Now that Mary Radford had obtained experience for the love scene in her story it might be expected that on returning to the cabin she would get out her writing materials and attempt to transcribe the emotions that had beset her during the afternoon, but she did nothing of the kind. After Ferguson's departure she removed her riding garments, walked several times around the interior of the cabin, and for a long time studied her face in the looking glass. Yes, she discovered the happiness shining out of the glass. Several times, standing before the glass, she attempted to keep the lines of her face in repose, and though she almost succeeded in doing this she could not control her eyes—they simply would gleam with the light that seemed to say to her: "You may deceive people by making a mask of your face, but the eyes are the windows of the soul and through them people will see your secret."
Ben hadn't eaten much, she decided, as she seated herself at the table, after pouring a cup of tea. Before she had finished her meal she had begun to wonder over his absence—it was not his custom to go away in the night. She thought he might have gone to the corral, or might even be engaged in some small task in the stable. So after completing her meal she rose and went to the door, looking out.
There was no moon, only the starlight, but in this she was able to distinguish objects in the clearing, and if Ben had been working about anywhere she must have noticed him. She returned to the table and sat there long, pondering. Then she rose, heated some water, and washed and dried the dishes. Then she swept the kitchen floor and tidied things up a bit, returning to the door when all was complete.
Still no signs that Ben was anywhere in the vicinity. She opened the screen door and went out upon the porch, leaning against one of the slender posts. For a long time she stood thus, listening to the indescribable noises of the night. This was only the second time since she had been with Ben that he had left her alone at night, and a slight chill stole over her as she watched the dense shadows beyond the clearing, shadows that seemed suddenly dismal and foreboding. She had loved the silence, but now suddenly it too seemed too deep, too solemn to be real. She shuddered, and with some unaccountable impulse shrank back against the screen door, one hand upon it, ready to throw it open. In this position she stood for a few minutes, and then from somewhere in the flat came a slight sound—and then, after a short interval, another.
She shrank back again, a sudden fear chilling her, her hands clasped over her breast.
"Someone is shooting," she said aloud.
She waited long for a repetition of the sounds. But she did not hear them again. Tremblingly she returned to the cabin and resumed her chair at the table, fighting against a growing presentiment that something had gone wrong with Ben. But she could not have told from what direction the sounds had come, and so it would have been folly for her to ride out to investigate. And so for an hour she sat at the table, cringing away from the silence, starting at intervals, when her imagination tricked her into the belief that sound had begun.
And then presently she became aware that there was sound. In the vast silence beyond the cabin door something had moved. She was on her feet instantly, her senses alert. Her fear had left her. Her face was pale, but her lips closed grimly as she went to the rack behind the door and took down a rifle that Ben always kept there. Then she turned the lamp low and cautiously stepped to the door.
A pony whinnied, standing with ears erect at the edge of the porch. In a crumpled heap on the ground lay a man. She caught her breath sharply, but in the next instant was out and bending over him. With a strength that seemed almost beyond her shy dragged the limp form to the door where the light from the lamp shone upon it.
"Ben!" she said sharply. "What has happened?" She shook him slightly, calling again to him.
Aroused, he opened his eyes, recognized her, and raised himself painfully upon one elbow, smiling weakly.
"It ain't anything, sis," he said. "Creased in the back of the head.Knocked me cold. Mebbe my shoulder too—I ain't been able to lift myarm." He smiled again—grimly, though wearily. "From the back too.The damned sneak!"
Her eyes filled vengefully, and she leaned closer to him, her voice tense. "Who, Ben? Who did it?"
"Ferguson," he said sharply. And again, as his eyes closed: "The damned sneak."
She swayed dizzily and came very near dropping him to the porch floor. But no sound came from her, and presently when the dizziness had passed, she dragged him to the door, propped it open with a chair, and then dragged him on through the opening to the kitchen, and from there to one of the adjoining rooms. Then with pale face and determined lips she set about the work of taking care of Ben's wounds. The spot on the back of the head, she found, was a mere abrasion, as he had said. But his shoulder had been shattered, the bullet, she discovered, having passed clear through the fleshy part of the shoulder, after breaking one of the smaller bones.
Getting her scissors she clipped away the hair from the back of his head and sponged the wound and bandaged it, convinced that of itself it was not dangerous. Then she undressed him, and by the use of plenty of clear, cold water, a sponge, and some bandages, stopped the flow of blood in his shoulder and placed him in a comfortable position. He had very little fever, but she moved rapidly around him, taking his temperature, administering sedatives when he showed signs of restlessness, hovering over him constantly until the dawn began to come.
Soon after this he went off into a peaceful sleep, and, almost exhausted with her efforts and the excitement, she threw herself upon the floor beside his bed, sacrificing her own comfort that she might be near to watch should he need her. It was late in the afternoon when Radford opened his eyes to look out through the door that connected his room with the kitchen and saw his sister busying herself with the dishes. His mind was clear and he suffered very little pain. For a long time he lay, quietly watching her, while his thoughts went back to the meeting on the trail with Ferguson. Why hadn't he carried out his original intention of shooting the stray-man down from ambush? He had doubted Leviatt's word and had hesitated, wishing to give Ferguson the benefit of the doubt, and had received his reward in the shape of a bullet in the back—after practically making a peace pact with his intended victim.
He presently became aware that his sister was standing near him, and he looked up and smiled at her. Then in an instant she was kneeling beside him, admonishing him to quietness, smoothing his forehead, giving delighted little gasps over his improved condition. But in spite of her evident cheerfulness there was a suggestion of trouble swimming deep in her eyes; he could not help but see that she was making a brave attempt to hide her bitter disappointment over the turn things had taken. Therefore he was not surprised when, after she had attended to all his wants, she sank on her knees beside him.
"Ben," she said, trying to keep a quiver out of her voice, "are you sure it was Ferguson who shot you?"
He patted her hand tenderly and sympathetically with his uninjured one."I'm sorry for you, Mary," he returned, "but there ain't any doubtabout it." Then he told her of the warning he had received fromLeviatt, and when he saw her lips curl at the mention of the TwoDiamond range boss's name he smiled.
"I thought the same thing that you are thinking, Mary," he said. "And I didn't want to shoot Ferguson. But as things have turned out I wouldn't have been much wrong to have done it."
She raised her head from the coverlet. "Did you see him before he shot you?" she questioned eagerly.
"Just a little before," he returned. "I met him at a turn in the trail about half a mile from here. I made him get down off his horse and drop his guns. We had a talk, for I didn't want to shoot him until I was sure, and he talked so clever that I thought he was telling the truth. But he wasn't."
