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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 42800
   :PG.Title: Buck Peters, Ranchman
   :PG.Released: 2013-05-24
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Clarence E. Mulford
   :DC.Creator: John Wood Clay
   :MARCREL.ill: Maynard Dixon
   :DC.Title: Buck Peters, Ranchman
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1912
   :coverpage: images/img-dust.jpg

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BUCK PETERS, RANCHMAN
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      Cover

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      Buck Peters, Ranchman

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      Being the Story of What Happened When Buck Peters,
      Hopalong Cassidy, and Their Bar-20
      Associates Went to Montana

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      BY
      Clarence E. Mulford
      AND
      John Wood Clay

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      WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOR
      BY MAYNARD DIXON

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      SECOND EDITION

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      CHICAGO
      A. C. McCLURG & CO.
      1912

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      Copyright
      A. C. McCLURG & CO.
      1912

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      Published March, 1912
      Published April, 1912

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      Entered at Stationers' Hall, London, England

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   ALSO BY MR. MULFORD

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HOPALONG CASSIDY.  With five illustrations in
color by Maynard Dixon.  $1.50

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THE ORPHAN.  With illustrations in color by
Allen True.  91.50

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BAR-20.  Illustrated by N. C. Wyeth and
F. E. Schoonover.  $1.50

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BAR-20 DAYS.  With four illustrations in color
by Maynard Dixon.  $1.35 net

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   A. C. McCLURG & CO., Publishers
   CHICAGO

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   Contents

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   CHAPTER

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   I  `Tex Returns`_
   II  `H. Whitby Booth is Shown How`_
   III  `Buck Makes Friends`_
   IV  `The Foreman of the Double Y`_
   V  `"Comin' Thirty" has Notions`_
   VI  `An Honest Man and a Rogue`_
   VII  `The French Rose`_
   VIII  `Tex Joins the Enemy`_
   IX  `Any Means to an End`_
   X  `Introducing a Parasite`_
   XI  `The Man Outside`_
   XII  `A Hidden Enemy`_
   XIII  `Punctuation as a Fine Art`_
   XIV  `Fighting the Itch`_
   XV  `The Slaughter of the Innocents`_
   XVI  `The Master Mind`_
   XVII  `Hopalong's Night Ride`_
   XVIII  `Karl to the Rescue`_
   XIX  `The Weak Link`_
   XX  `Misplaced Confidence`_
   XXI  `Pickles Tries to Talk`_
   XXII  `"A Ministering Angel"`_
   XXIII  `Hopalong's Move`_
   XXIV  `The Rebellion of Cock Murray`_
   XXV  `Mary Receives Company`_
   XXVI  `Hunters and Hunted`_
   XXVII  `Points of the Compass`_
   XXVIII  `The Heart of a Rose`_

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   Illustrations

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So she stood, silently regarding him . . . *Frontispiece* 
(missing from source book)

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`The rifle belonging to Hopalong never missed—and
besides, he had made his wish`_

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`Rose flung herself from the saddle and ran to him`_

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`As he spoke he hurled his horse against Hopalong's,
while his right hand flashed to his hip`_

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.. _`TEX RETURNS`:

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   Buck Peters, Ranchman

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   CHAPTER I

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   TEX RETURNS

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Johnny Nelson reached up for the new, blue
flannel shirt he had hung above his bunk, and
then placed his hands on hips and soliloquized:
"Me an' Red buy a new shirt apiece Saturday night
an' one of 'em 's gone Sunday mornin'; purty fast work
even for this outfit."

He strode to the gallery to ask the cook, erstwhile
subject of the Most Heavenly One, but the words froze
on his lips.  Lee Hop's stoop-shouldered back was
encased in a brand new, blue flannel shirt, the price mark
chalked over one shoulder blade, and he sing-songed a
Chinese classic while debating the advisability of
adopting a pair of trousers and thus crossing another of the
boundaries between the Orient and the Occident.  He
had no eyes in the back of his head but was rarely gifted
in the "ways that are strange," and he felt danger
before the boot left Johnny's hand.  Before the missile
landed in the dish pan Lee Hop was digging madly
across the open, half way to the ranch house, and
temporary safety.

Johnny fished out the boot and paused to watch the
agile cook.  "He 's got eyes all over hisself—an' no
coyote ever lived as could beat him," was his regretful
comment.  He knew better than to follow—Hopalong's
wife had a sympathetic heart, and a tongue to
be feared.  She had not yet forgotten Lee Hop's
auspicious initiation as an *ex-officio* member of the
outfit, and Johnny's part therein.  And no one had been
able to convince her that sympathy was wasted on a
"Chink."

The shirtless puncher looked around helplessly, and
then a grin slipped over his face.  Glancing at the boot
he dropped it back into the dish water, moved swiftly
to Red's bunk, and in a moment a twin to his own shirt
adorned his back.  To make matters more certain he
deposited on Red's blankets an old shirt of Lee Hop's,
and then sauntered over to Skinny's bunk.

"Hoppy said he 'd lick me if I hurt th' Chink any
more; but he did n't say nothin' to Red.  May th' best
man win," he muttered as he lifted Skinny's blankets
and fondled a box of cigars.  "One from forty-three
leaves forty-two," he figured, and then, dropping to
the floor and crawling under the bunk, he added a mark
to Skinny's "secret" tally.  Skinny always liked to
know just how many of his own cigars he smoked.

"Now for a little nip, an' then th' open, where this
cigar won't talk so loud," he laughed, heading towards
Lanky's bunk.  The most diligent search failed to
produce, and a rapid repetition also failed.  Lanky's
clothes and boots yielded nothing and Johnny was
getting sarcastic when his eyes fell upon an old boot
lying under a pile of riding gear in a corner of the
room.  Keeping his thumb on the original level he
drank, and then added enough water to bring the
depleted liquor up to his thumb.  "Gee—I 've saved
sixty-five dollars this month, an' two days are gone
already," he chuckled.  He received sixty-five dollars,
and what luxuries were not nailed down, every month.

Mounting his horse he rode away to enjoy the cigar,
happy that the winter was nearly over.  There was a
feeling in the air that told of Spring, no matter what
the calendar showed, and Johnny felt unrest stirring in
his veins.  When Johnny felt thus exuberant things
promised to move swiftly about the bunk-house.

When far enough away from the ranch houses he
stopped to light the cigar, but paused and, dropping
the match, returned the "Maduro" to his pocket.  He
could not tell who the rider was at that distance, but it
was wiser to be prudent.  Riding slowly forward,
watching the other horseman, he saw a sombrero wave,
and spurred into a lope.  Then he squinted hard and
shook his head.

"Rides like Tex Ewalt—but it ain't, all right,"
he muttered.  Closer inspection made him rub his eyes.
"That arm swings like Tex, just th' same!  An' I
did n't take more'n a couple of swallows, neither.
Why, d—n it!  If that ain't him I 'm going' to see *who*
it is!" and he pushed on at a gallop.  When the faint
hail floated down the wind to him he cut loose a yell
and leaned forward, spurring and quirting.  "Old
son-of-a-gun 's come back!" he exulted.  "Hey, Tex!  Oh,
Tex!" he yelled; and Tex was yelling just as foolishly.

They came together with a rush, but expert
horsemanship averted a collision, and for a few minutes
neither could hear clearly what the other was saying.
When things calmed down Johnny jammed a cigar into
his friend's hands and felt for a match.

"Why, I don't want to take yore last smoke, Kid,"
Tex objected.

"Oh, go ahead!  I 've got a hull *box* of 'em in th'
bunk-house," was the swift reply.  "Could n't stay
away, eh?  Did n't like th' East, nohow, did you?  Gosh,
th' boys 'll be some tickled to see you, Tex.  Goin' to
stay?  How you feelin'?"

"You bet I 'm a-stayin'," responded Tex.  "Is that
Lanky comin'?"

"Hey, Lanky!" yelled Johnny, standing up and
waving the approaching horseman towards them.
"*Pronto*!  Tex 's come back!"

Lanky's pony's legs fanned a haze under him and he
rammed up against Tex so hard that they had to grab
each other.  Everybody was talking at once and so
they rode towards the bunk-house, picking up Billy on
the way.

"Where's Hopalong?" demanded Tex.  "Married!
H—l he is!"  A strange look flitted across his face.
"Well, I 'm d—d!  An' where 's Red?"

Johnny glanced ahead just in time to see Lee Hop
sail around a corner of the corral, and he replied with
assurance, "Red 's th' other side of th' corral."

"Huh!'" snorted Lanky, "You 've got remarkable
eyes, Kid, if you can see through—well, I 'm hanged
if he *ain't*!"

After Red came Pete, waving a water-soaked boot.
They disappeared and when Tex and his friends had
almost reached the corral, Lee Hop rounded the same
corner again, too frightened even to squeal.  As he
started around the next corner he jumped away at an
angle, Pete, still waving the boot, missing him by
inches.  Pete checked his flow of language as he noticed
the laughing group and started for it with a yell.  A
moment later Red came into sight, panting heavily, and
also forgot the cook.  Lee Hop stopped and watched
the crowd, taking advantage of the opportunity to
gain the cook shack and bar the door.  "Dlam shirt
no good—sclatchee like helle," he muttered.  White
men were strange—they loved each other like brothers
and fought one another's battles.  "Led head!
Led head!" he cried, derisively.  "My hop you
cloke!  Hop you cloke chop-chop!  No fliend my,
savee?"

Skinny Thompson, changing his trousers in the
bunkroom, heard Lee's remarks and laughed.  Then he
listened—somebody was doing a lot of talking.
"They 're loco, plumb loco, or else somethin's wrong,"
and he hopped to the door.  A bunched crowd of friends
were tearing toward him, yelling and shooting and
waving sombreros, and a second look made him again miss
the trousers' leg and hop through the door to save
himself.  The blood swept into his face as he saw the ranch
house and he very promptly hopped back again,
muttering angrily.

The crowd dismounted at the door and tried to
enter *en masse*; becoming sane it squirmed into separate
units and entered as it should.  Lee Hop hastily
unbarred his door and again fled for his life.  When
he returned he walked boldly behind his foreman, and
very close to him, gesticulating wildly and trying to
teach Hopalong Cantonese.  The foreman hated to
chide his friends, but he and his wife were tired of
turning the ranch house into a haven for Chinese cooks.

As he opened the door he was grabbed and pushed
up against a man who clouted him on the back and tried
to crush his hand.  "Hullo, Cassidy!  Best sight I've
laid eyes on since I left!" yelled the other above the
noise.

"Tex!" exclaimed Hopalong.  "Well, I'm d—d!
When did you get here?  Going to stay?  Got a job
yet?  How'd you like the East?  Married?  *I* am—best
thing I ever did.  You look white—sick?"

"City color—like the blasted collars and shirts,"
replied the other, still pumping the hand.  "I 'm
goin' to stay, I 'm lookin' for a job, an' I 'd ruther
punch cows for my keep than get rich in th' East.
It 's all fence-country—can't move without
bumping into somebody or something—an' noise!  An'
crooked!  They 'd steal th' fillin's out of yore teeth
when you go to talk—an' you won't know it!"

"Like to see 'em fool *me*!" grunted Johnny, looking savage.

"Huh!  Th' new beginners 'd pick you out to
practise on," snorted Red.  "That yore shirt or mine?"
he asked, suspiciously.

"They 'd give you money for th' fun of taking it
away from you," asserted Tex.  "Why, one feller, a
slick dresser, too, asks me for th' time.  I was some
proud of that ticker—cost nigh onto a hundred
dollars.  He thanks me an' slips into th' crowd.  When I
went to put th' watch back I did n't have none.  I
licked th' next man, old as he was, who asks me for th'
time.  He was plumb surprised when I punched
him—reckon he figured I was easy."

"Ain't they got policemen?" demanded Red.

"Yes; but *they* don't carry watches—they 're too
smart."

"Have a drink, Tex," suggested Lanky, bottle in
hand.  When the owner of it took a drink he looked at
his friends and then at the bottle, disgust pictured on
his face.  "This liquor's shore goin' to die purty
soon.  It's gettin' weaker every day.  Now I wonder
what in h—l Cowan makes it out of?"

"It *is* sort of helpless," admitted Tex.  "Now, Kid,
I 'll borrow another of them cigars of yourn.  Them
Maduros are shore good stuff.  I would n't ask you
only you said you had a—"

"D'ju see any shows in th' East?" demanded
Johnny, hurriedly: "Real, good, bang-up shows?"

Skinny faded into the bunk-room and soon returned,
puzzled and suspicious.  He slipped Tex a cigar and
in a few moments sidled up close to the smoker.

"That as good as th' Kid's?" he asked, carelessly.

Tex regarded it gravely: "Yes; better.  I like 'em
black, but don't say nothin' to Johnny.  He likes them
blondes 'cause he 's young."

It was not long before Tex, having paid his respects
to the foreman's wife, returned to the bunk-house,
leaned luxuriously against the wall and told of his
experiences in the East.  He had an attentive audience
and it swayed easily and heartily to laughter or
sympathy as the words warranted.  There was much to
laugh at and a great deal to strain credulity.  But the
great story was not told, the story of the things pitiful
in the manner in which they showed up how square a
regenerated man could be, and how false a woman.  It
was the old story—ambition drove him out into a new
world with nothing but a clean conscience, a strong,
deft pair of hands, and a clever brain; a woman drove
him back, beaten, disheartened, and perilously near the
devious ways he had forsaken.  He could not stay in
the new surroundings without killing—and he knew
the woman was to blame; so when he felt the ground
slip under his hesitating feet, he threw the new life
behind him and hastened West, feverish to gain the
locality where he had learned to look himself in the face
with regret and remorse, but without shame.

In turn he learned of the things that had occurred
since he had left: of the bitter range-war; of his best
friend's promotion and marriage; and of Buck Peters'
new venture among hostile strangers.  The latter
touched him deeply—he knew, from his own bitter
experiences, the disheartening struggle against odds
great enough to mean a hard fight for Buck and all his
old outfit.  Something that in Tex's heart had been
struggling for weeks, the vague uneasiness which drove
him faster and faster towards the West, now possessed
him with a strength not to be denied.  He knew what
it was—the old lust for battle, the game of hand and
wits with life on the table, could not be resisted.  The
southern range was now peaceful, thanks to Buck and
his men, thanks to Meeker's real nature; the Double
Arrow and the C80 formed a barrier of lead and steel
on the north and east, a barrier that no rustler cared
to force.  Peace meant solitude on the sun-kissed range
and forced upon him opportunities for thought—and
insanity, or suicide.  But up in Montana it would be
different; and the field, calling insistently for Tex to
come, was one where his peculiar abilities would be
particularly effective.  Buck needed friends, but
stubbornly forbade any of his old outfit to join him.  Of
course, they would disregard his commands and either
half or all of the Bar Twenty force would join him;
but their going would be delayed until well after the
Spring round-up, for loyalty to their home ranch
demanded this.  Tex was free, eager, capable, and as
courageous as any man.  He had the cunning of a
coyote, the cold savagery of a wolf, and the power of a
tiger.  In his lightning-fast hands a Colt rarely
missed—and he gathered from what he heard that such hands
were necessary to make the right kind of history on the
northern range.

Finally Hopalong arose to go to the ranch house
for the noon meal, taking Tex with him.  The foreman
and his wife did not eat with the outfit, because the
outfit would not allow it.  Mary had insisted at first that
her husband should not desert his friends in that
manner, and he stood neutral on the question.  But the
friends were not neutral—they earnestly contended
that he belonged to his wife and they would not intrude.
Lanky voiced their attitude in part when he said:
"We 've had him a long time.  We borrow him during
workin' hours—we never learned no good from him,
so we ain't goin' to chance spottin' our lily white
souls."  But there was another reason, which Johnny explained
in naive bluntness: "Why, Ma'am, we eats in our shirt
sleeves, an' we grabs regardless.  We has to if we don't
want Pete to get it all.  An' somehow I don't think
we 'd git very fat if we had to eat under wraps.  You
see, we 're free-an'-easy—an' we might starve, all but
Pete.  Why, Ma'am, Pete can eat any thin', anywheres,
under any conditions.  So we sticks to th' old table an'
awful good appetites."

So Hopalong and Tex walked away together, the
limp of the one keeping time with that of the other, for
Tex's wounded knee had mended a great deal better
than he had hoped for.  Hopalong stopped a moment
to pat his wolf hounds, briefly complimenting them to
Tex, and then pushed open the kitchen door, shoving
Tex in ahead of him.

"Just in time, boys," said Mary, "I hope you 're
good an' hungry."

They both grinned and Hopalong replied first:
"Well, I don't believe Pete can afford to give us much
of a handicap to-day."

"Nor any other time, as far's I 'm concerned,"
added Tex, laughing.  "We 'll do yore table full
justice, Mrs. Cassidy," he assured her.

Mary, dish in hand, paused between the stove and the
table.  She looked at Tex with mischievous eyes:
"Billy-Red tells me you love him like a brother.  Is
he deceiving me?"

Hopalong laughed and Tex replied, smiling:
"More like a sister, Mrs. Cassidy—I can't find any
faults in him, an' we don't fight."

Mary completed her journey to the stove, filled the
dish and carried it to the table; resting her hands on
the edge of the table, she leaned forward in seeming
earnestness.  "Well, you must know that we are
one, and if you love Billy-Red—" finishing with an
expressive gesture.  "Those who love me call me Mary."

Tex's face was gravely wistful, but a wrinkle showed
at the outer corner of his eyes.  "Well," he drawled,
"those who love me call me Tex."

"Good!" exclaimed Hopalong, grinning.

"An' I 'm thankful that my hair 's not th' color to
cause any trustin' soul to call me by a more
affectionate name," Tex finished.  He ducked Hopalong's punch
while Mary laughed a bird-like trill that brought to
her husband's face an expression of idolizing happiness
and made Tex smile in sympathy.  As the dinner
progressed Tex shared less and less in the conversation,
preferring to listen and make occasional comments, and
finally he spoke only when directly addressed.

When the meal was over and the two men started to
go into the sitting-room, Mary said: "You 'll have to
excuse me, Mr.—er—Tex," she amended, smiling
saucily.  "I guess you two men can take care of each
other while I red up."

"We 'll certainly try hard, Mrs.—er—Mary,"
Tex replied, his face grave but his eyes twinkling.
"We watched each other once before, you know."

As soon as they were alone Hopalong waved his
companion to a chair and bluntly asked a question:
"What's th' matter, Tex?  You got plumb quiet at
th' table."

The other, following his friend's example, filled a pipe
before he replied.

"Well, I was thinkin'—could n't help it; an' I was
drawin' a contrast that hurt.  Hoppy, I 'm not goin'
to stay here longer 'n I can help; you don't need me a
little bit, an' if you took me in yore outfit it 'd be only
because you want to help me.  This ain't no place for
me—I need excitement, clean, purposeful excitement,
an' you fellows have made this part of th' country as
quiet as a Quaker meetin'.  I 've been thinkin' Buck
needs somebody that 'll stick to him—an' there ain't
nothin' I won't do for Buck.  So I 'm goin' to pull my
freight north, but *not* as Tex Ewalt."

"Tex, if you do that I 'll be able to sleep better o'
nights," was the earnest reply.  "We 'd like to have
you.  You know that, but it might mean life to Buck
if he had you.  Lord, but could n't you two raise h—l
if you started!  He 'll be tickled half to death to see
you—there will be at least one man he won't have to
suspect."

Tex considered a moment.  "He won't see me—to
know me.  I 'm one man when I 'm known, when I 've
declared myself; I can be two or three if I don't declare
myself.  One fighting man won't do him much good—if
I could take th' outfit along we would n't waste no
time in strategy.  Th' rest of th' population, hostile to
Buck, would move out as we rode in—an' they
would n't come back.  No, I 'm playing th' stranger to
Buck.  Somebody 's goin' to pay me for it, too.  An'
th' pay 'll not be in money but in results.  I won't
starve, not as long as people like to play cards.  I quit
that, you know; but if I do play, it 'll be part of my
bigger game."

"I feel sorry for th' card-playin' population if you
figger you ought to eat," smiled Hopalong, reminiscently.

"If I 'd 'a' knowed about Buck, I 'd 'a' gone to
Montana 'stead of comin' here, an' saved some valuable
time," Tex observed.

"But as far as that goes, Tex, they can't do much
before Spring, anyhow," Hopalong remarked,
thoughtfully.  "An' it's yore own fault," he added.  "We
wanted to send you th' news occasionally, but you never
let us know where you was.  We 'd 'a' liked to hear from
you, too."

"Yes, I reckon I 've got time enough; besides, I need
th' exercise," agreed Tex.

"How is it you never wrote?" asked Hopalong, curiously.

Tex left his seat and walked to the door.  "Take a
walk with me—this ain't no place to tell a story like
that."

"I 've got somethin' better 'n that—I want to go
down to th' H2 an' see my father-in-law for a couple
of minutes.  Never met him, did you?  We can ride
slow an' have lots of time.  Be with you in a minute,"
and Hopalong hastened to ask his wife if she had any
word to send to her father.  He joined Tex at the
bunkhouse, now deserted except for Lee Hop, and in a
minute they left for the H2.  As they rode, Tex told his
story.

"This is going to be short an' meaty.  When I left
here I struck Kansas City first, then Chicago, spending
a few days in each of them.  I 'd heard a lot about New
York, an' headed for it.  I had n't been there very long
before I met a woman, an' you know they can turn us
punchers into fool knots.  Well, I courted her four days
an' married her—oh, I was plumb in love with her,
all right.  She was one of them sweet, dreamy, clingin'
kind—pretty as h—l, too.  I had a good job by then,
and for most a year I was too happy to put my feet
on this common old earth.  I never gambled, never
drank, and found it not very hard to quit cussing,
except on real, high-toned occasions.  But I never could
get along without my gun.  Civilization be d—d!
There 's more crooks an' killers in New York than you
an' me ever saw or heard of.  Once I was glad I had
it—did n't have to shoot, though.  Th' man got careless
an' let his gun waver a little an' was lookin' at th' works
in *mine* before he knowed it.  He did n't want no
money—what he needed was a match, an' he was doin' it to
win a bet—or so he palavers.  I takes his stubby .32
an' kicks him so he 'd *earn* that bet, an' lets him go.
I had to laugh—him stackin' agin *me* at that game!

"Well, I got promoted, an' had to travel out of town
every two weeks.  I 'd be gone two days an' then turn
up bright an' smilin' for my wife to admire.  Once I
was wired to come back quick on account of somethin'
unexpected turnin' up, an' I lopes home to spend that
second night in my own bed.  I remember now that I
wondered if th' wife would be there or at her mother's.

"She was there, but she was n't admirin' *me*.  I saw
red, an' th' fact that I did n't go loco proved that I
ain't never goin'.  But th' trigger hung on a breath an'
*he* knowed it.  He was pasty white an' could n't hardly
stand up.  Then th' shock wore off an' he was th'
coolest man in town.

"'What are you goin' to do about it?' he asks,
slowly.  'Yore wife loves *me*, not you.  She 's allus
loved me—you never really reckoned she was in love
with *you*, did you?"

"*I* was shocked then, only I was wearin' my poker
face an' he could n't see nothin'.  'Why, I did think,
once in a while, that she loved me,' I retorts.  'I
certainly kept you hangin' 'round th' gutter an' *sneakin'*
in, anyhow.  When I get through with you they 'll find
you in that same gutter.'

"'Goin' to shoot me?  I *ought* to have a chance.  I
ain't got no gun—you see, I ain't wild an' woolly like
you,' an' he actually grinned!

"'What kind of a chance did *I* have, out of town
an' not suspectin' any thin'?' I asks.

"'But she *loves* me; don't you understand?  She was
*happy* with me.  What good will it do *you* if you kill
me an' break her heart?  She 'll never look at you
again.'

"'I reckon she won't anyhow,' I retorts.  'Leastwise
not if I can help it.  Look here: Don't you know you
deserve to die?'

"'That's open to debate, but for brevity I 'll say
yes; but I want a chance.  I gave *you* a chance every
time I came here—you did n't take it, that's all.'

"'I 'll get you a gun, d—d if I won't,' I replied, an'
backed towards th' valise where my big old Colt was.
But he stops me with a sneer.

"'I said a *chance*!  You was *born* with a gun in
your hand, an' it 'd be pure murder.'

"'I 'm glad somethin 's pure,' says I.  Then I
remembered that old valise again.  Remember th' last
thing I did for you an' Peters before I quit, Hoppy?"

Hopalong thought quickly.  "Yes, you an' Pete put
in two days settin' poisoned cows in th' brush on th'
west line.  Did a good job, too.  Ain't been bothered
none by wolves since."

Tex chuckled.  "There was a bottle of yore stuff in
that war-bag an' it was half full.  I don't remember
puttin' it there, but there she was.  So I takes it an'
holds it up for him to look at, readin' th' label out loud.
That was th' only time my wife says a word, an' she
says *his* name, sorrowful; then she goes on lookin' from
him to me an' from me to him.

"He laughs at me an' sneers again.  'Think I 'm
go in' to eat that?' he says.

"I don't answer.  I 'm too busy workin' with one
hand an' watchin' him.  I knowed he did n't have no
gun, but there was chairs an' bottles a-plenty.  I got
down a bottle of bitters an' poured some of it in a
couple of glasses.  Then I drops in some pain-killer
an' stirs it up.  It does n't mix very well, so I pushed
th' remains of their supper to one side an' slips th'
two glasses under th' table cloth, holdin' one edge of
it in my teeth so it would n't touch th' glasses an'
let him follow 'em.  If they 'd been cards I 'd 'a'
spread 'em monte-fashion under his nose—but they
was n't.

"'Now, you skunk—take your pick an' don't
wrangle no more about yore chances.  An' you drink it
before I drink mine, or I 'll blow yore cussed ribs
loose!'

"I had given him credit for havin' a-plenty nerve,
but now I sees it was n't nerve at all—just gall.  He
was pasty white again, almost green, an' his little soul
plumb tried to climb out of his eyes.  I was a whole lot
surprised at how he went to pieces an' I was savagely
elated at th' way he was a-starin' at that cloth.  He
looks at me for an instant and then back at th' little
shell game on th' table' an' he says in a weak, thin
voice: 'How 'd I know—you 'll drink—yourn?'

"'You ain't supposed to be knowin' anythin' about
my habits while I 've got this gun—an' it's gettin'
plumb heavy, too,' I retorts.  'You 've been yellin'
about an even break, an' there it is.  An' if it 'll hurry
things any I 'll pick up my glass now an' drink it as
soon as I see yore glass empty, an' yore Adam's apple
bob enough.  We won't have to wait very long before
we get results.  You 'll pick yore glass an' drain it or
you 'll stop lead.'  An' I did n't care, Hoppy, which
one he got—I was worse'n dead then—what th' h—l
did I care about livin'?

"I reached out to get my glass as soon as he had
his'n an' I laid th' gun on my knee, knowin' he did n't
have no weapon, an' that I could get th' drop before he
could swing a bottle or chair.  But I knowed wrong.
He was a liar.  As I touched my glass his hand streaks
for his hip pocket.  I gave him th' liquor in his eyes
an' lunged for his gun hand just in time.  Then I lets
loose all th' rage that was boilin' in me an' when I gets
tired of punishin' him, I throws him at th' feet of th'
woman, picks up both guns, gets what personal duffle
I need, an' blows th' ranch.  His face was even all over,
his nose was busted, his teeth stuck in his lips, an' he
had a broken gun-wrist that gave somebody a whole lot
of trouble before it worked right again, if it ever did.
I 'm glad I did n't shoot him—there was a lot more
of satisfaction doin' it with my naked hands.  It was
man to man an' I played with him, with all his extra
twenty pounds.  By G—d, I can feel it yet!"

During the short pause Hopalong looked steadily
ahead with unseeing eyes, his face hard, his eyes
narrowed, and a tightness about his lips that told plainly
what he felt.  To come home to that!  He realized that
his companion was speaking again and gave close
attention.

"I don't know where I put in th' next week, but
when I got rational I found myself in a cell in a
Philadelphia jail, along with bums and crooks.  I found that
I 'd beat up a couple of policemen when I was drunk.
When I got ready to leave th' town I didn't have a
whole lot of money, so I played cards with what I had
an' left th' town as soon as I had my fare—which
did n't take long.  That bunch never went up agin'
such a well trained deck in their lives."

This time Hopalong broke the silence that ensued,
his hand dropping unconsciously on his friend's arm
in warm, impulsive sympathy.  "By G—d, what a deal!
It's awful, Tex; awful!"

"Yes, it was—an' it ain't exactly what you 'd call
a joke right now.  But I ain't worryin' none about th'
woman—she killed my love stone cold that night.  But
when I think of how things *might* 'a' turned out if she 'd
been square, of th' home I 'd 'a' had—but h—l, what's
th' use, anyhow?  Now what hurts me most is my pride
an' conceit—an' th' way I turned to th' drink an'
cheatin' so easy.  It makes me mad clean through to
think of what a infant I was, how I played th' fool
for th' Lord knows how long; an' sometimes I want to
kill somebody to sort of get square with myself.  Up
north I 'll be too busy tryin' to make fools out of other
people to do much in th' line of sympathizin' with
myself—an' too busy an' cautious to break back to
drink an' cards.  That was one of th' things drove me
back here—there 's a whole lot more temptation facin'
a man back East, an' 'specially a feller that's totin' a
big load of trouble."

"Don't it beat all how different luck will run for
different people?" marvelled Hopalong, thinking of
his portion.

"That was runnin' in my mind while I was eatin',"
replied Tex.  "Reckon I *did* get sort of quiet.  But
I 'm plumb glad th' right kind of luck came yore way,
all right."

They rode on for a short time, each busy with his
own thoughts, and then Hopalong looked up.  "We 're
goin' up to see Buck just as soon as I feel th' ranch
is in proper shape.  I 've got to get th' round-up out
of th' way first.  You see, we ain't had no honeymoon
trip yet."

"Yo 're lucky again; I never could see no joy in
hikin' over th' country changin' trains, livin' in hotels,
sleepin' in a different bed every night, each one worse'n
th' one before, lookin' after baggage, an' workin' hard
all th' time.  I 've often wondered why it is that two
people jump into all that trouble just as soon as they
get into their own little heaven for th' first
time."  Then Tex's face grew earnest.  "Now, look here,
Hoppy: You ain't goin' up to see Buck till I tell you
to come.  I know you, all right; just as soon as you
land you 'll be out gunnin' for th' bunch that's tryin'
to bust Buck's game.  You ain't single no more—yo're
a married man, an' when a man 's got a wife like
yourn he naturally ain't got no cussed business runnin'
'round puttin' hisself in th' way of gettin' killed.  You
let yore gun get plumb dusty an' when you want any
excitement, go out an' try to make water run up hill,
or somethin' simple like that.  You handle th' trouble
that comes to you, an' don't go off a-lookin' for it."

They spent the rest of the time in discussing the
status of the married man, and when Mary afterward
learned of the stand Tex took she shared more of her
husband's affection for him.  After a short stay at
the H2 they turned homeward and went thoroughly
into the matter of Tex's ride north.  It was agreed
that extra precaution would do no harm, and in order
to have no blunder on the part of any one, they decided
that it was best not to say anything about where he was
going.  Hopalong was greatly pleased and relieved now
that he knew that his old foreman would have some one
to help him fight his battles on that cold, distant range;
but he did not appear to be as cheerful about it as was
his companion.  Tex looked forward to the trip with all
the eagerness and impatience of a boy and it showed in
his conversation and actions.

When they reached the ranch house at dusk they
found Mary cooking a very small meal, and she waved
them off.  "You an' Billy-Red can't eat here to-night:
yo 're goin' to eat with th' boys in th' bunk-house.  I
would n't spoil your fun for anything.  Now you get
right out—I mean just what I say!"

"But, girl—" began Hopalong.

"Now I 've made up my mind, an' that's all there
is about it.  I can get along without you this
once—I won't do it again, you know—an' I want you boys
to have a rousin' good time all by yoreselves.  I want
th' boys to like me, Billy-Red, to feel that I ain't
changed *everythin'* by bein' here.  Now you clear
out—Lee knows all about it, an' I cooked some goodies
this afternoon for th' feast.  Johnny cleaned out th'
cake tins an' scraped th' bowls I mixed th' fillin'
in—I had to drive him away.  Look!  There he is, leanin'
up against that tree watchin' for me to set somethin'
out to cool.  He purty near got away with a pie—oh,
he 's terrible!  But he 's a good boy, just th' same."

Tex turned, emitted a blood-curdling yell and started
for the anxious Johnny, Hopalong close behind, while
Mary stood in the door and watched the fun, laughing
with delight.  The outfit piled out of the bunk-house,
caught sight of Johnny pounding towards them, and
joined in, much to the Kid's disgust.  They did not
know anything about the affair, but they did not have
to know—Johnny was legitimate prey for all, at any
time and under any conditions.  The fleeing youngster
was nearly caught twice as he dodged and doubled, but
once past them, he drew away with ease.  When the
winded and laughing pursuers finally stopped, he
circled around to the nearest corral, found a seat on the
gate and watched them straggle back to the bunk-house,
deriding them with cheerful abandon, dissecting them
with a shrewd and cutting tongue.  He took them up
in rotation and laid bare their faults and weaknesses
until they leaned against the wall and laughed at each
other until the tears came.  Then he turned to ridicule.

"An' there's Skinny," he continued, slowly and
gravely, while he rolled a cigarette.  "Th' only way
you can see him, except at noon, is to look at him in
front, or at his feet.  Why, I grabbed a broom in th'
dark one time an' shore apologized before I realized
that it was n't him at all.  When he sits down he looks
like a figger four, an' I 'm allus a-scared he 'll get into
one pant's laig by mistake.  When he eats solid stuff he
looks like a rope with a knot in it—it's scary watchin'
them knots go down—looks like he was skinnin'
hisself.  You can't tell whether he 's comin' or goin'—th'
bumps is all alike.  His laigs is so long he looks
like a wishbone an' I 'm holdin' my breath most of th'
time for fear he 'll split.  When he goes huntin' all he
has to do is to stand still so th' game won't see him;
it wanders up to see what's holdin' up th' hat.  He put
Pete's pants on once when he fell in th' crick—after
he fell in—an' I lifts my hat when I saw th' ridin'
skirts.  His laigs are beautiful—except for them
knobs half way down where they hinge.  An' when he
swallers a mouthful of water he looks like a muscle
dance.  Why, I got into his bunk one night by mistake
an' spent five minutes a-tryin' to smooth out a crease
in th' blanket.  Then he wakes up an' tells me to go
over an' scratch Red for a change.  Tells me to git
off 'n him, 'cause I 'm flattenin' him out.  That can't
be did, an' he knew it, too.

"What *you* laughin' at, Red?  You ain't got no
laugh comin'.  Every mornin' you sit on th' bunk an'
count yore clothes an' groan.  You put yore hat on
first an' yore boots next.  Then you takes off th' boots
so yore socks can get on.  Then th' boots go on again.
Then they come off again to let yore pants go on, after
which on go th' boots again.  Then you take yore hat
off to let th' shirt slip over yore head an' it goes right
back on again.  I 've seen you feel around for yore
suspenders for five minutes before you remembered they
was under th' shirt."

"Yo 're another!  I don't wear no suspenders!"

"No, you don't.  Not now, but you did.  You quit
'em 'cause they cost a dollar a pair an' kept gettin'
lost under th' shirt.  Now when you dress up you lift
my suspenders.  Tex never saw you in love.  I did; lots
of times; about twice a month.  You put th' saddle on
th' corral wall, close th' horse, an' mount th' gate.
You eat coffee with a knife an' sugar th' water.  When
I wake up first I see you huggin' th' pillow, which is
my old coat wrapped around my old pants.  If anybody
says 'patience,' you bust yore neck a-lookin' for
her.  What did you do up to Wallace's that time when
his niece came on to visit at his ranch?  Wallace told
me all about it, an' all about th' toothbrush, too.
Lemme see if you remember good.  Did n't you—"

"You never mind about me rememberin'," Red
shouted, grabbing up a bucket of water off the wash
bench and starting for his tormentor.  Johnny leaped
down and backed off, dodging behind the corral wall.
As Red made the turn he fell sprawling, the water
affectionately clinging to him.  When he arose and
looked around Johnny was entering the bunk-house door
and the rest of the outfit clung together trying to hold
themselves up, and voiced its misery in wails.  At that
moment Lee Hop buck-jumped around the corner on
his trip from the cook shack to the corral, his favorite
place of refuge when the ranch house was cut off from
him, and he saw Red too late.  When he was able to
think he was minus a shirt and Red was carrying him
under one arm and the shirt under the other.

"Now, you heathen—get that grub on th' table or
I 'll picket you an' Johnny to th' same stake!" Red
threatened, grimly.

"Him get clake.  Him stealie pie.  Alle same in
klitchen.  Eat chop-chop!" wailed the cook.  He was
promptly dropped and looked up in time to see a rush
for the cook shack.  But Johnnie was placing the
delicacies on the table and close scrutiny failed to discover
anything wrong with them, notwithstanding the
suspicious manner in which his tongue groomed his teeth.

The supper was a howling success, and unlike the
usual Bar-20 meals, was prolonged, and fun seasoned
every dish.  Even Lee Hop, incapable as he was of
grasping most of the points in their rapid flight, and
not wholly in sympathy with certain members of the
outfit—even his countenance lost its expression of
constant watchfulness; his mouth widened into a grin
whose extremities were lost somewhere in the region of
his back hair; his eyes gleamed like jet buttons in a
dish of mush; and his moisture-laden skin shone until,
altogether, his head resembled nothing so much as a
pumpkin-bogie, a good-natured one, with an extra large
candle lighted inside.  He was tempted now and again
to insert a remark in the short openings, but
experience checked him in time.  When the crowd filed into
the living-room it was to tell tales of men living and
dead; stories that covered a great range of human
action, from the foolishness of "Aristotle" Smith to the
cold ferocity and cruelty of Slippery Trendley and
Deacon Rankin.  The hours flew past with astonishing
speed and when Tex looked at his watch he stared
for a moment and returned it to his pocket with a
quick, decisive movement.

"It's past midnight, fellows, an' I 'm riding' on in
the mornin'," he remarked, arising.

The crowd looked its amazement and then vociferously
announced its regret.  These men held it a breach
of etiquette to question, and because there were no
"whys" or "wherefores," Tex felt impelled to explain.
He was going on to see old friends, but he would return.
The Bar-20 was his range and he would get back as
soon as he could.  In deference to his wishes and to let
him get as much sleep as possible, the outfit quietly
prepared for rest, and Hopalong, bidding them
good-night, departed for the ranch house.

Breakfast over the next morning, Tex rode north,
followed by an escort of friends of which any man
would have been proud.  Hopalong and Mary rode at
his side and behind in a compact bunch came the boys.
They stopped when the river trail was reached and
Tex shook hands all around.

"I 'm sorry to leave you, Hopalong," he said
earnestly; "but you know how it is: I 've been away quite
a spell and things happen quick out here.  You 'll see
me again this Summer an' I 'll come to stay if you
want me.  Mary, I 'm mighty glad to see he 's got such
a good foreman—he 's needed one a long time; an' I
can see a big improvement in him already."

"Reckon you might profit by the example—must
be girls a-plenty out in this country who 'd make good
foremen," she replied, laughing.

Tex's face showed no trace of hurt as the chance
arrow sped to the mark; he laughed, pointing at
Johnny.  "I reckon there are; but the Kid would n't
give me no show."

"We 'll answer for him, Tex," chuckled Red.  "We
cured him once before an' we 'd be shore glad to do it
again."

"Yep—kept him in the hills, starvin' an' freezin'
for a whole month," sweetly added Skinny.

Johnny flushed and squirmed but had no time to
retort, Pete and the others being too busy talking to
Tex to let him be heard.  Finally Tex backed off, raised
his hat, and with a bow and a smile to Mary, wheeled
and loped off along the trail to run Spring a race to
Montana.  Every time he looked back he waved in
answer to his friends, and then, swiftly mounting a rise,
was silhouetted for an instant against the white clouds
on the horizon and as swiftly dropped from sight, a
faint chorus of yells reaching him.

The outfit turned slowly to return to their ranch
and when they missed their foreman, they saw him
sitting silent where they had left him, his wife's hand on
his arm.  He could still see Tex against the sky, clear
cut, startlingly strong and potent, and he nodded his
head slowly.  "He 's needed up there, an' he 's the best
man to go."  Turning, he was surprised to find his
wife so near and he smiled joyously: "Wouldn't go
an' leave me all alone, would you, Honey?  Yo 're shore
a thoroughbred an' I 'm plumb proud of you.  Race
you to th' bunch!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`H. WHITBY BOOTH IS SHOWN HOW`:

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   CHAPTER II


.. class:: center medium

   \H. WHITBY BOOTH IS SHOWN HOW

.. vspace:: 2

If any man of the Bar-20 punchers had been
brought face to face with George McAllister he
would have suffered the shock of his life.
"Frenchy?" he would have hesitated, "What in—?
Why, Frenchy?"  And the shock would have been
mutual, since Frenchy McAllister had been dead some
months, a fact of which his brother George was
sorrowfully aware.  Yet so alike were they that any of
Frenchy's old friends would have thought the dead
come to life.

A distinguishing feature was the eye-glasses which
George had long found necessary.  He took them off
and laid aside his book as the butler announced Mr. Booth.

\H. Whitby Booth entered the room with the hesitating
step of one who has a favor to ask.  A tall,
well-set-up man of the blonde type of so many of his
countrymen, his usual movements were slow when
compared with the nervous action of those in the hustling
city of Chicago.  Hesitation gave him the appearance
of a mechanical figure, about to run down.  Mr. McAllister's
hearty welcome did not seem to reassure him.

"Ah—Miss McAllister—ah—is not at home," he
volunteered, rather than questioned.

The other man eyed him quizzically.  "No," he
agreed, "she and Mrs. Blake are out somewhere; I am
not just sure where.  Shall I inquire?"

"No, oh no.  I rather wanted to talk to you, you
know—that is—ah—"

"Sit down, Whitby, and relieve your mind.  Cigars
on that table there, and some whiskey and fizz.  Shall
I ring for brandy?"

"Awfully good of you, really.  No, I—I think
I 'll go in as I am.  The fact is I want Margaret—Miss
McAllister—and I thought I 'd ask if you had
any objections."

"Margaret has."

"Oh, I say!"

"Fact, she has.  Might as well face the music,
Whitby.  The truth is just this: It's less than a week
ago since Margaret was holding you up as a horrible
example.  Margaret comes from a line of hustlers; she
has not had common sense and national pride bred out
of her in a fashionable school; and she looks with
extreme disfavor on an idler."

"But I say, Mr. McAllister, you don't think—"

"No, my boy, I don't think where Margaret is
concerned—Margaret thinks.  Don't misunderstand me.
I like you, Whitby.  Confidentially, I believe Margaret
does, too.  But I am quite sure she will never marry a
man who does nothing and, as she expressed it herself,
lives on an allowance from his father."

"Then I understand, sir, you have no objections?"

"None in the world—because I believe you will
strike your gait before long and become something of a
hustler yourself.  But let me tell you, Margaret does n't
deal in futures—I 'm used to it—but she insists on
a fact, not a probability."

Whitby drew a breath which was largely expressive
of relief.  "In that case, sir, I 'll try my luck," and he
arose to say good-night.

"You know where to find them?"

"Rather!  I was going there when I had spoken to you."

"I see," said Mr. McAllister, somewhat grimly,
remembering the other's greeting.  "Sit down, Whitby.
The night is young, you can't miss them, and I am so
sure of the badness of your luck that I should like to
give you a little encouragement to fall back
on."  Whitby resumed his seat and Mr. McAllister puffed
thoughtfully at his cigar for a few moments before
speaking.

"Not to go too far back," he began, "my
grandfather was a boy when his father took him from
Ireland, the birthplace of the family, to France, the
birthplace of liberty, as the old man thought.  Those were
stirring times for that boy and the iron of life entered
into him at an early age.  He married and had one son,
my father, who thought the liberty of this country so
much better than that of France, that he came here,
bringing his young wife with him; the wife died in
giving birth to my younger brother, John.  All that line
were hustlers, Whitby.  They had to be, to keep alive.
Margaret knows their history better than I do and
glories in it.  You see?"

Whitby nodded mournfully.  He was beginning to
lose confidence again.

"My father would have been alive to-day but for an
unfortunate accident which carried off both him and my
mother within a few days.  My brother and myself
were found pretty well provided for.  My share has
not decreased.  In fact I have done very well for a man
who is not avaricious.  But I had to fight; and more
than once it was a close call, win or lose.  Margaret
knows all that, Whitby, and the dear girl is as proud
of her father, I do believe, as of any who went before
him.  Her mother left us very soon and Margaret has
been my companion ever since she could talk.  Are
you beginning to understand?"

"I am, indeed," was the reluctant acknowledgment.

"Very good.  Then here is where you come in."  His
face clouded and he was silent so long that Whitby
looked up inquiringly.  The motion aroused McAllister
and he continued:

"My brother was queer.  I have always thought
his birth had something to do with it; but however that
may be, he was, in my opinion, peculiar in many of
his ways.  The choice of his path in life was quite on
a par with his character: he invested every dollar he
had in land out West, he and a partner whom I have
never seen; bought and paid for land and stock at a
time when Government land was used by any one
without payment of any kind and when live-stock raising
was almost an unknown industry, at least in that part
of the country.  But that was n't all.  He went out to
the ranch and took his delicate young wife with him,
a bride, and lived in a wild region where they saw only
Indians, outlaws, and those who were worse than
either."  His face hardened and the hand he laid on the table
trembled as he turned to face to his listener.  "Worse
than either, Whitby," he repeated.  "The Indians were
bad enough at times, God knows, but there is excuse for
their deviltry; there could be no excuse for those
others.

"One reason John gave for going West was that
the life would bring health to his wife.  It did so.  A
few months' time saw her a robust woman.  And then
John returned to the ranch one day to come upon a
scene that drove him crazy, I verily believe.  No need to
go into it, though I had the details from his partner at
the time—John did not write me for years.  They
both started out after the murderers and wandered over
a great part of this country before finding the chief
fiend.  Even his death brought no peace to John.  He
would never go back to the old place nor would his
partner, out of feeling for him.  After much persuasion
I got them to put matters into my hands, but so many
years had passed that I found the ownership in dispute
and it is but lately that I have succeeded in regaining
title.  It was too late for John, who died before I came
into possession, but his partner, a man named Peters,
has gone up there from a Texan ranch to run the place.
He is half owner and should be the best man for the
job.  But—and my experience with those Westerners
places emphasis on that 'but'—I do not really know
just what kind of a man he is.  I am putting quite a
large sum of money in this venture, relying upon
Peters' knowledge and hoping for a square deal.  And
if he is the best man for the place, you are the best
man I know to show me that.  Don't interrupt.

"I know right well what Margaret will tell you
to-night, and if you want to make her change her mind,
you could have no better opportunity than I offer.  My
brother's history is an abiding grief with Margaret,
and if you go out there and make good you will surely
make good with her.

"That's all.  If I 'm right, come and see me to-morrow
at the office.  I will have everything noted down
for you in writing.  Commit it to memory and then
destroy the notes; because you would be valueless if
any one interested discovered you were acting for me.
And don't see Margaret after to-night before you go."

He arose and held out his hand.  Whitby grasped
it as he stood up and looked frankly at him.  "It's
awfully good of you, Mr. McAllister," he declared.
"You 've left me deuced little hope, I must say, but
there 's no knowing where you are if you don't ask, is
there?  And if I come a cropper I 'll try your way
and chance it."

"You 'll find my way is right.  I 've made mistakes
in my life but never any where Margaret was
concerned.  Good-night."

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.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1

Whitby stood at the top of the steps, slowly drawing
his right-hand glove through his gloved left hand,
time after time, casting a long look before he leaped.
The driver of his hired *coupé* eyed him with calculating
patience, observing to himself that if this were a
specimen of the average Englishman, England must be a
cinch for a cabman.  Whitby had not yet arrived at the
leaping stage when another *coupé*, a private one with a
noticeably fine team, stopped in passing the house, and
a voice hailed him: "Hello, Whit!  What are you
mooning there for?"

Whitby smiled: for all his consideration he had been
pushed in at the last.  He slowly descended the steps
while he replied: "Evenin', Wallie.  I was just going
to drop in on the Sparrows."

"Good enough!  Me, too.  Jump in here and let
your wagon follow.  Do you hear, you driver?  Trail
in behind—unless you won't need him, Whit."

"Oh, let him come along.  I—ah—I may be leaving
rather early, don't you know."

"That so?  Me, too.  I'm darned glad I met you,
Whit.  I 'm in a regular blue funk—Brown is sulky
as a bear.  He 's been driving me about for an hour, I
should say, and he does n't understand it.  Fact is,
Whit, I 'm going to ask a girl to marry me to-night, and
I don't want to, not a little bit; but if I don't, some
other fellow will, and that would be—well, worse."

"By Jove!  Marry you *to-night*!  Do you fancy she will?"

"No, you 'bloomin' Britisher.'  *Ask* her, not marry
her, to-night.  For the love of Moses!  Do you think
it's an elopement?"

"Well, I did n't know, you know," and his tone was
one of distinct disappointment.  "You seem to be
pretty certain she 'll have you."

"Oh!  She 'll have me right enough, but I 've got to
ask first and make sure.  There 're too many others
hanging around to suit me."

"I say, old chap, I hope you won't mind my asking
but—it is n't Miss McAllister, by any chance, is it?"

Wallie turned in his seat and stared at the anxious
face of Whitby for a few moments, then he broke into
shouts of laughter.  "You, too," he managed to say;
and at last: "No, you trembling aspirant, it isn't,
by any chance, Miss McAllister.  Margie and I are
good friends, all right, but not in that way.  Oh, you sly
Johnnie!  Why, I 'll bet a hundred you 're up to the
same game, yourself.  Own up, now."

"I think a great deal of Miss McAllister, a very
great deal.  If I thought she 'd have me I 'd ask her the
first opportunity."

"And that will be in a few minutes.  She 's bound to
be there—and here we are.  Wish me luck, Whit."

"I do, with all my heart, Wallie," and he was very
serious in his earnestness.

"Same to you, Whit, and many—no, not that, of
course."  They were in the rooms by this time, both
pairs of eyes wandering, searching this way and that
as they moved toward their pretty hostess whose recent
marriage seemed to have increased, if possible, her
popularity with the male sex; she stood so surrounded
by a chaffing crowd of men that they found difficulty
in getting near her.  They did not linger, however, as
each caught sight of the object of his pursuit at the
same time, and their paths parted from that moment.

The maturity of Margaret McAllister's mind would
never have been suspected from her appearance.  The
pale green satin gown, overhung with long draperies of
silk-fringed tulle, the low round satin corsage being
partly veiled by a diagonal drapery of the same
transparent material, and ornamented—as was the skirt—with
a satin scarf, tied with knots of ribbon and
clusters of water-lilies—this formed a creation that
adorned a perfect figure of medium height, whose
symmetry made it seem smaller than it really was.  The
Irish temperament and quickness of intelligence were
embodied in a brunette beauty inherited from her
French ancestry; but over all, like the first flush of
morning's light on a lovely garden, lay the delicate
charm of her American mother.  One of a group of
girls, with several men hovering on the outer circle, she
detached herself upon Whitby's approach and advanced
to meet him.

"Good-evening, Mr. Booth.  Are n't you late?"

"Yes, rather."  Whitby drew comfort from the fact
that she had chosen to notice it.

"Aunt Jessie is over this way.  She is complaining
of the heat already.  Perhaps you would better mention it."

"Mrs. Blake?  I will.  I 've a favor to ask of Mrs. Blake.
Let's join her."

Mrs. Blake was of that comfortable age, size, and
appearance which expressed satisfaction with the world
and its ways.  She affected black at all times with quite
touching consistency; doubly so, since gossip hinted at
a married life not altogether happy.  However, her
widowhood did not permit derogatory remarks concerning
the late Mr. Blake, who made up to her in dying all
his short-comings when alive; and she had proven a
discreet chaperon for Margaret from the assumption of
that position.  Her most conspicuous weakness was
endeavoring to overcome a growing embonpoint with
corsets, and the tight lacing undoubtedly had much
to do with her susceptibility to heat.  Whitby was a
favorite with her and she greeted him warmly, closing
her waving fan to tap him with it now and again in
emphasis.

But Whitby's purpose would not wait; as soon as the
chance offered he begged free, and arose to the
occasion with a daring that surprised himself.  "I am
going to hide up with Miss McAllister for quite a time,
Mrs. Blake.  If any one comes bothering, just put him
off, will you?  That is, if Miss McAllister doesn't
mind."

"Mind?  Of course she doesn't mind.  Run along,
Margie, and for Heaven's sake, don't sit in a draft—though
I don't believe you can find one in this house,"
and the fan was brought into more vigorous action at
the reminding thought.

"Well, I don't know, Mr. Booth," remonstrated
Margaret as they moved away.  "They will begin to
dance very soon and I promised Wallie Hartman the
opening.  You came in together, didn't you?"

"Oh, Wallie!  Yes, he was pretty keen on getting
here but I rather fancy he's forgotten about that
dance, you know."

"What makes you say that?  What mischief are you
two brewing?"

"Ah—it's Wallie's secret, you know,—that is, his
part of it is—I say, here 's the very spot."

They had made the turn behind the stairs, where a
punch bowl stood; the space immediately behind the
stairs being too low in which to stand comfortably
upright, a mass of foliage was banked in a half circle,
outside of which the stand and punch bowl were placed;
inside, a thoughtful hostess had arranged a *tête-à-tête*,
quite unnoticeable from without.  Whitby's attention
had been drawn to it by the couple who had emerged
upon their approach, the girl radiant and the man
walking on air, of which details Whitby was entirely
oblivious.  Margaret was more observing and she looked
after Wallie with a dawning look of understanding and
then at Whitby with a quick glance of apprehension.
There was no time to protest, even if she would, as
Whitby had led her behind the leafy screen before she
fully realized the import of his action.

Like many slow starters, Whitby, when once in
movement, set a rapid pace.  He came to the point
now with promptitude:

"Miss McAllister, I arrived late because I called on
your father before coming here, to ask his permission
to address you.  I must say he rather dashed my hopes,
you know.  He does n't think I 'm such a bad sort—he
does n't object in the least—but he seemed to fancy
his daughter Margaret would.  I—I hope he is mistaken."

She turned to him a face in which the eyes were
slowly filling with tears, nor did she remove the hand
upon which his rested, on the curving back of the seat.
It was not her first proposal, by several, but there was
a vibrating earnestness, an unexpected tenderness in
this big, slow Englishman which told her she was going
to hurt him seriously when she spoke.  And she did not
want to hurt him; with all her heart and soul she
wished she did not have to hurt him.

"I 'm not worthy of you, Margaret.  I don't think
any man is worthy of a good woman, and I 'm just an
ordinary man.  But I 'll *be* worthy of you, from
to-night.—and that whether you say yes or no.

"You know I love you.  You must know I left
London and came over here to follow you.  But you don't
know how much I care for you—and I can't tell you.
I 'm a duffer at this sort of game—like everything
else—I never did it before—and 'pon my word, I
don't know how.  But if I could say what I feel, then
perhaps, you might know better.  What is it to be,
Margaret?  Wait a bit!  If you feel doubtful, I 'll
wait as long as you want me to.  But—but—I 'm
afraid it's no go."  He sat looking dumbly at her,
hoping for some sign of encouragement, but there was no
misreading the answer in her face.

It was a long minute before she spoke.  She was
unnerved by the hysterical desire to put her arms around
him and soothe him as she might a hurt child.
Something of her embarrassment was conveyed to him and
with the wish to save her the pain of refusing in words
he started as if to rise.  She stopped him with a gesture.

"Wait.  I *will* say what I want you to know.  I like
you—no! not in that way; not the way a woman
should—the man she expects to marry.  Perhaps if
you had been—I am not sure—but I could *not* marry
a drone.  Oh! why don't you wake up!  How *can* you
go on from day to day with no thought but self-indulgence?
You say you love me.  Ask yourself: Is not
that merely a form of self-indulgence?  Oh, I know you
would take care of me and defer to me and let me have
my way in everything—you are that kind of a man—but
to what end?  That I might be the more pleasing
to you.  Is it your purpose to dawdle through life,
taking only such pains as shall make things more pleasing
to you?"

"Is that all, Margaret?  Is it only because you fancy
I'm a loafer?"

"But you are!  You are!  Oh!  I don't know—I 'm not sure—"

"I 'm sure!" the exulting certainty in his voice
startled her.  "I 'm sure!" he repeated.  "I may be a
bit of an ass in some things but no woman would care
as you care, what a man was or what he did unless she
loved him.  You love me, Margaret, thank God!  Give
me a chance.  You 're only a girl, yet.  Give me a year
and if I go under, or you find I 'm wrong, I 'll thank
you for the chance and never blame you.  Will you?"

Her heart was pounding in suffocating throbs and
she trembled like a leaf in the wind before the eager
intensity of his gaze.  A strong will held her in check,
else she had given way then and there, but she faced
him with a fine bravery.  "Yes," she promised, "I
will.  Go away and make good."

"Make good!  By Jove, that's what your father
said.  Make good—I 'll not forget it."  His head
bent low in an old-fashioned but becoming salute while
her free hand rested unfelt for an instant upon the
yellow hair, a gesture that was at once a blessing and a
prayer.





