on the State team, so he took his identity. But the game had been played so many years ago that he got the details wrong, see? I’ll bet that, if we start digging into his past, we’ll find lots of other queer things.”
“We’ll need to do a lot of digging, too, to make any charges stick against him after we catch him,” White said grimly.
“What do you mean?” Hall exploded. “He’s guilty of attempted homicide, defrauding the Indians, disturbing the peace, and I don’t know what all else.”
“Oh, he’s guilty all right,” the Agent agreed, “but could you prove that to a jury, particularly out here where so many people still think that the only good Indian is a dead Indian?”
“Oh, you’re being an old woman, Ken,” the oilman snapped.
“Maybe so, John. Maybe so. But I’ve been in this business a long time. If Cavanaugh or whoever he is hadn’t lost his head, he would have come right down here and given himself up. Then his lawyers could have claimed that he was only defending his property from a prowler. No. No. Shut up and listen to me. People are awful touchy about property rights out here. Remember what they used to do to cattle rustlers—still do, for that matter, on occasion.
“And now about this message that Sandy heard: Cavanaugh’s lawyers would say prove it!’ And what real proof have we got? We’d be putting up the word of a minor who did prowl—I’m not blaming you, Sandy. You did the only thing possible and your idea of using the light beam to call for help was a stroke of pure genius—but, as I say, the word of a minor against the word of an established businessman who has a lot of friends in these parts.”
“Then you don’t think…” Hall was really shocked.
“I think we have a chance of making our charges stick with the help of the information Quiz has dug up, but I’m not even sure of that. Frankly, if the government doesn’t act faster than it usually does, I’m afraid all of Cavanaugh’s uranium lease bids may have to be accepted tomorrow. Me can claim, you see, that he put them in before the time that he is even accused of having received his illegal tip.”
“Wow!” Sandy stared at his employer with round eyes. “Well anyway,” he added, “the change in policy will give you a chance to develop your own uranium strike on the San Juan.”
“Fat lot of good that will do me if Cavanaugh ties us up with a libel and defamation suit,” Hall grunted. “Well, Ken, it looks as if we’re all in trouble unless…what was that?”
They all whirled toward the window.
Far up near the top of Window Rock, pinpoints of light were flashing. The clean, thin sound of rifle shots came down to them through the still desert air.
White snatched at his binoculars and trained them on the mountain. Long moments passed as he fiddled with the focus.
“The idiot!” he almost whispered at last. “The poor scared, hysterical fool. He’s making a run for it across the top of the natural bridge!”
Hall snapped off the room light. Somehow, Sandy managed, with Kitty’s help, to sit up where he could get a view of the bare slab of rock where he had almost been tempted to do what Cavanaugh was now trying.
They all held their breath in the darkness as they strained their eyes.
There he was! A tiny black shadow, bent nearly double as he raced madly through the floodlight glare.
“He’s going to make it. He’s going to make it!” Pepper shouted, his old loyalty to his boss coming to the fore. “Run, Red. Run!”
The fleeing man stumbled. He threw up his arms and reeled to the edge of the narrow rock bridge. Almost, he recovered his balance…
Then he fell, turning over and over slowly, for a thousand miles, it seemed.
Kitty and her mother screamed together.
“It’s better so,” White murmured at last as he put his glasses back in their case. “A clean death. Cavanaugh made that fourth touchdown after all.”
DANGER AT MORMON CROSSING, by Roger Barlow
CHAPTER ONE
The Big Cats
“Why don’t you call them tonight? We’ve got to know pretty soon.”
The speaker was Arthur Cook, a deeply tanned giant of a man with close-cropped graying hair, whose piercing blue eyes told of a lifetime spent in open spaces. He was talking to a boy of sixteen who had wrapped himself around a dining-room chair and was staring thoughtfully down at a map on the table.
“What do you say, Sandy?” Mr. Cook urged. “Want me to ring the operator?”
Sandy Steele looked up with sudden decision. “All right,” he said. “We’ll get it settled right now.”
“That’s the ticket!” chimed in Mr. Cook’s son, Michael, as he shouldered his way through the swinging kitchen door, a glass of milk in one hand and an enormous slice of layer cake in the other. “Then we can start making plans right away.”
“If you think you can spare us the time from your hobby,” his father said dryly.
“Hobby?” Mike’s jaws closed down over the cake. “What hobby?”
“Eating. Or has it become a full-time job with you?” Mr. Cook turned to Sandy. “Ever see anybody eat so much?”
Sandy shook his head in mock amazement. “That son of yours sure can stash it away!”
Mike drained half the glass of milk in one gulp and grinned over at them. “A long time ago,” he told them, “I made up my mind never to eat on an empty stomach. That’s why I always have a snack before dinner.” He finished the rest of the milk hastily. “That reminds me. Mom said to clear all these maps out of the dining room. Soup’s almost on.”
Mr. Cook got up and headed for the door to the hallway. “I’ll just have time to place the call. What’s your number, Sandy?”
“Valley 5-3649.”
“Thanks. Mike, you take care of things in here for your mother.”
“Sure ... and hey, Dad!” Mike looked earnestly at his father.
“What?”
“You can sound awfully convincing if you want, so make it good, huh? It’d really be great if Sandy could come along.”
Mr. Cook laughed and disappeared through the door. A moment later the boys heard him dialing the long-distance operator.
“Well?” Mike demanded as he gathered in the scattered maps. “What do you think?”
Sandy shrugged. “It’s hard to say. I don’t see why not, though. School’s out for the summer and we haven’t made any plans of our own.”
“Guess we’ll just have to hold our breath,”
