Ringo's mournful face. "You boys have been snowed in so long you more than deserve a night out," he told them. He gave them a hundred dollars. "That's an advance on your salary," he said. "Look me up if that runs out. I'll get you a room at the hotel. Try to stay out of Lon Peters' jail and be sober in the morning. We may have company going back to Wagon."
They stopped by the hotel and registered. Josh had eaten his supper, so they walked over to the Nugget. Curly and Ringo, a bottle at their elbow, were already in a poker game with a trio of punchers from Triangle. Joe was beaming behind the bar. "Don't know how long it will last, but business is plumb good tonight. If the weather holds, maybe I can keep out of bankruptcy for a little while."
They had plenty of opportunity to talk over the weather and range conditions since cowmen were in town from every brand on the range. All told the same story: they had been forced to use precious hay; losses in some sections ran as high as twenty or thirty percent; and all agreed that unless they got a break in the weather, hay would be more precious than gold by spring.
Kirby went over to the table where his punchers were gleefully trimming the Triangle hands. "When those chips get so high you can't see over them, cash in," he told Curly. He and Josh had a nightcap out of Joe's black bottle and made for the hotel.
There was little wind, and the air was cold and dry as they tramped the short distance to the hotel. There was no moon, but bright stars were occasionally blotted out by high, thin clouds.
So many ranchers and their crews were taking advantage of the good weather that the hotel was filled and they could get only one room. "I can see where I don't get any sleep tonight," Kirby mourned. "And if your snoring is up to snuff, no one in the hotel will sleep."
Josh just grinned. "Can't rightly say if I snore. Never could stay awake to find out."
Kirby pushed open the door to their room and held a match while Josh found the lamp and lighted it. Yawning, he shrugged out of his buckskin jacket and sat down on the side of the bed to pull off his boots. "Sent these blasted things back to Denver, but they still pinch." He bent over.
That movement saved his life. As he bent over there was the tinkle of falling glass, and a framed lithograph on the wall directly back of where his head would have been had he been if he had not bent over shattered in a thousand pieces. The echoing crack of a rifle rang dimly through the noise of falling glass.
In an instant Josh had doused the lamp and jumped to the window. His Colt spat as he snapped a shot at a dark figure running between two buildings across the street. He peered intently into the darkness, then turned anxiously to his boss. "You hurt?"
"No, just scared. That one was a little too close."
"Too close is right. May be wrong, but I'd swear I winged that drygulcher. Looked to me like he stumbled some. Could be he just tripped over something in the dark, though."
Hard knuckles hammered a tattoo on the door. Josh raised his gun, and Kirby covered him from the wall. "Come in," he called. The door swung open, and Sheriff Peters ambled into the room, the hotel owner looking anxiously over his shoulder.
The sheriff sighed. "Might have known it was you, boy. You and Josh havin' a little midnight target shootin'?" His quick glance had already taken in the broken window and shattered picture. "Or was somebody usin' you for a target?"
"Twice in one day is too much, Lon. Looks like I'm downright unpopular."
Peters walked to the bullet-shattered window. "Must have been standin' in those shadows yonder. My boots are killin' me, but I'll take a look." The hotel man followed, promising to bring something to close up the broken window. He was nailing several thicknesses of tarpaulin over the window frame when Lon returned.
Peters held out a .44 calibre shell case. "Found this," he sighed. "Nothin' else. Too many tracks to say which was which."
They stopped by the hotel and registered. Josh had eaten his supper, so they walked over to the Nugget. Curly and Ringo, a bottle at their elbow, were already in a poker game with a trio of punchers from Triangle. Joe was beaming behind the bar. "Don't know how long it will last, but business is plumb good tonight. If the weather holds, maybe I can keep out of bankruptcy for a little while."
They had plenty of opportunity to talk over the weather and range conditions since cowmen were in town from every brand on the range. All told the same story: they had been forced to use precious hay; losses in some sections ran as high as twenty or thirty percent; and all agreed that unless they got a break in the weather, hay would be more precious than gold by spring.
Kirby went over to the table where his punchers were gleefully trimming the Triangle hands. "When those chips get so high you can't see over them, cash in," he told Curly. He and Josh had a nightcap out of Joe's black bottle and made for the hotel.
There was little wind, and the air was cold and dry as they tramped the short distance to the hotel. There was no moon, but bright stars were occasionally blotted out by high, thin clouds.
So many ranchers and their crews were taking advantage of the good weather that the hotel was filled and they could get only one room. "I can see where I don't get any sleep tonight," Kirby mourned. "And if your snoring is up to snuff, no one in the hotel will sleep."
Josh just grinned. "Can't rightly say if I snore. Never could stay awake to find out."
Kirby pushed open the door to their room and held a match while Josh found the lamp and lighted it. Yawning, he shrugged out of his buckskin jacket and sat down on the side of the bed to pull off his boots. "Sent these blasted things back to Denver, but they still pinch." He bent over.
That movement saved his life. As he bent over there was the tinkle of falling glass, and a framed lithograph on the wall directly back of where his head would have been had he been if he had not bent over shattered in a thousand pieces. The echoing crack of a rifle rang dimly through the noise of falling glass.
In an instant Josh had doused the lamp and jumped to the window. His Colt spat as he snapped a shot at a dark figure running between two buildings across the street. He peered intently into the darkness, then turned anxiously to his boss. "You hurt?"
"No, just scared. That one was a little too close."
"Too close is right. May be wrong, but I'd swear I winged that drygulcher. Looked to me like he stumbled some. Could be he just tripped over something in the dark, though."
Hard knuckles hammered a tattoo on the door. Josh raised his gun, and Kirby covered him from the wall. "Come in," he called. The door swung open, and Sheriff Peters ambled into the room, the hotel owner looking anxiously over his shoulder.
The sheriff sighed. "Might have known it was you, boy. You and Josh havin' a little midnight target shootin'?" His quick glance had already taken in the broken window and shattered picture. "Or was somebody usin' you for a target?"
"Twice in one day is too much, Lon. Looks like I'm downright unpopular."
Peters walked to the bullet-shattered window. "Must have been standin' in those shadows yonder. My boots are killin' me, but I'll take a look." The hotel man followed, promising to bring something to close up the broken window. He was nailing several thicknesses of tarpaulin over the window frame when Lon returned.
Peters held out a .44 calibre shell case. "Found this," he sighed. "Nothin' else. Too many tracks to say which was which."
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