who specialized in doing detective work around stockyards. He had talked the matter over with Niland, and they had agreed it might be illuminating to have the man look into Fear Langdell's shipments as they arrived, more especially studying the flesh side of the brands after the steers had been skinned.
He walked toward the station house, contemplating the utter desolation of this pin point upon the map. A dripping water tank dominated Ysabel Junction, which was half the reason for there being a railroad stop here at all. The other half rested on the presence of a long series of cattle pens and loading chutes that ran the full length of about eighteen hundred yards of siding. There were also three bilious colored section shanties, now quite empty of life, and a few flimsy sheds. And this was the scene. Steve ambled through the open door of the station house with an increasing sense of weariness. The telegraph clacked crisply through the droning air, but when he passed from the waiting room into the agent's combined office and living quarters he found nobody present.
"A large and busy life," he reflected, easing himself into a chair. "I'd go nuts if I didn't have nothin' to do but watch the trains pass by. This and sheep herdin' is my idea of absolute zero in human activity. Now I wonder where that gazook has done gone and lost himself?"
He rolled a cigarette and tilted the chair against the wall, considering it easier to wait than to go out and shout. A fly buzzed around his head, and he closed his eyes. The telegraph chattered companionably for a while, then fell silent. The world was large, and there was plenty of time, a seasonable share of which slid painlessly by before Steve took cognizance of it. The telegraph rattled again, and though Steve knew absolutely nothing about Morse code, he thought he detected a regular sequence in the call. The reiteration of it made him slightly uneasy; rising, he walked along the walls and studied the pictures tacked profusely thereon, most of them women out of magazines. Some had clothes on.
"Mama," grinned Steve, knocking back his hat, "come save your son! This fella has got taste."
After a while even the undeniable novelty of art appreciation waned. Steve considered. "His hat's here, his coat's here, and so's his gun. There's his pipe. Well, I guess he's got more time than I have, so I better look. Funny thing, but the less a man's got to do the harder he is to find."
He went back through the waiting room and stepped to the cindered runway. Not a soul stood against the hard bright day. Outside of the Mexican houses and the open sheds there was no place of refuge available to the agent. Steve began to resent the cosmic indifference sweltering around him. He opened his mouth and emitted a strident bellow.
"Hey!"
No reply. Not even an echo. It appeared there was no power sufficiently strong to dent the overwhelming vacantness. Steve considered the water tank thoughtfully. "Wonder if he climbed up there to take a bath and couldn't get out? HEY!"
He swore mildly and started for the Mexican houses. "Well, if I got to find him, I got to find him. But the type of help this railroad company employs shore is scandalous." His boots ground audibly into the cinders, then struck soft sand. The first Mexican house lay a hundred yards down the track, while a short fifty feet to the left stood the gaunt ribs of the first loading pen. Steers reached for his tobacco and had grasped the package in his fingers when a shaft of hard cold warning plunged through the lethargy of his mind. His hand froze to the tobacco sack, his feet faltered. But an impulse raced like lightning to his lagging muscles, and he pressed on, keeping the same tempo. There could be no turning back to the shelter of the station house now. He was a broad, fair target, and no safety presented itself short of the loading pen, which in that same interval had drawn a thousand miles off. Sweat prickled his skin; then he was cold and nerveless. He felt his face cracking under the strain of maintaining it lazily indifferent. And the end window of the nearest Mexican shanty stared at him like the eye of death.
"Trapped, yuh lousy fool!" he cried to himself. "One move out of place and yore dead as a last year's snake skin! My God, why don't yuh think! Now, now—keep goin'—a little more—a little more! Don't run for it yet! Don't—run—for—it—yet!" And while he kept cautioning himself and throttling the impulse to panic it seemed he was standing dead still. The apertures between the corral bars were like so many mouths jeering at him. The silence of Ysabel Junction had drawn to an awful thinness, ready to burst with a roar like the crack of doom when Dann's gun spoke. And for every yard he gained to safety there was also a yard shortened between himself and the unseen weapon.
A small voice inside his brain said distinctly, "Now!" Steve leaped aside, lunged for the corral, leaped again, and heard a gun's fury booming out of the section house. He fell to the ground, rolled against the base of the corral, sucking dust into his lungs. Bullets ripped madly through the posts, knocked off splinters, sent up sand sprays a foot beyond his head. Steve weathered through it. The shots ran out. Dann cried furious from the shanty, "Yuh wanted this, Steers! Stand up and get it!"
"No more shells in the rifle," thought Steve and jumped to his feet. Dann leaped through the door of the shanty and crossed the open area to the side of the corral before Steve could set himself for an answer. The outlaw had resorted to his revolver; he sent another bullet over the compound but it ripped the wood behind Steve.
"That's one," muttered Steve and retreated to the back line of the corrals. Dann was retreating also, ducking under the loading chutes. Steve paralleled him. Dann stopped and dropped down. Steve did likewise.
"If he's tryin' to draw me into them corrals," grunted Steve, tasting sweat, "he's got another guess comin'. But—"
He crawled on and came to a narrow alley. Dann was waiting there and opened up again. Steve rolled back. "That's numbers two and three—too close."
"Steers—I'll meet yuh out in the open, at yonder end!"
Steers said nothing. He passed his arm into the open, drew the fourth bullet, and heard Dann retreating again on the run.
"Tryin' to get far enough off to load—damn him!" He delayed only a moment longer, or until he sighted Dann through the bars. Rising, he took the alleyway on a gallop. Dann whirled back, fired, and came to a stand. Steers thought, "He's got me hipped again. He's all set and aimed. Well, what of it?" And he fell out of the alley. Dann's last bullet ripped through the fullness of Steve's coat; and then Steve stopped and faced Dann directly.
"Steers," said Dann, throwing open the cylinder of his gun, "I'm out of cartridges. If yuh want to be a man—"
"Yeah?" was Steve's toneless answer. He lifted his weapon, aimed, and fired.
Dann trembled, fell to his knees. He tried to hold himself up by his hands. They gave way under him. He struck on a shoulder point and tipped to his side. Steve walked up, looking at the outlaw without the trace of feeling, with no more compassion or consideration, than he would have given to a fallen leaf.
"Dyin', Dann?"
"Cashin' in—by God!" breathed Dann. All the ruddiness faded before that final gray of death.
"Good. It won't be necessary to waste another shot. Die quick. I despise lookin' at yuh."
"Framed," coughed Dann. "Me. I made a mistake. Listen—I'll square it with Lou Redmain. Listen. He's goin' to burn Sundown."
"When?" said Steve. But Dann was dead, and as his muscles gave way and he settled on his stomach he seemed to shake his head.
Steve turned around. The station agent stood half in and half out of the Mexican shanty. Catching the scene he ran toward the station, calling back, "Dann held me in there—and that condemned key's been tappin' for half an hour!"
Going by the shanty,
