Sudden Makes War

Sudden Makes War

Oliver Strange

*

Chapter I

"I'm lookin' for a man."

The words--of sinister import in the West--arrested the attention of everyone within hearing, and had the desired effect of collecting a crowd of the curious. Yet the speaker had not the appearance of one engaged upon an errand of vengeance. A youthful cowboy--he was no more than twenty --in town for a spree, seemed to explain him. So thought at least one of the onlookers.

"Young Dan Dover o' the Circle Dot ranch over to Rainbow," he told an enquirer. "Now what in 'ell is he after? They ain't got no money to throw about."

" 'Pears like they have," was the reply.

For the object of their interest, standing on the raised platform before the Paradise Saloon, his Stetson pushed jauntily back to disclose curly hair of a particularly aggressive shade of red, had produced two gold pieces--double eagles--and a Mexican silver dollar. With these he began to perform the elementary conjuring trick of passing the coins from hand to hand, keeping one in the air. It was not much of a show, and in an Eastern town would have attracted little notice, but in this far-flung outpost of civilization, it held his audience and brought others.

"The man I'm in search of has gotta have nerve," the young man announced, his narrowed gaze sweeping over the spectators, "an' be able to use his hardware. The fella who can stand the test, pockets these two twenties an' gets the offer of a worth-while job. Don't all speak at once--I on'y got one pair o' ears."

"Good long 'uns, though," one of the crowd chuckled.

"An, that's terrible true, brother," the youth replied, with whimsical gravity. "I have to keep 'em pared down to get my hat on."

The onlookers laughed and continued to enjoy the entertainment, unaware that while the performer's eyes appeared to be occupied solely with his trick, they were, in fact, closely scanning the faces about him. Tradesmen, teamsters, half-breeds, drummers, and loafers--he could place them all, and shook his head slightly.

"I'm outa luck--there ain't an outfit in town," he muttered.

For Sandy Bend boasted a railway station, from which a single branch line travelled East, and was therefore a shipping point for cattle. Only among the reckless sons of the saddle could he hope to find what he sought. He let the coins drop into his right hand, closed, and opened it again. One was missing.

"Now where has that pesky Mex dollar got to?" he mused. With an exaggerated frown of perplexity he displayed the palms of both hands; they were empty. "Blame it, the twenties have gone too; must be floatin' around." His right fist clawed at the air, and when the fingers unclosed again, there were the three coins. "Dead easy," he commented. "The on'y difficult part is gettin' the gold to start with."

Applause greeted the feat, and some of the audience began to drift. The conjurer grinned knowingly.

"Don't go away, folks; this is a free show an' I ain't comin' round with a hat," he assured. "Shorely there must be one o' you who could use forty bucks."

He was talking at one man, whose presence the movement of others had uncovered. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a lithe, athletic frame, black hair, cold grey-blue eyes, and a lean, hard-jawed face, he was lounging against a hitching-post on the outskirts of the crowd, watching the scene with satirical amusement. No dandy cowboy this; the plain leathern chaps, woollen shirt, and high-crowned hat all bore signs of wear; even the silk kerchief knotted loosely round his neck was of sombre hue, and the two guns, hanging low on his thighs with the holsters tied down, were not fancy-butted. Red-head chinked the coins in his hand, eyes on the stranger.

"Who'll take a chance?" he asked.

The look made the words a direct challenge, and the man by the hitching-post seemed to accept it as such. He stepped forward, moving with an indolent ease which suggested the latent powers of a great cat.

"I'll try anythin'--once," he drawled. "What's yore proposition?"

The young man suppressed a smile of triumph. "It's right simple," he replied. Slipping his first finger and thumb round the silver coin, he held it at arm's length. "All you gotta do is let me shoot that out'n yore grasp at twelve paces."

The black-haired cowboy's face was expressionless. "Yu ain't lackin' in nerve yore own self," he said slowly.

The crowd agreed. The slightest deviation would result in a smashed hand for the holder of the target, and though there were many of them to whom forty dollars meant temporary affluence, not one was prepared to take such a risk. The maker of the offer knew what they were thinking, and confined himself to the man before him.

"The twenties is just a circumstance," he mentioned. "Point is, will you gamble?"

The grey-blue eyes studied those of the questioner with grave intentness, and then, "I tote two guns; cripplin' one paw won't stop me usin' the other."

"Which is where I gamble," the conjurer grinned.

"I'll go yu," was the quiet reply. "Yon's a good place."

He pointed to the blank wall of a stout log building across the street. Deftly catching the coin the other flipped in his direction, he moved through the crowd, which split into two lines. Dover followed, placed him in position, and then returned, counting off the paces.

"What's his game?" one of the bystanders queried. "He don't seem the showin'-off kind."

"you can search me, but he'd better make the shot," replied a neighbour. "That other fella's no kind to fool with. Look at him--just as unconcerned as a corpse."

It was true; resting comfortably against the building behind him, the man who was to be shot at appeared to be the least interested of those present. Only when he saw that the other had taken up his place and was waiting did he straighten up and extend his left arm. Framed in finger and thumb, the disc of silver twinkled in the sunlight; it presented a perilously small mark, but the audience sensed that something more than mere cowboy conceit was behind the exhibition.

"Gosh! there ain't no margin for a mistake, 'less he misses the hand complete," was one comment.

"He won't do that; these cowpunchers can all shoot."

Silence ensued as the marksman drew his six-shooter, flung the muzzle upwards, and chopped down on the target. For a long moment he held it poised, squinting through the sights, and then pulled the trigger. The report was followed by a cheer from the breathless watchers as they saw the coin driven from the holder's fingers, hit a log, and drop in the sand. Amidst a hum of approbation, the stranger thrust his left hand into the pocket of his chaps, picked up the silver piece, and pitched it to Dover.

"Now it's yore turn," he said.

The grin of triumph on the young cowboy's face faded a little.

"What's the idea?" he asked.

"Yu mentioned a fella who can shoot," the other reminded. "I'm aimin' to ease yore mind thataway."

The grin had gone now, but a snigger from someone nearby brought it back. The boy was game.

"Fair enough," he admitted.

The crowd, eager for more excitement, lined up again as the two men took their places. The stranger, left hand still in his pocket, waited until he saw that Dover was ready, and then.... No one of the onlookers could have sworn to seeing the loosely-hanging right hand move, but the gun was out, hip-high, and the spirt of flame followed instantly. Again the coin was torn from its frame and hurled against the timber. The speed of the draw, apparent lack of aim, and amazing accuracy had an almost paralysing effect on those who saw it.

"Gawda'mighty!" ejaculated one. "That's shootin', that is."

Dover himself was staggered, but he was also jubilant. He hurried to congratulate. "Never seen anythin' like it," he said. "Figured I could use a six-gun, but hell! I'm on'y a yearlin'. Say, my throat's fair crackin'; let's irrigate."

They adjourned to the saloon and selected a table in a quiet corner. Their drinks sampled, Dover fished out the Mexican dollar and examined it curiously; there was a dent in the middle, and another on the edge. He pointed to the former.

"Guess that's mine, seein' the care I took," he said.

The other smiled, reached out his "makings" and began to fashion a cigarette. There was a smear of blood on his left hand; the Circle Dot man's eyes widened."I'm guessin' again," he said. "I'm right sorry."

"Shucks, it's on'y a graze. Mebbe I moved a mite," was the careless reply. The tell-tale stain was wiped away. "Well, s'pose we get acquainted. I'm James Green, of No place, Nowhere, an' powerful fond o' new scenery."

"Pleased to meet you," the other replied. "I'm Dan Dover. My dad owns the Circle Dot range at Rainbow, 'bout fifty mile on from here. Mebbe you know it?"

Green shook his head. "This is my furthest west." His steady gaze rested on his companion. "What's yore trouble?"

"Did I mention any?" came the counter.

"No, but a fella doesn't come such a caper as this for fun. At first I thought it was a bluff, but when I called it an' yu went through, I knowed different."

"Well, yo're right, there's trouble to spare, an' more ahead unless I'm wide o' the trail. I want a man--a real one, to help me deal with it."

"My guns ain't for sale," the stranger said curtly.

"I don't want 'em, but the fella who comes to us has gotta be able to protect hisself; we've had a hand killed an' two more crippled pretty recent."

"How come?"

"Shot from cover--every time," Dover informed bitterly. "Sounds bad. Got any suspicions?"

"Plenty, an' nothin' else. See, here's the layout: the Circle Dot ain't a big ranch--'bout a thousand head just now--times is poor, but it owns good grazin' an' water--a stream from the Cloudy Hills runs right through our land."

"Plenty water is shore an asset."

"Yo're shoutin', but it can be a liability. The Wagon-wheel, located east of us ain't so well fixed. They tried to buy us out--at their figure--but we wasn't interested, an' that started the feud."

"Feud, huh?"

`Yeah. I warn't but a little shaver in them days--mebbe it's ten year ago, an' Dad don't talk much. Gran'dad owned the ranch then. He was a hard case; straight as a string, but mighty set in his ideas--it's a family failin', I guess. He was the first to go; they found him laid out in a gully one mornin', with two slugs in his back. There was no evidence, an' not much doubt either--the Wagon-wheel had been pretty free with their threats. Tom Trenton, father o' the present owner, just grinned when my uncle Rufe--Dad's elder brother--taxed him with the crime. Rufe was a red-head--all the Dovers are--an' he pulled his gun, but bystanders grabbed his arms, an' Tom went away with a gibe. Oh, he'd 'a' shot it out willin' enough; there ain't no cowards in the Trenton family."

"Yore gran'dad was downed from behind," came the reminder.

"Yeah, that's one o' the things I can't understand; from all I've heard, finishin' a fella thataway wouldn't 'a' give Tom Trenton much satisfaction. Sounds odd, I guess, but I.."

"He'd have wanted the other to know; I've met that sort."

"Well, however it may have been, he didn't have long to crow, for a coupla months later he was picked up half a mile from the Wagon-wheel with a bullet between the eyes; his gun was lyin' near, but it hadn't been fired. There was a lot o' talk, near everybody reckoned Rufe had done it, an' as the Trentons owned the sheriff--an' do now--he had to pull his freight. Allasame, that didn't end or mend matters; the quarrel dragged on, an' like a slow fire, flared up at intervals. Dad is carryin' round some slugs, but he don't weigh much anyways, an' Zeb Trenton has a limp he warn't born with. For some years now there's on'y been bad feelin' till a few months back when the trouble started again. That's why I'm here."

"Meanin' yu an' yore father can't handle it?" Green said.

"Just that," was the frank reply. "Dad ain't the man he was afore we lost mother--it seemed to take the heart out'n him--an' me, I s'pose I'm kind o' young. Our boys is a good bunch, but they need a leader, someone with more savvy than a kid they've watched grow up."

Green was silent for a while, considering the curious tale to which he had listened. He was not enamoured of the proposal, but liked the maker of it. The boy was straight, modest, and possessed the pluck to take his own medicine, as the shooting incident proved. His mind went back to a little ranch in Texas; he had been just such another youth. But the world had used him roughly since then, moulding him into a man, experienced, dangerous, and when occasion demanded, ruthless. It had also given him another name. For this was "Sudden," whose daring exploits and uncanny skill with weapons had earned an unenviable reputation in the southwest.' Presently he made his decision. "I'll see yore Ol' Man."

Dover's relief was obvious. "I'm right glad," he said, and then, awkwardly, "Anythin' holdin' you in this dump?"

The other smiled. "I can start straight away if yo're ready."

"I've got a call to make at a ranch 'bout five mile north. Mebbe you wouldn't mind goin' ahead. You see, I didn't like leavin'--Dad's venturesome--just refuses to realize how real the danger iS."

"Then he won't be expectin' me?"

"No, but any traveller is welcome at the Circle Dot, an' once yo're there, I guess I can get him to see the light. I oughta told you this before, but--" He bogged down, and then added, "If he'd knowed why, he wouldn't 'a' let me come."

