Square Deal Sanderson | Page 8

at the foothills and stretched many miles, were other mountains; eastward the butte extended far, receding, irregular, its jagged walls forming a barrier; southwestward stretched the basin, in a gentle slope that was more noticeable to Sanderson now than it had been while he had been riding during the morning.
The land around the buildings was fertile, for here was water which could be utilized. The land over which Sanderson had been riding all morning, though, was not so fertile; it needed the water that the stream splashing out of the gorge could give it, with proper human manipulation.
All morning Sanderson's thoughts had dwelt upon the serious lack of water in the basin. Now his thoughts grew definitely troubled.
"There's goin' to be hell here--if this thing ain't handled right. The Double A has got lots of water. The other fellows will be wantin' it. They've got to have it."
Sanderson finished his inspection of the place. Then he spoke to Streak, and the big brown horse descended the slope of the hill, struck the level, and cantered slowly toward the ranch buildings near the river.
Sanderson urged the brown horse toward the largest building of the group, and as he rode he straightened in the saddle, rearranged his neckerchief and brushed some of the dust from his clothing--for at this minute his thoughts went to the girl--whom he now knew he had come to see.
Sanderson no longer tried to delude himself. A strange reluctance oppressed him, and a mighty embarrassment seized him; his face grew crimson beneath the coat of tan upon it, and his lungs swelled with a dread eagerness that had gripped him.
"I reckon I'm a damn fool!" he told himself as he forced Streak onward; "I'm comin' here, not knowin' why, but still a-comin'." He grinned, mirthlessly, but went forward.
Heading toward the ranchhouse, he passed a huge building--the stable. Swinging wide around one of its corners, he was about to ride onward toward the ranchhouse, when out of the corners of his eyes he saw some men and horses grouped in front of the stable.
He pulled Streak up with a jerk, swung the animal's head around and faced the group. There were five horses, saddled and bridled, standing in front of the stable. Sanderson's eyes noted that in one swift glance. But it was upon a man that Sanderson's gaze centered as Streak came to a halt.
The man dominated. There were other men standing in front of the stable--and two women. But the man upon whom Sanderson's gaze rested was the compelling figure.
He was big--rugged, muscular, massive. He saw Sanderson at about the instant Sanderson saw him, and he faced the latter, his chin thrusting, his lips pouting, his eyes gleaming with cold belligerence. He wore a gray woolen shirt, open at the throat, revealing a strong, wide chest.
He was a tawny giant, exuding a force and virility and a compelling magnetism that gripped one instantly. It affected Sanderson; the sight of the man caused Sanderson's eyes to glow with reluctant admiration.
And yet Sanderson disliked the man; he know instantly that this was Alva Dale, concerning whom the Drifter had spoken; and the glow died out of Sanderson's eyes and was replaced by the steady gleam of premeditated and deliberate hostility.
For an instant there was no word spoken; the glances of the two men met, crossed, and neither man's eyes wavered.
Then the big man spoke, gruffly, shortly, coldly: "What do you want?"
Sanderson smiled faintly. "You runnin' things here?" he said, slowly.
"Hell!" snarled the other, and stepped forward.
"Because if you are," resumed Sanderson, his voice bringing the big man to a halt, "you're the man I'm wantin' to do my gassin' to. If you ain't runnin' things, why, I reckon you ain't in the deal at all."
"Well, I'm runnin' things," sneered the other. "Tell me what you're wantin' or pull your freight out of here, pronto!"
"I'm sure some disturbed over my mistake," grinned Sanderson. "You couldn't be anybody but Bransford, or you wouldn't shoot off your gab that reckless. If you're Bransford, I'm apologizin' to you for talkin' back to you. But if you ain't Bransford, get off your hind legs an' talk like a man!"
The big man stiffened, and his eyes glittered malignantly. He moved his feet slightly apart and let his body fall into a crouch. He held that position, though, not moving a finger, when he saw a saturnine smile wreathe Sanderson's lips, noted the slight motion with which Sanderson edged Streak around a little, caught the slow, gradual lifting of Sanderson's shoulder--the right; which presaged the drawing of the heavy pistol that swung at Sanderson's right hip.
Both men held their positions for some seconds; and the slow, heavy breathing of the big man indicated his knowledge of the violence that impended--the violence that, plainly, Sanderson would not