The Rangeland Avenger | Page 5

late in the afternoon, and a group instantly formed
around him on the veranda of the old hotel. Four Pines had indeed
spread the story, and the crowd wanted verification. He replied as
smoothly as he could. Hal Sinclair had broken his leg in a fall from his
horse, and they had bound it up as well as they could. They had tied
him on his horse, but he could not endure the pain of travel. They
stopped, nearly dying from thirst. Mortification set in. Hal Sinclair died

in forty-eight hours after the halt.
Four Pines had accepted the tale. There had been more deadly stories
than this connected with the desert. But Pop Hansen, the proprietor,
drew Lowrie to one side.
"Keep out of Riley's way for a while. He's all het up. He was fond of
Hal, you know, and he takes this bad. Got an ugly way of asking
questions, and--"
"The truth is the truth," protested Lowrie. "Besides--"
"I know--I know. But jest make yourself scarce for a couple of days."
"I'll keep on going, Pop. Thanks!"
"Never mind, ain't no hurry. Riley's out of town and won't be back for a
day or so. But, speaking personal, I'd rather step into a nest of rattlers
than talk to Riley, the way he's feeling now."
Lowrie climbed slowly up the stairs to his room, thinking very hard. He
knew the repute of Riley Sinclair, and he knew the man to be even
worse than reputation, one of those stern souls who exact an eye for an
eye--and even a little more.
Once in his room he threw himself on his bed. After all there was no
need for a panic. No one would ever learn the truth. To make surety
doubly sure he would start early in the dawn and strike out for far trails.
The thought had hardly come to him when he dismissed it. A flight
would call down suspicion on him, and Riley Sinclair would be the first
to suspect. In that case distance would not save him, not from that hard
and tireless rider.
To help compose his thoughts he went to the washstand and bathed his
hot face. He was drying himself when there was a tap on the door.
"Can I come in?" asked a shrill voice.
He answered in the affirmative, and a youngster stepped into the room.
"You're Lowrie?"
"Yep."
"They's a gent downstairs wants you to come down and see him."
"Who is it?"
"I dunno. We just moved in from Conway. I can point him out to you
on the street."
Lowrie followed the boy to the window, and there, surrounded by half
a dozen serious-faced men, stood Riley Sinclair, tall, easy, formidable.
The sight of Sinclair filled Lowrie with dismay. Pushing a silver coin

into the hand of the boy, he said: "Tell him--tell him--I'm coming right
down."
As soon as the boy disappeared, Lowrie ran to the window which
opened on the side of the house. When he looked down his hope fled.
At one time there had been a lean-to shed running along that side of the
building. By the roof of it he could have got to the ground unseen. Now
he remembered that it had been torn down the year before; there was a
straight and perilous drop beneath the window. As for the stairs, they
led almost to the front door of the building. Sinclair would be sure to
see him if he went down there.
Of the purpose of the big man he had no doubt. His black guilt was so
apparent to his own mind that it seemed impossible that the keen eyes
of Sinclair had not looked into the story of Hal's broken leg and seen a
lie. Besides, the invitation through a messenger seemed a hollow lure.
Sinclair wished to fight him and kill him before witnesses who would
attest that Lowrie had been the first to go for his gun.
Fight? Lowrie looked down at his hand and found that the very wrist
was quivering. Even at his best he felt that he would have no chance.
Once he had seen Sinclair in action in Lew Murphy's old saloon, had
seen Red Jordan get the drop, and had watched Sinclair shoot his man
deliberately through the shoulder. Red Jordan was a cripple for life.
Suppose he walked boldly down, told his story, and trusted to the skill
of his lie? No, he knew his color would pale if he faced Sinclair.
Suppose he refused to fight? Better to die than be shamed in the
mountain country.
He hurried to the window for another look into the street, and he found
that Sinclair had disappeared. Lowrie's knees buckled under his weight.
He went over to the bed, with