 CHAPTER XI. The Quest Begins. You know the old place on the other side of the range? Like a book. I got pet names for all the trees. There's a man there I want. Logan? No. His name is Bard. Hmm. Any relation to the old bird that was partners with you back about the year one? I want Anthony Bard brought here," said Drew, entirely overlooking the question. Easy. I can make the trip in a buck-board, and I'll dump him in the back of it. No. We've got to ride here, understand? A dead man, said Nash calmly, ain't much good on a haas. Listen to me, Drew said, his voice lowering to a musical thunder. If you harm a hair on this lad's head, I'll break you in two with my own hands." And then he made a significant gesture, as if he were snapping a twig between his fingers. Nash moistened his lips, then his square, powerful jaw jutted out. Which the general idea is me doing baby talk, and sort of hypnotizing this Bard-vella into coming along? More than that, he's got to be brought here alive, untouched, and placed in that chair tied so he can't move a hand or foot for ten minutes while I talk. Nice quiet day you've got planned for me, Mr. Drew. The gray man considered thoughtfully. Now and then you've told me of a girl at Eldara. I think her name is Sally Fortune. She begins where the rest of the calico leaves off. That sounds familiar, somehow. Well, Steve, you've said that if you had a good start, you think the girl would marry you. I think she might. She pretty fond of you? She knows that if I can't have her, I'm fast enough to keep everyone else away. I see. A process of elimination with you as the eliminator. Rather an odd courtship, Steve? The cow-puncher grew deadly serious. You see, I love her. There ain't no way of bucking out of that. So do nine out of ten of all the boys that have seen her. Which one will she pick? That's the question we all keep asking, because, of all the contrary, freckle-faced devils with the heart of a man and the smile of a woman, Sally has them all beat from the drop of the barrier. One feller has money, another has looks, another has a funny line of talk. But I've got the fastest gun. So Sally sees she's due for a complete outfit of black mourning if she marries any other man while I'm alive. And that keeps her thinking. But if I had the price of a start in the world, why, maybe she'd take a long look at me. Would she call one thousand dollars in cash a start in the world, and your job is forming up my place with twice the salary you have now? Steve Nash wiped his forehead. He said huskily. A joke along this line don't bring no laugh from me, Governor. I mean it, Steve. Get Anthony Bard tied hand and foot into this house, so I can talk to him safely for ten minutes, and you'll have everything I promise. Perhaps more. But that depends. The blunt-fingered hand of Nash stole across the table. If it's a go, shake, Mr. Drew. A mighty hand fell into his, and under the pressure he set his teeth. In other words, he covertly moved his fingers and sighed with relief to see that no permanent harm had been done. Me speak in personal, Mr. Drew. I don't give a lot to seen you when you was riding the range. This Bard. He'll be here before sunset tomorrow. Don't jump to conclusion, Steve. I have an idea that before you count your thousand, you'll think you've been underpaid. That's straight. This Bard something of a man? I can say that without stopping to think. Texas? No. He's a tenderfoot, but he can ride a horse as if he was sewed to the skin, and I have an idea he can do other things up to the same standard. If you can find two or three men who have silent tongues and strong hands, you'd better take them along. I'll pay their wages, and big ones. You can name your price. But Nash was frowning. Now and then I talk to the cards a bit, Mr. Drew, and you'll hear fellers say some pretty rough things about me. But I've never asked for no odds against any man, and I'm not going to start now. You're a hard man, Steve, but so am I. And hard men are the kind I take to. I know that you're the best foreman who ever rode this range, and I know that when you start things you generally finish them. All that I ask is that you bring Bard to me in this house. The way you do it is your own problem, drunk or drugged. I don't care. But get him here, unharmed. Understand? Mr. Drew, you can start figuring what you're going to say to him now. I'll get him here, safe. And then Sally, if money will buy her, you'll have me behind you when you bid. When shall I start? Now. So long then. He rose and passed hastily from the room, leaning forward from his hips like a man who was making a start in a foot race. Straight up the stairs he went to his room, for the foreman lived in the big house of the rancher. There he took a quantity of equipment from a closet and flung it on the bed. Over three selections he lingered long. First was the cartridge belt, and he tried over several with conscientious care until he found the one which received the cartridges with the greatest ease. He could flip them out in the night automatically as a pianist fingers the scale in the dark. Next he examined lariots painfully inch by inch, as though he were going to rope the staunchest steer that ever roamed the range. Already he knew that those ropes were sound and true throughout, but he took no chances now. One of the ropes he discarded, because one or two of the strands in it were, or might be, a trifle frayed. The others he took alternately and whirled with a broad loop standing in the center of the room. Of the set one was a little more supple, a little more durable it seemed. This he selected and coiled swiftly. Last of all he lingered, and longest, over his revolvers. Six in all he set them out in a row, along the bed, and without delay throughout two to begin with. Then he fingered the others, tried their weight and balance, slipped cartridges into the cylinders, and extracted them again, whirled the cylinders, examined the minutest parts of the action. They were all such guns as an expert would have turned over with shining eyes, but finally he threw one aside into the discard. The cylinder revolved just a little too hard. Another was abandoned after much handling of the remaining three, because to the delicate touch of Nash it seemed that the weight of the barrel was a gram more than in the other two. But after this selection it seemed that there was no possible choice between the final two. So he stood in the center of the room, and went through a series of odd gymnastics. Each gun in turn he placed in the holster, and then jerked it out, spinning it on the trigger guard around his second finger, while his left hand shot diagonally across his body and fanned the hammer. Still he could not make his choice, but he would not abandon the effort. It was an old maxim with him, that there was in all the world one gun which was the best of all, and with which even the novice can become a killer. He tried walking away, whirling as he made his draw, and leveling the gun on the doorknob. Then without moving his hand he lowered his head and squinted down the sights. In each case the bead was drawn to a center shot. Last of all he weighed each gun. One seemed a trifle lighter, the nearest shade lighter than the other. This he slipped into the holster, and carried the rest of his apparatus back to the closet from which he had taken it. Still the preparation had not ended. Filling his cartridge belt every cartridge was subject to a rigid inspection. A full half-hour was wasted in this manner. Wasted because he rejected not one of the many he examined. Yet he seemed happier after having made his selection, and went down the stairs humming softly. Out to the barn he went, lantern in hand. This time he made no comparison of the horses, but went directly to an ugly-headed ron, long of leg, vicious of eye, thin shouldered, and with hips that slanted sharply down. No one with knowledge of fine horse-flesh could have looked on this brute without aversion. It did not have even size in its favor. A wild, free spirit, perhaps, might be the reason. But the animal stood with hanging head and pendant lower lip. One eye was closed and the other half open. A blind affection, then, made him go to this horse first of all. No, his greeting was to jerk his knee sharply into the ribs of the ron, which answered with a grunt and swung its head around with bared teeth like an angry dog. Damn your eyes, roared the hoarse voice of Steve Nash. Stand still, or I'll knock you for a goal. The ears of the Mustang flattened, close to its neck, and a devil of hate came up in its eyes. But it stood quiet while Nash went about at a judicious distance, and examined all the vital points. The hooves were sound, and the backbone prominent, but not a high ridge from famine or much hard riding. The indomitable hate in the eyes of the Mustang seemed to please the cow-puncher. It was a struggle to bridle the beast, which was accomplished only by grinding the points of his knuckles into the tender parts of the jowl to make the locked teeth open. In saddling the knee came into play again, wrapping the ribs of the brute repeatedly before the wind, which swelled out the chest of false proportions, was expelled in a sudden grunt, and the cinch whipped up taunt. After that Nash dodged the flying heels, chose his time, and vaulted into the saddle. The Mustang trotted quietly out of the barn. Perhaps he had had his fill of bucking on that treacherous, slippery wood floor, but once outside he turned loose the full assortment of the cattlepony's tricks. It was only ten minutes, but while it lasted the cursing of Nash was loud and steady, mixed with the crack of his murderous quirk against the rones' flanks. The bucking ended as quickly as it had begun, and they started at a long canter over the trail. End of CHAPTER XI. CHAPTER XII. THE FIRST DAY. Mile after mile of the rough trail fell behind him, and still the pony shambled along at a loose trot or a swinging canter. The steep upgrades it took at a steady jog, and where the slopes pitched sharply down it wound among the rocks with a faultless sureness of foot. Only the choice of Nash was well made, and eastern horse of blood over a level course could have covered the same distance in half the time, but it would have broken down after ten miles of that hard trail. Dawn came while they wound over the crest of the ridge, and with the sun in their faces they took the downgrade. It was well into the morning before Nash reached Logan. He forced from his eye the contempt with which all cattlemen feel for sheepherters. I suppose you're here asking after Bard, began Logan without the slightest preamble. Bard? Who's he? Logan considered the other with a sardonic smile. Maybe you've been riding all night just for fun. If you start using your tongue on me, Logan, you'll wear out the snapper on it. I'm on my way to the A-circle Y. Listen, I'm all for old man Drew. You know that. Tell me what Bard has on him. Never heard the name before. Did he rustle a couple of your sheep? Logan went on patiently. I knew something was wrong when Drew was here yesterday, but I didn't think it was as bad as this. What did Drew do yesterday? What did Drew do yesterday? Came up as usual to potter around the old house, I guess. But when he heard about Bard being here, he changed his mind sudden and went home. That's damn queer. What sort of looking feller is this Bard? I don't suppose you know, eh? Queried Logan, ironically? I don't suppose the old man described him before you started, maybe. Logan, you're a poor old homesick maverick. Do you think I'm on somebody's trail? Don't you know I've been through with that sort of game for a hell of a while. When rocks turn into ham and eggs, I'll trust you, Steve. I'll tell you what I done to Bard, anyway. Yesterday, after he found that Drew had been here and gone, he seemed sort of upset. Tried to keep it from me. But I'm too used to judge and changes of the weather to be fooled by any tenderfoot ever used school English. Then he hinted around about learning the way to Eldera, because he knows that town is pretty close to Drew's place, I guess. I told him, sure I did. He should have gone due west, but I sent him south. There is a south trail, only it takes about three days to get to Eldera. Maybe you think that interests me. It don't. Logan overlooked this rejoinder, saying, is it his scalp you're after? Your ideas are like nest eggs, Logan. And you set over them like a hen. They look like eggs. They feel like eggs. But they don't never hatch. That's the way with your ideas. They look all right. They sound all right. But they don't mean nothing. So long. But Logan merely chuckled. He had been long on the range. Nash turned his pony and trotted off in the direction of the A circle Y. The sheepherder called after him. What you say cuts both ways, Steve. This