All three of them swung up into their saddles. As they started looking for the tracks left by the stolen herd, Wilbur said, “You know, there’s somethin’ that’s botherin’ me. You said you left your partner Bodine with the Navajo, Sam?”
“That’s right.”
“There’s got to be at least a few members of that clan who are workin’ with the gang that stole the rifles.”
That same worry had started gnawing at the back of Sam’s thoughts.
“You’re probably right,” he said. “And if that’s true, they might want to get rid of Matt just to make sure he doesn’t stumble over what’s really going on.”
Stovepipe said, “Yeah, and that means we’d better find the varmints we’re lookin’ for and bust up their plans as quick as we can ... because the longer your pard spends with those Injuns, the more danger he’s in.”
That thought made Sam’s jaw clench tightly. Matt was stuck there in the canyon, trying to recover from his wounds, probably with no idea that lurking among the Navajo was at least one man who wanted him dead.
“Speakin’ of danger ...” Wilbur said.
The other two men looked at him and saw him pointing toward the southern end of the valley.
“Riders comin’ fast,” Wilbur went on. “I’ll bet it’s John Henry Boyd and his bunch of gun-throwers, and they ain’t gonna be happy to find us here.”
Chapter 25
All three men reined in and turned their horses to face toward the oncoming riders. Wilbur moved his hand toward the butt of the gun on his hip, which drew a sharp comment from Stovepipe.
“Don’t do it,” the lanky cowboy warned. “There’s too dang many of ’em.”
Sam was already keeping his hands in plain sight, well away from his weapons, so Stovepipe didn’t have to say anything to him.
As the crew from the Devil’s Pitchfork approached, they spread out so that they formed a half-circle around Sam, Stovepipe, and Wilbur. That was menacing enough, and the expressions on the hard-bitten faces of the men were even more so.
To a man, they looked like they wanted to whip out their six-guns and start blazing away at these interlopers on Devil’s Pitchfork range.
Sam recognized the ugly, jut-jawed face of Pete Lowry. Lowry rode near the center of the group, and beside him was a man who carried himself in the saddle with such an air of command that he had to be John Henry Boyd.
The two of them kept coming after their companions halted, not stopping until they were within twenty feet of Sam and the two range detectives. Then they reined to a stop as well.
“Look at that, boss,” Lowry said, confirming Sam’s hunch that the other man was John Henry Boyd. “We don’t have go lookin’ for those damned rustlers after all. They’ve come to us.”
“You’ve got that wrong, mister,” Stovepipe said. “We ain’t rustlers.”
“Then who are you?” Boyd demanded. He was an old man, with white hair under his black Stetson and a face like worn, cracked saddle leather. “And what in blazes are you doing on my land?”
Sam felt a flush of anger. This wasn’t Boyd’s land, and in the technical sense it wasn’t even open range, the sort of graze that hundreds of cattlemen across the frontier claimed.
No, this was Navajo land, and the only reason Boyd was able to stake such a claim on it was that the authorities looked the other way ... and probably had been paid off to do so.
However, Sam wasn’t here today to right that particular wrong. Instead he said, “We’re looking for the rustlers, too, Mr. Boyd. We want to find out what happened to your cattle and where they were taken.”
“Don’t believe him, boss,” Lowry snapped. “These are the fellas we had that run-in with in town yesterday. The redskin claims to be a Cheyenne ’breed, but I think he’s a Navajo spy.”
Boyd turned to his segundo and said, “You blasted fool. You can tell by looking at him that he’s not Navajo. Not all Indians look alike, you know.”
That surprised Sam. Before he could start feeling too kindly toward Boyd, though, the rancher went on, “But that doesn’t mean he’s not a damned rustler anyway. A couple of white men and a Cheyenne ’breed can be owlhoots just like anybody else.”
“I never stole a cow in my life,” Wilbur said angrily, “and neither did Stovepipe.”
“And if we
“Not if you were lookin’ for more stock to steal,” Lowry said.
“In broad daylight?” Sam asked.
Boyd leaned forward in his saddle.
“Then what are you doing here? I asked you before, and I don’t intend to ask you again.”
“And I reckon we told you,” Stovepipe said. “We’re lookin’ for them rustled beeves.”
“What business is it of yours?”
Sam glanced at Stovepipe and wondered what the man would say. He thought it would be a mistake to reveal their real identities to Boyd and the rest of the Devil’s Pitchfork crew. For all he and his two companions knew, Boyd was behind the scheme to smuggle guns to the Navajo and start a new Indian war here in the Four Corners.
Boyd already had a foothold here with his ranch. He would be in a good position to try to take over the rest of the region. Certainly he and his men could have lied about the rustling just to stir up the settlers in Flat Rock that
