Buck Peters, Ranchman / Being the Story of What Happened When Buck Peters, Hopalong Cassidy, and Their Bar-20 Associates Went to Montana

Dust cover art

Cover

Buck Peters, Ranchman

Being the Story of What Happened When Buck Peters,
Hopalong Cassidy, and Their Bar-20
Associates Went to Montana

BY
Clarence E. Mulford
AND
John Wood Clay

WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOR
BY MAYNARD DIXON

SECOND EDITION

CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1912

Copyright
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1912

Published March, 1912
Published April, 1912

Entered at Stationers' Hall, London, England

ALSO BY MR. MULFORD

HOPALONG CASSIDY. With five illustrations in color by Maynard Dixon. $1.50

THE ORPHAN. With illustrations in color by Allen True. 91.50

BAR-20. Illustrated by N. C. Wyeth and F. E. Schoonover. $1.50

BAR-20 DAYS. With four illustrations in color by Maynard Dixon. $1.35 net

A. C. McCLURG & CO., Publishers
CHICAGO

Contents

CHAPTER

I [Tex Returns]
II [H. Whitby Booth is Shown How]
III [Buck Makes Friends]
IV [The Foreman of the Double Y]
V ["Comin' Thirty" has Notions]
VI [An Honest Man and a Rogue]
VII [The French Rose]
VIII [Tex Joins the Enemy]
IX [Any Means to an End]
X [Introducing a Parasite]
XI [The Man Outside]
XII [A Hidden Enemy]
XIII [Punctuation as a Fine Art]
XIV [Fighting the Itch]
XV [The Slaughter of the Innocents]
XVI [The Master Mind]
XVII [Hopalong's Night Ride]
XVIII [Karl to the Rescue]
XIX [The Weak Link]
XX [Misplaced Confidence]
XXI [Pickles Tries to Talk]
XXII ["A Ministering Angel"]
XXIII [Hopalong's Move]
XXIV [The Rebellion of Cock Murray]
XXV [Mary Receives Company]
XXVI [Hunters and Hunted]
XXVII [Points of the Compass]
XXVIII [The Heart of a Rose]

Illustrations

So she stood, silently regarding him . . . Frontispiece
(missing from source book)

[The rifle belonging to Hopalong never missed—and besides, he had made his wish]

[Rose flung herself from the saddle and ran to him]

[As he spoke he hurled his horse against Hopalong's, while his right hand flashed to his hip]

Buck Peters, Ranchman

CHAPTER I

TEX RETURNS

Johnny Nelson reached up for the new, blue flannel shirt he had hung above his bunk, and then placed his hands on hips and soliloquized: "Me an' Red buy a new shirt apiece Saturday night an' one of 'em 's gone Sunday mornin'; purty fast work even for this outfit."

He strode to the gallery to ask the cook, erstwhile subject of the Most Heavenly One, but the words froze on his lips. Lee Hop's stoop-shouldered back was encased in a brand new, blue flannel shirt, the price mark chalked over one shoulder blade, and he sing-songed a Chinese classic while debating the advisability of adopting a pair of trousers and thus crossing another of the boundaries between the Orient and the Occident. He had no eyes in the back of his head but was rarely gifted in the "ways that are strange," and he felt danger before the boot left Johnny's hand. Before the missile landed in the dish pan Lee Hop was digging madly across the open, half way to the ranch house, and temporary safety.

Johnny fished out the boot and paused to watch the agile cook. "He 's got eyes all over hisself—an' no coyote ever lived as could beat him," was his regretful comment. He knew better than to follow—Hopalong's wife had a sympathetic heart, and a tongue to be feared. She had not yet forgotten Lee Hop's auspicious initiation as an ex-officio member of the outfit, and Johnny's part therein. And no one had been able to convince her that sympathy was wasted on a "Chink."

The shirtless puncher looked around helplessly, and then a grin slipped over his face. Glancing at the boot he dropped it back into the dish water, moved swiftly to Red's bunk, and in a moment a twin to his own shirt adorned his back. To make matters more certain he deposited on Red's blankets an old shirt of Lee Hop's, and then sauntered over to Skinny's bunk.

"Hoppy said he 'd lick me if I hurt th' Chink any more; but he did n't say nothin' to Red. May th' best man win," he muttered as he lifted Skinny's blankets and fondled a box of cigars. "One from forty-three leaves forty-two," he figured, and then, dropping to the floor and crawling under the bunk, he added a mark to Skinny's "secret" tally. Skinny always liked to know just how many of his own cigars he smoked.

"Now for a little nip, an' then th' open, where this cigar won't talk so loud," he laughed, heading towards Lanky's bunk. The most diligent search failed to produce, and a rapid repetition also failed. Lanky's clothes and boots yielded nothing and Johnny was getting sarcastic when his eyes fell upon an old boot lying under a pile of riding gear in a corner of the room. Keeping his thumb on the original level he drank, and then added enough water to bring the depleted liquor up to his thumb. "Gee—I 've saved sixty-five dollars this month, an' two days are gone already," he chuckled. He received sixty-five dollars, and what luxuries were not nailed down, every month.

Mounting his horse he rode away to enjoy the cigar, happy that the winter was nearly over. There was a feeling in the air that told of Spring, no matter what the calendar showed, and Johnny felt unrest stirring in his veins. When Johnny felt thus exuberant things promised to move swiftly about the bunk-house.

When far enough away from the ranch houses he stopped to light the cigar, but paused and, dropping the match, returned the "Maduro" to his pocket. He could not tell who the rider was at that distance, but it was wiser to be prudent. Riding slowly forward, watching the other horseman, he saw a sombrero wave, and spurred into a lope. Then he squinted hard and shook his head.

"Rides like Tex Ewalt—but it ain't, all right," he muttered. Closer inspection made him rub his eyes. "That arm swings like Tex, just th' same! An' I did n't take more'n a couple of swallows, neither. Why, d—n it! If that ain't him I 'm going' to see who it is!" and he pushed on at a gallop. When the faint hail floated down the wind to him he cut loose a yell and leaned forward, spurring and quirting. "Old son-of-a-gun 's come back!" he exulted. "Hey, Tex! Oh, Tex!" he yelled; and Tex was yelling just as foolishly.

They came together with a rush, but expert horsemanship averted a collision, and for a few minutes neither could hear clearly what the other was saying. When things calmed down Johnny jammed a cigar into his friend's hands and felt for a match.

"Why, I don't want to take yore last smoke, Kid," Tex objected.

"Oh, go ahead! I 've got a hull box of 'em in th' bunk-house," was the swift reply. "Could n't stay away, eh? Did n't like th' East, nohow, did you? Gosh, th' boys 'll be some tickled to see you, Tex. Goin' to stay? How you feelin'?"

"You bet I 'm a-stayin'," responded Tex. "Is that Lanky comin'?"

"Hey, Lanky!" yelled Johnny, standing up and waving the approaching horseman towards them. "Pronto! Tex 's come back!"

Lanky's pony's legs fanned a haze under him and he rammed up against Tex so hard that they had to grab each other. Everybody was talking at once and so they rode towards the bunk-house, picking up Billy on the way.

"Where's Hopalong?" demanded Tex. "Married! H—l he is!" A strange look flitted across his face. "Well, I 'm d—d! An' where 's Red?"

Johnny glanced ahead just in time to see Lee Hop sail around a corner of the corral, and he replied with assurance, "Red 's th' other side of th' corral."

"Huh!'" snorted Lanky, "You 've got remarkable eyes, Kid, if you can see through—well, I 'm hanged if he ain't!"

After Red came Pete, waving a water-soaked boot. They disappeared and when Tex and his friends had almost reached the corral, Lee Hop rounded the same corner again, too frightened even to squeal. As he started around the next corner he jumped away at an angle, Pete, still waving the boot, missing him by inches. Pete checked his flow of language as he noticed the laughing group and started for it with a yell. A moment later Red came into sight, panting heavily, and also forgot the cook. Lee Hop stopped and watched the crowd, taking advantage of the opportunity to gain the cook shack and bar the door. "Dlam shirt no good—sclatchee like helle," he muttered. White men were strange—they loved each other like brothers and fought one another's battles. "Led head! Led head!" he cried, derisively. "My hop you cloke! Hop you cloke chop-chop! No fliend my, savee?"

Skinny Thompson, changing his trousers in the bunkroom, heard Lee's remarks and laughed. Then he listened—somebody was doing a lot of talking. "They 're loco, plumb loco, or else somethin's wrong," and he hopped to the door. A bunched crowd of friends were tearing toward him, yelling and shooting and waving sombreros, and a second look made him again miss the trousers' leg and hop through the door to save himself. The blood swept into his face as he saw the ranch house and he very promptly hopped back again, muttering angrily.

The crowd dismounted at the door and tried to enter en masse; becoming sane it squirmed into separate units and entered as it should. Lee Hop hastily unbarred his door and again fled for his life. When he returned he walked boldly behind his foreman, and very close to him, gesticulating wildly and trying to teach Hopalong Cantonese. The foreman hated to chide his friends, but he and his wife were tired of turning the ranch house into a haven for Chinese cooks.

As he opened the door he was grabbed and pushed up against a man who clouted him on the back and tried to crush his hand. "Hullo, Cassidy! Best sight I've laid eyes on since I left!" yelled the other above the noise.

"Tex!" exclaimed Hopalong. "Well, I'm d—d! When did you get here? Going to stay? Got a job yet? How'd you like the East? Married? I am—best thing I ever did. You look white—sick?"

