Donovan

1 Even before his horse's ears suddenly pointed for-ward, Webb Matlock was becoming uneasy. He had slipped his saddlegun out of its scabbard beneath his leg and had lifted it up across the pommel, on the ready. He pulled the dun horse to a halt and raised his left as a signal to the riders with him. "Easy, boys. We don't want to be in no hurry about this thing." Webb Matlock wore a sheriff's badge. With him rode five men from the Box L cow outfit, hurriedly deputized to help him run out the trail of some would-be cattle thieves. Johnny Willet and another Box L hand had come unexpectedly upon a half a dozen men hazing 70 or 80 of Old Man Jess Leggett's good cows south toward the Rio Grande. Rather than tackle the rustlers themselves, they had pulled back unseen and spurred to the ranch headquarters. For several years now, Old Man Jess had been bringing in good Durham bulls to breed out the Longhorn strain. He was proud of these halfbreed cows and didn't want to lose any of them. Over and above that, he held a deep and abiding hatred for thieves. In olden times, before there had been law to look to, he had shot or hanged them himself. This time he had sent for Webb Matlock. Then, instead of waiting, the impatient old man had taken his cowboys and set out in pursuit. They fought a running battle that forced the thieves to give up the cattle. But Old Jess had fallen with a bullet in his shoulder. That had stopped the pursuit until Webb got there. The last thing Jess had hollered at Webb as they had hauled him toward town in a wagon was: "You get 'em now, you hear?" This was the Texas border country, andladronesout of Mexico sometimes still came over the border to hit and run, steal and carry off whatever they could get away with. In many people on both sides of the river, old hatreds still burned. To some on the south side, the Texas revolution and the Mexican war had meant nothing. To these this land still rightfully belonged to Mexico, and so did everything that walked upon it. Webb had asked Johnny Willet, "Mexicans, Johnny?" Johnny had been riding in a strange, thoughtful silence. He shook his head. "Mostly it wasgringos. Odd thing about one of them, he..." Johnny broke off. "Forget it, you wouldn't believe it." "Believe what, Johnny?" "Nothin', it was a crazy notion." He changed the subject. "I'm pretty sure we hit one of them. He slumped over, nearly fell off his horse. Got away into the brush, though, and that was the last we seen of him." A mile or so back they had come upon a blood-crusted handkerchief lying amid the fresh horsetracks, and they had known for sure. Now Webb sat rigid in the saddle, squinting into a brushy header where in rainy times the water would come rushing off the sides of the rocky hills to spread out down a silty mesquite draw. Webb Matlock was a medium-tall man in his early thirties, a little on the stocky side but without any fat on him. He had a square face, a strong jaw that showed the dark stubble of two days' whiskers. His gray eyes were habitually squinted a little, for this was a land of harsh sunlight, dust, and wind. He was a sober, sober, serious man for the most part, so much so that people who didn't know sometimes guessed him to be much older than he was. He had toted his own load since before he was fifteen. The black-tipped ears of his dun horse were still pointed forward. Looking around him, Matlock could see that a couple of the other horses were the same. Something ahead of us yonder, he thought.Pity a man can't be as smart as a horse. He made a sweeping motion with his hand. "Fan out, boysKelton, Elmer is the author of 'Donovan' with ISBN 9780765343000 and ISBN 0765343002.