I

RUSTLER’S ROOST

By W. C. Tuttle

Author of “The Medicine Man,”
“Hashknife and the Fantom Riders,” etc.

Like a brown leaf fluttering in the wind it came through the bars of the cell door. It floated in past a corner of the cot and came to rest on the concrete floor. A heavy brogan slid over it, and “Tex” Rowland, otherwise Number 1733, owner of the brogan, squinted speculatively at the bars.

A trusty had just passed; a wizened-faced, hump-shouldered little old trusty, who had been “Hump” Sherrill before other people’s horses had somehow come into his possession, and through said possession had been given a number in a place where there is little use for the Eighth Commandment.

Hump Sherrill had known Tex Rowland in the cattle country. In fact, he and Tex had worked for the same outfit, although there was a vast difference in their ages. Hump had spent a long time in the Elk Lodge penitentiary; a model old prisoner, who had become a trusty around the warden’s office.

There was little chance that Hump would ever see the wide ranges again. The law had given him twenty-five years. He had sent two perfectly good officers to the hospital at the time of his arrest, and his combined crimes had caused the judge to give him the limit. And Hump was past middle-age at the time of his arrest.

Tex Rowland sat perfectly still for several minutes. He was in no hurry. Time was something he had more of than anything else. Finally he leaned over, lifted his foot a trifle, and secured the brown cigarette paper which he held concealed in his hand. Slowly he went to the bars and peered out before opening his hand enough to see what was on the paper.

The writing had been done with a lead-pencil and was almost illegible. It read—

Tex look out their framin’ yu.

He shut up his hand and squinted wonderingly. He was not at all handsome. His nose was crooked, which gave him sort of an evil look; but there was no evil in his soul. His face was thin, with high cheek-bones, a generous mouth and a strong chin. His upper front teeth were decidedly of the “buck-tooth” variety, which did not add to his facial beauty. But his eyes were level and gray, set in a net-work of grin-wrinkles.

Tex was above medium height, with sloping shoulders and long, muscular arms. He looked as lean as a greyhound and tipped the scales at about a hundred and sixty pounds. Tex had also been a model prisoner since his arrival, about two months previous; but the guards did not put their stamp of approval upon a prisoner until said prisoner had been there long enough to realize what it all meant.

Just now Tex was trying to puzzle out the meaning of Hump Sherrill’s message, as he masticated the bit of paper and swallowed it. The prison was still a trifle upset over an attempted “break,” in which a prisoner had been shot and killed by a guard.

Tex had taken no part in the affair. In fact, he did not know anything about it until it was all over. The authorities had made an attempt to find out who was the instigator of the thing, but, from what the prisoners had been able to find out, they were unable to fix the blame.

“What are they tryin’ to frame me for?” wondered Tex. “I ain’t done nothin’. They framed me into this place, and that ought to be enough to do to one ordinary cow-puncher.”

He leaned back on his stool and tried to figure out what he had done. He did not like Jim McHague, the head warden. It was not a dislike born from anything that McHague had done, but an instinctive dislike. He did not like the perpetual sneer on McHague’s hard features; the aggressive swing of his beefy body. It had seemed to Tex that McHague’s every action spoke plainer than words—

“I am your master.”

And Tex Rowland’s gorge arose at this. He had been railroaded into prison; sent up for five years for stealing horses, which he had not stolen. Perhaps that was why Hump Sherrill took the chance of warning him. It rather made them brothers-in-crime.

But Tex had little time to puzzle out why he was to be framed. A guard came down the hall, unlocked his door and informed him that he was wanted at the warden’s office.

“What for?” asked Tex.

“You don’t ask questions here,” reminded the guard coldly.

“Uh-huh,” grinned Tex. “Oh, all right, pardner.”

The guard growled and herded Tex down the narrow corridor. The warden’s office was on the ground floor at the front of the main building, connected to the prison proper by a sort of anteroom, with heavily barred windows. Tex was conducted through this room and into the office, where he came face to face with McHague.

The guard, at a nod from the warden, backed out of the room, leaving Tex apparently alone with the head warden. McHague was busy at his desk and paid no attention to Tex, who stood waiting for him to make known his wants.

At the right, another door opened into a room. Tex could see a high desk and stool and some books. It was evidently part of the office. And as Tex flashed a glance in that direction, he saw the muzzle of a shotgun slip past the edge of the partly-open door. It was only there for a fraction of a second; but that was long enough for Tex to know that Hump’s warning was not a joke.

He studied McHague closely, and the warden looked up. For several moments they looked at each other, like two fighters measuring each other’s defense. Then McHague got to his feet. On the flat-top desk was a heavy revolver. Tex had seen it when he first came in. It was a mighty good-looking gun, thought Tex.

“You are 1733, eh?” said McHague throatily.

“My name’s Tex Rowland,” said Tex evenly.

“Not here, it ain’t!” snapped McHague. “You’re just a number here, young feller.”

Tex shut his lips tightly and looked past the warden. He knew that there was no use quarreling. McHague grinned. His eyes flashed toward the gun on his desk, as if wondering if Tex would be fool enough to try and grab it.

“What did you want me for?” asked Tex softly.

“That’s a —— of a question for you to ask,” grunted McHague. “Just take my advice, and don’t try to hedge. We’ve got the goods on you, 1733.”

“Thasso? What for?” Tex was thinking fast. He knew that there was a double-barreled shotgun in that room behind him; and a shotgun, at close range, is a mighty wicked weapon. He wanted to turn his head, but did not want McHague to know that he had seen the muzzle of that gun.

“What for?”

McHague laughed hoarsely and lighted a cigar. Tex could see that his hands trembled. He also noticed that McHague was keeping out of a direct line with the door. It was growing dark outside, and McHague snapped on a light.

“I’ll tell you what for, 1733; for instigating that attempted jail-break a few days ago. We’ve got the goods on you; so come clean, you dirty horse-thief!”

Tex jerked forward at the epithet; but did not move out of his tracks. He knew that McHague was trying to provoke an attack, but just why, he did not know. He shot a glance at the gun on McHague’s desk. He was nearer to it now than McHague was.

“Unloaded,” he decided. “He’s tryin’ to get me to make a break for it and give an excuse for that jigger behind the door to blow me into jerky with that shotgun.”

McHague was paying little attention to Tex, although waiting for Tex to answer the accusation.

“You know that’s a —— lie,” said Tex evenly.

McHague whirled angrily, gripping the cigar tightly between his big teeth.

“Don’t tell me that I lie!” he snorted. “You know who I am?”

“I know what I’d call yuh,” said Tex slowly. “I know who yuh are and what yuh are, accordin’ to my own views, McHague.”

McHague laughed shortly and threw away his cigar.

“You’re in a place where you’ll be —— glad to change your views, 1733. I’m running this place, and, by a crook of my finger, I can hand you more unadulterated —— than you ever dreamed about. And if you don’t come across and tell all you know about the plans for that break, I’ll show you what I mean by unadulterated ——. Now, start talking.”

Tex shook his head slowly.

“Hop to it, McHague. You know I didn’t have any hand in that job.”

“Won’t talk, eh?” McHague moved aside, completely masking himself from those inside the other office. “We’ll make you talk. They tell me that you were quite a fighter in your own home; but you won’t have any chance to fight here. We don’t fight men in here—we break ’em.”

“I s’pose that’s right,” said Tex softly. “But when yuh say ‘we,’ yuh mean ‘I,’ don’tcha, McHague? The state don’t stand for none of that stuff. Yo’re put here to take care of men—not to torture ’em.”

McHague laughed and shook his head.

“The state put me in charge here, 1733.” He came nearer and shoved out his square jaw belligerently. “And I’ll do as I —— please, as long as I have charge. You’re here for five years, and I’ll make it seem fifty.

“You left a girl, didn’t you, 1733? I think they told me that you were about to get married. Was that right?”

Tex had turned pale and his eyes narrowed dangerously. Just now he had forgotten the man with the shotgun.

“Well?” he said huskily, his hands clenched tightly, as he swayed forward a trifle. “Go ahead, McHague.”

“She hasn’t written to you, has she?”

“You ought to know,” said Tex. “The letter would have to come through your office.”

McHague laughed grimly, meaningly.

“You’d steal my letters?” asked Tex hoarsely. “You——”

“I told you I could make it seem like fifty years, 1733. Now, you tell me who planned that break. Talk fast. I’ve wasted enough time with you.”

“You’d steal my letters?” queried Tex. “You’d stop me from hearin’ from anybody? Why, McHague? What have I ever done to you? You know I never planned that break. You’ve got a shotgun man in that next room, and he’s ready to fill me with buckshot; but you never stopped to think that a riot-gun scatters kinda bad—and I’m goin’ to take a chance with you.”

Tex had spoken softly; so softly that his voice would hardly carry to the next room, and before he finished he was in action. Even McHague, who had taunted him into a killing mood, was hardly prepared for the assault, and Tex’s first blow loosened his front teeth and split his upper-lip badly.

And as Tex smashed him with a left hook, which staggered the big man, he ducked past, leaving McHague between him and the door. McHague was swinging wildly with both hands, forcing Tex to back toward the wall; but Tex shifted his eyes enough to see that the man with the shotgun was already inside the room, but unable to use his weapon.

Tex realized that, in the eyes of the law, this guard would be justified in killing him. It would be recorded as a case where a convict attempted to kill the warden during an investigation.

McHague was forcing him toward a corner, and Tex had his choice of being pinned to the wall by a giant of a man, or to duck aside and allow the shotgun man to get in his deadly work. They had fought silently; only the soft shuffle of their feet and their quick breathing to show that they were in combat.

Now McHague was reaching for Tex with his two big hands, thinking that Tex was quitting; but a fraction of a second later Tex’s right hand shot from his hip in a sweeping uppercut, and caught McHague squarely on the point of his chin. It was sent in with every ounce of Tex’s strength and weight behind it—timed perfectly.

McHague’s hands dropped to his sides, his head jerked back and he dropped in a loose-jointed heap on the floor. He was completely knocked out. Tex leaned back against the wall, staring at the shotgun man, who was flat on the floor, doubled across his gun, while behind him stood the stooped figure of Old Hump Sherrill, a heavy stool in his hands.

He straightened up, a half-grin on his seamed face, as he glanced quickly toward the other door. Swiftly he came across the room and looked at McHague. The big warden was groaning softly. Swiftly the old man took a big handkerchief from McHague’s pocket and proceeded to gag him securely. Then he crossed the room, picked up the shotgun and examined it.

“This one is plumb cooled off,” he whispered across to Tex, indicating the man he had hit with the stool. “Nobody knows what has gone on in here, Tex. Shuck off your clothes and help yo’reself to what McHague’s wearin’. It’s too big for yuh, but we can’t wait for a fittin’. Hop to it, kid.”

“You mean—we’ll make a break, Hump?” whispered Tex.

“—— right. It’s a chance, Tex. If anybody comes in—well, I’ve got two loads of buck-shot. Hurry up.”

As swiftly as possible Tex removed McHague’s clothes. McHague was recovering dully now, muttering softly, trying to prevent Tex from removing his clothes. Then he sat up and goggled around. Old Hump Sherrill shoved the muzzle of the shotgun close to his face and said softly:

“Don’t talk, McHague. That gag ain’t none too good, but it’s a good alibi. Now, you set still, or I’ll shoot yore —— head off.”

McHague knew what Hump was saying. His eyes shifted to the figure of his guard and back at Old Hump. He knew that the old trusty had hit the guard from behind.

But just now his jaw was aching and the gag was uncomfortable.

Old Hump squinted at Tex, who was draped in McHague’s clothes, and a grin wreathed his face.

“Danged good thing it’s dark, Tex. Take this gun a minute.”

He went softly into the next room and appeared in a moment with a collection of handcuffs, which he proceeded to put on McHague. Then he added a dirty rag to McHague’s gag, took another look at the unconscious guard, picked up the empty revolver and handed it to Tex.

“It ain’t loaded, Tex; but it looks good. C’mon and don’t lose yore nerve.”

They went down a long hall, which opened outside. At the door Hump cautioned Tex.

“There’s a guard out there, Tex. We’ll start toward McHague’s residence: sabe? I work over there once in a while. But when we hit the main trail we’ll go straight to the big gate. There’s a gateman there and a guard on the wall.

“Jam that gun into his ribs and make him open the gate. If he yelps, we’re a goner. Now don’t git nervous. It’s our chance, kid. C’m on.”

They walked boldly out of the door and crossed the court. The guard merely glanced at them, but in the half-light he only saw the head warden and a trusty. McHague’s tan suit and light-colored fedora hat were easy to identify, and the guard did not notice the difference in size.

“One baby down, one see-gar,” chuckled Old Hump as they turned sharply and headed for the big gate.

They were walking slowly as they came up to the gate. The guard squinted narrowly at Old Hump, recognizing him as a trusty. He had already noticed the light fedora, but on closer inspection he suddenly realized that it was not McHague. But before his lips had a chance to frame a question, Tex shoved the big six-shooter into his waist-line. The guard on the wall had seen them approach the gate, but was not interested in seeing McHague leave the prison.

“Open the gate,” demanded Old Hump softly. “We’re goin’ out, if we have to take the keys off yore carcass.”

“And one yelp will be yore last,” added Tex. “Move fast.”

And the gateman obeyed. He knew that he was worth a lot more to himself than the gateman’s job was; and this crooked-nosed, young convict seemed entirely capable of following out his threat.

The big gate swung open without a sound. Tex shoved the gateman out ahead of him, just as the guard on the wall looked down toward the gate. He was not suspicious—just looking. It was the first time he had ever seen the gateman step outside.

Then he observed that it was the trusty who was closing the gate behind them. Of course, it was McHague’s business if he wanted to take a trusty outside with him; but the guard moved a trifle closer, watching more intently. The three men were talking. Then they started away together, with the gateman walking slightly in the lead. It was so irregular that the guard called McHague’s name. Neither of the three stopped. In fact, they began going away faster. Then the guard threw up his rifle and began shooting.

The gateman had voiced no objection, when Tex demanded his company. In fact, the gateman felt that it was either that or a smash over the head, because these men would not leave him there to send the alarm. Perhaps, he thought, the guard would notice that it was irregular—which he did.

The first shot whizzed over their heads and tore deeply into the macadam road-bed. The light was weak and the guard was shooting high; being unable to notch his sights closely.

“Run for it!” grunted Hump. “To —— with this jasper!”

He shoved the gateman aside, and he and Tex raced down the road. Suddenly Old Hump stumbled, recovered and tried to go on, but slumped to his hands and knees.

“Don’t stop, Tex,” he croaked hoarsely, as Tex stopped and came back to him. “They got me, kid. Through the lungs, I reckon. Go on, Tex. For ——’s sake, go on—can’t—talk. Wanted—to—see—old range, kid—McHague wanted to kill you—before—pardon—go on—Tex.”

He slid face down in the road and Tex knew that Old Hump Sherrill was dead. The guard was shooting again. Somewhere a bell rang loudly and the big whistle sent out its siren warning, telling the world that a convict had escaped.

Tex whirled and ran swiftly down through some bushes, down the side of a hill, where he scrambled through a fence and reached the bank of the river. It was dark down there. The whistle seemed almost at his elbow. The blood was pounding in his ears, but he thought he could hear the shouts of men, as they started on his trail.

Then he plunged over the clay bank of the river, slid into the water and headed for the opposite side. The water was cool and sluggish. He had only swum a few strokes when he found that his feet would touch bottom; so he waded the rest of the distance and plunged into the brush on the opposite side.

He found an old trail, which led up the other bank, and he came out on to a railroad grade. He stopped and tried to find his bearings. Far across the river he could see the lights from the prison. They seemed farther away than he would suppose. There was a singing sound on the steel rails which told him that a train was approaching.

Swiftly he slunk back against the brushy side of the cut and went through the pockets of his clothes. Pocket after pocket he emptied, until there was nothing left that could possibly identify him. The accumulated mass of water-soaked letters, etc., were quickly buried under a rubble of dirt and stones.

Now the headlights of an engine flashed down past him, and the roar of the oncoming train drowned out all other sounds. Tex had never beaten a railroad out of a ride; did not know how to swing on to a moving car; but he was going to take a chance.

It was a passenger train, evidently running the grade on a slow-order. The engine clanked past him, running at not over five miles an hour, and Tex sprang upright, grasped the handles and drew himself on to the blind-baggage, where he crouched down.

He realized that there was no door opening on to that platform, and that the tender prevented the engine crew from seeing him. For the time being he was perfectly safe; so he stretched out and tried to reason out just what he was going to do.

He knew that every train would be searched as soon as the alarm had been sent out to a telegraph office. But he also knew that this train stood a good chance of being immune. It had left Elk Lodge too soon for him to have taken it. Only luck had sent him straight across the river in time to board it on the grades.

Station after station they passed. Tex kept a close watch and always managed to be on the opposite side from the brightest lights. A little past midnight he dropped off at a division point, and hid behind a tool box while the engines were changed. Then he climbed on again and they roared away into the night, reeling off mile after mile, taking him farther and farther away from the men who were beating the Elk Lodge country for him.

It was about three o’clock in the morning. Tex was dozing sleepily, trying to keep one eye open. They were on a down-grade, high in the mountains. The brakes were screeching as they lurched around the curves. Tex realized that they were going altogether too fast. It woke him up and he started to get to his feet, when the tender whirled sideways, a sheet of flame shot up from the rails and Tex’s car upended, as if trying to hurdle the twisting mass of steel and flying coal ahead of it.

Tex shot into space, struck heavily against something, which caused him to spin dizzily; while to his numbed ears came the splintering crash of the coaches; twisting, rolling, demolishing themselves in the worst passenger wreck of the year. Then he went down, down, down into a black void, where he seemed doomed to keep falling forever.

And while the passenger train carried Tex Rowland out of the Elk Lodge country, Jim McHague swore bitterly at every one, as he sat in his office and directed the man-hunt. Fifty men were out in the open; guards watched every road and trail out of the country, while others searched the town, the trains; leaving no loophole for the man who had outwitted the State.

The story and a description of Tex Rowland was broadcast to the press; but it was not the true story. McHague’s version was somewhat different than what had really happened. He told that Hump Sherrill was the one who planned the getaway.

He said that he had called Tex into his office for an interview, regarding the late attempted prison-break. Hump Sherrill had hinted that Tex knew something about it. He explained that Sherrill was an old trusty, who had never given any trouble; but, unknown to the authorities, was an old friend of Rowland.

During the interview, without any warning, Sherrill had struck the guard, who was present, with a heavy stool, almost killing him. It was so unlooked for that Sherrill had secured the guard’s gun and had covered him—McHague—forcing him to put up his hands. Then Tex Rowland had struck the blow that rendered the warden unconscious. McHague, according to his version, awoke from the effects of the foul blow to find himself bound and gagged. He was unable to sound any warning; but found later that the guard at the gate had killed Sherrill. He claimed that it was so unlooked for that neither he nor the guard had a chance. Sherrill had been a trusty for several years, and no one had ever suspected him of a plot to free himself.

McHague did not leave his office that night, but waited patiently for them to bring Tex Rowland back to him. Morning came, but the searchers reported failure. The wires were kept hot. Every sheriff in the State was notified.

In the morning a pair of bloodhounds were put on the trail which led to the river. They were taken across in a boat and had little trouble in picking up the trail on that side. McHague went with the dogs. He felt sure that Tex had headed into the mountains, and that the hounds would lead them to him in a short time; but at the railroad they lost the scent.

One of them circled several times and stopped at a small pile of dirt and stones, pawing at it eagerly, unearthing the soggy contents of McHague’s suit. McHague swore witheringly and sent the dogs back to the penitentiary, while he went back to the town of Elk Lodge and sent more telegrams. It was plainly evident that Tex Rowland had boarded a train. But just what train and in what direction, there was no way of knowing.

News of the big passenger train wreck had reached Elk Lodge. McHague questioned the operator about the train, thinking that Tex might have boarded it; but its leaving time, and the time of Tex’s escape, seemed to preclude all chance of him being on that train.

“We’ll get him,” declared McHague. “He may dodge us for a while, but we’ll get him. You can’t mistake that face.”

And McHague grinned to himself, as he visualized what he would do to Tex Rowland when Tex came back to Elk Lodge. He would surely pay Tex for that uppercut to the chin. It still hurt. Still he was glad that no one except Tex and Sherrill had seen it. McHague wanted to be known as a fighting man. And he had other reasons for wanting Tex back behind the bars.

II

Tex’s fall through space had not been unpleasant. At times he had heard voices, but was unable exactly to locate them. Now he seemed to have come out of the darkness. He remembered the wreck. It was like a dream. Some one bent over him, and he heard a voice say—

“Yes, I think he is awake, doctor.”

“Doctor, eh?” thought Tex disinterestedly.

Some one else leaned over him, jiggling the cot slightly. He tried to speak, but his jaw seemed set. He could only see out of one eye, too. The other was bandaged.

“Feeling better?” asked a masculine voice.

Tex tried to turn his head, which felt queer. He could move his feet and one hand. His nose hurt and his mouth was as dry as ashes.

“That bandage is rather tight,” observed a feminine voice.

“It must be tight,” laughed the man. “He hasn’t talked for a week; so a few days more won’t bother him. Hasn’t any fever now.”

Tex managed to turn his head enough to catch a one-eyed view of the room. There was a gray-haired man, with a short beard and kindly blue eyes, standing beside a white-clad woman. They were both looking at the sheet of paper which the man was holding.

He lifted his eyes and looked at Tex.

“Well, he’s able to twist around for a look,” he laughed as he came in closer.

Tex looked the man over with his one eye. There was an odor of ether about the place, and Tex knew that he was in a hospital. The doctor was looking down at him, smiling in a friendly manner, and Tex tried to smile in return, but the bandage prevented.

“You won’t be able to do much talking for a few days,” said the doctor. “But you will be as good as new. Perhaps you will be better than new—who knows?”

He turned to the nurse, gave her some instructions and went out of the room. Tex wanted to ask her some questions; wanted to find out where he was and how badly he had been hurt; but his jaw was in a vise.

He remembered it all now, and he wondered how close the law was on his trail. Possibly, he thought, they might know where he was at this moment. He found that he was pretty well bandaged all over, but there was little pain. His face felt stiff and hard, but he attributed it to the bandages.

Finally the nurse came over and sat down beside him. She was serious of face, as she said to him—

“No doubt you are wondering all about it.”

Tex blinked his one eye encouragingly.

“You remember the wreck?”

Tex moved his head a trifle and winked at her. She laughed softly.

“One doesn’t need more than one eye to talk,” she said, “but it makes a one-sided conversation. You have been here over a week.”

Tex blinked several times violently, and decided that he must have been pretty badly hurt.

“It was a bad wreck,” continued the nurse. “There were many killed. They thought you were dead. Your clothes were torn from your body, along with a lot of flesh and skin. It was a close call, I will assure you. But Doctor Ames is a wonder. He was here a few minutes ago, and is very much interested in your case. No one was able to identify you, and your clothes were in such a bad shape that even the maker’s name had disappeared.

“But the doctor says that the bandages can be removed in a few days, and you will be able to communicate with your friends. Won’t that be fine? I can well imagine that they have given you up for lost.”

Tex blinked several times. He wanted to know more. It was a relief to him to know that no one had identified him.

“Why we even had a dentist here to assist in the work,” she smiled. “You were quite a problem.”

“My gosh!” thought Tex. “I must ’a’ got my teeth knocked out, too.”

“Now,” she said, “I think that is enough information for today. Just be patient and everything will be fine.”

Tex winked thankfully and went back to sleep. At least he was safe for a while, because even McHague could not identify him inside that mass of wrappings which made him look like an Egyptian mummy. And it would give him a sanctuary while the interest in his escape dwindled.

The next few days were months to Tex Rowland. The doctor came in twice a day to look him over, and the nurse took keen delight in joking Tex about his one expressive eye.

Then came the day when the doctor told him that the bandages were coming off. Several other doctors came in to see the results of Doctor Ames’s handiwork, and assisted him in the unwrapping. It was a tedious job, and Tex was hardly aware that the bandages were off.

His face felt stiff and unnatural, but he was able to use his arms and legs. They were stiff and sore, but gave good promise of becoming useful again with a little exercise. The doctor’s expressions of satisfaction reassured Tex somewhat, but it was not until the nurse brought him a hand-mirror that he knew what had happened.

He looked closely at himself, squinted quizzically at the doctors and back at himself. Then looked at the back of the mirror; like a monkey which does not understand its own reflection.

“Well?” said Doctor Ames. “What is the verdict?”

Tex gazed into the mirror, flexing the muscles of his stiff-feeling face. Then he looked slowly up at the doctor and said, speaking with great difficulty—

“My ——, where did I get that face?”

Doctor Ames patted him on the shoulder.

“My boy, it was the best I could do. It would have been impossible to tell just what you did look like before you broke up half the mountain side with your face. Still, I do not think it is such a bad face.”

