“I watched pretty close, Angel.”
“You would,” sneered Angel. “You never trusted me very far.”
“Too far—mebby. But that’s outside the question. No matter what me and Chuckwalla thought—we kept still, Angel.”
“Well, somebody talked,” growled Angel. “My business is all shot—and it all happened that day. I haven’t dealt a card in my place since. I know what they’re sayin’. I’m no fool. They think I skinned you out of that money. They’re sayin’ that Angel McCoy was so crooked he skinned his own father. They say that you knew I skinned yuh. Oh, I heard it. No, I didn’t hear it said, but I heard it was said.”
“That ain’t a—a good reputation, is it, Angel?”
“Reputation be damned! My business is——”
“Worth more than yore reputation, Angel?”
“Money talks.”
“It does to some folks.”
“Don’t talk to me about reputation,” said Angel hotly. “Yore own won’t stand much, yuh know.”
Old Rance blinked slowly, but the lines of his old face did not change. Perhaps his eyes clouded momentarily, but he was not looking at Angel.
“What do yuh want me to do?” he asked dully. “Why did yuh come out here, Angel?”
“I wanted to find out what you or Chuckwalla had said.”
“We said nothin’.”
“Uh-huh.”
It was evident that Angel did not believe this.
“You heard that Lila was goin’ to teach school?” Old Rance nodded.
“Yeah, I heard she was.”
“I wrote to Medicine Tree to find out more about her father—about Jim Stevens.”
Old Rance turned slowly and looked at Angel, his eyes as hard as flint.
“Yuh did, eh? And what business was it of yours? What do you care about him?”
“Lila wanted to know more about him.”
“Billy DuMond talked some more, eh?”
“No; not any more. He told me all he knew a long time ago. But that ain’t got anythin’ to do with my troubles. If this keeps up, I’m broke. I’ve got to prove I played on the square with you.”
“How?”
“I’ll be damned if I know.”
“Did yuh, Angel?”
For several moments the young man looked at his father, turned on his heel, and went back to his horse.
“I suppose it’s the proper thing to do—to squawk about a crooked deal when yuh lose a few dollars,” he said, as he mounted his horse.
Old Rance watched him ride away. Old Chuckwalla came to the doorway, carrying a skillet in his hand, and looked down the road, where a cloud of dust showed the swift passing of the horse and rider.
“And I suppose you’re feelin’ sorry forhim,” said Chuckwalla.
Rance nodded slowly, but did not look around.
“Blood’s a hell of a lot thicker’n water; but if he was my son, I’d kick the seat of his pants up so high that they’d tilt his hat forward.”
“You never had a son, didja, Chuckwalla?”
“No, thank God!”
“Amen,” said old Rance piously.
“Is that supposed to be a smart remark?” asked Chuckwalla.
“No; I just thought it fit the case, Chuckwalla. If yuh never had a son, yuh ain’t fit to pass judgment on a father.”
“I suppose there’s a lot of truth in that remark. But I know Angel pretty well, Rance. By golly, I’m glad Lila’s got a job. She’ll make good. And she won’t demand no split of yore money, old-timer. There’s a girl!”
“Yeah,” muttered Rance. “She’s independent. But I—I wish she’d stay here and be independent.”
The fall term of school was about ready to start, and Lila was offered her board and room with the Parker family. Jim Parker was proprietor of the Red Arrow General Merchandise Store, and was also one of the trustees of the school.
Jim Parker was a big, bluff, self-opinionated sort of person, while Mrs. Parker was a little old lady at forty, whose sole aim in life was to take care of their two children and make Jim comfortable. She welcomed Lila for companionship, and Jim welcomed her for what added instructions she might impart to his offspring.
Angel did not like the idea of Lila living with the Parker family, because of the fact that he and Jim Parker had never been friends. Angel had never mentioned marriage to Lila since the day they had talked with Billy DuMond. In fact, he had seen little of her.
No one had asked Lila why she had left the Circle Spade, and it seemed that many thought it was because she was merely starting out to make her own way in the world. No hint of the suspicions against Angel McCoy had come to her ears. She did not know that Angel had written to the sheriff of Medicine Tree, seeking information of what had happened to Jim Stevens years ago.
Quite a number of the Red Arrow cowboys had looked with favor upon Lila McCoy, but none of them had summoned up enough nerve to visit her at Parker’s home, except Slim Caldwell, the sheriff. He had known Lila for years, and came to congratulate her on her new job. It took him from eight o’clock to midnight to offer his congratulations, much to the amusement of Jim Parker, who sat with them all that time in the living-room. Slim resolved to get even with Jim at the first opportunity. And Jim Parker added insult to injury when he told Chuck Ring about it.
Chuck’s version was rather wonderful.
“And there they sat, all night long; Lila asleep in her chair, and Slim and Jim glarin’ at each other until about five o’clock in the mornin’, when Slim went to sleep. Jim wakes Lila up and she goes to her room, and Jim goes to bed. Slim didn’t wake up until Mrs. Parker starts gettin’ breakfast, and then he sneaks out.”
But he came again, and though nobody knew what had happened, Jim Parker let Lila and Slim strictly alone.
All of which did not set so well with Angel McCoy. He was in the proper frame of mind to take Chuck’s version without reservations. Things were going worse with Angel. He had kept only one dealer, and was thinking seriously of cutting him off the payroll of the Eagle.
And it was about this time that Lila heard Jim Parker talking to another man about Angel McCoy. They were discussing the business at the Eagle, and Parker remarked that Angel had no one to blame except himself.
“You know what they’re sayin’,” said Parker. “He took twenty-five hundred away from old Rance McCoy, and some of the boys say it was a crooked deal. I never heard the old man say a word about it—but he wouldn’t.”
“I guess it was a crooked deal all right,” agreed the other man. “Doesn’t seem to be any secret.”
Lila went to her room to think it over. Angel a thief! Dealt a crooked game to beat his own father! And old Rance McCoy had given him the money to buy out that gambling-house. She went downstairs and talked to Mrs. Parker, trying to find out what she knew about it.
“Yes, I heard about it,” admitted Mrs. Parker. “I didn’t want to say anything about it, Lila. Angel has made a lot of enemies over it, and has practically ruined his business.”
“But he surely wouldn’t steal from his father, Mrs. Parker.”
“Honey, a gambler don’t recognize relationship. Angel always was a queer sort of a boy—rather cold-blooded. I don’t care if he is your brother——”
“But he isn’t,” said Lila softly. “Oh, I don’t think there is any use of keeping it a secret. That was why I left the Circle Spade ranch. Haven’t you wondered?”
“A little—yes. Others have wondered, too. But I supposed it was merely because you wanted to earn your own living.”
