English Ed had no trouble in getting up a lynching party. Slim Regan and three of his men were there from the Big 4; Kent Cutter, foreman of the 7AL, and two of his men, showed up in time to join the crowd. There was always a goodly crew of hangers-on at the Black Horse Saloon; always they would willingly ride to a killing.English Ed did not go with them. He engineered the deal and then stayed at home. At least a dozen armed men rode out of Turquoise City with the avowed intention of making Pete Conley pay for his misdeeds. They rode fast, because they knew Roaring Rigby’s horse was gone from his stable, and they knew Roaring had been courting Dawn Conley. They figured that Roaring might tip off Pete and give the half-breed a running start to freedom.Old Moses Conley had ridden as far as the edge of town with Cutter and his men from the 7AL. They knew he would ride slowly to his ranch; so they rode swiftly to overtake the old man, because he was reputed to be a dangerous man with a Winchester and that he might, if things broke badly for the posse, cause them considerable suffering with that same gun.They overtook the old man just at the ford of Black Horse river. Cutter knew that Conley was unarmed, so he did not hesitate to tell him what they were coming out there for. He did not tell the old man that they suspected Pete of the killing, but stated Pete’s guilt as a fact.The old man said nothing. The riders hemmed him in, as they crossed the ford. At the corner of the fence they stopped, while two of the men cut the fence wires. There they received their orders for circling the ranch.“He’ll be lookin’ for us,” said Slim Regan. “We’ve got to stop him from makin’ a getaway. Four of you better go. Head for a point due east of the ranch-house. Some of us will go through the gate and hold the south line and kinda string around to the west and north. Move in fairly close and wait until I whistle. I don’t look for the breed to make a break, but you never can tell.”“Where’s the sheriff?” asked Moses Conley. “It seems to me that this is his affair.”“Oh, that damn fool!” snorted a cowboy.“This don’t require any law,” said Regan coldly.“It shore don’t require the services of Judge Beal,” laughed another.“Stop all that noise!” snapped Regan. “Do you want to tell him we’re comin’?”“It seems to me it takes a lot of brave men to capture one half-breed,” said the old man bitterly.“It takes twelve men to hang one,” retorted Cutter. “We want to make this thing legal.”“Stop talkin’!” warned Regan again.They opened the gate and rode through, following along the cottonwoods until they came in sight of the house. Cutter took four of the men with him and headed north, with the intention of blocking all chance of escape to the north and west, while Regan led the rest of the men straight toward the ranch-house, where they could block the way to the south.Regan rode knee to knee with Moses Conley.Suddenly a shot rang out beyond the ranch-house, and the men jerked up their horses. There was no further need of concealment. They whirled and galloped straight toward the house. Another rifle shot rattled through the hills.Regan caught a glimpse of a gray horse heading in their general direction, and he thought it was one of his own men, coming back from Cutter’s crowd; but the horse swung further to the north and then headed straight for the gate. The light was not so good, but he seemed to remember that none of them was riding a gray horse.“There he goes!” yelled a cowboy. “That gray horse! It’s the one Pete rides! He’s heading for the gate!”There was no chance for Regan and his men to head off this running horse. In some way Pete had luckily ridden between Cutter’s men and Regan’s detachment. Regan threw up his revolver and emptied it at the horse and rider, knowing that the gun would not be effective at that distance. One of his men carried a rifle, but his horse was a little gun-shy, and the fusilade from Regan’s gun had made the horse too jumpy for the rider to hope to hit anything. Cutter’s men were coming back, riding swiftly, but the man on the gray horse reached the gate. Riders were coming from all directions and they joined Regan near the gate. Old Moses Conley was forgotten now.“Damn it, he must have seen us comin’!” panted a cowboy. “He broke for the east, but I took a shot at him, and he cut back this way. How did he get past you, Regan?”“Didn’t see him in time,” growled Regan. “That gray horse wasn’t visible. Which way did he go from the gate?”