"Seems to me, we tried that before," Gil growled. "We found out it wasn't so easy."
"Of course, it's not easy, but it's what we got to do But if you want to ride on and leave your share behind, go ahead."
Gil pursed his thick lips in anger and grunted. "No. I'm staying. Let's get it done."
Jack Clayton could no longer see the dust clouds from his fleeing quarry. Either they had outrun him or disappeared behind some tempory cover in the trail or they had holed up waiting for him in ambush. Probably the latter, he thought. Their horses had to be played out as was his own big black stallion, Regret. So named because he could give his master and especially others just cause for lots of regrets.
The big black was strong and had a lot of stamina and fortitude. Clayton's adept horsemanship and care for his equine friend kept the big stallion at an even pace, conserving his strength and energy. Gradually, steadily, but surely they were gaining on the three outlaws up ahead.
Clayton had been in Sand Flats, checking on a report of counterfeit currency that had been discovered at the bank. For months, he had been scouring the southwest, following a trail of phony bills. As special agent for the Justice Department, he had been assigned by his boss, John Randolph, director of the Justice Department's western division and headquartered outside of St. Jo, Missouri, to track down the source of these illegal bills and bank notes that had been plaguing Arizona, Nevada, and New Mexico.
It was only chance, that put him at the scene of the bank holdup and stepped into the path of the bank robbers. Fortunately, before he had gone far from the bank, he recalled a wanted poster with a picture of one of the men he had just seen. Blackie Darrow.
The sleepy town of sand Flats was not used to trouble. The only lawman in town was an old man who had never done anything more than housing the town drunk from time to time in the seldom used jail. With no adequate law in town, Clayton had taken it upon himself to ride out in pursuit of the outlaws. The counterfeit currency assignment, he would put on hold for now. After all, he still had no solid leads and he was getting nowhere.
Now he was relentlessly on the robbers' trail. He sat tall and easy in the saddle. His broad shoulders, complementing his somewhat above average height. He had discarded his suit coat and fancy vest and now wore a black leather vest to conceal his shoulder holster. The black handled butt of a six-gun protruded from the cutaway black holster tied low on his right hip.
As the government man plodded on in pursuit, he became more and more wary. He had not seen a sign of the bandits ahead for quite some time. Their tracks however, told him he was still on their trail.
As he scanned the trail ahead, he noted a pass that would be ideal for an ambush. If he were the outlaws with tired horses, he would be holed up there waiting in ambush for him to ride through. The pass was narrow with little cover on either side of the trail. What cover of small rocks and scrub brush there was, would be insufficient. Especially, if ambush came from high up on both sides of the pass. Cover from one side of the pass would surely expose him to danger from the opposite wall.
Jack knew he would have to take his chances. He would have to spring the trap. He would keep Regret as his steady pace as he entered the pass, as if he were not expecting the attack, that was sure to come.
As the G-Man rode into the pass, the outlaws were ready for him. Gil was in position, with a rifle, behind a large boulder at the top of the bank to the left of the trail. Blackie was in a similar position to the right of the pass. Behind him, the kid held the three horses in abeyance. Steadily, Jack rode into the pass. Every sense alert. Eyes darting to and fro, glancing toward the walls above. He felt Regret's sense of danger as the big black's body quivered beneath him. Regret's ears drew back and he snorted nervously confirming Jack's suspicion of ambush.
Then it all erupted into a fleeting instant of violent attack. From the corner of his eye, Jack spotted the shadow of a man rise above a rock on the right side of the pass, sunlight gleaming off the barrel of his Winchester.
Regret skidded to a sudden stop, reared on his hind legs, his forelegs pawing at empty air and his entire frame twisting around in the middle of the trail as the attacker's rifle cracked and a bullet passed through behind Regret's neck where Clayton would have been if not for Regret's sudden move. Clayton half fell backward, half slid across Regret's rump, snagging his Winchester from the rifle boot as he went.
Regret spun around, spewing dust with his tramping hoofs, and running back down the trail from where they had just come. The dust and the body of the fleeing horse gave Clayton momentary cover as he rolled toward the cover of a rock along the trail.
