FOR SEVERAL miles Green was able to follow the trail he had selected without difficulty. The tracks of the horse which had been tethered to the tree behind the hillock were clear; Green noted that the would-be assassin had headed south without making any attempt to conceal his passage. Drawing rein as he and Philadelphia crested a slight ridge, he scanned the country ahead of them. Down below them, perhaps a mile away, he could see the dark line of trees and the faint silvery glint of water which marked the course of the Yavapai. Off to the east the white scar which was the trail running from the Saber to the Mesquites could be faintly descried, and Green pointed it out to his companion.
‘I’m bettin’ our friend aimed like an arrow for that,’ he told Philadelphia. ‘Be mighty hard to track any thin’ once it hit that trail.’
Philadelphia nodded glumly. ‘I reckon we might as well turn back,’ he said, the slump of his shoulders ample evidence of his disappointment.
‘Hold hard, there,’ Green told him. ‘Let’s mosey down an’ take a look at the river-bank. Mebbe Mr. Bushwhacker crossed the river an’ maybe he didn’t. If he did, he might just ‘a been careless about it.’
They moved down the slope from the ridge, threaded a long arroyo, and found themselves on flat, open scrubland. The trail lay off to their left, and within a few more minutes it cut diagonally across their path. When they reached it Green dismounted and spent long minutes studying the churned, sandy earth. Remounting, he shook his head. ‘Impossible,’ he told the youngster. ‘Let’s head on down to the river.’
Where the trail actually met the river, the Yavapai ran wide and shallow, with broad sandy banks sloping gently to the water.
‘She’s a natural ford,’ Green told his friend. Tethering Midnight, he squatted down and inspected the various tracks which had been made in the sand, his keen eyes narrowed. Slowly, he moved carefully, about a foot at a time, away from the center of the crossing towards its outer edge.
Philadelphia watched him in wonder. The edge of the river was, to his unaccustomed eyes, a morass of churned hoof-marks, some made by cattle, others by horses, and for all he knew, a few made by wild animals which might use this shallow part of the river as a watering hole.
‘Jim, how could yu tell one o’ the hoof-marks yo’re lookin’ for if yu seen it?’ he asked.
Green, still carefully inspecting the ground, looked up briefly and grinned. ‘There’s an easy way, if she works,’ he told his companion. ‘Yu think about it a minnit or two.’
Philadelphia frowned. Surely, unless the horse had some special kind of shoes, any horse track would look like any other? He said as much. Green refrained from answering, but instead rose to his feet and announced, ‘He crossed the river here.’
The boy looked at him in sheer amazement. ‘I expect yo’re goin’ to describe him to me as well,’ he said, disbelief in his voice.
Green shook his head. ‘Might be able to, but I won’t,’ he said. ‘Come an’ take a look for yoreself.’ He pointed to the hoof-mark he had been studying. ‘What d’yu see?’
Philadelphia shrugged. ‘Just another hoof-mark.’
‘Naw,’ Green persisted. ‘You’re lookin’ but yu ain’t seein’. Take a closer gander.’
The boy kneeled down and peered closely at the track. Now, this close, he could see clinging to the wet sides of the hoof-mark a few dark flecks. Picking them off with a fingernail he inspected them, then laughed.
‘Pine needles,’ he said, standing up. ‘I’m apologizing Jim. Although I still don’t know how yu can say it’s our man.’
‘Wrong again,’ Green told him. If that track had been here since yesterday it would ‘a’ soaked up moisture from the ground. Them pine needles is still dry. It ain’t conclusive, but it’s enough. Let’s cross the river.’
Philadelphia hesitated. ‘That’s Saber land over there, ain’t it?’
‘It ain’t Californey, that’s for shore.’ grinned Green, mounting his horse and leading the way down to the water. ‘Come on, Philadelphia. Let’s see what that sign over there says.’
They splashed across the muddy Yavapai and trotted up the opposite bank to where a stark, sun-bleached board bore a faded legend in red paint.
THIS IS SABER LAND
If you haven’t been invited turn around
The Saber brand was burned on to the wood below this unfriendly message. Green grinned over his shoulder. ‘Friendly cuss, this Gunnison feller.’
Without apparently bothering any further to search for tracks he swung off down the trail towards the Saber ranch. After a moment’s hesitation Philadelphia spurred his horse after his friend. ‘Never seen such a feller for pokin’ in hornet’s nests,’ he muttered; but he kept his sentiments to himself as they rode along. As they crested a bluff, a horseman suddenly appeared off to their right about five hundred yards. He made no attempt to come closer, and matched his speed to the pace of the two men from the Mesquites.
‘Don’t put yore hands anywhere near yore gun,’ Green told the youngster. ‘That jasper’s totin’ a Winchester, an’ he’s pointin’ it our way.’
