The Rangeland Avenger

The Rangeland Avenger

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Title: The Rangeland Avenger
Author: Max Brand
Release Date: January 5, 2004 [EBook #10601]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
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THE RANGELAND AVENGER
BY MAX BRAND

Originally published in 1922 in Western Story Magazine under the title
of THREE WHO PAID, written under the pseudonym of George Owen
Baxter, and subsequently in book form under the title THE

RANGELAND AVENGER in 1924.

1
Of the four men, Hal Sinclair was the vital spirit. In the actual labor of
mining, the mighty arms and tireless back Of Quade had been a
treasure. For knowledge of camping, hunting, cooking, and all the lore
of the trail, Lowrie stood as a valuable resource; and Sandersen was the
dreamy, resolute spirit, who had hoped for gold in those mountains
until he came to believe his hope. He had gathered these three stalwarts
to help him to his purpose, and if he lived he would lead yet others to
failure.
Hope never died in this tall, gaunt man, with a pale-blue eye the color
of the horizon dusted with the first morning mist. He was the very spirit
of lost causes, full of apprehensions, foreboding, superstitions. A hunch
might make him journey five hundred miles; a snort of his horse could
make him give up the trail and turn back.
But Hal Sinclair was the antidote for Sandersen. He was still a boy at
thirty--big, handsome, thoughtless, with a heart as clean as new snow.
His throat was so parched by that day's ride that he dared not open his
lips to sing, as he usually did. He compromised by humming songs new
and old, and when his companions cursed his noise, he contented
himself with talking softly to his horse, amply rewarded when the pony
occasionally lifted a tired ear to the familiar voice.
Failure and fear were the blight on the spirit of the rest. They had found
no gold worth looking at twice, and, lingering too long in the search,
they had rashly turned back on a shortcut across the desert. Two days
before, the blow had fallen. They found Sawyer's water hole nearly dry,
just a little pool in the center, with caked, dead mud all around it. They
drained that water dry and struck on. Since then the water famine had
gained a hold on them; another water hole had not a drop in it. Now
they could only aim at the cool, blue mockery of the mountains before
them, praying that the ponies would last to the foothills.
Still Hal Sinclair could sing softly to his horse and to himself; and,
though his companions cursed his singing, they blessed him for it in
their hearts. Otherwise the white, listening silence of the desert would
have crushed them; otherwise the lure of the mountains would have
maddened them and made them push on until the horses would have

died within five miles of the labor; otherwise the pain in their slowly
swelling throats would have taken their reason. For thirst in the desert
carries the pangs of several deaths--death from fire, suffocation, and
insanity.
No wonder the three scowled at Hal Sinclair when he drew his
revolver.
"My horse is gun-shy," he said, "but I'll bet the rest of you I can drill a
horn off that skull before you do."
Of course it was a foolish challenge. Lowrie was the gun expert of the
party. Indeed he had reached that dangerous point of efficiency with
firearms where a man is apt to reach for his gun to decide an argument.
Now Lowrie followed the direction of Sinclair's gesture. It was the
skull of a steer, with enormous branching horns. The rest of the
skeleton was sinking into the sands.
"Don't talk fool talk," said Lowrie. "Save your wind and your
ammunition. You may need 'em for yourself, son!"
That grim suggestion made Sandersen and Quade shudder. But a grin
spread on the broad, ugly face of Lowrie, and Sinclair merely shrugged
his shoulders.
"I'll try you for a dollar."
"Nope."
"Five dollars?"
"Nope."
"You're afraid to try, Lowrie!"
It was a smiling challenge, but Lowrie flushed. He had a childish pride
in his skill with weapons.
"All right, kid. Get ready!"
He brought a Colt smoothly into his hand and balanced it dexterously,
swinging it