He returned to the trail just as another shot rang out. He found Josh with a smoking Colt in his fist, his horse stretched out at the side of the trail. "Had to do it," he said grimly. "Couldn't stand to see him suffer. My best mount, too! See anything?"
Kirby told him what he had found. "Saw where the bushwhacker was sitting. Looks like he might have seen us coming across the flats and waited for us. No use trying to run him down now." He paused thoughtfully. "If he crosses the Clear, and that's the way he's heading, he's on Lazy B now. But who would take a pot shot at us, anyway?"
"Hub Dawes," Josh growled. "Looks like he shot at me, hittin' my horse like that. Mighty poor shot, though."
"Made a big hole clean through my new jacket sleeve," said Kirby. He kicked loose one stirrup. "Crawl on," he said. "This boy can pay now for all the grain he's been getting. You can borrow a bronc in town."
They tried to recapture the light mood of the early part of their ride, but failed. They were silent as they rode into the livery in Streeter, each aware that trouble had not gone away… it had only been hiding behind a snowdrift.
"I'll see what Lon thinks about the drygulching," said Josh. Kirby tied up in front of the barbershop.
Kirby was glad of the board sidewalk. The street was a muddy sea, churned to a brown froth by hoof and wheel. Taking a deep breath, he knocked on the cottage door. Maria pretended to scold. "It's about time," she said. "She's been getting so fidgety I thought I'd have to go looking for you." He followed her through the little parlor. Jen was sitting up in bed, her cheeks faintly pink, her eyes aglow with life. Kirby stopped, drinking in the picture she made. She gave a little cry as she looked up and saw his big frame in the door.
Kirby crossed quickly to the bed and sat down, taking her in his arms, feeling shock at the thinness of her shoulders through the nightgown.
"I thought it was all a dream," she whispered against his lips. "Maria had to tell me over and over again that you really had been here. I thought you were never coming back."
"I'll not leave you again," he told her sternly. "Look what happened when I did."
She pushed him away and studied his face, then tilted her eyes to his as she relaxed in his arms.
CHAPTER SIX
Maria served their supper on a tray. So engrossed were they with one another that neither knew what she served, and for once, Maria did not scold when her most tempting dishes were untouched. She hustled Kirby out of the house soon after supper was over. Jen had been sitting up all day and was tired, she said. He reluctantly let her put him out, but decided to stay all night in town.
Jen's good night kiss was sweet on his lips as he pushed open the white gate and went in search of Josh. He found his crew at the livery. The night was crisply cold, and there were no clouds to foretell a drastic weather change, so he ordered the inseparables, Curly and Ringo, to put up the team and other horses for the night.
"How are you fixed for poker money?" he asked, and laughed at Ringo's mournful face. "You boys have been snowed in so long you more than deserve a night out," he told them. He gave them a hundred dollars. "That's an advance on your salary," he said. "Look me up if that runs out. I'll get you a room at the hotel. Try to stay out of Lon Peters' jail and be sober in the morning. We may have company going back to Wagon."
They stopped by the hotel and registered. Josh had eaten his supper, so they walked over to the Nugget. Curly and Ringo, a bottle at their elbow, were already in a poker game with a trio of punchers from Triangle. Joe was beaming behind the bar. "Don't know how long it will last, but business is plumb good tonight. If the weather holds, maybe I can keep out of bankruptcy for a little while."
They had plenty of opportunity to talk over the weather and range conditions since cowmen were in town from every brand on the range. All told the same story: they had been forced to use precious hay; losses in some sections ran as high as twenty or thirty percent; and all agreed that unless they got a break in the weather, hay would be more precious than gold by spring.
Kirby went over to the table where his punchers were gleefully trimming the Triangle hands. "When those chips get so high you can't see over them, cash in," he told Curly. He and Josh had a nightcap out of Joe's black bottle and made for the hotel.
There was little wind, and the air was cold and dry as they tramped the short distance to the hotel. There was no moon, but bright stars were occasionally blotted out by high, thin clouds.
So many ranchers and their crews were taking advantage of the good weather that the hotel was filled and they could get only one room. "I can see where I don't get any sleep tonight," Kirby mourned. "And if your snoring is up to snuff, no one in the hotel will sleep."
Josh just grinned. "Can't rightly say if I snore. Never could stay awake to find out."
Kirby pushed open the door to their room and held a match while Josh found the lamp and lighted it. Yawning, he shrugged out of his buckskin jacket and sat down on the side of the bed to pull off his boots. "Sent these blasted things back to Denver, but they still pinch." He bent over.
That movement saved his life. As he bent over there was the tinkle of falling glass, and a framed lithograph on the wall directly back of where his head would have been had he been if he had not bent over shattered in a thousand pieces. The echoing crack of a rifle rang dimly through the noise of falling glass.
In an instant Josh had doused the lamp and jumped to the window. His Colt spat as he snapped a shot at a dark figure running between two buildings across the street. He peered intently into the darkness, then turned anxiously to his boss. "You hurt?"
"No, just scared. That one was a little too close."
"Too close is right. May be wrong, but I'd swear I winged that drygulcher. Looked to me like he stumbled some. Could be he just tripped over something in the dark, though."
Hard knuckles hammered a tattoo on the door. Josh raised his gun, and Kirby covered him from the wall. "Come in," he called. The door swung open, and Sheriff Peters ambled into the room, the hotel owner looking anxiously over his shoulder.
The sheriff sighed. "Might have known it was you, boy. You and Josh havin' a little midnight target shootin'?" His quick glance had already taken in the broken window and shattered picture. "Or was somebody usin' you for a target?"
"Twice in one day is too much, Lon. Looks like I'm downright unpopular."
Peters walked to the bullet-shattered window. "Must have been standin' in those shadows yonder. My boots are killin' me, but I'll take a look." The hotel man followed, promising to bring something to close up the broken window. He was nailing several thicknesses of tarpaulin over the window frame when Lon returned.
Peters held out a .44 calibre shell case. "Found this," he sighed. "Nothin' else. Too many tracks to say which was which." He dropped the shell case into his vest pocket. "You may have winged the whacker," he told Josh. "Else he cut his finger. Quite a few spots of blood scattered around. Reckon I'll stop by the doc's first, then mosey around and keep my eye peeled. Do I find me a jasper with a hole in him, I'm going to be plumb curious. You got any guesses, boy?"
"Not a one, Lon."