SHOTGUN GOLD

By W. C. Tuttle

A New Hashknife and Sleepy Story

“And that’s how it comes that I’m sheriff of Black Horse—and may I be hung with horseshoes and rabbit-feet, et cettery.”

Roaring Rigby tilted back in an old swivel chair and looked disconsolately at the white-haired man who sat across the battered desk. The man had a long, deeply-lined face, slightly reddish nose, somber blue eyes beneath white eyebrows.

Roaring Rigby himself was long, lean, bony of face and figure, with the pouched eyes of a bloodhound. His nose was long too, and slightly out of line; his cheekbones were almost visible through the tightly stretched skin that covered them. His ears were of the hating variety, and his neutral-colored hair was thin, like foxtail grass on alkali flats.

The room in which these two men sat was the sheriff’s office in the town of Turquoise, the county-seat of Black Horse County. It was a small room, unpapered, except for an array of reward notices, a State map and a calendar of the previous year. A desk, several chairs and a gun-cabinet completed the furnishings. The floor was uncarpeted and had been scored deeply by years of high heel scraping.

Roaring Rigby lifted his feet and rasped one spurred heel across the top of the desk, as if to express his contempt for such a piece of furniture.

“And so Jim Randall, sheriff of this county, went away, did he?” sighed the old man.

“He did that.”

Roaring Rigby turned his sad-dog eyes upon the old man.

“Yea-a-ah, he went away, Jim Randall did. He wrote out his resignation, packed up his fambly, folded his tent, as you might say, and silently stole away. But I don’t blame him, Judge. He’s a married man. You’re as much to blame as he is. You two opined to make Turquoise sanitary. You ought to know better, Judge; you’re an old-timer. Jim Randall was born and raised in a cow-town, and he knew better. ’Sall right to set down upon crime. Oh, I ain’t sayin’ your motives ain’t right. Turquoise needs cleanin’. English Ed’s honkatonk ain’t noways a Sunday School, and that redlight district hadn’t ought to be there, but—”

“I know,” nodded Judge Beal.

“Yea-a-ah, you know now. You should have knowed before. Jim Randall got his warnin’ twice. They told him he’d get the third one in the dark, and Jim always was scared of the dark. You’ve got your first one, Judge.”

“Turquoise isn’t fit for a decent woman. Why, a—”

“It was before you two started yore crew—crew—”

“Crusade, Roaring.”

“Yeah, that’s it. You posted your notices, and you didn’t have nothin’ to back ’em. Jim Randall posts his notice, demandin’ that every puncher bring his gun to the sheriff’s office when he got to town, or get arrested. Did they, I ask you, Judge? They did like hell! You told ’em in plain English that the honkatonk must go. Did it?”

“No,” said the judge sadly. “I am obliged to admit that it is still there. I heard that Jim Randall had resigned, so I came to you, Roaring; you will be appointed sheriff, because you were Jim’s deputy. Now, what are you going to do?”

“Me, huh?”

Roaring savagely rasped his spurred heel half-wayacross the desk top.

“I’m goin’ to try and hold the job, Judge.”

“Meaning that you are not in sympathy with my campaign?”

“Meanin’ that I’m in sympathy with my own skin. Your campaign! Judge, if you’ll take my friendly advice, you’ll foller Jim Randall. The road is plenty wide. Why, doggone you, Judge, nobody takes you seriously. You drink more liquor than any single drinker in this town.”

“Granted.”

“And you’re single.”

“Fortunately.”

“There you are, Judge. You want to clean up the town. Do you love the morals of your feller-men so much that you’d take a chance on gettin’ shot? You’ve got no wife to be offended by the honkatonk girls, and it’s a cinch you ain’t temperate. Go back and set on your bench, Judge. Cleanin’ up Turquoise ain’t no single-handed job.”

“They’ll not run me out.”

“Mm-m-m-m-m-mebby not, Judge. Damn it, I’m not any more stuck on things than you are! I don’t like hornets, but I don’t poke their nests.”

“In other words, you are not going to enforce Randall’s notices regarding carrying arms in town?”

“Well, I’m no fool, if that’s what you mean, Judge.”

The old judge nodded sadly. His was a forlorn cause, the cleaning up of Turquoise City. The sheriff, backed by a county judge, had made a half-hearted attempt to change conditions; but he had been virtually run out of town. He had resigned, taken his family and moved away, fearful of what might happen to him.

The old judge was sincere, drunkenly so most of the time, although in a dignified manner. That is, he was drunkenly dignified. Judge Beal had come of a good family and was well educated. He might have gone far in his chosen profession, except for his love of liquor; he had drifted into Turquoise City, when that place was in the throes of a mining fever, so he hung out his shingle and became the lawyer of Turquoise.

