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Updated: June 28, 2025
There were other shouts then, tenor Mexican voices for the most part with the Kid's unmistakable snarl running through them. Men were calling in Spanish to their fellows across the arroyo. Whatever it was that Brocky was trying to say was lost in the din. And then again came a volley of rifle-shots. Norton rose slowly to his feet, studying the situation with frowning eyes.
If a man wished word with Rod Norton these days his best hope of finding him lay in going out to el Rancho de las Flores. It was Norton's ranch, having been Billy Norton's before him, one of the choice spots of the county bordering Las Cruces Rancho where Brocky Lane was manager and foreman.
After all, since Blenham was playing a game in which the stakes were no less than ten thousand dollars, since Blenham was without doubt the man who had sought to kill Bill Royce six months ago for the very same money, since Blenham always "went heeled and was a right good shot," why then, as Brocky Lane's cowboy put it, "there was no use bein' a plumb fool."
There was a crowd down at the lake's edge to see them come in. News of their trip to the Landing, and the reason for it, had been well circulated about town; and when Marty shouted to some of his boy friends that "Uncle Brocky was found and he warn't dead, neither!" the crowd started to cheer. The cheers were for Janice and she realized it.
"Bacon and coffee and exercise. Have you rested?" "Perfectly. And Mr. Lane?" "Me?" said Brocky. "Feeling fine." Norton gave her a cup of warm water to wash her hands. Then she made a second, very careful examination of Brocky's wound, cleansing it and adjusting a fresh bandage. "I want to start in half an hour," said the sheriff.
The very worst that could possibly happen to her father, Janice thought, had perhaps already happened. That was a very sorrowful evening indeed at the old Day house on Hillside Avenue. Although Mr. Jason Day and Janice's father were half brothers only, the elder man had in his heart a deep and tender love for Broxton, or "Brocky," as he called him. He remembered Brocky as a lad always.
Brocky insisted on being informed. "You see, we can't have it. Where'm I hurt, you want to know? Mostly right here in my side." Virginia's hands found the rude bandage, damp and sticky. "It's nonsense about not having a light," she said, turning toward Norton. "No," said the wounded man. "Nonsense nothing, is it Rod?
Within twenty steps it led them into a wide, V-shaped fissure in the rocks. Then came a sort of cup in a nest of rugged peaks, its bottom filled with imprisoned soil worn from the spires above. As Norton, relinquishing her hand, went forward swiftly she heard a man's voice saying weakly: "That you, Rod?" "I came as soon as I could, Brocky."
The cowboy struggled with his muscles and triumphed over them, summoning a sick grin as he muttered: "You're mighty good to take all this trouble. . . . I'm sure a hundred times obliged. . . ." "And," she cut in abruptly, "you mean to tell me that you shot that man after he had put this hole in you? And then you made him crawl out of the brush and come to you?" "I sure did," grunted Brocky.
"In that case," returned the girl, "and before you boil that coffee into any more hopelessly black a concoction than it already is, I am ready to drink mine and listen. Coffee, Mr. Lane?" "Had mine, thanks," answered Brocky. "Spin the yarn, Rod." Norton put down his frying-pan, the bacon brown and crisp, and rose to his feet. "To begin with, seeing is believing."
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