"City color—like the blasted collars and shirts," replied the other, still pumping the hand. "I 'm goin' to stay, I 'm lookin' for a job, an' I 'd ruther punch cows for my keep than get rich in th' East. It 's all fence-country—can't move without bumping into somebody or something—an' noise! An' crooked! They 'd steal th' fillin's out of yore teeth when you go to talk—an' you won't know it!"

"Like to see 'em fool me!" grunted Johnny, looking savage.

"Huh! Th' new beginners 'd pick you out to practise on," snorted Red. "That yore shirt or mine?" he asked, suspiciously.

"They 'd give you money for th' fun of taking it away from you," asserted Tex. "Why, one feller, a slick dresser, too, asks me for th' time. I was some proud of that ticker—cost nigh onto a hundred dollars. He thanks me an' slips into th' crowd. When I went to put th' watch back I did n't have none. I licked th' next man, old as he was, who asks me for th' time. He was plumb surprised when I punched him—reckon he figured I was easy."

"Ain't they got policemen?" demanded Red.

"Yes; but they don't carry watches—they 're too smart."

"Have a drink, Tex," suggested Lanky, bottle in hand. When the owner of it took a drink he looked at his friends and then at the bottle, disgust pictured on his face. "This liquor's shore goin' to die purty soon. It's gettin' weaker every day. Now I wonder what in h—l Cowan makes it out of?"

"It is sort of helpless," admitted Tex. "Now, Kid, I 'll borrow another of them cigars of yourn. Them Maduros are shore good stuff. I would n't ask you only you said you had a—"

"D'ju see any shows in th' East?" demanded Johnny, hurriedly: "Real, good, bang-up shows?"

Skinny faded into the bunk-room and soon returned, puzzled and suspicious. He slipped Tex a cigar and in a few moments sidled up close to the smoker.

"That as good as th' Kid's?" he asked, carelessly.

Tex regarded it gravely: "Yes; better. I like 'em black, but don't say nothin' to Johnny. He likes them blondes 'cause he 's young."

It was not long before Tex, having paid his respects to the foreman's wife, returned to the bunk-house, leaned luxuriously against the wall and told of his experiences in the East. He had an attentive audience and it swayed easily and heartily to laughter or sympathy as the words warranted. There was much to laugh at and a great deal to strain credulity. But the great story was not told, the story of the things pitiful in the manner in which they showed up how square a regenerated man could be, and how false a woman. It was the old story—ambition drove him out into a new world with nothing but a clean conscience, a strong, deft pair of hands, and a clever brain; a woman drove him back, beaten, disheartened, and perilously near the devious ways he had forsaken. He could not stay in the new surroundings without killing—and he knew the woman was to blame; so when he felt the ground slip under his hesitating feet, he threw the new life behind him and hastened West, feverish to gain the locality where he had learned to look himself in the face with regret and remorse, but without shame.

In turn he learned of the things that had occurred since he had left: of the bitter range-war; of his best friend's promotion and marriage; and of Buck Peters' new venture among hostile strangers. The latter touched him deeply—he knew, from his own bitter experiences, the disheartening struggle against odds great enough to mean a hard fight for Buck and all his old outfit. Something that in Tex's heart had been struggling for weeks, the vague uneasiness which drove him faster and faster towards the West, now possessed him with a strength not to be denied. He knew what it was—the old lust for battle, the game of hand and wits with life on the table, could not be resisted. The southern range was now peaceful, thanks to Buck and his men, thanks to Meeker's real nature; the Double Arrow and the C80 formed a barrier of lead and steel on the north and east, a barrier that no rustler cared to force. Peace meant solitude on the sun-kissed range and forced upon him opportunities for thought—and insanity, or suicide. But up in Montana it would be different; and the field, calling insistently for Tex to come, was one where his peculiar abilities would be particularly effective. Buck needed friends, but stubbornly forbade any of his old outfit to join him. Of course, they would disregard his commands and either half or all of the Bar Twenty force would join him; but their going would be delayed until well after the Spring round-up, for loyalty to their home ranch demanded this. Tex was free, eager, capable, and as courageous as any man. He had the cunning of a coyote, the cold savagery of a wolf, and the power of a tiger. In his lightning-fast hands a Colt rarely missed—and he gathered from what he heard that such hands were necessary to make the right kind of history on the northern range.

Finally Hopalong arose to go to the ranch house for the noon meal, taking Tex with him. The foreman and his wife did not eat with the outfit, because the outfit would not allow it. Mary had insisted at first that her husband should not desert his friends in that manner, and he stood neutral on the question. But the friends were not neutral—they earnestly contended that he belonged to his wife and they would not intrude. Lanky voiced their attitude in part when he said: "We 've had him a long time. We borrow him during workin' hours—we never learned no good from him, so we ain't goin' to chance spottin' our lily white souls." But there was another reason, which Johnny explained in naive bluntness: "Why, Ma'am, we eats in our shirt sleeves, an' we grabs regardless. We has to if we don't want Pete to get it all. An' somehow I don't think we 'd git very fat if we had to eat under wraps. You see, we 're free-an'-easy—an' we might starve, all but Pete. Why, Ma'am, Pete can eat any thin', anywheres, under any conditions. So we sticks to th' old table an' awful good appetites."

So Hopalong and Tex walked away together, the limp of the one keeping time with that of the other, for Tex's wounded knee had mended a great deal better than he had hoped for. Hopalong stopped a moment to pat his wolf hounds, briefly complimenting them to Tex, and then pushed open the kitchen door, shoving Tex in ahead of him.

"Just in time, boys," said Mary, "I hope you 're good an' hungry."

They both grinned and Hopalong replied first: "Well, I don't believe Pete can afford to give us much of a handicap to-day."

"Nor any other time, as far's I 'm concerned," added Tex, laughing. "We 'll do yore table full justice, Mrs. Cassidy," he assured her.

Mary, dish in hand, paused between the stove and the table. She looked at Tex with mischievous eyes: "Billy-Red tells me you love him like a brother. Is he deceiving me?"

Hopalong laughed and Tex replied, smiling: "More like a sister, Mrs. Cassidy—I can't find any faults in him, an' we don't fight."

Mary completed her journey to the stove, filled the dish and carried it to the table; resting her hands on the edge of the table, she leaned forward in seeming earnestness. "Well, you must know that we are one, and if you love Billy-Red—" finishing with an expressive gesture. "Those who love me call me Mary."

Tex's face was gravely wistful, but a wrinkle showed at the outer corner of his eyes. "Well," he drawled, "those who love me call me Tex."

"Good!" exclaimed Hopalong, grinning.

"An' I 'm thankful that my hair 's not th' color to cause any trustin' soul to call me by a more affectionate name," Tex finished. He ducked Hopalong's punch while Mary laughed a bird-like trill that brought to her husband's face an expression of idolizing happiness and made Tex smile in sympathy. As the dinner progressed Tex shared less and less in the conversation, preferring to listen and make occasional comments, and finally he spoke only when directly addressed.

When the meal was over and the two men started to go into the sitting-room, Mary said: "You 'll have to excuse me, Mr.—er—Tex," she amended, smiling saucily. "I guess you two men can take care of each other while I red up."

"We 'll certainly try hard, Mrs.—er—Mary," Tex replied, his face grave but his eyes twinkling. "We watched each other once before, you know."

As soon as they were alone Hopalong waved his companion to a chair and bluntly asked a question: "What's th' matter, Tex? You got plumb quiet at th' table."

The other, following his friend's example, filled a pipe before he replied.

"Well, I was thinkin'—could n't help it; an' I was drawin' a contrast that hurt. Hoppy, I 'm not goin' to stay here longer 'n I can help; you don't need me a little bit, an' if you took me in yore outfit it 'd be only because you want to help me. This ain't no place for me—I need excitement, clean, purposeful excitement, an' you fellows have made this part of th' country as quiet as a Quaker meetin'. I 've been thinkin' Buck needs somebody that 'll stick to him—an' there ain't nothin' I won't do for Buck. So I 'm goin' to pull my freight north, but not as Tex Ewalt."

"Tex, if you do that I 'll be able to sleep better o' nights," was the earnest reply. "We 'd like to have you. You know that, but it might mean life to Buck if he had you. Lord, but could n't you two raise h—l if you started! He 'll be tickled half to death to see you—there will be at least one man he won't have to suspect."

Tex considered a moment. "He won't see me—to know me. I 'm one man when I 'm known, when I 've declared myself; I can be two or three if I don't declare myself. One fighting man won't do him much good—if I could take th' outfit along we would n't waste no time in strategy. Th' rest of th' population, hostile to Buck, would move out as we rode in—an' they would n't come back. No, I 'm playing th' stranger to Buck. Somebody 's goin' to pay me for it, too. An' th' pay 'll not be in money but in results. I won't starve, not as long as people like to play cards. I quit that, you know; but if I do play, it 'll be part of my bigger game."

"I feel sorry for th' card-playin' population if you figger you ought to eat," smiled Hopalong, reminiscently.

"If I 'd 'a' knowed about Buck, I 'd 'a' gone to Montana 'stead of comin' here, an' saved some valuable time," Tex observed.

"But as far as that goes, Tex, they can't do much before Spring, anyhow," Hopalong remarked, thoughtfully. "An' it's yore own fault," he added. "We wanted to send you th' news occasionally, but you never let us know where you was. We 'd 'a' liked to hear from you, too."