Tex squinted at himself again. It was not a face he had ever seen; it was a total stranger who looked him square in the eyes from the little mirror. In the place of that crooked, ill-shapen nose, was one of classic design. There was no evil expression about the eyes now, with their well-arched brows. The upper-lip was straight and his front teeth were very pearly and not at all prominent.

There was a considerable growth of beard, in spots, and the scars of the patchwork were plainly evident; but it was not the face of Tex Rowland. He laid the mirror down on the covers and his new face broke into a painful grin.

“I hope you will be able to identify yourself,” said the doctor.

Tex grinned and shook his head.

“Tha’s all right, doc,” he said slowly. “I reckon yuh done the best yuh could. Yuh must ’a’ just about made it all over, but I dunno how yuh pulled off the job.”

Doctor Ames smiled. He was professionally happy over it, and received the congratulations of the other doctors, who were sincere in saying that it was even greater than they expected. One of them slapped Doctor Ames on the back and said jokingly:

“Ames, it is just too good. You have made him a handsome man; but there is little character.”

“That will come,” assured Ames. “In a little while he will get back the lines. Perhaps I did try for an ideal face.”

Tex only laughed and looked into the mirror.

“Have you a photo of yourself?” asked the nurse.

Tex shook his head, although he felt sure that his picture had been broadcast after his escape. The nurse stepped to the door and held a low-toned conversation with some one for several moments before coming back and speaking aside to Doctor Ames. The other doctors were closely examining Tex’s face, when Doctor Ames’ voice broke into the conversation, speaking to Tex—

“Do you feel well enough to talk to a man, who has been waiting anxiously to have a few words with you?”

Tex’s heart sank. Was it an officer, he wondered. A dozen wild guesses shot through his mind as the well-dressed man came up to the bed and looked down at him. But the man was not wearing a badge of authority, and there was a smile on his lips.

“I am from the railroad company,” he explained briskly, as he took some legal-looking papers from his pocket. “Claim department, you know. The company is straightening out the claims as fast as possible. I have been here several times, but have been unable to see you.”

Tex squinted thoughtfully. It puzzled him. Doctor Ames moved in closer and looked at the papers, which the agent was arranging.

“No,” he said smiling broadly, “I am not encroaching upon your rights, Mr. Agent; but I have an interest in this patient, and I do not want him to get the worst of this deal.”

“I understand.” The agent nodded quickly. “Contrary to general belief, the company is not trying to dodge their responsibilities. We stand ready and willing to pay any reasonable claim. I have been empowered to close this claim for five thousand dollars. It is quite a sum of money, but we realize that this man has suffered greatly, possibly in more ways than one. Is that a fair price?”

Doctor Ames looked at Tex for an answer; but Tex was too stunned to answer. It was hard to realize that the railroad company was trying to pay him five thousand dollars for injuries received in the wreck. They did not know that he was stealing a ride.

“What do you think?” asked Doctor Ames.

Tex opened his mouth several times, but seemed unable to speak. The agent had unfolded the paper and was handing a fountain-pen to Tex. Between his finger and thumb he held a nice, pink check for five thousand dollars.

Tex shook his head and looked at Doctor Ames.

“I don’t want the money,” he said softly. “I want you folks to figure out yore bill for what you’ve done for me, and ask him to pay yuh. That might be real square. I’ll sign my name, but I don’t want any money.”

“My goodness!” exclaimed one of the doctors. “Ames, you have rebuilt the face of a millionaire.”

“Do you realize what you are doing?” asked the nurse. “This man wants to pay you five thousand dollars.”

“Yeah, and I don’t want it,” smiled Tex. “You have ’em fix it up, so you and the doctor gets paid for yore work, and I’ll sign the li’l old name.”

The agent turned to Doctor Ames, a grin on his lips.

“What about it, doctor?” he asked. “I can change this to fit an emergency. This man seems sincere; but in all my experience I have never before met a man who would not accept a five-thousand-dollar check. I am willing to fix it up in any way you wish.”

He and the doctor walked over by the door, conversing in low tones, while the agent altered the document with his pen. In a few moments they came back and one of the doctors held a book under the document, while Tex Rowland laboriously scratched on the dotted line—

William H. Smith.

Doctor Ames squinted at the signature as he handed it back to the agent.

“William H. Smith, millionaire,” he said, laughing. “Not exactly an uncommon name. Bill Smith, philanthropist. Is the initial ‘H’ for Henry?”

“No,” said Tex slowly. “My middle name is Horse-shoes.”

“What a queer name,” said the nurse. “You ought to be lucky.”

“Mebbe yuh don’t think I am,” grinned Tex, as he sank back on his pillow and looked up at the white ceiling. He had a new face and a new name. Tex Rowland had died in the wreck.

III

Old Rory McPherson, with a cow-puncher riding on each side of him, came to Antelope town. It was an event, when Rory came to Antelope. He was past middle-age, a tall, thin man, with a thatch of flaming red hair, red whiskers and a fighting eye. His face was thin and almost as red as his whiskers, while his eyes were of an iceberg blue.

Rory had been a powerful fighting man in his youth, and woe unto him who might hint that Rory was not as young as he used to be! He swung off his big roan horse, tied it to a hitch-rack, and looked around belligerently, as if daring any one to contest his right to be in town.

None did. Rory knew that they would not; but he always waited for some one to try. With him was Dick Clarey and “Biddy” Toole, two of his cowpunchers. They wore their sombreros at an aggressive angle, swaggered in their walk and talked boldly.

Antelope was a town of about two hundred inhabitants; but it boasted a two-story brick building wherein was housed the bank. Two-story brick buildings were not common in that part of the range country, and Antelope had a right to be proud.

The rest of the business houses were of the false-front, one-story variety, with wind and sand-scoured signs, badly in need of paint. There were the inevitable board sidewalks, built well above the ground for no apparent reason, except, as one of the old timers said, “It makes ’em high enough t’ set on kinda good.”

Old Rory shoved his hands into his overall pockets and threw back his head as he stared at the brick building. It was not new. Rory had seen it many times; but he always stared at it, muttering a curse into his red beard.

He hated “Big Jim” Mott, the man who had built and owned that brick building; hated him with every drop of his Scotch blood.

Big Jim had said—

“—— you; I’ll sheep out Rainbow Valley one of these days!”

Old Rory McPherson owned Rainbow Valley and he replied:

“Ye will? Then that will be many a long year after the sheep have made a vile-smellin’ dust heap out of Antelope.”

And Big Jim Mott owned Antelope range. The feud between Rory and Big Jim had started before the advent of the branch railroad into Antelope. The railroad had made old Rory even more bitter.

The logical thing, according to Rory, would have been for the railroad to have come in through Rainbow Valley, leaving the main line at a point about three miles north of Claymore, the little village at the upper end of Rainbow, and following an easy grade down through Rainbow and into the Antelope country.

But instead, it came in from the town of Welcome, twisted in and out of the hills, barely touching the lower border of Rainbow and running due south to Antelope. And old Rory McPherson knew why the railroad did not come in through Rainbow. He knew that Big Jim’s political pull kept the railroad out of Rainbow Valley.

It had been of no advantage to Big Jim, and had not injured Rory McPherson, as far as that was concerned; but a railroad through Rainbow Valley would have been of decided advantage to Rory. And Rory knew that Big Jim had done all this with malice aforethought.

“You and your dir-r-rty buildin’!” muttered Rory.

“What did yuh say?” asked Dick Clarey.

“Nawthin’.”

Rory squinted across the street, jerking the brim of his sombrero a trifle lower, as he spelled out a faded sign—

MISS FREELAND, MILLINERY

He nodded slowly and turned to the two cowboys.

“Be cir-r-cumspect, will ye? I’ve an errand just now.”

He turned on his heel and crossed the street toward the little millinery store, while the two cowboys looked at each other. They grinned as they turned toward a saloon entrance.

“What in the —— is he goin’ to do there?” wondered Dick.

“He’s not goin’ to buy hats, that’s a cinch,” laughed Biddy.

Old Rory rattled his spurs up to the door and knocked loudly. After a moment the door creaked half-way open and a faded-looking little woman stared out at him.

“I’m lookin’ for Miss Della Mar-r-rsh,” he told her. “She wor-rks here, I’ve been told.”

The little woman shook her head quickly. “She did work here,” she said, as if apologizing, “but they gave her a position over in the bank, Mr. McPherson. She has been there nearly a week now.”

Old Rory stared at her, turned his head slowly and squinted at the hated building.

“Over there?” He jerked his thumb in that direction. “Do ye mean to say that she’s wor-r-rkin’ in that building, ma’am?”

“Yes—for the bank.”

“Oh, ho-o-o! For the bank, ye say? Now what the —— do ye know about that?”

The door shut quickly behind him. But he did not mind. In fact he had forgotten all about the little milliner lady. He clenched his freckled old hands until the knuckles looked like rows of white marbles, and his lower jaw jutted angrily. There was no question but what Rory McPherson was very angry.

He started across the street toward the bank, but changed his mind and went to the saloon, where he found Dick and Biddy at the bar.

“Have a little drink, Rory?” invited Biddy, moving aside to give the old man room.

But Rory shook his head angrily.

“I’ve no stomach for-r-r anythin’ in this town!” he snorted. “I’ve been insulted by me own flesh and blood. It may not be a Christian thing to tak’ the name of the Lord in vain, but right noo I’m gr-r-ropin’ for wor-r-rds that will fit the occasion.”

“What’s gone wrong?” queried Dick Clarey.

“Wrong? Did ye say wrong, Dick? Everythin’! Della has gone to wor-r-rk for that——”

Old Rory shut his lips tightly, and his beard lifted like the hair on the back of an angry dog.

Dick and Biddy understood what he meant. Biddy fingered his glass, his head cocked on one side thoughtfully.

“At the ranch, Rory?” he asked.

“In the bank, Biddy.”

“What doin’?” queried Dick.

“No matter what doin’!” snorted Rory. “It’s another of his dir-rty deals. I came here to take her awa’ from the makin’ of hats. No job is that for a bit o’ a lass; not while her uncle has a cent. And I find her wor-rkin’ for—that! Shamin’ me, he is.”

The old man’s voice trembled with anger, but he threw up his head and turned to the bar, which he thumbed with his clenched fist.

“Gi’e me whusky,” he ordered hoarsely. “When ye’r hear-rt tells ye to kill—drink whusky for ballast. Gi’e me the bottle, will ye? That glass is no sup for a sufferin’ mon.”

After a few big drinks Rory was well organized for anything. His Scotch brogue grew more broad, but the whisky softened his bitterness. A vacant chair at a poker table called to him; so he sat down to play, while Dick and Biddy slipped out of the place and went down to the bank. They knew that the old man was good for several hours and several more drinks, and that he was not liable to get into trouble while under the influence of liquor. It seemed that liquor softened his nature, although his conversation became so full of burs that no one could understand him.

They found Della Marsh in the bank; a slip of a girl, with an oval face framed in a mass of brown hair. There seemed to be a perpetual sadness about her wide, blue eyes, and she greeted them with a wistful smile.

“How long have yuh been here, Dell?” asked Dick.

“About a week, Dick. How is Rainbow Valley?”

“Fine. The old man came in with us.”

“Uncle Rory? Where is he?”

“Over in the Eagle saloon. Say, Dell, he’s sore as a boil.”

“Sore? What about, Dick?”

Dick lowered his voice:

“Because you’re workin’ here. You know this bank belongs to Big Jim Mott, don’tcha?”

“Why, yes, I know it. But I don’t see—”

“Listen,” interrupted Biddy. “He came in today to get yuh to go back to the ranch, Dell. He knowed that yuh was workin’ at that millinery store. He wants yuh to come back home. I reckon we all want yuh to come back, too, Dell.”

Biddy shuffled his feet nervously. Della looked at him, her eyes smiling. But she shook her head slowly:

“No, I don’t want to go back there, Biddy. I don’t want to be dependent on any one, don’t you see? I can make my own living.”

“That’s true,” nodded Biddy. “If it was anybody but Mott.”

“You didn’t ask for the job, did yuh, Dell?” asked Dick.

Della colored slightly, but shook her head.

“No, I didn’t, Dick. Mr. Mott asked me if I wanted to work in the bank. It is not hard work.”

“It’ll sure be hard for Rory McPherson,” declared Biddy.

“Oh, I’m sorry about that,” said Della wistfully. “I wish that Uncle Rory and Mr. Mott would be friends. Mr. Mott seems so big and generous; not at all as I had believed him to be.”

“A snake is slick,” muttered Biddy, “and a coyote ain’t no homely critter.”

“That is unkind, Biddy,” said Della softly.

“Ex-cuse me,” said Biddy quickly. “I was thinkin’ outloud. And we just found out the other day that Jim Mott owns the old XO-Bar-5.”

“The XO-Bar-5?” questioned Della wonderingly. “Why, I thought it belonged to Marvin Crane.”

“Well, it don’t,” declared Biddy. “He was just runnin’ it.”

“Then it was Mott who—”

Della stopped and stared out through the open door.

“Yeah,” nodded Dick seriously. “It was Big Jim Mott who sent Tex Rowland to the penitentiary, Dell. Of course, yuh can’t hold a thing like that ag’in’ Mott; but it was him—not Crane.”

The three were silent for several moments. Then Della looked at both men and spoke softly—

“Is there any news of Tex?”

Biddy shook his head:

“Not a word, Dell. Accordin’ to the papers they can’t find a trace of him. He made a clean getaway.”

“Will he ever come back here, do you think?”

Biddy shook his head slowly.

“No, I don’t reckon he will, Dell. It’s hard to tell where old Tex will hole-up. He’s been out almost a month. Well, I reckon we better be goin’, Dell.”

They shook hands with her and went outside, heading back to the saloon.

“She sure thinks a lot of old Tex,” observed Dick.

Biddy nodded:

“The old crooked-nosed son-of-a-gun. By golly, Dick, he was a danged good feller. They don’t make ’em better than Tex Rowland. He was homely as the ——, wasn’t he? Kinda like findin’ an old bent can, without any label; and when yuh open it up yuh find she’s full of peaches. That’s old Tex—a peach on the inside.”

At the doorway of the saloon they met Jack Lohman, the sheriff, whose office was at Welcome, the county seat. He was a tall, squint-eyed man, and as hard as the job he had been voted into.

“Hyah, Lohman,” greeted Biddy, as they shook hands. “How’s the law and order comin’?”

“’Sall right,” grinned Lohman. “How’s crime?”

“Doin’ right well. Whatcha doin’ down in this neck of the woods?”

“Electioneerin’.”

“Thasso?” Biddy grinned widely. “You’re startin’ early, ain’t yuh? You was only re-elected last Fall. I’ll bet you’re lookin’ for Tex Rowland.”

Lohman grinned, but grew serious, as he said:

“Kinda funny they never located Tex. Either he’s smarter than the law, or he’s lucky as ——. They were on his trail within ten minutes after he went out through the gate; but he sure faded complete-like. He don’t know nothin’, except punchin’ cows, and some day he’ll be picked up on some cow-ranch.”

“It won’t be in this end of the country,” said Dick. “He wouldn’t be fool enough to come back here.”

“Suits me,” said Lohman. “I ain’t got nothin’ against Tex. He always treated me fine, and as far as I’m concerned he can stay out of jail. I got a letter from McHague, the warden at the pen, the other day tellin’ me to watch out for Tex around here.”

“And you’d pick him up in a minute, too,” grinned Biddy.

“I wonder if I would,” said Lohman seriously.

“That calls for a drink,” said Dick warmly. “You ain’t on the wagon, are yuh, Lohman? Or mebbe the law don’t allow yuh to drink.”

“I never swore I wouldn’t,” laughed Lohman, and they went to the bar together.

Old Rory McPherson did not seem to be having any great luck at poker. He played a hard game, but not a scientific one. He did not bluff; but played every hand for what he thought it was worth.

“I’ll not lie,” he told them seriously. “’Tis the Scotch in me, I’m thinkin’.”

“It’s the rye in yuh, yuh mean,” grumbled a disgruntled player, who had tried to bluff the old man out of a good pot, only to find him holding a full-house.

“Rory don’t come down here very often, does he?” asked Lohman.

“Not any oftener than he has to,” assured Biddy. “He ain’t got much use for Antelope. Him and Big Jim ain’t friendly, yuh know.”

“Too bad,” said Lohman. “It kinda splits this country. I was over to the Lightnin' ranch yesterday. Pablo acted like I wasn't a bit welcome.”

“Nobody welcome around there,” grinned Biddy. “As far as I’m concerned, they don’t need to welcome me. ‘Paint’ Pablo is loco over pinto horses. I hear he sold a car-load to some circus.”

“He’s a breed, ain’t he?” asked Lohman.

“Nez Perce and French,” said Dick, “with the rattle-snake predominatin’.”

Lohman laughed and turned back to the bar.

“I’m ridin’ out to the Dice ranch today,” he said. “Big Jim told me about a horse he had out there, and it’s about what I want. He’s got some good stock out there, I guess.”

“He ought to have,” observed Biddy. “He’s got enough money to just about raise the kind he wants.”

“Yeah, I reckon he gets what he wants,” said Lohman.

“He tries, anyway,” said Dick. “It’s gettin’ so a man can’t work around here, unless he works for Mott.”

“Or for Rory McPherson,” laughed Lohman.

“Yeah, that’s true,” agreed Biddy. “Rainbow Valley ain’t as big as Antelope—but it’s clean, Lohman.”

Some one had come in the saloon as Biddy started to speak, and he turned to see Big Jim Mott looking at him. Mott had heard Biddy’s statement, and he seemed about to say something, but changed his mind and came up to the bar.

Big Jim did not belie his name; he was big. He was well over six-feet tall, broad of shoulder and deep of chest, weighing about two hundred and forty pounds. But he was not fat. His face was blocky of contour, his nose a trifle too small for the rest of his face. He was less than forty years of age, but looked to be more, as his close-cropped hair was brushed with gray.

Big Jim dressed well. His linen was immaculate, clothes well pressed and boots shining. A big diamond glistened on a finger of his left hand, while another decorated his necktie. Except for his range clothes, he might be mistaken for a heavy-weight politician.

And it would not be a very great mistake, at that. While he did not come out openly in the political field, it was well known that Big Jim Mott’s hand was one of the few that stirred the political pot of the state.

He had never aspired to office; but was content to sit back and help pull the strings.

The bartender handed out a box of expensive cigars and Big Jim scooped out a handful. He carelessly tossed a bill on to the bar and turned away without asking for his change. Old Rory McPherson had cashed in his chips and was leaving the game, when he looked up and saw Big Jim looking at him.

Big Jim calmly bit the end off a cigar and lighted a match, ignoring the tall Scot who stared at him malevolently. Dick, Biddy and the sheriff grinned in anticipation of the coming clash.

“The coyotes ar-re not all holed up yet, I obser-r-rve,” said old Rory distinctly.

Big Jim glanced at him indifferently, but the insult was too direct to ignore completely.

“Were you speaking to me?” he asked.

“Not to ye,” said old Rory. “If I did, I would expect ye to bark or howl.”

Big Jim’s brows drew down over his eyes and the cigar was crushed under the pressure of his big fingers. There was a vast difference in their ages, and he could hardly expect to fight a man of Rory’s age.

“You appear to be hunting trouble, McPherson,” he said.

“Ye are a man of discernment, Mott.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Am I now? Since when did ye refuse to fight a drunken man?”

Big Jim turned and spoke to the sheriff—

“What would you do in a case of this kind, Lohman?”

Lohman laughed and shook his head.

“My opinion would be worth very little, I reckon.”

“The man must be advised,” said Rory, looking around the room. “Is there no one to tell him what to do?”

“You are a drunken old fool,” said Big Jim slowly. “If you were twenty years younger I’d twist your neck; but you are an old man, and your age saves you.”

“A drunken old fool, am I?”

Old Rory’s jaw shut tightly and he came toward Big Jim.

The old Scot did not move like an old man. He moved lightly on the balls of his feet, his shoulders hunched slightly. Big Jim looked at him queerly and stepped back, instinctively throwing up his hands in self-defense.

“Too old, am I?” queried the old man between his clenched teeth.

“Stop it, Rory!” ordered the sheriff. “You can’t fight here. Have a little sense, can’tcha?”

“Let him go,” whispered Biddy. “This is a good chance to show the old man that he ain’t what he used to be.”

The sheriff had started to step in between them, but now he stopped. The old man was still coming on, his half-shut eyes watching cat-like. Big Jim backed almost to the bar, when the old man sprang forward. It seemed ridiculous for a man of Rory’s age to pit himself against a man of Big Jim’s size, but that was just what he was doing.

And his first blow splatted against Big Jim’s temple, doing little harm, but showing that old Rory had not lost all his skill. Twice more he lashed at Big Jim’s head, but the blows only struck the big man’s forearms. At that, they must have carried a sting because Big Jim immediately went on the aggressive.

Twice he struck at old Rory; straight-arm punches that were aimed to punish, but the old man snapped aside instead of hurting his arms by blocking the blows. It seemed to surprise Big Jim, who rushed at old Rory, trying to grasp him. But the grasping was not good, and Big Jim suffered a smash on the nose that brought the claret in a stream.

“What did you say about lettin’ the old man find out that he wasn’t much good?” grunted the amazed sheriff.

Some one flung the table and chairs aside to give more room, and Big Jim proceeded to rush old Rory across the room, trying to pin him against the wall; but the old man sent in a flurry of punches and managed to sidestep the rush.

No one seemed to want to stop the fight now—except Big Jim. His face was gory and his mouth was wide open, as he panted for breath. He was not whipped—not by any manner of means; but his wind was not good, and this old, red-whiskered —— was hard to catch.

“Ye ar-r-re doin’ very well consider-r-rin’,” said Rory, “but ye would not have it so easy, if ye were not fightin’ a dr-r-runken old fool.”

The old man was breathing heavily, but was yet unmarked and there was a grin of joy on his thin lips. Big Jim threw all caution to the wind and rushed. He knew that this fight must be finished quickly or he would be disgraced forever. His big fists smashed awkwardly at the retreating face, and he slipped from the effort, throwing himself off balance.

It was old Rory’s big chance. Whether or not he was ready to strike the blow anyway is a question, but his swing had started as Big Jim slipped and the clenched fist caught Big Jim flush in the ear, knocking him sidewise, where he collided with a chair and went down heavily.

For a moment there was silence. Then the sheriff spoke—

“He’s sure as —— gettin’ old and decrepit.”

Willing hands were helping Big Jim to his feet, but there was no fight left in him. The blow had upset him, and his fall over the chair had dazed him badly. Old Rory had stepped back, his mop of red hair hanging over his brow like the mane of an old lion.

“Weel,” he said huskily, “that brought a cer-r-rtain amount of satisfaction. I may be dr-r-runk and a fool; but I’ll na admeet that I’m old. At seexty, a McPherson is in his pr-rime. Biddy if ye please, lad; we’ll go home noo.”

And Big Jim Mott leaned dazedly against the bar and watched the three men from Rainbow Valley file out of the place. The last to go out was old Rory. He stopped in the doorway and looked back at Jim Mott; looked at him long and steadily before turning and disappearing through the doorway.

“It was an accident, Mr. Mott,” said the bartender sympathetically, “that chair——”

“Give me a drink!” snorted Mott, whirling around, still holding to his swollen ear where old Rory’s last punch had landed.

“Well, by ——!” snorted one of the men, “I don’t know yet how it was done. Why, old Rory is old, I tell yuh.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Big Jim painfully, “I didn’t want to hurt him.”

“Sure yuh didn’t,” agreed another. “A feller can’t get a reputation for fightin’ old men.”

“Not his kind,” said the sheriff meaningly. “I’ll put my money on the old man every time.”

Big Jim shot an angry glance at the sheriff, but turned back to his drink. It was a humiliating thing to happen to a man of his standing in the community; a man of his physical size—to be whipped by a man old enough to be his father. He had always hated old Rory McPherson. The old hard-faced Scot and his wild riding crew of punchers had never shown any respect for the man who practically owned and controlled the Antelope country. They gave no allegiance to any one.

Rainbow Valley was always in the “doubtful” column in the politics of the county, where the vote was so small that even one cattle outfit might turn defeat into victory.

The valley was about five miles long by three miles wide, surrounded on two sides by rolling hills, which swept back to the main divide of the Wild Horse mountains. At the northwest end of the valley was a low divide, leading into the Frogpond Basin, a big sheep country. The lower, or southeast, end of the valley opened out onto the flat reaches of the Antelope.

It was about seven miles from the entrance of the valley to the town of Antelope, and Jim Mott’s ranch, the Dice brand, was located about three miles slightly southwest of the town. The brand consisted of a square, inside of which were five dots. The brand was registered as the Box-Five-Dot; but it was generally known as the Dice brand.

The XO-Bar-5, which had also been acquired by Big Jim, was located about four miles North of Antelope. Marvin Crane had been known as the owner of the XO-Bar-5 for several years, and it was not generally known that Big Jim was the owner.

