It had happened before and it was happening again—twice in the one day. Of course, Hattie Alden had not resorted to trickery, in order to win their support. She had merely paid their fine and stated her case. The decision had been their own. Could the same be said for Luke Sorley? Larry already had his doubts, but was more amused than indignant. Certainly, the Sorleys weren’t exaggerating their poverty. Such obvious destitution could never be pretense.
A chorus of whoops was raised by Eli, Oley, Elmer and their elated sire. Sheba smiled shyly. The younger children screamed in sudden excitement and pounded the tabletop, until hushed by their mother.
“All right, all right,” sighed Larry. “Let up on that hollerin’ and start tellin’ us the score. We’ll need to know a few more things, such as where we have to register for the rush, and all the rules and stuff.”
“Why, sure.” Luke nodded eagerly. “Well, for a starter, there ain’t nothin’ unlegal ’bout you ridin’ for me. Lotsa riders’ll be representin’ folks that’s too old to ride for theirselves. You get your claim markers at the Land Office when you sign up. Then, all you gotta do is paint my name on the marker.”
“How much time do we have?” demanded Larry.
“Race starts nine o’clock Thursdee mornin’,” said Luke.
“That’s day after tomorrow, runt,” mused Stretch.
“Uh huh,” grunted Larry. “Well, we better be on our way. Gotta find a place to camp before midnight, and ...”
“You’re welcome to bunk in the barn,” offered Luke. “Be glad to have you. And then you can head for town in the mornin’.”
“All right,” Larry agreed. “I reckon that’ll do us.”
They were sound asleep in the Sorley barn by the time Hattie returned to Bar A to face her angry sire. For five minutes the rancher growled reprimands and imparted dark warnings. She had, in his opinion, acted rashly. What had she to gain by enlisting the aid of two drifting Texans? He cared naught for their reputation and, should they show their faces on Bar A range, he would soon send them running.
“All right, Dad,” she nodded. “But one thing you’d better understand. I do have confidence in Larry and Stretch. Call it a hunch if you will, but I think they’ll succeed where Sheriff Loomis failed. And, if they do ...”
“If they do,” shrugged Alden, “I’ll pay ’em off. The whole two thousand—and no arguments. But you mind what I say, Hattie. Don’t expect too much from ’em.”
Early next morning—a full thirty minutes before sunrise—Larry shook Stretch awake and quietly announced:
“We’re movin’ out right away.”
“It’s still dark,” mumbled the taller Texan.
“We’ll hit town in daylight,” Larry assured him. “And I don’t want to be here when Luke’s woman starts fixin’ breakfast. Could you eat—with those skinny kids watchin’ you?”
“Nary a crumb,” sighed Stretch.
Larry left a farewell note stuck to the barn ladder. They saddled up, swung astride and nudged their mounts from the barn, to begin the two-hour ride to the settlement.
They dawdled their horses into Becksburg’s main stem just as the town was coming alive and took time to patrol a goodly section of it, familiarizing themselves with all points of interest—with the emphasis on saloons.
Uptown, the shingle of a horse-dealer caught their eyes and, like homing pigeons, they advanced on it. If they were to make a new friend in this town, who better than Brazos McMasters, proprietor of the Lone Star Corral? McMasters, it transpired, dealt in horses of all kinds, as well as running a livery stable. He was tall, lean, ugly and as Texan as the river for which he’d been nicknamed.
His greeting was laconic, but amiable. As they reined up beside the corral, he emerged from the cabin beside the barn, garbed in red undershirt, battered Stetson and patched blue jeans. His stubbled countenance wrinkled in a grin.
“They don’t breed ’em so tall,” he drawled, “any place else but Texas. Cool your saddles, boys.”
The drifters dismounted, shook McMasters’ hand and gave their names. Stretch produced a bottle and enquired: “Too early in the day for you, Brazos?”
To which Brazos retorted:
“What kind of a damn fool question is that?”
The three expatriates climbed to a top rail of the corral, squatted and passed the bottle from hand to hand. Wiping his mouth with the back of a hairy paw, Brazos asked: “What brings you hombres to Becksburg?”
“A killin’.” Larry put it simply. “You likely heard of what happened to a feller name of Weaver the other day. Well, his cousin Hattie looked us up in Chestnut Creek and asked us to buy in.”
