A LEGAL PAPER

In the clear air one could see for miles from the top of Thunder Mountain. The Basin, most of it at least, was hidden by the foliage, but the view in the opposite direction encompassed endless plains that led to ranches beyond the horizon. The masked man wondered how many of those ranches had contributed to the crisscrossing of cattle tracks on the bald dome where he stood.

Tonto pointed out the things that he'd observed on previous visits and indicated where a trail had been cut to make a descent straight into the Basin.

Meanwhile, most of the people in the Basin went to Becky's funeral. It was a simple ceremony without tears, conducted by Jeb Cavendish. No one who had known Rebecca's life could feel sorry for her for having been released. Penny held the hands of the oldest children during the burial. She frequently felt the eyes of Yuma, standing unhatted with a number of other men, upon her, but each time she looked at the blond cowboy he was staring at the ground. Vince was there, and so were most of the cowhands. Wallie was somewhere away from the Basin. Bryant had a distant view from his seat on the porch of the house. Mort was still in bed with a bandage around his neck.

Jeb seemed to enjoy his brief period as the center of attraction and postponed conclusion of the services as long as possible. When he ultimately pronounced a benediction, Yuma hurried away as if on important business. Penny led the dry-eyed youngsters toward the house. Gimlet, the cook, advanced to meet her.

"Lemme take care o' the young 'uns, Miss Penny," the old man said. "Keeee-ripes, I ain't had the chance tuh tell a pack of lies tuh kids since you growed up."

Penny was grateful. The children had been her responsibility since Rebecca's death, and she welcomed the chance to get away and think for a little while. "I'll be around," she said, "when you have to start supper."

"Don't yuh do it now, Miss Penny, don't you do nothin' o' the sort. You leave the kids with me an' let 'em stick by me. It'll do 'em good tuh talk tuh someone 'sides them glum-actin' cousins of yores with their souls full o' vinegar till it shows in their faces."

Penny smiled, "It's a deal, Gimlet. They're your responsibility till bedtime."

The children, heretofore ignored, were wide-eyed at the thought that anyone could actually want their company.

Gimlet's manner seemed forced. Penny fancied her old friend had worries about which he said nothing.

"Yew git," he said, spanking the oldest boy playfully. "I'll be right along an' meet yuh by the kitchen door."

When the children had gone, the old man with one eye turned to Penelope.

"I got somethin'," he said, "tuh tell you."

"Yes, Gimlet?"

"I on'y got one eye, but my ears is first-rate. Mebbe I orter keep my big mouth shut, but I figger yuh orter know that yer Uncle Bryant is up tuh somethin'."

"Uncle Bryant?" Penny's tone showed her surprise. She knew that Gimlet was one friend upon whom she could count. The old cook had dandled her on his knee when as a child she had come to live in the Basin. She listened eagerly.

"Heard him talkin' tuh that no-good, gambling smooth-talkin' hombre named Lonergan," said Gimlet.

Penny remembered that Lonergan had called the night before. Bryant had taken him upstairs, behind closed doors.

"Curiosity has allus been my trouble, an' when I heard talkin' between them two, I didn't shut my ears none. Couldn't git much o' what uz said, but the two of 'em was workin' over some sort o' legal paper."

"What about it?" asked Penny. "Uncle Bryant has a right to make a contract or agreement with someone."

"Wal, all's I know is that I heard Bryant ask Lonergan if he was dead sure the paper'd stand in court after he was dead and gone."

Penny wanted to laugh at Gimlet's obvious concern over what was probably a will. His seriousness, however, impressed her.

"That ain't all," said the old man. "I heard more. I heard Bryant sayin' he wanted tuh leave what he owned tuh them that deserved it, an' he didn't want none of his damned relatives contestin' the will in court o' law."

"But after all, Gimlet, it's Uncle Bryant's ranch and he can do what he wants with it."

"Nuther thing," growled Gimlet, "they's a puncher here, callin' hisself, 'Yuma.'"

"What about him?"

"Yuh c'n trust that big maverick, Miss Penny. He thinks a heap about you."

Penny said nothing.

Gimlet went on with a lengthy discourse about the fine qualities of Yuma. He and Yuma had spent hours in close confab in the kitchen, and Yuma had expressed his feelings, confidentially, to Gimlet.

Penny's face grew red as the frank old man continued. Finally she cut him off. "Those children are waiting for you, Gimlet."

"All right, I'm a-goin' tuh 'em. But you jest remember that Yuma is ace-high with me an' yore ace-high with him." Gimlet shuffled toward the kitchen door.

Penny wanted to get away from the surroundings and be alone with her thoughts. She had at least two hours before her uncle would be expecting her for the evening meal. Hurriedly she changed to riding clothes and left the vicinity on Las Vegas.

She discounted the seriousness of all that Gimlet had said about her uncle's "legal paper." Obviously just a will. The thing that concerned her most was the truth about Bryant's eyes. During the day she had tried to observe him carefully. There were times when she was sure he had trouble seeing things. Then she thought he had truly fired at Mort, but failing eyes had made his shot go wild and coincidence had made it drill Yuma's hat.

There were other times when Bryant seemed to reach directly, without a trace of groping, for whatever he desired, and then she wondered. There was no doubt in her mind that Vince and Mort were involved in something or other that they didn't want too generally known.

What of the men, the Texas Rangers, who Becky had said came to investigate and died for it?

Lost in her thoughts, the girl rode on without thought or direction. She let the reins hang slack and paid no attention to the tangle of growing things that brushed past her. She was surprised, when she came back to reality, to find that Las Vegas had carried her up Thunder Mountain. She was well beyond the lower part of the path where it was rough.

"Might as well keep going now," she said.

There was sugar in her pocket, put there for Las Vegas. Well, this time the mustang could do without his customary sweet. She'd save it till she reached the clearing, and see if she could bribe attention from the silver stallion.

The Indian-what did he call himself? Tonto—that was it. Tonto had said that a friend was wounded. She wondered if by any chance this friend could be one of the Texas Rangers. She thought it quite unlikely, in view of the fact that all of them were said to have been killed. Well, she'd ask Tonto anyway.

The clearing was just ahead. She saw the form of a horse through the trees, and then a man. His back was toward her. She saw him turning as he heard the hoofs approaching. The man was not her Indian friend—neither was he a stranger to the girl. He was one of the last people in the world she cared to meet in such a place—the killer who called himself Rangoon.