SUDDEN

Oliver Strange

CHAPTER I

"Too many strangers, that's the trouble in this here one-eyed burg."

The hoarse, sneering voice rang out like a challenge, which indeed it was, and the speaker's bloodshot, savage

glare roamed round the room as though daring those present to refute his statement. He was a big fellow, blue-

shirted, with trousers stuffed into the tops of his high boots, and he wore two guns; a slouched hat partly shaded

his bloated, unshaven face. A deepening scowl further detracted from his looks when the continued hum of

conversation showed that his remark was being ignored, and the beady eyes glinted evilly. So that was it, huh?

Well, he'd let them see that someone had to sit up and take notice when "Pug" Parsons spoke.

Though it was yet afternoon, the bar of the Palace Saloon was fairly well patronized, and the crowd was typical

of the Western frontier settlements of that day: tradesmen, teamsters, riders from the neighboring ranches,

gamblers, a few Mexicans, and a leavening of hard-bitten citizens into whose means of livelihood it would not

have been wise to probe. Most of these Parsons knew by sight at least, but there was one whom he had not seen

before. Still in his early twenties, slim of hip and broad of shoulder, the stranger leant against the bar with the

easy pose of the athlete. His cowboy rig, though worn, was neat, his shirt and the silk handkerchief slung round

his neck were clean, and the grey "two-gallon" Stetson pushed back on his head was nearly new. He also sported

two guns, the ends of the holsters tied with rawhide strings to his leathern chaps. His lean, shaven, deeply-

bronzed face and black hair gave him almost the appearance of an Indian, but the high cheekbones were missing and there was a quirk of humor about the grim mouth which softened the out-thrust of jaw and level, grayish-blue eyes. Parsons absorbed these details and came to his own conclusion.

"Dude puncher, tryin' to put up a two-gun bluff," he muttered. "Reckon I'll call it." He turned to the proprietor of the place. "Who's the yearlin'?" he asked, with a nod towards the unconscious cowboy.

The saloon-keeper, a short, stout man of middle age, with a pleasant but weak face, looked in the direction indicated. "New to me," he said. "Rid into town 's'afternoon." Then, divining what was in the other's mind, "Aw, leave the boy be, Pug; he ain't doin' no harm. Looks as if he mightn't be too easy rode neither, an' I don't want no trouble here now I got them new glasses."

He glanced pridefully at the three gaudy, gilt-framed mirrors decorating the back of the bar. His warning precipitated the calamity it was designed to prevent. The big man's face bacame suffused with passion. Snatching out a gun, he fired point-blank at the centre mirror, defacing its shining surface with a great jagged star and bringing down a clatter of broken glass.

"That for yu an' yore damn mirrors," he snarled. "Mebbe it'll larn yu that we ain't goin' to drink cheap liquor so's yu can admire yoreself. Another yap outa yu an' I'll serve the other two the same an' close yore joint."

The saloon-keeper dared not reply—he knew the threat was no vain one. The gunman had only to let it be known that to drink at the Palace would be to incur his displeasure, and few in the town would run the risk; there were other saloons. Parsons swung about, his fierce gaze travelling over the company and finally resting on the indifferent figure by the bar.

"Hey, stranger ! " he called.

The cow-puncher looked up. "Speakin' to me?" he asked quietly.

"Shore I am," the other roared. "Ain't yu the on'y stranger here?"

"Can't say," the cowboy replied, adding with a ghost of a smile, "yu see, they's all strangers to me."

Someone sniggered, and Parsons, suspecting he was being made fun of, growled out an oath.

"Don't git festive with me, fella," he warned. "It ain't considered wise. What yu smash that mirror for, huh?"

This astounding accusation was followed by a silence broken only by little scufflings as men unobtrusively slid out of the possible line of fire; with Pug on the warpath, it behoved the bystander to take precautions; usually the brute got away with his bullying, but this time .. .

"'Pears to me Parsons may've picked the wrong man—that boy looks a plenty cold proposition," a poker player whispered to a neighbour.

"If he downs Pug this yer town won't go inta mournin'," was the reply. "'Bout time that big bear had his claws cut."

The subject of the conversation still lounged carelessly against the bar, a smile on his mobile lips, but there was no humour in the cold, narrowed eyes.

"So I busted her?" he said softly. "Well, what yu aimin' to do about it?"

The bully's lips wreathed in a hateful sneer—it was going to be easy. Though not drunk, he had swallowed enough raw spirit to blunt his perceptive faculties, or he would not have come to this decision; his victim's demeanour was not that of a scared man.

"I'm aimin' to make yu pay for it, but first yu'll entertain the company with a li'l dance," Parsons said. "Step lively, yu " The word was not a pretty one, and the bullet which followed it tore a splinter from the floor close to the puncher's right foot. "The next one takes a toe," the gunman warned, and fired again.

But even as he pressed the trigger the cowboy had moved, a swift jump forward to the right, and then his left foot swept up and kicked the loosely-held weapon from the marksman's fingers. Recovering his balance, the stranger stepped in and drove a fist, with all the impetus of his advancing body, to the bully's jaw. For an instant the stricken man rocked on his heels, and then crashed to the floor, where he lay mouthing curses and clawing for his other gun.

"Don't yu," the puncher rasped. "I'm showin' yu why."

He flipped a silver dollar away from him and by the time it tinkled on the boards both his guns were out and spouting flame. The first bullet struck the edge of the coin, spinning it in the air again, the second drove it down, and the third jumped it a yard further away. Ten shots in as many seconds were fired, and each time the winking target was fairly hit. Then the puncher thrust his weapons back into their holsters and looked contemptuously at the prostrate man.

"Here endeth the first lesson," he said. "yu can stand up on yore hind legs again. There's two pills left in my guns, case yu got any ideas."

Parsons scrambled slowly to his feet; the blood seemed to have drained from his face, leaving it a yellowish white —a fish-belly white, unwholesome, repulsive. Out of it his malignant little eyes watched the smoke-wreathed wizard who had sardonically invited him to die. For he knew it meant just that, and for the first time in his life, he, Pug Parsons, who had watched men cringe before his levelled gun and had shot them down with a jeer, was conscious of abject physical fear. He had only one desire—to save his life. A little cough broke the tense silence and Parsons jumped; his nerve had gone.

“`Li'l think-box don't seem to be workin'," the stranger said mockingly, and then, in a different tone, "I'm givin' yu thirty minutes to leave town." He looked at the landlord. "How much that mirror cost yu?"

"She set me back one hundred bucks," was the reply. The puncher turned to Parsons. "Ante up," he said curtly.

The gunman moistened his parched lips. "I ain't got--" he began.

"Yu took three hundred from a pilgrim in this room las' night," the saloon-keeper cut in.

"Ante up," the puncher repeated, and there was a deadly finality in his voice.

Parsons pulled a roll of bills from his pocket, and, with fumbling fingers, peeled off several and flung them on the bar.

"Better count 'em," he said, with a poor attempt at bravado.

"Betche life," the landlord retorted, and did so. "All correct," he added.

The puncher looked at the man he had worsted. "Yu got twenty minutes left," he said. "Make good use of 'em, or yu'll be takin' part in a funeral—the leadin' part. Sabe?"

Like a whipped hound the ruffian slunk out of the saloon, and the onlookers stirred to action again. The owner of the place put the matter plainly.

"Stranger, I reckon this town is mighty obliged to yu," he said. "That fella has been a blister on it for months—he's killed two men an' crippled four-five others. Oh, he can use his guns pretty nifty, but he'd have to start the day afore to beat yu." One of the men had picked up the battered dollar and was examining it. The landlord called to him: "Pass that over, Timms." He turned to the owner of the coin. "This buys drinks for the crowd if yo're willin', friend," he said.

"Set 'em up," the puncher smiled.

The saloon-keeper sent bottles and glasses spinning along the bar in front of the lined-up customers, and then drove a nail through the defaced coin, fastening it to the edge of a shelf.

"I guess I'll git some questions 'bout that," he remarked. "Folk'll think it's bad money, but it ain't—it's good money, the best I ever see. What's more, I want yu gents to remember that this yer saloon has got a new name—she's `The Shot Dollar' from now on, an' yu'll drink with me on that."

A chorus of acclamation greeted his proposal, and the landlord received many compliments on his business acumen. In the midst of the celebration he drew the puncher aside.

"Stranger," he said. "yu've done me one hell of a good turn. Is there any way I can square the 'count?"

"Yu don't owe me nothin'," was the reply. "That jasper was after my hair. Reminds me, I got a li'l business to attend to. See yu later—mebbe."

"If yo're goin' to look for Pug, yo're wastin' time," the other told him. "yu busted that fella wide open, an' his bronc'll be throwin' gravel plenty industrious just now."

"I gotta show myself," the puncher replied.

He stepped swiftly through the swing-doors, his gaze darting right and left, for, despite the landlord's confidence, there was always the chance that the beaten man might make a desperate attempt to avenge himself and regain his lost reputation. But there was no sign, and after waiting a moment, the puncher stepped along the street. Then he became aware that someone had followed him out of the saloon.

"Young man, I would like a word with you."

The puncher paused instantly, his manner alert. But there was nothing formidable in the speaker's appearance : a short, bulky man of around forty-five, dressed in black "store" clothes, with a white collar and neatly-tied cravat. He had, the cowboy now remembered, been sitting alone at a table in one corner of the Palace.

"I've some whisky and cigars at the hotel I'd like your opinion of—I think they are better than our friend back there provides," the little man went on.

"You see"—a twinkle sprang into his grey eyes—"I don't have to buy mirrors."

The cowboy liked that twinkle, but he did not reply at once. As he had already proved, he could, on occasion, decide and act with amazing speed, but save under the spur of necessity, he was a deliberate animal. He was wondering what this man was. His educated speech, and his attire, with an indefinite air of authority, suggested a lawyer, schoolmaster, or parson; he wore no weapons in sight, but that meant little—card-sharps and crooks frequently posed as inoffensive citizens. The liquor he was invited to sample might be hocussed. He suddenly decided that he was able to take care of himself and his "roll."

"I don't seem to have no other engagement, seh," he drawled.

"Good," was the reply.

Heads turned curiously as they passed along the street, for the story of the fracas at the Palace had soon spread and the puncher was already famous. Men smiled as they saw the stout little stranger almost trotting to keep up with the long, easy stride of the tall cowboy.

"If he's aimin' to lift that fella's wad he deserves to git it for his pluck," remarked one. "Me, I'd sooner wrastle a wild cat."

At the hotel the little man led the way to a private parlour, reached a bottle of whisky and a box of cigars from a cupboard, and invited his guest to sit down and help himself. His next remark was a curious one.

"You don't seem to care for dancing," he said, and the twinkle was again evident.

The guest grinned broadly. "Shore do, but I'm a mite fussy 'bout the music," he replied.

A short silence ensued; the puncher was waiting for the next move. The liquor and the smoke were both of good quality—he had expected they would be—but that only made him more suspicious. His host evidently divined his attitude.

"Time we got acquainted," he said. "My name is Bleke, and I hail from Tucson; you may have heard of me."

Though the cowboy's lounging form remained motionless, his narrowed eyes widened. It was difficult to believe that this harmless-appearing little man could be Governor Bleke of Arizona, whose reputation for cold courage and implacability of purpose as a ruler extended far beyond his own turbulent territory, but—and he afterwards wondered why—it never occurred to him to doubt the statement. Custom required that he should now declare his own name, but he hesitated. His host smiled shrewdly.

"You are James Green of Texas, and sometimes men call you `Sudden,' " he said easily. "I came here to find you."

The puncher stiffened, his cigar clamped between his lips, leaving both hands free; his eyes were frosty. The man from Tucson held up a hand, palm outwards, the Indian sign of peace.

"You're forgetting that this salubrious settlement of Juniper is in New Mexico," he pointed out. "If I ordered the sheriff to arrest you he'd tell me where I could go." The cow-puncher looked a shade abashed, and Bleke went on, "You're drifting, young fellow, and drifting the wrong way. Already you are named as an outlaw, and two sheriffs are searching for you."

"An' they want me for crimes I never committed,"Sudden said bitterly. "Things done when I was scores o' miles away. I never stole a dollar in my life, an' yet I'm hunted like I was a mad dawg."

"All that I know," replied the elder man. "If you are quick with a gun it's easy to get a bad reputation in the West; you get trouble forced on you, as it was back there in the saloon; the way you handled that skunk told me a lot—you had every right to kill him. But where's it going to end, Green? Sooner or later you'll be caught and punished for something you didn't do, and then—you'll run wild. As it is, you've got to keep moving."

"There's another reason for that," the puncher said darkly.

"Well, that's as maybe; I'm not asking," Bleke replied. "I want a man who can use his weapons "

"I'm no hired killer," the other harshly interrupted.

"If you were I wouldn't be talking to you," was the sharp retort. "Listen to me; there are plague spots in Arizona that I want cleared up, and the man who does that must be able to protect himself. As a deputy-sheriff he will have the authority of the law behind him, but that won't mean anything unless he can back it up with a gun, and it's more than likely to tell against him should it become known; he'll have to use his own judgment, and that's why I'm looking for a man with a head as well as hands. This country is young, and the law isn't very well regarded, but the time is coming when it will be, and this is a chance for you to get in on the right side."

The cowboy did not reply at once; his keen gaze rested speculatively on the maker of this curious proposition. He was beginning to realize the quiet, forceful personality of this apparently insignificant little man. Bleke too was silent, waiting, and then the twinkle crept into his eyes again.

"Of course, it's a risky job I'm offering," he said. "You'll have to depend on yourself too—I won't be able to help you. If you lose out . . ."

"I'll go yu, seh," the puncher said instantly.

The elder man smiled and nodded. "I'm right glad," he said, his heart warming to the young fellow who had risen so promptly to his mild bait.

"Anyone dependent on you?"

The visitor shook his head. "I'm shore a lone wolf," he said.

"Good—from my point of view, that is," the Governor commented. "Now for details."

When, half an hour later, the newly-appointed deputy-sheriff departed, Bleke lighted another cigar and smiled his satisfaction.

"I reckon I've found my man and done the State a service at the same time," he sololoquized. "One more turn of the screw and there would have been another good citizen gone wrong and merry hell to pay. That boy is of the outlaw breed, sure enough, and worth saving. Well, if he's looking for action, he's liable to get it where I've sent him."

CHAPTER II

Two weeks later the man who had humiliated Pug Parsons in Juniper halted his horse on the flat top of a mesa and surveyed the surrounding expanse. The railway, by a devious route, had brought him part of the journey across Arizona, but for the last four days he had been riding, and knew that he must now be nearing his destination. The view was wild but imposing. Great ridges of rock, spired and pinnacled, their bases buried in primeval forest, were on every side, and between them were savannahs of rich grass in which the tiny lakes and streams gleamed like silver in the sunlight. Through a gap in the hills the wayfarer caught a glint of yellow, and knew it for a desert. There was no sign of human habitation, and indeed he had seen nothing of the kind since he had left Doverton in the early morning. The sky was a vault of palest blue, and with no movement in the air, the vertical rays of the mid-day sun had almost the heat of flames.

"Shore is a fierce bit o' country," the cowboy mused. "If half I've heard is correct, I'm due for a right interestin' time."

For though he had talked but little, the mere mention of his objective had produced raised eyebrows and other symptoms of surprise, and this had become more marked as he proceeded. A citizen of one town he stayed at even expressed his wonder verbally.

"I ain't presumin', stranger, but whyever should yu wanta go to Windy?" he asked. "On'y fella I ever knowed who visited there was bored to death."

"Too slow for him, huh?" the traveller suggested.

"No, too fast—it was a .45 slug what bored him," chuckled the speaker. "The drinks are shore on yu, stranger."

The cow-puncher laughed and paid; he had been fairly caught. But beneath the surface he sensed a serious undercurrent, an unwillingness to talk about the town to which he was travelling. The keeper of the hotel at Doverton had flatly refused to answer his questions.

"Windy is bad medicine," he had said. "King Burdette has a long arm an' a heavy fist at the end of it."

Sudden smiled grimly as he recalled the remark; the fact that Doverton was no less than forty miles from Windy suggested that Burdette was an opponent to be approached warily. Beyond the bare statement that there was a mess to be cleared up, and that it would require a man with all his wits about him, some good luck, and an outstanding ability to take care of himself, the Governor had told him little. As a man will, who spends long, lonely hours with a horse, he confided in the animal.

"Dunno what sorta hornets' nest we're a-steppin' into, Nig," he said, "but there's one way to find out. G'wan, yu cinder from hell." The big black swung its head round, lips lifted to show the strong teeth, and the rider grinned sardonically. "Playin' yu'd like to bite me, huh? Yu old fraud," and he stroked the sleek neck.

The trail, which might have been no more than a runway for wild creatures, dropped down in a zigzag from the mesa and plunged into a big patch of pines. Pacing leisurely beneath the pillared arches of the forest, the puncher's thoughts reverted to the little man who had sought him out to send him on this errand of danger. He knew that by doing so Bleke had saved him from a worse fate. Saddled, unjustly, with the reputation of an outlaw, hunted in certain parts of his own country, Texas, for offences of which he was not guilty, it would have taken little more to turn him into a desperado. Bleke had known it. Sudden himself knew it, and was conscious of a sense of satisfaction in being definitely arrayed on the side of law and order; though, as a young man will, he affected a quizzical disdain, even to himself.

"We're respectable folk now, Nig, workin' for Uncle Sam, an' we gotta be good," he drawled. "No more hellin' round, no fights—the soft answer that turneth away wrath for us every time; we gotta let ourselves be tromped on, yu sabe?"

The animal shook its head and whinneyed softly.

"Makes yu laugh, huh?" the rider continued. "Well, I don't blame yu at that, but allasame, if I catch yu chewin' up another gent's hoss I'll just naturally larrup the linin' outa yu."

Emerging from the pines, they came upon evidence of civilization. Facing a small valley was a one-storeyed log-cabin, with a truck-patch and rude corral. Lounging in the doorway was a man of middle age, whose sullen eyes surveyed the intruder curiously. Chewing on the stem of a corncob pipe, his right hand was behind the door-jamb,

and Sudden guessed that the fellow had a weapon handy; he was clearly suspicious of this capable-looking stranger who reined up and greeted him with a grin.

"Howdy, friend! Might this be the way to Windy?"

"It might, for a man who ain't in a hurry."

"So I've strayed some, huh?" the rider smiled. "Well, I got all the time there is." His gaze took in the slovenly building, noted the half-hearted attempt at cultivation and the few cattle feeding in the valley. "Yu shore picked a nice location."

The sneer on the man's face deepened. "Place is all right if a fella was let alone," he said; "But what's the use o' gettin' ambitious when yo're liable to be run off any time? `Nesters' ain't popular in these parts, nor in any others fur as I can make out," he added bitterly.

"If I'd filed on a bit o' land like this it'd take a lot to stampede me," the puncher stated.

"Mebbe, an' then again, mebbe not," the homesteader retorted, his querulous voice rising. "Buckin' the Burdette boys ain't paid nobody yet."

Ere Sudden could reply to this a horseman galloped round a bend in the trail just beyond the cabin and pulled his pony to a slithering stop in front of them. He was young—little more than twenty—with a freckled face and blue eyes which had a frosty glint in them as they rested on the nester.

"What yu belly-achin' about the Burdettes for, Fosbee?" he asked, and when the man did not reply, he asked, "Who's yore friend?"

"Dunno," Fosbee said sulkily. "Stopped to ask the way to Windy."

The young man turned an interested gaze upon the puncher, who, lolling easily in his saddle, returned it with amused indifference. A likeable enough youth, he decided, but somewhat over-imbued with his own importance. He got out the makings, rolled and lighted a cigarette, waiting for the question he knew would come. The freckled one fidgeted with his reins for a moment.

"Yo're a stranger here?" he said.

Sudden smiled. "Someone musta told yu," he replied with gentle sarcasm.

The young man flushed. "What's yore business in Windy?" he asked bluntly.

The cow-puncher was still smiling. "Well, it ain'tadvertisin'," he replied meaningly.

The snub brought the hot blood again into the boy's cheeks, and for a moment it seemed that he would give vent to his anger. Then, with a little lift of the shoulders, he swung his pony round and spurred away without another word. Sudden watched him disappear with a speculative eye, and then turned to Fosbee, whose countenance was more lugubrious than ever.

"Member o' the Royal Family, I take it," he said, and seeing the man did not get his meaning, he added, "One o' the Burdettes, huh?"

"Yeah, that was Luce—they called him Lucifer 'count of his havin' a red head like a match," Fosbee explained. "An' he's the best o' the bunch, though that ain't sayin' a lot."

"He certainly don't actually despise hisself," the puncher grinned. "How many o' the tribe is there?"

"King Burdette an' three brothers—use ter be five in the family, but the Ol' Man got bumped off three-four months back; shot from cover, he was, over on War Axe Ridge. Nobody knows who done it, but the Burdettes blame the Purdies—there's allus been bad blood between 'em. If I was young Kit Purdie I'd leave the country."

"Folks would take it he was guilty," the puncher pointed out.

"Mebbe, but he'd be alive," the other said dourly. "Yu mark my words, the Burdette boys will get him."

Sudden changed the subject; he did not want to betray more than the natural curiosity of a stranger in local affairs. "What chance for a cow-wrastler around her?" he inquired.

"Middlin' slim," was the reply. "There's the Circle B —that's Burdette, the C P—Purdie's ranch, an' the Box S —a small one owned by Slype, the marshal, who's too mean to spit. Purdie is yore best bet; he's a white man."

"Yu don't recommend Burdette, huh?" the puncher smiled.

"If yo're quick with a gun an' ain't pertic'ler, yes," retorted the other. "I'm takin' it yo're honest."

"Thank you," the visitor said gravely. "Likely I'll go gravel-grubbin' for a spell; I'm told there's gold around here."

"That's so—Windy started on a gold boom, but it soon petered out. Yu can get `colour' a'most anywheres in the sand o' Thunder River, but that's all yu do get. There's fellas still pannin' an' pocket-minin' the slopes o' the valley, but they don't hardly make more'n a grub-stake."

"If they could strike the mother-lode —"

"Yu ain't the first to think o' that," Fosbee cut in. "I reckon every man in town has searched one time or another. Some claims it's up on Ol' Stormy, an' mebbe that's why " He paused suddenly. "I'm jawin' too much," he added. "See yu later, p'raps."

He turned abruptly into the house, leaving the traveller no choice but to ride on, thoughtfully considering what he had learned. Actually it did not amount to much. Fosbee did not impress him favourably—a sour, disgruntled fellow who would vent his venom on any more successful than himself, but his fear of the Burdettes was evident.

"An' I'm bettin' that boy ain't bad," the puncher mused. "O' course, his manhood is some recent"—he himself was but a few years older—"an' I expect he ain't had much experience, but I liked the look of him."(HIAITAN)

Less than half an hour brought him to the rim of a widish gully, the sloping sides of which were covered with vegetation—spruce, juniper, cactus, and tall grasses. Along the bottom ran a tiny, twisted stream fringed with willows and cottonwoods. The sight of the water made him thirsty, and he was casting about for the best place to descend when the angry crash of a rifle awoke a succession of echoes, giving the impression of a fusillade. There was but one shot, however, and a ballooning puff of smoke, a little way up the opposing incline, showed whence it came. In a flash the puncher was out of the saddle and crouching behind an outcrop of rock. A moment later he realized that he was not the target, for, from a dense mass of brush almost on the floor of the gully, a rifle spoke in reply. Two simultaneous reports from the other side followed, and leaving his horse, Sudden searched for a break in the foliage.

Meanwhile the strange duel continued, but now only two were firing, one against the other. Had the third man been wiped out? The puncher, whose sympathy had instinctively been for the weaker party, found himself hoping that this was the case. Presently he happened upon a spit of grass-covered rock which jutted out, and, by worming along it on his belly, was able to overlook the spot where the lone marksman was ensconced. Kneeling behind the prostrate trunk of a windfall, his rifle in readiness, a man dressed in the garb of the range was peering intently across the gully. For a while nothing happened, and then from the opposite slope came a single shot. Sudden saw the man below raise his rifle, but ere he could press the trigger another report rang out and he slumped down, the weapon dropping from nerveless fingers. High up on the rising ground behind the stricken fighter, smoke curled from the midst of a tree. The watcher cursed as he realized what had taken place.

"Damnation, they've outplayed him," he muttered, and scrambling back to the rim of the gully, grabbed his rifle from the saddle, and began to run in the direction from which the fatal shot had come. Before he could reach it, however, the thud of hoofs on the trail told him that he was too late. And so it proved. Hundreds of yards distant he had a momentary glimpse of a grey horse, and fired at it. He knew the shot was useless, but it relieved his feelings. He found the tree, a big spruce, the abraded trunk of which showed how the killer had climbed up to get a clear shot at his victim. Save for an empty shell, a Winchester .38, and some faint footprints, there was no further evidence. The puncher hoisted himself into the branches, and, as he had expected, found that nothing interrupted his view of the dead man.

"Pie like mother made," he said savagely. "One coyote keeps him busy while the other sneaks round an' plugs him from behind. I'd shore like to meet them hombres."

With grim, unblinking eyes he searched the valley, but beyond the frequent flash of a bird's wing no sign of life rewarded his scrutiny. Satisfied that the assassins had decamped, he dropped from the tree, and, leading his horse, began to work his way down to the scene of the tragedy. This took time, for he had often to force a passage through the tangle of undergrowth, and detours to avoid miniature precipices were necessary. So that it was nearly half an hour before he stood, hat in hand, beside what, only a short time ago, had been a human being in all the vigour of early manhood.

One thing the puncher saw at a glance—it was not, as he had suspected, young Burdette. Though about the same age, the dead man had dark hair, and the glazed eyes which stared up at the blue sky when Sudden turned the body over were a deep brown. Death had been instant, for the bullet, entering under the left shoulder-blade, had penetrated the heart. A whinny took him to a neighbouring thicket, where he found a tied pony bearing the brand C P. At the sight of this his frown deepened.

"Looks like them Burdettes has got even," he muttered; and then, "That fella Luce was ridin' a grey. Well, s'pose I'll have to take him in; can't leave the body here for the buzzards."

He draped the corpse, face downwards, across the saddle of its own pony, securing it with the lariat hanging from the horn, and then, riding his own horse and leading the other, headed into the valley, where he found a dim trail which appeared likely to take him to the town. Pacing soberly along, his thoughts naturally dwelt upon the grisly burden jolting spasmodically on the back of the other animal. That it was a corpse concerned him little—violent death was no new thing to him, but the manner in which it had been brought about put a savage set to his lips and gave the grey-blue eyes a flinty expression.

"It shore looks bad for Mister Luce," he mused. "I wouldn't 'a' said he was that sort."

It was possible that the slain man was only one of the C P outfit, but remembering what Fosbee had said, Sudden shook his head at the thought; he was only too sure that the nester had been a true prophet.

"It'll mean trouble, ol hoss," he confided to his mount —"big trouble; an' what I'm packin' in will certainly start it, but I couldn't do nothin' else."

CHAPTER III

WINDY, so called—according to a facetious dweller therein —because it never was, lay in the middle of a large saucer-like depression enclosed by forest-clad slopes which were themselves walled in by an oval of craggy, granite hills. At the western end of the valley towered Old Stormy, a formidable cone of ribbed and turreted rock, the source of Thunder River, which, after a tempestuous journey through the wild gorges of the mountain-side, became a wide, and, in summer, a shallow stream rolling lazily along its sandy bed to depart placidly by way of a break in the hills. The eastern limit of the valley was dominated by a tree-and scrub-covered, squat pile known as Battle Butte.

The westering sun was sinking behind the hills in a flare of crimson fire when Sudden rode into the town. The place presented no features of interest, and save for the surrounding scenery, might have been any one of the many he had passed through. The same dusty, hoof- and wheel-rutted street formed by two irregular rows of buildings, the most pretentious of which were of log or 'dobe, the others being mere shacks with dirt roofs, or dug-outs. Only a few of the erections boasted a second storey; several displayed the false front, but the sun-scorched, warped shingles rendered the device a transparent one in both senses of the word. The absence of paint was remedied by the grey-white alkali dust which covered everything, and a rubble of tin cans which hemmed in each habitation formed a sordid substitute for vegetation. A cynic might well have reflected that in the whole of the valley only the work of mankind was an abomination.

Sudden found the street deserted, but before he had ridden far along it a man emerged from one of the shacks and paused, staring, when he saw the new arrival, who promptly asked for the marshal's office.

"Furder up, but if yo're needin' Sam, yu'd better try Magee's. I'll show yu," the man replied. "Whose remainders are yu totin'?"

"That's what I wanta find out," the traveller told him.

Anxious to be first with the news, the other asked no more questions. Clumping along the board sidewalk, he made better time than could the horses in the loose sand, and presently disappeared through the swing-doors of one of the larger buildings, which bore on a battered sign the inscription "The Lucky Chance." By the time the puncher reached the spot he had a following of every person he had met, and this was soon augmented by those in the saloon. The last to appear was the marshal, a smallish, wizened fellow of about thirty-five, with a narrow, crafty face, mean eyes, and a still meaner mouth which a drooping black moustache unfortunately failed to conceal. Sudden recognized the type, a bullying, arrogant jack-in-office, who would take every advantage and give none. The man's first words confirmed this impression.

"Yu wanta see me?" he asked truculently.

"No, but I reckon I gotta," Sudden said acidly. "I've brung yu a job."

The retort evoked an audible snicker from the onlookers and a spot of colour in the sallow cheeks of the officer. He looked disgustfully at the limp form on the led horse.

"What d'yu s'pose I am—the undertaker?" he sneered.

"I'm reckonin' that as marshal it's yore job to find out who bumped off this fella," the puncher retorted.

At a word from the marshal two of the bystanders untied the body and laid it on the sidewalk. "Hell's flames, it's Kit Purdie—thought I reckernized his roan! " cried one of them; adding meaningly, "yu won't have far to look for them as did this, Sam."

"Keep yore fool trap closed—Up to now there ain't nothin' to show who done it," the officer snapped, but his forehead wrinkled in a worried frown. "Why didn't the damn young idjut pull his freight like I told him?"

He bent over the body and then straightened up. "Somebody fetch Doc. Toley," he ordered, and turned to the puncher. "What d'yu know 'bout this?"

Sitting slackly in his saddle, the puncher told his story. The mention of the glimpsed grey horse brought a curse from Slype. He looked malignantly at Sudden.

"We on'y got yore word," he said. "Yu mighta done it yoreself."

The accused man smiled in derision. "An' fetched him into show yu? Oh, yeah," he scoffed.

"It would 'a' bin a good bluff," retorted the officer. "Lemme see yore gun."

At this demand the stranger stiffened, and there was an ominous rasp in his voice as he replied, "Which end would yu like to look at? She's a Winchester .44 an' the barrel is foul; I told yu I fired once."

Ere the marshal could reply to this obvious challenge, a short, fat man, with long, unkempt hair, and a clever if somewhat bloated face, pushed his way unceremoniously through the crowd. He was clearly the worse for liquor, but his speech was careful, precise.

"What do you want now, Slippery?" he asked, and then, as he saw the outstretched figure, "young Purdie, eh? So the Burdettes have downed him?"

The marshal gritted out an oath. "We dunno; yu got no right to say that, Doc.," he growled.

"I have a right to say just what I damn please, Slippery," the medico retorted. "If you and your friends the Burdettes don't like it, suit yourselves. What's the use of sending for me now? I can't put life into a dead man."

The marshal's mean eyes flashed an ugly look at him. "Ain't askin' yu to," he said sullenly. "Want yu to dig suthin' out—the bullet; mebbe it'll give us a pointer."

Toley turned the corpse so that it lay face downwards, cut away the clothing which covered the wound, and began to probe. With the morbid curiosity of a crowd the world over, the onlookers jostled one another to get a view, and the doctor cursed them when the stamping feet threatened to engulf him. At length the gruesome task was done and he stood up, the bloodstained pellet of lead between his fingers. The marshal examined it.

"Looks like a .38 to me," he said reluctantly, and the frown on his face was heavier.

"Shore is," agreed half a dozen of the nearest spectators. "What did I tell yu, Sam?" cried the fellow who had spoken before. "Luce Burdette uses a .38."

"Yu didn't tell me nothin' 'cept that yore mouth opens too easy, an' I knowed that afore," snapped the officer. "Luce ain't got the on'y .38 in the world, has he?"

"He's got the on'y one in these parts that I knows of," was the reply.

"King Burdette'll be glad to hear o' yore interest in his family," sneered Slype. "Hell! Here comes Ol' Man Purdie; what cussed luck brought him to town to-day?"

Stepping heavily but swiftly along the sidewalk, with the short, clipped stride of one who has spent much of his life in the saddle, came a sturdily-built, broad-shouldered man of around fifty. His strong, clean-shaven face, which should have expressed good-humour, was now drawn and haggard. Before his advance the crowd opened, and in a moment he was beside the body. One glance was enough.

"God ! " he muttered. "It's true, then." He dropped on one knee and touched the pallid face. "My lad—my only lad," he whispered brokenly.

For some moments there was silence; men who had not thought of it before furtively removed their hats. Then the bereaved father heaved himself to his feet, tragedy in every line of his face, his eyes shining wetly in the half-light. But there was no weakness in voice or bearing when he turned to the marshal.

"Who did this?" he asked harshly.

"Yu know near as much as I do, Chris," Slype replied. "This fella fetched him in"—he jerked a thumb at the cow-puncher. "Claims he saw it happen."

Purdie turned his misted eyes on the stranger; his look was an invitation. Sudden repeated his story of the shooting.

"Yu didn't see the skunk?" the old man asked.

"No, I caught the flash of a grey hoss through the brush an' took a chance," the puncher told him. "The shell I found was a .38 an' the bullet bears that out. If I could 'a' sat in the game I'd 'a' been right pleased."

"I'm obliged to yu, friend," Purdie said.

From the outskirts of the crowd a voice rang through the gathering gloom : "He'll take the Black Burdettes."

The cattleman's head jerked up. "Yu said it, whoever yu are," he grated. "This is their work, shore enough."

"Hold yore hosses, Purdie," the marshal broke in. "We got mighty little to justify that."

"The hoss an' the gun tally, an' Luce was seen headin' that way a bit before it happened," Purdie said bitterly. "Yu call that mighty little, huh?"

"It ain't conclusive," Slype insisted. "If yu want me to deal with this "

The other whirled fiercely upon him. "I ain't askin' yu to, Slype; keep out of it. The C P can fight its own battles an' pay its own scores. By God! it'll settle this one in full."

"That ain't no way to talk, Chris," the marshal remonstrated. "I'm here to administer the law"

"Yo're here to do what the Circle B murderers tell yu," was the angry retort. "Yu can save yore breath; I ain't a-goin' to back down before all the Burdettes that ever was pupped, an' that goes."

There was no passion in the challenge—it was the stark defiance of one whose life had been a battle; who had faced indomitably all the difficulties and disasters which the early pioneer in a savage untamed region must expect. Nature in her wildest moods, Indians, rustlers, starvation, thirst—Chris Purdie had fought and beaten them all. And now, in his mellowing years, when Fate had dealt him the bitterest blow of all, he was still unsubdued, still full of fight. There were many such men among the early pioneers; their names are forgotten, but their work survives; they made Western America.

CHAPTER IV

SUDDEN passed the night at the hotel, and in the morning attended the sorry farce of an inquiry into the death of young Purdie. The verdict that deceased met his end in a gun-fight with a person or persons unknown appeared to satisfy the marshal, though it aroused murmurs in some quarters. None of the Burdettes was present, a citizen informed the puncher, but when that young man suggested that this was perhaps good policy on their part, he was quickly corrected.

"Don't yu get no wrong ideas about them fellas," his informant observed. "Ain't none of 'em lackin' sand, an' if they done it an' took the notion, they'd be here brazenin' it out, yu betcha. Bad? Shore they're bad, but there ain't a smidgin o' fear in the whole bilin', no sir."

Then came the interment; the puncher followed the procession to the little cemetery less than half a mile to the north of the town. There, on a grassy slope shaded by cottonwoods and birches, in a silence broken only by the gay chirping of the birds and a few remembered fragments of the burial service pronounced by the doctor, the boy was laid to rest. When the two miners who officiated had filled in the grave, the spectators resumed their hats and melted away. Sudden was the last to leave, save for the sturdy figure with folded arms and bowed head gazing with unseeing eyes at the newly-made mound which held all his hopes. The puncher would have liked to utter a word of comfort, but he did not know what to say, and his cowboy's inherent dread of emotion in any form kept him tongue-tied. At length he too turned to retrace his steps to Windy. He had not gone far when Purdie caught him up.

"Stranger," the cattleman said in a deep voice, "I reckon I ain't thanked yu right for what yu did."

Sudden gripped the outstretched hand. "Why, there ain't any need," he returned. "I wish I could 've ..." He paused awkwardly, and the other man nodded his comprehension. "It's shore tough, but life is like that," he said, and despite his iron control there was a tremor in his tone. "Yu see, he was pretty near all I had—I lost his mother when he was no more'n a li'l trick; there's on'y Nan now."

He was silent for some moments, and then he straightened up, squaring his shoulders as though making a conscious effort to free them of a burden. "Yu aimin' to stay around here?" he asked bluntly.

"I ain't decided," the other replied. "I'm kind o' footloose about now. Got tired o' Texas an' New Mexico, an' figured I'd have a look at Arizona; heard there was gold here too."

The elder man shot a quick look at him. "There is if a fella knowed where to search," he said.

They were entering the town when a young man came striding rapidly towards them; it was Luce Burdette. Sudden's eyes went to his companion, but the ranch-owner's features had the fixity of stone itself. Burdette did not hesitate; he stopped square in front of them.

"I've just struck town, Purdie, an' heard of yore loss," he said. "I want yu to know that I'm terrible sorry."

The cattleman looked at him, his eyes like chilled steel, his lips clamped tightly. "Murder is one o' the things that bein' sorry for don't excuse," lie said harshly.

Burdette's eyes opened in bewilderment and then, as understanding came to him, his cheeks flushed redly under the tan.

"Yu tryin' to tell me I killed yore son?" he cried.

"Nothin' less," was the stern reply. "He was found in Echo Valley with a .38 slug through his back, fired by a fella who rode a grey; there's yore hoss an' gun, an' you was seen headin' that way a bit before. If yu wasn't a Bur-dette, or if we had a marshal worth a busted nickel, yu'd be stretchin' hemp right now."

"It's a damnable lie," the young man said hotly. "I never had any grudge against Kit—in fact ..." He hesitated and then burst out, "It's absurd. Why, if things had been different, him an' me might 'a' been good friends. I give yu my word, Purdie, I had nothin' to do with his death."

Sudden, watching him closely, believed he was speaking the truth, but the cattleman's face expressed nothing hut incredulity.

"O' course yu'd say so," he sneered. "I wouldn't take the word of a Burdette at the Throne of Heaven." His eyes, mad with misery, glared at this lad who had all his own son had lost—youth, vigour, the vista of life—and a savage spate of anger swept away his control. "Pull yore gun, yu cur, an' we'll settle it here an' now," he cried.

The boy's face flushed at the insult, but he made no move towards his weapon. His gaze did not waver as he replied :

"If yu want to kill me, Purdie, go ahead; there's a reason why I can't draw on yu."

The elder man's lips twisted into a furious snarl. "Yu bet there's a reason—yo're yellow, like the rest o' yore scaly, shoot-from-cover family," he rasped. "Well, yu get away with it for now, but paste this in yore hat : I'm goin' to find the fella who murdered my boy, an' when I do—he dies."

"I'll help yu," Luce replied, and walked slowly away. Purdie looked at the puncher. "What d'yu make o' that?"

"I don't think he did it."

"Yu don't know the breed—lyin's as natural as breathin' with them," the rancher replied.

"I'm backin' my judgment, seh," the puncher persisted.

"Weil, mebbe, but I'm bettin' it was a Burdette any-ways," the old man said. "What I was goin' to ask yu when that houn' showed up was to see me before yu make any plans. Will yu do that?"

"Pleased to," Sudden said.

It was agreed that he should ride over to the C P on the following morning, and the cattleman departed. Sudden went in search of a meal, his mind full of the encounter he had just witnessed. He liked Purdie, recognized him for a white man, and admired the sturdy pluck with which he was facing a crushing misfortune. Regarding Burdette his mind was in a curious condition. As at their first meeting, he felt attracted to the boy, and found it difficult to conceive him guilty of a cowardly murder. Certainly it was not lack of courage that made him refuse the older man's challenge, at the risk of being shot down where he stood. If all the Burdettes were like this one .. .

Meanwhile, the subject of his speculations had gone straight to the marshal's office. Slype, lounging in a tilted-back chair, his heels on his desk, chuckled inwardly when he saw the visitor's pale, furious face.

"'Lo, Luce, what's bitin' yu?" he inquired.

"I've just seen Purdie, an' he's accusin' me o' shootin' Kit," the boy blurted out.

The marshal grinned. "Well, didn't yu?" he asked.

"Yu know damn well I didn't," Luce retorted hotly. "An' yu gotta get busy an' find out who did; I ain't goin' to have a thing like that pinned on me." •

"Orders, huh?" the officer sneered. "Well, I ain't takin' 'em. Ol' Man Purdie has served notice that him an' his outfit is goin' to handle the job, an' that lets me out. Sabe?"

His little eyes squinted at the youth in malignant enjoyment; he would not have dared to take that tone with any other of the Burdettes.

"Playin' safe, huh?" Luce said scornfully. "They shore don't call yu `Slippery' for nothin'," and stamped out of the office before any adequate reply occurred to its owner.

Getting his horse, he mounted and rode slowly out of town, taking the westerly trail which was the direct line to Old Stormy. Sitting listlessly in the saddle, head down, he had an air of dejection utterly foreign to his nature. In truth, Luce Burdette was in the depths of despair, for the events of the last two days had wrecked the secret cherished hopes of months. How would Nan Purdie regard him now —the reputed slayer of her brother? Despite the dormant enmity between the two families, he had dared to dream, and even after the mysterious taking-off of Old Burdette had nearly provoked an open rupture, had gone on doing so. But this latest killing, so obviously a reprisal, must be the end of everything—for him. And the dream had been so sweet! Unknown to all others, they had met at intervals—accidentally, as they both pretended—and though no word of love had been uttered, eyes spoke to eyes and told what the lips dared not say. And now, in the faint hope that he would see her, and be able to deny this damnable thing that was being said of him, he was going to a spot where he had already seen her several times, a sheltered little glade on the lower slopes of Old Stormy.

It was an ideal place for a lovers' tryst—a tiny circle of grass, mosaiced with flowers, almost entirely walled in by scrub-oak and other trees, with an undergrowth of catclaw, prickly pear, and smaller shrubs. Burdette's face fell when he found that the glade was empty, though he had expected to find it so. Dismounting, he trailed the reins and dropped on a prostrate tree-trunk which had served them as a seat on happier occasions. With bowed head he sat there, wondering. Would she come, and if she did, would she believe him? he asked himself over and over again. It did not seem possible; she would take her father's view, and he had to admit that Purdie was justified—the evidence was damning.

A whinny from his horse apprised him that someone was approaching, and he looked up to see the girl he was waiting for. At the sight of him she checked her pony for a moment and then came slowly on. Despite the very evident signs of grief, she made a picture to fill the eye of a man. She rode astride, with the long stirrup of the Arizona cowboy, and her mount—a mettlesome mustang—knew better than to try any tricks. A dark shirt-waist, and divided skirt which reached to the tops of her trim riding-boots, showed the curves of her slim figure, and her honey-coloured hair, cut short almost like a boy's, curled crisply beneath the black wide-brimmed hat. Burdette saw the shadows under the deep blue eyes which had always smiled at him, and choked down a curse. Hat in hand, he rose to his feet.

"I was hopin' to see yu," he said.

"I didn't expect " the girl began, and then, "I couldn't stay in the house; I had to come out—just to convince myself that the world isn't all ugly and wicked."

The poignant note of misery made him writhe. "Nan ! " he cried, and his heart was in his voice, "Yu don't believe I did it, do yu?"

The tear-laden eyes met his bravely. "If I thought that I wouldn't even look at you," their owner said.

The boy's face lighted for a moment. "Then I don't care who does think it," he said impulsively.

"It makes no difference," she told him. "you are a Bur-dette, I am a Purdie; no good can come of our—meeting."

"But if yu don't believe the Burdettes did this thing," he protested.

"I didn't say that, Luce," she reminded him, and though she spoke softly there was an underlying bitterness which told him only too plainly what she did believe. Hopelessness again claimed him.

"I'll find the skunk," he gritted. "If my people had any-thin' to do with it, I'll disown the lot of 'em."

He meant it—the savage intensity of his voice showed that—but the girl shook her head.

"It is no use, Luce," she said sadly. "That would only mean more trouble. We belong in different camps, and this must be the end of our—friendship. We both have to be loyal to our own kin."

The finality with which she spoke silenced him. Miserably he watched as she wheeled her pony and rode away, the proud little head bent, and—though he did not know this—the blue eyes well-nigh blind with unshed tears. When the trees had hidden her, a bitter laugh broke from his lips.

"Loyal to our own kin," he repeated harshly. "If the Burdettes shoot men in the back they're no kin o' mine, an' that's somethin' they've gotta learn mighty soon."

With a grim look on his young face he stepped into his saddle and loped off in the direction of the Circle B ranch.

No sooner was he out of sight than a man rose from behind a clump of undergrowth on the outskirts of the glade. He was tall, nearing the middle thirties in age, with broad shoulders and a powerful frame. His black hair, eyes, and moustache, added to perfectly-formed features, produced a face at which most women would look more than once. Even his own sex had to admit that Kingley Burdette was "a handsome devil," and this Mephistophelian attractiveness was accompanied by a haughty, insolent bearing which made his first name singularly appropriate. Just now his thin lips were set in a saturnine sneer.

"So that's the way of it, huh?" he almost hissed. "Readyto round on his own folk for the sake of a skirt, but mebbe he won't get the chance." His dark eyes narrowed. "Damn him! He's got ahead o' me. Who'd 'a' thought 'o him shinin' up to that Purdie gal?—not that she ain't worth it." He pondered for a moment, and then an ugly smile lit his lowering face. "I reckon that'll fix yu, my friend, fix yu good an' plenty," he muttered.

He too mounted and trotted leisurely away, his mind full of a young, slim girl with curly, honey-coloured hair and wide blue eyes, who now would one day own the C P ranch.

Sudden spent the evening in "The Lucky Chance." It was a fair-sized place, with a sanded, boarded floor on which tables and chairs were dotted about, and a long bar which faced the swing-doors. Light was afforded by three big kerosene lamps slung from the roof, and a few gaudy chromos formed the only decoration save for a large tarnished mirror immediately facing the entrance. Behind the har stood the proprietor, Mick Magee, whose squat, turned-up nose and twinkling blue eyes proclaimed his nationality before he opened his mouth. A genial man until roused, and then he was a tornado. Tough as the frequenters of "The Lucky Chance" were, few of them had any desire to tangle with the sturdy Irishman when he "went on the prod."

Just now he was all smiles, for business was brisk; most of the tables were occupied and the faro, monte, and other games were being well supported. The crowd presented the usual medley to be found in any cow town at that time, save that there were more miners, oldish men for the most part, with craggy, weather-scarred features, bent backs, and fingers calloused by constant contact with pick and shovel. Lured on by the will-o'-the-wisp of a "big strike," they spent their days grubbing in the earth for gold and their nights in dissipating what little they found. There were those among them who remembered the hectic days of '49, others who had sneaked into the Black Hills, dodging the troops sent by the Government to keep them out, and risking a horrible death by torture at the hands of the Indians; days of feverish toil, with a rifle always within reach, and the knowledge that at any moment they might hear the dread war-whoop. They had found fortunes in a day and lost them in a night—and still hoped.

There was a constant hum of conversation, punctuated by bursts of laughter, and an occasional oath as the goddess of chance favoured or flouted a gambler.

Lounging carelessly at one end of the bar, Sudden's eyes were busy, not that the scene was any novelty, but he had come to live amongst these people for a time, and he wanted to know something of them. Presently the proprietor noticed the solitary stranger and spoke to him.

"Would ye be after stayin' wid us, Mister Green?" he asked.

"I'm all undecided," the puncher told him with a smile. "I like the look o' the lay-out, but, yu see, my appetite keeps regular hours, an' I gotta work. I had a notion to find me a gold-mine."

The saloon-keeper regarded him humorously. "Good for ye," he replied. "But take it from me, the best way to look for wan is from the back of a hoss somewan is payin' ye to ride."

The hint was plain enough, and the man to whom it was given nodded a smiling acquiescence. "I guess yo're right," he said. "As a matter o' fact, I'm seein' Purdie in the mornin'."

The remark, coming from a stranger, amounted to a question, and the Irishman took it as such. "A good man, Purdie," he said. "His, sort, they don't make 'em no better." He studied the other furtively for a few moments and decided that he was capable of taking care of himself. Nevertheless, he uttered an indirect warning. "Chris is takin'

the loss of his only boy hard," he went on. "I misdoubt it'll mean bad throuble between the C P an' the Circle B, which is the Burdette brand. Easy now, here's a couple of them."

Through the swing-doors came two men in cowboy trappings, tall, big-boned, dark of hair and brow, with bold, hard faces and insolent, dominant eyes. Though one was a few years the elder, and a veritable giant in build, they were sufficiently alike for their relationship to be obvious. Magee looked uneasy.

"Mart an' Sim Burdette," he said in an undertone. "Pretty well primed too, begad." Then, as he turned to welcome the newcomers, the puncher caught the added words, "An ugly pair to draw to."

Through narrowed eyes Sudden watched the brothers swagger up to the bar, and decided that the landlord was right. He noted that each wore only one gun in sight, a heavy Colt's .45, slung below the right hip. Though they were laughing, their eyes were as cold as those of a snake. They greeted the saloon-keeper boisterously and inquired for the marshal. At that moment Slype came in.

"Hey, Slippery, I hear yo're tryin' to pin this Purdie play on the Burdettes," Mart—the bigger man—said threateningly.

"Yu heard a lie," the marshal retorted. "One or two things sorta suggested Luce, but he claims he had nothin' to do with it."

"Did yu expect he'd own up?" sneered the other. "An' if he did down Purdie I'll say he done a good job, though it don't even the score. What yu goin' to do about it?"

He glared round the room as though daring anyone present to dispute his callous assertion. The marshal, who knew the challenge was directed chiefly at himself, shrugged his shoulders in a poor assumption of indifference.

"Ain't no call for me to concern m'self," he replied. "Like I told Luce, Ol' Man Purdie reckons him an' his outfit can deal with it."

"Is that so?" Mart growled. "Wants a fight, does he? Well, that suits us fine, eh, Sim?"

