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All at once a gun cracked, and the fight was over. Whether it had been fired deliberately or by accident, Ray was wounded. Still Locke waited, wondering what their reaction would be under such circumstances. That could have a vital bearing on Ray's future as well as on his own.

  The answer came without delay. One man had manhandled and all but defeated six, and the humiliation rankled. The leader, panting for breath, gave the order. "Get a rope over the limb of that nearest tree," he ordered. "We ain't wasting any more time!"

  Ray had been standing, his face a washed-out white like old snow, one hand clasped over his stomach. He seemed too surprised to move or speak, and now he crumpled to the ground. As the others stared indecisively, a furtive horror in their eyes, Locke stepped forward.

  "There'll be no lynching," he warned sharply. Dropping on his knees beside Ray, he added grimly, "If you haven't killed him already." He made a swift examination, while fear tightened his nerves. The wound was an ugly one, through the stomach. If it was not already fatal, it might easily prove so.

  Ray's heart still beat, and he set about applying such first aid measures as he had learned. The important thing was to check the bleeding, and he contrived partially to do so.

  Still intent on his task, he spoke sharply. "He needs to be on a bed. Find something that can be used for a stretcher, and we'll get him into the house. One of you burn leather to town; bring back Doc Bannon. If you can't find him, get Emery. But move!"

  Struck by the silence, he looked up then. He was alone with Ray. Sobered by his appearance, and by the realization that what they were doing was not only outside the law, but that they had in all likelihood murdered a man, the self-styled committee had undergone a change of heart. Taking advantage of his preoccupation, they had silently slipped away.

  That meant that none of them would be going for a doctor; none remained to lend a hand. Whatever was to be done was up to him. Grimly Locke lifted Ray in his arms, moving as gently as possible. He crossed the porch and kicked open the door. After seven years, he entered the old house again.

  8

  The house was dark. Perhaps his father was asleep. Deaf as he was, the elder Locke would probably not have heard the disturbance. He was also blind, so nearly helpless that he would be forced to wait until someone came to tell him what was going on.

  Such waiting could be agony, but it would have to be endured awhile; Ray had to come first. Despite the gloom, memory served Locke. He came to a bedroom and went in, lowering Ray onto the bed. There was a coal-oil lamp on the stand, and he had matches. Presently he had a light.

  The second step, like the first, was up to him. There was still fire in the kitchen range, and the tea kettle, singing softly, was half full of hot water. A sheet served for bandages. Locke cleaned the wound and bandaged it, making a compress to check the bleeding. He hesitated as to the next step. To ride to town and bring Bannon would take hours, and it might be as bad to leave Ray alone so long as to wait and watch over him, dispatching a messenger when the crew returned. Either way, the odds were long.

  There were good reasons for staying. There was still the possibility that the self-styled committee might return. Also, his father, if awake, would wonder why Ray did not come to tell him what was going on. Perhaps Ray Locke, Sr., would be able to sit with Ray while Orin made the trip for the doctor.

  Picking up the lamp, Locke started through the silent house with a mixed feeling of eagerness and dread. The elder Locke was a man of strong convictions and equally strong passions. He had always favored his younger son, probably because of the untimely loss of the boy's mother.

  He had been shocked and outraged by the news, which he had not questioned, that Orin Locke was a thief. Even the return of the supposedly stolen money had made no difference in his attitude. Dr. Emery had explained it as a defensive quirk of the mind; badly upset, Ray Locke, Sr. had probably saved his life by maintaining his belief in the son he loved best.

  Here was his room. The figure on the bed stirred, passing an uncertain hand before his eyes, as though the light bothered them. In that light, a closer look at the gaunt figure shocked Locke. The years of his exile had aged the older man far more than he had expected.

  His father sat up in bed, looking at him questioningly. It took a moment for Locke to remember, to realize that the eyes could not see. Then his voice came, and with the acute sense of the blind, he knew that it was not Ray who had entered.

  "Who is it?"

  Locke set the lamp carefully on the stand. It was as well to be direct.

  "It's me, Pa," he said. "Orin."

