Ernest Haycox - The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox

"I guess I can take care of myself," answered Leverage, with a trace of resentment.

"Sorry," said Dave. "I won't presume to advise you again. May see you tonight and may not. In either case, I'll be somewhere around your territory."

"Don't let's ram into each other by mistake," warned Leverage.

On the threshold of the door Denver paused and turned to catch Fear Langdell's frosty, intent glance and so received the definite knowledge of the man's personal antagonism to him. Going back to the street he reflected on this. "Queer combination of righteousness and bigotry. He despises anybody who don't track with him."

They were taking Steele's body into Doc Williamson's place. Denver veered off to Grogan's. A part of Leverage's men trailed to the bar with him. It was quite apparent to him that they knew about his recent activities and that they were anxious to find out if he meant to throw in with the vigilantes. Range etiquette forbade the open question, but it stood in their eyes, nevertheless. And so, drinking and turning away, he answered it in a roundabout fashion.

"Good luck to you boys," said he, and walked out of Grogan's. Presently he was cantering from town.

He left dissatisfaction behind him. "What the hell's the matter with that fella?" one of the vigilantes wanted to know. "Too proud to talk to us?"

Another of the bunch was quick to defend Denver. "Keep yore shirt on, Breed. He's got sense enough to keep his idees to himself. If we'd quit publishin' our intentions to the world mebbe we'd ketch a fish now and then. Don't worry about Dave Denver. He's up to somethin', you bet."

Grogan lounged up to them. By and by he grunted. "Funny thing. He comes right in, stays five minutes, and walks right out again. Now, does that make sense?"

"If he didn't have a purpose," maintained Denver's defendant, "he wouldn't 'a' been here. I know Dave."

"Well, what was his idee?" demanded Grogan.

"Yore guess is as good as mine," was the other man's abrupt answer.

A slim, olive-colored little man emerged from the Palace, climbed on a calico pony, and quietly left Sundown. He circled the town, crossed the stage road a half mile behind the vanishing Denver, and fell into a lesser trail. Twenty minutes later when Denver was running along the flat stretch beyond Shoshone Dome this fellow stood on a ridge and watched, and a little later began a solitary game of distant stalking.

Denver, meanwhile, was engaged in a mysterious game of his own. A few miles beyond Shoshone Dome he drew beside the road, dismounted, and went to a stump. He capsized a loose rock, and found a piece of paper. There was a scribble of words on it. With a pencil he added a line of his own, signed his initials and put the paper back. After that he raced up and down the hairpin curves until he arrived at the Sweet Creek bridge. Here again he imitated his first performance under the timbers of the bridge; and again travelled with the highway as it swooped into the valley of Sundown. Presently he was at the mouth of Starlight. But instead of turning for home he tarried to study the distant reaches of the road. Cattle and men filled it yonder, emerging from a hill trail. He advanced at a set pace and found a half- dozen men from Fear Langdell's ranch driving approximately two hundred head of stock to the south. Langdell's foreman came up—a long, lean man with a cheerful drawl.

"We crossed yore territory, Dave," said the foreman. "Want to cut this bunch for strays?"

"I'll just take a stand down the road a bit and watch 'em pass," replied Denver. He went on a distance, drew aside, and rolled a cigarette. The foreman followed him.

"Got goin' awful late. We won't make the railroad today. Nice critters for the market, ain't they?"

Denver's glance went expertly through the passing line of cattle, reading brands. Most of the stuff was in Langdell's own original brand; but at odd intervals he saw steers Cal Steele had sold to Langdell for shipping; recognizable as such by the vent—a small replica of the owner's brand—each carried on its hip. Denver suddenly dropped his cigarette and crowded his pony into the stream of stock, coming abreast an enormous brute with sweeping horns and a red blaze on an otherwise cream head. He leaned down, passed his palm across the brand, and looked carefully at the earmarks. When he withdrew from the procession Langdell's foreman was once more beside him.

"What's the caper, Dave? That's a Steele steer we bought last week to ship."

"Ahuh. Just wanted to look closer at the ugly critter. Well, I find nothing here belonging to me. See you later."

The outfit went by, the bawling and the shouting diminished downgrade. As long as man or beast remained in sight Denver kept his position, scarcely moving a muscle. But the cast of his face slowly changed, lines deepening, lips compressing. Through his mind raced an unpleasant truth. That steer had worn a Fee brand last year. He was certain because he remembered finding the animal strayed into his own stock. And he had driven it back across the Copperhead bridge to Fee territory. No mistake about that. Undeniably the same Fee beef now going to market with Cal Steele's brand.

Of course such things honestly happened now and then. Cattlemen sold to other cattlemen; or in adjusting occasional cases of misbranding at roundup time they swapped beef to rectify these errors. But what overthrew either of these possible explanations was the fact that this particular steer had lost his Fee brand. Steele's brand proclaimed to the wide world that the steer had originated as a Steele beef. There was only one answer—a switching of marks, a careful and expert doctoring. His eyes had picked up no suspicious blurring; but his inspecting palm had felt the slight roughness and variance of the outer ridges. Even so, had he not known that steer by sight, he would have passed it as a genuine Steele product. And since both Steele and Fee used the same small underhack on the ears of their cattle, the switch would pass any casual observer's inspection.

He drew a deep breath, wishing he had never seen the steer. There were other explanations, he told himself. Yet common sense kept insisting that no matter what explanation he might conjure up to protect the memory of his friend, somebody's treachery was at the bottom of this change. The black mystery of the country had cast its shadow even over the man he loved above all others.

He stiffened in the saddle. Brush swirled beside him. A body shifted, out of sight, and a soft voice spoke to him. He caught himself after the first sidewise glance and stared impassively down the road.

"Joe Hollis saw riders passin' across the Henry trail from where he was hid, Dave. He passed the word along the line. And Lyle Bonnet placed Redmain's bunch in one of the high pockets about seven miles west of Leverage's place. Seemed like they was takin' it easy. Saddles off."

Denver spoke from the side of his mouth. "Go back. Collect the boys where the Leverage back trail runs into the Henry. I'll be along a couple hours after dark. But tell Lyle not to let 'em out of his sight. If they move, follow. In such a case, leave one man at the junction spot to meet me, and another one or two along the line so I'll know where to come. Get going, and be careful. There's somebody scouting me."

He spurred along the road to Starlight and went rapidly up. Two miles in from the highway he saw a fresh track across the soft earth and cut down the side of the canyon. The sun was dipping over the western range when he cantered across the D Slash yard and dismounted. He threw his horse into the corral and joined the remnant of his crew at the supper table.

They had nothing to report, these restless home guards. They had worked the lower corner of D Slash range and found everything proper. Steve Steers had come along during the middle of the afternoon with a small bunch of D Slash strays. They had told him of Steele's death.