Scott Burton on the Range

by Edward G. Cheyney

Scott awoke in the morning with a feeling of expectancy like a boy who has promised himself when he went to sleep that he would go fishing at four o’clock. He lay there drowsily for a moment watching the western peaks catch fire from the rays of the rising sun, and wondering vaguely what it was that he was going to do. His eyes rested for an instant on the telephone and he sat up with a jerk, awake to the situation.

He looked cautiously out over the dam and the cañon trail. It was not likely that Dawson would come so early in the morning. He did not know that Scott knew anything of his attempt to shoot him at the cabin and had no reason to believe that he would be expected at the dam. So there was no reason why he should come so early, but Scott intended to be prepared for him. He bridled Jed and led him over to the side of the meadow farthest from the trail and tied him back of a large clump of willows. He hid the saddle in a thicket near the trail.

He cooked his breakfast in the open with the receiver to his ear for he suspected that Baxter was on the lookout down below and might try to warn him. He was not nervous and excited as he had been that night at his own cabin, because he knew what was coming and felt prepared for it. Moreover, it was daylight and he was located so that he could see the only road of approach for some distance. There was no chance for an unexpected shot from an unseen foe.

It would have been easy enough to sneak back into the hills. He could elude an army up there among those crags where he had climbed the day before. But what good would it do? He could not wipe out the traces of his presence at the dam, he could not even make it appear that he had finished his business and left. He had made but a one way trail in the cañon and it would be an easy matter to find Jed even if he was hidden from sight.

No, there was nothing to gain by taking to the hills. He had been hunted long enough. He would stay and fight it out. He realized that being unarmed he would be at a tremendous disadvantage, but he thought he could manage it if he had the chance to plan the meeting as he wanted it. It was a desperate chance, but after his past experience he felt that no chance would be too desperate to escape becoming a hunted creature again, uncertain what danger might be threatening him next. He planned just what he would do in every contingency he could think of and had worked out everything so nearly to his own satisfaction that he was not in the least rattled when the telephone rang his own call at his district headquarters. He answered it promptly.

“This is Baxter. Benny reported Dawson going your way at nine-thirty. Somebody must have spilled the beans. Are you ready for him?”

“Sure,” Scott answered with even more confidence than he really felt.

“Good. Then go to it. So long.”

Scott took off his head gear and laid it aside. He glanced at his watch. It was ten fifteen. His visitor ought to arrive about eleven-thirty or possibly a little earlier if he was in a hurry. Scott went carefully over his plans once more to see if he could think of anything that he had overlooked. Then he settled down to watch the trail.

He was not at all nervous. He was waiting for something definite; he knew what it was, where it was coming from, and approximately when it would arrive. Moreover, he felt prepared to meet it. There was the same tense feeling of expectancy that he had often experienced when he was waiting for the opening of a boxing match, but no nervous shivers and no trace of fear.