millsap was on the younger side of thirty.

Lantern-jawed, light haired, with a high-bridged nose and pale-blue eyes.

Young, tough and merciless, he was a cold-blooded killer.

He pushed past Troy who stood just inside the doorway, and walked over to where the girl Dixie sat in her rocker, so white now that her freckles were a black smudge.

Fear and loathing in her eyes as she shrank away from Ralph Millsap’s pawing hand.

“Keep your filthy paws off my daughter!” Ward Dixon stepped forward.

Ralph Millsap’s six-shooter chopped down across Dixon’s head, knocking him back wards.

Millsap’s buck teeth bared in a nasty grin.

“Take it easy, pappy!”

His voice was a nasal whine.

Rip Campbell dared not make a move.

Yet.

Troy’s gun was a hair triggered six-shooter ready to blast his guts out.

There was murder in Troy’s pale bloodshot eyes.

Ward Dixon had grabbed hold of the edge of the table to steady himself.

Blood was oozing from his ripped scalp.

Rip Campbell winced a little under the quick contemptuous look Dixie Dixon cut him.

Ralph Millsap stank of bad whiskey.

He pawed at the girl again, a leering grin on his muddy yellow-colored face.

She twisted away and kicked him hard in the shins.

Millsap let out a yelp of pain and stumbled after her as she dodged in behind her father.

But Rip Campbell was not watching the girl and Millsap.

He was watching Troy. Troy was taking it all in with a thin-lipped grin, but his pale eyes were fixed on Rip Campbell.

And Troy’s back was to the open doorway so he could not see what Campbell saw.

A black shape that moved without a sound, crouched, with white fangs bared and yellow eyes shining in the dark.

Without a warning growl the big black Dane Devil sprang.

Long, powerful jaws: clamping down, sharp white fangs buried deep in the back and side of Troy’s neck.

Troy let out a horrible scream. The gun in his hand exploded.

Rip Campbell threw himself sideways and the bullet whined past his head.

He jerked his gun and whirled, intending to shoot at Ralph Millsap.

But Millsap had grabbed Dixie and Rip Campbell dared not risk a shot for fear of hitting the girl.

Millsap’s gun spat flame and Rip Campbell felt the burning, thudding impact of the bullet grazing his ribs.

He cleared the table and crashed heavily into Millsap and the girl and the three of them went down in a tangled pile.

Then Dixie scrambled free.

Troy’s injured right hand and arm had gone up to protect his throat as the Dane knocked him off his feet.

Troy shoved his hand and forearm blindly into the dog’s mouth, clubbing at the black Dane’s massive head.

Then blood spilled from Troy’s torn neck and his horrible screams filled the room.

The dog’s fangs ripped and slashed.

Meanwhile out yonder in the smoky night there sounded the pounding of shod hoofs and guns roaring and men shouting hoarsely.

And the voice of one man lifted above the other sounds.

“Get at them, you forty-a-month old rannyhans. Charge them, Zeke!”

“Jim! Jim!” yelled Dixie Dixon.

Ward Dixon stood with blood trickling into his eyes, knocked out but still on his feet, his gun in his hand but too blind from blood and toe in to see what to shoot at.

Rip Campbell heard the confusion only dimly.

He saw nothing but the ugly lantern-jawed face of Ralph Millsap. Saw that face through a red film of hate.

And for the first time in his life Rip Campbell wanted to kill a man with his bare hands.

He wanted to kill Ralph Millsap for the simple reason that the tough young renegade had manhandled that redheaded freckle-faced girl who was a bookworm but a top cowhand and had a way with a green bronco but could cook a bang-up meal and make her own clothes. .

Ralph Millsap clubbed at Rip’s head with his gun barrel.

Rip Campbell grabbed the gun with both hands as it chopped down, yanking hard and pulling Millsap sideways and down and off-balance.

Jerking the gun free, he threw it away.

Rip didn’t realize he’d dropped his own gun in his headlong red hate, his savage determination to kill this vicious, snarling renegade with his bare hands.

And he grabbed Millsap’s throat with his left hand and his right fist smashed short vicious blows into Ralph Millsap’s sweaty face. Bones crunched under the hammering blows.

And Rip Campbell felt no pain when Millsap gouged and pounded and shoved his head down till his big yellow teeth sank into Rip’s shoulder.

Then Millsap was on top of Rip, his big weight crushing him against the floor.

Somehow Rip managed to get both his hands on Ralph Millsap’s throat and clamped down and tightened his grip, holding it as though he had steel springs in his fingers.

He did not know when Ralph Millsap’s teeth slacked their biting punishment, when Ralph Millsap’s big dirty-nailed fingers quit clawing and gouging.

Then a red blood smear blinded Rip Campbell and there was a tremendous weight holding him down, a dead limp weight now.

The room filled with sounds. Valentine’s booming growl.

“Blast it, Polly, call off that black hound.”

The shooting had stopped outside.

Cold water splashed down on Rip Campbell’s blood-smeared head and face and he heard Zeke Valentine’s growl.

“Hell’s cinders, Rip, slack your grip. Hate to have to cut you loose. Let go, Rip. Millsap’s finished!”

But there was a red film blinding Rip Campbell and they were putting cold wet bandages on his eyes.

And somebody was washing his face and head.

And there was the taste of raw whiskey in his mouth.

He heard Polly Valentine’s voice.

“Take it easy, Rip. It’s all over but the shouting.”

“Gosh, Polly, he just threw away his gun and came over the table and Zeke wow! He nailed him! I got a bloody nose.”

That was Dixie’s voice.

Excited.

Rip Campbell pawed off the bandages and blinked away the red film.

But it was not Polly or Dixie he saw.

It was a big black Dane’s head, tongue lolling, white fangs showing, yellow eyes looking down into his.

Then the big red tongue swiped him alongside the head and Rip reached up and rubbed the massive sleek black head.

Then the huge black Dane lay down alongside him.

On guard.

“Whew!” gasped Dixie Dixon’s voice.

“For a second, I was scared green.”

“Looks like I’ve lost a dog,” said Polly. She bent down and kissed Rip Campbell.

“The big tramp followed you, Rip.”

A red-headed cowpuncher with a homely freckled face lifted Polly to her feet and gave her a hard quick hug.

Then squatted on his spurred boot heels and gripped Rip Campbell’s hand.

“I’m Jim Dixon. We got to thank you for a lot, Rip. Me. My kid sister Dixie. My dad Ward. Zeke and I was too far behind when we left the Valentine ranch to do you much good here. So was Polly and her hounds. But the old Valentine’ Heart and Quarter Circle D cowpunchers took Troy’s and Millsap’s renegades like kids eating candy.”

“Rick fetched them?”

“No. I went down to the river camp a couple of days ago. Hired them all back for both outfits. We found Rick near the Valentine ranch. Troy’s renegades had killed him. But he got two of them before he died. Rick Valentine died a-fighting. Jim Dixon had never seen those I.0.U.s until Polly showed them to him. Rick had lost that money to Troy and Troy had made out the I.0.U.s in Jim Dixon’s name. He had hoped to make Polly hate Jim Dixon, the one and only man she loved, she told them all.”

“Jim’s so doggoned homely,” she explained.

And it was Jim Dixon who explained about the stolen cattle.

A lot of cattle were being trailed out of Wyoming.

There was a range war down there.

Cowmen were trailing their cattle to Montana before the rustlers whittled on them.

Selling cattle cheap.

Troy and Millsap had pointed such a trail herd to Montana.

They’d showed Jim Dixon bills of sale for the irons in the mixed herd. Jim Dixon and Rick Valentine, repping for the Valentine Heart and Dixon Quarter Circle D, had paid cash for the cattle.

And it wasn’t until the cattle were branded in the Heart and Quarter Circle D that Jim Dixon and Rick Valentine learned that the bills of sale were forgeries and they had a lot of stolen cattle in their irons.

From then on it was blackmail.

Troy and Ralph Millsap moved in with their renegades.

They fired the old cowhands and spread the rumor of a range war between the two outfits.

And they threatened the Valentines and Dixons with prison for handling stolen cattle.

Most of those Wyoming cattle wore the Rocking R brand.

Rip Campbell said he and his father had owned the Rocking R.

U.S. Marshal Hank Campbell was too busy to spend much time at the ranch.

He’d shown up in time to side his son Rip in a tough one-sided gun fight with the cattle rustlers,

The running gun fight had happened at night with a stampede of a big herd Rip Campbell had gathered.

But Rip Campbell said he reckoned Troy and Ralph Millsap had ramrodded the night-raiding rustlers.

The same renegade pack that was now wiped out.

U. S. Marshal Hank Campbell had been killed.

For weeks Rip Campbell had lain flat on his back in a hospital bed, fighting for his life.

It was months before he could sit a horse again.

Then he had sold the ranch in Wyoming, put his father’s law badge in his pocket, and took the cold trail of his stolen cattle.

“They’re yours, Rip,” said Polly.

“Putting tallow on their ribs on a new range. Free grazing. And you’ve got.to stay with us till they’re gathered this fall and shipped. Till after our wedding. Doesn’t he have to stay, Jim?”

“I need him for best man,” grinned the red-headed, freckled Jim Dixon.

Zeke Valentine and Ward Dixon were getting slowly, quietly, drunk. Cussing one another.

Swapping their top horses.

Somehow they all drifted outside.

And only Dixie and Rip Campbell— Rip, in clean clothes and both eyes discolored and swollen to slits and his face battered-looking—were left there in the big room that had been cleaned up.

Big Devil was stretched out at Rip’s feet.

Dixie moved in her chair and the big dog get up and walked over to her and shoved his massive head into her lap.

She gave a little start of surprise and then began gently rubbing the swollen lumps where Troy’s gun barrel had struck glancing blows before his jugular vein was torn and he’d died horribly.

“The hound of the Baskervilles!” Dixie shuddered.

“I’ll never be able to finish that book. Not while I’m alone.”

But she buried her curly red head in Devil’s sleek black shoulder. Rip Campbell squatted on his boot heels beside the big dog and took her hand.

And somehow he managed to tell Dixie Dixon that he was in love with her.

He’d known it the second Ralph Millsap had pawed her.

So that was why he had to throw away his gun and fight Ralph Millsap with his hands.

“Sounds locoed, don’t it?” he grinned.

“Nope. Not to me; it doesn’t sound anything but grand, Rip. Only I was scared you’d take days, even weeks to get around to it.”

“Then you’ll marry me, Dixie?”

“Whenever you say, Rip. My horse and saddle goes with me, Ward said. I think you’d better kiss me now.”

Rip Campbell kissed her. Devil swiped the backs of their necks with his tongue, then stalked outside with a great Dane’s splendid dignity.

Out to where Jim Dixon and Polly sat in the porch swing.

Polly rubbed the big dog’s ears.

“It worked, Jim. When Devil walked over and shoved his head into Dixie’s lap, Rip took the hint. Rip remembered something I said to him. About Devil picking out a man for me. I was just teasing Rip. He’s so darned bashful.”

“He does all right for a backward country boy,” grinned Jim Dixon.

“Say! I just remembered something. The day that big black pup of yours made up to me like that and you said he’d picked out a man for you. And that gave me the nerve to tell you you had to marry me. Remember?”

Polly’s green eyes softened.

She laughed huskily and kissed him.

“You better change his name. From Devil . . . to Cupid.”

And at the far end of the porch Ward Dixon and Zeke Valentine clinked filled glasses and grinned in the smoky moonlight.

“Double wedding, Zeke.”

“Double wedding, Ward.” They downed their drinks and smashed the empty glasses.

THE END

Can I send you WRANGLER for FREE?

MORE WORK BY THE AUTHOR

CALIFORNIA TOOTHPICK

BONE ORCHARD

CROWBAIT

TINHORN

COWPOKE

BEATS DYING

OUT AND OUT

BANGTAIL

BLUE BLAZES

FIVE BEANS IN THE WHEEL

PIEBALD

HOG LEG

NOOSE FEVER

PAN OUT

SIX GUN DESTINY

HOLSTER HOLIDAY

OVERCAREFUL

PACK IRON

OLD PIE

PLAYED OUT

HIGH RANGE REVENGE

OLD RATS

PONY UP

ROOSTERED

HIGH CASH OUTLAW

TROUBLE SHOOTER

HANG TREE BAIT

TRIGGER BAIT

LONE HAND

FAIR SHAKE

FETCH UP

RAIL RANGE

NOOSE BAIT

TRAIL RUSH

KNOCK ROUND SURS

OWDACIOUS

WHEEL HORSE

The Things We Want Most

We all want the same thing.

I think the song said it best.

Satisfaction.

Sometimes you can’t get no…

But if you try sometimes.

People laugh at you for wanting simple things.

But what’s so funny about peace, love and understanding?

I think about this a lot.

Because I think that’s what most of us want.

Peace in our lives.

Someone who loves us.

Or a lot of people who love us if you’re feeling hedonistic.

And understanding.

When I would talk about leadership, I would tell people if you want to be understood, first try to understand.

Which means listening.

The hardest thing to do.

Last weekend, we went to a friends house to watch a football game.

The weather was crisp, and they sat the television up in their driveway.

Put a firepit in the middle of the drive, and we put our chairs around it.

Not a circle, but a semi-circle of sorts.

Corralled by coolers, of course.

And we brought snacks, and turned the kids loose to play football and baseball and chase in the yard.

Then we talked.

Or they talked.

I tried to listen, and watch and drink beer.

I wasn’t watching football.

I was watching them.

One of the Dad’s got news this week that his job was going away.

Thank you Coronavirus.

I watched him talk about it for a bit, like it wasn’t a surprise, like he had been expecting it for awhile.

He works for a big company too.

He said the role of the salesperson is disappearing.

I think that’s true.

I think the internet and automation will change that job.

A lot.

I was more interested in watching people.

Talking to each other.  Sometimes talking over each other.

Waiting for their turn to say something.

And me, just as guilty as the next person.

Failing to listen.  Failing to understand.

Which wasn’t a critical mistake watching a football game on a cold Saturday night.

But could have been, if I hadn’t thought about it, and learned a lesson from it.

My fifteen year old daughter sent me a text about her first day at work.

I told her I was proud, but asked about it.

Asked questions, instead of statements.

I wanted to give advice, fatherly in nature, and full of wisdom accrued from working since I was fourteen.

Instead, I chose to ask her about her thoughts. Her feelings. Her day.

And she opened up.

A string of texts about why she wants money, why she likes the job, why she’s adding 10-12 hours per week working at an ice cream/coffee shop on top of dance team and 4 AP classes.

Why she’s making her dad worry about overextending and stretching too thin. (Which I did not mention)

I just wanted to understand.

Two dozen texts later, she told me how much she loved me.

And my heart was felt peace.

Who knew the singers were seers?

Can This Simple Trick Change Your Life?

We have met the enemy

And he is us

They say the enemy of writing is interruption.

There’s never been a truer statement.

And everything is an interruption.

Maybe that’s why a lot of writers want to go to a cabin in the woods, or someplace with few distractions, so it’s easier to focus.

Focusing is the hard part.

Just today, I’ve had a super active 8 year old scream out my name a half dozen times in an hour.

“Feed me.”

“Help me with schoolwork.”

“Entertain me.”

“Watch this on my iPad.”

I sit in the room while he does online school sometimes.  He listens to a video instruction, hops on the floor to pet the dog, adjusts his ball cap to play a game of toss the hat onto a peg, dances, jitters, and asks why he has to do this baby work.

Maybe writer’s are just kids.

Kids at heart at least.

For my part, it’s dishes.

And sweeping.

And yard work.

And studying.

And marketing the books I’ve written.

And reading.

Fiction and non-fiction. 

Plus running, cause I like to eat and drink beer. And sitting with a beer outside while the sun is shining, cause I like self care.

Finding focus is the hard part.

Finding a million things that keep me from focusing, that’s the easy part.

Focus is the key though.

Marketing Ideas for Your Book

A Couple of Marketing Ideas to help with your Book

Come up with a couple of great phrases about your short story.

Make a meme.

A meme is a picture with your quote on it. It DOES NOT have to go viral.

It just needs to be funny, or relevant to your short story.

Take a quote from your book. Put it on a picture. Save it to DROPBOX under a file with your short story’s name as the file name. This is where you’re going to keep your summary, your memes, and other information as you create or run across to support your stories.

Post it to your FB author page.

Post it to Twitter.

Repeat.

Lost Wages – an action thriller

Four of a kind.  The odds of pulling a pair of Aces in the deal were low.  Jack House almost went all in on the first round of betting.

But there was a smug little son of a bitch in a Western shirt and Elvis sunglasses who won the last three hands and Jack wanted to take him for some of his money.

So he tossed in a chip, just a buy in to see the turn.

“I’m in,” he licked his lips.

He really needed this money.  Lot rent was due three days ago, and Ms. Katsopolis was hounding the step of his RV to collect.  He had vowed last time to never be late again after his landlady made arrangements to extend him credit.  Jack wasn’t sure if he could fuck a senior citizen again.  It would be one thing if the former showgirl retained the toned fitness of her ancient glory, but decades of smoking and thin mints had not been kind.  He shivered at the memory of sagging skin and flabby wattles as Western shirt put his chip in.

“Tell,” the smug man grinned under his shades.

It was unprofessional and unnecessary as every player had seen it.  The other four players wasted no time in debate before joining the pot.

Jack almost shivered again.

Thoughts of his amorous landlady disappeared when the dealer flipped the turn to reveal a third ace.

He wanted to shout, “All in.”

He wanted to scream, “Eat it motherfucker!”

