Hartman was an honest man. “I had something like that in mind,” he admitted calmly. “Only I don’t steal, Arlen. I had in mind rounding up the stock I might want, then finding whoever represented you, and buying it from’em.”
“You can buy it from me,” stated Arlen Chase, and the dry answer he got back indicated just how far old Hartman’s opinion of Chase had sunk this morning.
“I wouldn’t buy an old trade blanket from you, Arlen.”
Fenwick urged his horse up beside Chase’s, leaned and growled something. Chase nodded, turned away from Hartman, and gestured for the little band to move out.
Rufe stepped back, got clear of the brush, then trotted down to where his horse was. When he arrived there, Jud was already snugging up a cinch on the animal he had led up from a more distant hiding place. They were listening to the progress of Chase’s band moving through underbrush when Evart Hart-man came up, panting. He grabbed the reins Jud offered, climbed up across leather without testing the cinch, and hauled his animal around just in time for them to be able to hear the riders to the east of them, moving over in the direction of the stage road, al-though Rufe did not believe Chase would actually go that far east. And he didn’t. When Hartman, Jud, and Rufe angled so as to stay behind the retreating riders, it became clear that Chase was paralleling the road, but was not going Tomake an attempt actually to reach and use it.
Rufe was speculating aloud with Jud and Evart Hartman what Chase’s course would be when they got down closer to Clearwater, and got his answer in a way neither he nor the men with him expected. Two riders appeared coming upcountry from the direction of town. They had evidently been instructed about where to abandon the roadway and head into the desert, because, although they were heading in the correct direction, they seemed quite unconvinced of it, right up until the moment someone riding with Arlen Chase called out a warning, and Chase reined over close to Elisabeth Cane, then looked all around before spotting the oncoming men.
Rufe saw no one. Neither did Jud, but old Evart Hartman had picked up a fresh presence from his horse, and was riding along, watching intently over easterly in the direction of the stage road. He did not actually see those two men, but ultimately heard them coming, heard Chase’s man growl, and finally, standing in his stirrups, he saw something that could have been fresh horsemen passing in and out among the southerly undergrowth. When old Hartman settled back down in his saddle and leaned slightly to tell Rufe what was down there, someone fired a pistol.
It was an unexpected sound. It not only startled every man; it also made the horses of Rufe and Jud and Evart Hartman throw up their heads. Dead ahead, Rufe heard Fenwick cry out in protest, and then the other one in Chase’s party started to yell, but without warning another gunshot rang out, then a third and fourth gunshot erupted.
Hartman grunted and hauled his mount around to spur eastward. The same singing lead coming up-country had similarly inspired Rufe and Jud to get clear. They were riding low in the saddle, peering back in the direction of those gunshots, when a powerful sorrel horse suddenly plowed through a stand of brush heading arrow straight right at Rufe and Jud.
They had about four seconds to adjust to being at-tacked, and fortunately they were already looking in that direction, so the plunging horse did not catch them entirely unaware. The animal was gathering momentum each time it sank its hind hoofs down after bursting through the underbrush. Within another ten or fifteen yards, the horse would be run-ning belly down straight toward the old trail up to the mesa.
Rufe yelped and Jud swung wide to allow the sorrel to come in between them, its reins flopping wildly from a looped position over the saddle horn. There was no way for the rider, with both arms bound behind her back, to control the running horse, except in a very unreliable way through knee pressure. How she had turned and got free, Rufe did not dwell on as he jumped his horse out to come in running beside the big sorrel. Leather strained, stirrups grated together, and Elisabeth’s face was close enough for Rufe to see the fear in her dark eyes when he leaned far out to grab for the reins under the sorrel’s jaw.
On the far side, Jud, aware of his partner’s intention, made no attempt to grab reins, but he leaned his own straining mount into the sorrel on Elisabeth’s left side, forcing her horse over against Rufe’s animal. That way, Rufe was able to get a double hold on the reins, and ease back, bringing both horses down to a jarring, slamming halt.
He looked at Elisabeth. She showed a shaky small smile as Jud moved in with his clasp knife to free her arms. As he reached for the rope, Jud said: “How did you get away?”
Her answer was a surprise. “I didn’t. One of the men turned my horse and struck it over the rump, when that shooting started. The horse was heading straight for the trail up to my home atop the mesa.” She smiled with more confidence as she brought her arms in front and massaged chapped wrists. “It would have been a rather terrifying ride.”
Jud pocketed his knife and turned as a man’s gruff voice called. It was Hartman calling to them, but for a moment the voice did not sound exactly right.
“Rufe…Jud! Come on down here! The whole damned story’s been wrote out and ended! Fetch the lady back with you, and come on down here! See for yourselves!”
They went carefully and prudently, with Elisabeth remaining slightly to the rear, but their precautions proved unnecessary. Evart Hartman did not even have a gun in his hand where he sat atop his horse, gazing at something out of sight in the underbrush. Charley Fenwick did not have a gun in his hand, nor did the other two men with Charley, the same men Rufe finally remembered now and was able to identify. At least, he could identify their faces, although he had never met either of them, or heard their names. It was the same two men Jud and Rufe had seen walk out of the abstract office down in Clearwater, vigorously talking to Arlen Chase.
There was one man on foot, and this man had a pistol in his hand. He was the older cowboy Rufe and Jud had left chained in Elisabeth Cane’s barn along with Fenwick. But he simply stood there, staring.
Rufe did not see Arlen Chase until he and Jud eased around the underbrush to come up beside old Hartman. Chase was dead. It looked as though two bullets had hit him, both of them striking his chest. Impact had knocked him backward from the saddle. He was being held in a grotesque sitting posture by the strong and wiry limbs of the bush he had tumbled into.
Elisabeth looked once, then turned away. Even tough Jud did not like that look of entreaty, or supplication, or whatever it was that seemed to emanate from the corpse, from the way it was held up like that, in a begging posture. Jud turned away, too, but not entirely from revulsion. He eyed the pair of strangers and said: “Who shot him?”
One of the newcomers answered. “I did. He shot at us when we started through the underbrush to-ward him. I shot back, then my partner here, also fired back. We nailed him.”
Jud showed no particular remorse, but he frowned. “Why, stranger, why would he shoot at you?”
The horseman gazed around from face to face, be-fore answering Jud, and even then his answer was not very satisfactory. “It’s a long tale, friend. We’ll be glad to explain it fully, back in Clearwater, to the proper authorities.”
Rufe frowned a little. “Mister, for now, you can just sort of pretend we’re the proper authorities.”