Dead Trouble by Jake Douglas

slowly, watching his partner’s face. ‘I’m obliged, Durango, but I can’t take this if things’re as tight as you say with the ranch.’
    Spain waved it aside.
    ‘You know me. Worrier type. Tend to exaggerate.’
    ‘You … sure?’
    ‘Hell, yeah!’ Spain sounded impatient now. ‘I sold a few cows over the last few days to some fellers just getting started on the river. Pay off the sawbones and you can start pulling your weight here with an easy mind.’
    ‘Well, it sure is a surprise.’ Then Cutler said, without even planning it: ‘Hal Tripp and Ringo handle the deal?’
    Durango Spain frowned, his eyes sweeping across Deke’s rugged face.
    ‘What the hell makes you say that?’
    Deke shrugged.
    ‘Dunno, really. Just got the impression those two were rounding up some cows when I saw them yesterday afternoon. Foothills pasture.’
    ‘Well, they would’ve been, but no – I handled the deal myself. Feller paid me yesterday afternoon.’
    Cutler put the money away.
    ‘Well, thanks again, Durango – I’ll make up for this.’
    ‘Take a ride into town and send it off by wire. Then you can relax – and work at your exercises.’
    He went down into the yard, calling to some men before they rode out. Deke watched, smoking slowly.
    It was a nice gesture. So why did he get the feeling that Spain was kind of mad at him over something?
     
    The running showed him just how much out of shape he really was. After only half a mile he was sweating enough to soak his clothes and breathing like a locomotive with a leaky boiler. He leaned forward, hands on his knees, careful not to put too much pressure on his gun-arm wrist, fighting for breath.
    Swinging the arm when he ran made it ache and the wrist was burning again. He hoped the damaged nerves were not going to pinch up on him. Then he got the notion that if he could give the wrist some support, just like when it was sprained from roping or bull-dogging, it might help. So he made a rawhide cuff and laced it tight, having to try several times before he got the pressure and tension just right. Too much and it cut off the blood’s circulation. Too little and it didn’t give the wrist the support it needed.
    But it seemed to work and he changed the rawhide for some stiffer, still pliable leather, cut from an old saddle flap. He made it longer, like an archer’s arm-guard . This was better: he was pleasantly surprised at how much easier it was for him to use his right hand. It helped the arm, the support keeping the nerve ends properly aligned so they didn’t pinch and cause numbness and pain. The swelling went down rapidly.
    That fixed to his liking, he concentrated on running, forcing himself on for another hundred yards even when he was ready to drop. He overdid it sometimesbut after a week he was running two miles without undue distress. At the end of the second week he was doing five and he knew this distance would increase as the weeks went by.
    Twice he saw van Rensberg and the Samburu. This was where he learned that Sam’s big knife was called a panga in Africa and it was used for many things: cutting grass for hut roofs, kindling, wood for fences, defence against wild animals – or wild people.
    ‘Could make a mess of a man,’ Deke opined and he caught Pete and Sam exchanging a strange look.
    ‘Could easily take his head off,’ van Rensberg allowed. ‘Thought I saw some bear tracks.’ He gestured up into the hills. They were standing on neutral ground, just beyond where their fences met in a point. ‘Not very familiar with the local wildlife. Possible there’s a grizzly around here?’  
    ‘Never heard of any. Want me to take a look at the tracks?’  
    ‘Eh, man, that would be fine!’  
    Sam never rode anywhere. He trotted alongside his master’s big sorrel, sometimes holding to the stirrup strap. They rode up into the hills. When they stopped at the place where Pete had found the tracks, they looked out over a deep bend of the river to