Big Jim finished his drink and then attended to his swollen nose, with the aid of the bartender. The bleeding had stopped, and in a few minutes, barring a slight discoloration, the olfactory organ was as good as ever.

He went down the street to the bank and entered. It was not often that Big Jim came to the bank, although he had a desk in one of the private rooms. He nodded shortly to Frank Eddy, the cashier, who followed him into the private room. Big Jim sat down heavily and lighted a cigar, while Eddy remained standing, waiting for Big Jim to talk.

“Old Rory McPherson wasn’t here today, was he?” asked Big Jim.

“No, sir. But two of his men, Clarey and Toole, were in here a while ago.”

“Did they talk to Miss Marsh?”

“Yes. They were only here a few minutes, but talked to her all the time.”

Big Jim smoked thoughtfully for a while.

“You said something a month ago about Jevne, didn’t you?”

Eddy nodded quickly.

“Yes, I did, Mr. Mott. I told you that I did not like Jevne. He is capable and all that, but I do not like his personality.”

“How is Miss Marsh?” asked Big Jim. “Is she capable?”

“She is doing well,” admitted Eddy. “The work is new to her, of course, but——”

“Give her Jevne’s job.”

“Jevne’s job?” The cashier exploded his astonishment.

“Yes. Fire Jevne. Give him a month’s pay and let him go. Then put Miss Marsh in his place.”

“But she is not capable of doing an assistant cashier’s work, Mr. Mott.”

“You are capable of teaching her—or I can find men who will.”

Eddy nodded slowly. He knew there was no use arguing with Big Jim Mott.

“It will be rather new,” said Eddy slowly. “But I suppose she will be able to do the work. How soon shall I notify her?”

“Send her in here, Eddy.”

“Yes, sir.”

In a few moments Della Marsh came in, wondering what Big Jim Mott could wish of her. He held out his hand and she smiled shyly as their hands met.

“Did you see your uncle today?” asked Big Jim.

“No, I did not, Mr. Mott.”

“I see. Do you like your work here, Miss Marsh?”

“Why, yes.”

“Jevne is leaving today,” said Big Jim slowly, looking at her intently.

She looked at him inquiringly and he continued—

“You will take his job, Miss Marsh.”

“I—you mean that I am to take Mr. Jevne’s position?”

“As assistant cashier, Miss Marsh. You are entirely capable, and Mr. Eddy will teach you what you don’t already know. No, don’t thank me.”

“Well, I do not know what to say,” said Della a trifle nervously. “It is quite a jump from trimming hats to——”

“I believe in wide jumps,” laughed Big Jim. “You will be able to do the work, Della. You don’t mind if I call you Della, do you? I’ve known you by that name for a long time, and Miss Marsh is too much like talking to a stranger. You may call me Jim, if you care to.”

“No, I—I don’t think I would mind,” she stammered. “But I don’t think I could ever call you anything except Mr. Mott. You do not seem like a man who could be called by his given name.”

Big Jim laughed at her and held out his hand:

“You may change your mind, Della. I congratulate you on your new job. That is all for today.”

He followed her out into the bank, where he turned her over to the cashier, and went out to his horse. He caressed his sore ear as he squinted off across the hills toward Rainbow Valley.

“You dirty old Scotch pup!” he muttered half-aloud. “I’ll break you, if it’s the last thing I ever do.”

He yanked his horse around savagely and rode out of town at a gallop.

And while Big Jim rode toward home, with a heart filled with rage and bitterness, old Rory and his two cowboys headed back into Rainbow Valley, where the lowering sun threw the purple shadows of the high hills across their road. Cattle moved lazily along the cottonwood-bordered streams, or straggled off the hills, heading down into the valley, looking curiously at the three riders as they passed.

And most of them wore the brand of Rory McPherson—the RMP—which caused many to refer to Rory’s outfit as the Royal Mounted Police. He was not as rich in stock as was Big Jim, but the RMP had the better range.

There had been little conversation on the return trip. Old Rory rode silently, his eyes half-shut against the glare of the sun. Dick and Biddy said nothing, although they exulted inwardly over the outcome of the fight. It would be worth the telling.

“Big Jim owns the XO-Bar-5, I hear,” said Biddy, as they passed the road leading to that ranch.

Old Rory nodded slowly, his shoulders drooping a trifle more.

“Aye, he does that, Biddy. He owned it at the time they sent poor Tex to prison. Did ye hear any more news of Tex in town?”

“Not a word,” said Dick. “If they’d ’a’ caught him, some one would have heard it.”

“I’d sure like to hear Tex tell what happened,” said Dick. “The papers said that Tex hit the warden when the warden’s hands were up; but that’s a —— lie. Tex wouldn’t do that to save his own life. I dunno why they always have to lie about a thing like that.”

“I don’t know,” said old Rory sadly. “There’s always more lies than truth in the wor-r-rld. Ye know how I felt toward Tex. He was like me own son. They took him away, so they did. I hoped that Tex and Della would marry—and they would. They would get Rainbow Valley. Della is all I have in the wor-r-rld of me own flesh and blood—and I haven’t her now.”

Biddy squinted sidewise at the old man’s face. There was none of the “Fighting McPherson” about him now. He was an old, old man, with tired eyes; eyes that might have been moist from staring into the sunlight.

“I reckon it’s fate,” said Biddy softly.

The old man with the tired eyes faded, and in their place came the tensed expression, the thin line of set lips, the jutting, red-bearded jaw. He looked at Biddy thoughtfully for a moment, then turned and looked straight ahead as he spurred his horse savagely.

“Fate, ——!” he snorted.

And while both factions were heading home, Della Marsh, the new assistant cashier of the Antelope bank, sat down on the porch of the little milliner’s home and tried to puzzle it all out. In her hands was a belated letter, from the State Pardon Board, which she had just finished reading. It said, in part:

Your petition, signed by a sufficient number of names, for the release of Tex Rowland from our penal institution, is herewith returned. Owing to his escape a short time ago, no official action was taken by us.

The little milliner came down the path and turned in at the gate. Della handed her the letter, which she read slowly and gave back.

“And they wouldn’t never pardon him now, if he is caught,” she said sadly. “You worked so hard to get all those names, Della. Why, even Big Jim Mott signed it, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s just like a man to escape when he is almost ready to walk out free.”

“But Tex didn’t know it, Miss Freeland.”

“No, I suppose not, Della; but he might have stayed a while longer. I never trust a man—not any man. Did you see your uncle?”

“No, he didn’t come over to the bank.”

“He came to see me and I told him where to find you.”

“What did he say, Miss Freeland?”

“I’d not repeat it.”

Della laughed softly, in spite of the fact that laughter was far from her at that moment.

“I have been promoted to assistant cashier of the bank,” she stated.

“You have? To assistant cashier? Wasn’t Mr. Jevne the——”

“Yes. Mr. Mott gave me Mr. Jevne’s position. They let him go.”

“Well, that’s nice,” said Miss Freeland, but a trifle dubiously. “You—well, I’d hate to have so much responsibility. You’ll have to deal with men all the time, and I wouldn’t like that. Let’s get supper, Della. I bought some canned fish for supper. I didn’t know whether you liked it or not; but I felt just like a fish.”

A smile chased across Della’s lips, but she did not reply, as she got to her feet and followed the little milliner into the house.

IV

Paint Pablo was not a pleasant sort of a gentleman. In fact, it is stretching the imagination considerably even to speak of him as a gentleman. It is also doubtful whether Pablo ever laid any claims to the appellation.

He was about five feet five inches in height, fairly wide of girth for such a short person, and with an evil, pock-marked face. His little brown eyes were close together, his nose little more than a blob of flesh, his mouth crooked and badly in need of a dentist.

Still, he thought well of Mr. Pablo. He had a passion for pinto horses. His four cowboys, “Tucson Charley,” Mose Dickey, “Pokey” Speed—who had been christened Polk—and Mike John all rode painted ponies.

Tucson Charley’s mother had been a Piute, his father, a Spaniard. Mose Dickey’s paternal ancestors were unknown to him. Pokey boasted Irish and Mexican blood, while Mike John’s blood was a mixture of Yaqui and Basque.

It was an aggregation to be proud of, and Paint Pablo was proud of them. So variegated was everything about the ranch that it was commonly known as the “Paint Pot.” It was located across the Antelope range from the mouth of Rainbow Valley, and about ten miles in a straight line northeast from the town of Antelope.

That Paint Pablo was dishonest, there was no doubt in the minds of Antelope and Rainbow Valley folks. But he had never been caught. If there was a hold-up within miles of that country, Pablo and his crew were under suspicion. But Pablo did not mind. He went along in his own dumb way, caring little what any one thought about him.

His ranch house was a huddle of unpainted shacks in a grove of cottonwoods, sitting high enough on the hill to overlook much of the country. Paint Pablo did not build up there for the view.

And it was at this Paint Pot ranch that Bill Smith, erstwhile Tex Rowland, Number 1733, made his first stop on his return to Antelope. He rode in on a jaded gray horse, cheap saddle and a bridle that was little more than a leather thong.

He had managed to scrape together an outfit of cowboy raiment, belt, gun and a small stock of ammunition. Pablo was sitting in the shade of a cottonwood, putting a hondo on his rope, when Bill Smith rode in and dismounted.

He had known Pablo for years, and felt that Pablo would recognize him, if such a thing was possible. But there was no sign of recognition in his little eyes; only suspicion of this handsome cowpuncher. Pablo was no conversationalist. He grunted softly and continued to work on his rope.

Bill Smith grinned and rolled a cigaret.

“What outfit is this?” he asked.

Pablo grunted, spat thoughtfully, and drew the lightning sign in the dust with his forefinger.

“Lightnin’, eh?” queried Bill.

“Um-m.”

“You know Rory McPherson?”

“—— right.”

“You know Big Jim Mott?”

Pablo shifted uneasily.

“Um-m.”

“You know Tex Rowland?”

Pablo looked up quickly, a glint of suspicion in his eyes.

“You officer?” he asked.

“Nope. Tex was my friend.”

“Um-m. What you want?”

“Job.”

“You look for Tex?”

“Not so you’d notice it. I need a job, and I was just wonderin’ if McPherson could put me to work.”

Pablo squinted closely at him.

“You been sick? You pretty —— white skin.”

“Yeah, I been sick,” grinned Bill Smith, “Almost died.”

“Too bad. I was sick once. Wood alcohol! —— near die, too.”

“What about that job?” asked Bill.

Pablo shook his head and went to work on his rope.

“No job here,” he declared, “I got too much help. Mebbe Jim Mott give you job; mebbe McPherson give you job—I dunno.”

“Got a horse yuh want to trade?”

Pablo took a quick glance at the skinny gray and shook his head. He was not interested in anything but painted horses. Bill Smith threw away his cigaret, told Pablo good-by and rode on toward Antelope.

He was satisfied now that no one would recognize him. If he escaped the keen eyes of Pablo, there was little chance of any one discovering that Tex Rowland was back of that handsome face. It was going to be difficult for him to pose as a stranger in a place where he knew every one. He was beginning to get used to his new face and name. It would be like coming back from the grave to hear himself discussed, and he felt sure that he would soon know what folks thought about him.

He rode into Antelope and tied his horse to a hitch-rack. It did not seem to him that he had ever been away from the old town. Old Ase Bradley, who owned a general store, was sitting on the same old bench in front of the store, chewing tobacco and arguing politics with a couple of old cronies.

Pete Sutherland, the blacksmith, was swearing audibly at a broncho that wouldn’t stand still. Pete always swore at them, whether they stood still or not. It was a habit with him. A girl was coming out of the bank, and Bill Smith stood silently watching her.

It was Della Marsh, coming straight toward him; Della Marsh, the girl he was to have married. He stared at her hungrily. It was the supreme test of his disguise. She glanced at him without recognition and passed on into a restaurant. Bill Smith sighed deeply and walked slowly on. For the first time since his recovery he realized that even Della would not know him.

And that moment he realized that he was a stranger to everybody—everywhere. He was the only living person who knew who he was. The gods of fate had created a full grown human being; created a creature which had no past.

“My ——!” exclaimed Bill Smith to himself, “I dunno whether I’m winner in this game or not. I can’t claim relationship with anybody on earth. I was born in a train wreck, where a lot of folks died—and among them was Tex Rowland. I’m just a ghost, tha’sall.”

No one spoke to him in the Fashion Saloon. There were men he had known intimately for years; men who were his friends. They looked at him and saw only the good-looking puncher, a trifle run down as to raiment, a stranger to Antelope.

Big Jim Mott was there, playing poker. He glanced at the stranger and went on with his game. Bill Smith bought himself a drink. It was the first one he had drunk since his arrest. He questioned the bartender about the cattle ranches, intimating that he was looking for a job. The bartender advised him to see Big Jim. Bill Smith grinned to himself. It seemed ridiculous for the bartender not to know him.

Marvin Crane was also in the poker game. He was a thin-faced, swarthy-complectioned, middle-aged man, who was continually blinking his eyes. It was Crane who had sworn to the complaint charging Tex Rowland with the theft of six XO-Bar-5 horses.

Some one had corralled the horses in an old pole-corral in a coulée, several miles from the XO-Bar-5 ranch-house, and with the six XO-Bar-5 horses was a RMP mare which Tex had been looking for.

Tex had dismounted and was inside the corral, rope in hand, when Crane and “Slim” Whelan, his cowpuncher, rode up. Tex had noticed that the animals were covered with sweat and were weary from a long run; but gave it no thought.

He was also unaware that just outside the little corral were the preparations for a branding-fire, which had been recently put together. There was also the rod from the end-gate of a wagon, which, in all probability, was to be used as a running-iron to change the brands.

In range parlance—Tex was caught with the goods. Crane and Whelan covered him with their guns, disarmed Tex and took him to the sheriff. There had been too much horse-stealing in the Antelope country for the law to deal lightly; so Tex had been convicted.

Bill Smith, erstwhile Tex, loafed around the saloon until the poker game broke up, and then approached Big Jim Mott. Luck had smiled upon Big Jim and his grin was expansive.

“Want a job, eh?” he asked jovially. “What can you do?”

“Anythin’ from wranglin’ broncs to runnin’ the ranch,” replied Bill Smith.

“Well, you’re not a bit modest,” laughed Big Jim. “Where are you from and what is your name?”

“Are you hirin’ pedigrees or punchers?” asked Bill.

Big Jim laughed and turned to Crane—

“You can use another man, can’t you, Crane?”

“I might.” Crane was not enthusiastic.

“I’m filled up at my ranch,” explained Big Jim. “Got more punchers than I know what to do with; so I’ll let Crane have you. He needs another man. Got a horse?”

“I’ve got somethin’ with four legs and a tail,” grinned Bill. “It ain’t a bronc.”

They walked outside and he pointed out his gray at the hitch-rack across the street. Big Jim laughed and went toward the bank, while Bill Smith and Crane crossed to the rack and got their horses.

Crane was not strong on conversation, and Bill wondered why Big Jim had hired him to work on the XO-Bar-5. He did not know that Big Jim owned that outfit, but he was beginning to think so.

“Does the big feller own your ranch?” he asked.

Crane nodded jerkily.

“Yeah. That’s Big Jim Mott. Didn’t yuh ever hear of him?”

“What did he ever do?”

“Oh, ——! I dunno. He owns most of this country.”

“Got lots of money?”

“Yeah. Owns the bank in Antelope and helps run the State.”

“Looks like a fighter.”

Crane laughed grimly, but did not express any opinion. He had heard of Big Jim’s fight with old Rory McPherson.

“I came in from that direction,” said Bill, pointing northeast, “and I ran into the Lightnin’-brand ranch. Had a talk with the jeezer that owns it. That is, I tried to have a talk with him. He sure is short on conversation.”

“That was Paint Pablo,” said Crane. “—— Injun!”

“He ain’t very ornamental, that’s a cinch,” grinned Bill.

“No, and yuh don’t want to trust him too far, either. Say, I don’t even know your name.”

“William H. Smith.”

Crane spat dryly and nodded.

“Bill Smith, eh? You don’t look like none of the Smith family I’ve ever seen. Where yuh been workin’, Smith?”

“You don’t expect me to answer that, do yuh?”

Crane grinned and bit a corner off his plug of tobacco.

“All right. If anybody asks me, I’ll say yuh hails from Oklahoma, or from some other seaport. Yuh look honest.”

“Since when did cow-ranches require a puncher to look honest, Crane?”

“All right, all right, Smith. You ain’t no mail-order puncher, that’s a cinch. You’ll bunk with Slim Whelan. He’s a forked gent, with a salty disposition, and kinda addicted to solitaire. I hate two-handed games; so I don’t play with Slim. Mebbe he’ll take exceptions to your looks; but I reckon yuh can take care of William H. Smith.”

“I’ve raised him ever since he was born,” grinned Bill.

“And that wasn’t yesterday,” agreed Crane warmly.

“Nope—it was several weeks ago.”

“I betcha.”

Slim Whelan met them at the gate, which sagged on its hinges so badly that Slim fairly had to carry it open. He squinted at the newcomer and waited for Crane to introduce him.

“I used t’ know a Smith,” he said innocently, “and I wonder if you’re related to him.”

“He was my brother,” said Bill seriously. “Kind of a queer sort of a jigger, with two legs, two arms and a head on top of his neck.”

“By ——, that’s him!” exclaimed Slim. “You shore described him in a few words. And I’ll bet yo’re jist like the cowboy in the story-book—you love your horse.”

Bill looked at the weary-legged gray and nodded slowly—

“Yeah, I think so much of that animal that I wouldn’t even try to sell him.”

“And that saddle, too!” said Slim, “Didja win that at a rodeo?”

“That,” said Bill seriously, “that was the saddle that George Washington used when he crossed the Delaware. It’s a heirloom.”

Crane laughed loudly and slapped Slim on the back.

“I’ll match him agin’ yuh any old time, Slim. Bill H. Smith ain’t no pandowdy puncher. He’s hired to help yuh run the legs off our cows; sabe? Be good to him—cause I want yuh to keep your health, Slim.”

“My ——, yuh talk like I wasn’t kind to everybody!”

Slim seemed aggrieved to think that Crane would even question his sweet disposition.

“I never seen yuh bitin’ the legs off yaller-jackets nor ticklin’ the teeth of a rattler—if that’s what yuh mean, Slim. You show Smith where to lean his horse, will yuh? I’ll give yuh some blankets for that other bunk, and Smith can fill the tick with fresh straw.”

Crane went to the ranch-house, while Slim led Bill down to the stable and pointed out an empty stall. As they came outside Slim squinted at Bill and said:

“Dog-gone it, yore voice reminds me of somebody I’ve heard talkin’. I dunno who it was, but it’s familiar.”

“Prob’ly that other Smith you knowed, Slim.”

Slim looked at him quizzically and laughed shortly—

“Yeah, I reckon that’s who it was. Do they all talk alike?”

“All I ever knowed, except one, Slim.”

“How’d he talk?”

“Through his nose.”

Slim’s face was very serious as he digested this mentally.

“Well, there’s exceptions to all cases, I reckon. I’ll show yuh where to fill that straw-tick. I’m glad yuh come to work here, Smith. We sure need another man here.”

“Plenty of work, eh?” queried Bill Smith.

“No-o-o, not much work. But we’ve got twenty hens that are layin’ every day, and the —— aigs are spoilin’ on us.”

It was near closing time at the bank on the following day. Della’s head was aching from trying to absorb knowledge of the banking business, and she was almost ready to slam down the top of her desk and run away into the hills. It was all so complicated, and Eddy had tried to teach her the whole system in one day. Consequently her mind was awhirl.

Big Jim came in and leaned on her desk, puffing away at his cigar, a grin on his lips.

“Learning the game, Della?” he asked.

“Oh, I don’t know what I’ve learned,” she said nervously. “It is all Greek to me yet. I don’t think I’ll ever understand what it is all about.”

“I don’t understand it,” he laughed. “Too much for me.”

“Why did you give me this position?” she asked.

Big Jim laughed and squinted at his cigar thoughtfully.

“Well, I thought you needed a good job, and,” he lowered his voice and leaned closer, “I wanted to have you around, Della.”

“Wanted to have me around?” Wonderingly.

“Sure. I wanted to have the prettiest girl in the State working for me. You are pretty, Della.”

She looked down at her desk and began arranging papers. It was clear to her now that Big Jim Mott did not hire her because of her ability. She knew that he was looking down at her, but she did not look up.

“I suppose those papers were not sufficiently shuffled,” he laughed softly. “You’ve got pretty hair, Della.”

Still she did not look up; so he laughed and went back to his private room. Eddy, the cashier, was locking the vault, and now he came up to her.

“Closing time, Miss Marsh,” he said pleasantly. “You may go now. I suppose it has been a hard day.”

“Rather a confusing day,” she said wearily, as she put on her hat. “I shall dream of banking terms, I suppose.”

“I have,” he confessed. “But later on it will be all in a day’s work.”

She went out and he locked the door behind her. A man was coming down the sidewalk toward her, and she recognized him as the one they called Tucson Charley. She merely gave him a glance as she started across the street. He was more Indian than white in looks and garb.

As she reached the sidewalk and started up the street, she happened to glance back and saw that Tucson Charley was following her. Perhaps, she thought, he was merely coming up to one of the stores. But he turned down a side path, following her straight to the home of the little milliner.

Della was not afraid of him, but she was curious to know why he was following her. On the steps of the little house she stopped and waited for him to come up. He glanced around, as if wondering if any one was watching him, before coming up to her.

“What do you want?” she asked.

He dug inside his dirty shirt and brought out a begrimed envelope, which he passed to her. There was no name on the envelope. She looked at it curiously, noting that it was sealed.

“What is it?” she asked.

“You open,” he said shortly.

Wonderingly she tore one end off the envelope and drew out a folded piece of paper. The writing on it had been done with a soft lead-pencil and was barely legible. Quickly she glanced at the signature on it and gave a gasp of surprise. It was signed—

Tex.

“Where did you get this?” she asked hoarsely.

Tucson Charley shook his head and looked blankly.

She stared at him for several moments then read the note,

Dell I want to see you but I’m afraid to show myself. I have been hurt but am able to travel again. I need money to get me out of the country and don’t know where I can get it. I need about $500. Don’t tell anybody about this because the officers are close on my trail. You can trust the man who brings this. Just sign your name on this so I will know you got it. You will hear from me again.

Tex.

She crushed the letter in her hands. Never for a moment did she question the authorship of the note. She had never seen any of Tex Rowland’s writing. But she did know that Tex Rowland, the man she loved, was hiding away in that country, recovering from injuries, and badly in need of money.

“Where is he?” she asked hoarsely.

Tucson Charley shook his head. Either he did not know, or would not say.

She read it through again before taking a pencil from her little bag. He had only asked her to write her name, but above the name she wrote:

Tex, I love you in spite of everything.

Quickly she put the message into the envelope, gave it back to the half-breed and watched him walk back toward the main street. She wanted to follow him and ask more questions about Tex; but she knew that Tucson Charley would not talk. She knew that Tucson Charley worked for Pablo, at the Paint Pot ranch, and wondered if Tex were hiding out there.

It was not like Tex to ask her for money. But under the circumstances she was about the only one he could ask for help. Her pocket-book revealed the fact that she had just twelve dollars. It was out of the question for her to get the five hundred dollars for him.

She did not confide in Miss Freeland that night. It would be like trusting the news to a reporter. Miss Freeland’s tongue was of the hinged variety, and no secret was sacred to her. The next morning she went back to the bank, still wondering what she could do to help Tex.

It was difficult for her to get interested in the work. The room seemed hot and stuffy, and her head ached slightly. Some men were talking to the cashier about some accident, and she heard the name of Tucson Charley used several times.

As soon as the men went away she asked the cashier about it.

“One of Pablo’s cowboys,” he said. “They call him Tucson Charley, I think. Anyway, he got drunk last night and his horse kicked him in the head. He likely went out to the hitch-rack and fell into the horse. They found him there this morning.”

“Dead?” she asked breathlessly.

“Yes.”

The cashier went back to his work, while Della slumped back in her chair, her mind awhirl. They would find that letter on Tucson Charley, and it would lead them to Tex Rowland. She knew that Tucson Charley had never delivered that letter to Tex.

It was some time before she could control her nerves sufficiently to ask the cashier more details. But he knew no more than he had told her, except that the body had been turned over to old Paint Pablo for burial.

“Didn’t they notify the sheriff,” she asked, “or the coroner?”

“I don’t think so, Miss Marsh. You see, it was an accident; so there was nothing to interest the law. Doctor Sibley examined him, and they all decided that the horse kicked him.”

“But why don’t they bury him here at the town cemetery?” she asked.

“Nobody wanted to assume the responsibility, I suppose. He has no relatives around here. Some of the boys have taken him out to Pablo’s ranch in a wagon.”

The cashier went to attend to a customer’s wants, and Della made a pretense of working. She felt that there was a bare possibility of no one finding that letter on Tucson Charley. As long as the sheriff or coroner had not been notified, it was hardly likely that any one would search the corpse.