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.. _`BUCK MAKES FRIENDS`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER III


.. class:: center medium

   BUCK MAKES FRIENDS

.. vspace:: 2

The town of Twin River straggled with
indifferent impartiality along the banks of the Black
Jack and Little Jill branches where they ran
together to form the Jones' Luck River, two or three
houses lying farther north along the main stream.  The
trail from Wayback, the nearest railway point, hugged
the east bank of Jones' Luck, shaded throughout its
course by the trees which lined the river, as they did all
the streams in this part of the country: cottonwoods
mostly, with an occasional ash or elm.  Looking to the
east, the rolling ground sloped upward toward a chain
of hills; to the west, beyond the river, the country lay
level to the horizon.  On both sides of the trail the
underbrush grew thick; spring made of it a perfect
paradise of blossoms.

Boomerang, pet hobo of Twin River and the only one
who ever dared to come back, left Little Nell's with his
characteristic hurried shuffle and approached the
wooden bridge where the Wayback trail crossed the Jill,
and continued south to Big Moose.  Boomerang was
errand boy just now, useful man about the hotel or one
of the saloons when necessity drove, at other times just
plain bum.  He was suspected of having been a
soldier.  A sharp "'tention" would startle him into a
second's upright stiffness which after a furtive look
around would relax into his customary shambling lack
of backbone.  He had one other amusing peculiarity:
let a gun be discharged in his vicinity and there was
trouble right away, trouble the gunner was not
looking for; Boomerang would fly into such a fury of
fighting rage, it was a town wonder that some indignant
citizen had not sent him long ago where he never could
come back.

Coming to the bridge he looked casually and from
habit along the trail and espied a horseman riding his
way.  He studied him reflectively a few seconds and
then spat vigorously at something moving on one of the
bridge planks, much as the practised gun-man snaps
without appearing to aim.  "Stranger," he affirmed;
"Cow-punch," he added; "Old man," he shrewdly
surmised, and shook his head; "Dunno 'im" and he
glanced at the stain on the plank to see what he had
bagged.  Among his other pleasing human habits
"Boom" used tobacco—as a masticant—there was
the evidence of the fact.  But he had missed and after a
wistful look for something to inspire him to a more
successful effort, he shuffled on.

The horseman came at a steady gait, his horse, a
likely-looking bay with black spots, getting over the
ground considerably faster than the cow-ponies
common to the locality; approaching the bridge he was
slowed to a walk while his rider took in the town with
comprehensive glance.  A tall man, lean and grizzled,
with the far-seeing, almost vacant eye of the
plainsman, there was nothing, to any one but such a student
of humanity as "Boom," to indicate his calling, much
less his position in it.  The felt hat, soft shirt and
rough, heavy suit, the trousers pushed into the tops of
his boots, were such as a man in the town might wear
and many did wear.  He forded the stream near the
bridge at a walk.  Pop Snow, better known as Dirty,
cleverly balancing himself within an inch of safety in
front of the "I-Call" saloon, greeted him affably:
"Come a long way, stranger?" asked Dirty.

"From Wayback," announced the other and paused
in interested suspense.  Dirty had become seized with
some internal convulsion, which momentarily threatened
disaster to his balance.  His feet swung back and forth
in spasmodic jerks, the while his sinful old carcass
shook like a man with the Chagres fever.  Finally
a strangled wheeze burst from his throat and explained
the crinkle about his eyes: he was laughing.

"Wayback ain't fur," he declared, licking his lips
in anticipation of the kernel of his joke about to come.
"You can a'most see it frum here through the bottom
uv—"

"How d' you know it ain't?" the horseman abruptly
interrupted.

Dirty was hurt.  This was not according to Hoyle.
Two more words and no self-respecting "gent" could
refuse to look toward Wayback through a glass—and
certainly not alone.  The weather was already too cold
to sit fishing for such fish as this; and here was one
who had swallowed the bait, rejecting the hook.

"Why, stranger, I been there," explained Dirty,
in aggrieved remonstrance.

"How long since you been there?  Not since
two-at-once, was you?  Didn't it used to be at Drigg's
Worry?  Didn't it?"

Snow lost his balance.  He nodded in open-mouthed
silence.

"Course it was—at Drigg's Worry—and now it's
way back," and with a grim chuckle the stranger
pressed in his knees and loped on down the trail to the
Sweet-Echo Hotel.

Dirty stared after him.  "Who in hell's that?" he
asked himself in profane astonishment.  "It 's never
Black Jack—too old; an' it ain't Lucky Jones—too
young.  He sure said 'two-at-once.'  Two-at-once: I
ain't heard that in more 'n twenty years."  His
air-dried throat compelled inward attention and he got up
from his box and turned and looked at it.  "Used to be
at Drigg's Worry, did n't it?" he mimicked.  "Did n't
it?  An' now it's way back."  He kicked the box
viciously against the tavern wall.  "D—n yer!  This yer
blasted town 's gettin' too smart," and he proceeded to
make the only change of base he ever undertook during
the day, by stamping across the bridge to the "Why-Not."

The door of the I-Call opened and a man appeared.
He glanced around carelessly until he noticed the box,
which he viewed with an appearance of lively interest,
coming outside and walking around it at a respectful
distance.  "Huh!" he grunted.  Having satisfied
himself of its condition he drawlingly announced it for the
benefit of those inside.  "Dirty 's busted his chair," he
informed, and turned to look curiously after Pop Snow,
who was at that moment slamming the door of the
Why-Not behind him.

Through the open door three other men came out.
They all looked at the box.  One of them stopped and
turned it over with his thumb.  "Kicked it," he said, and
they all looked across at the Why-Not, considering.  A
roar from behind them smote upon their ears like a mine
blast: "Shut that door!"  With one accord they
turned and trooped back again.

The rider meanwhile was talking to his horse as he
covered the short distance to the Sweet-Echo Hotel.
"Wonderful climate, Allday.  If twenty years don't
wear you down no more 'n old Snow you 'll shore be a
grand horse t' own," and he playfully banged him
alongside the neck with his stirrup.  Allday limited his
resentment to a flattening of the ears and the rider
shook his head sorrowfully.  "Yo 're one good li'l hoss
but yore patience 'd discourage a saint."  He swung
off the trail to ride around the building in search of a
shelter of some kind, catching sight of Boomerang just
disappearing through the door of the bar-room.
"Things has been a-movin' 'round Twin River since
Frenchy an' me went after Slippery an' his gang:
bridges, reg'lar hotels, an' tramps.  An' oblige me
by squintin' at th' stable.  If Cowan 'd wake up an'
find that at th' back door, he 'd fall dead."

He dismounted and led his horse through the stable
door, stopping in contemplation of the interior.  He
was plainly surprised.  "One, two, three, four," he
counted, "twenty stalls—twenty tie-'em-by-th'-head
stalls—no, there 's a rope behind 'em.  Well, I 'm
d—d!  He ain't meanin' to build again in fifty years;
no, not never!"

Allday went willingly enough into one of the
stalls—they were nothing new to him—and fell to eating
with no loss of time.  Buck watched him for a few
moments and then, throwing saddle and bridle onto his
shoulder, he walked back the way he had come and into
the hotel bar.  No one noticed him as he entered, all,
even the bartender, being deeply intent on watching a
game of cards.  Buck grunted, dropped his belongings
in a corner, and paused to examine the group.  A grand
collie dog, lying near the stove in the middle of the
room, got up, came and sniffed at him, and went back
and lay down again.

The game was going on at a table close to the bar,
over which the bartender leaned, standing on some
elevation to enable him to draw closer.  Only two men were
playing.  The one facing Buck was a big man, in the
forties, his brown hair and beard thickly sprinkled with
gray; brown eyes, red-rimmed from dissipation, set
wide apart from a big, bold nose, stared down at the
cards squeezed in a big hand.  The other man was of
slight build, with black hair, and the motions of his
hands, which Buck had caught as he entered, were those
of a gambler: accurate, assured, easy with a smooth
swiftness that baffled the eye.  He was dressed like a
cowpunch; he looked like a cow-punch—all but the hands;
these, browned as they were, and dirty, exhibited a
suppleness that had never been injured by hard work.
Buck walked up to the bar and a soft oath escaped him
as he caught sight of the thin, brown face, the straight
nose, the out-standing ears, the keen black eyes—Buck's
glance leaped around the circle of on-lookers in
the effort to discover how many of the gambler's
friends were with him.  He was satisfied that the man
was playing a lone hand.  There was a tenseness in the
air which Buck knew well, but from across the hall came
a most incongruous sound.  "Piano, by G—d!"
breathed Buck in amazement.  The intentness on the
game of those in the room explained why he had seen
no one about the place and he was at a loss to account
for the indifference of the musician.

At the big man's left, standing in the corner
between the bar and the wall, was a woman.  Her blonde
hair and blue eyes set off a face with some pretensions
to beauty, and in point of size she was a fitting mate for
the big man at whom she stared with lowering gaze.
Close to her stood the hobo, and Buck rightly concluded
he was a privileged character.  Surrounding the table
were several men quite evidently punchers, two or three
who might be miners, and an unmistakable travelling
salesman of that race whose business acumen brings
them to the top though they start at the bottom.  Buck
had gauged them all in that one glance.  Afterward he
watched the gambler's hands and a puzzled expression
gradually appeared on his face; he frowned and moved
uneasily.  Was the man playing fair or were his eyes
getting old?  Suddenly the frown disappeared and he
breathed a sigh of relief: the motion itself had been
invisible but Buck had caught the well-remembered
preliminary flourish; thereafter he studied the faces of the
others; the game had lost interest, even the low voices
of the players fell on deaf ears.  His interest quickened
as the big man stood up.

"I 'm done," he declared.  "That lets me out, Dave.
You 've got th' pile.  After to-night I 'll have to pound
leather for forty a month and my keep."  He turned
to the woman, while an air of relief appeared among
the others at his game acceptance of the loss.  "Go on
home, Nell.  I won't be up yet a while."

"You won't be up at all," was the level-voiced reply.

"Eh?" he exclaimed, in surprised questioning.

She pushed past him and walked to the door.  "You
won't be up at all," she repeated, facing him.  "You 've
lost your pile and sent mine after it in a game you
don't play any better than a four-year-old.  I warned
you not to play.  Now you take the consequences."  The
door slammed after her.  "Boom" silently opened
the door into the hall and vanished.

The big man looked around, dazed.  No one met his
eye.  Dave was sliding the cards noiselessly through
his fingers and the rest appeared fascinated by the
motion.  The big man turned to the bartender.

"Slick, gimme a bottle," he demanded.  Slick complied
without a word and he bore it in his hand to the
table behind the door, where he sat drinking alone,
staring out morosely at the gathering darkness.

Buck dropped into the vacated chair and laid his roll
on the table.  "The time to set in at a two-hand game
of draw," he remarked with easy good nature, "is
when th' other feller is feelin' all flushed up with
winnin'.  If you like to add my pile to that load you got
a'ready, I 'm on."  He beamed pleasantly on the
surrounding faces and a cynical smile played for a
moment on the thin lips of the man facing him.
"Sure," he agreed, and pushed the cards across the table.

"Bar-keep, set 'em up," said Buck, flicking a bill
behind him.  Slick became busy at once and Buck, in
a matter-of-fact manner, placed his gun on the table
at his left hand and picked up the pack.  "Yes," he
went on with vacuous cheerfulness, "the best man with
a full deck I ever saw told me that.  We crossed trails
down in Cheyenne.  They was shore some terrors in
that li'l town, but he was th' one original."  He shook
his head in reminiscent wonder, and raised his glass.
"Here 's to a growin' pile, Bud," and nodding to the
others, who responded with indistinct murmurs, the
drink was drained in the customary gulp.  "One more,
bar-keep, before we start her," he demanded.  "I never
drink when I 'm a-playin'."  Here he leaned forward
and raised his voice.  "Friend, you over there by th'
winder, yo 're not drinkin'."

The big man slowly turned his head and looked at
Buck with blood-shot eyes, then at the extra glass on
his table.  "Here 's better luck ner mine, friend—not
wishin' you no harm, Dave," and he added the drink
to the generous quantity he had already consumed.
Buck waved his hand in acknowledgment, then he
smiled again on his opponent.

"Same game you was playin', Bud?" he asked,
genially.

"Suits me," was the laconic reply.

Buck raised the second drink.  "Here's to Tex
Ewalt, th' man who showed me th' error of my
ways."  The tail of his eye was on Dave.

The name of Tex must have shocked him like a
bucket of ice water but he did not betray it by so much
as the flicker of an eyelid.  Ewalt and he had been
friends in the Panhandle and both had escaped the fate
of Trendley and his crowd more by luck than merit.
Buck knew Dave's history in Texas, related by Ewalt
himself, who had illustrated the tell-tale flourish with
which Dave introduced a crooked play; but he did not
know that Dave Owens was Black Jack, returned after
years of wandering, to the place of his nativity.[#]

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: small

[#] The boy and girl history of David Jones (Black Jack)
and his sister, Veia (called Jill) was well known to some
of the old timers who went to Montana in the first gold
rush and stayed there.  It was difficult to get them to tell
it and one was sorry to have heard it, if successful.

.. vspace:: 1

Buck shuffled the cards slowly and then with a careful
exaggeration of the flourish, dealt the hand in a swift
shower of dropping units.  A sigh of appreciation
escaped the observant group and this time Buck got
results: at sight of the exaggerated flourish an
involuntary contraction of the muscles hardened the
deceptively boyish form and face of the younger man and
the black eyes stared a challenging question at the
smiling gray ones opposite before dropping to the
cards he had unconsciously gathered up.

Luck smiled on Buck from the start.  He meant that
it should.  Always a good player, his acquaintance with
Tex, who had taught him all he knew of crooked plays,
had made him an apt pupil in the school in which his
slippery opponent was a master.  With everything
coming his way Buck was quite comfortable.  Sooner or
later the other would force the fighting.  Time enough
to sit up and take notice when the flourishing danger
signal appeared.

It came at last.  Dave leaned forward and spoke.
"Cheyenne, how'd jack-pots strike yer?  I got ter
hit th' trail before six an' it's pretty nigh time to
feed."

"Shore!" assented Buck, heartily.

The pot grew in a manner scandalous to watch.
"Double the ante," softly suggested Dave.

"Shore," agreed Buck, with genial alacrity.

"Double her ag'in."

"Double she is," was Buck's agreeable response.

Pass after pass, and Slick stretched out over the
bar and craned his neck.  At last, with a graceful
flourish a good hand fell to Buck, a suspiciously good
hand, while Dave's thin lips were twisted into a
one-sided smile.  Buck looked at him reproachfully.

"Bud, you should oughter o' knowed better 'n that.
I got six cards."

The smile faded from Dave's face and he stared at
the cards like a man who sees ghosts.  The stare rose
slowly to Buck's face, but no one could possibly
suspect such grieved reproach to be mere duplicity.  It
was too ridiculous—only Dave knew quite well that he
had not dealt six cards.  "Funny," he said.  "Funny
how a man 'll make mistakes."

"I forgive you this once, but don't do it no more,"
and Buck shuffled the cards, executed a particularly
outrageous flourish, and dealt.

"Ha!  Ha!" barked Bow-Wow Baker.  "D—n if
they ain't both makin' th' same sign.  Must belong to
th' same lodge."

Chesty Sutton dug him in the ribs with an elbow.
"Shut up!" he hissed, never taking his eyes from the
game.

Dave passed and Buck opened.  Dave drew three
cards to two high ones.  Buck stood pat.  Dave
scanned his hand; whatever suspicion he might have had,
vanished: he had never seen the man who could deal
him a straight in that fashion.  He backed his hand
steadily until Buck's assurance and his own depleted
cash made him pause, and he called.  Buck solemnly
laid down four aces.  Four!—and Dave would have
taken his oath the diamond ace had been on the bottom
of the deck before the deal—and Buck had not drawn
cards.

"They 're good," said Dave shortly, dropping his
hand into the discard. "If you 're goin' to stay
around here, Cheyenne, I 'll get revenge
to-morrer."  He started to rise.

"Nope, I guess not, Bud.  I never play yore kind
of a game with th' same man twice."

Dave froze in his position.  "Meanin'?" he asked,
coldly.

"I don't like th' way you deal," was the frank answer.

"D—n you!" cursed Dave.  His hand flew to his
gun—and stopped.  Over the edge of the table a
forty-five was threatening with steady mouth.

"Don't do it, Bud," warned Buck.

Dave's hand slowly moved forward.  "A two-gun
man, eh?" he sneered.

"Shore.  Never bet on th' gun on th' table, Bud.
You got a lot to learn.  Hit her up or you 'll be
late—an' down where I came from it's unhealthy to look
through a winder without first makin' a noise."

"Yore argument is good.  But I reckon it 'd be a
good bet as how you 'll learn somethin' in Twin River
you ain't never learned nowhere else."  Dave
sauntered carelessly to the front door.

"You ain't never too old to learn," agreed Buck,
sententiously.  The front door closed quietly after
Dave and half a minute later his pony's hoofs were
heard pounding along the trail that led toward Big
Moose.

"Cheyenne, put her there!  I like yore style!"  Chesty
Sutton, late puncher for the Circle X, shoved
his hand under Buck's nose with unmistakable
friendliness.  "*I* like th' way *you* play, all right."

"Me, too," chimed in Bow-Wow.  "Dave Owens has
got th' lickin' of his life.  An' between you an' I,
Cheyenne, I ain't never seed Dave get licked
afore—not reg'lar."

The chorus of congratulations that followed was so
sincere that Buck's heart warmed toward the company.
Chesty secured attention by pointing his finger at
Buck and wagging it impressively.  "But you hear
me, Cheyenne," he warned.  "Dave ain't no quitter.
He 's got it agin' you an' he 's h—l on th' shoot.  I
ain't never heerd of his killin' nobody but he 's right
handy spoilin' yore aim.  Ain't he, Bow-Wow?"

"Look a-here.  How often have I told you?  You
sez so.  He is.  Don't allus leave it to me."  Bow-Wow's
tone was indignant as he rubbed his right arm
reflectively.

"Gentlemen, I 'm not sayin' a word against
anybody, not one word," and Slick glanced from man to
man, shaking his head to emphasize his perfect belief
in the high standard of morality prevalent in Twin
River.  "But I begs leave to remark that *I* like
Cheyenne's game—which it is th' first time in my brief
but eventful career that I seen five dealt cards turn into
six.  You all seen it.  It sure happened.  Mr. Cheyenne,
you have my joyous admiration.  Let's celebrate.  An'
in th' meantime, might I inquire, without offence, if
Cheyenne has a habit of complainin' of too many
cards?"

They had lined up before the bar and all glasses were
filled before Buck answered.  Slick stood directly
before him and every face, showing nothing beyond polite
interest, was turned his way.  But Buck well knew that
on his reply depended his position in the community
and the gravity of the occasion was in his voice when
he spoke.

"Gentlemen, Mr. Slick has called.  There's two
ways of playin'.  When I plays with any gentleman
here, I plays one way.  Dave Owens played th' other
way.  I played his game."

He glanced at the silent figure by the window, set
down his glass, and started to cross the room.  Chesty
Sutton put out his hand and stopped him.  "I
would n't worry him none, Cheyenne.  Ned Monroe 's
th' best boss I ever worked for but hard luck has been
pilin' up on him higher 'n th' Rockies since he lost his
ranch.  Better let him fight it out alone, friend."

Lost his ranch—Ned Monroe—Buck's intention
was doubly strengthened.  "Leave it to me," was his
confident assurance, and he strode across the room and
around the table in front of the window.  The sombre
eyes of the big man were forced to take notice of him.

"Friend, it's on th' house.  Mr. Slick is a right
pleasant man, an' he 's waitin'."  A rapid glance at the
bottle told him that Monroe, in his complete oblivion,
had forgotten it.  Ned eyed him with a puzzled frown
while the words slowly illumined his clouded mind.  At
length he turned slowly, sensed the situation, and rose
heavily to his feet.  "Sure," was the simple reply.

At the bar significant looks were exchanged.  "I 'm
beginnin' to *like* Cheyenne," declared Slick, thoughtfully,
rubbing the palm of his left hand against the
bar; "which his persuadin' language is fascinatin' to see."

"It sure is," Chesty Sutton endorsed promptly,
while the others about him nodded their heads in silent
assent.

"Well, gentlemen," said Slick, "here 's to th'
continued good health of Mr. Cheyenne."  Down the line
ran the salutation and Buck laughed as he replaced his
empty glass.

"I shore hope you-all ain't tryin' to scare me none,"
he insinuated; "because I 'm aimin' to stop up here
an'—who in h—l's poundin' that pie-anner?" he broke
off, turning to glare in the direction of the melancholy
sound.

"Ha!  Ha!" barked in his ear, and Buck wheeled as
if he had been kicked.  "That's Sandy," explained
Bow-Wow Baker.  "He thinks he 's some player.  An'
he is.  There ain't nothin' like it between here an' Salt
Lake."

"Oh, yes; there is," contradicted Buck.  "You an'
him 's a good team.  I bet if you was in th' same room
you 'd set up on yore hind laigs an' howl."  Bow-Wow
drew back, abashed.

"Set 'em up, Mr. Slick," chuckled the salesman.

"Don't notice him, Cheyenne," advised Chesty in a
disgusted aside.  "He don't mean nothin' by it.  It's
just a habit.  It's got so I 'm allus expectin' him to
raise his foot an' scratch for fleas," and he withered
the crestfallen Bow-Wow with a look of scorn.

"You was sayin' as how you was aimin' to stop
here," suggested Ned Monroe, his interest awakened at
thought of a rising star so often following the fall of
his own.

"Yes," acknowledged Buck.  "If I find—"

Crash!  Ding-dong!  Ding-dong!  The noise of the bell
was deafening.  Buck set down his glass with extreme
care and looked at Slick with an air of helpless
wonder, but Bow-Bow was ready with the explanation.
"Grub-pile!" he shouted, making for the side door,
grasping hold of Chesty's hand as he went out
and dragging that exasperated puncher after him by
strength of muscle and purpose.  "Come on, Cheyenne!
No 'angel-in-th'-pot,' but a good, square meal, all
right."

Chesty Sutton cast behind him at Buck a glance of
miserable apology, seized the door-frame in passing,
and delivered to Bow-Wow a well-placed and energetic
kick.  Relieved of the drag of Chesty's protesting
weight and with the added impetus of the impact of
Chesty's foot, Bow-Wow shot across the wide hall,
struggling frantically to regain his equilibrium, and
passed through the door of the dining-room like a
quarter-horse with the blind staggers.  The bell-ringing
ended in a crash of broken crockery, succeeded by a
fearful uproar of struggling and profanity.

The collie bounded to his feet, his hair bristling
along his spine, and rushed at the door with a low growl.
Ned caught him by the collar and held him.  "Down,
Bruce, down!" he commanded, and the dog subsided
into menacing growls.

Chesty, at the door, snorted in derision.  "D—n
fool!" he informed those behind him.  "He 's tryin'
to climb th' table.  Hey, Ned; let th' other dog loose,"
he suggested, hopefully.

By the time the highly entertained group had
gathered about the dining-room door, the oaths and
imprecations had resolved themselves into a steady railing.
Bow-Wow sat sprawled in a chair, gazing in awed
silence along the path of wreckage wrought by the
flying bell; opposite him, waving a pair of pugnacious
fists in close proximity to Bow-Wow's face, stood Sandy
McQueen, proprietor of the Sweet-Echo.  It appeared
that he was angry and the spectators waited with
absorbed expectancy on what would happen next.

"Ye gilravagin' deevil!" he shouted, "canna ye see
an inch afore yer ain nase?  Gin ye hae nae better
manners na a gyte bull, gang oot to grass like thae
ither cattle.  Lord preserv's," he prayed, following the
strained intensity of Bow-Wow's gaze, "look at
the cheeny!  A 'm ruined!"  He started to gather
up the broken crockery when the roar of laughter, no
longer to be restrained, assailed his outraged ears.
He looked sourly at his guests.  "Ou, ay, ye maun
lauch, but wha's to pay for the cheeny?  Ou, ay!  A
ken weel eneuch!"

The hilarious company pushed into the dining-room
and began to help him in his task, casting many jocose
reproaches on the overburdened Bow-Wow.  Slick
returned to the bar-room to clean off the bar before
eating, and Buck went after him.  "Hey, what have
I struck?" he asked, with much curiosity.  "He
sounds worse 'n a circus."

"He 's mad," explained Slick.  "Nobody on God's
green earth can understand him when he 's mad.  Which
a circus is music alongside o' him.  When he 's ca'm, he
talks purty good American."

"You shore relieves my mind.  What is he—Roosian?"

"Claims to be Scotch.  But I dunno—a Scotchman 's
a sort of Englishman, ain't he?"

"That was allus my opinion," agreed Buck.

"Well—I dunno," and Slick shook his head
doubtfully as he hung the towel onto a handy hook and
stooped to come under the bar.  "Sounds funny to me,
all right.  'Tain't English; not by a h—l of a sight."

"Sounds funny to me," echoed Buck.  "I 'm *shore*
it ain't English.  But, say, Slick; gimme a room.  I 'm
stoppin' here an' I 'd like to drop my things where I
can find 'em."

"Right," said Slick, and he led the way into the hall
and toward a bedroom at the rear.  Chesty Sutton
stood in the doorway of the dining-room.  "Better git
in on th' jump, Cheyenne," he advised, anxiously.
"Bow-Wow 's that savage, he's boltin' his grub in
chunks an' there ain't goin' to be a whole lot left for
stragglers."

"Muzzle him," replied Buck, over his
saddle-weighted shoulder, while Slick only grinned, "If I goes
hungry, I eats Bow-Wow.  Dog ain't so bad."  Chesty
chuckled and returned to the sulky Bow-Wow with the
warning.

Despite Chesty's fears, there was plenty to eat and
to spare.  Little talking was done, as every one was
hungry, with the possible exception of Ned, and even he
would have passed for a hungry man.  Sandy McQueen
and the cook officiated and the race was so nearly a
dead heat that the first to finish was hardly across the
hall before the last pushed his chair back from the
table.

An immediate adjournment to the bar-room was the
customary withdrawal, and Buck, doing as the others,
found Ned in his former seat beside a table.  Buck
joined him and showed such an evident desire for
privacy that the others forbore to intrude.

"Ned," said Buck, leaning towards him across the
table, "it ain't none of my business, an' it ain't as I 'm
just curious, but was that straight, what you said
about bein' broke?"

"That's straight," Ned assured him, gloomily.

"An' lookin' for a job?" asked Buck, quietly.

"You bet," was the emphatic reply.

"Chesty said as how he used to work for you.  Was
you foreman?"

"I was foreman an' boss of the NM ranch till them
blood-suckers back East druv me off 'n it—d—n 'em."

"Boss, was you?  Then I reckon you wouldn't
refuse a job as foreman, would you?"

Ned's interest became practical.  "Where 's yore
ranch?" he asked, with some show of eagerness.

"Why, I was aimin' to stop 'round here some'rs."

"H—l!  There ain't a foot o' ground within eighty
mile o' where yo 're sittin' as ain't grazed a heap over,
less 'n it's some nester hangin' on by his fingers an'
toes—an' blamed few o' them, neither.  Leastaways, none
but th' NM an' Schatz's range, which they says belongs
to th' old Double Y, both of 'em."

"What's keepin' them free?"

"'Bout a regiment o' deputies, I reckon."  He
smiled grimly.  "It's costin' 'em somethin' to keep th'
range free o' cattle.  Mebby you could lease it.  That
McAllister feller ain't never goin' to get a man to run
it for long.  Some o' th' boys is feelin' mighty sore an'
Schatz is a tough nut.  It's goin' to be a mighty big
job, when he starts, an' that's certain."

"I 'd like to see it.  We 'll go t'morrow."

Buck's careless defiance of the situation pleased Ned.
With the first evidence of good humor he had shown he
hit Buck a resounding slap on the back.  "That's
you," was his admiring comment.

The door opened to admit the short, broad figure of
a man who, after a glance around the room, made his
bow-legged way to their table.  His tone betrayed some
anxiety as he asked: "Ned, haf you seen mein
Fritz?"

"Nope," answered Ned, "I have n't, Dutch.  Hey,
boys!" he called, "Anybody seen Pickles?"

A chorus of denials arose and Chesty sauntered
over to get details.  "W'y, you durned ol' Dutch
Onion, you ain't gone an' lost him again, have you?"

"Ach!  Dot leetle *Kobold*!  Alvays ven I looks, like
a flea he iss someveres else."

"How 'd you lose him?" demanded Chesty.

Dutch stole a look askance at Ned and turned on
Chesty a reproachful face.  He laid a glove on the edge
of the table.  "Dot's Fritz.  I turn 'round, like dot,"
suiting action to word, in a complete turn, his right
hand reaching out, taking up the glove and whirling it
behind his back as he faced the table again.  He looked
at the empty spot with vast surprise, in delicious
pantomime.

The glove, meanwhile, had fallen against the nose of
Bruce, who sniffed at it and then picked it up and
carried it to Slick behind the bar, returning to his resting
place with the air of a duty accomplished.

Dutch continued to stare at the table for several
seconds.  Then he glanced around and called: "Fritz!
Fritz!  *Komm' zu mir*—und Fritz iss gone," he
finished, turning to those at the table an expression of
comical bewilderment.  He took a couple of steps in the
direction where he supposed the glove to be.  Bruce was
just lying down.  Dutch looked more carefully, stooping
to see along the floor.  A light broke in on him.  He
straightened up and excitedly declared: "Yoost like
dot!  Yoost like der glove iss Fritz: I know ver he iss
bud I can't see him."

"Dutch, come here."  Ned's voice was stern and
Dutch approached with hanging countenance.  "Where
was you when you 'turn 'round like dot'?" asked Ned.

"Only a minute, Ned; yoost a minute!"

"Where?"

"In Ike's I vas; yoost a minute."

"Ain't I told you to keep out o' there?"

Dutch moved his feet, licked his lips, and cleared his
throat; words seemed to fail him.

While he hesitated the door opened again, something
more than six inches, and Boomerang squeezed through.
He shuffled up to Dutch and touched him on the
shoulder.  "Hey, Dutch, I been chasin' you all over.
Pickles went home wit' Little Nell, see?  An' she sent
me ter tell you."

"Vat! mit dot—" he broke off and turned to Ned.
"I begs your pardon, but Fritz, he iss leetle—he
learn quick.  Right avay I go."  He was at the door
when Slick hailed him.

"Hey, Dutchy, this yourn?" The other caught the
tossed glove, and nodded.

"Yah, first der glove, soon iss Fritz," and the door
closed behind him.

"Good as a circus," laughingly declared Buck.
"About pay now—how would eighty a month hit you,
for a starter?"

"Fine," declared Ned.

"Then here she is, first month," and Buck handed it
over.  "Will that be enough to square up what you
owe?" he added.

"W'y, I don't owe nothin'," declared Ned.

"Well—now—I was just a-thinkin' 'bout th'
lady as seemed right vexed when you dropped yore roll
to Dave."  He looked casually at Slick, behind the bar,
while he was saying it.

"Little Nell?  I don't owe her nothin', neither.  It
was my pile,—all of it."

Buck heaved a sigh of relief.  "I 'm right glad to
hear it.  Then you 'll be all ready to hit th' trail with
me in th' mornin'?" he asked.

"Shore; but s'pos'n you can't get th' ranch?"
suggested Ned.

"I 'll get it.  An' when I get it I 'll run it, too, less'n
they load me with lead too heavy to sit a horse—then
you 'll run it."  His smile was infectious.

"Cheyenne, I like yore style.  Put 'er there," and
he shoved a huge, hairy fist at Buck.  "'Nother thing,"
he went on, "Chesty an' Bow-Wow was a-goin' over to
th' Bitter Root.  I 'll tell 'em to hang 'round for a
spell.  Them 's two good boys.  So 's Dutchy—when
he ain't a-runnin' after Pickles."

"All right; you talk to 'em.  See you in th'
mornin'," and with a general good-night, Buck went to
his room.

Chesty and Bow-Wow joined Ned to have a "night
cap" and say good-bye, intending to start early next
morning.  "No, boys, I 've had enough," said Ned.
"I 've took a job with Cheyenne, an' you boys better
hang 'round.  Find Dutch in th' mornin' an' tell him.
An' I 'm a-goin' to turn in, too.  I 'm cussed
sleepy."  The other two sat staring across the table at one
another.  The news seemed too good to be true.

"Ha!  Ha!" barked Bow-Wow, "I never did like
them d—n Bitters, not nohow."

Chesty nodded his head.  "Me, too," he agreed.
"Son, there 's a big time due in these parts: I feel it
in my bones."

Seized with a common impulse they sprang to their
feet and began a war-dance around the stove, chanting
some Indian gibberish that was a series of grunts,
snarls, and yells.  Their profane demands for information
meeting with no response, the others one by one
joined them, until a howling, bobbing ring of men
circled the stove, and, growling and barking at their heels,
the dog danced with them.  Slick looked on with an
indulgent grin and the row did not cease until Sandy
stuck his head in at the hall door.  "Deil tak' ye!"
he shouted.  "Canna ye let a body sleep?"

A minute later the room had settled down into its
customary decorum and Bruce, with a wary look about,
now and then, was preparing to resume his rudely
interrupted doze.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE FOREMAN OF THE DOUBLE Y`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER IV


.. class:: center medium

   THE FOREMAN OF THE DOUBLE Y

.. vspace:: 2

Buck cinched up his saddle on Allday and led
him out of the stable.  "Ned, this is shore
one scrumptious hotel," he observed as he
swung into his seat.

"It certainly is.  Nothin' to beat it in Montany, I
reckon," was Ned's hearty endorsement.

Buck shook his head as they passed through the gate
together.  "Most too good," he suggested.

"I dunno," Ned doubted, "th' branch from Wayback 's
shore to come down th' Jones' Luck, an' then
Sandy 'll rake in."

They had just turned into the trail when a rider
passed them at speed, causing Ned's cayuse to shy and
buck half way to the Jill.  The evener-tempered Allday
only pointed his ears and pulled on the bit.  "Reckon
you could catch that feller, eh?  Well, you could n't,"
was Buck's careless insult.  "If Hoppy could see that
horse he 'd give all he 's got for him—bar Mary."

The horse merited his criticism.  A powerful black,
well over fifteen hands, he showed the sloping thigh
bones and shoulder of a born galloper, while the deep
chest gave promise of long-sustained effort.  His rider
had pulled up at the general store just beyond the
hotel and Ned joining him, Buck expressed his
admiration.  A moment later he added to it: "By th' Lord,
Ned, that 's a woman."  The rider had dropped from
the saddle and paused to wave her hand to Ned before
she entered the store.  Buck caught the glance from a
pair of beautiful dark eyes that rested on him a moment
before it fleeted past to his companion.  The grave
smile was well suited to the wonderfully regular
features and when she turned and entered the store it was
with the swinging step of perfect movement.  Buck
faced about with a jerk when he realized that he had
actually turned in his saddle to gaze after her.

"Best horse in these parts an' th' finest woman,"
agreed Ned, "an' honest," he added, gruffly.

Buck stared at him, surprised.  "Why, o' course!
Anybody says different?"  He unconsciously stiffened
at the thought.

"Um—no, not as I knows of.  Her daddy 's a nester;
got a quarter-section 'tother side o' Twin River,
off th' trail a piece.  Rosa LaFrance—pretty name,
ain't it?  Th' boys calls her the French Rose."

"Yes, 'tis pretty," drawled Buck.  "What I'm
askin' about is this recommendation o' character to me."

It was Ned's turn to feel surprised.  He pondered as
he looked at Buck.  "I reckon I warn't exactly speakin'
to you, Cheyenne," he explained; "more to myself, like.
You see, it's this way: Dave Owens, he won that
horse from McReady of the Cyclone, one night in
Wayback.  I was n't there but I hears it's a regular clean
up.  McReady was in a streak o' bad luck and would
a' lost ranch an' all but his friends hocussed his liquor
an' Mac, he drops out of his chair like somebody hit
him with an axe.  Next day Rose rides into Twin
River on that same horse.  John, that's her daddy, he
never bought him; he could n't.  Then how did she
come by it?  That's her business, I says.  That's one
thing.  For another, Dave Owens travels that way
considerable, an' Dave ain't no company for the French
Rose.  I 'm too old to interfere or I durn soon would."

Buck brooded on this situation for some time and
then burst into a laugh.  Ned eyed him with stern
disapproval.  "I was thinkin' of a cow-punch I know,"
explained Buck, in apology.  "He 'd interfere so quick,
there would n't be time to notify th' mourners."

Ned smiled in sympathy.  "That 'd do," he admitted,
"but you can't jump in an' shoot up a fellow if a
girl's sweet on him, can you?  It 'd be just nacheraly
foolish."

"That 's so," agreed Buck, "but if the French Rose
can look at that son of a thief and like him, then
Hopalong Cassidy has no call to be proud o' *his*\self."

"Eh?" questioned Ned.

"Th' name slipped out.  But now 's as good a time
as any to tell you.  Did you ever hear o' Frenchy
McAllister?"

"Owner o' the Double Y?"

"Half owner—leastways, he was.  Frenchy 's dead.
You was cussin' his brother last night.  I want to tell
you about Frenchy."

Buck told the story in terse, graphic sentences, every
one a vivid picture.  He painted the scene of Trendley's
crime to the accompaniment of a low-voiced growl
of lurid profanity from Ned, who was quite
unconscious of it.  The relentless hunt for the criminals,
extending through many months; the deadly retribution
as one by one they were found; the baffling elusiveness
of Slippery Trendley and the unknown manner of
his fate when run to earth at last—one scene followed
another until Buck left the arch devil in his story, as
he had left him in fact, bound and helpless, looking up
at the pitiless face of the man he had injured beyond
the hope of pardon, their only witnesses the silent
growths of Texas chaparral and the grieving eye of God.

It was a terrible story, even in the mere telling of it.
Buck's level voice and expressionless face hid the
seething rage which filled him now, as always, when his
thoughts dwelt upon the awful drama.  Ned's
judgment was without restriction: "By the Eternal!" he
swore, "that h—l-hound deserved whatever he got.
D—d if you ain't made me sick."  They rode in silence
for several minutes and then: "Poor fellow! poor
fellow!" he lamented.  "Did you say he's dead?"

"Yes, Frenchy's gone under," answered Buck
gravely.  "You 'd 'a' liked him, Ned."

"Yes, I reckon I would," agreed Ned.  He looked at
the other, considering.  "Where do you come in?" he
asked.  Buck's narrative had failed to connect the
new-born "Cheyenne" as "Frenchy's pardner."

"I 'm Buck Peters," was the simple explanation.

Ned pulled his horse back onto its haunches and
Buck wheeled and faced him.  So they sat, staring, Ned
inarticulate in his astonishment, Buck waiting.  The
power of coherent thought returned to Ned at last and
he rode forward with outstretched hand.  "Th' man as
stuck to Frenchy McAllister through that deal is good
enough for me to tie up to," he declared, and the grip of
their hands was the cementing of an unfailing friendship.
"An' I 'd like for Buck Peters to tell Frenchy's
brother as I takes back what I said agin' him."

Their way led through an excellent grass country.
The comparatively low ground surrounding Wayback
rose gradually to Twin River and more rapidly after
leaving that town.  The undulating ground now formed
in higher and more extensive mounds, rising in places
to respectable-sized hills; usually the sides reached in
long slopes the intervening depressions, but not
infrequently they were abrupt and occasionally one was met
which presented the broad, flat face of a bluff.  The
air was perceptibly colder but the bunch grass, hiding
its wonderfully nourishing qualities under the hue it
had acquired from the hot summer sun, was capable of
fattening more cattle to the acre than any but the best
lands of the Texan ranges with which Buck was
familiar.  Snow had not yet swept down over the
country, though apt to come with a rush at any time.  Even
winter affected the range but little as a general rule;
disastrous years were luckily few and far separated, so
that the average of loss from severity of weather was
small.  The talk of the two naturally veered to this
and kindred topics and Buck began stowing away
nuggets of northern range wisdom as they fell from
the lips of the more experienced Ned.

Studying the trail ahead of him, Buck broke the first
silence by asking: "Ain't we near the boundary of
the Double Y?"

"You 'll know, soon enough.  Th' first big butte
we come to, some cuss 'll be settin' there, hatchin' out
trouble."

"That's him, then," and Buck pointed to the right
where a solitary horseman showed dark against the
sky-line.

"Yep, that's one of 'em.  Reglar garjun, ain't he?"

"Beats me how you let 'em stand you off, Ned,"
wondered Buck.

"Well, when we made good and sure you owned the
range, Buck, there were n't no use in fighting.  That
McAllister would 'a run in th' reglar army next, d—d
if he would n't."

Buck chuckled.  "He 's sure a hard man to beat.  I
don't mind fighting when I have to, but I 'm mighty glad
it looks peaceful."

"We 'll have fightin'.  When I was turned off my
ranch, it just about foundered me.  I sold th' stock,
every head, an' you saw where th' last o' th' cash went.
But don't forget Smiler Schatz.  He 's a bigger man
an' a better man nor I ever was, an' he 's a-layin' low
an' a-waitin'.  He calculates to get you—I dunno how."

"An' I dunno how," mused Buck.  "Say, Ned, I
thought th' stage line ran through to Big Moose: there
ain't no tracks?"

"'Cause it crosses th' ford at th' Jack an' goes to
th' Fort; then it swings round to Big Moose, an' back
th' same road.  Wonder who 's that pointin' this way?"

Buck glanced ahead to see a moving speck disappear
behind a knoll far along the trail.  "Dunno; maybe
another deputy," he suggested.

The distant rider came into sight again and Ned
stared steadily at him.  "No," he declared, "think I
know that figger.  Yessir!  It's Smiler.  I kin tell him
'most as far as I kin see him."

"That's the feller gave us the fight, ain't it?"

"Did his share—some over, mebbe.  He 's a hard nut."

"Well, I 'm not bad at a pinch, myself, Ned; mebbe
I can crack him."  Ned smiled grimly at the jest and
hoped he would be cracked good.  Evidently there was
no great liking between the quondam owners of the
Double Y.

However, this was not apparent in their greeting.
The steady approach had been uninterrupted and Buck
looked with interest at the "hard nut" as they met.

In a land of dirty men—dirty far more frequently
from necessity than from choice—Schatz was a
by-word for slovenliness nearly approaching filth.  If he
washed at all it left no impression on the caked
corrugations of his smiling countenance.  His habit of
smiling was constant, so much a part of him that it
gave him his name.  And it had been solemnly affirmed
by one of his men that he never interfered with his
face until the dirt interfered with his smile; then he
chipped it off with a cold chisel and hammer.  This
must have been slander: no one had ever seen him when
it looked chipped.  A big man, with a fine head, he sat
in his saddle with the careless ease of long practice.
"Hello, Ned!" he called, with a gay wave of the hand.
"*Wie geht's*?"

"Howdy, Karl!" replied Ned.  "How's sheep?"

"Ach! don't say it, der grasshoppers.  Never vill
dey reach Big Moose.  Also, I send East a good man
to talk mit dat McAllister to lease der range yet.
Before now he say a manager come from Texas, soon.
Vat iss Texas like Montana?  Nodding.  Ven der snow
come—"

"Hol' on!  This is th' manager, Mr. Buck Peters,
half owner o' the Double Y, an' he 's put me in as
foreman."

"So—it pleases me greatly, Mr. Buck.  Ned iss a
good man.  If you haf Ned, that iss different."  He
shook hands with Buck who took note of the blue eyes
and frank smile of the blonde German, at a loss to
discover where he hid that hardness Ned had referred to.

"Sorry I can't offer you a job," said Buck, matching
the other's smile at the joke, "but from what I
hear, one foreman will be a-plenty on the Double Y."

"It iss a good range—eggselent—und der iss
mooch free grass ven you haf der Double Vy for der
hard years; but dere iss not enough for you und for
me, too, so I turn farmer.  Also some of der boys, dey
turn farmer.  I take oud quarter-section alretty."

"Quarter-section!  Turn farmer!  You!  Sufferin'
cows! give me a drink," and Ned looked wildly around
for the unattainable.

"*Donnerwetter*!  Somet'ing I must do.  To lend
money iss good but not enough.  Also my train vill not
vait.  So I say good-morning und vish you luck."

Ned wheeled his horse to gaze after the departing
figure and Buck sat laughing at his expression.
"Luck," echoed Ned; "bad luck, you mean, you
grinnin' Dutchman.  H—l of a farmer you 'll be.  Now I
wonder what's his little game."

"Aw, come on, Ned.  'Pears to me he 's easy," and
Allday sprang away along the trail.

"Easy, eh!" growled Ned, when he caught up, "he 's
this easy: him and me started even up here, 'bout th'
same time.  'T was n't long before he begun crowdin'
me.  Neither of us had nuthin' at first but when we quit
he could show five cows to my one.  How 'd he do it?"

"Borrowed th' money and bought yearlin's," answered Buck.

"Yes, he did," Ned grudgingly admitted.  "But I
kep' a-watchin' him an' he allus branded more than
th' natural increase, every round-up—an' I could
never see how he done it."

"You—don't—say," was Buck's thoughtful comment,
"Well, down our way when a man gets to doin'
miracles on a free range we drops in on him casual an'
asks questions—they don't do it twice"; and he
unconsciously increased Allday's pace.

"Here, pull up," urged Ned; "this bronc 's beginnin'
to blow.  That's a bang-up horse you 've got there.
No good with cattle, is he?"

"No," agreed Buck.  "I got this horse because
'discretion is sometimes better than valler,' as Tex Ewalt
said when somebody asked him why he did n't shoot
Hoppy.  Most times I finish what I start, but once in a
while, on a big job, it's healthy to take a vacation.
An' I naturally expected to leave some hasty an' travel
fast."

"Ain't nothin' could catch you, in these parts, not
if you got a good start, less'n it's French Rose an'
Swallow."

"Well, I was n't aimin' to run far nor yet to stay
long.  That seems like it 'd be th' ranch."

"That's her," agreed Ned.

The ranch house, rectangular and of much greater
dimensions than Buck expected to find it, presented
two novel features, one of which he noticed at once.
"What's th' idea of a slopin' roof, Ned?" he asked.

"That's Karl's notion.  See that upside down
trough runs along th' high part at th' back?  There
ain't a foot o' that roof you can't slosh with a bucket
o' water.  An' you can shoot along th' walls from them
cubby holes built out at each corner.  Th' house is a
heap bigger 'n th' old one was; it used to set over
yonder in that valley, but th' wipin' out o' Custer put th'
fear o' God in Smiler an' he raised this place soon
after.  Five men could stand off five hundred Injuns."

"Where 's th' water?"

Ned chuckled.  "Wait till you see it.  There 's a
well sunk at th' side an' you can pull it in without goin'
out-door if you wants to.  Karl is one o' them
think-of-everything fellers.  He put th' ranch house on a knoll
an' th' bunk-house on another.  Then, he figgers, if
they wants to rush me they 'll be good an' winded when
they gets here.  My shack is a pig-pen 'long side o' this
un', but I got it figgered out I need n't to stop if I don't
want."

"How's that, Ned?"

"I could cut an' run any time—come night.  I 'll
show you when we goes over there."

Bare as was the interior, the ranch house gave
promise of comfort and the bunk-house and the stable with
its adjacent corral proved equally satisfactory.  The
fire-place of the bunk-house was built over the bare
earth and there they repaired to make a fire and eat
the food they had brought with them.  The added
warmth was a distinct comfort but the smoke brought
company on the run.  They had scarcely begun their
meal when a faint sound led Buck to saunter to the door
and look out.  Down the steep side of a high butte
dropped a horseman with considerably more speed and
no more care than a dislodged boulder; arriving at the
bottom, his horse straightened out into a run that
showed he was expected to get somewhere right away.
Buck gravely bit into a sandwich the while he admired
the rider's horsemanship; an admiration that was
directed into another channel when the object of it
slipped rifle from holster, pumped a cartridge into the
barrel, and threw it forward in business-like attitude.
"'Spects to have use for it, right soon," mused Buck,
and then, over his shoulder: "Better hide, Ned.  Here
comes a garjun an' he 's got his gun out."

"Th' h—l he has!" rumbled Ned.  "Come an' push
me up th' chimley, Buck; I 'm a-scared."

Buck strolled back to the fire and half a minute later
the horse pounded up to the house, his rider sprang off
and came through the door, gun first.  He continued
across the room with solemn countenance, set his gun
against the wall, and went to the fire where he extended
his hands to the blaze.  "Howdy, Ned; howdy,
stranger," was his easy greeting.

Ned, sitting cross-legged, smirked up at him.
"Howdy, Jack.  You were n't going to run me off'n
th' range, was you?"

"Nope.  Saw Cheyenne Charley headin' this way
'bout an hour since.  Thought mebbe he 'd burn her
up—Pipes o' peace!"  His eyes widened as he gazed
at Ned's upturned mouth.  "Bottled beer, or I 'm a
Injun.  You lives high," and he swallowed involuntarily
as the inspiring gurgle stimulated his salivary glands.

"I 'm taperin' off on beer," explained Ned.  "Got
three bottles, one for Buck and two for me.  I 'm
biggest.  But you can have one o' mine.  Buck, this is
Jim's Jack, head garjun an' a right good sort.  Buck
Peters has come to take charge of his own ranch, Jack."

"Shake," said Jack.  He glanced over the papers
Buck handed him and passed them back.  All three
turned to look at the open door.

"Hang up a sign, Buck," advised Ned.  "If we
stops here long enough we can start a hotel.  Come in,
Charley."

The Indian stepped slowly in.  "Cheyenne Charley,
Buck," said Ned; "off the Reservation for a drunk at
Twin River.  You 'd think he 'd stop in Big Moose.
Reckon he 's hungry, too; he—"  Ned paused and his
eyes sought the object of Charley's steady and
significant gaze.  "Oh, that be d—d!" he exclaimed,
swooping onto the third bottle of beer beside him and holding
it out to Buck.  "He wants your beer.  Charley is a
good Injun—I *think*—but 'lead us not into
temptation'"—and with the other hand he proceeded to put
his share of temptation out of sight, an example that
Jim's Jack emulated with dignified speed.

"Let him have it," said Buck, good naturedly.  "I
never hankered much for beer, nohow."  He passed the
bottle to the Indian, not in the least suspecting what
"an anchor he had cast to windward."  The other two
exchanged a look of regretful disapproval.

Half an hour later they had separated, Buck and
Ned going on to the more distant NM ranch, Jack to
gather up his fellow deputies, and the Cheyenne hitting
the trail for Twin River with a thirst largely augmented
by the sop he had thrown to it.





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.. _`"COMIN' THIRTY" HAS NOTIONS`:

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   CHAPTER V


.. class:: center medium

   "COMIN' THIRTY" HAS NOTIONS

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Up from the south, keeping Spring with him all
the way, rode Tex.  The stain of the
smoke-grimed cities was washed out of him in the
pure air; day by day his muscles toughened and
limbered, his lightning nerves regained their old
spontaneity of action, each special sense vied with the others
in the perfection of service rendered, and gradually but
surely his pulse slowed until, in another man, its
infrequency of beat would have been abnormal.  When he
rode into Twin River, toward the end of a glorious
day, he had become as tireless as the wiry pony beneath
him, whose daily toll of miles since leaving the far-off
Bar-20 was well nigh unbelievable.

Tex crossed the ford of the Black Jack behind the
Sweet-Echo Hotel.  Dirt had bespattered him from
every angle; it was caked to mud on his boots, lay in
broad patches along his thighs, displayed itself
lavishly upon his blue flannel shirt, and had taken
frequent and successful aim at his face; but two slits of
sun-lit sky seemed peering out from beneath his lowered
lids, the pine-tree sap bore less vitality than surged in
his pulsing arteries, his lounging seat was the deceptive
sloth of the panther, ready on the instant to spring;
and over all, cool as the snow-capped peaks of the
Rockies, ruled the calculating intelligence, unscrupulous
in the determination to win, now that it was on the
side of the right, as when formerly it fought against it.

One glance at the imposing Sweet-Echo and Tex
turned his pony's head toward the trail.  "No, no,
Son John, you 'll not sleep there with your stockings
on—though I shan't ask you to go much farther,"
Tex assured him.  "I 've seen prettier, and ridden
cleverer, but none more willing than you, Son John.
Ah, this begins to look more like our style.
'I-Call'—sweet gamester, I prithee call some other day; I
would feed, not play.  'Ike's'—thy name savors
overly much of the Alkali, brother.  Ha!  'By the
prickling of my thumbs, something wicked that way
bums.'"  He had turned to cross the Jill and saw
Pop Snow basking in the failing sunlight.
"'Why-Not'—well, why not?  I will."

"Come a long way, stranger?" asked Dirty, his
gaze wandering over the tell-tale mud.  He had come
the wrong way for profit, but Dirty always asked, on
principle: he hated to get out of practice.

Tex swung his right leg over his pony's neck and sat
sideways, looking indolently at the pickled specimen
who sat as indolently regarding him.  "Plucked from
a branch of the Mussel Shell," murmured Tex, "when
Time was young"; and then drawled: "Tolerable,
tolerable; been a-comin' thirty year, just about."

Dirty looked at him with frank disgust, spat
carefully, and turning on his seat no more than was
absolutely necessary, stuck his head in at the open door
and yelled: "Hey, boys!  Come on out an' meet
Mr. Comin' Thirty.  Comin' is some bashful 'bout drinkin'
with strangers, so get acquaint."

Scenting a tenderfoot half a dozen of the inmates
strolled outside.  When they saw the sun-tanned Tex
they expressed their opinion of Dirty in concise and
vitriolic language, not forgetting his parents; after
which they invited Tex to "sluice his gills."  One of
them, a delicate-featured, smooth-faced boy, added
facetiously: "Don't be afraid; we won't eat you."

Tex released his left foot from the stirrup and slid
to earth.  "I was n't afraid o' bein' et, exactly," was
his slow response; "I was just a-wonderin' if it would
bite.  I notice it 's slipped its collar."

"Go to h—l!  Th' lot o' you!" screeched Pop,
bouncing to his feet with surprising alacrity.  "Wait
till I buy th' nex' one o' you a drink—wait!  That's
all."

"Lord, Dirty, we *has* been a-waitin'.  Since Fall
round-up, ain't it?" appealing to the others who gave
instant, vigorous, and profane endorsement.

"Pah!" exploded Pop.  He faced about and executed
a singular and superlatively indecent gesture with
a nimbleness unexpected and disgracefully grotesque in
so old a man; and then without a backward glance, he
stamped off across the bridge to the I-Call.  The
others watched him in fascinated silence until he
plumped down on his inevitable box, when the smooth-faced
first speaker turned to his nearest neighbor and
asked in hushed tones: "What do you think of him, Mike?"

"Fanny, me boy, if I thought I 'd ever conthract
Dirty's partic'lar brand o' sinfulness, I 'd punch a hole
in th' river—with me head," and he solemnly led the
way in to the bar.

"Gentlemen, it's on me," declared Tex, "—for good
and special reasons," he explained, when they began
to expostulate.  "Give me a large and generous glass,"
he requested of the barkeeper, "and fill it with 'Water
for me, water for me, and whiskey for them which find
it agree.'  You see, gentlemen, liquor an' I don't team
no better 'n a lamb an' a coyote.  I must either love
it or leave it alone an' I 'm dead set agin' spiritual
marriage.  Here 's how."

"If I 'd begun like that I 'd be a rich man this
day," observed Mike, when his head resumed the
perpendicular.

"If I 'd begun like that I would n't be here at all,"
responded Tex.

"Well, ye 'll have a cigar with me, anyhow.  Putt a
name to it, boys, an', Fred, whisper: Pass up that wee
little box ye keep, in th' locker.  Me friend, Comin', will
take a good one, while he 's at it."

A blue-shirted miner next him interposed: "'T is my
trate.  He 'll hev a cigar with me, he well.  Das' thee
thenk I be goin' to drenk with thee arl the time, and
thee never taake a drenk 'long o' me?  Set un up, Fred,
my son, and doan't forget the lettle box."

Tex gazed curiously at the speaker.  It was his first
meeting with a Cornishman and Bill Tregloan was a
character in more than speech.  Wherever gold, or a
rumor of gold, drew the feet of miner, there sooner or
later would be Bill Tregloan.  He had crossed the
continent to California on foot and alone at a time when
such an attempt was more than dangerous.  That he
escaped the natural perils of the trip was sufficiently
wonderful; as for the Indians, there is no doubt they
thought him mad.

Bill had his way in paying for the order and turned
to lounge against the bar when his eye caught sight of
that which drew from him a torrent of sputtering oaths
and a harsh command.  The only one who had failed
to join the others at the bar was Charley, the Cheyenne
Indian.  He lay sprawled on the floor against the
opposite wall, very drunk and asleep, and about to be
subjected to one of the pleasing jokes of the railroad
towns, in this instance very crudely prepared.  The oil
with which he was soaked, had been furnished far too
plentifully, and he stood an excellent chance of being
well roasted when the match, then burning, should be
applied.

