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Updated: May 13, 2025
They climbed out of the window noiselessly and crept to the next hut. The door was locked, the window closed. "We've got to smash the window. Nothing else for it," Flatray whispered. "Looks like it. That means we'll have to shoot our way out." With the butt of his rifle the sheriff shattered the woodwork of the window, driving the whole frame into the room.
"Better put the light out, pardner," suggested the man he was freeing, and the officer noticed that there was no tremor in the cool, steady voice. "That's right. We'd make a fine mark through the window." And the light went out. "I'm Bucky O'Connor. Who are you?" "Jack Flatray." They spoke together in whispers.
For her whole mind was filled with the horror of what she had learned. Jack Flatray, the man she loved, was to be killed. He was to be shot down in an hour. With the thought, she was at her door only to find that it had been quietly locked while she lay on the bed. No doubt they had meant to keep her a close prisoner until the thing they were about to do was finished.
She knew that either her father's posse or that of Jack Flatray would come into touch with the outlaws eventually. When the clash came there would be a desperate battle. Men would be killed. She prayed it might not be one of those for whom she cared most. Number seven was churning its way furiously through brown Arizona.
The young man in the seat had slewed his head around sharply, and made answer with a crisp, businesslike directness. The new-comer smiled. "I'll have to introduce myself, lieutenant. My name is Flatray. I've come to meet you." "Glad to meet you, Mr. Flatray. I hope that together we can work this thing out right.
Before he could shake one of them free to reach the revolver in his chaps, he was lying on his back, with Flatray astride of him. The cattleman's left hand closed tightly upon his windpipe, while the right searched for and found the weapon in the holster of the prostrate man. Not until the steel rim of it pressed against the teeth of the man beneath him did Jack's fingers loosen.
Melissy attended to her duties in the postoffice after the arrival of the stage, and looked after the dining-room as usual, but she was all the time uneasily aware that Jack Flatray had quietly disappeared. Where had he gone? And why? She found no answer to that question, but the ranger dropped in on his bronco in time for supper, imperturbable and self-contained as ever.
You'd better tell where he is, for if we don't get Mr. Bucky it will be God help J. Flatray." The dapper little villain exuded a smug, complacent cruelty. It was no use for the sheriff to remind himself that such things weren't done nowadays, that the times of Geronimo and the Apache Kid were past forever. Black MacQueen would go the limit in deviltry if he set his mind to it.
"I'm going to send Alan McKinstra along to guide you. He knows that country like a book. You want to head for the lower pass, swing up Diable Cañon, and work up in the headquarters of the Three Forks." Within a quarter of an hour the posse was in motion. Flatray watched it disappear in the dust of the road without a smile.
She was just thinking about going back in when a barefoot boy ran past and whistled. From the next house a second youngster emerged. "That you, Jimmie?" "Betcherlife. Say, 've you heard about the sheriff?" "Who? Jack Flatray! Course I have. The Roaring Fork outfit ambushed him, beat him up, and made him hit the trail for town." "Aw! That ain't news. He's started back after them again.
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