“You aim to do that?” prodded Brazos.
“Aim to find out,” Larry assured him, “just who gunned Weaver—and why.”
“Might turn out to be a rough chore,” mused Brazos. “Way I hear it, that’s a real genuine mystery. Sheriff ain’t gettin’ noplace. O’ course, that don’t mean nothin’, seem’ as how Ed Loomis ain’t the smartest badge-toter this side of the Rockies.”
“You heard anything new about it?” asked Larry. “Nary a word.” Brazos raised a finger, pointed. “Look there.”
Larry and Stretch followed Brazos’ gesture. A hearse was rumbling out of a side street and moving south toward the edge of town.
“Weaver?” prodded Larry.
“On his last ride,” nodded Brazos. “Funeral’s gonna be private. Out to the family cemetery on Bar A range. Real sad, amigos. Del Weaver was a likeable jasper. Son of Clem Alden’s dead sister, you know?” He took another pull at the bottle and began pointing out other locals of note. “There goes Ed Loomis now—him in his Sundee-best. Guess he’ll be ridin’ out for the buryin’, pay his respects. And here comes Doc Drew. Looks like Doc’s stoppin’ by Piper’s eatery. Hap Piper serves good grub, if you’re interested.”
“Ol’ Larry and me,” grinned Stretch, “are always interested in grub. Any kind.”
“Any way I can help you hombres,” offered Brazos, “all you gotta do is ask. Only one thing I couldn’t do for you. Couldn’t rent you a hoss to ride in that doggone race. Every fast hoss I own got grabbed muy pronto—couple minutes after Lucius Gifford started spreadin’ the big news.”
“Brazos,” frowned Larry, “we aim to tote a stake in that race. Sodbuster name of Sorley kind of hired us.”
“Luke Sorley?” Brazos blinked incredulously. “You gotta be joshin’ me! He couldn’t hire nobody for nothin’, not to save his cotton-pickin’ soul he couldn’t. He’s been broke for as long as I can recall.”
“We owe him a favor,” Larry explained.
Brazos cast a critical eye over Larry’s sorrel and Stretch’s pinto.
“Well—on them cayuses—I reckon you could hit Carew Canyon with the first ten. Couple fine prads you own, but they oughta be tended good ’tween now and tomorrer. Tell you what I’ll do. Leave ’em with me. I’ll give ’em everything they need.”
“We’d be obliged,” said Larry.
“And,” Brazos continued, “you can borrer any other prads that’s left in the corral, if you figure to ride any place ’tween now and then.” He subjected them to an intent scrutiny. “You hombres stone-broke, huh?”
“Until we collect from Clem Alden,” drawled Larry, “for nailin’ the sidewinders that drygulched Weaver.”
“Need a place to sleep?” prodded Brazos.
“You makin’ us an offer?” asked Stretch.
“Welcome to bunk in my hay-loft,” said Brazos.
“We’ll sure appreciate that,” said Larry. He raised his eyes to the clear sky and was silent a few moments. “Brazos,” prodded Larry, “you happen to know the place where they shot Weaver?”
“Bend of the trail,” Brazos told him, “not far from Bar A range. You could find it easy. There’s mesquite west of it, a mess of rock east. High rock, you know? Kinda like a tower.”
“No wind,” Larry remarked.
To prove it, he wet an index finger and raised it. The horse-dealer nodded moodily.
“That’s how it’s been for better’n ten days. Nary a breath of wind, nary a breeze. Kansas sun gets so blame hot, and ...”
“No wind in all that time?” challenged Larry.
“I know what you’re gettin’ at, Larry,” frowned Brazos. “You’re wonderin’ if you’ll still find tracks out where Weaver got ambushed. Well, if there was tracks out there, you’d sure find ’em. Ain’t been no breeze to blow ’em out. But Ed Loomis claims the killers killed their tracks with a branch. It’s been done before.”
“It’s been done before,” Larry agreed, “but it doesn’t always work, Brazos. You ever try to wipe out every boot-mark you’ve left behind? Easier said than done.”
“So we ride out there and take a look, huh, runt?” asked Stretch.
“After we eat,” said Larry, “and after we parlay with the doc. Brazos, is Drew the same sawbones that checked the body?”