The rifle cracked again and again as Regret moved out of the line of fire, revealing Clayton's rolling body. Dirt splattered his face as the slugs tore into the earth barely missing him with each roll. A bullet spanged off the rock as Jack rolled behind it, came up, throwing his rifle barrel over the rock and firing in rapid succession to push the ambusher back into cover.
A rifle cracked from behind him. A chip of stone from the rock stung his arm and the bullet ricocheted passed his cheek. Clayton rolled to his right onto the flat of his back, levering his Winchester and firing three times rapidly spraying the top of the rim. The man up there ducked down, but firing resumed from the other side of the pass. Bullets spanging off the rock.
The G-Man rose, threw a shot in that direction, knowing the man behind him would resume firing once he saw Clayton was distracted. The man rose to fire, but Jack had already flung himself backward on to his back again and fired at the same instant as his attacker.
Jack's slug caught Gil high in the left shoulder. Gil staggered backward and his shot went low, plowing into the dirt several feet in front of where Jack lay. Jack levered his Winchester twice more. Gil's body doubled forward as he took a round in the stomach. He dropped his rifle and pitched forward, tumbling down the bank and rolling down the rocky scree.
Jack whipped his body around and brought his rifle up along the right side of the rock. Blackie, furious at the sight of Gil's death, poured lead at the trapped government man.
Clayton pressed close to the ground as the bullets pounded close to his hiding position. Blackie fired again and again and again. He paused. There was no return fire. Had he at last gotten the G-Man? He waited. Silence filled the pass.
Meanwhile, the kid had been holding the horses and had seen Gil's fate. Two way split he thought. No-Blackie would never split half with him. One way split for Blackie only. That meant Blackie would probably kill him once he had eliminated the government man. “Well two can play that game,” the kid thought. He glanced at the bulging saddle bags on Blackie's horse. Blackie was still occupied, throwing lead at Clayton.
The kid swallowed hard. Now was the time to do it. He hesitated, then resolved. Quickly, he pulled the saddle bags, from Blackie's saddle, flung them over the Sorrel's neck and vaulted into the saddle. He pushed the big sorrel into the two remaining horses and waved them into a run down the bank. With a kick to the sorrell's ribs, the kid urged the big stallion down the rocky side of the bank toward the trail.
Blackie's firing had stopped. In the silence that ensued, Blackie heard the kid's horse crashing and sliding down the rocky slope. "What th...?" He started, whirling around to see horse and rider. A quick glance at his own fleeing horse told him the saddle bags were missing. The kid had stolen the loot.
Momentarily forgetting about the G-Man below, Blackie stood up and swung his rifle toward the kid. He fired quickly and missed as the kid ducked low in the saddle. The kid had barely made it to the trail below, when he fired a second time, but his shot went wild as he felt the sharp sting of a bullet across his forehead, not hearing the blast from Clayton's rifle that had cracked simultaneously with his own. Blackie's weapon flew into the air and he grasped at his forehead and pitched backward down the receding side of the bank.
Clayton jumped to his feet and ran into the trail. He could see the retreating rider and sorrel stallion spee
ding northward on the trail. Then the other two horses came into the pass. Jack saw there were no saddle bags nor sign of loot on either horse. Judging from what he had just seen, he was sure there had been a falling out of thieves and the escaping rider now had the loot. Regret came loping back up the and halted by his master. Clayton patted his friend’s sweaty neck and said, “Well, old son. We still have the other one and the bank’s money to get, but you need arrest first so I’ll walk awhile and follow along easy like.”
****
CHAPTER FOUR
Menacing Range
It was mid-morning of the second day since Jack Clayton started trailing the young rider on the sorrel horse. Jack was impressed by the stamina of the golden stallion. He obviously was as good if not better than Regret, for the horse and rider managed to stay well ahead and had long since disappeared from view gaining a larger and larger lead on the government man and his stalwart black.
