Ralph Compton The Convict Trail by Ralph Compton

sure.
    â€œYou heard the name right,” Kane said. For some reason a small anger was flaring in him. These were turning out to be right inhospitable folks.
    â€œWe don’t much cotton to lawmen around here, Kane,” the young man said, “especially killers who hide behind a badge. But you might have guessed that already.”
    â€œYou’re right. I done guessed that when I saw the brands on your herd,” Kane said.
    The man took a step forward and now Kane could see his face. He was flushed with real or pretended rage, his mouth a tight, hard gash under his mustache. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
    Kane smiled. “You know what it means.” The smile quickly faded and the marshal’s eyes iced. “A word of warning, boy, don’t sass me. You’re gettin’ mighty close.”
    â€œHyde, let it go,” the woman snapped. “See to the herd.”
    The man called Hyde stared at Kane, a challenge in his eyes. But finally his gaze slid from the marshal’s face and he turned on his heel. “Ed,” he said to a short, stocky puncher as he walked away, “mount up. We’ll check on the herd like the lady says.” Then, to another man, older, with a mournful face split by a ragged mustache, he said, “Buck, start rustling up the grub.”
    The woman waited until the men had left, then said to Kane, “Marshal, we seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot. Let’s start over again, shall we?”
    â€œFine by me,” Kane said. His eyes were still on Hyde, who was swinging into the saddle of a paint. The kid was either a named man or a wannabe. Either way, it was worth keeping an eye on him.
    â€œMy name is Mae St. John, a rancher from down around the Nacogdoches country, and I’m bringing beef to the Army,” the woman said. “I was instructed by letter to meet a military representative at Fort Smith—a Colonel Brennan. Do you know him?”
    Kane shook his head.
    â€œReally? That’s a surprise. Evidently he’s quite a well-known Indian fighter.”
    Kane shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never fit Indians.”
    Mae St. John smiled. “Now, as to those mixed brands you alluded to—”
    â€œI what to?” Kane asked.
    â€œMentioned, the brands you mentioned. As you know, Marshal, times are tough in Texas right now. With my last few dollars I bought those cattle cheap from ranchers who are already scraping the bottom of the last barrel. I intend to sell the herd at a good profit to Colonel Brennan.”
    Mae’s smile grew even more dazzling. Kane thought she looked like a young girl who had just walked into the brightly lit hall at her first cotillion. “Now you understand why there are so many different brands.”
    â€œIt’s a long drive to Fort Smith,” Kane said. “Why not ship your beef in the boxcars?”
    The woman laughed, a good sound to Kane’s ear. “Marshal, the railroad quoted me a price of forty dollars a day and couldn’t guarantee the trip would take less than ten days. I don’t have that kind of money. As it is, my drovers are working for a percentage of the profits, so I can just about cut it.”
    As though she’d suddenly remembered something, Mae said, “Please don’t let Hyde Larson get to you, Marshal. He’s a top hand, but he can be a hothead by times.”
    Kane opened his mouth to speak, but the woman’s apologetic laugh stopped him. “Goodness gracious, what am I thinking? Where is my Texas hospitality? Light and set, Marshal, and pull your wagon in beside ours. Please join us for supper. We don’t have much, but what we have we’re willing to share.” Her eyes moved to the wagon again. “Are those men all prisoners?”
    Kane had stepped out of the saddle and now he stood near the woman, the sorrel’s reins in his hand. “Apart from Sam Shaver