Chapter III: Part 3

Beyond the body, almost buried in the dust, was the sheriff’s pistol. Two shots had been fired and the gun was cocked; showing that the sheriff had been killed before he could pull the trigger for the third time.

Peace wiped the gun on his sleeve. At least he had a gun and a horse.

“I sure do change weapons and broncs real often,” he grunted aloud.

As he stepped toward the horse, several mounted men swept around the curve just beyond him, with Clell Danert leading them. They were not over a hundred feet away and riding fast. The sharpness of the curve and the heavy dust of the road had muffled the sounds of their approach.

Peace threw up the gun and pulled the trigger. The hammer barely moved forward, and Peace realized in a flash that the cocked hammer had let the action clog with fine dust, leaving the gun useless for the moment.

The riders were almost into him. Peace ducked to one side, as he hurled the gun straight at Danert; and a moment later a horse struck him, spinning him against the upper side of the grade and knocking him unconscious.

* * * * *

The Eastern range and the high foot-hills of the Valley of the Chinook glowed with the colors of sunset; but the western half of the valley lay like a vast blue shadowland. The sky-line of the western cliffs was high-lighted with sweeping splotches of gold and orange, where the mighty rocks still showed their facets to the dying sun.

Down in the blue shadows, Cross L Marshall and Bart Farley sat on the ranch-house porch, performing their evening ceremonial smoke. Both men were very silent. Farley’s pipe was not drawing well and he dug savagely at it with his pocket-knife.

Marshall slowly knocked the dottle from his pipe and got to his feet, where he leaned against a porch-post and gazed at the fading sunset.

“I dunno,” muttered Farley looking up at him. “They was to start soon after we left. It ain’t like Jess to stay like this.”

Marshall shook his head.

“I don’t like it, Bart. Jess knows danged well we’d worry about it. She said she was goin’ to the store and get some cloth of some kind and then they was goin’ to come right on.”

Jim Horne came out of the front door, rolling a cigaret. Jim was usually the last one to quit the supper table. He sat down on the porch and braced his back against the wall.

“Ain’t Jess come home yet?” he asked in his peculiar drawl. Neither of the men answered him in words, but he knew that she had not.

“I dunno,” complained Farley nervously. “Peace Parker is in town, and Crane’s there and----”

“Peace Parker, the cow-thief?” asked Horne.

Farley turned like a flash. “Take that back, Horne! Don’tcha say that!”

Horne’s mouth gawped open and his cigaret fell to a fold of his shirt-front. It was not like Farley to explode like this.

“I--I takes it back,” stammered Horne, digging into his bosom for the smoldering cigaret; “I didn’t know----”

“You ain’t never heard him spoken of as such around here,” reminded Marshall softly.

“I never knowed him,” said Horne, “and I don’t reckon I ever heard any of yuh mention him. I’ve only heard him spoke about at other places. He’s been in the pen, ain’t he?”

Farley nodded.

“You don’t know him, Jim--or yuh wouldn’t speak against him.”

“I sure begs yore pardon, Bart. I reckon he’s been done wrong. Lot of fellers serve time. Did he come back to find out who done him dirt?”

Farley glanced up at Marshall.

“I wonder, Cross L?”

Marshall rubbed his chin slowly and nodded--

“Mebbe.”

Bert Hart rode in past the corrals and galloped up to the porch, where he swung down.

“I saw Barr Severn a while ago, Marshall. He just came in from Tarp City. There was a shootin’ scrape on the street. That feller Peace Parker is back from the pen. He plugged Evers, the cowboy who works for Crane.

“They tells me that Parker tried to grab Jess, and him and Danert had a ---- of a time. Jess got away on her horse and Parker took out after her on Danert’s horse. The sheriff tried to stop him; but he got plumb away. Barr didn’t see it himself, but he says everybody got excited, except the sheriff, who got a bronc and follered ’em. Danert said they hit toward Fossilshell. Barr says that Danert got ---- licked out of him.”

“Where’s Barr?” snapped Marshall.

“Gone home to get his punchers. Said he’d be here in a few minutes. He got into town about a half-hour after it happened, and came straight here.”

“Yuh says that Peace Parker tried to grab Jess?” asked Farley.

“That’s what Barr said. I dunno what it means, Farley. Some of the boys have headed down the Fossilshell country. I reckon everybody got excited and didn’t know just what did happen. They said that Parker wrasseled Danert all over the street and then slammed him into a building. He sure is a proper heller, I reckon.”

“Saddle up!” snapped Marshall.

Farley, Hart and Horne raced for the stable. Hart yelled over his shoulder to Marshall--

“I’ll saddle yore bronc for yuh.”