filler bard, he looks like a tenderfoot. He sounds like a tenderfoot. But he ain't a tenderfoot. Feeling that this parting shot gave him the honors of the meeting, he turned away whistling with such spirit that one of his dogs, overhearing, stood still and gazed at his master, with head cocked wisely to one side. His eastern course Nash pursued for a mile or more, and then he swung sharply to the south. He was weary, like his horse, and he made no attempt to start a sudden burst of speed. He let the pony go on at the same tireless jog, clinging like a bulldog to the trail. About midday he sighted a small house cuddled into the hollow of the hills and made toward it. As he dismounted, a tow-headed spindly boy lounged out of the doorway and stood with his hands shoved carelessly in his little overall pockets. Hello, young feller. Hello, stranger. What's a chance of bunking here for three or four hours, and getting a good feed for the hoss? Never better. Give me the hoss. I'll put him in the shed. Feed him grain. No, you won't put him up. I'll tend to that. Looks like a badden. That's it. But a sure goer, eh? Yep. He led the pony into the shed, unsaddled him, and gave him a small feed. The horse first rolled on the dirt floor, and then started methodically on his fodder. Having made sure that his mount was not off his feed, Nash rolled a cigarette and strolled back to the house with the boy. Where's the folks, he asked? Ma's sick a little, and didn't get up to-day. Pause down to the corral, cussin' mad, but I can cook you up some chow. All right, son. I got a dollar here that'll buy you a pretty good store knife. The boy flushed so red that, by contrast, his straw-colored hair seemed positively white. Maybe you want to pay me, he suggested fiercely. Maybe you think we're squatters that run a hotel. Recognizing the true Western breed, even in this small addition, Nash grinned. Speaking man to man, son, I didn't think that. But I thought I'd sort of feel my way, which I'll say you're lucky you didn't try to feel your way with Pa, not the way he's feelin'. In the shack of the house he placed the best chair for Nash, and said about frying ham and making coffee. This with crackers formed the meal. He watched Nash eat for a moment of solemn silence, and then the foreman looked up to catch a meditative chuckle from the youngster. Let me in on the joke, son. Nothing. I was just thinkin' of Pa. What's he sore about? You mount short at poker lately? No. He lost a haas. Ha ha ha. He explained. He lost his only standin' joke, and now the laugh's on him. Nash sipped his coffee and waited. On the mountain desert one does not draw out a narrator with questions. There was a feller come along this morning on a lame horse, the story began. He was a sure enough tenderfoot, leasewise he looked at it, and he talked it, but he wasn't. The familiarity of this description made Steve set up a trifle straighter. Was he a ringer? Maybe. I don't know. Pa meets him at the door and asks him in. What do you think this feller comes back with? The boy paused, to remember, and then, with twinkling eyes, he mimicked. That's very good of you, sir, but I'll only stop to make a trade with you, this horse, and some cash to boot for a durable mount, out of your corral. The brute has gone lame, you see. Pa waited, and scratched his head while these words sort of sunk in. Then he says, very smooth, I'll let you have the best horse I've got, and I won't ask much cash to boot. I began wondering what Pa was driving at, but I didn't say nothing, just held myself together and waited. Look over there to the corral, says Pa, and pointed. There's a horse there that ought to take you wherever you want to go. It's the best horse I've ever had. It was the best horse Pa ever had, too. It was a piebald pinto, called Joe, after my cousin Josiah, who's just a plain badden, and raises hell when there's any excuse. The piebald, he didn't even need an excuse. You see, he's one of them hausses likes company. When he leaves the corral, he likes to have another hauss for a run-and-mate, and he was just as tame as anything. I could ride him. Anybody could ride him. But if you take him outside the bars of the corral without company, first thing he'd done was see if one of the other horses was coming out to join him. When he's seen that he was all laid out to make a trip by himself, he just naturally started to raise hell. Which Joe can raise more hell for his size than any hauss I've ever seen. He's what you call an educated bucker. He don't fool around with no pauses. He just starts in and figures out a situation, and then gets busy sliding the gent that's on him off in the saddle. And he always used to win out. In fact, he was known for it all around these parts. He begun nice and easy, but he worked up to a fiddler play in a favorite piece, and the end was the rider lying on the ground. Whenever the boys round here wanted any excitement, they used to come over and try their hands with Joe. We used to keep a pile of arykna, and stuff like that around to rub them up with, and tame down the bruises after Joe laid them cold on the ground. There wasn't never anybody could ride that hauss when he started out alone. Well, this tenderfoot, he looks over the hauss in the corral, and says, that's a pretty fine mount. Seems to me. What do you want to boot? Ah, $25 is enough, says Pa. All right, says the tenderfoot. Here's the money. And he counts it out and paws hand. He says, what a little beauty. It would be a treat to see him work on a polo field. Pa says, it'd be a treat to see this hauss work anywhere. Then he steps on my foot to make me wipe the grin off my face. Down goes the tenderfoot, and takes his saddle, and flops it on the piebald pinto. And the piebald was just as nice as milk. Then he leads him out of the corral, and gets on. First, the pinto takes a look over his shoulder, like he's waiting for one of his pals among the hausses to come along. But he didn't see none. Then the circus started. And believe me, it was some circus. Joe hadn't had much action for some time. And he must have used that weight, thinking up new ways of raising hell. There ain't enough words in the Bible describe what he done, which maybe you sort of gather that he had to keep on performing, because the tenderfoot was still in the saddle. He was. And he never pulled leather. No, sir, he never touched the buckin' strap, but just sat there with his teeth set and his lips twisted back, the same smile he had when he got into the saddle. But pretty soon, I suppose, Joe had a chance to figure out that it didn't do him no particular harm to be alone. The minute he seen that he stopped fighting and started off at a gallop the way the tenderfoot wanted him to go, which was over there. Damn my eyes, says Pa, and couldn't do nothing about it, but just stand there, repeating that with variations. Because with Joe gone, there wouldn't be no drawn card to get the boys round the house no more. But you're lookin' sort of sleepy, stranger. I am, answered Nash. Well, if you'd seen that show, you wouldn't be thinkin' asleep, not for some time. Maybe not, but the point is I didn't see it. Do you mind if I turn in on that bunk over there? Help yourself, said the boy. What time do you want me to wake you up? Never mind. I wake up automatic. So long, bud. He stretched out on the blankets, and was instantly asleep. End of Chapter 12. Chapter 13 of Trelin by Max Brand. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Rowdy Delaney. Idaho, USA. Chapter 13. A Touch of Crimson. At the end of three hours he awoke sharply, as though an alarm clock were clamoring at his ear. There was no elaborate preparation for renewed activities. A single yawn and stretch, and he was again on his feet. Since the boy was not in sight, he cooked himself an enormous meal, devoured it, and went out to the Mustang. The roan greeted him with a volley of both heels that narrowly missed the head of Nash, but the cow-puncher merely smiled tolerantly. Feeling fit again, eh? Damn your soul, he said, genially. And picking up a bit of board, fallen from the side of the shed, he smote the Mustang mightily along the ribs. The Mustang, as if it recognized the touch of the master, pricked up his ears and sidestepped. The brief rest had filled it with all the old vicious energy. For once more, as they rode clear of the door, there ensued a furious struggle between man and beast. The man won, as always, and the roan, dropping both ears flat against its neck, trotted sullenly out across the hills. In the monotony of the landscape, one mile exactly like another, no landmarks to guide him, no trail to follow, however faintly worn, it was strange to see the cow-puncher strike out through the vast distances of the mountain desert, with as much confidence as if he were traveling on a paved city street. He had no compass to direct him, but he seemed to know his way as surely as the birds know the untracked paths of the air in the seasons of migration. Straight on through the afternoon and during the long evening he kept up his course at the same varying dog-trot until the flesh of sunset faded to a stern gray and the purple hills in the distance turned blue with shadows. Then, catching a glimmer of light on the hillside, he turned toward it and put up for the night. In answer to his call, a big man with a lantern came to the door and raised his light until it shone on a red bald head and a portly figure. His welcome was neither hardy nor cold, hospitality is expected in the mountain desert, so Nash put his horse in the shed and came back to the house. The meal was half over, but two girls immediately set a plate heaped with fried potatoes and bacon and flanked by a mighty cup of jet-black coffee on one side and a pile of yellow biscuits on the other. He nodded to them, grunted by way of expressing thanks, and sat down to eat. Besides the tall father and the rosy-faced mother, the family consisted of two girls, one of them with her hair twisted severely closer her head, wearing a man's blue-cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up to a pair of brown elbows. Evidently she was the boy in the family, and to her fell the duties of performing the innumerable chores of the ranch, for her hands were thick with work, and the tips of her fingers blunted. Also she had that calm, satisfied eye which belongs to the working man who knows that he has earned his meal. Her sister monopolized all the beauty and the grace, not that she was either very pretty or extremely graceful, but she was instinct with the challenge of femininity like a rare scent. It lingered about her, it enveloped her ways, it gave light to her eyes, and made her smile exquisite. Her clothes were not much finer material than her sisters, but they were cut to fit, and a bow of crimson ribbon at her throat was as effective in that environment as the most costly orchids on an evening gown. She was armed in pride this night, talking only to her mother, and then in monosyllables alone. At first it occurred to Steve that his coming made herself conscious, but soon he discovered that the pride was directed at the third man at the table. She at least maintained a pretense of eating, but he made not even a sham sitting miserably, his hard mouth set, his eyes shadowed by a tremendous frown. At length he shoved back his chair with such violence that the table trembled. Well, he rumbled, I guess this lets me out so long. And he strawed heavily from the room. A moment later his cursing came back to them as he rode into the night. "'Takes it kind of hard, Donnie,' said the father. The mother murmured, poor Ralph. "'So you went and done it,' said the mannished girl to her sister. "'What of it?' snapped the other. "'He's too good for you. That's what of it.' Girls' exclaimed the mother anxiously. "'Remember, we got a guest.' "'Oh!' said she, with the strong brown arms. I guess we can't tell him nothing. I guess he had eyes to be seeing what's happened.' She turned calmly to Steve. "'Lizzie turned down, Ralph Borden, poor feller.' "'Sue!' cried the other girl. "'Well, after you done it, are you ashamed to have it talked about? You make me sore. I'll tell a man.' "'That's enough, Sue,' growled her father. "'What's enough? We ain't going to have no more show about this. I had my supper spoiled by it already. I say it's a rotten shame,' broke out Sue, and repeated. "'Ralph's too good for her, and all because of a citydude, a tender foot.' In the extremity of her scorn her voice drawled in a harsh manner. "'Then you take him for yourself, if you can get him,' cried Lizzie. "'I'm sure I don't want him.' Their eyes blazed at each other across the table, and Lizzie, having scored an unexpected point, struck again. "'I think you always had a sort of hankering for Ralph. Oh, I've seen your eyes rollin' at him.' The other