The younger brother laughed. "Yu betcha," he agreed.

Slype made a gesture for appearance' sake. "Now, see here, Mart, a range war ain't goin' to do this yer town no good," he protested. "All Chris wants, I reckon, is to find out who bumped off his boy."

"Bah! He's plastered it on the Burdettes a'ready," Sim said angrily. "Awright, we'll let it go as it lays; the Burdettes can take care o' theirselves."

"An' whose side are yu on, anyways, Slippery?" snapped Mart.

"I represent the law, an' I'm agin both o' yu," the marshal evaded, a reply which drew an ironic laugh from the brothers. "Where's King? Left him at Lu Lavigne's, I reckon?"

"Yu reckon pretty good," Sim replied, adding slyly, "Why not send if yu want him?"

"I don't," the officer said hastily. "I just asked. What about a little game?"

Sudden stayed a while longer, hoping to see the eldest of the Burdettes, but was disappointed. Weldon, the blacksmith, a bluff, bearded giant with whom he got into conversation, explained the marshal's reference to King's whereabouts. He would be at "The Plaza," the only real rival establishment to "The Lucky Chance." It was owned and run by a woman, who had bought out the former proprietor less than a year before. Save that she was young, attractive, and wise to her business, nothing was known of her.

"Calls herself Mrs. Luisa Lavigne, but no husband ain't showed up yet," the blacksmith said. "She's certainly restful to the sight, but I'm layin' she's got Spanish blood in her, an' a temper to match. Soon after she hung out her shingle, a cowboy tries to get fresh with her, an' she slips a knife into him middlin' prompt. No, he didn't die, but it shorely puts a crimp in his affection.

O' course, it don't stop others sufferin' from the same complaint, but it makes 'em careful, an' when King Burdette starts hangin' round, most of 'em loses interest."

Sudden ventured to ask one direct question, and to his surprise, received an answer.

"If it comes to a fight, I opine Purdie would have most of the town against him?"

"Stranger, Purdie is liked, but the Burdettes is feared."

Which was exactly what the puncher wanted to know.

CHAPTER V

THE C P ranch-house occupied a little plateau in the foothills around the base of Old Stormy, facing the great valley in which, ten miles distant, lay the town of Windy. Solidly built of 'dobe bricks and shaped logs, with chimneys of stone, it had an imposing appearance despite the fact that it consisted of one storey only. A broad, covered verandah, paved with pieces of rock, stretched along the front of the building, and to the left were the bunkhouse, barns, and corrals. A few cottonwoods, spared when the ground had been first cleared, provided shade. At the back of the house a grassy slope climbed gently to the black pines which belted the mountain. Sudden found the owner on the verandah.

"Mornin', friend," Purdie greeted, and pulled forward a chair. "That's a good hoss yu got."

"Shore is," replied the puncher, and waited.

"Made them plans yet?" came the question, and when the visitor replied in the negative, another silence ensued. Sudden was aware that the cattleman was sizing him up, turning over some problem. Presently he straightened as though he had come to a decision.

"Kit was my foreman," he said slowly. "Like his job?"

The puncher stared at him in surprise; he had expected an offer to ride for the ranch, but not to be put in charge. His reply was non-committal :

"Yore outfit won't admire takin' orders from a stranger." "Yu needn't worry about that; they're good boys an' they'll back my judgment," Purdie said confidently. "Yu see, it ain't just a question o' runnin' the ranch—a'most any one o' them could do that—but outguessin' that Bur-dette crowd is a hoss of a different brand. I'm gamblin' yu can swing it—if yo're willin' to take the risk."

The visitor's jaw hardened. "Here's somethin' yu oughts to know," he said, and went on to relate the scene he had witnessed in "The Lucky Chance" the previous evening. The cattleman nodded gloomily.

"Yu'll be buyin' into trouble a-plenty," he said. "I dunno as it's fair to ask yu. Them Burdettes is the toughest proposition. For about a year past there's been doin's-—bank robberies, stage hold-ups, cattle-stealin's, within a radius of a hundred miles, an' that gang on Battle Butte is suspected. They's a hard lot—half of 'em ain't cowmen a-tall, just gun-fighters, an' there's twice the number necessary to handle their herds. I sent a writing to Governor Bleke—rode the range with him when we was both kids tellin' him how things was an' that the Burdettes was a plain menace, but I s'pose he's a busy man; I ain't had no reply."

"I reckon mebbe I'm it," Sudden smiled, and went on to tell of the happenings in Juniper, omitting, however, the name his gun-play had earned for him.

The cattleman's face shone; his hand came out to grip that of his guest. "I'm damned glad to meet yu, Green?" he said heartily. "Yu got any plan?"

"I'm takin' the job yu offered, Purdie," he said. "But I gotta play 'possum, remember; I'm just an ordinary cow-punch who has pulled his picket-pin an' is rovin' round, sabe?" Purdie nodded, and Sudden added irrelevantly, "I don't believe that fella Luce did the killin'."

"His own brothers didn't deny it," the old man pointed out.

"That's so, an' I can't quite savvy it," Sudden admitted. "Allasame, Luce struck me as bein' straight."

The rancher was about to reply when his daughter

appeared. Seeing the stranger, she would have retired again, but her father called her.

"Meet Mister Green, Nan," he said. "He's goin' to be foreman here."

She shook hands, a kindness in her eyes for which he could not account. Her words explained it, or at least he thought so.

"I have to thank you for—what you did," she said.

The new foreman fidgeted with his feet; he would rather have faced a man with a gun than this dewy-eyed, grateful girl.

"It don't need mentionin'," he stammered.

"Green's goin' to help us find the slinkin' cur that did it, Nan," Purdie put in harshly : and to the puncher, "Well, Jim, fetch yore war-bags along an' start in soon's yu like; it'll be a relief to know yo're on the job."

"I'll be on hand in the mornin'," the puncher promised. They watched until a grove of trees hid him from view, and then the rancher asked a question.

"I like him," Nan replied. "But isn't it taking a chance? We know nothing about him."

"Mebbe it is, but I'm playin' a hunch," her father told her. "That fella ain't no common cow-punch. He's young, but he's had experience, an' them guns o' his ain't noways new. I'm bettin' he'll make them Burdette killers think."

Just at the moment, however, it was the other way about, for the new foreman's brain was busy with the burden he had so promptly undertaken. He had no illusion as to the nature of his task; he had been hired to fight the Burdette family, and, judging by the samples he had seen, and the information he had gained regarding their outfit, he was likely to have his hands full. A thin smile wreathed his lips; the little man in Juniper had not over-stated the case.

Absorbed in his thoughts, he was pacing slowly through a miniature forest when a little cry aroused him, and hel ooked up to see a woman running along the trail ahead of him. Fifty yards in front of her a saddled pony was trotting. A touch of the spur sent Nigger rocketing past the pedestrian and in a few moments Sudden was back again, his rope round the runaway's neck. He found the woman sitting on a fallen tree-trunk. She was young—about his own age, he estimated—and her oval face—the skin faintly tanned by the sun—black hair and eyes, made her good to look upon. A neat riding costume displayed her perfect figure to advantage. He noted that her cheeks were but slightly flushed and her breathing betrayed no sign of haste.

"Gracias, senor," she greeted in a low, sweet voice. "I descend to peek ze flower an' my ponce vamos."

The puncher grinned, twitched his loop from the animal's neck and flung the reins to the ground.

"If yu'd done that he'd 'a' stayed put," he exclaimed. Her eyes widened. "So?" she said. "The senor weel see zat I am w'at is call a sore-foot, yes?"

Sudden laughed and said. "The word is `tenderfoot.' " His gaze travelled to her trim high boots. "Yu've shore got a pretty one," he added.

The lady dimpled deliciously, and lifting her feet from the ground, inspected their shapeliness critically.

"You like heem?" she asked archly.

"I like heem," the puncher repeated. "I like heemboth. Now, s'pose we drop the baby-talk an' speak natural; yu ain't no Greaser."

The girl's eyes danced. "So young, and yet—so wise," she bantered.

"My second name is Solomon," he told her gravely. "Mebbe yu've heard of him?"

"Oh yes, he was the first Mormon, I believe," she smiled. "I hope you… "

Sudden shook his head emphatically. "Not one," he said.

"Why, of course not, at your age," she replied, and then, as he bent down from the saddle to study the sleek black head—from which she had now removed the hat—more closely, her feminine fears were aroused. "What is the matter?" she cried.

"I'm lookin' for the grey hairs," he said solemnly. "They seem to be plenty absent."

"Dios! But you scared me," she said, in real or pretended relief. "I thought that you had found some, or that a rattlesnake was looking over my shoulder. You are rather a disconcerting person, Mister Green."

"Yu know me?" the puncher queried.

"Of course," she smiled. "Your arrival created quite a sensation." Her voice sobered. "That poor Mister Purdie, and Kit was such a nice boy. Now, can you guess who I am?"

"No need to guess—yu must be Mrs. Lavigne," Sudden replied. "Someone was tellin' me about yu."

"Nothing bad, I hope?" she asked anxiously.

"No, it was a man," the puncher grinned. "He said yu were restful to the sight."

She laughed delightedly. "So you might venture to come and see me at `The Plaza,' " she suggested. "That is, if you are staying in Windy."

"I'm goin' to ride for Purdie," he told her.

The news struck the merriment from her face. She hesitated as though about to speak, and then put on her hat, settling it with a deft touch, stood up, grasped the reins of her pony and was in the saddle before he could dismount to help her.

"I'm goin' to town too," he suggested.

She shook her head. "No, no, my friend, but—you may come to see me," she smiled.

Ere he could remonstrate, the pony was racing along the trail. At the first bend, its rider turned in the saddle, waved gaily, and vanished, leaving the puncher pondering. Why had she changed when he told her he was to ride for the C P? The answer was not hard to find—he would be opposed to King Burdette, and King Burdette was what—to her? He patted the satiny neck of the black horse, which, in colour and sheen, matched the hair of the girl who had just left him.

"I'm bettin' she stampeded that pony," he said reflectively. "Nig, this yer neck o' the woods is a heap more dangerous than the governor man let on. The matrimonial noose is harder to dodge than a ha'r rope, an' we ain't got no time for foolishness. There's a tangle here to straighten out, an' then ..."

The furrow between his eyebrows came into evidence as his thoughts went to the quest which had sent him—a mere boy—prowling the country like a lone wolf. Years had been spent on it, and more were to pass ere its fulfilment, which has been told in another place.*

* *

The Circle B ranch was a bachelor establishment. Old Man Burdette had lost his wife many years before he met his own untimely end, and the housekeeping and upbringing of the boys had devolved upon Mandy, a negress who had served the family nearly all her life.

The ranch-house was a pretentious one for the time and place. Two-storeyed, built of trimmed logs chinked with clay, it occupied a bench about half-way up the face of Battle Butte, and was reached by a rough, winding wagon-road from the valley. At the back of the building, the brush and tree-clad ground rose steeply. It was not an ideal location, and Old Burdette never forgave himself for not having a look at the other end of the valley. It was not until Purdie arrived and settled on Old Stormy that the firstcorner realized he had blundered, and this was the beginning of the ill-feeling between the families.

<>On the morning after the burial, Luce entered the big living-room and found his eldest brother awaiting him.

"What is it, King?" he asked. "Sim said yu wanted me."

The other nodded, and after a short pause, snapped out, "How come yu to shoot Purdie?"

*The Range Robbers, Geo. Newnes, Ltd.

"I didn't," was the quiet reply.

King grinned unpleasantly. "That tale's all very well for town, Luce," he said. "Here yu needn't be afeared to tell the truth."

"Which is what I'm doin'," the boy retorted, a shade of heat in his tone.

"Shucks, we ain't blamin' yu," his brother shrugged. "It was a damn good riddance, an' if of Purdie goes on the prod it gives us an excuse to show the C P where it gets off; we've owed 'em that ever since they downed Dad—an' before."

"It was never proved they did; an', anyways, the fella who shot Kit was a cowardly cur," Luce protested warmly. "Yu get this straight, King : if it was the work of a Burdette I'm ashamed o' bein' one, an' I'm through with 'em."

The older man's face grew dark with rage. "Takin' that tone, huh?" he sneered. "Well, let me tell yu---" He stopped, a sudden cunning in the fierce eyes. "All right, take yore truck an' clear out—the Burdettes is through with yu; we don't want traitors here," he finished savagely.

"I ain't that, an' yu know it," the younger man replied. "An' I'm not likely to raise my hand against my own flesh and blood, but that don't go for the bunch o' bar-scourin's yu got ridin' for yu now—toughs that Dad would 'a' quirted off the ranch, an' he warn't noways finicky."

King ripped out a blistering oath. Until this moment his authority, since his father's death, had been supreme at the Circle B, and to be defied by the one from whom he least expected opposition made him furious.

"Pull yore freight, pronto, or I'll use a whip on yu," he rasped.

Luce looked at him levelly. "Will yu?" he said quietly. "Not while I've got a gun, King; there's a limit to what I'll take, even from yu."

Getting no reply, Luce went out, and presently, from the window overlooking the valley, King watched him ride down the road. A bulky roll at the cantle of the saddle brought a sneer to the older man's lips.

"So yo're obeyin' orders, huh?" he muttered. "Well, yu got a lot o' things to learn yet, an' one of 'em is that it don't pay to cross me." He frowned at a thought. "Hell! I must be gettin' old—I nearly told him; that would 'a' been a bad break. As it is we've got him tied, an' can ride him till he drops. Didn't shoot Kit Purdie, eh? Wonder how far that'll get yu when yore own family ain't denying it?"

In the hope of gaining information before it became generally known that he had joined the C P, Sudden again spent the evening in "The Lucky Chance." He was sitting about half-way between the door and the bar, watching a game of poker, when Luce Burdette slouched in. Without a word to anyone, the boy paid for a drink and draped himself against the bar, indifferent to the glances—some of them far from friendly—sent in his direction. Almost on his heels came a party of three, two Mexicans and a half-breed named Ramon, who having been "given his time" by Purdie some months before, was now riding for Slype. These men ranged themselves next to Burdette, ordered liquor, and began to talk in low tones.

Sudden, suspecting that these men had a definite purpose, gave them all his attention. He saw the vaquero's malicious eyes furtively scanning the solitary figure by the bar, and noted that his voice was gradually becoming more distinct. Presently, in reply to a muttered remark by one of his companions, he laughed aloud.

"Nan Purdie?" he said derisively. "I tell you somet'ing 'bout her. At ze C P ze boys 'ave to lock ze bunk'ouse door nights to keep her out."

This infamous statement struck the room to an amazed silence, and then the brooding man at the bar came to life. His left hand gripped the traducer's shoulder, swinging him round, while his right fist, with fiendish fury, crashed on the fellow's jaw and sent him staggering and clutching to the floor; he looked up to find Burdette's gun covering him.

"Yu dirty liar," the young man grated. "Eat yore words, pronto, or yu go to hell right now."

The evil black eyes looked up into the flaming blue ones and found only death there; one twitch of the finger aching to press the trigger and the world would know Ramon the vaquero no more. He did not like to back down, but life was sweet. The half-breed had vanity, but no pride; there is a difference. He began to mutter.

"Speak up, yu bastard," Burdette warned. "This is yore last chance."

"W'at I say was a lie—I make it up," Ramon called out. "I not know anyt'ing against Mees Purdie."

With a shrug of contempt, Luce holstered his gun and turned back to the bar. Ramon got slowly to his feet, and then, as he saw the jeering expression on many of the spectators' faces, madness seized him. His hand flashed up, a wicked blade lying along the palm. Ere he could despatch it on its deadly errand, however, an iron clasp fell on his wrist, forcing the arm down and round behind his back.

"Drop it ! " came the curt order. "Or I'll shore bust yore wing."

Mouthing Mexican curses, the captive twisted like an eel, but he could not break that hold, and when his wrist began to nudge his shoulder-blades he squealed in agony and the weapon tinkled on the boards.

"Will some gent kindly open the door?" Sudden requested, and when this had been done, he forced the helpless half-breed to it, placed a foot in the small of the fellow's back, and straightened his leg. As though propelled from a gun, the victim shot over the sidewalk and ploughed into the dust of the street on his face. Sudden looked at the saloon-keeper.

"Sorry to make a ruckus in yore joint, Magee," he said.

"Ye done the roight thing, son," the Irishman replied. "I hope ye've bruk his lyin' neck."

The puncher picked up the dropped weapon; it was a short-handled, heavy throwing-knife, a deadly instrument in the hands of an expert. He balanced it for a moment in his fingers, his eyes on Ramon's companions, who were watching him uneasily.

"I guess that's a bullet-hole by the door there," he said. "Shure it is," smiled the proprietor. "Not the only wan neither."

Sudden's arm moved, and like a shaft of light itself the blade flashed through the air and sank deeply into the wall about half an inch from the target he had selected. He looked apologetically at his audience.

"I'm outa practice—ain't throwed a knife for quite a spell," he said. "Allasame, if it had been a fella's throat ..." He went on conversationally. "An old Piute chief taught me the trick—claimed he'd let the life outa ten men thataway. Dessay he was boastin' some—Injuns mostly do—but he certainly knew about knives." He turned to the Mexicans. "Yore friend is mebbe waitin' for yu," he suggested meaningly.

They slunk out like dogs who feared the whip, casting curious glances at the weapon in the wall, which they knew was there as a warning to themselves. With their disappearance the tension relaxed and interrupted games were resumed. Luce Burdette came over to the puncher.

"I'm obliged, but I dunno why yu interfered," he said. "If yo're ridin' for Purdie, as I hear, he won't thank yu.”

"I ain't sold him my soul, an' if I had, Purdie would understand—he's a white man," the C P foreman said quietly. "Yu must be tired o' life to turn yore back on a snake like that; don't yu know his sort allus carries a sticker? 'Sides, if he'd pulled his gun he'd 'a' got yu, shore thing."

"Lot o' grief that would 'a' caused, wouldn't it?" the boy asked bitterly.

"I dunno," Sudden told him; "but I reckon that with skunks like that around Miss Purdie needs all her friends."

His chance shot hit the mark; this aspect of the matter brought a quick flush to Burdette's cheeks. "I hadn't looked at it thataway," he admitted, and pointing to an unoccupied table in a far corner of the room, added, "Can I have a word with yu?"

For some moments after they were seated the boy was silent, his moody eyes staring into vacancy. Then, in a low, strained voice, he began to talk:

"Just now yu saved my life, an' I expect I didn't seem none too grateful. Well, I wasn't, an' I'm goin' to tell yu why. Pretty near everybody in town figures I killed Kit Purdie; some are sayin' it openly, others think it but dasn't say so till they know how my brothers are goin' to take it. My refusin' to draw on Chris has got around, an' is regarded as a confession o' guilt. I wish I'd pulled an' let him get me."

"That ain't no way to talk. What do yore brothers think?"

The boy flushed angrily. "They allow I did it," he blurted out.

Sudden nodded comprehendingly. "It suits them," he pointed out. "I understand they've been tryin' to get Purdie to r'ar up for some time."

"I'm done with 'em—when King told me this mornin' to pull my freight from the Circle B he said somethin' he can't ever take back," Luce said passionately. "Ramon musta knowed 'bout that, or he'd never 'a' had the nerve to frame me. Yu shore yu didn't get a blink at the fella who fired the shot?"

"If I had I'd 'a' put a crimp in his getaway."

"Yu don't think it was me?"

"No, an' I told Purdie so."

Burdette's face cleared a little. "Thank yu," he said gratefully. "That's two friends I got."

Sudden fancied he could have named the other, but what he said was, "What yu aimin' to do?"

"Stick around an' clear myself," Luce said. "I'll be at the hotel if yu want me any time. I—I'd like to see yu," he finished with boyish eagerness.

"I'll be along," the puncher promised. "Mebbe we can help one another."

"Shore, but get me right," Luce insisted. "Though the Burdettes have shook me I'm not roundin' on 'em nohow, but"—he grinned mirthlessly—"I ain't related to their outfit. yu'll have to watch out for those hombres, an' that half-breed, Ramon, is pure pizen. 'Fraid I've fetched yu right up against Ol' Man Trouble."

"Him an' me have met afore, an' yu'll notice I'm still here," the puncher smiled.

When the boy had gone, Sudden drifted over to the bar, and Magee pushed forward a bottle, a look of perplexity on his face.

"Shure I can't foller your play, sorr," he said. "ye're a C P man, an' ye save the loife of a Burdette; that'll puzzle Purdie, I'm thinkin'."

Sudden looked at him quizzically. "I start with the C P to-morrow mornin'," he pointed out, "an' Luce finished with the Circle B to-day. Yes, sir, his family has turned him down cold."

The landlord whistled. "Odd that," he commented. "The Greaser knew av it too, or he'd niver 'a' dared raise a hand to a Burdette." He sipped his drink contemplatively. "So Luce is at outs wid his brothers, eh? Well, he was allus different to the rest av thim, an' I've seen the Old Man look queerly at him, as if wonderin' how he come to be in the nest. There'll be somethin' back o' his leavin' the Circle B, shure enough."

The puncher nodded, but did not pursue the topic. He liked Magee, and felt that he was straight, but he knew that he must walk warily in Windy for a while.

CHAPTER VI

WHEN the new foreman arrived at the C P ranch on the following morning, he found that the story of his little difficulty with the half-breed had preceded him, two of the outfit having been in town, and heard of, though they had not seen, the incident. Chris Purdie's face was not quite so genial when he greeted him.

"I didn't know the Burdettes was friends o' yores," was the oblique way he approached the subject.

Sudden's look was sardonic. "Did yu get all the story?" he asked.

"I heard yu saved young Luce's life, an' that was aplenty," retorted the ranch-owner.

"Mebbe I did, an' I'm bettin' yu'd 'a' done the same," was the reply, and the foreman went on to give the details.

When he heard of the vile insult offered to his daughter, Purdie's face flamed with fury.

"The dirty scum," he began.

"It was a plain frame-up," Sudden interrupted. "I'd say he was actin' on orders, an' whoever gave 'em knew Luce had left the Circle B."

"Left the Circle B?" the rancher repeated in surprise. "How come?"

"After the fracas I had a talk with young Burdette, an' he told me he was through with his brothers; they won't believe that he didn't kill yore son."

"An' they're dead right, too, though it's the first time I ever agreed with a Burdette," the old man said caustically.

"Yo're wrong, Purdie," the puncher urged. "I ain't no Methuselah, but I've met a mort o' men, an' I'll gamble that boy is clean strain. Why should he risk his life for yore girl's good name?"

"Dunno, 'less it was to avert suspicion."

Sudden shook his head. "He'd have to be a mighty quick thinker, the way it happened. No, sir, I'm so shore he's straight that in yore place I'd offer him a job to ride for the C P."

The cattleman laughed aloud at this amazing suggestion. "Yu bein' a stranger hereabouts, there's some excuse for yu," he said. "If I did that, folks would think I'd gone plumb loco, an' they'd be right. A Burdette workin' for the C P, huh? He'd be damn useful to them, wouldn't he? Why, it's more'n likely that's what they're playin' for. I ain't fallin' for that foolishness. Now, come along an' meet the men."

Sudden followed him to the bunkhouse; he was not convinced, but he recognized the futility of further argument. The morning meal was over, and the riders were awaiting orders. There were eight of them present, all young, and they looked a capable crew. Their employer's speech was brief and to the point:

"This is Jim Green, boys. Yu'll take orders from him in future, all same it was me."

Some of them nodded, others said "Howdy," and all of them studied the new foreman with narrowed, appraising glances. His eyes too were busy, and he early decided that none of the looks directed towards him was hostile.

"Where's Bill?" asked the rancher.

"He went down to the corral," said one. "I'll go fetch him."

"He's the daddy o' the outfit, an' the on'y one yu may have trouble with," Purdie said, for the foreman's ear only. "Been actin' sorta segundo to Kit, an' he's mebbe got ambitions. I'm leavin' yu to deal with him, yore own way; when I put a fella in charge I don't interfere."

He went out, nodding to an embarrassed outfit, and a foreman who, nonchalantly rolling a smoke, awaited the coming "trouble." For he felt pretty sure that the absence of the oldest hand was a premeditated gesture, the first move in a plan of protest against his appointment. There was an air of expectancy about the waiting men. From outside came a hail :

"Hey, Bill, the noo foreman wants to see yu."

"Is that so?" a rumbling voice replied. "Which I'm shorely sorry to keep His Royal 'Ighness waitin'. What's he like, this foreman fella?"

They could not hear the answer, but the deep voice was not so reticent. "So we gotta be bossed by a boy, huh?" it said.

"Well, Kit warn't no greybeard."

"He was the Old Man's son—future owner o' the ranch, which is some different. How do we know this yer hombre ain't been planted on us by the Circle B? He may've pulled the wool over Purdie's eyes, but he's gotta talk straight to me, yu betcha. Just yu watch yore Uncle Bill."

He swaggered through the bunkhouse door, and the new foreman's eyes twinkled when they rested on the short, sturdy figure, with its broad shoulders, long arms, and slightly-bowed legs, of this man he might have trouble with. The amusement was only momentary, and his face was gravity itself when he nodded to the newcomer. None of the outfit noticed that in removing his cigarette his fingers had rested for an instant on his lips; their attention was centred on their companion. What had come over him they could not imagine, but at the sight of the new foreman the belligerent frown had vanished, and his craggy, clean-shaven features expressed only goggling amazement.

"Yu wantin' me?" he had growled on entering, and straightway become dumb, one hand pushing back his big hat and revealing the straggly wisps of hair beneath.

"Glad to meet you, Mister…?" The foreman paused. "Yago—Bill Yago," the man replied like one in a dream.

"Shore," the newcomer nodded. "Purdie said yu would put me wise. Now, yu tell the boys what needs doin' today, an' then yu an' me'll take a look at the range."

"I'm a-watchin' yu, Uncle," whispered a voice.

Yago whirled round. "Yu, Curly, go get some wire an' mend the fence round The Sump," he ordered. "I had to pull two critters out'n her yestiddy."

The joker's face dropped in dismay; a coil of barbed wire is awkward to handle on foot; on horseback it becomes a pest; moreover, it was some distance to the quagmire, and if there is anything a cowboy thoroughly detests it is making or mending a fence.

"Aw, Bill…" the victim began.

"Beat it," Yago snapped, and proceeded to apportion work to the rest of the outfit.

Ten minutes later he and the new foreman were riding up the slope at the back of the ranch. Not until they were hidden by the pines did either of them speak, and then Yago turned to his companion.

"Jim, I'm almighty glad to see yu, but what in thunderation brung yu to these parts?" he asked.

Sudden's reply was incomplete.

"As for bein' glad, yu looked more like yu'd been struck by lightnin'," he smiled. "There's me, shiverin' in my shoes, waitin' for a big stiff to come an' crawl my hump, an' in sifts a ornery little runt like yu."

Yago's face creased up. "I shore declared war, didn't I?" he grinned, and then another aspect of the affair occurred to him. "Say, Jim, yu'll have to let me tell the boys who yu are."

"Yu breathe a word o' that an' I'll take yu to pieces an' put yu together again all wrong," the foreman threatened.

"But I gotta explain," the little man protested. "Hell's bells, Jim, they'll laugh the life out'n me."

"Yu can say I'm an old friend, an' seem' yu'll be my segundo, I reckon they'll let yu off light," Sudden conceded.

"Can't I just mention how yu stood up the posse that time an' kept my neck out of a noose?" Bill pleaded.

"Yu—can—not," was the decided answer. "Time yu forgot it yoreself. Yu an' me rode the same range back in Texas, an' so yu let me off that callin' over yu promised. Sabe?"

"Awright," Yago said resignedly. "Yu ain't told me why yu come here."

"For the same reason yu did, yu of pirut. The climate down south was gettin' hotter an' hotter, an' my medical man advised a change."

"Yu ain't on the dodge, Jim, are yu?" Bill asked anxiously. "Yu see, I heard o' yu from time to time."

Sudden's face grew grim. "I'll bet yu did—an' nothin' good," he said bitterly. "Bill, I'm shorely the baddest an' cleverest man in the south-west; I can rob a bank with one hand an', at the same time, hold up a citizen two hundred miles away with the other. I expect they are still fatherin' felonies on me right now."

Yago nodded understandingly; he knew how it was. Though his own past had been fairly hectic, he was credited with crimes he had not been guilty of. In the West, if the dog got a bad name he was hanged—if they could catch him. It was Sudden who broke the silence.

"D'yu figure Luce Burdette shot young Purdie?"

"Nope," was the instant reply. "Luce ain't like the rest of 'em—don't know how he come to be in Ol' Burdette's litter a-tall. More likely one o' the other boys, or some o' that gang o' cut-throats ridin' for 'em."

They had reached a point on the mountain-side where the trees thinned and became more stunted. Far below they could see the town, a huddled, unlovely collection of tiny boxes; a blot on the beauty of the valley with its varied green of foliage and grass; and stretches of grey sage. Behind them rose the bare, rocky fastnesses of Old Stormy.

"The C P range reaches to four-five miles out o' town," Yago explained. "Thunder River is our south boundary, an' our east line is Dark Canyon, the other side o' which lies the Diamond S, the marshal's lay-out."

Sudden nodded. He was studying the salient features of the mighty panorama before him; Battle Butte, bold and forbidding, at the far end of the valley, a fitting home for the Burdettes, unless their reputation belied them; the craggy, broken, jumbled country to north and south, with the black forests, stony ridges, and deep ravines. His first impression had been correct—it was a fierce and spacious land.

"Who's doin' the rustlin'?" he asked abruptly.

"How'd yu know 'bout that?" Bill said. "Purdie tell yu?”

"It was just a guess," the foreman admitted. He waved at the surrounding scenery. "The durned place was made for it."

"Yu allus was a good guesser, Jim," Yago told him. "Fact is, we are losin' some—few head at a time."

"It don't need no artist with a runnin' iron to turn a C P into a Circle B," Sudden said reflectively. "An' it would be a good way o' rilin' up Purdie."

"Which it didn't do, Purdie havin' the same idea."

"So they try somethin' stronger, an' shoot his son, huh?"

"Jim, yo're whistlin'," Yago ejaculated. "They've allus wanted this range—it's worth five times their own, an' besides"—he hesitated—"it's generally reckoned that somewheres in these rocks behind us is the source o' the goldfound in the river. Yes, sir, the Burdettes are out to drive the Purdies off an' glom on to their property; it ain't just a matter o' revenge."

Sudden was staring at Battle Butte, remembering the limp, pitiful form he had packed into town like a piece of merchandise. His face was hard, merciless, no trace of youth remaining. Yago knew that expression; he had seen it when the wearer was years younger—no more than a boy.

"We're goin' to have suthin' to say about that, Bill, yu an' me," the foreman said harshly. "Outfit to be depended on?"

"Shorest thing yu know," the other replied.

"Purdie said there was one of mosshead who would mebbe make trouble," Sudden said slyly, and Bill Yago swore.

"Yu'll have that trouble yet if yu overplay yore hand," he threatened. "What's that smoke mean?"

They had worked northwards, and were riding down the lower slope of the mountain, passing over rolling, grassy country studded with thickets, and broken here and there with brush-cluttered depressions. It was from the midst of one of these that a smudge of smoke corkscrewed into the still air, and they heard, faintly, the cry of a calf. The foreman looked at his companion.

"Any o' the boys carry irons?" he asked.

"Nope," Yago said, and even as he spoke, the tell-tale smoke died out. "We better look into this.”

Side by side they raced for the spot, slowing up as they neared it. A wall of dense scrub sent them circling in search of an opening. They found it, a narrow, cattle-trampled path which zigzagged downwards to where a rude pole hurdle blocked the way. Removing this, they reached the edge of the brush, and saw that the floor of the hollow was grass-covered and bare of trees. A dozen cows and as many calves were grazing, but there appeared to be no humans. For some time the two men watched.

"They've punched the breeze," Bill said. "We just missed 'em, cuss the rotten luck!"

They walked their mounts to the nearest of the feeding beasts. One glance told the story; the C P brand had been rather clumsily changed to a Circle B. The state of the wounds showed that this had only just been done.

"Raw work," Bill commented, as he studied the rough conversion of the C into an indifferent circle and the added lower loop to the P. "But if they stayed cached here till the scars healed who's to say it ain't but a careless bit o' brandin'?"

"Mebbe," Sudden said thoughtfully, "though I've a hunch they was meant to be found. Guess we'll leave 'em here—there's plenty feed an' a spring. Don't say nothin' to anyone. If Purdie hears o' this he'll paint for war immediate an'—if I'm right—play into their hands."

On the far side of the hollow they found another narrow pathway, which accounted for their not having seen the brand-blotters. Following this up through the scrub, they emerged again into the open. Sudden smiled grimly.

"She's a neat little trap, all nicely baited, but the C P ain't goin' to be catched," he said. "Them poles was newly-cut."

Pushing further north, grass and sage gradually disappeared, their place being taken by sand, cactus, and mesquite. Presently they pulled up on the edge of a desolate welter of grey-white dust, the undulations of which, in the shimmering heat-haze, seemed to move like the surface of a troubled sea. To the far horizon it reached, dead, menacing, pitiless.

"She's thirty miles acrost, they say, an' me, I'm believin' it," Yago said in answer to a question. "Sandover is on the other side, but I ain't been there; I don't likedeserts nohow. Cripes! Makes me thirsty to look at her." His eyes followed those of the foreman to where the skeleton of a steer gleamed white in the sunshine. "No, we don't lose many thataway—the critters stay with the feed," he offered. "Went loco, mebbe."

They rode along the edge of the desert, heading east, and sighted a log shack with a sodded roof.

"Our line-house," Yago stated. "Wonder if Strip Levens is to home? Yu ain't seen him yet."

In answer to his hail, a long, lanky cowboy emerged from the shack, hand on gun, his narrowed, humorous eyes squinting at them from beneath the brim of his big hat.

"'Lo, Bill," he greeted. "Come to take over?—if so, you're damn welcome."

"We aim to feed with yu, Strip," Yago informed him, and waved in the direction of his companion. "This is Jim Green, our new foreman."

"Glad to meetcha," Strip smiled, and retired to make additions to the meal he was already preparing.

"He's a good fella, but he don't like this job; none of us does," Yago explained. "We takes her in turn, three-day spells; it's damn lonesome."

"What's the idea of a line-house out here?"

"We was losin' cows, an' Purdie figured Greasers from Sandover was snakin' 'em across the desert."

The appointments of the shack were primitive. A packing-case served as a table, and up-ended boxes, which had contained "air-tights," provided the seats. Two bunks, a stove, and shelves for stores of food and ammunition comprised the rest of the furniture. The fried bacon, biscuits, and coffee occupied the attention of all three men for a time, and then Yago asked a question.

"Anythin' new, Strip?"

"That there ventilation in my lid weren't there night before last," the cowboy replied, pointing to the Stetson he had pitched on one of the bunks.

The visitors examined the two bullet-holes through the crown of the hat; obviously the wearer had escaped death by a bare inch.

"How come?" Bill inquired.

"Yestiddy afternoon I was siftin' through Split-ear Gulch when some jigger cut down on me from the rim. The brush is pretty thick up there, yu know, an' all I could see was the smoke.”

"Yu didn't stay to argue, I betcha."

"I'm here, ain't I?" was the grinned retort. "No, sir, when Mister man with the gun is all hid up an' yo're in the open is one time to find out if you're hoss has any speed. I did, an' he had, or yu'd 'a' cooked yore own eats."

"This is a two-man job," the foreman decided. "S'pose Levens had been crippled, we wouldn't 'a' knowed till his relief came out."

Leaving Strip greatly cheered by the prospects of a fellow-sufferer, the other two continued their journey. A few miles brought them to the brink of a winding chasm, a mighty crack in the earth's crust, which stretched left and right for miles. Less than a hundred yards in width, the bare, precipitous walls dropped steeply down to the stony floor beneath. Gazing into the shadowy depths, the foreman put a query.

"Dark Canyon—there's places where she's mighty gloomersome even in daylight," Yago told him. "Makes a good eastern boundary till the range drops down into the valley. The other side is Slype's land."

"What sort o' place has he got?"

"Pretty triflin'—on'y runs a few hundred head. Ramon an' his two Greasers must have an easy time."

At Sudden's suggestion they made their way to Split-ear Gulch and, after a painstaking search, found the spotwhere the bush-whacker had lain in wait for Strip. In the flattened, broken grass lay a spent cartridge—a .38. Not far away were the prints of a standing horse, and the surrounding bushes had been nibbled; a few hairs adhering to one of the branches afforded further evidence.

"Paint pony, nail missin' from the off fore, tied here a considerable spell," the foreman decided. "What sort o' hoss does Luce Burdette usually ride?"

"A grey an' he's a good 'un," Yago replied. "Yu don't think…?"

"Why not? It ain't so difficult," his friend grinned. "Yu oughta try it, Bill. After a bit o' practice."

Yago's reply was a short but pungent description of his new foreman, who laughed as he listened.

"Yore cussin' ain't improved any," he commented. "Yu repeated yoreself twice; yu gotta watch that, Bill. What say we call it a day?"

Yago agreed, and they headed for the ranch.

CHAPTER VII

WHEN Yago parted from his foreman at the corral he approached the bunkhouse with slowing steps. He knew perfectly well that the outfit would ride him unmercifully and that the only excuse he had to offer would be received with jeers. That there would be no malice in the proceedings helped a little, but Bill was conscious that he had made a fool of himself, and did not welcome the prospect of having it rubbed in, even good-humouredly. Most of the boys were there when he entered. For a moment silence reigned, and then Curly spoke :

"Bill, I'm right sorry; I've looked everyhere an' can't find it?”"

"Can't find what, yu chump?" Yago incautiously asked.

"That nerve yu lost when yu saw the new foreman," came the swift answer.

"Aw, Bill didn't lose no nerve—he's kind-hearted, an' saw the foreman was young an'—Green," sniggered another.

"That warn't it neither," Lanty Brown chimed in. "Ain't yu never heard o' the power o' the human eye? Yu fix yore optic on a savage beast an' it stops dead in its tracks. That's what the foreman done."

"I've heard o' the power of the human foot on a silly jackass," the badgered man retorted. "If yu gotta know, I recognized Jim Green as an old friend."

As he had known, a yell of derisive laughter greeted the explanation.

"I knowed it was that," remarked a quiet, unsmiling youth, who, being named "Sankey," was known as "Moody" wherever he went. "Lemme tell yu the sad story. Long, long ago, Bill loved the foreman's mother—this, o' course, was before she was his mother—an' they were to be married. But, alas! Along comes a real good-lookin' fella, an' Bill lost out. So when he sees the boy whose daddy he oughta been…"

A storm of merriment cut the narration short, and in the midst of it Curly's voice made itself heard : "Yu got it near right, Moody, but it was the foreman's gran'mother Bill loved."

The improvement met with vociferous approbation, and when the uproar had subsided a little, Bill managed to get a word in.

"Yo're a cheerful lot o' locoed pups," he said. "Just bite on this—the foreman has made me segundo, an' if yu don't watch yore steps I'll shake shinin' hell outa yu."

The grin on his weathered features belied the threat, and with one accord they fell upon him. Under this human avalanche Bill disappeared, and furniture flew in all directions as members of the struggling mass sought for a bit of him to pat. "Hi, that's my ear yo're pulling off," came faintly from the depths of the heaving heap of profanity, and then, "Take yore blame' foot outa my mouth, yu mule," from another sufferer. "Don't yu go chawin' it—I ain't no dawg-food," panted the owner, striving desperately to recover limbs which appeared to have left him. In the height of the confusion the new foreman entered unobserved.

"Seen anythin' o' Yago?" he asked quietly, and then, as the tangled mass disintegrated into units again, permitting the breathless, dishevelled victim to emerge, he added softly, "An' a good time was had by all. Why for the celebration?"

"We was just congratulatin' Bill," Curly explained.

"On bein' the foreman's friend?" Sudden asked slyly.

"No, we're all hopin' to be that," the boy flashed back with a quick smile. "On bein' made segundo; an' I wanta say yu have shore picked the right man, an' that goes for all of us, I reckon."

A chorus of assent came from the others, and Sudden's eyes swept over them approvingly. "Purdie told me he had a good outfit—he was damn right," he said, and turning to his second in command, "Good thing they didn't each want a lock o' yore hair, Bill," with a sardonic glance at the sparse covering of his friend's cranium. "Yu feel able to hobble outside a minute?"

Yago was soon back. "Who's next on the slate for the line-house?" he inquired

"Me is, an' thank Gawd it's a day off yet," Moody replied.

"It ain't," Bill told him. "Yu start right after supper; there's allus to be two there in future. 'Nother thing, we gotta take turns watchin' the ranch-house, nights."

"What's the notion, Bill?" Curly wanted to know. "Anybody liable to steal it?"

"Dunno, but Jim don't do things for no reason," Yago said.

"I'll bet he don't," the boy agreed. "He has a thoughtful eye, that Jim fella." He nodded his head. "I'm thinkin' King Burdette's throne mebbe ain't so secure as he reckons."

Yago grinned. "There's times when yu come mighty near sayin' somethin' sensible," he complimented.

At supper that evening the foreman met the only member of the outfit he had not yet seen, a hatchet-faced youth with a beak of a nose and a saturnine expression, who was presented to him as "Flatty." Sudden's look was a question.

"Real name is Watson, but a piece ago we had to rechristen him," Yago said, and chuckled. "It was shorely funny."

"Tell the yarn, Bill; we didn't all see it," someone urged.

"Well, it was this away," Yago began. "Flatty goes out without his slicker—which was plumb careless—gets wet, an' complains plenty persistent o' pains in his back. It's clear he's sufferin' from rheumatism. Moody claims to know a shore cure, an' Flatty admits he's willin' to try anythin' —once. `Once'll be enough,' Moody tells him, an' as things turned out he was dead right. Follerin' instructions, the patient strips to his middle an' lays face down on the bunkhouse table. Moody spreads a blanket over him, fetches a hot flat-iron from the kitchen, an' begins to run it up an' down Flatty's back. `Which if I had a straight iron I could brand you good an' proper,' he remarks. The patient makes noises signifyin' satisfaction.

"But it ain't too long before Moody discovers that pushin' a heavy flat-iron aroun' is tirin' to the wrist. `This launderin' o' humans is shorely no picnic,' he says, an' stops to spit on his han's an' take a fresh holt. But he forgets that a hot iron gets in its best work standin' still. It don't take the invalid no time a-tall to find this out; he lets go a whoop that would 'a' turned an Injun green with envy an' arches his back like a buckin' pony. The iron mashes two o' Moody's toes, but he don't wait; Flatty's face, emergin' from under the blanket, looks to him like the wrath o' God, an' he aims to be elsewheres when the lightnin' strikes. He makes the door a healthy flea's jump ahead an' points for the small corral, plannin' to climb a hoss, but Flatty is crowdin' him, an' he has to run round it. His busted foot handicaps him, but the pursuin' gent ain't got no suspenders an' has to hold his pants up, which evens things some. Also, Flatty ain't savin' his breath, an' the things he asks his Creator to do to Moody yu wouldn't hardly believe.

"It was shorely funny to see them two skippin' round the corral like a coupla jack-rabbits, Flatty without a stitch

above his middle, an' the big red brand o' the iron showin' clear on his back. They does the first lap in record

time, an' then Flatty's luck breaks—he stubs his toe on a stump an' flings his han's up to save hisself.

An', o' course, that's the minit Miss Nan appears, comin' to get her pony. Flatty gives her one

horrified look, grabs his slippin' pants, an' streaks for the bunkhouse. Moody pulls up an' tries to look

unconcerned.

"What on earth is the matter with Watson?” Miss Nan asks.

“Just a li'l race,” Moody explains. “I bet I could beat him even if he stripped.

“Yo're the poorest liar in the outfit,” Miss Nan smiles, an' to this day Moody don't know

whether she meant it as a compliment. We gets Flatty smoothed down after a bit—not with the

iron this time—an' he consents to let Moody go on breathin', but he'll carry that brand till he caches."

"Which Miss Nan shorely saved yore triflin' life," Flatty grinned at the other actor in the comedy.

"Shucks, I had yu beat a mile," Moody retorted. "What yu gotta belly-ache about, anyways—I cured

yu."

The wrangle went on, good-humoured, mordant jests which showed the men were real friends.

Sudden listened with a smile; he felt he was going to like this outfit.

About two hours later the new foreman of the C P rode into Windy, added his horse to the dozen or so already attached to the hitch-rail outside "The Plaza," and stepped inside. Smaller than "The Lucky Chance," the saloon differed in little else save that it was rather more ornate; mirrors, and pictures of a sort, adorned the walls, which were of squared logs, and the tables and chairs were of better quality. In many little ways the hand of a woman made itself evident.

But if "The Plaza" was no more than a commonplace Western saloon, it possessed one feature which

raised it above the rut— its owner . Seated behind the bar, she looked like a fine jewel in a pinch-

beck setting. Her beautiful black hair, plaited and coiled upon her small head, was held in place by a

great Spanish comb set with red stones. A flame-coloured dress of silk revealed neck and arms, and on

her white bosom, suspended by a slender chain of gold, was a single ruby, gleaming like a new-spilt

spot of blood. She had been chatting to the bar-tender and regarding the scene with the indifference

of use, but her eyes lit up when Sudden, hat in hand, stepped up to the bar.

"Ah, my so brave caballero has come to veezit ze po or —how you say—tenderfoot?" she greeted.

"Shucks," he smiled, as he took the slim white hand she extended. " I a in ' t no more a caballero

than yu are a Greaser, an' that pony warn't wantin' to get away from yu—hosses have sense."

She clapped her hands softly. "A compliment, not so?" she laughed.

"Yu oughta know," he said. "Reckon yu get a-plenty."

A little shadow flitted across her face. "True, my friend," she said soberly. "And what are they worth?

I'd give them all for one honest word of censure." Then the dancing lights came back into her

eyes. "Not that I don't get any of that, you know. Oh yes, from my own sex especially. I am a

wicked woman, a brazen hussy, and you'll lose your character if you speak to me."

The cow-puncher grinned. "Fella can't lose what he ain't got—I'm a pretty desperate person my

own self," he bantered, for the bitterness behind her gay tone was very apparent. "Also, I never

did allow anyone to pick my friends for me."

He saw her face change. "Hell! what's that fool trying to do?" she cried.

Trouble had started at a neighbouring table. A big, blue shirted miner with a coarse, liquor-bloated face was on his on his feet fumbling for a gun at his hip and mouthing curses.

In an instant the girl had slipped from her seat.

"Lemme 'tend to this," Sudden suggested.

"No, I can handle it," she replied.

Raising the flap, she stepped from behind the bar and three quick strides brought her to the trouble-maker just as his weapon left the holster. The men he had been playing with were standing, hands on their own guns, watching him uncertainly.

"Put that gun back and get out of here," the woman said sharply.

The man looked at her, standing slim and straight before him, and for a moment it seemed that he would obey. Then from somewhere in the room came a laugh which bred shame in the drink-sodden mind.

"Yu go to hell," the fellow said thickly. "Think I'm goin' to be ordered about by a booze-slingin’…"

Hardly had the vile epithet left his lips when the girl's hand swept across his cheek with a slap which rang out like a pistol-shot and drew an oath of pain and surprise from the recipient.

"You dirty beast!" she cried, her tone tense with passion. "Vamoose, or I'll send you out on a shutter."

For a few seconds the bloodshot, liquor-glazed eyes fought with the flaming black ones, and fell. In the girl's left hand, held steadily at her hip, was a tiny nickel-plated revolver—a toy, a man would have said—but it was sufficiently powerful to take life at such close range. Without another word the drunkard turned and staggered weavingly from the saloon. When Mrs. Lavigne returned to her place behind the bar her look at the puncher was defiant, as though she dared him to criticize her action.

"I won't stand for that sort of thing here," she said.

"Yu shore have nerve, ma'am," Sudden said, and meant it. His admiration brought the smile back to her lips.

"Pooh! He knew the boys would blow him to bits if he laid a finger on me," she pointed out.

"Fella in that state is liable to act without thinkin'," he said, and then, "For a tenderfoot, yu got that gun out pretty pronto."

"I was born and bred in the West," she explained, and when he smilingly suggested that she had lost a customer, shrugged her dainty shoulders.

"He'll be in to-morrow to beg my pardon," she told him confidently. "Liquor, if he takes enough of it, will make a fool of any man."

"An' yet yu sell it," he said, and was immediately sorry when he noted the tiny furrow between her brows.

"Someone else would if I didn't, and I have to live," she retorted, and then the even white teeth shut down on a single word, "Damnation!"

A newcomer had entered the saloon, a tall, dark man, carefully dressed in cowboy costume and wearing two guns. Though this was the first time he had seen him, Sudden knew this must be Kingley Burdette. With a condescending nod here and there, the fresh arrival strode to the bar and swept off his hat so elaborately as to make the gesture a mockery.

"Evenin' honeybird. Who's been rufflin' yore pretty plumage?" was his familiar greeting, and then, without waiting for a reply, "Gosh, but I'm thirsty."

"Ted will serve you," she said coldly, and beckoned to the bar-tender.

"He will not," Burdette answered. "A drink poured by yore fair hands will taste ten times nicer than one from Ted's paws, which, though doubtless useful, are far from ornamental."

"As you will," she said indifferently, and filled a glass.

"Here's how, carissima," he toasted. His eyes dwelt possessively upon her and then travelled to the cowpuncher?” "Yo're Green, I reckon; I wanted to see yu."

"Yo're King Burdette, I reckon; take a good look," Sudden mimicked, in the same insolent tone the other had used.

"I hear yo're huntin' a job," Burdette went on, and the sneer was very palpable.

"Someone's been stringin' yu—I ain't doin' no such thing," the puncher replied.

"Well, it don't matter, but Luce havin' cut adrift from the Circle B I could use another rider," King said carelessly. "When yu get tired a' washin' dirt yu might look me up."

Sudden smiled sardonically; the patronizing air both galled and amused him. He struck back. "Mebbe I will, but I warn yu I'm shy o' practice with a runnin' iron."

He saw the blood show redly in the sallow cheeks and the dark eyes narrow to pin-points. Burdette's voice now had an edge on it.

"Meanin'?"

"Just what I said. Dessay I could change a C P into a Circle B—it's an easy play. See yu later—mebbe."

He lifted his hat to Mrs. Lavigne, nodded casually to Burdette, and went out. The Circle B man stared after him, perplexed and scowling.

"Fresh fella, huh?" he growled. "What the hell was he drivin' at? An' where does the C P come in?"

"He's riding for Purdie," Lu Lavigne pointed out.

“The devil he is," King said, and his frown was darker. "Damn him, he was laughin' at me." He glanced up and found that the puncher was not the only one to take such a liberty; there was a demure twinkle in the girl's eyes; she was avenging herself for his insolence in the presence of a stranger.