Four other riders, including Barr Severn, of the Three Dot, galloped into the Cross L and swung in beside the stable. Marshall came running from the house, buckling on his belt as he ran, and stopped beside Severn, a rangy, solemn-faced cow-man, with a stringy black mustache.

“Got any idea a-tall, Barr?” asked Marshall eagerly.

“Nothin’ ’cept what I told Hart. I grabbed what info’mation I could and came on in as fas’ as possible.”

“All set!” yelled Farley.

The four men swung into their saddles, settled themselves for a long ride, and a few moments later eight silent riders faded out up the yellow ribbon of road, which led to Poncho Pass--eight men whose fingers itched for the feel of a trigger in defense of their women.

* * * * *

It seemed to Peace that he had been asleep only for a moment. He had felt the numbing crash of the running horse striking him, and it seemed as if he were slightly stunned. He could hear voices, but caution told him to keep his eyes closed. He barely moved his fingers and could feel the nap of a blanket.

He lay perfectly still, trying to understand what was being said. At first it was a meaningless jumble of words, but as his brain cleared he heard an earnest conversation, seemingly between three men.

“--pretty hard shock,” said a voice, which Peace decided belonged to a doctor. “No bones broken. I do not understand where he received all those bruises, though. Impossible to have received them by merely being knocked down by a horse. Must have the constitution of a mule.”

Peace realized that he was in a house, but had no idea of whose house, nor where. He must have been unconscious for some time.

“He likely fought with the sheriff,” Peace recognized Danert’s purring voice. “We were unable to find the sheriff’s gun anywhere. This man threw his gun----”

“Threw kinda straight, too,” grunted a voice. “Few inches lower and yore beauty would ’a’ fled forever, Clell.”

Peace opened his eyes a fraction of an inch, giving him a blurred image of Clell Danert, with his head bandaged.

“Doc, do yuh reckon he’s got his spine hurt?” asked the third party. “Takes him a long time to wake up, don’t yuh think?”

“Hm-m-m--possibly. It is hard to determine right now. How did you happen to bring him here?”

“Peculiar situation,” purred Danert. “The sheriff is dead and the deputy is gone away. No keys for the jail. We thought he was dead; but wanted to be sure. We’ll have to hold him.”

“Certainly, it will require an investigation.” This from the doctor.

“He killed the sheriff, that’s a cinch,” declared Danert. “He shot Evers and stole my horse. The sheriff must have caught him on Poncho Pass. This man’s gun had been fired twice and the sheriff was hit twice. My horse is at the bottom of the cañon, dead.”

“Sheriff Langley was well liked,” observed the doctor.

“That’s the worst of it,” said Danert. “I’m strong for a square deal, doc; and I know what Tarp City will do to this man when they find out what he done.”

“Might save the county the expense of a trial,” growled the third man. “This feller’s got a ---- bad rep, and the sooner he decorates a tree the better. Shall we keep him here?”

“Perhaps it would be better to say nothing until he is safe in jail,” suggested the doctor. “He is physically unable to do anything. I do not like to see a man executed without a fair trial, and this man is in no condition to give a coherent defense of his own acts.”

Peace grinned to himself and wondered if he really was in as bad shape as they thought. He could see that Danert was framing everything against him. The sheriff, not knowing the real cause of the trouble, had followed him to Poncho Pass, where he had been killed. Many witnesses would testify that the sheriff had followed Peace Parker.

“You stay here,” Danert ordered the third man as he and the doctor went out of the room.

Peace could hear the guard rolling a cigaret. As he scratched a match Peace peered through almost closed lids and saw that the guard was Gus Sinks. He was tilted back against the wall in a chair, with a Winchester across his lap. Clell Danert stepped softly into the room, came close to Sinks and whispered.

“Gus, we can’t let this man go to jail. I’m going to town and let ’em in on it. I think they’ll act fast; but if they don’t----”

“Whatcha want me to do, Clell?”

“I dunno--” admitted Danert, and after a long pause--“Make it look right, whatever you do, Gus.”

“If he tries to make a break--” said Sinks.

“You _sabe_ things,” agreed Danert and slipped softly out of the room.

Peace shut his eyes and tried to think out a plan. He had no way of knowing just how badly he was injured. Danert would incite Tarp City to lynch him, and Sinks was ready to kill him if he made a move. They did not want him alive. They could not afford to let him tell what he knew.

The doctor came back into the room with a lamp, which he placed on a table near the bed. He felt of Peace’s pulse.

“Reckon he’ll pull through?” asked Sinks.

“I can not say; but I have hopes,” smiled the doctor and left the room.

“---- you and yore hopes!” growled Sinks.

