Part 7

Peace jerked the coat back, dropped the piece of board and flexed his fingers. The bullet had drilled a neat hole through the shoulder of his coat and splintered the board. “Mebbe that jasper can’t shoot!” applauded Peace admiringly. “What he’d ’a’ done to me would ’a’ been a-plenty. Um-hm-m-m-m! Don’t look as good as it did.”

The rear door and windows had been boarded up long ago, and to Peace it looked like a case of staying out of sight until the sheepherder decided to leave--or until it got dark. The broken floor attracted his attention. The old house had been built upon heavy log sills and there seemed to be considerable room underneath. Peace examined it closely and crawled under. The dirt banking on the sides had fallen away and he was able to crawl to the side of the building and peer out. He could not get a clear vision of that side of the clearing, but he had an even break with any one that came into view for a radius of two hundred yards.

He could not see or hear the sheep now, but he was sure that the sheepherder would not leave until things were settled between them. Peace shoved the muzzle of his rifle through the aperture and squinted closely. He had a fair idea of where the shot had been fired from.

He knew that the sheepherder would stay where he could watch the front door and this knowledge was of assistance to Peace. He watched a certain spot in the brush for some little time. Something had caused a branch to jerk--and there was no wind.

It jerked again. Peace flattened his cheek against the butt of his rifle and sent a bullet whistling into that clump. The man must have been moving away, because beyond that spot, and to the right, the bushes jerked sharply.

Twice more Peace fired but without visible results. He did not have a target but felt that his bullets were going very close. The bushes did not wave again; so he relaxed and waited for the sheepherder to make his next move.

Straight across the clearing from Peace was the brush-lined creek with high banks, where a man might easily walk without being seen from the cabin. Peace had left the rifle muzzle protruding from under the cabin, while he slid back a foot or two, as he rolled a smoke.

Suddenly the dirt bank near his head seemed fairly to explode, and to his dirt-filled ears came the snap of a high-power rifle. Peace rolled aside and clawed the dust out of his eyes. The bullet had evidently mushroomed into that clay-like dirt and had driven Peace’s mouth, nose, ears and eyes full of it.

He reached blindly for his rifle, yanked it with him and crawled farther back toward the rear of the building, while shot after shot tore through the hard dirt and filled the air with dust and fine gravel. The sheepherder was taking a chance on hitting Peace by searching the whole length of the shack.

But Peace hugged the rear of the place, while he tried to blink the dust out of his eyes and wait for the man to finish his magazine of shots.

“The danged murderer snuck up the creek on me,” reflected Peace, “and I left my gun-muzzle outside as a marker for him. That was a smart thing to do. Peace Parker, if you git killed, it’s yore own fault.”

The sheepherder’s rifle had made many apertures in the banked foundation of the shack and Peace crawled to the near corner and peered out. The man was too smart to show himself, but Peace felt sure that he was just behind the creek bank.

Then Peace saw a slight movement. It was the crown of the man’s hat and it moved in a perfectly natural way. A moment later it flipped upward from the jerk of Peace’s bullet, and almost at the same time a bullet ricocheted off the barrel of Peace’s gun and thudded into the corner of the building.

Peace rolled and slid sideways toward the center of the place and crawled rapidly toward the front, while another bullet smashed into the corner of the foundation.

“Son-of-a-gun foxed me,” complained Peace. “Hung up his old hat while he went down the creek and laid for me. But it didn’t git him any scalps.”

He crawled to the side again and peered out. This time he was careful to keep near the corner where the angle gave him slightly better protection.

Suddenly he caught a flash of a man’s body, but at an extreme angle. It was only a glimpse, but it showed that the man was running up through the brush as though to circle the shack.

Peace grinned and crawled to the opposite side, where he carefully kicked away the banking. The man had driven him away from the peep-holes and was going to circle the cabin, thought Peace.

It was the reasonable thing to do, under the circumstances, and Peace congratulated himself on having seen the man start his circle. He watched closely. Beyond him the hill sloped sharply and was a mass of brush and rocks.

The man was a long time showing up, he thought. Perhaps he was sneaking up at the rear. Peace squinted reflectively.

“Still,” reflected Peace, “he ain’t a lot better off than I am. He’s gotta peek under to see me.”

