Starlight Riders Boxed-Set 50 Western Classics in One Edition - Ernest Haycox

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cry resounded on his right, a cry that was immethately taken up all about him.

      The gully seemed to fill with horsemen. The pony stopped dead, quivering in the flanks. A rider came so close to him that a stirrup grazed his leg. And as he sat motionless, mind racing, his ears striving to catch some break in this trap through which he might plunge, he heard a sharp and resounding order issued by a voice that he knew only too well. In response a dozen torches flamed in the darkness and a smell of burning paper and kerosene stung his nostrils. He was trapped.

      The furiously blazing torches made a complete ring around him and revealed him as plainly as if he stood in broad daylight. He saw many faces staring grimly at him—faces reflecting the crimson light. These were men he knew. Every last one of them he knew as well as he might have known a brother. Foremost was W. W. Offut, a commanding figure with steely foreboding eyes that seemed to catch flame and burn. Nearby, lolling in the saddle, a dry smile of satisfaction printed on his fat face, was James J. Lestrade. There were other old-time ranch owners in the party, but Lin Ballou had eyes only for those two.

      Lestrade could not conceal his pleasure. He said, "Well, I told you boys I'd guarantee results. There's your rustler. Give me credit for having a few sources of information as to what goes on in this country. What do you suppose I travel and make friends for? There's the man you want. Caught cold—and nary a word to say, either."

      But Lestrade might have spoken to dumb men as far as results went. Everyone seemed to wait for Offut to speak, and at last he did in a flat, laconic maimer.

      "Guess we've caught Lin Ballou. Nobody else dragged up in the net, eh?"

      "Ain't nobody else," Lestrade declared. "He's the one that did all this thieving."

      Offut seemed to weigh this statement. He looked around at the circle of followers and appeared to weigh the possibilities of further search. But the torches were burning low, and if there were other rustlers, they had been given warning enough to put themselves at some distance. So he returned his attention to Lin. The penetrating eyes fell like a blow on the trapped Ballou. Then they seemed to drop a little, as if masking some particular emotion. He spoke again, in the same short, calm manner.

      "Your gun, Lin."

      Ballou pulled it from the holster, reversed the barrel and handed it over.

      "Anything to say? Any confederates to reveal?" Offut asked.

      Lin shook his head. In the last spurt of light he saw the cattleman's mouth settle into a thin, compressed smile.

      "All right, boys, we'll take him back to Powder and put him in jail. Now, I want you all to understand my judgment on the matter. No talk of lynching. No tolerating the talk from others. I stand for fair trial—always have. Ballou must get it, same as others. Now let's ride."

      Ballou turned his horse and came between Lestrade and Offut. Thus guarded, he began the long and dreary march across the mesa and down the slopes to Powder. The party traveled in a straight line, stopping at the Offut ranch for an hour's rest, a meal and fresh horses. Wednesday night, Lin Ballou was locked in the Powder jail.

      CHAPTER VII

       A STRANGE VISITOR

       Table of Contents

      Confined within the four scarred, bescribbled walls of the jail room on the second floor of the county courthouse, Lin Ballou had nothing to do but stare through the grating into the cluttered back area of the building and meditate on the swift turn events had taken. He was not particularly bitter over his situation. That would have been a reversal of his attitude toward life, which was extremely serene and simple. A man's misfortunes, he held, were of his own making and no good ever came of regretting who had been done and could not be recalled. As a man got into trouble, so could he get out. When the tide ran swiftly in one direction it did no good to try to swim against it. The time always came when that tide slackened and reversed itself.

      Not that he lacked the spirit to make a good fight. The course of his life proved him a strong and persistent fighter. But he had always understood when to play 'possum and when to spring up and put forth all that there was in him of strength and courage. And according to his belief, the present was a good time to rest and reflect, to wait and see what the authorities meant to do with him.

      So he spent Wednesday afternoon whistling the lonely bars of the Cowboy's Lament and that night had a good sound sleep on a bed that was somewhat softer than those in the cave. It was a novelty too, to have the jailer bring his meals on a tray—meals that came from Dick Sharp's Eating Palace across the street mid were paid for by the county. The jailer, though a former friend of his, was a man who had the proper cast of mind belonging to his profession. He regarded his captive with a pessimistic, discouraging eye.

      "Well, I seen a good many come and go in and outa these portals of justice," he said, opening the door and pushing the breakfast tray through the aperture, "and one and all come to a bad end, soon or late. You can't buck the law, young fellow. They'll get you. Oh, yeah, they'll get you."

      "My stomach," Lin said with an air of severity, "doesn't take kindly to cold fodder. See if you can't rush this tray across before the coffee gets a chill."

      "You'll guzzle many a cold cup before we're through with you," the jailer said, slamming the door. He pulled at the ends' of his walrus-like mustache and squinted between the bars.

      "Meaning I'm here for quite a spell? Where's the judge?"

      "Off on a fishing trip. Won't be back for a week. Prosecuting attorney along with him. Sheriff, too."

      "Well, if the minions of the law can stand it, so can I. My time ain't valuable and the quarters are tolerable. Only I'm going to ask you not to run any common drunks in with me. I'm a particular prisoner."

      The jailer evidently disapproved of this levity. His solemn face settled until it resembled that of a wrinkled and tired bloodhound. "Leave me give you some advice about escaping," he said. "I'm entrusted with you and I'll do my duty. If you try to get out I'll have to use a gun. I'm not a gent to wish for blood—but I see my duty and I'll do it."

      "Spoken like a gentleman," Lin said heartily. "Now run along, Rollo, and don't forget about the coffee or I'll put in a complaint to the management."

      The jailer retreated down the corridor, closed another door and descended the stairs. Lin ate his meal in peace, built himself a brown-paper cigarette and settled the flat of his back on the bunk. To collect his thoughts he fixed his gaze at a fly speck on the yellow ceiling.

      He had been neatly betrayed. That was obvious. The Chattos had done an extra good job and had got themselves out of the way with no difficulty at all. With as little trust as he had in that fine pair of rascals and with all the wariness he had exercised, Lin was forced to admit that they had given him no good grounds for suspicion imtil the very last moment when the posse had swamped him. Now that it was over he understood the reason for Beauty's lighting the match and the reason for putting him in the rear of the herd. That light had been a signal, perhaps not to the posse as a whole, but at least to some advanced member who had returned to the group and reported it. The Chattos, meanwhile, had quietly dropped away from the gully in the dark and put themselves out of danger.

      I might have been a little shrewder, Lin admitted, if I hadn't been so all-fired set on discovering something for myself. But seeing that I had a particular job to do, I let them pull the wool over my eyes. A man naturally wouldn't expect that couple of born crooks to be dickering with a cattle committee. They're not that fond of the law and they know pretty well that the cattlemen don't view them in any favorable light. There's a missing link somewhere.

      Somebody who worked with the Chattos had tipped off the committee, and the committee, not knowing that the Chattos were involved, had followed the clue given them.

      Such a fellow might be a ranch owner himself, Lin surmised, rolling himself a new smoke. Probably the very same gent who handles their tampered beef for them. Probably some dude in good standing with everybody.

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