Green nodded; he had a mental picture of the rancher, proud, independent, a man who had fended for himself all his life, and little likely to admit that misfortune and growing years had lessened his ability still to do so. He knew the type, rugged, sturdy fellows, who would fight to their last gasp of breath against any aggression. The boy before him would follow the same pattern, if Fate so willed it. He grinned back at the smiling but anxious eyes.

"I'll take a chance," he said, and rose.

"Dessay I'll overtake you if I can persuade the owner o' that black in the corral to sell."

"He won't part."

"You seem mighty shore. Is he a friend o' yores?"

"That's somethin' I've never been able to decide," the gunman said with a sardonic twinkle. "Yu see, the black is mine."

Dover's expression was rueful. "Cuss the luck. Saw him this mornin' when I turned my bronc in; I never come so near to bein' a hoss-thief. Made up my mind to buy him if it busted me. He's a peach."

"He's a pal," was the grave reply, and the young man--to whom also a horse was more than a beast of burden--understood.

"Well, life's full o' disappointments, ain't it?" he rejoined cheerfully. "I guess I won't be overhaulin' you; Thimble is a /Related in Sudden--Outlawed. George Newnes Ltd.

good li'l cowpony, but in a race that black would make him look like he was standin' still. See you at the Circle Dot, an' o' course, we're strangers. If Dad thought I was puttin' one over on him, he'd dig his heels in an' a team o' mules wouldn't make him budge. But don't get a wrong impression; he's the finest fella I ever knowed, but he's got his own ideas."

Green laughed. "I'm a mite thataway my own self," he confessed. "A saplin' what sways with every wind ain't the tree to trust yore weight to."

Chapter II

"Shore is an up-an'-down country, an' any fella what likes his scenery mixed couldn't rightly complain."

It was late in the afternoon, and the black-haired man from Sandy Bend, in default of other companionship, was communing with his horse. The deeply-rutted trail he had been following, after a steady climb, brought him to a small plateau which afforded a view of what lay before. It was a daunting spectacle for the unaccustomed eye--a vast rampart of grey-spired, arid-topped mountains, their lower slopes shrouded by dense growths of yellow and nut-pine, stretched along the horizon beneath the slowly sinking sun. They did not seem remote, but the traveller knew they must be about forty miles distant. Between them and where he sat lay a jumble of lesser hills, interspersed by valleys, sandy stretches of sage, grease-wood, and cactus, with innumerable tracts of timber.

"Reckon we can't be far from that Rainbow town," Sudden continued. "I guess we won't trouble it. If that young fella was correct, headin' south a bit should fetch us to the Circle Dot, havin' o' course, lost our way. Might happen to anyone, Nigger, 'specially a fool hoss, huh?" At the mention of the name, the black head swung round, the lips curled back from the white teeth. "That's right, grin while yu can, yu of pie-buster, for I've a notion we'll have little to be amused about as time ticks along."

He rode on for a mile or so and came to a spot where the wagon-road forked, one branch leading southwest. This was a smaller and less-used trail, formed--as the tracks showed--mainly by cattle and horses. Sudden swung into it.

"Shore oughta be a ranch at the end of it," he soliloquized. "Which one don't matter much to a stranger."

The trail proved easy to travel, winding snake-like to avoid obstacles such as steep inclines, gullies, and thick plantations of trees, all of which would render the passage of a herd difficult. Some miles were covered at an easy pace, and then the muffled report of a rifle shattered the almost absolute stillness. The horse pricked up its ears, and the rider spoke soothingly:

"Easy, boy, it can't be us they're after," he said. "Too far in front, an' we ain't got enemies around here--yet. Allasame, we'll be careful."

A pressure of a knee and the animal lengthened its stride. Sudden, no longer sitting slackly in the saddle, kept keen eyes on the path they were following. There were plenty of quite innocent reasons for the shot, but he was reaching the region of a range war, and ... A mile was traversed without further incident, and he was beginning to blame himself for over-caution when he turned into a sandy gully, the sides of which were hidden by brush. Here, nibbling at the tussocks of coarse grass along the edge of the trail was a saddled pony, and a few yards away, a man sprawled, face downwards.

To all appearance, he might have been thrown by his mount, but an ugly red stain between the shoulder-blades pointed to a more sinister explanation. Standing beside the body, Sudden saw it was that of a man on the wrong side of fifty, with thinning grey hair, and deeply-lined features. His eye caught the Circle Dot brand on the grazing horse; what Dan Dover feared had come to pass. The gunman's face grew grim.

"The cowardly skunk never gave him a chance," he muttered, and with a glance at the enclosing walls of vegetation, "Hell, he picked the right place too; small hope o' findin' any traces."

Nevertheless, he fixed in his mind the exact position of the corpse in case it might assist in locating the spot whence the shot was fired. Then he bent to examine the wound; the bullet had smashed into the spine, and death must have been instant.

"stick 'em un. pronto!"

At the harsh command the stooping man straightened--slowly, to face four horsemen whose approach the soft, sandy floor of the ravine had deadened. Looking unconcernedly into the muzzles of four rifles, he raised his hands, but only far enough to hook the thumbs into the armholes of his vest.

"Howdy, gents," he greeted. "I'm glad to see yu."

"Mebbe," the one who had spoken before said dryly. "What's goin' on here?"

He was a short, weedy fellow of middle-age, whose naturally cunning expression was enhanced by a pronounced obliquity of vision. A straggling moustache drooped around and over a weak mouth and inadequate chin. Even the star, prominently pinned to his flannel shirt, could not endow him with dignity. Sheriff Foxwell, commonly called "Foxy" by friend and foe, was not a likeable person.

"Mile or so back on the trail I heard a shot, an' then I find--this," Sudden replied, pointing to the dead rancher.

"Why, it's Ol' Man Dover!" one of the party cried.

They closed in on the prostrate-figure, thereby cutting off possible retreat by the man standing beside it. If he sensed the significance of this manoeuvre--and he could scarcely fail to do so--his demeanour was unchanged. The sheriff climbed clumsily from his horse.

"Shore is," he said, "an' cashed all right. Plugged in the back, an' his own gun in the holster. Where's his rifle?"

"On his hoss," Sudden informed.

"Huh! Looks like a bush-whackin', but why?" Foxy questioned. He stooped and explored the dead man's pockets, producing a sizeable roll of currency. "That don't point to robbery, unless--the fella was interrupted." His squinting eyes rested on the stranger.

"Nobody in sight when I arrived."

"Mebbe this gent'll tell us somethin' about hisself," an older man suggested.

The sheriff looked sourly at him. "I'm handlin' this, Hicks," he reminded, "but as you've butted in we might as well know what this hombre is doin' around here."

"I'm on my way to the Circle Dot," Sudden said quietly, and anticipating the obvious question, "I was hopin' to land a job."

The officer's eyes were sharp with suspicion. "Happen to be acquainted with Dover?"

Never heard of him till this mornin'," was the indifferent reply. "But I happen to be acquainted with cattle."

The sheriff shrugged his shoulders. " 'Pears an open an' shut case to me," he said. "You admit yore errand was to meet him, an' we find you standin' over his dead body, just about to search him, seemin'ly. Well, there's plenty trees, an' you got yore rope, Jed, I see."

The man addressed, a lanky, raw-boned individual, nodded, and patted the looped lariat on his saddle-horn. Sudden looked at the puny maker of this swift decision with satirical disdain.

"If yo're tryin' to throw a scare into me I'm tellin' yu it's a waste o' time--I'm no greenhorn," he remarked.

"Nary scare," was the cool retort. "We're just naturally goin' to hang you, that's all."

"Well, it's a relief to know yu ain't aimin' to roast me at a slow fire, but has it occurred to yu that as I entered the gully from this end, an' the shot--by the position o' the body--must 'a' come from the other, there's a flaw in yore evidence? Any one o' yu might 'a' done it, but I couldn't."

"Skittles! You'd make yore arrangements, o' course, shiftin' the corp to fit yore story."

"Knowin' yu were comin', no doubt."

"Now, that's where you slipped up," Foxwell countered, an ugly grin on his thin lips.

The threatened man realized that the fellow was in earnest, and would carry out this monstrous injustice. He appealed to the others.

"Yu standin' for this?"

Hicks answered. "It's the sheriff's business, but what about takin' him in, Foxy, an'--"

"Like you say, it's my business," the officer cut in angrily. "Here's a respected citizen foully done to death, an' we catch the culprit red-handed. Rainbow's had too many o' these killin's an' I'm goin' to stop 'em. Jed, git ready.' Before any of them could move, Sudden leapt backwards, thus bringing all the men in front of him. At the same instant, his hands swept his hips and both guns came out. So swift and unexpected had the action, been that the riders had no time to level the rifles held across their knees. Now it was too late; the man they had deemed to be in their power, had them in his; and it was a different man, a tense, half-crouching figure instinct with menace.

"Get ready yoreself, Sheriff, to hop into hell," he said. "I can down the four o' yu in as many seconds." And to the horsemen, "Drop them guns an' reach for the sky, or by the livin' God ..."

The weapons fell into the sand, and four pairs of hands were uplifted, but not in prayer. The sheriff's face had become a sickly yellow, and he was the first to obey the order, a fact which brought a cold smile from the giver of it.

"That's better," he commented. "Now yu be good li'l boys an' no harm will come to yu--mebbe."

"Yo're resistin' the Law," Foxwell spluttered fatuously.

"Me?" was the surprised retort. "Why, I ain't resistin' any. Start the game, Sheriff; it's yore deal."

The taunted officer was saved the necessity of replying by the arrival of a new factor. Into the ravine from the Sandy Bend direction loped a rider. He pulled up when he reached the group of men. Sudden swore under his breath; it was young Dover.

"You caught me up after all," he said. "But yo're too late."

The boy gave one glance at the body, sprang from his saddle,

and knelt beside it. "Dad!" he cried, and then, as the full extent

of his loss seeped in. "So they've done it, the murderin' curs; I should never 'a' left you." He looked up fiercely. "Whose work is this?"

The sheriff started to lower a hand but changed his mind and nodded towards the stranger. "That fella, I guess."

The reply came in a bitter sneer. "Yo're guessin' is like the rest o' yore doin's--pretty triflin'. So that's why yo're all lookin' paralyzed. You fools, this man wouldn't know Dad from Adam, an' moreover, he was expectin' to ride for the Circle Dot."

"That don't prove anythin'," the sheriff said sullenly. "Road-agents ain't in the habit o' askin' yore name an' address afore they salivate you. Anyway, the 0I' Man could have turned him down. He was robbin' the body when we arrove."

With shaking fingers, Dan felt in his father's pockets, and drew out the roll of bills. "Seems to have made a pore jobof it," he replied acidly. "Even a beginner couldn't 'a' missed this."

Hicks spoke: "Do you know this fella, Dan?"

"I met him this mornin' at the Bend, an' sent him along; we're short-handed."

The sheriff's mean eyes glittered. "Did you arrange for yore dad to come an' meet you?" he asked.

It was a moment before the shameful implication penetrated, and then the boy leapt to his feet, fury struggling with the grief in his face, and stepped towards his traducer.

"Pull yore gun, you coyote," he rasped.

The officer had no intention of doing anything of the kind.

"I've got my han's up, Dover," he reminded.

Sudden had watched the scene in silence, but now he spoke:

"Yu can take 'em down, Sheriff--if--yu--wanta."

The drawl of the last three words made them a plain insult, but Foxwell had a thick skin, and an inordinate desire to preserve it; he did not avail himself of the permission, preferring to take refuge behind his badge.

"I was app'inted to keep the peace, not break it," he said, and looked round at his following. "You'd think a son whose father had been bumped off would be anxious to have the guilty party brought to justice, huh?"

"I am, an' I know what he was after, an' where to seek for him," Dover said savagely. "So do you, an' that's why you'd like to pin it on a stranger. Don't you worry; evenin' up for Dad is somethin' I can take care of. Now, get back to yore murderin' master an' tell him that you did all you could to blot his tracks--an' failed."

Sudden spoke again. "They're leavin' rifles an' six-gum here," he said quietly. "There's a heap too much cover, an they may get notions."

