A handy rider brought word to Donna of what had happened. In reply she covered the distance between the ranch and town faster than she had ever traveled it before.
When she arrived in Cedarville, Buck met her at the door of Carleton’s office, grave and reserved and still of face.
“Jack’ll make out all right,” he answered to her first incoherent question. “The doctor has just finished with him. But he can’t be disturbed at present. He’s sleepin’.”
Donna insisted on seeing her uncle with her own eyes, then obediently left the room where the wounded man lay.
Now she faced Buck across the office.
“How did it happen and who did it?” she demanded.
Buck explained briefly. “Either Layton or Vanalia got Jack,” he ended.
“And … and you killed … Layton and Vanalia?” she whispered thickly, unconsciously recoiling a step, while her eyes went to Buck’s lean hands that were deftly rolling a cigarette. It was as though she expected to see them bathed in crimson.
Buck did not miss the significance of her actions. But his expression did not change.
“Yeah,” he answered. “I killed ’em. I tried to rock off Whipple, too … but it was a snap shot and I just crippled his shoulder. They tag me as a … a killer. I reckon I am. But … I reckon even a killer has his uses. Your uncle wouldn’t be alive right now … if I hadn’t been with him.”
Donna would have answered, but an interruption came.
Curt Daggett walked in the door, his crafty lips twined about a black stogy. He was puffing at it nervously.
“What’s all this foolishness I hear about Canole and Slonicker and Whipple being locked up?” he demanded.
“They are,” answered Buck crisply.
“Under what authority?”
“This.” Buck tapped one gun.
“And where … may I ask … do you fit into the picture?” rasped Daggett, in bare sarcasm.
“Just where I stand, Daggett. I’m runnin’ Jack Carleton’s affairs until he’s well enough to run ’em himself. Furthermore … you keep that long nose of yours out of ’em. I’ve heard all about you. As far as I can see there ain’t a bit of lily polish anywhere on you. My straight opinion is … you ought to be in the lockup yourself. And unless you watch your step, I’ll put you there.”
Daggett’s laugh was a trifle forced. “That’s pretty high-handed talk, young fellow.”
“I’ll make it stick. If you think I’m wrong … the next move is up to you. Make your bluff stand … or shut up. I’m not much of a hand at law. To me it’s good only as long as it works in the right direction. When it doesn’t … I pass it by. You can’t bluff me.”
“But you can’t keep those men in jail. They’ve—”
“I’m keepin’ them there, just the same,” broke in Buck curtly. “Now save your breath. You can’t get ’em out and you can’t go in and talk to ’em. In fact … you can’t do a thing but get out of here and mind your own business. I’m dead for sleep. Be on your way.”
Daggett was fairly shivering with rage, but he left the office.
Buck turned to Donna. “What I told him about needin’ sleep was true,” he said gruffly—but not without gentleness. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m curlin’ up on that bunk in the corner and catchin’ some shut-eye. You best go over to the hotel and get yourself a room for the night. I’ll make sure the doctor keeps you posted about any changes in Jack.”
For a moment the haggard weariness of his face almost softened Donna. She was on the verge of kinder words. But she caught herself, nodded, and left.
* * * * *
It was dark when Buck awoke. He sat up abruptly, as though some foreign sound had broken his slumber. For a long moment he listened. The only echo that came to his ears was the rapidly diminishing cadence of swiftly moving hoofs on the street outside. Some cowpunchers probably, on their way back home.
He started to lie down again, but that queer sense of something wrong pulled him upright once more.
He rolled and lit a cigarette, inhaled a moment, then shrugged and got to his feet. He tiptoed to the rear quarters of the office and looked in. The doctor and Donna were there, bending over Jack Carleton.
Donna looked up, and shook her head at the gleam of alarm in Buck’s eyes.
“We’re just checking up,” she whispered. “He’s doing splendidly.”
Buck nodded and closed the door. He went to the front portal and threw it open, looking out upon the dark world. Still, that feeling of something being wrong plagued him. He thought suddenly of his prisoners.
Striding quickly over to the jail, he unlocked the door and opened it.
“Everything all right in here?” he barked.
There was no answer. Buck drew a gun with one hand and lit a match with the other. As the meager light flared he stared around. A low curse broke from his lips. There was but one man in that jail where there should have been three.
This one was Curly Whipple, stretched flat on his back on one of the bunks. And a heavy-hafted Bowie knife was buried to the hilt in his breast.
A single glance showed that Whipple was dead. Buck turned away, scratching another match.
The means of Canole and Slonicker’s escape was plain. The bars of the window had been cut, evidently with a hacksaw.
Buck left the jail, locking the door behind him. His eyes were narrowed, his face grim. The job wasn’t finished yet. A lot of it had to be done all over again. But he knew there was nothing to do but wait until morning, for pursuit now, in the darkness, would be useless. He went back to the office to get some more sleep for the work to be done in the days ahead.
* * * * *
The pursuit did not start, however, for three days. Jack Carleton did not rally as fast as expected and Buck would not leave until he knew the sheriff was out of danger and until he had had a talk with him.
It was three days later that the doctor said that finally Buck might discuss matters with Carleton.
Carleton’s face was thin and his eyes sunken. But he was better and his head appeared to be clear. The doctor left the two of them alone.
