“Thank you, Sheriff,” he said, his head whirling from the surprises of a minute. “You’ve been squarer and fairer with me than any man I’ve ever known, and hell will look nice to me if I don’t make good with you.
“Thank you, boys; thank you, Bill: you’re all right, every one of you!” he cried as his friends crowded about him. “What the sheriff said about warm friends was the truth–thank you, Bud and Jim! Thank you, Blake–you’re another brick! Good God, what I have gained in two months! I can scarcely believe it, it seems so like a dream. That’s a real warm grip, all right, though,” he exclaimed as he shook hands with Humble, “so I reckon it’s all true. Two months!” he marveled. “Two glorious, glorious months! A new start in life, a loyal crowd of friends, a–and all in two months! And there is the man I owe it all to,” he suddenly cried, pointing to the sheriff. “There’s the whitest man God ever made, and I’ll kill the man who says I lie!”
“Good boy!” shouted Bill in enthusiastic endorsement. “You two make a pair of aces what can beat any full-house ever got together, and I’ll lick the man who says I lie!” he yelled pugnaciously. “The Orphant may be an orphant, all right, but he’s got a whole lot of brothers.”
Mrs. Shields walked over to The Orphan and placed a motherly hand on his shoulder as he recovered.
“You won’t be an orphan any longer, my boy,” she said, smiling up at him. “You’re one of us now–I always wanted a son, and God has given me one in you.”
CHAPTER XXII
TEX WILLIARD’S MISTAKE
DURING the month which followed the picnic things ran smoothly on the A-Y, and the rejuvenated ranch was the pride of the whole contingent, from the sheriff down to the cook. The Orphan had taken charge with a determination which grew firmer with each passing day and the new owner was delighted at the outcome of his plans. The foreman, elated and happy at his sudden shift in fortune, radiated cheerfulness and consideration. His men knew that he would not ask them to do anything which he himself feared to do, which would not have been much consolation to a timid man, since he feared nothing; but to them it meant that they had a foreman who would stick by them through fire and water, and a foreman who commands respect from his outfit is a man whose life is made easy for him. He had known too much of unkindness, harshness, to become angry at mistakes; instead, he set diligently at work to undo them, and mistakes were rare. The very men who had once wished for his life would now fight instantly to save it. They were proud of him, of the owner, the ranch and themeselves; and proudest of all was Bill, once driver of the stage, but now a cowboy working hard and loyally under the man who had once held him up for a smoke.
Visitors were numerous, and every man who called became enthusiastic about the ranch, and after he had departed marveled at the complete change in the man who was its foreman, and felt confidence in the good judgment of the sheriff. Ford’s Station was openly jubilant, for the town exulted in the discomfiture of the Cross Bar-8 and in the proof that their sheriff was right. And Ford’s Station chuckled at the news it heard, for the foreman of the Cross Bar-8 had called twice at the A-Y and was fast losing his prejudice against The Orphan. Sneed had found a quiet, optimistic foreman in the place of his former enemy, and the laughter which lurked in The Orphan’s eyes closed the breach. He had seen the man in a new light, and when he had said his farewell at the close of his second visit the grip of his hand was strong. As for the Star C, a trail had been worn between the two ranches and hardly a day passed but one or more of its punchers dropped in to say a few words to their former bunkmate, and to stir up Bill. The Star C, no less than his own men, swore by The Orphan.
One bright morning the sheriff left for a trip to Chicago and other packing cities to arrange for future cattle shipments, and announced that he would be away for a week or two. On the night following his departure trouble began. The ranch and bunk houses of the Cross Bar-8 were fired into, and when Sneed and his men had returned after a fruitless search in the dark the foreman stared at the wall and swore. Was it The Orphan again? In the absence of the sheriff had he renewed the war? First thought cried that he had, but gradually the idea became untenable. Why should The Orphan risk his splendid berth on the A-Y, his prospects now rich in promise, to work off any lingering hatred? When Sneed had shaken hands with him he found apparent sincerity in the warm clasp. He would ride over at daylight and have the matter settled once and for all. And if satisfied that The Orphan was guiltless of the outrage he would turn his whole attention to the imitator of the former outlaw.