Crawford, a dark, grim man with a square-cornered jaw, rode center and slightly in front of the others. To his left was Aaron, hat pushed to the back of his head revealing a shock of brick-red hair. The one on the gray horse was Gates, a sallow-faced man who looked as though he would be more at home at a faro table than on a saddle. At the near end of the line, and apparently the youngest of the crowd, was Arlie Davis. He was easing himself by leaning forward in the stirrups while his eyes, like the rest, probed along the street in a ceaseless quest.
“They looking for you?” Hensley asked quietly.
Jordan waited, watched until the outlaws had passed the house and were moving slowly on toward the end of the street. He said then: “Reckon so but they’re not friends.”
“They the reason for that bullet hole in your arm?”
Ben nodded. He was considering the advisability of taking the physician into his confidence, or perhaps going to the town marshal and asking his protection. Immediately he knew it would be a bad move, and far too risky. The local lawman could prove to be of little help, unable to stand up against such men as Bart Crawford and the others. And he was reluctant to involve the physician or anyone else in his trouble. Besides, he had made his promise to Walt Woodward that he would personally see to the delivery of the money. To bring in others would only serve to complicate the problem. Jordan rose, pulled on his shirt and brush jacket. He looped the saddlebags over his shoulder. There was the faint clink of coins as the pouches slapped against his body. Hensley’s expression did not alter.
“How much do I owe you, Doc?”
The physician shrugged. “Couple of dollars will do it. Sure you can ride?”
Jordan said, “I’m sure,” and handed over the specified amount. “I put my horse in your barn and fed him when I first rode in. I owe you for that, too.”
“Forget it,” Hensley said. “Lots of people around here pay me off with hay and grain. Always have plenty.” He glanced toward the street. “Here they come again. Which way are you headed?”
Jordan studied the medical man thoughtfully as if considering the wisdom of a reply. Finally he said: “North, or I guess you’d say northeast.”
Hensley said: “Give them five minutes and they’ll be at the other end of town. Then pull out and they won’t spot you.”
“Obliged to you,” Ben said, and started for the door. He paused. “Anybody asks, I’d appreciate your saying you haven’t seen me.”
The medical man shook his head. “If it’s the marshal, I’ll have to tell him the truth. Matter of principle. Anybody else wants to know, it’s none of their damned business.”
“Good enough,” Jordan said, and moved on.
He crossed to the barn, backed the gelding out of his stall, and mounted. Pulling up to the door, he halted. After several moments he rode from the yard, again keeping close to the buildings until he reached the end of the line, and there angled off toward the north. He veered to the right, putting himself from view of anyone on the street. If Crawford and his men made another return sweep and glanced on ahead, they would undoubtedly see him, at least they would see a horseman riding toward the north. If he could put enough distance between himself and the settlement, there would be a question in their minds as to whether he was the man they sought, or was just another rider crossing the flats. He could only hope that he would be far enough away to create that question when the moment came.
But luck was not with him this time. Shortly after noon, as he was nearing the far side of the flats, he saw the outlaws on the road behind him. They had just emerged from the settlement, appearing only as small, dark shapes in the distance. Yet there was no doubt as to their identity. Either they had discovered he had been in the town and ridden on, or else they were simply assuming that would be the fact since it was the only course left open to him. Most likely, however, some citizen had noted his passage and, when asked, volunteered the information. That they would have learned nothing from Doc Hensley Ben was dead certain.
He began to look ahead, hoping for some means once more to throw them off his trail. It was yet hours until darkness, and night promised little salvation anyway. It had not turned the outlaws aside before. There was little reason to expect it would now.
At the end of the plain a finger of trees extending down from the hills formed a dark, green barrier and Ben hurried the sorrel to gain this shelter as quickly as possible. Once inside he would be lost to view insofar as Crawford was concerned, and if he so desired he could then alter his directions and thereby confuse the outlaws.
A vast cloud of dust rising above the hills to his left drew Jordan’s attention a quarter hour later and set him to thinking. From all indications it was a cattle drive. It was late in the summer for it, but a man didn’t always follow the pattern, and likely there was some particular reason for it. Regardless, it presented a possibility; why not join the herd, perhaps take on a job of riding—long enough to sidetrack Crawford and his men?
He swung off the road at once, slanted toward the yellowish pall. Two hours later he caught up with the drive, one of fair size moving slowly toward the east. He sought out the trail boss, a man named Slaughter; he was told by a dust-plastered cowhand. Slaughter was a huge man. He rode heavily in the saddle. His face was sweaty and also well caked with dust although he was in front of the cattle when Jordan finally found him. He favored Ben with a hard, irritable glance.