Suddenly he jerked his gun forward and flattened himself as low as possible. He had seen the man again, and this time he was apparently mounting a horse in the jack-pine thicket back on the slope.

Peace cuddled the butt of the gun carefully and squinted down the sights. Again the man came into view, spurring his horse, as though to circle back toward the rear of the house but still protected by the high brush. Peace was unable to get a clear view of either man or horse but he took a chance and squeezed the trigger.

Almost at the crack of the rifle the horse fell away headlong into the brush and the rider seemed to fairly somersault out of the saddle.

“Walk, you son-of-a-gun!” exploded Peace. “You made me walk.”

For several moments there was no sign of the man, and then Peace got a flash of him, running up the slope, dodging from rock to rock. His movements were too swift for Peace, who was in a cramped position and unable to elevate his gun-muzzle sufficiently to cover the target.

Peace grinned thankfully and began rolling a cigaret. Just why the sheepherder had decided to pull out was a mystery to him, but he was perfectly willing to have the man leave.

He was about to light his cigaret when he heard the thud of running horses and a man’s voice yelling something. They came up to the cabin, and he heard the confused murmur of voices as they dismounted.

Came a creak of the old floor as some one stepped inside, and the voices were more distinct.

“Yeah, but who in ---- was doin’ the shootin’?”

It was Claypool’s voice.

Several voices joined into the argument and more boots creaked on the floor.

“Well, that’s Peace Parker’s bronc,” declared Chris Sorensen’s voice, “and it’s deader than ----”

“Let’s have a drink,” suggested another, and this was met with approval.

“You got the bottle yoreself, Barill,” stated Mike O’Neil’s voice.

There was a great shuffling of feet, as they drank from the bottle, and then all went outside. Ensued a lot of meaningless gabble in which Peace caught fragmentary sentences relating to dead horses and sheep. Then they all mounted and rode away.

Peace crawled back to the opening in the floor in time to see them disappear into the brush, heading back toward the Fossilshell road.

“Well,” grinned Peace, “that’s once that whisky helped me out. If that bottle wasn’t about empty they’d ’a’ done some lookin’ around. Hurrah for hooch!”

He walked outside and peered around the side of the shack. There was nobody in sight, but he was taking no chances on the sheepherder this time. He draped his coat on a stick and tried his same experiment again, but this time there was no response.

He tried it at the other corner, with the same results. Then he stepped out from the building, taking a chance that the man had kept on going. After a hasty glance toward the brushy slope he stepped back and jerked up his rifle.

A horse was coming down through the trees and as it broke out into the open, Peace saw that it was saddled and bridled. For several moments it stood there, shaking its head jerkily, and then came on toward him. He watched it, a quizzical expression in his eyes. The horse stopped a few feet away, and then Peace knew what had happened.

Just at the arch of its neck was a jagged furrow, where his bullet had plowed its way. The horse had been creased, or in other words, shocked momentarily by the bullet and had fallen as though instantly killed.

Peace spoke to the animal, which let him pick up the reins. It seemed slightly dazed and very docile, but Peace knew that the animal was not seriously hurt.

“Couldn’t do it in a year, if I wanted to,” he confessed to himself, “but I’m sure glad that this was my lucky day. I’d hate to hurt a innocent horse.”

He squinted at the brand and frowned thoughtfully. He knew that he had seen this horse before. Suddenly it struck him that this horse belonged to the Tarp City livery-stable and was the one that the cattle-buyer had hired the night before.

“Well, that puts a new kink in the tangle,” he reflected. “What’s that bronc doin’ over here?”

He rubbed its nose softly.

“Dog-gone yuh, I wish yuh could talk. I’d sure have a lot of questions to ask yuh, bronc.”

_Pwee-e-e-e!_

A bullet struck the ground between Peace and the corner of the house and went humming off into the brush. The report showed that the shooter was doing some long-range work, but Peace figured that it was too close for comfort; so he swung into the saddle, spurred the horse to the left, which would put the building between him and the rifleman, and rode away toward the brushy creek.

No more shots were fired, which proved that Peace’s calculations were correct. He drew up on the bank of the creek where he was hidden by the brush and debated whether to go away or wait and see if the shepherd would come back, but decided that the shepherd was too wise for such a proceeding, and rode away.

Peace knew that whisky and man-hunting did not mix well; so had little to fear from the Claypool outfit. They would go back to Tarp City, line up at the bar and argue over the dead saddle-horse they had found.