“North,” said Cutter. “C’mon!”They strung out through the gate and galloped north, spreading out like a skirmish line, driving their horses as fast as possible. But every man knew how impossible it would be to catch Pete Conley now. The half-breed knew every angle of the country better than any one else, and with that almost invisible gray horse he could ride into a clump of brush, wait until the riders passed him and then double back.For thirty minutes they rode straight ahead, searching the country. Regan was about to call the men in and wait until morning, when they saw their quarry silhouetted against the sky on a narrow ridge. He seemed to be waiting for them. Then he dropped off the ridge, seemingly unhurried.All the men of the posse had seen him. But their horses were getting winded, the traveling was mostly up-hill. They reached the ridge and drew rein. Regan called them together and they held a parley. On the next ridge, not over two hundred yards away, appeared the rider again. He stopped and appeared to be watching them. Cutter borrowed a rifle and fired two shots, but neither seemed to have any effect.“You can’t hit anythin’ in this light,” growled Cutter, giving back the rifle.“That half-breed shore has a lot of gall,” snorted Regan. “If he wants to play hide-and-seek with us, we’ll play.Let’s split up and see if we can’t get around him.”The rider moved slowly off the ridge, as the dozen riders spurred ahead, circling from both ends of the line. They passed the ridge, with the end riders swinging farther out all the time.They had gone about a mile beyond the spot where they had last seen their quarry, when the gray horse moved slowly out of a clump of brush near the crest of the ridge. The horse was led by its rider. They crossed the ridge beside a tangle of brush and rocks, where the man mounted and rode swiftly back toward Turquoise City.It was Roaring Rigby, the sheriff of Black Horse, riding Pete Conley’s gray horse. He came in along the fence and followed it to where the posse had cut the wire near the corner; and there he found his own horse.He dismounted, tied up the reins on the gray horse, gave it a slap with his hat; it went trotting back toward the Hot Creek ranch. Then he untied his own horse, mounted and rode on toward town.“I may be old as hell, and funny to look at,” he said bitterly, “but I’m smarter ’n all the gamblers and horsethieves around here.”It was about eight o’clock in the morning when the tired man hunters came back to Turquoise City, empty-handed. Regan had taken his men back to the Big 4, but Cutter brought his men to town for breakfast. All night they had combed the hills, hoping for another glimpse of Pete Conley. They were in a vile humor when they came back.Cutter rode down to the sheriff’s office and found Roaring Rigby just getting ready to go to breakfast.“When are you goin’ to git Pete Conley?” demanded Cutter.“When?”Roaring shut one eye and looked curiously at Cutter with the other. Cutter was a small man, slightly gray, with a ferret-like face and a none too pleasant disposition.“Yeah—when?” snapped Cutter.Roaring shook his head slowly.“I ain’t goin’,” he said slowly.“You ain’t, eh? I suppose murder don’t mean anythin’ to you, Rigby.”“I dunno—” lazily—“never gave it much thought.”“Oh, you haven’t!”“No-o-o-o.”“Then yo’re not goin’ out after Pete Conley, eh?”“Nope.”“Why not?”“Because he’s already in jail.”Cutter’s jaw dropped and he looked at Roaring, with his mouth open, gasping.“In jail!” he exploded. “When did you put him im jail?”“Last night.”“Last night? Why, we—we—” Cutter spluttered helplessly. “Why, we chased him half the night.”“You did like hell,” drawled Roaring. “You started out to foller a gray horse, but the gray horse doubled back on yuh. You’re a hell of a man-hunter, you are.”Cutter was speechless. Roaring locked the door, put the key in his pocket and started up the street toward a restaurant, paying no attention to Cutter, who jerked his horse around and rode straight to the Chinese restaurant, where the posse had gone for breakfast.A tall cowboy riding a bay horse swung into the upper end of the street, and rode toward the Black Horse Saloon, but he saw Roaring on the sidewalk and went over to him. It was “Wind River” Jim, one of Jimmy Moran’s men.He did not know what his right name was. The Arapaho Indians had raised him, his parentage being obscure; and they had named him Wind River Jim. He was tall, tow-headed, lean-faced, addicted to chewing tobacco and profanity, but withal possessed of a certain sense of humor.“Hyah, Roarin’,” he grinned, “Jimmy said fer me to come in and tell you he sent me. He kinda had the idea that you’d need a good deputy, so he picks me.”Roaring Rigby cuffed his hat on one side of his head, looked Wind River Jim over carefully. His face was puckered from an effort to think just what to do. Then he reached in his pocket, took out a deputy’s badge and gave it to Wind River Jim.“Pin ’er on you, cowboy; that’s your license to git shot, and no damages asked.”“Do I swear to anythin’?” asked Wind River, as he pinned the badge on his vest, swelling his chest beneath the shining badge.“Swear to nothin’,” said Roarin’. “Make no promises, and you won’t have anythin’ to break. Here’s the key to the office. I’m goin’ to ham and egg m’self. See you later.”