girl colored hotly through her tan. "'If I was fond of him, I wouldn't be ashamed to let him know. You can tell the world that. I wouldn't keep him trotting about like a little pet dog till I got tired of him, and give him up for the sake of a green horn who—her voice lowered to a spiteful hiss—kissed you the first time he ever seen you.' In vain Lizzie fought for her control. Her lip trembled, and her voice shook. "'I hate you, Sue.' "'Sue, ain't you ashamed of yourself?' pleaded the mother. "'No, I ain't. Think of it. Here's Ralph, been sweet on Sue for two years, and now she gives him the go-by for a skinny, affected dude like that feller that was here. And he's forgot you already, Liz. The minute he stopped laughing at you for being so easy. Ma, are you going to let Sue talk like this right before a stranger?' "'Sue, you shut up,' commanded the father. "'I don't see nobody that can make me,' said Sue, surly as a grown boy. "'I can't make any more of a fool out of Liz than that tenderfoot mate of her. Did he?' asked Steve, right a piebald Mustang. "'Do you know him?' breathed Lizzie, forgetting the tears of shame which had been gathering in her eyes. "'Nope. Just heard a little about him along the road. What's his name?' Then the girl colored, even before Sue could say spitefully. Didn't he even tell you his name before he kissed you? He did. His name is Tony.' "'Tony?' in deep disgust. "'Well, he's dark enough to be a dago. Maybe he's a foreign count or something, Liz, and he'll take you back to live in some castle or other.' But the girl queried, in spite of her bad-nidge. "'Do you know his name?' His name,' said Nash, thinking that it could do no harm to betray as much as this, is Anthony Bard, I think. And you don't know him? All I know is that the feller who used to own that piebald Mustang is pretty mad and cusses every time he thinks of him. He didn't steal the house. This, with more baited breath than if the question had been, he didn't kill a man, for indeed horse-stealing was the greater crime. Nash would not make such an accusation directly, and therefore he fell back on an innuendo almost as deadly. I don't know,' he said noncommittally, and shrugged his shoulders. With all his soul he was concentrating on the picture of a man who conquered a fighting horse and flirted successfully with a pretty girl the same day, each time riding unswiftly from his conquest. The clues on this trail were surely thick enough, but they were of such a nature that the pleasant mind of Steve grew more and more thoughtful. CHAPTER XIV In fact, so thoughtful had Nash become, that he slept with extraordinary lightness that night, and was up at the first hint of day. Sue appeared on the scene just in time to witness the last act of the usual drama of the bucking on the part of the Rhone, before it settled down to the mechanical dog-trot, with which it would wear out the ceaseless miles of the mountain desert all day and far into the night, if need be. Nash swung more to the right, cutting across the hills, for he presumed that by this time the tender foot must have gotten his bearings, and would head straight for Eldara. It was a stiff two-day journey now, the whole first day's riding, having been worse than a useless detour. So the bulldog jaw set harder and harder, and the keen eyes squinted as if to look into the dim future. Once each day, about noon, when the heat made even the desert, and the men of the desert drowsy, he allowed his imagination to roam freely, counting the thousand dollars over and over again, and tasting again the joys of a double salary. Yet even his hearty imagination rarely rose to the height of Sally Fortune. That hour of dreaming, however, made the day of labor almost pleasant. This time, in the very middle of his dream, he reached the cross-road saloon and general merchandise store of Flanders. So he banished his visions with a compelling shrug of his shoulders, and rode for it at a gala, a hot dryness grew in his throat at every stride. Quick service he was sure to get, for there were not more than a half a dozen cattle-ponies standing in front of the little building, with its rickety walls guiltless of paint save for the one great sign inscribed with uncertain letters. He swung from the saddle, tossed the reins over the head of the Mustang, made a stride forward, and then checked himself with a soft curse, and reached for his gun. For the door of the bar dashed open, and down the steps rushed a tall man with a yellow mustache, so long that it literally blew on either side of his shoulders as he ran. In either hand he carried a revolver, a two-gun man fleeing perhaps from another murder. Furnesh recognized in him a character notorious through a thousand miles of the range. Sandy Ferguson, nicknamed by the color of his famous mustache, which was envied and dreaded so far and so wide. It was not fear that made Nash halt, for otherwise he would have finished the motion and whipped out his gun, but at least it was something closely akin to fear. For that matter there were unmistakable signs in Sandy himself of what would have been called errant terror in any other man. His face was so bloodless that the pallor showed through the leathery tan. One eye stared wildly, the other being sheltered under a clumsy patch which could not quite conceal the ugly bruise beneath. Under his great mustache his lips were puffed and swollen as the lips of a negro. Staggering in his haste he whirled a few paces from the house and turned, his guns leveled. At the same moment the door opened and the perspiring figure of little fat Flanders appeared. Scorn and anger rather than hate or any bloodlust appeared on his face. His right arm, hanging loosely at his side, held a revolver, and he seemed to have the greatest unconcern for the leveled weapons of the gunmen. He made a gesture with his armed hand, and Sandy winced as though a whiplash had flicked him. Steady up, dam your eyes, bellowed Flanders, and put them guns away. Put them up, hear me? To the mortal astonishment of Nash Sandy obeyed, keeping the while a fascinated eye upon the little Dutchman. Now climb on your house and beat it, and if I ever find you in reach again I'll send my kid out to rope you and give you a house-whippen. The gun-fighter lost no time. A single leap carried him into the saddle, and he was off over the sand with a sharp rattle of beating hooves. Well, breathe, Nash, I'll be hanged. Sure you will, suggested Flanders, at once changing his frown for a smile of somewhat professional good nature, as one who greeted an old customer. Sure you will, unless you come in and have a drink on the house. I want something myself to forget what I've been doing. I feel like the dog-catcher. Steve, deeply meditative, strawed into the room. Partner, he said gravely to Flanders, I've always prided myself on having eyes a little better than the next one. But just now I guess I must have been seeing double. Seemed to me that that was Sandy Ferguson that you hot-footed out of the door, or as Sandy got a double. Nope, said the bartender, wiping the last of the perspiration off his forehead. That's Sandy all right. Then give me a big drink. I need it. The bottle spun expertly across the bar, and the glasses tinkled after. Funny about him, all right, nodded Flanders. But then it's happened the same way, with others I could tell you about. As long as he was winning, Sandy was the king of any roost. The minute he lost a fight, he wasn't worth so many pounds of salt-pork. Take a haas. A fine haas is often just the same. Long as it wins, nothing can touch some of them blooded boys. But let them go under the wire second, maybe just because they pack in 20 pounds too much weight. And they're never any good any more. Any second raider can lick them. I lost 500 iron boys on a haas that laid down like that, all of which means, suggested Nash, that Sandy has been licked. Licked? No, he ain't been licked. But he's been plum annihilated, washed off the map, cleaned out, faded, rubbed into the dirt. If there was some stronger way of putting it, I would. Only last night, at that. But now look at him. A girl that never seen a man before could tell that he wasn't any more dangerous than if he was made of putty. But if the fool keeps packing them guns, he's sure to get into trouble. He raised his glass. So here's to the man that Sandy was, and ain't no more. They drank solemnly. Maybe you took the fall out of him yourself, Flanders. Nope, I ain't no fighter, Steve. You know that. The filler that down Sandy was a tender foot. Yep, a green horn. Ah, drawled Nash softly. I thought so. You did? Anyway, let's hear the story. Another drink. On me, Flanders. It was like this. Along about evening of yesterday, Sandy was in here with a couple of the other boys. He was pretty well-lighted. The glow was circulate and promiscuous. In fact, when in comes a filler about your height, Steve, but lighter, good-looking, then face, big, dark eyes like a girl. He carried the signs of a long ride on him. Well, sir, he walks up to the bar and says, Can you make me a very sour lemonade, Mr. bartender? I grabbed the edge of the bar and hung tight. A witch, say I? Lemonade, if you please. I rolled an eye at Sandy, who was standing there with his jaw falling, and then I got busy with the lemons and the squeezer. But pretty soon, Ferguson walked up to the stranger. Are you English, he asks? I knew by his tone what was coming. So I slid the gun, I keep behind the bar closer, and prepared for a lot of damaged crockery. I, says the tender foot, why know what makes you ask? Your damn funny way of talking, says Sandy. Oh, says the green horn, nodding, as if he was thinking this over, and discovered a little truth in it. I suppose the way I talk is a little unusual. A little rotten, says Sandy. Did I hear you asking for a lemonade? You did. Would I seem to be asking too many questions? says Sandy. Terrible polite. If I inquires if bar whiskey ain't good enough for you? The tender foot, he stands there just as easy as you and me are now. And he laughed. He says, the bar whiskey I've tasted around this country is not very good for anyone, unless, perhaps, after a snake has bitten you. Then it works on the principle of poison fight poison, eh? Sandy says, after a minute. I'm the most quietest, gentle, innocent cow-puncher that ever rode the range, but I'd tell a man that it riles me to hear good bar whiskey insulted like this. Look at me. Do I look as if whiskey ain't good for a man? Why, says the tender foot, you look sort of funny to me. He said it as easy as he was passing the morning with Ferguson, but I seen that that was the last straw with Sandy. He hefted out both guns and trained them on the greenhorn. I yelled, Sandy, for God's sake, don't be killing a tender foot. If whiskey will kill him, he's going to die, says Sandy. Flanders, pour out a drink of rye for this gent. I did, though my hand was shaking a lot, and the chap takes the glass and raises it polite and looks at the color of it. I thought he was going to drink and starts wiping the sweat from my forehead. With this chap he sets down the glass and smiles over at Sandy. Listen, he says, still grinning. In the old days I suppose this would have been a pretty bluff, but it won't work with me now. You want me to drink this very bad glass of whiskey, but I'm sure you don't want it badly enough to shoot me. There are many reasons. In the old days a man shot down another and then rode off on his horse and was forgotten, but in these days the telegraph is faster than any horse that was ever fold. They'd be sure to get you, sir, though you might dodge them for a while. And I believe that for crimes such as you threaten, they have recently installed a little electric chair, which is a perfectly good inducer of sleep. In fact, it's better than a cradle. Taking these things all into consideration, I take it for granted that you are bluffing, my friend, and one of my favorite occupations is calling a bluff. You look dangerous, but I have an idea that you're as yellow as your mustache. Sandy, he sort of swelled up all over like a poison dog. He says, I begin to see your style. You want a clean man handling, which suits me uncommon well. With that he lays down his guns, soft and careful, and puts up his fists, and he goes after the other gent. He makes his pass, which should have sent the other gent into kingdom come, but it didn't. No, sir, the tender foot he seemed to evaporate. He wasn't there when the first fist of Ferguson came along. Ferguson he checked up short, and wheeled around and charged again like a bull, and he missed again. And so they kept on playing a sort of game of tag over the place. The stranger just sidestepping, like a prize fighter, the prettiest you ever seen, and not developing when Sandy started one of his swings. At last, one of Sandy's fists