Sudden

Sudden

Oliver Strange

Chapter I

"Too many strangers, that's the trouble in this here one-eyed burg."

The hoarse, sneering voice rang out like a challenge, which indeed it was, and the speaker's bloodshot, savage glare roamed round the room as though daring those present to refute his statement. He was a big fellow, blue-shirted, with trousers stuffed into the tops of his high boots, and he wore two guns; a slouched hat partly shaded his bloated, unshaven face. A deepening scowl further detracted from his looks when the continued hum of conversation showed that his remark was being ignored, and the beady eyes glinted evilly. So that was it, huh? Well, he'd let them see that someone had to sit up and take notice when "Pug" Parsons spoke.

Though it was yet afternoon, the bar of the Palace Saloon was fairly well patronized, and the crowd was typical of the Western frontier settlements of that day: tradesmen, teamsters, riders from the neighboring ranches, gamblers, a few Mexicans, and a leavening of hard-bitten citizens into whose means of livelihood it would not have been wise to probe. Most of these Parsons knew by sight at least, but there was one whom he had not seen before. Still in his early twenties, slim of hip and broad of shoulder, the stranger leant against the bar with the easy pose of the athlete. His cowboy rig, though worn, was neat, his shirt and the silk handkerchief slung round his neck were clean, and the grey "two-gallon" Stetson pushed back on his head was nearly new. He also sported two guns, the ends of the holsters tied with rawhide strings to his leathern chaps. His lean, shaven, deeply-bronzed face and black hair gave him almost the appearance of an Indian, but the high cheekbones were missing and there was a quirk of humor about the grim mouth which softened the out-thrust of jaw and level, grayish-blue eyes. Parsons absorbed these details and came to his own conclusion.

"Dude puncher, tryin' to put up a two-gun bluff," he muttered. "Reckon I'll call it." He turned to the proprietor of the place. "Who's the yearlin'?" he asked, with a nod towards the unconscious cowboy.

The saloon-keeper, a short, stout man of middle age, with a pleasant but weak face, looked in the direction indicated. "New to me," he said. "Rid into town 's'afternoon." Then, divining what was in the other's mind, "Aw, leave the boy be, Pug; he ain't doin' no harm. Looks as if he mightn't be too easy rode neither, an' I don't want no trouble here now I got them new glasses."

He glanced pridefully at the three gaudy, gilt-framed mirrors decorating the back of the bar. His warning precipitated the calamity it was designed to prevent. The big man's face bacame suffused with passion. Snatching out a gun, he fired point-blank at the centre mirror, defacing its shining surface with a great jagged star and bringing down a clatter of broken glass.

"That for yu an' yore damn mirrors," he snarled. "Mebbe it'll larn yu that we ain't goin' to drink cheap liquor so's yu can admire yoreself. Another yap outa yu an' I'll serve the other two the same an' close yore joint."

The saloon-keeper dared not reply--he knew the threat was no vain one. The gunman had only to let it be known that to drink at the Palace would be to incur his displeasure, and few in the town would run the risk; there were other saloons. Parsons swung about, his fierce gaze travelling over the company and finally resting on the indifferent figure by the bar.

"Hey, stranger ! " he called.

The cow-puncher looked up. "Speakin' to me?" he asked quietly.

"Shore I am," the other roared. "Ain't yu the on'y stranger here?"

"Can't say," the cowboy replied, adding with a ghost of a smile, "yu see, they's all strangers to me."

Someone sniggered, and Parsons, suspecting he was being made fun of, growled out an oath.

"Don't git festive with me, fella," he warned. "It ain't considered wise. What yu smash that mirror for, huh?"

This astounding accusation was followed by a silence broken only by little scufflings as men unobtrusively slid out of the possible line of fire; with Pug on the warpath, it behoved the bystander to take precautions; usually the brute got away with his bullying, but this time .. .

"'Pears to me Parsons may've picked the wrong man--that boy looks a plenty cold proposition," a poker player whispered to a neighbour.

"If he downs Pug this yer town won't go inta mournin'," was the reply. "'Bout time that big bear had his claws cut."

The subject of the conversation still lounged carelessly against the bar, a smile on his mobile lips, but there was no humour in the cold, narrowed eyes.

"So I busted her?" he said softly. "Well, what yu aimin' to do about it?"

The bully's lips wreathed in a hateful sneer--it was going to be easy. Though not drunk, he had swallowed enough raw spirit to blunt his perceptive faculties, or he would not have come to this decision; his victim's demeanour was not that of a scared man.

"I'm aimin' to make yu pay for it, but first yu'll entertain the company with a li'l dance," Parsons said. "Step lively, yu " The word was not a pretty one, and the bullet which followed it tore a splinter from the floor close to the puncher's right foot. "The next one takes a toe," the gunman warned, and fired again.

But even as he pressed the trigger the cowboy had moved, a swift jump forward to the right, and then his left foot swept up and kicked the loosely-held weapon from the marksman's fingers. Recovering his balance, the stranger stepped in and drove a fist, with all the impetus of his advancing body, to the bully's jaw. For an instant the stricken man rocked on his heels, and then crashed to the floor, where he lay mouthing curses and clawing for his other gun.

"Don't yu," the puncher rasped. "I'm showin' yu why."

He flipped a silver dollar away from him and by the time it tinkled on the boards both his guns were out and spouting flame. The first bullet struck the edge of the coin, spinning it in the air again, the second drove it down, and the third jumped it a yard further away. Ten shots in as many seconds were fired, and each time the winking target was fairly hit. Then the puncher thrust his weapons back into their holsters and looked contemptuously at the prostrate man.

"Here endeth the first lesson," he said. "yu can stand up on yore hind legs again. There's two pills left in my guns, case yu got any ideas."

Parsons scrambled slowly to his feet; the blood seemed to have drained from his face, leaving it a yellowish white --a fish-belly white, unwholesome, repulsive. Out of it his malignant little eyes watched the smoke-wreathed wizard who had sardonically invited him to die. For he knew it meant just that, and for the first time in his life, he, Pug Parsons, who had watched men cringe before his levelled gun and had shot them down with a jeer, was conscious of abject physical fear. He had only one desire--to save his life. A little cough broke the tense silence and Parsons jumped; his nerve had gone.

"`Li'l think-box don't seem to be workin'," the stranger said mockingly, and then, in a different tone, "I'm givin' yu thirty minutes to leave town." He looked at the landlord. "How much that mirror cost yu?"

"She set me back one hundred bucks," was the reply. The puncher turned to Parsons. "Ante up," he said curtly.

The gunman moistened his parched lips. "I ain't got--" he began.

"Yu took three hundred from a pilgrim in this room las' night," the saloon-keeper cut in.

"Ante up," the puncher repeated, and there was a deadly finality in his voice.

Parsons pulled a roll of bills from his pocket, and, with fumbling fingers, peeled off several and flung them on the bar.

"Better count 'em," he said, with a poor attempt at bravado.

"Betche life," the landlord retorted, and did so. "All correct," he added.

The puncher looked at the man he had worsted. "Yu got twenty minutes left," he said. "Make good use of 'em, or yu'll be takin' part in a funeral--the leadin' part. Sabe?"

Like a whipped hound the ruffian slunk out of the saloon, and the onlookers stirred to action again. The owner of the place put the matter plainly.

"Stranger, I reckon this town is mighty obliged to yu," he said. "That fella has been a blister on it for months--he's killed two men an' crippled four-five others. Oh, he can use his guns pretty nifty, but he'd have to start the day afore to beat yu." One of the men had picked up the battered dollar and was examining it. The landlord called to him: "Pass that over, Timms." He turned to the owner of the coin. "This buys drinks for the crowd if yo're willin', friend," he said.

"Set 'em up," the puncher smiled.

The saloon-keeper sent bottles and glasses spinning along the bar in front of the lined-up customers, and then drove a nail through the defaced coin, fastening it to the edge of a shelf.

"I guess I'll git some questions 'bout that," he remarked. "Folk'll think it's bad money, but it ain't--it's good money, the best I ever see. What's more, I want yu gents to remember that this yer saloon has got a new name--she's `The Shot Dollar' from now on, an' yu'll drink with me on that."

A chorus of acclamation greeted his proposal, and the landlord received many compliments on his business acumen. In the midst of the celebration he drew the puncher aside.

"Stranger," he said. "yu've done me one hell of a good turn. Is there any way I can square the 'count?"

"Yu don't owe me nothin'," was the reply. "That jasper was after my hair. Reminds me, I got a li'l business to attend to. See yu later--mebbe."

"If yo're goin' to look for Pug, yo're wastin' time," the other told him. "yu busted that fella wide open, an' his bronc'll be throwin' gravel plenty industrious just now."

"I gotta show myself," the puncher replied.

He stepped swiftly through the swing-doors, his gaze darting right and left, for, despite the landlord's confidence, there was always the chance that the beaten man might make a desperate attempt to avenge himself and regain his lost reputation. But there was no sign, and after waiting a moment, the puncher stepped along the street. Then he became aware that someone had followed him out of the saloon.

"Young man, I would like a word with you."

The puncher paused instantly, his manner alert. But there was nothing formidable in the speaker's appearance : a short, bulky man of around forty-five, dressed in black "store" clothes, with a white collar and neatly-tied cravat. He had, the cowboy now remembered, been sitting alone at a table in one corner of the Palace.

"I've some whisky and cigars at the hotel I'd like your opinion of--I think they are better than our friend back there provides," the little man went on.

"You see"--a twinkle sprang into his grey eyes--"I don't have to buy mirrors."

The cowboy liked that twinkle, but he did not reply at once. As he had already proved, he could, on occasion, decide and act with amazing speed, but save under the spur of necessity, he was a deliberate animal. He was wondering what this man was. His educated speech, and his attire, with an indefinite air of authority, suggested a lawyer, schoolmaster, or parson; he wore no weapons in sight, but that meant little--card-sharps and crooks frequently posed as inoffensive citizens. The liquor he was invited to sample might be hocussed. He suddenly decided that he was able to take care of himself and his "roll."

"I don't seem to have no other engagement, seh," he drawled.

"Good," was the reply.

Heads turned curiously as they passed along the street, for the story of the fracas at the Palace had soon spread and the puncher was already famous. Men smiled as they saw the stout little stranger almost trotting to keep up with the long, easy stride of the tall cowboy.

"If he's aimin' to lift that fella's wad he deserves to git it for his pluck," remarked one. "Me, I'd sooner wrastle a wild cat."

At the hotel the little man led the way to a private parlour, reached a bottle of whisky and a box of cigars from a cupboard, and invited his guest to sit down and help himself. His next remark was a curious one.

"You don't seem to care for dancing," he said, and the twinkle was again evident.

The guest grinned broadly. "Shore do, but I'm a mite fussy 'bout the music," he replied.

A short silence ensued; the puncher was waiting for the next move. The liquor and the smoke were both of good quality--he had expected they would be--but that only made him more suspicious. His host evidently divined his attitude.

"Time we got acquainted," he said. "My name is Bleke, and I hail from Tucson; you may have heard of me."

Though the cowboy's lounging form remained motionless, his narrowed eyes widened. It was difficult to believe that this harmless-appearing little man could be Governor Bleke of Arizona, whose reputation for cold courage and implacability of purpose as a ruler extended far beyond his own turbulent territory, but--and he afterwards wondered why--it never occurred to him to doubt the statement. Custom required that he should now declare his own name, but he hesitated. His host smiled shrewdly.

"You are James Green of Texas, and sometimes men call you `Sudden,' " he said easily. "I came here to find you."

The puncher stiffened, his cigar clamped between his lips, leaving both hands free; his eyes were frosty. The man from Tucson held up a hand, palm outwards, the Indian sign of peace.

"You're forgetting that this salubrious settlement of Juniper is in New Mexico," he pointed out. "If I ordered the sheriff to arrest you he'd tell me where I could go." The cow-puncher looked a shade abashed, and Bleke went on, "You're drifting, young fellow, and drifting the wrong way. Already you are named as an outlaw, and two sheriffs are searching for you."

"An' they want me for crimes I never committed,"Sudden said bitterly. "Things done when I was scores o' miles away. I never stole a dollar in my life, an' yet I'm hunted like I was a mad dawg."

"All that I know," replied the elder man. "If you are quick with a gun it's easy to get a bad reputation in the West; you get trouble forced on you, as it was back there in the saloon; the way you handled that skunk told me a lot--you had every right to kill him. But where's it going to end, Green? Sooner or later you'll be caught and punished for something you didn't do, and then--you'll run wild. As it is, you've got to keep moving."

"There's another reason for that," the puncher said darkly.

"Well, that's as maybe; I'm not asking," Bleke replied. "I want a man who can use his weapons"

"I'm no hired killer," the other harshly interrupted.

