Acres of Unrest by Max Brand Page B

saddle.
    First, when he was settled, he strapped his legs into the stirrups. He arranged the braces on either side, and then he was ready, being able to ride in this fashion as well as another man, and with this danger only—that if the horse fell and rolled with him—well, that would be the end of Peter. He had grown accustomed to taking chances.
    With unsteady canter he was carried up the road. As he pushed the tired mustang toward the goal, there was no sign of a campfire on either hand. Perhaps drunken Mike Jarvin had decided to push on all the night toward the quarries, for the impulses that moved Jarvin were ever sudden and wild.
    For the greater part of an hour he drove the mustang steadily up the road, and then he checked the horse. Straight before him, he could hear the roaring of the heavy wheels of a wagon, moving slowly through the night. He jogged his horse forward again, and now he heard the harsh, impatient yelling of the driver who was pushing the long team of mules forward.
    A thick cloud of alkali dust rolled up into Peter’s nostrils. The wagon itself was a looming form against the stars, for it was loaded high with boxes and barrels that swayed and creaked as the wheels dropped into chuck holes on either side of the worn road.
    Then Peter Hale took out a big silken handkerchief and tied it so that the loose flap hung over his nose and mouth and chin. Under the broad brim of his hat, his eyes and forehead were well-nigh lost. He sent the mustang slowly up alongside the wagon until he found a broad, made-to-order seat, heavily cushioned. In the center of it lolled the fat form of Mike Jarvin. And on either side of him were the gaunt outlines of two men who sat with the glimmer of weapons in their hands.
    “Hello! Who’s that?” snapped the man who sat above the head of Peter on the great front seat of the wagon.
    “Message for Jarvin,” said Peter.
    The guard snarled. “Look back, Dan, and see if there’s anybody else in sight.”
    “There ain’t nothing behind, Lefty,” Dan replied.
    “What you got for Jarvin?” Lefty asked as ungraciously as before.
    “News from the quarries.”
    “What?”
    “Written out in this letter.”
    “Where?”
    Peter reached up his hand, and Lefty Buttrick dipped his fingers into it. At once the capacious palm closed over Lefty’s hand; at the same time he was wrenched from his seat, without even time to utter a cry. The higher the seat, the heavier the fall. Lefty disappeared into the dust with a heavy thump and lay still, as though asleep.
    But as Peter put Lefty out of the way, he saw the flash of the long barrel of Dan’s rifle swinging toward him, and Peter fired beneath that faint gleam of steel. He heard a shriek of pain, and he saw Dan Buttrick pitch downward from the seat.
    There remained the frightened shouting of the mule driver, near the end of the steadily nodding line of the mules, and the cursing of big Mike Jarvin, in the seat of the wagon.
    “What’s up? What’s happened? Who’s there?” cried the driver.
    “Tell him it’s nothing, Mike,” Peter ordered. “Tell him quickly, too.”
    “It’s a joke, you fool!” cried back Jarvin. “Skin those mules, will you?” He added to Peter: “Now, kid, this is a good play. What do you want? A job?”
    Peter chuckled. He had heard of the savage cunning and the coolness of Jarvin in a pinch, but this was a little more than he had reckoned on.
    “I don’t want a job, just now,” Peter said. “At least, not the sort of a job that you can give me, I suppose.”
    “How do you know that?” asked Jarvin. “If you can take care of the two Buttricks, you can do a better job than they did. And I tell you, old son, that you can have the same pay that they had and…”
    “Keep both your hands in sight, please,” Peter said.
    “Certainly,” answered Jarvin. “I ain’t trying to put nothing over on you, my son.” “Good,” said Peter. “You might start in shelling out,