The sandy-haired white man jerked his head toward some brush. 'There's a seep.'
He was looking at our horses. Hard-ridden as they were, they still showed their quality. 'Want to swap horses?'
'No,' Orrin said, 'just a drink and we'll drift.' As we rode by I glanced at the brands, something any stockman will do as naturally as clearing his throat. At the seep I swung my horse, facing them. 'Orrin, you an' the Tinker drink. I don't like this outfit.'
'See those brands?' he said. 'That's all full-grown stock, but there isn't a healed brand in the lot.'
'They've just worked them over,' I agreed. 'They'll hold them here until they're healed, then drift them out of the country.'
'There's some good stock there,' the Tinker said. 'Some of the best.'
When Orrin and the Tinker were in the saddle, I stepped down with Judas Priest.
He drank, and then me, and as I got up from the water, Orrin said, 'Watch it, boy,' to me.
They were coming toward us.
I waited for them. They didn't know who we were, but they had an eye for our horses, all fine stock although ganted down from hard riding over rough country.
'Where you from?' asked the sandy-haired man.
'Passin' through,' I replied mildly, 'just passin' through.'
'We'd like to swap horses,' he said. 'You've good stock. We'll swap two for one.'
'With a bill of sale?' I suggested.
He turned sharp on me. He had a long neck, and when he turned like that he reminded me of a turkey buzzard. 'What's that mean?'
'Nothin',' I replied mildly. 'On'y my brother here, he's a lawyer. Likes to see things done proper.'
He glanced at Orrin, wearing several days' growth of beard, his clothes dusty.
'I'll bet!' he sneered.
'Better fill your canteens,' I told Judas. 'We may make a dry camp tonight.'
'All right, Mr. Sackett,' he said.
The sandy-haired man jerked as if slapped. 'What was that? What did you call him?'
'Sackett,' Judas said.
The other men backed off now, spreading out a little. The sandy-haired man's face was pale. 'Now, see here,' he said. 'I'm just drivin' these horses across country. Hired by a man,' he said nervously. 'We were hired to drive these horses.'
'Where's the man who hired you?'
'He's comin' along. There's a bunch of them. They'll be along directly.'
'What's his name?' Orrin demanded suddenly.
The man hesitated. 'Charley McCaire,' he said finally.
Orrin glanced at me. McCaire was a gunfighter, a man with a reputation as a troublemaker, but one who so far had always kept on the good side of the law. He ranched in Arizona now, but he had several brothers who still lived in New Mexico and Texas.
'Orrin,' I said, 'keep an eye on these boys. I'm going to ride over and have a better look at those horses.'
'Like hell you are!' the man said harshly. 'You leave that herd alone!'
'Sit quiet,' Orrin advised. 'We're just wondering why the name Sackett upset you so.'
Well, I trotted my appaloosa over to those horses and skirted around them a couple of times, then I bunched them a mite and rode back.
'Blotted,' I said, 'and a poor job. They read 888 and they should read Slash SS.'
'Tyrel's road brand,' Orrin said. 'Well, I'll be damned!'
Chapter XI
The man's face was tight. 'Now, you see here!' he said. 'I--'
'Shut up,' Orrin said sternly. His eyes went from one face to the other. 'As of this moment you are all under arrest. I am making a citizen's arrest. Under the circumstances, if you do not offer resistance, I may be able to save you from hanging.'
'We'll see about that!' the sandy-haired man yelled angrily. 'You talk to Charley McCaire! And there he comes!'
Judas and the Tinker had spread out a little, facing the cattle drivers. Orrin an' me, we just naturally turned around to face the riders coming up to us.
There were seven in the group, and a salty-looking bunch they were.
McCaire was a big man, rawboned and strong. Once you had a look at him you had no doubt who was in command. A weathered face, high cheekbones, and a great beak of a nose above a tight, hard mouth and a strong jaw.
'What the hell's goin' on here?' he demanded.
'Mr. McCaire? I am Orrin Sackett. I have just made an arrest of these men, found with stolen horses.'
'Stolen horses?' McCaire's voice was harsh. 'Those horses carry my brand.'
'Every brand is blotted,' I said calmly. 'Three Eights over a Slash SS. That's Tyrel Sackett's road brand.'
Now a man expecting trouble had better not miss anything. To the right of McCaire, there was a younger man with lean, flashy good looks about him--one of those men you sometimes see who just doesn't seem to hang together, and he was acting a mite itchy and tight around the mouth.
As I looked, his horse sort of fidgeted around, and I saw that gent's hand drop to his gun.
'McCaire! You tell that man to get his hand off his gun! There needn't be any shooting here, but if he wants it, he can have it.'
McCaire's head swiveled around and his voice rapped like a gavel. 'Get your hand off that gun, Boley!' He turned to the rest of his men. 'Nobody starts shooting here until I do! Get that?'
Then he turned his eyes back to me, and, brother, those eyes of his, cold gray against his dark, wind-burned features, looked into me like a couple of gun muzzles. 'Who're you?'
'William Tell Sackett's the name. Brother to Orrin here, and to Tyrel, whose horses these are.'
'Those ain't nobody's horses but Charley's,' Boley said.
Orrin ignored him. 'Mr. McCaire, you're known as a hard man but a fair one. You can read brands as well as any man ... and those are raw brands, Mr. McCaire, and there isn't a horse in that lot under four years old, nor are they mustangs.
Such horses would have been branded long since.'
McCaire turned in the saddle to an older man near him. 'Tom, let's go have a look.' He said to the others, 'You boys just sit your saddles and don't start anything.'
Orrin started to ride off with them and glanced at me. I grinned at him. 'I'll just sort of sit here, too, Orrin. No reason these boys should get lonesome.'
Boley looked past me at Judas, then at the Tinker. 'Who are them?' he demanded.
'What kinda people are you, anyhow?'
The Tinker smiled, flashing his white teeth, his eyes faintly ironic. 'I'm a gypsy, if you'd enjoy knowing, and they call me the Tinker. I fix things,' he added. 'I put things together to make them work, but I can take them apart, too.' He took his knife from its scabbard. 'Sometimes I take things apart so they never work again.' He dropped the knife back to its sheath.
Judas said nothing, merely looking at them, his eyes steady, his hands still.
Charley McCaire was at the horses now, him and that segundo of his. He would be able to see those were blotted brands, but a whole lot depended on whether he wanted to see them or not. We could always shoot one of the horses and skin him to look at the back of the hide--they read right that way. Trouble was, I didn't want to shoot no horse and wanted nobody else to. Moreover, there was no reason.
The brands had been blotted, all right. They hadn't taken the trouble to burn over the old brand, just added to it. So a blind man could see what had been done. But supposin' he didn't want to see? To recognize the fact would incriminate several of his own men and would also mean a respectable loss of the cash money such horses would bring.
Charley McCaire was a strong-tempered man, and what happened depended on how that temper veered. Me,