"Tickles yu, does it?" he sneered. "Think yu got another admirer? Forget it. When he's been at the C Pa day or so an' met Nan Purdie he won't give yu a second thought. She's growed up, that kid, without anybody noticin', an' I'm tellin' yu, she's the prettiest bit o' stuff this side o' the Mississippi. Add too, with Kit outa the way that she'll get the C P, an' is good, an' yu can reckon up yore chances."

The colour flamed in her face at the coarse, insulting speech. She knew that he was payin' her back—that he meant to hurt—he was that kind of man. When possessed by passion he was ruthless, hard, ridden by the bitter temper he could usually control.

"You brute," she raged. "I hate you!"

"No, yu love me, little tiger-cat," he smiled, content that the lash of his tongue had stung her. "Though at the moment I do believe yu'd like to stick a knife in me. Now Nan Purdie would never think o' doin' that."

"Damn Nan Purdie, and you," she stormed. "She's welcome to you if she can swallow the murder of her brother."

King laughed lightly; he was in a good humour again now that he had made her angry. "An unfortunate incident," he said. "The Circle B has made its position clear by turnin' Luce adrift an' disownin' him. If Purdie forces trouble it'll be his own—funeral."

Though his lips smiled there was a sinister emphasis on the last word, and the girl's eyes sought his in an endeavour to read the truth, but learned nothing. Then, as he looked at her, his ill-temper seemed to vanish like a storm from a summer sky. Leaning across the bar, he whispered tenderly:

"Come, sweetness, we mustn't quarrel. I'm sorry I hurt yu, but it was yore own fault—yu didn't oughta waste those star-like eyes on no-'count punchers."

Lu Lavigne was used to these sudden changes; the warmth in the pleading voice, the devotion in the dark eyes, were no new things to her, and yet she allowed herself to be persuaded by them; jealousy is a potent advocate with a woman. But vanity demanded a small victory.

"You said—Nan Purdie—was prettier," she pouted.

"Shucks, Lu, I didn't mean that," the other protested. "Yu got me goin'. She's a good-looker, shore enough, but too pussy-kitten for my taste."

"Even with the C P thrown in?" she asked with a tremulous smile.

"Yeah, even then," he replied, and his voice became harsh again. "Listen to me, girl. If I want the C P ranch I'll take it, an' without any apron-strings tied to it. Sabe?"

He swallowed another drink, and refusing several invitations to join in a game, went out of the saloon. The eyes of the woman behind the bar followed him, and had he been able to read their expression rightly, he might not have felt quite so pleased with himself.

On leaving "The Plaza," Sudden went to the hotel, where he found Luce Burdette, moping alone in his room. The young man welcomed him eagerly; he was finding the part of a pariah a bitter one to play.

"I'm damn glad to see yu, Green," he said. "Ain't got no news, I s'pose?"

"I have, sort of, but let's hear yore's first," the visitor replied.

"I've nothin' fresh to tell yu," Luce returned despondently. "I've been all over the ground, an' it happened like yu said. Two fellas was firm' at Kit, an' one of 'em holds him while the other injuns round an' drills him from behind. Couldn't follow their tracks, they'd took care o' that. Found some .38 an' .44 shells where they cut down on him first, an' that's the sum total."

"Where'd yu happen to be yesterday afternoon.?”

"Right here in town."

"An' yore hoss is a grey an' ain't shy a nail on the off fore?"

"Silver is a grey, an' the on'y hoss I possess. Weldon shod him all over las' week."

"That means there's another fella in these parts who uses a .38 rifle an' rides a paint hoss with a nail missin' in the off fore," Sudden said, and told of the attempt on Strip Levens.

"There's paints a-plenty, an' nails can be replaced," Luce commented hopelessly. "We gotta find that gun."

"Keep a-smilin'; we'll do it," the C P foreman said.

CHAPTER VIII

A WEEK slipped quietly by, and Sudden found himself settling down at the C P. He liked Purdie, liked the men he had to work with, and the companionship of his old friend, Yago, meant much to one who, for the last year or two, had lived the semi-solitary life of the wanderer. Convinced that the Burdettes meant mischief, and uncertain what form it would take, he had been constantly on the alert and had not visited the town. Luce, he knew, was still about, and must be having a lonely time, for the fact that he had been driven away from the Circle B, and was being ignored by his three brothers, convinced most of the citizens of his guilt. It was Nan Purdie who put it in the foreman's mind to ride into Windy. Meeting him on her way to the corral, she put a plain question :

"Have you heard anything of Luce Burdette, Mister Green?"

He told her what he knew, and added, "Seems kinda hard when nothin's been proved."

"It is cruel," the girl said hotly. "Even his own brothers condemn him—the cowards. The Burdettes are bad, root and branch, but Luce is—different."

She made a very pretty picture, her face flushed and her eyes flashing with indignation. The foreman smiled sardonically at the reflection that, after all, perhaps Luce was not so much to be pitied. All he said, however, was, "I reckon yo're right, ma'am; the Circle B has some reason for pinnin' the deed on Luce. I'll be in town this afternoon; mebbe I'll see him."

Her eyes thanked him, and as she went away the foreman's gaze followed the trim, shapely figure speculatively.

"Must be kinda nice to have a pretty girl that concerned about yu," he mused, and then, savagely, "Come alive, yu idjut."

When, late in the afternoon, he reached Windy, he found the place bubbling with excitement over a new outrage. Goldy Evans, a prospector, had been struck down on his way back to town, and robbed of about a thousand dollars in dust. Goldy's claim was situated on the lower slope of the southern wall of the valley. His story was that, having worked all day, he started to trudge the three miles home. The trail, which he had made himself by his daily journey, passed through a narrow rift in the rock.

"It's damned dark in that gully," the robbed man had explained when he told his tale. "The blame' walls near meet overhead, an' I was no more than in it when I thought they'd fell on me. Dunno how long I was out, but the sun warn't much lower when I come to. My belt was gone an' my head felt like someone had parted my hair with an axe."

"An' I'm tellin' yu, Goldy warn't on'y sore in the head," continued the citizen who had supplied Sudden with the news. "He's lost a hefty stake, but there's a chance he'll git it back."

"Did he see the fella?" the foreman asked.

"Reckon so," was the reply. "Goldy staggered along through the gully, an' when he reaches the open, he sees a chap on a grey hoss ridin' lickety-split for town. He was over a mile away, but Goldy says it was Luce Burdette. Him an' the marshal is up at the hotel now."

"Guess I'll trail along an' see what's doin'," Sudden said casually.

In the parlour of the hotel he found Luce, Slype, a red-faced, angry-looking fellow whose head was bandaged, and a crowd of curious onlookers. The accused man was glaring at them defiantly. On the table lay his six-shooter, a small doe-skin bag, and various other articles. Evidently he had been disarmed and searched.

"I ain't denyin' I was up that way this afternoon, an' I dessay it was me Evans saw," Luce was saying as Sudden elbowed his way into the room.

"What was yu doin' around there?" Slype asked.

"Mindin' my own business," snapped the boy.

"How'd yu git that dust?" growled Evans, pointing to the bag on the table.

"Worked for it," Luce replied. "I've been diggin' myself."

"Yeah, in my belt," sneered the miner. "An' I s'pose yu got a hole in the ground all ready to show us?"

"I reckon it's an open an' shut case, Luce," the marshal said. "Better come clean an' tell us where yu cached the rest o' the plunder."

"I tell yu I never had it—that dust is mine," the youth said savagely.

"Yo're sayin' so don't prove nothin'," the officer retorted. "I'm a-goin' to take yu in."

"Hold on, marshal," Sudden interposed, and turned to Evans. "Did all the dust in yore belt come outa the claim yo're workin'?"

The man nodded sullenly.

"Got any more of it on yu?" the cow-puncher continued.

Goldy dug down into his pocket and produced a little leathern sack—his "poke". "What I took out today—kept it for spendin'," he explained, and with an ugly look at Luce, "Yu missed that, didn't yu?"

"What's the big idea?" Slype inquired.

"Just this, marshal," the C P foreman replied. "I've heard old miners say that gold dust varies considerable, even when it comes from the same locality. P'raps there's someone here who can speak to that?"

A shrivelled, bent man of over sixty, dressed in patched, nondescript garments, thrust through the crowd. Out of his lined, leathery face the small eyes still gleamed brightly. In a high, cracked voice which was not improved by the quid of tobacco he was chewing, he corroborated the puncher's statement.

"I c'n see what the young fella's drivin' at, an' he's dead right, marshal; any old `Forty-niner' could tell yu as much. If the dust in them two pokes ain't exactly sim'lar, Luce didn't slug Evans, an' yu c'n bet a stack on it. Lemme look at 'em."

The marshal scowled, but he could not refuse the test. Two sheets of paper were brought and, amidst breathless silence, the old miner poured a little of the dust from each poke and bent over the tiny heaps. Then in turn he took a pinch from each and rolled the particles between his gnarled finger and thumb. Straightening up, he looked round triumphantly.

"They ain't noways the same," he announced confidently. "Goldy's dust is coarser in grain an' a mite darker in colour. Reckon any o' yu c'n see it for yoreselves."

The spectators surged forward to look; not that for a moment they doubted the decision of this old man who had spent nearly the whole of his life in the service of the god of Gold, and who, even now, looked at and handled the shining atoms as though they were indeed worthy of worship. Even Slype, disgruntled as he was at the destruction of what he had regarded as convincing evidence, knew that he must bow to the expert. What "California" did not know about gold had yet to be discovered. But the marshal was a poor loser.

"Well, that seemin'ly lets yu out, Luce," he remarked. "But I ain't right shore allasame, an' I'm keepin' an eye on yu."

"Keep both on an' be damned," the young man told him, and gathering up his belongings, pushed his way through the crowd and went to his own room.

Sudden found him there a little later, hunched in a chair, his face buried in his hands.

"Brace up, boy," he said. "That's one frame-up didn't come off, anyways."

"Thanks to yu," Luce replied. "Yu figure it was fixed?"

"Looks thataway. It warn't yu Evans saw, was it?"

"Might 'a' been, but I fancy I was further up the valley at the time, an' I didn't hurry."

"Then the jasper who did it has a grey hoss an' was careful not to show hisself till he was far enough off to be mistook for yu. Who do yu guess is back of it?"

"King—my own brother," Luce said bitterly. "He swore he'd hound me outa the country, an' I might as well clear —I ain't got a friend in it."

"Shucks, I know of two," the puncher smiled, and the boy was instantly contrite.

"I'm right sorry, Green; I oughta remembered yu, but I shore can't place the other," he said.

"Some fellas would be satisfied with Nan Purdie's friendship alone," Sudden told him.

Burdette's face lighted up. "She still believes in me?" he asked. "How is she?"

"Well, I gotta admit she's lookin' a mite peaky," the C P man said, and grinned understandingly at the other's expression of his regret. "Yeah, yu look as grieved as if yu'd filled a straight flush," he bantered. "Now, yu cut out this runnin' away chatter. Yo're playin' in tough luck just now, but yu'll make the grade."

His confidence was infectious and, despite his despair, Luce found himself hoping again. There was a new decision in his voice when he said: "Yo're right, Green. I'll stay an' take my medicine."

The rays of the rising sun were invading the misty hollows of the foothills around the base of Old Stormy when a rider loped leisurely up the trail and pulled his mount to a stop in front of the C P ranch-house. At the sight of the girl lazily swinging in a hammock on the verandah a look of mingled admiration and satisfaction gleamed in his eyes. He swept off his broad-brimmed hat and bowed low over his horse's mane as she descended hastily but gracefully from her perch, staring at him in amazed surprise. Still holding his hat, he surveyed her slowly from head to foot, and something in his eyes sent the hot blood to her face and neck.

"My word, yu've growed up into a mighty han'some woman, Nan," he said, and there was a caress in his tone.

"Miss Purdie, please," Nan retorted, and then, "I presume you didn't ride up here to pay me compliments?"

King Burdette laughed. "No one couldn't blame me if I did—there's plenty excuse," he said. "Why, when yu were a little tad of a school-kid, yu used to think a lot o' me."

It was true, though she had never suspected that he knew. Years back, when she was in her early teens, this dashing, spectacular young rider had figured largely in her dreams, though the two families were by no means friendly. She had, as a young girl will, made a hero of him. But, as time went on, stories of King Burdette filtered through and dispelled her childish illusions. She came to know him for what he was, handsome undoubtedly, but utterly without principle. Yet, as he sat there easily in his saddle, his lazy eyes drinking in her beauty, she was conscious of his fascination, and fought against it. Her voice was studiously cold when she spoke :

"I'm still waiting to hear the object of your visit, Mister Burdette."

"Shucks! Come outa the ice-box, Nan," King laughed, and seeing that her face did not change, he added, "Oh, well, is yore dad around? I wanta see him."

"Really?" she said with mild sarcasm. "Has it occurred to you that he may not share that desire?"

Burdette smiled to himself. "Beauty, brains, an' spirit," he reflected. "I gotta hand it to yu, Luce, but she's for yore betters." Aloud he said, "Please tell him I'm here, Miss Purdie; if he's got any sense, he'll see me."

Apparently sure of the result, he got down, trailed his reins, and taking a seat on the verandah, began to roll a cigarette. Nan went in search of her father. When the ranch-owner appeared, alone, he found the unwelcome visitor smoking and surveying the landscape.

"Mornin', Purdie," he greeted. "Fine view yu got here."

"Mebbe, but I don't know as yu improve it," came the blunt answer. "What's yore errand?"

Before Burdette could reply, a thud of hoofs announced another arrival—the marshal. Getting down in front of the verandah, he nodded heavily to the pair.

"The C P is gettin' precious popular seemin'ly," Purdie said sarcastically. "What might yu be wantin', Slype?"

"Heard King was headed this way an' thought I'd better come along," the officer replied.

"Which of us was yu aimin' to protect?" asked the rancher sneeringly.

"It's my job to prevent trouble," Slype replied.

"Yu needn't to have bothered, Sam," Burdette said easily. "There won't be none—o' my makin'—but seein' yo're here, yu might as well listen to what I have to say to Purdie."

"Fly at it," the cattleman said curtly.

"Well, Purdie, I'm here to propose peace," Burdette began. "We're the two biggest outfits in Windy, an' if we start scrappin', the whole community'll suffer. Where's the sense in it?"

"My boy lies over there," the old man said grimly, waving a hand towards the valley. "Killed by a cowardly coyote who carries yore name."

"It ain't been proved, an' anyways, until he clears his-self, he's a stranger to the Burdettes," King pointed out. "I reckon that puts the attitude o' the Circle B pretty plain."

"Mart did that the other night in `The Lucky Chance' when he said Luce had done a good job," Purdie said incisively.

"Mart was drunk," King replied, adding meaningly, "An' he thought a lot o' Dad."

"The C P had nothin' to do with that," Purdie rasped.

"Yu say so, an' I'm tellin' yu the same about Kit," Burdette retorted. "If Luce bumped off yore boy it was a personal matter. What else yu got against the Circle B?"

At this moment Sudden stepped from the house on to the verandah and paused when he saw that his employer had visitors. Purdie presented his new foreman as such, and a little frown creased the brow of King Burdette.

"Yu didn't tell me yu was takin' charge here when I offered yu a job," he said.

"Did I have to?" the puncher asked coolly.

"What was yu sayin' this mornin' 'bout some steers yu found, Green?" the rancher cut in.

The foreman told of the re-branded cattle he had discovered hidden on the range, and the face of the Circle B man flamed as he heard the story.

"Yu accusin' me o' rustlin' yore cows?" he asked stormily. "What's the great idea?"

"Well, when the brands are healed the cattle could be sneaked over an' thrown into yore herds, or they could be found where they are, when it would look like we'd been stealin' from yu," Sudden pointed out. "On'y yore outfit would be interested in puttin' yore brand on our beasts."

"Bah! Chicken-feed," King sneered. He turned to the marshal. "Looks to me like a plain frame-up—tryin' to pin a rustlin' on the Circle B."

"Shore does," the officer agreed.

"See here, Purdie," King went on. "It's the first I've heard of this, but I'll look into it, an' if I find any o' my outfit have been usin' a straight iron I'll hand 'em over to yu, even if it's my own brothers. Can't say fairer than that. Now all this chatter ain't gettin' us nowhere. I'm offerin' yu my hand; will yu take it?"

The rancher's jaw was set, his eyes cold. "I'd sooner shake with a rattlesnake than a Burdette," he said harshly. "Fetch me the murderer o' my son, with a rope round his neck, an' mebbe I'll tell yu different."

Burdette looked at the marshal, and Sudden could have sworn there was satisfaction in the glance; the man had hoped for such a termination to the interview. He stood up, lifting his shoulders in a gesture of hopelessness.

"Yu heard that, Sam?" he said, and there was little of disappointment in his tone. "Good thing yu happened along; yu can bear witness that I did my utmost to dodge trouble, but this old fool wants war. Well, by God, he shall have it, an' that goes."

The exultation in the savage, sneering voice was plain enough now; the man had cast off all pretence.

Purdie too had risen, his hand not far from his gun. He laughed scornfully. "Yu can't bluff me, Burdette," he said. "Mebbe I'm what yu called me, but I ain't blind. Yu egg yore brother on to kill Kit, an' yu stand aside an' let him bear the blame; yu brand my cattle an' leave 'em where they'll be found so's I'll start somethin'. Then yu come here with lying offers o' peace which yu know damn well I don't listen to o' purpose to put me in wrong with the town."

"Lookit, Purdie…" the marshal protested.

"Shut yore trap," the old man told him, and to Burdette, "Get off my land, pronto, an' take yore tame dawg with yu."

Sudden saw the man's face whiten under the tan, sensed the passion that was urging him to pull his gun and shoot Purdie then and there, and realized that only his own presence prevented it. For a brief moment Burdette fought his fury, and then came an ugly snarl: "Yu take the pot—this time, but I'll get yu, yore ranch, an' yore girl, Purdie, even if yu pack yore place with two-gunmen."

With a glare at Sudden he swaggered from the verandah, sprang into the saddle, and spurred his horse down the trail. The marshal would have spoken, but a contemptuous gesture from the cattleman stopped him.

"Get agoin'," Purdie said. "Yore master will be whistlin' for yu."

When the pair had vanished, the ranch-owner turned and looked at his foreman. "What yu think of it?" he asked.

"I reckon yu got their measure," was the reply. "Funny 'bout them cattle, though; I don't believe he knowed of 'em."

Purdie laughed incredulously. "When yu savvy the Burdettes as well as I do, yu'll figure 'em at the back o' most o' the dirty work around here," he said. "Anyways, they know what I think of 'em. King would 'a' drawed on me if yu hadn't been here."

The puncher's eyes twinkled. "Yeah, but I was, an' not bein' a fool, he didn't forget it," he replied.

"What d'yu guess'll be their first move?"

"I expect they'll try to abolish that two-gun hombre King mentioned."

The rancher's face grew grave. "Jim, I'd no right to rope yu into my trouble—this ain't no ordinary foreman's job," he said. "If yu wanta reconsider…"

"Forget it, seh," Sudden smiled. "I came here knowin', an' when I start anythin' I aim to finish it."

Purdie's relief was evident. In declaring war on the Circle B he had relied greatly upon the aid of this lean-jawed, level-eyed stranger, of whom he knew nothing and yet trusted implicitly.

CHAPTER IX

IN the big, littered living-room at the Circle B that same evening four men sat in conference—King Burdette, his brothers Mart and Sim, and one of their outfit. This last had an arresting appearance. Between thirty-five and forty years of age, of slight build, he had one remarkable feature —a skin, which even the fierce sun of the South-west could not colour; his clean-shaven face was white, the unhealthy, sickly white of something grown in darkness, and in this deathly pallor were set blue eyes like polished stones, un-winking, expressionless. "Whitey"—for so the man was known—never smiled, his face might have been a marble mask, but lacked the dignity of the carven stone. He wore two guns, and his long, talon-like fingers were never far from their butts.

"Well, boys, I saw Purdie this mornin' an'—like I guessed—he's all set for war—wouldn't listen to nothin' else," King began, and grinned. "Slippery was there, by chance, o' course. That puts us right with Windy; Chris won't get no sympathy there. So we can go ahead."

"An' with Kit outa the way there shouldn't be no difficulty," Mart added.

"There's on'y one, far's I can see," King rejoined. "Purdie has scooped in that two-gun stranger, Green, an' made him foreman. I'm tellin' yu this; he's got a good one."

"We oughta’ve gathered him in ourselves," Sim stated.

"I tried to, but Purdie had beat me to it," the elder brother told him. "Mark me, that fella means trouble for us; twice he's got Luce out of a jam—if it hadn't been for him that young fool would 'a' been off our hands for good. There's another thing; he claims to have found a bunch o' cattle with the C P brand changed to Circle B, penned up on Purdie's range. Any o' yu know about it?"

They all shook their heads. "Odd number that," Mart said. "Our boys wouldn't do it without orders. An' why leave 'em there?"

"It'll need lookin' into, but can wait." King decided. "The main point is what we goin' to do about Green?"

"Leave him to me," Whitey said.

Callous as they were, the cold, passionless voice sent a shiver through the others; they sensed an eagerness to slay for the sake of slaying—for they knew his proposal meant nothing less than death. Whitey was a killer of the worst type—one who sold his dexterity to the highest bidder, and regarded the taking of human life as no more important than twisting the neck of a chicken.

"He totes a coupla guns an' we don't know how good he is with 'em," King observed.

"If he can beat me to the draw he'll do what twelve other fellas failed at," the killer replied darkly.

"Thirteen's an unlucky number, Whitey," Sim commented.

"Shore will be—for him," came the grim retort. "I'll be in town to-night; mebbe meet up with him."

King shook his head. "We gotta wait a week at least," he decided. "To do it sooner would be a fair giveaway."

"Well, what's a week, anyways?" the gunman grimaced. "He'll be a long whiles dead. It'll cost yu boys five hundred."

The "boys" nodded agreement, regarding him curiously. They had no illusions about the man, being well aware that he would have undertaken to destroy any one of them for a sufficient sum.

"Yo're a cold-blooded devil, Whitey," Mart said. "One o' these days yu'll tumble up against a fella who's a mite quicker'n yu are, an' then…"

The killer's thin, pale lips twisted a little, which, in him, signified amusement. "I've met that fella," he said. "Yes, sir, some years ago, way down in Texas. He warn't much more'n a boy, but his draw was a shinin' merricle. I was reckoned fast, but he left me standin' still. Had an odd trick o' speaking his piece, half turnin' away, an' the next yu knowed he had yu covered."

"He let yu off, Whitey?" King queried, with lifted eyebrows.

"He let me off, yeah, when he had me set," the gunman said. "I'll never forgive him for that." In his voice was a bitter hate for the man who had allowed him to live. "Said I looked sick, an' I'll bet I did too, an' that a spell o' travel would be good for my health."

"So yu—travelled?" King said, with almost a jeer.

The other appeared not to notice it. "I took the trail," he admitted. "I ain't seen him since, an' dunno as I'd reckernize him—a few years make a big difference in a young chap, an' there warn't nothin' special 'bout him —just a ordinary puncher to look at. But I've heard tell of him."

"What was his name?" Sim asked.

"Never knowed it, but they was beginnin' to call him `Sudden' down there, an', by God! they got him right," Whitey replied.

Sudden! Even to this far corner of Arizona the young gunman's reputation for cold courage and marvellous marksmanship had penetrated. The faint satirical smiles which their companion's recital of his discomfiture had produced faded from the faces of his hearers. Mart expressed the feelings of all when, with a low whistle, he said :

"Sudden. Huh? Whitey, I reckon yu did right to—travel."

Despite the fact that matters between the two ranches had apparently reached a crisis, a week passed without anything happening, and Windy wondered. Old-timers wagged their heads significantly and spoke of the proverbial calm before the storm. For Luce Burdette the period was one of growing discomfort. The attitude of his family, supported by the known facts, caused many to believe he had slain Kit Purdie, and though Sudden's quick-wittedness should have cleared him, in the minds of reasonable men, of robbing Evans, there were some who still doubted. Also, King Burdette had made it plain that friendship with his discarded brother would mean enmity with him, and the displeasure of the Circle B, with its band of hard, unscrupulous riders, was not to be incurred lightly.

Entirely ignored by most of the citizens, and avoided as much as possible by others he had deemed his friends, the young man grew daily more despondent. Several times he had ridden to the little glade in the hope of seeing Nan Purdie, only to be disappointed. Bitterly he concluded that, like the rest, she had come to believe in his guilt. In this he wronged her. More than once Nan had found herself heading for the meeting-place, and had spurred her pony in another direction. There came a morning, however, when, obeying an impulse which brought the blood to her cheeks, she rode resolutely along the old trail and through the opening into the glade. Her heart leapt when she saw someone sitting on the fallen trunk, head bent, elbows on knees, apparently deep in thought. Lest he should deem her there on purpose, she rode with face averted, pretending not to have seen him. Then came a voice which shocked the gladness out of her.

"Shorely the gods are good to me since they send the very person my mind was full of," King Burdette said, swinging his hat in a wide sweep. "The spot was pretty before; now, it is beautiful."

The girl's proud little head came up, the blue eyes regarded him coldly, and she rode on. King Burdette stepped towards her.

"Come now, Nan, you gotta talk with me," he urged. "I've somethin' important to say 'bout somebody yo're interested in; it'll go hard with him if yu don't listen."

"If you're threatening my father " she began stormily.

"Yu got me wrong," he replied. "It ain't him—it's Luce."

He saw her flush, and smothered a curse. "I am not interested in any of your family, Mister Burdette," she said, and shook her reins.

The man laughed. "No use runnin' away, girl," he pointed out. "I can catch yu in two-three minutes."

She looked at the big, rangy roan standing with drooping head but a few yards distant and knew it was no vain boast; her mount—game as it was—could not keep ahead of that powerful, long-striding animal. What a fool she had been not to notice the horse! Luce always rode Silver, his grey. She pulled in her pony.

"What have you to say?" she asked.

"Aw, Nan, get down an' be sociable," King smiled.

"I prefer to stay where I am," she replied. "And there is no need for you to come nearer—my hearing is quite good."

He shrugged his shoulders. "Suspicious, ain't yu?" he said. "Well, have it yore own way; someday yo're goin' to know me better. Now, see here, Nan "

"You are not to call me that," she interrupted.

"Awright, if yu'd rather I made it—sweetheart," he retorted, and laughed when he saw her eyes flash. "My, yo're awfully pretty when yu rear up—Nan."

The girl's scornful expression showed him that he was on the wrong track and, dropping his bantering air, he said seriously, "I got a proposal to make."

Her look of surprise made him grin. "No, it ain't what yu guessed—yet." His face sobered again. "I want peace; I was in dead earnest when I come to the C P that time, but yore father wouldn't listen; he holds the Burdettes is pizen, seemin'ly."

"Can you wonder, with poor Kit scarcely cold in his grave?" she said, a break in her voice.

"But yu don't lay that to Luce," he countered.

"No, but I do lay it to the Circle B," she told him.

"Yo're wrong, Nan," he said. "The Circle B has condemned it. We've disowned Luce—done with him."

"Thereby showing yourselves to be curs," she cried. "Why, if Kit had committed a crime, even murder, I'd have stood by and shielded him to the last, if I knew he was guilty. But you…"

The contempt in her tone flailed him, and the open avowal of interest in the suspected man brought his brows together in a heavy frown. He realized that she meant just what she said; that was her creed; for one she loved there was no limit, and—he bit back an oath—she loved Luce. The knowledge stirred his brigand nature, but he kept an iron hand on himself; only his eyes betrayed the fires flaming within.

"If yu think thataway, yu oughta be willin' to talk to yore dad," he said. "He's got his head down an' is runnin' hell-bent for trouble like an angry steer."

"That's not true, and if it were, I couldn't stop him," the girl replied. "Dad is not the sort of man to be dictated to; I thought he made that plain to you."

Despite his self-control, the blood stained King Burdette's cheeks as he recalled his ignominious dismissal from the C P. He was of the type to whom opposition is a spur to anger. His proffer of peace had been a mere pretext, but its rejection, coupled with the girl's beauty and disdain, were rousing the worst in him. Jeering at him, huh? Well, she needed a lesson, and once he got hold of her, he'd make those pretty lips pay for what they had uttered. During the conversation he had been gradually edging nearer, and now he suddenly sprang forward, his long arms clutching her waist in an effort to drag her from the saddle. Nan saw the movement too late to avoid it, but King swore as the lash of her quirt seared his cheek.

"Yu damn little wildcat," he gritted. "I'll learn yu."

He had almost succeeded in unseating her when a silver streak flashed across the clearing and the shoulder of a grey horse sent him spinning to the ground. He was up again in an instant, his right hand darting to his hip, when a warning voice reached him.

"Stick 'em up, yu skunk, or I'll drill yu."

King Burdette looked into the levelled gun and furious eyes of the newcomer, and impudently folded his arms.

"Blaze away, brother," he mocked, and to the girl, "Yu will now see the Bible story of Cain an' Abel brought right up to date."

"Brother! " Luce retorted. "Yu've taken mighty good care to show me I ain't that—till it saves yore hide. Unbuckle that belt an' step away from it, or I'll break a leg for yu." For a bare moment the other hesitated, but he knew Luce, saw the boy's jaw harden, and obeyed; he had no wish to be crippled. "Now climb yore bronc an' fade," came the further order, and again he had no choice.

"I'll get yu for this, kin or no kin," he snarled. "As for that girl, keep away from her; she's goin' to be mine."

"I'd rather die than marry a Burdette," Nan flashed.

King grinned hatefully."Did I mention marriage?" he asked. "Well, it don't matter. Marchin' orders for the both of us Luce."

"Yo're takin’ 'em from me," the young man rasped. "I'll leave yore belt at `The Lucky Chance.' If yu pester Miss Purdie again yu'll not get off so easy."

With a laugh of disdain King rode out of the glade, turning at the entrance to wave an insolent farewell. They watched him go, and for some moments there was an awkward silence. Then the girl stretched out an impulsive hand.

"Thank you, Luce," she said. "I never in my life was so pleased to see anyone."

The boy flushed. "He didn't hurt yu?" he asked, and she thrilled at the anxiety in his voice.

"No, I was scared—he sprang at me like a tiger," she explained. "He had lost his temper completely. You are so different from your brothers that it is difficult to believe you belong to the same family."

"I wish to God we didn't," Luce said bitterly. "Nan, did yu mean what yu said about—the Burdettes?"

He put the question haltingly, and it required all her courage to meet his pleading look; but Nan Purdie was no shirker; subterfuge or evasion played no part in her straightforward nature.

"I am sorry, Luce, but—yes, I meant it," she said gently. "I like you, and I will always be your friend, but it would break Dad's heart to learn I was even that, and so —there can never be anything more. You understand, don't you?"

He nodded miserably. "Yo're dad's right. What man would care to see his daughter linked up with a crowd like ours? Time was when I was proud o' bein' a Burdette; now, I'm ashamed."

"You must go away, Luce; leave the country," she urged, and the thought that she cared what happened to him was sweet.

"I ain't runnin'," he told her. "Yu'll let me see yu sometimes, Nan?"

"We are sure to meet, Luce," she said, and he had to be content with that.

When she had gone he loped his horse past the spot where King's belt lay, and without dismounting, leant over, scooped it up, and headed the animal for Windy. Despite the girl's statement that nothing could come of their friendship, now that he had seen her again he would not despair; hope is a hardy growth in a young heart. King's attack he regarded as an attempt to frighten her, with the object of provoking her father to a reprisal.

Meanwhile the man who had been so ingloriously bested was spurring savagely for the Circle B, his whole being full of a black rage. As he flung himself from the lathered horse and strode towards the ranch-house he met Whitey.

"'Lo, King, some fella stole yore belt off'n yu?" the gunman greeted curiously.

"Mind yore own damn business," snapped the other. "Yu can get Green as soon as yu like."

The killer's eyes grew harder. "Better heel yoreself before yu take that tone with me, King; I ain't nobody's dawg," he warned. "Yu had trouble with Green?"

Burdette realized that he had gone too far—this man would not stand for bullying. "Sorry, Whitey, but I'm all het up," he said. "No, I ain't seen Green, but I've had an argument with Luce." His anger flamed anew at the recollection of how one-sided that "argument" had been. "I gave the young fool another chance to pull his freight an' he won't go. Well, I want him outa the way."

Whitey understood. "He's a Burdette," he objected.

"He ain't a Burdette—for yu," King replied meaningly. "When yu've settled with that damned foreman…"

The gunman nodded. "A thousand bucks would shorely be more use than five hundred," he suggested.

"Earn 'em, then," King said shortly. "But remember, with Luce, it's gotta be entirely a personal matter 'tween yu an' him, an' don't be in too much of a hurry; it mustn't look like a frame-up."

"I get yu," Whitey said. "I don't overlook no bets."

King Burdette's sinister gaze followed him as he slouched away. "Yu ain't nobody's dawg—just a plain damn fool," he muttered. "When yu bump off Luce, his brothers—though they've disowned him—have just naturally gotta get yu to even the score. I don't overlook bets neither."

CHAPTER X

BUSINESS in "The Lucky Chance" was booming that night. Goldy Evans, burrowing like a human mole in the hillside, had struck a "pocket". The news had soon spread, and men flocked to the saloon to share in the celebration they knew would follow. The man himself was there, half drunk, and displaying a heavy Colt's revolver which had been the first thing bought with his newly-acquired wealth.

"An' I reckon it was comin' to me, boys, after the dirty way I got trimmed," he said. "Any son-of-a-bitch who tries that trick agin'll git blowed sky-high, yu betcha."

Which sentiment, especially amongst the mining fraternity, was whole-heartedly applauded. Gold was hard to get, windfalls like the present one few and far between, and to endure the toil and hardship only to benefit a thief was not to any man's liking. As the liquor circulated, inflaming the men's passions, threats were freely uttered, and it might have gone ill with Luce Burdette had he entered the place just then, for some still believed he had robbed the prospector.

"Nex' time we won't worry the marshal," a burly miner said, and there was a sneer in the last three words. "A rope or a slug is the on'y cure, an' I guess we can 'tend to that, ourselves."

"Shore thing, an' interferin' outsiders c'n have a dose o' the same," growled another, with a drunken glare at Green, who, with one elbow on the bar, was chatting with the saloon-keeper and watching the scene amusedly. The marshal, standing not far away, heard sundry far from complimentary criticisms of himself with an expression of surly contempt; he had a poor opinion of "dirt-washers," as he termed them.

"Feelin' plenty brash, ain't they?" he sneered. "Give 'em two pinches o' yaller dust to buy licker with an' they're gory heroes right off."

His comment was addressed to Magee, but before that worthy could reply, even had he intended doing so, the door swung open and Whitey entered. At the sight of that blood-drained face Sudden rubbed the back of his head, and in so doing, tilted his hat forward to hide his own features. He recognized the fellow—there could be no two men in the South-west like that—yet he asked a whispered question.

"Who's yore friend?"

Magee looked at him. "Shure an' I'm not so careless pickin' me frinds," he replied. "They call him `Whitey' — niver heard any other name. He rides for the Circle B, an' 'tis said he has twelve notches on his guns."

"Reg'lar undertaker's help, huh?" the puncher replied lightly. "Shucks! Notches ain't so much; where's the sense in whittlin' yore hardware all to bits thataway?"

He faced around, thus presenting his back to the newcomer, hut he did not lose sight of him; mirrors behind a bar are meant to be useful as well as ornamental, so Sudden was able to watch the gunman unobserved.

With a curt nod here and there, Whitey walked to the bar and called for liquor. Sudden noted that he helped himself sparingly from the bottle pushed forward. Also, save for one fleeting glance, he appeared uninterested in the puncher; there had been no gleam of recognition in that look. "He don't know me," Sudden reflected. "Guess I've altered some since we met. Well, I ain't remindin' him." At the same time, that singular sixth sense which men who tread dangerous paths somehow acquire, was warning him to be on his guard. Presently he became aware that the gunman had moved nearer and was now looking directly at him.

"I guess yu're Green—the new C P foreman," he said in a flat voice. "Take a drink?"

"Yu guess pretty good," the puncher replied, and pointed to his almost untouched glass. "I'm all fixed; like yore-self, I ain't much on liquor."

Whitey's slit of a mouth twisted sneeringly. "What about a li'l game? But mebbe yu ain't much on kyards neither?"

"Like I said, yo're a good guesser," the foreman agreed. He was alert, wary, suspecting the fellow was intent on forcing a quarrel. His reply brought no expression to that corpse-like mask, but the pupils of the pale eyes narrowed to pin-points.

"Is there anythin' yu are much on?" came the contemptuous inquiry.

"I'm reckoned good at mindin' my own business," drawled the puncher.

The snub apparently left the gunman unmoved, but it advised the rest of the company that something unusual was taking place. The rattle of poker chips, slither of dealt cards, and murmur of conversation ceased. An atmosphere of menace seemed to envelope the gathering, and every man there, save only the puncher lounging lightly against the bar, seemed to sense what was coming. Magee made an effort to avert the storm. Thrusting forward a bottle, he said placatingly, "Whist now, Whitey, don't be after makin' throuble. Have one on the house—both av ye."

The gunman glared at him. "Better take a lesson from this fella an' mind yore own business," he snarled, and turned on Sudden. "Yu come here, a stranger, glom on to a good job, an' git too uppity to drink or play with us. Who the hell are yu to put on frills?"

Sudden smiled tolerantly; he knew now that his suspicions had been correct—the man was there to kill him,

perhaps at the instigation of King Burdette. He determined to let Whitey force the issue.

"Didn't just look at it thataway," he admitted. "Seein' yo're sot on 'em, we'll have the drink an' the li'l game."

He saw the look of chagrin in the killer's eyes; it was not the reply he had played for. In fact, Whitey was

disgusted; matters had been going just right for him, and now the fellow had crawfished. He emptied his glass,

his right arm dropping to his side. A bitter jeer was in his voice when he replied, "Thought better of it, huh?

Well, that won't help yu none. I ain't takin' favours from yu, yu son-of-a —"

The epithet was one which only an accompanying smile could excuse. Whitey was not smiling, and, as he

uttered the word his body fell in to a crouch, while his right hand snapped back to his gun. There was a hurried

scuffle as men in the vicinity got themselves out of the way and then—a breath-stopping silence.

"Flash it, yu white-livered sneak," croaked the killer.

For an instant he thought his prey would escape after all, for the puncher half turned as though about to decline

the challenge. Then recollection came; he saw a picture from the past, and the clammy fingers of fear clutched at

his heart. He knew that movement, knew too that he was about to suffer the same fate as those he had himself

wantonly destroyed. It was too late to retract; even as the thought darted through his brain he was dragging at his

gun with the desperation of despair. He got it clear of the holster…

All the nearest spectator could afterwards say was that, following a bang and spurt of flame from the puncher's

left hip, he saw Whitey stagger, double up at the knees, and sink slowly down to lie grotesquely sprawled on the

sanded floor, his weapon clattering beside him. "Never see Green go for his gun a-tall, but he musta done, o'

course," he added. "An' fast? I'm tellin' yu, I believe he could make lightnin' hump itself."

The crash of the shot ended the tension. Forgetful of their games, the gamblers crowded round the bar, jostling

one another to get a glimpse of the dead man. One of them picked up the dropped revolver and ran a finger

along the nicks in the butt.

"Kept his tally—six of 'em," he remarked. "If there's the same number on the twin, he's sent twelve fellas to

wait for him on the other side."

"He tried for one too many," was Weldon's comment. "Me, I'm sooperstitious thataway; when I've bumped off

a dozen, I'm stoppin'."

The remark, despite the presence of death, raised a laugh. Men who made it their business to kill received

small sympathy when they paid the penalty. In Western idiom, Whitey had "got what was comin' to him," and

there was no more to be said.

Sudden went to the marshal, who was looking curiously at the body. "Yu know where I'm to be found if yu

want me," he said.

"This hombre asked for it," the officer replied. "I ain't wantin' yu, but—others may," he added meaningly.

The cow-puncher shrugged his shoulders and went out. Gradually the players returned to their games, the

corpse was removed, and the episode, for the time being, was ended. When, a little later, Mart Burdette came in,

there was nothing to show that a man had but just died. Standing near the door, the newcomer looked the room

over.

"Know where Whitey is?" he asked the blacksmith.

"Well, I dunno how long it takes to get to hell, but I guess he's there by now; he started half an hour back," was

the grim reply.

Mart stared at him. "Yu mean he's—dead?" he asked incredulously.

"Shore I do," Weldon told him. "He's most awful dead, that Whitey fella."

The Circle B man's breath whistled as he drew it in. "How come?" he inquired.

"He got to domineerin' that stranger—the one what fetched in Kit Purdie," the smith explained.

"An' he beat him to it?" the other cried amazedly.

"Yu might call it that," Weldon grinned. He was enjoying himself—he did not like the Burdettes. "Green let him get his gun out an' then—well, Whitey sorta lost interest, as a fella will with a slug between his eyes."

Mart turned away, and his informant, with a sardonic smile, watched him go.

"He seems quite astonished—an' upset," he remarked to his neighbours. "Didn't know the Circle B was that fond o' their riders."

Mart went straight to where Slype was sitting. "I hear Green has shot Whitey. What yu goin' to do about it?" he asked truculently.

"Bury the body," the marshal said. "Whitey would have it, an' he drawed first."

Mart frowned. "Is that what I'm to tell King?"

"Shore an' yu can add that Whitey warn't good enough," Slippery said meaningly, and there was a gleam of satisfaction in his foxy eyes.

Burdette gulped a drink and went in search of his elder brother. He found him in "The Plaza," exchanging pleasantries with its fair owner. Drawing him aside, Mart told what he had learned and delivered the marshal's message. King's eyebrows grew black as he listened.

"Whitey's gun musta snagged," he suggested.

"Nary a snag," Mart assured him. "He had it out afore the other fella made a move, an' Whitey could pump lead quicker'n anyone I ever see, not exceptin' yu."

"If Green's as good as that we gotta try somethin' else," King said musingly.

"Get Luce to plug him from behind like he did Kit," Mart proposed jocularly.

To his surprise his brother took him seriously. "That's an idea," he said.

"Shucks, I was jokin'," the big man protested. "Why, him an' Green are friendly."

"An' yu are a chump, Mart," King grinned, slapping a genial hand on his shoulder. "It's a good thing the Bur-dette family has me to do the thinkin'."

With a smile on his face he went back to his philandering. He had staked, lost, and must stake again; that was all there was to it. But, next time, he would see to it that the deck was stacked.

"Honey," he said. "Do yu think it possible to bring down two birds with one stone?"

"It must be difficult unless the birds are close together," Lu Lavigne laughed.

"In the case I have in mind, they would be some distance apart, which shorely adds to the merit o' the performance." Burdette chuckled, and would tell her no more.

CHAPTER XI

MRS. LAVIGNE tripped daintily along the clumsy board sidewalk, not in the least unconscious of the

admiration she aroused. The wide, floppy straw hat she wore shaded her face from the searching rays of the sun,

but in no way concealed its attractiveness, and from every citizen she encountered came a smiling greeting or a

respectful salutation, for the owner of "The Plaza" was not only a pretty woman but—among the sterner sex, at

least—a popular one. So that it was a shock when a man she knew, head hunched and hatbrim pulled low,

endeavoured to pass without a word. Impulsively she caught his arm.

"Luce Burdette!" she cried. "Which have you lost—your eyesight or your manners?"

The boy stopped instantly, dragging his hat from his head. "Folks ain't anxious to know me these days, Lu," he

excused. "It mightn't do yu any good to be seen speakin' to me. King…"

She snapped her fingers. "That, for King. I choose my own friends," she said, and shrugged her shoulders. "For

the rest, well, my reputation is beyond repair, you know," she laughed, albeit a trifle bitterly.

Her kind, quizzical eyes studied him, noted the newborn lines in the young face, and divined the deep-seated

misery which possessed him.

"Yo're a good fella, Lu, an' if ever I hear a man say different I'll make him wish he'd been born dumb," Luce

told her.

"Thank you, Luce, but you won't hear much from the men," she replied. The acid touch in her tone deepened. "It

takes a woman to damn a woman."

"An' a man to damn a man," he said with a wry smile. "Well, it's shore good to know I got one friend, Lu, an'

I'm thankin' yu."

"You have more than that, boy. I'm guessing there's another across the street right now and—I'm sorry I

stopped you."

On the other side of the churned-up, dusty strip which separated the buildings Nan Purdie had just climbed to

her saddle and was riding slowly away. To all appearances, she did not see Luce and his companion. Mrs.

Lavigne's shrewd eyes read the young man's face.

"I don't think she saw you," she said, well aware that this was not the truth. "If you want to speak to her, don't

mind me."

Luce shook his head. "Miss Purdie ain't got no use for a Burdette," he said, also meaning to mislead.

The lady laughed. "You are terribly young, Luce," she told him. "Some day you'll learn that a woman has a use

for the Devil himself if she cares for him. There, I'm getting sentimental in my old age, and forgetting one of the

reasons for stopping you. Tell your friend Green that a certain outfit is rather peeved at losing its star gun-

fighter, and will take any chance to even the score."

"I'll give him the message, but if King knew yu sent it..."

"Oh, shucks," she responded. "Your big brother may have this town buffaloed, but I'm not scared of him."

"That's mighty interestin'," drawled a harsh voice behind her, and King Burdette stepped from the store outside

which they were standing. How long he had been there they had no means of knowing. He did not appear to be

in a pleasant humour, but his scowling face did not daunt the lady. Her shapely head lifted and she faced him

unflinchingly.

"'Lo, King, eavesdropping, eh?" she gibed. "Well, you know what they say about listeners."

Ignoring her, he spoke to his brother. "So yo're still around, huh?"

"Yu see me," Luce retorted. "Get yore guns back?"

The red surged into King's cheeks at the taunt. "Yu'll step in my way once too often, yu fool," he threatened.

"For now, make yoreself scarce; I've got somewhat to say to this—lady."

The girl's eyes flashed at the sneer on the last word, but with the sweetest of smiles, she held out her hand to

the younger man.

"So long, Luce, and the best of luck," she said. "Come and see me whenever you like." When he had gone, she

turned to King and said lightly, "And what does your Majesty want with me?"

He was silent for a moment, his sullen gaze roving over her, absorbing the dark beauty, noting how her soft

draperies, wafted by the wanton wind, outlined her perfect figure. She was a picture to stir the pulse of an

anchorite, and King Burdette was not that. But she must have a lesson—women, like horses, had to be mastered.

So he veiled the admiration in his bold eyes and said brusquely.

"What were yu sayin' to that pup?"

"So you didn't listen?" she countered.

"I was at the back o' the store, an' on'y come out in time to hear yu tellin' the town how brave yu are," he said

heavily.

"If it requires courage not to sit up and beg at your order, I have it," she replied. "However, I don't mind

informing you that I was trying to cheer up that poor boy, and also, I asked him to warn Green that your outfit is

not particular how it squares an account."

"Yu dared?" King stormed.

"Oh, I'm brave—you said so yourself," she mocked. "It is almost my only virtue."

"What's yore interest in that damned cow-wrastler?" he rasped.

She smiled contentedly; he was jealous, and therefore victory was hers. "I like him," she said easily. "We have

one quality in common—courage; he gave your hired killer more than an even break."

"I had nothin' to do with that—it was a private affair—I reckon they had met afore," King defended.

"Oh, yeah," she murmured.

"Yu don't believe me?" he queried.

Her eyes twinkled. "As if I could doubt you, George Washington Burdette," she reproached.

The man glared at her. "Lu Lavigne," he said thickly, "One day I shall twist that slim neck o' yores."

"That would be a pity—it has been admired," she smiled. "Now, I've a score of purchases to make. If Your

Majesty has no further commands ..." She slanted her eyes at him and waited, demurely obedient.

Burdette was recovering his poise. "Yo're a provokin' little devil," he said. "Lemme come an' help with the

shoppin'."

The girl elevated her hands in horror. "Mercy me! And what of my character?" she cried. "It would be all over

the town that we were setting up housekeeping together."

"An' why not?" King said eagerly. "Come to the Circle B an'--"

"Take the peerless Miss Purdie's leavings, were you going to say?" she asked sweetly.

The change in his face astounded her; stark fury flamed from his eyes. Through his clenched teeth he hissed,

"So the young skunk blabbed, did he? Well, that'll be all, for him. I'll…"

Terrified at the result of her shot in the dark, she hastened to repair the damage. "If you mean Luce, he said

nothing to me of Miss Purdie and yourself," she urged. "It was a guess, King, just to tease you, and I'm sorry."

He scowled at her in savage doubt, but the dark eyes met his steadily, and he knew that, whatever her faults, Lu

Lavigne was not a liar. He nodded, as though in answer to his own thought.

"I'm takin' yore word. If yu wanta do Luce a good turn, get him to punch the breeze; this place ain't big enough

for both of us—an' me, I'm aimin' to stay. Shall I see yu to-night?"

"I can't prevent you. I shall be attending to my business of helping men to forget they are men," she said

wearily, and turned away.

King Burdette strode up the street, his mind filled by two women. Honey-coloured hair and blue eyes warred

with black hair and eyes until, with a sardonic grin, the man decided there was only one way out of the

difficulty—he wanted, and would have, both. "What King Burdette goes after, he gets," he muttered darkly. As

for that cursed cow-puncher and Luce, they were obstacles in his way, and must be dealt with. Whitey had

failed, and even now that staggering fact seemed hardly credible. A lurid oath escaped his lips, and a small

urchin trailing behind, trying to ape the great man's walk, garnered with glee the—to him—unmeaning words.

"Gee! I'll spring that one on Snubby," he promised himself. "Bet it'll make his eyebrows climb some."

The passing of Whitey and the manner of it aroused great excitement in the hunkhouse of the C P, and at once put the new foreman on a pinnacle. The prowess of the dead gunman was not mere hearsay, two of the notches on his guns having been acquired since his appearance in Windy, and it was commonly believed that only one man in the district would have any chance against him in an even break. This was King Burdette, and though the test had never been made, there were those who held him the faster of the two. At supper, on the night following the killing, the point was being discussed.

"King is fast all right, but yu gotta remember that Green let Whitey git his gun a'most clear before he started,"

Curly pointed out.

"A left-handed shot, an' he put the pill plumb atween the eyes," Moody contributed. "That's shootin'."

"Shorely is," Flatty agreed. "Hi, Bill, why didn't yu warn us that the noo foreman was a six-gun wizard? One of

us mighta called him."

"He'd 'a' boxed yore ears," Yago grinned. "Shucks, Jim ain't so much; o' course, I'm not sayin' he's slow exactly

. . ."