“Rance McCoy is not my father, Mrs. Parker. He—he shot my father when I was a baby. I don’t know why, but he adopted me and gave me his name. Angel and I are no relation. My father was named Stevens.”
“Well, heavens above! Can you imagine that? Honey, that’s like something you read about. A-a-a-w, don’t cry about it! You can’t help it, can you? Pshaw! Did Rance McCoy tell you?”
Lila shook her head quickly, her lips trembling.
“A-Angel told me. Rance McCoy didn’t deny it.”
“Well.” Mrs. Parker thought it over carefully. “Well, I don’t think that it’s so bad. Rance took care of you and gave you an education. You’ve got to give him credit for that.”
“Oh, I do give him credit. But I’ll pay him back for all that.”
“If I know anything about Rance McCoy, he ain’t looking for pay. And it’ll take you a mighty long time to ever earn enough to pay him back.”
The next day was payday on some of the ranches, and, being Saturday, nearly all the cattlemen came to town. The Red Arrow Saloon was crowded with chap-clad gentry all day. Some of the boys would drop in at the Eagle, buy a round of drinks and go out, none of them offering to buck the games.
Jim Langley came in from the JML, bringing Jess Fohl and “Roper” Briggs, two of his cowboys. Langley was a well-built, dark-faced man, whose hair was sprinkled with gray. He was not a mixer, and seldom came to town. Chuck Ring swore that Langley had a “past.”
“Don’t talk much,” observed Chuck wisely. “Does a lot of thinkin’. And he packs his gun too handy for a feller that’s easy in the mind.”
But there was nothing reticent about Fohl and Briggs. They were a tough pair, and they wanted it understood. Both were less than thirty years of age. Fohl was bow-legged, his head typically Prussian. Briggs was wry-necked, had little chin, and a pair of tiny blue eyes, which were so round that it gave one the feeling that here was a piece of human taxidermy in which the workman had inserted bird-eyes in a human head.
These three men had a drink at the Eagle, sized up the place curiously, and went over to the Red Arrow to find out the why-for of the boycott on the Eagle. And they found out. Several of the boys were just drunk enough to speak plain about Angel McCoy. Billy DuMond was there, drinking plenty, but keeping an eye on the front door and keeping his gun handy.
The lamps were already lighted when Langley and his two men came to the Red Arrow. The games were crowded.
“Well, is it true that Angel crooked the old man out of twenty-five hundred?” queried Langley, talking to those at the bar.
“He did!” said DuMond emphatically. “Not that I give a damn about it, yuh understand. Me and old McCoy ain’t been friends for years, and I hope I live long enough to tip over his tombstone, but it was a dirty deal. Angel’s a crook if there ever was one.”
DuMond hammered on the bar with his glass and indicated to the bartender that they would drink again.
“Old Rance was in town today,” offered Eddie Marsh, one of the 77 punchers. “I seen him at the bank.”
“Thasso?” DuMond cleared his throat harshly. “Mebby he knowed I was comin’ in, and that’s why he pulled out.”
“You’re crazy,” declared Butch Reimer. “He’d fill you full of lead before yuh could reach to yore gun.”
“Like hell!” flared DuMond. “He ain’t so fast. You gimme an even break with that old hound, and I’ll—I’ll——”
DuMond’s voice trailed off into space. He was staring at the back-bar mirror as though hypnotized. Butch Reimer leaned forward, staring into the mirror too. Directly behind them stood old Rance McCoy, his stony old eyes looking at them in the mirror. DuMond choked softly. His elbows were on the top of the bar, and it seemed that he was unable to lift them off.
Langley turned and looked at the old man.
“Hyah, Rance,” he said, smiling. “Long time I no see yuh.”
But the old man’s eyes did not shift.
“Turn around, DuMond,” he said softly.
DuMond whined deep in his throat, a sort of a strangle. With a supreme effort he drew his elbows off the bar and turned around, his hands held almost shoulder-high. He blinked at old man McCoy painfully. The old man had his hands resting on his hips, his head thrust forward.
“Let yore hands down, DuMond.”
“No,” said DuMond hollowly. “I—I—what did yuh say, McCoy?”
“Yuh can’t draw from up there, DuMond. Let yore hands down to yore waist. I’m givin’ yuh that even break yuh wanted.”
“Even break?” DuMond’s eyes shifted and he looked around at the hazy faces of the many men in the place. There was nobody directly behind McCoy. DuMond’s eyes were full of tears, as though he had been looking at a bright light.
“Yuh wanted an even break, yuh said,” reminded old Rance evenly.
“Not me,” said DuMond in a strained voice. “Oh, not me, McCoy. What I said was——”
DuMond swallowed heavily, but was unable to go ahead with his explanation. Rance McCoy moved slowly ahead until he stood within a foot of the shrinking DuMond. Then he deliberately slapped DuMond across the mouth, knocking him back against the bar. But DuMond did not drop his right hand. His left slowly went to his lips and he stood there, leaning back against the bar, the back of his left hand held tightly against his lips, as though to ward off a blow. There was a crimson trickle down his stubbled chin below the protecting hand.
“Get out of here,” commanded Rance McCoy, pointing toward the open door. “Get out of here, you pup; I want to talk to men.”
And DuMond went—still holding his right hand high, his left hand guarding his bruised lips.
Old Rance watched him leave the place before he turned to the men who had seen him humiliate Billy DuMond. Then he stepped in against the bar and turned to face them. His hard old eyes looked from face to face, as he said:
“I know what’s been said about the Eagle. You’ve heard that Angel McCoy is a crooked gambler and that he stole a lot of money from me. That’s a damned lie, and the man who says it is a liar!”
No one contradicted him. He gave them plenty of time. Then—
“I’ve played cards before a lot of yuh was born, and I know a crooked deal. It’s none of my business where yuh lose yore money, but I jist wanted to tell yuh that I’m goin’ to play mine at the Eagle.”
Then he surged away from the bar and walked from the place. The room had been silent from the first word he had spoken to Billy DuMond, and no one spoke until he had left the place, but now they all tried to talk at once.
Langley and Butch Reimer left the bar together and went across the street, followed by nearly every man in the Red Arrow, impelled by curiosity.
But Angel McCoy was not there; he was sitting on the steps of Jim Barker’s home, trying to argue Lila into agreeing to marry him. But all his arguments were fruitless.
“Well, yuh can’t teach school all your life,” he declared.
“I can if I want to, Angel.”
“Oh, I suppose yuh can. Mebby you was foolish to quit the old man the way yuh did. You’ll never get anythin’ more out of him. I got my share, I’ll tell yuh that. I got more than you’ll ever get.”
“I have no gambling game to entice him,” said Lila meaningly.
Angel got quickly to his feet.
