The Rider of Golden Bar

by William Patterson White

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

OBSCURING THE ISSUE

"Well," said Felix Craft, attempting a pleasantry, "how do I look?"

"You look," said Billy, following a meticulous survey of his questioner's attire, "you look like Mr. Felix Craft, our genial gambler and non-resident ranch owner."

"Shucks, I was hoping I'd look like you. I'd sure enjoy making a good appearance. Maybe the mask will make a difference."

"Mask won't disguise your voice any."

"I'll talk like I had a cold. Oh, I won't have any trouble making folks think it's you."

Felix Craft spoke with tremendous confidence. More than the occasion warranted, thought Billy Wingo.

"Why don't you wear my star?" suggested Bill. "Then folks would sure think it was me."

"Too raw, and you know it. Even you wouldn't do a fool thing like that."

"Thanks for the compliment," Billy said humbly. "Suppose now you get plugged, Felix?"

"I won't get plugged. Not me," declared Craft, pulling the six-shooter with the brass trigger guard and making sure that the hammer rested on an empty chamber.

"What makes you think you won't be plugged?" persisted Billy.

Craft darted a quick look at his questioner. "Because I know I won't. I'll have the drop on 'em, don't you see? Nobody will dare cut down on me."

"How do you know they won't?"

"I'm sure, that's all."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because I am, that's why!" was the snappish reply. Then in a pleasanter tone Craft continued, "Because, Bill, I've figured out my chances carefully. Not once in a thousand times do stage passengers resist a road agent."

"How about the Wells-Fargo guard?"

"He ain't riding this trip."

"How do you know he ain't?"

"Now don't you worry how we know, Bill. We know, and you can bet on that. It's like I told you, we've figured this thing out to the last li'l detail. We——"

"You bet we have," cut in Tip quickly. "For the last time, Bill, hadn't you better change your mind?"

"I couldn't change it for the last time till I'd changed it at least two other times, Tip," Billy drawled, one-half his brain busy trying to fathom why Tip should have interrupted Craft so brusquely. Tip never did anything without reason. Never. And why was Craft so unnaturally sure that he could hold up the stage without being shot? Unnaturally, exactly. Because Felix Craft was one not given to explaining anything he did. Yet in this instance he had taken the trouble to explain at some length. Why?

Billy tilted back on the rear legs of his chair, cocked his heels up on the table and stared at the ceiling.

"Well, how about it?" Tip demanded impatiently. "You going to be sensible?"

Billy waved a hand for silence and then sang in a whining bobtail bass:

"Barney Bodkin broke his nose:
Want of money makes us sad;
Without feet we can't have toes;
Crazy folks are always mad;
A nickel candle's very small;
Many fiddlers can't play jigs;
One that's dumb can never bawl;
Pickled pork is made of pigs.

"Ain't that a nice song?" Billy broke off, glancing round him for praise. "Lot of truth in that song, too. Especially that part about crazy folks. They always are mad—like you and Felix, Tip, and our fat friend, Mr. Samuel Larder. Why all the delay, Felix? If you really are gonna to be a bold bad man, go'n and be one. Don't dally round here any longer. Suppose you miss the stage? You'd be disappointed. So would I. Because I don't want anything to prevent you from having a fair crack at it. I'd like you to have every chance—but I forgot, you ain't taking any chances, are you? This is a sure thing."

Billy, through half-shut eyes, was watching the men he was talking to. He was watching Sam Larder especially. For Sam was not a good poker player. Never had been. His plump features were too expressive. And now the open-faced Sam was looking at Billy with a slightly worried expression. Furthermore, the worry was tinged with some astonishment. At least, so it seemed to Billy. Again why?

Here were three men, each of whom within five minutes had done that which was not wholly warranted by the apparent facts. He again had cropped up and out those unnatural circumstances so ably dwelt upon by Mr. William Noy. As has been said, the law abhors such things and seeks a remedy. There is always a remedy; and investigation, patient and thorough, will always find it. Billy rather prided himself on being a patient and thorough investigator.