“Ashley Drew,” shrugged Brazos, “is the only sawbones we got. Yeah. He checked Weaver over.” He slid down from the rail. “Well, thanks for the redeye. Time you’re wantin’ to ride out, I’ll have your saddles switched to a couple spare mounts.”
As the drifters slid down, Larry enquired:
“Where do we register for the land-rush?”
“Land office,” said Brazos. “A half-block downtown.” A few moments later they trudged into the small restaurant, introduced themselves to the aged healer and, at his invitation, joined him at his table. Larry ordered their breakfast—double-portions of everything offering—before firing his query. The medico squinted over the top of his spectacles, listening intently.
“Direction of the death-bullet? Well, the deceased was shot four times, and two of the slugs could’ve caused fatal injury, since they penetrated the heart. Why doesn’t Ed Loomis ask such an intelligent question? Well, never mind.”
“Which direction?” Larry persisted.
Drew demonstrated, indicating various sections of his torso.
“Through here—and here. Down through there and out by the …”
“Straight through?” prodded Larry.
“No,” frowned Drew. “At an angle. Why?”
“What I want to know,” said Larry, “is whether those slugs were triggered from beside the trail or from flat on the ground, or …”
“High,” said Drew. “Somewhere high above him, as he approached the bend. That’s how it had to be. Every bullet, including the three that downed his horse, came at a slant—and downward.” He eyed Larry curiously. “Well? Does that help you any?”
“I reckon it does,” nodded Larry. “Much obliged, Doc.” Their breakfast arrived and, for some time thereafter, Ashley Drew lost interest in his own food. He watched, fascinated, and winced frequently. Never had he seen ham, eggs, hot biscuits and cornbread disposed of so rapidly. The Texans consumed every crumb, washed down their food with draughts of hot black coffee, dropped money on the table and reached for their hats. Only then did Drew hazard a comment.
“Eating is important, gentlemen, but so is mastication. One without the other is bad for the digestion.”
“Our digestion,” Larry assured him, “is just fine.”
“In that case,” sighed the doctor, “allow me to congratulate you—for having the constitution of a rhinoceros.”
“The which,” challenged Stretch, “of a what?”
“Don’t fret about it,” grinned Larry. “I think Doc’s payin’ us a compliment.”
It took them only a few minutes to complete the formalities of registering at the Land Office. Immediately afterward, straddling the horses loaned them by Brazos McMasters, they quit Becksburg and rode off to locate the scene of the ambush.
Under the hot sun, they searched for sign. Larry could now picture the incident in his mind’s eye. Some blood still showed on the trail, shed no doubt by the stricken horse. But the ground thereabouts also showed the marks of mesquite brushing. The killers had labored hard to erase their tracks.
Stretch drawled a reminder as he began building a smoke.
“High—the doc said.”
“That’s what he said,” Larry agreed, and he turned to scan the surrounding terrain. “As high as those rocks, I reckon.”
With Stretch tagging him, he trudged to the lava mounds rearing their ugly bulk to the right of the trail. They climbed to the summit of one mound and, after a brief examination, leapt across to another and climbed again. It was then, while clambering upward, that Larry spotted the deposit of soft earth in a rock-hollow, where the heel-print showed.
“Hold it,” he grunted. “Here’s somethin’ the law-boys missed.”
Stretch balanced precariously, peering over his partner’s shoulder. It was, undoubtedly, the impression of a boot-heel.
“This helps?” he demanded.
“Maybe,” nodded Larry. “Take a closer look at it. What d’you see?”
“There’s a mark,” Stretch observed, “inside of the heel-print. Crazy-shaped mark.”
“V-shaped,” said Larry, “and hard. Somethin’ he trod on. It dug in and got stuck. Like a bent nail, for instance.”
“You’re guessin’,” Stretch accused.
“Better to guess,” countered Larry, “than never use the brains you were born with. C’mon.”
They continued their climb to the summit of the mound. Here, the rock surface showed scratch-marks, and there was no doubt in Larry’s mind. They had found the vantage point from which the killers had triggered a hail of lead at the hapless Del Weaver.
Stretch got around to lighting his cigarette. Larry rose to one knee, stared down to where the butchered horseman had been found.
“I got a hunch about that heel-print,” he muttered. “It’s no coincidence we found it here. Who else’d want to climb up here—but a gun that was layin’ for Weaver.” He jerked a thumb. “Go on down, big feller. See if you can find where they stashed their horses.”