“So yuh heard about that little deal, eh?” angrily. “That’s why yuh act so cool, is it? What is there about it to bother you, I’d like to know? Who told yuh about it?”
“It doesn’t seem to be any secret, Angel.”
“Secret! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! No, I guess not.”
“It doesn’t seem to amuse any one, except you, Angel.”
“No?” Angel moved closer to her in the dark. “Yuh don’t see anythin’ to laugh about, eh? Well, I don’t either. I’m not laughing because it’s funny. Every cent I own is tied up in that saloon. And these hypocrites have boycotted me. They don’t know it was a crooked deal. Old Rance McCoy came in there to beat me. He drew twenty-five hundred from the bank to try and break me. But he failed. I know my own game. I’m not in that business to let anybody break me. I went into it to make easy money.”
“But he is your father, Angel.”
“What of it? You think blood is thicker than water, eh? Not in my business. Everythin’ is grist that comes to my mill. They think I’m crooked, eh? I’ll sell out here and go to another place. You come with me and I’ll see that yuh wear diamonds, Lila. I can make more money than yuh ever seen. Think it over. You wasn’t born to teach school, or marry a forty-a-month puncher.”
“Thank you, Angel.”
“What for? I mean every word of it. Don’t let old Rance McCoy worry yuh.”
“Does he think you played a crooked game?”
“What if he does?”
“Don’t you want the respect of your father, Angel?”
“What good will it do me? The respect of Rance McCoy!”
“You are a queer son, Angel.”
“Am I? Well, I’m what I am—and I’m satisfied.”
“Satisfied to be known as a cheat?”
Angel laughed angrily.
“Who cares? Nobody can prove I cheated him.”
“You can, Angel; and you must have a conscience.”
“Not a damned bit! That’s somethin’ that wasn’t in the McCoy family; so where could I inherit it? I don’t mind tellin’ you that if I had played a square game, I’d be broke now. That ain’t admittin’ anythin’, is it? Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Well, you think it over, Lila. It’s the difference between wearin’ diamonds and—and what you’re goin’ to do.”
Angel walked away from her, and she heard the rusty hinges of the old gate creak behind him. She shivered slightly and drew the pale blue shawl closer around her shoulders. She had not seen Rance McCoy since she had left the ranch, and in spite of her prejudice there was an ache in her heart for the old man who had raised her. He had been so glad to see her when she came back from the East, after five years of school. He had not said much, but she could see the pleasure and happiness in his eyes as he held her off at arm’s length and looked her over.
And she had been glad to see Angel. Somehow she had forgotten that Angel had been nicknamed for the same reason that a fat cowboy was usually known as “Slim.” He was a handsome man now, the handsomest man she had ever met; and he had told her that he loved her, almost in the same breath that he had told her she was not his sister. His whirlwind method had left her breathless, and she could not remember now just what she had told him.
But he was still the same Angel McCoy, cold-blooded, headstrong, sarcastic. She remembered one Sunday when Rance had taken them to Sunday School at Red Arrow. Angel was about ten years old. The lesson had made a strong impression on him, and late that afternoon one of the cowboys had found him out behind the stable, crucifying a cat against the corner of the corral fence.
Old Rance did not whip him. Lila could not remember that Rance had ever whipped Angel. He had whipped her. Somehow, she held that against him now. He would not whip his own child. He had never whipped her very hard, but it was the humiliation more than the actual pain.
She remembered that old Rance had whipped a cowboy who had slapped Angel. It was nearly a gun-fight. Angel had cut the strings all off the cowboy’s saddle and was using them to braid into a quirt for himself. Old Rance whipped the cowboy, and then paid a saddle-maker to put the strings back on the saddle again.
He had always protected Angel. She had heard Angel talking back to him one day, and old Rance had said:
“All right, son. Some day you’ll be twenty-one. Until that time, you’re a kid. When you’re twenty-one, you’ll be a man—and I’d shoot a man for sayin’ what you’ve just said to me. I don’t quarrel with kids, but just remember what I said.”
And she had seen Rance McCoy kill a man. Lila was twelve at the time. It was over a branding deal, she remembered. The men were all standing around the corral gate, and she had climbed halfway up the fence near them. She remembered that one of the men was standing apart from the rest, and his face was very white. Then she heard him say:
“McCoy, you’re a liar!”
There were two shots fired, spaced less than a second apart, and she saw this man crumple up and fall on his face. It was such a shock that she nearly fell off the fence. Then some one picked her off the fence, and she turned her head to see it was Rance McCoy. He said to the men:
“You saw and heard it all, boys. Better get the sheriff and tell him about it.”
Then he had carried her to the house and told her to run along and play. It was the first time he had ever picked her up since she could remember. And she had rather resented it, because she was twelve years of age.
It was growing cool out there on the porch, so she went into the house and sat down to read. Mrs. Parker was busy upstairs and Jim Parker had not come in from the store.
Angel McCoy went straight back to the Eagle. There were men on the porch of the saloon, and he wondered at the number of them. Rather breathlessly he shoved his way into the place and looked around. There were at least thirty men in the saloon, and quite a number of them were crowded around the black-jack layout. There were no players at any of the other tables, because there were no dealers. The bartender was working at top speed.
Wonderingly Angel worked his way around to the black-jack table, and stopped against the wall. Old Rance McCoy and three other men were playing. Near the end of the table stood Chuckwalla Ike, puffing industriously on a frayed-out cigar, closely watching the dealer.
Old Rance was betting with hundred-dollar bills, and as Angel watched him he lost five in quick succession. In his left hand he clutched a huge roll of currency, from which he stripped off bill after bill.
“Let’s make it worth while,” said old Rance.
“Here’s five hundred.”
Angel watched the old man win the bet. The dealer’s eyes flashed quickly around the crowd, and he saw Angel.
“Let it ride,” said the old man. “Why don’t some of yuh buy into this game? I don’t want to hog all of it.”
Several of the cattlemen made small bets, as Angel moved around behind the dealer.
“There’s a hundred-dollar limit, gents,” said Angel easily.
Old Rance looked at Angel quizzically.
“Hundred dollars, eh?” he queried. “That’s too slow.”
“It’s shore too heavy for me,” laughed Jim Langley. “I’m limited to five-dollar bets myself. Rance is the only millionaire around here.”
Old Rance slowly pocketed the money, after throwing a hundred dollars on the table, and the deal went on. Angel backed away and went around to the stud-poker table, where he laid out the chips and broke open a new deck of cards. The table filled in a few moments. In the larger houses there is a dealer, who merely does the dealing and takes care of the rake-off for the house, but in a place like the Eagle the dealer takes an active part in the game, passing the buck each time to indicate which player is to be dealt to first.
