Max Brand Read Free Page B

lands, it was because they meant an easy descent.
Riley took thorough stock of his surroundings, for it was a new
country. Yonder, where the slant sun glanced and blinked on windows,
must be Sour Creek; and there was the road to town jagging across the
hills. Riley sighed.
    In his heart he despised that valley. There were black patches of
plowed land. A scattering of houses began in the foothills and
thickened toward Sour Creek. How could men remain there, where there
was so little elbow room? He scowled down into the shadow of the
valley. Small country, small men.
    Pictures failed to hold Riley, but, as he sat the saddle, hand on
thigh, and looked scornfully toward Sour Creek, he was himself a
picture to make one's head lift. As a rule the horse comes in for as
much attention as the rider, but when Riley Sinclair came near, people
saw the man and nothing else. Not because he was good-looking, but
because one became suddenly aware of some hundred and eighty pounds of
lithe, tough muscle and a domineering face.
    Somewhere behind his eyes there was a faint glint of humor. That was
the only soft touch about him. He was in that hard age between thirty
and thirty-five when people are still young, but have lost the
illusions of youth. And, indeed, that was exactly the word which people
in haste used to describe Riley Sinclair—"hard."
    Having once resigned himself to the descent into that cramped country
beneath he at once banished all regret. First he picked out his
objective, a house some distance away, near the road, and then he
brought his mustang up on the bit with a touch of the spurs. Then,
having established the taut rein which he preferred, he sent the cow
pony down the slope. It was plain that the mustang hated its rider; it
was equally plain that Sinclair was in perfect touch with his horse,
what with the stern wrist pulling against the bit, and the spurs
keeping the pony up on it. In spite of his bulk he was not heavy in the
saddle, for he kept in tune with the gait of the horse, with that sway
of the body which lightens burdens. A capable rider, he was so
judicious that he seemed reckless.
    Leaving the mountainside, he struck at a trot across a tableland. Some
mysterious instinct enabled him to guide the pony without glancing once
at the ground; for Sinclair, with his head high, was now carefully
examining the house before him. Twice a cluster of trees obscured it,
and each time, as it came again more closely in view, the eye of Riley
Sinclair brightened with certainty. At length, nodding slightly to
express his conviction, he sent the pony into the shelter of a little
grove overlooking the house. From this shelter, still giving half his
attention to his objective, he ran swiftly over his weapons. The pair
of long pistols came smoothly into his hands, to be weighed nicely, and
have their cylinders spun. Then the rifle came out of its case, and its
magazine was looked to thoroughly before it was returned.
    This done, the rider seemed in no peculiar haste to go on. He merely
pushed the horse into a position from which he commanded all the
environs of the house; then he sat still as a hawk hovering in a
windless sky.
    Presently the door of the little shack opened, and two men came out and
walked down the path toward the road, talking earnestly. One was as
tall as Riley Sinclair, but heavier; the other was a little, slight
man. He went to a sleepy pony at the end of the path and slowly
gathered the reins. Plainly he was troubled, and apparently it was the
big man who had troubled him. For now he turned and cast out his hand
toward the other, speaking rapidly, in the manner of one making a last
appeal. Only the murmur of that voice drifted up to Riley Sinclair, but
the loud laughter of the big man drove clearly to him. The smaller of
the two mounted and rode away with dejected head, while the other
remained with arms folded, looking after him.
    He seemed to be chuckling at the little man, and indeed there was
cause, for