That was twenty years ago. His old shingle still hung outside of his office, but the lettering had long since faded. For five of those years he had been the county judge. He had seen Turquoise City in boom days, when men scrambled for raw gold; he had seen it gradually change after the days of the big strikes to a commonplace cow-town. When the railroad came along it boomed again, in a way. The railroad made it the shipping point of the valley, the logical shopping city for the surrounding range and for the mining district northeast of Turquoise. It was a busy county seat.

It had also become the gambling center of the country—the flesh-pot of the cowmen and miners. Turquoise City was unmoral rather than immoral. It was a wide-open town; business was good. Even if painted women did flaunt themselves on the streets, and an occasional cowpuncher decided to make the main street a bucking-chute, or shot at some one’s sign, it did not seem to hurt business. Many liked the wild excitement.

But to Judge Beal it was an offense to decent folks. He had persuaded Jim Randall, the sheriff, that something must be done, and they had started a two-handed crusade, which was doomed to fail, for Turquoise City did not want reform.

Jim Randall had received two warnings. The second one said:

There will be one more but you won’t see it, because it will come out of the dark.

No name had been signed. The old judge had received one that read the same as the first one Randall had received.

The road is open. This is your first warning.

It was evident that the gambling element of Turquoise City did not desire the continued presence of Judge Beal, although he had accomplished nothing against it.

He left the sheriff’s office and crossed the street to the front of the Black Horse Saloon, gambling-house and honkatonk, the largest building in Turquoise City. It was a huge, barn-like structure, not at all ornamental.

English Ed Holmes owned the place. He was an immaculate, cold-blooded gambler, a man of middle-age, and in a way very suave and handsome.

As the judge passed the Black Horse he met a cowboy, who flashed him a whitetoothed smile. It was Pete Conley, a half-breed cowboy, whose father, old Moses Conley, owned the Double Circle C, known as the Hot Creek ranch. Pete was about twenty-five years of age, more Indian than white.

“Hello, Peter,” said the judge kindly.

“Very good,” smiled Pete. “How you, Judge?”

“Nicely, thank you, Peter. Folks all well?”

“Pretty good; I buy you drink, Judge.” The old judge shook his head.

“Thank you just the same, Peter.”

He passed on down the street, turned through an alley and walked slowly out to his home. It was a little frame building, rather dilapidated, with an old picket-fence around part of it.

The old judge was a bachelor, but he afforded a cook, in the person of an old Chinese, who was crippled with rheumatism. The cook met him at the door and waited until the judge hung up his broad-brimmed hat and removed his soiled white collar.

“I flind him unda doo’,” said the Chinese, producing a sealed envelope, unmarked except by contact of soiled hands.

The old judge’s lips compressed firmly as he examined the envelope.

“Somebody leabe him,” said the Chinese.

“Undoubtedly,” replied the judge evenly.

He knew what it contained. The other envelope had been the same. After a few moments of indecision he tore open the envelope and quickly scanned the single sheet of paper it contained.

There will be one more but you won’t see it. Go! ! !

Slowly he tore the envelope and paper to bits, his old face grim with determination. He walked to the door and threw the papers outside, while he looked casually up and down the street.

The Chinese watched him curiously, but the old judge made no comment as he slowly removed his boots and put on an old pair of carpet-slippers. Then he went to an old chest of drawers, from which he took a heavy Colt gun, carrying it over to the table, where he placed it beside a book. The Chinese turned and walked back to the kitchen.

“You didn’t see anybody around here, did you?” asked the old judge.

The Chinese stopped and looked back toward the door.

“I no see,” he said blankly.

“All right.”

The judge sat down, sighed deeply and picked up his book.

The Hot Creek ranch was rather a bone of contention in the Black Horse country. In the days before the cattle business had grown to mean much, Moses Conley had homesteaded his legal amount of land and bought enough to make five hundred acres, in the center of which he had built his ranch-houses. Within this five hundred acres was Hot Spring Valley, a deep swale, protected from the north by a pile of old lava beds, and fairly well bordered on the other sides by cottonwood and live oaks.

In the bottom of this swale were warm springs, that never froze, even in the bitter winters, and they kept the temperature much above the average. The surrounding lava beds and trees broke the force of the north winds, and the little valley was of sufficient size for many cattle to find refuge from blizzard and heavy snow.

Moses Conley looked much like the usual conception of his Biblical namesake. He was a huge man, white-haired, white-bearded, with a stern cast of countenance. In his youth he had married a Nez Perce squaw named Minnie, who was still his wife. There were two children, Pete and Dawn. Dawn was twenty, a tall, lithe girl, more white than Indian, and the prettiest girl in the valley.

