The Settling of the Sage

by Hal G. Evarts

A vision of the near future swept across Slade's mind. If he should be locked up for three months and discharged for lack of evidence it would wreck him as surely as the rumors of the last few months had cut Lang's men off from the rest of the world. Squatters had filed on every available site throughout his range and now waited to see if the Three Bar would win its fight. If the news should be spread that he was locked up these nesters would rush in. On his release he would find them everywhere. With marshals scattered through the ranks of his own men, intent on upholding the homestead laws, he would be helpless to drive them out. The pictures of the different valleys suitable for ranch sites, scattered here and there over his extensive range, traveled through his mind in kaleidoscopic procession—and he visioned a squatter outfit established on every one. If they locked him up at this time he was lost.

He nodded slowly.

"Well, I guess you've got me," he said. "I don't see that it will amount to much, anyway. Sooner or later you'll let me out." He raised his arms high above his head and stretched. Under cover of this casual move he swiftly raised one foot.

Slade planted his boot on the edge of the light table and gave a tremendous shove. The far edge caught the sheriff across the legs and overthrew him. The lantern crashed to the floor and at the same instant Morrow aimed a sidewise, sweeping kick at Carpenter's ankles. As the marshal went down his head struck the corner post of a bunk and he did not rise.

With a single sweep Morrow caught the back of his chair and swung it above his head for the spot which Waddles had occupied at the instant the light went out. The weapon splintered in his hands as it found its mark, and as the big man struck the dirt floor Morrow leaped for the dim light which indicated the open door.

A huge paw clamped on one ankle and a back-handed wrench sent him flying across the room to the far wall. With a sweep of the other hand Waddles slammed the door with a bang that jarred the cabin.

"We've got 'em trapped," the big voice exulted. "We've got 'em sewed in a sack."

Harris made one long reach and swung the butt of his gun for Slade's head as the table went down but Slade, with the same motion, vaulted the prostrate sheriff. The force of the blow threw Harris off his balance and as he tripped and reeled to his knees Slade's boot heel scored a glancing blow on his skull and floored him. He regained his feet, gripping a fragment of the chair Morrow had smashed over Waddles's head, and struck at a dim form which loomed against the vague light of the window.

The shape closed with him and he went down in a corner with Slade. Slade struck him twice in the face, writhed away and gained his feet, back-slashing at Harris's head with his spurs. Harris caught a hand-hold in the long fur of the other's chaps, wrapped both arms round Slade above the knees and dragged him back. His hand found Slade's throat and he squeezed down on it as the man raised both knees and thrust them against his stomach to break the hold. Slade's arm swept a circle on the floor in search of the gun Harris had dropped but he was jerked a foot from the floor and Harris jammed his head against the log wall,—jammed again and Slade crumpled into a limp heap. Harris held him there, unwilling to take a chance lest the other might be feigning unconsciousness. But Slade was out of the fight.

The sheriff struggled to his feet as Waddles tossed Morrow back from the door and slammed it shut. He closed with Morrow but the man eluded him. He dared not shoot with friends and enemies struggling all about the black pit of the little room.