The man holding the match looked up at the Cornishman's
shout.  He did not understand the words but
the meaning of the action that followed was plain;
and when the miner, growling like a bear, started to
rush at him, his hand dropped to his gun with the
speed of a hawk.  Fanny promptly stuck out his foot.
Tregloan went down with Fanny on top of him but it
takes more than one slight boy, whatever his strength,
to hold down a wrestling Cornishman.  The flurry that
followed, even with the added weight of numbers, would
have been funny but for the scowling face of the
olive-skinned man who stood with ready gun until assured
the struggle had gone against his opponent.  Then he
slipped gun in holster and felt for another match.
"Take him away," he said, with a sneering smile,
"he make me sick."

"What did they do that for?" asked Tex of Mike.
Neither had moved during the excitement.  The rest
were pushing and pulling Tregloan out of the saloon.

"That's Guinea Mike," was the explanation.
"He 'd murder his mother if she crossed him.  First
fair chanst I mane to break his d—d back—an' if ye
tell him so he 'll kill me on sight."

"Interestin' specimen," observed Tex.  Guinea Mike
found another match and calmly lit it.  Those not
engaged in soothing Bill were looking in at the door and
windows.  Dutch Fred, behind the bar, was swearing
good American oaths regarding the unjustified waste of
his kerosene.  Tex stepped away from the bar.  "Blow
that out," he said, dispassionately.

Guinea Mike looked up with a snarl.  The two stares
met and grappled.  Guinea slowly raised the match to
his lips and puffed it out, flipping it from him with
a snap of one finger so that it fell almost at the feet of
Tex.  They watched each other steadily.  A solitary
snore from the Indian sounded like the rumble of
overhead thunder.  Slowly the hand of Guinea descended
from before his lips and in unison with it descended the
head of Fred until his eyes just cleared the top of the
bar.  Guinea's hand rested in the sagging waist of his
trousers, a second, two—

The roar of the explosion was deafening.  Guinea
Mike's right shoulder went into retirement and his gun
dropped from his nerveless fingers.  Screaming with
rage he stooped to grasp it with his left hand and
pitched forward at full length, both knee-caps
shattered, at the mercy of this stranger who shot as if at
a mark.

The noise awakened Cheyenne Charley who opened
his eyes and smiled foolishly at the distorted face which
had so unexpectedly reached his level.  "D—n drunk,"
he observed, and immediately went to sleep again.

Tex walked over and kicked the gun across the floor.
Irish Mike picked it up and handed it to Fred.  "I
could a' killed you just as easy as I didn't, Guinea,"
said Tex.  "I don't like you an' yore ways.  It's just
a notion.  So don't you stop.  An' don't send any o'
yore friends.  'No Guineas need apply.'  That goes,
if I has to Garibaldi yore whole d—n country."

The spectators had filed back to the room and were
engaged in audible comments on the justification and
accuracy of the shooting, while they busied themselves
in the rough surgery which had to serve.  To the
suggestion that he ought to be taken to the doctor at
Wayback, Fred interposed the objection: "No, dake
him to Nell's.  Mike is a friend mit her."

Pop Snow, attracted by the excitement, stood
peering in a window.  Twin River crowded the room but
Pop's resentment was still warm.  A man rode up and
stooped from the saddle to look over his shoulder.
"Who 's that?  What's up?" he asked.

"'T aint nothin'; *only* Guinea Mike.  See th' feller
Fanny 's hangin' onto?  Well, that's him: Comin'
Thirty has notions—an' I ain't never seen better
shootin'."

Dave swung down, tied his pony to the rail and went
inside to see the new bad-man of Twin River.  It had
been growing steadily colder during the past few hours;
the wind, sweeping in from the west, held a sinister
threat, the air a definite chill, and Dave felt he would
be none the worse for a little fire-water.  Dirty felt it
also, but his senile annoyance had merely simmered
down, not subsided, and he scurried back to the I-Call
for cover until such time as he thought it fitting to go
home.

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



It was very late when Dave turned a tired pony to
pasture and entered the three-room cabin of Karl
Schatz.  The rough exterior gave no indication of the
comfort with which the German had surrounded himself.
Fur rugs covered the floor of the living-room; the chairs
and table had travelled many miles before landing here;
a fine sideboard showed several pieces of fair china;
mounted horns of various kinds were on the walls, one
group being utilized as a gun rack, and between them
hung several good paintings.  A stove had been
removed but in its place smouldered a wood fire, the
fireplace jutting out from the wall.  When Dave came in
Karl sat smoking; on the table beside him lay an open
volume of poems.  "Vell?" he asked, as Dave dropped
into a chair and stretched his legs wearily before him.

"Double Y has got a new bunch o' cattle.  Hummers.
Bought 'em out of a drove come up last Fall on
Government contract; the Government went back on
th' deal an' they was wintered up here.  Got th' pick
o' th' lot, I hear."  Dave fell into silence and stared
at the fire.  Karl puffed thoughtfully while he looked
at the black head whose schemes seemed coming to
nought.

"Cameron 's got back," continued Dave; "he 's
brought his money with him; took up his note at the
bank; paid full interest."  Another pause, with no
comment from Karl.  Dave continued to display his
items of information in sections.  "I met One-eye
Harris at Eccles'.

"Th' Cyclone ranch has got some with th' itch.
It 'll mean a lot o' work—an' then some.

"LaFrance wants to bleed you for two hundred.
Don't you.  He 'll get too rich to have me for a
son-in-law."

Karl nodded his head.  "Farming iss goot," he
murmured, "—mit vasser."  Dave glanced at him.

"Them new steers o' th' Double Y oughta fetch forty
in th' Fall.  Will, too."

"Farming iss goot," repeated Karl, "—mit vasser.
Also, to lend money.  But Camerons, dey pay und der
money lies idle.  Ven do ve eat up der Double Y, Dave?"

Dave glanced at him sullenly.  "Why don't you let
me kill that d—n Peters?  Are you afraid I 'll get
hurt?"

"Alvays I fear.  I haf no one bud you, *du Spitzbub*.
But kill him?  Ach!  Soon anoder manager come.
Killing iss not goot, Dave.  You must plan besser, *aber*
I do id.  Dat make you feel sheep, *du Schwarzer
Spitzbub, vas?*"

"I 'll get 'em.  Guinea Mike 's shot up."

"Vell, he iss anoder von likes killing.  Who vas id?"

"Stranger.  Reminded me of a feller, somehow—an'
then, again, he did n't.  Deals a slick hand at
cards."

"Ach, cards!  Alvays der cards!  Who know dem
besser as me?  Who pay for dem so much?  Cards und
killing, dey are no goot."

"Well, let's roost," suggested Dave, and led the way
to the inner room.  Karl fastened doors and windows,
put out the light, and followed him.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`AN HONEST MAN AND A ROGUE`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER VI


.. class:: center medium

   AN HONEST MAN AND A ROGUE

.. vspace:: 2

How to do it?  That was the question that
hammered incessantly at Dave's brain until
he actually dreamed of it.  Dreaming of it
was the only satisfactory solution, for in his dreams
matters arranged themselves with the least possible
effort on his part and with little or no danger—though,
to do him justice, danger was the consideration
which had the least weight.  But the dreams presented
lamentable gaps which Dave, in his waking moments,
found it impossible to bridge.  Winter had given way
to Spring and Buck Peters, aided by the indefatigable
Ned, was rounding the ranch into a shape that already
cut a figure in the county and would do so in the
Territory before long.

The Double Y owed nothing to Dave.  His animosity
was confined strictly to Buck; but he knew that Karl
was resolved to usurp ownership of the range he had
come to look upon as his own.  And Dave had become
imbued with the idea that his own interests demanded
the realization of Karl's wishes.

Why the German had become interested in this
handsome idler, so many years younger than himself,
Karl could not have explained.  True, he was alone in
the world, he was a red fox where the other was a black
one, while Dave's present sinfulness and inclinations
were such as the elder man understood and sympathized
with.  Yet these were hardly reasons; Karl himself
never would have advanced them as such.  Perhaps he
had it in mind to use him as a cat's-paw.  Few of our
likes or dislikes have their origin in a single root.

If only they could "eat up" the Double Y!  Dave
cursed the obsession which threatened his fortunes; he
cursed the energetic Buck who was rearing obstacles
in his way with every week that passed; and he cursed
his own barren imagination which balked at the riddle.

No heat of the inward furnace showed in the cool
gravity of his face.  Sitting at a table in the crowded
bar-room of the Sweet-Echo, he seemed intent on mastering
the difficulties of a particularly intricate game of
solitaire.  From time to time some of those at the same
table would become interested, only to turn away again,
baffled by their lack of knowledge.

The usual class of patrons was present, augmented
in number, since the spring round-up was at hand and
strangers were dropping in every day.  Later in the
evening, most of those present would gravitate to the
lower end of the town where forms of amusement which
Sandy McQueen did not countenance, were common.
To none of these did Dave give any attention, though he
looked with interest at Tex Ewalt when he entered; the
increased hum of voices and several loud greetings
had taken his mind momentarily from his thoughts.
Tex's reputation had lost nothing in force since the
excitement of his advent.

Suddenly and for the first time Dave hesitated in his
play.  He looked fixedly at the Jack of Spades and
removed it from the pile where it lay.  He paused with
it in his hand.  The Jack of Spades was in doubt—so
was Dave.

A querulous voice was damning Buck Peters.  "*Donner
und Blitzen*!  Vas it my fault *der verruchter* bull
break loose *und ist hinaus gegangen*?  '*Yah!*' says
Buck, '*Yah!*' loud, like dat.  Mad?—*mein gracious*!
Vot for is a bull, anyhow?  'Gimme my time,' I say;
'I go.'  'Gif you a goot kick,' says Buck; 'here, dake
dis und get drunk und come back *morgen*.'  I get drunk
und go back und break his d—n neck—only for leetle
Fritz."

"Leetle Fritz" sat swinging his legs, on the bar.
He looked at his father with plain disapproval.  "Ah,
cheese it, Pap!" was his advice.  "What's th' good o'
gittin' drunk?  Why can't you hol' y' likker like a
man?"

A roar of laughter greeted this appeal, at which even
Gerken smiled gleefully.  He was glad that Fritz was
smart, "*une seine Mutter*."

Dave pushed the Jack of Spades back into the pack.
He arose and sauntered over to the bar.  "That's th'
way to talk, Pickles," he endorsed, tickling the boy
playfully in the ribs.  "Yo 're a-going to hold yore
likker like a man, ain't you?"

"No sirree!  Ther' ain't goin' to be any likker in
mine.  I promised mother."

"Bully for you!"  Dave's admiration was genuine
and the boy blushed at the compliment.  Like many
other rascals, Dave was easily admitted into the hearts
of children and simple folk and women and dogs.
Bruce, the collie, was nuzzling his hand at that moment
and the broad, foolish face of Gottleib was beaming on
him.  "Hi, Slick!  Pickles 'll have a lemonade.  I 'll
have a lemonade, too; better put a stick in mine, I 'm
a-gettin' so 's I need one.  An' Pap 'll have a lemonade,
too—oh! with a stick, Pap, with a stick—I would n't
go for to insult your stomach."

They drank their lemonades, Gottleib's face expressive
of splinters, and a minute later Pickles sat alone
while his father endeavored to win some of Dave's money
and Dave endeavored to let him.  Tex tilted his chair
and with a fine disregard for alien fastidiousness, stuck
his feet on the edge of the table and smiled.  He almost
crashed over backward at sight of a figure that entered
the room from the hall.  "God bless our Queen!"
murmured Tex, "he 's a long way from 'ome.  Must be a
remittance man come over the line to call on Sandy."

\H. Whitby Booth swept an appraising glance over
the company and, without a pause, chose a seat next to
Tex.  "Surprisin' fine weather, isn't it?" he
observed, taking a cigar-case from his pocket.

"*My word!*" agreed Tex, succinctly.

Whitby looked at him with suspicion.  "Try a
weed?" he invited.

"I don't mind if I do, old chap," and Tex selected
one with a gravity he was far from feeling.

Whitby looked hard at him while Tex lit the cigar.
It was a good one.  Tex noted it with satisfaction.

"I say, are you chaffing me?" asked Whitby, smilingly.

It was a very good cigar.  Tex had not enjoyed one
as good in a regrettably long time.  He blew the smoke
lingeringly through his nostrils and laughed.  "I 'm
afraid I was," he admitted, "but you must n't mind
that.  It's what you 're here for, the boys 'll think—that
is, if you don't stop long enough to get used to it."

"Oh, I don't mind in the least.  And I expect to stop
if the climate agrees with me."

"What's the matter—lunger?  You don't look it."

"Not likely.  But they tell me it's rather cold out
here in winter."

"Some cold.  You get used to it.  You feel it more in
the East, where the air 's damp."

"I 'm delighted to hear it.  And the West is becoming
quite civilized, I believe, compared with what it was."

"Oh, my, yes!"  Tex choked on a mouthful of cigar
smoke in his haste to assure Whitby of the engaging
placidity of the population.  "Why, no one has been
killed about here since—well, not since I came to Twin
River."  Tex did not consider it necessary to state how
short a time that had been.  "Civilized!  Well, I should
opinionate.  Tame as sheep.  Nowadays, a man has to
show a pretty plain case of self-defence if he expects
to avoid subsequent annoyance."

"Ah, so I was informed.  They seem quiet enough here."

"Yes, Sandy won't stand any disturbance.  He's
away to-night but Slick's got his orders.  Know
Sandy?"

"No.  Is he the proprietor?"

"That's him: Sandy McQueen, proprietor, boss,
head-bouncer, the only—"

"I say, what's the row?"

Tex's feet hit the floor with a bang.  Gottleib Gerken
was shaking his fist in Dave's face, Dave sitting very
still, intently watchful.  "*Du verdammter Schuft!*"
shouted Gerken, "*Mein Meister verrathen, was!*"  He
sent the table flying, with a violent thrust of his foot:
"I show you!"

Watchful as he was, Dave did not anticipate what
was coming.  As the table toppled over he sprang to
his feet, the forward thrust of his head in this action
moving in contrary direction to the hurtling fist of
Gottleib, which stopped very suddenly against his nose.
Dave staggered backward, stumbled over his chair and
went crashing to the floor, where he lay for an instant
dazed.

"By Jove! that was a facer," cried the appreciative
Whitby.  The others were ominously quiet.

The next moment Dave was on his feet, white with
murderous rage.  There was more than fallen dignity
to revenge: Gottleib knew too much.  Without the least
hesitation his gun slanted and the roar of the discharge
was echoed by Gottleib's plunging fall.  A frenzied
scream, feminine in shrillness, rang through the room.
Dave's gun dropped from his hand and he sank to the
floor; a whiskey bottle, flying the length of the room,
had struck him on the head, and Boomerang, struggling
with maniacal fury in the arms of several men, strove
to follow his missile.  At the other end of the bar the
numbed Pickles suddenly came to life and leaped to
the floor.  Caught and stopped in his frantic rush across
the room he kicked and struck at his captor.  "Lemme
go!" he shrieked, "lemme go!  I 'll kill the —— ——"  The
men holding Boomerang ran him to the open hall
door and gave him forcible exit and the stern command
to "Git! an' keep a-goin'."

A sullen murmur swelling to low growls of anger
formed an undertone to the boy's hysterical cries, as the
men looked on at Tex's efforts to revive the stunned
culprit.  "Lynch him!" growled a voice.  "Lynch him!"
echoed over the room.  "Lynch him!" shouted a dozen
men, and Tex ceased his efforts and came on guard
barely in time to stop a concerted rush.  Straddling the
recumbent figure, his blazing eyes shocked the crowd to
a stand-still.  With a motion quicker than a striking
rattler a gun in either hand threatened the waverers.
"Dutchy 's got a gun," he rebuked them; "he was
a-reachin' for it when he dropped."

"That's correct," agreed a backward member.
"Sure.  I seen him a-goin' for it," affirmed another.
They gathered about Gottleib to look for the proof.

Suddenly the door was flung open and Rose LaFrance
stood in the opening.  "What are you doing?"
she questioned.  "What is the matter with Fritz?  Come
here, Fritz."

The boy, released and subsiding into gasping sobs,
staggered weakly toward her.  She drew him close and
folded him in her arms.  The men, silent and abashed,
in moving to allow the boy to pass, had disclosed to
her the figure of the prone Gottleib and she understood.
"Oh-h!" she breathed and looked slowly from one to
another, her gaze resting last on Tex, the fallen table
hiding from her the man he was protecting.  Utter
loathing was in her look and the innocent Tex was stung
to defiance by it, throwing back his head and returning
stare for stare.

"You wolf!" she accused, in low, passionately
vibrant tones.  "Kill, kill, kill!  You and your kind.
Is it then so great a pleasure to you?  Shame to you
for mad beasts!  And greater shame to the cur dogs
who let you do it."  Her glance swept the averted faces
with blasting scorn.  "Come, Fritz."  She led the boy
out and the door was closed carefully after her by a
sheepish-looking individual whose position behind it and
out of sight of those scornful eyes had been envied by
every man in the room.

"Well—I 'm—d—d!" said Tex, recovering his voice.

"'They that touch pitch will be defiled,'" observed
Whitby, sententiously.  Tex looked his resentment.
He felt a touch on his leg and glanced down.  Dave had
recovered consciousness.  "Get off me, Comin'," he
requested.  "Who hit me?"

"Boomerang flung a bottle at you," informed Tex.
"How you feeling?"

"All serene.  Head 's dizzy," he added, swaying on
his feet.  He walked to the nearest chair and sat down.
"Must 'a' poured a pint o' whiskey into me."

"Boom passed you a quart bottle," replied Tex.

Dave glanced at the inert form of Gerken as it was
carried out into the hall.  "Sorry I had to do it," he
said, "but I had to get him first or go under.  He
oughtn't to said I cheated him."

"I say, that's a bally lie, you know."  Whitby's
drawling voice electrified the company.  Those behind
him hastily changed their positions.  Dave, with a
curse, reached again for his gun—it lay on the floor
against the wall, where it had fallen.

"Drop it, Dave," came Slick's grating command.
"Think I got nothin' to do but clean up after you?
Which yo 're too hot to stay indoors.  Go outside and
cool off."

"You tell me to git out?" exclaimed Dave, incredulously.

"That's what," was Slick's dogged reply.  "The
Britisher wants to speak his piece an' all interruptions
is barred entirely.  An' don't let Sandy see you for a
month."

Dave walked over and picked up his gun.  "To h—l
with Sandy," he cursed.  The door slammed open and
he was gone.

Slick slid his weapon back onto the shelf and
proceeded to admonish Whitby.  "See here, Brit, don't
you never call a man a liar 'less yo 're sure you can
shoot first."

"But dash it all! the man is a liar, you know.  The
German chap said 'you d—n scoundrel!  Traitor to
my master, eh!'  There 's nothing in that about
cheating, is there?"

"Well, mebbe not," agreed Slick, "but comparisons
is odorous, you don't want to forget that.  Which we 'll
drink to the memory of th' dead departed.  What 'll
it be, boys?"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE FRENCH ROSE`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER VII


.. class:: center medium

   THE FRENCH ROSE

.. vspace:: 2

The home of Jean LaFrance, a small cabin
built principally of the ever-ready cottonwood,
was located in a corner of his quarter-section,
farthest from the Jones' Luck River, which
formed one boundary of his farm.  He had designs
upon more than one quarter-section, not at that time
an unusual or impossible ambition, in so far as
homestead laws went.  His simple plan regarding residence
was to move the cabin or build against it as occasion
arose.  The rolling country sloped steadily upward
from the river to the chain of hills farther to the east.
These sent down several tributary streams, all unreliable
during the warm weather with the exception of one which
passed close to the cabin.  The conformation of the
land gave a view from the cabin of one long stretch of
the trail from Twin River and several short ones;
opposite the house, continuing to Wayback, the trail was
lost sight of.

Thus Buck was plainly visible as he loped along the
trail on the morning following the Sweet-Echo tragedy,
only no one happened to be observing him.  As he
disappeared behind the first rise, a pair of inquisitive
young eyes, half closed in the effort of the mouth
below to retain possession of far more than its capacity,
arose above the level of the window sill and looked
eagerly for an invitation to mischief.  Seeing nothing that
particularly called him, Pickles went out and into the
barn.

Buck struck off the trail and rode along the path to
the house.  Spring had returned in force after its
temporary retreat before the recent cold and the air bore
whisperings of the mighty wedlock of nature; all about
him the ecstatic song of the meadow-lark held a meaning
that escaped him, vague, intangible, but thrillingly
near to suggestion; the new green of the prairie melted
into the faint purple of the distant hills, beneath a sky
whose blue depths touched infinity.  It was a perfect
day and Buck, on his errand of aid to the helpless,
forgave the fences and the evidence of land cultivation
which threatened the life of the range.  Riding close
to the door he raised his quirt—and paused.

Rivalling the meadow-larks there flowed the music
of a mellow contralto roice in song.  His hand dropped
to his side.  That the language was strange made little
difference: the meaning of life almost was discovered
to him as he listened.

   |  "Earth has her flowers and Heaven her sun—
   |            But I have my heart.
   |  Winter will come, the sweet blossoms will die—
   |            But warm, ah! so warm
   |                Is my heart.
   |
   |  "When the White King makes his truce with the Gold—
   |            How dances my heart!
   |  All the sweet perfumes that float in the Spring
   |            Rest close, ah! so close
   |                In my heart.
   |
   |  "One day when Love like a bee, buzzing past,
   |            Wings close to my heart,
   |  Deep he shall drink where no winter can chill,
   |            Content, ah! content
   |                In my heart."
   |

The low voice died away into silence; from afar
came the soft cooing of a dove, soothingly insistent as
the croon of a lullaby; the riotous call of the larks arose
in gleeful chorus; within the cabin were the sounds of
movement: footsteps, the pushing of a pan across the
table, and then a subdued pounding which sent Buck's
thoughts whirling back into the distant past to hover
over one of his most sacred memories.  He sat perfectly
still.  How many years had gone by since he had heard
a good woman singing over her household tasks!  How
very long ago it seemed since his mother had made bread
to the tune of that same 'punch, punch, slap—punch,
punch'!  His stern face softened into a tenderness that
had not visited it since he was a boy.  Mother—The
French Rose—it was a pretty name.

Buck was not in the least aware of it but when a
man thus links the name of a woman with that of his
mother, it has a significance.

The faint nicker of a horse aroused Allday from his
apathetic interest in flies; he raised his head and sent
forth a resounding whinny in response; the blare of it
was yet in the air when Rose stood in the open doorway.

I despair of picturing her to you, so difficult it is to
portray in words the loveliness of a woman's beauty;
and the charm of the French Rose was as many-hued as
the changing sky at sunset; the modulations of her voice
ranged from the grave, rich tones of an organ to the
melting timbre of a flute, pitched to the note of the
English thrush; her very presence was as steadfastly
delightful as the fragrance of a hay field, newly mown.
In a long life I have known but one such woman and
this was she.

First, then, she harmonized.  The simple gown,
turned in at the throat, with sleeves rolled high on the
arms for greater freedom in her work, the short skirt
impeding but little her activity of movement, covered a
form meant by God to be a mother of men; and the
graceful column of her neck supported a head that did
honor to her form.  Lustre was in every strand of the
black hair, against which the ears set like the petals of
a flower; the contour of the face, the regularity of the
features, were flawless, unless for an overfulness of the
lips in repose; the natural olive complexion, further
darkened by the sun-tan from her out-door life, could
not conceal the warm color of the blood which glowed
in her cheeks like the red stain on a luscious peach; and
the mystery of her dark, serious eyes had drawn men
miles to the solving—in vain.

So she stood, silently regarding Buck, who as silently
regarded her.  When she had first come upon him, in
those few moments of unaccustomed softness when the
hard mask of assertive manhood had been slipped aside,
her questioning gaze had probed the depths of him,
wondering and warming to what it found there.  Her smile
awoke Buck to a sense of his rudeness and he swept off
his hat with the haste of embarrassment.  "I 've come
for Pickles," he blurted out, anxious to excuse his
unwarranted presence.

"Is it—is it M'sieu Peters?" she questioned.

"That's me," admitted Buck.  "Can I have him?"  He
smiled at the absurdity of his question.  Of course
she would be glad to get rid of such a mischievous little
"cuss."

Rose considered.  "Enter, M'sieu Peters.  We will
speak of it," she invited.

"I shore will," was the prompt acceptance.  Buck's
alacrity would have called forth hilarious chaffing from
the Bar-20 punchers.  It surprised himself.  She set
out a cup and a bottle on one end of the table and
hastened to the other with an exclamation of dismay:
"*Hélas, mon pain!*" and forthwith the "punch,
punch!" was resumed, while Buck stared at the process
and forgot to drink.

"Why do you take Fritz from me?" asked Rose.

Buck resumed his faculties with a grunt of disgust.
"What's th' matter with me?" he asked himself.  "Am
I goin' loco or did Johnny Nelson bite me in my sleep?
What was that: '*Take* Fritz?'"

This was seeing the matter in a different light.  Buck
ran his fingers through his hair and looked helpless.  He
poured himself a drink.  "Take Fritz?  Take anything
she wants?  Why, I'd give her my shirt.  There I go
again—" and he savagely, in imagination, kicked
himself.

"You see—I sort o' reckoned," he faltered, "Dutch
bein' one o' my boys—Pickles—Fritz—ought to be
taken care of, an'—"

"So—and you think I will not take care of him?"

"Oh, no; ma'am.  Never thought nothin' o' th' kind.
You stick yore brand on him an' we 'll say no more
about it.  Yore health, ma'am."

Rose packed the dough into the pan and set it aside.
Buck watched her with rueful countenance.  "Now
you 've gone an' made her mad," he told himself.
"Guess you better stick to cows, you longhorn!"

She returned to her place and sat opposite him, her
flour-stained arms lying along the table.  "You shall
take him, M'sieu Peters," she declared.

To Buck's remonstrance she nodded her head.  "*Mais
oui*—it is better," she insisted.  "He grow up a man, a
strong man—yes.  Only a strong man have a chance
in this so bad country.  Yes, it is better, I call him."

"Let me," Buck interposed, and stepping to the door
he cried out a yodelling call that brought Fritz
scampering into the cabin with scared face: it was his
father's well-known summons.  Rose called him to her and
put her arms about his shoulders.

"M'sieu Peters have come to take you with him,
Fritz.  You will go?" she asked him.

"Betcher life," said Pickles.

Buck grinned and Rose laughed a little at the callous
desertion.  "*Eh, bien, m'sieu*—you hear?" she said to
Buck, and then, to the boy: "It please you more to go
with M'sieu Peters than stay with me—yes?"

"Betcher life," repeated Pickles.  "Yo 're all right,
but I want to be a cow-punch an' rope an' shoot.  Some
day I 'll get that d—d ol' Dave Owens for killin' dad."

"*Dieu!*"  Rose was on her feet, gripping Fritz so
hard that he squirmed.  "Dave kill—Dave—"

"Sure, he done it!  Who'd yeh s'pose?"  Fritz
wriggled loose and stood rubbing his shoulder.  Rose
stood staring at him until Buck pushed him out of the
room, when she sank back into her chair, covering her
eyes with one shaking hand.

Outside Buck was questioning Pickles.  "You rid
yore daddy's bronc over, didn't you?  Can you rope
him?  Bully for you.  Get a-goin', then.  We want to
pull out o' here right smart."  Pickles was off on the
run and Buck slowly entered the cabin.  He went over
and stood looking out of the window.  "I would n't take
it so hard," he ventured.  "These sort o' mistakes is
bound to happen.  An' it might a' been worse.  It
might a' been Dave went under."

Rose flung out a hand towards him.  "I wish—"
she began passionately and then caught back the words,
horrified at her thought.

"Course you wish he had n't done it.  He had n't
oughter done it.  Dutchy was a good man—an' a
square man—an' Dave ain't neither—though I shore
hates to hurt yore feelin's in sayin' so."

"*I* know him.  He is bad—bad.  No one know him
like me."  The deep voice seemed to hold a measureless
scorn.  Buck wondered at this.

"Well, if you know him I 'm right glad.  I figgered
it out you did n't."

"I know him," she repeated, and this time she spoke
with a weariness that forbade further remark.

They remained thus silent until Fritz rode up on the
Goat, shouting out that he was ready and long since
forgetful of a scene he had not understood.  Buck turned
from the window.  "Good-bye, ma'am, I reckon we 'll
drift."

Rose came forward with extended hand.  "Good-bye.
You will guard him?  But certainly.  When you ride to
town, maybe you ride a little more and tell me he is
well and good.  It is not too far?"

"Too far!  Th' Double Y ain't none too far.  I
reckon you forget I come from Texas."

They waved to her just before they dropped from
sight down the last dip to the trail.  She was watching
when they came into view again at the first gap and
watched them out of sight at the end of the long stretch
before the bend.  Then she turned back into the room
and removing the demijohn and cup from the table, she
stood looking at the chair where Buck had sat.  "*Voilà,
un homme*," she declared, patting gently the rough back
of the chair: "a true man.  They are not many—no."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`TEX JOINS THE ENEMY`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER VIII


.. class:: center medium

   TEX JOINS THE ENEMY

.. vspace:: 2

Tex slung a leg over Son John and ambled
away from Wayback, in the wake of Dave.
His adroit and unobtrusive observance of
Dave had been without results unless there were
something suspicious in the long conversation held with a
one-eyed puncher who rode away on a Cyclone-brand
pony.  Tex, however, was by no means cast down; he
could not hope to pick up something every day and he
already had learned the only quarter from which trouble
might come to Buck.  He delayed action in the hope
that something tangible might turn up; and he fervently
hoped that it might be before Hopalong found himself
foot-loose from the Bar-20.  Tex was quicker with his
gun than most men but he possessed a real artist's love
for a reason why action should occur in a certain way;
if he were also able to show that it could have occurred
in no other way, he found all the more satisfaction in
the setting.

A loud splash in the nearby river brought his head
around in the direction of the sound; through a break
in the foliage a broad patch of water, seen dimly in the
dusk of the evening, showed rapidly widening circles.
"Walloper," commented Tex, immediately resolving to
emulate that fish in the morning.  "Though I certainly
hope old Smiler won't come to the water below me for
a drink: nice mouthful of mutton I'd make for his
wolf fangs.  What in thunder!—" his pony had
plunged forward as if spurred.  Tex got him in hand
and whirled to face the unknown danger.  The rush of
the river, the steady wind through the trees, the elusive
chirp or movement of some bird—only familiar sounds
met his ear and there was still light enough to show only
familiar objects.  "Why, you white-legged, ghost-seeing
plug-ugly!" remonstrated Tex.  "Who do you
think is riding you?  Johnny Nelson?  Then you must
be looking for a lesson on behavior about now.  Get
along."

He rode slowly, not wishing to overtake Dave before
he settled in Twin River.  Tex had as much right as
Dave to be riding from Wayback but he wished to avoid
arousing the faintest hint of suspicion.  There was no
other place along the trail for Dave to stop, except the
LaFrance cabin.  Queer how opinions differed
regarding the French Rose: from the extreme of all-bad to
that of all-good.  Judicious Tex, summing up,
concluded her to be neither—"Just like any other woman:
half heart, quarter intellect, and the balance angel and
devil; extra grain of angel and she 's good; extra grain
of devil and she 's bad."  Tex, not knowing Rose
personally, gave her the benefit of the doubt.

"If he stops in there I 'll miss him," said Tex.  "But
he 's bound to go on to Twin from there.  If we come
together in the trail, it's no harm done: Dave will never
suspect me until he looks into my gun.  Bet a hat he
thinks I 'm a pretty good friend of his."  He chuckled,
recalling the arguments for and against Gerken on the
night of the shooting.  The consensus of opinion seemed
to be that Dave had been within his rights but "some
hasty."  This was not Tex's opinion.  He chuckled
again as he recalled the lurid out-spokenness of Sandy
McQueen's opinion which had turned the perfunctory
trial into a farce and had kept Twin River on the grin
for two days.  "And all is gay when Sandy comes
marching home," he hummed.  "I 'm glad they found
the gun on Dutch.  Peck of trouble if he had n't been
heeled.  There 's me, just naturally obliged to pull out
Dave.  If he goes under I lose touch with the old thief
who stops at home.  Funny they don't get at it.
There 's enough material in Twin River alone to wipe
three Double Y's off the map, good as Buck is.  Give
him six months more and half Montana could n't do
it—because the other half would be fighting *for* him,
Lordy!  The old-times!  Folks have grown most
surprising slow these days."

He had left the foot of the farm road half a mile in
the rear when he heard the sound of a horse coming up
behind him.  The darkness hid Tex until the other was
nearly abreast, when he hailed.  "He did turn off to
see Rose," reflected Tex, as he returned the greeting
and Dave rode up.

"That you, Comin'?" said Dave.  "I been wantin'
to see you.  Goin' anywhere particular?"

"No," drawled Tex.  "I was just considerin' which
of them shanties in Twin 'd have th' most loose
money."

"Bah!" scornfully exclaimed Dave, drawing alongside
him.  "There ain't no money in Twin River.  You
an' me could make a good haul over in Wayback but I
got somethin' better 'n that.  Let's go into Ike's.  Ike
never hears nothin' an' all th' rest is deaf, too.  I want
to talk to you."

Ike's was primitive to a degree but once removed
from a tent.  The log walls of the low, single room
were weather-proofed in several ingenious ways,
ranging from mud to bits of broken boxes.  The bar was
a rough, home-made table, the front and both ends shut
in by canvas on which was painted: "Don't shoot
here."  Ike was careful either of his legs or his kegs.
A big stove stood in a shallow trough of dirt midway
between the bar and the door, accepting salival tributes
in winter which developed into miraculous patches of
rust in summer.  Several smaller tables, likewise
home-made, a number of boxes, and a few very shaky chairs
completed the furnishings.  It was the reverse of
inviting, even in the bitter cold of winter, but Ike never
lacked for customers of a sort and probably made more
money than any one in Twin River.  Ike himself was a
grizzled veteran of more than fifty years, sober,
taciturn, not given to cards but always ready to
"shake-'em-up."  Dice was his one weakness at any time of the
day or night.  To be sure, he always won.  He had
them trained.

The regular *habitués* were a canny lot, tight-lipped,
cautious, slow in speech and in movement, except at a
crisis.  The opening door was a target for every eye
and not a straight glance in the crowd; each seemed
trying, like the Irishman when he bent his gun-barrel, to
make his eyes shoot around a corner.  And they all
took their liquor alike, squeezing the glass as if it were
a poker hand and they were afraid to show the quality
or quantity of the contents.  It was usually easy to pick
out an occasional caller or a stranger: he was drunk or
on the way to it; Ike's regulars were never drunk.

The entry of Dave and Tex was noted in the usual
manner.  Dave had long been recognized as one of their
kind.  Tex, since his dramatic entry into Twin River,
had shown no displeasing partiality for hard work.
Both were welcomed therefore, silently or laconically,
not to be confounded with sullenly.  As they sauntered
over to an unoccupied corner table, Tex noticed Fanny
sitting in a game with Bill Tregloan, both of them
much the worse for liquor, while their three companions
showed the becoming gravity of sober winners.  Fanny
closed one of his wide, woman's eyes and nodded to
them with a cheerful grin, but Bill was too far gone
to notice anything but his persistent bad luck.  "D—n
this poker game," he bellowed, banging a huge fist
on the table, "If 't was Nap I might win something,
but here I 've been sittin' all night, scatting my money
in the say."

Fanny laughed uproariously but the others eyed him
in silent disapprobation.  What "Nap" might be they
did not know, but poker was good enough for them.

"What 'll you drink, Comin'?" asked Dave as a
preliminary.

"I ain't drinkin', Dave, not never.  But I 'm right
ready an' anxious to hear o' that somethin' good
you 've got to deal out."

"Y-e-e-a—well, it's this way," began Dave, sampling
his liquor in the customary gulp.  He set down his
glass to ask abruptly: "Got any friends in Twin
River?"

"Nary friend—nor anywhere else," replied Tex,
indifferently.  "Don't need 'em—can't afford 'em."

Dave looked hard at Tex.  "What about that bunch
Fanny travels with?" he suggested.

"You said friends," was the significant answer.

"All right—all th' better.  I seen you play a
mighty good game o' cards."

Tex snorted.  He could not restrain it.  Was it
possible Dave was aiming to milk him?  "I'm allus
willin' to back my play," he declared, drily.

"You won't have to back it.  If yo 're as good as I
hopes, I 'll back it.  It's this way: I want to back
you agin' a man as thinks he can play.  He 's
considerable of a dealer—considerable—an' he won't play
me because he beats me once an' thinks I 'm no good.
He 's got money, a-plenty, an' I don't want a dollar.
You keeps what you wins—an' I wants you to get it
all."  He turned and called across the room: "Ike,
flip us a new deck."  The pack in his hands, he faced
Tex again.  "Suppose we plays a few hands an' you
gimme a sample o' yore style."

Tex thrust his hands in his pockets and tipped back
in his rickety chair.  "Lemme get this right," he
demanded.  "You backs me to play, pockets th' losses,
gives up th' winnin's, all to best th' other
feller—on'y he must n't win."

"You got it."

"On'y he must n't win."

"That's what I said."

"Must be a friend o' yourn."

"Y-e-s," drawled Dave, with a sardonic smile.

"Who is it?"

"Peters o' th' Double Y."

"Ah!  I 've heard o' him."

"An' you an' me an' a lot more 'll hear too d—d
much o' him if we don't run him out.  He 's a heap too
good for Twin River."

"How 'll you rope him?"

"I got a bait—best kind.  They allus fall for a
woman."  Dave's sneering tones, as he broke open the
pack, sorely taxed his companion's self-control.
"What'll we play?" he continued.  "Better make it
'stud.'  Th' gamer a man is th' quicker he goes broke
at stud an' Peters is game enough."

Tex dropped back into position and took his hands
from his pockets.  "I shine at stud," he remarked
softly, taking the deck Dave offered him.  The joker
was sent spinning across the room to glance from the
nose of Fanny who sat sprawlingly asleep, nodding to
an empty table; the Cornishman, swearing strange
oaths, had gone off some time previously; two of the
others were renewing the oft-defeated attempt to dice
Ike to the extent of a free drink; the rest of the
inmates were attending strictly to business and if an
occasional oblique glance was aimed at Tex and Dave
it did not show the curiosity which may have directed it.

"He must n't win," murmured Tex.  The cards rustled
in the shuffle.  Dave grunted.  "An' you must n't
win?" Tex inquired.

"I 'm a-goin' to do all I know how to win," warned
Dave.

"Oh, that o' course," sanctioned Tex.  "Shift this
table.  I likes to see th' door," he explained.

Dave complied, looking sharply for some other
reason.  The lamp on the wall divided its light fairly
between them.  Dave was satisfied.

"Is it for love or money?" asked Tex.

"Might as well make it interestin'," suggested Dave.

Tex thought for a moment.  "No," he dissented,
"'Dog eat dog' ain't no good.  But we 'll keep count
so you can see how bad you make out."

It was no game.  Tex won as he liked with the deck
in his hand and his remarks on Dave's dealing were
neither complimentary nor soothing.  "Duced bad
form, as the Britisher would say," was his plaintive
remonstrance at Dave's first attempt; "you palms th'
pack like a professional."  Sometime later, as he ran
his finger nail questioningly along the edge of the cards,
he shook his head in sorrow: "You shore thumbs 'em
bold an' plenteous, Dave," was his caustic comment.
And then, querulously: "D—n it, Dave! don't deal me
seconds.  Th' top card is plenty good enough for me."

It required very little of this to cross Dave's none
too easy temper.  He pushed the cards away from
him, pleased and annoyed at the same time.  "You 'll
do," he declared, "if you can't clean up Peters there
ain't a man in th' country as can."  A sudden
suspicion struck him.  Tex had reached out with his left
hand to pick up the deck.  "Where 'd you get that
ring, Comin'?  I never seen it afore."

A swift movement of the fingers under the idly held
pack and Tex extended his hand, palm up.  The band
of dark metal, almost unnoticeable on the brown hand,
was as plain on the palm side as Dave had seen it to be
on the back of the hand.  "Belonged to my wife," said
Tex, the cynical undertones in his voice bearing no
expression in his face.  "I wear it on our wedding
anniversary."

"Excuse *me*," was Dave's hasty apology.  He
pushed back from the table.  "Keep in trainin', Comin'.
I 'll see Rose an' start things rollin'.  Jean will
take you in as an old friend when we 're ready.  We
must n't be too thick; Peters might hear of it.
Good-night.  I 'm goin' to roost."

"Night, Dave."  Tex sat fingering the cards with
something very like wonder on his face.  "What sort
of a babe-in-arms is this for deviltry?  He used to
have better ideas.  The cold weather up here must
have congealed his brains.  Break Buck Peters at
stud!  Maybe he plans to get us shooting.  I 'll bet a
hat old Schatz never hatched that scheme."  He took
the cards over to Ike and strolled out, unseating Fanny
with one sweep of his foot as he went.

Fanny arose to his feet, looking for trouble.  He
was sober in his legs but his ideas crossed.  No one
being near him, he surveyed his backless, up-ended
chair with blinking ferocity.  "Cussed, buckin' pinto!
Think I can't ride you, huh?  Watcher bet?"  He
righted the chair and took a flying seat, all in one
movement.  "Huh!  Ride anythin' on four laigs," he
boasted.  Lulled by this confidence in his
horsemanship, his head began to nod again, in sleep.

Tex ambled over to the Why-Not where his entry
was greeted with boisterous invitations to a game.
Four bright boys had come over from the Fort and
were cleaning up the crowd.  Tex was ashamed of
them, and said so, refusing to go to the assistance of
such helpless tenderfeet.  He borrowed paper and
pencil of Dutch Fred and rapidly composed a note to
Buck.  Much adroit manoeuvring secured the services
of Cheyenne Charley, not yet too drunk to understand
the repeated instructions of Tex.  Thus it came about
that Buck, without knowing how it got there, found on
his table a communication of absorbing interest,
signed: "A Friend."  It read:


Buck Peters: Don't play cards with strangers, especially
stud poker.  Dave Owens aims to have Rose rope you into
a frame-up.  John is in it, too.  Mighty easy to plug you
in a row.


"A Friend," mused Buck.  "An' Rose is to rope
me into a crooked game.  I 'm d—d if I believe it."  He
made as if to tear the paper but changed his mind.
"No, I 'll just keep this.  Mebby there 'll be more of
'em.  Jake!" he roared.

"—lo!" came the answering roar.

"Who's been here this mornin'?"

"Where?"

"At th' ranch."

A huge, slouching figure with a remarkable growth of
hair appeared in the doorway.  Jake was a cook
because he was too big to ride and too lazy to dig.  He
ran his fingers through his hair, considering.  "At th'
ranch?" he repeated.  "There was Pickles an' Ned,
o' course; and Cock Murray come over to ask—"

"I don't mean them, I mean some stranger."

"Stranger?  Where?"

"Right here in this room."

"Ther' ain't been no stranger.  What'd he do?"

"Do?  Why—why, he stole all th' silver, that's
what.  It's gettin' so I 'll have to lock up all th'
valuables every time I go out, yo 're that interested in yore
cookin'.  Course, you need th' practice, I agree.  Sling
on th' chuck, you blind, deaf elephant.  I got to get."

Jake rapidly retreated.  In the kitchen he paused
and ran his fingers through his hair.  He looked
scared.  "Stole th' silver!  Lock up th' valuables!  He
must be loco."  Whereupon he stole out of the back
door and concealed two stones in his clothes, where
they would be handy.  At close quarters he was a very
grizzly for strength but if Buck should start to shoot
him up from a distance, he did not purpose to be
altogether at a disadvantage.  Thus fortified he prepared
to serve the meal.





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   CHAPTER IX


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   ANY MEANS TO AN END

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Jean LaFrance carefully cleaned his boots
and stepped into the cabin.  "*Bon jour, ma belle
Rose*.  Breakfast is ready, eh?  But for why you
make three to eat?"

"Did you not see, on the trail?"

"No."  He took up a bucket of water and a tin
basin, going to a bench outside, to wash.  In a few
moments a horseman loped into view and disappeared
again, hidden by an intervening rise.  At sight of the
rider a look of fear flashed across the face of Jean and
he smothered a curse, hastily re-entering the cabin to
dry his hands.  "Dave!" he exclaimed.

"Yes," assented Rose, impassively.

"You know he come?"

"No," as expressionless as before.

"For why he come some early?  But yes!  Schatz,
he send the money, eh?  Eh?"

Rose shrugged her shoulders doubtfully and answered
the consequent look of anxiety on Jean's face by
placing her hands on his shoulders and gently shaking
him.  "Wait till he comes, *mon père*," she encouraged
him.

He nodded his head, unconsciously squaring his
shoulders in response to the subtle appeal to his
manhood.  At the sound of the horseman's feet he went
outside.  Dave's smiling cheerfulness relieved his mind and
he returned the greeting with newborn good humor,
leading the horse off to the stable while Dave went
indoors.

The handsome animal glowed with the health of
youth; not a trace of his evil nature showed in the
sparkle of his eyes, and the clear red of his cheek still
stood proof against the assaults of a life of reckless
debauchery.  "Hello, Rose," he cried, "I could n't
stay away no longer.  I come up last night but you 'd
turned in."  Encircling her waist he drew her to him
to kiss her on the cheek, laughing good-naturedly at
the interposed hand.  "All right, have it your own
way.  But I wants you to know I never aims to kiss a
girl yet, as I don't kiss her, come kissin'-time."

"It is not kissing-time for me, Dave—no.  Not for
any man.  Why you stay away so long?" she asked—and
could have bitten her tongue for it the next
instant.

"Missed me, did you?" commented Dave, delighted.
"Well, you see I—" he hesitated.

"You do not want to tell for why you kill that
unoffensive man and leave Fritz without a father."  The
contempt in her voice cut like a whip.

"Unafensive!" he repeated, the color ebbing from
his face to leave it the dangerous white of the fated
homicide.  "He was that unafensive he knocked me off
my feet an' started to pull a gun on me.  It was an
even break.  That's more 'n yore dad allows when
anybody tries to rush him."

She winced as if struck.  "Is it not promise you
speak nothing of this?"

"I ain't a-speakin' of it.  Nobody knows 't was him.
Leastwise nobody but me.  I would n't 'a' dug it up on'y
you go accusin' me o' killin' when I has to protect
myself."

Jean was heard approaching and Rose made a weary
gesture of submission.  "*Eh, bien*.  Me, I know
nothing but what I hear.  Do not be angry when father
comes."

"Peters, I suppose.  D—n him for a liar."  His
face cleared as Jean entered.  "Well, I got bad news
for you, Jean.  Schatz says he can't let you have that
money just now, but he 'll remember you."

"Good!  Soon, I hope," and Jean rubbed his hands
in pleased anticipation as he drew up to the table.

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Dave sat silently watching Rose, after Jean had
left them to go to his work.  She went about her daily
duties, patiently waiting.  Something in Dave's
manner told her he had come for more than the mere
pleasure of seeing her.

"Rose, sit down," he said at last.  "I want to talk
to you."  She seated herself obediently and faced him.

"*Allons*," she prompted him.

"You see, it's this way: Here 's me, errand boy
for Schatz.  I draws my time, same as I 'm a-punchin'
for him, but what is it?  Not enough to live on.  I can
make more with th' cards, a whole lot more, on'y you
says no.  An' there ain't nothin' reglar 'bout gamblin',
anyhow.  Schatz is honin' for his ranch.  He 's bound
to get it an' I 'm bound to help him.  'Cause why?  I
strike it rich.  Schatz will put me on as foreman or
mebby better.  Now, how do we get th' ranch?  Break
that McAllister-Peters combine, that's how.  An' how
do we break 'em?  You."

"Me?"

"You.  It's pie.  You get him here—Peters—an'
I got a man as 'll clean him out like a cyclone lickin'
up a haystack.  You get him here, that's all.  You
know how.  I ain't a-goin' to be jealous of a girl as
breaks off a kiss in th' middle an' han's me back my
end of it.  You ain't woke up yet, Rose, an' when you
do, I 'll be there."

"You will be there."

"You bet—with aces—four of 'em."  He nodded
with confident assurance.  "You get Peters a-comin'
here an' then some night Comin' Thirty drops in casual
to see yore daddy.  That 'll be all.  Comin' knows
his business."

"Who is Comin'?"

"Who is he?" Dave grinned.  "Well, he's th'
on'y man can deal a deck between th' Mississip' an' th'
Rockies.  When Peters gets through with him he won't
think so much o' that feller he met in Cheyenne—H—l!"  He
sprang to his feet, consternation on his
face.  Rose gazed at him in mute wonder.  "It can't
be!" he muttered, "he went out long ago."  He was
silent in troubled speculation for a while.  "Rose," he
continued abruptly, "you ask Peters, first time you see
him—when 'll you go?  To-day?"

"Go where?"

"Over to th' ranch," he explained, impatiently.
"You 've got to set her rollin'.  Go over to see Pickles,
can't you?"

"Yes, if you say go."

"All right.  Go to-day.  An' ask Peters when he 's
seen Tex Ewalt.  Don't forget th' name: Tex Ewalt."

"Tex Ewalt.  I go now.  It may be difficult.  Men
do not come here like before—"

"Before I showed 'em th' way.  You 'll get Peters,
if you try right."

"And you?  Is it to Big Moose you ride?"

"No, I got to go to Wayback.  Will I throw th'
leather onto Swaller?"

"No, Swallow come when I call."

"All right.  Then I'll hit th' trail.  What, you
won't?  Wait till you wake up."  He went off laughing
and in a minute more swung past the house with a
rattle of harness and shout of farewell.  Rose stood in
the doorway, motionless, looking after him.

"If I try right.  You beast!" The words came
through her lips laden with unutterable loathing.  She
put her hands before her eyes to shut out the sight of
him and turned back into the room, throwing out her
arms in despair.  "What can I do?" she asked
passionately; and again: "What can I do?"

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To Tex, grimly watchful in the bar-room of the
Why-Not, her coming brought a shock.  He remembered
her as she appeared when publicly denouncing
him for a crime he had not committed, a memory that
ill prepared him for the all-pervading charm of her
beauty.  Approaching rapidly, a glorious figure,
sitting the powerful black with unaffected grace, her
grave loveliness smote him with a sort of wonder.
Plunging through the ford in a series of magnificent
leaps, the rifted spray flashed about her in the
sunlight like bursting clouds of jewels.  The solid ground
once more under his feet, the black settled into his
stride and they were away, the blue sky above the
distant hills set wide for them, a gateway of the gods.
"When she had passed it seemed like the ceasing of
exquisite music," murmured Tex.

Dutch Fred laughed genially at his companion's
interest.  They two were alone in the room.  "Der
French Rose, a fine voman, yes," he remarked, with
open and honest admiration.  "You like her?"

Tex stared steadily out of the window as he answered:

   |          "'Had she been true
   |  If Heaven had made me such another world
   |  Of one entire and perfect chrysolite
   |  I 'd not have sold her for it.'"
   |

"Sold her!  Sold her for a—vot?  Vot you talk, anyvay?"

"That, my friend, is what the nigger said when the
shoe pinched.  There 's a h—l of a lot of tight shoes
in th' world, Fred."

Fred walked to the door and gazed solemnly after
Tex as he rode away; then he walked back to the bar
and solemnly mixed himself a fancy drink, which he
compounded with the judgment of long experience.  He
set down the glass and admonished it with a pudgy
forefinger: "How *he* know she vear tight shoes, vat?"

But the glass had already given up all it contained.

Swallow, meanwhile, was putting the trail behind him
with praiseworthy speed, and brought Rose within
hailing distance of the ranch house just as Jake, with his
carefully concealed stones, re-entered the kitchen.  As
she dropped from her horse Buck appeared at the door
and sprang forward to greet her, his stern face aglow
with pleasure.  "Why, ma'am, I 'm right glad to see
you," he declared, appreciative of the firm clasp of
the hand she gave him.  "Honest as a man's," was his
thought.  "Jake!  O-o, Jake!" he called.

Jake tip-toed to the door and peered cautiously
forth, heaving a huge sigh of relief at the new
development.  "Better run him in the stable, Jake," advised
Buck.  "An' take some o' th' sweat off 'n him.  Take
yore time.  We 'll wait.  You see," he went on to Rose,
"none of th' boys is up; but Ned ought to be here
right soon.  An' Pickles, Pickles 'll be that pleased he
won't eat nothin'.  Pickles says yo 're a brick an' he
likes you 'most as well as Whit."

Her bubbling laughter set Buck to laughing in sympathy
and they stood, one at either side the table, looking
at each other like two happy children, moved to
mirth by they knew not what.

"It is a disappointment I have not come before,
M'sieu Peters," said Rose, "you make me so very
welcome.  But Whit—who is Whit?"

"Whit?  Oh, he's th' Britisher we took on when—when
we went short a hand.  He 's willin' an' strong
an' learns quick, though he shore has some amazin'
ideas about cows."

The momentary clouding of her face as she recalled
how he had "gone short a hand," he allowed to pass
without comment and went gayly on.  "Pickles, he likes
to hear him tell stories; fairy stories, you might call
them, but they ain't like no fairy stories I ever heard.
An' he tells 'em like he believes 'em.  I ain't right
certain he don't.  Pickles does.  You would n't think a
kid like that would take to fairy stories, would you,
ma'am?"

"No-o.  Always he is for the grand minute—to
be a man, to ride, to throw the rope,—like that.
And to shoot—he must not shoot, M'sieu Peters."

"Well, you see, ma'am, he—you—I—" he was
clearly embarrassed, but Truth and Buck were Siamese
twins and always moved in pairs.  Hot and uncomfortable
as it made him, he had to confess.  "Why, he 's
just naturally boun' to shoot.  Yesterday I give him a
rifle an' a big bunch o' cartridges.  He won't hurt
nothin', ma'am."

"*Mais non*—I hope not.  Make him to be—to be
good.  A strong man can be good, M'sieu Peters?"

Buck frowned in thought.  "Yes," he declared.
"But there 's more ways than one o' bein' good.  Our
way 'd never do for some places, an' their way 'd never
do for us.  Th' quickest man with a short gun I ever
knowed an' one as has killed considerable few, first an'
last, he 's a good man, ma'am.  He would n't lie, nor
steal, nor do a mean act.  An' he never killed a man
'less he was driven to it.  I say it an' I know it.  I 'd
trust him with my life an' my honor.  An' there 's more
like him, ma'am, a-plenty."  He stood tensely upright,
an admirable figure, deep in earnest thought.  And
she stood watching him, silent, studying his face,
absorbing his words with a thirsty soul: the firm
conviction of a man who, intuition told her, was sound to
the core.  "This is a rough country," he continued,
"with rough ways.  There 's good men an' bad men.
Th' bad men are th' devil's own an' it seems like th'
good men are scattered soldiers with a soldier's work
to do.  If a bad man takes offence an' you know he
means to get you if he can, it's plumb foolish to wait
till yo 're shot before you begin shootin'.  He did n't
begin with you an' he shore won't stop with you, an'
it's your plain duty to drop him at th' first threatenin'
move.  Mebby you won't have to kill him, but if you
must, you must.  I don't say it's right but it's
necessary.  That's all, ma'am."

He turned to her with a whimsical smile.  Her face
was alight with a heartfelt gratitude, for Buck, all
unknowingly, had exonerated her father, in showing her
a new aspect of his doubtful matter from the view-point
of a man among men.  She passed her hand across her
eyes in a swift gesture, then laid it for an instant
firmly upon his shoulder.  "*Merci, mon ami*," she said
quietly.  That shoulder, whenever he thought of it,
tingled for days after, in a way that to Buck was
unaccountable.

A moment later Jake appeared.  "Ready in two
shakes," he promised, referring to the meal.

"Can't you rustle up somethin' extra, Jake?" asked
Buck.  "You know we got company."

Jake assumed an air of nonchalant capability.
"Well, now, I reckon," he answered; in spite of himself
a hint of boasting was in his voice.  "What do you say
to aigs?"

"Aigs?" repeated Buck, his eyes widening.

"Aigs!" reiterated Jake, complacently.

Rose looked on in much amusement while Buck's
astonished stare wandered down half the length of
Jake's lofty height and stopped.  "Are you carryin'
'em in yore pockets?" asked Buck.

"In my pockets!" exclaimed Jake.  He glanced
down.  What in blazes did he have in his pockets?  A
hasty investigation brought forth two large stones.

"What in—what are you carryin' *them* for?"
asked Buck, with lively curiosity.

Jake turned to Rose with his explanation: "You
see, ma'am, it's th' cyclone.  I got a' almanac as says
a cyclone is a-comin' an' due to-day, an' I did n't want
to be blown onto th' top o' one o' these yer mountains
an' mebby freeze to death."  Rose's responsive peal of
laughter repaid him, and, withering Buck with a look,
he retired to the kitchen to cook his magically acquired
eggs.

The meal was nearly finished when Pickles appeared,
late as usual.  Ned had been given up by Buck, who
explained his absence as probably due to the development
of some unexpected duty.  Rose, awaiting a more
favorable opportunity to introduce the real object of
her visit, had deliberately prolonged the enjoyment of
listening to his conversation.  His friends would not
have known the usually taciturn Buck.  Quite equal to
the production of a flow of language when language
was desirable, his calling and environment seldom
found it necessary.  Indeed, if brevity were the sole
ingredient of wit, few men had been wittier.  But to-day
he surpassed himself in eloquence; and it was in the
midst of an unconsciously picturesque narrative that he
was interrupted.

