evening of the third day he went up to the house. Toma admitted him to a huge old parlor with a roaring fire in a massive, smoked-over old stone fireplace. He recognized the ancient trappings of the old frontier on the walls. Indian trophies hung droopily among old tintype pictures and the comfortable old leather furniture was typical of an earlier day on the frontier. The Kid held his hat selfconsciously in his hand and turned it by the brim in slow, nervous convolutions as he spoke. “Miss Dodge, it sort of seems to me like we’re wastin’ a lot of good time.”
The girl nodded, her eyes on the colorful Navajo rugs. “I know, it seems like that to me, too, but Jeff is nosing around in Holbrook and doesn’t want you to do anything until he’s chased down some ideas he has about Dad’s murder.”
The Kid frowned. His answer was dryly matter-of-fact. “Well, while Beale’s lookin’ around, a lot of water can pass under the bridge.”
The beautiful eyes came up with a decisive upsweep of the head. “I know it, Kid. You can start out on your own tomorrow, only…”
“Only…what?”
“Only don’t let Jeff know what you’re doing. He’ll be angry if he knows I let you start your investigation.”
The Kid’s eyebrows came together over his steady gray eyes. “Miss Dodge, this here’s likely to be a long drawn-out an’ dangerous little chore. Don’t you think we ought to start out by trustin’ each other?”
“What do you mean?” Her face colored a little.
“Well, if Beale doesn’t know what I’m up to, it’ll make a lot of unnecessary hard feelings, won’t it?”
Toma Dodge stood up and looked at the fireplace. The Kid felt a sudden little tug at his heartstrings as he studied her profile. She was so small and helplesslooking, yet so much a woman, the kind of a woman a man needed. “I don’t know what to say.”
The Kid guessed, correctly, that her father’s sudden demise had projected her into a role of responsibility that was altogether foreign, and a little frightening, to her. He got up and went over beside her, his hat gripped tightly in his hands. There was a half-wistful, half-truculent look on his face.
“All right, Miss Dodge. I’ll keep out of Beale’s way. We’ll do it your way, but frankly I don’t think it’s too good an idea.”
She turned toward him. For a wild second her eyes locked with his and a strong electric current passed between them. The Kid turned away in confusion and, mumbling excuses, left the house. Outside, the stars were clear and brittle. He rolled and smoked a cigarette in the warm, velvety shadows of the corrals. He didn’t think it would ever happen, but it had; he was in love.
At daybreak, the Vermilion Kid had saddled up and ridden out of the D-Back-To-Back ranch yard. The air was cool without being cold and the land was lazily stirring to life. Here and there a hustling rabbit was out searching for dew-drenched young shoots and garrulous, sleepy birds made slight noises at his passing. Holbrook was just coming to life when the Kid rode in. He left his horse at the livery stable. The bleary-eyed hostler smiled at him through a foul fog of sickening breath. “Sure nice to see you again.”
The Kid raised his eyebrows. He had forgotten tipping the man so lavishly, besides, his mind was on a small, oval face with violet eyes. He smiled vacantly, said nothing, and walked slowly out of the barn. He was almost to the street when the hostler came weaving up to him. “Say, I was wonderin’ if you’d he’p me move a horse?”
“Move one? Hell, can’t you lead him?”
“No, y’see, this here critter’s dyin’ from a bullet wound an’ he’s down.”
The Kid understood. The animal was down, weak and dying, and the hostler wanted to turn him over so his body weight would be on the off legs for a while; just in case he ever got up again, the legs wouldn’t be too numb to operate. He walked back, helped the hostler turn the horse, straightened up, and was dusting off his hands when he saw the hip brand. D-Back-To-Back.
“Where’d you get this horse?”
“He come staggerin’ in here the night Dodge was killed. ’Twas his horse, so the sheriff says.”
The Kid studied the bullet holes with compressed lips, then walked from the barn. He went to the Royal House and had an early breakfast. The dining room was vacant and he ate slowly, turning Dodge’s murder over in his mind.
The day was well along and the Kid had decided to have a talk with Sheriff Dugan. He was approaching the sheriff’s office when he saw Dugan and Jeff Beale standing in the shade of the portico, watching him come forward. The Kid felt an uneasy suspicion at the silent, intent way they watched him approach, but shook it off. He was almost in front of the two men when his wary eye, trained from youth to be alert, caught the slight drop of Beale’s right shoulder. The Kid halted, legs apart, surprised but not unprepared.
There was a long, tense silence, then Emmett Dugan, still motionless, spoke: “Don’t go for it, Kid.”
“No? Why not?”
“’Cause I want to talk to you, an’ a killin’ won’t help you any right now.”
“All right, Sheriff, tell Beale to shove his hands deep in his pockets.”
Dugan turned to the D-Back-To-Back foreman. “Do like he says, Jeff.”
Beale hesitated, still staring, wide-eyed, at the Kid.
“Come on, Jeff, gun play won’t settle nothin’…not yet, anyway.”
Beale shoved his balled-up fists reluctantly into his pockets, and the Kid approached warily until he was even with the two men. Dugan jerked a thumb toward his office, but the Kid slowly shook his head.
“Let’s do our talkin’ right here, Sheriff. I sort of like the fresh air this mornin’.”
Dugan regarded the gunman for a long, doleful moment, then shrugged. “Kid, where was you the night Dodge got killed?”
“Early in the evenin’ I was at the First Chance, later I went to bed in my room at the Royal House.”
“Got any proof that you were abed?”
The Kid snorted. “Hardly, Sheriff. I make it a habit to sleep alone.”
Dugan and Beale exchanged a significant glance, which the Kid saw. He puckered up his eyebrows and looked from one to the other. “Just what in hell have you two
Dugan spoke slowly, in a measured voice devoid of inflections, as if he was reciting a story. “Dodge was killed an’ robbed. We got reason to suspect you done it. If you got proof you didn’t, then we gotta hunt further afield. But if you ain’t got proof, then I’m goin’ to hold you for a while.”
The Kid’s right shoulder sagged perceptibly and his eyes narrowed. He shook his head slowly. “No, Sheriff, I didn’t kill or rob Dodge, an’ you’re not goin’ to hold me, either.” His voice was almost gentle, and Beale looked at Dugan accusingly, hands still rammed into his pants pockets.
Dugan shifted his weight a little and frowned. “If you’re innocent, Kid, you got nothin’ to worry about. Better give me your gun.”
“No good, Sheriff. I don’t know what kind of a deal is cooked up here, but I’m not goin’ to walk into a noose to help it along.”
There was a long moment of silence as Dugan’s flinty eyes washed over the Kid. He knew the Kid’s reputation with a gun, but Emmett Dugan had a job and a duty to perform, and his complete lack of imagination saw only the course he must pursue. He shook his head slowly and his face set in hard, uncompromising lines. “I’m warnin’ you, Kid, you got no choice.”
“You’re wrong, Sheriff”—the voice was very gentle now—“I got a pretty good choice.”
Dugan almost sighed. The Kid saw his eyes widen a fraction of an inch. That was all he needed. Two explosions rocked the still, lazy atmosphere of Holbrook. There was a second of awful suspense, then twice more the coughing roar of a .45 blasted the silence. Dugan was cursing in a low, deadly monotone and sagged against the front of his office, holding a scarlet rag of torn shirt over his ribs and Jeff Beale, outgunned from scratch, was writhing in the dust of the roadway, a bullet through the hip. The Vermilion Kid was untouched and crouched low with his lips pressed back flat over his teeth.
