Gunsight Pass (Musaicum Western Mysteries). William MacLeod Raine

him when he snaps his fingers?"

      "You sure do click yore heels mighty loud, Miss." Dave caught in that soft answer the purr of malice. He remembered now hearing from Buck Byington that years ago Emerson Crawford had rounded up evidence to send Shorty to the penitentiary for rebranding through a blanket. "I reckon you come by it honest. Em always acted like he was God Almighty."

      "Where is he? What's become of him?" she cried.

      "Is yore paw missin'? I'm right sorry to hear that," the cowpuncher countered with suave irony. He was eager to be gone. His glance followed Doble, who was moving slowly down the street.

      The girl's face, white and shining in the moonlight, leaned out of the buggy toward the retreating vaquero. "Don't you dare hurt my father! Don't you dare!" she warned. The words choked in her tense throat.

      Shorty continued to back away. "You're excited, Miss. You go home an' think it over reasonable. You'll be sorry you talked this away to me," he said with unctuous virtue. Then, swiftly, he turned and went straddling down the walk, his spurs jingling music as he moved.

      Quickly Dave gave directions to his friend. "Duck back into the restaurant, Bob. Get a pocketful of dry rice from the Chink. Trail those birds to their nest and find where they roost. Then stick around like a burr. Scatter rice behind you, and I'll drift along later. First off, I got to stay and talk with Miss Joyce. And, say, take along a rope. Might need it."

      A moment later Hart was in the restaurant commandeering rice and Sanders was lifting his dusty hat to the young woman in the buggy.

      "If I can he'p you any, Miss Joyce," he said.

      Beneath dark and delicate brows she frowned at him. "Who are you?"

      "Dave Sanders my name is. I reckon you never heard tell of me. I punch cows for yore father."

      Her luminous, hazel-brown eyes steadied in his, read the honesty of his simple, boyish heart.

      "You heard what I said to that man?"

      "Part of it."

      "Well, it's true. I know it is, but I can't prove it."

      Hart, moving swiftly down the street, waved a hand at his friend as he passed. Without turning his attention from Joyce Crawford, Dave acknowledged the signal.

      "How do you know it?"

      "Steelman's men have been watching our house. They were hanging around at different times day before yesterday. This man Shorty was one."

      "Any special reason for the feud to break out right now?"

      "Father was going to prove up on a claim this week—the one that takes in the Tularosa water-holes. You know the trouble they've had about it—how they kept breaking our fences to water their sheep and cattle. Don't you think maybe they're trying to keep him from proving up?"

      "Maybeso. When did you see him last?"

      Her lip trembled. "Night before last. After supper he started for the Cattleman's Club, but he never got there."

      "Sure he wasn't called out to one of the ranches unexpected?"

      "I sent out to make sure. He hasn't been seen there."

      "Looks like some of Brad Steelman's smooth work," admitted Dave. "If he could work yore father to sign a relinquishment—"

      Fire flickered in her eye. "He'd ought to know Dad better."

      "Tha's right too. But Brad needs them water-holes in his business bad. Without 'em he loses the whole Round Top range. He might take a crack at turning the screws on yore father."

      "You don't think—?" She stopped, to fight back a sob that filled her soft throat.

      Dave was not sure what he thought, but he answered cheerfully and instantly. "No, I don't reckon they've dry-gulched him or anything. Emerson Crawford is one sure-enough husky citizen. He couldn't either be shot or rough-housed in town without some one hearin' the noise. What's more, it wouldn't be their play to injure him, but to force a relinquishment."

      "That's true. You believe that, don't you?" Joyce cried eagerly.

      "Sure I do." And Dave discovered that his argument or his hopes had for the moment convinced him. "Now the question is, what's to be done?"

      "Yes," she admitted, and the tremor of the lips told him that she depended upon him to work out the problem. His heart swelled with glad pride at the thought.

      "That man who jus' passed is my friend," he told her. "He's trailin' that duck Shorty. Like as not we'll find out what's stirrin'."

      "I'll go with you," the girl said, vivid lips parted in anticipation.

      "No, you go home. This is a man's job. Soon as I find out anything I'll let you know."

      "You'll come, no matter what time o' night it is," she pleaded.

      "Yes," he promised.

      Her firm little hand rested a moment in his brown palm. "I'm depending on you," she murmured in a whisper lifted to a low wail by a stress of emotion.

      Chapter VI

       By Way of a Window

       Table of Contents

      The trail of rice led down Mission Street, turned at Junipero, crossed into an alley, and trickled along a dusty road to the outskirts of the frontier town.

      The responsibility Joyce had put upon him uplifted Dave. He had followed the horse-race gamblers to town on a purely selfish undertaking. But he had been caught in a cross-current of fate and was being swept into dangerous waters for the sake of another.

      Doble and Miller were small fish in the swirl of this more desperate venture. He knew Brad Steelman by sight and by reputation. The man's coffee-brown, hatchet face, his restless, black eyes, the high, narrow shoulders, the slope of nose and chin, combined somehow to give him the look of a wily and predacious wolf. The boy had never met any one who so impressed him with a sense of ruthless rapacity. He was audacious and deadly in attack, but always he covered his tracks cunningly. Suspected of many crimes, he had been proved guilty of none. It was a safe bet that now he had a line of retreat worked out in case his plans went awry.

      A soft, low whistle stayed his feet. From behind a greasewood bush Bob rose and beckoned him. Dave tiptoed to him. Both of them crouched behind cover while they whispered.

      "The 'dobe house over to the right," said Bob. "I been up and tried to look in, but they got curtains drawn. I would've like to 've seen how many gents are present. Nothin' doin'. It's a strictly private party."

      Dave told him what he had learned from the daughter of Emerson Crawford.

      "Might make a gather of boys and raid the joint," suggested Hart.

      "Bad medicine, Bob. Our work's got to be smoother than that. How do we know they got the old man a prisoner there? What excuse we got for attacktin' a peaceable house? A friend of mine's brother onct got shot up makin' a similar mistake. Maybe Crawford's there. Maybe he ain't. Say he is. All right. There's some gun-play back and forth like as not. A b'ilin' of men pour outa the place. We go in and find the old man with a bullet right spang through his forehead. Well, ain't that too bad! In the rookus his own punchers must 'a' gunned him accidental. How would that story listen in court?"

      "It wouldn't listen good to me. Howcome Crawford to be a prisoner there, I'd want to know."

      "Sure you would, and Steelman would have witnesses a-plenty to swear the old man had just drapped in to see if they couldn't talk things over and make a settlement of their troubles."

      "All right. What's yore programme, then?" asked Bob.

      "Darned if I know. Say we scout the ground over first."

      They made a wide circuit and approached the house from the rear, worming their way through the Indian