He turned away and plodded up the dry creek bed.
* * * * *
The sun was at the meridian when three heavily armed riders drew up at the
mouth of the cañon. They fell into the restful, negligent postures of
horsemen accustomed to take their ease in the saddle.
"Do you figure maybe he's working up to the headwaters of Dry Sandy?" one
suggested.
A squat, bandy-legged man with a face of tanned leather presently
answered. "No, Tim, I expect not. The way I size him up Mr. Richard
Bellamy wouldn't know Dry Sandy from an irrigation ditch. Mr. R. B. hopes
he's hittin' the high spots for Sonora, but he ain't anyways sure. Right
about now he's ridin' the grub line, unless he's made a strike
somewhere."
The third member of the party, a lean, wide-shouldered, sinewy youth, blue
silk kerchief knotted loosely around his neck, broke in with a gesture
that swept the sky. "Funny about all them buzzards. What are they doing
here, sheriff?"
The squat man opened his mouth to answer, but Tim took the word out of his
mouth.
"Look!" His arm had shot straight out toward the cañon. A coyote was
disappearing on the lope. "Something lying there in the wash at the bend,
Burke."
Sheriff Burke slid his rifle from its scabbard. "We'll not take any
chances, boys. Spread out far as you can. Tim, ride close to the left
wall. You keep along the right one, Flatray. Me, I'll take the center.
That's right."
They rode forward cautiously. Once Flatray spoke.
"By the tracks there has been a lot of cattle down here on the jump
recently."
"That's what," Tim agreed.
Flatray swung from his saddle and stooped over the body lying at the bend
of the wash.
"Crushed to death in a cattle stampede, looks like," he called to the
sheriff.
"Search him, Jack," the sheriff ordered.
The young man gave an exclamation of surprise. He was standing with a
cigarcase in one hand and a billbook in the other. "It's the man we're
after--it's Bellamy."
Burke left his horse and came forward. "How do you know?"
"Initials on the cigarcase, R. B. Same monogram on the billbook."
The sheriff had stooped to pick up a battered hat as he moved toward the
deputy. Now he showed the initials stamped on the sweat band. "R. B. here,
too."
"Suit of gray clothes, derby hat, size and weight about medium. We'll
never know about the scar on the eyebrow, but I guess Mr. Bellamy is
identified without that."