Part 31 (1/2)

”Reckon I'm alone now, Kid,” he blurted. ”Joe was all I had--and they got him! I swear I'll bring those hounds to justice, or die a-tryin'!”

”Yo're not alone, Red,” said the Texan grimly. ”I'm takin' a hand in this game.”

Near the body they found a piece of paper--a significant doc.u.ment, for it explained the motive for the crime. Kid Wolf read it and understood. It was written in straggling handwriting:

I, Joe Morton, do hereby sell and turn over all interest in the Diamond D Ranch property, for value received. My signature is below, and testifies that I have sold said ranch to Gentleman John, of Skull, New Mexico.

There was, however, no signature at the s.p.a.ce left at the bottom of the paper. Joe Morton had died game!

”He refused to sign,” said The Kid quietly, ”and that means that yo're the lawful heir to the Diamond D. Yo' have a man's job to do now, Red.”

”But I don't savvy this,” burst out the red-haired youth. ”Surely this Gentleman John isn't----”

”He's the man behind it all, mah boy,” the Texan told him. And in a few words, he related how he had been approached by the self-styled cattle king, and something of his shady dealings. ”He wanted to buy me,” he concluded, ”not knowin' that I had nevah abused the powah of the Colt fo' mah own gain. Blacksnake is his chief gunman, actin' by Gentleman John's ordahs.”

”Where's the other men--the two riders on duty with Joe?” Lefty Warren wanted to know.

It did not take much of a search to find them. One had fallen near the little corral, shot through the heart. The other lay a few hundred yards away, at the river bank. He, too, was dead.

”Mo' murdah,” snapped the Texan grimly. ”Well, we must make ouah plans.”

In this sudden crisis, the other three left most of the planning to Kid Wolf himself. First of all, the bodies were buried. Rocks were piled on the hastily made graves to keep the coyotes out, and they were ready to go again.

The Texan decided to follow the trails left by the stolen cattle, for both herds were gone now, driven off the Diamond D range. Failing in their attempt to get Joe Morton's signature, the outlaws had evidently decided to take what they could get.

There was one big reason why Gentleman John wished to get his hands on the Diamond D. Although land was plentiful in that early day, Red's father had obtained a land grant from a Spanish governor--a grant that still held good and kept other herds from the rich grazing land and ample water along Blue-bottle Creek.

As they started down the trail again toward the broken, mountainous country to the southwest, The Kid sent Red a quick glance.

”Are yo' all right, son?” he asked.

”Fine,” said young Morton, now sole owner of the Diamond D.

The Texan was glad to see that he had braced himself. Like his brother, Red was a man.

”We'll soon overtake 'em,” old Mike Train muttered, savagely twirling the cylinder of his ancient .45. ”Blacksnake's gang can't make fast time with those steers. He's probably drivin' 'em to Gentleman John's headquarters at Agua Frio.”

”Why,” asked Kid Wolf slowly, ”do they call that hombre 'Blacksnake'?”

”Because he carries one with him--that's how he got his name,” spoke up Lefty Warren. ”He's a whipper. He's beaten more'n one Mex to death with it, and they say a white man or two. He can handle a blacksnake like a demon.”

Kid Wolf smiled grimly. To have Blacksnake McCoy for an enemy was by no means a pleasant thing to think about, especially when the desperado was backed by all the power that his employer--Gentleman John--possessed. And yet The Kid was afraid of neither of them.

”It's sh.o.r.e great of yuh to help us this way,” Red told him. ”But I'm afraid we haven't a chance. If Gentleman John is behind all this, we're buckin' mighty big odds.”

”I like a game like that,” said The Kid. ”Unlike pokah, it's perfectly legitimate to scratch the aces with yo' fingah nail.”

They were soon off the limits of the Diamond D and on the Casas Amarillas--a ranch owned by Gentleman John and taking its Spanish name from two yellow houses of adobe several miles distant. They saw scattered cattle branded with a Lazy J--one of Gentleman John's many brands--but discovered no stragglers from the stolen Morton herds.

Following the trail was easy, and they struck a hot pace down through and out of the gra.s.sy valley, climbing through a pa.s.s and up on a rolling mesa dotted with thirsty-looking sage. For two full hours they rode, while the sun crept toward the west. Their horses were beginning to tire. A line of cedar-sprinkled hills loomed up ahead of them, but by keeping to the plateau they could circle them.