the Rider Of Lost Creek (1976) Read Free

least, in the minds of local ranchers.
    The cowhand finished his coffee, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and got to his feet "Be careful ... Hohner warned.

    Chapter II
    For those who opposed the stringing of wire on the range of Texas, the hour was late. Already, in a vacant lot in Botalla ... and there were many such lots, for the town was very new ... lay great reels of wire gleaming spools of it ready for the stringing.
    Reports had it that there was soon to be a railroad in Texas, and fat beef, good beef, was soon to be hi great demand. If this should prove to be the case, then the long drive to Kansas and the railroad there would no longer be necessary, for the shipments could be made right from Texas.
    The cattle would fatten on local grass, and the possession of good, well-watered range would mean wealth almost immediate wealth, with the demand what it was.
    Suddenly every rancher in the area began looking at his range with thoughtful eyes. And looking at that of his neighbor as well...
    In the saloon of the Trail House in Botalla, rancher Webb Steele smashed a ham-like fist on the bar. "We're putting it up ... He declared, and Webb spoke always as if addressing a public meeting. "Hoss-high, pig-tight and bull-strong! If there's some as don't like it, and want war, it's war they want and its war they'll get!"
    "Who fences Lost Creek Valley"..."... Only a hardened soul could dare ask such a question. "You or Chet Lord?"
    "I'm fencin' it ... Steele glared at once around the room as if he had expected a challenge. "If necessary, my riders will ride the fence with Winchesters!"
    There was a murmur of subdued talk in the room, for such a statement was tantamount to a declaration of war, and everybody from the Neuces to the Rio Grande knew that when Webb Steele said he would fight, he meant it They also knew that Chet Lord had never surrendered anything to anybody.
    Nobody in his right mind made war talk in the Neuces Strip country unless he meant it. Those who ranched mere were hard, tough men, accustomed to fierce fights with over-the-border bandits many of them Anglos who took refuge in Mexico to avoid the law. Nobody wore a gun for show. There had once been a few of those but they had been buried long since, and those naive souls who might have ventured into the Strip were usually warned in time and rode away to more tolerant climes.
    The rangy yellow horse with the black mane and tail as well as three black ankles loped down the street toward the trail house, unaware and unconcerned. At the Trail House, the rider pulled up and swung down. He glanced at the lights from the windows, then tied his horse and loosened the cinch.
    He stood for a moment, looking along the street.
    Then he hitched up his gunbelts and slipped the thongs from both guns.
    He was a quiet man of rangy build, broad in the shoulders, slim hi waist and flank, with a lean, brown face and green eyes. Leaving his dusty coat tied behind the saddle, he stepped up on the boardwalk and stood one moment longer. He wore a worn buckskin vest, black shirt and trousers, and a black, flat-brimmed hat. He was dusty and tired and, for just a moment before he stepped inside, he closed his eyes to clear away some of the tiredness in order to leave his vision clear.
    He knew that the men along the walk most of them seated at benches against the wall had seen him. They knew him for a stranger. Their eyes had lingered a little longer than customary on the two tied-down guns. Two guns were only occasional, and tied-down guns were rare, for it was a method not much used and only of limited value.
    He pushed through the doors into the saloon and paused just briefly to let his eyes adjust to the change of light Webb Steele, brawny and huge, strode past him with the air of one who commanded the earth and all that was on it The stranger swept the room with a brief, comprehensive glance. It told him he knew no one there, and it was unlikely anyone knew him.
    He walked