His deprecatory drawl was drowned by a volley of scathing expletives which brought a broad smile to his

leathery countenance; his friend had made good, and the boys would follow him to hell and back again. The talk

veered to other topics, and Moody began to relate a snake episode. Now snake stories in the West rank with

fishing yarns in the East, and get much the same credence. This one proved no exception.

"I was 'bout half a mile from the line-house when I a'most rode on to a coupla big rattlers thrashin' about in the

grass," Moody began. "The funny thing was that though they were fightin' they seemed to be tryin' to git away

from one another. Pretty soon I savvied the trouble: they musta bin wrastlin' an' some way had got their tails tied

together; o' course, the more they pulled the tighter the knot got, an' there they was, tuggin' an' strikin' like all

possessed."

"An' yu got down, untied 'em, an' they lifted their hats, bowed politely, an' went off arm in arm," Curly

suggested.

"I did not," the narrator replied. "I blowed the heads off'n them reptiles. If yu don't believe me, ask Strip; I

showed 'em to him when we passed the place later. Ain't that so, Strip?"

Levens grinned widely as he said, "Yeah, but I figure yu shot them varmints first an' tied their tails afterwards."

A yell of derision greeted the statement and a rush was made for the tale-teller. In the midst of the ensuing

hubbub Yago slipped away and went in search of his foreman. He found him sitting in front of his own quarters,

smoking and gazing reflectively at the valley, over which the last rays of the sinking sun were shedding a golden

radiance. Squatting beside him, he rolled a smoke, and for a time there was silence. Then, when the red disk had

disappeared behind the shoulder of Old Stormy, and the purple shadows were deepening in the hollows, Yago

said:

"It was a frame-up, Jim; the Burdettes meant to get yu."

The foreman's slitted eyes rested on him. "Yo're that bright to-night, Bill, I can't hardly bear to look at yu," he

said with gentle sarcasm.

"Quit yore foolin'," his friend retorted. "They'll try again; yu gotta keep cases."

"I had a message from Luce sayin' just that," Sudden said.

"From Luce Burdette?" Bill cried amazedly.

"Through him, I oughta said. Actually, it was sent by Mrs. Lavigne."

Yago emitted a snort of disgust. "Hell's bells, Jim, don't yu get cluttered up with a petticoat," he urged.

"I ain't no right to, anyway, till I've found them ferias," the foreman mused, his mind on the past.

Yago was silent for a while; he knew of the strange quest which had made a wanderer of his companion. Then

he blurted out :"They say she's King Burdette's woman."

"Liars are plenty prevalent in places like this," Sudden told him, and smiled into the thickening gloom. "Alla-

same, ol'-timer, she sent me the warnin'."

Even had Yago any reply to this, the appearance of Purdie and his daughter would have closed his mouth. The

rancher nodded to both.

"Well, yu scotched one snake, Green, but there's others in the nest," he said. "Yu'll need to watch out."

"I'm aimin' to," the foreman smiled, "but yu'll have me all scared to death. Yu just said what Yago was rammin'

home, an' before him, Luce Burdette."

"He warned yu? Whyfor, I wonder?" the rancher queried.

"But if he has quarrelled with his brothers, Dad," Nan suggested.

"Bah ! There's somethin' back o' that," the old man grunted.

The girl said no more. She had not dared to tell her father of the scene in the glade and the humiliation to which

King Burdette had been subjected, and which—knowing the man—she was sure he would never forget or

forgive. It was left to Green to reply.

"I still think yu've got Luce sized up wrong, Purdie," he said quietly, and Nan's heart warmed to him. True, he

had shot down a fellow-being less than twenty-four hours ago, but she was Western bred, knew that the fight

had been forced upon him, and that he had slain, in self-defence, a man who was not fit to live.

"Have it yore own way, but don't let him get behind yu," the rancher said harshly. "What did the marshal have

to say?"

"Just that he didn't want me," the foreman smiled. "Too raw a deal even for him, huh?" Purdie sneered. "Yu'll

have to keep an eye on Slype, an' so will Burdette, though he's bought an' paid for him; Slippery's the right name for that fella."

He said good-night, took the girl's arm, and went into the ranch-house.

"Tough ol’ citizen, Chris," Yago commented. "My, but ain't he a good hater too? Mind, he'd be just as strong

for a friend, but he don't regard young Luce thataway at present, an' I'll bet a month's pay he never will."

"Take yu," the foreman said. "So long, Bill. I'm for the hay.

Yago, left abruptly alone, stared at the closed door of the foreman's shack. "Now why in 'ell did he snatch at

that wager?" he muttered in perplexity. "What's he know that I don't? I'm bettin' m'self I lose that bet, cuss him;

he's as hard to follow as a flea with its specs on."

The man behind the door listened to the monologue with a smile of contentment. Life had no better gift than a

staunch friend, and in Bill Yago he knew he had one who would "stay with him" to the dark doors of death

itself. The old dangerous days in the West bred such comradeships, and men fought and died ignominiously

because of them.

CHAPTER XII

ANOTHER week drifted by without any further act of aggression on the part of the Circle B. Sudden had

figured that, for the sake of appearances, they would allow a little time to elapse before striking another blow.

Whitey's attempt had been, as Purdie put it, somewhat of "a raw deal," and King Burdette knew that, despite his

denials, he was commonly reputed to have set the killer on. Overbearing and intolerant though he might be, he

was proud of his power in Windy, and did not wish to strain it unduly.

"Make the other fella put hisself in the wrong an' yu take the pot," was how he stated it to his brothers when

they complained of inaction.

"Squattin' on our hunkers doin' nothin' don't rid us o' Green," Mart observed sourly.

"Get out yore li'l gun an' go abolish him," King advised. "Mebbe Whitey'll be pleased to see yu."

"Talk sense," snarled the other.

"Right," returned King. "I'll start by sayin' yu ain't neither o' yu got the brains of a rabbit, an' yu better leave the

plannin' to me. When I want yu to do anythin' I'll let yu know. Get this into yore thick heads—I ain't asleep.

Savvy?"

The proof of this came two days later. The C P foreman was riding along the rim of the deep canyon which

formed the eastern boundary of the ranch on his way to the line-house. It was a blazing hot afternoon and he was

in no hurry. Suddenly, from the other side of the chasm, came the sharp report of a rifle and a ballooning puff of

smoke jetted out from a knob of rock at which he happened to be looking. He was conscious of a stunning shock

which flung him out of the saddle, and knew no more.

When sense returned he discovered that he was lying in a grass-covered crevice on the brink of the canyon. His

head throbbed with pain, and blood was trickling down his cheek. Gingerly he put up a hand; there was a nasty

lump and the scalp was cut. How long he had been there he did not know, but from the position of the sun he

judged that nearly an hour had passed. He decided to remain awhile; the hidden marksman might not be

satisfied. He contrived a clumsy bandage for his hurt, and, cautiously parting the grasses, provided a peep-hole

through which he could watch the spot from whence the shot had come. It seemed to be deserted, and he fell to

speculating on what had happened.

"Fools for luck," he told himself. "I was shore invitin' it, paradin' along in the open thataway, an' I damn near

got it too. That slug must 'a' hit the buckle of my hatband, an' if I'd been lookin' straight ahead I'd be climbin' the

golden stairs right now. Wonder if it's the jasper who cut down on Strip? Wish he'd show hisself."

But the unknown declined to oblige, and after giving him a further chance, Sudden crept from his cover and

shivered when he saw how nearly he had missed tumbling headlong to the bottom of the abyss. No shot saluted

his appearance, and he concluded that the assassin had departed.

Both hat and horse were missing; the former he could do without, but the latter was a necessity, for he was still

half-dazed, tottery on his feet, and his head ached intolerably. Moreover, he thirsted for the rifle under the

fender of the saddle; to be set afoot and without a long-range weapon was a situation not to his liking. Nigger,

he knew, would not go far after the first scare of the shot and unseating of his rider.

A clump of brush about fifty yards away seemed to be what he was looking for, and he painfully crawled

towards it, keeping in the long grass as much as possible. He reached it safely, and from the security of the

cover it afforded uttered a low whistle. Almost immediately came an answering whinny, and from a nearby

hollow the big black emerged, head up, distended nostrils sniffing the air. Sudden repeated the signal and

stepped out. With another whinny, Nigger trotted sedately up and rubbed a velvety muzzle against his master's

shoulder.

"Glad to see me, huh, yu ebony rascal?" the puncher grinned, as he pulled the animal's ears. "Well, that goes

double. Yu come almighty near losin' yore owner." He climbed painfully into the saddle, and, as the horse

essayed a playful pitch, added, "Easy, damn yu; my blame' head feels like it was about ready to fall off."

In the blistering heat of the afternoon Windy's one street was well-nigh deserted. Two or three citizens lolled on the bench beneath the board awning outside "The Lucky Chance," and the marshal, slumped in a chair, decorated his own door a few yards distant. One of the loungers sent a spirt of tobacco juice at a post and watched the greedy rays of the sun lick up the moisture.

"Hell, ain't it hot—an' slow?" he grunted. "Wish suthin' would happen."

Came the quick thud of hammering hoofs, and one of the other men glanced up lazily. "Looks like yu got yore

wish," he said. "They's a lunatic a-comin'."

Along the eastern trail a rider was approaching at breakneck speed; they could see the rise and fall of his arm

as he plied the quirt to the flanks of a horse already doing its best.

"Year or so back you mighta guessed Injuns, but they've bin quiet a goodish while now," the last speaker

continued.

"Shucks! It's Riley, o' the Circle B; reckon he's on'y thirsty."

By this time the panting pony had rocketed along the street and, in a shower of dust, had been pulled to a

sudden stop in front of the marshal's quarters. The rider, a diminutive, bow-legged man with a hard, sly face,

sprang down, and wiping his dust-caked lips with the back of his hand, cried,

"Hey, Slippery, come alive an' git busy."

The marshal tilted back his chair and surveyed the speaker sourly; he had to put up with hectoring from the

Burdettes, but he was not going to stand it from their underlings, and he didn't like his nickname.

"What might be yore particular trouble?" he drawled. "Somebody bumped off King, by any chance?"

"If they had, the Circle B wouldn't be botherin' yu," was the blunt reply. "No, sir, but I got a notion the C P is

shy a foreman, mebbe."

This statement brought the officer to attention and the loafers from their shelter. With an upraised hand Riley

stilled the babble of questions.

"Here's the how of it," he said. "I'm crossin' yore range, marshal, on my way to town, hour or so back. I'm 'bout

half a mile from Dark Canyon when I sees Green on the other side of it—can't mistake that black o' his. He's

amblin' along casual-like, pointin' for the C P line-house, I figure. Naturally, I ain't interested, an' I'm just turnin'

away when there's a shot from that tree-covered bump what sticks up like a wart to the east, an' I sees Green

pitch out'n his saddle to the edge o' the canyon; his hoss bolts. Me, I hunt cover plenty rapid, guessin' the gent

with the gun has more'n one ca'tridge.

"Nothin' happens for a spell. Green don't show up, an' havin' seen his lid sail into the canyon, I'm bettin' high

he's went with it. The fella what did the shootin' must 'a'come to the same conclusion, for presently he busts

from his hiding-place an' rides hell-bent for that splash o' pines east."

"Reckernize him?" the marshal asked.

"Too fur away, an' I on'y see his back," Riley replied, "but he was atop of a grey hoss, an' I'd say he was

redheaded."

"How in hell ?" began the officer.

"He warn't wearin' a hat," the Circle B man explained. "Left it behind or got it tied to his saddle-strings, I

s'pose."

"Odd, that," the marshal mused. "Well, I reckon I better look into it. Yu boys comin' along?"

The reply was an immediate scattering in quest of mounts and rifles; hot as it was, they were not missing

anything that promised a little excitement. In less than a quarter of an hour, the men, headed by the marshal and

the bringer of the news, were riding rapidly for the scene of the outrage.

"Redhead with a grey hoss huh?" Slype remarked, his crafty little eyes on his companion. "Curious yu didn't

know him."

"Ain't it?" Was the sardonic retort. "My sight is mebbe not so good, an' it's powerful glary out on the range." The marshal grunted his disbelief in this explanation and became more confirmed in his suspicion, which, had he but known it, was just what Riley intended. The Circle B man's admiration for the officer would have been hard to discover.

In the West of that day representatives of the law were seldom popular. There were among them men who did

their work fearlessly and honestly; whose efforts to establish and preserve order in an untamed land laid the

foundation stones of the great and flourishing cities which have replaced the huddles of huts they knew. But

many were, as the common phrase put it, "as crooked as a cow's hind leg," and held their places only because

they were more ruthless, and could shoot quicker than the ruffians they had to rule. Slype belonged to neither of

these groups; he had been put in power by the Circle B, and though he talked loudly in public, it was generally

known that when King Burdette whistled, the marshal had to come to heel.

He now rode in silence, trying to fathom what lay behind this latest development. Beyond a plain intimation

that Luce was no longer to be regarded as one of the family, the Burdettes had told him nothing, but the marshal

had means of obtaining information, and little happened in the neighbourhood that he did not hear. He knew, for

example, that King Burdette's belt had been left at "The Lucky Chance" by his youngest brother, and had

slapped his thigh in unholy glee at the news. For though he served them—or perhaps, because of that—he hated

the Burdettes with all his mean, shrivelled soul. Riley's voice interrupted his speculations.

"Yonder's the knob where the shot come from. Green must 'a' bin pretty close to here."

They had reached the canyon and were riding along the edge, slowing in order to search it thoroughly. Riley,

bending down in his saddle, was scanning the ground closely. Presently he dragged on his reins and jumped off.

"Thisyer's the spot," he said. "See where the hoss r'ared?" He pointed to several hoof-prints deeply indented in

the short turf. A tiny reddish-brown splash on a blade of grass caught his eye, and he stepped to the brink of the

precipice. At his call, the others left their horses and came clustering round. He was pointing to a little crevice, a

notch in the rim of the canyon wall, the long grass in which was flattened, broken, and stained in several places

with dried blood.

"He dropped here, shore enough, but where the devil's he got to?" Slype queried.

"Rolled over, I'd say," one of the party offered. "That crack goes plenty deep, I'm thinkin'."

"Hell's delight, it's a long ride to git down there," the marshal said disgustedly. "S'pose we gotta do it."

A further search revealing no sign of the missing man, the posse retraced its steps to the entrance of the canyon.

"We'd oughta come here first," said one when they reached it.

"If everybody done what they oughta, somebody would 'a' bumped yu off for a chatterin' fool years ago, Pike,"

the marshal said savagely.

The offender subsided; he owed Slype money, a fact that worthy had not forgotten when he uttered the insult.

Since the rest of the party, save Riley, were in the same predicament, the journey along the gorge was made in

silence. It was the Circle B man who first saw the hat, and spurring his pony, leant over, lifted it from the

ground and waited for the marshal. The broken buckle and jagged hole with bloodstained edges appeared to tell

a plain story.

"Got him good, 'pears like," Slype decided. "But where the blazes is the body? Even if the bullet didn't do the

trick, the fall would break every bone in him."

They scanned the grim, overhanging wall above them, and the man Pike ventured an opinion. "That crack in

the rim comes down a consid'able ways; mebbe he slipped into that 'stead o' droppin' clear."

It appeared to be the only solution; seen from below, the fissure in question seemed more than capacious

enough to conceal a corpse. The marshal grudgingly accepted the explanation.

"Likely enough," he said. "Well, if he's there it's as good a grave as we could make him. Let's git outa this

damn gully—it gives me the creeps."

Once more they retraced their steps, and emerging into the open, headed for the knoll from which the shot had

been fired. It was a mere mound, covered on the side facing the canyon with a thick screen of spruce, catclaw,

and cactus, being therefore an ideal spot for the purpose to which it had been put. Hoof-prints showed where a

horse had been tied, and lying near the top of the hillock was an old grey Stetson. The marshal pounced on it; in

the sweatband were the letters "L. B."—done in ink—but nearly obliterated by time and wear.

"Luce Burdette," he muttered. "But how come he to leave this behind?"

The spot where the hat had lain was littered with cigarette stubs. "Squatted here some time, an' took his lid off

while he waited," Slype went on. "Then when he's did what he come to do, bolts off an' forgets it." He picked up

a shining brass object. "She's a .38 shell. I reckon that settles it; we gotta find Mister Luce, an' right speedy."

"Huh, I'll bet he's throwin' dust an' yu won't see that hombre no more," Pike said.

The marshal eyed him speculatively. "How much yu wanta lose?" he asked. "I got ten dollars that says we'll

find him in town. Yu takin' it?"

"Betcha life," the man replied. "Easy money, marshal."

"Don't think it," warned a friend. "Coin yu collect from Sam ain't ever that."

The trip back to Windy was made at speed, and the whole party piled into the hotel, where, as the news spread,

they were quickly followed by others. They found the man they were in search of calmly eating a meal in the

dining-room. The marshal shot a triumphant glance at Pike and then turned abruptly upon Luce.

"Where yu bin this afternoon?" he inquired.

The young man did not need to be told there was trouble in the air; the fact stuck out like a sore thumb.

"Prospectin' south o' the river, if it's any o' yore damn business," he replied.

This was in the opposite direction from where the ambushing had occurred, and the officer's thin lips curledin a

sneer as he went on, "Anybody with yu to prove that?"

"No, I didn't see nobody. What's the idea?"

"That can wait. Still usin' that .38 o' yores?" and when the other nodded, "Have it with yu to-day?"

"Shore I did—don't aim to be caught out on a limb if I can help it," Luce said, adding scathingly, "Bushwhack-

in' is too prevalent around here."

"Yu said it," the marshal agreed, and held out the second hat they had found. "Know who owns this?"

The boy's eyes opened in surprise. "It's mine," he said. "I left it behind…"

"Yeah, we know; when yu downed Green," Slype put in.

Luce Burdette sprang to his feet, eyes wide with amazement, and every gun in the room instantly covered him.

But he made no attempt to draw his own.

"Green downed?" he cried, and there was deep concern in his voice. "An' yu think I did it? Yu must be loco;

he's about my on'y friend."

"He was got with a .38 shell, by a fella ridin' a grey hoss, an' we find yore hat on the spot," the marshal said

incisively.

"That lid's an old one which I left at the Circle B when I cleared out," Luce explained. He pointed to the chair

beside him. "There's the one I'm usin'."

Slype laughed nastily. "Bright boy, ain't yu?" he sneered. "But it don't go this time. Twice yu bin lucky an' got

away with it, but this is yore finish." He surveyed the crowded room, narrowed lids hiding the malevolent

triumph in his gaze. "Some o' yu mebbe ain't got the straight o' this; here it is," he said, and went on to give a

brief summary of the facts as he knew them. His concluding words were, "I reckon that's good enough for us to

go ahead an' try this fella right away."

"Try him?" echoed a hoarse voice. "Oh, yeah, an' give him a chance to lie hisself out of it again. Yo're mighty

fussy, marshal, 'bout stringin' up a cowardly coyote who kills from cover. Mebbe it's 'cause he's a Burdette,

huh?"

The speaker was Goldy Evans, still sore at the loss of his dust, and a chorus of approval showed that he had

plenty of support. The marshal drew himself up with a farcical attempt at dignity.

"A Burdette gets the same treatment from me as any other man," he announced. "I represent the law, an' there'll

be no necktie party—if I can prevent it." The pause and the lowered tone of the last few words told the turbulent

element in the crowd all it wanted to know. Slype had made his protest; if they forced his hand . . .

Magee, who, arriving late, had only contrived to make his way just inside the door, threw up a hand.

"Aisy, bhoys, give the lad a hearin'," he shouted. "Shure it's agin all nature he should do this thing—Green

saved his life, ye mind. Lavin' th' hat behind looks purty thin to me."

But for once the saloon-keeper, popular though he was, found himself powerless; only a few voices backed

him up, and these were drowned by the opposition.

"Aw, Mick, one customer won't make much difference," a miner gibed, and the Irishman's protest ended in a

burst of laughter.

The brutal witticism, typical of a land where tragedy and comedy frequently stalked hand in hand, conveyed no

hope to the accused. He knew that these men, having decided by their own rough and ready reasoning that he

was guilty, would hang him with no more compunction than they would have in breaking the back of a

rattlesnake. The old Biblical law, "An eye for an eye," was perhaps the only ordinance for which they had any

respect. Nevertheless, the boy faced them boldly, making no resistance when two of them grabbed his arms and

hustled him towards the door.

"Hand the prisoner over to me," Slype blustered, and made a belated attempt to draw his gun, only to find that

some cautious soul in the press behind him had already removed it.

"Best not interfere, marshal," the fellow—a red-jowled, stalwart teamster—warned. "Yu can have yore shootin'

iron when this business is settled."

The officer shrugged his shoulders resignedly; he had put up a bluff, but with no intention of trying to make it

good. He saw the condemned youth vanish through the door in a medley of heaving bodies, and presently

followed, to make a final effort, not to save the victim's neck, but his own face. The fools, he reflected; they

thought they had beaten him, and were only doing just what he wanted them to. He strode after the jeering,

shouting crowd, and like peas from a pod, men popped from the buildings on either side of the street and joined

the procession. By the time it stopped, nearly every man in the place was present.

The halt was made at a cottonwood which shaded the last shack—going east—in the settlement, and had the

distinction of being the one tree the actual town could boast. It was a giant, only its great girth having saved it

from transformation into building material. Round it the spectators milled, jockeying to get a good view of the

tightlipped, grey-faced boy who flushed a little and then proudly straightened up when the rope, with its running

noose, was dropped over his head. The other end was pitched over an outflung branch above him and three men

gripped it.

"Anythin' to say, Burdette?" ripped out Goldy Evans, who had constituted himself leader of the lynching party,

and added, "Yu might as well tell where yu cached my dust—it won't be no use where yo're goin'."

The prisoner looked at the ring of threatening, ghoulish faces thrust eagerly forward to see him die. "I never had yore dust, Evans, an' I didn't shoot Green," he replied firmly. "Yo're hangin' an innocent man."

Magee and several of the more solid citizens believed him, but could do nothing against the overwhelming

odds. The bulk of the crowd received the statement with ornate expressions of unbelief; the lust for blood was in

their nostrils; nothing short of a miracle would stop them now. The marshal knew it; this was not the first

Western mob, with its weird ideas of justice, its mad desire to destroy, that he had seen. He voiced one more

feeble protest.

"Boys, I can't let this go on—it ain't reg'lar. Yo're robbin' the law of its rights."

"Git to hell outa this an' take yore law with yu," snarled the teamster who had threatened him in the hotel.

"That there branch'll bear two, an' we can easy find another rope."

Slype turned away with a well-simulated gesture of despair, and the teamster plunged again into the jostling

throng, anxious not to miss the climax of the drama. Every eye was now fixed on the slim, youthful figure

waiting tensely for the word which would hurl him into eternity. No one noticed the approach of two riders who,

about to enter the town, had pulled up at the sight of the gathering. Evans was about to give the fatal signal

when another command rang out :

"Drop that rope, yu fellas!"

Heads turned and oaths sprang from amazed lips when it was seen that the speaker was none other than the

man whose murder they helieved themselves to be avenging. The C P foreman's face was of beaten bronze, and

out of it his slitted eyes gleamed frostily upon the executioners; they let go the rope as though it had been red-

hot.

"What's Burdette been doin' now?" Sudden asked.

A dozen voices told him the story, and as he heard it, the cow-puncher's lips curled in a sneer of disgust. Then he

drawled, "Seein' as I ain't dead none to speak of, I reckon the prisoner can shuck that rope an' stand clear."

In a flurry of dust Mrs. Lavigne pulled her pony to a stop at Sudden's side. Returning from a ride, she had only

just heard the news. When she saw the puncher's contemptuous smile and Bill Yago's broad grin, the colour

crept slowly back into her cheeks.

"They told me you were—dead, and that they were going to hang Luce," she said breathlessly.

"All a mistake, Mrs. Lavigne," Sudden said lightly. "As yu see, I ain't cached, an' the lynchin' will—not—take

place."

The marshal fancied he saw a chance to reassert his authority. "Hold on, Green," he snapped. "What right yu

got to call the turn? If this fella didn't bump yu off, he tried to, an' I'm holdin' him on that." A murmur from the

rougher element in the assembly encouraged him, and he went on, "As marshal o' this yer burg…"

"Yo're a false alarm," came the acid interruption. "Yu stand there like a bump on a log while a man who ain't

been tried is strung up." The speaker's quick eye saw the empty holster, and he laughed aloud. "Cripes! So they

took away yore gun?" He turned to the crowd in mock reproof. "Boys, that warn't noways right—it don't show a

fittin' respect for the law. How'd yu know he don't want to argue with somebody—or somethin'?"

This brought a cackle from one of the audience, and the merriment spread. Conscious that they had nearly

committed a terrible blunder, the men were willing to forget it in ridiculing Slype, whose sallow face grew more

sour as the jesting voices rose.

"Give the man his gun," someone cried. "Whats a good of a marshal without a gun?"

"Huh! Whatsa good o' some marshals with one?" another wanted to know.

Sudden had one more thing to say. "Someone tried to get me to-day, marshal, but it wasn't this Burdette," he

said meaningly. "Don't let anyone persuade yu different. It's mighty lucky for yu I came along in time; yu sabe?"

The marshal did, and the chill in the quiet voice made him shiver. The foreman turned to Luce. "I'm a-goin' to

the hotel; yu better come with me, if there ain't no objections."

There were none; this satirical, long-limbed young man who had beaten Whitey to the draw was clearly not a

person to take chances with, and the squinting, hopeful eyes of Bill Yago, who was known as a willing and

enthusiastic fighter, did not add to the attractiveness of the proposition. So the crowd opened to let through the

man it had come to hang, and, with the volatile spirit of the time and place, was grimly humorous.

"We was plenty near puttin' one over on you, Luce," grinned a miner. "Yu shore oughta sell that grey; what'll

yu take?"

"Damn good care yu don't get him," retorted the youth, and looked at the marshal. "Yu can tell yore boss, King

Burdette, that yu've fallen down again on the job o' gettin' rid of me. I'm stayin'."

Without waiting for a reply from the rageful, stuttering officer, he joined Sudden, Yago, and Mrs. Lavigne,

walking beside them as they paced up the street. At the door of "The Plaza" the girl spoke,

"Didn't you get any warning?" she asked.

"Yes, an' I'm thankin' yu, ma'am," Sudden replied. "I allow I was plumb careless—an' fortunate."

"A man can play his luck too long," she said, and with a wise little nod, left them.

Yago's gaze followed her. "She's too good for that skunk," he remarked. "Got guts, that gal has."

Which inelegance, coming from a confirmed misogynist, was indeed a compliment. The foreman regarded his

friend with surprise, and then a mischievous twinkle danced in his eyes.

"Pore of Bill," he murmured. "It's wuss'n measles when yu get it late in life, love is. Look at him a-blushin,'

Luce." Which was an obvious libel, since Yago's leathery skin was as incapable of blushing as a boot-sole.

"Rotten trick for Master Cupid to play on a fella what's been damnin' women all his life," the tormentor went on.

"Yu ain't got a chance, ol'-timer, but never yu mind, slick yoreself up, buy a new shirt—yu can do with one,

anyway—an' —"

"Aw, go to hell, yu—yu blatherskite," Yago shouted.

"Let's make it the hotel—they tell me drinks ain't too plentiful where yu said, an' I'm as dry as the Staked

Plain," his foreman smiled.

CHAPTER XIII

THAT same evening, on the verandah at the C P, Sudden related the day's happenings to an interested audience

of two. The rancher's brow grew black when he learned of the attack on his foreman. Angrily he struck in on the

story,

"By God ! I've a mind to round up the boys an' go clean up the Circle B right away," he said.

"Which is just what they're hopin' for," Sudden pointed out. "No, we gotta lie doggo an' let them do the movin'.

Yu ain't heard all of it."

He went on to tell of the attempted lynching, and though Purdie did not interrupt again, he exploded when the

tale ended.

"Pity yu didn't show up a bit later," was his cruel comment.

"But, Daddy, if Luce wasn't guilty," Nan protested, and there was a tremor in her tone.

Purdie had not seen her cheeks pale, or noticed the little gasp of relief when she heard that the accused man

had been delivered from danger; he grasped one fact only—a Burdette had escaped a fate he held to be richly

deserved.

"He's earned it a'ready," he growled harshly, and both his hearers knew that he was thinking of his son.

The foreman shook his head. "Still can't agree with yu on that, Purdie. As for to-day's play, it was a plain

frame-up, an' a clumsy one too, though it nearly came off; if that bullet had got me right, nothin' could 'a' saved

Burdette. Now, ask yoreself a question: If Luce is in with his brothers, why should they try to get him

stretched?"

"I dunno, but it might 'a' been him," was the obstinate reply.

"Not a chance," Sudden said. "Luce ain't such a fool as to leave his name an' address like that."

"Huh! Any fella who has just downed another in cold blood is liable to run off an' forget a hat," Purdie

persisted. "An' if he had got yu, who'd ever find the spot he fired from? It was on'y by chance Riley was

passin'."

"Was it?" the foreman asked dryly. "Riley rides for the Circle B, an' was comin' to town. What was he doin' so

far off the reg'lar trail?"

"Yu suggest he did the shootin'?"

"No, but I'd say he was there to take the news in an' lead the posse to the place."

"Well, I ain't convinced," the rancher replied. "An' watch out for yoreself, Jim; the Burdettes ain't quitters,

which is the on'y good thing I can say for 'em."

He went into the house, and the girl followed. The foreman caught a murmured "Thank you" as she passed

him. He smiled as he reflected that Luce might be having a thin time just now, but there were compensations to

come. His thoughts went to "The Plaza," but he jerked them savagely away and stalked to his own quarters.

Riley, for reasons of his own, did not return to the ranch, but he took care to keep clear of "The Plaza"; the boss of the Circle B had a nasty habit of venting his displeasure on the nearest object. Therefore, no other member of the outfit having been to town, King Burdette rode in that evening blissfully ignorant of what had happened. But he knew what he expected to hear, and his darkly handsome face wore an expression of satisfaction when he tied his horse to the hitch-rail in front of "The Plaza" and walked in. Lu Lavigne greeted him with her usual smile, and the

customer to whom she was chatting promptly drifted away. King's keen eyes searched the girl's face for any sign

of distress and found none; she appeared to be her own gay, impudent self. The hand which poured a drink for

him was perfectly steady.

"Well, honeybird, what's the good news?" he smiled.

She bobbed a mocking curtsey. "The best I can offer Your Majesty is that the coward who tried to shoot Mister

Green from ambush this afternoon failed, and another gang of cowards who would have hanged Luce for it,

failed also."

She was laughing as she spoke, but her dark eyes watched him; she had not forgotten his cryptic reference to the

bringing down of two birds with one stone. But King Burdette was an expert poker-player, and though the

information had hit him like a blow, not a muscle of his face moved. Still smiling, he said drawlingly:

"So somebody took a shot at the estimable Green, huh? On'y shows that even a fella like Whitey may have

friends, don't it?"

"Why should he fasten the crime on Luce?" she asked.

"Him being already under a cloud, it seems a pretty bright idea," he replied carelessly. "As regards Luce, I'm

sorry . . ."

Lu Lavigne pushed out a slim white hand. "That pleases me, King," she said warmly.

"Sorry they didn't succeed in hangin' him, I was goin' to say," he finished harshly.

"But—after all—he's your brother," she protested.

"Don't think it," he said sharply. "When Luce left the Circle B he stepped right outa the family—he's no more

to me than any bum who tramps the trail. If I'd been at the stringin'-up I wouldn't 'a' raised a finger to stop it."

She knew he meant it, and the vicious savagery of his attitude appalled, and yet, in some curious way,

appealedto her. She too was a creature of extremes, of fire and ice, primitive in her passions, not to be bound by

the humdrum conventions of civilization. King Burdette was a kindred spirit, and she was aware of it; though

she condemned, she could not help being attracted.

"Look here, sweetness, to the devil with that young cur," he said. "I came to see yu."

She had an impish desire to plague him. "Really?" she doubted. "So Nan Purdie did dare to turn you down?"

At once she saw that she had struck home. For all his iron control, the raging fiend within the man showed in

his evil eyes. And then he laughed.

"Shucks," he said. "Jealous huh? Yu needn't be. No milk an' water for me, honey; I like a dash o' somethin'

stronger."

She allowed herself to be persuaded, and as he could be very entertaining when he chose, the pair of them were

soon laughing merrily. Some of the men in the place shrugged significant shoulders.

"Callous devil," muttered one. "Yu'd never think they mighty near hanged his brother this afternoon."

"He wouldn't care if they had—seein' they've quarrelled," said another. "That's the Black Burdettes all over; the

Ol' Man would 'a' shot any son that disobeyed him. Holy terror, he was; an' it wouldn't surprise me none if one o'

the boys wiped him out."

"Hey, Simmy, yu owe me ten dollars. Ante up," chimed in a third in the party.

"What's the matter with yu? Didn't I say I'd pay yu to-morrow?" Simmy said indignantly.

"Shore, but if yo're goin' to talk like a fool, there won't be no to-morrow for yu, an' I can use that dinero," was

the reply, with a meaning glance at the lounging figure at the bar.

But the Circle B man had no eyes for anyone but the beauty before him. He was aware that there were probably

men present who hated him, but such a thought would add to his enjoyment rather than otherwise, for inaction

on their part meant that they feared him, and fear, King Burdette held, was the ruling passion of life.

He left "The Plaza" early and went to "The Lucky Chance," where he found Riley, considerably the worse for

liquor.

"I'm wantin' yu," King said shortly, and led the way out of the saloon to an empty space at the back of it. Then

he turned on the man and said fiercely: "Why didn't yu come back to the ranch an' report to me?"

The cowboy blinked owlishly at him. "Well, the bottom sorta fell out o' things," he excused.

"Yu damned fool, all the more reason for lettin' me know," the other rapped back. "'Stead o' that, yu gotta get

soaked."

"Yore han's have to ask yore permish to take a drink?" Riley asked impudently.

The boss of the Circle B looked at him for a moment, calmly measured his distance, and struck. Before the

piston-like force of that blow the man went full-length to the ground. Ere he could rise or pull the gun at which

he was clawing, King jumped forward, picked him up, shook him till his teeth rattled, and again flung him

headlong.

"Now pull that gun an' go to hell," he snarled, slanting his own weapon on the sprawling form. "Argue with

me, will yu, yu scum?"

Riley, making no effort to reach for his pistol, climbed slowly to an upright posture again. The man-handling

had driven the drink out of him.

"Forget it, King," he said. "I'm sorry I sassed yu—reckon I must 'a' bin lit up. What yu want me to do?"

"Find yore bronc an' get back to the ranch for now," Burdette said. "An' keep yore trap shut, or ..."

He did not voice the threat, nor did he holster his pistol until the man had disappeared in the shadows. Then he

returned to the front of the saloon, mounted his horse, and drove the animal mercilessly in the direction of the

Circle B. By the time he reached it the poor brute's sides were deeply scored and the rider's spurs dripped blood.

In the living-room he found Mart, his big body sprawled in a chair, a cigarette dangling from his lips, and a

bottle of whisky beside him. He greeted his elder brother with a grin.

"Back early, huh?" he said, and then the scowl on King's face apprised him that something was wrong. "What's

eatin' yu?"

"How far off was Green when yu fired?"

"Little over a hundred yards, I'd say."

"An' yu missed ! " King said contemptuously.

"Missed nothin'! I saw him tumble into the canyon; must 'a' broke his neck anyways."

"He didn't; yore bullet creased him, an' he fell into the long grass on the rim. He rides into town just as they're

goin' to string up Luce, an' that lets him out; yu can't hang a man for murder when the victim is standin' by. I

guess the C P outfit an' half o' Windy is laughin' at us right now."

The big man stared at him. "It ain't possible; I saw him drop," he argued.

King's gesture was not complimentary. "Mart," he said, "all the brains yu got would go into a nutshell, an' yu

wouldn't have to take the kernel out neither."

"Well, it warn't my plan," the other grumbled.

"Nothin' wrong with that, but I thought yu could shoot," his brother sneered. "How close do yu have to be?"

The taunt sank in, as the speaker intended it should. Mart's heavy face was flushed, his lips in an ugly pout. "I'll

get him," he said thickly. "I'll call him down."

King's laugh was not pleasant. "Mebbe Whitey was just unlucky," he said satirically.

"Not that way," Mart explained. "He's too good for me with a six-gun, but with these I..."

He flexed the fingers of his huge hands, clutching the empty air as though he had already the puncher's throat

within them, while the biceps in the gorilla-like arms bulged beneath the blue flannel shirt. In brains and

dexterity King was the master, but when it came to a question of brute force .....

"That's certainly an idea, but let it ride a spell," King said. "Mebbe there's a better trail out."

"Suits me," Mart said. "Yu on'y gotta say the word. Saw that Purdie gal in town s'mornin'. She's sprouted up

into a mighty good-looker; I've a mind to…"

The elder man flashed round on him. "Lay a finger on her an' I'll fill yore fat carcase with lead," he said

fiercely. "She ain't for yu."

Mart's eyes opened. "No call to get het up," he said mildly. "Yo're a reg'lar hawg though. What 'bout Lu

Lavigne? That dame is liable to put a pill into yu if yu play tricks."

"I've got a use for Nan Purdie," King replied.

"Me too," Mart said coarsely, and laughed.

"Then yu better forget it; I meant what I said. Bein' my brother won't save yu," King rasped, and went out of

the room.

"He'd do it too, damn him," Mart muttered. "Well, she's a pretty nice piece, but ... Wonder how in hell I missed

that cussed cow-punch?"

CHAPTER XIV

THE C P foreman had mounted his horse and was pacing away from the corral when Yago came up.

"Which way yu headin', Jim?" he asked.

"Mind yore own damn business," Sudden grinned. "Aimin' to ride herd on me?"

"I ain't, but if yu don't show up, it'd be useful to know where to look," Bill told him.

"That's so," the foreman agreed soberly. "Never can tell in these stirrin' times. I'm pointin' south-west—ain't

looked over that part o' the range yet."

"She's pretty wild—not much good for grazin'," Yago told him. "Dangerous country, I'd call it."

Sudden nodded and smiled; he knew his friend was warning him. Passing the ranch-house, he struck off to the

right, climbing the lower slope of the mountain. At first he followed a faint trail, but presently left it and headed

for a point he had already picked out—a clump of tall pines which rose above the surrounding timber. He noted

that the feed was sparse and poor in quality; there were few cattle about. The pines proved to be further away

than he had thought, masses of rock from the peak above and thickets of prickly pear making detours inevitable.

When at length he came in sight of it he was surprised to find a habitation. It was a tiny place, tucked in among

the trees, and built of unbarked logs. A hole in one corner of the earthed roof served as a chimney, and from this

a thin twist of smoke was ascending. From the small pole corral behind the hut a burro brayed, and Sudden's

mount responded with a friendly whicker. Instantly a man showed himself in the open doorway, clutching a rifle, and peering suspiciously from beneath the brim of his hat.

"Hold on thar or I'll drill yer. What yer want?" he barked.

The puncher flung up a hand, palm outwards, to signify that his intentions were peaceful, and came steadily on.

Evidently the man now recognized him, for he lowered his weapon and gave vent to a throaty chuckle.

"Yu, mister, is it?" he said. "Yu gotta s'cuse me—my danged eyesight ain't as good as it useter be. Rest yore

saddle—I got some coffee boilin'."

It was the old prospector, California. The visitor got down, trailed his reins, and seated himself on a rude bench

outside the shack door. In a few moments his host joined him, bearing two tin mugs of steaming, black

beverage.

"I'm out o' milk, but there's more sweetenin' if yu want her," he apologized.

Sudden sampled the liquid and pronounced it excellent, which brought a satisfied grin to the old man's

wrinkled features.

"Guess I c'n make coffee," he said. "Oughta be able to —musta made enough to float a fleet in my time."

"First look I've had at this part of our range," the foreman remarked. "Didn't know anyone was livin' up here.

What yu got—a quarter-section?"

"No, I ain't a 'nester'—can't be bothered with land nohow," California explained. "Why, I'm liable to pull stakes

an' drift any time. Purdie gimme leave to run up the shack an' scratch around. It's nice an' quiet up here."

The visitor smiled; he was listening to an incessant, rumbling roar, like that of heavy seas breaking on a

shingly shore, but without the sucking swish of the backwash.

"Thunder?" he queried.

"Aye, li'l old Thunder River," the miner grinned. "Fella gits so useter that he don't notice it. Yu oughta hear her when snow flies on Stormy. I've sat for hours watchin' the water rippin', tearin', an' thrashing its way through the Sluice; she must be just lousy with gold."

"What makes yu think that?" Sudden asked.

"Don't think—I'm dead shore," California retorted. "Anyone as knows gold would be. Why, even some of them

lunkheads down yonder"—he jerked a derisive thumb in the direction of Windy—"has got their suspicions.

Lookee, yu can git `colour' most anywheres on the banks o' the river, an' there's patches of alluvial gold an'

small `pockets' on the slopes o' the valley, but it's all surface stuff—go deep, an' yu git nothin' but a hole. Now,

where's it come from? Didn't fall out'n the skies, I reckon. No, sir, its bin washed down, an' I figure that at one

time mebbe a thousand years ago, before the stream had cut itself a channel to run in—this yer valley was

periodically flooded an' the fine gold was deposited then. I ain't no scientist, but that's the way I dope her out."

"Sounds likely," the puncher admitted. "But if it's so, all yu gotta do is trace the source o' the river "

The prospector emitted a cackle. "Yo're pickin' a job, I knows of over two score—some of 'em underground

springs," he said. " 'Sides, how'd yu know where the water picks up the dust? No, yu can't get at it thataway."

His little eyes gleamed cunningly. "But she's here, on Ol' Stormy, just waitin' to be found."

"So right now we might be sittin' atop of a gold-mine," the foreman smiled.

"Yo're shoutin', though I reckon she's higher up," the old man returned seriously. "Somewheres around there's

rock that's just rotten with gold." He read the incredulity in the listener's face. "Yu don't believe me?" he cried,

and dived into the hut. In a moment he reappeared. "What d'yu make o' that?" he asked triumphantly.

"That" proved to be a piece of quartz about the size of a large egg, jagged and irregular in shape, which the

miner almost reverently placed on the bench between them. The puncher picked it up, marvelling at the weight

until he saw that the stone was thickly veined with yellow; even a novice would have known it for what men

live, and die, to obtain.

"Hell's bells! she's mighty near half gold," Sudden ejaculated.

The prospector chuckled delightedly at the effect he had produced. "yessir, just around," he agreed. "A ton o'

rock like that would put even a spendin' fella beyond the reach o' poverty."

Then came the natural question: "Where'd yu find her?"

The crafty eyes twinkled. "It wouldn't help yu none if I told yu," California said, after a pause. "That's `float,'...

An' there ain't a smidgin' o' rock like it where 'twas picked up. May have took hundreds o' years to git there or

bin dropped by some fella. Think o' searchin'?"

Sudden laughed. "No, never did have the gold fever," he said.

"If yu had yu'd never lose it," the miner said. "Me, I bin scramblin' round Stormy for years—like to have

busted my neck a score o' times. An' what for? It ain't the wealth, stranger; all the money in the world won't

make me a day younger; it's just findin' it."

"An' yu have found it?" the foreman queried.

"Mebbe I have an' mebbe I ain't, was the non-committal answer. "Didn't expect me to say, did yer?"

Sudden shook his head. "Yu've talked too much as it is; if a whisper o' this got abroad in Windy ... Anyways,

yu can reckon me dumb."

"Yo're dead right, Mister, an' I'm obliged," the old man said. "I'm a chatterin' of fool when I talk about gold." The puncher swung into his saddle again, and neither he nor the miner saw the shadow that slipped from the end of the shack, slid along the corral rails, and vanished in the brush at the back. Thus safely concealed, Riley, the Circle B rider, watched the visitor depart. His squinting eyes were popping with excitement. Told off by King Burdette to watch Green, he had hung about the C P and followed him to the prospector's hut, where he had arrived in time to hear the major portion of the conversation and see the "specimen."

"Sufferin' snakes!" he muttered. "What made the old fool open up to that fella? Wonder whether he told him

anythin' 'fore I come up? Hell! Mebbe he's goin' there now. I gotta see; Cal will keep."

Hurriedly he went to where he had hidden his horse, mounted, and set out after the C P man. The necessity for

keeping under cover made pace impossible, but his quarry was in no hurry, and presently he espied him. The

foreman had dismounted again and was gazing on a scene which, even to the most surfeited sightseer, could not

but be awe-inspiring. A giant gash in the side of the mountain, resembling the mark left by a mighty axe-blow,

provided a passage for the river. Prickly pear, catclaw, and other shrubs fringed the rims of the chasm for the

most part, but there were a few spaces where the very brink could be approached. In one of these Sudden was

standing.

The Sluice. The name was not an inapt one for this long, narrow stone trough with its spray-splashed, almost

vertical, bare walls. Leaning forward, the puncher could see where the water entered, cascading over a fall of

twenty feet, snow-white and glistening with points of fire like a stream of jewels in the rays of the sun, to drop

into a yeasty smother of foam and spray, and then—as though it had finished with play—to roll on through the

rift with the smooth, sinuous ease of a gigantic reptile.

"She must be some sight when Stormy sheds his winter coat," Sudden mused. He watched the fragments of froth as they eddied and swirled some forty feet below, and nodded understandingly. "Don't 'pear to be travellin' fast now, but she is; fella wouldn't have much chance in there, I reckon. Must be another fall below—that one ain't makin' all the racket."

Meanwhile, Riley, having found his man, had also dismounted and was creeping up on him. Save for keeping

under cover, he had no need for caution, the roar of the river drowned every sound, and the foreman had no

thought of company in that wild spot. The Circle B man's eyes were gleaming vengefully, and his brain was

busy.

"Bet he's the on'y one the ol’ fossil has yapped to," he muttered. "With him outa the way, Cal could be made to

talk. Gawd! What a chance; wish I could swing it alone, but it's too big—I'll have to let King in." He looked

round suspiciously as he suddenly realized that he was speaking aloud, and then he laughed. "I'm a plain damn

fool," he went on. "Why, fella could shout an' yu wouldn't get a whisper. Here's where we even up for Whitey."

He had reached the last clump of foliage between himself and his unsuspecting victim, only a few yards

separating them. For a moment Riley paused, his lips drawn back in a vulpine snarl, his slitted eyes gauging the

distance he had to spring. Sudden, poised almost on the edge of the chasm, was rolling a smoke, his mind

mulling over what the prospector had told him. If the Burdettes learned of the mine they would stop at nothing

to get possession of the C P. He had warned California not to chatter, but he knew the type. Liquor would loosen

his tongue and he would boast; many a miner who had made a lucky strike had lost all, even life itself, because

he could not keep his mouth closed.

He had snapped a match alight and was applying it to the cigarette between his lips when a jarring thrust from behind sent him staggering towards the abyss. For an instant he tottered, trying to regain his balance, and then, realizing that he must fall, pitched headlong. Riley, crouching above, watched the body drop like a stone and plunge into the depths. It had been easy; three long strides, a push, and the deed was done. He waited till the puncher rose to the surface, dragged out his gun and fired—twice. He saw the man in the water fling up his hands, and sink. Dropping to his knees, he waited, scanning the stream closely; there was no sign. Riley stood up; his hands were shaking.

"Reckon I fixed yu, Mister Green," he said hoarsely. "Gotta go an' break the bad news to King now; he'll be

some grieved—mebbe."

At the moment that he mounted and rode away the man he believed he had murdered slid his head above water

and eagerly gulped air into his aching lungs. The initial plunge into the icy stream had driven the breath from his

body and he had been forced to come up immediately. Then, though he had not heard the reports, he had seen

the spit of the bullets in the water beside his head and gathered that the man above meant to make a job of it.

Promptly sinking again, he swam beneath the surface, his own efforts and the powerful current taking him a

considerable distance. Sudden was an expert swimmer, and water itself had no terrors for him. With his nostrils

just clear he waited for the ominous "plop" of a bullet; it did not come, and he smiled grimly.

"Lucky for me I ain't red-headed or bald—that jasper would 'a' got me," he told himself. "Wonder who it was?

Mebbe California got sorry he talked so much, but I'm bettin' it was a younger an' stronger man gave me that

jolt."

Satisfied that the would-be assassin had departed, he raised his head and looked about. The dark walls between

which the stream was swiftly swinging him held out no hope whatever. Rising sheer, they presented for the first

ten feet a smooth, polished surface, the work of the springtime floods.

"I'll need wings to beat this proposition," Sudden reflected, adding sardonically, "an' I'm liable to get 'em, but

it'll be too late."

Conserving his strength for the struggle he knew must come, he let the current carry him, content just to keep

afloat. Soon he noticed that the reverberating roar of the river was becoming louder; that must mean only one

thing —another fall, and he knew it could not be a little one. Desperately he searched the walls of his watery

prison, but no crack or cranny affording hand- or foot-hold presented itself; a cat could not have climbed them.

Then, as he swung round a bend, he saw a sight at which even the bravest might well have quailed.

Little more than a hundred yards ahead, the sides of the gully closed in, forming a narrow, tunnel-like passage

through which the stream swept at incredible speed. Along the centre of this outlet Sudden could see a tumbled,

boiling ridge of foam, tossing like the wind-worried mane of a huge white horse. He knew the meaning of that;

rocks there—jagged teeth which would tear him to bits when the cruel current hurled him upon them. Even if he

escaped this fate, the deafening thunder told him that it would only mean death in another form, beaten and

pounded in the fury of the larger fall.

The prospect spurred the puncher to action; he now began to savagely fight the force he had hitherto submitted

to, heading for the rock wall, where he hoped to find the current less powerful. It was not long before he realized

that his efforts were futile. He was a strong man, his open-air life had endowed him with muscles of steel, but

his soggy clothing and the numbing chill of the water werebeginning to tell, and against the terrific thrust of the

torrent he was impotent. Fight as he might, he felt himself being forced nearer and nearer to that awful gully of

death. Thrashing out with leaden limbs, his hand struck something, and he clutched desperately; it was a

submerged needle of rock. With an effort he got his other hand to it and held on, though his arms seemed to be

leaving their sockets. Conscious that he must soon let go from sheer exhaustion, he fought his way round to the

up-stream side of the rock, and was immediately flattened against it. The pressure was enormous, but the

position eased his aching muscles.

"Guess I know now how the meat in a sandwich feels," he mutttered, and made an heroic attempt to grin. For some moments he clung there, breathless and gasping, while the galloping stream, like a live malignant thing, strove to tear him away. He was now perilously near the danger-spot. Idly he watched the stump of a tree whirl past to vanish in the welter of warring waters, saw it leap into view again, white streaks showing where it had been riven on the rocks, disappear, and emerge once more still further shattered. Sudden knew that it would be spewed out of that deadly maw as splintered fragments. That would be his fate unless . . .

