And what brand would they use? What cattleman acted as agent for the Chattos? Lin, running through the list in his mind, could not fix upon any particular man who would put himself in any such position. Obviously it was some extremely bold and restless character who paraded the streets of Powder and acted the part of honesty. Well, within a few hours he should know that man's name. And in all probability it would be one well known to him.
Folks rise and fall in this world, he mused, and that gent, whoever he may be, is leading straight for destruction. This tampering with right and wrong is a risky thing, always.
He sat up, all attention. Something in the headlong pace of the herd made him uneasy. He scanned the black skyline, trying to discern the still blacker figures of the Chattos who should be riding thereon. But he saw nothing. Once he thought he felt the presence of someone not far from him, and in order to quell the disquietude of his mind he turned his horse up one bank and rode along it for a hundred yards or more. Nothing came of it, except a dangerous stumble on the part of the pony. Still unsatisfied, he dropped back into the gully.
Then, without reason and without tangible evidence of danger, the hair rose at the back of his neck. He slackened his pace and reached for his gun while the horse, a wise, veteran animal, shied away. At almost the same time there came a flash of light and the crack of a gun. The galloping herd vanished in the night and a ringing cry resounded on his right, a cry that was immethately taken up all about him.
The gully seemed to fill with horsemen. The pony stopped dead, quivering in the flanks. A rider came so close to him that a stirrup grazed his leg. And as he sat motionless, mind racing, his ears striving to catch some break in this trap through which he might plunge, he heard a sharp and resounding order issued by a voice that he knew only too well. In response a dozen torches flamed in the darkness and a smell of burning paper and kerosene stung his nostrils. He was trapped.
The furiously blazing torches made a complete ring around him and revealed him as plainly as if he stood in broad daylight. He saw many faces staring grimly at him—faces reflecting the crimson light. These were men he knew. Every last one of them he knew as well as he might have known a brother. Foremost was W. W. Offut, a commanding figure with steely foreboding eyes that seemed to catch flame and burn. Nearby, lolling in the saddle, a dry smile of satisfaction printed on his fat face, was James J. Lestrade. There were other old-time ranch owners in the party, but Lin Ballou had eyes only for those two.
Lestrade could not conceal his pleasure. He said, "Well, I told you boys I'd guarantee results. There's your rustler. Give me credit for having a few sources of information as to what goes on in this country. What do you suppose I travel and make friends for? There's the man you want. Caught cold—and nary a word to say, either."
But Lestrade might have spoken to dumb men as far as results went. Everyone seemed to wait for Offut to speak, and at last he did in a flat, laconic maimer.
"Guess we've caught Lin Ballou. Nobody else dragged up in the net, eh?"
"Ain't nobody else," Lestrade declared. "He's the one that did all this thieving."
Offut seemed to weigh this statement. He looked around at the circle of followers and appeared to weigh the possibilities of further search. But the torches were burning low, and if there were other rustlers, they had been given warning enough to put themselves at some distance. So he returned his attention to Lin. The penetrating eyes fell like a blow on the trapped Ballou. Then they seemed to drop a little, as if masking some particular emotion. He spoke again, in the same short, calm manner.
"Your gun, Lin."
Ballou pulled it from the holster, reversed the barrel and handed it over.
"Anything to say? Any confederates to reveal?" Offut asked.
Lin shook his head. In the last spurt of light he saw the cattleman's mouth settle into a thin, compressed smile.
"All right, boys, we'll take him back to Powder and put him in jail. Now, I want you all to understand my judgment on the matter. No talk of lynching. No tolerating the talk from others. I stand for fair trial—always have. Ballou must get it, same as others. Now let's ride."
Ballou turned his horse and came between Lestrade and Offut. Thus guarded, he began the long and dreary march across the mesa and down the slopes to Powder. The party traveled in a straight line, stopping at the Offut ranch for an hour's rest, a meal and fresh horses. Wednesday night, Lin Ballou was locked in the Powder jail.
CHAPTER VII
A STRANGE VISITOR
Confined within the four scarred, bescribbled walls of the jail room on the second floor of the county courthouse, Lin Ballou had nothing to do but stare through the grating into the cluttered back area of the building and meditate on the swift turn events had taken. He was not particularly bitter over his situation. That would have been a reversal of his attitude toward life, which was extremely serene and simple. A man's misfortunes, he held, were of his own making and no good ever came of regretting who had been done and could not be recalled. As a man got into trouble, so could he get out. When the tide ran swiftly in one direction it did no good to try to swim against it. The time always came when that tide slackened and reversed itself.
Not that he lacked the spirit to make a good fight. The course of his life proved him a strong and persistent fighter. But he had always understood when to play 'possum and when to spring up and put forth all that there was in him of strength and courage. And according to his belief, the present was a good time to rest and reflect, to wait and see what the authorities meant to do with him.
So he spent Wednesday afternoon whistling the lonely bars of the Cowboy's Lament and that night had a good sound sleep on a bed that was somewhat softer than those in the cave. It was a novelty too, to have the jailer bring his meals on a tray—meals that came from Dick Sharp's Eating Palace across the street mid were paid for by the county. The jailer, though a former friend of his, was a man who had the proper cast of mind belonging to his profession. He regarded his captive with a pessimistic, discouraging eye.
"Well, I seen a good many come and go in and outa these portals of justice," he said, opening the door and pushing the breakfast tray through the aperture, "and one and all come to a bad end, soon or late. You can't buck the law, young fellow. They'll get you. Oh, yeah, they'll get you."
"My stomach," Lin said with an air of severity, "doesn't take kindly to cold fodder. See if you can't rush this tray across before the coffee gets a chill."
"You'll guzzle many a cold cup before we're through with you," the jailer said, slamming the door. He pulled at the ends' of his walrus-like mustache and squinted between the bars.
"Meaning I'm here for quite a spell? Where's the judge?"
"Off on a fishing trip. Won't be back for a week. Prosecuting attorney along with him. Sheriff, too."
"Well, if the minions of the law can stand it, so can I. My time ain't valuable and the quarters are tolerable. Only I'm going to ask you not to run any common drunks in with me. I'm a particular prisoner."
The jailer evidently disapproved of this levity. His solemn face settled until it resembled that of a wrinkled and tired bloodhound. "Leave me give you some advice about escaping," he said. "I'm entrusted with you and I'll do my duty. If you try to get out I'll have to use a gun. I'm not a gent to wish for blood—but I see my duty and I'll do it."
"Spoken like a gentleman," Lin said heartily. "Now run along, Rollo, and don't forget about the coffee or I'll put in a complaint to the management."
The jailer retreated down the corridor, closed another door and descended the stairs. Lin ate his meal in peace, built himself a brown-paper cigarette and settled the flat of his back on the bunk. To collect his thoughts he fixed his gaze at a fly speck on the yellow ceiling.
He