Buckaroo of Blue Wells

By W. C. Tuttle

I—BOOKKEEPERS

James Eaton Legg hooked his heels over the rounds of his high stool, stretched wearily and looked out through the none-too-clean windows to where a heavy fog almost obscured the traffic. Heavy trucks lumbered past, grinding harshly over the cobbles. Somewhere a street-car motorman did a trap-drum effect on his gong; a ferry boat whistled boomingly. And there was the incessant roar of the every-day noises of the commercial district.

James Eaton Legg was not a prepossessing person. He was less than thirty years of age, slightly beneath medium height, slender. His face was thin, rather boyish, his mild blue eyes hidden behind a pair of glasses. His mouth was wide, and when he yawned wearily he showed a good set of teeth.

For several years James had been a bookkeeper with Mellon & Co., Wholesale Grocers, San Francisco—and he was still acting in the same capacity. His slightly stooped shoulders attested to the fact that James had bent diligently over his work. Whether fortunately, or unfortunately, James was an orphan. His mother had died while he was still very young, and when James had just finished high school, his father had gone the way of all flesh.

James was cognizant of the fact that somewhere in the world he had some relatives, but that fact caused him little concern. He remembered that his mother had a sister, who was well endowed with worldly goods, and he also remembered that his father had said that his Aunt Martha would probably die with all her wealth intact.

James turned from his contemplation of the foggy street, and his blue eyes studied the occupants of the big office. There was Henry Marsh, humped like an old buzzard, his long nose close to the ledger page, as he had been the first time James had seen him. He had grown old with Mellon & Co.—so old that he worried about his job.

There were younger men, working adding machines, delving in accounts; preparing themselves for a life of drudgery. Over in the cashier’s cage was David Conley, frozenfaced, pathetic; as old as Mellon & Co. James shuddered slightly. If he lived to be seventy, and worked faithfully, he might occupy that cage.

James was being paid the munificent sum of seventy dollars a month. He happened to know that David Conley drew one hundred and fifty dollars in his monthly envelope. James shook his head and shifted his gaze back to the window. He did not feel like working. It all seemed so useless; this idea of putting down figures and adding them up; eating, sleeping, and coming back to put down more figures.

He turned from contemplation of the wet street, and looked at Blair Mellon, senior member of the firm, who had come in from his private office. He was nearing seventy, thin, stooped, irascible. Nothing seemed to please him. His beady eyes shifted from one employee to another, as he walked slowly. He had made a success of business, but a wreck of himself. The boys of the firm called him “Caucus,” because of the fact that once a week he would hold a caucus in the office, at which time he would impress upon them the fact that the firm was everything, and that nothing else mattered.

He would invite suggestions from department heads, and when an idea did not please him he would fly into a rage. James Eaton Legg mildly suggested at one of the caucuses that the firm supply each bookkeeper with a fountain pen, in order to economize on lost motions—and nearly lost his job. Not because of trying to increase the efficiency of the bookkeeping department, but because fountain pens cost money.

All the firm mail came to Blair Mellon’s office, and it was his delight to distribute it. Just now he had several letters which he was passing out. He walked past James, stopped. James was looking at the street again. The old man scowled at the letters in his hand, one of which was addressed to James Eaton Legg. It bore the imprint of a Chicago law firm.

Blair Mellon did not believe that a bookkeeper should waste his time in looking out of the window, but just now he couldn’t think of a fitting rebuke; so he placed the letter on James Legg’s desk and went on.

James Legg’s mild blue eyes contemplated the name of the law firm on the envelope. It all looked so very legal that James wondered what it might all mean. He drew out the enclosure and read it carefully. Then he removed his glasses, polished them carefully, and read it again. Then he propounded inelegantly, but emphatically—

“Well, I’ll be ——!”

Blair Mellon had come back past the desk just in time to hear this exclamation. He stopped short and stared at James.

“Mr. Legg!” he said curtly. “You evidently forget the rule against profanity in this office.”

But James Legg ignored everything, except his own thoughts.

“If that don’t beat ——, what does?” he queried.

Blair Mellon stared aghast. This was downright mutiny. He struggled for the proper words with which to rebuke this young man.

“Say, Caucus,” said James, giving Mellon the nickname he had never heard before, “where do they raise cattle?”

“Were you speaking to me, sir?” demanded Mellon.

James realized what he had said, and for a moment his face flushed.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Mellon.”

“I should think you would, sir. Such language!”

It seemed that all work had ceased in the office. Not even a telephone bell rang.

“Have you any excuse for speaking in such a manner?” demanded the old man, conscious that every one had heard.

James Eaton Legg surveyed the room. Every eye was upon him. He noticed that even the stenographers had ceased chewing their gum. Then James Legg laughed, as he drew off his black sateen oversleeves and cast them aside. He slid off his stool, almost into the irate Mellon.

“Well, sir!” the old man’s voice creaked.

“Aw, save it for somebody that’s working for you,” said James Legg easily. “I’ve quit.”

“Quit?”

“Yes. Strange, isn’t it?” James Legg smiled at the old man. “Bookkeepers don’t usually quit, do they? No, they stick to the job until their chin hits their knees, and the undertaker has to put them in a press for two days before they’ll fit a casket. I suppose the cashier will pay me off, Mr. Mellon.”

“Well—er—yes, sir! It is just as well that you do quit. This is very, very unusual for an employee of Mellon and Company to—”

“To quit?” smiled James. “Sets a precedent.”

“Ordinarily, we would offer a letter of recommendation, but in a case of—”

“Couldn’t use it, but thank you just the same, Mr. Mellon. I am through keeping books. I’m going to take a job where I can breathe fresh air, smoke a cigaret on the job and swear when I —— please.”

The old man’s lean jaw set tightly for a moment, but he said icily:

“And what are you going to do, if I may ask?”

“Me?” James Legg smiled broadly around the room. “I’m going to be a cowpuncher.”

“A—a—what?”

“A cowboy, if that makes it plain to you.”

One of the stenographers tittered. She had her own idea of a cowboy, possibly not from the real article; so she might be forgiven for seeing humor in Legg’s statement. He flushed a little, turned on his heel and went to the wash-room, every one looking after him. Blair Mellon broke the spell with—

“The incident is over, I believe, ladies and gentlemen.”

Which was sufficient to put them all back to work, while James Eaton Legg accepted his pay from the stiff-faced cashier and walked out into the foggy street. He felt just a little weak over it all. It was hard to realize that he was at last without a job.

It was the first time in years that he had been without a job, and the situation rather appalled him, and he stopped on a corner, wondering whether he hadn’t been just a trifle abrupt in quitting Mellon & Company.

But he realized that the die was cast; so he went to his boarding-house and to his room, where he secured an old atlas. Spreading out a map on the bed he studied the western States. Arizona seemed to appeal to him; so he ran a pencil-point along the railroad lines, wondering just where in Arizona he would care to make his start.

The pencil-point stopped at Blue Wells, and he instinctively made a circle around the name. It seemed rather isolated, and James Legg had an idea that it must be a cattle country. Something or somebody was making a noise at his door; so he got up from the bed.

He opened the door and found that the noise had been made by a dog; a rough-coated mongrel, yellowish-red, with one black eye, which gave him a devil-may-care expression. He was dirty and wet, panting from a hard run, but he sat up and squinted at James Legg, his tongue hanging out.

“Where did you come from, dog?” demanded James. “I don’t think I have ever seen you before.”

The dog held up one wet paw, and James shook hands with him solemnly. Came the sound of a heavy voice down-stairs, and the dog shot past James and went under the bed. The voice was audible now, and James could distinguish the high-pitched voice of the landlady, raised in protest.

“But I tell ye I seen him come in here, ma’am,” declared the heavy voice. “A kind of a yaller one, he was.”

“But no one in this house owns a dog,” protested the landlady. “We don’t allow dogs in here.”

“Don’t ye? And have ye the rules printed in dog language, so that the dogs would know it, ma’am? Belike he’s in one of the halls, tryin’ to hide.”

“I’m sure you’re mistaken, officer. But I’ll go with you, if you care to make a search of the halls.”

“I’ll do that, ma’am.”

James closed his door, leaving only a crack wide enough for him to see the landlady, followed by a big burly policeman, come to the head of the stairs. They came past his door, and he heard them farther down the hall. The dog was still under the bed, and as they came back James stepped into the hall.

“We are looking for a yellow dog, Mr. Legg,” explained the landlady. “You haven’t seen one, have you?”

“Sort of yaller and red,” supplemented the officer.

James shook his head. “Must be an important yellow dog to have the police hunting for him.”

“He’s important to me,” growled the officer. “Jist a dirty stray, so he is.”

“But why are you hunting for a stray dog, officer?”

“Because he’s a dangerous dog. I threw a rock at him, tryin’ to chase him off me beat, and the dirty cur picked up the rock and brought it back to me.”

“A retriever, eh?”

“I dunno his breed.”

“But that doesn’t make him dangerous.”

“Then I took a kick at him and he bit me, so he did. He tore the leg of me pants and I had to go home and change. I didn’t no more than get back on me beat, when there he was, probably lookin’ for another chance at me legs. But I took after him and I was sure he ran in here.”

“Well, I’m sure he never did,” said the landlady. “But we’ll look in the other halls.”

James went back in the room and found the dog sitting in the middle of the floor, one ear cocked up, his brown eyes fixed on James, his tongue hanging out, as if he had heard all of the conversation and was laughing at the policeman.

James held out his hand and they shook seriously.

“Dog,” said James seriously, “you did what I’ve often thought I’d like to do—bite a policeman. I swore out loud in Mellon and Company’s office, and you bit a cop. We’re a disgraceful pair. I’m wondering if you’re a cattle dog—” James sighed heavily— “Well, anyway, you’re as much of a cattle dog as I am a cowpuncher. Sit down and make yourself at home.”

It was half an hour later that James Eaton Legg walked out of his room, carrying a heavy valise, while behind him came the dog, walking carefully, peering around the legs of his newly found master.

At the foot of the stairs they met the landlady. She stared at the dog and at James.

“That was the dog the policeman was looking for!” she exclaimed in a horrified screech. “Don’t let him come toward me! You get that dog out of here, Mr. Legg! You know we don’t allow dogs in here. Take him—”

“That dog,” said James calmly, “is very particular who he bites, ma’am. If my bill is ready—”

“Oh, are you leaving us, Mr. Legg?”

“Yes’m, me and—er—Geronimo are leaving. If any mail comes for me, forward it to Jim Legg, Blue Wells, Arizona.”

“Oh, yes. Blue Wells, Arizona. Are you going out there for your health?”

“Well,” said Jim Legg, as he paid his bill, “I don’t know just how it’ll affect me physically. It’ll probably be a good thing for Geronimo—give him a change of diet. And for the good of the police force I suppose I better phone for a taxi.”

And thus did Jim Legg, erstwhile James Eaton Legg, quit his job, adopt a dog and start for Blue Wells, just an isolated spot on the map of Arizona—all in the same day.

II—THE PREACHER’S HORSE

It was the biggest two-handed poker game ever played in Blue Wells, and when “Antelope Jim” Neal, owner of the Blue Wells Oasis Saloon, raked in the last pot, “Tex” Alden rubbed the back of his hand across his dry lips and shut his weary eyes. He had lost eight thousand dollars.

“Is that all, Tex?” asked Neal, and his voice held a hope that the big cowboy would answer in the affirmative. The game had never ceased for thirty-six hours.

“As far as I’m concerned,” said Tex slowly. “I don’t owe yuh anythin’, do I?”

“Not a cent, Tex. Have a drink?”

“Yeah—whisky.”

Tex got to his feet, stretching himself wearily. He was well over six feet tall, habitually gloomy of countenance. His hair was black, as were his jowls, even after a close shave. There were dark circles around his brown eyes, and his hand trembled as he poured out a full glass of liquor and swallowed it at a gulp.

“Here’s better luck next time, Tex,” said Neal.

“Throw it into yuh,” said Tex shortly. “But as far as luck is concerned—”

“It did kinda break against yuh, Tex.”

“Kinda, ——! Well, see yuh later.”

Tex adjusted his hat and walked outside, while Neal went to his room at the back of the saloon, threw off his clothes and piled into bed. At the bar several cowboys added another drink to their already large collection and marveled at the size of Tex Alden’s losses.

“’F I lost that much, I’d have a —— of a time buyin’ any Christmas presents for m’ friends, next December,” said Johnny Grant, a diminutive cowboy from the AK ranch.

“There ain’t that much money,” declared “Eskimo” Swensen, two hundred pounds of authority on any subject, who also drew forty dollars per month from the AK. “It takes over sixteen years of steady work, without spendin’ a cent, to make that much money. Never let anybody tell yuh that there is any eight thousand in one lump sum.”

“And that statement carries my indorsement,” nodded the third hired man of the AK, “Oyster” Shell, a wry-necked, buck-toothed specimen of the genus cowboy, whose boot-heels were so badly run over on the outer sides that it was difficult for him to attain his full height.

“There has been that much,” argued Johnny. “I ’member one time when I had—”

“Eighty,” interrupted Oyster. “Yuh got so drunk you seen a coupla extra ciphers, Johnny. I feel m’self stretchin’ a point to let yuh have eighty.”

“I votes for eight,” declared Eskimo heavily.

“Eight thousand ain’t so awful much,” said “Doc” Painter, the bartender, who wore a curl on his forehead, and who was a human incense stick, reeking of violets.

Johnny looked closely at Doc, placed his Stetson on the bar and announced—

“Mister Rockerbilt will now take the stand and speak on ‘Money I Have Seen.’”

“Misser Rockerbilt,” Oyster bowed his head against the bar and stepped on his new hat before he could recover it.

“A-a-a-aw, ——!” snorted the bartender. “I’ve seen more than eight thousand, I’ll tell yuh that. I’ve had—”

“Now, Doc,” warned Eskimo. “Seein’ and havin’ are two different things. We all know that yuh came from a wealthy family, who gave yuh everythin’ yuh wanted, and nothin’ yuh needed. But if you ever try to make us believe that you had eight thousand dollars, we’ll sure as —— kick yuh out of our Sunday-school, because yuh never came by it honestly.”