"If you were I wouldn't be talking to you," was the sharp retort. "Listen to me; there are plague spots in Arizona that I want cleared up, and the man who does that must be able to protect himself. As a deputy-sheriff he will have the authority of the law behind him, but that won't mean anything unless he can back it up with a gun, and it's more than likely to tell against him should it become known; he'll have to use his own judgment, and that's why I'm looking for a man with a head as well as hands. This country is young, and the law isn't very well regarded, but the time is coming when it will be, and this is a chance for you to get in on the right side."

The cowboy did not reply at once; his keen gaze rested speculatively on the maker of this curious proposition. He was beginning to realize the quiet, forceful personality of this apparently insignificant little man. Bleke too was silent, waiting, and then the twinkle crept into his eyes again.

"Of course, it's a risky job I'm offering," he said. "You'll have to depend on yourself too--I won't be able to help you. If you lose out . . ."

"I'll go yu, seh," the puncher said instantly.

The elder man smiled and nodded. "I'm right glad," he said, his heart warming to the young fellow who had risen so promptly to his mild bait.

"Anyone dependent on you?"

The visitor shook his head. "I'm shore a lone wolf," he said.

"Good--from my point of view, that is," the Governor commented. "Now for details."

When, half an hour later, the newly-appointed deputy-sheriff departed, Bleke lighted another cigar and smiled his satisfaction.

"I reckon I've found my man and done the State a service at the same time," he sololoquized. "One more turn of the screw and there would have been another good citizen gone wrong and merry hell to pay. That boy is of the outlaw breed, sure enough, and worth saving. Well, if he's looking for action, he's liable to get it where I've sent him."

Chapter II

Two weeks later the man who had humiliated Pug Parsons in Juniper halted his horse on the flat top of a mesa and surveyed the surrounding expanse. The railway, by a devious route, had brought him part of the journey across Arizona, but for the last four days he had been riding, and knew that he must now be nearing his destination. The view was wild but imposing. Great ridges of rock, spired and pinnacled, their bases buried in primeval forest, were on every side, and between them were savannahs of rich grass in which the tiny lakes and streams gleamed like silver in the sunlight. Through a gap in the hills the wayfarer caught a glint of yellow, and knew it for a desert. There was no sign of human habitation, and indeed he had seen nothing of the kind since he had left Doverton in the early morning. The sky was a vault of palest blue, and with no movement in the air, the vertical rays of the mid-day sun had almost the heat of flames.

"Shore is a fierce bit o' country," the cowboy mused. "If half I've heard is correct, I'm due for a right interestin' time."

For though he had talked but little, the mere mention of his objective had produced raised eyebrows and other symptoms of surprise, and this had become more marked as he proceeded. A citizen of one town he stayed at even expressed his wonder verbally.

"I ain't presumin', stranger, but whyever should yu wanta go to Windy?" he asked. "On'y fella I ever knowed who visited there was bored to death."

"Too slow for him, huh?" the traveller suggested.

"No, too fast--it was a .45 slug what bored him," chuckled the speaker. "The drinks are shore on yu, stranger."

The cow-puncher laughed and paid; he had been fairly caught. But beneath the surface he sensed a serious undercurrent, an unwillingness to talk about the town to which he was travelling. The keeper of the hotel at Doverton had flatly refused to answer his questions.

"Windy is bad medicine," he had said. "King Burdette has a long arm an' a heavy fist at the end of it."

Sudden smiled grimly as he recalled the remark; the fact that Doverton was no less than forty miles from Windy suggested that Burdette was an opponent to be approached warily. Beyond the bare statement that there was a mess to be cleared up, and that it would require a man with all his wits about him, some good luck, and an outstanding ability to take care of himself, the Governor had told him little. As a man will, who spends long, lonely hours with a horse, he confided in the animal.

"Dunno what sorta hornets' nest we're a-steppin' into, Nig," he said, "but there's one way to find out. G'wan, yu cinder from hell." The big black swung its head round, lips lifted to show the strong teeth, and the rider grinned sardonically. "Playin' yu'd like to bite me, huh? Yu old fraud," and he stroked the sleek neck.

The trail, which might have been no more than a runway for wild creatures, dropped down in a zigzag from the mesa and plunged into a big patch of pines. Pacing leisurely beneath the pillared arches of the forest, the puncher's thoughts reverted to the little man who had sought him out to send him on this errand of danger. He knew that by doing so Bleke had saved him from a worse fate. Saddled, unjustly, with the reputation of an outlaw, hunted in certain parts of his own country, Texas, for offences of which he was not guilty, it would have taken little more to turn him into a desperado. Bleke had known it. Sudden himself knew it, and was conscious of a sense of satisfaction in being definitely arrayed on the side of law and order; though, as a young man will, he affected a quizzical disdain, even to himself.

"We're respectable folk now, Nig, workin' for Uncle Sam, an' we gotta be good," he drawled. "No more hellin' round, no fights--the soft answer that turneth away wrath for us every time; we gotta let ourselves be tromped on, yu sabe?"

The animal shook its head and whinneyed softly.

"Makes yu laugh, huh?" the rider continued. "Well, I don't blame yu at that, but allasame, if I catch yu chewin' up another gent's hoss I'll just naturally larrup the linin' outa yu."

Emerging from the pines, they came upon evidence of civilization. Facing a small valley was a one-storeyed log-cabin, with a truck-patch and rude corral. Lounging in the doorway was a man of middle age, whose sullen eyes surveyed the intruder curiously. Chewing on the stem of a corncob pipe, his right hand was behind the door-jamb, and Sudden guessed that the fellow had a weapon handy; he was clearly suspicious of this capable-looking stranger who reined up and greeted him with a grin.

"Howdy, friend! Might this be the way to Windy?"

"It might, for a man who ain't in a hurry."

"So I've strayed some, huh?" the rider smiled. "Well, I got all the time there is." His gaze took in the slovenly building, noted the half-hearted attempt at cultivation and the few cattle feeding in the valley. "Yu shore picked a nice location."

The sneer on the man's face deepened. "Place is all right if a fella was let alone," he said; "But what's the use o' gettin' ambitious when yo're liable to be run off any time? `Nesters' ain't popular in these parts, nor in any others fur as I can make out," he added bitterly.

"If I'd filed on a bit o' land like this it'd take a lot to stampede me," the puncher stated.

"Mebbe, an' then again, mebbe not," the homesteader retorted, his querulous voice rising. "Buckin' the Burdette boys ain't paid nobody yet."

Ere Sudden could reply to this a horseman galloped round a bend in the trail just beyond the cabin and pulled his pony to a slithering stop in front of them. He was young--little more than twenty--with a freckled face and blue eyes which had a frosty glint in them as they rested on the nester.

"What yu belly-achin' about the Burdettes for, Fosbee?" he asked, and when the man did not reply, he asked, "Who's yore friend?"

"Dunno," Fosbee said sulkily. "Stopped to ask the way to Windy."

The young man turned an interested gaze upon the puncher, who, lolling easily in his saddle, returned it with amused indifference. A likeable enough youth, he decided, but somewhat over-imbued with his own importance. He got out the makings, rolled and lighted a cigarette, waiting for the question he knew would come. The freckled one fidgeted with his reins for a moment.

"Yo're a stranger here?" he said.

Sudden smiled. "Someone musta told yu," he replied with gentle sarcasm.

The young man flushed. "What's yore business in Windy?" he asked bluntly.

The cow-puncher was still smiling. "Well, it ain'tadvertisin'," he replied meaningly.

The snub brought the hot blood again into the boy's cheeks, and for a moment it seemed that he would give vent to his anger. Then, with a little lift of the shoulders, he swung his pony round and spurred away without another word. Sudden watched him disappear with a speculative eye, and then turned to Fosbee, whose countenance was more lugubrious than ever.

"Member o' the Royal Family, I take it," he said, and seeing the man did not get his meaning, he added, "One o' the Burdettes, huh?"

"Yeah, that was Luce--they called him Lucifer 'count of his havin' a red head like a match," Fosbee explained. "An' he's the best o' the bunch, though that ain't sayin' a lot."

"He certainly don't actually despise hisself," the puncher grinned. "How many o' the tribe is there?"

"King Burdette an' three brothers--use ter be five in the family, but the Ol' Man got bumped off three-four months back; shot from cover, he was, over on War Axe Ridge. Nobody knows who done it, but the Burdettes blame the Purdies--there's allus been bad blood between 'em. If I was young Kit Purdie I'd leave the country."

"Folks would take it he was guilty," the puncher pointed out.

"Mebbe, but he'd be alive," the other said dourly. "Yu mark my words, the Burdette boys will get him."

Sudden changed the subject; he did not want to betray more than the natural curiosity of a stranger in local affairs. "What chance for a cow-wrastler around her?" he inquired.

"Middlin' slim," was the reply. "There's the Circle B --that's Burdette, the C P--Purdie's ranch, an' the Box S --a small one owned by Slype, the marshal, who's too mean to spit. Purdie is yore best bet; he's a white man."

"Yu don't recommend Burdette, huh?" the puncher smiled.

"If yo're quick with a gun an' ain't pertic'ler, yes," retorted the other. "I'm takin' it yo're honest."

"Thank you," the visitor said gravely. "Likely I'll go gravel-grubbin' for a spell; I'm told there's gold around here."

"That's so--Windy started on a gold boom, but it soon petered out. Yu can get `colour' a'most anywheres in the sand o' Thunder River, but that's all yu do get. There's fellas still pannin' an' pocket-minin' the slopes o' the valley, but they don't hardly make more'n a grub-stake."

"If they could strike the mother-lode --"

"Yu ain't the first to think o' that," Fosbee cut in. "I reckon every man in town has searched one time or another. Some claims it's up on Ol' Stormy, an' mebbe that's why " He paused suddenly. "I'm jawin' too much," he added. "See yu later, p'raps."

He turned abruptly into the house, leaving the traveller no choice but to ride on, thoughtfully considering what he had learned. Actually it did not amount to much. Fosbee did not impress him favourably--a sour, disgruntled fellow who would vent his venom on any more successful than himself, but his fear of the Burdettes was evident.

"An' I'm bettin' that boy ain't bad," the puncher mused. "O' course, his manhood is some recent"--he himself was but a few years older--"an' I expect he ain't had much experience, but I liked the look of him."

Less than half an hour brought him to the rim of a widish gully, the sloping sides of which were covered with vegetation--spruce, juniper, cactus, and tall grasses. Along the bottom ran a tiny, twisted stream fringed with willows and cottonwoods. The sight of the water made him thirsty, and he was casting about for the best place to descend when the angry crash of a rifle awoke a succession of echoes, giving the impression of a fusillade. There was but one shot, however, and a ballooning puff of smoke, a little way up the opposing incline, showed whence it came. In a flash the puncher was out of the saddle and crouching behind an outcrop of rock. A moment later he realized that he was not the target, for, from a dense mass of brush almost on the floor of the gully, a rifle spoke in reply. Two simultaneous reports from the other side followed, and leaving his horse, Sudden searched for a break in the foliage.

Meanwhile the strange duel continued, but now only two were firing, one against the other. Had the third man been wiped out? The puncher, whose sympathy had instinctively been for the weaker party, found himself hoping that this was the case. Presently he happened upon a spit of grass-covered rock which jutted out, and, by worming along it on his belly, was able to overlook the spot where the lone marksman was ensconced. Kneeling behind the prostrate trunk of a windfall, his rifle in readiness, a man dressed in the garb of the range was peering intently across the gully. For a while nothing happened, and then from the opposite slope came a single shot. Sudden saw the man below raise his rifle, but ere he could press the trigger another report rang out and he slumped down, the weapon dropping from nerveless fingers. High up on the rising ground behind the stricken fighter, smoke curled from the midst of a tree. The watcher cursed as he realized what had taken place.

"Damnation, they've outplayed him," he muttered, and scrambling back to the rim of the gully, grabbed his rifle from the saddle, and began to run in the direction from which the fatal shot had come. Before he could reach it, however, the thud of hoofs on the trail told him that he was too late. And so it proved. Hundreds of yards distant he had a momentary glimpse of a grey horse, and fired at it. He knew the shot was useless, but it relieved his feelings. He found the tree, a big spruce, the abraded trunk of which showed how the killer had climbed up to get a clear shot at his victim. Save for an empty shell, a Winchester .38, and some faint footprints, there was no further evidence. The puncher hoisted himself into the branches, and, as he had expected, found that nothing interrupted his view of the dead man.

"Pie like mother made," he said savagely. "One coyote keeps him busy while the other sneaks round an' plugs him from behind. I'd shore like to meet them hombres."

With grim, unblinking eyes he searched the valley, but beyond the frequent flash of a bird's wing no sign of life rewarded his scrutiny. Satisfied that the assassins had decamped, he dropped from the tree, and, leading his horse, began to work his way down to the scene of the tragedy. This took time, for he had often to force a passage through the tangle of undergrowth, and detours to avoid miniature precipices were necessary. So that it was nearly half an hour before he stood, hat in hand, beside what, only a short time ago, had been a human being in all the vigour of early manhood.