He told her about Ferguson's concealed pistol; how they had stood face to face with death between them, concluding: "By that time I had decided not to shoot him. But he didn't have the nerve to pull the trigger when he was looking at me. He waited until I'd got on my horse and was riding away. Then he sneaked up behind."
He saw her body shiver, and he caressed her hair slowly, telling her that he was sorry things had turned out so, and promising her that when he recovered he would bring the Two Diamond stray-man to a strict accounting—providing the latter didn't leave the country before. But he saw that his words had given her little comfort, for when an hour or so later he dropped off to sleep the last thing he saw was her seated at the table in the kitchen, her head bowed in her hands, crying softly.
"Poor little kid," he said, as sleep dimmed his eyes; "it looks as though this would be the end ofherstory."
Ferguson did not visit Miss Radford the next morning—he had seen Leviatt and Tucson depart from the ranchhouse, had observed the direction they took, and had followed them. For twenty miles he had kept them in sight, watching them with a stern patience that had brought its reward.
They had ridden twenty miles straight down the river, when Ferguson, concealed behind a ridge, saw them suddenly disappear into a little basin. Then he rode around the ridge, circled the rim of hills that surrounded the basin, and dismounting from his pony, crept through a scrub oak thicket to a point where he could look directly down upon them.
He was surprised into a subdued whistle. Below him in the basin was an adobe hut. He had been through this section of the country several times but had never before stumbled upon the hut. This was not remarkable, for situated as it was, in this little basin, hidden from sight by a serried line of hills and ridges among which no cowpuncher thought to travel—nor cared to—, the cabin was as safe from prying eyes as it was possible for a human habitation to be.
There was a small corral near the cabin, in which there were several steers, half a dozen cows, and perhaps twenty calves. As Ferguson's eyes took in the latter detail, they glittered with triumph. Not even the wildest stretch of the imagination could produce twenty calves from half a dozen cows.
But Ferguson did not need this evidence to convince him that the men who occupied the cabin were rustlers. Honest men did not find it necessary to live in a basin in the hills where they were shut in from sight of the open country. Cattle thieves did not always find it necessary to do so—unless they were men like these, who had no herds of their own among which to conceal their ill-gotten beasts. He was convinced that these men were migratory thieves, who operated upon the herds nearest them, remained until they had accumulated a considerable number of cattle, and then drove the entire lot to some favored friend who was not averse to running the risk of detection if through that risk he came into possession of easily earned money.
There were two of the men, beside Leviatt and Tucson—tall, rangy—looking their part. Ferguson watched them for half an hour, and then, convinced that he would gain nothing more by remaining there, he stealthily backed down the hillside to where his pony stood, mounted, and rode toward the river.
Late in the afternoon he entered Bear Flat, urged his pony at a brisk pace across it, and just before sundown drew rein in front of the Radford cabin. He dismounted and stepped to the edge of the porch, a smile of anticipation on his lips. The noise of his arrival brought Mary Radford to the door. She came out upon the porch, and he saw that her face was pale and her lips firmly set. Apparently something had gone amiss with her and he halted, looking at her questioningly.
"What's up?" he asked.
"You ought to know," she returned quietly.
"I ain't good at guessin' riddles," he returned, grinning at her.
"There is no riddle," she answered, still quietly. She came forward until she stood within two paces of him, her eyes meeting his squarely. "When you left here last night did you meet Ben on the trail?" she continued steadily.
He started, reddening a little. "Why, yes," he returned, wondering if Ben had told her what had been said at that meeting; "was he tellin' you about it?"
"Yes," she returned evenly, "he has been telling me about it. That should be sufficient for you. I am sorry that I ever met you. You should know why. If I were you I should not lose any time in getting away from here."
Her voice was listless, even flat, but there was a grim note in it that told that she was keeping her composure with difficulty. He laughed, thinking that since he had made the new agreement with the Two Diamond manager he had nothing to fear. "I reckon I ought to be scared," he returned, "but I ain't. An' I don't consider that I'm losin' any time."
Her lips curved sarcastically. "You have said something like that before," she told him, her eyes glittering scornfully. "You have a great deal of faith in your ability to fool people. But you have miscalculated this time.
"I know why you have come to the Two Diamond. I know what made you come over here so much. Of course I am partly to blame. You have fooled me as you have fooled everyone." She stood suddenly erect, her eyes flashing. "If you planned to kill my brother, why did you not have the manhood to meet him face to face?"
Ferguson flushed. Would it help his case to deny that he had thought of fooling her, that he never had any intention of shooting Ben? He thought not. Leviatt had poisoned her mind against him. He smiled grimly.
"Someone's been talkin'," he said quietly. "You'd be helpin' to make this case clear if you'd tell who it was."
"Someone has talked," she replied; "someone who knows. Why didn't you tell me that you came here to kill Ben? That you were hired by Stafford to do it?"
"Why, I didn't, ma'am," he protested, his face paling.
"You did!" She stamped one foot vehemently.
Ferguson's eyes drooped. "I came here to see if Ben was rustlin' cattle, ma'am," he confessed frankly. "But I wasn't intendin' to shoot him. Why, I've had lots of chances, an' I didn't do it. Ain't that proof enough?"
"No," she returned, her voice thrilling with a sudden, bitter irony, "you didn't shoot him. That is, you didn't shoot him while he was looking at you—when there was a chance that he might have given you as good as you sent. No, you didn't shoot him then—you waited until his back was turned. You—you coward!"
Ferguson's lips whitened. "You're talkin' extravagant, ma'am," he said coldly. "Somethin' is all mixed up. Has someone been shootin' Ben?"
She sneered, pinning him with a scornful, withering glance. "I expected that you would deny it," she returned. "That would be following out your policy of deception."
He leaned forward, his eyes wide with surprise. If she had not been laboring under the excitement of the incident she might have seen that his surprise was genuine, but she was certain that it was mere craftiness—a craftiness that she had hitherto admired, but which now awakened a fierce anger in her heart.
"When was he shot?" he questioned quietly.
"Last night," she answered scornfully. "Of course that is a surprise to you too. An hour after you left he rode up to the cabin and fell from his horse at the edge of the porch. He had been shot twice—both times in the back." She laughed—almost hysterically. "Oh, you knew enough not to take chances with him in spite of your bragging—in spite of the reputation you have of being a 'two-gun' man!"
He winced under her words, his face whitening, his lips twitching, his hands clenched that he might not lose his composure. But in spite of the conflict that was going on within him at the moment he managed to keep his voice quiet and even. It was admirable acting, she thought, her eyes burning with passion—despicable, contemptible acting.
