Chapter 4

CHAPTER VIITHE FRENCH ROSEThe 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 warmIs my heart."When the White King makes his truce with the Gold—How dances my heart!All the sweet perfumes that float in the SpringRest close, ah! so closeIn 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! contentIn 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: 'TakeFritz?'"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.""Iknow 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."CHAPTER VIIITEX JOINS THE ENEMYTex 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 fightingforhim, 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 regularhabituéswere 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.""Excuseme," 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.CHAPTER IXANY MEANS TO AN ENDJean 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.* * * * *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?"* * * * *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 trueIf Heaven had made me such another worldOf one entire and perfect chrysoliteI '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: "Howheknow 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'themfor?" 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 betteraussi, 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.

CHAPTER VII

THE FRENCH ROSE

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 warmIs my heart."When the White King makes his truce with the Gold—How dances my heart!All the sweet perfumes that float in the SpringRest close, ah! so closeIn 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! contentIn my heart."

"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 warmIs my heart.

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 closeIn my heart.

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! contentIn my heart."

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: 'TakeFritz?'"

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."

"Iknow 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."

CHAPTER VIII

TEX JOINS THE ENEMY

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 fightingforhim, 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 regularhabituéswere 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."

"Excuseme," 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.

CHAPTER IX

ANY MEANS TO AN END

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.

* * * * *

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?"

* * * * *

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 trueIf Heaven had made me such another worldOf one entire and perfect chrysoliteI 'd not have sold her for it.'"

"'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: "Howheknow 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'themfor?" 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 betteraussi, 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.

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