Captain Anderson barked, “March.”
“Halt,” said Tyler. “Let loose of that feller.”
Anderson grew red with anger. “This isn’t your quarrel, Tyler, and I’m tired of your pranks. Get out of the way.”
“Nix,” said Tyler, grinning through his black beard. “This is the first guy I’ve seen with guts in three months. You ain’t takin’ him anyplace whatever. Son,” said Tyler to Lance, “you’ll find a cayuse outside all saddled. You go out there and get going and don’t let no jackrabbits pass you goin’ north. I’ll see you up near Coyote River this time tomorrow.”
Lance shook himself free. He was smiling. “Thanks, pardner.”
Anderson tried to hold Lance, but Tyler solemnly cocked his Colts one after the other. Lance went outside.
“I’ll get you for this, Tyler,” yelped Anderson.
“The hell you will,” replied Tyler. “You’ll be plenty nice to me or Washington might hear something about the dough you owe around here. Get going there, Gordon. That bronc with the rimfire saddle.”
Lance mounted, sunk his spurs, applied the quirt and went out of Santos to the roar of kettle-drumming hoofs.
CHAPTER TWO
The Baron
ALL through the next morning, Lance Gordon lay under a clump of brush beside the dry streambed known as Coyote River. A canteen and a sack of food had been tied to Tyler’s saddle and he had breakfasted well upon jerked beef and pemmican and two swallows of water. And then with a good night’s rest, he felt like he had lost twenty years of age.
As do all men who live with the sky as a roof and the earth as a bed, he recovered quickly. He even looked forward to his meeting with Tyler. It was not at all strange to him that Tyler had let him go. Men did those things for no more reason than a whim.
He saw two riders coming lazily up the rocky trail. They smoked as they rode and their hats were low against the beat of the hot dry sun.
For a nervous ten minutes he thought they were on his trail, but they passed by his hiding place without any of the cautious movements which would mark a searching party.
“The Baron’ll be sore as hell,” said one.
“Yeah, Shorty, we better hit it up or we’ll be late. He ain’t shot anybody for a week and he shore feels ornery.”
They went out of earshot after that, leaving Lance somewhat mystified. He had not been aware of a cattle outfit this far up into the hills and the last time he had come through this country there had been no royalty about that he had seen.
But as the day wore on he lost interest in the Baron and began to be anxious about Tyler. Had the man gotten away after that bold stand?
In the evening twilight he saw a cloud of dust rolling up out of the south, a cloud which marked the coming of more than one man. Again he was apprehensive. He looked dubiously at his Colt, the gun which had failed him. He did not trust it even with a fresh load.
And then he was treated to a very odd sight. Tyler was coming upon a big, long-legged bay, and Tyler was coming fast. Behind him, faint in his dust, the dying sun picked up dots of light—brass buttons.
Tyler raced his mount across the dry streambed of the Coyote River and deliberately stopped. The cavalry came up to the other bank and pulled in. Anderson sat his horse imperiously, one gauntleted hand upon his saber hilt.
“Adios,” called Tyler. “Hope you gents enjoyed your ride.”
“We’ll get you,” bawled Anderson. “Stick your face back into Santos and see what happens.”
Lance expected to see the troopers dash across the streambed with flaming carbines, but he was disappointed. It seemed as if they had run into a stone wall and could go no further.
Tyler deliberately turned his back upon them and rode slowly up the trail. The cavalry wheeled and went back the way they had come at a slow walk.
“Hist,” said Lance.
Tyler looked up and reined in. He cocked a boot around the low horn of his macheer saddle and deliberately built himself a cigarette. Lance came out of the brush.
“How come they didn’t follow you across?” said Lance.
“This is the Baron’s territory, pardner.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Last time they crossed they went back with six empty saddles and they ain’t tryin’ it again.”
“Then are you the Baron?”
