Max Brand

The Rangeland Avenger Max Brand

Riley Sinclair rode over the mountain. An hour of stern climbing lay behind him, but it was notsympathy for his tired horse that made him draw rein. Sympathy was not readily on tap in Riley'snature. "Hossflesh" to Riley was purely and simply a means to an end. Neither had he paused toenjoy that mystery of change which comes over mountains between late afternoon and earlyevening. His keen eyes answered all his purposes, and that they had never learned to see blue inshadows meant nothing to Riley Sinclair. If he looked kindly upon the foothills, which stepped down from the peaks to the valley lands, it wasbecause they meant an easy descent. Riley took thorough stock of his surroundings, for it was a newcountry. Yonder, where the slant sun glanced and blinked on windows, must be Sour Creek; andthere was the road to town jagging across the hills. Riley sighed. In his heart he despised that valley. There were black patches of plowed land. A scattering of housesbegan in the foothills and thickened toward Sour Creek. How could men remain there, where therewas so little elbow room? He scowled down into the shadow of the valley. Small country, small men. Pictures failed to hold Riley, but, as he sat the saddle, hand on thigh, and looked scornfully towardSour Creek, he was himself a picture to make one's head lift. As a rule the horse comes in for asmuch attention as the rider, but when Riley Sinclair came near, people saw the man and nothing else. Not because he was good-looking, but because one became suddenly aware of some hundred andeighty pounds of lithe, tough muscle and a domineering face. Somewhere behind his eyes there was a faint glint of humor. That was the only soft touch abouthim. He was in that hard age between thirty and thirty-five when people are still young, but have lostthe illusions of youth. And, indeed, that was exactly the word which people in haste used to describeRiley Sinclair-"hard."