LITMIR.BIZ

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find out about this, even if I have to do some sneakin’.”

      Harson nodded understanding. Polk hurried through the store and let himself out the rear door. Walking slowly and keeping close to the building, he managed to get behind the saloon and near an open window.

      He could hear loud voices and laughter. Peering through the window, he saw Jake Lortz and Hank Simms standing at the bar with drinks before them. Martin, the youthful Valley Ranch rider, was sprawled in drunken slumber over a card table, his head resting on his arms. A man Polk assumed to be Sam Walton was standing near the end of the bar, making wet rings on it with the bottom of his glass and apparently paying no attention to the others.

      Hearing nothing of importance Polk decided to enter the saloon. He shifted his holster to where he wanted it, pulled his hat down well over his face, and pushed past the batwings yawning and rubbing his eyes.

      The bartender gave him a swift glance and acted as if trying to convey a message, but Polk ignored him. He had caught sight of Jake Lortz watching him closely in the mirror on the back bar.

      Lounging past them, Polk went to the bar to stand within a few feet of Sam Walton. He motioned for the bartender to put out bottle and glass. Polk poured a drink, tossed down a coin, and let the drink stand while he got out tobacco sack and paper and calmly began building a quirly.

      “Have a drink on us, cowboy!” Jake Lortz called out truculently.

      “Thanks, but I’ve got one,” Polk replied, with a mere glance at him. “Don’t like to take too much on an empty stomach.”

      “Where you work?”

      “To tell the truth, I’m between jobs right now,” Polk told him. “Think I’ll ride out to the Valley Ranch. It’s a big outfit, and they’re always puttin’ on riders.”

      “Where’d you work last?”

      “If you don’t mind, I’ll hold on to my cards,” Polk replied, suggesting he had something of a record to conceal.

      Lortz and Simms both laughed. “Keep your secret,” Lortz told him. “Reckon all of us have dark things in our past.”

      “Speakin’ of the Valley Ranch, I see their mail carrier has passed out,” Polk said. “It’d be a mercy to get him on his feet. Prob’ly take an hour. Have to souse his head in the waterin’ trough at the blacksmith shop. Maybe he can tell me if there’s a job at the Valley Ranch.”

      He tossed off his drink, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and went over to the table where young Martin was sleeping. He shook the boy vigorously but all he got was a mumbled drunken response.

      “You better wake up,” Polk urged. “Come on! I’ll get you on your feet. Want some information out of you. And you’d better be hittin’ for home soon, or your boss will tan the place where your chaps don’t reach.”

      Lortz and Simms watched the proceedings with amusement. Polk finally succeeded in getting Martin on his feet.

      “You’ve got to walk across the street and stick your head in the horse trough,” Polk ordered. “You’re wet inside already. Come along!”

      “Don’ wanna,” Martin muttered. He slumped down into his chair again and reached for the empty bottle before him. “Don’ have to hurry back to ranch.”

      Lortz and Simms began laughing raucously. Under cover of the sound, Martin suddenly whispered to Polk, “I’m not drunk. I know yuh, Polk. I’m listenin’.” Polk’s eyes flickered with understanding. “All right! Have it your own way! Sleep it off!” he stormed in simulated anger at Martin. He turned back to the bar, and this time stopped within a couple of feet of Sam Walton, the Box D man. “Have a snort with me,” he invited. “I can still buy a drink.”

      “Sure!” Walton agreed.

      As the drinks were poured again the bartender attempted to signal him, but Polk had no opportunity to learn his message.

      Moving closer to Walton, Polk appeared to be studying the drink before him before he spoke in a barely audible voice.

      “If you brought the news from the Box D,” Polk muttered, “you know those men—Lortz and Simms. They shot Darch. Will you help me corral ’em when we get a chance?”

      For answer, Sam Walton bent over the bar, and began chuckling as if weak from a fit of merriment. And in another instant his hand dived for his holster, hardware cleared leather, and Polk felt the muzzle of a .45 jamming him in the ribs. “Here’s a good one, Lortz!” Walton

      called down the bar. “This gent wants me to help him corral you and Simms for shootin’ Al Darch at the Box D.”

      Lortz and Simms emitted a series of bellows supposed to be laughter, and came to within a few feet of Polk.

      “The joke’s on you, stranger,” Lortz explained. “Yuh see, I could have killed Darch when he got to quarrelin’ with us, but I only shot him in the leg. He was goin’ to draw on me. We got to quarrelin’ about the price he wanted for some cattle. Walton is one of my men.”

      “So?” Polk said, trying to assemble his scattered wits.

      “So I sent him to town to play he was a Box D boy and get the deputy sheriff and every able-bodied man ridin’ to the Box D. We simply cut over the hills and came here. Hope the posse will have a nice ride.”

      Polk shook his head. “Don’t quite get it. Unless, of course, you’re hittin’ east and makin’ a run.”

      “We’ve got plenty of time to take a rest—or do anything we want. Reckon the three of us can do a little collectin’ here in town from this saloon and the store. And there’s a little business deal we can close on the way that’ll net us somethin’ nice.”

      “Sure got the set-up wrong, didn’t I?” Polk said.

      “Reckon you did,” Lortz answered. “Maybe you thought there might be a little reward money. Sorry to disappoint you, cowboy. Under the circumstances, I’d better take your gun. Heist your hands!”

      Unresistingly, Polk permitted Lortz to lift his gun out of its holster and thrust it into his own belt. It was no time for Polk to try to put up a fight against three gunmen already on the run. He wanted to hear more about their plans before he decided to get out of his trap, if he could.

      “Give me back my gun when you ride,” he begged. “I’ll be needin’ it, and guns cost money.”

      “I’ll think it over,” Lortz replied, grinning. “I’ll even buy yuh a drink, since yuh bought one for Walton. We’ve got a little time to kill and some restin’ to do ’fore we move on. The fool deputy and his posse won’t be back today, and maybe not tomorrow if they go chasin’ all over the hills lookin’ for us. We’ll stick around town till the middle of the afternoon, maybe. Want to get to the Rafter P before dark.”

      Polk fought to keep from betraying his concern.

      “Rafter P? I’ve heard that’s a small outfit on its last legs,” Polk said, noncommittally.

      “Yep, it’s a small outfit,” Lortz agreed. “The owner’s been sick abed for a long time—got busted up. Eatin’ its own beef, that outfit is. But me, I always like to help out folks in tough luck, and I aim to help the owner of the Rafter P.”

      “How can yuh help him if he’s sick abed?” Polk asked.

      “He’s got a small herd of fine yearlin’s. I aim to buy ’em from him for cash, so he’ll have some money to go on. A sick man is liable to be cranky and not know what’s best for him, so we’ve made some arrangements.”

      “Arrangements?” Polk questioned.

      “I happen to know that there’s only three men in the Rafter P bunkhouse,” Lortz informed him. “Two of ’em are away back in the hills lookin’ for strays. Nobody at the ranch ’cept the old man and his girl and a feller

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