

                       THE LOOT OF THE LAZY A

                          By W. C. Tuttle

            Author of “Romance,” “Straight Shooting,” etc.


    CULTUS COLLINS ONCE MORE STARTS OUT TO INVESTIGATE
    FOR THE CATTLE ASSOCIATION, AND FALLS INTO MORE ACTION
    THAN HE THOUGHT COULD BE FOUND IN THE WHOLE SOUTHWEST.
    AND THE END OF IT ALL WAS HIS OWN DISCOVERY THAT IT
    NEEDS MORE STRENGTH TO BE BEST MAN AT A WEDDING THAN
    TO BE BEST MAN IN A GUN-FIGHT--WITH WHICH ROLE CULTUS
    WAS ONLY TOO FAMILIAR


It was one of those foggy, raining, dismal nights, when all the world
seemed one vast drip, drip of water; cold gusts of wind from the bay,
where the fog warnings boomed dismally, boat whistles shrilled; while
on the streets of San Francisco, little less wet than the bay itself,
cable-car motormen danced jigs upon their gongs, seeking to clear the
tracks, which they could hardly see in the dim glow of their own
headlights.

Standing in the protection of a half lighted doorway, just outside the
borders of Chinatown, was a girl. She was dressed in a black suit,
black hat. Close inspection would have shown that both the suit and
hat were slightly more than well worn, and were also very wet. She
carried no umbrella. She was not beautiful, but perhaps it was because
of the abject misery in her big, dark eyes, the utter helplessness of
her expression.

She was of medium height, slender, white-faced. In fact, her face
was so white against the gloom of the doorway, which blended with
her black garb, that it seemed like a white mask suspended invisibly
against a dark curtain. The wind swirled past the doorway, showering
her with rain, but she did not draw back--only stared ahead, dumbly.

A policeman emerged out of the fog, peered at her, as he went slowly
past, glanced up the street toward the clanging of a street car bell,
and went on. Possibly he thought she was waiting for a car.

A man emerged from a doorway farther up the street, and came down
past her. He was tall, rather slender, his head surmounted by a huge
Stetson sombrero, which made him look gigantic in the dim light. His
heels hit hard on the sidewalk, because of the fact that he was
wearing high-heeled boots, and in one hand he carried a suitcase.

The street car clanged past before he could reach the corner; so he
placed his baggage on the sidewalk, shoved his hands deep in his
pockets and leaned against a post, almost directly in front of where
the girl stood. He turned and looked directly at her, but turned back
and drew his hat farther over his eyes. He shivered a little. He had
no overcoat either.

A man came from the opposite direction, swathed in a heavy overcoat,
whistling aimlessly. He was a big man, the collar of his coat touching
the brim of his derby hat. He did not see the girl until he was almost
past her. He stopped and came back to her. It is possible that he did
not see the tall man, who leaned against the post.

“Hello, Kid,” he said ingratiatingly. “What are you doing out in the
rain, all alone?”

The girl did not reply, but drew back against the wall. The tall man
turned his head.

“No coat, no umbrella?” The man in the overcoat laughed. “Say, you must
be up against it, Kid. You don’t look so bad. Snap out of it. Gee, you
don’t need to shiver on a corner.”

“Will you please go away?” asked the girl. “I’m all right.”

“I’ll say you are, Kid--all right. I like you. Don’t be uppish. Come on,
and I’ll show you a good time.”

“Please let me alone.” The girl spoke softly.

“Don’t try to kid me,” laughed the man. “You’re going with me and I’ll
show you the best time----”

The tall man had stepped in behind him and a huge hand, which gripped
like a vise, had fastened to his shoulder.

“The lady asked yuh to let her alone, yuh know.” The tall man’s voice
seemed mild, apologetic.

The man squirmed quickly. “Who in hell are you?” he demanded.

“Names wouldn’t mean anythin’,” the other said mildly.

The man jerked loose. “Then keep your hands off me! This is none of your
business! Now, trot along and let us alone.”

“Ma’am,” the tall man spoke softly, ignoring the threatening attitude of
the other man, “do yuh want to go with this man?”

“I certainly do not.”

“I reckon that’s final, don’tcha think?” The big man in the overcoat
possibly did not agree with this, and he was foolish enough to swing
a right-handed blow at the head of the tall man. The overcoat was a
serious handicap. His blow had only traveled half of its arc, when a
thick, bony fist, seemingly weighted with lead, caught him under the
chin, and he went backward into the street, where he went down in a
heap.

The girl stifled a scream, but the tall man’s chuckle was reassuring.

“Did yuh know this man, ma’am?” he asked, caressing his right hand.

“No, I did not. I don’t know who he is.”

“Neither does he--right now. Ain’t it cold! I hate this kind of weather.
I s’pose it’s because I live so much on the desert.”

“On the desert?” The girl spoke softly. “Where everything is clean and
good--and the sunshine----”

“Have you lived there?”

“Ages and ages ago.”

The tall man peered closer at her. “Yuh don’t look old.”

“I’m twenty-two.”

The tall man laughed softly. “Yeah, yo’re sure ancient, ma’am. And
yo’re all wet and shiverin’. Will yuh--? Say, that’s funny. I just
knocked that feller into the street for askin’ yuh to go with him,
and I was about to do the same thing. He’s gettin’ up.

“Yeah, and he’s goin’ the other way. He’s stoppin’ at the sidewalk,
prob’ly wonderin’ what to do about it. Mebbe he don’t know what it’s
all about.”

The man had staggered to the opposite sidewalk, where he stood, humped
slightly in the rain. His derby hat was out in the street, but he did
not seem to miss it. A policeman was coming down that side of the
street, and they heard the man say something, which caused the officer
to stop.

“C’mon,” said the tall man, grasping the girl by the arm. “Yuh never can
tell what that jigger will tell the law.”

Shielding her as much as possible from the rain, the tall man picked up
his suitcase and escorted the girl around the corner and down the block.
She did not hold back. There was too much sincerity in the voice of this
big cowboy for her to feel afraid.

“Where are we going?” she ventured to ask.

“I know a place,” he said jerkily. “It ain’t so much to look at, and
lotsa ornery folks eat there, but they sure sabe how to cook a steak,
and make soup. Do yuh like soup?”

“Soup?” The girl spoke the word queerly, as though it was something she
had once known, but had forgotten.

“Yeah, that’s it. Lotsa onions and meat. Here we are.”

He led her up a rickety stairs, where the air was redolent with odors
of frying meats, garlic; the hundred-and-one odors that make up the
atmosphere of a bohemian chop-house, where no questions are asked.

No head waiter met them. In fact they were almost knocked down by a
hurrying waiter, carrying a tray of dishes; a short-haired, broken-nosed
individual; a one-time artist in the manly art of scrambling ears.

It was warm up there amid all those smells. The tall man led the girl to
a vacant booth, which an anemic-looking waiter was cleaning up, and they
sat down opposite each other. The tall man had placed his suitcase
beside the entrance, where he could watch it. It was the first time they
had had a good look at each other.

The girl’s face was slightly flushed now, and when she removed her
dripping hat, she was really pretty. Her hair was a soft brown. The
man’s face was long and bony, with a large nose, keen gray eyes and
a big mouth. His cheek-bones were prominent, his hair of a neutral
shade, neither blonde, brown nor red.

His hands were huge, bony-wristed, flecked with freckles. He was
dressed in a cheap brown suit, flannel shirt, and his trousers were
tucked in the tops of his high-heeled boots. The girl looked intently
at him. There was no denying that he was homely. Then he smiled at
her. She caught her breath for a moment--and smiled back at him.

He was not the same man when he smiled. She caught herself staring at
him, while the waiter took their order, wondering that a smile should
so absolutely change a man. The waiter went away, marveling at the
appetites these two must have.

“Ma’am,” said the tall man gravely, “my name’s Collins. My friends call
me ‘Cultus’; Cultus Collins, from Cuyamac.”

“And I am just Mary Smith,” she said simply. “They used to call me Mary
Elizabeth--when I had friends.”

“When yuh did have, Mary Smith?”

“Yes.”

“Uh-huh. Mary Smith, how long since yuh ate a meal?”

“Why--er--this noon.”

“Yuh don’t need to lie to me, Mary Elizabeth. Callin’ yuh that ought to
prove me yore friend--and yuh hadn’t ought to lie to yore friends.”

Mary Smith looked into the gray eyes of Cultus Collins, and decided not
to lie, because he seemed to know that she lied.

“It wasn’t a very big meal,” she said slowly.

“It wasn’t any meal at all, Mary Smith.”

“No, I guess it wasn’t.” And then Mary Smith bowed her head on her wet
arms and cried, while Cultus Collins upset a bottle of catsup, trying
to pat her on the shoulder and tell her to quit crying. Several diners
looked curiously at them, but they were of the breed that mind their
own business.

Mary Smith finally stopped crying, dabbled her eyes with a wet
handkerchief, and tried to appear brave, while she choked over the first
meal she had eaten in two days. Cultus did not question her, nor did she
offer any explanation, until the steaks and baked potatoes and soup and
salads were but memories, and they were eating huge slices of apple pie
and cheese, for which the place was famous.

There were roses in Mary Smith’s cheeks now, even if her body was still
wet from the rain. Bit by bit she told her story to Cultus Collins. It
was not a new tale of woe. Mary Smith had come from a little town in New
England; literally ran away, because she did not want to marry a certain
man, greatly desired by her parents, and because she wanted to see some
of the world. She had saved enough money to buy a ticket to the Middle
West, and by selling a few pieces of jewelry she was able to stretch
this ticket to San Francisco, where she had an aunt.

But the aunt was not there. Lack of a business education lost her
several fairly good positions. Sickness cost her all her slender
savings, and just now she was a week overdue on her room rent, and the
room was locked against her. For three days she had haunted the stores,
trying to get a position, but they merely looked at her shabby clothes
and told her that there was nothing available just now.

Cultus Collins rubbed his chin and wondered what to do. He was not
financially able to give her much assistance. He could give her enough
money to square up her room rent and enough for a few days of square
meals. But that would not remedy the clothes proposition--and without
clothes she could not hope to get a paying position.

“Just what was yuh goin’ to do--standin’ there in the rain, Mary Smith?”
he asked.

She shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. “I--I don’t know. My
body was numb, and I guess my mind was not far from being in the same
state. It was all so hopeless, don’t you see?”

“Uh-huh, I see. And yet yuh wouldn’t _go_ with that man.”

She shook her head. “I was going the other way.”

“Toward the bay?”

Mary Smith nodded dumbly. Cultus sighed and shook his head.

“It’s a queer old world, Mary Smith. I’ve been here two days, and I
was roomin’ in a little place jist up the street from where we met.
I was leavin’, yuh see. I had plenty of time, but I hurried. That’s
fate, I reckon.”

“It was fate for me,” sighed the girl. “The bay seems a long way from
here, Mr. Collins.”

Cultus smiled widely. “Nothin’ like a steak to make a person change
their mind.”

Another couple had entered the restaurant, and came up to the next
booth. The man was fairly young, sleek-haired, flashily dressed. The
woman was wearing a brown traveling suit, trimmed with expensive
furs, and was wearing a small hat. She was young and beautiful, in an
artificial way, but just now her face was contorted with indignation,
as she faced the young man.

“I suppose you think that was a smart thing to do!” she fairly snapped
at him. “Is it any of your business if I want to take a little trip?
Explain yourself!”

The man deposited a suitcase beside the one Cultus had placed near the
booth entrance and took the girl by the arm.

“Don’t talk so damn’ loud,” he advised. “Get in there and sit down,
Janice. I just wanted to be sure you wasn’t doin’ a runout on me. This
don’t look right to me. I happen to know that your lawyer friend has
been up to see you twice in two days, and I know you haven’t any need
of legal advice. Sit down!”

They sat down in the next booth, but their voices were pitched loud
enough for Cultus and Mary Smith to hear what was said.

“I’ll explain nothing,” declared the girl. “Let that pocketbook
alone!-- Well, are you satisfied?”

It was evident that the man had investigated her bag.

“You’re not very well heeled, that’s true. But that don’t mean you won’t
meet somebody at the Ferry Building. I heard you tell the taxi driver
where to take you. Now, come clean, Janice. You were going to leave me
flat. I’ve bought you clothes, diamonds, paid your rent, furnished you a
car--and you run out on me.”

Came a few moments of inaudible conversation; the man’s voice was raised
in anger.

“What do you care how I make my money? You’re getting rather prudish,
it seems. I suppose you think that if the police get me, you’ll go
along, because you spent my money, eh? Well, my money is as good as the
money of that dirty bum of a lawyer! He’s as crooked as anybody in the
district. Sa-a-ay! Are you giving me the gate for that welcher?”

“Your opinions do not interest me,” said the girl. “Call me a taxi. I’m
sick of your insinuations.”

“Aw, pull that stuff and get a vaudeville contract! Why, you little bum,
anybody would think you was Bernhardt! Snap out of it! Get away from me?
Ha, ha, ha, ha! Fine chance. Na-a-aw! Sit still, or I’ll knock you for a
loop!”

Cultus was not so interested that he failed to see two men come in. One
was the big man he had knocked into the street, while the other was of
the same type as the man with the girl. They halted midway of the room,
ignoring the gestures of a waiter.

Then Cultus heard the man in the booth say, “There’s that dirty welcher
now! Leggo me!”

A dish crashed to the floor, as the man jerked away from the girl and
stepped out beyond the curtains of the booth. The two men had turned
toward it, and the big man had stepped forward, his hand reaching
inside his overcoat, as the woman’s companion emerged.

There were no preliminaries. It seemed to Cultus that both men knew
what this meeting would mean. He saw the man at the booth whip out a
snub-nosed gun. The other man was just as quick, and both guns spat
rapidly, filling the room with short, snappy reports, both men
shooting as fast as they could press the trigger. It was all done in
the space of a few seconds. The man at the booth entrance dropped
his gun, turned around, as though to re-enter the booth, but his
grasping hands tore down the hanging curtains, pulling them down on
top of him, as he fell.

The other man was on the floor, trying to stay on his hands and knees. A
frightened waiter had dropped a filled tray, and was running toward the
back of the room.

“My God, they hit that girl, too!” someone yelled.

And then somebody cut off the lights. Cultus and Mary had got to their
feet and were at the booth entrance, when the lights went out,
plunging the room in darkness. But Cultus had located the exit, and
now he grasped his suitcase in one hand, while with the other he clung
to Mary Smith, fairly dragging her to the top of the stairs, tearing a
way through the frenzied mob.

At the top of the stairs he lifted her up with one arm, fending the
strugglers away with his suitcase, and plunged down the rickety stairs
and out into the rain, where he let her down. Cultus knew it would only
be a minute or two until the police would be there; so he hurried Mary
Smith down the street, around a corner, where they found a taxi.

Into this they went, and Cultus told the driver to take them to the
Ferry Building. Mary had said nothing, and by the dim light of the
cab, Cultus could see that she was very white. He patted her on the
shoulder, and she tried to smile.

“Hang onto yore nerve,” he whispered, and then his eyes happened to fall
upon the suitcase at their feet.

It was not Cultus’ bag at all; it was the other one!

Cultus looked at it closely. Only in the dark could it have been
mistaken for the battered suitcase Cultus had owned. This one was of
fine finish--an expensive thing--and was filled to capacity. But
Cultus did not mention it to Mary Smith.

They got out at the Ferry Building and went inside. Cultus bought
tickets to Oakland. It would be ten minutes before ferry time; so he
led Mary Smith to a secluded seat, putting the suitcase on his lap.
It was not locked. He unfastened the nickel buckles and opened the
case, while Mary gasped with astonishment. It was filled with women’s
clothes; dainty things which seemed to arise from the depths of the
case, as they were released from pressure.

On the top were two envelopes. The first contained a ticket and Pullman
accommodations to Oreana, Arizona and a hundred-dollar bill. The other
was sealed in a plain envelope. Cultus ran the blade of his knife under
the flap and opened the envelope without damaging it. Together he and
Mary Smith read:

    Dear M:

    Introducing Janice Lee, alias anything you want to call
    her. She knows part of the game, and is a fair actress,
    if you can keep her sober.

    Good luck to you.
                                                    Yours,
                                                    L.

    P. S. I only gave her a hundred out of that five you sent;
    so you only owe me a hundred, if it pans out all right.
    Better see that she gets hers, because I won’t swear to
    her playing on the square, unless you do.

Cultus looked sideways at Mary Smith, as he sealed the letter and
replaced it in the suitcase. He removed the envelope, containing the
tickets and hundred-dollar bill, which he handed to Mary Smith.

“Why give it to me?” she asked, looking queerly at him.

“Does fate scare yuh, Mary Elizabeth?” he asked softly. “I was going to
Arizona, when yuh made me miss my car. I wasn’t headin’ for Oreana, but
it’s on my way.”

“But I’m not going to Arizona.”

“Listen to me, Mary Elizabeth Smith. Yuh can’t buck fate. If I’m any
judge of things as they look, that big feller was the one that was
sendin’ that girl, Janice Lee, out to Oreana, Arizona.

“The big feller is plumb full of lead, and I heard somebody say that the
girl was hit. She was behind him, yuh remember. A lot of lead was used
this night. You was headin’ for the bay, wasn’t yuh? Here’s a suitcase
full of clothes, and I’m sure I seen a trunk check stickin’ down in a
corner. There’s a hundred-dollar bill. From now on, yo’re Janice Lee, a
pretty fair actress, as long as yuh stay sober. And they better pay yuh
what’s comin’ to yuh, or you’ll yelp. Sabe what it means?”

“But--but wouldn’t it be wrong?” faltered Mary.

“It started wrong, Mary.”

As Cultus fastened up the shining buckles, the ferry-boat passengers
came crowding out. He picked up the suitcase, held out his hand to
Mary Smith, and they went out together.

And while they listened to the throb of the engines and the eery wail of
the foghorns a police officer reported to a desk sergeant:

“It was all over when we got there, Sarge. Two dead men and a girl
they say can’t live. They sure did a good job. Everyone else was out
of there, but we got a suitcase, which one of the waiters said ‘Speed’
Evans brought in. Loring, the lawyer, was all shot to pieces.”

Another officer came in, carrying the battered suitcase, and the
detective bureau assisted in its examination. They found two pairs
of overalls, several socks, a red shirt, a lariat rope and several
packages of tobacco.

“If that belonged to Speed Evans, it’s too bad he got killed,” observed
a hard-bitten detective, grinning.

“Why?” asked the desk sergeant.

“Why? Because the blamed crook must have been starting out to do
something useful in the world.”

“What do you know about Loring, the lawyer?”

“Enough,” said the detective, “to shed very few tears over his demise.”

“And the girl?”

“Speed’s girl, Searg. Maybe Loring tried to get her. She’s badly shot
from liquor. Got two automatic bullets through her, besides. No use
investigating. They cleaned up everything for themselves. My gosh,
that dump is a wreck.”

“Somebody else took a wallop at Loring tonight,” said an officer, who
had been at the restaurant. “He was all over mud, and his hat was in
the street. He tried to tell me what it was all about, but I told him
to go home and wash his face.”

And thus ended the incident, as far as the police were concerned. Cultus
Collins’ suitcase was thrown on a shelf, along with a lot more derelict
bundles, and the officers went back to their work.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Oreana City was a typical cattle town of the Southwest; an old place,
where the original settlers had builded with adobe, and was still half
adobe. Most of the houses were one-story, arranged along a single
dusty street, and the alignment of the buildings would have driven an
engineer frantic. In early days they had builded along a crooked road,
and the crooked road was still the main street of Oreana City.

It was located at the end of a branch railroad line, which served thirty
miles of cattle and mining country. An irregular freight and passenger
train made daily round trips over the line, making little pretense of a
schedule. Oreana City, like the majority of cattle towns, was more
unmoral than immoral. The honkatonk was the main center of amusement,
and gambling was taken as a matter of course.

A stage line ran from Oreana City to the gold mines of Welcome Creek,
thirty miles away. Being an outfitting center for both cattlemen and
miners made Oreana City somewhat the pivotal center of that little
universe. It was also the county seat.

Three miles northwest of Oreana City was the ranch of the Lazy A: three
miles southwest of Oreana City was the ranch of the Star X. Between
these two outfits was a feud which had lasted so long that no one paid
much attention to it any more.

That is, they hadn’t, until the funeral of old Jud Ault, owner of the
Lazy A. Over a year previous to the funeral, Jud Ault had been shot from
ambush, the bullet injuring his spine and causing partial paralysis.
Since then he had never been able to walk. It was generally believed
that the bullet was fired by one of Eph Wheeler’s Star X outfit, if not
by old Eph himself. But there was no evidence to convict them.

The feud had started so long ago that no one seemed to know just what
had caused it. Some said it started over a card game, in which whisky
played a prominent part; others said it was over the woman who married
Jud Ault and died when their little girl, Faith, was but a tiny slip of
a child. At any rate, Jud Ault and Eph Wheeler had been bunkies before
this trouble, but had not met, face to face, in over twenty years.

Jud Ault, even before his injury, which finally killed him, was a
grim, sour-faced old man, quick of temper. He hated mankind, and did
not hesitate to say it. The Lazy A made Ault rich. Mining engineers
had urged the old man to lease or sell part of his ranch, which was
rich enough to make him a millionaire. But he refused. He hated
miners. They dug holes in the ground. He did not want to be rich.

Faith had grown up in awe of her parent, the prettiest girl in the
country, but denied suitors. Woe unto the gay cowboy who tried to jingle
his spurs across the threshold of the Lazy A ranch-house. And when she
was eighteen she married Jack Keene, a gambler; ran away with him, spent
a short honeymoon, and came back for the paternal blessing.

But what they found was a door closed against them. Never again did Jud
Ault speak to his daughter. He drew back in his shell, like an old
turtle, even refusing to go to town. And when it was definitely decided
that Jud Ault had made his final decision, Jack Keene, gambler, former
lawyer (according to Miles Lane, a local attorney, who had formed a
friendship for Keene), disappeared from Oreana City--alone.

Not even then did Jud Ault relent and take back his daughter, who had
no means of support. Men went to him and urged him to take care of her,
even if he did not want to see her, and he cursed them out. There was
no doubt in the minds of everyone that Jack Keene had had an eye on the
Lazy A when he married Faith; but had sneaked away like a cur when he
found that his marriage did not mean money.