grazed him on the shoulder, and sort of peeved him it looked like. He ducks under Sandy's next punch, steps in, and wallops Sandy over the eye. That punch didn't travel more than six inches, but it slams Sandy down in the corner like he's been shot. He was too surprised to be much hurt, though, and drags himself up to his feet, making a pass at his pocket at the same time. Then he came again, silent and thinking of blood, I suppose, with a knife in his hand. This time the tender foot didn't wait. He went in with sort of a hitch step, like a dancer. Ferguson's knife carved air beside the tender foot's head, and then the skinny boy jerked up his right and his left, one-two, into Sandy's mouth. Down he goes again, slumps down as if all the bones in his body was busted, right down on his face. The other feller grabs his shoulder and jerks him over on his back. He stands looking down at him for a moment, and then he says, sort of thoughtful. He isn't badly hurt, but I suppose I shouldn't have hit him twice. Can you beat that, Steve? You can't. When Sandy come to, he got to his feet, wobbling, seen his guns, went over and scooped him up, with the eye of the tender foot on him all the time, scooped him up, stood with him, all poised, and so he backed out through the door. It wasn't any pretty thing to see. The tender foot, he turned to the bar again. If you don't mind, he says, I think I'll switch my order and have that whiskey instead. I seem to need it. Son, I says, there ain't nothing in the house that you can't have for the askin'. Try some of this. And I pulled out a bottle of my private stock. You know the stuff. I've had it twenty-five years, and it was ten years old when I got it. That ain't as much a lie as it sounds. He takes a glass of it, and sips it, sort of suspicious, like a wolf sent in the wind for elk and winter. Then his face lighted up like a lantern had been flashed on it. You'd have thought he was looking his long-lost brother in the eye from the way he smiled at me. He holds the glass up, and lets the light come through it, showin' the little traces and bubbles of oil. May I know your name, he says. It made me feel like rocker-built, hearin' him say that, in that special voice. Me, says I, I'm Flanders. It's an honor to know you, Mr. Flanders, he says. My name is Anthony Bard. We shook hands, and his grip was three-fourths' man, I'll tell the world. Good liquor, he says, is like a fine lady. Only a gentleman can appreciate it. I drink to you, sir. So that's how Sandy Ferguson went under the sod. Today? Well, I couldn't let Ferguson stand in a bar-room where a gentleman had been. Could I? End of Chapter 14, Chapter 15 of Traylon, by Max Brand. Even the stout roan grew weary during the third day, and when they topped the last rise of hills and looked down to the darker shadows in Eldera, in the black heart of the hollow, the Mustang stood with hanging head, and one ear flopped forward. Cruel indeed had been the pace which Nash maintained. Yet they had never been able to overhaul the flying piebald of Anthony Bard. As they trotted down the slope, Nash looked to his equipment, held his revolver, felt the strands of the lariat, and resting only his toes in the stirrups, eased all his muscles to make sure they were uncrammed from the long journey. He was fit. There was no doubt of that. Coming down the main street, for Eldera boasted no fewer than three thoroughfares. The first houses which Nash passed showed no lights. As far as he could see, the blinds were all drawn, not even a glimmer of a candle showed, and the voices which he heard were muffled and low. He thought of plague or some other disaster which might have overtaken the little village, and wiped out nine-tenths of the populous in a day. Only such a thing could account for the silence in Eldera. There should have been bursts and roars of laughter here and there, and now and then a harsh stream of cursing. There should have been clatter of kitchen tins. There should have been naing horses. There should have been the quiver and tingle of children's voices at play in the dusty streets. But there was none of this. The silence was thick and oppressive as the unbroken dark of night. Even Butler's saloon was closed. This, however, was something which he would not believe, no matter what the testimony of his eyes gave him. He rode up to a shuttered window and kicked it with his heel. Only the echoes of that racket replied to him from the interior of the place. He swore, somewhat touched with awe, and kicked again. A faint voice called, Who's there? Steve Nash, what the devils happened to Eldera? The boards of the shutter stirred, opened, so that the man within could look out. Is it Steve? Honest? Damn it, Butler, don't you know my voice? What's turned Eldara into a cemetery? She's right. Butch Conklin and his gang are going to raid the place tonight. Butch Conklin? And Nash whistled long and low. But why the devil don't the boys get together if they know Butch is coming with his gunmen? That's what they've done. Every able-bodied man in town is out in the hills trying to surprise Conklin's gang before they hit town with their guns going. Butler was a one-legged man, so Nash kept back the question which naturally formed in his mind. How do they know Conklin is coming? Who gave the tip? Conklin himself. What? Has he been in town? Right. Came in roaring drunk. Why'd they let him get away again? Because the sheriffs of Bonehead, and because our marshal is solid ivory, that's why. What happened? Butch came in drunk, as I was saying, which he generally is. But he wasn't given no trouble, and nobody felt particular called on to cross him and ask questions. He was real sociable, in fact. That's how the mess was started. Go on. I don't get your drift. Everybody was treating Butch like he was king of the earth, and not passin' out any back-talk, all except one tender-foot. But here, a stream of tremendous profanity burst from Nash. It rose. It rushed on. It seemed an exhaustless vocabulary built up by long practice on mustangs and cattle. At length, is that damn fool in Aldara? Do you know him? No. Anyway, go on. What happened? I was sayin' that Butch was feelin' pretty sociable. It went all right in the bars. He was in here, and didn't do nothin' wrong. Even paid for all the drinks for everybody in the house, which nobody could've asked more, even from a white man. But then Butch got hungry, and went up the street to Sally Fortune's place. A snarl came from Nash. Did they let that swine go in there? Who'd stop him? Would you? I'd try my damnedest. Anyway, he went in and got the center table, and called for ten dollars worth of bacon and eggs, which there hasn't been an egg in Aldara this week. Sally, she told him, not bein' afraid even of Butch. He got pretty sore at that, and said that it was a frame-up, and every one was again him. But finally, he allowed that if she'd sit down to the table, and keep him company, he'd manage to make it. He'd make out on whatever her cook had ready to eat. And Sally done it, groaned Nash? Sure, it was like a dare, and you know Sally. She'd risk her whole place any time for the sake of a bet. I know it, but don't rub it in. She fetched out a steak, and served Butch as if he had been a king, and then sat down beside him, and started kiddin' him along, with all the gang of us sittin' or standin' around and laughin', fit to bust, but not loud, for fear Butch would get annoyed. Then two things come in together, and spoil the prettiest little party that was ever started in Aldara. First was that player piano, which Sally got shipped in, and paid God knows how much for. The second was the greenhorn I was tellin' you about. Go on, said Nash, a little snarl coming back in his voice. Tell me how that tenderfoot walked in, and kicked Butch out of the place. Somebody been tellin' you? No, I'd just been readin' the mind of Aldara. It was a nice play, though. This bard, we found out later, that was his name, walks in, takes a table, and not being served none too quick, he walks over and slips a nickel in the slot of the piano. Out she starts with a piece of rip and rag time. You know, how loud it plays? Butch, he kept on talkin' for a minute, but he couldn't hear himself think. Finally he bellers, who turned that damn tin pan loose? This bard walks up and bows. He says, sir, I came in here to find food, and since I can't get service, I'll take music as a substitute. Them's the words he used, Steve, honest to God. Used him to Butch. Well, Conklin was too flabbergasted to budge, and bard, he leaned over and says to Sally, the floor is fairly smooth, shows you and I dance, till I get a chance to eat. We didn't know whether to laugh or to cheer, but most of us compromised by keepin' an eye on Butch's gun. Sally says, sure, I'll dance, and gets up. Wait, Butch Hollers, are you leavin' me for this wall-eyed galoot? There ain't nothin' Sally loves more in a fight, we all know that, but this time I guess she took pity on the poor tenderfoot, or maybe she just didn't want to get her floor all messed up. Keep your hat on, Butch, she says. All I want to do is give him some motherly advice. If you're acting that part, says bard, calm as you please, I've got to tell mother that she's been keepin' some pretty bad company. Some what? Bellers, Butch? Not believin' his ears? And young bard, he steps around the girl and stands over Butch. Bad company is what I said, he repeats, but maybe I can be convinced. Easy, says Butch, and reaches for his gun. We all dived for the door, but me, being held up on a count of my missing leg, I was slow, and couldn't help see in what happened. Butch was fast, but the young feller was faster. He had Butch by the wrist before the gun came clear. Just gave a little twist, and there he stood with the gun in his hand, pointin' into Butch's face, and Butch sittin' there like a feller in a trance, or wakin' up out of a bad dream. Then he gets up, slow and dignified, though he had enough liquor in him to float a ship. I've been mobbed, he says. It's easy to see that. I come here peaceful and quiet, and here I've been mobbed, but I'm comin' back, boys, and I ain't comin' alone. There was our chance to get him, while he was walkin' out of the place without a gun, but somehow nobody moved for him. He didn't look none too easy, even without his shootin' irons. But he goes into the night, and we stood around starin' at each other. Everybody was upset, except Sally and Bard. He says, Miss Fortune, this is our dance, I think. Excuse me, says Sally, I almost forgot about it. And they started to dance to the piano, waltzin' around among the tables. The rest of us lit out for home, because we knew that Butch would be on his way with his gang before we could get very far under cover. I said, hey, Steve, where you goin'? I'm goin' to get in on that dance, called Nash, and was gone at a racing-gallop down the street. End of Chapter 15. CHAPTER XVI. OF TRAILIN by Max Brand. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. DING by Rowdy Delaney. Idaho, USA. CHAPTER XVI. Bluff. He found no dance in progress, however, but in the otherwise empty eating-place, which Sally owned and ran with her two capable hands, and the assistance of a cook sat Sally herself dining at the same table with the tender-foot, the flirt, the horse-breaker, the tamer of gun-fighters. Nash stood in the shadow of the doorway watching that lean, handsome face with the suggestion of mockery in the eyes, and the trace of sternness around the thin lips. Not a formidable figure, by any means, but since his experiences of the past few days, Nash was grown extremely thoughtful. What he finally thought he caught in the most unusual tender-foot was a certain alertness of a more or less hair-trigger variety. Even now, as he sat at ease at the table, one elbow resting upon it lightly, apparently enwrapped in the converse of Sally fortune, Nash had a consciousness that the other might be on his feet, and in the most distant part of the room within a second. What he noted in the second instant of his observation was that Sally was not at all loathe to waste her time on the stranger. She was eating with a truly formidable conventionality of manner, and a certain grace with which she raised the ponderous coffee-cup, made of crockery guaranteed to resist all falls, struck awe through the heart of the cow-puncher. She was bent on another conquest, beyond all doubt, and that she would not make it never entered the thoughts of Nash. He set his face to banish a natural scowl and advanced with a good-natured smile into the room. Hello, he called. Its old Steve sang out Sally, and whirling from her chair, she advanced at almost a run to meet him, caught him by both hands, and led him to a table next to that at which she had been sitting. It was as gracefully done as if she had been welcoming a brother, but Nash, knowing Sally, understood perfectly that it was only a play to impress the eye of Bard. Nevertheless he was forced to accept it in good part. My old pal Steve Nash said, Sally, and this is Mr. Anthony Bard. Just the faintest accent fell on the mister, but it made Steve wince. He rose and shook hands gravely with the tenderfoot. I stopped at Butler's place down the street, he said, and been here in a pile about a little play you made a while ago. It was about time somebody called old Butch as Bluff. Bluff? cried Sally indignantly. Bluff? queried Bard with a slight raising of the eyebrows? Sure. Bluff? Butch wasn't any more dangerous than a cat with trimmed claws. But I guess you've seen that. He settled down easily in his chair, just as Sally resumed her place opposite Bard. Steve, she said, with a quiet venom, that Bluff of his has been as good as a four of a kind with you for a long time. I never seen you make any play at Butch. She returned amiably. Like to sit here and have a nice social chat, Sally, but I've got to be getting back to the ranch, and in the meantime, I'm sure hungry. At the reminder of business a green light came in the fine blue eyes of Sally. They were her only really fine features. For the nose tilted an engaging trifle, the mouth was a little too generous, the chin so strong it gave in moments of passivity an air of sternness to her face. But sternness was exaggerated as she rose, keeping her glare fixed upon Nash, a thing impossible for him to bear, so he lowered his eyes and engaged in rolling a cigarette. She turned back to Bard. Sorry, I got to go, before I finish eating. But business is business. And sometimes suggested Bard a boar. It was an excellent opening for a quarrel, but Nash was remembering religiously a certain thousand dollars, and also a gesture of William Drew when he seemed to be breaking an imaginary twig. So he merely lighted his cigarette and seemed to have heard nothing. The whole town, he remarked casually, seemed scared stiff by this Butch, but of course he ain't coming back to-night. I suppose, said the tenderfoot after a cold pause, that he will not. But the coldness reacted like the most genial warmth upon Nash. He had chosen a part detestable to himself, but necessary to his business. He must be a grabber for the nonce, a free talker, a chatterer who would cover up all pauses. Kind of strange to ride into a dark town like this, he began. But I could tell you a story about— Oh, Steve! called the voice of Sally from the kitchen. He rose and nodded to Bard. Excuse me, I'll be back in a minute. This answered the other, with a somewhat grim emphasis. In the kitchen, Sally spoke without prelude. What deviltry are you up to now, Steve? Me? He repeated, with eyes widened by innocence. What do you mean, Sally? Don't foreflesh me, Steve. Is eating in your place, deviltry? Am I blind? She answered hotly. Have I got spring halt, maybe? You're too polite, Steve. I can always tell when you're on the way to a little bell of your own making, by the way you get sort of kind and warmed up. What is it now? Kiss me, Sally, and I'll tell you why I came to town. She said, with a touch of color, I'll see you—and then, changing quickly, she slipped inside his ready arms with a smile and tilted up her face. Now what is it, Steve? This, he answered, what do you mean? You know me, Sally. I've worn out the other ways of raising hell, so I thought I'd start a little by coming to Eldara to kiss you. Her open hand cracked sharply twice on his lean face, and she was out of his arms. He followed, laughing, but she armed herself with a red-hot frying-pan and defied him. You ain't even a good sport, Steve. I'm done with you. Kiss you? He said calmly. I see hell is starting—all right. But she changed at once and smiled up at him. I can't stay mad at you, Steve. I suppose it's because of your nerve. I want you to do something for me. What? Is that a way to take it? I've asked you a favor, Steve. He said suspiciously, it's got something to do with that tender foot in the room out there. It was a palpable hit, for she colored sharply. Then she took the bull by the horns. What if it is? Sally, do you mean to tell me you've fallen for that cheap line of lingo he passes out? Steve, don't try to kid me. Why? You know who he is, don't you? Sure—Anthony Bard. And do you know who Anthony Bard is? Well—she asked, with some anxiety. Well, if you don't know, you can find out. That's what the last girl done. She wavered and then blinked her eyes as if she were resolved to shut out the truth. I ask you to do me a favor, Steve. And I will—you know that. I want you to see that Bard gets safe out of this town. Sure—nothing I'd rather do. She tilted her head a little to one side and regarded him wistfully. Are you double-crossing me, Steve? Why do you suspect me? Haven't I said I'd do it? But you said it too easy. The gentleness died in her face. She said sternly, if you do double-cross me, you'll find I'm about as hard as any man on the range. Get me? Shake! Their hands met. After all, he did not guarantee what would happen to the Tenderfoot after they were clear of town. Perhaps this was a distinction a little too fine for the downright mind of a girl. A sea of troubles besieged the mind of Nash. And to let the sea subside he wandered back to the eating-room and found the Tenderfoot finishing his coffee. The latter kept an eye of Frank's suspicion on him. So the silence held for a brooding moment, until Bard asked, Do you know the way to the ranch of William Drew? It was a puzzler to Nash. Was not that his job, to go out and bring the man to Drew's place? Here he was, already on his way. He remembered just in time that the manner of the bringing was decidedly qualified. He said aloud, The way? Sure, I work on Drew's place. Really? Yep, foreman. You don't happen to be going back that way to-night. Not all the way. Part of it. Mind if I went along? Was he to keep you from it? said the cow-puncher, without enthusiasm. By the way, what sort of man is Drew? Don't you know him? No. The reason I want to see him is because I want to get the right to do some er—fishing and hunting on a place of his, on the other side of the range. The place with the old house on it. The place Logan is. Exactly. I also wish to see Logan again. I've got several little things I'd like him to explain. Hmm, grunted Nash without apparent interest. And Drew? He's a big feller. Big and gray. Ah! said the other, and drew a breath as though he were drinking. It seemed to Nash that he had never seen such an unpleasant smile. You'll get what you want out of Drew. He's generous. I hope so, nodded the other with far-off eyes. I've got a lot to ask of him. End of CHAPTER XVII Butch returns. He reminded Nash of some big puma cub warming itself at the hearth like a common tabby cat, a tame puma thrusting out its claws and turning its yellow eyes up to its owner—tame, but with infinite possibilities for danger. For the information which Nash had given seemed to remove all distrust of the moment before, and he became instantly genial, pleasant. In fact, he voiced this sentiment with a disarming frankness immediately. Perhaps I've seemed to carry a chip on my shoulder, Mr. Nash. You see, I'm not long in the West, and people I've met seem to be ready to fight first and ask questions afterward. So I've caught the habit, I suppose. Which a habit like that ain't uncommon. The graveyards are full of fellers that had that habit, and they're going to be fuller still of the same kind. Here Sally entered, carrying the meal of the cow-puncher, arranged it, and then sat on the edge of Bard's table, turning from one side to the other as a bird on a spray of leaves, turns from sunlight to shadow and cannot make a choice. Bard, stated Nash, is going out to the ranch with me tonight. Long ride for tonight, isn't it? Yes, but we'll bunk on the way and finish up early in the morning. Then you'll have a chance to teach him Western manners on the way, Steve. Manners, queried the Easterner, smiling up at the girl. She turned, caught him beneath the chin with one hand, tilting his face up, and raised the lessening forefinger of the other while she stared down at him with a half frown and half smile, like a school teacher about to discipline a recalcitrant boy. Western manners, she said, mean first not to doubt a man till he tries to double-cross you, and not to trust him till he saves your life, to keep your gun inside the leather till you're backed up against the wall, and then start shooting as soon as the muzzle is past the holster. Then the thing to remember is that fast shooting is fine, but sure shooting is better. Do you get me? That's a fine sermon, smiled Bard, but you're too young to make a convincing preacher, Miss Fortune. Miss Fortune said the girl quickly, don't have to be old to do a lot of teaching. She sat back and regarded him with something of a frown and with folded arms. He said, with a sudden earnestness, you seem to take it for granted that I'm due for a lot of trouble, but she shook her head gloomily. I know what you're due for. I can see it in your eyes. I can hear it in your way of talking. If you was to ride the range with a sheriff on one side, and a marshal on the other, you couldn't help falling into trouble. As a fortune-teller, remarked Nash, you make a good undertaker, Sally. Shut up, Steve. I've seen this bird in action, and I know what I'm talking about. When you coming back this way, Bard? He said thoughtfully, perhaps to-morrow night, perhaps? It ought to be to-morrow night, she said pointedly, her eyes on Nash. The latter had pushed his chair back a trifle, and sat now with downward head, and his right hand resting lightly on his thigh. Only the place in which they sat was illuminated by the two lamps, and the forward part of the room, nearer the street, was a seat of shadows, wavering when the wind stirred the flame in one of the lamps, or sent it smoking up the chimney. Sally and Bard sat with their backs to the door, and Nash half facing it. Steve, she said, with a sudden low tenseness of voice, that sent a chill up Bard's spinal cord. Steve, what's wrong? This, answered the cowboy calmly, and whirling in his chair his gun flashed and exploded. They sprang up in time to see the bulky form of Butch Conklin rise out of the shadows, in the front part of the room with outstretched arms, from which a revolver dropped clattering to the floor. Backward he reeled as though a hand were pulling him from behind, and then measured his length with a crash to the floor. Bard, standing erect, quite forgot to touch his weapon, but Sally had produced a ponderous forty-five with mysterious speed, and now crouched behind a table with a gun poised. Nash, bending low, ran forward to the fallen man. Nicked, but not done for, he called. Thank God, cried Sally, and the two joined Nash about the prostrate body. The bullet had had very certain intentions, but by a freak of chance it had been deflected on the angle of the skull, and merely plowed a bloody furrow through the mat of hair from forehead to the back of the skull. He was stunned, but hardly more seriously hurt than if he had been knocked down by a club. I have an idea, said the Easterner calmly, that I owe my life to you, Mr. Nash. Let that drop, answered the other. A quarter of an inch lower, said the girl, who was examining the wound, and Butch would have kissed the world good-by. Not till then did the full horror of the thing dawn on Bard. The girl was no more excited than one of her eastern cousins would have been over a game of bridge, and the man, in the most matter-of-fact manner, was slipping another cartridge into the cylinder of her revolver, which he then restored to the holster. It still seemed incredible that the man could have drawn his gun and fired in that flash of time. He recalled his adventure with Butch earlier that evening, and was Sandy Ferguson before. For the first time he realized what he had done, and a cold horror possessed him like the man who has nerves to walk the tightrope across the chasm, and faints when he looks back on the gorge from the safety of the other side. The girl took command. Steve, run down to the Marshal's office. Deputy Glendon is there. She took the wet cloth, and made a deft bandage for the head of Conklin. With his shaggy hair covered, and his face sagging with lines of weariness, the gunfighter seemed no more than a middle-aged man asleep, worn out by trouble. Is there a doctor? Ask Bard anxiously. That ain't a case for a doctor. Look here. You're in a blue faint. What is the matter? I don't know. I'm thinking of that quarter of an inch, which would have meant the difference to poor Conklin. Poor Conklin? Why, you fish! He was sneaking in here to try his hand on you. He found he couldn't get his gang into town, so he slipped in by