Nevertheless he did not fail to realize that he was in a tight hole. He felt the pinch already. So he smiled at the three men his sunniest smile.

"Looks like a wild night on the canal," he said calmly. "I expect the mules are pinning back their ears. Yeah. Going, Crafty? Well, be good and—oh, say, Crafty, ain't Jerry Fern the stage driver this trip?"

"I don't know," was the short reply.

"But you knew everything else," complained Billy, making a mental note of another unnatural circumstance. "Seems like you'd oughta know this, too."

"Well, I don't," Craft tossed back over his shoulder, as he flung out of the house.

The door slammed. Billy looked at Sam Larder and grinned. "If this is Jerry Fern's trip, and I'm most sure it is, Felix will be out of luck. Jerry is one stage driver who will always give a bandit a battle."

"Oh, I guess Crafty will get the drop on him all right," Sam Larder averred easily,—too easily by half.

"I can see," said Billy with strange placidity, "I can see that I've got to get out of here."

Both Sam and Tip laughed,—Tip heartily, Sam with a false note.

"Well, anyway," resumed Billy, "I've got my choice of hitting the trail or being arrested."

Tip shook his head. "You haven't any choice—none."

"Huh?" Surprisedly.

"Yeah. You see, we talked it over again while you were asleep a while back, and we decided if you couldn't see our way of it and be sensible like we want, that we'd better just put you where you won't be mislaid. Givin' you your choice of ridin' away or bein' arrested like I said at first would be a bad move. If you chose to hit the trail— You're a sport with ideas, Bill, and you might think up one to put the kybosh on us. But if you're in jail, your ideas won't help you much. See?"

"I see I ain't gonna get a chance for my alley a-tall. Who'll arrest me—my own deputies?"

"No, we'll do that. Here's the story: Your horse gave out and Sam caught you trying to rustle a pony out of his corral. Sam threw down on you, held you up and when we, Sam, Crafty and I, y'understand searched you, we found on you a couple of pocketbooks and Jerry Fern's watch. See?"

"I see, all right. I see you haven't been quite open with our friend Mr. Craft."

"How do you make that out?"

Billy hunched his shoulders. He was observing the marked unease that spread upon the countenance of Sam Larder. Tip was forced to repeat his question.

Billy gazed at him vacantly. "Huh? How—uh—oh, you want to know how, do you? Is that it? Yeah. Well, I'll tell you. Here you knew alla time that Jerry Fern was going to drive the stage this trip and yet you didn't tell Crafty. He didn't know who was the driver when I asked him, remember? You should have told him, Tip. Skin game not to."

Tip laughed. Was the laughter forced? Billy thought it sounded as if it were. But he couldn't be sure. Not with Tip O'Gorman. For Tip was a good poker player. Still——

Billy wagged a forefinger at Tip. "Why didn't you tell Crafty, you careless child?"

"Crafty knew, all right," Tip stated. "He was just joking with you, I guess."

"I guess so too," drawled Billy Wingo. "I guess so too."

He stood up and started to walk casually toward the door.

"That will be about far enough," said Tip.

Billy's hands fell away from the latch. "If that gun goes off, it'll make a fine mess on the floor."

"You come back and sit on the bed again," directed Tip, the six-shooter trained unwaveringly on the captive's abdomen. "Of course," he added, "you might try the windows. But even if I didn't drill you three times where you live while you were doing it, you can't wiggle through those windows. Your shoulders are too broad and the sashes are too narrow. That's why we picked this room. Only one in the house with small windows."

"I'd noticed that," said Billy, returning to the bed. "How about a drink, Tip? I'm thirsty."

"Sam will get you a drink," said Tip.

Billy smiled. "Why not you? Can't you trust me with Sam? Think I'll corrupt his morals or something?"