Under the threat of his levelled weapons, they let fall their pistols, wheeled and rode down the ravine. The sheriff shouter a parting:

"Rainbow will have somethin' to say 'bout this."

"Shore, tell it how one man held up an' disarmed the four o' you," Dover retorted. "The town ain't had a laugh lately I'll send yore guns to Sody's; they'll know then you ain't lyin'."

When they had vanished through the entrance to the ravin his anger evaporated, leaving only the dull ache of sorrow. In a voice hoarse with emotion, he asked:

"You ain't backin' out?"

"Not any. That imitation sheriff has got me real interested. Might as well be movin'."

The grisly task of roping the dead rancher on the back of his pony was accomplished in silence. Then Sudden put a question:

"Yu said yu knowed what the killer wanted. D'yu reckon he got it?"

"I dunno, but likely Dad wouldn't be carryin' it. Did you see any tracks?"

"On'y that."

He pointed to a kind of path, running at a right angle to where the dead man had lain, the sandy surface of which seemed to have been recently disturbed. Following it, they came to a bush at the side of the ravine. A white scar showed where a branch had been wrenched off, and in a moment or so they found it; the withering leaves were gritty.

"Wiped his trail out as he backed away," Sudden commented, and scanned the slope keenly. "He came down an' went up here--them toe an' heel marks is plain as print. I'll see if I can trace him. Yu fetch the hosses along an' meet me."

He climbed the bank and soon found indications that someone had preceded him. Trifles which would have escaped an untrained eye--bent or bruised stems of grass, a broken twig, the impress of a foot on bare ground, were all-sufficient to enable him to follow the path of the previous visitor along the rim of the ravine. For some two hundred yards he thrust his way through the fringe of bush and came to the place he was seeking. Shadowed by a scrub-oak, and screened from below by a rampart of shrubs, was a trampled patch of grass. Two flattened hollows about a foot apart caught his eye. He knelt down in them and looked along the ravine; the spot where he had found the body was plainly visible.

"Easy as fallin' out'n a tree," he muttered. A yellow gleam in the longer grass proved to be a cartridge shell. "A thirty-eight--they ain't so common."

Close by he picked up a dottle of partly-burned tobacco, tapped from the bowl of a pipe; the assassin had solaced himself with a smoke while waiting for his victim. There was nothing else, but in a nearby clump of spruce he found hoof-marks, a branch from which the bark had been nibbled, and several long grey hairs. He followed the tracks down to where they merged with many others in the main trail, and could no longer be picked out. Dover was waiting.

"Any luck?" he asked.

"Not enough to hang a dawg on," Sudden admitted, and told of his discoveries.

"Trenton uses a pipe," the boy said. "Let's be goin'."

They set out, and the sad burden on the third horse kept them silent. There was but a scant five miles to cover, most of it over open plain splotched by thorny thickets, patches of sage, and broken only by an occasional shallow arroyo. Soon they came upon bunches of cattle contentedly grazing on the short, sun-burned grass, and presently the ranch-house was in sight.

A squat building of one storey, solidly constructed of trimmed logs chinked with clay, it stood on the crest of a slope and afforded a wide view of the surrounding country. It had been erected for utility rather than elegance in the days when raiding redskins were not unknown, and save for three great cedars which provided a welcome shade, there was nothing bigger than a sage-bush for hundreds of yards all round. A little apart were the bunkhouse, outbuildings, and corrals. At the foot of the slope a double line of willows and cottonwoods told the presence of a stream. As they pulled up outside, a grizzled, bow-legged little man came out, stared, and as he recognized the laden pony, ripped out an oath.

"Hell's flames, boy, what's happened?" he demanded. Dover dismounted wearily. "They got Dad, Burke," he said gruffly. "Tell you about it presently. Help me take him in." So the rancher came home for the last time. The sad spectacle was watched by a thin-featured, sunken-eyed youth of about seventeen who had crept to the door. He shrank aside to let the bearers pass, and then swung round, facc buried in a bent arm, and shoulders shaking.

"It shore is tough luck," Sudden consoled. "Don't take il too hard."

"He was mighty good ter me," came the mumbling reply.

"We all gotta go--some time."

"Yep, but not that way--widout a chanct," the lad replied fiercely. "Gawd, if I was on'y a man, 'stead of a perishin' weed, I'd cut th' hearts out o' th'--" He finished with a torrent of vitriolic expletives.

"Yu ain't got yore growth yet, son," the puncher said.

"Growth?" the boy echoed bitterly. "What yer givin' me? I'm a longer--one o' Gawd's mistakes what nobody wants, an' I'd 'a' croaked by now if it hadn't bin fer him."

A violent spasm of coughing racked his spare frame.

Chapter III

A few moments later, Burke reappeared. "Dan'll be along presently," he began. "He's told me about you, Mister, an' I wanta say right out that yo're mighty welcome, 'specially now. By the time we git shut o' the hosses, supper'll be ready; we got a good cook, if he is Irish."

As they returned from the corral, carrying saddles, rifles, and blankets, the little man spoke again:

"This is a knockdown blow for Dan, he fair worshipped his dad, which goes for the rest of us. It was fear o' this happenin' sent him to the Bend. `I'm goin' to git a good man, Burke,' he told me this mornin', `one who'll put the fear o' death into these cowardly dawgs.' He glanced sideways at the tall, lithe figure for each of whose long strides he had to take two. `I'm thinkin' he was lucky.' "

"How many on the pay-roll?" Sudden asked.

"Eight of us in the bunkhouse," Burke replied. "I'm the daddy o' the outfit--bin here goin' on twenty year."

"I'm takin' it yo're foreman."

"We never had one--the 01' Man ran his own ranch; you might call me sorta straw-boss."

"Yeah, but now--"

"See here, Mister--

"Make it `Jim'."

"I'm obliged. Well, Jim, it's thisaway: I'm a good cowman an' so is the boy; I'll fight to a fare-you-well an' he'll do the same, but that ain't enough in a war, which is what yo're hornin' in on. The Circle Dot needs a fella with experience; Dan ain't had none, an' I've had too much--old men git sorta fixed in their notions." A faint smile passed over the wrinkled, sunburned features. "Once I had dreams o' ownin' a ranch, but now I ain't got no ambition a-tall, but I'd like to go on bein' straw-boss."

Sudden nodded, realizing the tragedy behind the simple statement; the mounting years of hard, dangerous work for a bare living, the gradual extinction of hope, and the prospect of poverty when the heavy hand of Time prevented him from following the only occupation he knew.

The living-room of the Circle Dot ranch-house was spacious, with a great stone fire-place, in front of which lay a fine grizzly pelt. The furniture comprised a table, desk, and chairs, solid but suggestive of ease. Saddles, guns, and other ranch gear made it comfortably untidy for a man. Burke read the stranger's thought.

"Dave wouldn't have a woman in the place after he lost his wife," he explained. "I reckon Paddy--he's the cook--ain't got the instincts of a home-maker."

At that moment Dan came in, haggard, but grim-faced. "You'll feed with us to-night, Bill," he said. "We gotta talk things over."

The meal was brought in by the cook, a short and incredibly fat man, whose chubby countenance wore an expression of gloom utterly out of keeping with his deep-set twinkling eyes. While they were despatching it, Dan related the happenings of the day, and by the time the tale ended, Burke was regarding the newcomer with increased respect.

"How did Dad come to be on that trail?" Dan asked finally.

"Came to meet you," was the reply. "He had a message askin' him to, left by a stranger who claimed to have run into you; must 'a' bin soon after you started."

"I never sent it, an' didn't see a soul till I was half-way to the Bend; it was just a trap." Another thought brought his brows together. "Nobody outside o' here knowed I was goin' --I on'y decided this mornin'."

"Either they're watchin' yu, or someone passed the word," Sudden remarked. "Shore o' yore hands?"

"They've all been with us some time 'cept one, who came a few months back. Dunno much about him--Dad warn't the suspectful sort, unfortunately."

Sudden smothered a smile; Dave Dover had passed on his trustfulness to his son apparently, as witness his own case.

"Flint is wise to his work, an' does it," Burke put in.

"If he's here for a purpose, he'd naturally wanta stay," Sudden pointed out. "Who's the boy?"

"Dad picked him up at the Bend 'bout twelve months ago. Just a hobo kid stealin' a ride on a freight car what come further west than he figured on. He was precious near starved, an' his lungs is all shot to pieces. Wouldn't give any name, but he talked a lot o' New York, so the boys christened him `yorky.' He's s'posed to help the cook, but spends most of his time smokin' cigarettes an' damnin' everythin' an' everybody.

"A queer li'l runt--'pears to have a spite agin hisself--but he's got guts. Soon after he arrived, he goes with one o' the men in the buckboard to Rainbow. Said the ranch was deadly dull, an' he wanted some excitement. He got it. The storekeeper's son, a big lummox of a lad an' the town bully, started on him. They fought, an' Yorky was fetched home with a bruise on every inch of his body. But not a chirp could we git out'n him.--*

"Dad was hoppin' mad. He rides into Rainbow next mornin', learns the truth, an' tackles the storekeeper. 'I want a word with your boy, Evans,' he sez. `You needn't to trouble, Dover, he's had his lesson,' the storekeeper replies. `Right now he's in bed, both eyes bunged up, two teeth missin', an' a neck what looks like he'd had a turn-up with a cougar.'

" `Yorky was half-dead to begin with, an' yore boy twice his weight,' Dad points out.

" `Mebbe, but the half what ain't dead is lively enough,' Evans retorts. `He fought like a wild thing--fists, feet, teeth, an' nails, anythin' went, an' when I drags 'em apart, he stands there spittin' out blood an' curses. "No blasted hayseed can call me names an' git away with it," he sez, an' keels over.' "

Dan was silent for a moment, his eyes sombre. "That was Dad," he said. "Hard as granite at need, but with ever a soft spot for sufferin' in man or beast; I've knowed him mighty near kill a man for maltreatin' a hoss." He roused himself, striving to thrust aside the burden of grief which oppressed Hun. -Well, this ain't gettin us no place. Burke, l'm minded to ask Green to be foreman."

"What you say, goes, Dan," the little man replied steadily: Sudden shook his head. "That won't do nohow; I've a better plan," he said. "Burke here, knowin' the range an' the outfit, oughta be foreman; that's on'y right an' fair. I can be more use to yu if I ain't tied. Call me stray-man, say; that'll give me a chance to snoop around, learn the country; an' keep my eyes an' ears open."

Burke's despondent face brightened amazingly at this proposition, but Dover still seemed doubtful. "I'd like a lot for Bill to have the job--it's due him," he admitted. "But it don't seem much to offer you."

"Shucks!" was the smiling reply. "It ain't what a man's called but what he does that matters."

"If Jim slept here 'stead of in the bunkhouse he'd be less liable to have his comin's an' goin's noticed," Burke suggested.

"Which is one damn good notion," Dover said eagerly. "I'll be glad to have you, Jim; it's goin' to be lonesome ..." He broke off and swept a hand across his eyes as though to disperse the mist of misery which enveloped him every time he thought of his loss. "Hell burn them," he burst out. "They shall pay, the curs." The moment of fury passed, and he looked up wearily. "Didn't mean to let go thataway. Burke, the boys will have the bad news by this; go an' tell 'em the good--'bout yoreself; I reckon they'll be as pleased as I am."

"I'm obliged, Dan," the foreman replied. "I'll do my best." He turned to Sudden. "I'm thankin' you too, Jim; mebbe I was lyin' about that ambition."

"Yu didn't deceive me, ol'-timer," the puncher grinned.

When they were alone, he looked at the boy into whose life he had so strangely stepped. "Yu got a good man there," he remarked. "Yu've done the square thing by him, an' yu won't regret it."

"No, Bill Burke's white, an' he was fond o' Dad," Dover replied. "Jim, the situation is more desperate than when I spoke to you at the Bend; it ain't too late to slide out--if you want."

