The Rangeland Avenger

  3

  Riley Sinclair rode over the mountain. An hour of stern climbing laybehind him, but it was not sympathy for his tired horse that made himdraw rein. Sympathy was not readily on tap in Riley's nature."Hossflesh" to Riley was purely and simply a means to an end. Neitherhad he paused to enjoy that mystery of change which comes overmountains between late afternoon and early evening. His keen eyesanswered all his purposes, and that they had never learned to see bluein shadows meant nothing to Riley Sinclair.

  If he looked kindly upon the foothills, which stepped down from thepeaks to the valley lands, it was because they meant an easy descent.Riley took thorough stock of his surroundings, for it was a newcountry. Yonder, where the slant sun glanced and blinked on windows,must be Sour Creek; and there was the road to town jagging across thehills. Riley sighed.

  In his heart he despised that valley. There were black patches ofplowed land. A scattering of houses began in the foothills andthickened toward Sour Creek. How could men remain there, where therewas so little elbow room? He scowled down into the shadow of thevalley. Small country, small men.

  Pictures failed to hold Riley, but, as he sat the saddle, hand onthigh, and looked scornfully toward Sour Creek, he was himself apicture to make one's head lift. As a rule the horse comes in for asmuch attention as the rider, but when Riley Sinclair came near, peoplesaw the man and nothing else. Not because he was good-looking, butbecause one became suddenly aware of some hundred and eighty pounds oflithe, tough muscle and a domineering face.

  Somewhere behind his eyes there was a faint glint of humor. That wasthe only soft touch about him. He was in that hard age between thirtyand thirty-five when people are still young, but have lost theillusions of youth. And, indeed, that was exactly the word which peoplein haste used to describe Riley Sinclair--"hard."

  Having once resigned himself to the descent into that cramped countrybeneath he at once banished all regret. First he picked out hisobjective, a house some distance away, near the road, and then hebrought his mustang up on the bit with a touch of the spurs. Then,having established the taut rein which he preferred, he sent the cowpony down the slope. It was plain that the mustang hated its rider; itwas equally plain that Sinclair was in perfect touch with his horse,what with the stern wrist pulling against the bit, and the spurskeeping the pony up on it. In spite of his bulk he was not heavy in thesaddle, for he kept in tune with the gait of the horse, with that swayof the body which lightens burdens. A capable rider, he was sojudicious that he seemed reckless.

  Leaving the mountainside, he struck at a trot across a tableland. Somemysterious instinct enabled him to guide the pony without glancing onceat the ground; for Sinclair, with his head high, was now carefullyexamining the house before him. Twice a cluster of trees obscured it,and each time, as it came again more closely in view, the eye of RileySinclair brightened with certainty. At length, nodding slightly toexpress his conviction, he sent the pony into the shelter of a littlegrove overlooking the house. From this shelter, still giving half hisattention to his objective, he ran swiftly over his weapons. The pairof long pistols came smoothly into his hands, to be weighed nicely, andhave their cylinders spun. Then the rifle came out of its case, and itsmagazine was looked to thoroughly before it was returned.

  This done, the rider seemed in no peculiar haste to go on. He merelypushed the horse into a position from which he commanded all theenvirons of the house; then he sat still as a hawk hovering in awindless sky.

  Presently the door of the little shack opened, and two men came out andwalked down the path toward the road, talking earnestly. One was astall as Riley Sinclair, but heavier; the other was a little, slightman. He went to a sleepy pony at the end of the path and slowlygathered the reins. Plainly he was troubled, and apparently it was thebig man who had troubled him. For now he turned and cast out his handtoward the other, speaking rapidly, in the manner of one making a lastappeal. Only the murmur of that voice drifted up to Riley Sinclair, butthe loud laughter of the big man drove clearly to him. The smaller ofthe two mounted and rode away with dejected head, while the otherremained with arms folded, looking after him.

  He seemed to be chuckling at the little man, and indeed there wascause, for Riley had never seen a rider so completely out of place in asaddle. When the pony presently broke into a soft lope it caused theelbows of the little man to flop like wings. Like a great clumsy birdhe winged his way out of view beyond the edge of the hilltop.

  The big man continued to stand with his arms folded, looking in thedirection in which the other had disappeared; he was still shaking withmirth. When he eventually turned, Riley Sinclair was riding down on himat a sharp gallop. Strangers do not pass ungreeted in the mountaindesert. There was a wave of the arm to Riley, and he responded bybringing his horse to a trot, then reining in close to the big man. Atclose hand he seemed even larger than from a distance, a burly figurewith ludicrously inadequate support from the narrow-heeled ridingboots. He looked sharply at Riley Sinclair, but his first speech wasfor the hard-ridden pony.