"Yes, I reckon I 've got time enough; besides, I need th' exercise," agreed Tex.

"How is it you never wrote?" asked Hopalong, curiously.

Tex left his seat and walked to the door. "Take a walk with me—this ain't no place to tell a story like that."

"I 've got somethin' better 'n that—I want to go down to th' H2 an' see my father-in-law for a couple of minutes. Never met him, did you? We can ride slow an' have lots of time. Be with you in a minute," and Hopalong hastened to ask his wife if she had any word to send to her father. He joined Tex at the bunkhouse, now deserted except for Lee Hop, and in a minute they left for the H2. As they rode, Tex told his story.

"This is going to be short an' meaty. When I left here I struck Kansas City first, then Chicago, spending a few days in each of them. I 'd heard a lot about New York, an' headed for it. I had n't been there very long before I met a woman, an' you know they can turn us punchers into fool knots. Well, I courted her four days an' married her—oh, I was plumb in love with her, all right. She was one of them sweet, dreamy, clingin' kind—pretty as h—l, too. I had a good job by then, and for most a year I was too happy to put my feet on this common old earth. I never gambled, never drank, and found it not very hard to quit cussing, except on real, high-toned occasions. But I never could get along without my gun. Civilization be d—d! There 's more crooks an' killers in New York than you an' me ever saw or heard of. Once I was glad I had it—did n't have to shoot, though. Th' man got careless an' let his gun waver a little an' was lookin' at th' works in mine before he knowed it. He did n't want no money—what he needed was a match, an' he was doin' it to win a bet—or so he palavers. I takes his stubby .32 an' kicks him so he 'd earn that bet, an' lets him go. I had to laugh—him stackin' agin me at that game!

"Well, I got promoted, an' had to travel out of town every two weeks. I 'd be gone two days an' then turn up bright an' smilin' for my wife to admire. Once I was wired to come back quick on account of somethin' unexpected turnin' up, an' I lopes home to spend that second night in my own bed. I remember now that I wondered if th' wife would be there or at her mother's.

"She was there, but she was n't admirin' me. I saw red, an' th' fact that I did n't go loco proved that I ain't never goin'. But th' trigger hung on a breath an' he knowed it. He was pasty white an' could n't hardly stand up. Then th' shock wore off an' he was th' coolest man in town.

"'What are you goin' to do about it?' he asks, slowly. 'Yore wife loves me, not you. She 's allus loved me—you never really reckoned she was in love with you, did you?"

"I was shocked then, only I was wearin' my poker face an' he could n't see nothin'. 'Why, I did think, once in a while, that she loved me,' I retorts. 'I certainly kept you hangin' 'round th' gutter an' sneakin' in, anyhow. When I get through with you they 'll find you in that same gutter.'

"'Goin' to shoot me? I ought to have a chance. I ain't got no gun—you see, I ain't wild an' woolly like you,' an' he actually grinned!

"'What kind of a chance did I have, out of town an' not suspectin' any thin'?' I asks.

"'But she loves me; don't you understand? She was happy with me. What good will it do you if you kill me an' break her heart? She 'll never look at you again.'

"'I reckon she won't anyhow,' I retorts. 'Leastwise not if I can help it. Look here: Don't you know you deserve to die?'

"'That's open to debate, but for brevity I 'll say yes; but I want a chance. I gave you a chance every time I came here—you did n't take it, that's all.'

"'I 'll get you a gun, d—d if I won't,' I replied, an' backed towards th' valise where my big old Colt was. But he stops me with a sneer.

"'I said a chance! You was born with a gun in your hand, an' it 'd be pure murder.'

"'I 'm glad somethin 's pure,' says I. Then I remembered that old valise again. Remember th' last thing I did for you an' Peters before I quit, Hoppy?"

Hopalong thought quickly. "Yes, you an' Pete put in two days settin' poisoned cows in th' brush on th' west line. Did a good job, too. Ain't been bothered none by wolves since."

Tex chuckled. "There was a bottle of yore stuff in that war-bag an' it was half full. I don't remember puttin' it there, but there she was. So I takes it an' holds it up for him to look at, readin' th' label out loud. That was th' only time my wife says a word, an' she says his name, sorrowful; then she goes on lookin' from him to me an' from me to him.

"He laughs at me an' sneers again. 'Think I 'm go in' to eat that?' he says.

"I don't answer. I 'm too busy workin' with one hand an' watchin' him. I knowed he did n't have no gun, but there was chairs an' bottles a-plenty. I got down a bottle of bitters an' poured some of it in a couple of glasses. Then I drops in some pain-killer an' stirs it up. It does n't mix very well, so I pushed th' remains of their supper to one side an' slips th' two glasses under th' table cloth, holdin' one edge of it in my teeth so it would n't touch th' glasses an' let him follow 'em. If they 'd been cards I 'd 'a' spread 'em monte-fashion under his nose—but they was n't.

"'Now, you skunk—take your pick an' don't wrangle no more about yore chances. An' you drink it before I drink mine, or I 'll blow yore cussed ribs loose!'

"I had given him credit for havin' a-plenty nerve, but now I sees it was n't nerve at all—just gall. He was pasty white again, almost green, an' his little soul plumb tried to climb out of his eyes. I was a whole lot surprised at how he went to pieces an' I was savagely elated at th' way he was a-starin' at that cloth. He looks at me for an instant and then back at th' little shell game on th' table' an' he says in a weak, thin voice: 'How 'd I know—you 'll drink—yourn?'

"'You ain't supposed to be knowin' anythin' about my habits while I 've got this gun—an' it's gettin' plumb heavy, too,' I retorts. 'You 've been yellin' about an even break, an' there it is. An' if it 'll hurry things any I 'll pick up my glass now an' drink it as soon as I see yore glass empty, an' yore Adam's apple bob enough. We won't have to wait very long before we get results. You 'll pick yore glass an' drain it or you 'll stop lead.' An' I did n't care, Hoppy, which one he got—I was worse'n dead then—what th' h—l did I care about livin'?

"I reached out to get my glass as soon as he had his'n an' I laid th' gun on my knee, knowin' he did n't have no weapon, an' that I could get th' drop before he could swing a bottle or chair. But I knowed wrong. He was a liar. As I touched my glass his hand streaks for his hip pocket. I gave him th' liquor in his eyes an' lunged for his gun hand just in time. Then I lets loose all th' rage that was boilin' in me an' when I gets tired of punishin' him, I throws him at th' feet of th' woman, picks up both guns, gets what personal duffle I need, an' blows th' ranch. His face was even all over, his nose was busted, his teeth stuck in his lips, an' he had a broken gun-wrist that gave somebody a whole lot of trouble before it worked right again, if it ever did. I 'm glad I did n't shoot him—there was a lot more of satisfaction doin' it with my naked hands. It was man to man an' I played with him, with all his extra twenty pounds. By G—d, I can feel it yet!"

During the short pause Hopalong looked steadily ahead with unseeing eyes, his face hard, his eyes narrowed, and a tightness about his lips that told plainly what he felt. To come home to that! He realized that his companion was speaking again and gave close attention.

"I don't know where I put in th' next week, but when I got rational I found myself in a cell in a Philadelphia jail, along with bums and crooks. I found that I 'd beat up a couple of policemen when I was drunk. When I got ready to leave th' town I didn't have a whole lot of money, so I played cards with what I had an' left th' town as soon as I had my fare—which did n't take long. That bunch never went up agin' such a well trained deck in their lives."

This time Hopalong broke the silence that ensued, his hand dropping unconsciously on his friend's arm in warm, impulsive sympathy. "By G—d, what a deal! It's awful, Tex; awful!"

"Yes, it was—an' it ain't exactly what you 'd call a joke right now. But I ain't worryin' none about th' woman—she killed my love stone cold that night. But when I think of how things might 'a' turned out if she 'd been square, of th' home I 'd 'a' had—but h—l, what's th' use, anyhow? Now what hurts me most is my pride an' conceit—an' th' way I turned to th' drink an' cheatin' so easy. It makes me mad clean through to think of what a infant I was, how I played th' fool for th' Lord knows how long; an' sometimes I want to kill somebody to sort of get square with myself. Up north I 'll be too busy tryin' to make fools out of other people to do much in th' line of sympathizin' with myself—an' too busy an' cautious to break back to drink an' cards. That was one of th' things drove me back here—there 's a whole lot more temptation facin' a man back East, an' 'specially a feller that's totin' a big load of trouble."

"Don't it beat all how different luck will run for different people?" marvelled Hopalong, thinking of his portion.

"That was runnin' in my mind while I was eatin'," replied Tex. "Reckon I did get sort of quiet. But I 'm plumb glad th' right kind of luck came yore way, all right."

They rode on for a short time, each busy with his own thoughts, and then Hopalong looked up. "We 're goin' up to see Buck just as soon as I feel th' ranch is in proper shape. I 've got to get th' round-up out of th' way first. You see, we ain't had no honeymoon trip yet."

"Yo 're lucky again; I never could see no joy in hikin' over th' country changin' trains, livin' in hotels, sleepin' in a different bed every night, each one worse'n th' one before, lookin' after baggage, an' workin' hard all th' time. I 've often wondered why it is that two people jump into all that trouble just as soon as they get into their own little heaven for th' first time." Then Tex's face grew earnest. "Now, look here, Hoppy: You ain't goin' up to see Buck till I tell you to come. I know you, all right; just as soon as you land you 'll be out gunnin' for th' bunch that's tryin' to bust Buck's game. You ain't single no more—yo're a married man, an' when a man 's got a wife like yourn he naturally ain't got no cussed business runnin' 'round puttin' hisself in th' way of gettin' killed. You let yore gun get plumb dusty an' when you want any excitement, go out an' try to make water run up hill, or somethin' simple like that. You handle th' trouble that comes to you, an' don't go off a-lookin' for it."

