The Rangeland Avenger | Page 7

rein which he preferred, he sent the cow pony down
the slope. It was plain that the mustang hated its rider; it was equally
plain that Sinclair was in perfect touch with his horse, what with the
stern wrist pulling against the bit, and the spurs keeping the pony up on
it. In spite of his bulk he was not heavy in the saddle, for he kept in
tune with the gait of the horse, with that sway of the body which
lightens burdens. A capable rider, he was so judicious that he seemed
reckless.

Leaving the mountainside, he struck at a trot across a tableland. Some
mysterious instinct enabled him to guide the pony without glancing
once at the ground; for Sinclair, with his head high, was now carefully
examining the house before him. Twice a cluster of trees obscured it,
and each time, as it came again more closely in view, the eye of Riley
Sinclair brightened with certainty. At length, nodding slightly to
express his conviction, he sent the pony into the shelter of a little grove
overlooking the house. From this shelter, still giving half his attention
to his objective, he ran swiftly over his weapons. The pair of long
pistols came smoothly into his hands, to be weighed nicely, and have
their cylinders spun. Then the rifle came out of its case, and its
magazine was looked to thoroughly before it was returned.
This done, the rider seemed in no peculiar haste to go on. He merely
pushed the horse into a position from which he commanded all the
environs of the house; then he sat still as a hawk hovering in a windless
sky.
Presently the door of the little shack opened, and two men came out
and walked down the path toward the road, talking earnestly. One was
as tall as Riley Sinclair, but heavier; the other was a little, slight man.
He went to a sleepy pony at the end of the path and slowly gathered the
reins. Plainly he was troubled, and apparently it was the big man who
had troubled him. For now he turned and cast out his hand toward the
other, speaking rapidly, in the manner of one making a last appeal.
Only the murmur of that voice drifted up to Riley Sinclair, but the loud
laughter of the big man drove clearly to him. The smaller of the two
mounted and rode away with dejected head, while the other remained
with arms folded, looking after him.
He seemed to be chuckling at the little man, and indeed there was cause,
for Riley had never seen a rider so completely out of place in a saddle.
When the pony presently broke into a soft lope it caused the elbows of
the little man to flop like wings. Like a great clumsy bird he winged his
way out of view beyond the edge of the hilltop.
The big man continued to stand with his arms folded, looking in the
direction in which the other had disappeared; he was still shaking with
mirth. When he eventually turned, Riley Sinclair was riding down on
him at a sharp gallop. Strangers do not pass ungreeted in the mountain
desert. There was a wave of the arm to Riley, and he responded by

bringing his horse to a trot, then reining in close to the big man. At
close hand he seemed even larger than from a distance, a burly figure
with ludicrously inadequate support from the narrow-heeled riding
boots. He looked sharply at Riley Sinclair, but his first speech was for
the hard-ridden pony.
"You been putting your hoss through a grind, I see, stranger."
The mustang had slumped into a position of rest, his sides heaving.
"Most generally," said Riley Sinclair, "when I climb into a saddle it
ain't for pleasure--it's to get somewhere."
His voice was surprisingly pleasant. He spoke very deliberately, so that
one felt occasionally that he was pausing to find the right words. And,
in addition to the quality of that deep voice, he had an impersonal way
of looking his interlocutor squarely in the eye, a habit that pleased the
men of the mountain desert. On this occasion his companion responded
at once with a grin. He was a younger man than Riley Sinclair, but he
gave an impression of as much hardness as Riley himself.
"Maybe you'll be sliding out of the saddle for a minute?" he asked.
"Got some pretty fair hooch in the house."
"Thanks, partner, but I'm due over to Sour Creek by night. I guess that's
Sour Creek over the hill?"
"Yep. New to these parts?"
"Sort of new."
Riley's noncommittal attitude was by no means displeasing to the larger
man. His rather brutally handsome face continued to light, as if he were