"Forget it," Sudden said. "When I start anythin' I aim to go through. All I want now is a bed, an' it wouldn't do yu no real harm to try one. An' remember--there's allus light behind even the blackest cloud." .

Breakfast was no more than over when Yorky came in to say that "a guy from town" was asking for Dan. The young man went out, and Sudden followed. The visitor proved to be Hicks.

"Mornin', gents," he said, pleasantly enough. "The sheriff s holdin' an enquiry into yestiddy's bad business, an' he'd like you both to be there. It'll be at Sody's, an' Foxy sez mebbe you could fetch along ..." He broke off.

"You can tell him--" Dan began fiercely.

"That we'll be on hand," Sudden finished, and when the messenger had departed, added, "No sense in r'arin' up an' settin' folks against us."

"It'll be a mere farce," was the bitter comment.

"Shore, but we gotta play the game their way--for a spell," Sudden replied, and then, thoughtfully, "Some o' yore outfit might care to be present at the buryin'--Burke, say, an' three-four others."

"Yu think they'll try anythin'?"

"Oh, I guess not, but as a mark o' respect for the deceased, yu know."

So it came about that when the buckboard, driven by Burke, arrived in town, it was accompanied by five armed horsemen, a fact that caused a stir of excitement.

"Who's the black-haired hombre?" asked Seller, who, as carpenter and coffin-maker, had an interest in the proceedings.

'Must be the fella what found the body an' held up Foxy,"

Evans told him. Some of the sheriff's party had talked. "If he's throwin' in with the Circle Dot, gettin' rid o' Ol' Dave ain't goin' to help much."

"Ain't the Wagon-wheel dealin' with you now?" came the sarcastic query. "Or are you tired o' livin'?"

"They are, an' I ain't, but I don't like 'em none the more for that," the storekeeper retorted. "If this burg has to sit up an' beg every time Trenton gives the word, it's a mighty pore prospect."

"You said it. Dave Dover had a rough tongue, but he was a square shooter. Well, I got a box for him--it pays to keep 26one ready in this man's town--hut I'd liefer some other fella was to fill it."

Rainbow was a small place, and utterly unlovely--a huddle of primitive buildings flung haphazard along one side of a sandy but unfailing stream. It boasted a bank, stores, an hotel --so-called--eating-house, and a sprinkling of private habitations. It owed its existence mainly to the proximity of two ranches--the Circle Dot and the Wagon-wheel--and also to the fact that its location and supply of water made it a convenient halt for trail-herds from more distant ranges bound for the Bend.

Relaxation was lavishly catered for; a facetious citizen once remarked, "Take away her saloons, an' Rainbow very nearly ain't." The most important of these were the Parlour, and Sody's. It was into the latter that the corpse of the murdered man, covered with a blanket, was carried and laid at one side of the cleared space in front of the bar. The sheriff was seated at a table, with half a dozen citizens ranged behind him; his eyes grew meaner when the Circle Dot contingent entered.

"Any need to fetch along them riders?" he snarled. "They've as much right to be here as you have," Dan told him.

"Well, let's git on. Gotta be reg'lar, but I reckon we're just losin' time on thisyer enquiry."

"I didn't ask for it. Shore is a waste o' time; even you can't make it anythin' but murder."

"That's for the jury to decide," Foxwell snapped. "I've selected 'em a'ready."

"So I see--all men who didn't think much o' Dad."

"It wouldn't 'a' bin easy to find six who did," the sheriff sneered.

"An' that's a damned lie," Dan flared. "So now what?"

Before any reply could be made, a man, who had been kneeling beside the body, stood up. Dressed in a skirted coat which had once been black, a dirty boiled shirt, coarse trousers tucked untidily into the tops of his boots, he presented a picture of gentility in the last stages of decay. And his gaunt, clever, but dissipated features, and long, untended hair, added to the illusion, though he was little more than thirty years of 27 age. His red-rimmed eyes regarded the peace officer belligerently.

"Have you brought me from my bottle to listen to your wrangling?" he demanded, in a hoarse but cultured voice. "Of course, Foxwell, if--by a miracle--you are about to fight and provide me with a patient, I am not objecting."

The sheriff had no intention of fighting, despite the gibe; he found the interruption very timely.

"I'll take yore report first, Malachi," he said.

"Doctor Malachi, to you," came the correction. "What do you imagine I can tell you? The man is dead--been so for fifteen hours, or more; shot from behind, doubtless from hiding, as seems to be the chivalrous custom in these parts. Here's the bullet, from which you will learn little; contact with the spinal column has distorted it." He tossed the bloodstained pellet on the table, wiped his long, thin fingers on a rag of a handkerchief, and added, "My fee is five dollars--cash."

Foxwell stared at him. "Hell, Doc, you ain't told us nothin' we didn't know," he protested. "Five bucks for diggin' out a slug?"

"That is my charge for extractions--teeth or bullets," Malachi returned serenely. "And remember, Sheriff, if you should chance to become ill, it would be most unfortunate if I were too occupied to attend you."

The officer glowered but gave in, not unmindful of the fact that most of those present were enjoying the incident. The doctor, despite his loose habits and acid tongue was, by reason of his profession and education, a privileged person; he was, in truth, the only qualified medical man within a radius of fifty miles or more. Malachi picked up the bill Foxwell produced, walked to the bar, and appeared to take no further interest in the proceedings. The sheriff examined the fatal fragment of lead.

"Like Doc said, it don't tell us a thing," he said, and Sudden could have sworn to the relief in his tone.

"My statement was that you wouldn't learn much," a voice from the bar interjected. "Weigh it, you idiot."

Foxwell had to comply. Scales and an assortment of cart

ridges were fetched; only in one instance did the weights tally.

"She's a thirty-eight," Hicks, who was making the tests 28announced. "That don't git us much further, unless--" His gaze went to Sudden. "What gun do you carry, Mister?"

"A forty-four," the cowboy replied.

"No good foolin' about over the slug, thirty-eights ain't so scarce," the sheriff said irritably. "We wanta hear how that fella found the body."

"I met young Dover in Sandy Bend an' mentioned I was needin' a job. He asked me to head for the Circle Dot, an' promised to follow later. On the way I heard a shot an', soon after, came upon the dead man. I was lookin' him over when the sheriff an' his posse turned up. Then--"

"Awright, I know the rest," Foxwell cut in hastily.

"A murdered man, and another on the spot, that should have been enough evidence for you, Foxy. Why didn't you hang him?"

The sarcastic question came from the bar, and the sheriff unthinkingly told a half-truth. "I changed my mind."

"I don't blame you," was the instant rejoinder. "If I had a mind like yours I'd do the same." A ripple of laughter followed, and the voice went on, "Don't you think the jury might like to know the reason for this astounding departure from your usual methods?"

"The jury knows all it needs to," the badgered man retorted.

"Including the decision it is to come to, I expect. Then why hold the enquiry? God! what a fool you are, Foxy."

Purple in the face, the sheriff turned on his tormentor. "When I want yore help I'll ask for it. Yo're--"

"Fee for a consultation is ten dollars, in advance--from you," the doctor finished.

"Obstructin' the course o' justice."

"Justice! Why, you couldn't spell the damn word, much less administer it," Malachi laughed, and presenting his back, poured another drink.

The sheriff breathed a sigh of relief; he stood no chance in a verbal contest with that man. In an effort to regain his self-respect, he glared round the room.

'You got anythin' to say, Dover?"

"Plenty," the young fellow replied, and told of the message his father had received. "It did not come from me--it was a trap, an' it's an easy guess who set it." - 29

"Guessin' won't git us nowhere; the Law demands proof," Foxwell said unctuously.

"The Law here squats on it's rump an' does nothin'," Dan sneered. "This ain't the first time a man has been done to death by a yellow-livered sneak afraid to show hisself. Well, I ain't askin' yore help, Sheriff; the Circle Dot can handle it."

The officer scowled, and then, "What is it, Bundy'?" as a lumpy cowboy in his early thirties, whose craggy face seemed to be endowed with a permanent sneer, stepped forward.

"All I wanta say is that yestiddy afternoon the en-tire Wagon-wheel outfit was workin' ten mile from where the shootin' took place."

"Methinks the witness doth protest too much," came a comment from the bar.

The sheriff swore. But evidently the statement was what he had been waiting for. "We ain't gittin' no forader," he said testily, and turned to the men standing behind him. Then, "The jury finds that deceased died from a gun-shot wound, but there ain't no evidence to show who done it."

"Had any existed, there would have been no enquiry," Malachi added. "Foxy, when my commodious abode needs white-washing, the job is yours."

"Who was it spoke for the Wagon-wheel?" Sudden asked.

"The foreman, as nasty a piece o' work as the Lord ever put breath into," Dan replied. "Sent a-purpose, an' the sheriff knew it."

"That sawbones ain't much respect for the Law."

"Devilin' Foxy is just pie to him, but it's a dangerous game. He's a queer cuss, but I like him."

Chapter IV

That afternoon another oblong heap of heavy stones was added to the little cemetery, a scant half-mile from the town. ft was a pretty place, a tiny plateau of short grass, sprinkled with gay-coloured flowers, and ringed in with shrubs and trees through which the sun sent flickering shadows. Rainbow did not possess a parson, so there was no- ceremony. The men present stood around, hats off, watching silently. When all was done, Dan, looking down upon the pitiful pile through misty eyes and gripping the brim of his Stetson with tense fingers, registered a vow:

"They shan't beat us, Dad," he muttered, and turned away. As the empty buckboard, with its escort of stern-faced riders moved slowly towards the town, a stout, ruddy-cheeked horseman slowed up to allow the young cattleman to join him.

"I'm powerful sorry, boy," he began. "I've knowed the 01' Man since you were knee-high to a sage-hen, an' knowed him well. He was hard-shelled, but inside he was the pure quill. He never let down a friend, or let up on a foe, an' for anybody in distress, he was a safe bet. Losin' yore mother shook him terrible, but if the preachers is right, mebbe they're together agin." He was silent for a moment. "What I wanted to say was, if there's anythin' I can do, any time, come to me."

"That's mighty nice o' you, Bowdyr," Dan replied. "I'll not forget. Guess I'll be needin' friends."

"Yore new hand looks a likely proposition. What do you know about him?"

"Not a thing; I took a chance."

"Fella has to--times," Bowdyr agreed. He studied the puncher--who was riding on the other side of the buckboard --for a while. "I'd 'a' done the same--with him."

When they reached Rainbow, Bowdyr drew rein at the Parlour Saloon, of which he was the proprietor, and voiced an invitation.

"I don't feel like drinkin', Ben," Dover said.

"A livener won't do us any harm, son," Bowdyr argued. "Frettin' ain't goin' to fetch the of boy back, an' I want a word with you."

The Parlour was very similar to Sody's but rather smaller. It had a long, highly-polished bar--the pride of its owner--facing the swing-doors. In front of it were tables and chairs. A roulette wheel, and other forms of gambling were to be found on the right side, while to the left was space for dancing, and a piano. Mirrors, and brightly-coloured Navajo blankets served to relieve the bareness of the wooden walls.

"Drinks are on the house this time, boys," the saloon keeper told the Circle Dot riders, all of whom he knew, save one. Dover remedied this by introducing the new man.

"Ben, this is Jim Green; he's goin' to ride for us."

"Glad to meetcha," Bowdyr replied, and with a grin, "I own this joint, though the Circle Dot fellas sometimes act as if they did."

"If they make trouble, Ben--

"Skittles, I was joshin'. They're a good crowd. I reckon a cowboy with no devil in him is no more use than a busted bronc. Ain't that so, Green?"

"It shorely is," Sudden agreed.

"We'll take our liquor over there," Bowdyr suggested, pointing to a table in one corner. "No need to tell everybody our affairs." When they were seated, he resumed. "Now, Dan, I'm goin' to ask a straight question, an' I want the same kind o' answer. In Sody's this mornin' you practically declared war on the Wagon-wheel. Did you mean that?"

"Every damn word," the young man replied harshly. "They're tryin' to smash the Circle Dot; they shoot down our riders, an' now they've murdered Dad. Mebbe I'm next on the slate, but until they get me, I'm fightin' back."

