"But who would do such a thing, Tom?" Ginnie protested. "I know you've said that, but Dad claims it's just an excuse. Who would do anything of the sort? There's no rustling here, and there haven't been any bandits for years."

"Just the same," Tom insisted, "if a man made a deal with old Juan Morales over at Los Molinos, he could get a good price for those cattle. Those Rurales were too much Johnny-on-the-spot."

Finally, they said a hopeless good-bye and Tom Brandon turned his grulla and started for Animas. He was broke, out of a job, and had nothing in sight. The wind was blowing cold from the north, but it seemed to be falling off a little. If the weather got warmer it would help some. It began to look like he would be camping out all winter, he reflected grimly, or riding the chuck line.

Animas was a quiet town. There had been but one killing all year, and that because of a misguided attempt by a half-breed to draw a gun on Lon Huffman. What had started the altercation was not known aside from what Huffman himself had said and Eason had verified. The half-breed, a man with a reputation as a hard character in Sonora, had come into town hunting Huffman. He had found him, there had been angry words, and Huffman had killed the breed.

"Just a trouble hunter," Huffman said gruffly. "Came into town aimin' to kill somebody, an' picked me."

THERE WERE four general stores in Animas and but three saloons. The only gambling done was a few games of draw or stud between friends or casual acquaintances. Tom Brandon swung down from his grulla and led the horse into the stable.

Old Man Hubbell looked up at him. "Sorry to bother you, Tom, but you better have some money soon. The boss is gettin' riled."

"Sure, Hub. An' thanks." He turned and walked toward the Animas Saloon, reflecting grimly that if he had any friends left, they would be there. It was remarkable how a man's friends fell away when he was out of a job and broke. Luckily, he had always been considerate to old Hub, which was more than most of the riders were.

Hub remembered, and his brother, Neil Hubbell, who owned the Animas, was also friendly. It was warm inside and the potbellied stove was glowing with heat. Neil nodded from a table as he came in, and indicated a bottle that stood on the bar. "Help yourself, Tom. I'm about to take some money away from Jim."

Jim Rollins glanced up briefly, his hard old eyes showing his disapproval, but he said nothing. Lon Huffman, who was sitting by the stove, tipped back in his chair and grinned maliciously.

"You goin' to be that good to me if I become a pauper, Neil?" The room was suddenly dead still and Tom Brandon jerked his hand away from the bottle as if stung. He turned slowly, his face white. Why he said it, he would never know, but somehow the words just came of their own free will.

"I'd rather be an honest pauper," he said, "than a rich thief."

Lon Huffman's face turned dark and his chair legs slammed down. "I reckon," he said, getting to his feet, "I'm goin' to have to beat some more sense into that thick skull o' your'n."

"That's good because I'm not wearin' a gun, Lon," Brandon said coolly, "so you've no excuse to murder me."

Rollins turned sharply. "Brandon, that's uncalled for!" he declared angrily. "You got no cause to call Lon a murderer because some breed hunted him for trouble!"

Tom Brandon was raging inside. He had nothing on which to base his accusation but suspicion, and that, he admitted to himself, might stem from his own dislike of Huffman, but he spoke again regardless. "n.o.body knows he came huntin' for trouble. Lon says so. Eason says so. But when didn't Eason say what Lon wanted him to?"

Lon Huffman's mouth was an ugly line. He was a big, hard man but he moved fast. Also, this talk was not doing him any good. The sooner it was stopped, the better. "You said enough," he said. "You done called me a liar! You called Eason a liar."

He grabbed at Tom, and Brandon stepped back and hit him. The punch caught Lon on the chin but lacked force, as Tom was stepping back. Huffman ducked his head a little and struck swiftly. The first punch caught Tom on the jaw and smashed his head back. The second hit him on the temple and he started to fall. Huffman lunged close, trying with his knee, but Tom grabbed both hands around the underside of the knee and jerked up. Lon Huffman lost balance and fell hard. Tom stepped back, wiping blood from his lips. He was still stunned by those first blows.