Then came the Keene baby. Men said that old Jud Ault would relent now.
But he never saw his grandchild. Faith Keene lived in a little shack of
a house, which Jack had partly furnished. She tried to make a living by
taking in washing, but the returns were too small compared to the
physical labor involved. Also she was obliged to compete with a Chinese
laundry--which some of the cowboys offered to put out of business and
give her a clear field. But she declined their offer.

Things were breaking very badly for Faith Keene, when Miles Lane came
to her with some money, which he told her came from Jack Keene. She
did not wonder why he did not send her this money direct, because she
was too thankful to get it. Lane would not tell her where Jack Keene
was. Every month the Oreana City lawyer would bring her enough for her
monthly wants, and she was able to struggle along and take care of her
baby.

East of Oreana City, about four miles, were the tumbledown ranch
buildings of the Cross Arrow, owned by “Badger” Hill and his son,
known as “Shif’less.” They were veritable range derelicts, these
two. Badger was a short, squatty, bewhiskered sort of a man, who
greatly resembled his namesake. His vocabulary was limited to a few
words--mostly profane.

Shif’less was a big hulk of a man, less than thirty years of age. He
was not unhandsome, in his big, lumbering way. His features were
strong, blocky, and his wistful gray eyes seemed to be continually
wondering at the world from beneath a huge mop of blonde hair, which
seemed forever to stand on end.

It was hinted that the Cross Arrow existed through the taking of
oreanas--calves which had escaped the branding-iron of their original
owners. Farther to the north, these animals were designated as
mavericks. And it was also hinted that Badger Hill was not averse to
forcing an oreana--taking a calf away from its mother, that he might
later run it on the Cross Arrow and claim it for his own.

Shif’less Hill had, in a way, grown up with Faith Keene, and always
admired her from afar. Jud Ault had detested Badger Hill and his big
cowpuncher son--making it mutual, because both Badger and Shif’less
hated the hard-faced owner of the Lazy A.

Eph Wheeler was a mild-mannered old man, thin-faced, keen-eyed; one of
the old type of cattlemen, who cursed with no trace of emotion, and
fanned the hammer of his six-shooter, when the need arose, with the
air of a man who had a slightly disagreeable task to do, and wished to
do it as quickly as possible.

“Dude” Wheeler, the son, was a tall, straight-backed young man, who
walked so straight in his high-heeled boots that it seemed as though
a gust of wind would blow him over backward. He was thin of face,
with a wide mouth, showing excellent teeth when he smiled. His eyes
were deep-set, black as India-ink, beneath heavy brows, while his
nose was bony.

His love for gaudy clothes had won him his cognomen, and he was the
flashiest cowboy in the Oreana country. But Dude Wheeler was a top-hand
cowboy; ready to fight, drink, gamble or race. He had been taught to
hate the Lazy A. But now there was no Lazy A, as far as the Ault family
was concerned. Faith had been disowned, and no one ever heard Jud Ault
speak of having any relatives. So, as long as there was no Ault family
to fight, it seemed that the feud would, or had, died. No one considered
that Faith Keene was an Ault.

The Lazy A was in the hands of “Idaho” Breen, who had been Ault’s
foreman for years. Idaho was small of stature, as gray as a badger and
with about the same disposition. Perhaps association with Jud Ault had
caused Breen to become cynical, never smiling.

Cleve Sears, the sheriff, had well described Idaho Breen, when he said,
“If I was goin’ to pick out a man to do a first-class job of murderin’
somebody, I’d pick Idaho Breen, ’cause he’d be sure that it was a neat
job--and I don’t reckon his conscience would ever bother him at all.”

Not that Idaho had ever killed anybody--not in the Oreana country, at
least. No one had ever heard him mention the feud between the Lazy A
and the Star X, but for years he had ridden with a Winchester rifle in
a boot under his saddle fender.

It had been hinted that Dude Wheeler had found Faith Ault rather easy to
look upon, but, because she was an Ault, he had rarely seen her. Seldom
did the Lazy A and the Star X outfits meet in Oreana City, but when they
did both sides were coldly civil. They came to the same dances, thereby
causing the sheriff much mental anguish for fear of trouble, as he
wanted to play square with both sides.

But the Aults were gone now, and there were only Idaho Breen his
three punchers, “Omaha” Woods, “Mex” Leone, and “Pie” Ide. But they
were enough. In range language, a man had to be salty to work for the
Lazy A. Omaha Woods was broad of beam, with the neck and shoulders of
a wrestler and the mustache of a Viking.

Mex Leone was small, slender, almost as black as an Indian; possibly
the best bronc rider in the country. Pie Ide was rangy built, tall,
powerful. Men likened him to Abraham Lincoln in his facial aspect, but
the physical likeness was the only way in which he resembled the great
Emancipator. Pie Ide was as hard-bitted as a roundup bucker, but with
a sense of humor, which neither Omaha nor Mex seemed to possess.

It was about a week after the funeral of Jud Ault. Shif’less Hill
was on his monthly peanut spree. While the other cowboys spent their
monthly salary, or a great part of it, for liquor and cards,
Shif’less Hill consumed large quantities of peanuts and a sprinkling
of peppermint candy hearts, chuckling to himself over the inane
inscriptions thereon.

Just now he had strolled to the front gate of Faith Keene’s little
place, where Faith was sitting on the porch with the little boy. She
spoke to Shif’less, who opened the gate and came in, sprawling lazily
on the steps.

He offered Faith some peanuts, but she declined, smiling at the boyish
actions of the big cowboy, who poked a finger at the boy, who chuckled
with delight.

“Hyah makin’ it?” he asked Faith.

“Oh, all right, Shif’less.”

“Uh-huh,” Shif’less crunched a mouthful of peanuts, his big hands
hanging limply on his knees. “Tha’s good, Mrs. Keene. Glad to hear it.
Say,” he looked up at her quizzically, “I heard that yore dad left a
will.”

Faith looked blankly at him. “Why, I--I never heard----”

“Well, he did. I heard Idaho Breen tellin’ about it. Miles Lane helped
him make it out. Idaho signed it, so he said. Some of the boys got to
talkin’ about the Lazy A, and some of ’em seemed to think that you was
agoin’ to git it. But Breen said there was a will. He didn’t tell much
about it, except that there was a niece, or somethin’ like that, mixed
up in it. I was a wonderin’ if Miles Lane had told yuh anythin’ about
it, yuh know.”

“He didn’t, Shif’less,” Faith sighed deeply. “No, I didn’t know anything
about it.”

“Uh-huh. I hear lotsa fellers goin’ around, kinda admittin’ that Jud
Ault was all right. I suppose that’s the thing to do, after a man’s
dead and gone, but they all knowed that----”

“He was my father, Shif’less.”

“That’s all right. Bein’ a father seems to be more or less of a
responsibility, Mrs. Keene; but yore dad shucked his. Yeah, he’s dead
and gone, and you get tears in yore eyes when folks talk about him.
Mebbe yo’re right. I’ve got a dad,” Shif’less smiled slowly, his
wistful eyes fixed upon the little boy on Faith’s lap, “and lotsa
folks say he ain’t worth nothin’. He’s a mean voiced, hard-fisted old
pelican. Yeah, I know him better than anybody else does.

“They say he steals cattle. But they ain’t never caught him at it. Mebbe
he’s a thief, and he sure uses bad language. Sometimes he gets drunk and
acts pretty rough. But as long as I can remember, Mrs. Keene, he’s never
said a mean thing to me, except,” Shif’less smiled and filled his mouth
with peanuts, “except the time he said that I shore as hell was a
throw-back to my monkey ancestors. Dad hates peanuts.”

Faith laughed, and the boy chuckled, as though he understood.

“Yuh named him Jack, didn’t yuh?” asked Shif’less.

“Yes,” softly. “Jack Keene, Junior.”

“Uh-huh. Well,” Shif’less got to his feet, brushing the peanut shells
off his lap, “I’ll be anglin’ along. Say, I was jist a-thinkin’. Out at
the ranch I’ve got a little painted bronc. He ain’t bigger’n a minute.
Been goin’ to break him to ride, but he’s so small that m’ feet hit the
ground. I was jist a-wonderin’ if little Jack wouldn’t like him.”

“Oh, that’s thoughtful of you, Shif’less, but don’t you realize that
little Jack won’t be able to ride a horse for a long time?”

“Uh-huh. Well, I--uh--tha’s all right, too. Yore welcome. I’ll give him
the bronc, and keep it out at the ranch until yuh need it. Them painted
ones shore live a long time. Well, good day, Mrs. Keene. I reckon I’ll
git more peanuts, and head for home.”

Shif’less walked back to the main street, and was heading toward the New
York General Merchandise Store, when he met Cleve Sears, the sheriff.
Sears was short and fat, with a full-moon sort of a face. His idea of a
good time was to sit in the shade and whittle.

“Hello, Shif’less,” he said jerkily. Too much fat had made him short of
breath.

“’Lo, Cleve,” drawled Shif’less. “Whatcha know?”

“I know that Idaho Breen is sore as hell. Know what he done? This
mornin’, so he says, he found fifty-three Lazy A cow hides in a
prospect hole, somewhere between the Lazy A and the road to Welcome
Creek. Said the damn’ hole was about fifty feet deep, and he didn’t
know that them hides was there until he smelled ’em.”

“Smellin’ kinda deep, wasn’t he?” smiled Shif’less.

“Prob’ly the smell come out the mouth of the shaft.”

“Prob’ly. Still that ain’t so bad for him. Hides are worth good money
right now.”

The sheriff breathed heavily. “I dunno. Idaho’s mad. Says he’ll show the
Star X where to git off at.”

Shif’less cracked his few remaining peanuts, poured them into his mouth
and began chewing complacently. “Didja hear that old Jud Ault wrote out
a will before he died?”

“Somebody said he did. Left the Lazy A to a niece of his.”

“And left his daughter out in the cold.”

“Yeah, that’s true. I hear her husband is sendin’ her money every month.
That’s how she gits along, Shif’less. He can’t be such an awful jigger,
if he does that for her.”

“Must be all right,” mumbled Shif’less. “Don’t yuh reckon the feud
between the Lazy A and the Star X is ended?”

“It ort to be, Shif’less. Still, yuh never can tell. They tell me that
this niece of Jud Ault’s is named Ault--Mary Ault. Ordinarily I’d say
that a woman ain’t got no business runnin’ a cow ranch, but if she keeps
Idaho Breen there she won’t have to do much of the runnin’. Idaho’s been
in charge ever since Jud Ault got shot.”

“Uh-huh. The Lazy A is worth a lot of money, Cleve. I had a talk with
one of them minin’ engineers ’bout a year ago. He was pokin’ around
the hills out near our place, and he told me that the surface showin’
on the Lazy A was worth a cold million.”

“Yeah, I heard it, too. Old Jud knowed it was there. But the Lazy A
made him plenty of money--and he hated holes in the ground. I asked
Miles Lane if the old man’s will stated that no minin’ was ever to be
done on the Lazy A, but he said it didn’t.”

“I was jist wonderin’ if Faith Keene couldn’t contest that will, Cleve.”

“Miles says she can’t, because the old man left her one whole dollar.
He says he disowned her and didn’t want to even leave her the silver
dollar, but Miles showed him where she could bust the will, if he
didn’t mention her at all.”

“Uh-huh,” Shif’less picked his teeth with a match. “It ’pears to me
that them damn’ lawyers jist _has_ to be accurate, even if it wrongs
the right folks. Well, I’m all out of peanuts. See yuh later, Cleve.”

“S’-long, Shif’less.”

Shif’less sauntered on up the street. He saw Idaho Breen in front of
Miles Lane’s office, talking with Lane. They nodded coldly to him, as
he went past and entered the store just beyond.

Miles Lane was above average height, slightly stooped. His sandy hair
was thin and wiry; his eyes, close-set, were buried beneath beetling
brows, which grew together over the bridge of his thin nose. The hinges
of his wide jaws were knobby from incessant gum-chewing. But although
the jaw was wide at its hinge, it tapered down to a weak chin, which
gave his head the appearance of being top-heavy.

He invariably wore a winged collar and a stringy black tie, which no
doubt gave him a judicial air. Lane was a bottle drinker. Perhaps so
because of its economy. And as a result he was very often under the
influence of liquor.

“You said she’d be here Wednesday, eh?” questioned Idaho Breen, his cold
eyes studying the flushed face of the lawyer.

“Yes; Wednesday, Breen.”

“Uh-huh. When is the will to be read?”

“Oh, after she gets here. We’ll have the judge and the sheriff there
to hear it. I suppose the best thing to do will be to take her right
out to the Lazy A as soon as she comes.”

“That’s what I aim to do, Miles. I was just wonderin’ if Faith Keene
will make any move to contest the will. It looks as though she could
do that.”

“If she had enough money to make a fight of it, Idaho. I’m goin’ to
have a talk with her and see how she feels about it. But she can’t
do much. The will gives her one dollar. That’s a legal point. And
everybody around here knows that Jud Ault wouldn’t let her in his
house. He disowned her.

“No, I don’t think she’s got a chance to contest the will. In fact, I
don’t think she ever thought of such a thing. She’s proud.”

“How much do yuh really think the Lazy A is worth, Miles?”

The lawyer smiled thoughtfully. “The mineral rights are easily worth
a million. I talked with those engineers when they prospected it and
they said it was so rich that they were afraid to estimate. One of
’em got drunk and talked. They were employed by Eastern capital, and
I happen to know that Jud Ault was offered more money than he knew
existed, just for the mineral rights.”

“I know that,” said Idaho. “I’ve had assays made, too. Oh, it’s there,
Miles.”

“You bet it’s there. Now, what about those cow-hides?”

“Just what I told you. That prospect hole is full of Lazy A hides. That
damn’ Star X outfit used that deep shaft to get rid of Lazy A hides.
They’ve been eatin’ Lazy A meat for years, and I’ve wondered where they
threw the hides.”

“Any proof?” asked Lane judicially.

“Proof? No! How can yuh prove who shot a beef? They’ve all been shot.”

“Then drop the subject until you’ve got proof, Idaho. There’s no use
starting a battle with the Star X.”

“Just let ’em keep on eatin’ our meat, eh?”

“Have you ever eaten any Star X beef?”

“Yo’re damn’ well right, I have! But not that much.”

“The amount doesn’t matter. What I want you to do is to forget those
hides. If you can get the goods on the Star X, I’m for it. But right
now we don’t want to stir up any war. Get this girl established out
at the Lazy A, Breen. I suppose every cowpuncher in the country will
want to marry her.”

Breen laughed coldly. “I suppose. My own outfit have taken to washin’
their necks, ever since they heard she was comin’.”

“She’d be a good catch,” Lane laughed softly. “I might marry her
myself.”

“You better quit drinkin’,” advised Idaho coldly.

“I don’t drink enough to hurt me.”

“Well, I don’t want yuh to drink enough to hurt _me_.”

Miles Lane laughed. “I guess you won’t get hurt much. Just forget those
cow-hides, Idaho. We’ll deal with the Star X when we get the goods on
’em. Anyway, rustling is petty larceny beside what we’ll get.”

Something prompted Idaho to step over to the front window, which
looked out on the crooked main street. Leaning against the wall, near
the window, was Shif’less Hill, still eating peanuts. Idaho motioned
to Lane, who came over to the window. Apparently Shif’less was merely
engaged in eating more peanuts.

Idaho watched the big Cross Arrow puncher, who finally dusted the peanut
shells off his shirt front, shoved the remainder in his chaps pocket and
walked away. He did not even glance toward the window. Idaho stepped
back, his eyes squinting narrowly.

“Do yuh suppose that big fat-head was listenin’ to what he might hear?”

“I don’t think so, Breen. Anyway, what could he hear?”

“Nothin’, I reckon. I don’t like him.”

“He’s harmless.”

“Yeah, I suppose he is. Except when it comes to stealin’ calves.”

“Anyway, our conversation was none of his business.”

But perhaps Shif’less Hill felt differently about it. He untied his
horse at the New York Store hitch-rack, mounted and rode toward home. He
had not stopped in front of Miles Lane’s office with the intention of
listening. In fact, he had heard only the dull mumble of conversation,
until Lane had raised his voice slightly and said:

“Just forget those cow-hides. What do we care? Rustling is petty larceny
beside what we’ll get.”

“Beside what we’ll get,” muttered Shif’less. “Now, jist why did he say
that, I wonder?”

                   *       *       *       *       *

    Dear Al:

    You heard about me getting shot? It was over a year ago. Since
    then I’ve been a cripple--paralysis. Bullet lodged against my
    spine, and the doctors are afraid to take it away. I’ve lost
    my nerve, Al. I’m as old as hell, and they say I’m as bitter
    as gall. Maybe I am. I haven’t a kindly feeling towards anyone.
    You don’t know how it is, Al; to be old, crippled, nothing to
    look forward to. I can’t get around. The damn’ doctor won’t
    tell me the truth. If you want honesty, don’t expect it after
    you’re old and crippled.

    Al, I’m not appealing to the Association. I don’t want no cozy
    detective hanging around me. But I do want a man who can find
    out things. I’ll pay well. Maybe I’m crazy. I know they are
    saying I am. But I feel that everything is not right. The old
    Lazy A is worth a lot of money. I’ve made my will. But something
    makes me feel like an old bull, dyin’ out in the open, surrounded
    by coyotes and buzzards, waiting. I suppose they hate me. I don’t
    blame ’em. I’ve hated a lot in my time. See if you can find the
    right man, Al. The Lazy A can pay well for what it gets. Hope
    I’ll see you some day.

                                                    Yours truly,
                                                    Jud Ault.

Cultus Collins looked up from reading the letter. A gray-haired man,
with kindly blue eyes, was seated at a desk beside him, idly drawing
circles on a desk blotter with a pencil. On the walls were detail maps
of Arizona, a meat packer’s calendar, a framed picture of a longhorn
steer. From the adjoining room came the clicking of a typewriter.

“I had a hard time locating you, Collins,” said the gray-haired man. “I
got that letter nearly three weeks ago.”

“Yuh say this Lazy A is at Oreana City?”

“Yes. Have you ever been there?”

Cultus smiled grimly, but shook his head.

“No. Do you believe in fate?”

“In fate? Why, I don’t know, Collins. Do you?”

“I’m beginnin’ to,” Cultus smiled softly, as he folded up the letter.
“That’s a queer sort of a letter, Al. There’s a lot in it; a lot of the
soul of a bitter man. Mebbe I better see if I can help him. I dunno what
he wants done, do you?”

“No. Perhaps it’s merely hallucinations, Cultus. I don’t know much about
the place. If you take the job, it’ll be up to you to go there and see
what you can find out. I’ll give you a note to Ault so he’ll know you’re
on the job.”

“All right.”

The secretary of the Cattlemen’s Association penciled a note for Cultus,
while the lean-faced cowboy grinned softly over the manufacture of a
cigarette; grinned to himself, because he still had an hour to catch the
same train that Mary Smith was taking to Oreana City.

Cultus had had no inkling that the Cattle Association was going to send
him to Oreana City. He had told Mary Smith good-by, and had promised to
join her as soon as possible to help carry out the deception. Neither of
them knew what it meant, but there was no question that it was a crooked
deal. And now the Association was sending Cultus to the same location.

“What seems so funny to you?” queried the secretary, as he folded
the note. Cultus grinned widely, but did not reply. They shook hands
and Cultus went back to the busy street of an Arizona metropolis. He
headed for the depot, where he found Mary Smith.

Part of the hundred-dollar bill had been invested in a modest gray suit
and a small hat. There were roses in her cheeks now, as she sprang up to
greet Cultus.

“I’ve got to buy a ticket to Oreana,” he grinned.

“Oh, are you going with me?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Oh, I’m so glad, Mr. Collins!”

“Well, that’s nice of yuh, Miss Janice Lee,” Cultus sobered quickly.
“Don’t forget that’s who yuh are, little woman. Forget Mary Elizabeth
Smith. And my name ain’t Collins. My name’s Jones, and I’m from
Oklahoma. All you know about me is that yuh met me on the train, and
yuh think I’m buyin’ cattle.”

“But--but what is the idea?”

“Strictly business. Miss Lee. Unless I’m mistaken, there’ll be someone
to meet yuh in Oreana City. You don’t know, and I don’t know what the
game is. But let ’em do the talkin’, and you’ll soon know. I can’t be
with yuh. But don’t be scared. They won’t hurt yuh; that ain’t what they
want yuh for. But I won’t be far away. Play the game, Mary Elizabeth.”

“Oh, I’ll do that, Mr. Jones of Oklahoma.”

“_Buena muchacho_,” smiled Cultus. “I have a feelin’ that yo’re goin’ to
be a help in my business this time.”

“What is your business, anyway?”

“Bein’ Jones of Oklahoma--a cattle buyer.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

“Off that shirt! Off that shir-r-r-rt!” Pie Ide’s voice almost lifted
the shingles off the Lazy A bunkhouse. Mex Leone stopped putting on a
cerise creation, and stared at Ide, who had been shining his boots
with Rising Sun stove-polish, which was smelling to high heaven.

“Ain’t this my shirt?” asked Mex softly.

“Yore shirt! Sa-a-a-ay, when did you own a shirt like that? I bought
that shirt in Phoenix three years ago, Mex. I’m not dressin’ both of
you jiggers. Omaha’s got on a pair of my socks, and if that ain’t my
red tie he’s-- Hey, Omaha, that’s my collar!

“Yeah, it is, too! You never had none as high as that. My Gawd, if you
ever set down hard, you’d slice off yore ears. Now, look at it! Why
don’tcha polish yore boots _after_ yuh dress yore neck? Hell, I can’t
wear that collar now! And there ain’t-- Wear one of yours, Omaha? That’s
right neighborly of yuh, cowboy. I’ve got a fifteen and a half neck, and
you’ve got a seventeen.”

“I’d rather have a phonygraft, wouldn’t you, Omaha?” asked Mex,
searching his war-sack for another shirt. “Yuh can shut off a
phonygraft.”

“I don’t pay no attention to the big scorpion,” said Omaha. “He
thinks he can claim things by talkin’ louder than anybody else. That
was my collar. Provin’ it to him jist ruined it for both of us. And
this tie----”

“Give us the hist’ry of it,” begged Pie Ide. “After you’ve done lied
yore soul into purgatory, I’ll tell yuh where and how I got that tie.
Mex! Didn’t I tell yuh to let that shirt alone? Flimsy? Of course
it’s flimsy! But yuh didn’t need to rip it down the bosom thataway,
jist showin’ it was flimsy. O-h-h-h-h, why didn’t yore folks wean yuh
in yore callow youth?”