There was no limit in the stud game. Chips ran according to color, from twenty-five cents to ten dollars. The cowboys played a cautious game. A forty-dollar pay check would not last long in a game of that kind unless the player either played in luck or used good judgment.
Old Rance won consistently. Hundred after hundred went to swell the roll of bills in his pocket. The rest of the players merely piked along, causing the dealer little concern. “Rance is a thousand to the good,” announced a cowboy, who had come from the black-jack layout to look at the poker game.
Angel bit the corner of his lip and blinked at his cards. He could ill afford to lose a thousand, and he knew the old man was on a betting spree. Ten minutes later the dealer came and spoke softly to him:
“Eighteen hundred to the bad, Angel; and I’m out of money.”
“Close the game,” said Angel harshly.
A poker-player drew out of the game, and old Rance took his place. He threw a hundred-dollar bill across to Angel.
“Table stakes, Angel?” he asked.
“Table stakes,” growled Angel, meaning that a player could bet only the amount of money in front of him.
The old man drew out his enormous roll of money and placed it beside his chips. Angel eyed the roll closely. There were thousands in that roll. He did not know that old Rance had drawn every cent of money he had on deposit in the bank; a total of seventy-five hundred.
Old Rance’s first open card was the ace of spades. He looked at it and laughed across the table at Angel. It was the best card in sight, and the old man threw ten yellow chips—one hundred dollars’ worth—into the pot.
The players promptly passed. None of them felt like taking a chance, even with only two cards dealt in each hand. Angel sneered openly and covered the bet. He realized that the old man was aiming the bet at him. Angel had a queen buried and a ten-spot in sight.
The next two cards showed a king for Rance and another ten for Angel.
“Pair of tens bet a hundred,” said Angel.
“Make it two hundred,” replied Rance, taking the money off his roll. Angel acquiesced, after considering another raise.
The next two cards showed another ace to Rance and a queen for Angel. This gave Rance two aces in sight and an ace in the hole, while Angel’s two tens and a queen in sight gave him queens and tens. Rance promptly bet a hundred dollars, and Angel just as promptly boosted it a hundred.
Rance grew thoughtful, and after due deliberation he raised the bet another hundred. Angel called. A gasp went up when Rance drew another ace, and Angel a ten.
“Three aces bets,” drawled Angel.
Old Rance made a motion as though to turn over his buried card, but hesitated and checked the bet. Angel bet two hundred dollars—twenty yellow chips.
Rance laughed softly, eying Angel’s three tens and the queen.
“Up three hundred,” he said softly, as he deliberately peeled off more bills.
It was Angel’s turn to be thoughtful. He had a ten-full on queens. Those three aces worried him, but he was too deep in the pot to stop now. Slowly he counted off fifty of the yellow chips, fingering them softly. Then he shoved them into the center of the table.
“Up two hundred,” he said coldly.
Old Rance eyed Angel coldly, as he peeled off the amount of the raise and tossed it to the center. He counted off three hundred more and added it to the huge pile of money and yellow chips.
“Three hundred more?” asked Angel hoarsely.
Old Rance did not reply; he did not need to. Angel’s hand trembled as he counted out the required amount in chips.
“Just callin’ me?” queried Rance.
“Looks like it, don’t it?” growled Angel.
Old Rance turned over his fourth ace. He had won eighteen hundred dollars in one hand. Angel looked dumbly at him, as he returned the money to his roll, and stacked the piles of yellow chips. Old Rance had already won thirty-six hundred dollars from Angel. But the evening was young.
Angel spoke to the dealer, who stood behind him:
“Bring me some yellow chips.”
And when the man came with the chips he said to him:
“Open the black-jack game, Bud; it looks like a big night.”
Angel was game. He didn’t have enough cash to redeem those yellow chips. He had only had a trifle over three thousand in cash to start the evening play, and there was less than a thousand dollars of his money left in the bank. But Angel was a gambler, and he had no intention of letting the old man get away with all that money.
There was nothing spectacular about the next hand. Rance dropped out after the second card, and Jim Langley won the pot. But on the next hand old Rance called a five-dollar bet by Jess Fohl, and boosted it a hundred.
“Tryin’ to run everybody out?” queried Fohl.
“A runner ain’t got no business in this game, Jess.”
He looked straight at Angel, who flushed hotly and called the bet. The rest of the players dropped out. Fohl cursed over the loss of his money. He had a pair of sevens, back-to-back, and didn’t want to drop; but the hundred was more than he could stand.
In sight, Rance had a six, and Angel had a five. Angel reasoned that Rance must have a six in the hole, in order to raise the bet. Rance drew an ace, while Angel drew a nine. It cost Angel another hundred to draw, but he did not raise.
Angel drew a six the next time, and Rance drew a trey. It was Rance’s bet, but he checked it to Angel, who promptly bet a hundred, and Rance merely called the bet. The next two cards showed a nine to Rance and a four to Angel.
Neither player had a pair in sight.
“Ace, nine bets,” droned Angel, and Rance promptly bet the usual hundred dollars, and Angel passed. He turned over the ace he had buried, and shut his lips angrily when old Rance disclosed a deuce of clubs. Angel’s ace, nine, six, five would have beaten Rance’s ace, nine, six, trey.
“Of all the damned fool bettin’!” exclaimed Chuckwalla, who was still trying to smoke that frayed-out cigar. “Winnin’ over three hundred dollars on ace high.”
“Nerve,” corrected old Rance easily.
“Nerve!” sneered Angel. “You raised that first bet with a deuce in the hole and a six exposed. You’re crazy.”
“Just nerve,” said Rance coldly. “Somethin’ you ain’t got.”
“You think I ain’t?”
Old Rance leaned across the table, looking steadily at his son.
“How much nerve have yuh got, Angel?”
“I’ve got enough.”
“I wonder if yuh have. I’ve got about thirty-nine hundred of yore money right now, Angel. Have yuh got nerve enough to bet me another thirty-nine hundred that I don’t get the first ace off the deck?”
Angel stared at him, his eyes half-closed. Thirty-nine hundred more. Still, luck might be with him this time. It was a chance to win back all he’d lost.
“Neither of us will deal,” said Rance softly. “We’ll let Jim Langley deal to us, and we’ll cut to see who gets the first card.”
“All right,” said Angel, trying to make his voice sound calm.
Rance won the cut, and leaned back indifferently while Jim Langley shuffled the deck. Angel cut the cards first, and when Langley presented the cards to Rance, he waived the right to cut them.
“Are yuh all ready?” asked Langley nervously.
“Let ’em go,” said Angel.
“By God, an ace!” exploded Chuckwalla.
It was the first card off the deck—the ace of spades. Jim Langley slowly replaced the deck on the table and stepped back. Angel stared at the card, licked his dry lips, and finally shrugged his shoulders. Seventy-eight hundred dollars! He looked at his father, who was leaning one elbow on the table, calmly counting the yellow chips.
