Ride or Start Shootin’

CHAPTER 1

THE BET

Tollefson saw the horses grazing in the creek bottom and pulled up sharply. “Harry,” his voice was harsh and demanding as always, “whose horses are those?”

“Some drifter name of Tandy Meadows. He’s got some fine-lookin’ stock there.”

“He’s passin’ through?”

“Well,” Harry Fulton’s reluctance sprang from his knowledge of Art Tollefson’s temper, “he says he aims to run a horse in the quarter races.”

Surprisingly, Tollefson smiled. “Oh, he does, does he? Too bad he hasn’t money. I’d like to take it away from him if he had anything to run against Lady Luck.”

Passman had his hat shoved back on his head. It was one of those wide-across-the-cheekbones faces with small eyes, a blunt jaw, and hollow cheeks. Everybody west of Cimarron knew Tom Passman for a gunfighter, and knew that Passman had carried the banner of Art Tollefson’s legions into the high-grass country.

Ranching men had resented their coming with the big Flying T outfit and thirty thousand head of stock. Passman accepted their resentment and told them what they could do. Two, being plainsmen, elected to try it. Harry Fulton had helped to dig their graves.

It was Passman who spoke now. “He’s got some real horses, boss.”

Tollefson’s coveting eyes had been appreciating that. It was obvious that whoever this drifter was, he knew horseflesh. In the twenty-odd head there were some splendid animals. For an instant a shadow of doubt touched him. Such a string might carry a quarter horse faster than Lady Luck. But the doubt was momentary, for his knowledge of the Lady and his pride of possession would not leave room for that. Lady Luck had bloodlines. She was more than range stock.

“Let’s go talk to him,” he said, and reined his bay around the start down the slope toward the creek.

Within view there was a covered wagon and there were two saddled horses. As they rode down the slope, a man stepped from behind the wagon to meet them. He was a short, powerfully set up Negro with one ear missing and the other carrying a small gold ring in the lobe. His boots were down at heel and his jeans worn.

“Howdy!” Tollefson glanced around. “Who is the owner here?” The tone was suited to an emperor, and behind the wall of his armed riders, Tollefson was almost that. Yet there is something about ruling that fades the perspective, denying clarity to the mind.

“I’m the owner.”

The voice came from behind them and Tollefson felt sudden anger. Fulton, who was not a ruler and hence had an unblunted perspective, turned his head with the thought that whoever this man was, he was cautious, and no fool.

As they came down the hill the Negro emerged just at the right time to focus all their eyes, and then the other man appeared from behind them. It was the trick of a magician, of a man who understands indirection.

Tollefson turned in his saddle, and Fulton saw the quick shadow on Tom Passman’s face, for Passman was not a man who could afford to be surprised.

A tall man stood at the edge of the willows. A man whose face was shadowed by the brim of a flat-crowned gray hat, worn and battered. A bullet, Fulton noticed, had creased the crown, neatly notching the edge, and idly he wondered what had become of the man who fired that shot.

The newcomer wore a buckskin vest but had no gun in sight. His spurs were large-roweled, California style, and in his hand he carried a rawhide riata. This was grass-rope country, and forty-five feet was a good length, yet from the look of this rope it was sixty or more.

“You the owner?” Tollefson was abrupt as always. “I hear you’re plannin’ to race a quarter horse against my Lady Luck.”

“Aim to.” The man came forward, moving with the step of a woodsman rather than a rider.

“I’m Tollefson. If you have any money and want to bet, I’m your man. If you don’t have money, maybe we could bet some stock.”

Tandy Meadows pushed back his hat from his strong bronzed face, calm with that assurance that springs from inner strength. Not flamboyant strength, nor pugnacious, but that of a man who goes his own way and blazes his own trails.

“Yeah,” Tandy said slowly, digging out the makings, “I’ve two or three quarter horses. I figured to run one of them. It isn’t much point which of them.” He scratched a match on his trouser leg. “What made you figure I had no money? I got a mite of change I aimed to bet.”

Tollefson’s smile was patronizing. “I’m talking about money, man! I like to bet! I was thinking,” he paused for effect and he deliberately made his voice casual, “five thousand dollars.”

“Five?” Meadows lifted an eyebrow. “Well, all right. I guess I can pick up a few more small bets around to make it interesting.”

Tollefson’s skin tightened over his cheekbones. He was no gambling man, but it built his ego to see men back up and hesitate at the thought of five thousand dollars in one bet. “What do you mean? You want to bet more than five thousand dollars?”

“Sort of figured it.” Meadows drew deeply on his cigarette. “I heard there was a gambling man down here who liked to bet enough to make it interesting.”

Tollefson was deeply affronted. Not many men could afford to bet that kind of money, and he liked to flaunt big bets and show them who they were dealing with. Yet here was a man who calmly accepted his bet and hinted that it was pretty small potatoes. Somewhere in the group behind him he thought he detected a subdued snicker, and the casual indifference of this man Meadows irritated him.

“Whatever you want to put up,” he snapped, “I’ll cover! Name your price! I’ll cover all you can get at two to one odds!”

“Now you’re talkin’,” Tandy said, sliding his thumbs behind his belt. “Aren’t you the Tollefson from the Flying T? How about bettin’ your ranch?”

Art Tollefson was shocked. He was profoundly shocked. This down-at-heels stranger offering to cover a bet against his ranch! Against the Flying T, sixty thousand head of stock and miles of rolling grassland, water holes, and buildings!

