Starbuck moved hurriedly to the stairs, paused, a faint jingling reminding him that he still wore his spurs. Reaching down, he flipped the buckle tongues, released the straps and laid the star rowels to one side.
Continuing down the dark steps, he opened the door cautiously, and, bent low, crossed the porch, stepped in behind a thick leafed lilac at its corner.
He could see nothing of the rider. He spent a long minute probing the shadows edging the hard pack and then, still hunched, darted from the protection of the shrub to the tamarisk windbreak that formed a shield for the yard.
If the rider was Ron Hagerman he would be either in the barn or at the corral where the family horses were usually kept. Walking in short, quiet steps, keeping always in the darkness, Shawn circled the bunkhouses and other smaller structures until he came finally to the bulking shape of the barn.
Pulling up against the wall, he listened. He could hear only the faraway hooting of an owl somewhere back in the trees. If Ron was in the structure there would be sounds of movements, of gear being laid aside, of the horse shifting about. There was none of that.
Drawing his pistol, Starbuck edged toward the door at the opposite end of the wall near which he stood. An overhead moon was spreading a weak radiance upon the land, and, hugging the shadow extending from the building, he crossed to the double-width entrance.
Again he stopped, drew a deep breath and turned quickly into the wide runway. There was no one there, as he suspected, but he knew he had to be sure. Walking hurriedly down the row of stalls he came to the one where he had earlier noticed Ron’s favorite horse. It was empty.
Immediately he wheeled, retraced his steps, a hard, pressing urgency pushing at him insistently ... One more place to look. If Ron was not there. . .
Easing quietly through the barn’s entrance, he continued on in the narrow band of shadow until he gained the building’s extreme corner. The corrals were only a few strides away. Again dropping into a crouch he hurried over the open stretch of ground, moved in alongside the horizontal poles of the pens. Not halting, he made his way to the one used by the family. Only Rhoda’s mare was inside.
Starbuck drew himself up slowly. The rider had not been Ron Hagerman. There could be only one answer to it; the killer had come. He was having his look at the ranch, familiarizing himself with the arrangement of the yard, the location of the house, the crew’s quarters and lesser buildings.
Best he return to the house—to where Price lay sleeping. There would be only a small possibility of danger for the rancher he was sure, but the killer, unaware of the precautions already taken, could decide to make his try.
Shawn took a step forward into the hushed night, checked himself abruptly as the distinct noise of dry brush raking against some passing object came to him. Instantly he moved to a small shed standing apart from the corrals, faded into its dark shadow.
Most of the yard and the entire front of the house was visible to him from that position. Gun ready, he whipped his eyes back and forth, waited. Anyone attempting to enter the structure, or moving about it, would fall within his vision.
The moments dragged by filled with only the heavy hush of the early morning hour. Now and then a weary horse stamped inside the barn or the lower corrals. The owl hooted again, a lonely, distant note floating through the silvered night. The lamp in the bunkhouse winked out and, back in the sand hills that footed the mountain, a coyote barked. But he heard no more of the intruder.
A blur of motion at the south end of the house brought him up sharply. It was the man on the horse. Starbuck spun, doubled back to the corrals, and, racing to their opposite line, cut left into the dense chamisa fringing that side of the yard.
Bent low, he walked fast and softly toward that point. The killer had made a complete circuit of the premises, knew by that moment the location of the crew’s quarters, the barn and stable, the corrals, the sheds and their relation to the main house. With such firmly in mind he had a clear picture of what Price Hagerman’s pattern of movement would be.
He could visualize the rancher coming out of the house, walking across the open yard to the barn or the corrals to where his horse would be waiting. He could about guess the course he would take as he rode out onto the range—and knowing that, the killer could chose his spot and wait.
Taut, Shawn reached the last of the brush and halted. The white wall of the ranch house was to his left, no more than fifty feet away. Somewhere close by would be the man on his horse. The certainty of it was a strong core in his mind.
Rigid, hand gripping his six gun tightly, Starbuck listened while his straining eyes probed the pools of blackness, the lighter shadows, the moonlit aisles between the trees. The feeling within him heightened. The hair along the back of his neck prickled ... He was being watched. The killer knew he was there. A coldness settled over him. At that exact moment a gun was probably being leveled at him.
Instinctively he ducked low, pivoted. He whirled to one side, changing positions rapidly. A thump of quick movement to his left sent him spinning off again as realization swept him; he had been standing only a stride from the killer!
He lunged to one side as a shadow surged at him. Something solid struck his head. He was moving away however, and it was only a glancing blow. He went to hands and knees, shook his head to clear it. He hung there briefly, and then, as full awareness rushed back to him, he lunged to his feet.
The shadow was gone, the retreating sound of his horse a hurried tattoo at the end of the house. Cursing, Starbuck plunged forward through the brush, broke into the open and came to a halt behind a clump of wild rose. He swore again. The sound had faded.
He had been within reach of the killer, and the man had slipped through his hands. He shrugged, guessed he should be grateful for one thing; he had stood close to death there in the darkness. Only the intruder’s reluctance to use his gun and arouse others on the ranch, and thus betray his presence, had spared him.
His attention swung into sharp focus once again as hoof beats, more distinct this time, reached him. The thud was now at the opposite end of the house. Moving quickly from the pool of shade in which he stood, Shawn ran the full length of the structure until he was once more alongside the tough, stringy windbreak.
The horseman broke into view at the end of the tamarisk, a slumped figure on his saddle outlined against the darkness. Shawn waited until he was abreast and stepped suddenly into the open.