Peace realized that it was growing late and that no time must be lost if he blocked the sheep game. But what could he do? He could see Sinks watching him, with the Winchester pointing toward the bed. Peace studied Sinks, who was puffing slowly on his cigaret, a scowl on his homely face. Sinks had been cut across the face at one time, and the scar showed yellowish-white against his brown skin.

Peace did not dare to test his muscles for fear of what Sinks might do. As far as Peace was concerned, he might be paralyzed. He seemed to have no sense of pain. Finally he saw a way out--a desperate way. Without moving a muscle he began moving his lips, muttering to himself. Over and over he repeated aloud--

“Danert--double-crossin’--own--men.”

Sinks listened indifferently at first, but after Peace had repeated it several times he tilted forward in his chair and watched him closely.

“Danert--double--crossin’--own--men,” droned Peace.

Sinks got up from his chair and backed to the door, keeping an eye on the bed. He glanced quickly into the hall and came slowly back to his former position.

“Danert--crooked--” muttered Peace. “Crooked.”

“Yo’re crazy,” muttered Sinks. “Whatcha talkin’ about?”

Peace kept muttering broken sentences, a jumble of “Danert double-crossin’--own--men--all--for--himself----”

Sinks glanced back at the door and came to the bed, where he put his hand on Peace’s shoulder and shook him.

“Whatcha talkin’ about? Who is Danert double-crossin’?”

Peace began murmuring a jumble of stuff, barely whispering. Sinks leaned closer to hear it. He wanted to know all about Danert, and Peace Parker’s mumblings might be true.

“---- yuh, why can’t yuh talk sense?” he growled, leaning closer and glancing back toward the door.

As he turned back a brawny hand shot from under the blanket and closed around his throat, while another arm hooked around his waist, jerking him off his feet.

Peace lunged forward from the bed, every muscle on his body protesting against the strain, and crumpled Sinks under him to the floor. The attack had been so sudden, so unlooked-for that Sinks was half-throttled before he could attempt a defense.

He managed to jerk his head sidewise, and half-tear away; but his body was in a human vise, which crushed out his breath and seemed to drive the life from his muscles. He tried desperately to cry for help, but his voice was gone and he crashed to the floor, striking the back of his head.

Peace staggered to his feet and looked down at Sinks. His body seemed racked and torn and the blood pounded in his temples like trip-hammers. He managed to remove Sinks’ belt and gun, which he buckled around his own waist, and picked up the Winchester.

He heard the doctor come into the house and go into another room, shutting the door behind him. Peace staggered to the door, where he leaned against the wall, trying to overcome his dizziness. Behind him came a sobbing curse, and he whirled to meet Sinks, who had recovered sufficiently to put up a fight.

He rushed at Peace, apparently unconscious of the fact that Peace had both of his guns. He crashed into Peace, striking and grasping, mouthing curses which were mere whispers. Peace shook him off and drove in a crashing uppercut to Sinks’ chin as he rushed again, and Sinks collapsed like a wet rag, sprawling on his face almost under the bed.

Peace glanced at him, turned and went into a short hall. Behind him he could hear the doctor in another room, hammering on wood and whistling unmusically. Peace grinned. The doctor had been too much engrossed in his own noises to hear the fight.

He opened the door and stepped outside. He was just at the outskirts of Tarp City, at what was evidently the doctor’s home. At the gate he could see the outlines of a horse and buggy and further up the fence was a saddled horse. A big moon was coming up over the Sunset range behind Gunsight peak, which masked a triangle portion at the bottom; making it look like a huge yellow pie, with one piece removed.

Peace untied the horse and swung into the saddle.

He shut his lips against the pain of wrenched muscles and bruised flesh, and rode toward the lights of the town, with the Winchester in the crook of his arm. He rode slowly down the middle of the street. On either side of him shone the yellow lights from the windows. Men were moving in small groups, and there did not seem to be the usual hilarity connected with Tarp City’s night life.

Peace knew what it meant. Sheriff Langley had been well liked, and Tarp City was preparing to avenge his death. They were going to lynch some one, and he was the marked victim.

Peace knew that Tarp City was like gunpowder; knew that Danert’s tale would cause them to explode with indignation over the killing of their sheriff; but still he rode down the main street.

A number of men were standing in front of a saloon, and as Peace rode closer he could hear Danert’s voice. He drew up on his reins. Should he kill Danert? Would Danert be any good to him dead?

Danert was telling those men of the killing of the sheriff; branding Peace with the mark of a murderer. Peace looked up and down the lighted street--lighted from the yellow glow of oil lamps. Some men crossed the street near him, talking excitedly. One of them carried a coil of new rope. Peace smiled grimly.