Tyler’s big laugh boomed through the dusk. He applied a lucifer to his smoke. “No, hell, no. But I guess I’m the one man this side of the border who ain’t scared of the Baron.”
“Then you’re a friend of his.”
“Nope, wrong again. Son, don’t you go tryin’ any of these guessin’ games. The Baron would give about five thousand dollars to tack my scalp to his coup stick. But my scalp is still stayin’ where she is.”
“Then we’re on dangerous ground.”
“Son, your intelligence amazes me. But here’s what I got in mind . . .” He stopped and climbed down. “Let it wait until we poke somethin’ into our bellies. You don’t think I risked the wrath of the great Captain Anderson just to get a killer out of a scrape, do you?” He glared at Lance, trying to make Lance believe it. “Hell, no, I’m a practical man.”
“I guess so,” said Lance, grinning.
They dined upon jerky warmed over a smoldering fire and had a couple cups of hot coffee. Then they moved some yards up the streambed and spread their sougans.
Tyler folded his legs under him and built another smoke. “Let’s hear your story, Gordon. Then I’ll tell you mine. Seems as if we ought to know something about each other if we intend to play our hands right.”
Lance shrugged. “It isn’t so much of a story at that. I got kind of sore at this MacLeod. He drilled my dad and the shock killed my mother. I drifted out of the country for a few years and then when I heard that this MacLeod was still kicking, I decided some upright citizen ought to do something about it. I went back, walked into him on the street in Los Gatos and give him an even break.
“But I guess Los Gatos kind of reformed since my last visit and the citizens didn’t take so well to the killin’, brandin’ it a murder. I even paid to have MacLeod planted, but that didn’t soothe them any.
“And then it turned out that MacLeod was a United States Deputy Marshal, a fact which I carelessly overlooked, and it don’t seem to matter none what kind of a skunk a man is, if he wears that badge he ceases to have a price on his pelt.
“So the jail wasn’t so strong and I drifted fast, but in going, some pretty good shots got their mark on me and the horse, and the horse didn’t last long. I was about done in when I got to Santos. But thanks to . . .”
“Forget it,” said Tyler, impatiently. “Didn’t I say I didn’t do nothin’ out of kindness? Me, I ain’t got a drop of goodwill in me, don’t never think that. Me? I got a use for you, son.” He paused for a long while.
Lance stood up. “While you’re thinking up a practical reason, I’ll just take a walk up toward the trail and see that nobody is inspecting our fire.”
He came back after a bit and sat down again across from the dot of red which pulsated in the blue darkness.
Tyler took a long drag and said, “I dunno whether to let you in on this game or not. I have been havin’ such a fine time myself that I hate to share the fun. But it happens that the Baron knows me pretty well and . . .
“This guy they call the Baron is a big chief around here. He drifted in with a stack of bills and a frock coat and a diamond horseshoe pin. Pretty soon he disappears and we don’t see him none for quite a spell.
“And then we notices that a lot of gunslingers are drifting through Santos on their way north, and also several gents hereabouts started to complain that their cows were getting plumb lazy and didn’t seem to be dropping so many calves as usual. And every once
in a while we’d find a Bar T cow bein’ tagged by a Three B calf, which is very strange.
“Now this strip of hills up here ain’t so big. It don’t contain more’n twenty thousand acres, but it’s so fixed that it’s hard to get to, especially if somebody don’t want you to get there. Before now I was running a couple thousand head through here, but one day I didn’t have so much as a slick-ear left. Then I find out that the Baron, bein’ a softhearted gent, has decided to help me out, thinkin’ that I need a rest. And so he takes these cows off my hands and sets his own boys to herdin’ them for me.
“That’s very thoughtful of the Baron and so I starts in to wipe him up, but instead he plants about five fellers for me. And then Anderson gets word from Washington that this place may be made a state shortly and therefore it’s got to be clean. So Anderson rides in on the Baron and, as I said before, comes back with six empty saddles.
