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  Magill waited silent too, puzzled by the strange behaviour of the two men, but with no intentions of letting them know it. He kept a poker face.

  When the silence had lasted for almost a full minute, the sheriff said suddenly, “So you’re Walter Magill? Can’t say that you look like that coyote, but maybe the same breed’s under the hide. Why have you come here? Honin’ to stir up more trouble?”

  “Hardly,” Magill responded, just a little peeved by the mystery of the matter. “I came back to take possession of the Lazy Y.”

  “I gathered that much, but you’re bitin’ off a big hunk to chew, son,” the lawman said. “If I were you, I’d shake the dust of this county off my feet just as fast as I could. There ain’t no place for a Magill here. Savvy that and you’ll maybe live to a ripe old age.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Magill was the stubborn type who could cling tenaciously to an idea once he got a good grip on it. He did not frighten easily. He had faced hard-jawed lawmen before and even tougher-eyed Long-riders who would have killed him without compunction if they had thought it would have buttered their own bread. It was anger that made him say now as he climbed slowly to his feet:

  “Sheriff! I didn’t come here lookin’ for trouble. I came here to take over the Lazy Y, which as the only surviving member of the Magill tribe, I’m entitled to. I haven’t the faintest idea what kind of an hombre my uncle was. I haven’t seen him since I was a button. I don’t know what he did to the folks of this valley, but it’s been brought to my attention that he wasn’t liked.”

  A derisive smile creased the old law officer’s face and spread upward to form myriad tiny lines about his cobalt blue eyes. “You said a mouthful, son,” he agreed. “Walter Magill was a coyote, a lobo wolf, a side-winder, and I could compare him with a few more things that folks most generally step on or shoot when they see ‘em. That’s why I think you’re a fool to take over the Lazy Y. You won’t have a friend in the valley. They’ll all be against you.”

  “That’s my funeral, isn’t it?” Magill asked quietly. “I’ve been a pariah before. It doesn’t worry me. I prefer the society of my own company better than that of any man I know.”

  “Pariah?” the sheriff demanded. “Ain’t never heard the word before, but if it means what I think it does, I reckon you’ll be it all right, all right. Wouldn’t change your mind and maybe take a price for the Lazy Y?”

  Magill’s glance narrowed on the lawman and then swung to the deputy’s face. There was something here that he did not understand; something that these men apparently had no intention of telling him. They wanted the Lazy Y. But why? What was there about the spread that made it valuable to a lawman and his deputy?

  “I wouldn’t say that I would and I wouldn’t say that I wouldn’t” he answered with a shrug. “I haven’t seen it. If you know the Magills so well,” he added with a crooked srnile, “you should know that money talks. Maybe after you’ve named a price I’d be more inclined to listen.”

  The sheriff showed a quick interest and his feet slid from the desk as he leaned forward to lock glances with the cowboy. “I’ll name you a price, Magill,” he said, “for the Lazy Y, lock, stock and barrel and sight unseen, provided you’ll saddle up and hit the trail north in the mornin’.”

  “Whoa now! Not so fast,” Magill warned with a shake of his head. “I wouldn’t sell it that way. Fact is, the more you talk, the less I want to get rid of it. I reckon we’ve palavered enough. I’m mighty tired after a full day’s ride across the desert and those lava beds. Buenos noches, Sheriff! Talk to me in the morning. But don’t wake me up too early. I’m hankerin’ to catch up on some much-needed sleep.”

  The sheriff leaned back in his chair as the cowboy rose from his, and his glance swivelled around to the deputy. “Give Mr. Magill cell number five, Jawbone,” he said. “There’s a right comfortable cot in there and I happen to know that he won’t be welcome at the White Water Inn.”

  “Kind of high-handed, aren’t you?” Magill demanded, reddening with anger. The lawman, he realised, held all the aces in the deck. And if the name Magill was in as bad repute as it apparently was in this section, it wouldn’t hurt any one’s feelings if he caught a slug trying to get out.