"I reckon I ain't the snake you think I am, ma'am," he said, looking steadily at her. "But I'm admittin' that mebbe you've got cause to think so. When I left Ben last night I shook hands with him, after fixin' up the difference we'd had. Why, ma'am," he went on earnestly, "I'd just got through tellin' him about you an' me figgerin' to get hooked up. An' do you think I'd shoot him after that? Why, if I'd been wantin' to shoot him I reckon there was nothin' to stop me while he was standin' there. He'd never knowed what struck him. I'm tellin' you that I didn't know he was shot; that——"
She made a gesture of impatience. "I don't think I care to hear any more," she said. "I heard the shots here on the porch. I suppose you were so far away at that time that you couldn't hear them?"
He writhed again under the scorn in her voice. But he spoke again, earnestly. "I did hear some shootin'," he said, "after I'd gone on a ways. But I reckoned it was Ben."
"What do you suppose he would be shooting at at that time of the night?" she demanded.
"Why, I don't remember that I was doin' a heap of wonderin' at that time about it," he returned hesitatingly. "Mebbe I thought he was shootin' at a sage-hen, or a prairie-dog—or somethin'. I've often took a shot at somethin' like that—when I've been alone that way." He took a step toward her, his whole lithe body alive and tingling with earnestness. "Why, ma'am, there's a big mistake somewheres. If I could talk to Ben I'm sure I could explain——"
She drew her skirts close and stepped back toward the door. "There is nothing to explain—now," she said coldly. "Ben is doing nicely, and when he has fully recovered you will have a chance to explain to him—if you are not afraid."
"Afraid?" he laughed grimly. "I expect, ma'am, that things look pretty bad for me. They always do when someone's tryin' to make 'em. I reckon there ain't any use of tryin' to straighten it out now—you won't listen. But I'm tellin' you this: When everything comes out you'll see that I didn't shoot your brother."
"Of course not," sneered the girl. "You did not shoot him. Stafford did not hire you to do it. You didn't come here, pretending that you had been bitten by a rattler, so that you might have a chance to worm yourself into my brother's favor—and then shoot him. You haven't been hanging around Bear Flat all summer, pretending to look for stray Two Diamond cattle. You haven't been trying to make a fool of me——" Her voice trembled and her lips quivered suspiciously.
"Well, now," said Ferguson, deeply moved; "I'm awful sorry you're lookin' at things like you are. But I wasn't thinkin' to try an' make a fool of you. Things that I said to you I meant. I wouldn't say things to a girl that I said to you if——"
She had suddenly stepped into the cabin and as suddenly reappeared holding the rifle that was kept always behind the door. She stood rigid on the porch, her eyes blazing through the moisture in them.
"You go now!" she commanded hotly; "I've heard enough of your lies! Get away from this cabin! If I ever see you around here again I won't wait for Ben to shoot you!"
Ferguson hesitated, a deep red mounting over the scarf at his throat. Then his voice rose, tingling with regret. "There ain't any use of me sayin' anything now, ma'am," he said. "You wouldn't listen. I'm goin' away, of course, because you want me to. You didn't need to get that gun if you wanted to hurt me—what you've said would have been enough." He bowed to her, not even looking at the rifle. "I'm goin' now," he concluded. "But I'm comin' back. You'll know then whether I'm the sneak you've said I was."
He bowed again over the pony's mane and urged the animal around the corner of the cabin, striking the trail that led through the flat toward the Two Diamond ranchhouse.
Ferguson heard loud talking and laughter in the bunkhouse when he passed there an hour after his departure from the Radford cabin in Bear Flat. It was near sundown and the boys were eating supper. Ferguson smiled grimly as he rode his pony to the corral gate, dismounted, pulled off the bridle and saddle, and turned the animal into the corral. The presence of the boys at the bunkhouse meant that the wagon outfit had come in—meant that Leviatt would have to come in—if he had not already done so.
The stray-man's movements were very deliberate; there was an absence of superfluous energy that told of intensity of thought and singleness of purpose. He shouldered the saddle with a single movement, walked with it to the lean-to, threw it upon its accustomed peg, hung the bridle from the pommel, and then turned and for a brief time listened to the talk and laughter that issued from the open door and windows of the bunkhouse. With a sweep of his hands he drew his two guns from their holsters, rolled the cylinders and examined them minutely. Then he replaced the guns, hitched at his cartridge belt, and stepped out of the door of the lean-to.
In spite of his promise to Mary Radford to the effect that he would return to prove to her that he was not the man who had attempted to kill her brother he had no hope of discovering the guilty man. His suspicions, of course, centered upon Leviatt, but he knew that under the circumstances Mary Radford would have to be given convincing proof. The attempted murder of her brother, following the disclosure that he had been hired by Stafford to do the deed, must have seemed to her sufficient evidence of his guilt. He did not blame her for feeling bitter toward him; she had done the only thing natural under the circumstances. He had been very close to the garden of happiness—just close enough to scent its promise of fulfilled joy, when the gates had been violently closed in his face, to leave him standing without, contemplating the ragged path over which he must return to the old life.
He knew that Leviatt had been the instrument that had caused the gates to close; he knew that it had been he who had dropped the word that had caused the finger of accusation to point to him. "Stafford didn't hire you to do it," Mary Radford had said, ironically. The words rang in his ears still. Who had told her that Stafford had hired him to shoot Radford? Surely not Stafford. He himself had not hinted at the reason of his presence at the Two Diamond. And there was only one other man who knew. That man was Leviatt. As he stood beside the door of the lean-to the rage in his heart against the range boss grew more bitter, and the hues around his mouth straightened more grimly.
A few minutes later he stalked into the bunkhouse, among the men who, after finishing their meal, were lounging about, their small talk filling the room. The talk died away as he entered, the men adroitly gave him room, for there was something in the expression of his eyes, in the steely, boring glances that he cast about him, that told these men, inured to danger though they were, that the stray-man was in no gentle mood. He dropped a short word to the one among them that he knew best, at which they all straightened, for through the word they knew that he was looking for Leviatt.
But they knew nothing of Leviatt beyond the fact that he and Tucson had not accompanied the wagon to the home ranch. They inferred that the range boss and Tucson had gone about some business connected with the cattle. Therefore Ferguson did not stop long in the bunkhouse. Without a word he was gone, striding rapidly toward the ranchhouse. They looked after him, saying nothing, but aware that his quest for Leviatt was not without significance.
Five minutes later he was in Stafford's office. The latter had been worrying about him. When Ferguson entered the manager's manner was a trifle anxious.
"You seen anything of Radford yet?" he inquired.
