Glory Riders Read online

  Brule’s fingers spread and his lips stiffened with cold fury. Ring watched him calmly. “You know better than that, Brule. Wait until my back is turned. If you reach for a gun, I’ll blow you out of your saddle.”

  Stan Brule slowly relaxed his hand, and then wordlessly he turned to follow Bilton and Hagan, who had watched with hard eyes.

  Gail Truman was looking at him curiously. “Why, Brule was afraid of you!” she exclaimed. “Who are you, anyway?”

  “Nobody, ma’am,” he said simply. “I’m no gunfighter, just an hombre who ain’t got brains enough to scare proper. Brute knows it. He knows he might beat me, but he knows I’d kill him. He was there when I killed a friend of his, Blaze Garden.”

  “But … but then you must be a gunman. Blaze Garden was a killer. I’ve heard Dad and the boys talk about him.”

  “No, I’m no gunman. Blaze beat me to the draw. In fact, he got off his first shot before my gun cleared the holster, only he shot too quick and missed. His second and third shots hit me while I was walking into him. The third shot wasn’t so bad because I was holding my fire and getting close. He got scared and stepped back, and the fourth shot was too high. Then I shot and I was close up to him then. One was enough. One is always enough if you place it right.” He gestured at the place. “What’s this all about? Mind telling me?”

  “It’s very simple, really. Nothing out here is very involved when you come to that. It seems that there’s something out here that brings men to using guns much faster than in other places, and one thing stems from another. Whit Bayly owned this place. He was a fixing man, always tinkering and fixing things up. He was a tall, handsome man who all the girls loved …”

  “You, too?” he asked quizzically.

  She flushed. “Yes, I guess so, only I’m only eighteen now, and that was three, almost four years ago. I wasn’t very pretty or very noticeable and much too young. Sam Hazlitt was one of the richest men in the country around here, and Whit had a run-in with him over a horse. There had been a lot of stealing going on around, and Hazlitt traced some stock of his to this ranch, or so he claimed. Anyway, he accused Bayly of it, and Whit told him not to talk foolish. Furthermore, he told Hazlitt to stay off of his ranch. Well, folks were divided over who was in the right, but Whit had a lot of friends and Hazlitt had four brothers and clannish as all get out.

  “Not long after, some riders from Buck Hazlitt’s ranch came by that way and saw a body lying in the yard, right over near the spring. When they came down to have a look, thinking Whit was hurt, they found Sam Hazlitt, and he’d been shot dead … in the back. They headed right for town, hunting Whit, and they found him. He denied it, and they were going to hang him, had a rope around his neck, and then I … I … well, I swore he wasn’t anywhere near his ranch all day.”

  “It wasn’t true?” Ring asked keenly, his eyes searching the girl’s face. She avoided his eyes, flushing even more.

  “Not … not exactly. But I knew he wasn’t guilty. I just knew he wouldn’t shoot a man in the back. I told them he was over to our place, talking with me, and he hadn’t time to get back there and kill Sam. Folks didn’t like it much. Some of them still believed he killed Sam, and some didn’t like it because, despite the way I said it, they figured he was sparking a girl too young for him. I always said it wasn’t that. As a matter of fact, I did see Whit over our way, but the rest of it was lies. Anyway, after a few weeks Whit up and left the country.”

  “I see, and nobody knows yet who killed Sam Hazlitt?”

  “Nobody. One thing that was never understood was what became of Sam’s account book … sort of a tally book, but more than that. It was a sort of record he kept of a lot of things, and it was gone out of his pocket. Nobody ever found it, but they did find the pencil Sam used on the sand nearby. Dad always figured Sam lived long enough to write something, but that the killer stole the book and destroyed it.”

  “How about the hands? Could they have picked it up? Did Bilton question them about that?”

  “Oh, Bilton wasn’t marshal then. In fact, he was riding for Buck Hazlitt then. He was one of the hands who found Sam’s body.”

  After the girl had gone, Allen Ring walked back to the house and thought the matter over. He had no intention of leaving. This was just the ranch he wanted, and he intended to live right here, yet the problem fascinated him. Living in the house and looking around the place had taught him a good deal about Whit Bayly. He was, as Gail had said, “a fixing man” for there were many marks of his handiwork aside from the beautifully made fireplace and the pruned apple trees. He was, Ring was willing to gamble, no murderer.

  Taylor had said he died of lead poisoning. Who had killed Bayly? Why? Was it a casual shooting over some rangeland argument, or had he been followed from here by someone on vengeance bent? Or someone who thought he might know too much?

  “You’ll like the place.” Taylor had said—that was an angle he hadn’t considered before. Ben Taylor had actually seen this place himself! The more sign he read, the more tricky the trail became, and Allen walked outside and sat down against the cabin wall when his supper was finished, and lighted a smoke.

