What, then, had happened to him?

Sanderson dismounted and went to his knees beside the man. At first he could see no sign of anything that might have caused death--for Carter was undoubtedly dead--and already stiffening! Then he saw a red patch staining the man's shirt, and he examined it. Carter had been shot.

Sanderson stood up and looked around. There was no one in sight. He mounted Streak and began to ride toward the camp, for he felt that Carter's death had resulted from an accident. One explanation was that a stray bullet had killed Carter--in the excitement of a stampede the men were apt to shoot wildly at refractory steers.

But the theory of accident did not abide. Halfway between Carter and the camp Sanderson came upon Bud. Bud was lying in a huddled heap. He had been shot from behind. Later, continuing his ride to camp, Sanderson came upon the other men.

He found the Kid and the cook near the chuck wagon, Sogun and Andy were lying near the fire, whose last faint embers were sputtering feebly; Buck was some distance away, but he, too, was dead!

Sanderson went from one to the other of the men, to make a final examination. Bending over Sogun, he heard the latter groan, and in an instant Sanderson was racing to the river for water.

He bathed Sogun's wound--which was low on the left side, under the heart, and, after working over him for five or ten minutes, giving him whisky from a flask he found in the chuck wagon, and talking to the man in an effort to force him into consciousness, he was rewarded by seeing Sogun open his eyes.

Sogun looked perplexedly at Sanderson, whose face was close.

There was recognition in Sogun's eyes--the calm of reason was swimming in them.

He half smiled. "So you wriggled out of it, boss, eh? It was a clean-up, for sure. I seen them get the other boys. I emptied my gun, an' was fillin' her again when they got me."

"Who?" demanded Sanderson sharply.

"Dale an' his gang. They was a bunch of them--twenty, mebbe. I heard them while I was layin' here. They thought they'd croaked me, an' they wasn't botherin' with me.

"One of them waved a blanket--or a tarp. I couldn't get what it was.

Anyway, they waved somethin' an' got the herd started. I heard them talkin' about seein' Soapy go under, right at the start. An' you.

Dale said he saw you go down, an' it wasn't no use to look for you.

They sure played h.e.l.l, boss."

Sanderson did not answer.

"If you'd lift my head a little higher, boss, I'd feel easier, mebbe,"

Sogun smiled feebly. "An' if it ain't too much trouble I'd like a little more of that water--I'm powerful thirsty."

Sanderson went to the river, and when he returned Sogun was stretched out on his back, his face upturned with a faint smile upon it.

Sanderson knelt beside him, lifted his head and spoke to him. But Sogun did not answer.

Sanderson rose and stood with bowed head for a long time, looking down at Sogun. Then he mounted Streak and headed him into the moonlit s.p.a.ce that lay between the camp and the Double A ranchhouse.

It was noon the next day when Sanderson returned with a dozen Double A men. After they had labored for two hours the men mounted their horses and began the return trip, one of them driving the chuck wagon.

All of the men were bitter against Dale for what had happened, and several of them were for instant reprisal.

But Sanderson stared grimly at them.

"There ain't any witnesses," he said, "not a d.a.m.ned one! My word don't go in Okar. Besides, it's my game, an' I'm goin' to play her a lone hand--as far as Dale is concerned."

"You goin' to round up what's left of the cattle?" asked a puncher.

Sanderson answered shortly: "Not any. There wasn't enough left to make a fuss about, an' Dale can have them."

CHAPTER XXI

A MAN BORROWS MONEY

The incident of Devil's Hole had changed the character of the fighting between Sanderson and Dale. Dale and his fellow-conspirators had deserted that law upon which, until the incident of Devil's Hole, they had depended. They had resorted to savagery, to murder; they had committed themselves to a course that left Sanderson no choice except to imitate them.

And Sanderson was willing. More, he was anxious. He had respected the law; and still respected it. But he had never respected the law represented by his three enemies. He was determined to avenge the murder of his men, but in his own time and in his own way.

His soul was in the grip of a mighty rage against Dale and the others; he longed to come into personal contact with them--to feel them writhe and squirm in his clutch. And had he been the free agent he had always been until his coming to the Double A he would have gone straight to Okar, thus yielding to the blood l.u.s.t that swelled his veins.

But he could not permit his inclinations to ruin the girl he had promised to protect. He could kill Dale, Silverthorn, and Maison quite easily. But he would have no defense for the deed, and the law would force him to desert Mary Bransford.

For an entire day following the return of himself and his men from the scene of the stampede Sanderson fought a terrific mental battle. He said nothing to Mary Bransford, after giving her the few bare facts that described the destruction of the herd. But the girl watched him anxiously, suspecting something of the grim thoughts that tortured him, and at dinner she spoke to him.

"Deal," she said, "don't be rash. Those men have done a lawless thing, but they still have the power to invoke the law against you."

"I ain't goin' to be lawless--yet," he grinned.

But Sanderson was yielding to an impulse that had a.s.sailed him. His manner betrayed him to Owen, at least, who spoke to Mary about it.

"He's framing up something--or he's got it framed up and is ready to act," he told the girl. "He has got that calm during the past few hours that I feel like I'm in the presence of an iceberg when I'm near him."

Whatever was on Sanderson's mind he kept to himself. But late that night, when the ranchhouse was dark, and a look through one of the windows of the bunkhouse showed Sanderson there were only two men awake--and they playing cards sleepily--he threw saddle and bridle on Streak and rode away into the inky darkness of the basin.

Shortly after dusk on the same night Silverthorn, Dale, and Maison were sitting at a table in Maison's private office in the bank building.

They, too, were playing cards.

But their thoughts were not on the cards. Elation filled their hearts.

Dale was dealing, but it was plain that he took no interest in the game. At last, with a gesture of disgust, he threw the cards face up on the table and smiled at the others.

"What's the use?" he said. "I keep thinking of what happened at Devil's Hole. We ought to have been sure that we finished the job, an'

we would have been sure if we hadn't known that that d.a.m.ned Colfax sheriff was hanging around somewhere.

"He took two hundred head from Sanderson--when he ought to have taken the whole d.a.m.n herd--which he'd orders to do. And then, instead of driving them direct to Lester's he made camp just on the other side of Devil's Hole--three or four miles, Morley said. I don't know what for, except that maybe he's decided to give Sanderson the steers he'd taken from him--the d.a.m.ned fool! You've got to break him, Maison, for disobeying orders!"

"I'll attend to him," said Maison.

"That's the reason we didn't go through Devil's Hole to see what had become of Sanderson," resumed Dale. "We was afraid of running into the sheriff, and him, being the kind of a fool he is, would likely have wanted to know what had happened. I thought it better to sneak off without letting him see us than to do any explaining."

Silverthorn looked at his watch. "Morley and the others ought to be here pretty soon," he said.

"They're late as it is," grumbled Dale. "I ought to have gone myself."