He had seen the three riders from the Saxon Hills in one fleeting glimpse as he tumbled from the saddle, and he would not soon forget their faces. Joe Creet, Indian Frank, and Gay Tomason.

Trouble had been building for some time between Creet and himself, but it was Tomason's presence there that surprised him. An expression of cold triumph was on the man's face as he lifted his gun.

Joe Creet's motive was obvious enough. he outlaw had always hated him. Only six weeks ago he had given Creet a beating that left marks still visible on the man's face. oreover, Creet must have learned about Marta Malone's money, which he had been carrying.

But Tomason?

Gay had been his friend, they had ridden together, worked together, come west together.

The answer to that was Marta. With him out of the running, Gay would have the inside track with her. ith no other eligible men around, Gay would probably win her. For a long time Brett Larane had been aware of Gay's interest in the girl, but he had never believed it would go this far.

Larane was a quiet man, tall and strong, and given to deep, abiding loyalties and lasting friendships.

It would have been Gay who told Creet what trail he was to take. Creet could have trailed him, but could not have been lying in wait for him as he had been, so Tomason must have told Creet or even led him to the spot. Yet with both men, andwith Indian Frank, who followed wherever Creet led, the motive lay deeper than these more obvious things.

No one needed to tell Brett Larane of the seriousness of his position. In this heat a man without water, by resting in the shade at all times, might live from two to five days. Traveling by night and resting in the shade by day, he might live from one to three days, and might make twenty miles. And twenty miles would leave him exactly nowhere.

Yet if he was to survive, he must make an effort. Here in the shade of Rattlesnake b.u.t.te he could not afford to wait. Time was precious, and he must move on. And well he knew that all of those calculations on time and distance concerned a man in the full flower of health, and he was wounded and weak.

For the time at least, he must wait. To start in the sun would finish him within a few miles at most.

Sweat trickled down his face, and he fanned himself weakly with his hat. He felt faint and sick now, all his rugged strength seeming to drain away. He tried not to think of the thirst that was already drying his throat and cracking his parched lips. He thought of Marta Malone, and the Hidden Valley Ranch.

It was a small ranch, lonely and yet beautiful, nestling in the shoulder of the mountains that somebody had named Hidden Valley. A pleasant place, a place where he had thought to live out his life with Marta.

That had been his one thought, ever since he drifted into the Valley of the Sun and went to work for her, first as a puncher, and then when they all quit, as foreman of a ranch without hands. But he had worked on. He had dammed the spring and formed a pool, he had repaired the house and built an adobe barn. He had broken fifteen wild horses, branded cattle, and kept at it, doing everything possible without thought of reward.

Hiring some drifting cowhands, he had taken her herd to the stock pens at Horse Springs and sold them to a stock buyer for a good price, the first returns that Marta had won from the ranch since her father died. And then he had been robbed.

The worst of it was, they would probably tell her he had run off with her money, and she would have little choice but to believe them.

His head throbbed with dull pain, and the angry teeth of a more raw and bitter pain gnawed at his wounded side. He knew that his wounds should be washed and cleansed, but he had no water, and there was nothing he could do.

The day drew on and the band of shadow in which he sat narrowed. The stifling heat danced upon the far length of the desert. Dust devils moved in a queer rigadoon across the levels. Heat beat down upon him, but at last his eyes closed and he slept. His face greasy with sweat, his body stiff with the torture from his wounds.

A buzzard circled in the sky, and then another came near, and a long time later Brett opened his eyes. Weakly, he pushed himself erect, staring with dazed eyes over the gathering of shadows around him, and the red-and-gold-tipped peaks of the far-off mountains. It would soon be time to move.

Automatically, he felt for his gun. One shot, and then he would need to worry no more. Just one, and then no more pain, no more trouble. Yet even as he thought of it he remembered the beauty of Marta, awaiting him in the doorway at Hidden Valley, her hand shading her eyes, then a smile, and she would come running down the steps. In these past months they had drawn very close to one another.

He looked down at the gun. They had left him that, never guessing he would have the chance to use it again, and he might not.