  Stock had been followed to the ranch by Sam Hazlitt. If Whit was not the thief, then who was? Where had the stock been driven? He turned his eyes almost automatically toward the Mogollons, the logical place. His eyes narrowed, and he recalled that one night while playing cards they had been talking of springs and water holes, and Ben Taylor had talked about Fossil Springs, a huge spring that roared thousands of gallons of water out of the earth.

  “Place a man could run plenty of stock,” he had said, and winked, “and nobody the wiser.”

  Those words had been spoken far away and long ago, and the Red Rock ranch had not yet been put on the table; that was months later. There was, he recalled, a Fossil Creek somewhere north of here. And Fossil Creek might flow from Fossil Springs—perhaps Ben Taylor had talked more to effect than he knew. That had been Texas, and this was Arizona, and a casual bunkhouse conversation probably seemed harmless enough.

  “We’ll see, Ben,” Ring muttered grimly. “We’ll see.”

  Ross Bilton had been one of the Hazlitt hands at the time of the killing, one of the first on the scene. Now he was town marshal but interested in keeping the ranch unoccupied—why? None of it made sense, yet actually it was no business of his. Allen Ring thought that over and decided it was his business in a sense. He now owned the place and lived on it. If an old murder was to interfere with his living there, it behooved him to know the facts. It was a slight excuse for his curiosity.

  Morning came and the day drew on toward noon, and there was no sign of Bilton or Brule. Ring had loaded his rifle and kept it close to hand, and he was wearing two guns, thinking he might need a loaded spare, although he rarely wore more than one. Also, inside the cabin door he had his double-barreled shotgun.

  The spring drew his attention. At the moment he did not wish to leave the vicinity of the cabin, and that meant it was a good time to clean out the spring. Not that it needed it, but there were loose stones in the bottom of the basin and some moss. With this removed, he would have more water and clearer water. With a wary eye toward the cañon mouth, he began his work.

  The sound of an approaching horse drew him erect. His rifle stood against the rocks at hand, and his guns were ready, yet, as the rider came into sight, he saw there was only one man, a stranger. He rode a fine bay gelding and he was not a young man, but thick and heavy with drooping mustache and kind blue eyes. He drew up.

  “Howdy,” he said affably, yet taking a quick glance around before looking again at Ring. “I’m Rolly Truman, Gail’s father.”

  “It’s a pleasure,” Ring said, wiping his wet hands on a red bandanna. “Nice to know the neighbors.” He nodded at the spring. “I picked me a job. That hole’s deeper than it looks.”

  “Good flow of water,” Truman agreed. He chewed his mustache thoughtfully. “I like to see a young man with get-up about him, st
artin’ his own spread, willin’ to work.”

  Allen Ring waited. The man was building up to something; what, he knew not. It came then, carefully at first, yet shaping a loop as it drew near. “Not much range here, of course,” Truman added. “You should have more graze. Ever been over in Cedar Basin? Or up along the East Verde bottom? Wonderful land up there, still some wild, but a country where a man could really do something with a few white-faced cattle.”

  “No, I haven’t seen it,” Ring replied, “but I’m satisfied. I’m not land hungry. All I want is a small piece, and this suits me fine.”

  Truman shifted in his saddle and looked uncomfortable. “Fact is, son, you’re upsetting a lot of folks by being here. What you should do is move.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ring said flatly. “I don’t want to make enemies, but I won this place on a four card draw. Maybe I’m a fatalist, but somehow or other I think I should stick here. No man’s got a right to think he can draw four cards and win anything, but I did, and in a plenty rough game. I had everything I owned in that pot. Now I got the place.”

  The rancher sat his horse uneasily, and then he shook his head. “Son, you’ve sure got to move. There’s no trouble here now, but if you stay, she’s liable to open old sores and start more trouble than any of us can stop. Besides, how did Ben Taylor get title to this place? Bayly had no love for him. I doubt if your title will stand up in court.”

  “As to that I don’t know,” Ring persisted stubbornly. “I have a deed that’s legal enough, and I’ve registered that deed and my brand along with it. I did find out that Bayly had no heirs. So I reckon I’ll sit tight until somebody comes along with a better legal claim than mine.”

  Truman ran his hand over his brow. “Well, I guess I don’t blame you much, son. Maybe I shouldn’t have come over, but I know Ross Bilton and his crowd, and I reckon I wanted to save myself some trouble as well as you. Gail, she thinks you’re a fine young man. In fact, you’re the first man she’s ever showed interest in since Whit left, and she was a youngster then. It was a sort of hero worship she had for him. I don’t want trouble.”

  Allen Ring leaned on the shovel and looked up at the older man. “Truman,” he said, “are you sure you aren’t buying trouble by trying to avoid it? Just what’s your stake in this?”

  The rancher sat very still, his face drawn and pale. Then he got down from his horse and sat on a rock. Removing his hat, he mopped his brow.