There came a scramble of hoofs, the slam of a door,
a rapid padding of moccasined feet, followed by a yell
from Jake and the taunting treble of a boyish voice,
and Pickles sped into view, clutching the door frame as
he ran, and swinging himself out of range.  His back
toward them and his head craned in the direction of
Jake to insure the full effect of a truly hideous grimace,
he jeered that worthy for his bad marksmanship:
"Yah! you missed me ag'in!  W'y don't you use a
gun like a man?" and by way of emphasis he shook the
light rifle he was carrying.  As Jake directed a missile
with unerring skill at anything short of a bird on the
wing, it is to be presumed that, with Pickles as a mark,
he did not try very hard.  It is certain that he was
chuckling gleefully as he went to pick up the dishcloth,
a large remnant of what looked suspiciously like the
passing of a blue flannel shirt.

Satisfied there was no immediate danger from the
rear, Pickles wheeled about.  "Buck, I near got—"
he stopped short.  "Rose!" he exclaimed and looked
sharply from her to Buck and back again.  "You
ain't a-goin' to take me back?" he asked, doubtfully.

Rose shook her head as she looked at him.  It was a
new Pickles she saw.  The roguish mischief had gone
from the eyes which, when he faced them, had been
alive with eager intensity; the air of precocious anxiety,
tribute to a happy-go-lucky father (oftener "happy"
than lucky) had vanished completely; motionless as
he stood in his hopeful expectancy, he was aquiver with
life.  "No, Fritz," she assured him, "M'sieu Peters,
he need you—more than me—yes."

Pickles was at the table in a moment.  "Betcher life
he does," he agreed.  "You don't want a boy,
anyhow.  I 'd have a girl if I was you.  Say, Buck," he
informed between bites, "I seen Ned an' he says that
d—n bull's broke out again.  He 's gone after him.
An' Cock Murray says: Can you lend him a hat.
That wall-eyed pinto o' his made b— out o' his 'n."

"You young scallywag!  You must n't swear afore
a lady—not never.  An' you must talk polite, besides.
Don't you never forget it."

Pickles looked straight into Buck's stern eyes,
without fear.  "I won't," he promised, earnestly.  "Gosh!
I 'm hungry," and he proceeded to prove it.  And Rose
knew then that Pickles would grow up a "strong
man"—and a good man, after the ideas of M'sieu
Peters, which, she had become convinced, were very
good ideas, indeed.

Pickles had long since departed with a hat for the
far-distant Murray; the boys had straggled in and
gone again from the bunk-house, where Jake ministered
to their amazing appetites; and the afternoon
sun was casting shadows of warning before Rose
remembered the long ride home which was to come.  A
silence, longer than usual, had fallen upon them, which
neither seemed to find embarrassing.  Buck's inscrutable
face, as he looked upon her, told nothing of
his thoughts; but on hers was a soft wistfulness that
surely sprang from pleasant imaginings.  She pushed
back her chair at last with a murmur of regret.  Jake
was glad to hear it.  He had begun to have anxious
misgivings regarding his job.  Buck glanced through
the window and really saw the outside world for the
first time in two hours.  He sprang to his feet and
exclaimed in bewilderment.  "First time in my life I
ever did it," he declared.  Rose looked an inquiry.
"First time th' sun ever stole a march on me that
way," he explained.  "Reckon I must a' been some
interested in your talk, ma'am," and his humorous
smile was deliciously boyish.  The sparkle in her eyes
and the flush on her cheeks told that Rose discerned a
compliment higher than the spoken one.  She began to
draw on her thick man's gloves with an air almost
demure.

"It is very selfish that I have make you waste so
much time, M'sieu Peters," she apologized, her eyes
intent upon the gloves.

Buck stared.  There was a certain grimness in his
humor as he answered: "Hm!  Well, I 'm a-goin' to
waste some more.  That is, I will if you don't run
away from Allday.  He 's good, but that black o' yourn
has got th' laigs of him, I reckon."

She watched him as he strode away for the horses,
deciding how best to approach the object of her visit.
True to her nature it was less an approach than a
direct appeal.  As they set off together she spoke
abruptly: "What time did you see Tex Ewalt last?
I think—I am sure—it is better if you have not see
him for a long time—so."

"Well, I ain't seen him in a long time."  He was
plainly surprised.  "Do you know Tex?" he asked,
wonderingly.

She shook her head.  "No.  Some one ask me—but
you have not seen him.  That is good.  Once I tell you
I am glad if you come to see me about Fritz."

"Shore I 'll come," he promised heartily.

"You must not," she warned him.  "In the morning,
a little while, yes; at night or to stay long—no."

A light broke in upon Buck, who recalled the mysteriously
delivered letter of that morning.  The wholesome
admiration for a lovely woman, the natural pleasure
in an experience infrequent in his man-surrounded
life, began to concentrate and take definite shape in his
mind at the promised vindication of his judgment.  He
tested her shrewdly: "You don't want to see me,"
was his brusque comment.

She looked reproachfully at his set profile.  "*Mais,
quelle folie*!  I am glad to see you always," she assured
him, "but it must be like that.  It is better."  She
hesitated a moment and continued: "It is better *aussi*,
if you will not play cards.  I—I like it, much, if you
will not play cards."  Her heightened color and
diffident manner showed what it cost her to make it a
personal request.

"By G—d!  I knew it," cried Buck.  He whanged
Allday over one eye with his hat, and that sedate
animal executed a side jump that would have done credit
to a real bad pony.  There are limits to all things and
Allday was feeling pretty good just then, anyway.

Rose was startled.  "What is it you know?" she
asked, doubtfully.

Buck's face was alight with smiling gratification.
Oblivious of the fact that at last he had stung Allday
into remonstrance, he answered by the card, "I knowed
that gamblin' habit 'd grow on me so my friends could
see it.  An' I hereby swears off.  I never touches a
deck till you says so, ma'am.  That goes as it lays."

Still doubtful as to his meaning—such exuberance
of feeling could scarcely be induced by swearing off
anything—she questioned him in some embarrassment.
"Is it I ask too much, that you will not play?"

"Too much!  There ain't nothin' you can't ask me,
nothin'—" he paused.  "It's time I was hittin' th'
back trail 'fore I say mor'n I ought.  Just one thing,
ma'am: I can't never know you better than I do right
now.  An' I want to say I 'm right proud to know
you."  He drew Allday down to a walk and halted as
she stopped and faced him, sweeping her a salute as
eloquent in gesture as were his words in speech.

The color came and went in her cheeks as she
regarded him.  "I am glad," she said at last, "Oh, I am
very glad," and turning, she left him at a speed that
vied with her racing thoughts.

Buck watched her go, the definite shape in his mind
assuming a seductiveness that fascinated while it scared
him.  "If I was only ten years younger," he muttered.
He jerked Allday's head around.  "Get away, boy,"
he cried, and the horse struck his gait at a bound.

Buck was riding wide of the ranch house when a
suspicion pricked him and he headed for home.  At
the door he shouted for Jake.

Jake lounged out.  "What's th' noise?" he asked,
languidly.

"Say, Jake, where 'd you get them aigs?"

Jake looked pained.  "I got 'em off Cheyenne
Charley," he asserted.

"Cheyenne Charley?  Where 'n blazes did he get
'em," wondered Buck.

"Well, now, I can't rightly say," drawled Jake,
"but I'm certain shore o' one thing: he never laid 'em."

"No," agreed Buck, reflectively.  "Did he give 'em
to you?" he added.

Jake yawned elaborately to hide the weakness of his
position.  "Not exactly," he admitted.  "I got him
drunk."

"Oh," commented Buck.  He turned to ride off when
another question obtruded itself, but Jake had
disappeared.  Buck slid to the ground and entered quietly
by another door, going to where he kept his private
stock.  A rapid inspection showed where Jake had
obtained his supply.  He had appropriated Buck's
whiskey to pay for eggs which it was very evident he
had meant to eat himself.  Only his vanity had led to
their disclosure.  "Th' d—n scoundrel!" said Buck,
and he hurriedly secured the demijohn in the one place
in the house that locked.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`INTRODUCING A PARASITE`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER X


.. class:: center medium

   INTRODUCING A PARASITE

.. vspace:: 2

In the northeast corner of the Cyclone ranch, not
far from the Little Jill, and in a hollow, well
screened by hills and timber, One-Eye sat on
his horse, smoking a brown cigarette and keeping a
satisfied watch over a dozen mangy-looking cattle as
they grazed intermittently in a restless, nervous way.
They were a pitiful-looking handful, weak, emaciated,
their skins showing bald patches and scabs, and they
continually licked themselves and rubbed against the
trees.  While they were restless, it was without snap or
vim; they were spiritless and drooping, enduring
patiently until death should end their misery.

One-Eye beamed upon them, his good optic glowing
with satisfaction.  He had gone to some trouble and
risk to cut these miserable animals cut of the herd
collected by the hasty round-up, and now that he was
about to have them taken off his hands he sighed with
deep content.  To run infected cattle onto the
Cyclone's non-infected northern range was very
dangerous, for his foreman was direct and unhesitating in
his methods.  Discovery might easily mean a bullet
above One-Eye's blue-red nose—and this accounts for
that puncher's satisfaction.  Some men will do a great
deal for ten dollars.

"D—n if they ain't beauts," he chuckled.  "When
it comes to pickin' out th' real, high-toned wrecks, th'
constant scratchers, why I reckon I 'm some strong.
He says to me 'Get th' very wust, One-Eye,'—an'
I shore has obeyed orders.  That two-year-old tryin'
to saw through that cottonwood is a prize-winner when
it comes to scabs—his tail looks like a dead tree in a
waste of sand, th' way th' hair 's gone.  Wait till he
gets rubbin' hisself through th' brush across th' river,
where Peters' cows like to hang out.  He 'll hang mites
on every twig; an' this kind o' weather will boom
things.  I heard tell that Peters examined that new
herd extra cautious afore he bought it—well,
boxcars an' pens can hand out itch a-plenty, so he can't
prove they got it from us."  He pulled out a battered
brass watch and gauged where the broken hands would
be if they were all there to point.  "He 's due in ten
minutes an' he 's usually on time.  Yep: here he comes
now.  I 'll get my ten afore I do any more work—wish
I could get ten dollars as easy every day."

Dave cantered up, his eyes fastened intently on the
cattle, and he laughed cynically as he turned and
regarded the puncher.  "Well," he grinned, "I reckon
you got th' wust that could stand bein' drove.  Come
on; we 'll get 'em off our hands as quick as we can—I
don't want to answer no questions right now.  It 'll
be like puttin' a match to dry grass, th' way this
dozen will cut down Peters' cows."

"It shore will," replied One-Eye.  "Got that ten
handy?" he inquired, carelessly.

"Why, they ain't across th' river yet," replied
Dave, frowning.

"They 'll get across when I gets my ten," smiled
One-Eye.

"Here 's th' money!" snapped Dave, angrily, as he
almost threw the gold piece at his companion.  "Fust
time I was ever told I could n't be trusted for ten dollars."

"Oh, I trust you, all right—on'y I worked plumb
hard for that coin, an' I want to feel it, like.  Come
on—take th' south side—I 'll handle th' rest."

The herd moved slowly forward into a dry ravine
and finally came to the river bank.  They hadn't life
enough to give trouble until they understood what they
were expected to do.  Then the everlasting,
thick-headed obstinacy, the perverse whims which all cows
have to an outrageous extent, asserted itself in a
manner wholly unexpected in such tottering hulks of
diseased flesh.  They did everything but get wet, even
showing a returning flash of spirit in the way they
swung their heads and kicked up their heels.  Time
and time again they broke and ran along the bank, and
always in Dave's direction, who, until now, had nursed
the belief that he was something of a cow-puncher.
When half-dead cows unhesitatingly picked him out,
time after time, for an easy mark, and simply walked
through his defence, it was time to exchange ideas on
some things.

At first One-Eye was greatly amused.  He liked Dave
well enough but he hated Dave's conceit—and to be
present at his companion's discomfiture was very
gratifying.  But gradually One-Eye grew restless unto
peevishness and a vast contempt settled upon him,
edging his temper with a keenness rare to him.  He had
been trying to get one dozen imitation cows to cross
an ordinarily wide river, and neither coldness nor
unusual depth had any bearing on the matter.  As he
wondered how long he had been engaged in watching Dave's
blunders and jerked out the brass watch to see, his
voice rumbled and boomed with a jarring timbre and
suddenness that make Dave jump.

"What th' h—l d' you think yo're doin'?"
demanded One-Eye.  "'Allamanleft' an' 'Ladies
chain' is all right for a dance, but it 's some foolish
out here.  An' somebody 's goin' to lope along this way
an' see us, if you don't quit makin' a jackass out er
yo'rself."

Stung to the quick, Dave wheeled to face his critic,
his pent-up rage almost hysterical.  He had held it in,
choked it back, and forced himself to be calm, but
now—his purpose was never disclosed, for at the instant
he wheeled, the watchful cattle leaped through the
opening he had made and headed for the hills, their heads
down and tails up.  Dave hesitated, glancing from
One-Eye to the cattle and back again, his face white and
pinched.  One-Eye's anger melted under his impelling
sense of the ridiculous and, slapping his thigh a resounding
smack, he burst into roars of laughter, until he was
bent in his saddle like a man drunk or sorely wounded.

"This yer 's a circus," he finally managed to cry.
"Don't get mad, Dave: we 'll make 'em cross this time
or they 'll float down like logs.  Come on."

When they rounded up the bunch and started it
toward the river again the cows were surprisingly
docile and the two drivers exchanged wondering
glances.  At the river edge the dozen hesitated for a
moment while they nosed the water and at One-Eye's
wondering command, pushed into the stream, scrambled
out on the farther bank, and walked slowly into the
brush.  Dave's hypnotized senses were all in his eyes
and he barely heard his companion speak.

One-Eye prefaced his remarks with a fluent burst of
profanity, and cogitated aloud: "Cows is worse than
wimmin!  They *is*!  Of all th' crazy hens what ever a
man drove, them dozen mangy critters has got 'em all
roped an' tied!  What in h—l do you *think* of 'em?"

"I ain't thinkin', One-Eye," softly replied Dave.
"I 'm prayin' for strength an' fortitude.  I figgers
I can drop th' last six from where I 'm sittin', an' it's
some temptation!"

One-Eye ironed out his grin.  "I'm some tempted
myself, Dave.  There 's things in a cowman's life to
drive him plumb loco.  I 've been part loco more 'n
once.  Mum?  You bet I 'll keep mum.  You don't
reckon I 'm hankerin' for to collect no cold lead, do you?"

Dave scarcely heard him.  He was looking across the
river, a smile on his face.  Before him was the Rocking
Horse, and south of it, so close as to appear a part
of it from that angle, lay the Hog Back.  He had
planned well, he told himself, when he had decided to
turn infected cattle on the Double Y at that point.

"Now, they ain't goin' fur to be found while they
stops near ol' Hog Back, Dave," One-Eye was saying.
"Nobody hardly ever rides that way, an' they 'll drift
down where th' grass is better, soon as they finds out
what they 're up agin.  Wonder if it was true about
that feller ridin' th' Rockin' Horse all day long?" he
asked, curiously.

He would have talked all day if given half a chance,
but his companion, knowing One-Eye's inability to
gracefully terminate a conversation, or effect a parting,
mercilessly performed the operation himself.  "I 'm
goin' south, One-Eye.  See you in town, some night,"
and Schatz' *protégé* cantered away, and became
hidden by the brush and hills of the rough country
skirting the river.

One-Eye looked after him.  "Black devil!" he
scowled.  "If anybody gets plugged for this, you can
bet it won't be little Davy.  I wonder what th' Dutch
Onion knowed that Dave didn't want told?  Well,
when me an' him is together my gun hand ain't never
far from home—but I 'm surprised he did n't pump
lead into me when I laughed like I did.  I plumb
forgot, then.  Come on, boss; home for us, an' sudden.
I ain't hankerin' none to be seen 'round here, *now*."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE MAN OUTSIDE`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XI


.. class:: center medium

   THE MAN OUTSIDE

.. vspace:: 2

Dave loped through Twin River in no amiable
mood.  An unreasoning irritability tormented
and blinded him to everything but the
trail ahead.  But if Dave failed to notice his friends,
one of them at least bore him no ill-feeling for the
oversight; this one was so solicitous for Dave's welfare that
he followed all the way to the LaFrance cabin; when
Dave went indoors he still lingered, hugging the cabin
wall close to a window, while he listened with much
interest to the talk that went on inside.

"Where 's Jean?" asked Dave, briefly, as he entered.

Rose glanced at him.  The even, metallic tones meant
temper and she was painfully anxious to avoid
crossing him when in this mood.  Her voice was soothing as
a summer breeze through tree branches when she
answered.  "He go to the station," she explained;
"something about a harrow.  He will be late."

"See Peters?"

"Yes."

"What 'd he say about Tex Ewalt?"

"He have not see him for many months.  He ask
me if I know him."

"Well?"

"You forget to tell me what to say.  I forget to
answer."

"Hm!  Beats th' Dutch how a woman 'll crawl out
of a hole.  When 's he comin' to see you?"

"I do not know.  He—he is very droll, that M'sieu
Peters.  Always he look at me strange like he suspect
something."

"He ain't got nothin' to suspect.  Did n't try to
kiss you, did he?"

"He never come near me one time—no; only he
look at me, straight, without any smile."

"Bah!  I knowed you did n't take th' right way with
him.  You got t' tempt them gray-eyed galoots.
They 'll follow you easy enough if you show 'em
there's somethin' at the end o' th' trail.  You go
ag'in.  Make him glad to see you.  Won't be long afore
he 's hangin' round, then."

"*Quel jour*—when I must go?"

"Oh, whenever you get th' chanst.  Soon as you
kin.  You got Pickles for an excuse, ain't you?"

At this point the solicitous caretaker outside risked
a look through the window.  His glance travelled over
the shoulder of Dave, sitting with his back to the
window, and rested on the face of Rose.  Wrhat he saw
there was a revelation: scorn, contempt, loathing, the
expression any good woman might bear toward a man
with a mind considerably lower than the nobler beasts;
it lasted but a moment; placidity swept over the regular
features as she replied.  "*Mais oui*," she admitted,
"Fritz is excuse."

"Well, you won't need any excuse if you play th'
game right.  You 'll be excuse enough, yourself."

Enthralled by the contradiction between the
expression and speech of Rose, the watcher prolonged his
stare beyond safety.  Rose's level gaze lifted from the
unnoting eyes of Dave and rested full on the face in
the window.  The watcher changed instantly to the
listener with one hand on his gun, but not so quickly
that he failed to see the brilliant smile that flashed
across the face of Rose.  The alert tenseness of his
attitude relaxed as he realized the significance of that
smile and his shoulders heaved in strangling a laugh
at the way Dave was being fooled.

Dave's moodiness persisted.  He sat glowering at
the point of his boot, switching it venomously with his
quirt, a thing he had not carried since his experience
with the Cyclone cattle at the Hog Back.  It reminded
him of his proven lack of ability as a driver of cows;
but it was "out of this nettle, Chagrin, that he plucked
the flower, Complacence"; a cynical laugh announced
recovery from the black mood.  "Well, there 's some
as help me better 'n you do," he declared.  "If I can't
get Peters here, I give him somethin' that 'll keep him
busy at home."

"*Bien*, but how?"  Rose's interest had just the
proper amount of congratulatory warmth and a faint
wheeze escaped the listener outside as he choked back a
laugh of admiration.

"I give him the itch," replied Dave, with dramatic
brevity.

"Itch?" repeated Rose, in perplexity.

"Yes—itch, mange, scab!  His d—n cows 'll be
scratchin' their hides off afore he knows it.  Th'
Cyclone had it an' I got One-Eye Harris to save me out
some.  Mangiest lot o' cows ever *I* saw.  We put 'em
across th' Jill, up by th' Rocking Horse, a while back."

"But the range—is it not bad?" asked Rose, wonderingly.

"Shore is.  What do I care?  Makes 'em trouble,
don't it?  An' it 'll spoil some o' their cows, you bet."

"M'sieu Schatz, he tell you do this?"

"Smiler!  The cussed ol' bear!  He 's been a-layin'
up all winter like a bear in a hole an' he ain't woke up
yet.  Poetry! an' Philosophy! an' some shifty *I*\talian
named Mac—Mac somethin' or other.  Smiler sets a
heap by Mac.  Jus' sits an' reads an' hol's out his han's
an' says: 'Gimme th' Double Y, Dave.'  Mus' think I
carry it in m' hat."

"But you will get it, Dave—yes."

"You bet yo' boots I 'll get it.  Peters 'll be so sick
o' that range afore I 'm done with him he 'll be glad
to quit.  But if you get him comin' here, it 'll be done
quicker."

"I will try," murmured Rose.

The flush that went with the words was wrongly
interpreted by Dave.  "That's you!" he exclaimed,
admiringly, and was at her side before she realized it,
bending over her in a swift movement that almost
caught her by surprise.  He laughed easily at his
defeat, in no wise discomfited.  "Ain't come kissin'-time
yet, eh, Rose?"

She looked up coolly, careful not to give way an inch
from the nearness of him.  Nothing tempts a man so
much as a retreat.  "*Mais non, m'sieu*.  When the day,
then the hour—you go too far unless," was her calm
warning.

"All right.  Time enough," he rejoined carelessly.
"Guess I 'll drift back to Twin.  Have to see Comin'
an' keep him on edge, or he 'll get tired o' waitin' for
that good thing I promised him.  He ain't a feller as
you can ask questions or I 'd cussed quick find out who
he is an' where he come from."

Rose stood in the doorway until the sound of his
horse's feet assured her that he was certainly on his
way to Twin River.  Then she went in, closed the door
behind her, darkened the front windows and going to
the window at the back called out clearly: "Enter.  I
want to talk to you, Tex Ewalt."

Tex lounged forward a step, bringing himself into
view, his face the picture of mischievous amusement.  He
rested his arms on the sill and smiled at her.  "You
are a good guesser," he admitted.

"Enter," she insisted.  "Not the door, no; the
window—hurry."

He slipped through with the suppleness of a naked
Indian and she at once shut out the night at this and
the other windows.  "We must beware more eaves-droppers,"
she explained.  She motioned to a bench and
seated herself near him, looking at him intently.

"I think you kill Fritz' father that night," she
began.  "I am sorry."

Tex bowed, as if such unjust suspicions were his
daily portion, and waited.

"You are M'sieu Peters' friend?" she questioned.

Tex carefully poked two depressions in the crown of
his hat and carefully poked them out again, thinking
swiftly.  "Yes," he replied, meeting her eyes again.

"You are Tex Ewalt.  Dave call you Comin'.
M'sieu Peters not know you are here.  You spy for
M'sieu Peters, yes?"

"Buck told you, eh?  Did you tell him I was in
Twin River?"

She shook her head.  "But no.  I guess, when I see
you at the window."

Tex looked incredulous.  "How did you guess?" he
asked.

Rose reviewed the incidents from which she had
drawn her conclusion.  Tex was impressed.  "That's
not guessing.  That's pure reason," he declared.

"You will tell M'sieu Peters about the itch?" she
inquired eagerly.

"Why don't you tell him?  I can't risk going out to
the ranch."

"No!  No!  Dave must not suspect.  You tell him
quick so Dave not think it is me."

"Why, Dave is in a hole.  Harris will squeal the
minute I put my fingers on him."

"He will suspect.  He must not—Oh! you do not
understand."

Tex indented his hat on the left side; that was Dave:
then on the right side; that was Buck: then, with
careful precision, in the middle of the crown; that was Rose.
He studied the result with thoughtful attention.
"Like Dave?" he inquired, casually.

"I—" she began with passionate intensity but
paused.  "No," she answered, more calmly.

"No," repeated Tex.  He smoothed out the left-hand
depression with an air of satisfaction.  "That 's
good," he continued, "because I shall have to put a
crimp, a very serious crimp, in his anatomy one of
these days.  I can feel it coming.  What do you think
of Buck?"

"M'sieu Peters is a good man—a good man," she
repeated, dreamily.  Tex glanced at her and back at his
hat, which he eyed malevolently.  Then he sighed.
"Oh, well, every man has to find it out for himself,"
was his irrelevant comment.  "Where does Schatz
stand in this?"

"Dave say he try to get back the range.  But Dave
he is so much a liar."

"Yes, I should say he was a pretty good liar.  Well,
I 'll be going."

"But no!" she exclaimed.  "You must eat supper,"
and she began hastily to make preparations.

"You did n't offer Dave any," suggested Tex, with
a ghost of a grin.

"No," she admitted, seriously.  "Sometimes I must,
but to-night it is not necessary.  I am glad, always, to
see him go."

"Well, so am I," agreed Tex.  "Here, let me do that."

Tex learned much during the meal that went to
confirm the suspicions he had already formed.  Also his
opinions in regard to women-kind in general seemed
less plausible than before.  But though shaken, they
were not routed; and when he took up his hat in
leaving, the two dimples in it looked at him mockingly.
"Oh, well, what's the use?" he said.  "Good-night,
Miss LaFrance," and he threw the hat on his head as it
was.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A HIDDEN ENEMY`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XII


.. class:: center medium

   A HIDDEN ENEMY

.. vspace:: 2

Cock Murray had an engagement to meet
Schatz at the point where the Double Y's
north line touched the Black Jack, and after
he had ridden up to the south line to see how the cows
were doing, as Buck had ordered, he swung west to the
Black Jack to follow it down to the meeting place.  As
he rode he neared the Hog Back, a vast upheaval of
rock, not high enough to be called a mountain, flat on
the top except for hollows and gullies, scantily covered
with grass and stunted trees.  The Hog Back would
have been called a mesa in the South, for want of a
better name, though it was no more a mesa than it was
a mountain.  A mile long and a third of that across at
its widest point, it made an effective natural barrier
between the Double Y and the river, hiding a pasture of
great acreage which lay between it and the precipitous
cliff which frowned down upon the rushing, swishing
Black Jack eighty feet below.  While the round-up
would, of course, comb this poor-grass part of the
range for outlaws and strays, the outfit never gave it
any attention because cattle seldom were found upon it.

Cock Murray, knowing that he had an hour to spare,
and fond of hard riding where his skill was called into
play, suddenly decided to ascend the Hog Back.
Antelope were still to be found even on the range itself,
along the wildest part of the south line, and he might
get a shot at one if he made the climb.  It was an easy
task to go up the northern end, where the trail arose
in a succession of steep grades; but he had no time for
that and guided his pony up the rough, rocky east wall.
As he gained the top he rested the horse while he looked
around.  It was a favorite view of his; below him lay
the range and the river; he could see, on a clear day,
the dot that represented his ranch house; and to the
west and south lay the wild, rolling range of the Cyclone.
Gradually his gaze sought nearer objects and he thought
of antelope.  Moving forward cautiously he kept keen
watch on all sides, intending if he caught sight of
one, to dismount and stalk it on foot.  He had ridden
nearly to the northern end when he jerked his pony to
a stand, and then, gazing earnestly ahead a short
distance, went on as rapidly as the broken ground would
permit.

"Dead cows!  What 'n h—l killed 'em?  Wolves
would clean 'em to the bone.  G'wan, you fool!" he
growled at his mount.  "Scared of dead cows, are you!
If you are, I 've got the cure for it right here on my
heel."

The horse went on, picking its footing, and soon
Murray whistled in surprise: "Cyclone brand!  Bet
they 've got the itch, too.  Yep!  Died from it, by G—d!
Now, how the blazes did they get over here!  Cows, and
sick ones especially, don't hanker to swim the Jack.
Well, that will hold over a little—let 's see how many
are up here"—and he began the search.  Four were
all he could find, two alive and two dead.  The two
that still stumbled weakly in search of food, dropped
as if struck by lightning as the acrid gray smoke sifted
past Murray's head.  "Wonder how many more there
was and where they went to?  Must have been here some
time, judging by the carcasses.  Holy smoke!  If any
cows gone as bad as these are loose on our range may
the Lord pity *us*!  Come on, bronc; we 'll see what
Schatz thinks about it.  Wish I had time to build a fire
over these itch farms."

He was careful to guide his horse on ground barren
of vegetation and not let brush or grass touch the
animal when he could avoid it.  As he plunged down the
steep northern trail, a dried water course, he reined
up hard, looking closely at the tracks in the soft alluvial
soil washed down by the last rain.  "Must have been
about a dozen; perhaps a few less—then some did
get where we don't want them—holy cats! as if we
have n't got enough with our regular calf round-up!"

When he galloped up to the north line he found Schatz
waiting for him.  "Schatz," he shouted, "I just found
four itch cows on the Hog Back.  Six or eight are loose
on th' ranch.  They was Cyclone, an' they never
crossed th' Jack by themselves."

"*Mein Gott*!  Did you drive dem back?"

"Two was dead; th' other two was so near it I just
dropped 'em.  They could n't stand a drive even to th'
river.  Shall I tell Peters?"

"Shall you tell him?  *Gewiss*!  Vat you t'ink—I
vant itch on de Double Vy?  How dey come?"

"I don't know.  But they must 'a' been driven.
Th' Jack is cold as ice an' she runs strong by th'
Rocking Horse.  That's where th' tracks led to.  Cows ain't
goin' to swim that for fun.  Why, these was all et up
with th' itch—wonder they did n't drown."

"*Dank Gott*!  Sick cows ain't made vell mit ice vater
und schwimmin'.  Dey don't lif so long like de vater vas
varm.  Der shock help kill dem quick."

Murray nodded, his hand resting on his gun, and
Schatz noticed it.  "*Gewiss*, if dey vas too veak to drive
in der river, it vas besser to shoot dem.  But ven dey
drop dey stay mit all dem parasites.  Drivin' dem off
de range is besser.  *Aber*, you stopped dem de best vay
you could."

Murray nodded again.  "Yes, yo're right—but I
was n't thinkin' of shootin' no cows," he asserted calmly.
"I know all about that.  But I was just a-wonderin' if
I should ketch some skunk of a cow-punch drivin' itch
cattle on us, an' shoot him, if he 'd drop any parasites
when *he* fell."

"*Ach Gott*!  Alvays you shoot, like Dave!  Shoot,
shoot, shoot!  Vy in *Himmel* should you alvays grab
dot gun?  Brains are in your head, and *besser* as lead
in dot Colt.  Brains first, and if dey don't do it, den
der gun.  But alvays der gun should be last.  *Verstanden*?"

Murray did not reply and his companion, exchanging
a few terse sentences with him, waved him towards
the ranch house while he followed the line towards the
Little Jill.

Buck was washing for supper when Murray arrived
and kept right on with his ablutions as the puncher told
his tale.  Murray quite expected to see some signs of
its effect on the owner, but he met with surprise and
looked it.  Buck Peters almost made an ally when he
turned, after Murray's last word.  "Murray, that's
good work.  Prepare for *hard* work.  Send Ned here
right away," he said, quietly, no trace of emotion in
his voice.

Murray went out, thinking hard.  When a man could
take such a blow as that one had been taken, then he
was clean grit all through.  To smile as Buck had
done—"By G—d, he 's a man!" swore the puncher.  "I
can't *help* liking him; wish I did n't have to help throw
him.  And I wish he did n't trust me like he does—ah,
h—l!" he growled, savagely.  "He 's a range thief,
after all!"

When Monroe entered the ranch house he found his
employer looking out of the window in the direction of
the Hog Back, but he turned at Ned's entry.  "Got
work ahead, Ned.  Murray found some Cyclone cows
dead and wobbly on th' Hog Back.  Bad case of itch.
He killed th' wobblers but says th' tracks show that
about a dozen was in th' herd.  That means eight of 'em
are on our range among the cattle.  Tell th' boys we
start th' round-up at daylight.  If we can, we 'll make
this do for the spring round-up, too; if not, then th'
calves 'll have to wait till we can go for 'em.  Th' north
range won't have no itch cows on it yet, so take th'
south first.  As fast as we can cut out th' cattle that
are free from it, we 'll throw 'em over on th' north range.
Begin in th' Hog Back country an' clean up.  Drive
everything out of it."

"It's d—d funny Cyclone cows swum th' Jack,"
commented Monroe, a black look on his face.  "By
G—d, let *me* ketch anybody at that game!"

"That's th' whole thing, Ned," and Buck smiled:
"To ketch 'em.  I know a man who 'd clean up th'
mystery if he was here, an' was told he did n't have
nothin' else to do."  He smiled again quietly and
turned to his supper.  "But he ain't here, so what's th'
use."

"Mebby I—" suggested Ned, nervously.

"No, yo 're goin' to help me most by curing th' evil
on th' table; never mind th' dealer, nor th' game.  We 've
got as many cards as we 're goin' to get—use 'em,
Ned.  Help me lick th' itch first—th' hows an' whys
can wait."

"Yo 're right, Peters; an' we *will* lick it!  But it
makes me fightin' mad, a thing like this.  I 'll get
everything all ready to-night an' th' round-up starts with th'
comin' of th' sun to-morrow.  Good-night."

Buck ate slowly, his thoughts far more occupied with
the problem than with the food.  This was the firing of
the first cannon in the fight Monroe had predicted.  Who
was responsible?  His suspicions, guided by Monroe's
warning, were directed towards Schatz, but in his
present absence of knowledge they could advance no
farther than suspicions.  Dave's half-closed eyes sneered
at him as he recalled the ambiguous threat made that
first night in the Sweet-Echo: still remained suspicion
only.  McReady, of the Cyclone, might have designs
for the Double Y, but he doubted it.  They had yet free
grass a-plenty, though the time was not far distant
when the private ownership of the Double Y would be
an invaluable asset.  Still, it might be any other
cowman in that part of the country—or none of them.
Well, he had met problems as great as this one on the
Texan range—but he had fought them with an outfit
loyal to the last man, every unit of it willing and eager
to face all kinds of odds for him.  He now recalled those
men to his mind's eye, and he never loved them more
than he did now, when he realized how really precious
unswerving loyalty is.  Hopalong, Red, Johnny and the
others of the old Bar-20 outfit, made an honor roll that
held his thoughts even to the temporary exclusion of
the bitterness of his present situation.  If only he had
that outfit with him now!  Even his neighbors and
acquaintances on that southern range were to be trusted
and depended upon more than his present outfit.  His
vision, knocking patiently at first upon the door of his
abstraction, at this point kicked its way in and demanded
attention.  Buck became aware that for some time he
had been staring unseeingly at a folded paper, tucked
partly under his bunk blanket.  With a smothered oath
he sprang from his seat, strode to the bunk and
snatched up the paper.  The warning it contained was
better founded than the first.  It read:

.. vspace:: 1

"Buck Peters: Itch on the YY.  Crossed the Jack at
the Rocking Horse.  A Friend."

.. vspace:: 1

"If you told me who sent it across, you 'd be more
of a friend," muttered Buck—in which he was less
wise than Tex, who did not see the sense in having the
servant removed while the master remained.

Hoofbeats rolled up in the darkness and stopped at
the door of the house and a moment later Whitby
entered the room, his pink, English complexion aglow
with the exercise and wind-beating of his ride.

Buck was glad to see him; he needed a little of the
other's cheerful optimism and after a few minutes of
random conversation, Buck told him of the latest
developments.  Whitby's surprise was genuine, and the
practicability of his nature asserted itself.  This was
ground upon which he was thoroughly at home.

"I say, Buck, we can show these swine a thing or two
they don't know," he began.  "They don't know it in
the States, I 'll lay, nor north of the line either, for
that matter.  My Governor is a cattle man, you might
say; on the other side of the pond, of course.  And I 've
knocked about farm land a good bit, you know.  Now a
chap in the same county had a lot of sheep with this
what-d'you-call it—scab, they said.  He used a
preparation of arsenic but a lot of the beggars died, poisoned,
you know.  He had tried a number of other things and
he got jolly well tired of the game; so he wrote to a
cousin, chemist or something, and told him about it;
and this chap sent him a recipe, after a bit, that killed
off the parasites like winking, without injuring a single
sheep."

"That ain't goin' to help us none, Whit.  You ain't
got th' receipt an' you don't know how to make th'
stuff."

"Ah!  But I do though.  I gave him a hand with
the silly beggars and bally good fun it was, too.  We
passed them through a long trough and ducked their
heads under as fast as they came along.  But it was
work, no end, mixing the solution.  There was nothing
funny about that part of it."

"See here, Whit, are you really in earnest?  Do you
think you can make the stuff and show us how to use
it?"

"Absolutely certain, dear boy.  Cattle are n't sheep,
but I 'll be bound it 'll do the trick."

"How fast can you run 'em though?"

Whitby reflected.  "We could do a thousand a day,
perhaps more.  It depends on how many you do at
once, you know."  And Whitby went into a detailed
description to which Buck gave close attention.  At
the end he shook his head.  "Reckon we 'll have to
stick to th' old way," he adjudged, regretfully.  "There
ain't that quantity of lime and sulphur in all Montana."

"Ah, yes; your point is good," drawled Whitby,
smiling.  "But your partner lives in Chicago where
there is any quantity of it.  If we wired him to-morrow
to get the stuff and ship it at once he would do it, don't
you know."

"Take it too long to get here," replied Buck, gloomily.

"Don't you think the railroad will see that such
an important consignment gets off and comes through
quickly, especially if the consignor is willing to pay
the damage?  I 'll bet you a good cigar it will be here
within a week after we wire.  Let *me* send the wire and
I 'll bet you a box.  I 'm bally good at wires.  I used
to get money out of the Governor by wire when I could
get it no other way."

"Let her go," said Buck.  "If it's all you say we 'll
show them coyotes we know a few tricks ourselves."

"Yes, I fancy we shall," replied Whitby.  "But
isn't this a rummy game?  They act like savages, you
know.  It is all very refreshing to a sated mind—and
their justice is so deuced direct, right or wrong.
Fancy Blackstone in the discard, as you Americans
say, and a Colt's revolver sovereign lord of the realm!"

"King Colt is all right, Whitby, when you *know*
who to loose him at," declared Buck, turning toward
the door to the kitchen.  "Jake!  Jake!" he called.

The sharp, incisive tones told their story and brought
buoyancy to the cook, for he was on his feet, across
the kitchen, and into the dining-room in apparently
one movement, which astounded the soul of that
culinary devotee when leisure gave time for reflection.

"Why, Jake, I believe yo 're gettin' to be almost a
human, livin' creature," remarked Buck.  "I never saw
you move so fast before.  It ain't pay day now, you
know."

"Shore I know, but next *week is*," grinned Jake, not
quite catching the meaning.

"Oh, I 'm glad you do," sighed Buck with relief.
"Now as long as you ain't sufferin' no hallucernations,
suppose you tell Ned to come in here.  You need n't
tell *him*—he knows it ain't, too."

"Knows what ain't?" demanded Jake, his fingers
slowly ploughing through his mass of hair.  "If I
need n't tell him, what do you want me to tell him for?"

"Be calm, Jake, be calm," replied Buck, raising a
warning finger.  "There are *two* tells in this; one you
must, th' other you need n't."

"Ah, go to h—l an' tell him yourself," retorted Jake,
backing toward a handy chair so as not to be without
a weapon.

"You tell Ned I want to see him—I 'll explain th'
second tell later.  Now—*Will* y'u tell?"

Jake backed into the kitchen, slammed shut the door
behind him, and lost no time in getting to the bunkhouse.

"Hey, Ned," he blurted out, "th' boss says to
tell you he wants to see you.  Th' second tell can wait
till later.  William Tell?"

"What t'ell!" snorted Bow-Wow, arising.

"You another?" demanded the cook; then he fled,
Ned following more leisurely.

Bow-Wow looked at Murray inquiringly: "What
did he mean by William Tell?"

Murray put down his mended riding gear.  "Why,
don't you know?"

"Shore; what is it?" sarcastically responded
Bow-Wow.  "If I knew, do you think I 'd tell?"

"Well I know, all right.  It's what he was brought
up on, Bow-Wow."

"Huh!  Did you know him when he was a kid?"

"Shore!  He used to live in th' next street in th'
same town, or was it in some other town?" he mused,
thoughtfully.  "H—l, that don't make no difference,
'cause he lived in th' next street.  See?"

"No; I don't; not a d—d bit!"

"Bow-Wow, if I was as thick as you get sometimes,
I 'd drink lots of water an' thin down a bit.  This is th'
story of William Tell, an' I 'll tell it to you if you
won't tell: When he was a kid he had a awful yearnin'
for apples, like you has for cheap whiskey, Bow-Wow.
Nothin' else suited him an' th' bigger he got th' more
apples he had to eat.  All th' farmers was a-layin' for
him with guns, so what did li'l Willie do?  Why, he
shot 'em down with a bow an' arrer.  An' that's why
he can throw a stone so straight to-day.  *Now* do you
see?"

Bow-Wow threw a shoe after Murray's departing
figure and suggested a place to go to.  Then he scowled
and muttered: "If I was shore of what I suspects I 'd
give you a sample of *my* shootin', *six* samples so you 'd
appreciate the real thing."  He grinned at the memory
of Jake's message.

"You 'll say somethin' with sense in it some day
if you gropes long enough, Jake.  Yo 're gettin'
warmer all th' time."

When Monroe reached the ranch house Buck met him
with some sharp orders: "Send Bow-Wow to Twin
River and Wayback first thing to-morrow.  Tell him to
leave word we want two dozen more punchers for our
round-up—fifty dollars a month an' a full month's
work guaranteed.  Jake 's goin' to dig some big holes
in th' ground in th' next few days—he ain't fit for
nothin' else, not even cookin'."

A crash in the kitchen interrupted him.  "Jake!"
he called.  There was a scramble and the cook
appeared, much excited.  "What's th' fuss about?"

"Fell off my chair," replied Jake.  "An' it hurts,
too."

"Yo 're gettin' too soft, Jake.  A little exercise 'll
toughen you so a chair would n't dare to tackle you.
I 'm goin' to let you dig some holes first thing
to-morrow."

Jake had visions of extensive excavations, dug by
him, into which thousands of dead cows were being piled
for burial.  "Would n't it be better to burn 'em, or
push 'em into th' river an' shoot 'em there?"

"I never saw holes you could handle that way,
Jake," gravely replied Buck.

"Why, no," supplemented the foreman.  "Most
holes would ruther be slit up th' middle an' salted.
That's th' way we allus used to get rid of 'em."

"I don't mean holes—I mean *cows*!" explained Jake.

"Oh, then it 's all right," responded Buck.  "I ain't
goin' to ask *you* to dig no cows, Jake.  But yo 're goin'
to dig some nice ditches to-morrow; long, deep ones, an'
good an' wide."

"I ain't never dug a ditch in my life," hastily
objected Jake.

"Why, did n't you tell me how you dug that railroad
cut down there in Iowa, an' got a hundred dollars
extra 'cause you saved th' company so much money?"
inquired Buck.

"Oh, but that was a steam shovel!"

"All right; you 'll steam afore yo 're at it very
long."

Jake backed out again, slipped out of his kitchen,
and stood reflective under the stars.  He would quit
and flee to Twin River if it was n't such a long walk.
"D—n it!" he growled, and forthwith threw two stones
into the darkness by way of getting rid of some of his
anger.

"Sa-a-y!" floated a voice out of the night.  "You
jerk any more rocks in *this* direction an' I 'll beat you
up so you 'll wipe your feet on yoreself, thinkin' yo 're
a doormat!  What 'n h—l you mean, anyhow?"

"Mebby they 's *apples*!" jeered Bow-Wow from the
bunk-house.  "Hello, William Tell!"

The cook softly closed the door and propped a chair
against it.  "Gee whiskers!  I ain't goin' to stay *here*
much longer!  *Every*\body 's gettin' crazy!"

"'If a body meets a body, comin' through th' rye,'"
quavered a voice from the corral and a voice in the
darkness profaned the song: "Ever meet yoreself goin'
t'other way, after surroundin' th' rye?"

"Never had that pleasure after you 'd been at th'
booze."

Chesty Sutton entered the bunk-house and stared at
Bow-Wow.  "What's eatin' you?" he demanded, curiously.

"I dunno; I 've been itchin' ever since Murray told
us.  Wonder if I 've got it?"

Chesty considered: "Well, now I remember that
chickens, cats, and dogs don't get cattle itch.  You ain't
got it, Bow-Wow.  It 's yore imagination that's got
it.  But if you 're bound to scratch, do it somewhere
else—you make me nervous, keepin' on one spot so
long.  Wait till I asks th' boys about it."

"Stop!" snapped Bow-Wow, his hand on a bottle
of harness oil: "You never mind about askin' anybody!
I 'll take yore word for it—remember, I 'll bust yore
gizzard if you gets that pack o' coyotes barkin' at my
heels!"

"Holy Smoke!  We 'll have our hands full a while,"
growled Chesty, dropping onto a box.  "Let any o'
this crowd ketch anybody throwin' mangy cows over
on us!  An' right after it comes th' Spring
combin'—this is shore a weary world."

"Jake 's got to dig some ditches," remarked the
foreman, entering the house, and immediately the
misery of future hours was forgotten in the merriment and
satisfaction found in this news.  Jake would have a
lot of advisers.

In the ranch house Whitby was laughing gently and
finally he voiced a wish: "I say, Peters, what a wealth
of character there is out here.  I wish Johnnie
Beauchamp were here—what a rattling good play he could
make.  You know, Johnnie's last play was almost a
success—and I 'm very much interested in him.  I
backed him to the tune of two thousand pounds."

Invited to spend the night in the ranch house, Whitby
accepted with alacrity.  In carrying out McAllister's
wishes he could not be too near headquarters, he
concluded; but added to this, he entertained a sincere
admiration for Buck Peters which increased as the days
went by.

Some few minutes after the lights were out, Buck
was brought back from the shadowy realm of sleep by
Whitby's voice coming from the other room.  "I say,
Peters, did you keep those calculations?"

"Yes," answered Buck.  "Why?"

"There 's the lumber, you know.  It might be a good
idea to have McAllister send it on."

"Shore would.  You tell him."

"I will," promised Whitby.  A few seconds later
he broke out again: "Do you know, Buck, the railroad
companies of America are cheerful beggars.  They take
your luggage and then play ducks and drakes with it,
in a very idiotic way.  Why, mine was lost for two
weeks and I was in a very devil of a fix.  So it would
not be a bad idea, you know, if I tell your partner to
send a man with the consignment.  He can sit on the
barrels and see that they are n't placed on a siding to
prove the theory that loss of movement results in
inertia.  Am I right?"

Buck laughed from his heart.  "If there 's anything
you don't think of make a note of it an' let me see it,"
he commended.

"What a rummy remark.  I say, how—ha! ha!"
and Whitby's bunk creaked to his mirth.  "That's
rather a neat one, you know!  I did n't know you
were Irish, Peters, blessed if I did!  I must tell that
to your man Friday—it will keep the bally ass
combing his frowsy locks for a week."

Buck had one foot on the Slumberland boundary when
he heard the voice again, seeming to have travelled a
long distance: "And I believe I should be rewarded for
my brilliancy.  I 'll ask your partner to send some
brandy and a box of *good* cigars with the rest of it
as my fee.  I 'll have to learn to smoke all over again,"
he complained drowsily.  A raucous snore bounced off
the partition and Whitby opened his eyes for a
moment: "My word, if Friday could only cook as well as
he snores!"





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.. _`PUNCTUATION AS A FINE ART`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XIII


.. class:: center medium

   PUNCTUATION AS A FINE ART

.. vspace:: 2

Twin River was in full blast when Dave rode
in, looking for Tex.  He dropped off the
pony and went into the Why-Not, but his man
was not there; after a few unavoidable drinks—Dave
could not have avoided one if it had invited from the
middle of the Staked Plain—he looked in at Ike's
and the I-Call.  He sampled the liquor in both places
but evidently Comin' Thirty was not in that part of
the town and he jogged on up to the Sweet-Echo.  He
had not been in here since warned off by Slick, but fear
of consequences had nothing to do with absenting
himself; fear did not enter into his composition.  Dave's
fundamental fault lay in his hatred of being beaten.
It had lead him to cheat at play; to outwit by foul
means; to take the sure course to any desired end,
deliberately regardless of what any one might think.  The
danger of such actions did not deter him in the least;
he was always ready, usually overwhelmingly ready, to
back them up in any manner his opponents demanded
of him.  The defeat, sure to be met when he opposed
a superior intelligence, he confidently relied upon
overcoming by sheer force of personality, mistaking
violence for strength, deceit for ingenuity.  The bad
judgment of his failures ever wore the mantle of bad
luck; and the thought and time he wasted in schemes
for revenge might have been used more profitably in
making success of his failure.

Since his employment by Schatz his mind had been
fully occupied by the furtherance, as he considered it,
of his employer's plan.  Buck Peters, the Englishman,
even Slick, at times pricked his memory, but he had
resolutely put them aside until a more convenient
season.  Now, with whiskey spurring his Satanic
temperament, he considered it obligatory to go into the
Sweet-Echo.  He wanted to find Comin' and no fancy
bar-keep' nor roaring Scotchman should keep him from
going wherever he wanted to go.  He stepped from his
stirrup onto the porch and went into the bar-room as
if he owned it.

The expected trouble did not develop.  Slick gave
him a short nod and set up glass and bottle with
praise-worthy promptitude.  If Dave was without fear, so was
Slick, who would have taken him on in any way
whatever; preferably, as became his Irish ancestry, with his
hands, but failing that, with anything from a pop-gun
to a cannon.  Dave, with his usual habit of ignoring the
other man, imagined Slick to be overawed; this
leavened his savagery with good nature.  What was Slick
Milligan, anyhow?  Just a bar-keep'—Dave turned his
back to the bar and surveyed the inmates of the room.
Comin' was not there.  Where in thunder was he?

Maybe bucking the tiger at Little Nell's.  Dave had
two or three drinks with men he knew and rode back
to cross the ford.  He was again out in his reckoning.
He watched the cards flick from the box.  Nell, herself,
was dealing and Dave's fingers itched to get down, but
he refrained.  With the vague hints dropped by Schatz
and his consequent hope of speedily winning Rose, he
knew he must drop gambling—until he had won to
the fulfilment of his desires, at least.

As he watched he suddenly realized he was hungry
and strolled into the eating house, run by Nell as a
paying adjunct to her other businesses.  The whiskey,
as it often does in healthy stomachs, was calling loudly
for food and Dave answered the call with unstinted
generosity.  Being genuinely wishful to see Tex he did
not linger but, as soon as finished, started to make the
round again.

He got no farther than the Why-Not.  His entry was
met by a roar of laughter and shouts of encouragement:
"Bully f' you, gran'pa!"—"Did he ever come
back?"—"That's th' caper, Dirty!"—"*Let* him
alone, *he* ain't chokin'."

Seated on a box on the top of a table (Dirty would
be buried in a box; they would never have the heart to
separate his attenuated figure from the object so long
associated with it in life), old Pop Snow bent up and
down, shrinking, shrinking, until his bony leanness
threatened to vanish before their gaze; a wheezing gasp
started him swelling again and his "he! he! he!"
whistled above the uproar like a hiss in a machine shop.

He was astonishingly drunk—for Dirty.  His
pervious clay had developed innumerable channels for
alcohol in the years of training he had given it; and he
was seldom so joyously hilarious as this.  For one
reason it was seldom that any one would pay for it, and
Dirty's means only went far enough to keep him
everlastingly thirsty.  The explanation appeared to Dave
in the shape of a group of miners, whose voices, in their
appreciation, were the loudest.

"He-he-he!  He-he-he-he!" Pop Snow's shrill pipe
continued, while the others demanded more.  "Sawbones
had n't been gone a week afore he was wanted.
He-he-he! eh, dear! eh, dear!  Lucky Jones come
along—an' stopped.  Ther' wearn't nothin' *to* do but stop.
He comes to me an' he says: 'Wheer 's ther' a doctor?'  'Well,'
I says, 'jedgin' from what I hears, if you jest
foller th' river north fur about fifteen mile to Drigg's
Worry,' I says, 'you 'll find a saw-bones as used to be
yer—but when he left he swears as how he ain't never
comin' back to th' P'int,' I says.  He-he-he!
Send-I-may-live if he don't, though.  Yep, an' Jones purty
nigh goes into th' wet, too.  'Th' P'int?' roars th'
Doc, 'No, siree, by G—d, no, sir!  Twenty-eight mile
th' last time to tend a stinkin' ole sow, on account o' a
misbegotten son o' Beelzebub an th' North Pole they
call Snow down there.  This time I 'spose 't'ud be a
skunk.'  'It's my wife,' says Jones, 'an' if yuh don't
come right sudden I 'm a-goin' to blow off th' top o'
yore devilish ole head,' says Jones; 'an' if she dies,' he
sez, 'I blows her off, anyhow.'  He-he-he!  Saw-bones,
he riz up an' come a-kitin'.  I ain't much on Welshmen;
they biles over too easy.  But Saw-bones done a good
job an' got away wi' his life.  We hears all about it
nex' day when Jones comes to me an' tells me it is two
at once, boy an' a girl.  Fust we knowed he 'd brung
his wife.  Not as she stays long.  Winter 's one too
many fur her an' she cashes in.  Then Lucky Jones,
he tries to cross th' river below th' P'int, 'stid o' th'
ford, an' th' ice ain't strong enough, an' Jones, he was
some drunk, I reckon.  We calls th' river after him an'
th' forks after th' kids.  Lord, they was bad uns, both
on 'em.  Black Jack, he hez hisself hung for suthin' or
other, an' Little Jill, she turns out just a plain—"

Every one jumped, it was so unexpected.  The lead
sung so close to Dirty's nose that the backward jerk
almost took him off the table and he recovered his seat
with a sideways wriggle and squirm that did credit to
the elasticity of his aged muscles.  Having managed to
retain his seat, he continued to retain it.  None of the
others showed the least desire to move, though every
last man of them yearned for absence—sudden,
noiseless absence—of a kind so instantaneous as to
preclude the possibility of notice: anything less were
foolhardy in the face of those blazing eyes and that loosely
held gun, its business end oscillating like the head of
a snake and far more deadly.

"Don't be afeared, Dirty," purred Dave, in the
kindliest tones.  "I was jest a-puttin' in th' period.
Yore eddication is shameful, Dirty, an' I grieves for
you, account of it.  You has a generous mixture o'
commas an' semi-commas an' things like that, but yore
periods is shore some scarce.  You was a-sayin' as how
Little Jill was a sweet, good gal, as never done wrong in
her life, was n't you?"

Dirty swallowed hard and nodded.  Speech was
beyond him just then and perhaps he had spoken too
much, already.  He repeated his former contortion with
equal skill and success, and every head in the crowd
rose perceptibly and returned to its former level as the
gun spoke again and another hole appeared in the
wall, close to the first.

"A period comes after that, Dirty," said Dave.
"Don't you never forgit th' kind o' gal she was—an'
then comes th' period.  You 'll mebby hold yore liquor
better."  He shoved the gun back in the holster, eyed
the crowd insolently for a moment, and turning his
back on it, walked calmly from the room.

Pop Snow climbed down from the table in haste and
pushed his way through the detaining arms and the
medley of questions that assailed him on his way to
the door, which opened and closed like a stage trap as
he stepped out and sprang to one side; his anger was
that of a sober and far younger man and he peered
about with keen eyes.  His caution was uncalled for:
Dave was splashing through the ford and Dirty watched
him set out in a swift lope along the Big Moose trail.
Dave had no stomach for further company that night.

Dirty rubbed a pair of trembling lips as he gazed.
"Black Jack!" he muttered, "Black Jack!  He *warn't*
hung, then.  No, an' he won't never be 'less it's fur
killin' pore ole Pop Snow.  Pore ole Pop Snow," he
repeated, whimpering as he hurried across the bridge
toward shelter; "Jest like Dutch Onion.  Dead an'
gone, pore ole Dutch.  Pore ole Pop."  He stopped in
the middle of the trail and with a flash of his former
spirit, shook his fist after the distant Dave: "Shell I?"
he jeered: "shell I, then?  I been yer afore you, Jack,
an' I 'll be a-livin' when you rot."

Hoofbeats coming out of the darkness where Dave
had disappeared, startled him and he scuttled away
like a rabbit.





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.. _`FIGHTING THE ITCH`:

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   CHAPTER XIV


.. class:: center medium

   FIGHTING THE ITCH

.. vspace:: 2

Monroe and the three men left to him after
Bow-Wow had departed for Twin River and
Wayback, in the company of Whitby, were
too small a force to attempt the round-up, so they put
in the day riding over those sections of the range
farthest removed from the Hog Back, examining every cow
they found.  At nightfall they had the pleasure of
reporting to Buck that the entire portion of the range
along the Little Jill, extending from the river to the
middle of the ranch, was free from infection; as a
matter of fact the conclusion reached in council was that
only that portion of range bounded by the Black Jack,
the south line, and Blackfoot Creek needed to be cleaned
up.  This meant that two-thirds of the ranch was free
from the itch, and the infected third contained less than
a fourth of the Double Y cows.

Plans for the round-up were considered and soon
arrived at.  All the men with the exception of three,
were to be actively engaged in the round-up.  They
were to start from the south line and drive northwest
towards the Hog Back.  The Black Jack made a natural
barrier on the west and would hold the herd safely
on that side.  The three other punchers were to ride
even with the drive line, but on the other side of
Blackfoot Creek, and keep ambitious cows from crossing
onto the non-infected portions of the range.  This
arrangement would constantly force the cattle onto the
wedge-shaped range at the juncture of the two waters.
Here the herd could be dipped and driven across the
shallow Blackfoot onto a clean territory, where they
would be held for further observation.  Then if the
rest of the range showed signs of infection the round-up
and dipping could be carried on again at other points.
If a strict line could be maintained along the Blackfoot
the Hog Back range would be fenced off effectually
from the non-infected cattle on the other parts of the
ranch.  The question of building an actual fence to
separate the Hog Back range from the rest was gone
into thoroughly and the decision was unanimous that
twelve miles of fence was too big a proposition to be
attempted at that moment; if necessary it could be put
up later when it was found that patrolling the creek
was inadvisable.  But perhaps a side light can be
thrown on this quiet decision when it is remembered how
fervently a cowman hated fences.  These men were all
of the old school and preferred to keep barb-wire as a
theory and not a fact.

