Part 7 (1/2)

Saygar's head came quickly around in the first betrayal of his indolent pose against the corral poles. His eyes narrowed as he looked toward the tree's thick stem.

”Another of your uncles cash in?” he drawled.

”Call it that.” Clark's tone was brittle. ”I'll lay it here on the ground.”

The outlaw's glance still clung to the base of the tree. When Clark moved halfway into view, their eyes met. Clark's look was clearly belligerent. The outlaw, reading his own meaning into that glance, smiled meagerly. ”You'd be smart to turn someone in for that job, Clark.”

”Why me?”

Saygar shrugged. ”Why not? It'd set you pretty tight with Acme and Lyans.”

”It's an idea.” Clark's face now echoed the outlaw's smile. ”Noticed how the weather's turnin' off warmer?” he drawled.

Saygar nodded. ”There'll be the devil to pay for a week or so. Think the cabin here will be safe enough?” He tilted his head in the direction of the meadow, out of which the stream's rus.h.i.+ng waters sent across a subdued echo.

”You won't have to worry about that. You're movin' out.” ”Movin'? Where to?” Saygar's frown expressed his puzzlement. In the next few minutes Clark answered that question for him in minute detail.

Bushwhacked.

Whitey was feeding the hogback stove one of the big quarter rounds of cedar as Saygar came back into the cabin after his talk with Clark. The clang of the stove's door brought Joe fully and instantly awake. Saygar heard him stir, and glanced toward the semidarkness of the bunk wall. He resumed his seat at the table where now a lamp had been lit, trying not to let his irritation show. Now that Joe was awake, Saygar wouldn't have the chance to tell Whitey and Pecos of Clark's plan.

”Let's lift the lid off this game,” Whitey drawled as he picked up the cards for the deal.

”Help yourselves,” Saygar replied. ”Dollar limit?”

Whitey's tone had borne an edge of truculence, and Pecos looked worried. It was obvious to Joe, who now lay watching them resume their game, that Saygar was so far the winner. The daylight showing through the cabin's single window was dimmer now and rain pelted against the sash and set up a faint pleasing murmur of sound as it slanted onto the sod roof. The air in the cabin was stale and damp. Joe kicked the blanket to the foot of the bunk and closed his eyes again, feeling the need for more sleep.

Presently the muted sound of a gunshot stirred him out of a brief doze to open-eyed alertness. He saw Saygar rise quickly from the table and head for the door, palming his Colt smoothly from holster. Pecos turned in his chair, breathing-”Not another visitor.”-and Whitey half rose before deciding to stay in his chair.

At the door, Saygar turned momentarily and nodded to the back of the room, telling Whitey: ”Watch him.” Only then did he inch open the door.

The outlaw's brief glance outside made him swing the door wide and slowly holster his .45. From the back of the room, Joe could see a narrow wedge of the meadow, its snowy surface now grayed by the rain. Two figures trudged into sight less than 100 yards away. The one behind, with the rifle slanted into the back of the man in front, was Chuck.

Joe could almost feel the hard pressure of the rifle nudging his own spine as he recognized the tall, sheepskin-clad shape of the man ahead of the outlaw. That man was Clark Dunne. Joe swung his legs off the bunk and sat up.

”Stay set, stranger,” came Whitey's threatening drawl.

Pecos reached over and turned down the lamp.

So Blaze had, after all, told Clark about the mark over the shelf in Anchor's wagon shed. Clark had come here expecting to find Joe alone, and had walked straight into Saygar's guard. For the second time today, Saygar was being compelled to take an unwanted prisoner. Only Chuck had encountered a little more difficulty in bringing Clark in. The gunshot bore testimony to that.

In the next few seconds, Joe saw that he and Clark had been placed in a precarious situation. Saygar would naturally a.s.sume that two men having come up the trail, more might be on the way in. Where he'd been fairly good-natured about Joe's appearing in his camp, he would look on this second intrusion with suspicion. A man in Saygar's position couldn't afford to let word of his whereabouts get out. It naturally followed that he would have to take every precaution to keep his two visitors from leaving and carrying word down about him. Joe and Clark might be held prisoners for days, at least until Saygar had finished whatever errand had brought him to this cabin.