"There's no telling what you'll do, Bill, and as I may have told you once or twice we can't afford to take any chances."

"When am I going to be arrested for rustling one of Sam's horses?"

"Soon after Crafty gets here."

Billy's face assumed a peevish expression. "Say, look here, Tip, I don't just cotton to the idea of havin' Sam the one to throw down on me and hold me up. I've got my pride, such as it is, and I'd hate for folks to go round blatting that a slow-pulling sport like Sam Larder held me up. Can't you make it yourself, Tip? You've got a reputation. I dunno that I'd feel so bad about it if it was you."

"Shucks, Bill, you're too sensitive. I'm afraid we'll have to let the scheme go through as it lays. I don't believe in changing any part of a plan once I've started to carry it out."

"There's something in that," admitted Billy. "I'm a li'l superstitious that way myself. Ain't Sam taking a goshawful time to that drink? Maybe you better step out and look for him."

Tip grinned. "I hear him comin' now."

"Sam," said Billy, when the owner of the house appeared with the drink, "Sam, how about a li'l hot something to eat? I know it's only the shank of the afternoon, but I'm hungry and I probably have a long hard night ahead of me."

"You have, all right," concurred Sam. "All your own fault, too. But I expect you know what's best."

Sam eased his fat self into a chair and began to construct a cigarette.

Billy elevated his eyebrows. "Say. I thought I asked you for something to eat?"

Sam ran his tongue along the side of the cigarette. "I heard you, but I don't cook a thing till supper. That's flat. I been in and out of that kitchen all day, and I've got enough, you bet you."

"You don't have to cook anythin' yourself. Let your cook do it."

"I let him go to town for the day."

"I don't s'pose you could persuade one of your boys to throw a li'l bite together for me, now, could you?"

Sam shook a decided head. "I couldn't, Bill. There ain't a boy on the place. I sent them all down on the Wagonjack to fence off a quicksand."

Billy closed his eyes to conceal the satisfaction in their depths. Not a man on the place! Which was just what he had been working to find out. But the odds were still two to one, and an armed two to a weaponless one at that. When Craft returned, they would be three to one, provided Billy still was a prisoner.

He surveyed his captors through drop-lidded eyes. Sam Larder was looking out of the window. But Tip was on the alert, even as he had been from the beginning. And Billy knew well that Tip would not hesitate to shoot. Most decidedly the future did not look bright and shining. But Billy's was a confident nature.

"What's that?" queried Tip.

"What do—oh, that! Simon says 'thumbs up,' you mean? It doesn't mean anythin' serious, Tip. Just another way of saying, 'Faint heart never won a bet in its life' and 'It's always darkest 'round midnight.' Don't mind if I take a snooze, do you, Tippy, old boy?"

Billy rolled over on his stomach, rammed his head into the pillow and completely relaxed his body, but, although his breathing soon became deceptively regular, he was far from being asleep. He was thinking as purposefully as ever he had in his life. He had to escape. He had to! To permit his enemies to do this thing was intolerable. There was a way out. Every strait, no matter how close and awkward it may be, has its way out.

He built many plans while he lay there. But there was a flaw in each and every one of them. His brain was still feverishly busy when Felix Craft returned about the middle of the afternoon.

As the door opened and Craft entered, Billy sat up. "Have a nice time?" he drawled.

"Went through like clockwork," replied Craft, slumping into a chair beside the table.

"Not even a li'l teeny-weeny hole in you anywhere?" Billy demanded hopefully. "Hell, I shore had a better opinion of Jerry Fern than that."

"Jerry didn't do any fightin' to-day," said Felix. "Handed over his watch like a major."

"Yeah, Tip said you'd take his watch. Funny you didn't know Jerry Fern was driving this trip when I asked you. Tip knew."

"Oh, I knew all right," Craft said carelessly. "Lord A'mighty, I'm hungry. My stomach is sticking to my backbone closer than a postage stamp to a letter. I ain't had a thing to eat since breakfast. Got any more eggs and ham, Sam?"