"Good enough," the saloon-keeper said. "What I can do, I will."

"Thanks, Ben. They had their alibi all fixed, but it was a mistake to send a liar like Bundy."

"It's got me guessin'," Bowdyr remarked. "The Trentons was allus high-handed an' disregardful of other folks' rights, but this ambushin' ain't like 'em."

"That's so, but the fella who's been givin' the orders at the Wagon-wheel for some time is that Easterner, Chesney Gar-stone. I figure he's got Zeb hawg-tied."

"An Easterner, an' runnin' a cattle-range?" Sudden queried. "Oh, Trenton does that; this jasper just runs Trenton," Dan explained.

"Been around long?"

"Less'n twelve months, but that's too long. Hell, there he comes. Don't often favour you, does he, Ben?"

"No, an' I ain't regardin' it thataway neither," the saloonkeeper replied bluntly.

Chesney Garstone was a big man, physically, and in his own estimation. About midway between thirty and forty, heavily-built, his close-cropped fair hair, blue eyes, and somewhat square head gave him a Teutonic appearance. He was meticulously attired; trousers neatly folded into the tops of his highly-polished riding-boots, a silk shirt, loosely-tied cravat, and soft black hat. Altogether a striking figure in any company. To their surprise, he stepped towards them.

"I came in to see you, Dover," he began. "I want to say how sorry I am--only heard the news two hours ago, when I rode in from the Bend."

Dan ignored the outstretched hand. "So you were there, huh?"

Garstone's eyebrows rose. "Certainly; I rode over yesterday morning and took the train to Washout, where I had business, and spent the night."

"Havin' given yore orders before you went."

"What the devil are you driving at?"

"Just this, Garstone. At the time my father was murdered, you claim to have been in Washout, Bundy says yore entire outfit was ten mile away, an' I s'pose Zeb has his tale all ready too."

"Are you suggesting--?"

"Not any--I'm statin' facts."

Garstone's eyes were furious, but he kept his temper. "Look here, Dover, you are talking wild," he said placatingly. "This must have been a terrible shock to you, and I'm willing to make allowances. My only object in coming here was to express regret, and see if we can come to terms. Listen: you have more water than you need, and we are short. Why not sell us the strip of land which would enable us to use the stream? I'll give you a fair price."

"How long have you owned the Wagon-wheel?"

"I don't, but I'm representing Trenton. What do you say?"

"One thing only: bring me the houn' who shot my father an' I'll talk with you."

Garstone made an impatient gesture. "You ask the impossible. Dave Dover had enemies, no doubt; he was the type to make them, stubborn, overbearing--" He paused as the young man's right hand moved threateningly towards his hip. "I'm not armed."

"No, an' I ain't got my back turned on you, have I?" Dan said meaningly. "Take notice, Garstone; if I hear o' you blackenin' Dad's name again, that excuse won't work; I'll horsewhip you."

Even this deadly insult failed to break the other's control, and he showed no sign of the fire raging within him. He appealed to Bowdyr.

"You are a witness that I tried to make peace," he said.

"This hot-head boy insists on war, and by God! he shall have it--war to the knife."

"Meanie' a stab in the back, o' course," Dan retorted. "Meaning the end of the Circle Dot," Garstone snapped.

As he went out of the saloon, the young rancher's voice followed him:

"Get yoreself a gun, Easterner; you'll be needin' one." He sat down again, drew a deep breath, and added, "That clears the air some."

Bowdyr shook his head. "He's a cunnin' devil; knowed you'd turn his offer down, but it puts the blame for any trouble on you, an' there's those in town will see it thataway."

"I ain't carin'," Dan replied. "What you think of him, Jim?"

"He's dangerous," Sudden said. "An' I wouldn't gamble too high on his not totin' a gun."

"I hope he does," was the sinister answer. "Time to be movin', Bill." This to the foreman, who promptly collected his men.

The ride home was very different to the usual hilarious return from town. Death was no stranger to any of them, but to-day farewell had been said to one they liked and respected, who, but yesterday, had been their leader. Stern-faced, the three cowboys paced behind the buckboard, speaking only rarely and then in lowered tones.

"Young Dan shorely made hisself clear to that dude," remarked Bob Lister, who was commonly addressed and referred to as "Blister."

"He did so, an' I'll bet he warn't wide o' the mark neither," Tiny--the heftiest of the outfit--replied. "What you think, Noisy?"

"Yeah," the third man said.

Tiny turned to the first speaker. "Allus the same. Ask that fella a simple question an' out comes a torrent o' talk like a river in flood-time. Honest, Noisy, if you don't hobble that tongue o' yores you'll git a bad name."

"He has that a'ready," Blister pointed out, and inconsequently, "There's goin' to be bustlin' times in this neck o' the woods. I'm likin' the look o' that new hombre--if he's on our side."

"Bill spoke well of him an' he's a good judge--he engaged me," Tiny said modestly.

"yeah, I heard him apologizin' to the 01' Man," Blister grinned, and Tiny--having no retort ready--the conversation languished.

The Circle Dot reached, horses unsaddled and turned into the corral, the rancher and Sudden were making for the house when a man emerged from a little shack near the wood-pile and came towards them. He was old, as his dead-white, untrimmed hair and beard bore witness, but in his prime he must have been both tall and powerful. Even yet, the broad but bowed shoulders suggested strength above the average. In one hand he was swinging a heavy axe, the blade of which shone like silver in the rays of the sinking sun. As he drew near, Sudden noted that his eyes were dull, expressionless.

"'Lo, Hunch," the young man greeted.

The man stared at him for a moment, and then, with apparent effort, stammered, "What's--come--o'--Dave?"

In a few sentences, and speaking very slowly, Dover told the tale. The other listened with seeming indifference, swung round without a word, and lurched away to the wood-pile. They saw the axe flash into the air and heard the thud of the blade as the keen edge bit deep into a baulk of timber; the blow was followed by others, each driven home with savage intensity; it almost seemed as though he were wreaking a vengeance on the tree-trunk.

"Another o' pore Dad's pensioners," Dan explained. "Drifted in 'bout two years back, sick an' starvin'. He lives in the hut, an' keeps us in fuel. 0' course, he's kinda lackin'lost his memory. For months we figured he was dumb, couldn't get a word from him; even now, it takes somethin' extra, but he 'pears to savvy what folks say."

"There don't seem to be much wrong with his muscles."

"He's as strong as a bullock--packs or hauls in loads you'd take a team for. He can't remember any name, but the boys called him `Hunch' on account of his stoop. Just worships that axe. I figure that he's been a lumberjack; every now and again, hell be missin' for a spell, wanderin' in the woods."

"Ever have any trouble with him?"

"On'y once. We had a new hand--fella named `Rattray,' an' the first half o' that described him. He was the kind what would tease a kid, an' he regarded a daft old man as the answer to a bully's prayer. It didn't come out just that way. Rattray got the axe an' started breakin' stones to blunt the edge. Hunch threw him clear across the bunkhouse, snappin' a leg, an arm, an' some ribs. Doc Malachi put him together again, an' when he was able to ride, Dad told him to. Rattray rode, but on'y as far as the Wagon-wheel, so there's another who had reason to ..."

Sudden switched the subject. "Odd number, that pill-merchant," he remarked. "What's he doin' here?"

"Committin' slow suicide," Dan replied. "It's a pity for he's a clever chap an' knows his job. Don't you pick holes in him; I've a notion he's a friend, an' we ain't overburdened with 'em."

"Well, there's one good thing about an enemy--yu know what to expect; friends ain't allus so dependable," was the puncher's cynical comment.

At the door of the ranch-house, Yorky was lounging. He scowled at the rancher.

"So now he's gone, yer t'rowin' me out," he said resentfully.

"Where did you get that idea?" Dan asked curiously.

"Flint said yer wouldn't be tannin' a home for hoboes no more.''

"I don't consult Flint about my actions; you can stay as long as you want," Dan replied shortly, and went in. Sudden hung back. "Why don't yu fork a hoss an' get out in the open, 'stead o' stayin' cooped up in the house, smokin' them everlastin' coffin-nails?" he asked quietly.

The boy's rebellious expression softened. "The 01' Man ureter talk that way, but it ain't no good," he muttered. "I told yer, I'm a weed an'--I can't ride, Mister."

"Weeds can grow big an' strong," Sudden smiled. "I'll teach yu to stay in a saddle. Think it over, an'--I'm Jim--to my friends."

He went, and Yorky slumped down on the long bench by the door. "Hell! I b'lieve he meant it, but what's th' good?"

He reached out a screw of tobacco and papers, only to thrust them back again. "Awright--Jim--it's a bet."

So, on the following morning, when Sudden came to get his horse, he was accompanied by an unhappy-looking youth who stood and gazed doubtfully at the pony Burke had selected for him.

"Too old an' lazy to buck," the foreman said. "Been here damn near as long as I have. His name's `Shut-eye.' Story is that one o' the boys--years ago--after a long an' tirin' day, dozed off in the saddle, figurin' his hoss would fetch him home. When he woke, hours later, they were in the same place an' the hoss was asleep too."

The average cow-horse, sensing that saddling is the prelude to hard work, resents the operation, but Shut-eye gave Tiny and Flint no trouble at all. But Sudden was not taking chances; even a mild fit of bucking might result in a fall which would send his pupil back to the ranch-house cured of any desire to ride. He meant to try the animal first.

"Shorely seems unenterprisin' but mebbe he's savin' hisself. If that's so, he's due for a surprise."

It was Sudden who got the surprise, for no sooner was he in the saddle than the pony, with a squeal of rage and pain, dropped its head and leapt into the air, coming down with feet bunched and legs like steel rods. So unprepared was the puncher for this display of temper that he lost his seat and only saved himself from being ignominiously "piled" by a swift grab at the saddle-horn, an act which brought a guffaw and satirical gibe from behind

"Pullin' leather. Yorky'll have a good teacher."

Sudden did not look round--he was busy fighting the maddened beast beneath him--but he noted the voice. Back in the saddle, he gripped with his knees, dragged on the reins, and by sheer strength brought the pony's head up. Instantly the animal reared and would have fallen on him had not the rider flung himself forward and driven home the spurs. A few more ineffectual efforts, which were deftly foiled, and Shuteye appeared to realize it had met its master; trembling in every limb, the beast stood still.

Sudden got down, dropped the reins to the ground, and stroked the quivering nostrils. Then he loosened the cinches, raised the saddle, and swore as he saw the source of the trouble: a small section of cactus--the dreaded choya--had been so placed that any weight would drive the cruel, barbed, glistening spikes into the flesh. Well he knew the blinding agony they could cause, and it was not astonishing that the victim should forget its many years of training and relapse into savagery under the torment. With the point of his knife he wrenched the cactus free, and holding it on the palm of his hand, turned to the onlookers. Amid dead silence, he stepped to Flint, upon whose coarse features a half-sneer lingered.

"Why did yu put this under the saddle?" he asked sternly.

For a moment the man hesitated, and then, with an air of bravado, replied, "Just a joke; wanted to see if anythin' would wake the of skinful o' bones."

"An' it didn't matter if the boy took a tumble, which--sick as he is--would possibly kill him?"

"Oh, I figured you'd sample the hoss first," came the jaunty lie.

"Well, that makes it my affair. Any idea what the choya can do to man or beast?"

"No, allus avoid 'em m'self," Flint grinned.

Sudden dropped the torturing thing. "Yo're goin' to learn,"

he said, and with a lightning movement clutched the fellow by the throat, swung him off his feet, and sat him down on the cactus. With a howl of anguish Flint scrambled up and snatched out his gun, only to have it struck from his grasp and find himself sprawling on the ground from a flat-handed blow on the cheek. Frantically he tore at the cause of his suffering, and got more of the devilish spines in his fingers. A stinging, burning pain in every part of his body possessed him.

"Damn you all, git this cursed thing off," he shrieked.

The men looked at Sudden, who nodded. "Guess he knows what the choya can do now," he said, and turned away.

