Scott Burton on the Range

by Edward G. Cheyney

It was a beautiful day. There were a few small clouds high up and moving slowly that cast a patch of shadow here and there on the broad landscape, but for the most part the sun shone brightly. A strange day Scott thought for a man to start out to commit a murder. Murders had always been associated with storms in the books he had read, and it was hard for him to think seriously of it on such a day as this. As the sun rose higher the little streamlets on the other side of the reservoir began to increase in volume and babble a little louder. All seemed peaceful. There was no place in that valley for strife and violence; and yet he knew that every tick of the watch was bringing it nearer.

His eye followed the shadow of a cloud slowly up the cañon slope till it disappeared over the ridge. When he looked back at the trail there was a horseman in full view. It did not startle him; it was what he had been waiting for, and he had a feeling of real satisfaction when he recognized Dawson. It would take him ten minutes more to arrive and he could watch him for at least half of that time.

Dawson did not act like a man who was bent on murder, at least he did not act as Dugan had that night at the cabin, and that was the only real experience that Scott had had. He was riding along the middle of the trail as he had always ridden about his work, with no pretense at secrecy and no attempt at silence. On he came in broad daylight as openly as he would have ridden to a wedding. Already the clatter of his horse’s iron-clad hoofs on the loose stones of the trail was plainly audible. Surely this man could be on no business of which he was ashamed.

When horse and rider disappeared in a willow thicket just beyond the lower end of the pasture Scott stepped quickly from his hiding place and took up his position behind a large rock which lay near the cabin and close beside the trail. He had no idea of avoiding this man, but he wanted to pick his own meeting place and have him within easy reach of his hand when he was discovered. Only in that way could he hope to have a fair chance with that revolver. He could see through a screen of brushes beside the rock and watch his visitor after he entered the meadow.

The horse stopped on the edge of the meadow and breathed in the smell of the lush grass with deep noisy breaths through wide distended nostrils. It was something to which he was little accustomed. The delay seemed to suit the master’s mood. He sat idly in his saddle, apparently fascinated as Scott had been by the grandeur and peaceful beauty of the scene.

His eyes were not searching the cabin and the immediate vicinity for a hunted man. He was gazing dreamily back into those encircling peaks and rugged, picturesque cañons. Even at that distance Scott could see a pensive sadness in his expression. Any one who had ever had business dealings with him in the past would have been amazed to know that at that moment he would have been willing to trade all his ill gotten gains to be freed from the burden of his crimes and be able to roam those mountains once again as an honest man. He loved those barren peaks and rocky cañons. He knew every rock and tree and bunch of grass in all that countryside. They had been his life. And now he realized too late that he had risked and maybe lost it all for the sake of something he did not need.

He sat still so long that even his horse stopped cropping the luscious grass and turned his head to look at him inquiringly. Scott, too, was becoming uneasy. Could he have anything to fear from a man who gazed at the beauty of the hills like that? It did not seem possible, but he could not afford to take any chances and determined to be on his guard just as he had planned.

Dawson seemed to be coming slowly to himself. He had been dreaming of what might have been. He was more of a sentimentalist than even his friends had ever realized but was also somewhat of a philosopher. What was gone was gone and he must make the best of what was left. Nor would he let any one interfere with his success. The dreamy pensive look was gone now and in its place was the gleam of a hard determination which had made men say that when Dawson wanted anything bad enough he always got it.

He looked sharply about him, shook himself together and rode straight across the meadow to the foot of the dam. He dismounted and climbed the foot trail which led up past the end of the cabin. Scott tried to forget the man he had seen a moment before. He thought only of the look of hatred that this man had given him when he had accused him by the valley cliffs, and that he was the self-confessed companion of Dugan on that horrible night visit to the cabin. He thought of that man and waited for him with every sense alive to the danger of the situation, and prepared for immediate action.

Dawson came on straight up the trail and headed for the cabin without the slightest hesitation. Whatever might be his own intentions he did not seem to have the slightest misgiving about the other fellow’s. When he passed the big rock Scott stepped quickly into the trail immediately behind him.