That evening Bow-Wow returned with a crowd of
cow-punchers of varying degrees of fitness, all eager
to take cards in any game at fifty dollars a month.
The majority of them were not up to the standards
Buck cherished; if they had been, they would not have
been waiting for a job.  But it was certain they knew
how to punch cows, enough for the demands of the
moment—and Jake waxed eloquent and sarcastic when
he hazarded a guess as to when they had eaten their
last square meal.  Perhaps, after all, digging huge
ditches would not be so bad, for cooking three meals a
day for twenty-odd hungry men was more of a task
than he cared to tackle.  But Bow-Wow had exercised
some intelligence of his own, as after events showed.
Two of his squad were ex-cooks.  The "ex" is used
advisedly, for if ever cooks were "ex" it was these two;
this was the decision voiced simultaneously by twenty
hungry men at the first meal prepared by the two.  Sam
Hawkins suggested that they had quit cooking to save
their lives, and regretted that they had so made their
choice.

The drive went ahead without more than the usual
bluster and confusion, and the end of the first day
found the round-up well under way.  Outlying free
range had been thoroughly combed, in which assistance
had been given by neighboring ranches; Buck, in
carrying out his policy of supplying his own help, had not
failed to notify other owners and foremen that they
could rely on the Double Y for its contingent of men
when the general round-up should take place.  The
drivers were divided into two squads for day work and
three for night riding around the herd; the two-squad
arrangement was made for meal times, one squad eating
while the other worked.  There was no time lost at
meals because each of the ex-cooks, in a chuck wagon
alloted to him, preceded the drive and was never very
far from the field of operations.  Thus were system and
order gained the first day, which meant time saved in
the end.

Buck intended to spend his nights in the ranch house
as usual, and when he gained it the first night he found
two things of interest.  The first announced itself by
sending him to his hands and knees within three feet of
his front door; the second was a telegram from
McAllister saying that a special had the right of way, and
from the wording Buck could see it pounding into the
Northwest, over crossings and past switch towers, its
careening red tail lights bearing a warning to would-be
range-jumpers if they did but know it.  The message
further stated that the consignment was under the
personal attention of a puncher who, having grown sick
of the stock yards, was cheerfully availing himself of
the opportunity of getting back to the open range at
no expense.  Buck sighed with relief as he realized that
the ingredients of the dip were already on the way, and
could not be sidetracked or lost without the subduing
of a very irritable cow-puncher.  As he put the message
away he remembered the first thing that had impressed
itself on him, and went out to take a look at it.

The light in his hand revealed the sodless strip fifty
feet long and four feet wide.  Its depth was to the under
side of the grass, a matter of two or three inches.
There was a stake at each corner of the bare rectangle
and these supported a one-strand fence made of lariats.

Buck scratched his head and then growled a profane
request to feel the head of the man who was responsible.
He strode into the house and stopped in the kitchen
door; and Jake very wearily turned around on his
chair and looked at him with intent curiosity.

"What 'n h—l is that scalped grass for?"
demanded Buck, evenly.

"That's th' beginnin' of ditch number one," replied
Jake.  "How 'd you like them lines, eh?  Straight as
a die.  Took me all mornin' to lay 'em out like that."

"Did it?  I congratulate you, Jake—likewise I
sympathize with you.  I reckon you 'll get it down a
foot in a couple o' weeks, eh?"

"Oh, quicker'n that," modestly rejoined Jake.

"Did n't I tell you to dig them ditches close to
where th' Blackfoot empties into th' Jack?" demanded
Buck.  "Are you figgerin' on extendin' it from here to
there?  I don't want a trench no fifteen miles long.
To-morrow mornin' you ride with me an' I 'll show you
where to dig.  An' don't you bother stakin' it off exact,
neither.  I want them ditches all finished in *three* days.
Did you reckon I was goin' to drive two thousand head
of itch cows fifteen miles so I could dip 'em bang up
agin my own front door!"

Pickles bounced in, his rifle under his arm.  "Hullo,
Buck!" he cried.  "Shot a coyote to-day!"

"Good, Pickles," smiled Buck.  "Want a job shootin'
a *man* to-morrow?"

"Betcher life!  Is it Dave?"

"No, it's Jake, here," replied Buck.  "You take
yore rifle an' come with me an' Jake to-morrow.  If he
don't dig fast enough to suit you, you shoot him in
th' laig."

"Betcher life!  Which leg?" asked Pickles, agog
with anticipation.

"I 'm leavin' that to you, Pickles.  You 're gettin'
big enough to figger things out for yoreself."

"Will he limp like Hopalong?"

"Worse, mebby."

Jake, grinning, feared Pickles might be carried away
with his zeal, and he put in a laughing objection; but
he sobered instantly at Buck's sharp reply.

"I mean it.  He 'll shoot if he 's a friend o' mine.
I ain't goin' to lose a lot of cows 'cause I 've got a man
too lazy to dig.  You 've got yore orders, Pickles: obey
'em like a real Bar-20 puncher."

"Betcher life I will.  Just like Hopalong Cassidy!"

Jake groaned at the intense earnestness in Pickles'
declaration; to emulate the great Hopalong Cassidy
was enduring honor in Pickles' eyes, and from past
performances and several duels with the boy, Jake
reached the conclusion that he was slated to do some
very rapid digging on the morrow.

"Lemme use *yore* rifle, Buck!" asked Pickles, his
eyes shining with the joy of living.  He knew he could
do a great deal better with Buck's repeater, and the
thought of exploding .45-70 cartridges was a delight
beyond his wildest dreams.

Jake's heart stopped for the reply and he sighed
with relief as Pickles' face fell; but the boy's spirits
rose like a balloon.  "All right, Buck; I can get him
with my gun, though I ought to have a repeater."

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



The round-up went forward swiftly and the day
that McAllister's special puffed into Wayback and
snorted onto the siding, found the Hog Back country
swept clean of cattle, the herd being held close to Jake's
two big ditches.  Buck had known the magnitude of the
task he set for Jake and when the cook showed he was
anxious to do his share of the work, Buck had told off
men enough to help him get through in time.  The
digging was hard and unaccustomed work and the men
were changed frequently, all but Jake; he seemed to
consider it a matter of pride to stick to the job and
made a point of throwing the last shovelful of dirt as
well as the first; as a consequence his altitude was below
normal for a week afterwards, and it was a month
before he forgot to grunt with every breath.

The hauling of the lumber exercised the ingenuity
and strained the resources of Jean LaFrance, the only
man in the locality who possessed anything on wheels
capable of carrying it.  Inasmuch as he could ill spare
the time, although sorely needing the money, it
exhausted Jean's stock of oaths to the point where his own
language failed him; even English, which he understood,
seemed singularly tame and unworthy the occasion; so
that he fell back on his carefully reserved specimens
of German expletives, which he did not in the least
understand, and these with constant repetitions carried
him through.  Two men, driving the two borrowed
chuck wagons, succeeded in transporting the rest of
the shipment, and Whitby, to his great satisfaction,
found that McAllister had not forgotten his fee.

The junction of the Blackfoot with the Jack presented
a busy scene.  The close-packed blue-clay, which
had made hard work for the diggers, now proved a help,
the timbers fitting snug without backing.  Meanwhile
the more important part, the preparing of the solution,
went on under the direction of Whitby; his calm
handling and frequent active coöperation without
becoming warm or soiled was a wonder to see.  Under the
huge caldrons, which had been the first of the
consignment to arrive, wood had been piled ready for the
match; on bases made of logs stood rows of whiskey
barrels; shallow troughs were filled and re-filled with
water until the swelling wood took up and became
water-tight.  Far into the night they worked, and now the
crackling fires were giving the night shift trouble with
the snorting cattle.  Weird shadows darted out over
the ground, lengthened and vanished as the men moved
about the fires, worked over the lime-slaking troughs or
poured off the compound paste into the steaming
caldrons.  When the barrels were filled with the first lot
of the mixture, Whitby relented and the men stumbled
off to rest.

With the dawn they were at work again; and now the
dipping troughs came into use as the saturated solution
was drawn off from the barrels, leaving the sediment at
the bottom, and dumped into the troughs, where water
was added to reduce it to the required strength.  Night
was approaching again before the water arose to nearly
the required level; the men were thoroughly tired and
Whitby, reluctantly and as a result of a direct order
from Buck, called a halt.  Buck knew the temper of his
men better than Whitby: at anything directly connected
with range duties, provided they were familiar with it,
they would work until they dropped; but this was
something whose usefulness remained to be proven.  Buck
was too wise to push them in such a case, but he grinned
cheerfully as he turned away from the reluctance on
Whitby's face.  The Britisher was surely a glutton for
work.

The prudence of Buck's reasoning was shown by the
eagerness with which the men responded to the call
next morning.  In less than an hour Whitby announced
all ready and the men entered upon a scene which they
individually and collectively swore repaid them for their
trouble.  At Whitby's shout, two of the men riding
herd cut out the first bunch of cattle and drove them
toward the dipping trough; the flimsily constructed
horse corral swarmed with laughing, joking punchers
who roped their mounts with more or less success in the
first attempt, while outside the wranglers darted
forward and back, wheeling on a pie dish, checking the
more ambitious of the ponies that resented a confinement
limited to a single line of lariats; saddles dropped
onto recalcitrant backs and were cinched with a speed
nothing short of marvellous to a layman, and the
whooping punchers were jerked away to the herd.

The first lot of cows, some twenty in number, flirting
their tails and snorting in angry impotence, entered
the wide opening between a wedge-shaped pair of fences
and galloped toward the narrow vent which led to the
trough.  And now was seen Buck's wisdom in continuing
the fence along the edge of the troughs a few feet,
both at entrance and exit: the first brute, a magnificent
three-year-old, appeared to realize the crush that
would come and spurted for the opening; the significance
of the situation did not appeal to him until he was
close to the edge; he slid to the very brink and gathered
himself for a leap, but the fence was too high; the next
instant the cattle behind, urged on by Cock Murray,
whooping like an Indian, bumped into the hesitating
brute and he fell forward into the trough with a bellow
of rage and started on his swim to the other end.

When Cock Murray, with Slow Jack close behind,
had followed the bunch between the fences, they were
assailed by a chorus of shouts to which they paid no
heed whatever.  Slow Jack, being in the rear, caught a
glimpse out of the tail of his eye of Whitby running and
waving his arms; he looked around for the cause of so
much excitement and was in time to see the second
bunch, instead of being driven over to the other trough
as they should have been, come thundering into the
wedge and drive down upon him.  Slow Jack shot up
to the fence, threw one leg along the neck of his pony
and skimmed through the opening he made for, with
nothing to spare and a scratched saddle; after which
he spent several profane seconds in telling the chaffing
drivers what he thought of them.  His annoyance was
forgotten when they suddenly doubled up, shrieking
with laughter, and pointed toward the shoot.

Slow Jack looked and then looked at them.  The
second bunch had gone galloping madly on to the narrow
opening, against which they were wedged and dropping
one by one as a third bunch pressed in after them.
They were coming too rapidly and Ned Monroe, riding
past from the other trough, was sending the next bunch
in the proper direction and going on to the herd to
put some sense of order into the heads of the rollicking
punchers.  Slow Jack quite failed to see anything funny
in all this and said so with force and directness; he
added, moreover, a prophecy regarding idiots, the
fulfilment of which was due to take place in the near, in
fact immediate, future, which threatened complete
derangement of the internal economy of said idiots.  The
idiots were entirely oblivious.  Jack was puzzled.  He
glanced ahead and noticed a lot more idiots.  Disgusted
with his vain attempt to get an explanation, he rode
forward to see for himself.

Cock Murray, having quirted the last of the first
bunch into the trough, became aware of the shouting,
gesticulating men who had left their duties to run
toward the fence to attract his attention.  In the
cross-fire of warnings he failed to understand any of
them, but the rumbling rush behind brought him
suddenly to a realization of his position.  One glance and
he saw it was too late to retreat.  There was just one
thing to do.  "Holy mackerel!" gasped Cock.  He put
the quirt to his pony in a frenzy of blows and landed
in the dipping mixture with a jump that carried his
pony's feet to the bottom of the trough.  Sputtering
and swearing Cock went through to the end; it was
useless, as he knew, to try to climb out over those smooth
abrupt walls, and he was too obstinate to leave his
saddle.  Which was madder, Cock or the pony, it would be
hard to say.  It was when he went climbing up the
cleated incline at the farther end that Slow Jack got
his first inkling of the cause of mirth.  He gave one
astonished stare, made two or three odd noises in his
throat, and then, gravely and in silence, dropped from
his saddle to the ground.  It was not until he lay at
full length, the long reins of the bridle drooping from
the bit and his pony gazing at him inquiringly, that he
exploded—but then he laughed steadily for half an hour.

The cattle, which had not awaited these developments,
were dropping into the trough with praise-worthy
regularity and making their way to the other
end; when about half way there and swimming
resignedly, a kind-hearted puncher, wearing a delighted grin
in addition to his regular equipment, and armed with a
strong pole, forked at the business end, leaned forward
swiftly, jammed the fork over the unsuspecting cow's
head, and pushed zealously.  The result was gratifying
to the few on-lookers, and disconcerting to the cow so
rudely ducked; just before the unfortunate bovine
touched the sloping runway to dry earth, another
grinning puncher repeated the dose.  The cows, reluctant
to enter the bath, showed no reluctance to leave it and
the scene of their humiliation, and they lumbered away
with a speed surprising to those whose ideas of cows
are based upon observation of domesticated "bossies"
in pasture in the East.  But they were not allowed
to run free, being driven slowly across a roughly
constructed bridge to the farther side of the Blackfoot,
onto the non-infected range, and held there.

"This yere trough is shore makin' some plenty of
Baptists," grinned Chesty Sutton.

"Yep; but with Mormon inclinations," amended Bow-Wow.

"Bow to th' gents," reprimanded Chesty, ducking
a cow.  "You look like a drowned rat," he criticised.

"Bow agin," requested Bow-Wow, and the cow
obeyed, with a show of fight when its head came up.

"Some high-falutin' picklin' factory," chuckled
Chesty.  "Messrs. Bow-Wow Baker an' Chesty
Sutton, world's greatest mite picklers.  Blue-noses,
red-noses an' other kinds o' cow inhabitants a specialty.
Give you a whole dollar, Bow-Wow, if you fall in."

"Is that just a plain hope, or a insinooation?"
demanded the cheerful Bow-Wow.  "I sleep next to you,
so don't get too blamed personal.  But we might put
Jake in—though mebby his ain't th' right kind.  Hey,
Jake; come here."

"If you wants to see me, you come here," retorted
the cook.  "I 've seen all of them ditches *I* wants to.
An' I ain't takin' no chances with a couple o' fools,
neither."

"Hey, Chesty!" called Bow-Wow, delighted.
"Here comes that LX steer we had such a h—l of a
time with in th' railroad pens.  Soak him good!  Ah,
ha, my long-horned friend; you was some touchy
an' peevish down there in Wayback.  Take *that*—don't
worry, Chesty 's been savin' some for you, too.
*Hard*, Chesty!  That's th' boy—bet he 's mad as a
rattler."

"Look at that moth-eaten scab of a yearlin',"
laughed Chesty, pointing.  "Th' firm could declare
dividends on th' mites we 'll pickle on her.  *Souse* she
goes!  Once more for luck—look at her steam up!
H—l, *this* ain't work—it's fun.  Under you go, Alice
dear.  Next!"

"Here comes Kinkaid o' th' Cyclone," announced
Cock Murray, riding up to take a hasty look at the
operations before he returned to the herd for another
bunch of cows.

Chesty handed his pole to Murray, grabbed up a
lariat, and started for the newcomer, shouting: "Here
comes some itch!  Dip him, fellers!  Quick!"

Kinkaid manoeuvred swiftly, grinning broadly.  "If
that stuff is warmer 'n th' water in th' Jack, why, I
might be coaxed into it.  Howd'y, boys; thought I 'd
come over an' pick up some points."

"How you makin' out on th' Cyclone?" asked Buck.

"Bad—*very* bad.  We tried isolatin' th' mangy
ones, but they 're dyin' like flies in frost time.  Lost
forty million so far an' I reckon th' other two 'll die
to-morrow.  We thought our north range was free, but
they 're on that, too.  We drove clean cows up in th'
Rockin' Horse territory an' now they 're showin' signs
o' havin' th' itch.  Beats all how it travels."

Cock Murray listened intently, but held his peace.
He thought he might explain how it had travelled
toward the Rocking Horse.

"That's where we noticed it first," said Buck.  "We
found some o' yore cows on th' Hog Back, an' their
trail left th' river just below th' Rockin' Horse."

Kinkaid looked surprised and asked questions.  He
sat very quietly for a few moments and then looked at
Buck with a peculiar expression on his face.  "Sick
cows don't swim th' Jack, cold as it is now.  I wonder
who in h—l—?" he muttered, softly.

"We 're wonderin', too, Kinkaid," replied Buck,
slowly.  "It's lead or rope for anybody we ketch at
it."  Kinkaid nodded his emphatic endorsement of this.

Whitby was keeping a close watch on the tally of
cattle as they emerged, comparing it with the amount
of fresh mixture constantly being added to that already
in the troughs, and he found reason to be thankful that
he had ordered more than he expected to use.  Any
left over would make all the less needed at the fall
shipment when, as he knew, the dipping would have to be
repeated; not until then could they be assured that the
disease was stamped out.

The first day's work finished less than half the herd,
but they continued, the following day, until the last
cow scrambled out.  After which, as a matter of
precaution, Buck gave the boys the fun of driving every
pony through the mixture.  What had been entertaining
before now became side-splitting, for tired as they
were, the savage natures of the furious victims drew
energy from unexpected sources and made a scene well
worth watching, and a little risky for those men
waiting with ropes at the end of the dripping board.  The
cows were angry, but had neither the intelligence nor
the fighting ability of the maddened animals who had
only a short time before seemed to enjoy the discomfiture
of the animals they were accustomed to drive and
bully; and it was only agility and good luck that the
flying hoofs landed on nothing more substantial than air.

While this did not take long it was too late when
finished, and the men too weary, to break camp; but
the next morning saw the chuck wagon piled high with
barrels and caldrons on the way to the ranch house.
Some of the extra men, having in mind the wording of
the guarantee of a full month's pay, cherished the hope
that there was no further use for their services and that
they would be paid off and told to leave.  They were
disappointed, for instead of loafing or leaving, half of them
were set to planting posts for the fence which it was
found necessary to erect along the creek, while the
others rode over the range on the look-out for cows
with signs of itch.  A small herd of about a hundred,
found scattered along and near the creek, were dipped
as a precautionary measure, and after a week had
elapsed without finding further signs of the disease,
Buck ordered the second squad to begin the Spring or
calf round-up; the fence division patrolled the creek
to effect a quarantine until the wire arrived.  They
had a two-strand fence extending along Blackfoot
Creek from its source to the river, when the round-up
was half over, and were immediately put to work with
the others.  When the last calf was branded, the extra
force was let go and Buck waited for some new deviltry.
It came, and turned his hair grayer and deepened the
lines of care on his face.  Calves had totalled up well
and proved to him that there was lots of money to be
taken out of the Double Y under fair conditions, but
the next blow cut into his resources with crushing effect
and made him waver for a moment.





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.. _`THE SLAUGHTER OF THE INNOCENTS`:

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   CHAPTER XV


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   THE SLAUGHTER OF THE INNOCENTS

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The round-up was still under way when Cock
Murray was taken off and sent to Twin River
in a chuck wagon to get provisions for the
ranch.  He had loaded his wagon and left town behind
him when he saw Dave riding hard to overtake him.
He drew rein and nodded when the horseman pulled up
beside him.

"Howd'y, Dave."

"Howd'y, Murray," replied Dave.  "Spring
round-up over yet?"

"Nope; 'bout half."

"Itch all cured good?"

"Can't find no more signs of it.  That dippin' play
was a winner an' it's a good thing to remember."

"I 've got a little job for you an' Slow Jack," Dave
remarked, after a moment's thought.

"Yeh?  Hope it's better'n some o' yore schemes."

"What do you mean?  I never had no schemes."

"All right—my mistake," drawled Murray.
"What's th' new one?"

"New nothin'.  I just want you an' Slow Jack to
drive a couple o' thousand head up in th' Hog Back
country some 'rs an' hold 'em hid till I can take care o'
'em."

"If yo 're goin' to start up in business for yoreself,
I 'd keep away from th' Hog Back," replied Murray
gravely.  "Better try down on th' southeast corner.
There ain't no itch hangin' 'round there."

"Business nothin'!" snapped Dave, not liking his
companion's levity.  "I 've got somethin' in my head
that 'll make a fortune for you an' Slow Jack.  I don't
want no profits—just th' joy o' takin' a good punch
at Peters 'll do for me.  But you two ought to split
'bout twenty thousand dollars a-tween you."

"Music to my ears!" chuckled Murray.  "Slow
Jack's goin' to work on a salary basis on *this* job—th'
profits 'll be mine.  Whereabouts is this gold mine
located, did you say?"

Dave did not heed him but continued hurriedly:
"There 's a good pasture atween th' Hog Back an' th'
river, an' th' only way to it or out of it is up that
ravine.  You an' Slow Jack can drive cows to it
whenever you gets a chanct, an' a couple o' ropes acrost th'
ravine 'll hold 'em in.  When you get a couple o'
thousand there we 'll drive 'em north o' th' Cyclone's line
to Rankin, put 'em on th' cars there an' get 'em south
into Wyoming.  There 's good money in it, Murray."

The driver was staring at his companion, blank
amazement on his face.  "Gosh!  That sounds easy!
'Bout as easy as me an' you capturin' th' Fort an'
makin' th' Government pay us a big war indemnity.
Slow Jack 's goin' to get th' wages an' profits, too.  I 'm
too generous to cut in an' spoil his chance to make a
fortune.  I suppose we 're goin' to tie th' herd to
balloons an' get 'em to Rankin that way?"

"You collect th' herd an' I 'll attend to all th' rest
o' it," declared Dave.  "I 've got this thing all worked
out an' it's goin' through."

"Can't be did, Dave," emphatically replied the
driver, dazed by the signs of insanity manifested by his
companion.

"You say that because it ain't never been done,"
retorted Dave, angrily.  "It *can* be done, an' I 'm
goin' to do it.  Put that in yore pipe."

"All right—you ought to know," responded Murray,
tactfully.  "Who are th' miracle-men that are
goin' to get th' herd off that table-land an' to Rankin
without bein' seen or leavin' a trail?"

"Big Saxe, th' hunchback, is one," Dave explained.
"Th' trail we 'll leave ain't botherin' us any.  They
won't be missed till it's too late to look for
tracks—an' by that time th' cows 'll be sold."

Murray thought of one objection that would kill the
plan without mercy: the railroad was not in the habit
of accepting unaccredited cows for shipment; curiosity
would be shown as to the brand, where it came from,
who owned it, and other pertinent facts.  But Dave was
so hopeful, so earnest, that Murray decided to talk
the matter over with Schatz before dispelling Dave's
dream.

"Well, that's true, Dave," he soberly replied.
"When you think it over ca'm like, it ain't so plumb
foolish.  Me an' Slow Jack 'll see what we can do—let
you know as soon as we can.  I got to poke along.
But say, Dave; it's shore death to anybody tryin' to
fool with *Cyclone* cows along th' river—tell th' boys
so they won't try to throw over any more scabby
cattle on us.  Kinkaid is some peevish 'bout his north
range gettin' th' itch.  Got any more plans you want
to tell about?  All right—don't get mad at *me*, Dave;
I 'm only foolin'.  So long."

Murray had crossed the north line of his ranch
before he emerged from his trance.  Then he shook
himself, laughed and looked around, urging the team
to livelier efforts.  He nursed his secret until after dark
and then slipped away from the ranch and struck out
toward Twin River.  When he had gone a mile in this
direction he wheeled sharply and urged his pony
toward the trail along the Little Jill.  Arriving at the
Schatz domicile he reconnoitred a little and then
slipped up to the kitchen door and drummed lightly on it.
Schatz opened it and dragged the visitor inside.

"You must nod come to see me more as iss necessary,"
began the German.  "It iss such carelessness as
puts peoples in chails.  Vat iss it dis time?"

Murray, grinning, unfolded Dave's plans to the
astonished German, who could only grunt his surprise
and disgust.  Suddenly Schatz brightened and a faint
twinkle came into his eye.  "Dot iss a goot plan,
Murray.  A very goot plan.  *Aber* it goes too far.  Dose
railroad peoples vould spoil it quick.  You get der
herd like Dave says, more if you can; und hold it till *I*
say somet'ing.  Neffer mind vat Dave say—he iss *ein
verruchter Mensch*.  But ven *I* say somet'ing, den you
do it.  *Verstanden*?"

"All right, Schatz," agreed Murray, smiling.  "I 'll
back yore play to th' limit, every time.  But what 'll
I say to Dave when he gets anxious?"

"He von't ged anxious.  I vill speak der vord
before he haf time to ged anxious.  I vill tell vat to do
mit dot herd, und it von't be vat Dave vants."

"Then I 'll tell Slow Jack that th' collection takes
place.  Anything else?"

"*Nein*—careful you go.  Alvays you must be
careful.  *Goot nacht*!" and the door closed quickly.

"Ach!  Dot Dave!" ejaculated Schatz, his hands
upraised.

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Slow Jack must have been told of Schatz's wishes,
because during the week following Murray's visit to the
German's house, cattle had been disappearing from the
southwestern part of the range; this was not strange
enough to cause worry even if it had been observed,
because cows go where they please; and it was not
observed by any one but Cock Murray and Slow Jack.
The fence, extending to within a short distance of the
south line, was regarded as barrier enough to keep the
cattle off the infected range, and Buck gave no
particular thought to it.  Slow Jack rode along the fence
every few days to see that there were no breaks in it
and as Cock Murray had the south line under his care,
it was an easy matter to round up small herds and
drive them over the Hog Back, down the ravine on the
river side, and hold them on the plateau pasture by the
means Dave had suggested.  The grass was heavy and
the water plentiful along the line patrolled by Murray
and there were always large numbers of cows grazing
there—so many, in fact, that those driven off could
not be missed under ordinary circumstances.  Thus
the hidden herd grew rapidly and it was not long before
a large herd grazed close to the edge of the precipitous
cliffs frowning down on the cold, hard-looking Black
Jack.

Murray, fussing around the horse corral, had put in
a hard day's riding and had no desire to stray far from
the bunk-house that chilly, windy night.  He had been
engaged in driving cattle onto the range he had been
thinning, so as to cover the missing cows, and over five
hundred extra head grazed near the springs that made
the swampy headquarters of the creek.

Slow Jack was getting nervous because Schatz had
not been heard from and he was grouchy and touchy
even to his partner in the business on hand.  He and
Murray would be likely to have unpleasant questions
asked of them if the herd should be discovered.  They
were in charge of that part of the range and it would
not be easy to excuse the presence of so many cows on
the infected section.  The fence was intact and if it
were not, then it would be squarely up to them; Buck
would be profanely curious how it was that a
respectable herd had managed to get past Murray and go
around the end of the fence.  And it would be hard
to explain how the cattle willingly left the best grass
on the ranch and wandered up the Hog Back, all
finding the ravine and herding on the cliff-top pasture.
And if the rope or the tracks of the two punchers'
horses should be seen, gun-play would follow with
deadly certainly.

"D—n that Dutchman!" growled Slow Jack to
Murray, as they met and strolled away a short
distance; "Seems like we ain't got enough cows up there
to suit th' hog.  He wants that pasture covered with
'em, I reckon.  Word or no word, them cows has got
to get back on th' range.  An' th' itch is among 'em,
too, Murray."

Murray smoked in silence for a while and then looked
up, a frown on his face.  "Smiler has got to be quick.
Dave, th' fool, was out to see me again to-day.  I asked
him when he was goin' to rustle that bunch an' he says
he 's got it all fixed—mebby th' first black night.  Is
it black to-night?" he asked, ironically.

"Black as h—l!" growled Slow Jack.  "If Dave
beats th' ol' man to it, an' gets away with that herd,
I 'll be plumb tickled to death.  An' if he gets away
with it good an' clean, without bein' caught, it 'll go
down in th' history o' cattle-stealin' as th' greatest
miracle since th' Dead Sea was walked on.  Holy
Gripes!  Would n't it be a sensation?"

"Th' laurels will remain with th' Dead Sea,"
grunted Murray.  "Dave 's shore goin' to be fertilizer
for th' daisies some o' these days if he don't get sane."
After a moment he growled: "An' if he don't stop
comin' to see me like he has, Smiler 'll have to dig up
another ass to be father to."

"He was lookin' for me, yesterday," grinned Slow
Jack, "but I seen him first.  He ain't goin' to *sic* no
lead *my* way if I can help it."

"Jack, did you ever figger out why Smiler lets Dave
mess around like he does?" suddenly asked Murray.
"Th' Dutchman is one clever individual, but every
clever crook makes one mistake that ropes him.  I
hereby prophesy that Dave is Smiler's mistake an' will
make th' Dutchman lose.  Want to bet on it?"

"What you allus lookin' for shore things for?"
jeered Jack.  "You ain't got no sportin' blood in you!
In course I know it—an' that's just th' reason I've
got my stuff ready to move quick an' my trail all
mapped out.  I might want to leave before breakfast some
day.  Tell you one thing—*you* can drive cows over
th' Hog Back but I 'm *all through*!  D—n if I drive
another one!"

"I 'm th' good little boy, too, from now on," replied
Murray.  "An' I 'm goin' to be awful busy farther east
on that line.  Savvy?  I ain't goin' to be able to even
guess how they got over th' Hog Back, an' I 'll take th'
blame for bein' careless.  I 'd ruther lose my job than
house any lead under my skin.  Aw!  I 'm goin' in an' get
some sleep."

"Me, too; I 'll come right soon," and Slow Jack
drifted off into the darkness as his companion started
for the bunk-house.

When Slow Jack entered the bunk-house half an
hour after Murray, he paused in the door and looked
at the western sky, where lightning zigzagged occasionally.
The barely audible roll of thunder told him how
far off the storm was and he noticed that the wind was
blowing less steadily, coming in gusts from varying
points.  Even while he stood, the sound of the thunder
increased in volume and the long, thin lightning reached
out nearer to him, a livid whip that lashed the heavens
into roaring anger.

"Huh!  Reckon Spring is shore nuff here now," he
muttered.  "Fust real lightnin' I seen this year."  Five
minutes later he was asleep.

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The Hog Back loomed up like a condensation of the
surrounding night, its huge bulk magnified and made
soft in its rugged outlines.  A restless wind scurried
like a panic-stricken animal, sighing through the brush
and whispering through the rocks.  At intervals the
silence was so intense that the scraping of a twig,
yards away, could be plainly heard; and at other times
the bellow of a steer would have been lost in a few rods.

Something moved across the plain, slowly and carefully
as if feeling its way, and toiled up the precarious
trail, rolling pebbles clattering down; in the noise of
their fall was lost the soft thudding that marked the
course of the moving smudge.  The lightning in the
western sky flashed nearer and gave brief illumination
of the scene.  Four men rode single file up the dark
trail, silent, intent, wary, the leader picking his way as
though he knew it well; in reply to a low-voiced
question from his nearest companion, he stretched out an
abnormally long arm in a sharp gesture.  He did not
like to have his ability doubted.

Reaching the top, the procession strung along and
finally dipped into a ravine, following the steeply
slanting water-course until stopped by a lariat stretched
across the way.  Tossing aside the rope, the leader led
the force onto the walled-in pasture where each man
went swiftly to work without instructions.  The fire at
the leader's feet, fanned by the high wind, leaped from
him through the sun-cured bunches of grass in a
rapidly widening circle, the heavy smoke rolling down
upon the restless cattle in pungent clouds, sparks
streaming through them.  Every cow on the pasture
was on its feet, pawing and snorting with fear at this
most dreaded of all enemies.  While they stood,
seemingly hypnotized for a moment by the low flames, the
darkness to the east of them was streaked with spurts
of fire and the cracks of revolvers on their flank sent
them thundering toward the river.  The confusion of
the stampede was indescribable as the front ranks,
sensing the edge of the cliff, tried in vain to check itself
and hold back against the press of the avalanche of
terror-stricken animals behind.  The change was
magical—one moment a frenzied mass of struggling cows
lighted grotesquely by the burning grass, and then
only the edge of the cliff and the swishing grayness
of the river below.  The wind was blowing the flames
toward the edge of the cliff and they would die from
lack of material upon which to feed, though the four
cared little about that.  Their horses stumbled with
them along the ravine, leaving behind a blackened plain
across which sparks were driven by each gust of wind,
to glow brilliantly and die.  Below, once more
wrapped in impenetrable darkness, swished the Black Jack,
cold, cruel, deep, and fugitive, its scurrying, frightened
cross currents whispering mysteriously as they
discussed the tragedy.  Suddenly the rain deluged
everything as if wrathful at the pitiable slaughter and eager
to wash out the stain of it.

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In the middle of the forenoon of the following day
Slow Jack loomed up in the fog of the driving rain and
the vapors arising from the earth and slid from his
saddle in front of the ranch house, his hideous yellow
slicker shining as though polished.  Buck opened the
door and instinctively stepped back to avoid the wet
gust that assailed him.  "There 's a lot o' cows
floating in the backwater o' th' Jack where th' creek
empties in—I roped one an' drug it ashore.  Just plain
drowned, I reckon.  There was signs of itch, too," Slow
Jack reported.

Buck hastened into his storm clothes, got Monroe
from the corral, and started through the storm to see
for himself.  When he reached the river he saw a score
of Double Y cows drifting in circles in the backwater,
and at intervals one would swing into the outer
current and be caught in the pull of the rushing river to
go sailing toward Twin.  The stream was rising
rapidly now, its gray waters turning brown and roiled.
Sending Monroe to follow the stream to town, he and
Slow Jack rode close to the water toward the hazy
Hog Back.  When he met Monroe at the ranch house
that afternoon he learned that most of the inhabitants
of Twin River were swarming upon the point behind
Ike's saloon, busily engaged in roping and skinning the
cattle as fast as they drifted by; the count varied from
one hundred to five hundred, and he knew that the
fight was on again.

There had been no clues found upon which to base
action against the perpetrators.  True, the pasture
behind the Hog Back had been burned since he last saw
it, but Slow Jack's tardy memory recalled that one
morning, several days before, he had detected the smell
of grass smoke in the air.  He was going to
investigate it but hesitated to go through the quarantined
range for fear of bringing back the itch.  During the
day the smell had disappeared and he had seen no signs
of smoke at any time.  He had meant to speak of it
when he returned to the bunk-house but had forgotten,
as usual.

When left alone Buck stared out of the window, not
noticing that the storm had ceased, burning with rage
at his absolute helplessness.  The loss of the cows was
not great enough to cripple him seriously but this
blow, following hard upon the other, showed him what
little chance he had of making the Double Y a success
without a large outfit of tried and trusted men.  Even
while he looked at the plain with unseeing eyes his
cattle might be stolen or driven to death in the swollen
waters of either river—and he was powerless to stop it.

To his mind again leaped the recollection of Ned's
warning regarding Schatz: he was a "hard nut," Ned
had said.  Buck was beginning to think he would have
to crack him on suspicion.  He looked in the direction
of the German's cabin and a curse rumbled in his
throat.

Whitby opened the door and reported that everything
was all right on his part of the range and asked
for orders for the next day.  After a few minutes'
conversation he moved on to the bunk-house, troubled and
ill at ease at the appearance of his employer.  In a
way Whitby had certain small privileges that were
denied to the other members of the outfit.  He was a
gentleman, as Buck had instantly realized, and he
could make time pass very rapidly under most
conditions.  He paused now and finally decided to thrust his
company upon Buck for the evening; in his opinion
Buck would be all the better for company.  He had
almost reached the ranch house door when behind him
there was a sound of furious galloping and Bow-Wow
flung himself from his horse and burst into the room
excited and fuming, Whitby close upon his heels.

"They 've shot a lot of cows on th' southeast corner,
close to th' Jill.  I 'd 'a' been in sooner only I went
huntin' for 'em.  Lost their tracks when they swum th'
river.  Three of 'em did it, an' they dropped nigh
onto fifty head."  Winded as he was, Bow-Wow yet
found breath for a string of curses that appeared to
afford him little relief.

A look came into Buck's face that told of a
man with his back to the wall.  The piling on of the
last straw was dangerously near at hand.  His
fingers closed convulsively around the butt of his Colt
and he swayed in his tracks.  No one ever knew how
close to death Whitby and Bow-Wow were at that
moment, by what a narrow margin the range was
spared ruthless murder at the hands of a man gone
fighting mad.  The Texan was cut to the heart by
this last news, and only a swift reaction in the
form of the habitual self-restraint of thirty years saved
him from running amuck.  The grayness of his face
gave way to its usual color, only the whipcord veins
and the deep lines telling of the savage battle raging
in the soul of the man.  He waved the two men away
and paced to and fro across the room, fighting the
greatest battle of his eventful life.  One man against
unknown enemies who shot in the dark; his outfit was
an unknown quantity and practically worse than none
at all, since he had to trust it to a certain extent.  He
thought that Ned Monroe was loyal, but his
judgment might have become poor because of the strain he
had undergone; and was not Monroe one who had lost
when the ranch was turned over to its rightful owners?
Bow-Wow was more likely to be honest than otherwise,
but he had no proof in the puncher's favor.  Chesty
Sutton had no cause to be a traitor, but the workings
of the human mind cause queer actions at times.  Cock
Murray and Slow Jack could be regarded as enemies,
but there was not enough proof to convict them: they
had been in charge of the western part of the ranch
when the herd had been stampeded into the Black
Jack—yet Buck realized that two men could hardly handle
so large a tract of land; and again, the stampede had
occurred at night while they were asleep in the
bunkhouse.  If he got rid of every man he could find reason
to doubt, he would have no outfit to handle the
routine work of the ranch.  There remained Jake and
Whitby.  The cook could be dismissed as of no account
one way or the other, since he was a fool at best and
never left the ranch house for more than a few minutes
at a time.  The Englishman seemed to be loyal but
there was no positive assurance of it; while he had
undoubtedly killed the itch, it was so dangerous a
plague that every man's hand should be turned
against it.

When he tried to reason the matter out he came to
the conclusion he had reached so often before: the only
man in Montana whom he trusted absolutely was Buck
Peters.  If he had some of his old outfit, or even
Hopalong, Red, or Lanky, one man in whom he could place
absolute trust, he felt he could win out in the end—and
he would have them.  He ceased his pacing to and
fro and squared his shoulders: He would give his outfit
one last tryout and if still in doubt of its loyalty, he
would send a message to Hopalong and have him pick
out a dozen men from the Bar-20 and near-by ranches
and send them up to the Double Y.  Lucas, Bartlett,
and Meeker could spare him a few men each, men
friendly to him.  It would be admitting preliminary
defeat to do this but the results would justify the
means.

When he thought he had mastered himself and was
becoming calm and self-possessed, Chesty Sutton and
the foreman entered with troubled looks on their faces.
Monroe spoke: "Chesty reports he found a dozen
cows lyin' in a heap at th' bottom of Crow Canyon,
and Murray says th' fence has been cut an' stripped o'
wire for a mile on th' north end."

Buck lost himself in the fury of rage that swept over
him at this news.  The fence had been intact that noon
when he rode out to look over the floating cows in the
Jack; this blow in daylight told him that the battle was
being forced from several points at once; and again
he realized how absolutely helpless he was—there was
no hope now.  When Ned and Chesty returned to the
bunk-house, drawing meagre satisfaction from the
clearing weather, they left behind them a man broken
in spirit, weak from fruitless anger, who shook his
upraised arms at Providence and cursed every man in
Montana.  A desperate idea entered his head: he would
force the fighting.  He slipped out of the corral, roped
his horse and led it around back of the ranch house,
where he tethered it and returned to the house to wait
for night.  Night would see him at Schatz's cabin,
there to choke out the truth and strike his first blow.

Jake came in, muttering something about lights and
supper, to retreat silently at the curt dismissal.  The
long shadows stole into the room, enveloping the
brooding figure, and deepened into dark.  The time was come
and Buck arose and went out to his horse.  With his
hand on the picket he paused and listened.  Across
the Jill a broad moon was beginning to cast its light
and from the same direction, a long way off, came the
sound of singing.  The singer was coming toward him
and Buck stepped into the house again to await his
arrival.  He might be the bearer of some message.

While he paced restlessly the singing died down and
in a few minutes the squeaking of a vehicle caught his
ear.  He wondered who cared to drive over that trail
when there were so many good saddle horses to be had
for the asking and he started toward the door to see.
Suddenly he stopped as if shot and gripped his hat
with all his strength as another song came to his ears.
He doubted his senses and feared he was going crazy,
hoping against hope that he heard aright.  Who in
Montana could know that song!

   |  "'Th' cows go grazin' o'er th' lea—
   |  Pore Whiskey Bill, pore Whiskey Bill.
   |    An' achin' thoughts pour in on me
   |          Of Whiskey Bill.
   |    Th' sheriff up an' found his stride,
   |  Bill's soul went shootin' down th' slide—
   |    How are things o'er th' Great Divide,
   |          Oh, Whiskey Bill?'
   |

"Hello th' house!  Hey, Buck!  Buck!  *O*, Buck!
Whoa, blame you—think I'm a fool tenderfoot?
Hey, Buck!  BUCK!"

Buck leaped to the door in one great bound and ran
toward the creeping buckboard, yelling like an Indian.
The bunk-house door flew open and the men tumbled
through it, guns in hand, and sprinted toward the
point of trouble.  Bow-Wow led and close upon his
heels ran Whitby, with Murray a close third.  When
the leader got near enough he saw two men wrestling
near a buckboard and he manoeuvred so as to insert
himself into the fracas at the first opportunity.  Then
he snorted and backed off in profound astonishment,
colliding with the eager Englishman, to the pain of
both.  The wrestlers were not wrestling but hugging;
and a woman in the buckboard was laughing with
delight.  Bow-Wow shook his head as if to clear it and
began to slip back toward the bunk-house.  This was
against all his teachings and he would have no part
in it.  The idea of two cowmen hugging each other!

Whitby strolled after and overtook the muttering
puncher.  "I fancy that's one of those Texans he 's
been talking about; or, rather, two of them.  Perhaps
we shall see some frontier law up here now—and God
knows it is time."

Slow Jack veered off and swore in his throat.
"*Texas* law, huh?  We 'll send him back where he come
from, in a box!" he growled.

He stopped when he heard Buck's laughing words,
and sneered: "Hopalong Cassidy an' his wife, eh?
She 'll be his widder if he cuts in *this* game.  But I
wonder if any more o' them terrible Texas killers is
comin' up?  Huh!  Let 'em come—that's all."





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.. _`THE MASTER MIND`:

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   CHAPTER XVI


.. class:: center medium

   THE MASTER MIND

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For a while, at least, Buck seemed to cast his
troubles to the four winds and was a picture
of delight; his happiness, bubbling up in every
word, kept his face wreathed in one vast smile.  At last
he had a man whom he could trust.  Jake was
summoned and prepared the best meal he could and the
three sat down to a very good supper, Buck surprised
to find how hungry he had become.  His visit to Schatz
was forgotten as he listened to Hopalong and Mary
chatter about old times and people he wished he could
see again.

After a little, Hopalong noticed how tired his wife
was and sent her to get a good night's rest.  The long
railroad journey and the ride in the buckboard had
been a great strain on her.

When left alone, Buck demanded to know all about
the Bar-20 and its outfit and laughed until the tears
came as he listened to some of the tales.  "What
deviltry has Johnny been up to since I left?" asked Buck.

"Well, it's only been six months," replied Hopalong,
"so you see he ain't really had much time; but he 's
made good use o' what he did have.  He fell in love
again, had th' prospectin' fever, wanted to go down to
th' Mexican line an' help Martin.  I had th' very devil
of a time stoppin' him.  Him an' Lucas had their third
fight an' Lucas got licked this time; then they
went off to Cowan's an' blew th' crowd, near havin'
another scrap 'cause each wanted to pay.  He dosed
Pete's cayuse with whiskey an' ginger, chased Lee Hop
clean to Buckskin, so we ain't got no cook.  Red licked
him for that, so Johnny tied all th' boys together one
night, tied chairs an' things to 'em an' then stepped
outside an' began shootin' at th' stars.  It was some
lively, that mess in th' dark, judgin' from th'
hair-raisin' noises; it scared th' Kid all th' way to Perry's
Bend—leastways, we has no news for a week, when
we hears he 'd pulled stakes there, leavin' th' town
fightin' an' th' sheriff locked up in his own jail.  Th'
Bend has sent numerous invitations for him to call
again.  From there he drifts over to th' C80, wins all
their money an' then rides home loaded down with
presents to square hisself with th' boys.  He wanted to
fight when I made Red foreman while I was away—it's
Red's first good chance to get square."

"That's th' Kid, all right," laughed Buck.  "Lord,
how I wish he was up here!"

"Red, he's th' same grouch as ever but he's all
right if Johnny 'd let him get set.  As soon as Red
calms down th' Kid calls his attention to somethin'
excitin' an' th' trouble begins again.  They all wanted
to come up here an' give you a hand till you got things
runnin' right.  I told 'em I could get a better crowd
in two days, so they stayed home to spite me.  From
what I 've heard I wish I 'd told 'em they could
come—things 'd run smoother for you with them wild men
buckjumpin' 'round lookin' for trouble.  Like to turn
Red an' Johnny loose up here with a good grudge to
work off.  Th' railroad would report that Montana
was jumpin' east fast."

"What was that your wife called you?" asked Buck,
curiously.

"Billy-Red," laughed Hopalong.  "That 's her own
name for me."

"Billy-h—l!" snorted Buck.  "Billy-goat would
suit you better."

"Say, Buck, Pete saw som'ers there was lots o'
money in raisin' chickens, so he borrows all our money,
gets about a hundred head from th' East, an' starts in.
For a week there was lots of excitement 'round our
place—coyotes got so they 'd get under our feet an'
th' nights was plumb full o' hungry animals with a
taste for chicken.  We put up a bomb-proof coop but
they tunnelled it th' first night an' got all that was left
o' th' herd 'cept about a dozen what was roostin' high.
Pete, he was broken-hearted an' give up.  He makes
Mary a present o' what was left of his stock, an' what
do you think she give him for 'em?  Two day's work
diggin'.  He dug a ditch, four-sided, for th' foundations
of a new coop.  Then he has to sink posts in it in th'
ground an' fill th' ditch with stones.  Johnny got th'
stones in th' chuck wagon from th' creek, so as to
square hisself with Mary, an' she give him a whole
apricot pie for it.  He 's been a nuisance ever since.  Well,
th' posts rose four feet above th' ground an' when that
hen-corral was roofed over, you could see, any moonlight
night, plenty o' coyotes trottin' 'round it, prayin'
for somethin' to happen.  We got some fine shootin'
for a while.  But I got other things to talk about,
Buck—Texas can wait."

"Kind of a dry job, Hoppy," replied Buck, going
to a cupboard and returning with a bottle.

"Better stuff than Cowan ever sold," smiled the
visitor, and then plunged into what he considered real news.

"When we got off th' train at Wayback, I went
huntin' for a wagon an' purty soon we was on our way
to Twin River.  I knowed we 'd have to spend th' night
there: Mary could n't stand forty miles in a buckboard
after that train ride.  We had n't got very far from
town when I hears a hail an' looks around to see Tex
Ewalt comin' up.  He spotted me when I left th' train
but he did n't want to show he knows me there."

"What!" exclaimed Buck, in great surprise.  "Tex
Ewalt!  Why, I thought he went East for good."

"He thought so, too, at th' time," and Hoppy gave
a brief history of their friend's movements.  "When
he got back to th' ranch he was restless an' decided to
come up here an' help you.  He 's been very busy up
here in a quiet way.  He tells me he knows th' man
that put th' itch on yore range.  Tex says he could 'a'
stopped it if he knew enough to add two an' two.  But
he says there 's another man behind him, slicker 'n a
coyote.  Tex 's been hopin' every day to rope an' tie
him but he ain't got him yet."

"Who is it?" asked Buck, with grim simplicity.

"Tex won't tell me.  He says you can't do no good
shootin' on suspicion.  He's tried watchin' him but he
might as well be goin' to church when he does leave
home, his travels is that innocent."

"Why didn't Tex come here?  I been wantin' one
man I could trust, an' me an' Tex could 'a' wiped out
th' gang."

"He says different—an' he was afraid o' bein'
seen.  You see, that would kill his usefulness.  Just as
soon as he could get to th' bottom o' th' game an' lay
his fingers on th' real boss, *then* he 'd 'a' come out for
you in th' open, put th' boss in th' scrap-pile for burial,
an' burned powder till you had things where you
wanted 'em.  We about concluded you ain't makin'
good use o' th' punchers you got, Buck, though I shore
hates to say it."

"How can I make use o' men I don't trust?  You
don't know th' worst, Hopalong—"

"About th' couple o' thousand head went swimmin'?
I ain't heard much else in Twin River.  How 'd it happen?"

Buck ran over the day's occurrences graphically and
without missing a single point.  Hopalong's thoughtful
comment was characteristic of the man upon whom
Buck had unconsciously leaned in crises not a few.

"The two men on yore south pasture is liars," he
declared.  "Yore foreman is some doubtful: 'pears
like to me if he 's honest an' attendin' to business, no
point o' yore range ought to go shy o' him for long.
Th' Britisher 's white: it's no part o' his business to
help you, th' way Tex tells me; if he ain't square he
just does his work an' don't offer no suggestions.  Th'
other two is all right if they ain't just fools what 'll
do as th' foreman says 'cause he 's th' foreman, right
or wrong.  That's how I reckons you stand.  Now we
got to prove it."

"Fire away," said Buck, earnestly.  "I agrees to
every word.  Provin' it's th' horse I ain't been able to
rope."

"Th' outlyin' free range don't count.  You ain't
missed no cows in th' round-up, has you?"

"No, they tallied high."

"Goes to show there 's a head to th' deviltry.  You
don't get no losses on'y right on yore home range.
Now, we divide th' range in sections, a man to each
section, an' work 'em that way a few days.  There won't
be no night ridin' at first.  Then we set 'em night ridin'
when they ain't expectin' it an' shift th' men every
night.  We soon know who to trust, don't we?"

"Yo 're right—plumb right—an' it's so simple I
ought to be fed hay, for a cow.  I got a map som'ers—or
I 'll make one.  We 'll lay out them sections right now."

"That's th' talk!  There ain't no time like right
now for doin' most things, Buck."

They were not long in laying out and perfecting
their plans and had said good-night when Buck suddenly
remembered the picketed pony.  He turned it into
the corral and went to bed.  Smiler Schatz, sleeping
the sleep of the very wicked and the very innocent, did
not dream how near he had come to an incident more
exciting than any he had ever passed through.





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.. _`HOPALONG'S NIGHT RIDE`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XVII


.. class:: center medium

   HOPALONG'S NIGHT RIDE

.. vspace:: 2

Hopalong, passing the bunk-house on his
way to the stable, paused to listen.
Through the open window Pickles' voice
had reached him quite clearly: "I don't guess I 'll
ever get him, Whit, but if I do, it 'll be for keeps, you
betcher."

Hopalong was interested.  The death of Gottleib
Gerken was an old story and so many things of
pressing moment having occurred about the time of
Hopalong's arrival, he had not been told of this.  The
finality of decision in Pickles' murderous intention was
so evident that Hopalong wondered how the boy came
to conceive so deadly a hatred.  He stepped to the
window and stood looking at the two figures within.  They
neither saw nor heard him.

Both were deep in thought.  Whitby's inherent
regard for due process of law had received numerous
shocks since he left Chicago.  Like many another
square man finding his niche in a raw country, he was
beginning to see that right must be enforced by might,
until such time as wrong became subdued by the steady
march of the older civilization.  And this face-about
in opinion is not accomplished in a day, even when on
the spot and a personal sufferer.  It was this new
feeling that led him to listen with respect to Pickles'
confidences, boy though he was.  Boys imbibed men's
ideas early in this country; too early, thought Whitby,
recalling his own play-time at this lad's age.  He stole
a look at the glum face beside him and began to draw
circles with the point of the switch he held in his
hand—he was never without one.  "It's a pity," he said,
"a pity."

"What's a pity?" asked Pickles, a note of indignation
in his voice at the implied suggestion.

Whitby ignored the tone.  "It's a pity you never
heard of the Witch's Spell," he explained, reminiscently.

"What's that?"

"But then, of course," reasoned Whitby, "if you
can't find a Witch's Ring, you can't work the Spell;
and I rather fancy there is n't a Witch's Ring in all
the world outside of Yorkshire."

"What's it like?" demanded Pickles, with the practical
insistence of Young America.

"Why, the Old Witch makes it, you know.  She
runs around in a ring and blows on the grass and
it never grows any more.  Inside the Ring and outside,
the grass is just the same, but the Ring is always
bare."

Pickles was silent.  He was picturing to himself the
process of the Ring in the making.  So was Hopalong.
It seemed very matter-of-fact as Whitby told it; still,
there was something—

"What's she do that for?" asked Pickles—the
very question Hopalong was asking himself.

"It's the bad fairies, you know, and Wizards, and
that sort of thing; she 's afraid of them.  But they can't
pass the Ring, no matter how deep they dig, so the
Witch is quite safe, you know.  They 're a bad lot,
those others, no end.  But the Old Witch is quite a
decent sort.  She lives inside the Ring, under the
ground, and that's where you go to get your wish."

Pickles pondered.  His eyes began to glow.  "Any
wish?" he questioned, in subdued excitement.

"All sorts," declared Whitby.  "There was Jimmie
Pickering: he always got his wish; he told me so,
himself; and Arthur Cooper: he wished to be a minister
and he got his wish; and George Hick: he wished to see
the world and he 's always travelling up and down the
earth; and Allen Ramsey, who wished to be an athlete,
strong, you know: he got his wish; then there was
Maggie Sheffield, who wished to marry a soldier: she married
a soldier; and Vi Glades, who wished to be a singer: she
can sing tears into your heart, lad, so sweet you 're
glad to have them there; so she got her wish.  And
ever so many more: they all got their wishes.  She was
a rare good one, that Witch."

"Did you get yore wish, Whit?"

"I could only count to seven," explained Whitby.

Pickles' lips moved silently.  "How many do you
have to count?" he asked, dubiously.

"Nine," said Whitby, with a regretful sigh.  "You
run around the Ring nine times, holding your breath
and saying your wish to yourself over and over again.
Then you run into the middle and lie down.  You
must n't breathe until you lie down.  When you put
your ear to the ground you can hear the Old Witch
churning out your wish.  'Ka-Chug!  Ka-Chug!
Ka-Chug!' goes the churn, away down in the earth.  Then
you know you will get your wish."

Pickles straightened up and looked fixedly at
Whitby.  His voice was very solemn: "Whit, I take
my oath there's a Witch's Ring right here on the range!"

"Nonsense!"

"Hope I may die!  I 'll show you, to-morrow.  An'
I 'm a-goin' to wish—"

"I say!  You must n't tell your wish, you know.
That breaks the Spell.  If ever you tell your wish, it
does n't come true."

"Jiggers!—I won't tell.  Nine times 'round the
Ring an' hol' yore breath an' say yore wish fast an'
then to th' middle—"

Hopalong lost the rest as he continued on his way
to the stable.  Pickles' Ring puzzled him only for a
moment, for as he turned away from the window, he
was chuckling.  "Means some place where th' Injuns
used to war-dance, I reckon," was his conclusion.
"But that Britisher seems like he believed it himself."

Two minutes later and he was in the saddle and
riding south, edging over toward Big Moose trail.  He
melted into the surrounding darkness like a shadow,
silence having been the evident aim of his unusual
preparations earlier in the evening.  Not a leather creaked;
an impatient toss of his pony's head betrayed no clink
of metal on teeth; the velvety padding of the hoofs
made as little noise as the passing of one of the larger
cats, in a hurry.  Hopalong meant to quarter the
section of range allotted him like a restless ghost and, if
the others did as well, he had a strong conviction that
night-deviltry would lose its attractions in this
particular part of the country.

It was not long before he began to test his memory.
To a man of his experience this guard duty would have
presented but little difficulty in any case, but
Hopalong had been careful to make a very complete mental
map of this section when riding it by daylight.  He
went on now like a man in his own house.

He turned abruptly to the left, heading for the Jill
and taking the low ground between two huge buttes.
Just short of the Big Moose trail he halted, listening
intently for five minutes, and then, turning west again,
began to quarter the ground like a hound, gradually
working south.  With the plainsman's certainty of
direction his course followed a series of obliques, fairly
regular, though he chose the low ground, winding
about the buttes, to the top of which he lent a keen
scrutiny.  He stopped for minutes at a time to listen
and then went on again.

