Buck Hazlitt reined his horse around. "You been told.
You bring that book to us. You try to buck the Hazlitts and you won't stay in this country."
Ring had his back up. Despite himself he felt cold anger mounting within him. "Put this in your pipe, friend"... He said harshly. "I came here to stay. No Hazlitt will change that. I ain't huntin' trouble, but if you bring trouble to me, I'll handle it. I can bury a Hazlitt as easy as any other man!"
Not one of them condescended to notice the remark. Turning their horses they walked them down the canyon and out of it into the sultry afternoon.
Allen Ring mopped the sweat from his face and listened to the deep rumbling of far-off thunder, growling among the canyons like a grizzly with a toothache. It was going to rain.
Sure as shootin', it was going to rain a regular gully washer.
There was yet time to finish the job on the spring, so he picked up his shovel and started back for the job. The rock basin was nearly cleaned and he finished removing the few rocks and the moss that had gathered. Then he opened the escape channel a little more to insure a more rapid emptying and filling process in the basin into which the trickle of water fell.
The water emerged from a crack in the rocks and trickled into the basin, and finishing his job.
Ring glanced thoughtfully to see if anything remained undone. There was still some moss on the rocks from which the water flowed, and kneeling down, he leaned over to scrape it away, and pulling away the last shreds, he noticed a space from which a rock had recently fallen.
Pulling more moss away, he dislodged another rock, and there, pushed into a niche, was a small black book!
Sam Hazlitt, dying, had evidently managed to shove it back in this crack in the rocks, hoping it would be found by someone not the killer.
Sitting back on his haunches, Ring opened the faded, canvas-bound book. A flap crossed over the page ends, and the book had been closed by a small tongue that slid into a loop of the canvas cover. Opening the book, he saw the pages were stained, but still legible.
The next instant he was struck by lightning. At least, that was what seemed to happen. Thunder crashed, and something struck him on the skull and he tried to rise and something struck again.
He felt a drop of rain on his face and his eyes opened wide and then another blow caught him and he faded out into darkness, his fingers clawing at the grass to keep from slipping down into that velvety, smothering blackness.
He was wet. He turned a little, lying there, thinking he must have left a window open and the rain was his eyes opened and he felt rain pounding on his face and he stared, not at a boot with a California spur, but at dead brown grass, soaked with rain now, and the glistening smoothness of waterworn stones. He was soaked to the hide.
Struggling to his knees, he looked around, his head heavy, his lips and tongue thick. He blinked at a gray, rain-slanted world and at low gray clouds and a distant rumble of thunder following a streak of lightning along the mountaintops.
Lurching to his feet, he stumbled toward the cabin and pitched over the doorsill to the floor.
Struggling again to his feet, he got the door closed, and in a vague, misty half world of consciousness he struggled out of his clothes and got his hands on a rough towel and fumblingly dried himself.
He did not think. He was acting purely from vague instinctive realization of what he must do.
He dressed again, in dry clothes, and dropped at the table. After a while he sat up and it was dark, and he knew he had blacked out again. He lighted a light and nearly dropped it to the floor.
Then he stumbled to the washbasin and splashed his face with cold water. Then he bathed his scalp, feeling tenderly of the lacerations there.
A boot with a California spur.
That was all he had seen. The tally book was gone, and a man wearing a new boot with a California-type spur, a large rowel, had taken it.
He got
You bring that book to us. You try to buck the Hazlitts and you won't stay in this country."
Ring had his back up. Despite himself he felt cold anger mounting within him. "Put this in your pipe, friend"... He said harshly. "I came here to stay. No Hazlitt will change that. I ain't huntin' trouble, but if you bring trouble to me, I'll handle it. I can bury a Hazlitt as easy as any other man!"
Not one of them condescended to notice the remark. Turning their horses they walked them down the canyon and out of it into the sultry afternoon.
Allen Ring mopped the sweat from his face and listened to the deep rumbling of far-off thunder, growling among the canyons like a grizzly with a toothache. It was going to rain.
Sure as shootin', it was going to rain a regular gully washer.
There was yet time to finish the job on the spring, so he picked up his shovel and started back for the job. The rock basin was nearly cleaned and he finished removing the few rocks and the moss that had gathered. Then he opened the escape channel a little more to insure a more rapid emptying and filling process in the basin into which the trickle of water fell.
The water emerged from a crack in the rocks and trickled into the basin, and finishing his job.
Ring glanced thoughtfully to see if anything remained undone. There was still some moss on the rocks from which the water flowed, and kneeling down, he leaned over to scrape it away, and pulling away the last shreds, he noticed a space from which a rock had recently fallen.
Pulling more moss away, he dislodged another rock, and there, pushed into a niche, was a small black book!
Sam Hazlitt, dying, had evidently managed to shove it back in this crack in the rocks, hoping it would be found by someone not the killer.
Sitting back on his haunches, Ring opened the faded, canvas-bound book. A flap crossed over the page ends, and the book had been closed by a small tongue that slid into a loop of the canvas cover. Opening the book, he saw the pages were stained, but still legible.
The next instant he was struck by lightning. At least, that was what seemed to happen. Thunder crashed, and something struck him on the skull and he tried to rise and something struck again.
He felt a drop of rain on his face and his eyes opened wide and then another blow caught him and he faded out into darkness, his fingers clawing at the grass to keep from slipping down into that velvety, smothering blackness.
He was wet. He turned a little, lying there, thinking he must have left a window open and the rain was his eyes opened and he felt rain pounding on his face and he stared, not at a boot with a California spur, but at dead brown grass, soaked with rain now, and the glistening smoothness of waterworn stones. He was soaked to the hide.
Struggling to his knees, he looked around, his head heavy, his lips and tongue thick. He blinked at a gray, rain-slanted world and at low gray clouds and a distant rumble of thunder following a streak of lightning along the mountaintops.
Lurching to his feet, he stumbled toward the cabin and pitched over the doorsill to the floor.
Struggling again to his feet, he got the door closed, and in a vague, misty half world of consciousness he struggled out of his clothes and got his hands on a rough towel and fumblingly dried himself.
He did not think. He was acting purely from vague instinctive realization of what he must do.
He dressed again, in dry clothes, and dropped at the table. After a while he sat up and it was dark, and he knew he had blacked out again. He lighted a light and nearly dropped it to the floor.
Then he stumbled to the washbasin and splashed his face with cold water. Then he bathed his scalp, feeling tenderly of the lacerations there.
A boot with a California spur.
That was all he had seen. The tally book was gone, and a man wearing a new boot with a California-type spur, a large rowel, had taken it.
He got
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