"If you want anything to eat, you can cook it yourself," said Sam. "It's like I told Bill here, I ain't goin' into that kitchen till suppertime."

"That's always the way," grumbled Craft, kicking his chair back. "Here I ride from hell to breakfast and back—and I wanna say again that having that hold-up fifteen miles from here was too much of a good thing. Just as well have had it two or three miles away. It wouldn't have made a bit of difference, not a smidgin, by Gawd."

"You know, Felix," defended Tip, "that we had it fifteen miles away so the give-out horse of Bill's would look more natural."

"Damn his give-out horse," snarled Craft, moving stiffly toward the hall leading to the kitchen. "I wish it had give out before I was born."

"So you found out how rough-gaited the pinto was, did you, Felix?" Billy observed sweetly. "Do you know, I had an idea you would. Yeah. You don't ride enough, that's whatsa matter. Stick too close behind your faro box, you do. Y'oughta try the open air and the range more. Tell you, Felix, I'll gamble you'll do more ridin' and less card playin' in the next sixty days than you ever did in any two months of your life before. In round numbers I'll bet you ride more than six hundred miles in the next two months. Go you a hundred even. The bet payable in Golden Bar sixty days—say any time after the first day of June."

"Humor him, Crafty," suggested Tip, glad of the diversion. "Sometimes they turn real violent."

"Make it five hundred even," said Craft, who was nothing if not commercial.

Billy smiled pityingly. "You poor feller! But you've asked for it. Five hundred she is. It'll have to be a finger bet, because I haven't a cent with me."

"Your word's good," said Craft and went on his way.

"How about you fellers?" Billy pursued brightly. "Any chance of my turning a honest penny? I'll go you both the same as Crafty. I suppose my word's good."

"Better than gold," declared Tip, "but I don't see how you're going to check up on anybody's riding."

Billy waved a complacent hand. "That's the least of my troubles. How about it? You fellers want to bet? No? Aw right, my loss is your gain. Tippy, I wonder if you'd mind opening the door and hollering to Felix to fry me up a mess of eggs while he's at it? Tell him to let 'em lay. That's the way I like 'em. I thank you. Tip, you've made a mistake."

"How?"

"Having that hold-up fifteen miles away and then having me arrested here so close to Golden Bar. You poor flap, is it reasonable to suppose I'd hold up the Hillsville stage and then come scamperin' right home, especially when I knew my horse had been seen? You'll find the judge and jury lookin' cross-eyed at that li'l bit. Yeah, flaw in your title, Tippy. Y'oughta be more careful."

"Bill's right," said Sam Larder unexpectedly. "I always thought fifteen miles away was too far, and I know the jury will think it's funny he came right back to Golden Bar. That don't look natural. Nawsir."

"Blah!" snorted Tip. "You never thought anything about it till Bill pointed it out to you, and at that, he's wrong. And anyway, he ain't arrested yet. We can always rub out Bill if we feel like it. This is one county that has plenty of good places to leave a man—places where he won't be found for years and years, and not then, judging by the way the coyotes scatter a feller's bones. Have you thought of that, Bill? You'd better. So far I've been dead against making you hard to find, but if you keep on trying to show me where I'm wrong, maybe I'll accept your view of the case."

This was plain speaking. Billy accepted it at its face value. Tip was good-hearted enough. He had proved it. But he was desperate. He had proved that, too.

Billy smiled engagingly at Tip. "Shucks, I was only talking to you for your own good," he said in an injured tone. "And here you go and get all het up. You make me more tired than a day's work."

"We may make you tireder," was the grim return.

When Felix Craft brought the eggs, he drew up at one side of the table and Billy at the other. The platter of eggs was between them. Tip looked on from his seat near the fireplace. Sam lounged comfortably in his chair.

