Running Irons

attraction might be either an injured man or animal, or some critter died of a highly infectious disease. In which cases the knowledge could be useful: in the first to save a life; in the second, one might prevent a spread of the infection by prompt action.

From the look of things, the birds circled over a large cottonwood that spread its branches over the range maybe a mile from where Danny sat his horse. A touch of his heels against the sabino’s flanks started the horse moving and the dun followed it without any fuss. As yet Danny could see nothing of the dead or dying creature which caused the turkey vultures to gather in the sky.

Danny had covered about half a mile when a bunch of pronghorn antelope burst out of a hollow ahead of him. Stopping the sabino, he watched the animals speed away, covering the range at a pace only a very good horse could hope to equal. While Danny loved hunting, and lived in an age when game-preservation had never been heard of, he made no attempt to draw his rifle and cut down any of the fleeing antelope. He carried food in his bedroll and would likely be on some ranch’s payroll before it ran out. So there did not appear to be any point in killing a pronghorn and he had never seen any sense in shooting some creature just to see it fall.

Led by a buck that carried a pair of horns which would have gladdened any trophy-hunter’s heart, the herd held bunched together and went bounding through the bushes at Danny’s right, disappearing into a basin. Just as Danny started the sabino moving again, he saw the pronghorns bursting wildly through the bushes, scattering in panic as they raced out of the basin once more.

“Now what in hell did that?” he mused and drew his rifle.

Four possible answers sprang to mind: a bunch of wolves denning up among the bushes; a mountain lion that had been cut off from timber country by the coming of daylight and took what cover it could find: a grizzly or black bear hunting berries, but willing to augment its diet by the flesh of a succulent pronghorn; or the presence of hidden men. Predators all, any one of them would cause such panic among the pronghorns should the fast-moving animals come unexpectedly upon it in the bushes when already fleeing from danger.

Danny nudged his sabino’s ribs and started the horse moving forward. On reaching the edge of the bushes, he halted the horse and slid from the saddle. Not even as steady an animal as the big sabino would face the sudden appearance of one of the predators in thick bush and Danny could think of a number of more pleasant ways to die than under the teeth and claws of a startled grizzly after being pitched from the back of a bear-spooked horse. Of course, there might not be a bear in the bushes, but it cost nothing to take precautions.

Leaving the horses standing, the sabino’s trailing before it in a manner which it had been trained to regard as holding it still as effectively as if being tied, Danny went into the bushes with some caution. He saw nothing to disturb him or explain the panic among the pronghorns. A flock of scarlet-plumed red cardinal birds lifted from among the bushes at his approach, but nothing dangerous or menacing made its appearance. Ahead of him the bushes opened into a clearing at the bottom of the basin. Danny came to a halt and studied the scene before him with worried, calculating eyes.

“Looks like I got here too late,” he thought.

Two bodies lay alongside a dead fire’s ashes. Cowhands, Danny concluded from their dress; and of the kind he had ridden from Austin to hunt down if the pair of running irons meant anything. Cautiously he studied the clearing, noting the pair of cow horses which stood tied to the bushes at the far side, then taking in the scene around the fire once more. Moving closer, he looked down at the bodies. One had been shot in the back and must have died without even knowing what hit him. Nor would the second have been given much better chance to defend himself by all appearances. Kneeling by the body, Danny examined the holster and doubted if anything remotely like a fast draw could be made from it. The revolver still lay in the holster, its owner having died before he could draw it.

Cold anger filled Danny as he looked down at the two bodies. Neither cowhand looked to be much gone out of his teens and, ignoring the distortion pain had put on the features, appeared to be normal, pleasant youngsters. These were no hardened criminals, or he missed his guess; only a couple of foolhardy youngsters who acted without thinking. They deserved better than to be shot down like dogs.

