LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Damned outlaw! Belongs with Black Yardley’s bandit gang.”

      “Who’s Black Yardley?” I asks.

      “Hell’s bells! Don’t ask me fool questions,” raps the ringy sheriff. “You know who Yardley is as well as I do.”

      But I don’t know, never havin’ heard of Black Yardley. “How come you’re here, Sheriff?” sez I.

      “Feller driftin’ through Far Peak let fall as a blond crippled jasper, white hair, scar on cheek, ridin’ a gray bronc, blotched brand, had been seen with a trail herd of 90 Bar cattle.”

      “That so?” I drawls skeptical. “Wal, you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree.”

      “Lame Larson,” snaps the sheriff, “jus’ now split the breeze away from here. What’s more, Mr. Trail Herd Boss, them punchers what’s with your herd now told me plenty. Hell! a two-thousand-dollar reward slipped through my fingers.”

      “Two-thousand-dollar reward!” I gasps, flabbergasted.

      “Yep.… Reckon I’ll eat with yuh.” “Sure. Fill up your belly. Stay all night, too. I wouldn’t think o’ lettin’ you ride away empty and sleepy.”

      But I ain’t sincere. Doggone that John Law! I wish he’d vamoose an’ never come back. In the chuck wagon is the only man as can pilot our herd through Cayuse Brakes, the man as was trusted by Cap Dillingham—a wanted outlaw.

      Dutton swings off. Raw Beef Oliver shows him some of his famous grub in the dutch ovens. Loadin’ up his plate, the sheriff sets down on one of two bed rolls what’s close together with a tarp throwed over ’em. I see him bend and kinder squint down under that tarp. Gosh! He hops up sudden an’ throws that tarp aside, exposin’ Jinglin’ Jimmy’s saddle!

      “Who the hell does this kack belong to?”

      I jus’ gulp, but ol’ Raw Beef, who I know musta hid the saddle, grunts, unconcerned, “Why, what’s wrong? It’s mine.”

      Dutton looks skeptical. “What you doin’ with a saddle?”

      “Got to leave the chuck wagon an’ use a pack outfit to cross that dang country,” replies Raw Beef, wavin’ his hand at them hills on our west. “I bring my outfit ’long, of course.”

      The sheriff sets down and laps up his grub. I throw Raw Beef a plum’ grateful look. He’s right ’bout us havin’ to take to a pack hoss outfit, but his old hull is in the wagon!

      “If I was you, Sheriff,” I remarks, “I’d trail that outlaw. If I could spare any men I’d send ’em with you, too.”

      “Thanks, I don’t need help. I’ve decided I am goin’ to track that cuss. I’ll camp on his trail t’night.”

      Jumpin’ up, he forks his black. “I still claim you orter held the son-of-a-gun,” he snaps at me. “If he comes near your outfit again, grab him!”

      “Sure ’preciate your backin’ my play, Oliver,” sez I to Raw Beef, awful relieved to see that John Law ride away.

      “Hell! you an’ me is old-timers,” sez Raw Beef, partin’ his ’normous mustache and squirtin’ tobacco juice into the fire. “We got to deliver these yere dogies to Cap Dillingham, we have. The Law’s outa sight. Come eat, Mason.”

      Mason climbs outa the wagon. I swing onto my saddled hoss, rope a nag for Mason outa the cavvy—he can use Jinglin’s saddle—and lope out to relieve the boys with the herd.

      “Sheriff Dutton get that bandit?” inquires Cal Bassett, the first waddy I run onto. “We sure wanted to see what was goin’ on, but these danged steers was so ringy we couldn’t leave ’em.”

      “Mason’s still with us, Cal.” “Wh—at?”

      Cash Martin and Roper Dixon lopes up to me and Bassett. I sez to all three hands: “What Mason’s done, or what he is, don’t make a damn bit of difference to us, savvy? With us he’s no outlaw. Jus’ a cowpuncher, one of this outfit. All of yuh savvy?”

      Roper Dixon says he does. A rawboned six-footer, Dixon. A rough, ornery jasper; hair like a black hoss’s mane; black eyes; busted nose; knuckles all broke from scrappin’. A plenty tough nut, but one of the best hands with a rope ever I seen.

      “But, man, that reward—” begins Cash Martin, a sandy-complected, sawed-off, barrel-chested jigger. Cash’s eyes is jus’ about as shifty as Cal Bassett’s.

      “I savvy,” interrupts Bassett, lookin’ every place but at me.

      Without sayin’ nothin’ more the three punchers head for the wagon. But I’m powerful uneasy about them jaspers. Dunno whether I can depend on ’em or not. Mason rides out to join me. The steers has quieted down and is restin’ easy, so me and him has a few words, nightherdin’ there under the stars.

      “Wal, cowboy,” I start the confab, “are you goin’ to see me through with these cattle?”

      “You bet your boots, I am,” he replies emphatic. “Deliverin’ this herd is as much my job as your’n, Bill. You see, Cap Dillingham is dependin’ on me.”

      “So?” sez I. “Dillingham knowed you was—what you was, when he hired you, Mason?”

      “Yes.”

      “That reward on your cabeza straight goods?”

      The lean-jawed, blond hombre nods his head. “Howsoever, Bill Swift, I’ll give you my word I’m tryin’ now to ride a straight trail. ’Nuff said.”

      “Just a minute,” I persists. “Who’s Yardley and where does he hang out?”

      “I passed my word that I’d never say nothin’ about Black Yardley.” Mason gives me a look outer his steely eyes that kinda makes my flesh creep, and he leaves me abrupt.

      At daybreak Jinglin’ Jimmy hasn’t returned, nor has Sheriff Dutton showed up again. We pack some ponies with beds and grub and head our herd into them Cayuse Brakes, Mason takin’ the point. ’Tain’t long afore our thousand head of steers is strung out like a snake, twistin’ between little hills, climbing up some steep slopes and droppin’ down others. A mile-long snake, windin’ through that trackless country; avoidin’ bogholes, blind canyons and sheer cliffs.

      Along about noon—we ain’t intendin’ to stop for dinner until the drive for the day is finished—big Roper Dixon jogs up aside me where I’m workin’ in the swing.

      “Bill,” he sez, “tain’t up to me to say nothin’ ’bout what’s your business, but did it occur to you as how Mason is probably leadin’ this herd straight to some rustler pals?”

      “Dixon, that hombre brought the High Man a letter from Cap Dillingham. Dillingham trusts him.”

      The puncher fixes his black eyes on me and curls his lips derisive. “Who sez Dillingham trusts him? That letter might ha’ been forged!”

      “I trust Mason, too,” I come back proddy. “Better drop back ’longside the herd, Roper.”

      Dixon turns his hoss. “Thought I’d put yuh wise to what me an’ Martin an’ Bassett all think,” he remarks. “Mebbe soon your eyes’ll be opened plenty.”

      Maybe they will at that. Food for mighty uneasy thought, them words of Roper’s.

      ‘Long ’bout four in the afternoon we reach a sizable open basin, and Mason ridin’ back to meet me, says, “Camp here. Wood, water and grass. Yonder’s an old corral, too—if you got any need for it.”

      “I hasn’t,” sez I. “But it looks like somebody branded cattle here one time.”

      “One time?” Mason sez, grinnin’. “I rode to that corral afore you hove in sight. It’s been used right recent.”

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