“Yeah, and yuh don’t need to say we ain’t got no Sunday-school,” added Oyster hastily. “Last Sunday—”

“I heard about it.”

The bartender carefully polished a glass, breathing delicately upon it the while.

“Lemme have that glass a minute,” said Johnny, and the unsuspecting bartender gave it to him. Johnny selected a place on the bar-rail and proceeded to smash the glass.

“What the —— did yuh do that for?” demanded the bartender hotly.

“What for?” Johnny lifted his brows and stared at the bartender with innocent eyes.

“Yea-a-ah! Why smash that glass?”

“Well, yuh can’t expect anybody to ever drink out of it, could yuh? After you yawnin’ upon it thataway, Doc. I know—well I don’t want to draw it.”

“——, that don’t hurt the glass!”

“Well, of all things!” shrilled Oyster. “As long as the glass don’t get hurt, everythin’ is all right. I’ll betcha he’s yawned upon every glass he’s got. If we was ever goin’ to drink in this place again, I’d argue in favor of smashin’ every glass he’s got on that back bar.”

And the bartender knew that the AK outfit were entirely capable of doing just such a thing. But they were not quite drunk enough to accept Oyster’s suggestion. At any rate their minds were diverted by the entrance of “Scotty” Olson, the big lumbering sheriff of Blue Wells, whose sense of humor was not quite as big nor as lively as a fever germ.

Scotty wore a buffalo-horn mustache, which matched the huge eyebrows that shaded his little eyes. He was a powerful person, huge of hand, heavy-voiced, rather favoring a sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun, which he handled with one hand.

“The law is among us,” said Johnny seriously. “Have a little drink, Mister Law?”

“No.” Scotty was without finesse.

“Have a cigar?” asked Eskimo.

“No.”

“Have a chaw?” queried Oyster pleasantly.

“No. I was just talkin’ with the preacher.”

“Tryin’ to reform yuh?” asked Johnny.

“Reform? No. He wants to know which one of you punchers tin-canned his horse?”

The three cowboys looked at each other. Their expression of amazement was rather overdone. The bartender chuckled, and Johnny turned quickly.

“What in —— is so funny about it, Doc?” he demanded. “It’s no laughin’ matter, I’d tell a man,” he turned to the sheriff.

“You surely don’t think we’d do a thing like that, Sheriff.”

“I dunno,” the sheriff scratched his head, tilting his hat down over one eye.

“My ——, that would be sacrilege!” exclaimed Eskimo.

“The Last Warnin’,” corrected Oyster seriously, not knowing the meaning of sacrilege. The Last Warnin’ was an ancient sway-backed white horse, which the minister drove to an old wobble-wheeled buggy. He had a mean eye and a propensity for digging his old hammer-shaped head into the restaurant garbage cans.

“It ain’t funny,” said the sheriff. “There ain’t nothin’ funny about tin-cannin’ a horse. Louie Sing’s big copper slop-can is missin’, and Louie swears that he’s goin’ to sue the preacher. I reckon it’s up to you boys to pay the preacher for his horse and Louie Sing for his copper can. The preacher says that fifty is about right for the horse, and Louie swears that he can’t replace the can for less than ten.”

“Well,” sighed Johnny, “all I can say is that you and the preacher and the Chink are plumb loco, if you think we’re goin’ to pay sixty dollars for a—for somethin’ we never done.”

“Where’d we get sixty dollars—even if we was guilty?” wondered Oyster.

“Yuh might make it in Sunday-school,” suggested the bartender.

“In Sunday-school? What do yuh mean?”

“Well,” grinned Doc, “I hear that one of yuh put a four-bit piece in the collection plate and took out ninety-five cents in change.”

Whether or not there was any truth in the statement, Johnny Grant took sudden exceptions to it and flung himself across the bar, pawing at the bartender, whose shoulders collided with the stacked glassware on the back bar, as he tried to escape the clawing hands.

“Stop that!” yelled the sheriff.

He rushed at Johnny, trying to save the worthy bartender from assault, but one of his big boots became entangled with the feet of Oyster Shell, and he sprawled on his face, narrowly missing the bar-rail, while into him fell Eskimo Olson, backward, of course, his spurs catching in the sheriff’s vest and shirt and almost disrobing him.

With a roar of wrath the sheriff got to his feet, made an ineffectual swing at Eskimo, and ran at Oyster, who had backed to the center of the room, holding a chair in both hands. The sheriff was so wrathy that he ignored the chair, until Oyster flung it down against his shins, and the sheriff turned a complete somersault, which knocked all the breath out of him.

Johnny Grant had swung around on the bar in time to see the sheriff crash down, ignoring the perspiring bartender, who, armed with a bottle, had backed to the end of the bar. The sheriff got to his feet, one foot still fast between the rounds of the chair, and looked vacantly around. Then he grinned foolishly and headed for the front door, dragging the chair.

It tripped him as he went across the threshold and he fell on his knees outside. Then he got to his feet, tore the offending chair loose, flung it viciously out into the street, and went lurching toward his office, scratching his head, as if wondering what it was all about.

“Knocked back seven generations,” whooped Eskimo, as he clung to Johnny Grant, who in turn was hugging Oyster.

“Mamma Mine, I hope t’ die!” whooped Johnny. “Oh, don’t show me no more! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! He never even seen that chair!”

They went into more paroxysms of mirth, while the bartender smoothed his vest, placed his bottle back behind the bar and got a broom to sweep up the broken glassware. He knew that he was forgotten for a while, at least.

III—OTHER PEOPLE’S MONEY

Tex Alden had left the Oasis and sauntered down the street to where a weathered sign proclaimed the office of Lee Barnhardt, Attorney at Law. Barnhardt was a lean, hatchet-faced, keen-eyed sort of person, possibly forty-five years of age, whose eyes were rather too close together, ears small and clinging close to his bony head, and chin was wedge-shaped. His neck was so long and thin that it was the general opinion in Blue Wells that on Sunday Barnhardt wore a cuff around his neck instead of a collar.

Tex Alden and Lee Barnhardt had considerable in common, as Tex was manager of the X Bar 6 cattle outfit, while Barnhardt was legal counsel and manager for the same outfit. Tex had always born a fairly good reputation, except that he was an inveterate gambler. People admitted that Barnhardt was shrewd, even if they did not like him.

Barnhardt was busily engaged in cleaning out his old cob pipe when Tex walked in and sat down, and like all lawyers he kept Tex waiting until the pipe was cleaned, filled and lighted. Then he turned around on his creaking swivel-chair and fixed his cold eyes upon Tex.

“Well?” he managed to say, between puffs.

“Well, ——!” snorted Tex. “I just finished losing the eight thousand dollars I got for that shipment to Frisco.”

Barnhardt’s eyebrows lifted slightly and he sucked heavily on his extinguished pipe, staring steadily at Tex. Then:

“You lost it all, eh? Playing poker with Neal?”

Tex nodded wearily. Barnhardt leaned back in his old chair, squinting narrowly at the ceiling.

“That’s a lot of money, Tex,” he said thoughtfully. “It puts you in pretty bad, don’t yuh think?”

“Sure. That’s why I came over here, Lee.”

“Is that so? Thinking, of course, that I can square it for yuh,” Barnhardt laughed wryly. “It’s quite a job to explain away eight thousand dollars, Tex. I don’t know why you didn’t bring that check to me.”

“They made it out in my name,” said Tex, as if that might mitigate the fact that he had used eight thousand belonging to the X Bar 6 outfit.

“That didn’t cause it to belong to you,” reminded Barnhardt. “They can jail yuh for that, Tex. It’s plain embezzlement. I’ve got to account for that eight thousand dollars.”

“How soon, Lee?”

The lawyer frowned thoughtfully. He knew he could defer the accounting for a long time, but what good would that do Tex Alden, whose monthly salary was seventy-five dollars.

“Got something in sight, Tex?” he asked.

“Not yet,” Tex studied the toes of his dusty boots. “But yuh never can tell what might turn up.”

“I see.”

Barnhardt relaxed and lighted his pipe. After a few puffs he said—

“I think the Santa Rita pay-roll comes in tonight.”

“Thasso?” Tex stared at Barnhardt. “How do yuh know?”

“Chet Le Moyne rode in a while ago. He always shows up just ahead of the pay-roll and takes it back to the Santa Rita himself.”

Chet Le Moyne was paymaster of the Santa Rita mine, which employed close to three hundred men. The mine was located about twelve miles from Blue Wells. Le Moyne was a handsome sort of a person, dark-haired, dark-eyed, athletic, although slender. Like Tex Alden, he was an inveterate gambler, although not inclined to plunge wildly.

“I think probably he went out to the Taylor ranch,” offered Barnhardt casually. “He never does stay very long in town.”

Tex scowled at his boots, and tried to make himself believe that it didn’t make any difference to him if Le Moyne went out to see Marion Taylor. But down in his heart he knew it did—a lot of difference. Paul Taylor owned a small ranch about two miles south of Blue Wells, and there was no one to deny that Marion Taylor was the best-looking girl in that country.

Even Lee Barnhardt had cast covetous eyes in that direction, but Marion showed small favor to the thin-faced lawyer. In fact, she had showed little favor to any of the men, treating them all alike. Perhaps Tex and Le Moyne had been the most persistent suitors.

Old Paul Taylor, often known as “The Apostle,” did not favor any certain one as a son-in-law. They were all welcome to call, as far as he was concerned. Between himself, his son, a wild-riding, hot-headed youth, known as “Buck,” and one cowboy, a half-breed Navajo, known as “Peeler,” they managed to eke out a living. Buck and Peeler were as wild as the ranges around Blue Wells, and The Apostle was not far behind, when it came to making the welkin ring. The Apostle was a typical old-time cattleman, who hated to see civilization crowding into the ranges.

Barnhardt studied Tex, while the big cowboy humped in a chair and studied the floor. Finally Tex lifted his head and looked at Barnhardt.

“Just why did yuh tell me about the Santa Rita pay-roll comin’ in tonight, Lee?”

“No reason, Tex; just conversation, I reckon. It must run close to thirty thousand dollars. Le Moyne had one man with him. That train gets in about nine o’clock. Le Moyne probably will ride straight for the mine. That’s quite a lump of money, Tex. I hear they always pay off in gold, because there’s quite a lot of Mexicans working there, and they like the yellow money.”

“Uh-huh,” Tex’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Barnhardt. “Thirty thousand is a lot of money.”

“It sure is plenty,” nodded Barnhardt. “More than a man could make in a lifetime out here.”

Tex got to his feet and rolled a cigaret.

“Yuh can keep that eight thousand under cover a while, can’tcha, Lee?”

“For a while, Tex—sure thing.”

“Thank yuh, Lee. Adios.”

Tex sauntered out and the lawyer looked after him, a crooked smile on his lips, feeling that he and Tex Alden understood each other perfectly. He could look from his window and see Tex get his horse at the livery-stable and ride away.

The sheriff did not go back to the Oasis Saloon that afternoon. The whole incident wasn’t quite clear in his mind. He had a lump on his forehead, where he hit the floor, and one shin was skinned from the chair, but he wasn’t quite sure just who was to blame for it all. Anyway, he wasn’t sure that they had tin-canned the minister’s horse with Louie Sing’s copper can.

He wished Al Porter, his deputy, were there. Al knew how to get along with those fellows from the AK. But Al had gone to Encinas that afternoon to see his girl, and wouldn’t be back until late that night, even if he were fortunate enough to catch a freight train. Encinas was twelve miles east of Blue Wells.

The election of Scotty Olson had been more or less of a joke. There had been quite a lot of mud-slinging between the Republican and Democrat candidates, and a bunch of the boys got together and induced Scotty to run independently. And while the two favorites in the race, to use a racing parlance, tried to cut each other down in the stretch, Scotty, hardly knowing what it was all about, won the election.

He had appointed Al Porter, a former deputy sheriff, to act as his deputy and mentor, and the office was really run by Al, much to the amusement of every one concerned, except Scotty, who was satisfied that he was making a big reputation for himself.

Oyster Shell, Johnny Grant and Eskimo Swensen continued to make merry at the Oasis, mostly at the expense of the bartender, who writhed under punishment but grinned in spite of it, because he owned an interest in the Oasis, with Neal, and the boys of the AK were good patrons.

It was after dark when Johnny Grant decided that it was time to go back to the ranch. He announced the fact, and his two companions suddenly found themselves of the same notion.

Out to the hitch-rack they weaved their erratic way, only to find the rack empty of horses. Johnny leaned against the end-post and rubbed his nose, while Oyster walked up and down both sides of the rack, running one hand along the top-bar.

“Nossin’ here,” he declared. “’F there’s a horsh at thish rack, I can’t fin’ him. Whatcha shay, Eskimo?”

“I shed,” replied Eskimo heavily, “I shed, tha’s queer.”

“Isn’ it queer?” asked Oyster. “I ask you open and ’bove board, ain’t it queer? Whazzamatter, Johnny—gone in a tranch?”

“He’s drunk,” declared Eskimo, trying to slap the top-bar of the rack with his hand, and hitting his chin instead.

“And yo’re cold shober,” said Oyster. “Losin’ a horsh makes you so mad that you bite the hitch-rack. Go ahead and gnaw it f’r me, Eskimo. Johnny, what-cha think, eh?”

“I think,” said Johnny thickly, “I think it’s between the sheriff and the preacher. Shomebody took our horshes.”

“He’s commencin’ to wake up, Eskimo,” said Oyster. “He’s had a vision, that’s what he’s had. Oh my, tha’ boy is clever. Let’s have a vote on which one we kill firsht—sheriff or preacher.”

“I vote for the sheriff,” declared Eskimo. “We need lossa gospel ’round here. Let’s kill the sheriff firsht. Then when the preacher preaches the funeral shervice, if he shays a good word for Scotty Olson, we’ll kill the preacher and let the morals of thish here country go plumb to ——.”

