Free Bad Man's Gulch by Max Brand

and got my rifle, they was gone.”
    â€œTalk slow,” said Lazy Purdue, taking Conover hard by the arm. “Who went with her?”
    â€œHenry McLane,” breathed Conover tremulously, “an’ he carried the sun o’ my life away with her. She was on the hillside down by the house as plain asday in the moonlight. She was listening to sounds we heard from here. And then I saw big Henry McLane ride on her out of the shadow of the trees and pick her up as a hawk picks up a chicken. I saw her struggle and strike at his face. I heard him laugh and saw him kiss her. Then he spurred out of sight. It seemed to me he headed for the river. God knows where he has taken her now. It may be too late for pursuit!”
    â€œBut not too late to find him,” Lazy said through his teeth. He raised his voice to a shout. “Tom McLane,” he called, “if you’re a man of honor come out and talk to me like a man! Here stand I, George Conover, with my guns on the ground beside me, and my hands in the air. I want a truce to talk.”
    He tossed his revolvers to the ground as he spoke and stepped out into the open. A rifle barked, but the voice of Tom McLane followed the sound swiftly as the
hum
of the bullet went close by Lazy’s head.
    â€œStop firing,” he ordered, “or I’ll account for the next one who shoots with my own gun.” He stepped out from the shadows, a great patriarchal figure. “What do you want with me, George Conover?”
    â€œIt’s I that wants something of you,” cried old Conover. “How long have the McLanes taken to warring on women, Tom?”
    â€œThey never will,” answered Tom McLane.
    â€œBut they have!” cried Conover. “Tom McLane, your own son Henry has carried my daughter away.”
    â€œAnd my wife,” said Lazy Purdue. “There’s an end to this feud while I go to bring her back, is there not, McLane?”
    Tom McLane went up to Lazy and caught his hand. “Boy,” he said, “I’ll ride with you on the way,if you want me to. He’s no son of mine . . . and the feud’s done till you come back.”
    Lazy Purdue was already halfway to the shadows, running for his life up the hillside. When he reached the Conover house, he raced to the stable and saddled a horse. It seemed to him that all his fingers were thumbs before he had drawn the girths and filled his cartridge belt again, but in a moment he was in the saddle and thundering down the road.
    He cut across the fields at the first opening. There was but one shallow place in the river where Henry McLane could have crossed the ford. Otherwise, he must have ridden around by the bridge, and Lazy knew he would not waste time to do this. He headed straight for the river, and, on the sand by the edge, he saw deep hoof prints. They stirred him on with a sudden warmth of hatred, and he sent his horse splashing into the water.
    It was a steep grade up the other side, and his horse went slowly. He did not urge him, for he knew that a desperate ride lay ahead of him that night and he wished to save strength for the final race. McLane’s horse carried two, and the burden must tell before long. So he worked his way up the hillside until he came again to the road where it topped the very crest.
    Below him the road wound whitely in the moonlight down the other side of the ridge, and, as he looked, breathing his laboring horse for a moment, he saw a black speck swing out onto one of the lower stretches of the road.
    It must be McLane.
    He crushed one hand over his eyes and thought quickly. He could not possibly overtake McLane by following down the road. At the foot of the ridge itbranched into several forks. It would be a matter of guesswork as to which one Henry would take, and the chances were seven to one that Lazy would follow the wrong trail.
    There was a chance, however, that he could cut down to the foot of the graded road by going