“Ain’t you goin’ to shave?” asked Omaha mildly.

“Not with my razor,” said Mex. “Every time Pie shaves with my razor I
have to pay a barber a dollar to hone the nicks out of it.”

“Aw, he’s beautiful enough,” grinned Omaha. “When that girl takes a look
at him, she’ll----”

“Wonder how I can stand to live with you two misfits,” finished Pie.
“Yeah, I’m goin’ to shave--with Mex’s razor. I’m goin’ to wear that
flimsy shirt and I’m goin’ to accept one of Omaha’s clean collars,
even if I have to punch some new buttonholes to ram my collar-button
through.”

“And ruin it for me?” wailed Omaha.

“Prob’ly.”

“Are you aimin’ to make a play for this heiress?” asked Omaha
resignedly.

“Jist like a road-runner pickin’ a grasshopper,” said Pie seriously.
“Ain’t it legitimate? She’s single. There ain’t nothin’ in the
constitution of the State that says I ain’t eligible, is there? I’m
a clean, whole-souled young feller, and I’ve got ambitions to be
somethin’ in the world.”

“If you’d ’a’ said you was clean-souled, I’d keep still, ’cause yore
soul ain’t visible,” grinned Mex. “You ain’t took a bath since yore
bronc bogged down in the Little Muddy last spring. With all the land
she’s gettin’ on the old Lazy A, I don’t reckon the lady would want
any extra real estate, Pie.”

Mex dodged gracefully through the doorway, just ahead of the shoe-brush,
which Pie hurled the length of the room. It was a good throw--as far as
velocity was concerned--but the angle was bad and Omaha looked up just
in time to get the handle of it across the bridge of his nose. Omaha
went backward over a chair, landing on the back of his neck near the
door, howling bloody murder. Nothing could ever convince Omaha that Pie
Ide had not intended to hit him. He came to his feet, swearing a streak,
blood running from his injured nose, eyes half blinded.

His grasping hands came in contact with his belt and gun on a bunk, and
he fired one wild shot, as Pie Ide went under a bunk on his hands and
knees.

“Gdigyuh!” wailed Omaha. He staggered to the center of the room, one
hand held to his streaming nose, as he tried to locate Pie under the
bunk.

“What’s goin’ on in here?” Idaho Breen had just heard the commotion,
and had come from the stable. “What happened to you, Omaha? Put down
that gun!”

“It was an accident, Idaho!” panted Pie, sticking his nose and eyes
out between a drapery of blankets, which hung down over the end of the
bunk. “I throwed that brush at Mex, and Omaha walked into it. Take the
gun away from him, Idaho.”

“I’d wadden’t no dab aggcided,” denied Omaha. “He idtedded to hid be.”

“He throwed it at me,” Mex stuck his head around the corner of the
doorway. “But you’ve got my consent to kill him, Omaha.”

“Some of you damn’ fools are goin’ to kill each other one of these
days,” declared Idaho. “Why don’tcha ever grow up?”

Omaha tossed the gun to the bunk, and turned to the broken mirror to
examine his injury. The nose was swelling, and was tinged with purple
across the bridge. Idaho grunted disgustedly and walked out, while Pie
crawled from beneath the bunk and advised Omaha to hold his breath and
stop the bleeding.

“Will thad stob id?” asked Omaha wearily.

“Sure it will.”

Omaha tried it, but with no results. “How log?” he asked heavily. “How
log do you hab to hold id?”

“All depends the the person,” said Pie seriously. “Some die a lot harder
than others.”

But this time Pie had secured Omaha’s gun, and walked outside to
join Mex. Idaho was hitching up the buggy team, with the intention
of going to Oreana City to meet the train. Idaho had not dressed for
the reception of the heiress of the Lazy A, but the three cowboys
felt differently about it. All they knew was that Mary Ault, old Jud
Ault’s niece, was coming to the Lazy A. Idaho had told them that she
was a fairly young woman. It was not often that the Lazy A boys
dressed up, but when they did they made an event of it.

Pie had suggested that they all go to the depot to meet her, but
Idaho vetoed that idea. Idaho drove away. It would be several hours
before train time. Omaha came from the bunkhouse, looking queer with
his purple nose, which resembled a potato in contour.

“All dressed up and no place to go,” complained Pie. “It’s hours before
the train comes in.”

“And nothin’ to drink on the ranch,” wailed Omaha. “I’d sell my soul for
a shot of liquor.”

“Got over yore hayfever, eh?” grinned Mex. “Yore nose looks like the
handle on a door.”

“Thasall right,” growled Omaha. “Ne’ mind my nose.”

“It strikes me that somethin’ must be done,” said Pie. “We can’t gloom
around here for hours, dressed thisaway. Suppose we go to town, keep out
of sight of Idaho, and when the train whistles we can head for home.”

“Yore voice is tuned for my heartstrings,” said Mex. “How about you,
Omaha?”

“Pshaw, I’m halfway there right now. C’mon.”

And while the three Lazy A cowboys headed for town, four other riders,
“Buck” Wing, “Heinie” Moriarity, “Klondike” Evans and Joe Chevrier, of
the Star X, foregathered in the Oreana saloon and gambling house, with
enough money in their pockets to make the visit worthwhile.

Buck Wing was a long-legged, buck-tooth cowboy, with one eye slightly
out of line, and one of his ears, in prize fight parlance, was slightly
cauliflowered. Moriarity was short, broad of shoulder, typically Celtic,
even to his love of battle.

Klondike Evans was of medium height, bald-headed, sallow complexioned,
which accentuated the wispy black mustache on his long upper lip. Joe
Chevrier was a little, red-faced, French-Canadian, voluble, excitable,
the butt of most of the rough jokes originated by Buck and Heinie.

The Lazy A and the Star X outfits had never met since the funeral of
Jud Ault. Personally there had never been any bad blood between the
cowboys, but they had been loyal to their own outfits, respecting the
ancient enmity.

Idaho Breen saw that the Star X outfit was at the Oreana; so he tied
his buggy team in front of the New York Store, and gave the Oreana a
wide berth. This was as Pie Ide had expected; so the Lazy A trio tied
their horses at the rear of the Oreana and made their entrance through
the rear door.

The four Star X boys were at the bar. Omaha, Pie and Mex stopped about
midway of the room, looking at the Star X men.

Buck Wing grinned widely. He had imbibed plenty of liquor and his soul
was mellow toward everybody.

“’S far as I kin see,” he said slowly, “there ain’t no feud left. Hyah,
cowboys!”

And for the first time since the feud started, the Star X punchers
shook hands with those from the Lazy A. After about the sixth drink,
Omaha offered this explanation:

“This here Miss Ault, which the old man designates in his will-paper as
bein’ the one he chooses to own the Lazy A, is due to hit Oreana City
this evenin’. Idaho Breen aims to take her out to the ranch. That’s the
reason we’re all duded up this-a-way. When that train toots for Oreana
City, we fogs for home and lines up at the front door to welcome her.”

“Perfec’ly proper,” said Klondike owlishly. “My, my, I don’t see how
you boys ever got so stylish! I take one look at Pie Ide, and I says
to myself, ‘Here’s a ’Piscopal preacher.’ You shee it was that collar
that fooled me.”

“’S one of mine,” said Omaha. “Pie punched button-holes in it. Had t’
kinda lap the ends over to fit his neck.”

“My Gawd, he shore is a dude!” applauded Buck Wing. “Yo’re all
pretty gaudy, if yuh ask me. Still, it’s perfec’ly proper under the
circumstances. Whatcha say, Joe?”

Joe Chevrier hadn’t said anything. Liquor made him just a trifle
mournful, it seemed. He looked gloomily upon the three Lazy A punchers.

“I say not’ing,” he replied. “Me, I’m jus’ t’ink w’at somebody say ’bout
Star X kill Lazy A beef and t’row hide in de prospec’ hole.”

“Drop it!” growled Heinie. “This is no time to stir up a lot of smelly
cow-hides, you frog-eater!”

Frenchy was properly squelched, but continued to glower. He was just
drunk enough to hold a grudge, and his remarks brought a decided chill
over the festivities.

“I’m for buryin’ any hatchet that might be around,” said Pie Ide. “We
might as well all be good little friends together.”

“Sure thing,” agreed Buck Wing. “I’m willin’. But you know yourself,
Pie, that Idaho Breen made some remarks that are hard to overlook.”

“You say somet’ng true,” applauded Joe.

“And I’m goin’ to squirsh you, if yuh don’t shut up!” snapped Heinie.

“And I’ll help yuh,” offered Omaha. Heinie glared at Omaha.

“The hell yuh will!”

“If yuh need help,” amended Omaha quickly.

“I’m not scare from de Lazy A, you bet,” declared Joe.

“You shore don’t need to be, Joe,” said Klondike warmly.

“Well, yuh can’t hold us responsible for what Breen said, can yuh?”
asked Pie Ide. “I’d crave to know if we’re responsible for what our
boss says; that’s what I’d crave to know.”

“You seems to have a cravin’, cowboy,” observed Buck coldly. “Folks that
crave hard enough usually gits, yuh know.”

“Aw, you don’t need to git yore tonsils all swelled up,” said Pie. “We
came here in a peaceful mood. Yo’re four to our three, but nobody ever
seen the Lazy A----”

“Let’s arbitrate,” interrupted Omaha. “I’ll buy a drink. And we don’t
care how many Lazy A cows you’ve rustled. We don’t care if you’ve
filled every prospect hole from here to Welcome Creek with Lazy A
hides. Whatcha drinkin’, gents?”

“Are you admittin’ to yourself that we has done such a thing?” Heinie
Moriarity hitched up his belt, his eyes snapping.

“Let’s have the drink first,” suggested Klondike.

Arguments were forgotten for the moment, while seven men drank. Joe
Chevrier threw his glass in a cuspidor, smashing it into a hundred
pieces.

“I drink no more wit’ Lazy A,” declared Joe, waving his arms. “I’m
insult from w’at Breen say about de cow-hide.”

“Why,” said Omaha expansively, “don’t some of you Star X gents kill that
damn’ Frenchman? He’s a menace to friendship.”

“’O’s a menace?” demanded Joe belligerently. “Tak’ dat off! By gosh, I
no stand for dat!”

“He ain’t no menace,” said Klondike. “You hadn’t ought to call him
that.”

“Then why don’t he forget them cowhides?” wailed Omaha.

“He’s so honest it hurts him,” explained Buck Wing thickly.

“Hurts him to be honest,” nodded Mex. “I sabe what yuh mean.”

“You don’t sabe nothin’!” snorted Buck Wing.

“All right, all right,” Pie Ide hitched up his belt. “I can see that you
Star X whip-poor-wills are pinin’ for battle. But we ain’t in the market
for no wars t’day. We got to remain safe and sane until our new she-boss
arrives. After she’s kinda inaugurated, we’re receptful to anythin’ you
hedge-hawgs nominate. We meets yuh any old place yuh ain’t afraid to go,
and we’ll let yuh choose yore weapons. Yo’re four to three, but after
the first two has been choosed, I whip the remainin’ two.”

“You kinda hates yourself, don’tcha?” asked Buck Wing.

“Yeah; but I’ve got enough to cover you four ant-eaters.”

“If you fellers has got any quantity of brawlin’ to do, I wish you’d go
some’ers else,” said the bartender mildly.

“Who’s brawlin’?” demanded Klondike. “This here is jist an argument
among men--so keep out of it.”

Both sides knew that there was no chance for peace. Omaha hitched up his
belt, spat dryly and said, “All right. You Star K’s don’t want no peace,
I can see that; so we’ll go away. That cowhide matter don’t mean nothin’
to any of us. All I can say is that if yuh ate all the beef that was
inside them hides yo’re shore plenty fat on good meat.”

Then the three Lazy A cowboys filed out through the front door and
headed down the street toward the Rawhide saloon, just well enough
organized to ignore the fact that Idaho Breen might meet them.

“All six of ’em went, eh?” Joe Chevrier looked owlishly toward the front
door.

“There was only three,” said Klondike.

“By gosh, dere was six went out!” exploded Joe. “I tell you w’at, I’m
sore. Caus’ now I c’n whip all six--me!”

“You couldn’t whip a canary,” declared Buck Wing. “Shut up.”

“But dey accuse,” wailed Joe.

“They ort to be teached a lesson,” observed Klondike.

“They will be,” nodded Buck. “I’ve got a scheme. That train gets in
after dark, and there won’t be nobody there to meet the girl, except
Idaho Breen. How’d it be--?” Buck scratched his chin thoughtfully.
“How’d it be to swipe that girl and take her out to the Star X?”

“I’ll buy a drink!” exploded Heinie.

“You’ve spoke yore piece.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

When Idaho Breen came to Oreana City he drove his team to the little
depot, where he left it to await the arrival of Mary Ault. He went to
the depot, where the agent divulged the information that the train
would be about three hours late.

“I got a telegram for Jud Ault,” he grinned. “Didn’t just know how to
deliver it--do you, Breen?”

“That’s funny, ain’t it?” laughed Idaho. “Mebbe I better take it along
with me; it might concern the business, yuh know.”

“Sure. Here she is. Lookin’ for somebody on the train?”

Idaho pocketed the telegram. “Yeah; the new owner of the Lazy A is due
in on this train.”

“That so? Oh, I did hear about Jud Ault making out a will.”

Idaho nodded and walked out to his team. He opened the telegram. It was
from the secretary of the Cattlemen’s Association, and read:

      Sending you best titan for job will identify himself.

                                                Al Traynor.

Idaho leaned against a buggy wheel and pondered over the telegram.

“Sendin’ you best man for job.” he muttered. “What job? A telegram to a
dead man! And Al Traynor is secretary of the Association. I wonder jist
what job they had in mind.”

He folded up the telegram and went back up the street. The sheriff was
sitting in front of the New York Store, whittling, his eyes scanning the
front of the Oreana saloon. Idaho spoke to him, and the sheriff moved
over to give him a seat.

“Yore gang and the Star X gang are over there in the Oreana,” offered
the sheriff, pointing with his pocket-knife. “They’ve been in there for
about fifteen minutes, and nobody ain’t been throwed out yet.”

Idaho scowled heavily. “All gettin’ drunk, eh?”

“All got drunk,” corrected the sheriff.

Just at that moment the three Lazy A boys filed out and headed for the
Rawhide. None of them were able to follow a chalk-line. They filed into
the Rawhide, and the sheriff breathed easier.

“Well, I’m glad that’s over,” he said thankfully.

The sun had gone down, and it would soon be dark. They were lighting one
of the hanging lamps in the Oreana, when Joe Chevrier and Klondike Evans
came from the place. Both of them were unsteady on their feet. It seemed
that Klondike was trying to argue Joe out of doing a certain thing of
which Joe was bound and determined to do.

“My gosh, I’m insult!” roared the little cowpuncher angrily, as they
came across the street. “He tak’ it off, Klondike!”

“Thasall ri’.” mumbled Klondike. “You ain’t got no shense. I tell you
for-f’rgit it, da-aw-gone yuh. Whatsa use----?”

“Ho, ho!” Joe had seen Idaho and the sheriff. He braced his feet,
roaring out his war-whoop, “You sonn-of-a-gonn!”

Klondike made an ineffectual grab at Joe, who had dragged out his
six-shooter, staggering out of Klondike’s reach.

_Wham! Crash!_ His bullet smashed through the window just over Idaho’s
and the sheriff’s heads.

_Wham! Wham!_ Two more bullets practically ruined the rest of the
window, while Idaho and the sheriff, running like a team of heavy-bodied
fire-horses, headed for the sheriff’s office.

_Wham!_ Another bullet struck the side of the building, as they fell
through the doorway. Heinie Moriarity and Buck Wing staggered out of
the Oreana, while from the Rawhide, a short block down the street, and
almost opposite the sheriff’s office, came the boys from the Lazy A,
seeking to find what the shooting was about.

Wham! Joe’s fifth bullet struck the dirt just in front of Omaha Woods,
who almost fell over backward, when the spray of gravel blew up in his
face. And without any further argument, Pie Ide drew his six-shooter
and proceeded to take pot-shots at the Star X gang.

A bullet knocked Klondike’s sombrero off and when he stooped over to get
it, another hunk of lead threw gravel in his face: so he forgot the hat
and went galloping drunkenly toward the doorway of the Oreana, where he
caught his toe on the step and fell halfway through the doorway.

The shooting became general, except Joe Chevrier, who was the cause of
the whole thing, and who was trying to stuff more cartridges into his
six-shooter, but with little success. Buck Wing had run in close to
the side of the Oreana, while Heinie sat down in the street, shooting
across one bended knee.

_Bang!_ A note entirely different from that of the six-gun. Joe Chevrier
yelped like an injured pup and galloped toward the far corner of the
Oreana, grasping at the rear of himself. The enraged sheriff had poked a
ten-gauge shotgun through a pane in his office window, and had given the
Star X Frenchman something to think about besides loading his gun.

Heinie’s gun was empty; so he crawled on his hands and knees back to
the Oreana. The Lazy A outfit had tracked to the door of the Rawhide,
only to find it barred against them. The saloon-keeper was taking no
chances of them using his place as a fort.

“Is anybody hurt?” panted Pie Ide, as they leaned against the barred
door.

“I got my mustache full of gravel!” wailed Omaha. “And some of it hit my
sore nose.”

“Didja see what happened to the frog-eater?” chuckled Mex. “The sheriff
busted him with a load of duckshot.”

“I wonder what started it?” grinned Pie, as he reloaded his long
Colt .45. “Let’s go across the street and set on the sidewalk. Them
snakehunters are too drunk to hit a house, and it’ll soon be dark.”

“Yuh didn’t see us hittin’ anything didja?” inquired Omaha, pawing at
his mustache. “We’re a fine lot of shooters! We never hit anybody.”

“We fanned ’em out of the street, didn’t we?” fleered Mex. “Didja want
to kill ’em, Omaha?”

“Well, I didn’t want to kiss ’em. Let’s sneak around and get in the back
door of the sheriff’s office.”

“And git a hideful of duck-shot, eh?” Pie Ide shook his head so hard
that his hat fell off. “We’ve got all the war we can handle, without
foolin’ with the sheriff and Idaho Breen.”

The Star X boys were of the same opinion as three of them leaned against
the Oreana bar. Klondike was bitter. His fairly new Stetson had a jagged
hole in the crown.

“Well, what started it, anyway?” demanded Buck Wing.

“Joe Chevrier took a shot at Idaho Breen and the sheriff.”

“Danged fool! Did we kill any of the Lazy A?”

Nobody seemed to know. Joe came through the rear doorway, limping. He
had sobered considerably.

“By gar, I’m get stoong by fortee bee!” he exclaimed. “Behin’ me I’m
feel like de centipeed walk h’all over me.”

“Yuh got a load of duck-shot in yore back!” snorted Buck Wing
disgustedly. “It’s too damn’ bad he didn’t use a cannon. What made
yuh start shootin’ out here, you danged Canuck? Yuh shore put us in
bad.”

“Well,” Joe grimaced painfully, “I’m see dat Ida-hoo, and I’m so insult
about de raw-hide.”

“We might go down and apologize to the Lazy A boys,” suggested Heinie
Moriarity. “They’re prob’ly in the Rawhide.”

But that suggestion didn’t go well with Buck Wing. Except for the
bartender, they had the Oreana all to themselves. What few other
patrons had been in there had sneaked out the back door during the
shooting, and had given the main street a wide berth. The bartender,
while still sticking to the ship, did not feel any too secure.

“I don’t apologize to nobody,” declared Buck. “If Joe wants to apologize
to Idaho and the sheriff----”

“She don’t!” snorted Joe. “I’m ver’ sore jus’ now.”

“I’d suggest that we go home,” said Klondike, mourning over his
sombrero.

“And let the Lazy A think they run us out?”

“Let ’em think what they will. What they don’t know won’t hurt ’em.”

The Lazy A bunch, sitting like three buzzards on the sidewalk, saw the
Star X boys ride away from the Oreana hitchrack, and chuckled with glee.
It was too dark to see them get their horses at the rack. Idaho Breen
and the disgruntled sheriff also saw them ride away, and breathed a sigh
of relief.

“We whipped ’em!” declared Mex.

“We shore did, by golly!” chuckled Omaha. “Here comes Idaho and the
sheriff. I suppose they’re comin’ to congratulate us.”

But Idaho Breen was not in a congratulatory frame of mind.

“Why in hell didn’t you fellers stay at the ranch and behave
yourselves?” he demanded angrily. “Comin’ down here and startin’
trouble!”

“Who started any trouble?” grunted Pie Ide. “If we hadn’t been here to
turn the tide you and the sheriff would ’a’ had to pull another Alamo.
They’d shore made yuh hard to catch.”

“You fellers started it! Yuh mixed with that Star X outfit in the
Oreana, and made trouble.”

“Well, whatcha goin’ to do about it?” asked Omaha. “Is this a free
country, or are we workin’ for a Czar?” Idaho debated. Good cowhands
were not plentiful. He knew he was just on the verge of losing all
three of them.

“Well,” he said slowly, “I suppose it’s all right. But I didn’t want you
boys drunk when Miss Ault comes. Dang it, that ain’t the right spirit,
boys. She prob’ly ain’t used to seein’ a lot of drunken punchers.”

“Who’s drunk?” demanded Omaha.

Idaho shook his head. “Mebbe I was mistaken. I--I was judgin’ from the
shootin’ that yuh wasn’t cold sober. Why, some of yore bullets hit the
sheriff’s office, and it ain’t noways in the line between where you was
and the middle of the street.”

“Oh, we didn’t want to kill ’em,” said Pie Ide. “All we wanted to do
was to scare ’em out of town; so they’d let you and the sheriff out
of the office.”

“My shotgun settled that,” said the sheriff, panting heavily. “I handed
Joe Chevrier an ounce and a quarter of number fives, and he’ll itch for
a long time.”

“There ain’t no fun left, anyway,” said Mex mournfully. “I’d jist as
soon go home.”

“Same here,” nodded Omaha. “We was jist killin’ time, anyway.”

So the Lazy A boys went behind the Oreana, where they mounted their
horses and headed for home. Idaho tried to find Miles Lane, but the
lawyer was not in evidence. The town had recovered its composure after
the bloodless battle, and there was much speculation as to what would
happen next time the two outfits met.

