Free Gunsmoke over Texas by Bradford Scott

get in the clear. And if he continued through the crevice he would quite probably run into the whole gang. Also, they might very well hear him coming. No matter what he did, he risked being impaled on one or the other of the horns of the dilemma.
    As he hesitated, appraising the situation with a concentration that amounted almost to mental agony, he heard a sound ahead, a faint clicking sound. Again it came, louder, undoubtedly a horse’s iron striking against a stone. Slade jerked Shadow sideways and sent him into the growth that flanked the stony ridge, regardless of thorns and raking branches. Not until he was sure he could not be seen from the open ground did he pull the big horse to a halt.
    “Don’t go singing any songs!” he whispered as he dismounted. Careful to make no sound he stole back on foot till he could see through a final fringe of branches. The steady clicking grew louder. Another moment and seven men rode down the gorge toward the main canyon. It was shadowy in the crevice and Slade could catch only an indistinct view of their features. He watched them dwindle away until the growth hid them. Then he proceeded to take stock of the situation.
    He had counted nine men pushing the herd across the prairie. So unless there had been more of the gang waiting in the hole-up, which he doubted, only two had been left to ride herd on the stolen cattle. The odds weren t so bad. Doubtless the others would not return until nightfall; but then again they might be gone only a short time. Slade resolved to take a chance on recovering the herd. He debated whether to ride farther and decided not to. It was likely the cleft was of no great depth and sounds would carry a long way between the echoing walls. Leaving Shadow where he was, he stole forward on foot, pausing often to peer and listen. He had covered less than a fifth of a mile when he heard, only a short distance ahead, the bleat of a steer. Redoubling his caution he crept on. Abruptly the gorge widened. Shafts of sunlight poured into its depths. Slade left the open space and wormed his way through the growth. Before a last straggle he paused, parted the branches carefully and peered out.
    Directly ahead was an almost circular bowl walled on three sides by cliffs. There was very little brush and the ground was carpeted with grass. Near a trickle of water the weary cows were grazing. And a little to one side, two men moved about a small fire of dry wood. One was short and solid-looking, the other lean and scrawny. They were within easy shooting distance from where Slade crouched in the brush.
    Slade pondered what his next move should be. The two men were proven thieves, quite likely murderers as well. They certainly deserved no quarter; he would be justified in blasting them from cover. But he was a peace officer and the stern code of the peace officer forbade such action; he would have to take his chance in the accepted fashion. Loosening his guns in their sheaths he stepped from the brush. His voice rang out, “In the name of the state of Texas! You are under arrest!”
    The two outlaws whirled at the sound. For an instant they stood rigid, then they leaped apart and went for their guns.
    Back and forth across the clearing spurted the wisps of blue smoke. The canyon walls rocked to the crash of the reports.

EIGHT
    O NE SLEEVE HANGING IN RIBBONS , two bullet holes through the crown of his hat, a red trickle running from his left hand, Walt Slade lowered his guns and peered through the drifting fog at the two bodies sprawled beside the fire. He walked forward, gun ready, but the outlaws were dead.
    Sure that there was nothing more to fear from them, he gave the bodies a swift but thorough once-over. They were hardcase individuals, typical of the Border outlaw clan, their faces blotched by heavy drinking, their features coarse and scarred. Salty and brainless was his verdict. Filled with reckless courage and unhampered by morals of any sort, but capable only of