LITMIR.BIZ

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with her the first week he was at the ranch. That was three years ago. Now they were to be married when things got straightened out a bit.

      Beth waved to him as he wheeled his eager bay pony and turned down the trail to the town of Oasis Valley, several miles away.

      The trail was exclusively for the Rafter P. No other ranch used the road that dipped down sharply off the mesa to run on to the town. It was said that one man could stand among the rocks at the head of the trail and fight off a dozen more. That never had come to pass yet, and Polk hoped it never would. The Rafter P had had trouble enough, in his estimation.

      A year ago John Patchey had been terribly hurt when a horse had thrown him and his foot had caught in a stirrup. He had been dragged for a long distance before the frenzied mount was stopped.

      There had been a long fight to save his life. Doctors from a distant city, expensive operations, months of being in casts. The Rafter P was not a wealthy ranch, and the financial drain due to Patchey’s injury had about wrecked it. Stock had been sold and ranch hands dismissed and now only Bob Polk and two others remained. Polk bore the burden willingly. Things would be all right someday, he kept saying.

      John Patchey was beginning to mend swiftly. Still extremely weak from his long illness, the leg encased in a cast was mending more satisfactorily.

      Only the day before, Polk had gone through the books and accounts and had held a conference with Patchey. They had worked out a plan.

      They had a bunch of yearlings ready for sale. The money realized would clear away their debts and leave enough to get going again, if strict economy was used. The news had cheered Beth and her father.

      * * * *

      Out on the trail, Bob let the eager pony show all the speed he wished. At the top of the mesa trail, he stopped the pony for a breathing spell, and looked ahead. In the distance he could see the cluster of brown dots that was the town of Oasis Valley.

      In reality, it was only a trading post containing Luke Harson’s general store and postoffice, a saloon-eating house, a blacksmith shop, and half a dozen small dwellings.

      Polk sent his pony down the steep descent from the mesa and presently they were on the flinty trail that led to the town.

      * * * *

      The wind was up, and a fine dust blowing as Polk dismounted in front of the general store in Oasis Valley. Tying his pony to the rail, he noticed a horse tethered to a hitch-post at the side of the store building. Some stranger must be in town, for regular visitors never used that post unless the hitchrails in front of the store and saloon were all taken.

      Kicking the dust from his boots, Polk opened the squeaky screen door of Luke Harson’s Store. Harson, a short, fat man with thin graying hair, was sitting comfortably in front of his counter, nodding over a newspaper. He opened a sleepy eye as Polk entered.

      “Did a package of medicine come for

      Mr. Patchey?” Polk inquired.

      “Sure did, by mail. Got a coupla letters and some catalogs for you, too, Bob.”

      “I’ll hit back to the ranch soon as my pony gets tended to. Beth’s all alone there with her father. Our two boys are huntin’ strays up in the hills. Everybody asleep in town?”

      “That’s right, you ain’t heard,” Harson told him, as he pulled his spectacles down over his eyes and went through the partition separating store from postoffice. “A rider came tearin’ into town this mornin’ from the Box D ranch, Al Darch’s outfit. Trouble there.”

      “Yeah?” Polk rolled a quirly and leaned against the counter. He looked at Harson questioningly.

      “Jake Lortz and a couple of his men showed up there late last night,” Harson told him. “Yuh know that Lortz bunch. Pretend to be cattle buyers. They get a small ranchman cornered and make him sell them cattle at about half price. Force him to give a bill of sale and make everything look legal. Pay in cash and drive off the cattle.”

      “I’ve heard how they work,” Polk said. “So they forced Al Darch to sell some stuff?”

      “Darch wouldn’t,” Harson reported. “Put up a fight. Lortz shot him through the hip and the bunch rode off. Darch sent one of his riders to town with the news. Deputy Sheriff Tom Ashe grabbed almost every man in town for a posse and started for the Box D.”

      “It’s ’bout twenty miles from here, ain’t it?” Polk observed.

      “Yeah. Tom Ashe and the men won’t get back until tomorrow or the next day. They’ll chase Lortz and his pals up into the hills. But, all they’ll get will be the chase. Lortz’ll have too much of a head start.”

      “Who brought the news?” Polk asked. “New man named Sam Walton. Says he’s been with the Box D only a couple of months. Darch sent him, he says, ’cause he’s got a fast pony and is a good rider. He’s in the saloon, restin’ up.”

      “Lortz is going to play his game once too often,” Polk made prophecy. “This is the first time I heard tell of him shootin’ a man. That puts him outside the law. A bill of sale won’t cover that.”

      Harson got the package of medicine and the mail and turned it over to Polk.

      “Sack of smokin’ for me and some candy for Beth,” he told Harson. “Don’t need any kitchen stuff this trip.”

      Harson tossed out the smoking tobacco and started to sack up a pound of mixed hard candy, as Polk idly watched the dusty, sun-drenched street through the dirty window. He heard a clatter of hoofbeats, and as he noted the two riders who stopped at the hitch-rail in front of the saloon, Polk snapped erect.

      “Harson!” he called, guardedly.

      Harson looked up at him sharply. “What’s up?”

      “Jake Lortz just rode in, and Hank Simms, his right-hand man, is with him. I know ’em by sight. Saw ’em last year.”

      “And Deputy Tom Ashe at least fifteen miles away and still ridin’,” Harson mourned.

      “Who’s in town?”

      “You. And me and the saloon man and a couple of old-timers. None of us any good ina brawl, especially with guns. You’re the only fightin’ man hereabouts, Bob.”

      “How about the Valley Ranch rider? Saw his pony out front.”

      “Just a kid named Martin. Comes in for the mail. Always takes two drinks and then sleeps a coupla hours before startin’ home. He’d be no good in a scrap.”

      “That Box D man who calls himself Sam Walton, who rode in with the news—”

      “Middle-aged gent I never saw before. Don’t know what he’s likely to do. Lortz and Hank Simms are a bad combination to fight.”

      “Surely this man Walton would help fight the men who shot his boss!”

      “I don’t know, Bob. Don’t know anything about him. If you get in touch with him, maybe you can judge.”

      “Lortz and Simms must be headin’ east to get away. They by-passed the posse. Only other trail out of here runs up to the mesa and the Rafter P.”

      “Maybe they’re headed for the Rafter P, Bob.”

      “And Beth there alone with the Old Man, and the other boys away! If they tried to force the Old Man to sell his yearlin’s at a joke of a price—”

      If anything like that happened it would mean disaster and ruination for the Rafter P, Polk knew. He realized quickly that it was necessary to move with caution until he learned what was afoot. Lortz and Simms were wanted for the shooting of Darch. But Darch had not been killed, and Polk had nothing to go by except the report of Walton from the Box D.

      There might be a mistake. The man might have exaggerated the extent of the ruckus.

      If Polk walked into the saloon without understanding

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