Ernest Haycox - The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox

"Let's go," Nig said. Being several feet away, Lin could see nothing of Beauty's brother, but he could hear the man's heavy breathing and the creak of his saddle leather. "Beauty and me had better ride flank. You haze 'em along from behind. Let's get outa here. If anything should go wrong, I'll let a yelp out of me, which is a sign for you to make a run for it."

The brothers moved away and presently were lost to Ballou. He rode down the slanting ground and came up behind the slowly moving cattle. From somewhere in the van he heard Beauty's softly spoken signal. "Let's go." At that he shoved his horse against the bunch and as gently as possible, pressed them on. They got in motion after some confused moving about. Lin was kept extremely busy for a few moments heading off bolters, but finally they settled to a steady pace. The run was on.

After they had gone some hundred yards Lin knew where he was. At this point the mesa curved into a kind of chute that led, with some amount of winding and twisting, out of the high ground and down into the East Flats. It was an admirable natural road to take stock over in the dark, for the banks of it acted as a check against the cattle breaking off on the flanks. In addition, this particular gully was the least obstructed of all the entrances or exits of the mesa. Therefore, it was possible to put the herd to a stiff run. They had not gone far before the whole group was a- trot. Lin sat losely in the saddle with little work to do and free to puzzle over the point they were bound for.

Beauty Chatto had said they shipped the rustled stock through another man—obviously some cattleman of the valley. That meant, of course, that eventually they would reach one of the three or four loading pens along the railroad. Lin had lived long enough in the country to know just how this worked, but it did not seem possible they would try to drive that whole distance in a night's time. For they still had the job of changing brands before them, and this had to be done in daylight, in some isolated section where chance travelers would be least apt to stray.

And what brand would they use? What cattleman acted as agent for the Chattos? Lin, running through the list in his mind, could not fix upon any particular man who would put himself in any such position. Obviously it was some extremely bold and restless character who paraded the streets of Powder and acted the part of honesty. Well, within a few hours he should know that man's name. And in all probability it would be one well known to him.

Folks rise and fall in this world, he mused, and that gent, whoever he may be, is leading straight for destruction. This tampering with right and wrong is a risky thing, always.

He sat up, all attention. Something in the headlong pace of the herd made him uneasy. He scanned the black skyline, trying to discern the still blacker figures of the Chattos who should be riding thereon. But he saw nothing. Once he thought he felt the presence of someone not far from him, and in order to quell the disquietude of his mind he turned his horse up one bank and rode along it for a hundred yards or more. Nothing came of it, except a dangerous stumble on the part of the pony. Still unsatisfied, he dropped back into the gully.

Then, without reason and without tangible evidence of danger, the hair rose at the back of his neck. He slackened his pace and reached for his gun while the horse, a wise, veteran animal, shied away. At almost the same time there came a flash of light and the crack of a gun. The galloping herd vanished in the night and a ringing 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.

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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.