A closer look revealed to Philadelphia that their shadow, although he appeared to be riding negligently, was, in fact, carrying a rifle ported across his saddle bow in their direction. No threatening move was made as they cantered on; the rider stayed at the same distance from them.
Presently they hove in sight of the house, down below them in a natural hollow, shaded by big cottonwoods, the limed adobe walls almost dazzlingly bright in the pale sunlight. Now their ‘shadow’ spurred on ahead of them, moving around in a semicircle until he reached the trail. There he reined his horse about and sat waiting, rifle trained on them casually, as they approached. He was a squat, surly-looking individual with a low forehead and unshaven jaws. As they drew within fifteen feet, he cocked the Winchester in one smooth, menacing movement. The click-clack of the action rang loudly in the stillness.
‘Hold it right there,’ the squat man told them. ‘Shuck yore guns.’
With a nod to Philadelphia, Green unbuckled his belt and let the guns fall to the ground. The youngster followed his example and the man nodded, his jaws working on the cud of tobacco in his loose-lipped mouth.
‘What’s yore business?’ he rasped.
‘Want to talk to Gunnison,’ Green informed him coolly.
‘What about?’
‘If yu’d do I wouldn’t wanta talk to yore boss,’ snapped Green.
The man’s eyes gleamed in anger, and he kneed his horse forward until he was alongside the puncher. He jabbed Green with the barrel of the Winchester.
‘Yu talk outa turn, mister, an’ I’ll blow yu four ways to onct,’ he threatened. Green smiled, and half turned his body in the saddle as though to avoid the jabbing gun-barrel. With an evil smile the man jabbed again, opening his mouth to say something which died still-born as Green’s hand suddenly grasped the gun-barrel and the guard realized he had let himself be lured off balance in the saddle. By the time he had done so, however, he was spilling in an untidy heap on the ground, and his former prisoner was smiling coldly down at him from behind the receiver of the Winchester.
‘Well, well, how are the mighty fallen,’ quoted the puncher; then, his voice cold, he ordered the man to take three steps backwards and to unbuckle his gun belt. When the thoroughly cowed guard had complied with this order Green ordered him to get back on his horse.
‘Philadelphia, get the guns.’ he said to the youngster, who had sat open-mouthed at the speed with which this quiet-spoken man had turned the tables on his armed opponent.
He dismounted and passed Green’s guns up to him. Buckling on his own pistol he remounted, and kept the guard unwaveringly covered as Green buckled on his own gun belt.
‘Tie like mother made,’ Green told the guard. ‘Yu wanta remember not to crowd yore luck. Lead on in, an’ no fancy footwork. I got a nervous disposition when I’m trespassin’.’
They rode down the slope towards the house below. It was not until they were actually in the yard that anyone noticed anything untoward; then, with a roar of rage, one man turned and started to run towards the bunk-house, obviously to get a gun, since he was not wearing a gun belt. Green whipped the Winchester around and fired, and fired again. Two gouts of sand leaped up on both sides of the man, inches from his feet, and he froze.
‘Stay put!’ Green ordered him. The shots had drawn several men into the yard, and on the porch two men stood. The thickset one Green and Philadelphia recognized instantly as Dancy. The other was a tall, rangy man with cold grey eyes and iron-grey hair, dressed in unassuming range clothes. Only the air of a man accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed set him apart.
‘Yu’ll be Lafe Gunnison, I’m guessin’.’ said Green as they rode up to the hitching-rail.
‘Yu’ll be dead in five seconds if yu don’t throw down yore guns,’ snapped the rancher. I’m warnin’ yu, mister; I’m goin’ to count five. If them guns ain’t on the floor by then yu’ll be ridden outa here on a rail.’
‘If you was fool enough to start countin’, I’m guessin’ I could drop yu an’ Dancy afore yu got to two,’ Green told him levelly, and as the old man’s mouth opened for another tirade he continued, ‘If yu’ll lissen for a moment instead o’ makin’ war talk yu might find I got somethin’ worth yore hearin.’
Gunnison’s mouth closed like a trap. He was not accustomed to being addressed in this manner, but neither was he fool enough to chance calling this sardonic young stranger’s bluff.
‘All right,’ he snapped. ‘Speak yore piece, an’ make it short.’
In even tones, and without emphasis, Green described the events which had brought them to the Yavapai, and of the tracks he had found at the edge of the river.
‘What’s all this got to do with Saber?’
The speaker was a newcomer who had come out of the house as Green spoke. He was a slim young man, expensively dressed in fine broadcloth, a soft-collared shirt, and dark four-in-hand, his boots gleaming richly in the muted sunlight. The handsome face was marred only by a weak, spoiled mouth; the hands were long, as slim as a woman’s, and he gave every appearance, as Philadelphia was to later remark, of ‘never havin’ done a hard day’s work in his life’. Gunnison turned, saw who it was, then faced Green once more.