But he counted the stack of chips in front of him with one hand.

It didn’t take long.

He put two of them to slow play and hunched back in his seat.

The other players studied him.  A lot of pros said “Don’t play the cards, play the player,” but Jack didn’t think that made too much sense.

Players lied.  All of the time.  Professionally.

Personally, he believed in Lady Luck.  Sometimes she shined on him.  Like this hand just in time for rent, a couple of bills and that red headed cocktail waitress that kept catching his eye with a smile that said she wasn’t really that shy.

Sometimes Lady Luck hated him, which is how he ended up an aspiring professional gambler and unemployed anything else living in a second-hand RV.

Western shirt shifted forward and funneled his chips into the pot.

“All in,” he stared at Jack. “You’re bluffing.”

The next player folded but the other two jumped in and it went to Jack to call.

He pushed his tiny stack of chips into the pot.

The dealer turned a second Ace on the river card.

“Pair showing,” she said.  “Turn over your cards.”

Jack flipped over his pair of Aces.

“Son of a bitch,” Western shirt muttered as the other two players made sounds of disgust.

Jack raked in the pot and tried not to giggle.

He had hoped for rent money.

He had prayed to the gambling gods for just a little more for food and a few debts.  As he stacked the fifty-two thousand three hundred and some odd dollars in chips on a tray to turn in, the cocktail waitress sauntered past.

“Lucky duck,” she shot him a grin.

He held out a hundred-dollar chip.

“About time I had some.”

“Thanks,” she pocketed the chip and eyed the tray. “I’m off in an hour.  Wanna get a drink?”

Her green eyes twinkled in the neon glow of the casino lights.

“I’d like that,” Jack pointed to a high top in the bar across the floor.  She winked and let him watch her walk away.

2

“Before you ask,” she said as she slid onto the stool next to him and almost made him spill his drink.

“My name is Kansas and no, I’m from Colorado.”

Her green eyes twinkled while her knee brushed against his thigh.

“We named the dog Indiana,” Jack said in a very poor Scottish accent.

“You…have chosen poorly,” she winked.

Jack laughed with her.  He felt amazing.  He had money in his pocket, a cold Shock Top Lemon Shandy on the table and a beautiful woman to banter with.

Lady Luck was loving him indeed.

Kansas waved over the waiter.

“I’d like a real beer,” she lifted Jack’s bottle. “And the lady is buying.”

“Real men drink whatever they want,” he defended.

“My sorority sister will enjoy her wine cooler while you go pull me a Guinness.”

She sent the waiter on his way.

“Give me your particulars while we wait,” she said.

Jack took a pull on the longneck. He should have ordered another with her, but he could wait for her to catch up with round two.

“What you see is what you get,” he said.

“I make my money the old-fashioned way.”

“Hooking?” her smile sparkled as the waiter delivered her beer.

“Cut rate prices,” he told her. “It’s the buy one, get one free business model.”

“I’d pay for that ride.”

He paused with the bottle halfway to his lips and couldn’t fight the grin that split his face.

“I could put you on the frequent flyer plan,” he offered.

It was her turn to grin as her knee continued the slow rub up and down his leg.

“My turn,” Kansas took a sip and wiped her mouth with the tip of a manicured finger.

“I work here and at a club you don’t know, but I’m really a businesswoman.”

“What club?” he asked. “I know lots of places.”

She ducked her head and blushed.

“Cat’s Meow.”

“I know it,” he said. “Waitress huh?”

He slid his eyes from her toes to her amble cleavage straining at the confines of her blouse, being too obvious to be serious.

“I don’t strip,” she whispered. “Not in public.”

“Tell me more about your business woman stuff,” he said. “And maybe I’ll take you someplace private.

“Do you think anyone ever said I want to be a waitress when I grow up?”

Jack shook his head.  He didn’t think many kids had that in their dream house, unless Mom or Dad was a waiter.  “They don’t. But we start doing it because it’s easy and the money is good.”

He studied her full lips as she settled them against the frost tinged glass.

“I can be,” he agreed, matching her with a sip of his own although the bottle was almost empty.

“If you look like this, the money can stay good.  But not forever.”

“Hence the businesswoman?”

“Exactly.”

“What kind of business?”

“The easy kind.”

Jack waved at the waiter and held up two fingers for another round.

“I like easy,” he said.

“I could tell,” she tilted her head left in a way that was both inviting and a tease.  He reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair from her cheek and tucked it behind her ear.  She leaned her cheek against his palm and locked him in her gaze.

The waiter clinked down a bottle and a glass interrupting the moment.

She shuddered.

“You feel that, right?”

“Yes,” he forced out a croak.

“It’s almost chemical,” one hand moved to his knee while the other grabbed the dark Guinness and drank it.

“Electric,” he agreed.

“I haven’t felt that in a long long time.  Do you have someplace we can go?”

Her fingers moved up his leg and squeezed.  Jack almost sputtered his beer.

“It’s not much,” he said.

“Is it private?” she leaned in close and whispered in his ear.

Her hand moved all the way to rest against the growing tightness in his jeans.

“Mostly.”

“Mine isn’t,” she said softly.  “Finish your beer and let’s get out of here.”

3

They barely made it through the door.

“Nice place,” Kansas huffed in a husky voice as she glanced around the Spartan interior and worked the buttons of her blouse.

Jack slipped his shirt over his head and kissed her down the three-foot passage to the bed space.

She grabbed his face and kissed him as she undid his pants. He let them fall off his narrow hips and slide down his muscular thighs.

“Commando?” she grinned in admiration.

“Only way to roll.”

She shimmied out of her skirt and let him appreciate her for a moment.

“Me too,” she purred and pushed him back on his bed. She took him in her hand and slid him up inside her as she straddled his waist.

“Oh God,” he groaned at how warm and slick she was.

“Not yet,” she giggled and slapped him across the face.

He held a hand to the growing red spot on his cheek.

“Distraction,” she explained and ground against him.

“It worked,” he said.

Jack ran one hand over her chest while the other caressed her legs and buttock.

She rocked back and forth in tiny little circles, squeezing and grinding down on him. Her breath got shallow, her face creased in concentration. She moved faster and faster, circles harder until-

“Now,” she gasped. “You’re gonna make me cum.”

She did and he did in a groaning heap of sweating pleasure.

Kansas slid off him and rested against his chest.

“That was nice,” she breathed against his skin.

“Just nice,” he turned to face her. “Give me ten minutes and I’ll go for great.”

He kissed her deep and nine minutes later he did.

4

He woke up next to an angel. That’s how he felt. Kansas sprawled beside him in all her naked splendour. He spent a few moments admiring the curve of her buttocks, the shape of her thigh and the way her red hair framed porcelain features. He reached over and started rubbing her back.

She stirred and shifted her legs wider.

“Lower,” she murmured without opening her eyes.

He did as she asked, moving the tip of his fingers in wider patterns until he eased a hand between her legs and stroked while she moaned. She rolled over and pulled him on top of her, gasping as he slid inside of her.

It was their fourth or fifth time and just as good as the first.

When they finished, half on and half off the bed, she giggled and grabbed his face with both hands.

“I’m glad I met you,” she kissed him.

“A sentiment I share,” he assured her.

“I have to go to a meeting,” she said. “Or I would ask you to stay.”

“That’s very nice of you,” he smacked her lightly on the bottom and kissed the boo boo better. “Considering it’s my place.”

“Don’t you want to know about my meeting?”

“I assumed you would tell me if it was my business.”

“It’s about business,” she rolled over and traced a pattern on his chest.

“The businesswoman kind of business we almost discussed last night?”

“Exactly. I’m going to meet an investor and tell him he’s out.”

“Why is he out?” asked Jack.

“Cause you’re in.”

“I’m in?”

“Like you were deep in me,” she growled and scratched his chest leaving little red claw marks. “I wanna be in business with you.”

“What if I’m not expanding my portfolio?”

She reached down to his crotch and held him limp in her hand. He twitched as her powers of massage nursed him back to life.

“Honey I can expand more than your portfolio.”

He reached for her again but she rolled away. He put his arms behind his head and watched her root around for cast off clothes and get dressed.

“Meet me later?”

“When and where?”

“Noon,” she said. “Behind the Wynn.”

He nodded as she bent over and kissed him. They drew it out for a few moments until the random wanderings of his hands became a little too focused.

She pulled away with a sigh.

“Maybe later,” she promised. “After.”

“After.”

He fell back onto the bed and listened to her leave.

5

Jack laid back in the crumpled mess of sheets that smelled of perfume, sweat and sex.  A grin stretched the corners of his mouth into an almost painful rictus.  The pillow held traces of her hair and the thought of her smooth skin against his lips had him ready for noon.

Hopefully they could come back to his place for an afternoon of delight.

A metal clank interrupted his fantasy of the memories he planned to make.  He jumped out of bed and slid into some running shorts as he hopped on one foot, then the other across the nineteen feet that made up his home.

He shoved the door open ready to fight.

Ms. Katsopolis was down on all fours by the front tire.  She finished clamping a yellow metal bot on the hub and brushed off her knees as she creaked back to her feet.

“Enjoy your guest?” she giggled.

Jack couldn’t tell if she was jealous.

“I’m too old to be jealous,” she said off his look.

The former showgirl could have had a mind reader’s act off the strip.  Her accent alone would sell the act, even blunted as it was by a lifetime spent in the Vegas desert.

“Ms. K-” Jack began.

She held up a hand to stop him.

“You’re late. It’s simple math you beautiful boy,” Ms. K eyed the outline of muscles etched in his stomach.

“I need the rent, some rent or you’ve got to go.”

Jack stepped out onto the pea gravel patio in his bare feet and leaned against the edge of the door.  He yelped at the heat and flinched away.  Even in the morning, once the sun topped the hills in the East, it baked everything in its relentless march above the valley.

“Ms. K, I’ve got it,” he said.

She held out her hand, palm up.  The other hand gripped the lapel of a silk kimono and barely kept it closed.  Fluffy house slippers completed her ensemble and little else.  It was all she ever wore.

“I don’t have it with me,” Jack lied. “I’m going to get it.”

She crossed her arms over her pendulant breasts and frowned.

“Did your pretty friend bring you an inheritance?”

“No such luck Ms. K.”

“No luck for you,” cackled the wizened crone.  “But for me, I will get very lucky to help you.”

Jack held back a shiver as he leaned against the aluminum frame of his RV.

“I really appreciate you working with me Ms. K, but things like that aren’t working on me right now.”

He waved a hand as if to present his exhausted and used crotch.

She wiggled a finger to dismiss him.

“Now perhaps. After what I heard last night I am not surprised.  But you are young so you will recover quickly I think.”

Jack knew there was no arguing and bowed his head in defeat.  Money or the money shot, that’s all she wanted.

“Okay.”

“Tonight.”

“Yes.”

“And take shower,” she called over her shoulder as she swayed away.  “Before I cut off water and electric.”

6

Jack stood in the parking lot behind the Wynn the world rose colored through the polarized lenses of his sunglasses. Lady Luck was loving him indeed. He was still tired and a little sore from the long night of hot sex, but nothing a few hours and a few beers couldn’t cure.

He planned to listen to Kansas’ sales pitch, ravage her repeatedly until they both couldn’t walk straight and then ask her to dinner. Maybe over a proper date he would consider her proposal. It was probably a timeshare scam or maybe a direct marketing thing but who knew, maybe it was something legit. Flipping a house or funding a porno.

It couldn’t hurt to listen.

A jacked up four door pickup truck on oversized wheels took a corner too fast as it squealed into the lot. Hip Hop bass thumped through the concrete canyon so loud the words, melody and music couldn’t be distinguished. It was just rhythmic noise.

The truck rumbled in front of him and Kansas leaned out of the passenger window.

“Get in,” she popped open the back door.

Jack hoisted himself into an interior that reeked of weed. Not even the good stuff but the skunky smell from cheap MJ kept wet in hefty bags too long. The driver glared over the seat at him, but didn’t turn the bass down.

He was short with pale skin and soft looking, like a dough boy who spent too much time on a couch playing video games. He was dressed like a wanna be gangsta, hat turned sideways, oversized jersey and what looked like skorts with high tops. His glare faded to a frown to show off two gold capped teeth.

“This is Goldie,” Kansas explained over the music.

“That’s original,” said Jack.

“What!” she pointed to her ear.

“Nothing,” he waved her off.

“We’re going to go buy a classic Corvette,” she screamed.

“Think they’ll hear us coming?”

“What?!”

He waved her off again.

“We’re going to flip it.”

Jack wondered about the driver as he took off from the parking lot and drove west toward Red Rock Canyon. He pouted a little. The music was too loud, if you could even call it music since all he could make out was the thump. And who was this driver?

Was he the investor?

Was he a partner in the deal?

Something more?

It was hard to think with the pounding bass so near the back of his head and the stink of the skunk weed clogging his nose. Kansas slipped her hand around the side of the seat and touched his knee. It was an awkward angle and a little too secretive, but it made visions of possibilities pop in his mind.

Those visions lasted until they reached a secluded park on the outskirts of town. The truck pulled into the park and Goldie finally reached up to turn the music down. The silence echoed as they creaked to a stop behind a pavilion.

“Here we are,” said Kansas. She hopped out of the truck. Jack hopped out behind her and followed. They were a couple of miles from the buildings that made up the famous Strip, the skyscrapers and resorts a smudge on the horizon.

Cars passed along the road but far enough away to afford privacy. Jack thought if it were just him and Kansas, he could indulge in a little outdoor fantasy.

He almost put his hands out to grab her.

“Hey,” Goldie said behind him.

“Stick your hands in the air.”

Jack lifted both hands up.

“Wave them?  Like I just don’t care?”

“Do you think this is funny?  I’ve got a gun motherfucker.”

“I do not,” said Jack. “I think it’s not fair. I mean come on, I was expecting a Corvette.”

“I’ve got the Vette,” said Goldie.  “Give me your roll.”

“And the girl,” Jack sighed as he pulled the bank roll out of his pocket.

“At least I got laid.”

“You fucked him?”

She sucked her breath in but fought down the panic.

“Honey,” she purred.  “You said to get him here any way I could.  Besides, you’re bigger than him.”

“Hey,” grumbled Jack fingers still pointing to the lone cloud above.

“I am,” Goldie grinned, gold tooth flashing in the sun.  He slipped a hand around her waist and dragged her in for a tongue dripping kiss.

Jack bolted.  He zigged.  He zagged.

Goldie screamed but he didn’t shoot.

After a couple of more zigs, Jack ran straight out. He figured Goldie would have taken a shot or two by now and the wannabe gangsta was content with his newfound largess.

But he didn’t stop running.

7

Jack trudged up Tropicana Blvd toward the Strip.  He could have taken Flamingo from Red Rock Canyon but figured Goldie and Kansas might use that more travelled route to look for him.  Tropicana was only several blocks further on and it led exactly where he wanted. The Monorail connected with MGM and he could sneak a ride north.

That gave him two options.

He could hit a couple of spots on the Strip and try to make some rent money, or he could keep going to the RV park and spend some time with Ms. K to buy more time to get the rent money.

Neither option appealed to him at the moment.

He sighed and kicked a pile of dust just to watch it scatter in the wind.

Lady Luck must be pretty pissed at him.  He’d been down on luck before, really up against the wall with debt collectors of the really violent persuasion, but no one had ever tried to kill him before.

He grumbled.

Jack could have been holed up in an RV with Kansas right now if things had worked out right.  Instead she played him for his winnings, took everything and left him with nothing, not even his dignity.

Well maybe not nothing.

She left him with some fond memories and she really was good in bed.  Very enthusiastic.  Very vocal.

He felt a stirring in his pants and tried to think of something else.

He was going to need the freshness of that memory to help with Ms. K if he didn’t find a stake before then.

Jack needed time to think.  The crowds got thicker as he approached the outskirts of the strip.  On the main boulevards, a lot of smaller casinos and resorts set up shop to cash in on the cache the Strip brought.  They looked like the kinds of places that survived on the cast offs of the mega-casino’s that turned the Vegas night into a neon starscape.

The crowds made him feel safer, at least from the clutches of the want to be gangsta and the cocktail waitress playing Bonnie to his Clyde.  Jack vowed to go back to the bar where she worked and get some answers, then thought with the money she took from him, she would disappear and pop up someplace new when it ran out.

It’s what he would do.

He could spend a lifetime hunting for her, but he really didn’t blame her for taking his stake.  Sure, he was mad about it, but why hold a grudge.  The cards turned for you or against you and so long as there was enough money when it really mattered, well, he could handle a night with Ms. K for a place to keep his RV and something would turn up to help him get back in a game.  The casinos served food and drink, so he wouldn’t starve.

Kansas was just doing what people who lived in Vegas always did.  They survived.

Sometimes that survival came on the back of others, much like the Casino’s that built their fortunes on the losses of so many tourists.  They said the House always wins, and Jack knew he had that last name for a reason.  As bad as things could get, he had always come out on top.

He took the stairs to the Monorail two at a time just as the train arrived.  It was like Lady Luck was telling him he was on his way back into her good graces.

8

Lady Luck may have been a fickle mistress or sometimes like a dominatrix working through rage issues, but every so often, she shined on Jack.

He was settled into a corner of the Monorail pout stretched lips under a frown as he watched the loads of tourists climb in and step off.  Some bragged of money and wins, many telling tales of winning or winners they knew.

They laughed and had fun and drank and ignored his misery.  Maybe they thought he was homeless.