Fortunately, the trail of his quarry was plain. The sorrel was well shod with quality new shoes that left deep imprints in the trail. There was a distinctive star marking on each shoe.
Jack had trailed the kid steadily northward and had crossed over the border into New Mexico about an hour and a half ago. He was now riding through a wide valley that seemed to spread out for miles. As he continued through the valley, he spotted more and more cattle grazing off the parched grass of the range. The cattle themselves looked underfed and were beginning to become gaunt.
The range looked like good land, but it was dry. Not like desert, but good land that had seen better days with ample water but had recently faded into substandard grazing range.
Noting the brands of the cattle, Jack knew he must be on a spread called the Bar M. Feeling for the plight of the cattle's thirst, he thought of his own need for water. He had passed a dry stream about a mile back and another further back that only held a trickle. Looking ahead, he saw five or six head of cattle bunched together, their heads down. Jack guided Regret closer and saw there was a shallow creek and the cattle were watering.
As Jack rode up, he hazed the cows away from the creek bank and rode up to it. The stream, though shallow, looked cool and sparkling in the morning sun as it rippled over the stone covered bottom of the bed.
Clayton dismounted and led Regret to the edge of the stream. He tossed the reins over the big black's neck, out of the way so he could drink freely from the stream. Regret eagerly pushed his muzzle into the cool liquid and drank with relish.
Jack removed his canteen from the saddle and stepped upstream a little ways away from where Regret was now watering as had the cows before him. He squatted and dipped the canteen into the gurgling stream and watched the bubbles as the vessel filled. Then retrieving the filled canteen, he lifted it toward his parched lips.
Then without warning, the crack of rifle fire broke the stillness of the air. A gaping hole appeared in his canteen and it flew with tremendous force from his hands and landed on the opposite creek bank. Stunned, fingers stinging and shaking, he whirled around quickly, without standing and reaching for the pistol at his hip. His hand was on the pistol butt and half way out of the holster, when the rifle cracked again. A bullet slammed into the wet ground in front of him, splattering him with mud.
"Leave it alone!" A sharp voice snapped.
As Jack looked up he saw the gaping muzzle of a Winchester .44-40 pointed menacingly at him. He let his pistol slip back into his holster and started to rise slowly, his arms spread and his hands held upward, his slate eyes staring at the rider and horse before him. He was surprised to see that the rider was a young woman, wearing jeans, pistol belt and range attire, much like any other male waddie, holding the rifle on him; her blue eyes glaring at him over the barrel of the Winchester. The morning breeze ruffled her curly blond hair.
"I was just getting a drink...." He started to say, but was cut short.
"I know who you are and what you are. You've got no business on Matson range."
Jack grinned ever so slightly, "Yes, and just who do you think I am?"
She jerked the muzzle up and squeezed off a round. Jack flinched as if he could duck the flying projectile over his head. Regret shied nervously and stamped in the water splashing frantically. He snorted.
"I think you are a dead man if you don't get off this land, pronto. Don't come back, and tell Beldon to keep the rest of his hired goons out."
"I don't know who this Beldon is, and I assure you, I don't work for him."
She eyed him keenly, not wavering the rifle barrel. "I admit you don't talk like the rest of them, but I want you out of here now."
"I just stopped for water. My horse and I are mighty thirsty."
"The horse can drink," she conceded. "You can't."
“Well, I think he's had his fill," Jack answered.
"Then get on him and go back the way you came." She backed her horse off, giving him room to move, all the while, keeping the rifle level.
"You win, lady," Jack sighed, stepped around Regret, took the reins and pulled him from the stream and turned him around. With a resolute glance at the young lady, Jack stepped into the saddle, settled himself and guided the black around his captor.
"Thanks for the hospitality," he said sarcastically as he rode past her and headed back in the direction from whence he came.
He walked Regret for a ways and then noticed the tracks the lady's horse had made. The same fine quality horse shoes with the star markings as the sorrel's shoes. He then kicked Regret into a lope and rode off to the south, not bothering to look back to see if the woman was still there.