Huffman got up, then rushed. Tom struck out wickedly and the two fought savagely while the men in the room sat silent, watching. Most of them had seen the two other fights and there was no doubt about what would happen now. And inevitably, it did happen. They had been fighting several minutes when Huffman's superior weight and strength began to tell. Tom fought back gamely but he was beaten to the floor. He struggled up, was knocked down again, and fell over against the bar. Huffman was only stopped from putting the boots to him by the other men in the room.

b.l.o.o.d.y and battered, Tom Brandon staggered from the room. Outside, the wind was cold and his face was left numb. Grimly he looked at his battered hands, and then he turned and half walked and half staggered to the livery stable, where he crawled into the hay and wrapped himself in his blanket.

Before daybreak he was in the saddle and heading out of town. He was through here, of that there could be no question now. He was being kicked around by everybody, and just a few months before he had been liked and respected. It had started with his first fight with Huffman, then the loss of the herd and the talk about it. After that, things had unraveled rapidly. There was nothing to do but drift.

By noon he was miles to the east and riding huddled in the saddle, cold and hungry. Suddenly, he saw several cattle drifting sullenly along the trail toward him. As he came up to them, he saw they wore a Rafter H brand. The Rafter H, he recalled, was a small spread some seven or eight miles farther east. These cattle were rapidly drifting away and might never get home in this cold.

Turning them, he started them back toward their home ranch, and through the next hour and a half, he kept them moving. When he sighted the cabin and the gate, he hallooed loudly. The door opened and a stocky, powerful man stepped to the door and at Brandon's hail, opened the gate.

Brandon herded the cattle inside and drew up. "Thanks." The cattleman strode toward him."Where'd you find 'em?"

Brandon explained, and the man looked at his face, then said, "My name's Jeff Hardin. Get down and come in, you look about beat. Anyway, I'm just fixin' supper."

Hours later they sat together in front of the fireplace. Hardin had proved an interested listener, and Brandon had been warmed by coffee and compan ionship into telling his troubles.

Hardin chuckled softly. "Friend," he said, "you've had it rough. What you doin' now? Lightin' a shuck?"

"What else can I do? n.o.body would give me a job there, an' I can't lick Huffman. He's whipped me three times runnin' an' a man ought to know when he's whipped."

Hardin shrugged. "How do you feel about it? Do you feel like you'd been licked?"

Brandon looked rueful. "That's the worst of it," he said. "I don't. I'd like to tackle him again, but he's just too all-fired big for me."

Hardin got to his feet and stretched. "Well, if you ain't headed any where in particular, why not spend a month or so here? I could use the help, an' she gets mighty lonesome by myself. I'm a good cook," he added, "but a feller don't feel like it much when he's by himself."

For three days, Brandon worked cattle, cut wood, and fed stock and then one morning, Jeff Hardin came from the house carrying a set of boxing gloves. "Ever have these on?" he asked.

"Never saw any before," Tom admitted, "although I heard somebody invented something of the kind. What's the idea?"

"Why," Hardin said quietly, "I figure any man who will tackle a bigger, stronger man three times in a row an' is still willin' to try it again should have his chance. Now, I used to take beef to New Orleans an' Kansas City, an' I used to know a few prizefighters. They taught me some things. I also know some Cornish-style wrestlin'. I figure you should go back to Animas in a couple of months and whip the socks off Huffman. You want to try learnin'?"

Tom Brandon grinned. "You've got yourself a pupil!" he said. "Let's have those mitts."

A MONTH LATER, Hardin ended a hot session with Tom and grinned as he wiped sweat off of his forehead. "You're good, Tom," he admitted, "an' a sight younger than I am. You've got a good left an' you've got that short right to the body in good shape. I reckon you'll be ready in a little while."

Several weeks pa.s.sed and the weather settled down into day after day of cold. "You know," Hardin said one evening, "this here breed you were sayin' was killed by that Lon Huffman-he reminds me of a feller used to ride with: Juan Morales."

That brought Tom up straight. "Are you sure?"

"Sounds like him. One time I was way down south an' I seen some one who looked like that. Folks said he was mixed up in some shady cattle deals with Morales, and how he buys ever' stolen cow he can get." He puffed for a few minutes on his pipe. "Tom, d'you s'pose that Huffman could have suddenly decided to drive off that herd o' yours?"

