elation surged in him. The surface of the ground showed the fresh tracks of the sniper’s horse clearly. They pointed uphill, telling Clay the man had come this way.
He felt the dun stir under him and he leaned forward, listening. He could hear the sounds of someone riding hard, coming from well above him. Clay smiled with soft savagery. Now it was his turn.
VII
H E BACKED the dun into a screen of trees and returned to the trail on foot. He crossed to the other side and climbed a low mound. He squatted down, keeping the hump of the mound between himself and the upper side of the trail.
He breathed softly, curbing his eagerness as he listened to the hoofbeats coming nearer. Now they were just a short distance above him. He lifted his head. The horseman was just a few feet away, riding with his head down and his hat pulled low. He was pushing his horse at a dangerous pace on the narrow, faint surface of the rough trail.
Clay drew his handgun and sent a shot in front of the racing horse. He called loudly, “You there! Hold it!”
The man jerked at the reins and lifted his head. He twisted toward Clay. Surprise froze Clay as he stared up at the slack features of Bert Coniff, one of the Winged L’s top hands.
Clay saw Coniff slap his hand down to his side and come up with his gun. Clay’s inclination was to shoot Coniff out of the saddle. Common sense kept him from doing it. He wanted the man alive. He dropped his gun and dove for Coniff’s leg. Coniff shouted as he lost his balance and slid out of the saddle.
Clay let his weight ride Coniff to the ground. He felt a shod hoof tick his hat as Coniff’s horse took fright and dashed down toward the valley.
Clay felt Coniff twist frantically under him in an effort to bring up his gun. He caught Coniff’s wrist in his fingers and squeezed down. Coniff cried out as the gun dropped to the dirt. Clay let loose of Coniff’s wrist and drove his fist into the slack-featured face, feeling cartilage and bone give under the angry force of his blow. Coniff threw up a knee in an agonized effort to shake Clay off him. Clay swung his fist again, burying it in the softness of Coniff’s stomach. Coniff gagged with pain and sagged back.
Clay crawled to his feet and picked up Coniff’s gun. Coniff rolled over and came to his knees. He stayed that way, his head hanging, while he gagged, gasping for air.
Clay got his own gun and put it in his holster. He turned back to Coniff. “On your feet,” he said.
Coniff lifted his head slowly. Blood ran from his nose down over his mouth. He wiped it away with the back of his sleeve and stared at Clay. His eyes mirrored fright and pain.
Clay said softly, “Who hired you, Bert?”
Coniff shook his head slowly like an injured dog and got awkwardly to his feet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said thickly. “What’s the idea of jumping a man like that? You gone crazy?”
Clay hesitated, for the first time wondering if he might have made a mistake. He hadn’t known Bert Coniff long before he left the valley, but he remembered a pleasant enough man who did his work well with no more than the usual cowhand’s complaining. He could find no reason why a man like that, with a good job as long as he cared for it, would take the risks necessary to kill a man from ambush.
Clay said, “Step back in that soft spot over there, Bert, and I’ll let you know if I’m crazy or not.”
Coniff gaped at him. Clay took a step forward and Coniff backed up. Clay said, “Stop right there. All right, now move away.”
Coniff wiped his sleeve across his face again and did as he was told. Clay looked down at the bootprints he had made in the soft dirt. One heel left a mark that was an exact match for the worn ones Clay had seen before.
“Look for yourself,” Clay said softly. “You left that heelprint with the little puncture in the middle back up by the deadfall today. And you left another one just like it near where you tried to
He felt the dun stir under him and he leaned forward, listening. He could hear the sounds of someone riding hard, coming from well above him. Clay smiled with soft savagery. Now it was his turn.
VII
H E BACKED the dun into a screen of trees and returned to the trail on foot. He crossed to the other side and climbed a low mound. He squatted down, keeping the hump of the mound between himself and the upper side of the trail.
He breathed softly, curbing his eagerness as he listened to the hoofbeats coming nearer. Now they were just a short distance above him. He lifted his head. The horseman was just a few feet away, riding with his head down and his hat pulled low. He was pushing his horse at a dangerous pace on the narrow, faint surface of the rough trail.
Clay drew his handgun and sent a shot in front of the racing horse. He called loudly, “You there! Hold it!”
The man jerked at the reins and lifted his head. He twisted toward Clay. Surprise froze Clay as he stared up at the slack features of Bert Coniff, one of the Winged L’s top hands.
Clay saw Coniff slap his hand down to his side and come up with his gun. Clay’s inclination was to shoot Coniff out of the saddle. Common sense kept him from doing it. He wanted the man alive. He dropped his gun and dove for Coniff’s leg. Coniff shouted as he lost his balance and slid out of the saddle.
Clay let his weight ride Coniff to the ground. He felt a shod hoof tick his hat as Coniff’s horse took fright and dashed down toward the valley.
Clay felt Coniff twist frantically under him in an effort to bring up his gun. He caught Coniff’s wrist in his fingers and squeezed down. Coniff cried out as the gun dropped to the dirt. Clay let loose of Coniff’s wrist and drove his fist into the slack-featured face, feeling cartilage and bone give under the angry force of his blow. Coniff threw up a knee in an agonized effort to shake Clay off him. Clay swung his fist again, burying it in the softness of Coniff’s stomach. Coniff gagged with pain and sagged back.
Clay crawled to his feet and picked up Coniff’s gun. Coniff rolled over and came to his knees. He stayed that way, his head hanging, while he gagged, gasping for air.
Clay got his own gun and put it in his holster. He turned back to Coniff. “On your feet,” he said.
Coniff lifted his head slowly. Blood ran from his nose down over his mouth. He wiped it away with the back of his sleeve and stared at Clay. His eyes mirrored fright and pain.
Clay said softly, “Who hired you, Bert?”
Coniff shook his head slowly like an injured dog and got awkwardly to his feet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said thickly. “What’s the idea of jumping a man like that? You gone crazy?”
Clay hesitated, for the first time wondering if he might have made a mistake. He hadn’t known Bert Coniff long before he left the valley, but he remembered a pleasant enough man who did his work well with no more than the usual cowhand’s complaining. He could find no reason why a man like that, with a good job as long as he cared for it, would take the risks necessary to kill a man from ambush.
Clay said, “Step back in that soft spot over there, Bert, and I’ll let you know if I’m crazy or not.”
Coniff gaped at him. Clay took a step forward and Coniff backed up. Clay said, “Stop right there. All right, now move away.”
Coniff wiped his sleeve across his face again and did as he was told. Clay looked down at the bootprints he had made in the soft dirt. One heel left a mark that was an exact match for the worn ones Clay had seen before.
“Look for yourself,” Clay said softly. “You left that heelprint with the little puncture in the middle back up by the deadfall today. And you left another one just like it near where you tried to
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