One thing the puncher saw at a glance--it was not, as he had suspected, young Burdette. Though about the same age, the dead man had dark hair, and the glazed eyes which stared up at the blue sky when Sudden turned the body over were a deep brown. Death had been instant, for the bullet, entering under the left shoulder-blade, had penetrated the heart. A whinny took him to a neighbouring thicket, where he found a tied pony bearing the brand C P. At the sight of this his frown deepened.

"Looks like them Burdettes has got even," he muttered; and then, "That fella Luce was ridin' a grey. Well, s'pose I'll have to take him in; can't leave the body here for the buzzards."

He draped the corpse, face downwards, across the saddle of its own pony, securing it with the lariat hanging from the horn, and then, riding his own horse and leading the other, headed into the valley, where he found a dim trail which appeared likely to take him to the town. Pacing soberly along, his thoughts naturally dwelt upon the grisly burden jolting spasmodically on the back of the other animal. That it was a corpse concerned him little--violent death was no new thing to him, but the manner in which it had been brought about put a savage set to his lips and gave the grey-blue eyes a flinty expression.

"It shore looks bad for Mister Luce," he mused. "I wouldn't 'a' said he was that sort."

It was possible that the slain man was only one of the C P outfit, but remembering what Fosbee had said, Sudden shook his head at the thought; he was only too sure that the nester had been a true prophet.

"It'll mean trouble, ol hoss," he confided to his mount --"big trouble; an' what I'm packin' in will certainly start it, but I couldn't do nothin' else."

Chapter III

WINDY, so called--according to a facetious dweller therein --because it never was, lay in the middle of a large saucer-like depression enclosed by forest-clad slopes which were themselves walled in by an oval of craggy, granite hills. At the western end of the valley towered Old Stormy, a formidable cone of ribbed and turreted rock, the source of Thunder River, which, after a tempestuous journey through the wild gorges of the mountain-side, became a wide, and, in summer, a shallow stream rolling lazily along its sandy bed to depart placidly by way of a break in the hills. The eastern limit of the valley was dominated by a tree-and scrub-covered, squat pile known as Battle Butte.

The westering sun was sinking behind the hills in a flare of crimson fire when Sudden rode into the town. The place presented no features of interest, and save for the surrounding scenery, might have been any one of the many he had passed through. The same dusty, hoof- and wheel-rutted street formed by two irregular rows of buildings, the most pretentious of which were of log or 'dobe, the others being mere shacks with dirt roofs, or dug-outs. Only a few of the erections boasted a second storey; several displayed the false front, but the sun-scorched, warped shingles rendered the device a transparent one in both senses of the word. The absence of paint was remedied by the grey-white alkali dust which covered everything, and a rubble of tin cans which hemmed in each habitation formed a sordid substitute for vegetation. A cynic might well have reflected that in the whole of the valley only the work of mankind was an abomination.

Sudden found the street deserted, but before he had ridden far along it a man emerged from one of the shacks and paused, staring, when he saw the new arrival, who promptly asked for the marshal's office.

"Furder up, but if yo're needin' Sam, yu'd better try Magee's. I'll show yu," the man replied. "Whose remainders are yu totin'?"

"That's what I wanta find out," the traveller told him.

Anxious to be first with the news, the other asked no more questions. Clumping along the board sidewalk, he made better time than could the horses in the loose sand, and presently disappeared through the swing-doors of one of the larger buildings, which bore on a battered sign the inscription "The Lucky Chance." By the time the puncher reached the spot he had a following of every person he had met, and this was soon augmented by those in the saloon. The last to appear was the marshal, a smallish, wizened fellow of about thirty-five, with a narrow, crafty face, mean eyes, and a still meaner mouth which a drooping black moustache unfortunately failed to conceal. Sudden recognized the type, a bullying, arrogant jack-in-office, who would take every advantage and give none. The man's first words confirmed this impression.

"Yu wanta see me?" he asked truculently.

"No, but I reckon I gotta," Sudden said acidly. "I've brung yu a job."

The retort evoked an audible snicker from the onlookers and a spot of colour in the sallow cheeks of the officer. He looked disgustfully at the limp form on the led horse.

"What d'yu s'pose I am--the undertaker?" he sneered.

"I'm reckonin' that as marshal it's yore job to find out who bumped off this fella," the puncher retorted.

At a word from the marshal two of the bystanders untied the body and laid it on the sidewalk. "Hell's flames, it's Kit Purdie--thought I reckernized his roan! " cried one of them; adding meaningly, "yu won't have far to look for them as did this, Sam."

"Keep yore fool trap closed--Up to now there ain't nothin' to show who done it," the officer snapped, but his forehead wrinkled in a worried frown. "Why didn't the damn young idjut pull his freight like I told him?"

He hent over the body and then straightened up. "Somebody fetch Doc. Toley," he ordered, and turned to the puncher. "What d'yu know 'bout this?"

Sitting slackly in his saddle, the puncher told his story. The mention of the glimpsed grey horse brought a curse from Slype. He looked malignantly at Sudden.

"We on'y got yore word," he said. "Yu mighta done it yoreself."

The accused man smiled in derision. "An' fetched him into show yu? Oh, yeah," he scoffed.

"It would 'a' bin a good bluff," retorted the officer. "Lemme see yore gun."

At this demand the stranger stiffened, and there was an ominous rasp in his voice as he replied, "Which end would yu like to look at? She's a Winchester .44 an' the barrel is foul; I told yu I fired once."

Ere the marshal could reply to this obvious challenge, a short, fat man, with long, unkempt hair, and a clever if somewhat bloated face, pushed his way unceremoniously through the crowd. He was clearly the worse for liquor, but his speech was careful, precise.

"What do you want now, Slippery?" he asked, and then, as he saw the outstretched figure, "young Purdie, eh? So the Burdettes have downed him?"

The marshal gritted out an oath. "We dunno; yu got no right to say that, Doc.," he growled.

"I have a right to say just what I damn please, Slippery," the medico retorted. "If you and your friends the Burdettes don't like it, suit yourselves. What's the use of sending for me now? I can't put life into a dead man."

The marshal's mean eyes flashed an ugly look at him. "Ain't askin' yu to," he said sullenly. "Want yu to dig suthin' out--the bullet; mebbe it'll give us a pointer."

Toley turned the corpse so that it lay face downwards, cut away the clothing which covered the wound, and began to probe. With the morbid curiosity of a crowd the world over, the onlookers jostled one another to get a view, and the doctor cursed them when the stamping feet threatened to engulf him. At length the gruesome task was done and he stood up, the bloodstained pellet of lead between his fingers. The marshal examined it.

"Looks like a .38 to me," he said reluctantly, and the frown on his face was heavier.

"Shore is," agreed half a dozen of the nearest spectators. "What did I tell yu, Sam?" cried the fellow who had spoken before. "Luce Burdette uses a .38."

"Yu didn't tell me nothin' 'cept that yore mouth opens too easy, an' I knowed that afore," snapped the officer. "Luce ain't got the on'y .38 in the world, has he?"

"He's got the on'y one in these parts that I knows of," was the reply.

"King Burdette'll be glad to hear o' yore interest in his family," sneered Slype. "Hell! Here comes Ol' Man Purdie; what cussed luck brought him to town to-day?"

Stepping heavily but swiftly along the sidewalk, with the short, clipped stride of one who has spent much of his life in the saddle, came a sturdily-built, broad-shouldered man of around fifty. His strong, clean-shaven face, which should have expressed good-humour, was now drawn and haggard. Before his advance the crowd opened, and in a moment he was beside the body. One glance was enough.

"God ! " he muttered. "It's true, then." He dropped on one knee and touched the pallid face. "My lad--my only lad," he whispered brokenly.

For some moments there was silence; men who had not thought of it before furtively removed their hats. Then the bereaved father heaved himself to his feet, tragedy in every line of his face, his eyes shining wetly in the half-light. But there was no weakness in voice or bearing when he turned to the marshal.

"Who did this?" he asked harshly.

"Yu know near as much as I do, Chris," Slype replied. "This fella fetched him in"--he jerked a thumb at the cow-puncher. "Claims he saw it happen."

Purdie turned his misted eyes on the stranger; his look was an invitation. Sudden repeated his story of the shooting.

"Yu didn't see the skunk?" the old man asked.

"No, I caught the flash of a grey hoss through the brush an' took a chance," the puncher told him. "The shell I found was a .38 an' the bullet bears that out. If I could 'a' sat in the game I'd 'a' been right pleased."

"I'm obliged to yu, friend," Purdie said.

From the outskirts of the crowd a voice rang through the gathering gloom : "He'll take the Black Burdettes."

The cattleman's head jerked up. "Yu said it, whoever yu are," he grated. "This is their work, shore enough."

"Hold yore hosses, Purdie," the marshal broke in. "We got mighty little to justify that."

"The hoss an' the gun tally, an' Luce was seen headin' that way a bit before it happened," Purdie said bitterly. "Yu call that mighty little, huh?"

"It ain't conclusive," Slype insisted. "If yu want me to deal with this"

The other whirled fiercely upon him. "I ain't askin' yu to, Slype; keep out of it. The C P can fight its own battles an' pay its own scores. By God! it'll settle this one in full."

"That ain't no way to talk, Chris," the marshal remonstrated. "I'm here to administer the law"

"Yo're here to do what the Circle B murderers tell yu," was the angry retort. "Yu can save yore breath; I ain't a-goin' to back down before all the Burdettes that ever was pupped, an' that goes."

There was no passion in the challenge--it was the stark defiance of one whose life had been a battle; who had faced indomitably all the difficulties and disasters which the early pioneer in a savage untamed region must expect. Nature in her wildest moods, Indians, rustlers, starvation, thirst--Chris Purdie had fought and beaten them all. And now, in his mellowing years, when Fate had dealt him the bitterest blow of all, he was still unsubdued, still full of fight. There were many such men among the early pioneers; their names are forgotten, but their work survives; they made Western America.

Chapter IV

SUDDEN passed the night at the hotel, and in the morning attended the sorry farce of an inquiry into the death of young Purdie. The verdict that deceased met his end in a gun-fight with a person or persons unknown appeared to satisfy the marshal, though it aroused murmurs in some quarters. None of the Burdettes was present, a citizen informed the puncher, but when that young man suggested that this was perhaps good policy on their part, he was quickly corrected.

"Don't yu get no wrong ideas about them fellas," his informant observed. "Ain't none of 'em lackin' sand, an' if they done it an' took the notion, they'd be here brazenin' it out, yu betcha. Bad? Shore they're bad, but there ain't a smidgin o' fear in the whole bilin', no sir."

Then came the interment; the puncher followed the procession to the little cemetery less than half a mile to the north of the town. There, on a grassy slope shaded by cottonwoods and birches, in a silence broken only by the gay chirping of the birds and a few remembered fragments of the burial service pronounced by the doctor, the boy was laid to rest. When the two miners who officiated had filled in the grave, the spectators resumed their hats and melted away. Sudden was the last to leave, save for the sturdy figure with folded arms and bowed head gazing with unseeing eyes at the newly-made mound which held all his hopes. The puncher would have liked to utter a word of comfort, but he did not know what to say, and his cowboy's inherent dread of emotion in any form kept him tongue-tied. At length he too turned to retrace his steps to Windy. He had not gone far when Purdie caught him up.

"Stranger," the cattleman said in a deep voice, "I reckon I ain't thanked yu right for what yu did."

Sudden gripped the outstretched hand. "Why, there ain't any need," he returned. "I wish I could 've ..." He paused awkwardly, and the other man nodded his comprehension. "It's shore tough, but life is like that," he said, and despite his iron control there was a tremor in his tone. "Yu see, he was pretty near all I had--I lost his mother when he was no more'n a li'l trick; there's on'y Nan now."

He was silent for some moments, and then he straightened up, squaring his shoulders as though making a conscious effort to free them of a burden. "Yu aimin' to stay around here?" he asked bluntly.

"I ain't decided," the other replied. "I'm kind o' footloose about now. Got tired o' Texas an' New Mexico, an' figured I'd have a look at Arizona; heard there was gold here too."

The elder man shot a quick look at him. "There is if a fella knowed where to search," he said.

They were entering the town when a young man came striding rapidly towards them; it was Luce Burdette. Sudden's eyes went to his companion, but the ranch-owner's features had the fixity of stone itself. Burdette did not hesitate; he stopped square in front of them.

"I've just struck town, Purdie, an' heard of yore loss," he said. "I want yu to know that I'm terrible sorry."

The cattleman looked at him, his eyes like chilled steel, his lips clamped tightly. "Murder is one o' the things that bein' sorry for don't excuse," lie said harshly.

Burdette's eyes opened in bewilderment and then, as understanding came to him, his cheeks flushed redly under the tan.

"Yu tryin' to tell me I killed yore son?" he cried.

"Nothin' less," was the stern reply. "He was found in Echo Valley with a .38 slug through his back, fired by a fella who rode a grey; there's yore hoss an' gun, an' you was seen headin' that way a bit before. If yu wasn't a Bur-dette, or if we had a marshal worth a busted nickel, yu'd be stretchin' hemp right now."