“You got enough?” asked Angel hoarsely.
“Yeah,” said Rance. He stacked the chips and shoved them over to Angel, who mechanically counted them before placing them in the rack.
“Is this game goin’ ahead?” asked Langley.
“In a few minutes,” said Angel. He looked at his father, as he got to his feet.
“Come on and I’ll cash yuh in,” he said. The old man nodded and they went to the rear of the saloon, entering Angel’s private room.
Angel shut the door and leaned back against it, while the old man stood near the center, looking at him.
“You’re broke, eh?” said Rance coldly.
“Yeah, I’m broke,” admitted Angel. “I ain’t got enough money to keep my games open. I’ve got about nine hundred in the bank.”
“And you owe me about six thousand dollars,” said Rance.
“Yeah.”
Old Rance studied the face of his son for several moments.
“Yuh stole an ace the other day, Angel.”
“Well?” Angel did not deny it.
“Everybody knows it,” said Rance softly. “It ruined yore business. I brought the business back for yuh, and now yuh ain’t got enough money to keep it rollin’. Here!”
He drew out his roll of bills, stripped off the eighteen hundred he had won at the black-jack game, and gave it to the wondering Angel.
“Now,” said Rance coldly, “give me yore I.O.U. for the full seventy-eight hundred.”
Angel’s eyes brightened quickly.
“You mean you’ll take my I.O.U. for that——”
“I always was a fool,” said the old man bitterly. “Go ahead and write it out.”
Angel sat down at his table and quickly wrote out the I.O.U., which the old man accepted.
“Go back to yore games,” said old Rance. “And see if yuh can’t deal fair.”
They went back into the saloon and Angel opened the poker game again. Old Rance went to the bar with Chuckwalla, and had a drink. The old man had had several drinks before the game, and now he piled in several more. Chuckwalla held the smudging cigar in his gnarled fingers and tossed down drink after drink.
The black-jack game playing dwindled to nothing, and the dealer closed the game until some customers showed up. In the meantime he went across the street and up to the corner to the post-office.
Old Rance left the bar and went over to the poker table; not with any intention of playing again, but merely drawn by the fascination of the game. In a few minutes the dealer came back, handing Angel a letter as he came past the table. Angel glanced at the postmark on the letter. It was from Medicine Tree.
Jim Langley dropped out of the game and old Rance took his chair. He indicated with a shake of his head that he did not wish to play. Angel signaled to the dealer to take his place, and as soon as the substitution was made, he went over to the end of the bar, tore open the envelope, and began reading the letter.
Jim Parker closed his store at nine o’clock and went home. He had heard that Rance McCoy was bucking the game in the Eagle, plunging heavily on the black-jack game. But Parker was too tired to go over and see just what was going on.
Lila was in her room, which adjoined the Parkers’ bedroom, reading, when Jim Parker and his wife came up to bed, and she heard them discussing what Parker had heard.
“Oh, the Eagle is filled up, they tell me,” said Parker. “I didn’t go over. One of the boys said that old Rance had a roll of bills that would choke a horse, and he’s bettin’ ’em high. What Angel will do to him will be plenty.”
“Hasn’t Rance any sense at all?” queried Mrs. Parker.
“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Parker sleepily. “Maybe he don’t know that Angel is a crooked dealer. He wouldn’t expect his own son to steal from him, would he? I’m glad tomorrow is Sunday.”
“Somebody ought to warn old Rance,” said Mrs. Parker.
“Well, don’t try it, my dear. It’s none of our business. If he wants to go against a crooked deal—let him go.”
“How much money do you suppose he’ll lose, Jim?”
“Who—Rance? All he’s got. No, I’m not jokin’. Rance is a gambler, and he’ll bet as long as he’s got a cent.”
Lila got to her feet and picked up the pale blue shawl. She could go downstairs without passing the Parkers’ room; so she tiptoed softly down, let herself out through the front door, which was never kept locked, and went quickly out to the street.
It did not take her long to reach the Eagle Saloon. Some cowboys stared at her as she came into the lights, but she paid no attention to them. A cowboy was at the bar, singing a plaintive melody in a drunken tenor, and there was a babel of voices, the clatter of poker chips.
Angel was back in the game again. She could see the back of Rance McCoy’s grizzled old head, his sombrero tilted forward to shield his eyes. The room was full of tobacco-smoke. Chuckwalla Ike saw her first. He blinked foolishly and stumbled toward her, trying to tell her to get out of there, but she eluded him and came in behind old Rance, putting a hand on his shoulder.
Angel was dealing, but halted quickly. Every one in the room was staring at her. Old Rance turned his head and looked up at her white face, a puzzled expression in his eyes.
“What do yuh want, Lila?” he asked.
“Don’t play against him,” she said hoarsely, pointing at Angel. “Please don’t. He admitted that he dealt crooked to you. He’s a cheat. He—he told me he did.”
The room was silent. Angel’s face flushed hotly and he surged to his feet, kicking back his chair.
“That’s a lie!” he hurled at her. “I never told yuh any such a thing. You get out of here! This is no place for you.”
Lila faced him defiantly.
“I came to tell Rance McCoy what you did to him, Angel. If he wants to play now—all right.”
“You came to warn him, eh?” sneered Angel. “Playin’ politics, are yuh? Tryin’ to get in good with the old man. Lemme tell yuh somethin’ about yourself. I just got a letter tonight. Yore father was a thief—a bank-robber! He was killed——”
Old Rance sprang out of his chair and leaned across the table toward Angel.
“Shut up, you dirty pup!” he gritted. “Give me that letter!”
“What if I won’t?” snapped Angel.
“Then I’ll take it off yore dead carcass.”
The old man had swayed sideways and his right elbow was bent slightly. The men behind Angel sagged aside quickly.
“It’s in yore coat pocket,” said Rance warningly.
Slowly Angel reached into his pocket, took out the letter, and flung it down in front of his father. Quickly the old man tore it into small pieces, flinging them aside with a flip of his wrist.
The men were staring at old Rance, wondering what it was all about. They did not know what Angel knew about Lila’s parentage, and as far as they were concerned, they thought Angel was accusing old Rance of being these things.
Old Rance reached back and took Lila by the arm.
“It’s all right,” he said brokenly. “Yuh can’t expect it to always work out jist right. C’mon, Lila.”
They walked out together, the crowd staring after them. Angel’s face was a little more white than usual as he dropped back into his chair, ready to resume the game. But the players cashed in their chips and went out, until no one remained in the place, except Angel, the other dealer, and the bartender.
Rance walked as far as the gate of the Parker home with Lila. Neither of them said anything until they reached the gate, when Lila said:
“Oh, I’m sorry it happened. I simply had to tell you. But I—I guess I forgot he was your own son.”
