@ ® © Alan Le May WNU Service CHAPTER IX ~ Continued “Not very much. Aren't you go- ing to help me find some break- fas¥?"”’ “You bet I am.” They went into the cook shack, and he lighted the lamp again. Moving slowly, he quietly shoved wood into the banked fire, and got bacon into a skillet. “I'm sure sor- ry I can’t stay while this cooks,” he said. “But I've got to make a ride.” ‘“Maybe I'll go with you.” “I'm afraid,” he said gently, “you wouldn't want to de that.” “You mean you don't want me." “It isn’t that. But" “If you had any imagination you'd know I got up at this unearthly hour because I want to talk to you.” He waited, disturbed. She stood close to him, talking almost in whis- pers. He knew he must get going, but he could not bring himself to move away. “You see—I heard part of what you and Uncle John said last night.” “You heard—what?" “Uncle John has a voice like old Rock in full cry,” she explained. “My room isn’t next to his, but it isn't far away. And when he's an- gry, I'll bet he can be heard ten miles back into the Tuscaroras. I couldn’t help hearing what you said about Bob Flagg being dead. And if that's true—"' Wheeler was startled. ‘“‘Mari- an—"" he looked at her square— “what else did you hear?” Her eyes did not waver. was all.” He thought he detected a faint wicked gleam in her eyes, but he kept his face expressionless, and stood pat. “We've got to find Old Man Cof- fee,’ she said. “Seems like he's left, Marian.” “You've got to take me to him,” the girl said. ‘You can find him—I know you can find him.” “What makes you think so?" “Can't you?” Wheeler hesitated; what Old Man Coffee had told him had been told in confidence. Yet, invariably, he found it almost impossible to speak untruly to this girl. His hesitation was fatal. “You know where he is,” she said sud- denly. He picked up his bridle. got to get out of here.” “Billy—you're riding out to meet Old Man Coffee!” “Tell your uncle I'll be back to- night,” he said abruptly, and moved toward the door. “I'm going with you.” “I'm sorry,” he said, “but you're pot. You're a pest, that's what you are! Go on and eat your break- fast.” Yet he knew that he could not bluff this girl, nor control anything that she did; and what was worse, she knew it too. As he left her she was writing a note to her uncle, telling him where she had gone: and she was with him, mounted on her own pony, as he left the layout. Wheeler pressed his pony along steadily, eyes to the front; and he was combating his keen awareness that the girl was at his side. He had loved this gaunt, clear-colored country of blasting sun and sharp shadows; differently than he had loved the girl, but as a man loves his home. But now he knew he would need another different coun- try, a new type of grazing land, if he was ever going to forget this girl who rode beside him, whom he could never possess. They were almost in the shadow of Lost Whiskey Butte when she broke the silence between them. “Billy—I told you something that wasn't so.” He waited. “It was when we were talking about Bob Flagg, and how I heard what you and Uncle John said about that. And I said that was all I heard. Well—that wasn't all.” “What else did you hear?” “I heard—it all.” Unexpectedly he found it difficult to tell himself that it didn't matter. But now he realized that she was waiting for him to answer, and he managed to say, “That's all right.” “Isn’t it better,” she said, “that we both know now how things really stand—between us, I mean?” He made himself say, “I guess so, Marian.” “It is better,” she said, and he wondered why her voice seemed so sad. “Because—don’'t you see?— there's nothing to keep us from be- ing friends now—really friends. And each of us—all of us—are going to need what friendliness there is left in the world, I think.” CHAPTER X As Coffee, with his dogs about him, rode out to meet Wheeler and Marian Dunn from Lost Whiskey Butte, the girl pushed her horse ahead. She stopped close to the old man, facing him squarely. ‘“He tried to keep me from com- ing,” she told Coffee, “but there wasn’t anything he could really do. Now, 1 you want me go back, I w Tided Old Man Coffee grinned. He “That “I've moved his mule nearer Marian's pony, and leaned forward to peer into her eyes. Then he laid a bony old hand on her shoulder. ‘Child, what happened to you?" “Nothing.” “Something did, though,” Wheeler contradicted. He told Coffee of the shot from the brush. The old hunter scowled; he looked as nearly startled as they had ever seen him look. ‘‘This changes the whole set-up,” he complained. *I thought I had it licked. I thought I could pretty near give names and cases. But—this smears it.” “I don’t follow