"I—I've had a horrible night."

"Don't I know it? Do you reckon it was a picnic for me?"

"You—laughed an' cut up."

"Some one had to throw a bluff. If they'd guessed we were scared stiff them b'iled Utes sure enough would have massacreed us. You got to learn to keep yore grin workin', fellow."

"I know, but—" Bob stopped. Dry sobs were still shaking him.

"Quit that," Dud commanded. "I'll be darned if I'll stand for it. You shut off the waterworks or I'll whale you proper."

He walked out to look at the horses. It had suddenly occurred to him that perhaps their guests might have found and taken them. The broncos were still grazing in the draw where he had left them the previous night.

When Dud returned to the cabin young Dillon had recovered his composure. He lay on the bunk, face to the wall, and pretended to be asleep.

——-

[2] The lard in the White River country was all made in those days of bear grease and deer tallow mixed.



CHAPTER XX

"THE BIGGER THE HAT THE SMALLER THE HERD"

Combing Crooked Wash that afternoon Bob rode with a heavy and despondent heart. It was with him while he and Dud jogged back to the ranch in the darkness. He had failed again. Another man had trodden down the fears to which he had afterward lightly confessed and had carried off the situation with a high hand. His admiration put Hollister on a pedestal. How had the blond puncher contrived to summon that reserve of audacity which had so captivated the Utes? Why was it that of two men one had stamina to go through regardless of the strain while another went to pieces and made a spectacle of himself?

Bob noticed that both in his report to Harshaw and later in the story he told at the Slash Lazy D bunkhouse, Dud shielded him completely. He gave not even a hint that Dillon had weakened under pressure. The boy was grateful beyond words, even while he was ashamed that he needed protection.

At the bunkhouse Dud's story was a great success. He had a knack of drawling out his climaxes with humorous effect.

"An' when I laid that red-hot skillet on the nearest area of Rumpty-Tumpty's geography he ce'tainly went up into the roof like he'd been fired out of a rocket. When he lit—gentlemen, when he lit he was the most restless Ute in western Colorado. He milled around the corral considerable. I got a kinda notion he'd sorta soured on the funny-boy business. Anyhow, he didn't cotton to my style o' humor. Different with old Colorow an' the others. They liked to 'a' hollered their fool haids off at the gent I'd put the new Slash Lazy D brand on. Then they did one o' them 'Wow-wow-wow' dances round Rumpty-Tumpty, who was still smokin' like he'd set fire to the cabin."

Cowpunchers are a paradox. They have the wisdom of the ages, yet they are only grown-up children. Now they filled the night with mirth. Hawks lay down on his bunk and kicked his feet into the air joyfully. Reeves fell upon Dud and beat him with profane gayety. Big Bill waltzed him over the floor, regardless of his good-humored protest.

"Tell us some more, Dud," demanded the cook. "Did yore friend Rumpty put hisse'f out by sittin' in a snowbank?"

"I don't rightly recollect. Me 'n' Bob here was elected to lead the grand march an' we had to leave Rumpty-Tumpty be his own fire department. But I did notice how tender he lowered himself to the back of his hawse when they lit out in the mawnin'."

Bob saw that Hollister made the whole affair one huge joke. He did not mention that there had been any chance of a tragic termination to the adventure. Nor did the other punchers refer to that, though they knew the strained relations between the whites and the Utes. Riding for a dogie outfit was a hard life, but one could always get a laugh out of it somehow. The philosophy of the range is to grin and bear it.

A few days later Bob rode into town with a pack-horse at heel. He was to bring back some supplies for the ranch. Harshaw had chosen him to go because he wanted to buy some things for himself. These would be charged against the Slash Lazy D account at Platt & Fortner's store. Bob would settle for them with the boss when his pay-check came due.

It was a warm sunny day with a touch of summer still in the air. The blue stem and the bunch grass were dry. Sage and greasewood had taken on the bare look of winter. But the pines were still green and the birds singing.

It was an ordeal for Bob to face Bear Cat. June was better, he had heard. But it was not his fault she had not died of the experience endured. He could expect no friendliness in the town. The best he could hope for was that it would let him alone.

He went straight to the office of Blister Haines. The justice took his fat legs down from the desk and waved him to a chair.

"How're cases?" he asked.

Bob told his story without sparing himself.

Blister listened and made no comment to the end.

"You're takin' that Ute business too s-serious," he said. "Gettin' s-scalped 's no picnic. You're entitled to feel some weak at the knees. I've heard from Dud. He says you stood up fine."

"He told you—?"

"N-no particulars. T-trouble with you is you've got too much imagination. From yore story I judge you weakened when the danger was over. You gotta learn to keep up that red haid like I said. When you're scared or all in, stretch yore grin another inch. You don't need to w-worry. You're doin' all right."

Bob shook his head. Blister's view encouraged him, though he could not agree with it.

"Keep yore eye on that Dud Hollister hombre," the justice went on. "He's one sure enough go-getter."

"Yes," agreed Bob. "He's there every jump of the road. An' he didn't tell on me either."

"You can tie to Dud," agreed Blister. "Here's the point, son. When you g-get that sinkin' feelin' in yore tummy it's notice for you to get up on yore hind laigs an' howl. Be a wolf for a change."

"But I can't. I seem to—to wilt all up."

"Son, you know the answer already. T-throw back yore haid an' remember you got dominion."

Dillon shifted the conversation, embarrassed eyes on the floor. "How's—Miss Tolliver?"

"G-gettin' well fast. On the porch yesterday. Everybody in town stopped to say how g-glad they was to see her out. Been havin' the time of her life, June has. Mollie's always right good to sick folks, but she c-ce'tainly makes a pet of June."

"I'm glad. She's through with me, o' course, but I hope her friends look out for that Jake Houck."

"You don't need to worry about him. He's learnt to keep hands off."

Bob was not quite satisfied to let the matter rest there. In spite of the fact that he had made an outcast of himself he wanted to reinstate himself with June.

Hesitantly Bob approached the subject. "Maybe I'd better send her word I'm glad she come through all right."

Blister's eyes were stony. "Maybe you'd better not. What claim you got to be remembered by that li'l' girl? You're outa her life, boy."

Bob winced. The harsh truth wounded his sensitive nature. She had been his friend once. It hurt him to lose her wholly and completely.

He rose. "Well, I gotta go an' get some goods for the ranch, Mr. Haines," he said.

"I reckon you'd like to s-slide back easy an' have folks forget," Blister said. "Natural enough. But it won't be thataway. You'll have to f-fight like a bulldog to travel back along that trail to a good name. You ain't really begun yet."

"See you again next time I get to town," Bob said.

He was sorry he had raised the point with Haines of a message to June. That the justice should reject the idea so promptly and vigorously hurt his pride and self-esteem.

At Platt & Fortner's he invested in a pair of spurs, a cheap saddle, and a bridle. The cowboy is vain of his equipment. He would spend in those days forty dollars for a saddle, ten for boots, twenty-five for a bridle and silver plated bit, fifteen for spurs, and ten or twelve for a hat. He owned his own horse and blankets, sometimes also a pack-animal. These were used to carry him from one job to another. He usually rode the ranch broncos on the range.

But even if he had been able to afford it Bob would not have bought expensive articles. He did not make any claim about his ability to punch cattle, and he knew instinctively that real riders would resent any attempt on his part to swagger as they did. A remark dropped by Blister came to mind.

"The b-bigger the hat the smaller the herd, son. Do all yore b-braggin' with yore actions."

It is often a characteristic of weakness that it clings to strength. Bob would have given much for the respect and friendship of these clear-eyed, weather-beaten men. To know that he had forfeited these cut deep into his soul. The clerk that waited on him at the store joked gayly with two cowboys lounging on the counter, but he was very distantly polite to Dillon. The citizens he met on the street looked at him with chill eyes. A group of schoolboys whispered and pointed toward him.

Bob had walked out from Haines's office in a huff, but as he rode back to the ranch he recognized the justice of his fat friend's decision. He had forfeited the right to take any interest in June Tolliver. His nature was to look always for the easiest way. He never wanted trouble with anybody. Essentially he was peace-loving even to the point of being spiritless. To try to slip back into people's good will by means of the less robust virtues would be just like him.

Probably Blister was right when he had told him to be a wolf. For him, anything was better than to be a sheep.

He clamped his teeth. He would show the Rio Blanco country whether he had a chicken heart. He would beat back somehow so that they would have to respect him whether they wanted to or not. If he made up his mind to it he could be just as game as Dud Hollister.

He would go through or he would die trying.



CHAPTER XXI

JUNE DISCOVERS A NEW WORLD

Blister had not overstated the case to Bob when he told him that June had been having the time of her life getting well. She had been a lonely little thing, of small importance in a country very busy on its own affairs. The sense of inferiority had oppressed her, due both to the secret of her father's past and the isolation in which she dwelt. This had stimulated a sullen resentment and a shy pride which held even friendly souls at arm's length.