“Not that Anderson’s to blame. He ain’t got but two troops and the government gets plumb absent-minded in sendin’ him supplies such as guns and bullets and remounts. There ain’t any Injuns to worry about no more and the government thinks this is what it’s named—city of the saints. And it might be, if we passed around a few less horns and a few more halos.
“So Anderson don’t like this part of the country, and besides, he took a fancy to faro and monte and he keeps busy trying to get out of debt the way he got in. The man ain’t to blame, though.
“So when you came along, I was pretty bored, what with the Baron takin’ care of my cows for me, and I decided maybe you’n me might team up and do something about it. We ain’t got anything to lose, and if we got the Baron’s stock and all, when they make this territory a state, then we’d be all set up. They might send us to Congress or something. I always did have a hankering to wear a hard-boiled shirt.”
Tyler laid back on his sougan. “That chin strap of yours, son. Seems as if I knew another gent that wore something like it. Diamond set in a silver disk to keep the thong together.”
“Sure you have. The gent’s name was Windy Green, a terror up around Dodge.”
“How’d you get it, pardon my askin’?”
“He and I sat in the same game one night and he thought a full house would beat four kings, and when he got done payin’ off the debt—after tryin’ to shoot his way clear—he let me have this here chin thong. I always thought it was right pretty until they recognized me by it in Santos.”
“Hell, that was part of the description they wired ahead about you via Texas. I thought you was this Windy Green when I seen that thing. He had a rep as a gunslinger, didn’t he?”
“Sure, and he wasn’t bad either.” Lance grinned and touched the thong clasp. “He said he’d meet up with me someday and take this off me again, after which there’d be a planting party.”
“Think you could pass yourself off as Windy Green?” said Tyler, suddenly.
“Why, I reckon so.”
“Uh-huh. Well, listen, son. Nobody knows the layout of the Baron’s ranch well enough to tackle it. Now if you were to go in there, get a job along with the half a hundred riders he’s got and map things out, then maybe you’n me could do something to improve the civic pride hereabouts. Besides, I’m plumb lonesome without my cows.”
“Suits me,” said Lance.
“Never can tell what’ll happen. You might get plugged and Windy Green himself might be there.”
“I’ll take the chance,” said Lance.
“Then let’s roll in and get some sleep and tomorrow morning you can head up north a ways and get yourself a job.”
“Suits me,” said Lance casually.
They slid into their hard beds and for long hours Lance lay staring up at the stars listening to coyotes yap along the bluffs. Once a lobo wolf let the world know he was there with a moaning, quavering howl. After that Lance drifted off into slumber.
CHAPTER THREE
The Three B Ranch
BEFORE the sands of the hills became hot, and before the sun had begun its scorching climb up to its zenith, and while the trails were still clear, Lance Gordon and Tyler rode at a trot toward the Three B ranch.
They came to a narrow pass and at its entrance Tyler pulled up. “This is as far as I go with you, pardner. Them fellers know me too well and they shore can play hell with a Sharps rifle. It’s your hand from now on and don’t let nobody deal you one off the bottom.”
“Where’ll I meet you again?” said Lance.
“There’s a pinnacle of rock a couple miles south. There’s a spring of good water up there and you can see for miles. You just give me some kind of a signal and I’ll see it and come down near here to meet you. Then, when you’ve got all the inside track, you and me’ll have us a picnic. Meantime, here’s luck, Windy Green.”
Lance raised his hand in salute and wheeled his horse into the narrow pass mouth. He proceeded briskly through the flat blank walls for a good three miles before he found a break.
“Swell place to get trapped,” thought Lance.
He left the narrow defile and rode along a winding trail which led down to lower ground. Here the grass was better due to a small stream which meandered through the valley. It was good grazing land and the Baron had several thousand head wandering through the meadows. The cattle bore all manner of brands, some of them carelessly worked into his own.
“Must trail way north to the railroad,” thought Lance, seeing all the different brands. “He’s sure got a crust.”