“Let’s not kill anybody—yet,” advised Johnny. “Lissen t’ me, will yuh. Didja ever hear that sayin’ about whom the gods would destroy, they firsht make awful mad? Didja? Well let’s make Scotty Olson awful mad, eh?”

“But we ain’t gods,” reminded Oyster.

“Tha’s a fact,” admitted Johnny. “We ain’t gods. But,” hopefully, “mebbe we’ll do until shome better ones come along.”

“We’re jist as good,” declared Eskimo. “I’m jist as good as any I’ve ever sheen—prob’ly a lot better. Let’s go ahead and do shome thin’. Whazza program, Johnny?”

“First,” said Johnny, “we’ll ask Scotty in a ladylike manner what he done with our horshes. And I don’t want you pelicans to forget that you’re as drunk as a pair of boiled owls. C’mon.”

They weaved across the street. Johnny Grant lost his hat, and after several minutes’ search, it was discovered that Eskimo was standing on it.

“Thirty dollars gone t’ ——!” wailed Johnny.

“Aw, ——, it ain’t hurt!” snorted Eskimo. “Jist dirty, thasall.”

“After you wearin’ it on one of yore big feet all over the street? My ——, I can see the moon through it.”

“Wonnerful!” gasped Oyster. “I tell yuh the boy’s got shecond shight. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! There ain’t no moon.”

They managed to reach the door of the sheriff’s office. A light from the front window attested to the fact that Scotty Olson was in the office, and he answered their knock.

“What do you want?” he asked. Johnny leaned against the door-sill, his torn and dusty sombrero pulled rakishly over one eye.

“We want you to shettle a question that’s been botherin’ us, Scotty. C’n we come in?”

“All right,” said Scotty grudgingly.

He stepped aside and the three cowboys came in. They had been in the office many times, but not in this same mood.

“My, my, thish is a nice office!” exclaimed Eskimo. “Gotta desk and a chair and a lot of outlaw’s pitchers on the walls!”

“What question did you want answered?” asked Scotty nervously. He suspected them of having ulterior reasons.

“The question is thish:” said Johnny. “What did you do with our horshes?”

“A roan, a bay and a sorrel,” enumerated Oyster.

The sheriff shook his head.

“I ain’t seen yore —— horses.”

“Jist try and remember,” urged Johnny. “Try and recall the fact that you got mad at us and took ’em away.”

“Aw-w-w, ——!” snorted Scotty vacantly. “I can’t remember nothin’ of the kind.”

“I’ll betcha,” said Oyster seriously, “I’ll betcha he’s got ’em in one of his cells.”

“Aw-w-w-w!” Scotty goggled at him.

“That’s a —— of a thing to say. Put a horse in a cell!”

“Mind if we look?” queried Johnny.

“Well, of all the drunken ideas! No, I don’t care if yuh look. ——, yuh can’t put a horse in a cell!”

He turned on his heel and led them to the rear of the building, where a series of three cells had been built in, leaving a corridor down the center. The doors were heavily barred and fitted with spring locks. Just now there were no occupants in the Blue Wells jail, and the doors sagged partly open. Scotty, half-angry, more than half disgusted, swung the door of the first cell wide open and stepped partly inside, turning to let the cowboys see for themselves that there were no horses in the cell, when Eskimo seemed to stumble, flung his weight against the door, which promptly snapped shut, locking the sheriff in his own cell.

“Hey! You —— fool!” yelled Scotty. “Whatcha tryin’ to do, anyway?”

“Look what you done!” wailed Johnny. “You’ve locked the sheriff in his own jail. Now, you’ve done it. My, my!”

“Go and get the keys out of my desk,” ordered the sheriff. “They’re in the top drawer.”

The three cowboys trooped obediently out through the office, extinguished the lamp, closed the door and stood on the edge of the sidewalk, chuckling with unholy glee.

“Let’s see if he put our broncs in his stable,” suggested Johnny. But the sheriff’s stable was empty. They went to the livery-stable and found it locked.

“How about visitin’ the preacher?” asked Eskimo.

“He never done it,” declared Oyster. “That jigger is too timid to go near a bronc. I’ll betcha that smart sheriff jist turned ’em loose on us, that’s what he done. We might as well git a room at the hotel, or walk back to the ranch.”

“I’ll walk,” said Eskimo. “I stayed one night at that old hotel and the bedbugs et holes in my boots.”

“Shall we let the sheriff loose before we go?” asked Oyster.

“Let ’m alone,” said Johnny. “Somebody will turn him loose after while, and I don’t want to be here when they do. Eskimo, if I was you, I’d buy a bottle to take along with us. It’s a long, hard walk.”

“That’s a pious notion,” declared Eskimo, and they went weaving back toward the Oasis.

IV—JIMMY GETS HIS DANDER UP

Jim Legg sprawled on a seat in the day-coach and tried to puzzle out from a time-table just when they would arrive at Blue Wells, mixed train, both passenger and freight, stopping at every station along the branch line; sixty miles of starts and stops, and the highest speed would not exceed twenty miles per hour.

It had been sweltering hot, and Jim Legg’s once-white collar had melted to the consistency of a dish-rag. But the shades of night had brought a cool breeze, and the gruff brakeman had assured him that the train would probably arrive on time.

Not that it made much difference to Jim Legg. He had never seen Blue Wells. To him it was merely a name. He had been forced to leave Geronimo to the tender mercies of a hard-faced express messenger, and had seen him tied to a trunk-handle in the express car.

It suddenly occurred to Jim Legg that he had made no provisions for feed and water for the dog. It did not occur to him that the messenger might be human enough to do this for the dog. The engine was whistling a station call, and Jim Legg resolved to investigate for himself.

The train clanked to a stop at the little station, and Jim Legg dropped off the steps, making his way up to the baggage car, where the messenger and a brakeman were unloading several packages. Jim noticed that the weather-beaten sign on the front of the depot showed it to be Encinas, the town where the deputy sheriff’s sweetheart lived.

The brakeman went on toward the engine and Jim Legg got into the express car. Geronimo’s tie-rope had been shifted to a trunk farther up the aisle, and the messenger stood just beyond him, looking over a sheaf of way-bills by the dim light of a lantern.

The train jerked ahead, but Jim Legg did not notice that they were traveling again, until the train had gained considerable speed. The messenger turned and came back toward the door, not noticing in the dim light that he had a new passenger. The dog reared up and put his paws on the messenger’s overall-clad leg.

But only for a moment. The messenger whirled around and kicked the dog back against the trunk.

“Keep off me, —— yuh!” he rasped.

The dog rolled over, but came to his feet, fangs bared.

“Try to bite me, will yuh?” snarled the messenger.

He glanced around for some sort of a weapon, evidently not caring to get within kicking distance of the dog again, when Jim Legg spoke mildly—

“You really shouldn’t do that.”

The messenger whirled around and stared at Jim Legg. He did not recognize him as the man who had put the dog in the car at the main line.

“What in —— are you doin’ in my car?” he demanded.

Jim Legg shifted uneasily.

“Well, I—I’m watching you mistreat a dumb brute, it seems. That’s my dog, and I didn’t put him on here to be kicked.”

“Your dog, eh?”

The messenger came closer. He recognized Jim now.

“Got on at Encinas, eh?”

“I think that was the name. The train started, and I had no chance to get back to the coach, you see.”

“Yeah, I see. But that don’t make any difference to me. Nobody is allowed to ride in here. You’ll have to get off at Blue Wells.”

“Is that the next station?”

“Yeah. We’ll be there in a few minutes.” He looked back at the dog. “You hadn’t ought to ship a dog like that. He’s no —— earthly good, and he tried to bite me just now.”

“You’re a liar!”

It was the first time Jim Legg had ever said that to any one, and this time he had said it without a thought of the consequences. It seemed the natural thing to say.

“I’m a liar, eh?”

The messenger would weigh close to two hundred pounds and was as hard as nails.

“Yes, sir,” declared Jim Legg. “If you say that Geronimo tried to bite you just now, you’re a liar. I could report you for kicking that dog.”

“Oh, you could, could yuh? Like ——! The company ain’t responsible for dogs. You never checked him. He’s just ridin’ here, because I was good enough to take him in; just a —— dead-head.”

“Good enough, eh?”

Jim Legg took off his glasses, put them in a case and tucked them in his pocket. The messenger came closer. The train was whistling, and they felt the slight jerk as the brakes were applied.

“I saw you kick that dog,” said Jim calmly, although his heart was hammering against his ribs. “No man would do a thing like that. It was a dirty trick—and then you try to lie out of it.”

“Why, you little four-eyed pup!” snorted the messenger. “I’ll make you take that back. Anyway, you’ve got no right in this car, and I’m justified in throwin’ yuh off.”

Jim Legg threw out his hands in protest to any such an action. He had never fought anybody, knew nothing of self-defense. But the messenger evidently mistook Jim’s attitude, and swung a right-hand smash at his head. And Jim’s clumsy attempt to duck the blow caused the messenger to crash his knuckles against the top of Jim’s head. The impact of the fist sent Jim reeling back against a pile of trunks, dazed, bewildered, while the messenger, his right hand all but useless, swore vitriolically and headed for Jim again.

But the force of the blow had stirred something in the small man’s brain; the fighting instinct, perhaps. And in another moment they were locked together in the center of the car. The train was lurching to a stop, but they did not know it.

The messenger’s arms were locked around Jim’s body, while Jim’s legs were wrapped around those of the messenger, which caused them to fall heavily, struggling, making queer sounds, while Geronimo, reared the full length of his rope, made an unearthly din of barks, whines and growls, as he fought to get into the mélée.

The train yanked ahead, going faster this time. Jim managed to get his right hand free and to get his fingers around the messenger’s ear, trying ineffectually to bounce the messenger’s head on the hard floor.

His efforts, while hardly successful, caused the messenger to roll over on top of Jim, who clung to the ear and managed to roll on top again. They were getting perilously near the wide door. Suddenly the messenger loosened one hand and began a series of short body punches against Jim’s ribs, causing him to relax his hold on the ear. It also forced Jim to slacken his scissor hold on the messenger’s legs.

Quickly the messenger doubled up his legs, forcing his knees into Jim’s middle, hurling him over and sidewise. But the shift had given Jim a chance to get both arms around the messenger’s neck, and when Jim swung over and felt himself dropping into space, he took the messenger right along with him.

They landed with a crash on the edge of a cut, rolled slowly through a patch of brush, and came to rest at the bottom of the cut. Fortunately Jim was uppermost at the finish. The breath had all been knocked from his body, and he was bruised from heels to hair.

He separated himself from his former antagonist, and pumped some air into his aching lungs. The train was gone. Jim looked up at the star-specked Arizona sky and wondered what it was all about. It suddenly struck him funny and he laughed, a queer little, creaky laugh. It sounded like a few notes from a wheezy old accordion he had heard a blind man playing in San Francisco. San Francisco and the Mellon Company seemed a long way off just now.

He crawled to the track level. There was no sign of the train. Everything was very still, except the dull hum of the telegraph wires along the right-of-way fence. Then the messenger began swearing, wondering aloud what was the matter. Jim Legg got to his feet and filled his lungs with the good desert air. He looked back toward the cut where he had left his opponent.

“Shut up!” he yelled. “You got whipped and that’s all there is to it.”

And then Jim Legg guessed which way was Blue Wells, and started limping along the track. The stopping and starting of the train between stations meant nothing to Jim Legg. He did not suspect that the first stop had been because a red lantern had been placed in the middle of the track near the Broken Cañon trestle, thereby stopping the train, and that just now three masked men were smashing through the safe, which contained the Santa Rita pay-roll. There, three men had cut the express car, forced the engineer to drive his engine to within about two miles of Blue Wells, where they stopped him, and escorted both engineer and fireman back to the express car.

The absence of the messenger bothered them, because they were afraid he had suspected a hold-up and had run away, looking for help. At any rate, they went about their business in a workmanlike manner, and a few minutes after the stop they had exploded enough dynamite to force the safe to give up its golden treasure.

Quickly they removed the two canvas sacks. One of the men stepped to the doorway. Somewhere a voice was singing. The road from Blue Wells to the AK ranch paralleled the railroad at this point.

“Come on,” said the man at the door.

Swiftly they dropped out of the car, leaving the engineer and fireman alone. A lantern on a trunk illuminated the car. Suddenly the engineer ran across the car and picked up the messenger’s sawed-off Winchester shotgun, which had fallen behind a trunk during the fight between the messenger and Jim Legg.

He pumped in a cartridge and sprang to the door. Just out beyond the right-of-way fence he could see three shadowy figures, which were moving. Then he threw up the shotgun and the express car fairly jarred from the report of the heavy buckshot load.

The distance was great enough to give the charge of buckshot a chance to spread to a maximum degree, and none of the leaden pellets struck the mark. But just the same the three shadowy figures became prone objects.

Again came the long spurt of orange flame from the door of the express car, and more buckshot whined through the weeds.

“What kinda —— whisky was that yuh bought?” queried the voice of Johnny Grant from among the weeds.

“Well, if you think I’m goin’ t’ let any train crew heave buckshot at me, yo’re crazy,” declared Eskimo Swensen, and proceeded to shoot at the glow from the express car door.

“H’rah f’r us!” whooped Oyster, and unlimbered two shots from his six-shooter. His aim was a bit uncertain and it is doubtful if either bullet even hit the car.

Wham! Skee-e-e-e-e! Another handful of buckshot mowed the grass. Three six-shooters blazed back at the flash of the shotgun, and their owners shifted locations as fast as possible, because those last buckshot came too close for comfort.

Then came a lull. In fact the shooting ceased entirely. The three men in the grass saw the light go out in the car. There was no noise, except the panting of the engine, its headlight cutting a pathway of silver across the Arizona hills. Minute after minute passed. It was too dark to see an object against the car or engine, and the three men in the grass did not see the engineer and fireman crawl along to the engine and sneak into the cab.

“Where’s that —— murderer with the riot-gun?” queried Eskimo Swensen. He was anxious to continue the battle.

“Sh-h-h-h-h!” cautioned Johnny. “Somebody comin’.”