Suddenly there came the rattle of wheels, the pounding of a horse’s hoofs, and into the street came a horse and buggy, coming furiously and dangerously. The driver was standing up in the buggy as it flashed into view, and he swung it between Peace and the saloon. The horse fell at the edge of the sidewalk and one of the front wheels smashed to kindling against a post.

For a few moments there was a surge of men, as they got the horse to its feet and off the sidewalk. Peace moved in close enough to know that the driver of the rig was Gus Sinks, and that he was reporting the escape of Peace Parker. Men poured out of the saloon and joined the group.

Peace turned his horse and moved slowly away. He did not feel alarmed, because no one would ever expect him to come to town following his escape. He swung into a short side street and stopped. He felt sure that Danert knew where Jess Marshall was held; but there would be no chance for him to force a talk with Danert. There was just one chance left.

He spurred his horse and rode swiftly toward the loading corrals, where he knew the bands of sheep were being held. There was just a chance that he would find some one there--some one who would talk.

Peace knew that he would have to work fast to do any searching for Jess Marshall and to keep out of the hands of the mob. He wondered if Marshall had been doing any searching for Jess. He knew that the sheep would not be moved tonight, because the owners would never chance a move of that kind, while things were upset. Chinook Valley would be on the search for Jess, and men would be riding the pass.

Peace could hear the uneasy bleating of sheep, as before him loomed the shadowy outlines of the corrals--huge enclosures, with narrow chutes which led to loading platforms the height of a stock-car door. The tall timbers of the chutes cast long shadows across his path, as he rode through and scattered the bedded bands of sheep.

Beyond the corrals were a huddle of tent-houses, the home of the sheepherders. In one of them glowed the light of a lamp, and Peace rode slowly to this one, gun in hand. He dismounted in the shadow of the corral, and was walking almost to the doorway of the lighted tent, when a man rode in from a different direction. He dismounted and peered into the lighted tent. Peace accidentally trod on a brittle stick, which snapped sharply. The man turned his head and called--

“Pete!”

It was Jefferson Crane. Peace walked toward him, saying nothing.

“Whatcha doin’ out there?” demanded Crane, as Peace came closer to him. “Sinks fell down on the job, ---- him! There’s ---- to pay and no----”

“Uh-huh,” grunted Peace, stepping in close and shoving the muzzle of his rifle into Crane’s ribs.

“There’s ---- to pay and no pitch hot, Crane.”

Crane said nothing. Peace backed him into the tent-house, with Crane cringing away from the gun, hands held even with his shoulders.

“You?” he breathed sharply. “You?”

“Me,” admitted Peace coldly. “I let yuh go once, Crane. Let yuh go ’cause yuh begged like a yaller pup; but beggin’ ain’t savin’ yore soul tonight.”

“Why--I ain’t done nothin’ to you,” faltered Crane. “Why kill me, Parker?”

Crane’s face was green with fright and his lifted hands opened and shut spasmodically.

“Arguments are all closed,” said Peace slowly. “Sinks sure fell down on the job, Crane; but yore hired coyotes have lied to honest folks and they’re all yellin’ for blood--my blood. Mebbe they get me and mebbe they don’t.

“If they do--you’ve gone to ---- ahead of me; and if they don’t--” Peace shook his head--“the mem’ries of your demise won’t haunt me, Crane.”

Crane licked his lips and glanced around. He tried to swallow, but his throat refused to function. Then:

“Parker, for ----’s sake, you--you--I’ll help you get away. They’ll hang yuh sure. They’re after you now. Honest, I know a place where they’ll never find yuh. I’ll take yuh to it and I’ll give yuh money and I’ll----”

Peace shook his head.

“No! I want to ask you one question before I kill yuh, and I’m askin’ yuh to answer with the truth. Did you misbrand them cows--the job I served five years for doin’?”

Crane clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering and nodded.

“Talk!” snapped Peace.

“Yes,” whispered Crane. “I done that job, Parker. I wanted to marry Jess Marshall, and I had to get you out of the way.”

“And now Danert is goin’ to marry her, eh?”

“He thinks he is,” Crane’s face distorted wolfishly. “I’ll kill him first. Lemme go long enough to kill him, Parker.”

“You were goin’ to sheep out Chinook Valley?”

“By ----, they kicked me out of there!” Crane shook like a man with the palsy. “I’m goin’ to git even!”

Peace studied Crane for a full minute, and Crane squirmed under the scrutiny and the menace of the cocked Winchester.

“Got a pencil and a piece of paper?” asked Peace.

Crane’s hand went cautiously to his vest pocket and took out the stub of a pencil. In one corner of the tent was a large packing case, upside down, and on the top of it were a number of old newspapers and some blank wrapping paper.