Old Moses Conley’s life had been one of strife. His ranch was midway between Turquoise City and the Big 4 ranch, the biggest cow outfit in the valley. Time after time the Big 4 had tried to buy out Moses Conley; but the old man had refused all of their offers.

He hated Franklyn Moran, who owned the Big 4 and lived in ease and luxury in Chicago. Men said that that was why Moses Conley refused to sell out to the Big 4. There was a story told about some trouble between Conley and Moran in the old mining days; Moran was alleged to have cheated Conley out of a piece of property.

The truth of the matter was that Moran had money, and by offering a bigger price than Conley could pay he had acquired the property after Conley had offered to take Moran in with him on the deal.

The Big 4 had made life rather hard for Conley, and he had retaliated by fencing in his five hundred acres with four strands of barbed-wire, almost impoverishing himself to buy the material to shut out the Big 4 cattle from Hot Spring Valley, or Hot Creek, as it was commonly known.

Moran had sent Conley a final offer of more than the ranch was worth; but the squaw-man refused flatly to consider any offer. He would keep his ranch; it was home to him, and a home meant more than money.

Moran had one son, Jimmy, who came from college to show the Big 4 how it should be run; but he got into trouble with “Slim” Regan, the foreman, and tried by telegraph to have the whole outfit fired. Failing in that, he drew every cent he had on deposit in a Chicago bank, his inheritance from his mother, who had died two years before he came to Black Horse Valley. He bought out the Stumbling K ranch, two miles east of Conley’s ranch; it was known as the Busted ranch, because every owner had gone broke.

Jimmy Moran was going to show the world how to raise cows. He hired “Wind River” Jim, who had no other name, as far as he knew, and “Lovely” Lucas, who had been christened Ephriam, to punch cows for him, and “Horse-Collar” Fields to do the cooking.

Jimmy was of medium height, sandy-haired, freckled, with a streak of good and a streak of mean. He liked liquor and cards and was not averse to fighting occasionally. In fact Jimmy liked cards so well that everybody predicted no change in the name or fortunes of the Busted ranch. But their opinions meant little to Jimmy, as he went his joyful way, regardless of anything.

He had met and liked Dawn Conley, and he had also met Moses Conley, who told him to keep away from the Hot Creek ranch.

“He’s afraid I’m after his daughter,” said Jimmy, but he knew the real reason was because of the enmity Conley held against his father.

Pete Conley had always treated Jimmy civilly. But Pete was more like old Conley’s wife—nearly all Indian. Dawn did not look or act like an Indian.

Apparently there was no law against selling liquor to a half-breed in Turquoise City, and Pete was a regular customer of the Black Horse Saloon and of the gambling tables. More often than not, he quit a winner. It may have been his proverbial luck and his rather insolent smile that caused Joe Mallette, one of English Ed’s gamblers, to dislike him.

They had clashed several times, and Mallette had asked English Ed to bar the half-breed from the place; but the owner of the saloon refused. Mallette was a big man, with the cold, hard eyes of a professional gambler and the chin of a fighter. He hated to see Pete Conley buy chips in his game, and he did not conceal his dislike of the half-breed.

It was after dark that night when Pete took a chair in Mallette’s stud-poker game. It was not Mallette’s shift, but the other dealer had not put in an appearance. Mallette treated Pete civilly, for once; perhaps he thought that the other dealer would show up presently. Mallette had been drinking rather heavily and was just a bit clumsy in stacking up Pete’s chips. Jimmy Moran was in the game, loser, as usual, but still smiling.

“I heard that Jim Randall pulled out,” said one of the players casually.

“Time he did,” growled Mallette, shoving the chips over to the young half-breed.

“Randall damn good man,” said Pete slowly.

Mallette was too diplomatic to start an argument, so he said nothing. He played a close game, which was the natural thing for the dealer to do. He knew that Pete Conley had very little money, so he waited for a chance to break him; but the half-breed knew how Mallette played his cards. Pete was lucky, and his stacks of red and blue chips increased rapidly.

It was about nine o’clock, and the other dealer had come in, but Mallette was in a pot which he had opened. He was playing very coldly and had opened the pot for a substantial bet, thinking that the others would drop out; but Pete had raised him heavily. Jimmy Moran, sitting at Pete’s left, had turned his cards in such a way that Pete got a flash of the king of hearts.

But it made no difference in the play, because Jimmy passed the opening bet and threw his hand in the discards. Mallette was dealing. After deliberating heavily, Mallette called Pete’s raise. Pete drew one card, which he seemed to ignore; Mallette drew two. He dropped his cards one-handed from the top of the deck, and one of them skidded on top of some of the discards.