  He waited, uncertain what to expect, not even sure that the deaf ears had heard. Then, to his surprise, a white, veined hand groped toward him and a transfiguring smile spread across the wasted face. The voice was barely above a whisper.

  "Orin! Thank God, boy—you've come back! Come closer."

  Incredulity and relief mingled in Locke. This was the last thing that he had been prepared for. He hunkered beside the bed, taking his father's thin hand in his own.

  "Pa! You're not mad at me any more?" The years rolled back.

  The gray head on the pillow moved in slow negation. "No, Orin, I'm not mad—not any more, son. I know now that I never should have been. I want to ask your forgiveness, boy, for all the things I said and thought about you. I guess I was kind of crazy, somehow. I should have known better. I found out the truth—tonight."

  Something had happened tonight, before Orin came, before the vigilantes arrived. That would account for the strangeness in Ray, his subdued manner when they had first questioned him, perhaps even his admissions that he might be a thief.

  "I've been doing a lot of thinking, lately," his father went on. "I've had lots of time for that, and I began to realize that I'd been blinded by prejudice, which is a lot worse than not being able to see the sun. It came to me, when I really thought about matters, that a lot of things that I sort of took for granted just didn't fit. I guess I never did give you a square deal, Orin. You always were a good boy, and I want you to know that I remember. Tonight I've been lyin' here, praying that you'd come, so that I could tell you—before it was too late."

  Locke was deeply moved. "It's all right, Pa," he muttered. "Don't blame yourself. I understand."

  "I'm glad you do, Orin. Ray sure fooled me. I guess he more or less fooled himself, too. Sometimes that's easy to do. He ain't all bad—there's some good in him. I heard you were back, and that you were the new sheriff. Folks wouldn't give you a job like that unless they thought you were a good man and had a good record. So I got to wondering, and tonight I asked Ray. I told him I wanted the truth, and what I had figured out."

  Old Ray Locke was silent awhile, a shadow of pain across his face. Then, gathering strength, he went on, "Ray gave it to me finally—said it was the way I'd guessed. He admitted that he'd gambled and stolen that money, not you. You paid the debt and took the blame, partly for him, but mostly for me, didn't you? I never guessed that you thought as much of your old dad as all that."

  "You always meant a lot to me," Locke said huskily, thinking of the days when a real comradeship had existed between them.

  "I sure was a fool to believe such things about you, Orin, and to treat you the way I did. I wanted you to know that. I've been tryin' to fight down the pain around my heart—to keep alive until I could tell you—"

  His voice faltered. The fingers clutched convulsively at Locke's hand, then grew abruptly lax. Startled, Locke looked closer, feeling for the pulse. There was none, but there was a look of peace on the wasted face.

  Locke moved back. For the moment he had almost forgotten Ray. Now the problem was intensified. There was still no sound of any of the crew returning, no one to help. But the need was ever greater.

  There was no noticeable change in Ray's condition. He lay unconscious, almost like a dead man. Orin would have to leave him, have to ride and find Bannon. Since Ray had been man enough finally to admit the truth, to clear Orin in their father's eyes, it was ea
sier to think kindly of him.

  Locke blew out the light and turned toward the door, then stopped at a sound. Were some of the crew returning at last?

  There was no repetition of the sound, nothing to break the stillness of the night. Standing, his muscles tense, Locke had a feeling something was wrong. Then he caught the smell of smoke, followed by the crackle of flames. The drift of smoke came from the rear of the house. Crimson-tinted light made sudden eerie shadows against a window, and in the reflection he saw a pile of brush, stacked on the porch against the door, now burning with sudden violence. That indicated that the wood must have been soaked with coal oil.

  Locke raced along a dark hallway toward the front of the house, but even before he reached it another growing patch of light indicated what he would find. A second pile of brush had been shoved against the door and also lit. A third blaze was at the side of the house, all three spreading with terrifying speed.

  Rage threatened to choke him, but Locke fought it down, for this was the time for a cool head. Was this the work of that self-styled vigilance committee, or was another bunch responsible? In any case, the perpetrators didn't intend that anyone should leave here alive.