  "You been putting your hoss through a grind, I see, stranger."

  The mustang had slumped into a position of rest, his sides heaving.

  "Most generally," said Riley Sinclair, "when I climb into a saddle itain't for pleasure--it's to get somewhere."

  His voice was surprisingly pleasant. He spoke very deliberately, sothat one felt occasionally that he was pausing to find the right words.And, in addition to the quality of that deep voice, he had animpersonal way of looking his interlocutor squarely in the eye, a habitthat pleased the men of the mountain desert. On this occasion hiscompanion responded at once with a grin. He was a younger man thanRiley Sinclair, but he gave an impression of as much hardness as Rileyhimself.

  "Maybe you'll be sliding out of the saddle for a minute?" he asked."Got some pretty fair hooch in the house."

  "Thanks, partner, but I'm due over to Sour Creek by night. I guessthat's Sour Creek over the hill?"

  "Yep. New to these parts?"

  "Sort of new."

  Riley's noncommittal attitude was by no means displeasing to the largerman. His rather brutally handsome face continued to light, as if hewere recognizing in Riley Sinclair a man of his own caliber.

  "You're from yonder?"

  "Across the mountains."

  "You travel light."

  His eyes were running over Riley's meager equipment. Sinclair had beenknown to strike across the desert loaded with nothing more than arifle, ammunition, and water. Other things were nonessentials to him,and it was hardly likely that he would put much extra weight on ahorse. The only concession to animal comfort, in fact, was the slickerrolled snugly behind the saddle. He was one of those rare Westerners towhom coffee on the trail is not the staff of life. As long as he had agun he could get meat, and as long as he could get meat, he caredlittle about other niceties of diet. On a long trip his "extras" wereusually confined to a couple of bags of strength-giving grain for hishorse.

  "Maybe you'd know the gent I'm down here looking for?" asked Riley."Happen to know Ollie Quade--Oliver Quade?"

  "Sort of know him, yep."

  Riley went on explaining blandly "You see, I'm carrying him a sort of adeath message."

  "H'm," said the big man, and he watched Riley, his eyes grown suddenlyalert, his glance shifting from hand to face with catlike uncertainty.

  "Yep," resumed Sinclair in a rambling vein. "I come from a gent thatused to be a pal of his. Name is Sam Lowrie."

  "Sam Lowrie!" exclaimed the other. "You a friend of Sam's?"

  "I was the only gent with him when he died," said Sinclair simply.

  "Dead!" said the other heavily. "Sam dead!"

  "You must of been pretty thick with him," declared Riley.

  "Man, I'm Quade. Lowrie was my bunkie!"

  He came close to Sinclair, raising an eager face. "How'd Lowrie goout?"

  "Pretty peaceful--boots off--everything comfortable."

  "He give you a message for me?"

&
nbsp; "Yep, about a gent called Sinclair--Hal Sinclair, I think it was."Immediately he turned his eyes away, as if he were striving torecollect accurately. Covertly he sent a side glance at Quade and foundhim scowling suspiciously. When he turned his head again, his eye wasas clear as the eye of a child. "Yep," he said, "that was the name--HalSinclair."

  "What about Hal Sinclair?" asked Quade gruffly.

  "Seems like Sinclair was on Lowrie's conscience," said Riley in thesame unperturbed voice.

  "You don't say so!"

  "I'll tell you what he told me. Maybe he was just raving, for he had asort of fever before he went out. He said that you and him and HalSinclair and Bill Sandersen all went out prospecting. You got stuckclean out in the desert, Lowrie said, and you hit for water. ThenSinclair's hoss busted his leg in a hole. The fall smashed upSinclair's foot. The four of you went on, Sinclair riding one hoss, andthe rest of you taking turns with the third one. Without water thehosses got weak, and you gents got pretty badly scared, Lowrie said.Finally you and Sandersen figured that Sinclair had got to get off, butSinclair couldn't walk. So the three of you made up your minds to leavehim and make a dash for water. You got to water, all right, and inthree hours you went back for Sinclair. But he'd given up hope and shothimself, sooner'n die of thirst, Lowrie said."

  The horrible story came slowly from the lips of Riley Sinclair. Therewas not the slightest emotion in his face until Quade rubbed hisknuckles across his wet forehead. Then there was the faintest juttingout of Riley's jaw.

  "Lowrie was sure raving," said Quade.