"It's a damnable lie," the young man said hotly. "I never had any grudge against Kit--in fact ..." He hesitated and then burst out, "It's absurd. Why, if things had been different, him an' me might 'a' been good friends. I give yu my word, Purdie, I had nothin' to do with his death."

Sudden, watching him closely, believed he was speaking the truth, but the cattleman's face expressed nothing hut incredulity.

"O' course yu'd say so," he sneered. "I wouldn't take the word of a Burdette at the Throne of Heaven." His eyes, mad with misery, glared at this lad who had all his own son had lost--youth, vigour, the vista of life--and a savage spate of anger swept away his control. "Pull yore gun, yu cur, an' we'll settle it here an' now," he cried.

The boy's face flushed at the insult, but he made no move towards his weapon. His gaze did not waver as he replied :

"If yu want to kill me, Purdie, go ahead; there's a reason why I can't draw on yu."

The elder man's lips twisted into a furious snarl. "Yu bet there's a reason--yo're yellow, like the rest o' yore scaly, shoot-from-cover family," he rasped. "Well, yu get away with it for now, but paste this in yore hat : I'm goin' to find the fella who murdered my boy, an' when I do--he dies."

"I'll help yu," Luce replied, and walked slowly away. Purdie looked at the puncher. "What d'yu make o' that?"

"I don't think he did it."

"Yu don't know the breed--lyin's as natural as breathin' with them," the rancher replied.

"I'm backin' my judgment, seh," the puncher persisted.

"Weil, mebbe, but I'm bettin' it was a Burdette any-ways," the old man said. "What I was goin' to ask yu when that houn' showed up was to see me before yu make any plans. Will yu do that?"

"Pleased to," Sudden said.

It was agreed that he should ride over to the C P on the following morning, and the cattleman departed. Sudden went in search of a meal, his mind full of the encounter he had just witnessed. He liked Purdie, recognized him for a white man, and admired the sturdy pluck with which he was facing a crushing misfortune. Regarding Burdette his mind was in a curious condition. As at their first meeting, he felt attracted to the boy, and found it difficult to conceive him guilty of a cowardly murder. Certainly it was not lack of courage that made him refuse the older man's challenge, at the risk of being shot down where he stood. If all the Burdettes were like this one .. .

Meanwhile, the subject of his speculations had gone straight to the marshal's office. Slype, lounging in a tilted-back chair, his heels on his desk, chuckled inwardly when he saw the visitor's pale, furious face.

"'Lo, Luce, what's bitin' yu?" he inquired.

"I've just seen Purdie, an' he's accusin' me o' shootin' Kit," the boy blurted out.

The marshal grinned. "Well, didn't yu?" he asked.

"Yu know damn well I didn't," Luce retorted hotly. "An' yu gotta get busy an' find out who did; I ain't goin' to have a thing like that pinned on me." *

"Orders, huh?" the officer sneered. "Well, I ain't takin' 'em. Ol' Man Purdie has served notice that him an' his outfit is goin' to handle the job, an' that lets me out. Sabe?"

His little eyes squinted at the youth in malignant enjoyment; he would not have dared to take that tone with any other of the Burdettes.

"Playin' safe, huh?" Luce said scornfully. "They shore don't call yu `Slippery' for nothin'," and stamped out of the office before any adequate reply occurred to its owner.

Getting his horse, he mounted and rode slowly out of town, taking the westerly trail which was the direct line to Old Stormy. Sitting listlessly in the saddle, head down, he had an air of dejection utterly foreign to his nature. In truth, Luce Burdette was in the depths of despair, for the events of the last two days had wrecked the secret cherished hopes of months. How would Nan Purdie regard him now --the reputed slayer of her brother? Despite the dormant enmity between the two families, he had dared to dream, and even after the mysterious taking-off of Old Burdette had nearly provoked an open rupture, had gone on doing so. But this latest killing, so obviously a reprisal, must be the end of everything--for him. And the dream had been so sweet! Unknown to all others, they had met at intervals--accidentally, as they both pretended--and though no word of love had been uttered, eyes spoke to eyes and told what the lips dared not say. And now, in the faint hope that he would see her, and be able to deny this damnable thing that was being said of him, he was going to a spot where he had already seen her several times, a sheltered little glade on the lower slopes of Old Stormy.

It was an ideal place for a lovers' tryst--a tiny circle of grass, mosaiced with flowers, almost entirely walled in by scrub-oak and other trees, with an undergrowth of catclaw, prickly pear, and smaller shrubs. Burdette's face fell when he found that the glade was empty, though he had expected to find it so. Dismounting, he trailed the reins and dropped on a prostrate tree-trunk which had served them as a seat on happier occasions. With bowed head he sat there, wondering. Would she come, and if she did, would she believe him? he asked himself over and over again. It did not seem possible; she would take her father's view, and he had to admit that Purdie was justified--the evidence was damning.

A whinny from his horse apprised him that someone was approaching, and he looked up to see the girl he was waiting for. At the sight of him she checked her pony for a moment and then came slowly on. Despite the very evident signs of grief, she made a picture to fill the eye of a man. She rode astride, with the long stirrup of the Arizona cowboy, and her mount--a mettlesome mustang--knew better than to try any tricks. A dark shirt-waist, and divided skirt which reached to the tops of her trim riding-boots, showed the curves of her slim figure, and her honey-coloured hair, cut short almost like a boy's, curled crisply beneath the black wide-brimmed hat. Burdette saw the shadows under the deep blue eyes which had always smiled at him, and choked down a curse. Hat in hand, he rose to his feet.

"I was hopin' to see yu," he said.

"I didn't expect " the girl began, and then, "I couldn't stay in the house; I had to come out--just to convince myself that the world isn't all ugly and wicked."

The poignant note of misery made him writhe. "Nan ! " he cried, and his heart was in his voice, "Yu don't believe I did it, do yu?"

The tear-laden eyes met his bravely. "If I thought that I wouldn't even look at you," their owner said.

The boy's face lighted for a moment. "Then I don't care who does think it," he said impulsively.

"It makes no difference," she told him. "you are a Bur-dette, I am a Purdie; no good can come of our--meeting."

"But if yu don't believe the Burdettes did this thing," he protested.

"I didn't say that, Luce," she reminded him, and though she spoke softly there was an underlying bitterness which told him only too plainly what she did believe. Hopelessness again claimed him.

"I'll find the skunk," he gritted. "If my people had any-thin' to do with it, I'll disown the lot of 'em."

He meant it--the savage intensity of his voice showed that--but the girl shook her head.

"It is no use, Luce," she said sadly. "That would only mean more trouble. We belong in different camps, and this must be the end of our--friendship. We both have to be loyal to our own kin."

The finality with which she spoke silenced him. Miserably he watched as she wheeled her pony and rode away, the proud little head bent, and--though he did not know this--the blue eyes well-nigh blind with unshed tears. When the trees had hidden her, a bitter laugh broke from his lips.

"Loyal to our own kin," he repeated harshly. "If the Burdettes shoot men in the back they're no kin o' mine, an' that's somethin' they've gotta learn mighty soon."

With a grim look on his young face he stepped into his saddle and loped off in the direction of the Circle B ranch.

No sooner was he out of sight than a man rose from behind a clump of undergrowth on the outskirts of the glade. He was tall, nearing the middle thirties in age, with broad shoulders and a powerful frame. His black hair, eyes, and moustache, added to perfectly-formed features, produced a face at which most women would look more than once. Even his own sex had to admit that Kingley Burdette was "a handsome devil," and this Mephistophelian attractiveness was accompanied by a haughty, insolent bearing which made his first name singularly appropriate. Just now his thin lips were set in a saturnine sneer.

"So that's the way of it, huh?" he almost hissed. "Readyto round on his own folk for the sake of a skirt, but mebbe he won't get the chance." His dark eyes narrowed. "Damn him! He's got ahead o' me. Who'd 'a' thought 'o him shinin' up to that Purdie gal?--not that she ain't worth it." He pondered for a moment, and then an ugly smile lit his lowering face. "I reckon that'll fix yu, my friend, fix yu good an' plenty," he muttered.

He too mounted and trotted leisurely away, his mind full of a young, slim girl with curly, honey-coloured hair and wide blue eyes, who now would one day own the C P ranch.

Sudden spent the evening in "The Lucky Chance." It was a fair-sized place, with a sanded, boarded floor on which tables and chairs were dotted about, and a long bar which faced the swing-doors. Light was afforded by three big kerosene lamps slung from the roof, and a few gaudy chromos formed the only decoration save for a large tarnished mirror immediately facing the entrance. Behind the har stood the proprietor, Mick Magee, whose squat, turned-up nose and twinkling blue eyes proclaimed his nationality before he opened his mouth. A genial man until roused, and then he was a tornado. Tough as the frequenters of "The Lucky Chance" were, few of them had any desire to tangle with the sturdy Irishman when he "went on the prod."

Just now he was all smiles, for business was brisk; most of the tables were occupied and the faro, monte, and other games were being well supported. The crowd presented the usual medley to be found in any cow town at that time, save that there were more miners, oldish men for the most part, with craggy, weather-scarred features, bent backs, and fingers calloused by constant contact with pick and shovel. Lured on by the will-o'-the-wisp of a "big strike," they spent their days grubbing in the earth for gold and their nights in dissipating what little they found. There were those among them who remembered the hectic days of '49, others who had sneaked into the Black Hills, dodging the troops sent by the Government to keep them out, and risking a horrible death by torture at the hands of the Indians; days of feverish toil, with a rifle always within reach, and the knowledge that at any moment they might hear the dread war-whoop. They had found fortunes in a day and lost them in a night--and still hoped.

There was a constant hum of conversation, punctuated by bursts of laughter, and an occasional oath as the goddess of chance favoured or flouted a gambler.

Lounging carelessly at one end of the bar, Sudden's eyes were busy, not that the scene was any novelty, but he had come to live amongst these people for a time, and he wanted to know something of them. Presently the proprietor noticed the solitary stranger and spoke to him.

"Would ye be after stayin' wid us, Mister Green?" he asked.

"I'm all undecided," the puncher told him with a smile. "I like the look o' the lay-out, but, yu see, my appetite keeps regular hours, an' I gotta work. I had a notion to find me a gold-mine."

The saloon-keeper regarded him humorously. "Good for ye," he replied. "But take it from me, the best way to look for wan is from the back of a hoss somewan is payin' ye to ride."

The hint was plain enough, and the man to whom it was given nodded a smiling acquiescence. "I guess yo're right," he said. "As a matter o' fact, I'm seein' Purdie in the mornin'."

The remark, coming from a stranger, amounted to a question, and the Irishman took it as such. "A good man, Purdie," he said. "His, sort, they don't make 'em no better." He studied the other furtively for a few moments and decided that he was capable of taking care of himself. Nevertheless, he uttered an indirect warning. "Chris is takin' the loss of his only boy hard," he went on. "I misdoubt it'll mean bad throuble between the C P an' the Circle B, which is the Burdette brand. Easy now, here's a couple of them."

Through the swing-doors came two men in cowboy trappings, tall, big-boned, dark of hair and brow, with bold, hard faces and insolent, dominant eyes. Though one was a few years the elder, and a veritable giant in build, they were sufficiently alike for their relationship to be obvious. Magee looked uneasy.

"Mart an' Sim Burdette," he said in an undertone. "Pretty well primed too, begad." Then, as he turned to welcome the newcomers, the puncher caught the added words, "An ugly pair to draw to."

Through narrowed eyes Sudden watched the brothers swagger up to the bar, and decided that the landlord was right. He noted that each wore only one gun in sight, a heavy Colt's .45, slung below the right hip. Though they were laughing, their eyes were as cold as those of a snake. They greeted the saloon-keeper boisterously and inquired for the marshal. At that moment Slype came in.

"Hey, Slippery, I hear yo're tryin' to pin this Purdie play on the Burdettes," Mart--the bigger man--said threateningly.

"Yu heard a lie," the marshal retorted. "One or two things sorta suggested Luce, but he claims he had nothin' to do with it."

"Did yu expect he'd own up?" sneered the other. "An' if he did down Purdie I'll say he done a good job, though it don't even the score. What yu goin' to do about it?"

He glared round the room as though daring anyone present to dispute his callous assertion. The marshal, who knew the challenge was directed chiefly at himself, shrugged his shoulders in a poor assumption of indifference.

"Ain't no call for me to concern m'self," he replied. "Like I told Luce, Ol' Man Purdie reckons him an' his outfit can deal with it."

"Is that so?" Mart growled. "Wants a fight, does he? Well, that suits us fine, eh, Sim?"

The younger brother laughed. "Yu betcha," he agreed.

Slype made a gesture for appearance' sake. "Now, see here, Mart, a range war ain't goin' to do this yer town no good," he protested. "All Chris wants, I reckon, is to find out who bumped off his boy."

