Knights of the Range. Zane Grey

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СКАЧАТЬ the idee, Britt?” went on the raider.

      “I seen a bunch of our hawses comin’ an’ I didn’t want them to get out.”

      “Your hosses?—How you goin’ to prove thet? They ain’t branded.”

      “Wal, I reckon I cain’t prove it. But my ootfit knows ’em an’ they’ll be comin’ pronto.”

      “Hell you say,” retorted Bill, flashing a plainsman’s gaze across the range. “Only one hossman in sight.”

      “Mugg, where’d you leave Stinger an’ Brazos Keene?” inquired Britt, coldly.

      “Boss, we left Stinger fer dead. An’ the last I seen of Brazos he was ridin’ hell-bent fer leather up the pass,” replied the cowboy, hurriedly.

      Dillon had been the last rider taken on by Britt for the Ripple outfit, and he was an unknown and doubtful quality. Britt knew his status would be defined shortly.

      “Mugg, how come you’re ridin’ with these gents?” drawled the foreman.

      “I—he . . . boss, I jest had—to,” burst out Dillon, disconnectedly. He was not yet old enough at this game to face death coolly from two sides. Britt knew he was guilty.

      “Bah!” ejaculated the raider, scornfully, and with a back sweep of his gloved left hand he struck Dillon from his saddle. The cowboy fell, and bounded up hatless, a cornered wolf. His horse plunged away dragging the bridle. “Britt, save me the trouble of borin’ the yellow pup.”

      “Mugg, I reckon I wouldn’t bore you for double-crossin’ me,” drawled Britt, ponderingly. “But these air Miss Holly’s hawses—an’ some she puts store in. What air Brazos an’ Jim goin’ to do aboot this deal?”

      “Britt,” interposed the raider, “I don’t mind tellin’ you thet Brazos took a flyin’ shot at Dillon an’ creased him, as you can see if you look close.”

      “Cowboy, fork yore hawse an’ ride,” said Britt, contemptuously, after verifying the raider’s statement. Dillon bent over to pick up his sombrero.

      “Suits me,” said Bill, laconically. “But fust open thet gate.”

      Dillon had no choice but to comply and Britt likewise had no choice but to sit on the fence and take this humiliating procedure. He had himself well in hand, though an unwonted heat boiled beneath his skin. Britt knew his job. His life was worth more to Holly Ripple than that of this insolent raider, and all his men. Nevertheless it galled the Texan to withhold his hand.

      “Thet fellar’s comin’ fast,” spoke up the raider, after Dillon had opened the gate.

      Britt did not turn, but he had an uneasy premonition. Certainly no single rider in his outfit would be bearing swiftly down upon that doubtful group.

      At this Britt wheeled so quickly as nearly to lose his seat on the fence. His sudden dread was verified. Scarcely two hundred paces distant came a black clean-limbed racer with Holly Ripple in the saddle. “Good Gawd!” groaned the foreman, in sudden distraction. Then, cupping his hands round his lips he bellowed stentorianly: “Holly, turn back! Hawse-thieves!”

      She did not hear, however, or did not heed, but came up swiftly, a striking figure on the racer.

      “Britt, you ain’t flatterin’, but I’ll pass it over,” remarked Bill, tersely.

      In what seemed only a moment, and one fraught with acute concern and uncertainty for Britt, the fleet-footed black slowed down and plunged to a gravel-scattering halt at the gate. Britt had seen his young mistress many times to thrilling advantage, but never like this. She had not taken time to don her riding-garb, yet she sat her saddle astride, as the black, silver-mounted chaperejos proved. A thin jacket, buttoned tight, emphasized the slender voluptuousness of her form, as did the red spots in her cheeks the singular creamy whiteness of her beautiful face. Magnificent eyes, black as the wing of a raven, blazed levelly out upon the men. This was the first direct contact of Don Carlos’ granddaughter with the riff-raff of the ranges.

      “Whoa, Stonewall. Steady,” she called to the spirited prancing horse, and she raked his flanks with her spurs. “Britt, is it—a raid?” she queried, pantingly.

      “Wal, this gent heah contests our ownership of these hawses,” drawled the foreman, with a mildness he was far from feeling.

      Holly rode inside the fence toward the raider chief.

      “Dillon, close the gate,” she ordered, and the cowboy obeyed with no less alacrity than when he had opened it.

      “I am Holly Ripple.”

      Bill awkwardly doffed his sombrero, exposing a lean head of dark hair streaked with gray, a swarthy face which, but for its curious awe and smile, would have been a seamed bronze cast of evil.

      “Howdy, Lady of Don Carlos’ Rancho. I sure am glad to meet you,” he replied. He appeared dazzled, not by the pride of that little regal head or the imperious contralto voice, but by the ravishing charm of this descendant of the dons.

      “Who are you?” she asked.

      “Bill Heaver, at your service, Miss.”

      “What are you?”

      “I reckon I’m a little of all pertainin’ to the range,” he replied, with a broad grin. He had been momentarily impressed by her fearlessness, but that had passed.

      “Were you driving these horses?”

      “I sure was.”

      “They belong to me.”

      “You can’t prove thet, Lady. Not by unbranded stock on this range.”

      “Yes, I can. At least I can prove I own some of them. . . . I’ve ridden that roan. I know that bay. . . . That sorrel is two years old. There’s a scar on his left flank where the cowboys started to brand him and I stopped them. . . . The pinto there I called Paint-brush. Most of these horses have been in the corrals at the ranch. I know them. I never forget a horse I’ve looked at closely.”

      “Well, Lady, all thet makes no difference. They’re not wearin’ a brand. Thet’s all a hoss-dealer reckons with.”

      Heaver replaced his sombrero, hiding the tell-tale ghoulish eyes. But not before Britt had caught the birth of a hot glint, like a spark. The raider had succumbed to Holly’s allure. It was an old story to Britt, though this man was the first desperado to face Holly with it. Britt’s hand slipped to his gun. If driven far he would kill Heaver, and any other of the band that threatened, and then depend upon intimidating the rest. All of the raiders had ridden up close, to surround the principals in a half circle against the fence. It was here that Britt discovered the presence of two new riders, one of whom, hanging a little back, struck him as somehow remarkable among these conspicuously formidable men. But Britt had only time for a glance, as Heaver was urging his horse toward Holly’s. What was the hardened lout up to? Holly had not sensed any peril in the moment. She had expressed anger at this deliberate theft of her horses, but no other emotion. Britt knew to his sorrow that the girl had never yet felt fear. This situation, however, was deplorable, and might easily lead to a catastrophe. Already it had passed out of Britt’s control. If Heaver grew СКАЧАТЬ