They could see the vague bulk of a man coming along the track. Then it passed the end of the express car, blending in with it. The three cowboys could hear the crunch of gravel, as the newcomer walked along the car, and they heard him climb inside. Came the tiny glow of a match, the snappy bark of a dog. A few moments later came the thud of two bodies hitting the gravel.

“I whipped him, Geronimo,” they heard a voice say.

“My ——!” snorted Eskimo. “I thought Geronimo was dead or in jail.”

Then the engine awoke and the part of a train started backing down the track, but there was no more shooting. Once away from that immediate spot the engineer put on more power, and went roaring back toward where they had cut loose from the rest of the train.

The three cowboys sat up in the grass and watched the dim figures of a man and a dog, heading toward Blue Wells, while from far down the railroad came the shrill whistle of the locomotive.

Johnny Grant got to his feet, and was joined by Eskimo and Oyster. The shooting had sobered them considerably, and when Eskimo produced the bottle Johnny shoved it aside.

“Aw, to —— with the stuff!” he said. “I’ve been seein’ too many things already. Let’s go home before we get killed for bein’ on earth.”

“I dunno,” said Eskimo, after a deep pull at the bottle. “It seems like anythin’ is liable to happen around here, but I never expected to be ambushed by a danged train.”

They crawled back through the barbed-wire right-of-way fence, and headed for home, too muddled to do much wondering what it was all about.

The train passed Jim Legg before he reached Blue Wells, and he got there just after the announcement of the hold-up. A crowd had gathered at the depot, and Jim Legg heard some one saying that about thirty thousand had been stolen.

He heard some one question Chet Le Moyne, who admitted that the Santa Rita pay-roll had been on the train. Men had gone to notify the sheriff. Jim Legg did not realize that they were speaking about the train he had fell out of, even when the disheveled express messenger made his appearance. He had been picked up along the track.

The engine crew were offering all the information they had to interested listeners.

“There were three men,” said the engineer.

“Three that you saw,” amended the messenger, who was nursing a black eye, several facial bruises and a bad limp. “The fourth one tangled with me in the car. That’s how the door happened to be open. He got on at Encinas. I ordered him off the car and he tangled with me. In the fight we both fell off. But I sure gave him enough to make him remember me.”

“Was he masked?” some one asked.

“Masked? No.”

“What kind of a lookin’ geezer?”

“Great big son-of-a-gun. It was kinda dark in the car, and I didn’t see his face very plain. I never suspected that he might be a stick-up man, or I’d have took a shot at him, but it all happened so quick that I didn’t have time. He tried to pull his gun, but I blocked it, and we sure pulled some scrap.”

Jim Legg kept in the background, wondering at the coincidence. Two scraps in express cars in the same evening.

“And we pretty near got ’em, even at that,” said the fireman. “They jumped out of the car, leavin’ me and Frank in there. Frank got the messenger’s shotgun and sure sprayed ’em good and plenty.

“But they were tough eggs, and stopped to do battle. You can see where their bullets hit the car. I think we hit some of ’em. But one of their bullets split the slide jigger on the pump-gun; so we decided to quit the battle.”

Two men came panting into the crowd. “We can’t find the sheriff,” they announced. “His horses are gone from his stable; so he must be out of town.”

“Aw, he couldn’t find the hole in a doughnut, anyway,” said one of the men.

“And his deputy is at Encinas,” added one of the men who had gone after the sheriff. “We found that out at the Oasis.”

“Anyway, there’s no use chasin’ hold-up men at night,” said Le Moyne. “Nobody knows which way they went. They probably had their horses planted near where the safe was busted, and by now they’re miles away. What I’d like to know is this: Who in —— knew that the pay-roll was comin’ in tonight?”

No one seemed to know the answer. Jim Legg moved in beside a man and asked him where the hold-up had taken place.

“The train that jist came in from Encinas,” said the man.

“This last one?”

“——, there’s only one a day, stranger.”

Jim Legg turned away, leading Geronimo on a short piece of rope, and headed up the street, looking for a hotel.

“That messenger is the first liar I ever appreciated,” he told the dog. “I’m a great big son-of-a-gun, I am, and I tried to pull a gun. I’ll bet Ananias turned over in his grave tonight.”

They were just passing the front of Louie Sing’s restaurant when a dog shot out of the alley, followed by an empty can and a volley of Chinese expletives. It was evident that a stray dog had been trying to steal something from the restaurant kitchen.

As quick as a flash Geronimo tore the rope from Jim’s hand, and was hot on the trail of the departing dog. They disappeared in the dark, leaving Jim Legg staring after them. He waited for several minutes, but the dog did not appear. Then he went on to the one-story adobe hotel, where he secured a room. Afterward he went back to the street, and for the first time he realized that his valise was still on that train.

He decided to try and recover it the next day. But there was no sign of Geronimo; so Jim Legg finally went back to the hotel, hoping that the dog would return and be in evidence the next day. Jim was still a little sore from his battle in the express car, although his face and hands did not show any signs of the conflict. But he found that his body contained plenty of black-and-blue spots, and in places he had lost considerable skin.

But he ignored them, yawned widely and fairly fell into his blankets. Mellon & Company seemed a million miles away, and years and years ago.

V—PAUL THE APOSTLE

The Taylor ranch, by its brand name the Double Bar 8, was one of the old-time ranches. The ranch-house was a two-story adobe, closely resembling the Hopi in architecture, as the roof of the first story was used as a porch of the second. The bunk-house was one story, on the opposite side of the patio, and a semicircle adobe wall, three feet thick, extended from each end of the bunk-house, and circled the ranch-house. At the front was a huge gate, arched over with adobe, and at the two sides of the patio were entrances. In the center of the patio was an old well. The stables, sheds and corrals were at the rear of the bunk-house.

Earlier residents had planted oaks, pepper trees and flowering eucalyptus, which had grown into big trees, shading the patio, where grape-vines clambered over the old walls, tangled with the climbing roses. From afar it appeared an oasis in the gray and purple of the hills.

It was the following day after the train robbery. Marion Taylor lifted a bucket of water from the old well and poured it into a trough, while she held the lead-rope of a blue-black horse, a tall, rangy animal, a few degrees better bred than the average range animal.

The girl was bareheaded, the sleeves of her white waist rolled to her elbows. She wore a divided skirt of brown material, and a serviceable pair of tan riding-boots. Her hair was twisted in braids around her well-shaped head, and held in place with a hammered silver comb set with turquoise.

She was of average height and rather slim, with the olive tint from the desert sun. Her eyes were wide and blue, and her well-shaped lips parted in a smile, showing a flash of white teeth, when the horse snorted at the splash of water in the trough.

“Somebody must ’a’ pinned yore ears back, Spike,” she said softly. “Or are yuh tryin’ to make me think yo’re a bad horse?”

The ears of the blue-black snapped ahead, as if he understood, and he plunged his muzzle into the clear water, drinking gustily, while the girl drew another bucket and gently poured it into the trough. A burro came poking in through the patio gate, an old ancient of the Arizona hills. His right ear had been broken and looped down over his eye, and his long, scraggly gray hair carried an accumulation of almost everything that grew and wore spines.

“Hello, Apollo,” called the girl. The burro lifted his one good ear, thrust out his whiskered muzzle and sniffed like a pointer dog. Then he brayed raucously, shook himself violently and came slowly up to the trough.

The horse drew aside, being either through drinking or too proud to drink with such an object. The burro looked at the horse, decided not to be particular, and proceeded to drink deeply.

Marion leaned against the curbing and laughed at the burro. That was the one reason the ancient was tolerated around the ranch—to make them laugh. His goatlike appetite was a constant provoker of profanity. Shirts, boots, straps, bedding, anything eatable or uneatable went into his maw. And as a result the inhabitants of the Double Bar 8 were careful not to leave anything lying around loose.

And Apollo was not to be tampered with. In spite of his age he was quick to resent any familiarity, and to feel the caress of his heels left nothing to be desired in the way of shocks. At one time Buck Taylor and Peeler had roped Apollo and clipped him closely, and so heavy was his coat that he almost died from chills, with the thermometer at 115 degrees in the shade.

As Marion turned away from the well and started leading the horse back toward the gate, three horsemen rode up. They were Apostle Paul, Buck and Peeler, who had left the ranch the morning previous to search for Double Bar 8 cattle, which had been reported thirty miles away on the Yellow Horn mesa.

Marion continued out of the patio and met them just outside the gate. With them was a strange dog, which came up to her, acting very friendly. It was the missing Geronimo.

“Where did you get the dog?” asked Marion, after greetings had been exchanged.

“He picked us up,” smiled her father. “I dunno who owns him. There was a piece of rope dragging and we took it off, ’cause it was always gettin’ hung up on somethin’. Friendly cuss, ain’t he.”

Geronimo danced around, as if he knew what was being said about him. Apostle Paul Taylor was a tall, skinny, lean-faced man, with a hooked nose, wide mouth and deep-set gray eyes. His hair was fast turning gray, and he stooped a trifle.

Buck Taylor was almost replica of his father, except that he was bow-legged, had a mop of brown hair, and did not stoop. The half-breed, Peeler, was heavy-set, deep-chested, typically Indian in features, and showing little of his white blood. The two Taylors were dressed in blue calico shirts, overalls, chaps, high-heeled boots and sombreros. The half-breed’s raiment was practically the same, except that he wore a faded red shirt, scarlet muffler, and his hat-band was a riot of colored beads.

All three men wore belts and holstered guns, and in addition to this the two Taylors had rifles hung to their saddles. They were dusty, weary from their long ride. The Apostle Paul dismounted and handed his reins to Peeler.

“Did yuh find any stock on the mesa?” asked Marion.

“About thirty head,” replied her father. “Wild as hawks, too. We brought ’em in as far as Buzzard Springs. Anythin’ new?”

“Not a thing, Dad.”

“You ain’t tried ridin’ Spike, have yuh?”

Marion shook her head and looked at the blue-black.

“Then yuh better let Buck or Peeler fork him first. He ain’t been saddled for three months.”

“Yeah, and the last time I climbed him he piled me quick,” laughed Buck. “Let Peeler do it.”

“After pay-day,” grinned Peeler. “I don’t want to die with money comin’ to me.”

“Pshaw, I’ll ride him myself,” said Marion.

Her father laughed and turned toward the gate when two men rode around from behind the bunk-house and came up to them. It was Scotty Olson, the sheriff, and Al Porter, the deputy. Porter was a big man, dark-featured, with a nose entirely too large for the rest of his face, and very flat cheekbones.

“Hyah, Sheriff,” greeted Taylor. “Howdy.”

The sheriff removed his hat and bowed awkwardly to Marion—

“Howdy, Miss Taylor.”

“Hello, Sheriff,” replied the girl.

Olson rubbed a huge hand across his big mustaches. There was still a lump on his forehead, where he had bumped himself on the floor in the Oasis.

“Just gettin’ in?” queried Porter, glancing at the horses.

Apostle Paul nodded quickly.

“Yeah. Been back on Yellow Horn mesa, lookin’ for cattle.”

“Way up there, eh?” said the sheriff. “Quite a ride.”

“Went up yesterday,” offered Buck.

“Uh-huh,” the sheriff eased himself in the saddle. “Then yuh wasn’t around here last night, eh?”

“Nope. Why?”

“Didn’t yuh hear about the hold-up?”

“Hold-up?” Taylor shook his head. “Where?”

“Last night,” said Porter, “the train was robbed between Broken Cañon and Blue Wells. They got the Santa Rita pay-roll.”

“Well, I’ll be darned!” exclaimed Taylor. “Anybody hurt?”

“Nope.”

“They must ’a’ got close to thirty thousand,” said Buck.

Porter turned quickly.

“What do you know about it, Buck?”

Buck stared back at him, his eyes hardening at the implication in the deputy’s question.

“I don’t reckon the amount of the Santa Rita pay-roll is any secret, Porter.”

“Thasso?” Porter shrugged his shoulders.

“Yes, that’s so,” Buck dropped his reins and walked over to Porter, who squinted narrowly at him.

“I don’t like the way yuh said that, Porter.”

“The way I said what?” queried Porter.

“You know what I mean,” declared Buck, angrily.

“Drop it, Buck,” advised his father, and turned to Olson.

“How many men in the gang, Scotty?”

“Three that we know of—possibly a fourth. A man got on the express car when the train stopped at Encinas, and him and the express messenger had a fight. They fell out of the door and rolled into the ditch. It kinda looks as though this feller was one of the gang. Anyway, there was three that stopped the train, cut off the engine and express car, and blowed the safe.”

“Are you just startin’ out after ’em?” asked Buck, squinting at the sun. “Not very early, it seems to me.”

“I didn’t know nothin’ about it until this mornin’,” said Porter. “I came in from Encinas early this mornin’ on a freight, and went to bed. I got up jist before noon, and they told me about it; so I got the sheriff and we started out.”

Apostle Paul turned to the sheriff, whose ears were red.

“Where were you all this time, Scotty?”

“He was in jail,” said Porter.

“In jail?”

“In my own jail,” said Olson angrily. “Oyster Shell, Eskimo Swensen and Johnny Grant came over to my office last night. They were drunk, and insisted that I had stolen their horses. And they wanted to look in the cells, the —— fools! Jist because they was drunk I let ’em look, and they accidentally locked me in.

“I told ’em where to find the keys, but they went on out and never came back. That’s why nobody could find me last night. I never knowed there was a hold-up, until Porter showed up this noon. And somebody turned our horses loose, too. Mebbe it was that drunken bunch from the AK. Anyway, we’re goin’ over and tell ’em about it, yuh betcha.”

Marion turned away, shaking with laughter, while her father and the other two of the Double Bar 8 choked back their laughter. They knew the gang from the AK very well indeed. But it was no laughing matter to the two officers.

“I can arrest them three drunks for interferin’ with an officer,” declared Olson hotly. “They interfered with the law when they locked me in. I was badly needed, I tell yuh.”

“Sure yuh was,” choked Buck. “If they hadn’t locked yuh up you’d ’a’ had all three of them robbers in jail now.”