"Bah! He's plastered it on the Burdettes a'ready," Sim said angrily. "Awright, we'll let it go as it lays; the Burdettes can take care o' theirselves."

"An' whose side are yu on, anyways, Slippery?" snapped Mart.

"I represent the law, an' I'm agin both o' yu," the marshal evaded, a reply which drew an ironic laugh from the brothers. "Where's King? Left him at Lu Lavigne's, I reckon?"

"Yu reckon pretty good," Sim replied, adding slyly, "Why not send if yu want him?"

"I don't," the officer said hastily. "I just asked. What about a little game?"

Sudden stayed a while longer, hoping to see the eldest of the Burdettes, but was disappointed. Weldon, the blacksmith, a bluff, bearded giant with whom he got into conversation, explained the marshal's reference to King's whereabouts. He would be at "The Plaza," the only real rival establishment to "The Lucky Chance." It was owned and run by a woman, who had bought out the former proprietor less than a year before. Save that she was young, attractive, and wise to her business, nothing was known of her.

"Calls herself Mrs. Luisa Lavigne, but no husband ain't showed up yet," the blacksmith said. "She's certainly restful to the sight, but I'm layin' she's got Spanish blood in her, an' a temper to match. Soon after she hung out her shingle, a cowboy tries to get fresh with her, an' she slips a knife into him middlin' prompt. No, he didn't die, but it shorely puts a crimp in his affection.

O' course, it don't stop others sufferin' from the same complaint, but it makes 'em careful, an' when King Burdette starts hangin' round, most of 'em loses interest."

Sudden ventured to ask one direct question, and to his surprise, received an answer.

"If it comes to a fight, I opine Purdie would have most of the town against him?"

"Stranger, Purdie is liked, but the Burdettes is feared."

Which was exactly what the puncher wanted to know.

Chapter V

THE C P ranch-house occupied a little plateau in the foothills around the base of Old Stormy, facing the great valley in which, ten miles distant, lay the town of Windy. Solidly built of 'dobe bricks and shaped logs, with chimneys of stone, it had an imposing appearance despite the fact that it consisted of one storey only. A broad, covered verandah, paved with pieces of rock, stretched along the front of the building, and to the left were the bunkhouse, barns, and corrals. A few cottonwoods, spared when the ground had been first cleared, provided shade. At the back of the house a grassy slope climbed gently to the black pines which belted the mountain. Sudden found the owner on the verandah.

"Mornin', friend," Purdie greeted, and pulled forward a chair. "That's a good hoss yu got."

"Shore is," replied the puncher, and waited.

"Made them plans yet?" came the question, and when the visitor replied in the negative, another silence ensued. Sudden was aware that the cattleman was sizing him up, turning over some problem. Presently he straightened as though he had come to a decision.

"Kit was my foreman," he said slowly. "Like his job?"

The puncher stared at him in surprise; he had expected an offer to ride for the ranch, but not to be put in charge. His reply was non-committal :

"Yore outfit won't admire takin' orders from a stranger."

"Yu needn't worry about that; they're good boys an' they'll back my judgment," Purdie said confidently. "Yu see, it ain't just a question o' runnin' the ranch--a'most any one o' them could do that--but outguessin' that Bur-dette crowd is a hoss of a different brand. I'm gamblin' yu can swing it--if yo're willin' to take the risk."

The visitor's jaw hardened. "Here's somethin' yu oughts to know," he said, and went on to relate the scene he had witnessed in "The Lucky Chance" the previous evening. The cattleman nodded gloomily.

"Yu'll be buyin' into trouble a-plenty," he said. "I dunno as it's fair to ask yu. Them Burdettes is the toughest proposition. For about a year past there's been doin's---bank robberies, stage hold-ups, cattle-stealin's, within a radius of a hundred miles, an' that gang on Battle Butte is suspected. They's a hard lot--half of 'em ain't cowmen a-tall, just gun-fighters, an' there's twice the number necessary to handle their herds. I sent a writing to Governor Bleke--rode the range with him when we was both kids tellin' him how things was an' that the Burdettes was a plain menace, but I s'pose he's a busy man; I ain't had no reply."

"I reckon mebbe I'm it," Sudden smiled, and went on to tell of the happenings in Juniper, omitting, however, the name his gun-play had earned for him.

The cattleman's face shone; his hand came out to grip that of his guest. "I'm damned glad to meet yu, Green?" he said heartily. "Yu got any plan?"

"I'm takin' the job yu offered, Purdie," he said. "But I gotta play 'possum, remember; I'm just an ordinary cow-punch who has pulled his picket-pin an' is rovin' round, sabe?" Purdie nodded, and Sudden added irrelevantly, "I don't believe that fella Luce did the killin'."

"His own brothers didn't deny it," the old man pointed out.

"That's so, an' I can't quite savvy it," Sudden admitted. "Allasame, Luce struck me as bein' straight."

The rancher was about to reply when his daughter

appeared. Seeing the stranger, she would have retired again, but her father called her.

"Meet Mister Green, Nan," he said. "He's goin' to be foreman here."

She shook hands, a kindness in her eyes for which he could not account. Her words explained it, or at least he thought so.

"I have to thank you for--what you did," she said.

The new foreman fidgeted with his feet; he would rather have faced a man with a gun than this dewy-eyed, grateful girl.

"It don't need mentionin'," he stammered.

"Green's goin' to help us find the slinkin' cur that did it, Nan," Purdie put in harshly : and to the puncher, "Well, Jim, fetch yore war-bags along an' start in soon's yu like; it'll be a relief to know yo're on the job."

"I'll be on hand in the mornin'," the puncher promised. They watched until a grove of trees hid him from view, and then the rancher asked a question.

"I like him," Nan replied. "But isn't it taking a chance? We know nothing about him."

"Mebbe it is, but I'm playin' a hunch," her father told her. "That fella ain't no common cow-punch. He's young, but he's had experience, an' them guns o' his ain't noways new. I'm bettin' he'll make them Burdette killers think."

Just at the moment, however, it was the other way about, for the new foreman's brain was busy with the burden he had so promptly undertaken. He had no illusion as to the nature of his task; he had been hired to fight the Burdette family, and, judging by the samples he had seen, and the information he had gained regarding their outfit, he was likely to have his hands full. A thin smile wreathed his lips; the little man in Juniper had not over-stated the case.

Absorbed in his thoughts, he was pacing slowly through a miniature forest when a little cry aroused him, and hel ooked up to see a woman running along the trail ahead of him. Fifty yards in front of her a saddled pony was trotting. A touch of the spur sent Nigger rocketing past the pedestrian and in a few moments Sudden was back again, his rope round the runaway's neck. He found the woman sitting on a fallen tree-trunk. She was young--about his own age, he estimated--and her oval face--the skin faintly tanned by the sun--black hair and eyes, made her good to look upon. A neat riding costume displayed her perfect figure to advantage. He noted that her cheeks were but slightly flushed and her breathing betrayed no sign of haste.

"Gracias, senor," she greeted in a low, sweet voice. "I descend to peek ze flower an' my ponce vamos."

The puncher grinned, twitched his loop from the animal's neck and flung the reins to the ground.

"If yu'd done that he'd 'a' stayed put," he exclaimed. Her eyes widened. "So?" she said. "The senor weel see zat I am w'at is call a sore-foot, yes?"

Sudden laughed and said. "The word is `tenderfoot.' " His gaze travelled to her trim high boots. "Yu've shore got a pretty one," he added.

The lady dimpled deliciously, and lifting her feet from the ground, inspected their shapeliness critically.

"You like heem?" she asked archly.

"I like heem," the puncher repeated. "I like heemboth. Now, s'pose we drop the baby-talk an' speak natural; yu ain't no Greaser."

The girl's eyes danced. "So young, and yet--so wise," she bantered.

"My second name is Solomon," he told her gravely. "Mebbe yu've heard of him?"

"Oh yes, he was the first Mormon, I believe," she smiled. "I hope you..."

Sudden shook his head emphatically. "Not one," he said.

"Why, of course not, at your age," she replied, and then, as he bent down from the saddle to study the sleek black head--from which she had now removed the hat--more closely, her feminine fears were aroused. "What is the matter?" she cried.

"I'm lookin' for the grey hairs," he said solemnly. "They seem to be plenty absent."

"Dios! But you scared me," she said, in real or pretended relief. "I thought that you had found some, or that a rattlesnake was looking over my shoulder. You are rather a disconcerting person, Mister Green."

"Yu know me?" the puncher queried.

"Of course," she smiled. "Your arrival created quite a sensation." Her voice sobered. "That poor Mister Purdie, and Kit was such a nice boy. Now, can you guess who I am?"

"No need to guess--yu must be Mrs. Lavigne," Sudden replied. "Someone was tellin' me about yu."

"Nothing bad, I hope?" she asked anxiously.

"No, it was a man," the puncher grinned. "He said yu were restful to the sight."

She laughed delightedly. "So you might venture to come and see me at `The Plaza,' " she suggested. "That is, if you are staying in Windy."

"I'm goin' to ride for Purdie," he told her.

The news struck the merriment from her face. She hesitated as though about to speak, and then put on her hat, settling it with a deft touch, stood up, grasped the reins of her pony and was in the saddle before he could dismount to help her.

"I'm goin' to town too," he suggested.

She shook her head. "No, no, my friend, but--you may come to see me," she smiled.

Ere he could remonstrate, the pony was racing along the trail. At the first bend, its rider turned in the saddle, waved gaily, and vanished, leaving the puncher pondering. Why had she changed when he told her he was to ride for the C P? The answer was not hard to find--he would be opposed to King Burdette, and King Burdette was what--to her? He patted the satiny neck of the black horse, which, in colour and sheen, matched the hair of the girl who had just left him.

"I'm bettin' she stampeded that pony," he said reflectively. "Nig, this yer neck o' the woods is a heap more dangerous than the governor man let on. The matrimonial noose is harder to dodge than a ha'r rope, an' we ain't got no time for foolishness. There's a tangle here to straighten out, an' then ..."

The furrow between his eyebrows came into evidence as his thoughts went to the quest which had sent him--a mere boy--prowling the country like a lone wolf. Years had been spent on it, and more were to pass ere its fulfilment, which has been told in another place.*

**

The Circle B ranch was a bachelor establishment. Old Man Burdette had lost his wife many years before he met his own untimely end, and the housekeeping and upbringing of the boys had devolved upon Mandy, a negress who had served the family nearly all her life.

The ranch-house was a pretentious one for the time and place. Two-storeyed, built of trimmed logs chinked with clay, it occupied a bench about half-way up the face of Battle Butte, and was reached by a rough, winding wagon-road from the valley. At the back of the building, the brush and tree-clad ground rose steeply. It was not an ideal location, and Old Burdette never forgave himself for not having a look at the other end of the valley. It was not until Purdie arrived and settled on Old Stormy that the firstcorner realized he had blundered, and this was the beginning of the ill-feeling between the families.

On the morning after the burial, Luce entered the big living-room and found his eldest brother awaiting him.

"What is it, King?" he asked. "Sim said yu wanted me."

The other nodded, and after a short pause, snapped out, "How come yu to shoot Purdie?"

*The Range Robbers, Geo. Newnes, Ltd.

"I didn't," was the quiet reply.

King grinned unpleasantly. "That tale's all very well for town, Luce," he said. "Here yu needn't be afeared to tell the truth."

"Which is what I'm doin'," the boy retorted, a shade of heat in his tone.

"Shucks, we ain't blamin' yu," his brother shrugged. "It was a damn good riddance, an' if of Purdie goes on the prod it gives us an excuse to show the C P where it gets off; we've owed 'em that ever since they downed Dad--an' before."

"It was never proved they did; an', anyways, the fella who shot Kit was a cowardly cur," Luce protested warmly. "Yu get this straight, King : if it was the work of a Burdette I'm ashamed o' bein' one, an' I'm through with 'em."

The older man's face grew dark with rage. "Takin' that tone, huh?" he sneered. "Well, let me tell yu---" He stopped, a sudden cunning in the fierce eyes. "All right, take yore truck an' clear out--the Burdettes is through with yu; we don't want traitors here," he finished savagely.

"I ain't that, an' yu know it," the younger man replied. "An' I'm not likely to raise my hand against my own flesh and blood, but that don't go for the bunch o' bar-scourin's yu got ridin' for yu now--toughs that Dad would 'a' quirted off the ranch, an' he warn't noways finicky."

King ripped out a blistering oath. Until this moment his authority, since his father's death, had been supreme at the Circle B, and to be defied by the one from whom he least expected opposition made him furious.

"Pull yore freight, pronto, or I'll use a whip on yu," he rasped.

Luce looked at him levelly. "Will yu?" he said quietly. "Not while I've got a gun, King; there's a limit to what I'll take, even from yu."

Getting no reply, Luce went out, and presently, from the window overlooking the valley, King watched him ride down the road. A bulky roll at the cantle of the saddle brought a sneer to the older man's lips.

