"Hell, ain't it hot--an' slow?" he grunted. "Wish suthin' would happen."
Came the quick thud of hammering hoofs, and one of the other men glanced up lazily. "Looks like yu got yore wish," he said. "They's a lunatic a-comin'."
Along the eastern trail a rider was approaching at breakneck speed; they could see the rise and fall of his arm as he plied the quirt to the flanks of a horse already doing its best.
"Year or so back you mighta guessed Injuns, but they've bin quiet a goodish while now," the last speaker continued.
"Shucks! It's Riley, o' the Circle B; reckon he's on'y thirsty."
By this time the panting pony had rocketed along the street and, in a shower of dust, had been pulled to a sudden stop in front of the marshal's quarters. The rider, a diminutive, bow-legged man with a hard, sly face, sprang down, and wiping his dust-caked lips with the back of his hand, cried,
"Hey, Slippery, come alive an' git busy."
The marshal tilted back his chair and surveyed the speaker sourly; he had to put up with hectoring from the Burdettes, but he was not going to stand it from their underlings, and he didn't like his nickname.
"What might be yore particular trouble?" he drawled. "Somebody bumped off King, by any chance?"
"If they had, the Circle B wouldn't be botherin' yu," was the blunt reply. "No, sir, but I got a notion the C P is shy a foreman, mebbe."
This statement brought the officer to attention and the loafers from their shelter. With an upraised hand Riley stilled the babble of questions.
"Here's the how of it," he said. "I'm crossin' yore range, marshal, on my way to town, hour or so back. I'm 'bout half a mile from Dark Canyon when I sees Green on the other side of it--can't mistake that black o' his. He's amblin' along casual-like, pointin' for the C P line-house, I figure. Naturally, I ain't interested, an' I'm just turnin' away when there's a shot from that tree-covered bump what sticks up like a wart to the east, an' I sees Green pitch out'n his saddle to the edge o' the canyon; his hoss bolts. Me, I hunt cover plenty rapid, guessin' the gent with the gun has more'n one ca'tridge.
"Nothin' happens for a spell. Green don't show up, an' havin' seen his lid sail into the canyon, I'm bettin' high he's went with it. The fella what did the shootin' must 'a'come to the same conclusion, for presently he busts from his hiding-place an' rides hell-bent for that splash o' pines east."
"Reckernize him?" the marshal asked.
"Too fur away, an' I on'y see his back," Riley replied, "but he was atop of a grey hoss, an' I'd say he was redheaded."
"How in hell?" began the officer.
"He warn't wearin' a hat," the Circle B man explained. "Left it behind or got it tied to his saddle-strings, I s'pose."
"Odd, that," the marshal mused. "Well, I reckon I better look into it. Yu boys comin' along?"
The reply was an immediate scattering in quest of mounts and rifles; hot as it was, they were not missing anything that promised a little excitement. In less than a quarter of an hour, the men, headed by the marshal and the bringer of the news, were riding rapidly for the scene of the outrage.
"Redhead with a grey hoss huh?" Slype remarked, his crafty little eyes on his companion. "Curious yu didn't know him."
"Ain't it?" Was the sardonic retort. "My sight is mebbe not so good, an' it's powerful glary out on the range." The marshal grunted his disbelief in this explanation and became more confirmed in his suspicion, which, had he but known it, was just what Riley intended. The Circle B man's admiration for the officer would have been hard to discover.
In the West of that day representatives of the law were seldom popular. There were among them men who did their work fearlessly and honestly; whose efforts to establish and preserve order in an untamed land laid the foundation stones of the great and flourishing cities which have replaced the huddles of huts they knew. But many were, as the common phrase put it, "as crooked as a cow's hind leg," and held their places only because they were more ruthless, and could shoot quicker than the ruffians they had to rule. Slype belonged to neither of these groups; he had been put in power by the Circle B, and though he talked loudly in public, it was generally known that when King Burdette whistled, the marshal had to come to heel.
He now rode in silence, trying to fathom what lay behind this latest development. Beyond a plain intimation that Luce was no longer to be regarded as one of the family, the Burdettes had told him nothing, but the marshal had means of obtaining information, and little happened in the neighbourhood that he did not hear. He knew, for example, that King Burdette's belt had been left at "The Lucky Chance" by his youngest brother, and had slapped his thigh in unholy glee at the news. For though he served them--or perhaps, because of that--he hated the Burdettes with all his mean, shrivelled soul. Riley's voice interrupted his speculations.
"Yonder's the knob where the shot come from. Green must 'a' bin pretty close to here."
They had reached the canyon and were riding along the edge, slowing in order to search it thoroughly. Riley, bending down in his saddle, was scanning the ground closely. Presently he dragged on his reins and jumped off.
"Thisyer's the spot," he said. "See where the hoss r'ared?" He pointed to several hoof-prints deeply indented in the short turf. A tiny reddish-brown splash on a blade of grass caught his eye, and he stepped to the brink of the precipice. At his call, the others left their horses and came clustering round. He was pointing to a little crevice, a notch in the rim of the canyon wall, the long grass in which was flattened, broken, and stained in several places with dried blood.
"He dropped here, shore enough, but where the devil's he got to?" Slype queried.
"Rolled over, I'd say," one of the party offered. "That crack goes plenty deep, I'm thinkin'."
"Hell's delight, it's a long ride to git down there," the marshal said disgustedly. "S'pose we gotta do it."
A further search revealing no sign of the missing man, the posse retraced its steps to the entrance of the canyon.
"We'd oughta come here first," said one when they reached it.
"If everybody done what they oughta, somebody would 'a' bumped yu off for a chatterin' fool years ago, Pike," the marshal said savagely.
The offender subsided; he owed Slype money, a fact that worthy had not forgotten when he uttered the insult. Since the rest of the party, save Riley, were in the same predicament, the journey along the gorge was made in silence. It was the Circle B man who first saw the hat, and spurring his pony, leant over, lifted it from the ground and waited for the marshal. The broken buckle and jagged hole with bloodstained edges appeared to tell a plain story.
"Got him good, 'pears like," Slype decided. "But where the blazes is the body? Even if the bullet didn't do the trick, the fall would break every bone in him."
They scanned the grim, overhanging wall above them, and the man Pike ventured an opinion. "That crack in the rim comes down a consid'able ways; mebbe he slipped into that 'stead o' droppin' clear."
It appeared to be the only solution; seen from below, the fissure in question seemed more than capacious enough to conceal a corpse. The marshal grudgingly accepted the explanation.
"Likely enough," he said. "Well, if he's there it's as good a grave as we could make him. Let's git outa this damn gully--it gives me the creeps."
Once more they retraced their steps, and emerging into the open, headed for the knoll from which the shot had been fired. It was a mere mound, covered on the side facing the canyon with a thick screen of spruce, catclaw, and cactus, being therefore an ideal spot for the purpose to which it had been put. Hoof-prints showed where a horse had been tied, and lying near the top of the hillock was an old grey Stetson. The marshal pounced on it; in the sweatband were the letters "L. B."--done in ink--but nearly obliterated by time and wear.