It was nearly noon when Big Jim rode into town and came to the bank. Della was suffering from a severe headache and he noticed that she did not look well.

“You look awful pale,” he told her. “Don’t you feel well?”

“Just a bad headache,” she told him wearily. “The figures get all tangled up in my brain somehow.”

“Say, you sift out of here and go home,” he ordered. “You ain’t in shape to work, Della.”

He walked over and explained it to the cashier, who apologized to Della for not sending her home earlier in the day. She was more than glad to leave the bank. Big Jim went outside with her, offering advice in the cure of headaches.

“You ought to take a ride into the hills,” he said. “You’ve been working too hard. I tell you what to do: You go to the livery stable and tell ’em I said to let you have a good saddle-horse. Pick out the best one there for today, and after this I’ll see that there’s a good horse kept there for you.”

“But I couldn’t do that,” she protested.

“Yes, you can, too. It’s the least I can do for you, Della. If I wasn’t so busy today, I’d ride with you. I’ll try and ride with you once in a while, after today. Now you run along and get that horse. Tell Johnny Harris to put it on my bill. No, don’t tell him anything, Della. You get the horse, and I’ll see Johnny later.”

The temptation was too great for Della. For years she had ridden the hills; riding as wild and free as any cowpuncher, and it had been as much a part of her life as eating and sleeping. She took the horse down to Miss Freeland’s house, where she made a swift change into her riding clothes.

But her clothes were hardly conventional according to riding academy standards. A pair of overalls, light flannel shirt, boots and a sombrero completed the outfit. She owned a .30-30 Winchester carbine, a gift from old Rory McPherson, but decided against taking it with her. On account of its recoil, she had never quite mastered it although she shot fairly well.

At a short distance away she could easily be mistaken for a slim, young cowpuncher, as she rode out of Antelope, heading north into the rolling hills. She was taking the shortest distance to the Paint Pot ranch, and intended to keep away from the road for fear of meeting those who had taken the remains of Tucson Charley to Pablo’s place.

V

The XO-Bar-5 was sort of a rundown place, and Martin Crane seemed to expend little effort in keeping it going. A half-breed woman, Alice Spotted Horse, did the cooking—or what passed for cooking. Alice was very fat, slow of foot and heavy of hand, and expressed every emotion with the same exclamation:

“I be ——!”

“She’s a elocutionist,” declared Slim, after Alice had used up her vocabulary on acknowledging her introduction to Bill Smith.

Alice grinned blandly and repeated herself. Bill praised her cooking and asked her why in —— she ever put flour in her soda-biscuits. They were as yellow as saffron and fairly sizzled with their soda content. Alice thought Bill was praising her cooking and it pleased her mightily.

“You jiggers let Alice alone,” ordered Crane. “She’s all right.”

“But not for cookin’,” declared Slim. “She’s too danged thoughtful.” And then to Bill:

“About six months ago she seen Crane take a spoonful of soda for indigestion. He was sufferin’ quite a lot and it fixed him up fine. Since then she’s dumped soda into everythin’ she cooked. By golly, I stirred my coffee the other mornin’ and it blew up in my face. She’d loaded it with soda, I reckon.”

Crane laughed and called to Alice:

“Never mind what they say, Alice. Yore cookin’ keeps me in shape.”

“I be ——!” said Alice blankly.

“Aw, she appreciates praise all right,” said Slim laughing. “When yuh goin’ to get married, Alice?”

“Huh!” Alice snorted and turned her back.

“She’s got a sweetheart,” grinned Slim, “Tucson Charley. You don’t know Tucson Charley, Smith. He works for Pablo. Him and Annie are goin’ to get married some day. I dunno what she can see in that cock-eyed breed; but love beats ——, don’t it?”

“It sure does,” said Bill Smith slowly. “I reckon a cock-eyed half-breed can love. He sees things different than me and you, Slim; so we hadn’t ought to laugh at him.”

“Aw, I ain’t laughin’ at him,” protested Slim. “I sabe that he thinks Alice is as cute as a hair-trigger on a cannon. I’ve been in love, and I sure appreciate the feelin’, Smith.”

Slim leaned back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling:

“She was a village maiden, Smith. Her eyes were like jet and her hair was like——”

“Oh, for ——’s sake, don’t tell it!” exploded Crane. “You make me itch for a gun every time yuh start it.”

“Does he tell it often?” queried Bill Smith.

“Every time he finds somebody that’ll listen.”

Slim laughed and fumbled for his cigarette-makings.

“I’ll slip it to yuh sometime when Crane ain’t around, Smith. It sure is a dinger of a recitation. Yuh can make it fit any girl.”

Bill Smith nodded seriously and got up from the table.

“You scare that gray bronc into the hills and help yourself to a decent animal,” said Crane, as they went outside. “There’s a tall roan down there that’s broke to everythin’ except a rope and a gun. Yuh might teach him a few things.

“There’s a good saddle down in the bunkhouse, too. That hull you rode in here is liable to fall apart and leave yuh settin’ down. You might as well go with Slim over to the Paint Pot and see Pablo today. Pablo’s got about a hundred white-faced cows, which Big Jim wants, and I’ve got to try and buy ’em cheap. If Pablo knows that Big Jim wants ’em, he’ll jump the price; sabe?”

“All right,” agreed Bill Smith, “but if he don’t talk more than he did yesterday, we’ll never know whether we’ve bought somethin’ or not.”

“He’ll talk to Slim.”

“Yeah, he’ll talk to me,” laughed Slim. “But I’ll betcha we’ll never get a short price on them white-faced cows. Pablo thinks they’re pintos.”

They saddled and rode off across the hills toward the Paint Pot ranch. Bill Smith had taken the tall roan, a half-broken, hammer-headed brute, which wanted to hurdle everything in sight. Slim grinned in appreciation of Bill’s horsemanship.

“That roan made me do a hoolihan,” he confided. “Crane thought he could fork it, and he ate his meals standin’ up for a few days. If he ever starts doin’ his wormfence, you’ll know you’ve been well-mounted; but I reckon you’ve forked ’em before.”

It was about eight miles to the Paint Pot, and by the time they had covered that distance the roan was willing to take its time.

They found Pablo and Mike John sitting against the shady side of the old ranchhouse, hugging their knees. Both of them squinted at the two cowpunchers but did not get up. Mose Dickey came around the corner of the house, halted at sight of Slim and Bill, and leaned heavily against the corner.

Slim squatted on his heels in front of Pablo and rolled a cigarette. He had not spoken; neither had Pablo nor his men. The Indian blood predominated in their actions, and Slim knew them well enough to appreciate this fact. Bill Smith squatted down and offered his tobacco to Pablo, but it was refused.

“Well, what do yuh know, Pablo?” queried Slim, after a long interval of silence.

Pablo spat and rubbed his chin. Then—“Tucson Charley dead.”

“Huh?”

Slim removed his cigaret slowly, wonderingly.

“Deader’n ——!” said Mike John.

“Tucson Charley dead?” grunted Slim.

“—— right!” grunted Pablo nodding violently.

“Pretty —— dead,” observed Mose Dickey without emotion.

“Sounds like a settled fact,” observed Bill Smith.

“What killed Tucson Charley?” asked Slim.

“Horse kick ’m,” said Pablo.

“Men say horse kill ’m,” corrected Mose Dickey.

“Um-m,” said Pablo.

“’Pears to be a difference of opinion, Slim,” observed Bill.

Pablo got to his feet and motioned for them to follow him. They filed into the house where they viewed the remains of Tucson Charley, laid out on a sagging cot, covered with a gaudy blanket.

“He’s dead,” said Pablo softly.

“Deader’n ——!” said Mike John, with finality.

“Where did it happen, Pablo?” asked Slim, as Bill Smith made a close examination of the dead man’s head.

“Antelope.”

Pablo hooked his thumbs over his belt and nodded slowly: “Charley he go town yesterday. Men say he got —— drunk. I guess that right, too. Find ’m this morning by hitch-rack.”

“Pretty —— dead,” added Mose Dickey.

“Got drunk, fell into the bronc and got kicked in the head, eh?” said Slim.

“Men say so,” agreed Pablo.

“His horse?” asked Bill Smith.

“—— right,” nodded Pablo. “Men bring horse, too.”

“Where’s the horse?” asked Bill Smith.

“Jus’ pinto horse,” said Mose Dickey.

“Down by corral.”

He jerked his thumb in that direction.

Slim and Bill walked outside and looked down toward the tumble-down corral, where the pinto horse was still tied to the fence.

“Let’s take a look at it, Slim,” suggested Bill.

Pablo and Mose Dickey followed them down and watched Bill Smith throw his sombrero at the pinto’s heels. The animal jumped ahead, whirled and pulled back, but did not kick. Bill spoke softly to the animal, moved in close and soothed it. After working around it for a while he was able to examine its hoofs.

“That’s a pretty good horse, Pablo,” said Bill after he had finished his examination.

Pablo grinned and nodded quickly. There were four more pinto horses inside the corral and Bill looked them over.

“You like pinto horses?” asked Pablo.

“Yeah, I like ’em—in a circus,” replied Bill seriously.

“I sell you good one—mebbe,” said Pablo.

“Mebbe,” grinned Bill.

They went back to the house and squatted in the shade, but this time Pablo accepted Bill Smith’s tobacco.

“You got plenty white-faced cows, Pablo,” said Slim. “Market bad now. Meat not much good, skin small price. How much you want for white-faced cows?”

Pablo thought this over for quite a while, alternately squinting at Slim and looking down at the ground. Then, his decision: “No trade now. Too sad, you sabe? Gotta bury Tucson Charley.”

“Sure,” agreed Slim. “We talk ’nother time, eh?”

“Um-m.”

“Goin’ to have a preacher, ain’t yuh?” asked Bill Smith.

“What for preacher?” queried Pablo blankly.

“They don’t sabe that,” said Slim before Bill had a chance to explain. “Let’s go home before they wish a shovel on to us.”

They got on their horses and rode away, without even saying good-by to the Paint Pot outfit.

“No use talkin’ business to ’em,” stated Slim. “They’re all in mournin’ now, don’tcha know it? I sabe ’em, Smith. They don’t act a danged bit mournful but, I’ll tell yuh right now, they feel bad. Mebbe they’re just a tough bunch of hombres, but they’ve been together a long time and this hits ’em hard. Tucson Charley wasn’t worth the rope it would take to hang him; but right now they all think he was the finest jigger that ever lifted a cow-critter.”

They swung out through a coulée, cutting across a hog-back ridge, when Slim drew up his horse and looked back. A rider was swinging in toward the ranch, coming from the south. The rider was only about five hundred yards away, traveling slowly.

“By golly, I’ll betcha that’s Della Marsh!” exclaimed Slim, and then turned to explain who Della Marsh was.

“That horse belongs to the livery-stable in Antelope,” declared Slim, “and Della Marsh works for the bank down there. Now, what in —— is she doin’ at the Paint Pot?”

“We better go back there and find out, eh?” suggested Bill Smith. “That’s no place for a girl, Slim.”

“We’ll sure do that little thing—and it ain’t. C’mon.”

They turned and rode back in a hurry. The girl had dismounted and was talking to Pablo. She looked curiously at them, as they rode up and swung off their horses. Their coming had put her in an embarrassing position, and even Pablo grinned sourly at them.

“We seen yuh comin’, Della,” said Slim, “and I wanted yuh to meet my friend Smith.”

They looked at each other for several moments and Della held out her hand to Bill Smith.

“I am glad to meet you,” she said softly, as their hands met.

Bill Smith mumbled something. He hardly knew what he was saying, because it seemed so ridiculous to be introduced to a girl he had known for years. Unconsciously he squeezed her hand and she drew away from him.

“How come you ride away out here, Della?” asked Slim.

“Why—” she brushed a lock of hair away from her eyes and smiled at him—“I don’t know. It just happened, I suppose.”

“She want see Tucson Charley,” offered Pablo blandly. “She know he dead.”

“Yes, I heard he had been killed,” said Della quickly.

“She want look in his pocket,” stated Mose Dickey.

“Huh?” Slim was interested.

Della flushed for a moment, but her cheeks grew pale. She did not want to tell Slim and this stranger what she expected to find in Tucson Charley’s pockets.

“Look in his pocket?” muttered Slim wonderingly. “What for?”

“She no say,” Pablo shook his head.

Slim turned to Della—

“Has Tucson Charley got somethin’ in his pocket that yuh want?”

“I——”

She hesitated for a moment. She could hardly tell it all to Slim Whelan, because Slim was one of the men who had sent Tex to the penitentiary. Still, she had known Slim for years, and liked him.

“I don’t know,” she finished truthfully.

“Well, by golly, we’ll sure find out!” blurted Slim and went into the house.

Pablo acted as if he might object to this, but let it pass. He knew that Slim would not take kindly to objections.

Della made no move to follow Slim; so Bill Smith stayed with her. Pablo went to the doorway and watched inside, while Slim made a search of the corpse.

“You work in the bank, Miss Marsh?” asked Bill.

“Yes,” nervously watching the doorway.

“Bank belongs to Mott, don’t it?”

She nodded shortly. Slim was coming out, rubbing his hands on his hips. The job had not been to his liking.

“Ain’t got a thing in his pockets, Della,” he declared, “I even felt inside his shirt-front, and I’m plumb glad that my folks never raised me to be an undertaker.”

“Nothing in his pockets.”

Della squinted painfully. It meant that some one had that note. She looked at the blank expression on Pablo’s face, wondering whether or not he knew about Tex. She felt that Tucson Charley would hardly know it alone.

“You better set down on the steps, Della,” urged Slim. “You look so dog-gone white around the gills.”

“I’m all right,” she protested, “I—I think I will go now.”

She turned to her horse and Slim helped her mount.

“We’ll ride down the road a ways with yuh, Della,” said Slim. “We’re goin’ in that direction.”

She rode slowly away and they overtook her in a short distance.

“You hadn’t ought to come out here alone, Della,” said Slim. “Pablo and his gang may be all right, but it ain’t no place for a girl to come alone.”

Della nodded, but did not reply. Slim lifted himself in his stirrups and glanced back toward the Paint Pot as he swung his horse in closer to her.

“Listen here, Dell,” he said softly, “you can trust me and Smith. Tell us what Tucson Charley had that you wanted, and we’ll get it just as sure as —— made little apples.”

“You couldn’t, Slim,” she replied. “Whoever has it will keep it, I think.”

“Not if I know what it is,” declared Slim. “Tell us what to look for, Della.”

Della stared at the bobbing ears of her horse and tried to make up her mind what to say. Some one had that note. It would be no secret now, unless it fell into the hands of some one who was a friend of Tex Rowland. Perhaps, she thought, that note was already on its way to the sheriff. There was a big reward offered for Tex, payable on information that would lead to his recapture.

She knew that Slim had not helped to send Tex to the prison on any personal grievance. They had been friends for a long time, and Slim was only doing what any other cattleman would have done.

“Yuh goin’ to tell us?” queried Slim.

“I think I will, Slim,” she said slowly. “Tucson Charley brought me a note yesterday. I scribbled a line on it and gave it back to him to return to the man who wrote it. I know that Tucson Charley did not return it, and I thought he might still have it in his pockets.”

“I kinda understand,” nodded Slim. “It was a note, eh? Well, who wrote it, Della?”

“Tex Rowland.”

Bill Smith jerked up on his reins so quickly that the half-broke horse reared and whirled off the road. In a moment he had it under control—and himself, too.

“Tex Rowland, eh?” grunted Slim, as Bill swung in beside him again. “Well, I’ll be darned! Tucson brought you a note from him, eh? Tex didn’t say where he was, did he, Della?”

“No, he didn’t say, Slim. But he must be close to Antelope. If the sheriff gets hold of that note he will probably search. Tex said he had been hurt, but was getting along better now. But he is broke and needs money badly.”

“Have yuh any idea who got the note?” asked Bill Smith.

“No. I don’t know who found Tucson Charley this morning. Somebody brought him out here to the Paint Pot. He must have had the note in his pocket when he was killed, because he did not leave town after he came to see me.”

“We’ll see if we can find out a few things in town,” said Slim. “If I can find out who got that note, I’ll sure ride ’em ragged until they give me that note.”

“Let me do some of the ridin’, Slim,” said Bill Smith. “I’m kinda interested in it, too.”

Della shot a glance of gratitude to the stranger, who was willing to assist her, but he was looking straight ahead and did not see it. He was trying to puzzle out a reason for any one writing a note to her and signing his name.

Della went straight to the livery-stable, while Slim and Bill tied their horses at the Fashion hitch-rack and went into the saloon. Big Jim Mott was standing in front of a restaurant across the street and watched them ride into town. After Slim and Bill had gone into the saloon, Big Jim crossed the street and came in behind them.

It did not take Slim long to find out that Tucson Charley had been found at daylight by Pete Sutherland, the blacksmith, and old Ase Bradley. They had notified others, including the doctor, and Pete had driven the team that hauled Tucson’s body out to the Paint Pot.

Slim and Bill had a drink and then went to the blacksmith shop, where they found Pete repairing a broken wagon-spring.

“—— road was rough,” explained Pete wearily. “Broke a spring.”

“Kinda bumpy ridin’ for the corpse, wasn’t it?” grinned Slim.

“Well, he didn’t complain any,” laughed Pete, wiping the perspiration off his brow and sitting on his anvil.

“You found him, didn’t yuh?” queried Slim.

“Yeah—me and old Ase. He was almost under that pinto, and it’s a wonder that the pinto didn’t walk him into the ground.”

“Yeah, it is, at that,” agreed Slim. “But he wasn’t cut up any. What do yuh do, when yuh find a dead man, Pete? Go through his pockets and all that?”

“Well, we didn’t,” grinned Pete. “Yuh see, we knowed Tucson so well that we didn’t have to investigate him thataway.”

“I suppose the doctor investigated,” said Bill.

“Nothin’ except to look him over and tell us what we already knew. If Tucson carried any cree-den-shuls in his pockets, they’re still in ’em—unless Pablo or his gang cleaned him out.”

“They look like they might,” laughed Bill.

They went back to their horses, no wiser than when they came to town. It was evident that no one had searched Tucson Charley, unless, as Pete had said, Pablo or his gang might have done it.

“Which they didn’t,” declared Slim. “Them three breeds ain’t goin’ to do a thing like that. They wouldn’t touch him on a bet. If Tucson had a hundred dollars in his pants pocket, and Pablo knew it was there, it would be buried with the corpse.”

They rode back to the XO-Bar-5, arriving there in time for supper. Crane was already eating his meal, while the half-breed, Alice Spotted Horse, shuffled back and forth from table to stove, attending to his wants.

“How’d the pow-wow come out?” asked Crane, as they sat down.

Alice had stopped and was looking at them. It was then that Slim realized what the news would mean to her. He looked at Bill Smith, who had also realized the same thing. Crane felt that something was not exactly right and waited for Slim to explain.

“This is goin’ to be just too —— bad,” said Slim softly. And then he spoke directly to Alice——

“Alice, I’ve got some bad news for yuh.”

She blinked and stared at him. Perhaps she did not understand what he meant. He was always joking with her.

“Tucson Charley got killed last night, Alice.”

She frowned slightly. Crane also scowled at Slim. He thought that Slim was joking, too; and it wasn’t a good joke at all.

“Got kicked to death by a horse last night, Crane,” said Bill Smith softly.

Alice lifted a hand and brushed a stringer of black hair out of her eyes. She was beginning to realize what Slim had said.

“Tucson Charley?” she asked thickly.

“Yeah, Alice. Horse kicked him last night. Too bad.”

“Last night?” She was not looking at them now. Her eyes had closed tightly for a second, but now she was staring over their heads.

“Yeah, last night,” said Slim.

“Horse kick Tucson Charley? He dead now?”

“Yeah, Alice,” softly.

“I be ——!”

She barely breathed it. Her right hand came up to brush away the stringer of hair again, but stopped and fell back at her side.

“I be ——!”

Then she turned around to the stove and picked up a skillet. The three men looked at each other and then looked away. Alice turned and looked at Bill Smith. In one hand she held the skillet and in the other an egg. She indicated the skillet and made a motion toward it with the egg. She wanted to know if he would like to have eggs for supper. Indians are not the stoics that some would like to believe; and anyway, Alice was half-breed. As Bill Smith watched her pantomime, a tear rolled down her cheek.

Quickly she turned away, but not before they had all seen the tears. Bill got to his feet and stepped away from the table.

“Aw, ——! I don’t want any supper,” he grunted.

“Me neither,” said Slim softly.

Crane got up and the three of them filed outside. Bill glanced back into the kitchen. Alice Spotted Horse was standing at the stove, skillet and egg in her hands, staring into space.

“She didn’t see us go out,” said Bill Smith softly.

“No-o-o, I don’t reckon she did,” agreed Slim. “I seen that squashed aig runnin’ out between her fingers, Bill. Death sure does raise —— with love thataway.”

“And it’s like a —— rattler; it don’t care who it bites,” said Crane sadly. “She’ll go out into the hills pretty soon. The Injun blood is stronger than the white thataway. She’ll wail all night, I betcha; but she’ll go where we can’t hear her.”

“And about that time we’ll swipe the coffee-pot and make us a feed in the bunkhouse,” opined Slim. “The Lord must ’a’ handed me a soft spot for other folks’ grief; but he also handed me a man-sized stummick. How about you, Smith?”

“Well, I don’t want any eggs,” replied Bill. “They’ll always remind me of that Injun girl, tryin’ to keep from cryin’. It took her quite a while to get it; but when she did, she sure got it all in a bunch.”

“She’s goin’ out,” whispered Crane. “I said she would, didn’t I?”

Alice Spotted Horse came out the front door of the house, turned to the right and started off up a trail which led into the hills.

She had thrown a colored blanket around her shoulders and over her head, making her a blotch of color against the gray of the hill. Straight up the trail she went, never looking back. They watched her until the color of the blanket blended into the dim distance of the hills.

“It’s just too danged bad, that’s all,” said Slim, as they turned away. Neither of the others commented on it in any way.

“We saw Della Marsh today, Crane,” continued Slim. “By ——, I feel like a dirty pup every time I see her. We didn’t do anything wrong when we sent Tex Rowland to the pen; but right now I wish to gosh we hadn’t ’a’ done it.”

“Yeah, I suppose we might ’a’ done different,” agreed Crane. “But there was so danged much stealin’ goin’ on.”

“Has it quit since he was sent up?” asked Bill Smith.

“Yeah, I think it has. Still, I dunno. I signed that petition to have Tex pardoned.”

“I sure did,” added Slim quickly.

“Was there a petition to have him pardoned?” queried Bill.

“Sure,” nodded Crane. “Everybody in the country signed it. This Marsh girl rode all over the county gettin’ signers. Every man on his jury signed it. By golly, a woman sure can work on the sympathy of a cowpuncher.”

Bill Smith squinted painfully and busied himself with making a cigaret.

“I don’t sabe why Tex made a getaway like he did,” commented Slim. “It was almost a cinch he’d get out on parole, even if he didn’t get pardoned. Della must a wrote him about it. If she didn’t, I’ll betcha old Rory McPherson did.”

“Mebbe Tex didn’t have no faith left,” offered Crane. “It was a queer move for him to make, anyway, considerin’ what his friends were doin’ for him. If they catch him now, they sure won’t pardon him very quick.”

“Well, let’s not dwell on any more grief tonight,” said Slim, “I’ll get that coffee-pot right now.”

Slim and Crane went into the house, while Bill Smith went slowly down to the bunk-house. He knew now what Old Hump Sherrill had meant when he spoke about a pardon. The old man had known that a movement was under way, but had had no chance to tell him.

And for some reason McHague, the warden, had stolen Tex Rowland’s letters; letters from Della and possibly from Rory McPherson, telling him of what they were doing for him. And now some one was using his name in writing notes to Della Marsh.

“Kinda makes me wonder if I am Tex Rowland,” he declared to himself. “I don’t look a bit like him, that’s a cinch. And I’ll never be able to prove who I am. But I sure hope that I run across this jigger who signs Tex’s name to letters. If he’s Tex Rowland, I’ll sure recognize him. And if he is, who in —— am I?”

He turned and stared off across the dim hills. Somewhere out there a half-breed woman was wailing out her grief over a lost sweetheart, and his sympathy went out to her.

“We’re almost in the same fix, Alice,” he said softly. “You’ve got a chance to wail yours out all to once; but I’ve got to stick around, like a danged ghost, and just look on, that’s all.”

Slim was coming down from the kitchen, carrying a coffee-pot and some tin dishes that jangled softly. Bill Smith broke off his musings and went to meet him.

VI

“What do ye expect me to say?” Old Rory McPherson squinted at Jack Lohman who was sitting on his horse in front of the RMP ranch-house, in Rainbow Valley. It was two days after the death of Tucson Charley. The old man held a soiled piece of paper in his hand, and the breeze shook his mop of red hair almost over his serious eyes.

“I didn’t expect yuh to say anything, Rory,” replied the sheriff easily. “If you’ve got any opinion, I’d like to have it.”