"So yo're obeyin' orders, huh?" he muttered. "Well, yu got a lot o' things to learn yet, an' one of 'em is that it don't pay to cross me." He frowned at a thought. "Hell! I must be gettin' old--I nearly told him; that would 'a' been a bad break. As it is we've got him tied, an' can ride him till he drops. Didn't shoot Kit Purdie, eh? Wonder how far that'll get yu when yore own family ain't denying it?"

In the hope of gaining information before it became generally known that he had joined the C P, Sudden again spent the evening in "The Lucky Chance." He was sitting about half-way between the door and the bar, watching a game of poker, when Luce Burdette slouched in. Without a word to anyone, the boy paid for a drink and draped himself against the bar, indifferent to the glances--some of them far from friendly--sent in his direction. Almost on his heels came a party of three, two Mexicans and a half-breed named Ramon, who having been "given his time" by Purdie some months before, was now riding for Slype. These men ranged themselves next to Burdette, ordered liquor, and began to talk in low tones.

Sudden, suspecting that these men had a definite purpose, gave them all his attention. He saw the vaquero's malicious eyes furtively scanning the solitary figure by the bar, and noted that his voice was gradually becoming more distinct. Presently, in reply to a muttered remark by one of his companions, he laughed aloud.

"Nan Purdie?" he said derisively. "I tell you somet'ing 'bout her. At ze C P ze boys 'ave to lock ze bunk'ouse door nights to keep her out."

This infamous statement struck the room to an amazed silence, and then the brooding man at the bar came to life. His left hand gripped the traducer's shoulder, swinging him round, while his right fist, with fiendish fury, crashed on the fellow's jaw and sent him staggering and clutching to the floor; he looked up to find Burdette's gun covering him.

"Yu dirty liar," the young man grated. "Eat yore words, pronto, or yu go to hell right now."

The evil black eyes looked up into the flaming blue ones and found only death there; one twitch of the finger aching to press the trigger and the world would know Ramon the vaquero no more. He did not like to back down, but life was sweet. The half-breed had vanity, but no pride; there is a difference. He began to mutter.

"Speak up, yu bastard," Burdette warned. "This is yore last chance."

"W'at I say was a lie--I make it up," Ramon called out. "I not know anyt'ing against Mees Purdie."

With a shrug of contempt, Luce holstered his gun and turned back to the bar. Ramon got slowly to his feet, and then, as he saw the jeering expression on many of the spectators' faces, madness seized him. His hand flashed up, a wicked blade lying along the palm. Ere he could despatch it on its deadly errand, however, an iron clasp fell on his wrist, forcing the arm down and round behind his back.

"Drop it ! " came the curt order. "Or I'll shore bust yore wing."

Mouthing Mexican curses, the captive twisted like an eel, but he could not break that hold, and when his wrist began to nudge his shoulder-blades he squealed in agony and the weapon tinkled on the boards.

"Will some gent kindly open the door?" Sudden requested, and when this had been done, he forced the helpless half-breed to it, placed a foot in the small of the fellow's back, and straightened his leg. As though propelled from a gun, the victim shot over the sidewalk and ploughed into the dust of the street on his face. Sudden looked at the saloon-keeper.

"Sorry to make a ruckus in yore joint, Magee," he said.

"Ye done the roight thing, son," the Irishman replied. "I hope ye've bruk his lyin' neck."

The puncher picked up the dropped weapon; it was a short-handled, heavy throwing-knife, a deadly instrument in the hands of an expert. He balanced it for a moment in his fingers, his eyes on Ramon's companions, who were watching him uneasily.

"I guess that's a bullet-hole by the door there," he said. "Shure it is," smiled the proprietor. "Not the only wan neither."

Sudden's arm moved, and like a shaft of light itself the blade flashed through the air and sank deeply into the wall about half an inch from the target he had selected. He looked apologetically at his audience.

"I'm outa practice--ain't throwed a knife for quite a spell," he said. "Allasame, if it had been a fella's throat ..." He went on conversationally. "An old Piute chief taught me the trick--claimed he'd let the life outa ten men thataway. Dessay he was boastin' some--Injuns mostly do--but he certainly knew about knives." He turned to the Mexicans. "Yore friend is mebbe waitin' for yu," he suggested meaningly.

They slunk out like dogs who feared the whip, casting curious glances at the weapon in the wall, which they knew was there as a warning to themselves. With their disappearance the tension relaxed and interrupted games were resumed. Luce Burdette came over to the puncher.

"I'm obliged, but I dunno why yu interfered," he said. "If yo're ridin' for Purdie, as I hear, he won't thank yu."

"I ain't sold him my soul, an' if I had, Purdie would understand--he's a white man," the C P foreman said quietly. "Yu must be tired o' life to turn yore back on a snake like that; don't yu know his sort allus carries a sticker? 'Sides, if he'd pulled his gun he'd 'a' got yu, shore thing."

"Lot o' grief that would 'a' caused, wouldn't it?" the boy asked bitterly.

"I dunno," Sudden told him; "but I reckon that with skunks like that around Miss Purdie needs all her friends."

His chance shot hit the mark; this aspect of the matter brought a quick flush to Burdette's cheeks. "I hadn't looked at it thataway," he admitted, and pointing to an unoccupied table in a far corner of the room, added, "Can I have a word with yu?"

For some moments after they were seated the boy was silent, his moody eyes staring into vacancy. Then, in a low, strained voice, he began to talk:

"Just now yu saved my life, an' I expect I didn't seem none too grateful. Well, I wasn't, an' I'm goin' to tell yu why. Pretty near everybody in town figures I killed Kit Purdie; some are sayin' it openly, others think it but dasn't say so till they know how my brothers are goin' to take it. My refusin' to draw on Chris has got around, an' is regarded as a confession o' guilt. I wish I'd pulled an' let him get me."

"That ain't no way to talk. What do yore brothers think?"

The boy flushed angrily. "They allow I did it," he blurted out.

Sudden nodded comprehendingly. "It suits them," he pointed out. "I understand they've been tryin' to get Purdie to r'ar up for some time."

"I'm done with 'em--when King told me this mornin' to pull my freight from the Circle B he said somethin' he can't ever take back," Luce said passionately. "Ramon musta knowed 'bout that, or he'd never 'a' had the nerve to frame me. Yu shore yu didn't get a blink at the fella who fired the shot?"

"If I had I'd 'a' put a crimp in his getaway."

"Yu don't think it was me?"

"No, an' I told Purdie so."

Burdette's face cleared a little. "Thank yu," he said gratefully. "That's two friends I got."

Sudden fancied he could have named the other, but what he said was, "What yu aimin' to do?"

"Stick around an' clear myself," Luce said. "I'll be at the hotel if yu want me any time. I--I'd like to see yu," he finished with boyish eagerness.

"I'll be along," the puncher promised. "Mebbe we can help one another."

"Shore, but get me right," Luce insisted. "Though the Burdettes have shook me I'm not roundin' on 'em nohow, but"--he grinned mirthlessly--"I ain't related to their outfit. yu'll have to watch out for those hombres, an' that half-breed, Ramon, is pure pizen. 'Fraid I've fetched yu right up against Ol' Man Trouble."

"Him an' me have met afore, an' yu'll notice I'm still here," the puncher smiled.

When the boy had gone, Sudden drifted over to the bar, and Magee pushed forward a bottle, a look of perplexity on his face.

"Shure I can't foller your play, sorr," he said. "ye're a C P man, an' ye save the loife of a Burdette; that'll puzzle Purdie, I'm thinkin'."

Sudden looked at him quizzically. "I start with the C P to-morrow mornin'," he pointed out, "an' Luce finished with the Circle B to-day. Yes, sir, his family has turned him down cold."

The landlord whistled. "Odd that," he commented. "The Greaser knew av it too, or he'd niver 'a' dared raise a hand to a Burdette." He sipped his drink contemplatively. "So Luce is at outs wid his brothers, eh? Well, he was allus different to the rest av thim, an' I've seen the Old Man look queerly at him, as if wonderin' how he come to be in the nest. There'll be somethin' back o' his leavin' the Circle B, shure enough."

The puncher nodded, but did not pursue the topic. He liked Magee, and felt that he was straight, but he knew that he must walk warily in Windy for a while.

Chapter VI

WHEN the new foreman arrived at the C P ranch on the following morning, he found that the story of his little difficulty with the half-breed had preceded him, two of the outfit having been in town, and heard of, though they had not seen, the incident. Chris Purdie's face was not quite so genial when he greeted him.

"I didn't know the Burdettes was friends o' yores," was the oblique way he approached the subject.

Sudden's look was sardonic. "Did yu get all the story?" he asked.

"I heard yu saved young Luce's life, an' that was aplenty," retorted the ranch-owner.

"Mebbe I did, an' I'm bettin' yu'd 'a' done the same," was the reply, and the foreman went on to give the details.

When he heard of the vile insult offered to his daughter, Purdie's face flamed with fury.

"The dirty scum," he began.

"It was a plain frame-up," Sudden interrupted. "I'd say he was actin' on orders, an' whoever gave 'em knew Luce had left the Circle B."

"Left the Circle B?" the rancher repeated in surprise. "How come?"

"After the fracas I had a talk with young Burdette, an' he told me he was through with his brothers; they won't believe that he didn't kill yore son."

"An' they're dead right, too, though it's the first time I ever agreed with a Burdette," the old man said caustically.

"Yo're wrong, Purdie," the puncher urged. "I ain't no Methuselah, but I've met a mort o' men, an' I'll gamble that boy is clean strain. Why should he risk his life for yore girl's good name?"

"Dunno, 'less it was to avert suspicion."

Sudden shook his head. "He'd have to be a mighty quick thinker, the way it happened. No, sir, I'm so shore he's straight that in yore place I'd offer him a job to ride for the C P."

The cattleman laughed aloud at this amazing suggestion. "Yu bein' a stranger hereabouts, there's some excuse for yu," he said. "If I did that, folks would think I'd gone plumb loco, an' they'd be right. A Burdette workin' for the C P, huh? He'd be damn useful to them, wouldn't he? Why, it's more'n likely that's what they're playin' for. I ain't fallin' for that foolishness. Now, come along an' meet the men."

Sudden followed him to the bunkhouse; he was not convinced, but he recognized the futility of further argument. The morning meal was over, and the riders were awaiting orders. There were eight of them present, all young, and they looked a capable crew. Their employer's speech was brief and to the point:

"This is Jim Green, boys. Yu'll take orders from him in future, all same it was me."

Some of them nodded, others said "Howdy," and all of them studied the new foreman with narrowed, appraising glances. His eyes too were busy, and he early decided that none of the looks directed towards him was hostile.

"Where's Bill?" asked the rancher.

"He went down to the corral," said one. "I'll go fetch him."

"He's the daddy o' the outfit, an' the on'y one yu may have trouble with," Purdie said, for the foreman's ear only. "Been actin' sorta segundo to Kit, an' he's mebbe got ambitions. I'm leavin' yu to deal with him, yore own way; when I put a fella in charge I don't interfere."

He went out, nodding to an embarrassed outfit, and a foreman who, nonchalantly rolling a smoke, awaited the coming "trouble." For he felt pretty sure that the absence of the oldest hand was a premeditated gesture, the first move in a plan of protest against his appointment. There was an air of expectancy about the waiting men. From outside came a hail :

"Hey, Bill, the noo foreman wants to see yu."

"Is that so?" a rumbling voice replied. "Which I'm shorely sorry to keep His Royal 'Ighness waitin'. What's he like, this foreman fella?"

They could not hear the answer, but the deep voice was not so reticent. "So we gotta be bossed by a boy, huh?" it said.

"Well, Kit warn't no greybeard."

"He was the Old Man's son--future owner o' the ranch, which is some different. How do we know this yer hombre ain't been planted on us by the Circle B? He may've pulled the wool over Purdie's eyes, but he's gotta talk straight to me, yu betcha. Just yu watch yore Uncle Bill."

He swaggered through the bunkhouse door, and the new foreman's eyes twinkled when they rested on the short, sturdy figure, with its broad shoulders, long arms, and slightly-bowed legs, of this man he might have trouble with. The amusement was only momentary, and his face was gravity itself when he nodded to the newcomer. None of the outfit noticed that in removing his cigarette his fingers had rested for an instant on his lips; their attention was centred on their companion. What had come over him they could not imagine, but at the sight of the new foreman the belligerent frown had vanished, and his craggy, clean-shaven features expressed only goggling amazement.

"Yu wantin' me?" he had growled on entering, and straightway become dumb, one hand pushing back his big hat and revealing the straggly wisps of hair beneath.

"Glad to meet you, Mister...?" The foreman paused. "Yago--Bill Yago," the man replied like one in a dream.

"Shore," the newcomer nodded. "Purdie said yu would put me wise. Now, yu tell the boys what needs doin' today, an' then yu an' me'll take a look at the range."