  “Nope?” the sheriff answered. “Not high-handed, Magill, just generous. If you don’t believe what I say, take a pasear over to the hotel. I’m not arrestin’ you. I’m just offerin’ you the hospitality of the calaboose. And when you go over there and get turned down, try the Cattlemen’s Bar. They won’t even give a Magill a drink over there.”

  “I guess you win,” the cowboy said with a shrug. “I’m too worn out to be traipsin’ all over town lookin’ for a place to roost. I’ll take your word for it. Show me the cell, but if it’s lousy, you’ll sure know about it in the mornin’.”

  “If there are any bugs in there, you’re bringin’ ‘em in,” the lawman retorted waspishly.

  Jawbone took the keys from the sheriff’s desk, unlocked the outer door and swung it open, waiting for Magill to pass on through. He closed it behind him and made his way silently down the short corridor to the last cell. He let Magill into cell five, left the door open, and marched back down the corridor without a word.

  The actions of both the sheriff and the deputy were strange, to say the least, but Magill had reached the point where he was too tired to puzzle any more over it. Making himself comfortable, he rolled into the blankets and promptly dropped off to sleep.

  The sun streaming through the high barred aperture awakened him and for a moment he was puzzled about his surroundings as he saw the heavy grilled door, the stone and adobe bare walls, and then suddenly the night’s events came back to him with a rush and he grinned ruefully. The door into the corridor was still wide open and he could hear the deputy in the outer office talking to someone.

  Magill fished his razor out of his saddle-bags, lathered his face with water from the earthenware pitcher that stood on a pine table in the comer and carefully shaved the two days’ growth of beard from his face. When his toilet was completed, he buckled on his gun belt, closed the bags and swung them over his shoulder. In this way he stepped into the outer office to find Jawbone talking with a man of about fifty whose sandy hair was thin on top and greying at the temples. The man’s face was round and pleasant looking, and his corpulent waistband carried a heavy gold watch chain that rose and fell with his breathing.

  “My boy,” the man said, extending a moist hand in greeting. “I hardly expected to find you in jail the first night of your arrival in White Water. I’m Samuel K. Spiker.”

  Magill took the hand and as quickly dropped it. In spite of his jovial appearance, the cowboy took an immediate dislike to him. Something about the man did not ring true. Magill did not know what it was, but it was there.

  “I fixed it for you to get grub over at the cafe,” the deputy said, sourly. “And I had a hard time doin’ it. Milly sure ain’t partial to the name Magill, but bein’ a friend of mine, she agreed to feed you just once more.”

  “Very decent of her, I’m sure,” Magill said.

  The three of them marched across the street and entered the restaurant. The same young woman who had waited on him the night before took his order without smiling and later, and still silent, spread his breakfast in front of him. Spiker kept up a running fire of conversation that annoyed him, but Magill, although listening, could not make much sense out of it other than to learn that the papers were all ready for him to sign, and that he could take possession of the spread at once. The deputy sat silent at the table, taking occasional sips from the mug of coffee in front of him.

  Magill wondered why the deputy was sticking so close to him, but he found out when he had finished his meal and the three again marched out into the bright sun of the main street. A crowd had gathered out there and were apparently waiting for him to make his appearance.

  When he stepped out with the banker and the deputy flanking him, and blinking his eyes in the bright light, someone yelled, “There’s the last of the coyote breed.”

  Magill had not come here looking for trouble and he was not wishing for it now, but that remark, uncalled for as far as he was concerned, made his cheeks burn red until they were almost mahogany under the dark texture of his sun-baked skin, and his grey eyes became twin pinpoints of flame.

  “Who said that?” he grated. “Name yourself if you’ve got the guts.”

  Spiker laid a restraining hand on his sleeve and the deputy grunted, “Let it pass, Magill.”

  Magill shook off the offending arm and his glance raked the faces of the men sullenly watching him, until one man, a cowhand by his clothes, big, broad-shouldered and dark-haired, stepped from the crowd and with his lower jaw protruding sullenly, answered:

  “I said it, Magill. And I’ll repeat it if you didn’t hear me right.”

