CHAPTER IVTHE FOREMAN OF THE DOUBLE YBuck 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'hisself.""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—Ithink—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.CHAPTER V"COMIN' THIRTY" HAS NOTIONSUp 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, wehasbeen 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';onlyGuinea 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.* * * * *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,aberI 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.CHAPTER VIAN HONEST MAN AND A ROGUEHow 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 faultder verruchterbull break looseund 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 backmorgen.' 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?"
CHAPTER IV
THE FOREMAN OF THE DOUBLE Y
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'hisself."
"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—Ithink—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.
CHAPTER V
"COMIN' THIRTY" HAS NOTIONS
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, wehasbeen 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';onlyGuinea 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.
* * * * *
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,aberI 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.
CHAPTER VI
AN HONEST MAN AND A ROGUE
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 faultder verruchterbull break looseund 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 backmorgen.' 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?"