"I ain't got anything on Radford," was the short reply.
His tone angered the manager. "I ain't askin' if you've got anything on him," he returned. "But we missed more cattle yesterday, an' it looks mighty suspicious. Since we had that talk about Radford, when you told me it wasn't him doin' the rustlin' I've changed my mind a heap. I'm thinkin' he rustled them cattle last night."
Ferguson looked quizzically at him. "How many cattle you missin'?" he questioned.
Stafford banged a fist heavily down upon his desk top. "We're twenty calves short on the tally," he declared, "an' half a dozen cows. We ain't got to the steers yet, but I'm expectin' to find them short too."
Ferguson drew a deep breath. The number of cattle missing tallied exactly with the number he had seen in the basin down the river. A glint of triumph lighted his eyes, but he looked down upon Stafford, drawling:
"You been doin' the tallyin'?"
"Yes."
Ferguson was now smiling grimly.
"Where's your range boss?" he questioned.
"The boys say he rode over to the river lookin' for strays. Sent word that he'd be in to-morrow. But I don't see what he's got to do——"
"No," returned Ferguson, "of course. You say them cattle was rustled last night?"
"Yes." Stafford banged his fist down with a positiveness that left no doubt of his knowledge.
"Well, now," observed Ferguson, "an' so you're certain Radford rustled them." He smiled again saturninely.
"I ain't sayin' for certain," returned Stafford, puzzled by Ferguson's manner. "What I'm gettin' at is that there ain't no one around here that'd rustle them except Radford."
"There ain't no other nester around here that you know of?" questionedFerguson.
"No. Radford's the only one."
Ferguson lingered a moment. Then he walked slowly to the door. "I reckon that's all," he said. "To-morrow I'm goin' to show you your rustler."
He had stepped out of the door and was gone into the gathering dusk before Stafford could ask the question that was on the end of his tongue.
Ferguson's dreams had been troubled. Long before dawn he was awake and outside the bunkhouse, splashing water over his face from the tin wash basin that stood on the bench just outside the door. Before breakfast he had saddled and bridled Mustard, and directly after the meal he was in the saddle, riding slowly toward the river.
Before very long he was riding through Bear Flat, and after a time he came to the hill where only two short days before he had reveled in the supreme happiness that had followed months of hope and doubt. It did not seem as though it had been only two days. It seemed that time was playing him a trick. Yet he knew that to-day was like yesterday—each day like its predecessor—that if the hours dragged it was because in the bitterness of his soul he realized that today could not be—for him—like the day before yesterday; and that succeeding days gave no promise of restoring to him the happiness that he had lost.
He saw the sun rising above the rim of hills that surrounded the flat; he climbed to the rock upon which he had sat—with her—watching the shadows retreat to the mountains, watching the sun stream down into the clearing and upon the Radford cabin. But there was no longer beauty in the picture—for him. Hereafter he would return to that life that he had led of old; the old hard life that he had known before his brief romance had given him a fleeting glimpse of what might have been.
Many times, when his hopes had been high, he had felt a chilling fear that he would never be able to reach the pinnacle of promise; that in the end fate would place before him a barrier—the barrier in the shape of his contract with Stafford, that he had regretted many times.
Mary Radford would never believe his protest that he had not been hired to kill her brother. Fate, in the shape of Leviatt, had forestalled him there. Many times, when she had questioned him regarding the hero in her story, he had been on the point of taking her into his confidence as to the reason of his presence at the Two Diamond, but he had always put it off, hoping that things would be righted in the end and that he would be able to prove to her the honesty of his intentions.
But now that time was past. Whatever happened now she would believe him the creature that she despised—that all men despised; the man who strikes in the dark.
This, then, was to be the end. He could not say that he had been entirely blameless. He should have told her. But it was not the end that he was now contemplating. There could be no end until there had been an accounting between him and Leviatt. Perhaps the men who had shot Ben Radford in the back would never be known. He had his suspicions, but they availed nothing. In the light of present circumstances Miss Radford would never hold him guiltless.
Until near noon he sat on the rock on the crest of the hill, the lines of his face growing more grim, his anger slowly giving way to the satisfying calmness that comes when the mind has reached a conclusion. There would be a final scene with Leviatt, and then——
He rose from the rock, made his way deliberately down the hillside, mounted his pony, and struck the trail leading to the Two Diamond ranchhouse.
About noon Leviatt and Tucson rode in to the Two Diamond corral gate, dismounted from their ponies, and proceeded to the bunkhouse for dinner. The men of the outfit were already at the table, and after washing their faces from the tin wash basin on the bench outside the door, Leviatt and Tucson entered the bunkhouse and took their places. Greetings were given and returned through the medium of short nods—with several of the men even this was omitted. Leviatt was not a popular range boss, and there were some of the men who had whispered their suspicions that the death of Rope Jones had not been brought about in the regular way. Many of them remembered the incident that had occurred between Rope, the range boss, Tucson, and the new stray-man, and though opinions differed, there were some who held that the death of Rope might have resulted from the ill-feeling engendered by the incident. But in the absence of proof there was nothing to be done. So those men who held suspicions wisely refrained from talking in public.
Before the meal was finished the blacksmith poked his head in through the open doorway, calling: "Ol' Man wants to see Leviatt up in the office!"
The blacksmith's head was withdrawn before Leviatt, who had heard the voice but had not seen the speaker, could raise his voice in reply. He did not hasten, however, and remained at the table with Tucson for five minutes after the other men had left. Then, with a final word to Tucson, he rose and strode carelessly to the door of Stafford's office. The latter had been waiting with some impatience, and at the appearance of the range boss he shoved his chair back from his desk and arose.
"Just come in?" he questioned.
"Just come in," repeated Leviatt drawling. "Plum starved. Had to eat before I came down here."
He entered and dropped lazily into a chair near the desk, stretching his legs comfortably. He had observed in Stafford's manner certain signs of a subdued excitement, and while he affected not to notice this, there was a glint of feline humor in his eyes.
"Somebody said you wanted me," he said. "Anything doin'?"
Stafford had held in as long as he could. Now he exploded.
"What in hell do you suppose I sent for you for?" he demanded, as, walking to and fro in the room, he paused and glared down at the range boss. "Where you been? We're twenty calves an' a dozen cows short on the tally!"
Leviatt looked up, his eyes suddenly flashing. "Whew!" he exclaimed."They're hittin' them pretty heavy lately. When was they missed?"
Stafford spluttered impotently. "Night before last," he flared. "An' not a damned sign of where they went!"
Leviatt grinned coldly. "Them rustlers is gettin' to be pretty slick, ain't they?" he drawled.