English Ed had no trouble in getting up a lynching party. Slim Regan and three of his men were there from the Big 4; Kent Cutter, foreman of the 7AL, and two of his men, showed up in time to join the crowd. There was always a goodly crew of hangers-on at the Black Horse Saloon; always they would willingly ride to a killing.
English Ed did not go with them. He engineered the deal and then stayed at home. At least a dozen armed men rode out of Turquoise City with the avowed intention of making Pete Conley pay for his misdeeds. They rode fast, because they knew Roaring Rigby’s horse was gone from his stable, and they knew Roaring had been courting Dawn Conley. They figured that Roaring might tip off Pete and give the half-breed a running start to freedom.
Old Moses Conley had ridden as far as the edge of town with Cutter and his men from the 7AL. They knew he would ride slowly to his ranch; so they rode swiftly to overtake the old man, because he was reputed to be a dangerous man with a Winchester and that he might, if things broke badly for the posse, cause them considerable suffering with that same gun.
They overtook the old man just at the ford of Black Horse river. Cutter knew that Conley was unarmed, so he did not hesitate to tell him what they were coming out there for. He did not tell the old man that they suspected Pete of the killing, but stated Pete’s guilt as a fact.
The old man said nothing. The riders hemmed him in, as they crossed the ford. At the corner of the fence they stopped, while two of the men cut the fence wires. There they received their orders for circling the ranch.
“He’ll be lookin’ for us,” said Slim Regan. “We’ve got to stop him from makin’ a getaway. Four of you better go. Head for a point due east of the ranch-house. Some of us will go through the gate and hold the south line and kinda string around to the west and north. Move in fairly close and wait until I whistle. I don’t look for the breed to make a break, but you never can tell.”
“Where’s the sheriff?” asked Moses Conley. “It seems to me that this is his affair.”
“Oh, that damn fool!” snorted a cowboy.
“This don’t require any law,” said Regan coldly.
“It shore don’t require the services of Judge Beal,” laughed another.
“Stop all that noise!” snapped Regan. “Do you want to tell him we’re comin’?”
“It seems to me it takes a lot of brave men to capture one half-breed,” said the old man bitterly.
“It takes twelve men to hang one,” retorted Cutter. “We want to make this thing legal.”
“Stop talkin’!” warned Regan again.
They opened the gate and rode through, following along the cottonwoods until they came in sight of the house. Cutter took four of the men with him and headed north, with the intention of blocking all chance of escape to the north and west, while Regan led the rest of the men straight toward the ranch-house, where they could block the way to the south.
Regan rode knee to knee with Moses Conley.
Suddenly a shot rang out beyond the ranch-house, and the men jerked up their horses. There was no further need of concealment. They whirled and galloped straight toward the house. Another rifle shot rattled through the hills.
Regan caught a glimpse of a gray horse heading in their general direction, and he thought it was one of his own men, coming back from Cutter’s crowd; but the horse swung further to the north and then headed straight for the gate. The light was not so good, but he seemed to remember that none of them was riding a gray horse.
“There he goes!” yelled a cowboy. “That gray horse! It’s the one Pete rides! He’s heading for the gate!”
There was no chance for Regan and his men to head off this running horse. In some way Pete had luckily ridden between Cutter’s men and Regan’s detachment. Regan threw up his revolver and emptied it at the horse and rider, knowing that the gun would not be effective at that distance. One of his men carried a rifle, but his horse was a little gun-shy, and the fusilade from Regan’s gun had made the horse too jumpy for the rider to hope to hit anything. Cutter’s men were coming back, riding swiftly, but the man on the gray horse reached the gate. Riders were coming from all directions and they joined Regan near the gate. Old Moses Conley was forgotten now.
“Damn it, he must have seen us comin’!” panted a cowboy. “He broke for the east, but I took a shot at him, and he cut back this way. How did he get past you, Regan?”
“Didn’t see him in time,” growled Regan. “That gray horse wasn’t visible. Which way did he go from the gate?”
“North,” said Cutter. “C’mon!”
They strung out through the gate and galloped north, spreading out like a skirmish line, driving their horses as fast as possible. But every man knew how impossible it would be to catch Pete Conley now. The half-breed knew every angle of the country better than any one else, and with that almost invisible gray horse he could ride into a clump of brush, wait until the riders passed him and then double back.
For thirty minutes they rode straight ahead, searching the country. Regan was about to call the men in and wait until morning, when they saw their quarry silhouetted against the sky on a narrow ridge. He seemed to be waiting for them. Then he dropped off the ridge, seemingly unhurried.