At the same time, Mallette upset a stack of chips in front of him and straightened them up carefully. He looked at his cards and checked the bet. Pete studied Mallette’s face. Pete had four sevens in his hand. The best Mallette could have had before the draw would have been three of a kind, and with threes he would have drawn only one card, masking the fact of his having threes. Or perhaps he had only one pair of jacks or better to open on, and had held up another card as a “kicker.” Pete felt safe. After a moment of deliberation he shoved all of his chips to the center. There was possibly two hundred dollars’ worth of chips.

“That’s all I got,” said Pete slowly. “I bet that.”

Mallette turned the edges of his cards slightly, a half-sneer on his lips, as he shoved out enough chips to cover the bet. Pete grinned, as he spread out the four sevens; but his grin faded when Mallette showed four kings and began raking in the pot.

Mallette nodded to the other dealer and started to slide his chair back from the table. Pete’s eyes were upon him; his lips twisted queerly.

“You—you thief!” choked the half-breed.

He jerked to his feet, reaching back for his gun. Jimmy Moran flung himself against Pete, blocking his draw, while another player twisted Pete’s gun from his hand. Mallette straightened up, his lips white.

“What’s that?” he snapped. “Who’s a thief?”

“You are!” rasped the enraged Pete. “Leave it to Jimmy Moran. He had that king of hearts in his hand. It was a dead card. You stole it, you thief!”

Mallette’s eyes shifted to Jimmy Moran, who was looking at him, his mouth half-open.

“By golly, I can’t remember,” said Jimmy. “Seems to me—no, I can’t say.”

“I reckon you can’t,” said Mallette dryly.

He turned and started toward the bar, when Pete tore away from Jimmy and started for Mallette.

“Give back that money!” demanded Pete. “You stole—”

Mallette whirled and met Pete, smashing him full in the face with a powerful right-hand swing. It knocked Pete flat on his back, almost under the feet of the men who come to see what it was all about. Mallette turned away and went out through the rear of the building.

Pete sat up, wiping the blood from his lips, looking around in a dazed way. English Ed shoved his way to Pete. He had heard what it was all about.

“Get up!” he exclaimed. “Pick up your hat and get out of here, you damned half-breed, and stay out! Don’t never come in here again.”

“Wait just a minute,” said Jimmy Moran.

He had secured Pete’s six-shooter and now he handed it to Pete.

“Wait for what?” asked English Ed.

“The trouble was caused by Mallette havin’ too many kings,” said Jimmy slowly. “I think I remember the king of hearts bein’ in my hand.”

“I see it,” nodded Pete. “When you lay hand down, I see it.”

“I don’t believe a word of it!” said English Ed.

Whap!

Jimmy Moran struck English Ed across the face with an open hand, and the sound of it could have been heard across the street. It caused the gambler to half-turn on his heels; and before he could recover his balance Jimmy swung a hard right fist against English Ed’s jaw, knocking him backward into the deserted poker table, where he went down in a sitting position, his eyes set in a silly stare.

The room was in an uproar. A woman screamed, another laughed. Jimmy grinned widely and nudged Pete with his elbow.

“Better get out, Pete,” he said. “If ye want Mallette, he’ll be spendin’ your money for dollar bottles of beer in one of our houses of ill fame.”

Pete wiped the back of his hand across his bleeding lips and headed for the back door, still carrying the gun in his hand. No one made any attempt to molest him. Jimmy Moran backed against the wall and watched English Ed regain his senses.

The big gambler was punch-drunk. He slowly got to his feet, tried to smile, but merely grimaced. A gambler came with a wet towel; but he motioned it aside and went to the bar. Some of the men followed him. The gambler with the towel came in closer to Jimmy.

“Mallette was drunk,” he said, as if excusing him for what he had done. “All day he’s been drinking absinth with his whisky. Maybe he didn’t know what he was doing.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Jimmy. “He was dead drunk. My, my, he was so drunk he could steal a card and none of us seen him. Drunk, hell! What’re you tryin’ to do, protect him?”

“Oh, no, I just thought—do you suppose the half-breed will try to get him?”

“Are you tryin’ get a statement from me?” demanded Jimmy. “English got what was comin’ to him. He backed a thief.”

“I wouldn’t say that to Mallette, if I was you, Moran.”

“A-a-a-aw, go wrap that rag around your head! If English Ed is goin’ to run a den of thieves, he can expect what a thief must expect. If Mallette had done that to me, he’d be in hell right now, ridin’ on the hot end of a bullet! It was me that cramped the half-breed, and I’m sorry I did.”

Jimmy jerked his hat down over his eyes and strode through the room, going straight past the bar, where English Ed and a crowd of men were having a drink. The big gambler knew now what it was all about and he turned his head to watch Jimmy leave the place.

“He got you when you wasn’t lookin’,” said a man.