Lifting himself a little in the water, he searched again. Twenty yards distant, at the foot of the dank wall on his

left, there appeared to be a small ledge, thinly covered by the stream; if he could reach that he would, at least, be

no longer in danger of being swept over the fall. He decided to take the risk, and in a moment was again at the

mercy of the current. This, fortunately, carried him straight to the spot, and a lucky snatch kept him from going

past it. The struggle to climb up took his last ounce of strength.

Slimy and water-swept, the ledge was heaven itself after the incessant battle with the river, and for a long time

Sudden lay there like a log, conscious only of one fact—the necessity for violent exertion had, for the time,

passed. Spent both in body and mind, he was satisfied with the present, and the point that his prospect of

escaping was as minute as ever did not trouble him. Lying full length on the ledge, his eyes closed, the greedy

stream clawing feebly at his wracked body, he was content to rest. A flick of something across his face aroused

him : he sat up, and for a moment fancied that a snake had fallen from the cliff above. Then he saw a dangling

rope with a noose at the end. A slight bulge in the rock-face prevented him from seeing the rim from which it

had been dropped.

"Somebody's invitin' me to hang myself," he reflected.

Climbing cautiously to his feet, he adjusted the loop under his armpits and shook the rope. In a few moments he

was dragged sprawling over the edge of the chasm. At the other end of the taut rope was his own horse, Nigger,

and looking down upon him was Yago, whose anxious countenance split into a broad grin when he saw his

foreman stand up and throw off the loop.

"This yer passion for bathin' is likely to be yore finish one o' these days," he remarked.

"Yu ol’ fool," Sudden smiled. "How in hell did yu find me?"

"Just luck," Bill said offhandedly. "Ran into Cal, who said he'd seen yu, an' come across Nigger, with the reins

hitched round the saddle-horn. Knowed yu wouldn't leave him thataway, so I scouted round some an' found a

place where it looked like yu'd took a high dive. Then I come down-stream hopin' to find yore remainders."

"It musta' been a disappointment for yu," the foreman said gravely.

"Shucks, yu know what I mean," Yago replied hastily. A listening stranger would have deemed one man ungrateful and the other indifferent, but they understood one

another, these two. Sudden knew that his friend had purposely followed him in case of danger, and Bill was well

aware that the foreman would give his life for him if occasion demanded, but, for untold gold, neither of them

would have admitted this.

When the rescued man's clothes had dried somewhat and he had smoked several much-needed cigarettes, they

rode along to the end of the Sluice and viewed the fall. With all his nerve, the foreman could not repress a slight

shudder as he looked at the narrow gut, with its twisting, tearing, racing torrent of water, fighting its way

through to pitch, a sheer forty feet, into a tossing, tormented smother of spume and spray. The rolling roar of the

river made speech impossible and it was not until they were some distance away that yago heard the whole of

the story. His expressed intentions regarding the unknown assailant were definite and lurid. The foreman

listened with a quizzical expression.

"There was once a lady who wrote a piece 'bout cookin' a hare," he remarked. "It started off with, `First catch

yore hare.' "

"Aw, go to hell," was Bill's inelegant rejoinder.

CHAPTER XV

HAVING, as he believed, successfully disposed of the rider, Riley turned his attention to the man's mount,

patiently awaiting his master's return. Reluctantly he knotted the reins and flung them over the saddle-horn; the

animal might return to the C P, but being almost a stranger there, it was more likely to drift around.

"An' mebbe I'll `find' yu later," the Circle B man muttered. "Just now it wouldn't be noways safe."

With a flick of his quirt he started the horse off, mounted his own beast, and set out for the ranch on Battle

Butte. He found King Burdette in the living-room, and chuckled inwardly when his entry was received with a

black look; his news would soon change all that, and he meant to make the most of it.

"What the blazes do yu want?" came the surly question.

The visitor seated himself on the side of the table, rolled a smoke, and swung a nonchalant leg. He still bore the

mark of King's fist on his face, but he was a different man. Burdette sensed the change and watched him

narrowly.

"I got news," Riley began. "They'll be needin' a new foreman at the C P."

King straightened up with a jerk. "How come?" he asked. "Has Green gone?"

"Yu could put it that way," Riley said. "He slipped into the Sluice s'mornin'."

"Slipped—into—the Sluice?" the other repeated. "What in the nation was he doin' there?"

"Just lookin'—seemed to be admirin' it," Riley said casually. "Reckon he turned dizzy, or fancied a bath

mebbe."

King's cruel lips curled contemptuously. "Oh, yeah," he said. "Who told yu this fine yarn?"

"No one didn't tell me—I saw it," the rider retorted.

King Burdette laughed; he knew the Sluice, and he guessed what had happened, but he wanted to be sure.

"Mebbe he can swim," he suggested.

"Carryin' too much weight," Riley said meaningly. "Slugs don't help a swimmer none whatever."

"Better 'a' left it to the river," King commented. "If he's found with lead in him . . ."

"Ever seen them teeth in the gut?" the other asked sneeringly. "Bah! there won't be enough of him to put a

cross over."

King nodded. "That's so. Well, yu done a day's work, Riley, an' I ain't forgettin' it. Whitey "

"Was to have had five hundred. I want more'n that."

It was a guess, but a good one, and the other man did not trouble to deny it.

"Shoot," he said.

The cowboy was in no hurry. "I've got hep to suthin' big—too big for me to tackle alone, which is why I'm

talkin'," he said, after a pause. "But first, I want yore honest-to-Gawd promise that I share equally with yu, Mart

an' Sim. What's the word?"

King did not reply at once; Riley's air of repressed excitement evidenced tidings of importance, and though he

could lose nothing by agreeing to the proposal, he was far too astute to do so immediately; after all, the man was

only a tool, and must be kept in his place. At the same time, he was curious.

"That goes with me, Riley, an' I can speak for my brothers," he said at last. "Spill the beans."

Whereupon the rider told of the conversation he had overhead between California and the C P foreman,

speaking in a low, husky voice which positively shook when he attempted to describe the nugget the prospector

had so proudly produced.

"My Gawd, King, yu never see such rock," he exclaimed. "Near as big as my fist, an' more'n half pure gold, I'll

lay a fifty."

"Findin' `float' don't mean yu got the mine it come from," King objected, but it was more for the sake of

prompting his informant; his interest was plain enough.

"Yo're right, but Cal knows—he was just all swelled up," Riley said confidently. "He may have let it out to

Green; I warn't there when the pow-wow began."

"It's big news, shore enough," King decided. "An' yu done right to come to me—I'll play fair. Allus knowed

there was a gold-mine up on Stormy—that's one reason why I've been so hot on gettin' the C P." He paused, his

eyes glinting with savage satisfaction. "We'll have 'em both now; there ain't nothin' to stop us. First thing to do is

get hold o' Cal an' put him where he can't chatter—'cept to me."

The sun had dropped over the horizon in a glory of red and gold; down in the valley it was already dark, and on the mountain-side the dusk was rapidly deepening. California, busy preparing his evening meal, was oblivious to these natural phenomena. Therefore he did not see those silent shadows stealing from tree to tree until they reached his habitation, and only became aware of their presence when a hoarse voice barked :

"H'ist 'em, pronto ! "

The old man dropped the skillet he was lifting as though it had burned him and spun round, both hands raised.

A tall, masked man stood in the doorway, his gun levelled. He stepped forward, and others followed, dour-

looking fellows, slitted kerchiefs across their faces, and armed."What's the game?" the prospector shrilled.

"Shut yore trap, come quiet, an' yu won't be hurt none," the man with the gun told him. "If we have to reason

with yu..."

The implied threat was unnecessary—Cal had no thought of resistance. Blindfolded, his hands tied behind, he

was hustled out and lifted on to a horse. The leader then searched the cabin, found what he was looking for—the

piece of "float"—and joined his companions. At a word the party set out for the valley, taking a line, however,

which would enable them to keep clear of the town. At the end of what seemed to him an interminable ride,

California was yanked from the saddle, the handkerchief over his eyes removed, and he was thrust into a small

log shack.

"Talk to yu later," he was gruffly told, and then came the creak of a turning key.

The prisoner's reply took the form of a stream of curses, blistering, vitriolic, the cream of all he had gathered in

the many mining-camps and tough towns he had known. It was an impartial, comprehensive cursing, for,

starting with his unknown captors, it went on to include Windy and its inhabitants, and finished with a whole-

hearted condemnation of himself and the foreman of the C P.

"No fool like an old 'un, they say, an' of all the old fools I'm the daddy," he wheezed when his breath and

memory were beginning to fail. "I'd oughta be split in two with a hatchet for openin' my face to that slick-eared,

double-faced cow-punch, burn his soul. O' course he yaps to Purdie, an' here I am, boxed up on the C P. Got no

more sense than a burro, Cal, yu ain't, but from now on yo're dumb, whatever play they make."

Outside the door a tall man listened and laughed silently.

"Mouthy old bird," he muttered. "But that's a sound idea 'bout Green—we'll have to let him go on believin' that.

Yu'll be good an' hungry in the mornin', friend, an' mebbe not so dumb as yu think; an empty belly is a powerful

persuader."

* * *

It was not until the second evening after his adventure in the Sluice that Sudden visited town again. He had told

no one of this further attempt on his life, and had sworn Yago to secrecy. His appearance at "The Plaza" evoked

no surprise; several of those present gave him friendly nods; others watched him indifferently as he stepped to

the bar and greeted the proprietress. Evidently his supposed demise was not yet generally known. Lu Lavigne

welcomed him with a smile, but there was a shadow in her eyes.

"I'm guessin' yu ain't pleased to see me," he said bluntly.

"You know that isn't true," she replied. "But why come looking for trouble?"

The corners of his eyes crinkled up. "An' I came to see yu," he reproved.

She shrugged impatient shoulders. "I ride towards Old Stormy nearly every morning," she told him.

"I'll shore remember," he grinned. "Mebbe yore bronc will get away from yu again, an' li'l Miss Tenderfoot'll

want help."

She had to laugh, but her face quickly sobered, the muttered "Oh, damn," accenting the change. Usually her

mild expletives had a whimsical unreality—they might have been uttered by a child—but this time she meant it.

Sudden did not move, but the mirror behind the bar enabled him to see that King Burdette had thrust open the

swing-door and was strolling towards them. The puncher, head hunched, waited until the newcomer was near

and then straightened up and turned round.

"God ! "

King Burdette, taken off his guard, had recoiled, staringwith wide eyes at the man he believed to be drifting, a shapeless mass, in the depths of Thunder River. Almost instantly, however, he got over the shock, and an expression of sneering rage replaced his amazement. He glared at the girl.

"What's this fella doin' here?" he asked.

There was nothing mirthful in the cow-puncher's smile. He had learned what he wished to know: Burdette was

aware of, and perhaps concerned in, the effort to send him to a horrible death in the Sluice.

"Why don't yu ask me?" he suggested.

Burdette's gaze was fixed on Lu Lavigne, and it was she who replied. "This is a public place; he has as much

right to be here as you have."

Her defiance spurred his rage. "So that's it?" he sneered. "Got a new playthin', huh?" He laughed hideously.

"But yu ain't finished with me yet, yu "

A cold, rasping voice cut in; Sudden was bending slightly forward, his hands hanging at his sides, death in his

eyes.

"That'll be all from yu, Burdette," he said, and waited.

King turned his malevolent gaze on the interrupter. "I've on'y got one thing to say to yu, an' that is, don't crowd

yore luck too close," he warned. "It's saved yu twice "

"Three times," the puncher corrected, "An' that's my limit." He noted King's momentary start of surprise, and

went on, "If yo're honin' to make it a fourth, why, I'm waitin'."

King Burdette hesitated. He had plenty of pluck, and he was consumed with a desire to shoot down this man

with the cold eyes and voice which stung like acid, but a demon of doubt assailed him. Whitey had failed and

paid the penalty. King had no wish to follow him, especially now, when things were breaking right and a

prospect of almost unlimited wealth was opening out. But it was a direct challenge and must be met. The

sardonic voice of the C P foreman lashed him .

"Take yore time, Burdette; yu got all eternity ahead o' yu."

With a snarl of fury the baited man turned on the speaker, ready to snap out the word which would set guns

spouting flame and hot lead. But another voice intervened.

"There'll be no gun-play here, gents; I'll down the first fella what pulls."

Slype, who during the conversation had apparently been intent on a card game, was now standing near, his gun

out. Sudden saw the swift look of relief in Burdette's face and laughed aloud.

"Pretty neat, marshal," he said. "Yu figure I'd beat him to the draw, so I'd get yore pill. Well, I ain't obligin'.

Wasn't yu a leetle late gettin' into the game?"

"No call for me to interfere because two fellas quarrel over this yer woman," Slype said insolently.

The puncher's eyes grew chilly. "`Lady,' yu meant to say, didn't yu, marshal?" he suggested, and there was an

ominous purr in his tone. "Yu ain't denyin' that Mrs. Lavigne is a lady, are yu?"

The officer shuffled his feet and looked uncomfortable. The "lady" saved him the embarrassment of replying.

"Thank you, Mister Green, but I don't care a hoot what that dirty little pack-rat thinks I am," she said. "His

good opinion would be an insult."

"Bully for yu, Lu," shouted one of the company, and most of the rest laughed approvingly.

The marshal saw that he had blundered. "I warn't meanin' no offence," he said, but his look at the lady was

poisonous. "As law officer of this yer town it's my duty to stop a ruckus."

"An' yore boss is no doubt much obliged to yu," Sudden cut in. He turned to Burdette. "I'm servin' notice that yu've reached yore limit," he warned.

"I make my own limits an' for yu the roof's off," King retorted, and calling for a drink, presented his back to

the puncher. Outwardly calm again, he was a volcano within. For the first time in his life he had lost self-

confidence. Why had he backed down before this stranger of whom nothing was known save that he possessed a

deadly speed with a six-shooter? By what wizardry had the fellow escaped from the Sluice? Riley's shots must

have missed, of course, but King knew the place, with its slimy, vertical walls and exit over the fall which spelt

certain death. Had Riley pushed the wrong man in? No, he could not have made such a mistake in broad

daylight, and Green had said, "Three times."

He was aware that the subject of his thoughts had gone out without replying to his last remark; aware too that

he had lost prestige with the men present. Most of them had resumed their amusements, but there were nods and

muttered comments. Even the marshal—his creature—was regarding him doubtfully. Burdette turned a frosty

eye upon him.

"Wonderin' why I didn't take that fella up, Sam?" he asked. "Well, I ain't mixin' it with every stray gun-fighter

who comes glory-huntin', an' there's other reasons to that." He spoke loud enough for the room to hear, and then

dropped his voice. "I wanta find out what fetched him to Windy—he didn't drift in just by chance, I'll bet a

stack. Hello, what's come o' Lu?"

The bar-tender, to whom he put a question, informed him that Mrs. Lavigne had retired to her room, on the

plea of a headache. King swore under his breath and turned again to hear the marshal saying.

"Funny 'bout that of dirt-washer."

"Ain't heard," Burdette said indifferently. "Which of 'em?"

"California," Slype told him. "No one's seen hide nor hair of him for a coupla days."

"Sick, mebbe, or out on a prospect."

"No, he ain't at his shack, an' his tools an' burro is; Goldy Evans went to see."

"Oh, he'll show up. Anyways, I ain't lost any prospectors."

"That goes for me too, but his friends is clamourin' for a search-party," the marshal grunted. "Them damn'

gophers act like they owned the town."

"Let 'em look for him themselves," the Circle B man said contemptuously. "They're full-growed, ain't they?"

"That's an idea," the marshal said. "I'll tell 'em to fly at it."

He went out grinning, and King, seeing that Lu Lavigne did not reappear, followed soon after. Though his lean,

sneering features did not show it, he was amused at the commotion caused by the disappearance of the hoary-

headed old gold-seeker. One thing was certain : the mining element—which was fairly strong in the town—must

not learn the truth. Loping leisurely along the trail to the Circle B, he suddenly startled his horse by emitting a

throaty chuckle.

"Got it," he exclaimed. "That'll explain things an' mebbe put a crimp in yu, Mister Green."

He ripped out an oath as he recalled the humiliation the puncher had inflicted upon him in "The Plaza." It was

the first time any man had outfaced him and got away with it, and he was still trying to explain his own attitude

to himself. He had been glad the marshal had interfered, but now he cursed him, and yet—in the same

circumstances he knew he would be glad again. And Lu Lavigne?...

"Damn them both," he cried aloud, and raking the spurs along the ribs of his mount, sent it headlong through

the gloom.

CHAPTER XVI

THE foreman of the C P arose on the following morning with an uneasy feeling that all was not well with the

missing prospector, whose absence was the chief topic of conversation in the town. He confided his fears to

Yago, adding that he intended riding to the old man's shack. Bill promptly announced that he was coming too.

Sudden surveyed him disgustedly.

"Yu talk like I was a kid," he said.

"Yu act like yu was," Bill retorted bluntly. "From what I know o' this Burdette fella, `Percy Vere' are his

middle names, an' he'll try again. Yu've had the luck of a fat priest up to now, an' it's due to turn."

"Cheery li'l fella, ain't yu?" his friend smiled. "Don't this allus lookin' on the bright side hurt yore eyes?" When

they reached the shack the owner's burro pushed its head between the corral bars and brayed a loud welcome.

"Say `Howdy' to your relative, Bill," the foreman smiled. Yago's face was a picture of commiseration. "An' yu

kickin' at bein' called a kid," he said witheringly.

Having forked some hay into the corral and filled the rude drinking-trough, they entered the hut. A skillet

containing half-cooked bacon by the dead fire, and a pot of cold coffee beside it, showed that the occupant had

left in the midst of preparing a meal. The pile of blankets which did duty as a bed had been pulled aside,

disclosing a small cavity in the packed earth floor.

"That'll be where he cached his dust, an' it's went," Yago observed. "Looks like he didn't leave willin'."

"Somethin' else has gone too," Sudden said, and told of the piece of rich "float."

Bill's eyes widened. "Somebody got wise."

The foreman nodded and went outside. He found plenty of tracks in the soft soil, for Evans and his friends had

been there, but presently, casting a wider circle, he came upon a fresh lot, those of half a dozen riders, headed

away from Windy. He studied them closely for a while, and then returned to the shack in a thoughtful mood.

Yago, who had been searching for another possible hiding-place, looked up expectantly.

"Looks thisaway to me," Sudden said. "Someone followed me that mornin', overheard the conversation here—

the ol' man warn't exactly whisperin', an' there's boot-tracks an' cigarette ends side o' the shack—pushes me into

the Sluice, an' six of 'em come back later an' collect Cal. Reckon they got him holed up somewheres, aimin' to

make him talk."

"Mebbe they took him to the Circle B?" Bill suggested.

"Mebbe they didn't do nothin' so foolish," his foreman replied. "We gotta try an' trail 'em."

"Ain't yu goin' swimmin' this time?" Bill innocently inquired, and was given an order he declined to obey.

"It's hot enough here," he said. "Betcha a dollar them jaspers has blinded their trail."

For a few miles they had no difficulty in following the horsemen, and then, on a wide stretch of arid, stony

ground to the north of the town, all traces ended. After an hour's fruitless search, they gave it up.

"These hombres knowed where to come; yu could march a regiment across here an' a Injun couldn't follow it,"

Sudden said. "Seem to be headin' away from the Circlue B, too, but that don't mean nothin'. We'll have to try an'

pick up a pointer in Windy."

"I'll keep my ears open," Yago offered.

His friend grinned. "We shan't miss anythin' then, even if it's whispered," he said, with a sly glance at his

companion's hearing appendages.

Bill's reply was sadly devoid of the deference due to his superior; their friendship was not of yesterday. Other

work claimed their attention, and it was not until the approach of dusk that they got back to the ranch. On the

way to the bunkhouse, Purdie called his foreman. He had just returned from town, where he had heard about the

missing miner.

"What d'yu suppose has happened to the old chap?" he asked. "Shouldn't 'a' thought he was worth robbin' even,

let alone makin' away with."

Whereupon the foreman told what he knew of the matter, including his own perilous part in it. Purdie's eyes

grew big.

"Yu got out the Sluice?" he cried.

"With the help o' Bill Yago," Sudden reminded.

"Yeah. But them currents an' whirlpools! Why, I wouldn't tackle it for a million dollars," the rancher said, and

meant it. "Yu must be half a fish."

"I swim pretty good," the puncher admitted, and, with a whimsical smile, "I didn't have no choice, yu know."

"Got any notion who shoved yu in?"

"Nope. But King Burdette knowed about it. He looked like I was a ghost when he saw me in `The Plaza.' Yu

think that ol' skeezicks really has struck it rich?"

"Shouldn't wonder—there's allus been a tale of a lost mine up on Stormy. Never took no stock in it myself, but

if Cal or anybody else finds it they're welcome, far as I'm concerned."

"Even the Circle B gang?" Sudden suggested.

The rancher's head snapped back. "No, by God! " he cried. "Yo're right, Jim; anybody but them thieves an'

murderers." His brow grew dark and furrowed. "I mis-doubt I should 'a' dragged yu into this," he finished

gloomily.

"Shucks!" the foreman laughed. "Blame that little fella in Juniper. I'm wonderin' what the next move will be?"

As if in answer to the words came a flash from a belt of pines six hundred yards down the slope, a current of

cool air passed between the faces of the two men, and a dull thud told that the bullet had buried itself in the

ranch-house. Then followed the muffled crash of a rifle-shot. Instantly from the top of the trail came an

answering report, and a shadowy rider raced through the dusk towards the pines.

"Near thing, Purdie," the foreman said coolly. "Moody will smoke him out if he waits, but I'm bettin' against it.

I've been expectin' somethin' o' the sort, an' we gotta take turns sleepin'." He grinned at the men who had come

piling out of the bunkhouse. "It's all right, boys, no damage done, an' there ain't anythin' we can do—yet," he

said, adding meaningly, "An' we shore make a fine target bunched together like this."

The men took the hint and returned to the bunkhouse, but the muttered threats boded ill for the Circle B if the

two outfits came to open warfare. The rancher and his foreman retired to the house, where they found Nan

anxiously awaiting them. Sudden had paused on the way to dig out the bullet. Now, by the light of the lamp, he

was examining it.

"Another .38. Still clingin' to that notion, seemin'ly," he remarked.

The girl's question brought the reply she might have expected from her father. "Luce Burdette, tryin' to lay me

alongside Kit," he said savagely. "Dirty, bushwhackin' skunk."

Her face paled, but she did not reply. The foreman took up the cudgels. "Someone is framin' that boy, Purdie,"

he said. "An' it was me they were after; remember, they don't know how much Cal told me; whoever's got him is

back o' this."

The owner of the C P shrugged his shoulders. These repeated outrages were sorely trying his patience—short, at the best of times—and the thought that the shot in the dark might have struck down his daughter filled him with fury. A forthright man, with the simple creed of the frontier, he would have gathered his riders and gone in search of his foes but for his foreman.

"That's what they're workin' for," Sudden had more than once told him. "It'll come to that in the end, but for

now, let 'em run on the rope; we'll throw 'em good an' plenty when the time comes."

And because of his growing faith in this confident young stranger with the steady eyes and firm lips upon

which danger brought no more than a sardonic smile, Purdie let him have his way.

•

The marshal draped his spare form against the bar of "The Lucky Chance," wrapped his fingers round the glass

of liquor he had just poured out, and gave a comprehensive glance at the company. The place was fairly full, but

the man he sought was not present. Mart Burdette, however, was lolling on a near chair, and a brief look of

understanding passed between them.

"Evenin' Sam," the saloon-keeper greeted. "Anny news o' th' missin' man yit?"

"Nope," the officer replied, "but I'm expectin' a fella who may be able to gimme some, an' here he is."

"Is it Green ye mane?" Magee asked, as the C P foreman and Yago entered. "What will he be after knowin'

about it?"

"I'm here to find out," the marshal said somewhat loudly. "Hey, Green, I want yu."

The cow-puncher detected hostility in the tone but he smiled as he inquired.

"What's the charge, marshal?"

"There ain't none—yet," was the retort. "Just a few questions, that's all."

"Toot yore li'l horn an' go ahaid," Sudden replied, as he leaned lazily against the bar and sampled the drink

Magee pushed forward.

"It's about—Cal," Slype began slowly. "I hear yu was the last man to see him alive."

"Why, is he dead, then?" the puncher inquired.

"Mebbe he is an' mebbe he ain't," the marshal snapped. "I'm doin' the askin', an' I wanta know whether yu was

up at his shack the day he disappeared?"

Sudden did not reply immediately; the question had taken him by surprise. A hush had come over the

gathering, and he divined that some of those present had known of the marshal's intention. Save for Purdie,

Yago, and the prospector, only the assassin had been aware of his visit to the shack, and if the latter had talked it

could only be for a purpose.

"I certainly had a chat with Cal that mornin'," he said. Slype's small eyes gleamed triumphantly at this admission. "What took yu that way?" he asked.

"It's part of our range," the puncher pointed out. "Didn't know the old chap was located there till I happened on

him. He was alive an' kickin' when I left."

The marshal's face shot forward, an ugly grin on his bloodless lips. "Yu said it," he sneered. "A fella would be

apt to kick if he was slung into the Sluice."

A threatening growl from some of the auditors greeted this; Sudden stared in bewilderment at the speaker.

"Yu suggestin' I throwed the old man in the river?" he cried. "Yu must be drunk or dreamin'."

"Don't think it; I'm sayin' that's just what yu did do," the officer retorted. "An' then yu went back an' stole his

dust."

The accused man glanced round the room and despite the black looks he met with, laughed scornfully.

"Someone's been stringin' yu, Slype," he said. "Yu got the story all wrong."

"I wasn't just expectin' yu to own up," the marshal said with heavy sarcasm. "As for stringin', I had it from

Riley o' the Circle B, who chanced to be on the other side o' the river, an' saw the whole affair."

The name told the puncher much of what he wanted to know. "Yeah," he commented reflectively. "Wasn't it

Riley who claimed he saw Luce tryin' to bump me off?" And when Slype nodded. "Useful fella that—reg'lar

johnnyon-the-spot, ain't he? The Circle B shore oughta pay him well."

The marshal made no attempt to reply, but another did. Heaving his big bulk out of his chair, Mart Burdette

thrust forward an ugly, threatening face and said with savage intensity.

"Meanin'?"

The foreman was now sure that the whole scene had been pre-arranged, but it made no difference to his

attitude.

"That Riley is a liar, an' that yu an yore brothers know it," he said deliberately.

This was fighting talk; every man there knew it, and wondered when he saw that Mart was not wearing his belt.

A Black Burdette without a gun was a sight no one of them could remember. Sudden's keen eyes had noted the

omission as soon as the fellow stood up, and sensed its significance. There was an evil satisfaction in the big

man's gaze as he replied to the puncher's accusation.

"Fella with a gun can allus talk biggity to the chap what ain't wearin' his," he sneered. "If yu got the guts to

shuck that belt, I'll kill yu with my bare hands."

He spread the fingers of his great paws as he spoke, opening and closing them with a slow, gripping motion

horribly suggestive of his purpose. His leering look of savage anticipation told that this was what he had been hoping for. The challenge was one the cow-puncher could not decline, and he had no thought of it. The Burdettes had "framed" him, and he must go through with it. He smiled grimly at the thought that he had taught them to respect his gun-play.

"Forgot to put yore belt on, huh?" he said acidly. "Or mebbe yu remembered not to put it on. Anyways, yu played it safe."

By this time games were forgotten, and the players were congregated in a circle round the two men. Willing hands pushed tables and chairs out of the way until a space was cleared for the contest. Excited voices offered and accepted bets and wrangled over the merits of the combatants. Most of those present favoured the bigger man, who was deemed the best rough-and-tumble fighter in that part of the country, and certainly the huge mass of him and the bulging muscles of his mighty limbs suggested that they were right. But a few studied the other with appraising eyes, noted the lean, wiry frame, remembered the swift, pantherish action of his body, and divined the steely sinews which rippled beneath his skin at every movement.

"He's fit from the toes up—all bone an' gristle—an' Mart is too fat," Weldon, the blacksmith, remarked. "Green looks like he's fought afore too. I'll take twenty to ten about him."

"Go you," replied the other. "Burdette'll break him in two when he gits holt of him."

"Yeah—when," agreed the smith. "Well, he's a-goin' to have his chanct."

For the puncher was unbuckling his belt and passing it to Yago. The little man's face expressed both anger and concern.

"Yu must be loco, Jim," he whispered. "He's big enough to swaller yu."

"I'll stick my elbows out, amigo," Sudden smiled. "What yu want I should do—run away?"

Bill did not, and said so—ornamentally. "Couldn't yu see they was layin' for yu?" he asked testily.

"Shore, an' they got me," his friend said easily. "Ever hear o' the biter bein' bit?"

Yago apparently had not. "He'll do that if he gits a chanct," he returned seriously. "Everythin' goes, bar weapons, in this sort o' scrap."

Sudden's face assumed a whimsical look of pity. "Bill, did yu ever have a grandmother?" he asked solicitously.

The little man stared at him. "I reckon so. Why?"

"Then I expect yu tried to instruct her in the art of extractin' nutriment from an egg by means o' suction," his foreman said gravely, but his eyes were twinkling. "Now, keep yore hair on, Bill, yu can't afford to lose any."

"This ain't no time for laughin'," Bill snorted.

"Why not ol'-timer? Mebbe my face won't be in no shape for it presently," Sudden grinned.

A harsh, sneering voice stilled all the others. "If yu done dictatin' yore last will an' testyment, what 'bout makin' a start?"

Mart Burdette, eager for the fray, and confident of victory, stood waiting. He had discarded his vest, and the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt disclosed a powerful pair of arms in which the knotted muscles stood out as he clenched his fists and squared his shoulders. A stillness succeeded the hubbub as the puncher also removed his vest, slung his hat aside, and stepped forward. The physical disparity between the two men became more apparent as they faced one another in the cleared space.

"Two to one on Goliar," shouted a would-be wit, whose early teaching had not entirely left him.

"Yu can double that an' be safe," the big man boasted. "I'm a-goin' to show yu where this fella steps off when he

ain't got a gun."

Dropping his head, he made a sudden plunge at his opponent. If he had hoped to take his man by surprise he

was woefully disappointed, for the puncher slipped aside, drove a fist into the thick, corded throat, and stood

waiting, a little smile of derision on his lips. Again and again Burdette, with lowered head, rushed in like a

charging bull, and each time the other planted a vengeful blow and got away unhurt. These tactics did not suit

the bulkier man's backers; they saw that their man was making no progress, and moreover, it was not their idea

of a battle. They were not slow to voice disapproval.

"Stand up to him, cowboy; this yer's a fight, not a perishin' foot-race," growled one.

"Shut yore face, keep back, an' give 'em space, or I'll shoot some toes off," Yago snapped, and drew a gun.

"Shucks, they got plenty room to scrap," was the disgusted rejoinder, and despite Bill's threat, the ring closed

in.

Partly owing to this, and to the fact that Burdette realized that he could not finish the fight offhand against such

a nimble opponent, the character of the contest changed. It was now Mart who held off, and to Yago's utter

disgust and despair, Sudden went after his man, giving blow for blow, taking what punishment came, and

hurling his fists with venomous ferocity into the gross body. In a few moments the battle had become one of

blind fury.

The blood-stained, staggering principals, hemmed in by a circle of sweating, brutal faces eager to see every

phase of the fight; the dull slap of fist on flesh and the grunt as a blow went home; the swaying lights, half-

obscured hy clouds of tobacco smoke and the dust of stamping, struggling feet; lips dripping profanity as the

tide of fortune ebbed and flowed, all formed a picture Hogarth alone could have done justice to.

Sudden knew that he was wrong—that it was sheer madness to disregard his friend's frenzied entreaty to keep

out of Burdette's reach, but for once, passion had overcome his patience, and he allowed himself to be

dominated by the desire to pay the brute before him in his own coin; the urge of the primitive man was upon

him, and he lusted to batter those bestial features. Time after time he took a blow he might have avoided, simply

to satisfy this craving, and Yago was rapidly swearing himself to a standstill in consequence.

Then what his friend had feared happened. Sudden's foot slipped on the sanded floor and in an instant he was

caught in a grip like that of a grizzy bear. Vainly he struggled to free himself from the vice-like grasp under the

pressure of which his ribs were already bending. The giant, his swollen, evil eyes alight with murderous

triumph, teeth bared like those of an animal, the hot breath coming in gasps from his bruised lips, slowly

tightened his hold. The puncher realized that he could not break away, and suddenly let his whole body go limp.

"Yu got him, Mart. Break his blasted back," croaked a voice from the mist of smoke and dust, and Sudden had

a momentary glimpse of the twisted, gloating face of Riley.

The abrupt downward drag of the relaxed body took Burdette by surprise; he stumbled, and they fell together, a

quick turn on the part of the under man saving him from the full weight of the other. The fall loosened

Burdette's grip, and the puncher was able to breathe again. Twisting, thrashing on the floor, each striving to pin

his enemy down, Sudden was conscious of a hand clawing at his face, the questing thumb seeking for an

eyeball; the beast was trying to blind him. In a flame of fury he smashed his fist into the thick neck below the

chin. Gasping, choking, the big man sprawled sideways, momentarily helpless, his agonized throat well-nigh

paralysed. The puncher got up, weak and dizzy, to stand waiting, much to the surprise of the spectators.

"Now's yore chance, boy; beat hell out'n him," cried the blacksmith.

The advice was fully in accordance with the ethics of the time, but the puncher's only reply was a lop-sided

grin; he did not fight that way. Yago knew this, and though he inwardly cursed his foreman's ideas of fair play,

he said nothing. Mart Burdette soon recovered. The pain of the blow, crippling for the moment, had lessened,

and with a rumbled curse he climbed to his feet.

"Damnation, I'll tear yu apart for that," he threatened.

Sinking his head, he rushed in, his right fist shooting forward with the force of a mule's kick—a blow which

might well have proved fatal. But Sudden was watching. With a lightning snatch he caught the descending wrist,

twisted round, bent his back, and dragged the arm forward and down over his shoulder. As though propelled by

a catapult, the big man shot up over the curved shoulders to land full length on the floor with a crash which

shook the building. For some moments he lay there, supine, only the great heaving chest showing that life was

still in him. Then the swollen eyes opened, he raised himself on one elbow and turned, glaring dazedly at the

now silent spectators. Gradually understanding came to him, he realized that he had been beaten, and by the

slim, blood-stained, battered man who now stood waiting for him to do something. A fury of hate flamed

through his veins. Fumbling at the belt of his pants, he snatched out and levelled a gun.

"I'll git yu anyways, yu " he snarled.

Even as he pulled the trigger, however, Sudden flung himself forward and struck up the barrel; the bullet

buried itself in the roof, and an instant later the weapon was wrenched from the assassin's grasp and turned upon

him.

"Yu cowardly, white-livered cur," the puncher rasped. "So yu had a gun hid out on me?"

Facing those blazing eyes, with the gleaming steel barrel at his head, and the knowledge that the slightest

movement of the finger nudging the trigger would send him into eternity, the bully's courage broke. There

would be a jarring thud, a searing pain, and then—what? He shrank back.

"Don't—shoot," he gasped weakly, and held up his trembling hands.

The puncher hesitated for a few seconds, and then thrust the weapon behind his waist-band. "Get," he said

tersely. "Outa the country, or I'll send yu out—in a box."

With an effort the beaten man stood up, collected his belongings, and staggered out, the onlookers parting to let

him pass. He dared not raise his eyes, for he knew that there would not be a friendly face. Rough, unscrupulous,

hard-shelled as these men were, they had a code of their own, and he had outraged it. To have lost meant little

had he fought fairly, but ... His reeling brain was conscious of only one thing—he must get away, and far, since

wherever the story followed he would be a figure for scorn. Moreover, that damned puncher was not bluffing.

He must see King, though the prospect of the elder brother's anger and contempt was hard to face. Wearily he

dragged himself into the saddle and headed into the darkness.

Back in the saloon the victor was receiving the congratulations of most of those present. He had put up a

straight and clean fight, and moreover, had dealt a crushing blow to the supremacy of the Burdettes, a fact

certain citizens appreciated. These well-wishers, however, did not include the marshal, who had slipped away

immediately after Mart's discomfiture.

"Sorry Slype's gone, I wanted him to hear the truth about my visit to Cal's shack," Sudden said. "S'pose yu tell

the boys, Bill, while I clean up some."

So Yago told the story of that day's events, and the eyes of his hearers bulged, profane exclamations of

amazement punctuating the narrative; all these men knew the Sluice.

"So, yu see, Green couldn't 'a' chucked Cal in, 'cause I saw him potterin' round his place later," Bill concluded,

having said nothing of the old man's reputed discovery.

"Who the hell tumbled Green in?" asked Weldon.

"Mister Riley oughta he able to tell us," Bill replied.

But the Circle B man, like the marshal, was, as one of the company phrased it, "plenty absent". He too had got

away unobserved in the excitement of Mart's downfall. When Sudden returned, having removed such marks of

the conflict as could immediately be dealt with, he was not surprised to learn of Riley's retreat.

"Did yu expect he'd wait?" he asked sardonically, and then, "I'm feelin' some used up—like I'd had a busy day.

What 'bout headin' for home?"

Yago surveyed the cut and bruised features critically. "Yu look better'n yu did a piece back, but I wouldn't say

it was the time to have yore picture took," he replied. "Yu trail along an' I'll foller—got a li'l matter to see to."

The foreman achieved a painful grin. "Yu idjut," he said. "I wouldn't leave yu, but I know yu won't find him."

Outside the saloon he made a discovery—his horse was missing. Had Mart turned it loose from spite, or had he

himself tied it insecurely? In either case he did not think Nigger would stray far, and set out on the search. It

proved a longer job than he expected, for it was nearly an hour before he located the truant. The reins were

twisted round the saddle-horn. This was clear proof that the animal had been set free, for had the reins been

trailing, Nigger, a well-trained cow-horse, would not have drifted. Attributing it to petty malice on the part of

his fate antagonist, the foreman mounted and rode slowly back to the ranch.

CHAPTER XVII

HE was awakened on the following morning by Moody, who brought a message that the Old Man wanted him.

There was undisguised admiration in the cowboy's expression as he noted the decorations the foreman's face had

acquired over-night.

"Gosh! He ain't marked yu so awful much," he commented. "It musta bin a dandy scrap though; I'd 'a' give a

month's pay to seen it."

"I'd 'a' paid twice that to 'a' been in the audience my own self," Sudden grinned. "Fightin' is one o' the games

where the looker-on gets most o' the fun."

He made a hasty toilet and went to the ranch-house. On the verandah was Chris Purdie, and facing him—still

in their saddles—were Slype and Riley. At the sight of the latter the foreman's eyes narrowed. The Circle B man

evidently observed the look, for he unobtrusively contrived to move his unbuttoned vest, thereby bringing into

view the badge of a deputy.

"Yu wantin' me?" Sudden asked his boss.

"I'm wantin' yu, Green," the marshal cut in harshly.

"Perseverin' fella, ain't yu, Slype?" the foreman gibed. "Yu was wanting' me last night an' ran away. Changed

yore mind again, or have yu fished Cal's body out'n the river?"

"I ain't," replied the officer shortly. "What time yu git back to the C P las' night?"

"Well, I dunno as it's any concern o' yores, but I should say it was around twelve."

"An' yu left `The Lucky Chance' soon after nine; it don't take all that time to ride up here."

"I had to find my hoss—someone had unhitched him; took me near an hour."

Slype smiled evilly. "Tell me yu broke a leg," he suggested sarcastically. "Mebbe I'll believe yu." At which

Riley emitted a derisive cackle. "Someone saw yu climb yore bronc outside the saloon an' ride hell-bent on the

Circle B trail."

The foreman looked at Riley and laughed. "Yo're good at seem' things, ain't yu?"

The marshal chanced a lie. "It warn't him—I saw yu myself," he said.

Sudden regarded the pair grimly. "I'm tellin' yu just what happened," he replied quietly. "An' here's somethin'

yu wanta remember, them tin stars yo're wearin' won't begin to stop a bullet. Now, come clean, marshal; what's

worryin' the thing yu call yore mind?"

"I ain't worryin' none whatever—that's yore part," Slype retorted. "Mebbe yu'll say it's news to yu that Mart

Burdette was shot from behind—bushwhacked—'bout a coupla miles outa Windy las' night?"

Like those of a rat, his beady little eyes watched the cow-puncher to note the effect of this announcement, but

Sudden's surprise semed genuine enough.

"Mart Burdette—shot?" he cried, and in a flash realized why his horse had been missing. "Yu accusin' me?"

The marshal nodded to his deputy. "I told yu this fella had brains," he said.

"Pity yo're shy of 'em," the foreman said. "If I wanted to put Mart outa business why didn't I do it in the saloon,

where I had every right to?"

"Grand-standin'?" Slype sneered. "Lenin' him go that-away shore made a hit with the boys."

"Which is the way yu'd have played it yoreself, I s'pose," Sudden said scornfully. "Well, what yu aim to do

about it?"

"I'm takin' yu in," the marshal answered, with an evident effort to speak confidently.

"Is—that—so?" the foreman said, and laughed unpleasantly. "Any idea 'bout how yo're goin' to do it?"

The marshal had not, and his attitude betrayed the fact. He realized now that to come to the C P on such an

errand with one man only, expecting that the puncher would tamely surrender, had been a futile proceeding. But

he doubted if he could have raised a posse—most of the citizens would take Green's view of the matter. His visit

was largely a bluff, but he made another attempt to carry it off.

"Resistance to the law on'y proves guilt," he remarked sententiously.

"My gracious! Have I resisted yu?" the foreman queried. "Why, yu ain't done nothin'? Don't happen to be tied

to that saddle, do yu?"

Apparently the marshal was, for he made no attempt to get down. A glance at his newly-made assistant was

met by an emphatic shake of the head; Mister Riley was willing enough to use the law as a shield, but his

enthusiasm went no further. The cold-eyed, confident young man leaning carelessly against one of the supports

of the verandah, thumbs hooked in his belt, did not strike him as even a reasonable risk. In desperation Slype

appealed to the rancher:

"Purdie, as a law-abidin' citizen, I call on yu "

"I've noticed it, an' I'm telling yu plain that if yu do it again I'll have yu rid off the ranch on a rail," the

cattleman interrupted harshly. "Roll yore tail, yu runt, an' take that shifty-eyed son of a with yu."

The marshal's pasty face turned livid. "I'll remember this, Purdie," he threatened.

"I'm advisin' yu to," the old man retorted. "Scratch gravel, yu scum."

Without another word the visitors whirled their mounts

and set off down the trail. Sudden watched them for a moment and then turned to his employer.

"I'm thankin' yu, seh," he said.

"Shucks, it ain't worth speakin' of, Jim," the rancher returned. "O' course I know yu didn't wipe out Mart, an'

that marshal fella knows it too. It was me they were aimin' at, an' King Burdette is behind it; he owns Slype."

"I guess things is liable to liven up any moment now," the foreman offered.

Purdie looked at him in astonishment. "Yu ain't complainin' of a dull time, are yu?" he asked.

The puncher grinned widely. "I ain't noticed it," he admitted. "Allasame, King will lay the loss of his brother to

our account, an' there'll be doin's."

Something of the same thought was in the mind of the marshal as he rode away from the C P. Incensed as he

was at the humiliation he had met with, there was a certain satisfaction which he took care not to impart to his

companion. Riley had no such feeling. He had surmised that Green must suspect him of the attempted drowning

and had accepted the offer of a deputyship in the hope that it would protect him from the puncher's vengeance,

but the latter's attitude had shattered his belief in the majesty of the law. For reasons of his own, he proceeded,

after riding in silence for a while, to inflame his chief's anger.

"I take it Purdie ain't friendly to yu," he remarked.

The marshal looked at him suspiciously. "How ever did yu discover that?" he sneered. "Yu must be awful cute

at readin' sign—good as an Injun."

"I was askin' a question," Riley replied. "I'll take it he ain't, an' that yu wouldn't be terrible grieved if some-thin'

happened to him."

The marshal exploded. "Yo're damn right, I wouldn't," he said fiercely. "Yu can burn his ranch an' wipe out

every rat in it an' I won't stir a finger, blast his soul! Fly at it."

"Didn't say I was aimin' to do anythin'—just wanted to know how yu felt 'bout it," the deputy explained. "Goin'

to see King now?"

The marshal nodded sullenly, and for the rest of the ride had nothing to say. They found the boss of the Circle

B awaiting them in the big front room; the scowl on his face deepened as he listened to Slype's account of their

visit to the C P.

"So yu went to all that trouble to make a damn fool o' yoreself?" was his comment. "Did yu reckon Green

would follow when yu whistled?"

"He's put hisself on the wrong side o' the law by resistin', an' so has Chris," the marshal protested.

King's gesture was one of impatience. "Who the hell cares about yu or yore law in Windy?" He tapped his gun-

butt. "This is the on'y law that goes in these parts. If yu'd took a dozen men . .."

"An' where was I to find 'em?" Slype asked angrily. "After las' night's play the town's mighty near solid for

him."

"Yu could 'a' found 'em here," Burdette replied. "No matter; I'm takin' hold from now on. All yu gotta do is not

interfere whatever happens. Yu sabe?"

The marshal hesitated. "Yo're askin' a lot, King," he demurred.

"Damnation! I ain't askin' a thing—I'm givin' yu orders," King roared, his voice vibrant with menace. "Yu'll

obey 'em too, or I'll tear that star off an' cram it down yore throat."

Either from anger or fear Slype's face paled at the threat. "That's no way to talk to yore friends, King," he

ventured. "O' course, I know yu must be feelin' sore about Mart…"

"Mart was a fool an' paid for it—as fools usually do," the other cut in brutally. "Friends? I ain't got none. I'm

King Burdette—a lone wolf, but my teeth are sharp, Slype, damned sharp, an' I'm goin' to bite."

He snarled out the last words as though he were indeed the animal he had named himself, poured a liberal

drink from the bottle on the table, swallowed it at a gulp, and flung down into a chair. The marshal changed the

subject.

"I was figurin' to hold the inquiry on Mart to-morrow mornin'; that suit yu?"

"Inquiry? What in hell for? He was hit in the back o' the head with a .45 slug, an' there ain't nothin' to show

who fired it. Yu, like a half-wit, say it was Green, an' it suits me to have it thought so. Hold yore fool inquiry

when yu please—I shan't be there."

He took no notice when they went out, sitting there chewing savagely at an unlighted cigar. Though his hard,

self-centred soul was incapable of affection, his brother's end had roused a demon of rage within him; he

regarded it as a blow at himself; and besides, Mart would have been useful.

"Damn them all ! I'll make this town smell hell," he swore.

Outside the ranch-house, Slype looked at his deputy and jerked a meaning thumb at the room they had just left.

"Fightin' drunk," he said. "Yu'd better stick around, Riley. See yu later."

Slumped in his saddle, the marshal rode slowly back to town. There was an expression of malicious content on

his ferrety face despite the tongue-lashing he had been twice subjected to. But his muttered monologue showed

that they still rankled :

"Purdie'll ride me on a rail, an' King'll cram my star down my throat if I don't come to heel, huh?" He laughed

disdainfully, a hoarse cackle which had no mirth in it."Go on thinkin' that, yu clever fellas, till yu wake up an'

find yu've played my game for me. Wipe each other out an' leave the field clear—for me; I won't interfere,

Mister King Burdette, not any." He pondered for a moment over the prospect his mind had pictured. "Gotta find

Cal, though —he's the trump card. Wonder where King has him cached?"

For Riley, in a burst of confidence, had told of the old prospector's abduction, though he did not know where

he had been taken. King Burdette trusted no man overmuch, and once the captive was clear of the town, he had

himself conducted him to the hiding-place, sending his men back to the ranch. Riley had searched, but so far

without avail. He was beginning to regret that he had confided in the Circle B autocrat, and that was why he had

told Slype. Possessed of a certain low cunning, he had guessed that the marshal—given the opportunity and a

sufficient inducement—would not hesitate to double-cross Burdette, and he argued that Slype would be the

easier of the two men to handle. In which, had he but known it, he was entirely mistaken.

* * *

The inquiry into the death of Mart Burdette provided no sensation. It took place in "The Lucky Chance" and was

conducted by Slype, who combined the duties of coroner with those of marshal. He stated the facts baldly to a

hastily-empanelled jury, adding that it was a plain case of murder, but that there. was

no evidence pointing to any particular person, at which the foreman of the C P, lounging in the doorway, smiled

satirically; Slippery was playing his cards close. The Burdettes were not present, but at the burial—which took

place an hour later—King and Sim rode behind the body. Their set, scowling faces showed no sign of grief; the

Black Burdettes were not given to affection. They had followed their father to his last resting-place with the

same dark indifference, and if they had sworn vengeance upon the slayer it was only to serve their own ends.

When the ceremony was over they rode back to town and entered the hotel. With a word to the landlord, King

led the way to an empty room and closed the door carefully behind them.

"Mart bein' in the discard it follows yu an' me gotta talk things over an' settle what we're goin' to do," was his

opening remark. "Yu got any ideas?"

The face of the younger man was gloomy and vindictive; he had less command over his emotions and possibly

some trace of feeling for his dead brother.

"First thing, I reckon, is to search out Green an' abolish him," he replied. "I've half a mind…"

"Yu ain't, or yu wouldn't talk like a fool," King cut in. "Mart figured thataway, an' where is he? 'Sides, Green

didn't do it, though if folks choose to think he did I ain't objectin'. What I want to play for is a show-down." He

dropped his voice, and spoke earnestly for some moments; Sim listened with growing unease.

"But that'll turn the whole town agin us," he expostulated.

"To hell with the town," his brother responded roughly. "It'll set the C P a-bilin', they'll attack us, an' we'll have

a good excuse for wipin' 'em out. If, in the ruckus, Green an' Purdie get rubbed out, well, it ain't nobody's fault,

an' we get the ranch."

"What about the girl—it'll belong to her, won't it?" Sim suggested.

"An' she'll belong to me—if she's lucky," King said coolly. "Ownin' both the ranches—to say nothin' o' the

mine—I'm sayin' Windy will take notice when a Burdette talks."

Sim's eyes shone at the prospect; he had all the other'sgreed, if less of his courage. The audacity of the scheme dazzled him, and he had unbounded faith in the clever, unscrupulous man who had evolved it.

"Shore listens good, if we can swing it," he agreed. "Has Cal opened up yet?"

"No, damn him, but he can't hold out much longer," King replied, adding with sinister intensity, "I ain't begun

to persuade him yet."

"Yu think he really has somethin' to say?"

"Shore, he has the goods this time."

"How yu figurin' to deal with Lu?"

The elder man laughed. "She'll do what she's told, like the rest of 'em round here," he said arrogantly. "I aim to

be King in somethin' more than name, boy, an' don't yu forget it."

