The S\ Bar\ P ranchhouse and other buildings were of log construction, rambling old structures one story in height. The ranchhouse and bunk-house had the old mud-and-stone fire-places. Back of the stables was Porcupine Creek, which ran northwest to Tomahawk River. It was about six miles from the ranch to Tomahawk town.
It was the day after Reber had sent the message to his foremen when Jack Silver rode in at the S\ Bar\ P ranch. He rode a tall black gelding, a fitting mount for a man of his physique.
Silver was tall, lithe, dark-skinned. He wore his hair long, but his face was smooth-shaven. His shirt was black, as were his muffler and sombrero, and he wore no chaps. His high-heeled boots were of the short-topped Southwest style, and around his waist was a hand-made cartridge belt supporting a Colt gun in a hand-made holster.
He swung off his horse, waving a greeting to three of Buck Priest’s men who were down near the corrals. Priest met him at the door of the ranchhouse and they shook hands warmly.
“How are yuh, Jack?” asked Priest, as they sat down in the main room of the ranchhouse.
“I’m fine,” replied Silver. “Been over in Clear Valley for a week and just got back. Ran into Dave McLeese yesterday and he told me about you and Reber havin’ a fight.”
Priest scowled heavily and slapped the palm of his right hand on his knee.
“I tried to kill him, Jack. A girl ruined the shot.”
Silver smiled, showing a flash of white, even teeth.
“A girl, eh? McLeese didn’t tell me about her.”