its head. There were other sounds in the leaves and suddenly a man's voice: 'Throw up your hands!' And almost with the words Mitchell was dragged from the saddle. Men were all around him in the darkness, two holding his arms, and as he tried to rise a fist came from nowhere, stinging hard against his face. A rifle barrel jabbed into his back and he was taken through the trees, a man holding each arm. There were more men at the clearing and the nearest ones stepped aside as Mitchell was brought in. One man was building the fire. Another was climbing the wagon wheel, now looking inside. The rest stood in a semicircle around Hyatt and the woman. The man holding Mitchell's left arm shouted, 'Dyke, we got the other one!'
Mitchell saw one of the men turn and nod his head, then beckon them to come closer. He stood relaxed, a tall man wearing a stiff-brimmed hat low and straight over his eyes, and a tawny tip-twisted mustache that in the firelight blended with the weathered cut of his features. His coat was open, a dark coat . . . and then Mitchell saw it. The deputy star against the dark cloth and everything was suddenly perfectly clear. Hyatt was saying, 'What're you doing! We're camped here and you barge in, shooting--'
A man said, 'You scrambled for that gun quick enough.'
'How'd I know who you were?'
'You know now.' The man laughed. Mitchell looked from this man to the others. There were perhaps a dozen in the group, but only Dyke and two or three more wore deputy stars.
'Listen'--Hyatt's voice calmed--'I think you could've announced yourselves, that's all. You're looking for somebody and you want to ask some questions, that it?'
Dyke shook his head. 'I don't have any questions.'
Hyatt's eyes shifted along the line of men.
'We're on our way down to Tucson. I'm going in business with a man down there.'
Dyke said nothing. His eyes were on Hyatt, studying him.
'In the freight business,' Hyatt said. 'This man's already got contracts.'
'Are you through?' Dyke said then.
Hyatt frowned. 'What do you mean?'
'I'll tell a story now,' Dyke said. 'It starts the day before yesterday when the Hatch & Hodges was held up an hour out of Mojave. One of the passengers, Mr. J. A. Hicks, was shot and killed when he raised an objection. Now, this Mr. Hicks was owner of the Mogollon Cattle Company--Slash M--of which I'm foreman. Mr. Hicks, besides being boss, was my best friend . . . which doesn't mean much to the story aside from it's the reason I was deputized to take out a posse.' Hyatt said, 'I'm sorry to hear that, but--'
'I'm not finished,' Dyke stated. 'You see, these holdup men separated after the robbery. We spent a whole day scratching for sign and finally we got on one we were pretty sure of. Last night we caught up with a man named Cliff something. Now, at first he said he didn't know anything about it.'
Dyke's eyes hadn't left Hyatt's. 'I hit this man twice. The second one broke his jaw and after that he wrote down what we wanted to know. How he was to meet his friends tonight, and where. A woman and two men posing as travelers. A man named James Rady; another by the name of Hyatt Earl.'
'Well?' Hyatt said. His voice was controlled, and it told nothing of what he might be thinking. Dyke brought a match out of his vest pocket and wedged it into the corner of his mouth, shaking his head as he did. 'That's all there is to the story.'
Hyatt hesitated. 'Now what?'
'Now, Mr. Earl,' Dyke said mildly, his eyes lifting then, 'we're going to hang you right on that cottonwood over there.'
'What're you talking about, hanging! You don't even know--' Hyatt broke off. He looked at Dyke and at his men and for a long moment he was silent, gaining control of himself. He said then, calmly, almost defiantly, 'You got to take us to trial. That's what the law says.'
The matchstick moved under Dyke's full mustache.
'Mr. Earl, are you telling me what I have to do?'
That was it. The futility of arguing showed briefly on Hyatt's face. He asked, 'What about the woman?'
Dyke shook his head. 'This Cliff said she didn't want any part of it, but you forced her into it. We're not bothered about her. Just you and Rady there.' He nodded directly at Mitchell.
Mitchell frowned. Hurriedly then his eyes swept the clearing. Rady wasn't here! He called to Dyke, 'I'm not Rady! He's the one with the Remington . . . was out by the road.'
Dyke studied him before answering. 'There wasn't anybody out there.'
'Then he got away, but I sure as hell ain't Rady!'
'Who're you supposed to be?'
'Dave Mitchell. I just rode in a little while ago looking to camp.' He saw Hyatt watching him, a grin softening the dark bearded face. 'Rady,' Hyatt said, 'are you drunk or something?'
Mitchell stared at him with disbelief. 'What's the matter with you? Tell them who I am!'
Hyatt shook his head. 'There's no use in that, Rady. Let's own up . . . take our medicine like men.'
Mitchell's eyes went to Dyke. 'Listen. This man's crazy. I suspected it before. Now I'm sure.'
'If I was in your shoes,' said Dyke, 'I might pull the same stunt.'
Mitchell paused. 'All right'--his glance went to the woman--'ask her.'
She looked at Mitchell, then shook her head.
'He's not Rady. His name is Mitchell.'
Dyke said, 'Uh-huh, and you're Mrs. Mitchell.'
'I never saw him before this evening.'
'Claire,' Hyatt said sympathetically, 'there's no use. Rady's got to take his medicine just the same way I do.'
The woman's face was cold and showed no emotion. 'He had a fight with this man Mitchell and lost. That's why he wants to see him hang.'
'Claire! . . . Rady and I were just kidding! You thought we really meant it?'
Mitchell looked at Dyke again. 'You said that holdup was day before yesterday. I can prove I was at Whipple then. I was just discharged yesterday.'
'What's your proof?' Dyke asked.
'Ask anybody at Whipple!'
'Rady,' Hyatt said, 'delaying it a few days ain't going to help any, they'll still hang you. Let's get it over with.'
Mitchell's expression changed suddenly and his hand went to his chest. 'My discharge order! It's dated yesterday!'
'Keep your hand out of that coat!' Dyke snapped. He nodded to one of the men near Mitchell. 'Take a look.'
The man stepped in front of Mitchell. His hand went over the shirt, then to the inside coat pocket.
'Nothing,' he said over his shoulder.
Mitchell's hand came up. He felt the empty pocket, and the part of his shirt that was torn--
'Listen, while we were fighting my shirt was ripped. The paper fell out, that's what happened. Look around there, right where you're standing!'
Dyke continued to study Mitchell, but some of his men moved about, looking at the ground and scuffing the sand with their boots. A man said, 'I don't see nothin',' and another said, 'Not around here.' Watching them, the tension building and becoming unbearable. Mitchell suddenly tore himself from the men holding him. They started after him and Dyke called, 'Let him go!' Mitchell came on, his eyes searching the ground, then dropped to his hands and knees, his fingers brushing the sand, smoothing it, and carefully he covered the area where the fight had taken place. He came up slowly and sat back on his heels. 'It's not here,' he said wearily. Then: 'Wait! When I was pulled off my horse--' He came to his feet quickly. Dyke asked, 'You ever on the stage?'
'I'm telling you the truth!' Mitchell screamed.
'Can't you see that!'
'I see a man fighting awful hard,' Dyke replied, 'for a life he don't deserve.'
'What do you expect me to do!' Mitchell paused then. He breathed in and out and said, more calmly, 'I swear to Almighty God I had nothing to do with that holdup.'