It was almost time for the train arrival, when Idaho went to the depot.
He went in the waiting room, where the agent told him the train would
be in very soon. Then he went out on the platform and walked around the
corner of the depot, with the intention of changing the position of his
half broke buggy team, which might get frightened at the train. But as
he swung around the corner, three or four men piled upon him, bearing
him down by sheer weight of numbers. An old saddle-blanket was flung
over his head, and inside of two minutes Idaho Breen was trussed up
like a mummy, and dumped unceremoniously behind the depot.

The train ground ponderously up to the station, and when Mary Smith
climbed down the steps, assisted by the gray-haired conductor, she
was met by Buck Wing and Klondike Evans of the Star X. Behind her
came Cultus Collins, apparently paying no attention to her.

“Howdy, Miss,” greeted Buck Wing, a half smile on his face. “Are you
Miss Ault?”

“Why, yes,” said Mary, who was prepared to be “alias anything she was
called.”

Klondike grasped her suitcase and she walked with Buck, who guided her
around to the hitch-rack, where the frightened team was being taken care
of by Heinie and Joe. Mary noted a strong smell of liquor about them.

It seemed settled that Klondike was to do the driving. He got in and
took the lines, while Heinie and Joe clung to the bridles of the rearing
broncos.

“Head for the ranch,” said Buck. “We’ll catch yuh.”

“You’ll go some, if yuh do!” snorted Klondike, surging back on the
lines. The team whirled around, almost upsetting the buggy, and went
up the main street of Oreana City like a pair of racehorses heading
for the wire.

Mary got little view of Oreana City, as she was entirely occupied in
clinging to the seat of the open buggy. The road was far from smooth,
and they went bouncing off the street into a wide sweep of low hills,
gray and blue in the starlight. Klondike clung to the frail lines,
content to keep the running team in the road.

The light buggy meant nothing to the broncos; running, wild, cold-jawed.
A mile or more reeled out behind them. Klondike knew of a bad spot in
the road, where a washout had cut a deep furrow across the highway. To
go into this at top speed would mean a smashup. He shortened his lines,
braced his feet and pulled steadily. But the cold-jawed broncs did not
mind the pull on the straight-bar bits.

Klondike, still half drunk, realized that things were not working out
just right. He shot a glance at the girl beside him, who was clinging
to the seat with both hands, and surged back on the lines again. He
knew the washout was very close now.

_Snap!_ The left line broke and came back, striking Klondike in the
chest, and throwing all the pull on the right line. It swerved the team
to the right, and a wheel went over a mesquite snag, throwing Klondike
off the seat.

Just beyond here an old road turned to the right; an old road, which had
not been used for years. The buggy slewed around, skidded dangerously,
and then straightened up as the frantic team headed up the old road.

Mary was thrown off the seat and down against the dash, but managed
to get back to the seat. Her mind was in a whirl, as she realized
that the driver had been thrown off. She wanted to jump, but realized
the danger. The buggy was careening over the old road, possibly half
a mile from where Klondike had been thrown out, when the team whirled
suddenly, throwing Mary off into a patch of brush, and headed back in
the general direction of the Star X, cutting across country.

The cause of their sudden turn was a lone horseman, who had appeared
suddenly just a few yards ahead of them. The team was almost into him,
when it turned, and Mary narrowly missed being thrown against his horse.
The horse whirled wildly, but he reined it back, dismounted swiftly and
ran over to the girl.

With little difficulty he disentangled her from the bush, which had
broken her fall, and placed her on the ground. It was Dude Wheeler,
cutting across country toward the Star X, his face a mixture of
wonder and astonishment as he scratched a match and looked down into
the frightened eyes of Mary Smith.

“Are yuh hurt?” he asked, when he saw her eyes open. She did not
say--merely blinked at the match, which burned Dude’s fingers before
he dropped it.

“I--I don’t think I’m hurt--much,” she said, as he scratched another
match. She managed to sit up and he braced her with one arm. “I guess
I’m--I’m badly shaken,” she admitted.

“Yeah, I’ll bet you are. But how did yuh happen to be up here, all alone
with a runaway team?”

“Why, I don’t know exactly. The driver fell off, you see.”

“Yeah, I see--that much,” Dude Wheeler was lighting several matches, so
he might get a better look at this girl.

“Who was the driver?” he asked. Mary shook her head. “I don’t know. I
just came in on the train tonight, you see.”

“In on the train,” echoed Dude. He looked closer at her. “Say, are you
Miss Ault?”

“Why--er--yes,” said Mary, turning her eyes away.

The matches burned out, and Dude did not light another.

“I see,” he said slowly. He got to his feet and stood there, gazing
across the hills. “Yo’re a long ways from the Lazy A,” he said. “I
dunno what--I wonder--that was a Lazy A team. You don’t know who the
driver was?”

“No, I have no idea who he was. They just put me in the buggy, and the
team ran away.”

“I see. I’m Jack Wheeler, Miss Ault. Folks call me ‘Dude.’”

“Oh, what a queer name!”

“We own the Star X outfit.”

“Isn’t that nice? I--I think I’ve hurt my ankle, Mr. Wheeler.”

“I reckon you got off lucky, if that’s all.”

He helped her to her feet, but she was unable to walk.

“I dunno,” said Dude slowly. “It’s a long ways to the Lazy A. I hadn’t
ought to take yuh to the Star X, but it’s the nearest place. Can yuh
stand alone until I get my bronc?”

Mary clung to the brush, while he led his horse up to her.

“You can’t straddle no horse in that skirt,” he told her.

“No, I suppose not,” admitted Mary. “What will we do?”

“And if I set yuh sideways on that saddle and got on behind yuh, we’d
prob’ly both get throwed off, because that bronc ain’t broke to pack
double. I reckon there’s just one thing to do.”

He swung her up in his arms, lifted her to the saddle and got up with
her, lifting her in his arms as he got into the saddle.

“But you can’t carry me in your arms,” she protested.

“This is all the evidence in the world against yore idea,” he said, as
he rode off through the hills. “If you can stand it, I shore can, Miss.
I’ll try and not hurt yore ankle.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Klondike Evans had landed just off the road, and just hard enough to
daze him for a minute or more. When he recovered sufficiently to realize
what had happened, the team was far away; too far for him to even hear
it. He was walking circles in the road, when Buck Wing, Joe Chevrier and
Heinie Moriarity came galloping up the road, leading Klondike’s horse.
They drew up and considered Klondike, who was still half-speechless from
hitting the ground so hard.

“What in hell happened?” panted Buck. “Where’s the team?”

“Gone,” Klondike puffed heavily and flapped his arms helplessly.
“Th-throwed me out! Line busted. I dunno what happened next.”

“My Gawd!” blurted Heinie piously. “She’ll be kilt!”

“Already killed, I’ll betcha!” exploded Buck. “Git on yore bronc,
Klondike! We’ve got to head ’em off.”

“Head ’em off?” Klondike lurched to his horse and climbed into the
saddle. “Head nothin’! They’re miles away and goin’ strong. I couldn’t
even check ’em.”

But no one was listening to him; they were spurring ahead as fast as
their horses could run.

“Watch for her along the road!” yelled Buck.

Their horses never slackened their run, until they reached the big gate
of the Star X, where they found the buggy, almost wrapped around one of
the gate-posts. It was the end of the road. Inside the yard were the two
horses. One had lost all its harness except the collar and limped badly.
The other seemed to be all right.

The boys dropped off their horses, cold sober now, and searched all
around. But there was no sign of the girl. Sadly they mounted and
rode back toward town, going slowly, searching both sides of the road
carefully, afraid of finding the girl dead.

“They’ll hang us,” wailed Klondike. “I’ll betcha they will.”

“You get ’bout feefty shot in de hin’side, and you not scare from hang,”
declared Joe, who rode standing up in his stirrups. “She’s sure kill
h’all de joy for you.”

“That was a fool thing to do,” complained Buck.

“This is a nice time to think about it,” retorted Klondike. “It sounded
good when we was drunk. Anyway, it was yore idea, Buck.”

“Originally, Klondike. You was the one that suggested ridin’ a circle
and comin’ back to the depot, yuh remember. Don’t lay it all onto me.”

“She was a danged pretty girl, too,” said Klondike. “I got a good look
at her.”

“Sure; and pulled all on one line.”

“Aw, let up on him, Buck,” said Heinie. “We’re all to blame. Dude will
fire all of us for this, anyway; so we might as well go to town, get
drunk and take our medicine. If there ever was four bigger fools, I’d
like to see what they look like.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Cultus Collins walked from the depot and engaged a room at the Oreana
hotel, after which he went to the Oreana saloon. The sheriff and Miles
Lane were at the bar, talking with the bartender, who was explaining
the argument between the Lazy A and the Star X. They nodded to Cultus,
who sat down at a table and picked up a newspaper.

“I wasn’t here to see the fun,” laughed Lane. “Lucky that no one was
hurt, except Joe Cheerier. Those few shot probably won’t hurt him much.
Do you know if Miss Ault came in tonight?”

“I think so,” said the sheriff. “Idaho was there to meet her, and I saw
his outfit go out of town on the run. Just got a flash of the buggy, and
I think the girl was in it. Idaho was drivin’ a half broke team.”

“Joe Chevrier said he had been stung by forty bees,” laughed the
bartender. “He didn’t get much sympathy.”

Lane turned to Cultus. “Have a drink with us, stranger?”

Cultus dropped the paper and came up to the bar.

“My name is Jones,” he said. “Jones of Oklahoma.”

“Mine is Lane.” The lawyer introduced Cultus to the rest. “Did you come
in on the train tonight?”

“Yeah,” nodded Cultus.

“Was there a lady got off here?” “Yeah. I think her name was Ault. I
talked with her a little.”

“A niece of old man Ault, who died a while back,” said the sheriff.

Cultus squinted at his glass. He had a letter of introduction to a dead
man, it seemed.

“She inherited the Lazy A ranch,” offered the sheriff.

“She didn’t say anythin’ about it,” said Cultus thoughtfully. “A nice
sort of a girl, it seemed to me.”

“She’ll be rich.” The sheriff backed against the bar, holding his glass.
“That Lazy A is worth a mint of money.”

“Cattle?” asked Cultus.

“Gold. The old man could have sold out for a million, but he hated holes
in the ground. Queer old jigger, Ault was.”

“Have you ever been here before?” asked Lane curiously.

Cultus shook his head, “No, this is my first trip. Kinda lookin’ over
the cattle crop for a Chicago packer.”

“Oh, I see. You----”

Lane’s question was interrupted by the entrance of Idaho Breen. He was
hatless, a smear of blood across his mouth and a livid scratch across
over his right eye. He spat angrily and lurched against the bar.

“Give me a drink!” he snorted, “Here, gimme that bottle!”

Idaho grasped the bottle and took a heavy swig; so heavy that the
bartender gasped. It was probably the biggest drink ever taken in
the Oreana. Idaho slammed the bottle back on the bar, wiped the back
of his hand across his lips and tried to blink the tears out of his
eyes.

“That’s what I’d call a snifter,” observed the sheriff.

“Sa-a-ay!” Idaho pounded on the bar with both hands, as though to give
force to his statement. “A-a-a-ahem-m-m-m! I was assaulted by several
men a while ago. They hog-tied me in a dirty blanket and left me out
back of the depot. The agent happened to find me. My team’s gone--the
girl’s gone!”

“You was?” exclaimed the sheriff. “Whatcha know--say, I seen yore buggy
team go up the street just after the train came in.”

“My buggy team?” choked Idaho. “Are yuh sure?”

“Yeah. It was goin’ kinda fast, but I’m sure I seen a woman in it,
Idaho.”

“Yuh did, eh?” Idaho struck the top of the bar with his fist. “It was
that damn’ Star X outfit! They laid for me and stole the girl! They
never left town!”

“Who was the girl they stole?” asked Cultus. Idaho glared at him. “Who
are you?”

“This is Jones of Oklahoma,” said the sheriff. “Mr. Jones, this is Mr.
Breen, foreman of the Lazy A.”

“The girl they stole,” said Idaho, not offering Cultus his hand, “was
the new owner of the Lazy A outfit.”

“The girl we spoke about,” said the sheriff. “The one that came in on
the train with you.”

“Oh, yeah--that one.”

“Was you there?” asked Idaho quickly. “Didja see her git off the train?
Who met her, eh? What’d they look like?”

Cultus grinned widely. “I dunno. It was kinda dark, and I didn’t pay
much attention.”

“It has been over an hour since the train came in,” said Lane, looking
at his watch. “Have you----?”

“I have!” rasped Idaho. “With a dirty blanket over my head, and part of
it in my mouth. I thought I was goin’ to have to stay all night.”

“Just why would the Star X steal that girl?” asked Cultus.

“Because they hate the Lazy A!” snorted Idaho. “We had a regular battle
in the street tonight. Nobody got killed. I suppose both sides were too
drunk to shoot straight. They’d do anythin’--them dirty coyotes. I’m
goin’ out to the Star X and get that girl.”

“Think about it a while,” advised the sheriff. “Them boys won’t eat
her. In spite of yore opinion of the Star X, they ain’t cannibals.
They was all drunk, Idaho; and their idea of a good joke would be to
steal the owner of the Lazy A.”

“Dirty cow-thieves!” Idaho was very mad, indeed.

“That’s a killin’ statement,” said the sheriff. “Don’t let Dude Wheeler
hear yuh say it.”

“Bad medicine?” asked Cultus.

“Bad enough to resent a statement like that.”

“You shouldn’t say things like that, Idaho,” said Lane.

“Well, by God, I found fifty-three Lazy A cow-hides in----”

“We know that,” interrupted the sheriff.

Idaho reached for the bottle and took another drink, as a cowboy came
in. He was from one of the small ranches south of Oreana. He nodded
pleasantly to everyone.

“I was wonderin’ if any of the Lazy A gang were in town,” he grinned.
“The Star X outfit are down in the Rawhide.”

“Down in the Rawhide?” asked Idaho. “How long have they been down
there?”

“Well, I dunno. I heard the bartender tell ’em that the Lazy A thought
they’d run ’em out of town, and the Star X boys said they hadn’t never
left town.”

Idaho glared thoughtfully. The taste of the blanket was in his mouth,
and he spat disgustedly.

“Did the agent see the girl get off the train?” asked Lane.

Idaho shook his head. “He said he didn’t.”

“I reckon that Jones of Oklahoma is the only one that’s sure she ever
came,” observed the sheriff.

“I saw _a_ girl get off,” corrected Cultus.

Miles Lane cleared his throat softly. “If I were in your place, Idaho,
I’d go home and sleep on it. I don’t think that girl is in any danger
of being hurt, and you can’t do a thing tonight.”

“That’s good advice,” nodded the sheriff. “Tomorrow mornin’, if the girl
ain’t showed up, I’ll go with yuh to the Star X.”

“Yeah, and I’ll take my whole gang,” flared Idaho. “I’ve got to hire a
horse to ride home on.” He stamped out of the saloon, and they heard him
going down the rickety sidewalk, heading for the livery stable.

Cultus went back to the hotel, puzzling over what had become of Mary.
He could have described the two men who met her at the train, but
decided not to. He could identify Buck Wing and Klondike Evans any
time, and Cultus wanted to know more of things before he told anybody
what he knew.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Dude Wheeler saw the wreck of the Lazy A buggy, when he rode through
the gate, with Mary in his arms. In the dim starlight he could see the
two horses down near a corral; so he decided that the runaway team had
cut back to the road which they had followed to the ranch gate.

He drew up at the porch of the ranchhouse and dismounted, still carrying
Mary in his arms.

“Your arms must be paralyzed,” she said.

“Not exactly,” he laughed. “Yo’re not as light as yuh was when I first
picked yuh up. How’s the ankle feelin’?”

“Why, it seems numb, but there is little pain.”

“That’s good.” He picked her up and they went in the house.

The Star X living-room was a commodious place, rough finished, with a
huge fireplace on one side. The floor was strewn with Navajo rugs, and
many of the chair-seats and backs were of cow-hide, untanned. It was a
typical man’s abode. At one side of the front door was a gun-rack,
filled with rifles. Loose cartridges, a heavy Colt revolver, coil of
spot-cord rope, packages of tobacco, and some dog-eared magazines were
scattered over the rough table top in the center of the room.

On the floor in front of the fireplace was the skin of a grizzly bear,
while over the mantle was a huge elk head, with magnificent antlers.
Mary gazed around the room, after Dude had placed her in their easiest
chair.

“I’ll get some hot water,” said Dude. “Mebbe some liniment will help it
out. You take it easy, and I’ll fix yuh up fine.”

Mary watched the tall, straight-backed cowboy leave the room, and sank
back in her chair with a sigh, wondering what would happen next. Her
life had been adventurous indeed since she had met Cultus Collins. She
had no idea just what she was to do in Oreana City. Thinking it over
calmly was impossible for her. She was an impostor. And whether she
could carry out the deception remained to be seen.

Someone had entered the room behind her and she turned to see Eph
Wheeler, clad in an old red undershirt, overalls and a pair of mismated
woolen socks. The old man’s sparse hair was standing straight up, and
his face appeared very thin in the lamplight. He squinted closely at
her, glanced toward the kitchen, where Dude was noisily poking wood in
the stove, and then came a little closer to her.

“Just who might you be?” he asked curiously. “I thought I must be
dreamin’ when I heard a woman’s voice out here.”

“I am Mary Ault,” said Mary bravely.

The old man’s mouth opened, but he did not speak. He rubbed his right
hip with his right elbow, frowned at the lamp, shifted his feet.

“Mind sayin’ that again?” he asked.

Mary repeated the name. The old man nodded. Dude came in from the
kitchen, saw his father, and stopped short.

“Did we wake yuh up, Dad?” he asked.

The old man did not reply; he was too interested in Mary.

“This is Miss Ault,” said Dude.

“That’s what she said. Where’d you pick her up?”

Dude explained about the runaway and how he had found Mary. He was
unable to tell who had been driving the team, and Mary did not know.

“It’s a Lazy A rig,” said Dude. “Blue buggy with red wheels. It’s
wrapped around one of our gate-posts. The horses are down by the corral.
I can’t imagine what a Lazy A rig would be doin’ out here.”

“My suitcase was in it,” said Mary. Dude walked out, and came back in
a few moments, carrying the suitcase, which was none the worse for the
runaway. The old man sat down and watched Mary, while she soaked her
swollen ankle in hot water.

“So Jud Ault was yore uncle, eh?” he remarked. “Know him?”

“No,” said Mary. She hadn’t the slightest idea who Jud Ault was.

“He was a dirty old pup.”

Mary flinched. She was evidently not related to a saint.

“He turned his own daughter out,” continued the old man. “But he was a
dirty old pup long before that.”

“Dad, I don’t reckon she cares to know all this,” said Dude softly.

“Well, she ought to. Anyway, she might as well hear it from me, ’cause
she’s goin’ to hear it sooner or later.”

“That liniment will take a lot of the soreness out,” said Dude. “I’ll
soak a bandage and----”

“It seems to me yore takin’ a lot of pains with an Ault,” said the old
man. Dude flushed, but did not reply.

“Been packin’ a Winchester for ’em for years; now yo’re wrappin’ up
their ankles.”

Mary laughed, because she did not realize how serious had been the
hatred between the two ranches.

“What is a Winchester?” she asked.

“A gun,” said Dude. His hand trembled slightly and he spilled a little
of the liniment.

“Do all men carry guns out here?” she asked. Dude looked up at her, his
eyes serious.

“Most of ’em do.”

“Tell me about Jud Ault turning his daughter out.”

“It’s true.” Dude did not look up at her. “She married a gambler. Some
say he was also a lawyer, but he didn’t practice law here. Old Jud Ault
wouldn’t speak to her again. She lives in Oreana City, with her little
boy.”

“And he didn’t leave her anything when he died?”

“A dollar.”

“And the ranch is worth a million, they say,” growled the old man.
“Yo’re sure lucky.”

“I--I didn’t know much about it,” faltered Mary.

“Lane sent for yuh, I reckon. He made out Jud Ault’s will.”

“Yes,” said Mary, because she didn’t know what else to say.

Dude finished bandaging the ankle and took the water back to the
kitchen.

“Are you thinkin’ of stayin’ here tonight?” asked the old man.

“Why, I--I don’t know,” said Mary.

“I guess you’ll go back to town.”

Dude came back and the old man turned to him. “Yuh better harness up the
team and take her back to the hotel, Dude.”

They looked at each other for several moments.

“That might be the best thing to do,” said Dude slowly then. “I’ll hitch
up the team.”

He went out, softly closing the door behind him. Mary curled up on the
big chair, her chin in her hand. She did not like the old man, who
filled his pipe and smoked noisily.

“You’ll sell the Lazy A, won’t yuh?” he asked, not unkindly.

Mary shook her head. “I’m sure I don’t know, Mr. Wheeler.”

“Runnin’ a cow-ranch ain’t no woman’s job,” he sucked heavily on his
pipe. “Of course, you might marry a cow-man.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Yo’re a queer sort of a girl. That’s about all most girls think about!”

“Do you know much about girls?”

“Hmph! Well, don’t they?”

“Do they?”

Eph Wheeler threw his pipe on the table, with a grunt of disgust. “I’m
glad yo’re goin’ back to town! I hate an argument.”

“And you start them yourself.”

“I do not!” The old man drew himself up angrily, his eyes flashing. “I
never--say, I dunno what this is all about. I wish Dude would hurry with
that team. You make me mad. Aults always made me mad. You remind me of
Jud Ault.”

Mary laughed openly at him, and he stalked from the room, swearing under
his breath. He did not put in an appearance, when Dude carried her out
to the buggy, and Dude did not mention him until they were well on their
way to Oreana City.

The moon was up now, and the hills were bathed in a silver glow; blue in
the depths, and silver, where the moonlight brushed the ridges: a mystic
fairyland where the moon and stars came down close to the world. Mary
leaned back in the buggy seat and looked at a world she had never seen
before.

“Oh, isn’t it beautiful!” she said simply.

“Yes’m, it is. I never get tired of these hills at night. The rough
edges are all gone. Lotsa nights I just ride into the hills; ride away
back on the ridges. It’s like goin’ away from the rest of the world.

“I’m sorry dad talked like he did. But he’s old, and he hates the
Lazy A. There’s no women at the Star X. Pretty soon our four cowpunchers
will be driftin’ home from town, loaded to the gills with liquor--and it
might not be a nice place for a lady--the Star X ranch. They’re a rough
lot. You’ll be better off at the hotel. I put yore suitcase in the back
of the buggy.”

“It’s a wonder it didn’t get all smashed.”

