figgered he’d steer us after the herd, an’ see that we took the right trail. After that he was supposed to join ’em, I’ll bet.”
“Yeah? Then why in hell did he shoot young Prouty?”
Wes was warming to his theory. “That’s easy. When Prouty busted in on him, it scairt him. He figgered maybe somethin’ had gone wrong an’ we was a posse come after him. He fired because he was scairt and cornered, same as any rat would do.”
Jack turned to the cowmen, picked out four of them to form his posse, and left the others to continue the cattle drive to Rawlins. They separated then, each group going its own way. Jack jogged back toward the ferry with his face sober and grim. It rankled a little to be outwitted by the Tolliver clan, but he dared not rush back pell-mell. The horses were tired enough as it was, what with the hard riding they had received in their search for the lost herd.
Back at the ferry the posse men loaded their horses for the return trip, pulled for the opposite shore, unloaded, and swung aboard in wary silence. They jogged, hard-eyed, past the adobe house and gazed dispassionately on the stiffening body still sprawled on the gray planking of the porch. Single file they navigated the bluff trail and swung into a lope for the last mile of the return trip to town.
Mendocino was in an uproar as Jack, Wes, and Bud Prouty at the head of the cowman posse rode up through town toward the livery barn. Grant Yates, the fat, florid president of the Mendocino State Bank came running out into the road to flag them down. His hands were shaking when he put them on the neck of Jack’s sweaty horse.
“Good gawd, Sheriff! The bank, it’s been robbed! We’ve lost the savings of half the people in Mendocino County!”
The complete cunning of the Tollivers burst in upon the sheriff and he swung down in silence, pushed the banker away, and led his horse into the livery stable.
Jack Masters was white-faced. Calamity far, far worse than a rustled herd of cattle was overwhelming him. The liveryman saw it on his ashen face and in his glowing eyes when he came up. “Ed, me an’ the boys here need fresh horses. How about puffin’ our rigs on fresh stock while we’re findin’ out the worst?”
The liveryman nodded quickly. “Sure, Jack, sure. Have ’em ready fer you soon as you want ’em.” He wagged his head sympathetically. “Hell to pay, Jack. Mendocino’s about cleaned out.” He took Masters’s reins and pointed toward the bank, next door to the Goldstrike Saloon. “They kilt a man in there.” As Jack turned to his posse men, the liveryman yelled for his hostlers, and a furious bustling among the barn men and the drooping posse horses evidenced the liveryman’s speedy labors.
Jack turned to Flourney, and motioned for the others to quiet down. “Lope over to the jail, Wes, an’ see if Link’s still there. Meet me at the bank.” He was walking away as he spoke. Flourney nodded quickly and started for the jail. Cowmen and townsmen were scurrying in and out of stores and a bedlam of excited words was tossed against the warm air like sand in a windstorm. Jack shouldered past dozens of small groups of alarmed citizens and made his way to the bank. Banker Yates was mopping his face with a damp handkerchief.
“Jack! Come into my office.” Yates led the way in a bird-like, hopping walk. He dropped into a chair and waved a shaking hand toward another. Masters remained standing, waiting for the floodgates to open. They did, with a rush. “It wasn’t more than an hour or so after you boys left town. There were three of them. One…”
“Three of ’em?”
“Yes. Link Tolliver, the ferry keeper, and two others.”
“Oh. Go on.”
“They knew what they were doing. It didn’t take them ten minutes to force our two safes and loot the place. A cashier named Reedy drew on them and was shot down. He’s over behind the counter yet. It was terrible, Jack. They robbed Dennis’s general store and the Goldstrike Saloon, too. Mendocino’s ruined, I tell you. We’ll never…”
“All right, Yates, get a hold of yourself. Figger up your losses an’ calm down.”
The Goldstrike had pretty much the same story to tell, as did Mike Dennis, corpulent, furious owner of the Mendocino General Store and Emporium. Jack verified the robbers in each case. Link Tolliver and two other men. He nodded and described the other Tollivers to each irate victim. It was two of the three Tollivers he had met the day before at Cobb’s Ferry. Wes Flourney came up, gloomy-faced, and Jack nodded before the deputy could speak.
