quit publishin' our intentions to the world mebbe we'd ketch a fish now and then. Don't worry about Dave Denver. He's up to somethin', you bet."
Grogan lounged up to them. By and by he grunted. "Funny thing. He comes right in, stays five minutes, and walks right out again. Now, does that make sense?"
"If he didn't have a purpose," maintained Denver's defendant, "he wouldn't 'a' been here. I know Dave."
"Well, what was his idee?" demanded Grogan.
"Yore guess is as good as mine," was the other man's abrupt answer.
A slim, olive-colored little man emerged from the Palace, climbed on a calico pony, and quietly left Sundown. He circled the town, crossed the stage road a half mile behind the vanishing Denver, and fell into a lesser trail. Twenty minutes later when Denver was running along the flat stretch beyond Shoshone Dome this fellow stood on a ridge and watched, and a little later began a solitary game of distant stalking.
Denver, meanwhile, was engaged in a mysterious game of his own. A few miles beyond Shoshone Dome he drew beside the road, dismounted, and went to a stump. He capsized a loose rock, and found a piece of paper. There was a scribble of words on it. With a pencil he added a line of his own, signed his initials and put the paper back. After that he raced up and down the hairpin curves until he arrived at the Sweet Creek bridge. Here again he imitated his first performance under the timbers of the bridge; and again travelled with the highway as it swooped into the valley of Sundown. Presently he was at the mouth of Starlight. But instead of turning for home he tarried to study the distant reaches of the road. Cattle and men filled it yonder, emerging from a hill trail. He advanced at a set pace and found a half- dozen men from Fear Langdell's ranch driving approximately two hundred head of stock to the south. Langdell's foreman came up—a long, lean man with a cheerful drawl.
"We crossed yore territory, Dave," said the foreman. "Want to cut this bunch for strays?"
"I'll just take a stand down the road a bit and watch 'em pass," replied Denver. He went on a distance, drew aside, and rolled a cigarette. The foreman followed him.
"Got goin' awful late. We won't make the railroad today. Nice critters for the market, ain't they?"
Denver's glance went expertly through the passing line of cattle, reading brands. Most of the stuff was in Langdell's own original brand; but at odd intervals he saw steers Cal Steele had sold to Langdell for shipping; recognizable as such by the vent—a small replica of the owner's brand—each carried on its hip. Denver suddenly dropped his cigarette and crowded his pony into the stream of stock, coming abreast an enormous brute with sweeping horns and a red blaze on an otherwise cream head. He leaned down, passed his palm across the brand, and looked carefully at the earmarks. When he withdrew from the procession Langdell's foreman was once more beside him.
"What's the caper, Dave? That's a Steele steer we bought last week to ship."
"Ahuh. Just wanted to look closer at the ugly critter. Well, I find nothing here belonging to me. See you later."
The outfit went by, the bawling and the shouting diminished downgrade. As long as man or beast remained in sight Denver kept his position, scarcely moving a muscle. But the cast of his face slowly changed, lines deepening, lips compressing. Through his mind raced an unpleasant truth. That steer had worn a Fee brand last year. He was certain because he remembered finding the animal strayed into his own stock. And he had driven it back across the Copperhead bridge to Fee territory. No mistake about that. Undeniably the same Fee beef now going to market with Cal Steele's brand.
Of course such things honestly happened now and then. Cattlemen sold to other cattlemen; or in adjusting occasional cases of misbranding at roundup time they swapped beef to rectify these errors. But what overthrew either of these possible explanations was the fact that this particular steer had lost his Fee brand. Steele's brand proclaimed to the wide world that the steer had originated as a Steele beef. There was only one answer—a switching of marks, a careful and expert doctoring. His eyes had picked up no suspicious blurring; but his inspecting palm had felt the slight roughness and variance of the outer ridges. Even so, had he not known that steer by sight, he would have passed it as a genuine Steele product. And since both Steele and Fee used the same small underhack on the ears of their cattle, the switch would pass any casual observer's inspection.
He drew a deep breath, wishing he had never seen the steer. There were other explanations, he told himself. Yet common sense kept insisting that no matter what explanation he might conjure up to protect the memory of his friend, somebody's treachery was at the bottom of this change. The black mystery of the country had cast its shadow even over the man he loved above all others.
He stiffened in the saddle. Brush swirled beside him. A body shifted, out of sight, and a soft voice spoke to him. He caught himself after the first sidewise glance and stared impassively down the road.
"Joe Hollis saw riders passin' across the Henry trail from where he was hid, Dave. He passed the word along the line. And Lyle Bonnet placed Redmain's bunch in one of the high pockets about seven miles west of Leverage's place. Seemed like they was takin' it easy. Saddles off."
Denver spoke from the side of his mouth. "Go back. Collect the boys where the Leverage back trail runs into the Henry. I'll be along a couple hours after dark. But tell Lyle not to let 'em out of his sight. If they move, follow. In such a case, leave one man at the junction spot to meet me, and another one or two along the line so I'll know where to come. Get going, and be careful. There's somebody scouting me."
He spurred along the road to Starlight and went rapidly up. Two miles in from the highway he saw a fresh track across the soft earth and cut down the side of the canyon. The sun was dipping over the western range when he cantered across the D Slash yard and dismounted. He threw his horse into the corral and joined the remnant of his crew at the supper table.
They had nothing to report, these restless home guards. They had worked the lower corner of D Slash range and found everything proper. Steve Steers had come along during the middle of the afternoon with a small bunch of D Slash strays. They had told him of Steele's death.
"And I thought he was a-goin' to shoot me when I spilled the news," said Dan Russell. "Never saw a fella stiffen up thataway. He wanted to know where you was, and I said I figgered mebbe yuh'd be home to eat supper. He rode off like a bat outa hell. Didn't bother to take four cows and beavertails we had fer him."
Denver nodded. "Comes hard on him. He'd bunch any other job in the world to join this chase. But he can't walk out on Nightingale. I bet he's stampin' the earth."
"Well, now," put in Russell, "ain't it about time us fellas got into this jam? Shucks, we're entitled to some fun. What's the percentage—"
"Tonight," replied Denver, "you boys stick right here. Burn all the lights on the place. Make lots of noise. Somebody stay in the main house—as if it was me. Baldy, rope out the gelding for me. Also, three-four of you get into the kitchen and help Si slap up a mess of sandwiches. I'll be carryin' 'em back to the bunch in the hills."
"How about knittin' some mufflers?" grunted Russell, full of discontent. "If this ain't the damnedest—"
Steve Steers and Al Niland appeared at the dining-room door. Denver got up from the table and walked back into the living room with them, carefully closing the door.
"Missed you by ten minutes in Sundown," said Steve tersely. "I never stopped ridin', once I got the news."
"Go back to your business, Steve."
"Is that all the advice you got for me?" challenged Steers. "You ridin' tonight? Then so am I. And so is Al."
"Listen to reason. You can't leave Nightingale in the lurch. Do you think this is just a one-night affair? It ain't. Nobody knows when the last of it will come. You've got no business slashin' around the hills, leavin' Nightingale's range wide open to Redmain. You know it."
"So that's the way I stand by my friends, is it?" was Steve's bitter retort.
"I guess I've got to hit from the shoulder," stated Denver. "You've always been a wild-eyed buzzard. There never was a job you wouldn't quit