almost certain death.
He had been striding, hard-heeled, down the boardwalk in Globe when he saw Ange Sackett. He stopped so suddenly he almost staggered, but he recovered himself and walked on slowly. She was sitting quietly on the seat of a covered wagon that was loaded heavily with supplies. At the end of the walk he had turned to watch, and had seen Tell Sackett come out and mount the seat.
He had no idea who they were, and cared less. To him they were 'movers,' and so to be despised, but Ange was a beautiful girl, and the instant he saw her he wanted her. He had seen no such woman in years, nor any young white woman at all since leaving Texas, almost three months before. He was determined to have her, and never once suspected that he might be unsuccessful. The idea that a mover's woman would refuse him, a rich cattleman, was simply not to be considered.
So he had followed. He had said nothing to anyone, least of all to Swandle. He did make some casual comments about the movers, and so learned they were headed for the Mogollons, where he himself was going.
After leaving his outfit to prospect for the best grass and water, so he said, he followed the trail of the wagon. He saw Tell ride away, and was close enough to hear that he planned to scout around, and that he would be gone for several hours.
He had approached the wagon and had introduced himself, somewhat ostentatiously, as the owner of the Lazy A. When Ange seemed unimpressed, he had mentioned the number of cattle he had, and suggested that as they were neighbors they had better get along together. There was nothing subtle about his approach, and Ange was no fool. She had simply replied that it was a big country and there was small chance they would be neighbors. When he stepped from the saddle and came over to the wagon seat, she had ordered him off.
Vancouter Allen simply didn't believe she meant it. She was playing him along, he was sure, but he was not the sort of man to stand for that. He grabbed her and she slapped him, hard, across the mouth. The mules, startled, surged ahead a few steps and, caught off balance, Ange and Allen fell to the ground together.
Breaking free, Ange scrambled to her feet and ran. He caught up with her within a few steps and took hold of her. This time she had turned and raked him across the face with her nails. Something seemed to burst inside him, and when next he realized what he was doing, Ange Sackett lay on the ground, her clothing ripped and torn, her throat crushed, the skin broken under his powerful hands.
As suddenly as that, she was dead.
He got to his feet, bathed in cold sweat and horror.
There was no remorse in him. There was only fear. He had murdered a white woman ... murdered the wife of a man who would soon be returning.
It had happened before, but then it was a squaw, and nobody cared about a squaw, at least nobody who was able to do anything about it. Of course, that time he had gotten away from there fast and nobody had ever connected it with him. Once or twice he had imagined that Swandle might have been suspicious, but he had said nothing. Whatever he might have suspected, Swandle kept to himself.
But this was different. This was a white woman.
Panic clutched at his throat. He forced himself to stand still, forced himself not to run. His hands would be coming soon, and they must find neither him nor the wagon.
The solution occurred to him suddenly. Several days before, a rifle bullet had struck near him as he stood near the chuck wagon. It was probably a spent bullet from some hunter higher up in the woods, but now he could use that incident to his advantage. He mounted his horse, after hastily concealing the body, and raced to meet his oncoming riders. Rushing up to them, he told them he had been fired on, and described Sackett and the horse he rode.
'Find him and kill him!' he ordered. 'I want him dead, do you hear? Dead!'
Only he was not dead, and he had lived to tell his story in Globe. And not long after that most of the old Lazy A crowd left Allen's outfit.
He had told the gunmen he hired that the rumors were all a pack of lies, but he knew safety lay only in the death of the girl's husband. He did not know the man's name and cared less. To Allen he was still simply a 'mover' andof no consequence, one of the little men squatting on land that belonged by the right of rifle possession to the big outfits.
Once the man was dead, Allen felt that he could quiet the story. But when that failed to happen immediately, he had hired Lorna. She was young, unknown west of El Paso, and perfectly willing to earn two hundred dollars by spending the night beside a fire with a stranger and then screaming for help. Allen assured her it was simply a joke. She was not alt sure of that, but she was sure that two hundred dollars was more money than she had had at one time for three years.
Moreover, it was enough to take her to San Francisco and set her up in style.
Now, Allen was thinking, the end of the trail was near. His men had Sackett in a pocket from which he simply could not escape, and Vancouter Allen's fear had turned into a frightful, unreasoning hatred. He wanted to be in at the death.
In front of the store he dismounted stiffly, and walked over to the entrance. He paused there to look around once more. There was little enough to see.
Wild Rye at the time consisted of Ogletree's store, one smaller log cabin, a dugout, and across Rye Creek, two Indian wickiups. There was a pole corral with a water trough, and some distance off a shed where Ogletree made his whiskey.
Inside the store things didn't look much better. There was a counter with a row of shelves behind it, a table, three chairs and a box, and an unmade bed. On the shelves were several empty bottles, a half-dozen gallon cans, some boxes of shells, and assorted odds and ends of cheap gimcracks of the sort that might interest an Indian. There was also a short-legged bench on which stood a barrel with a spigot. At one side of the room was a fireplace.
'What have you got to eat?' Allen demanded.
Ogletree continued washing the dishes left by the two Sacketts for a full minute before he replied. 'Stew.'
'Any good?' Allen asked. 'I mean, is it fit to eat.'
'Those two fellers who just left didn't complain. They ate it right up.'
'Some of my men?'
Ogletree turned and looked at Allen with ill-concealed relish. 'They said they was huntin' your men. Their name was Sackett.'
Allen's head came around sharply. Sonora Macon, just inside the door, had also heard.
'Young? [ they young fellers?'
'One maybe eighteen or so ... the other a year or so older. I'm just guessing, of course.
But they're young.'
'The same two that killed Dodie, Ryland, and Collins,' Macon said. 'Let's go get them, boss.'
'Wait,' Allen said. 'They'll keep.
I'm hungry.'
'They won't run,' Ogletree commented, 'not them two.'
'Nobody asked you,' Allen said shortly.
'All right, let's have that stew.'
He had finished eating and had lighted a cigar when Dancer rode up. Dancer had quit. He had quit the Lazy A and was glad of it, but he could not wait to tell the news he had. He strode into the saloon and ordered a cup of coffee.
He turned to look at Vancouter Allen.
'You got you a new partner,' he said.
'What's that?'
Dancer shrugged. 'First thing he done was fire all those boys you hired. I mean all that were back at the camp. Said he wouldn't pay a dime of fighting wages to anyone.'
He had their attention, every bit of it.
'What are you talking about?' Allen demanded, his voice rising.
'Swandle sold out. He got his price and he sold out. By this time he's halfway to Prescott.'