Billy looked with a dissatisfied air upon the eggs. "Ain't there any bread, Felix? One thing I like is to sort of smush a piece of bread round my eggs till it gets all gooey and good. A li'l butter on the bread wouldn't hurt neither."

So Felix made another trip to the kitchen. When he returned with the bread and butter, Billy discovered that the pepper had been overlooked.

"For Gawd's sake use salt on 'em!" implored Felix. "I never use pepper, I don't. Salt is just as good. Healthier, too."

"But I don't like salt," protested Billy. "I've got no manner of use for it. I want pepper, I do."

"Use salt," mumbled Craft, stoking busily.

Billy pushed right back from the table and refused to be comforted. "I want some pepper! Whatsa matter with you jiggers—tryin' to starve me to death? Sam, you lazy lump of slumgullion, get me some pepper, will you?"

"No, I won't. I'm too comfortable and you're too finicky."

Bill glanced across at Tip. "You going to refuse me too, Tip, old citizen?"

"No," said Tip with a weary air, "I suppose not."

He arose and betook himself to the kitchen. Returning with a large old-fashioned tin pepper pot he thumped it down upon the table in front of the captive. "There y'are. Now, stop your squalling."

"Thank you, Tippy, I will. Yeah."

Billy scraped up to the table as Tip turned away. "What's the matter with this pepper pot, anyway?"

Tip turned to look. Billy picked up the pepper pot slowly and stared hard at it. Felix Craft craned his neck.

"I don't see anything the matter with it," said Craft.

"Don't you?" murmured Billy, his fingers busy with the removable top. "Look here."

Sam Larder did not move, but both Tip and Craft obeyed. In fact, they obeyed with such good will that the handful of pepper that Billy instantly swept into their faces dusted up their nostrils as well as into their eyes.

In throwing the pepper Billy had employed his left hand. This left hand had not completed the motion before Billy was reaching for the platter of eggs with his right hand.

It was unfortunate for Sam Larder that he was a slow-going gentleman. The platter struck him edgewise over the eye when his six-shooter had barely cleared the holster. The six-shooter thudded to the floor. Sam and his chair went over backward and lay together in a tangle amid the fragments of broken platter and the remains of several eggs. On the way down some of the eggs painted Sam's countenance and part of his shirt a bright yellow. But Sam made no attempt to rise and scrape himself off. He was unconscious.

Billy, arriving in Sam's immediate neighborhood a split second after Sam struck the floor, scooped up the fallen six-shooter and wheeled back to face his other two enemies. But they were too occupied with their very real misery to be an immediate menace. Felix Craft was sitting on the floor, clawing at his eyes and swearing continuously. Tip, coughing and sneezing, was not swearing. Perhaps he had not sufficient breath. At any rate, he was on his feet, arms spread wide, feeling his way along the wall toward the door giving into the hall.

Billy cat-footed up behind Tip and snatched away his six-shooter. Tip spun round at the touch, but Billy dodged away from the clutching hands.

Bang! a revolver bullet cut a button from his vest and tucked into the wall at his elbow. Billy's sudden movement had saved his life. He leaped back another two yards to get out of the smoke and crouched, balancing his tense body on the balls of his feet.

He saw beyond the table Felix Craft with a gun in each hand. The gambler's face, despite the tears that overflowed his eyes and ran down his cheeks, was fairly murderous.

"Tip! Where are you? Don't you move, Bill," Craft was saying, the barrels of his two guns weaving to and fro uncertainly. "Get away from that door, Bill. Don't you try and get away. I can see you."

Billy leaned forward, picked up a fork from his set-out on the table and flung it across the room. It fell with a clatter. Craft fired at the sound. The next instant Billy kicked him under the chin and flattened him out.

"First time I ever saw a feller shoot by ear," observed Billy, calmly divesting Craft of his gun belt and exchanging Sam's six-shooter for his own gun with the brass-trigger guard. "He did pretty good, considering. Tip, don't you try to bluff me, like Crafty, that you can see. Hey! do you want to be the third senseless man in this room?"

