"THE RIDER OF THE RUBY HILLS" - читать интересную книгу автора (L'Amour Louis)

The procedure was simple enough. One took a cinch ring from his own saddle gear and
holding it between a couple of sticks, used it when red hot like any other branding
iron. A good hand with a cinch ring could easily duplicate any known brand, depending
only upon his degree of skill.
Ross rolled and lighted a smoke. If he were found on the spot it would require explaining,
and at the moment he had no intention of explaining anything. He swung his leg over
the saddle and turned the gelding down trail once more.
Not three miles away lay the cow town known as Soledad. To his right and about six
miles away was an imposing cluster of buildings shaded beneath a splendid grove of
old cottonwoods. Somewhat nearer, and also well shaded, was a smaller ranch.
Beyond the rocky ridge that stretched an anxious finger into the lush valley was
Walt Pogue's Box N spread.
The farther ranch belonged to Chalk Reynolds, his RR outfit being easily the biggest
in the Ruby Hills country. The nearer ranch belonged to Bob and Sherry Vernon.
When thieves fall out," Ross muttered aloud, "honest men get their dues. Or that's
what they say. Now I'm not laying any claim to being so completely honest, but there's
trouble brewing in this valley. When the battle smoke blows away, Ross Haney is going
to be top dog on one of these ranches.
"They've got it all down there. They have range, money, power. They have gunhands
riding for them, but you and me, Rio, we've only got each other."
He was a lone wolf on the prowl. Down there they ran in packs,
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and he would circle the packs, alone. When the moment came, he would close in.
"There's an old law, Rio, that only the strong survive," he said. "Those ranches
belong to men who were strong, and some of them still are. They were strong enough
to take them from other men, from smaller men, weaker men. That's the story of Reynolds
and Pogue. They rustled cows until they grew big, and now they sit on the housetops
and crow. Or they did, until they began fightin' one another. "
"Your reasoning," the cool, quiet voice was feminine, "is logical, but dangerous.
I might suggest that when you talk to your horse, you should be sure his are the
only ears!"
She sat well in the saddle, poised and alert. There was a quirk of humor at the corners
of her mouth and nothing of coyness or fear in her manner. Every inch of her showed
beauty, care, and consideration of appearances that was new to him, but beneath it
there was both fire and steel-and quality.
"That's good advice," he agreed, measuring her with his eyes. "Very good advice."
"Now that you've looked me over," she suggested coolly, "would you like to examine
my teeth for age?"
He grinned, unabashed. "No, but now that I've looked you over I'd say you are pretty
much of a woman. The kind that's made for a man!"
She returned his glance and then smiled as if the remark had pleased her. So she
changed the subject. "Just which ranch do you plan to be top dog on when the fighting
is over?"
"I haven't decided," he said frankly. "I'm a right choosy sort of man when it comes
to horses, ranches, and women!"
"Yes?" She glanced at the gelding. "I'd say your judgment of horses isn't obvious
by that one. Not that he isn't well shaped, and I imagine he could run, but you could
do better."
"I doubt it." He glanced at her fine, clean-limbed Thoroughbred. "I'd bet a little