Now she was being petted by everybody with whom she came into contact. She was pathetically grateful, and the big-hearted men and women of the frontier were worthy of the feeling. They gave her eager good will and generous sympathy. Into her room came soups and custards made by the best cooks on the river. When she was well enough to see visitors the mothers of Bear Cat came in person.

Through Melancthon Browning the landlady of the hotel shrewdly enlisted the aid of the most influential women in the community. June needed clothes. She had not a garment that was not worn out and ragged. But Mollie recognized the fact that more than these she was in need of the moral support of the settlers' wives. Mrs. Larson could give her work and a home, but she could not give her that bulwark of her sex, respectability. Mollie was an exception to an established rule. She was liked and respected by other women in spite of her peculiarities. But this would not be true of her protegee unless the girl was above criticism. June must never step inside the bar or the gambling-room. She must find friends among the other girls of the town and take part in their social activities.

Wherefore Mollie, by timely suggestion, put it into the mind of the preacher to propose a sewing-bee to his congregation. Tolliver, under supervision, bought the goods and the women sewed. They made underclothes, petticoats, nightgowns, and dresses. They selected from the stock of Platt & Fortner shoes, stockings, and a hat, charging them to the account of Pete.

It was on her sixteenth birthday that June was taken into an adjoining room and saw all these treasures laid upon the bed. She did not at first understand that the two pretty dresses and all the comfortable, well-made clothes were for her. When this was made clear to her the tears brimmed to the long-lashed eyes. The starved little Cinderella was greatly touched. She turned to Mollie and buried her twitching face in a friendly bosom.

"Now—now—now," Mollie reproved gently, stroking the dark crisp hair. "This is no way to act, dearie, an' all the ladies so kind to you. You want to thank 'em, don't you?"

"Yes, but—but—I—I—"

The smothered voice was tearful.

Mollie smiled at the committee. "I reckon she wants me to tell you for her that she's plumb outa words to let you know how good she thinks you-all are."

The black head nodded vigorously. "You're the best folks—"

Mrs. Platt, a large and comfortable mother of seven, answered placidly. "I expect you'll find, dearie, that most folks are good when you get on the right side of them. Now you try on them clothes an' see if they fit. We tried 'em on my Mary. She's about your size. You're comin' down to our house to supper to-night. I want you should get acquainted with the girls."

June looked at Mollie, who nodded smilingly.

"I'll be terrible glad to come, ma'am," June said.

"Then that's settled. They're nice girls, if I do say it myself that am their mother."

So June took her first timid steps into the social life of the frontier town. Shyly she made friends, and with them went to church, to Sunday School, and to picnics.

It had been definitely decided that she was to wait on table at the hotel restaurant and not return with her father to Piceance Creek. The plan had originated with Mollie, but Tolliver had acquiesced in it eagerly. If June went home with him Houck might reappear on the horizon, but if she stayed at Bear Cat, buttressed by the support of the town, the man from Brown's Park would not dare to urge his claim again.

June waited on table at the hotel, but this did not keep her from the dances that were held in the old army hospital building. There were no class distinctions in Bear Cat then. There are not many now. No paupers lived in the county. This still holds good. Except the owners of the big cattle companies there were no men of wealth. A man was not judged by what he had or by the kind of work he was doing. His neighbors looked through externals to see what he was, stripped of all adventitious circumstance. On that basis solely he was taken into fellowship or cast out from it.

The girl from Piceance Creek worked hard and was content, even if not quite happy. If she ever thought of the boy she had married, no reference to him ever crossed her lips. She was known simply as June by the town. Strangers called her Miss Tolliver.

There was about her a quiet self-possession that discouraged familiarity on the part of ambitious and amorous cowboys. Her history, with its thread of tragedy running through the warp and woof of it, set her apart from other girls of her age. Still almost a child in years, she had been caught in the cross-currents of life and beaten by its cold waves. Part of the heritage of youth—its gay and adventurous longing for experience—had been filched from her before she was old enough to know its value. In time she would perhaps recover her self-esteem, but she would never know in its fullness that divine right of American maidenhood to rule its environment and make demands of it.



CHAPTER XXII

AN ALTERNATIVE PROPOSED AND DECLINED

The prediction made by Blister Haines that some overbearing puncher would bully Bob because of his reputation as safe game did not long wait fulfillment. A new rider joined the Slash Lazy D outfit. He had been working for the K Bar T for a couple of months. Prior to that time he had not been seen on the river. The rumor was that he hailed from Wyoming. To ask for more specific information would not have been good form. More than one or two cowboys in the Rio Blanco country had left their former homes just ahead of a sheriff.

Bandy Walker knew how to rope and ride. That was the main consideration of Harshaw when he hired him. He guessed the fellow's name was not Walker any more than it was Bandy. One cognomen had been given him because he was so bow-legged; the other he had no doubt taken for purposes of non-identification.

Bandy was short, heavy-set, and muscular. At a glance one would have picked him out as dangerous. The expression on the face was sulky. The eyes were expressionless as jade.

He was given the bunk next Dillon and before twenty-four hours were past he had begun to bully him. It began with a surly request behind which Bob sensed a command.

"Fellow, get my bridle, won't you? I left it with my saddle somewheres close to the chuck house. Got to fix it to-night."

Dillon had taken off his high-heeled boots because they were hurting his feet. He observed that Walker, lying fully dressed on the blankets, was still wearing his.

"Why, sure," Bob said amiably, and he tugged on his boots.

Presently he returned with the bridle and handed it to Bandy.

That was the beginning of it. Before the week was out Bob was the man's flunkey, the butt of his ill-natured jokes, the helpless victim of his bad temper. Inside, he writhed. Another failure was being scored against him. But what could he do? This Bandy Walker was a gunman and a rough-and-tumble fighter. He boasted of it. Bob would be a child in his hands.

The other punchers watched the affair, drew deductions, but made no audible comments. The law of the outdoors is that every man must play his own hand. The Slash Lazy D resented Bandy. He was ugly in face, voice, and manner. His speech was offensive. He managed to convey insult by the curl of his lip. Yet he was cunning enough to keep within the bounds of safety. Nobody wanted to pick a quarrel with him, for it might turn out to be a serious business. The fellow looked rancorous. Moreover, the ranch riders had no use for Dillon. It would be a relief if Bandy drove him away. They felt disgraced when cowboys from the Circle Bar or the Quarter Circle Triangle inquired for the health of their new rider Miss Roberta.

Dud and Bob were riding Milk Creek one day about a week after Walker's arrival. They unsaddled at noon and lay down to loaf on a sunny bank close to the water's edge.

Hollister had been silent all morning, contrary to his usual custom. His good spirits usually radiated gayety.

"What's the matter? Ain't you feelin' good?" Bob asked.

"No, I ain't."

"Stomach?"

"Heart," returned Dud gloomily.

Bob sat up. "Why, I never heard there was anything the matter with yore heart. If there is, you hadn't ought to be ridin' these crazy colts you do."

"Nothin' the matter with my heart. It's yore's I'm worryin' about."

Bob flushed, but said nothing.

"I'm wonderin' how long you're aimin' to let that bully puss fellow Walker run over you."

"What can I do?" Bob did not look at his companion. He kept his eyes on the ground, where he was tracing figures with a broken stick.

"Well, there's seve-re-al things you could do. You might work the plug-ugly over. It couldn't hurt his looks none, an' it might improve 'em. That's one suggestion. I've got others where that come from."

"He's a bad actor. I expect he'd half kill me," Bob muttered.

"I reckon he would, onless you beat him to it. That's not the point. You got to fight him or admit you're yellow. No two ways about that."

"I can't fight. I never did," groaned Dillon.

"Then how do you know you can't? If you can't, take yore lickin'. But you be on top of him every minute of the time whilst you're gettin' it. Go to it like a wild cat. Pretty soon something'll drop, an' maybe it won't be you."

"I—can't."

Dud's blue eyes grew steely. "You can't, eh? Listen, fellow. I promised Blister to make a man outa you if I could. I aim to do it. You lick Bandy good to-night or I'll whale you to-morrow. That ain't all either. Every time you let him run on you I'll beat you up next day soon as I get you alone."

Bob looked at him, startled. "You wouldn't do that, Dud?"

"Wouldn't I? Don't you bet I wouldn't. I'm makin' that promise right now."

"I thought you were—my friend," Bob faltered.

"Don't you think it. I'm particular who I call by that name. I ain't a friend of any man without sand in his gizzard. But I done give my word to Old Blister an' I gotta come through. It'll hurt you more'n it will me, anyhow."

"I'll quit an' leave this part of the country," Bob said wretchedly.

"I'm not stoppin' you, but you won't go till I've whopped you once good. Will you take it now?"

"Let's talk it over reasonable," Bob pleaded.

Dud looked disgusted. "I never see such a fellow for thinkin' he could chin himself outa trouble. Nothin' doing."

