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Brand, Max, 1892-1944

"Trailin'!"


A faint voice called: "Who's there?"
"Steve Nash. What the devil's happened to Eldara?"
The boards of the shutter stirred, opened, so that the man within could
look out.
"Is it Steve, honest?"
"Damn it, Butler, don't you know my voice? What's turned Eldara into a
cemetery?"
"Cemetery's right. 'Butch' Conklin and his gang are going to raid the
place to-night."
"Butch Conklin?"
And Nash whistled long and low.
"But why the devil don't the boys get together if they know Butch is
coming with his gunmen?"
"That's what they've done. Every able-bodied man in town is out in the
hills trying to surprise Conklin's gang before they hit town with their
guns going."
Butler was a one-legged man, so Nash kept back the question which
naturally formed in his mind.
"How do they know Conklin is coming? Who gave the tip?"
"Conklin himself."
"What? Has he been in town?"
"Right. Came in roaring drunk."
"Why'd they let him get away again?"
"Because the sheriff's a bonehead and because our marshal is solid
ivory. That's why."
"What happened?"
"Butch came in drunk, as I was saying, which he generally is, but he
wasn't giving no trouble at all, and nobody felt particular called on to
cross him and ask questions.


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