All the men of the posse had seen him. But their horses were getting winded, the traveling was mostly up-hill. They reached the ridge and drew rein. Regan called them together and they held a parley. On the next ridge, not over two hundred yards away, appeared the rider again. He stopped and appeared to be watching them. Cutter borrowed a rifle and fired two shots, but neither seemed to have any effect.
“You can’t hit anythin’ in this light,” growled Cutter, giving back the rifle.
“That half-breed shore has a lot of gall,” snorted Regan. “If he wants to play hide-and-seek with us, we’ll play.
Let’s split up and see if we can’t get around him.”
The rider moved slowly off the ridge, as the dozen riders spurred ahead, circling from both ends of the line. They passed the ridge, with the end riders swinging farther out all the time.
They had gone about a mile beyond the spot where they had last seen their quarry, when the gray horse moved slowly out of a clump of brush near the crest of the ridge. The horse was led by its rider. They crossed the ridge beside a tangle of brush and rocks, where the man mounted and rode swiftly back toward Turquoise City.
It was Roaring Rigby, the sheriff of Black Horse, riding Pete Conley’s gray horse. He came in along the fence and followed it to where the posse had cut the wire near the corner; and there he found his own horse.
He dismounted, tied up the reins on the gray horse, gave it a slap with his hat; it went trotting back toward the Hot Creek ranch. Then he untied his own horse, mounted and rode on toward town.
“I may be old as hell, and funny to look at,” he said bitterly, “but I’m smarter ’n all the gamblers and horsethieves around here.”
It was about eight o’clock in the morning when the tired man hunters came back to Turquoise City, empty-handed. Regan had taken his men back to the Big 4, but Cutter brought his men to town for breakfast. All night they had combed the hills, hoping for another glimpse of Pete Conley. They were in a vile humor when they came back.
Cutter rode down to the sheriff’s office and found Roaring Rigby just getting ready to go to breakfast.
“When are you goin’ to git Pete Conley?” demanded Cutter.
“When?”
Roaring shut one eye and looked curiously at Cutter with the other. Cutter was a small man, slightly gray, with a ferret-like face and a none too pleasant disposition.
“Yeah—when?” snapped Cutter.
Roaring shook his head slowly.
“I ain’t goin’,” he said slowly.
“You ain’t, eh? I suppose murder don’t mean anythin’ to you, Rigby.”
“I dunno—” lazily—“never gave it much thought.”
“Oh, you haven’t!”
“No-o-o-o.”
“Then yo’re not goin’ out after Pete Conley, eh?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s already in jail.”
Cutter’s jaw dropped and he looked at Roaring, with his mouth open, gasping.
“In jail!” he exploded. “When did you put him im jail?”
“Last night.”
“Last night? Why, we—we—” Cutter spluttered helplessly. “Why, we chased him half the night.”
“You did like hell,” drawled Roaring. “You started out to foller a gray horse, but the gray horse doubled back on yuh. You’re a hell of a man-hunter, you are.”
Cutter was speechless. Roaring locked the door, put the key in his pocket and started up the street toward a restaurant, paying no attention to Cutter, who jerked his horse around and rode straight to the Chinese restaurant, where the posse had gone for breakfast.
A tall cowboy riding a bay horse swung into the upper end of the street, and rode toward the Black Horse Saloon, but he saw Roaring on the sidewalk and went over to him. It was “Wind River” Jim, one of Jimmy Moran’s men.
He did not know what his right name was. The Arapaho Indians had raised him, his parentage being obscure; and they had named him Wind River Jim. He was tall, tow-headed, lean-faced, addicted to chewing tobacco and profanity, but withal possessed of a certain sense of humor.
“Hyah, Roarin’,” he grinned, “Jimmy said fer me to come in and tell you he sent me. He kinda had the idea that you’d need a good deputy, so he picks me.”
Roaring Rigby cuffed his hat on one side of his head, looked Wind River Jim over carefully. His face was puckered from an effort to think just what to do. Then he reached in his pocket, took out a deputy’s badge and gave it to Wind River Jim.
“Pin ’er on you, cowboy; that’s your license to git shot, and no damages asked.”
“Do I swear to anythin’?” asked Wind River, as he pinned the badge on his vest, swelling his chest beneath the shining badge.
“Swear to nothin’,” said Roarin’. “Make no promises, and you won’t have anythin’ to break. Here’s the key to the office. I’m goin’ to ham and egg m’self. See you later.”