Tom Brandon was dubious. "I practically accused him of it when we had that last fight," he admitted, "but it was temper talkin'. I never should have said it. Only something about that killin' didn't smell right."

"Pay you to look into it," Hardin advised, "when I get back."

"Back?" Brandon looked up in surprise. "Where you goin'?"

"Got a letter," he said, carelessly. "I'll have to leave you here alone. Look after the place, will you? I want to buy some stock. I'll be back in a couple of weeks."

ALONE ON THE PLACE, it surprised Brandon that he could find so much to keep him busy. There was the stable door that needed fixing, a couple of water holes that needed cleaning out, then a dam to stop a wash that had started.

Day after day he was up with the sun, riding over the range, work ing, losing himself in the many tasks to be done. In all that time, he never went near town. He thought of faraway Animas, but that was behind him. Only at times, when he thought of Ginnie Rollins, it was almost all he could do not to saddle up and start back.

There was no word from Jeff for almost a month, and then a letter did come, from El Paso. Been busy. Just returned from Mexico. Will see you next month. Met a mighty pretty girl.

Tom read the note and grinned. Met a pretty girl! At his age! He chuckled, and returned to work. That was the good thing about a ranch, he reflected, a man was never out of work. He could always find some thing to do. He branded a few strays, moved some of the younger stock down nearer the ranch, hunted down a cougar who had been giving them trouble, and killed two wolves, both with his Winchester at more than three hundred yards.

The days drifted into weeks, and alone on the ranch, Tom Brandon worked hard. Jeff Hardin had been a friend to him when he needed a friend, and he wanted to surprise him, but it was a pleasure just to do what he knew needed to be done. He broke horses, built and repaired fence, cleaned up a patch for a garden, and when Jeff had been gone two months, the place had changed beyond belief.

Then, suddenly, a package was delivered to him at the gate. Ripping it open, he found a letter from Jeff on top. Beneath the letter were several legal-looking papers. These will explain the delay in returning. When you get this stuff, better high-tail it for Animas.

Stunned, he stared at the papers. On top was a statement, sworn to be fore a notary, that the signer had seen Juan Morales pay money to Lon Huffman for cattle. The second was a statement by a Mexican that Morales had given him orders to be at the border to receive a bunch of stampeding cattle, and that the letter informing Morales about the cattle had been in English.

The Mexican also testified that Lon Huffman had been with the stampeding cattle, which had all worn the Rollins R brand. Staying only long enough to get an old man who lived nearby to feed the stock, Brandon threw a saddle on his horse and headed back for Animas.

MONTHS HAD GONE BY since he had seen the town, and he came up the street at a canter and drew up before the saloon. Swinging down, he pushed through the doors and walked at once to the bar. Neil Hubbell broke into a smile when he saw him, then glanced hastily at the door. "Tom, you be careful! Lon Huffman's been sayin' he drove you out of town an' that if you ever show your face around, he'll kill you."

"Neil," Tom requested, "come around here and search me. I'm not heeled except with this gun that I'm leavin' with you."

He stripped off his pistol and belt, handing them over the bar. "I want to see Lon, but I want to fight him barehanded."

"Ain't you had enough of that?" Hubbell demanded.

"Tom, I think-"

He broke off as the door opened and Lon Huffman came in with Eason and Bensch. Huffman stopped abruptly when he saw Tom. "You?" he said. "Well, I ran you off once an' I'll do it again!"

He spread his hands over his guns. "Hold it, Lon!" Hubbell's voice was stern. "Brandon just turned his gun over to me. He ain't heeled."

"Then give it back to him!" Tom Brandon took an easy step forward, his heart pounding and his mouth dry. Here it was, the fourth time-would this be another beating? Or were the things that Jeff had taught him the answer? "Unless you're dead set on gettin' killed, Lon," he said quietly,"I'd like to beat your ears in with my fists."

