Longhorn Empire by Bradford Scott Page A

stared back. Their glances crossed, perfect understanding in each. Hanson’s face twisted with baffled fury.
     Then the look of rage was supplanted by one of grudging admiration. Pink Hanson looked the six feet and more of Austin Brant
     up and down with the respect of one fighting man for another. His mouth snapped shut to its normal rat-trap tightness. He nodded,
     the nod of a loser who knows he has lost.
    “By God!” he said. “Feller, you’re a man!”
    Brant nodded reply. He was in no shape for speech. Awkwardly, still holding his drawn Colt on Hanson and his companions, he
     buckled his belts in place. Then he backed warily to the door, fighting a deadly nausea that threatened to crumple him up.
     The Texans present, not in the least understanding what it was all about, muttered their astonishment. Still watchful, Brant
     vanished between the swinging doors. He staggered to his horse, and with his last strength crawled into the saddle. He turned
     Smoke’s head toward the river. He knew he must put distance between himself and the Deadfall before Doran recovered.
    “We won’t eat to night, feller,” he muttered as he surged Smoke into the water. A moment later they were both swimming. To
     Brant’s ears came the faint sound of shouts.
    The cold water revived Brant somewhat, so that he was able to mount again when they reached the shallows near the south bank.
     Swinging forward on the horse’s neck, he twined his fingers in Smoke’s coarse mane and held on, giving the moros his head.
     Another moment and the big blue horse was speeding southward at a fast clip.
    Brant rode for many miles. Finally he pushed the moros into the heart of a dense thicket, tumbled to the ground and almost
     instantly was asleep.

Chapter Seven
    Sunshine was streaming down and birds were singing in the bushes when Brant finally awoke. He was stiff and sore all over;
     his eyes were nearly closed and his face was like a piece of raw beefsteak, but he felt greatly refreshed. With the elasticity
     of youth, he had thrown off the effects of the bad beating, the exhausting swim and the miles of hard riding. As he got a
     fire going and coffee on the boil, he was whistling as merrily through his cut lips as were the birds on the branches.
    “Reckon that sidewinder knows he was in a wrong, too,” he chuckled. “Bet I loosened every joint in his ornery carcass when
     I slammed him on the floor.”
    The feel of the packets of money was as comforting as the food he consumed with ravenous appetite. Then he dried out his tobacco
     in the sun and enjoyed a refreshing smoke.
    “Let’s go, feller,” he told the grazing horse. “We got a long ride ahead of us still, but I’ve a notion we won’t meet up with
     any more trouble. Whoever managed to get word to Doran and his hellions that we were packing all this dinero hardly had time
     to get ahead of us again. We’ll make Texas okay. I’ll be glad to see the old PaloDuro again. To heck with this Kansas and Oklahoma country! Folks don’t act nice up here.”
    As he rode away from the thicket, Brant puzzled greatly as to how Doran could have known he carried Webb’s money. He was sure
     that the Deadfall owner would never have taken such a chance based on mere guesswork.
    “Nope, somebody must have hightailed mighty fast to get to the Crossing before I did. The question is, who? I can’t for the
     life of me figure who knew what I had in mind. Reckon somebody must have overheard Webb talking to me there in the hotel lobby,
     but I sure don’t call to mind anybody hanging around close right then. Oh, well, no harm done. I got a couple of black eyes
     and a cut lip out of it, but I did have some fun. That hellion Doran must have put in some time in the prize ring, to learn
     to swing his fists like he did. But their cute little scheme didn’t pan out as figured, so what the hell!”
    Brant rode swiftly, more swiftly than he had intended during the latter part of his journey.