"Yu ain't no piker, an' that's a fact," Sim rejoined. "I'm with yu all the way, but I wish them skirts warn't mixed

up in it; I've a hunch we'll trip over 'em."

King clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Yu needn't to worry 'bout that," he said. "Leave me to handle 'em; I

know the trick of it."

They went downstairs, and the man who had been sitting with an ear glued to the wooden partition of the

adjoining room straightened up and rolled a cigarette. It was Luce Burdette, and his face was a picture of

perplexity. Though he had not been able to hear all the conversation, he had gathered that some sinister plot was

projected which, unless frustrated, would bring dire misfortune upon Nan Purdie. How could he prevent it? He

was himself a Bur-dette, an outcast from them, it was true, but shamed, suspected; no one would listen to him;

even those who hated his family would doubt his story. To visit the C P was to invite a bullet. His only hope

was in one man. Having watched his brothers ride down the street, he went in search of Green. He met him

coming out of the store.

"'Lo, Luce, where yu been hidin' lately?" the foreman smiled.

"Don't have to hide," came the bitter reply. "Nobody sees me anyway. There's somethin' I guess yu oughta

hear."

He told his tale, and Sudden's face grew grave. "I've knowed all along King's game was to make us jump first,"

he said. `But how's he goin' to do it? Ain't yu got a guess?"

The boy shook his head. "He lowered his voice when he told Sim that, but it's somethin' the town won't like."

"Don't tell us much—easy for a Burdette to do that," the foreman retorted. "So, like I reckoned, they have got

Cal?"

Luce nodded. "I'm goin' to find out where he's hidden. I s'pose half the fellas here think I've murdered him."

"Mebbe, an' the other half are believin' Riley's yarn that I pushed the ol' chap in the river," Sudden grinned.

"Shucks, what do we care? Me, I never did hanker for a halo anyway." He sobered again. "If yu can find Cal

before he talks, get him some place where they can't grab him; that's goin' to put a crimp in their plans."

"I'm startin' right now," Luce told him, and as he turned away, added, "Take care o' Nan."

The foreman nodded, got into his saddle, and rode back to the C P. He had plenty to occupy his thoughts. King

Burdette was about to strike, and he had no knowledge which would enable him to anticipate the blow. All he

knew was that it would be directed at the ranch for which he was now virtually responsible. And the C P could

look for little help from the citizens of Windy, few of whom would care to stand out openly against the gang of

ruthless, quick-shooting ruffians who made up the Circle B outfit.

"Right or wrong, there's allus fellas who wanta be on the winnin' side," he cogitated. "Nig, ol' hoss, we're

shorely goin' to be shy some sleep for a spell."

CHAPTER XVIII

LUCE, headed for the Circle B ranch, selected a route which took him towards the northern wall of the valley.

His progress was slow, owing to the necessity for keeping under cover—he had no wish to be seen by any of the

Burdette riders. So that the shadows were lengthening when he slipped over the rim-rock and plunged into the

pines which masked the outer slope. The cool, quiet and aromatic tang of the trees, brought relief to both body

and mind. It was almost dark in the wood, the sun's rays being powerless to penetrate the dense roof of foliage,

and on the thick carpet of pine-needles the horse paced noiselessly.

He was no longer making for his old home, for, thinking the matter over as he rode, he had come to the

conclusion that his brother would not risk taking the prospector there. Searching in his mind for a likely hiding-

place, he had remembered the little hut in the pine forest, some four miles from the Circle B. His father had built

it, but for what purpose he had never learned.

Constructed of untrimmed logs, it consisted of one room only; there was a small hole to admit light, and a door

secured with a heavy padlock. As a boy the place had appealed to his curiosity, but for years he had not given it

a thought. Conscious that he was nearing the spot, he dismounted, tied Silver in a clump of brush, and set out

afoot, slipping like a shadow from trunk to trunk. The wisdom of this precaution was soon apparent. Outside the

shack stood a big roan, and fumbling with the lock was the eldest Burdette. No sooner had he entered than the

watcher ran lightly forward and crouched down at the back of the hut. He was in time to hear his brother's first

words.

"Well, old fool; ready to talk yet?"

Nearly starved, his old bones cramped by his bonds and eyes aching for light—he was still blindfolded—

California, in fact, had a great deal to say, but it was not quite what his visitor had come to hear. In his high,

cracked voice the old man poured a stream of vituperation upon his unknown gaolers; evidently he had not

entirely wasted the long hours of his captivity. In awestruck admiration Luce listened to the spate of outlandish

oaths and scarifying insults. As he said afterwards, "I never thought the ol' fossil had that much venom in his

system. It was like a stampede o' words, a-jostlin' an' a-tumblin' over one another, an' they was bilin' hot too."

King Burdette waited till the prisoner paused for breath and then said sarcastically, "Cussin' won't get yu

nowhere. I want the location o' that mine." Getting no reply, he went on, "What's the use o' bein' obstinate? Yu'll

get yore share."

California snorted. "Yeah, but my share'll be the wrong kind o' metal—a slug o' lead."

"Shucks, I'll play fair," the other urged.

"Yu can go plumb to hell; the gold's mine an' I'll have it—spite o' the Devil hisself," the old man said

stubbornly, and when the visitor let out an oath of exasperation, he added, "Cussin' won't get yu nowhere."

The gibe exhausted Burdette's patience. "Yu damned ol' bone-rack, so yu won't tell, huh?" he stormed. "Well,

yu don't eat again till yu do, an' if yu ain't ready to come clean to-morrow mornin' ..."

The unspoken threat only produced a hoarse chuckle.

"Laugh yore fill now," King went on. "Hangin' by yore thumbs, with a slow fire under yu, mebbe won't seem

so humorsome."

California shook his head. "I ain't scared a mite," he said. "Yu dasn't do it. I'm old; treat me rough an' , I passin

my checks. Where'd yu be then? Nobody else knows where the gold is."

"Didn't yu tell Green?" Burdette asked, and instantly cursed himself for a thoughtless fool.

The prisoner straightened up suddenly. "So yu ain't him?" he said softly. "Kinda fancied he warn't the crooked

sort too. Who may yu be?"

The visitor made a quick decision. Stepping forward, he snatched away the bandage. The abrupt change from

darkness to light made the bound man blink.

"King Burdette, huh?" he said wonderingly, his mind busy with the problem of how the Circle B autocrat could

have nosed out his secret. Green would certainly not have told him, and no one else—so far as he was aware—

had even a suspicion.

"Makes a difference, don't it?" King asked sneeringly.

It did. Weak for want of food and drink, the old man sat huddled on the rough bench which was all the

furniture the shack contained. He knew that this was the end—he could expect no mercy from the Burdettes.

Once he had told ... He clamped his parched lips, and a spark of the old pioneer spirit which had enabled him to

overcome the dangers of desert and wilderness flamed again in his breast. Defiance flashed from his faded eyes.

"Go ahead with yore murderin', King Burdette," he croaked. "Kill the goose, like the damn fool in the

storybook; yu won't git a yap out'n me."

The younger man's face became that of a fiend. He sprang forward, clutched his captive by the throat, shook

him with savage ferocity and flung him to the floor.

"That's on'y a taste o' what yu get to-morrow mornin', yu earth-worm," he grated. "I'll make yu speak if I have

to flay yu alive."

He got no reply. California, dazed and breathless from the rough handling, lay where he had fallen. The brute

who had thrown him there gave one glance to make sure he still lived and went out, locking the door, and still

muttering threats. Luce waited until he saw the roan and its rider vanish amidst the pines and then slipped round

to the front of the hut. The fastening presented a difficulty, but in a pile of rubbish he found a rusty iron bar with

which he contrived to wrench out the staple. The prisoner, still prone on the ground, hardly looked at him.

"Do yore damnedest—I ain't speakin'," he quavered, and then, as he recognized the newcomer, "Think yu'll

have better luck than that hell-hound, yore brother, huh? Well, yu won't; not a cent's wuth."

"Yu oughta know that him an' me ain't likely to be workin' together," the boy said. "I've come to turn yu loose."

California peered at him suspiciously. "Sounds good, but what's yore price? The Black Burdettes do nothin' for

nothin'."

Luce shrugged his shoulders. "Yo're a grateful cuss, ain't yu?" he said, as he severed the old man's bonds. "I'm

givin' yu yore freedom, an' there's no strings tied to it."

The prospector stretched his stiffened limbs and swore at the pain the movement provoked. Then he staggered

weakly to the door and peeped out.

"Let's beat it--that devil may come back for somethin'," he urged. Brave enough when his position appeared

hopeless, his keyed-up nerves gave way when escape became possible, and he was in a twitter to be gone. "Ain't

got a chaw o' tobacker, I s'pose? It stays the stummick; I done forgit when I eat last."

"Which I'm shorely dumb—brought this a-purpose," Luce replied.

The old man yelped when he saw the thick bacon sandwich, and bit into it like a famished dog, and the flask of

whisky which followed it made his eyes glisten. "Boy, yo're savin' my life a second time," he mumbled, "but

let's git; I can tackle this on the way."

They went out and Luce drove the staple back into its place. "They'll wonder how yu got clear; there ain't but

one key to that lock an' it's in King's pocket right now," he chuckled. "The next point is, where d'yu want to go?

Yu'll have to lie mighty low or they'll nab yu again."

The food and drink had put new energy into Cal's old but tough carcasse. He was stepping along spryly enough

now, and his cunning brain was busy. When they reached the spot where Luce had left Silver, his plans were

made.

"Git me to my shack, where I can rustle some grub an'—such-like," he requested. "I knows a place to hide out;

I aim to be missin' a spell yet."

Luce having no better plan, they set out, Silver making light of a double burden. The sun had dropped over the

rim of the world, dusk had deepened into dark, and stars were peeping out of a velvety sky when they reached

the hut on Old Stormy. The burro raised its voice in welcome from the corral but otherwise the place was

deserted. The prospector lit the stump of a candle, saw the ravaged cache, and danced with rage.

"Hell blister their lousy hides, they've took it, an' the dust as well," he raved.

Luce stemmed the stream of profanity which followed by asking what he had lost. The old man looked at him

with sudden suspicion.

"Oh, it ain't nothin' much," he replied offhandedly, "but a fella don't like his things took." He essayed a grin.

"No good to nobody but me. Anyways, I'm all right now, boy, an' I ain't forgettin' what yu done. Never thought

to thank a Burdette for anythin', but I'm doin' it. S'long."

Riding slowly along the winding trail down the mountain-side, the roar of the river rang in the boy's ears. He

had heard it often enough, but to-night it seemed to convey an intangible menace, a threat of impending danger.

To his mind, attuned to the solitude, gloom, and his own troubles, it sounded like the rolling drums of a funeral

march, voicing the inevitability of death. For tens of thousands of years it had gone on, and for as much or more,

after he, poor atom, had ceased to be, it would continue. The boy shook himself and laughed.

"Old age must be creepin' up on me, Silver, or else I'm goin' loco," he told his horse. "Mebbe we ain't here

long, but we gotta do the best we can. Anyways, that's one bad mark I've saved the Burdette family."

Early morning found King and Sim Burdette dismounting outside the hut in the pine forest. There was nothing in the appearance of the place to warn them of the surprise in store. The elder brother unlocked the door, flung it open, and strode in.

"Come to yore senses yet, Cal?" he asked harshly, and then paused in bewilderment. "Hell's flames, he's gone!"

The strips of rawhide which had bound the prisoner caught his eye and he picked them up. "Clean cut," he

decided. "Who the devil can have knowed he was here?"

Sim's expression was ironical; had it not also been a blow for him he would not have been sorry to see his

cocksure brother bested for once—that was the Burdette nature.

"Someone musta trailed yu yestiddy," he suggested, and his tone implied carelessness.

"Brainy, ain't yu?" sneered the other. "P'r'aps yu can tell who it was?"

Sim nodded. "Our dear brother, for an even bet," he replied, and pointed to the patch of sand in front of the

door. "That footprint looks mighty familiar to me; Luce walks toed-in, like an Injun."

Instead of the explosion he expected there was a silence,and then King said slowly, "So it was Luce, huh? I shall have to deal with him." Quietly as the words were spoken, there was a deadly purpose in them. "Meanwhile, we gotta find that cursed old fool again. Yu send that note off?"

"Yeah," Sim told him. "But I don't like it, King; I guess yo're goin' the wrong way to work. If we can get the

gold, why fuss about the C P?"

His brother whirled on him. "Where d'yu s'pose the mine is, yu chump?" he asked. "I'll tell yu: around

Stormy—on C P land, an' if it warn't I'd still go after Purdie, crush an' tromp him in the dust, him an' his. Now

d'yu understand?"

Familiar as he was with King's savage humours, the fierceness of this outburst surprised the younger man.

Hard-shelled and devoid of scruple himself, material gain bulked greater in his eyes than mere revenge, but if

both could be attained ... His thin, cruel lips shaped into an ugly grin.

"Suits me," he said. "I ain't lost any Purdies. What yu want I should do?"

"We gotta search out Cal. Take a look at his shack—there's just a chance he's been dumb enough to go back.

I'm for town, to see if I can get a line on him there. Yu'Il need to watch out; if them C P hombres catch yu

snoopin' round yu'll likely stop lead."

"Can't afford to do that—the fam'ly is gettin' considerable thinned out," Sim said grimly. "Yu reckon one of

'em got Mart?"

"I dunno—yet," King replied darkly. "Somethin' queer about that."

The younger man nodded agreement, swung into his saddle, and began to pick his way through the pines in the

direction of Old Stormy. King slammed the door of the hut, locked it, and set out for Windy. Though he had not

betrayed the fact, his mind was in a ferment of fury over the escape of the prisoner, and the knowledge that Luce

had brought it about added fuel to the fire of his wrath.

"Time that snake was stamped on," he muttered.

Sim's reference to Mart recalled another mysterious taking-off, that of his father. Though he had, as part of his

policy, openly blamed the C P for the killing, he did not actually believe it. Much as he hated Purdie, he knew

him to be a fair fighter who would face his man and scorn to take a mean advantage.

Curious glances greeted him as he rode along the street, his handsome features marred by a heavy frown. Local

gossip held that King Burdette was taking the passing of his brother far too quietly, and was wondering when

the fur would begin to fly. The marshal, peeping through his window, saw him pass, and grimaced at his broad

back.

"King, huh?" he gibed. "Knave would suit yu better, though mebbe yu won't be no more'n a two-spot when it

comes to a show-down."

The object of this malignant criticism dismounted at "The Lucky Chance" and went in. The place was empty,

save for the proprietor, dozing behind the bar.

"Howdy, Magee. Hot, ain't it?" Burdette began. "Joinin' me?"

The saloon-keeper shook his head. "I've quit—waste o' good liquor; ye sweat it out 'fore ye know ye've had it."

The customer accepted the excuse—he knew it was but that—with a gesture of indifference. "Suit yoreseif," he

said. "Better not spread the notion about though; it might be bad—for trade." He waited to let the covert threat

sink in, and then, casually, "Any news o' that miner who was missin'?"

"Divil a whisper," the Irishman said. "It sticks in me moind they've made away wid him."

"Mebbe Riley was right," Burdette suggested slyly, anxious to make the other talk.

"Mebbe he was not," the saloon-keeper retorted. "I'd name that fella for a direct descindant o' Mister Ananias.

Yago saw Cal after Green had gone, an' I've knowed Bill a consid'able whiles."

"Green's his friend," King persisted.

"His foreman, which ain't jist th' same thing," Magee corrected. "An' the pair av thim is straight as a string."

"Takin' sides with the C P, huh?" Burdette fleered.

"I am not, but I ain't takin' orders neither," Magee replied bluntly.

King's sallow face flushed at the open defiance, but he kept his temper. "No call to go on the prod, ol'-timer,"

he laughed. "yo're takin' one order anyways—I want another drink."

The saloon-keeper pushed forward the bottle, but he was not deceived by this display of good nature; he knew

quite well that the Circle B man would not forget the incident. But he was not scared; running a Western saloon

in the bad old days was no job for a weakling. Burdette stayed a few moments longer, chatting casually, and

then made his way to "The Plaza." Here again customers were scarce, two miners wrangling over a game of

seven-up representing the total. Lu Lavigne stretched a hand across the bar, sympathy in her dark eyes.

"King, I'm so sorry—about Mart," she said.

"Shucks, whatsa use? I ain't grievin'," he returned callously. "I'd like to meet the coyote what did it, though."

His brooding brows came together. "Seen anythin' o' that fella Green lately?"

She shook her head. "you are not suspecting him, are you?"

Her apparent interest stung him. "Why not? He ain't no shinin' white angel, I'd say," he gibed.

"Don't be childish, King," she chided. "I don't think he'd shoot a man from behind."

Her defence of the puncher added to his anger, and he struck back. "S'pose yu know why yu haven't seen him?"

he asked.

She knew he was meaning to hurt, divined the evil in his mind, and it roused her to retaliate. "I expect he's

afraid of you, King," she murmured, but her twinkling eyes belied the statement.

The blow went home; she saw his jaw tighten and the fingers of his right hand bunch up; had she been a man

he would have hit her. And then he laughed.

"Mebbe yo're right, but there's a better reason," he told her. "Green's too busy runnin' around after Nan Purdie

to give yu a thought, my girl."

The effect of this assertion surprised him, for Mrs. Lavigne buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking

convulsively. For an instant he was deceived—he thought she was weeping—and then she peeped at him

between her fingers. Certainly the tears were there, but they were those of merriment.

"Oh, you men ! " she gasped. "King, you'll be the death of me one day."

The man glowed at her. "Yo're damn right I will, if yu play tricks on me," he growled. "Anythin' funny about

Green shinin' up to Purdie's gal?"

"No," she replied. "The amusing part is that you should think it mattered to me."

The tone and look which accompanied the words convinced him that he had made a fool of himself, and,

strangely enough, restored his good humour.

"Aw, well, take it I'm plain jealous," he said placatingly. "Yu know I think a lot o' yu, Lu."

"Oh, yeah," she teased, and with a smile, "What did you come to find out?"

"I came to see yu," he replied, and when she emphatically shook her sleek head, added, "I was certainly

meanin' to ask if yu'd heard any tidin's o' California?"

"I haven't. Goldy Evans was in last night, and he thinks the old man is being kept prisoner somewhere." King's eyebrows went up. "Whatever for?"

"Goldy's idea is that Cal has struck it rich and is being held until he tells."

Though she spoke casually, the man was aware that she was watching him, and schooled his features to

indifference; King Burdette had abundant self-control when he chose to exercise it. Inwardly he was wondering

how a theory so near the truth had got abroad, and cursing Riley for a chatterbox. With a careless shrug he said:

"Pretty far-fetched notion. My guess would be that the buzzards has picked the old boy's bones by now. When

yu goin' to pay that visit to the Circle B, Lu?"

She slanted a mischievous look at him. "Some day—when you're not there; I'll learn all your secrets then."

"Do that an' I'll have to keep yu there—a prisoner," he threatened. "Think yu'd like it?"

"I don't know—yet," she smiled, and then, as more customers came in, "Now I've got to be busy, if your

Majesty will excuse me."

She bobbed an impudent curtsey and tripped away to serve the newcomers. King lingered a moment and then

went out. Some of the men greeted him, but others took no notice, which brought the scowl back to his face. He

was realizing that since the advent of Green the dominance of the Burdettes had seriously suffered. He cursed

the citizens contemptuously, promising himself that he would whip them to heel when his hour of triumph

arrived. Then he almost collided with Riley.

"Want yu," he said shortly. "What's this talk in the town of Cal strikin' it good an' bein' held till he opens up?"

"Ain't heard it," the man replied.

"Well, I have, an' they got the story pretty straight. Yu been yappin'?"

"Is it likely? My neck's long enough—I don't want it stretched none," the cowboy lied stolidly.

"Which it will be if this town learns the truth," King assured him. "Where is Cal?"

Riley stared at him. "How in hell should I know? Yu took him off yoreself."

"He's got away," Burdette informed him, and added a few particulars.

"Damnation! Yu lost him," the cowboy cried, and there was consternation in his voice. "Then he'll know ..."

"Shucks, anybody could use that shack, an' he thinks it was Green put him there," King said mendaciously,

unwilling to let the man know too much. "Point is, who's got him now? He ain't showed up in Windy. Sim

reckons it was Luce—claims he recognized a footprint. Yu better keep tabs on him; we gotta find the of devil."

He swung away. Riley waited until he saw him riding the eastern trail, and then dived into Slype's quarters.

The marshal heard his story in silence, and then said.

"Wonder if he's double-crossin' yu?"

The same suspicion had already occurred to the Circle B rider—it was what he would have done himself—but

he shook his head.

"My hunch is he was givin' me the goods," he said. "Someone has stole a march on him, an' likely enough it

was Luce. I'm a-goin' to sleep on that young fella's trail."

The marshal nodded. "If yu find out anythin', Riley, come to me," he urged. "King Burdette couldn't act

straight if he wanted to, which he never does. Yu an' me can put this through together. Sabe?"

Riley agreed, not that he had any illusions regarding the honesty of the marshal, but he believed that, of two

rogues, he was choosing the lesser. Also, he wanted the officer's protection against Green, who might, at any

moment, become actively hostile. Riley had courage, but it was the kind that requires the odds to be slightly in

its favour, and he knew his limitations. For instance, he would never have dreamed of drawing a gun upon

Whitey, and therefore the prospect of a "run in" with the slayer of the Circle B gunman aroused no enthusiasm

in his breast.

CHAPTER XIX

To Nan Purdie, loping along the trail to the valley, the world would have looked very good indeed had it not

been for the shadow of the recent tragedy and the trouble likely to come of it. The slanting rays of the sun were

not yet too hot for comfort, and a light breeze, spicy with the odour of the pines, stirred the foliage and dappled

her pathway with moving patches of shade. Birds twittered in the trees, squirrels chattered, and a tiny stream

sang as it merrily danced down the hillside.

Conscious as she was of the beauty around her—for she loved the land she lived in, and its many phases were a

never-ending source of delight—yet she was not thinking of it. Her mind was dwelling on a certain glade, and a

man she sometimes met there. She had not visited the spot since the day Luce had delivered her from his

brother. Somehow this morning the handsome, insolent, debonair face of the eldest Burdette would intrude. The

warm glow which filled her heart when she thought of Luce changed to a cold fear when her mind reverted to

the other. A shrill, treble voice from behind brought her back to realities.

"Hi, Miss Nan ! "

She pulled up her pony and turned; shambling along the trail in pursuit of her came a boy of twelve. Speed was

a matter of difficulty, for the trodden-over boots into which the tops of his ragged pants were thrust had been

originally the property of a grown man. Nan recognized the broad, freckled face, with its tousled head of tow-

coloured hair, as belonging to a lad who did odd jobs at the hotel.

"Why, Timmie, what has brought you into this neck o' the woods?" she smiled.

"I was headin' for the ranch," the boy explained, "An' was havin' a rest—guess I dozed some"—rather

sheepishly. "See yu go by an' took out after yu. These blame' boots warn't made for runnin'—none whatever."

"But you haven't walked, have you?"

"No'm, got the of mare back in the brush—Turkey said for me to borry her." "Turkey" was the name by which

McTurk, the proprietor of Windy's one hotel, was universally known. "She ain't much, but she was a good cow-

hoss once, an' we all gotta git old, I reckon," the boy added philosophically.

Nan divined the working of the youthful mind. "Quite right of you to give her a rest," she told him. "But why

were you going to the ranch?"

Timmie's face opened in an expansive grin. "Well, darn my whiskers if I warn't near forgettin'; I've brung this

for yu." He dived into his one sound pocket and produced a somewhat crumpled and soiled envelope. "Turkey

tol' me to give it when yu was alone; I reckon I'm some lucky meetin' up with yu."

The girl took the missive, saw that it bore her name and was marked "Private." A suspicion as to the identity of

the sender fetched a warm flush to her cheeks, the effect of which the boy noted.

"She's as purty as a spotted pup," was his unspoken criticism.

Somewhat to his disappointment, she tucked the letter unopened into the pocket of her shirt-waist.

"Mebbe there's an answer," he suggested.

"Then I'll send one of the boys in with it," Nan smiled. "Now, Timmie, you must thank Mister McTurk for the

trouble he has taken, and…"

The boy looked at the coin she slid into his hand.

"Shucks, Miss Nan, I don't want no pay doin' things for yu," he protested manfully, for the sum was more than

he earned in a week.

"That isn't pay, Timmie," the girl explained. "It's just a little present—something to buy cartridges with, so that

you can kill that thieving old coyote I've heard about."

For Timmie's mother was trying to raise chickens, a difficult proposition in a land where those lean grey

prowlers of the night were prevalent. The boy brightened up—this altered the case; the money was bestowed

where the letter had been.

"Yessir—miss, I mean; an' I bet I'll git that of pirut nex' time," he said, and pulling a lock of hair—he had no

hat—he went whistling cheerfully in search of the mare.

Nan rode on and presently pulled out the mysterious missive, studying it. She did not know the writing, but

then, the man she had instantly thought of had never written to her. Tremulously she tore upon the envelope; the

note inside appeared to be no more than a hurried scrawl, in pencil.

"DEAR NAN,

I am leaving the country—can't stand it any longer. Will you be at the old place to-morrow morning? Please come; I got to see you before I go.

LuCE."

For a moment the girl thought her heart had ceased to function. He was going away—she would never see him

again. In that instant she comprehended what this enemy of the Purdie family had come to mean to her. Though

he had never spoken of it, she knew that Luce cared, and now, she too.... Hopeless as it all was, Nan felt that she

must see him. Impulsively she swung off the trail, turning her pony's head in the direction of the glade.

It did not take her long to reach the place; one glance told her no one was there, and her feeling of

disappointment frightened her; life without Luce was going to be harder than she had feared. Trying to account

for his absence, she remembered that no time had been specified. Also, the writer could not have foreseen that

his messenger would meet her on the way, thus enabling her to reach the glade earlier than he might expect. She

decided to wait; that such an act might be unmaidenly did not occur to her frank, open nature.

Seated upon the fallen tree, she took out the note again; it was the nearest approach to a love-letter she had ever

received, and a sad little smile trembled upon her lips as she read and re-read it. So absorbed was she that a faint

rustling of the bushes behind failed to attract her attention —until too late. She turned only to encounter a

blackness which blotted out the sunshine, and the suffocating folds of a blanket which was being drawn around

her head. At the same moment her wrists were gripped, forced together, and tied. Then, despite her resistance,

she was dragged along the ground, lifted to the back of a horse, which, following a gruff command, began to

move.

With a sinking heart she divined that she had fallen into a trap, baited by a letter which was not from Luce.

Who were the abductors? A sudden chill came over her as she remembered that only one man knew of their

meetings in the glade. King Burdette! She recalled his threats and his hatred for her father; it could be no other.

One grain of comfort presented itself—her lover was not leaving the country.

She had no means of ascertaining where she was being taken, but the fact that her mount swished through long

grass, slipped and slithered down stony declivities, and that branches brushed against her body, indicated that

they were travelling a new or little-used route. Occasionally, when a mis-step on the part of her steed caused her

to sway in the saddle, a hand gripped her arm. She gathered that there were several in her escort, but they spoke

little, and then only in low tones so that words and voices were indistinguishable.

Nearly choked by the stifling folds of the blanket and wearied by the constant effort to stay in the saddle, the

ride proved exhausting enough to the prisoner. At length, however, it came to an end. Lifted down, she was led

into a building, up some stairs, and, following a curt order, subsided upon a seat of sorts. Then the blanket was

removed and she looked into the grinning, triumphant face of King Burdette. He bowed mockingly.

"Welcome to the Circle B, Miss Purdie," he said. "The invite was a trifle pressin' mebbe, but it shows how

eager we were to have yu."

The girl faced him with stormy, undaunted eyes. "What do you expect to gain by this outrage?" she asked.

"Just everythin' I want, honey," he replied. "An' that, o' course, includes yu."

Her gesture was contemptuous. "You must be mad," she told him. "How long do you think you can keep me

here without it being known, and what will the men in town do to you when they hear?"

He smiled. "I ain't aimin' to make a secret of it, an' the fellas won't do a thing when they hear that yu came of

yore own accord," he said.

"Do you imagine they'll believe that lie?"

"Why not? Yu won't be able to tell 'em any different. When yo're my wife

Her scornful, incredulous laugh moved him, but his face showed no sign of it. His insolent, appraising eyes

travelled over her from head to foot, taking in the supple slimness of her rounded form, the youthful beauty of

her features, weighing her up as he might have done a horse he contemplated buying. Under that searching

scrutiny Nan felt the hot blood flame in her cheeks; she could not know that beneath his cold exterior the man's

heart was pounding with passion, and that she had never been in greater danger. Burdette nodded slowly as he

continued :

"That is, o' course, if I decide to concede yu a ceremony," he said carelessly. "So far, it hasn't been my custom,

but in yore case it may suit me, even though yu are a Purdie."

If he expected this outrageous insult to cow the girl he was woefully mistaken. Nan came of a fighting stock—

the daughter of a woman who had dared the dangers of the wilderness and fought Indians side by side with her

man, was not of the breed to scare easily.

"You unspeakable beast," she cried, and the disgust in voice and look roused a demon of rage in him.

"Yu said it," he snarled. "I'll make that good."

With the speed of a striking snake his arms shot out, clutching her round the waist, raising and drawing her

writhing form to his. In that grip of steel she was well-nigh powerless, but as the leering, lustful face neared her

own she lifted her bound fists and brought them down full upon it. She expected he would kill her, but King

Burdette only laughed in savage glee.

"That's the spirit," he cried. "Fight, my beauty, fight; I love yu for it. I don't give a damn for woman or hoss

without some devil."

A quick snatch with his left hand imprisoned her wrists, forced them down, and she was helpless. Sick with

horror, she felt his hot lips bruising her own, and then, as her body went limp in his grasp, he flung her from him

so violently that she staggered and fell. For some seconds he stood over her, his hands clenched convulsively,

battling with the desire which turned his blood to liquid fire. Then he laughed again, contentedly.

"That'll do—for now," he told her. His hand went to his face, wiping away a little smear of red. "Yu ain't begun

to pay for that yet, but yu will; no man or woman ever struck King Burdette an' got away with it."

He went out, and she heard the key turn in the lock. Then despair claimed her and for long she lay sobbing on

the floor.

It made a charming picture, the shadowy dell with its green carpet gaily spangled with flowers and slashed with golden light where the sunbeams penetrated the leafy branches overhead; the saddled pony, reins trailing, contentedly nibbling the grass, and the seated girl, arranging a lap-full of blossoms and crooning an old Mexican love-song. It was her voice that had drawn the C P foreman from the trail, and for a little he sat watching her, before riding forward. Not until he reached her did she look up, and then she was prettily surprised.

"Why, it ees my so brave deliverer of distressed damsels," she cried. "But thees time, senor, my pony no run

away."

The puncher grinned. "Yu look a heap younger out here, but that ain't no reason for the baby-talk," he said.

"But, how ungallant," she reproached, "to accuse a lady of speaking childishly. Senor, I thought better of you."

"It's somethin' that yu thought of me a-tall," he retorted, and brought a tinge of colour into her softly-brown

cheeks. "Yu have some right pretty blooms there."

"I love flowers," she said. "I think they're so—pure." She held up a Spanish bayonet, with its sheaf of creamy,

waxen blossoms. "Doesn't look dangerous, does it? Yet see what I got when I gathered it." She pointed to a

scratch on her slender wrist.

"I reckon every livin' thing has to fight some way orother for existence," Sudden smiled. "An' Nature provides the weapons accordin'. Roses has thorns, cats has claws "

"And poor woman?" she queried.

"Has a tongue—an' it's a-plenty," he finished.

She stood up, letting the flowers fall, and regarded him in mock displeasure. "I don't think you are a bit nice,"

she decided. "As a punishment I shall inflict my company on you for a while."

Before he could get down to help her she was in the saddle, moving with a swift, easy grace, and sat there

smiling.

"Li'l Miss Tenderfoot is shore learnin'," she said, copying his own slow drawl, and set her pony moving.

"Shore is," he agreed, and swung Nigger beside her.

Silence held them for a time, the girl covertly studying this long, supple young man with the spare, bronzed

face and smiling eyes which, on occasion, could become ice-cold and deadly in menace. She admired the

careless confidence with which he sat his mount, reins hanging loosely, the slightest pressure of a knee seeming

sufficient to guide the animal. His eyes too were busy. She rode well, her body swaying in rhythm with her

pony's movements. She caught one of his admiring glances, and again the red blood stained her cheeks. She

spoke hastily:

"I hope you haven't been swimming again?"

The corners of his mouth puckered up. "I'm game to try anythin' once, but I ain't a hawg," he replied. "As a

bathin'-pool the Sluice is certainly over-rated."

"I went to see it—a horrible place," she said, and shivered. "I can't understand how you ever got out."

"I had a good friend," Sudden said simply.

"Yes, Mister Yago, wasn't it? I think it was fine of him. Some men would have left you there in the hope of

getting your job."

"Bill can have that, or anythin' else I got—there's no limit," was the calm reply.

She knew he meant exactly that; his life even was included in the sweeping statement; it was no mere figure of

speech. Though the words were spoken casually there was an under-current of feeling which carried conviction.

"Yet you haven't known him long," she mused.

He shot a sharp look at her, wondering if there was anything behind the remark. "Yu don't have to," was his

noncommittal reply.

Again the conversation halted. She was considering him, curious to know something of his past. The long

stirrup-leathers, which left the rider nearly standing, told of California, while the braided rawhide lariat and

heavy Visaliatree'd, single-cinch saddle spoke eloquently of Texas. He talked like a Texan too, but there were

times when his voice dropped to a low, indolent drawl, reminding her of a man from Virginia whom she had

known. Impatiently she shook her head; she could not place him. Watching her eyes, he had divined what was in

her mind.

"I was raised in Texas an' used to ride 'Pache fashion, knees up," he offered. "I reckon this is more

comfortable."

Mrs. Lavigne put a blunt question. "What brought you here?"

"A restless nature an' this black lump of iniquity I'm a-top of," he answered lightly, patting the neck of his

mount.

She saw that he was not to be drawn, but she tried again.

"The handsome stranger falls in love with his employer's daughter, rescues her from deadly peril, marries her

and lives happy ever after," she bantered.

The picture drew unrestrained merriment from her companion. "This ain't no dime novel," he pointed out. "The

lady ain't liable to be in deadly peril, an' her affections unless I'm mistook—is already corralled. As for the

'handsome stranger' "—he grinned joyously as he repeated the phrase—"he's got a job that'll keep him driftin'

mebbe for years." The mirth died out, his face grew hard as granite, and his next words were spoken more to

himself than to her, "I gotta find two men before I think of—one woman."

In that single flash the girl saw a phase of him she had not suspected—the careless, good-humoured cowboy

had suddenly become a grim, relentless instrument of vengeance. There was death in the chilled gaze—death for

those two men. She could not repress a shudder. The sardonic voice of the puncher recalled her straying

thoughts.

"Shucks, I'm talkin' like a dime novel my own self," he reproved, and then, "What's been happenin' here?"

They were passing through the glade which had been the scene of Nan's capture, and the foreman's keen eyes

had at once noted the hoof-torn, trampled grass near the prostrate tree. He slid from his saddle to examine the

marks more closely, but they told him nothing save that a struggle had taken place. Then he picked up a

crumpled scrap of paper—the note the girl had received, which had fallen unnoticed from her hand when she

had been overpowered —and read it with knitted brow. In the bushes at the back of the fallen tree he found

traces of waiting riders. Lu Lavigne watched him wonderingly, but asked no question, thereby raising herself in

his estimation.

"Somethin' queer 'bout this," he remarked, as he mounted again. "I'll have to see Purdie right away. Do yu

reckon yu can find yore way back?"

She looked at him, and the dark eyes were a shade reproachful. "You don't trust anyone overmuch, do you?" she

said.

"This ain't my business," he evaded. "I'm real distressed I can't see yu on yore way."

And since he very evidently meant it, she smiled and again mimicked his own speech. "Li'l Miss Tenderfoot

can take care o' herself, I reckon, partner," she said.

With a wave of her hand, she whirled her pony and trotted down the trail. His gaze followed the trim form until

it vanished amid the trees.

"Partner," he mused. "Yu'd shore make a staunch one too." And then, "Hell, I'm gettin' soft in the head. Shake a

bit o' life into them legs o' your'n, Nig; we got no time for dreamin'."

He reached the ranch-house only to find that Purdie was out on the range. An inquiry for Nan elicited the fact

that she had gone out early for her morning ride and had not returned for the mid-day meal; the cook, who

supplied the information, had to admit that this was unusual.

"She mighta gone to town," the foreman suggested, but the kitchen autocrat negatived the notion; on such

occasions she always asked if supplies were needed. All the same, Sudden sent Curly to Windy, and sat down to

wait for his employer. It was two hours later that Purdie came in and learned of his daughter's absence. At first

he appeared little concerned.

"Nan was raised here, an' she knows the country," he said. "Happen her hoss has played out on her."

But his attitude altered abruptly when the foreman produced the scrap of paper and told how and when it had

been found. Purple with passion, Purdie slammed one fist into another.

"That skunk writin' to Nan, an' askin' her to meet him?" he stormed. "By God, I'll…"

"Slow down, Purdie, we don't know that Luce Burdette sent that note," Sudden said quietly. "I've a hunch it's

more serious than just a love affair."

"Nothin' could be more serious than my girl's carryin' on with one o' that crowd," the old man said savagely.

He pulled out his gun, spun the cylinder to make sure it was in order, and said grimly, "Get me a hoss, Jim."

The foreman saw that in the rancher's present state of mind, argument would be useless. When he returned,

riding Nigger and leading another horse, he found the cattleman striding up and down the verandah.

"No call for yu to come," he said. "I don't need help to kill a snake."

"I'm goin' along," Sudden said firmly. "If Luce had anythin' to do with this business I'll not interfere, but I'm

thinkin' different; that boy may be a Burdette, but he's a white one."

The rancher snorted his disbelief, climbed into the saddle, and sent his pony down the trail on a dead run. The

trip to town was accomplished in silence. The elder man was too full of anger to talk, and the younger's mind

was busy with the problem of what had happened in the glade. It was possible that Luce and the girl had cut the

knot of their perplexities by running away together, but they would scarcely have left the tell-tale note behind,

and there would have been no indications of a struggle, or of hidden riders. If Luce had not written the note...

Daylight had departed when they reached Windy, and the town was a blur in which occasional blotches of pale

light from a window here and there only served to accentuate the surrounding gloom. From "The Plaza" came

the tinkle of a guitar and the chorus of a cowboy ditty; behind a cabin the dismal howl of a dog ended in a yelp

of pain and a curse of content as some unseen sufferer hurled a rock successfully. Outside the saloons, rows of

patient ponies announced that the usual evening entertainments had commenced. The C P pair dismounted at the

hotel and inquired for Luce.

"He rid out this mornin', an' I ain't seen him since," McTurk informed them. "No, his war-bags is in his room."

The rancher's face grew darker. "Think he's at 'The Lucky Chance'?" he asked.

"Guess not," was the reply. "He'd have put his hoss in the corral, an' it ain't there; thinks a lot o' that grey, he

does."

"We'll be back," Purdie said. "If young Burdette shows up —"

"Who wants me?" a quiet voice asked.

The man they were seeking had just entered; his tired, listless face hardened when he saw the elder of the

visitors. Sudden stepped forward.

"Luce, can we have a word with yu—private?"

The boy led the way upstairs, lighted the lamp in a small sitting-room, and then faced them.

"Well, Jim, what is it now?" he asked wearily.

The foreman came to the point at once. "Is that yore writin', Luce?" he questioned, and placed the pencilled

note before him.

Burdette read it with widening eyes. "No, it ain't," he said immediately, "but it's a pretty fair imitation."

"Yu didn't write or send it?" Sudden persisted.

"I did not," was the reply. "I wouldn't have the nerve anyway. What's it all mean?"

"We're tryin' to find out," the foreman explained, and told as much as they knew.

On the boy's face as he listened, bewilderment, suspicion and anger displayed themselves in turn. Even Purdie,

prejudiced though he was, could not doubt his ignorance. But another aspect of the matter was rankling in the

rancher's mind.

"Why should a writin' from yu fetch my gal to this place?" he asked. "Yu met her there afore?"

"Two-three times—allus by chance," Luce admitted, and then looked the old man squarely in the face. "See

here, Purdie, I'm ownin' to bein' in love with yore daughter, an' that's why I couldn't pull on yu a piece back, but

if yu think there's anythin' between us yo're insultin' her. I'd give my life to keep her from harm, but whether she

cares for me I dunno; we never had no love-talk. She once said, in my hearin', that she could not marry a

Burdette."

"She told yu that?"

"No, she said it to King; I was present. Things bein' as they are, yu may as well hear it all."

He went on to describe what had taken place at his last meeting with Nan in the glade, and the father's hard

face grew grimmer and his fingers knotted into fists as he heard the story.

"She never let out a word," he muttered.

"Why should she?" Luce asked bitterly. "Warn't there trouble enough a'ready between yore family an' mine?"

"An' yore guess is that King has carried her off?" the foreman queried.

"Who else?" the boy retorted. "He alone knew of our friendship—must 'a' seen us there one time, an' he'd have

some o' my writin' to copy. This must be the move he was talkin' about to Sim." A hot gust of rage shattered his

control. "By heaven, if he hurts a hair of her head I'll kill him, brother though he may be."

Chris Purdie stood up. "Yu won't have to," he said, and his voice was cold, passionless, set with resolve. "If

Nan is harmed I'll send King Burdette to hell myself. Jim, we'll go get the boys an' clean up the Circle B right

now."

Luce shook his head. In the last few moments he seemed to have sloughed his youth, and when he spoke it was

with the assurance of a man speaking to men.

"Yu can't do that, Purdie," he said.

The cattleman scowled at him. "What damn business is it o' yores?" he asked harshly.

"My name has been used to get yore girl into a trap," young Burdette replied steadily. "I aim to get her out of

it, whether yu agree or not." The glare he received left him unmoved. "Yo're overlookin' the fact that if King

holds Miss Purdie he has yu hog-tied. What's goin' to happen to her if yu move against him?"

The rancher's flushed face paled. "He dasn't harm her," he muttered.

"If yu think that yu don't know my brother," was the grim reply. "Yu gotta remember too that he has twenty

men—trained fighters—an' he'll be expectin' yu."

"He's talkin' sense, Purdie," the foreman added. "While King has Miss Nan all the town can't help yu, an' to go

up there in force would be just what he's hopin' for. Got any plan, Luce?"

"I know the Circle B," the young man pointed out. "Mebbe I can find out where she is an' steal her away. Once

she's clear o' King's clutches"—he looked at the rancher—"Yu an' yore outfit can go ahead."

The old man sat thinking, chin sunk in his chest, his lined features drawn and grey; the blow had hit him hard.

One hideous fact blotted out everything else—his daughter was at the mercy of one who laughed at the laws of

God and man, and whose reputation regarding women was of the worst. Never until this moment had this dour

frontier fighter known fear. Presently he looked up.

"If yu can bring Nan back I'll be willin' to believe there can be some good even in a Burdette," he said.

The boy's eyes brightened at this grudging admission. "I'll do it," he replied, and to the puncher, "By the way, I

found Cal—they had him cached in the pines to the north o' the Circle B; they got nothin' out of him."

"Where is he now?" Sudden asked.

"I dunno," Luce told him. "Said he had a hide-out where he'd be safe." He smiled wryly. "Yu don't s'pose he'd

trust me, do yu?"

"Yu done a good job," the foreman said hearteningly,and turned to his employer. "Better keep all this to ourselves; we don't want anythin' started that'll force King's hand till Luce has had his chance."

"I'll get her or they'll get me," young Burdette said firmly, and Sudden saw the rancher regarding the boy

curiously; he was evidently getting a new angle on this member of a hated family.

Riding back to the ranch, the foreman essayed a word of comfort :

"No need to worry about Miss Nan—yet; she's King Burdette's best bet, an' he knows it. 'Sides, Luce'll fetch

her back; he's got sand, that boy."

But this rubbed a raw place. "Damnation, Jim, do yu fancy I wanta be under any obligation to one o' that

breed?" he snapped, and relapsed into a moody silence.

CHAPTER XX

BREAKFAST in the C P bunkhouse on the following morning was not the usual cheerful function, for the

strange disappearance of their young mistress had a depressing effect on the riders. Though they did not know,

they guessed shrewdly, and, after the manner of their kind, yearned for action.

"What's come to the Old Man?" Curly said querulously. "Ain't them Burdettes prodded him enough a'ready?"

"Huh! Reckon it's Green holdin' him off," Moody surmised. "Odd too, for he don't seem the long-sufferin'

sort."

From the head of the table Yago grinned at the malcontents. "If yu fellas had longer ears it'd be damned hard to

tell yu from jackasses, on'y burros has more brains," he said pleasantly.

"Solomon was the wisest man ever lived—up to his time," Flatty informed the company. "O' course, Bill was

born later."

Yago joined in the laugh. "Awright, yu chumps," he returned, "Yu'll get yore bit o' blood-lettin' yet."

Later, as he and the foreman were riding for the northern rim of the valley, he remarked casually :

"The boys are spoilin' for a scrap; they figure the Circle B has run on the rope a-plenty."

If he was fishing for information the attempt failed dismally; the answer he got was a question : "What yu think

o' the marshal?"

"Don't think of him—nasty subject," Bill grinned. "Sooner occupy my mind with rattlers, centipedes, an'

poison toads."

"I reckon yu'd be right at that," Sudden conceded. "But what part's he playin' in this yer game?"

"He's Burdette's dawg, to be petted or kicked at his master's pleasure," Yago said contemptuously.

The foreman's gesture was one of disagreement. "Slype ain't no dawg—not even a yaller one," he said. "He's a

coyote, an' a cunnin' one. I'm beginning to have ideas 'bout that fella."

"Is that why we're pointin' for his place?"

"Yu've ringed the bell first rattle."

"If yo're wantin' to see him it's odds yu won't; he ain't there much."

"Which is why we're goin'," his foreman told him, and held up a hand to enjoin silence as a clink of iron

against stone reached them.

Curious to know who it could be, Sudden slid to the ground and stepped to the brush-fringed rim of the ravine

along the side of which they were riding. Thirty feet below, in the bed of the gully, the man they had been

speaking of was jog-trotting in the direction of his ranch. A perfectly natural proceeding, but the fact that the

marshal, like they themselves, had selected a roundabout route, seemed suspicious.

"We'll keep an eye on that jigger," the foreman decided. "Mebbe he's meetin' somebody."

The guess proved a good one, for after less than a mile had been covered they heard the marshal utter a surly,

"Howdy."

Promptly they dismounted, dropped the reins, and crawled to the edge of the ravine. Squatting cross-legged on

the ground, a cigarette drooping from his thin lips, was the Mexican half-breed, Ramon. The marshal descended

from his saddle, tied his mount, and sat down facing the man who had evidently been awaiting him.

"What's yore notion, draggin' me out here?" he growled. "Too lazy to ride in huh?"

"Walls have ears, senor," Ramon replied. "What I weesh to say is ver' private, yu sabe?"

Slype pulled out a black cigar, lit up, and said tersely, "Shoot."

The Mexican appeared to be in no hurry; his dark, cunning eyes were studying the diminutive, hunched form

of the man before him. Apparently the scrutiny pleased, for a sly smile flickered across his face.

"Yu know California, ze miner, he vanish, senor?" he began.

The marshal glared at him. "Yeah, an' George Washington's dead they tell me," he said with savage sarcasm.

"Yu bin asleep the last two-three weeks?"

Ramon was unperturbed. "Yu know where he go?" he went on.

"King Burdette collared him an' somebody snaked him away," Slype retorted; and with a sneer, "P'raps yu can

tell me where he is?"

Ramon shook his head; he was a little surprised to find that some of his news was not news, but he replied

confidently enough, "I don't know—yet, but I shall. Yu know King Burdette have keednap Miss Purdie, huh?"

This time he scored a bull; the marshal sat up with a jolt, staring unbelievingly. His informant nodded.

"It ees true; she is at ze Circle B now," he said.

"Hell's bells! " the marshal exploded. "What does King expect to git by that?"

"He get ze girl, ze C P ranch, an' mebbe ze gol'-mine California deescover," Ramon pointed out.

"There's Purdie an' his outfit to be reckoned with first," Slype argued.

"King holds ze girl," the other said softly, with an expression which gave the words an ugly significance.

The marshal sat silent, brooding over the astounding information. He recognized that by this daring move

Burdette had made himself master of the situation; with Nan in his power he could dictate what terms he chose,

and his crew of cut-throats was strong enough to protect him. The owner of the two big ranches would

practically rule the town, and he, Slype, would remain the nonentity he had always been. The sudden crumbling

of his own cherished scheme brought a bitter curse to his lips. The Mexican watched him narrowly, a little smile

of satisfaction on his sinister features; this was a man he could mould, evil, but lacking the usual dominant

quality of the "Gringo."

"King Burdette play ze beeg game, but Meester Slype play a beeger one, huh?" he asked slyly.

"What the hell yu drivin' at?" the marshal snapped.

"I tell one leetle story," Ramon replied. "Once I see two mountain lion fight over ze carcase of a deer. It was

one great battle, senor, an' when it was feenish both ze lion was dead. Si, zey keel each other, yu sabe. An' zen a

coyote sleenk outa ze brush, where he been watchin', an' he get ze meat."

The little parable produced an almost audible chuckle from the unsuspected listeners on the rock-rim above.

"Take a peep at what Slippery calls his face," whispered Yago. "I'm damned if he don't look like a coyote, an' a

poor specimen at that."

In fact, the officer's snarling lips and savage little eyes were sufficiently animal-like to justify the companion.

"Yu tryin' to be funny?" he growled. "Talk straight, yu yeller dawg."

The Mexican raised his shoulders. "I t'ink I make it ver' plain," he said quietly, though his eyes had gleamed

wickedly at the epithet. "Ze Circle B an' ze C P are ze lion an' "

"I'm the coyote, huh?" rasped the marshal. "Yu dirty "

Ramon lifted a hand, palm outward. "Merely a—how yu say—feeger of speech, senor," he explained. "Now, in my leetle story, ze coyote did not keel Ol' Man Burdette."

He saw the start of surprise, the flash of fear in his listener's eyes, and exulted inwardly; the chance shot had gone home. He coolly continued, "An' make out it was ze work of ze C P. Yu know why King shoot Kit Purdie an' try to peen ze deed on his brother Luce, senor?"

With an effort the marshal got control of himself. "I dunno nothin' ahout it," he said sullenly.

