trail, no one had preceded him, no one had branched off to circle around and perhaps lay an ambush. But it was the great depth of silence, of unchanging serenity that went down deeply into him, giving full reassurance as he sat there, Winchester across his knees, hat back and muscles loose, studying this land, getting the hang of it out of habit, remembering distances, landmarks, lifts and rises.
It was so totally quiet that when the blue jay broke out down-country, angrily denouncing some trespasser, Parker’s heart momentarily thudded. He sat like stone listening to the bird, by its course tracing out the route of whatever was entering this quiet world.
He did not readily accept the notion that whoever had summoned him to this meeting was coming, for the simple reason that it was too early in the day yet. Then he heard a horse clear its nostrils, and after that he heard a shod hoof strike stone. He rose up, glided onward to an overlooking rib of land, faded out in shadows there, and waited. Below him the trail passed across that unobstructed fern patch.
The camp robber came winging; it flashed iridescent blue, settled upon a low limb and scratchily kept up its loud scolding. Horse and rider appeared crossing the fern patch. Parker, lightly dappled, half shadowed, half not, unmoving, waited until he had a good sighting. He let off a soft sigh. It was a girl and he recognized her, the girl who had been in the hotel dining room.
He remained where he was. She passed beyond sight into a little shallow gully, then he heard her horse working upward again, coming straight along the path that lay only 100 feet off on his right. He did not move. Suddenly the beast heaved up over its last obstacle, moving along head down, reins swinging, obviously using a trail with which it was entirely familiar. The girl was riding easily in her saddle; she was wearing a rusty-colored split skirt and a lighter tan shade of blouse. Her deep colored hair was caught at the back of her head and held in place by a little green ribbon. She swung her head, looked straight at Parker, and passed by without any break in expression at all. She had not seen him.
Parker let Amy get well along before he stepped forth to pace after her to the dell’s outer limits. There, he stood back watching her, awaiting the reaction certain to come when she spied his horse grazing in the glen.
She received advance warning, though, for when her mount caught horse scent and flung up its head, Amy understood at once, halted, sat a second, then got down.
That was when Parker took two big steps and came up behind her. He had the map in his right hand, the Winchester in his left. He said quietly: “You’re a good topographer, ma’am. I had no trouble at all.”
She whipped around, startled by his close appearance. Her gray eyes darkened to almost black. He stood there, seeing her up close for the first time. He could not find a flaw.
Then she recovered, dropped her gaze to the map, considered it very briefly, turned away from him, and moved ahead with her horse into the quiet glen. He paced along behind her, also saying nothing. They stopped where she saw his horse, stood a while gazing steadily at it, then turned to care for her own. He did not intrude but moved over where a crumbling log lay, leaned his Winchester there, sat down, and kept watching her, kept waiting.
She turned, gazed across at him, and said with a slight edge to her voice: “Are you always early, Mister Travis?”
He tossed his hat aside. Some of that outside heat was beginning to creep up into this place. “Didn’t you know,” he said dryly to her, ignoring her question, “that my name on the hotel register is Jones?”
She walked over to him, stood gazing down without any trace of self-consciousness. “It’s Travis, isn’t it?”
Parker nodded. “Parker Travis, ma’am. How did you know?”
“The horse, Mister Travis. Two thoroughbred horses showing up in Laramie within a month or six weeks of each other is unusual.”
“You know horses that well, ma’am?”
“No. My uncle does, though. He and Sheriff Wheaton and a liveryman in town.”
“I see. They pieced it together.”
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s not illegal to ride a thoroughbred horse on the Laramie Plains, is it?”
She didn’t answer that, instead, she moved to one side and sat down upon the same old log. “You haven’t asked me my name or why I sent you that map, Mister Travis.”
He twisted a little to look at her. He thought he’d never before encountered a woman like this one. She had the ability to draw him; she also had everything that aroused in men every male instinct. But there was more and he could not right then define it.
He said: “You’ll tell me in good time, when you explain why you sent for me, why you made the meeting this private.”
She looked around at him from beneath black lashes, her expression appraising, her eyes the slightest bit sardonic. “It’s all right to be fatalistic,” she said. “But not when it can get you killed.”
“You’re misreading me, ma’am. It’s not fatalism. It’s patience. If it’d been fatalism, I wouldn’t have arrived here early to scout the country. I’d have taken my chances and ridden in here with no second thoughts.”
She continued to study him. After a little silent interval she said: “Perhaps I misjudged you, Mister Travis. But that’s not important right now.” She paused, looking at him, giving him a chance to speak. He kept still, kept quiet, looking at her.
She drew in a breath. “Mister Travis…will you honestly answer a question for me…a personal question?”
“I’ll try, ma’am.”
“Where did Frank Travis get nine thousand dollars in gold?”
Without any hesitation Parker said: “He got it from the sale of land he and I jointly owned. Nine thousand dollars was his share.” Parker drew forth his wallet, extracted a worn, folded paper, and offered it. “This will confirm it. This is a copy of the deed we granted the man who bought that land for cash.”
Amy looked at the folded paper in his hand, then up again. She made no move to take the paper. “Am I allowed one more question?”
Parker nodded.
“Was your brother ever in trouble with the law?”
“No, ma’am. My folks died when Frank was pretty young. I raised him. He’s never been in any serious trouble. A few barroom fights, a little illegal horse racing on Sunday. That’s all of it.” Parker put the paper and his wallet away. He raised his eyes to Amy’s face, and the two of them exchanged a long look before he said: “Now I’d like some answers. I know who two of the men are who were out there the day my brother was shot to death. Ace McElhaney and Charley Swindin. Tell me something about those two.”
Amy looked at the hands in her lap. “Ace McElhaney is a cowboy. He works for the big outfits, but, when he gets a little money ahead, he hangs around town.”
“And Swindin?”
“Well,” said Amy, concentrating very hard upon her folded hands now. “He’s foreman of the Lincoln Ranch.”
“The Lincoln Ranch, ma’am?”
Amy explained where her uncle’s outfit was.
Parker nodded, his interest fully up now. “I see, ma’am,” he said. “I’m beginning to put some little pieces together.”
“What pieces?”
“Yesterday I saw my brother’s blood bay horse in a Lincoln Ranch pasture.”
“Yes, he’s there.”
“And you…you’re connected with Lincoln Ranch some way?”
“I’m Lew Morgan’s niece. Lew owns Lincoln Ranch.”