Marta needed that money. Her whole existence at Hidden Valley depended on it. Only his efforts had enabled her to gather the cattle and get them on the road to market. Without him and the money she could do nothing. And because he had trusted Gay, she would trust him.

Brett Larane felt with a thick and fumbling tongue for the parched and cracked lips. Then he got a finger hold in a crevice of the rock and looked out at the desert. The sun was gone now, and a vague coolness seemed to drift over the desert. He turned and braced himself, gathering his strength. Then he pushed away from the cliff and began to walk.

He was weak, but he kept his eyes on the mountains and moved along steadily. When he had walked a half mile he paused and seated himself carefully on a rock, resting. Nearby there was a mesquite root that would do for a cane. After ten minutes he got up and started on.

Darkness closed around him and he kept moving. nce, far off over the desert, he heard a coyote howl, and once a rabbit scurried by him, dodging away through the rocks and cholla.

He walked on and on, resting at intervals, but continuing to push on. Once, he stumbled and was too weak to rise for a long time. So he lay sprawled out on the desert, his body deliciously cool and relaxed even while his throat burned with thirst.

When he opened his eyes the sky was faintly gray in the east. He struggled to his feet and started on.

Now he must find shelter from the sun. He must find something, somehow, nearby. He would make no more than a couple of miles at his present pace before the sun was up. Yet there was nothing in sight and he pushed on. Suddenly the face of the desert was broken by the sandy scar of a wash. It came down from low hills, and he followed along the lip, walking away from his trail, for often along a wash one might find water.

The sun was looking over the horizon when he glimpsed the green of a cottonwood. His tongue was swollen, but felt thick and dry. He pushed on, then hearing a noise in the brush close to the base of the slim young cottonwood, he halted and, creeping closer, peered through.

Two porcupines were digging industriously into the sand, and he waited for a minute, watching, and then seeing damp sand being sc.r.a.ped from the hole they were digging, he moved up and drove them away.

Water!

He fell on his knees and dug eagerly into the damp sand at the bottom of the hole, and soon it grew sloppy and muddy, and then he sat back, letting the water seep through into the hole. It was still muddy when he cupped his hand into it and lifted it to his lips. He managed to get a swallow, then moistened his lips and tongue with his damp hand.

All day he waited beside the hole, drinking from time to time, and resting in the flimsy shade of the cottonwood. Toward dusk he bathed his head and face. Then he bathed the raw wound in his side. aving nothing with which to bandage it, he took some green leaves, dipped them in water, and bound them on, using his handkerchief for a compress and a pigging string from his hip pocket to secure the makeshift dressing.

He was picking up his cane to go when he heard a movement in the brush. He froze, and his gun slid into his hand. There was the sound of a horse's hoof striking stone, and then the brush was thrust apart and a horse walked through, a horse with an empty saddle!

His heart gave a leap. "Buck!" he gasped joyfully. "Well, I'll be darned!"

The horse jerked his head up and stopped. He spoke again, and the animal thrust a wary nose out toward him, sniff+ curiously of his hand, but not liking the smell of blood that lingered in the air. rett got his hand on the bridle and led the horse to the small spring, scarcely more than a bucket of water in sight.

Obviously, the horse had escaped, running away when Brett was fired upon, and then the animal, probably headed toward home and browsing along the way, had smelled water. When the horse had drunk, Brett Larane pulled himself into the saddle and started for the trail.

As he rode he studied his situation. He was very weak, and the distance he had to go was great. Yet by resting from time to time he believed he could make it if the wound in his side did not again begin to bleed.

It was not only essential that he arrive at the ranch but that he reach it in condition to act. He had no doubt that if Gay Tomason and Creet were not already there, they soon would be. There was no aid anywhere near for Marta, even if she wished to protest whatever steps they might take. But the chances were that Tomason would go to her as a friend. And even if she knew much of what Joe Creet and Indian Frank were, she had believed that Tomason was a friend.