  There was a moment’s tense silence. Magill was conscious of the deputy’s crooked smile and of Spiker’s sudden intake of breath. He saw the narrowly watching eyes of the crowd and the blustering, bullying attitude of the big cowhand.

  “Coyotes run unless cornered,” he said then, softly but loud enough for all of them to hear, and with that he struck, his fist driving out and smashing full into the puncher’s face, flinging him back into the arms of the men behind him as if a mule had kicked him.

  Before the man could recover his balance, Magill struck again, whipping his left across the cowboy’s face and leaving a vivid welt. And when the man regained his feet and charged him like an angry bull, Magill side-stepped and planted his fist wickedly into the man’s belly.

  The wind exploding from his lungs was like the wheeze of a heaving horse. He doubled at the waist in agony, but Magill had no sympathy. He brought his right up from his waist, perfect
ly timed, perfectly aimed. It crashed just under the man’s chin. The puncher’s body straightened with surprising suddenness, arched upward, and daylight streaked beneath his feet. Spread-eagled he fell backward to lie in the dust with one eye swelling and the other glazing over.

  But Magill was not through yet, although the white-heat of his anger had cooled entirely. Stepping over to the prostrate cowhand, he picked him up by the belt and carried him to the watering trough that was only a few steps across the street. Unceremoniously he dumped him face down into it, sloshing him up arid down until the man began to gasp and struggle. Magill pulled him out then and dropped him into the dust of the street on his back and stood there looking down at him.

  “Hereafter,” he warned, “you’d better keep your remarks to yourself. Maybe I come of a coyote breed, but you don’t need to advertise it.”

  The rest of the crowd fell back as he strode towards them, watching him narrowly and with a new look in their eyes. He picked up his saddlebags, swung them across his shoulder, and with the banker and the deputy again flanking him, he marched on down the street. Neither of the men said anything, and when they entered the bank the deputy this time remained outside.

  When he had signed the papers that gave him the Lazy Y, Spiker said, “I don’t think the sheriff needs to worry about you, Magill. You seem to be perfectly able to take care of yourself. Good luck to you.”

  Magill went out into the street and when the deputy again fell in beside him he stopped and growled, “Kelly, I don’t know what orders you’ve got, but nobody asked you to shadow me. Suppose you tend to your business and I’ll tend to mine.”

  The deputy stopped. “Suit yourself,” he replied curtly. “Bugs just gave me orders to keep you in sight till you was out of town.”

  “I’m on my way now,” Magill snapped.

  With no more comment the deputy turned on his heel and strode off down the street. Magill went into the stable, found his roan, saddled him, and led him out. Draping the saddlebags in place, he lifted himself to the animal’s back, and at a slow canter headed out of town.

  The valley looked entirely different now under the hot rays of the morning sun and as he topped a swell of ground it unfolded like a panorama before him. To his left were the rugged and jagged peaks of the Redstone Mountains, great upthrusting mounds of red sandstone that burned with a crimson fire under the sun’s rays. Off to his left and farther away were the Rattleknobs, snow-dusted on their higher crests, but green-tufted with pine, cedar and live oak. Directly in front of them and towering over the valley like twin sentinels were the Cedar Peaks, upthrusting spires of rock whose rocky sides were completely covered with a green mantle of Cedar trees.

  Ahead of him and stretching as far as his eyes could reach the rolling terrain of the valley spread out, with Dry Lake a great oval in its centre and separated distinctly from the rest of the ground by the deep green of its belly-high grass. Here at one time had been a mammoth lake which after years of drought had dried up-until there was nothing left but the powdery top soil. It was then it had gotten its name. But nature had changed that. Forgotten River wound through the centre of it and of late, with plenty of rainfall, the river in spring would spread over the lake bed, wetting the soil and making it fertile. Something, perhaps some important chemical from which grass derived its life, was in that ground. The grass on the lake’s bottom was higher and greater than any that surrounded it.

  Magill could see the sun sparkling on the blue mountain water that sang and tumbled on its way towards the desert to the south. He could see, too, far off to the right and shadowed by the Twin Cedar Peaks, the ranch-house and outbuildings of Jeff Lucas’s Diamond F spread, the biggest in the valley.

