Part 11 (1/2)

Joe shrugged. ”We could find out by makin' Saygar talk.”

”Providin' we could find Saygar. And providin' he talks in his sleep. Or maybe we should go to him and say . . . 'Please, Mister Saygar, tell us who you're workin' for?'”

”We'll have a try anyway.” A grin broke across Joe's pallid, lean face.

”When?”

”Why not tonight?”

Blaze laughed. ”You ain't strong enough to hold a cup steady, let alone stick a saddle. A lot o' help you'd be. Besides, I've got to be back at the layout tonight to keep Yace quiet. If he suspected anything, it'd be tough on both of us.”

”He's ready to turn me in?” Joe asked tonelessly.

”I can't make him out, and that's a fact,” the redhead said. ”First I think he's thinkin' one way and then he'll do somethin' to make me wonder if he isn't thinkin' the other. But we can't take any chances on him.”

”Then you can come back tomorrow night with a spare horse. We'll see Saygar then.”

”I'll try to make it,” Blaze agreed.

”How about the girl?” Joe asked softly, looking across at Jean. ”She's on our side, friend,” Blaze said quickly. ”She'll do whatever we ask.”

”Even to keepin' quiet about me?”

”If she thinks it'll help, she'll tell her old man anything we say. No one was at Diamond when I went after her but the cook, and he was asleep. I told her away with a story about John Merrill bein' sick. She left a note for her father. It was just plain fool luck that she didn't mention me in it. So there's nothin' to connect us with where she's been.”

Something Blaze had said had taken Joe's attention. He appeared reluctant to mention it, but asked finally: ”How's Ruth?” ”Haven't seen her.” Blaze's tone was curt. ”Old John's had another stroke. I reckon she's pretty busy takin' care of him.” He studied Joe closely. ”Don't stick your neck out by tryin' to see her,” he advised. ”The farther you stay from the mesa, the better off you'll be.”

”Did I say I wanted to see her?” Joe bridled.

”No. But you were a sucker for that honey-colored hair o' hers once, and you're actin' like you'd like another try.” Blaze came slowly erect. He glanced toward the pile of firewood, down at Jean, finally to the corner where the provisions he'd brought from Diamond lay. He was obviously embarra.s.sed at having said too much. ”I'll have to be goin'. Can you get along?”

”Easy enough,” Joe drawled.

”About Jean. See if you can't figure out a story for her to give Vanover.”

”I'll think of something.”

”Then I'll see you tomorrow night. Could I get you some grub before I pull out?”

Joe shook his head, still stung by Blaze's outspoken condemnation of Ruth. ”Couldn't eat it right now.”

Blaze hesitated, knowing that his uncalled-for indictment of Ruth had put a barrier between them. His impulse was to get out of here, now, before he really had to. He should be staying a little longer to make sure that Joe was able to take care of himself. But that reminder that Joe still cared for a girl who had once made a fool of him, and that Ruth herself might encourage him if she were given the chance, had filled Blaze with a savage anger. He had tried to hold it in check, but couldn't. So now he said abruptly-”Be seein' you.”- and went out along the short tunnel, stooped over, and not looking back.

It wasn't until he was out of the caon and halfway down across the basin, with his rancor toward Ruth Merrill gradually lessening, that the let-down hit him. He started trembling. At first, he thought it was the biting chill of this late hour, then he realized he was quite warm, and that it was something else. His rein hand shook so that he had to rest it on the horn to steady it. A weakness. .h.i.t his knee, and it was easier to sit the saddle than to stand in stirrup as was his habit.

He knew he was tired. But this was something else. Without a clear awareness of the surge of feeling that was in him, yet knowing it was this feeling and not his fatigue that was making him feel this way, Blaze was for the first time struck by the full significance of Joe's being alive and not dying. Things seemed all right now, d.a.m.ned fine in fact! Two hours ago nothing had been right. Looking back on those hours tonight and last night while he and Jean sat waiting for something to happen, yet dreading that it should happen, Blaze felt momentarily ashamed of the way he'd unburdened himself to the girl. No, he wasn't ashamed, he decided. Jean Vanover was a fine woman. So fine, in fact, that tonight he had forgotten who she was and talked to her the way he'd have talked to a man, a close friend. And now Joe was going to live. Together they'd lick this thing, whatever it was, whoever it was. He and Joe Bonnyman, the lanky kid he'd seen grow into manhood, would take this thing by the horns and throw it. Throw it hard and clean. They'd be a hard combination to beat.

Suddenly Blaze felt good, so good he rammed his spurs to his horse's flanks and raced across the last, flat open stretch of the lower basin. The chill wind knifing against his face braced him; the excitement of having come through as bad a two days as he'd ever lived drove out his weariness. He didn't want to wait for another night to get started at this thing. Right now he could walk up to Mike Saygar and beat the truth out of him, the truth about whom he was working for, what lay behind his men homesteading the basin. But, more importantly than this, and something that must come first, was a heart-to-heart talk with Yace. The hard-headed old fool needed to be told a few things, such as that his son was worth two of him, and that he couldn't any longer hide behind that high and mighty way of his and expect to get away with it. From now on Yace was either going to have to throw in with them to lick this thing, or lose his foreman. Blaze decided that definitely, where never before had his threats to quit Anchor been anything but a soon regretted impulse. Now it was the real thing. Yace would back his son all the way or to h.e.l.l with him.