Darkness was falling when Brett rode the buckskin off the trail into the [email protected] along the mountainside. Buck pulled against his guiding hand, wanting the home corral and the feed that awaited him there. But Brett rode him up through the trees, skirting along a dim cattle trail until he could come down upon the Hidden Valley Ranch from behind, riding down through the aspens.

A light shone from the window of the small ranch house, and his eyes narrowed with thought as he saw another light come on in his own cabin, which had formerly served as the bunkhouse. They were there, then. omason was there, and probably Creet.

They had Marta's money, and now they wanted her ranch, and probably her.

He wondered if Tomason had thought of Creet and the girl. With his shrewd eyes, Brett had long been aware of Creet's desire for the girl, and he had watched the man speculatively appraising Marta on more than one occasion. Tomason, for all his gun skill, was no match for Creet.

The outlaw was a cold-blooded killer, and he was a deadly hand with a six-gun. Only Brett Larane might match him in gunplay, andof that fact only two men were aware-Larane himself, and Joe Creet.

Creet knew that Larane had a reputation in Hays and Tascosa, a fact unknown to Tomason or to any of the others in the Valley of the Sun country or the Saxon Hills. arane had backed down the Catfish Kid on two occasions, and Jesse Evans, Billy the Kid's former pal and later enemy, had backed down for him. In that tough and hard-bitten crowd that included Hendry Brown, Frank Valley, and Dave Rudabaugh, Brett Larane had been left strictly alone.

Two things he must do now. He must at all costs recover the money for Marta, and he must kill Joe Creet and Gay Tomason.

Had he been a well man, he might have handled the situation without gunfire. But in his present shape, with no knowledge of how long he would be around, he dared take no chances. If he did not live, he must be sure that the others died. And he must be sure that if he was to be sick or crippled, none of the three were around to take advantage of his and the girl's helplessness.

He knew the risk he was taking, but at all costs he had to have water. He had ridden for hours now without a drink, and the water earlier had scarcely been sufficient to refresh him after his long thirst. Moreover, he must know who was at the ranch, and what was happening there.

Leaving the buckskin tethered in the aspens, he moved carefully toward the ranch house.

At the spring he lowered himself to the ground and drank long and deeply. Lifting his head, he studied the situation with care, then turned toward the bunkhouse. He must first know who was on the grounds. At a window, flattened against the side of the building, he glanced within.

Joe Creet was hunched over the table, and Indian Frank sat on the edge of a bunk. ay Tomason was tipped back against the wall in a chair. "What I say"-Tomason was speaking--?is we split the money now. Then you hombres take a good-sized herd and leave me here. That's fair enough."

Creet's dry chuckle was a warning to Brett Larane, who knew his man, but Gay saw nothing in it. "Sure, that's fair enough," Joe agreed, "in fact, that's more than fair. But who wants to be fair?"

Tomason's smile faded. "Well, let's have your idea, then!" he demanded sharply. "I've stated my case."

"My idea?" Creet chuckled again, and his small black eyes were pinned on Tomason with contempt. "I want the money, and the girl."

Tomason's chair legs. .h.i.t the floor, his face was dark with angry blood. "She's mine!" he said furiously. "She's in love with me, and she wants me! She doesn't enter into this!"

"Doesn't she?" Creet sneered. "I say she does. I'd kill"-he stared at Tomason--?fora woman like that as quick as for money. 'd even kill you, Gay."

Their eyes held, and Brett watched, fascinated. He saw what was in Creet's mind, and he could sense the evil triumph within the man at this moment. Joe Creet liked nothing and hated everything. He was a man eaten by a cancer of jealousy and hatred, and now he was savoring his triumph over the handsome Gay Tomason.

"So? That's the way it is?" Larane knew what Tomason was going to do. The man did have courage, of a kind, and now he laughed suddenly. uc1"Why, I might have guessed you'd never play fair with any man, Joe! I might have known that as soon as I helped you put Brett out of the way, I would come next.

"I see things different, myself. I wouldn't kill for any woman. You can have her. ow, if you like."

Tomason chuckled as he finished speaking, and leaned his elbows on his knees. "Let's forget her and split the money. If you insist on Marta, there's no reason for me staying around."

