Saddle and Ride: Western Classics - Boxed Set. Ernest Haycox

Niland.

      "He's collectin' the boys. Seven o'clock up behind Lola Monterey's."

      "What am I to do?"

      "No instructions. Wait till then and duck up there."

      "Careful—careful," said Niland. "There's Redmain men in this town. Not his riders, but sympathizers. What's Dave aim to do?"

      "Have to ask him. I wish I had a drink."

      "Not now," said Niland quickly. "By the Lord, this thing either goes off right, or it'll be the worst mess ever come to pass. Frankly, I'm nervous. How does he figure to hold twenty or more men just outside of Sundown all of tonight and most of tomorrow without being seen? That's just the kind of a situation Redmain loves."

      "I know. What time is it?"

      Niland looked at his watch. "Four-thirty."

      Steve let out an enormous breath. "Great guns—"

      Both of them drew up by the hotel. A rider came in slowly.

      "Limerick Lane," muttered Steve. "And he either knows somethin' we ought to know, or we know somethin' he ought."

      "I'm going back to the office. Shouldn't be herdin' up like this. See you later."

      Niland turned away. Limerick edged his horse toward the sidewalk and looked down at Steve.

      "Got a match?"

      Steve supplied it. Limerick lighted his cigarette and tossed the match away with an easy glance all around the street. "What you know these days, Steve?"

      "That ain't the question," grunted Steve. "I know what you know, up to noon today. What comes next?"

      Limerick grinned cheerfully for the benefit of the world, but his quiet words expressed trouble. "That's it. I thought you was in this. I ain't got in touch with Bonnet for two days. I found somethin' a few hours back, and I'm afraid to take the risk of ridin' over to the ranch and bein' traced. I ain't supposed to belong to D Slash any more. Those hard nuts have got the country speckled with eyes. What'm I goin' to do?"

      The street darkened unaccountably; Limerick's body grew gray. Steve looked up to a sky filling with black; a far-off clap of thunder sent its running warning across the heavens.

      "What's your information?" inquired Steve, more and more uneasy.

      "Just about two hours ago I cut across an old worn-out trail north of here. A whole slew of tracks on it, warm enough to cook eggs. I think it was Redmain, borin' for the south at a fast clip. Understand? South is D Slash, Nightingale's, Steele's, Leverage's. Hell, south might be anything."

      "Listen," said Steve earnestly, "you ease out of here slow and put the prod after you get into the trees. Dave ought to know that. He's figgered Redmain different."

      "I was told not to go back there," mused Limerick. "I was told to stick here and pass word to any D Slash man I saw."

      "Never mind—you go. And don't let any dust settle on yuh, Limerick. Denver will be on his way here in another hour!"

      Limerick considered it, forgetting to smile. "I suppose," he muttered. "Well, I'll have to get a drink and make a stab at lookin' lazy for a few minutes."

      "If you can manage anythin' resemblin' a look o' laziness," said Steve, "yore a better man than me. I got a case o' swamp fever right now."

      Limerick nodded and rode off. Steve felt a heavy drop of rain strike his hat. Nightingale was on the porch, buried in the folds of a paper. Steve drew himself together and headed for the restaurant. "If Redmain's caught wind of anything and intends to catch Dave on the flank again—" He cursed under his breath. "I don't dare move for fear of upsettin' the apple cart. It's Dave's game, and I got to stick tight!"