Peace motioned Crane over to this box and shoved a piece of the wrapping paper over to him with the muzzle of his gun.

“Write out what yuh know about misbrandin’ them cows,” ordered Peace.

“Where do I git off?” Crane whined the question.

“Write fast!” snapped Peace. “Then sign it.”

“Do I git off?”

Peace squinted at Crane. “Get off? Crane, yo’re a dirty, lousy, pariah-dog; but I’ll give you a shootin’ chance--after I’ve got that confession.”

Crane licked his lips and began writing. He wanted to stall for time. Perez should be around there close. Crane was afraid to have even a shooting chance with Peace. If he could stall long enough, help would come. He wrote slowly. The lamp was nearly dry. Peace turned it higher and it smoked a spiral of acrid smoke which eddied in the draft from the doorway. Crane affixed his signature and shoved the paper across to Peace. It read:

I branded them cows in Chinook Valley five years ago and
Peace Parker got sent to the pen for it. He was not to
blaim and I say so here.

(Signed) Jefferson Crane.

Crane watched Peace read it, and wondered how quickly he could draw the gun from the shoulder-holster under his vest. He was afraid even to move a hand toward it for fear Peace might take it from him.

“That’s let you off,” said Crane as Peace finished.

“Yeah?” Peace shoved the paper back to Crane. “You ain’t hardly started writin’ yet, Crane. Now make out a bill of sale for every sheep yuh own. Make it out to me and mark it paid in full.”

Crane nearly made a foolish motion toward his shoulder, but checked it in time.

“To you?” he shrilled. “Why?”

Peace slid his thumb off the cocked hammer of the rifle, and his voice was cold as ice.

“Yore lies made me work for five years, Crane. It was ---- hard work, too. You made a convict out of me, and the least yuh can do is to pay me for my hard work. Write fast, ’cause this gun is easy on the trigger.”

Crane’s thin face was white with anger, but he laughed harshly:

“I’ll do it, Parker; but ---- little good will they be to you. You can kill me if yuh want to, but yuh won’t live ’till mornin’. Tarp City’s got a rope, and they’re trailin’ yuh, Parker. You better be on the run.”

“Go ahead and write,” said Peace coldly. “I’ll take a chance on my own hide.”

Crane wrote the bill of sale and signed it. Peace glanced at it and put it in his pocket, with the rifle still covering Crane’s chest.

“Anythin’ else yuh want?” asked Crane hoarsely.

“Uh-huh,” nodded Peace. “The most important of all.”

Crane squinted at him wonderingly and for a minute they looked at each other. Crane licked his lips and tried to edge one hand toward his concealed gun.

“Well, what in ---- do yuh want?” Crane fairly squealed.

“Where is Jess Marshall?”

Crane jerked back at the question. “Jess Marshall?”

“Where is she, Crane? Talk fast.”

Peace depressed the muzzle of his rifle to cover Crane’s stomach.

“Start talkin’.”

“I dunno,” croaked Crane, “I dunno.”

“When did yuh see Perez last?”

“Three or four hours ago.”

“You knew that Sinks failed to hold me,” said Peace softly. “You lie when you say you don’t know that your men kidnaped Jess Marshall. I’m----”

Came a rustle at the door and Peace whirled and saw Perez half inside the doorway. As Perez saw him his hand flashed for his gun. Peace fired from the hip, almost across the smoking lamp, and the concussion blew out the light.

Perez’s gun sent a stab of orange flame into the tent-top, which showed that he was falling as he fired. Crane’s pistol flashed almost in Peace’s face and the bullet burned across the top of his ear, while the powder burned into his chin and cheek.

Peace ducked and flung the rifle in Crane’s direction and heard the cry of pain as it struck. Peace could hear some one moving inside the tent, but could not exactly locate the sound.

He dropped behind the big packing case, and seemed to locate the sound just behind him. He slipped his fingers under the edge of the case and upset it in the direction of the sound. He heard Crane swear as the box rolled into him, and then he seemed to feel the shaking of the tent as Crane crawled underneath one of the walls instead of going out the door.

Peace started forward on his hands and knees and his hands came in contact with a body. He slowly drew his hands back, muscles tensed for battle, but his fingers came in contact with a dishevelled mass of hair, which never grew on a man.

Swiftly he explored the body and found it trussed with ropes. His fingers found the face, half masked with a cloth gag. It was Jess Marshall, gagged and bound and she had been hidden away under the big packing case, the last place any one would expect to find her.

Peace picked her up in his arms and staggered out of the tent, stepping over the body of Perez. As he came out into the moonlight a pistol flashed beside one of the tents, and a bullet buzzed past his head; but Peace staggered straight on with his burden.