Jack's heart began to race with excitement as he rode. Chances were that the similarities in horse shoes, was not a coincidence. The kid on the Sorrel was probably from around here; maybe even from the Matson spread. Since he couldn't cross Bar M land, Jack decided the best thing he could do was to hang somewhere around the area. He had passed a road a couple of miles back, that had a sign post pointing west saying 'Town of Promise 5 Miles'. An interesting name for a town, he thought. He would meander in and see if this town held any promises for him.
An hour later, tired and dusty, Clayton spied the Town of Promise almost a mile away, silhouetted on the horizon against the clear blue sky and shimmering noon day sun. The trip had been quiet and uneventful and his mind wandered, thinking about the bandit kid and the strange young lady with deadly intent, he had just met earlier. Only the sound of the birds and the clip clop of Regret's hoofs broke the stillness of the day. Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted. He thought he heard voices in the wind. Laughter and excitement. The sound of laughing, giggling children in the sky. "What th....?" He mumbled to himself. He was hearing things. But no. The sounds came from the sky. And all at once the darkness of shadow fell over him.
He gazed upward and saw it. About a hundred feet above his head, was a hot air balloon. A large basket hung from cables beneath it. Jack could see there were adults and children aboard, but he could not see clearly enough to know how many or who they were.
"Now, what in blazes is a hot air balloon doing out here?" He thought to himself as he watched the airborne conveyance continue on toward town ahead of him, gradually losing altitude as it approached the settlement.
****
CHAPTER FIVE
Promise of Danger
As Clayton and Regret entered the town limits, he could see the bustle of activity and the streets were filled with people. Banners were strung high across the street saying:
WELCOME TO PROMISE
PROMISE CHALLENGE
COMPETITION DAYS
IRRIGATION PROJECT FUND RAISER.
Up ahead at the other end of town, Jack could see the hot air balloon setting down in an open field across from a large public gazebo. A large crowd was gathered there for some sort of ceremony or political speech making.
The street was crowded with traffic. Clayton threaded his way between the wagons, surreys and mounted horseman and edged his horse to the side, pulling up in
front of the Cattlemen's Hotel. He dismounted, tied Regret to the hitch rail, and stepped up the three steps to the porch of the hotel.
Inside, activity was just as hurried and congested. Traffic filled the lobby. He pushed his way through the crowd toward the clerk's desk. A throng of people were lined up around this area and he could hear the clerk telling the crowds, rather emphatically, that the hotel was full up. There was no use pursuing the matter. Jack reconciled himself to the fact that he would not find accommodations here.
"Excuse me a moment, sir" Jack said, grasping the arm of a tall rotund man in a summery light gray suit, who was shuffling by.
The man jerked to a halt, a look of surprise and annoyance creeping across his fat face. Jack asked. "What's going on here? Why is this town so busy?"
"It's sort of celebration. Well more fund raiser," the man answered curtly. "For the irrigation project. Water from Lake Doria will bring Promise back to life. Everybody knows that." He rushed on and out the front door.
"Sure," Jack said to himself. "Everybody knows that." He turned and strode back outside. He stood there for several moments looking up and down the street, listening to the sounds of hurried activity. A tinny piano was playing in the Blue Ox Saloon down the street and drunken cowboys were stumbling around in the crowds.
Glancing to the other end of town, he saw the hot air balloon parked in the field beyond the gazebo. He stepped down and untied his horse. "Well old son, let's go see what's going on down there."
_ He stepped back into the saddle, settled himself, then gingerly, backed Regret into the crowd, turned the black's neck and guided him through the throngs, moving slowly towards the festivities in the park.
As Clayton entered the open field at the far end of town, he could see an area set aside where wagons and buggies were parked. Ropes were strung between trees, making a picket line to tether horses. The hot air balloon was unloading its passengers as they climbed clumsily out of the large basket; a middle aged couple and their two children, a boy and girl of school age. A queue had formed with several other families waiting for a ride. A large placard off to the right said. PROFESSOR DEKES'S HOT AIR BALLOON RIDES $10 PER PERSON.