Steve finally caught up with the train of thought. "Here, here, you fellas, what you tryin' to cook up?"
"What I say must never be repeated," said Denver. "It must die right here, understand? Never to be spoken again—even if it takes perjury to cover it."
"That's unnecessary for you to say," Niland reminded him.
Denver came to a stand in front of them. "I found a steer in Langdell's shipment this afternoon. It was one Steele had sold him last week. It had Steele's original brand and Steele's vent mark. No other brand. But last year it was a Fee cow. I recognized it. No chance for mistake."
To a man in cattle country this needed no explanation at all. Niland and Steers were dumbly silent. It was natural that Steers, being absolutely loyal, should mirror shocked belief; and it was equally natural that Niland, with his knowledge of human error, should slowly nod his head. Through the open doors came a soft wind. The crew strolled along the yard. The bell-like clarity of an owl's hoot floated in. Denver went on: "I have figured this thing backward and forward, and I continually come to a conclusion I despise. There's other ways of explainin' it. There might be a crook in Steele's crew who is plasterin' other critters with the Steele brand for his own profit. But how would such a fellow cash in? I don't see that. It's also possible Redmain might have done the job in the hope it would be discovered and so discredit Steele. Yet I doubt it. That switch from Fee to Steele was absolutely an expert job. I wouldn't have noticed it unless I'd personally hazed the cow last year."
"Well, then," broke in Niland, "what's the answer?"
"Whatever the answer," said Denver quickly, "we keep it to ourselves. Forever. Cal Steele is dead, and he's entitled to his clear reputation. He'll have it, if I've got to turn Yellow Hill upside down. But somehow or other Redmain's in this. And I'd like to know more about Fear Langdell's connection. Did he buy from Cal Steele knowing about the blotting or not?"
Niland's face began to lighten up. "If I could nail that man to the cross after all he's done in the name of justice I'd give my seat in heaven! I wonder if that's why he filed his request with the judge to act as executor to Steele's estate? To cover up—"
"Never say it," warned Denver. "But you've got to get in there and find out, somehow."
One of the hands ambled through the front door. "Hawss is ready for yuh, Dave." The owl's sentinel signal echoed again. Denver lifted his head, becoming aware of the sound. "So you've both got your work cut out," he went on. "We won't ever get the whole story straight. Steele will never tell his part. Redmain's beyond the talking stage. There's nothing left but to go after him, never give him peace. That's what I propose to do. As—"
He broke off and moved for the door. The hoot of the owl had become too insistent. Crossing the porch he descended into the darkness of the yard. The call came again, along the ridge. Advancing toward it, he reached the grade. A question came through the blanket of shadows. "Denver?"
"Who's that?"
"It's us—Meems and Wango. We want to see yuh."
"Then come down here like white men. What's all this hocus- pocus for?"
"Well," came Meems's solemn answer, "we got a decent respeck fer our hides. We're comin'—but not into the lights. What we got to say is private, is that a go?"
"All right."
The two shuffled forward. "You'll keep the source o' this inf'mation to y'self?" insisted Meems.
"I said I would."
"Yore word's enough with us. It ain't none of our business, y'unnerstan'? But yore in this fight and it jest didn't seem right holdin' back. Only, don't give us away, and don't ask us to testify. When we're through talkin' we drift. See?"
"Get it out of your system," grunted Denver.
"We was just a-leavin' the dance last night when a fella come ridin' outa the dark. We seen him go acrost the bridge and as fur as the schoolhouse. He didn't come back that-away. But when we heard about Steele we jest put one and one together. Mebbe it makes two. Mebbe it was the gent that drawed Steele away from the dance."
"Who was it?"
Meems sighed and let the silence stretch out. "I'll speak the name," said he finally, "and yore free to act on it. But yore the only man in God's green footstool I'd do such a thing for. And forget who told yuh."
"Agreed," said Denver.
"It was Stinger Dann," muttered Meems; and as soon as the name was spoken both men backed off and were lost to sight. Denver heard them ride rapidly away.
As for himself, he strode to the house at half a run. Niland and Steers both caught the blaze of light on his face and came nearer.
"I have found the man who pulled Steele away from the dance. It was Dann. Whatever Cal's connection with Redmain, I think he started away from that schoolhouse with the idea of protecting my stock. Remember, he was shot on my range—and Redmain's men were there. Trying to protect me from that bunch of killers."
"I don't believe he'd have no truck with Dann or—" Steve started to say, half-heartedly. But Niland broke in.
"There's part of the story. No matter how far into Redmain's scheme he might have been, he'd still stick up for you or the rest of us. Dammit, Dave, Redmain must have hooked him into this dirty mess!"
"If I didn't think so," was Denver's sober reply, "I wouldn't be riding now."
"Be doggone careful," grunted Steve Steers. "I hate this business of me laggin' behind."
Denver was already on the gelding. He ran up the hillside to the trail, went a few hundred yards along its familiar course, and abruptly switched to a dim side trace. The ground buckled up from ravine to ravine, and the dim stars gave him no sight. Nevertheless, he pressed the gelding on, suddenly fell into the Sundown-Ysabel Junction road, and settled to a long run. Down the hairpin turns with steel flashing on gravel; over the Sweet Creek bridge, on along the level stretch that led around to Starlight and thence to the open prairie. Short of Starlight a mile he veered to the right and went with equal rapidity through massed pines. Then the gloom was broken by the wink of a ranch light, and he rode up to Leverage's gate. The wheeze of the hinges was like an alarm. Nearing the porch, he was challenged by an invisible guard.
"Who's that?"
"Denver. Where is Jake?"
"You tell me and I'll tell you."
"Can you reach him?"
"Sorry."
The front door of the house opened. Eve stood framed in the glowing yellow rectangle. "That you, David? Come in."
Denver stepped to the porch. "I reckon I haven't time. I'm tryin' to find your dad." He heard the intake of her breath. "Is it important?"
"Eve," called the unseen guard gruffly, "you shouldn't stand in the light."
Dave drew her out, shut the door. "I consider it important."
She dropped her voice. "He left here before supper—alone. I think he's riding beyond the Henry trail with the vigilantes. That's all I know."
Once more the guard's cautioning words cut in. "Yuh shouldn't peddle no inf'mation to nobody, Eve. How do we know?"
But Eve had a temper of her own. "Clyde, will you hush! You're covering too much territory."
"Maybe I'll pick up his tracks," said Denver. "I'm headin' that way."
"David—there's something in the wind tonight?"
"Maybe," said Denver.
Her hand rested light as thistledown on his shoulder. "Oh, David, if I were only a man! Not to shoot and destroy, but just to be along. Anything is better than this uncertainty."
"Don't worry. Your dad's got a big bunch with him."
"Do you think he is the only