It was during one of these pauses that he espied a
dark shape at rest not far from him.  He eyed it with
suspicion.  It should be a cow but there was something
not quite normal in its attitude.  He rode forward
cautiously, being in no way desirous of disturbing the
brute.  Circling it at a walk a similar object loomed
up, some little distance from the other.  "Calf!" he
decided.  A few steps nearer and he changed his mind.
"No, another cow.  I don't know as I ever see cattle
look like that.  'Pears like they was shore enough
tuckered out—an' I bet they ain't drifted a mile in
twenty-four hours."  They were very still.  There was
no reason why they should not be and yet—the wind
being right, he hazarded a few steps nearer.

And then there came to his ears a sound that
stiffened him in his saddle.  His pony turned its head and
gazed inquiringly into the darkness.  "Injuns!"
breathed Hopalong, doubt struggling with conviction.
He slipped to earth and ran noiselessly to the nearest
recumbent figure.  A single touch told him: it was a
dead cow; warm, but unquestionably dead.

With his horse under him once more, Hoppy crept
forward.  Careful before, his progress now had all the
stealth of a stalking tiger.  There it came again: the
unmistakable twang of a bow-string.  The pony veered
to the left in response to the pressure of Hoppy's knee,
when there sounded a movement to the right and he
straightened his course to ride between the two.  His
spirits began to rise with the old-time zest at the
imminence of a fight to the death.  Mary, back yonder in the
ranch house, with her new proud hope, Buck and his
anxieties, Tex in his indefatigable hunt for evidence,
the far-distant Bar-20 with its duties and its band of
loyal friends, all were forgotten in the complete
absorption of the coming duel.  Indians!  Rebellious and
treacherous punchers were foemen to beware of, but
these red wolves, savage from the curb of the
reservation and hungry with a blood lust long denied—a
grin of pure delight spread over his features as he
foresaw the instant transformation from cattle-killing
thieves to strategic assassins at the first crack of his
Colt.

The odds could not be great and he expected to
reduce them at the opening of hostilities.  Warily he
glanced about him as he moved slowly forward, casting,
at the last, a searching look off to the right.  He
saw that which brought him up standing, his breath
caught in his distended lungs; it escaped in a long
sigh of pleased wonder: "Great Land of Freedom!
Please look at that," he pleaded to his unresponsive
country.

Broadside on, head up and facing him with ears
pricked forward, alert yet waiting, stood a horse that
filled Hopalong's soul with the sin of covetousness.  So
near that the obscurity failed to hide a line, the
powerful quarters and grand forehand betrayed to
Hopalong's discerning eyes a latent force a little superior
to the best he had ever looked on.  "An' a' Injun's!"
sighed Hoppy, in measureless disgust.  "But not if I
sees th' Injun," he added hopefully.  Wishing that he
might, his thought back-somersaulted to Pickles and
Whitby and the Witch's Spell.  A whimsical smile
wrinkled the corners of his mouth and at this very
moment the thing happened.

A nerve-racking screech, the like of which no Indian
ever made, lifted the hair on Hoppy's head, and his
pony immediately entered upon a series of amazing
calisthenics, an enthusiastic rendering no doubt
enhanced by the inch or two of arrow-head in his rump.
Hopalong caught one glimpse of a squat, mis-shapen
figure that went past him with a rush and let go at it,
more from habit than with the expectation of hitting.
When he had subdued his horse to the exercise of some
little equine sense, the rapidly decreasing sound of the
fleeing marauder told him that only one had been at work
and with grim hopelessness he set after him.  "Might
as well try to catch a comet," he growled, sinking his
spurs into the pony's side and momentarily distracting
its attention from the biting anguish of the lengthier
spur behind.

The pony was running less silently than when he
left the ranch.  Portions of unaccustomed equipment,
loosened in his mad flurry, were dropping from him at
every jump.  This, and the straining of Hopalong's
hearing after the chase, allowed to pass unnoticed the
coming up of a third horseman, riding at an angle to
intercept the pursuit.  The first intimation of his
presence Hopalong received was the whine of a bullet, too
close for comfort, and Hopalong was off and behind
his pony to welcome the crack of the rifle when it
reached him.  "Shootin' at random, d—n his fool
hide!" snorted Hoppy; "an' shootin' good too," he
conceded, as a second bullet sped eagerly after the first.
Hoppy released a bellow of angry protest: "Hey!
What 'n h—l do you reckon yo 're doin'?"

There was an interval of silence and then a voice
from the darkness: "Show a laig, there: who is it?"

"Show you a boot, you locoed bummer!  It's
Cassidy."  He mounted resignedly and waited for the other
to ride up.  "Could n't 'a' caught him, nohow," he
reflected.  "Never see such a horse in my life, never.
Hope to th' Lord it don't rain.  Be just like it."

The unknown rode up full of apologies.  Hopalong
cut him short.  "What d' they call you?" he asked,
curtly.

"Slow Jack," was the answer.

Hoppy grunted.  "Well, you camp down right
here," he ordered, "an' don't let nobody blot that sign.
I 'm a-goin' to be here at daylight an' foller that
screech-owl th' limit.  Good-night."

He headed for the ranch house, satisfied that his
section of range would remain undisturbed during the
next few hours, at the least.

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



"Sweet birds-o'-paradise!  Would you—would
you oblige me by squintin' at that!"

Straight north, from the few dead carcasses where
the trail started it led to the creek bank, east of the
ranch house; and like hounds with nose to scent,
Hopalong, Buck, and Ned had followed it from the point
where Slow Jack had been found doing sentry-go and
sent, in profane relief, to breakfast and sleep.  Hoppy
was in the lead and as he came to the creek he raised
his eyes to look across at the other bank for signs of
the quarry's exit from the water.  It was the sign on
the north bank, coupled with that on the somewhat
higher bank where they stood, that had made him
exclaim.

Ned Monroe's face cleared of the frowning perplexity
that had darkened it at first sight of the hoof
prints they tracked.  "Must be a stranger," he affirmed.
"Dunno th' country or he 'd never jump when he could
ride through."

"Jump!" exclaimed Buck, startled.  "Why, of
course," he conceded.  "Hoppy, that's shore one
scrumptious jump"; and the dawning admiration
grew to wonder as he mentally measured the distance.

Hoppy nodded his head.  "*I* never see th' horse
could do it right now; an' that bird flew over there last
night.  He was right on it afore he knew an' he did n't
stop to remember how deep it was; he just dug in a
spur an' lifted him at sight of th' breakin' bubbles:
they 'd show purty nigh white last night—an' th'
horse, he does n't know how much he has to jump, so
he jumps a good one—a d—n good one, though Ned,
here, don't think it so much.  Mebby you know a horse
as could do it right easy, eh, Ned?"

With Hopalong's sharp eyes on his face, Ned shook
his head in denial, gazing stolidly at the sign.  "Too
good for any in these parts; would n't be no disgrace
for a thoroughbred."

Buck glanced quickly at Ned and then, pulling his
hat low over his eyes, struck up the brim with two
snappy blows of the back of his hand.

"Well, Buck, I reckon I 'll leave you an' Ned to
foller this.  I got a feelin' I 'm wanted at th' ranch.
So long."  Hopalong rode off in obedience to one of
the signals that had helped to simplify affairs among
the Bar-20 punchers.

Buck had signified his desire for Hoppy's absence.
He pushed Allday to the creek and set off at a lope.
"Easy as follerin' a wagon, Ned," he remarked.

"Yep," agreed Ned.

"Stopped here," observed Buck.  "Listenin', I
reckon.  Goin' slower, now."

"Some," replied Ned.

"Right smart jump acrost that creek," said Buck,
questioningly.

"Uh-huh!" consented Ned, with non-committal
brevity.

They rode a couple of miles before Buck hazarded
another remark.  "Seems like I oughta know that
hoof," he complained.  "Keeps a-lookin' more 'n more
like I knowed it.  Durn thing purty nigh talks."

Ned threw him a startled glance and then gazed
steadily ahead.  "Be at th' Jill in a minute," he
announced.

"Yeah.  Thought he was driftin' that-away.  Lay
you ten to two he don't *jump* th' Jill, Ned."

"Here 's Charley," was the irrelevant response.  The
Indian was a welcome diversion.  Buck slowed to a
walk, raised his eyes and waved Charley an amiable
salute.  The Cheyenne promptly left the trail and rode
to join them.

"Hey, Charley, whose horse is that?" asked Buck,
pointing to the hoof prints.

The Indian barely glanced at them.  "French Rose,"
he declared.  "Cross trail, swim river before sun.  Heap
good horse."

"Where goin', Charley—ranch?" asked Buck,
evenly.  He did not question the Cheyenne's conclusions.
*He knew*.  Buck was satisfied of that.

Charley grinned sheepishly and shifted uneasily
under Buck's stare.  "That's all right," assured
Buck, "tell Jake to give you—no, wait for me.  I 'll
be there as soon as you are."  He turned away
and Charley accepted his dismissal in high good humor,
riding off with cheering visions of a cupful of the "old
man's" whiskey, which was very different from that
dispensed over the bar in Twin River.

"Well, Ned," said Buck.

"Well, Buck," returned Ned.

"You knew it was Rose's horse."

"I was a-feared."

"You knew it, you durn ol' grizzly."

"Look a-here, Buck.  You ain't goin' to tell me as
how Rose—"

"Not by a jugful!  That's a flower without a stain,
Ned, an' I backs her with my whole pile."

"Here, too," coincided Ned, in hearty accord.

"We lost th' trail, Ned."

"You bet!"

"In th' Jill."

"Took a boat," suggested Ned, solemnly.

Buck concealed his amusement.  "Or a balloon," he
offered.

"Mebby," assented Ned.  "Could n't pick her up
agin, nohow."

"Not if we 'd had a dog," declared Buck.

"Or a' Injun," supplemented Ned.  They gazed at
one another for a second and, of one mind, spun their
horses around and off for the ranch like thoroughbreds
at the drop of the flag.

"I just thought o' Charley," explained Buck.

"Here, too," grunted Ned.

"Might talk," said Buck.

"You bet."

Charley heard them coming.  When he saw them,
the explanation to his untutored mind was a race.
Determined to be in at the finish, he laid the quirt to his
pony with enthusiastic zeal, casting a rapid glance
over his shoulder, now and then, to see if he were
holding his own.  It was a sight to see the tireless little
pony wake up under punishment.  He had covered
twenty miles that day and over forty the day before,
but he shot forward on his wiry legs like a startled
jack-rabbit and in one-two-three order they thundered
up to the ranch house with a noise that brought Mary
to the door.

"Well, Buck Peters!" she exclaimed, "ain't you
*never* goin' to grow up?  Yo're worse'n that loco
husband o' mine, right now."

Buck grinned at the abashed Ned and winked knowingly
at Mary.  He and Mary were very good friends,
Buck long ago having gauged her sterling worth and
become aware of her mischievous propensity for
teasing.  As he led Charley indoors he asked for
Hopalong and learned that he had set off for Twin River
soon after his arrival at the ranch house.

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Hopalong had taken his cue from Buck without
question but not without curiosity.  On his way to the
house he decided, not without a longing thought in the
direction of Red Connors, foreman *pro tem* of the
Bar-20, that Tex Ewalt would be all the better for a
knowledge of recent events.  Therefore he paused only long
enough to inform Mary of his intention before
starting in search of him.  At Twin River he pulled up at
the Why-Not and went in for a drink.  Tex was standing
at the bar and ten minutes after Hopalong left, Tex
had overtaken him on the Wayback trail.  They struck
off through the undergrowth until secure from
observation, and Tex was soon acquainted with the latest
attempt at stock reduction.

He listened silently until Hopalong mentioned the
kind of man who had done the killing.  "Big Saxe,"
he exclaimed.  "So, that's his game.  Well, we got
'em now, Hopalong.  I can lay my hands on that cow-killer
right soon, an' he 'll squeal, you bet.  An' I got a
long way to go.  *Adios*."

"Blamed grasshopper!" grumbled Hopalong.
"Never even guessed where that horse come from.  If
Big Saxe is on him yet, you shore got a long journey, Tex."





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.. _`KARL TO THE RESCUE`:

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   CHAPTER XVIII


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   KARL TO THE RESCUE

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Dave, harboring a fermenting acerbity beside
which the Spartan boy's wolf was a tickling
parasite, lay hidden behind a stunted pine,
his glasses trained on the Schatz cabin.  Sourly he
reviewed his several plans, each coming to nought as
surely as if Peters had been made aware of it in its
inception.  The last grand coup, from which he had
expected to derive immediate benefit, had arrived
prematurely and mysteriously at its unexpected
denouement; and that fool Saxe, upon whom he had relied to
create a diversion, must needs keep himself hidden, to
turn up when his efforts would be worse than useless.
And then to come to Dave to be paid for making a fool
of himself!  He cursed aloud at the recollection.  "It
was a good scheme, too," he asserted savagely.  No
use telling him all those cows had stampeded and hurled
themselves to destruction—"When the money for 'em
was as good as mine."  It had never been his real
intention to allow Murray and Jack to divide the profits
and by a curious mental strabismus he readily saw how
he had been robbed.  But losing the money was not the
only nor the greatest blow.  The injury to his sorely
tried vanity hurt the most.  He had been beaten, not
so much by the enemy as by one of his friends.

Clouded by that same vanity his reason had
acquitted all those who might have betrayed him,
excepting Schatz.  Rose, a woman who loved him—he had
dismissed the thought with scorn; Comin', Cock Murray;
they had all to lose and nothing to gain by treachery:
and all the others were bound to him by ties, the
weakest of which was stronger than any Buck could
have formed in the time.  Schatz alone might prove
a gainer.  He did not know in what way, but purposed
to discover.  That was why he was watching now.
He knew Schatz was at home: he had seen the smoke
of his breakfast fire.  "Allus *is* home," he grated.  He
anticipated the calling of Schatz' agents at the cabin
and when Schatz came out and finally rode off on the
Twin River trail, Dave was disconcerted.  He
followed with much care, making good use of his glasses.
The sight of Schatz turning off the trail and riding
toward the Double Y ranch house filled him with a cold
fury.—He determined to intercept him on his return
and have it out on the spot.

But Dave, intent upon the unconscious back of Karl,
had been careless of the surrounding country; and only
his luck in choosing to wait in a place remote from
cover, saved him just then from a rude awakening.
Dodging about in the vain effort to approach to a
point of vantage, was Pickles; he had finished certain
mystic incantations involving the running at speed in
circles, and was returning to await the fulfilment of
his wish.  Filled with awe as he was at this swift
response, it did not prevent him from acting upon it.

His arrival at the nearest possible point showed him
that Dave was still out of range.  For the first time
a doubt of Buck's omniscience assailed him: it was no
part of wisdom to arm a man with a rifle of that sort.
With cautious speed he retraced his steps, mounted
the Goat, and scurried for the ranch by a roundabout
route.  There was nothing haphazard about this; his
ideas were clearly defined: did n't Red Connors always
borrow Hopalong's Sharps for long range?  That
showed.  Pickles had implicit faith in the rifle.  All
that worried him was that Dave might not wait long
enough.

Karl rode leisurely up to the ranch house and called.
Mary came to the door and behind her Buck, whose
brow was wrinkled in the effort of composing a letter
to McAllister.  It was not an easy letter to write and
Buck had enlisted Whitby's services.  He asked Karl
to climb down and come inside.  Mary had disappeared
with a promptitude due to instinctive dislike.  Karl
was not a man to invite the admiration of any woman
at the best of times and now his appearance gave
abundant proof of its being long past "chipping-time."

Karl entered with the unexpected lightness of step
so often a compensating grace in fat men, shook hands
with Whitby, accepted the proffered chair, and plunged
into the reason of his visit with but little preamble.
Whitby sat making idle marks with his pen; soon he
began to write swiftly.

"Big lot of cows you loose, ain'd it?" he asked.

"A few," replied Buck.

"Vat you t'ink: stampede?"

"Looks like it."

"*Look* like it?  *Donnerwetter*!  Look like a drive."

"You seen it?"

Karl nodded.  "Look like a drive," he repeated.

"Would n't surprise me none," admitted Buck.
"We had Injuns shootin' 'em on th' range last night."

"*Himmel*!  Vat fools!"

"Looks like they 're tryin' to drive me off 'n th'
range."

"*Yah, aber* not me.  Ten years und no trouble come."

"Huh!  Well, what would *you* do?"

"Fight," advised Karl.  "I vill fight if you let me
in.  I haf a plan."

"In where?" asked Buck, in some wonder.

"In der ranch—a partner.  Look!  Cows you
must haf, money you must haf, brains you must haf:
I bring dem.  I bring shust so much money as you
und your partner togedder.  Der money in der bank
*geht*.  You buy der cows, goot stock, besser as before.
Goot cows, goot prices, ain'd it?  You pay for
everyt'ing mit der money in der bank.  I stay here und stop
dot foolishness mit precipices und parasites und
shooting.  Vat you dink?"

"Let me get you.  You want to buy in on the Double
Y, equal partners.  I put in so much, McAllister puts
in so much, and you put in as much as both of us.  Th'
money goes in th' bank an' I have th' spendin' of it.
You do yore share o' th' work an' yo 're dead certain
you can stop th' deviltry on th' range.  Is that it?"

"*Yah!*" assented Karl, emphatically.

Buck was astounded at the audacity of the proposal.
His gaze wandered to Whitby, whose pen was moving
over the paper with a speed that impressed Buck, busy
as his mind was.  Outside, a horseman clattered up to
the house and Mary, from the kitchen door, motioned
Hopalong to come in that way.  The door had no sooner
closed behind him than Pickles sped from the security
of the stable, slipped Hoppy's rifle from the saddle
holster, and half a minute later the Goat went tearing
away, bearing the triumphant boy and the coveted rifle
to another scene of operations.  For tenacity of
purpose and facility of execution, Pickles was already
superior to most men.

Buck recovered his wits and faced the expectant
Schatz.  "I just been a-writin' to McAllister," he
informed him.  "You 'll have to give me time to see
what he says.  Let's liquor."

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Buck stood in the door watching Karl ride away; the
expressionless face gave no hint of his feelings unless
it were found in a certain cold hardness of the gray
eyes in their steady stare, fixed upon the broad back
of the receding German.  Leaving this mark, his glance
fell on the horse, waiting patiently for its late rider,
and he turned back into the room and called:
"Hoppy!"  Hopalong came in from the kitchen and
Buck met his entry with the question: "What do you
think that Dutch hog come for?"

Hopalong glanced meaningly at Whitby, who still
appeared to be writing against time.  "That's all
right," asserted Buck, "I 'm a-copperin' my bets from
now on.  Schatz wants to buy in as a partner an'
reckons he can stop th' Double Y from losin' any more
stock, long 's he 's in on th' deal."

"What 'd *you* say?" asked Hopalong.

"Nothin'.  I wanted a chance to get my breath."

"Well, I would n't flirt with that proposition, not any."

"Why, curse his fool hide, what do I want with him
or his money?  If he can stop th' deviltry mebby he 's
at th' bottom of it; an' if he is, it won't be long afore
we know it.  Next time he comes I 'll tell him to go
plumb to h—l."

"I would n't, Buck."

"What's that?" asked Buck, staring hard at Whitby.

"I would n't," repeated Whitby.  "I fancy it's time
you learned what I know.  This German chap, now.
You can't fight him yet, Buck; you can't, really."

"Oh, can't I!" exclaimed Buck.  "What do you
know about it?"

"I know all about it, I should say all that can be
found out.  Do you mind if we have in Mrs. Cassidy?
Clever woman, Mrs. Cassidy."

He left the room while Buck and Hopalong eyed each
other helplessly.  "D—d if he ain't tellin' me what
kind of a wife I 've got," complained Hopalong.  Mary
came in, followed by Whitby.

"Now if you two boys 'll only listen to Whitby,
you 'll learn somethin'," promised Mary.

"It began in Chicago," said Whitby.  "Beastly
hole, Chicago.  I was n't at all sorry to leave it,
except—but that's neither here nor there.  McAllister
is a friend of mine and he rather thought Buck
under-rated the difficulties here; so he asked me to run out
and look it over.  I soon found it was jolly well too big
for me so I wrote to the Governor—my father, at
home you know—and he said he 'd foot the bills.  So
I put it in the hands of a detective agency; very
thorough people, 'pon my word.  They tell me this German
chap is at the bottom of the mischief but they can't
prove it.  He is always behind somebody else.  If Ned
Monroe had not been honest and given up, McAllister
would never have won his case in that court: Schatz
owns the judge, so they tell me.  Amazin' country,
is n't it?  And then he is far too clever to wage a
losing fight: you would have won at the last, despite his
efforts.  Now he 's come with his offer of partnership.
Clever idea, really.  He 'll jolly well use you if he can't
beat you; and no doubt he expects to trick you, Buck,
in some way, perhaps lending you money—then, you
out of it, he has McAllister at a disadvantage.

"My idea is this: take Schatz in as a partner and
he 'll grow less careful.  We shall be able to trip him
up.  Remarkable man, really.  Not one of those he
employs can be made to talk; they 're entirely loyal.
But sooner or later he will make a mistake: rogues all
do, even the cleverest of them; and if they continue to
escape, it is merely because no one happened to be
watching and catch them at it.  I 'll lend you the
money, Buck—"

"But what in—what do I need money for, Whit?
Ain't th' range an' th' cattle enough?"

"Of course they are.  But the German wants to see
some cash capital and it will do no harm to give him
plenty of rope, will it now?"

"But, Whit," objected Hopalong, "if yo 're shore
it's th' Dutchman, we can drive him out of th' country
so quick he 'll burn his feet.  Men 's been shot for
less 'n he 's done."

"You can't do it, Cassidy.  The agency has n't been
able to get a bit of proof.  And McAllister is set against
anything rash.  I thought at one time he had put on
another man.  There 's a chap who makes his
headquarters at Twin River who 's busy, no end.  The
agency rather suspected he was one of Schatz's men.
Sharp chap, that.  And he can't be working on his own
hook, can he?"

He glanced at Buck as if expecting a reply.

"That's Tex Ewalt, Whit," informed Mary.
"He 's on our side."

"Ah! do you know, I thought as much.  My word,
I 'm thirsty; wish I had a brandy and soda here."  He
paused to take a drink of water, shaking his head when
Buck motioned to the whiskey.  "I 'm afraid I shall
never get used to that rye of yours," he declared,
mournfully.

Buck turned to Hopalong.  "What do you make of
it?" he asked.

"If it depended on you alone, Buck, it would be
easier to answer.  But McAllister is in th' game an' it
shore ain't Frenchy: we both know what he 'd 'a' done.
What does McAllister think o' this partnership deal?"
he asked Whitby.

"He has n't heard of it, but I 'm sure he would agree
with me."

"All right!" exclaimed Buck.  "We'll let Mac
make th' runnin'.  If it looks like he 's goin' to lose th'
race it will be all th' easier to drop th' winner if we got
him in gun range.  But I shore hates to pay big interest,
like I must, a-puttin' up money that way."

"Let me lend it you, Buck," advised Whitby.  "The
Governor will cable it fast enough when I ask for it.
You won't have to pay me a penny interest.  And
when things settle down a bit you can turn it over to
McAllister.  I shall stop in this country.  I like it, by
Jove!  And I 'm jolly well sure McAllister will sell out
to me, particularly if—I say, Buck, have I made good
out here in the West?"

Buck laughed as he grasped Whitby's hand.  "Made
good!" he repeated.  "Yo 're th' best Britisher I ever
knew an' I 've met some good ones in my time."  With
Hopalong's slap on his shoulder and Mary smiling at
him from her chair by the window, Whitby felt that it
was likely to prove a very pleasant country "when
things settled down a bit."

"Let's get at that letter to Mac," suggested Buck.
"Th' sooner I hear from him th' easier I 'll be in mind."

"I 've written it," answered Whitby.  "If you like
I 'll get it to Wayback to-night and stop over until
morning."

"Go ahead," agreed Buck.

When he had left, Hopalong turned to his wife with
the query: "How did he find out yo 're a clever woman,
Mary?"

"Because he 's a clever man, only he hides it,"
replied Mary.  "He was a-gassin' 'bout you an' Buck
an' I naturally found out a thing or two myself.
That's how he came to tell you.  He regular confided
in me an' I advised him to tell you-all."

"It was a safe bet you 'd find out more 'n you 'd let
go," complimented Hopalong.

"Oh, you Billy-Red!"

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When Pickles, mounted on the Goat, had left the
ranch by a roundabout way he headed for the bottom
of one of the range's many depressions and followed it
until close to the Jill, where he turned south and began
edging nearer and nearer to the place he had seen Dave.
Pickles had listened to many tales of hunting and as his
associates had been grown men, experienced in stalking,
the boy had absorbed a great deal of healthy knowledge
which he made use of in his playing, in the great
outdoors.  With a grave thoughtfulness beyond his years
he now proceeded to put his knowledge to a sterner use
and worked cautiously toward his objective without
loss of time.  When he rode up the bank of a draw,
alert and wary, and saw the solitary horseman still
keeping his patient vigil, he swiftly dismounted, picketed
the Goat and, taking the heavy rifle, crept forward,
crouching as he went.

He had come to the edge of the cover and saw Dave
still very far away; and after vainly trying to find some
way to get closer to the man he was after, he carefully
opened the breech of the heavy Sharps to be again
assured it was loaded.  A bigger cartridge than he had
ever used confronted him: four inches of brass and lead,
throwing a 600-grain bullet by the terrific force of one
hundred and twenty grains of powder.  The forty-five
Sharps Special raised Hopalong another notch in
Pickles' estimation—truly it was a man's weapon.

"Gosh!" he gloated, and then glanced thoughtfully
across the open plain towards the horseman.  "Twelve
hundred, all right," he muttered, regretfully, for one
hundred would have suited him better.  But a swift
smile chased away the scowl.  The rifle belonging to
Hopalong never missed—he had Buck's word for
that—and besides, he had made his wish.  One last look
around for a cover nearer to Dave, and the big sight
was raised and set.  The gun went to his shoulder and
the heavy report crashed out of a huge cloud of gray
smoke as the Sharps spoke.

.. _`The rifle belonging to Hopalong never missed—and besides, he had made his wish`:

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   :alt: The rifle belonging to Hopalong never missed—and besides, he had made his wish.

   The rifle belonging to Hopalong never missed—and besides, he had made his wish.

Dave's sullen temper was rudely jogged into fierce
and righteous anger.  Something hit his face.
Something else screamed past him, struck a rock and whirred
into the sky with a sharp, venomous burr.  The pony,
resenting Dave's painful appropriation of part of his
ear, went up into the air and came down on stiff legs,
its back arching once as it landed.  The instant the
hoofs were firmly on the ground it stretched out and
ran as it never had before, Dave helpless to check it.
The heavy, sharp report of the huge rifle in Pickles'
hand had no sooner reached him than he had all he could
do to hold his seat.  But the sound of that bullet
passing him, lingered in his mind long after he had regained
control of his terrified mount.

Pickles, swallowing hard and holding one shoulder
with a timidly investigating hand, blinked his dazed
eyes as he looked about, inquiringly.  He remembered
pulling the trigger—and then the Goat had reached
out thirty feet and kicked him in the neck—and if it
wasn't the Goat, who threw the rock?  Dave!  He
sat up and then struggled to his feet, looking eagerly
out to see the remains of Dave scattered carelessly over
the landscape.  Dave was fast getting smaller, a cloud
of dust drifting to the south along his trail.

"D—n it!" cried the boy, tears of vexation in his
eyes.  "He got away!  I missed!  I missed!" he
shouted.  "Buck lied to me!  Th' old gun ain't no
good!" and in the ecstasy of his rage he danced up
and down on the discredited weapon.  "Whitby's
witches ain't no good!  Nothin's no good; an' I missed
him!"

Meanwhile his injuries were not becoming easier: his
head displayed a large, angry lump, and ached fit to
burst; his shoulder was n't broken, he decided, as he
exercised it tentatively, but not far from it; and a
piece of skin was missing from his bleeding cheek.

"I ought to 'a' got him," he muttered sullenly,
picking up the rifle and moving slowly back to where his
horse was picketed.  "Well, anyhow, he was awful
scared—I *knowed* he was a coward!  I knowed it!  If
this old gun was as good as its kick I *would* 'a' got
him, too."  Pickles had gauged the distance perfectly
and his hand had not even quivered when he pulled the
trigger—but he had yet to learn of windage and how
to figure it.  Dave owed his life to the wind that swept
the dust of his pony's feet southward.

When Pickles had turned the horse into the pasture
he reloaded the rifle before slipping it back into its
long leather scabbard.  It must be found as he had
found it and, besides, he was plainsman enough to
realize how serious it might be for Hopalong if he
believed the weapon was loaded and found it empty in a
crisis.

"Never missed, hey?" he growled savagely as he
moved away.  "Huh!  *Next* time, I 'll use *Buck's* gun!"





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.. _`THE WEAK LINK`:

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   CHAPTER XIX


.. class:: center medium

   THE WEAK LINK

.. vspace:: 2

The little buckskin pony stood with wide-planted
feet and hanging head; his splendid bellows of
lungs and powerful abdominal muscles sent the
wind in and out of the distended nostrils in the effort to
overcome the effect of that last mad burst of speed
demanded of him; in his eyes alone, battling against the
haze, shone his unconquerable spirit.  Bearing saddle
and bridle Dave strode away from him to the cabin.

Straight in from Wayback, without a stop, the game
little buckskin had carried Dave.  Jealousy consumed
him.  Rumors of Smiler's defection were floating about
the town and, though no one but those intimately
concerned, knew the actual agreement made, the presence
of the principals and their several places of call had
been noted and fully commented upon.  From such
premises the town's deductions came near the truth.

The facts as known were enough for Dave.  Whatever
Schatz might be planning, Dave was satisfied that
he had no part in it.  That Schatz intended to treat
him fairly was beyond the angle of his narrow mind.
He was very calm over it, his face smooth of wrinkles,
his movements slow and assured.  He had passed
through all the stages from irritation to rage—and
beyond: Calm is always beyond.

"Mein gracious, Dave, you vas in a hurry?" asked
Schatz, as Dave entered.

He hung saddle and bridle on a peg in the kitchen
and strode through into the other room before
replying.  "No," he drawled, dropping into a chair and
stretching his legs full length.

"No?  Schust try to kill a horse, *vas*?"

"Yes.  Played a trick on me this mornin' an' I 'm
showin' him who 's boss."

"*Dummer Esel*!  Und vor a trick you kill him!  Den
no more tricks, *vas*?"

"Oh, to h—l with th' cayuse!  What's all this I
hear o' you an' Peters in a lovin' match?"

"*Ach*!  '*Nun kommt die Wahrheit*'! If you not
come to-day, I send for you.  Vy you stay avay like
dot?"

"I 'm busy tryin' to make Peters good an' sick o'
th' range, tryin' to drive him back to Texas, where he
come from.  What are you doin': payin' his passage
or backin' him to win?"

"Paying his passage, Dave; vere, I am not sure.
Look: here iss Herr Peters," stabbing a finger into
the palm of his extended right hand, "und here iss
McAllister," duplicating with his left; "und ven I do
so," closing both hands tightly, "nobody iss left but
Schatz."

"Easy as that, eh?" said Dave, sceptically.

"Schust so easy like dot.  Look!  I make me a
pardner by der Double Y."

"Fine," drawled Dave, with hidden sarcasm.

"Vine as gold.  Peters, he get all der money vat he
can.  McAllister, he send der same as Peters.  Me, I
got dot money, already.  Der money vas in der bank.
Der range iss my property schust so much as Peters
und McAllister."

"Fine," repeated Dave.

"Peters, he dink he spend der money.  Soon he go
to buy cows.  Now iss de point: to-morrow I go by der
bank, I dake oud all der money.  Four men iss guard.
I say I go over by der Bitter Root vere der Deuce
Arrow herd for sale iss; und I take all der money.
Because dot bank in Vayback too small.  I leave der
bank und stop by der Miner's Pick saloon.  Ve drink.
A man vot vears a mask comes in.  He cover us mit a
gun.  He take der money, ride away to Coon River
by der Red Bluff.  Dere iss man und boat.  Der man
mit der boat take horse und ride to first relay und
pretty soon he iss in Rankin.  A relay every ten miles.
Der man mit der money go down river in der boat five
mile und dere iss man mit two horses; he ride to
Vayback und den here mit der money.  Vat you tink?"

"Fine," said Dave, for the third time.  "An' who 's
goin' to do all that ground an' lofty tumblin' with th'
money?"

"Dave Owens," replied Schatz, with an air of
conferring a great favor.

"Me!" exclaimed Dave.  He laughed cynically.
"Why, Karl, if I had somebody to do all th' hard
work, I can make plans like that, myself.  Talk sense."

"Hard vork!  It iss easy, like a squirrel up a tree.
Everybody iss by der station ven der train comes.
You take all der guns und ve not make noise, *aber* some
thief know you got all der money und catch you first
und rob you.  Ve got no horses ven ve go by train,
und must run, get horses to run after you.  So you get
avay.  You come here mit der money und who know it?"

"Who's makin' th' blind trail?"

"Denver Gus."

"I don't envy Gus none."

"Vy?  I pay him goot.  He vas go to Texas,
anyvay, pretty quick."

"How you goin' to get out of it?"

"I don't get out of it.  Peters, he gets sick und I
say: 'Vell, some money I got yet, I buy you out';
*aber* he tink it iss a trick und get mad.  Four men I
got, gun-men, all.  Dey shoot him so soon he get mad."

"An' then McAllister jumps on you with both
feet for takin' that money out o' th' bank in th' first
place."

"*Ach*!  Vat you dink?  Am I a fool?  Ain'd I a
pardner already?'

"What's that got to do with it?"

"I have schust so much right to take der money as
Peters.  I don't steal der money—it iss steal avay
from me.  Can I help it?"

"Is that th' law?"

"Der law iss my part.  For der law, brains you
must haf.  Brains I got.  To ride, you know.  Vat
you dink?"

"I go you," declared Dave.  "But you shore take
a big chance with th' money.  I *might* get plugged an'
have to drop it."

"*Mein lieber Gott!*" moaned Schatz, in despair.
"Brains!  Brains!" he roared.  "*Ach*!  Vat use?
Alvays it iss der same.  Von day Canada iss der United
States; so England iss *gebunden*; South America iss
Deutchland; soon all der continent iss Deutchland.
Vat fools!  No *Verstand—blos* for money.  Und to
make money iss der little part.  Vat fools!"

"Wake up!  Who 's th' fool if I drop that bundle
an' somebody on a good horse gets away with it?  Because
you can bet yore whole pile I ain't aimin' to stop
an' stand off th' beginnin' of a Judge Lynch party, not
any."

"Dave, if a veek you sit und a veek you tink, und
schust about von ting, you know somethings about it,
*vas*?"

"Shore would."

"Und mit *your* head you must tink.  Many days
mit *my* head I tink und tink, everythings, possible und
not possible.  Den ven der plans iss made, *you* mit
*your* head mistakes find.  Der money vat you steal, it
iss no matter, *aber* don't lose it—besser you burn it,
as lose it."

"*Burn* it?"

"Yah!  Paper it iss, schust paper."

"Paper!"  Dave stared in doubt.  "Paper," he
repeated, struggling to grasp the idea.  He gave it up
and quite humbly asked for light.  "What th' blazes
am I a-goin' to run away with paper for?"

"Maybe somebody smarter as I tink.  Two men,
already, much questions ask.  Maybe Peters take all der
money before me.  So I go by der bank und get der
money first.  Dey can't help it.  It iss my bank anyvay
und der check iss dere."

"You 've *got* th' money!"

"Yah, here in der house I got it.  Everythings iss
*vollkommen*.  All der mistakes vat come I know,
possible und not possible.  Noding can slip, noding can
break."

"Yo 're a wonder!" congratulated Dave, "th' one
an' only original, sure-fire, bull's-eye wonder."  He
leaned forward suddenly, head bent in listening.
"Somebody outside," he warned, softly.  Gun in hand,
he sprang to the door and passed out.  The gloom of
the coming night lay in wait in the valleys but it was
light enough to detect any skulker.  Dave made a
systematic search, satisfying himself that no one was within
a mile of the cabin, before returning.  "It's all right,"
he assured, as he entered the room again.  A deafening
roar followed his words.  Schatz gave a convulsive
start and slid slowly from his chair to the floor; on his
face was an overwhelming surprise.

"Huh—Huh!  Huh!—" the grunting laugh
spoke immeasureable contempt.  "Brains!"

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The half-open drawer of the sideboard revealed in
the lamplight a number of packages, the wrappings of
several being torn open.  Dave sat thoughtfully
contemplating them.  He had removed them from their
hiding place and put them in the drawer before lighting
the lamp, both acts due to precaution: spying upon
Karl had discovered to Dave the hiding place; he was
distinctly opposed to finding himself in the same
predicament regarding his suddenly acquired wealth.  The
still figure, resting under two feet of earth, close to the
river bank, gave him no concern whatever.  His mind
was busy with the best way to pack the money; small
bills were difficult to trace but bulky to carry.  He
shoved the drawer to with his foot and re-lit his pipe.
His plans were already made.  He had reasoned
them out swiftly while hunting the supposed skulker.
The disappearance of Karl would be associated with
the disappearance of the money.  The bank would
maintain that the money had been drawn on the day
the check was dated, which necessarily must be
to-morrow.  The four men who were to act as guards would
conclude some difficulty had arisen and await further
orders; it would be the same with all the others
involved.  The way was clear for him.  There remained
only Rose.  He knocked the ashes from his pipe and
went to bed.





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.. _`MISPLACED CONFIDENCE`:

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   CHAPTER XX


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   MISPLACED CONFIDENCE

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Pickles was hungry.  He cocked his eye
anxiously at the sun and sighed.  He gazed in
discouragement over the widespread furrowed
earth where his best efforts left so small a trace and
dropping the hoe, sighed again.  With all his soul he
wished he had not fled from the Double Y.  Sudden
resolution armed him.  He shoved his hands in his
pockets and marched manfully in the direction of the
house.  He refused to go hungry for anybody.

Topping a rise, his head barely showed against the
sky-line when he dropped as if shot.  The horseman
making for the house might be Jean; his glance had
been too hasty for recognition.  Flat against the earth,
Pickles pushed himself backward until he felt it safe
to turn and gallop clumsily down grade on hands and
feet.  Far enough, he sat and thought.  He could gain
the barn unseen and if he ran, would have time to dash
into the house, grab some chuck, and get away again
before the horseman got there.  He sprang to his feet
and ran like a long-horn steer, gazed upon by the stock
in pasture with interest: they were not accustomed to
this style of locomotion in trousers.

Pickles made excellent time on the level but when he
turned to breast the slope it was harder going; and
Pickles was tired; he had been at work since sun-up
with a short rest at breakfast.  He gained the barn
winded but went through and crossed to the house
without pausing.  Back of the house he stopped to
listen.  He had cut it too fine.  The horse was coming
up to the door.  "Darn it!" said Pickles, with bitter
emphasis.

The snap of the catch on the front door and Rose's
voice told him she had gone outside.  Maybe the rider
was n't coming in; they could n't see the end window
if they did and if he were quick—he squirmed over
the ledge, dropped noiselessly to the floor, sped through
the doorway—and almost dislocated his spine with the
ferret-like turn he made in trying to get back into
the room the same instant he left it: he had barely
escaped the other's entry; if Rose came to the bedroom
she would be certain to exclaim at sight of him.  Pickles
breathed a short—a very short—prayer.  He put
his hands to the window ledge—and stiffened.

"No, I can't stay.  Rose, I 'm pullin' my freight.
How soon can you come along?"

It was Dave—he was going away—and he wanted
Rose to go, too.  Pickles knelt silently by the bunk and
muffled his rapid breathing in the blankets, while he
listened.

"Where?" asked Rose.

"Anywhere you say.  I 'm a-goin' to clean up a
gold mine in a few hours an' yo 're goin' to help me
spend it.  We 'll get married first stop."

"A gold mine?"

"More money than you ever saw."

"And you want—me—to go with you?"

"Not with me.  I got to get th' money first.  I 'll
get th' train to Helena to-night.  You get on at
Jackson.  You can make it easy on Swaller."

"I must know more.  Perhaps you tell true.  Perhaps
you run away.  Tell me."

"Got a good opinion o' yore future husband, ain't
you?  Quit foolin', Rose.  Have I got to show you the
cards afore you take a hand?"

"Yes," was the decisive answer.

"All right.  It's this way: Schatz deals to Peters
from a cold deck.  He gets all th' money out o' the
bank, Peters', McAllister's, an' his.  Then he lets me
lift it, him not knowin' who I am, o' course.  I do th'
mysterious disappearance act an' Schatz makes foolish
noises too late.  A posse takes after me an' runs into
a blind trail.  I circle back to town.  Right there is
where I fool Schatz.  He thinks I 'm driftin' along the
Big Moose trail to hand th' money over to him graceful.
'Stead o' that I 'm snortin' along the track to
Helena with you.  Schatz dassent make no holler an'
we leave him an' Peters to fight it out.  Do you get me?"

"They will kill you."

"Oh, not a whole lot, I reckon.  I 'm gettin' so used
to bein' killed thataway, I sorter like it.  Talk sense.
Where's th' ole man?"

"I will leave a letter for him."

"Hip hooray!  Mighty nigh kissin'-time, Rose.
*Would* be, on'y I can't leave this blasted cayuse: 'fraid
to trust him.  Which way you goin'?  Don't show in
Wayback.  Hit th' river farther west."

Pickles had heard enough.  His exit through the
window was rapid and silent.  His retreat from the
house, made along two sides of a triangle, was prompted
by his knowledge of the positions of Rose and Dave and
he manoeuvred so they should not be able to see him.
Nevertheless the security of the barn was very welcome,
although he gained it only to recall that the Goat was
at pasture.  Then Swallow must be in the corral.  He
looked from the rear door.  Yes, there he was, close to
the fence, gazing across the grass at the field stock
and no doubt wishing he were with them.  Whimpering
with suppressed delight the boy ran silently to his
rope, hanging in long loops over two pegs in the wall;
he coiled it ready to hand, crept out the door, and was
at Swallow with the rush of a bob-cat.  The great
stallion made one mighty bound, lashed out one foot and
stood with flattened ears; he knew the meaning of a
rope in that position as well as any cow-pony in
Montana and the indignity vexed while it subdued him.
Pickles never bridled and saddled so rapidly in his
short life.  Keeping the barn between him and the
house, he rode a mile or more out of his course before
he dared to turn; then he took his bearings, set a
straight line for the Double Y ranch, and gave Swallow
his head.  The good horse, scarcely feeling the boy's
light weight, went forward with a rush, but responded
to the light hand on the bridle and settled down, travelling
mile after mile with the tireless stride and ease of
movement that had won him his name.

Greatly as he wished for the journey's end, Pickles
rode with judgment.  The first doubt assailed him as
he neared the Jill: would Swallow take the water?  He
was not kept long in doubt.  Swallow knew better than
to refuse.  A master rider had put him through this
stream, close to that very spot, in the dark of a not
long distant night.  The sight of the water sent the
horse's ears pricking forward; he entered readily and
swam for the opposite bank the moment the ground
left his feet.  Pickles shouted his delight; it would
have broken his heart to have been compelled to go
back to the ford.  Swallow scrambled out onto the bank
with little trouble and stretched out once more in his
sweeping gallop; he knew now where he was bound and
pulled impatiently against the restraining touch.  The
pace was a source of wonder to Pickles; seven miles
and a swim at the end of it and here he was asking for
a loose rein, demanding it, and going faster than ever.
"Darned if I believe he *can* get tired," said Pickles;
"go on then," and he gave him his head and smiled a
tired smile to note how the powerful limbs quickened
their action and the horse gathered pace until Pickles
was travelling faster than ever before in his life.  Only
the smoothness of the motion gave him confidence in
his own ability to hold out.  "I could never 'a' made
it on th' Goat," he reflected.  "Go on, boy!  Eat 'em
up!"  One slender black ear slanted toward him and
away again.  Swallow was eating 'em up the best he
knew how.

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Having made her decision, Rose listened carefully to
Dave's advice.  The more he talked the better she
understood the situation; and Dave had scarcely mounted
to ride away before she began her own preparations.
They appeared to be very simple, merely the apparelling
for a ride and keeping watch after Dave to see that
he kept on his way.

Dave's disappearance sent her hurrying to the stable.
She was surprised to find her bridle missing.  On the
next peg was Pickles' bridle, the only one ready for
instant use.  She hesitated a moment at sight of the
heavy bit, but took it down and hastened to the edge of
the pasture, sending a clear call for Swallow as she
ran.  There came no answering hoof-beats and she
waited to reach the fence before calling again.  A
glance to right and left and she put her hands to her
mouth and sent forth a ringing summons that carried
to the far corner of the enclosure.  The wait of a few
seconds told her that Swallow was not in the pasture.
Vexed and wondering she glanced from one to another
of the animals near her: two draft horses, a brood
mare, its long-legged colt close by, all watching her
with that spell-bound intensity of gaze frequently
accorded the sudden appearance of a human among
domestic animals running free.  Swallow would never be
turned in the same field as these; then where was he?
Jean was riding the only saddle pony—no, there was
the Goat.  Suspicion awoke in Rose: was it possible
Pickles had dared to ride away on Swallow!

The Goat had ideas of his own; he had positively no
use for a bridle just then, but Rose had ideas of a
distinctly superior order of intelligence and but little time
was lost before the Goat was plunging away to where
Pickles should be, carrying Rose astride and bareback.
Her suspicions were confirmed in part: Pickles was not
where he should be.  She swung the Goat through a
half circle on his hind feet and started back for the barn
with a rush.  Ten minutes later, the Goat, properly
saddled, turned short out of the farm road with a
cat-like scramble onto the Twin River trail.  He had not
carried so much weight since his old master rode him
and he did not like it, but knew better than to shirk;
he had tried that, and the spurs, two of them, clanking
loosely on Rose's small boots, had ripped his sides with
quite an old-time fervor.  Rose had found time to
adjust them after saddling; the last hole barely held them
but they served.  How she longed for the free-striding
gallop of Swallow!  The tied-in gait of the Goat was
irksome to her but she kept him to his work and Twin
River drew rapidly nearer.  With Dave's instructions
in mind she knew there was plenty of time but it would
be foolish to lessen the margin of safety by loitering.

A quarter of a mile from the ford she passed the
stage from Wayback.  The driver was just whipping
up to enter Twin River in style and the stage
occupants had opportunity to appraise Rose as she forged
ahead.  "My heavens, what a beauty!" exclaimed a
young lady on the seat beside the driver, herself no
mean specimen of God's handiwork.  "Who is she?"

The driver shifted his whip and swept off his hat with
a flourish.  He gazed admiringly after the rider.  "That,
ma'am, is the French Rose; an' this is certainly my
lucky day.  I ain't seen two such pretty women before
in one day, not in a dog's age.  I ain't never seen 'em,"
he amended with enthusiastic conviction.

The coach cut through the ford to the hiss of the
swirling water and turned into the straight in time for
them to see a man run out from the Sweet-Echo to meet
Rose, standing with his hand on the bridle while Rose
leaned forward in what looked suspiciously like a warm
greeting.

Another exclamation escaped the young lady on the
stage: "Whitby!" and the blush called forth by the
driver's frank admiration paled as she watched the two
whom they rapidly approached.

"Know him, ma'am?" asked the driver politely; but
his companion was oblivious to all but the scene before
her.

Rose's imperious gesture and call had brought
Whitby running.  They had achieved a warm regard for
each other during Rose's numerous visits to the Double
Y, made at Dave's instigation; visits that had not
ceased until the arrival ef Hopalong and Mary, when
Dave had declared it was no use to try longer.  Whitby
grasped the significance of Rose's hurried words in
very brief time.  "By Jove!" he exclaimed, thinking
rapidly.  "By Jove! he will do it, too.  They can't
refuse to honor his check, you know.  Buck is the only
one can stop it.  Lucky Pickles was gone and you came
here instead of going to the Wayback bank.  Buck
has n't long left me.  I can catch him."  He ran around
to the shed at the rear and was going fast when he
turned into the trail, astride his pony.  His reassuring
wave of the hand to Rose stopped in mid-air as he
caught sight of Margaret McAllister, standing on the
footboard of the coach and looking at him with an
expression he did not in the least understand.  He made
as if to pull up, thought better of it, and sweeping off
his hat, dug the spurs into his pony and shot out over
the Big Moose trail at a speed that promised to get
him somewhere very soon.

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Dave had not left the LaFrance cabin far behind
when he pulled up with an oath and after a short period
of consideration, turned back, riding at fair speed.
He found cause to congratulate himself in starting
early: it gave him time to go back to Rose and furnish
her money in case of need.  He saw her sooner than he
expected.  Turning a slight bend in the trail, he had
full view of the Goat, not two hundred yards away, and
saw him bound forward like a racer as the spurs ripped
into him; Dave gripped a shout in his throat at sight
of this act: why was Rose in such a hurry?  Suspicion
ebbed and flowed in his mind.  If she were in such a
hurry, why was n't she on Swallow?  But the spurring
had been for speed, not for punishment.  Maybe she
was saving Swallow for the longer journey.  But if
content to tell her father by letter of her going, who in
Twin River needed a personal call?  She could not
be going farther than Twin River—to the Double Y,
for example: there was not time for that.  And why
should she want to go there, either?  Dave shook his
head impatiently.  Either she was square or she was n't.
If she was n't, there would be a group of hard-riding
boys pounding along the trail in time to cut off Schatz
at the bank.  He decided to ride to within a short
distance of town, lay off the trail, and wait.  If no one
showed up, he would stick to the original plan.  If
Rose played crooked, he would take a train East.  If
too hard pressed, he could use the relays south in place
of Denver Gus.  Denver might put up an argument but
he had one answer to all arguments that had always
silenced opposition the moment he produced it.  "Get
on, bronc," he commanded, heading for Wayback.

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Buck had got farther south than Whitby suspected;
so far, that Whitby was beginning to hope he had not
struck off from the trail, when he sighted him.  Buck
was riding head on shoulder, as if he had heard the
coming of his pursuer, and he pulled up at the other's
wild gesture.  "What's eatin' him?" said Buck,
smiling for the thousandth time at Whitby's manner of
riding; it was a constant wonder to Buck that a man could
sit a horse like that and stick to the worst of them as
Whitby did.  "He shore ain't meanin' to swim the
Black Jack to get to the Fort."  The smile faded as
he suddenly realized the appeal in the Englishman's
frantic waving; he rode forward rapidly and they were
soon near enough together for Whitby to be sure his
words would be heard and understood.

"Twin River, Buck!  Twin River!  And ride like h—l!"

Buck's quirt bit into his pony's flank.  Never before
had he known the Englishman profane; it must be
serious.  Whitby turned and raced ahead of him, rapidly
over-taken by Buck who rode a fresher and speedier
mount.  As they ran side by side, Whitby rapidly
repeated Rose's news.

"I can make it, Whit," declared Buck.  "They won't
try to work th' game till closin' time at th' bank.  Train
bound west is due at Wayback about then.  Wish I had
Allday under me.  So long."

Whitby slowed to a lope and Buck drew away
rapidly.  His duty accomplished, the Englishman's
thoughts turned to the puzzling expression on
Margaret McAllister's face, as he had last seen it.  He
tried in vain to analyze it and unconsciously pressed
his tired horse into a faster pace in his anxiety for
an explanation.

Buck did not spare his pony.  He *must* be at the
bank before the money was paid over.  The stringing
up of Schatz by Judge Lynch would not bring the
money back; and Buck had grave doubts of his ability
to accomplish this retribution.  Schatz appeared to
grow stronger the more he knew of him.  Nobody but
a man very sure of himself and his power would dare
such deviltry.  Well, it would come to a personal
straightening of accounts.  Buck's grim face was
never sterner.  But first he must get to the bank.
Resolutely putting aside all other considerations he
gave his whole mind to his horse.  Presently he shook
his head: "Never make it," he muttered; "have to
relay at Twin."  Even as he said it he saw ahead of
him another rider approaching at an easy lope; an
expression of gratified pleasure appeared on Buck's
face as he saw the other dismount and begin to lengthen
the stirrup leathers.  It was Rose.  "By G—d!
What a woman!" exclaimed Buck.  "She thinks as
quick as Cassidy an' never overlooks a bet."

He urged his pony to its best speed.  With a fresh
mount in sight, his object was practically assured.  As
he drew near, Rose called out: "Horse wait for you
at Two Fork Creek."

He pulled short beside her in two jumps.  "Rose, I
love you," he declared, his eyes sparkling with pleasure;
"you 'd oughta been a man!"  He sprang to the ground
while speaking and was astride the Goat at a bound,
turning in his saddle to call back to her: "But I 'm
most mighty glad yo 're not."  A wave of his hand and
he faced about, settling in his seat for the run to Two
Fork, five miles beyond Twin River.

The crimson flood that burned in her face at his first
remark, to recede at his second, returned in full tide
as she stood with lips apart and eyes wide, watching
him ride away.  A trembling seized her, so that she
clung to the saddle for support.  The moving figure
became blurred as the tears gathered in her eyes; she
brushed them away impatiently with the back of her
hand.  "He is not mean it that way," she murmured;
"it is only that he is glad I think about the horse."

She mounted and rode soberly toward Twin River.
The pony, awaiting the customary notice to attend to
business and finding it long in coming, began to
entertain a sneaking affection for skirts, which until then
he had regarded with suspicious hostility.





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.. _`PICKLES TRIES TO TALK`:

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   CHAPTER XXI


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   PICKLES TRIES TO TALK

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Mary sat at the window sewing—a continuous
performance with her these days.  The
sound of a horse approaching caused her to
glance up just as a faint call for "Buck" reached her.
One look and the sewing fell to the floor as she sprang
to her feet, crying out for Jake as she ran.  With
Swallow nuzzling at her dress, she supported Pickles until
Jake came to aid; he lifted the boy from the saddle and
carried him into the house.

Mary hastily got out the whiskey and Pickles gulped
down a mouthful before he realized what it was.  He
choked, and pushed away the cup.  "Don't want it,"
he declared, weakly; "ain't never goin' to drink."

"Good boy," encouraged Mary, patting his head.
"You stick to that."

"Where 's Buck?" asked Pickles.

"He ain't come back yet," answered Mary.

"Where is he?" insisted Pickles.

"I don't know," was the patient reply.

"I gotta find Buck," the boy declared, starting to rise.

Mary pushed him back.  "How can you find him
when you don't know where he is?"

"Ain't he som'er's on th' range?"

"No; him an' Whit rode off Twin River way this
mornin' an' they ain't neither of 'em back yet."

"Well, I gotta find him, an' I gotta find him now,"
declared Pickles.  "Lemme go."

"What's eatin' you?" demanded Jake.  "*You*
ain't fitten to ride *no* place an' I 'm mortally certain
you can't walk."

"Shut yore trap, Woolly-face.  What's a sheep like
you know, anyhow?  Nothin'!  Can't even dig holes
less 'n yo 're prodded with lead.  Lemme go."

The whiskey was having an effect on Pickles or he
never would have shown malice like this.  Besides, it
was not true and Pickles knew it.  To all questions he
had but one answer and Mary was in despair when
Hopalong strode into the room.  Hoppy wanted to
know things—"Where'd you get that horse?" he
asked, sharply.

"Huh?" queried Pickles.

"Where 'd you get that horse—that horse you
was ridin'?"

"That's Rose's horse—where 's Buck?"

"Rose who?"

"Huh?  French Rose.  Say, where's Buck?"

"French Rose, hey?  Say, Mary, that's th' horse
got away from me with that cow-killin' screech-owl th'
other night."

"That horse?  Rose LaFrance's horse?  Oh, Billy!"

It seemed that Mary was deeper in Buck's confidence
than his old friend Hopalong, in this matter, at all
events.

"Say you, blast you!  Where's Buck?  Lemme go!
What's eatin' you?  Ah, h—l!"  Pickles relaxed
under the grasp of Jake's hands and limply essayed to
retrieve his reputation.  "I asks yore pardon, ma'am.
I promises Buck I won't never swear afore a lady an'
here I goes an' does it, first time I 'm mad."

Hoppy eyed the penitent keenly.  "Say, Bud;
what's wrong?" he asked, quietly.  "Buck ain't got
no better friend than me and I 'll find him for you;
but there ain't no good huntin', less 'n I got somethin'
to say when I get there."

"Will you?  Bully for you!  Tell Buck th' Dutchman
's goin' to get all th' money—then Dave 's goin'
to get it—it's in th' bank—on'y Schatz don't know
who it is—nobody catches Dave runnin' into a blin'
trail thataway—then Dave takes th' money to th'
Dutchman—but right here 's where he fools him—he
don't take it—he keeps it—an' he marries Rose
on th' train to Helena—Rose rides Swaller to
Jackson to get th' train—on'y she has got to get another
horse 'cause I rode Swaller here.  D 'you get me?"  Pickles
stared expectantly at Hopalong, who turned to Jake.

"Put that horse in th' barn.  Saddle Allday.  Rope
a cayuse an' set that smoke a-rollin'—take a blanket
an' ball th' smoke three times at th' end o' every
minute—go through th' Gut an' up th' north side.  *Pronto!*"

Jake went out of the door on the jump.  He moved
fast for Buck on occasion—rare, it is true—but
there was a volcanic danger in Hopalong's eye that put
springs in Jake's boot-heels.