himself. He'll get ten years for this, and a thousand if they hold him up for the other things he's done. I know, and this fellow Nash was quiet as the strike of a snake. If he'd been a fraction of a second slower, I might be where Conklin is now. I'll never forget Nash for this. She said poignantly, No, he's a bad one to forget. Keep an eye on him. You spoke of a snake. That's how smooth Steve is. Remember your own motto, Miss Fortune. He saved my life, therefore I must trust him. She answered sullenly, You're your own boss. What's wrong with Nash? Find out for yourself. Are all these fellows something other than they seem? What about yourself? What do you mean? What trail are you on, Bard? Don't look so innocent. Oh, I seen you was after something a long time ago. I am, after excitement, you know. Ain't you finding enough? I've got two things ahead of me. Well, this trip, and when I come back, I think making love to you would be more exciting than gun plays. They regarded each other with bantering smiles. A tender foot like you make love to me. That would be exciting, all right, if it wasn't so funny. As for competition, he said serenely, that would be simply a good background. Hate yourself, don't you, Bard? She grinned. The rest of these boys are all very well, but they don't see that what you want is the velvet touch. What's that? She was as frankly curious as some boy hearing a new game described. You've only been loved in one way. These rough-handed fellows come in and throw an arm around you and ask you to marry them. Isn't that it? What you really need is an old, simple, very effective method. Though her eyes were shining, she yawned. It don't interest me, Bard. On the contrary, you're getting quite excited. So does a horse before it gets ready to buck. Exactly. If I thought it would be easy, I wouldn't be tempted. Well, if you like fighting, you've sure mapped out a nice sizable quarrel with me, bud. Good. I'm certainly coming back to Eldara. Now about this method of mine. Throwing your cards on the table, eh? What you got, Bard, a royal flush? Right again. It's a very simple method, but you couldn't beat it. But you ain't half old enough to kid me. What you need, he persisted calmly, is someone who would sit down and simply talk good, plain English to you. Let her go. In the first place I will call attention to your method of dressing. Anything wrong with it? I knew you'd be interested. She slipped into a chair and sat cross-legged in it, her elbows on her knees, and her chin cupped in both her hands. Sure I'm interested. If there's a new way of fixing ham and serve it out. I would begin, he went on judiciously, by saying that you dressed in five minutes in the dark. It's generally dark at five a.m., she admitted. You look on the whole as if you'd fallen into your clothes. The wounded man stirred and groaned faintly. She called, Light-ound butch, I'm busy. Go on, Bard. If you keep a mirror, it's a wall decoration, not for personal use. Maybe this is an old method, Bard, but around this place it'd be a quick way of getting shot. Angry? You'd peeve a mule. This was only an introduction. The next thing is to sit close beside you and shift the lamp so the light would shine on your face, then take your hand. He suited his action to his word. Let go my hand, Bard. It's like the rest of me, not a decoration but for use. Afraid of me, Sally? Not of a regiment like you? Then of my method. Go on, I'm game, but this is all there is to it. What do you mean? Just what I say. Being observed that you haven't set off any of your advantages, I will sit here and look into your face in silence, which is as much to say that no matter how you dress you can't spoil a very excellent figure, Sally. I suppose you've heard that before. Lots of times, she muttered. But you wouldn't hear it from me. All I would do would be to sit here and stare and let you imagine what I'm thinking. And you'd begin to see that in spite of the way you do your hair you can't spoil its color nor its texture. He raised his other hand and touched it. Like silk, Sally. He studied her closely, noting the flush which began to touch her cheeks. Part of the game is for you to keep looking me in the eye. Well I'll be—go on, I'm game. It's hard to sit like this. Silently? Do I do it badly? No. You show lots of practice. How many have you tried this method on, Bard? He made a vague gesture, then smiling. Millions, Sally, and they all liked it. So do I. And they laughed together, and grew serious at the same instant. All silence? Like this? She queried. No. After a while I would say, You are beautiful. You don't get a blue ribbon for that, Bard. Not the words, but the way they're said, which shows I mean them. She blinked as though to clear her eyes, and then met his stare again. You know you are beautiful, Sally. With pug nose, freckles, and all that? Just a tip tilt in the nose, Sally? Why, it's charming. And you have everything else—young, strong, graceful, clear? What do you mean by that? Clear, fresh, and colorful like the sunset over the desert? Do you understand? Her eyes went down to consider. I suppose I do, with a touch of awe in it, because the silence and the night are coming, and the stars walk down one by one, one by one, and the wind is low, soft, musical, whispering as you do now. What if this was not a game of suppose, Sally? She wrenched herself suddenly away, rising. I'm tired of supposing, she cried. Then we'll call it all real. What of that? That color was unmistakably high, now. It ran down from her cheeks, and even stained the pure white of her throat, where the flap of her shirt was open. He was excited as a hunter who had tracked some new and dangerous animal, and at last driven it to bay, holding his gun poised, and not knowing whether or not it will prove vulnerable. He stepped close, eager, prepared for any wild burst of temper, but she let him take her hands. Let him draw her close, bend back her head, hold her closer still, till the warmth and softness of her body reached him. But when his lips came close, she said quietly, Are you a robber, Bard? He stiffened, and the smile went out of his lips. He stepped back. She repeated, Are you a robber? He raised the one hand which he still retained, and touched it to his lips. I am very sorry, said Anthony. Will you forgive me? And with her eyes large and grave upon him she answered, I wonder if I can. Which Conklin looked up, raising his bandaged head slowly, like a white flag of truce with a stain of red growing through the cloth? He stared at the two, raised his hand to his head as though to rub away at the dream, found a pain too real for a dream, and then, like a crab which has grown almost too old to walk, waddled on hands and knees slowly from the room and melted into the dark beyond. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. TREATING by Rowdy Delaney Idaho, USA CHAPTER XVIII FOOLISH HABITS A sharp noise of running feet leapt from the dust of the street, and clattered through the doorway. The two turned. A swarthy man, brought of shoulder, was the first, and afterward appeared Nash. Conklin, called Deputy Glendon, and swept the room with his startled glance, where's Conklin? He was not there. Only a red stain remained on the floor to show where he had lain. Where's Conklin, called Nash? I'm afraid, whispered Bard quickly to the girl, that it was more than a game of suppose. He said easily to the other two. He had enough. His share of trouble came to-night. I let him go. Young feller, growled Glendon, you ain't been in town a long while, but I've heard a pile too much about you already. What you mean by taking the law into your own hands? Wait! said Nash, his keen eyes on the two. I guess I understand. Let's have it, then. Still the steady eyes of Nash passed from Sally Fortune to Bard and back again. This feller, being a tenderfoot, he don't understand our ways. Maybe he thinks the range is a bit freer than it is. That's the trouble, answered Glendon. He thinks too damn much. And does quite a pile besides thinking, murmured Nash, but too low for the others to hear. He hesitated, and then, as if making up his mind by a great effort, there ain't no use in blaming him. Better let it drop, Glendon. Nothing else to do, Steve. But it's funny, Sally let him do it. It is, said Nash, with emphasis. But then women is pretty funny in lots of ways. Ready to start, Bard? All ready. So long, Sally. Good night, Miss Fortune. Evening boys, we'll be looking for you back in Eldara to Maronite, Bard, and her eyes fixed with meaning on Nash. Certainly answered the other. My business ought not take longer than that. I'll take him by the shortest cut, said Nash, and the two went out to their horses. They had difficulty in riding the trail side by side. For though the ron was somewhat rested by the delay in Eldara, it was impossible to keep him up with Bard's prancing piebald, which side stepped at every shadow. Yet the tender foot never allowed his mount to pass entirely ahead of the ron, but kept checking him back hard, turning toward Nash with an apology each time he surged ahead. It might have been merely that he did not wish to proceed the cow-puncher on a trail which he did not know. It might have been something quite other than this which made him constantly keep to the rear. Nash felt certain that the second possibility was the truth. In that case his work would be doubly hard. From all that he had seen, the man was dangerous. The image of the tame Puma returned to him again and again. He could not see him plainly through the dark of the night, but he caught the sway of the body and recognized a perfect horsemanship, not a western style of riding, but a good one no matter where it was learned. He rode as if he were sewed to the back of the horse, and, as old William Drew had suggested, he probably did other things up to the same standard. It would have been hard to fulfill his promise to Drew under any circumstances with such a man as this, but with Bard apparently forewarned and suspicious, the thing became almost impossible. Almost, but not entirely so. He set himself calmly to the problem. On the horn of his saddle the larry had hung loose. If the Easterner should turn his back for a single instant during the time they were together, old Drew should not be disappointed, and one thousand cash would be deposited for the mutual interest of Sally Fortune and himself. That is to say, if Sally would consent to become interested. To the silent persuasion of money, however, Nash trusted many things. The ron jogged sullenly ahead, giving all the strength of his gallant, ugly body to the work. The piebald mustang pranced like a dancing master, beside and behind with a continual jingling of the tossed bridle. The masters were to a degree like the horses they rode, for Nash kept steadily leaning to the front, his bulldog jaw thrusting out, and Bard was forever shifting in the saddle, settling his hat, humming a tune, whistling, talking to the piebald, or asking idle questions of the things they passed, like a boy starting out for a vacation. So they reached the old house of which Nash had spoken, a mere, shapeless, black heap huddling through the night. In the shed to the rear they tied their horses and unsaddled. In the single room of the shanty, afterwards, Nash lighted a candle, which he produced from his pack, placed it in the center of the floor, and unrolled their blankets on the two bunks which were built against the wall on either side of the narrow apartment. Truly it was a crazy shack, such a building as two men, having materials at hand, might have put together in a single day. It was hardly on a foundation, but rather set on the sloped side of the hill, and accordingly had settled down on the lower side toward the door. Not an old place, but the wind had pried, and the rain had warped generous cracks between the boards through which the rising storm whistled and sang, and through which the chill mist of the coming rain cut at them. Now and then a feeling came to Anthony that the gale might lift the tottering old shack, and roll it down the hillside to the floor of the valley, for it rocked and swayed under the breath of the storm. In a way it was as if the night was giving a loud voice to the silent struggle of the two men, who continued pleasant, careless with each other. But when Nash stepped across the room behind Bard, the latter turned and was busy with the folding of his blankets at the foot of his bunk, his face toward the cow-puncher, and when Bard, slipping off his belt, fumbled at his holster, Nash was instantly busy with the cleaning of his own gun. The cattleman, having removed his boots, his hat, and his belt, was ready for bed and slipped his legs under the blankets. He stooped and picked up his lariat, which lay coiled on the floor beside him. People gets foolish habits on the range, he said, thumbing the strong rope curiously, and so doing spreading out the noose. Yes, smiled Bard, and he also sat up in his bunk. It's like a kid. Give him a new toy, and he wants to take it to bed with him. Ever notice? Surely. It's that way with me. When I go to bed, nothing matters except that I have my lariat around. I generally like to have it hanging on a nail at the head of my bunk. The fellers always laugh at me, but I can't help it, makes me feel more at home. And with that, still smiling at his own folly in a rather shame-faced way, he turned in his blankets and dropped the big coil of the lariat over a nail which projected from the boards just over the head of his bunk. The noose was outermost and could be disengaged from the nail by a single twist of the cow-puncher's hand as he lay passive in his bunk. On this noose Bard cast a curious eye. To cityfolk a piece of rope was a harmless thing with which to make a trunk secure, or on occasion construct a clothes line on the roof of the apartment building or in the kitchen on rainy Mondays. To a sailor the rope is nothing and everything at once. Give a seaman a piece of string and he will amuse himself all evening making lashings and knots. A piece of rope calls up in his mind the stout lines which hold the mast steady and the yards true in the gale, the comfortable cable which moors the ship at the end of a dreary voyage, and a thousand things between. To the westerner a rope is a different thing. It is not so much a useful material as a weapon. An Italian, fighting man to man, would choose a knife. A westerner would take in preference that same harmless piece of rope. In his hands it takes on a life. It gains a strange and sinister quality. One instant it lies passive or slowly whirled in a careless circle. The next its noose starts out like the head of a striking cobra. The coil falls and fastens and then it draws tighter and tighter remorselessly as a boa constrictor paralyzing life. Something of all this went through the mind of Bard as he lay watching the limp noose of the cowboy's lariat, and then he nodded smiling. I suppose that seems an odd habit to some men, but I sympathize with it. I have it myself, in fact. And whenever I'm out in the wilds and carry a gun, I like to have it under my head when I sleep. That's even queerer than your fancy, isn't it? And he slipped his revolver under the blankets at the head of his bunk. CHAPTER 19 THE CANDLE Yes, said Nash, that's a queer stunt, because when you're lying like that with your head right over the gun and the blankets in between it'd take a couple of seconds to get it out. Not when you're used to it. You'd be surprised to see how quickly a man can get the gun from under. That's so. Yes, and shooting while you're lying on your back is pretty easy, too, when you've had practice. Sure, with a rifle, but not with a revolver. Well, do you see that bit of paper in the corner up there on the rafter? Yes. The hand of Bard whipped under his head. There was a gleam and a whirl of steel, an explosion, and the bit of paper came fluttering down from the rafter, like a wounded bird struggling to keep up on the air. A cold draft caught the paper just before it landed, and whirled it through the doorless entrance and out into the night. He was yawning as he restored the gun beneath the blanket, but from the corner of his eye he saw the hardening of Nash's face, a brief change which came and went like the passing of a shadow. That's something I'll remember, drawed the cow-puncher. You ought to, answered the other quickly. It comes in handy now and then. Feel sleepy? The candle guttered and flickered on the floor midway between the two bunks, and Bard, glancing at it, was about to move from his bed and snuff it, but at the thought of doing so it seemed to him as if he could almost sense with prophetic mind the upward dart of the noose about his shoulders. He edged a little lower in the blankets. Not a bit. How about you? Me? I most generally lie awake a while and gab after I hit the hay, makes me sleep better afterward. I do the same thing when I've got someone who listens to me or talks to me. Queer how many habits we got the same, eh? It is, but after all, most of us are more alike than we care to imagine. Yes. There ain't much difference. Sometimes the difference ain't as much as a split-second watch could catch, but it may mean that one feller passes out and the other goes on. They lay half facing each other, each, with his head pillowed on an arm. By Jove, lucky we reached the shelter before this rain came. Yep, a couple hours of this, and the rivers will be up, may take up all day to get back to the ranch, if we have to ride up to the ford on the Savarak. Then we'll swim them, the others smiled, dryly. Swim the Savarak when she's up? No lad, we won't do that. Then I'll have to work it alone, I suppose. You see, I have that date in Aldara to-morrow night. Nash said his teeth to choke back the cough. He produced papers and tobacco, rolled a cigarette with lightning speed, lighted it, and inhaled a long puff. Sure, you ought to keep that date, but maybe Sally would wait till the night after. She impressed me on the whole, as not being of the waiting kind. Hm, a little delay does them good, gives them a chance to think. Why, every man has his own way with women, I suppose, but my idea is, keep them busy. Never give them a chance to think. If you do, they generally waste the chance and forget you all together. Another coughing spell overtook Nash, and left him frowning down at the glowing end of his butt. She ain't like the rest. I wonder, used the Easterner. He had an infinite advantage in this duel of words, for he could watch under the shadow of his long, dark lashes, the effect of his speeches on the cowboy, yet never seemed to be looking. After he was wondering whether the enmity of Nash, which he felt, as one feels an unknown eye upon him in the dark, came from the rivalry about the girl, or from some deeper cause. He was inclined to think that the girl was at the bottom of everything, but he left his mind open on the subject. And Nash, pondering darkly and silently, measured the strength of the slender stranger, and felt that if he were the club, the other was the knife which made less sound, but might prove more deadly. Above all, he was conscious of the Easterner's superiority of language, which might turn the balance against him in the ear of Sally Fortune. He dropped the subject of the girl. You was hunting over on the old place on the other side of the range? Yes. Pretty fair run of game? Rather. I think you said something about Logan. Did I? I've been thinking a good deal about him. He gave me the wrong tip about the way to Aldara. When I get back to the old place—well—the other smiled unpleasantly, and made a gesture as if he were snapping a twig between his hands. I'll break him in two. The eyes of Nash grew wide with astonishment. He was remembering that same phrase on the lips of the big, grey man, Drew. He murmured, That may give you a little trouble. Logan's a peaceable chap, but he has his record before he got down as low as she heard him. I like trouble. Now and then. A pause. Odd old shack over there. Drew's old house? Yes. There's a grave in front of it. There's quite a yarn inside the grave. The cowpuncher was aware that the other stirred. Not much, but as if he winced from a drop of cold water. He felt that he was close on the trail of the real reason why the Easterner wished to see Drew. A story about Drew's wife? You read the writing on the headstone, eh? Joan. She chose this place for rest, quoted Bard. That was all before my time. It was before the time of any others in these parts, but a few of the greybeards know a bit about the story, and I've gathered a little of it from Drew, though he ain't much of a talker. I'd like to hear it. Sensitively aware of Bard, as a photographic plate is aware of light on exposures, the cowpuncher went on with the tail. And Bard, his glance probing among the shadowy rafters of the room, seemed to be searching there for the secret on whose trail he rode. Through the interims the rain crashed, and volleyed on the roof above them. The cold spray whipped down on them through the cracks. The wind shook and rattled the crazy house, and the drawing voice of Nash went on and on. CHAPTER XX Some were the days when this was a man's country, which a man could climb on his haws with a gun and a rope, and touch heaven and hell in one day's riding. Them good old days ain't no more. I've heard the old men tell about them. Now they've got everybody stamped and branded with law and order, herded together like cattle, ticketed, done for. That's the way the range is now. The marshals have us by the throat. In the old days a sheriff that outlived his term was probably crooked and run in hand in hand with the long riders. Long riders, queried Bard? Fellers had got tired of working, and took to riding for a living. Mostly they worked in little gangs of five or six. They was called long riders, I guess, partly because they was in the saddle all the time, and partly because they'd done their job so far apart. They'd ride into Eldara and blow up the safe in the bank one day, for instance, and five days later they'd be 250 miles away stopping a train at Lewis Station. They never hung around no one part of the country, and that made it hard as hell to run them down. That and because they had the best hausses that money could buy. They had friends, too, strung out all over. Squatters and the like of that. They'd drop in on these little fellers and pass them a couple twenties, and make themselves solid for life. Afterward they used them for stop-in places. They'd pull off a couple of hold-ups, then ride off to one of these squatter-places and lay up for ten days, maybe drinking, and feeding up themselves and their hausses. That was the only way they was ever caught. They was killed off by each other, fighting about the split-up or something like that. But now and then a gang held together long enough to raise so much hell that they got known from one end of the range to the other. Mostly they held together because they had a leader who knew how to handle them, and who kept them under his thumb. That was the way with Old Pioto. He had five men under him. They was all hellbenders who had ridden the range alone, and had their share of fights and killings, which there wasn't one of them that wouldn't have been good enough to go leader in any other crew, but they had to knuckle under to Old Pioto. He was a great gunman, and he was pretty good in scheming up ways of dodging the law and picking up the best booty. He had these five men, and then he had his daughter, Joan. She was better than any two ordinary men herself. Three years that gang held together and got rich, fair rich. They made it so fast they couldn't even gamble the stuff away. About a thousand times I guess Posse's went out after Pioto, but they never came back with a trace of him, never got within shooting distance. Finally, Pioto got so confident that he started raiding ranches and carrying off members of well-off ranchers to hold for ransom. That was the easiest way of making money. It was also pretty damn dangerous. One time they held up a stage, and picked off of it two kids who was coming out from the east to try their hands in the cattle business. They was young, they looked like gentlemen, they was dressed nifty, they packed big rolls. So wise Old Pioto took them off into the hills, and held them till their folks back east could wire out the money to save them. That was easy money for Pioto, but it was the beginning of the end for him, because while they was waiting, them two kids seen Joan, and seen her good. I've been telling you she was better than two common men. She was. Which means she was equal to about ten ordinary girls. There's still a legend about how beautiful Joan Pioto was. Tall, and straight, and big black eyes, and terrible handy with her gun. She could ride anything that walked, and she didn't know what fear meant. These two kids seen her. One of them was William Drew. One of them was John Bard. He turned to Anthony, and saw that the latter was stern of face. He had surely scored his point. Same name as yours, eh? He asked, to explain his turning. It's a common enough name, murmured Bard. Well, them two come out to be partners, and they was fallen in love with the same girl. So when they got free they put their heads together, be an uncommon wise kids, and figured it out this way. Neither of them had a chance, working alone, to get Joan away from her father's gang, but working together they might have a ghost of a show. So they decided to stay on the trail of Pioto till they got Joan. Then they'd give her a choice between the two of them, and the one that lost would simply back off the boards. They'd