But this did not help Peace’s situation to any great extent. He was blocked from going to Tarp City--unless he wanted to take a chance on being arrested. To leave the country would be a confession of his guilt and also leave some work undone.

“I can’t go away and leave that sheepherder alone,” he reflected. “He’s a liar, that’s a cinch--and he tried to murder me. Still I’ve got to give him credit for bein’ gentleman enough to not shoot me while I was tied up, I s’pose. But he ain’t got no more idea where Gus Sinks is than I have--and I’ve got to find Gus Sinks.”

He traveled back to the main road and headed for Tarp City, taking care to parallel the road instead of coming out into the open. For about a mile he watched the road closely, but could not find where the sheep had come back to it. Then he turned around and went back the other way, until he had gone a mile or more beyond where they had crossed the first time. Still there was no sign of their crossing.

Peace rode back to the creek, gave his horse a drink and sat down in the shade to have a smoke and wonder deeply what had become of his sheep. It was evident that they were not heading for Tarp City nor for the Fossilshell.

* * * * *

But Jim Horn was not willing to follow Cross L Marshall’s advice and, “wait to see which way the pickle is goin’ to squirt.”

Jim was naturally of a suspicious nature, and, as soon as he was able, without attracting attention, he secured his horse and rode out of town, heading toward Poncho Pass. He wanted to know why Bender had ridden away ahead of Campion and his other two men.

About a mile out of town he saw a man walking down the road toward him. The man limped slightly and stopped as Jim rode up to him. It was the cattle-buyer who had ridden away with Campion, but was a stranger to Jim Horn.

The man’s clothes were torn in several places and one of his hands was badly bruised. He seemed tired and there was an angry expression in his eyes, as Jim grinned at him.

“How far is it to Tarp City?” he demanded.

“Mile or so,” said Jim, glancing back down the road.

The man swore openly and flexed his right knee.

“I lost my horse,” he explained. “I’m a cattle-buyer.”

He pointed back toward the hill.

“I went into the valley with a man named Campion--went in last night. We disagreed on prices; so I started back. Got lost, I reckon. Anyway, I got off my horse and it broke away from me.

“Horse belongs to the livery-stable at Tarp City. I’ve had a ---- of a time gettin’ here.”

“Yeah, yuh sure look like yuh did,” admitted Jim. “Kinda got off the road, didn’t yuh?”

“I did. Skinned my hand and twisted my ankle.”

“Well, yuh ain’t far from Tarp City now, pardner.”

“Glad of it. What outfit are you with?”

“Cross L.”

“Over in the valley, eh? Sellin’ any beef?”

“Mebbe.” Jim turned in his saddle and pointed back down the road. “Old man Marshall is in Tarp City now. Yuh might ask him about it. He ain’t in no mood to sell cows, but he might calm down long enough to talk business.”

The cattle-buyer squinted thoughtfully and nodded.

“Much obliged. Well, I’ll be hobblin’ along. So long.”

Jim nodded and rode on.

“So this was the cattle-buyer that went away with Campion,” mused Jim. “Lost his horse and fell all over the landscape.”

At the first curve in the road he looked back. The cattle-buyer was not in sight.

“Cripple ----!” exploded Jim. “Nothin’ less than a foot-racer could get out of sight that quick.”

He turned his horse and rode back at an easy gallop, but the crippled cattle-buyer had disappeared. Jim rode boldly back to where he had talked to the man and tracked him in the dusty road for about a hundred yards.

The man had stopped, shuffled his feet as he evidently looked toward Jim, but from there the tracks were not visible. Jim stared off into the brush, a queer expression in his eyes.

“Whatcha know about that?” he demanded of the whole wide world. “He won’t find Tarp City down there in the brush. Mebbe he lost his rudder and can’t steer himself.”

But only a blue-jay’s chattering broke the stillness. Jim shook his head and rode back toward Tarp City, wondering why the man had taken to the brush.

Jim found Cross L and Bert Hart in the Royal saloon but did not tell them where he had been. Buck Houston was also in the saloon, when, according to precedent, he should be out in the hills looking for clues.

