It could only have been John Grosinger who’d put pressure on Pogue to back out on his arrangement with the Rakers, Lockett thought as he mounted the chestnut and pointed east out of the yard. By queering the deal he hoped to ring down the curtain on the final, desperate effort of Roxie and Clint to keep their ranch alive. He doubted Bern Pogue would have ever thought of going back on his given word to purchase the steers himself; he was getting a bargain at $10 a head, and from the overall look of his spread, he was too good a businessman to pass up such a bargain. But there had to be some reason why he would knuckle under to Grosinger—a heavy obligation, perhaps, or a long-standing favor finally called in. Dade grinned. Bern would have a fine time explaining why he had completed the purchase of the beef after being told not to—but that was his worry.
Lockett glanced toward the sun. Shortly past noon and a good half-day’s ride lay ahead of him before he reached the valley and the Raker place. He’d be lucky if he could make it by dark—and that possibility was dimmed by the fact he would soon have to stop, eat, and rest the chestnut. He rode on, holding the big horse to a steady if not fast gait. An hour or so later he halted in a small coulée where a cluster of cottonwoods grew in the sink of a dry spring. Loosening the gelding’s gear, Dade picketed him on a patch of grass, and then, building a fire, brewed himself a lard tin of coffee. Bolstering the strong, black liquid with more of the lunch Roxie had prepared, he ate and took it easy for a reasonable length of time.
He would have preferred to press on without any break in the journey, but to halt was necessary for the sake of the chestnut. It was far wiser to sacrifice a few minutes than push him beyond his limit and break him down; a man on foot in this vast, treacherous country was quickly in serious trouble. Finally satisfied the gelding was again ready to travel, Lockett soaked a rag with water from his canteen and squeezed it dry into the horse’s mouth to ease his thirst. That should relieve the animal for a while—at least until they reached a stream or live spring. Then, tightening the saddle girth, Dade mounted and rode on.
Late in the afternoon after a hot, sweaty crossing of a broad flat, he came to a fair-size creek flowing through the short hills from a mountain range to the west. He allowed the gelding to slake his thirst while he refilled the canteen, going about it hurriedly, reluctant to lose any more time than necessary. But as he hunched over the quietly moving water, he caught a blurred reflection of himself, recalled the effect of his appearance on Bern Pogue and others at the Box-B Ranch. Rising, he stripped off his clothing and stepped into the stream, gave himself a thorough scrubbing, employing, however, considerable gentleness when it came to his head. The track left along the side of it by the outlaw’s bullet had swelled, felt raw, and smarted sharply at contact with the cold water, as did the welt across his arm. Neither was serious in his estimation; he’d been hurt much worse many times before in his life, but he could expect Roxie to insist upon applying some of the antiseptic she’d used on Clint, as well as doing a proper bandaging of the wounds once he was back at the ranch.
He was still thinking of the girl when, a time later, he was again in the saddle and riding steadily eastward. She would be happy when he handed over the bag of gold coins to her, for in them she would see the solution to their problems—at least the immediate ones. Her eyes would sparkle in that bright, happy way of hers and a smile would part her lips to show twin rows of even, white teeth. He kept remembering how she had looked at him when he had returned—how the relief and hope and happiness he’d seen there had all blended to make him feel as if for once, and perhaps the first time in his life, he was doing something worthwhile for someone. It pleased him that she was happy, that he was part of making her so. And he realized that a change had been brought about in him although he wasn’t sure just what it was, but there was a lightness, a sort of freedom stemming possibly from a recognition that matters that once seemed important no longer were, while things that had meant nothing had assumed an opposite aspect.
He’d stay with the Rakers for a few more days, see them safely settled again, and then ride on to Tucson. When his affair with Pete Dillard was straightened out, he’d return. With Clint laid up and Renzo Clark too old to be of much use, Roxie would need a man around the place. He’d talk it all out with her when he got there, explain to her why he had to finish what he had started out to do. She’d understand, he was certain, and he hoped she’d welcome his plan to return.
Well out in the valley now, Lockett paused to breathe the tiring chestnut, let his glance sweep the country behind him. Several times he had taken the precaution of checking closely his back trail; the raiders, frustrated in their attempt to steal the herd, could now be hoping to ambush him, take the gold, assuming they were aware that a cash deal with Pogue had been made. He fell to wondering about the would-be rustlers; if it had been Grosinger who warned Bern Pogue not to buy the Raker cattle, was it logical to think it was his men who had attempted to rustle them? It was possible, he supposed. The rancher could have simply been playing it safe, trying to make doubly sure no deal would be made by having the stock hijacked before it could be delivered. Too, the masked riders could have been acting on their own, endeavoring to pick up a few extra dollars on the side. Regardless, it was John Grosinger he held responsible for the whole affair—for both the attempted rustling and Pogue’s try at backing out on the purchase—and one day he’d call the rancher to account for it.
His continuing glances about revealed no raiders. A small bunch of cattle, only dark colored blots in the far distance, grazed near a grove of trees to the south. Overhead in the clean sky an eagle dipped and soared on broad wings as he rode the air currents, while a solitary quail called forlornly from a slope covered with false sage. Other than those ordinary items he was alone in a warm and silent world. Dade looked ahead, feeling a strange sort of anxiety come to life within him. He could recognize no familiar landmarks that would indicate he was drawing near that part of the country where the Raker Ranch lay. He was still too far south and maybe a bit west, he reckoned, but then he could not be positive. He had passed this way only once and that was with the cattle he was driving to Pogue’s. At the time he’d taken only casual note of his surroundings, being far too busy keeping the steers bunched and moving. But he should be drawing near. He had been traveling steadily, with only one stop of any length since leaving the Box-B, and the sun was now dropping lower in the west. Again he felt a strong urgency to hurry, and, reaching down, he patted the big gelding on the neck and spurred him lightly. The horse responded with a longer stride.
Once more Lockett swept the country with his eyes in a search for riders, the possible source of the uneasiness that now filled him. And again he saw no one. The miles slipped by with the chestnut slowing as time and weariness took their toll of his strength, but the horse did not give up, gamely responding to Dade’s every demand. Finally, with the sun not far above the mass of clouds piled upon the western horizon, Lockett rode off the crest of the last hill and looked down into the neck of the valley where the Raker place lay. Alarm rose instantly within him. Where once had been the ranch house and its scatter of sheds, there was now only blackened remains. The night riders had struck again, this time burning everything to the ground. Unmindful of the fagged chestnut’s condition, Lockett dug his spurs into the horse’s flanks and rushed down the slope.