“And you, too.”

“Yes, that’s true. I’m sorry to have put you to all this trouble, Mr.
Wheeler. I just can’t imagine what would have happened to me, if you
hadn’t met that runaway.”

“Well, it was kinda lucky. About a hundred yards beyond where you was
throwed out, there’s a deep washout. I reckon things would a’ gone to
smash in there. It’s about thirty feet across--and there ain’t no
road.”

“You mean, a deep rut?”

“Yuh might call it a rut, ma’am; it’s about twenty feet deep.”

“Oh!” Mary shuddered. “I’m glad I met you.”

“Well, so am I,” said Dude softly. “And it wasn’t any trouble; so yuh
don’t need to thank me.”

“But you hate the Ault family, you know.”

“I just wonder if I do. It seems like kind of a small thing to do--this
hate. It ain’t never got me anythin’. You and Faith are the only Aults I
know--and I don’t hate either of yuh.”

“Faith?”

“Yeah; Jud Ault’s daughter.”

“The one he turned out of his home?”

“Uh-huh. There’s the lights of Oreana City. I’ll fix yuh up at the
hotel. It ain’t no great place, but it’s all right. You’ll prob’ly go
out to the Lazy A tomorrow.”

They drove up to the hotel. Dude carried her suitcase in and Mary was
able to walk slowly. The proprietor was reading by the light of a smoky
old oil lamp. He stared over his glasses at Mary.

“Give Miss Ault yore best room. Charley,” said Dude. “She’s only goin’
to be here one night.”

“Sure, sure! Miss Ault. Huh! Huh! Yes, ma’am! Looks like old Jud, eh?
Know her any place. Naw, yuh don’t need to register. We never had but
one book, and somebody stole it. I suppose they was collectin’
horse-thieves’ autographs. Ha, ha, ha, ha!”

The old man bent double over his stock joke, grabbed the lamp in one
hand, the suitcase in the other and led the way down a narrow hall.

“I’ll put ye in the president’s sweet,” he chuckled. “It’s the only one
that the wash-bowl ain’t cracked.”

Dude watched them turn into a room, and went outside. There was plenty
of noise in the Oreana, so he went over. Klondike, Buck, Heinie and Joe
were decidedly drunk. They goggled at him owlishly, sobering a trifle.
It was rather unusual for Dude to come to town at that time of night.
Buck invited him to have a drink, but he declined.

A sudden notion struck him, and he took Buck by the arm.

“I want to talk to yuh, Buck,” he said.

“Oh, yeah,” Buck held back. “Now lissen to me, Dude. You’ve----”

“Not in here,” whispered Dude. “Come outside.”

“Oh, all right. Shay, now lissen----”

Dude drew him outside the saloon and walked him a few steps up the
sidewalk, where he braced Buck against the wall.

“I know whasha want,” said Buck knowingly. “I didn’ know Klondike was
gonna bust the lines. Oh, it’s an awful thing, ol’-timer. She mush ’a’
been killed. She----”

“You stole that girl, did yuh, Buck?”

“Oh, yesh. Firs’ we had a fight with the Lazy A, and the sheriff shot
Joe in the pants with a sh-shotgun. Oh, ter’ble! Idaho Breen wash in
it, too. Oh, cert’nly! So we tied him up in an old saddle-blanket and
stole the girl. We admit it. Cert’nly, we do. We can’t deny it. ’S too
bad, but it’s done, Dude.”

“Who knows about it, except you four, Buck?”

“Thasall.”

“Did Idaho recognize yuh?”

“’F he did, he’s a good li’l recognizer.”

“Then don’t say anythin’ about it, Buck. They can’t prove it on yuh; so
keep still.”

“You mean that, Dude?” Buck goggled owlishly, pawing at Dude.

“Sure I mean it.”

“Is--is that girl dead?”

“Not hardly, Buck.”

“Oh, my; thash good. Mush obliged, Dude. An’ you ain’t goin’ to fire
ush?”

Dude laughed softly. “No, Buck; I think not. Mebbe I’ll thank yuh
instead. Go back and finish up yore job.”

Buck weaved back to the bar, where the other three boys awaited a
verdict. Buck leaned against the bar, poured out a drink, a vacant sag
to his lower lip.

“Whassa matter?” gurgled Klondike. “What’d Dude want?”

“Sh-h-h-h-h!” Buck sagged back on his heels. “It’s a shecret. Dude says
to keep our mouth shut about it.”

“Zasso?” Heinie nodded solemnly. “Does Dude know about it?”

“Shertenly does,” rather loftily. “Oh, shertenly he does.”

“And he wasn’t awful mad, Buck? Didn’t fire us?”

“Nossir. He--he con-con-congratulated ush.”

“By gosh, dat’s fine!” exploded Joe. “My min’ is relieve, but I’m still
got de li’l duck-shot in de skin.”

“Dude wasn’t drunk?” queried Klondike.

“Jus’ as shober as--as we are,” declared Buck.

“Then it’s all right. Here’s happy days, gents.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

It was early the following morning when Idaho Breen and his three
cowboys rode in to Oreana City. Each man carried a rifle in a scabbard,
and an extra belt of cartridges. The Lazy A was prepared for war. Cleve
Sears, the pudgy sheriff, sighed mournfully when he saw them. He wanted
to be fair with both sides, even if Joe Chevrier did try to kill him
the evening previous. Idaho briskly stated his intentions of going out
to the Star X and demanding the girl and an explanation.

“And you better come along, Cleve,” he said. “It’s yore place to see
that we get a square deal.”

“No-o-up,” the sheriff shook his head. “In the first place, yuh don’t
know they took her. Last night yore outfit staged a battle with the
Star X, which wasn’t noways decisive. If yuh go out there, all heeled
for a scrap--you’ll git it, Idaho. And I’m not goin’ to back yore
play. And I jist want yuh to know that the law ain’t back yuh. If yuh
kill some of the Star X, set to kill somebody. That’s ag’in the law.
If you go out there and git some of yore men killed, yuh ain’t got no
law to back yuh. If yuh kill some of the Star X, all hell can’t save
yuh from bein’ tried for murder. Better do quite a lot of thinkin’
about it, Idaho.”

It was a long speech for Cleve Sears to make, and it left him gasping
for breath. It also left Idaho breathless.

“Are you backin’ the Star X?” demanded Idaho. “You went and used a
shotgun on Joe Chevrier last night, and now yuh want to back their----”

“I’m not backin’ anybody! Chevrier tried to kill one of us; mebbe both.
But that was last night. Yo’re goin’ out there to pick a fight. Well, go
ahead, but remember what I told yuh.”

“But I want to find the girl,” wailed Idaho. “I’m not lookin’ for a war,
Cleve. That girl was stolen, don’tcha see? Why, I’ve got a charge of
horse-stealin’ I can put ag’in the man who took my team. There ain’t no
law against killin’ a horse-thief.”

“Ain’t never been no law ag’in it,” said the sheriff slowly. “At least,
when yo’re sure you’ve got the right man.”

“Well, I don’t think yo’re playin’ square, Cleve.”

Idaho joined his men in front of the Rawhide saloon, where they sat down
to debate over their next move. The sheriff went on up to the hotel
dining-room, where he usually ate his meals. He was just in the act of
making an attack on a platter of ham and eggs, when Mary limped into the
room and sat down.

Cleve Sears was a bachelor, but not feminine-proof. He stared at Mary,
and found it difficult to concentrate on breakfast. She paid no
attention to him, but ordered her breakfast from the hotel proprietor,
who asked her how her “laig” was this morning.

“Much better, thank you,” she smiled.

“Don’t mention it, Miss Ault. Want yer aigs lookin’ up, or blind?”

“I don’t think I know what you mean.”

“Leave ’em as they lay, or turned over, ma’am?”

“Oh, as they lay,” laughed Mary. The man shuffled away to the kitchen.
The sheriff’s breakfast was unfinished, but he hurried outside and
crossed the street to where Idaho and his men were still debating what
to do.

“If yo’re lookin’ for a Miss Ault--she’s eatin’ breakfast in the hotel,”
announced the sheriff.

Idaho blinked rapidly. “Over there? Huh! How’d she git there?”

“I didn’t ask her,” said the sheriff coldly. “I suppose she stayed
there last night. Pers’nally, I think you was drunk and didn’t meet
the train.”

“No such a damn’ thing! I tell yuh--oh, well, I don’t care what you
think.”

They all filed over to the hotel, and on the way they saw Miles Lane
coming down the street. He was greatly surprised at the news and
anxious to see her. The four cowboys stayed in the hotel lobby, while
the sheriff, Idaho and Lane went into the dining-room.

Miles Lane lost no time in introducing himself, and also introduced
Idaho Breen and the sheriff. Mary had finished her breakfast; so Lane
asked her to go to his office with him and Idaho.

“You’ve got yore credentials, ain’t yuh?” asked Idaho. Mary produced
the letter, which Lane glanced through, nodding quickly. He turned to
the sheriff.

“Cleve, I wish you’d get old Judge Mears and bring him to my office. We
don’t exactly need him, but I’d like to have him there when we read the
will.”

The sheriff turned away, and Lane led the way to his office, ignoring
the three cowpunchers, who were anxious to meet the girl. Once inside
the office, Lane closed the door and motioned Mary to a seat. Idaho
lounged against the closed door, looking speculatively at Mary, who
tried to appear at ease.

“This letter says to keep you away from liquor,” said Lane seriously.
“Maybe you understand that.”

“Yes,” said Mary softly.

“I’ll say that Loring was a good picker,” Lane laughed softly. “How much
did he tell you about this deal?”

“Not very much.” Mary glanced at the floor.

“All right. You’d fool anybody, my dear. I was afraid Loring might send
a hard-boiled female.”

“Yuh can’t tell by the label,” laughed Idaho.

“That’s true.” Lane moved closer to Mary and lowered his voice. “I
don’t know how much Loring told you, but you don’t need to know very
much. What you don’t know won’t hurt you. Just do as we say, and
you’ll get your money. Is that plain?”

Mary nodded, not trusting her voice.

“All right. We’ll read that will, as soon as the men get here, and then
you’ll go out to the Lazy A. And remember--you are Mary Ault as long as
you are here. You play square with us, and you’ll get your profit.”

“And if she don’t----” Idaho Breen hesitated.

“We won’t discuss such a remote possibility, Idaho. Now,” Lane became
quizzical, “will you please tell us what happened to you last night?”

“I--I hardly know,” faltered Mary. “A man met me at the train, put me in
a buggy, and the team ran away. Another man found me, after I was thrown
out, and brought me to the hotel. I hurt my ankle, but it is much better
this morning.”

“Would you know these men if you seen ’em?” asked Idaho.

Mary shook her head quickly. “It was quite dark, you see.”

“Hear any names?”

“No--except the man who brought me in. His name was Wheeler.”

“Dude Wheeler, eh?” Idaho laughed harshly.

“That was his name. He was very nice to me.”

Idaho laughed, but dropped the subject, because the sheriff and old
Judge Mears, the district judge, were coming in. The cowboys from the
Lazy A crowded in and listened to Miles Lane read the will of Jud Ault,
in which, with the exception of one dollar, the entire Lazy A property
was left to his niece, Mary Ault, his brother’s only child--an orphan.

The old judge nodded over the legality of the instrument, and the
reading was over. The will had been witnessed by Idaho Breen and Pie
Ide.

As they came from the office, Cultus Collins met them near the door. He
nodded pleasantly to everyone. Idaho turned to Pie Ide and asked him to
go over to the livery stable and secure a rig to take Mary out to the
ranch.

Cultus moved in close to Idaho. “I’d like to speak to you on a little
business matter,” he said.

Idaho squinted narrowly at Cultus, as they moved down the street a short
ways away from the crowd. Cultus drew out the letter he had brought to
Jud Ault, and let Idaho read it.

“Now, I don’t know what it’s all about,” confessed Cultus. “It kinda
seems to me that I’ve arrived too late; but mebbe you know what the
old man wanted done.”

Idaho’s eyes hardened slightly. “I dunno just what--oh, yeah.” He looked
at Cultus, a half smile on his lips. “I reckon I know what it was about.
Yuh see, we’ve been losin’ a lot of cattle. Jist a while ago I found a
lot of Lazy A hides in a prospect hole about three miles from our ranch.
Somebody has been killin’ our stock, and the old man was worried about
it. There’s been bad blood between our outfit and the Star X for years,
and that bothered him, too. If you can clean up all this cattle
stealin’, yore a wonder. Do yuh think yuh can?”

Cultus smiled widely. “I dunno; I’ll try.”

“Fine!” Idaho fairly beamed.

“Yuh better give me a job on the Lazy A,” suggested Cultus. “It would
kinda mask my real work, don’t yuh see?”

“Well,” Idaho rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Yeah, I can. You ain’t got
no horse here, have yuh? No? Say, you git yore stuff out here and put
it in the buggy, and you can drive Miss Ault out to the ranch. We’ll be
along with yuh.”

“All right. But I ain’t got nothin’ to take along. Mebbe I better buy a
couple of shirts. Anyway, I’ll get along.”

“Yeah. Git what yuh need. Ide will be here with the buggy in a few
minutes.”

Cultus nodded and went to the New York Store, while Idaho went back
and drew Miles aside, showing him the telegram he had, which was sent
to Jud Ault. Then he told Miles about the letter of introduction
Cultus had from the secretary of the Cattlemen’s Association, and of
how he was going to keep Cultus out at the Lazy A, to hunt rustlers.

“His name is Jones, isn’t it?” asked Lane.

“That’s the name he gave last night. The letter he had didn’t mention
any names. But Jones or not Jones, he’ll hunt rustlers to his heart’s
content: and I’ll have him where I can watch him all the time.”

Lane laughed softly. “It’s working out fine.”

“Better than that, Miles. How do yuh like our heiress?”

“Better than I thought I would. She sure fits the part. Why, you’d
almost take her for a decent girl.”

“Almost,” grinned Idaho. “Loring knew what we needed. The only thing
that worries me is that Loring is in a position to demand more money.
He knows too much.”

“Let him try anything like that, and I’ll send him to the penitentiary
for life,” growled Lane. “Here comes the rig.”

They helped Mary into the buggy, while one of the boys got her suitcase
from the hotel. She gave Lane the check for the trunk, and Idaho
promised to send a wagon after it. Cultus came from the store, carrying
a bundle, and Idaho motioned for him to take the lines. Lane hastened
to introduce Mary, and Cultus smiled.

“I met Miss Ault on the train,” he said. “I didn’t know who she was at
that time.”

“We’ll lead the way,” said Idaho. “Head straight out of town and take
the road that leads to the left.”

Cultus nodded and drove slowly up the street, while the men crossed the
street and mounted their horses.

“Hang onto yore nerve,” cautioned Cultus. “I’m goin’ to stay at the
Lazy A and hunt rustlers. I had to show my hand, in order to keep an eye
on you, Mary Elizabeth. This is a game, and we’ll play it together; but
don’t let anybody know, because it’s a dangerous pastime. They’re goin’
to ride in close now; so be careful what yuh say to me.”

Mary nodded and looked straight ahead as the cowboys spurred in close to
them.

“Yore name is Jones, ain’t it?” said Idaho, leaning from his saddle.

Cultus nodded quickly. “Bill Jones, to be exact.”

“From Oklahoma?”

“That’s the place.”

“Uh-huh,” Idaho straightened in his saddle, and there was a smile on his
lips, as he looked straight ahead. Perhaps he didn’t know it, but there
was also a smile on the lips of Jones of Oklahoma, too, and he was also
looking straight ahead.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Old Jud Ault had had little pride in appearances, and as far as the
Lazy A was concerned he was content to let it run down. The old
ranch-house was half adobe, two stories; a very livable place, but
not much to look at. A wide veranda extended the width of the front,
on the ground level, with the old flagged floor still intact. The
big living-room was much the same as that of the Star X, which was
of decidedly masculine flavor.

Old Wang Lung, a wizen-faced old Celestial, presided over the culinary
end of the Lazy A. He had been with the Lazy A for many years, and was
known as “Hop,” for no reason at all. He had accepted both Mary and
Cultus without comment. He was jealous of his kitchen, and woe to
anyone who intruded.

Idaho Breen had told the boys confidentially that Bill Jones, of
Oklahoma, was an Association detective. Cowboys, as a rule, do not care
much for a range detective; and this rangy, homely specimen, with the
solemn visage, rather amused them.

Pie Ide tried to frame up some practical jokes to play on the detective,
but discarded each one shortly after its inception.

“I jist can’t do it,” he confided to Omaha, as they sat on the top pole
of the corral together. “I git a swell idea for a joke on him, and then
I can’t seem to pull it off. He looks at me with them funny eyes, and I
kinda--you know how the hair raises up on the back of a dog when it’s
scared? That’s the way I kinda crinkle.”

“Well, you ain’t scared of him, are yuh?” Omaha smoothed his mustache
and stared at Pie Ide. The tall cowboy shook his head.

“It ain’t exactly bein’ scared, Omaha. But somethin’ tells me that he
knows all about that joke. Even when I think of a new idea, he looks
at me just as though he knowed what I was thinkin’ about, and that the
joke was as old as the hills.”

“Aw, he ain’t so smart,” said Omaha “He’s been here a week and he ain’t
done nothin’--much.”

“I know. He was over to that prospect hole, where Idaho found them
cowhides. I asked him what he thought of ’em, and he jist looks at me
kinda funny and says, ‘I think the cows that wore all them hides are
dead.’”

Omaha snorted. “He did, eh? Gawd, he sure is a detective!”

“Idaho don’t think much of him,” said Pie. “I heard him ask Jones the
other day how long he figured the Lazy A was goin’ to pay him a salary,
if he didn’t do some detectin’.”

“What did he say, Pie?”

“He said he was doin’ his best. Idaho asks him how he goes about it to
find a rustler, and he says he usually tries to put himself in the
place of the rustler. I dunno what he meant, and I don’t think Idaho
did, but Idaho says, ‘Well, have yuh done it in this case?’ Jones says
he had, but it didn’t seem to work out. Idaho asks him what he intends
to do now, and Jones says, ‘Well, mebbe I’ll put myself in the cow’s
place, and kinda work it out from that angle.’”

“I think Jones is a plain damn’ fool,” said Omaha.

“I think,” said Pie slowly, “that that is jist what Jones of Oklahoma
wants us to think. Omaha, the Association ain’t in the habit of sendin’
fools on a job of this kind.”

“Thasso? Huh! I never seen a cow-detective that had sense enough to pour
sand out of a boot.”

“Allasame, I’m glad I’m pure,” grinned Pie. He lifted his head and
squinted toward the main gate. “Here comes Miles Lane. Do yuh know,
Omaha, I’m beginnin’ to suspect that he’s stuck on our new boss.”

“Danged fool!” growled Omaha. Pie laughed softly. “Lotsa fools around
here, it seems to me. Even Cleve Sears, our estimable sheriff, ain’t
losin’ no chances to come out here.”

All of which was very true, much to the disgust of Idaho Breen, who met
Miles Lane at the front door.

“Well, what do yuh know?” asked Idaho.

Miles produced several pieces of mail, among which was a letter directed
to Mary Ault. Idaho looked closely at it, put it in his pocket, and
looked over the rest of the mail. The front door was closed behind them.

“That letter was mailed in Oreana City,” observed Lane. Idaho nodded,
and walked to the far end of the veranda, followed by the lawyer. Idaho
took out the letter and tore open the flap. It read:

    My dear Miss Ault:

    By this time you probably realize that there is little
    friendship lost between your ranch and mine, but after
    all there is no reason why we cannot be friends. You
    understand that I can’t very well come to see you at the
    Lazy A, and I do want to see you again. Can’t you meet
    me in town? Just drop me a note, and I’ll be waiting
    there for you. Make it soon.

                                        Sincerely yours,
                                        “Dude” Jack Wheeler.

Idaho snorted disgustedly and tore the letter into shreds, scattering
them in the breeze.

“Not going to give it to her, eh?” queried Lane.

“Don’t look like it, does it?”

“Suits me. How is she?”

“All right. Sa-a-ay! Dude Wheeler’s got a lot of nerve! I’d like to see
him moonin’ around here!”

Lane laughed softly. “You’ve got to expect those things. She’s a pretty
girl.”

Idaho looked closely at Lane. “You ain’t lettin’ that bother you, are
yuh? Her looks don’t mean anythin’ to you, do they?”

Lane flushed slightly. “Not a bit.”

“Well,” said Idaho softly, “they better not, Miles. I’ll be glad when
everythin’ is fixed up, and she’s out of here. By God, I can’t git any
work out of three fool punchers, who insist on wearin’ white collars
and takin’ baths.”

“How about Jones of Oklahoma?”

Idaho grinned. “That poor fool. I wonder if the Association was playing
a joke on the Lazy A, or if they jist wanted to git rid of Jones. Every
day he saddles his horse and goes ridin’ in the hills--alone. But he
ain’t found out anythin’.”

“Where does he ride?” asked Lane.

“Oh, I dunno. I don’t pay much attention to him.”

They sauntered back to the front door and went into the house. Mary was
curled up on a couch, reading an old magazine, but started to leave the
room, when they came in. She had grown to dislike the Oreana attorney.

“Don’t go,” said Lane. “You’re always running away, it seems.”

“She wanted to go to town today.” offered Idaho. “But I told her we’d
get anythin’ she wants.”

“Sure we will,” nodded Lane.

“Does that mean that I’m a prisoner here?” asked Mary indignantly.

“Have it that way, if yuh want to,” replied Idaho. “This deal is almost
settled, and we’re not takin’ any chances on you.”

“But what harm would there be in going to town?” she asked.

“You’ll stay here,” declared Idaho. “You can go when we tell yuh to
go--and then we don’t care where yuh go, just so yuh go a long ways from
here. You’ll be well paid for the job, and yore only instructions, after
yuh leave here, is to forget that yuh ever seen the place. I reckon
Loring explained that to yuh.”

Mary turned her attention to the magazine, glad to drop the subject.
Lane and Idaho went outside and finished their conversation, while Mary
stared out of the window. She had virtually been a prisoner since she
arrived at the Lazy A. Hop served her meals to her in the living-room,
keeping her away from the dining-room and from any contact with the
men.

She had had no chance to talk with Cultus. Breen had treated her
respectfully enough, for which she was grateful, but she did want a
few words with Cultus. Idaho Breen took no chances on her, and stayed
close to the ranch, while Miles Lane handled the legal end of the
inheritance.