Lady Luck was his pride, a symbol of his power and money. She was the fastest thing he had ever seen on legs, and he liked to see her win. Yet his bets were merely for the sake of showing his large-handed way with money, of making him envied. At heart he was not a gambler and only put his money up reluctantly, but he was rarely called. Yet now he had been, and he knew that if he backed down now he would become the laughingstock of the range. It was a humiliation he neither wanted nor intended to endure.

“That’s a rather large bet, my man,” he said, for suddenly he realized the man must be bluffing. “Have you any idea what you’re saying? You’d have to show a lot of money to cover it.”

Meadows smiled. It was the first flicker of expression that had come to his face, but the smile was pleasant. Yet there was a shadow beneath it that might have been faintly ironic. “What’s the matter, Tollefson?” he taunted gently. “Gettin’ chilly around the arches? Or were you bluffin’ with that big money talk? Back down, if you like, and don’t waste my time. I’ll cover your little spread and more if need be, so put up or shut up.”

Tollefson’s fury broke. “Why, you impudent chump!” He stopped, his jaw setting hard. “All right, get on your horse and come to the bank with me! John Clevenger knows my ranch, and he knows horses! If you’ve got the collateral, you can put it up, and you’ve made a bet!”

Tandy swung astride one of the saddled horses. Tollefson’s quick eyes saw the build of the animal. Arab, with a strain of Morgan by the look of it. If this horse was any evidence … He shook off a momentary twinge of doubt.

Meadows turned his horse, then hesitated. “Don’t you even want to see my horses? I’ve not decided which to run, but you’re welcome to look ’em over.”

“It’s no matter!” Tollefson’s fury was still riding him. He was bitter at the trap he had laid for himself. If this fool didn’t have the money, why, he would … Just what he would do he wasn’t sure but his face was flushed with angry blood.

Art Tollefson was not the only one who was feeling doubt. To Harry Fulton, who rode behind him, this seemed too pat to be an accident, and to Tom Passman it seemed the same way but with an added worry. Gifted at judging men, he knew Tandy Meadows should have been carrying a gun; yet there was none in sight, and it worried him.

Tandy Meadows looked straight down the road, aware that the crossroads of all his planning had been reached, and now everything depended on John Clevenger. He knew little about the banker except that the man was known and respected on the frontier, and that he was one of the original breeders of quarter horses. He was hardheaded, yet western man to the very heels of his boots, and a man with the courage of his convictions. It was rumored of him that he had once accepted four aces in a poker game as collateral for a bank loan.

The bank at El Poleo was a low, gray stone building that looked like the fort it had to be to survive. Situated as it was, across the street from the Poleo Saloon, half the town saw Art Tollefson and the stranger draw up before the bank. It was in the nature of things that in a matter of minutes everyone in town knew what they had come for. The town was aghast.

CHAPTER 2

A TRAP CLOSES

John Clevenger saw them coming with no idea of what they wanted. He had opened his bank against great odds and against even greater odds had kept it going. He had faith in his fellow man and his judgment of them, and was accustomed to the amazing ways of western men. More than once he had loaned money on sheer courage and character. So far he had not lost by it.

Tollefson was a shrewd, hardheaded businessman, yet one of overbearing manner who carried things with a high hand. Tollefson dealt in force and money power, Clevenger in character and self-respect. That Tollefson should make such a wager was beyond belief, yet Clevenger heard them out in silence.

“You have collateral for such a bet?” Clevenger asked. He studied Meadows thoughtfully and approved of what he saw.

Tandy drew a black leather case from his hip pocket and extracted a letter and some legal-appearing papers. Clevenger accepted them, started as if struck, then looked again and became very thoughtful. Twice he glanced up at Meadows. At last he got to his feet and pulled off his glasses. There was the ghost of a twinkle in his eyes as he studied Meadows. “I hardly know what to say, Mr. Meadows. I—” His voice faltered, then stopped.

“That’s my collateral,” Tandy said quietly. “I think you’re the best judge. Tollefson seems to want a big bet on this race. I’ve called him. We came to see if you would accept this as collateral and put up the money to cover the bet.” He glanced toward the flushed face of the rancher. “Of course, if he wants to welsh on the bet, now’s his last chance.”

“I’ll be double-slathered if I do!” Tollefson’s fury was increased by his panic. He wanted nothing so much as to be safely out of this, but could see no escape without losing prestige, as important to him as life itself.

Clevenger stared thoughtfully at the papers. “Yes,” he said at last, “I’ll put up the money. Your bet’s covered, Tollefson.”

“Here—let me see that!” Tollefson’s hand shot out, grabbing for the letter, but steely fingers caught his wrist.

Tandy Meadows jerked Tollefson’s hand back and their eyes clashed. Half blind with fury, Tollefson stared at the younger man. “Take your hands off me!” he shouted.

“Willingly,” Meadows replied shortly, “only you have neither the need nor the right to touch those papers. The contents are confidential. All you need is Clevenger’s word that he will put up the money.”

Stiffly, Tollefson drew back his hand, rubbing his wrist. He stared hard at Meadows, genuinely worried now. Who was this man? Where did he get such money? What had so astonished Clevenger about the papers? And that grip! Why, his fingers were like a steel trap!