that,'’ Marian said. “Neither do 1,”" Coffee said, dis- missing discussion. He turned to Wheeler. “You told her what we aimed to try?” “No.” “Well, you should have, This is a kind of a sad, dark job we're on today, girl. We're going to try to find the—the man that was killed at Short Crick.” “I guessed that,’ Marian said. Old Man Coffee led off to the northeast, his sleepy-eared mule in an ambling shuffle, and they rode in silence for a little way. Coffee sig- naled to them to come abreast. “Maybe you've wondered some,” he said, “why I've been kind of prowling around of nights, as your This Is as Far as You Go.” “Marian, known. Well, I guess it won't hurt nothing to tell how a thing like this is done. Did you ever listen to coyote voices, of a night, Marian?" “I couldn't very well help it, could ddd “There's a funny thing about them. More things interest coyotes than you'd expect. And if some- thing kind of strange and interest- ing happens on the range, all of 'em know it, all over the desert. We'd learn queer things from ‘em if we could understand their talk a little better. “Coyotes won't touch a dead man: neither will a loafer wolf. But they'll circle around, and kind of wail, and sing. Once before this I found out where a corpse was hid by listening to the coyote voices at night.” “This time, we got a break. There's a loafer wolf on the range. He'll only talk about certain things, and maybe speak only two, three times a week. So when he lets out the same kind of queer cry, in the same place three or four nights in a row, a man begins to wonder.” That was a long day, and a strange day--the strangest in Mar- ian Dunn's life. Their work carried them a great distance, much of which was wasted in quartering, and the long following of false trails. Some queer geometry of land- marks was working in Coffee's head, but what it was like they could not guess, and he did not explain. Repeatedly Old Man Coffee pulled the dogs off invisible trails which he declared were those of coyotes. It was after noon before a new note came into the howling of the hounds, signaling the trail of the loafer wolf. ‘“This loafer trail,” said Old Man Coffee, “is three days old. I don’t reckon it'll serve.” It did not serve, though Coffee let it lead them seven miles in no §Ea% 3 8 wm ° 7858 teh breath, “I'll be eternally damned!” Abruptly the old dog turned to look at Old Man Coffee, let his tail drop again, and quit the trail. “What's the matter?” “Everything,” Coffee said. “I never done so much false figuring in my life!” He pushed ahead quickly now, shouting to his hounds, jerking new life into them with gutteral In- dian words that the others did not understand. Now suddenly the big spotted leader hound sprang ahead, bawl- ing; and in another moment the rest of the hounds were with him, run- ning full cry, outdistancing the horses. “The wolf again,” said Coffee, a new keen edge on his voice. ‘Chil dren, we're near the end of the trail!” Yet because the trail of the wolf was indirect and circling, they spent another hour in following the dogs. The ponies were scrambling over broken rock now, keeping up as best they could. The dusk was very deep when Old Man Coffee pulled up at last and sat waiting. They did not see what had stopped him at first; but after a few mo- ments they saw that the hounds had made a circle and were com- ing back. Coffee got down off his mule, called in his dogs, and tied up each of them, separately, to rock or scrub oak. But he had to crack the long dog whip over therm more than once before they would lie down, sulking and moaning in their throats. Old Rock, the only one un- tied, lay down under the feet of the mule, raised his nose to heaven, and let out a long deep-chested wail. Old Man Coffee tightened his sad- dle. '‘Marian,” he said, ‘this is as far as you go.” “You stay with her, Billy. I don’t know how long this will take.” He said something unintelligible to the dogs, and moved away from them, the dainty feet of his mule picking its way, and old Rock slink- ing close behind. They sat there for what seemed like an endless time. Billy Wheeler tried to talk to break the sad ter- rible stillness, but this place smoth- ered the words in his throat. The first stars were showing when Old Man Coffee came back to them at last, his black mule moving like a lean tall shadow among shadows. He came close to them, then for a moment sat silent, looking back over his shoulder the way he had come; and Wheeler knew that he was futilely seeking words for what he had to say. Long before the old man spoke they knew he had found what he had sought. “It's Bob Flagg,” Old Man Coffee said. Horse Dunn accepted the news