As yet she had been told nothing of what they wanted, except that she
was Mary Ault, the new owner of the Lazy A. She had been given the room
formerly occupied by Jud Ault, which had been scrupulously cleaned by
Hop. As far as physical comforts were concerned, she was all right.

The Lazy A had furnished Cultus with a horse and saddle, and Breen had
told him to do as he pleased. Cultus realized that Mary was more or
less of a prisoner, but there was nothing he could do to relieve the
situation. He also knew that Breen was little interested in the stolen
cattle, except that he would like to make some trouble for the Star X.

That Idaho Breen and Miles Lane intended to loot the Lazy A was easy
to see. Cultus realized how easy it would be for him to prove that
Mary Smith was not Mary Ault, but it would be difficult to prove that
there was no Mary Ault. It would only serve to brand Mary Smith as an
impostor, and him as her confederate.

Cultus surmised that Breen and Lane intended to merely use the girl
as a tool to get the ranch cheap. The letters proved that the girl
who was shot in San Francisco was Janice Lee, or at least she was not
Mary Ault. After associating with the three cowpunchers at the
Lazy A, Cultus decided that they were not in the plot. It was evident
that they believed, as did everyone else, that Mary Ault was genuine.
In fact, there was no reason for anyone to think otherwise.

On the same day that Lane brought the letter from Dude Wheeler, Cultus
rode in at the tumbledown Cross Arrow, and met Badger and Shif’less
Hill. The old man was sitting on his little porch, clad in a sleeveless
undershirt, faded pair of overalls, without boots or socks--his bare
feet resting on the porch-rail, while he slumped back in a rickety
chair, smoking his pipe.

He unbent enough to remove his pipe from his mouth and to grunt a
welcome. Cultus dismounted, tied his horse, and sat down on the steps.
As Cultus rolled a cigarette, Shif’less came out, stooping a little, as
he stepped through the doorway.

“Howdy,” he said pleasantly. “I didn’t know we had company. Yo’re Jones,
ain’t yuh?”

“Yeah, I’m Jones,” Cultus got up and shook hands with Shif’less.

“Somebody--I reckon it was the sheriff--said who yuh was. Yo’re with the
Lazy A, ain’t yuh?”

“I’m over there,” smiled Cultus.

“Damned outfit!” snorted the old man. Shif’less smiled.

“Don’t like ’em, eh?” queried Cultus.

“No! Why should I like ’em?”

“No reason, I suppose,” Cultus smiled over his cigarette. “Seems like a
good outfit. What’s wrong with ’em?”

“I reckon it’s all right since Jud Ault died,” said Shif’less, before
the old man could speak. “This girl can’t be blamed for what Jud Ault
done. Mebbe she’s mighty fine.”

“She’s a fine girl,” said Cultus. “How’s things with you folks?”

“We can’t kick,” smiled Shif’less.

“As long as the other outfits raise plenty of calves--we’re doin’ well,”
said the old man. “At least that’s what they say about us.”

Shif’less tried to stop him, but the old man shook his head violently.
“What’s the difference? They all say it.”

Shif’less smiled grimly at Cultus, who smoked slowly, looking at the old
man.

“It just happens,” said Shif’less slowly, “that Mr. Jones is an
Association detective, sent here to try and find out who is stealin’
Lazy A cattle.”

The old man jerked slightly, and looked at Cultus, his eyes blazing.
Cultus remarked to himself how much the old man did look like a gray
old badger, angry over something.

“So that’s what yuh are, eh?” he snarled. “Kinda lookin’ over the Cross
Arrow, are yuh? Well, go ahead!”

Cultus looked at Shif’less, ignoring the old man. “Who told yuh that?”
he asked.

“Miles Lane, the lawyer.”

Cultus nodded. He had suspected this. He wondered if all the cattle
outfits in the Oreana country didn’t know what he was doing.

“Are you a pretty good friend of Lane?” he asked.

Shif’less hesitated for a moment. “Well, I’ve known him quite a long
time, Jones. He didn’t lie about yuh, did he?”

Cultus shook his head slowly. “No, he told the truth--as far as he knew
it, Hill.”

“As far as he knew it?”

“Even a lawyer don’t know it all.”

“Well, what in hell are yuh doin’ here at my ranch?” rasped the old man.

“Tryin’ to be friendly.”

“Tryin’ to be--what?”

“Friendly.”

“Oh, yeah. And then see what yuh can find out, eh?”

“If you don’t steal cattle, you’ve got nothin’ to fear,” said Cultus
slowly.

“Well, that’s nice of yuh.”

Shif’less studied the tall, homely cowboy. There was a world of power in
that lean body. He sat, humped over on the steps, and his cotton shirt,
drawn tight, showed the ripple of his back and shoulder muscles as he
moved the slightest. His wide, lean hands, with the long fingers, the
broad bony wrists, bespoke vise-like power.

“I didn’t come over here, because of what I’ve heard,” said Cultus
slowly, “because I hardly ever believe what I hear. I’m not denyin’
that I was sent here by the Association, but it was because Jud Ault
wanted me to come.”

“But he’s been dead quite a while, Jones.”

“It took quite a while to locate me, and they didn’t know the old man
was dead.”

“Now, what in hell did that old crook want of a detective?” demanded
Badger Hill.

“I don’t know,” confessed Cultus. “He didn’t know either. But he thought
things wasn’t just right.”

“You bet they wasn’t right!” said Shif’less hotly. “Jud Ault turned his
daughter out of his house, because she married a man he didn’t like. And
after the man left her without any support, the old man wouldn’t help
her.”

“She’s a pretty nice sort of a girl, I hear,” said Cultus. He was
looking at Shif’less Hill, as he spoke. He saw the jaw of the big,
indolent-looking cowboy shut tightly, and his wistful blue eyes stared
out across the hills.

“Yeah, she’s--nice,” said Shif’less slowly. The old man glanced at
Shif’less and at Cultus, and Cultus saw an expression of amusement in
the old man’s eyes.

“They say her husband is still supportin’ her,” said Cultus.

Shif’less nodded, but did not speak.

“Has he been here since he left his wife?”

“No.”

“Yes,” said the old man quickly. “I saw him. Yuh don’t need to argue
with me, Shif’less,” said the old man, when Shif’less opened his mouth
to speak. He turned to Cultus. “I saw Jack Keene in Oreana City, talkin’
to Miles Lane, one night. Shif’less says I was mistaken, but I know what
I see.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Over a year ago.”

“A year ago last June,” said Shif’less. “I think it was about the
fifteenth of the month. We’ve argued about it enough, that I remember
the date.”

They talked for a while about cattle conditions, but rustling was not
mentioned again. Old Badger Hill shook hands with Cultus when he left,
and asked him to visit them again.

Cultus had been to the prospect shaft, where Idaho Breen found the
Lazy A cowhides, but there was no clue in a lot of hides. The animals
had all been shot, and the hides showed that the cattle had been killed
at intervals for several months.

He rode back to Oreana City, and found the sheriff talking to Mrs.
Keene in front of his office. The sheriff introduced them. Mrs. Keene
was carrying several packages, which Cultus offered to take. The little
boy accepted Cultus at once, when Cultus smiled at him, and the three
of them walked to Mrs. Keene’s home.

Mrs. Keene was interested in Mary Ault, and asked Cultus about her.
Cultus confessed that he could tell little about her. Cultus carried
the packages through the little living-room to the kitchen, and on the
way back he stopped to glance at a photograph on the center table.

“That is little Jackie’s father,” said Mrs. Keene. Cultus nodded
thoughtfully, as he looked down at the unmistakable features of Loring,
the San Francisco lawyer, who had been killed in the café gun battle;
the man he had knocked into the muddy street.

“Jack Keene?” queried Cultus.

Faith Keene nodded. “Did you know him?” she asked softly.

Cultus shook his head and turned toward the door.

“I’m mighty glad to have seen yuh, ma’am,” he said, as he held out his
hand.

“It was kind of you to carry the packages for me,” she replied. He shook
hands gravely with the little boy, and went down to the main street,
wearing his sombrero pulled down over his eyes. He was finding out more
than he had expected.

Jack Keene was the man who was sending the woman to pose as the niece
of Jud Ault, and it was very evident to Cultus that Keene, or Loring,
as he was known in San Francisco, was in some plot to loot the Lazy A.
But Keene was dead, and Cultus did not think that either Lane or Breen
knew of the shooting. The girl, Janice Lee, was probably dead or in a
hospital, and possibly she did not know enough about the details of
the plot to ever let Lane and Breen know what happened.

As Cultus sauntered up the crooked street, Miles Lane rode in and took
his horse to the livery stable. Cultus leaned against a post in front
of the Oreana saloon until Lane went to his office, and then crossed
the street.

Lane greeted him pleasantly and they sat down together in the office.
Lane told him that he had just returned from the Lazy A.

“I was just talkin’ to Mrs. Keene,” said Cultus.

“A nice girl,” said Lane briskly. “Too bad she lost out on the Lazy A.
Possibly Jud Ault was too severe. But he hated Jack Keene, and---- Oh,
well, it was his business, I suppose. What have you found out in regard
to the missing cattle?”

“Not very much. What do yuh know about the Cross Arrow?”

“Less than nothing--except hearsay. I know the Hill family to speak to
them. They haven’t a good reputation.”

“And the Star X?”

“You’ve heard about the feud?”

“Sure. They staged a battle in the street here the night I came. Breen
talks about ’em killin’ Lazy A stock, and all that, but I can’t quite
swallow it, Lane. The Star X is as big as the Lazy A, and they don’t
need to kill Lazy A cattle.”

Lane looked up quickly. “Have you been at the Star X?”

“I was out there yesterday and had a talk with the Wheelers.”

“And they knew you were from the Lazy A?”

“They knew I was from the Association,” corrected Cultus.

Lane smiled crookedly. “That information won’t help you any, Jones.”

“Mebbe not,” smiled Cultus. “Yuh see, I wasn’t the one that told ’em.”

“No? Who do you suppose----?”

“They say you did, Lane.”

“That I told them? Why, that is preposterous, Jones!”

“And old man Hill----”

“Did he say I told him?”

“Shif’less did.”

“Pshaw!” Lane colored, tried to swallow, failed. “I don’t know why they
would say such a thing, Jones.”

“Nor you,” said Cultus softly. “Unless yo’re tryin’ to get me killed
off.”

“Why, the idea is ridiculous. Jones. I haven’t any interest in your
affairs, except as they affect the Lazy A. I have been attorney for
Ault for years, and naturally I am interested in anything affecting
the Lazy A ranch. Idaho Breen wants you to clean up this rustling.
Why, I’d be the last person on earth to seek to injure you, Jones.”

“Well, that’s fine of yuh,” drawled Cultus. He shook hands with Lane
and sauntered out. Dude Wheeler was just going into the post office,
and waved a salute to Cultus, who walked up and met him.

“I want to ask yuh somethin’, Jones,” said Dude, a bashful grin on his
face. They moved close to the door of the post-office. “Yuh know I met
Miss Ault the night she came in.” said Dude. “She’s sure a nice girl.”

Cultus grinned widely. “Go ahead, cowboy.”

“I’m glad yuh understand,” sighed Dude. “It’s thisaway, Jones. I ain’t
seen her since that night, and yuh see I can’t very well go out there
to the Lazy A. I wrote her a letter and posted it to her this mornin’.
I just found out that Miles Lane took the Lazy A mail out to the ranch
today.

“And Miles Lane,” Dude hesitated. “He’s dressin’ up to go out there. Yuh
see, I don’t trust him, and I’m wonderin’----”

“If he delivered the letter, eh?”

“Yuh might put it thataway, Jones. I know him pretty well.”

“All right,” grinned Cultus. “What can I do for yuh?”

“Will yuh hand her a note from me?”

“Yeah, I’ll do it. I ain’t seen her to speak to for a long time, but if
it’s possible, I’ll see that she gets it.”

Dude secured some paper and an envelope, and when Cultus rode back to
the Lazy A he carried the note to Mary. It was almost supper time, and
the boys were all at the ranch. Cultus went to the long wash-bench just
outside the kitchen door, and began washing, while Hop stood in the
kitchen door, dangling a ladle in his hand.

“Hop, do you happen to know a Chinaboy in Frisco, whose name is Wang
Lee?” asked Cultus.

Old Hop smiled widely. “Yessa--my clousin. He lun chop-suey lestlant.”

Cultus grinned and nodded his head. “That’s the feller, Hop. Wang Lee
good friend of mine.”

This was not true, because Cultus did not know Wang Lee, and only knew
of a popular chopsuey restaurant of that name. But old Hop beamed. “Wang
Lee velly lich--my clousin.”

“That’s fine,” Cultus mopped his face with a towel, as he moved in
closer to the Chinaman. “Wang Lee my friend, Hop. You, his cousin,
must be my friend. You sabe?”

“Yessa.”

“Good.” Cultus took the envelope from his pocket, caught it in a fold of
the towel and handed it to Hop.

“That note is for Miss Ault, Hop. Nobody must see.”

The old Celestial accepted the towel, slipped the envelope inside his
shirt and turned away without a word. It was evident that Mary received
the note, but her reply was to Cultus, which was given to Cultus by old
Hop, after they had finished supper. She wrote:

    Am virtually a prisoner. Tell Mr. Wheeler I will see
    him as soon as possible. Would like to talk with you,
    but Breen says I am to talk with no one. If Hop will
    carry notes, it will be of some help to us. They are
    treating me all right.

The note was unsigned. The fact that she was a prisoner was no news
to Cultus, and he knew Dude Wheeler was right in suspecting that
Miles Lane had not delivered the letter to Mary. Cultus realized
that under the law, it would require nearly a year to probate the
will of Jud Ault, advertise for creditors, and to follow out all the
legal phases of the instrument, but he also knew, that, while hardly
ethical, it would be legal for an heir to sell out his or her
interests to anyone who was willing to take a chance on the legality
of the will in question.

And if Breen and Miles Lane intended doing such a thing, there was
nothing he could do to prevent it. Mary, without the advice or
assistance of anyone, would be obliged to sign the name of Mary Ault to
a bill of sale to the Lazy A. Of course he could notify the authorities
of fraud, possibly defeat the purpose of Breen and Lane; but only serve
to throw the will into courts indefinitely--or until it might be proved
that no Mary Ault existed.

Cultus decided that there was nothing for him to do, except to wait
until something happened that would give him a chance to puzzle out a
solution of the case. In the meantime he decided to keep working on
the cattle stealing end of the case. He had a talk with Idaho Breen
about the cattle that night, but the Lazy A foreman did not seem
interested. He tried to lead Breen into a discussion of Jack Keene,
husband of Faith Ault, but Idaho side-stepped the subject; so Cultus
dropped it and went to bed, after deciding to visit Welcome Creek the
next day.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Earlier that afternoon Shif’less Hill had ridden to Oreana City, and
gone to the depot. He had sent a rifle to a San Francisco gunmaker
for some repairs, and it was due back. He paid the express charges
and took the package outside, where he sat down on the edge of the
station platform and unwrapped the rifle. It had been encased in a
light wooden box and packed tightly with newspapers.

Shif’less tried the action, found it functioning perfectly, and began
putting the papers back in the long, narrow box, when his eyes happened
to get a flash of a pictured face on one of the wrinkled newspapers.
Quickly he spread it out, emitting a grunt of wonderment.

The unmistakable features of Jack Keene stared up at him, along with
the face of a pretty girl, beneath whose portrait was the name Janice
Lee. But the name beneath Keene’s picture was J. Loring. Connecting
the pen and ink scroll, which joined the two portraits, was an
artist’s conception of the gun battle between two men, and behind one
of them was a girl, dressed in a traveling suit.

The story told of a gun battle in a San Francisco café, in which J.
Loring, an attorney, and Speed Evans, alleged gangster and dope
peddler, had killed each other. Janice Lee had been struck twice and
had died twelve hours later, without regaining consciousness. It had
little to say about Loring, except that he was little known outside
the tenderloin.

Shif’less read it through twice, the rifle lying across his lap. There
was no question in his mind about this man being Jack Keene. He noted
the date of the paper, carefully tore out the article and put it in his
pocket.

Picking up the rifle and the box, he walked around the depot, threw
the box into a weed patch and went back to his horse. He rode back up
the street to Miles Lane’s office. It was getting late, but he found
Lane there.

“What’s on your mind, Shif’less?” asked Lane, when Shif’less placed
his rifle on the desk and drew out the clipping. The Oreana City
attorney took the clipping and stared at the picture of Jack Keene.
And as he read the story he seemed to sway slightly and his eyes
blinked painfully.

He lifted a hand and wiped the tears from his eyes; not tears of grief
or remorse, but tears like a man might get whose eyes had stared into a
bright light. For a long time he did not speak, although Shif’less knew
he had read the article.

“What do yuh know about that?” asked Shif’less softly.

“My God!” breathed Lane hoarsely. “Jack Keene dead!”

“Well, he’d prob’ly finish thataway,” said Shif’less.

Lane looked at Shif’less blankly. “What did you say?” he asked.

“I said he’d prob’ly finish thataway.”

“Oh--yes,” Lane looked at the clipping again. Shif’less had torn it
through, leaving the dateline at the top of the page. Lane looked at
this and glanced quickly at a calendar on the wall.

“We’ve got to keep Faith from finding it out, Miles,” said Shif’less
softly. “We can’t let her know.”

“Faith? Oh, yes. Yes, we must keep it quiet, Shif’less. You won’t tell
anyone, will you? I can trust you, can’t I?”

“Well, I’d be the last to tell her,” drawled Shif’less. “Heck! I
wouldn’t have her find it out--not now.”

“That’s fine!” Lane almost pawed for Shif’less’ hand. “We’ll keep it
dark, eh? Don’t let anybody know. If one person finds it out, they’ll
all know it.”

“I won’t tell,” Shif’less shook his head. “Nossir. Say, Miles, Jack
must ’a’ been pretty tough, eh? I wonder if that was his girl. Prob’ly
was. Faith still thinks he’s all right,” Shif’less looked wistfully out
through the window. “Still thinks he’s all right, Miles.”

“Yes, yes,” impatiently. “You never can figure a woman, Shif’less.”

“Nor anybody else,” softly. “Jack Keene took a different name and left
his wife----”

“I know how you feel, Shif’less. You love Faith Keene. No, don’t shake
your head. Maybe she thinks a lot of you. I’ll help you.”

“I don’t need no help, Miles. I asked her the other day why she didn’t
get a divorce from Jack, and she said he was still supportin’ her; and
that she couldn’t never marry anybody as long as Jack was alive. Now,
Jack’s dead--and we can’t tell her. Still, what difference does it
make? If she’d marry----”

“No, don’t tell her!” Lane grasped him by the arm. “Don’t do it,
Shif’less. Anyway, it isn’t for you to do. Don’t you see, she’d think
you--you were trying to hurry things? Don’t you see?”

“Yeah, I see,” Shif’less nodded slowly. “I reckon we better keep it
dark for a while. Well, I’m headin’ home. Miles. Hang onto that piece
of paper, won’t yuh?”

“Oh, I’ll keep it safe, Shif’less. Good night.”

Shif’less mounted his horse and rode out of town, carrying the rifle in
the crook of his right arm, while Miles Lane locked his front door and
flopped in his office chair, trying to gather his scattered senses. He
studied the clipping again. Janice Lee! That was the name on the note
of identification! It was evident that the girl out at the Lazy A was
not Janice Lee. But who was she? Miles Lane’s brain whirled. Did this
Association detective, Jones of Oklahoma, have anything to do with it,
he wondered. Where did this girl come from, and where did she get the
identification papers?

Jack Keene, alias J. Loring, was the man who wrote the note--and he
was dead. Lane wondered if this girl at the Lazy A had stolen the
papers at the time of the gun battle. And if she did, who was behind
her masquerade?

Lane drew a big bottle from a desk drawer and took a drink. He left the
bottle uncorked, and every few minutes he would lower the contents
perceptibly. He decided to go to the Lazy A ranch and show the clipping
to Idaho Breen, but the quart bottle was empty when he got his horse at
the livery stable--and Mr. Lane was very drunk.

In fact, he was so muddled from drink that he took the wrong road out
of Oreana City in the dark, and when he sobered to the extent that he
cared to realize anything he found that he was not on any road, had
no sense of direction--and nothing to drink. So he just rode on and
on, wondering dully if the moon would ever come up and show him some
familiar landscape.

After a while he saw the silhouette of an old building, which he
recognized as being the deserted stamp-mill and buildings of the
abandoned Suicide mine. It had not been worked for several years. Jim
Scott, the original owner, had sunk every cent he owned in it, failed
to make it pay, and hung himself in the shafthouse--thus giving it a
new name. Others had tried in vain to make it pay, and it was finally
abandoned.

Lane did not realize that the night was nearly over; so he was not going
to take any chances on getting lost. As long as he had the buildings of
the old mine as landmark, he knew it would not be difficult in daylight
to cut across the hills to the Lazy A.

He struck one of the old trails and rode up closer to the old
shaft-house, where he intended to dismount. A cold breeze was sweeping
across the hills, and Miles Lane, not dressed too warmly, needed
shelter.

Suddenly he saw the dull gleam of a light shining through a crack in
the old building, and almost at the same instant he realized that he
had ridden in beside a saddled horse. He was still a little dazed
from the liquor, but instinct told him that something was not just
right.

Turning his horse around he rode slowly back down the trail, turned
his horse into the shelter of a mesquite clump in a dry wash, and
dismounted. Curiosity prompted him to climb back up the trail again,
but this time he circled to the opposite side of the building. He
took plenty of time and was particular about making unnecessary
noises.

He came in against the wall of the building and worked his way around
to when a broken board gave him a fairly good view of the interior.
The machinery had been moved away, but there still remained the old
framework of the hoist parts of the old trades, and the huge timbers
were where the hoisting engine had stood.

But Miles Lane was not interested in the details of the old building.
An old lantern hung from a nail in the old hoist frame, and in its
faint illumination Lane could see the huge bulk of a man, his shadow
dancing grotesquely on the walls, as he skinned out the carcass of a
steer, which was also suspended from the hoist-frame.

Another whole beef, all dressed, hung near him. Lane could recognize
him now. It was Shif’less Hill. He was working swiftly, his skinning
knife flashing in the yellow light. Lane licked his lips and swallowed
heavily. He could see the lantern light flash on the cartridge-heads in
his belt, and against the wall near him stood a Winchester rifle. Lane
was unarmed, and he suddenly realized that it might not be healthy for
him, in case Shif’less suspected his presence. As though fascinated he
leaned against the building and watched the big cowboy strip off the
hide. He did not realize that daylight was creeping over the hills.