“Mebbe. Anyway, I’d have been on their trail.”

“Where’d yuh git the new dog?” asked Porter.

“New dog?” queried Buck. “That one? Huh! We raised him.”

“Never seen him before.”

“Lotsa things you never seen before.”

“Have yuh any clues?” asked Apostle Paul.

“Clues?” The sheriff wasn’t sure of that word.

“Yeah—evidence that might lead yuh to the outlaws.”

“We ain’t had no time yet.”

“Then what are yuh wastin’ it around here for?” demanded Buck.

Porter glared at Buck, but did not reply. He disliked this thin-faced young man, but was just a trifle dubious about starting anything with him.

“Well, I s’pose we might as well be goin’ along,” said the sheriff. “Mebbe we’ll swing around and look in at the AK. I’ve sure got a few things to say to them fellers.”

“God be with yuh, brother,” said Apostle Paul piously. “The AK is sure a good place to make a talk, but when the collection is taken up, you’ll find small pay for yore work.”

“We’ll make ’em respect the law!” snapped Porter.

“Yes, you will,” said Buck. “You better back yore law with an army. They may love yuh for startin’ trouble with ’em, but they’ll never respect yuh. My advice to you jiggers would be to let the AK alone. You’ll never find out who robbed that train if yuh try to shove the law down the necks of them three.”

“Well, by ——, I’m runnin’ my office!” snapped Olson hotly. “No drunken puncher can lock me in my own jail and not hear about it.”

“Let ’em hear about it, by all means—but in a roundabout way, Scotty. And please don’t swear any more. Remember, there’s ladies and gentlemen present.”

“Ex-cuse me,” grunted Scotty, picking up his reins. “Well, we’ll be goin’ along, folks. Adios.”

“Adios, amigo,” said Apostle Paul.

Porter glared at Buck, who wrinkled his nose at the big deputy, and rode away.

They watched the two riders head east across the little valley, riding side by side, as if carrying on a conversation.

“You think they ever find out who rob that train?” asked Peeler.

Buck snorted and headed for the stable.

“Find out nothin’, Peeler. Them two jiggers couldn’t find their own boots. I’d like to be at the AK, when they start their war-talk. That sure was funny about lockin’ him in his own cell.”

Peeler did not reply. He stopped at the stable door and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Buck looked at him sharply.

“Whatsa matter, Peeler?”

“I’m tryin’ to think of one word, Buck.”

“What kind of a word?”

Peeler smiled softly.

“I think it is ‘convenient.’”

“Convenient? What for?”

“For the robbers, Buck. That he is locked in his cell.”

Buck stared at Peeler for a moment. Then—

“Yea-a-a-a, that might be true. But it’s nothin’ to us; so we will forget it, eh?”

“I forget,” smiled Peeler.

Porter was very angry when he and the sheriff rode away from the Taylor ranch, heading for the AK. He was inclined to do a lot of talking, once he was far enough away to conceal his language from the Taylor family.

“I tell yuh they know somethin’, Scotty.”

“Do yuh think so, Al?”

“Yo’re —— right. Didn’t Buck speak right up and tell how much money was in that pay-roll? And didn’t he get right on the prod when I picked him up on it? Don’t tell me that he don’t know somethin’ about it. They’ve been to Yaller Horn mesa, have they? That’s a —— of a good excuse.”

“Do yuh think that’s enough evidence to arrest ’em on, Al?”

“Well, mebbe not. But it’s sure as —— enough to suspect ’em on. I wouldn’t trust any of ’em as far as I could throw a bull by the tail. Buck’s a bad hombre, Scotty. The old man is pretty salty, and that —— breed fits in well with the bunch.”

Scotty nodded. He was in the habit of agreeing with Porter, which saved him many an argument.

“We’ve got to watch ’em,” continued Porter. “They’re slick.”

“Slick,” agreed Scotty absently. “I’m jist wonderin’ what to say to them slick-ears at the AK.”

“Give ’em ——,” advised Porter. “They shore need a good curryin’, Scotty.”

“I know they do, Al. But —— it, they won’t listen to reason. I dunno why they locked me in that jail last night.”

Porter grinned sarcastically, but sobered suddenly.

“Say, Scotty, here’s somethin’ to think about. They locked yuh in yore cell, and in about an hour the train was held up. Does that mean anythin’ to you?”

Scotty shook his head.

“My ——, yo’re dense. Listen:” Porter repeated his statement. “Now do yuh get it?”

“You mean—they locked me up and robbed the train?”

“They locked yuh up—and the train was robbed, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, I know that, Al; but they was too drunk.”

“Acted too drunk, yuh mean.”

“Well, they acted—say, Al,” the sheriff grinned slowly, “you sure can see things. I wonder if that ain’t right? But it ain’t enough evidence to arrest ’em on, is it?”

“Well, mebbe not enough to arrest ’em on, but it’s enough for us to suspect ’em real hard, and to keep an eye on ’em, Scotty.”

“Yo’re sure gittin’ evidence,” applauded the sheriff. “Al, I’d be lost without yuh. You think faster than I do. I’d prob’ly think of these things after while, yuh see. And they prob’ly turned our broncs loose; so’s we couldn’t foller ’em, even if I got loose.”

“I was jist goin’ to mention that part of it, Scotty. Yuh see how things work out.”

“Yeah. You’d make a good sheriff, Al.”

“Sure. Mebby I will be. Unless somethin’ happens I’ll take a crack at the office next election.”

“Will yuh? I dunno what I’ll do. A feller gits kinda ’tached to a job like this, don’tcha know it? Yo’re prob’ly a better deputy than you’d ever be a sheriff. A feller has to have certain qualifications to be a sheriff, and it ain’t as easy as it looks. Buck was kinda sore at yuh, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah, and he’ll get smart jist once too often. One of these days I’m goin’ to bend him plumb shut and rub his nose off agin’ his knee. I’ll jist stand so much from a hombre like him.”

“You sure hang on to yore temper well, Al.”

“Feller’s got to, when he’s a deputy. Yuh can’t go fightin’ every whippoorwill that wants a fight. It don’t look well, Scotty.”

The AK ranch was located well away from the hills, and about three miles southeast of Blue Wells. It was a typical Arizona ranch; the buildings were part adobe, but more elaborate and larger than those of the Double Bar 8. There was no patio to the AK, but the group of buildings were fenced in with barbed wire.

The sheriff and deputy rode in through the gate and up to the ranch-house, where they met old George Bonnette, owner of the outfit. He was a pudgy little man, almost bald, almost toothless, one cheek bulged from a huge chew of tobacco. He spat explosively and nodded to the officers. It was not often that the law came to the AK, and the old man looked at them curiously.

“Howdy, George,” said the sheriff.

“’Lo, Scotty; hyah, Porter,” Bonnette shifted his chew and waited for them to state their errand.

“Where’s the boys?” asked Scotty, glancing around.

“Well,” the old man scratched his head, “I’ve only got three workin’ here now. T’day is pay-day.”

“Meanin’ that they’ve gone to town, eh?”

“Follerin’ the natcheral inclination of cowpunchers, I’d say that’s where they’ve gone. Whatcha want ’em fer?”

“Oh, nothin’ much,” Scotty sighed with evident relief. He really didn’t want them very badly.

“You heard about the hold-up, didn’t yuh?” asked Porter.

Bonnette hadn’t. And he grew so interested in Porter’s recital of it that he bit off two more chews of tobacco during the telling, which swelled his cheek until one eye was almost closed.

“Well, the dem cusses!” he said earnestly. “Thirty thousand dollars, eh. Worth taking eh? Who wouldn’t? Got anythin’ to work on, Scotty?”

“Well,” said Scotty darkly, “we might have more’n anybody’d think, George. Did the boys find their horses?”

“Hm-m-m-m,” the old man scratched his head. “Seems to me I did hear one of ’em say they walked home, and that their horses was here when they arrived. Them broncs was raised here at the AK, and they’d head for home. I didn’t pay much attention, but I did hear Eskimo say that somebody turned their broncs loose in town last night.”

“I jist wondered if they got ’em,” said Scotty.

Bonnette squinted at Scotty, his brows lifted inquiringly.

“Didja ride all the way out here to find that out?”

“Not exactly, George. Yuh see, them three jaspers locked me in my own jail last night. Didja know that?”

“In yore own jail? No, I didn’t know it, Scotty.”

“Yeah, they did, George. And I was in there when word came of the robbery, and didn’t know a thing about it. They’re liable for blockin’ the law.”

“Yeah, I s’pose they are. Huh!” Bonnette turned away, choking a trifle, and when he turned back there were tears in his eyes.

“We came down here to see about it,” said Porter. “It’s a —— of a note, when things like that happen, Bonnette. Them three fellers ort to be run out of the country.”

“Yea-a-ah?” The old man looked narrowly at Porter. “Why don’t yuh go ahead and do it, Porter. They’re all of age, yuh know. And there ain’t a milk drinker in the crowd; so they really wouldn’t suffer if yuh took ’em away from the cows.”

“Oh, they ain’t so —— tough,” retorted Porter. “They’re not runnin’ this country. They’ve kinda had their own way in Blue Wells for a long time, but now is the time to call a halt. We’re civilized, I’ll tell yuh that.”

“Who do yuh mean, Porter?”

“Well, all of us—ain’t we?”

“I dunno. Sometimes I wonder if we are. We ain’t savages. We don’t worship no idols, nor we don’t eat each other. Holdin’ up a train is a sign of civilization. I dunno about lockin’ a sheriff in his cell. It sure as —— ain’t old-fashioned, ’cause I never heard of it bein’ done before.”

“Well, I don’t care a ——!” snorted the sheriff. “They done it to me, and I’m sure goin’ to let ’em know that I’m sore about it.”

“Yo’re probably more interested in that than yuh are in findin’ the men who held up the train.”

“Yuh think so, do yuh?” growled Porter. “Well, I’ll tell yuh we’re plenty interested in that, too. C’mon, Scotty; we’re jist wastin’ time around here.”

“You don’t need to get mad at me,” laughed Bonnette. “I never locked up any sheriffs.”

“Well, yore men did!” snapped Scotty.

Bonnette laughed at the sheriff’s red face.

“I’ll prob’ly fire ’em for not havin’ more respect for the law.”

“Aw, c’mon,” urged Porter. “T’ —— with ’em; we’ve got work to do.”

They rode away from the AK, heading back toward Blue Wells, no better off for their long ride to the AK.

“I’ve jist been thinkin’ that folks around here don’t show a —— of a lot of respect for the law,” said Scotty Olson.

“Well,” growled Porter, “it’s up to us to make ’em. By ——, I’m all through lettin’ folks make remarks to me. From now on I’m goin’ to make these smart pelicans set up and salute when the law shows up.”

VI—THE MAKING OF A COWBOY

Jim Legg awoke to a different world from what he had ever seen. Blue Wells was so typically southwestern, being one long street of one and two story adobe houses, some of them half-adobe, half-frame. There were no sidewalks, no lawns, no shrubbery. The fronts of the buildings were unpainted, and the signs were so scoured from wind and sand that the letters were barely legible.

No one seemed to pay any attention to Jim Legg. The town was full of cattlemen, and the topic of conversation was the train robbery. Jim Legg listened to the different ideas on the subject, no two of which were alike. He realized that if he and the express messenger had not fought and fell out of the car, they would have been in the center of things.

And Jim Legg was glad the messenger had lied about the physical proportions of the man who had attacked him. Jim wondered what had become of Geronimo, but did not ask any one. And then Jim Legg ran into the three men from the AK outfit. Their pockets were lined with a month’s pay, and they were happily inclined toward all humanity.

Oyster Shell, backed against the Oasis bar, was the first to see Jim Legg. His eyes opened wide and he spurred Johnny Grant on the calf of his left leg.

“My ——, Johnny,” he said softly. “Do m’ eyes deceive me?”

Johnny looked upon Jim Legg with much the same expression that a scientist might exhibit upon finding the fossil egg of a dinosaur.

“Welcome,” said Johnny. “I welcome you to Blue Wells.”

“How do you do?” smiled Jim. “Nice day, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” said Johnny, “We have one like this every thirty days. What grade of poison does yore stummick stand?”

Jim Legg had never drank anything more potent than a small glass of beer, but he knew that he was now in Rome, so he said:

“Oh, anything you gentlemen are drinking.”

“Hooch!” exclaimed Eskimo, and the busy bartender sent the bottle spinning down the bar, followed by four glasses.

“You want a wash?” asked Johnny, meaning a glass of water or soda.

Jim Legg glanced at his hands and looked at himself in the back bar.

“No,” he said finally. “I don’t think so.”

The three cowpunchers exchanged quick glances. Fate had sent them something to play with. Eskimo poured out a full glass for their new playmate, who almost strangled over it. But he got it down.

“That’s liquor,” declared Johnny, smacking his lips.

“It’s gug-good,” whispered Jim Legg.

He cleared his throat and wondered at the warm glow within him.

“I’m buyin’,” declared Oyster, spinning a dollar on the bar, which got them four clean glasses.

Again Jim Legg managed to swallow the liquor, but this time it did not strangle him. He laughed gleefully at nothing in particular and rested a hand on Johnny Grant’s shoulder.

“My name’s Legg,” he told them. “Jim Legg.”

“That’s quite a name,” agreed Johnny. “My name’s Grant, this one’s name is Shell, and that Jewish friend of ours there is named Swensen. We’re Johnny, Oyster and Eskimo, respectably.”

They all shook hands gravely.

“If the clerk will furnish us with clean glasses, I’ll make a purchase,” said Jim Legg solemnly.

“My ——!” exclaimed Eskimo explosively.

“Just why?” queried Jim Legg.

“I thought my belt was comin’ off.”

They filled their glasses and drank heartily. By this time Jim Legg seemed to be getting numb, but happily so. The world was bathed in a rosy glow, and he wanted to sing and dance.

“Jist what is yore business, Misser Legg?” asked Oyster.

“I came here,” said Jim, “to be a cowpuncher.”

Johnny Grant’s foot slipped and he sat down heavily on the bar-rail.