"Luce in hees way," Ramon resumed. "I t'ink King deescover Nan Purdie look kindly at hees brother an' he want her heemself. Almos' yu help heem when yu nearly hang Luce for bushwhackin' Green; Mart do that. Shall I tell yu who keel heem too?"

The marshal shivered; this fleering devil with the soft purring voice had him in his power; he, a white man, was at the mercy of a "Greaser"—his own paid hand. Mingled with his fear was a cold rage which was growing steadily stronger.

"Yu seem to know a hell of a lot," was all he could find to say.

"I make it my beesness to know—everyt'ing," Ramon replied. He leant forward and the taunt vanished from his tone. "I put my cards on ze table, senor; ze game is too beeg for one man, but wit' me, yu can win."

Slype's crafty eyes narrowed. "An' yore price?" he asked, and folded his arms.

"We split ze profit two ways—feefty-feefty," the Mexican said. "My share to include—Nan Purdie."

For a long moment the marshal sat silent, and then suddenly his arms fell apart, a gun in the right hand spat viciously—once; Ramon fell back with a bullet through his chest. Shaking with passion, the assassin scrambled to his feet and bent over his victim, who, twisting in agony on the sand, was making feeble efforts to reach his own weapon. Then he fired again, and the Mexican's body shuddered and was still.

"Know every'ting, huh?" the marshal mimicked. "One 'ting yu didn't savvy anyways, an' that was when to keep yore mouth shut."

With trembling fingers he untied his horse, flung himself into the saddle, and with never a backward glance, galloped up the gorge. The shots might have been heard, and though the slaying of a Mexican was no great matter, he had no wish to be seen in the vicinity. The deed itself caused him little uneasiness; his explanation that the fellow had threatened him would be accepted. Upon the two spectators of the drama, the killing had come like a clap of thunder. As the marshal fled, Yago's hand went to his pistol, but his foreman stopped him.

"Let the reptile go—we can get him any time," he said. "Mebbe the Greaser ain't cashed."

A hundred yards further along they found a spot where the bank was less vertical, and the horses made the descent safely, mostly on their rumps.

"We'd oughta fetched skids, my bronc has damn near rubbed his tail off," Bill complained.

When they reached the Mexican they found that Sud-den's surmise was correct—he was not yet dead, though it was obviously only a matter of moments. He opened his eyes when Yago raised his head and gasped, "Water!"

"This'll do him more good," Bill, said, and passed over a small flask of whisky. "Carry it in case o' snake-bite," he explained with a wink, when his foreman's eyebrows went up.

The raw spirit put a little strength into the wounded man, and with it came a desire for vengeance; a spark of hatred shone in the glazing eyes.

"The marshal—do—this," he muttered. "Write—write —I put name."

Sudden searched, found pencil and a fragment of paper, and took down the dying man's statement, which they had already heard. Gasping for breath, every word a conscious effort, Ramon told his story, and gripping the pencil in nerveless fingers, scrawled his signature. Then a dreadful smile contorted his features and his head fell forward. They caught a last whisper.

"Gracias, senores. Adios."

Yago laid the dead man gently on the ground, stood up, and said slowly, "Well, amigo, yu was a Greaser, but yu shore died fightin', an' I'd sooner call yu `brother' than the vermin what put yore light out."

"Fightin' an' bitin'," the foreman agreed. "I reckon he's earned a quiet grave."

With hands and knives they scooped out a shallow trench, wrapped the corpse in a blanket, and heaped rocks above to prevent a prowling coyote from disturbing the murdered man's last rest.

"Saves us a journey," Sudden said. "No need to go snoopin' round Slype's place now."

"What we goin' to do 'bout that jasper?" Bill inquired, as they rode south along the ravine.

"Nothin'—yet," his friend decided. "We'll let him play his hand a bit longer. If he's double-crossin' Burdette, he's on our side, that far."

"Sufferin' snakes, if King knowed that Slippery bumped off his Ol' Man there'd be proceedin's."

"Shore would, but until the girl is back at the C P again, King has us where the hair's short."

The marshal rode rapidly towards the town. Despite the blazing sun, beads of cold sweat oozed from his brow when he thought of the danger he had been in. If the Mexican had taken his tale to King Burdette ...

"I'd be like him—buzzard-meat," he croaked aloud, and a shudder shook him as he recalled the stark still form he had left in the ravine. "Oughta planted him, I s'pose," he continued. "Hell, corpses can't chatter." The corners of his mouth came down in an ugly sneer as his mind reverted to the "leetle story" the dead man had used. "Coyote, huh? Well, I reckon he knows now that them critters has got teeth."

He drew his gun, reloaded the empty chambers, and pulled his horse down to a steady lope. He wanted to think. Purdie would go up in the air when he heard about his daughter. The marshal could vision him with his outfit riding headlong for the Circle B. There would be a battle and Purdie would lose it—maybe his life as well. Perhaps King too. ... Ramon had said the mountain lions had slain each other. That might happen—or could be made to; a marksman hidden in the brush. . . . He grinned devilishly; the "leetle story" might yet come true.

CHAPTER XXI

FOR a while after his visitors had gone Luce Burdette sat slumped in a chair, fists clenched, eyes staring into

vacancy, his heart filled with a bitter fury against the man who had done this thing. The darkly handsome,

satirical face, with its mocking smile of triumph, rose before him, and coupled with this knowledge of King's

cruel, callous nature, suggested fearful possibilities.

"An' he's kin to me," the boy groaned. He struck the table fiercely. "He shan't have her, damn him, not while I

live."

Two hours later he was threading a thicket of live-oaks which masked the slope at the rear of the Circle B

ranch-house. Fortunately for his purpose the night was dark. Leaving his horse among the trees and carrying his

lariat, he approached on foot, walking Indian-like on the balls of his feet and testing each step lest a cracking

twig should betray him. It was a slow business, but presently he reached a strip of open ground where he would

have to risk being seen. Here he paused, scanning the building. There was a lighted window just opposite to

where he was crouching—the kitchen, which was his objective. For the rest, the place was in darkness, so far as

he could tell. Light shone from the bunkhouse, fifty yards distant, and he could hear voices; some of the outfit

would be there, playing cards, and yarning. Stooping, he sprinted across the shadowy space, reached the window

and looked in. As he had expected and hoped, Mandy, the old coloured cook, was alone. Familiar taps on the

pane brought her waddling hurriedly; she peered out and then cautiously raised the sash.

"Foh de Ian's sake, it cain't be yo, Massa Luce," she whispered tremulously.

"Shore is, Mammy," he replied, calling her by the name he knew she liked him to use. "Say, who's in the

house?"

"Dey ain't nobody but me," she told him. "Dem King an' Sim done went out; mebbe dey is in de bunkhouse

wid de boys. Yo don' oughta be hyar, honey; dat King, he massacree yo if he cotch you aroun'."

There was a mingling of fear and affection in her voice —Luce had always been her favourite; for his brothers

she had little but dread.

"Good old Mammy," the boy said. "I ain't goin' to be `cotched.' " He bent forward so that he could see her face

and said earnestly, "Are yu shore there is no one in the house but yoreself?"

At this question Mandy recoiled and the whites of her eyes showed big. "Lawdy, ain't I tol' yo?" she quavered,

but Luce interrupted sternly :

"Come clean, Mammy; it ain't like yu to lie to me." Still she hesitated, pulled two ways by affection for the lad before her and terror of his elder brother; the former triumphed.

"King'll sho'ly take the hide off'n my back if he knows," she said huskily. "Dey's a gal locked up in yo ol’

room. I dunno who she is—they done hustled me outa de way when she was fotched in."

"It's Nan Purdie, Mammy," Luce told her. "God! It makes me ashamed to know I'm a Burdette."

The deep disgust and anguish in his voice made the old Negress look at him strangely. This was not the merry

lighthearted lad to whom she had been a mother. A sudden decision firmed her face.

"Yo needn't to be, honey. Yo ain't a Burdette, an' yo nevah was one," she said, and then, as she read his

expression, "No, I ain't out o' ma haid—I'm tellin' yo true. Long time back, when we was crossin' Injun country

on de way hyar, Ol' Man Burdette fin' yo cryin' in de brush—yo was 'bout knee-high to a jackrabbit. Pretty soon

we light on a burned cabin an' two bodies; dey was white an' dat was all we—but I don' need to tell yo 'bout dem

red devils. Mis' Burdette figured dey was yo folks an' 'lowed she'd 'dopt yo. The Ol' Man say, `Brand an' throw

him in de herd, de damn li'l maverick; he'll make a Burdette one day.' But yo nevah did, honey; allus dere was a

difference. Now, don't yo care ..."

To the boy the revelation and all it meant to him swept everything else from his mind. He did not doubt the

story, and, looking back, found much to confirm it. Father and brothers had always treated him with a sort of

good-natured contempt, an attitude he had put down to his age. Even after the Old Man's death he had not been

admitted to the family's councils, nor invited to join in those periodic mysterious expeditions from which the

men returned weary with riding and sometimes wounded. These things had hurt him, but now he was glad.

Nameless and of unknown origin he might be, but he was not a Burdette, and Nan ... At the thought of her he

drew himself up, his eyes shining.

"Care?" he echoed. "Why, Mammy, it's the grandest news I ever heard."Hell, if yu'd on'y told me afore."

"I was feared o' grievin' yo," the old woman said.

"Shore, yu couldn't know," Luce told her. "Now, I gotta get Miss Purdie outa this. If you hear anythin', warn

me."

He melted into the shadow of the building, stealing along Until he stood beneath the window of his old room.

It was nearly ten feet above his head—for the Circle B ranch-house boasted two storeys—but he was prepared

for that. Close by stood a big cottonwood, a stout branch of which passed above the window. Hanging the lariat

round his neck, he began to climb the tree, almost smiling as he recalled how often, as a boy, he had done the

same thing with no other object than to enter unknown to his fatherand brothers. Dark as it was, he soon found

the familiar hand and footholds, and in a few moments had swung himself along the branch. Kneeling upon the

sill, he thrust up the unlatched sash and whispered :

"Miss Purdie—Nan."

A muffled mumble was the answer. He struck a match, shielding the light in his cupped hands that it might not

show outside. The girl was seated on the bed—his bed once—her hands and feet tied, a handkerchief knotted

over the lower part of her face. With great staring eyes she gazed at him, and then an expression of joy drove the

fear away. She trembled as he removed the gag.

"Luce—you?" she breathed. "Oh, take me from this dreadful place."

"That's what I'm here for," he assured her, as he severed the bonds. "Yu ain't—hurt—any?" His voice shook as

he asked the question.

"No," she whispered. "Only frightened of that,horrible man. Your brother."

"He ain't that, an' I'm not a Burdette, Nan," Luce told her exultantly. "No time to explain now—we gotta

hustle. Do yu reckon yu can walk?"

"Yes, of course," she replied, stretching her cramped limbs experimentally.

"The door's locked, so I'll have to let yu down from the window," he went on, and slipped the loop of his rope

beneath her armpits. "All yu gotta do is sit on the sill an' slide off."

All went well. With feet braced against the wall, Luce paid out the rope slowly when he felt the girl's weight

upon it, and soon a whisper from below apprised him that she had landed safely. Then he retraced his way along

the branch and in a moment was by her side.

"Where do we go now?" she asked.

A mocking laugh answered her. "Yu don't," said a hated voice, and a lifted lantern drove away the darkness. King

Burdette was standing a few yards in front of them, one thumb hooked in his belt and a jeering grin on his face.

Like a flash Luce whipped out his gun and covered him.

"Stand outa the way or I'll send yu to hell pronto," the boy rasped.

The threatened man laughed. "Yu couldn't kill one o' yore own kin, Luce," he said.

"Yu ain't that, thank God," came the retort.

King laughed again. "Found that out at last, huh?" he sneered. "Well, it shore was funny to see yu swaggerin'

around, puttin' on frills as one o' the family when allatime yu was on'y a nameless brat."

"I'd a thousand times sooner be that than a Black Burdette," Luce retorted passionately, and, as his finger

tightened on the trigger, "I've warned yu that there's nothin' to prevent me shootin' yu down..."

The elder man snarled a curse. "Nothin' to prevent yu?" he repeated. "Why, yu young fool, there's a dozen guns

coverin' yu right now. Fire, an' be damned to yu; we'll go together, an' instead o' one admirer Miss Purdie'll have

quite a number."

The fiendish threat underlying the last words drove the blood from the rescuer's cheeks. He looked around and

saw dark forms with levelled revolvers step from the shadows into the lamp-light. He was trapped. Doubtless

King had been watching for some such attempt—Luce knew Mandy would not betray him—and had enjoyed

allowing it to almost succeed; it was in keeping with the cruel humour of the man. With a smothered groan he

holstered his weapon. He might have killed King, but he would lose his own life and leave Nan at the mercy of

men who did not know the meaning of the word. Once more the hateful laugh rang out.

"Learnin' sense, huh? Well, I'm a good teacher," King said. "Unbuckle yore belt an' let it drop."

"That's a trick I taught yu," Luce reminded him, as he complied with the order.

The gibe sank in; King's face became a mask of malignity. "Don't push on yore reins, boy," he hissed. "I'll be

learnin' yu aplenty afore I'm through." He turned to his men. "Tie an' lock 'em up—apart, an' then cut that damn

tree down."

Luce looked at his fellow-prisoner. "I'm sorry, Nan," he said miserably. "Reckon I've on'y made things worse

for yu."

The girl smiled bravely. "No, it was fine of you to come, Luce," she replied, and her tone was a caress. "I'm not

afraid now."

"Better tell him good-bye; yu won't be seein' him again," King mocked.

The threat did not have the effect he expected—it only roused the girl's fighting spirit. "I'll do that," she said

quietly. "Thank you, Luce, and in case this coward means what he says ..." She reached up and kissed the

astonished boy full on the lips. "I'll never forget, dear—never," she whispered.

To have his taunt flung back in his face was more than Burdette had bargained for, but he repressed his rage

and substituted a sneer: "Make the most of it, my fine fella—it's the on'y one yu'll get; the rest'll be mine." He

growled an order to his followers, "Take 'em away. Sim, I hold yu responsible till I come back."

"Yu needn't to worry—they'll be here," the younger brother assured him.

King nodded, went to the corral for his horse, and was soon on the way to Windy. He was in an exultant mood,

things were going as he had planned—with one exception —the escape of California. Luce must be made to tell where the miner was hiding, and then, if the move he was now about to make proved successful, the game was won.

*

In her own little sitting-room at "The Plaza," Lu Lavigne listened with growing astonishment while King

Burdette outlined the situation. It was a pleasant place, tastefully furnished, gaudily-coloured Navajo blankets

and a fine grizzly pelt concealing the bareness of walls and floor; on the centre table stood a great jar of flowers.

The daintily-dressed girl, with her trim, shining head and wide, deep eyes, was not the least of the room's

attractions, and the visitor, lounging easily in a chair, was fully aware of the fact. He was speaking softly,

persuasively, his bold eyes paying her the homage dear to the heart of every woman, be she princess or peasant.

A different man this smiling, low-voiced, handsome fellow to the cynical, ruthless devil she knew he could be,

and, strangely enough, this was the King Burdette she feared, for, with all her independence, in this mood he

could bend her to his will.

"So that's how the cards lie, honey," he concluded, triumphantly. "All we gotta do is lay the hand down an'

rake in the pot."

"And I'm to help you to the C P ranch and—a wife?" she queried resentfully.

"Shucks, Lu, yu got me all wrong," King replied. "When Purdie hands over the ranch he gets the girl back, an'

Luce can have her for all I care. Time comes I want a mistress for the C P yu know where I'll look, don't yu,

sweetness?"

The caressing tone and the ardent look which accompanied the words brought a flush to the girl's cheeks, and convinced her that he was speaking the truth. As to the morality of what King was attempting, that troubled her not at all; Nan Purdie lived on a different plane and theywere not even acquainted. Even in this far-off corner of the earth a woman who ran a saloon could not hope to meet on equal terms the daughter of a big cattleman. Moreover, in those days too often might was right, and Burdette had been at pains to fabricate a grievance against Chris Purdie. The only qualm she experienced was when she thought of the C P foreman, and that she resolutely dismissed from her mind; he had told her plainly that women could have no part in his life, and the fascination King Burdette had for her was still strong. Because of it she consented to do his bidding, though she told herself she was a fool to mix in the affair.

CHAPTER XXII

WHEN Sudden and Yago returned to the C P in the early afternoon the cook came from the bunkhouse on the

run.

"Hey, Jim, the Ol' Man's just bin aroun'—said for yu to go see him as soon as yu showed up," he explained.

"I'm bettin' suthin' has broke loose—he was lookin' as mad as a singed cat."

Turning his horse over to Bill, the foreman strode to the ranch-house. Tied to the rail of the verandah was the

pony Lu Lavigne rode, and on stepping into the living-room he saw the lady herself, seated in a large chair. She

greeted him with a cool nod, and then her attention went back to Purdie, who was pacing up and down in an

obvious attempt to overcome his passion. He paused as the foreman entered, and growled.

"Glad yu've come, Jim." He waved a hand savagely at his guest. "One o' Burdette's creatures; he hadn't the

sand to come himself an' sends a woman."

The girl flushed. "That's not true," she protested. "I have no part in King Burdette's business—he is merely a

friend. He asked me to bring his message because he expected to be shot on sight if he showed himself here."

"He was damn right too," the rancher grimly agreed. "That's my way o' treatin' vermin."

Lu Lavigne shrugged her slim shoulders. "It would have helped your daughter so much, wouldn't it?" she

retorted.

The foreman judged it was time to put in a word: "Burdette makin' an offer, Purdie?" he asked.

The cattleman stopped and whirled. "Yeah, the sort yu might expect from such a dirty road-agent," he replied

fiercely. "I'm to sign a paper that woman has fetched, makin' over my ranch an' cattle to him for value received,

an' in return, I get my girl back unharmed."

Sudden did not reply at once; the magnitude and audacity of the demand staggered him. He looked at the lady,

sitting there with a set, wooden face devoid of all expression, and his thoughts went straying.

"An' if the paper ain't signed?" he said at last.

"Luce Burdette will die, and your daughter, Mister Purdie, will want to," the messenger replied tonelessly.

"So Luce failed?"

"King was watching; he let them almost escape."

Sudden nodded; it was a jest which would appeal to the elder Burdette, and he could picture his unholy glee in

thus playing cat and mouse with his captives. Purdie paused again in his perambulation.

"He can kill Luce an' welcome—it's on'y a Burdette less in the world an' all to the good," he rapped out. "Do

yu reckon he'd dare do what he threatens to my daughter?"

"I am quite sure of it," the visitor said coldly.

The old man glared at her. "An' yu stand for that?" he asked.

"What is it to do with me?"

"She's a woman—like yoreself."

Lu Lavigne smiled bitterly. "No, she is not a woman like myself," she retorted. "Nan Purdie is a superior being,

with a college education, a wealthy father, and far too proud to look at the keeper of a drinking-saloon. Why

should I worry what happens to her? How should it concern me if you and King Burdette have a difference and

he takes his own way of settling it?"

The foreman was watching her, and under the steady scrutiny of those grey-blue eyes her own dropped. Then

he spoke, quietly :

"Possibly yu have a right to think like that, but yu—don't," he said. "Is there any way yu can help us, ma'am?"

She shook her head. "I can do nothing. King Burdette holds all the cards."

The cattleman's harsh voice cut in : "Yo're a particular friend o' his, ain't yu?"

The girl's manner was instantly hostile again. "Has that anything to do with it?" she said icily.

"I figure it might have," the rancher replied. "Yo're one o' the cards he don't hold at the moment; s'pose we

keep yu here?"

Mrs. Lavigne's laugh was genuine. "Do you really imagine King would let that interfere with his plans?" she

asked. "You should study your enemies better, sir." Her voice took on a touch of acid. "And what would the

town think? A most respectable citizen entertaining a dance-hall drab at his most respectable ranch in the

absence of his most respectable daughter. Why, Mister Purdie, even your most respectable foreman will tell you

that it wouldn't do at all."

The gibing, scornful tirade ended; the speaker was watching Sudden, who appeared to be searching for

something. Noting her interested gaze, he explained.

"I'm lookin' for that foreman yu was mentionin'," he said quizzically. The disarming grin, which brought tiny

crinkles at the corners of his eyes, drove the ill-humour from the girl's face and brought a look of contrition

instead.

"I'm a nasty little spitfire," she murmured. "I take it all back."

"Which means we ain't respectable," Sudden smiled. "Ma'am, I'm thankin' yu." Then he added gravely, "But

this ain't helpin' us."

Purdie, who had thrown himself into a chair, glaring moodily at the ground, now looked up. His face, grey and

haggard, was set with resolve.

"I've gotta sign, Jim," he said slowly. "As Mrs. Lavigne" —it was the first time he had used her name, and it

brought the ghost of a smile to her lips—"says, he holds the cards. It'll mean startin' life all over again—for

every-thin' I got is in the ranch—but sooner that than hurt should come to Nan. It won't be the first time I've

been set afoot."

For a space no one spoke. The girl's eyes were downcast, and the foreman appeared to be concerned only in the

construction of a cigarette.

"Shore looks thataway, Purdie," he said presently, "but there's a kink in the rope that has to be straightened out

first. The C P is another card Burdette don't hold—yet; sign that paper an' yu fill his hand. Who's to guarantee

he'll keep his word? Me, I ain't trustin' him as far as I could throw a steer."

"How'd yu propose to get around it?" the rancher asked dully.

"That's what we gotta figure out, an' it'll need sleepin' on," Sudden told him. He turned to the messenger. "Yu

can tell Burdette he'll have his answer in the mornin', an' that's final," he said, and opened the door leading to the

verandah.

Lu Lavigne went without a word and the foreman followed her. Not until she was standing beside her pony did

she venture a protest.

"You are taking a big risk," she said.

"I'm used to it," he grinned. "Takin' risks is the salt o' life—for a man." Then, with apparent irrelevance, "Yu

are too nice a woman to be mixed up in a mess o' this sort."

With a gesture of impatience, she disdained his proffered help and swung into her saddle. Always this

sardonic, gravely-smiling man baffled her.

"But where's the sense in it? At the first sign of attack on the Circle B the girl—pays," she urged. "You know

Purdie will have to sign in the morning—there is no other way."

"I reckon yo're right—mebbe," he agreed.

With a little shrug of despair, she sent her pony clattering down the trail. Sudden watched till she rounded the

bend, before turning to re-enter the ranch-house.

"I said `mebbe,' Mrs. Lavigne," he smiled.

He found Purdie hunched up at the table, gloomily fingering the document which would take away practically

all he possessed and rob him of the result of his life's work. This, following the loss of his son and the peril in

which his daughter was placed, had brought him, tough as he was, near to breaking-point. But Chris Purdie had

lived a life full of hard lessons and had learned to "take his medicine" without whining. So that it was a fighting

face which greeted the foreman, grief-lined but determined, with narrowed eyes and clamped jaw, the face of

one who could be crushed but never heaten while breath was in his body.

"Well, Jim, what's the idea?" he asked. "I'm s'posin' yu got one, or yu wouldn't take the chance o' Burdette not

waitin'."

"He'll do that," Sudden said confidently. "He figures he's got us cinched, an' besides, he wants Miss Purdie

hisself—which is one reason why he won't play fair."

The knuckles of the rancher's clenched hands showed white beneath the tanned skin. "But that woman said " he

began.

"He's double-crossin' her—she's been persuaded that he's on'y usin' yore girl to get the ranch, but Luce has told

us different," the foreman pointed out. "Signin' that paper won't fetch Miss Purdie back, though it might save her

somethin'," he finished awkwardly.

The elder man rasped out an oath. "I'd sooner see her dead than tied to that spawn o' the Devil. Spill yore plan,

Jim."

"I'm goin' to try Luce's trick, but in a different way. If I can't get them…"

"Them?" interrupted the rancher brusquely. "Yu ain't goin' to bother about that Burdette fella, are yu?"

"He went there to save yore daughter," Sudden reminded.

The owner of the C P was a fair-minded man, not afraid to admit when he was in the wrong. "That's so, Jim;

sorry I forgot, but the very name o' Burdette is pizen to me. Yu ain't said how yu propose to get 'em. I don't

cotton to the notion o' yu bein' alone."

"She's the on'y chance—the place'll be guarded," Sudden told him. "It'll mean Injun work, but I was raised

amongst redskins."

"An' I gotta sit here doin' nothin'?" Purdie grumbled. "Not any; yo're goin' to have one busy session. Soon as I'm away, round up the boys. Tell 'em to come, fixed for trouble. Yu got any friends yu can trust in town?"

Purdie nodded.

"Send 'em word to meet yu some place, but they gotta get away without anyone knowin', 'specially the

marshal. Yu Babe?"

The rancher nodded again. His air of despondency had vanished and his eyes were shining; the prospect of

action was meat and drink to him.

"When yo're all set, fetch the men to the Circle B an' plant 'em in the brush to wait for the signal, which will be

a 'Pache war-cry—twice. That'll mean we're clear o' the house an' yu can start to clean up. I don't know how

long it will take me, but I figure yu won't get that signal till around daybreak. Yu gotta hold the boys back; if

they start the ruckus too soon, there'll be hell to pay an' no pitch hot."

A grim smile flitted across the cattleman's rugged features. "Don't yu worry 'bout that," he assured. "They'll be

good; they think a heap o' Nan, an' damn near as much o' yu. Get the prisoners in the open an' we'll give them

Battle Butte bushwhackers somethin' else to occupy 'em. I'm a mite curious how yu aim to do it?"

"Ain't got it worked out yet," the foreman evaded, for he did not wish to dash Purdie's hopes with details of the

desperate endeavour he had in mind. "Tell yu all about it later—mebbe," he supplemented, with his whimsical

grin.

To Bill Yago he was no more communicative, and the little man voiced his views plainly. "Goin' to take

another fool chance, huh?" he said. "Well, I'm admittin' that up to now yore luck shore has been amazin'—too

damn good to last."

"Yore idea would be to sit back an' let King Burdette take all the tricks, I s'pose?" Sudden rejoined, knowing

full well that he libelled his friend grossly.

"My idea is that two heads is better'n one," was the sage, if ungrammatical, reply.

"Yeah, but it's a matter o' feet not heads," the foreman retorted, with a sly glance at the generous extremities of

the grumbler. "Them wagons yu walk on would make as much noise trampin' through the brush as a herd o'

cattle. 'Sides, the Ol' Man wants yu, now, pronto, an' at once."

Yago departed with a snort of disgust, and when he returned Sudden had set out. Bill followed, but in a

different direction, having first given orders which turned the hunkhouse into a hive of frenzied activity.

Weapons were carefully overhauled, belts stuffed with ammunition, but only the menace of their preparations

betrayed the fact that the men were about to engage in an enterprise which might result fatally to some of their

number. Not one of them thought of this, but beneath the light banter there was a substratum of grim resolution.

For the Circle B had stepped into the open—the abduction of Nan Purdie tipped the balance—and the

opportunity of paying for many months of stealthy aggression and studied insult had come at last. They did not

know the whole of the story—there was no need—the rancour between the two ranches was of long standing,

and for months the outfits had but waited the word to fly at one another's throats.

"King Burdette has shore got his gal," Moody said. "Hi, yu thief, drop them shells; I'll want 'em all my own

self."

Flatty relinquished the box of cartridges of which he was about to take toll. "An' that's whatever," he said

pointedly. "Any hombre yu throw down on has on'y gotta stand still to be safe."

Moody's reply to this libel on his marksmanship took the form of a chunk of wet soap; Flatty ducked sideways

and got the missile in the neck, at which the thrower chuckled gleefully.

"Why didn't yu stay put, fella?" he gibed.

"On'y proves what I said," Flatty responded, grabbing the nearest article to dry himself, which elicited a wail

from Levens.

"That's my shirt yo're usin'."

"Well, I don't mind—much," the offender told him. "Soap won't hurt it none—time it saw some anyways."

"Strip allus washes his shirt once a year, whether she needs it or not," was Curly's contribution.

The appearance of their employer put an end to the joshing. "Get a wiggle on, boys," he urged. "Jim may be

through quicker'n he figured, an' we gotta be on hand when he wants us."

A few moments later they set out, every man of the outfit save the cook, who, from the bunkhouse door,

watched till the darkness blotted them out.

"Hell! Rustlin' grub ain't no job for a man," he told the world. "Hope they bring back Miss Nan an' hang every

thief at the Circle B."

He dragged a chair to the door, lit a pipe and sat down, a loaded shotgun across his knees. For the first time in

his life he was in sole charge of the C P, and he did not intend to be caught napping.

Something less than a mile from Windy, Sudden swung off to the left and began the task of finding a way through the brush and thicket-clad northern slope of the valley. It was imperative he should not be seen, the success of his audacious attempt depending entirely on a surprise. He had calculated that this way of approach would take twice as long as the open trail, but he soon discovered that he had underestimated the difficulties. The night was dark—no moon or stars in the black void overhead—and while he was grateful for that, it did not make the picking of a path through dense thorny undergrowth easier. Moreover, he had to rely on his sense of direction, and as progress meant frequent twists and turns to avoid impassable obstacles there was danger of losing his way.

"Durn it, a'most wish I'd chanced the trail," he muttered, as, for the twentieth time perhaps, he found himself in

a blind alley which necessitated retracing his steps and trying again. He felt his horse wince and quiver beneath

him, guessing the reason. "Thorn, huh?" he said. "I feel like a blasted pincushion m'self."

For what seemed like hours the weary struggle went on. At long intervals they found open spaces across which

they moved swiftly only to renew the battle with the brush on the other side. Though the need for watchfulness

was constant, Sudden's subconscious mind reverted to the man who was really responsible for his being there—

that quiet little citizen with the compelling grey eyes which had twinkled when he said in all seriousness, "If yu

get into a mess, you must get out again; I can't help yu." Well, he was in a mess, and whether he could get out

remained to be seen.

For another half-hour man and beast pursued their painful progress. Owing to the tardy appearance of scattered stars the light was a trifle better, and through a break in the trees Sudden could make out a huge black mass looming up ahead of them, and guessed they had reached the end of the valley. He tried to locate his position, and decided that he was not far from the wagon road which slashed the face of the butte and formed the usual approach to the Circle B. But this he dared not use—it would certainly be watched.

Picketing his horse in a grassy grove, he began to climb the scrub-covered slope, heading in the direction he

believed the ranch-house to lie. He made good progress at first, for the rise was gentle, but it grew steeper as he

went on and soon, despite the chilly night air, he was perspiring freely. Slipping, twisting, hauling his body up

by sheer strength, scratched by thorns and bruised by encounters with protruding rocks invisible in the gloom,

he at length reached a tiny shelf and flung himself down to rest.

"Hell, I feel like I'd been washed an' wrung out," he soliloquized. "I'd give a month's pay for a smoke." He had

no means of discovering the hour, but calculated that it was well past midnight. "Purdie an' the boys should be

along soon." He flexed his aching muscles and the resultant pain produced a grunt. "Sittin' here won't buy me

nothin' —gotta keep movin'."

Another short burst of strenuous endeavour brought him to a patch of stunted pine. Here the ascent was less

abrupt and the carpet of pine-needles provided easy going. Gliding swiftly and silently from tree to tree, the

puncher went upwards until he was conscious that the incline had almost ceased; he must be nearing the plateau

on which the Circle B was built. Then a faint shaft of yellow light shone through the foliage, apprising him that

the end of his journey was at hand. For long moments he stood motionless in the deep shadow, peering and

listening. A whiff of a familiar odour—burning tobacco—came to him; he was facing the faint breeze, therefore

the smoker must be ahead. Dropping down, Sudden crawled slowly forward, feeling every foot of the ground in

front before making a movement—the snapping of a tiny twig might mean ruin to his hopes. Presently he could

see the fellow, a dim shape, squatting, back against a tree and a rifle across his thighs. His complaining voice

reached him:

"Damn this job. What's King scared of, anyways? He's got the C P tied, an' them rabbits in Windy don't have

the guts to move."

There was no reply; evidently the sentinel was relieving his feelings by talking to the air. The intruder smiled

forbiddingly and continued his advance. When he was within two yards of the unsuspecting guard he rose to his

feet and drew a gun. Two silent strides, a swift downward chop of the steel barrel, and the sentinel sagged

senseless where he sat. Sudden dragged the fellow further into the gloom, gagged and hound him with his own

neckerchief and belt, and then, keeping under cover of the growths which skirted the edge of the plateau, made

his way towards the ranch-house. Approaching from the side, he slipped over the rail of the verandah and

creeping along in the shadow until he was beneath the lighted window, lifted his head cautiously and peeped in.

One glance told him all he wanted to know; it was the living-room, and King Burdette was there—alone.

Reclining in a big chair, a bottle of spirit on the table beside him, the Circle B man appeared to be half asleep.

He had discarded his belt, which was hanging on the back of another chair some feet away, a fact the visitor

noted with a grin of approval.

"Luck is shore runnin' my way," he commented softly, and cat-footed to the front door, where again fortune

favoured him; he found it unfastened.

CHAPTER XXIII

"PuT 'em up, Burdette ! "

The low, harsh command brought the dozing man to his senses like a dash of ice-cold water. With unbelieving

eyes he stared at the granite-hard face of the man he hated and whose presence there he could scarcely credit.

Then, as the threatening gun-muzzle dropped an inch and he saw the thumb holding back the hammer relax, he

pushed his hands above his head.

"Good for yu," the visitor said grimly. "Yu were just one second away from hell when yu done that."

King Burdette knew it was no bluff—this man would have shot him down without hesitation; the puncher with

the sardonic smile and lazy, drawling voice had metamorphosed into a lean-faced, cold-blooded killer, and

notwithstanding his hardihood, he felt an unaccustomed chill in the region of his spine. With an effort he flung

off the feeling and regained something of his usual bravado. Inwardly he was cursing his men for letting the

fellow pass, and himself for being caught without his weapons. His eyes went to them, and then to the lamp. An

acid voice cautioned him.

"Yu couldn't make it, but"—the fell eagerness was evident—"I'd admire for yu to try. I'm hopin' yu will."

Burdette, who had tensed his muscles in readiness to thrust the table over and jump for his guns, relaxed them

again before the deadly menace of the warning. He locked his hands behind his head and laughed.

"Nervy, ain't yu?" he sneered. "An' now—what? Goin' to hold me here till one o' my men comes in?"

"Yu better pray hard that don't happen—it'll be yore death-warrant," Sudden said. "Seem' I got a use for yu

that'd be a pity. Stand up—slow—an' lead the way to Miss Purdie, an' mind this, Burdette, if things don't go

slick, yu will."

Footsteps sounded outside, and Sudden slid behind the half-open door. "Send him on his way," he hissed, and

the threatening gun backed up the order.

"Everythin' all right, Boss?" asked a voice.

"Get to hell outa here," King shouted, furious at the ignominious part he was being forced to play, and the man

went away muttering.

"Come ahead," the visitor curtly commanded.

For some seconds King hesitated, his subtle brain busily seeking a means of turning the tables on the man who

had trapped him. But he could see no chance; save for old Mandy and the prisoners, he was alone in the house,

his brothers and the outfit being either on guard or in the bunkhouse. Any attempt to summon them meant

instant death; this grim-faced gunman who had slain Whitey was definitely not a man to gamble with. King had

courage, but to die uselessly was no part of his programme. So he nodded suddenly and stepped to the door,

consoling himself with the thought that his men were watching every avenue of escape. The fools might get

clear of the house, and then...

Well aware of the gun-barrel nudging his ribs, he led the way upstairs, unlocked and threw open a door. In the

dim light of the coming dawn they saw Nan Purdie, sitting with bent shoulders on the side of the bed. At their

entrance she started up, her eyes wide with fear when she saw the Circle B owner.

"It's all right, Miss Purdie," Sudden's voice assured her. "Mister Burdette has had a change of heart—he's here

to help yu." His eyes narrowed when he saw her bound wrists. "Turn her loose," he ordered, and King, knowing

that the shadow of death was very near to him at that moment, hastened to comply. "Now we gotta collect yore

brother, Luce," the puncher said.

King emitted a savage snarl. "Don't call that sneakin', white-livered cur brother to me," he snapped. "Yu can

have him, an' welcome; he ain't worth the price of a rope."

They found the other prisoner in the next room, bound hand and foot. When he had been released, Burdette

turned a jeering face upon them. "What's the next bright move?" he asked. "My men has orders to shoot first an'

inquire after."

"Yu better hope they don't spot us, 'cause if they miss yu, I shan't," Sudden told him. "We'll go out the back

way." He handed one of the guns to the boy. "If anythin' breaks loose, head for the brush an' get Miss Nan as far

from here as possible; don't think of nothin' else whatever."

A streak of faint grey light on the eastern horizon heralded the birth of a new day, but the valley below the

Butte was still a pool of blackness. They crossed the open space at the back of the ranch-house safely and were

about to plunge into the undergrowth when fortune forsook them. Sudden, intent on watching their conductor,

trod on a loose stone, which, turning under his foot, flung him violently forward. Instantly Burdette was upon

him, clutching his gun arm, and shouting lustily for his men. Sudden's voice rang out low and vibrant.

"Get the girl away, Luce; run like hell!"

Little as he liked it, the boy obeyed. Gripping Nan by the wrist, he dragged her into the brush, heedless of

direction, intent only on putting distance between themselves and their prison. They were only just in time, for

as they panted up the slope which sheltered the ranch-house, they could hear a medley of yells, curses, and

pounding feet as the hands in the bunkhouse answered their employer's call.

Meanwhile, the man they had left behind was fighting for time as well as life; the longer he could give the

fugitives the better chance they had of evading pursuit in the tangled scrub. King Burdette, furious at the failure

of his plans and the humiliation the puncher had put upon him, fought like a tiger-cat. Sudden's unlucky slip had

handicapped him almost hopelessly, for, as he fell, Burdette had dropped upon him, and now knelt across his

prostrate body, one hand pinning down his gun, while the other squeezed his throat. In that vice-like grip the

foreman was unable to give the promised signal. Conscious that aid was coming for the other man and that he

had only a few moments, Sudden exerted himself to the utmost in an effort to break that murderous hold. But

Burdette was a powerful man and his mad rage doubled his strength. Half-choked, his starved lungs aching for

air, the puncher knew he could not bear the intolerable pressure much longer. The hate-filled eyes and snarling

lips told that the man on top knew it too.

"Got yu this time, Mister Green; got yu good," he panted.

Even had he wished to, the foreman could not answer; the pain in his throat was paralysing. With his free hand

he struck feebly at his foe, wondering how much longer his ribs would bear the terrible strain to which they

were being subjected. In an odd way his failing senses carried him back to his battle with this man's brother;

Mart's mighty arms were crushing him again, and in a flash he remembered how he had escaped from that bear-

hug which had so nearly proved fatal. Suddenly ceasing to struggle, he closed his eyes, let his head fall back and

his whole body slacken. The ruse succeeded. Believing his man to be beaten, and in dire need of a respite

himself, Burdette relaxed a little of the pressure. Instantly, digging his heels into the ground, Sudden bucked like

an outlaw pony, and Burdette, taken by surprise, had to fling out his right hand to save himself from being

thrown headlong. One deep breath of air was all the puncher dared allow himself, and then from his tortured

throat the one-time dreaded Apache war-cry rang out—twice. No sooner was it uttered than King was on him

again.

"Can't scare us with that old trick, my friend," he jeered, and swore as the foreman's fist caught him full in the

face.

Again Sudden struck, blindly, hopelessly, with the primitive instinct of a cornered animal to die biting; he

knew he could not get away. Burdette's followers were joining in the tussle. One went down with a gasp of

agony as the foreman's heel landed in his stomach; a second, trying to catch a jabbing fist, got caught by it

himself and retired to spit out teeth and curses; and then it seemed to Sudden that the whole of Battle Butte had

fallen upon him.

"Take care o' the houn' till I come back," King cried, and darted after the fugitives.

They had not got far—the steepness of the rise made speed impossible. Fiercely as he hated leaving their

deliverer, Luce knew he must obey orders, so, bidding the girl follow him, he went doggedly on, breaking a way

through the dense vegetation which, while it impeded also served to hide them. From below they could hear

someone thrashing through the brush in pursuit. Lacerated by thorns they had no time to avoid, and with leaden

legs, the runaways scrambled on, but Luce knew that the terrific exertion was telling upon his companion. She

did not complain, but her panting breath and lagging steps were eloquent. King Burdette, following a path

already made and not hampered by a slower person who needed help at difficult places, gained ground on them

rapidly. They could hear him, stumbling, cursing, not far away, and behind him, others. Presently, at the foot of

a steep wall

of rock which shot up out of the verdure, Nan slipped and fell.

"I just can't go on, Luce," she groaned wearily. "I'm sorry—to be—such a drag."

"Yu've been splendid," he replied, and drew his pistol. "This is a good place to stand 'em off; they can't get

behind us anyways."

The crackling noise of trampled twigs and branches was very near now and then came a louder crash and a

rumbled oath; someone had tripped and fallen. The boy's face grew hard. Nan was on her feet again, and they

were standing in the deeper shadow of a big bush which partly masked the wall of the cliff. It was too late to

resume flight, for in another moment their pursuers would be upon them. And then the miracle happened.

"Hey, Luce, duck in here," a husky voice murmured.

The boy turned, saw a ghostly hand beckoning from the blackness, and seizing Nan by the wrist, hurried her

towards it as King Burdette burst from the bushes. Following whispered instructions, they squeezed through a

jagged crevice in the rock wall, stooped to crawl along a narrow tunnel, to find themselves in a small cave. Here

the light of a solitary candle showed them that their deliverer was none other than the missing miner.

"He, he," the old man chuckled as he saw their amazed expressions. "Didn't figure on findin' me hyarabouts,

huh?"

"Shore didn't, an' we're mighty glad to see yu, Cal," Luce replied. "Yu got us out of a tight place, unless…"

The prospector read his thoughts. "Don't yu worry, son," he said. "King won't find us. Why, I've bin livin' here

since yu took me outa that hut. No, sir, we've razzledazzled that triflin' relative o' yores this time. How come

he's chasm' the pair o' yu?"

The young man told the story, and the miner's bright, squirrel-like eyes twinkled. "So yu ain't a Burdette, arter all? Well, that's good hearin'," was his comment. "Reckon King has bit off more than he can chaw for once." A string of dull, muffled explosions reached their ears, and the old man dived into the tunnel. In a moment or so he was back again, his shoulders shaking with malign mirth.

"They's a-fightin' down there," he told them. "I'm guessin' the C P is takin' a hand in the game. What's in yore

mind, son?"

Luce was moving towards the exit. "I'm afraid they've got Green," he explained. "Mebbe I can do

somethin' "

California shook a gnarled finger at him. "Didn't he tell yu to stay with the gal?" he asked.

The boy looked uncomfortable. "Yes, but…" he began.

"Ain't no `buts'," the other cut in. "Yu gotta obey orders. When that foreman fella talks he sez somethin'; lots o'

folk just make a noise."

"Yo're right, Cal, but I owe him more'n yu know, an' it's hard to sit still when . . ."

Leaving the sentence unfinished, he seated himself by the side of Nan on the shakedown of spruce-tops

covered by a blanket, which was all the furniture the place could boast. In a moment, however, he was on his

feet again, holding under the candle-light a chip of rock he had picked up from the floor.

"Why, Cal, there's gold here," he said excitedly. One glance at the grimy, scored face told him the truth. "Yu

knew?" he added. "So yore mine ain't on Ol' Stormy?"

The old man's face split into a grin. "He, he, fooled yu too," he cackled in his high-pitched voice. "This of

gopher ain't so dumb as some o' yu reckons. Wouldn't King r'ar up if he knowed the gold he was tryin' to steal

laid right under his nose?"

"Ain't yu scared I'll tell, Cal?" the boy bantered.

The miner shook his head knowingly. "Not any, son," he said soberly. "Yo're goin' to be my pardner. Yessir, if it hadn't bin for yu I'd likely be toastin' my toes where gold melts mighty quick."

"But, Cal…"

The protest was cut short. "Like I told yu, afore, there ain't no `buts.' I've spent all my life lookin' for the durn stuff, an' now I'm 'most sorry I've found it; won't have nothin' to live for."

Luce looked at the girl in amused surprise; youth can rarely realize that achievement is not an unmixed blessing. "Yu'd think he'd lost a fortune 'stead o' findin' one," he whispered. "It's going to mean a lot to us."

She smiled teasingly. "I didn't hear that I was included," she said. "I'm glad you are to be rich, Luce."

"Yu know what I mean," he told her tenderly. "I'd be the poorest man in the world without yu, Nan."

A cool little hand slid into his, and he was still holding it when Cal, who had slipped down to the entrance of the cave, came back. He coughed ostentatiously as he emerged into the light.

"Been young myself once, though yu mightn't think it," he chuckled. "The ruckus is still proceedin', an' I reckon we better stay put till we know who's goin' to win out."

Save that they kept well away from Windy, Purdie and his men used the regular trail until they were near the Circle B, when they dismounted and approached on foot. Split up into pairs, spread out in a line along the slope facing the ranch buildings and securely hidden in the scrub, they waited for the signal. Out of a deeper blotch of blackness which they knew must be the ranch-house a lighted window gleamed like an eye; elsewhere was darkness.

Somewhere an owl hooted dismally, and at intervals a stealthy movement in the brush denoted a four-footed prowler in search of prey. Waiting proved weary work, and as the moments crawled sluggishly by, Purdie grew impatient.

"Damn this doin' nothin'—looks like things has gone wrong," he grumbled. "We've been here an hour."

"Day ain't broke yet," Yago pointed out. He could understand the cattleman's anxiety; if the foreman failed...? This suggested a new angle. "S'pose we don't git that signal, what then?" he asked.

"We gotta fade—without firin' a shot—an' Burdette takes the C P," Purdie said heavily. "Jim is our one hope. I dunno what he was aimin' to do . . ."

"He ain't the chatterin' kind—didn't tell me neither—but I'm bettin' he'll make the grade," Bill said confidently. "We'll git the word all right."

His employer grunted doubtfully; the silence and suspense, coupled with the inaction, were telling on his nerves. In a lesser degree some of the other men were feeling the same. Flatty and Moody, holed up together in a clump of brush from which, when they stood up, the front of the ranch-house was visible, were also getting restive. The night air was cold, and they dared not smoke.

"Wish they'd start the damn dance—my toes is froze," Moody complained. "An' yu would pick a catclaw to camp in, wouldn't yu?"

"She's a good place," his friend replied complacently, although inwardly he was cursing the fact himself. "Afeard o' gettin' yore lily-white skin scratched, huh?"

Moody's reply was a quiet but vigorous slap on his own thigh. "Got any spiders yet?" he inquired.

"Gawd, no. Was that ?"

"Yeah, tarantula—on'y a little 'un, though," Moody lied, and chortled as he heard his friend's feet fidgeting; he well

knew Flatty's antipathy for that poisonous pest. "If yu feel a ticklin' shall I come an' pat yu?" he went on

solicitously.

"No, I'd sooner be bit," was the unthankful retort. "Ain't that blasted day ever comin'?"

"She shore is," Moody said.

Behind the Butte a pale grey glow was spreading over the sky, rimming the surrounding ridges with silver, but

the valley was still a sea of ink. Then came a shout from the plateau, shattering the silence, and the bunkhouse

came to life. Lights appeared, a door gaped, and dark figures tumbled out in answer to the call of their leader.

The men in ambush watched in perplexity; they had strict orders to wait for the signal. Chris Purdie swore; he

did not know what to do.

"I'm feared Jim has slipped up," he said gruffly. "Can't we do nothin', Bill?"

"Stay put," the little man advised, though it was against the grain. "If he wants us he'll let us know."

They could not see what was happening on the plateau, but it had set the Circle B humming like a hornets' nest.

Then, above the shouts and curses, once—twice—the eagerly-awaited signal rang out.

"Let 'em have it, boys, but keep under cover," Purdie cried.

From a dozen points along the slope vicious spits of flame stahbed the gloom, and before that unexpected hail

of lead the Circle B riders fled for shelter. One of them, racing for the ranch-house, stopped suddenly, and then

toppled over.

"Tally one for the C P," Moody called out exultingly. "See that, Flatty? I got him, an' he was a-runnin' too."

"On'y proves what I said," Flatty retorted. "If he'd stood still . . ."

"Aw, go to blazes, an' don't forget this yer catclaw ain't bullet-proof, or yu will," the marksman warned, peering out cautiously in the hope of a second success.

But the Circle B men had all gone to ground and were lying close. That first volley had told them they had a

job of work to do, and they meant to put it over. Unable to see the enemy, they fired at the flashes, and it soon

became evident that Burdette's followers knew how to use a rifle. The growing light would give them a greater

advantage, for the cover of the attacking force was woefully thin, and to cross the open plateau to rush the

ranch-house would be little less than suicide. Purdie recognized this, but, satisfied that his girl was no longer a

prisoner he was determined to give the abductors a lesson they would not forget. After the first furious fusillade,

the firing on both sides slackened and became a matter of marksmanship. A movement in the scrub or a shadow

near one of the shattered windows of the building instantly brought the questing lead. Moody, furtively shifting

a cramped limb, swore in sudden agony as a bullet zipped past.

"Whatsa matter?" asked his companion, from the other side of the bush. "Yu hit?" Getting no reply, he added

anxiously, "Ain't dead, are yu? Can't yu say somethin'?"

Moody could and did; he said a great deal, quickly and emphatically, his topics comprising bloody-minded

bandits, catclaw bushes as cover, and jackass cow-punchers who selected them as such. Incidentally, Flatty

gathered that the bullet had driven sundry thorns into his friend's cheek. He listened spellbound until, from sheer

lack of breath, the speaker paused.

"Sounds like yu was a bit peeved," he said, and when the storm of words began again, "Awright, I heard yu the

first time. Where did that jasper fire from? Let's argue with him."

"End upstairs window to the left," Moody growled, whereupon the pair of them directed an unceasing stream

of lead at the window. The man crouching behind it had his hat snatched from his head, his shoulder perforated,

and when he poked his rifle out to reply to this scandalous onslaught, the weapon was jerked from his tingling

fingers, a ruined, useless thing. Cursing, he went in search of a bandage and a safer position.

"Guess if we ain't got him he's discouraged a whole lot," Flatty chuckled.

Moody did not reply. He was extracting further thorns from his epidermis, and the painful process moved him

to speech again—vitriolic speech.

CHAPTER XXIV

SUDDEN'S first conscious thought was that someone was banging his head on the floor and causing a

cracking kind of explosion each time. Then, as the mist cleared from his brain, he recognized that though his

head throbbed with pain, he was alone, and the noise came from without. He understood—the cleaning up of the

Circle B was in progress. He tried to get up, but his bonds would not permit this; he could only lie and wait. So

far as he could remember, he was in the room from which he had rescued Nan Purdie. He wondered if the pair

had got away?