"That's th' way to talk," sighed Pickles, happily.
Hopalong went to the rack and took down his rifle.
"Reckon yo 're goin' to want that?" asked Pickles.

"Reckon I might," admitted Hopalong, gravely.
"You see, after I find Buck I 'm a-goin' to look for
Dave an' th' Dutchman."

"Jiggers!  I shore hopes you find 'em.  I 'd sooner
you get Dave than any man I know, 'ceptin' me."

"Well, I sorter count on gettin' Dave.  So long,
Pickles."

"So long," echoed the boy.

Mary followed her husband outside.  "Don't get
hurt, Billy-Red," she warned him.

"That sort o' vermin never hurt me yet, Mary.
When th' boys get here send 'em after me to Wayback.
Tell Ned, rifles.  Let me have all th' money you got;
if I miss Buck I might want it."

Mary watched him until he rode by on Allday,
waving to him from the corner of the house.  Then she
went indoors to Pickles.

"That's a bully man, that Hopalong, ain't he?"
was his enthusiastic greeting.

"He shore is; an' you 're a bully boy, Pickles,"
replied Mary.  She took up her sewing again.  The boy
watched her curiously and was about to ask a question,
when Sleep floated past and Pickles forgot to ask it.





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.. _`"A MINISTERING ANGEL"`:

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   CHAPTER XXII


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   "A MINISTERING ANGEL"

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Mrs. Blake surveyed her surroundings with
the surface calm which comes from seeing
and disbelieving.  These were depths to
which she never had expected to descend.  She allowed
herself half a moment of speculation on the possibility
of there existing, somewhere in the world, a real lack of
accommodations as appalling as her imagination could
now conceive.  "I have often thought Mr. Blake
somewhat careless in his choice of a hotel during our
wanderings, but the worst of them never even
suggested—Margie, did you ever in your life imagine such a room
could exist?"

"It is only for an hour or so," returned Margaret,
listlessly.

"Oh, I don't complain, my dear.  You are an equal
sufferer.  And I am distinctly relieved at the thought
of removing some of this terrible dust before
we—before—we—"

Her voice trailed off into silence as she caught sight
of a motto over the door; it was one of those affairs
worked in colored worsted over perforated cloth; the
colors had been chosen with less regard to harmony
than is usually exhibited by an artist; perhaps it was
contrast that was sought; as a study in contrasts it
was a blasting success.  Mrs. Blake glared at it with
the fascinated interest of a spectator within the
danger zone of a bursting bomb.  "'God bless our home,'"
she read, in awed undertone.  "Perhaps He will, but it
is more than it deserves."  She mounted laboriously
onto a chair and turned the motto to the wall, hastily
facing it about again with a suppressed scream: if the
front were chaos the back was a cataclysm.  In a spasm
of indignation she jerked it loose from its fastening
and dropped it out of sight behind the evil-looking
washstand.  In this position her glance fell on the
crude specimen of basin provided.  She picked it up
doubtfully and struck it against the side of the
washstand.  "Tin!" she exclaimed.  "A dishpan!" and
went off into peals of laughter, banging the pan and
calling "Dinner!" in an unnaturally deep voice, when
she could speak from laughing.

Margaret turned a sullen face from the window.
She had seen the French Rose in animated conversation
with a tall, good-looking man in flannel shirt and
overalls, who had ridden away up the road, evidently in
obedience to her orders; while Rose, herself, rode in the
direction taken by Whitby.  The soft, broad-brimmed
hat, the waist but little different from the flannel shirt
of the man, the ill-fitting skirt, the mannish gloves and
clumsy boots—the superb health of the splendid
figure proclaimed itself through all these disadvantages.
The woman was a perfect counterfoil for Whitby, and
Margaret hid the ache in her heart under a sullenness
of demeanor that a less astute companion might have
attributed to the annoyances and inconveniences of the
journey.

"For heaven's sake, Aunt, don't make such a noise,"
she insisted; "my head aches as if it would split."

"Your head aches!  I 'm sorry, my dear.  Still,
there are worse things than head-aches, now are n't
there?"

Margaret stared.  "No doubt," she admitted, tartly;
"but it is the worst I have to submit, at present.  When
a greater evil befalls me I will tell you."

"Why, that's honest," said Mrs. Blake, cheerfully;
"and as long as we are to be honest, you are sure it is
not your conscience that is at fault?"

"My conscience?" asked Margaret.  "What has
my conscience to do with a head-ache?"

"First class in Physical Geography, rise.  Jessie,
what is the origin of the islands of head-aches that
vex the pacific waters of the soul?  They are due to
volcanic action of bad conscience."

"Oh, Aunt! how can you be so absurd?"

"I would rather be absurd than unjust, Margaret."

"I don't understand you."

"You understood me very well.  Because you see
Whitby talking to a pretty woman, is that a reason
to condemn him?"

"Talking!  He kissed her before my very eyes, in
the public street."

"You cannot say that, Margaret.  I saw the
meeting as plainly as you did."

"How could you?  You were inside!  Why has he
never mentioned her in his letters?"

"Has he ever mentioned anything but business?
He would scarcely mention her to George, and you
know he has not written to you."

"No, he had something better to do.  This is an
unprofitable discussion.  I am utterly indifferent to
Mr. Booth's actions, past, present, and to come, as well
as the reasons for them.  If you intend to use that
basin for something other than a dinner-call, do so.
I 'm not hungry, but we might as well get it over with.
We have a long drive before us."

"With all my heart, my dear; unless the water is
on a par with the other—er—conveniences."

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"Seems like Buck Peters might be in a hurry,"
observed Slick Milligan, sufficiently interested to come
from behind the bar and walk out onto the porch.
"Which it's th' first time I see him use a quirt."

"None o' thea punchers think aucht o' a horse,"
was Sandy's opinion, based on a wide experience.

If Margaret had chanced to overhear Slick's
remark it would have explained much.  Mrs. Blake was
resting, preparatory to sallying forth on the last stretch
of their journey, and Margaret was about to make
inquiries regarding a conveyance, when the rapid
drumming of a horse's feet drew her to the window as Buck
went past.  Margaret had never met Buck but she was
far too good a horsewoman to fail to recognize the pony.
She had noted every detail when she had first seen
Rose and you may be sure no point, good or bad, of
the Goat as a saddle pony, had escaped her critical
judgment.  Her first thought, as the Goat went past,
was one of surprise that he should make so little of the
weight of his rider, a full-grown man and no
light-weight, either; lean and hard as Buck was, Margaret's
estimate of the number of pounds the pony carried was
very near the mark; and then, in a flash, she knew
him: the very animal that the French Rose had ridden.
Margaret knew it to be out of the question that he
had travelled to the Double Y ranch and back; they
must have exchanged horses on the road.  But, why?

The consideration of this enigma and the many
possibilities it offered as collateral questions, occupied her
fully, to the very grateful content of Mrs. Blake, who
was genuinely tired and ashamed to say so.  It was a
consideration so perplexing that Margaret was
prepared to allow Whitby to explain, when he was so
unfortunate as to appear in company with Rose.  He
had overtaken her, a half-mile down the trail, but
Margaret could not, of course, know this.  They
remained in earnest conversation for two or three
minutes, when Rose went on and Whitby went around to
the shed to put up his pony.  Margaret ran down
stairs and went out onto the porch.  She felt better
able to face him in the open.

It was thus that Whitby, coming in at the back door,
was directed out through the front one.  Rapidly as
Margaret moved, she was too great an attraction to
escape instant notice.  Whitby advanced with
outstretched hand.  "Ripping idea, taking us by surprise,
Miss McAllister.  Awful journey, you know, really."

"We wished to avoid giving trouble.  You are looking
very well, Mr. Booth."

"Fit as a fiddle, thank you.  But—I say—you 'll
excuse me,—but are n't you feeling a
little—ah—seedy, now?  I mean—"

"I quite understand what you mean.  Am I looking
a little—ah—seedy, Mr. Booth?"

"No, certainly not!  Very stupid of me, I'm sure.
I—ah—rather fancied—but of course I 'm wrong.
This confounded dust gets in a chap's eyes so—"

"Do you mean that my eyes look dusty, Mr. Booth?"

"Oh, I say!  Now you 're chaffing me.  As if—"

"Not in the least.  Chaffing is an art in which I
fail to excel.  But if you mean that I look a little pale
and dragged with the journey, you must remember that
I do not pretend to have the vitality of a cow-girl."

"Ah!  Just so.  And Mrs. Blake—she is with you,
I presume."

"The presumption is justified.  Aunt's vitality was
even less equal to the journey than my own.  She is
resting and begs to be excused until she can say
'How do' at the ranch."

"Why—ah—how did Mrs. Blake know I called in?"

Margaret bit her lip.  "I happened to be looking
from the window as you rode up," she explained,
carelessly.

"Ah!  Just so.  Miss McAllister, you don't know
me very well, not really; perhaps no better than I know
you.  I 'm no good at this sort of thing, this fencing
with words, you know; I discovered that long ago; and
I long ago adopted the only other method: to smash
right through the guard.  My presumption does n't
presume so far as to imagine you are jealous; I am not
seeking causes; all I know is, you made me a promise
when I came West, a conditional promise, I grant you:
I was to make good.  Well, I have n't done half bad,
really.  I fancy Mr. McAllister would admit as much.
Buck Peters admits more; and one has to be something
of a man, you know, to merit that from Peters.  He 's
the finest man I ever knew, myself, bar none.  It is very
good of you to hear me so patiently.  I 'm coming to
the kernel of the difficulty just now:

"Rose LaFrance, the cow-girl you mentioned, is the
right sort.  She brought word this morning that will
save Peters a goodish bit of money; incidentally
Mr. McAllister, also.  Buck had to be in Wayback at the
earliest possible moment and I was fortunate enough
to overtake him.  Miss LaFrance not only was
thoughtful enough to ride to meet Buck and give him a fresh
mount and to send a man ahead with whom Buck will
change again, but she insists that we follow him, which
is a jolly good idea; these fellows are very careless
with their fire-arms and he might require help.  If the
blackguard he is after succeeds in withdrawing the
entire deposit from the bank and it is given to him in
cash, before Peters gets there, he will certainly require
help.  I leave you to reflect on these facts, Miss
McAllister.  Give my kindest regards to Mrs. Blake."

He stalked back the way he had come, in the
characteristic wooden manner which precluded any appeal, if
Margaret had felt like making one; but her mind was
too fully occupied with what she had heard to
understand that he was actually leaving.  He was splashing
through the ford before she realized the significance of
this part of his defence.  Thoughtful, and without
resentment, she went to rejoin Mrs. Blake.

Whitby pushed his horse sufficiently to overtake Rose
who, he knew, was riding slowly.  Just outside the
town he met Cock Murray, astride the Goat; the Goat
was a very tired pony and showed it.

"My dear man!  Why are n't you following
Peters?" asked Whitby, in surprised remonstrance.

"My dear Brit!  I sorta allowed it was n't healthy,"
answered Cock.  "I tells you th' same as I tells th'
French Rose: 'When Buck says "Scoot for th' ranch
an' tell Cassidy to hit Wayback *pronto* an' he 'll get
news o' me at th' bank,"' it 'pears like, to my
soft-boiled head, that's what I oughta do."

"I beg your pardon.  Of course.  Rather odd
Peters didn't tell me."

"He meant to.  I 'm sorry he did n't.  So long."

"So long," echoed Whitby, mechanically.  He pulled
up to shout after Cock: "You won't get far on that
horse; he 's done, you know."

"I ain't goin' far on that 'oss," Cock shouted back;
"an' they 're never done till they 're down, you know."

"Impudent beggar, but a good man.  They grow
'em good out here.  I fancy the bad-plucked ones don't
last."  And Whitby hastened on to overtake Rose.

He had left Two Fork Creek four miles behind him
before sighting her; in her impatience she had gone
faster than she knew.  Whitby had almost caught up,
when he saw Rose bend forward, wave to him, and then
dash away, as if she were inviting him to a race.

"Buck!" exclaimed Whitby, with intuitive conviction.
"It's Buck as sure as little apples Kesicks."  Fifty
yards' advance showed him that he was right.
The figure lying huddled in the road was certainly
Buck, and beside him was his dead pony.  Rose flung
herself from the saddle and ran to him; and Whitby,
wearing the terribly savage expression of the man slow
to anger, was not far behind.  Together they laid the
unconscious figure at full length.

.. _`Rose flung herself from the saddle and ran to him`:

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   :align: center
   :alt: Rose flung herself from the saddle and ran to him

   Rose flung herself from the saddle and ran to him

"It is there," said Rose, dully, pointing to the right
thigh.

"Ah," breathed Whitby, in a sigh of relief.  He cut
the cloth but forbore to tear it away, the coagulated
blood having stopped the bleeding.  "Drilled through!"
he exclaimed.  "Why, the swine must have been near
enough to do better than that.  How ever did he miss?
We 'll bandage this as it is, Miss LaFrance, and do it
properly at—now, should you say take him to the
doctor at Wayback?"

"No.  He is a drunken beast.  I will nurse him."

"Very well.  A good nurse is better than a drunken
doctor.  Just cut this sleeve from my shirt, will you?"

Rose took the knife and cut, instead, a three-inch
strip from the bottom of her skirt, Whitby meanwhile
producing a flask, from which he carefully fed Buck
small quantities of whiskey.  Rose tendered him the
bandage.  "Well rolled, Miss LaFrance!  Have you
been taught this sort of thing?"  Rose silently
nodded her head.  "My word!  Buck is in luck.  You
apply the bandage then, while I give him this.  You 'll
make a better job of it than I should."

Buck slowly opened his eyes to see Whitby's face
bending over his.  "Got away, Whit," he whispered,
weakly; "ambushed me, by G—d," and relapsed into
unconsciousness.

"Much blood!  He have lose much blood," murmured Rose.

"Yes," assented Whitby.  "How shall we carry
him?  He can never ride."

"Travois," said Rose.  "I show you."

Buck again regained consciousness and his voice was
distinctly stronger.  "Get after him, Whit.  He
must n't get away."

"Oh, nonsense, Buck.  They know the cat's out of
the bag by this time and they will never be such asses
as to try it on now.  As for Dave, he can't get away.
The agency will be jolly glad to do something for the
money they have had by turning over Dave if I ask it
of them.  And McAllister will think you are worth a
good bit more than the money, I lay.  I know I do."

Buck was attempting feeble remonstrance when Rose
returned from her survey of the timber available and
swiftly placed her hands over his lips.  "Do not talk,"
she commanded.  "It is bad to talk, now."

"What price the nurse—eh, Buck?  Oh, you
lucky beggar!"

"Rose," murmured Buck.  "Why, that's right kind."

Admonishing him with raised forefinger, Rose gave
instructions to Whitby and he hastened away to gather
material for the travois.

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When Margaret returned to Mrs. Blake she was
carrying a pair of driving gloves and a jaunty sailor
hat which Mrs. Blake knew had been packed in one of
the trunks.  "Are we going to start, Margie?" she
asked, with languid interest.

"*I* am going to start but I am going the other way.
We shall not be able to leave for the ranch before
morning, probably."

Mrs. Blake sat up with a suddenness that surprised
even herself.  "The morning!" she echoed.  "If you
think that I shall stay in this horror of a room until
morning, Margaret, you are mistaken.  I will go, if I
walk."

"It's a long walk," commented Margaret, carelessly.

"And may I ask why you are going the other way
and when you purpose to return?"

"I am going to Wayback to telegraph.  Some thief
has planned to get all of papa's money from the bank
there, and of course he will try to escape on the train.
We shall catch him by telegraphing to the officers at
the next town."

"If you do he is a fool.  And who are 'we'?  How
did you learn all this?"

"Whitby told me."

"When?"

"Just now."

"Was Whitby here?"

"Yes."

"And never asked for me?"

"I told him you begged to be excused."

"You told him I—now see here, Margaret.  There
is such a thing as going too far, and this is an example
of it.  'Beg to be excused'!  What will he think of
me?  Where is he now?"

"He has gone on to Wayback.  But he never will
have the sense to telegraph.  That is why I am going."

"Did you quarrel?"

"Well—we were n't exactly friendly."

"Oh!—oh!—oh!"  The three exclamations were
long-drawn, with pauses between them and in three
different keys.

"Aunty!" cried Margaret, furiously, stamping her
foot.  "How dare you insinuate—I said I was going
to *telegraph*!"

"All right, my dear.  Have it your own way.  I 'll
immolate myself on the altar of friendship: in this case,
a particularly uncomfortable bed.  Please remember,
Margaret, as you speed away on your errand of
avarice, I said a *particularly* uncomfortable bed."

Margaret went out and slammed the door.  Mrs. Blake
chuckled until she laughed, and laughed until she
gasped for breath and was obliged to loosen her corsets.
"I am as bad as Margie," she sighed; "I don't know
when I am well off.  Now I shall have to stay marooned
in this pesky room until Margie returns.  I never can
fasten these outrageous things without help."

In her fetching gown of figured brown cloth,
bordered with beaver fur, with slanting drapery of plain
green, above which a cutaway jacket exposed a full
vest, and topped by a high beaver toque—with flush
due to the recent passage-at-arms still in her cheeks and
the fire of indignation in her eyes—Margaret
presented a *chic* daintiness that met with the entire
approval of the burly Sandy, who hastened from the
bar-room at the sound of her descent.

"I want a hitch of some kind," requested Margaret;
"something with speed and bottom, and the sooner the
better."

"A hitch?" queried Sandy.  He had ominous visions
of the dainty figure being whirled to destruction
behind a pair of unruly bronchos.

"A horse, a team, a rig, something to drive, and at
once," explained Margaret, impatiently.

"Oh, ay!  I ken ye meanin' richt enough.  I ken it
fine; but I hae doots o' yer abeelity."

"Very well, then I will buy it, only let me have it
immediately."

"It's no' th' horses, ye ken.  What would I tell yer
mither, gin ye 're kilt?"

"Bosh!" said Margaret, scornfully.  "I can drive
anything you can harness."

"Oh, ay!  Nae doot, nae doot.  But it willna be ane
o' Sandy's, I telt ye that."

Here a voice was heard from out front, roaring for
Slick and demanding a cayuse, in a hurry.

"Losh! yon 's anither.  They must theenk I keepit
a leevery," and Sandy hastened out to the porch to see
who was desirous of further depleting his stock.  When
he saw the condition of the Goat his decision was quick
and to the point: "Ma certes!  Ye 'll no run th' legs
of ony o' my cattle, Cock Murray, gin ye crack yer
throat crawin'.  Tut, tut!  Look at yon!"  He shook
his head sorrowfully as he gazed at the dejected
appearance of the Goat.

"Won't, hey!" shouted Cock, slapping back the
saddle, "then I 'll borrer Dutch Fred's, an' Buck
Peters 'll burn yore d—d ol' shack 'bout yore ears
when he knows it."  A man, watching interestedly from
the bar-room, left by the hall exit, running.

"Buck Peters!  Weel, in that case—Slick, ye can
lend him yer ain."

"I was just a-goin' to," declared Slick, hurrying off;
"which yore d—very generous when it don't cost you
nothin'."

Cock loosened the cinch.  "Generous as—Miss
McAllister!" he exclaimed, aghast.

"Why, of all the people!  How delightful!  What
on earth are *you* doing out here?"  Margaret ran
down to him, extending both hands in warm greeting.

Cock took them as if in a dream.  "Miss
McAllister—Chicago—Oh, what a fool I 've been!"

The man who had left the bar-room tore around the
corner of the hotel on a wicked-looking pinto which
lashed out viciously at the Goat when brought to a stop,
a compliment the Goat promptly returned, though with
less vigor.  "Here y' are, Cock.  He 'll think he 's
headin' for th' Cyclone an' he 'll burn th' earth."  The
Cyclone puncher pushed the straps into Murray's hand
and led away the Goat to a well-earned rest.

"I have to go, Miss McAllister.  See you at the
ranch.  I 'm punching for the Double Y.  They call
me Cock Murray.  It—it's a name I took."

"I 'll remember.  Cock Murray: it fits you like a
glove," and Murray mounted to her ripple of laughter.
"We shall be out there to-morrow.  Aunt is with me,"
she called to him, while the pinto worked off a little of
its superfluous deviltry, before getting down to its
work.  She watched him admiringly, Cock sitting firm
and waiting, until presently the pony straightened out
and proceeded to prove his owner's boast.  "Tip-top,
Ralph," praised Margaret; "but you always could
ride."  She turned and faced the dour Sandy.  "See
here!  Do you *ever* intend to get out that rig?"

"Weel—gin ye 're a relative o' Buck Peters, I
jalouse ye 'll gang yer ain gait, onyway," and he went
grumbling through the hall to do her bidding.

A roaring volley of curses, instantly checked and
rolling forth a second time with all the sulphur retained
to add rancor to the percolator, drew Margaret
curiously to overlook the cause.  Seeing, she thought
she understood Sandy's reluctance to let his team to
her: a pair of perfectly matched bays, snipped with
white in a manner that gave to their antics an air of
rollicking mischief, they were lacking the angularity
of outline Margaret already had come to expect in
Western ponies, and their wild plunging seemed more
the result of overflowing vitality than inherent vice.
Drawn by the uproar, Slick appeared beside her.

"No team for a lady to drive," he declared, shaking
his head.

"Ridiculous!" asserted Margaret.  "Go help them."  A
devitalized imprecation from Sandy hastened his
steps.  Margaret was in doubt which amused her most:
the trickiness of the ponies or Sandy's heroic
endeavor to swear without swearing.  She understood
him far better than either of the others, who worked
silently and with well directed efforts.

With Slick's invaluable assistance their object was
soon accomplished, the team being hitched to a new
buckboard that was the pride of Sandy's heart.  "'T is
a puir thing," he protested, eying it sourly.  "I hae
naething better."

"Why, it is perfect," declared Margaret, "but I
shall want a whip."

"Ye 'll want nae whup," denied Sandy, shaking his
head ominously.

The Cyclone puncher at the head of the nigh horse
called to her: "Take 'em out o' th' corral, miss?
They 'll go like antelopes when they start."

Margaret laughed in gay excitement.  "No, no! please
don't," she entreated, drawing on her gloves.  "I
could drive that pair through the eye of a needle."

Sandy glanced from her to the team and back again.

"Havers!  I 'll gie ye ma ain whup," he promised.
He was back in half a minute with a lash whip whose
holly stock never grew in America.

"What a beauty!'" exclaimed Margaret.  She ran
down the steps, gathered up the lines, and sprang into
the buckboard, bracing herself for the inevitable jerk.
"Ready," she warned.  "Let go."

It was lucky for Mrs. Blake that she had loosened
her corset strings and was confined to her room; had
she seen the start—and she knew Margaret's skill as
well as any one—she certainly would have burst them
in her fright.  With the three men it was otherwise;
they vented their admiration in a ringing cheer.  The
ponies, gathering speed in the short stretch to the
ford, were coaxed over so near the I-Call that Dirty
Snow tumbled precipitately from his box and fled
around the corner of the saloon; missing the box by a
foot, the wheels began a wide arc toward the water
through which the rig whirled in an avalanche of spray,
to shave the front of the Why-Not as closely as it had
the I-Call.  To the delighted astonishment of Twin
River—by this time the entire inhabitants, excepting
only Mrs. Blake, were more or less interested in the
proceedings—the team was no sooner going in the
straight than Margaret cracked the lash to right and
left and the startled ponies bellied to the ground in
their efforts to escape an unknown danger.  Sandy
guffawed in pride of ownership; Slick gazed with his
soul in his eyes; the puncher danced up and down in
his joy, thumping first one and then the other.

"Did you see it?" he demanded, "Did you see it?"  The
others admitted eyesight equal to the occasion.
"Say," asseverated the puncher, "if I owned all
Montany, from here to th' line, I gives it to get that gal.
That's th' kind of a hair-pin I am.  You hear me!"

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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Margaret's sudden exclamation hastened the speed
of the ponies but she drew them firmly in and approached
the group on the trail at an easy lope.  Whitby ran
up from the river bank as she pulled the team to a
stand.

"Who is it, Miss LaFrance?  How did it happen?"
asked Margaret, guessing the answer to her own questions.

"It is M'sieu Peters, ma'am'selle.  He is wounded,"
replied Rose.

"Just in time, Miss McAllister," said Whitby,
coming up at that moment.  "We 'll commandeer that
wagon as an ambulance."

"Miss McAllister!" exclaimed Buck, wonderingly.
Then, energetically: "Whit, you get after that
pole-cat.  I can get to th' ranch, now.  Get a-goin'."

"Buck, I 'm like Jake: 'sot in my ways.'  There is
no necessity to follow that pole-cat, as you so aptly
call him.  And you are not going to the ranch, you
know.  Miss LaFrance has kindly volunteered expert
service in nursing and I intend that you shall get it.
Miss McAllister, Miss LaFrance, whose services you
already know; and Mr. Peters, your father's partner."

"You must not think of going on to the ranch,
Mr. Peters," persuaded Margaret.  "I only hope it is not
too far to Miss LaFrance's home.  If we could lift
you—I 'm afraid these horses won't stand."

"Lift!  I reckon I got one good laig, Miss
McAllister—" he fell back with a grunt.

"Dash it all, Buck!  Do you want to break open
that wound?  'Pon my word, I don't envy you your
patient, Miss LaFrance.  You lie still, you restless beggar.
I 've packed more than one man with a game leg and
gone it alone.  Do you think you can manage those
dancing jackasses?"  He looked doubtingly from them
to Margaret.

Margaret dimpled.  "Ask Sandy," she advised, demurely.

"Ou, ay!" quoth Whitby and Margaret broke into
bubbling laughter that reflected from Rose's face in the
faint shadow of a smile.

"Too bad of me to be laughing this way, Mr. Peters,"
apologized Margaret, correctly interpreting
the expression of Rose, whose glance had turned to
Buck; "but I have so much cause to be merry when I
least expected it that I forgot for the moment you are
wounded."

She resolutely avoided looking at Whitby who, thus
unobserved, displayed a grin more fittingly adapted to
the countenance of the famous Cat of Cheshire.  Rose
glanced swiftly from Whitby to Margaret and the two
women were already aware of that which the men would
never guess in each other.

"Shucks!  I been shot up worse 'n this, Miss McAllister,"
assured Buck; "if that pig-headed Britisher
would on'y take orders like he oughta.  He 's
obstinater nor a cow with a suckin' calf."

"Right-o!" assented Whitby, who had finished his
preparations for the lift.  "Now, Miss LaFrance."

He had managed to pass the blanket under Buck's
middle, looping it over his own neck; while this
arrangement eased but little weight from Rose, it had
the advantage of keeping Buck comparatively straight.
Whitby, backing up into the buckboard, his hands
tightly grasping Buck beneath the arms, was ably
assisted by Rose, who moved and steadied her load
without apparent effort.  Margaret was genuinely
surprised.  "How strong you are!" she exclaimed,
admiringly.

"Gentle as rain," commended Buck.  "If you got
that flask handy, Whit, I 'd like to feel it."





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.. _`HOPALONG'S MOVE`:

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   CHAPTER XXIII


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   HOPALONG'S MOVE

.. vspace:: 2

Hopalong, nursing Allday with due regard
to the miles yet to be travelled, was
disagreeably surprised to recognize Cock
Murray in the horseman approaching.  The explanation
offered did not improve his temper.  He turned on
Murray a hard stare that was less a probe than an
exponent of destruction to a liar.  There was that
about Hopalong which spelled danger; no strong man
is without it; and few men, honest or not, fail of the
impression when in the presence of it.  Cock Murray
was no coward.  He was distinctly not afraid to meet
death at a moment's notice or with no notice at all, if
it came that way; yet he was grateful to be able to face
that stare with an honest purpose in his heart.

"Murray, down Texas way h—l-raisin' on a range
means sudden death.  It's a-goin' to stop on th'
Double Y.  Which side are you on?"

"If it depends on my say-so, th' Double Y is as
peaceful as a' Eastern dairy from this out."

"Let 'er go at that.  How 's that cayuse?"

"Good, an' fresh as paint.  I on'y breathed him,
comin' from Twin."

"Swap.  This bay has come along right smart for
twenty miles.  I ain't goin' to lose you much, either.
Th' boys is after us but they won't catch you."

Hopalong was well past the Sweet-Echo before the
pinto was recognized.  Slick let out a yell of surprise.
The Cyclone puncher sauntered to the window, where
Slick was pointing, glanced up the trail and laughed.
"That's a friend o' Buck's," he explained, "an' he 's
certainly aimin' to get there, wherever it is, as quick
as he can."

"Ain't that yore pinto?" queried Slick.

"Less 'n I 'm blind," agreed the cow-punch.

"Seems to me there's a lot o' swappin' goin' on
som'ers along th' Big Moose," hazarded Slick.
"Which they can't *all* be backin' winners," he added,
thoughtfully.

They were still seeking light in useless discussion
when the long-striding Allday went past.  Slick
shouted to Murray for news but Cock waved his hand
without speaking.  Twin River was beginning to show
a languid interest.  Day-and-night *habitués* of the
I-Call lounged out into the open and gazed after Cock
inquiringly, irritated Pop Snow into a frantic change
of base by their apparently earnest belief in his
knowledge of these events and their demands for
information, and lounged back again; Dutch Fred soothed the
peevish old man by talking "like he had some sense";
having sense proved an asset once more as Dirty, no
one being near, suddenly discovered a thirst.  Ike, wise
old wolf, though unable to solve the riddle, smelled a
killing.  "Stay around," he advised several of his own
trustworthy satellites.  Little Nell alone, who looked
on and read as the others ran, came near to supplying
the missing print: "The French Rose has shook
Dave," she decided.  "Dave has pulled his freight and
the Double Y is on the prod after him.  Smiler ought
to show for place but the minute he looks like a
winner the Texan 'll pump him full of lead.  The Double
Y will win out.  Maybe Ned—"  Little Nell's wild
heart had regretted bluff, kindly Ned, these many days.

The passing of the Double Y punchers, strung out
half a mile, confirmed Nell's guess.  The Cyclone
puncher, hurriedly throwing the leather on the Goat,
loped along beside Slow Jack, the last in the string,
obtaining from him such meagre information as only
whetted his curiosity.  He returned to the Sweet-Echo
and Slick, disdaining to reply to the I-Call loungers.
Ike was too wise to risk a rebuff; he already knew
enough from what he had seen.  "Pickin's, boys," was
his laconic comment; and soon a company of five
Autolycus-minded gentlemen took the Big Moose trail,
openly.  The break-up of this chance foray was largely
due to the simple matter of direction.

Hopalong, knowing nothing of the wagging tongues
at Twin River, drove the pinto for every ounce there
was in him.  A vague uneasiness, risen with the
delivery of Buck's message by Cock Murray, rode with
Hopalong; he could not shake it off.  Ten minutes
beyond Two Fork he saw the buckboard and the curse
in his throat had its origin in a conviction as
accurate as Whitby's had been.  He turned and rode beside
them.  "Well, they got you, Buck," was his quiet comment.

"Shore did," admitted Buck.  "Ambushed at four
hundred—first shot—bad medicine.  I lit a-runnin'
an' caves in just as th' next ball drops th' bronc.  I
lays most mighty still.  He thinks I kicked th' bucket
but he 's afraid to find out.  I was hopin' he 'd come to
see.  He gets away quiet an' I lay an' bleed a-waitin'
for him.  Rose an' Whit here wakes me out of a sweet
dream."  He smiled up at Rose whose anxiety was evident.

"Too much talk," she warned him.

"Dave?" asked Hopalong, looking at Whitby, who
nodded.

"How far?"

"Two miles; possibly less," answered Whitby.

"I 'll get him," said Hopalong, with quiet certitude.
"So long, Buck."

"So long, Hoppy.  Go with him, Whit.  Can't afford
another ambush."

"Very well, Buck.  You will find a medicine-chest in
my kit, Miss McAllister."

Whitby turned and rode hard after Hopalong who,
nevertheless, arrived at the dead pony considerably in
advance, and after a searching look around, rode
straight to the ambush.  The signs of its recent
occupancy were plain to be seen.  Hopalong got down and
squatted under cover as Dave must have done, from
which position his shrewd mind deduced the cause of
the poor shot: a swinging limb, which had deflected the
bullet at the critical moment.  The signs showed Dave
had led his horse from the spot, finally mounting and
riding off in a direction well to the east of Wayback.
Minute after minute Hopalong tracked at a slow
canter; suddenly his pony sprang forward with a rush:
even to the Englishman's inexperienced eyes there was
evidence of Dave having gone faster; very much faster,
Whitby thought, as he rode his best to hold the pace,
wondering meanwhile, how it was possible to track at
such speed.  It was n't possible: Dave had set a
straight line for Wayback and gone off like a jack
rabbit.  Hopalong was simply backing his guess.

Exhaustive inquiries in Wayback seemed to show
that Hoppy had guessed wrong.  No one had seen
Dave.  No one had seen Schatz, either; the bank president
had gone to Helena and his single clerk, single in
a double sense, was an unknown number of miles
distant on a journey in courtship.  The station agent
declared Dave had neither purchased a ticket nor taken
any train from the Wayback station.  Whitby became
downcast but Hopalong, with each fruitless inquiry,
gathered cheerfulness almost to loquacity.  It was his
way.  "Cheer up, Whit," he encouraged: "I'd 'a'
been punchin' cows an' dodgin' Injuns in th' Happy
Hunting Grounds before I could rope a yearlin' if I 'd
allus give up when I was beat."

Whitby looked at him gloomily.  "I 'm fair
stumped," he admitted.  "D' you think, now, it would
be wisdom to go back and follow his spoor?"

"Spoor is good.  He came to Wayback, Whit, sure
as yo 're a bloomin' Britisher.  Keep a-lookin' at me,
now: There 's a bum over by th' barber's has been
watchin' us earnest ever since we hit town; he 's stuck
to us like a shadow; see if you know him.  Easy, now.
Don't scare him off."

Whitby won his way into Hopalong's heart by the
simplicity of his manoeuvre.  Taking from his lips the
cigar he was smoking, he waved it in the general
direction of the station.  "You said a bum near the
barber-shop," he repeated.  His pony suddenly leaped into
the air and manifested an inexplicable and exuberant
interest in life.  When quieted, Whitby was facing the
barber's and carefully examining the bum.  Hopalong
chuckled through serious lips.  Whitby had allowed
the hot end of his cigar to come in contact with the
pony's hide.  "No, can't say I do; but he evidently
knows me.  Dashed if he does n't want me to follow
him," and Whitby looked his astonishment.

Hopalong's eyes sparkled.  "Get a-goin', Whit.
Here's where ye call th' turn.  What'd I tell you?"  He
wheeled and rode back to the station.  Whitby
followed the shambling figure down the street and
around the corner of a saloon, where he discovered
him sunning himself on a heap of rubbish, in the
rear.

"Well, my man; what is it?" asked Whitby.

The crisp, incisive tones brought him up standing;
he saluted and came forward eagerly.  "Youse lookin'
f'r Dave?" he responded.

"What of it?"

"I seen him jump d' train down by d' pens.  She
wuz goin' hell-bent-f'r-election, too.  Wen Dave
jumps, I drops.  Dave an' me don't pal."

"Why not?"

"Didn't he git me run out o' Twin?  Youse was
dere.  Don'tcher 'member Pickles an' Dutch Onion—Pickles'
old man—an' dat Come Seven guy w'at stopped
d' row?  Don'tcher?"

"Yes; I do.  Are you the man who shied the bottle?"

"Ke-rect.  I 'd done f'r him, too, but dey put d'
ki-bosh on me."

"And are you sure it was Dave?  Did the train stop?"

"Stop nothin'!  'T was a string o' empties.  Dave
jumped it, all right.  An' I 'd hoof it all d' way to
Sante Fe to see him swing."

"Deuced good sentiment, by Jove.  Here, you
need—well, a number of things, don't you know."

Boomerang gazed after the departing Englishman
and blinked rapidly at the bill in his hand.  Did he or
did he not see a zero following that two?  With a
fervent prayer for sanity he carefully tucked it out of
sight.

Whitby returned to Hopalong as much elated as
previously he had been cast down.  "We have the bally
blackguard," was his glad assurance.

"Where?" asked Hopalong; "in yore pocket, or
yore hat, or only in yore mind."  Whitby explained
and Hopalong promptly appealed to the station agent.

It was a weary wait.  Whitby, a patient man
himself, found occasion to admire the motionless
relaxation of Hopalong, who appeared to be storing energy
until such time as he would require it.  To Whitby,
who was well acquainted with the jungle of India, it
was the inertia of the tiger, waiting for the dusk.

The station door opened again but this time with a
snappier purpose that seemed promising.  Whitby
turned his head.  The railroader nodded as one well
satisfied with himself.  "Got your man," he announced,
with a grin of congratulation.  "He dropped off at
X——.  Don't seem a whole lot scared.  Took a room at
th' hotel.  Goin' to turn him over to the sheriff?"

"No," answered Hopalong, "an' I don't want
nothin' to get out here, *sabe*?  If it does, yo 're th'
huckleberry.  When 's th' next train East?"

"It's past due, but it 'll be along in twenty minutes."

"I 'll take a ticket," and Hopalong rose to his feet
and followed him into the station.  He returned
shortly, to apologize for leaving Whitby behind.  "I
know you 'd like to go, Whit, but you ought to find out
about that money.  Better stay here an' see them bank
people in th' mornin'."

Whitby acknowledged the wisdom of this and agreed
to call on Buck at Jean's on his way back to the ranch.
"You tell Buck Dave is at X——," said Hoppy.  "An'
that's where he stays," he added, grimly.  "Here she
comes."

Long before this, the usual crowd of idlers had
gathered; and now the rest of Wayback began to ooze
into the road and toward the station.  As the train
drew in it attracted even a half-shaved man from the
barber's, hastily wiping the soap from his face as he
ran; after him came the barber, closing the razor and
sticking it in his pocket.  The first man off the cars
was a fox-faced little hunchback, whose deformity in
no way detracted from his agile strength; after him,
with studied carelessness, came Tex.  Hopalong
grunted, turned his head as the clatter of hoofs sounded
through the turmoil, and signalled Chesty Sutton, first
man of the rapidly arriving Double Y punchers.

"Don't you stray none, screech-owl, or I 'll drop
you," he warned the captive, who shot one impish glance
at the speaker and froze in his tracks.  "Chesty, tell Ned
to take this coyote to th' ranch, an' don't let him get
away, not if you has to shoot him."

"Hold hard, stranger.  He looks mighty like Big
Saxe to me, an' if he is, I wants him.  I got a warrant
for him in my clo'es."  The deputy sheriff started forward.

"Wait!" commanded Hopalong.  The deputy
waited.  "Tex, hold that train.  You an' me are goin'
th' same way.  Mr. Sheriff, I got a warrant ahead o'
yourn an' I wants him.  You 'll find him at th' Double
Y ranch when I gets through with him."

Slow Jack, the last of the Double Y punchers, loped
up to the station, swung from his saddle and joined the
interested group surrounding the disputants.

"If that's Big Saxe I wants him now an' I 'm goin'
to take him."

"Don't you, son."  Kind as Hopalong's tone
sounded, the deputy halted again.  "Bow-Wow, hit th'
trail an' have eyes in th' back of yore head.  Straddle,
boys."  The crowd scattered as the mounted punchers
moved their ponies about, to open a clear space.
Hopalong met the eye of the hunchback, whose clear,
shrewd glance recognized the master of the moment.
"Screechy! that pinto 's a-waitin' for you an' if any
son-of-a-gun gets there first, *you* won't need no
bracelets.  Git!"

Struggling between indecision and duty, the deputy
saw the group of punchers, the pinto in advance, turn
into the Twin River trail.  "Looky here!" he began
fiercely to Hopalong, "'pears to me—"

"Bah!  Tell it to Schatz"; and Hopalong sprang
up the steps, followed by Tex, to the outspoken regret
of Wayback's citizens there assembled.





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.. _`THE REBELLION OF COCK MURRAY`:

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   CHAPTER XXIV


.. class:: center medium

   THE REBELLION OF COCK MURRAY

.. vspace:: 2

The buckboard, wheeling off the trail, was lost
to view almost as soon as Murray saw it.  Rose
and Margaret he had recognized at a glance
but whose figure had been the second in the wagon?
Suddenly misgiving assailed him.  Forgetting
Hopalong and his orders, he turned and followed them.
Every step of his horse increased his anxiety and urged
him forward; and twin-born with it smouldered a
growing anger that held him back: he hesitated to have his
fears confirmed in the presence of two women, one of
whom—well, that was done with but it had left a scar
that was beginning to throb again with the old pain.
He rode slowly but gaining steadily on the trio ahead.
When they reached the cabin, Rose called; receiving
no answer she was about to go for help when she saw
Murray and pointed to him.  Margaret motioned and
he hurried to obey the summons.

He recognized Buck while still some distance away
and the smoulder burst into a blaze.  This was the
game then?  Schatz had emphatically stated it was to
be one of freeze-out; when they found it would n't
work then the good old way was good enough.  The
jauntiness of carriage which had earned him his
nickname (he was responsible for the surname only) was
gone when he joined the others; the gay insolence of
his speech was gone also, and some of his good looks.
The successful concealment of his feelings had lost him
much but it had gained him more: Margaret thrilled
to a sense of power she had not expected in him.  Rose's
gesture of finger to lips was superfluous: Murray never
felt less like talking.

"How'd you get here, Cock?" asked Buck, dully.
The strain of the drive was telling even upon his iron
frame.

"Orders," answered Cock, briefly; and Buck was not
sufficiently interested to inquire further.

The team was effectually secured and they got Buck
from the wagon and into the cabin with but little
difficulty; Murray, though he did not look it, was a far
stronger man than Whitby; and Buck was laid gently
in the bunk, his head brushing the spot where Pickles
had muffled his breathing a few hours before.

The removal of the bandage brought a gasp to the
lips of Margaret, who pressed her hand to her heart and
stared with horrified eyes.  She touched Rose on the
shoulder: "Can you—can you dress the wound
without me?" she asked, breathlessly.

"But certainly," answered Rose, mildly surprised.

"Then I will go—back—and send on the medicine
chest.  I am sure you will need it."

"That is good," commended Rose, looking curiously
after Margaret, who swayed as she went out of the room.

Murray hurried after her.  "It is nothing, Miss
McAllister, except for the pain and possible fever.
Buck will tell you so himself.  Drink this."

The cold water made her feel better.  "I never
realized before—what fighting means," she murmured.
"It may be nothing but it looks—terrible."

"Nothing dangerous, I assure you, and perfect
health will bring him through.  Shall you go on out to
the ranch?"

"Why, I must send the medicines."

"Then wait for me to join you at Twin River.  I
shall not be long."

He controlled the restive team until she was ready
and watched her start.  When he returned to Rose she
had bared and was bathing the wound from which but
little blood came, now.  When a fresh bandage had
been put in place she turned to him with expressive
gesture: "Remove all," she commanded, indicating
Buck's clothing.  She left the room and Murray heard
her moving about in the attic while he busied himself
in obedience to her orders.

"Who was it, Buck?" he asked, sombrely.

"Did n't see him.  Dave, I reckon."

"Was it Dave you was after?"

"That's him.  Did n't you know?"

"No."  Murray slit viciously through the waist
band of the trousers and raised Buck with one powerful
arm while he eased away the severed cloth.  He said
nothing more until Rose came with a garment such as
Buck had not worn for more years than he liked to
remember.  When it was donned and Buck made comfortable,
Murray spoke with decision.  In his earnestness
he unconsciously reverted from the slip-shod manner of
speech to which he had habituated himself.

"I have a confession to make," he began; "and I
want to make it now.  I don't think it will harm you to
hear it."

"Let 'er go," said Buck, with awakened interest.

"I am a hypocrite.  I am indirectly responsible for
the loss of your cattle.  I have been taking your money
and working for another man.  I am not at all proud of
it.  In fact, as things have turned out, I 'm d—d sick
of it.  All that I can say for myself is that I honestly
thought the other man was in the right; now I know
better.  If it will be any satisfaction to you I would
give my life this minute rather than have it known
by—by certain people who are bound to know of it if
you talk.  So it has not been easy to tell you.  I have
only one thing more to add: I can't be treacherous to
the other man although he has been treacherous to me;
but if you are not afraid to trust me, I guarantee to
make the Double Y sound on the inside, at least—that
is, if they don't kill me."

"By th' Lord!" breathed Buck.  "I 'm right glad
I got that pill.  Trust you?  You bet!"  He reached
out his hand to Murray and the grip he felt confirmed
his belief that the canker was surely healed on the
Double Y.

Softly as Buck spoke, the sound of his voice brought
Rose to the door.  She looked sternly at Murray:
"You must go," she declared; "So much talk bring fever."

"All right, ma'am," assented Murray, carefully
keeping from her his tell-tale face, "sure you won't need help?"

"No, my father come soon."  She advanced to the
bunk and improved comfort and appearance with a few
deft touches.

"Good-day, then, ma'am.  So long, Buck.  I 'm
ridin' to th' ranch with Miss McAllister."

"So long, Cock.  Get at it, son.  Th' Double Y
needs you, you bet," and the smile on the stern face
was so winning that Murray left hastily, with long strides.





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.. _`MARY RECEIVES COMPANY`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXV


.. class:: center medium

   MARY RECEIVES COMPANY

.. vspace:: 2

Mary's heart skipped a beat and then pulsed
ninety to the minute as her first suspicion
became a certainty: a wagon was coming
through the dark to the ranch.  With a prayer for her
husband on her lips she went slowly to the door.  She
recognized Murray's voice and Jake's in conversation
and stood with her hand on the door until Jake's rough
command was followed by the sound of the wagon
going to the stable.  No one wounded!  Her relief was
so great that she walked unsteadily in crossing back
to her chair.  Mary was nervous and easily upset,
these days.

Surprise acted as a tonic when the two ladies
entered, followed by Murray.  A glance at Margaret's
face stirred memories in Mary.  She stammered:
"Why—why—I know—who—"

Murray supplied the name: "It is Miss McAllister,
Mrs. Cassidy."

"Why, of co'se," said Mary; "I 'd know Miss McAllister
anywhere; she favors Frenchy like she was his
own daughter."

"Did you know Uncle John?" asked Margaret,
breathlessly.

"Yes, indeedy.  I took to him first sight," and Mary
smiled at the girl's eagerness.

"Aunt Jessie!  Isn't that just glorious?  Mrs. Cassidy,
this is my aunt, Mrs. Blake—and I want you
to tell me everything you can remember about Uncle
John."

"Now you have done it," declared Mrs. Blake.
"You will get no peace from Margaret while she thinks
there is a wag of your tongue left about her Uncle
John."

"Margaret—that's a right sweet name.  But I 'm
afraid Billy would insist—" she flushed a dull red as
Mrs. Blake sharply addressed Murray: "Ralph, see
that some one gets those trunks in, will you?  That is,
if they did not drop off into the bosom of this blessed
wilderness, somewhere *en route*."

"They did n't.  But it's all Montana to an incubator
Jake took them to the stable," and Murray
promptly vanished.

"Certainly he would insist," agreed Mrs. Blake,
resuming the thread of Mary's unconscious soliloquy.
"And quite right, too.  It would have to be—what
did you say your name is, my dear?"

"Mary "—the shy smile made her seem very unlike
the self-reliant H2 girl.

Mrs. Blake took her in her arms and mothered her.
"Mary is every bit as sweet as Margaret," she declared.
"And now you must came over here and sit down.
That is six for me and a half dozen for myself.  *How*
I shall rejoice to land in a seat that neither shakes nor
bumps!"

"I shore begs you-all 's pardon; but I ain't got over
my surprise yet."

"Shall we put you to very much trouble, Mrs. Cassidy?"
asked Margaret.  "Perhaps if you get that
lazy Murray to help—"

"Why, Murray ain't lazy.  There ain't none of the
boys lazy, 'cept maybe Jake.  An' it's shore a
pleasure to have you here."

"May heaven forgive my vegatative emotion in the
cessation of motion," and Mrs. Blake carefully
refrained from moving her foot forward one enticing
inch: it was good enough as it was.

"You ain't use' to travelling, Mrs. Blake,"
suggested Mary.

"On the contrary, my dear," that lady assured her.
"Mr. Blake hauled me over the entire country from
the Mississippi to the Atlantic; but he never subjected
me to the churning discomfort of a devil-drawn
buckboard driven by a heartless madcap in
petticoats."  Mrs. Blake shifted the faintest imaginable distance to
the left and back again immediately: the first position
was the more comfortable, as she might have known.

The two younger women exchanged a smile, Margaret's
a merry one, Mary's more sober as she thought
how easily the buckboard might have carried a load
indifferent for all time, to jolts.  "Did you see
anything o' th' boys?" she asked.

"I saw them all, I believe," answered Margaret.
"They went through Twin River just before we
started."

"Cock Murray came back with you.  Did you see
my husband?  He started out to find Mr. Peters."

"Mr. Cassidy and Mr. Booth went after that Dave
brute."

"Where was Buck?"

"He was wounded, Mrs. Cassidy.  Not badly, they
say.  Dave shot him from ambush.  We found him
lying in the road."

"Oh!  I ought to go to him," and Mary started from
her seat.

"Certainly not," declared Mrs. Blake.  "It is quite
evident that you do not appreciate the comforts of
inertia.  Besides, from what Margaret tells me, he is
well taken care of."

"Oh! and I forgot the medicine chest," exclaimed
Margaret.  "Yes, he has an attentive nurse, Mrs. Cassidy.
We took him to the LaFrance place.  And I
must get that medicine chest from Whitby's kit and
send it over.  Where are Whitby's things, Mrs. Cassidy?"

"They 're in th' bunk-house.  Murray will get them
for you.  So Buck is there?  Did you see the French
Rose, Miss McAllister?"

"Yes, haven't you?  She is lovely; so serious and
calm and strong.  In some way she makes you feel that
she is sure to do the right thing at the right time.  Oh,
I like her, immensely."

"Liking goes by contrasts," sleepily reminded
Mrs. Blake.  Mary smiled no less at Margaret's grimace
than at Mrs. Blake's pointed sarcasm.

"She has n't been to the ranch since we-all came,"
said Mary.  "Buck says she rid over quite often afore
that.  I 'm glad Rose is 'tendin' him; from what I hear
of her he could n't be in better hands."

"Mr. Peters seemed glad, too," said Margaret,
suggestively; "and Miss LaFrance did not seem at all
sorry."

Before Mary could respond to Margaret's unspoken
question, the door opened with a bang and Pickles
rushed in.  "Been a-helpin' them sheep with th'
trunks," he informed them.  "Where's Hopalong?
Did he find Buck?  That cacklin' Murray has forgot
how to crow; he on'y grunts."

"Hopalong has gone after Dave.  He shot Buck,"
answered Mary.

"Not dead!"  Pickles was aghast.

"No, only wounded."

"I just *got* to kill that Dave.  Rose has got to
lemme off on that promise.  I bet she will now he 's
gone an' shot up Buck."

Mrs. Blake stirred in her chair and opened one eye.
"Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings—"

"Sucker yoreself!" retorted Pickles.  "Reckon
you think I don't know nothin'.  You wait."  He
slammed the door behind him and stamped off, greatly
incensed.  His advice to Jake, who told him to open
the other door while he carried in a trunk, was
impossible to follow, involving a journey from which
no one, not even Jake, would ever be likely to return.

When Margaret, insisting that Mary direct
operations from her chair, was satisfied with domestic
arrangements, she asked Murray's advice about
sending the medicine chest to Rose.  Obeying Whitby's
wishes seemed the most important thing in life at
present.  Cock demurred to her plan of sending him before
morning; and he was opposed to leaving the ranch at
all before Buck himself took charge again.  Margaret
was vexed at his stupidity.  They had gone together to
the bunk-house and argued the matter with the object
of dispute on the floor between them.  Glancing at
them from his own especial bunk was Pickles, trying in
vain to make sense from a jumble of sounds unlike any
he had ever heard.  Pickles' vocabulary was very
limited.  His snort of disgust as he gave it up and
turned his back on the disputants, gave Cock an idea.
"Pickles," he said, "Buck's sick and he needs this
box.  Buck told me to stay at the ranch.  Will you
take it if I saddle Swallow?"

"Shore will," and Pickles shoved one entirely nude
leg from the bunk; before he could follow it with the
other, he was much surprised and more embarrassed
to find himself swooped upon, seized and swiftly kissed
by Margaret, whose brown-clad form fled through the
door like the flirt of a wood-thrush, vanishing into the
dim recesses of the forest.

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Ned Monroe and the boys, Big Saxe with them, came
straggling up to the bunk-house in the early hours of
the morning, Ned having acquired a change of mounts
at Twin River.  They secured their prisoner by the
simple expedient of tying him in a lump—and a
cow-punch makes knots that are exceedingly hard to
struggle out of.  Big Saxe did n't try.

Cock Murray was first out and he awoke Ned.  In
the open, safe from being overheard, they held
conference, Monroe nodding his head understandingly as Cock
made his points.  After breakfast, Monroe delivered a
speech, short and to the point, and when they
separated to their duties, Cock and Slow Jack rode away
together.  Big Saxe, very effectually hobbled at the
ankles, was put in charge of Chesty Sutton who tersely
informed him that the first false move he made he
would find himself humpbacked all the way to his feet.

Cock bent his powers of persuasion to the converting
of Slow Jack.  It proved an easy task.  Secretly
admiring Cock and his ways, Slow Jack also perceived
the trend of events to be putting Schatz out of the
running.  The unbending will of Hopalong was over
them all and Slow Jack was not averse to throwing his
services to the winning side.

It was the middle of the afternoon when Whitby
appeared.  The women listened to his news with
varying degrees of interest.  Buck was doing well and had
declared it would not be long before he was at the
ranch; in the meantime, as he was obliged to be quiet,
he seemed well contented where he was.  Pickles had
arrived safe and had constituted himself body-guard
and messenger-at-need for Rose.  As for Hopalong he
could tell them no more than they had already learned
from Monroe.  Mary was not worried.  She had
supreme confidence in Hopalong's ability to take care
of himself and would have smiled if any one had
suggested danger.

The end of Whitby's budget was punctuated with a
huge sigh from Jake, whose ear had never been far
from the kitchen door.  He now entered diffidently and
addressed himself to the Englishman: "I wrastled
some chuck for you, Whit; reckoned you might want
some."  His lumbering exit was closely followed by
Whitby's, whose strangled appetite slipped the noose
at Jake's invitation.

In the lively conversation of the three women,
Margaret's voice groped about in Whitby's consciousness
like a hand searching in the dark for a hidden spring;
her sudden ringing laugh awoke him to his purpose
and hastily finishing his meal he made his way to the
barn.  After an hour's delay, spent in selecting a pony
for Margaret and taking the edge off the temper of the
quietest—a favor that Margaret would have
repudiated with scorn—he appeared at the house again
with the offer to show her over the range if she cared
to go.

It was the very thing Margaret most wanted to do
and they set out with but little time lost.  When
she become accustomed to the saddle she suggested a
race but Whitby had no intention of running any such
risk.  He easily held her interest in another way.

"I say, Miss McAllister, there 's one thing I did n't
mention just now," he began.

"Not bad news?" questioned Margaret.

"Can't say it's good.  That beastly German had
the cheek to get away with the money after all.  He
checked against the blessed lot yesterday forenoon.  I
was at the bank this morning.  It's right enough.
They produced the check.  Seems a bit odd, you know,
they should be carrying that amount and pass it over
in cash.  I said as much; but the president—rummy
chap, by the way—he explained it; something about
big shipments of cattle.  However, it's gone."

"Dear me! it seems very careless of somebody.  Papa
ought to know.  What shall you do?"

"Oh, I notified the agency at once; they 've taken it
in hand.  But it won't do any good, you know.  That
bounder Schatz has it all planned out and if he loses
it, why, there you are, you know."

"Yes, so it seems; but, to all intents and purposes,
he steals it.  Do you intend to let him triumph in such
brazen robbery?"

"I rather fancy I shall have very little to say in the
matter.  That Cassidy chap who is trying to catch
Dave, went off without knowing the money was gone.
My word!  I should n't care to be Schatz when
Cassidy hears of it.  Deuced odd no one saw him in
Wayback but the banking people.  However, the German
will have to go.  I wrote the Governor and Mr. McAllister
this morning.  Between them they can come to
an agreement with Peters and we can buy the German
out—or perhaps I should say his heirs.  It's a good
sporting chance that it will be his heirs.  Cassidy has
a proper amount of suspicion in his character and no
one will ambush him, I 'll lay."

"Good gracious!  But you can't afford to lose all that
money, can you?"

"It is a bit of a facer.  But what of it?  The range
can stand it.  In twenty years it will bring ten times
the money for farm land, or I 'm much mistaken.  I 'm
sure the Governor will chance it and Buck will be glad
to have me an active partner.  He said as much."

"Mr. Booth, did n't you advance the money to
Peters in the last partnership agreement?"

"Oh, I say!  Did they tell you that?  Then you
should know it was my advice that brought on his loss.
But Buck is n't obliged to put up any money with us;
his experience and services are quite equal to the money
I shall put up.  I fancy Mr. McAllister will agree
with me in that.  All Buck wants is fair play, don't
you know."

Margaret pulled her pony so that she had the
advantage of a few feet nearer the house when she spoke.
"Whitby," she said, very clearly, "you are a dear."