“That’s all right, Lila; it was thoughtful of yuh to even think of me.”
“But that letter——” faltered Lila. “What letter was it?”
“I dunno,” slowly. “Forget it.”
“But he—he said my father was a thief and a bank-robber.”
Old Rance was silent for several moments.
“I don’t reckon Angel got the truth of the matter,” he said softly. “You forget it, Lila. Goodnight.”
He turned and faded out in the darkness, going back to the main street. The bulk of the crowd had gone back to the Red Arrow, and there was much speculation regarding what had happened at the Eagle.
Old Chuckwalla Ike had gone back there with the crowd, and was drinking prodigious quantities of raw liquor. One of the men asked him what Angel had meant by telling the girl what he did. But Chuckwalla swore he didn’t know.
“Angel’s crazy,” he declared. “Allus been crazy. Never did have the sense that God gave geese in Ireland.”
“Well, he shore got trimmed,” declared Jim Langley. “Think of dealin’ first ace for five thousand! I figure old Rance won pretty close to eight thousand from Angel; and if Angel can pay him off, I’m an Eskimo in Florida.”
“Old Rance owns the Eagle right now,” stated another. “He shore paid Angel for his crooked dealin’.”
Old Chuckwalla got pretty drunk before he left the Red Arrow and went on a hunt for old Rance. The Eagle was dark. Chuckwalla managed to paw his way along the hitch-rack and to locate his horse. It was only after several tries that he was able to get into the saddle. Once he went all the way over the horse, but had presence of mind enough to cling to the reins.
“Shore gettin’ active in m’ old age,” he told himself as he tried to get his foot out of his hat. “Ain’t many men of my age that can leap plumb over a bronc in the dark.”
He finally got seated and rode out of town, swaying in his saddle, and trying to sing. It was about eleven o’clock when he reached the Circle Spade. By this time he was sober enough to unsaddle his horse, turn it loose in a corral, and go up to the ranch-house, where he went to bed. His horse had picked up a small stone in the frog of its right front foot, and was limping badly, but Chuckwalla didn’t know it.
It was near midnight when the Overland train, traveling north, came in sight of Curlew Spur. The Overland did not stop at Curlew Spur, nor did it stop at Red Arrow except on a flag, but this night, from beside the track at Curlew Spur, blinked a tiny red light.
It was something that no engineer would ignore. The big passenger train, roaring up through the Red Arrow Valley, suddenly slackened speed, and the engineer swore inwardly at the signal that would put him off his schedule.
The train ground to a stop, with the pilot of the engine just past the red lantern, which was sitting on a block of wood. There was no one in sight. On the right-hand side of the train was the shadowy bulk of the loading-pens. On the other side was nothing but open country. Here the track ran straight for nearly a mile, and as far as the powerful headlight bored out through the night, the track was open.
The engineer swung down from his cab and walked over to the lantern, where he was joined in a few minutes by the conductor and one of the brakemen. It was a common lantern, with an old red bandanna handkerchief wrapped around it.
“What’s it all about?” asked the conductor angrily. He was a portly individual, inclined to wheeze heavily.
“I dunno,” grunted the engineer. “You see it, don’t you?”
The conductor picked up the lantern, turning it slowly in his hands.
“Some smart jigger playing a joke,” decided the brakeman. “Maybe some bo flagged us down for a ride.”
“I’d like to get my hands on him!” snapped the engineer.
The brakeman turned to the conductor.
“You go down this side and I’ll go down the other. Unless he’s on top, we’ll find him.”
The brakeman circled the engine and walked down the other side of the train, flashing his lantern beneath the trucks of the coaches, but without any success. He and the portly conductor met on the right-hand side of the train.
“Nobody in sight,” said the brakeman wearily. “Might as well high-ball, Charley.”
The engineer had climbed back into his cab, and he saw one of the men signal him to go ahead. It was slightly upgrade, and the staccato exhaust echoed across the hills as the big drivers spinned ahead of the sand stream. Then the drivers gripped heavily and the engine surged ahead.
They had proceeded about a hundred yards, when the fireman, looking back toward the rear, noticed that the lights of the rear coach were getting farther away all the time.
He turned quickly and yelled at the engineer:
“Hey! We’re broke in two, Frank!”
But before the engineer could grasp the import of his words a man was standing in the gangway behind them, covering them with a heavy six-shooter. The man was masked with a black cloth that covered all of his head and neck. The engineer started to retard the throttle.
“Pull her open!” snapped the masked man. “Git back there on yore seat and look ahead.”
The fireman obeyed. There was nothing else for him to do. For about a mile and a half the engineer ran at about twenty-five miles per hour.
“Cut her down,” ordered the masked man. They were entering a deep cut, where the road turned sharply to the left.
“Slow down and stop here at the end of the cut.”
The man was brisk and business-like, wasting no words. The engine slowed and stopped, and the engineer waited for the next order.
“Both of yuh go down ahead of me. No funny business. I’m not takin’ any chances.”
The engine crew descended, and close on their heels came the masked man. It was then that they realized that the express car was still attached to the engine.
“March back to the express car—single-file. Remember it’s light enough for good shootin’.”
They went back along the track, stumbling over stones and tie-ends, until they were at the door of the car.
“You know this messenger?” asked the bandit.
“I don’t,” said the engineer.
“All right. Knock on the door, tell him who yuh are, and that if he don’t open the door, I’ll blow it open. I’ll give him just five seconds to make up his mind. I’m ready to do the job up right.”
The engineer hammered heavily on the door and was greeted by an instant response. The door rolled open and a sleepy-eyed messenger stared out at them. He was looking down into the muzzle of a heavy revolver.
“Slip yore gun loose and drop it,” he ordered.
The messenger drew out his gun and dropped it on the car floor. The bandit motioned for the engineer and fireman to climb into the car, but before they were both inside, the bandit swung up the other side and was facing them.
“I—I was asleep,” faltered the messenger. “Thought we’d made a stop at Red Arrow.”
“Lucky thing yuh did,” growled the bandit. “Open yore safe.”
The messenger shook his head.
“I can’t unlock it.”
“All right.”
The bandit kicked the messenger’s revolver toward the upper end of the car.
“Three of yuh set on that trunk,” he ordered. After they were perched together on a sample trunk, he went over to the through safe and proceeded to set his explosives. He had the light behind him; so they were unable to see just how he prepared the charge. It was ready inside of twenty seconds.
“Get behind those trunks,” he said, and they lost no time.
On the wall near him hung the messenger’s sawed-off shotgun, and he took it off the wall, pumped out the cartridges, and tossed the gun aside, before he lighted the short fuse and stepped farther back against the wall.