English Ed nodded slowly.

“Did Mallette steal that card?” he asked.

One of the men from the poker game was at the bar, and it was to him that English directed the question.

“I don’t know,” said the man truthfully. “I wasn’t in the pot, so I didn’t pay any attention.”

“Mallette is getting clumsy,” said English slowly.

“It’s a wonder he can keep his feet,” said the bartender. “He’s full of absinth and whisky. He won’t know what it’s all about tomorrow.”

“How much did he win from the breed?”

“About two hundred dollars,” said the dealer who was to take Mallette’s place. “Goin’ to give it back?”

“Not unless I get more proof than I’ve got. Don’t let that half-breed ever come in here again. He’s all through.”

“How about Moran?”

“I’ll handle Moran myself.”

“Somebody ought to find Mallette and tell him to look out for Conley,” said the gambler. “That breed will kill him, if he gets a chance—and he’s huntin’ him now.”

A man came through the room and shoved his way up to the bar beside English Ed.

“The sheriff ain’t in here, is he?” he asked nervously.

“What do you want him for?” asked English.

“Found a dead man. He’s between here and the north end of the redlight district. It’s Mallette, the gambler.”

“Mallette!” English grasped the man by the arm. “When did you find him?”

“Who the hell do you think you’re pinchin’?” demanded the man, yanking his arm away. “I just found him. I was comin’ alone and almost fell over him. Oh, he’s dead all right.”

The man had spoken loud enough for every one to hear, and there was a general exodus to view the body. A lantern was secured, and the crowd went through the rear entrance. It was about four hundred feet from the rear of the saloon to the line of buildings that comprised the redlight district of Turquoise City.

The last house of this row, on the north end, was possibly two hundred yards from the rear of the saloon; and between that building and the Turquoise Hotel, which fronted on the main street, was Judge Beal’s little house.

The crowd went past the rear of his building and found the body of Mallette. He had been shot squarely between the eyes. Indifferent to the fact that the sheriff and coroner might care to view the remains as found, they picked up the body and carried it back to the Black Horse Saloon and placed it on a cot in a rear room.

Some one found Roaring Rigby in a restaurant and told him what had happened. He left his meal and hurried to the saloon, shouldering his way into the little room. Rigby was mad; he knew his rights. He turned on English Ed, who leaned against the wall, his face a trifle more white than usual.

“Who the hell brought that body here?” demanded Roaring.

“We did,” said English. “There was a crowd of us.”

“You did, eh?” Roaring hooked his thumbs over his belt and glared at the gambler. “A crowd of you, eh? Tromped all over everythin’, eh? Picked him right up. Hell, a sheriff has a fat chance of findin’ out anythin’. Don’tcha suppose I’d like to have seen him where he laid?”

“What’s the use?” said English Ed coldly. “That half-breed Conley went out to get him.”

Roaring Rigby squinted closely at English Ed for a moment before turning to the crowd.

“Git out of here,” he ordered. “No, you stay here, Ed.”

He moved them all out, closed the door tightly and turned to the gambler.

“What about Pete Conley?”

In a few words the gambler told him about the trouble, but made no mention of his trouble with Jimmy Moran. Roaring listened closely.

“Did Mallette steal that card, English?” he asked.

The gambler shrugged his shoulders.

“I didn’t see the play. Jimmy Moran saw the play, but wasn’t sure. He was the one who was supposed to have discarded that king of hearts. Mallette was drinking and—”

“Had a right to steal a card, I suppose.”

“I didn’t say that!”

“You meant it. Did Mallette carry a gun?”

“I’ve never seen him with one. He had none on him when we found him. Conley murdered him.”

Roaring Rigby took a deep breath, rather a jerky one.

“Murder? Yeah, I reckon that’s right,” softly.

“The damn half-breed!” exclaimed English Ed under his breath.

“Blood don’t make no difference,” said Roaring quickly. “The law don’t draw no color line, English.”

“The law be damned! Mallette was murdered. Mallette was a gambler—one of my men. Judge Beal would turn Conley loose. He’d never hang a man for killing a gambler.”

“Old Judge Beal is a square-shooter, English. Nobody can say he ain’t honest. But he ain’t hangin’ nobody unless they need it.”

“Well, he better keep his nose out of my business.”

“Yeah, I s’pose. You better send somebody for a doctor. Old Doc Shelley is the coroner; so you better get him, not that he can do Mallette any good, but to make it legal.”

They opened the door and walked out into the saloon. Business was at a standstill. A knot of girls stood near the honkatonk platform, talking in subdued voices, and a crowd of cowboys and gamblers were at the bar. For once, the whirr of the roulette-wheel and the clatter of chips were stilled.

