name, there was a startled, awkward silence that, strangely enough, Beale himself filled in with casual talk until the riders got over their furtive stares and sudden silence.
For two days the Kid worked the cattle with the men. He saw neither Toma Dodge nor Beale, except in the early morning when the foreman would line out the work. The Kid was anxious to work on the murder, and the evening of the third day he went up to the house. Toma admitted him to a huge old parlor with a roaring fire in a massive, smoked-over old stone fireplace. He recognized the ancient trappings of the old frontier on the walls. Indian trophies hung droopily among old tintype pictures and the comfortable old leather furniture was typical of an earlier day on the frontier. The Kid held his hat selfconsciously in his hand and turned it by the brim in slow, nervous convolutions as he spoke. “MissDodge, it sort of seems to me like we’re wastin’ a lot of good time.”
The girl nodded, her eyes on the colorful Navajo rugs. “I know, it seems like that to me, too, but Jeff is nosing around in Holbrook and doesn’t want you to do anything until he’s chased down some ideas he has about Dad’s murder.”
The Kid frowned. His answer was dryly matter-of-fact. “Well, while Beale’s lookin’ around, a lot of water can pass under the bridge.”
The beautiful eyes came up with a decisive upsweep of the head. “I know it, Kid. You can start out on your own tomorrow, only…”
“Only…what?”
“Only don’t let Jeff know what you’re doing. He’ll be angry if he knows I let you start your investigation.”
The Kid’s eyebrows came together over his steady gray eyes. “Miss Dodge, this here’s likely to be a long drawn-out an’ dangerous little chore. Don’t you think we ought to start out by trustin’ each other?”
“What do you mean?” Her face colored a little.
“Well, if Beale doesn’t know what I’m up to, it’ll make a lot of unnecessary hard feelings, won’t it?”
Toma Dodge stood up and looked at the fireplace. The Kid felt a sudden little tug at his heartstrings as he studied her profile. She was so small and helplesslooking, yet so much a woman, the kind of a woman a man needed. “I don’t know what to say.”
The Kid guessed, correctly, that her father’s sudden demise had projected her into a role of responsibility that was altogether foreign, and a little frightening, to her. He got up and went over beside her, his hat gripped tightly in his hands. There was a half-wistful, half-truculent look on his face.
“All right, Miss Dodge. I’ll keep out of Beale’s way. We’ll do it your way, but frankly I don’t think it’s too good an idea.”
She turned toward him. For a wild second her eyes locked with his and a strong electric current passed between them. The Kid turned away in confusion and, mumbling excuses, left the house. Outside, the stars were clear and brittle. He rolled and smoked a cigarette in the warm, velvety shadows of the corrals. He didn’t think it would ever happen, but it had; he was in love.
Chapter Three
At daybreak, the Vermilion Kid had saddled up and ridden out of the D-Back-To-Back ranch yard. The air was cool without being cold and the land was lazily stirring to life. Here and there a hustling rabbit was out searching for dew-drenched young shoots and garrulous, sleepy birds made slight noises at his passing. Holbrook was just coming to life when the Kid rode in. He left his horse at the livery stable. The bleary-eyed hostler smiled at him through a foul fog of sickening breath. “Sure nice to see you again.”
The Kid raised his eyebrows. He had forgotten tipping the man so lavishly, besides, his mind was on a small, oval face with violet eyes. He smiled vacantly, said nothing, and walked slowly out of the barn. He was almost to the street when the hostler came weaving up to him. “Say, I was wonderin’ if you’d he’p me move a horse?”
“Move one? Hell,
For two days the Kid worked the cattle with the men. He saw neither Toma Dodge nor Beale, except in the early morning when the foreman would line out the work. The Kid was anxious to work on the murder, and the evening of the third day he went up to the house. Toma admitted him to a huge old parlor with a roaring fire in a massive, smoked-over old stone fireplace. He recognized the ancient trappings of the old frontier on the walls. Indian trophies hung droopily among old tintype pictures and the comfortable old leather furniture was typical of an earlier day on the frontier. The Kid held his hat selfconsciously in his hand and turned it by the brim in slow, nervous convolutions as he spoke. “MissDodge, it sort of seems to me like we’re wastin’ a lot of good time.”
The girl nodded, her eyes on the colorful Navajo rugs. “I know, it seems like that to me, too, but Jeff is nosing around in Holbrook and doesn’t want you to do anything until he’s chased down some ideas he has about Dad’s murder.”
The Kid frowned. His answer was dryly matter-of-fact. “Well, while Beale’s lookin’ around, a lot of water can pass under the bridge.”
The beautiful eyes came up with a decisive upsweep of the head. “I know it, Kid. You can start out on your own tomorrow, only…”
“Only…what?”
“Only don’t let Jeff know what you’re doing. He’ll be angry if he knows I let you start your investigation.”
The Kid’s eyebrows came together over his steady gray eyes. “Miss Dodge, this here’s likely to be a long drawn-out an’ dangerous little chore. Don’t you think we ought to start out by trustin’ each other?”
“What do you mean?” Her face colored a little.
“Well, if Beale doesn’t know what I’m up to, it’ll make a lot of unnecessary hard feelings, won’t it?”
Toma Dodge stood up and looked at the fireplace. The Kid felt a sudden little tug at his heartstrings as he studied her profile. She was so small and helplesslooking, yet so much a woman, the kind of a woman a man needed. “I don’t know what to say.”
The Kid guessed, correctly, that her father’s sudden demise had projected her into a role of responsibility that was altogether foreign, and a little frightening, to her. He got up and went over beside her, his hat gripped tightly in his hands. There was a half-wistful, half-truculent look on his face.
“All right, Miss Dodge. I’ll keep out of Beale’s way. We’ll do it your way, but frankly I don’t think it’s too good an idea.”
She turned toward him. For a wild second her eyes locked with his and a strong electric current passed between them. The Kid turned away in confusion and, mumbling excuses, left the house. Outside, the stars were clear and brittle. He rolled and smoked a cigarette in the warm, velvety shadows of the corrals. He didn’t think it would ever happen, but it had; he was in love.
Chapter Three
At daybreak, the Vermilion Kid had saddled up and ridden out of the D-Back-To-Back ranch yard. The air was cool without being cold and the land was lazily stirring to life. Here and there a hustling rabbit was out searching for dew-drenched young shoots and garrulous, sleepy birds made slight noises at his passing. Holbrook was just coming to life when the Kid rode in. He left his horse at the livery stable. The bleary-eyed hostler smiled at him through a foul fog of sickening breath. “Sure nice to see you again.”
The Kid raised his eyebrows. He had forgotten tipping the man so lavishly, besides, his mind was on a small, oval face with violet eyes. He smiled vacantly, said nothing, and walked slowly out of the barn. He was almost to the street when the hostler came weaving up to him. “Say, I was wonderin’ if you’d he’p me move a horse?”
“Move one? Hell,
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