“That,” said Eskimo owlishly-wise, “is a ambitious thing for to become. I’ll betcha yuh came to the right place, Jim.”

“I—I—” Jim hesitated because his tongue did not seem to exactly function. “I picked thish place at ra-ra-random.”

“That shounds like a college yell,” said Oyster.

“You can’t be no cowpuncher in them clothes,” explained Eskimo. “Never, nos-sir. You look like Sunday. But in the proper clothes you’d be a dinger.”

“I intend to dresh the part,” said Jim thickly. “Perhaps I can secure the proper dresh here in Blue Wells.”

“Oh, you can,” said Johnny. “We can take you to a place where you can buy just what yuh need, pervidin’ you’ve got the dinero.”

“Dinero?”

“Money.”

“I’ve got five hundred dollars.”

“My ——!” Johnny took off his hat.

“And you want to be a cowpuncher—with five hundred dollars!”

“Isn’t it enough?”

“Don’ nobody speak for a moment,” begged Oyster. “I want to conchentrate. I’m about to go into a tranch.”

“Sh-h-h-h-h!” warned Johnny. “The man is looking into the future.”

“Is he a medium?” asked Jim Legg, owl-eyed, as he stared at Oyster.

“Medium ——! He’s rare,” chucked Eskimo.

“I shee shomethin’ comin’ to a man named Jim Legg,” stated Oyster, his eyes closed tightly.

“Yuh see?” applauded Johnny.

“Yessir,” nodded Jim. “Maybe we better let him alone, while we get me shome clothes.”

“He’s comin’ out of it,” announced Eskimo.

Oyster’s face twitched convulsively and his eyes opened.

“Where is the haberdasher’s?” asked Jim Legg.

The three cowboys stared owlishly at each other.

“Oh, them folks,” Johnny Grant squinted thoughtfully.

“Must ’a’ been that German fambly that nested in down on the forks of Rio Creek,” said Eskimo. “They’re gone. Let’s go buy somethin’ to make a real, regular cowboy out of this here, now, Jimmy Limbs.”

The sheriff and deputy came back to Blue Wells in bad humor. They stabled their horses and went to the office. Scotty Olson leaned against the doorway and looked across the street at the horses tied at the Oasis hitch-rack. The three at the far end were from the AK; a tall roan, a sorrel and a gray.

Al Porter sagged back in a chair, placed his feet on top of the desk and drew his sombrero down over his eyes.

“If I was you I’d go over to the Oasis and have a talk with them AK scoundrels,” he told Scotty. “By ——, if I was sheriff of this county I’d shore impress upon ’em that this is a dignified office. I’d make it dignified, y’betcha.”

Scotty turned troubled eyes upon his deputy.

“You would, like ——! You’ll sag jist as quick as anybody, when it comes to trouble. All the way back from the AK you’ve told me what you’d do. Talk! Yeah, you can talk, Al. If talkin’ was worth a ——, you’d be President of the U. S. A.”

“A-a-a-a-aw, ——!” yawned Porter.

“Don’t try to pass the buck to me, feller. It ain’t my trouble. If you want to forgive ’em for lockin’ yuh in a cell—go ahead. It’s none of my business, anyway. But if yuh want to know what I’d do, I’ll—”

“I don’t! —— it, Al, I don’t care to hear what you’d do—unless yo’re willin’ to tell the truth.”

“All right. We’ll just drop the subject. But if they locked me in a—”

“They didn’t! —— yuh, Al, I wish they had! I’d throw away the keys and leave yuh there until yuh quit runnin’ off at the mouth. I’m more interested in that train robbery than I am in the AK cowpunchers.”

“Yeah, and you stand a fine chance of catchin’ ’em, Scotty. They’ve had a danged long start of us by this time.”

“I s’pose.”

Scotty leaned back against the door and studied the street. He saw Tex Alden ride in and tie his horse at the rack beside the three AK horses.

“Tex Alden jist rode in,” he said indifferently.

“Thasso?” It did not seem to interest Porter.

“Probably came in to lose some more money.”

“Lost eight thousand to Antelope Neal yesterday,” said Porter. “Wonder where in —— he got so much money. He don’t own that X Bar 6.”

“Don’t he?”

“He sure as —— don’t. It belongs to an Eastern outfit.”

“Well, I don’t care a ——,” said Scotty.

He had enough worries of his own to think about. He smoothed his buffalo-horn mustache and almost wished he weren’t the sheriff of Blue Wells.

Tex Alden left his horse and started across the street toward a store, when Lee Barnhardt called to him from the door of his office. Tex turned and went over to the door of the lawyer’s office, where Barnhardt was standing.

“I just wondered if you wasn’t coming to see me, Tex,” smiled Barnhardt.

The big cowboy blinked, wondering just why he should make it a point to see Barnhardt that day.

“Why, I dunno,” he faltered. “Hadn’t thought of it, Lee.”

The lawyer motioned Tex into the office and closed the door. He sat down at his desk, filled his pipe carefully, scratched a match on the sole of his shoe, and puffed explosively. Then he sagged back in his chair and looked at Tex with an approving grin.

“I’ll give you credit for a clean job, Tex,” he said, lowering his voice confidentially. “A —— clean job.”

“Yeah?” Tex scratched his chin. “Just what is it, Lee?”

“What is it?” The lawyer leaned forward, the smoke curling lazily from his nostrils. “Oh, now, Tex! We’re friends, you know.”

“All right,” grinned Tex. “And what am I supposed to say?”

“It isn’t what you say—it’s what you do. My mouth is shut tight, except between us, Tex. And don’t forget that I was the one who told you where to get it.”

The big cowboy studied Lee Barnhardt, a puzzled frown between his brows.

“Go ahead and talk about it, Lee,” he said.

Barnhardt’s shrewd eyes appraised the foreman of the X Bar 6. He knew Tex was not a man you could scare or drive. He would have to go easy, at least until he knew just what Tex meant to do. Then—

“You owe me eight thousand dollars, Tex,” he said.

“And a swell chance you’ve got of collectin’ it.”

“Oh, I dunno, Tex. Anyway, I’ll be satisfied with the eight thousand. It ought to be more, but I can take the eight thousand with a clear conscience, because I’m not supposed to know where it comes from.”

“Would yuh mind repeatin’ that?” asked Tex evenly.

“No need of that, Tex. You know what I mean. There were two or three men with you last night. I realize that they have to get their share, but even at that—well, as I said before, I’ll take the eight thousand and call it square.”

Tex got to his feet and walked back to the door, where he turned and looked at Barnhardt, who had also stood up, leaning across his desk.

“I reckon you’ve gone loco, Lee,” he said softly. “I dunno what yo’re talkin’ about—and I don’t reckon you do either.”

“The ——, I don’t,” rasped the lawyer. “If you think you can cut me out of that Santa Rita pay-roll, you’re crazy. It was done on my information, and you’ll come clean with me, or you’ll find just how high a fee I can charge.”

Tex blinked at him, a puzzled expression in his eyes. Then he turned on his heel and left the office, while Barnhardt stopped at the window and watched Tex walk slowly across the street to the Oasis, where he stopped and glanced back toward the office, before going into the saloon.

Barnhardt was mad. In fact, he was almost mad enough to go to the sheriff and tell him that Tex Alden knew that the Santa Rita pay-roll was coming in on that train. But he was not quite mad enough to do that. There would be plenty of time for that, in case Tex could not be induced to make a split.

Barnhardt put on his hat, yanked it down on his head, forcing his ears to flare out, and headed for the sheriff’s office, intending to find out what the sheriff had in mind.

He was nearing the Blue Wells General Merchandise Store entrance, when four men came out. Three of them were the boys from the AK, but the fourth one was a stranger. Every article of his apparel shrieked of newness.

His sombrero was the biggest they could find in town, and was surmounted with a silver-studded band. His robin’s-egg-blue shirt was of flimsy silk, his overalls new; and the creaking bat-wing chaps were hand-stamped and silver-ornamented. His thin neck was circled with a scarlet silk muffler, and his feet were encased in the highest-heeled boots in town.

Around his waist was a wide yellow cartridge belt, glistening with its load of cartridges, and the revolver holster was a sample of leather-working art. He carried a heavy Colt .45 in his hand—or rather in both hands. James Eaton Legg was in a fair way to become a cowpuncher.

Barnhardt stopped and looked at him. It did not require an expert eye to detect that all four of them were pie-eyed drunk. Barnhardt noticed that the sheriff was coming up the street from his office. The lawyer had heard about what had happened to the sheriff, and he wondered just what the sheriff would have to say to the boys from the AK.

Eskimo stepped back from Jim Legg, reared back on his heels and looked the young man over with appraising eyes.

“Jimmie,” he said thickly, “yo’re a cowboy. Yessir, if you ain’t, I’ve never seen one. My ——, yuh hurt m’ eyes.”

“Look at ’m slaunch-wise,” advised Johnny Grant. “My ——, don’t never take a chance of lookin’ at him square. Ain’t he a work of art? Whatcha tryin’ to do with that gun?”

Jim Legg was trying to see how the thing functioned, and it was fully loaded. It was the first time he had ever handled a six-shooter, and it interested him.

“Don’t cock it!” choked Eskimo. “——’s delight! Yeah—that thing yuh jist pulled back! Don’t touch that thing underneath it! Keep yore finger off it. I tell yuh! A-a-a-w, Johnny, take it away from him, can’tcha?”

“Aw, whazzamatter?” grunted Jim Legg. “I’d like to shee shomebody take it away from me.”

“No-o-o-o-o!” wailed Johnny, ducking aside. “Point it in the air, you cross between a monkey and a Christmas tree!”

But Jim Legg reeled around on his high-heels, giggling drunkenly, the big gun in both hands.

“Don’t do that, you —— fool!” wailed Oyster. “Aw, fer—”

Wham! The big gun spouted smoke between Johnny Grant and Eskimo, who promptly fell sidewise, and the bullet tore into the dirt almost under the feet of the sheriff, who had stopped about fifty feet away.

The recoil of the gun caused Jim Legg to turn half-way around. He staggered back on his heels, possibly more frightened than any of the rest.

“Whee-e-e-e-e!” he yelled, and his next shot missed Lee Barnhardt by a full inch.

“Yee-e-e-e-o-o-ow!” screamed Johnny Grant. “Cowboy blood! Look at the sheriff!”

Scotty Olson was galloping back toward his office, his legs working as fast as possible, his hat clutched tightly in one hand.

“Look at the lawyer!” yelled Eskimo, and they turned to see Lee Barnhardt go head first into his office door, like a frightened gopher, dodging a hawk.

But Oyster Shell was not paying any attention to the departing sheriff and lawyer. He wrenched the gun from Jim’s hands and grasped Jim by the arm.

“C’mon, you —— fools!” he yelled. “The sheriff don’t know it was an accident, and we don’t want to lose Jimmy!”

Realizing that Oyster was right, the other two helped him rush the bewildered Jim across the street to the hitch-rack.

“Git on!” snorted Oyster, whirling his gray horse around. “Git in the saddle, Jim; I’ll ride behind.”

“I never rode no horsh,” Jim drew back, shaking his head.

“You never shot at no sheriff before either!” snapped Eskimo.

He swung Jim Legg up bodily and fairly threw him into the saddle. Jim managed to grasp the horn in time to prevent himself from going off the other side.

The others were mounting in a whirl of dust. Jim felt Oyster swing up behind him, and then he seemed to lose all sense of direction. The gray flung down its head and went pitching down the street, trying to rid itself of the unaccustomed load, while on either side rode Eskimo and Johnny, yelling at the top of their voices.

“Pull leather, you ornyment!” yelled Johnny. “Anchor yoreself, son! You’ll either be a cowpuncher or a corpse!”

After about ten or twelve lurching bucks, which did not seem to disturb Oyster to any great extent, the gray’s head came up and they went out of Blue Wells, like three racers on the stretch.

Scotty Olson skidded into his office, fell over a chair, and sat there, his mouth wide open, while Al Porter ran to the door in time to see the four men cross the street. He turned back to the sheriff.

“What in —— happened, Scotty?”

Scotty got to his feet and brushed off his knees. Then he went to the corner behind his desk and picked up a double-barreled shotgun. Breaking it open to see whether it was loaded, he limped back to the doorway in time to see the three horses go pounding out of town in a flurry of dust.

“Goin’ duck huntin’?” asked Porter sarcastically.

Scotty limped back and stood the gun in the corner.

“By ——, that makes me mad,” he said seriously. “I seen them AK fellers up by the store; so I goes up there to have a heart-to-heart talk with ’em. But before I get there, one of ’em takes a shot at me and almost knocked a hole in my right boot. And when I turned around they took another shot at me.”

“That don’t sound reasonable,” said Porter.

“I don’t give a —— how it sounds; I was there, wasn’t I?”

The shots had attracted some attention, and the sudden exit of the AK boys made things look suspicious. Scotty and Porter went up the street, where several men had gathered in front of the store, and were talking with Lee Barnhardt, who was telling them all about it.

“I tell you, it was deliberate,” he said. “I saw that cowboy take aim at me. Why, I heard that bullet sing past my ear, so close that the air from it staggered me.”

“Why did he shoot at you, Lee?” asked the storekeeper, Abe Moon, a tall, serious, tobacco-chewing person.

“I don’t know. Why, I don’t even know the man.”

“I never seen him before either,” declared the merchant. “He came in a while ago with Oyster, Eskimo and Johnny. They were all pretty full, I think. Anyway, they outfitted this young man with everything. Even bought a six-gun, and loaded it for him. He left his other clothes, wrapped up, in the back room.”

The sheriff moved in closer.

“Wasn’t it one of the AK boys that done the shootin’, Lee?”

“No.”

“The stranger,” said one of the men. “Did yuh hear his name, Abe?”

“They introduced him to me. Said his name was Legg.”

“Legg?” queried Barnhardt blankly. He shook his head slowly. “I dunno anybody by that name.”

“I don’t either—and he shot at me,” said the sheriff.