Stafford's face swelled with a rage that threatened to bring on apoplexy. He brought a tense fist heavily down upon his desk top.
"Slick!" he sneered. "I don't reckon they're any slick. It's that I've got a no good outfit. There ain't a man in the bunch could see a rustler if he'd hobbled a cow and was runnin' her calf off before their eyes!" He hesitated to gain breath before continuing. "What have I got an outfit for? What have I got a range boss for? What have I got——!"
Leviatt grinned wickedly and Stafford hesitated, his hand upraised.
"Your stray-man doin' anything these days?" questioned Leviatt significantly. "Because if he is," resumed Leviatt, before the manager could reply, "he ought to manage to be around where them thieves are workin'."
Stafford stiffened. He had developed a liking for the stray-man and he caught a note of venom in Leviatt's voice.
"I reckon the stray-man knows what he's doin'," he replied. He returned to his chair beside the desk and sat in it, facing Leviatt, and speaking with heavy sarcasm. "The stray-man's the only one of the whole bunch that's doin' anything," he said.
"Sure," sneered Leviatt; "he's gettin' paid for sparkin' Mary Radford."
"Mebbe he is," returned Stafford. "I don't know as I'd blame him any for that. But he's been doin' somethin' else now an' then, too."
"Findin' the man that's been rustlin' your stock, for instance," mockedLeviatt.
Stafford leaned back in his chair, frowning.
"Look here, Leviatt," he said steadily. "I might have spoke a little strong to you about them missin' cattle. But I reckon you're partly to blame. If you'd been minded to help Ferguson a little, instead of actin' like a fool because you've thought he's took a shine to Mary Radford, we might have been further along with them rustlers. As it is, Ferguson's been playin' a lone hand. But he claims to have been doin' somethin'. He ain't been in the habit of blowin' his own horn, an' I reckon we can rely on what he says. I'm wantin' you to keep the boys together this afternoon, for we might need them to help Ferguson out. He's promised to ride in to-day an' show me the man who's been rustlin' my cattle."
Leviatt's lips slowly straightened. He sat more erect, and when he spoke the mockery had entirely gone from his voice and from his manner.
"He's goin' to do what?" he questioned coldly.
"Show me the man who's been rustlin' my cattle," repeated Stafford.
For a brief space neither man spoke—nor moved. Stafford's face wore the smile of a man who has just communicated some unexpected and astonishing news and was watching its effect with suppressed enjoyment. He knew that Leviatt felt bitter toward the stray-man and that the news that the latter might succeed in doing the thing that he had set out to do would not be received with any degree of pleasure by the range boss.
But watching closely, Stafford was forced to admit that Leviatt did not feel so strongly, or was cleverly repressing his emotions. There was no sign on the range boss's face that he had been hurt by the news. His face had grown slightly paler and there was a hard glitter in his narrowed eyes. But his voice was steady.
"Well, now," he said, "that ought to tickle you a heap."
"I won't be none disappointed," returned Stafford.
Leviatt looked sharply at him and crossed his arms over his chest.
"When was you talkin' to him?" he questioned.
"Yesterday."
Leviatt's lips moved slightly. "An' when did you say them cattle was rustled?" he asked.
"Night before last," returned Stafford.
Leviatt was silent for a brief time. Then he unfolded his arms and stood erect, his eyes boring into Stafford's.
"When you expectin' Ferguson?" he questioned.
"He didn't say just when he was comin' in," returned Stafford. "But I reckon we might expect him any time."
Leviatt strode to the door. Looking back over his shoulder, he smiled evilly. "I'm much obliged to you for tellin' me," he said. "We'll be ready for him."
A little over an hour after his departure from the hill, Ferguson rode up to the Two Diamond corral gate and dismounted.
Grouped around the door of the bunkhouse were several of the Two Diamond men; in a strip of shade from the blacksmith shop were others. Jocular words were hurled at him by some of the men as he drew the saddle from Mustard, for the stray-man's quietness and invariable thoughtfulness had won him a place in the affections of many of the men, and their jocular greetings were evidence of this.
He nodded shortly to them, but did not answer. And instead of lugging his saddle to its accustomed peg in the lean-to, he threw it over the corral fence and left it. Then, without another look toward the men, he turned and strode toward the manager's office.
The latter was seated at his desk and looked up at the stray-man's entrance. He opened his lips to speak, but closed them again, surprised at the stray-man's appearance.
During the months that Ferguson had worked at the Two Diamond, Stafford had not seen him as he looked at this moment. Never, during the many times the manager had seen him, had he been able to guess anything of the stray-man's emotions by looking at his face. Now, however, there had come a change. In the set, tightly drawn lips were the tell-tale signs of an utterable resolve. In the narrowed, steady eyes was a light that chilled Stafford like a cold breeze in the heat of a summer's day. In the man's whole body was something that shocked the manager into silence.
He came into the room, standing near the door, his set lips moving a very little, "You heard anything from Leviatt yet?" he questioned.
"Why, yes," returned Stafford, hesitatingly; "he was here, talkin' to me. Ain't been gone more'n half an hour. I reckon he's somewhere around now."
"You talkin' to him, you say?" said the stray-man slowly. He smiled mirthlessly. "I reckon you told him about them missin' calves?"
"I sure did!" returned Stafford with much vehemence. He laughed harshly. "I told him more," he said; "I told him you was goin' to show me the man who'd rustled them."
Ferguson's lips wreathed into a grim smile. "So you told him?" he said. "I was expectin' you'd do that, if he got in before me. That's why I stopped in here. That was somethin' which I was wantin' him to know. I don't want it to be said that I didn't give him a chance."
Stafford rose from his chair, taking a step toward the stray-man.
"Why, what——?" he began. But a look at the stray-man's face silenced him.
"I've come over here to-day to show you that rustler I told you about yesterday. I'm goin' to look for him now. If he ain't sloped I reckon you'll see him pretty soon."
Leviatt stepped down from the door of the manager's office and strode slowly toward the bunkhouse. On the way he passed several of the men, but he paid no attention to them, his face wearing an evil expression, his eyes glittering venomously.
When he reached the bunkhouse he passed several more of the men without a word, going directly to a corner of the room where sat Tucson and conversing earnestly with his friend. A little later both he and Tucson rose and passed out of the bunkhouse, walking toward the blacksmith shop.
After a little they appeared, again joining the group outside the bunkhouse. It was while Leviatt and Tucson were in the blacksmith shop that Ferguson had come in. When they came out again the stray-man had disappeared into the manager's office.