“He’s gone. I know. It was Link that led the raid. Link and two other Tollivers. Round up the posse we came in with, Wes, and we’ll hit the trail. Don’t take any more men than the four cowboys. Too many’ll only slow us down. Bring the horses and the posse up to the office, I’ll meet you there.”
It didn’t take Flourney long to round up the posse on their freshly saddled horses and the five of them rode up to the office where Jack Masters, wearing a freshly filled cartridge belt, mounted on the fly, and they swept out of Mendocino, heading south, down the road the bandits had taken.
Jack was somber-eyed as he loped after the Tollivers. He knew that failure to apprehend the renegades would spell the finish to his career as sheriff of Mendocino County. Through no fault of his own, he had been outwitted—not once, but twice. Local anger needed either a scapegoat or a hero—which he would be, one way or the other, since he was the acknowledged leader of the law-abiding sector.
He shrugged gloomily. With a two-hour start, it wasn’t very likely that he would find his men that day, and only a stroke of luck would allow him to find them at all. He looked back, into the bitter, savage faces of the four cowmen riding as his posse. Beside deputy Flourney was young Bud Prouty, whose father was badly wounded and his brother dead because of the Tollivers. There was assurance and comfort in the stubborn gleam from Bud’s narrowed eyes. If the others dropped out, which he expected before the chase was over, he, Wes, and Bud would keep on riding until they were either riding over the Tolliver bodies or the Tollivers were riding over theirs. He swung forward again and studied the freshest tracks on the road.
It wasn’t hard to follow the barefoot marks of the Tolliver animals. He had been riding for an hour when he suddenly yanked up his horse, puzzled and frowning.
Flourney kneed up close. “What’s the matter?”
“Lost ’em, Wes. No more barefoot hoof marks.” He swung his horse around and the others followed as he trotted back the way they had come, bending low in the saddle, watching closely for the spot in the road where the Tollivers had veered off. At that, Jack and Wes missed it. Bud Prouty gave a small cry and pointed to a faint trail of bent, dry grass and churned-up earth. All six of them studied the tracks gravely, then reined out over the plain in a slow lope, eyes down and narrowed with the effort of watching for the telltale signs. One of the cowmen let out a string of profanity as they leaned a little northwest.
“I got it figgered. They’re headin’ back fer the ferry to pick up that dead ’un. ’Course, they don’t know the buzzard’s dead. Maybe he was s’posed to meet ’em, didn’t, an’ now they’re goin’ back to fetch him.”
Wes bobbed his head soberly and looked over questioningly at Masters. “How’s that sound, Jack?”
“Good, boys. Wes, you an’ Bud Prouty cut off from us here an’ ride hell for leather fer Cobb’s Ferry. Be awful careful they don’t ambush you. Don’t close with ’em if you see ’em…just hold ’em up a little until we get there. Just in case this is a sour guess, we’ll stick to trailin’ ’em. If they aren’t at the ferry, you boys come on back an’ trail us.
The dirt flew as the two younger men cut loose and charged down across the flat grassy range where an occasional clump of brush broke the monotony of the everlasting sameness. Jack watched them go with a level, approving gaze. When Wes and Bud were small specks in the distance, Masters and the other two went back to trotting slowly along, eyes glued to the frequent toe marks made by the running, barefoot horses. The sun was high now with exhilarating warmth that ate into bone and muscles with a soothing life-giving benevolence. They had been following the tracks in a steady, hesitant trot for some time when the faint report of a gun came down the wind to them. One of the cowmen swore and jerked in the saddle. “Comin’ from Cobb’s Ferry.”
Jack listened closely, heard nothing, and nodded to the cowmen. “Let’s ride, boys. Wes an’ Bud are up ahead somewhere an’ I reckon that was either a signal or an ambush. In either case we’re needed.” He flicked his spurred heels lightly and his horse jumped out with an eager lunge. Like four avenging angels they swung down across the land, slit-eyed and braced against the slipstream of warm air that slid over and past them. Two more shots came back to them and almost by instinct their horses gave an extra spurt of speed that sent them careening faster over the tundra.