"Sure." Joe Creet got up slowly, smiling with hard eyes. "I think that's just what I'll do. Go up an' see her now." He turned on his heel with a last sneering glance at Gay, and stepped toward the door.

It was a trap, but Tomason was too intent on his own subterfuge, for as Creet's back turned to him Gay Tomason went for his gun and started to his feet in the same moment. And then Indian Frank buried his knife to the haft in the back of Tomason's neck!

The big cowhand gasped, his mouth opening and closing. He tried to lift his gun. But at the grunt of Indian Frank as he drove home the knife, Creet wheeled like a cat and shattered Gay's wrist with a sweeping blow of his gun barrel. Tomason's gun crashed to the floor, and the cowhand stood swaying, then his knees buckled under him, and he went down. Deliberately, Creet kicked him in the stomach, then the face.

"Good job," Creet said, grinning at his crony. "Now we'll have the money, and the girl." He looked up at the Indian. "And I mean both of us. Let's eat, and then we'll go up."

Carefully, Brett Larane eased away from the cabin wall. On cat feet he started for the house, and when he got to the door, he tried the k.n.o.b. It was not locked. Opening it, he stepped in.

Marta heard the creak of the door and looked up. Her eyes went wide in startled horror. e lifted his finger to his lips. Then he got to the table and dropped into a chair. In gasping ^ws, he told her of the shooting on the trail, of his own wounds, andofthe murder of Gay Tomason.

His face was deathly pale, and he felt sick and empty. He tried holding his hands steady, and his lips stiffened as he felt them tremble. He could never hope to shoot accurately enough to kill both men before they got him. He needed time-time. nd there was no time. They were coming now, in just a few minutes.

Yet there was a chance. If he could keep them in the cabin, prevent them from getting out ... He looked up. "Where's my rifle?" he asked hoa.r.s.ely. With the rifle he could pin them down, hold them back, possibly kill them at a distance. Away from Marta.

"They took it, Brett. Creet came in with Gay, said there was a coyote he wanted to kill. here isn't a gun in the house except the one you're wearing."

For money and a girl ... they believed they had killed him, they knew they had killed Gay. hey would stop at nothing, and they had been sure Marta had no weapons. The minutes fled, and he stared wildly from the girl to the window, trying desperately to think. Some way to stop them! There had to be a way! There just had to be!

His dwindling strength had mostly been dissipated on the long ride home. He knew, with an awful fear for Marta, that he could never get to the bunkhouse again. He doubted if he could cross the room. The sweat stood out on his face, and in the pale light he looked ghastly.

Slumped in the chair, his breath came in long gasps. His head throbbed, and the rat's teeth of agony bit into his side. He tried to force his fevered mind to function, to wrest from it one idea, anything, that might help.

When Creet saw him there, he was going to shoot. The outlaw would give him no chance to plan, to think. Nor would he hesitate. reet knew him too well. He would, at first glimpse, realize Brett Larane's tragic weakness. There would be no second chance. Joe Creet must die before he cleared the doorstep, while he was stepping across it. Brett frowned against the pain, and his thoughts struggled with the problem.

He had no strength to lift a gun, no strength to hold a gun even, nor did he dare risk Marta's life by allowing her to use his gun. There was in his mind no thought of fair play, for there was nothing fair about any of this. It was murder, ugly and brutal, that they planned.

They had not thought of fair play when they ambushed him. Creet hadn't thought of fair play when he lured Gay Tomason into a chance at his back while Indian Frank sneaked up with his knife. If he was to save Marta and the ranch he had worked for, it must be now, and by any means.

Then he saw the box. It was a narrow wooden box, quite heavy, with rope handles. He had seen such boxes often used for carrying bar gold. The handles were inch-thick rope in this case, the ends run through holes and held on the inside by knots.

"Marta," he whispered hoa.r.s.ely, "break the near end out of that box. Force the nails without noise, if you can."

He sat at the table and stared as she worked, and in a few minutes she had the end removed. "Now, from the other end," he whispered. "Cut the rope handle out and put the box on the table!"