‘My son Randolph,’ he said by way of introduction, ‘an’ he’s hit the nail on the head. What’s it got to do with us?’
‘Mister, the hombre who tried to kill the kid here shore didn’t head for Yavapai,’ Green said. ‘Which wouldn’t leave him many other places to head for in these parts.’
‘Are you,’ asked young Gunnison coldly, ‘suggesting that he came here?’
At Green’s failure to react to this question Randy Gunnison’s face set, and his lips became a thin, bloodless line. He turned to his father.
‘Are you,’ asked young Gunnison coldly, ‘suggesting tramps ride in here and all but tell you that the Saber hires women-killers?’
These words struck a chord in the older man’s mind, and anger played across his narrowed eyes.
‘My son’s convinced that yore nester friends are behind all the troubles in these parts, mister, an’ I ain’t shore he’s wrong. They are, they got plenty of enemies. An’ not all of ’em live on the Saber. But yu can bite on this: Saber don’t war on women.’
‘You heard what my father said,’ Randy Gunnison spat. ‘He is hampered by some old-fashioned notions about hospitality and fair play, but I’m not! You’re lucky you got this far without being shot down. For two cents …’
Green’s hand had moved as the younger man spoke, and there was a stunned silence as two coins chinked at Randolph Gunnison’s feet, tossed there by the tall puncher.
‘There’s yore two cents,’ snapped Green. ‘What now?’ His eyes were like chips of steel, and menace was instinct in his very posture.
Gunnison paled and moved a step backwards. ‘Are you going to stand for this?’ he squeaked to his father.
The old man looked from Green to his son nonplussed, then a look of distaste crossed his face. ‘Randy, if yu don’t like the heat – stay outa the kitchen. Don’t skedaddle ahind o’ me when someone calls yore bluff.’
‘I’m no gunfighter,’ Randy Gunnison said, a surly look on his sulky face.
‘Then don’t talk like one,’ said his father shortly. ‘I’m tellin’ yu now, mister …?’
‘Green,’ supplied the cowboy. ‘The kid’s called Philadelphia.’
For the first time Gunnison looked fully at the youngster; Philadelphia had been watching the proceedings from the side, unobtrusively covering his partner’s flank in case any of Gunnison’s men made a threatening move. As Philadelphia turned, the old rancher’s face changed. He went pale, and put out a hand to steady himself against the upright of the porch. He pointed a shaky finger at Philadelphia.
‘Yu, boy,’ he croaked. ‘What’s yore name?’ When the youngster told him he shook his head. ‘No, yore real name.’
‘Henry Sloane, sir,’ Philadelphia told him. ‘Why d’yu ask?’
‘Just … just for a moment, yu put me powerfully in mind o’ someone I used to know.’ The old man shook himself, as though shedding some haunting thought, and drew himself up. ‘Trick o’ the light, I’m guessin’. Now, yu: Green! My son mighta given yu the impression that Saber’s long on wind an’ short on action. It ain’t so.
What he said still goes, just like what I said when yu started jawin’. Yu ain’t told me no news I want to hear. Turn around an’ get off my land. Tell yore nester friend to keep his gal indoors if he ain’t got anyone can take care o’ her. An’ don’t make the mistake o’ thinkin’ I’m allus this lenient. Next time my men’ll have orders to shoot yu or this wet-eared kid on sight. ¿sabe?’
Green nodded, regret in his expression. ‘I’m sorry,’ he told the old rancher. ‘I was told yu might be a man who’d lissen to reason, but yo’re so bull-headed I doubt if yu’d know good sense if it jumped up an’ bit yu. No’ – he held up a hand – ’don’t get all riled up again. We’re ridin’. Afore we go, Gunnison, ponder a mite on this: if our bushwhackin’ friend didn’t come back to the Saber, where’d he go?’
Wheeling his horse, the puncher spurred the big stallion out of the yard, followed closely by his young partner, leaving the old man frowning furiously. Dancy sidled over eagerly. ‘Yu want me to get a couple o’ the boys an’ follow ’em, boss?’ He leered. ‘Teach ’em some manners for next time they come a-callin’, mebbe?’
Gunnison turned on the big foreman with rage on his face. ‘I just told them men we don’t war on women,’ he thundered. ‘We don’t send a gang o’ men out to set on two, neither. When we make war, we’ll do it in the open. Until I give yu any hints otherwise, yu play it that way, hear me?’
A snarl of anger crossed Dancy’s face, but he replaced it with a servile sneer. ‘Yo’re the boss,’ he told the rancher.
‘Don’t yu forget it none, either,’ was the retort as the old man stamped into the ranch house. Dancy spat in the dirt and returned to his work, throwing a glance of hatred in the direction of the retreating back of his employer.