Huffman stared, then he took a fast step forward and swung. Tom's move was automatic, and it was so easy that it astonished him. He threw up his left forearm to catch the swing, then smashed his own right fist to the ribs. Huffman stopped in his tracks, jolted to the heels. Before he could get set, Tom chopped a short left to the cheek that cut deep and started blood coming down Huffman's face. Huffman lunged close, swinging with both hands, and Tom stepped inside of a left and, grabbing the sleeve of Huffman's right arm with his own left, he threw his hip into Huffman and jerked hard on the left. Huffman hit the floor hard, and his face went dark with blood. With a lunge, he came off the floor, and Tom Brandon waited for him. This was easy, almost too easy!

Tom stiffened his left into Lon's face, then hit him with a short right to the wind. Huffman backed up, looking sick, and Tom closed in, then struck twice, left and right to the face. Blood was over Huffman's eye and cheek now, and he was staggering. Brandon moved in, feinted, then whipped that right to the wind. Huffman stopped in his tracks and Tom hit him with a left three times before Huffman could get sorted out. He lunged forward and Brandon stepped in with a short right that dropped Huffman to his knees, his nose welling blood.

He looked up then and was amazed to see Jeff Hardin standing in the door with Jim and Ginnie Rollins beside him. "Nice work, boy!" Hardin stepped forward grinning. "Very nice work!" Then his face became stern. "Have you got those papers?"

Tom Brandon reached into his shirt for the papers and Hardin handed them to the older man. As Rollins looked at them, his face became hard and cold. Lon Huffman was on his feet, helped there by Bensch. "An' I trusted you!" Jim Rollins growled. "You dirty ... no-good..."

Huffman wiped blood from his face and stared at them sullenly. "What's the matter?" he demanded. "You gone crazy?"

"Just a matter of a stampeded herd, Lon," Brandon said quietly. "Just a matter of a herd stampeded over the border so Juan could get his brother-in-law up there with the Rurales and prevent our recovering them. They call that stealing, Lon."

Huffman tried to bluff it through. "Didn't do no such thing!" he said. "An' there ain't n.o.body can say I did!"

Brandon smiled. "Those papers Jim has say so. We've got proof. Even Juan Morales hasn't any respect for a man who would double-cross his employer-or shoot a rider of his because he was afraid the fellow would talk too much while he was drunk!"

Awareness cleared Huffman's brain. He hesitated, then half-turned, throwing a meaningful glance at Eason. He was trapped. He ran a hand over his face. "Guess there ain't nothin' but to give up."

Eason had edged to the door and now he suddenly whipped it open, and at the same instant, Huffman went for his gun. Bensch plunged out the door, hit the saddle, and shucked his Winchester, but as Huffman's gun came up, both Rollins and Hardin fired. Struck with two bullets, Lon pitched over on his face.

Eason had frozen where he was, his fingers pulling away from the gun b.u.t.t. Bensch took one look, then wheeled his horse. Rollins lifted his gun, but Hardin brushed it aside. "Let him go. He won't do us any harm."

Hardin smiled then. "This here's that pretty girl I spoke of meetin', son. You told me so much about her an' about all that happened here that it decided me. I used to be a Pinkerton man. Well, you were in a bad position and it seemed to me the right man might get you out of it. It was small pay for the way you were fixin' up my ranch. Actually, I've been settin' around too long. Needed a vacation."

"You got here just in time," Tom admitted, smiling.

"Tom," Rollins thrust out a hand, "I reckon I'm an old fool. I'm sorry."

Tom took the hand and when he released it he took Ginnie's arm. "Why don't you two go get yourselves a drink? Because Ginnie and I have things to talk about."

Valley of the Sun Sprawled on his face beside the cholla, the man was not dead. The gun that lay near his hand had not been fired. He lay now as he had fallen six hours earlier when the two bullets struck him. ut the dark stain on the back of his sun-faded shirt was from blood that had caked hard, dried in the blasting sun.

Above him, like the tower of a feudal castle, was the soaring height of Rattlesnake b.u.t.te. It loomed like a sentinel above the sun-tortured waste of the valley.

