Free The Killing Season by RALPH COMPTON Page A

they had not. Most of the ranchers in south Texas had managed to get a herd to market, and so were able to afford a rider or two. For three days, Nathan rode from one ranch to another. Eventually, at a Circle J line camp he found a surly, uncooperative Bob McKeever.
    â€œI told you,” said McKeever stubbornly, “I quit the Horrells. I don’t know where they went, and I don’t give a damn.”
    When Nathan took a step toward McKeever, the rider went for his gun. His left hand moving like a striking rattler, Nathan seized McKeever’s arm, forcing him to drop the Colt. Fisting his left hand, McKeever took an awkward swing at Nathan, only to receive Nathan’s thundering right against his chin. Releasing McKeever’s right wrist, Nathan let the man slump to the ground on his back. Shaking his head, McKeever sat up, looking for his dropped Colt. But Nathan had retrieved the weapon, had swung out the cylinder, and was punching out the shells.
    â€œDamn you,” McKeever snarled, “you got no right ...”
    â€œI reckon you still need some convincing,” said Nathan. “Get up.”
    â€œI got no reason to fight you. I ain’t done nothin’.”
    â€œYou know more than you’re telling,” Nathan said grimly. “Thanks to those damn no-account Horrells, a mighty good friend of mine may not make it. By God, somebody’s goin’ to pay.”
    â€œBut I didn’t shoot ...”
    â€œI didn’t say he’d been shot,” Nathan replied, “but you knew, damn you, and you know who did it. Now you tell me what you know— every damn thing you know—or I’ll beat your ears down around your boot tops.”
    â€œIt was Clint Barkley shot the ranger,” McKeever said. “That’s when I quit.”
    â€œI believe you,” said Nathan. “Now where did Barkley and the Horrells go?”
    â€œThe Horrells was goin’ to New Mexico Territory. Barkley had a woman in Ellsworth or Hays. Said he was goin’ there.”
    Nathan dropped McKeever’s empty Colt, mounted his horse, and rode away, Cotton Blossom and the packhorse trailing behind.
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    Nathan rode north, spending his nights on the trail, avoiding towns. As unwilling as McKeever had been, Nathan could see no reason for him lying. He had implicated Barkley and the Horrells in the ambush of Captain Jennings, and the lot of them quitting the territory was characteristic of the back-shooting sidewinders they were. Barkley, having done the actual shooting, would want to get as far away as he could. Nathan wanted Barkley, and while all he had was Bob McKeever’s word, he had tracked men with less. He had to consider the possibility that Barkley had remained with the Horrells, that he might find them all in New Mexico Territory, but suppose Clint Barkley had ridden to Kansas? By the time Nathan reached Kansas by way of New Mexico Territory, Barkley could lose himself in Colorado, Wyoming, Nebraska, or the Dakota territories.
    â€œWe’ll try Ellsworth and Hays, Cotton Blossom,” Nathan said. “If we don’t find him there, then we’ll look for him and those damned Horrells in New Mexico Territory.”
    Eighty miles north of Fort Worth, Nathan crossed the Red River into Indian Territory. It brought back unpleasant memories, for there he had found Mary, only to lose her to El Gato and his renegades. The second day after crossing the Red, Nathan was sure of what he had only suspected before leaving Texas. He was being followed. In the territory, death might come from any direction, and sometimes the back trail took priority over what lay ahead. Reaching a rise, Nathan always paused, looking back. The sun bore down with a vengeance, and at first Nathan thought it was distance, that his eyes were seeing the tag end of a dust devil. Topping the next rise, he saw it again. A telltale puff of dust, while not a breath of air stirred.
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