"Guess they made it, or Purdie would 'a' been forced to let up," he reasoned. "Why didn't Burdette bump me off

at once? Aims to use me to bargain with, if things go against him, mebbe."

For some time he lay there, listening to the intermittent crash of rifle-fire. He did not know the hour, but it was

almost full daylight, and the fight must have been on for some time. Presently his quick ear caught the sound of

a stealthy step outside the door. Were they coming to finish him off?

"Massa Luce, yo dah?" asked a low, quavering voice.

A woman—it could only be Mandy, the black cook; Sudden had heard the boy speak of her. A strange voice

would frighten her away; Sudden groaned. His ruse succeeded, a key turned in the lock, and the Negress

entered; she had an open clasp-knife in her hand. At the sight of the bound figure she started back in alarm.

"Yo don't be Massa Luce," she said.

"I'm his friend—I came here to help him an' got catched myself," the puncher explained. "Yu must be Mandy;

Luce has told me of yu; I reckon he would like for yu to cut me loose."

She was shaking with fear, but she stooped and hacked through the thongs on wrists and ankles. Sudden

hoisted himself to his feet, weak and tottery, one hand feeling gingerly at the back of his head, which throbbed

incessantly. He found a noble bump, but no blood.

"So it ain't really fallin' apart," he said, and grinned. "We gotta get away from here plenty quick."

"Yassuh, dat King neah kill me for dis," Mandy said, her eyes big with terror.

"I'm figurin' he's got his hands middlin' full just now," the foreman assured her.

Noiselessly they stole down the stairs. The frequent crack of a rifle and the thud of striking lead told that the

battle was not yet over. As they passed the door of the living-room a choking cry and a curse announced that a

bullet had found a billet. A voice called a hoarse question.

"Solly's got his—plumb through the throat," came the reply. "The damn fool would take a risk—I done told

him them hombres could shoot."

They found the back door unguarded—with the steep Butte behind him, King had no fear of heing

outflanked—darted across the cleared space and plunged into the welcome shelter of the trees. For a long ten

minutes, Sudden led the way, twisting and turning in the densest of the scrub, and then he paused.

"Reckon yo're safe now, Mandy," he said. "Wait here till the firin' stops an' then come in; we'll take care o' yu.

"Yassuh, I suah will do jus' dat," she replied, and with the fatalistic resignation of her race, sat down to await

whatever the gods might send.

Sudden headed for the scene of the conflict. Around him birds were chirping, the slanting rays of the early

suntrickled through the trees, a tiny rivulet bubbled with mirth as he stepped across it, and his lips set in a wry

smile as he reflected that only a few hundred yards away men were striving to slay their kind. Far up in the sky a

great hawk swept in a wide circle.

"Another killer," he mused. "But he's gotta live. Well, so've we, an' if Burdette's sort ... Shucks! Mebbe it's

hard to justify, but it's gotta be did."

Which sage conclusion brought him to a little rise from whence he could see the ranch-house verandah. Even

as he looked, a stick with a soiled white rag tied to it was thrust from a shattered window, and a voice called out.

"Hey, Purdie, I got somethin' to say. Yu willin' to listen?"

"Speak yore piece," came the rancher's reply.

Sim Burdette stepped into view. He carried no gun, and there was much of his elder brother's jaunty impudence

in his attitude as he rested his hands on the verandah rail and coolly faced the foes he could not see. There was a

smear of blood on his dark, sneering face, and his voice, when he spoke, had the harsh, dominant note

characteristic of the Black Burdettes.

"We've got yore foreman, Green, hawg-tied upstairs," he began. "If yu wanta see him again—alive—yu better

call this fight off right now. That's--"

Somewhere in the scrub a rifle barked, and the slim figure on the verandah staggered as from a blow and fell

forward across the rail, sagging limply, head down, arms swinging. A howl of rage came from the ranch-house,

and above it the voice of Chris Purdie rang out:

"Who fired? By God, I'll hang the skunk who did that with my own hands!"

With the spring of a panther, King Burdette leapt through the window, lifted the body of his brother, and shook

a furious fist.

"Purdie, yu've signed Green's death-warrant," he shouted. "Do yore damnedest, yu dirty coward."

Savagely he struck down the white flag and slowly bore his burden back into the building.

"King, I had nothin' to do with it," the cattleman called out. "I'd 'a' give my right hand sooner than it should 'a'

happened." A jeering laugh was the only answer he received. Turning helplessly to Yago, he said, "What in hell

am I to do?"

The appalling tragedy had produced a paralysing effect on all save two of the spectators. One of these was the

assassin, and the other, Sudden himself. The fatal shot had been fired but a bare dozen yards from where he was

standing. He had seen the sun glinting on the gun-barrel without a suspicion of what was to follow. The foul

deed stirred him to instant action, and he hurried towards the spot. A natural hedge of prickly pear, with its

shining armour of spines, forced him to circle round, and he arrived only in time to see the killer, a wisp of

smoke still curling from the muzzle of his weapon, vanish in the thick brush. Sudden stared.

"The marshal," he ejaculated. "What the devil...?"

He did not pursue the man; it was of more immediate importance to let Purdie know he was at liberty. He

hurried along the slope and appeared on the scene just as the rancher asked his despairing question.

"Burdette is four-flushin', Purdie," he said quietly. "The card he thinks he has up his sleeve is here. Yu can call

his bluff."

The effect of his arrival was ludicrous. Yago slapped his back, swore in sheer delight, and turned triumphantly

to his employer.

"Didn't I tell yu he'd make it?" he crowed. "Got as many lives as a cat, this fella."

Purdie wiped beads of cold sweat from his brow. All he could say was, "Jim, I'm damned glad to see yu," but his hand-clasp spoke volumes. "An' Nan?"

"Safe somewheres with Luce," the foreman told him.

The rancher's face clouded for a moment, and then, as he realized what the news meant, he said grimly, "Then

we can finish the job. Bill, tell the boys to give 'em hell."

"So yu fetched the marshal along after all," Sudden remarked.

"I certainly did not—gave particular orders to prevent his knowin'."

"Somebody's got a loose tongue; it was Slype who shot Sim Burdette."

"Slype?" ejaculated the rancher. "But he's a Burdette man hisself. If he'd downed me now ..."

"There's depths to that fella yu ain't plumbed yet," Sudden told him. "When we've cleaned up here there's

another mess waitin' in Windy."

Purdie was hardly listening; his mind was puzzling over what he had just heard. "Can't see why he should kill

Sim," he muttered.

"He wanted the ruckus to go on, an' he figured it would mean my finish—which it shorely would if I'd waited,"

the foreman pointed out. "He don't like me a lot."

"The cowardly coyote," Purdie growled. "I said I'd hang the cur, an' I will, star an' all."

Meanwhile, in the Circle B ranch-house, King was also getting a surprise. Having laid his brother's body on a

form, he strode from the room, his handsome face distorted to that of a devil. His men watched him in stern

silence. Only when he had vanished did one of them speak:

"Good-bye, Mister Green," he said, and added an ugly laugh.

As King raced up the stairs the firing outside recommenced, a perfect hail of lead spattering the building. He

shouted a scornful gibe:

"Shoot, yu fools; yu won't save him thataway."

On the threshold of the room into which Sudden had been thrown he paused in bewilderment. Then he saw the

thongs lying on the floor and snatched them up. One look told him they had been cut, and he guessed the truth.

"That black bitch has turned him loose," he stormed. "I'll..."

Mad with rage and disappointment, he sprang down the stairs in search of the Negress, only to find that she too

had gone. For a few moments he went berserk, kicking the kitchen furniture to kindling wood and smashing

everything within reach; had he laid hands on Mandy then he would have killed her. His violence served its

purpose; the fit passed, and he began to remember that if he was beaten now, to-morrow was another day. He

had control of himself again when he re-entered the big room. Looking round, he saw that eight men only were

left on their legs, and of these, two had slight wounds. With hard, reckless, smoke-grimed faces they waited for

their leader's orders. They knew they were fighting a losing battle. To approach the windows meant death or

disablement, for the lynx-eyed marksmen in the brush allowed no movement to escape their attention.

"Green's gone, boys, an' the jig's up," King said curtly. "No sense in stayin' here to be wiped out. We can beat it

up the Butte—there's hosses in the corral at the top an' some cattle we can take along. They needn't know we've

vamoosed till we're well on our way, an' I guess they won't follow. Anyhody got other ideas?"

"Reckon yo're right, King," one of them said. "We lose this time, but we can allus come back."

"Yo're shoutin', Dandy," Burdette said darkly. "I aim to come back; don't doubt it."

Their preparations did not take long, and soon, one by one, they crossed the cleared space at the rear of the ranch-house and disappeared in the undergrowth. King was the last to leave, his set face showing no sign of the raging fire which burned within him.

The shots from the slope became less frequent and presently ceased altogether when the attackers realized that

no response was coming from the battered building. Silence ensued for a time, and then Strip Levens, who had

been creeping nearer and nearer, suddenly made a dash for the verandah. One look confirmed what he had

suspected.

"Come ahead, fellas," he yelled. "They've skedaddled."

The place presented a picture of death and destruction. Glass had disappeared from the windows and the

frames hung in fragments. The walls of the living-room were scored and pitted by bullets, and on the floor were

the huddled, twisted forms of the fallen. Yago counted them.

"Five, includin' Sim, an' the two outside who dropped at the first rattle," he said. "Must be some more

upstairs."

There were four, and one of them, a craggy-faced fellow of over forty, stirred as Yago bent over him and

regarded the C P man maliciously.

"Too late, ol'-timer," he said.

"Where's King an' the rest?" yago asked.

"Half-way to Windy by now," the man lied loyally. "Half-way to hell," Bill retorted.

"Same—thing," the fellow gasped. His head fell back and his lower jaw dropped in what appeared to be a

ghastly grin at his last grim joke.

Yago straightened the body out. "Yu had yore own notions o' livin', hombre, but yu shore knowed how to die,"

was his comment.

He joined Purdie and the foreman in front of the ranchhouse and made his report. "Seven or eight, of 'em musta got away," he concluded. "Hey, boss, look who's comin'."

His excited cry was drowned in a whoop of delight from other members of the outfit as their young mistress came

running across the plateau to fling herself into her father's arms. She was followed by Luce, and Mandy, whom

they had found sitting stolidly where Sudden had left her.

"Gosh, girl, but it's good to have yu back, safe an' sound," Purdie said, when he had heard her story. "As for yu,

Jim, I'll never be able to pay what I owe yu. If I'd 'a' knowed yu was goin' to hold up that thievin' devil single-

handed ..."

"Shucks! Forget it, Purdie," the foreman smiled.

"Not while I got breath in my body," the rancher returned warmly. His eyes went to Luce. "I never thought the

day would come when I'd thank a Burdette for any-thin', but I guess I gotta," he added, slowly putting out a

hand.

From the shelter of her father's shoulder Nan laughed shyly. "Hurts your pride, daddy mine, doesn't it?" she

whispered. "But it need not—Luce is no more a Burdette than you are."

"What do yu mean, girl?" he asked.

Nan told the news, and Mandy, with many nods, confirmed it. Purdie looked at Luce again, and saw what blind

prejudice had prevented him from recognizing before: this red-headed, open-faced boy, who did not in any way

resemble the Black Burdettes, could not have treacherously slain his son. Chris Purdie was a white man; his

hand came out readily enough now.

"I'm right glad, Luce," he said simply, and meant it. "I've had some hard thoughts about yu, but I'm hopin' yu'll

forget it."

The boy gripped the extended hand. "That's done a'ready," he said. "The way things looked, I couldn't blame

yu."

Purdie gazed round. "Seems I gotta thank Mandy too," he went on. "An' that of scamp, Cal, an' all the boys.

Reckon I'll have to sell the C P to meet my ohligations."

He grinned hugely; the recovery of his daughter and the paying of an old score had put him in great good

humour. "I'm bettin' we've seen the last o' King Burdette."

"Yu'd lose, Purdie," Sudden said quietly.

A little later, Yago called the foreman aside. "Thought yu'd like to know I found a .38 rifle an' fodder cached in

a cupboard in King's bedroom," he said. "Sorta bears out Ramon's story, don't it?"

"Shore does," Sudden agreed. "Don't tell nobody else; we got trouble enough ahead without gettin' Purdie on

the rampage again."

"What d'yu reckon King'll come back for?" yago asked.

"To do yu a good turn, Bill," Sudden said, and smiled at his friend's puzzled expression. "Yeah, he's goin' to try

an' make yu foreman o' the C P."

The little man understood, and his comment was vivid.

CHAPTER XXV

SAM SLYPE sat in his office, teeth clamped on a black cigar, brows knitted in thought. It was a blazing

afternoon and the street outside was deserted. Two days had passed since the fight at Battle Butte and the

excitement had to some extent died down. Save to the more lawless element, the crushing of the Circle B had

brought satisfaction—Windy had long resented the arrogance and domination of the Burdettes and their riders.

The marshal's own position had been delicate, but he flattered himself that he had adopted the right attitude.

While, in deference to his office, he deprecated Purdie's appeal to force, he was careful to also make it clear that,

in abducting the girl, King had placed himself outside the pale.

He smiled sourly as he remembered that these sentiments had met with general approval as being those of a

fair-minded man who held a public position. But the marshal was by no means satisfied. The Burdettes were

shattered, and this he had longed and schemed for, but Green remained. For he both hated and feared this

capable young man who, drifting casually into the town, had at once began to make his presence felt. When,

following an overheard remark, he had trailed the attackers to the Circle B, it had been in the hope of a furtive

shot which would pass unnoticed. It might have been King, Green, or Purdie; it chanced to be Sim, who died

because he was a Bur-dette, and, as the slayer had argued, his death would infallibly bring about that of the C P

foreman. It was this disappointment over which he was brooding.

"Cuss the crooked luck," he muttered aloud.

"Conscience troublin' yu, Slippery?" asked a cool, amused voice.

It was King Burdette, and the marshal was aware of an inner icy chill which nearly stopped the beating of his

heart. So absorbed had he been in his meditations that he had not heard the door open. Before his bulging eyes

pale phantoms of the Burdettes he had so foully murdered seemed to stand beside this one and gibber at him.

One thought obsessed him—had King learned the truth? He was smiling, but he was of the type who smiled as

they strike.

"Anybody'd think yu weren't pleased to see me," the visitor went on, leaning lazily against the closed door.

The marshal collected his scattered wits. "I was thinkin' o' yu right when yu walked in, King," he stammered.

"Grievin', huh? The town don't appear to be mournin' none."

"Yore friends is sorry."

"But bein' in the minority an' wise men—as my friends would be—they're doin' the Br'er Rabbit act an' layin'

low; oughtn't to blame 'em for that, I s'pose. What action yu takin', Sam?"

The unexpected question gave the officer a nasty jar. "Me?" he cried, and his amazement was real enough.

"What can I do?"

Burdette surveyed him with very evident disgust. "Yo're the marshal," he reminded. "See here, Purdie rounds

up an army—there was townsfolk in it—shoots me up, killin' eleven o' my men an' damagin' my property. Yu

goin' to tell me that's accordin' to law?"

"Yu stole his gal, King," Slype protested.

"Stole nothin'—she come of her own free will," came the easy lie. "When it got out, we pretended she was a

prisoner to save her good name. I sent word to Purdie that I'd marry her an' end the trouble between the two

families. Yu know what his answer was."

"Sounds fair to me, King, but her tale don't tally."

"O' course not; did yu think it would?"

The marshal had not thought so; he knew the story was an invention to hit Purdie through his daughter, but that

did not concern him. What he wanted to know was why Burdette had come to him, for the pretext of appealing

to the law did not deceive him for an instant; he knew the Burdette nature better than that. Summoning his

nerve, he put the question.

"I want justice," King told him sternly, and Slype's face turned to a sickly yellow. It was coming now; this

savage devil would shoot him down without mercy unless ... Fear was driving him to snatch at his own gun in

sheer desperation when the visitor spoke again. "Purdie must make good the damage he an' his men have done."

The marshal's suspended breath expelled itself in a gasp of relief, and, satisfied that his hide was not in danger,

his cunning brain got busy. He could not fathom Burdette's attitude, but an inspiration came to him.

"Purdie figures yu've gone for good," he said. "I hear he's givin' the Circle B to Green." King straightened up,

his careless, cynical expression changing to one of fierce surprise. "An' Green don't aim to be lonely up there on

the Butte—he's bin at `The Plaza' most all day," Slype supplemented. "Betcha he's there now."

The poisoned shaft bit deep. Burdette was cruel, heartless, incapable of real affection, but he had his pride. The

muscles of his jaw tightened, his lips curled back to uncover the clenched teeth, one hand went to his gun as he

leaned forward.

"Yu lie," he hissed.

The marshal's puny soul shrivelled within him; he saw death itself staring out of those narrowed, flaming eyes.

One moment of weakness would be the end—for him. His statement regarding the Circle B and Green was a

deliberate invention, made to inflame the visitor, and despite the latter's fierce denial, Slype knew it had

succeeded. He fought down his fears and answered steadily:

"I'm givin' yu the straight goods. Actin' friendly to yu don't buy a fella much, King."

The other ignored the reproach, but relaxed the tenseness of his attitude. The marshal's heart skipped a beat

when King pulled out a gun, spun the cylinder, and replaced it carefully in the holster. He ventured a question.

"Yu didn't come in alone, King, did yu?"

The tall man looked down at him disdainfully. "Yeah, why not?" he retorted. "Do yu s'pose I'm scared o' this

rabbit-warren? If anybody wants to argue with me I'll he right pleased, but I got a little business to 'tend to first."

"What yu aim to do?"

"I'm goin' to make shore that Mister Green don't get what belongs to me," was the reply. "See yu later."

Slype tried hard to keep the exultation out of his voice. "Well, a fella has a right to protect his own property, I

reckon," he said. "Good huntin'." And when he was sure his visitor had gone, added venomously, "I hope yu get

him an' that he gets yu, blast yu both."

Sitting slackly in his chair, he waited hopefully for the sound he wanted to hear—the crack of exploding

cartridges. With these two men out of the way his path would be easy. Burdette's return was going to prove a

godsend after all, though he was still trembling with the fright it had given him.

"Mebbe yu ain't so plucky as some, Sam," he told himself, "but yu got the savvy to plan big, an' the guts to put it

through. If Riley has searched out Cal's secret, there'll on'y be Purdie to deal with. . . ."

Had Burdette heard the conclusion of the marshal's valediction it would probably have aroused only amused

contempt; to him the fellow was a mere tool, and he would have ridiculed the suggestion that he might be

dangerous. At the moment he had forgotten Slype entirely. Full of his fell purpose, he paced slowly down the

street, sitting carelessly in the saddle, head thrown back, and insolent eyes challenging the curious glances of the

few men he met. No one accosted him, and the sneer on his tight lips grew more pronounced as he proceeded.

Rabbits! They believed he had run away, and that was one reason why he had returned to ride, unconcerned and

unattended, in broad daylight, through the town. He had dared them, and they had done—nothing. The prestige

of the Black Burdettes was still powerful.

He pulled up outside "The Plaza," got down, and trailed the reins. He did not enter immediately, though the

presence of the big black horse at the hitch-rail indicated that the man he sought was within. A peep through the

window confirmed this and supplied what else he needed to know. Only five men were in the place, four of

them playing poker at a table on the left of the entrance, and the other, Green, leaning against the bar chatting

with Lu Lavigne. She was smiling at something the puncher had just said, and Burdette gritted his teeth at this

apparent substantiation of what the marshal had told him. The shapely head, with its coils of shining black hair,

sparkling eyes, and delicately-tinted cheeks, seemed more desirable than ever, and jealousy fanned the flame of

his hatred to a white heat. For a few seconds he stood glaring like a wild beast, and then, pulling both guns, he

kicked open the swing-door and stepped in.

"Reach for the roof—all o' yu ! " he spat out. "I'm on'y sayin' it once."

Almost before they looked up the men at the card-table were obeying the command—they recognized the voice;

they knew too that when King Burdette threatened lie was apt' to keep his word. Sudden followed suit; already

covered by the gun of a man who was killing-mad, he had no choice. The girl only disregarded the order,

stepping calmly from her place behind the bar, and facing the newcomer unflinchingly. Her low-cut, short-

skirted dress showing her white shoulders and slim, silk-clad ankles, brought a savage gibe to King's lips.

"All prinked up for yore new lover, huh? Yu ain't lost any time, have yu?"

"I have no new lover, King," she told him quietly. "And no old one either it seems." There was a touch of

bitterness in her tone as she went on, "Perhaps I thought I had, but not being heiress to a ranch ..."

"So that's the tale that lyin' houn' has been tellin' yu?" Burdette burst in angrily.

"I haven't discussed you with anyone," she replied. "I didn't need telling, King; it was plain enough."

She was playing for time, hoping that some interruption might occur to prevent him carrying out his deadly

purpose, for the moment he came in she knew he was there to kill Green. Standing half-crouched, alert for every

movement, his levelled guns dominated the room. Murderous hate blazed in his slitted eyes, his mouth was

twisted in a feral snarl. The sight of the man who had beaten him at every point of the game, and—as he

believed—stolen the woman for whom he at least lusted, had turned him into a fiend indeed. He was on the

point of pulling the trigger when the girl's cool voice intervened.

"You must be mad or drunk, King, to come back to a town where every man's hand is against you."

"Hell, I'm King Burdette, an' there ain't one of 'em dare face me," he sneered.

His swift glare at the card-players provoked no response; they knew what he could do with a six-shooter; a

movement would mean instant death to two or three of them. They sat in their places as though petrified.

"Except the man who is facing you now, and from whom you ran away when it was a question of an even

break," she said scathingly.

The words cut him like a knife. "Shut yore cursed mouth, yu Jezebel, or I'll send yu along with him," he raved.

"Keep outa this, Mrs. Lavigne," the puncher urged. "Yu might get hurt. He's loco, an' may shoot wild."

His voice was steady and his grave eyes stressed the request. He did not for an instant believe what he had said,

but he wanted her to. Burdette was a master of his weapon, and even in the grip of passion could not miss at that

short range, and shooting at one who was, in effect, unarmed. Lu Lavigne looked at him wonderingly. With the

shadow of Death hovering over him his one concern was for her safety. She had never met a man like this, and

her heart told her she must save him—at any cost.

"Don't do this thing, King," she cried impulsively. "Go away now and I will come with you. I'll do anything

you ask; be your slave—your toy . . ."

A hideous laugh cut her short. "Hark to her," King jeered. "Willin' to buy yore triflin' life with her beautiful

body, Green—there's devotion. But the price ain't nearly high enough. Yu die."

Sudden drew himself up and looked coolly at the menacing muzzle. He had faced death before, had dealt it to

others, and was not afraid.

"Shoot an' be damned, yu coward," he said.

Watching the killer's eyes, alight with the lust to slay, he knew that the moment had come, and prepared to

fling himself forward in a desperate effort to beat the bullet. It was one chance in a thousand against a good

gunman. Burdette's finger was actually squeezing the trigger when Lu Lavigne, with a cry of "No, no, you shall

not kill him," stepped swiftly in front of the threatened man. The crash of the report was followed by a tiny slap

as of a drivenrain-drop on a window-pane, and the horrified spectators saw the girl drop limply into Sudden's

arms.

King Burdette stood as if turned to stone, stunned by the crime he had committed. A growl of rage from the

card-table apprised him of his own danger—the men were reaching for their guns. The noise of the shot would

bring others. If he wished to live he must move quickly. With lightning swiftness he sent two bullets at the card-

players, and without waiting to see the result, darted to the door, hurled himself on his horse, and raced down

the trail.

In the saloon Sudden was kneeling beside the girl who had given her life for his, one arm supporting her head.

The bullet had struck her just above the heart, and he knew there was no hope. Her eyes opened.

"I always knew it would be King," she whispered. "Don't be too sorry for li'l Miss Tenderfoot." Her voice

faltered, and then, "you are a good man—Jeem"—her brave attempt to smile was heartbreaking—"but women

are fools and don't always find it out—in time. Would you ... ?" Sudden read the request in the big dark eyes and

bent his lips to hers. "Tell the boys good-bye," she murmured, and that was the end.

When the foreman stood up his face was a mask of bronze, his voice sounded strange and unnatural. " 'Tend to

her," he said. "I gotta 'tend to him," and stepped swiftly from the saloon.

"An' I hope he gets him," growled one, whose right arm hung useless. "If he hadn't been so blame' quick I'd 'a'

nailed the skunk my own self."

"Green'll get him, yu betcha," another said grimly. "Did yu see his face? If Burdette owed me money I'd call it

a total loss right now."

Sudden swung into his saddle, gave one look at a distant cloud of dust on the trail through the valley, and sent

Nigger charging after it. Behind him the town was in a ferment; from every building men popped out, asked one

excited question, and raced for "The Plaza." Soon after the puncher had left, an armed band of dour-faced riders

followed him; Lu Lavigne had been well liked.

Sudden rode like a man whose brain has been numbed; the completeness of the catastrophe had overwhelmed

him. His mind slid back into the past, to an incident of his boyhood, when he had seen another lad slashing

beautiful wild blooms with a stick for the selfish pleasure of seeing them fall, bruised and broken, at his feet.

Without quite knowing why, save that it had seemed a pitiful, wanton waste, he had thrashed that boy. And

now—he must catch the man in front.

"We gotta do it, Nig, even if we go to the edge o' the world," he muttered.

The big horse pricked up its ears and settled down to the job in earnest. Not often was he allowed to run as he

liked; he would show his master, who sometimes asked a great deal, but was never unkind, and who always saw

to his, Nigger's, comfort before his own, what he could do. The great corded muscles slid easily to and fro

beneath the skin, like well-oiled pistons, driving the body forward in a tireless, leaping stride. Slowly but surely

the black was gaining ground.

The first few miles of the trail to the Circle B ran straight along the open floor of the valley, and the fugitive

soon became aware that he was followed. One hurried backward glance told him who it was—there could be no

mistaking the horse—and he cursed himself for an oversight.

"Why'n hell didn't I turn the hoss loose, or shoot it?"

He knew why, he had had only one thought—to get away. The accusing dark eyes in the flower-like face rose

before him now, and he strove to find excuses. It was an accident—he could not have foreseen that she would

stepin front of the puncher. But though such a plea might salve his own conscience he knew it would carry no

weight in Windy. In a land where men were hanged for even attempting to steal a beast, this thing he had done

would be dealt with in only one way; a rope and the nearest tree would be his portion if he were taken. For he

had threatened to kill the girl. Damn it, Sim had been right; he had tripped over a skirt, and the crash of the fall

had shattered his nerve. He, the last of the Burdettes, was fleeing for his life from one man.

One man! Why not stay and shoot it out? He stole a look rearward. The black horse was nearer now—

noticeably nearer—and further back along the trail was a bigger smother of dust in which dark spots moved

swiftly. Bur-dette knew what this signified, and snarled an oath.

"Hell's fire! If I down Green they'll get me," he muttered, and savagely spurred and quirted the racing beast

between his knees to a greater burst of speed. For a moment or two the animal pluckily responded, but could not

keep it up. Foot by foot the black was drawing closer and, notwithstanding the intense heat, a clammy wetness

bedewed Burdette's brow. His horse was nearly exhausted, while that of his pursuer appeared to be running

easily, as fresh as when it started. Was this to be the end? Tough as was his nature, he could not repress a

shudder. He was still young, and life could be sweet. In another country, under a new name.... But first he must

deal with the relentless devil behind.

Desperately his brain worked on the problem. A turn of the head told him that Green was now perilously

near—sufficiently so to shoot him down if he wished, while the posse was still some distance away. But the

expected shot did not come. Into the hunted man's eyes crept a gleam of hope. Furtively he got out his gun and

reloaded the three empty chambers, shivering a little as he recalled the reason for his having to do so. Hell! It

was her own fault, he told himself savagely. Holding the weapon in front of his body, he waited, conscious that

he would soon be overtaken. What would Green do? Shoot it out, giving him an even break? yes, that was the

sort of fool he was. His thin lips twisted in a scornful grimace.

The drumming beat of the oncoming black was louder now, and his own mount was visibly tiring. A bare

twenty yards separated them. King's haggard, dust-grimed features hardened. They were nearing the point where

the trail skirted the broken, wooded country around the base of Battle Butte, and if he could contrive to cripple

the black or his rider he would have time to disappear before the posse came up. There were places . . .

Swiftly he slewed round in his saddle, fired twice, and stooped low over the neck of his pony to escape an

answering bullet. None came; only the hammering hoofs grew more distinct, ringing like a death-knell in his

ears. Again he flung two shots behind him, but travelling at such a pace it was impossible to aim with accuracy.

He saw Green's hat fly from his head and cursed in bitter disappointment; an inch or two lower.... In a sudden

spate of despairing ferocity King used his bloodied spurs cruelly. This savage act proved his undoing; his pony,

already dying on its legs, lunged blindly, put a foot in a hollow and pitched forward. Burdette was a fine rider,

but, caught unawares in the act of turning to fire one more chance shot, could not save himself, and was thrown

headlong. In an instant the black thunderbolt was upon them; it missed the struggling pony but caught the man.

Sudden, wrenching impotently at his reins, had a brief glimpse of a fear-riven face, heard a shriek of agony, and

then—silence.

The posse scampered up to find the C P foreman looking down upon the huddled, broken body of King Bur-

dette. The pony had scrambled to its feet again and now stood head down, with heaving sides and every limb

trembling.

"So yu got him?" one of the men said.

Sudden shook his head. "My hoss trampled him—broke his back, I reckon. I couldn't stop him in time."

"Well, it don't matter so long as he's cashed," another said callously. "We heard shootin'." The puncher

explained, and the man's eyes widened. "Why the blazes didn't yu cut down on the coyote?" he wanted to know.

"I hadn't figured it thataway," was the grave reply.

A discussion arose as to the disposal of the body. "I'm for takin' him in to town," Weldon said. "He was a big

man hereabout—once."

"This'll be bad news for Slippery," someone remarked. "How comes he ain't here?"

"Said suthin' about ridin' to his ranch this afternoon."

For the marshal, listening in his office to the shooting, had purposely made a belated appearance at "The Plaza,"

arriving after the posse had departed.

"I reckon Sam'll want to see the last of his boss," Weldon said grimly, little dreaming how near he was to the

literal truth.

So it was decided. King Burdette made his last journey to Windy slung over the back of his pony, and Sudden,

pacing behind the gruesome burden, remembered that he had brought young Purdie home in just the same

fashion. And King had bushwhacked Purdie! His mind reverted to "The Plaza," and a gust of anger moved him.

"He died too easy," came the bitter reflection.

CHAPTER XXVI

THAT evening, behind the bolted door of his quarters, the marshal and his deputy had a lengthy conversation.

The death of King Burdette was not all that Slype had hoped for.

"That cursed cow-punch is still blockin' the trail; we gotta git rid o' him," he said. "I guess it's up to yu, Riley."

"Yu can guess again," Riley replied unhesitatingly. "I pass. That fella's too damn lucky, an' likewise, too spry

with his guns."

"Scared, huh?" his chief sneered.

"Shore I am," the other admitted, adding bluntly, "An' so are yu."

Slype scowled, but did not deny the imputation. "We'll have to find some way," he said, and sat thinking.

Presently he looked up. "Reckon I got it. How about this?"

The deputy smiled crookedly when he had heard the scheme. "She's a great notion," he agreed. "Won't nobody

be able to heave rocks at yu neither. Yu certainly have got a headpiece, Slippery."

"I figure it will work—for us," the marshal said. "If it does, the game's our'n. Cal's back an' we can make him

come clean when we want."

"Yu ain't forgettin' Purdie?"

Slype snapped his fingers. "Without Green he'll be easy," he replied. "Git a-movin'."

"The Plaza" was closed. Because of that, and the exciting events of the day, "The Lucky Chance" and smaller

drinking-places were crowded. From one to another of these the marshal and his deputy severally gravitated,

mixing with group after group of the customers and joining in the conversation. Naturally there was only one

topic—the day's doings—and the opinions of Slype and his assistant were singularly alike. Burdette was dead,

and there was no harm in hanging a halo on him. The marshal did not state it in that way, but he voiced a doubt

as to whether the Circle B boss was quite so blameworthy as appeared. He put forward a somewhat altered

explanation of the kidnapping .Burdette believed he had a legitimate claim against the C P and was holding the

girl to enforce it in order to avoid bloodshed—a laudable object.

"Bit high-handed o' King, I'm willin' to say," Slype admitted, in the tone of one anxious to be fair to both sides,

"but that don't justify Purdie wipin' out the Circle B like he done."

The slaying of Lu Lavigne was an obvious accident for which, according to the marshal, Green was really

responsible. He had announced that he would shoot Burdette on sight, and naturally the menaced man, finding

his enemy in "The Plaza," had got the drop on him. When King, half demented at having killed the woman he

worshipped Slype inwardly smirked when he used the word—rushed away, the puncher followed, and having

the better horse, caught him.

"An' what happens?" the marshal asked, and proceeded to answer his own question: " 'Stead o' shootin' it out

man to man as any fair-minded gent would, Green knocks him off his busted bronc an' lets that black brute o' his

tromp King to death."

All of which, when backed up by liberal doses of free liquor, sounded plausible enough, especially to the

turbulent faction of the community, to whom the spectacular lawlessness of the Black Burdettes had appealed.

There was further talk of strangers who drifted in and tried to "run the town." By midnight, such is the mercurial

quality of public opinion, the late owner of the Circle B was being almost regretted and the man who had beaten

him correspondingly condemned.

The result of the marshal's activities was evidenced early next morning when a freckled-faced lad rode up to

the C P and in a shrill treble yelled, "Hello, the house."

Sudden, on his way to his employer, stopped short and surveyed the young visitor and his aged mount with a

good-natured grin.

"We ain't takin' on hands for the round-up yet, son," he remarked.

The boy squirmed in his saddle. "I warn't ..." And then, with a rush, "Slippery sent me up to git yu."

The foreman flung up his hands in mock alarm. "Don't shoot; I'll come quiet," he promised. "Middlin' young

for a deppity, ain't yu, Timmie?"

"Aw, quit yore joshin'," the boy expostulated, and pulled the brim of his battered hat as Purdie stepped from

the house. "They's holdin' a inquiry on King an' Mrs. Lavigne this mornin'; I ain't grievin' none 'bout him, but"

—there was a little break in the childish voice—"she was mighty kind to me."

"That's all right, sonny, we'll be along," the rancher told him. "Fed yet?"

"Shore seems a while ago, seh," Timmie confessed.

"Cut along an' see the cook," Purdie smiled. "Two breakfasts never did hurt a boy yet." He turned to his

foreman. "What's back o' this caper?"

Sudden's face was set. "I sort of expected it," he said. "Slippery is puttin' up his last bluff, an' I aim to call it."

"Get Bill an' half a dozen o' the boys," the cattleman said. "Where's Luce?"

"Gone ridin' with Miss Nan," Sudden replied, and waited for the explosion.

It did not come. Purdie just nodded, and said, "Reckon we can manage without him. I had that boy figured up all wrong, Jim; there's times he reminds me powerful o' Kit."

Whereat the foreman smiled covertly and was wisely dumb.

Windy had not attained the dignity of a court-house, and meetings of any public importance took place in a

large room adjoining "The Lucky Chance" which had been originally created for a dance-hall. Here, lolling on

forms or leaning against the walls, the C P contingent found most of the citizens. Seated behind a table

borrowed from the bar was the marshal, with his deputy near at hand. His face darkened when he saw that

Sudden had not come unsupported.

"Mornin', Purdie," he greeted. "Was there any need to fetch along a young army?"

The rancher looked around. "Where is it?" he asked. "My boys got as much right to be here as yu have. What's

the fuss about?"

"No fuss a-tall," Slype returned. "Just a friendly meetin' to investigate the passin' o' two prominent citizens."

"One bein' a common thief an' hold-up," Purdie said caustically.

"That ain't no way to speak o' the dead," the marshal reproved. "Fact is, the evidence 'pears to show Burdette

warn't as bad as his reputation."

"Huh! He musta had a hell of a reputation, then," the rancher retorted. "All right; get on with the

whitewashin'."

"This meetin' would like to hear yore foreman's account o' what happened yestiddy," Slype began.

Sudden told the story, plainly and briefly. The marshal's cunning eyes glinted with satisfaction when it was

finished.

"Yo're admittin' that the killin' o' the woman warn't intentional?"

"Shore—the shot was meant for me. She ran into it."

The marshal nodded sagely. "I knowed it," he said. "So did everyone else, yu damn fool," Purdie told him, and

several of those present smiled audibly.

"Why should she protect yu, Green?" was the next question.

"She cared for King, an' I figure she didn't want to see him commit murder. His guns were out when he came

into the saloon, so he had the drop on me from the start."

"Yu had threatened to shoot him on sight."

"That's not true."

The questioner shrugged his shoulders. "Yu claim King's hoss throwed him—one o' the best riders

hereabouts," he went on, incredulity patent in his tone.

"He was twisted in his saddle to fire at me when his bronc went down."

"An' instead o' givin' him a chance, yu rode over him?"

"What chance was he givin' me in `The Plaza'?" the puncher retorted. "An' he buzzed four bullets at me when I

overtook him, without waitin' to warn me too. Allasame, I tried to avoid the tramplin'; I wanted to shoot him."

"Yu meant to kill King although yu knowed what he had just done was an accident?" Slype said quickly.

"I certainly did," Sudden said, and there was a flicker of a smile on his grim lips. "Did yu suppose I wanted to

congratulate him?" The faint amusement faded from his face. "Listen to me, Slype; this was Burdette's fourth try

at puttin' me outa business. First, King sends his gunman, Whitey, an' when he fails to turn the trick, Mart

bushwhacks me at Dark Canyon, an' yu nearly hang Luce for it. Then another of his men, Riley there, pushes me

in the Sluice an' sends a couple o' slugs after me for company."

The deputy sprang to his feet. "That's..."

"The truth—an' yu know it," Sudden said sternly. "On the top o' that, King carries off Miss Purdie."

"Bah! She warn't in no danger," the marshal sneered. "He was just usin' her to collect his debt from her father."

Purdie stepped forward, his face flaming. "There yu lie in yore throat, Slippery," he cried. "All I owed the

Circle B could be paid with a bullet. Burdette's word to me was that unless I made over my ranch an' cattle to

him he'd throw my daughter to his men."

The statement brought forth oaths of surprise and indignation from the audience. Rough, uncultured, hard-

shelled as these men were, they possessed the instinctive respect of their type for the weaker sex, be she never

such a poor example of it. The marshal saw the effect created and hastened to destroy it.

"Sheer bluff," he asserted. "Burdette wanted to git yu on yore knees without a battle. But we're driftin' from the

point, which is this; ever since this fella Green appeared this town's had trouble, an' he's bin the hub of it. I

reckon yu gotta git a new foreman, Purdie."

"Meanin' yu aim to run him out?" the rancher asked. "I'll see yu in hell first."

The marshal stood up, his thin, rodent-like jaws working. "I'm lettin' yu down easy," he rasped. "This yer town

stood for Burdette's bullying, but it ain't goin' to stand for yores. Sabe?"

A confirming growl told him he had struck the right note. Sudden, sardonically scanning the coarse, savage

faces around the room, saw that, for the moment, the marshal was on top. He knew the shallow minds of these

men, easily stirred to passion, and jealous of their rights as free and independent citizens. He knew too the swift

certainty with which they would strike when once they had come to a decision. He glanced at Purdie and

guessed his thought; the C P owner was wishing he had brought more of his outfit. Ere the stinging retort which

might have precipitated a fracas could leave the rancher's lips, the foreman interposed.

"How long yu givin' me to leave, marshal?" he quietly asked.

The puncher's friends could scarcely believe their ears. Slype's expression was one of mingled triumph and

amazement; he had not looked for so easy a victory. The fellow was a four-flusher after all. He laughed evilly.

`Yu got till sundown; after that, yore stay is liable to be plenty permanent," he answered.

Someone sniggered at the. gibe. Bill Yago opened his mouth and closed it again without speaking when he

caught his foreman's eye. Weldon, the blacksmith, moved as though about to say something, but changed his

mind when Sudden shook his head. Leaning indolently against the wall, his thumbs tucked in his belt, the man

who had been so unceremoniously told to "pull his freight" looked at the ring of faces. Many of them were hard

and hostile, others contemptuous, while all expressed curiosity. Deliberately he got out his "makings," rolled a

cigarette and lighted it. He dropped the match, placed his foot upon it, and straightened up as though he had

reached a decision.

"Good enough, marshal, that'll give me time to complete what I came to these parts to do," he said. Holding

open one flap of his vest, he disclosed a metal star sewn on the inside. "Yu know what that is?" he questioned.

They all did, and a ripple of surprise ran through the spectators. What was a United States deputy-sheriff doing

in Windy? Upon Slype the appearance of an officer whose authority far exceeded his own fell like an avalanche.

Half-dazed, he heard the C P foreman explain that he had been sent to investigate the Black Burdettes, tales of

whose plunderings for a hundred miles round had come to the Governor's ears. This statement restored the

marshal to normality; the Battle Butte gang was broken, the deputy's work was done; he, the marshal, had

nothing to fear from him. Satisfied on this point, he began to bluster.

"Why didn't yu come to me right away an' declare yoreself?" he asked. "I could 'a' helped yu."

Sudden smiled mirthlessly. "Yu did, but I ain't thankin' yu," he replied. "When yu bumped off Mart Burdette

..."

The marshal jumped as though jerked with a string. "Why, I was in the bar there when the fight ended," he

protested.

"Yu left before he did, an' turned my hoss loose so that I'd be delayed, which would help when yu tried to

throw suspicion on me," Sudden replied evenly. "Raw work, marshal."

"All damn nonsense," Slype sneered. "Mart was a friend."

"An' so was Sim, huh? Yet yu shot him down under a flag o' truce in the fight at the Circle B," the cold voice

continued.

The hiss of indrawn breath betokened the amazement of the spectators of this strange scene. Save for the

scuffle of restless feet as men leant forward, there' was little sound. All eyes were focused on the man in the

chair, who from being accuser had so swiftly become the accused.

The marshal's laugh was not convincing. "Musta bin a wonderful shot," he said, "seein' I was in town an' asleep

at the time, Purdie not havin' asked for my assistance."

This remark caused some merriment, but the puncher's next statement stilled it.

"I saw yu at the moment yu fired," he said.

"That goes for me too," came the wheezy, cracked voice of California. "Shore thought yu was on Purdie's side

an' that mebbe yu didn't notice the flag."

The marshal's agile brain was racing. How much did this damned interloper know? He must gain time to think.

"Might as well claim I wiped out King too while yo're about it," he sneered.

"Not exactly, but yu had to do with it," Sudden returned. "He came straight from yore office to `The Plaza,' an'

I figure you sent him in search o' me, hopin' we'd kill one another."

Slippery shrugged his shoulders disdainfully; the needed flash of inspiration had come, and he thought he saw

a way out. He turned to the waiting, breathless company.

"Well, boys, I s'pose I gotta explain," he began. "For quite a while I've knowed the Burdettes was bad medicine

—robbers, rustlers, an' killers."

"But friends o' yores," came the acid reminder.

The marshal achieved a passable chuckle. "I let 'em think so," he said. "A fella what represents the law don't

allus have to show his hand; yu didn't yoreself, Green." A sly glance at his hearers told him he had scored a

point. "I kept cases on 'em an' waited for opportunities. Some o' yu may think it was a sneaky way o' doin', but,

when yu go after a wolf yu don't give him a chance to bite, an' if I'd come out into the open, how long would I 'a'

lasted, marshal or no? Well, I got Mart an' Sim, an' would 'a' got King in time, doin' this yer town the biggest

service any fella could." He affected a jocularity he was by no means feeling as he nodded at the deputy-sheriff.

"Me an' yu was workin' on the same job, an' if yu'd come to me at the start it might 'a' bin put through in better

shape."

He slumped back in his chair and mopped his brow, conscious of excited whispering. His story was clever,

plausible, and daring. Because the Burdettes were a threat to the town he had made war upon them. His methods

might be questionable, but he was not the first law-officer to strain his powers and shoot a criminal instead of

arresting him; such a procedure was only too common in those turbulent times. These fools would swallow it,

was his thought. Then he looked at his accuser, and shivered; here was a man who would not. For in the

narrowed eyes he read the scornful disbelief of one who knows what he has heard to be untrue. Sudden's voice,

coldly impassive, told him that the battle was not yet over.

"Slype, yu are a liar from yore toes up. The two crimes yu have confessed to were committed not by virtue of

yore office but for yore own ends. When yu murdered Old Man Burdette ..."

"Gawd A'mighty, did Slippery do that too?" Weldon shouted, and his remark was followed by profane

expressions of astonishment from all parts of the room.

"... an' let the C P be suspected, yore object was to bring the ill-feeling between the two ranches to an open

rupture. Yore plan seemed to be succeedin' when King shot young Purdie an' let Luce shoulder the blame."

Sudden heard a muttered exclamation, and knew that Purdie's last lingering doubt of his daughter's suitor had

vanished. For the rest, some nodded meaningly as if to say they had known it all along, while others appeared

incredulous. Slype, scanning their faces narrowly, took his cue from the latter.

"Easy to pin things on a fella if yu kill him first," he scoffed. "Yu ain't proved anythin' yet. Why should I want

the Purdies an' Burdettes a-scrappin'?"

"So that, if they wiped one another out, yu could grab their ranches—yu knew neither o' the families had any

kin. Also, yu wanted Cal's gold mine," Sudden said sternly, and then his voice changed. "Yu played ze beeg

game, senor." So life-like was the imitation that the marshal started and glanced fearfully round the room,

almost convinced that it was the dead Mexican who had spoken. He had a swift vision of the pain-wrecked,

twisted body, with its wide-open, glazing eyes, lying in the sun-drenched gully. The puncher's next words

dispelled the illusion. "No, Ramon is not here, Slype; yu made shore o' that. Do yu remember the `leetle story'

he told before yu shot him down?"

Under the shock of this further blow the marshal shivered. What else did he know, this saturnine devil of a

deputy-sheriff who had dropped from the clouds? He tried to think, but his brain seemed to be paralysed. The

net was closing, he was in deadly peril, he must say something—but what? When at length his trembling lips

formed the words he did not recognize his own voice:

"He tried to down me."

Sudden's expression was withering. "What's the use o' lyin'—Ramon never went for a weapon," he said. "Me

an' Bill Yago, up on the rim, saw an' heard everythin'. Yu an' the Mex were sittin' face to face. Yu folded yore

arms, an' when he made his proposition, yu pulled that double-barrelled derringer yu wear under yore left

shoulder, shot him twice, an' galloped away. He warn't dead when we got to him, an' he signed this before he

cashed in."

The scrap of paper he produced passed rapidly from hand to hand, the eyes of each man as he read it going to

the drooping figure in the chair. Somehow the marshal seemed to have shrunk, his clothes hung loosely upon

him. In an ashen mask, his eyes were cavernous pools of stark fear. He realized that he was doomed; one look at

the ring of silent, relentless faces was enough to tell him this. He knew these men—had drank and gamed with

many of them—and yet, they would hang him and go back to their work or play with a scornful jest on their

lips. He had, without a qualm, hurled others into the unknown, and now the Dark Destroyer was at his own

elbow; a few moments of agony and then—what? The thought appalled him; terror spurred his frozen faculties

to action; in a hoarse, unnatural voice he made his last bid.

"Green, yo're an officer o' the law; I demand to be taken to the country seat."

It was his only chance. The country seat was weeks distant; he might escape on the journey. Even if he did not,

a smart lawyer could find excuses for putting off the trial; the jury would be composed of strangers; in the lapse

of time evidence might cease to be available. In any case he would procure a respite, and to the abject, broken

wretch who felt death clawing at his throat, a few weeks, days, or even hours seemed a priceless boon. Shaking

as with an ague, he looked fearfully at the man who held his fate in his hands. The deputy-sheriff's face was that

of a statue, his eyes cold, expressionless.

"I don't remember any talk o' the country seat when yu were lettin' 'em hang Luce Burdette," he said slowly;

and the cowering man in the chair knew that he was being condemned. "When I came here the Governor gave

me a free hand." He paused a moment, considering. Slype's lips moved, but no sound came from them. Sudden's

narrowed gaze swept the silent assembly, and when he spoke again his words fell like hammer-blows upon the

numbed brain of the man to whom they were addressed.

"These men made yu marshall it is for them to judge yu."

As the puncher passed through the empty bar Slype's agonized accents followed him. He could vision the

fellow, crazed by the dread of death, frantically appealing on his knees for the mercy he could not hope to

receive. Hesitation claimed him for an instant, and then another picture presented itself—that of a little grey-

eyed man who had said sternly, "Make a clean job of it."

He went on, out into the sunlight.

Some weeks later a rider, on a big black horse, paced slowly in the direction of the tiny cemetery. It was early

morning, and the oblique rays of the rising sun filtered through the foliage and blotched the track along which

he rode with dancing splashes of shadow. There were little currents of air, pine-laden, and the whistling of the

birds accentuated the silent peacefulness. In the depths of the valley an opalescent haze was lifting.

Sudden had said good-bye to the C P, and it had not been easy. To all Purdie's offers—they had been more

than generous—he had but one reply:

"That little Governor fella will be wantin' my repawt."

To the young couple who owed him so much, and the outfit generally, he used the same excuse, but to Bill

Yago —whose pride in his promotion to the post of foreman was entirely submerged by the fact that in gaining

it he lost a friend—he gave a different reason—he had another task. And Bill, who knew what it was, snorted in

disgust.

"Aw, hell, yu'll never find them hombres, Jim."

"Not if I wait for 'em to come to me, ol-timer," Sudden had replied. "No, I got a good reason for goin' an' none

for stoppin'—now."

Which cryptic remark Yago might have better understood had he seen his late foreman bending over the recent

grave to lay upon it an armful of blooms gathered in a certain glade which had taken him somewhat out of his

way. And Bill would scarcely have known him. The hard lines which playing a man's part in a world of men had

graven upon his young face had gone, the steel-like eyes which could be so forbidding were gentle, even misty.

"Yu was fond o' flowers," he said softly. "I won't be here, but Miss Nan has promised ..." And then, after a

pause, "I wish he had got me."

He rose and stood, hat in hand, looking down upon the simple mound beneath which lay the gay, tempestuous

girl who had given her life for him. What freak of fate had brought her to this wild corner of the world?

Misfortune, a spirit of adventure inherited from some filibustering forbear—she had Spanish blood in her—or a

rank rebellion against the restraints of civilization? He would never know now.

"I reckon Life gave yu a raw deal, ma'am," he whispered. "Mebbe Death will be—kinder."

Slowly mounting his horse, he turned to face a world which, all at once, seemed strangely empty.

THE END