Ride the Man Down by Luke; Short Read Free Book Online Page A

with satisfaction. Bide had been right yesterday when he said Ray had moved his stuff down onto Hatchet grass.
    A Hatchet hand who had ridden over for a confirming look pulled up beside Evarts and the other Hatchet hand. “They’re Cavanaugh’s, all right.”
    â€œGather ’em up,” Evarts ordered.
    For two hours he combed the surrounding country with his men in the steady rain, and when they met they had seventy head of cattle bunched on the wet flats.
    Evarts said, “Take them back to the corrals, and we’ll wait for, Cavanaugh to show up.”
    He and Will had agreed last night that it was impossible for Hatchet, undermanned and weak, to push every outfit off Hatchet grass. An easier way, and just as effective, would be to gather up all strange cattle, hold them at the ranch pasture, and face the men who came to redeem them.
    Of one of the men now he asked, “Who has that place over there in the hills closest—Kennedy?”
    â€œBack yonder,” the puncher said, nodding toward Indian Ridge.
    â€œHe’s all right, isn’t he?”
    â€œWes?” The puncher grinned. “He’s too tired to steal, I reckon.”
    â€œYou boys get along,” Evarts said. “I’ll catch up with you.”
    He turned his pony north toward the hills as his men got the bedraggled cattle moving toward home.
    A change had come over John Evarts since yesterday, and he scarcely knew what to make of it himself. He knew one thing however: for the first time since coming to Hatchet he had broken through Will Ballard’s reserve. He knew what had done it, too, knew the second it took place. It was when he had given his unspoken consent yesterday for Will to go ahead with the disarming of Bide and his men and the wrecking of the chuck wagon. Up to that moment he had been headed in one direction; at that moment, he swerved, and immediately Will Ballard was with him. It was that simple really.
    He shifted in the wet saddle and wondered why he did not find it uncomfortable. Presently he dropped down into the valley where the argument had taken place yesterday.
    He reined up and looked at it curiously. There was the chuck wagon on its side, its canvas vanished, its bed gutted, but its frame and two wheels holding together to mark the time the rain started and doused the fire. Pots, pans, and canned goods littered the ground.
    Evarts regarded it wonderingly, and his mild face, wet and flushed now in the cold rain, reflected a grim pleasure. He wanted to fix this lonely scene in his mind, because it was a milestone in his life. If Bide had been content with claiming Russian Springs instead of overplaying his hand by coming to Ray Cavanaugh’s help, things would have gone their worrisome way. For John Evarts wasn’t a coward and he knew he wasn’t. It was just that up to yesterday he had believed, against Will’s quiet contradiction, that Bide had a normal man’s hunger for land and power whipped a little raw by Phil Evarts’ victories. Now he knew Bide’s appetite went beyond that. He wanted Hatchet brought to its knees, so he could take it, and John was going to fight him—now.
    John had only a vague idea of where Kennedy’s place was and, feeling his way into this rough country, he came across a trail that swung a little west through the scrub timber. He followed its lift for three hours until it let onto a long meadow, at the end of which he could see a shack and outbuildings.
    As he approached Evarts looked around the place and grimaced. A brush corral, a pole-and-brush shed, and a crude log shack made up the place, and it was a dozen outfits like this that Marriner had enlisted to help him in his fight against Hatchet.
    Coming into the yard, Evarts saw a man step out onto the porch and lean against the post, watching him.
    Evarts reined up and said, “How are you, Kennedy?”
    â€œPretty good, Mr. Evarts,” Kennedy drawled. He had