The taller Texan made an unhurried descent to level ground and began scouting around. Five minutes later his urgent summons started Larry moving again. He climbed down and strode south to the rock-cleft where his partner awaited. The floor of the cleft was sandy and, like so much of the area, had been swept clean—almost. A few hoofprints were still visible, and one boot print. Again that V-shaped mark in the D of the heel. Larry crouched for an intent appraisal of that mark, and expanded his theory.
“He’s a big hombre, built heavy. I’d say it takes a heap of weight to press a bent nail into a boot-heel. He trod on it. It wedged and stayed in. When he walked on, it just pressed in deeper.”
“Could that nail still be in his heel?” wondered Stretch.
“It’s possible,” Larry opined.
“Oh, fine!” Stretch appeared dubious. “So all we gotta do is brace every jasper we find, and tell ’em, ‘Pardon us while we turn you upside down, on accounta we wanta peek under your boots.’ Some fun that’ll be!”
“That’d take too long,” frowned Larry. “Better we should look for the track. Next time we find it, we might get lucky—and find the man that made it,”
“All right,” nodded Stretch, “but meantime ...?”
“Meantime,” said Larry, “I hanker to parlay with Weaver’s boss.”
“Meanin’ Uncle Clem?” Stretch doffed his Stetson to scratch his sandy thatch. “He ain’t gonna appreciate us bustin’ in on him, runt. Not right after the buryin’.”
“We’ll apologize,” shrugged Larry. “There’s things I crave to know, and I figure Alden’s the man to tell me.”
On their way across Bar A range, they passed locals returning to town in surreys and buggies and on horseback. Later, when they sighted the rambling, double-storied ranch house, they also noted the grassy rise to the east, dotted with markers, Bar A’s private cemetery. There was some activity about the bunkhouse and corrals. Alden riders, most of them wearing black armbands, were saddling up to ride out to the herd. Every man appeared tense, grim-faced, and Larry was moved to voice another hunch.
“They admired Weaver. And they’re hoppin’ mad—thinkin’ the killer got away clean.”
“You know how ramrods are,” shrugged Stretch. “It’s always one way or the other. Hired help admires him a heap—or hate his innards. It looks like Weaver was everybody’s amigo.”
By the time they reached the broad front yard the hands had ridden out. Only one man remained—an elderly, hard-faced man squatting on a top rail of the corral, gnawing on an unlit cigar.
They reined up, hooked legs over their saddlehorns and traded nods with the rail sitter.
“Lookin’ for the boss-man,” Larry explained.
“You’re looking at him,” frowned Alden. “And I’ve already guessed who you are.”
“The name’s Valentine,” offered Larry. “This here’s my sidekick ...”
“Emerson, I guess,” nodded Alden. “All right. You’re here, but you’re not staying. I just got through burying a good man, my own nephew, and I’m in no mood for swapping gab with a couple of trouble-shooting drifters.”
“I reckon I know how you feel,” said Larry, “and I’m sorry for you—but a deal is a deal. I made your daughter a promise.”
“Hattie’s like all females,” growled Alden. “A mite too impulsive. From you, she expects miracles. Me—I expect nothing.”
Larry kept his temper. Some other time, he might enjoy an exchange of insults with this salty old cattleman. But not now.
“I’m here to ask you a question or two,” he told Alden, “about Del Weaver. You could order us to vamoose, and that’d be that. On the other hand, you can’t hurt Weaver by tellin’ me what I want to know.”
“Valentine,” said Alden, “I’ve already answered questions—Ed Loomis’s questions. It makes no difference. Loomis is no detective, and neither are you. If my offer of a reward doesn’t get results, I reckon I’ll hire me a Pinkerton.” He softened, but only slightly, “Meantime, I suppose you can’t get hung for asking questions.”
“All right,” nodded Larry. “There had to be a reason for what happened to Weaver. Somebody hated him enough to kill him, or stood to profit by his death. The killer could even have been a stranger hereabouts.”
“That’s what Loomis thinks,” shrugged Alden. “They took every cent that was in Del’s pockets. Murder for robbery, Loomis calls it.”
“And he could be right,” Larry conceded.
“I don’t know of anybody,” Alden flatly declared, “that hated Del bad enough to kill him.”