A crowd of inebriated and boisterous sales convention attendees clambered on and clung to each other as the train took off.  Jack watched one of the salesman grope his co-worker, kneading her ass like it was pizza dough directly in front of his face.

Jack could have leaned forward and bit her on the butt.

He thought about it, and just as soon as he did, the salesman lost his balance.  The couple fought against gravity and motion for a moment, and then like drunks the world over they spun around and fell.

Straight into Jack’s lap.

Laughter ensued as they tried to extract themselves.  Jack helped. And while they recounted the adventure with their intoxicated friends, he noticed the salesman’s wallet resting against his leg.

A thick fat wallet with a couple of pieces of green sticking out, not enough he could tell the denomination, but identifiable as currency.  Lots of it.

The worn leather rested between his leg and the plastic partition on the seat.

Jack just shifted his left over it.

It was subtle enough that he could deny it, pass the wallet back if someone called him out on it, but enough to hide it.  Then he waited.

No one said anything.

The lump under his leg put pressure against his skin and he wanted to rip it out and count it.  Even if it were singles, the stack was thick enough to be at least fifty, maybe one hundred.

He watched the laughing salesman as he continued the groping.  It advanced to whispered promises and slobbery tongue kisses and suddenly they were making excuses to depart from the group.

The Monorail stopped and disgorged everyone but the salesman, his temporary girlfriend and Jack.  They started dry humping as the train took off and almost spilled in his lap again.

Jack almost pulled the wallet out when the salesman lifted her skirt and stuck a hand down her black lace panties. It was a good enough show they deserved a couple of the singles at least.

The train stopped in front of the Wynne and the couple moved off, his hand down her panties.  Jack held his breath as they passed a Metro Cop.

If the man stopped them, the search for ID might turn them back to the train.

But the cop was rousting a drunk beggar who harassed passerby’s and ignored one more drunk couple on their way back to a besotted shagging session.

The doors closed and the train took off.

Jack closed his eyes and sent up a quick prayer to the gambling gods, Lady Luck especially.

He fished out the wallet and began counting.

9

Jack stood in front of the flickering neon bleeding off the sign in front of the Cat’s Meow.  He thought he should probably go someplace else on the off chance that Kansas and the hip hop clad little man she called a boyfriend showed up.

But he knew there was a game here and he had the buy in smoldering in his pocket. If he did a quick couple of hands of Texas Hold ‘Em and the gambling gods were kind, he could catch up on rent and pocket a little bit for another night.  There really wasn’t enough time to hunt up another game, so it just made sense, he reasoned.

He paid the membership fee at the door and moved through the Christmas light colored interior.  It wasn’t too crowded yet, still early for the night life to pick up.

“Got a blueberry wheat?” he pressed up to the sweat ring stained bar.

“We have beer,” the inked-up bartender shouted back over the thrumming echo of pulsating techno.

Jack held up one finger and watched the skinny man pull a draft of foamy yellow liquid into a cracked glass.  He dripped it on the bar in front of Jack and pointed to the neon blue FREE BEER sign over one shoulder then to the tip jar with his other hand.

Jack stuffed a couple of bills into the pitcher.

“I heard there’s a game here,” he said.

Ink Arms the Beer Man gave him the fish eye.

Jack wrestled another bill out of his pocket and stuffed it in the jar.

He got nothing from the Bartender.  He repeated the bribe with a one up denomination.  That seemed to do the trick.

It earned another finger point, this time to one of the tree doors on the back wall.

Jack gave a weak toast with the weaker beer to say thank you and carried the leaking mug toward the back.

It opened to a short hallway that must have been soundproofed because as he shut the door, the techno thump fuelling the stripper’s gyrations was muted.

He took ten steps to a second door and opened it to a smoke-filled room.  Six men sat around a worn and cigarette scarred felt top table.  No one glanced up as he stepped in.

A little man at the head of the table made a small gesture with his chin.

Two thick giant hands grabbed Jack and frisked him.  He was spun around to face the stone visage of a towering bodyguard.  The man’s hands were rough and efficient as they roamed over Jack and divested him of his bank roll.  Two of the men at the table shifted apart to make room.  The bodyguard stepped back into the shadows by the doorway.

Jack grabbed a chair from the wall and sat at the table with a grin.

10

The velvet padded door opened to admit them into a pink and purple room.  The little man from the poker game, Jaeger led Jack inside being herded from behind by the towering bodyguard.

Jaeger’s taste seemed to run along Prince Themes with a solid matte black wall behind the giant desk.

Black lights were strategically positioned to give the room an alien feel.  Teeth and eyes flashed in an otherworldly glow.

“Sit,” Jaeger instructed.

Jack settled into a long pleather chair and slid back at an angle until his knees were almost as high as his chest.  It was designed by a German torture artist, thought Jack.  Perfectly selected by Jaeger to put the person in the seat at an awkward angle and lower position.

To make matters worse, Jaeger perched on the edge of his desk so the little man towered over Jack.

“That was a fortuitous hand, Mr-?”

“House,” said Jack.

“Yes, Jack House,” the tiny gangster smoothed his pencil thin mustache with two fingers. “I assume I need no introduction.”

“Afraid so,” shrugged Jack.

“You do not know who I am?”

Jack shook his head.

“Nor my proclivities.”

“Afraid not.”

Jaeger smiled. It didn’t touch his eyes.

“As I said, most fortuitous.”

“For you.”

“I want you to do something for me.”

Jack pushed further back in the chair.

“I don’t suck dick man,” he said.  “Not my thing.”

“Do I appear to you like a man who likes another man to suck his dick?”

“Appearances can be deceiving.”

“How correct,” Gambler smiled.  “And apropos as well. I am not what I appear to be.”

“Are you a cop?”

“Do I look like an officer of the law?”

“You do not.”

“And you do not look like a professional gambler, yet time after time word of you spreads on rumor’s wings.”

“So you’re a poet.”

“Sometimes,” Jaeger shrugged. “Sometimes I pimp. Mostly I play poker in the businesses I run. Not enough against men like you.”

Jack nodded his appreciation.

“High praise from a poet pimp poker man,” he said.

Jaeger nodded to the bodyguard. The giant man opened the door to admit four women, a blonde, a dark-skinned brunette, what looked like a teen and a man in a dress. Maybe.

“Do you want a blowjob while we discuss business dealings?”

Jack waved him off.

“Is that a kid?”

The man in the dress growled and took a step toward Jack with a clenched fist.

“Annie,” Jaeger warned.

“I’m twenty-three asshole,” said the teen looker hooker.

Annie stepped back but the tension off her body came in waves.

“I do not deal in children,” Jaeger explained. “Though there are some who pay extra for the look.”

Jack grunted.

Jaeger sat in the chair behind his desk followed by the blond. She kneeled in front of him. Jack heard a quick zip as she casually undid the gangster’s pants. He watched the top of her head bob above the desktop and down as Jaeger grimaced in joy.

“That last hand made you owe me a great debt.”

“That last hand made you owe me a great debt.”

Annie shifted her position to stand next to the bodyguard.

“I’m going to ask you to satisfy that debt with a favor.”

He held up a finger on one hand while the other moved to rest on top of the blonde’s head. She bobbed faster until he finished, then got up wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Get a drink” Jaeger instructed.

He stood and zipped up.

“Let’s take a walk,” he told Jack.

11

It was a 1972 Cadillac Eldorado Convertible, mint green.  The straight up classic was huge, a throwback to when gas was ten cents a gallon and people didn’t give a crap about seat belts.  Jack wanted to whistle at the lines.  It’s the kind of car a flashy guy drives to attract a lot of attention.

“Nice ride,” he offered.

“Like I do not know,” Jaeger shot back.

He ran the tip of his finger along the fin of the Caddy like he would the skin of a lover.

“There is an item in the trunk which I would like you to dispose of.”

Jack smirked.

“You got a body in there?”

Jaeger slid his silver shades down the tip of his nose and peered over the edge at Jack.

“And if I did?”

Jack shrugged.

“For argument’s sake,” Jaeger continued.  “Let us say there is a body in the trunk of my automobile which I have asked you to dispose of to satisfy a substantial debt that you owe to me.  What would your response be to a request of this nature?”

Jack took a moment to glance at the silent bodyguard standing vigil near the hood then back to the small man in front of him. There was no good answer or only one answer that would be good enough.

“For argument’s sake,” Jack said. “I owe you big time.”

“It is quite substantial.”

Jack nodded.

“So long as whatever might be in the trunk is already dead and it makes us square, I can’t say no.”

Jaeger lifted an eyebrow in his bodyguard’s direction.  The man shifted his head in a passing reference to a nod.

“It is. It does. You don’t.”

He opened the driver’s door and ushered Jack behind the wheel.  Jaeger twirled a set of keys around his extended finger.

“Return it by 3:00,” said Jaeger. “Washed and waxed.”

“Got it,” Jack said as he reached for the keys.

Jaeger slammed his hand on Jack’s arm, clinched it to the door.

“Hand wash only.”

Jack swallowed hard.

“Wouldn’t consider any other way,” he answered.

Jaeger shut the door and waved him off.  Jack slid the key into the ignition.  The engine rumbled to life.  He fought down a semi, dropped it in gear and wheeled the nineteen-foot behemoth away from the club.

12

He drove past the park where Goldie and Kansas held him hostage and further up the winding road into Red Rock Canyon.  A lot of tourists stuck to the main byways, but a simple turn onto a dirt path and a few bounces across potholes could carry a car beyond the hills and into wilderness that looked the same when Mormon pioneers passed by the oasis at Vegas and decided not to take a gamble on it.

Jack searched the sandy scrub brush for a turn out, someplace out of the ways to do the job he needed to get done.

He wasn’t alone.

He passed two guys in cheap suits by a black SUV.  The rear gate was lifted, they looked sweaty and stopped what they were doing to watch him pass.  Jack gave them a wave, but they didn’t wave back.

He cruised past a second car, this one with a single guy manning a shovel.

“It’s like a fucking elephant’s graveyard out here,” he muttered and didn’t bother to wave.  Hundreds of people went missing in Vegas each year.  He bet most of them were out here.

Even though he didn’t particularly believe in ghosts, he shivered.  If they were real there would be plenty out here to witness him adding another to their number.

He spied a small turnout on the side of the road and eased the Cadillac over.  This spot looked as good as any.

Jack shut off the car and hoped there was a shovel in the trunk.  He wasn’t sure how the last guy he passed would react if he asked to borrow one, but he was sure it wouldn’t be good.

He stepped into the desert sun and inched his shades up his nose.  He stretched, keyed open the trunk and stumbled back.

Kansas was curled in a fetal position, duct tape across her mouth, around her wrists and ankles.  She stared up at him with saucer sized eyes and screamed through the gag.

Jack yelped and slammed the lid down.

What was she doing in the trunk?  How did this happen?

“What the Hell!” he yelled at the trunk.

Jack turned the key and opened the trunk again. Yes, it was Kansas curled up in there. She was tied up, gagged and mascara smeared her tear stained cheeks.

He eased her out and propped her against the car on unsteady legs as he peeled the tape off her mouth.

“I bet this is good,” he said.

“You would win that bet for sure.”

She gnawed on the tape holding her wrists while Jack freed her ankles.

“Give me the short version,” he said.

“I fucked with the wrong midget,” she scrubbed her cheeks with dusty palms.

“I’m gonna need a longer version,” he told her. “Did you try to get him to invest too?”

“Sort of.”

“Did he kill your pet gangsta?”

She giggled.

“No. But Goldie owes him big time.”

“That’s what my money was for.”

“It was supposed to be, but Goldie took off with it. All of it.”

“Some friend.”

“He can’t help it,” she sniffed. “He’s an addict. He’s got a gambling problem.”

“So he went to piss away my money.”

“Or double it. That’s always his plan, to double our money.”

“My money. What did you do while he did what he did?”

“I went to explain and try to trade,” she ran her hand across her crotch to indicate the region. “For more time.”

“Then how did you end up in the trunk.”

“That little fucker had a string of lot lizards come in and let one suck him off while I watched.”

“That must be his MO.”

“You saw it?”

“Four girls,” said Jack. “Three girls and a man in a red dress.”

“That’s Arizona Annie the Truck stop Tranny.”

“Is that a thing?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

She stared at Jack for a moment.

“How much do you owe him?” she asked.

“A lot.”

She leaned against him and he let her rest her head on his shoulder.

“He wanted you to kill me.”

“You were supposed to be dead.”

“Then why are we out here?”

“That’s the confusing part.”

Kansas slid her hand into his pocket and felt around.

“I’m sure it’s not for that,” he said glancing around. “But we might get away with it.”

“Keys,” she dug in his other pocket.

He let her look for a few moments as they stared into each other’s eyes. Sure, she robbed him and sure he was supposed to hide her dead body in the desert but pheromones don’t care about that.

“In the trunk,” he indicated with a nod.

But Kansas kept looking a few moments more.

13

“What are we going to do?”

“I’ve got to take the car back.”

“Do you know how much we could sell that for?” she blinked sand away from her green eyes.

“This guy tried to kill you once.”

“Technically, he wanted you to kill me.”

“Or something. I told him I wasn’t killing anyone.”

“Maybe it was a test?” she glanced around at their surroundings to make sure they were alone. So far so good.

“For what?”

“Does he want you to work for him? Is that how he gets you? Blackmail you into doing what he wants.”

“I didn’t do anything. Except owe him money now that you know, you’re not dead and buried.”

“That’s why we should run. Take the car and get out of here.”

“We don’t have money to run,” he answered but he was thinking about it.

Vegas was losing its allure and a chance to go on the road with Kansas was just the kind of change he needed. They could grab a tent and camp out under the stars, making long sweet love in the moonlight until they rustled up some stake money and he could find a game. Maybe she could work a hustle with him, something to get some cash from tourists, just a little bit, just enough. The drunk bit worked quite well, and so long as she didn’t let it go too far he thought she could pull off the part of paramour.

“He’s going to kill me again,” she said. “And you too for not paying him back or doing his dirty deed.”

She was right.

Jaeger was not the type to let bygones be unless they got gone.

“Let’s go,” he agreed.

She squealed and threw her arms around his shoulders and wrapped him in a kiss. Her lips were full of promises and the way she ground against him let him know the wait to collect would be worth it.

They jumped in the car and he reached for the keys.

“Left them in the trunk,” he grinned and practically skipped around to the back to grab them from the trunk lock.

He glanced up as a cloud of dust rolled over the hill. Goldie’s giant Crew Cab truck crested the rise and slid to a gravelly stop across the road from them.

“Shit,” said Jack.

“Shit,” Kansas agreed.

The passenger door opened and Jaeger climbed down and walked around to the driver’s side. The bodyguard leaned out of the window and did his best imitation of a thousand-yard stare while the backdoor opened.

Annie shoved Goldie out of the door. He fell to the ground in a heap and picked himself up, brushing dirt off his high tops and biting back a glare.

“Circumstance calls for strange bedfellows, Mr. House.”

Jack put his hands up.  The Romanian Gangster pimp didn’t scare him so much as the hulking bodyguard with a pistol pointed at him.

Goldie screwed up his eyebrows and curled up one lip.

“What are you doing with him?” Goldie growled.

Kansas slid over to the door and stared.

“Where did you go?” she pouted.

“I had things to do,” said Goldie. “Places to be.”

“I went to him to help you.”

“I know baby, and I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

“He was going to kill me.”

“That’s what he told me baby. That’s why I came back. To rescue you.”

Jack thought he might throw up. Or run.

But one look at the bodyguard in the pickup truck kept him rooted in place. The man had produced a gun that was casually resting on the edge of the open window. Just the tip of the barrel peeking out in their general direction. Jack was pretty sure the guy could shoot, and even if he couldn’t why bother taking the chance.

“I didn’t need rescuing,” Kansas snarled. “I had that part taken care of.”

Way to go Kansas, he wanted to shout. Instead he tried to hide a grin.

“Here I am anyway,” Goldie curled his lip.

“Touching,” interrupted Jaeger. “But there is the matter of business to discuss and I am growing tired of the sun. Mr. Jaeger, it seems you have not satisfied your debt to me yet.”

“She wasn’t dead.”

“Alas,” said Jaeger. “We can take care of that.”

The bodyguard lifted his pistol. Goldie and Jack shouted no at the same time and moved for Kansas, but Annie grabbed Goldie and jerked him back. The pistol moved on Jack and he froze, hands shot up in the air. He wasn’t going to smart off this time.

“He took my money,” Jack nudged his head at Goldie.

“Is this a true statement?” Jaeger turned to the gangsta.

Annie twisted his arm up behind his shoulder blades and yanked a little harder than necessary. Goldie moaned.

“Yes.”

“Would you be so kind as to hand it over?”

Goldie used his free hand to pull out the wad of cash and handed it to Jaeger.

“It’s not doubled,” Kansas called out.

“I came to save you.”

“I called him to save you,” said Jaeger. “Your story of a recently acquired largess touched me, which is why you were in the trunk without a bullet accessorizing your attire.”

“What now?” Jack asked.

“You have satisfied your debt to me,” Jaeger threw the wad of cash through the open window of the truck.

“You still owe me,” he said to Goldie.

Annie shoved him out into the road.

“Get the keys to my car,” Jaeger ordered.

Goldie grunted as he massaged his shoulder, but he shuffled across the road.

Jack held up the keys.

“Toss them.”

Goldie stopped in the middle of the road.

“But…”

Jack slipped the keys out of his pocket and arced them up over Goldie’s head in one smooth toss.  Goldie watched the keys twist and turn above him.