“I’ll do most of the talkin’, Jack,” Buck advised him. “You listen, and if my plan seems sound, nod your head. In the first place, Canole and Slonicker broke jail. They had outside help. It looks like Daggett’s work to me. I aim to prove that later.
“But before they took off from the jail, they left a knife stuck in Whipple. As I see it … they knew he couldn’t run with them in the condition he was, and they was afraid of what he might tell us. So they killed him before slopin’. That was murder. I’m goin’ after ’em. Where they went … I don’t know. But I’ll get ’em, if it takes ten years. I’m pinnin’ a deputy’s badge on myself. Do you agree?”
Carleton nodded. “Yeah,” he whispered weakly. “I’m authorizin’ you to get ’em, Buck. Don’t take no chances with polecats like them. If they don’t cave quick, lad … go a-shootin’. And good luck.”
Buck leaned down and pressed the sheriff’s hand. “I’ll be seein’ you, Jack. Just concentrate on gettin’ well. Don’t worry. Adios.”
* * * * *
Buck went back to the office and made his preparations. He got a scabbarded Winchester from the office storeroom, cleaned and oiled it, and stuffed several boxes of ammunition into a pair of saddlebags.
From one drawer of the battered desk he unearthed a deputy’s badge and pinned it on the breast pocket of his shirt. Then he gathered up the equipment and went out.
Donna was just coming from the hotel. Buck had already told her of Slonicker and Canole’s escape—as well as the fate of Curly Whipple. She was pale and distressed looking.
“You’re going after … those two?” she asked.
Buck nodded. “Yeah. Your uncle authorizes me to.”
“There will be more bloodshed?”
“If they don’t give in quiet … there will be.”
His eyes were cool and steady and there was a relentless set to his jaw.
“There’s nothin’ else to be done, you see. When men rob and kill they don’t deserve any consideration. They destroy others … well, they oughta be caught at any cost and made to pay the penalty for their crimes.”
Donna was silent, so he added: “They don’t rate bein’ called men … killers like Slonicker and Canole. They’ve outlawed themselves. It ain’t revenge I’m workin’ for, it’s justice. And if they come in peaceable with me, I won’t have to do any shootin’ … any killin’.”
When Donna finally spoke, her voice was strained. “How … how long will this sort of thing keep up … this killing?” She got the last word out with a little shudder.
“As long as men are what they are, I reckon.”
“I mean … with you?”
Buck shrugged. “That’s a question I don’t have an answer for. But don’t think I enjoy it. Mostly … well, it just has to be done, and it seems like I been kinda elected to do it … lately. I’ll give ’em every chance to come back in quietly.”
He would have passed on, but she laid a timid hand on his arm. “Uncle Jack thinks a lot of you. Don’t take any chances … please.”
Buck looked at her long and inscrutably. He laughed a little harshly. “Thanks … I won’t. Hasta la vista!”
He stalked off toward the livery stable, a stern, dark figure, bearing the balance of wayward men’s lives in his cold, deadly courage—in the wizardry of his muscular, brown hands.
Donna watched him and tears veiled her eyes.
“Buck,” she murmured softly. “Buck … be careful. For Uncle Jack … and for me, too.”
* * * * *
At the stable Buck looked over the sheriff’s string of horses and picked out a chunky, square-built roan—a mean-looking brute with a hammer head and rolling eyes. But there was endurance and bottom in every line of the horse.
Next Buck hung his scabbarded rifle under the left stirrup leather and tied the saddlebags behind the cantle. Then he mounted and swung out into the street.
Two dusty, travel-worn cowpunchers came swinging into view. They were Jiggs Maloney and Shorty Razee.
At sight of Buck they reined in thankfully.
“Hopin’ to find you, Buck,” panted Shorty. “Your hunch was right. There’s plenty of cattle in the Kanab Basin country that used to be the Red Mesa’s Bar C stuff. Most of ’em have got our iron run over into the S C Connected. But the dirty buzzards were mighty certain of themselves.
“A lot of the stuff was just vented … they was that sure of not bein’ checked up on. No wonder Daggett didn’t want Jack to get very far from his office. He knew that if Jack ever rode down into the Kanab Basin, he’d find out plenty. We killed one critter and skinned off the brand, just as proof. Jiggs, where’s that hunk of hide?”
Jiggs produced it, and Buck studied it with narrowed eyes. He nodded.
“Good work, boys. This just about cinches matters. There’s been things happenin’ since you were gone. Jack was wounded, but he’s doin’ better now and he just needs rest. You can get the whole story from Miss Donna. Keep that piece of hide safe. I got a job ahead. I don’t know when it’ll be finished. Tomorrow, after you two talk to Miss Donna, you get out to the ranch. Tell Red he’s foreman till I get back. Tell him to keep things movin’. I’ll be seein’ you.”
Jiggs was struck with an afterthought. “We see’d Slonicker and Canole ridin’ into the basin, Buck. Shorty and me was out there breathin’ our horses in a little gully just off the trail. Those two didn’t see us, but we recognized them. The spalpeens seemed in one devil of a hurry.”
Buck’s eyes gleamed. “That’s the best news of all, Jiggs. Much obliged. Adios!”