One by one, the terrible little thorns had to be ripped out by main force, and by the time the operation was completed, the patient appeared to be thoroughly cowed. Limping, he picked up his gun, made to thrust it into his belt, but instead, swung about and presented it full at the broad back of the man who had punished him.

"Freeze--all o' you," he rasped, and his face was a mask of murder.

"Pull, an' we hang you," Dan warned.

"This is atween him an' me," Flint retorted. "He gits his chance. You can face an' flash yore gun, Green." He would fire the instant the other was round, before he could draw. That was what he meant to do: what he actually did was gape with wide eyes at the muzzle of a six-shooter, levelled almost alongside his own, and pointed at his heart. The turn and draw had been one movement, executed at lightning speed. Behind the weapon, eyes of arctic coolness bored into his.

"Shoot, an' we'll go to hell together," said a mocking voice.

That was the position, and Flint knew it. If the thumb holding back the hammer--Sudden had no use for triggers--was released, even in the act of dying, he too was doomed. It was the acid test. One crook of his own finger, and . . . Those watching saw his hand sink slowly; the price of vengeance was too high.

"I can wait," he muttered thickly, and bent a malignant look upon his employer.

"I'm quittin'," he snarled.

"I fired you fifteen minutes ago," the rancher replied. Flint's face took on a savage sneer. "Well, that suits me fine. Who wants to b'long to a pussy-cat outfit anyway? He slouched towards his horse and was about to mount when Dan spoke again, brazen-voiced:

"That bronc bears my brand. When my father picked you out o' the dirt, you'd spent the last dime o' what yore saddle fetched."

The ruffian whirled on him. "You sendin' me off afoot?"

"You leave as you came," the young man retorted. "I don't even lend horses to folk who misuse 'em."

"I'll make you sweat blood for this, Dover," was the fellow's parting threat, as he set out on the long tramp to town.

"I reckon I've lost you a hand, Dan," Sudden said.

"Take it you've done me a service," was the reply. "We can do without vermin around here."

Chapter V

Flint's departure was the signal for the outfit to get busy, and Yorky began to sidle towards the house. But Sudden was watching.

"Ain't yu ridin' with me?" he asked.

"Aw, Jim, I don't feel so good this mornin'," the boy said. "Can't we put off th' outin' fer a spell?"

The puncher saw the apprehensive glance at the pony, now standing head down, limp and dejected. He smiled as he replied: It's now or never, son. This is yore best chance. I doubt if even another dose o' cactus medicine would rouse a kick in that animile. Up with yu."

With obvious reluctance, Yorky climbed clumsily to the saddle; Sudden adjusted the heavy wooden stirrups so that the rider was almost standing in them, and gave him the reins. Shut-eye swung his head round, discovered that this new burden did not hurt, and again relapsed into apathy. The rest of the cowboys cheered and proffered advice.

"If you wanta git off quick, Yorky, don't slide over his tail or he'll h'ist you into kingdom come," was Blister's contribution.

"Keep him awake," Tiny urged. "He snores awful."

"Talks in his sleep too," added another. "He's wuss'n Noisy for chatterin'."

The boy patted the neck of his now docile mount. "He can't answer," he grinned. "He dunno how ter bray."

Amid the laughter the retort evoked, Sudden stepped into his saddle and the incongruous couple set out, the boy bumping awkwardly up and down.

"Hold the reins short, an' shove yore feet well into the stirrups to take yore weight--yu don't need to ride like a sack o' meal," his tutor advised.

Moving at little more than a walk, they covered somc three miles of plain, and reached a patch of pines. Sudden dismounted, trailed his reins, and told the boy to do the same. "He won't stray then," he pointed out. "Reckon this'll be far enough to begin with, time yu get back. But first, yu gotta rest."

Lying on the soft, springy bed of pine-needles, Yorky gagged and choked as he drew in the odourful air. "Hell, this'll kill me," he gasped.

"No, cure yu," the puncher assured. "A dose o' this every day'll heal them lungs o' yores, but it's strong medicine, an' you have to get accustomed; it's the breath o' the pines."

"I ain't no sucker--trees don't breath."

"Every livin' thing breathes, trees an' plants too, an' when they're crowded, the weaker ones pass out for want of air," Sudden explained.

He rolled himself a cigarette and held out the "makings." Yorky's eyes gleamed, but he shook his head.

"I'm layin' off smokin' fer a bit," he said.

"Good notion," Sudden agreed. "Give the clean air a chance." He pondered for a mement. "Did Flint have anythin' against yu?"

"He was sore 'cause I cleaned him at poker. Say, you sports don't know nuttin' 'bout cyards. I was playin' th' game fer real money when I was a kid, an' I c'n make 'em talk."

"Was that all?"

The boy hesitated. "Yep," he replied.

The puncher knew it was a lie, but he was of those patient people who can wait. He pinched out his cigarette and got up. "I have to be movin'," he said. "Stick around here for a while--no sense in gettin' saddle-sore."

With envious eyes Yorky watched the fine black lope away and vanish into the depths of a deep arroyo. "He's a reg'lar guy," he muttered. "Mebbe I'd oughter told him."

Sudden's mind too was upon his late companion, this pitiful product from the stews of a great city, pitchforked by circumstance into surroundings utterly at variance with all he had known, and where his handicap of ill-health told most heavily.

"Some folks is born to trouble, Nig," he mused. "Others, like you an' me, go huntin' it. An' we've shorely found some, spelt with a big T, if I'm any judge, an' I oughta be." A saturnine smile broke the line of his lips as he recalled the events of the last forty-eight hours, and he lifted his shoulders. "Fate deals the cards, an' a fella has to play 'em, win or lose."

Emerging from the arroyo, he crossed a stretch of plain and came to a double row of willows between which a clear stream moved unhurriedly. This must be the source of the dispute. It seemed a peaceful thing to war over, but the puncher was well aware of the value of water to a cattleman. Half a mile away on the other side, the land rose abruptly in a ragged ridge of rock running parallel with the creek. Groups of cows were grazing there; he was about to go over and investigate the brands when Dover rode up.

"Lost Yorky?" he asked.

"No, left him bedded down among the pines," Sudden smiled.

"You must be a magician. After that one trip to town, even Dad couldn't get him a hundred yards from the house."

"He's never had a break," Sudden said, and pointed to the ridge. "Yore boundary?"

"Yeah, this is the strip Garstone was speakin' of, but that wouldn't satisfy 'em. The Trentons is rotten right through, an' I'll never trust nor help one of 'em. As for that prinked-up Easterner--" He spat disgustedly.

"Garstone will need watchin', he got all the points of a rattlesnake bar the good one--he'll strike without warnin'," was Sudden's opinion.

They rode along beside the creek, silent, the rancher studying this man of whom he knew nothing save that he could shoot like a master, used the saddle and long stirrup of the Californian "buckaroo," but spoke with the slow drawl of the South. Western etiquette forbade a question, but there was no need.

"Tryin' to figure me, Dan?" Sudden asked, with a dry smile, and when the quick flush told he had hit the mark, added, "Shucks! yu have a right to know."

He spoke of a dying man, who, with his last breath, bequeathed a legacy of vengeance upon two scoundrels who had wronged him sorely, and of his own promise to pay the debt.

"That's why, like the creek there, I'm allus on the move," he said. "I ain't struck their trail yet, but I shall--one day."

How that day did indeed come has been told elsewhere. Dover looked at the set face of the speaker; measured by time, he was not so many years older than himself, but in experience, twice his age. The similarity of their cases bred a feeling of brotherhood in his breast; he too had a score to settle. Impulsively he thrust out a hand, which was gripped in silence.

"Makin' for anywhere in particular, Jim?"

"Figurin' to have another look at the ravine--mebbe I missed somethin'."

"Then we part here," Dan said. "yore line bears to the right."

Sudden had not gone far when a faint call of "Help!" reached him. It appeared to come from the vicinity of the creek and, swinging his horse round, he rode in that direction. A repetition of the cry served as a further guide, and in a few moments he was again beside the stream, at a point where, after passing over a miniature' Niagara, it widened out into a largish pool. The sight which greeted him was a singular one: a pale-faced girl, who appeared to be sitting in the water, and by her side a young man standing in it. The latter was Dover.

"Hey, Jim, don't come in," he warned. "Will yore rope reach this far?"

"Yeah, but it'll mean a rough passage for the lady."

"Can't be helped--it's our on'y chance. This damn quicksand has got us good."

Sudden leapt from his horse, walked to the water's edge. and swung his lariat. Carelessly as the rope seemed to be thrown, the loop dropped neatly over the girl's head. "Fix it under her arm-pits," he directed, and when this had been done, began to haul in swiftly. With a splash the girl struck the water, and in a brief space reached the bank, a limp, bedraggled specimen of humanity. The puncher helped her to stand up and removed the rope.--,

"Ain't no way to treat a lady, but I had to work fast," he apologized.

She fought for breath to answer, but failed to find it; this man who could throw an eight-hundred-pound steer had yanked her across the strip of shining water at incredible speed, and to her great discomfort. Sudden was not waiting for thanks.

"Hi, cowboy, need a hand?" he called out.

The leverage the empty saddle gave him had enabled Dan to free his feet from the clutching sand, and he was now astride the horse, only the head of which was visible.

"I can swim back," he replied.

By this time the girl had regained her breath. "Must I lose my pony?" she asked wistfully.

"A side-ways pull would break his legs," Sudden pointed out. A big cottonwood, one huge branch of which jutted out over the water, suggested something. "It's a chance," he said, and to Dover, who was preparing to plunge in, "Hold on a minute."

He sent his rope hurtling out again, and following his instructions, Dover contrived to pass it under the pony's belly and tie it securely. Then he slipped into the stream and came ashore. In the meantime, Sudden had attached Dan's rope to his own.

"What's the idea?" the young man asked, as he emerged and shook himself like a wet dog. "That bronc is meat for the fishes."

"I'm one o' them obstinate folk an' need convincin'," was the reply.

Swinging himself into the cottonwood, he crawled along the great limb, passed the end of the joined lariats through a fork, and returned to the ground. The head of the pony was now almost submerged, and conscious of impending doom it uttered a shrill cry of fear.

"Awright, of fella, we're doin' our best," Sudden said, as he fastened the loose end of the ropes to the saddle-horn of his own mount. "This'll give us an almost straight lift, an' if the pore beggar's still got a kick in him, it may serve," he explained. "Steady, boy."

This to the black, which, with braced limbs, leant forward until the rope was at full stretch. The two men, intent on the operation, took no notice of the girl, but she too was watching anxiously. At a word from his master, Nigger advanced a pace, the muscles bunching beneath the satiny skin; the rope became taut as a bow-string, but apparently without effect. Asecond pace, another scream from the drowning animal, and Sudden chuckled.

"He's loosenin', 'less we've pulled his legs off," he said. "I can see the horn o' the saddle."

It was true; as the big horse slowly advanced, the smaller beast at the other end of the rope was raised clear of the quicksand to hang suspended, twisting in the air, and obviously beside itself with fright.

"Well, we got him, an' we ain't," Dan remarked quizzically. "What's the next move?"

"Drop him back in the water, an' yell," Sudden replied. "He won't stay to get mired again, an' he's carryin' no weight." The rope was released and a piercing cowboy call rent the air; that, and the feel of the water sent the rescued beast scrambling frantically for solid ground, on reaching which it stood still, shivering and dejected. The lariat and saddle removed, however, it proceeded to roll contentedly in the grass, apparently little the worse.

"He ain't hurt none," Sudden said, adding with a grin, "an' what a tale he'll have to tell in the corral to-night."

"He's not the only one," a sweet but rather rueful voice remarked.

Engrossed in their task, the other rescuee had been forgotten, but now they turned to find her seated on a tuft of grass, trying to restore some sort of order to a wet mop of short, curly black hair. Little clouds of steam arose as the fierce rays of the sun licked up the moisture from her soaked attire. She was, as Dover confessed in an aside to his companion, "Sorta soothin' to the sight."

