it to boil. With that, some jerky and a chunk of homemade bread I figured to make do.
There's no prettier place than a stand of aspen. The elk and beaver like the bitter inner bark, and you'll nearly always find them where there's aspen. There's no thing that provides more grub for wildlife than the aspen grove.
There's usually wood around. The aspen is self-pruning, and as it grows taller it sheds its lower branches, just naturally reaching for the sun. Those branches dry out quickly and make excellent kindling.
Much as I wished to be back at the ranch for the safety of the womenfolks, I didn't figure to lose my hair in the process. Stopping to make coffee was giving my horse a rest, giving me food to start a long day, but it was also giving me time to watch my back trail a little.
I was pretty sure I'd come away from the Empty without being seen, but a man can get killed taking things for granted. If anybody was on my trail I wanted to look him - or her - over before they came up to me.
Meanwhile, setting there in the morning sun and watching my water get hot was a pleasure I could take to heart. I never was one for rushing through a country. I like to take my time, breathe the air, get the feel of it ... I like to smell it, taste it, get it located in my brain.
The thing to remember when traveling is that the trail is the thing, not the end of the trail. Travel too fast and you miss all you are traveling for.
When my coffee was boiled good and black I poured myself a cup. It was strong - take the hide off a bull, that stuff would. Fellow I punched cows with down Sonora way said my coffee was dehorning fluid . . . one drop and a bull's horns would melt right off.
It ain't true, but it does measure up. A cup of it will open a man's eyes.
Chewing some jerky, I tasted that coffee now and again, and kept an ear out for sound and one eye on my horse. That horse was wild and a wild horse has all the senses of a deer and a good deal more savvy.
Pretty soon the roan lifted his head, pricked up his ears, and spread his nostrils. I forked my Winchester around and slipped the thong of the butt of my pistol. I wasn't one to hunt trouble, although I've buried a few who did.
There were two of them, studying the trail as they rode, and they had not seen me. Holding the Winchester in my hands, I stood up slowly. At that instant my horse whinnied and their heads turned sharply as if on one neck.
'Lookin' for something, boys?' My Winchester was easy in my hands. I never sight a gun of any kind; I just look where I'm shooting.
They didn't like it very much. They were tough-looking characters, and both of them rode Eight-Ladder-Eight brands on their horses. Their horses were Morgans, fine stock, and the brands were a rewrite job if I ever saw one.
'Eight-Ladder-Eight,' I commented sarcastically, 'an' Morgan horses. Ain't many Morgans in this part of the country, boys, but a good man with a cinch ring and a hot fire could change a Six-Four-Six into an Eight-Ladder- Eight without half trying.'
'You saying we stole these horses?'
'You did or somebody did,' I said, 'But if I were you boys I'd get shut of them, an' quick.'
'Why?' one of them said.
'You ever heard of Dutch Brannenburg?'
'Wasn't he the one who chased those hombres from Montana to Texas?'
'Uh-huh. That's the one.' I grinned at them. 'You boys maybe don't know it, but he's registered a Six-Four-Six brand. You're sittin' right up in the middle of two of his horses.'
Seemed to me their faces turned a shade gray under the tan. 'You're funnin',' one of them said. 'Why, we - !'
'Shut up, you damn' fool!' The older man was as sore as he was scared. 'I tol' you it looked too damn' easy!'
'He's probably right behind you now,' I told them, 'and from what I hear of Dutch he wastes no time. You boys better learn to pray while you're ridin'. Dutch takes pride in his horses.'
They headed off down the trail, rattling their hocks out of there. Me, I finished my coffee, tightened my cinch, and was just about to step into the leather when I heard them coming.
Dutch was a tough man. He was maybe fifty years old and nearly as wide as he was tall, and every ounce of him was rawhide and iron. There were nine in the party and they swept up there just as I turned. My Winchester was still in my hands.
They taken a quick look at me and at my horse. 'You there!' Dutch shouted. 'Did you see a couple of men ride through here?'
'I wasn't looking very close,' I said.
He pushed his horse at me. He was square-jawed and mean. I'd heard a lot about Dutch and liked none of it. He ranched, but he ranched like he was bull of the woods. You crossed him and you died ... I'd heard he'd set fire to a couple of rustlers he'd caught.
'You'd have been a lot smarter if you'd given me a straight answer. I think you're one of them.'
'You're a damned liar,' I said. 'You don't think any such thing.'
He started to grab iron but that Winchester had him covered right where he lived.
'You boys sit tight,' I told the others. 'If one of you makes a wrong move I'm going to kill your boss.'
'You ain't got the guts,' he said, his tone ugly. 'Kill him, boys.'
'Boss,' a slim, wiry man was talking, 'that's Logan Sackett.'
A bad reputation can get a man in a lot of trouble, but once in a while it can be a help. Dutch Brannenburg sort of eased back in his saddle and I saw his tongue touch his lips. Dry, I reckon.
'You know the tracks of your own horses,' I said, 'and you can read sign. So don't try to swing too wide a loop. Your hide punctures the same as any man's.'
He reined his horse around. 'You watch yourself, Sackett,' he said. 'I don't like you.'
'I'll watch,' I said, 'and when you come after my hide, you'd better hide behind more men.'
He swung his horse around and swore, muttering in a low, vicious tone. 'I don't need any men, Sackett. I can take you myself ... any time.'
'I'm here,' I said.
'Boss?' That slim man's voice was pleading. 'Those thieves are gettin' away, boss.'
He swung his horse back to the trail. 'So they are,' he said sharply, and led off down the trail.
That was a mean man, I told myself, and a man to watch. I'd crossed him, backed him down, made him look less than he liked to look in front of his men.
'Logan,' I said, 'you've made you an enemy.' Well, here and yonder I had a few. Maybe I could stand one more.
Nevertheless, I made myself a resolution to get nowhere near Dutch Brannenburg. Then or ever.
He had come west like many another pioneer and had taken up land where it meant a fight to hold it. Trouble was, after he'd used force a few times to hold his own against enemies it became a way of life to him. He liked being known as a hard, ruthless man. He liked being known as a driver. He had earned his land and earned his way, but now he was pushing, walking hard-shouldered against the world. He had begun in the right, but he had come to believe that because he did it, whatever he did, it was right to do. He made his own decisions as to who was criminal and who was not, and along with the horse and cow thieves he had wiped out a few innocent nesters and at least one drifting cowhand.
I'd been on the way and in the way, and only my own alertness had kept me alive. Now I'd made him stand back and he would not forgive.
The trail I'd followed had lost whatever appeal it had, so I mounted up and rode up the mountain, skirting the aspen and weaving my way through the scattered spruce that lay beyond. Somewhere up ahead was an old Indian trail that followed along the acres of the mountains above timberline. I was gambling Brannenburg did not know it.
His place was down in the flat land, and I had an idea he wasn't the type to ride the mountains unless it was demanded of him or unless he was hunting somebody. The trail was there, a mere thread winding its way through a soggy green meadow scattered with fifty varieties of wild flowers, red, yellow, and blue.
Twice I saw deer ... a dozen of them in one bunch, and on a far-off slope, several elk. There were marmots