The car jarred heavily from the explosion, and a gust of smoke billowed toward the open doorway. Before the three men dared lift their heads, the bandit was squatting at the wrecked safe, facing them, as he looted it of package and canvas sack. He stuffed the packages in his pocket and inside his shirt, while the three men choked in the fumes of nitroglycerine.
Then the bandit got quickly to his feet and stepped to the doorway. For a moment he looked back at the three men before he dropped to the ground.
“Can you beat that?” choked the messenger. “The nerve of the devil!” He choked from the smoke, stooped quickly and swept up his revolver. Running to the door of the car, he leaned out.
From out in the darkness came a streak of flame and a bullet struck the opposite side of the doorway. As fast as he could pull the trigger the messenger sent six shots into the darkness.
But there was no reply from the bandit. It was a full minute before any of them would dare to venture to the open doorway. But everything was serene.
“How much was in the safe?” asked the engineer.
“I don’t know—plenty. Let’s go.”
As quickly as possible they backed to the spur, where they picked up the rest of the train. The wheezy conductor was almost incoherent, acting as though the engineer was personally to blame for running away without the rest of the train.
They did not need a flag to stop them at Red Arrow. The lethargic telegraph operator woke up and fairly burned up the wires, while another man ran down the street to the sheriff’s office, where he hammered on the door.
“Git away fr-rom there, ye dr-r-runken bum!” wailed the sleepy voice of Scotty McKay. “Don’t ye know a jail when ye see one?”
“The Overland train has just been held up!” yelled the man outside.
“Aye—by the Red Arrow bridge,” grunted Scotty, who thought a smart cowboy was trying to be funny. “Git away fr-rom that door before I——”
“I’m not kiddin’ yuh, Scotty! This is Dan Shipley. I tell yuh, there’s been a holdup.”
“Chuck! Wake up, ye sleepin’ angel! Don’t ye hear the man yellin’ bad news? Git up and find Slim, can’t ye?”
“What the hell is wrong with yuh, yuh kilt-wearin’ bog-trotter?” demanded Chuck Ring sleepily. “Lemme ’lone.”
“Where’ll I find Slim Caldwell?” asked Shipley anxiously.
“Sweatin’ blood at the Red Arrow Saloon,” grunted Scotty. “He was seven dollars loser when I left him.”
The man went running up the wooden sidewalk and Scotty fell back into his blankets.
“Holdup, eh?” grunted Chuck. “I’ll bet they got a million dollars. The Overland carries millions.”
“Millions!” snorted Scotty. “There ain’t that much.”
“Oh, yes, there is. That Overland carries——”
“Where to? Do ye think the millionaires send their money out for a ride? Mebby we better git up, eh?”
“Which way did they go, Scotty?”
“Which way did who go?”
“The robbers.”
“How in hell would I know?”
“Yuh hadn’t ought to overlook little details like that.”
“Ye make me tired, Chuck.”
“Ho-o-o—hum-m-m-m-m! I hope Slim decides to wait until mornin’. Yuh can’t do nothin’ in the dark, anyway.”
And that was just what Slim Caldwell decided to do. He went to the depot and talked with the train crew and messenger, getting all the details as they had seen them, and then came back.
The train went on, all of an hour off its regular schedule.
Slim didn’t have the slightest hope of catching the lone bandit, who had had over half of the night to make his getaway. To the east of the tracks, only a couple of miles away, was the lava country, a land of broken lava where little grew, and where a man might hide away for an indefinite length of time.
The man was alone on the job, which would make it even more difficult than if it had been done by a gang. The description given by the three men might cover half of the men in the valley. There had been nothing conspicuous about the man’s actions or apparel. He wore a large black hat, dark shirt, overalls tucked in the tops of his boots.
“Sweet chance to find that whipperwill,” sighed Slim. “Half the men in the valley dress thataway, and they all pack guns.”
“Look for a man wearin’ a black mask,” suggested Chuck.
“And carryin’ a million dollars,” grinned Scotty. “How much did he get, Slim?”
“Nobody knows. The messenger didn’t talk much, but the engineer told me that the man was loaded down with stuff—and they don’t ship pig-iron nor spuds in that through safe.”
“I tell yuh they carry millions in that safe,” said Chuck.
“Aw, go to sleep,” said Slim. “We hit the grit at daylight, and we’ll be a long time on a horse.”
Chuckwalla Ike was up a little after daylight. He had a headache and a dark-brown taste in his mouth, which caused his long mustaches to assume a forlorn angle. He spilled the hot cake batter on the floor and cut himself in slicing the bacon.
Monty Adams and Steve Winchell had not been to town the night before, for the simple reason that it had not been payday on the Circle Spade, and because they were both broke. They joked with Chuckwalla, who was in no mood to joke, and ate their breakfast.
“Did the old man get drunk?” asked Steve, mopping off his plate with a hunk of bread.
“Not to my knowledge. I lost him early in the game. But I got drunk ’f anybody stops to ask yuh. But I’m all through. Feller’s a fool to drink.”
“Was anybody playin’ the games at the Eagle?” queried Monty.
“Everybody. Rance won—gosh, I dunno how much. Why, him and Angel dealt first ace for five thousand, and Rance won. First card off the deck was an ace. Jim Langley dealt ’em. And I seen Rance win eight one-hundred-dollar bets, hand-runnin’, on the black-jack. He busted the game. Fact. And then he set in on the stud game and won thirteen hundred on one hand. Had an ace in the hole and three more in sight, while Angel held a ten-full on queens.”
“Holy cats! And did he quit with all that money?”
“I per-sume he did, Monty. If Angel ain’t busted, he’s sure bent like a pretzel.”
“Rance ain’t up yet, eh?”
Chuckwalla shook his head slowly.
“I ain’t seen hide ner horn of him since he left the Eagle, but I think he’s in bed upstairs.”
“Well, we shore missed a good evenin’,” sighed Steve, shoving away from the table. They went down toward the corral, and Chuckwalla sat down to drink a cup of black coffee. It was about the only thing that appealed to his appetite just now.
He heard a step in the doorway, and turned to see old Rance. The old man was bootless, his hair uncombed, and over his right temple was a bruised lump almost as large as an egg. His eyes were bloodshot, and he seemed unsteady.
“Well, f’r God’s sake!” blurted Chuckwalla.
“Rance, you’re a mess!”
“Yeah,” nodded Rance wearily. “Mess.”
He came over to the table and sank down in a chair, feeling tenderly of the lump on his head, while Chuckwalla looked him over seriously.
“Somebody must ’a’ petted yuh right smart,” was his verdict. “I’ll heat up some water and see if it won’t take some of the swellin’ out of the pinnacle.”
He bustled back to the stove and filled the kettle.
