he headed straight into the desert. And this way he would have a chance.
Riding straight to the largest of the buildings, the ranch house, he dismounted and left his sweat-lathered, hard-ridden horse standing ground-hitched in the yard. Spurs jingling, he strode up to the front of the house, climbed the porch steps and knocked on the front door.
A third knock was necessary to bring response from within and his impatience grew. He was again lifting his fist for a thunderous pounding when he at last heard someone stir, then saw a light appear in a window at his left, obviously a bedroom. He watched the light being lifted and borne from room to room until it shone finally through the window beside the door at which he had knocked.
There was a rattling of a bar inside, then the door opened. It disclosed an elderly man with a short gray beard and a long gray night shirt that flapped around spindled legs. The gray man held the lamp high and peered outward with sharp gray eyes that gleamed under jutting, bushy gray eyebrows.
A gleam of approval came into the keen eyes, though, as he sized up Gage Hardin; a look that held a certain amount of admiration as he took in Hardin’s big, broad-shouldered form, his six feet three of height, his inscrutable steely eyes and the sweep of dark hair beneath the dusty sombrero.
There was no mistaking Hardin’s brand and earmarks to any man of the range, either desert or mountain-bred. He was a range rider of the top-hand brand, saddle-marked and weather-hardened, sun-browned and toughened until sinews were whipcord. A man who could take care of himself in any spot, but whom any well-meaning hombre need never fear.
“How jer do,” the old man said, in a voice that quavered a little, though in spite of his age it was plain that he was strong and range-hardened himself. The gray eyes continued to sweep Hardin with a penetrating scrutiny of inquiry. “What can I do for you this time o’ night—or mebbe I should say mornin’. Ain’t lost on the desert, are ye?”
“No, I’m not lost,” Hardin said quickly. “But I’d like to speak to you, if you don’t mind. Hope you’ll excuse me bustin’ in so early like this. You’re Mr. Hoaley, aren’t you?”
“Correct.” The old man nodded his shaggy head. “Shark Hoaley. Guess everybody knows me all right. The one man fool enough to run horses on this desert. Was you looking for me? If you was, you’ve come to the right place. Come on in and rest yourself while I find some pants.”
Gage Hardin shook his head. “No, thanks,” he said. “I’m in kind of a hurry. Yes, you’re the man I was looking for. So I’ll come right down to business here. I want to rent a desert-bred horse.”
“Rent one?” The heavy brows were raised in amazement. “Who ever heard tell of the like! I reckon you had better come in a minute.”
Hardin shrugged and stepped into the room, which proved to be a combination kitchen and living room. Hoaley set the lamp down on the nearby kitchen table and turned to survey Hardin with a frown. It was as if he were revising his first quick scrutiny of the young rancher.
“I don’t rent horses,” the old man said tersely. “I run ’em and sell ’em. But you can borrow one if you’ve got any real good use for it, and can tell me what it is and who you are.”
“I’ll explain as much as I can,” the tall young rancher said, with a touch of growing impatience. “It’s for you to judge how badly I need one of your horses and whether I can have it or not. I am Gage Hardin, from Great Lost Valley, in the mountains to the north. I guess you know the place. It’s an isolated district, only a few ranches there; only four of ’em to be exact. All of us have been annoyed for some time by a group of badmen who have moved in among us, bandits and rustlers who have been posing as honest cattlemen, and have been using their own ranch as a base of operations.
“They’ve been mostly giving their attention to me and my Circle Crossbar spread. They have set fire to my haystacks, poisoned what water springs they could, and that isn’t half. Last thing they’ve done is to butcher my cattle instead of rustling them, and now a day or two ago, they ran off and butchered my best drove of saddle-stock breeders. At least one of their outfit did—and then he got out of the Valley in a hurry. I had plenty of proof, from the boys of my own outfit who saw it, without being near enough to do anything about it, so I hightailed after the horse butcher.
“I trailed him to this desert. Less than an hour ago my partner in the Crossbar overtook me, to tell me that this same outfit had just killed one of my best men—a young bucko I looked on as a brother—and had taken the girl I am going to marry. Naturally I have to return with all possible speed to attend to that matter, as you can see, and more than ever I’ve got to take back with me the man I’ve come to get. I haven’t caught sight of him yet, but I’ve gone far enough to know he’s headed for the Devil’s Dance Floor—and he’s on a mountain-bred horse!”
“That’s enough,” old Hoaley said, cutting in before Gage Hardin could say any more. “I reckon I know why you want a desert-bred horse now. That’s the only kind I’ve got. Come along.”
The old man had been slipping into some clothes and pulling on boots as Hardin talked. Now he motioned to the rancher and Hardin followed him out of the house through the back door. From a peg on the wall just outside the kitchen door, Hoaley took down a lantern, lighted it, and led the way toward the barn.
Halfway across the yard, he turned as he saw the bulk of Hardin’s winded horse standing ground-hitched, and stopped a second, motioning toward it.
“That your mount there?” he asked, then chortled a little. “Asking fool question, ain’t I? I suppose it must be. I didn’t leave none there my ownself.”
“Yes, that’s mine,” Hardin told him. “Chaser, his name is. My own best mount. One of the finest horses bred in the mountains. And one of the fastest—on hard ground. But on desert sand, and tired as he is—”
“You reckon this fellow you’re chasin’ wouldn’t have had time to stop and get a desert-bred horse for himself anywhere?” the old man asked quickly but Hardin shook his head.
“It would scarcely be a matter of time,” he said, “though I’m pretty sure he hasn’t had such a chance.” He paused, waiting for Hoaley to slide back the ponderous door. “It’s a matter of ignorance with him, Mr. Hoaley. He doesn’t know what hard riding through the desert can do to a mountain horse. He’s always lived in the mountains—and his one idea right now is to get away as quick as he can, which he thinks he can do because he’s on a good fast horse.
“Anyway, I don’t believe he knows just what he is up against or what I’ll do when I find him, because he doesn’t know, as I know now, that he has been made to look responsible for everything by others who think they’ll get away with anything after I’ve found this one. All he knows is that he was told to get me as far away from home as possible, and maybe he doesn’t even know why—as I told you—because he doesn’t know what’s happened in the Valley since he left there after butchering my horses. The main thing now is that I’m the one who has to make speed.”
“Well, we’ll see that you make it,” the old man promised grimly.
He stepped into the barn and Hardin followed him. Old Hoaley walked on a short distance in the silence that was broken only by the restless stamping of the hoofs of stalled horses disturbed. He stopped, reached up and hung the lantern on a nail driven into the wall a couple of feet above his head. It threw a dim yellow glow over the barn floor and the stalls.
“Your man,” he said to Hardin, “is headed for a bad break
