Mary Bransford spent the first day of Sanderson's absence in the isolation of the parlor, with the shades drawn, crying. Her brother had bitterly disappointed her.
He had sent word by one of the men that he was going to Las Vegas to look up the title to the property. She thought he might at least have brought her the message personally.
Mary told herself that she had not been unduly demonstrative, as Sanderson had intimated by his actions. She had merely been glad to see him, as any sister would be glad to see a brother whom she had not seen for many years; and she assured herself that if he loved her as she loved him he would not have resented her display of affection.
That affection, though, troubled Mary. To be sure, she had never had a brother about, to fuss over, and therefore she could not tell just how deeply she should be expected to love the one whom Providence had given her; but she was certain that she did not love him too much.
For Sanderson was worthy of the full measure of any sister's love. Big, handsome, vigorous, with a way about him that any woman must admire, Mary felt he deserved all the affection she could bestow.
Her wonder and perplexity came over a contemplation of the quality of that love. Was it right that she should thrill so delightfully whenever he came near her? And was it entirely proper for her to feel that queer tingle of delight over the strangeness of it all?
And did that strangeness result from the fact that she had not seen him for years; or was there some truth in Dale's assertion that she was merely an adopted daughter, and her love for Sanderson not merely the love of a sister for a brother, but the love of a woman for a man?
Had Sanderson taken that view of it? She thought he had; for she had told him about Dale's assertion, and his constraint had begun shortly after.
She did not blame him a great deal—after she had thought it over. He had done the manly thing, she divined, in not taking advantage of the situation, and she believed she loved him more than ever because of his attitude. But she felt that she had lost something, and the second day had gone before she succeeded in resigning herself to the new state of affairs.
Nothing happened. Dale did not come near the ranchhouse. Mary rode over to the Nyland ranch and had a long talk with Peggy, and Peggy told her that she had not seen Dale.
Ben Nyland had driven the Double A cattle over to their own range, and so far as he was concerned the incident with Dale was closed. But, Peggy told Mary, Ben was bitterly resentful, and had sworn that if Dale bothered Peggy any more he would kill him.
Mary, however, was not greatly interested in Peggy's recital. She sat on a chair in the kitchen of the Nyland cabin, listening to Peggy, but making no replies. And it was not until she was ready to go that Mary revealed the real reason for her visit—and then she did not reveal it to Peggy, but to her own heart.
For she reddened when she asked the question: "I wonder if you feel about Ben as I feel about my brother—that when you kiss him you are kissing a strange man?"
Peggy laughed. "You would feel that way, of course. For your brother is almost a stranger to you."
"And do you kiss Ben often?" asked Mary.
"Ben doesn't like it," smiled Peggy. "He is like most other men—he likes to kiss the daughters of other men, but he gets sulky and balky when I want to kiss him. So I don't try very often. Your brother is a fine, big fellow, but you will find before you have been around him very long that he wants to do his kissing away from home."
Mary laughed, and blushed again. "I have already discovered that," she said. "But, Peggy," she added seriously, "I love him so much that believe I should be jealous if I thought he kissed another girl!"
Mary rode homeward, rather comforted over her visit. And during the remaining days of Sanderson's absence she succeeded in convincing herself that Sanderson's attitude toward her was the usual attitude of brothers toward sisters, and that she had nothing of which to complain.
On the seventh day Sanderson and Owen returned.
Mary saw them ride in and she ran to the door and waved a hand to them. Owen flourished his hat at her, but Sanderson only grinned.
When Sanderson came in Mary did not attempt to kiss him, but she wanted to when he seized her hand and squeezed it warmly. For it seemed to her that he was troubled over something.
She watched him narrowly for signs that would tell her of the nature of the trouble, but when he went to bed she had learned nothing.
At breakfast the next morning she asked him what he had discovered at Las Vegas. He looked straight at her.
"There is no record of your birth," he said.
She paled. "Then Dale has grounds for his suspicion," she said in a weak voice.
"Because your birth was not recorded is no sign you are not a Bransford," he said. "I'll tell you this," he added gruffly: "as a sister you suit me from the ground up; an' I'll stick to you until hell freezes over!"
Not until that instant did she realize that she had entertained a fear that Sanderson would believe as Dale believed, and in an excess of joy over the discovery that he did believe in her she got up, ran around the table, seized Sanderson by the shoulders and laid her cheek against his.
"You're a dear," she said, "and I don't care whether you like it or not, I am going to kiss you!"
"Just once," he said, blushing.
She kissed him, and then leaned back, looking at him reprovingly.
"You haven't returned a kiss I have given you!" she said. "And I want you to!"
"All right," he agreed, and this time the warmth of his response made her draw a long, deep breath.
Sanderson made his escape as soon as he decently could, and walked to a corner of the pasture fence where he stood, one arm resting on the top rail, his gaze on the basin.
At the court in Las Vegas he had discovered that Bransford had made a will, bequeathing the ranch to his son. The document had been recorded only a few months before Bransford died, showing that he had at last forgiven the boy.
Sanderson had intended to take possession of the ranch, in an effort to forestall any scheme Dale might have, and while in Las Vegas he had applied to the court for permission to have the title transferred. And then he had been told it would be necessary for him to file an affidavit and proof establishing his identity.
With Barney Owen looking on Sanderson was compelled to defer signing the affidavit, for Sanderson remembered the letter from young Bransford, bearing the younger Bransford's signature. The letter was still in the dresser drawer in his room, and he would have to have it beside him while he signed Bransford's name to the affidavit in order to imitate Bransford's handwriting successfully. Therefore he asked permission to take the affidavit home.
Pocketing the paper, after receiving the necessary permission, Sanderson caught Owen looking at him with a smile. He scowled at the little man.
"What's eatin' you?" he demanded.
"Curiosity," said the other. "Don't tell me you're too bashful to sign your name in public."
They were mounting their horses when the little man spoke, and Sanderson grinned coldly at him.
"You're a whole lot longer on talk than I like any of my friends to be," he said.
"Then I'll cut out gassing promiscuous," grinned the latter.
Sanderson was troubled over the situation. To successfully keep Dale from attacking his title to the ranch he must sign the affidavit and return it to the court. He must imitate Will Bransford's signature to prevent Mary Bransford from suspecting the deception—for at any time she might decide to go to Las Vegas to look over the records there.
More, he must practice writing Bransford's signature until he could imitate it without having to look at the original.
Determined to go to work at the deception instantly, Sanderson returned to the ranchhouse, slipped into his room and locked the door, opened the drawer and took out the package of letters.
The Bransford letter was missing! Half a dozen times he thumbed the letters in the packages over before he would admit that the one for which he was seeking was not there.
He stood for a time looking at the package of letters, bitterly accusing himself. It was his own fault if the whole structure of deception tumbled about his ears, for he should have taken the letter when he had had an opportunity.
Mary Bransford had it, of course. The other letters, he supposed, she cared less for than the one written by her brother.
For the twentieth time since his arrival at the ranch, Sanderson had an impulse to ride away and leave Mary Bransford to fight the thing out herself. But, as before, he fought down the impulse.
This time—so imbued was he with determination to heap confusion upon Alva Dale's head—he stood in the center of the room, grinning saturninely, fully resolved that if it must be he would make a complete confession to the girl and stay at the Double A to fight Dale no matter what Mary thought of him.
He might have gone to Mary, to ask her what had become of the letter. He could have invented some pretext. But he would not; he would not have her think he had been examining her letters. One thing he could do without confessing that he had been prying—and he did it.
At dinner he remarked casually to Mary:
"I reckon you don't think enough of my letters put them away as keepsakes?"
"Sanderson's or Bransford's?" she returned, looking at him with a smile.
"Both," he grinned.
"Well," she said, "I did keep both. But, as I told you before, I had the Sanderson letter somewhere. I have been looking for it, but have not been able to find it."
Sanderson grinned faintly and wondered what she would say if she knew what care he had taken to burn the Sanderson letter.
"The letter you wrote as yourself—the Bransford letter—I have. It was among a lot of others in the drawer of the dresser in your room. I was looking them over while you were gone, and I took it."
Sanderson had a hard time to keep the eagerness out of his voice, but he did so:
"You got it handy?"
She looked straight at him. "That is the oddest thing," she said seriously. "I took it from there to keep it safe, and I have mislaid it again, for I can't find it anywhere."
There was no guile in her eyes—Sanderson was certain of that. And he hoped the letter would stay mislaid. He grinned.
"Well, I was only curious," he said. "Don't bother to look for it."
He felt better when he went out of the house and walked toward the corral fence. He felt more secure and capable. Beginning with the following day, he meant to take charge of the ranch and run it as he knew it should be run.
He had not been at the Double A long, but he had seen signs of shiftlessness here and there. He had no doubt that since Bransford's death the men had taken advantage of the absence of authority to relax, and the ranch had suffered. He would soon bring them back to a state of efficiency.
He heard a step behind him, and looking over his shoulder he saw the little man approaching.
The little man joined Sanderson, not speaking as he climbed the fence at a point near by and sat on the top rail, idly swinging his legs.
Sanderson had conceived a liking for Owen. There was something about the little man that invited it. He was little, and manly despite his bodily defects. But there was a suggestion of effeminacy mingling with the manliness of him that aroused the protective instinct in Sanderson.
In a big man the suggestion of effeminacy would have been disgusting, and Sanderson's first action as owner of the ranch would have been to discharge such a man instantly. But in Sanderson's heart had come a spirit of tolerance toward the little man, for he felt that the effeminacy had resulted from his afflictions.
He was a querulous semi-invalid, trying bravely to imitate his vigorous and healthy friends.
"Thinking it over?" he queried, looking down at Sanderson.
"Thinkin' what over?"
"Well, just things," grinned the little man. "For one thing, I suppose you are trying to decide why you didn't sign your name—over in Las Vegas."
Sanderson grinned mildly, but did not answer. He felt more at ease now, and the little man's impertinences did not bother him so much as formerly. He looked up, however, startled, when Owen said slowly:
"Do you want me to tell you why you didn't sign Will Bransford's name to the affidavit?"
Sanderson's eyes did not waver as they met Owen's.
"Tell me," he said evenly.
"Because you are not Will Bransford," said the little man.
Sanderson did not move; nor did he remove his gaze from the face of the little man. He was not conscious of any emotion whatever. For now that he had determined to stay at the Double A no matter what happened, discovery did not alarm him. He grinned at the little man, deliberately, with a taunting smile that the other could not fail to understand.
"You're a wise guy, eh?" he said. "Well, spring it. I'm anxious to know how you got next to me."
"You ain't sore, then?"
"Not, none."
"I was hoping you wouldn't be," eagerly said the little man, "for I don't want you to hit the breeze just now. I know you are not Will Bransford because I know Bransford intimately. I was his chum for several years. He could drink as much as I. He was lazy and shiftless, but I liked him. We were together in Tucson—and in other places in Arizona. Texas, too. We never amounted to much. Do you need to know any more? I can tell you."
"Tell me what?"
"More," grinned the other man, "about yourself. You are Sanderson—Deal Sanderson—nicknamed Square Deal Sanderson. I saw you one day in Tombstone; you were pointed out to me, and the minute I laid my eyes on you the day Dale tried to hang Nyland, I knew you."
Sanderson smiled. "Why didn't you tell Mary?"
The little man's face grew grave. "Because I didn't want to queer your game. You saved Nyland—an innocent man. Knowing your reputation for fairness, I was convinced that you didn't come here to deceive anybody."
"But I did deceive somebody," said Sanderson. "Not you, accordin' to what you've been tellin' me, but Mary Bransford. She thinks I am her brother, an' I've let her go on thinkin' it."
"Why?" asked the little man.
Sanderson gravely appraised the other. "There ain't no use of holdin' out anything on you," he said. His lips straightened and his eyes bored into the little man's. There was a light in his own that made the little man stiffen. And Sanderson's voice was cold and earnest.
"I'm puttin' you wise to why I've not told her," he went on. "But if you ever open your yap far enough to whisper a word of it to her I'm wringin' your neck,pronto! That goes!"
He told Owen the story from the beginning—about the Drifter, his letter to the elder Bransford, how he had killed the two men who had murdered Will Bransford, and how, on the impulse of the moment, he had impersonated Mary's brother.
"What are you figuring to do now?" questioned the little man when Sanderson finished.
"I'm tellin' her right now," declared Sanderson. "She'll salivate me, most likely, for me lettin' her kiss me an' fuss over me. But I ain't carin' a heap. I ain't never been no hand at deceivin' no one—I ain't foxy enough. There's been times since I've been here when I've been scared to open my mouth for fear my damned heart would jump out. I reckon she'll just naturally kill me when she finds it out, but I don't seem to care a heap whether she does or not."
The little man narrowed his eyes at Sanderson.
"You're deeply in love with her, I suppose?"
Sanderson flushed; then his gaze grew steady and cold. "Up till now you've minded your own business," he said. "If you'll keep on mindin' it, we'll——"
"Of course," grinned Owen. "You couldn't help loving her—I love her, too. You say you're going to tell her. Don't do it. Why should you? Don't you see that if you told her that her brother had been murdered she'd never get over it? She's that kind. And you know what Dale's scheme was, don't you? Has she told you?" At Sanderson's nod, Owen went on:
"If you were to let it be known that you are not Will Bransford, Dale would get the property as sure as shooting. I know his plan. I overheard him and a man named Dave Silverthorn talking it over one night when I was prowling around Dale's house. The window of Dale's office was wide open, and I was crouching outside.
"They've got a man ready to come on here to impersonate Bransford. They would prove his claim and after he was established he would sell out to them. They have forged papers showing that Mary is an adopted daughter—though not legally. Don't you see that if you don't go on letting everybody think you are Bransford, Mary will lose the ranch?"
Sanderson shook his head. "I'd be gettin' deeper an' deeper into it all the time—in love an' in trouble. An' when she'd find out how I'd fooled her all the time she'd hate me."
"Not if you save the ranch for her," argued the little man. "She'd feel badly about her brother, maybe, but she'd forgive you if you stayed and beat Dale at his own game."
Sanderson did not answer. The little man climbed down from the fence and moved close to him, talking earnestly, and at last Sanderson grinned down at him.
"I'm doing it," he said. "I'll stay. I reckon I was figurin' on it all the time."
Barney Owen had told Sanderson of his hatred for Alva Dale, but he had not told Sanderson many other things. He had not told the true story of how he came to be employed at the Double A—how Mary had come upon him one day at a shallow crossing of the river, far down in the basin.
Owen was flat on his stomach at the edge of the water, scooping it up with eager handfuls to quench a thirst that had endured for days. He had been so weak that he could not stand when she found him, and in some way she got him on his horse and brought him to the ranchhouse, there to nurse him until he recovered his strength.
It had been while she was caring for him that she had told him about her fear of Dale, and thereafter—as soon as he was able to ride again—Owen took it upon himself to watch Dale.
In spite of his exceeding slenderness, Owen seemed to possess the endurance and stamina of a larger and more physically perfect man. For though he was always seen about the ranchhouse during the day—helping at odd jobs and appearing to be busy nearly all the time—each succeeding night found him stealthily mounting his horse to ride to the Bar D, there to watch Dale's movements.
He had not been at the Bar D since the night before the day on which he had left with Sanderson to go to Las Vegas, but on the second night following his return—soon after dark—he went to the stable, threw saddle and bridle on his horse, and vanished into the shadows of the basin.
Later, moving carefully, he appeared at the edge of a tree clump near the Bar D corral. He saw a light in one of the windows of the house—Dale's office—and he left his horse in the shadows and stole forward. There were two men in the office with Dale. Owen saw them and heard their voices as he crept to a point under the window in the dense blackness of the night.
The men Dale had sent to Tucson had not required the full two weeks for the trip; they had made it in ten days, and their faces, as they sat before Dale in the office, showed the effects of their haste. Yet they grinned at Dale as they talked, glowing with pride over their achievement, but the word they brought to Dale did not please him, and he sat glaring at them until they finished.
"Gary Miller ain't been heard of for a month, eh?" he said. "You say you heard he started this way? Then where in hell is he?"
Neither of the men could answer that question and Dale dismissed them. Then he walked to a door, opened it, and called to someone in another room. Dave Silverthorn entered the office, and for more than an hour the two talked, their conversation being punctuated with futile queries and profanity.
At ten o'clock the next morning Dale appeared at the Double A ranchhouse. Apparently he was willing to forgive and forget, for he grinned at Owen, who was watching him from the door of the bunkhouse, and he politely doffed his hat to Mary Bransford, who met him at the door of the ranchhouse.
"Well, Miss Mary," he said, "how does it feel to have a brother again?"
"It's rather satisfying, Dale," smiled the girl. "Won't you get off your horse?"
The girl's lips were stiff with dread anticipation and dislike. Dale's manner did not mislead her; his forced geniality, his gruff heartiness, his huge smile, were all insincere, masking evil. He seemed to her like a big, tawny, grinning beast, and her heart thumped with trepidation as she looked at him.
"How's Nyland?" he asked, smiling hugely. "That was a narrow squeak—now, wasn't it? For I found that Ben Nyland didn't brand them cattle at all—it was another man, living down the basin. That nester near Colby's. He done it. But he sloped before we could get a rope on him. Had a grudge against Nyland, I reckon. Sorry it happened."
Thus he attempted to smooth the matter over. But he saw that Mary did not believe him, and his grin grew broader.
"Where's brother Will this mornin', Mary?" he said.
Sanderson appeared in the doorway behind Mary.
"You could see him if you was half lookin'," he said slowly.
"So I could," guffawed Dale. "But if there's a pretty girl around——"
"You come here on business, Dale?" interrupted Sanderson. "Because if you did," he went on before Dale could answer, "I'd be glad to get it over."
"Meanin' that you don't want me to be hangin' around here no longer than is necessary, eh?" said Dale.
"You've said a heap," drawled Sanderson.
"Well, it won't take a long time," Dale returned. "It's just this. I've got word from Las Vegas that you've swore to an affidavit sayin' that you're Will Bransford. That's all right—I ain't got nothin' to say about that. But there's a law about brands.
"Your dad registered his brand—the Double A. But that don't let you out. Accordin' to the law you've got to do your registerin' same as though the brand had never been registered before. Bein' the only law around here—me bein' a deputy sheriff—I've got to look out for that end of it.
"An' so, if you'll just sign this here blank, with your name and address, specifyin' your brand, why, we'll call it all settled."
And he held out a legal-looking paper toward Sanderson.
Sanderson's lips straightened, for as his eyes met Dale's he saw the latter's glint with a cold cunning. For an instant Sanderson meditated, refusing to accept the paper, divining that Dale was concealing his real purpose; but glancing sidewise he caught a swift wink from Owen, who had drawn near and was standing beside a porch column. And he saw Owen distinctly jerk his head toward the house.
Sanderson stepped forward and took the paper from Dale's hand. Then he abruptly strode toward the house, telling Dale to wait.
Sanderson halted in the middle of the sitting-room as Owen entered the room through, a rear door. Barney Owen was grinning.
"Wants your signature, does he?" said Owen. He whispered rapidly to Sanderson, and the latter's face grew pale and grim as he listened. When Owen had finished he grinned.
"Now we'll give him Will Bransford's signature—just as he used to write it. I've seen it more times than any other man ever saw it, and I can duplicate it to a flourish. Give me the paper!"
He sat down at a table, where there was a pen and a bottle of ink and wrote boldly: "Will Bransford." With a grin he passed the paper back.
Sanderson stared, then a smile wreathed his lips, for the signature was seemingly a duplicate of that which had been written at the bottom of the letter Will Bransford had written to his father.
On his way to return the paper to Dale, Sanderson paused to listen again to Owen, who whispered to him. Sanderson stiffened, looked hard at Owen, and then grinned with straight lips. In less than no time he was out of the house and confronting Dale.
He watched while the latter looked at the signature; he saw the expression of disappointment that swept over Dale's face. Then Sanderson spoke coldly:
"Right and proper, eh, Dale? Now I'll trouble you for that letter that my dad dropped about a year ago—the one you picked up. It was a letter from me, an' dad had let you read it. Fork it over, or I'll bore you an' take it from your clothes!"
Dale's face whitened; for a moment he sat rigid, staring, his eyes boring into Sanderson's. Then he reached into a pocket, drew out a dirty envelope, and threw it at Sanderson's feet.
"You're a damned smart boy, ain't you, Bransford?" he sneered. "But I'm out to get you—remember that!"
"And you remember this, Dale!"
Sanderson was at the head of the horse Dale rode. His eyes were blazing with suppressed fury, brought on by the other's threat. "There's goin' to be a new deal in the basin. From now on I'm runnin' things—an' they're runnin' square! I ain't got any use for any law but this!" He tapped the butt of his six-shooter significantly. "An' if you go to gettin' mixed up with the Double A or the Nyland ranch you'll get it—plenty!"
Dale grinned, hideously. Then he kicked his horse in the ribs and rode away.
Mary Bransford had not moved from her position on the porch. Sanderson watched Dale ride away, then he smiled at Mary and entered the house. Mary followed him. She saw Owen standing in the sitting-room, and her face showed her surprise.
Sanderson explained. "Owen an' me framed up on Dale," he said. "You saw it work."
"You'll be careful, won't you, Will?" she said.
"Deal," smilingly insisted Sanderson.
"Deal," she repeated, giving him a look that made him blush. Then she went into one of the other rooms, and Sanderson and Owen went outside. At the corner of the stable Sanderson halted and faced Owen.
"You've got some explainin' to do," he said. "How did you know Dale had a letter from Will Bransford to his father; an' how did you know that Dale wanted me to write my name on that brand-registering blank so he could compare it with Will Bransford's name on the letter?"
"Will Bransford told me he wrote such a letter; he showed me a letter from his dad which told how he had dropped Will's letter and how Dale had picked it up. Dale thought old Bransford hadn't seen him pick up the letter—but Bransford did see him. And last night I was snooping around over at the Bar D and I overheard Dale and Silverthorn cooking up this deal."
Sanderson grinned with relief. "Well," he said, "that name-signing deal sure had me considerable fussed up." He told Owen of his mental torture following the discovery of the letter that had disappeared from the dresser drawer. "We've got to run together from now on," he told Owen. "I'll be Bransford an' you'll be Bransford's name. Mebbe between us we'll make a whole man."
Over at the Bar D, Dale was scowling at Silverthorn.
"He ain't Will Bransford," Dale declared. "He signed his name all O.K. an' regular, just the same as it was on the letter. But just the same he ain't a Bransford. There ain't no Bransford ever had an eye in him like he's got. He's a damned iceberg for nerve, an' there's more fight in him than there is in a bunch of wildcats—if you get him started!"
"Just the same," smiled Silverthorn, silkily, "we'll get the Double A. Look here—" And the two bent their heads together over Dale's desk.
A passionate hatred of Alva Dale was slowly gripping Sanderson. It had been aroused on that first day of his meeting with the man, when he had seen Dale standing in front of the stable, bullying Mary Bransford and Peggy Nyland and her brother. At that time, however, the emotion Sanderson felt had been merely dislike—as Sanderson had always disliked men who attempted to bully others.
Sanderson's hatred of Dale was beginning to dominate him; it was overwhelming all other emotions. It dulled his sense of guilt for the part he was playing in deceiving Mary Bransford; it made him feel in a measure justified in continuing to deceive her.
For he divined that without his help Mary would lose the Double A.
Sanderson had always loved a fight, and the prospect of bringing defeat and confusion upon Dale was one that made his pulses leap with delight.
He got up on the morning following Dale's visit, tingling with eagerness. And yet there was no sign of emotion in his face when he sat with Mary Bransford at breakfast, and he did not even look at her when he left the house, mounted his horse, and rode up the gorge that split the butte at the southern end of the range.
All morning he prowled over the table-land, paying a great deal of attention to the depth of the gorge, estimating its capacity for holding water, scanning the far reaches of the big basin carefully, and noting the location of the buildings dotting it.
Shortly after noon he rode back to the house and came upon Mary in the kitchen.
"I've put off askin' until now," he said while eating the food that Mary placed before him. "How much money did dad leave?"
"Not much," she said. "He was never very prosperous. It took a great deal to send me to school, and the thousand I sent you I saved myself out of the allowance he gave me. I think there are three thousand dollars to father's credit at the bank in Okar."
"Where's Okar?"
She looked quickly at him. "Don't you remember Okar? That little town just beyond the mouth of the basin? Why, you've been there a good many times, Will, on errands for father. There wasn't much to Okar when you were here—just a few shanties and a store. Surely you remember!"
Sanderson flushed. "I reckon I do remember, now that you speak of it," he lied. "But I don't think Okar has grown much."
"Okar has grown to be an important town—for this locality," Mary smiled. "You see, the railroad has made it grow. It is now quite large, and has a bank and a dozen or more stores. It is a depot for supplies for a big section, and the railroad company has built large corrals there. A man named Silverthorn—and Alva Dale—are the rulers of Okar, now."
"Who is Silverthorn?"
"He is connected with the railroad company—a promoter, or something of that character. He is trying to make a boom town of Okar. He has bought a great deal of land in the basin."
"You know what he wants the land for?" Sanderson smiled at her.
"For speculation purposes, I suppose. If he could get water——"
"You've figured it out," said Sanderson. "But he won't get water. The water belongs to the Double A—to me an' to you. An' we're goin' to sell it ourselves."
"You mean—" began Mary.
"That we're going to build an irrigation dam—with all the fixin's. You and me."
The girl sat erect, her eyes luminous and eager. "Do you think we can do it?" she whispered.
"Do you think you could trust me with the three thousand you said dad left? An' would you be willin' to mortgage the Double A—if we needed more money?"
"Why," she declared, breathlessly, "the Double A is yours—to do with as you see fit. If you want to try—and you think there is a chance to win—why, why—go to it!"
"You're a brick!" grinned Sanderson. "We'll start the ball to rollin' right away."
Sanderson could not escape the vigorous hug she gave him, but he did manage to evade her lips, and he went out of the house blushing and grinning.
It was late in the afternoon when he got to Okar. Barney Owen was with him. The two rode into town, dismounted at a hitching rail in front of a building across the front of which was a sign:
THE OKAR HOTEL
Okar was flourishing—as Mary Bransford said. At its northwestern corner the basin widened, spreading between the shoulders of two mountains and meeting a vast stretch of level land that seemed to be endless.
Okar lay at the foot of the mountain that lifted its bald knob at the eastern side of the basin's mouth. Two glittering lines of steel that came from out of the obscurity of distance eastward skirted Okar's buildings and passed westward into an obscurity equally distant.
The country around Okar was devoted to cattle. Sanderson's practiced eye told him that. The rich grassland that spread from Okar's confines was the force that had brought the town into being, and the railroad would make Okar permanent.
Okar did not look permanent, however. It was of the type of the average cow-town of the western plains—artificial and crude. Its buildings were of frame, hurriedly knocked together, representing the haste of a people in whom the pioneer instinct was strong and compelling—who cared nothing for appearances, but who fought mightily for wealth and progress.
Upon Okar was the stamp of newness, and in its atmosphere was the eagerness and the fervor of commercialism. Okar was the trade mart of a section of country larger than some of the Old World states.
Fringing the hitching rails in front of its buildings were various vehicles—the heavy wagons of Mexican freighters, the light buckboard of the cattleman, and the prairie schooner of the homesteader. Mingling with the vehicles were the cow-ponies of horsemen who had ridden into town on various errands; and in the company corrals were many cattle awaiting shipment.
Sanderson stood beside his horse at the hitching rail for a look at Okar.
There was one street—wide and dust-windrowed, with two narrow board walks skirting it. The buildings—mostly of one story—did not interest Sanderson, for he had seen their kind many times, and his interest centered upon the people.
"Different from Tombstone," he told Owen as the two entered the hotel. "Tombstone is cattle—Okar is cattle and business. I sort of like cattle better."
Owen grinned. "Cattle are too slow for some of Okar's men," he said. "There's men here that figure on making a killing every day—financially. Gamblers winning big stakes, supply dealers charging twenty times the value of their stuff; a banker wanting enormous interest on his money; the railroad company gobbling everything in sight—and Silverthorn and Dale framing up to take all the land and the water-rights. See that short, fat man playing cards with the little one at that table?"
He indicated a table near the rear of the barroom, visible through an archway that opened from the room in which a clerk with a thin, narrow face and an alert eye presided at a rough desk.
"That's Maison—Tom Maison, Okar's banker. They tell me he'd skin his grandmother if he thought he could make a dollar out of the deal." Owen grinned. "He's the man you're figuring to borrow money from—to build your dam."
"I'll talk with him tomorrow," said Sanderson.
In their room Sanderson removed some of the stains of travel. Then, telling Owen he would see him at dusk, he went out into the street.
Okar was buzzing with life and humming with activity when Sanderson started down the board walk. In Okar was typified the spirit of the West that was to be—the intense hustle and movement that were to make the town as large and as powerful as many of its sister cities.
Threading his way through the crowd on the board walk, Sanderson collided with a man. He grinned, not looking at the other, apologized, and was proceeding on his way, when he chanced to look toward the doorway of the building he was passing.
Alva Dale was standing just inside the doorway, watching him, and as Sanderson's gaze met his Dale grinned sneeringly.
Sanderson's lips twitched with contempt. His own smile matched Dale's in the quality of its hostility.
Sanderson was about to pass on when someone struck him heavily between the shoulders. He staggered and lurched against the rough board front of the building going almost to his knees.
When he could steady himself he wheeled, his hand at his hip. Standing near him, grinning maliciously, was the man with whom he had collided.
In the man's right hand was a pistol.
"Bump into me, will you—you locoed shorthorn!" sneered the man as Sanderson turned. He cursed profanely, incoherently. But he did not shoot.
The weapon in his hand began to sag curiously, the fingers holding it slowly slipping from the stock. And the man's face—thin and seamed—became chalklike beneath the tan upon it. His eyes, furtive and wolfish, bulged with astonishment and recognition, and his mouth opened vacuously.
"Deal Sanderson!" he said, weakly. "Good Lord! I didn't git a good look at yon! I'm in the wrong pew, Deal, an' I sure don't want none of your game!"
"Dal Colton," said Sanderson. His voice was cold and even as he watched the other sheathe his gun. "Didn't know me, eh? But you was figurin' on pluggin' me."
He walked close to the man and stuck his face close to the other, his lips in a straight line. He knew Colton to be one of the most conscienceless "killers" in the section of the country near Tombstone.
"Who was you lookin' for, then?" demanded Sanderson.
"Not you—that's a cinch!" grinned the other, fidgeting nervously under Sanderson's gaze. He whispered to Sanderson, for in the latter's eyes he saw signs of a cold resolve to sift the matter to the bottom:
"Look here, Square; I sure don't want none of your game. Things has been goin' sorta offish for me for a while, an' so when I meets a guy a while ago who tells me to 'git' a guy named Will Bransford—pointin' you out to me when your back was turned—I takes him up. I wasn't figurin'——"
"Who told you to get Bransford?" demanded Sanderson.
"A guy named Dale," whispered Colton.
Sanderson turned swiftly. He saw Dale still standing in the doorway. Dale was grinning coldly, and Sanderson knew he suspected what had been whispered by Colton. But before Sanderson could move, Dale's voice was raised loudly and authoritatively:
"Arrest that man—quick!"
A man behind Sanderson lunged forward, twisting Sanderson around with the impetus of the movement. Off his balance, Sanderson saw three or four other men dive toward Colton. He saw Colton reach for the weapon he had previously sheathed; saw the weapon knocked from his hand.
Four men seized Colton, and he struggled helplessly in their grasp as he was dragged away, his face working malignantly as he looked back at Dale.
"Double-crossed!" he yelled; "you damned, grinnin' coyote!"
A crowd had gathered; Sanderson shouldered his way toward Dale and faced him. Sanderson's face was white with rage, but his voice was cold and steady as he stood before Dale.
"So that's the way you work, is it, Dale? I'll give you what you was goin' to pay Colton, if you'll pull your gun right now!"
Dale's smile was maddeningly insolent.
"Bah!" he said, "I'm an officer of the law. There are a dozen of my men right behind you! Pull your gun! I'd like nothing better than to have an excuse to perforate you! Sanderson, eh?" he laughed. "Well, I've heard of you. Square Deal, eh? And here you are, masqueradin' as Will Bransford! That's goin' to be quite an interestin' situation at the Double A when things get to goin', eh?"
He laughed again, raucously, and turned his back to Sanderson, disappearing into the store.
Sanderson glanced behind him. Several men were watching him, their faces set and determined. Sanderson grinned at them and continued his interrupted walk down the street.
But something had been added to his hatred of Alva Dale—the knowledge that Dale would not scruple to murder him on any pretext. Sanderson's grin grew wider as he walked, for he knew of several men who had harbored such evil intentions against him, and they——
But Dale was a stronger antagonist, and he had power and authority behind him. Still, his spirit undaunted, Sanderson's grin grew wider, though perhaps more grim. It was entirely worth while, now, the deceiving of the woman he had hoped to protect; it wasn't her fight, but his. And he would make the fight a good one.