  There was just one thing to be thankful for. His father, ill and blind moments before, was mercifully beyond any hurt from the flames. But with Ray and himself it was different.

  He must get outside, with Ray, and soon. Moving his brother again would not be good for the injury, but it was not a question of choice. Locke ran back to the bedroom, raised the window, then picked Ray up in his arms.

  The flames were close enough on either side to give plenty of light for any watchers. As he started to climb out the window, a bullet shattered the glass almost beside his head.

  Locke dodged instinctively, flinching away from the impact of the bullet. That shot had not been intended as a warning, to drive him back and hold him in the burning house; it had been aimed to kill. But the flickering, uncertain light and his own movements had caused a near miss.

  Inside, he hesitated, feeling a frenzy of despair. If he had been alone he could have chanced it, running fast, shooting back at whoever was out there. The odds would be against him, but there would be at least a fighting chance.

  With each second of delay the chances of failure grew, as the fire spread. Not only would it trap him, but as the light blotted up the last patches of shadow, the gunman out there would have a perfect target.

  The killer would need only to keep back in the shadows, beyond the fringe of light, to pick Orin off at leisure if he tried to run for it.

  Alone, he would have had a chance; but he wasn't alone. To move falteringly with the burden of Ray in his arms was to be shot down. To remain was for both of them to die. Yet he couldn't desert Ray in this extremity. Ray had played the part of a man tonight, and had made at least partial atonement for the past.

  This was a strange homecoming. The old house was doomed. Coolly he weighed the odds. He might try it alone; if there was a single gunman, and he had a lot of luck, Orin might be able to locate him and down him as bullets were poured at himself. But that was in the event of a single gunman. There were probably several; there had been six in the vigilance committee.

  Even if there was only one, and he got him, it would be too late by then to return and get Ray out. The flames were moving at whirlwind speed.

  It was beginning to get hot, as the three fires, seeking to join in one holocaust, began to make themselves felt. The house was old and as dry as bleached bones on the prairie.

  Locke moved back to the bullet-shattered window. He would have preferred another bullet to waiting for the flames. As though anxious to oblige, another one whined past, so close that he could hear it. The killer was over-eager, but there was nothing to shoot back at, no visible target.

  He gathered Ray in his arms again and waited; the light was now so strong that they were clearly outlined. There was no fresh shot. What did happen was the last thing that he had expected, on a par with the other events of the wild night.

  A figure on horseback came galloping, straight toward and through the closing ring of flame, her hair catching and reflecting the light in mad disarray. It was Reta Cable. Her horse fought the bit, hating the flames, but she forced it ahead with a superb demonstration of horsemanship.

  Quickly, Locke stepped outside. Before, he had been partially sheltered by the walls, but now the heat beat with a furnace breath. Seeing and recognizing them, Reta slipped from the saddle, holding to her terrified horse, shouting for him to get on it with Ray.

  There was no time for argument, so Locke obeyed. Mounting with a burden in his arms, while the horse tried to plunge, was all that he could manage. There had been no more shooting since Reta had appeared. Probably, while she remained, there would be none.

  Settled in the saddle, he held Ray with one arm and took the reins with the other, holding the horse to a steady pace as they dodged back through the all but closing wall of fire, which seemed to make a final effort to bar the way. Reta ran alongside, limping, but remaining there, Locke realized, to give them the protection of her presence.

  They passed the fire line and came into the merciful coolness of the night. Locke could scarcely see Reta's face, but it was mixed with as many emotions as tore through himself—apprehension, anxiety, anger.

  "What's happened to Ray?" she gasped. "Is he hurt bad?"

  "Shot," Locke said succinctly. "He's alive."

  Reta came closer, her heart in her eyes. If there had been any doubt before as to how she felt, it was gone now.

  "I was to meet him tonight," she explained, gasping. "He didn't come, and then I heard a shot. It seemed to be from off this way, so I came to investigate. When I came in sight, I saw a light. The fires grew so fast that I knew something awful was happening. Then I saw you and Ray."