"I'm a-watchin' yu, Uncle," whispered a voice.

Yago whirled round. "Yu, Curly, go get some wire an' mend the fence round The Sump," he ordered. "I had to pull two critters out'n her yestiddy."

The joker's face dropped in dismay; a coil of barbed wire is awkward to handle on foot; on horseback it becomes a pest; moreover, it was some distance to the quagmire, and if there is anything a cowboy thoroughly detests it is making or mending a fence.

"Aw, Bill..." the victim began.

"Beat it," Yago snapped, and proceeded to apportion work to the rest of the outfit.

Ten minutes later he and the new foreman were riding up the slope at the back of the ranch. Not until they were hidden by the pines did either of them speak, and then Yago turned to his companion.

"Jim, I'm almighty glad to see yu, but what in thunderation brung yu to these parts?" he asked.

Sudden's reply was incomplete.

"As for bein' glad, yu looked more like yu'd been struck by lightnin'," he smiled. "There's me, shiverin' in my shoes, waitin' for a big stiff to come an' crawl my hump, an' in sifts a ornery little runt like yu."

Yago's face creased up. "I shore declared war, didn't I?" he grinned, and then another aspect of the affair occurred to him. "Say, Jim, yu'll have to let me tell the boys who yu are."

"Yu breathe a word o' that an' I'll take yu to pieces an' put yu together again all wrong," the foreman threatened.

"But I gotta explain," the little man protested. "Hell's bells, Jim, they'll laugh the life out'n me."

"Yu can say I'm an old friend, an' seem' yu'll be my segundo, I reckon they'll let yu off light," Sudden conceded.

"Can't I just mention how yu stood up the posse that time an' kept my neck out of a noose?" Bill pleaded.

"Yu--can--not," was the decided answer. "Time yu forgot it yoreself. Yu an' me rode the same range back in Texas, an' so yu let me off that callin' over yu promised. Sabe?"

"Awright," Yago said resignedly. "Yu ain't told me why yu come here."

"For the same reason yu did, yu of pirut. The climate down south was gettin' hotter an' hotter, an' my medical man advised a change."

"Yu ain't on the dodge, Jim, are yu?" Bill asked anxiously. "Yu see, I heard o' yu from time to time."

Sudden's face grew grim. "I'll bet yu did--an' nothin' good," he said bitterly. "Bill, I'm shorely the baddest an' cleverest man in the south-west; I can rob a bank with one hand an', at the same time, hold up a citizen two hundred miles away with the other. I expect they are still fatherin' felonies on me right now."

Yago nodded understandingly; he knew how it was. Though his own past had been fairly hectic, he was credited with crimes he had not been guilty of. In the West, if the dog got a bad name he was hanged--if they could catch him. It was Sudden who broke the silence.

"D'yu figure Luce Burdette shot young Purdie?"

"Nope," was the instant reply. "Luce ain't like the rest of 'em--don't know how he come to be in Ol' Burdette's litter a-tall. More likely one o' the other boys, or some o' that gang o' cut-throats ridin' for 'em."

They had reached a point on the mountain-side where the trees thinned and became more stunted. Far below they could see the town, a huddled, unlovely collection of tiny boxes; a blot on the beauty of the valley with its varied green of foliage and grass; and stretches of grey sage. Behind them rose the bare, rocky fastnesses of Old Stormy.

"The C P range reaches to four-five miles out o' town," Yago explained. "Thunder River is our south boundary, an' our east line is Dark Canyon, the other side o' which lies the Diamond S, the marshal's lay-out."

Sudden nodded. He was studying the salient features of the mighty panorama before him; Battle Butte, bold and forbidding, at the far end of the valley, a fitting home for the Burdettes, unless their reputation belied them; the craggy, broken, jumbled country to north and south, with the black forests, stony ridges, and deep ravines. His first impression had been correct--it was a fierce and spacious land.

"Who's doin' the rustlin'?" he asked abruptly.

"How'd yu know 'bout that?" Bill said. "Purdie tell yu?"

"It was just a guess," the foreman admitted. He waved at the surrounding scenery. "The durned place was made for it."

"Yu allus was a good guesser, Jim," Yago told him. "Fact is, we are losin' some--few head at a time."

"It don't need no artist with a runnin' iron to turn a C P into a Circle B," Sudden said reflectively. "An' it would be a good way o' rilin' up Purdie."

"Which it didn't do, Purdie havin' the same idea."

"So they try somethin' stronger, an' shoot his son, huh?"

"Jim, yo're whistlin'," Yago ejaculated. "They've allus wanted this range--it's worth five times their own, an' besides"--he hesitated--"it's generally reckoned that somewheres in these rocks behind us is the source o' the goldfound in the river. Yes, sir, the Burdettes are out to drive the Purdies off an' glom on to their property; it ain't just a matter o' revenge."

Sudden was staring at Battle Butte, remembering the limp, pitiful form he had packed into town like a piece of merchandise. His face was hard, merciless, no trace of youth remaining. Yago knew that expression; he had seen it when the wearer was years younger--no more than a boy.

"We're goin' to have suthin' to say about that, Bill, yu an' me," the foreman said harshly. "Outfit to be depended on?"

"Shorest thing yu know," the other replied.

"Purdie said there was one of mosshead who would mebbe make trouble," Sudden said slyly, and Bill Yago swore.

"Yu'll have that trouble yet if yu overplay yore hand," he threatened. "What's that smoke mean?"

They had worked northwards, and were riding down the lower slope of the mountain, passing over rolling, grassy country studded with thickets, and broken here and there with brush-cluttered depressions. It was from the midst of one of these that a smudge of smoke corkscrewed into the still air, and they heard, faintly, the cry of a calf. The foreman looked at his companion.

"Any o' the boys carry irons?" he asked.

"Nope," Yago said, and even as he spoke, the tell-tale smoke died out. "We better look into this."

Side by side they raced for the spot, slowing up as they neared it. A wall of dense scrub sent them circling in search of an opening. They found it, a narrow, cattle-trampled path which zigzagged downwards to where a rude pole hurdle blocked the way. Removing this, they reached the edge of the brush, and saw that the floor of the hollow was grass-covered and bare of trees. A dozen cows and as many calves were grazing, but there appeared to be no humans. For some time the two men watched.

"They've punched the breeze," Bill said. "We just missed 'em, cuss the rotten luck!"

They walked their mounts to the nearest of the feeding beasts. One glance told the story; the C P brand had been rather clumsily changed to a Circle B. The state of the wounds showed that this had only just been done.

"Raw work," Bill commented, as he studied the rough conversion of the C into an indifferent circle and the added lower loop to the P. "But if they stayed cached here till the scars healed who's to say it ain't but a careless bit o' brandin'?"

"Mebbe," Sudden said thoughtfully, "though I've a hunch they was meant to be found. Guess we'll leave 'em here--there's plenty feed an' a spring. Don't say nothin' to anyone. If Purdie hears o' this he'll paint for war immediate an'--if I'm right--play into their hands."

On the far side of the hollow they found another narrow pathway, which accounted for their not having seen the brand-blotters. Following this up through the scrub, they emerged again into the open. Sudden smiled grimly.

"She's a neat little trap, all nicely baited, but the C P ain't goin' to be catched," he said. "Them poles was newly-cut."

Pushing further north, grass and sage gradually disappeared, their place being taken by sand, cactus, and mesquite. Presently they pulled up on the edge of a desolate welter of grey-white dust, the undulations of which, in the shimmering heat-haze, seemed to move like the surface of a troubled sea. To the far horizon it reached, dead, menacing, pitiless.

"She's thirty miles acrost, they say, an' me, I'm believin' it," Yago said in answer to a question. "Sandover is on the other side, but I ain't been there; I don't likedeserts nohow. Cripes! Makes me thirsty to look at her." His eyes followed those of the foreman to where the skeleton of a steer gleamed white in the sunshine. "No, we don't lose many thataway--the critters stay with the feed," he offered. "Went loco, mebbe."

They rode along the edge of the desert, heading east, and sighted a log shack with a sodded roof.

"Our line-house," Yago stated. "Wonder if Strip Levens is to home? Yu ain't seen him yet."

In answer to his hail, a long, lanky cowboy emerged from the shack, hand on gun, his narrowed, humorous eyes squinting at them from beneath the brim of his big hat.

"'Lo, Bill," he greeted. "Come to take over?--if so, you're damn welcome."

"We aim to feed with yu, Strip," Yago informed him, and waved in the direction of his companion. "This is Jim Green, our new foreman."

"Glad to meetcha," Strip smiled, and retired to make additions to the meal he was already preparing.

"He's a good fella, but he don't like this job; none of us does," Yago explained. "We takes her in turn, three-day spells; it's damn lonesome."

"What's the idea of a line-house out here?"

"We was losin' cows, an' Purdie figured Greasers from Sandover was snakin' 'em across the desert."

The appointments of the shack were primitive. A packing-case served as a table, and up-ended boxes, which had contained "air-tights," provided the seats. Two bunks, a stove, and shelves for stores of food and ammunition comprised the rest of the furniture. The fried bacon, biscuits, and coffee occupied the attention of all three men for a time, and then Yago asked a question.

"Anythin' new, Strip?"

"That there ventilation in my lid weren't there night before last," the cowboy replied, pointing to the Stetson he had pitched on one of the bunks.

The visitors examined the two bullet-holes through the crown of the hat; obviously the wearer had escaped death by a bare inch.

"How come?" Bill inquired.

"Yestiddy afternoon I was siftin' through Split-ear Gulch when some jigger cut down on me from the rim. The brush is pretty thick up there, yu know, an' all I could see was the smoke."

"Yu didn't stay to argue, I betcha."

"I'm here, ain't I?" was the grinned retort. "No, sir, when Mister man with the gun is all hid up an' yo're in the open is one time to find out if you're hoss has any speed. I did, an' he had, or yu'd 'a' cooked yore own eats."

"This is a two-man job," the foreman decided. "S'pose Levens had been crippled, we wouldn't 'a' knowed till his relief came out."

Leaving Strip greatly cheered by the prospects of a fellow-sufferer, the other two continued their journey. A few miles brought them to the brink of a winding chasm, a mighty crack in the earth's crust, which stretched left and right for miles. Less than a hundred yards in width, the bare, precipitous walls dropped steeply down to the stony floor beneath. Gazing into the shadowy depths, the foreman put a query.

"Dark Canyon--there's places where she's mighty gloomersome even in daylight," Yago told him. "Makes a good eastern boundary till the range drops down into the valley. The other side is Slype's land."

"What sort o' place has he got?"

"Pretty triflin'--on'y runs a few hundred head. Ramon an' his two Greasers must have an easy time."

At Sudden's suggestion they made their way to Split-ear Gulch and, after a painstaking search, found the spotwhere the bush-whacker had lain in wait for Strip. In the flattened, broken grass lay a spent cartridge--a .38. Not far away were the prints of a standing horse, and the surrounding bushes had been nibbled; a few hairs adhering to one of the branches afforded further evidence.

"Paint pony, nail missin' from the off fore, tied here a considerable spell," the foreman decided. "What sort o' hoss does Luce Burdette usually ride?"

"A grey an' he's a good 'un," Yago replied. "Yu don't think...?"

"Why not? It ain't so difficult," his friend grinned. "Yu oughta try it, Bill. After a bit o' practice."

Yago's reply was a short but pungent description of his new foreman, who laughed as he listened.

"Yore cussin' ain't improved any," he commented. "Yu repeated yoreself twice; yu gotta watch that, Bill. What say we call it a day?"

Yago agreed, and they headed for the ranch.

Chapter VII

WHEN Yago parted from his foreman at the corral he approached the bunkhouse with slowing steps. He knew perfectly well that the outfit would ride him unmercifully and that the only excuse he had to offer would be received with jeers. That there would be no malice in the proceedings helped a little, but Bill was conscious that he had made a fool of himself, and did not welcome the prospect of having it rubbed in, even good-humouredly. Most of the boys were there when he entered. For a moment silence reigned, and then Curly spoke :

"Bill, I'm right sorry; I've looked everyhere an' can't find it?""

"Can't find what, yu chump?" Yago incautiously asked.

"That nerve yu lost when yu saw the new foreman," came the swift answer.

"Aw, Bill didn't lose no nerve--he's kind-hearted, an' saw the foreman was young an'--Green," sniggered another.

"That warn't it neither," Lanty Brown chimed in. "Ain't yu never heard o' the power o' the human eye? Yu fix yore optic on a savage beast an' it stops dead in its tracks. That's what the foreman done."

"I've heard o' the power of the human foot on a silly jackass," the badgered man retorted. "If yu gotta know, I recognized Jim Green as an old friend."

As he had known, a yell of derisive laughter greeted the explanation.

"I knowed it was that," remarked a quiet, unsmiling youth, who, being named "Sankey," was known as "Moody" wherever he went. "Lemme tell yu the sad story. Long, long ago, Bill loved the foreman's mother--this, o' course, was before she was his mother--an' they were to be married. But, alas! Along comes a real good-lookin' fella, an' Bill lost out. So when he sees the boy whose daddy he oughta been..."

