three doors down was the Trail Emporium. For a moment his eyes held on the one light gleaming at the back of the store. It was after-hours and the place was closed, but if he went to the back door there might be a chance.
Deliberately he crossed the street and went toward the light Behind him Walt Pogue moved into the big doorway and stared after him, his brow furrowed with thought. His eyes watched the lean, powerful figure of the stranger as he crossed the street with a puzzled expression. Who was the man? Where had he come from? Why was he here?
Pogue had noticed the guns, well-polished handles and tied-down guns, although many a gunfighter did not bother with that, and men wore their guns wherever it suited them, and with no prescribed pattern.
But this fellow had the remote eyes and the careful eyes of a man who had lived much with danger.
He had refused the offer of a job ... or had he merely avoided the question for now? Yet he had been aware of conditions in the Valley, and had immediately wished to know why he was being hired ... if he consented to work.
Had Reynolds sent for him? Or Tom Venable?
He had come into town, racing with Dixie. Had they met on the trail, or had they come from the W? That was something Pogue wanted to know, and at once.
If Tom Venable was hiring gunhands it would mean trouble of another sort, and that he did not want.
One thing at a time.
Where was Canavan going now? Resisting an instinct to follow the stranger, Pogue turned and walked up the street to the Bit and Bridle Saloon.
Yet he paused at the door, thinking. Whatever was done now must be done quickly, for there was too much at stake.
Still, if this newcomer would eliminate Emmett Chubb, even put him out of action for a while, matters would be vastly more simple. The more he thought of that, the more he liked it. Hold off, he told himself, let his offer of a thousand dollars work on this stranger. If he was half as good as he seemed to think he was, he might just take Chubb out of action, and that would leave Reynolds seriously handicapped.
He went on into the saloon and ordered a drink, mulling over possible moves. The thought returned to his mind, the thought that kept recurring. Maybe he and Reynolds were damned fools to get into this fight, yet pride would not let him back off ... pride and the chance to achieve what he wished.
In the alley back of the Emporium, Bill Canavan approached the back door. Twice he paused to look back and to listen, but he heard nothing. It was Pogue who worried him. For a moment he had thought the big man would attempt to follow him, and he'd been ready. He stepped up to the door and tapped lightly.
Footsteps sounded from within, and he heard a faint whisper of sound that could have been a gun being drawn from a scabbard. "Who's there?"
"A rider from the Pecos," Canavan said softly.
The door opened at once and Canavan slipped through the opening. The man who stood facing him with a drawn gun was plump now, and white-haired, yet the eyes were not old eyes; they were shrewd and knowing.
"Coffee?"
"Sure. And something to eat if there's anything around."
"About to eat myself." The man placed the gun on the sideboard and took the coffee pot from the stove, filling two cups as Bill Canavan dropped into a chair. He went to the stove and took the frying pan and broke eggs into it. "Who sent you?"
"An old friend of yours heard I was headed this way. He said if I needed a smart man who could give me some information or advice to look you up. And he told me what to say."
"My days on that trail are over. I've got a nice business and I like it here. I don't know what you want, but it's likely you've come to the wrong place."
"You said your days on that trail were over. Well, mine never started. This is a business trip. I am planning to locate in the Valley."
"Locate here? Well, you came for advice, and you'll get it. Get on your horse and ride out of here as fast as you can. This is a rough
Deliberately he crossed the street and went toward the light Behind him Walt Pogue moved into the big doorway and stared after him, his brow furrowed with thought. His eyes watched the lean, powerful figure of the stranger as he crossed the street with a puzzled expression. Who was the man? Where had he come from? Why was he here?
Pogue had noticed the guns, well-polished handles and tied-down guns, although many a gunfighter did not bother with that, and men wore their guns wherever it suited them, and with no prescribed pattern.
But this fellow had the remote eyes and the careful eyes of a man who had lived much with danger.
He had refused the offer of a job ... or had he merely avoided the question for now? Yet he had been aware of conditions in the Valley, and had immediately wished to know why he was being hired ... if he consented to work.
Had Reynolds sent for him? Or Tom Venable?
He had come into town, racing with Dixie. Had they met on the trail, or had they come from the W? That was something Pogue wanted to know, and at once.
If Tom Venable was hiring gunhands it would mean trouble of another sort, and that he did not want.
One thing at a time.
Where was Canavan going now? Resisting an instinct to follow the stranger, Pogue turned and walked up the street to the Bit and Bridle Saloon.
Yet he paused at the door, thinking. Whatever was done now must be done quickly, for there was too much at stake.
Still, if this newcomer would eliminate Emmett Chubb, even put him out of action for a while, matters would be vastly more simple. The more he thought of that, the more he liked it. Hold off, he told himself, let his offer of a thousand dollars work on this stranger. If he was half as good as he seemed to think he was, he might just take Chubb out of action, and that would leave Reynolds seriously handicapped.
He went on into the saloon and ordered a drink, mulling over possible moves. The thought returned to his mind, the thought that kept recurring. Maybe he and Reynolds were damned fools to get into this fight, yet pride would not let him back off ... pride and the chance to achieve what he wished.
In the alley back of the Emporium, Bill Canavan approached the back door. Twice he paused to look back and to listen, but he heard nothing. It was Pogue who worried him. For a moment he had thought the big man would attempt to follow him, and he'd been ready. He stepped up to the door and tapped lightly.
Footsteps sounded from within, and he heard a faint whisper of sound that could have been a gun being drawn from a scabbard. "Who's there?"
"A rider from the Pecos," Canavan said softly.
The door opened at once and Canavan slipped through the opening. The man who stood facing him with a drawn gun was plump now, and white-haired, yet the eyes were not old eyes; they were shrewd and knowing.
"Coffee?"
"Sure. And something to eat if there's anything around."
"About to eat myself." The man placed the gun on the sideboard and took the coffee pot from the stove, filling two cups as Bill Canavan dropped into a chair. He went to the stove and took the frying pan and broke eggs into it. "Who sent you?"
"An old friend of yours heard I was headed this way. He said if I needed a smart man who could give me some information or advice to look you up. And he told me what to say."
"My days on that trail are over. I've got a nice business and I like it here. I don't know what you want, but it's likely you've come to the wrong place."
"You said your days on that trail were over. Well, mine never started. This is a business trip. I am planning to locate in the Valley."
"Locate here? Well, you came for advice, and you'll get it. Get on your horse and ride out of here as fast as you can. This is a rough
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