A black SUV roared over the small rise and smashed into him with a wet crunch.  It plowed over Goldie with a loud crackle and pop and kept going.

A dust covered Deputy’s car ramped the small hill in desert hot pursuit. It fishtailed as the Deputy thought about stopping.  He just slowed down and screamed out of the window.

“Don’t move!”

His rear wheels threw up a cloud of dust as he spun out tailing the SUV.

Jaeger and the bodyguard watched the Deputy race away.

He made a micro nod to the bodyguard and Annie jumped into the back of the crew cab and slammed the door. The bodyguard did a K turn avoiding the bloody mess in the road and rumbled back toward the Strip.

Jaeger crossed over the road and slid in behind the steering wheel as Kansas moved over to make room.

“Told you it would work,” she said and threw her arm over his shoulder.

Jaeger cranked up the Caddy and threw up a rooster tail of gravel and grit as he fell in on the bumper of the truck. The last Jack saw of Kansas was her head dropping down into Jaeger’s lap as he drove away.

They left what was left of poor Goldie in the middle of the dusty road.

Jack stopped a couple yards away and watched them leave.

The dust settled down from the car chase and the pimp convoy after a few moments.  The sun began baking the ground, and a slight breeze stirred the squishy clothes in the middle of the trail.

Jack wondered if he should bury the gangsta and shrugged it off.  He didn’t have a shovel and it was a long walk back to the city.

When he got back, he was going to grab his RV and make for points west.  Maybe stop to see what the action was like in Reno.

He’d need a little stake money though to pay for gas.  And he’d have to finally stop by Ms. Katsopolis trailer to make arrangements to get his RV back.  He gagged a little at the thought and bit it back.

“Suck it up buttercup,” he grumbled advice to himself.

14

Jack picked a quarter up off the orange carpet.  The casino had redecorated since the last time he walked in but why they chose orange and red squares escaped him.

Probably something to do with psychology and making people spend more money.  Same reason they pumped oxygen into the air vents.

He slid the quarter in the slot and pecked the button.  The digital screen whirred, settling on two cherries and a wild card.  Alarms sounded as coins jangled into the tray below.

One quarter.

What luck?

Now he could pay rent on his RV lot.  Or he could settle a couple of debts early and get in some karma points.

But he knew about this standing game in the back of a strip joint only three blocks away.  The slot payout would be enough to buy in.

Hell, with the way lady luck was working right now, she’d be pretty pissed if he didn’t try the game.  After all, she just rewarded him with a payout from the slots on just one quarter.  It would be disrespectful to ignore that sign from the gambling gods.

He stepped away from the cash booth and pocketed his winnings.  There was the smart thing to do and the right thing to do.  He knew which one would win.

He stopped at a machine to feed in two twenty dollar bills and trade them for singles.  If the game was at a strip club, he might as well contribute to some college funds while he was there.

THE END

Pony Up – a western action adventure

PONY UP

He caught the scent of sheep up on this ridge, and with the scent of sheep was always the scent of trouble.

They came out through the timber with a sliver of silver moon shining down on them—a straggly line of woollies with a half dozen riders herding them along.

Rip Campbell sat on the buckskin horse, keeping in the shadows of the rock ledge.

With his left hand he snubbed out the cigarette, rubbing it against the wall.

his right hand rested on the hickory butt of a heavy Navy Colt.

He knew these sheep herders hadn’t seen him, and they wouldn’t know him if they had because this was strange. country to him.

But men who drove sheep at night did so for a reason, and their trigger fingers might be itchy.

The flock passed within twenty yards of where he sat, shying away instinctively as they caught his scent.

This was something Rip hadn’t — counted on, but he was ready for the next move.

The herder nearest to the rock ledge swore aloud, and then his gun cracked, orange flame spitting into the black of the night.

Rip could see him dimly, a high shape against the dull white of the sheep flock.

The slug ricocheted off the ledge, and Rip heard it whine as it fled away.

His own Navy roared, making the echoes bounce back and forth across this pass.

He fired high, not wishing to kill the man.

The shot had its effect as the herder put spurs to his horse and raced back toward the tail. other shot after the herder for his own protection.

Then, with a word to the buckskin, he fled toward the north end of the pass, the direction in which the flock had been pointed.

Sliding down through loose rock and shale, he turned the buckskin into a fringe of pine, listening for sounds of pursuit, and hearing none.

He grinned as he thought of the scare he’d put into the sheepherders.

These men, he knew, were bringing sheep into a cow country, and they’d been afraid, anticipating trouble.

Now they’d be convinced that a passing or waiting rider had spotted them and they’d be jittery. all night.

The woods petered out at the base of the divide, and Rip sent the buckskin across open plains until he hit more timber with a stream flowing through it.

He made his night camp by this stream, picketing his horse a little way down among the trees.

According to the saloonkeeper at Carl Rock, the big Arrow Ranch was hiring help for the fall roundup, and the Arrow was supposed to be two hours’ ride over the pass.

“Arrow is the biggest brand in these parts,” the saloonkeeper had said.

“You work for Cade Morrison, friend, and you’re sitting high.”

Rip didn’t particularly care where he sat at the present time.

He’d had his shot at the silver mine fields in Nevada and he’d served a year as town marshal in the tough town of Leesville.

He was drifting back now to these new ranges which had been opened up in Montana and Wyoming.

The saloon man had noticed that big Navy hanging at Rip’s right side and he’d grinned, half-closing one blue eye.’

“Cade’s kind of anxious to hire boys that know how to handle them things,” he murmured.

Rip hadn’t asked why because he knew he’d find out if he stopped at the Arrow Ranch or in Metropole, the next town.

Vaguely, now, he had an idea what the bartender meant.

That flock of sheep coming over the pass in the dead of night meant one thing—trouble.

Every cowman in the county would be up in arms when it was learned that sheep were in.

Changing his mind about stopping at the Arrow Ranch immediately, Rip lingered in the hills till high noon the next day, and then rode leisurely toward Metropole.

Before a man dropped his anchor he should know all the coves and harbors along the coast.

It was nearly two o clock with a hot sun boiling overhead when he rode into Metropole, a tall, loose-limbed man, swaying easily in the saddle, faded black sombrero pulled down over a pair of smoky-gray eyes.

There was a break in the bridge of his nose, and a tiny whitish scar on his left cheekbone, indicating the close passage of a bullet. Metropole’s main street was nearly deserted when he came in, studying the lay of the streets, noting the position of the main buildings.

On more than one occasion such knowledge had saved his life.

This road on which he entered the town became the main street, passing the big Chesterfield Hotel on the left, and the red brick building of the Metropole National Bank on the right, and ending abruptly at an intersection a cross street going right and left, forming as it were, a bad giant T.

 He’d passed six saloons before he reached the head of the

“T,” and at three of the six, men had come to the batwing doors to stare out at him as he rode by.

Rip Campbell’s eyes flickered.

This, and that sheepherder firing at him the previous night, was the gauge by which he judged the temper of the town.

Metropole was anticipating trouble, and every passing rider was regarded with suspicion.

Rip dismounted outside a small restaurant a few doors down from the Chesterfield Hotel.

He was tying the buckskin at the rack when a girl came out-of the hotel door and stood on the porch staring at him grizzly.

The tall rider didn’t look directly at her, but he could read the anger in her dark eyes as he slapped the buckskin on the flank and went up the two wooden steps to the restaurant.

She was slender built, with dark hair and a small, almost blunt nose.

With his hand on the restaurant door knob, Rip Campbell glanced at her deliberately, feeling the coldness in the eyes.

She was still watching him, hands on hips.

There was a faint smile around the corners of the tall man’s mouth as he went inside.

He chose a seat near the window so he could look out and see what effect his entry had made on this town.

The window was dirty and they couldn’t see him from the outside.

The girl with the dark hair had swung up on a black gelding and was riding furiously around the corner of the

“T” intersection.

A baldheaded old man hurried out of the Plymouth Saloon, crossed the road and disappeared in the side door of the Metropole Bank building.

There were windows above the bank, and this second floor probably served as offices.

Indistinctly, Rip saw two men standing by the middle window, looking across at the restaurant in which he sat.

A gaunt, middle-aged woman came out from the rear of the restaurant and took his order.

She said little, but her lips were tight and definitely unfriendly.

Rip ate the bacon and eggs served to him and sipped his hot coffee with relish.

The bald-headed little man came out of the bank building and scurried back to the saloon again, having finished his errand.

A gaunt man with a thin face and sloping shoulders came around the corner on a dapple-gray horse, dismounting outside the restaurant.

This man wore a five-pointed silver star on his calfskin vest.

His arms were unnaturally long and they hung loosely as he came toward the door.

Rip Campbell watched him with interest, realizing that this man had just received the news of the entrance of a stranger and was paying his respects, The sheriff of Metropole ae the door, glanced around the room and then came toward Rip’s table.

The woman restaurant keeper watched him from the door of the kitchen, saying nothing.

The restaurant was empty except for these three.

Rip rolled a cigarette, leaned back in the chair, and regarded the law officer quizzically.

It wasn’t the usual custom, he knew, for a sheriff to greet all strangers.

“Name’s Cranston,” the sheriff stated blandly.

He stood at the other side of the table, both hands caressing the wooden top of a chair.

This man, Rip knew, had seen trouble before, and he was expecting it again, wearily, regretfully, and knowing it couldn’t be avoided.

Rip Campbell nodded, but didn’t offer to give his name.

He lit the cigarette and blew out smoke.

A half dozen riders passed outside, dismounting at one of the saloons up the street.

The horses kicked up a cloud of dust and it hung over the street, but Rip could still see the two men up above the Metropole National Bank.

“Riding through?” Cranston asked.

Rip shrugged.

“Quien sabe?”

“This town ain’t healthy,” Sheriff Cranston stated.

“Not for strangers.”

“Why?” asked Rip.

He watched the way Cranston’s long fingers coiled around the top of the chair.

“It’s hot,” Cranston told him,

“If you ain’t got business here, I’d advise you to ride.”

Rip smiled and regarded the cigarette.

“I’ve been in hot towns before,” he said.

Cranston gave him a long looks before straightening up.

“I wouldn’t doubt that, friend,’ he murmured.

“Just thought I’d tell you.”

“Thanks,” Rip acknowledged.

He watched this tired sheriff pass out the door.

Cranston knew what must come to pass when sheep men and cattlemen mixed.

Rip Campbell puffed on his cigarette, watching the sheriff climb into the saddle and move away.

Both sides, Rip realized, had started to bring in new hands—men quick on the draw—to substantiate their claims.

This town of Metropole didn’t know as yet which side the stranger was only Rip Campbell paid his bill a few moments later and went out. He stood on the walk, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully, giving the whole town a good look at him.

Several of the riders who had come in earlier were outside the saloon, smoking, watching him carefully.

Sheriff Cranston rode by again, but this time didn’t look at Rip.

Rip strolled up the street toward the saloon, knowing that trouble lay in that direction, and not caring much.

One of the punchers outside the saloon stepped over to the edge of the boardwalk. He was a chunky man with a barrel like body and bow legs.

His hair was a tawny red under a battered flat-crowned sombrero. Pale, greenish eyes stared at Rip Campbell through slits.

Rip returned the gaze levelly, and then looked straight up the street. The red-headed puncher’s next move was one Rip had encountered before, and he smiled inwardly, thinking how strange it was that these things never varied.

This town wasn’t sure about him as yet and they had to find out. The redhead spat directly in Rip Campbell’s path, the spittle missing the toe of the tall man’s boot by an inch as Rip pulled up. The three other riders lounging outside the saloon watched, saying nothing, faces expressionless.

Rip Campbell saw Sheriff Cranston sitting astride his horse a block up the street, shoulders hunched, staring at them, but not coming down.

“Your move,” the redhead said.

Rip glanced down at his boot with interest, and he made his move very swiftly, without even looking at his man.

Steel springs coiled inside his body and then recoiled as Campbell hit the blocky man with his right shoulder, catching him in the chest as he plunged forward.

The redhead gasped as he staggered back into the gutter, Rip after him, raining savage blows into his face, sending him reeling directly across the road, between two horses at a rack, and against that rack.

The puncher tried to fight back, hold his ground, but Rip kept on top of him every instant, never stopping.

Hard fists gouged the redhead’s face, cutting it, beating him into the dust as he sagged against the hitching rack.

Sheriff Cranston came down the street, riding slowly, rubbing his jaw in a characteristic gesture.

The three punchers on the walk hadn’t moved from their positions. One of them was rolling a smoke nervously as the red-headed man went down, groveling in the dust, face bleeding from several wounds.

Rip Campbell walked back across the road, stared at these three men quietly, and went inside.

His knuckles were raw from the contact with the puncher’s hard face.

Few people had seen the fight which had ended as abruptly as it had begun.

Standing at the bar, Rip heard horses moving out a few moments later, and he knew the punchers were leaving.

The story would travel very quickly from now on.

He would have a reputation in this country and other men would try to tear it down.

Some would come with guns because it had ever been so.

Cranston came through the door, heading for the bar. He edged beside Rip and spoke quietly as he poured himself a drink.

“That was Carl Groggins,” the sheriff of Metropole said.

“Ramrod for the Arrow outfit. If you’re a sheep man, mister, you better get the hell out of town.”

“You speaking as sheriff?” Rip asked easily.

Cranston shook his head.

“I like to see a kid with guts,” he stated flatly, “and I don’t like to see him shot in the back.”

“That the way they play in this town?”

Rip wanted to know. Sheriff Cranston’s reply was all comprehensive.

“This is a sheep war, mister,”’ he observed.

Rip had his drink and then registered at the Chesterfield Hotel, the clerk giving him a quick look as he wrote his name on the book.

The clerk was nervous, a youngish man with spectacles, and a receding chin.

“Staying long?” he asked, and then acted as if he regretted the question.

Rip placed the fen back on the rack and tipped his hat up.

“This town’s damned interested in how long I stay,” he murmured. Hurriedly the clerk shoved a key at him.

“Room 7,” he gulped.

Rip had a question for him.

“Who was the dark-haired girl came out of here when I rode in?” he asked.

He knew the clerk had seen him because the desk faced an open window.

“Miss Sara Black,” the bespectacled young man stated.

“Ed Black’s sister.”

“Black a cattleman?” Rip wanted to know.

The clerk moistened his lips.

He smiled a little.

“Hard to tell these days,” he stated.

Rip Campbell went up the stairs and found his room.

It was quite evident from the clerk’s remark that the poorer ranchers were bringing in sheep, or had threatened to bring in sheep, and the old cattlemen were fighting it.

Which side was the stronger was another matter, but from the hints that had been dropped by Sheriff Cranston, it would seem the cattlemen had the upper hand.

It was four o clock in the afternoon and Rip slept till seven.

He washed his face from a white porcelain basin and walked over to the window.

Night was falling in Metropole, and the air was cooling, reviving.

Rip Campbell watched the lights going on, and he saw the riders coming in, moving in down the road he’d ridden earlier in the day, swinging into the main street from those two angles of the

“T.”

Two men paused outside the bank building across the way and glanced up toward his room.

This town knew he’d registered at the hotel, and they were awaiting his next move.

Rip grinned, not quite knowing what that would be himself.

At eight o clock he went downstairs and sauntered into the hotel dining room, taking a seat near the fireplace.

This room was half-filled now, and men looked up at him curiously, giving Rip Campbell the impression that he’d been expected a long while.

After awhile he went into the Kingdom Come Saloon, getting here the same vague impression.

At the long bar men turned to look at him as he wagged for a drink. One small man with a wrinkled brown face slid up alongside of him, studied him in the mirror, and then remarked:

“Cade will see you, friend, in the office.”

Rip downed his drink before replying.

“Where?” he asked.

“Over the Wells-Fargo building,” the puncher murmured.

Rip didn’t say any more, and the small man ambled away without haste.

The Wells-Fargo building was at the head of the “T” intersection, a small brick building.

Rip had noticed it as he was going into the restaurant.

He stood in front of the darkened building a few minutes later.

The windows were heavily barred, but Wells-Fargo had closed for the night.

One light twinkled in the windows up above.

Standing here Rip saw the rider coming out of the darkness, moving at a furious pace.

The man yelled drunkenly, but Rip was on his guard, — having seen this stunt before also.

The horseman cut around the corner just as Rip stepped into the shadow of the doorway.

He flattened himself against the wall, hearing a revolver crack.

The slug passed through the open doorway and thudded into the wooden staircase beyond.

Rip Campbell slid the Navy out of the holster, but it was already too late for a shot.

The rider had kept going and was turning into an alley.

Rip saw men come out of saloons up the street and stare in his direction.

Rip listened to the rider until the sound was gone.

Then he went up the stairs.

A light glowed at the . head, and then a man came out of a door and nodded to him.

It was the small man who’d spoken to him in the Kingdom Come Saloon.

“What’s the shooting?” he asked.

“A drunk,” Rip said quietly, knowing that the man who’d fired that shot had been no more drunk than himself.

The small man held the door open for him and Rip saw the tobacco smoke thick in the room, indicating that more than one man was inside.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second while the small puncher murmured.

“Reckon mister,” Rip Campbell grinned and went in.

Five men were in the room, and one of them was Carl Groggins, several pieces of adhesive tape stuck on his battered face.

With him were the three men who’d watched the fight outside the saloon.

Another man was there—a tall man with powerful shoulders and a shock of golden hair. the strong mouth of a bulldog.

His eyes were amber-colored, narrowing now as he studied the man before him,

“That’s not Dilson,” he said flatly.

