From the beginning there had been an effort to hang the rustling on him. While his living alone would be suspicious to some, Finn had an idea that more than a little planting of ideas had been going on over the range. There was deliberate malice behind it. It was not Dowd's way to stoop to such tactics. Texas Dowd would say nothing. He would wait, patiently, and then one of them would die.
A roving, solitary man all his life, Finn had found but one man he cared to ride the river with. That man was Texas Dowd. They had ridden a lot of rivers, and their two guns had blasted their way out of more than one spot of trouble.
Had there been a chance of talking to Dowd, he would have done it, but there was too much chance the man would shoot on sight. Cold, gray, and quiet, Dowd was a man of chilled steel, the best of friends, but the most bitter of enemies.
One thing was now clear. It was up to him to prove his innocence. It might be a help to ride into town and see Lettie. She always knew what was going on, and was one of the few friends he had. She, and Garfield Otis.
What was it Dean had said about Otis? 'Funny about Otis, Finn,' he'd said. 'He hasn't had a drink in almost a week. Got something on his mind, but he won't talk.'
The trail dipped down into the Laird River Canyon, and the sound of rushing water lifted to his ears. Rushing water and the vague dampness that lifted from the trembling river. He should have told Ed Wheeling to say nothing about his bringing the cattle. Ed was a talkative man, and an admirer of those fat white-faced steers of Finn's.
This would be where they would wait for him, here in the canyon. A couple of good riflemen here could stop the passage of any herd of cattle, or of any man.
The cabin on the ledge was very quiet when he rode in. As he swung down from the stallion's back, he remembered the morning Remy Kastelle had stood on the steps waiting for him, and how her hair had shone in the bright morning sun.
The cabin seemed dark and lonely when he went inside, and after he had eaten he sat down to read, but now there was no comfort in his books. He got up and strode outside, all the old restlessness rising within him, that driving urge to be moving on, to be going. He knew what was coming, knew that in what happened there would be heartbreak and sudden death.
Aware of all the tides of western change, Finn Mahone could see behind the rustling in Laird Valley a deep and devious plan. It was unlike any rustling he had seen before. It was no owl-hoot gang suddenly charging out of the night on a wild raid, nor was it some restless cowhands who wanted money for a splurge across the border This had been a careful, soundless, and trackless weeding of herds. Had it gone on undiscovered, it would have left the range drained of cattle, and the cattlemen broke.
He could see how skillfully the plan had been engineered. How careful the planning. As he studied what Dean had told him of the Cattleman's meeting, another thought occurred. The vote had been six to four to hire Sonntag. But what if Mclnnis had been there?
The dour New England Scotsman was not one for plunging into anything recklessly. He would never have accepted the hiring of Sonntag. Especially as Collins and the Kastelles had voted against it. This the leader of the rustlers must have figured. The shooting of Mclnnis had been deliberately planned and accomplished in cold blood.
Had Mclnnis been voting, Taggart either would not have been there to vote, or would have followed Abe's lead. Brewster, hotheaded and impulsive as he was, would have been tempered by the Mclnnis coolness. Then the vote would have been against hiring Sonntag! At the worst, it would have been a tie, and no action.
That the meeting had been called before the shooting of Abraham Mclnnis, Mahone knew.
He sat down suddenly and wrote out a short note, a note that showed the vote had Mclnnis been present. He added, Show this to the judge. Then he enclosed it in an envelope, and decided he would send it to the newspaper office by Shoshone Charlie.
Carefully, he oiled his guns and checked his rifle. Then he made up several small packs of food and laid out some ammunition. He was going to be ready for trouble now, for it was coming. He could wait, and they might never get to him, but he preferred to strike first. Also, he had his cattle to deliver.
Mexie Roberts was not a man who hurried. Small, dark, and careful, he moved like an Indian in the hills.
For several days now he had been studying the Lazy K
-from various vantage points. He had watched Texas Dowd carefully. Knowing the West as he did, he knew Dowd was a man whom one might never get a chance to shoot at twice. Mexie Roberts prided himself on never having to shoot more than once. His trade was killing, and he knew the tricks of his trade.
Lying on his belly in the dust among the clumps of greasewood, he watched every soul on the Lazy K. Shifting his glass from person to person, he soon began to learn their ways and their habits.
He was not worried about hitting Dowd, once he got him in his sights. The Sharps .50 he carried was a gun he understood like the working of his own right hand.
There was no mercy in Mexie Roberts. Killing was born in him as it is in a weasel or a hawk. He killed, and killed in cold blood. It was his pride that he had never been arrested, never tried, never even accused. Some men had their suspicions, but no man could offer evidence.
He had been given the job of killing Dowd, and there was in the job a measure of personal pride as well as the money. Texas Dowd was to Mexie Roberts what a Bengal tiger is to a big-game hunter. He was the final test. Hunting Dowd was hunting death in its most virulent form.
In a few days now, perhaps a few hours, he would be ready. Then Dowd would die, and when he died, there would be no one near to see where the shot came from, and Mexie Roberts would have his hideaway carefully chosen.
All over Laird Valley tides of trouble and danger were , rising. Men moved along the streets of Laird with cautious eyes, scanning each newcomer, watching, waiting.
In his office beside the barbershop, Judge Gardner Collins moved a man into the king row and crowned him. Doc Finerty rubbed his jaw and studied the board with thoughtful eyes. Neither man had his mind on the game.
'It was my fault,' Collins said. 'I should have stopped it. Don't know why I didn't realize how Brewster and Taggart would vote.'
Dean Armstrong came in, glanced at the board, then placed a slip of paper on the checkerboard between them. 'Found this under my door this morning,' he said. 'It's Mahone's handwriting.'
For.
Against.
Ike Hibby.
Collins.
Ringer Cobb.
Kastelle.
Alcorn.
R. Kastelle.
Taggart.
Dowd.
Logan.
Brewster.
Had Abe Mclnnis. been there:
Ike Hibby.
Collins.
Ringer Cobb.
Kastelle.
Alcorn.
R. Kastelle.
Logan.
Dowd.
Brewster (?)
Mclnnis.