Barney McManus had looked upon the wine when it was very red and was in the proper condition to do battle with any one who dared say that Peace Parker was guilty of being anything. Buck Houston looked mildly upon Barney but said nothing. Barney was a good deputy. Houston gave no thought to Barney’s resignation.

A little later the Claypool posse rode into town and invaded the Royal. They were dusty, tired and thirsty, but triumphant, to a certain degree.

“We didn’t find our man,” explained Claypool, a trifle thickly, “but we found his horse and saddle--dead.”

“Who do yuh reckon killed the saddle?” queried Jim quickly, but Cross L shoved in closer to Claypool and demanded a detailed explanation.

With the assistance of several more of his men who all talked at once, Claypool managed to tell of how they had heard shooting and had found the dead horse. Of Peace they had seen nothing.

Cross L, Jim and Bert went outside and held an executive session. Claypool had told them where the dead horse had been found, and Cross L was in a hurry to investigate for himself.

Then Jim Horn told of his meeting with the cattle-buyer, while Cross L squinted wonderingly.

“What’s the answer?” queried Bert. “Who in ---- did Peace have the run-in with, I’d like to know?”

“Mebbe Claypool and his gang shot the horse,” suggested Jim.

But Cross L shook his head.

“No, they didn’t. If Claypool had ’a’ done it he’d be braggin’ his head off over it. There’s somethin’ goin’ on that we don’t know about. Yuh say the cattle-buyer was crippled, Jim?”

“Hurt his ankle, I reckon. Didn’t look like that kind of a person either. Pers’nally, I think he’s a liar when he says his horse got away from him and he got lost. By golly, he sure took back to the woods in a hurry.”

“Yuh mean that he didn’t look like the kind of a person that’d lose his horse and go fallin’ around?”

“----, no! He ain’t a young man but he’s got a fightin’ face. Chin as square as the end of a cigar-box and he ain’t got no lips to speak about. Just a slit. And his nose kinda flares, like he’d been hit hard on the end of it.”

Cross L rubbed the back of his head and squinted down at the ground.

“Yuh say he wanted to buy some beef from us, Jim?”

“He wanted to know if we had any. I told him to come down here and see you about it.”

“Uh-huh.”

Cross L grew thoughtful as he bit off a big chew of tobacco and dangled the plug in his hand.

Tony Laughlin came out of the Royal and Cross L accosted him.

“Tony, did you see that dead horse?”

“Yeah, I seen him, Marshall. Claypool said it was Parker’s outfit. Black saddle, kinda plain-lookin’, with a rawhide-covered horn and silver rivets.”

“Gray horse?” queried Jim.

“Yeah. Branded with a Box M on the left shoulder.”

“That’s his animal,” nodded Cross L. “Who do yuh think done it, Tony?”

“Good gosh, I dunno. We didn’t see nobody.”

Tony went on across the street and the three from the Cross L sat down on the sidewalk.

“Mebbe Peace is out there in the brush shot plumb full of holes,” suggested Bert.

“Dry up!” exploded Cross L. “You ought to be a undertaker, Bert; you get such sweet thoughts.”

“Well, you try guessin’ for a while,” advised Bert. “You ain’t done nothin’ yet, except curse a lot.”

“Yeah, I s’pose I have cussed a lot, Bert.” Cross L rubbed his chin slowly and his old eyes softened. “I’ve cussed a lot t’day. But I like Peace Parker so danged much that it makes me cuss to think he’s havin’ a hard time out there alone.”

“Go ahead and cuss, if yuh feel like it,” said Jim slowly. “I’ll tell yuh a few cuss words that mebbe yuh don’t know--and it might help us both.”

“Ain’t nothin’ we can do, except cuss,” admitted Bert. “It’s goin’ to be dark pretty danged quick. Shall we go home or stay here until after supper?”

“Let’s go home,” suggested Cross L. “I ain’t got no appetite--’less you fellers want to eat.”

“I feel kinda dys-pep-tick,” admitted Jim. “Let’s hit the trail for the ranch. Saleratus’ll get us some grub, if we’re hungry.”

They went to the hitch-rack and got their horses. Claypool and his men came out of the Royal saloon, talking loudly and headed for their horses.

“Let’s not ride with that bunch of snakehunters,” said Cross L, as they mounted. “They’re half-drunk and all loco.”

The three from the Cross L left town at a stiff gallop, paying no attention to Claypool’s men, who came up the road just behind them, but seemingly in no hurry.