Since the day when in the manager's office, Ferguson had walked across the floor to return to Leviatt the leather tobacco pouch that the latter had dropped in the depression on the ridge above the gully where the stray-man had discovered the dead Two Diamond cow and her calf, Leviatt had known that the stray-man suspected him of being leagued with the rustlers. But this knowledge had not disturbed him. He felt secure because of his position. Even the stray-man would have to have absolute, damning evidence before he could hope to be successful in proving a range boss guilty of cattle stealing.
Leviatt had been more concerned over the stray-man's apparent success in courting Mary Radford. His hatred—beginning with the shooting match in Dry Bottom—had been intensified by the discovery of Ferguson on the Radford porch in Bear Flat; by the incident at the bunkhouse, when Rope Jones had prevented Tucson from shooting the stray-man from behind, and by the discovery that the latter suspected him of complicity with the cattle thieves. But it had reached its highest point when Mary Radford spurned his love. After that he had realized that just so long as the stray-man lived and remained at the Two Diamond there would be no peace or security for him there.
Yet he had no thought of settling his differences with Ferguson as man to man. Twice had he been given startling proof of the stray-man's quickness with the six-shooter, and each time his own slowness had been crushingly impressed on his mind. He was not fool enough to think that he could beat the stray-man at that game.
But there were other ways. Rope Jones had discovered that—when it had been too late to profit. Rope had ridden into a carefully laid trap and, in spite of his reputation for quickness in drawing his weapon, had found that the old game of getting a man between two fires had proven efficacious.
And now Leviatt and Tucson were to attempt the scheme again. Since his interview with Stafford, Leviatt had become convinced that the time for action had come. Ferguson had left word with the manager that he was to show the latter the rustler, and by that token Leviatt knew that the stray-man had gathered evidence against him and was prepared to show him to the manager in his true light. He, in turn, had left a message with the manager for Ferguson. "We'll be ready for him," he had said.
He did not know whether Ferguson had received this message. It had been a subtle thought; the words had been merely involuntary. By "We" the manager had thought that he had meant the entire outfit was to be held ready to apprehend the rustler. Leviatt had meant only himself and Tucson.
And they were ready. Down in the blacksmith shop, while Ferguson had ridden in and stepped into the manager's office, had Leviatt and Tucson made their plan. When they had joined the group in front of the bunkhouse and had placed themselves in positions where thirty or forty feet of space yawned between them, they had been making the first preparatory movement. The next would come when Ferguson appeared, to carry out his intention of showing Stafford the rustler.
To none of the men of the outfit did Leviatt or Tucson reveal anything of the nervousness that affected them. They listened to the rough jest, they laughed when the others laughed, they dropped an occasional word of encouragement. They even laughed at jokes in which there was no visible point.
But they did not move from their places, nor did they neglect to keep a sharp, alert eye out for the stray-man's appearance. And when they saw him come out of the door of the office they neglected to joke or laugh, but stood silent, with the thirty or forty feet of space between them, their faces paling a little, their hearts laboring a little harder.
When Ferguson stepped out of the door of the office, Stafford followed. The stray-man had said enough to arouse the manager's suspicions, and there was something about the stray-man's movements which gave the impression that he contemplated something more than merely pointing out the thief. If warning of impending tragedy had ever shone in a man's eyes, Stafford was certain that it had shone in the stray-man's during the brief time that he had been in the office and when he had stepped down from the door.
Stafford had received no invitation to follow the stray-man, but impelled by the threat in the latter's eyes and by the hint of cold resolution that gave promise of imminent tragedy, he stepped down also, trailing the stray-man at a distance of twenty yards.
Ferguson did not hesitate once in his progress toward the bunkhouse, except to cast a rapid, searching glance toward a group of two or three men who lounged in the shade of the eaves of the building. Passing the blacksmith shop he continued toward the bunkhouse, walking with a steady stride, looking neither to the right or left.
Other men in the group, besides Leviatt and Tucson, had seen the stray-man coming, and as he came nearer, the talk died and a sudden silence fell. Ferguson came to a point within ten feet of the group of men, who were ranged along the wall of the bunkhouse. Stafford had come up rapidly, and he now stood near a corner of the bunkhouse in an attitude of intense attention.
He was in a position where he could see the stray-man's face, and he marveled at the sudden change that had come into it. The tragedy had gone, and though the hard lines were still around his mouth, the corners twitched a little, as though moved by a cold, feline humor. There was a hint of mockery in his eyes—a chilling mockery, much like that which the manager had seen in them months before when in Dry Bottom the stray-man had told Leviatt that he thought he was a "plum man."
But now Stafford stood breathless as he heard the stray-man's voice, directed at Leviatt. "I reckon you think you've been some busy lately," he drawled.
Meaningless words, as they appear here; meaningless to the group of men and to the Two Diamond manager; yet to Leviatt they were burdened with a dire significance. They told him that the stray-man was aware of his duplicity; they meant perhaps that the stray-man knew of his dealings with the cattle thieves whom he had visited yesterday in the hills near the river. Whatever Leviatt thought, there was significance enough in the words to bring a sneering smile to his face.
"Meanin'?" he questioned, his eyes glittering evilly.
Ferguson smiled, his eyes unwavering and narrowing a very little as they met those of his questioner. Deliberately, as though the occasion were one of unquestioned peace, he drew out some tobacco and several strips of rice paper. Selecting one of the strips of paper, he returned the others to a pocket and proceeded to roll a cigarette. His movements were very deliberate. Stafford watched him, fascinated by his coolness. In the tense silence no sound was heard except a subdued rattle of pans in the bunkhouse—telling that the cook and his assistant were at work.
The cigarette was made finally, and then the stray-man lighted it and looked again at Leviatt, ignoring his question, asking another himself. "You workin' down the creek yesterday?" he said.
"Up!" snapped Leviatt. The question had caught him off his guard or he would have evaded it. He had told the lie out of pure perverseness.
Ferguson took a long pull at his cigarette. "Well, now," he returned, "that's mighty peculiar. I'd have swore that I seen you an' Tucson ridin' down the river yesterday. Thought I saw you in a basin in the hills, talkin' to some men that I'd never seen before. I reckon I was mistaken, but I'd have swore that I'd seen you."
Leviatt's face was colorless. Standing with his profile to Tucson, he closed one eye furtively. This had been a signal that had previously been agreed upon. Tucson caught it and turned slightly, letting one hand fall to his right hip, immediately above the butt of his pistol.
"Hell!" sneered Leviatt, "you're seein' a heap of things since you've been runnin' with Mary Radford!"
Ferguson laughed mockingly. "Mebbe I have," he returned. "Ridin' with her sure makes a man open his eyes considerable."