They spent the rest of the time in discussing the status of the married man, and when Mary afterward learned of the stand Tex took she shared more of her husband's affection for him. After a short stay at the H2 they turned homeward and went thoroughly into the matter of Tex's ride north. It was agreed that extra precaution would do no harm, and in order to have no blunder on the part of any one, they decided that it was best not to say anything about where he was going. Hopalong was greatly pleased and relieved now that he knew that his old foreman would have some one to help him fight his battles on that cold, distant range; but he did not appear to be as cheerful about it as was his companion. Tex looked forward to the trip with all the eagerness and impatience of a boy and it showed in his conversation and actions.

When they reached the ranch house at dusk they found Mary cooking a very small meal, and she waved them off. "You an' Billy-Red can't eat here to-night: yo 're goin' to eat with th' boys in th' bunk-house. I would n't spoil your fun for anything. Now you get right out—I mean just what I say!"

"But, girl—" began Hopalong.

"Now I 've made up my mind, an' that's all there is about it. I can get along without you this once—I won't do it again, you know—an' I want you boys to have a rousin' good time all by yoreselves. I want th' boys to like me, Billy-Red, to feel that I ain't changed everythin' by bein' here. Now you clear out—Lee knows all about it, an' I cooked some goodies this afternoon for th' feast. Johnny cleaned out th' cake tins an' scraped th' bowls I mixed th' fillin' in—I had to drive him away. Look! There he is, leanin' up against that tree watchin' for me to set somethin' out to cool. He purty near got away with a pie—oh, he 's terrible! But he 's a good boy, just th' same."

Tex turned, emitted a blood-curdling yell and started for the anxious Johnny, Hopalong close behind, while Mary stood in the door and watched the fun, laughing with delight. The outfit piled out of the bunk-house, caught sight of Johnny pounding towards them, and joined in, much to the Kid's disgust. They did not know anything about the affair, but they did not have to know—Johnny was legitimate prey for all, at any time and under any conditions. The fleeing youngster was nearly caught twice as he dodged and doubled, but once past them, he drew away with ease. When the winded and laughing pursuers finally stopped, he circled around to the nearest corral, found a seat on the gate and watched them straggle back to the bunk-house, deriding them with cheerful abandon, dissecting them with a shrewd and cutting tongue. He took them up in rotation and laid bare their faults and weaknesses until they leaned against the wall and laughed at each other until the tears came. Then he turned to ridicule.

"An' there's Skinny," he continued, slowly and gravely, while he rolled a cigarette. "Th' only way you can see him, except at noon, is to look at him in front, or at his feet. Why, I grabbed a broom in th' dark one time an' shore apologized before I realized that it was n't him at all. When he sits down he looks like a figger four, an' I 'm allus a-scared he 'll get into one pant's laig by mistake. When he eats solid stuff he looks like a rope with a knot in it—it's scary watchin' them knots go down—looks like he was skinnin' hisself. You can't tell whether he 's comin' or goin'—th' bumps is all alike. His laigs is so long he looks like a wishbone an' I 'm holdin' my breath most of th' time for fear he 'll split. When he goes huntin' all he has to do is to stand still so th' game won't see him; it wanders up to see what's holdin' up th' hat. He put Pete's pants on once when he fell in th' crick—after he fell in—an' I lifts my hat when I saw th' ridin' skirts. His laigs are beautiful—except for them knobs half way down where they hinge. An' when he swallers a mouthful of water he looks like a muscle dance. Why, I got into his bunk one night by mistake an' spent five minutes a-tryin' to smooth out a crease in th' blanket. Then he wakes up an' tells me to go over an' scratch Red for a change. Tells me to git off 'n him, 'cause I 'm flattenin' him out. That can't be did, an' he knew it, too.

"What you laughin' at, Red? You ain't got no laugh comin'. Every mornin' you sit on th' bunk an' count yore clothes an' groan. You put yore hat on first an' yore boots next. Then you takes off th' boots so yore socks can get on. Then th' boots go on again. Then they come off again to let yore pants go on, after which on go th' boots again. Then you take yore hat off to let th' shirt slip over yore head an' it goes right back on again. I 've seen you feel around for yore suspenders for five minutes before you remembered they was under th' shirt."

"Yo 're another! I don't wear no suspenders!"

"No, you don't. Not now, but you did. You quit 'em 'cause they cost a dollar a pair an' kept gettin' lost under th' shirt. Now when you dress up you lift my suspenders. Tex never saw you in love. I did; lots of times; about twice a month. You put th' saddle on th' corral wall, close th' horse, an' mount th' gate. You eat coffee with a knife an' sugar th' water. When I wake up first I see you huggin' th' pillow, which is my old coat wrapped around my old pants. If anybody says 'patience,' you bust yore neck a-lookin' for her. What did you do up to Wallace's that time when his niece came on to visit at his ranch? Wallace told me all about it, an' all about th' toothbrush, too. Lemme see if you remember good. Did n't you—"

"You never mind about me rememberin'," Red shouted, grabbing up a bucket of water off the wash bench and starting for his tormentor. Johnny leaped down and backed off, dodging behind the corral wall. As Red made the turn he fell sprawling, the water affectionately clinging to him. When he arose and looked around Johnny was entering the bunk-house door and the rest of the outfit clung together trying to hold themselves up, and voiced its misery in wails. At that moment Lee Hop buck-jumped around the corner on his trip from the cook shack to the corral, his favorite place of refuge when the ranch house was cut off from him, and he saw Red too late. When he was able to think he was minus a shirt and Red was carrying him under one arm and the shirt under the other.

"Now, you heathen—get that grub on th' table or I 'll picket you an' Johnny to th' same stake!" Red threatened, grimly.

"Him get clake. Him stealie pie. Alle same in klitchen. Eat chop-chop!" wailed the cook. He was promptly dropped and looked up in time to see a rush for the cook shack. But Johnnie was placing the delicacies on the table and close scrutiny failed to discover anything wrong with them, notwithstanding the suspicious manner in which his tongue groomed his teeth.

The supper was a howling success, and unlike the usual Bar-20 meals, was prolonged, and fun seasoned every dish. Even Lee Hop, incapable as he was of grasping most of the points in their rapid flight, and not wholly in sympathy with certain members of the outfit—even his countenance lost its expression of constant watchfulness; his mouth widened into a grin whose extremities were lost somewhere in the region of his back hair; his eyes gleamed like jet buttons in a dish of mush; and his moisture-laden skin shone until, altogether, his head resembled nothing so much as a pumpkin-bogie, a good-natured one, with an extra large candle lighted inside. He was tempted now and again to insert a remark in the short openings, but experience checked him in time. When the crowd filed into the living-room it was to tell tales of men living and dead; stories that covered a great range of human action, from the foolishness of "Aristotle" Smith to the cold ferocity and cruelty of Slippery Trendley and Deacon Rankin. The hours flew past with astonishing speed and when Tex looked at his watch he stared for a moment and returned it to his pocket with a quick, decisive movement.

"It's past midnight, fellows, an' I 'm riding' on in the mornin'," he remarked, arising.

The crowd looked its amazement and then vociferously announced its regret. These men held it a breach of etiquette to question, and because there were no "whys" or "wherefores," Tex felt impelled to explain. He was going on to see old friends, but he would return. The Bar-20 was his range and he would get back as soon as he could. In deference to his wishes and to let him get as much sleep as possible, the outfit quietly prepared for rest, and Hopalong, bidding them good-night, departed for the ranch house.

Breakfast over the next morning, Tex rode north, followed by an escort of friends of which any man would have been proud. Hopalong and Mary rode at his side and behind in a compact bunch came the boys. They stopped when the river trail was reached and Tex shook hands all around.

"I 'm sorry to leave you, Hopalong," he said earnestly; "but you know how it is: I 've been away quite a spell and things happen quick out here. You 'll see me again this Summer an' I 'll come to stay if you want me. Mary, I 'm mighty glad to see he 's got such a good foreman—he 's needed one a long time; an' I can see a big improvement in him already."

"Reckon you might profit by the example—must be girls a-plenty out in this country who 'd make good foremen," she replied, laughing.

Tex's face showed no trace of hurt as the chance arrow sped to the mark; he laughed, pointing at Johnny. "I reckon there are; but the Kid would n't give me no show."

"We 'll answer for him, Tex," chuckled Red. "We cured him once before an' we 'd be shore glad to do it again."

"Yep—kept him in the hills, starvin' an' freezin' for a whole month," sweetly added Skinny.

Johnny flushed and squirmed but had no time to retort, Pete and the others being too busy talking to Tex to let him be heard. Finally Tex backed off, raised his hat, and with a bow and a smile to Mary, wheeled and loped off along the trail to run Spring a race to Montana. Every time he looked back he waved in answer to his friends, and then, swiftly mounting a rise, was silhouetted for an instant against the white clouds on the horizon and as swiftly dropped from sight, a faint chorus of yells reaching him.