  “Son,” he said slowly, “I reckon I got to trust you. You’ve heard of the Hazlitts. They are a hard, clannish bunch, men who’ve lived by the gun most of their lives. Sam was murdered. Folks all know that when they find out who murdered him and why, there’s goin’ to be plenty of trouble around here. Plenty.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  Truman jerked his head up. “No! No, you mustn’t get that idea, but … well, you know how small ranchers are. There was a sight of rustlin’ them days, and the Hazlitts were the big outfit. They lost cows.”

  “And some of them got your brand?” Ring asked shrewdly.

  Truman nodded. “I reckon. Not so many, though. And not only me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not beggin’ off the blame. Part of it is mine, all right, but I didn’t get many. Eight or ten of us hereabouts slapped brands on Hazlitt stock … and at least five of us have the biggest brands around here now, some as big almost as the Hazlitts’.”

  Allen Ring studied the skyline thoughtfully. It was an old story and one often repeated in the West. When the War Between the States ended, men came home to Texas and the Southwest to find cattle running in thousands, unbranded and unowned. The first man to slap on a brand was the owner, with no way he could be contested.

  Many men grew rich with nothing more than a wide loop and a running iron. Then the unbranded cattle were gone, the ranches had settled into going concerns, and the great days of casual branding had ended, yet there was still free range, and a man with that same loop and running iron could still build a herd fast.

  More than one of the biggest ranchers had begun that way, and many of them continued to brand loose stock wherever found. No doubt that had been true here, and these men like Rolly Truman, good, able men who had fought Indians and built their homes to last, had begun just that way. Now the range was mostly fenced, and ranches had narrowed somewhat, but Ring could see what it might mean to open an old sore now.

  Sam Hazlitt had been trailing rustlers—he had found out who they were and where the herds were taken, and he had been shot down from behind. The catch was that the tally book, with his records, was still missing. That tally book might contain evidence as to the rustling done by men who were now pillars of the community and open them to the vengeance of the Hazlitt outfit.

  Often Western men threw a blanket over a situation. If a rustler had killed Sam, then all the rustlers involved would be equally guilty. Anyone who lived on this ranch might stumble on that tally book and throw the range into a bloody gun war in which many men now beyond the errors of their youth, with homes, families, and different customs, would die.

  It could serve no purpose to blow the lid off the trouble now, yet Allen Ring had a hunch. In their fear of trouble for themselves they might be concealing an even greater crime, aiding a murderer in his escape. There were lines of care in the face of Rolly Truman that a settled, established rancher should not have.

  “Sorry,” Ring said, “I’m staying. I like this place.”

  *

  All through the noon hour the tension was building. The air was warm and sultry, and there was a thickening haze over the mountains. There was that hot thickness in the air that presaged a storm. When he left his coffee to return to work, Ring saw three horsemen coming into the cañon mouth at a running walk. He stopped in the door and touched his lips with his tongue.

  They reined up at the door, three hard-bitten, hard-eyed men with rifles across their saddle bows. Men with guns in their holsters and men of a kind that would never turn from trouble. These were men with the bark on, lean fanatics with lips thinned with old bitterness.

  The older man spoke first. “Ring, I’ve heard about you. I’m Buck Hazlitt. These are my brothers, Joe and Dolph. There’s talk around that you aim to stay on this place. There’s been talk for years that Sam hid his tally book here. We figure the killer got that book and burned it. Maybe he did, and, again, maybe not. We want that book. If you want to stay on this place, you stay. But if you find that book, you bring it to us.”

  Ring looked from one to the other, and he could see the picture clearly. With men like these, hard and unforgiving, it was no wonder Rolly Truman and the other ranchers were worried. The years and prosperity had eased Rolly and his like into comfort and softness, but not these. The Hazlitts were of feudal blood and background.

  “Hazlitt,” Ring said, “I know how you feel. You lost a brother, and that means something, but if that book is still around, which I doubt, and I find it, I’ll decide what to do with it all by myself. I don’t aim to start a range war. Maybe there’s some things best forgotten. The man who murdered Sam Hazlitt ought to pay.”

  “We’ll handle that,” Dolph put in grimly. “You find that book, you bring it to us. If you don’t …” His eyes hardened. “Well, we’d have to class you with the crooks.”

  Ring’s eyes shifted to Dolph. “Class if you want,” he flared. “I’ll do what seems best to me with that book. But all of you folks are plumb proddy over that tally book. Chances are nine out of ten the killer found it and destroyed it.”

  “I don’t reckon he did,” Buck said coldly, “because we know he’s been back here, a-huntin’ it. Him an’ his girl.”

  Ring stiffened. “You mean …?”

  “What we mean is our figger, not yours.” 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 hunting 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 cañon 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 cañons like a grizzly with a toothache. It was going to rain. Sure as shooting, 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. 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.