The Plains of Laramie Read Free Page B

alarm. We tried trackin’ ’em, but, when they got to the river, we had to drop it. Too dark.” He got up suddenly and draped his stubby carbine over his arm. “It’s light enough now, though. Come on, we’ll show you where we last seen the sign.”

Chapter Three
    The night was begrudgingly giving way before the advance of the new day. Stars were flickering out, one by one, and the cold air was bracing in a man’s lungs. There were at least a dozen in the bitter-faced clutch of cowmen that picked up the trail of the rustled cattle a mile this side of the Modoc. The trail was about eighty feet wide and easily discernible by the churned-up, blotched earth. Now and then the men found a horse hoof imprint. None of the hoof marks found, however, was made by a shod horse; apparently all of the rustlers rode barefoot horses. The trail went over the flat land in a straight line for the riverbank. Brush—waist high—was crushed to rubble in the dust. The men rode down a gentle slope and stopped at the riverbank. Several of them looked at Masters. He stared at the cold, uninviting water and made a wry face.
    “Let’s go to the ferry an’ cross over there. Won’t be wastin’ much time, an’ there’s likely to be a lot of ridin’ yet to come that none of us’ll want to do wringin’ wet.”
    The ranchers were of a like mind and rode the spongy riverbank downstream until they came to the still buildings of Cobb’s Ferry. The noise of many horsemen was clear and sinister in the cold morning. Someone peeked out of the cabin, and Bud Prouty rode in close with his swarthy brother beside him.
    “Come on out of there an’ get that ferry unhitched. We want to get across that river.”
    There was no answer, and Masters, sensing the antagonism in the Prouty boys, kneed his horse up close to them. “Probably no one’s in there.”
    The taller Prouty boy swore and dismounted. “Yes there is. We seen the door open a crack.” He was up to the door when he finished speaking. Jerking his .45, he lunged out and swung a violent kick at the door. It flew inward with a crash and a jagged, fierce tongue of flame spewed out of the interior. Prouty folded up in the middle like a jackknife, squeezing off one shot as he went down. A terrible scream of rage came from Bud Prouty as he flung off his horse and tore inside the adobe house, gun belching death with livid splotches of flame that didn’t quite drown out the animal cries that came in a virulent stream from his mouth.
    Jack led the posse men who stormed up, red-eyed and lusting for blood. It was over as quickly as it had started. Bud Prouty came out of the house, ashenfaced and numb. He holstered his gun and knelt by his brother.
    Jack Masters put a strong, gentle hand on his shoulder and the boy raised his eyes in disbelief. “Through the heart, Bud.”
    Someone was cursing as he dragged a limp body out of the adobe. Jack arose and went over to look at it. He nodded to the crowd of grim men. “It’s one of the hardcase Tollivers that wasn’t goin’ to let me arrest Link yesterday.”
    One old rancher, who seemed rather exultant, kicked the body with a pointed-toed boot. His spur tinkled a knell in the quiet. “Well, he’s one o’ the scum that won’t play hardcase no more. Four slugsin his mangy carcass. The last one right atween the eyes.” He spat contemptuously on the warped planks beside the body and turned away.
    The ranchers loaded themselves and their horses on the larger of the two wormy-hulled ferryboats and pulled silently for the other side while Bud Prouty had two of the younger hands strike out in a sad little procession for the Pothook with the burden of the dead cowboy athwart his led saddle horse.
    “Let’s go boys.” Masters unloaded his horse, swung aboard, and headed back along the far bank for the spot where the stolen beef had been made to swim across. Once on the wide, rambling trail again, the cowmen swung into a mile-eating lope. Jack sent