When they were out of sight of the ranch Green reined in; his companion pulled up alongside, puzzlement on his face.
‘What’s up, Jim?’ he wanted to know.
‘We didn’t find out what happened to our bush-whackin’ amigo,’ Green informed him coolly. ‘I reckon I’ll just mosey back an’ do a mite o’ checkin.’
Philadelphia regarded his friend as if he had just announced his imminent departure for the moon.
‘Jim – are yu loco? They catch yu an’ they’ll skin yu alive an’ feed yu to the buzzards.’
Green grinned. ‘I ain’t aimin’ to be caught.’
‘Then I’m comin’ with yu,’ announced Philadelphia resolutely.
‘Oh, no, yu ain’t,’ Green replied with a smile. ‘Yu may be learnin’ fast with that six-shooter, but I ain’t had time to teach yu how to “Injun” without bein’ spotted. Yu stay here with the horses. When I arrive, we’ll be wantin’ to leave fairly pronto. Yu be ready.’
He pointed out a clump of rocks off to the left of the trail where Philadelphia could hide with the horses until his return. Then, slipping off his high-heeled boots and socks, he padded away in the direction of the ranch, leaving the unwilling Philadelphia behind. The boy watched Green’s lithe, almost effortless gait as he moved across the prairie for a short while. He turned to tether the horses, and then looked again. There was no sign of Green. The cowboy had disappeared as completely as if the earth had swallowed him.
When he was within two hundred yards or so of the ranch once more, Green ducked behind a clump of brush and surveyed the area below. Off to the right of the big house as he faced it was a long, low building in which there were several tar-paper windows; a faint plume of smoke arose from the chimney. ‘Bunkhouse,’ he told himself, moving his gaze across the yard to another, slightly higher building. ‘That’ll be the stables,’ he said to himself, and his keen eyes swept over the terrain between himself and his objective. A narrow gully seemed to offer the best means of approaching the stables unseen, and crouching low, moving as fast as he could, Green drew to within about twenty yards of the building. He could hear voices quite plainly within the stables; one of them was Dancy’s.
‘Rub him down, feed him, an’ put him in the corral,’ the Saber man was telling someone. ‘An’ Jack Mado’s geldin’, too.’
‘Okay, Jim,’ said the man to whom Dancy was speaking. In a moment the foreman came out of the stable, hitched at his gun belt, and crossed the open yard towards the big house.
A quick glance about him revealed no one else in the vicinity, and Green covered the few yards remaining between him and the building at a flat run. Almost soundlessly he skirted the wall, coming to the open door which led into the corral. He lay flat on the ground, and took a quick look around the doorway. It was an old trick; a man looking at the opening would not expect a head at floor level. Green was taking a calculated risk that the man inside would not be looking at the door. Nor was he; the tall, thin horse-tender was busily rubbing down a sorrel standing in one of the stalls.
Rising noiselessly to his feet, Green moved like a shadow inside the stable and was behind the man in three swift steps. Almost instinctively the man felt Green’s presence and half turned.
‘Wha—’ he began, when the barrel of Green’s forty-five caught him solidly behind the ear, and he fell like a sack of wheat into Green’s waiting arms. The cowboy dragged the man into a vacant stall and then, crooning to soothe the slightly startled sorrel, he examined the horse. He noted the sweat marks dried on the sleek flanks, and lifted the hoofs.
‘Ain’t no pine needles,’ he said, disappointment in his voice, ‘but plenty o’ sand around the fetlocks. Now the question is: who’s yore rider, ol’ hoss?’
He spent a few more moments examining the saddle which was straddling the stall partition. There was nothing in the saddlebags to yield a clue as to its owner. The only other horse in the stable was a gelding which, from the conversation he had overheard, Green knew to belong to the man called Jack Mado. A rapid inspection of this animal revealed no sign of pine needles or sand, nor had the horse been hard used. ‘Not yu, beauty,’ Green murmured. ‘Whoever owns that sorrel is our man.’ He thought for a moment; then, nodding, he produced a Barlow knife from his pocket and spent another minute in the stall with the sorrel. With a grim smile of satisfaction he pocketed the knife.
‘I’ll shore know yu when I see yu again, hoss,’ he told the animal. ‘Yu don’t look like yu go in any remuda to me.’
By this the JH man was referring to the prevalent practice of keeping a pool of horses on a ranch for the riders to draw from daily in their work. These animals were normally half-wild, hardly-broken animals. The sorrel, on the other hand, was a good horse with some breeding in him.
‘Next time I see yu I hope yore owner’s ridin’ yu,’ Green told the animal, patting its velvety muzzle. The horse whickered softly as the cowboy edged back to the door and, after a quick glance about, once more crossed the dangerous open space to the mouth of the gully he had descended.
A few minutes later he was above the crest of the hill and loping towards his rendezvous with Philadelphia.