Now he ignored Leviatt, speaking to Stafford. "When I was in here one day, talkin' to you," he said quietly, "you told me about you an' Leviatt goin' to Dry Bottom to hire a gunfighter. I reckon you told that right?"
"I sure did," returned Stafford.
Ferguson took another pull at his cigarette—blowing the smoke slowly skyward. And he drawled again, so that there was a distinct space between the words.
"I reckon you didn't go around advertisin' that?" he asked.
Stafford shook his head negatively. "There ain't anyone around here knowed anything about that but me an' you an' Leviatt," he returned.
Ferguson grinned coldly. "An' yet it's got out," he stated quietly. "I reckon if no one but us three knowed about it, one of us has been gassin'. I wouldn't think that you'd done any gassin'," he added, speaking to Stafford.
The latter slowly shook his head.
Ferguson continued, his eyes cold and alert. "An' I reckon that I ain't shot off about it—unless I've been dreamin'. Accordin' to that it must have been Leviatt who told Mary Radford that I'd been hired to kill her brother."
Leviatt sneered. "Suppose I did?" he returned, showing his teeth in a savage snarl. "What are you goin' to do about it?"
"Nothin' now," drawled Ferguson. "I'm glad to hear that you ain't denyin' it." He spoke to Stafford, without removing his gaze from the range boss.
"Yesterday," he stated calmly, "I was ridin' down the river. I found a basin among the hills. There was a cabin down there. Four men was talkin' in front of it. There was twenty calves an' a dozen cows in a corral. Two of the men was——"
Leviatt's right hand dropped suddenly to his holster. His pistol was half out. Tucson's hand was also wrapped around the butt of his pistol. But before the muzzle of either man's gun had cleared its holster, there was a slight movement at the stray-man's sides and his two guns glinted in the white sunlight. There followed two reports, so rapidly that they blended. Smoke curled from the muzzles of the stray-man's pistols.
Tucson sighed, placed both hands to his chest, and pitched forward headlong, stretching his length in the sand. For an instant Leviatt stood rigid, his left arm swinging helplessly by his side, broken by the stray-man's bullet, an expression of surprise and fear in his eyes. Then with a sudden, savage motion he dragged again at his gun.
One of the stray-man's guns crashed again, sharply. Leviatt's weapon went off, its bullet throwing up sand in front of Ferguson. Leviatt's eyes closed, his knees doubled under him, and he pitched forward at Ferguson's feet. He was face down, his right arm outstretched, the pistol still in his hand. A thin, blue wreath of smoke rose lazily from its muzzle.
Ferguson bent over him, his weapons still in his hands. Leviatt's legs stretched slowly and then stiffened. In the strained silence that had followed the shooting Ferguson stood, looking gloomily down upon the quiet form of his fallen adversary.
"I reckon you won't lie no more about me," he said dully.
Without a glance in the direction of the group of silent men, he sheathed his weapons and strode toward the ranchhouse.
Ferguson strode into the manager's office and dropped heavily into a chair beside the desk. He was directly in front of the open door and looking up he could see the men down at the bunkhouse congregated around the bodies of Leviatt and Tucson.
The end that he had been expecting for the past two days had come—had come as he knew it must come. He had not been trapped as they had trapped Rope Jones. When he had stood before Leviatt in front of the bunkhouse, he had noted the positions of the two men; had seen that they had expected him to walk squarely into the net that they had prepared for him. His lips curled a little even now over the thought that the two men had held him so cheaply. Well, they had learned differently, when too late. It was the end of things for them, and for him the end of his hopes. When he had drawn his guns he had thought of merely wounding Leviatt, intending to allow the men of the outfit to apply to him the penalty that all convicted cattle thieves must suffer. But before that he had hoped to induce Leviatt to throw some light upon the attempted murder of Ben Radford.
However, Leviatt had spoiled all that when he had attempted to draw his weapon after he was wounded. He had given Ferguson no alternative. He had been forced to kill the only man who, he was convinced, could have given him any information about the shooting of Radford, and now, in spite of anything that he might say to the contrary, Mary Radford, and even Ben himself, would always believe him guilty. He could not stay at Two Diamond now. He must get out of the country, back to the old life at the Lazy J, where among his friends he might finally forget. But he doubted much. Did men ever forget women they had loved? Some perhaps did, but he was certain that nothing—not even time—could dim the picture that was now in his mind: the hill in the flat, the girl sitting upon the rock beside him, her eyes illuminated with a soft, tender light; her breeze-blown hair—which he had kissed; which the Sun-Gods had kissed as, coming down from the mountains, they had bathed the hill with the golden light of the evening. He had thought then that nothing could prevent him from enjoying the happiness which that afternoon seemed to have promised. He had watched the sun sinking behind the mountains, secure in the thought that the morrow would bring him added happiness. But now there could be no tomorrow—for him.
Fifteen minutes later Stafford entered the office to find his stray-man still seated in the chair, his head bowed in his hands. He did not look up as the manager entered, and the latter stepped over to him and laid a friendly hand on his shoulder.
"I'm thankin' you for what you've done for me," he said.
Ferguson rose, leaning one hand on the back of the chair upon which he had been sitting. The manager saw that deep lines had come into his face; that his eyes—always steady before—were restless and gleaming with an expression which seemed unfathomable. But he said nothing until the manager had seated himself beside the desk. Then he took a step and stood looking into Stafford's upturned face.
"I reckon I've done what I came here to do," he said grimly. "I'm takin' my time now."
Stafford's face showed a sudden disappointment.
"Shucks!" he returned, unable to keep the regret from his voice."Ain't things suited you here?"
The stray-man grinned with straight lips. He could not let the manager know his secret. "Things have suited me mighty well," he declared. "I'm thankin' you for havin' made things pleasant for me while I've been here. But I've done what I contracted to do an' there ain't anything more to keep me here. If you'll give me my time I'll be goin'."
Stafford looked up at him with a sly, significant smile. "Why," he said, "Leviatt told me that you'd found somethin' real interestin' over on Bear Flat. Now, I shouldn't think you'd want to run away from her!"
The stray-man's lips whitened a little. "I don't think Mary Radford is worryin' about me," he said steadily.
"Well, now," returned Stafford, serious again; "then I reckon Leviatt had it wrong."
"I expect he had it wrong," answered the stray-man shortly.
But Stafford did not yield. He had determined to keep the stray-man at the Two Diamond and there were other arguments that he had not yet advanced which might cause him to stay. He looked up again, his face wearing a thoughtful expression.
"I reckon you remember our contract?" he questioned.
