Denver stumbled across the yard. The bunkhouse door sprang open, and men ran out. Somebody dashed for the house and turned up the lamp. Denver marched in, laid Steele on a couch, ripping at the crimson wet shirt. But Steele rolled his head in negation and opened his eyes, staring up at Denver.
"No use—doin' that. I'm—shot—to—pieces."
Denver cursed bitterly. "Who did it, Cal? By the livin' Christ, I'll rip the throat out of the man!"
Steele's lips began twitching. "I said I'd—come to you—first or last, didn't I?" he murmured. "Tried to do you a favor, old boy. Like you'd do me. Listen to me—"
But there was no more from Cal Steele then, nor ever would be. His head slid forward, and the invisible hand of death reached down to place the everlasting seal upon that fine face.
TRAILS
Dave Denver made his preparations in the dark hour preceding dawn. He ordered the best horses saddled and brought to the porch. He opened his gun locker and distributed the rifles resting there, at the same time dividing his outfit into three parts, one to patrol his range, one to return to work, and one to ride under him. From the patrolling party he dispatched a man to Sundown for Dr. Williamson and another to Steele's ranch. The rest of that particular group he detailed to various points in the hills. All ate a hurried breakfast. The work party went off discontentedly; and when the first gray light of morning broke through the fog he gathered his chosen riders, mounted, and swung up the side of the ridge to trace the hoofprints of Cal Steele's horse. Lyle Bonnet, traveling directly behind, offered a brief suggestion.
"Better send somebody to tell Leverage. It's a matter for the vigilantes."
Denver shook his head. "I'll never ask anybody else to do a dirty chore I ought to do myself. And don't get it in your head, Lyle, that I want anybody else to settle this. I'll find the party who killed Cal—and I'll smile when I see him dead."
The yielding earth bore the print of Steele's last ride for better than two miles straight down the trail. At that point the tracks swung into the slope of Starlight, crossed the bottom of the canyon, and angled along the far side. Once Denver halted and got down. Steele had fallen from the saddle. A carpet of leaves was marked with the man's blood.
"He had a bad time gettin' back on," muttered Denver. "Don't see how he ever made it. It's clear as day his strength was about gone."
Beyond Starlight the trail went zigzagging through timber. Denver advanced slowly. His friend seemed to have got lost and in sheer despair given his horse free head. All through the timber were places where the pony had circled, doubled on its own course, and straightened again for the canyon. As the day broadened Denver pushed deeper into the secretive glens and pine reaches guarding the Copperhead watershed. Cal Steele's trail began to straighten.
"Not far from the place now," said Denver. "See, he had control of himself for a little while and managed to make a true course."
Thirty minutes later Denver halted in an upland meadow and pointed at the broken surface of the soil. Hoofmarks overran the meadow and muddied it as if to blot out some sinister story that had been there. Into this confused area ran the pony tracks—and there were lost to distinct view.
"Here's where it happened," announced Denver, eyes flaring. "Now let's see where all these night birds went afterward. Cut back into the trees and circle. Keep out of the meadow or you'll make the ground worse than it is."
Lyle Bonnet, already on the quest, jumped from his saddle and bent over. "Here's a hat, Dave."
Denver rode over and took it. He looked briefly at the sweatband. "Cal's," he said. And while the crew scouted off he went back to the center of the meadow and tried to construct some sort of a story. "Cal had warnin'," he reflected. "Somebody came to the dance and tipped him off. Then he came here, smashed into trouble, and made his last stand. Those shots Bonnet heard must have been the ones that riddled him. They came from this direction about a half hour or so after he left the dance. That means he lost no time. Didn't hunt around but rode right into it. In other words he knew where this bunch was—or the messenger knew. And who was that messenger?"
Lyle Bonnet returned. "Must have been twenty men in the party. They pulled the old Apache trick. Shot him to ribbons and then scattered. There's a dozen or more tracks leadin' away to every point of the compass."
"So," reflected Denver. "But before they could go away they had to come. Must be some tracks pointing in."
"Yeah. They rode up from the Copperhead together, accordin' to my judgment."
Denver studied Steele's hat. "Blood on it. Blood all over the trail. A good man's blood waterin' this damned dark country. Come on, we'll start trackin'. No use wastin' time here."
With the crew behind him, he swept across the meadow and struck the inbound trail of the night party. It took him downhill to the south-east. From the clots of mud spattering the brush he knew that the group had come along at a fast clip. Come from where? Presumably from the river. But there was extraordinarily rough country along the river at this point, which brought him to the possibility that the outlaws had dashed out of the Sky Peak country and crossed the bridge. That as well seemed unlikely. The dance hall was too close to the bridge to permit unobserved passage of any large party during the evening.
Lyle Bonnet's shrewd mind had been going along much the same line of reasoning. "They musta spurred out of the south, Dave, and circled the schoolhouse at a distance."
"Maybe," agreed Denver. "But maybe they didn't. Maybe they were on Steele's range, or Nightingale's range, and looped around to the meadow. They were near enough this country at midnight for some friend of Steele's to see them and give Cal a warning. That meadow is on my range but close to Cal's. Maybe he got warning they were rustling his stuff and rode off to take a hand. And found them on my soil instead."
"Sounds unlikely," observed Bonnet. "It was awful dark last night. Either he knew right where they were, or else they made a powerful lot of noise. No trail he might have took to get home would bring him near the meadow. What defeats me is why he didn't let somebody know about it instead of ridin' off alone."
Denver shook his head, saying nothing. Cal Steele was a man of moods and never quite fathomable. Mystery surrounded his last hours, a part of the brooding mystery that of late hovered over Yellow Hill County.
He drew in, having reached the gravel road connecting Sundown Valley with the ranches along the Copperhead. At this point the outlaw trail left the soft ground of the ridge and fell into the road, merging with all the other prints of travel along it.
"They come from Steele's or Nightingale's all right," stated Bonnet after a long inspection. "But that ain't what we want to know. Our question is where they went afterward. How about sendin' two-three boys back to the meadow and trackin' down some of those departin' buzzards? Sooner or later we'd find where the bunch come together again."
Denver rolled a cigarette. "No, there's an easier way, Lyle. If it was just one man or two men we'd have to scout from the beginnin' and unravel what we found. But when it's a mess of twenty or more there ain't much doubt in my mind as to who we're looking for. There ain't but one gang in Yellow Hill that big."
"Meaning Lou Redmain," mused Bonnet. "If you consider doin' what I think yuh are, then I'd say send somebody back for the rest of the crew. Eight of us ain't enough."
For a still longer time Denver sat in the saddle, staring down the road. He was arrived at last at that crisis to which he long had hoped he never would come. To live and let live—such was the very foundation of all his thoughts and acts. He wished to have no part in judging what was good and what was bad. Yet for all that he could not escape from the clear call of his conscience. He