"You've got no right to interfere in my affairs. It's not yore business," the worried victim of circumstances declared with an attempt at dignity.

"Say, don't I know it? If I hadn't promised Blister—But what's the use? I done said I would, an' I got to go through."

"I'll let you off yore promise."

Dud shook his head. "Wish you could, but you can't. It was to Blister I give my word. No, sir. You gotta take or give a lickin', looks like. Either me or Bandy, I ain't particular which."

"You lay off me, Dud Hollister."

"Honest, I hope you'll fix it so's I can. Well, you got till to-morrow to decide. Don't forget. Me or Bandy one. You take yore choice."

"I won't fight you."

"Then it's Bandy. Suits me fine. Say, Bob, I ain't so darned sure that fellow'll be there so big when it comes to a show-down. He looks to me tricky rather than game. Take him by surprise. Then crawl his hump sudden. With which few well-chosen words I close. Yores sincerely, Well-wisher, as these guys sign themselves when they write to the papers."

All through the rest of the day Bob was depressed. He felt as cheerful as a man about to be hanged. Why couldn't they let him alone? He never in his life went looking for trouble and it seemed to hunt him out if he was anywhere in reach. It was not fair. What claim had Dud to mix into his difficulties with Bandy? Absolutely none.

He made up his mind to slip away in the night, ride to Glenwood, and take the train for Denver. There a fellow could live in peace.



CHAPTER XXIII

BOB CRAWLS HIS HUMP SUDDEN

There was a game of stud after supper in the bunkhouse. Bob lay on his bed, a prey to wretched dread. He had made up his mind to have it out with Bandy, but his heart was pumping water instead of blood. When he looked at the squat puncher, thick-necked and leather-faced, an ugly sneer on his lips, the courage died out of his breast.

Dud was sitting with his back to the wall. His attention was ostensibly on the game, but Bob knew he was waiting for developments.

Bandy sat next Dud. "Raise you once," he snarled. His card-playing was like everything else he did, offensive by reason of the spirit back of it. He was a bad loser and a worse winner.

"And another blue," said Hollister easily when it came his turn again. "Got to treat an ace in the hole with respect."

The other two players dropped out, leaving only Bandy to contest the pot with Dud.

"Once more," retorted the bow-legged puncher, shoving in chips.

"And again."

"Hmp! Claim an ace in the hole, do you? Well, I'll jes' give it one more li'l' kick."

Hollister had showing a deuce of hearts, a trey of clubs, an ace of spades, and a four of hearts. He might have a five in the hole or an ace. Bandy had a pair of jacks in sight.

Dud called.

"You see it," growled Bandy. "One pair."

His opponent flipped over an ace of diamonds. "One pair here—aces."

"Knew it all the time. Yore play gave it away," jeered Bandy with obvious ill-temper.

"I reckon that's why you kept raisin'," Dud suggested, raking in the pot.

"All I needed was to hook a jack or another pair to beat you."

"If I didn't catch another ace or a small pair."

The game was breaking up.

"Hell! I was playin' poker before you could navigate, young fellow," Bandy boasted. He had lost four dollars and was annoyed.

"An' you're still an optimist about hookin' another pair when you need 'em." Dud was counting his winnings placidly. "Six-fifty—seven—seven and two bits. Wish I had yore confidence in the music of the spears workin' out so harmonious."

This last was a reference to a book left at the ranch recently by the Reverend Melancthon Browning, the title of which was, "The Music of the Spheres." Its philosophy was that every man makes his own world by the way he thinks about it.

Bandy jingled back to his bunk. He unstrapped his spurs, hooked one foot behind the knee of the other leg, and tried to work the wet boot off. The slippery leather stuck.

He called to Bob. "Come here, fellow, an' yank this boot off for me."

Dillon did not move. His heart stood still, then began to race. A choking filled his throat. The hour was striking for him. It was to be now or never.

The bow-legged puncher slewed his head. "I'm talkin' to you."

Slowly, reluctantly, Bob rose. He did not want to move. Something stronger than his will lifted him out of the bed and dragged him across the floor. He knew his hands were trembling.

Malignant triumph rode in Bandy's eye. It was always safe to bully this timid youth. Dud Hollister had a "No Trespass" sign displayed in his quiet, cool manner. Very well. He would take it out of his riding mate. That was one way of getting at him.

"What's ailin' you? Git a move on. You act like you'd like to tell me to go take a walk. I'll bet you would, too, if you wasn't such a rabbit heart."

Bob stooped and picked up the dirty boot. He zigzagged it from the foot. As he straightened again his eyes met those of Dud. He felt a roaring in the temples.

"O' course any one that'd let another fellow take his wife from him—an' him not married more'n an hour or two—"

The young fellow did not hear the end of the cruel gibe. The sound of rushing waters filled his ears. He pulled off the second boot.

Again his gaze met that of Hollister. He remembered Dud's words. "Crawl his hump sudden. Go to it like a wild cat." The trouble was he couldn't. His muscles would not obey the flaccid will.

The flood of waters died down. The roaring ceased. The puncher's words came to him clear.

"... not but what she was likely glad enough to go with Jake. She was out with him four-five hours. Where was they, I ask? What was they doing? You can't tell me she couldn't 'a' got away sooner if she'd wanted to so darned bad. No, sir, I'm no chicken right out of a shell. When it comes to a woman I say, Where's the man?"

A surge of anger welled up in Dillon and overflowed. He forgot about Dud and his threats. He forgot about his trepidation. This hound was talking of June, lying about her out of his foul throat.

One of the boots was still in his hand. He swung it round and brought the heel hard against the fellow's mouth. The blood gushed from the crushed lips. Bob dropped the boot and jolted his left to the cheek. He followed with a smashing right to the eye.

Taken at disadvantage, Bandy tried to struggle to his feet. He ran into one straight from the shoulder that caught the bridge of his nose and flung him back upon the bunk.

His hand reached under the pillow. Bob guessed what was there and dropped hard with both knees on his stomach.

The breath went out of Bandy suddenly. He lay still for a moment. When he began to struggle again he had forgotten the revolver under the pillow. With a sweeping gesture Bob brushed pillow and gun to the floor.

The man underneath twisted his red, wrinkled neck and bit Bob's forearm savagely. The boy's fingers closed like a vice on the hairy throat and tightened. His other fist beat a merciless tattoo on the bruised and bleeding face.

"Take him off!" Bandy presently gasped.

Dud appointed himself referee. With difficulty he unloosed the fingers embedded in the flesh of the throat.

"Had enough, Bandy? You licked?" he asked.

"Take him off, I tell you!" the man managed to scream.

"Not unless you're whipped. How about it?"

"'Nough," the bully groaned.

Bob observed that Hawks had taken charge of the revolver. He released Walker.

The bow-legged puncher sat at the side of the bed and coughed. The blood was streaming from a face bruised and cut in a dozen places.

"He—he—jumped me—when I wasn't lookin'," the cowboy spat out, a word at a time.

"Don't pull an alibi, Bandy. You had it comin'," Dud said with a grin. He was more pleased than he could tell.

Dillon felt as though something not himself had taken control of him. He was in a cold fury, ready to fight again at the drop of a hat.

"He said she—she—" The sentence broke, but Bob rushed into another. "He's got to take it back or I'll kill him."

"Only the first round ended, looks like, Bandy," Dud said genially. "You better be lookin' this time when he comes at you, or he'll sure eat you alive."

"I'm not lookin' for no fight," Bandy said sulkily, dabbing at his face with the bandanna round his neck.

"I'll bet you ain't—not with a catamount like Miss Roberta here," Tom Reeves said, chuckling with delight.

One idea still obsessed Bob's consciousness. "What he said about June—I'll not let him get away with it. He's got to tell you-all he was lyin'."

"You hear yore boss speak, Bandy," drawled Dud. "How about it? Do we get to see you massacreed again? Or do you stand up an' admit you're a dirty liar for talkin' thataway?"

Bandy Walker looked round on a circle of faces all unfriendly to him. He had broken the code, and he knew it. In the outdoor West a man does not slander a good woman without the chance of having to pay for it. The puncher had let his bad bullying temper run away with him. He had done it because he had supposed Dillon harmless, to vent on him the spleen he could not safely empty upon Dud Hollister's blond head.

If Bob had been alone the bow-legged man might have taken a chance—though it is doubtful whether he would have invited that whirlwind attack again, unless he had had a revolver close at hand—but he knew public sentiment was wholly against him. There was nothing to do but to swallow his words.

That he did this in the most ungracious way possible was like him. "Since you're runnin' a Sunday School outfit I'll pack my roll an' move on to-morrow to where there's some he-men," he sneered. "I never met this girl, so I don't know a thing about her. All I did was to make a general remark about women. Which same I know to be true. But since you're a bunch of sky pilots at the Slash Lazy D, I'll withdraw anything that hurts yore tender feelin's."

"Are you takin' back what you said—about—about her?" Bob demanded harshly.

