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the ranch, and he wanted more. Healy politely tried to explain to him that I wasn’t here and no one else had any authority to give him money. In a drunken rage Havens pulled his gun and shot Healy. By the way, Healy was unarmed. Then Havens rode out of here like a bat out of hell, and drunk as he was, he must have fallen off his horse. The old greaser found him and buried him and then you came along. “And the best thing about it all,” said Stewart, with a smile, “is that he wasn’t shot. It’ll be pretty hard for anyone to doubt us on this one.”
    “Well, we did rough him up pretty good,” said Fogarty.
    “After he spends the night with rigor mortis, and rocks piled on his face, who will be able to tell?” In the morning I want you to go dig up his body and bring it back here. I’ll get up early and go get Jennings and bring him out so he can do his investigation.”
    “Why do that?” asked Fogarty. “Why not just leave Havens out there?” Nobody will know the difference. The old greaser didn’t know who he was burying, and he’ll be too scared to talk anyway. We’ll bury Healy somewhere in the desert and forget it ever happened.”
    Stewart spoke emphatically, “No, that ’s not the right way. We don’t know who the old greaser will talk to. You should’ve killed him.”
    Fogarty was indignant. “You told me to be careful about shooting people. That ’s why I didn’t shoot Havens. We were going to take him and hang him. Set it up to look like he was caught rustling.”
    “I know what I told you,” said Stewart, “and we do have to be careful not to make enemies or create suspicion, at least until we get things set up here the way I want them, but shooting an old greaser out in the desert in the middle of the night . . . who would have known?”
    Fogarty swore softly but remained otherwise silent. He enjoyed killing and was angry at having missed an opportunity to do it.
    As if reading his thoughts, Stewart said, “Don ’t worry Fogarty, I didn’t hire you to herd cows. Things are happening fast—faster than I expected. There’s land here and I’ll have it. I swear I’ll have it all and it will take some killing to get it.”
     
     
    Stewart rode out at first light, and it was still a fresh and early morning that found him and Sheriff Jennings riding on the trail back toward the T. S. , predator and prey side by side: Stewart the aggressor, the schemer whose hands were soiled and whose heart was tainted; Lloyd Jennings, young, innocent of human blood and grief, untrusting, yet unsuspecting.
    The two men were conversing on the subject of land, though it was not a conversation , but a trap; pre-planned and rehearsed, laid on the foundation of the information Stewart had acquired the previous evening. He believed he had found the vulnerable spot in Jennings’ wall of intractability. “Sheriff,” Stewart was saying, “aside from this nasty business with Jeff Havens last night, there’s another matter I’ve been meaning to talk with you about.”
    Jennings turned to face him. Stewart continued, “I’m new out here, as you know, and it’s my custom, and I believe one of the secrets of my success in business, to consult with people who possess wisdom and experience in certain matters—usually professionals, like yourself.”
    That Jennings still did not fully trust Stewart, was conveyed by the wariness in his glance. “How can I help you, Mr. Stewart?”
    “I own a piece of land I’m not using. That’s not to say I have no use for it, but I feel it would be more profitable, because of its location, for me to lease the land to someone else, maybe even sell it. I’m probably barking up the wrong tree here, but someone mentioned to me the other day, that you might be interested in this piece of land.”
    Jennings turned toward Stewart, an odd look on his face, but said nothing.
    “It’s probably not true,” continued Stewart. “I don’t know what use you would have for this