Clattering Hoofs. William MacLeod Raine

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СКАЧАТЬ promptly released himself from it.

      “What are you doing in this country?” Ranger demanded.

      Again there was a little pause before the young man opened his lips to answer. Before he could speak McNulty slid in an answer. “Why, that’s an easy one, John. He’s stealing our stock.”

      “I asked him, not you, Pete,” mentioned Ranger.

      “Just seeing what’s over the next hill,” Sloan answered. “You know how punchers move around. Thought I’d pick up a job riding for some outfit.”

      Uhlmann took the rope from McNulty and shuffled a step or two closer to the victim. “What’s the use of talk? We caught him stealing our stuff. No use wasting time.”

      The cowboy choked down the dread rising in him. “I tell you I’m the wrong man,” he said evenly. “Let me prove it.”

      3. Pablo Lopez Takes a Hand

      “FELLOW, THIS CASE IS CLOSED,” MCNULTY RETORTED. “YOU been tried and convicted. By facts. Like Rhino says, we caught you in the act.”

      Cape Sloan talked, for his life. But he didn’t let his desperation sweep him away. His voice was quiet and steady.

      “If I was driving off your stuff, where are the other fellows that were with me? They didn’t come up this gulch.”

      “You say Scarface didn’t come up here?” Ranger asked.

      “Nobody passed me between here and the foot of the hill—neither this Scarface you are talking about nor anybody else.”

      Ranger put a question to Hart “You saw Scarface take this turn at the Flatiron, didn’t you?”

      “Not exactly,” Hart admitted. “Someone on a horse was moving up the gulch ahead of us. Naturally we thought it was one of the birds we wanted.”

      “It was, too,” cut in McNulty. “It was this fellow.”

      “There must be some other trail they could have taken,” Sloan protested. “They didn’t come up here.”

      “There was the other fork,” Ranger agreed.

      “Looky here, boys,” McNulty urged. “We got the dead wood on this man. They weren’t out of our sight hardly a minute—just when they dipped down into the bend before the Flatiron. Then we see him again, ridin’ hell-for-leather up the cañon. Only by that time he ain’t the one we want, by his way of it. Me, I don’t believe in fairy tales. This vanishing stuff don’t go with Pete.”

      “There must be tracks where they took the other fork,” Sloan said.

      “Might be,” Hart nodded. “Though there was a lot of loose rubble on the ground there.”

      “I don’t want to make a mistake about this,” Ranger said. “We’ll take a look.”

      “There’s a cottonwood over there handy,” Uhlmann grumbled. “No trees at the foot of the hill. We’re wasting time.”

      John Ranger stood six feet two, a man in the prime of life. He wore a short thick beard, and the eyes above it were strong and steady. No man in the neighborhood was more respected.

      “I can afford to waste a quarter of an hour to make sure I am not hanging an innocent man,” he replied curtly, and turned his horse down the cañon.

      At the fork Uhlmann guarded the prisoner while the others examined the ground for the tracks of horses. There were marks where hoofs had slipped an inch or two on the loose rubble, but since there had been no rain for weeks there was no way of telling how recent they were. The three men moved up the hill looking for tracks that might tell a more convincing story, but when they returned ten minutes later none of them was sure.

      “All bunk what he claims,” McNulty shouted to Uhlmann. “They didn’t come this way.”

      “We don’t know that,” Hart differed. “Horses have been up this cañon, but we can’t tell when.”

      “I say hang him right damn now,” the foxfaced man voted. “Rustling is one disease you can’t cure a fellow of except with a rope.”

      The blue-gray eyes of Sloan flamed hot with anger. “You’re tough as bull neck rawhide when you’re talking to an unarmed man with a gun in yore hand and two-three other men to back yore play,” he said scornfully.

      “You can’t talk that way to me,” blustered McNulty angrily.

      “I am talking that way to you. I’m telling you that you’re a yellow-bellied coyote, or you wouldn’t want to hang an innocent man who can prove he wasn’t in this raid if you give him time.”

      Before he could be stopped McNulty slammed the barrel of his rifle against the side of the stranger’s head. Sloan swayed on his feet and would have fallen if Hart had not supported him.

      “Proving what I’ve just said,” he told McNulty hardily.

      “Exactly that,” Ranger agreed. “If you lay a hand to this man again, Pete, I’ll wear you out with my quirt. We may have to hang him, but I’m not going to have him abused first.”

      “I reckon he’s guilty,” Hart said, after he had tied his bandanna around the bleeding head of their prisoner. “But I don’t want to live regretting today all the rest of my life. I think we ought to go back to Blunt’s place and let the other fellows have a say in this.”

      “You’re shouting when you say we’ve got to hang him, Russ,” Uhlmann replied roughly. “But what’s the sense of taking him back to Blunt’s? We’re the fellows who caught him and we’re the ones that ought to have the say-so. What more do you want? We caught him in the act.”

      “I wouldn’t be riding on a raid without a rifle, would I?” Sloan asked.

      “You threw it away to help your alibi,” McNulty chipped in sourly.

      “I’ve seen this guy before somewhere,” the German scowled. “Wish I could remember where. Maybe with Scarface some time. He ain’t so much a stranger as he claims he is.”

      “You can hold me till you find out whether my story is true,” Sloan told them.

      “No,” Uhlmann growled. “What’s the sense of being soft? Before we started we agreed to hang any of them we caught. They shot up Spillman, didn’t they?”

      “He’d likely bust out of any place we put him,” McNulty grumbled. “Thing to do is to finish this while we’ve got him.”

      “Even though I’m innocent,” their prisoner added.

      “You’re guilty as the devil,” the German flung out bluntly. “All right. Let’s go back to Blunt’s. There are no trees there, but we can prop up a wagon tongue for him.”

      Near the sandy bed of the creek they drew up beside the body of Sim Jones.

      “I wish it hadn’t been Sim I got,” СКАЧАТЬ