Roaring Rigby walked past the long bar, and a cowboy called to him:

“If you want to save that half-breed for trial, you better start travelin’, Rigby.”

It was Mark Clayton, of the Big 4 outfit. Roaring turned and looked at Clayton.

“And you better sober up and go home,” said Roaring. “This is a man’s job—and you ain’t dry behind the ears.”

Roaring walked straight across the street to a general store. He knew the crowd in the Black Horse would watch to see what he would do. Straight through the store he went, opened a back door and headed around to his stable, which was behind the sheriff’s office.

He knew the crowd in the saloon was planning either to go out to the Hot Creek ranch after Pete Conley, or to take Pete away from him when he brought him to jail. Roaring saddled his sorrel gelding, circled the town and headed for the Conley ranch, riding swiftly.

Jimmy Moran rode away from Turquoise City, a grin on his lips. His right hand ached a little, but he minded it not. He could still see the vacant stare in English Ed’s eyes; he chuckled to himself. There had been a certain satisfaction in hitting the big gambler.

“Mebby I can save a little money, if I get in bad with all the gamblers and rum sellers,” he told his horse.

He had championed the cause of the son of his father’s ancient enemy, and he wondered what his father would say if he knew about it. He realized that he had put himself in bad with English Ed and his gang, which meant that he would be none too safe in Turquoise City.

He forded the river that ran near the Hot Creek ranch and traveled along Moses Conley’s barbed-wire fence. About half-way along this side of the fence the road forked, turning to the left to Jimmy’s ranch. Only a short distance beyond the forks was Conley’s gate, where cottonwoods lined the road and grew along the fence.

As Jimmy turned into his road, he caught the flash of a white dress in the moonlight near the gate. He turned his horse back to the main road, and went slowly up to the gate. The wearer of the white dress was Dawn Conley. She was holding the reins of her horse and had swung the gate partly open.

“Well, bless my soul!” exclaimed Jimmy. “Dawn!”

“Hello, Jimmy,” said the girl simply.

Jimmy dismounted and dropped his reins, knowing that the chunky bay would stand as long as the reins hung down. Jimmy went close to her, his hat in his hand.

“I was waiting for Dad,” she said. “I—I thought it was him. He went over to the 7AL this afternoon.”

The 7AL was located about five miles east of Turquoise City.

“I see,” said Jimmy. “You—you don’t think anythin’ has happened to him, do you, Dawn?”

“Oh, no; but I—I—”

“Uh-huh.”

Jimmy swallowed heavily; he shifted uneasily. He wanted to put out a hand and touch her. Whenever he saw her he forgot that she was part Indian and daughter of his father’s enemy. Standing there in the moonlight, within half an arm’s reach of her, Jimmy hooked his thumbs over his belt and stared at her face.

“Dawn,” he said hoarsely, “Dawn, you’re beautiful.”

“Jimmy Moran, you—why say that?” She moved slightly away.

“Don’t go away,” he said slowly. “It’s all right, Dawn; I had to say that. It ain’t wrong to say what you think. No, I’m not drunk; I never was more sober in my life. I’ve never seen you in my life when I didn’t think you was the most beautiful girl I ever seen.”

“You mustn’t say that, Jimmy.”

“Why not? It may not mean anythin’ to you, but it does to me. Standin’ here like a danged idiot, tellin’ you things like that is like drinkin’ liquor. It kinda makes me dizzy. Funny, ain’t it? I’m scared to tell you things like that, and still I’m doin’ it. It’s like doin’ things when you’re drunk—mebby you hadn’t ought to, but you do it just the same.”

“Well,” said Dawn vaguely, “I don’t know.”

“You wouldn’t,” said Jimmy softly. “You’ve got to love to feel that way, Dawn.”

“To love?”

“Yes, Dawn—I love you.”

“You love me?” slowly.

Neither of them saw Roaring Rigby. He came riding up the dusty road, his horse still dripping from the water of the ford, his horse’s hoofs muffled in the dust. But he saw them, and turned his horse into the shadow of the cottonwood. He dismounted and came ahead on foot, keeping close to the trees.

“I swear I love you, Dawn,” said Jimmy. “I’ve never had a chance to tell you before. Oh, I know our fathers hate each other; but what has that to do with us?”

“I’m Injun,” she said.

“I’m Irish.”

He did not try to go closer to her, and for a long time neither of them spoke. Then:

“I heard that you might marry Roarin’ Rigby,” said Jimmy. “They say he’s been comin’ out to see you, Dawn.”

“He’s a friend of Dad’s.”

“But comin’ out to see you, Dawn.”

“Perhaps; but he’s too old, Jimmy. Dad likes him.”

“Do you like him, Dawn?”