Bandy's smouldering, sullen eyes slid round. "I'm takin' it back. Didn't you hear me say I don' know a thing about her? I know Houck, though. So I judged—" He spat a loose tooth out on the floor venomously. It would perhaps not be wise to put into words what he had deduced from his knowledge of Jake Houck.

"The incident is now clo-o-sed if Miss Roberta is satisfied," Dud announced to the public at large.

His riding mate looked at Hollister. "Don't call me that," he said.

For a moment Dud was puzzled. "Don't call you what?"

"What you just called me."

Dud broke into a grin of delight. He wondered if it would not be a good idea to make Bob give him a licking, too. But he decided to let good enough alone. He judged that Blister would be satisfied without any more gore. Anyhow, Bob might weaken and spoil it.

"Boy, I'll never call you Miss—what I called you—long as I live exceptin' when I'm meanin' to compliment you special." Dud slapped him hard between the shoulder blades. "You're a young cyclone, but you can't get a chance to muss Dud Hollister up to-night. You work too rapid. Doggone my hide, if I ever did see a faster or a better piece o' work. How about it, Tom?"

Reeves, too, pounded Dillon in token of friendship. If Bob had not wiped the slate clean he had made a start in that direction.

"You're some scrapper when you get started. Bandy looks like he's been through a railroad wreck," he said.

Bandy was by this time at the wash-basin repairing damages. "Tell you he jumped me when I wasn't lookin'," he growled sulkily. "Fine business. You-all stood by an' watched him do it."

"After you'd deviled him for a week," amended Big Bill. "Mebbe in that outfit of he-men you're expectin' to hit the trail for to-morrow they'll wrop you up in cotton an' not let a hundred-an'-thirty-pound giant jump you."

"I ain't askin' it of 'em," Bandy retorted. "I can look out for myself an' then some. As for this sprout who thinks he's so gosh-mighty, I'll jus' say one thing. Some o' these days I'll settle with him proper."

He turned as he spoke. The look on his battered face was venomous.



CHAPTER XXIV

IN THE SADDLE

White winter covered the sage hills and gave the country a bleak and desolate look. The Slash Lazy D riders wrapped up and went out over the wind-swept mesas to look after the cattle cowering in draws or drifting with the storm. When Bob could sleep snugly in the bunkhouse he was lucky. There were nights when he shivered over a pine-knot fire in the shelter of a cutbank with the temperature fifteen degrees below zero.

At this work he won the respect of his fellows. He could set his teeth and endure discomfort with any of them. It was at sharp danger crises that he had always quailed. He never shirked work or hardship, and he never lied to make the way easier or more comfortable. Harshaw watched him with increasing approval. In Dillon he found all but one of the essential virtues of the cowboy—good humor, fidelity, truth, tenacity, and industry. If he lacked courage in the face of peril the reason was no doubt a constitutional one.

A heavy storm in February tried the riders to capacity. They were in the saddle day and night. For weeks they appeared at the ranch only at odd intervals, haggard, unshaven, hungry as wolves. They ate, saddled fresh mounts, and went out into the drifts again tireless and indomitable.

Except for such food as they could carry in a sack they lived on elk trapped in the deep snow. The White River country was one of the two or three best big game districts in the United States.[3] The early settlers could get a deer whenever they wanted one. Many were shot from the doors of their cabins.

While Harshaw, Dud, and Bob were working Wolf Creek another heavy snow fell. A high wind swept the white blanket into deep drifts. All day the riders ploughed through these to rescue gaunt and hungry cattle. Night caught them far from the cabin where they had been staying.

They held a consultation. It was bitter weather, the wind still blowing.

"Have to camp, looks like," Harshaw said.

"We'll have a mighty tough night without grub and blankets," Dud said doubtfully. "She's gettin' colder every minute."

"There's a sheltered draw below here. We'll get a good fire going anyhow."

In the gulch they found a band of elk.

"Here's our supper an' our beds," Dud said.

They killed three.

While Bob gathered and chopped up a down and dead tree the others skinned the game. There was dry wood in Harshaw's saddle-bags with which to start a fire. Soon Dillon had a blaze going which became a crackling, roaring furnace. They ate a supper of broiled venison without trimmings.

"Might be a heap worse," Dud said while he was smoking afterward before the glowing pine knots. "I'm plenty warm in front even if I'm about twenty below up an' down my spine."

Presently they rolled up in the green hides and fell asleep.

None of them slept very comfortably. The night was bitter, and they found it impossible to keep warm.

Bob woke first. He decided to get up and replenish with fuel the fire. He could not rise. The hide had frozen stiff about him. He shouted to the others.

They, too, were helpless in the embrace of their improvised sleeping-bags.

"Have to roll to the fire an' thaw out," Harshaw suggested.

This turned out to be a ticklish job. They had to get close enough to scorch their faces and yet not near enough to set fire to the robes. More than once Bob rolled over swiftly to put out a blaze in the snow.

Dud was the first to step out of his blanket. In a minute or two he had peeled the hides from the others.

An hour later they were floundering through the drifts toward the cabin on Wolf Creek. Behind each rider was strapped the carcass of an elk.

"Reminds me of the time Blister went snow blind," Harshaw said. "Up around Badger Bend it was. He got lost an' wandered around for a coupla days blind as a bat. Finally old Clint Frazer's wife seen him wallowin' in the drifts an' the old man brought him in. They was outa grub an' had to hoof it to town. Clint yoked his bull team an' had it break trail. He an' the wife followed. But Blister he couldn't see, so he had to hang on to one o' the bulls by the tail. The boys joshed him about that quite a while. He ce'tainly was a sight rollin' down Main Street anchored to that critter's tail."

"I'll bet Blister was glad to put his foot on the rail at Dolan's," Dud murmured. "I'd be kinda glad to do that same my own se'f right now."

"Blister went to bed and stayed there for a spell. He was a sick man." Harshaw's eye caught sight of some black specks on a distant hillside. "Cattle. We'll come back after we've onloaded at the cabin."

They did. It was long after dark before they reached shelter again.

The riders of the Slash Lazy D were glad to see spring come, though it brought troubles of its own. The weather turned warm and stayed so. The snow melted faster than the streams could take care of it. There was high water all over the Blanco country. The swollen creeks poured down into the overflowing river. Three punchers in the valley were drowned inside of a week, for that was before the bridges had been built.

While the water was still high Harshaw started a trail herd to Utah.

——-

[3] According to old-timers the automobile is responsible for the extermination of the game supply going on so rapidly. The pioneers at certain seasons provided for their needs by killing blacktail and salting down the meat. But they were dead shots and expert hunters. The automobile tourists with high-power rifles rush into the hills during the open season and kill male and female without distinction. For every deer killed outright three or four crawl away to die later from wounds. One ranchman reports finding fifteen dead deer on one day's travel through the sage.



CHAPTER XXV

THE RIO BLANCO PUTS IN A CLAIM

Preparations for the drive occupied several days. The cattle were rounded up and carefully worked. Many of those that had roughed through the hard winter were still weak. Some of these would yet succumb and would increase the thirty per cent of losses already counted. Only those able to stand inspection were thrown into the trail herd. Afterward, a second cut was made and any doubtful ones culled from the bunch.

Word had come from Rangely that all the streams were high as far as and beyond the Utah line. But the owner of the Slash Lazy D was under contract to deliver and he could not wait for the water to go down.

When the road herd had been selected and the mavericks in the round-up branded with the Slash Lazy D or whatever other brand seemed fair considering the physical characteristics of the animal and the group with which it was ranging, Harshaw had the cattle moved up the river a couple of miles to a valley of good grass. Here they were held while the ranch hands busied themselves with preparations for the journey. A wagon and harness were oiled, a chuck-box built, and a supply of groceries packed. Bridles and cinches were gone over carefully, ropes examined, and hobbles prepared.

The remuda for the trail outfit was chosen by Harshaw himself. He knew his horses as he knew the trail to Bear Cat. No galled back or lame leg could escape his keen eye. No half-tamed outlaw could slip into the cavvy. Every horse chosen was of proved stamina. Any known to be afraid of water remained at the ranch. Every rider would have to swim streams a dozen times and his safety would depend upon his mount. Tails were thinned, hoofs trimmed, manes cleared of witches' bridles, and ears swabbed to free them of ticks.

The start was made before dawn. Stars were shining by thousands when the chuck-wagon rolled down the road. The blatting of cows could be heard as the riders moved the phantom cattle from their bedding-ground.

The dogies were long-legged and shaggy, agile and wild as deer. They were small-boned animals, not fit for market until they were four-year-olds. On their gaunt frames was little meat, but they were fairly strong and very voracious. If not driven too hard these horned jackrabbits, as some wag had dubbed them, would take on flesh rapidly.

Harshaw chose five punchers to go with him—Dud, Big Bill, Tom Reeves, Hawks, and Bob. A light mess-wagon went with the outfit. Before noon the herd had grazed five miles down the river.

