The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox. Ernest Haycox

turned away and rode for the main house. Another guard came beside him and dropped away. He crossed the porch and went into the dark living room, calling quietly, "Sherry."

      She was in an adjoining bedroom, but not asleep, for a quick answer came back. "Is it Clint? Wait there. I'll be right out."

      Clint felt a chair in front of him and settled into it with a swift realization that he was extraordinarily tired. The events of the day had taken the sap out of him; and now that he let his mind play back upon them all the grim accidents flashed before him with a startling clarity and force. Compressed within sunrise and midnight was disaster, death, struggle and treachery; enough for an average life. Yet it was but the beginning. There was doubtless more to come, more death, more treachery and heartbreak and more weary hours of riding. His head slipped against the chair's tall back and his eyes, heavy with fatigue, dropped. When he started suddenly up to his feet, there was lamplight in the room and Sherry Nickum, tall and gravely beautiful in a bed robe, stood before him.

      "You were dead to the world," she said softly. "I waited five minutes before I had the heart to waken you. Sam is outside. Let him put away your horse. You go to bed."

      "Not yet."

      "You have earned it, Clint."

      "Maybe, but I doubt if any of us will be able to realize on our earnings in the next few days. Sherry, who sent Haggerty to bring Fitz's party back here?"

      "Buck Manners came for...for the funeral, Clint. He had been to Angels and he seemed worried with what he saw there. He felt there was some bigger piece of trouble coming and he wanted me to draw in all the men to the place. I was not sure it was wise to interfere with your plans, Clint, and didn't exactly want to do it. But he insisted and overrode my objections. He told Haggerty to go—and go in a hurry. I'm sorry if it spoiled anything you had in mind."

      "It might have," replied Clint somberly. "But I wasn't thinking of that. What time did Haggerty leave here?"

      "Before sundown. Why?"

      "I am just trying to settle a few queer items in my head," muttered Clint. "Is Manners here now?"

      "He left for his place to get his crew posted. He thought the renegades might try to attack him, too. But he said he'd come back here before daylight himself."

      Fitzgibbon, sleepy-eyed, tramped into the room. "Where's Seastrom and Haggerty?"

      "Close the door, Fitz, and come over here."

      Fitz did as he was told. Clint let his voice fall. "Seastrom and I got into Angels. I heard a few things. Seastrom was on the other side of town and I guess he got into trouble, for trouble developed. When I got back to my horse Heck had already pulled out. But he wasn't in the clearing and I couldn't wait for him. What did Haggerty tell you?" "Why," reflected Fitz, "he told me to beat it for home in a hurry. I bucked, but he gave the orders in Sherry's name, so I couldn't do less. He said he'd stay and wait for you and Heck."

      Clint calculated the hours swiftly. "So he left here at sunset and didn't reach you until after the scrap. That's around three- four hours he took to come on a trip that could be covered in an hour and a half or less of fast riding. I'd like to know where he detoured between the beginning and the finish."

      "Yeah, but where is he?" asked Fitz. Both he and Sherry were watching Clint with aroused interest.

      Clint trailed his voice to just above a whisper. "He didn't wait for me. He came into Angels and visited Studd, Curly and Shander. I was listening in. He's crooked! He's sold out. He's been on the other side of the fence for gosh knows how long. I think he tipped off our location in Bowlus' clearing to Curly and caused us to have a stiff battle. He might have been the instrument that would have wiped out Seastrom's party—only he didn't know that I had made a wide circle in the prairie and come down to back Seastrom up. I knew somebody in Box M would blab but I wasn't prepared to find Haggerty the man."

      A small sigh escaped Sherry. Fitz, however, was too old a hand to display emotion. Nothing much surprised him and nothing much put him off balance. By and by he said, "It's possible. Anything's possible. He was a good foreman, but hard and sometimes uncivil."

      Clint turned to Sherry. "Who was it that rode out of the yard right after I left with my party?"

      "I didn't notice," said Sherry.

      "Somebody did. There's more than one leak around here. Haggerty had some pets, didn't he?"

      "A-huh," agreed Fitz.

      "Then we'll have to keep an eye on them, too. Where's Fort Carson?"

      "Fifteen miles toward Dead Man's Range. In fact, right in under Dead Man Ridge. Why?"

      Clint walked suddenly to the door and opened it. But there was nobody on the porch. He came back. "Shander and Curly have agreed on some sort of a play over there tomorrow night. I don't know what, but I'm going to find out."

      "Um," grunted Fitz. Clint held his peace while the stunted puncher followed some thought methodically to its end. "We got a spread of cattle that way."

      "That might be it. Well, I'm going to line out in the next ten minutes and hole up in some convenient arroyo yonder. They won't get active until dark comes, but I'll miss my guess if there won't be some sort of traffic during daylight. I mean to see. You get me a fresh horse, will you, Fitz?"

      Fitz moved off. Clint added a swift—"and tell nobody where I'm going."

      Sherry broke in. "Not alone, Clint?"

      "Only a one-man job," he countered. "I've found that I work better alone on things like this."

      "You're dead tired now."

      "I'll get a catnap before daylight," he assured her.

      She turned. "Come to the kitchen. You haven't eaten since breakfast."

      He followed her through the door into the gallery-like kitchen. A small fire burned in the stove and the huge coffee pot simmered slowly, as it had done day and night for unnumbered years in the ancient tradition of the ranch. She poured him a cup and deftly robbed the cupboards to make a meal. In the silence he watched her move about the place—gracefully competent, features so sadly wistful. The auburn hair fell loosely down over one temple; light caught in the gray, level eyes when they turned his way, and suddenly he looked down, tremendously disturbed. She sat in a chair across the table while he ate, saying nothing until he had quite finished. Then she tipped her chin and spoke.

      "You have always been lonesome, Clint? Always so sober with yourself?"

      "A man goes along, doing what's to be done," he drawled quietly. "When I was younger, I used to ride to town with the boys, drink my share, create the customary trouble, and come home with the idea I had spent a large evening. That's being young, Sherry. It only comes once—and goes soon enough."

      "You talk like an old man, yet you haven't reached twenty- eight."

      "Now how did you know—"

      A small, sad smile lightened the fine curve of her mouth. "Because your eyes, your face, your voice give you away. You only think youth is gone. That is because you have always taken responsibilities other men pushed off on you. Just as you are taking Box M's responsibilities now."

      "I reckon I never was young," he mused. "Seems like I always had a job to do."

      "Because others always found out you were able, Clint. Do you realize what it meant when Dad took so completely to you. Do you know what it means when the men of this ranch—all jealous of their own abilities—knuckle down to work for you?"

      "Somebody's got to do it, Sherry."

      "Yes, somebody. But not anybody."

      Fitz came back, dragging his heels. "One of my own string out there for you, Clint. Now what else?"

      "When dusk comes tomorrow evening," said Clint slowly, "you saddle twenty men of this outfit and burn the dust for Fort Carson. I'll be there waiting. And tell nobody where you're going. Nobody, Fitz."

      "Remarks