“He’s a nice man, but he is so homely, Jimmy—and old. No, I never could marry him. He looks funny.”

Jimmy was silent for several moments. A breeze rattled the dry leaves of the cottonwoods.

“Dawn, why were you anxious to meet your father?”

“It was Peter,” she said anxiously. “He came home awhile ago. He had been fighting, Jimmy. His lips are bleeding and he looks awful. He wouldn’t tell me what had happened, and I was afraid. I wanted to have Dad go to town and find out. Oh, I hope it isn’t anything serious. You know how they feel about—half-breeds.”

Jimmy laughed softly.

“Don’t worry, Dawn. I can tell you what happened.”

Without giving himself any credit, he told her about the poker game and about the stolen king of hearts.

“Oh, Jimmy, I’m glad you took his gun!” she exclaimed. “It would go hard with him if he used that gun. I’m glad that’s all there is to it.”

“That’s all, Dawn. Pete was right. Mallette stole that card.”

“English Ed came out here a few days ago,” she said.

“He did, eh?” Jimmy’s tone was belligerent. “What’d he want?”

“Nothing, I guess.”

“Nothin’?”

Dawn laughed.

“I didn’t meet him. Dad talked to him. He asked Dad about me. And he told Dad that you were almost broke.”

“What did your dad say, Dawn?”

“He said that was good.”

Jimmy laughed softly.

“I suppose they talked a lot about me, eh?”

“Quite a lot, Jimmy. Dad said that for a college-educated man, you were the biggest fool in the world; he said it was in your blood and that college brought it out.”

Jimmy laughed chokingly.

“College!” he exclaimed. “Good Lord, that’s a long time back, it seems. I’ve even forgotten how to talk English. I’m as much a part of this country as if I had been born and raised here. I think like a cowboy, Dawn. Mebby I am goin’ broke. I know now that English Ed’s games are crooked. That knowledge will save me money. I’ve been a fool, but I hope to outgrow it. I owe money, gosh! I owe money to the Turquoise City Bank and I owe money to English Ed; but I can pay it all back some day. Your father hates me, because I’m a son of my father. That’s a foolish hate, Dawn. He hates the Big 4. That’s nothin’—so do I. Dad owns the Big 4, and I ought to be loyal to the darned place, but I can’t. I don’t like Slim Regan, the foreman. Dad thinks he’s a wonder. And there you are. Will you marry me, Dawn?”

But before Dawn could answer they heard the plop-plop-plop of horse’s hoofs, and turned to see the dark bulk of a horse and rider coming up to the gate. It was Roaring Rigby.

“Well, if it ain’t Jimmy Moran and Dawn Conley,” he exclaimed.

“Hello, Roarin’,” said Jimmy quickly.

“Good evening, Mr. Rigby,” said Dawn.

“Nice night,” said Roaring. His voice sounded as if he had a bad cold. He cleared his throat harshly.

“Is Pete at home, Dawn?” he asked thickly.

“Pete? Why, yes, he’s at home, Mr. Rigby.”

“Uh-huh.” He appeared miserable.

Roaring turned in his saddle and looked back toward the ford. He felt that it wouldn’t be long before some of the Black Horse gang would be riding out that way.

“If it’s any of my business—what do you want Pete for?” asked Jimmy.

“It’s kinda tough,” said Roaring slowly. “You know that I’m sheriff now, don’tcha?”

“I know Randall resigned,” said Jimmy.

“And I’m sheriff now, Jimmy. You was in that poker game in the Black Horse tonight, wasn’t you?”

“I was. If you mean the trouble between Pete and Mallette, I know all about it, Roaring.”

“Mebby not, Jimmy. A while ago they found Mallette over near the end of redlight row, with a bullet square between his eyes.”

“My God!” exclaimed Dawn.

Jimmy remained silent. He had seen Pete Conley go out the back door of the saloon, carrying that big Colt gun in his hand. Only a few moments before that, Mallette had gone out through the same door.

“So you see,” said Roaring slowly, “you might not know it all, Jimmy.”

“Mallette robbed him,” declared Jimmy.

“English Ed said you wasn’t sure about it, Jimmy.”

“English Ed said that; but I’m sure, Roarin’. Right at the time I hesitated. You hate to be sure of a thing like that. I was confused, excited; but, as soon as I had a chance to think about it, I remembered turnin’ my cards toward Pete, and I had that king of hearts. I threw my cards over toward Mallette. Mebbe one of ’em turned so he saw what it was. I remember he dealt one-handed, dropping the cards several inches, and one kinda skidded away. It was his way of gettin’ that king. And he upsets his chips. That was done to draw our attention away while he got that card.”

“I know,” sighed Roaring, “it was crooked work; but Mallette didn’t have a gun on him tonight.”

