Ride the Man Down by Luke; Short Page A

graze. This dry range stretched from Indian Ridge south and marked the west boundary of Bide’s range, his own, Ladder, next to him, and Six X, next to Ladder. The only water on it was Russian Springs, which Bide had seized, and a few dug wells farther south, which would not water a dozen head of cattle. Bide had seized the single bridge through which he could move deeper into Hatchet. The dug wells he had not bothered with, and it was the range around these wells that Sam was curious about this morning.
    The sun had broken through now to drive off the ground mist, but it was not warm yet, and the wet smell of cold spring earth remained. As Sam approached the range around the dug well he saw his first cattle and rode over to get a closer look. He saw the Ladder branded on their steaming coats. It was as he expected. Allan, at Ladder, had no especial quarrel with Hatchet, but he was, nevertheless, not going to let Bide Marriner gobble all of Hatchet graze. If Bide moved farther Allan would move too. Sam had a moment of sullen anger then as he thought of his position in this business. He could not gracefully take any Hatchet range, but if it turned out that Hatchet couldn’t push the others off he stood to lose a lot of free grass by his hesitancy. His hands were tied.
    Cutting north now, Sam made for Russian Springs, but before he reached it he had an answer to his question. Bide’s cattle had moved in all right. Moreover, Bide had line riders out, for Sam had had to pull back into timber to escape being seen by a rider leisurely skirting the hills.
    Afterward Sam turned west toward Hatchet, a restlessness upon him now. Bide had moved, and Ladder, not to be outdone, had pushed in too. Farther south Six X had undoubtedly done the same, since Ladder had set the example. Those, with his own brand, accounted for the outfits in the Salt Hills flanking Hatchet. The rabble under Indian Ridge had undoubtedly moved in, and if they had, it argued that the small outfits in the Indigos, in spite of their truce with Hatchet, would push their boundaries down to include a chunk of Hatchet. Now was the time to act, Sam knew. And he had the proof for John and Celia that it was necessary, for Sam still thought he could sway John.
    He rode into Hatchet after noon, and when he saw the cattle grazing in the horse pasture he grimaced. They were Cavanaugh’s, mixed with a few from other outfits, he noticed, and he rode up to the house and dismounted. In spite of his hurry this morning, Sam had taken time out to shave, and his face, flushed with the ride, was even more high-colored than usual. He tramped down the veranda, stopped at the kitchen window and peered in, and then stepped inside.
    The smell of baking struck him like a soft, delicious pillow as he stepped in. Celia, kneeling by the oven door, looked up and smiled and said, “Isn’t that just like me? I bake the day all the wood’s wet.”
    Sam threw his hat in a chair and came over to the table where cookies were laid out on an old newspaper. He picked one up and took a bite out of it, watching Celia.
    Her cheeks were flushed with the heat from the stove, and her black hair was awry. She shoved the cookies in the oven and stood up and took a deep breath.
    â€œThese are good,” Sam said.
    â€œThey’re awful, and you know it,” Celia said, almost tartly. She looked at Sam now.
    Sam said, “What’s eating you?”
    â€œJohn’s gone,” Celia said calmly. “I had to do something to keep from thinking about it.”
    Sam’s hand, clutching a second cookie, was arrested in mid-air. He said blankly, “Gone?”
    â€œHe didn’t come home last night,” Celia said. She sank into a chair and brushed a wisp of black hair from her cheek and regarded Sam levelly. “He left the men yesterday afternoon. Said he was going to Kennedy’s. He isn’t home yet, and Will’s ridden over there this