Abruptly, he turned and walked from the bank followed by Fulton and Tom Passman. Together they entered the saloon. Fulton rubbed his jaw nervously, wanting to talk to Tollefson. This was a crazy bet! The equivalent of a quarter of a million dollars on a quarter-horse race against an unknown horse!

Of course, Lady Luck had consistently beaten all the horses that west Texas, New Mexico, and southern Colorado had found to race against the filly. There was no escaping the fact that she was fast. She was very fast.

“Boss,” Fulton began hesitantly, “this bet ain’t good sense. If I were you, I’d reconsider.”

“You aren’t me, so shut up!” Nobody needed to tell Tollefson that he had made a foolish bet. That was what pride could do for a man! The thought of withdrawing had rankled. He might have done it had Meadows not appeared so contemptuously sure he would. And in front of John Clevenger? The one man he had always failed to impress? Never!

He could just hear the laughter of the small ranchers whom he had forced back off their range. There was one thing he could not stand, and that was ridicule.

Outside the bank, Tandy Meadows stood and stared thoughtfully up the street. Now he had done what he had started out to do, and it remained only to win. Tollefson had deliberately forced Jim Whitten from his water hole, giving him only the choice of giving up his ranch or dying. And Gene Bates was now slowly recovering from a bullet wound from Passman’s gun. That had been the only time Tom Passman had drawn a gun at El Poleo that he failed to kill. His shot had been high, but he had walked away from Bates believing him dead.

Suddenly, Tandy saw a girl come from a store, then turn and start toward him. It was Janet Bates!

At the same moment, within the saloon, Art Tollefson saw Janet, and saw her walk up to Tandy holding out her hand! He downed his drink with a gulp. Who was this Tandy Meadows?

Tom Passman was leaning on the bar alongside of him and he turned his head slightly. It rankled Passman that Tandy Meadows had gotten behind him. He had always said that no man could without him knowing it. He lifted his glass and his cold eyes studied the liquor. “Boss,” he whispered, “let me handle it.”

Relief broke over Tollefson. Yes, that was the way. It was the best way, but not yet. Only as a last resort. It would be too obvious, altogether too obvious.

Anger hit him then. What was he worrying about? When had Lady Luck failed him? Why should he be afraid that she might now? After all, suppose she did win? The idea came to him that if she did, he would have twice as much money, and it gave him a sudden lift. And so easy, for Lady Luck was fast. She had never been beaten. She had never even had a hard fight to win. Her last quarter had been in twenty-three, and she had done equally well on at least two other occasions.

Janet Bates was staring up into Tandy’s eyes. “Oh, Tandy! I was never so glad to see anyone in my life! But is it true? That you are going to race against Lady Luck?”

“Sure, I’m going to run Cholo Baby.”

“Tandy, you mustn’t! Dad says there isn’t a horse in the country can touch Lady Luck.”

“Your dad’s a good cattleman, Janet, but he’s never seen Cholo Baby. She’s fast—fast enough to beat—” He stopped, then shrugged. “She’s a runnin’ little horse, honey. She really is.”

“I hope Tollefson doesn’t think so!” Janet said gravely. “If he did, he would stop at nothing. He’s not a man who can stand losing, Tandy! He forced Dad off his range and then had him shot when he made trouble. He has a gunman who rides wherever he goes.”

“I saw him.” Meadows was serious. “Tom Passman’s no bluffer. I know that. He doesn’t remember me because I was just a kid when he last saw me, but I’ve seen him sling a gun, and he’s fast.”

“Are you having dinner with us? Dad will want to see you even though it isn’t like it used to be on the ranch.”

He hesitated, searching her eyes. “I might come, Janet.” His eyes wandered up the street toward where Passman was loitering. “Are—are you married?”

“Married?” She was startled, but then her eyes crinkled with laughter. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Seems to be a fairly common practice”—he was grinning his relief—“when a girl gets to be your age. I figured I’d come back and see if you’re still as dead set against a man who tramps around the country racing horses.”

“Tandy,” she said seriously, “you’ll have to admit it wouldn’t be much of a life for a girl, even though,” she added reluctantly, “it might be exciting.”

“It isn’t so important where folks are,” he commented, “as long as they are happy together.”

“I’ve thought of that.” She studied him. “Tandy, are you ever going to settle down? Haven’t you had enough of it yet?”

“Maybe. We’ll see. I figured when I left I would never come back at all. Then I heard what happened to Jim Whitten and to your dad. Why, your father took me in when I was all shot up, and if you two hadn’t cared for me, I would sure enough have passed in my checks. As for Whitten, he never made trouble for anybody. So I had to come back.”

There was quick fear in her eyes now. “Don’t think about it, Tandy. Please don’t. Nothing is worth what they could do to you. Tollefson’s too strong, Tandy; nobody has a chance with him, and there’s that awful Tom Passman.”

“Sure. But why is he strong? Only because he has money, that’s all. Suppose he lost it?”

“But how could he?”

“He could.” Meadows squeezed her arm gently. “Believe me, honey, he could!”

Turning, he started down the street, aware that Tom Passman was watching him. He knew one reason for the man’s curiosity. He was wondering if Meadows carried a gun, and if so, where it was. And if not, why not?

Snap was sitting on the wagon tongue when Tandy rode up to the camp in the creek bottom. Snap got to his feet and strolled out to meet Meadows, the shotgun in the crook of his arm. He was grinning expectantly. “You got a bet?” he asked softly.

