the protection of her presence.
They passed the fire line and came into the merciful coolness of the night. Locke could scarcely see Reta's face, but it was mixed with as many emotions as tore through himself—apprehension, anxiety, anger.
"What's happened to Ray?" she gasped. "Is he hurt bad?"
"Shot," Locke said succinctly. "He's alive."
Reta came closer, her heart in her eyes. If there had been any doubt before as to how she felt, it was gone now.
"I was to meet him tonight," she explained, gasping. "He didn't come, and then I heard a shot. It seemed to be from off this way, so I came to investigate. When I came in sight, I saw a light. The fires grew so fast that I knew something awful was happening. Then I saw you and Ray."
She had risked her life for Ray's sake, knowing that most men, even the most desperate outlaws, would not shoot at a woman.
Locke was puzzled at the savagery of the attack. It seemed unlikely that any of the original six vigilantes could have been responsible. This was more like the work of one man, though that didn't really make sense.
And why this sudden, frantic desire to murder Ray, at any cost?
There was a lot to which he had no answer, but Locke intended to find out. For the present, however, it was necessary to get Ray where he could rest undisturbed, and to get a doctor to look after him. Reta solved the first problem.
"We'll take him to the Three Sevens," she said, and then a thought struck her, and she looked quickly at him, her face losing its color. "Merciful God! Your father—I just remembered him!"
"The fire won't hurt him," Locke assured her. "He died before it was set."
"I'm sorry," Reta murmured, and her voice told how deeply moved she was. "I didn't know, and for the moment I forgot."
"You saved Ray, not to mention me," Locke said. "It was Pa's heart. And a lucky thing, the way it's turning out."
They went on in silence, Reta walking, leading the horse. Her ankle did not seem to bother her too much. Locke had both hands full, holding Ray and trying to carry him as comfortably as possible. Riding in such fashion was wearying, and hard on an injured man. There was still the possibility that a killer who had gone to such lengths might have second thoughts and go the rest of the way; that at any moment an ambush bullet might whip from the darkness.
But nothing happened. It had never seemed a great distance across to the Three Sevens, but tonight the miles were multiplied, before they saw a light in a window. Reta stumbled ahead, her limp worse, to make ready and to dispatch one of the crew to town for the doctor.
Grant Cable was not at home. He arrived simultaneously with Fletcher Bannon, and the latter set to work at once. Locke had done a good job, and there had been no fresh bleeding. Ray was still unconscious, scarcely breathing. Locke did not need to be told how bad it was.
Cable joined him as he waited in another room. The rancher's face was grave.
"This is bad business, Locke," he said. "Very bad."
"You don't know the half of it," Locke returned, then looked sharply at him. "Or do you?"
"I'm afraid I don't understand you."
"Probably you don't; I hope not. Your daughter's true blue, Cable, and you should be proud of her. On the other hand, Steele is involved in this—and you're mixed up with him."
Cable met his challenging gaze steadily. "I know what you're thinking," he conceded. "But I gave you my word, Locke, regarding what has happened tonight, I don't know what it's all about."
Though he was the acknowledged head of the lawless element, Locke did not doubt his word. There was a streak of decency in him, like the lean in bacon. The manner in which he had raised Reta was proof of that.
"If you say so, that's good enough for me," Locke conceded. "I rode out to the Wagon Wheel tonight, arriving to find six men there. I stayed out of sight a while and watched and listened. They said they were vigilantes, and they called Ray to the door. They had dug up what
They passed the fire line and came into the merciful coolness of the night. Locke could scarcely see Reta's face, but it was mixed with as many emotions as tore through himself—apprehension, anxiety, anger.
"What's happened to Ray?" she gasped. "Is he hurt bad?"
"Shot," Locke said succinctly. "He's alive."
Reta came closer, her heart in her eyes. If there had been any doubt before as to how she felt, it was gone now.
"I was to meet him tonight," she explained, gasping. "He didn't come, and then I heard a shot. It seemed to be from off this way, so I came to investigate. When I came in sight, I saw a light. The fires grew so fast that I knew something awful was happening. Then I saw you and Ray."
She had risked her life for Ray's sake, knowing that most men, even the most desperate outlaws, would not shoot at a woman.
Locke was puzzled at the savagery of the attack. It seemed unlikely that any of the original six vigilantes could have been responsible. This was more like the work of one man, though that didn't really make sense.
And why this sudden, frantic desire to murder Ray, at any cost?
There was a lot to which he had no answer, but Locke intended to find out. For the present, however, it was necessary to get Ray where he could rest undisturbed, and to get a doctor to look after him. Reta solved the first problem.
"We'll take him to the Three Sevens," she said, and then a thought struck her, and she looked quickly at him, her face losing its color. "Merciful God! Your father—I just remembered him!"
"The fire won't hurt him," Locke assured her. "He died before it was set."
"I'm sorry," Reta murmured, and her voice told how deeply moved she was. "I didn't know, and for the moment I forgot."
"You saved Ray, not to mention me," Locke said. "It was Pa's heart. And a lucky thing, the way it's turning out."
They went on in silence, Reta walking, leading the horse. Her ankle did not seem to bother her too much. Locke had both hands full, holding Ray and trying to carry him as comfortably as possible. Riding in such fashion was wearying, and hard on an injured man. There was still the possibility that a killer who had gone to such lengths might have second thoughts and go the rest of the way; that at any moment an ambush bullet might whip from the darkness.
But nothing happened. It had never seemed a great distance across to the Three Sevens, but tonight the miles were multiplied, before they saw a light in a window. Reta stumbled ahead, her limp worse, to make ready and to dispatch one of the crew to town for the doctor.
Grant Cable was not at home. He arrived simultaneously with Fletcher Bannon, and the latter set to work at once. Locke had done a good job, and there had been no fresh bleeding. Ray was still unconscious, scarcely breathing. Locke did not need to be told how bad it was.
Cable joined him as he waited in another room. The rancher's face was grave.
"This is bad business, Locke," he said. "Very bad."
"You don't know the half of it," Locke returned, then looked sharply at him. "Or do you?"
"I'm afraid I don't understand you."
"Probably you don't; I hope not. Your daughter's true blue, Cable, and you should be proud of her. On the other hand, Steele is involved in this—and you're mixed up with him."
Cable met his challenging gaze steadily. "I know what you're thinking," he conceded. "But I gave you my word, Locke, regarding what has happened tonight, I don't know what it's all about."
Though he was the acknowledged head of the lawless element, Locke did not doubt his word. There was a streak of decency in him, like the lean in bacon. The manner in which he had raised Reta was proof of that.
"If you say so, that's good enough for me," Locke conceded. "I rode out to the Wagon Wheel tonight, arriving to find six men there. I stayed out of sight a while and watched and listened. They said they were vigilantes, and they called Ray to the door. They had dug up what
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