Tip answered the question by halting his groping way toward the speaker. He stood still, his body swaying, his muscular fingers locked in the palms of his hands. Billy stooped over the senseless Craft and whipped off his neckerchief.

"Put your hands behind you, Tip," he directed.

"Damfi will!" Tip declared.

"I don't want to whang you over the head, Tip, but I'll have to if you won't be good. Stick 'em behind you."

Tip hesitated, then suddenly he thrust his hands behind him. Billy slipped around him, laid his six-shooter on a chair seat and drew the handkerchief beneath Tip's crossed wrists. The next instant Tip had whirled about, Tip's knees were between his legs and Tip's long arms were wrapped round him in an under-hold.

Tip was essaying the wrestling chip Cumberland men call the swinging hype. It is a crack chip and when well done is disastrous to an opponent. But it must be well done—the right arm under, hyping with the right leg and striking outside with the left. Fortunately for Bill, Tip, although his right arm was under in a strong hold, had made the mistake of sticking his left knee between Bill's legs. He struck outside with his right leg and missed. With the right arm under, he had not the leverage he should have had.

Billy, fighting for his life, dropped his arms—back-heeled Tip and ran over him. Thump! The wrestlers, Tip underneath, landed full upon the senseless back of Felix Craft. Tip freed a hand, writhed his body sidewise and struck viciously at Billy's unprotected stomach. He struck too low and the blow glanced off Billy's hipbone. Billy, striking in turn, drove a smashing right against the point of Tip's chin. Tip merely grunted and struck again at Billy's stomach. Billy parried the blow with his left and brought up his knee with the laudable intention of kicking Tip in the abdomen.

Blinded though he was, Tip apparently sensed what was impending, for he crowded his body against Billy and struck outside with all his might. In an instant Tip was on top and Billy underneath. The older man jammed both thumbs into Billy's windpipe and wrenched himself astride Billy's body. The strangling Billy spread wide his legs, hunched up his knees, planted both feet against Tip's ribs and straightened his legs with a jerk. Tip's hands were torn loose from Billy's throat and Tip himself crashed backward against the wall.

Billy scrambled to his feet and without the slightest hesitation clipped Tip over the head with the barrel of his six-shooter. Tip remained where he was. Billy stood over him, pistol poised, till he made sure he was senseless. Then he took pains to make fast the trio's respective arms and legs with strips torn from a nightgown belonging to Sam. He likewise removed his spurs from Craft's heels to his own.

This being done, he stripped Tip and Sam of their gun belts, gathered up all the guns and ran out into the kitchen. Here, on the floor, Craft had thrown his saddle, bridle and saddle blanket. Bill added the lot to his burden and sped out to the corral. The pinto was there, looking very tired. Bill hastily unstrapped his rope and dropped the loop over a rangy-bodied chestnut with good legs and a mule stripe. This animal he bridled and saddled, left it standing and ran back to Sam's storeroom for another set of horse equipment. It was his laudable intention to pack the unconscious Felix into town and jail him for the stage-coach robbery. It was a bold plan, but Billy always rather favored the bold plan. The plan had not occurred to him till almost the instant of throwing the pepper so he had had no time to thoroughly mature it, but it seemed to contain more elements of success than any other because it would forestall his enemies' scheme so neatly. With Craft in jail and wearing the clothing worn by the robber, to which clothing the complaisant Jerry Fern and his passengers would undoubtedly be prepared to swear, it would be hard indeed, if Bill could not fasten the robbery on him, Craft.

He swore bitterly as he pulled taut the cinch strap of the second horse. Fastening the robbery on Craft was one thing, obtaining his indictment and conviction were decidedly two others. What though Judge Donelson would do his best to see justice done, the doing of said justice would rest in the laps of twelve men, each and every one of them the opposite of good and true. But at least he, Billy Wingo, would not be the victim of an outrageous conspiracy. There was that much gained.