A storm of merriment cut the narration short, and in the midst of it Curly's voice made itself heard : "Yu got it near right, Moody, but it was the foreman's gran'mother Bill loved."

The improvement met with vociferous approbation, and when the uproar had subsided a little, Bill managed to get a word in.

"Yo're a cheerful lot o' locoed pups," he said. "Just bite on this--the foreman has made me segundo, an' if yu don't watch yore steps I'll shake shinin' hell outa yu."

The grin on his weathered features belied the threat, and with one accord they fell upon him. Under this human avalanche Bill disappeared, and furniture flew in all directions as members of the struggling mass sought for a bit of him to pat. "Hi, that's my ear yo're pulling off," came faintly from the depths of the heaving heap of profanity, and then, "Take yore blame' foot outa my mouth, yu mule," from another sufferer. "Don't yu go chawin' it--I ain't no dawg-food," panted the owner, striving desperately to recover limbs which appeared to have left him. In the height of the confusion the new foreman entered unobserved.

"Seen anythin' o' Yago?" he asked quietly, and then, as the tangled mass disintegrated into units again, permitting the breathless, dishevelled victim to emerge, he added softly, "An' a good time was had by all. Why for the celebration?"

"We was just congratulatin' Bill," Curly explained.

"On bein' the foreman's friend?" Sudden asked slyly.

"No, we're all hopin' to be that," the boy flashed back with a quick smile. "On bein' made segundo; an' I wanta say yu have shore picked the right man, an' that goes for all of us, I reckon."

A chorus of assent came from the others, and Sudden's eyes swept over them approvingly. "Purdie told me he had a good outfit--he was damn right," he said, and turning to his second in command, "Good thing they didn't each want a lock o' yore hair, Bill," with a sardonic glance at the sparse covering of his friend's cranium. "Yu feel able to hobble outside a minute?"

Yago was soon back. "Who's next on the slate for the line-house?" he inquired

"Me is, an' thank Gawd it's a day off yet," Moody replied.

"It ain't," Bill told him. "Yu start right after supper; there's allus to be two there in future. 'Nother thing, we gotta take turns watchin' the ranch-house, nights."

"What's the notion, Bill?" Curly wanted to know. "Anybody liable to steal it?"

"Dunno, but Jim don't do things for no reason," Yago said.

"I'll bet he don't," the boy agreed. "He has a thoughtful eye, that Jim fella." He nodded his head. "I'm thinkin' King Burdette's throne mebbe ain't so secure as he reckons."

Yago grinned. "There's times when yu come mighty near sayin' somethin' sensible," he complimented.

At supper that evening the foreman met the only member of the outfit he had not yet seen, a hatchet-faced youth with a beak of a nose and a saturnine expression, who was presented to him as "Flatty." Sudden's look was a question.

"Real name is Watson, but a piece ago we had to rechristen him," Yago said, and chuckled. "It was shorely funny."

"Tell the yarn, Bill; we didn't all see it," someone urged.

"Well, it was this away," Yago began. "Flatty goes out without his slicker--which was plumb careless--gets wet, an' complains plenty persistent o' pains in his back. It's clear he's sufferin' from rheumatism. Moody claims to know a shore cure, an' Flatty admits he's willin' to try anythin' --once. `Once'll be enough,' Moody tells him, an' as things turned out he was dead right. Follerin' instructions, the patient strips to his middle an' lays face down on the bunkhouse table. Moody spreads a blanket over him, fetches a hot flat-iron from the kitchen, an' begins to run it up an' down Flatty's back. `Which if I had a straight iron I could brand you good an' proper,' he remarks. The patient makes noises signifyin' satisfaction.

"But it ain't too long before Moody discovers that pushin' a heavy flat-iron aroun' is tirin' to the wrist. `This launderin' o' humans is shorely no picnic,' he says, an' stops to spit on his han's an' take a fresh holt. But he forgets that a hot iron gets in its best work standin' still. It don't take the invalid no time a-tall to find this out; he lets go a whoop that would 'a' turned an Injun green with envy an' arches his back like a buckin' pony. The iron mashes two o' Moody's toes, but he don't wait; Flatty's face, emergin' from under the blanket, looks to him like the wrath o' God, an' he aims to be elsewheres when the lightnin' strikes. He makes the door a healthy flea's jump ahead an' points for the small corral, plannin' to climb a hoss, but Flatty is crowdin' him, an' he has to run round it. His busted foot handicaps him, but the pursuin' gent ain't got no suspenders an' has to hold his pants up, which evens things some. Also, Flatty ain't savin' his breath, an' the things he asks his Creator to do to Moody yu wouldn't hardly believe.

"It was shorely funny to see them two skippin' round the corral like a coupla jack-rabbits, Flatty without a stitch above his middle, an' the big red brand o' the iron showin' clear on his back. They does the first lap in record time, an' then Flatty's luck breaks--he stubs his toe on a stump an' flings his han's up to save hisself. An', o' course, that's the minit Miss Nan appears, comin' to get her pony. Flatty gives her one horrified look, grabs his slippin' pants, an' streaks for the bunkhouse. Moody pulls up an' tries to look unconcerned.

"What on earth is the matter with Watson?" Miss Nan asks.

"Just a li'l race," Moody explains. "I bet I could beat him even if he stripped.

"Yo're the poorest liar in the outfit," Miss Nan smiles, an' to this day Moody don't know whether she meant it as a compliment. We gets Flatty smoothed down after a bit--not with the iron this time--an' he consents to let Moody go on breathin', but he'll carry that brand till he caches."

"Which Miss Nan shorely saved yore triflin' life," Flatty grinned at the other actor in the comedy.

"Shucks, I had yu beat a mile," Moody retorted. "What yu gotta belly-ache about, anyways--I cured yu."

The wrangle went on, good-humoured, mordant jests which showed the men were real friends. Sudden listened with a smile; he felt he was going to like this outfit.

About two hours later the new foreman of the C P rode into Windy, added his horse to the dozen or so already attached to the hitch-rail outside "The Plaza," and stepped inside. Smaller than "The Lucky Chance," the saloon differed in little else save that it was rather more ornate; mirrors, and pictures of a sort, adorned the walls, which were of squared logs, and the tables and chairs were of better quality. In many little ways the hand of a woman made itself evident.

But if "The Plaza" was no more than a commonplace Western saloon, it possessed one feature which raised it above the rut--its owner. Seated behind the bar, she looked like a fine jewel in a pinch-beck setting. Her beautiful black hair, plaited and coiled upon her small head, was held in place by a great Spanish comb set with red stones. A flame-coloured dress of silk revealed neck and arms, and on her white bosom, suspended by a slender chain of gold, was a single ruby, gleaming like a new-spilt spot of blood. She had been chatting to the bar-tender and regarding the scene with the indifference of use, but her eyes lit up when Sudden, hat in hand, stepped up to the bar.

"Ah, my so brave caballero has come to veezit ze poor --how you say--tenderfoot?" she greeted.

"Shucks," he smiled, as he took the slim white hand she extended. "I ain't no more a caballero than yu are a Greaser, an' that pony warn't wantin' to get away from yu--hosses have sense."

She clapped her hands softly. "A compliment, not so?" she laughed.

"Yu oughta know," he said. "Reckon yu get a-plenty."

A little shadow flitted across her face. "True, my friend," she said soberly. "And what are they worth? I'd give them all for one honest word of censure." Then the dancing lights came back into her eyes. "Not that I don't get any of that, you know. Oh yes, from my own sex especially. I am a wicked woman, a brazen hussy, and you'll lose your character if you speak to me."

The cow-puncher grinned. "Fella can't lose what he ain't got--I'm a pretty desperate person my own self," he bantered, for the bitterness behind her gay tone was very apparent. "Also, I never did allow anyone to pick my friends for me."

He saw her face change. "Hell! what's that fool trying to do?" she cried.

Trouble had started at a neighbouring table. A big, blue shirted miner with a coarse, liquor-bloated face was on his on his feet fumbling for a gun at his hip and mouthing curses.

In an instant the girl had slipped from her seat.

"Lemme 'tend to this," Sudden suggested.

"No, I can handle it," she replied.

Raising the flap, she stepped from behind the bar and three quick strides brought her to the trouble-maker just as his weapon left the holster. The men he had been playing with were standing, hands on their own guns, watching him uncertainly.

"Put that gun back and get out of here," the woman said sharply.

The man looked at her, standing slim and straight before him, and for a moment it seemed that he would obey. Then from somewhere in the room came a laugh which bred shame in the drink-sodden mind.

"Yu go to hell," the fellow said thickly. "Think I'm goin' to be ordered about by a booze-slingin'..."

Hardly had the vile epithet left his lips when the girl's hand swept across his cheek with a slap which rang out like a pistol-shot and drew an oath of pain and surprise from the recipient.

"You dirty beast!" she cried, her tone tense with passion. "Vamoose, or I'll send you out on a shutter."

For a few seconds the bloodshot, liquor-glazed eyes fought with the flaming black ones, and fell. In the girl's left hand, held steadily at her hip, was a tiny nickel-plated revolver--a toy, a man would have said--but it was sufficiently powerful to take life at such close range. Without another word the drunkard turned and staggered weavingly from the saloon. When Mrs. Lavigne returned to her place behind the bar her look at the puncher was defiant, as though she dared him to criticize her action.

"I won't stand for that sort of thing here," she said.

"Yu shore have nerve, ma'am," Sudden said, and meant it. His admiration brought the smile back to her lips.

"Pooh! He knew the boys would blow him to bits if he laid a finger on me," she pointed out.

"Fella in that state is liable to act without thinkin'," he said, and then, "For a tenderfoot, yu got that gun out pretty pronto."

"I was born and bred in the West," she explained, and when he smilingly suggested that she had lost a customer, shrugged her dainty shoulders.

"He'll be in to-morrow to beg my pardon," she told him confidently. "Liquor, if he takes enough of it, will make a fool of any man."

"An' yet yu sell it," he said, and was immediately sorry when he noted the tiny furrow between her brows.

"Someone else would if I didn't, and I have to live," she retorted, and then the even white teeth shut down on a single word, "Damnation!"

A newcomer had entered the saloon, a tall, dark man, carefully dressed in cowboy costume and wearing two guns. Though this was the first time he had seen him, Sudden knew this must be Kingley Burdette. With a condescending nod here and there, the fresh arrival strode to the bar and swept off his hat so elaborately as to make the gesture a mockery.

"Evenin' honeybird. Who's been rufflin' yore pretty plumage?" was his familiar greeting, and then, without waiting for a reply, "Gosh, but I'm thirsty."

"Ted will serve you," she said coldly, and beckoned to the bar-tender.

"He will not," Burdette answered. "A drink poured by yore fair hands will taste ten times nicer than one from Ted's paws, which, though doubtless useful, are far from ornamental."

"As you will," she said indifferently, and filled a glass.

"Here's how, carissima," he toasted. His eyes dwelt possessively upon her and then travelled to the cowpuncher?" "Yo're Green, I reckon; I wanted to see yu."

"Yo're King Burdette, I reckon; take a good look," Sudden mimicked, in the same insolent tone the other had used.

"I hear yo're huntin' a job," Burdette went on, and the sneer was very palpable.

"Someone's been stringin' yu--I ain't doin' no such thing," the puncher replied.

"Well, it don't matter, but Luce havin' cut adrift from the Circle B I could use another rider," King said carelessly. "When yu get tired a' washin' dirt yu might look me up."

Sudden smiled sardonically; the patronizing air both galled and amused him. He struck back. "Mebbe I will, but I warn yu I'm shy o' practice with a runnin' iron."

He saw the blood show redly in the sallow cheeks and the dark eyes narrow to pin-points. Burdette's voice now had an edge on it.

"Meanin'?"

"Just what I said. Dessay I could change a C P into a Circle B--it's an easy play. See yu later--mebbe."

He lifted his hat to Mrs. Lavigne, nodded casually to Burdette, and went out. The Circle B man stared after him, perplexed and scowling.

"Fresh fella, huh?" he growled. "What the hell was he drivin' at? An' where does the C P come in?"

"He's riding for Purdie," Lu Lavigne pointed out.

"The devil he is," King said, and his frown was darker. "Damn him, he was laughin' at me." He glanced up and found that the puncher was not the only one to take such a liberty; there was a demure twinkle in the girl's eyes; she was avenging herself for his insolence in the presence of a stranger.

"Tickles yu, does it?" he sneered. "Think yu got another admirer? Forget it. When he's been at the C Pa day or so an' met Nan Purdie he won't give yu a second thought. She's growed up, that kid, without anybody noticin', an' I'm tellin' yu, she's the prettiest bit o' stuff this side o' the Mississippi. Add too, with Kit outa the way that she'll get the C P, an' is good, an' yu can reckon up yore chances."