Near the wounded man's hand a tiny lizard stopped. Its heart throbbed noticeably through the skin as it stared in mingled amazement and alarm at the sprawled figure of the man. It sensed the warning of danger in the stale smell of sweat and blood.

Under the baking heat of the sun, the man's back muscles stirred. The lizard darted away, losing itself in a tiny maze of rocks and ruined mesquite. But the muscles of the wounded man, having stirred themselves, relaxed once more and he lay still. Yet the tiny movement, slight as it had been, seemed to start the life processes functioning again. Little by little, as water finds its way through rocks, consciousness began to trickle back into his brain.

His eyes were open a long time before he became aware of his position. At first, he merely lay there, his mind a complete blank, until finally the incongruity of his stillness filtered into his mind and stirred him to wonder as to the cause.

Then memory broke the dam caused by bullet shock and flooded him suddenly.

He knew then that he had been shot. Understanding the manner of men who fired upon him, he knew also that they had left him for dead. He was immediately aware of the advantage this gave him.

Mentally, he explored his body. He was wounded, but where and how he did not know. From the dull throb in his skull he suspected at least one bullet must have hit him in the head. There was, he discovered, a stiffs low down on his left side.

He could remain here no longer. He must first get out of the sun. Then he must take stock of his position and decide what was to be done. Being a desert man, he was acutely aware of the danger of lying in the sun and having all the water drawn from his body. There was a greater danger from heat and thirst than from men determined to kill him.

Brett Larane got his hands under him and very carefully pushed himself up. He flexed his knees with great caution. His arms and legs functioned normally, which was a good sign. To be helpless now would mean sure death.

When he was on his knees he lifted a hand to the scalp wound in his head. It was just that, no more nor less. No doubt there had been a mild concussion also. The wound in his lower left side was worse, and from the caked condition of his shirt and pants, he knew he must have lost a great deal of blood.

Bleeding, he knew, would make a man thirsty, and this was an added danger.

He retrieved his gun and returned it to his holster. The shot that struck him down had come utterly without warning. The drawing of the gun had been one of those purely instinctive actions, natural to a man who is much dependent upon a weapon. It had been due to conditioning rather than intelligence.

Shakily, he got to his feet and glanced around for his horse, but it was nowhere in sight.

They had taken his outfit, then. He was a man afoot in the desert, miles from possible aid, a man who had lost his saddle. In this country, that alone was tantamount to a death sentence.

There was shade under the overhang of the b.u.t.te and he moved toward it, walking carefully. Once there, he lowered himself gingerly to a sitting position. e was afraid of opening the wound and starting the bleeding again. Weakness flooded him, and he sat there, gasping and half-sick with fear. Nausea swept over him and came up in his throat.

He wanted to live, he wanted desperately to live.

He wanted to see Marta once more, to finish the job he had begun for her. He wanted to repay those who had shot him down from ambush. He wanted all these things, and not to die here alone in the shadow of a lost b.u.t.te on a sun-parched desert.

Realist that he was, he knew his chances of survival were slight. On this desert without a horse, a strong man might figure the odds as at least fifty to one against him. For a wounded man, the odds went to such figures that they were beyond the grasp of any run-of-the-herd cowhand.

Horse Springs, the last settlement, lay sixty miles behind him. And in this heat and without water, that distance made the town as remote as a distant planet. Willow Valley lay some forty or fifty miles ahead, somewhere over yonder in the blue haze that shrouded the mountains along the horizon.

No doubt there was water not too far distant, but in what direction and how far?

There are few stretches of desert without some sort of spring or water hole. But unless one knew their location they were of no use, for no man could wander about at random hoping to find one. One might be within a dozen yards of one and never know it.

All the while he thought of this he knew he dared not look. He would have no direction, no indication, and in his condition there was but one thing, to head for Willow Valley and hope someone found him before he died.

Nor was the trail one often traveled.

Outlaws like those who shot him infested this country. ew people wanted to go to Horse Springs, so the desert was avoided. He had taken this road for that purpose, never dreaming that Joe Creet would guess the route he had chosen.

It had been Creet, of course, who shot him. Larane had heard his jeering voice in the momentary s.p.a.ce that separated the shots.