If such a place existed, it just might be the Four Corners. Maybe someday they would realize that and leave it to the Navajo, the Pueblo, the Hopi ... the people who were born to this forbidding landscape.
Despite those musings, Sam was still alert. His gaze roamed constantly over the country around him. Because of that, he was able to spot a thin line of smoke rising into the air a couple of miles ahead of him.
That was probably smoke from a chimney, he thought, and a chimney meant the headquarters of the Devil’s Pitchfork Ranch. So he was on Boyd’s range now.
Or rather, the range that Boyd claimed the use of. All this land was supposed to belong to the Navajo. Obviously that didn’t matter to some people.
If the trouble between the white settlers and the Indians escalated to the point that the army was sent in, that would give the politicians back in Washington the excuse they needed to invalidate the treaty establishing the reservation.
Sam had no doubt that they would do it, and that thought made him frown. In other places, evil men had attempted schemes such as that. Although he and Matt had never encountered any themselves, Sam had heard about them. In Denver, he had overheard men discussing just such a plot that had been broken up by the famous gunfighter Smoke Jensen and other members of his family.
Sam didn’t know if that was what was going on here, but it was possible.
And he found himself wondering if that bushwhack attempt on him and Matt could be connected to it in some way. That seemed far-fetched, but reality was often stranger than any fiction could ever hope to be.
He came to a pair of shallow hogback ridges about a mile apart. They ran roughly parallel for at least two miles, and the smoke rose at the far end of the valley they formed.
Also at the far end of the valley, looming over it, was an odd, three-pronged rock spire. As Sam looked at it, he realized that it resembled, at least roughly, a pitchfork.
That was where the ranch had gotten its name, he thought.
There wasn’t much grass in the valley, but there was some and cattle grazed there.
Sam reined in and sat there looking toward the far end of the valley. That was where Boyd’s ranch house was located, he thought. And it was from this valley that the cattle had been stolen.
He lifted his horse’s reins, ready to start riding back and forth until he found the tracks that fifty head of stock must have left.
Sam had just heeled his mount into a turn when he heard a bullet whip past his ear, followed instantly by the sharp crack of a shot.
Chapter 23
Sam didn’t know where the shot came from, but he could tell from the sound of the report that it had been fired from a rifle, probably a Winchester.
He also knew that the rifleman would have a harder time hitting him if he was moving, so he continued pulling his horse into a turn and jammed his heels into the animal’s flanks to make it leap ahead in a gallop.
Sam leaned forward over the horse’s neck to make himself a smaller target. As he did so, he saw a puff of gunsmoke spurt out from a spot about halfway up the ridge to his right.
That was the direction he was headed.
He was charging right toward the hidden bushwhacker.
Bushwhackers, he corrected himself as he spotted another jet of powder smoke from a different place on the ridge. There were at least two of them—again.
These would-be killers seemed to like working in pairs.
Sam gritted his teeth. This was what he had wanted, to draw the bushwhackers into attacking him again.
This time he intended to take one of them prisoner so he could get some answers. Chances were, the man wouldn’t want to talk, but threatening him with some Cheyenne torture would probably loosen his tongue ... whether Sam intended to follow through on those threats or not.
He was getting ahead of himself, Sam thought as he sent his horse plunging back and forth at zigzag angles to keep the riflemen from drawing a bead on him.
First he had to actually capture one of them.
And to do that he had to keep from being killed.
His horse suddenly gave a wild leap underneath him. Sam knew the animal must have been hit. As he felt himself come out of the saddle, he kicked his feet free of the stirrups. That was all he had time to do.
Sam sailed free through the air for a breathless second before the ground came up and slammed into him. He landed on his shoulder and rolled.
Pain shot through him, but he ignored it as his momentum made him roll over a couple of times. He let it carry him up onto one knee and looked around for some cover.
He knew he was going to need it.
Sure enough, more slugs plowed into the ground around him, spraying him with grit and gravel. Sam got his other foot underneath him and shoved himself upright.
Several good-sized rocks lay a few yards to his right. He flung himself toward them as another slug burned past his ear. A desperate dive landed him among the rocks. He hugged the dirt as a couple of bullets whined off the big chunks of stone.
A slug hit the ground right beside one of his outstretched feet, close enough that the impact made him wince. He drew his legs up as much as he could.
From up on that ridge, the bushwhackers could see down into this cluster of rocks. The area that was protected from their bullets was a tiny one. Sam tried to fit himself into it, but as big and rangy as he was, that wasn’t easy.