Old Rory looked down at the paper and shook his head.

“I ha’ nothin’ to say, Lohman. No doubt ye tell an honest tale, and the letter speaks for itself. Ye say ye know nothin’ about who sent it to ye, lad?”

“Not a thing, Rory. It came in a plain envelope, as you can see.”

“Aye, I can see that.”

“Is that Della Marsh’s writin’, Rory?”

Old Rory squinted at the writing again: “I love ye, Tex, in spite of ever-rythin’.” “Aye, that is her writin’, lad. Her name is there.”

“Well, it’s sure got me fightin’ my head,” admitted the sheriff. “It don’t tell where Tex is, but it says that he’s been hurt and needs money. Mebbe Miss Marsh knows where he is.”

“Aye,” nodded old Rory sadly, “she may know. Ye’ll ask her?”

“I will not. If I can catch him myself, I’ll do it, Rory; but I’ll sneak up on no —— man behind a woman. Tex Rowland is probably in Rainbow Valley or out in the Antelope; which covers a lot of good hidin’ places. It looks to me like somebody had found this note and sent it to me. It’s a cinch that Miss Marsh didn’t send it. Maybe Tex lost it himself, Rory. There’s a lot of ways for it to have been lost; but it’s a cinch that somebody sent it to me.”

“Ye have the evidence of that,” smiled old Rory. “I wish I knew where Tex is. It’s har-rd luck to be sick and in need.”

“Sure is,” agreed Lohman, putting the letter back in his pocket. “I’ll be driftin’ along, Rory.”

“Ye’ll stay for a meal with us, won’t ye?”

“No, I’d better be goin’, I think.”

“Ye know best,” nodded Rory. “But the ranch is always open to ye, lad; and we’d like to have ye stay. Ye are not a Mott man.”

Lohman laughed and shook his head:

“Not that anybody knows about, Rory. No, I don’t think that Mr. Mott deals in county politics; he shoots higher than that.”

“He may overshoot.”

“It has been done, Rory. But Big Jim is pretty solid, I reckon. You sure jolted his pride the other day, and if I was you I’d sure keep one eye open. Big Jim won’t forget it very soon.”

“I hope he don’t, lad,” said Rory seriously. “There has long been bad blood between us. He wants Rainbow Valley, ye know. Well—” the old man sighed deeply—“he’ll not get it as long as there’s a McPherson here.”

“It’s worth havin’,” agreed the sheriff warmly. “There’s not a better range in the world than this valley. But what is this I hear about your niece goin’ to work for Big Jim?”

The old man’s eyes hardened as he nodded slowly. But there was more sorrow than anger in his face as he brushed the hair out of his eyes, and looked up at the sheriff.

“Aye, it’s true, lad. She’s gone over to the enemy. But she had nothin’ again’ the man, except that—well, after all, why should she share my hate? I’m gettin’ old, so I am; and I want my own with me. She’s all I’ve got, lad; and I haven’t her—now.”

The old man’s voice broke wistfully. The sheriff reached out his hand to the old man.

“Well, so-long, Rory. Mebbe it ain’t as bad as it looks. Do yuh want to send her any message?”

The old man shook his head slowly, thoughtfully, and started to walk away; but turned and smiled:

“Aye. Ye might tell her that Rosie O’Grady has five sons and two daughters.”

“Rosie O’Grady?”

“The cat. It’s her cat, lad. And she might like to know.”

The sheriff grinned and rode away from the RMP. He liked the dour old Scot and would have stayed for dinner, but he was anxious to find out what he could about the note. He was not hunting for Tex Rowland. Of course, he was rather curious to know where Tex was hiding; but he was more curious to find out who had sent him the note that Tex had written to Della Marsh.

It was near the forks of the road, one of which led to the XO-Bar-5, that he met, or rather ran into, Slim Whelan and Bill Smith. They were riding toward town, but waited for him to join them.

“I always feel safer when I’m ridin’ with the sheriff,” grinned Slim.

“You do need protection,” laughed the sheriff, as he rode up to them.

Slim introduced him to Bill Smith, and the three of them rode to Antelope together. The sheriff did not mention the note to them, because he knew that Slim had been instrumental in sending Tex to the penitentiary.

“You heard about Tucson Charley gettin’ killed, didn’t yuh?” asked Slim.

The sheriff nodded. “Yeah, it kinda surprised me, Slim.”

“Why did it surprise yuh?”

“I didn’t think a horse could kick hard enough to bust his head.”

“Well, this one did,” assured Slim.

“Where’s Crane?” asked the sheriff.

“He’s in town. Made a deal with Paint Pablo for some cows, and I reckon he’s fixin’ up the deal at the bank.”

They rode into town and left their horses at the hitch-rack.

That same morning Big Jim came to the bank and told Della that he had brought in a good saddle-horse for her to use. He lingered quite a while at her desk.

“I’m spending too much time around here,” he laughed. “Since you came to work here I’ve neglected my ranch, don’t you know it? Well, I have, Della. Before you came, I didn’t show up around here once a week; now I’m here all the time.”

Della passed it off with a laugh. She did not want Big Jim to make love to her, and she was almost sure that that was why he had given her a good position in the bank. Still he had never been offensive in any way.

He went over to the cashier’s desk and engaged him in conversation for several minutes, before motioning Della to come over to them.

“Get me twenty-five hundred dollars in fairly big bills,” he told her.

She went into the vault and came back with the required amount, which Big Jim counted carefully. He asked the cashier for a long envelope, which he secured for Big Jim. Putting the bills into the envelope, Big Jim handed it to Della.

“Martin Crane will be in this morning and you are to give this twenty-five hundred to him. He will probably have Pablo with him. It is money to be paid on a cattle deal.”

Della nodded and carried the envelope back to her desk. Big Jim left a few minutes later, and in about an hour Martin Crane came in. He was alone.

“Mott leave somethin’ here for me?” he asked.

Della handed him the envelope, which he stuffed into his pocket.

“Don’t you want to count it?” she asked.

He jerked it out of his pocket, glanced at the mass of bills inside and shoved it back.

“’T’s all right,” he grunted. “I’ve got to rope that danged Pablo before he changes his mind ag’in.”

He fairly ran out of the bank and headed up the street. Della smiled and went back to her work. In about fifteen minutes Crane came back into the bank.

“Where’s Big Jim?” he demanded.

“He went out about an hour before you came in this morning,” replied Della. “He didn’t say where he was going.”

“By ——, he’s some business man!” snorted Crane angrily. “Here I almost had to hog-tie that danged Pablo to get him to town to sell me them white-faced cows. I told Jim Mott what I wanted, dang his soul! Now the deal is all off.”

“I’m sure we know nothing about it, Mr. Crane,” smiled Della. “He gave me that money to give to you.”

“Well, you can have it back, young lady!”

Crane flipped the long envelope back to her. She opened it and counted the money, looking up at him in astonishment.

“Why, there’s only fifteen hundred dollars here!” she exclaimed.

“Y’ danged right that’s all there is! I told Big Jim that I had to have twenty-five hundred.”

“But—but—” faltered Della.

The cashier crossed over to her and counted the money. It totalled exactly fifteen hundred.

“That’s queer,” muttered the cashier.

“What’s queer?” demanded Crane.

The cashier straightened up, his thin lips compressed tightly—

“I saw Mr. Mott put twenty-five hundred dollars into that envelope, Crane.”

Crane leaned across the counter, his brow furrowed questioningly.

“You mean to say that there was twenty-five hundred in that envelope when I got it?”

“I—I don’t know what to say. Mr. Mott had Miss Marsh get the money from the vault, and we both know that he put it into the envelope—didn’t he, Miss Marsh?”

Della did not reply.

“Well, it sure as —— wasn’t there when I tried to pay it to Pablo,” declared Crane. “And that whole deal is spoiled. He’s got the idea now that I was tryin’ to cheat him. I said—

“Here’s your twenty-five hundred dollars, Pablo.”

“I handed him the whole works. And any old time yuh think that half-breed can’t count, yo’re all wrong. He counted it as quick as I could, and then he says:

“You pretty —— smart, eh? Cheat Injun, eh? You go to ——!”

“And that’s what I know about it.”

“But I tell you, it was in there——”

Della stopped. Big Jim was coming into the bank. He nodded to Crane, but stopped and looked at them. It was evident at a glance that something was all wrong.

“Did you finish that deal with Pablo, Crane?” he asked.

“You know danged well I didn’t,” growled Crane.

“I do? Where did you get that idea?”

“I told you I wanted twenty-five hundred dollars, Mott.”

“Well, that’s what you got.”

“I did not! I got fifteen hundred, that’s all.”

Big Jim looked curiously at Della and the cashier, rubbing his chin with the ball of his right thumb.

“I—I gave him that envelope, Mr. Mott,” said Della.

“I got the envelope,” nodded Crane.

“Didn’t you count the money?” asked Big Jim.

“No, I didn’t have time. You know Pablo. I argued him into the deal and he wanted the money right then. I told him I had to go to the bank after it, and he started after his horse; so I ran down here after the money. ——, I didn’t take time to count it.”

“And the envelope only contained fifteen hundred, eh?” Thus Big Jim thoughtfully. “There was twenty-five hundred in—oh, well, the deal is off, anyway. Maybe we can have another talk with Pablo.”

Big Jim turned away and went into his private office. Crane squinted after him and walked out of the bank, leaving Della and the cashier looking at each other. Then the cashier turned away and went back to his desk.

There had been no accusations, but Della knew that everything pointed to the fact that she had taken the money. Was it all in the envelope when Crane got it from her, she wondered? Or did Crane take it out on his way to meet Pablo?

The cashier spoke her name and she turned to see Big Jim in the doorway of his office, motioning for her to come. She went to him and he closed the door behind them. She was not afraid.

He motioned her to a chair and sat down on the edge of his flat-top desk.

“That’s a queer deal, Della,” he said softly.

“Do you think I took it?” she demanded.

“Don’t talk that way,” he parried. “I’m not accusing any one. Crane could have taken the money.”

“But you don’t believe he did.”

Della got to her feet and faced him hotly.

“Sit down, please,” he begged. “There is no use getting mad about it, Della.”

“You think I’m a thief.”

The tears came to her eyes. She wanted to cry, but was too angry.

“You are accusing yourself, little lady. Now, sit down and be patient. It’s only a thousand dollars, anyway; and it won’t break me.” He laughed softly. “I’ve got a good many of them. Whoever got that money is welcome to it, do you understand? I will see that no one knows it, except those who already know.”

“Is that fair to me?” she demanded.

Big Jim smiled and snipped the end off a cigar with his strong teeth.

“Della,” he said slowly, “I’m not going to investigate. It would only start a scandal, and I’d rather lose a thousand than to start trouble. Whoever got that money needs it more than I do.”

“Needs it?” she repeated.

“People hardly ever take what they do not need, Della.”

The one sentence in Tex Rowland’s note—I need about five hundred dollars—flashed through her mind, and she looked up quickly to find him looking at her closely, as if reading her mind.

“Maybe Crane needed it,” he said softly.

It was as if he suspected her, but was willing to give her a slight doubt. Her face paled and she drew away from him.

“You mean that I did—and Mr. Crane might have?” she queried.

“Oh, pshaw!”

Big Jim threw away his cigar and came toward her.

“Listen to me, Della: We’ll both forget this. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a closed incident. I’d be willing to give you many times that amount, if you would ask me for it. I like you better than any girl I’ve ever known.”

“And still you believe I stole from you.”

“That’s all past and gone, Della.”

“It is not past and gone, Mr. Mott. This is not something you can wipe out with a few words.”

“Well,” he laughed, a half-sneer on his face, “what would you have me do? Accuse you of theft? Drag your name in the dirt? Don’t be a fool, Della. If you’ve got any sense left, you’ll let me bury this whole thing. You know that I care a lot for you, little lady.”

“But am I a thief?” she demanded hotly. “There has been no investigation.”

“Do you want one?” Big Jim’s voice hardened slightly.

“I demand one.”

He considered her seriously for several moments and shrugged his shoulders.

“There must be some Scotch blood in you, Della.”

“Yes—the McPherson blood, Mr. Mott.”

Big Jim laughed savagely and his right hand went unconsciously to his ear. He could still feel the sting of old Rory’s blow.

“McPherson blood, eh? That hard-headed old ——!” He laughed and shook his head. “He won’t welcome an investigation.”

“He has nothing to do with it,” reminded Della coldly.

“No? And you his only living relative?”

“This is my battle—not his.”

Big Jim drew out a fresh cigar and lighted it. Della moved back to the door and reached for the knob.

“Wait a minute,” said Big Jim. “I want you to be sure that you want this to go on, Della. I suppose you know what it means. It will be bad for you, no matter which way it goes. The theft lies between you and Martin Crane. One of you must have taken that money, don’t you see?

“It would be almost impossible to convict a girl like you in this country. But, even if you were cleared of the charge, there would always be a doubt, unless the money was recovered. Can you afford to take that chance?”

“You haven’t given me a chance,” she said bitterly. “You let Mr. Crane go where he would. If he took the money, he has had plenty of chance to dispose of it by this time. Was that fair?”

“Possibly not, Della. But I thought you would listen to reason. I don’t want to lose you. I gave you this position, in order to see you once in a while. You don’t need to work. Just say the word and I’ll see that you never have to work for anybody again.”

She faced him squarely, her back against the door. There was nothing timid about her now.

“Do you mean that you want to marry me?” she asked.

He smiled at her and shifted the cigar between his lips.

“I’d sure take you a long ways away from here,” he said, ignoring her direct question. “I could dress you in silks, furs and diamonds, little lady. I’d show you the bright lights and give you everything that goes with them. You’d soon forget the cattle-country.”

“Because you love me?” she asked coldly.

Something in her voice caused him to hesitate; something that made him know that she detested him thoroughly. Her head was held high and her eyes surveyed him coldly.

“And you would do this because you love me?” she repeated.

He leaned toward her, his teeth clenched tightly on his cigar, his eyes narrowed. Then he struck the top of the desk with his clenched hand.

“No, by ——!” he gritted. “But I’d do it to break the heart of that sniffling old uncle of yours. I told him I’d break him, if it was the last thing I’d ever do. I’d be good to you, just to show him that I mean what I say. Now you can take your choice.”

His lips were white with anger, but they were no whiter than her cheeks as she turned and walked out without a reply, leaving him staring after her, the drool from his cigar running down over his trembling chin.

She went out through the front door and up the sidewalk, just as the sheriff, Slim Whelan and Bill Smith were tying their horses at the Fashion hitch-rack. She did not see them. In fact, she was incapable of seeing anything, and almost ran into them.

“Whoa, Blaze!” exclaimed Slim softly, putting out a hand to steady her.

She looked up quickly, dazedly.

“I—I beg your pardon,” she said huskily and half-staggered past them.

The three men turned and watched her.

“Now, what do you know about that?” wondered Slim aloud. “She’s as white as a sheet and she’s got both fists shut tight.”

“Acts like she’s walkin’ in her sleep,” said the sheriff. “Mebbe she’s sick.”

Bill Smith turned as if to follow her, but remembered that he was not to do such things. There was no doubt that Della was suffering, and he wanted to help her. Crane was coming out of the saloon, and noticed that the three men were looking at Della. He, too, watched her cross the main street, and then came over to the three men. “What’s the matter with her?” he asked.

“That’s what we’re wonderin’,” said Slim. “She acts like she’s sick. Danged near ran into us, didn’t she, Bill? Kinda like she had blind-staggers, don’tcha know it?”

Della had disappeared down the little side street; so they all turned back to the saloon door.

“Didja fix up that deal with Pablo?” asked Slim.

Crane shook his head. Big Jim was coming up the street toward them and they waited for him. He nodded curtly to them and spoke directly to the sheriff—

“Lohman, I want to have a word with you.”

“All right,” nodded the sheriff, and they walked back toward the bank together, while the other three men went into the saloon.

“I wonder what Big Jim wanted of the sheriff,” said Slim, as they filled their glasses.

Crane drank thoughtfully and motioned for them to have another. It was not like Martin Crane to drink raw whisky. They noticed that he was filling his glass to the brim. Three big drinks of it went down his gullet before he turned his back on the bar.

His lips twisted in a grim smile as he hitched his holster around, and rubbed the palm of his right hand on his hip. Slim and Bill exchanged glances. They knew that Crane had shocked his system with strong liquor for a reason.

“I’ve got a hunch what Big Jim wanted him for,” he said slowly, his eyes hardening with anger. “And I’m all set, y’betcha.”

“Let’s have another drink, gents,” suggested the bartender.

“I’ve got a-plenty,” replied Crane evenly. “You fellers go ahead.”

They turned back to the bar, but took cigars this time.

“We’re with yuh, Crane,” said Bill Smith softly. “I dunno what it’s all about—but count us in.”

It was several minutes later when the sheriff came into the saloon. He stopped in the doorway and looked at the three men at the bar. Crane was slightly hunched, immovable. The sheriff gave a slight shake of his head and came up to the bar beside Slim.

“I’ll buy a drink,” he said slowly, nodding to the bartender. “I reckon I need one now.”

Crane relaxed slightly and accepted a cigar. The sheriff was very thoughtful as he drank his liquor. Crane watched him closely, standing slightly apart from the rest. Then the sheriff indicated the door, with a slight jerk of his head, and they followed him outside.

“Crane,” he said, as they grouped near the hitch-rack, “what do you know about that money deal this mornin’?”

Crane swore softly, as he outlined what had happened.

“You didn’t count the money at the time yuh got it, eh?”

“No.”

“Big Jim and the girl had quite a run-in, I reckon,” stated the sheriff. “He’s sure she got the money. But he didn’t search her; just let her walk out. Now he wants me to arrest her for stealing his thousand dollars.”

Bill Smith said nothing, but he turned away, staring back toward the bank, fighting against an impulse to go there and kill Big Jim Mott.

“No wonder she looked sick,” said Slim sadly.

“Why don’t he have me arrested?” asked Crane. “I could ’a’ taken that money. —— him and his money! I’ve got a notion to go down there and heave a gun into his teeth. Why would that girl steal money from him?”

Slim and Bill Smith glanced quickly at each other. Both of them knew about that fraudulent note and of Tex’s request for money.

Lohman’s eye had been quick enough to read the unspoken question between them. In his pocket was a mighty good reason for Della to take the money. It would go a long way toward convincing the jury of her guilt, in case it was produced in court. He felt sure that Slim and Bill knew something about that note, but he did not want to question them.

“I wouldn’t start trouble with Mott over it,” advised the sheriff. “He’s naturally sore over losing the money, and I guess he and that girl had a row, which didn’t help matters none. Where does she live?”

None of them knew; so they went to the post-office and the sheriff inquired. Crane went back to the saloon, but Slim and Bill went down to the dressmaker’s home with the sheriff. Della was not there, but there was a note pinned to the front door. It read:

Miss Freeland:
I have gone back to Rainbow Valley.

It was just signed with an initial “D.”

“Well, I’m —— glad of that,” sighed the sheriff, as they went back to the main street, and the sheriff led them to the livery-stable. The stable-man nodded, when the sheriff questioned him, and said:

“Yeah, she went away a little while ago. Big Jim brought a horse here for her to use, but she took one of our horses instead. No, she didn’t say where she was goin’.”

They went back up the street, and Big Jim accosted them as they passed the bank.

“She’s gone back to Rainbow Valley,” said the sheriff, in answer to Big Jim’s question. “Hired a livery-horse.”

Bill Smith had stopped close to Big Jim, who scowled at the sheriff’s statement.

“Did, eh?” he grunted sourly. “Gone back to Rainbow. Well, you can find her there, can’t you, Lohman?”

“Yeah, I can.”

The sheriff did not enthuse over the prospect.

“All right—go and get her.”

“Yuh aim to put her in jail?” queried Bill Smith softly.

Big Jim squinted at him, his lips curling with sarcasm:

“What in —— did you think I was going to do? She’s a thief and——”

Right at that point Big Jim’s sentence ended, when Bill Smith’s right fist, traveling in a wide arc, caught him midway between the point of his chin and the hinge of his jaw. It was all done in a second. Big Jim’s mouth was still set for the next word of his sentence when he hit the sidewalk.

The sheriff and Slim stepped back a few steps, staring at the prostrate Big Jim Mott and at Bill Smith. Big Jim did not move; neither did Bill Smith, who had stepped back, slightly crouched, waiting for Big Jim to recover.

“One’s enough,” whispered Slim foolishly. “My ——, what a punch!”

The sheriff looked curiously at Bill Smith, and wondered just why this handsome cowpuncher had smashed Big Jim for calling the girl a thief. It was unlooked for in a stranger. Several other men were hurrying down toward them, and among the crowd was Martin Crane, a trifle unsteady of legs. They moved in close and watched Big Jim get to his feet unassisted.

He was so badly dazed that he did not seem to realize what had happened. As he straightened up to his full height, Bill Smith shot forward, starting another punch at the big man’s jaw; but Slim blocked him.

“Hol’ fast, Bill,” he grunted. “He’s licked.”

“Let ’im go to it,” gurgled Crane. “I dunno whazzit’s all about—but let ’im go to it, Slimmie.”

Big Jim felt of his jaw and stepped back against the doorway. Things were clearing for him now and he realized that Bill Smith had knocked him down. He looked curiously at Bill Smith, trying to figure out why Bill Smith had hit him.

The blow had sapped his strength badly, and he wanted to sit down. Every one seemed to be waiting for Bill Smith or Big Jim to speak. Then Bill Smith glanced at the crowd around him and spoke directly to Big Jim.

“I’ll tell yuh why I hit yuh, Mott. Tex Rowland is my best friend—and the girl you accuse of stealin’ from yuh is the girl he loves. You let her alone or Tex Rowland will kill yuh. Now that ain’t no threat—it’s a promise.”

Bill Smith turned and walked on up the street. Big Jim blinked painfully, turned around and went into the bank without saying a word to any one. The crowd watched him disappear inside and then went back up the street.

Slim, Martin Crane and the sheriff walked along together and joined Bill Smith in the Fashion saloon. The sheriff held out his hand to Bill Smith, a grin on his lips, as he said:

“Bill Smith, I’m the sheriff of this county and I hadn’t ought to act like this; but I’d like to shake hands with yuh. I wish I had a friend that would do a thing like that for me, if I was in Tex Rowland’s place. I hope Tex appreciates it.”

“Yeah, I reckon he does,” smiled Bill, as they shook hands.

They had a round of drinks, after which Slim persuaded Crane that they should go back to the ranch. Crane was pretty drunk, but he acquiesced. Big Jim watched them ride out of town, squinting one eye speculatively, as if trying to make a decision.

Then he left the bank and walked down to the depot, which was about three blocks away. He asked the sleepy-eyed operator for a telegram blank, on which he wrote:

Warden, Elk Lodge Penitentiary.

Indications point to fact that Tex Rowland is hiding in this vicinity. Might be worth investigating.

(Signed) Jim Mott.

“Send this right away, will you?” he asked the operator.

“Y’betcha,” nodded the operator, turning to his instrument.

Big Jim walked outside, ripped a match savagely along the side of the depot and lighted his cigar.

“Friend of Tex Rowland, eh? Well, maybe you’ll be bait for us to find your dear friend. And next time I’ll be looking for you, Bill Smith.”

He strode along a few steps, puffing savagely, and an idea seemed to strike him.

“It’s a ten-to-one shot that Tex is in Rainbow Valley,” he declared to himself. “Old Rory would protect him. I’d like to see that old ——’s face, when Della tells him she’s a thief.”

It seemed to amuse him so much that he went back into the bank, his face wreathed with smiles. The cashier glanced at Big Jim as he disappeared into his private office.

“Lost a thousand dollars and got knocked down,” mused the cashier, “and acts happy over it all. Sure takes all kinds of folks to make up a world.”

VII

The following day Crane realized that he had made a sort of a fool out of himself, and that Big Jim might fire him. So he decided to go to Antelope at once and make his peace with the man who was paying him to run the XO-Bar-5.

Slim decided to go, too. He asked Bill Smith if he wanted to ride down with them, but Bill declined. As soon as they rode away, Bill saddled his horse and rode toward Rainbow Valley. He was curious to know what old Rory McPherson thought about Big Jim’s accusations, and he also wanted to see Della.

The RMP ranch had been home to Bill Smith. He knew every clump of trees, every twisting of the stream in Rainbow Valley. Yet he was a stranger in the place. He rode in past the big barns and up to the old ranch-house, sprawled under the shade of some giant sycamores which had been planted there when the first McPherson came to Rainbow.

A huge figure of a dog, half-mastiff, half-Dane, uncoiled itself from a spot near the kitchen door and came toward him, its head lowered, a deep rumble in its throat. Bill Smith grinned and swung out of his saddle.

“Pancho,” he said softly, “Pancho, do you know me?”

The great dog stopped and looked at him. Its eyes were a steel-blue in color, heavily-pouched. Its nostrils worked violently, as it caught the scent of a man it had known so well. Then, with a little rumble of delight, it came straight to Bill Smith, fawning upon him with its great paws, trying to lick his hands.