  Heading the pony down the slope towards the stream, Magill reached its bank and followed it until the grass changed colour and he knew he was on Dry Lake. There he crossed the stream, as per Spiker’s directions, and followed the dark green outline of the lake.

  But as he ploughed through the water and his pony plunged up the opposite bank he saw a rider forging towards him, and obviously attempting to cut him off. With a shrug he pulled up, sitting the roan quietly and waiting. His eyes narrowed suddenly as he took in the outlines of the figure astride the big sorrel, for it was a girl.

  Magill had seen plenty of good-looking women during his travels, but the one that came loping towards him on the high-spirited gelding was like turning the page of a new book. She had evident mistaken him for someone else, for when she saw his face she reined in sharply, surprise lighting her gentian blue eyes.

  The features were distinctly regular except for the nose, which was slightly upturned. The mouth was long and pleasing, quirking upward at the comers. Thick lashes shadowed the widespread bright eyes. Flaxen hair peeped out from beneath the brushed black Stetson, curling in golden tendrils over the lobes of ears that were almost completely hidden. And when she stopped, Magill saw that she wore her hair down her back, held together at the base of her neck only by a bright green ribbon.

  “Good-mornin’,” he said, grinning at her and unable to restrain the admiration in his eyes. “Were you lookin’ for someone?”

  For a long moment she sat her mount with her gloved hands crossed on the horn of her saddle, studying him, and then she smiled and Magill felt as if that smile was as warm as the sun.

  “I thought you were Cole Bagby,” she said, and her lips formed into a pout.

  “I’m right sorry that I’m not,” he answered gallantly, “but then I never was lucky. And I’m afraid to tell you who I am for fear you’ll act like most of the rest of the folks in this valley.”

  He saw her eyes widen in surprise and she said, “Then you’re Magill’s nephew!” But when he nodded, her eyes did not freeze and the smile did not leave her lips. Instead she stuck out a gloved hand for him to grasp. “I’m Louella Lucas,” she said with easy camaraderie. “And I’m glad to know you.”

  “Those are about the first kind words I’ve had since I arrived” he said with a grin, releasing her hand. “I’m plenty glad to know that there’s at least one person in this valley that doesn’t hate the name of Magill.”

  The smile left her face and she nodded soberly. “I’m afraid Uncle Walt was misunderstood,” she said, “but I knew him better than the rest.”

  There was something about the girl that invited confidence and when she asked to ride along with him he consented readily. He told her of his arrival in town and of his meeting Bagby, but he did not mention the recent fight. She told him a great many things about the valley people that he did not know, yet she said nothing about Walter Magill and the new ranch owner hesitated to ask for information. Whatever his uncle’s crimes had been, he did not want to hear from this girl’s lips. In this way they skirted the rim of the lake and came to his range.

  “That’s Tevis’s homestead there” she said when they passed a badly-built fence with the wires sagging and broken and with the posts leaning at crazy angles. “I don’t think you’ll get along with him. He’s lazy, as you can see from the fence.”

  “It does look sort of sick,” he agreed.

  “And over beyond the west fork of the creek, beyond and next to him is the Hyde Ranch. Elmer’s all right. He’s a straight shooter even if he is a dirt farmer. Beyond his place is Patch’s. Patch is a good soul, but kind of hard on his kids.”

  Magill laughed. "I’m sure glad I met you, Miss Lucas. You’ve given me more information about my neighbours than I could have gleaned in a year. My only regret is that I can’t invite you for lunch.”

  “The name to you is Lou, not Lucas,” she said, glancing sideways at him, “and if you think you’re going to send me home without my lunch you’re crazy. I happen to know that the Lazy Y has one of the finest cooks in the valley and there’s plenty of food there. Spiker has seen to that. He’s kept it stocked and waiting for you.”

  “Well, now!” Magill laughed. “That was mighty thoughtful of Mr. Spiker.”

  The smile left the girl’s face. She turned and her glance locked with Magill’s. “Look out for Spiker,” she warned. “It wasn’t thoughtfulness. He has other reasons for wanting to be in your good graces.”