“You mean they’ll call it murder, Roarin’?”

“Looks that way, Jimmy. And Mallette was one of English Ed’s men. That means they’ll try to take the law in their own hands.”

“Well, what’s to be done, Roarin’?”

“Let’s go and see Pete.”

“Will you put him in jail?” asked Dawn anxiously.

“I wish I had him there now,” said Roaring. “He’d be safe in jail. Let’s go and have a talk with him. Where’s your pa, Dawn?”

“He went to the 7AL this afternoon and hasn’t come home yet.”

“All right; let’s see Pete.”

Dawn and Jimmy mounted, and they rode to the ranch-house. Pete met them in the living-room. He had covered his split lips with court-plaster. He seemed to realize that something was wrong, and stepped back toward the entrance to the kitchen, as if preparing for a quick retreat.

“Better stay here, Pete,” said the sheriff warningly, as he closed the door behind him.

“What do you want?” asked Pete warily.

“Mallette was shot and killed tonight. What do you know about it, Pete?”

Pete stiffened slightly and his eyes shifted from face to face.

“Mallette shot, eh?” He smiled crookedly. “I don’t care; he was a thief. Jimmy Moran knows; he saw him steal.”

“What do you know about the killin’ of Mallette?” asked Roaring coldly.

“Not a damned thing!”

“Not a thing, eh?”

“How would I know?” demanded Pete.

“They told me you went out to get him.”

Pete’s left hand went to his sore lips and he scowled heavily.

“You come to get me for shootin’ Mallette?”

Roaring nodded slowly.

“I’m sorry, Pete. They think you done it, you know.”

Pete leaned back against the wall, his right hand swinging close to the butt of his gun. Roaring knew that Pete was fast with a gun. There was something of the trapped animal about this swarthy, bright-eyed young man.

“Peter!” said Dawn sharply. “Don’t be foolish.”

“You think I want go to jail?” he asked harshly.

“If English Ed and his gang get you, you’ll wish you was in jail,” warned Roaring.

Pete flashed a snarling grin.

“They come too, eh?”

Jimmy Moran stepped back and opened the door. The hills were bathed in moonlight, making it possible to distinguish objects at quite a distance. He leaned forward for a moment, jerked back and closed the door.

“They’re comin’!” he snapped. “I saw two riders cuttin’ east down there. They’ve broken the fence, I’ll bet.”

“Surroundin’ us, eh?” said Roaring quickly. “Pete, you’ve got one chance. If they get you they’ll lynch you quick. Git out through the kitchen! C’mon, Jimmy!”

They ran outside. Their horses were on the dark side of the house. They saw a rider on a light-colored horse, moving along a ridge north of the stables.

It was evident that English Ed’s gang was intending to surround the place. Roaring doubted if they knew that he was there.

“Is your bronc still saddled, Pete?” asked Roaring.

“Yeah,” said Pete quickly. “I think I might go back to town tonight.”

“You probably will,” said Roaring dryly. “There’s one chance in a dozen that you will—and we’ll take that one chance.”

English Ed had no trouble in getting up a lynching party. Slim Regan and three of his men were there from the Big 4; Kent Cutter, foreman of the 7AL, and two of his men, showed up in time to join the crowd. There was always a goodly crew of hangers-on at the Black Horse Saloon; always they would willingly ride to a killing.

English Ed did not go with them. He engineered the deal and then stayed at home. At least a dozen armed men rode out of Turquoise City with the avowed intention of making Pete Conley pay for his misdeeds. They rode fast, because they knew Roaring Rigby’s horse was gone from his stable, and they knew Roaring had been courting Dawn Conley. They figured that Roaring might tip off Pete and give the half-breed a running start to freedom.

Old Moses Conley had ridden as far as the edge of town with Cutter and his men from the 7AL. They knew he would ride slowly to his ranch; so they rode swiftly to overtake the old man, because he was reputed to be a dangerous man with a Winchester and that he might, if things broke badly for the posse, cause them considerable suffering with that same gun.

They overtook the old man just at the ford of Black Horse river. Cutter knew that Conley was unarmed, so he did not hesitate to tell him what they were coming out there for. He did not tell the old man that they suspected Pete of the killing, but stated Pete’s guilt as a fact.

The old man said nothing. The riders hemmed him in, as they crossed the ford. At the corner of the fence they stopped, while two of the men cut the fence wires. There they received their orders for circling the ranch.

“He’ll be lookin’ for us,” said Slim Regan. “We’ve got to stop him from makin’ a getaway. Four of you better go. Head for a point due east of the ranch-house. Some of us will go through the gate and hold the south line and kinda string around to the west and north. Move in fairly close and wait until I whistle. I don’t look for the breed to make a break, but you never can tell.”