that Flagg was dead more quietly, more steadily, than Wheeler had ex- pected. “How was he killed?” asked. “By a shotgun; the same as Cay- use Cayetano.” “Where's Coffee?” Coffee, Wheeler had found, could not be persuaded to return with them to the 84. It was Coffee's be- lief that Dunn had made a serious mistake when he had chosen to hold Magoon's saddle instead of turning it in to the sheriff. “The sheriff will be out here in the morning, sure,” Wheeler said. “1 think Walt Amos means to be fair. But there's better than a hun- dred men in Inspiration, all out of outfits that hate the 94. Amos is sitting on a stove, and it's getting hotter every minute.” “Let him come.” “Any more dope on the Cayetano killing?” “I sent Gil Baker to Ace Springs. But he hasn't come back.” “Val Douglas went to Pahranagat, did he?” “He left this morning. I suppose Dunn it'll be late tomorrow night before he gets back—maybe longer. Steve and Tulare and me, we spent the day prospecting around in the Tus- carora foothills, here.” “And didn't find anything,” Wheel- er supposed. “Billy,” said Horse Dunn, *‘there’'s somebody been slinking around over there. We found the ashes of two different fires. body yet.” prowling around be?" who that would be. doesn’t matter, now.” They had expected Sheriff Walt Amos to appear in the course of fore Amos appeared. He again came alone, as he had come after Billy Wheeler. At the 94 he found only Horse Dunn and Billy Wheeler, for Steve Hurley and Tulare Callahan were in the Tuscaroras in search of the un- hiding there: Val Douglas and Gil Baker had not yet returned: and Marian was out with her pony. Walt Amos climbed out of his car and walked slowly to the gallery of the cook shack, where the 94 people happened to be. They awaited him in silence, “Horse,” sald Walt Amos, *‘the time has come when I can’t put off acting no more.” “What have you done with Gil Baker?” Horse Dunn demanded. “He's in Inspiration. take him in.” “Is he hurt?” “Not bad. He came prowling around Ace Springs, where Cave- tano was killed, and one of the depu- ties hollered to him to halt, but he made a run for it. They had to throw down on him before he'd give himself up. Turned out he was shot in the leg.” “You're getting almighty high- handed around here, Amos!” “Sorry. But I reckon it's going to seem still a little more so. Dunn, I got to take you in.” “On what charge?” “Held for questioning; concerning murder.” Horse Dunn stood up, his thumbs hooked in his belt, and his eyes rolled slowly over the foothills of the Tuscaroras; it seemed to Wheel- er that he was looking for a sign. Now Dunn answered him at last, and Wheeler saw that somehow, in the course of the night, the old man had been able to prepare himself for this thing. “When you want to move out?" he asked. “I'd like to get on back as soon as you're ready, Dunn.” And now out of a trail that wound through the tall buckbrush back of the layout a rider came. His horse was at a quiet running walk, but the animal shone wet with sweat, and from under the edges of the saddle blanket the lather rolled. It was Tulare Callahan. He rode directly to the cook shack gallery and swung down. “Horse, I've seen Lon Magoon!” he announced. “Tulare, are you sure?” “We only sighted him far off on a high ridge, at better’'n a mile. But Horse, I knew him as sure as I know my name. His horse looked like that good sorrel of ours, we call Brandy. We signed him to come and talk, but he sloped. We took out after him hell for leather— Steve Hurley's trying to trail him yet—but he got loose about four miles up the Tamale Vine. I knew you was looking for the sheriff; and I thought you might want to know this, if you was still here.” “Amos,’”’ said Horse Dunn, “I'm going to have to ask for a little more time.” (TO BE CONTINUED) society, South America, promptly hands over Chile to the British distribu- tors and takes Uruguay instead. gas tax and proceeds to build roads, motor dealers think about Interpreters of the Mode vO LONG Sew- Just so long will Yours Truly strive to interpret the mode for Today the trio brings you frocks for every size (from four years to size 52) | inch material, plus 1% yards of almost Each | machine-made pleating to trim, as has been designed to bring you | pictured. the ultimate its par-| Pattern 1306 is designed ticular class a new | sizes 32 to 44. Size 34 re high in and comfort. yards of 38-inch material for the Ultra-Smart Dress. | blouse It's nice to know you're easy to | rial f look at even ision is only Send your order to The Sewing another bre st session. 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Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers