A young man rode around the corner of the cabin and halted his pony beside the porch, sitting quietly in the saddle and gazing inquiringly at the two. He was about Ferguson's age and, like the latter, he wore two heavy guns. There was about him, as he sat there sweeping a slow glance over the girl and the man, a certain atmosphere of deliberate certainty and quiet coldness that gave an impression of readiness for whatever might occur.
Ferguson's eyes lighted with satisfaction. The girl might be an Easterner, but the young man was plainly at home in this country. Nowhere, except in the West, could he have acquired the serene calm that shone out of his eyes; in no other part of the world could he have caught the easy assurance, the unstudied nonchalance, that seems the inherent birthright of the cowpuncher.
"Ben," said the girl, answering the young man's glance, "this man was bitten by a rattler. He came here, and I treated him. He says he was on his way over to the Two Diamond, for a job."
The young man opened his lips slightly. "Stafford hire you?" he asked.
"I'm hopin' he does," returned Ferguson.
The young man's lips drooped sneeringly. "I reckon you're wantin' a job mighty bad," he said.
Ferguson smiled. "Takin' your talk, you an' Stafford ain't very good friends," he returned.
The young man did not answer. He dismounted and led his pony to a small corral and then returned to the porch, carrying his saddle.
For an instant after the young man had left the porch to turn his pony into the corral Ferguson had kept his seat on the porch. But something in the young man's tone had brought him out of the chair, determined to accept no more of his hospitality. If the young man was no friend of Stafford, it followed that he could not feel well disposed to a puncher who had avowed that his purpose was to work for the Two Diamond manager.
Ferguson was on his feet, clinging to one of the slender porch posts, preparatory to stepping down to go to his pony, when the young woman came out. Her sharp exclamation halted him.
"You're not going now!" she said. "You have got to remain perfectly quiet until morning!"
The brother dropped his saddle to the porch floor, grinning mildly at Ferguson, "You don't need to be in a hurry," he said. "I was intending to run your horse into the corral. What I meant about Stafford don't apply to you." He looked up at his sister, still grinning. "I reckon he ain't got nothing to do with it?"
The young woman blushed. "I hope not," she said in a low voice.
"We're goin' to eat pretty soon," said the young man. "I reckon that rattler didn't take your appetite?"
Ferguson flushed. "It was plum rediculous, me bein' hooked by a rattler," he said. "An' I've lived among them so long."
"I reckon you let him get away?" questioned the young man evenly.
"If he's got away," returned Ferguson, his lips straightening with satisfaction, "he's a right smart snake."
He related the incident of the attack, ending with praises of the young woman's skill.
The young man smiled at the reference to his sister. "She's studied medicine—back East. Lately she's turned her hand to writin'. Come out here to get experience—local color, she calls it."
Ferguson sat back in his chair, quietly digesting this bit of information. Medicine and writing. What did she write? Love stories? Fairy tales? Romances? He had read several of these. Mostly they were absurd and impossible. Love stories, he thought, would be easy for her. For—he said, mentally estimating her—a woman ought to know more about love than a man. And as for anything being impossible in a love story. Why most anything could happen to people who are in love.
"Supper is ready," he heard her announce from within.
Ferguson preceded the young man at the tin wash basin, taking a fresh towel that the young woman offered him from the doorway. Then he followed the young man inside. The three took places at the table, and Ferguson was helped to a frugal, though wholesome meal.
The dusk had begun to fall while they were yet at the table, and the young woman arose, lighting a kerosene lamp and placing it on the table. By the time they had finished semi-darkness had settled. Ferguson followed the young man out to the chairs on the porch for a smoke.
They were scarcely seated when there was a clatter of hoofs, and a pony and rider came out of the shadow of the nearby cottonwood, approaching the cabin and halting beside the porch. The newcomer was a man of about thirty-five. The light of the kerosene lamp shone fairly in his face as he sat in the saddle, showing a pair of cold, steady eyes and thin, straight lips that were wreathed in a smile.
"I thought I'd ride over for a smoke an' a talk before goin' down the crick to where the outfit's workin'," he said to the young man. And now his eyes swept Ferguson's lank figure with a searching glance. "But I didn't know you was havin' company," he added. The second glance that he threw toward Ferguson was not friendly.
Ferguson's lips curled slightly under it. Each man had been measured by the other, and neither had found in the other anything to admire.
Ferguson's thoughts went rapidly back to Dry Bottom. He saw a man in the street, putting five bullets through a can that he had thrown into the air. He saw again the man's face as he had completed his exhibition—insolent, filled with a sneering triumph. He heard again this man's voice, as he himself had offered to eclipse his feat:—
"You runnin' sheep, stranger?"
The voice and face of the man who stood before him now were the voice and face of the man who had preceded him in the shooting match in Dry Bottom. His thoughts were interrupted by the voice of his host, explaining his presence.
"This here man was bit by a rattler this afternoon," the young man was saying. "He's layin' up here for to-night. Says he's reckonin' on gettin' a job over at the Two Diamond."
The man on the horse sneered. "Hell!" he said; "bit by a rattler!" He laughed insolently, pulling his pony's head around. "I reckon I'll be goin'," he said. "You'll nurse him so's he won't die?" He had struck the pony's flanks with the spurs and was gone into the shadows before either man on the porch could move. There was a short silence, while the two men listened to the beat of his pony's hoofs. Then Ferguson turned and spoke to the young man.
"You know him?" he questioned.
The young man smiled coldly. "Yep," he said; "he's range boss for theTwo Diamond!"
As Ferguson rode through the pure sunshine of the morning his thoughts kept going back to the little cabin in the flat—"Bear Flat," she had called it. Certain things troubled him—he, whose mind had been always untroubled—even through three months of idleness that had not been exactly attractive.
"She's cert'nly got nice eyes," he told himself confidentially, as he lingered slowly on his way; "an' she knows how to use them. She sure made me seem some breathless. An' no girl has ever done that. An' her hair is like"—he pondered long over this—"like—why, I reckon I didn't just ever see anything like it. An' the way she looked at me!"
A shadow crossed his face. "So she's a writer—an' she's studied medicine. I reckon I'd like it a heap better if she didn't monkey with none of them fool things. What business has a girl got to——" He suddenly laughed aloud. "Why I reckon I'm pretty near loco," he said, "to be ravin' about a girl like this. She ain't nothin' to me; she just done what any other girl would do if a man come to her place bit by a rattler."
He spurred his pony forward at a sharp lope. And now he found that his thoughts would go back to the moment of his departure from the cabin that morning. She had accompanied him to the door, after bandaging the ankle. Her brother had gone away an hour before.
"I'm thankin' you, ma'am," Ferguson said as he stood for a moment at the door. "I reckon I'd have had a bad time if it hadn't been for you."
"It was nothing," she returned.
He had hesitated—he still felt the thrill of doubt that had assailed him before he had taken the step that he knew was impertinent. "I'll be ridin' over here again, some day, if you don't mind," he said.
Her face reddened a trifle. "I'm sure brother would like to have you," she replied.
"I don't remember to have said that I was comin' over to see your brother," was his reply.
"But it would have to be he," she said, looking straight at him. "You couldn't come to see me unless I asked you."
And now he had spoken a certain word that had been troubling him. "Do you reckon that Two Diamond range boss comes over to see your brother?"
She frowned. "Of course!" she replied. "He is my brother's friend.But I—I despise him!"
Ferguson grinned broadly. "Well, now," he said, unable to keep his pleasure over her evident dislike of the Two Diamond man from showing in his eyes and voice, "that's cert'nly too bad. An' to think he's wastin' his time—ridin' over here."
She gazed at him with steady, unwavering eyes. He could still remember the challenge in them. "Be careful that you don't waste your time!" was her answer.
"I reckon I won't," was his reply, as he climbed into the saddle. "ButI won't be comin' over here to see your brother!"
"Oh, dear!" she said, "I call that very brazen!"
But when he had spurred his pony down through the crossing of the river he had turned to glance back at her. And he had seen a smile on her face. As he rode now he went over this conversation many times, much pleased with his own boldness; more pleased because she had not seemed angry with him.
It was late in the morning when he caught sight of the Two Diamond ranch buildings, scattered over a great basin through which the river flowed. Half an hour later he rode up to the ranchhouse and met Stafford at the door of the office. The manager waved him inside.
"I'm two days late," said Ferguson, after he had taken a chair in the office. He related to Stafford the attack by the rattler. The latter showed some concern over the injury.
"I reckon you didn't do your own doctorin'?" he asked.
Ferguson told him of the girl. The manager's lips straightened. A grim humor shone from his eyes.
"You stayed there over night?" he questioned.
"I reckon I stayed there. It was in a cabin down at a place which I heard the girl say was called 'Bear Flat.' I didn't ketch the name of the man."
Stafford grinned coldly. "I reckon they didn't know what you was comin' over here for?"
"I didn't advertise," returned Ferguson quietly.
"If you had," declared Stafford, his eyes glinting with a cold amusement, "you would have found things plum lively. The man's name is Ben Radford. He's the man I'm hirin' you to put out of business!"
For all Stafford could see Ferguson did not move a muscle. Yet the news had shocked him; he could feel the blood surging rapidly through his veins. But the expression of his face was inscrutable.
"Well, now," he said, "that sure would have made things interestin'. An' so that's the man you think has been stealin' your cattle?" He looked steadily at the manager. "But I told you before that I wasn't doin' any shootin'."
"Correct," agreed the manager. "What I want you to do is to prove that Radford's the man. We can't do anything until we prove that he's been rustlin'. An' then——" He smiled grimly.
"You reckon to know the girl's name too?" inquired Ferguson.
"It's Mary," stated the manager. "I've heard Leviatt talk about her."
Ferguson contemplated the manager gravely. "An' you ain't sure thatRadford's stealin' your cattle?"
Stafford filled and lighted his pipe. "I'm takin' Dave Leviatt's word for it," he said.
"Who's Leviatt?" queried Ferguson.
"My range boss," returned Stafford.
"He's been ridin' sign on Radford an' says he's responsible for all the stock that we've been missin' in the last six months."
Ferguson rolled a cigarette. He lighted it and puffed for a moment in silence, the manager watching him.
"Back at Dry Bottom," said Ferguson presently, "there was a man shootin' at a can when I struck town. He put five bullets through the can. Was that your range boss?"
Stafford smiled. "That was Leviatt—my range boss," he returned. "We went over to Dry Bottom to get a gunfighter. We wanted a man who could shoot plum quick. He'd have to be quick, for Radford's lightnin' with a six. Leviatt said shootin' at a can would be a good way to find a man who could take Radford's measure—in case it was necessary," he added quickly.
Ferguson's face was a mask of immobility. "Where's Leviatt now?" he questioned.
"Up the Ute with the outfit."
"How far up?"
"Thirty miles."
Ferguson's eyelashes flickered. "Has Leviatt been here lately?" he questioned.
"Not since the day before yesterday."
"When you expectin' him back?"
"The boys'll be comin' back in a week. He'll likely come along with them."
"U—um. You're giving me a free hand?"
"Of course."
Ferguson lounged to the door. "I'm lookin' around a little," he said, "to kind of size up things. I don't want you to put me with the outfit. That strike you right?"
"I'm hirin' you to do a certain thing," returned Stafford. "I ain't tellin' you how it ought to be done. You've got till the fall roundup to do it."
Ferguson nodded. He went to the corral fence, unhitched his pony, and rode out on the plains toward the river. Stafford watched him until he was a mere dot on the horizon. Then he smiled with satisfaction.
"I kind of like that guy," he said, commenting mentally. "There ain't no show work to him, but he's business."
During the week following Ferguson's arrival at the Two Diamond ranch Stafford saw very little of him. Mornings saw him proceed to the corral, catch up his pony, mount, and depart. He returned with the dusk. Several times, from his office window, Stafford had seen him ride away in the moonlight.
Ferguson did his own cooking, for the cook had accompanied the wagon outfit down the river. Stafford did not seek out the new man with instructions or advice; the work Ferguson was engaged in he must do alone, for if complications should happen to arise it was the manager's business to know nothing.
The Two Diamond ranch was not unlike many others that dotted the grass plains of the Territory. The interminable miles that separated Stafford from the nearest, did not prevent him from referring to that particular owner as "neighbor", for distances were thus determined—and distances thus determined were nearly always inaccurate. The traveler inquiring for his destination was expected to discover it somewhere in the unknown distance.
The Two Diamond ranch had the enviable reputation of being "slick"—which meant that Stafford was industrious and thrifty and that his ranch bore an appearance of unusual neatness. For example, Stafford believed in the science of irrigation. A fence skirted his buildings, another ran around a large area of good grass, forming a pasture for his horses. His buildings were attractive, even though rough, for they revealed evidence of continued care. His ranchhouse boasted a sloped roof and paved galleries.
A garden in the rear was but another instance of Stafford's industry. He had cattle that were given extraordinary care because they were "milkers," for in his youth Stafford had lived on a farm and he remembered days when his father had sent him out into the meadow to drive the cows home for the milking. There were many other things that Stafford had not forgotten, for chickens scratched promiscuously about the ranch yard, occasionally trespassing into the sacred precincts of the garden and the flower beds. His horses were properly stabled during the cold, raw days that came inevitably; his men had little to complain of, and there was a general atmosphere of prosperity over the entire ranch.
But of late there had been little contentment for the Two Diamond manager. For six months cattle thieves had been at work on his stock. The result of the spring round-up had been far from satisfactory. He knew of the existence of nesters in the vicinity; one of them—Radford—he had suspected upon evidence submitted by the range boss. Radford had been warned to vacate Bear Flat, but the warning had been disregarded.
But one other course was left, and Stafford had adopted that. There had been no hesitancy on the manager's part; he must protect the Two Diamond property. Sentiment had no place in the situation whatever. Therefore toward Ferguson's movements Stafford adopted an air of studied indifference, not doubting, from what he had seen of the man, that he would eventually ride in and report that the work which he had been hired to do was finished.
Toward the latter end of the week the wagon outfit straggled in. They came in singly, in twos and threes, bronzed, hardy, seasoned young men, taciturn, serene eyed, capable. They continued to come until there were twenty-seven of them. Later in the day came the wagon and the remuda.
From a period of calm and inaction the ranch now awoke to life and movement. The bunkhouse was scrubbed;—"swabbed" in the vernacular of the cowboys; the scant bedding was "cured" in the white sunlight; and the cook was adjured to extend himself in the preparation of "chuck" (meaning food) to repay the men for the lack of good things during a fortnight on the open range with the wagon.
At dusk on the first day in Rope Jones, a tall, lithe young puncher, whose spare moments were passed in breaking the wild horses that occasionally found their way to the Two Diamond, was oiling his saddle leathers. Sitting on a bench outside the bunkhouse he became aware of Stafford standing near.
"Leviatt come in?" queried the manager.
The puncher grinned. "Nope. Last I seen of Dave he was hittin' the breeze toward Bear Flat. Said he'd be in later." He lowered his voice significantly. "Reckon that Radford girl is botherin' Dave a heap."
Stafford smiled coldly and was about to answer when he saw Ferguson dropping from his pony at the corral gate. Following Stafford's gaze, Rope also observed Ferguson. He looked up at Stafford.
"New man?" he questioned.
Stafford nodded. He had invented a plausible story for the presence of Ferguson. Sooner or later the boys would have noticed the latter's absence from the outfit. Therefore if he advanced his story now there would be less conjecture later.
"You boys have got enough to do," he said, still watching Ferguson. "I've hired this man to look up strays. I reckon he c'n put in a heap of time at it."
Rope shot a swift glance upward at the manager's back. Then he grinned furtively. "Two-gun," he observed quietly; "with the bottoms of his holsters tied down. I reckon your stray-man ain't for to be monkeyed with."
But Stafford had told his story and knew that within a very little time Rope would be telling it to the other men. So without answering he walked toward the ranchhouse. Before he reached it he saw Leviatt unsaddling at the corral gate.
When Ferguson, with his saddle on his shoulder, on his way to place it on its accustomed peg in the lean-to adjoining the bunkhouse, passed Rope, it was by the merest accident that one of the stirrups caught the cinch buckle of Rope's saddle. Not observing the tangle, Ferguson continued on his way. He halted when he felt the stirrup strap drag, turning half around to see what was wrong. He smiled broadly at Rope.
"You reckon them saddles are acquainted?" he said.
Rope deftly untangled them. "I ain't thinkin' they're relations," he returned, grinning up at Ferguson. "Leastways I never knowed a 'double cinch' an' a 'center fire' to git real chummy."
"I reckon you're right," returned Ferguson, his eyes gleaming cordially; "an' I've knowed men to lose their tempers discussin' whether a center fire or a double cinch was the most satisfyin'."
"Some men is plum fools," returned Rope, surveying Ferguson with narrow, pleased eyes. "You didn't observe that the saddles rode any easier after the argument than before?"
"I didn't observe. But mebbe the men was more satisfied. Let a man argue that somethin' he's got is better'n somethin' that another fellow's got an' he falls right in love with his own—an' goes right on fallin' in love with it. Nothin' c'n ever change his mind after an argument."
"I know a man who's been studyin' human nature," observed Rope, grinning.
"An' not wastin' his time arguin' fool questions," added Ferguson.
"You sure ain't plum greenhorn," declared Rope admiringly.
"Thank yu'," smiled Ferguson; "I wasn't lookin' to see whether you'd cut your eye-teeth either."
"Well, now," remarked Rope, rising and shouldering his saddle, "you've almost convinced me that a double cinch ain't a bad saddle. Seems to make a man plum good humored."
"When a man's hungry an' right close to the place where he's goin' to feed," said Ferguson gravely, "he hadn't ought to bother his head about nothin'."
"You're settin' at my right hand at the table," remarked Rope, delighted with his new friend.
Several of the men were already at the washtrough when Rope and Ferguson reached there. The method by which they performed their ablutions was not delicate, but it was thorough. And when the dust had been removed their faces shone with the dusky health-bloom that told of their hard, healthy method of living. Men of various ages were there—grizzled riders who saw the world through the introspective eye of experience; young men with their enthusiasms, their impulses; middle-aged men who had seen much of life—enough to be able to face the future with unshaken complacence; but all bronzed, clear-eyed, self-reliant, unafraid.
When Ferguson and Rope entered the bunkhouse many of the men were already seated. Ferguson and Rope took places at one end of the long table and began eating. No niceties of the conventions were observed here; the men ate each according to his whim and were immune from criticism. Table etiquette was a thing that would have spoiled their joy of eating. Theirs was a primitive country; their occupation primitive; their manner of living no less so. They concerned themselves very little with the customs of a world of which they heard very little.
Nor did they bolt their food silently—as has been recorded of them by men who knew them little. If they did eat rapidly it was because the ravening hunger of a healthy stomach demanded instant attention. And they did not overeat. Epicurus would have marveled at the simplicity of their food. Conversation was mingled with every mouthful.
At one end of the table sat an empty plate, with no man on the bench before it. This was the place reserved for Leviatt, the range boss. Next to this place on the right was seated a goodlooking young puncher, whose age might have been estimated at twenty-three. "Skinny" they called him because of his exceeding slenderness. At the moment Ferguson settled into his seat the young man was filling the room with rapid talk. This talk had been inconsequential and concerned only those small details about which we bother during our leisure. But now his talk veered and he was suddenly telling something that gave promise of consecutiveness and universal interest. Other voices died away as his arose.
"Leviatt ain't the only one," he was saying. "She ain't made no exception with any of the outfit. To my knowin' there's been Lon Dexter, Soapy, Clem Miller, Lazy, Wrinkles—an' myself," he admitted, reddening, "been notified that we was mavericks an' needed our ears marked. An' now comes Leviatt a-fannin' right on to get his'n. An' I reckon he'll get it."
"You ain't tellin' what she said when she give you your'n," said a voice.
There was a laugh, through which the youth emerged smiling broadly.
"No," he said, "I ain't tellin'. But she told Soapy here that she was lookin' for local color. Wanted to know if he was it. Since then Soapy's been using a right smart lot of soap, tryin' to rub some color into his face."
Color was in Soapy's face now. He sat directly opposite the slender youth and his cheeks were crimson.
"I reckon if you'd keep to the truth——" he began. But Skinny has passed on to the next.
"An' there's Dexter. Lon's been awful quiet since she told him he had a picturesque name. Said it'd do for to put into a book which she's goin' to write, but when it come to choosin' a husband she'd prefer to tie up to a commoner name. An' so Lon didn't graze on that range no more."
"This country's goin' plum to——" sneered Dexter. But a laugh silenced him. And the youth continued.
"It might have been fixed up for Lazy," he went on, "only when she found out his name was Lazy, she wanted to know right off if he could support a wife—providin' he got one. He said he reckoned he could, an' she told him he could experiment on some other woman. An' now Lazy'll have to look around quite a spell before he'll get another chancst. I'd call that bein' in mighty poor luck."
Lazy was giving his undivided attention to his plate.
"An' she come right out an' told Wrinkles he was too old; that when she was thinkin' of gettin' wedded to some old monolith she'd send word to Egypt, where they keep 'em in stock. Beats me where she gets all them words."
"Told me she'd studied her dictionary," said a man who sat nearFerguson.
The young man grinned. "Well, I swear if I didn't come near forgettin' Clem Miller!" he said. "If you hadn't spoke up then, I reckon you wouldn't have been in on this deal. An' so she told you she'd studied her dictionary! Now, I'd call that news. Some one'd been tellin' me that she'd asked you the meanin' of the word 'evaporate.' An' when you couldn't tell her she told you to do it. Said that when you got home you might look up a dictionary an' then you'd know what she meant.
"An' now Leviatt's hangin' around over there," continued the youth. "He's claimin' to be goin' to see Ben Radford, but I reckon he's got the same kind of sickness as the rest of us."
"An' you ain't sayin' a word about what she said to you," observed Miller. "She must have treated you awful gentle, seein' you won't tell."
"Well," returned the young man, "I ain't layin' it all out to you. But I'll tell you this much; she said she was goin' to make me one of the characters in that book she's writin'."
"Well, now," said Miller, "that's sure lettin' you down easy. Did she say what the character was goin' to be?"
"I reckon she did."
"An' now you're goin' to tell us boys?"
"An' now I'm goin' to tell you boys," returned Skinny. "But I reckon there's a drove of them characters here. You'll find them with every outfit, an' you'll know them chiefly by their bray an' their long, hairy ears."
The young man now smiled into his plate, while a chorus of laughter rose around him. In making himself appear as ridiculous a figure as the others, the young man had successfully extracted all the sting from his story and gained the applause of even those at whom he had struck.
But now a sound was heard outside, and Leviatt came into the room. He nodded shortly and took his place at the end of the table. A certain reserve came into the atmosphere of the room. No further reference was made to the subject that had aroused laughter, but several of the men snickered into their plates over the recollection of Leviatt's connection with the incident.
As the meal continued Leviatt's gaze wandered over the table, resting finally upon Ferguson. The range boss's face darkened.
Ferguson had seen Leviatt enter; several times during the course of the meal he felt Leviatt looking at him. Once, toward the end, his glance met the range boss's fairly. Leviatt's eyes glittered evilly; Ferguson's lips curled with a slight contempt.
And yet these men had met but twice before. A man meets another in North America—in the Antipodes. He looks upon him, meets his eye, and instantly has won a friend or made an enemy. Perhaps this will always be true of men. Certainly it was true of Ferguson and the range boss.
What force was at work in Leviatt when in Dry Bottom he had insulted Ferguson? Whatever the force, it had told him that the steady-eyed, deliberate gun-man was henceforth to be an enemy. Enmity, hatred, evil intent, shone out of his eyes as they met Ferguson's.
Beyond the slight curl of the lips the latter gave no indication of feeling. And after the exchange of glances he resumed eating, apparently unaware of Leviatt's existence.
Later, the men straggled from the bunkhouse, seeking the outdoors to smoke and talk. Upon the bench just outside the door several of the men sat; others stood at a little distance, or lounged in the doorway. With Rope, Ferguson had come out and was standing near the door, talking.
The talk was light, turning to trivial incidents of the day's work—things that are the monotony of the cowboy life.
Presently Leviatt came out and joined the group. He stood near Ferguson, mingling his voice with the others. For a little time the talk flowed easily and much laughter rose. Then suddenly above the good natured babble came a harsh word. Instantly the other voices ceased, and the men of the group centered their glances upon the range boss, for the harsh word had come from him. He had been talking to a man named Tucson and it was to the latter that he had now spoken.
"There's a heap of rattlers in this country," he had said.
Evidently the statement was irrelevant, for Tucson's glance at Leviatt's face was uncomprehending. But Leviatt did not wait for an answer.
"A man might easily claim to have been bit by one of them," he continued, his voice falling coldly.
The men of the group sat in a tense silence, trying to penetrate this mystery that had suddenly silenced their talk. Steady eyes searched out each face in an endeavor to discover the man at whom the range boss was talking. They did not discover him. Ferguson stood near Leviatt, an arm's length distant, his hands on his hips. Perhaps his eyes were more alert than those of the other men, his lips in a straighter line. But apparently he knew no more of this mystery than any of the others.
And now Leviatt's voice rose again, insolent, carrying an unmistakable personal application.
"Stafford hires a stray-man," he said, sneering. "This man claims to have been bit by a rattler an' lays up over night in Ben Radford's cabin—makin' love to Mary Radford."
Ferguson turned his head slightly, surveying the range boss with a cold, alert eye.
"A little while ago," he said evenly, "I heard a man inside tellin'about some of the boys learnin' their lessons from a girl over on BearFlat. I reckon, Leviatt, that you've been over there to learn your'n.An' now you've got to let these boys know——!"
Just a rustle it was—a snake-like motion. And then Ferguson's gun was out; its cold muzzle pressed deep into the pit of Leviatt's stomach, and Ferguson's left hand was pinning Leviatt's right to his side, the range boss's hand still wrapped around the butt of his half-drawn weapon. Then came Ferguson's voice again, dry, filled with a quiet earnestness:
"I ain't goin' to hurt you—you're still tenderfoot with a gun. I just wanted to show these boys that you're a false alarm. I reckon they know that now."
Leviatt sneered. There was a movement behind Ferguson. Tucson's gun was half way out of its holster. And then arose Rope's voice as his weapon came out and menaced Tucson.
"Three in this game would make it odd, Tucson," he said quietly. "If there's goin' to be any shootin', let's have an even break, anyway."
Tucson's hand fell away from his holster; he stepped back toward the door, away from the range boss and Ferguson.
Leviatt's face had crimsoned. "Mebbe I was runnin' a little bit wild——" he began.
"That's comin' down right handsome," said Ferguson.
He sheathed his gun and deliberately turned his back on Leviatt. The latter stood silent for a moment, his face gradually paling. Then he turned to where Tucson had taken himself and with his friend entered the bunkhouse. In an instant the old talk arose and the laughter, but many furtive glances swept Ferguson as he stood, talking quietly with Rope.
The following morning Stafford came upon Rope while the latter was throwing the saddle on his pony down at the corral gate.
"I heard something about some trouble between Dave Leviatt an' the new stray-man," said Stafford. "I reckon it wasn't serious?"
Rope turned a grave eye upon the manager. "Shucks," he returned, "I reckon it wasn't nothin' serious. Only," he continued with twitching lips, "Dave was takin' the stray-man's measure."
Stafford smiled grimly. "How did the stray-man measure up?" he inquired, a smile working at the corners of his mouth. "I reckon he wasn't none shy?"
Rope grinned, admiration glinting his eyes. "He's sure man's size," he returned, giving his attention to the saddle cinch.
During the few first days of his connection with the Two Diamond Ferguson had reached the conclusion that he would do well to take plenty of time to inquire into the situation before attempting any move. He had now been at the Two Diamond for two weeks and he had not even seen Radford. Nor had he spoken half a dozen words with Stafford. The manager had observed certain signs that had convinced him that speech with the stray-man was unnecessary and futile. If he purposed to do anything he would do it in his own time and in his own way. Stafford mentally decided that the stray-man was "set in his ways."
The wagon outfit had departed,—this time down the river. Rope Jones had gone with the wagon, and therefore Ferguson was deprived of the companionship of a man who had unexpectedly taken a stand with him in his clash with Leviatt and for whom he had conceived a great liking.
With the wagon had gone Leviatt also. During the week that had elapsed between the clash at the bunkhouse and the departure of the wagon the range boss had given no sign that he knew of the existence of Ferguson. Nor had he intimated by word or sign that he meditated revenge upon Rope because of the latter's championship of the stray-man. If he had any such intention he concealed it with consummate skill. He treated Rope with a politeness that drew smiles to the faces of the men. But Ferguson saw in this politeness a subtleness of purpose that gave him additional light on the range boss's character. A man who held his vengeance at his finger tips would have taken pains to show Rope that he might expect no mercy. Had Leviatt revealed an open antagonism to Rope, the latter might have known what to expect when at last the two men would reach the open range and the puncher be under the direct domination of the man he had offended.
There were many ways in which a petty vengeance might be gratified. It was within the range boss's power to make life nearly unbearable for the puncher. If he did this it would of course be an unworthy vengeance, and Ferguson had little doubt that any vengeance meditated by Leviatt would not be petty.
Ferguson went his own way, deeply thoughtful. He was taking his time. Certain things were puzzling him. Where did Leviatt stand in this rustling business? That was part of the mystery. Stafford had told him that he had Leviatt's word that Radford was the thief who had been stealing the Two Diamond cattle. Stafford had said also that it had been Leviatt who had suggested employing a gunfighter—had even gone to Dry Bottom with the manager for the purpose of finding one. And now that one had been employed Leviatt had become suddenly antagonistic to him.
And Leviatt was in the habit of visiting the Radford cabin. Of course he might be doing this for the purpose of spying upon Ben Radford, but if that were the case why had he shown so venomous when he had seen Ferguson sitting on the porch on the evening of the day after the latter had been bitten by the rattler?
Mary Radford had told him that Leviatt was her brother's friend. If he was a friend of the brother why had he suggested that Stafford employ a gunfighter to shoot him? Here was more mystery.
On a day soon after the departure of the wagon outfit he rode away through the afternoon sunshine. Not long did his thoughts dwell upon the mystery of the range boss and Ben Radford. He kept seeing a young woman kneeling in front of him, bathing and binding his foot. Scraps of a conversation that he had not forgotten revolved in his mind and brought smiles to his lips.
"She didn't need to act so plum serious when she told me that I didn't know that I had any right to set there an' make pretty speeches to her. . . . She wouldn't need to ask me to stay at the cabin all night. I could have gone on to the Two Diamond. I reckon that snake bite wasn't so plum dangerous that I'd have died if I'd have rode a little while."
As he came out of a little gully a few miles up the river and rode along the crest of a ridge that rose above endless miles of plains, his thoughts went back to that first night in the bunkhouse when the outfit had come in from the range. Satisfaction glinted in his eyes.
"I reckon them boys didn't make good with her. An' I expect that some day Leviatt will find he's been wastin' his time."
He frowned at thought of Leviatt and unconsciously his spurs drove hard against the pony's flanks. The little animal sprang forward, tossing his head spiritedly. Ferguson grinned and patted its flank with a remorseful hand.
"Well, now, Mustard," he said, "I wasn't reckonin' on takin' my spite out on you. You don't expect I thought you was Leviatt." And he patted the flank again.
He rode down the long slope of the rise and struck the level, traveling at a slow lope through a shallow washout. The ground was broken and rocky here and the snake-like cactus caught at his stirrup leathers. A rattler warned from the shadow of some sage-brush and, remembering his previous experience, he paused long enough to shoot its head off.
"There," he said, surveying the shattered snake, "I reckon you ain't to blame for me bein' bit by your uncle or cousin, or somethin', but I ain't never goin' to be particular when I see one of your family swingin' their head that suggestive."
He rode on again, reloading his pistol. For a little time he traveled at a brisk pace and then he halted to breathe Mustard. Throwing one leg over the pommel, he turned half way around in the saddle and swept the plains with a casual glance.
He sat erect instantly, focusing his gaze upon a speck that loomed through a dust cloud some miles distant. For a time he watched the speck, his eyes narrowing. Finally he made out the speck to be a man on a pony.
"He's a-fannin' it some," he observed, shading his eyes with his hands; "hittin' up the breeze for fair." He meditated long, a critical smile reaching his lips.
"It's right warm to-day. Not just the kind of an atmosphere that a man ought to be runnin' his horse reckless in." He meditated again.
"How far would you say he's off, Mustard? Ten miles, I reckon you'd say if you was a knowin' horse."
The horseman had reached a slight ridge and for a moment he appeared on the crest of it, racing his pony toward the river. Then he suddenly disappeared.
Ferguson smiled coldly. Again his gaze swept the plains and the ridges about him. "I don't see nothin' that'd make a man ride like that in this heat," he said. "Where would he have come from?" He stared obliquely off at a deep gully almost hidden by an adjoining ridge.
"It's been pretty near an hour since I shot that snake. I didn't see no man about that time. If he was around here he must have heard my gun—an' sloped." He smiled and urged his pony about. "I reckon we'll go look around that gully a little, Mustard," he said.
Half an hour later he rode down into the gully. After going some little distance he came across a dead cow, lying close to an overhanging rock rim. A bullet hole in the cow's forehead told eloquently of the manner of her death.
Ferguson dismounted and laid a hand on her side. The body was still warm. A four-months' calf was nudging the mother with an inquisitive muzzle. Ferguson took a sharp glance at its ears and then drove it off to get a look at the brand. There was none.
"Sleeper," he said quietly. "With the Two Diamond ear-mark. Most range bosses make a mistake in not brandin' their calves. Seems as if they're trustin' to luck that rustlers won't work on them. I must have scared this one off."
He swung into the saddle, a queer light in his eyes. "Mustard, old boy, we're goin' to Bear Flat. Mebbe Radford's hangin' around there now. An' mebbe he ain't. But we're goin' to see."
But he halted a moment to bend a pitying glance at the calf.
"Poor little dogie," he said; "poor little orphan. Losin' your mother—just like a human bein'. I call that mean luck."
Then he was off, Mustard swinging in a steady lope down the gully and up toward the ridge that led to the river trail.
The sun was still a shimmering white blur in the great arc of sky when Ferguson rode around the corner of the cabin in Bear Flat, halted his pony, and sat quietly in the saddle before the door. His rapid eye had already swept the horse corral, the sheds, and the stable. If the horseman that he had seen riding along the ridge had been Radford he would not arrive for quite a little while. Meantime, he would learn from Miss Radford what direction the young man had taken on leaving the cabin.
Ferguson was beginning to take an interest in this game. At the outset he had come prepared to carry out his contract. In his code of ethics it was not a crime to shoot a rustler. Experience had taught him that justice was to be secured only through drastic action. In the criminal category of the West the rustler took a place beside the horse thief and the man who shot from behind.
But before taking any action Ferguson must be convinced of the guilt of the man he was hunting, and nothing had yet occurred that would lead him to suspect Radford. He did not speculate on what course he would take should circumstances prove Radford to be the thief. Would the fact that he was Mary Radford's brother affect his decision? He preferred to answer that question when the time came—if it ever came. One thing was certain; he was not shooting anyone unless the provocation was great.
His voice was purposely loud when he called "Whoa, Mustard!" to his pony, but his eyes were not purposely bright and expectant as they tried to penetrate the semi-darkness of the interior of the cabin for a glimpse of Miss Radford.
He heard a movement presently, and she was at the door looking at him, her hands folded in her apron, her eyes wide with unmistakable pleasure.
"Why, I never expected to see you again!" she exclaimed.
She came out and stood near the edge of the porch, making a determined attempt to subdue the flutter of excitement that was revealed in a pair of very bright eyes and a tinge of deep color in her cheeks.
"Then I reckon you thought I had died, or stampeded out of this country?" he answered, grinning. "I told you I'd be comin' back here."
But the first surprise was over, and she very properly retired to the shelter of a demurely polite reserve.
"So you did!" she made reply. "You told me you were comin' over to see my brother. But he is not here now."
Had he been less wise he would have reminded her that it had been she who had told him that he might come to see her brother. But to reply thus would have discomfited her and perhaps have brought a sharp reply. He had no doubt that some of the other Two Diamond men had made similar mistakes, but not he. He smiled broadly. "Mebbe I did," he said; "sometimes I'm mighty careless in handlin' the truth. Mebbe I thought then that I'd come over to see your brother. But we have different thoughts at different times. You say your brother ain't here now?"
"He left early this morning to go down the river," she informed him."He said he would be back before sun-down."
His eyes narrowed perceptibly. "Down" the river meant that Radford's trail led in the general direction of the spot where he had seen the fleeing horseman and the dead Two Diamond cow with her orphaned calf. Yet this proved nothing. Radford might easily have been miles away when the deed had been done. For the present there was nothing he could do, except to wait until Radford returned, to form whatever conclusions he might from the young man's appearance when he should find a Two Diamond man at the cabin. But anxiety to see the brother was not the only reason that would keep him waiting.
He removed his hat and sat regarding it with a speculative eye. MissRadford smiled knowingly.
"I expect I have been scarcely polite," she said. "Won't you get off your horse?"
"Why, yes," he responded, obeying promptly; "I expect Mustard's been doin' a lot of wonderin' why I didn't get off before."
If he had meant to imply that her invitation had been tardy he had hit the mark fairly, for Miss Radford nibbled her lips with suppressed mirth. The underplay of meaning was not the only subtleness of the speech, for the tone in which it had been uttered was rich in interrogation, as though its author, while realizing the pony's dimness of perception, half believed the animal had noticed Miss Radford's lapse of hospitality.
"I'm thinkin' you are laughin' at me again, ma'am," he said as he came to the edge of the porch and stood looking up at her, grinning.
"Do you think I am laughing?" she questioned, again biting her lips to keep them from twitching.
"No-o. I wouldn't say that you was laughin' with your lips—laughin' regular. But there's a heap of it inside of you—tryin' to get out."
"Don't you ever laugh inwardly?" she questioned.
He laughed frankly. "I expect there's times when I do."
"But you haven't lately?"
"Well, no, I reckon not."
"Not even when you thought your horse might have noticed that I had neglected to invite you off?"
"Did I think that?" he questioned.
"Of course you did."
"Well, now," he drawled. "An' so you took that much interest in what I was thinkin'! I reckon people who write must know a lot."
Her face expressed absolute surprise. "Why, who told you that I wrote?" she questioned.
"Nobody told me, ma'am. I just heard it. I heard a man tell another man that you had threatened to make him a character in a book you was writin'."
Her face was suddenly convulsed. "I imagine I know whom you mean," she said. "A young cowboy from the Two Diamond used to annoy me quite a little, until one day I discouraged him."
His smile grew broad at this answer. But he grew serious instantly.
"I don't think there is much to write about in this country, ma'am," he said.
"You don't? Why, I believe you are trying to discourage me!"
"I reckon you won't listen to me, ma'am, if you want to write. I've heard that anyone who writes is a special kind of a person an' they just can't help writin'—any more'n I can help comin' over here to see your brother. You see, they like it a heap."
They both laughed, she because of the clever way in which he had turned the conversation to his advantage; he through sheer delight. But she did purpose to allow him to dwell on the point he had raised, so she adroitly took up the thread where he had broken off to apply his similitude.
"Some of that is true," she returned, giving him a look on her own account; "especially about a writer loving his work. But I don't think one needs to be a 'special' kind of person. One must be merely a keen observer."
He shook his head doubtfully. "I see everything that goes on around me," he returned. "Most of the time I can tell pretty near what sort a man is by lookin' at his face and watching the way he moves. But I reckon I'd never make a writer. Times when I look at this country—at a nice sunset, for instance, or think what a big place this country is—I feel like sayin' somethin' about it; somethin' inside of me seems kind of breathless-like—kind of scarin' me. But I couldn't write about it."
She had felt it, too, and more than once had sat down with her pencil to transcribe her thoughts. She thought that it was not exactly fear, but an overpowering realization of her own atomity; a sort of cringing of the soul away from the utter vastness of the world; a growing consciousness of the unlimited bigness of things; an insight of the infinite power of God—the yearning of the soul for understanding of the mysteries of life and existence.
She could sympathize with him, for she knew exactly how he had felt. She turned and looked toward the distant mountains, behind which the sun was just then swimming—a great ball of shimmering gold, which threw off an effulgent expanse of yellow light that was slowly turning into saffron and violet as it met the shadows below the hills.
"Whoever saw such colors?" she asked suddenly, her face transfixed with sheer delight.
"It's cert'nly pretty, ma'am."
She clapped her hands. "It is magnificent!" she declared enthusiastically. She came closer to him and stretched an arm toward the mountains. "Look at that saffron shade which is just now blending with the streak of pearl striking the cleft between those hills! See the violet tinge that has come into that sea of orange, and the purple haze touching the snow-caps of the mountains. And now the flaming red, the deep yellow, the slate blue; and now that gauzy veil of lilac, rose, and amethyst, fading and dulling as the darker shadows rise from the valleys!"
Her flashing eyes sought Ferguson's. Twilight had suddenly come.
"It is the most beautiful country in the world!" she said positively.
He was regarding her with gravely humorous eyes. "It cert'nly is pretty, ma'am," he returned. "But you can't make a whole book out of one sunset."
Her eyes flashed. "No," she returned. "Nor can I make a whole book out of only one character. But I am going to try and draw a word picture of the West by writing of the things that I see. And I am going to try and have some real characters in it. I shall try to have them talk and act naturally."
She smiled suddenly and looked at him with a significant expression. "And the hero will not be an Easterner—to swagger through the pages of the book, scaring people into submission through the force of his compelling personality. He will be a cowboy who will do things after the manner of the country—a real, unaffected care-free puncher!"
"Have you got your eye on such a man?" he asked, assuring himself that he knew of no man who would fill the requirements she had named.
"I don't mind telling you that I have," she returned, looking straight at him.
It suddenly burst upon him. His face crimsoned. He felt like bolting.But he managed to grin, though she could see that the grin was forced.
"It's gettin' late, ma'am," he said, as he turned toward his pony. "I reckon I'll be gettin' back to the Two Diamond."
She laughed mockingly as he settled into the saddle. There was a clatter of hoofs from around the corner of the cabin.
"Wait!" she commanded. "Ben is coming!"
But there was a rush of wind that ruffled her apron, a clatter, and she could hear Mustard's hoofs pounding over the matted mesquite that carpeted the clearing. Ferguson had fled.
During the night Ferguson had dreamed dreams. A girl with fluffy brown hair and mocking eyes had been the center of many mental pictures that had haunted him. He had seen her seated before him, rapidly plying a pencil. Once he imagined he had peered over her shoulder. He had seen a sketch of a puncher, upon which she appeared to be working, representing a man who looked very like himself. He could remember that he had been much surprised. Did writers draw the pictures that appeared in their books?
This puncher was sitting in a chair; one foot was bandaged. As he watched over the girl's shoulder he saw the deft pencil forming the outlines of another figure—a girl. As this sketch developed he saw that it was to represent Miss Radford herself. It was a clever pencil that the girl wielded, for the scene was strikingly real. He even caught subtle glances from her eyes. But as he looked the scene changed and the girl stood at the edge of the porch, her eyes mocking him. And then to his surprise she spoke. "I am going to put you into a book," she said.
Then he knew why she had tolerated him. He had grown hot and embarrassed. "You ain't goin' to put me in any book, ma'am," he had said. "You ain't givin' me a square deal. I wouldn't love no girl that would put me into a book."
He had seen a sudden scorn in her eyes. "Love!" she said, her lips curling. "Do you really believe that I would allow a puncher to make love to me?"
And then the scene had changed again, and he was shooting the head off a rattler. "I don't want you to love me!" he had declared to it. And then while the snake writhed he saw another head growing upon it, and a face. It was the face of Leviatt; and there was mockery in this face also. While he looked it spoke.
"You'll nurse him so's he won't die?" it had said.
When he awakened his blood was surging with a riotous anger. The dream was bothering him now, as he rode away from the ranchhouse toward the gully where he had found the dead Two Diamond cow. He had not reported the finding of the dead cow, intending to return the next morning to look the ground over and to fetch the "dogie" back to the home ranch. It would be time enough then to make a report of the occurrence to Stafford.
It was mid-morning when he finally reached the gully and rode down into it. He found the dead cow still there. He dismounted to drive away some crows that had gathered around the body. Then he noticed that the calf had disappeared. It had strayed, perhaps. A calf could not be depended upon to remain very long beside its dead mother, though he had known cases where they had. But if it had strayed it could not be very far away. He remounted his pony and loped down the gully, reaching the ridge presently and riding along this, searching the surrounding country with keen glances. He could see no signs of the calf. He came to a shelf-rock presently, beside which grew a tangled gnarl of scrub-oak brush. Something lay in the soft sand and he dismounted quickly and picked up a leather tobacco pouch. He examined this carefully. There were no marks on it to tell who might be the owner.
"A man who loses his tobacco in this country is mighty careless," he observed, smiling; "or in pretty much of a hurry."
He went close to the thicket, looking down at it, searching the sand with interest. Presently he made out the impression of a foot in a soft spot and, looking further, saw two furrows that might have been made by a man kneeling. He knelt in the furrows himself and with one hand parted the brush. He smiled grimly as, peering into the gully, he saw the dead Two Diamond cow on the opposite side.
He stepped abruptly away from the thicket and looked about him. A few yards back there was a deep depression in the ridge, fringed with a growth of nondescript weed. He approached this and peered into it. Quite recently a horse had been there. He could plainly see the hoof-prints—where the animal had pawed impatiently. He returned to the thicket, convinced.
"Some one was here yesterday when I was down there lookin' at that cow," he decided. "They was watchin' me. That man I seen ridin' that other ridge was with the one who was here. Now why didn't this man slope too?"
He stood erect, looking about him. Then he smiled.
"Why, it's awful plain," he said. "The man who was on this ridge was watchin'. He heard my gun go off, when I shot that snake. I reckon he figgered that if he tried to ride away on this ridge whoever'd done the shootin' would see him. An' so he didn't go. He stayed right here an' watched me when I rode up." He smiled. "There ain't no use lookin' for that dogie. The man that stayed here has run him off."
There was nothing left for Ferguson to do. He mounted and rode slowly along the ridge, examining the tobacco pouch. And then suddenly he discovered something that brought an interested light to his eyes. Beneath the greasy dirt on the leather he could make out the faint outlines of two letters. Time had almost obliterated these, but by moistening his fingers and rubbing the dirt from the leather he was able to trace them. They had been burned in, probably branded with a miniature iron.
"D. L," he spelled.
He rode on again, his lips straightening into serious lines.
He mentally catalogued the names he had heard since coming to the Two Diamond. None answered for the initials "D. L." It was evident that the pouch could belong to no one but Dave Leviatt. In that case what had Leviatt been doing on the ridge? Why, he had been watching the rustler, of course. In that case the man must be known to him. But what had become of the dogie? What would have been Leviatt's duty, after the departure of the rustlers? Obviously to drive the calf to the herd and report the occurrence to the manager.
Leviatt may have driven the calf to the herd, but assuredly he had not reported the occurrence to the manager, for he had not been in to the ranchhouse. Why not?
Ferguson pondered long over this, while his pony traveled the river trail toward the ranchhouse. Finally he smiled. Of course, if the man on the ridge had been Leviatt, he must have been there still when Ferguson came up, or he would not have been there to drive the Two Diamond calf to the herd after Ferguson had departed. In that case he must have seen Ferguson, and must be waiting for the latter to make the report to the manager. But what motive would he have in this?
Here was more mystery. Ferguson might have gone on indefinitely arranging motives, but none of them would have brought him near the truth.
He could, however, be sure of three things. Leviatt had seen the rustler and must know him; he had seen Ferguson, and knew that he knew that a rustler had been in the gully before him; and for some mysterious reason he had not reported to the manager. But Ferguson had one advantage that pleased him, even drew a grim smile to his lips as he rode on his way. Leviatt may have seen him near the dead Two Diamond cow, but he certainly was not aware that Ferguson knew he himself had been there during the time that the rustler had been at work.
Practically, of course, this knowledge would avail Ferguson little. Yet it was a good thing to know, for Leviatt must have some reason for secrecy, and if anything developed later Ferguson would know exactly where the range boss stood in the matter.
Determined to investigate as far as possible, he rode down the river for a few miles, finally reaching a broad plain where the cattle were feeding. Some cowboys were scattered over this plain, and before riding very far Ferguson came upon Rope. The latter spurred close to him, grinning.
"I'm right glad to see you," said the puncher. "You've been keepin' yourself pretty scarce. Scared of another run-in with Leviatt?"
"Plum scared," returned Ferguson. "I reckon that man'll make me nervous—give him time."
"Yu' don't say?" grinned Rope. "I wasn't noticin' that you was worryin' about him."
"I'm right flustered," returned Ferguson. "Where's he now?"
"Gone down the crick—with Tucson."
Ferguson smoothed Mustard's mane. "Leviatt been with you right along?"
"He went up the crick yesterday," returned Rope, looking quickly at the stray-man.
"Went alone, I reckon?"
"With Tucson." Rope was trying to conceal his interest in these questions.
But apparently Ferguson's interest was only casual. He turned a quizzical eye upon Rope. "You an' Tucson gettin' along?" he questioned.
"Me an' him's of the same mind about one thing," returned Rope.
"Well, now." Ferguson's drawl was pregnant with humor. "You surprise me. An' so you an' him have agreed. I reckon you ain't willin' to tell me what you've agreed about?"
"I'm sure tellin'," grinned Rope. "Me an' him's each dead certain that the other's a low down horse thief."
The eyes of the two men met fairly. Both smiled.
"Then I reckon you an' Tucson are lovin' one another about as well as me an' Leviatt," observed Ferguson.
"There ain't a turruble lot of difference," agreed Rope.
"An' so Tucson's likin' you a heap," drawled Ferguson absently. He gravely contemplated the puncher. "I expect you was a long ways off yesterday when Leviatt an' Tucson come in from up the crick?" he asked.
"Not a turruble ways off," returned Rope. "I happened to have this end an' they passed right close to me. They clean forgot to speak."
"Well, now," said Ferguson. "That was sure careless of them. But I reckon they was busy at somethin' when they passed. In that case they wouldn't have time to speak. I've heard tell that some folks can't do more'n one thing at a time."
Rope laughed. "They was puttin' in a heap of their time tryin' to make me believe they didn't see me," he returned. "Otherwise they wasn't doin' anything."
"Shucks!" declared Ferguson heavily. "I reckon them men wouldn't go out of their way to drive a poor little dogie in off the range. They're that hard hearted."
"Correct," agreed Rope. "You ain't missin' them none there."
Ferguson smiled, urging his pony about. "I'm figgerin' on gettin' back to the Two Diamond," he said. He rode a few feet and then halted, looking back over his shoulder. "You ain't givin' Tucson no chancst to say you drawed first?" he warned.
Rope laughed grimly. "If there's any shootin' goin' on," he replied,"Tucson ain't goin' to say nothin' after it's over."
"Well, so-long," said Ferguson, urging his pony forward. He heardRope's answer, and then rode on, deeply concerned over his discovery.
Leviatt and Tucson had ridden up the river the day before. They had returned empty handed. And so another link had been added to the chain of mystery. Where was the dogie?