He had a cigar in his hand and he stuck it in his jaws now, placing his hands in his pockets.

He rocked on the soles of his shoes, beginning to grin a little.

“Who the devil is he, Morrison?” Carl Groggins snorted.

“A range bum,” you ain’t so tough, Cade Morrison

He had a heavy jaw with’ observed coolly,

“Or one of Black’s’ new riders. I didn’t get your name, friend,” he said to Rip.

“Reckon I didn’t give it,” Rip Campbell told him.

He stood with his back to the door, making sure that he’d closed it behind him.

His hands were at his sides and he watched this Arrow crew intently, seeing the strength in this Cade Morrison.

The mouth was a brutal one, wide, thin-lipped, and the jaw was the jaw of a man who had his own way in many things.

“That won’t get you anywhere, Morrison’ smiled.

“Black send you?” Rip shrugged.

He had these six men in front of him and he intended to keep them there.

The small chap who had brought him in was walking toward the wall, getting over at Rip’s right.

“You can get back where you were, friend,’ Rip observed.

The small puncher stopped and looked at Rip curiously.

There was another room up here with a curtain across the entrance, and Rip Campbell didn’t like that.

“I asked you a question,” Morrison snapped.

“You can go to hell,” Rip told him.

“That’s how far it’ll get you.”

Morrison ripped the cigar from his mouth and took a step forward, the light in his eyes.

Rip Campbell’s right hand dropped to the butt of the Navy Colt and rested there.

“You want some of what your ramrod got?” he asked casually.

“You can step into the street. mister. This place is kind of stuffy,” Cade Morrison started to laugh, big shoulders heaving.

A voice called from the other room:

“Better drop it, kid.”

Rip saw the blue muzzle of a .45 sticking out from behind the curtain, trained on his stomach.

A lean, grizzled man with sun bleached yellow hair poked his face into the room. He was smiling.

“Take his gun,” Cade Morrison said,

Rip Campbell’s fingers lingered on the Navy, weighing his chances. They were very slim at this time.

That tall man with the bleached hair had him covered very completely, and Morrison was probably strong enough in this town to back up any play his punchers might make.

Rip’s fingers slid away from the sun and he watched Carl Groggins moving up to him, a wicked grin on his face.

One of the redhead’s eyes was closed and he peered out of the other as he slid the gunbelt from Rip’s hips and tossed it across the room. Then, rearing back, the Arrow ramrod threw a terrific punch for Rip Campbell’s face.

It was entirely unexpected, but Rip managed to get his head back a little.

The blow was a glancing one, knocking him back against the door. The small puncher came up from the other side, pushed Rip away from the door and stood in front of it.

Cade Morrison was grinning, saying nothing.

“All right,” Rip grated, knowing what was coming.

He lunged toward Groggins, lashing out with his fists.

Groggins had drawn a gun and was trying to slash it across Rip’s face.

“Get him,” Morrison said coolly.

The other punchers closed in.

Rip knocked Groggins to his knees with a blow to the cheek.

He was turning when a gun slapped against the back of his head.

A haze started to lift in front of him.

He whirled around, trying to punch at these men seeing their faces indistinctly.

They were striking at him, knocking him to the floor.

He grabbed the knees of one man and tried to pull himself up, but they threw him off.

Again he heard Cade Morrison’s voice:

“Get him.”

Carl Groggins was up on his feet, plunging in, fists beating into Rip Campbell’s face.

The tall man could feel the, pain and the bite, the taste of blood in his mouth.

They beat him to his knees again, and he felt a sharp boot in his ribs.

The voices were becoming blurred and the haze was thicker.

The darkness rolled around him until all he could remember was Carl Groggins’s leering, brutal face in front of him and how much he wanted to hit it.

Someone had Rip by the shoulders now and he tried to get up and swing.

A man was talking, coolly, soothingly:

“You should have listened to me, friend,” Sheriff Cranston said. Rip Campbell found himself sitting against the wall of the Wells-Fargo building.

It was still dark, and Cranston was squatting beside him.

He felt the pain from his bloodied face, and the bruises on the body where he’d been kicked.

Cranston helped him to his feet and Rip felt for his gunbelt, remembering then that it was gone.

“I’m not asking who did it,” Cranston observed dryly, “but I got my own opinions.”

He started to walk Rip along the street.

“You can wash up in my place, son,” he said.

Rip walked stiffly, saying nothing now, anger making him hot and then cold.

He let Cranston lead him into the office and he sat down while the sheriff got out a basin of water and a towel.

“You’re alive, and’ that’s something.”

“Is it?” Rip asked quietly. “How long was I out there?”

Cranston shrugged.

“I saw you go out of the Kingdom Come at nine o clock,” he said.

 the sheriff of Metropole observed. “It was ten when I found you sitting against the wall of the Wells-Fargo building.”

“Any Arrow riders in town?” Rip asked next.

Cranston shook his head.

“Cade Morrison rode out ten minutes ago.”

He wet the towel and washed the blood from Rip’s face.

“This wasn’t your fight to begin with, kid,” he added.

“You’re in the middle of a big war and you’ll get burned.”

“That might be,” Rip agreed tonelessly.

“Nobody knows whose side you’re on,” Cranston grinned, “and they’re both gunning for you.”

“I picked my side,” murmured Rip. “a few minutes ago.”

Sheriff Cranston stepped back and stared at him.

“You’re no sheep man,” he said.

“Where do I find Ed Black?” Rip Campbell wanted to know. Cranston didn’t say anything for a few moments.

“I reckon if I were to pick sides,” he said at last,

“I’d side with Ed myself. Wearing a badge I have to ride the fence, and it’s hell.”

He went on cleaning the cuts on Rip’s face,

“Now that you’re staying, kid.” he said, “you should know what you’re up against. Young Black is bringing sheep into the Basin and he’s got every right in the world to do it, Ed represents the small cattle owners who have been bucking the big Arrow outfit for a dozen years or more, This thing started years ago when Ed’s father and big Jude Morrison, Cade’s uncle, were gunning for each other. Jude got Bill Black, and now the descendants are carrying on the fight.”

Rip Campbell nodded.

Most cattle wars began in much the same manner.

“Cade’s. after Black’s range,” Cranston went on,

“and he’s been squeezing him hard for years. Ed lost a lot of stock. Maybe they strayed, and maybe Cade knows something about it. Anyway, Ed Black knows there’s money in sheep these days and he sees a way to get back on his feet. At the north end of the Basin are a dozen small ranchers who think the same way he does.”

“So the sheep came in last night?” Rip asked,

Cranston’s eyes widened.

“You saw that?”

He went on quickly.

“The small ranchers are up at the north end of the Basin and Arrow is at the south. A hundred and fifty feet of the Metropole River runs between ‘them. In this kind of country cattle and sheep can go together. I’m not saying it’s so all over.”

“Morrison has to drive Black’s woollies out of the country,” Rip smiled.

“Pronto.” Cranston nodded.

“Ed Black is the first to run against Morrison’s orders for the Basin. If he holds out the others, will be running sheep within a few weeks.”

He paused.

“Cade might even make his play tonight. He’s built like that; he has old Jude’s blood in him.”

Rip Campbell purchased another six-gun in the hardware shop at the far end of town.

He was riding out of Metropole in another ten minutes, heading north toward Ed Black’s Flying Cross Ranch.

His face still hurt from the pounding the Arrow men had given to him, but the greater pain was inside and that had to be assuaged. Cranston had given explicit instructions and Rip hugged the west rim of the Basin, splashing across the Metropole River at the fording place.

There was a moon tonight, a thin sliver, sliding in and out of the cloud banks.

Another hour, hugging this low rim of hills which bordered the basin, and he raised the lights of Sam Vane’s Hat outfit.

About a mile beyond Vane’s place was the Flying Cross.

“Sam,” Cranston had said, “might work in with Ed Black in the showdown, but I couldn’t say for sure. They all know what’ll happen if Ed is wiped out by Morrison.”

Rip Campbell sighted the lights of the Flying Cross spread shining on a slope dead ahead.

He pulled up now, proceeding at a more leisurely pace.

Young Black might be expecting unwelcome visitors tonight, and the sight of a man who was supposed to be working for the cattle interests, might set off a nervous gun.

A line of willows grew along the roadway here, terminating at the Flying Cross corral.

Rip walked the horse easily, listening for sounds in the night.

This ranch was very quiet, and then another thought struck him. Black and his crew were most likely out with the sheep for that was where Cade Morrison would strike.

Within twenty-five yards of the silent house, Rip pulled up and scratched his head.

There were lights in the house, but otherwise it seemed deserted. Vaguely, he wondered where Black was grazing his woollies.

The young rancher had probably picked out one of the protected valleys which ran into the basin proper.

Rip was about to lift his voice in a call to the house when a rifle cracked from the darkness of the porch.

The slug kicked up dust at his horse’s feet, and the animal bucked until Rip got it under control.

“I’m alone,” he sang out quickly.

“What do you want?” a woman’s voice demanded.

Rip grinned, remembering the girl on the porch outside the Chesterfield Hotel.

“Ed Black here?” he asked.

He was riding forward when the rifle cracked again.

“Keep your hands up,” the girl said tersely.

Rip Campbell lifted his hands over his head.

He stopped a few yards from the porch.

A slim shadow darted down the steps, rifle in hand.

The girl came around in back of Rip and slid the six-gun from the holster.

“Kind of nervous,” he said mildly. “This is a friendly visit, ma’am.”

The horse stepped into the light from one of the windows and Rip suggested she could see him clearly.

“You’re one of Morrison’s gun hands,” Sara Black said accusingly. “I should shoot you down.”

“Morrison’s crew nearly did that for you,” Rip told her. She could see his battered face and she was silent.

“T rode in here looking for a job,” Rip went on.

“Everybody thinks I’m either a cattle or a sheep man.”

“What are you?” she asked curiously.

“Sheep now,” Rip said quietly,

“I’m looking for Ed Black.”

“You could be a spy sent out by Morrison,” Sara Black observed coolly.

Very distinctly, Rip Campbell heard the thud of horses’ hoofs coming down that willow-lined road.

He slid out of the saddle, slapped the buckskin on the flank and watched it trot away toward the corral.

Without a word he reached forward and took the six-gun from the girl’s hands.

“Get up on the porch,” he murmured.

She obeyed without a word, but she held her ground when Rip suggested that she go inside the house.

“This is my home,” Sara Black stated. “I was born here.”

Rip heard the two horsemen stop out near the corral.

Like himself, they were evidently puzzled by the fact that there had been no challenge.

He could hear them whispering out there in the darkness, and then a voice called sharply.

“Hello, the house.”

Rip Campbell stiffened, and Sara Black murmured,

“Groggins—Arrow foreman.”

“Inside,” Rip whispered tersely.

“There’ll be gunplay.”

This time she didn’t hesitate, catching the chillness in his voice. He heard the door slide shut, and he was sure the two men had heard it also, They’d been walking toward the house, but they stopped now— twenty yards away. Rip caught the glint of metal, moonlight reflecting on the barrel of a six-gun. He stood up in the shadows, his own gun in hand. The buckskin had pulled up by the corral and one of the two men went over to look at him. age

“Here’s the horse that bucko was riding,” a man whispered.

Rip recognized the voice as belonging to the small man with the wrinkled face.

“What in thunder’s he doing here?”

Groggins growled.

“After your hide, Carl,” Rip Campbell called softly.

At the same time he skipped across the porch.

Carl Groggins’s gun exploded just as Rip reached the porch steps. The leaden slug slammed into the boards, and Groggins yelled as he saw Rip coming down the steps.

He tried to shoot again, swiveling his gun quickly to line it on the running cowboy.

 Rip Campbell threw two shots, both of them going home.

He was still running forward, feeling the hot breath of a bullet as the small man opened on him, and then ran around the corral. Groggins was down, muttering to himself, a gurgling sound in his throat which could not be simulated.

Rip moved around him, hearing the door open to the rear.

A horseman hammered away up the road.

“Mister?” Sara Black called. *Mister … you all right?”

“Damn him,” murmured Carl Groggins. “He is.”

When Rip knelt down beside Carl, the man was dead.

Sara ran up breathlessly.

Rip Campbell struck a match and held it up to Groggins’s face. When the match went out he stood up.

“I reckon you’d better tell me where your brother is,” he said slowly. ‘Morrison will be on the way with his crew now. He sent these two chaps to see whether anyone was here.”

“I’ll take you,” the girl said.

She was looking at him askew, as if she were wondering what manner of man he was.

“It ain’t a nice thing,” Rip said moodily, “when five or six go on one.”

“No,” Sara whispered.

She came out of the barn a few minutes later with a saddled horse.

“Ed’s up at the mouth of Long Valley,” she explained. “He’s holed up in the ruins of old Fort Hartley with three-men. There is no other way into the valley except past the fort.”

Rip Campbell slid into the saddle and followed the girl as she led him away from the house.

“It’ll be a fight to the finish now,” the girl observed, “with Groggins dead.”

“Didn’t your brother expect that?” Rip asked quietly.

“Yes,” she said.

They reached the old fort in twenty minutes and a man rose out of a heap of broken rock to challenge them.

“All right, George,” Sara said.

“Jehoshaphat!” George growled.

“What you doing’ here, Miss Black?”

“Where’s Ed?” the girl wanted to know.

George sang out.

“Ed.”

Rip Campbell sat on the buckskin noting the position of this fort.

A stream of water, probably a brook running into the Metropole River, flowed past the abandoned fort.

The walls were down for the most part, but there were a few brick chimney places and heaps of rubble scattered about. Beyond, in the valley, Rip heard the bleating of sheep.

He caught the smell and he grimaced.

This was his fight, he remembered, not because he liked sheep but because Cade Morrison disliked them.

Ed Black came up, a slim, youngish man with a lean face.

He walked back with them to a fire they had burning in a gutted cellar, and Rip could see the lines around the man’s mouth.

“You shouldn’t have come here, Sara.” Black said sternly.

“I brought another hand,” explained Sara.

Rip studied the three men with young Black.

George, the sentinel, seemed to be the oldest, a grizzled long-jawed man with faded blue eyes.

A kid of about eighteen, but with a hard face and carroty hair, stood back in the shadows glaring at Rip suspiciously.

The third man Rip had heard called Nevada.

He was short, sawed-off, with very broad shoulders, and a perpetual smile on his face.

Rip Campbell watched these three —Black’s crew, seeing only Nevada as potentially dangerous.

The kid wanted to be hard, but he might break and run.

George had shot his bolt years ago and he wouldn’t be a match for the tough crowd Cade Morrison would bring out with him this night, or the next.

Ed Black himself was no gun fighter, but he was stubborn.

he’d sworn that he would bring sheep into the country and he’d done it.

Now he had to back up his bluff with cold lead.

“You were one of Morrison’s men,” Black said quietly.

“What happened?”

“He just killed Carl Groggins,” Sara cut in. “In our front yard, Ed. Groggins fired first.”

Rip saw the tough kid’s eyes widen.

Nevada’s smile broadened.

George rolled a cigarette and studied the tall man with interest.

“I rode into the Basin, looking for a job,” Rip Campbell said without emotion.

“Morrison figured I was one of his men—a gun hand he’d hired, sight unseen. When he found out I wasn’t, he had his boys take me on.”

Ed Black looked into Rip’s bruised and battered face and nodded sympathetically.

“I’m fighting Morrison from now on,” Rip said. “I fight with you or I fight alone.”

He shrugged.

“Alone it will take longer.”

“We can use you,” Black assured him.

“Get a man back up on those rocks,’ Rip told him.

Young Black blinked and then nodded to George.

Nevada was still smiling.

“Seems like I run across you in the silver hills,” he said at last.

“Around Leesville?”

“I was in Leesville,’ Rip said briefly.

“Town marshal.” Nevada chuckled. “Ed, you better let this hombre run the fight from now on. He lives on it.”

Black stared into the fire.

“We intend to hold the valley as long as we can,” he stated.

“Morrison can bring out two or three times as many men as I have, but we’ll try to hold it anyway.”

“The girl should be home,” Rip said, without looking at Sara.

“I’m thinking’ Morrison will come out tonight when he learns Groggins is dead. He’s not the kind can let that stand till the sun comes up. Guess you know that.”

Sara looked at Rip, and then at her brother.

She was holding a riding quirt.in her hands, swinging it.

“Nobody at the house,” Nevada stated, “but a dead man, and he ain’t much company for a pretty gal.”

“Ride to Sam Vane’s place,” Ed Black told his sister. “You’ll be safe there.”

Rip Campbell watched the girl walk her horse away into the darkness..

She wasn’t excited, and she wasn’t afraid.

She’d seen Carl Groggins die and there had been no hysterics.

“Sam should be in this,” the red haired kid grated.

“Damn his soul.”

“We’ll fight them alone.” Ed Black said. “I started this.”

“But the rest of these small ranchers will reap the rewards,” Nevada smiled.

“Horses!” George sang out from his post.

“Plenty of ’them.” Rip stepped forward and kicked out the fire.

“Where are your horses?” he asked suddenly.

Black was about to run up and join George.

He stopped now,

“We’re not leaving this place,” he said flatly.

“These other boys have a right to live,” Rip said, “so they can fight another day.”

“We got the animals upon the slope behind the fort,” Nevada told him.

“We can get out that way if Morrison breaks through and surrounds us.”

“Up front,” Rip called sharply.

“Scatter out and let them fire first.”

“Coming fast.” George called urgently.

Rip Campbell squatted among the rocks a few yards from the older man.