Meadows nodded, smiling. “We sure have, Snap! And a lively hunch Tollefson would like nothing so much as to be safely out of it! We’re going to have to be careful!” Meadows paused, then added:

“The man’s no gambler. He’s got a good horse, we know that. A mighty fast horse. We’ve got to hope ours is faster.”

Snap nodded gravely. “You know I’ve seen that Lady Luck run, Mistuh Tandy. She’s a mighty quick filly.”

“Think she can beat Cholo Baby?”

Snap smiled. “Well, now. I reckon I’m some prejudiced about that! I never seen the horse I figured could beat our baby. But it will be a race, Mistuh Tandy! It sure will!”

The race was scheduled for the following Wednesday, three days away. By the time Meadows rode again to El Poleo, the town was buzzing with news of the bet. Tandy had done much to see the story got around, for the more who knew of it the less chance of Tollefson backing out. Yet the town was buzzing with more than that, for there was much speculation about Tandy Meadows, where he came from and where he got the money to make such a bet.

Nobody in town knew him but several had seen Janet Bates greet him like an old friend, and that in itself was puzzling. Art Tollefson was curious about that, and being the man he was, he went directly to the source, to Bates’s small ranch forty miles north of El Poleo. Johnny Herndon, a Bates hand, was hazing a half dozen cattle out of the brush, and his eyes narrowed when he saw Tollefson.

“You off your home range, Tollefson?” he said abruptly. “Or are you figurin’ on pushin’ us off this piece, too?”

Tollefson waved a hand. Yet his eyes had noted the grass and that some of it was subirrigated. It was an idea, at that. “Nothing like that,” he replied shortly. “Just ridin’ around a little. Saw a puncher down to El Poleo with some fine horses, a man named Meadows.”

“Tandy Meadows?” Herndon had heard nothing of the bet, and he was instantly curious. “So he came back, did he? I sort of reckoned he would. Does he have some racin’ stock with him?”

“Some, I reckon. Is he from around here?”

“Meadows? He’s from nowhere. He rode in here one night over a year ago, shot to doll rags and barely hangin’ to his horse. That was the first any of us ever saw of him. Gene Bates took him off his horse and they spent two months nursin’ him back to health. Then he loafed around another month, sort of recuperatin’.

“Personally, I never figured he’d leave, for Janet sort of took to him, and the way they acted, it was mutual, but he finally pulled out.”

“You said he’d been shot up? How did that happen? He doesn’t even carry a gun now.”

“No? Now, that’s funny. They tell me he was some slick. I heard of him after he left here, but it was the story of some shootin’ scrape down to Santa Fe before he drifted this way. Good two years ago. He never did say who shot him up, but some of us done some figurin’ an’ we reckoned it was the Alvarez gang. Story was they stole a bunch of horses off him, and that must be so. He got me to help him ride north and haze a bunch out of a canyon up there, and mighty fine stock.

“He’d evidently left them there when he was shot up, but he just had to close the gate as they were in a box canyon hideout with plenty of grass and water. They were somewhat wild but in fine shape.”

“You mean the Alvarez gang had taken the horses there? Did you see any of them?”

Herndon shrugged, rolling a smoke. It was a bright, sunny morning and he had talked to nobody in three days. “Didn’t figure I would. Meadows told me there wouldn’t be any trouble, and he’s the sort of man who would know.

“No, we saw hide nor hair of nobody. At the up end of that canyon there was an adobe, and Tandy advised me to stay away from it. But once I did get sort of close and there was somethin’ white lyin’ there that I’d swear was a skeleton.”

“Has he got any money?”

“Who, Tandy?” Herndon chuckled. “I doubt it. He’s a saddle tramp. Thinks of nothin’ but what’s the other side of the hill and racin’ his horses. If he ever had more than a thousand dollars in his life it would surprise me.”

CHAPTER 3

TRICKERY

Art Tollefson was a cautious man, and he had been very lacking in caution when he had allowed his pride to trap him into the bet with Meadows, but now he was doing a lot of serious thinking. The following morning he mounted up, and saying nothing to anyone, he rode north, avoiding the Bateses’ range and heading for the area in which the box canyon had been.

From Herndon’s comments it was not too hard to find, although had he not been expecting it, a man could have ridden by within a dozen yards and never guessed its existence. The bars were up, but he took them down and rode into a pleasant little canyon, grass covered and shady with probably two hundred acres of rich land in the bottom, and a good spring at the head of it.

Nearing the adobe he rode more cautiously, and when several yards away, he drew up. Obviously, no one had been this close to the cabin for a long time, and Herndon’s surmise had been correct. It was a skeleton.

Buzzards had stripped the bones bare since, but the chaps and gun belts remained, their leather stiff as board from weathering. Not far from the bones lay a rusted six-shooter.

Tollefson trailed his reins and walked up to the door. He stopped there, his mouth suddenly dry. Here three men had died, and they had died hard. The table was turned on its side and nearby lay another skeleton, facedown on the dirt floor. Another slumped in the corner with a round hole over the eye, and the third was sprawled under some fallen slickers in a corner.

The scene was not hard to reconstruct. They had been surprised here by a man who had walked in through the doorway. The fourth man had evidently been drawn by the gunfire or had come up later. It was a very thoughtful man who turned his horse toward El Poleo somewhat later. If Tandy Meadows had walked away from that cabin alive, he was nobody with whom to play games. The sooner Passman knew, the better.