The young grass matted the ground. Back of the valley could be seen the greenclad mesas stretching to the foothills which hemmed in the Rio Blanco. The timber and the mesquite were in leaf. Wild roses and occasionally bluebells bloomed. The hillsides were white with the blossoms of service berries.

In the early afternoon they reached the ford. Harshaw trailed the cattle across in a long file. He watched the herd anxiously, for the stream was running strong from the freshet. After a short, hard swim the animals made the landing.

The mess-wagon rattled down to the ford as the last of the herd scrambled ashore.

"Think I'll put you at the reins, Dud," the cattleman said. "Head the horses upstream a little and keep 'em going."

All the other punchers except Bob were across the river with the herd.

Dud relieved the previous driver, gathered up reins and whip with competent hands, and put the horses at the river. They waded in through the shallows, breasted the deep water, and began to swim. Before they had gone three yards they were in difficulties. The force of the current carried the light wagon downstream. The whiplash cracked around the ears of the horses, but they could not make headway. Team, wagon, and driver began to drift down the river. Supplies, floating from the top of the load, were scattered in all directions.

Instantly six men became very busy. Rope loops flew out and tightened around the bed of the wagon. Others circled the necks of the horses. Dud dived into the river to lighten the load. Harshaw, Bob, and the cook rode into the shallow water and salvaged escaping food, while the riders on the other bank guided wagon and team ashore.

Dud, dripping like a mermaid, came to land with a grin. Under one arm a pasty sack of flour was tucked, under the other a smoked venison haunch. "An' I took a bath only yesterday," he lamented.

The food was sun-dried and the wagon repacked.

At Dry Creek, which was now a rushing torrent, Harshaw threw the cattle into a draw green with young grass and made camp for the night.

"We got neighbors," announced Big Bill, watching a thin column of smoke rising from the mesa back of them.

"Guess I'll drift over after supper," Harshaw said. "Maybe they can give me the latest news about high water down the river."

Hawks had just come in from the remuda. He gave information.

"I drifted over to their camp. An old friend, one of 'em. Gent by the name of Bandy Walker. He's found that outfit of he-men he was lookin' for."

"Yes," said the cattleman non-committally.

"One's a stranger. The other's another old friend of some o' the boys. Jake Houck he calls hisself."

Bob's heart shriveled within him. Two enemies scarcely a stone's throw away, and probably both of them knew he was here. Had they come to settle with him?

He dismissed this last fear. In Jake Houck's scheme of things he was not important enough to call for a special trip of vengeance.

"We'll leave 'em alone," Harshaw decided. "If any of them drop over we'll be civil. No trouble, boys, you understand."

But Houck's party did not show up, and before break of day the camp of the trail herd outfit was broken. The riders moved the herd up the creek to an open place where it could be easily crossed. From here the cattle drifted back toward the river. Dud was riding on the point, Hawks and Dillon on the drag.

In the late afternoon a gulch obstructed their path. It ran down at right angles to the Rio Blanco. Along the edge of this Harshaw rode till he found an easier descent. He drove the leaders into the ravine and started them up the other side of the trough to the mesa beyond. The cattle crowded so close that some of them were forced down the bed of the gorge instead of up the opposite bank.

Bob galloped along the edge and tried to head the animals back by firing his revolver in front from above. In this he was not successful. The gulch was narrow, and the pressure behind drove the foremost cattle on to the river.

The dogies waded in to drink. The push of the rear still impelled the ones in advance to move deeper into the water. Presently the leaders were swimming out into the stream. Those behind followed at heel.

Dillon flung his horse down into the ravine in the headlong fashion he had learned from months of hill riding. He cantered along it, splashing through shallow pools and ploughing into tangled brush. When he came within sight of the river the cattle were emerging from it upon a sandy bar that formed an island in midstream.

He kicked off his chaps, remounted, and headed into the water. The current was strong and Powder River already tired. But the bronco breasted the rushing waters gamely. It was swept downstream, fighting every inch of the way. When at last the Wyoming horse touched bottom, it was at the lower edge of the long bar.

Bob swung down into the water and led his mount ashore.

From the bank he had just left, Hawks called to him. "Want I should come over, or can you handle 'em?"

"Better stay there till I see if I can start 'em back," Bob shouted.

On Powder River he rounded up the cattle, a score or more of them, and drove them back into the stream. They went reluctantly, for they too were tired and the swim across had been a hard one. But after one or two had started the others followed.

The young cowpuncher did not like the look of the black rushing waters. He had known one horrible moment of terror while he was crossing, that moment during which he had been afraid Powder River would be swept beyond the point of the sand spit. Now he cringed at the thought of venturing into that flood again. He postponed the hazard, trying two or three starting-places tentatively before he selected one at the extreme upper point of the island.

His choice was a bad one. The bronco was carried down into a swirl of deep, angry water. So swift was the undertow that Powder River was dragged from beneath its rider. Bob caught at the mane of the horse and clung desperately to it with one hand. A second or two, and this was torn from his clutch.

Dillon was washed downstream. He went under, tried to cry for help, and swallowed several gulps of water. When he came to the surface again he was still close to the island, buffeted by the boiling torrent. It swept him to a bar of willow bushes. To these he clung with the frenzy of a drowning man.

After a time he let go one hand-hold and found another. Gradually he worked into the shallows and to land. He could see Powder River, far downstream, still fighting impotently against the pressure of the current.

Bob shuddered. If he lived a hundred years he would never have a closer escape from drowning. It gave him a dreadful sinking at the stomach even to look at the plunging Blanco. The river was like some fearful monster furiously seeking to devour.

The voice of Hawks came to him. "Stay there while I get the boss."

The dismounted cowboy watched Hawks ride away, then lay down in the hot sand and let the sun bake him. He felt sick and weak, as helpless as a blind and wobbly pup.

It may have been an hour later that he heard voices and looked across to the mouth of the ravine. Harshaw and Big Bill and Dud were there with Hawks. They were in a group working with ropes.

Harshaw rode into the river. He carried a coil of rope. Evidently two or more lariats had been tied together.

"Come out far as you can and catch this rope when I throw it," Harshaw told the marooned cowboy.

Bob ventured out among the willows, wading very carefully to make sure of his footing. The current swirled around his thighs and tugged at him.

The cattleman flung the rope. It fell short. He pulled it in and rewound the coil. This time he drove his horse into deeper water. The animal was swimming when the loop sailed across to the willows.

Dillon caught it, slipped it over his body, and drew the noose tight. A moment later he was being tossed about by the cross-currents. The lariat tightened. He was dragged under as the force of the torrent flung him into midstream. His body was racked by conflicting forces tugging at it. He was being torn in two, the victim of a raging battle going on to possess him. Now he was on his face, now on his back. For an instant he caught a glimpse of blue sunlit sky before he plunged down again into the black waters and was engulfed by them....

He opened his eyes. Dud's voice came from a long way.

"Comin' to all right. Didn't I tell you this bird couldn't drown?"

The mists cleared. Bob saw Dud's cheerful smile, and back of it the faces of Harshaw, Hawks, and Big Bill.

"You got me out," he murmured.

"Sure did, Bob. You're some drookit, but I reckon we can dry you like we did the grub," his riding mate said.

"Who got me?"

"Blame the boss."

"We all took a hand, boy," Harshaw explained. "It was quite some job. You were headed for Utah right swift. The boys rode in and claimed ownership. How you feelin'?"

"Fine," Bob answered, and he tried to demonstrate by rising.

"Hold on. What's yore rush?" Harshaw interrupted. "You're right dizzy, I expect. A fellow can't swallow the Blanco and feel like kickin' a hole in the sky right away. Take yore time, boy."

Bob remembered his mount. "Powder River got away from me—in the water." He said it apologetically.

"I'm not blamin' you for that," the boss said, and laid a kindly hand on Dillon's shoulder.

"Was it drowned?"

"I reckon we'll find that out later. Lucky you wasn't. That's a heap more important."

Bob was riding behind Dud fifteen minutes later in the wake of the herd. Hawks had gone back to learn what had become of Powder River.

Supper was ready when Buck reached camp. He was just in time to hear the cook's "Come an' get it." He reported to Harshaw.

"Horse got outa the river about a mile below the island. I scouted around some for it, but couldn't trail in the dark."

"All right, Buck. To-morrow Dud and Bob can ride back and get the bronc. We'll loaf along the trail and make a short day of it."

He sat down on his heels, reached for a tin plate and cup, and began one of the important duties of the day.



CHAPTER XXVI

CUTTING SIGN

Dud's observation, when he and Bob took the back trail along the river to find the missing bronco, confirmed that of Buck Hawks. He found the place where a horse had clawed its way out of the stream to the clay bank. From here it had wandered into the sage and turned toward the home ranch. The tracks showed that Powder River was moving slowly, grazing as it went.

"I reckon by noon we can say 'Hello!' to yore bronc," Dud prophesied. "No need to trail it. All we got to do is follow the river."