He finally came in sight of the ranch buildings. The collection of ’dobe structures were spread out in miniature below him. Men were moving about, and in the corral, the wrangler was herding the remuda together while punchers built loops and picked out the day’s victim from their string.
To get down there, Lance had to pass between two great boulders. He was halfway through when a drawling voice said, “You ain’t goin’ no place, are you, stranger?”
A tall, cadaverous gentleman who chewed slowly upon a bulging cud slouched into sight, Henry rifle across the crook of his arm.
Lance saluted him with a careless wave of his hand. “I heard tell a gunslinger could get a job down here. Anything in it?”
The guard roved his watery eyes over Lance. “You don’t rhyme, stranger. Watcha doin’ with hair pants and a Texas saddle? And you’re a long way off your range with them Spanish spurs. Which is it? California or Texas?”
“You never can tell,” said Lance. “Maybe you better let me do my talkin’ to the Baron.”
“Then drop the barker down,” ordered the guard.
Lance left his revolver in its holster. “Lead off to the Baron. We’ll let him decide whether or not you get a new gun.”
Sullenly, the guard called for another man and presently a second puncher rolled up the trail, eyeing Lance distrustfully.
“This pilgrim opines he wants to see the Baron,” said the guard. “Take him down.”
“Uh-huh, get down, stranger.”
Lance dismounted and, with the puncher behind him, walked toward the biggest ’dobe.
At the door he was met by another man who looked him over carefully.
“Feller wants to see the Baron, Fallon,” said Lance’s guard.
“That’s dandy,” said Fallon, “but why bring him down here to get shot? Why the hell don’t you guys tend to your business up the trail?” Fallon, in a black coat, looked like a crow with its wings folded up. His beak of a nose was set too high between his eyes.
“Maybe, when the Baron finds out who I am, he’ll thank you kindly,” said Lance.
“Uh-uh. You take him back where you got him, Jim, and ventilate him a little bit. We don’t like strangers, down here.”
The guard tugged at Lance’s arm, but footsteps from within the hut stopped him.
A huge, overbearing man shoved Fallon
to one side. This was obviously the Baron. He wore a long frock coat cut like a gambler’s, and his buckskin pants, foxed with black leather, were tucked into fancy high-heeled boots. The Baron wore a black, stiff-brimmed Stetson and a black-and-white flowing tie. His face was swollen from bad liquor and his eyes were sucked into his head. He had three gold teeth which sparkled through his black beard. His mouth was thin and cynical, deeply lined on either side.
“What’s all this chatter about?” demanded the Baron. “What’s the matter with you and Harry up the trail, Jim? Can’t you attend to a simple job like that? Who’s this man?”
Lance fingered the silver-set diamond of his chin thong. “You might have heard of Windy Green someplace, Baron.”
“Windy Green? Why, yes.” The Baron looked long at Lance probingly. “I hear you’re supposed to be a pretty good shot, that right?”
“You never can tell,” said Lance.
“Uh-huh. Where’d you get wind that I wanted men?”
Lance plunged. “Feller in Dodge.”
“Might have been Flannery,” said the Baron aside to Fallon. “Know the man’s name?”
“Nope. Met him in a poker game.”
The Baron chewed the end of his mustache thoughtfully. “I got some good riders here. Dunno if I need another.”
“If you’re sending some of the boys with a trail herd for . . .” Fallon got no farther. The Baron silenced him with a saberlike glance. “See here, Windy Green, I thought you were from down Texas way. What are you doing with angoras and Spanish spurs? Trying to pull something down here?”
“I been over in the Sierras,” said Lance.
“Uh-huh. Well, we might use another gunslinger. I’ve got a couple men I’d like to have killed here. One by the name of Tyler and another named Brant. Too nosey. Think you could do it?”
“You never can tell,” said Lance.
“Uh-huh. Pay’s six a day and a string of cayuses.”
“That’s all right,” said Lance.