At four o’clock on the afternoon of the day before the race, Tandy Meadows watched Snap prepare an early supper. He was as good a hand with food as with horses, and he worked swiftly and surely, yet his eyes were restless and he was obviously on edge. “You reckon he’ll make trouble, boss?”

“I’d almost bet on it,” Meadows replied, “but you can’t tell. His pride might keep him from it. He figures Lady Luck will win, I know, but he’s not a gambling man, and he’d like to be sure.”

“You’d better watch that Passman,” Snap advised. “He’s a bad man.”

Tandy nodded. He was the last man in the world to take Tom Passman lightly, for he had seen him throw a gun, and the man was deadly. Moreover, he was a tough man with a lot of pride in his skill, no braggart, and no four-flusher. Only death itself would stop his guns.

Cholo Baby, a beautiful sorrel, lifted her head and whinnied softly as he approached. She was fifteen hands high, with wide-spaced and intelligent eyes. She stretched her velvety nose toward his hand and he touched her lightly. “How’s it, girl? You ready to run for me tomorrow?”

Baby nudged him with her nose and Tandy grinned. “I doubt if you ever lived a day when you didn’t feel like running, Cholo. And I hope there never is!”

He strolled back to the wagon, his eyes alert and searching the mountainside, the willows and the trail. He ate without talking, restless and disturbed despite himself. So far everything had been too quiet. Much too quiet.

He could neither rest nor relax. A hint of impending danger hung over the camp and he roved restlessly about. Snap seemed to feel it, too, and even the horses were alert as if they sensed something in the air. Of course, Tandy reflected, if anything happened to Cholo Baby, he could ride Khari, the half-Morgan, half-Arabian horse he usually rode. Not so fast as Cholo Baby over the quarter, but still a fast horse for one with so much staying power.

He still carried his rawhide riata. He was a California rider, and like them he valued the use of the riata, and was amazingly proficient with it. The California riders always used rawhide riatas of great length, and used them with such skill they were almost part of them. Suddenly, Tandy Meadows stopped. Hard upon the trail he heard the pounding hoofs of a hard-ridden horse!

Snap was on his feet, leaning against the off wheel of the wagon, his shotgun resting over the corner of the wagon box to cover the trail. Tandy fell back near the wagon where his Winchester stood, and waited, his lips tight, his eyes cool. Yet when the rider drew nearer he saw it was Janet Bates.

She drew up sharply and dropped to the ground. “Oh, Tandy!” Her face was pale. “What have you done? I just heard today you’d made a bet with Tollefson for his whole ranch! Tandy, you know you haven’t that kind of money! If you lose, what will you do? One man did fail to pay off Tollefson once and he had been lashed to a tree and whipped by Tom Passman! He’d kill you, Tandy!”

Meadows smiled at her anxiety. “So you do worry about me? You do like me a little, then?”

“Be serious.” Her eyes flashed. In the dusk she seemed even more lovely than ever. “You’re in trouble, and you don’t even know it. Lady Luck always wins, Tandy. He’ll kill you!”

“He must have figured my bet was all right,” Meadows replied. “Clevenger backed me.”

“Oh, I know, Tandy! But you fooled him somehow. I just know you fooled him! If you don’t win, what will you do?”

“I’ll win,” he replied simply. “I’ve got to win. I’ve got to win for you, Janet, and for your father and Jim Whitten. I came back here to force Tollefson out of the country, and I’ll not rest until I do! Your dad was mighty kind to me when I was all shot up and dyin’. Without you two I’d not be here, so when I heard of what had happened, I figured this out. I’d heard of Lady Luck, and I knew Tollefson was a mighty big-headed and stubborn man, so I deliberately worked on his pride.”

“That isn’t all I heard,” Janet persisted quickly. “Tollefson was up near our ranch twice. He talked to Johnny about you, asking all sorts of questions. He seemed very curious about how you’d been wounded that time, and the next day Johnny Herndon saw him riding north toward the box canyon where you left your horses that time.”

Meadows scowled. What did that mean, anyway? The Alvarez gang had been notorious outlaws, and the killing of them would be considered a public service. Or would have been at the time. Yet with such information a man of his influence might find some way to do him harm.

“Boss,” Snap’s voice was urgent, “somebody comin’.”

Tandy Meadows turned and watched the horsemen. There were four in the group and one of them he recognized instantly as Tom Passman. When they drew nearer he saw that another was Fulton, while the two riding with them were Sheriff George Lynn and his deputy Rube Hatley.

“Meadows,” Lynn said, “we rode out here after you. You’ve got to come back to town and answer a few questions.”

“Always glad to answer questions, Sheriff. Can’t I answer them here?”

“No.” Lynn’s voice was testy. “You can answer them in my office. There’s a place for such things and this isn’t it!”

“All right, Sheriff,” Meadows agreed. “But how about lettin’ Hatley stay here to guard my horses?”

Lynn hesitated, disturbed by the request. It was reasonable enough, but when Art Tollefson had told him what to do, George Lynn had been reasonably certain what lay behind it. If he left Hatley he would be defeating the purpose of the trip. “Sorry,” he replied abruptly, “I need Hatley with me!”

“Then of course you’ll be responsible for my horses?” Meadows persisted. “I don’t think they should be left alone.”

“They’ll be safe enough.” Lynn was growing angry. “The responsibility is your own. Are you coming,” he asked sharply, “or do we take you?”