Joe felt Whitey's glance on him, but didn't look toward the table as Clark approached. Clark stopped several strides short of the door. Anger touched his eyes as he looked at Saygar and said: ”A little outside your fences, aren't you, Saygar? How much of this country do you call yours?”

”As much as I need to move around in,” drawled Saygar. ”Any objection?” When Clark made no reply, the outlaw looked beyond him at Chuck Reibel and asked: ”Why the fireworks?” ”He was a little slow about reachin' for his ears. Had to help him make up his mind.”

Clark cut in with a curt: ”You've got Joe Bonnyman in there?”

”Supposin' we have?” was Saygar's rejoinder.

Joe's attention left them as their talk went on, his glance coming around to Whitey and Pecos at the table. Pecos was on his feet now and standing out from his chair to look out the door. Whitey no longer peered so intently toward the back of the room, his attention having momentarily strayed the way of Pecos's.

The blanket was within Joe's reach. He s.n.a.t.c.hed it up as he came to his feet. Gathering it into a loose ball, he threw it hard at Whitey. The blond youth sensed movement behind him and turned. Seeing the blanket coming, he dodged, at the same time reaching for his gun. But the blanket spread out and caught him in the face. Joe lunged sideways as Whitey's .45 arced up and exploded. The next instant Joe was across the room, numbing Whitey's wrist with a quick downward slash of his hand and wrenching the gun from the outlaw's hand as Saygar spun around.

Joe rocked the gun into line with the outlaw. ”Go ahead, try for it,” he drawled, for Saygar's right hand had lifted part way to holster and frozen there.

Out in the yard, Clark said-”Nice, Joe.”-even though Chuck had moved in and was prodding him in the back with the Winchester. Whitey finished clawing the blanket from around his head and stood straight, holding his hurt wrist.

For a moment it looked as though he were going to throw himself at Joe until Saygar said sharply: ”Whitey!” Pecos had already seen the look on Joe's face and lifted his hands.

”Tell your understrapper out there how to behave, Saygar,” Joe drawled.

The outlaw briefly considered the rock-steady gun aimed at his belt, then called: ”You heard what he said, Chuck!”

A moment later Clark had the rifle. Joe made a motion toward the door with the .45. ”The air's better outside, gents.”

When they stood grouped a few steps out from the doorway, Joe, in possession of the two remaining six-guns and a rifle he had found over by the bunks, moved over to where Clark stood.

”Hold 'em while I get a horse,” he said, and started out for the corral, his bare head tilted against the slant of the rain.

As soon as he was out of hearing, Clark smiled at Saygar. ”Better than the way we planned it, eh?”

Whitey, in ignorance of what was being referred to, bridled. ”Just what in blazes is this?” he demanded.

”Later, Whitey, later,” Saygar said. Then to Clark: ”What'll you do with him?”

”See him up the pa.s.s road a ways.”

”That all?”

”That's all,” Clark said.

”How about our irons? And that bronc'?” Saygar nodded toward the corral, where Joe was throwing his saddle onto a stocky chestnut horse.

”You'll get 'em back.”

The answer brought a thin smile to Saygar's face. Although he said nothing, he was sure now of something he hadn't been at all sure of when he and Clark talked near the corral an hour before.

When Joe came back from the corral, he went into the cabin, and reappeared with his Stetson and poncho. He made the outlaws cross to the lower edge of the meadow, where Clark's roan was standing. Then, with Clark in the saddle beside him, he looked down at Saygar.

It's a fair trade on the horse,” he said. ”I'll hang your guns from a tree a ways down the trail. Much obliged for the meal, Saygar.”

”Sure,” the outlaw said, his face bearing its customary meaningless half smile. ”Stop in any time you feel like it.”