The outfit turned slowly to return to their ranch and when they missed their foreman, they saw him sitting silent where they had left him, his wife's hand on his arm. He could still see Tex against the sky, clear cut, startlingly strong and potent, and he nodded his head slowly. "He 's needed up there, an' he 's the best man to go." Turning, he was surprised to find his wife so near and he smiled joyously: "Wouldn't go an' leave me all alone, would you, Honey? Yo 're shore a thoroughbred an' I 'm plumb proud of you. Race you to th' bunch!"

CHAPTER II

H. WHITBY BOOTH IS SHOWN HOW

If any man of the Bar-20 punchers had been brought face to face with George McAllister he would have suffered the shock of his life. "Frenchy?" he would have hesitated, "What in—? Why, Frenchy?" And the shock would have been mutual, since Frenchy McAllister had been dead some months, a fact of which his brother George was sorrowfully aware. Yet so alike were they that any of Frenchy's old friends would have thought the dead come to life.

A distinguishing feature was the eye-glasses which George had long found necessary. He took them off and laid aside his book as the butler announced Mr. Booth.

H. Whitby Booth entered the room with the hesitating step of one who has a favor to ask. A tall, well-set-up man of the blonde type of so many of his countrymen, his usual movements were slow when compared with the nervous action of those in the hustling city of Chicago. Hesitation gave him the appearance of a mechanical figure, about to run down. Mr. McAllister's hearty welcome did not seem to reassure him.

"Ah—Miss McAllister—ah—is not at home," he volunteered, rather than questioned.

The other man eyed him quizzically. "No," he agreed, "she and Mrs. Blake are out somewhere; I am not just sure where. Shall I inquire?"

"No, oh no. I rather wanted to talk to you, you know—that is—ah—"

"Sit down, Whitby, and relieve your mind. Cigars on that table there, and some whiskey and fizz. Shall I ring for brandy?"

"Awfully good of you, really. No, I—I think I 'll go in as I am. The fact is I want Margaret—Miss McAllister—and I thought I 'd ask if you had any objections."

"Margaret has."

"Oh, I say!"

"Fact, she has. Might as well face the music, Whitby. The truth is just this: It's less than a week ago since Margaret was holding you up as a horrible example. Margaret comes from a line of hustlers; she has not had common sense and national pride bred out of her in a fashionable school; and she looks with extreme disfavor on an idler."

"But I say, Mr. McAllister, you don't think—"

"No, my boy, I don't think where Margaret is concerned—Margaret thinks. Don't misunderstand me. I like you, Whitby. Confidentially, I believe Margaret does, too. But I am quite sure she will never marry a man who does nothing and, as she expressed it herself, lives on an allowance from his father."

"Then I understand, sir, you have no objections?"

"None in the world—because I believe you will strike your gait before long and become something of a hustler yourself. But let me tell you, Margaret does n't deal in futures—I 'm used to it—but she insists on a fact, not a probability."

Whitby drew a breath which was largely expressive of relief. "In that case, sir, I 'll try my luck," and he arose to say good-night.

"You know where to find them?"

"Rather! I was going there when I had spoken to you."

"I see," said Mr. McAllister, somewhat grimly, remembering the other's greeting. "Sit down, Whitby. The night is young, you can't miss them, and I am so sure of the badness of your luck that I should like to give you a little encouragement to fall back on." Whitby resumed his seat and Mr. McAllister puffed thoughtfully at his cigar for a few moments before speaking.

"Not to go too far back," he began, "my grandfather was a boy when his father took him from Ireland, the birthplace of the family, to France, the birthplace of liberty, as the old man thought. Those were stirring times for that boy and the iron of life entered into him at an early age. He married and had one son, my father, who thought the liberty of this country so much better than that of France, that he came here, bringing his young wife with him; the wife died in giving birth to my younger brother, John. All that line were hustlers, Whitby. They had to be, to keep alive. Margaret knows their history better than I do and glories in it. You see?"

Whitby nodded mournfully. He was beginning to lose confidence again.

"My father would have been alive to-day but for an unfortunate accident which carried off both him and my mother within a few days. My brother and myself were found pretty well provided for. My share has not decreased. In fact I have done very well for a man who is not avaricious. But I had to fight; and more than once it was a close call, win or lose. Margaret knows all that, Whitby, and the dear girl is as proud of her father, I do believe, as of any who went before him. Her mother left us very soon and Margaret has been my companion ever since she could talk. Are you beginning to understand?"

"I am, indeed," was the reluctant acknowledgment.

"Very good. Then here is where you come in." His face clouded and he was silent so long that Whitby looked up inquiringly. The motion aroused McAllister and he continued:

"My brother was queer. I have always thought his birth had something to do with it; but however that may be, he was, in my opinion, peculiar in many of his ways. The choice of his path in life was quite on a par with his character: he invested every dollar he had in land out West, he and a partner whom I have never seen; bought and paid for land and stock at a time when Government land was used by any one without payment of any kind and when live-stock raising was almost an unknown industry, at least in that part of the country. But that was n't all. He went out to the ranch and took his delicate young wife with him, a bride, and lived in a wild region where they saw only Indians, outlaws, and those who were worse than either." His face hardened and the hand he laid on the table trembled as he turned to face to his listener. "Worse than either, Whitby," he repeated. "The Indians were bad enough at times, God knows, but there is excuse for their deviltry; there could be no excuse for those others.

"One reason John gave for going West was that the life would bring health to his wife. It did so. A few months' time saw her a robust woman. And then John returned to the ranch one day to come upon a scene that drove him crazy, I verily believe. No need to go into it, though I had the details from his partner at the time—John did not write me for years. They both started out after the murderers and wandered over a great part of this country before finding the chief fiend. Even his death brought no peace to John. He would never go back to the old place nor would his partner, out of feeling for him. After much persuasion I got them to put matters into my hands, but so many years had passed that I found the ownership in dispute and it is but lately that I have succeeded in regaining title. It was too late for John, who died before I came into possession, but his partner, a man named Peters, has gone up there from a Texan ranch to run the place. He is half owner and should be the best man for the job. But—and my experience with those Westerners places emphasis on that 'but'—I do not really know just what kind of a man he is. I am putting quite a large sum of money in this venture, relying upon Peters' knowledge and hoping for a square deal. And if he is the best man for the place, you are the best man I know to show me that. Don't interrupt.

"I know right well what Margaret will tell you to-night, and if you want to make her change her mind, you could have no better opportunity than I offer. My brother's history is an abiding grief with Margaret, and if you go out there and make good you will surely make good with her.

"That's all. If I 'm right, come and see me to-morrow at the office. I will have everything noted down for you in writing. Commit it to memory and then destroy the notes; because you would be valueless if any one interested discovered you were acting for me. And don't see Margaret after to-night before you go."

He arose and held out his hand. Whitby grasped it as he stood up and looked frankly at him. "It's awfully good of you, Mr. McAllister," he declared. "You 've left me deuced little hope, I must say, but there 's no knowing where you are if you don't ask, is there? And if I come a cropper I 'll try your way and chance it."

"You 'll find my way is right. I 've made mistakes in my life but never any where Margaret was concerned. Good-night."

* * * * *

Whitby stood at the top of the steps, slowly drawing his right-hand glove through his gloved left hand, time after time, casting a long look before he leaped. The driver of his hired coupé eyed him with calculating patience, observing to himself that if this were a specimen of the average Englishman, England must be a cinch for a cabman. Whitby had not yet arrived at the leaping stage when another coupé, a private one with a noticeably fine team, stopped in passing the house, and a voice hailed him: "Hello, Whit! What are you mooning there for?"

Whitby smiled: for all his consideration he had been pushed in at the last. He slowly descended the steps while he replied: "Evenin', Wallie. I was just going to drop in on the Sparrows."

"Good enough! Me, too. Jump in here and let your wagon follow. Do you hear, you driver? Trail in behind—unless you won't need him, Whit."

"Oh, let him come along. I—ah—I may be leaving rather early, don't you know."

"That so? Me, too. I'm darned glad I met you, Whit. I 'm in a regular blue funk—Brown is sulky as a bear. He 's been driving me about for an hour, I should say, and he does n't understand it. Fact is, Whit, I 'm going to ask a girl to marry me to-night, and I don't want to, not a little bit; but if I don't, some other fellow will, and that would be—well, worse."

"By Jove! Marry you to-night! Do you fancy she will?"

"No, you 'bloomin' Britisher.' Ask her, not marry her, to-night. For the love of Moses! Do you think it's an elopement?"

"Well, I did n't know, you know," and his tone was one of distinct disappointment. "You seem to be pretty certain she 'll have you."

"Oh! She 'll have me right enough, but I 've got to ask first and make sure. There 're too many others hanging around to suit me."

"I say, old chap, I hope you won't mind my asking but—it is n't Miss McAllister, by any chance, is it?"

Wallie turned in his seat and stared at the anxious face of Whitby for a few moments, then he broke into shouts of laughter. "You, too," he managed to say; and at last: "No, you trembling aspirant, it isn't, by any chance, Miss McAllister. Margie and I are good friends, all right, but not in that way. Oh, you sly Johnnie! Why, I 'll bet a hundred you 're up to the same game, yourself. Own up, now."

"I think a great deal of Miss McAllister, a very great deal. If I thought she 'd have me I 'd ask her the first opportunity."

"And that will be in a few minutes. She 's bound to be there—and here we are. Wish me luck, Whit."

"I do, with all my heart, Wallie," and he was very serious in his earnestness.