Blaze was thinking this as he rode clear of the trees flanking the rim of Porcupine Caon and saw, far to the west, the lights of Anchor ablaze. He came a little straighter in the saddle, a quick glance at the wheeling stars showing him it was past two, lacking a couple hours of dawn. The crew was always up and about early, but not this early. Something was wrong at Anchor.

As he rode down toward those lights signaling danger, Blaze was gripped by a grim sense of foreboding. Things were moving fast toward a showdown on this dynamite-packed range, and without anything definite to back up his feeling the red-headed Anchor foreman had a premonition amounting to conviction that tonight would see that showdown.

Murder at Brush.

Clark Dunne rode in on the lights of John Merrill's Brush Ranch a little before midnight. The two hours it had taken him to make the slow fifteen miles out from town had brought some sobering thoughts and much worry. First off, he'd tried to puzzle out the answer to the disappearance of Joe Bonnyman's body and his death not being reported to Bill Lyans. Secondly, he wondered if his talk with Mike Saygar at the cabin yesterday had been convincing. Would Saygar come in on this thing for the money he was to get out of it? Clark had no illusions where the outlaw was concerned. Saygar could be trusted only so long as he stood to profit from a thing; beyond that point, he would sell out to the highest bidder. Just now the outlaw looked to Clark for those profits. Soon-maybe sooner than Clark knew- Saygar might transfer his loyalties. It was up to Clark to keep that from happening.

It took a man like Mike Saygar to see the possibilities in taking a long shot like the one he was taking tonight, or, rather, Clark hoped he was following orders. It might take several months for Saygar to cash in on the partners.h.i.+p he had joined. Until then, Clark decided, the outlaw was to be trusted. What happened after that was another thing. If worse came to worst, a man could always use a gun. Saygar bore no charmed life; a bullet would stop him as quickly as the next man.

Clark eyed the night-shadowed layout as he rode in toward the house lights, near now. He couldn't see plainly in the darkness but his mind's eye built the picture of the spread from the few scant details that showed through the obscurity. The lights were coming from the house, the big tile-roofed stone house with the two long wings that was crammed with tasteful furnis.h.i.+ngs s.h.i.+pped out from the East.

John Merrill was unlike these other mesa ranchers; he came from a moneyed, aristocratic family, and Brush had always seemed an outpost of culture and refinement, untouched by the cruder life of this cattle frontier. The Merrill family's tradition was in part responsible for Ruth's aloof ways. In a poorer land, John Merrill's extravagance would soon have impoverished him. But here on Mesa Grande wealth grew up out of the ground faster than a man could spend it. So Brush remained a fairly prosperous outfit even for the expensive taste of its owner who had been bred to the purple. If John Merrill had had the drive of a Yace Bonnyman, Brush would have been a more powerful outfit than Anchor.

That Brush would one day be the power on this range had long been a dream of Clark's. Until lately, it had been a far-fetched dream, one that included himself and Ed Merrill as partners in a vast, hazily developing enterprise. Now Ed was dead and there remained only old John Merrill to share what Brush represented. Thinking of it in this new light, Clark was all at once struck by the wish that old Merrill would die quickly. But once that wish materialized, he put it down quickly. Even though he had killed twice in two days, his sense of decency was not yet dulled to the point where he could tolerate such a thought.

He was challenged as he crossed the yard toward the tie rail near the house, and he recognized the voice of the man who called out. ”You're up late, Mel,” Clark said. ”How's the old man?”

The Brush man sauntered up and waited until Clark had swung aground before replying: ”Bad, I reckon. They ain't told us much. Doc Nesbit and the girl are stayin' up with him. Go on in. She'll be glad to see you.”

Ruth answered his knock on the door. As Clark stepped into the lighted, low-ceilinged main room, he saw that her face was lined with care and weariness.

”I came as soon as I could, Ruth,” he said. ”Lyans has had me up coverin' the pa.s.s road. How's your father?”

”No better and no worse, Clark. What . . .?” She hesitated and her eyes were afraid. Then her words came in a rush. ”What about Joe? Did they find him? Is he . . . ?”

”Not a sign of him yet.” Clark tried to overlook the quick relief that brought tears to Ruth's eyes. ”My hunch is he's left the country.”

The gladness that had been in her faded. ”That would be safest for him, wouldn't it?” she said lifelessly. ”But I . . . I hoped he hadn't.”

Again he had to overlook her betrayal of a more than casual interest in Joe. He said: ”You're tired. Why don't you turn in for a while?”

As he spoke, he heard the door at the far end of the room open. Before the girl could answer, Doc Nesbit was saying: ”I've been tryin' since dark to tell her that, Clark. She hasn't had a wink in twice 'round the clock.”

The doctor appeared to be in little better shape than Ruth. His old face looked haggard; there were dark circles under his eyes, his coat was off, and his collar and tie loosened where ordinarily he was fastidious about his appearance.

”You could stand some sleep yourself, Doc,” Clark declared. ”Why don't both of you turn in for a few hours and let me take over? Is there any reason why I couldn't?”

Nesbit scratched his head and ran a hand over his beard-stubbled face. ”It would be nice to shave and lie down a bit. How about it, Ruth?”

”Is he still asleep?” the girl asked.

The medico nodded. ”Will be, until time for his medicine. Clark could give it to him.” He paused only a moment before he decided. Then, coming across, he took Ruth by the elbow, gently urging her toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. ”So we needn't worry. Come along, Clark. I'll show you what has to be done.”

Ruth turned to Clark as she came abreast the open door to her room. Lifting her face to him, she said softly as the doctor went into the room opposite: ”Put your arms around me, Clark. Kiss me. I'm . . . I'm so lost.”