Shif’less finished skinning the animal and threw the hide down the
shaft. Lane grinned to himself. He had plenty of evidence to send
Shif’less Hill over the road for a long time--in case he needed to
use it.

He shoved away from the wall, realizing it was daylight, and crept away
in the direction of his horse. He did not want Shif’less Hill to find
him there.

                   *       *       *       *       *

The three Lazy A cowboys were a snoring trio when Cultus left the
bunkhouse and went to the stable, where he saddled his horse. It was
still early, and Cultus knew that Hop would not serve breakfast for
another hour, at least: so he decided to postpone his morning meal
until he reached Welcome Creek.

Cultus had never been to Welcome Creek, but he knew it was not over
fifteen miles east of the Lazy A, and that by traveling past where
Idaho Breen had found Lazy A hides in the prospect hole, he would
strike the wagon road, which led from Oreana City to Welcome Creek.

Cultus mounted and rode away from the south. Breen had given him a
tall roan gelding, which had plenty of speed, and the cool of the
early morning gave it plenty of condition to go ahead. The going was
fairly good, and Cultus let the roan pick its own speed.

Cultus had never seen the old Suicide Mine, but had heard the boys speak
about it. He rode around the side of a hill and came in view of the old
buildings, shortly after daylight. His horse made little noise in the
sandy soil, and he was within a hundred yards of the old shaft-house,
when he saw Miles Lane sneaking away from beside the building. Cultus’
horse was poorly masked by the brush; so Cultus quickly dismounted. He
recognized Lane immediately. Leading his horse to the post, he was able
to watch the lawyer, who walked down a dry wash, mounted his horse
behind a mesquite clump, and rode quietly away, going toward the Lazy A.
“That’s kinda queer,” observed Cultus. “Now just what was a lawyer doin’
there this time in the mornin’?”

Cultus watched Lane ride across a ridge and disappear, before moving on
down to the shaft-house. He dropped his reins and walked boldly to the
sagging old door, where he stepped inside and jerked to a standstill,
when he found himself looking the muzzle of a rifle in the hands of
Shif’less Hill.

It was still half dark in the old building. Shifting his eyes from the
menacing gun muzzle, Cultus could see the two beeves hanging. Neither
of the men spoke for several moments. The gun muzzle did not waver.

“Well, what about it?” asked Shif’less in a flat voice.

A smile chased across Cultus’ lips and he shook his head.

“I reckon that’s up to you, Shif’less.”

“Yeah? I’m wonderin’ how yuh guessed I’d be here.”

“I didn’t,” grinned Cultus.

“No? Kinda early in the mornin’, ain’t it?”

Cultus nodded. “Yeah. I was on my way to Welcome Creek.”

“And jist stopped to look, eh?”

“Well, no-o-o. Yuh see, I didn’t have no idea of stoppin’ here until I
seen our friend the Oreana City lawyer sneak away from outside there,
grab his horse and fog for the Lazy A.”

“Miles Lane?”

“That’s the feller.”

Cultus could see that the big cowboy was puzzled.

“What was Miles Lane doin’ here?” he demanded.

“Search me: but he was here. Put down the gun, Shif’less.”

“I suppose I might as well, Jones. I’m caught with the goods. If Lane is
headed for the Lazy A, he’ll prob’ly bring back the whole gang.”

Cultus walked past him and looked at the beef. “Threw the hides in the
old shaft?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Intendin’ to pack the meat to Welcome Creek tonight, eh?”

The big cowboy leaned against one of the uprights and nodded gloomily.
“I dunno how yuh guessed it; but yo’re right.”

“That wasn’t hard to guess. You killed those animals that wore all them
Lazy A hides----”

“That Breen found,” finished Shif’less. “Yeah, I did.”

“Welcome Creek was the only possible market, I figured. You couldn’t
sell all that beef. Breen had an idea that the Star X was the ones that
was killin’ off his stock; but the Star X don’t need to kill beef.”

“I’ve been killin’ oft Lazy A beef for over a year,” said Shif’less
slowly. “I couldn’t handle much at a time. It’s quite a job for one
man. Dad wouldn’t help me. He said I was a damn’ fool; and I sure
was. Now, what are yuh goin’ to do about it?”

“How deep is this shaft?”

“Two hundred feet. There’s big stopes, of course.”

“All right. How could the Lazy A find those hides? Is there any way to
get down there?”

“Not unless they go down on a rope.”

“Which they won’t do,” said Cultus. “Where’d they ever find a two
hundred foot rope? Lane thinks you don’t know he saw yuh; so we’ll
just heave them two beeves down the shaft, which will destroy all the
evidence. What little blood is scattered around won’t convict anybody.
C’mon, let’s get busy.”

“What’s yore game?” queried Shif’less.

“Helpin’ out a damn’ fool.”

The Lazy A was at breakfast when Miles Lane rode in. Breen left the
table and met him at the front door.

“What’s the matter with you?” asked Breen. “You look pretty tough,
Miles.”

The lawyer took hold of Breen’s sleeve and drew him off the porch and
around the corner.

“Is Jones and the girl still here?” he asked.

“The girl is; Jones has gone to Welcome Creek. What’s the matter?”

Lane drew out the newspaper clipping and showed it to Breen.

“There’s what’s the matter, Idaho. Jack Keene is dead. Look at the
date-line on that paper. That girl’s name is Janice Lee, and she’s
dead.”

Idaho lifted his eyes from the paper, staring blankly at the lawyer.
“But what does it mean?” he whispered.

“What does it mean? It means that this girl is not Janice Lee; that
she is somebody else! This is not the girl Jack Keene sent us. We’ve
been double-crossed, Idaho!”

“You think----?”

“I know! What’s behind it--I don’t know. But this girl came on the
same train with Jones, the detective. Idaho, we’ve got to work fast.
They don’t know that I know this; so that helps.”

“Does anybody else know it, Miles?”

“Shif’less Hill. He gave me the clipping.”

“Then we’ve got to stop him from meetin’ Jones. I’ll bet Jones knows
that Keene is dead, and he figures we don’t. If he knows that we
know----”

“I’ve got the goods on Shif’less Hill!” exclaimed Lane, and then he
told of seeing Shif’less butchering cattle in the old shaft-house of
the Suicide mine.

“By God, we’ll get him!” snorted Breen. “Here’s what we’ll do. You beat
it for town and get the papers. I’ll send the boys over to investigate
this butcherin’ and we’ll make this female sign the paper while they’re
gone. Jones is headin’ for Welcome Creek, and when he comes back we’ll
settle with him.”

“And turn this girl loose to tell all she knows?”

“What you don’t know won’t hurt yuh. Get yore bronc and go after them
papers.”

Lane got his horse and rode back toward Oreana City, while Breen went
back to the dining-room. The cowboys were rolling their after-breakfast
cigarette when Breen called them outside.

“You fellers saddle up and go to the old Suicide mine,” he ordered.
“Lane just brought word that somebody has been doin’ a job of butcherin’
down there in the old shaft-house, and we’ve got a hunch that Shif’less
Hill is the one who has been doing it. If yuh find Hill around there,
yuh better watch him.”

“All right,” said Pie Ide shortly. “Supposin’ we go and _get_ him,
Idaho?”

“Yo’re runnin’ that end of it, Pie,” said Idaho grimly. “Better be
sure--first Shif’less will fight. He threw the hide in the old shaft,
and the devil himself couldn’t get down there to find ’em; we’ve got
to take a chance that he killed Lazy A cattle. You’ll find the beef
in the shaft-house.”

The cowboys hurried after their horses. Not that they disliked
Shif’less Hill, but that they desired action. They rode away with
their rifles, and Idaho went back to the house, where he found Mary
in the living-room.

“I’m goin’ to talk turkey to you,” he told her. “In an hour or so.
Miles Lane will be out here with the papers for you to sign--and you
better sign ’em without any argument, sabe?”

“What papers, Mr. Breen?” Mary was frightened at Breen’s tone.

“The bill of sale to the Lazy A,” growled Breen. “He’ll have it all made
out, and all you’ll have to do is to sign ’em. You turn the whole works
over to me.”

“I give you a bill of sale to the Lazy A ranch?”

“Yuh sure do, young lady. As soon as that’s done I’ll take you to Oreana
City and send yuh back where yuh came from.”

Breen walked over to a front window and glanced out. He was just a
little suspicious of Jones of Oklahoma. Suddenly he turned and glared
at Mary, who stood beside the center table, looking at him.

“You and yore detective friend thought yuh was damn’ smart, didn’t yuh?”
he said. “I happen to know that yo’re not the girl who was supposed to
come here. What do you think of that?”

He came toward her, grin on his hard face. “Yeah, I know all about it.
You think yo’re goin’ to get a thousand dollars for signin’ them papers.
Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! You poor little fool! Do you think you was foolin’
me?

“Set down! Scared, eh? You need to be. Do you think I’m goin’ to let
you beat me out of a million dollars? No, I’m not goin’ to put my
hands on yuh. Yore friend has gone to Welcome Creek, and he won’t be
back until later; so yuh don’t need to look toward the window. You
won’t be here when he comes back, and I’ll be here to welcome him. I
don’t like detectives.”

Mary sat down in a chair beside the table, wondering what to do. She
was afraid of Breen. From a window she had seen the cowboys ride away.
Hop was in the kitchen, washing dishes, but she knew she could expect
no help from him.

“Where are you going to send me?” she asked helplessly.

“Where?” Breen laughed shortly.

“_Quien sabe._ Understand Spanish? That’s Spanish for ‘who knows?’ Ha,
ha, ha, ha! Who knows where we’ll send you. Why, a poor little fool,
where can we send you where you can’t talk? And we can’t let you talk
about this.”

“If I promise not to----”

“Promise! What’s a promise of that worth? Set still! You act sensible
and sign those papers, and we’ll see about your promises--Mary Ault!”
Breen laughed harshly. “Mary Ault! And you tried to fool me.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Cultus and Shif’less rode away from the old mine, heading toward the
Cross Arrow. Shif’less was still a little mystified as to why Cultus
had helped him destroy the evidence. They had left nothing for the
Lazy A to find as evidence, unless they were willing to search the
two hundred foot level of the crumbling old shaft.

“I reckon Mr. Lane didn’t lose any time in tellin’ Breen what he saw
back there,” observed Cultus.

Shif’less nodded gloomily. “Prob’ly not, Jones. I don’t sabe what Lane
was doin’ there at that time in the mornin’.”

“I don’t know. Shif’less, I’ve heard that you kinda think a lot of Faith
Keene.”

Shif’less turned in his saddle. “You heard it, did yuh?”

“That’s nothin’ ag’in yuh, cowboy. Why don’t yuh marry her?”

“Plenty of reasons, I reckon. In the first place, I dunno if she’d marry
me if she could, and in the second place--she’s still got a husband.”

“Well,” smiled Cultus, “yuh can easy find out the first part of it, and
in the second place, jist between me and you, her husband is dead.”

Shif’less stared at Cultus.

“How do yuh know, Jones?”

“I happened to be there when he was killed. I didn’t know it at the
time, but I seen his picture later, and it was the face of a feller
they called Loring, a cheap lawyer in Frisco.”

Shif’less nodded quickly. “There was two men killed--and a woman. Her
name was Janice Lee.”

Cultus leaned closer to him. “How do you know that?”

It did not take Shif’less long to explain about finding it in the paper.

“I took it to Lane.” he said. “Lane was Keene’s friend, and I
thought----”

“You took it to him last night?” Cultus jerked up his horse.

“Yeah.”

“Good gosh!” exploded Cultus. “And Lane has gone to meet Idaho Breen.
Listen, Shif’less; you go to town. If Breen or Lane show up there with
that girl--Mary Ault--stop ’em. No, I can’t tell yuh why. Just stop
’em, and then come out to the Lazy A.”

Cultus whirled his horse around, drew his hat down over his eyes, and
sent the roan on a stiff gallop back toward the Lazy A. He realized
that the newspaper clipping would prove to Lane and Breen that Mary
Smith was an impostor. It was something unforeseen, and Cultus knew
that Breen would stop at nothing now to get control of the Lazy A.

                   *       *       *       *       *

And about the time that Cultus had found out about the newspaper
clipping, Miles Lane was riding back to the Lazy A with the papers for
Mary to sign. He had had them prepared for days. They were snake-tight,
and all they needed was the signature of Mary Ault, and his own, as
notary public. He had made the imprint of his seal before he left the
office.

Her signature would make Idaho Jim Breen owner of the Lazy A estate, and
Idaho Breen would take Miles Lane in as a full partner in the holdings.
Even the partnership papers were all prepared. Lane was very thorough in
his crooked work.

He rode his lathering horse up to the ranch-house and went in. Mary
was sitting beside the table, her face very white. On a chair against
the wall sat Idaho Breen. He had been drinking from a bottle, and was
just drunk enough to be alert.

“Got everythin’ ready?” he asked. Lane nodded and spread the papers on
the table. “Get the pen and ink, Idaho.”

Mary stared at the typewritten sheets.

“Take a good look at ’em, sister,” laughed Breen, as he came, with the
pen and ink and placed them on the table.

Lane dipped the pen in ink and handed it to her, placing his finger on
the ruled line. “Put your name right there. Just write Mary Ault.”

Mary looked up at them, her hand trembling. “But that isn’t my name.”

“Nobody knows it better than we do,” laughed Breen. “Write it out, and
we’ll take a chance on it. You wasn’t supposed to come here, yuh know.”

“Suppose I refuse to sign,” Mary shut her lips and looked defiantly at
Breen. “You can’t make me sign.”

“Tryin’ a holdup, eh? No good, my dear. Everybody knows you are the
owner of the Lazy A, and if yuh refuse to sign, we’ll fake a signature.”

“And I’ll swear it isn’t mine--and prove it.”

Breen’s jaw tightened and he leaned closer to Mary. “No, yuh won’t;
you won’t prove anythin’. If you’ve got a lick of sense, you’ll sign
that paper right now.”

Mary took the pen and signed the name of Mary Ault. There was nothing
else for her to do. Breen laughed softly, as Lane handed him the paper,
and reached for the bottle.

“Better go easy on that stuff,” advised Lane. “We’re not out of the
woods yet.”

Breen took a big drink and put the bottle on the floor. He turned to
Mary, who still held the pen in her hand.

“Git dressed for travelin’,” he ordered. “Pack yore suitcase. In ten
minutes we’re pullin’ out. _Poco tiempo!_”

He turned to Lane. “You stay here with her, while I hitch up a team to
the buggy.”

Mary walked back to her room and packed her clothes. She put a few
things in the suitcase, but did not bother to pack the trunk. She had
not worn any of Janice Lee’s clothes, as she had not been out of the
house since her arrival.

She was glad to leave the Lazy A, but down in her heart was a fear that
these two men were not through with her yet. She had been living in sort
of a daze ever since that night at the restaurant in San Francisco. And
when she had asked Breen where he was going to send her, he had said,
“Quien sabe”--who knows?

She carried the suitcase in to the living room and sat down in an old
rocking-chair. Lane was helping himself to Breen’s bottle, and his hand
trembled as he looked at Mary.

Breen was hitching up a pair of vicious-looking grays, a half broken
team. He was obliged to tie them to the corral fence and drag the buggy
around to them. As soon as they were hitched he went to the house and
flung open the front door.

“You pull out ahead of us, Miles,” he growled. “Hit the grit, hombre,
because we’ll need an open road.”

Lane placed the bottle on the table and walked out, going straight to
his horse which he mounted and rode swiftly away. “What about my trunk?”
asked Mary. Breen turned from watching Lane gallop out of sight.

“You don’t need to worry about that.”

Mary shivered slightly, as Breen emptied the bottle down his throat and
threw the bottle viciously aside. He picked up her suitcase and pointed
toward the door.

“Start goin’,” he growled. Mary preceded him from the house and they
went down to the corral, where the gray team humped angrily under the
feel of the harness.

Breen threw her suitcase in the back of the buggy and motioned her
to get in. As she sat down and looked at him, he half turned and was
staring past the end of the stable. Then he began running toward the
front of the stable, which was near the main gate.

He was within twenty yards of the gate when Cultus came in sight,
swinging his horse toward the gate. Mary saw Breen jerk to a stop,
throwing up his right hand which held a six-shooter. She tried to cry
out to Cultus, who was partly masked from Breen by the huge gate-post,
but before she could utter any sound, Cultus turned to come through
the gate, and Breen fired.

Cultus jerked sideways from the shock of the heavy bullet, and his tall
roan whirled quickly, throwing Cultus heavily just inside the enclosure.
The horse trotted a few yards away, whirled in against the fence and
stopped, looking back at its rider.

Breen ran up to him and quickly turned him over. Evidently satisfied
that Cultus was out of the game for good, he ran back to the buggy and
untied the horses, which were still jerking nervously from the sound of
the revolver shot.

He climbed in beside Mary, whirled the team around and went out through
the gate at racing speed. The lurch of the buggy almost threw Mary out,
and she did not get a look at Cultus as they raced past. Breen did not
try to check the horses. His jaw was set tightly, and Mary could see
that his lips were white. He did not speak to or look at her.

Mary had only been over the road once, but she knew it was even more
dangerous than the one she had ridden over in the runaway the night
she came to Oreana City. About a mile below the Lazy A the road looped
around over some dizzy grades above a deep canyon, and she remembered
that Cultus had remarked that it was a place where a driver was only
allowed one mistake.

She looked at Breen, wondering why he did not make any attempt to
check the running team. He was crouched on the edge of the seat, his
feet drawn well under him, his eyes shut to mere slits, as the buggy
lurched and bounded over the uneven road. They whirled down through
a swale, where the mesquite ripped along the wheels and sides, like
the sound of tearing silk.

A rock sent them skidding wildly, but the buggy did not upset. It
threw Mary to her knees, but Breen, ripping out an oath, yanked her
back in the seat, his elbow striking her in the mouth, as he recovered
his balance. She threw up both hands to protect her face, and the next
instant Breen had flung himself clear of the buggy. Mary whirled
around, trying to see him, but he was blotted out in a swirl of dust.

She jerked around in the seat, and saw just ahead of her the beginning
of the grades around the deep canyon. There was nothing she could do
now. To attempt a jump from the buggy would mean that she would have
to choose between falling into the canyon or being smashed against the
rocky side of the grade.

The two horses were running at top speed, their bellies low to the
ground, the lines whipping through the air, the buggy and its one
occupant bounding along behind them. Mary tried to pray, but she was
so dazed, so frightened that she could only hang on.

They whirled around the first turn on two wheels, straightened
perilously near the outer edge, and headed for the next sharp curve.
It was a sharp turn to the right, and on the left hand side was an
old washout, filled with brush.

But the running team turned too late, and the inside wheels of the buggy
smashed against the wall. Came a whirl of dust and gravel, a cataclysm
of overturned buggy, flying hoofs, the scream of a horse, and the outfit
hurtled over the edge, dropping straight down for fifty feet, where it
struck the apex of a broken ledge, seemed to hang for a moment, and then
went crashing and rolling into the bottom of the gorge a hundred feet
below.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Cultus had seen Idaho Breen just before the shot was fired, and before
the shock of the bullet had knocked him unconscious he knew that Breen
had shot him. He was shocked back to consciousness by a deluge of cold
water, and opened his eyes to see Hop, the Chinese cook, standing over
him, bucket in hand.

“You hu’t pletty damn’ bad?” queried the Chinaman anxiously.

Cultus struggled to a sitting position, clamping his jaws to hold
back the exclamation of pain which came to his lips. It seemed that a
red-hot iron was searing deeply in his left shoulder. He panted for
several moments, while cold perspiration dripped from his face.

But his mind cleared rapidly, and the Chinaman helped him to his feet.
He wasn’t just sure why Breen had shot him. He felt for his gun and
found it still in the holster.

“Why did he shoot me?” asked Cultus hoarsely.

The Chinaman shook his head. “Do’ know. I not see; I hea’.”

Cultus looked vaguely around, as though trying to see Breen.

“He go ’way,” said Hop. “He take li’l missie way in buggy. Mebbe go
town. Go like hell. Team run ’way. Yo’ sabe?”

“Team run away?”

“Plitty bad team: not bloke yet.”

“For gosh sake!” Cultus wiped the back of a hand across his eyes. “Hop,
was Miles Lane here today?”

“Yessa. He lide way jus’ befo’ you come. Lide damn’ fast.”

“That’s it,” muttered Cultus. “A runaway team--and those grades. Oh,
Hop, I’ve been a fool.”

Cultus went gropingly out to his horse, which did not try to get away
from him. He climbed into the saddle, forgetting to pick up his
sombrero, and spurred the animal savagely through the gateway and down
the road toward Oreana City. His shoulder was bleeding and he was racked
with pain, but he shut his teeth against the hurt and weakness and drove
the roan at racing speed, feeling down in his heart that nothing could
save Mary Smith now.

The tall roan slowed down the moment they struck the grade, and Cultus,
half blinded by pain and weakness, swayed in the saddle, as he peered
over the edge of the grade, knowing that only a miracle could prevent
the running team from disaster.

The first curve showed nothing, except that wheels had torn deeply into
the outer edge of the grade. But at the next turn he found the left
front wheel of the buggy, which had torn off from the impact against the
rocky wall. Here was also plenty of evidence that something had gone off
the edge, as the grade was sloughed off.

Cultus dismounted and leaned against his horse, trying to overcome the
dizziness which caused his knees to sag. He tried to walk around the
horse toward the edge of the grade, but he staggered like a drunken man
and fell to his knees.

“Keep a-goin’, you quitter!” he muttered bitterly. “Are yuh goin’ to
let yore own body lay down on yuh?” He stopped talking to himself and
his eyes focused sharply on a spot in the brush on the left side of
the road.

Then he lurched to his feet, staggered off the road and tore his way
into the brush, where Mary Smith was half lying, half sitting in the
brush, her eyes open, a smear of blood across her face. When the rig
struck the rocky wall it had thrown her to the uphill side of the
grade, and into the tangle of brush.

Cultus went to his knees beside her, trying to disentangle her from the
brush while she looked at him dazedly. Summoning all of his strength he
lifted her from the brush and carried her back to the road, where he
went to his knees again.

“Mary Smith,” he said brokenly. “Mary Smith!”

Her eyes were open and she did not seem badly hurt, but she did not know
him.