done what they agreed. For six months they stuck on the trail of old Pioto, and never got in hailing distance of him. Then they'd come on the gang while they were resting up in the house of a squatter. That was a pretty night. Drew and Bard went through that gang. It sounds like a fairy story all right, but I know fellers who will swear it's true. They killed three of the men with their guns, they knifed another one, and they killed Riley with their bare hands. It wasn't no pretty sight to see inside that house. And last of all they got Pioto fighting like a wildcat into a corner with his daughter. And William drew, he took Pioto in his arms, and busted his back. That don't sound possible, but when you see Drew you'll know how it was done. The girl, she'd been knocked cold before this happened. So when Bard and Drew sat together binding up their wounds, because they was shot pretty near to pieces, they talked it over. And they seemed pretty clear that the girl would never marry the man that killed her father. Of course, old Bill drew. He'd done the killing. But that wasn't any reason he had to take the blame. They made up their minds right there and then, with the dead men lying all around them, they'd match coins to see which one would take the blame for having killed Pioto, meaning that the other would get the girl, if he could. And Bard lost. So he had to take credit for having killed old Pioto. I'd have given something to have seen those two sitting there losing blood after that matchin' was decided. Because they tell me that Bard was as big as Drew and looked pretty much the same. Then Bard asked Drew to let him have one chance at the girl, letting her know first what he'd done, but just trustin' to his power of talk, which, of course, didn't give him no show. While he was makin' love to the girl, she outs with a knife and tries to stick him. Nice pleasant sort she must have been. And Drew had to pry the two of them apart. That made the girl look sort of kind on Drew. And she swore that sooner or later she'd have the blood of Bard for what he'd done. Either have it herself, or else send someone after him to the end of the world. She was a wild one, all right. She was so wild that Drew, after they got married, took her over to the far side of the range and built that house that's rotten over there now. Bard he left the range and wasn't never seen again, far as I know. It was clear to Anthony, bitterly clear. His father had had a grim scene in parting with Drew, and had placed the continent between them. And in the eastern states he had met that black-eyed girl, his mother, and loved her because she was so much like the wild daughter of Piotto. The girl Joan, in dying, had probably extracted from Drew a promise that he would kill Bard, and that promise he lived to fulfill. So Joan died, he quarried. Yep, and was buried under them two trees in front of the house. I don't think she lived long after they was married. But about that nobody knows. They was clear off by themselves, and there isn't any one can tell about their life after they was married. All we know is that Drew didn't get over her dying. He ain't over it yet, and he goes out to that old place every month or so to potter around the grave, and keep the grass and the weeds off it, and clean the headstone. The candle guttered wildly on the floor. It had burnt almost to the wood, and now the remnant of the wick stood in a little sprawling pool of grease, white at the outer edges. Bard yawned, and patted idly the blanket where it touched the shape of the revolver beneath. In another moment the candle would gutter out, and they would be left in darkness. He said, "'That's the best yarn I've heard in a good many days. It's enough to make any one sleepy. So here goes,' and he turned deliberately on his side. Nash, his eyes staring with incredulity, sat up slowly among his blankets, and his hands stalled toward the news of the lariat. A slight snore reached him, hardly a snore so much as a heavy intake of breath, of a very weary sleeping man. Yet the hand of Nash froze on the lariat. By God, he whispered faintly to himself, he ain't asleep. And the candle flared wildly, leapt, and shook out. CHAPTER XXI THE SWIMMING OF THE SAVERAC After the face of Nash, the darkness passed like a cold hand, and a colder sense of failure touched his heart. But men who have ridden the range have one great power surpassing all others—the power of patience. As soundlessly as he had pushed himself up the moment before, he now slipped back in the blankets and resigned himself to sleep. He knew that he would wake at the first hint of gray light, and trusted that after the long ride of the day before his companion would still be fast asleep. That half-light would be enough for his work. But when he roused while the room was still scarcely more visible than if it were filled with a gray fog, he found Bard already up and pulling on his boots. "'How'd you sleep?' he growled, following the example of the tenderfoot. "'Not very well,' said the other cheerily. "'You see, that story of yours was so vivid in my mind, that I stayed awake all night, I guess, thinking it over.' I knew it,' murmured Nash to himself. He was awake all the time. And still, if that thrown noose of the lariat had settled over the head and shoulders of the sham's sleeper, it would have made no difference whether he waked or slept. In the end he would have sat before William Drew, tied hand and foot. If that noose had not settled, the picture of the little piece of paper fluttering to the floor came back with a strange vividness to the mind of Nash, and he had to shrug his shoulders and shake the thought away. They were in the saddle a very few moments after they woke, and started out breakfastless. The rain long ago had ceased, and there was only the solemn silence of the brown hills around them, silence, and a faint crinkling sound as if the thirsty soil still drank. It had been a heavy fall of rain, they could see, for whenever they passed a bare spot where no grass grew, it was crossed by thick tracery of the rivlets which had washed down the slopes during the night. Soon they reached the little creek whose current, barely knee-deep, foamed up around the shoulders of the horses and set them staggering. The savorac will be hell, said Nash, and we'd better cut straight to the ford. How long will it take? Add about three hours to the trip. Can't do it. Remember that little date back in Aldera tonight. Then look for yourself, and make up your mind for yourself, said Nash, dryly, for they topped a hill, and below they saw a mighty yellow flood pouring down the valley. It went leaping and shouting as if it rejoiced in some destruction it had worked, and was still working, and the muddy torrent was threaded with many a ridge of white and swirling with bubbles. The savorac, said Nash, now what do you think about fording it? If we can't ford it, we can swim it, declared Bard. Look at that tree-trunk. If it will float, I will float, and if I can float, I can swim, and if I can swim, I'll reach the other bank of that little creek. Won't we, boy? And he slapped the proud neck of the Mustang. Swim it, said Nash, incredulously. Does that date mean as much as that to you? It isn't the date it's the promise I gave, answered the other, watching the current with a cool eye. Besides, when I was a youngster I used to do things like this for the sport of it. They rode down to the edge of the stream. How about it, Nash? Will you take the chance with me? And the other, looking down, try the current. I'll stay here on the shore, and if it gets too strong for you, I'll throw you a rope, eh? But if you can make it, I'll follow suit. The other cast a somewhat wistful eye of doubt upon the cow-puncher. How far is it to the ford, he asked? About eight miles, answered Nash, doubling the distance on the spot. Eight miles? Repeated the other ruefully? Too far. Then here goes, Nash. Still never turning his back on the cow-puncher, who was now uncoiling his lariat and preparing for a cast, barred edge the pie-bold into the current. He felt the Mustang stagger as the water came knee-deep, and he checked the horse, casting his eye from shore to shore and summing up the chances. If it had been simply water against which he had to contend, he would not have hesitated. But here and there, along the coarse, sharp-pointed rocks and broad-back boulders loomed, and now and then, with a mighty splashing and crashing, one of these was overbalanced by the force of the current, and rolled another toward the far-off sea. That rush of water would carry him far downstream, and the chances were hardly more than even that he would not strike against one of these murderous obstructions about which the current foamed. An impulse made him turn and wave a hand at Nash. He shouted, Give me luck! Luck! Roared the cowboy, and his voice came as if faint with distance over the thunder of the stream. He touched the pie-bold with his spurs, and the gallant little horse floundered forward, lost footing, and struck into the water beyond its depth. At the same instant, Bard swung clear of the saddle and let his body trail out behind, holding with his left hand to the tail of the struggling horse, and kicking to aid the progress. Immersed to the chin and sometimes covered by a more violent wave, the sound of the river grew at once strangely dim, but he felt the force of the current tugging at him like a thousand invisible hands. He began to wish he had taken off his boots before entering, for they weighed his feet so that it made him leg-weary to kick. Nevertheless, he trusted in the brave heart of the Mustang. There was no wavering in the wild horse. Only his head showed over the water, but the ears were pricking straight and high, and it never once swerved back toward the nearer shore. Their progress was good at first, but as they neared the central portion of the water they were swept many yards downstream for one that they made in a traverse direction. Twice they missed projecting rocks by the narrowest margin, and then something like an exceedingly thin and exceedingly strong arm caught Anthony around the shoulders. It tugged back, stopped all forward progress, and let them sweep rapidly down the stream and back toward the shore. Turning his head, he caught a glimpse of Nash sitting calmly in the saddle, holding the rope with both hands, and laughing. The next instant he saw no more, for the current placed a taller rock between him and the bank. On that rock the line of the lariat caught, hooking the swimmers sharply toward the bank. He would have cut the rope, but it would be almost impossible to get out a knife and open the blade with his teeth, still clinging to the tail of the swimming horse with one hand. He reached down through the water, pulled out his colt, and with an effort swung himself about. Close at hand he could not reach the rope, and therefore he fired not directly at the rope itself, but at the edge of the rock, around which the lariat bent at a sharp angle. The splash of the bullet from the strong face of the rock sliced the rope like a knife. It snapped free, and the brave little Mustang straightened out again for the shore. An instant more barred swam with the revolver poised above the water, but he caught no glimpse of Nash. He restored it with some difficulty to the holster, and gave all his attention and strength to helping the horse through the water, swimming with one hand and kicking vigorously with his feet. Perhaps they would not have made it for now through exhaustion the ears of the Mustang were drooping back. He shouted, and at the faint sound of his cheer the piebald pricked a single weary ear. He shouted again, and this time not for encouragement, but from exultation. A swerving current had caught them, and was bearing them swiftly toward the desired bank. It failed them when they were almost touching bottom and swung sharply toward the center again, but the Mustang, as though it realized that this was the last chance, fought furiously. Anthony gave the rest of his strength, and they edged through inch by inch, and horse and man staggered up the bank and stood trembling with fatigue. Glancing back he saw Nash in the act of throwing his lariat on the ground, wild with anger, and before he could understand the meaning of this burst of temper over a mere spoiled lariat, the gun whipped from the side of the cowboy, exploded, and the little piebald with ears prick sharply forward as though in vague curiosity crumpled to the ground. The suddenness of it took all power of action from Bard for the instant. He stood staring stupidly down at the dying horse and then whirled, gun in hand, frantic with anger and grief. Nash was galloping furiously up the bank of the Savarak, already safely out of range, and speeding toward the Ford. End of Chapter 21