"Same to you, Whit, and many—no, not that, of course." They were in the rooms by this time, both pairs of eyes wandering, searching this way and that as they moved toward their pretty hostess whose recent marriage seemed to have increased, if possible, her popularity with the male sex; she stood so surrounded by a chaffing crowd of men that they found difficulty in getting near her. They did not linger, however, as each caught sight of the object of his pursuit at the same time, and their paths parted from that moment.

The maturity of Margaret McAllister's mind would never have been suspected from her appearance. The pale green satin gown, overhung with long draperies of silk-fringed tulle, the low round satin corsage being partly veiled by a diagonal drapery of the same transparent material, and ornamented—as was the skirt—with a satin scarf, tied with knots of ribbon and clusters of water-lilies—this formed a creation that adorned a perfect figure of medium height, whose symmetry made it seem smaller than it really was. The Irish temperament and quickness of intelligence were embodied in a brunette beauty inherited from her French ancestry; but over all, like the first flush of morning's light on a lovely garden, lay the delicate charm of her American mother. One of a group of girls, with several men hovering on the outer circle, she detached herself upon Whitby's approach and advanced to meet him.

"Good-evening, Mr. Booth. Are n't you late?"

"Yes, rather." Whitby drew comfort from the fact that she had chosen to notice it.

"Aunt Jessie is over this way. She is complaining of the heat already. Perhaps you would better mention it."

"Mrs. Blake? I will. I 've a favor to ask of Mrs. Blake. Let's join her."

Mrs. Blake was of that comfortable age, size, and appearance which expressed satisfaction with the world and its ways. She affected black at all times with quite touching consistency; doubly so, since gossip hinted at a married life not altogether happy. However, her widowhood did not permit derogatory remarks concerning the late Mr. Blake, who made up to her in dying all his short-comings when alive; and she had proven a discreet chaperon for Margaret from the assumption of that position. Her most conspicuous weakness was endeavoring to overcome a growing embonpoint with corsets, and the tight lacing undoubtedly had much to do with her susceptibility to heat. Whitby was a favorite with her and she greeted him warmly, closing her waving fan to tap him with it now and again in emphasis.

But Whitby's purpose would not wait; as soon as the chance offered he begged free, and arose to the occasion with a daring that surprised himself. "I am going to hide up with Miss McAllister for quite a time, Mrs. Blake. If any one comes bothering, just put him off, will you? That is, if Miss McAllister doesn't mind."

"Mind? Of course she doesn't mind. Run along, Margie, and for Heaven's sake, don't sit in a draft—though I don't believe you can find one in this house," and the fan was brought into more vigorous action at the reminding thought.

"Well, I don't know, Mr. Booth," remonstrated Margaret as they moved away. "They will begin to dance very soon and I promised Wallie Hartman the opening. You came in together, didn't you?"

"Oh, Wallie! Yes, he was pretty keen on getting here but I rather fancy he's forgotten about that dance, you know."

"What makes you say that? What mischief are you two brewing?"

"Ah—it's Wallie's secret, you know,—that is, his part of it is—I say, here 's the very spot."

They had made the turn behind the stairs, where a punch bowl stood; the space immediately behind the stairs being too low in which to stand comfortably upright, a mass of foliage was banked in a half circle, outside of which the stand and punch bowl were placed; inside, a thoughtful hostess had arranged a tête-à-tête, quite unnoticeable from without. Whitby's attention had been drawn to it by the couple who had emerged upon their approach, the girl radiant and the man walking on air, of which details Whitby was entirely oblivious. Margaret was more observing and she looked after Wallie with a dawning look of understanding and then at Whitby with a quick glance of apprehension. There was no time to protest, even if she would, as Whitby had led her behind the leafy screen before she fully realized the import of his action.

Like many slow starters, Whitby, when once in movement, set a rapid pace. He came to the point now with promptitude:

"Miss McAllister, I arrived late because I called on your father before coming here, to ask his permission to address you. I must say he rather dashed my hopes, you know. He does n't think I 'm such a bad sort—he does n't object in the least—but he seemed to fancy his daughter Margaret would. I—I hope he is mistaken."

She turned to him a face in which the eyes were slowly filling with tears, nor did she remove the hand upon which his rested, on the curving back of the seat. It was not her first proposal, by several, but there was a vibrating earnestness, an unexpected tenderness in this big, slow Englishman which told her she was going to hurt him seriously when she spoke. And she did not want to hurt him; with all her heart and soul she wished she did not have to hurt him.

"I 'm not worthy of you, Margaret. I don't think any man is worthy of a good woman, and I 'm just an ordinary man. But I 'll be worthy of you, from to-night.—and that whether you say yes or no.

"You know I love you. You must know I left London and came over here to follow you. But you don't know how much I care for you—and I can't tell you. I 'm a duffer at this sort of game—like everything else—I never did it before—and 'pon my word, I don't know how. But if I could say what I feel, then perhaps, you might know better. What is it to be, Margaret? Wait a bit! If you feel doubtful, I 'll wait as long as you want me to. But—but—I 'm afraid it's no go." He sat looking dumbly at her, hoping for some sign of encouragement, but there was no misreading the answer in her face.

It was a long minute before she spoke. She was unnerved by the hysterical desire to put her arms around him and soothe him as she might a hurt child. Something of her embarrassment was conveyed to him and with the wish to save her the pain of refusing in words he started as if to rise. She stopped him with a gesture.

"Wait. I will say what I want you to know. I like you—no! not in that way; not the way a woman should—the man she expects to marry. Perhaps if you had been—I am not sure—but I could not marry a drone. Oh! why don't you wake up! How can you go on from day to day with no thought but self-indulgence? You say you love me. Ask yourself: Is not that merely a form of self-indulgence? Oh, I know you would take care of me and defer to me and let me have my way in everything—you are that kind of a man—but to what end? That I might be the more pleasing to you. Is it your purpose to dawdle through life, taking only such pains as shall make things more pleasing to you?"

"Is that all, Margaret? Is it only because you fancy I'm a loafer?"

"But you are! You are! Oh! I don't know—I 'm not sure—"

"I 'm sure!" the exulting certainty in his voice startled her. "I 'm sure!" he repeated. "I may be a bit of an ass in some things but no woman would care as you care, what a man was or what he did unless she loved him. You love me, Margaret, thank God! Give me a chance. You 're only a girl, yet. Give me a year and if I go under, or you find I 'm wrong, I 'll thank you for the chance and never blame you. Will you?"

Her heart was pounding in suffocating throbs and she trembled like a leaf in the wind before the eager intensity of his gaze. A strong will held her in check, else she had given way then and there, but she faced him with a fine bravery. "Yes," she promised, "I will. Go away and make good."

"Make good! By Jove, that's what your father said. Make good—I 'll not forget it." His head bent low in an old-fashioned but becoming salute while her free hand rested unfelt for an instant upon the yellow hair, a gesture that was at once a blessing and a prayer.

CHAPTER III

BUCK MAKES FRIENDS

The town of Twin River straggled with indifferent impartiality along the banks of the Black Jack and Little Jill branches where they ran together to form the Jones' Luck River, two or three houses lying farther north along the main stream. The trail from Wayback, the nearest railway point, hugged the east bank of Jones' Luck, shaded throughout its course by the trees which lined the river, as they did all the streams in this part of the country: cottonwoods mostly, with an occasional ash or elm. Looking to the east, the rolling ground sloped upward toward a chain of hills; to the west, beyond the river, the country lay level to the horizon. On both sides of the trail the underbrush grew thick; spring made of it a perfect paradise of blossoms.

Boomerang, pet hobo of Twin River and the only one who ever dared to come back, left Little Nell's with his characteristic hurried shuffle and approached the wooden bridge where the Wayback trail crossed the Jill, and continued south to Big Moose. Boomerang was errand boy just now, useful man about the hotel or one of the saloons when necessity drove, at other times just plain bum. He was suspected of having been a soldier. A sharp "'tention" would startle him into a second's upright stiffness which after a furtive look around would relax into his customary shambling lack of backbone. He had one other amusing peculiarity: let a gun be discharged in his vicinity and there was trouble right away, trouble the gunner was not looking for; Boomerang would fly into such a fury of fighting rage, it was a town wonder that some indignant citizen had not sent him long ago where he never could come back.

Coming to the bridge he looked casually and from habit along the trail and espied a horseman riding his way. He studied him reflectively a few seconds and then spat vigorously at something moving on one of the bridge planks, much as the practised gun-man snaps without appearing to aim. "Stranger," he affirmed; "Cow-punch," he added; "Old man," he shrewdly surmised, and shook his head; "Dunno 'im" and he glanced at the stain on the plank to see what he had bagged. Among his other pleasing human habits "Boom" used tobacco—as a masticant—there was the evidence of the fact. But he had missed and after a wistful look for something to inspire him to a more successful effort, he shuffled on.

The horseman came at a steady gait, his horse, a likely-looking bay with black spots, getting over the ground considerably faster than the cow-ponies common to the locality; approaching the bridge he was slowed to a walk while his rider took in the town with comprehensive glance. A tall man, lean and grizzled, with the far-seeing, almost vacant eye of the plainsman, there was nothing, to any one but such a student of humanity as "Boom," to indicate his calling, much less his position in it. The felt hat, soft shirt and rough, heavy suit, the trousers pushed into the tops of his boots, were such as a man in the town might wear and many did wear. He forded the stream near the bridge at a walk. Pop Snow, better known as Dirty, cleverly balancing himself within an inch of safety in front of the "I-Call" saloon, greeted him affably: "Come a long way, stranger?" asked Dirty.