The description did her less than justice, for, despite her bedraggled state, even one of her own sex would have allowed her charm, at least. To the men, she was beautiful, and the fact that she could find a smile for them showed that she possessed the quality they most admired, courage. Sudden was the first to speak:

"How're yu feelin', ma'am?"

"Rather as though I ought to be pegged out on a line to dry," she replied. "The stream looked shallow enough to ride through, but half-way across I realized that my mount was in difficulties, and turned to go back, but it was too late. You see, I can't swim."

"You picked the wrong place," Dan told her. "The ford is a bit further down; there's a couple o' white stones to mark it."

"Being a stranger, I am afraid they wouldn't have meant anything to me." Her dark, long-lashed eyes regarded the tree-shadowed pool reproachfully. "Who would have dreamed that so charming a spot could be treacherous?"

"The Rainbow ain't to be trusted," Dan grinned. "She's as various as a--" He stopped abruptly.

"Woman," she finished, with a light laugh. "Please don't mind me--I am well aware of the failings of my own sex."

She stood up, her clinging garments revealing the youthful lines of her slim body. "I want to thank you both," she went on, her voice grave again. "But for your help, I might have ..." She broke off, with a little shudder, and then, "My uncle will want to thank you too, and he'll be glad to see you at the Wagon-wheel--why, what is the matter?"

For Dan's face had suddenly become bleak. "Who are you?" he asked bluntly.

The girl's eyes flashed. "I am Beth Trenton," she replied. "And you?"

"My name's Dover, if that tells you anythin'."

"All I want to know," she returned coldly. "But I am still grateful for what you have done."

"Then don't be," the young man said vehemently. "Helpin' one o' yore family--even in ignorance--is somethin' I wanta forget."

"I have been here only a week, and have received nothing but courtesy from the men I have met; I am sorry to find an exception," was the cutting reply. She looked at Sudden. "If you will be good enough to bring my horse ..."

When the puncher had roped and saddled the animal, she mounted with graceful ease, and without another word, rode in search of the ford. Dan's moody gaze followed her, noting how the proud, straight figure swayed easily to the movement of the beast beneath it; she could ride, and for a reason he did not attempt to analyse, the fact made him still more angry.

"Why in hell didn't I go some other place this mornin'," he fumed. "Zeb Trenton'll laugh hisself sick over this."

"He oughta be mighty grateful."

"Ought means nothin' to him; he won't even pretend to be,the slimy of toad. Bet he's told her a pretty tale about the Dovers. If I'd knowed who she was--"

"Yu'd 'a' done just the same," Sudden smiled. "I'm allowin' it's rough it had to be yu, but rescuin' folks in distress seems to be a habit in yore family."

"She must be the niece I heard was comin' to live with him. I'd forgot about it. Damn the luck."

Sudden understood; the girl was very attractive, and had she been related to anyone else ... His advice took a prosaic form:

"Better head for home an' get into some dry duds. I'll be on my way."

As he neared the scene of the murder, he left the beaten trail and approached obliquely, keeping under cover. It was unlikely that anyone could know of his intention to visit the place, but he was not one to take unnecessary risks. Peering through the branches of a tall bush, he could see where the body had lain. Someone was there, stooping over the spot, apparently examining the ground intently. Presently the figure stood up, and Sudden recognized the bent shoulders, white hair, and big axe thrust through the belt.

"Hunch! What in the nation is that of tarrapin doin' here?"

Evidently he was engaged on the task Sudden himself had performed, that of reading the "sign" left by the assassin, for he climbed the bank of the arroyo at the same place and vanished. Sudden waited, but the other did not reappear, and the puncher returned to the Circle Dot in a reflective mood.

Chapter VI

An uneventful week passed. Sudden spent the time, as he put it, getting acquainted with the country. Somewhat to his surprise, Yorky was ready each morning to accompany him part of the way. The boy had made the most of his mount, which, carefully groomed, and with mane and tail combed, presented a much improved appearance. When the puncher remarked on this, Yorky flushed, and said:

"Th' boys figure he's played out but they's wrong; all he wanted was a bit of attention. We're pals, ain't we, Shut-eye?"

He stroked the pony's muzzle and Sudden smiled as he saw the piece of sugar pass from the boy's palm.

"A hors is a good friend to have--'specially in the West," he said gravely. "Treat him right an' he'll not fail yu. I'm for Rainbow this mornin'. Comin' along?"

Yorky looked at his tattered raiment, and shook his head. "Nuttin' doin'. Me fer another dose o' th' pine-breath; I'm gittin' so I don't cough me heart up--mos'ly."

"Good. Can I bring yu any smokin'?"

"Nix on that. T'ought I told yer I ain't usin' it."

"So yu did--I done forgot," the puncher lied. "So long, son."

"So long, Jim, an'--thanks," Yorky replied, and turned quickly away.

Sudden watched him trot off in the direction of the little pine forest. Still an awkward figure in the saddle, he was clearly improving. "The hell of it," he muttered softly, and started for the town.

He found the Parlour devoid of customers save for the unkempt person of Malachi, who, draped against the bar, was chatting with the proprietor. The latter welcomed the newcomer warmly.

Lo, Green, you know the Doc, I reckon," he said. "On'y by reputation," Sudden replied.

"Then you don't know him," Malachi said dryly.

"Well, I'm hopin' he'll drink with me allasame," the cowboy smiled.

"Sir, I'll drink with the Devil himself if the liquor is good--and there's no doubt of that here--but I warn you I am not in a position to return your hospitality."

"Aw, yore credit's good too, Doc," Bowdyr assured. "Thanks, Ben, but I don't sponge on my friends," Malachi returned, and to the puncher, "Folks in this locality are too healthy."

"I've been wantin' to speak to yu 'bout one who ain't," Sudden replied. "That kid at the Circle Dot."

The other nodded. "Old Dave got me to look him over, and that spawn of a city sink called me everything he could thinkof, and it was plenty. He finished by saying he didn't want to live in a God-forsaken place like this, and he'd be everlastingly somethinged if he swallowed one drop of any blanketyblanked medicine I sent. My advice to Dave was to ship him back East and let him die in the gutter he had come from."

"He certainly can cuss," Sudden grinned. "Is there a chance for him?"

"yes, if he spends all his time outdoors, and stops poisoning his system with nicotine--which he won't; he isn't the sort you can scare into doing a thing."

"But he might for a friend," the puncher suggested. "Well, Doc, I'm obliged for yore advice." He slid a ten-dollar bill along the bar, adding, "I think yu told the sheriff that was yore fee for consultation."

Malachi stared in amaze, and then a slow smile overspread his thin features; he pushed the bill back. "That was a special charge for Foxy," he said. "Besides, I've told you only what you knew already."

"Yu confirmed my own ideas, an' that's allus worth payin' for," Sudden insisted. "Yu can throw in a few doses o' physic if it will ease yore mind any; I'll see he takes 'em."

Malachi argued no further. "Next time you get shot up, I'll mend you free," he promised. "Ben, we shall need a bottle of your best to celebrate this unexpected appreciation of the medical profession in Rainbow."

Both the saloon-keeper and the puncher declined more than one small drink and the doctor tucked the bottle under an arm, bade them farewell, and hurried away. Bowdyr shook his head.

"It's a terrible pity," he remarked, "for, drunk or sober, he's a damned good physician."

Sudden's reply was cut short by the arrival of another customer, a tall, gangling man nearing sixty, who walked with a limp. He was harsh-featured, with a jutting, high-bridged, predatory nose, and close-cropped beard. Though dressed in range-rig; his garments were of better quality than those affected by the average rider. A heavy revolver hung from his right hip.

"Mornin', Trenton," Bowdyr greeted, in his tone more than a suspicion of coolness.

"Mornin'," the other said curtly. "Whisky--good whisky."

"If you can stand the stuff they peddle at Sody's, mine'll be a treat for you," Bowdyr said.

The rancher shrugged and looked at the cowboy. "Join me?" Sudden pointed to his unfinished glass. "Obliged, but I'm fixed," he replied.

Trenton helped himself from the bottle before him, sampled the liquor, but made no comment. He turned again to the cowboy.

"I don't use this place, but I heard you'd ridden in, an' I wanted to see you."

"yeah?"

"It appears I'm in yore debt for gettin' my niece out of a jam the other day," the rancher went on.

"Nothin' to that--I'd 'a' done as much for one o' yore steers," Sudden replied. "Besides, Dover--"

A scornful laugh interrupted him. "All that young fool did was to get himself in the same mess," Trenton jeered. "If it hadn't been for you, the pair of 'em might have drowned."

"Oh, Dan would 'a' found a way," Sudden defended. "I guess he was a mite impulsive."

"If he's expecting thanks from me he's liable to be disappointed; I don't owe him any. Yore case is different. What's Dover payin' you?"

The puncher chuckled. "Nothin'," and when the other's eyebrows went up, "Yu see, we ain't mentioned the matter as yet. I s'pose it'll be the usual forty per."

"I'll give you double that to ride for me."

"That's a generous offer to a stranger."

"I am under an obligation to you," Trenton explained. "Also, I can use a man who has ideas and acts promptly."

Sudden was silent for a space, and then, "I'm not in the market," he said. "Yu can forget about that obligation."

"But damn it all, I'm offerin' you more than I pay my foreman," Trenton cried.

"Which wouldn't make me too popular with him," was the smiling reply. "No, seh, money never meant much to me; I'm stayin' by the Circle Dot."

The rancher's face took on an ugly snarl. "That one-hoss ranch is might near the end of its rope. I'm beginnin' to think I misjudged you after all."

"It's happened before," Sudden said gravely. "I reckon I must be a difficult fella to figure out."

Trenton glared at him, realized that he was being gently chaffed and, with an oath, stalked out. The saloon-keeper looked at his remaining customer dubiously.

"It was a good offer," he commented. "Zeb ain't regarded as a free spender; he must want you bad."

"No, he's just tryin' to weaken Dan. At the end of a month, his foreman fires me, an' I'm finished round here," Sudden explained. "He must think I'm on'y just weaned."

"Nobody never does know exactly what Zeb Trenton thinks," Bowdyr replied. "It'll pay to remember that there's another way o' deprivin' Dan o' yore services."

The warned man laughed, but he paused at the door and took a quick look up and down the street before stepping out. Then he made his way to the store, to emerge presently with a bulky parcel which he strapped behind his saddle. He returned to purchase cartridges.

"Got many customers for thirty-eights?" he asked casually.

"Not any," the tradesman replied disgustedly. "Used to get 'em 'specially for a Circle Dot rider, Lafe Potter. He's bumped off, an' I ain't sold none since. Let you have 'em cheap."

"No use to me. Store-keeper I knowed once got landed the same way, an' I just wondered if he had company."

As he rode back to the ranch, he was thinking it over. The calibre of the weapon which had slain Dave Dover was not quite so common as the sheriff had attempted to imply; apparently nobody in Rainbow possessed one.

"O' course, a fella could buy his fodder elsewhere--the Bend, mebbe," he debated. "Wonder what became o' Potter's gun?"

That evening, after supper, he put a question.

"Yeah, Potter was wiped out some months back," Dan informed. "He was night-ridin' on what we call the creek line, an' was found in the mornin', after his bronc had sifted in without him. Same of story, shot, an' no evidence."

"What happened to his belongin's?"

"He owed money in the town, an' the sheriff claimed 'em," Dover said. "I never heard of any sale, but Evans was paid a matter o' ten dollars, an' I'll bet Foxy pouched the rest."

Which, having seen the officer, Sudden thought likely enough. The dead cowboy probably did not own even the name he was using, and there would be no one to make enquiries. Sudden saw that the trail had petered out for the present.

When he and Yorky set out in the morning, the boy was mildly facetious about the gunny sack tied to the puncher's cantle.

"That's a mighty gen'rous meal yo're packin', Jim. Gain' a long ways?"

"Bit further than usual. Can yu swim, son?"

"Yep, but I don't s'pose I c'd tackle the Pacific."

"Yu mean the Atlantic--we're headin' East, yu numskull."