  She had risked her life for Ray's sake, knowing that most men, even the most desperate outlaws, would not shoot at a woman.

  Locke was puzzled at the savagery of the attack. It seemed unlikely that any of the original six vigilantes could have been responsible. This was more like the work of one man, though that didn't really make sense.

  And why this sudden, frantic desire to murder Ray, at any cost?

  There was a lot to which he had no answer, but Locke intended to find out. For the present, however, it was necessary to get Ray where he could rest undisturbed, and to get a doctor to look after him. Reta solved the first problem.

  "We'll take him to the Three Sevens," she said, and then a thought struck her, and she looked quickly at him, her face losing its color. "Merciful God! Your father—I just remembered him!"

  "The fire won't hurt him," Locke assured her. "He died before it was set."

  "I'm sorry," Reta murmured, and her voice told how deeply moved she was. "I didn't know, and for the moment I forgot."

  "You saved Ray, not to mention me," Locke said. "It was Pa's heart. And a lucky thing, the way it's turning out."

  They went on in silence, Reta walking, leading the horse. Her ankle did not seem to bother her too much. Locke had both hands full, holding Ray and trying to carry him as comfortably as possible. Riding in such fashion was wearying, and hard on an injured man. There was still the possibility that a killer who had gone to such lengths might have second thoughts and go the rest of the way; that at any moment an ambush bullet might whip from the darkness.

  But nothing happened. It had never seemed a great distance across to the Three Sevens, but tonight the miles were multiplied, before they saw a light in a window. Reta stumbled ahead, her limp worse, to make ready and to dispatch one of the crew to town for the doctor.

  Grant Cable was not at home. He arrived simultaneously with Fletcher Bannon, and the latter set to work at once. Locke had done a good job, and there had been no fresh bleeding. Ray was still unconscious, scarcely breathing. Locke did not need to be told how bad it was.

  Cable joined him as he waited in another room. The rancher's face was grave.r />
  "This is bad business, Locke," he said. "Very bad."

  "You don't know the half of it," Locke returned, then looked sharply at him. "Or do you?"

  "I'm afraid I don't understand you."

  "Probably you don't; I hope not. Your daughter's true blue, Cable, and you should be proud of her. On the other hand, Steele is involved in this—and you're mixed up with him."

  Cable met his challenging gaze steadily. "I know what you're thinking," he conceded. "But I gave you my word, Locke, regarding what has happened tonight, I don't know what it's all about."

  Though he was the acknowledged head of the lawless element, Locke did not doubt his word. There was a streak of decency in him, like the lean in bacon. The manner in which he had raised Reta was proof of that.

  "If you say so, that's good enough for me," Locke conceded. "I rode out to the Wagon Wheel tonight, arriving to find six men there. I stayed out of sight a while and watched and listened. They said they were vigilantes, and they called Ray to the door. They had dug up what they called evidence, loot from different robberies, cached or planted in the barn. I don't doubt that they found it, all right. It seemed that Steele had sent them and told them just where to look to find the evidence."

  Cable's eyes clouded as he understood the implications. He had known of the rivalry between Steel and Ray Locke, and the cause of it. That Steele would use the newly formed committee of vigilance as an instrument for his private quarrels was startling, but there seemed no doubt that he had done so.

  "They questioned Ray about it, then were going to lynch him," Locke went on. "He put up a fight and got shot—probably accidentally. They were still in the mood to string him up; only I stepped in then." His eyes probed the other man's. "What about these vigilantes? What do you know of them?"

  Cable hesitated. He was profoundly shocked and disturbed, and after a moment he looked up again. "I don't blame you for feeling as you do, Locke," he conceded. "It's a dirty business. As for the vigilantes, I helped organize them, and so did Steele. Our idea was that they were going to organize anyway, so we figured that we'd be better off if we were in with them, instead of on the outside, with them working against us. But I give you my word that I knew nothing of this other. If Steele is using them for a private feud—and it sounds that way—then he's doing it all on his own. I wouldn't do such a thing, particularly against you Lockes. It would be doubly crazy, after your agreement to work with us—"