“You knew me, Pancho,” whispered Bill Smith. “You knew old Tex.”

He looked up quickly. On the porch stood old Rory McPherson and Della, a look of astonishment on their faces.

“Why, it’s Mr. Smith!” exclaimed Della. “And a ver-r-y rare young man,” added old Rory. “Old Pancho does not take to str-r-rangers, sir.”

“I can’t quite understand Pancho,” said Della. “Look at him, Uncle Rory.”

The big dog continued to manifest the greatest of joy. He had been used to romping with Tex Rowland every day, and this scent brought back joy memories to him. Faces meant nothing to him; but a voice and a scent did.

“Aye, lass; and it’s uncanny,” replied old Rory, coming down the steps to meet Bill Smith.

He held out his hand and did not wait for an introduction.

“I’d take the dog’s wor-r-rd for ye, sir,” said the old man, as they shook hands. “Ye can’t fool dogs and children. We grow up and lose that intuition. Will ye not come and sit on the por-rch? Della?”

He turned his head and looked back, but Della had slipped into the house.

“Anyway,” he said, turning back, “ye’ll sit with me, eh?”

Bill Smith accepted a seat on the porch and rolled a cigaret.

“Ye are a str-r-ranger, are ye not?” asked the old man. “I have never seen ye before.”

Bill Smith nodded.

“Yeah, I reckon I am, Mr. McPherson. I work for the XO-Bar-5.”

“Ye do, eh?”

The old man was on the defensive at once.

“Ye work for Jim Mott, do ye?”

“I did,” smiled Bill, as he examined his knuckles.

Luckily the blow had landed square, leaving only a slight soreness.

“And do ye not now, Mr. Smith?”

“I don’t know. I belted Big Jim in the jaw yesterday, and he was too tired to fire me at that time. Crane went to Antelope today, and Big Jim will probably send my time out to me by him.”

“Ye str-r-ruck him, ye mean?” demanded the old man eagerly. “Ye did? And ye brought him down?”

Bill Smith nodded slowly.

“Wonders will never cease,” said the old man softly. “Ye—” he squinted at Bill Smith closely—“ye are a chunk of a lad. Ye have the arms and chest of a man I know, and I’ve no doubt that ye jarred Mr. Mott. And did ye have a r-r-reason for comin’ here, or did ye just dr-r-rop in?”

“I came to see Miss Marsh.”

The old man regarded him steadily, glanced back toward the door and moved in closer to Bill Smith.

“Do ye know what happened yesterday in Antelope?”

“Yeah. I was there and I sure heard about it.”

“Tell me about it, will ye?”

“I’ll tell yuh what I know about it, Mr. McPherson.”

And in as few words as possible Bill Smith told the old man all he knew about the missing money and the accusation against Della. The old man’s bony hands gripped the arms of his chair, and his face grew white with wrath before Smith had finished his tale.

“Ye ar-re tellin’ me true, lad?” he panted. “This is not a fair-rry tale ye tell me?”

“Say, didn’t yuh know about this?” demanded Smith. “Didn’t she——”

“——, no! I knew there was somethin’ wr-r-r-rong, but—oh, the poor lass!”

The old man got unsteadily to his feet, panting with combined wrath and pity. As he turned toward the door, Della came out and up to him. She had been crying. He put his hands on her shoulders and they stared into each other’s faces.

“I heard him tell you,” she said firmly. “I wanted to tell you, Uncle Rory; but I—I just couldn’t. It’s a lie—all a lie. I never took the money.”

The old man laughed fiercely, gripping her shoulders until she winced from the pain.

“A lie!” he fairly shouted. “Of course it’s a lie!”

He whirled on Bill Smith, fairly shaking his bony fist under the cowpuncher’s nose.

“Do ye think it’s true? Do ye think——”

“If I did,” said Smith calmly, “I wouldn’t ’a’ smashed him in the jaw yesterday.”

“Oh, aye.”

He gripped a porch-post fiercely and looked down the valley, his old eyes blood-shot with emotion.

“And he told the sher-r-riff to arrest her, did he?”

“Yeah. But she pulled out ahead of ’em.”

Old Rory turned and stared at Della. His face softened and he put a hand on her shoulder.

“They’d put ye in jail, lass? He’d drag your name in the dirt, would he?”

He turned suddenly and stared at Bill Smith.

“And what inter-r-rest have ye in this, sir?” he demanded.

“Tex Rowland was my best friend.”

Old Rory moved a pace or two nearer to Bill Smith, looking at him closely. Della was staring at him, wide-eyed, too.

“Ye were Tex Rowland’s friend?”

“We were closer than twin brothers,” said Bill Smith.

“Aye, is that so? Years ago, per-r-r-haps?”

“No—just a while ago.”

“But Tex lived here for years and you—” the old man hesitated and lowered his voice—“you wasn’t in—in there with him?”

Bill Smith nodded slowly.

“Oh, yes!”

Old Rory straightened up with a sigh.

“Do you know where he is now?” asked Della, almost whispering the question.

“Yeah, I know where he is but I can’t tell yuh now. Tex is hidin’ out where they won’t find him. He don’t need money, Miss Marsh.”

“And he’s alive?”

“Y’betcha.”

“Thank God for that.”

She smiled through her tears. It was worth a lot for her to know that Tex was safe and that he did not want for money. She was willing to bide her time now.

“I’ll go to Antelope tomorrow,” said the old man slowly, thoughtfully, “and I’ll kill Big Jim Mott.”

“That wouldn’t do no good,” said Bill Smith quickly. “They’d hang you, tha’s-all. And your hangin’ wouldn’t clear up that stolen thousand dollars, don’tcha see?”

“Why, Uncle Rory, you mustn’t talk like that,” said Della. “He told me that he wanted to break your heart.”

“He told you that, lass?”

“Yes. It was after I demanded an investigation. He got mad and said things that he didn’t intend to.”

“He didn’t want to investigate?” asked Bill Smith.

“No. He wanted to forget it all, he said.”

Bill Smith was rolling a cigaret and now he lifted his head and looked straight at her.

“Wanted to forget it, eh? And what was the price?”

Della stared at him for a moment, but her cheeks flushed crimson and she turned away, going quickly into the house. Bill and the old man looked at each other for several moments. Old Rory was not quick to comprehend such things, but he gradually digested it. Then he struck the porch-post with the side of his clenched hand and swore bitterly.

“He’d try to buy her for a thousand dollars,” he said hoarsely. “That price for a McPherson! By ——, I’ll show him what the pr-r-rice will be.”

“And if the sheriff comes to arrest her—don’t quarrel with him,” advised Bill Smith. “He’s all right. It’s a bailable offense, and yuh can see that she don’t stay in jail.”

“Aye, that’s good advice, lad; and I thank ye for it.”

Bill Smith got to his feet and held out his hand.

“I reckon I’ll be siftin’ along, old timer,” he grinned. “I’ve enjoyed the visit with yuh. You tell the little lady good-by for me, will yuh?”

“But won’t ye stay, lad? There’s room for ye.”

“There’s Tex Rowland to look after,” whispered Bill Smith.

“Oh, aye. Then be on your way, and God bless ye. Come soon.”

Bill Smith swung on to his horse, and rode slowly down the old highway toward Antelope with a determined smile on his lips. Pancho, the big, blue dog, followed him to the corner of the fence and watched him disappear around a bend in the road, while old Rory leaned against the post and looked moodily out across the Rainbow hills.

“Bill Smith,” he muttered softly. “Now, who in the —— are ye, lad? Ye have a fine face, and even old Pancho—now that beats anything I’ve ever seen. He hates strangers, but he almost wore out his paws on Bill Smith. There’s queer things in the wor-rld.”

Della had come back to the doorway and was looking down the valley. Old Rory turned and looked at her.

“He’s gone. Pancho followed him to the cor-r-rner, lass.”

“Then he must be all right,” she said simply.

Contrary to Bill Smith’s expectations, Big Jim Mott did not tell Crane to fire him. Not that Bill Smith cared in the least, except that he liked both Crane and Slim Whelan, and his job on the XO-Bar-5 kept him at a point about midway of the warring factions.

It was two uneventful days after Bill Smith’s visit to Rory McPherson’s ranch in Rainbow Valley, that he and Slim rode to Antelope town. There had been no work to do at the XO-Bar-5, and they were both tired of inaction.

Big Jim Mott rode into town half an hour after their arrival and met them in the Fashion Bar. Bill half-expected that Big Jim would try to even matters with him on sight, and was not prepared for Big Jim’s hearty invitation to have a drink.

“How are things at the ranch?” he asked, as they filled their glasses.

“Kinda slow,” admitted Slim. “We just kinda foller each other around, hopin’ that somebody will discover somethin’ to do.”

Big Jim laughed and tossed off his drink. He was in rare good humor and seemed to hold no grudge against Bill Smith for the knock-down; but Bill Smith did not relax his caution. Finally Big Jim turned to him—

“Smith, I’ve got a better job for you, if you care to take it.”

“Tha’sso?”

Bill slid his empty glass down the bar.

“Hundred a month,” stated Big Jim.

“Yeah?” Bill Smith was interested. The XO-Bar-5 was paying him forty dollars per month, and this added sixty dollars was worth considering.

“Taking charge of the Lightning ranch,” he said slowly. “I’ll give you two punchers to help you run the place. It will take quite a lot of work to put the house in shape, I suppose.”

“Uh-huh,” nodded Bill, “I reckon it will.”

“The Lightnin’?” queried Slim wonderingly. “The Paint Pot?”

Big Jim smiled and turned back to the bar, motioning to the bartender to fill the glasses.

“Yes, I bought Pablo out yesterday,” he stated. “He had some stock I wanted, but he was too hard to do business with; so I made him a good offer for the whole works and he sold out.”

“Well, I’ll be darned!” grunted Slim. “I’ll betcha yuh had to show him all the money in one pile, didn’t yuh?”

“Something like that, Slim.”

“When do yuh take charge?” asked Bill.

“Took it over yesterday. There’s nobody running the place yet, but it’s ready for you to start in on right away.”

Bill Smith considered the proposition. He did not trust Big Jim. He had knocked Big Jim down publicly, and Big Jim was not the kind of a man to forget it. Still he was not in a position to refuse the offer; so he nodded slowly.

“I’ll take yuh up on that,” he agreed. “I’ve always wanted to run a ranch. Do I pick my own punchers?”

“I suppose so. Mike John and Mose Dickey are still out there. They’re good punchers, but rather shy on brains. You might keep them until you find better ones. Might be a good scheme to go out there and look the place over, Smith. It’ll need a lot of fixing. When you find out what you need, come down to the bank and draw money enough to cover it.”

“All right,” grinned Bill. “I never had a bank to draw on; so yuh better warn the cashier to look out for me.”

Slim and Bill stood for a long time at the bar after Big Jim had gone away. Slim was wondering why Big Jim had given the foremanship of the Lightning to Bill Smith instead of to him; and Bill Smith was doing quite a bit of wondering himself.

“Mebbe he wants to keep track of me,” mused Bill to himself. “It ain’t ’cause he loves me, that’s a cinch.”

Finally Slim grinned and held out his hand.

“I’m plumb glad yuh got the job, Bill,” he said sincerely. “I was wonderin’ why he didn’t give it to me, especially after yuh batted him in the jaw the other day; but that’s his business. Let’s have another drink.”

“I’m wonderin’, too, Slim,” smiled Bill, accepting the invitation. “I reckon he’s stuck on my shape. He don’t know whether I’m capable of runnin’ the place, nor whether I’m honest nor anythin’.”

Slim laughed and wiped his lips with the back of his hand:

“I’ll play yuh a game of pool, Bill. I ain’t played since last year, but I used to be a dinger.”

They walked over to the pool table and were chalking their cues when a man came into the saloon, with two dogs on leash. The man was well dressed and evidently more than half-intoxicated.

“What kind of danged dogs are them?” queried Slim, pointing at them with his cue. “Ain’t fox-hounds, are they, Bill?”

“Bloodhounds,” said the man proudly, but thickly, as he tried to untangle the leash from his knees.

“Best pair of trailers in the world, tha’s what they are.”

“You ain’t lost nothin’, have yuh?” asked Slim seriously.

“Huh?”

“I said we might have a hard Winter,” replied Slim loudly.

“What the —— do I care about Winter? Let’s have a drink.”

Slim and Bill placed their cues on the table and walked back to the bar. Bill stooped down and petted one of the dogs on its head. They both fawned around him until yanked away by their keeper.

“Don’t monkey with ’em,” he grunted. “They’re worth lots of money, don’tcha know it?”

“Pettin’ ’em takes away their value, eh?” asked Bill.

The man was too occupied with his drink to answer.

“How long yuh been here?” asked Slim.

“Come in thish mornin’.”

The man twisted his face from the bite of the whisky and leaned both elbows on the bar.

“Dogs drag yuh in?” queried Bill.

“Dogs drag—shay, whatcha talkin’ ’bout, hey?”

“Dogs—not hay. Let’s have another.”

“Aw ri’. Thish is re’l nice town around here. I like it.”

“You can have it,” replied Slim seriously.

“I’ll take it, frien’. Mush obliged.”

“Oh, don’t mention it. We’ll give it to him, won’t we, Bill?”

“Give him the whole county, Slim,” grinned Bill. “Don’t be a piker.”

“All right, the whole county it is. You’ll take it, won’t yuh, Mister Blood Hound?”

“Yesshir. M’ name’s Alfred Henderson Failing.”

“You’ve got quite a family tree,” observed Bill, but his meaning was lost upon the man with the bloodhounds.

A man came in through the doorway and halted near the bar. Bill Smith turned his head and looked square into the face of McHague, head warden of the Elk Lodge penitentiary. Their glances held for a moment, but there was no recognition in the eyes of the warden.

He was wearing a gray-checked suit, black derby hat and a pair of glaring, yellow shoes, which creaked with every movement of his beefy body. The butt of a badly-chewed cigar was clenched between his teeth, a trickle of its juice making a brown streak down his slightly stubbled chin.

Bill Smith felt a thrill down his spine as he squinted at McHague; but the big warden knew him not.

“What the —— are you doin’ here with them dogs?” snarled McHague at Alfred Henderson Failing, who was trying to brace himself and try to look dignified.

He swallowed with difficulty and squinted down at the two hounds, as if trying to figure out a reasonable explanation.

“You’re drunk!” snorted McHague angrily. “Now you get to —— back to the hotel with them dogs, you drunken bum!”

“Yesshir.”

Failing tried to appear at ease and untangle the dogs at the same time. He even essayed a whistling solo, much to the disgust of McHague. After much effort he managed to straighten out both leashes and went out through the front door, half-falling from the pull of the two hounds.

McHague watched him go and then turned to those at the bar.

“Have a drink, gents?” he asked.

Slim and Bill leaned against the bar, watching McHague unroll some bills.

“Val’able dogs?” asked Slim.

“Couldn’t buy ’em for a thousand apiece,” grunted McHague.

“My——!” exploded Slim, “I’ve got to look at ’em agin’. Was they set with diamonds?”

“Good rabbit-dogs come high,” offered Bill Smith seriously.

McHague tossed a bill onto the bar and spat out his cigar, as if disgusted with their ignorance.

“What the —— are you talkin’ about?” he grunted. “Them ain’t rabbit-dogs.”

“Ex-cuse us,” said Slim quickly, “we’re ignorant enough to ask yuh what they are, mister.”

“They’re the best pair of bloodhounds in the West. They never lose a scent.”

“Bloodhounds?” queried Bill. “Man trailers?”

“You betcha. Finest bred dogs in the world. They belong to me.”

“You kinda hate them dogs, don’tcha?” grinned Bill. “They don’t look like much, except that they’re sad in the face.”

“You’d be sad, if they were on your trail,” replied McHague.

“I s’pose so. Say, your face is familiar, somehow. Seems like I’ve knowed you some place.”

McHague tossed off his drink and grinned widely.

“Maybe you have. I’m the head warden at Elk Lodge.”

Slim choked on his drink and it was some time before conversation was renewed.

“You say that them dogs never lose a scent?” queried Bill.

“That’s what I said,” replied McHague proudly.

“Uh-huh. Then they’re the ones yuh used when yuh caught Tex Rowland, ain’t they?”

McHague flushed angrily.

“What do you know about Tex Rowland?”

“He’s my best friend,” said Bill Smith softly.

“The —— he is?”

McHague’s hands clenched and his brows drew down slightly over his eyes.

“Your best friend, eh?”

Bill Smith nodded slowly and moved a trifle away from the bar.

“Yeah, that’s what I said, McHague.”

“You seem to know my name.”

“I know more than that about yuh.”

“What do yuh mean?”

“Tex told me a few things, McHague. He told me about yuh stealin’ his letters, and how yuh bragged to him about it. Yuh had him where he couldn’t get away, didn’t yuh? He didn’t have a Chinaman’s chance to do anythin’. Yuh framed to kill him, too. Yuh tried to force him to start trouble, so your hired murderer could shoot him down. But he double-crossed yuh, McHague—him and the old trusty.”

McHague’s scowl almost concealed his eyes before Bill Smith had finished his accusation. His lips were shut in a thin, white line, below which jutted his undershot jaw like the prow of a fighting ship.

“Where in — did you get all that?” he gritted.

“From Tex Rowland. And by ——, he told the truth!”

“He lied!” snorted McHague.

“He did not! You forced him into a fight, McHague—and he whipped you in your own office, you dirty coyote!”

Bill Smith had not intended going so far with the accusation, but his soul was still bitter against McHague and he forgot all caution.

“Who’s a dirty coyote?” snorted McHague.

And as McHague snapped his question, his right hand reached back under his coat and whipped out a revolver. But Slim was looking for just such a move, and, before McHague could level the gun, Slim grasped his wrist with both hands, twisting so quickly that the gun went spinning across the floor.

Slim sprang back, leaving McHague cursing wickedly, his shoulders hunched as he faced Bill Smith.

“What kind of a —— deal is that?” he demanded. “You going to double-team me? You’ve still got a gun.”

Bill grinned, as he flipped out his gun and placed it on the bar.

“I better put it away before somebody takes it away from me,” he said.

McHague glanced at the bar and back at Bill Smith. Down deep in his heart he did not want to fight. He had been warned that this country was friendly to Tex Rowland, but this seemed to be carrying friendship too far.

There were a number of men in the saloon, and now they swarmed to vantage points. The bartender, in no uncertain terms, swore at everybody concerned, and threatened to make them pay for every bit of damage done. His warnings fell upon deaf ears, whereupon he changed his attitude and offered to bet odds on McHague.

The first blow had not been struck when Big Jim Mott came in. He took in the situation at a glance and shoved his huge bulk between them.

“Here, here!” he grunted. “What the —— is going on? What’s all the trouble about, Smith?”

“Ask McHague,” grinned Bill. “He tried to fire the first shot.”

“Oh, ——, the party’s ruined!” wailed Slim.

He crossed the room, picked up McHague’s gun and gave it to him. McHague shoved it down in his pocket, glared balefully at Bill Smith and strode out of the saloon.

After a moment’s indecision Big Jim turned and followed him outside, catching up with him half-way across the street.

“That’s Tex Rowland’s friend,” said Big Jim. “He’s the one I told you about, Mac.”

“——, don’t I know it?” snarled McHague. “That’s what it was all about. I’ll shoot the liver out of him if he monkeys with me.”

“Well, you better do it from ambush,” advised Big Jim. “He’s got the punch of an army mule, and he don’t wear that gun as a decoration.”

“The other one took my gun away from me.”

“Then you better thank him the first chance you get, because he probably saved your life.”

“These —— cowpunchers can’t run no sandy on me, Mott.”

“All right, Mac.”

“You’re —— right, it’s all right!”

McHague turned away and went into the hotel. Big Jim looked after him, a scowl on his face. Then he turned and went diagonally down the street toward the bank.

Over in the saloon Slim leaned back against the bar, roweling a spur thoughtfully against the rail, while Bill Smith faced the bar, as he rolled a cigaret.

“That’s what I call stickin’ up for a friend,” said Slim thoughtfully. “I helped send him over the road. ——, there wasn’t nothin’ else I could do, under the circumstances. I s’pose he’s got them there bloodhounds over here to try and nose out old Tex, eh?”

“Looks like it, Slim.”

“Uh-huh. Thousand dollars apiece, eh? Well, I ain’t got nothin’ again’ them flappy-eared, sad-eyed pups, but, by the horns on the moon, they better not start snifflin’ around too much.”

“They won’t do much,” said Bill softly. “Let’s me and you ride out to the Paint Pot and see how much disinfectant the danged old place needs.”

They went out to the hitch-rack, mounted their horses and rode away. Bill Smith was not very optimistic over his new job. He did not like the idea of retaining Mike John and Mose Dickey, the two half-breeds. In fact, he did not like the idea of going to work for Big Jim as a manager.

“Well, that gives Big Jim control of every ranch in the Antelope,” declared Slim. “The Paint Pot was the last one to fall. If he could buy out Rainbow Valley, he’d have some range, Bill.”

“He’ll never get that place,” declared Bill. “McPherson would rather die than to see Big Jim own Rainbow.”

They were opposite the XO-Bar-5 and almost to the forks, where one road led to Rainbow Valley and the other to the Paint Pot, when they met Lohman, the sheriff, Biddy Toole and Dick Clarey, riding furiously toward town.

They drew up in a cloud of dust.

“What’s all the rush?” asked Slim, as the three lathering horses danced nervously from their run.

“Old Rory has been shot and badly hurt,” explained the sheriff, trying to hold his horse on the road.

“Old Rory McPherson?” blurted Bill Smith. “How did it happen?”

“We don’t know,” Lohman swore at his horse, pulling it around against Biddy Toole’s horse. “Old Rory and his daughter were at Welcome all night. You know about Big Jim demanding her arrest, don’t yuh?”

“Well, they came in and stayed all night. Old Rory put up her bond and they started back this mornin’. About two hours later I got a wire from Antelope to come down and join forces with some officers from the penitentiary; and I finds old Rory on the road.

“He’s been shot through the body and is in pretty bad shape. We fixed him up as much as possible and we’re after a doctor right now.”

“But what about Della?” asked Slim anxiously. “Didn’t she——”

“That’s what we don’t know,” said Biddy helplessly. “She ain’t never come home.”

“And she wouldn’t go away and leave the old man,” added Dick.

“It’s a —— or a mixup somewhere,” declared Lohman. “And it looks to me like whoever shot the old man took her along with ’em.”

“Nobody would dare to do that,” declared Bill Smith thickly.

“Wouldn’t they?” Thus Dick Clarey bitterly. “Don’t fool yourself, stranger. C’mon, Lohman.”

They spurred on, leaving Slim and Bill staring after them.

Bill turned in his saddle, staring blindly up the road, trying to figure out just what to do; trying to realize that some one had stolen Della Marsh.

Far off to the west were the broken heights of the Wild Horse Range, showing almost black in the sunlight. Bill Smith knew those mountains; knew them better than any one in the country. There were few trails, and much of it was impassable.

Beyond the mesas lived the wild goat and big-horn sheep. Bill Smith, when he was Tex Rowland, hunted them on the rocky ledges above the purple chasms, and he knew that there were places in those cliffs where one man could stand off an army.

“That’s where she’d be,” said Slim, answering Bill’s unspoken question. “The —— himself couldn’t track anybody there.”

“I know it, Slim. C’m’on.”

Bill spurred ahead and Slim swung in behind him, wondering where Bill was going. Straight to the Paint Pot ranch they went, with both horses almost collapsing as they drew up at the front of the ranch-house.

Mike John came out to them, his wide face and black eyes expressionless, although a trifle suspicious of their speedy arrival.

“Where’s Pablo?” asked Bill.

Mike John squinted thoughtfully and shook his head.

“Pablo gone.”

“Where’s Mose Dickey?”

“Down by corral.”

“Where’s Pokey?”

“Go with Pablo.”

“Uh-huh,” Bill glanced around quickly. “When did Pablo and Pokey leave here?”

“Yes’day. No come back, I s’pose.”

“You suppose not, eh? Where did they go?”

“Long way, I s’pose.”

“All right. I’m new boss here, Mike.”

Mike grinned slightly. Then he spat and nodded.

“All right,” he said. “I don’ give——”

Mose Dickey came waddling up from the corral and joined them. His face was as expressionless as Mike John’s, but he grinned when the two cowpunchers spoke pleasantly to him.

“Did you hear the quarrel between Pablo and Big Jim?” asked Bill, suddenly inspired with an idea.

The two breeds exchanged quick glances.

“Big Jim told me that Pablo was a thief,” said Bill easily. “I don’t think Pablo is a thief. Big Jim awful mad at Pablo. He says Pablo no good.”

“Um-m-m!” Mike John rumbled throatily. “Big Jim —— fool!”

“That’s what I said,” nodded Bill.

Slim’s long nose was twitching and he wanted to laugh. He did not know what it was all about, but was willing to swear that Bill Smith was right.