“Why, I’m coming, Sheriff. I’ve never suggested anything to the contrary.” He put his foot into the stirrup, then swung aboard Khari. “Snap,” he said loudly, “if any varmints come around, don’t take chances. Shoot to kill.” Then he added, “You’ll be perfectly safe because nobody would be fool enough to come near racin’ stock on the night before a race. So don’t forget, shoot to kill!”

“Sure thing, boss. I got me a shotgun loaded for bear!”

Nothing more was said as they rode back to town. Several times Tandy saw Passman watching him, but when they reached town only a few loafers noticed them ride down the street to the sheriff’s office.

Inside, Lynn came to the point at once. “I’ve brought you in to ask you questions about a shootin’ scrape, sometime back.”

“Why, sure!” Meadows dropped into a chair. “I didn’t figure Tollefson rode all the way up to that canyon for nothing. He must be really worried if he’s tryin’ this hard to find a way out of his bet. But aren’t you and Passman buckin’ a stacked deck? Who will you work for if I win?”

“I work for the county!” Lynn said sharply. “That horse race has nothing to do with this inquiry!”

“Of course not! That’s why Fulton and Passman were with you, Sheriff! Because the race has nothing to do with it! That’s why you waited to bring me in until the night before the race! I hope somebody tries to bother those horses tonight! Snap’s a whiz with a shotgun!”

He turned his head. “Passman came along hopin’ I’d make some wrong play so he could plug me.”

Passman’s eyes were flat and gray. “You talk a lot,” he said shortly, “but can you shoot?”

Lynn waved an irritated hand. “Who were those hombres you shot up north?”

“I shot?” Meadows looked mildly astonished. “Why, Sheriff, I didn’t say I shot anybody. I did hear something about the Alvarez gang catching some lead over some horses they stole, but beyond that I’m afraid I don’t remember much about it.”

“You deny you shot them? You deny the fight?”

“I don’t deny anything, and I don’t admit anything.”

Tandy’s voice was cool. “If you’re planning to arrest me, by all means do it. Also, get me a lawyer down here, then either file charges against me or turn me loose. This whole proceeding, Sheriff, is highly irregular. All you have is Tollefson’s word that he saw some skeletons somewhere. Or some dead men, or some bullet holes, or something. You know that I was wounded about the same time, but even if they were not horse thieves, you’d have a tough time proving any connection.”

Lynn was uneasy. This was the truth and he knew it, but this was what Tollefson wanted, and what he wanted he got. Yet for almost three hours he persisted in asking questions, badgering Meadows with first one and then another, and trying to trap him. Yet he got nowhere. Finally, he got to his feet. “All right, you can go. If I want any more questions answered, I’ll send for you.”

Meadows got to his feet and let his eyes, suddenly grown cold, go over the four men. “All right, Sheriff, I’m always glad to answer questions, but get this: if anything has happened to my horses while I was in here, I’m coming back, and I’ll be looking for each and every one of you.

“And that, Lynn,” his eyes turned to the sheriff, “goes for you, sheriff or no sheriff! I’m a law-abiding man, and have always been, but if you’ve conspired with that fatheaded Tollefson to keep my horse out of that race, and through it harm comes to my horses, you’d better start packing a gun for me! Get that?”

George Lynn’s face whitened and he involuntarily drew back. Worriedly, he glanced at Fulton and Passman for support. Fulton was pale as himself, and Passman leaned against the wall, nonchalantly rolling a cigarette. Rube Hatley stood near the door, his position unchanged. Meadows turned and walked past him, scarcely hearing the whispered, “Luck!” from Rube.

After he was gone, Lynn stared at Fulton. “Harry, what will we do?”

Rube Hatley chuckled. “Only one thing you can do, Sheriff. You can light a shuck out of the country or you can die. Either way, I don’t care. I wanted no part of this yellow-bellied stunt, and if they were my horses I’d shoot you on sight.”

“Passman?” Lynn was almost pleading. “You’re the gunslinger.”

Passman shrugged. “When I get my orders. Until then I don’t make a move.” He turned on his heel and walked out into the night.

Lynn stared at Fulton. “Harry,” he begged, “you know. What did they do?”

“Do?” Fulton’s hand shook as he lighted his smoke. “Tollefson’s too smart to pull anything too raw. He just had some of the boys take those horses out and run them over the desert for three hours, that’s all! By daylight those horses will be so stiff and stove up they wouldn’t be able to walk that quarter, let alone run it!”

“What about the black boy?”

Fulton shrugged. “That’s another story. Who cares about him?”

“Meadows might.”

“Yeah.” Fulton was thoughtful. “He might at that. But you can be sure of one thing, after the runnin’ his horses got this night, through cactus, brush, and rocks, they’ll do no running tomorrow. I can promise you that! You leave the rest to Passman!”

“Did Tollefson actually see those skeletons?”

“He sure did.” Fulton’s voice was dry, emotionless. “And from what he said, if that was Tandy Meadows who walked into that shack after the Alvarez boys, he’s got nerve enough to crawl down a hole after a nest full of rattlers, believe me!”

CHAPTER 4

GILT-EDGED COLLATERAL

Morning dawned bright and still, and for the better part of two hours it remained bright and still, and then the boys from the ranches began to show up in El Poleo. Hard-riding youngsters, most of them, with here and there older men whose eyes were careful and wary with the sense of trouble.

Buckboards, a fringed surrey, a Conestoga wagon, and many horseback riders, all coming in for the races, and all curious about what would happen. Some had heard there had been trouble the night before, but what or when, they did not know.