He could hear the beat of many horses now, and he saw the dark shapes bobbing in the saddles.

“Must be a dozen of ’them.” George said laconically.

“All right,” shouted Black.

“Pull up, Morrison.”

The horsthemen stopped abruptly.

Rip could hear them talking.

Cade Morrison’s voice came softly.

“Ride ’them down.”

The Arrow men scattered and came straight forward, one flank moving toward the valley entrance, and the others heading for the fort.

The kid, to Rip’s left, let out an oath, and then began to fire wildly. Rip opened up on the riders in front of him.

The light was bad and they were moving fast, presenting poor targets.

A rider came within fifteen yards of his gun, and Rip shot him from the saddle.

He heard the kid still swearing, and then Nevada’s gun started to boom from the rear.

“They’re getting in behind us,” the blocky man yelled.

Rip raced back, stumbling over the rough ground.

He emptied the six-gun at the charging men, saw them break and swerve to the right.

“It’s hot,” Nevada chuckled.

A slug had grazed his cheek, cutting the skin.

Blood slid down from his chin.

“Coming again,” George called softly.

Morrison’s men had gone back, but they were charging once more.

“Where’s the kid?” George wanted to know.

“Where’s Alfie?”

Ed Black was swearing now.

“He took a piece of lead, George.”

Rip Campbell made his way over to where Black was crouching beside Alfie.

“Bad?” he asked.

“He’s still breathing,” muttered Black.

“I don’t like this.”

“You wanted a war,” Rip said. “You got it, friend.”

He reached down and grabbed Alfie around the shoulders.

“We’re pulling out,” he added.

“Get the boys up on the slope.”

George and Nevada were firing steadily from their hiding places.

“They’re crawling up,” Nevada told Rip.

“Can’t see a damn one of them out there.”

“We’re taking the kid up to the horses,” Rip whispered, ‘We’ll wait for you.”

“Where we going?” asked Nevada curiously.

“We’ll see,” Rip said.

They crawled up the slope, having a hard time with the wounded Alfie.

The kid started to groan once, and Rip felt the blood on his chest.

“I figured we got at least two of them,” George observed.

“That makes maybe ten to worry about.”

The horses were concealed in a little hollow up beyond the brim of the hill.

Rip got Alfie into the saddle and waited until Nevada came up, panting.

Ed Black wasn’t saying anything.

He just sat in the saddle and waited for Rip to do the talking.

“You won’t have any sheep after tonight,” Rip stated.

“You knew that, Black.”

“I had a thousand head in that flock,” the rancher said.

“It was a test to see if Morrison could drive me out. If he couldn’t I figured on bringing in another thousand, and that’ll break me.”

“You figure on running?” Rip Campbell asked next.

“I’ve been run out now,” Black ‘muttered miserably.

The crew waited restlessly.

They heard a score of shots far up the valley and Ed Black winced as he heard the Arrow men shooting down his sheep.

“This Morrison licks a man by knocking him down,” Rip Campbell observed. “He stays on top because the other man don’t get up.”

“What would you do?” asked Black almost listlessly.

“I’m heading for the Arrow Ranch,” Rip told him quietly.

“Any of you boys feel like coming’ along?”

Nevada let out a soft whoop, and George swore.

Rip Campbell swung the buckskin around and headed south.

He didn’t look back but he knew they were all coming, even Alfie, rocking in the saddle, but conscious now.

George had tied up the bullet hole in the kid’s shoulder and he’d be able to hold out until they reached a doctor.

“Where we going?” Alfie’ whispered once.

“Arrow Ranch,” George chuckled.

“We’re going to welcome Cade Morrison when he comes home.”

“Damn!” Alfie grinned.

Then they were out in the Basin again with Rip relinquishing the lead to Nevada.

“This is the last place they’ll be looking for us,” the stocky man said as they rode past the big Arrow corrals.

There were no lights in the bunkhouse, but a cook came out of the kitchen door, blinking, a white apron round his waist.

“Pack your stuff,” Rip “Move into Metropole.”

The cook was still staring at him when Rip kicked in the bunkhouse door and fumbled around till he found the table and the lamp.

The Flying Cross men watched him as he kicked a few mattresses and blankets together on the floor and then dropped the lamp on the heap.

In a few moments the flames were leaping toward the ceiling.

“We’re burning ’them out.”

Ed Black stood in the firelight outside the door, a worried look in his eyes.

Rip Campbell paused beside him.

“This building worth as much as your sheep?” he asked grimly.

“No,” Black answered.

“They asked for a war,” Rip’s voice was brusque.

“Now they got it. I’m fighting them here, and I’m fighting them in the hills. I’ll fight Arrow wherever I find the brand.”

“You got a man with you,” Nevada told him.

“And another,” George chimed in.

“I stick with my outfit,” Alfie said weakly.

Only Ed Black said nothing as the flames broke through the roof and they had to retreat because of the heat.

“Hold tight, Alfie,”’ Rip told the kid,

“We’re hanging around till Morrison comes back. Then we’re heading for a doctor.”

“I’m all right,” Alfie growled.

“Sounds like them,” George said.

They heard a distant shout.

“Scatter,” ordered Rip. “Let ’them come into the light.”

The Flying Cross crew took cover behind the corral and the barn. Rip squatted down behind one of the pillars on the porch.

The Arrow yard was lit up with the light of day.

Sparks flew across the intervening space between the bunk house and the barn, catching the hay in the open loft.

That, too, started to burn.

“Give them blue blazes!” Alfie yelled shrilly, and Rip Campbell smiled.

This kid was finding himself in the heat of battle.

He had been trying to be tough all along, but he wasn’t sure of himself.

Now with a piece of lead in his shoulder he was ready to face the big boss of Metropole.

Several riders spurred up almost into the light, and then swerved away.

Rip heard the hoof beats around the back of the house, and then Cade Morrison’s yell.

Bursting through the door, Rip tumbled through the darkened rooms and into the kitchen.

The cook, a fat man with a queue, was coming out of an adjoining room.

Rip waved the gun at him, chased him back inside, and then opened the screen door leading to a smaller back porch.

It was darker back here but there was sufficient light for him to see two men hopping out of their saddles.

As they hit the ground, six guns in hand, Rip called softly:

“Hold it.”

“One of them was a lantern-jawed man Rip had seen in the room over the Wells-Fargo office.

This chap had come at Rip with a gun barrel.

He hesitated now for a fraction of a second, blazed one fast shot toward the porch, and then tried to zip into the shadows.

Rip Campbell’s slug caught him with one foot in the air.

He died before the toe touched the ground again.

The other man had darted away to the left and was behind a stalled buckboard.

Rip saw the flare of his gun and he heard the slug dig itself into the wall of the building.

He fired at the flare, missed, and then stepped back inside the door. There was an open window, looking out on the rear yard, and Rip stood beside it until the Arrow man made an attempt to cross to the corral.

He picked this man off, dropping him within a few feet of the lantern-jawed fellow.

The shooting was heavy again in the front of the house, and Rip retreated through the rooms.

Coming out the front door, he saw George on the ground, shaking his head stupidly, gun in hand.

Nevada was crouching behind the burning barn, refilling his six-gun.

Ed Black had his rifle up and it shot orange flame as an Arrow rider tried to charge into the enclosure.

A man had crept around the barn and was coming up on Nevada’s rear.

Rip Campbell let out a loud whoop.

He shot hastily to warn the Flying Cross man.

His shot missed, but Nevada, spinning around very fast, didn’t.

“All right, bucko,” another voice called from the end of the porch. Rip Campbell had heard that voice before.

Cade Morrison, big, blond haired, hatless, face tight with hatred. was looking over the low railing, his six-gun resting on the wood. The distance was only about twenty feet and a man couldn’t miss at that range.

Rip made his play, knowing that he was holding the short end.

He looked into the muzzle of Morrison’s gun and swung his own around.

Something struck him on the left side, spinning him around, but he retained his grip on the six-gun, managed to get it up, and emptied the cylinders,

He was sinking down against the wall, looking for Morrison’s head over the railing, but not seeing him.

Nevada was yelling, and then Ed Black came up on the porch.

“Riders coming!” Black shouted.

“You all right, Campbell?”

Rip looked at him stupidly.

There was no strength left in his body.

He felt blood sliding down his chest and he tried to locate the wound.

Nevada came up on the porch, face flushed.

“Sam Vane’s here,” he roared,

“and Fretheman Brown— and a lot of the other ranchers from our end. They’re making’ Morrison call his bluff.”

Rip Campbell saw the riders coming in, more than a dozen of them. Thea he saw a dark-haired girl, hatless, face white.

“Hey!” George called softly.

He was up on his knees, holding his right arm.

He pointed to the body of a man sprawled out on the ground at the far end of the porch.

“I reckon Cade got it this time.”

Ed Black ran over and looked down.

“He’s dead,” he muttered.

“One of your shots got him, mister.” Rip smiled wryly.

“One of his got me too, friend.” he asserted.

Sara Black leaped from her horse and came toward them at a run. Alfie came up the steps also tottering, gun in hand, grinning foolishly.

Ed Black was down beside Rip cutting open his shirt.

“You can’t kill that hombre.” Nevada said, “He’s too tough.”

“This is close enough,” muttered Black.

“It’s low in the shoulder but Doc can fix him up.”

Rip took a deep breath and grinned up at the girl who was kneeling beside him.

“I reckon this wasn’t my day, ma’am,” he said. “Your brother can run all the sheep he wants to now.”

“We’ll have no trouble on that score,” Black assured him.

“I’m calling a meeting of the ranchers at the north end of the Basin. We’ll establish our line so that sheep can graze in the valleys and slopes of the Basin, and cattle on the best grass.”

He paused.

“I’m running cattle as well as sheep, Campbell,” he stated quietly.

“If you want a job. I need a good foreman for the beef.”

“My line,” Rip told him, “I don’t like the smell of the other things.”

“You’ll take the job?” asked Black.

Rip nodded.

He looked at Sara Black, seeing the smile break out on her face.

“Did I say this wasn’t my day?” he asked softly.

“Reckon maybe I was wrong!”

THE END

Can I send you WRANGLER for FREE?

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PAN OUT

SIX GUN DESTINY

HOLSTER HOLIDAY

OVERCAREFUL

PACK IRON

OLD PIE

PLAYED OUT

HIGH RANGE REVENGE

OLD RATS

PONY UP

ROOSTERED

HIGH CASH OUTLAW

TROUBLE SHOOTER

PONY UP

He caught the scent of sheep up on this ridge, and with the scent of sheep was always the scent of trouble.

They came out through the timber with a sliver of silver moon shining down on them—a straggly line of woollies with a half dozen riders herding them along.

Rip Campbell sat on the buckskin horse, keeping in the shadows of the rock ledge.

With his left hand he snubbed out the cigarette, rubbing it against the wall.

his right hand rested on the hickory butt of a heavy Navy Colt.

He knew these sheep herders hadn’t seen him, and they wouldn’t know him if they had because this was strange. country to him.

But men who drove sheep at night did so for a reason, and their trigger fingers might be itchy.

The flock passed within twenty yards of where he sat, shying away instinctively as they caught his scent.

This was something Rip hadn’t — counted on, but he was ready for the next move.

The herder nearest to the rock ledge swore aloud, and then his gun cracked, orange flame spitting into the black of the night.

Rip could see him dimly, a high shape against the dull white of the sheep flock.

The slug ricocheted off the ledge, and Rip heard it whine as it fled away.

His own Navy roared, making the echoes bounce back and forth across this pass.

He fired high, not wishing to kill the man.

The shot had its effect as the herder put spurs to his horse and raced back toward the tail. other shot after the herder for his own protection.

Then, with a word to the buckskin, he fled toward the north end of the pass, the direction in which the flock had been pointed.

Sliding down through loose rock and shale, he turned the buckskin into a fringe of pine, listening for sounds of pursuit, and hearing none.

He grinned as he thought of the scare he’d put into the sheepherders.

These men, he knew, were bringing sheep into a cow country, and they’d been afraid, anticipating trouble.

Now they’d be convinced that a passing or waiting rider had spotted them and they’d be jittery. all night.

The woods petered out at the base of the divide, and Rip sent the buckskin across open plains until he hit more timber with a stream flowing through it.

He made his night camp by this stream, picketing his horse a little way down among the trees.

According to the saloonkeeper at Carl Rock, the big Arrow Ranch was hiring help for the fall roundup, and the Arrow was supposed to be two hours’ ride over the pass.

“Arrow is the biggest brand in these parts,” the saloonkeeper had said.

“You work for Cade Morrison, friend, and you’re sitting high.”

Rip didn’t particularly care where he sat at the present time.

He’d had his shot at the silver mine fields in Nevada and he’d served a year as town marshal in the tough town of Leesville.

He was drifting back now to these new ranges which had been opened up in Montana and Wyoming.

The saloon man had noticed that big Navy hanging at Rip’s right side and he’d grinned, half-closing one blue eye.’

“Cade’s kind of anxious to hire boys that know how to handle them things,” he murmured.

Rip hadn’t asked why because he knew he’d find out if he stopped at the Arrow Ranch or in Metropole, the next town.

Vaguely, now, he had an idea what the bartender meant.

That flock of sheep coming over the pass in the dead of night meant one thing—trouble.

Every cowman in the county would be up in arms when it was learned that sheep were in.

Changing his mind about stopping at the Arrow Ranch immediately, Rip lingered in the hills till high noon the next day, and then rode leisurely toward Metropole.

Before a man dropped his anchor he should know all the coves and harbors along the coast.

It was nearly two o clock with a hot sun boiling overhead when he rode into Metropole, a tall, loose-limbed man, swaying easily in the saddle, faded black sombrero pulled down over a pair of smoky-gray eyes.

There was a break in the bridge of his nose, and a tiny whitish scar on his left cheekbone, indicating the close passage of a bullet. Metropole’s main street was nearly deserted when he came in, studying the lay of the streets, noting the position of the main buildings.

On more than one occasion such knowledge had saved his life.

This road on which he entered the town became the main street, passing the big Chesterfield Hotel on the left, and the red brick building of the Metropole National Bank on the right, and ending abruptly at an intersection a cross street going right and left, forming as it were, a bad giant T.

 He’d passed six saloons before he reached the head of the

“T,” and at three of the six, men had come to the batwing doors to stare out at him as he rode by.

Rip Campbell’s eyes flickered.

This, and that sheepherder firing at him the previous night, was the gauge by which he judged the temper of the town.

Metropole was anticipating trouble, and every passing rider was regarded with suspicion.

Rip dismounted outside a small restaurant a few doors down from the Chesterfield Hotel.

He was tying the buckskin at the rack when a girl came out-of the hotel door and stood on the porch staring at him grizzly.

The tall rider didn’t look directly at her, but he could read the anger in her dark eyes as he slapped the buckskin on the flank and went up the two wooden steps to the restaurant.

She was slender built, with dark hair and a small, almost blunt nose.

With his hand on the restaurant door knob, Rip Campbell glanced at her deliberately, feeling the coldness in the eyes.

She was still watching him, hands on hips.

There was a faint smile around the corners of the tall man’s mouth as he went inside.

He chose a seat near the window so he could look out and see what effect his entry had made on this town.

The window was dirty and they couldn’t see him from the outside.

The girl with the dark hair had swung up on a black gelding and was riding furiously around the corner of the

“T” intersection.

A baldheaded old man hurried out of the Plymouth Saloon, crossed the road and disappeared in the side door of the Metropole Bank building.

There were windows above the bank, and this second floor probably served as offices.

Indistinctly, Rip saw two men standing by the middle window, looking across at the restaurant in which he sat.

A gaunt, middle-aged woman came out from the rear of the restaurant and took his order.

She said little, but her lips were tight and definitely unfriendly.

Rip ate the bacon and eggs served to him and sipped his hot coffee with relish.

The bald-headed little man came out of the bank building and scurried back to the saloon again, having finished his errand.

A gaunt man with a thin face and sloping shoulders came around the corner on a dapple-gray horse, dismounting outside the restaurant.

This man wore a five-pointed silver star on his calfskin vest.

His arms were unnaturally long and they hung loosely as he came toward the door.

Rip Campbell watched him with interest, realizing that this man had just received the news of the entrance of a stranger and was paying his respects, The sheriff of Metropole ae the door, glanced around the room and then came toward Rip’s table.

The woman restaurant keeper watched him from the door of the kitchen, saying nothing.

The restaurant was empty except for these three.

Rip rolled a cigarette, leaned back in the chair, and regarded the law officer quizzically.

It wasn’t the usual custom, he knew, for a sheriff to greet all strangers.

“Name’s Cranston,” the sheriff stated blandly.

He stood at the other side of the table, both hands caressing the wooden top of a chair.

This man, Rip knew, had seen trouble before, and he was expecting it again, wearily, regretfully, and knowing it couldn’t be avoided.

Rip Campbell nodded, but didn’t offer to give his name.

He lit the cigarette and blew out smoke.

A half dozen riders passed outside, dismounting at one of the saloons up the street.

The horses kicked up a cloud of dust and it hung over the street, but Rip could still see the two men up above the Metropole National Bank.

“Riding through?” Cranston asked.

Rip shrugged.

“Quien sabe?”

“This town ain’t healthy,” Sheriff Cranston stated.

“Not for strangers.”

“Why?” asked Rip.

He watched the way Cranston’s long fingers coiled around the top of the chair.

“It’s hot,” Cranston told him,

“If you ain’t got business here, I’d advise you to ride.”

Rip smiled and regarded the cigarette.

“I’ve been in hot towns before,” he said.