“Yeah, he sure is,” agreed Bill heartily. “He tell me that he send Pablo to the prison—mebbe.”

“By ——, no!” exclaimed Mose Dickey angrily.

“You know how much he pay Pablo?” asked Bill. “Big Jim say he give Pablo much money—much gold.”

“—— lie!” snorted Mike. “Big Jim want all money for himself. He no pay Pablo. By ——, no! He tell Pablo, you go to —— away from here. Bimeby somebody put you in jail long time.”

“He told Pablo that?” asked Bill.

“Um-m-m. Big Jim two-tongue. He lie to Pablo.”

“Uh-huh!”

Bill rolled a cigaret slowly. He was learning a lot from the angry half-breeds, without them suspecting that he was pumping them for information. He lighted his cigaret, inhaled deeply and handed the tobacco and papers to Mike John.

“Mike John, do you know who killed Tucson Charley?” asked Bill Smith.

Mike’s eyes lifted from the cigaret-making and bored into those of Bill Smith.

“No,” he said softly. “By ——, I like to know.”

“No horse kill Tucson Charley,” said Mose Dickey. “You go look Tucson Charley; you look at pinto hoof. You know. We see you. Pablo say you look see. What you find out?”

“Didn’t a horse kill Tucson Charley?” asked Slim.

“No, Slim. That pinto was barefooted. Tucson Charley might have been kicked by a sharp-shod horse, but not by a clean hoof. A barefooted horse could kill a man, but couldn’t leave a wound like that. It looked to me like it had been done with a six-gun barrel, or some heavy instrument.”

“I seeum,” said Mike John. “Too much cut for bare hoof. That pintado no kick. Broke plenty. I see you throw hat—horse no kick.”

“That’s right,” smiled Bill. “And if that pinto was a kicker he’d ’a’ kicked Tucson more than once.”

“But who in —— would kill him?” queried Slim. “Tucson never done anything to anybody.”

“Tucson good boy,” nodded Mose Dickey sadly. “He goin’ marry Alice Spotted Horse. Now can’t do.”

“Not very well,” admitted Bill dryly. “You remember the day Tucson was killed?”

“—— right!” grunted Mike John. “Pablo and Tucson go to Antelope. Pablo go get money from Big Jim. Pablo pay Tucson in Antelope. Pablo come home bimeby. Nex’ day Tucson come home dead.”

“That’s how it was, eh?”

Bill grew thoughtful. There was not much of a clue in that.

“What Big Jim’s girl do here that day?” queried Mose.

“Is she Big Jim’s girl?” asked Slim.

“—— right. Big Jim marry her—mebbe.”

“Mebbe,” grinned Bill Smith.

“Why she come?” persisted Mose.

“You remember Tex Rowland?” asked Bill.

“—— right!”

“All right.”

Bill squatted on his heels and drew out his tobacco. The others squatted with him and watched his fingers as he deftly rolled a cigarette and handed the sack around the circle. Then:

“Tex Rowland write letter to that girl. You sabe?”

The two breeds nodded quickly.

“Tex Rowland give letter to Tucson Charley and tell him to give to girl. Tucson give letter to girl; sabe? She write on same letter and give back to Tucson Charley. She tell him to give it to Tex Rowland. Tucson Charley put letter in pocket. Then he drink too much and somebody kill him. Letter gone. That’s what girl was out here to get. She wanted the letter. Now you sabe?”

“Somebody take letter?” queried Mike John.

“Yeah!”

“Tex Rowland give Tucson Charley letter? Tex Rowland in town?”

Bill laughed softly—

“Looks like it, Mike.”

“You think Tex Rowland kill Tucson Charley?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Um-m-m.”

Mike John inhaled deeply, letting the smoke curl slowly out of his wide nostrils. Then—

“If Tex Rowland give Tucson Charley letter—Tex Rowland kill Tucson Charley, so Tucson no tell where Tex hide.”

“By ——, that so!” Mose said explosively.

Bill got to his feet, a grin on his lips.

“Mike, have you got two good saddlehorses handy?”

“Two —— good pinto. You want.”

“Bring ’em out, will yuh? We’ll slap our hulls on ’em, Slim. I reckon our broncs are about run to a frazzle.”

The two breeds trotted down to the corral where several painted horses were dozing in the shade, while Slim and Bill yanked the saddles off their sweat-stained animals and let them drift away loose.

“How in —— did you know that Big Jim and Pablo had a quarrel, Bill?” queried Slim wonderingly.

“I didn’t. Those breeds are like children, Slim. I just had a hunch that they might have had a quarrel, but I didn’t ask Mike and Mose if they had; I said they had. If I’d ’a’ ask them the question, we’d never found out a thing.”

“Where are we goin’ now?” asked Slim.

“Back to Antelope, cowboy. When I get an idea I’ve got to run it plumb ragged, right away, or I might forget what it was.”

“All right, pardner,” grinned Slim. “Lemme in on the bloody details enough so I’ll sabe when to yank m’ gun.”

“You’ll know when I do, Slim. Here’s the spotted broncs.”

The arrival of the sheriff and the two cowpunchers from the RMP caused plenty of excitement in Antelope. Biddy Toole shoved the doctor into a livery-rig, and they went out of town in a flurry of dust while the sheriff quickly swore in a posse to search the hills for Della Marsh.

The shooting of old Rory McPherson was only a detail compared with the kidnapping of Della Marsh. She was well-known in Antelope, and the sheriff had no trouble of getting more riders than he needed to fill up his posse. In fact, there were several independent detachments started out on their own hook, impatient to put a hangman’s knot under the left ear of the man, or men, who would steal a woman.

Big Jim was not in town, having left an hour or two previously for his ranch. McHague and Failing were there, but making no move to assist in the search. Failing was still half-drunk. The dogs had been locked in a store-room at the hotel, where ever and anon they lifted their voices in wailing lamentations.

Slim and Bill met the sheriff and posse a few miles out of town, but only stopped long enough to ask the sheriff the exact spot where old Rory had been found, before galloping into town and leaving their horses at the Fashion hitch-rack.

The town seemed deserted. There was no one, except the bartender and a couple of drunken old bar-flies, in the Fashion, and the bartender welcomed some one to talk to, bewailing the fact that he was too fat to straddle a horse and join the posse.

Failing and McHague started to come into the place, but McHague caught sight of Bill Smith and changed his mind. Failing came on in and joined them at the bar.

“Lots of excitement in the old town,” he observed. “I never seen folks get so excited over anythin’ in my life.”

“Mebbe you ain’t lived very long,” said Bill slowly. “Anythin’ is liable to happen to yuh, if yuh live long enough. Are you McHague’s hired man?”

“I’m employed by the prison—not by McHague.”

“What’s your job around the prison?” asked Slim.

“Oh, kinda general work. I take care of the dogs most of the time. I’m a trainer of bloodhounds. Whatcha drinkin’?”

They named their choice and the conversation lagged for a while. Then Bill Smith got another idea:

“Bloodhounds must be kinda queer critters, Failing. They ain’t noways savage, are they?”

“Nossir. Bloodhounds are the kindest thing yuh ever seen.”

“Well,” Bill laughed softly, “what’s to stop a man from just adoptin’ one when they’re after him?”

“You sure could, if they were turned loose; but we work ’em on a leash all the time.”

“Oh, that’s the idea, eh? And they can trail anybody by just sniffin’ somethin’ that the person has wore, can’t they?”

“They sure can. Them two dogs are the best you ever seen. I’ve got ’em locked up in that little buildin’ back of the hotel. Can’t take a chance with dogs as valuable as them two. Whatcha drinkin’?”

Bill winked at Slim, and when Failing was not looking they poured their drinks into a cuspidor. Round after round of drinks followed that one, until Failing became goggle-eyed and boastful. Slim and Bill became more sober, while the bartender spoke feelingly of —— fools, who would pay good money for whisky and not drink it. But Failing did not pay any attention. He was having a good time.

“I sure reckon that you’ve got a fine pair of dogs,” agreed Bill Smith, after Failing had almost exhausted his vocal cords in describing some of their feats.

“I didn’t think so much about ’em, at the time,” he explained. “Dogs are just dogs to me, don’tcha know it? But after listenin’ to you, I’d sure like to see ’em ag’in.”

“Well, ——, come on!” gurgled Failing, shoving himself away from the bar. “I’ll show ’em to yuh. I c’n tell yuh lo’s of things ’bout dogs. I’m—I’m shome dogger, y’betcha.”

“Oh, that’s understood,” said Bill. “You’re a wizard. I betcha you know a lot more about dogs than the dogs know about themselves.”

“I don’t wan’ to brag, y’understand,” explained Failing. “I’m modesht, I am; but—c’mon.”

They followed him across the street, assisting him in keeping right side up. There was no sign of McHague, for which Bill was grateful. Failing led them to the rear of the hotel and fumbled with a key until Slim took it away from him and unlocked the door.

The two bloodhounds proceeded to climb all over their keeper and he sat down in the middle of the floor, slapping weakly at them. Slim shut the door behind them, laughing at the drunken Failing trying to protect himself from the dogs.

Then Failing gave it up as a bad job, stretched out on the floor and proceeded to snore raucously. The two dogs sat down on their haunches and looked sadly at him. They merely glanced at Bill, as he snapped the leashes on to their collars, but seemed willing to follow him.

“What’s the idea?” asked Slim.

“We’re goin’ to swipe these dogs, Slim. We’ll likely have to pack ’em in our arms when we get on our broncs.”

“I getcha,” snorted Slim. “We use ’em to trail Della, eh?”

Bill hesitated. There was one thing he had overlooked.

“We’ve got to have somethin’ that she wore, Slim.”

“By golly, that’s right, Bill! Say, she used to work at that little female’s hat-store just down the street, and mebbe they’ve got somethin’ there. You wait here, while I take a look.”

Slim was back in a few minutes, highly elated.

“I got her old apron,” he grinned. “The little female wanted to talk about it, but I didn’t have time. Now what do we do?”

“Get out of town. I hope to gosh that nobody sees us.”

They locked the door behind them, leaving Failing snoring peacefully. The dogs were willing to go fast, but the two cow-punchers snubbed them up close and went carefully back to the street.

There was no one in sight; so they hurried over to the hitch-rack and untied their horses. Both animals objected strenuously to having the bloodhounds hoisted upon them, but the two men were not concerned with the likes and dislikes of the two pinto horses.

As they swung into their saddles some one yelled at them from down the street, and they turned to see McHague running toward them from the hotel, waving his arms.

“Aw, ——!” snorted Slim, shifting the dog’s weight to his left hand and arm. “I s’pose I’ll have to kill this jigger.”

“There’s Big Jim ridin’ in,” chuckled Bill Smith, nodding toward the lower end of the street. “——, we might as well have advertised our departure.”

McHague was still coming, swearing at them for being a pair of thieves. The two pintos twisted and whirled around, anxious to run.

Wham!

Slim’s bullet splatted into the dust in front of McHague, and went pouee-e-eing down the street. McHague stopped so quick that he almost fell on his face. Slim threw up his gun again, but McHague did not wait to see where the next shot would strike.

He whirled and went galloping down the street, losing his hat at the first jump. Slim yipped softly and sent another bullet straight down the street, over McHague’s head. McHague gave one long leap ahead, ducked sidewise and fairly fell over the sidewalk into an alley.

Then the two cowpunchers whirled their pinto mounts around and went galloping out of town, hanging on to the bloodhounds, which threatened to leave them at every jerk of the running horses.

“Yuh missed him both shots, Slim,” yelled Bill, as they swept out through the hills.

“Practise makes perfect,” laughed Slim joyously. “Mebbe I won’t miss him next time.”

Big Jim lost no time in riding up to McHague, who was sitting up in the alley, swearing bitterly. His pants were split at the knees and both of his hands were filled with splinters from the old sidewalk.

“They stole my hounds!” he howled at Big Jim. “That —— friend of Tex Rowland’s swiped my dogs, so I couldn’t use ’em in trailin’ Tex. By —— I’ll send ’em both up for this.”

Big Jim did not sympathize with McHague, who talked rather disjointedly about what he was going to do. Finally he bewailed the fact that the sheriff was out hunting for a kidnapper and that there was nobody to rescue his dogs.

“What in —— are you talking about?” demanded Big Jim.

“Didn’t you hear about it?” queried McHague. “An old jigger named McPherson got shot and they can’t find his daughter. The whole —— town, including the sheriff, is huntin’ for her.”

Big Jim grunted, swung off his horse and strode into the saloon, where he secured the rest of the information from the bartender, who was more than willing to tell all he knew. Big Jim’s jaw tightened as he turned and strode outside.

McHague was waiting outside for him. Big Jim considered him for a moment. Then:

“Go to the livery-stable and get a horse and saddle!” he barked. “Tell ’em to give you a good horse. Ask the stable-man to lend you a pair of chaps, too.”

McHague trotted toward the stable while Big Jim went into the bank, and came out in a minute carrying two rifles in scabbards. He swung on to his horse, rode down to the stable and helped McHague get ready. A few moments later they galloped out of Antelope, heading toward the northern part of the range.

VIII

It was fairly late in the afternoon when Slim and Bill found the spot where old Rory McPherson had been shot. The sheriff and posse had been there judging from the horse-tracks in the dusty road. Both men were almost exhausted from holding the dogs in their arms.

They dismounted and let the dogs sniff at Della’s old apron. Quickly they circled, nosing in the dust, while both men held a leash tightly. After a moment they worked off the side of the road, whining softly.

“The trail was just about ten feet long,” said Slim sadly, as the dogs converged and began circling again.

“She got off her horse, walked this far and got on again,” declared Bill. “But it looks like she went east. My —— that’s an awful country to hunt anybody in.”

“But she can’t ride a horse very far into the Wild Horses,” observed Slim hopefully. “She’ll either walk or be carried by somethin’ besides a horse. What’ll we do, Bill?”

“Pack these —— dogs as far as we can ride and then let ’em hunt for tracks. It’s goin’ to be dark before we can get very far and it looks like a storm.”

Thunder-heads were piling up back of the Wild Horses, but were yet too far away for the two cowpunchers to estimate the path of the storm. They picked up their dogs and rode straight toward the mountains.

“I’ve been up in them mountains in a storm,” said Bill, as he squinted narrowly at the clouds. “There’s a lot of mineral in them cliffs—iron, I reckon—and the way that old lightnin’ can splatter around up there is a caution to cats.”

“You’ve been up there?” queried Slim wonderingly.

Bill Smith bit his lip and shifted the weight of his dog. He had forgotten that Bill Smith was a stranger to that country. He glanced at Slim who was looking straight at him.

“On the other side of the range, Slim,” he said. “They’re the same on both sides.”

“Oh, yeah!”

Slim nodded, but Bill knew that the explanation had not been satisfactory. Several times during that ride toward the mountains, Bill noticed that Slim looked curiously at him.

It was almost dark when they reached the foot of the cliffs, where the mass of slide-rock precluded any further riding on horseback. They dismounted and tied the horses in a jack-pine thicket where they would be protected from rain and wind.

“It’s a —— of a hopeless proposition,” observed Bill sadly. “All we can do is to skirt the slides and hope to —— that these million-dollar hounds will pick up a scent. If it rains hard they won’t be no good to us, ’cause rain will wash out the scent.”

“Miles and miles of it, too,” said Slim hopelessly. “Mebbe we better give it up as a bad job, Bill.”

Bill squinted at the sky which was already overcast. A rumble of thunder came to their ears, but from a great distance. Bill turned and held out his hand to Slim as he said:

“Give me your dog, Slim. You stay here with the horses and wait for me to come back.”

“You aim to go it alone, Bill?” asked Slim.

“Sure.”

“Uh-huh.” Slim scratched the back of his head and spat reflectively. “You know this girl, Bill?”

“I’ve seen her. Why do yuh ask that, Slim?”

“Well,” Slim shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. “You ain’t stuck on her, are yuh, Bill?”

“Mebbe,” Bill smiled softly.

“Me, too,” nodded Slim. “I’ve knowed her a long time, Bill. I reckon I’ve—but yuh see, she’s still stuck on Tex Rowland. We ain’t got a ghost of a chance—we ain’t. Yo’re a good lookin’ sort of a jigger, Bill; but that won’t help yuh none.”

Bill laughed softly and slapped Slim on the back.

“We won’t cut in on Tex Rowland, will we?” queried Slim. “I want her and you want her, but we’ll give Tex a square deal, won’t we, Bill?”

Bill Smith’s eyes softened as he looked into Slim’s honest face. Slim had confessed his love for Della Marsh, but was willing to stand aside for a man he believed to be hiding away from the law; a man he had helped send to prison.

“I just told yuh that so yuh’d know how I stood, Bill,” said Slim slowly.

“All right, pardner,” agreed Bill. “You’re a square-shooter and I’m with yuh. Now, let’s go and find her.”

They gave the hounds another scent of the calico apron before they started off across the slide-rock, traveling north. It was hard going. The light grew more dim each minute and the high walls of the cliffs were like inky towers, reaching into the sky.

The wind whipped into a gale, but as yet there was no rain. It screamed around the cliffs, and the night blotted out the landscape until neither of them was able to see the dogs which clambered over the rocks a few feet ahead of them, still pulling hard on their leash.

High-heeled boots are hardly the proper foot-gear for rocky traveling, even in daylight, and both men were almost exhausted after a mile of slipping and sliding. The storm was nearer now, but the lightning glare was broken by the high cliffs which threw them in the dense shadow.

Then Slim bumped into Bill and grasped him by the arm. They halted together, shielding their faces from the drift of rain which had just blown in. Another glare of lightning lighted up the world beyond them; a glare that held long enough for Bill to see why Slim had stopped him.

Just beyond them, and not over a hundred yards away, was a man on a pinto horse riding parallel with them. They could see him humped in his saddle, forcing the horse against the storm.

The flash faded, leaving them staring into inky blackness. For several moments they stood still, waiting for the next flash which showed the rider still going ahead. The thunder roared like the discharge of a mighty cannon and the rocks jarred heavily.

The two cowpunchers started on; but now they swung to the left and got out of the slide-rock where the traveling was better, but where the force of the storm almost blew them off their feet.

It was impossible to converse except by shouting into each other’s ears. The lightning did not show them the rider now, but they knew he must be still ahead of them; so they put down their heads and staggered on. It was raining harder now and they were getting drenched.

Through a jack-pine thicket they forced their way, skirting the slide-rock, stumbling over rocks, tearing their clothes on the branches of down-timber. Suddenly another flash of lightning sent its blinding glare down across the slopes, and both men stopped short. Just a few feet away stood the pinto, its rump turned toward the wind and rain, its head hanging down.

There was no sign of the rider. Bill and Slim moved close together, edging their way over to the pinto, which stood stock-still and let them make an examination.

“Tied to a snag!” Bill yelled his information into Slim’s ear. “Swing to the right! He must ’a’ gone toward the cliffs.”

They left the pinto and headed back into the land of slide-rock. The lightning gave them intermittent illumination, but between flashes the world was a vast, inky void. The rocks sloped upward, slippery with rain; but the two men and the dogs managed to make a certain progress, however painful.

They halted against the side of the protecting cliffs out of the force of the wind and tried to take stock of their surroundings. They were able to carry on a conversation here. The cliffs still jarred from the thunder, but the storm was working its way down the slopes into Antelope.

“Who in —— was on that pinto?” queried Slim.

“I dunno,” said Bill pantingly, “but I’ll bet he ain’t up here for his health. The question is: Where did he go? It’s a cinch he didn’t go down-hill. Let’s pesticate along here, Slim.”

“All right. I’ll betcha these here dogs won’t be worth no thousand dollars when we get through with ’em. I’ve stepped on mine seven times.”

“They’re sure as —— a patient animal,” laughed Bill. “If I ever want a dog that don’t care what happens to ’em, I’ll get me a bloodhound. C’m’on.”

Slowly they worked their way along the side of the cliff. It was difficult traveling, because they could not tell when a mis-step might drop them off into a fissure or on to a lower level. At times they were against the wall of rock, and at another they were forced to move away to circle an obstruction.

They had traveled possibly fifty yards and were working their way around a shelf of rock, when Slim’s voice arose in anger:

“C’m’on, you danged flop-eared mongrel! Where do yuh think yo’re goin’, anyway?”

“What’s the matter with him?” yelled Bill, who was slightly in the lead.

“Anchored, b’gosh! Whoa, you darned fool!”

The dog was pulling back on the leash and Slim almost fell down in turning around on a slippery rock. Bill came back and they went up to the dog. The other hound whined and managed to tangle the leash around Bill’s legs in its eagerness to get in on the situation.

“My dog’s hit a trail!” exclaimed Slim. “C’m’on, Bill!”

Bill untangled the leash and the hound immediately shot in past Slim.

“I wish t’ gosh I could see somethin’,” complained Slim. “I can feel this darned dog, but I can’t see him. I tell yuh he’s got a trail.”

“Mine’s got the fever, too!” exclaimed Bill. “Go to it, pup!”

Slowly they worked their way into what seemed to be a narrow passageway into the cliffs. At times they could feel the right-hand walls and again they would collide with those on the left side.

The dogs swung to the right for a distance and then to the left. The thunder had almost died away in the distance now and there was little sound, except the gurgle of running water off the rocks and the scrape of their boots, as they wended their way into a place where neither of them had ever been.

“It’s gettin’ wider out here,” said Slim, as they halted for a few moments. “I can feel it, Bill. That must ’a’ been a narrow gorge through there, don’tcha think?”

“Sure felt like it. Is your dog doin’ any pullin’ now?”

“Not so much. He sure was smellin’ somethin’ though. This must ’a’ been where the pinto rider came through. I’ll be danged if I like this idea of runnin’ blind in this place. Yuh never can tell what you’ll fall into. Didja ever see such a storm in your life? Honest to gosh, I got scared of that lightnin’.”

It was dark and dismal in there now, and a cold wind began to blow through their wet clothes. Both of the hounds were casting about, trying to locate a trail which had probably been washed out in the downpour of rain.

“We hit that trail where it was protected from the rain,” said Bill thoughtfully. “Now we’ve got to go by guess and by gosh.”

“Looks like it,” agreed Slim wearily, sloshing in his wet boots. “I don’t mind goin’, if I’ve got somewhere to go.”

They were staring into the black world ahead of them when suddenly there appeared a tiny light. It was impossible for them to tell what it was or how far it was away.

“Now that beats ——!” muttered Slim. “Looks like a light in a house; but there ain’t——!”

“It went out for a moment,” interrupted Bill. “There, it’s on again. It’s a light in a house, Slim; and somebody walked between the light and us.”

“But what house?” complained Slim. “There ain’t no house up here.”

“There she goes!” grunted Bill.

“By gosh, it is a house!” exploded Slim. “They done pulled down the curtain.”

“It’s a house all right,” muttered Bill. “I think they put out the light instead of pullin’ down a curtain. Let’s see if we can find a place to hang up for the night. I’ve got a idea that said house wouldn’t be a-tall friendly to us, Slim. It’s in a place where honest men wouldn’t pick for a home; and the best thing we can do is to wait until mornin’ before doin’ a lot of investigatin’. I reckon it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“You sure handled my idea to a gnat’s whisker,” agreed Slim. “But I dunno where we’ll find a bood-wah in these rocks. My gosh, this country sure has been laundered to the queen’s taste.”

They moved slowly on, feeling their way along, but working their way to the right of where they had seen the lighted window. Suddenly Slim gave a grunt of satisfaction.

“Found a place,” he said. “Bumped my head on it, too. Feels kinda dry.”

A closer investigation disclosed the fact that Slim had found a spot where an overhanging cliff had protected a few square feet of ground in an angle of the rocks. It was not an ideal place to spend the night, but it was dry and offered refuge from the wind, which blew cold from the tops of the Wild Horse range.

The hounds curled up in the corner, while the two cowpunchers sat close together, denying themselves a cigaret, and waited for morning. They were tired, wet and hungry, but neither complained.

“We’ll prob’ly warm up in the mornin’,” said Bill meaningly, as they humped dismally against the rock.

“Not me,” replied Slim. “I may get excited as ——, but I’ll never get warm ag’in. This is what you’d call a damp-cold. I’m sure goin’ to kick —— out of these million-dollar dogs if they just led us in here to get out of the wet.”

It was a long night. The wind grew colder and an occasional flurry of rain whipped into their shelter. Neither of them were able to sleep more than a few minutes at a time. A wild-cat almost ran into them, squalling with anger and alarm as it sprang away from the sudden scent of human beings and dogs. Down the wind came the wailing of a coyote pack, baffled in their nightly hunt by the extreme darkness.

Daylight came slowly and the morning mists of the cañon lifted like steam from a giant boiler. They tied the dogs to a fallen tree and began working their way up the cañon. The mist was so heavy that they were unable to see any distance, but it was much easier traveling than it had been in the dark.

Through rifts in the mist they could see the cliffs ahead of them. There was much down-timber, laurel and jack-pines, which impeded their progress. Then, through a pocket in the mist, Bill Smith caught a glimpse of the cabin.

