Square Deal Sanderson | Page 4

fair targets for Sanderson.
The men had brought Sanderson into the fight, and he no longer had any scruples. He was grimly enjoying himself, and he laid for an hour, flat on his stomach behind the rock, his rifle muzzle projecting between two medium-sized stones near the base of the large rock, his eye trained along the barrel, watching the crest of the hill on which the men were concealed.
The first man was dead. Sanderson could see him, prone, motionless, rigid.
Evidently the two men were doubtful. Certainly they were cautious. But at the end of an hour their curiosity must have conquered them, for Sanderson, still alert and watchful, saw a dark blot slowly appear from around the bulging side of a rock.
The blot grew slowly larger, until Sanderson saw that it appeared to be the crown of a hat. That it was a hat he made certain after a few seconds of intent scrutiny; and that it was a hat without any head in it he was also convinced, for he held his fire. An instant later the hat was withdrawn. Then it came out again, and was held there for several seconds.
Sanderson grinned. "I reckon they think I'm a yearlin'," was his mental comment.
There was another long wait. Sanderson could picture the two men arguing the question that must deeply concern them: "Which shall be the first to show himself?"
"I'd bet a million they're drawin' straws," grinned Sanderson.
Whether that method decided the question Sanderson never knew. He knew, however, that a hat was slowly coming into view around a side of the rock, and he was positive that this time there was a head in the hat. He could not have told now he knew there was a head in the hat, but that was his conviction.
The hat appeared slowly, gradually taking on definite shape in Sanderson's eyes, until, with a cold grin, he noted some brown flesh beneath it, and a section of dark beard.
Sanderson did not fire, then. The full head followed the hat, then came a man's shoulders. Nothing happened. The man stepped from behind the rock and stood out in full view. Still nothing happened.
The man grinned.
"I reckon we got him, Cal," he said. His voice was gloating. "I reckoned I'd got him; he tumbled sorta offish--like it had got him in the guts. That's what I aimed for, anyway. I reckon he done suffered some, eh?" He guffawed, loudly.
Then the other man appeared. He, too, was grinning.
"I reckon we'll go see. If you got him where you said you got him, I reckon he done a lot of squirmin'. Been followin' us--you reckon?"
They descended the slope of the hill, still talking. Evidently, Sanderson's silence had completely convinced them that they had killed him.
But halfway down the hill, one of the men, watching the rock near Sanderson as he walked, saw the muzzle of Sanderson's rifle projecting from between the two rocks.
For the second time since the appearance of Sanderson on the scene the man discharged his rifle from the hip, and for the second time he missed the target.
Sanderson, however, did not miss. His rifle went off, and the man fell without a sound. The other, paralyzed from the shock, stood for an instant, irresolute, then, seeming to discover from where Sanderson's bullet had come, he raised his rifle.
Sanderson's weapon crashed again. The second man shuddered, spun violently around, and pitched headlong down the slope.
Sanderson came from behind the rock, grinning mirthlessly. He knew where his bullets had gone, and he took no precautions when he emerged from his hiding place and approached the men.
"That's all, for you, I reckon," he said.
Leaving them, he went to the top of the hill and bent over the other man. A bullet fairly in the center of the man's forehead told eloquently of the manner of his death.
The man's face was not of so villainous a cast as the others. There were marks of a past refinement on it; as there were also lines of dissipation.
"I reckon this guy was all wool an' a yard wide, in his time," said Sanderson; "but from the looks of him he was tryin' to live it down. Now, we'll see what them other guys was goin' through his clothes for."
Sanderson knelt beside the man. From an inner pocket of the latter's coat he drew a letter--faded and soiled, as though it had been read much. There was another letter--a more recent one, undoubtedly, for the paper was in much better condition.
Sanderson looked at both envelopes, and finally selected the most soiled one. He hesitated an instant, and then withdrew the contents and read:
MR. WILLIAM BRANSFORD,
Tucson, Arizona.
DEAR BROTHER WILL: The last time I heard from you, you were in Tucson. That was ten years ago, and it seems an awful long