Cranston gave him a long looks before straightening up.

“I wouldn’t doubt that, friend,’ he murmured.

“Just thought I’d tell you.”

“Thanks,” Rip acknowledged.

He watched this tired sheriff pass out the door.

Cranston knew what must come to pass when sheep men and cattlemen mixed.

Rip Campbell puffed on his cigarette, watching the sheriff climb into the saddle and move away.

Both sides, Rip realized, had started to bring in new hands—men quick on the draw—to substantiate their claims.

This town of Metropole didn’t know as yet which side the stranger was only Rip Campbell paid his bill a few moments later and went out. He stood on the walk, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully, giving the whole town a good look at him.

Several of the riders who had come in earlier were outside the saloon, smoking, watching him carefully.

Sheriff Cranston rode by again, but this time didn’t look at Rip.

Rip strolled up the street toward the saloon, knowing that trouble lay in that direction, and not caring much.

One of the punchers outside the saloon stepped over to the edge of the boardwalk. He was a chunky man with a barrel like body and bow legs.

His hair was a tawny red under a battered flat-crowned sombrero. Pale, greenish eyes stared at Rip Campbell through slits.

Rip returned the gaze levelly, and then looked straight up the street. The red-headed puncher’s next move was one Rip had encountered before, and he smiled inwardly, thinking how strange it was that these things never varied.

This town wasn’t sure about him as yet and they had to find out. The redhead spat directly in Rip Campbell’s path, the spittle missing the toe of the tall man’s boot by an inch as Rip pulled up. The three other riders lounging outside the saloon watched, saying nothing, faces expressionless.

Rip Campbell saw Sheriff Cranston sitting astride his horse a block up the street, shoulders hunched, staring at them, but not coming down.

“Your move,” the redhead said.

Rip glanced down at his boot with interest, and he made his move very swiftly, without even looking at his man.

Steel springs coiled inside his body and then recoiled as Campbell hit the blocky man with his right shoulder, catching him in the chest as he plunged forward.

The redhead gasped as he staggered back into the gutter, Rip after him, raining savage blows into his face, sending him reeling directly across the road, between two horses at a rack, and against that rack.

The puncher tried to fight back, hold his ground, but Rip kept on top of him every instant, never stopping.

Hard fists gouged the redhead’s face, cutting it, beating him into the dust as he sagged against the hitching rack.

Sheriff Cranston came down the street, riding slowly, rubbing his jaw in a characteristic gesture.

The three punchers on the walk hadn’t moved from their positions. One of them was rolling a smoke nervously as the red-headed man went down, groveling in the dust, face bleeding from several wounds.

Rip Campbell walked back across the road, stared at these three men quietly, and went inside.

His knuckles were raw from the contact with the puncher’s hard face.

Few people had seen the fight which had ended as abruptly as it had begun.

Standing at the bar, Rip heard horses moving out a few moments later, and he knew the punchers were leaving.

The story would travel very quickly from now on.

He would have a reputation in this country and other men would try to tear it down.

Some would come with guns because it had ever been so.

Cranston came through the door, heading for the bar. He edged beside Rip and spoke quietly as he poured himself a drink.

“That was Carl Groggins,” the sheriff of Metropole said.

“Ramrod for the Arrow outfit. If you’re a sheep man, mister, you better get the hell out of town.”

“You speaking as sheriff?” Rip asked easily.

Cranston shook his head.

“I like to see a kid with guts,” he stated flatly, “and I don’t like to see him shot in the back.”

“That the way they play in this town?”

Rip wanted to know. Sheriff Cranston’s reply was all comprehensive.

“This is a sheep war, mister,”’ he observed.

Rip had his drink and then registered at the Chesterfield Hotel, the clerk giving him a quick look as he wrote his name on the book.

The clerk was nervous, a youngish man with spectacles, and a receding chin.

“Staying long?” he asked, and then acted as if he regretted the question.

Rip placed the fen back on the rack and tipped his hat up.

“This town’s damned interested in how long I stay,” he murmured. Hurriedly the clerk shoved a key at him.

“Room 7,” he gulped.

Rip had a question for him.

“Who was the dark-haired girl came out of here when I rode in?” he asked.

He knew the clerk had seen him because the desk faced an open window.

“Miss Sara Black,” the bespectacled young man stated.

“Ed Black’s sister.”

“Black a cattleman?” Rip wanted to know.

The clerk moistened his lips.

He smiled a little.

“Hard to tell these days,” he stated.

Rip Campbell went up the stairs and found his room.

It was quite evident from the clerk’s remark that the poorer ranchers were bringing in sheep, or had threatened to bring in sheep, and the old cattlemen were fighting it.

Which side was the stronger was another matter, but from the hints that had been dropped by Sheriff Cranston, it would seem the cattlemen had the upper hand.

It was four o clock in the afternoon and Rip slept till seven.

He washed his face from a white porcelain basin and walked over to the window.

Night was falling in Metropole, and the air was cooling, reviving.

Rip Campbell watched the lights going on, and he saw the riders coming in, moving in down the road he’d ridden earlier in the day, swinging into the main street from those two angles of the

“T.”

Two men paused outside the bank building across the way and glanced up toward his room.

This town knew he’d registered at the hotel, and they were awaiting his next move.

Rip grinned, not quite knowing what that would be himself.

At eight o clock he went downstairs and sauntered into the hotel dining room, taking a seat near the fireplace.

This room was half-filled now, and men looked up at him curiously, giving Rip Campbell the impression that he’d been expected a long while.

After awhile he went into the Kingdom Come Saloon, getting here the same vague impression.

At the long bar men turned to look at him as he wagged for a drink. One small man with a wrinkled brown face slid up alongside of him, studied him in the mirror, and then remarked:

“Cade will see you, friend, in the office.”

Rip downed his drink before replying.

“Where?” he asked.

“Over the Wells-Fargo building,” the puncher murmured.

Rip didn’t say any more, and the small man ambled away without haste.

The Wells-Fargo building was at the head of the “T” intersection, a small brick building.

Rip had noticed it as he was going into the restaurant.

He stood in front of the darkened building a few minutes later.

The windows were heavily barred, but Wells-Fargo had closed for the night.

One light twinkled in the windows up above.

Standing here Rip saw the rider coming out of the darkness, moving at a furious pace.

The man yelled drunkenly, but Rip was on his guard, — having seen this stunt before also.

The horseman cut around the corner just as Rip stepped into the shadow of the doorway.

He flattened himself against the wall, hearing a revolver crack.

The slug passed through the open doorway and thudded into the wooden staircase beyond.

Rip Campbell slid the Navy out of the holster, but it was already too late for a shot.

The rider had kept going and was turning into an alley.

Rip saw men come out of saloons up the street and stare in his direction.

Rip listened to the rider until the sound was gone.

Then he went up the stairs.

A light glowed at the . head, and then a man came out of a door and nodded to him.

It was the small man who’d spoken to him in the Kingdom Come Saloon.

“What’s the shooting?” he asked.

“A drunk,” Rip said quietly, knowing that the man who’d fired that shot had been no more drunk than himself.

The small man held the door open for him and Rip saw the tobacco smoke thick in the room, indicating that more than one man was inside.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second while the small puncher murmured.

“Reckon mister,” Rip Campbell grinned and went in.

Five men were in the room, and one of them was Carl Groggins, several pieces of adhesive tape stuck on his battered face.

With him were the three men who’d watched the fight outside the saloon.

Another man was there—a tall man with powerful shoulders and a shock of golden hair. the strong mouth of a bulldog.

His eyes were amber-colored, narrowing now as he studied the man before him,

“That’s not Dilson,” he said flatly.

He had a cigar in his hand and he stuck it in his jaws now, placing his hands in his pockets.

He rocked on the soles of his shoes, beginning to grin a little.

“Who the devil is he, Morrison?” Carl Groggins snorted.

“A range bum,” you ain’t so tough, Cade Morrison

He had a heavy jaw with’ observed coolly,

“Or one of Black’s’ new riders. I didn’t get your name, friend,” he said to Rip.

“Reckon I didn’t give it,” Rip Campbell told him.

He stood with his back to the door, making sure that he’d closed it behind him.

His hands were at his sides and he watched this Arrow crew intently, seeing the strength in this Cade Morrison.

The mouth was a brutal one, wide, thin-lipped, and the jaw was the jaw of a man who had his own way in many things.

“That won’t get you anywhere, Morrison’ smiled.

“Black send you?” Rip shrugged.

He had these six men in front of him and he intended to keep them there.

The small chap who had brought him in was walking toward the wall, getting over at Rip’s right.

“You can get back where you were, friend,’ Rip observed.

The small puncher stopped and looked at Rip curiously.

There was another room up here with a curtain across the entrance, and Rip Campbell didn’t like that.

“I asked you a question,” Morrison snapped.

“You can go to hell,” Rip told him.

“That’s how far it’ll get you.”

Morrison ripped the cigar from his mouth and took a step forward, the light in his eyes.

Rip Campbell’s right hand dropped to the butt of the Navy Colt and rested there.

“You want some of what your ramrod got?” he asked casually.

“You can step into the street. mister. This place is kind of stuffy,” Cade Morrison started to laugh, big shoulders heaving.

A voice called from the other room:

“Better drop it, kid.”

Rip saw the blue muzzle of a .45 sticking out from behind the curtain, trained on his stomach.

A lean, grizzled man with sun bleached yellow hair poked his face into the room. He was smiling.

“Take his gun,” Cade Morrison said,

Rip Campbell’s fingers lingered on the Navy, weighing his chances. They were very slim at this time.

That tall man with the bleached hair had him covered very completely, and Morrison was probably strong enough in this town to back up any play his punchers might make.

Rip’s fingers slid away from the sun and he watched Carl Groggins moving up to him, a wicked grin on his face.

One of the redhead’s eyes was closed and he peered out of the other as he slid the gunbelt from Rip’s hips and tossed it across the room. Then, rearing back, the Arrow ramrod threw a terrific punch for Rip Campbell’s face.

It was entirely unexpected, but Rip managed to get his head back a little.

The blow was a glancing one, knocking him back against the door. The small puncher came up from the other side, pushed Rip away from the door and stood in front of it.

Cade Morrison was grinning, saying nothing.

“All right,” Rip grated, knowing what was coming.

He lunged toward Groggins, lashing out with his fists.

Groggins had drawn a gun and was trying to slash it across Rip’s face.

“Get him,” Morrison said coolly.

The other punchers closed in.

Rip knocked Groggins to his knees with a blow to the cheek.

He was turning when a gun slapped against the back of his head.

A haze started to lift in front of him.

He whirled around, trying to punch at these men seeing their faces indistinctly.

They were striking at him, knocking him to the floor.

He grabbed the knees of one man and tried to pull himself up, but they threw him off.

Again he heard Cade Morrison’s voice:

“Get him.”

Carl Groggins was up on his feet, plunging in, fists beating into Rip Campbell’s face.

The tall man could feel the, pain and the bite, the taste of blood in his mouth.

They beat him to his knees again, and he felt a sharp boot in his ribs.

The voices were becoming blurred and the haze was thicker.

The darkness rolled around him until all he could remember was Carl Groggins’s leering, brutal face in front of him and how much he wanted to hit it.

Someone had Rip by the shoulders now and he tried to get up and swing.

A man was talking, coolly, soothingly:

“You should have listened to me, friend,” Sheriff Cranston said. Rip Campbell found himself sitting against the wall of the Wells-Fargo building.

It was still dark, and Cranston was squatting beside him.

He felt the pain from his bloodied face, and the bruises on the body where he’d been kicked.

Cranston helped him to his feet and Rip felt for his gunbelt, remembering then that it was gone.

“I’m not asking who did it,” Cranston observed dryly, “but I got my own opinions.”

He started to walk Rip along the street.

“You can wash up in my place, son,” he said.

Rip walked stiffly, saying nothing now, anger making him hot and then cold.

He let Cranston lead him into the office and he sat down while the sheriff got out a basin of water and a towel.

“You’re alive, and’ that’s something.”

“Is it?” Rip asked quietly. “How long was I out there?”

Cranston shrugged.

“I saw you go out of the Kingdom Come at nine o clock,” he said.

 the sheriff of Metropole observed. “It was ten when I found you sitting against the wall of the Wells-Fargo building.”

“Any Arrow riders in town?” Rip asked next.

Cranston shook his head.

“Cade Morrison rode out ten minutes ago.”

He wet the towel and washed the blood from Rip’s face.

“This wasn’t your fight to begin with, kid,” he added.

“You’re in the middle of a big war and you’ll get burned.”

“That might be,” Rip agreed tonelessly.

“Nobody knows whose side you’re on,” Cranston grinned, “and they’re both gunning for you.”

“I picked my side,” murmured Rip. “a few minutes ago.”

Sheriff Cranston stepped back and stared at him.

“You’re no sheep man,” he said.

“Where do I find Ed Black?” Rip Campbell wanted to know. Cranston didn’t say anything for a few moments.

“I reckon if I were to pick sides,” he said at last,

“I’d side with Ed myself. Wearing a badge I have to ride the fence, and it’s hell.”

He went on cleaning the cuts on Rip’s face,

“Now that you’re staying, kid.” he said, “you should know what you’re up against. Young Black is bringing sheep into the Basin and he’s got every right in the world to do it, Ed represents the small cattle owners who have been bucking the big Arrow outfit for a dozen years or more, This thing started years ago when Ed’s father and big Jude Morrison, Cade’s uncle, were gunning for each other. Jude got Bill Black, and now the descendants are carrying on the fight.”

Rip Campbell nodded.

Most cattle wars began in much the same manner.

“Cade’s. after Black’s range,” Cranston went on,

“and he’s been squeezing him hard for years. Ed lost a lot of stock. Maybe they strayed, and maybe Cade knows something about it. Anyway, Ed Black knows there’s money in sheep these days and he sees a way to get back on his feet. At the north end of the Basin are a dozen small ranchers who think the same way he does.”

“So the sheep came in last night?” Rip asked,

Cranston’s eyes widened.

“You saw that?”

He went on quickly.

“The small ranchers are up at the north end of the Basin and Arrow is at the south. A hundred and fifty feet of the Metropole River runs between ‘them. In this kind of country cattle and sheep can go together. I’m not saying it’s so all over.”

“Morrison has to drive Black’s woollies out of the country,” Rip smiled.

“Pronto.” Cranston nodded.

“Ed Black is the first to run against Morrison’s orders for the Basin. If he holds out the others, will be running sheep within a few weeks.”

He paused.

“Cade might even make his play tonight. He’s built like that; he has old Jude’s blood in him.”

Rip Campbell purchased another six-gun in the hardware shop at the far end of town.

He was riding out of Metropole in another ten minutes, heading north toward Ed Black’s Flying Cross Ranch.

His face still hurt from the pounding the Arrow men had given to him, but the greater pain was inside and that had to be assuaged. Cranston had given explicit instructions and Rip hugged the west rim of the Basin, splashing across the Metropole River at the fording place.

There was a moon tonight, a thin sliver, sliding in and out of the cloud banks.

Another hour, hugging this low rim of hills which bordered the basin, and he raised the lights of Sam Vane’s Hat outfit.

About a mile beyond Vane’s place was the Flying Cross.

“Sam,” Cranston had said, “might work in with Ed Black in the showdown, but I couldn’t say for sure. They all know what’ll happen if Ed is wiped out by Morrison.”

Rip Campbell sighted the lights of the Flying Cross spread shining on a slope dead ahead.

He pulled up now, proceeding at a more leisurely pace.

Young Black might be expecting unwelcome visitors tonight, and the sight of a man who was supposed to be working for the cattle interests, might set off a nervous gun.

A line of willows grew along the roadway here, terminating at the Flying Cross corral.

Rip walked the horse easily, listening for sounds in the night.

This ranch was very quiet, and then another thought struck him. Black and his crew were most likely out with the sheep for that was where Cade Morrison would strike.

Within twenty-five yards of the silent house, Rip pulled up and scratched his head.

There were lights in the house, but otherwise it seemed deserted. Vaguely, he wondered where Black was grazing his woollies.

The young rancher had probably picked out one of the protected valleys which ran into the basin proper.

Rip was about to lift his voice in a call to the house when a rifle cracked from the darkness of the porch.

The slug kicked up dust at his horse’s feet, and the animal bucked until Rip got it under control.

“I’m alone,” he sang out quickly.

“What do you want?” a woman’s voice demanded.

Rip grinned, remembering the girl on the porch outside the Chesterfield Hotel.

“Ed Black here?” he asked.

He was riding forward when the rifle cracked again.

“Keep your hands up,” the girl said tersely.

Rip Campbell lifted his hands over his head.

He stopped a few yards from the porch.

A slim shadow darted down the steps, rifle in hand.

The girl came around in back of Rip and slid the six-gun from the holster.

“Kind of nervous,” he said mildly. “This is a friendly visit, ma’am.”

The horse stepped into the light from one of the windows and Rip suggested she could see him clearly.

“You’re one of Morrison’s gun hands,” Sara Black said accusingly. “I should shoot you down.”

“Morrison’s crew nearly did that for you,” Rip told her. She could see his battered face and she was silent.

“T rode in here looking for a job,” Rip went on.

“Everybody thinks I’m either a cattle or a sheep man.”

“What are you?” she asked curiously.

“Sheep now,” Rip said quietly,

“I’m looking for Ed Black.”

“You could be a spy sent out by Morrison,” Sara Black observed coolly.

Very distinctly, Rip Campbell heard the thud of horses’ hoofs coming down that willow-lined road.