An hour later he drew up and swung from the saddle. "Now I wonder who we've had with us this glad mawnin'."

Dud stooped and examined carefully tracks in the mud. Bob joined him.

"Powder River ain't so lonesome now. Met up with friends, looks like. Takin' a li'l' journey north." The cowpuncher's blue eyes sparkled. The prosaic pursuit of a stray mount had of a sudden become Adventure.

"You mean—?"

"What do you read from this sign we've cut?"

Bob told his deductions. "Powder River met some one on horseback. The man got off. Here's his tracks."

"Fellow, use yore haid," admonished his friend. "Likewise yore eyes. You wouldn't say this track was made by the same man as this one, would you?"

"No. It's bigger."

"An' here's another, all wore off at the heel. We got three men anyhow. Which means also three horses. Point of fact there are four mounts, one to carry the pack."

"How do you know there are four?"

"They had four when they camped close to us night 'fore last."

Dillon felt a sinking at the pit of his stomach. "You think this is Houck's outfit?"

"That'd be my guess."

"An' that they've taken Powder River with them?"

"I'm doing better than guessin' about that. One of the party saw a bronc with an empty saddle an' tried to rope it. First time he missed, but he made good when he tried again."

"If I had yore imagination, Dud—"

"Straight goods. See here where the loop of the rope dragged along the top of the mud after the fellow missed his throw."

Bob saw the evidence after it had been pointed out to him. "But that don't prove he got Powder River next time he threw," he protested.

"Here's where that's proved." Dud showed him the impressions of two hoofs dug deep into the ground. "Powder River bucked after he was roped an' tried to break away. The other horse, like any good cowpony does, leaned back on the rope an' dug a toe-hold."

"Where's Houck going?"

"Brown's Park likely, from the way they're headed."

"What'll we do?"

"Why, drap in on them to-night kinda casual an' say 'Much obliged for roundin' up our stray bronc for us.'"

This programme did not appeal to Bob. In that camp were two enemies of his. Both of them also hated Dud. Houck and Walker were vindictive. It was not likely either of them would forget what they owed these two young fellows.

"Maybe we'd better ride back an' tell the boss first," he suggested.

"Maybe we'd better not," Hollister dissented. "By that time they'd be so far ahead we'd never catch 'em. No, sir. We'll leave a note here for the boss. Tack it to this cottonwood. If we don't show up in a reasonable time he'll trail back an' find out what for not."

"That'd do us a lot of good if Houck had dry-gulched us."

Dud laughed. "You're the lad with the imagination. Far as Houck goes, an' Bandy Walker, too, for that matter, I'll make you a present of the pair of 'em as two sure-enough bad eggs. But they've got to play the hands dealt 'em without knowin' what we're holdin'."

"They've prob'ly got rifles, an' we haven't."

"It's a cinch they've got rifles. But they won't dare use 'em. How do they know we're playin' this alone? First off, I'll mention that I sent Buck back to tell the boss we'd taken the trail after them. That puts it up to them to act reasonable whether they want to or not. Another thing. We surprise 'em. Give the birds no chance to talk it over. Not knowin' what to do, they do nothing. Ain't that good psycho-ology, as Blister says when he calls a busted flush?"

"Trouble is we're holdin' the busted flush."

"Sure, an' Houck'll figure we wouldn't 'a' trailed him unless we'd fixed the play right beforehand. His horse sense will tell him we wouldn't go that strong unless our cards was all blue. We're sittin' in the golden chair. O' course we'll give the birds a chance to save their faces—make it plain that we're a whole lot obliged to 'em for lookin' after Powder River for us."

Bob's sagging head went up. He had remembered Blister's injunction. "All right, Dud. Turn yore wolf loose. I'll ride along an' back the bluff."

They left the river and climbed to the mesa. The trail took them through a rough country of sagebrush into the hills of greasewood and pinon. In mid-afternoon they shot a couple of grouse scuttling through the bunch grass. Now and again they started deer, but they were not looking for meat. A brown bear peered at them from a thicket and went crashing away with an awkward gait that carried it over the ground fast.

From a summit they saw before them a thin spiral of smoke rising out of an arroyo.

"I reckon that's the end of the trail," Dud drawled. "We're real pleased to meet up with you, Mr. Houck. Last time I had the pleasure was a sorta special picnic in yore honor. You was ridin' a rail outa Bear Cat an' being jounced up considerable."

"If he thinks of that—"

"He'll think of it," Dud cut in cheerfully. "He's gritted his teeth a lot of times over that happenstance, Mr. Houck has. It tastes right bitter in his mouth every time he recollects it. First off, soon as he sees us, he'll figure that his enemies have been delivered into his hand. It'll be up to us to change his mind. If you're all set, Sure-Shot, we'll drift down an' start the peace talk."

Bob moistened his dry lips. "All set."

They rode down the hillside, topped another rise, and descended into the draw where a camp was pitched.

A young fellow chopping firewood moved forward to meet them.

"There's Powder River with the broncs," Bob said in a low voice to his friend.

"Yes," said Dud, and he swung from the saddle.

"'Lo, fellows. Where you headed for?" the wood-chopper asked amiably.

Two men were sitting by the fire. They waited, in an attitude of listening. Dusk had fallen. The glow of the fire lighted their faces, but the men who had just ridden up were in the gathering darkness beyond the circle lit by the flames.

"We came to get Powder River, the bronc you rounded up for us," Hollister said evenly. "Harshaw sent us ahead. We're sure much obliged to you for yore trouble."

The larger of the two men by the fire rose and straddled forward. He looked at Dud and he looked at Bob. His face was a map of conflicting emotions.

"Harshaw sent you, did he?"

"Yes, sir. Bob had bad luck in the river an' the horse got away from him. I reckon the pony was lightin' out for home when yore rope stopped the journey." The voice of Dud was cheerful and genial. It ignored any little differences of the past with this hook-nosed individual whose eyes were so sultry and passionate.

"So he sent you two fellows, did he? I'll say he's a good picker. I been wantin' to meet you," he said harshly.

"Same here, Houck." Bandy Walker pushed to the front, jerking a forty-five from its scabbard.

Houck's hand shot forward and caught the cowpuncher by the wrist. "What's bitin' you, Bandy? Time enough for that when I give the word."

The yellow teeth of the bow-legged man showed in a snarl of rage and pain. "I'd 'a' got Dillon if you'd let me be."

"Didn't you hear this guy say Harshaw sent them here? Use yore horse sense, man." Houck turned to Hollister. "Yore bronc's with the others. The saddle's over by that rock. Take 'em an' hit the trail."

In sullen rage Houck watched Dud saddle and cinch. Not till the Slash Lazy D riders were ready to go did he speak again.

"Tell you what I'll do," he proposed. "Get down off'n yore horses, both o' you, an' I'll whale the daylight outa the pair of you. Bandy'll stay where he's at an' not mix in."

Hollister looked at Bandy, and he knew the fellow's trigger finger itched. There was not a chance in the world that he would stand back and play fair. But that was not the reason why Dud declined the invitation. He had not come to get into trouble. He meant to keep out of it if he could.

"Last fellow that licked me hauled me down off'n my bronc, Mr. Houck," Dud answered, laughing. "No, sir. We got to turn down that invite to a whalin'. The boss gave us our orders straight. No trouble a-tall. I expect if it was our own say-so we might accommodate you. But not the way things are."

"No guts, either of you. Ain't two to one good enough?" jeered Houck angrily.

"Not good enough right now. Maybe some other time, Mr. Houck," Dud replied, his temper unruffled.

"You want it to be twelve to one, like it was last time, eh?"

"Harshaw will be lookin' for us, so we'll be sayin' good-evenin'," the rider for the Slash Lazy D said quietly.

He turned his horse to go, as did his companion. Houck cursed them both bitterly. While they rode into the gloom Bob's heart lifted to his throat. Goosequills ran up and down his spine. Would one of his enemies shoot him in the back? He could hardly keep from swinging his head to make sure they were not aiming at him. He wanted to touch his mount with a spur to quicken the pace.

But Dud, riding by his side, held his bronco to the slow even road gait of the traveler who has many miles to cover. Apparently he had forgotten the existence of the furious, bitter men who were watching their exit from the scene. Bob set his teeth and jogged along beside him.

Not till they were over the hill did either of them speak.

"Wow!" grunted Dud as he wiped the sweat from his face. "I'm sure enough glad to have that job done with. My back aches right between the shoulder blades where a bullet might 'a' hit it."

Bob relaxed in the saddle. He felt suddenly faint. Even now he found himself looking round apprehensively to make sure that a man carrying a rifle was not silhouetted on the hilltop against the sky-line.



CHAPTER XXVII

PARTNERS IN PERIL

Into the office of Blister Haines, J. P., a young man walked. He was a berry-brown youth, in the trappings of the range-rider, a little thin and stringy, perhaps, but well-poised and light-stepping.

