The Collected Western Classics & Adventures Novels. William MacLeod RaineЧитать онлайн книгу.
you got out of practice. It’s like stealing candy from a kid to beat you to it. Don’t ever try to draw a gun again in Lost Valley while you’re asleep. You might never waken.”
Jed was in high good humor with himself. His victim looked silent murder at him.
“One more thing, while you’re in a teachable frame of mind,” continued Briscoe. “I run Lost Valley. What I say, goes here. Get that soaked into your think-tank, my friend. Ever since you came, you’ve been disputing that in your mind. You’ve been stirring up the boys against me. Think I haven’t noticed it? Guess again, Mr. Struve. You’d like to be boss yourself, wouldn’t you? Forget it. Down in Texas you may be a bad, bad man, a sure enough wolf, but in Wyoming you only stack up to coyote size. Let this slip your mind, and I’ll be running Lost Valley after your bones are picked white by the buzzards.”
“I ain’t a-goin’ to make you any trouble. Didn’t I tell you that before?” growled Struve reluctantly.
“See you don’t, then. Now I’ll come again to my news. I was telling you that there’s another stranger in this valley, Mr. Struve. Hails from Texas, too. Name of Fraser. Ever hear of him?”
Briscoe was hardly prepared for the change which came over the Texan at mention of that name. The prominent eyes stared, and a deep, apoplectic flush ran over the scarred face. The hand that caught at the wall trembled with excitement.
“You mean Steve Fraser—Fraser of the Rangers!” he gasped.
“That’s what I’m not sure of. I got to milling it over after I left him, and it come to me I’d seen him or his picture before. You still got that magazine with the article about him?”
“Yes.”
“I looked it over hurriedly. Let me see his picture again, and I’ll tell you if it’s the same man.”
“It’s in the other room.”
“Get it.”
Struve presently returned with the magazine, and, opening it, pointed to a photograph of a young officer in uniform, with the caption underneath:
LIEUTENANT STEPHEN FRASER OF THE TEXAS RANGERS Who, single-handed, ran down and brought to justice the worst gang of outlaws known in recent years.
“It’s the same man,” Briscoe announced.
The escaped convict’s mouth set in a cruel line.
“One of us, either him or me, never leaves this valley alive,” he announced.
Jed laughed softly and handed back the revolver. “That’s the way to talk. My friend, if you mean that, you’ll need your gun. Here’s hoping you beat him to it.”
“It won’t be an even break this time if I can help it.”
“I gather that it was, last time.”
“Yep. We drew together.” Struve interlarded his explanation with oaths. “He’s a devil with a gun. See that?” He held up his right band.
“I see you’re shy your most useful finger, if that’s what you mean.”
“Fraser took it off clean at twenty yards. I got him in the hand, too, but right or left he’s a dead shot. He might ‘a’ killed me if he hadn’t wanted to take me alive. Before I’m through with him he’ll wish he had.”
“Well, you don’t want to make any mistake next time. Get him right.”
“I sure will.” Hitherto Struve had been absorbed in his own turbid emotions, but he came back from them now with a new-born suspicion in his eyes. “Where do you come in, Mr. Briscoe? Why are you so plumb anxious I should load him up with lead? If it’s a showdown, I’d some like to see your cards too.”
Jed shrugged. “My reasons ain’t urgent like yours. I don’t favor spies poking their noses in here. That’s all there’s to it.”
Jed had worked out a plot as he rode through the night from the Dillon ranch—one so safe and certain that it pointed to sure success. Jed was no coward, but he had a spider-like cunning that wove others as dupes into the web of his plans.
The only weakness in his position lay in himself, in that sudden boiling up of passion in him that was likely to tear through his own web and destroy it. Three months ago he had given way to one of these outbursts, and he knew that any one of four or five men could put a noose around his neck. That was another reason why such a man as this Texas ranger must not be allowed to meet and mix with them.
It was his cue to know as much as he could of every man that came into the valley. Wherefore he had run down the record of Struve from the reward placard which a detective agency furnished him of hundreds of criminals who were wanted. What could be more simple than to stir up the convict, in order to save himself, to destroy the ranger who had run him down before? There would be a demand so insistent for the punishment of the murderer that it could not be ignored. He would find some pretext to lure Struve from the valley for a day or two, and would arrange it so that he would be arrested while he was away. Thus he would be rid of both these troublesome intruders without making a move that could be seen.
It was all as simple as A B C. Already Struve had walked into the trap. As Jed sat down to take a hand in the poker game that was in progress, he chuckled quietly to himself. He was quite sure that he was already practically master of the situation.
Chapter VII.
The Round-Up
“Would you like to take in the round-up to-day?”
Arlie flung the question at Fraser with a frank directness of sloe-black eyes that had never known coquetry. She was washing handkerchiefs, and her sleeves were rolled to the elbows of the slender, but muscular, coffee-brown arms.
“I would.”
“If you like you may ride out with me to Willow Spring. I have some letters to take to dad.”
“Suits me down to the ground, ma’am.”
It was a morning beautiful even for Wyoming. The spring called potently to the youth in them. The fine untempered air was like wine, and out of a blue sky the sun beat pleasantly down through a crystal-clear atmosphere known only to the region of the Rockies. Nature was preaching a wordless sermon on the duty of happiness to two buoyant hearts that scarce needed it.
Long before they reached the scene of the round-up they could hear the almost continual bawl of worried cattle, and could even see the cloud of dust they stirred. They passed the remuda, in charge of two lads lounging sleepily in their saddles with only an occasional glance at the bunch of grazing horses they were watching. Presently they looked down from a high ridge at the busy scene below.
Out of Lost Valley ran a hundred rough and wooded gulches to the impassable cliff wall which bounded it. Into one of these they now descended slowly, letting their ponies pick a way among the loose stones and shale which covered the steep hillside.
What their eyes fell upon was cattle-land at its busiest. Several hundred wild hill cattle were gathered in the green draw, and around them was a cordon of riders holding the gather steady. Now and again one of the cows would make a dash to escape, and instantly the nearest rider would wheel, as on a batter’s plate, give chase, and herd the animal back after a more or less lengthy pursuit.
Several of the riders were cutting out from the main herd cows with unmarked calves, which last were immediately roped and thrown. Usually it took only an instant to determine with whose cow the calf had been, and a few seconds to drive home the correct brand upon the sizzling flank. Occasionally the discussion was more protracted, in order to solve a doubt as to the ownership, and once a calf was released that it might again seek its mother to prove identity.
Arlie