It was situated in an angle of the cliffs across the canon from them, about fifty feet higher than they were standing. It was only a glimpse, but it gave him the exact location and a fair idea of how to reach there.

“We’ll have to hurry,” he told Slim. “This fog won’t last much longer and there’s nothin’ but rocks for cover between here and there.”

“Got to get within six-gun range, that’s a cinch,” panted Slim. “You lead the way, Willyum.”

Across the slippery rocks they made their way, working to the right of the cabin with the intention of approaching it from the rear. They reached the cliffs and began working around to the left. The mists from the lower canon were rising up past them now and they were unable to see anything.

Suddenly Bill stopped. Just in front of him was the corner of the cabin; so close, in fact, that he had almost bumped his head on one of the projecting logs. Slim moved in beside him and they silently studied their next move.

“We’ll try the rear,” whispered Bill softly. “Go easy and keep your gun handy.”

Slowly they worked their way between the cliff and the cabin, which were so close together that there was barely room for a person to walk. There they found a door, located just beyond the center of the cabin, which seemed to be about thirty feet in length.

For several moments they listened closely at the door, but there was no sound from within. Bill pushed softly against the door and it creaked open.

From within came the odors of cooked food and the smell of wood-smoke, but no one challenged their right to open the door. Cautiously they peered inside.

It was a two-room cabin, rudely furnished. They stepped softly inside, their guns handy. Across the room was a double-decked bunk, built into the corner of the wall. There was a crudely built table and a low stool. The flooring of the cabin was of packed earth—uneven and unclean.

The opening between the two rooms was a sawed-out space, about five feet by three feet, without either door or curtain. In the other room they found another double-decked bunk, a fireplace, table and two rough benches. The dirt roof of the cabin was not water-proof, judging from the little pools of water in the low places of the dirt floor.

A once-gaudy blanket hung over the edge of the upper bunk, and a tumbled mass of old blankets in the lower bunk attested to the fact that some one had spent the night there. The room was warm, although the fire had been put out. Evidently some one had thrown a bucketful of water into the fireplace.

There was a front door, roughly made of hand-hewn timber, and beside it was a small window aperture, sans window, but with a hinged board which would lift to show a view of the canon. There were several apertures between the logs left, no doubt, for loop-holes.

Bill peered out through one of these apertures, jerked back and whirled on Slim who was reaching for that door.

“Two men comin’!” he exclaimed in a whisper. “C’m’on!”

They darted into the other room and stopped near the door.

“How close are they?” whispered Slim.

“Right up to us,” whispered Bill softly. “Let’s take a chance.”

He stepped across the room, climbed to the upper bunk, while Slim followed him. The bunk was fairly high and by crowding against the wall they would be partly hid from any one below.

They had barely stretched out when they heard the front door open. There was no sound for several moments; then they heard a soft footstep. Some one had come to the opening between the two rooms. Then big Jim Mott’s voice said—

“Nobody around here, but they’ve been here a short time ago.”

“—— place I ever tried to get to,” complained McHague’s voice wearily. “I hope to —— I never have to crawl over them wet rocks again. I don’t see how you ever found it, Jim.”

“Knowing where it was helped me,” laughed Big Jim.

“Well, it’s sure —— well hid,” declared

McHague. “Don’t anybody know where it is?”

“Nobody but Pablo and his gang. I’ve been here twice. Pablo built it a year or so ago.”

“Regular rustler’s roost, eh?” grunted McHague.

“Yes. Pablo wanted a place to hole-up in. He’s afraid of the law.” Big Jim laughed.

“Well, what did you expect to find here—the girl?” asked McHague.

“Perhaps.”

He turned back toward the door and they splashed through the puddles on the floor.

Slim and Bill raised up slightly and looked at each other. Slim’s lips framed an “Oh!”, but there was no sound. McHague and Big Jim were talking softly to each other. The back door creaked very slightly and Bill lifted his head, peering with one eye.

The door had swung partly open, disclosing Pablo, a rifle gripped in both hands. Softly he slipped through the doorway with the rifle at his shoulder. He passed out of Bill’s vision, and a moment later his voice hissed softly—

“Not move—please!”

For several moments there was no sound. Then:

“Drop guns on floor,” ordered Pablo.

The front door creaked and Big Jim’s voice rasped angrily:

“The whole works, eh? Pokey Speed and Mike John.”

“—— right!” grunted Mike John’s voice.

An interval of silence, except for shuffling feet, before Pablo spoke again—

“You got all gun, Mike?”

“—— right.”

“Set down,” ordered Pablo.

“What’s all this about?” queried McHague, a note of fear in his voice. “I thought you owned this bunch of breeds, Jim.”

“No more,” said Pablo quickly, and his statement was echoed by Mike John’s—

“—— right!”

“Well, what are you going to do?” demanded Big Jim.

“You in hurry?” asked Pokey Speed in an amused voice.

“Nobody see you come,” stated Pablo. “Nobody know how to find this place. Why you come, Big Jim?”

“You know —— well why I came,” retorted Big Jim.

Pablo laughed.

“I know why. Mike John see you pass ranch last night. He come and tell me.”

Slim and Bill exchanged glances of understanding. It was Mike John on the pinto in the lightning glare. He had come to tell Pablo that Big Jim was coming.

“He must ’a’ had a swell time,” grunted McHague dismally. “I never seen a storm like that before in my life. By ——, it just blew us off the mountain.”

“Nobody find this place,” said Pablo.

“Don’t fool yourself,” said Big Jim quickly.

“You tell?”

There was menace in Pablo’s voice.

“He lie,” declared Mike John. “He try scare you, Pablo.”

“Oh, ——!” snorted McHague. “What’s it all about, anyway?”

“I know you,” said Pablo. “You boss of prison, eh? Big Jim say you take me to prison. He say I get to —— out of here, or I go to prison.”

“That’s right,” agreed McHague.

“—— wrong!” snorted Mike John.

“You’ll go to prison, if I ever tell on you, Pablo,” declared Big Jim warningly. Pablo laughed.

“You not tell, Big Jim.”

“—— right!” added Mike John. “You no talk now.”

“Hey! What the ——’s all this about?” McHague’s voice was filled with apprehension.

“Set down!” snapped Pablo, “I’m boss now.”

“Well, I never done nothin’ to you.”

“You never have chance.”

The three half-breeds laughed. Slim and Bill were sitting up in the bunk now, looking at each other wonderingly. They were hearing things that made them wonder.

“Where is that girl?” demanded Big Jim.

“You think I’m fool?” queried Pablo. “I work for you long time, Big Jim. I’m ’fraid of you. You tell me you send me to prison. Pablo scare at prison.”

“You bet I’ll send you to prison. You try to double-cross me and you’ll sure go up for life. You got off pretty easy when they sent Old Hump Sherrill to prison, Pablo. You know —— well it was your work—not Hump Sherrill’s.”

Pablo did not reply. Bill Smith shut his jaw tightly and the ball of his thumb caressed the hammer of his big six-gun. Now he knew that poor Old Hump had been framed into prison.

“And it’s a wonder they didn’t get you instead of Tex Rowland,” continued Big Jim. “Tex scared you away before you could brand that RMP mare, and it just happened that Crane and Slim found him inside the corral.”

“I steal horse for you,” said Pablo accusingly. “You give me nothin’. You say all the time you send me to prison if I no do this.”

Slim swore softly and nodded at Bill Smith.

“I no go to prison,” said Pablo. “I fool you.”

“Well, what are you going to do?” demanded Big Jim.

“I know you come here,” exclaimed Pablo. “You know this place.”

Big Jim swore heartily and Pablo grunted for him to sit still.

“I steal girl,” confessed Pablo. “She your girl, Big Jim. You call me Injun snake and say you have me hung; so I get even with you now. You know I steal girl; so you come here. I know you come here.”

“—— smart!” grunted Mike John in appreciation.

“This is a —— of a mix-up,” declared McHague. “I dunno why yuh dragged me into it, Jim. I’ve done your dirty work, too.”

“Shut up!” snapped Big Jim. “You’re still alive.”

And then to Pablo:

“How much you want, Pablo? How much money?”

“No money.”

“No money, eh? Then what do you want?”

“You wait see.”

“—— right.” Mike John laughed loudly.

“You shot old Rory McPherson,” accused Big Jim.

“You tell me sometime I shoot him,” retorted Pablo. “I no shoot him for you; I shoot him to steal girl. Him old man—die pretty soon, anyway.”

“That’s kinda cold-blooded,” observed McHague.

“You shut up,” ordered Pablo. “You go to —— pretty soon.”

“Say, you ain’t sore at me,” wailed McHague. “I never done nothin’ to you, Pablo.”

“You bring hounds to hunt men.”

“But I wasn’t huntin’ you, Pablo. You’re Big Jim’s friend.”

“That —— lie!” exclaimed Mike John.

“This is all foolishness,” declared Big Jim. “Pablo, you turn that girl over to us and get out of the country. If you stay here, they’ll hang you in spite of anything I can do. Don’t yuh know what it means to steal a girl?”

“Girl all right,” stated Pablo. “I no want girl. I steal her to make you come. She no get hurt.”

“But what do you want of me?” demanded Big Jim hotly.

Pablo laughed.

“You not smart man; you —— fool. Bimeby the wolf find this cabin. Door open, nobody live here. You no send Pablo to prison, Big Jim. Pablo treat wolf. How you like that?”

Big Jim laughed, but there was no mirth. He was afraid, and the half-breeds knew it.

“You couldn’t kill me,” said Big Jim, trying to be boastful. “You’re afraid, Pablo. They’d get you pretty quick. Those hounds would trail you into ——, you dirty half-breed.”

“Mebbe I no kill you.”

Pablo’s voice did not show indecision. He spoke gutturally, and a moment later Slim and Bill ducked down as Mike John glided past their bunk and went out the rear door.

“Listen to me, Pablo,” Big Jim was talking again. “You let up on all this foolishness and save your own hide. Turn the girl over to us and we’ll swear to let you have a chance to get out of the country safe. If you stay here they’ll skin you alive.”

“Mebbe. I take chance. You lie plenty to me, Big Jim. Pablo no go to prison.”

“But what about me?” queried McHague. “I ain’t got nothin’ to do with this. I don’t even belong in this country. You ain’t got nothin’ against me, Pablo.”

“You have bad luck,” replied Pablo. “You know too much—see too much.”

“——, I won’t never say a word,” promised McHague, pleadingly. “I want to get out of here.”

“Where you want go, eh?”

“Back where I came from, by ——!”

“Where your dogs?”

“Stolen. Slim Whelan and Bill Smith stole ’em. They wanted to keep me from trailin’ Tex Rowland.”

Pablo laughed throatily.

“Steal your dogs, eh? Bill Smith. By ——, that good! Ho, ho, ho, ho!”

A moment later the rear door creaked open and Bill Smith almost spoke aloud with surprise. Alice Spotted Horse came in, with Della Marsh close behind her. Behind them came Mike John, closing the door.

Della Marsh was not bound in any way, but she looked weary and bedraggled. She was clad in her riding clothes, which had been torn in spots and covered with dirt. Her hair fell in a tumbled mass about her shoulders.

They passed into the next room. For a moment there was silence and then Big Jim’s voice saying:

“Well, we found you, Della; but it didn’t do us much good. We are prisoners, too.”

Bill Smith grinned when Della ignored Big Jim’s statement.

“What’s the idea of the Injun woman?” asked Big Jim.

“She Alice Spotted Horse,” said Pablo.

“Yes, I know who she is,” said Big Jim. “She works for Crane.”

“She not work for Crane now. She was goin’ marry Tucson Charley. Charley dead now.”

“You —— right!” grunted Mike John. “Tucson Charley dead as ——.”

“I understand all that,” Big Jim growled with impatience.

“You know what kill Tucson Charley?”

“Horse killed him,” growled Big Jim.

“——d lie!” Mike John fairly barked his denial.

“He got drunk and the horse kicked him to death,” declared Big Jim. “Everybody knows that, Pablo.”

“Nobody knows—nobody sees. I sabe what kill Charley.”

“All right.” Big Jim growled angrily. “I don’t see what that has to do with us.”

Bill and Slim were on their knees, trying to poke a hole in the chinking of the partition so they might see what was going on in the other room; but without any success. Pablo was talking now and the two cowpunchers on the upper bunk leaned out across the footboard, and listened closely.

“Tucson Charley have letter from Tex Rowland. He give letter to this girl. She send letter back to Tex Rowland. Somebody kill Tucson Charley. Somebody write that note, Big Jim.”

“Tex Rowland wrote it, didn’t he?”

There was a note of alarm in Big Jim’s voice now.

“Tex Rowland not write it,” declared Pablo. “You want Tex Rowland in prison. You —— glad he go prison. You want girl; you want hurt old man in Rainbow Valley. You no want Tex get loose. You write letter, by ——! You kill Tucson Charley, Big Jim!”

“That’s a lie!” Big Jim yelped his denial. “Why, you dirty half-breed, you lie! Tex Rowland wrote that note. The sheriff has the note now. He—he——”

“Who stole note from Tucson Charley?” demanded Pablo. “Sheriff not steal it. You stole it. Tex Rowland never wrote note.”

“How in —— do you know that?” asked Big Jim hoarsely.

“Tex Rowland not have to write note. Tex Rowland not have to write note to girl when he can see girl.”

“What do you mean?”

Pablo laughed hoarsely, triumphantly.

“Pablo know. Injun see things, Big Jim. Man have ’nother face, but same body. Injun sees man’s hands, man’s legs. Pablo know Tex Rowland. First time no sabe. See man roll cigaret, see man smoke. See man get on horse. Man ride same with one face same as ’nother. Injun see much; white man —— fool.”

“What do you mean, Pablo?” Della Marsh spoke for the first time since she had entered the room.

Pablo laughed softly.

“You know Bill Smith? Mebbe horse kick him, I dunno. Got new face—same body, same hands. Bill Smith same as Tex Rowland. By ——, I laugh all time. Tex Rowland come back to find out.”

“Bill Smith?” Big Jim almost screamed. “You lie! Why, they don’t——”

“Pancho knew him!” cried Della. “That big dog knew him. Where is he, Pablo?”

“And Big Jim killed Tucson Charley,” said Pablo slowly. “I let Alice Spotted Horse know. She come here to pay Big Jim for kill Tucson Charley. She know how. Mike John, you get rope.”

The shock of exposure had over-balanced Bill Smith and Slim Whelan. They had leaned far out, so as not to miss a single word of Pablo’s expose, and the rickety bunk swayed away from the wall.

And before they could throw themselves back, the whole thing ripped away from the wall, swayed outward and came down with a splintering crash on the dirt floor.

Both men were thrown almost across the room, rolling into the wall and clawing wildly for their balance. The crash of the fall had come as a complete surprise to those in the next room; but Big Jim saw in a flash that this was his supreme chance.

Swiftly he dived across the space between himself and Pablo, knocking the breed aside and securing a rifle. He slithered sidewise against the wall, but fell on his knees, striving to swing the gun into position.

But as quick as a cat Pablo flashed through the partition doorway, drawing his gun and knocking Della flat on the floor as he went past her. Pokey Speed threw himself into a crouching position against the wall, his six-shooter spouting lead at the two figures in the other room; while Mike John dropped behind the stunned McHague and tugged at the six-shooter, which had caught in the waist-band of his overalls.

Bullets from Pokey Speed’s gun thudded into the logs over Bill Smith’s head as fast as Pokey could pull the trigger. Pablo had flung himself against the wall, out of line with Pokey Speed’s bullets, and now he swayed back and shot twice at Big Jim in the other room, before the gun went spinning out of his hand when Bill Smith’s first bullet crashed into his elbow.

It was all happening in split seconds. Pablo staggered sidewise and went down against the wall, helpless and harmless. Both Slim and Bill were shooting at Pokey Speed, and he pitched forward on his face. The room was hazy with smoke now. Another gun was still working. Bill rushed to the doorway just as Big Jim’s rifle shot shook the room. Mike John had got to his feet, his back against the wall, his face twisted with pain. Then his head dropped forward and he crumpled.

The smoke blew into Bill Smith’s face as he ducked low and darted into the room. McHague was sprawled face down in the middle of the floor and the door was wide open. Alice Spotted Horse had not moved from her position during the shooting and Della was still sprawled on the floor where Pablo’s shove had landed her.

Bill Smith ran to the door and looked out. There was no sign of Big Jim. He whirled and ran back, meeting Slim in the doorway. The lanky cowboy had been shot through the arm, and his ankle was sprained from his fall; but he had shifted his gun to his left hand and was looking for more trouble.

“Big Jim got away!” panted Bill.

“Out there!” Pablo raised himself up and pointed toward the rear door. “He go up cliff! Hurry up—fast!”

Bill ran out the rear door, looking wildly around. Just to the left was a rocky crevice, which broke in angles up the side of the sheer cliffs. About sixty feet up this crevice was Big Bill, while below him swayed a crude rope ladder. It was Pablo’s getaway to the top of the cliffs.

Big Bill still clung to his rifle. He was having difficulty with the tangled ropes. Bill steadied himself against the back of the cabin and lifted his gun.

“Stop!” he yelled hoarsely. “Don’t move, Big Jim!”

The big man twisted around and looked at the man below him. Big Jim had been shot, but there was still fight left in him. He swung his back against the side of the cliff and fired the rifle in one hand; but the bullet merely screamed off the rocks twenty feet away from his target.

Bill Smith lifted his gun slowly as Big Jim worked frantically to lever another cartridge into the chamber of his rifle. But before Bill could pull the trigger of his six-shooter his ears were almost deafened by the crash of a shot, fired just past his head. He whirled quickly. In the doorway beside him stood Alice Spotted Horse, a smoking rifle in her hands, looking up at Big Jim, who slowly let go with his hands and fell out his entire length and crashed against the cliff, hanging by one foot which had become entangled in the ropes.

Bill Smith shut his eyes for a moment, and to his ears came Alice Spotted Horse’s soft exclamation—

“I be ——!”

There were other voices now. Some one was shouting his name. A big, blue dog came rushing through the doorway and almost knocked him down. It was Pancho, his big jaws slavering as he fairly moaned with excitement.

A moment later Biddy Toole and Dick Clarey almost fell out through the doorway and behind them came Lohman, the sheriff.

“My ——, what a clean-up!” exclaimed Lohman. “There’s Big Jim! Holy smoke, tell us about it, Smith.”

“Bill Smith, ——!” Thus Slim painfully, but with a grin on his lips. “Pablo knew him. That’s old Tex, I tell yuh! Where he got his face—I dunno; but it’s old Tex.”

The others stared at him, as at a ghost; their faces showing their unbelief.

“Yeah, I’m Tex Rowland,” said Bill Smith. “I got in a wreck and the doctors made me a new face.”

Della Marsh came out to him, wonderingly, half-afraid. He held out his hand to her, a smile on his face.

“Pancho knew you,” she said slowly. “You can’t fool a dog.”

“Nor a half-breed,” added Slim painfully.

“But what is it all about?” demanded Lohman. “What was all this killing about, Tex?”

Tex turned and walked into the cabin, followed by the questioning three. He looked over the victims. Pokey Speed was dead—riddled with bullets. Mike John’s soul had fled to the happy hunting grounds of his ancestors; but Pablo was able to sit up and scowl defiance at every one.

As they looked at him, McHague rolled over and tried to get up. Biddy Toole helped him to a sitting position against the wall, where he sat limply and goggled at every one.

“Somebody must ’a’ belted him over the head with a gun,” said Biddy. “He’s sure got a lumpy-lookin’ cranium.”

“Mike John hit um,” offered Alice Spotted Horse.

McHague spat painfully and looked around. It took him some time to remember what had happened. Then:

“My ——, that was awful,” he said wearily. “Where’s Big Jim?”

“Big Jim is dead,” said some one.

“Did Pablo kill him?”

“The Injun woman killed him,” said Tex.

“I suppose it’s just as well,” said McHague painfully, as he squinted up at Lohman. “You’re the sheriff?”

“How did you fellers find the way in here?” queried Tex.

“We’ve got Mose Dickey tied up down the hill,” grinned Lohman. “We hunted with the big dog from the RMP and accidentally ran into Mose. He was on his way here, and between what he’d tell us, and what the dog knew about tracks, we got into this hole in the world in time to hear the battle start.”

“Rory told us that Pablo and Pokey shot him and took Della,” said Dick Clarey. “So that’s how we happened to trail Mose. My ——, I can’t hardly believe that you’re Tex.”

“Old Pancho found them bloodhounds,” grinned Biddy. “There ain’t no bloodhounds now. Must be a grudge between Pancho’s breed and them sad-faced animals.”

“Well, who do I arrest, Tex?” queried Lohman foolishly. “I’m still thinkin’ in circles.”

As swiftly as possible, Tex sketched out what had happened, while McHague nodded dismally.

“That’s all true, I reckon,” he agreed. “Big Jim got the job for me at the penitentiary, and he made me hold up Tex’s mail. He said there was a movement on foot to get Tex pardoned, and he wanted me to fix it so that Tex would never come out. And like a —— fool, I tried it. Old Hump Sherrill ruined the game.”

“I knew that Big Jim was a crook; but I didn’t know he was as bad as this. When I had that trouble with Tex the other day, I had a feelin’ that he—well, I didn’t think he was Tex; but I felt that somethin’ was wrong.”

“I know him,” grinned Pablo. “I’m Injun.”

Lohman jerked his head toward Alice Spotted Horse—

“What about her, Tex?”

“Big Jim killed her sweetheart, Lohman. She only made him pay. I knew that Big Jim was a crook. McHague gave the snap away that night I made my getaway. Big Jim was the only one who could have had that much influence. We’ll consider that Pablo turned State’s evidence, Lohman, and let the law go as easy as possible.”

“But he shot Rory McPherson and kidnapped Miss Marsh.”

“Rory will get well,” said Biddy. “He’s tough.”

“And Pablo didn’t hurt me,” added Della. “He told me that he was just taking me to a place where only Big Jim knew, and that I had nothing to fear. He wanted to trap Big Jim. He thought I was Big Jim’s girl.”

“I think Tex no want her,” explained Pablo quickly. “I’m —— fool, I t’ink.”

“Yuh sure are, Pablo,” smiled Tex, throwing his arm around Della’s shoulders. “You’re a smart Injun; but there’s some things yuh don’t know much about. I’m goin’ to marry her, Pablo. I’m goin’ to do my dangest to get you out of trouble and then I’m goin’ to hire Alice Spotted Horse to cook for us.”

“Another thing,” offered McHague hoarsely. “I happen to know that Big Jim palmed that thousand dollars and only left fifteen hundred in that envelope, Miss. When Crane failed to count it in the bank, it kinda soured his game. He had no way of provin’ that Crane didn’t take it. You can be crooked for a while, but you’re crazy when yuh think that you can get away with it forever.”

Alice Spotted Horse moved in closer to Tex, squinting at him curiously.

“You hire me for cook?” she asked. “I put much sody in biscuit and I kill Big Jim. I plenty bad Injun.”

“I’ll hide the soda and the rifle,” said Tex seriously.

“Um-m-m!”

Alice Spotted Horse looked around at the grinning faces, squinting at each one. Then she rubbed her moccasined toe on the dirt floor and heaved a mighty sigh of relief—

“I be ——!”

Slim limped up to Tex and held out his good hand. For several moments they looked at each other seriously. Then a grin came to their faces and Slim said slowly:

“You know how I felt about it, pardner. Me and Bill Smith will kinda side-step and let old Tex have what belongs to him.”

Their hands gripped tightly for a moment and Slim limped away. Della was looking at him as if she understood, and the other cowpunchers turned away to assist the sheriff in his work. Old Pancho nuzzled Tex’s hand and walked stiffly to the door, where he turned and looked at Tex and Della, as much as to say—

“There’s too many folks looking on.”

“Yuh can take the two pinto horses,” offered Slim. “I’ll use one of the extra ones.”

Tex nodded and they walked out of the door, going down the rocky slope, while ahead of them stalked old Pancho, the dog who was not fooled by a strange face. In the doorway of the cabin stood Pablo, the crippled half-breed, who, like the dog, recognized more than a face. He was grinning in spite of his wounds and what he must face in the future.

Alice Spotted Horse moved in beside him, squinting down the trail. Pablo looked at her closely and touched her on the arm with his uninjured hand.

“You all right,” he said softly. “Bimeby I come to see you, Alice. Sheriff say I no get hung—mebbe. You no got Tucson Charley—I got nobody. You sabe?”

The big Indian woman turned her eyes from the trail and looked intently at the little half-breed. She did not understand at first. She was not very quick to grasp things. Then the ghost of a smile crossed her lips and she half-nodded an affirmative.

“I be ——,” she said.

About This Book

This work is believed to be in the public domain in the United States. Copyright status in other countries may vary; readers outside the US should verify the status in their own jurisdiction.

Originally published by The Ridgway Company in Adventure Magazine, April 30, 1924

Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net).