The rifleman scrambled out of the water and disappeared around an eroded buttress of red clay.
Grant wheeled quickly and ran along the top of the bank until he saw the horse standing nervously beneath the twisted limbs of a giant Cottonwood. Very quietly he slipped over the edge of the claybank, took up a position behind some driftwood, and waited.
He had had three clear shots at the rifleman and likely he would never get another shot like that again. Maybe I should have killed him, he thought. He's sure trying hard enough to kill me!
But in the back of his head was Dagget. The rifleman was evidence against Farley—but not if he was dead. Not even Dagget could make a dead man talk. So Grant had shot to cripple. He had been too careful and had not hit the rifleman at all.
Now, he thought, we're right back where we started.
There was not a sound along the creek except the nervous stamping of the rifleman's horse. From a distance Grant could hear Bud Muller's excited shouting and the other confused noises as they fought to save the derrick. It seemed a long way off and, for the time, insignificant.
The rifleman on the other side of the jutting claybank waited tensely, as Grant waited. At last Grant pressed back against the bank and called:
“I'm between you and your horse, mister. You haven't got a chance.”
“I've got my rifle,” a voice snarled. “That's all the chance I need!”
Grant frowned, and wondered where he had heard that voice before. It was familiar but he couldn't place it. It didn't belong to Farley, nor to the roustabouts who had given him the beating in the Wheel House.
He called again:
“All I have to do is stay where I am and keep it a standoff till the others get through fighting the fire, and then you're through. After what you did to their derrick, I wouldn't want to be in your shoes if young Muller gets you in his sights.”
“You're wastin' your time, Grant!”
The sound of those words rolled in Grant's brain, then fell in place suddenly like a roulette ball falling into the right slot, and he knew who the rifleman was.
He was one of the crewmen, one of the rig builders that Turk Valois had swept out of the gutters of Sabo and Kiefer. Well, Grant thought, it makes sense, I guess. Farley must have heard that Valois was making up a crew for the Muller lease so he got one of his own men on it. When you fought Ben Farley you threw the rule book away.
Grant tried to think of the man's name, and soon that fell into place, too.
“I know who you are, Jagger,” he said quietly. “How much did Farley pay you to sign on with Turk Valois? How much did he pay you to burn the Muller rig?'”
The rifleman laughed harshly. “I didn't think you'd know me, Grant. From the way you gape at that Muller girl, I didn't think you knew anybody else was on the lease.”
“I noticed you, Jagger. Now why don't you throw your rifle down and try to stay alive? It's Farley I'm after, not you.
Jagger laughed again, as though something were actually funny. “You think turnin' me over to that marshal will help you get even with Farley?”
“It might. Anyway, you haven't got much choice. Stay where you are and it will only mean a bullet in the gut when help comes from the well.”
“I can wait.”
But he was worried; Grant could hear it in his voice. “I can stand you off all night, Jagger, and you know it. Come on out and you'll get a fair trial.”
Then both of them heard the sound of a horse picking its way upstream from the direction of Sabo. Grant glanced quickly at the sky and saw that the glow of the derrick fire had diminished considerably.
“Bud,” he called quietly, “Bud, is that you?”
Suddenly, surprisingly, Jagger laughed, and Grant heard him scrambling downstream toward the horseman. Grant hadn't been prepared for this. He had thought that by putting himself between Jagger and his horse he had cut off the rifleman's escape. He shoved himself away from the bank and yelled loudly into the wind.
“He's headed down the creek toward you, Bud! Stop him!”
Almost before the words were out of his mouth he heard a .45 bark four times, one shot crowding on top of the other. Grant fought his way downstream after Jagger, stumbling in the darkness, falling over driftwood and brush. And then, by the edge of the water, he saw the form of a man sprawled in the frozen mud.
“Grant!” a voice called. “You all right?”
It wasn't Bud Muller's voice, after all, it was Turk Valois'. Grant snapped his head around in surprise and saw the horse standing on the lip of the creek bank.
“Where did you come from?”
“Sabo,” Valois said, ducking his head into the peppery wind. “I saw the fire over here and guessed what had happened.” He pointed down at Jagger's still form. “Is he the one that started it?”
Grant nodded, still surprised and vaguely worried. The runner swung down from the saddle and skidded down the bank to where Grant was standing. “That was a funny thing. When you yelled to stop him, he came running right toward me. He must have thought I was somebody else.”
“Farley, maybe,” Grant said flatly, his anger and violence suddenly gone.
Valois frowned and grunted. “You think he was working for Farley?”
“Who else would go to the trouble of getting a man on the Muller crew? Who else has an interest in the Muller well?”
Together they dragged Jagger out of the icy water. The body was limp and heavy, rolling lifelessly as Grant knelt and methodically went through the dead man's pockets. He hoped to find something there to tie Jagger with Farley but all he found was a tight roll of bills.
Valois whistled softly. “The Mullers don't pay their roustabouts that well, do they?”
“No,” Grant said tightly. “But Farley may. It would have been a cheap price if Jagger had succeeded in burning the derrick.”
Valois shook his head. “Too bad he can't talk. If I'd only known...”
Grant smiled with bitter humor. “When I yelled to stop him, there wasn't much time to explain.”
CHAPTER NINE
DAGGET ARRIVED AT the Muller lease the next morning, bringing a buckboard to take Jagger's body back to Sabo. He studied the fire-blackened legs of the derrick and the charred derrick floor, and then like a hound on the scent of a wolf he picked up Jagger's tracks and followed them all the way to the creek. Then he picked up Grant's trail in the crusted snow, and finally Valois', and only then did he accept the story as he heard it.
“All right,” he said to Grant. “It looks like a case of self-defense. But you have a habit I don't like, Grant, you have a habit of getting into trouble too serious and too often.”
“I'm hired to protect this lease. That's what they pay me for.”
“So I've heard, but did you have to kill this man? Is that the only way you know to settle an argument?”
“I killed him, Marshal,” Turk Valois said. The three of them were hunkered down on the sheltered side of the belt house.
“I know,” Dagget said thoughtfully, studying Grant from under his bushy brows. “But he told you to. He says so himself.”
There was nothing Grant could say to that. Legally he was not in any trouble, but the suspicions that stirred in Dagget's mind could be more dangerous than if he had pulled the trigger himself.
The marshal stood up, still gazing thoughtfully at Grant. Then Rhea Muller came out of the dugout and his gaze shifted from Rhea to Grant to Turk Valois. Grant could almost see his mind adding up the facts as he saw them like some beautifully polished machine—and he did not like the answer the machine was giving him.
“There's one thing I haven't got straight yet,” he said to Valois. “How did you come to happen up at such a handy time?”
“I told you I saw the fire and guessed the trouble. I thought maybe I could give a hand.”