With one swift glance the fat man swept his visitor from head to foot and liked what he saw. The lean face was tanned, the jaw firm, the eye direct and steady. There was no need to tell this man to snap up his head. Eight months astride a saddle in the sun and wind had wrought a change in Robert Dillon.

"'Lo, Red Haid," the justice sang out squeakily. "How's yore good health? I heerd you was d-drowned. Is you is, or is you ain't? Sit down an' rest yore weary bones."

"I took a swim," admitted Bob. "The boys fished me out while I was still kickin'."

"Rivers all high?"

"Not so high as they were. We noticed quite a difference on the way back."

"Well, s-sit down an' tell me all about it. How do you like ridin', Texas man?"

"Like it fine."

"All yore troubles blown away?"

"Most of 'em. I'm a long way from being a wolf yet, though."

"So? B-by the way, there's a friend of yours in town—Jake Houck."

There was a moment's pause. "Did he say he was my friend?" asked Bob.

"Didn't mention it. Thought maybe you'd like to know he's here. It's not likely he'll trouble you."

"I'd be glad to be sure of that. Dud an' I had a little run-in with him last month. He wasn't hardly in a position then to rip loose, seein' as he had my horse an' saddle in his camp an' didn't want Harshaw in his wool. So he cussed us out an' let it go at that. Different now. I'm playin' a lone hand—haven't got the boss back of me."

"F-fellow drifted in from Vernal yesterday," the justice piped, easing himself in his chair. "Told a s-story might interest you. Said Jake Houck had some trouble with a y-young Ute buck over a hawss. Houck had been drinkin', I reckon. Anyhow he let the Injun have it in the stomach. Two-three shots outa his six-gun. The Utes claimed it was murder. Jake he didn't wait to adjust no claims, but lit out on the jump."

"Won't the Government get him?"

The fat man shrugged. "Oh, well, a Ute's a Ute. Point is that Houck, who always was a t-tough nut, has gone bad since the boys rode him on a rail. He's proud as Lucifer, an' it got under his hide. He's kinda cuttin' loose an' givin' the devil in him free rein. Wouldn't surprise me if he turned into a killer of the worst kind."

Bob's eyes fastened to his uneasily. "You think he's—after me?"

"I think he'll d-do to watch."

"Yes, but—"

Blister rolled a cigarette and lit it before he asked casually, "Stayin' long in town?"

"Leavin' to-day for the ranch."

"What size gun you carry for rattlesnakes?"

"Mine's a forty-five." Bob took it out, examined it, and thrust the weapon between his trousers and his shirt. If he felt any mental disturbance he did not show it except in the anxious eyes.

Blister changed the subject lightly. "Hear anything ab-b-bout the Utes risin'? Any talk of it down the river?"

"Some. The same old stuff. I've been hearin' it for a year."

"About ripe, looks like. This business of Houck ain't gonna help any. There's a big bunch of 'em over there in the hills now. They've been runnin' off stock from outlying ranches."

"Sho! The Indians are tamed. They'll never go on the warpath again, Blister."

"J-just once more, an' right soon now."

The justice gave his reasons for thinking so, while Bob listened rather inattentively. The boy wanted to ask him about June, but he remembered what his fat friend had told him last time he mentioned her to him. He was still extremely sensitive about his failure to protect his girl-wife and he did not want to lay himself open to snubs.

Bob sauntered from the office, and before he had walked a dozen steps came face to face with June. She was coming out of a grocery with some packages in her arms. The color flooded her dusky cheeks. She looked at him, startled, like a fawn poised for flight.

During the half-year since he had seen her June had been transformed. She had learned the value of clothes. No longer did she wear a shapeless sack for a dress. Her shoes were small and shapely, her black hair neatly brushed and coiffed. The months had softened and developed the lines of the girlish figure. Kindness and friendliness had vitalized the expression of the face and banished its sullenness. The dark eyes, with just a hint of wistful appeal, were very lovely.

Both of them were taken unawares. Neither knew what to do or say. After the first instant of awkwardness June moved forward and passed him silently.

Bob went down the street, seeing nothing. His pulses trembled with excitement. This charming girl was his wife, or at least she once had been for an hour. She had sworn to love, honor, and obey him. There had been a moment in the twilight when they had come together to the verge of something divinely sweet and wonderful, when they had gazed into each other's eyes and had looked across the boundary of the promised land.

If he had only kept the faith with her! If he had stood by her in the hour of her great need! The bitterness of his failure ate into the soul of the range-rider as it had done already a thousand times. It did not matter what he did. He could never atone for the desertion on their wedding day. The horrible fact was written in blood. It could not be erased. Forever it would have to stand between them. An unbridgeable gulf separated them, created by his shameless weakness.

When Bob came to earth he found himself clumping down the river road miles from town. He turned and walked back to Bear Cat. His cowpony was at the corral and he was due at the ranch by night.

Young Dillon's thoughts had been so full of June and his relation to her that it was with a shock of surprise he saw Jake Houck swing out from the hotel porch and bar the way.

"Here's where you 'n' me have a settlement," the Brown's Park man announced.

"I'm not lookin' for trouble," Bob said, and again he was aware of a heavy sinking at the stomach.

"You never are," jeered Houck. "But it's right here waitin' for you, Mr. Rabbit Heart."

Bob heard the voices of children coming down the road on their way from school. He knew that two or three loungers were watching him and Houck from the doors of adjacent buildings. He was aware of a shouting and commotion farther up the street. But these details reached him only through some subconscious sense of absorption. His whole attention was concentrated on the man in front of him who was lashing himself into a fighting rage.

What did Houck mean to do? Would he throw down on him and kill? Or would he attack with his bare hands? Fury and hatred boiled into the big man's face. His day had come. He would have his revenge no matter what it cost. Bob could guess what hours of seething rage had filled Houck's world. The freckle-faced camp flunkey had interfered with his plans, snatched from him the bride he had chosen, brought upon him a humiliation that must be gall to his proud spirit whenever he thought of Bear Cat's primitive justice. He would pay his debt in full.

The disturbance up the street localized itself. A woman picked up her skirts and flew wildly into a store. A man went over the park fence almost as though he had been shot out of a catapult. Came the crack of a revolver. Some one shouted explanation. "Mad dog!"

A brindle bull terrier swung round the corner and plunged forward. With bristling hair and foaming mouth, it was a creature of horrible menace.

Houck leaped for the door of the hotel. Bob was at his heels, in a panic to reach safety.

A child's scream rang out. Dillon turned. The school children were in wild flight, but one fair-haired little girl stood as though paralyzed in the middle of the road. She could not move out of the path of the wild beast bearing down upon her.

Instinctively Bob's mind functioned. The day was warm and his coat hung over an arm. He stepped into the road as the brindle bull came opposite the hotel. The coat was swung out expertly and dropped over the animal's head. The cowpuncher slipped to his knees, arms tightening and fingers feeling for the throat of the writhing brute struggling blindly.

Its snapping jaws just missed his hand. Man and dog rolled over into the dust together. Its hot breath fanned Bob's face. Again he was astride of the dog. His fingers had found its throat at last. They tightened, in spite of its horrible muscular contortions to get free.

There came a swish of skirts, the soft pad of running feet. A girl's voice asked, "What shall I do?"

It did not at that moment seem strange to Dillon that June was beside him, her face quick with tremulous anxiety. He spoke curtly, as one who gives orders, panting under the strain of the effort to hold the dog.

"My gun."

She picked the forty-five up from where it had fallen. Their eyes met. The girl did swiftly what had to be done. It was not until she was alone in her room half an hour later that the thought of it made her sick.

Bob rose, breathing deep. For an instant their eyes held fast. She handed him the smoking revolver. Neither of them spoke.

From every door, so it seemed, people poured and converged toward them. Excited voices took up the tale, disputed, explained, offered excuses. Everybody talked except June and Bob.

Blister rolled into the picture. "Dawg-gone my hide if I ever see anything to b-beat that. He was q-quick as c-chain lightnin', the boy was. Johnny on the spot. Jumped the critter s-slick as a whistle." His fat hand slapped Bob's shoulder. "The boy was sure there with both hands and feet."

"What about June?" demanded Mollie. "Seems to me she wasn't more'n a mile away while you men-folks were skedaddlin' for cover."

The fat man's body shook with laughter. "The boys didn't s-stop to make any farewell speeches, tha's a fact. I traveled some my own self, but I hadn't hardly got started before Houck was outa sight, an' him claimin' he was lookin' for trouble too."

"Not that kind of trouble," grinned Mike the bartender. He could afford to laugh, for since he had been busy inside he had not been one of the vanishing heroes. "Don't blame him a mite either. If it comes to that I'm givin' the right of way to a mad dog every time."

"Hmp!" snorted Mollie. "What would 'a' happened to little Maggie Wiggins if Dillon here had felt that way?"

Bob touched Blister on the arm and whispered in his ear. "Get me to the doc. I gotta have a bite cauterized."