The pistol flashed again from the shadow of the tent as he reached his horse, and Peace heard the thud of a bullet striking his saddle. He eased his burden to the ground and sent shot after shot at the dark spot.

Then he dropped to the ground, loaded his gun, untied the ropes and removed the gag.

“---- buzzards!” he grunted softly. “Doin’ this to a girl!”

Jess Marshall mumbled through her bruised lips, slowly, painfully--

“Peace--Parker--”

“Uh-huh--it’s me,” whispered Peace. “How do yuh feel, Jess?”

“F-fine,” she whispered, bravely. “I--I--thought--you--were--killed.”

“No-o-o, I’m kinda livin’--yet. Can yuh stand up?”

He helped her to her feet, but the cramped muscles refused to work and she crumpled. Peace swung her up to the saddle and she clung to the horn dizzily.

“Can yuh ride, Jess?” anxiously. “Can yuh, girl?”

“I think so, Peace. I’m so numb all over and my mouth feels as big as--as----”

“Mine,” added Peace. “Now yuh can see how I suffer all the time.”

“Don’t say that, Peace. Your mouth is ju-just the right size. Where do you want me to go?”

“Ride north and swing into the dry cañon at the foot of Poncho Pass. Wait for me there. Don’t try to go through the pass, ’cause it’s guarded. If I don’t show up, stay there ’till mornin’ and go in with some of yore own folks.”

“You’ll come, won’t you, Peace?”

“I’m figurin’ a heap on it,” softly. “I kinda want to know, and--” Peace took Crane’s confession and bill of sale from his vest pocket and handed it to Jess.

“Hang onto that, will yuh, Jess? If I don’t never come across the Pass, yuh can show it to yore folks.”

“What is it, Peace?”

“Didn’t yuh hear what me and Crane talked about, when you was under that box?”

Jess shook her head.

“No, I couldn’t hear what was said, Peace. That cloth was over my ears, and all I could hear was a jumble of voices, and after a while those shots were fired.”

“That’s my pay for five years of hard work, Jess. I wasn’t hired to work that long; but the man who got me the job is payin’ me for doin’ it well.”

“I--I don’t understand what you mean, Peace?”

“I ain’t got time to tell yuh now. You ride out where I told yuh to, Jess. I’ve got some more work to do around here before I can join yuh.”

As Peace finished talking he seemed to melt into the shadows of the high corral fence. Jess Marshall listened, but not even a footfall told where the big man had gone. She lifted her sore hands and guided the horse around the corner of the fence.

She wanted to go back and help Peace Parker. He was in trouble, but she did not know what the trouble was. No doubt it concerned the men who had tied her up and brought her to the tent-house unconscious. She seemed to remember the shooting of the sheriff, but it was only a hazy remembrance.

She felt tired, sore. Her throat and mouth were raw from the gag, and every muscle in her body ached from the tightly-drawn ropes. She rode slowly out into the night, swinging to the northern flats on a big circle toward the foot of Poncho Pass.

* * * * *

Peace had proof of Crane’s guilt in his pocket, but there was grave danger that he might not last long enough to present his proofs. The main street seemed deserted, except for the great number of horses tied to the racks.

He walked down the opposite side of the street from the Poncho saloon, and saw that the place was packed with men. A dull hum of conversation, like the hum of a big machine, came to him, and he grinned in realization that his actions had caused all this conversation. No one had heard the shots at the corrals, which were some distance from the center of town.

Peace crossed the street and went in behind the saloon. A high board-fence was built against a shed and Peace managed to get to the top of this shed. Above him was an open window, which lighted the main hall of the balcony above the Poncho, and by making a short jump he could grasp the sill.

It was a hard pull for sore muscles, but he managed to draw himself in through the window, where he sat and rested for a while. Down the hall he could see the tops of the shaded oil chandeliers, around which eddied the smoke from the men below.

There seemed to be no rattle of chips, no clink of glasses; nothing but the dull hum of serious conversation. Peace walked slowly down the hall and out to the edge of the balcony, keeping concealed from those below. Over a hundred men were in the room. He could see Cross L Marshall near the end of the bar, listening to Clell Danert.

Through the crowded room came Jefferson Crane, and his voice sounded shrill above the rest as he stopped near the center of the room. The hum of conversation ceased as he shouted--

“Is Cross L Marshall here?”

Peace saw Marshall shove away from the bar and elbow his way to Crane. Danert followed him.

“Peace Parker’s got yore daughter,” shrilled Crane. “Me and Perez ran into them down by the corrals. He was tryin’ to put her on his horse. He killed Perez.”