He led the two horses to the kitchen door and went within to fetch out Felix Craft.

It must have been his good angel who caused him to look through the front window. He looked and saw a cloud of horsemen scouring toward the ranch house. Sam's field glasses were on the shelf above the window. He opened the window, snatched up the glasses and focussed them on the approaching riders. He immediately recognized, to his great disgust, half a dozen of Sam Larder's punchers. Obviously they had completed the fencing-off of the quicksand sooner than expected.

"This," said Billy, dropping the glasses and leaving the room at speed, "is no place for me."

At the first sight of the riders he had abandoned the plan of taking Felix Craft to town. He would be hard put to escape himself. A burdened led horse was an impossibility, even if he had had time to carry out Craft and tie him to the saddle. The punchers would be at the ranch house in another sixty seconds, and if they should discover him with their bound and unconscious employer and two of his friends, they would shoot first and ask questions later. Any one would,—under the circumstances.

Billy topped his mount, struck in the spurs and fled. The other horse he perforce left standing.

As he flashed past the corner of the building, one of Larder's punchers raised a yell. Some well-meaning fool fired. Zung-g! the bullet buzzed overhead. Smack! Zung-g! Smack! Several bits of lead either ripped past his ears or tucked into the posts of the corral he was skirting. It was borne in upon him that the Larder employees were mistaking him for a horse thief, or some one worse.

He leaned over his saddle horn and began to ride. From the Larder corral to a clump of trees on the edge of a draw was a long hundred yards. As Billy galloped in among the trees he glanced over his shoulder. The corral concealed the horsemen. He pulled up at the edge of the draw, slid down the bank in a shower of stones and dirt, turned sharp to the left at the bottom and tore ahead. A mile farther on he looked back. No one was in sight yet.

"Ropin' themselves fresh horses," was his muttered verdict. "Damitall, running away was about the worst thing I could have done, after all! But what else was there to do, I'd like to know? If I'd stayed I'd have been plugged for a holdup and now I'm a heap likely to be lynched for a horse thief and a hold-up both."

He knew what he might expect from the brisk Larder outfit after Sam had given it his careful version of the stage robbery.

"And that goes double for the rest of the county," he said to himself, staring ahead over the flattened ears of his racing horse. "It looks like a cold day for Billy Wingo. I'll have to do some almighty tall hustling, that's a cinch."

Two miles and a half from the clump of trees at the back of Larder's corral he turned his horse and scuffled up the right-hand bank of the draw. At the top he looked back. He could see the clump of trees quite plainly and below it, in the bottom of the draw, were several black beads. He counted four beads. No doubt the remaining beads were spreading out to right and left to head him off.

"Thank Gawd for the mule stripe," he muttered piously, trotting onward. "We'll diddle 'em yet, old-timer."

Old-timer cocked an ear. His muscles were moving rhythmically, his long free stride was steady and collected. His breathing, while audible, showed no catchiness or other sign of distress. He was good for many miles yet, this chestnut with the mule stripe.

"Alla same, I've got to have another horse," Billy decided. "The quicker this feller gets back on the Larder range the better."

He didn't quite know how to get another horse. When he came in town to assume the duties of his office he brought with him from his ranch two horses besides the red-and-white pinto. His remaining horses he had turned out into the hills, upon whose tops, when the snow flew, they could grub up a living without too much difficulty. These hills lay sixty miles away beyond the Tuckleton range, and every horse on them would be carrying a grass belly.

"Not one of 'em fit for hard riding right off the reel," he told himself, and cursed a little. "Looks like Sam Prescott was my one best bet."

He came to a stream and rode in it till almost sunset when he left it, dismounted beside a tall cottonwood and shinned to the top. To his earnest satisfaction he saw, hopelessly distant and following utterly wrong lines, the tiny black beads that were his pursuers.

"And that's that," said Billy Wingo, rustling groundward rapidly.