The stray-man nodded. "I was to find out who was stealin' your cattle," he said.
Stafford smiled slightly. "Correct!" he returned. "You've showed me two thieves. But a while ago I heard you say that there was two more. Our contract ain't fulfilled until you show me them too. You reckon?"
The stray-man drew a deep, resigned breath. "I expect that's right," he admitted. "But I've told you where you can find them. All you've got to do is to ride over there an' catch them."
Stafford's smile widened a little. "Sure," he returned, "that's all I've got to do. An' I'm goin' to do it. But I'm wantin' my range boss to take charge of the outfit that's goin' over to ketch them."
"Your range boss?" said Ferguson, a flash of interest in his eyes,"Why, your range boss ain't here any more."
Stafford leaned forward, speaking seriously. "I'm talkin' to my range boss right now!" he said significantly.
Ferguson started, and a tinge of slow color came into his face. He drew a deep breath and took a step forward. But suddenly he halted, his lips straightening again.
"I'm thankin' you," he said slowly. "But I'm leavin' the Two Diamond." He drew himself up, looking on the instant more his old indomitable self. "I'm carryin' out our contract though," he added. "If you're wantin' me to go after them other two men, I ain't backin' out. But you're takin' charge of the outfit. I ain't goin' to be your range boss."
An hour later ten of the Two Diamond men, accompanied by Stafford and the stray-man, loped their horses out on the plains toward the river. It was a grim company on a grim mission, and the men forbore to joke as they rode through the dust and sunshine of the afternoon. Ferguson rode slightly in advance, silent, rigid in the saddle, not even speaking to Stafford, who rode near him.
Half an hour after leaving the Two Diamond they rode along the crest of a ridge of hills above Bear Flat. They had been riding here only a few minutes when Stafford, who had been watching the stray-man, saw him start suddenly. The manager turned and followed the stray-man's gaze.
Standing on a porch in front of a cabin on the other side of the flat was a woman. She was watching them, her hands shading her eyes. Stafford saw the stray-man suddenly dig his spurs into his pony's flanks, saw a queer pallor come over his face. Five minutes later they had ridden down through a gully to the plains. Thereafter, even the hard riding Two Diamond boys found it difficult to keep near the stray-man.
Something over two hours later the Two Diamond outfit, headed by the stray-man, clattered down into a little basin, where Ferguson had seen the cabin two days before. As the Two Diamond men came to within a hundred feet of the cabin two men, who had been at work in a small corral, suddenly dropped their branding irons and bolted toward the cabin. But before they had time to reach the door the Two Diamond men had surrounded them, sitting grimly and silently in their saddles. Several of Stafford's men had drawn their weapons, but were now returning them to their holsters, for neither of the two men was armed. They stood within the grim circle, embarrassed, their heads bowed, their attitude revealing their shame at having been caught so easily. One of the men, a clear, steady-eyed fellow, laughed frankly.
"Well, we're plum easy, ain't we boys?" he said, looking around at the silent group. "Corraled us without lettin' off a gun. That's what I'd call re-diculous. You're right welcome. But mebbe you wouldn't have had things so easy if we hadn't left our guns in the cabin. Eh, Bill?" he questioned, prodding the other man playfully in the ribs.
But the other man did not laugh. He stood before them, his embarrassment gone, his eyes shifting and fearful.
"Shut up, you damn fool!" he snarled.
But the clear-eyed man gave no attention to this outburst. "You're TwoDiamond men, ain't you?" he asked, looking full at Ferguson.
The latter nodded, and the clear-eyed man continued. "Knowed you right off," he declared, with a laugh. "Leviatt pointed you out to me one day when you was ridin' out yonder." He jerked a thumb toward the distance. "Leviatt told me about you. Wanted to try an' plug you with his six, but decided you was too far away." He laughed self-accusingly. "If you'd been half an hour later, I reckon you wouldn't have proved your stock, but we loafed a heap, an' half of that bunch ain't got our brand."
"We didn't need to look at no brand," declared Stafford grimly.
The clear-eyed man started a little. Then he laughed. "Then you must have got Leviatt an' Tucson," he said. He turned to Ferguson. "If Leviatt has been got," he said, "it must have been you that got him. He told me he was runnin' in with you some day. I kept tellin' him to be careful."
Ferguson's eyelashes twitched a little. "Thank you for the compliment," he said.
"Aw, hell!" declared the man, sneering. "I wasn't mushin' none!"
Stafford had made a sign to the men and some of them dismounted and approached the two rustlers. The man who had profanely admonished the other to silence made some little resistance, but in the end he stood within the circle, his hands tied behind him. The clear-eyed man made no resistance, seeming to regard the affair in the light of a huge joke. Once, while the Two Diamond men worked at his hands, he told them to be careful not to hurt him.
"I'm goin' to be hurt enough, after a while," he added.
There was nothing more to be done. The proof of guilt was before the Two Diamond men, in the shape of several calves in the small corral that still bore the Two Diamond brand. Several of the cows were still adorned with the Two Diamond ear mark, and in addition to this was Ferguson's evidence. Therefore the men's ponies were caught up, saddled, and the two men forced to mount. Then the entire company rode out of the little gully through which the Two Diamond outfit had entered, riding toward the cottonwood that skirted the river—miles away.
A little while before sunset the cavalcade rode to the edge of the cottonwood. Stafford halted his pony and looked at Ferguson, but the stray-man had seen enough tragedy for one day and he shook his head, sitting gloomily in the saddle.
"I'm waitin' here," he said simply. "There'll be enough in there to do it without me."
The clear-eyed man looked at him with a grim smile.
"Why, hell!" he said. "You ain't goin' in?" his eyes lighted for an instant. "I reckon you're plum white!" he declared. "You ain't aimin' to see any free show."
"I'm sayin' so-long to you," returned Ferguson. "You're game." A flash of admiration lighted his eyes.
The clear-eyed man smiled enigmatically. "I'm stayin' game!" he declared grimly, without boast. "An' now I'm tellin' you somethin'. Yesterday Leviatt told me he'd shot Ben Radford. He said he'd lied to Ben about you an' that he'd shot him so's his sister would think you done it. You've been white, an' so I'm squarin' things for you. I'm wishin' you luck."
For an instant he sat in the saddle, watching a new color surge into the stray-man's face. Then his pony was led away, through a tangle of undergrowth at the edge of the cottonwood. When Ferguson looked again, the little company had ridden into the shadow, but Ferguson could make out the clear-eyed man, still erect in his saddle, still seeming to wear an air of unstudied nonchalance. For a moment longer Ferguson saw him, and then he was lost in the shadows.