Art Tollefson came in about noon. The covered wagon stood in the creek bottom disconsolate and alone. No horses were in sight, nor movement of any kind. His lips thinned with cruelty and his eyes were bright with triumph and satisfaction. Try to buck Art Tollefson, would they!

He was walking into the saloon when he saw a buckboard draw up between two buildings, and Gene Bates and Jim Whitten got down. His lips tightened and he walked on into the saloon.

The usual jovial laughter stilled as he entered. With a wave of the hand he invited all and sundry to join him at the bar. Each year this was his custom at this time, but now there was no concerted rush for the bar.

This time, not a man moved.

Impatiently, he stared around the room but all eyes avoided his. Then Fulton stepped to the bar followed by several of his own Flying T riders. His face and neck crimson, Tollefson stared down at his drink, his jaw set hard.

Gene Bates and Jim Whitten walked into the saloon and to the bar. “Tollefson’s buyin’,” the bartender explained hurriedly.

“Not our drinks!” Bates’s voice was flat. “I’ll drink with no man who hires his killin’ done and hires other men to ruin a man’s horses so he loses a race!”

Tollefson whirled. The truth was hard to take, he found. “Who said that?” he demanded. “That’s a lie!”

Bates faced him. The white-haired old man’s blue eyes were fierce. “Better back up on that, Tollefson,” he advised coldly. “Passman’s not here to do your shootin’ for you this time!”

Tollefson’s fingers stiffened, and for an instant he seemed about to draw, but at Fulton’s low-voiced warning, he turned back to the bar.

Sheriff George Lynn pushed through the doors and walked to the bar. He spoke under his breath to Tollefson. “They did it all right! They ran those horses half to death! I passed ’em out on the flat not thirty minutes ago, and a worse-lookin’ bunch you never did see! I couldn’t get close, but it was close enough!”

“What will Meadows do now?” Fulton asked, low voiced.

Rube Hatley had come in. He overheard Fulton’s remark and leaned both elbows on the bar. “Do?” Rube chuckled without humor. “If I were you hombres I’d do one of two things. I’d start ridin’ or start shootin’!”

The course was the same straightaway course they had used for this race for several years. There were several two-twenty and three-thirty races to be run off before the quarter races began.

Tollefson watched nervously, his eyes roving the crowd. He saw neither Tandy Meadows nor Snap. Janet Bates rode in with Johnny Herndon, and they joined her father and Jim Whitten.

Fulton sat with Tollefson and Sheriff Lynn, and the last to arrive was Tom Passman. He dismounted but kept free of the crowd. Tollefson noted with relief that he was wearing two guns, something he rarely did. When he walked to the edge of the track, people moved away from him.

The quarter-horse race was announced, and Tollefson touched his lips uneasily with his tongue as he watched Lady Luck walking into place in the line. Three other horses were entered in this race and they all showed up. All but one had been beaten by the Lady in previous races, and Tollefson began to breathe easier.

What a fool he had been to take such a chance! Well, it was over now, and he was safe. But where was Meadows?

Fulton grabbed his arm. “Look!” he gasped. “Look there!”

Another horse had moved into line, a sorrel, and beautifully made. The rider on the last horse was Snap, Meadows’s Negro rider.

Tollefson’s face flushed, then went white. He started forward, but stopped suddenly. Gene Bates was standing in front of him with a shotgun. “Let’s let ’em run,” Bates suggested. “You keep your place!”

Tollefson drew back, glancing around desperately. Sheriff Lynn had disappeared, but Rube Hatley loafed nearby. “Do something, man!” Tollefson insisted.

“For what?” Hatley grinned at him, his eyes hard. “Nobody’s busted any law that I can see. That shotgun’s in the hollow of his arm. Nobody says he can’t carry it there.”

Now the horses were moving together toward the far end of the course. As in a trance, Art Tollefson watched them go, watched most of all that sorrel with the squat black rider. Suddenly, he felt sick. If that horse won, he was through, through! It was unthinkable.

He turned sharply. “Tom!” he said. Passman looked around, his eyes level and gray. “When you see him! And there’s a bonus in it for you!”

Passman nodded but made no other reply. Fulton felt a constriction in his chest. He had heard Tollefson order men beaten, cattle driven off, homes burned, but this was the first time he had actually heard him order a man killed. Yet nowhere was there any sign of Tandy Meadows.

Tollefson sat his horse where he could see the race, the full length of the course. His eyes went now to the far end where the horses were lining up, and his heart began to pound. His fingers on the saddle horn were relaxed and powerless. Suddenly, the full impact of his bet came home to him, and he realized, almost for the first time, what losing would mean.

How had he ever been such a fool? Such an utter and complete fool? How had he been trapped into such a situation?

His thoughts were cut sharply off by the crack of a pistol, and his heart gave a tremendous leap as he saw the horses lunge into a dead run. Lady Luck had seemed almost to squat as the pistol cracked, and then bounded forward and was down the track running like a scared rabbit.

Tollefson, his breath coming hoarsely, stood in his stirrups, his agonized stare on the charging horses, and suddenly he realized he was shouting his triumph, for the Lady was well off and running beautifully. Then, even as he cheered, a sorrel shot from the group behind the Lady and swooped down upon her!