"From Wayback," announced the other and paused in interested suspense. Dirty had become seized with some internal convulsion, which momentarily threatened disaster to his balance. His feet swung back and forth in spasmodic jerks, the while his sinful old carcass shook like a man with the Chagres fever. Finally a strangled wheeze burst from his throat and explained the crinkle about his eyes: he was laughing.

"Wayback ain't fur," he declared, licking his lips in anticipation of the kernel of his joke about to come. "You can a'most see it frum here through the bottom uv—"

"How d' you know it ain't?" the horseman abruptly interrupted.

Dirty was hurt. This was not according to Hoyle. Two more words and no self-respecting "gent" could refuse to look toward Wayback through a glass—and certainly not alone. The weather was already too cold to sit fishing for such fish as this; and here was one who had swallowed the bait, rejecting the hook.

"Why, stranger, I been there," explained Dirty, in aggrieved remonstrance.

"How long since you been there? Not since two-at-once, was you? Didn't it used to be at Drigg's Worry? Didn't it?"

Snow lost his balance. He nodded in open-mouthed silence.

"Course it was—at Drigg's Worry—and now it's way back," and with a grim chuckle the stranger pressed in his knees and loped on down the trail to the Sweet-Echo Hotel.

Dirty stared after him. "Who in hell's that?" he asked himself in profane astonishment. "It 's never Black Jack—too old; an' it ain't Lucky Jones—too young. He sure said 'two-at-once.' Two-at-once: I ain't heard that in more 'n twenty years." His air-dried throat compelled inward attention and he got up from his box and turned and looked at it. "Used to be at Drigg's Worry, did n't it?" he mimicked. "Did n't it? An' now it's way back." He kicked the box viciously against the tavern wall. "D—n yer! This yer blasted town 's gettin' too smart," and he proceeded to make the only change of base he ever undertook during the day, by stamping across the bridge to the "Why-Not."

The door of the I-Call opened and a man appeared. He glanced around carelessly until he noticed the box, which he viewed with an appearance of lively interest, coming outside and walking around it at a respectful distance. "Huh!" he grunted. Having satisfied himself of its condition he drawlingly announced it for the benefit of those inside. "Dirty 's busted his chair," he informed, and turned to look curiously after Pop Snow, who was at that moment slamming the door of the Why-Not behind him.

Through the open door three other men came out. They all looked at the box. One of them stopped and turned it over with his thumb. "Kicked it," he said, and they all looked across at the Why-Not, considering. A roar from behind them smote upon their ears like a mine blast: "Shut that door!" With one accord they turned and trooped back again.

The rider meanwhile was talking to his horse as he covered the short distance to the Sweet-Echo Hotel. "Wonderful climate, Allday. If twenty years don't wear you down no more 'n old Snow you 'll shore be a grand horse t' own," and he playfully banged him alongside the neck with his stirrup. Allday limited his resentment to a flattening of the ears and the rider shook his head sorrowfully. "Yo 're one good li'l hoss but yore patience 'd discourage a saint." He swung off the trail to ride around the building in search of a shelter of some kind, catching sight of Boomerang just disappearing through the door of the bar-room. "Things has been a-movin' 'round Twin River since Frenchy an' me went after Slippery an' his gang: bridges, reg'lar hotels, an' tramps. An' oblige me by squintin' at th' stable. If Cowan 'd wake up an' find that at th' back door, he 'd fall dead."

He dismounted and led his horse through the stable door, stopping in contemplation of the interior. He was plainly surprised. "One, two, three, four," he counted, "twenty stalls—twenty tie-'em-by-th'-head stalls—no, there 's a rope behind 'em. Well, I 'm d—d! He ain't meanin' to build again in fifty years; no, not never!"

Allday went willingly enough into one of the stalls—they were nothing new to him—and fell to eating with no loss of time. Buck watched him for a few moments and then, throwing saddle and bridle onto his shoulder, he walked back the way he had come and into the hotel bar. No one noticed him as he entered, all, even the bartender, being deeply intent on watching a game of cards. Buck grunted, dropped his belongings in a corner, and paused to examine the group. A grand collie dog, lying near the stove in the middle of the room, got up, came and sniffed at him, and went back and lay down again.

The game was going on at a table close to the bar, over which the bartender leaned, standing on some elevation to enable him to draw closer. Only two men were playing. The one facing Buck was a big man, in the forties, his brown hair and beard thickly sprinkled with gray; brown eyes, red-rimmed from dissipation, set wide apart from a big, bold nose, stared down at the cards squeezed in a big hand. The other man was of slight build, with black hair, and the motions of his hands, which Buck had caught as he entered, were those of a gambler: accurate, assured, easy with a smooth swiftness that baffled the eye. He was dressed like a cowpunch; he looked like a cow-punch—all but the hands; these, browned as they were, and dirty, exhibited a suppleness that had never been injured by hard work. Buck walked up to the bar and a soft oath escaped him as he caught sight of the thin, brown face, the straight nose, the out-standing ears, the keen black eyes—Buck's glance leaped around the circle of on-lookers in the effort to discover how many of the gambler's friends were with him. He was satisfied that the man was playing a lone hand. There was a tenseness in the air which Buck knew well, but from across the hall came a most incongruous sound. "Piano, by G—d!" breathed Buck in amazement. The intentness on the game of those in the room explained why he had seen no one about the place and he was at a loss to account for the indifference of the musician.

At the big man's left, standing in the corner between the bar and the wall, was a woman. Her blonde hair and blue eyes set off a face with some pretensions to beauty, and in point of size she was a fitting mate for the big man at whom she stared with lowering gaze. Close to her stood the hobo, and Buck rightly concluded he was a privileged character. Surrounding the table were several men quite evidently punchers, two or three who might be miners, and an unmistakable travelling salesman of that race whose business acumen brings them to the top though they start at the bottom. Buck had gauged them all in that one glance. Afterward he watched the gambler's hands and a puzzled expression gradually appeared on his face; he frowned and moved uneasily. Was the man playing fair or were his eyes getting old? Suddenly the frown disappeared and he breathed a sigh of relief: the motion itself had been invisible but Buck had caught the well-remembered preliminary flourish; thereafter he studied the faces of the others; the game had lost interest, even the low voices of the players fell on deaf ears. His interest quickened as the big man stood up.

"I 'm done," he declared. "That lets me out, Dave. You 've got th' pile. After to-night I 'll have to pound leather for forty a month and my keep." He turned to the woman, while an air of relief appeared among the others at his game acceptance of the loss. "Go on home, Nell. I won't be up yet a while."

"You won't be up at all," was the level-voiced reply.

"Eh?" he exclaimed, in surprised questioning.

She pushed past him and walked to the door. "You won't be up at all," she repeated, facing him. "You 've lost your pile and sent mine after it in a game you don't play any better than a four-year-old. I warned you not to play. Now you take the consequences." The door slammed after her. "Boom" silently opened the door into the hall and vanished.

The big man looked around, dazed. No one met his eye. Dave was sliding the cards noiselessly through his fingers and the rest appeared fascinated by the motion. The big man turned to the bartender.

"Slick, gimme a bottle," he demanded. Slick complied without a word and he bore it in his hand to the table behind the door, where he sat drinking alone, staring out morosely at the gathering darkness.

Buck dropped into the vacated chair and laid his roll on the table. "The time to set in at a two-hand game of draw," he remarked with easy good nature, "is when th' other feller is feelin' all flushed up with winnin'. If you like to add my pile to that load you got a'ready, I 'm on." He beamed pleasantly on the surrounding faces and a cynical smile played for a moment on the thin lips of the man facing him. "Sure," he agreed, and pushed the cards across the table.

"Bar-keep, set 'em up," said Buck, flicking a bill behind him. Slick became busy at once and Buck, in a matter-of-fact manner, placed his gun on the table at his left hand and picked up the pack. "Yes," he went on with vacuous cheerfulness, "the best man with a full deck I ever saw told me that. We crossed trails down in Cheyenne. They was shore some terrors in that li'l town, but he was th' one original." He shook his head in reminiscent wonder, and raised his glass. "Here 's to a growin' pile, Bud," and nodding to the others, who responded with indistinct murmurs, the drink was drained in the customary gulp. "One more, bar-keep, before we start her," he demanded. "I never drink when I 'm a-playin'." Here he leaned forward and raised his voice. "Friend, you over there by th' winder, yo 're not drinkin'."

The big man slowly turned his head and looked at Buck with blood-shot eyes, then at the extra glass on his table. "Here 's better luck ner mine, friend—not wishin' you no harm, Dave," and he added the drink to the generous quantity he had already consumed. Buck waved his hand in acknowledgment, then he smiled again on his opponent.

"Same game you was playin', Bud?" he asked, genially.

"Suits me," was the laconic reply.

Buck raised the second drink. "Here's to Tex Ewalt, th' man who showed me th' error of my ways." The tail of his eye was on Dave.

The name of Tex must have shocked him like a bucket of ice water but he did not betray it by so much as the flicker of an eyelid. Ewalt and he had been friends in the Panhandle and both had escaped the fate of Trendley and his crowd more by luck than merit. Buck knew Dave's history in Texas, related by Ewalt himself, who had illustrated the tell-tale flourish with which Dave introduced a crooked play; but he did not know that Dave Owens was Black Jack, returned after years of wandering, to the place of his nativity.[#]

[#] The boy and girl history of David Jones (Black Jack) and his sister, Veia (called Jill) was well known to some of the old timers who went to Montana in the first gold rush and stayed there. It was difficult to get them to tell it and one was sorry to have heard it, if successful.