“He’s prob’ly one of them peculiar jiggers that would rather shoot strangers than acquaintances,” said the merchant dryly.

“Well, he’s goin’ to hear from me,” declared the sheriff.

“Write him a letter,” grinned one of the men in the crowd.

“He was pretty drunk,” offered the merchant.

“He wasn’t too drunk to shoot straight,” said Scotty. “I’m promisin’ yuh right now that the next time that AK outfit comes to Blue Wells, I’m packin’ a riot gun. Blue Wells has stood all it’s ever goin’ to from that layout. And,” he added, “I don’t care a —— who knows it.”

Lee Barnhardt turned on his heel and walked back to his office. Chet Le Moyne and Dug Haley, the man who had come with Le Moyne to guard the Santa Rita pay-roll, rode in and drew up in front of the store. Haley was a heavy-set, stolid looking person, with a wispy mustache and only a faint suggestion of ever having had eyebrows.

Le Moyne smiled and spoke to the men, but Haley merely nodded.

“I wanted to see you, Scotty,” said Le Moyne. “Goin’ back to your office pretty soon?”

“Right away, Le Moyne.”

Le Moyne nodded and rode beside the sheriff down to the office, while Haley tied his horse in front of the store, and went in to make some purchases. Le Moyne tied his horse and went into the office with the sheriff.

“What do you know, Scotty?” asked Le Moyne.

“Not very much. It kinda looks to me as though they had a big start on us, Le Moyne.”

“Have you anythin’ to work on?”

“I said I didn’t have much,” Scotty wasn’t going to tell Le Moyne of his suspicions against the Taylors or the AK.

“Uh-huh,” muttered Le Moyne. “Well, I just wanted to tell you that the express company will have a man on the job, and the Santa Rita company will also have an investigator. They’ll be here tonight, and I want you to help ’em all you can. We’re offering a thousand dollars reward, and the express company will probably offer somethin’. What was all this stuff about you bein’ locked in your own jail?”

The sheriff told Le Moyne of the incident, and the handsome paymaster could not suppress a laugh.

“Go ahead and laugh,” sighed the harassed sheriff. “It sounds funny.”

“But why did they do it, Sheriff?”

“That’s somethin’ I’m goin’ to try and find out.”

“Meanin’ what?”

“Well, it kept me from quick action on that robbery, didn’t it?”

“It rather looks that way,” admitted Le Moyne. “Well, I’ve got to be moving along. I just wanted to tell you about the detectives, and I know you’ll help them all yuh can.”

Le Moyne left the office and went up to the store, where he joined Haley. Tex Alden came in to purchase some tobacco. He nodded to Le Moyne, made his purchases and went out again. There had never been open enmity between them, nor had they ever been friends.

“Tex got hit pretty hard the other day,” offered the storekeeper. “Yuh heard about Antelope Neal takin’ eight thousand away from Tex in a two-handed poker game, didn’t yuh?”

“I heard he did,” nodded Le Moyne. “It sounded fishy.”

“Well, it wasn’t. He lost it all right. What’s new on the pay-roll robbery?”

“Not a thing. The express company has a detective on the case, and we’ve sent for one. They might find out somethin’, but I doubt it. Those men had a good start, and it’s pretty hard to identify gold coin. If they’re ever caught, it won’t be through anything developed around here.”

“What do yuh think about that feller throwin’ the messenger out of the car? That sounds funny to me.”

“It does sound rather queer,” admitted Le Moyne. “But I guess it happened. The messenger sure looked as though he had been through a fight. And he wasn’t there when the robbery took place, it seems. Anyway, the money is gone. We better get the mail, Jud, and head for the mine.”

“How much was in that pay-roll?” asked the merchant.

“Thirty-one thousand and eighty dollars, all in gold. It’ll make somebody happy, Abe.”

“Yes—or unhappy, Chet. I don’t reckon any man ever got a lot of happiness from what he stole. It’s unlucky money.”

VII—JIMMY WINS HIS SPURS

A few short days wrought a great change in Jim Legg. His face had received its baptism of Arizona sun, and no longer was he the pale-faced city dweller. His skin was beginning to peel, and as Johnny Grant said—“He peels off like a package of cigaret papers.”

His hands were seared from fast-traveling ropes, his silken shirt was minus half of one sleeve, and had a huge rent down the back. His ornate sombrero had fallen off in a corral, where a circling remuda had trampled it into the sand, giving it an antique air.

And out of self-defense he had quit wearing glasses. Just now he leaned against the corral fence, trying to roll a cigaret with cramped fingers. Beside him squatted Johnny Grant, his eyes fixed curiously upon this young man, whose eyes were filled with determination.

About fifty feet away from them were Oyster and Eskimo, saddling a horse. The animal was humped painfully, squirming uneasily under the pull of the cinch, but fearing to move, because a heavy bandage had been fastened across its eyes. The two cowboys were talking softly to each other.

“This has gone past the funny stage,” Johnny Grant spoke to Jimmy Legg seriously. “We was jokin’ when we dared yuh to ride Cowcatcher. You can’t ride him. He ditched Eskimo in four jumps, and Eskimo is the best there is around here, Jimmy.”

“I said I’d ride him,” reminded Jimmy Legg. “I haven’t quit yet, have I?” Johnny Grant shook his head.

“That’s why I hate to see yuh fork that bronc, Jimmy. I don’t sabe yuh, kid. You ain’t strong. Yore body ain’t built for the shocks yuh get in this business. We was raised for this kinda stuff. You ain’t no youngster. That bronc will jist about flatten yuh for life—and whatsa use?”

“Johnny, I want to be a cowboy,” said Jimmy seriously. “It’s something I can’t explain right now. I appreciate you trying to save me. I’ve been thrown five times since I came here, and I’m still able to hobble around.”

“Yeah, I know. But this is a horse. He’s plumb bad. If there’s any slip in the boys bein’ able to herd him away after he’s spilled yuh, he might tromp yuh.”

“But,” Jim Legg spoke softly, “I’ve got confidence in Oyster and Eskimo. They’ll do their part. If I can ride Cowcatcher, will you admit that I can ride?”

Johnny smiled softly. “I’ll admit that yore the best rider in the Blue Wells country.”

“All set!” called Eskimo. “Johnny, you pull the blind, after me and Oyster get all set, will yuh?”

Johnny held Cowcatcher while Jim Legg mounted. The rough-coated gray outlaw, which had defied the best riders of the Blue Wells ranges, stiffened slightly, but did not move. Oyster and Eskimo mounted and rode in on each side of him, prepared to block the bucker from heading into obstacles, and to herd him away from the rider, in case of a spill.

They did not see the sheriff, deputy and another rider swing around the corner of the corral and come toward them.

Jim Legg straightened up in his saddle, grasped the reins tightly and nodded to Johnny Grant.

Johnny reached up and grasped the bandage.

“Pull leather, Jimmy,” he said softly. “Don’t be ashamed to do it. It’s only fools and contest riders that don’t, when they feel themselves goin’.”

But Jim Legg shut his lips tightly and looked straight ahead. He had asked to ride Cowcatcher, after every half-way bucker on the AK had thrown him, and he was going to ride him, or get thrown clean.

Then the bandage was jerked off, and Cowcatcher was moving as he caught his first flash of sunlight, but not ahead, as they expected. Veteran of many battles, he hated the horses and riders which crowded him too closely; so he had whirled free of them, catching them flat-flooted, headed the wrong way.

Although Jim Legg was not unseated, he was flung sidewise, and his right spur hooked wickedly into Cowcatcher’s flank; hooked in while the outlaw was still in the air, heading for the three riders which were not over a hundred feet away, just drawing up to witness the sport.

There was no chance for Oyster and Eskimo to ride herd on Cowcatcher. The gray outlaw churned into the dust, fairly screaming with rage, head down, running like a streak, forgetting to buck, because of that spur, socked to the full limit of the rowels into his flank.

Johnny Grant ran toward the corral, trying to see through the cloud of dust. Jim Legg was still in the same position, hands flung up, as if fearful of making a mistake and pulling leather.

The sheriff’s party tried to spur their horses aside, but their slow-moving mounts failed to move quickly enough.

Came the crash of impact, the scream of a horse. A man yelled. Eskimo and Oyster were riding toward them as fast as possible, while Johnny Grant ran through the dust, trying to see what had happened.

He saw one horse and rider heading toward the ranch-house, and a moment later he heard something crash into the corral fence. Two horses were down. A gust of wind blew the dust aside and he saw Scotty Olson on his hands and knees about twenty feet away from his horse, going around and around, like a pup trying to lie down.

Al Porter was flat on his back just beyond the two horses, which were trying to get up, and up by the house was the third member of the sheriff’s party, trying to recover his reins, which he had dropped.

And there was Cowcatcher, standing in an angle of the corral fence, head hanging down, a most dejected-looking outlaw, while still on his back was Jimmy Legg, his hands resting on the saddle-horn, apparently oblivious to everything.

He slowly climbed down and staggered toward Johnny Grant, his lips parting in a foolish smile, as he whispered—

“My ——, wasn’t that a wreck!”

Oyster and Eskimo had helped Al Porter to his feet, and he was clinging to them, puffing heavily. The sheriff managed to get up without further difficulty, and they waited for him to recover his speech. The two horses scrambled to their feet and moved toward the ranch-house, still frightened.

The sheriff was mad; so much so, in fact, that he almost yanked one side of his mustache off, trying to find words with which to express his feelings.

“Yuh know, Sheriff,” said Johnny Grant, anticipating the sheriff’s coming flood of profanity, “you know it was an accident.”

“Yea-a-a-huh?” blurted the sheriff.

“Wh-wh-who was ridin’ that —— bub-bucker?” stammered Al Porter.

Johnny looked around at Jim Legg, who was still a trifle dazed over it all. Johnny grasped him by the arm and turned to the deputy.

“This is Jimmy Legg, the only man that ever stayed on Cowcatcher.”

“I don’t give a ——!” roared the sheriff. “Every time I get in sight of you fellers, somethin’ happens. By ——, I’m sick and tired of it! Do yuh hear me?”

“Louder and more profane,” begged Eskimo, cupping one hand beside his ear.

“A-a-a-aw, shut up!” The sheriff was too mad to say anything more.

The stranger had ridden up closer to them, and was listening with an amused smile. He was a well-dressed, middle-aged sort of person, rather hard-faced.

“I got out of that pretty lucky,” he said, “I happened to be just outside the crash.”

“Well, I didn’t,” said Porter ruefully. “Any old time there’s a crash—I’m in it. Boys,” he turned to Johnny Grant, “this is Mr. Wade, the detective for the express company.”

The boys of the AK looked Wade over critically, but the keen scrutiny of these sons of the range did not embarrass Wade. He was what is know as “hard-boiled.”

“Hyah,” nodded Johnny Grant. “What do yuh know?”

“Not very much,” admitted Wade. “What do you know?”

“I know m’ head,

I know m’ feet,

I know you’ll soon

Stand up to eat.”

Oyster Shell chanted it softly, noticing that the detective was sitting rather sidewise in the saddle. Wade grinned widely.

“I guess that’s right,” he said. “I’m not used to riding.”

“You workin’ on that train robbery?” asked Eskimo.

“Yes, I’m supposed to be,” he turned and looked at Jimmy Legg, who was still leaning against Johnny Grant. “They tell me you’re a stranger around here, Mr. Legg.”

“I—I’ve been here a while,” stammered Jimmy Legg.

“Uh-huh,” nodded the sheriff, breaking in on the detective. “You showed up the night of the robbery, didn’t yuh?”

“He did not,” said Johnny Grant quickly, “he was here the day before.”

“Here at the AK?” queried Porter.

“Yeah,” defiantly.

“That’s funny,” smiled Porter. “We just met George Bonnette in Blue Wells, and he said you came here to the ranch the day after the hold-up. And that yuh wasn’t even hired yet.”

“And that none of the boys knew yuh, until they met yuh that day in Blue Wells,” added Scotty Olson. “Yuh bought all yore clothes there in Blue Wells, and you —— near killed me and Lee Barnhardt, because yuh acted like yuh didn’t know nothin’ about a six-gun. And yuh had plenty of money to buy anythin’ yuh wanted.”

Johnny Grant, caught in a lie, did not back up an inch. He stepped in front of Jimmy Legg and glared at the sheriff.

“Well, what if he did?” demanded Johnny.

“It’s nothing to quarrel about,” interposed the detective. “I merely wanted to know when, how and why he came to Blue Wells. He’s a stranger around here, it seems.”

“And if he is—what about it?” asked Eskimo. “There’s no law against a stranger comin’ here, is there?”

“Not at all,” smiled the detective. “This man does not fit the description of any of the robbers, but we can’t afford to miss any lead that might set us on the right track. There’s a man and a dog to be accounted for.

“It seems that this man shipped his dog in the express car. We have a fairly accurate description of the dog, but not of the man. The express messenger fought with a man who got on his car at Encinas. They fell out of the car, while the train was in motion.

“This dog was on the car at that time, because the engineer and fireman saw him when the three robbers led them back to the car. The dog was there when the engineer got the messenger’s shotgun and started battle with the three robbers.

“A few minutes later the engine crew sneaked back to their engine to escape the bullets of the bandits. The fireman says he thought he heard a man walk past the engine, just before they started back to pick up the rest of the train, but he is not sure. At any rate, the dog was missing when the train came to Blue Wells.

“Our theory is that the dog was merely a blind to let the man into the car at Encinas. It gave the robbers an inside man, in case the messenger might refuse to open the door. Of course they could dynamite the door, but that takes time. Perhaps the inside man did not expect the messenger to put up a battle, and that the falling out of the express car was an unexpected incident.

“The messenger states that the man tried to pull a gun, which strengthens the theory of the fourth bandit. It is just barely possible that this dog might be identified; so the owner took a chance, sneaked back to the hold-up and secured the dog. This would make it appear that they felt it necessary to have the dog in their possession. That dog was in the car when the engineer and fireman went back to the engine. When the train arrived at Blue Wells, the dog was gone.”