"Shore I did. They's a chunk o' th' Atlantic in Noo York harbour. I useter go down ter see th' big liners come in. Oh, she's a swell city. I wish--"

"Yu were back there?"

Yorky shook his head. "Not now, it's different here these days, but I'd like fer yer to see Noo York."

"I have," Sudden grinned. "Wasted two whole weeks there once, an' was thunderin' glad to get away. Them brick canyons they call streets--"

"Th' fines' ever."

"Mebbe, but they stifled me--I like fresh air. An' the crowds, everybody on the tear, like the end o' the world was due any minute."

The boy digested the criticism in silence. This capable man, who had handled Flint as though he were an infant, would not give an opinion lightly. Perhaps the one city he had known was not quite an earthly paradise after all.

"She shore is a busy li'l dump," he said, but less enthusiastically. "I'll bet yer met some smart folks."

"A few," Sudden smiled. "One of 'em tried to sell me a gold brick, but got peeved when I started to scratch it with my knife. Another said he'd returned recent from the 'per-aries' an' claimed to have met me somewheres, but after I allowed it was likely, as I'd been there, he lost interest."

Yorky wriggled delightedly. "He'd be a `con' man; they's a slick gang."

"Shore," Sudden grinned. "Then three more invited me to play poker with 'em. Real nice fellas, they were--paid all my expenses, an' a bit to spare."

The boy's eyes went wide. "They let yer git away with it?"

"I had all my clothes on," the puncher replied, and Yorky had been long enough in the West to know what that meant. They passed the customary stopping-place and about a couple of miles further came to a grassy hollow, shaded by pines. At the bottom of this, rimmed by sand, and shining in the sunlight like a huge silver dollar, was a tiny lake.

"There's yore Atlantic, an' if yu know of a better place for a swim, I'm listenin'," Sudden remarked as he dismounted.

In five minutes they had stripped, and the puncher, with a short run, shot into the water and vanished, to reappear ten yards from the bank, laughing and splashing. "C'mon, it's fine," he called. Yorky tried to emulate the feat, but only succeeded in falling flat on the surface and driving most of the breath out of his body. Then he struck off in the direction of his friend, beating the water with feverish rapidity which soon had him gasping.

"Take it easy," the puncher advised. "A slow stroke'lI carry yu further, an' give yu a chance to breathe some."

Presently they came out, to lie stretched on the sand, where the increasing heat of the sun's rays soon dried them. Yorky was surveying his ragged shirt ruefully, prior to putting it on, when Sudden, reaching down the gunny sack, pitched it over.

"Ain't hardly worth while, is she? See what yu can find in this."

The boy groped in the bag, and produced a new, striped, flannel shirt, which he slipped into.

"Them pants o' yores is plenty ventilated but sca'cely decent," the cowboy went on. "Mebbe-- Yorky was already searching; the pants appeared, followed by socks, and then something which made him gasp--a pair of the high-heeled boots affected by range-riders, and a broad-brimmed hat, the tall crown pinched in the approved fashion. Petrified, the boy stared at the garments, until Sudden's voice aroused him.

"Climb into 'em, yu chump. What d'yu reckon clothes is for?"

Dumbly, but with averted face, he obeyed; apart from Old Man Dover's, it was the only kindness he had received since coming West, and he was ashamedly conscious that his eyes were wet. The things fitted easily, but well, a tribute to the donor's gift Of observation. When at length he spoke, his voice was shaky.

"Jim, I dunno--"

"Forget it, son. What's a few duds anyway? All yu gotta do now is get strong, eat more, an' fill out yore dimples. We'll make a cowboy of yu yet."

Yorky was silent; there was something he wanted to say, and it was difficult. With an effort he made the plunge:

"I'm feelin' mean. Jim, yore swell ter me, an' I bin holdin' out on yer--'bout Flint. It warn't the cyard game; he wanted fer me to spy on the 01' Man. I telled him where he c'd go."

"Good for yu," Sudden said. "Glad yu came clean about it. Flint was likely planted on us a-purpose. Yu see, the Wagon-wheel is out to bust the Circle Dot, so we gotta keep an eye liftin'. Sabe?"

"I get yer," the boy replied. "We'll beat 'em."

"Shore we will," Sudden smiled. "Now, I must be off; Dan don't pay me just to dry-nurse yu."

"An' them Noo York smart Alecks played him for a sucker," Yorky grinned, when he was alone, and went to survey his new finery in the mirror Nature had provided.

Beth Trenton sat on her pony regarding the scene of her recent discomfiture. She did not quite know why she had ridden there again except that, reviewing the incident in a calmer frame of mind, she had experienced qualms as to the way she had behaved. After all, the men had probably saved her life, and the fact that they were opposed to her uncle did not justify ingratitude. Looking at the placidly-moving surface of the stream, the danger beneath seemed incredible. Acting on a sudden impulse, she sent her mount down the shelving bank. At the very edge of the water, the animal shied away. She turned it again, and with a sharp blow of her quirt, tried to force it into the river, but with forefeet dug into the sand, the pony refused to budge. A satirical voice intervened:

"Well, of all the fool plays I ever happened on."

Angrily she jerked her mount round and saw one of the men of whom she had been thinking. Lolling in his saddle, hat pushed back, he was regarding her with unconcealed disapproval.

"It pleases you to be rude, sir," she said, with an attempt at dignity.

It don't please me to see a hoss punished for showin' more sense than its rider," he replied brusquely. "What in blazes made you want a second dose o' that deathtrap?"

"I didn't, but I was curious to find out if the animal remembered," she said stiffly.

"An' if he'd lost his head an' rushed into the water, you'd 'a' been in the same pretty mess."

"From which you, as a gallant gentleman, would doubtless have extricated me."

"yeah, at the end of a rope," Dan retorted. "You'd 'a' come out lookin' like a dish-rag, an' lost yore pony."

"Ah, yes, your clever friend not being with you." The gibe brought a flush, and her next remark deepened it. "What, may I ask, is your business on my uncle's land?"

The young man smothered his mounting wrath; after all, she was a stranger, and damnably pretty; and even as he loved spirit in a horse, he could appreciate it in this girl, lash him as she might.

"The land is mine," he told her quietly. "That rib o' rock is the Trenton boundary."

She did not doubt him, and the knowledge that he had scored in their verbal battle brought an added tinge of red to her cheeks, and took some of the harshness from her tone.

"Then I am trespassing?"

"You can come when you please, but that don't go for them other skunks at the Wagon-wheel."

Instantly he knew the slip had delivered him into her hands; the slow smile had begun, and it was too late to retract that one superfluous word.

"Other skunks," she said sweetly. "That means--"

"Yore uncle an' his outfit," Dan finished.

"Also--myself," she added, and waited for his apology.

She had mistaken her man; he was far too angry now, both with himself and her, to do anything of the kind. "Mebbe I ain't clever at stringin' words together, but I'm tellin' you this: on'y a skunk can live with a skunk," he retorted, and with an ironical sweep of his hat, spurred his horse, and was gone.

Beth Trenton stared after him in dumb amazement, and then--she laughed. "Maybe I did rowel him quite a lot," she murmured. "And I was a fool about the pony. All the same, you must pay for that, Dan Dover."

The Wagon-wheel ranch-house was a roomy, rambling one-storey building, standing at the top of a scrub-covered slope through which some sort of a road had been cut. It was flanked by the usual bunkhouse, barns, and corrals. A raised veranda extended along the front. On this, the ranch-owner was sitting when Beth, having handed her mount to a boy, approached the house.

"Where you been this mornin', girl?" he asked.

"Re-visiting the scene of my misadventure--I wanted another shiver," she smiled. "By the way, Uncle, did you thank those men?"

"I've seen Green, an' offered him a job here at twice what he's gettin'," Trenton replied. "He--"

"Refused," she said.

"How do you know that?" he asked sharply.

"Just a guess--he didn't seem the sort to be bribed."

"No question of that; he'd done me a service an' it was one way of payin' him; I didn't want the fella. As for that whelp, Dover--"

"He risked his life," she reminded.

Trenton laughed sneeringly. "I wish he'd lost it," he said savagely. "He'll rot in his boots before he gets a word of gratitude from me."

The girl did not argue; she was beginning to discover unknown depths in this only relative who had befriended her since the passing of her father some years earlier, paid for her education, and was now giving her a home. Evidently the feud between the two ranches was more bitter than she had suspected. The knowledge both saddened and dismayed her.

Chapter VII

Trenton, Garstone, and the foreman were closeted in a small room used by the rancher as an office.

"So Green turned you down?" Garstone remarked. "It's a pity--we could do with him."

"An' we can do without him," Bundy growled. "There's other an' cheaper ways o' dealin' with his kind if he gits awkward."

"I'll have no bush-whackin', Bundy," Trenton said curtly. "There's been too much already, an' it's a game two can play."

"I warn't sayin' any different," the man lied. "But this fella man-handled Flint a hit back an' if he tries to level up that's no business of ourn."

Trenton took his pipe from his mouth and spoke through clenched teeth: "If he does, an' I know it, I'll hand him over to the sheriff right away."

"That'll shore scare him most to death," Bundy rejoined, with an impudent leer.

Garstone gave a gesture of impatience. "You said you had some news for us, Trenton," he reminded.

"I have information which may be of value--if we can use it," the rancher said. "It comes from Maitland, the new manager of the bank here. As you know, the cattle industry has had a rough time for some years, an' we're all working on borrowed money. The Circle Dot is in so deep that the bank holds a mortgage on the whole shebang, an' it runs out in less than two months' time."

Garstone looked sceptical. "They'll renew--these small-town concerns have to take risks."

"I doubt it; Maitland is scared--every rancher around owes him money, includin' myself." He smiled grimly. "Dave Dover gone, an' an inexperienced boy in the saddle makes all the difference. I guess he'd be glad to sell that mortgage."

Garstone sat up. "That's an idea, Zeb," he conceded. "What's the figure?"

"Forty thousand."

"Dave Dover must have been mad."

"No, the Circle Dot is worth more than that, an' he gambled on Lawson--the old manager--remainin'; they were good friends."

"Where's the coin coming from," Garstone wanted to know.

The rancher shrugged. "We've nearly a couple of months to raise it."

"And so has young Dover. Does he know?"

"I believe not, an' I suggested to Maitland, casually, that he might let the lad get over his father's death before pressin' him."

"Damn it, that was clever of you, Zeb," the Easterner complimented. "Gives us a start in the race, anyhow."

* Yorky's new attire was as big a surprise to the outfit as it had been to him, and he had to endure a considerable amount of banter. But it was of the good-natured character--the kind they inflicted upon each other--for the boy's health aroused only pity in their robust natures. Also, Yorky's tongue had a razor edge, and, as Tiny once put it, "the li'l runt was shore raised on brimstone."

When Blister and Noisy rode in and beheld the resplendent figure leaning carelessly against the veranda rail, they gave a passable imitation of falling from their horses.

"D'you see what I see, Noisy?" Blister cried. "Dan has done sold the ranch from under us, an' there's the noo owner. I'm askin' for my time; I ain't ridin' for no dude."

Noisy nodded. They pulled up about ten yards away, removed their hats, and sat in silent admiration. A moment later, Tiny, Slocombe, and Lidgett arrived, and without a word, lined up beside them. Yorky, who was enjoying the sensation he was causing, spoke:

"Howdy, fellers."

"It can talk," Blister said in an awed tone. "An' somehow the voice seems familiar."

The voice continued to talk. It began by describing them as a bunch of locoed sheep-herders, and went on to become even more familiar, referring, with fluency of adjective, to the personal habits of each one in turn. All this with a grin on the sallow face.

"Why, it's Yorky!" Slow pretended to discover. "Sufferin' serpents, boy, where did you git them bee-yu-ti-ful clothes?"

"Bought 'em outa his savin's on smokin'," Tiny suggested. "Couldn't be did in the time," Blister said. "Yorky don't earn more'n a dollar a week."

"He does, but he don't git more," the boy corrected. "I b'lieve he's robbed a store," Lidgett laughed.