casual branding had ended, yet there was still free range, and a man with that same loop and running iron could still build a herd fast.
More than one of the biggest ranchers had begun that way, and many of them continued to brand loose stock wherever found. No doubt that had been true here, and these men like Roily Truman, good, able men who had fought Indians and built their homes to last, had begun just that way. Now the range was mostly fenced, and ranches had narrowed somewhat, but Ring could see what it might mean to open an old sore now.
Sam Hazlitt had been trailing rustlers he had found out who they were and where the herds were taken, and he had been shot down from behind. The catch was that the tally book, with his records, was still missing. That tally book might contain evidence as to the rustling done by men who were now pillars of the community and open them to the vengeance of the Hazlitt outfit.
Often Western men threw a blanket over a situation. If a rustler had killed Sam, then all the rustlers involved would be equally guilty.
Anyone who lived on this ranch might stumble on that tally book and throw the range into a bloody gun war in which many men now beyond the errors of their youth, with homes, families, and different customs, would die.
It could serve no purpose to blow the lid off the trouble now, yet Allen Ring had a hunch. In their fear of trouble for themselves they might be concealing an even greater crime, aiding a murderer in his escape. There were lines of care in the face of Roily Truman that a settled, established rancher should not have.
"Sorry"... Ring said, "I'm stayin'. I like this place."
All through the noon hour the tension was building. The air was warm and sultry, and there was a thickening haze over the mountains. There was that hot thickness in the air that presaged a storm. When he left his coffee to return to work, Ring saw three horsemen coming into the canyon mouth at a running walk. He stopped in the door and touched his lips with his tongue.
They reined up at the door, three hard-bitten, hard-eyed men with rifles across their saddle bows. Men with guns in their holsters and men of a kind that would never turn from trouble.
These were men with the bark on, lean fanatics with lips thinned with old bitterness.
The older man spoke first. "Ring, I've heard about you. I'm Buck Hazlitt. These are my brothers, Joe and Dolph. There's talk around that you aim to stay on this place. There's been talk for years that Sam hid his tally book here.
We figure the killer got that book and burned it.
Maybe he did, and again, maybe not. We want that book. If you want to stay on this place, you stay. But if you find that book, you bring it to us."
Ring looked from one to the other, and he could see the picture clearly. With men like these, hard and forgiving, it was no wonder Roily Truman and the other ranchers were worried.
The years and prosperity had eased Roily and his like in comfort and softness, but not these.
The Hazlitts were of feudal blood and background.
"Hazlitt"... Ring said, "I know how you feel.
You lost a brother, and that means somethin', but if that book is still around, which I doubt, and I find it, I'll decide what to do with it all by myself. I don't aim to start a range war.
Maybe there's some things best forgotten. The man who murdered Sam Hazlitt ought to pay."
"We'll handle that"... Dolph put in grimly. "You find that book, you bring it to us. If you don't his, his eyes hardened. "Well, we'd have to class you with the crooks."
Ring's eyes shifted to Dolph. "Class if you want"... He flared. "I'll do what seems best to me with that book. But all of you folks are plumb proddy over that tally book. Chances are nine out of ten the killer found it and destroyed it."
"I don't reckon he did"... Buck said coldly, "because we know he's been back here, a-huntin' it.
Him an' his girl."
Ring stiffened. "You mean ?"
"What we mean is our figger, not yours."...
More than one of the biggest ranchers had begun that way, and many of them continued to brand loose stock wherever found. No doubt that had been true here, and these men like Roily Truman, good, able men who had fought Indians and built their homes to last, had begun just that way. Now the range was mostly fenced, and ranches had narrowed somewhat, but Ring could see what it might mean to open an old sore now.
Sam Hazlitt had been trailing rustlers he had found out who they were and where the herds were taken, and he had been shot down from behind. The catch was that the tally book, with his records, was still missing. That tally book might contain evidence as to the rustling done by men who were now pillars of the community and open them to the vengeance of the Hazlitt outfit.
Often Western men threw a blanket over a situation. If a rustler had killed Sam, then all the rustlers involved would be equally guilty.
Anyone who lived on this ranch might stumble on that tally book and throw the range into a bloody gun war in which many men now beyond the errors of their youth, with homes, families, and different customs, would die.
It could serve no purpose to blow the lid off the trouble now, yet Allen Ring had a hunch. In their fear of trouble for themselves they might be concealing an even greater crime, aiding a murderer in his escape. There were lines of care in the face of Roily Truman that a settled, established rancher should not have.
"Sorry"... Ring said, "I'm stayin'. I like this place."
All through the noon hour the tension was building. The air was warm and sultry, and there was a thickening haze over the mountains. There was that hot thickness in the air that presaged a storm. When he left his coffee to return to work, Ring saw three horsemen coming into the canyon mouth at a running walk. He stopped in the door and touched his lips with his tongue.
They reined up at the door, three hard-bitten, hard-eyed men with rifles across their saddle bows. Men with guns in their holsters and men of a kind that would never turn from trouble.
These were men with the bark on, lean fanatics with lips thinned with old bitterness.
The older man spoke first. "Ring, I've heard about you. I'm Buck Hazlitt. These are my brothers, Joe and Dolph. There's talk around that you aim to stay on this place. There's been talk for years that Sam hid his tally book here.
We figure the killer got that book and burned it.
Maybe he did, and again, maybe not. We want that book. If you want to stay on this place, you stay. But if you find that book, you bring it to us."
Ring looked from one to the other, and he could see the picture clearly. With men like these, hard and forgiving, it was no wonder Roily Truman and the other ranchers were worried.
The years and prosperity had eased Roily and his like in comfort and softness, but not these.
The Hazlitts were of feudal blood and background.
"Hazlitt"... Ring said, "I know how you feel.
You lost a brother, and that means somethin', but if that book is still around, which I doubt, and I find it, I'll decide what to do with it all by myself. I don't aim to start a range war.
Maybe there's some things best forgotten. The man who murdered Sam Hazlitt ought to pay."
"We'll handle that"... Dolph put in grimly. "You find that book, you bring it to us. If you don't his, his eyes hardened. "Well, we'd have to class you with the crooks."
Ring's eyes shifted to Dolph. "Class if you want"... He flared. "I'll do what seems best to me with that book. But all of you folks are plumb proddy over that tally book. Chances are nine out of ten the killer found it and destroyed it."
"I don't reckon he did"... Buck said coldly, "because we know he's been back here, a-huntin' it.
Him an' his girl."
Ring stiffened. "You mean ?"
"What we mean is our figger, not yours."...
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