“Now, what in the hell’s on your mind?” he demanded.
Jordan grinned. A contrary herd had a way of getting under a man’s hide. “Looking for a job. How you fixed for trail hands?”
Slaughter swore. “What I got ain’t worth the powder it’d take to blow them off a bunk! Lump the whole bunch together and a man wouldn’t have one good cowpuncher. That’s how I’m fixed! You handle cows before?”
“Longhorns. Since I was big enough to climb onto a saddle.”
“You’re hired,” Slaughter said bluntly. “Fall back to swing, on the north side. Tuck’s having trouble. Can’t seem to keep the critters caught up with the rest. See if you can straighten it out.”
Jordan nodded and wheeled away, inwardly satisfied. This should throw Crawford off his heels. The outlaws would never think to swing wide of the road and check a trail herd; they would believe him still ahead of them somewhere in the darkness. He would help Slaughter for a day and then ride on. He should have no more trouble now.
He found Tuck, a squat, moon-faced young rider at the edge of the herd. Two more cowhands were moving about and all were having their problems with the steers that were continually bolting from the sea of heaving bodies and making a run for the brushy slopes of the hills a short distance away.
“You a new hand?” Tuck asked, mopping at his ruddy features.
Jordan said: “Yeah. Slaughter sent me over to give you some help.”
“Need it,” the cowpuncher said. “Orneriest bunch of bones and hide I ever seen!”
“Think I see what’s causing it,” Ben said, his eyes on an old blue-nosed gray longhorn that seemed bent on shaping up a herd all his own. “Bear down on ’em, push ’em hard,” he said, and spurred the gelding toward the old mossy horn.
He wheeled in close to the gray, and began to haze him from the herd. The activity aroused the pain in his injured arm but he gave it no attention, concentrating on driving the big steer away from the herd and off toward the hills. The remainder of the cattle swept on. Tuck wheeled back to Jordan’s side.
“What’s the deal?” he asked, watching the gray amble off into the brush.
“He’s the one holding you back,” Ben said. “We get rid of him, we’ll have no more trouble.”
Tuck frowned, scratched at his neck. “Slaughter ain’t goin’ to like losin’ even one lousy steer.”
“He won’t lose him,” Jordan said. “Watch.”
Just within the fringe of brush, the longhorn halted, wheeled about. Head swung low, he stared at the passing herd, unhindered now by his presence. He shook himself, bellowed his summons, but the cattle moved on unheeding. The old gray watched for several minutes, occasionally bawling his displeasure, and then finally he gave it up and began to follow.
Tuck grinned at Jordan. “You some kin to these danged tick farms?”
“About as close as I can be without being one of them,” Ben replied. “He’ll catch up when we haul in for the night. If he tries the same stunt tomorrow, we’ll run him off again.”
The cowpuncher spat dust. “Might be better to put a bullet in his head and tell Slaughter the coyotes got him.” He reached for his canteen, unscrewed the cap, and offered it to Jordan. “You signin’ on for the whole drive?”
Ben took a swallow of water. “No, heading on north. Going to work for Ashburn on the Lazy A.”
“Too bad,” Tuck said. “We can use a man with your kind of savvy.”
It was full dark when they bedded the herd for the night. They were still west of the road Jordan had been following and his guess was that the outlaws had long since passed that point and were miles beyond. It would be smart to stick with Slaughter and his trail herd for another full day, Ben decided. By then Crawford and his bunch would be well out of the way.
Slaughter rode by to pass the word that half the crew was to stay on watch while the remainder went in for the evening meal at the camp. Jordan waved Tuck toward the chuck wagon electing to be one of those who waited, and it was near 9:00 p.m. when the round-faced rider returned to relieve him.
He swung off through the night toward the blazing campfire where the cook had set up his kitchen. He hoped he would be one of those chosen to take the late turn at night hawking as he was beginning to feel the need of rest and sleep. If he could have only four or five hours on a bedroll, he would be good as new again. He had made up his mind to ask Slaughter for just such an arrangement, but as he drew near the camp his eyes caught sight of riders halted at the edge of the broad circle of light thrown by the leaping flames. He swung in behind the chuck wagon quickly, his face going taut, his muscles beginning to tighten as a wild suspicion ripped through him. When he was a few yards from the canvas-topped vehicle, he stopped the sorrel, and dismounted. At a crouch, he eased in silently, careful not to stumble and not to draw the attention of any of the men in the camp. He reached the wagon, kneeled down, and glanced through the spokes of a wheel. A wave of exasperation, almost desperation, moved through him. The riders, still on their horses, were only too familiar—Crawford and his three followers.