Both ponies swung their noses towards home in the
same moment.  The burning blush on Margaret's face
streamed from it on the air-currents and settled on
Whitby's determined countenance, to leave him and
float away to the rose clouds in the western sky.
Whitby had the faster mount but Margaret rode a
far lighter weight and the chase might have been a
long one had she been very anxious to keep away.  As
it was a short half mile found them on even terms.
Whitby's arm went about the girl's waist as the ponies
ran stride for stride and she felt herself leaving the
saddle.  With reckless abandonment to the law of might
she yielded and lay in his arms; their pace slowed to a
walk, Whitby looking solemnly into the brilliant eyes
that mockingly regarded him.

"The good old rule, the simpler plan, that he shall
take who hath the power," quoted Margaret.

"And he shall keep who can," capped Whitby.  "I
can, Margaret, and I will," he declared, a deep note of
earnestness in his voice.

Margaret reached up and covered the steady eyes
whose searching threatened the unconscious secrets of
her heart.  But her voice reached him, fainter, fraught
with the vibration of sureness: "Whitby, you are a
dear."





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   HUNTERS AND HUNTED

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A string of empty cars backed onto the siding
at X——, bumping and grinding and squealing
as the engine puffed softly; a running
rattle and crash told of the shivering line coming to
rest and the sibilant sighs of the engine seemed to voice
its protest at being side-tracked for the passing of an
engine of a higher caste.  While it panted and wheezed,
its crew taking advantage of the opportunity to look
to and oil journals and rods, a man made his way
through the brush several hundred yards down the
track, swearing mildly as he brushed cinders and dust
from his clothes.  His only possessions besides his
clothes were a revolver swinging in its buttoned holster,
and a tightly rolled and securely tied gunny sack, to
which he clung in grim determination.

"H—l of a ride," he growled as he headed in a
circuitous course for the town a short distance away.
"But it breaks th' trail.  They 'll figger I went north
to cross th' line, or up to Helena.  Lucky they told
me Denver Gus's relay was relieved.  Brains, says
Smiler—huh, devil a lot of good his brains done
him.  He is out of it, an' so is Peters, d—n 'em.
Brains!"

He entered the town, looking for a place to put up.
The Come-Again looked good and he entered it,
securing a room on the second floor, which was under the
roof.  He was explicit to the proprietor: "It's got
to be a back room, an' I want it for a couple of days,
an' I don't want no noise,—I'm out here for my
cussed nerves an' as soon as I can get a good job we 'll
see about terms.  Oh, I expect to pay in advance—will
two days' pay keep you from layin' awake nights?"

"Reckon somebody made a mistake," replied the
proprietor.  "Yore nerves is purty strong."

"Have a drink and forget it," Dave smiled.  When
he had paid for the drinks he asked a question:
"Who's got th' best horse in town?  I'm a-goin' to
buy it if it's good enough."

The proprietor looked him over and nodded toward
a table in the farther corner: "That's him."

Dave sauntered over to the lone drinker: "Just
been told you got th' best horse in town.  That right?"

The other looked up slowly: "I might," he replied.

"I want to buy him.  I don't give a d—n about th'
price if he's good.  Interested?  Thought you'd be."

The other also looked the cocky stranger over: "Yes—I 'm
interested—a little.  I ain't h—l-bent for to
sell that horse.  He 's th' best ever came to these
parts—that's why he 's good—he *came* here."

Dave was impatient: "Is he where I can see him?"

"Shore," drawled the horseman, arising languidly.
"Come along an' you can see him if yore eyes is good."

The owner of the "best horse in town" studied Dave
as they walked along and his mental comment was not
flattering to the *protégé* of the late Herr Schatz.
"Fake cow-puncher," was his summing up.  "He don't
know a *hoss* from a hoss—but he thinks he does."

When they came to the corral the owner pointed to
a big gray in the corner: "That's him, stranger.  He 's
part cow-horse an' part Kaintuk, an' too good to be
out here in this part of the country.  *That's* th'
hoss Bad Hawkins rid from Juniper Creek to Halfway
in ten hours—one hundred an' forty miles, says
th' map, an' Hawkins weighed a hundred an' seventy
afore they got him.  He weighed so much he broke off
th' limb of th' best tree they could find.  Why, *he 's*
th' cuss what held up th' Montana Express down at
Juniper Creek bridge—reckon you *are* a stranger to
these parts."

"He don't look like no miracle to *me*," asserted
Dave, closely scrutinizing the horse.

"No?  Mebby you ain't up on miracles.  If you want
a purty hoss why did n't you say so?  Dolly 's slick as
silk an' fat as butter—you can have her if you wants
her.  Cost you about twenty-five dollars less.  But you
won't save nothin' on her if you wants a hoss for hard
ridin', one that gets there quick, an' gets back quick."

"I ain't said nothin' 'bout savin' no money,"
retorted Dave.  "An' it seems to me yo 're purty d—n
high in yore prices, anyhow."

"Well, I sees you wants a hoss right bad; an' when
a man wants a hoss bad he wants a *good* hoss—an'
good hosses come high.  Dolly 's gentle as a kitten,"
shrewdly explained the owner.  "Big Gray, there, he 's
some hard to ride, onless you can sit a saddle good as
th' next."

"How much for Big Gray?" snapped Dave.

"One hundred dollars."

"I ain't buyin' a herd," remonstrated Dave.

"I ain't sellin' a herd," smiled the owner.  "I told
you good hosses come high.  Mebby Dolly 'd suit you
better.  She 's my daughter's hoss."

"Here 's th' hundred," replied Dave, nettled.  "Got
a bridle or halter or piece of rope?  An' I want to buy
a saddle—one that's been broke in."

"There's a halter on him—good enough?  All
right; I got a saddle that's in purty fair shape—don't
need it, so you can have it for twenty."

When Dave rode from the corral he was headed for
the general store and bought a rifle, a rope, and
sundry other necessaries, including food.  Returning to
the hotel he put his horse in the corral, had a drink, and
went to his room carrying the saddle, the gunny sack,
and his other purchases with him.  The gunny sack
had not been from under his arm an instant while he
had been in town.  The erstwhile owner of Big Gray
drifted back to his table shortly after Dave's return
and settled himself for another drink.

"Did you sell him one?" asked the proprietor,
digging down for change.

"Yep," was the reply.

"Fifty, sixty, seventy-five—there 's yore change.
I wonder who he is an' where he's goin'?" remarked
the proprietor, in lieu of something better.

"Dunno; but he ain't no cow-punch, an' likewise he
ain't no tenderfoot.  Looks like a tin-horn to me.  His
fingers was purty slick gettin' th' bills off his roll.  They
was so slick I counted 'em to be sure he was n't robbin'
hisself.  But there was n't no folded bill there.  Here,
have a drink with me—business is pickin' up."

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When the east-bound accommodation pulled into
X—— at dusk two men jumped off and started
toward the nearest hotel.  The proprietor of the
Come-Again assigned them a room and spoke of supper, to
which they intimated their ability to do justice to
"anythin' you got."  As they turned away carelessly
toward the "washroom" one of them halted: "We're
expectin' a friend," and he gave a concise description
of the third man.

"Why, he 's upstairs now—first door to th' left at
th' top of th' flight—got in this afternoon.  But he
said he did n't want to be bothered none," hastily
warned the proprietor.

"That's right—you can let that go for th' three
of us," replied Hopalong, smiling.

"Said his nerves was all stampeded," commented the
host, dubiously.

Hopalong winked, grinning: "Did n't act none
that-a-way, did he?"

"Oh, I *told* him somebody was stringin' him,"
laughed the proprietor.

"Reckon we 'll go up an' hustle him down to his
feed," Tex remarked, leading the way, with Hopalong
stepping on his heels.

The proprietor studied the three names on his
register, and spoke to the horseman, who now was
playing solitaire in a negligent way.  "Wonder what's up,
Dick?"

"Dunno," replied Dick, holding aloft a queen of
hearts and studying the layout.  "Reckon you better
let this deal go by.  Keep yore chips out, Joe; don't
like th' looks of th' pair of 'em.  That red-head looks
like a bad customer, if his corn 's stepped on.  Mebby
their nervous friend has did somethin' they don't like."

The knocking upstairs now reverberated through the
house and a peevish voice threatened destruction to
the door unless it opened speedily.

"That's th' red-head," remarked Dick.  "What did
I tell you?"

The proprietor hastened from behind the bar and
went up the steep, narrow stairs with undignified haste.
"Don't bust that door!" he cried.  "Don't you bust it!"

"Aw, close yore face!" growled a voice, and Dick
nodded his head wisely.  "Both of 'em bad customers,"
he mumbled.

There was a crash and the sound of splintering wood,
followed by disgusted exclamations.  Dick arose and
sauntered up to see the show: the host was nervously
clutching a bill large enough to pay for several
broken doors.  The red-head was looking out of the
open window while the other man rapidly searched
the room.

"He dropped his belongings first," audibly
commented the man at the window.  "Then *he* dropped."  He
turned quickly to the proprietor: "Did he have a
horse?"

"Yes; bought one first thing after he registered."

"We want one apiece," crisply demanded Hopalong,
"with speed, bottom, an' sand.  Got 'em?  No?  Then
where can we get 'em to-night?"

"What'd he do?" blundered the host, rubbing the
bill with tender fingers and looking for information
instead of giving it.

"He dropped out th' winder," sharply replied Tex.
"We never stand for that."

"Never, not under no circumstances," endorsed his
friend.  "It allus riles us.  How 'bout them horses?"

"I reckon I can fix you up," offered Dick.  "I sold
him th' hoss he 's got.  He wanted th' best in town,
which he didn't get for bein' too blamed flip.  But
he paid for it, just th' same.  I got a roan an' a
bay that 'll run Big Gray off 'n his feed an' his feet.
If yo 're comin' back this way I 'll buy 'em back
again at a reduction—I 'd like to keep them two.
I don't reckon I 'll get no chance to buy back th'
other."

The horseman fell in behind the descending procession
and lined up with it against the bar on Hopalong's
treat.  Then they left the proprietor to swear at the
cook while they departed for the corral.

Dick chuckled.  "Th' gray I sold yore missin' friend
carried Bad Hawkins from Juniper Creek to Halfway
in fourteen hours—ten miles an hour.  Th' roan an'
th' bay did it in ten hours even—which puts a period
after th' last words of Hawkins.  Bad Hawkins weighed
less 'n you," he said to Tex, "an' th' gray shore sprains
a laig a-doin' it.  It don't show—that is, not when he
was sold it did n't.  That feller was too d—d flip—one
of them Smart Alecks that stirs my bile somethin' awful."

Tex wearied of his voice: "Yore discernment is
very creditable," he replied, with becoming gravity.

The horseman glanced at him out of the corner of his
eye: "Yes—I reckon so," he hazarded.

When they reached the corral the two strangers
looked in critically.  Nearly a score of horses were
impounded, among them several bays and roans.
Hopalong pointed to one of the roans.  "That looks like
th' horse," he remarked, quietly, at the instant his
friend singled out the bay.

"Them 's th' hosses—they 'll run th' liver out of
Big Gray even if his laig does hold out," smiled their
owner, glad that his first customer had not been as
wise as either of these two men.  The horses were cut
out and accepted on the spot.

"How much?" demanded Hopalong, brusquely.

"Eighty apiece."

"That's a lot of money.  But we got to have 'em.
How 'bout saddles?  We can do without 'em if we has
to, but we ain't hankerin' very strong to do it."

"I got a couple of good ones," responded the horseman.
Then he yielded to a sudden burst of generosity.
"Tell you what I 'll do—I 'll sell you them saddles
for forty apiece an' when I gets 'em back, you gets yore
money back.  An' if you don't kill th' hosses, we 'll
have a little dicker over them, too.  I would n't sell
'em only for a good price an' you won't have nothin'
to complain about if I buys 'em back again."

"Yo 're a white man," responded Hopalong.  "Now
we all oughta have a drink to bind th' deal.  An' I
reckon supper 'll go good, too.  We 'll be right glad to
have you join us."  The invitation was accepted with
becoming alacrity.

After the meal, and a game of cards, during which
both punchers had learned much about the surrounding
country, they went on a tour of investigation.  They
had discovered that the only way south likely to be
taken by a man not perfectly familiar with the several
little-known mountain trails, was through Lone Tree
Pass.  A walk about the town, before turning in,
disclosed to them the kind and amount of Dave's
purchases: these showed that he expected to be in the
saddle more than a few hours.  Returning to the hotel
they went at once to their room.  Sitting on the edge
of the bed Hopalong asked a question: "You 've got
me on t' lay of th' land in this part of the country,
Tex.  Why do you figger he 'll head south?"

Tex blew out the light and settled himself snugly
in his bed before replying.  "Because anybody else
would figger he 'd strike north for th' Canadian line,
or up to Helena an' West, where a man can get lost
easy.  I 've sort of palled with Dave, an' I know th'
skunk like a ABC book.  His trail will show us th'
way, but it won't tell us about th' country ahead of
us.  I allus like to know what I 'm goin' up against
when I can."

"Shore; good-night," muttered Hopalong, and in a
moment more soft snores vibrated out through the
open window, to be mildly criticised by the cook in the
cook shack below.

Down in the bar-room the proprietor, having said
good-night to his last customer, pushed the column of
figures away with a sigh of satisfaction and rested his
chin on his hand while he reviewed the events of the
day.  "Why," he muttered, pugnaciously, coming out
of his reveries and pouring himself a liberal drink on
the strength of the day's profits; "why, now I know
what that coyote wanted his room at the back of the
house for—good thing I got th' money ahead of time!
Well, he 's got a h—l of a lot of trouble chasin' him,
anyhow, th' beat."

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With three days' rations fastened to their saddles
Hopalong and Tex whirled away from the Come-Again
as the first streak of gray appeared in the eastern sky
and after a short distance at full speed to take the
devilishness out of their mounts, they slowed to a lope.
Heading straight for the Pass, they picked up Dave's
trail less than two miles from town and then settled
into a steady gait that ate up the miles without
punishing their horses.  They had not made any mistake in
their mounts for they were powerful and tough,
spirited enough to possess temper and courage without any
undue nervous waste, and the way they covered ground,
with apparently no effort, brought a grim smile to
Hopalong's face.

"I don't reckon I 'll do no swappin' back, Tex,"
he chuckled.  "I 've allus wanted a cayuse like this 'n,
an' I reckon he 'll stay bought, even at th' price."

"They look good—but I 'll tell you more about
'em by night," Tex replied.  He glanced ahead with
calm assurance: "I don't figger he's so very far,
Hoppy?"

"Why no, Tex; he could n't ride hard last night,
not over strange country—it was darker'n blazes.
We did n't leave very long after him when you figger
it in miles, an' he ain't reckonin' *shore* on bein' chased.
He drops out th' winder an' sneaks that way 'cause he
ain't takin' no chances.

"We 've got th' best cayuses, we 've had more sleep
than him, we know this game better, we 're tougher,
an' we can get more out of a cayuse than he can.  I
reckon we ought to get sight of him afore sundown, an'
I would n't be surprised if we saw him shortly after
noon.  We 'll shore get him 'bout noon, if he 's had
any sleep."

"I 'd ruther get him this side of Lone Tree Pass—I
ain't hankerin' for no close chase through th'
mountains after a cuss like Dave," Tex replied.
"What do you say 'bout lettin' out another link?"

Hopalong watched his horse for a minute, glanced
critically at his companion's, and tightened the grip of
his knees.  "That feller said a hundred an' forty in
ten hours—how far is that pass?  Well, might as well
find out what this cayuse can do—come on, let 'em go!"

Pounding along at a gait which sent the wind
whistling past their ears they dipped into hollows, shot
over rises, and rounded turns side by side, stirrups
touching and eyes roving as they searched the trail
ahead.  The turns they made were not as many as
those in the trail they followed, for often they cut
straight across from one turn to another.  The ability
to do this brought a shrewd smile to Hopalong's thin
lips.

"Let his cayuse pick its way, Tex—told you he
could n't go fast last night.  Bet a dollar we come to
where he slept afore long—an' say! luck 's with us,
shore.  Notice how he was bearin'—a little off th'
course all th' time—that gray of his must a' come from
som'ers up north.  He had to correct that when he
could see where th' Pass lay—come on, we 'll try
another cut-off, an' a big one."

"Yo 're right—we 'll gain a hour, easy," Tex
replied as they shot off at a tangent for the distant
mountain range on a line for the Pass.  The sun was
two hours higher when Tex laughed aloud, stretching
his hand across his friend's horse and pointing some
distance ahead of him.  "There's th' track again,
Hoppy," he cried, "you was right—see it?"

Hopalong waited until they swept up along the fresh
trail before he replied and the reply was characteristic
of him.  "Pushin' th' gray hard, Tex.  Them toe prints
are purty deep—an' d—d if th' gray ain't havin'
trouble with his bad laig!  See that off fore hoofmark?
See how it ain't as deep as its mate?  Th' gray's
favorin' that laig, an' only for one reason: it hurts
him more when he don't.  Move away a little, Tex;
don't do no good to be bunched so close where there 's
so much cover.  He ain't a long way off, judgin' from
them tracks.  We don't know that he ain't doubled back
to pick us off as we near him."

Tex tightened his knee-grip and rowelled his spurs
lightly along the side of his mount, darting ahead with
Hopalong speeding up to catch him.  It was a test
to see how the horses were holding up and when the
animals took up the new speed and held it with plenty
of reserve strength, the two men let them go.

As they shot down a rough, sloping trail to a
shallow creek, flowing noisily along the bottom of a wild
arroyo, Hopalong looked ahead eagerly and called to
Tex to slow down to a walk.  Tex, surprised, obeyed
and took the reins of the bay as Hopalong went ahead
to cross the stream on foot.  But Tex's surprise was
only momentary; he quickly understood the reason
for the play and he warmed to his sagacious friend
while he admired his skill.

Hopalong waded the stream and looked carefully
around on both side of the tracks where they left the
water.  Motioning Tex to come ahead, he grinned as
the other obeyed.  "Did n't want to splash no fresh
water around here till I saw if th' water Dave splashed
was all soaked up.  It is; but th' spots is moist.  An'
another thing: see th' prints o' that hoof where he
takes up an' sets down—where is he lame?"

"Shoulder," replied Tex with instant decision.

"Shore is.  An' he 's been a-gettin' lamer every step.
Bet he ain't an hour ahead, Tex."

"Won't take you—an' he 'll be above us all th'
way till we cross th' top of th' range, so we better keep
under cover as much as we can," Tex replied.  "We 've
trailed worse men than Dave, a whole lot worse, an'
far better shots; but he ain't really due to miss twice
in two days.  Th' Pass ain't so far ahead now—there
it is, with th' blasted pine stickin' up like a flag-pole.
Half an hour more an' we 'll be in it."

Ahead of them, toiling up the Pass on a tired and
limping horse rode Dave, not so fresh as he might have
been with the four hours' sleep he had secured in the
open at dawn.  The night ride over strange, rough
country had been hard and his rage at the shabby
trick played upon him by the horse dealer had not
helped him any.  To win up to the point where
success was almost his; and then to have a half-breed horse
coper—one who had absolutely no connection with the
game—threaten to defeat him!  To fool all the
players, to gain, as he thought, a big handicap and then
to be delayed by a man who sought only to gain a little
money and be well rid of a poor horse!  Dave's temper
was like that of a rattler hedged in by thorns and the
rougher part of the mountain trail had been saturated
with profanity.  There was not much chance of meeting
any one on that trail and by the time he reached a
place where he could get another horse, the need for
one would have gone.  Let him see a horseman and he
knew who would ride the horse.  He struck the limping
gray savagely as it flinched over a particularly rough
part of the trail and he was growling and swearing as
he rounded a turn in the Pass and came to a place
where, by climbing a boulder just above him, he could
get a good view of the way he had come.  Dismounting,
he made the climb and looked back over the trail.  Miles
of country were below him, the trail winding across it,
hidden at times and then running on in plain view
until some hill concealed it again.  The sun was half
down in the western sky and he swore again as he
realized how much farther he should have been—how
near the end of his ride.

"A hundred an' forty miles in ten hours!" he
snarled, squirming back to descend to his horse.  "No
wonder Bad Hawkins got caught!  Served th' d—n
fool right; an' it 'd serve me right for being such a——"
the words ceased and the speaker flattened
himself to the rock as he peered intently at a hill far
down the trail, waiting to be sure his eyes had not
deceived him.

The slanting sun had made a fairyland of the rugged
scenery, bathing the rocks until they seemed to glow,
finding cunningly hidden quartz and crystals and
turning them into points of flame.  The fresh, clean green
coat that Spring had thrown over the crags as if to
hide them, softened the harsher tones and would have
thrilled even Dave, who was sated with scenery, if it
had not been for his temper and the desperate straits
in which he found himself.  He lay like one dead but
for the straining eyes.  An eagle, drifting carelessly
across the blue, missed him in its sharp scrutiny, so
well did his clothes blend with the tones of the rock.

"H—l!" he muttered, for far below him something
moved out into the trail again where it emerged from
behind the hill, and two mounted men came into sight,
riding rapidly to take advantage of the short run of
level country.

Dave could not make them out—they were only two
men at that distance, but he wasted no time nor gave
heed to any optimism.  He wriggled backwards,
dropped to the trail, and looked around for a place to
hide his horse.  Not seeing one at hand he mounted
again and forced the limping animal forward until he
saw a narrow ravine cut into the mountain side by the
freshets of countless years.  Leading the gray into
this and around a turn in the wall, he picketed the
animal and then hastened back, scurrying to and fro
in search of a hiding place that would give him a view
of the trail for the greatest distance.  His mind worked
as rapidly as his feet.  The coming horsemen might be
innocent of all knowledge of him or of his need.  If so,
he preferred to ride behind them.  If they were in
pursuit—and he could not believe it to be a mere
coincidence that any but an enemy would be following him
so close through Lone Tree Pass—they had not
started from the town he had just quitted—unless
they had traced him by telegraph!  Dave cursed softly
and settled himself a little more at ease in his ambush.

Hopalong and Tex, enjoying that friendship that
sets no embarrassment on silence, rode forward side by
side when the trail permitted it, grim, relentless, dogged.
They represented that class of men who can pursue
one thing to the exclusion of all tempting side leads,
needing nothing but what they themselves can supply;
who approach all duties with cool, level-headed
precision and gain their goal without a thought of reward
and with small regard for danger.  Danger they had
both met in all the forms it took on the range and trail,
dance-hall and saloon; both had mastered it by the
speed and certainty of their hands and guns, and
neither found anything exciting or fearful in this game
of follow and take; on the other hand it was tiresome
to have to follow, and one man, at that.  If some bold,
daring stroke of strategy or a reckless dash could have
been hoped for, it would have made the game interesting.
So they jogged on toward the opening of the
pass, taciturn and sombre, but with the cold patience
of Indians.

The trail narrowed again and Tex took the lead.
"Closer now," he remarked, more to himself than to
his companion, whose reply was a grunt, presumed to
be affirmative.  When they entered the pass itself it
was Hopalong who led, and to see him as he sat
slouching in his saddle, apparently half asleep, one
would have wondered that a man whose wariness was
the basis of so many famed exploits could ride thus
carelessly, allowing his horse to pick the way.  But in
the shadow of his straight-brimmed hat, two hard,
keen eyes squinted through the narrow lids, among the
wrinkles, and missed nothing that could be seen; under
the faded red shirt sleeve was an arm ready for the
lightning draw that had never yet been beaten, and the
hand-worn butt of the heavy Colt rubbed softly against
the belt-strap of its holster.

Hopalong rolled a cigarette and took advantage of
the movement to speak: "Goin' back to Texas, Tex?"

"Why," replied Tex, pausing to reflect.  "Why, I
said as how I would to all yore boys, but I reckon
mebby Buck needs me worse'n you do.  What think?"

"Stay up here an' run for sheriff," was the crisp
reply.  "This country 's sick with crooks."

"Reckon so."

"Good place for undertakers, while th' boom is on,"
continued Hopalong, smiling grimly at the truth in
his jest.  He knew Tex Ewalt.

"Th' boom 'll be busted flat afore you go home,"
Tex responded.  "It's fallin' now.  Dave was its
high-water mark."

They were riding side by side now and Hopalong
growled a suggestion: "Go slow, Tex; mebby he 's
holin' up on us, like he did on Buck.  He ain't more 'n
a million miles ahead of us now."

"Uh-huh; an' if he is he ought to get us easy in this
place.  Got to take a chance, anyhow.  Gimme a
match—*Look out*!"

As he spoke he hurled his horse against Hopalong's
and his left arm dropped to his side with a bullet
through it, while his right hand flashed to his hip,
where a pungent cloud of smoke burst out to envelop
his horse's head.  Off his balance from the unexpected
shock, Hopalong's shot went wide, but the next five,
directed at Dave's head-long rush as he came
crashing down through the underbrush, gave promise of
better aim.

.. _`As he spoke he hurled his horse against Hopalong's, while his right hand flashed to his hip`:

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   :alt: As he spoke he hurled his horse against Hopalong's, while his right hand flashed to his hip

   As he spoke he hurled his horse against Hopalong's, while his right hand flashed to his hip

"I owed him that, anyhow," muttered Tex, his ears
ringing from the fusillade so close to him.  "An' I
owed you th' play, Hoppy, ever since that day in th'
brush—"

"You don't owe me nothin' now, Tex; that's as
close as any in ten years," returned Hopalong.  "Well,
he showed hisself a d—d ambushin' snake just as we
thought he would.  He could a' got us both if his nerves
had n't got th' chills an' fever.  We was some careless!"

"We was a pair of blasted kids," Tex remarked.
"Now what 'll we do with him?  We can't take him
back, an' buryin' in solid rock ain't been in my
schoolin'."

"We can cover him with rocks, I reckon, but we ain't
got time—besides, how'd he leave Buck?" demanded
Hopalong sharply.  "Why, he got you, Tex!  Here,
you close-mouthed fool, lemme fix that hole."

Tex stood quietly thoughtful until Hopalong had
finished his task.  "We 'll just chuck him off th' trail,
Hoppy; then we won't have to answer no question or
shoot sense into no thick skulls.  How 'bout it?"

"Uh-huh, go ahead," grunted Hopalong and the
two walked over, picked up the unresisting bulk and
placed it in a fissure in the rock wall.

"By th' Lord!" swore Tex: "Five shots out of five
when you got yore balance—*that's* shootin'!  *You*
better run for sheriff."

"I had n't ought to 'a' done it when I knowed th'
second got him—but he kept a-comin' an' I was
a-thinkin' of Buck.  Come on, let's get goin'."  He
mounted and waited impatiently for Tex, who was
still standing beside his horse as if unwilling to leave
the scene.  "His pot-shootin' is over, so let's start
back."

"Uh-huh," muttered Tex, still lost in thought.
Hopalong waited, having acquired increased respect
for his friend's brain capacity in the last few days.

"Hoppy, why did Dave ambush Buck an' have to
run, just when he was goin' to skin Schatz for a pot
of money?"

"Give it up," answered Hopalong.

"Well, why did n't Schatz turn up when everything
was set for the play?"

"Got to pass again, Tex," was Hopalong's indulgent reply.

"Dave had plenty of chances to kill Buck—better
chances than that one—an' no need to run, if he was
careful.  Th' Twin River trail is travelled some—it
was shore risky—no time to waste in Wayback waitin'
for Schatz after that, huh?"

"Mebby th' kid did n't get it right," suggested
Hopalong.

Tex nodded his head convincingly.  "Yes, he did.
Told a straight story.  Hoppy, Dave knew Schatz
was n't comin'.  Hoppy, I got—I got a feelin'—Hoppy,
what 'll you bet Dave ain't got th' money right now?"

"By G—d!" exclaimed Hopalong, staring at his
friend, his mind racing along the scent like a hound
to the kill.  "By G—d!" he repeated, softly, as he
dropped from the saddle and became hidden in the
crevice.  "No money, Tex; only a few—"

"Where's his horse?" demanded Tex, eagerly.

"*Yo 're* goin' to run for sheriff," came the retort,
and Hopalong followed the track of Dave's horse and
turned into the ravine, out of sight of Tex, who waited
impatiently.

Tex was surprised at the result of the quest when a
crazy man came buck-jumping into sight, yelling like
an Indian and frantically waving a tightly grasped
saddle pad of sacking.  He would have come out with
more dignity if the money had been his, but belonging
as it did to his old foreman, the big-hearted man who
had been for so long a time on the verge of despair
and defeat, allowed himself the luxury of free
expression to the bubbling joy within him.

"Come on, Tex!" he cried.  "Th' h—l with goin'
back—we 'll take a chance of meetin' th' Dutchman
as Dave Owens' personal executors an' ambassadors.
If Schatz has got a wad like this, he 's th' man I want
to see.  Come on!  We 'll bust all Montana records for
hold-ups—come on, you wise old devil!"

"Now who 's goin' to be sheriff?" grinned Tex, and
then allowed himself the relief of working off his joy
in a short jig, which informed him that Dave had made
a hit; not a bull's eye, but a hit just the same.

"Here, you drunk Apache," Hopalong cried, "let's
count up an' see what we got."

Had any one drifted along a minute later he would
have been torn between duty and discretion: duty to
provide a sane guardian in himself for that part of the
Government treasury strayed to the wilds of these
western mountains, and discretion in facing the two
capable-looking highwaymen who sat crossed-legged on the trail
with guns on the ground close to their hands.

"Um-m-m," murmured Tex, who knew of the size
of the joint account.  "Schatz is lucky if he 's got
carfare—th' capital of th' Peters-McAllister-Schatz
combine is spread reckless under our gloatin' eyes; all
except th' few miserable bills that Dave spent.
Come on, you greedy hog—we 'll let Schatz have his
two-bits an' be glad to get rid of him.  I 'd hate to
shoot any man as fat as him—no tellin' what 'd happen.
Stick yore roll where it won't jar loose, load that
right-hand gun, an' see that nobody holds you up."

"I 've allus been plumb a-scared o' hold-ups,"
grinned Hopalong, facetiously.  "We all was.  Lead costs
money, an' there ain't no use wastin' it."  The grin
disappeared and a hard look focussed in his clear eyes
as he thought of what a lovely time any hold-up squad
would have when Buck's money was at stake.

They mounted and rode away down the pass.  As
they came to the first bend, Tex glanced back and saw
Big Gray peacefully cropping the scanty vegetation
along the trail by the ravine.  He was without bridle
or saddle and Tex glanced covertly at the happy man
at his side who could put five bullets in a falling enemy
without a pang, and immediately after release a limping
horse so that it could live and grow strong, to roam
free among the mountains.

Hopalong rolled both guns at once to end the
celebration, the bullets striking a rock down the trail as
fast as one could count and at intervals as regular as
the hammer-stroke of a striking clock.  To a man who
looked upon a gun only as a weapon to be pointed and
discharged at an object, this would have been
sufficiently wonderful, but to a real gun-man, one acquainted
with the delicacy of manipulation and absolute precision
required to effect this result, it was far more
wonderful.  There are many good gun-men who never have
acquired this art, and the danger of practising it is
enough to deter most men from attempting it.  To hold
a six-shooter by a finger slipped through the trigger
guard and make it spin around like a pinwheel, firing
it every time the muzzle swung out and away from the
body, is risky; and when two guns are going at once, it
is trebly risky, while accuracy is almost impossible.
Hopalong was accurate, so was Johnny, but the latter
could work only one gun.  Tex, being something of a
master of gun-play, was capable of appreciating the
feat at its true worth and his eyes glowed at the
exhibition.  To him came the memory of a day far back
in the years when this dexterity had worked to his
dishonor, yet it brought with it no malice and it was with
the deep affection that a man has for a man friend—and
usually for only one—that he playfully advised
his companion to "load 'em up again."  "Hoppy,
there 's only one hand I ever see that I 'm more afraid
of than that 'n o' yourn," he remarked.

Hopalong looked at him in mild surprise: "Whose
is that?" he asked.

"Yore other one," and Tex grinned at his jest.





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.. _`POINTS OF THE COMPASS`:

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   CHAPTER XXVII


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   POINTS OF THE COMPASS

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The long-slanting shadows found Hopalong
and Tex far from Lone Tree Pass, riding
straight for the Double Y ranch.  Their
chase after Dave had taken them well to the west of
south and they had concluded to keep the horses and
equipment and strike for the ranch.  As Hopalong
sagely remarked: "Eighty dollars is eighty dollars,
Tex, but these here two bronchs 'pear to me purty
good stock; besides, what's eighty dollars 'longside
the money-bag I 'm a-sittin' on?" and he eyed,
complacently, the bloated gunny-sack that hid its wealth
under so innocent an exterior.

They went ahead with that unerring instinct of the
plainsman whose sense of direction seems positively
uncanny to a tenderfoot, especially if the tenderfoot
has ever been lost.  There was no sign of a trail nor
did they expect to see one, until they struck the Big
Moose, north of the Reservation.  This in itself was a
source of gratification to them; they were quite
content to meet with no one and all they asked was to be
let severely alone until such time as the money was
turned over to Buck and they should cease to be
responsible for it.

The stumbling of the tired horses led them
reluctantly to make camp.  Hopalong was loath to be away
from Mary longer than was necessary; only the grim
determination to get Buck's money to him with as
little risk as possible had decided him to ride to the
ranch instead of taking the train from X——, which
would have been hours quicker.  They had discussed
this matter, even to the thinking of a possible train
hold-up, and Hopalong expressed his very decided
preference for the open.  "I was in a train hold-up once,"
he told Tex, "an' seven of th' boys was n't none too
many to break it up.  Skinny got plugged—not bad—but
it might be us this time, an' it might be a whole
lot worse."

He entertained Tex with the story while they made
their simple preparations for their supper.  Tex
listened with the ear of a good listener, giving voice to
his amusement, or endorsement of an action, or
profanely consigning the whole troupe of train robbers
to that region where go the "many who are called but
not chosen."  But all the while, though interested in
the tale which concerned so many of his old friends,
his analytical mind was pondering over the reason of
Dave's action: How had he got the money from Schatz?
Why had no one seen Schatz in Wayback?  Where
had the transfer of the money been made from Schatz
to Dave?  What had happened to change the plans
of the fake hold-up, when Dave was to relieve Schatz
of the money?  His busy mind approached the riddle
from many angles, as in the dark of night, a man with
a lantern might cover a big stretch of country,
searching everywhere for the track which would lead him to
the finding of a hidden treasure.  Farther and farther
afield went Tex, examining, comparing, and rejecting
every possibility that presented itself to his inward
vision.  Disappointed at the failure of his efforts to
discover the solution, he cast from his mind all his
useless speculation and adopted the slower but surer
method which he should have tried at first: He put
himself in the place of Dave—little by little he cast off
his own personality and changed to that of the other,
picturing to himself the effect upon Dave's cupidity
when told of the part he was to play in the stealing of
the money.  So sensitive was his intelligence, so
receptive to the shadowy suggestions that beckoned to him,
perhaps from that lonely, unmarked grave beside the
upper waters of the Little Jill, that presently his eyes
began to gleam, his lips parted, and he stretched out
his hand to Hopalong in unconscious emphasis.  "Th'
gunny sack, Hoppy!  Where did he get th' gunny sack?"

The ghost of Schatz smiled.  Tex was a man after
his own heart.

Tex's abstraction had not escaped Hopalong.  The
end of his tale reached, he had put away the balance of
the food, seen to the secure picketing of the two horses,
put out the fire by the simple expedient of kicking over
it sufficient sand, and had arranged the saddles in such
a way that they completely hid the sack and could not
be disturbed without arousing both him and Tex.  From
time to time he glanced at his silent companion,
smiling to himself at the sight of such complete absorption.
He could see himself over again in Tex, who was almost
as old a man, recalling how he had been wont to ponder
on the probable movements of an enemy and the
pleasure he took, after a victory, in reviewing what had
gone before and checking the mistakes and the
successes in his reasoning.  He wondered idly why it had
lost its attraction for him and he concluded, with a
whimsical grin, that marriage gave a man other things
to think about.

But however lost Hopalong might be to inward
speculation, no outward manifestation of the unusual or
unlooked-for failed to appeal to his always active and
alert senses.  The pipe he had been smoking contentedly
was held between his fingers, out and almost cold,
his head was bent to one side and he was listening
intently.  He put his head to the ground and then arose
to his feet, his ear turned to the stray breeze that was
bringing to him faint and disagreeable sounds.  When
Tex's hand went out to him and Tex's voice broke in
upon those barely audible sounds, he grasped the hand
and gripped it hard to enjoin silence.  Tex listened
with all his ears but the ground noises had ceased and
he was not high enough to have the advantage of the
wind that was vexing Hopalong's hearing.  Hopalong
silently dragged him to his feet; they stood thus for a
few seconds and then the look they turned upon each
other was pregnant with significance.

"Makin' quite a noise," said Hopalong.  "An' we
ain't near th' trail yet.  What do you make of it?"

"Dunno," answered Tex.  "Had n't ought to be a
man within twenty miles of us, Hoppy, 'less it's a
Injun—an' them's no Injuns.  Sounds to me like
singin'."

"Same here," agreed Hopalong.  "Can't be a drive
herd, can it?"

"Not as I knows of.  No herd ever come this way
since th' railroad put through, an' then they stuck to
th' trail."

"We got to find out, Tex," declared Hopalong,
decisively.  "Can't roost with a noisy bunch of coyotes
like them runnin' 'round an' howlin' for gore."

"I 'll go, Hoppy," said Tex, "an' if I ain't back in
an hour, you take both cayuses an' hike out for th'
ranch."

"An' leave you afoot?" asked Hopalong.  "Not by
a d—n sight."

"You must, Hoppy.  I got a reputation that 'll
serve me with either honest men or thieves.  I can't
come to no harm.  'Tother way, you might get hurt.
Two of us can't get away on them bronchs, they did
too much to-day already.  You 'll have to go at a walk,
if you do go.  'Course I don't stop with that bunch
'less I has to.  It's that bag I 'm thinkin' about,
Hoppy.  If I has to stop, you want to put as much
ground as you can between them an' you.  I 'm d—d
glad they did n't see our fire."

"All right, Tex.  I gives you an hour.  'Tain't
more 'n a mile.  Get a-goin'."

Tex started away and Hopalong began to get ready
for a possible flight.  Even if Tex did return they
might decide that another location for their camp would
be healthier.  As he fastened the saddles to the two
animals they each turned and looked at him with a
disgust as expressive as if spoken.

Tex made for the spot from which the sounds had
come, walking easily but silently, his form a mere
shadow in the star-lit night and invisible on the lower
levels, to which he carefully kept, at a distance of two
hundred yards.  At the end of ten minutes he was able
to distinguish words and knew that Hoppy's and his
surmise had been correct: they had heard the singing
of night riders around a herd.  It was the un-called-for
presence of a herd in this vicinity which, more
than all else, had led Tex to insist upon the reconnoitre
being left to him.  "Honest men or thieves," he had
said.  He was very doubtful of finding honest men.
Only the condition of the horses had checked him from
advising a departure on suspicion.

He was skulking along now, bent double; in his hand,
the blade lying along his arm, was a knife such as few
men in the West carried at that day and in the use
of which Tex was unusually expert.  It was entirely
characteristic of him that he should possess such a
weapon: silence in action is desired by the worst class
of man, and Tex had been of that class before the
enforced association of better men and the heroically
magnanimous action of an opponent had changed him
to the man he was.  He slunk forward with the stealthy
prowl of a wolf, glancing to right and left as he went,
hoping to sight the camp of the cattlemen and get near
enough without being seen, to learn what he had come
to find out.  He dropped flat to earth as a sudden
snort startled him: he had come upon the herd without
knowing it.  A disquieted animal sprang to its feet and
did not lie down again until the soothing voice of the
herder was raised.  The song floated down the wind and
Tex listened as well as the cow:

   |  "'Now then, young men, don't be melancholy;
   |    Just see, like me, if you can't be jolly;
   |  If anything goes wrong with me
   |    I never sulk nor pout;
   |  In fact I am and always was
   |    The merriest girl that's out.'"
   |

If the cow were soothed it was quite otherwise with
Tex: his hair almost bristled as the rider went past,
near enough for the heavy knife to have sped through
the air and sunk haft-deep between his shoulders.
"Chatter Spence!" sprang to Tex's lips.  "Who's
he driving for?" a question that he was still asking
himself when another herder neared him, whose choice
of lullaby was probably influenced by that of his
companion, for he was calling out in most lugubrious voice:

   |  'Buffalo gals, are you comin' out to-night,
   |    Comin' out to-night, comin' out to-night?
   |  Buffalo gals, are you comin' out to-night
   |    To dance by th' light of th' moon?'
   |

"It's all wrong," the singer broke off to say in a
sing-song voice, that, as far as the cattle were
concerned, had all the effect of a melody.  "It's all
wrong," he repeated.  "There ain't no moon.  'To
dance by th' light of th' stars,'" he corrected, and then:
"Gentlemen, I rises to a question of order.  I don't
want to dance.  I 'm too blasted sore to dance—I 'm
too sore to be a-sittin' on this cross-eyed, rat-tailed,
flea-bitten son-of-a-dog, too; an' if I ain't relieved
pretty soon, Shanghai is a-goin' to hear—" his voice
trailed away and the words were no longer distinguishable.

Tex cautiously sat up.  "That's Argue Bennett.
And Shanghai is with them.  Why, d—n it!  There
must be a whole brood of Ike's chickens roosting
around here.  I 'm going to find them, even if I miss
Hoppy in doing it."

He started to arise and back away before the first
singer should approach again, only to drop back into
his former prone position at the sound of a third
singer, coming from his right.  Bennett and Spence
heard him too and were more than ready to resign the
herd by the time he and his companion arrived.
Bennett did not hesitate to announce his bitter
condemnation of the way things were being done.

"That you, Ship?" he called.

"That's me," came the answer.

"Shore it's you," agreed Bennett, in sarcastic
acknowledgment.  "I 'd a' bet every cow I own it's you.
An' I goes on record as bettin' every cow *you* own that
Cracker is a-ridin' 'longside you.  Do I win?"

"You win with yore own stock but I objects to you
winnin' with mine.  It *might* a' been Shanghai."

"Yes, it *might*; but if it was I 'd a' dropped dead
from surprise.  What I want to know is: what call has
Shanghai got to hold down all th' soft snaps?  Is he
any better'n we are?  Echo answers no—Echo bein'
Chatter Spence, who has n't got pride enough to
disagree with a hen."

"Aw, what's eatin' you!  This ain't no regular
drive.  An' did you ever know Shanghai to get left on
a deal?  How'd we ever got through th' Cyclone if it
hadn't been for Shanghai?  You make me tired.  Did
you ever know a herd to get over th' ground so fast?
Been you, we 'd be some're near Big Moose right now.
You leave Shanghai alone an' we 'll have th' herd in our
pockets afore Peters knows they 're gone.  Nice little
bunch, too.  Go an' get yore chuck an' you 'll feel
better.  'Jennie, my own true loved one, Wait till th'
clouds roll by'"—he rode on to circle the herd.

"Did you ever hear such a pill?  He thinks nobody
knows nothin' but Shanghai.  What do you say,
Cracker?"

"Well, I kind o' sides with Ship.  We ain't done as
much as Shanghai, if it comes to that, 'ceptin' night
herd."

H—l!  I 'm wastin' my breath talkin' to you.
Come on, Chatter, we—why, th' greedy hog 's gone
a'ready."  Bennett made haste to get back to camp.  He
knew the supplies to be none too plentiful.  So did
Chatter Spence.

Tex stole away as silently as he had come, leaving
the cattle-thieves happy in their ignorance of his
discovery.  He pushed himself hard on his return, fearful
of having overstayed the time.  Hopalong was waiting
for him, however, and listened to his news with
quiet interest.

"Buck's cows, Hoppy," was Tex's greeting, as he
arrived on the run.  "We got to get 'em but it's one
sweet little job.  Old Ship o' State is a holy terror in
a row; Chatter Spence ain't bad, an' Argue Bennett an'
Cracker impressed me as bein' good men to have around.
But th' one we got to watch out for is Shanghai.  He
never falls down an' it would n't surprise me none to
know he was watchin' them four same as I was.
There's two of 'em ridin' herd an' three in camp.
How do we go at it?"

"Got to get th' two night-ridin'.  Tie 'em up an'
th' other three is easy.  Hol' on a minute till I get th'
bank."

Ship o' State was beginning the twenty-seventh
stanza in the melodious history of an incorrigible
reprobate who deserved death in every one of them, when
he was utterly confounded to hear a voice, almost at
his ear, command him to "throw up his hands an'
climb down of 'n that cayuse, *pronto*."  Contrary to
what all his friends would have expected him to do, he
obeyed the command instantly and to the letter.  He
was relieved of his gun and was being very effectually
secured when the strangely quavering voice of Cracker
was heard and came near.  Ship eyed his captor in
wonder.  If Cracker were to be captured in the same
manner, then this was the coolest man in the country.
Nearer and nearer came the voice until Ship actually
found himself worrying over the narrowness of the
margin of safety.  It was not until Cracker went by
that he understood.  The grotesque shape could only
be accounted for in one way: Cracker's captor was
straddling the same pony.

It was just when Ship had reached this conclusion
that a very unpleasant bunch of rags was thrust into
his mouth and he was lifted and thrown face down
across the back of his horse.  Hopalong got into the
saddle and they rode away from the herd.  They had
not gone far before another horseman joined them and
Ship could hear the singing Cracker as he circled the
herd.  "There's three of 'em anyway," was his
thought, wherein he was wrong.  Cracker, with his
hands trussed high behind his back and his feet hobbled,
was stumbling slowly along with the threat in his
memory that if he stopped singing until he was told, his
head stood a good chance of being separated from the
rest of his carcass, when he would never be able to sing
again; and the further information that, if the herd
should stampede, he was in a fair way to be crushed to
a pulp.  The latter he knew to be true and he was
equally convinced that the other would be quite likely
to take place.

Fifty yards from the herd, Ship was quietly dumped
to the ground.  Far enough away from him the horses
were picketed and two forms crept carefully upon the
three men in camp.

Dark as it was, there was no difficulty in finding two
of the three.  Spence and Bennett, the latter agreeably
surprised to find that Shanghai had depleted the
general treasury to the extent of one cow, had both eaten
a large and satisfying meal; their hunger appeased,
weariness had asserted itself in double force and
nothing less than a determined kick would have
awakened either of them.  But Hopalong and Tex prowled
around looking for Shanghai without success.

Shanghai was living up to his reputation.  Having
made his plans and given orders to insure their
carrying out, he then stayed around and saw it done.  Argue
Bennett might grumble to the others but he knew the
futility, as also the danger, of grumbling to Shanghai.
When his two subordinates had eaten their fill and gone
to sleep, Shanghai still sat hunched before the dying
embers of the fire, smoking a meditative pipe.  When
the smoke ceased to float lazily from his nostrils he
knocked the warm ashes onto the palm of his hand, got
to his feet and slipped quietly away from the camp.

Any one who knew Shanghai well would have reasoned
that he was probably going to look over the herd
because he started away in the opposite direction.
Going straight to his objective point was entirely too
elemental for Shanghai.  He fetched a wide circle before
drawing near the herd, his approach being unheralded
and made with the suspicious caution which marked all
his movements.  He listened inattentively to the husky
voice of Cracker who was mourning the demise of
somebody named Brown, and moved a little nearer.
Presently he became vaguely uneasy at the silence of old
Ship-o'-State.  It was not the lack of song on Ship's
part that troubled Shanghai—the cattle were resting
easy enough—but where was he?  When Cracker
came around again Shanghai was near enough to see
him and he craned his neck in wonder at the sight:
Cracker on his two feet, staggering along like a man
about three whiskeys from oblivion, and Ship off post.
Here was something very wrong and Shanghai cursed
softly to think how far away his horse was.  What in
blazes made him come afoot, anyway?  He started
back to camp to repair the oversight and to have
Chatter and Argue behind him before making an investigation
of Cracker's astonishing preference for night-herding
on foot.

His descent upon the camp would have been creditable
to an Apache.  First making sure of his horse
and leaving him in shape for instant departure, he
circled the two sleeping forms, viewing them from all sides.
There was something wrong.  Shanghai did not know
what it was but the figures of his two companions seemed
actually to exhale menace and the longer he hesitated
the stronger the feeling became.  Shanghai stole quietly
back to his horse, mounted and rode off with the
settled conviction that sun-up was the proper time for
investigating these unusual circumstances and that the
proper spot was several miles distant from below the
sky-line of some convenient knoll.

At the unmistakable sound of retreating hoofbeats
the figures in camp came to life.  They sat up and
listened and then Tex looked at Hoppy with frank
disapprobation.  "Hoppy, my way was best," he declared.
Hopalong nodded, in silent agreement, and Tex
continued: "I been a-hearin' considerable talk about this
here Shanghai an' I 'm bound to say I believe all I
hears.  D—n if he ain't got second sight."

Hopalong nodded again.  "Let's round up th' rest of
th' roosters, anyhow.  We got four, an' four's a
plenty to take care of."

"Shore is," admitted Tex.  "Let's bring 'em in
an' hog-tie 'em.  Them cows would n't move for
anythin' 'less 'n a Norther after th' way they 've come
across country."

A half hour later Ike's four pets were lying side by
side in camp, trussed to the point of immovability and
all apparently, in spite of their discomfort, taking
advantage of the opportunity to secure the sleep they
so much needed after their unsuccessful exertions.

"Hoppy," said Tex, "I think that with that Shanghai
party still runnin' at large, it 'd be some wise to
split up that wealth.  Better take a chance of losin'
half of it than all of it.  What you think?"

"Same here," agreed Hopalong.  He opened the
sack and dumped out the packages, dividing them
roughly into two parts with a sweep of his hand, and
proceeded to rip up the sack, preparatory to making
two parcels of the money.

"'With milk an' honey blest,'" faltered a voice and
they turned to find Argue Bennett's eyes almost
starting from his head at the sight he beheld.

"Playin' 'possum, eh?  It'd do you no harm to
stretch hemp right now," and Tex's meditative air was
fringed with ferocity.

"No offence, Comin', no offence.  You woke me
movin'.  Is that what Dave got away with?"

"Yes—an' there won't no more Daves get away
with it, you can bet all th' cows you own on that."

"An' me a-riskin' my neck rustlin' that bunch when
all that beautiful wealth was a-leavin' th' country easy
an' graceful an' just a-shoutin' to be brought back.
Excuse me, Comin'.  I ain't got no call to talk.  I
reckon I never did talk.  Th' best I ever done since I
was born is bray."

Thus it came about that Shanghai suffered the acute
misery of seeing his four-footed fortune headed back
the way it had come.  Not that he lost heart all at once.
After some hours of following he had decided that a
bold stroke might put him again in possession and was
perfecting the details of the stratagem his ready mind
conceived, when a sudden check was given by a rapidly
approaching cloud of dust from the northwest.  The
check became check-mate when the useful field-glasses
disclosed to his pained vision the hilarious meeting that
took place.  A certain jaunty carriage, a characteristic
swagger that did not forsake him even in the saddle,
made Shanghai look hard at the leader of the
new-comers and suspect Cock Murray.  And his suspicion
was well founded.  Cock Murray had already redeemed
his promise to Buck and it may be pardoned him if in
the joy of his heart, his swagger became so pronounced
as to disclose his personality across some miles of
country.

Shanghai closed his glasses and moved slowly to his
horse.  "Well, it had to be," he conceded, philosophically.
"An' I reckon it's about time I pulled my freight."





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.. _`THE HEART OF A ROSE`:

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   CHAPTER XXVIII


.. class:: center medium

   THE HEART OF A ROSE

.. vspace:: 2

And the evening and the morning were the
second day.  At a time when, through the
diffused and fading light of the sun-vacant sky,
the silver-pale stars blinked one by one in their
awakening; when the protesting twitter of disturbed birds
seeking their rest sounded sweetly clear above the steady
rumble of the marshland frogs; when the velvet-footed
killers stretched and yawned and gazed with dilated
pupils at the near approach of night; when the men
who persuaded luck to their advantage, in various ways,
began to gather about the tables in cow-town and
mining-camp, and there was a lighting of lamps by the
foresighted and a trimming of wicks by the
procrastinators—the French Rose faced her father, Jean, and
did battle for love and happiness, though she knew it not.

The easy-going Jean had known nothing of the
manner in which their guest was wounded, nor by whom;
and Rose had not thought it wise to tell him, even if it
occurred to her in the stress of that first day.  But
Jean had heard many rumors in Twin River, many
disquieting facts and equally disturbing inferences.  He
had hurried home beset with fears for the outcome,
alarmed at the reckless step Rose had taken and vainly
asking himself why.  Immediately upon his entry he
had set Pickles at a task which would occupy him away
from the cabin.  Standing moodily at the window he
watched him go.  Then he turned to his daughter for
an explanation.

"Is Dave here yesterday?" he asked.

"Yes," replied Rose, non-committally.

Jean turned over in his mind this new fact and fitted
it into the pattern.  "For why you go so fast to
Twin?" he questioned.

"No one is here but me.  Fritz, he go to the Two
Y's ranch."

"You tell him?"

"No.  He hear Dave talk an' go to tell M'sieu
Peters Dave have stole all his money."

"*Diable*!  Steal?"

"Yes."

Jean knitted his brows in the effort to understand
the reason for this; quite naturally he came back in a
circle to his first inquiry and repeated it: "For why
you go to Twin?"

"I go for men to catch Dave when he steal the
money."  This, while not strictly true, was the
nearest to truth that Jean could understand.

The trend of his thoughts was shown by his next
question.  "Dave—he know?" he asked, and his
anxiety was apparent.

"Yes," was the brief answer.

"*Mon Dieu!*" exclaimed Jean.  He turned from her
and stared with unseeing eyes over the land he had
struggled hard to make his own.  And now he must
lose it.  Rapidly calculating how long his slender
resources would support him until Rose could dispose of
his stock and follow, despair came upon him as he
realized that the vengeance of Dave was not to be
escaped.  "For why," he asked, hoarsely, "for why
you do this?"

"For why?" repeated Rose and the thrill in her
voice caused him to turn and look at her in surprise.
"Figure to yourself, then: That devil he come here
and he sneer at you, and he insult me—yes.  Many
times he insult me that I have to hold myself, so! that
I do not kill him.  I endure.  He send me—-*Dieu!* that
I should say it—he make dirt of me to walk on, to
arrive at a man who is high, good, ah, a man! *mon père*,
a man like you, one time when you have no fear.  He
send me.  I say nothing.  Many times he try, like a
dog, to spring at his throat, but always, it is nothing
but snap at his heels.  Like a dog which he is.  Then
he come to me and say he is triumph.  He get much
money.  And he tell me go with him.  Me! me! he
command like he is master and me slave.  He steal
money from M'sieu Peters and him and me, we go away
together, like that, like man and his squaw.  And I
say nothing.  Ah, *mon père*! it is too much—too
much.  If it be some other man—not M'sieu
Peters—then I go.  I save you, *mon père*, though it kill me.
But—it is too much."

She bowed her head, filled with self-reproach, with a
knowledge that her father could never see this thing
as she did.  Jean stared at her, motionless; but his
dumb amaze slowly lifted.  He came to her and rested
his hand lightly on her bowed head.  "*Ma Rose—ma
belle Rose*—when you have for a good man so big love
as that, I would die, with gladness, to know so big
happiness is come to you."  And he went swiftly from
the cabin.

At the closing of the door she sprang to it and
threw it wide again.  "You will not go—now—to-night?"
she called.

The answer, low, determined, in the tones of the
father of that other time, reassured her: "No.  We stay.
Maybe—who knows?—God is good."

She went back and with steady hand lit the lamp and
placed it on the table.  The noble face was aglow with
hopeful pride: he would face it at last, this thing that
had embittered both their lives.

"Rose!"

She started and turned in dismay toward the inner
room.  He was awake—how long?—and calling her.

"Rose!" the call came again, gentle but insistent.
"Rose, I—I want you."

She stood a moment longer, both hands pressed
against her heart, her breath coming in great gasps
and in her eyes the frightened look of a child.  Then
she caught up the lamp and with swift step went in and
stood beside the bunk.  "Is it then you rest ill, my
friend?" she asked softly, and then bent to re-arrange
the pillow.  Buck's hand closed over hers.

"Rose," he whispered, "Rose—I heard."

She slipped to her knees, hiding her face in the pillow,
her figure shaking with great tremors and sobs breaking
from her so that she could scarcely speak.  "Oh,
I am ashamed," she said brokenly, "I am ashamed."

"Ashamed!  And I——" he stopped, drawing in
a deep breath at the wonder of it; then raising himself
to rest on bent arm, he laid his cheek against her hair.
"I 'm th' one as ought to be ashamed, Rose: a man o'
my age, an' feelin' th' way I do—an' you a girl.  But
I 've got to have you, Rose.  I just got to have you.
An' if you don't say 'yes' I swear to God I 'll give up
an' pull out o' this country.  I don't want to stop
another day if you say 'no.'"

She drew away from him and raised her head to
look at him doubtfully, appealingly, believingly.  A
wonderful smile broke through her tears and stilled
the trembling of her lips.  "You mean it, Buck.  Oh!
You do!  You do!"  Her arms were about him and
she lowered him gently back again.  "Rest you, and
get well quickly, wounded man," she murmured.  "My
man—my man until I die—and after."

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.. class:: center medium

   FINIS

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.. pgfooter::