It was hardly more than a scratch, but while the doctor was making his preparations the puncher went pale as service-berry blossoms. He sat down, grown suddenly faint. The bite of a mad dog held sinister possibilities.

Blister fussed around cheerfully until the doctor had finished. "Every silver l-lining has got its cloud, don't you r-reckon? Here's Jake Houck now, all s-set for a massacree. He's a wolf, an' it's his night to howl. Don't care who knows it, by gum. Hands still red from one killin'. A rip-snortin' he-wolf from the bad lands! Along comes Mr. Mad Dog, an' Jake he hunts his hole with his tail hangin'. Kinda takes the tuck outa him. Bear Cat wouldn't hardly stand for him gunnin' you now, Bob. Not after you tacklin' that crazy bull terrier to save the kids. He'll have to postpone that settlement he was promisin' you so big."

The puncher voiced the fear in his mind. "Do folks always go mad when they're bit by a mad dog, doctor?"

"Not a chance hardly," Dr. Tuckerman reassured. "First place, the dog probably wasn't mad. Second place, 't wa'n't but a scratch and we got at it right away. No, sir. You don't need to worry a-tall."

Outside the doctor's office Blister and Bob met Houck. The Brown's Park man scowled at the puncher. "I'm not through with you. Don't you think it! Jus' because you had a lucky fluke escape—"

"Tacklin' a crazy wild beast whilst you an' me were holin' up," Blister interjected.

Houck looked at the fat man bleakly. "You in this, Mr. Meddler? If you're not declarin' yoreself in, I'd advise you to keep out."

Blister Haines laughed amiably with intent to conciliate. "What's the use of nursin' a grudge against the boy, Houck? He never did you any harm. S-shake hands an' call it off."

"You manage yore business if you've got any. I'll run mine," retorted Houck. To Bob he said meaningly as he turned away, "One o' these days, young fellow."

The threat chilled Dillon, but it was impossible just now to remain depressed. He rode back to the ranch in a glow of pleasure. Thoughts of June filled every crevice of his mind. They had shared an adventure together, had been partners in a moment of peril. She could not wholly despise him now. He was willing to admit that Houck had been right when he called it a fluke. The chance might not have come to him, or he might not have taken it. The scream of little Maggie Wiggins had saved the day for him. If he had had time to think—but fortunately impulse had swept him into action before he could let discretion stop him.

He lived over again joyfully that happy moment when June had stood before him pulsing with life, eager, fear-filled, tremulous. He had taken the upper hand and she had accepted his leadership. The thing his eyes had told her to do she had done. He would remember that—he would remember it always.

Nor did it dim his joy that he felt himself to be a fraud. It had taken no pluck to do what he did, since he had only obeyed a swift dominating mental reaction to the situation. The real courage had been hers.

He knew now that he would have to take her with him in his thoughts on many a long ride whether he wanted to or not.



CHAPTER XXVIII

JUNE IS GLAD

June turned away from the crowd surrounding the dead mad dog and walked into the hotel. The eyes of more than one man followed the slim, graceful figure admiringly. Much water had run down the Rio Blanco since the days when she had been the Cinderella of Piceance Creek. The dress she wore was simple, but through it a vivid personality found expression. No longer was she a fiery little rebel struggling passionately against a sense of inferiority. She had come down from the hills to a country filled with laughter and the ripple of brooks.

The desire to be alone was strong upon her—alone with the happy thoughts that pushed themselves turbulently through her mind. She was tremulous with excitement. For she hoped that she had found a dear friend who had been lost.

Once, on that dreadful day she would never forget, June had told Jake Houck that Bob Dillon was as brave as he. It had been the forlorn cry of a heart close to despair. But the words were true. She hugged that knowledge to her bosom. Jake had run away while Bob had stayed to face the mad dog. And not Jake alone! Blister Haines had run, with others of tested courage. Bob had outgamed him. He admitted it cheerfully.

Maybe the others had not seen little Maggie Wiggins. But Bob had seen her. The child's cry had carried him back into the path of the brindle terrier. June was proud, not only of what he had done, but of the way he had done it. His brain had functioned swiftly, his motions been timed exactly. Only coordination of all his muscles had enabled him to down the dog so expertly and render the animal harmless.

During the months since she had seen him June had thought often of the man whose name she legally bore. After the first few hours there had been no harshness in her memories of him. He was good. She had always felt that. There was something fine and sweet and generous in his nature. Without being able to reason it out, she was sure that no fair judgment would condemn him wholly because at a crisis he had failed to exhibit a quality the West holds in high esteem and considers fundamental. Into her heart there had come a tender pity for him, a maternal sympathy that flowed out whenever he came into her musings.

Poor boy! She had learned to know him so well. He would whip himself with his own scorn. This misadventure that had overwhelmed him might frustrate all the promise of his life. He was too sensitive. If he lost heart—if he gave up—

She had longed to send a message of hope to him, but she had been afraid that he might misunderstand it. Her position was ambiguous. She was his wife. The law said so. But of course she was not his wife at all except in name. They were joint victims of evil circumstance, a boy and a girl who had rushed to a foolish extreme. Some day one or the other of them would ask the law to free them of the tie that technically bound them together.

Now she need not worry about him any longer. He had proved his mettle publicly. The court of common opinion would reverse the verdict it had passed upon him. He would go out of her life and she need no longer feel responsible for the shadow that had fallen over his.

So she reasoned consistently, but something warm within her gave the lie to this cold disposition of their friendship. She did not want to let him go his way. She had no intention of letting him go. She could not express it, but in some intangible way he belonged to her. As a brother might, she told herself; not because Blister Haines had married them when they had gone to him in their hurry to solve a difficulty. Not for that reason at all, but because from the first hour of meeting, their spirits had gone out to each other in companionship. Bob had understood her. He had been the only person to whom she could confide her troubles, the only pal she had ever known.

Standing before the glass in her small bedroom, June saw that her eyes were shining, the blood glowing through the dusky cheeks. Joy had vitalized her whole being, had made her beautiful as a wild rose. For the moment at least she was lyrically happy.

This ardor still possessed June when she went into the dining-room to make the set-ups for supper. She sang snatches of "Dixie" and "My Old Kentucky Home" as she moved about her work. She hummed the chorus of "Juanita." From that she drifted to the old spiritual "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot."

A man was washing his hands in the tin basin provided outside for guests of the hotel. Through the window came to him the lilt of the fresh young voice.

"Swing low, sweet chariot, Comin' fo' to carry me home."

The look of sullen, baffled rage on the man's dark face did not lighten. He had been beaten again. His revenge had been snatched from him almost at the moment of triumph. If that mad dog had not come round the corner just when it did, he would have evened the score between him and Dillon. June had seen the whole thing. She had been a partner in the red-headed boy's ovation. Houck ground his teeth in futile anger.

Presently he slouched into the dining-room.

Mollie saw him and walked across the room to June. "I'll wait on him if you don't want to."

The waitress shook her head. "No, I don't want him to think I'm afraid of him. I'm not, either. I'll wait on him."

June took Houck's order and presently served it.

His opaque eyes watched her in the way she remembered of old. They were still bold and possessive, still curtained windows through which she glimpsed volcanic passion.

"You can tell that squirt Dillon I ain't through with him yet, not by a jugful," he growled.

"If you have anything to tell Bob Dillon, say it to him," June answered, looking at him with fearless, level eyes of scorn.

"An' I ain't through with you, I'd have you know."

June finished putting his order on the table. "But I'm through with you, Jake Houck," she said, very quietly.

"Don't think it. Don't you think it for a minute," he snarled. "I'm gonna—"

He stopped, sputtering with fury. June had turned and walked into the kitchen. He rose, evidently intending to follow her.

Mollie Larson barred the way, a grim, square figure with the air of a brigadier-general.

"Sit down, Jake Houck," she ordered. "Or get out. I don't care which. But don't you think I'll set by an' let you pester that girl. If you had a lick o' sense you'd know it ain't safe."

There was nothing soft about Houck. He was a hard and callous citizen, and he lived largely outside the law and other people's standards of conduct. But he knew when he had run up against a brick wall. Mrs. Larson had only to lift her voice and half a dozen men would come running. He was in the country of the enemy, so to say.

"Am I pesterin' her?" he demanded. "Can't I talk to a girl I knew when she was a baby? Have I got to get an O.K. from you before I say 'Good-mawnin' to her?"

"Her father left June in my charge. I'm intendin' to see you let her alone. Get that straight."

Houck gave up with a shrug of his big shoulders. He sat down and attacked the steak on his plate.



CHAPTER XXIX

"INJUNS"

Bob swung down from the saddle in front of the bunkhouse.

Reeves came to the door and waved a hand. "'Lo, Sure-Shot! What's new in Bear Cat?"

"Fellow thinkin' of startin' a drug-store. Jim Weaver is the happy dad of twins. Mad dog shot on Main Street. New stage-line for Marvine planned. Mr. Jake Houck is enjoyin' a pleasant visit to our little city. I reckon that's about all."