Crane stopped for breath.

“Don’t try to take him alive! He’s travelin’ by this time!”

A roar of anger went up from the packed mob, as they surged in closer to Crane. They were like a pack of wolves at the scent of blood. Some one tossed a rope high in the air and it hung to a hanging lamp.

Peace realized why Crane was lying about the kidnaping. Crane knew that he was all through in that country and he wanted time to make his getaway. He wanted to get his men together and pull into the hills. By tomorrow, after the mob had talked with Jess or with him--Peace--there would be no place strong enough to hold Crane and his gang. It was a desperate move for Crane. He would have to give up his sheep, and race against time to get out of the country; but his life was worth more than money, and he was taking a long chance that the mob would kill Peace Parker on sight, and that perhaps Jess would not know who was responsible for her kidnaping.

Peace could see Wylie sitting on the bar, and further back in the room was Gus Sinks, sitting on a card-table. Cross L Marshall climbed to the top of a table and held up his hand for silence.

“Men, I ask yuh to use reason in this. Find Peace Parker first; but give him a chance to defend himself against these charges. If he is guilty--hang him; but first, be sure. Come on.”

The crowd surged toward the door. Crane and Danert made no move. Sinks slid off the card table, but did not mix into the mob. Wylie remained on the bar. There was no confusion.

Peace came slowly down the stairs and almost to the center of the room. Marshall had stopped near the door, giving instructions to the men as they filed past. Many of them were from Chinook Valley; and Crane knew that Peace Parker would get a chance to tell his story in case he was captured.

Peace stopped in the center of the room, within twenty feet of Crane and Danert, who were watching the door. Peace saw the look which passed between them, and knew that they were going to make their getaway as soon as the mob was gone.

Marshall turned as the last man filed out and looked back into the room. He looked at Crane and Danert--then past them.

He stared at Peace, blinking his eyes as though mistrusting his own vision, while Crane, Danert, Sinks and Wylie looked at Marshall curiously.

* * * * *

Peace stood in the middle of that big room, hatless, almost shirtless, his face and hair plastered with gore. One leg of his pants had been torn nearly all the way from bottom to thigh, and flapped widely, as he stood, legs planted far apart, his body tensed forward and his gun swinging in his right hand.

To the left of him, not over twenty feet away, half-turned away from him, were Danert and Crane; while to his right, about the same distance away was Wylie sitting on the bar, looking toward the door. Between Crane and Marshall, leaning against a table, and looking toward the door, was Gus Sinks. Outside everything was confusion, as the men were mounting their horses; but inside the Poncho saloon all was silence.

Marshall stared at Peace so intently that Wylie turned his head and looked straight at Peace. Wylie did not move. His eyes opened a trifle wider. Then Peace spoke.

“Jess--is--safe.” Peace spoke every word distinctly and spaced them widely, that there might be no mistake.

Crane, Danert and Sinks whirled at the sound of his voice, and stared open-mouthed at him. Sinks’ hand went to the table-top for support.

“Crane’s--men--kidnaped--her,” said Peace slowly and ominously. “They-- were--going--to--take--sheep--into--Chinook--tonight--and--she--knew--it.”

Crane licked his lips and shot a glance at Danert, who was tense as a fiddle-string. Wylie looked straight at the opposite wall, as though afraid to move even his eyes.

“Wylie--and--Perez--killed--the--sheriff,” Peace intoned the statement without a single inflexion of his voice. “I--killed--Perez--and--now--I’m goin’ to get the rest of the crooked layout.”

Men seemed to move back to the doorway and windows, looking curiously inside--looking for Cross L Marshall, who was to lead the hunt. Marshall did not speak, but a look of understanding flashed across his face and his right hand dropped to the butt of his six-shooter.

* * * * *

The room grew very still, and every man seemed a graven image, except Peace, who swayed easily on the balls of his feet, head thrust forward, his right hand tensed at his side.

Suddenly Gus Sinks dove for the door, like a frightened rabbit; but Marshall flung him reeling back into the room. This seemed to break the spell. Danert streaked for his gun.

Peace swung forward, as if to brace himself against the shock, and fired from his hip--once--twice.

Danert’s gun spouted wildly, a fraction of a second too late; his muscles jerking from the shock of heavy bullets as he went to his knees.

Peace felt a bullet tear through his arm, as Wylie fired down from the bar; but he only felt the shock in a dim way, as he shot through the smoke at Crane--pulling the trigger slowly and deliberately--once--twice--three times.

He seemed to see Crane falling sidewise, his revolver twisted in his hand. He knew that Wylie was falling from the bar and rolling across the floor, shocked from bullets fired from over by the door.