Danny was no dreamy-eyed moralist or bigoted intellectual regarding every criminal as a misunderstood victim of society to be molly-coddled and pampered as a warning that crime did not pay. In most cases a man became a criminal because of a disinclination to work and had no intention of changing his ways. As a peace officer and a sensible, thinking man, Danny approved of stiff punishment, up to and including hanging, for habitual criminals. While any form of punishment would be most unlikely to change such a man’s ways, it served to deter others from following the criminal’s footsteps.

For all his thoughts on the subject, Danny hated to think of the way the two young men died. He promised himself that their killer would pay for the deed.

Throwing aside his feelings, Danny forced himself to think as a lawman and to learn all he could about the happenings of the previous night. Carefully, he studied the ground around him, using the knowledge handed on by that master trailer, the Ysabel Kid. From what he saw, there had been three cow thieves present, all occupied with their illegal business when death struck. The third member of the trio made good his escape, or at least got clear of the fire, for Danny found signs of somebody, possibly the killer, racing a horse across the clearing in the direction taken by the fleeing cow thief.

At that point of the proceedings Danny began to feel puzzled. His examination of the tracks told him that one rider had returned, set free some of the calves and led off three more. Yet the same person did not free the dead men’s horses, nor even go near the bodies.

“Sure puzzling,” he mused, turning to leave the clearing and return to his horses. “From all I’ve heard, this looks like Gooch’s work. He never takes chances and wouldn’t give those boys chance to surrender or make a fight. But why would Gooch free half the calves and take the others. And why would he leave the two bodies when they’d fetch a damned sight more bounty than three calves would bring him?”

A possible answer occurred to Danny as he reached the horses. He stood on Bench J, not Forked C land, so it was not the range Gooch had been hired to protect and the bounty hunter did not work for the love of his labor. Of course, it might not be Gooch who killed the cowhands, although everything pointed in that direction. Most men, especially ranchers and honest cowhands, hated a cow thief, but few would go to the extreme of shooting down two in cold blood. No, it appeared the thing Governor Howard and Captain Murat feared had happened. Tired of merely earning his pay, Gooch left the Forked C range to hunt bounty on other property.

Just as Danny swung into the sabino’s saddle, a distant movement caught the corner of his eye. Turning in the saddle, he looked across the range to where a trio of riders topped a rim and swung their horses in the direction of the circling turkey-vultures.

Taking out his off-side Colt, Danny thumbed three shots into the air. Instantly the trio brought their mounts to a halt, looking in his direction. Sweeping off his hat, Danny waved it over his head and the three men put their spurs to the horses, galloping toward him. Three shots fired into the air had long been accepted as a signal for help, one which would only rarely be overlooked or ignored. The three men might be as interested, as Danny had been, in the circling vultures, but his signal took priority over the sight.

Danny studied the men as they approached. Two of them were cowhands; a leathery man of middle-age, plainly dressed and with a low-hanging Dance Brothers revolver at his side; the second looked around Danny’s age, a freckle-faced, red-haired young man, cheery, wearing a flashy bandana and red shirt and belting an Army Colt in a cheap imitation of a contoured, fast-draw holster. From the two cowhands, Danny turned to study the third rider. He sat a good horse with easy grace. Although his clothes looked little different from the other two, there was something about him, an air of authority and command, which said “boss” to range-wise eyes. A Remington Beals Army revolver hung butt forward at his left side and looked like he could use it. Not that the man bore any of the signs of a swaggering, bullying gunslinger, but merely gave the impression of being mighty competent.

“You got trouble, friend?” asked the third member of the trio.

“Not me,” Danny answered. “But those two fellers down there—man, have they got trouble?”

“Two?” put in the youngest rider. “Reckon it’s Sammy and Pike, Buck?”

“Best way to find out’s to go look,” replied the third man. “Name’s Buck Jerome, friend, this’s my range. These gents are my foreman, Ed Lyle and Tommy Fayne, he rides for me.”

“Howdy. I’m Danny Forgrave. Best go down there and take a look though.”

Accompanying the men down the slope. Danny studied their reactions as they looked at the tragic scene in the clearing. He could read little from the two older men’s faces, but guessed the scene hit them hard. On the other