His pulse pounding, his eyes bulging with fear and horror, he saw that rusty streak of horse come up behind the Lady, saw its head draw abreast, then the nose was at the Lady’s shoulder, and the Lady was running like something possessed, as if she knew what great change rode with her. Tollefson was shouting madly now, almost in a frenzy, for out there with those running horses was everything he owned, everything he had fought for, burned for, killed for. And now that sorrel with its crouching black rider was neck and neck with the Lady, and then with the finish line only a length away the sorrel seemed to give a great leap and shot over the finish line, winner by half a length!

Tollefson sagged back in his saddle, staring blindly down the hill. Tricked—tricked and beaten. Lady Luck was beaten. He was beaten. He was through, finished!

Then he remembered Tom Passman, and saw him standing down by the finish line, away from him. Passman! Tollefson’s eyes suddenly sharpened. He could still win! Passman could kill them! He could kill Meadows, Whitten, Bates! Anyone who fought or resisted him! He would turn his riders loose on the town, he would—

Then a voice behind him turned him cold and still inside. “Well, you lost, Tollefson. You’ve got until sundown to get out of the country. You can load your personal belongings, no more. You can take a team and a buckboard. Get moving!”

Passman seemed to have heard. He turned slowly, and he was looking at them now from forty yards away. In a daze, Tollefson saw Tandy Meadows step out toward the gunman, holding in his hands nothing but the rawhide riata.

Tom Passman crouched a little, his eyes riveted on Meadows, his mind doing a quick study. If he drew and killed an unarmed man, there was a chance not even Tollefson could save him. Yet was Meadows unarmed? At what point might he not suddenly flash a gun from his shirt front or waistband?

Meadows took another step, switching the rope in his hands with seeming carelessness. Again Passman’s eyes searched Meadows’s clothing for a suspicious bulge, and saw none. Surely, the man would not come down here without a weapon? It was beyond belief. “What’s the matter, Tom?” Meadows taunted. “Yellow?”

As he spoke, his hands flipped, and as Passman’s hands swept down for his guns he saw something leap at him like a streak of light. He threw up a hand, tried to spring aside, but that rawhide riata loop snapped over his shoulders and whipped taut even as his hands started to lift the guns, and he was jerked off balance.

He staggered, trying desperately to draw a gun, but his arms were pinned to his sides. Meadows took two running steps toward him, throwing another loop of the rope over his shoulders that fell to his ankles. He jerked hard and the gunman fell, hitting hard in the dust. He struggled to get up, and Tandy jerked him from his feet again. Tandy stood off, smiling grimly.

Then, stepping in quickly, he jerked the guns from Passman’s holsters and tossed them aside. Springing back, he let Passman fight his way free of the noose. As the loop dropped from the gunman, he wheeled on Meadows, and Tandy struck him across the mouth with the back of his hand.

It was deliberate, infuriating. Passman went blind with rage and rushed. A left smeared his lips and a roundhouse right caught him on the ear. He staggered sideways, his ears ringing. Meadows walked into him then and slugged two wicked underhand punches into the gunman’s body. Passman sagged and went down, landing on his knees.

Tandy jerked him erect, struck him again in the stomach, and ignoring the futile punches the man threw, stepped back and smashed him full in the mouth with a right. Passman went down again.

Bloody and battered, he lay gasping on the ground. Meadows stood over him. “Tom,” he said coldly, “I could have killed you. You never saw the day you were as fast as I am. But I don’t want to kill men, Tom. Not even you. Now get out of the country! If you ever come north of the river again, I’ll hunt you down and kill you! Start moving!”

Tandy stepped back, coiling his rope. He glanced around. Tollefson was gone, and so was Fulton.

Rube Hatley gestured toward Passman. “He means it, Tom,” he said, “and so do I. I’d have run you out of here months ago if it hadn’t been for Tollefson and Lynn. Take his advice and don’t come back, because I may not be any faster than you, Tom, but if you ever ride this way again, you’ve got me to kill, and I sort of think we’d go together!”

Hatley glanced at Tandy. “You had me fooled. What happened to your horses?”

“Janet and Snap figured something would happen, so they drove them back into the hills a mile or so, and then they moved in a bunch of half-broke Flying T broomtails down on that meadow. In the dark they never guessed they were drivin’ some of their own remuda!”

Janet came up to Tandy, smiling gravely, her eyes lighted with something half affection and half humor. “I was glad to help. I thought if you won this race you might settle down.”

Meadows shrugged, grinning. “I don’t see any way out of it with a ranch to manage and a wife to support.”

Janet stared suspiciously from Meadows to Clevenger. “Now tell me,” she insisted. “What would you have done if Cholo Baby had lost? How could you have paid up?”

The banker looked sheepish. “Well, ma’am, I reckon I’d have had to pay off. That was my money backing him.”

“Yours?” she was incredulous. “Without collateral?”

“No, ma’am!” Clevenger shook his head decisively. “He had collateral! In the banking business a man’s got to know what’s good security and what isn’t! What he showed me was plumb good enough for any old horseman like myself. It was Cholo Baby’s pedigree!

“Why, ma’am, that Cholo Baby was sired by old Dan Tucker, one of the finest quarter-horse stallions of them all! He was a half brother to Peter McCue, who ran the quarter in twenty-one seconds!

“Like I say, ma’am, a banker has to know what’s good collateral and what ain’t! Why, a man what knows horses could no more fail to back that strain than he could bet against his own mother!

“And look,” he said grinning shrewdly. “Was it good collateral, or wasn’t it? Who won?”