As in a dream he saw a man dash through the smoke, and he tackled him as he rushed past. They crashed into a roulette table and went down in the wreckage. Men were crowding around him, shouting, swearing. He realized that the man beneath him was Gus Sinks, and he laughed to think that none had escaped.

Men lifted him to his feet and a babel of voices beat upon his ears, questioning, wondering. He looked around and saw that Cross L Marshall and Bart Farley were holding him up, and he laughed drunkenly.

Other men had pulled Sinks to his feet and were handling him roughly.

“Keep still!” yelled Marshall, and the noise died down.

He turned to Peace.

“Are you tellin’ the truth, Peace?”

Peace smiled and looked at Sinks.

“It won’t cost yuh nothin’ to tell the truth, Sinks.”

Sinks jerked his head to release his throat from a hand, which was twisted in his muffler.

“Crane was to blame,” he babbled. “Him and Danert framed it all. Perez killed the sheriff. I didn’t do any shootin’. I didn’t shoot any in here. They--they was goin’ to put sheep into Chinook; but Parker busted up their game. They was goin’ to kill him and then make me herd the first bunch in.

“Honest, I never killed nobody. They caught that girl on the Pass and they thought Parker was dead. The sheriff was after Parker and he ran into them with the girl. Perez shot the sheriff. They thought Parker was dead; so they brought him and the sheriff to the doctor’s place--but Parker wasn’t dead--not by a ---- sight!”

Sinks turned appealingly to Peace.

“I tell yuh somethin’ else, Parker; Crane branded them cows five years ago himself and sent yuh to the pen for it.”

Sinks turned back to the crowd.

“I’ve told all I know. Go ahead and do what yuh want to.”

“You’ve been trailin’ with a bad bunch, Sinks,” said Peace slowly, “but I reckon you’ll be good now.”

“He sure will,” growled one of the men. “Good for a long time.”

The crowd assented eagerly. They had been worked up to a certain pitch, and Sinks’ life was not worth a plugged cent. Sinks knew this, but was game. He had not mixed in the battle, but he knew the crowd would not stop to weigh evidence; so he gamely shut his lips tight over defeat. Peace looked at him and back at the faces of the men.

“Folks,” he said slowly, “I got the man who killed yore sheriff.” His eyes came back to Marshall beside him. “I saved yore daughter, Marshall, and I blocked the sheep from Chinook.”

He lifted a hand and rubbed it across his eyes.

“Twelve of yore citizens found me guilty of somethin’ I never done and sent me up for five years. Don’t yuh think that Chinook Valley and Tarp City owe me somethin’?”

“Yore ---- well right they do!” exploded Marshall, and the crowd growled an assent. “What do yuh want, Peace River Parker?”

Peace smiled at Sinks’ white face and turned to the crowd.

“Crane gave me a bill of sale for all his sheep. He kinda wanted to pay me for what he done. Gus Sinks needs to be punished; so I--I kinda thought I’d like to hire him to herd the ---- things for me, if yuh don’t mind.”

It took this several moments to soak into the minds of the overwrought crowd. Then some one laughed. A grin overspread the nearer faces. Another man laughed aloud. The spell was broken--a man’s life saved.

Sinks gasped foolishly as the import of it came to him. He staggered ahead, grasped Peace by the arm, muttering incoherently; trying to thank the man who had given him back his life.

He knew that he was free and that men had slapped him on the back, laughing as they did it. He was looking up at Peace, holding to his sleeve, trying to say something.

“Quit pawin’ me, you ---- sheepherder!” croaked Peace. “Go back and take care of my animated bunch of itch-producin’ underwear.”

Marshall put his arm around Peace’s shoulders and turned him toward the door.

“Peace, I don’t know what to say to yuh--honest.”

Peace grinned.

“Tha’s all right, Cross L--don’t say anythin’. Get me a horse and head me toward Poncho Pass, will yuh? I know where somebody is planted out there--waitin’ for me.”

“If yuh mean Evers--he ain’t there, boss,” stated Sinks, touching Peace on the arm. “They sent him to guard the Pass against yuh; but he seen the killin’ of the sheriff and he pulled out. The Pass is as safe as a church.”

“Yo’re goin’ to a doctor--that’s where yo’re goin’!” declared Marshall. “Goin’ right now, Peace Parker.”

“Ain’t there a doctor in Pasiooks?” asked Peace.

“Yeah; but he ain’t much good,” replied Farley. “Yo’re goin’ to have the best medicine we can get, old-timer.”

“Tha’s all right,” smiled Peace widely, “I’m goin’ to pick up my medicine at the foot of Poncho Pass. C’m on.”

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the May 10, 1923 issue of Adventure magazine.]