Buck shuffled the cards slowly and then with a careful exaggeration of the flourish, dealt the hand in a swift shower of dropping units. A sigh of appreciation escaped the observant group and this time Buck got results: at sight of the exaggerated flourish an involuntary contraction of the muscles hardened the deceptively boyish form and face of the younger man and the black eyes stared a challenging question at the smiling gray ones opposite before dropping to the cards he had unconsciously gathered up.

Luck smiled on Buck from the start. He meant that it should. Always a good player, his acquaintance with Tex, who had taught him all he knew of crooked plays, had made him an apt pupil in the school in which his slippery opponent was a master. With everything coming his way Buck was quite comfortable. Sooner or later the other would force the fighting. Time enough to sit up and take notice when the flourishing danger signal appeared.

It came at last. Dave leaned forward and spoke. "Cheyenne, how'd jack-pots strike yer? I got ter hit th' trail before six an' it's pretty nigh time to feed."

"Shore!" assented Buck, heartily.

The pot grew in a manner scandalous to watch. "Double the ante," softly suggested Dave.

"Shore," agreed Buck, with genial alacrity.

"Double her ag'in."

"Double she is," was Buck's agreeable response.

Pass after pass, and Slick stretched out over the bar and craned his neck. At last, with a graceful flourish a good hand fell to Buck, a suspiciously good hand, while Dave's thin lips were twisted into a one-sided smile. Buck looked at him reproachfully.

"Bud, you should oughter o' knowed better 'n that. I got six cards."

The smile faded from Dave's face and he stared at the cards like a man who sees ghosts. The stare rose slowly to Buck's face, but no one could possibly suspect such grieved reproach to be mere duplicity. It was too ridiculous—only Dave knew quite well that he had not dealt six cards. "Funny," he said. "Funny how a man 'll make mistakes."

"I forgive you this once, but don't do it no more," and Buck shuffled the cards, executed a particularly outrageous flourish, and dealt.

"Ha! Ha!" barked Bow-Wow Baker. "D—n if they ain't both makin' th' same sign. Must belong to th' same lodge."

Chesty Sutton dug him in the ribs with an elbow. "Shut up!" he hissed, never taking his eyes from the game.

Dave passed and Buck opened. Dave drew three cards to two high ones. Buck stood pat. Dave scanned his hand; whatever suspicion he might have had, vanished: he had never seen the man who could deal him a straight in that fashion. He backed his hand steadily until Buck's assurance and his own depleted cash made him pause, and he called. Buck solemnly laid down four aces. Four!—and Dave would have taken his oath the diamond ace had been on the bottom of the deck before the deal—and Buck had not drawn cards.

"They 're good," said Dave shortly, dropping his hand into the discard. "If you 're goin' to stay around here, Cheyenne, I 'll get revenge to-morrer." He started to rise.

"Nope, I guess not, Bud. I never play yore kind of a game with th' same man twice."

Dave froze in his position. "Meanin'?" he asked, coldly.

"I don't like th' way you deal," was the frank answer.

"D—n you!" cursed Dave. His hand flew to his gun—and stopped. Over the edge of the table a forty-five was threatening with steady mouth.

"Don't do it, Bud," warned Buck.

Dave's hand slowly moved forward. "A two-gun man, eh?" he sneered.

"Shore. Never bet on th' gun on th' table, Bud. You got a lot to learn. Hit her up or you 'll be late—an' down where I came from it's unhealthy to look through a winder without first makin' a noise."

"Yore argument is good. But I reckon it 'd be a good bet as how you 'll learn somethin' in Twin River you ain't never learned nowhere else." Dave sauntered carelessly to the front door.

"You ain't never too old to learn," agreed Buck, sententiously. The front door closed quietly after Dave and half a minute later his pony's hoofs were heard pounding along the trail that led toward Big Moose.

"Cheyenne, put her there! I like yore style!" Chesty Sutton, late puncher for the Circle X, shoved his hand under Buck's nose with unmistakable friendliness. "I like th' way you play, all right."

"Me, too," chimed in Bow-Wow. "Dave Owens has got th' lickin' of his life. An' between you an' I, Cheyenne, I ain't never seed Dave get licked afore—not reg'lar."

The chorus of congratulations that followed was so sincere that Buck's heart warmed toward the company. Chesty secured attention by pointing his finger at Buck and wagging it impressively. "But you hear me, Cheyenne," he warned. "Dave ain't no quitter. He 's got it agin' you an' he 's h—l on th' shoot. I ain't never heerd of his killin' nobody but he 's right handy spoilin' yore aim. Ain't he, Bow-Wow?"

"Look a-here. How often have I told you? You sez so. He is. Don't allus leave it to me." Bow-Wow's tone was indignant as he rubbed his right arm reflectively.

"Gentlemen, I 'm not sayin' a word against anybody, not one word," and Slick glanced from man to man, shaking his head to emphasize his perfect belief in the high standard of morality prevalent in Twin River. "But I begs leave to remark that I like Cheyenne's game—which it is th' first time in my brief but eventful career that I seen five dealt cards turn into six. You all seen it. It sure happened. Mr. Cheyenne, you have my joyous admiration. Let's celebrate. An' in th' meantime, might I inquire, without offence, if Cheyenne has a habit of complainin' of too many cards?"

They had lined up before the bar and all glasses were filled before Buck answered. Slick stood directly before him and every face, showing nothing beyond polite interest, was turned his way. But Buck well knew that on his reply depended his position in the community and the gravity of the occasion was in his voice when he spoke.

"Gentlemen, Mr. Slick has called. There's two ways of playin'. When I plays with any gentleman here, I plays one way. Dave Owens played th' other way. I played his game."

He glanced at the silent figure by the window, set down his glass, and started to cross the room. Chesty Sutton put out his hand and stopped him. "I would n't worry him none, Cheyenne. Ned Monroe 's th' best boss I ever worked for but hard luck has been pilin' up on him higher 'n th' Rockies since he lost his ranch. Better let him fight it out alone, friend."

Lost his ranch—Ned Monroe—Buck's intention was doubly strengthened. "Leave it to me," was his confident assurance, and he strode across the room and around the table in front of the window. The sombre eyes of the big man were forced to take notice of him.

"Friend, it's on th' house. Mr. Slick is a right pleasant man, an' he 's waitin'." A rapid glance at the bottle told him that Monroe, in his complete oblivion, had forgotten it. Ned eyed him with a puzzled frown while the words slowly illumined his clouded mind. At length he turned slowly, sensed the situation, and rose heavily to his feet. "Sure," was the simple reply.

At the bar significant looks were exchanged. "I 'm beginnin' to like Cheyenne," declared Slick, thoughtfully, rubbing the palm of his left hand against the bar; "which his persuadin' language is fascinatin' to see."

"It sure is," Chesty Sutton endorsed promptly, while the others about him nodded their heads in silent assent.

"Well, gentlemen," said Slick, "here 's to th' continued good health of Mr. Cheyenne." Down the line ran the salutation and Buck laughed as he replaced his empty glass.

"I shore hope you-all ain't tryin' to scare me none," he insinuated; "because I 'm aimin' to stop up here an'—who in h—l's poundin' that pie-anner?" he broke off, turning to glare in the direction of the melancholy sound.

"Ha! Ha!" barked in his ear, and Buck wheeled as if he had been kicked. "That's Sandy," explained Bow-Wow Baker. "He thinks he 's some player. An' he is. There ain't nothin' like it between here an' Salt Lake."

"Oh, yes; there is," contradicted Buck. "You an' him 's a good team. I bet if you was in th' same room you 'd set up on yore hind laigs an' howl." Bow-Wow drew back, abashed.

"Set 'em up, Mr. Slick," chuckled the salesman.

"Don't notice him, Cheyenne," advised Chesty in a disgusted aside. "He don't mean nothin' by it. It's just a habit. It's got so I 'm allus expectin' him to raise his foot an' scratch for fleas," and he withered the crestfallen Bow-Wow with a look of scorn.

"You was sayin' as how you was aimin' to stop here," suggested Ned Monroe, his interest awakened at thought of a rising star so often following the fall of his own.

"Yes," acknowledged Buck. "If I find—"

Crash! Ding-dong! Ding-dong! The noise of the bell was deafening. Buck set down his glass with extreme care and looked at Slick with an air of helpless wonder, but Bow-Bow was ready with the explanation. "Grub-pile!" he shouted, making for the side door, grasping hold of Chesty's hand as he went out and dragging that exasperated puncher after him by strength of muscle and purpose. "Come on, Cheyenne! No 'angel-in-th'-pot,' but a good, square meal, all right."

Chesty Sutton cast behind him at Buck a glance of miserable apology, seized the door-frame in passing, and delivered to Bow-Wow a well-placed and energetic kick. Relieved of the drag of Chesty's protesting weight and with the added impetus of the impact of Chesty's foot, Bow-Wow shot across the wide hall, struggling frantically to regain his equilibrium, and passed through the door of the dining-room like a quarter-horse with the blind staggers. The bell-ringing ended in a crash of broken crockery, succeeded by a fearful uproar of struggling and profanity.

The collie bounded to his feet, his hair bristling along his spine, and rushed at the door with a low growl. Ned caught him by the collar and held him. "Down, Bruce, down!" he commanded, and the dog subsided into menacing growls.