“I--I wanted to answer your note,” she told him. “But they watched me
too closely. I wanted to see you again.”

She began crying softly, and Cultus pawed clumsily at her hair, trying
to soothe her.

“Yeah, I know,” he whispered. She thought she was talking to Dude
Wheeler. And Cultus knew.

“Where’s Idaho Breen?” he asked. Mary stared up at him. The question
stirred something in her mind.

“He jumped,” she said simply.

Cultus nodded. “I thought he did.”

Cultus managed to catch his horse. It was a difficult job for him to
get into the saddle with Mary Smith, but he did it. The tall roan went
slowly, while Cultus reeled in the saddle, his arms locked around Mary
Smith. Cultus forgot that he had been shot. It was a nightmare, he
thought. Someone was coming down the grade toward him, and he laughed
foolishly.

The man came up to him, shoving his horse in close. Now he was trying to
take Mary Smith away from him. Cultus tried to prevent this. The man was
talking to him imploring him to let him take the girl. Cultus wanted to
draw his gun on the man but didn’t dare let loose of Mary with his right
hand. It seemed to Cultus that he had lost his left hand.

The man’s voice seemed familiar, and Cultus tried to remember who he
was. It suddenly dawned upon him that this man was Dude Wheeler, and
he laughed aloud at the queer kinks of a nightmare.

“Let me have her, Jones,” begged Dude. “Man, you’re hurt!”

This statement seemed to drive the mists from Cultus’ brain. He could
see Dude Wheeler plainly now, feel the surge of Dude’s sorrel against
the roan.

“I want her, Jones,” said Dude.

“Aw-ri’,” Cultus nodded drunkenly.

“She wants you, I--I reckon.”

He released his hold on Mary and let Dude have her. He reeled in his
saddle and grasped the horn for support.

“Got me pullin’ leather,” he grimaced painfully.

“Who shot yuh, Jones?”

“Who?” Cultus didn’t seem to remember. “Oh, that was a long time ago.”

“I met Idaho Breen. He’s headin’ to town for help. The team ran away,
and he said Mary was at the bottom of the canyon.”

“Headin’ for town?” Cultus laughed weakly.

“But who shot you, Jones? You’ve been shot, ain’t yuh?”

“I s’pose I have. I don’t remember. Yeah, I do remember somethin’ about
it.”

He stared at Dude. “Yuh say Idaho Breen is headin’ for town? Was that
today, Dude?”

“Not ten minutes ago, Jones.”

“Well, that’s funny. It seems so long ago.”

“You’ve got to get a doctor, Jones. We’ll go to town, if yuh think you
can ride.”

Cultus laughed. “Why not?” He rubbed a hand across his eyes. “There’s
Mary Smith to think about,” he said slowly.

“Mary Smith?” said Dude. “Not Mary Ault?”

“Mary Elizabeth Smith. I’m Jones from Oklahoma. We’re both liars, Dude.
No, she ain’t a liar--I lied for both. But I’ve got to lie to clean up a
crooked game. They were lootin’ the Lazy A; stealin’ from a dead man and
a widder. We got to go to town today.”

Dude was staring at him, wondering what he meant. Mary looked up at
Dude, puzzled expression in her eyes.

“What was it?” she whispered. Dude looked down at her, his arms
tightening.

“It’s all right, Mary,” he said. “Don’t you worry.”

“I’m not worrying,” she said. “I--I knew you’d come.”

Cultus swayed weakly, spurred his horse past Dude, who swung around, and
they headed for Oreana City.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Miles Lane lost no time in getting back to Oreana City. He had no
idea what Idaho Breen might have done, but Lane was just wise enough
to absent himself to town, where he could have a good alibi.

He stabled his horse and headed for his office just as the three cowboys
from the Lazy A rode in. He waited for them at the Oreana hitch-rack,
and received a scowl from Pie Ide.

“You and yore derned evidence!” snorted Pie, as he turned from the rack.
“We couldn’t find a thing at the old mine.”

“Did you look in the shaft?”

“Two hundred feet down?” Pie hooked his thumbs over his belt and glared
at the attorney. “Every time I look at you, Lane, I wonder how much real
brains it takes to git admitted to the bar. If yo’re capable of bein’ an
attorney, any danged one of us punchers is capable of bein’ a supreme
court judge.”

“You can’t talk to me like that!” Lane fairly bristled.

Little Mex Leone shoved Pie Ide aside and faced Lane.

“What he jist said goes double for me,” said Mex. “I’m the smallest
one of the bunch, and I’m plumb willin’ to hear all the war-talk you
can bring up.”

Lane turned on his heel and walked away, while the three cowpunchers
guffawed loudly and went toward the Oreana, their spurs rasping
belligerently. Shif’less Hill had ridden into town ahead of the Lazy A
bunch, and they found him in the Oreana saloon.

A reckless spirit prompted Omaha Woods to call Shif’less aside, and
he did not mince matters when he told him of the report Miles Lane
had brought to Idaho Breen. Shif’less said nothing to affirm or deny
Lane’s report.

“Breen sent us down there to investigate,” said Omaha. “But we didn’t
find a thing. I’m jist tellin’ yuh this for yore own benefit, Shif’less;
not try in’ to start anythin’ with yuh.”

“Much obliged, Omaha,” drawled Shif’less. “That’s shore kind of yuh.”

Shif’less moved slowly from the saloon and went across the street to the
store, where he bought a bag of peanuts. Then he came out, crunching
them between his strong teeth, and went to Miles Lane’s office. The
attorney started slightly at sight of the big cowboy, but relaxed with a
forced smile.

“You don’t look very well,” said Shif’less. “Kinda chalky around the
gills.”

Lane swallowed heavily and shifted his position. “No. I’m all right.”

“Physically?”

“Why, yes, certainly. What did you mean, Shif’less?”

“Morally.” Shif’less crunched slowly on some peanuts. “You always
pretended to be my best friend, and so yuh sneaked out to the old
Suicide mine and tried to put the deadwood on me.”

“Why--uh--no, no! Shif’less, who told you that? I--I got lost last
night, and--listen, I--I----”

Lane stopped to swallow. He didn’t like the expression in the eyes of
the big cowboy.

“You’ve got the loop around yore feet,” said Shif’less. “You sent the
Lazy A gang out to get me, Miles Lane.”

“But they didn’t find anything. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! I knew they wouldn’t
find--uh--listen, Shif’less; that was----”

“You was tryin’ to play a joke on me, eh?” Shif’less dusted his hands
on the knees of his chaps. “You thought it would be awful funny for me
to git hung. You’ve shore got a sense of humor.”

Lane was speechless, but his brain was working swiftly. He was in a
precarious position, and he knew it well.

“I runs across Jones, the detective,” said Shif’less. “He knowed that
Jack Keene was dead; so I told him about what I found in the paper, and
he went whalin’ back toward the Lazy A. He’s a queer sort of a jigger.
He saw you sneak away from the old mine this mornin’, Miles.”

“He knew about Jack Keene?”

“Shore did. Said he saw Jack git shot.”

“My God! Then that girl--” Lane stopped, realizing that he was talking
too much. His hand shook, as he reached into a desk drawer, getting to
his feet as he did so to mask the fact that he had taken a gun from the
desk.

“What about the girl?” asked Shif’less.

“None of your business!” rasped Lane, and he turned and walked to the
doorway, his mind in a whirl. He was afraid of Jones of Oklahoma, who
had seen Jack Keene killed. He wanted to see Idaho Breen. If Idaho
Breen was bringing that girl to Oreana City, he should be here by this
time, he thought. What could be keeping him? Had Jones reached the
Lazy A before Idaho and the girl were ready to leave, he wondered?

He saw Cleve Sears, the pudgy sheriff, coming up the street. Lane
swung away from the office and hurried down to meet the sheriff, while
Shif’less sauntered to the office door and saw them meet farther down
the street.

“Hyah, Miles,” puffed the sheriff. “How are yuh t’day?”

“Don’t look toward my office,” cautioned Lane. “Shif’less Hill is
watching us. I saw him butchering cattle at the old Suicide mine early
this morning--in the shafthouse. The boys from the Lazy A went there to
get him, but he had thrown all the evidence into the shaft. There must
be a way to recover it, Cleve; so you better arrest Shif’less and put
him in jail. But look out for him. He knows I saw him, and he probably
knows I’m telling you about it now.”

The sheriff nodded slowly. “Are yuh sure, Miles?”

“Sure? Why, I saw him. He wouldn’t be butchering his own cattle up there
in that old building. All we’ve got to do is to get the evidence out of
the shaft.”

“And it’s two hundred feet deep. But I’ll arrest him, if yuh say so,
Miles; and you can swear out the warrant later.”

“That’s all right, Cleve. I’ll do it.”

Lane crossed the street, headed for the livery stable, and Shif’less
walked swiftly across to the Oreana saloon. The sheriff hesitated for
several moments. He hated to arrest this big cowboy. He had known
Shif’less for years, and it was like arresting his brother. Shif’less
had disappeared in the saloon, when the sheriff started across the
street.

But Shif’less did not stop in the saloon. He surmised that Lane had told
the sheriff so he walked straight through the saloon, went out the rear
entrance and circled around to the livery stable, where he went inside.

The stableman had led out Lane’s saddle horse, and was assisting Lane in
saddling it. Neither of them heard Shif’less come in and Lane did not
see him until he turned his head and saw the big cowboy leaning against
the side of the stall, six feet away. Lane’s eyes hardened and his right
hand fumbled at his coat pocket.

“Yuh hadn’t ought to do that,” warned Shif’less. “Yuh know I seen yuh
put a gun in that pocket, and I’m superstitious.”

Lane dropped his hand and reached for the reins.

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere,” said Shif’less quietly. He turned to the
mystified stableman. “You can yank the hull off that critter and tie
him back to the hay-box. Mr. Lane ain’t goin’ ridin’--not yet.”

“What in hell do you mean?” asked Lance angrily. “Since when did you
start telling me what to do?”

“Well,” smiled Shif’less, “Mr. Jones told me to kinda keep an eye on
you, Lane; and I’m not goin’ to ride herd on yuh, that’s a cinch. You
told Cleve Sears to arrest me, didn’t yuh? No, yuh don’t need to lie
about it.”

“You poor fool!” panted Lane. “Do you think you can keep me from doing
what I please?”

“I dunno, Miles. It might be worth an experiment. Supposin’ you jist
make a break.”

Lane flapped his arms helplessly. Something seemed to tell him that
Shif’less Hill was dangerous, in spite of his lazy grin, and he knew
that he could never get a gun from the side pocket of his coat as
quickly as Shif’less could draw from his holster.

“All right; put the horse up,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll probably be back
for him pretty soon; so you don’t need bother taking the saddle off.”

Lane walked out the wide entrance, and Shif’less came behind him. There
was no sign of the sheriff, but a man was running down the middle of the
street--Idaho Breen!

“What’s the matter with him?” gasped Miles Lane, as Idaho stumbled
across the sidewalk and into the Oreana saloon. There was no one to
answer Lane; so he started running toward the saloon, followed by
Shif’less, who ran awkwardly in his high-heeled boots.

Faith Keene and her little boy came down a cross street and stopped to
let the two running men pass her. Shif’less stopped short beside her.

“What is the matter, Shif’less?” she asked anxiously. He shook his
head. “I don’t know, Faith.” It was the first time he had ever called
her Faith. “There’s somethin’ wrong, and it affects the Lazy A Ranch.
I don’t sabe it. But I want to tell you somethin’, Faith; Jack Keene
is dead. He’s been dead quite a while.”

She stared at him wonderingly. “Jack Keene dead, Shif’less?”

“Yeah. I found it out last night. You better take the boy over to the
store. I don’t know what this all means, but yuh better be in a safe
place. Here comes the Star X outfit--and the Lazy A boys are already
here.”

Faith nodded and hurried the little boy across the street, while
Shif’less went straight to the Oreana saloon, where an excited crowd
of men listened to Idaho Breen’s story of how his team had run away,
thrown him out, and had gone over the edge of the grade with Mary
Ault.

“Aw, she couldn’t go over that edge and live,” declared Pie Ide. “So
whatsa use of gettin’ the doctor?”

“The whole works went over,” panted Idaho. “I ran all the way to town.
Couldn’t do anythin’ alone. She didn’t like it out there; so she sold
out to me today.” He stopped to get his breath. “I didn’t have the money
to buy it--not enough to pay it all, because she wanted a big price--but
I’ve got it--got a bill of sale. My God, it’s awful! I was bringin’ her
down early; so she could get a train back to San Francisco.”

“Well, you couldn’t help it,” said someone. “Gosh, that’s an awful way
to pass out. Yuh can see it comin’.”

“Well, let’s get out there!” snorted Pie Ide. Lane had already joined
the crowd, and a few moments later Shif’less walked in, followed by
Buck Wing, Heinie, Moriarity, Klondike Evans and Joe Chevrier.

The sheriff backed against the bar, forgetting all about arresting
Shif’less in his fear that the Lazy A and the Star X outfits might
pick up the battle where they had left off the night Mary came to
town. The Star X boys halted just inside the place, and the sheriff
seemed to think that this was an opportune time to take their mind
off any possible continuation of the feud.

“Don’t start anythin’, boys,” he said warningly, speaking to Buck Wing
who was in the lead. “This is no time to start trouble. Miss Ault has
jist been killed in a runaway, and we’re goin’ out to get her.”

The sheriff stopped. For several moments no one spoke. Lane stepped in
close to the sheriff and touched him on the arm.

“Get Shif’less Hill,” he said. Shif’less was only a few feet away, but
made no move to get away. The sheriff scowled at Lane, but stepped over
to Shif’less, who still made no move.

“Shif’less, I’ve got to arrest yuh for butcherin’ Lazy A beef,” he said
slowly. “Miles Lane says he seen yuh doin’ it; so there ain’t nothin’ I
can do.”

“Thasall right, Cleve.”

“The rest of you jiggers get yore horses. Somebody get a rig at the
stable, and somebody else rustle the doctor,” said the sheriff.

The crowd made a break for the front door, fairly shoving Shif’less
and the sheriff outside. Just across the narrow street a small group
had gathered around the figure of a woman. Faith Keene was on her
knees beside the figure, talking to Dude Wheeler.

Coming across the street toward the Oreana saloon was the man whom
they knew as Jones of Oklahoma. His shirt was plastered with blood
from the wound in his left shoulder, and he shambled in his walk, as
though his knees were jointless. His face was dirty, bloody, but his
jaws were tight and there was hardly a line to show where his lips
were. Breen had been shoved out at the forefront of the crowd, as
was Miles Lane.

“What in thunder happened to you?” gasped the sheriff.

Cultus stopped, bracing his feet far apart, his half shut eyes fixed
upon Idaho Breen, who had whirled sideways, as though to try to force
his way back through the crowd.

“Breen, don’t move!” Cultus’ voice croaked like that of a raven. Breen
was half turned around, as the men behind him fought to get out of line.

“Don’t move, Lane!” It was hardly more than a whisper.

“What is it?” panted the sheriff. He had forgotten that he had a
prisoner. “What’s wrong with you, Jones?”

“He’s been shot!” said someone.

“Plumb loco.”

“Blood all over him. Look out for him, boys.”

“Don’t move, Breen!” It was a weak warning. “You bushwhacker! You dirty
murderer, thief! You tried to steal the Lazy A. Oh, I’ve got the goods
on you. I seen Jack Keene killed. I know your game. And you tried to
murder that girl to cover your steal--you and Miles Lane!”

Idaho Breen was game. His hand flashed back to his holster; came back
so swiftly that few saw him make his draw, but the bloody-faced cowboy,
bracing his knees to stay on his feet, only made one move. His right
hand, dangling loosely at his side, flipped up and forward, firing the
gun almost as it left the holster.

Came the crash of breaking glass in the store-front across the street,
when Breen’s bullet missed Cultus by several feet, and Breen pitched
forward on his face, flinging his gun almost out to Cultus’ feet.

For a moment everyone had forgotten Miles Lane. He darted sideways,
running swiftly toward the hitch-rack, taking a chance that no one
would shoot at him for fear of killing a horse. He had drawn a gun.
The crowd surged toward him, hardly knowing what to do. Cultus was
running slowly toward the hitch-rack, cutting across in an angle to
try and prevent Lane from going north.

Swiftly, Lane untied a wicked-looking gray horse, which bore the Star X
brand. The horse whirled madly as Lane caught a foot in the stirrup,
and he was forced to drop his gun in order to make the mount. Again the
horse whirled, as Cultus ran toward it, and Lane’s right knee was atop
the saddle, fighting to keep his balance. He managed to get seated; but
before he could swing the horse around Cultus had hung one arm around
the frightened animal’s head, swinging sideways with his whole weight.

With a scream of rage and fright the Star X gray seemed to fairly
pin-wheel on one front leg, and crashed down on its right side,
flinging Lane under the feet of several rearing, pulling broncos,
which were doing their best to break away.

Quickly the crowd rushed in, cut the horses loose and got Lane, while
some of them lifted Cultus out of the dirt and carried him away from
the hitch-rack. He sat up and looked around, a half grin on his grimy
face.

“By God, that’s bull-doggin’ ’em!” snorted Pie Ide, propping Cultus’
head against his knee. “How are yuh, Jones?”

The sheriff shoved his way to Cultus. “Breen’s dead,” he said. “We’ve
sent for the doctor for Lane. Hey! Are yuh listenin’ to me? That Ault
girl ain’t dead!! She’s over there across the street. What’s it all
about, Jones? Did Breen shoot yuh?”

Cultus looked up at him. “Is Lane badly hurt?”

“He shore is! Kicked and tromped all to pieces.”

“Help me up, will yuh?”

They helped Cultus to his feet, and Buck Wing and Pie Ide assisted him
over to where Lane was lying. The doctor was just looking him over when
they arrived. Lane was conscious, but badly hurt. He scowled at Cultus
and groaned under the examination of the doctor.

Cultus looked up to see Mary Smith, Faith Keene, Dude Wheeler and
Shif’less Hill. Mary Smith was very pale, weak, but beyond the shock
of her fall and a few minor bruises she was all right. The doctor
shook his head and got to his feet.

“That means I’m all through, eh?” whispered Lane. “Tell me the truth,
Doc.”

“I’m sorry, Lane; you’re right.”

“Breen?” he asked, his eyes fixed on Cultus.

“He’s gone,” said the sheriff. Lane tried to smile, but the pain was
too much. “Did Jack Keene shoot Jud Ault?” asked Cultus. Lane shifted
his eyes and looked at Faith, who was looking down at him, her eyes
wide with amazement and fright. Lane slowly shook his head.

“Breen shot him,” he said wearily.

“Breen did?”

Lane turned his head and looked at Cultus.

“You know he did, Jones. He’s gone; so it won’t hurt him any.”

Then Cultus knew that Jack Keene _had_ shot Jud Ault, but that Miles
Lane was trying to save a heartache for Faith.

“I was sure he did,” replied Cultus. “Let’s clear it all up this time,
Lane. Was Shif’less Hill guilty of what you said?”

“I--I--” Lane shook his head. “No, you can drop it. Sheriff. Shif’less
is all right. The Lazy A will was a lie. Breen and I made one to suit us
and I had Jud Ault sign it. He thought he was signing one he’d dictated.
Idaho Breen and I were going to steal the ranch. I can swear to you all
that Faith Keene owns the Lazy A. There is no Mary Ault. We’d have made
it all right, if it hadn’t been for Jones of Oklahoma. Why don’t you
light the lamps? I don’t know why it gets dark early. Idaho, what
about--that--girl? Look--out--for--Jones--right--on--that--line. Idaho,
we’re--lost----”

The crowd turned away. Cultus was swaying in his tracks, when Shif’less
caught him. Mary ran to him, grasping his hands. He tried to smile at
her, but it was only a grimace. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and
turned to see Dude Wheeler.

“Good boy, Jones,” whispered Dude. “You sure cleaned up the crooks.
We’ll get you to the doctor.”

“I’m all right,” whispered Cultus. “You look out for Mary.”

“I hope to, Jones; all my life.”

Cultus looked at Mary. Everything was hazy, and her face seemed to stand
out from the fog, as it did the night he met her in San Francisco. She
was smiling through her tears.

“I wanted you to know it first,” she said. “I am going to marry Dude
Wheeler. Jones of Oklahoma, you have almost killed yourself bringing
me happiness.”

“I--I think it was worth it, Mary Elizabeth,” he said, trying to smile.

                   *       *       *       *       *

They seemed to fade out and he was talking to Shif’less and Faith Keene.

“I’ve told her the whole story, Jones,” said Shif’less. “She had to know
that for over a year I’ve been stealin’ Lazy A cattle, sellin’ ’em to a
butcher in Welcome Creek and givin’ her the money; the money Jack Keene
was supposed to be sendin’ her. But she won’t prosecute me, because she
owns the Lazy A now.”

“We do, Shif’less,” corrected Faith. “Or soon will.”

Cultus laughed softly. “I’m glad. I’m sorry for Breen and Lane, but
there’s enough happiness to more than balance it. Is that doctor ever
goin’ to quit foolin’ around and do somethin’ for my shoulder? I’m
sure gettin’ weak in the knees.”

“You’re all fixed up,” said Faith. “This is the first time you’ve been
rational since the shooting, three days ago. You’ll be as good as new
in a few days. You’ll have to be, because you are going to be best man
at a double wedding.”

Cultus stared up at the ceiling and around the room.

“And both the Star X and the Lazy A gangs are settin’ outside the house,
waitin’ for the doctor to tell ’em you’ll get well,” said Shif’less.

“Settin’ together?” queried Cultus.

“Have been for three days. They’re workin’ the place in relays, like me
and Faith and Dude and Mary. They’ll be here soon.”

“Mary has told us the whole story,” said Faith softly. “Personally, I
think she should have married you.”

Cultus shook his head slowly, averting his eyes. “No-o-o, it’s better
this way. Yuh see,” he turned and smiled bravely. “I’m kind of a
nervous disposition, and I’d never be contented with a wife that--that
was always ridin’ runaways.”

Shif’less laughed heartily, and wondered why it didn’t sound funny to
Faith--who understood. But the looting of the Lazy A was over, the feud
ended; so Cultus smiled and went to sleep, realizing that he would need
more strength to be best man at a wedding than he would to be best man
at a gun-fight.


[Transcriber’s note: This story appeared in the August 10, 1926 issue
of _Short Stories_ magazine.]