Wondering, she did so, and looked at him curiously as he fumbled with the box to move it, the long way toward the door, the open end toward him. uc1"Now," he said softly, "my gun."

Drawing it carefully from its worn holster, Marta placed it on the table beside him. Lifting the gun, he gripped the b.u.t.t and pushed his arm and hand into the box, which was open on top. Marta, her eyes suddenly bright, caught his intention, and guided the muzzle of the barrel to one of the holes from which the rope had been taken. It was just large enough to take the muzzle of the six-gun.

"Now," he said, looking up at her, "throw a cloth over it, like it was food or something, covered on the table."

His hand gripping the b.u.t.t on the gun, and the box covered by the cloth, Brett Larane sat facing the door, waiting. They would come, and they would come soon, and he had the gun fixed now, in position, pointed directly at the door. And he needed no strength to hold it ready for firing ... but he had to get that first shot, while Joe Creet was in range, and he had to kill with that first shot. Afterward, Indian Frank might run off, or he might try to come through the door. If he came through the door, he, too, would die.

"Will you be all right, Brett?" Marta asked him gently.

He nodded, liking the feel of her hand on his shoulder. "Only, I hope they come ... oon."

She left him to put coffee on the stove, and his eyes strayed toward the door, knowing as well as she, what little chance they had. He must make desperately sure of that first shot. Indian Frank was not dangerous without Creet, but the outlaw would be dangerous at any time.

She glanced from the window, but shook her head, and Brett sipped the coffee she offered him, a little at a time. His left hand trembled so, she had to hold the cup to his lips. He drank, then managed a few swallows of food.

They came silently and were scarcely heard. quick grasp on his shoulder and Brett opened his eyes, aware for the first time that he had fallen asleep. His heart pounding, he gripped the gun b.u.t.t and his finger slid through the trigger guard. And then the door opened.

It was Creet, but even as Brett Larane's finger tightened on the trigger, Joe turned sidewise and motioned to Indian Frank. "Come in!" he said, and then his head swung toward the room.

For the first time he saw the man sitting across the table beyond the coal-oil lamp. He jumped as if shot, and his hand swept down for his gun, but at that instant, Indian Frank stepped into the doorway. Brett squeezed the trigger, and the concealed gun bellowed loud in the silent room.

Frank, caught in midstep, stopped dead still, then sprawled facedown in the doorway, and Joe Creet leaped aside. Brett's second shot, booming hollowly, lost itself through the open door.

Creet, gun in hand, stared at him. "Well, I'm forever d.a.m.ned!" he said softly. "You're a hard one to kill, Larane! A hard one! I'd have sworn you were dead back there, with blood all over you! And now you've got Frank ... well, that saves me the trouble. I never figured on him sharing the money. I had plans for him."

He looked at the table and the cloth-covered box. "Whatever you've got there, I don't know," he said, his eyes wary, "but you'd never be settin' that way, your hand covered an' all, if you could hold a gun. You'd never have missed the second shot you fired. Nor would you be settin' there now. You'd have turned that gun on me.

"No, I reckon you're not dead, but you're not quite alive, either. You're hurt bad."

The outlaw's face was saturnine, and his eyes were wicked with triumph. "Well, well! I'm glad to see you, Larane! Always did sort of spoil my fun, thinkin' you wouldn't be here to watch."

Brett's fingers tightened on the gun b.u.t.t, trying to ease it out of the hole in the box, but it would not come loose, or his strength was too little to exert the necessary pull.

"Come over here!" Creet looked up at Marta. "Come over here and do what I tell you, or I'll drill him right through the head."

Marta Malone, transfixed with horror, stared from Creet's tense, evil features to the poised gun in his hand. Then, as if walking in her sleep, she started to move toward him.

Brett Larane stared at Creet, too weak to lift a hand, helpless to prevent the outlaw from doing as he wished.

Suddenly, something clicked in his brain. It was a wild, desperate, impossible chance-but there was no other choice.

"Marta--!" he said, speaking as loudly as he could. "Think!"