He slid out of the saddle, slapped the buckskin on the flank and watched it trot away toward the corral.

Without a word he reached forward and took the six-gun from the girl’s hands.

“Get up on the porch,” he murmured.

She obeyed without a word, but she held her ground when Rip suggested that she go inside the house.

“This is my home,” Sara Black stated. “I was born here.”

Rip heard the two horsemen stop out near the corral.

Like himself, they were evidently puzzled by the fact that there had been no challenge.

He could hear them whispering out there in the darkness, and then a voice called sharply.

“Hello, the house.”

Rip Campbell stiffened, and Sara Black murmured,

“Groggins—Arrow foreman.”

“Inside,” Rip whispered tersely.

“There’ll be gunplay.”

This time she didn’t hesitate, catching the chillness in his voice. He heard the door slide shut, and he was sure the two men had heard it also, They’d been walking toward the house, but they stopped now— twenty yards away. Rip caught the glint of metal, moonlight reflecting on the barrel of a six-gun. He stood up in the shadows, his own gun in hand. The buckskin had pulled up by the corral and one of the two men went over to look at him. age

“Here’s the horse that bucko was riding,” a man whispered.

Rip recognized the voice as belonging to the small man with the wrinkled face.

“What in thunder’s he doing here?”

Groggins growled.

“After your hide, Carl,” Rip Campbell called softly.

At the same time he skipped across the porch.

Carl Groggins’s gun exploded just as Rip reached the porch steps. The leaden slug slammed into the boards, and Groggins yelled as he saw Rip coming down the steps.

He tried to shoot again, swiveling his gun quickly to line it on the running cowboy.

 Rip Campbell threw two shots, both of them going home.

He was still running forward, feeling the hot breath of a bullet as the small man opened on him, and then ran around the corral. Groggins was down, muttering to himself, a gurgling sound in his throat which could not be simulated.

Rip moved around him, hearing the door open to the rear.

A horseman hammered away up the road.

“Mister?” Sara Black called. *Mister … you all right?”

“Damn him,” murmured Carl Groggins. “He is.”

When Rip knelt down beside Carl, the man was dead.

Sara ran up breathlessly.

Rip Campbell struck a match and held it up to Groggins’s face. When the match went out he stood up.

“I reckon you’d better tell me where your brother is,” he said slowly. ‘Morrison will be on the way with his crew now. He sent these two chaps to see whether anyone was here.”

“I’ll take you,” the girl said.

She was looking at him askew, as if she were wondering what manner of man he was.

“It ain’t a nice thing,” Rip said moodily, “when five or six go on one.”

“No,” Sara whispered.

She came out of the barn a few minutes later with a saddled horse.

“Ed’s up at the mouth of Long Valley,” she explained. “He’s holed up in the ruins of old Fort Hartley with three-men. There is no other way into the valley except past the fort.”

Rip Campbell slid into the saddle and followed the girl as she led him away from the house.

“It’ll be a fight to the finish now,” the girl observed, “with Groggins dead.”

“Didn’t your brother expect that?” Rip asked quietly.

“Yes,” she said.

They reached the old fort in twenty minutes and a man rose out of a heap of broken rock to challenge them.

“All right, George,” Sara said.

“Jehoshaphat!” George growled.

“What you doing’ here, Miss Black?”

“Where’s Ed?” the girl wanted to know.

George sang out.

“Ed.”

Rip Campbell sat on the buckskin noting the position of this fort.

A stream of water, probably a brook running into the Metropole River, flowed past the abandoned fort.

The walls were down for the most part, but there were a few brick chimney places and heaps of rubble scattered about. Beyond, in the valley, Rip heard the bleating of sheep.

He caught the smell and he grimaced.

This was his fight, he remembered, not because he liked sheep but because Cade Morrison disliked them.

Ed Black came up, a slim, youngish man with a lean face.

He walked back with them to a fire they had burning in a gutted cellar, and Rip could see the lines around the man’s mouth.

“You shouldn’t have come here, Sara.” Black said sternly.

“I brought another hand,” explained Sara.

Rip studied the three men with young Black.

George, the sentinel, seemed to be the oldest, a grizzled long-jawed man with faded blue eyes.

A kid of about eighteen, but with a hard face and carroty hair, stood back in the shadows glaring at Rip suspiciously.

The third man Rip had heard called Nevada.

He was short, sawed-off, with very broad shoulders, and a perpetual smile on his face.

Rip Campbell watched these three —Black’s crew, seeing only Nevada as potentially dangerous.

The kid wanted to be hard, but he might break and run.

George had shot his bolt years ago and he wouldn’t be a match for the tough crowd Cade Morrison would bring out with him this night, or the next.

Ed Black himself was no gun fighter, but he was stubborn.

he’d sworn that he would bring sheep into the country and he’d done it.

Now he had to back up his bluff with cold lead.

“You were one of Morrison’s men,” Black said quietly.

“What happened?”

“He just killed Carl Groggins,” Sara cut in. “In our front yard, Ed. Groggins fired first.”

Rip saw the tough kid’s eyes widen.

Nevada’s smile broadened.

George rolled a cigarette and studied the tall man with interest.

“I rode into the Basin, looking for a job,” Rip Campbell said without emotion.

“Morrison figured I was one of his men—a gun hand he’d hired, sight unseen. When he found out I wasn’t, he had his boys take me on.”

Ed Black looked into Rip’s bruised and battered face and nodded sympathetically.

“I’m fighting Morrison from now on,” Rip said. “I fight with you or I fight alone.”

He shrugged.

“Alone it will take longer.”

“We can use you,” Black assured him.

“Get a man back up on those rocks,’ Rip told him.

Young Black blinked and then nodded to George.

Nevada was still smiling.

“Seems like I run across you in the silver hills,” he said at last.

“Around Leesville?”

“I was in Leesville,’ Rip said briefly.

“Town marshal.” Nevada chuckled. “Ed, you better let this hombre run the fight from now on. He lives on it.”

Black stared into the fire.

“We intend to hold the valley as long as we can,” he stated.

“Morrison can bring out two or three times as many men as I have, but we’ll try to hold it anyway.”

“The girl should be home,” Rip said, without looking at Sara.

“I’m thinking’ Morrison will come out tonight when he learns Groggins is dead. He’s not the kind can let that stand till the sun comes up. Guess you know that.”

Sara looked at Rip, and then at her brother.

She was holding a riding quirt.in her hands, swinging it.

“Nobody at the house,” Nevada stated, “but a dead man, and he ain’t much company for a pretty gal.”

“Ride to Sam Vane’s place,” Ed Black told his sister. “You’ll be safe there.”

Rip Campbell watched the girl walk her horse away into the darkness..

She wasn’t excited, and she wasn’t afraid.

She’d seen Carl Groggins die and there had been no hysterics.

“Sam should be in this,” the red haired kid grated.

“Damn his soul.”

“We’ll fight them alone.” Ed Black said. “I started this.”

“But the rest of these small ranchers will reap the rewards,” Nevada smiled.

“Horses!” George sang out from his post.

“Plenty of ’them.” Rip stepped forward and kicked out the fire.

“Where are your horses?” he asked suddenly.

Black was about to run up and join George.

He stopped now,

“We’re not leaving this place,” he said flatly.

“These other boys have a right to live,” Rip said, “so they can fight another day.”

“We got the animals upon the slope behind the fort,” Nevada told him.

“We can get out that way if Morrison breaks through and surrounds us.”

“Up front,” Rip called sharply.

“Scatter out and let them fire first.”

“Coming fast.” George called urgently.

Rip Campbell squatted among the rocks a few yards from the older man.

He could hear the beat of many horses now, and he saw the dark shapes bobbing in the saddles.

“Must be a dozen of ’them.” George said laconically.

“All right,” shouted Black.

“Pull up, Morrison.”

The horsthemen stopped abruptly.

Rip could hear them talking.

Cade Morrison’s voice came softly.

“Ride ’them down.”

The Arrow men scattered and came straight forward, one flank moving toward the valley entrance, and the others heading for the fort.

The kid, to Rip’s left, let out an oath, and then began to fire wildly. Rip opened up on the riders in front of him.

The light was bad and they were moving fast, presenting poor targets.

A rider came within fifteen yards of his gun, and Rip shot him from the saddle.

He heard the kid still swearing, and then Nevada’s gun started to boom from the rear.

“They’re getting in behind us,” the blocky man yelled.

Rip raced back, stumbling over the rough ground.

He emptied the six-gun at the charging men, saw them break and swerve to the right.

“It’s hot,” Nevada chuckled.

A slug had grazed his cheek, cutting the skin.

Blood slid down from his chin.

“Coming again,” George called softly.

Morrison’s men had gone back, but they were charging once more.

“Where’s the kid?” George wanted to know.

“Where’s Alfie?”

Ed Black was swearing now.

“He took a piece of lead, George.”

Rip Campbell made his way over to where Black was crouching beside Alfie.

“Bad?” he asked.

“He’s still breathing,” muttered Black.

“I don’t like this.”

“You wanted a war,” Rip said. “You got it, friend.”

He reached down and grabbed Alfie around the shoulders.

“We’re pulling out,” he added.

“Get the boys up on the slope.”

George and Nevada were firing steadily from their hiding places.

“They’re crawling up,” Nevada told Rip.

“Can’t see a damn one of them out there.”

“We’re taking the kid up to the horses,” Rip whispered, ‘We’ll wait for you.”

“Where we going?” asked Nevada curiously.

“We’ll see,” Rip said.

They crawled up the slope, having a hard time with the wounded Alfie.

The kid started to groan once, and Rip felt the blood on his chest.

“I figured we got at least two of them,” George observed.

“That makes maybe ten to worry about.”

The horses were concealed in a little hollow up beyond the brim of the hill.

Rip got Alfie into the saddle and waited until Nevada came up, panting.

Ed Black wasn’t saying anything.

He just sat in the saddle and waited for Rip to do the talking.

“You won’t have any sheep after tonight,” Rip stated.

“You knew that, Black.”

“I had a thousand head in that flock,” the rancher said.

“It was a test to see if Morrison could drive me out. If he couldn’t I figured on bringing in another thousand, and that’ll break me.”

“You figure on running?” Rip Campbell asked next.

“I’ve been run out now,” Black ‘muttered miserably.

The crew waited restlessly.

They heard a score of shots far up the valley and Ed Black winced as he heard the Arrow men shooting down his sheep.

“This Morrison licks a man by knocking him down,” Rip Campbell observed. “He stays on top because the other man don’t get up.”

“What would you do?” asked Black almost listlessly.

“I’m heading for the Arrow Ranch,” Rip told him quietly.

“Any of you boys feel like coming’ along?”

Nevada let out a soft whoop, and George swore.

Rip Campbell swung the buckskin around and headed south.

He didn’t look back but he knew they were all coming, even Alfie, rocking in the saddle, but conscious now.

George had tied up the bullet hole in the kid’s shoulder and he’d be able to hold out until they reached a doctor.

“Where we going?” Alfie’ whispered once.

“Arrow Ranch,” George chuckled.

“We’re going to welcome Cade Morrison when he comes home.”

“Damn!” Alfie grinned.

Then they were out in the Basin again with Rip relinquishing the lead to Nevada.

“This is the last place they’ll be looking for us,” the stocky man said as they rode past the big Arrow corrals.

There were no lights in the bunkhouse, but a cook came out of the kitchen door, blinking, a white apron round his waist.

“Pack your stuff,” Rip “Move into Metropole.”

The cook was still staring at him when Rip kicked in the bunkhouse door and fumbled around till he found the table and the lamp.

The Flying Cross men watched him as he kicked a few mattresses and blankets together on the floor and then dropped the lamp on the heap.

In a few moments the flames were leaping toward the ceiling.

“We’re burning ’them out.”

Ed Black stood in the firelight outside the door, a worried look in his eyes.

Rip Campbell paused beside him.

“This building worth as much as your sheep?” he asked grimly.

“No,” Black answered.

“They asked for a war,” Rip’s voice was brusque.

“Now they got it. I’m fighting them here, and I’m fighting them in the hills. I’ll fight Arrow wherever I find the brand.”

“You got a man with you,” Nevada told him.

“And another,” George chimed in.

“I stick with my outfit,” Alfie said weakly.

Only Ed Black said nothing as the flames broke through the roof and they had to retreat because of the heat.

“Hold tight, Alfie,”’ Rip told the kid,

“We’re hanging around till Morrison comes back. Then we’re heading for a doctor.”

“I’m all right,” Alfie growled.

“Sounds like them,” George said.

They heard a distant shout.

“Scatter,” ordered Rip. “Let ’them come into the light.”

The Flying Cross crew took cover behind the corral and the barn. Rip squatted down behind one of the pillars on the porch.

The Arrow yard was lit up with the light of day.

Sparks flew across the intervening space between the bunk house and the barn, catching the hay in the open loft.

That, too, started to burn.

“Give them blue blazes!” Alfie yelled shrilly, and Rip Campbell smiled.

This kid was finding himself in the heat of battle.

He had been trying to be tough all along, but he wasn’t sure of himself.

Now with a piece of lead in his shoulder he was ready to face the big boss of Metropole.

Several riders spurred up almost into the light, and then swerved away.

Rip heard the hoof beats around the back of the house, and then Cade Morrison’s yell.

Bursting through the door, Rip tumbled through the darkened rooms and into the kitchen.

The cook, a fat man with a queue, was coming out of an adjoining room.

Rip waved the gun at him, chased him back inside, and then opened the screen door leading to a smaller back porch.

It was darker back here but there was sufficient light for him to see two men hopping out of their saddles.

As they hit the ground, six guns in hand, Rip called softly:

“Hold it.”

“One of them was a lantern-jawed man Rip had seen in the room over the Wells-Fargo office.

This chap had come at Rip with a gun barrel.

He hesitated now for a fraction of a second, blazed one fast shot toward the porch, and then tried to zip into the shadows.

Rip Campbell’s slug caught him with one foot in the air.

He died before the toe touched the ground again.

The other man had darted away to the left and was behind a stalled buckboard.

Rip saw the flare of his gun and he heard the slug dig itself into the wall of the building.

He fired at the flare, missed, and then stepped back inside the door. There was an open window, looking out on the rear yard, and Rip stood beside it until the Arrow man made an attempt to cross to the corral.

He picked this man off, dropping him within a few feet of the lantern-jawed fellow.

The shooting was heavy again in the front of the house, and Rip retreated through the rooms.

Coming out the front door, he saw George on the ground, shaking his head stupidly, gun in hand.

Nevada was crouching behind the burning barn, refilling his six-gun.

Ed Black had his rifle up and it shot orange flame as an Arrow rider tried to charge into the enclosure.

A man had crept around the barn and was coming up on Nevada’s rear.

Rip Campbell let out a loud whoop.

He shot hastily to warn the Flying Cross man.

His shot missed, but Nevada, spinning around very fast, didn’t.

“All right, bucko,” another voice called from the end of the porch. Rip Campbell had heard that voice before.

Cade Morrison, big, blond haired, hatless, face tight with hatred. was looking over the low railing, his six-gun resting on the wood. The distance was only about twenty feet and a man couldn’t miss at that range.

Rip made his play, knowing that he was holding the short end.

He looked into the muzzle of Morrison’s gun and swung his own around.

Something struck him on the left side, spinning him around, but he retained his grip on the six-gun, managed to get it up, and emptied the cylinders,

He was sinking down against the wall, looking for Morrison’s head over the railing, but not seeing him.

Nevada was yelling, and then Ed Black came up on the porch.

“Riders coming!” Black shouted.

“You all right, Campbell?”

Rip looked at him stupidly.

There was no strength left in his body.

He felt blood sliding down his chest and he tried to locate the wound.

Nevada came up on the porch, face flushed.

“Sam Vane’s here,” he roared,

“and Fretheman Brown— and a lot of the other ranchers from our end. They’re making’ Morrison call his bluff.”

Rip Campbell saw the riders coming in, more than a dozen of them. Thea he saw a dark-haired girl, hatless, face white.

“Hey!” George called softly.

He was up on his knees, holding his right arm.

He pointed to the body of a man sprawled out on the ground at the far end of the porch.

“I reckon Cade got it this time.”

Ed Black ran over and looked down.

“He’s dead,” he muttered.

“One of your shots got him, mister.” Rip smiled wryly.

“One of his got me too, friend.” he asserted.

Sara Black leaped from her horse and came toward them at a run. Alfie came up the steps also tottering, gun in hand, grinning foolishly.

Ed Black was down beside Rip cutting open his shirt.

“You can’t kill that hombre.” Nevada said, “He’s too tough.”

“This is close enough,” muttered Black.

“It’s low in the shoulder but Doc can fix him up.”

Rip took a deep breath and grinned up at the girl who was kneeling beside him.

“I reckon this wasn’t my day, ma’am,” he said. “Your brother can run all the sheep he wants to now.”

“We’ll have no trouble on that score,” Black assured him.

“I’m calling a meeting of the ranchers at the north end of the Basin. We’ll establish our line so that sheep can graze in the valleys and slopes of the Basin, and cattle on the best grass.”

He paused.

“I’m running cattle as well as sheep, Campbell,” he stated quietly.

“If you want a job. I need a good foreman for the beef.”

“My line,” Rip told him, “I don’t like the smell of the other things.”

“You’ll take the job?” asked Black.

Rip nodded.

He looked at Sara Black, seeing the smile break out on her face.

“Did I say this wasn’t my day?” he asked softly.

“Reckon maybe I was wrong!”

THE END

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