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"Gill, you size up like a man to ride the river with. Here's the story, and
if you ever tell it, you'll hang four good men." Briefly and concisely, he
outlined the shanghaiing of Rodney and himself, the events aboard ship, and
the escape.
"See?" he added. "It must have looked foolproof to them. Rodney goes away to
sea and never comes back. Nobody but Barkow knows that mortgage was paid, and
what did happen was somethin' they couldn't plan forand probably didn't even
think about." Gill nodded. "Rodney must have been tougher than anybody
figgered," he said admiringly. "He never quit tryin, you say?" "Right. He had
only one idea, it looked like, and that was to live to get home to his wife
and daughter. If," Rafe added, "the wife was anything like the daughter, I
don't blame him!" The cowhand chuckled. "Yeah, I know what you mean. She's
pretty as a baby in a red hat." "You know, Gill," Rafe said speculatively,
"there's one thing that bothers me.
Why do they want that ranch so bad?" "That's got me wonderin', too," Gill
agreed. "It's a good ranch, mostly, except for that land at the mouth of the
valley. Rises there to a sort of a dome, and the Crazy Man swings around it.
Nothin' much grows there. The rest of it's a good ranch. his "Say anything
about Tex or Bo?" Caradec asked. "No," Gill said. "It figgers like war, now.
No use lettin' the enemy know what you're holdin'." The trail they followed
left the grasslands of the creek bottom and turned back up into the hills to a
long plateau. They rode on among the tall pines, scattered here and there with
birch and aspen along the slopes. A cool breeze stirred among the pines, and
the horses walked along slowly, taking their time, their hoofbeats soundless
on the cushion of pine needles. Once the trail wound down the steep side of a
shadowy canyon, weaving back and forth, finally reaching bottom in a brawling,
swift-running stream. Willows skirted the banks, and while the horses were
drinking, Rafe saw a trout leap in a pool above the rapids. A brown thrasher
swept a darting red-brown arrow past his head, and he could hear yellow
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warblers gossiping among the willows. He himself was drinking when he saw the
sand crumble from a spot on the bank and fall with a tiny splash into the
creek. Carefully, he got to his feet. His rifle was in his saddle boot, but
his pistols were good enough for anything he could see in this narrow place.
He glanced casually at Gill, and the cowhand was tightening his cinch, all
unaware.
Caradec drew a long breath and hitched up his trousers. Then he hooked his
thumbs in his belt near the gun butts. He had no idea who was there, but that
sand had not fallen without a reason. In his own mind he was sure that someone
was standing in the willow thicket across and downstream, above where the sand
had fallen.
Someone was watching them.
"Ready?" Johnny suggested, looking at him curiously. "Almost," Rafe drawled
casually. "Sort of like this little place. It's cool and pleasant. Sort of
place a man might like to rest a while, and where a body could watch his back
trail, too." He was talking at random, hoping Gill would catch on. The puncher
was looking at him intently, now. "At least," Rafe added, "it would be nice
here if a man was alone. He could think better." It was then his eye caught
the color in the willows. It was a tiny corner of red, a bright, flaming
crimson, and it lay where no such color should be.
That was not likely to be a cowhand, unless he was a Mexican or a dude, and
they were scarce in this country. It could be an Indian. If whoever it was had
planned to fire, a good chance had been missed while he and Gill drank. Two
well-placed shots would have done for them both. Therefore it was logical to
discount the person in the willows as an enemy. Or if so, it was a patient
enemy.
To all appearances, whoever lay in the willows preferred to remain unseen. It
had all the earmarks of being someone or something trying to avoid trouble.
Gill was quiet and puzzled. Catlike, he watched Rafe for some sign to
indicate what the trouble was. A quick scanning of the brush had revealed
nothing, but Caradec was not a man to be spooked by a shadow.
"You speak Sioux?" Rafe asked casually.
Gill's mouth tightened. "A mite. Not so good, maybe." "Speak loud and say we
are friends." Johnny Gill's eyes were wary as he spoke.
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There was no sound, no reply. "Try it again," Rafe suggested. "Tell him we
want to talk.
Tell him we want to talk to Red Cloud, the great chief." Gill complied, and
there was still no sound. Rafe looked up at him. "I'm goin' to go over into
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