House of Winslow 14 The Valiant Gunman by Gilbert Morris

Author:Gilbert Morris
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Romance
ISBN: 9780613143929
Publisher: San Val
Published: 1993-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

WINSLOW PAYS A CALL

Sheriff Bill Rider considered his visitor with hooded eyes, saying, “Have a seat, Winslow.” He waited until the big man sat down in one of the three cane-bottomed chairs in the small office, then added, “Been expecting you to come by.”

“News travels fast.”

“Bad news quicker than any,” Rider agreed. He got up, walked to the stove, and picked up the ancient coffee pot. “This coffee’s about as bad as coffee can be,” he said, picking up a heavy mug and passing it to Winslow. “But the worst cup of coffee I ever had was pretty good.” As he filled the two cups, he studied Winslow carefully, knowing that he’d have to deal with him in one way or another.

What he saw was a man taller than the average rider, heavier of bone, and more solid in chest and arm. Winslow was trimmed down to muscle, and exposure to rain and sun and cold and dust had built within him a reserve of vitality. He was not a man, Rider recognized instantly, who would be easily stopped at anything he threw himself into. He had a head of black hair; the blue eyes were direct, and his skin, with all its weathering, was unwrinkled. His nose was long and his mouth heavy, and though he showed no sign of hurry or strain, his face had a melancholy shadow on it.

Dan saw that the elderly sheriff knew more than he was likely to say, so Dan smiled faintly, remarking, “I’m probably going to be a downright nuisance to you, Sheriff. But I guess you know about that.”

“I hear you’ve already stirred up Silas Head.”

“We had some words,” Winslow nodded. “We’ll have more, I expect.”

“A powerful man around here, son,” Rider said idly enough, but there was a warning in his hazel eyes. “Pretty well used to having his own way.”

“I know, he’s the big mogul in tin pants, and he’s got fur on his knees,” Winslow shrugged. “I’ll be going over to collect any more vented Circle W cows from him. Be calling on all the ranchers for that same reason.”

“Might run into some trouble.”

“They’re my cows.” The words might have been carved in stone, and Winslow moved on to say, “My partner, Logan Mann, came up the trail with three hundred head of good stock two months ago. I’ll be asking around for him.”

“I run into most people who come into this valley,” Rider said. “I never met him, never heard his name until you mentioned it.”

Winslow knew the old man was speaking the truth. There was an air of honesty about Bill Rider that he recognized, and he nodded at once. “Sure—but the cattle are here, Sheriff. They didn’t get here alone.”

“No, I guess not.” Rider was troubled and said so. “It don’t look too good, does it? I take it he wasn’t the kind of man who’d just take a notion to ride off and leave stock to wander?”

“Not Logan.” Winslow sipped the bitter coffee and spent the next ten minutes giving Rider a brief history of their partnership.

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