“I lost yuh last night, Rance. Climbed plumb over my bronc, jist tryin’ to get aboard. Mamma, I shore was drunk! A feller of my age ort to be more careful. Did you git here ahead of me?”
“I dunno, Chuckwalla.”
“Well, I don’t. Who hit yuh, Rance?”
Rance blinked slowly, his eyes focussed on the oilcloth covering of the table.
“I dunno.”
“No? You must ’a’ been pretty drunk yoreself. I’m goin’ to put a little vinegar in this water. They say it’s good to pull down a swellin’. Sore, ain’t it? Uh-huh. Looks like it might ’a’ been caused with a six-gun bar’l. I pistol-whipped a feller once, and he was thataway all over. Figurin’ his normal skin as sea-level, I shore gave him altitude.”
“That warm water feels good, Chuckwalla.”
“You must ’a’ got hit hard, Rance.”
“Why?”
“You ain’t swore once.”
“Guess I’m gittin’ old.”
“We both are—too dam’ old to be foolish. I looked for yuh to kill Billy DuMond.”
“I didn’t. He’s a coward, Chuckwalla. I used to be a gunman. But I’m old now. They don’t realize I’m old. Most any man in the valley could beat me to a gun, but they don’t know it.”
“Do yuh think that’s too sore to use horse-liniment on? Mebby it is. Skin’s busted. Funny about Lila comin’ to warn yuh, Rance.”
“Funny?”
“Queer, I meant.”
“Queer—yeah.”
“Wish you’d saved that letter, Rance.”
“Yeah. Don’t squeeze that swellin’.”
Came the sound of horses walking on the hard-packed ground of the ranch-yard. Chuckwalla stepped to the door and looked outside.
Slim Caldwell, the sheriff, Chuck Ring and Scotty McKay were dismounting near the kitchen door. Chuckwalla turned his head and glanced quickly at Rance, who was holding the wet compress to his temple.
“Got company,” said Chuckwalla softly. “Officially.”
Old Rance did not look up until the three officers were in the doorway. Slim Caldwell looked curiously at old Rance.
“What have yuh been doin’ to yoreself, Rance?” he asked.
“Gittin’ bumped,” shortly.
“Shore looks like it.”
“You fellers must ’a’ got up before breakfast,” said Chuckwalla, grinning.
“Ye guessed it,” nodded McKay, sniffing at the odors of coffee. Chuckwalla knew that was an acceptance of his unvoiced invitation, and he proceeded to add to the pot of coffee and to slice more bacon.
Old Rance wiped his face with a towel, threw the compress into the wash-basin, and leaned back wearily in his chair. The three officers sat down around the table and rolled smokes, while Chuckwalla prepared breakfast.
“Quite a night, wasn’t it?” boomed Chuck Ring. “The last I seen of Chuckwalla he was imitatin’ a goat with blind-staggers.”
“I shore got wobbly,” grinned Chuckwalla.
“You didn’t drink much, didja, Rance?” queried Caldwell.
Rance shook his head. “I never do, Slim.”
“I never did see yuh drunk.”
“A man is a fool to git drunk, Slim.”
“Aw, yuh don’t need to preach,” said Chuckwalla quickly, jerking back from the explosive splatter of an egg in hot grease.
“I’m not preachin’,” said Rance. “Some folks can’t carry their liquor.”
“That’s me,” laughed Chuckwalla. “How do yuh like yore aigs, Slim?”
“Fresh.”
“All right, sheriff. But I warn yuh, they’re tasteless. Set up ag’in’ the table, will yuh? There’s milk in the can. Say, I hope some day I’ll work on a cow-ranch where they have cow-milk. Been a cowhand all m’ life, and all the milk I’ve ever seen was in cans. And that butter was shipped from Nebrasky. Sometimes we do accidently eat our own beef.”
There was plenty of good-natured banter during the breakfast, except from old Rance, who smoked his pipe and shot an occasional quizzical glance at the sheriff. It was unusual for the entire force of officers to be riding together at that time in the morning.
They finished their breakfast and shoved back from the table to enjoy their cigarettes. Old Chuckwalla gathered up the dishes and swept the table clean with a wet cloth. He knew something was wrong.
“Where’s Monty and Steve?” asked Slim.
“Gone to work,” said Chuckwalla.
“They wasn’t in town last night, was they?”
“They’re broke.”
“Good and sufficient reason,” grinned Chuck Ring. “Lot more cow-rasslers are broke this mornin’.”
Old Rance knocked the dottle out of his pipe, shoved the pipe in his pocket, and leaned forward on the table, facing the sheriff.
“What’s wrong, Slim?” he asked abruptly.
“Wrong?” Slim rubbed his nose thoughtfully.
“You three ain’t ridin’ for yore health.”
“We-e-ell, we ain’t—exactly, Rance. Last night about midnight the Overland was held up at Curlew Spur. Flagged ’em down with a red lantern, broke the express car and engine loose, ran up to the end of the big cut near the bridge, and blowed the express car safe. One-man job. Knowed how to do it, I reckon. We was down there at daylight, lookin’ the place over and kinda thought we’d drop in for breakfast with yuh.”
“Blew the Overland safe, eh?” snorted Chuckwalla. “Well, sir, I’ve often wondered why somebody——”
Chuckwalla shrugged his shoulders and turned back to the dish-pan.
“One man,” said Slim thoughtfully. “It takes nerve to do a job of that kind, Rance.”
“How much did they git, Slim?”
“We don’t know yet. The messenger says there was a lot of stuff in the safe, but he don’t know what it was worth.”
“Prob’ly got well paid for a few minutes’ work,” said Chuck Ring. “That’s the way to pull a job—alone.”
“Safest way,” nodded old Rance. “Split with nobody and keep yore mouth shut.”
“What was his description?” asked Chuckwalla.
“Not worth repeatin’,” said Slim. “It would cover half of the men in the Valley.”
“Nobody got hurt, eh?” questioned old Rance.
“Not that we know about. The messenger got his gun and emptied it, after the robber left the car, and they said the robber fired a shot or two back at him. Just shootin’ in the dark.”
“It wasn’t done by a gr-r-reenhorn,” declared Scotty. “That job was done by a man who knew what to do; a man who had plenty of nerve.”
“No reward yet, is there?” asked Chuckwalla.
“Too soon,” said Slim. “But there will be. I’ve got a hunch that it was a big haul.”
“The Overland carries millions a day,” said Chuck seriously.
“Let’s be goin’,” suggested Scotty, getting to his feet. “Chuck’s imagination will get the best of him some day.”
“I reckon we might as well drift along,” agreed the sheriff. “Much obliged for the breakfast, boys.”
“You’re always welcome,” said old Rance, following them to the doorway, where he watched them mount and ride away.