The sun had long since gone down behind the mountain peaks, and the wide stretches of the hills were shrouded in the gloom of twilight. The three men rode swiftly along the grades, past the place where Jim Horn had met the cattle buyer, and into the sharp curves of the higher levels.

They were nearing the spot where the rocky hog-back opened the way to the secret pass, when Jim Horn jerked up on his horse and came to a full stop. The others drew rein with him and moved back to where he was standing in his stirrups, looking toward the secret pass.

“Whatcha see, Jim?” queried Cross L.

“Danged if I know, Cross L. Looks like a camp-fire, away up there in the peaks. Don’tcha see it?”

“I see it!” exclaimed Bert. “What in ---- would anybody camp up there for?”

“I can see it now,” agreed Cross L. “Looks like a fire, all right. Long ways up there.”

As they sat there watching the tiny flicker, Claypool and his men rode up and questioned them.

“I’ll betcha that’s Peace Parker’s campfire!” blurted one of the cowboys.

“Not out in the open,” replied Jim Horn. “Peace is no fool.”

Claypool moved around until he could lean close to Cross L.

“Marshall, that fire is pretty danged close to the little pass, ain’t it?”

“Yeah, I’ve been thinkin’ it is,” nodded Marshall.

“Well, I’m goin’ to find out what it is,” declared Claypool. “If it don’t affect the pass, we don’t need to show the way to the whole gang. Come on.”

Claypool whirled his horse and spoke to his men.

“We’re goin’ up there and see what it’s all about.”

He spurred his horse up the rocky point, and all the rest followed him, their horses scrambling along, kicking a shower of rocks back onto the grade. Cross L and his two men were just as anxious to find out what it meant, so they urged their horses up through the brush and mixed with the others.

The going was not easy. Darkness was fast covering the mountain slopes, and there was danger of a rider slipping over the rim of the deep cañons. Mile after mile they urged their horses, climbing higher and higher toward the tiny flame.

There was little conversation, as each rider was on the alert, and there was little sound, except the creak of saddles, jingling of bit-chains and the scraping of shod hoofs on the rocky ledges.

* * * * *

Peace Parker had spent considerable time on the bank of the little stream, trying to puzzle out what it all meant. His mind was jumbled with the happenings of the last twelve hours; jumbles, which, as yet, he was unable to connect close enough to plan out his next move.

The sun was going down when he got to his feet and led his horse down to the creek for a drink. Then he swung into the saddle and rode cautiously back to the shack where he had been imprisoned.

There was no one in sight around there. He swung in a wide circle, examining the ground closely for sheep-tracks. Then he found where the herd had traveled, and a pucker came between his eyes, as he squinted at the brush-covered slope of the mountains.

Back and forth he led his horse, looking closely at the tracks. Here and there a thorny bush had lifted tufts of wool from the sheep, and it was easy to follow them. They were all heading into the hills.

Then Peace mounted his horse, swung the rifle across the saddle-fork in front of him and started up the mountain.

There could be only one possible destination for that flock of sheep, and that was the secret pass.

“They’re shovin’ ’em in through the little pass!” he gasped. “They’re goin’ to make another try at puttin’ the woollies into the valley of the Chinook--and they’re hours ahead of me! Come on, bronc!”

Peace knew what it would mean to Chinook. The law had already been tested and the sheep had been given equal rights with other stock. Possession of the range--not outright ownership--and its inaccessibility had been the salvation of the cattle-ranges of the Chinook, but Peace knew that if one big band of sheep ever invaded that domain the law would follow the recent precedent and in a short time the valley would be sheeped-out.

There were no fences, except those at the home ranches--no way of stopping that gray wave of grass-destroying herbivore, if once they gained the down-slopes.

It was a long climb up that mountain side. There were no trails, nothing to guide him. But beyond and beyond was the wool-tipped brush where the sheep had climbed ahead of him.

Darkness came down, but still the jaded animal climbed up through the broken rock, brush, down-timber, while Peace urged it continually, and swore roundly when it was forced to detour around the upper cliffs.

Then he saw the flicker of the fire beyond him. It was, as near as he could judge, very close to the rocky defile which led in through the cliffs. He drew rein and listened. A breeze was sighing through the pines, and to his ears came the distant bleating of sheep.