  Sinclair looked carelessly down at the gray face of Quade. "I guessmaybe he was, but what he asked me to say was: 'Hell is sure coming towhat you boys done.'"

  "He thought about that might late," replied Quade. "Waited till hecould shift the blame on me and Sandersen, eh? To hell with Lowrie!"

  "Maybe he's there, all right," said Sinclair, shrugging. "But I've gotrid of the yarn, anyway."

  "Are you going to spread that story around in Sour Creek?" asked Quadesoftly.

  "Me? Why, that story was told me confidential by a gent that was aboutto go out!"

  Riley's frank manner disarmed Quade in a measure.

  "Kind of queer, me running on to you like this, ain't it?" he went on."Well, you're fixed up sort of comfortable up here. Nice little shack,partner. And I suppose you got a wife and kids and everything? Prettylucky, I'd call you!"

  Quade was glad of an opportunity to change the subject. "No wife yet!"he said.

  "Living up here all alone?"

  "Sure! Why?"

  "Nothing! Thought maybe you'd find it sort of lonesome."

  Back to the dismissed subject Quade returned, with the persistence of aguilty conscience. "Say," he said, "while we're talking about it, youdon't happen to believe what Lowrie said?"

  "Lowrie was pretty sick; maybe he was raving. So you're all along uphere? Nobody near?"

  His restless, impatient eye ran over the surroundings. There was not asoul in sight. The mountains were growing stark and black against theflush of the western sky. His glance fell back upon Quade.

  "But how did Lowrie happen to die?"

  "He got shot."

  "Did a gang drop him?"

  "Nope, just one gent."

  "You don't say! But Lowrie was a pretty slick hand with a gun--next toBill Sandersen, the best I ever seen, almost! Somebody got the drop onhim, eh?"

  "Nope, he killed himself!"

  Quade gasped. "Suicide?"

  "Sure."

  "How come?"

  "I'll tell you how it was. He seen a gent coming. In fact he looked outof the window of his hotel and seen Riley Sinclair, and he figured thatRiley had come to get him for what happened to his brother, Hal. Lowriegot sort of excited, lost his nerve, and when the hotel keeper comeupstairs, Lowrie thought it was Sinclair, and he didn't wait. He shothimself."

  "You seem to know a pile," said Quade thoughtfully.

  "Well, you see, I'm Riley Sinclair." Still he smiled, but Quade was asone who had seen a ghost.

  "I had to make sure that you was alone. I had to make sure that you wasguilty. And you are, Quade. Don't do that!"

  The hand of Quade slipped around the butt of his gun and clung there.

  "You ain't fit for a gun fight right now," went on Riley Sinclairslowly. "You're all shaking, Quade, and you couldn't hit the side ofthe mountain, let alone me. Wait a minute. Take your time. Get allsettled down and wait till your hand stops shaking."

  Quade moistened his white lips and waited.

  "You give Hal plenty of time," resumed Riley Sinclair. "Since Lowrietold me that yarn I been wondering how Hal felt when you and the othertwo left him alone. You know, a gent can do some pretty stiff thinkingbefore he makes up his mind to blow his head off."

  His tone was quite conversational.

  "Queer thing how I come to blunder into all this information, partner.I come into a room where Lowrie was. The minute he heard my name hefigured I was after him on account of Hal. Up he comes with his gunlike a flash. Afterward he told me all about it, and I give him apretty fine funeral. I'll do the same by you, Quade. How you feelingnow?"

  "Curse you!" exclaimed Quade.

  "Maybe I'm cursed, right enough, but, Quade, I'd let 'em burn me, inchby inch in a fire, before I'd quit a partner, a bunkie in the desert!You hear? It's a queer thing that a gent could have much pleasure outof plugging another gent full of lead. I've had that pleasure once; andI'm going to have it again. I'm going to kill you, Quade, but I wishthere was a slower way! Pull your gun!"

  That last came out with a snap, and the revolver of Quade flicked outof its holster with a convulsive jerk of the big man's wrist. Yet thespit of fire came from Riley Sinclair's weapon, slipping smoothly intohis hand. Quade did not fall. He stood with a bewildered expression, asa man trying to remember something hidden far in the past; and Sinclairfingered the butt of his gun lightly and waited. It was rather acrumbling than a fall. The big body literally slumped down into a heap.

  Sinclair reached down without dismounting and pulled the body over onits back.

  "Because," he explained to what had been a strong man the momentbefore, "when the devil comes to you, I want the old boy to see yourface, Quade! Git on, old boss!"

  As he rode down the trail toward Sour Creek he carefully and deftlycleaned his revolver and reloaded the empty chamber.