“Which don’t prove anythin’,” said Johnny Grant. “When the train was robbed there were three masked men on the car, and when the train got to Blue Wells there wasn’t a —— masked man on it.”

The detective laughed.

“That’s true. But it doesn’t explain when and how Mr. Legg came to Blue Wells.”

“I walked,” declared Jimmy Legg bravely. “The train passed me.”

“Where?” asked the sheriff.

“I don’t know. It was dark, and I’m not familiar with this country. I got a room at a hotel that night.”

“When did you hear that there had been a hold-up?”

“I heard them talking about it the next day,” said Jimmy Legg truthfully.

He did not think it necessary to tell them he had also heard it the night before.

“I don’t think he knows anything about it,” said the sheriff. “He don’t fit the description of any one of the robbers, and it’s a cinch he ain’t the big geezer that fought the messenger.”

“What kind of a dog was it?” asked Oyster.

“No special breed,” replied the detective. “It was of medium size, yellowish-red, and had one black eye. At least that’s the description which was given to me.”

A few minutes later the three officers rode away, and the cowboys turned their attention to Cowcatcher, the gray outlaw, which was still beside the corral fence. The collision with the other two horses had wrenched its right shoulder, which accounted for its not going any farther.

They took off the saddle and turned it loose. The boys were loud in their praise of Jimmy’s ability as a rider. The marvel of it all was the fact that Jim had stayed with the horse.

“If he knowed anythin’ about ridin’, he’d ’a’ been killed,” Eskimo told Johnny a few minutes later, after Jim had gone into the bunk-house. “He had the luck of a drunk. I’m glad it happened thataway, instead of havin’ to pick him up on a shovel.”

“Sure,” grinned Johnny, and then confidentially. “Eskimo, I don’t sabe that feller. Remember when them fellers were shootin’ at us from the express car? Remember the feller we seen, who comes along the track and gets into the car?”

“Yeah, I remember, Johnny. But I was too drunk to remember much more than that.”

“I wasn’t as sober as a judge myself, Eskimo. But I’ll be danged if it was a big man. Do yuh remember somethin’ about somebody named Geronimo?”

“That’s right, Johnny! I wonder if it was the man’s name, or the dog’s.”

“And that man headed for Blue Wells, Eskimo.”

Eskimo nodded seriously.

“That’s right. By golly, don’tcha know,” Eskimo scratched his head thoughtfully, “I’m wonderin’ what our little friend knows about that hold-up.”

“And why he wants to be a cowboy. Anyway,” Johnny grinned widely, “I’m for him. He’s got guts. If the Old Man will hire him, we’ll make a puncher out of him.”

Jimmy Legg was thanking his stars that Geronimo had deserted him. He was stiff and sore from his efforts to learn the cattle business all in a few days, and he did not realize that the boys had been trying to make him quit. He had been thrown from bucking horses, until it seemed to him that ranch life consisted of dull thuds.

Because he could not rope from a horse the boys had let him work from the ground during a day’s calf-branding, and his hands were seared so badly he could hardly shut them. He had managed to make enough good casts to encourage him, and he had spent hours alone in the corral, throwing loops at a snubbing post.

But his unfailing good-humor and earnest endeavor had caused the boys to go easier than they would have had he not been so foolishly innocent. George Bonnette had watched him, but said nothing. He was not running a school for making cowpunchers, but decided that Jimmy Legg was earning his board and keep.

Jimmy had decided to ride to Blue Wells that afternoon, but after a nap, which left him stiff and sore, he decided to saddle a horse and go for a ride into the hills. The other boys had ridden away before Jimmy awoke; so he saddled the horse alone for the first time. It was a fairly well broken roan mare, and he had little difficulty. He buckled on his gun and rode away.

Although the hills were fairly open, Jimmy watched his landmarks carefully. He realized that the hills and dales looked pretty much alike, and it might be difficult for him to hit a straight line back to the ranch.

A coyote crossed in front of him, stopped long enough to get a good look, and went on. Jimmy did not realize that it was a wild animal. A flock of blue quail whirred up in front of the horse and went careening down across a brushy draw. Something told him that these were game birds, and he wondered whether they were prairie chickens. He had heard of them.

He wasted several cigaret papers, trying to master the art of rolling a cigaret on a moving horse. He did not in the least resemble the James Eaton Legg, who had slid off his high stool in Mellon & Company’s office a short time before. His face was just as thin, but there was none of the office pallor. He was, as Eskimo declared, “burnt to a darned cinder.”

His hands were red, his lower lip cracked. And he had quit wearing glasses. It seemed to him that they were too indelibly stamped with his former occupation. He squinted badly in the bright sun, but his vision was all right. His ornate cowboy garb was no longer ornate, and to the casual eye he would have appeared about the same as the rest of the range riders.

And, to his great delight, he was picking up a smattering of range lingo, a few well-chosen cuss words, and he could draw his six-shooter out of the holster without shooting it accidentally. He had realized later how close he had been to killing two men, and had promised himself that when he went to town with the boys he would leave his gun at the ranch.

He rode into a well defined cattle-trail and managed to light his cigaret. Since leaving the ranch he had ridden at a walk, but now he spurred his horse into a gallop. It gave him a thrill to ride alone; to know that critical eyes were not watching his riding ability. The mare was willing to run, but he curbed her slightly. He tried to remember a song that Eskimo sang, but the words escaped him.

In his reckless abandon he stood up in his stirrups, as he had seen Johnny Grant do many times, whipped off his sombrero and slapped the mare across the rump.

The next thing he realized was that the mare’s ears had disappeared with a terrible lurch, and that he was again flying through space. He struck sitting down in the sand, and skidded along for several feet before stopping. He was badly jarred, but unhurt. His sombrero sailed into the brush, and the mare kept right on going for a hundred feet or so, where she whirled around, cut across a little ridge and went back toward the AK.

“That was an awful fool thing to do.”

The voice seemed to come from nowhere. Jimmy Legg stretched his neck and looked around. Standing in the trail, just a few feet beyond him was a girl—Marion Taylor. Jimmy Legg shut one eye and considered her gravely. He was sure he was mistaken, and wondered whether this could be a mirage. Oyster had told him of many mirages in that country, but he had never mentioned one of a pretty girl, who could talk.

“What was a fool thing?” asked Jimmy.

“Slappin’ a horse, and gettin’ throwed off,” she replied.

Jimmy got to his feet, braced his legs and stared at her.

“I dunno just what did happen,” he confessed foolishly.

Marion eyed him gravely, and he thought she was the prettiest girl he had ever seen.

“You must be the new man at the AK,” she said.

“Yes ma’am, I’m the new cowpuncher.”

“Cowpuncher?”

“Well, yea-a-ah,” he tried to imitate Johnny Grant.

The girl laughed.

“I’m James Eat—Jimmy Legg,” he stammered.

“I am Marion Taylor,” she said, smiling. “We own the Double Bar 8.”

“Oh, yes.”

They considered each other silently for a while. Jimmy glanced around.

“Where’s your horse, Miss Taylor?”

She colored slightly.

“Got away from me. Spike hates snakes, you see. We found a big rattler, and I got off to shoot it. I didn’t want to shoot off Spike, because he hates a gun; so I got off, and when I shot the rattler, Spike yanked away.”

Jimmy nodded.

“We’ve both lost our horses, it seems. You see, I don’t know anything about snakes.”

“No? You know a rattler when you see one, don’t you?”

“No, I’m sure I wouldn’t.”

“Then you better walk carefully, because we’ve got plenty of them around here. You’ll probably see one on your way back to the AK.”

“Possibly,” said Jimmy gravely. “But I’m not going back—not now. You see, I’m going to take you home first.”

“Oh, no,” Marion smiled shortly. “It’s only about three miles, you see. I don’t mind the walk.”

“Well, I’m goin’ along,” declared Jimmy. “You might get bit by a snake, or—or—”

Marion smiled with amusement.

“Do you think you could protect me from a rattler, Mr. Legg?”

“I dunno,” confessed Jimmy.

He glanced at the Colt, which swung from her hip.

“Can you hit anything with that?”

“Sometimes. Why?”

“I was just wondering.”

“Can you shoot?” she asked.

“Yea-a-a-ah, sure,” solemnly. Then he laughed outright. “I almost killed the sheriff and a prominent attorney, I believe. It—it went off when I wasn’t looking, you see.”

“I heard about it.”

They both laughed.

“Why not walk to the AK?” asked Marion. “It’s a lot nearer than the Double Bar 8. We—I could get a horse there.”

Jimmy shook his head quickly.

“Everybody is away, and the only horse there is one they call Cowcatcher.”

“Cowcatcher!” exclaimed Marion. “I’m sure I don’t want to ride him.”

“You couldn’t, anyway. I rode him today, and he ran rather wild, it seems. We knocked the horses from under the sheriff and the deputy, and ran into the corral fence, where Cowcatcher hurt his shoulder.”

Marion looked at him in amazement. She knew the reputation of that outlaw bucker.

“Do you mean to say that you rode Cowcatcher?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And were you on him when he quit?”

“Oh, yes,” innocently. “He’s not very tame, is he?” Jimmy laughed softly. “It was lots of fun.”

“Lots of fun?” Marion bit her lip and stared at this strange young man, whose language and actions did not brand him as a man of the ranges, and yet who had ridden the worst horse in the Blue Wells country, and thought it lots of fun.

And yet she had seen him thrown clean at the first pitching buck of a galloping horse. She could see that he had been freshly sunburned, and that his clothes were comparatively new.

“I don’t understand you,” she told him. Jimmy looked away, his eyes squinted seriously.

“Do you always have to understand any one?” he asked.

“You’re not a cowpuncher, Mr. Legg.”

Jimmy turned to her, a half-smile on his wide mouth.

“Do I look as raw as all that, Miss Taylor? I know I’m not a cowboy, but I’m going to be. Johnny Grant says I’ll make a good one, if I live to finish my education.”

Marion laughed at his naive confession.

“I didn’t know that anybody ever wanted to be a cowboy,” she said. “It’s just hard work.”

Jimmy Legg looked at her, a curious expression in his eyes.

“And romance,” he said slowly. “It is a big world out here. The blue nights, the sweet air of the hills in the morning, the midday, when the air fairly hums with the heat; and then when the shadows of sunset come, and the birds call—isn’t it worth learning to be a cowboy, to live here?”

“Well, when you see things that way, Mr. Legg. I’ve lived here almost all my life, and I—maybe I’m so used to it.”

“Having cowboys thrown off at your feet?” grinned Jimmy.

Marion flushed slightly.

“No, this is the first time. But you see, you are not a regular cowpuncher.”

“I suppose that does make a difference. Perhaps we better start walking, Miss Taylor.”

“Well, if you insist. I can let you have a horse to ride back to the AK.”

“That will be fine. We should be at your ranch in an hour.”

“But we won’t,” laughed Marion. “Any time you walk three miles an hour through this sand, the State of Arizona will give you a medal for bravery. In about fifteen minutes you’ll decide that high-heeled boots were never made for walking.”

It did not take Jimmy Legg that long to find it out. His left boot rubbed a blister on his heel, and his right boot creased deeply across his toes, adding several more blisters to his grand total. But he gritted his teeth and said nothing.

“Next time I go riding alone,” panted Jimmy, “I’m going to tie the lead-rope around my waist. Then, if my horse throws me off and tries to go home, he’ll have to drag me along.”

“You’ve got silk socks on, haven’t you?” asked Marion. Jimmy admitted that he had.

“No good,” said Marion. “Stylish, but terrible. Wear woolen socks.”

“You make me ashamed,” confessed Jimmy. “You travel along as though it was nothing, while I’m having an awful time. All I need is a handful of lead-pencils and I’d be a first-class cripple.”

The last mile was exquisite torture, but Jimmy managed to stumble into the patio of the Double Bar 8 and sit down on the well-curb.

He took off his boots, while Marion drew a fresh bucket of water. His feet were so swollen that he could hardly get the boots off, and his silk socks were in shreds.

He sat on the edge of the curb and soaked his feet in the cold water of the trough, while Marion found him a pair of Buck’s socks.

“Do you still think there is romance?” she asked, as he grimaced over his blisters. He looked up at her, forgetting the pain in his feet.

“Yes,” he said honestly. “You are the Beautiful Lady, and I am the Knight of the Blistered Feet.” He laughed softly. “As soon as I can get my boots on, I shall try and slay a dragon for you.”

“It isn’t going to be a hard season on dragons,” smiled the girl. “Unless all signs fail, you are going to have a hard time getting those boots on.”

There was no one else at the ranch. A mocking-bird sang from the patio wall, and a huge pepper tree threw a shade across the two at the well.

“Let’s forget about blistered feet,” said Jimmy Legg. “Tell me about this country, Miss Taylor. I’m a tenderfoot—and, oh so tender just now,” he laughed ruefully. “But I don’t mind. I didn’t know there were girls like you in this country. I’ve read stories of Arizona, where the handsome hero fought forty men, and won the heroine, who was very beautiful. But it doesn’t seem true to me, because I haven’t seen forty men since I came.”

“And there are no beautiful heroines,” she said.

“Well,” smiled Jimmy, “they didn’t have to do any heroic things. They were merely the central figure—some one to do great things for, don’t you see.”

“I suppose so,” smiled the girl. “But forty Arizona men would be rather a handful for one man to whip.”

Jimmy nodded seriously.

“Yes, I suppose a man would have to have quite an incentive.”

“He might start in on one and work his way up,” said a strange voice.

They turned quickly to see Tex Alden, who had come in so softly that they did not hear him. Perhaps they were too engrossed in their own conversation to hear him.

Tex smiled at Marion, but the look he gave Jimmy was anything but friendly.

“Hello Tex,” said Marion. “We didn’t hear you ride up.”

“Naturally.”

Marion ignored his sarcasm.

“Tex Alden, this is Mr. Legg,” she said.

“From the AK,” supplemented Jimmy.

“Runnin’ a dude ranch out there, are they?” Tex did not offer his hand to Jimmy, who did not offer his.

Marion explained how she had lost her horse, and of how she and Jimmy had met in the hills. But Tex could not see any humor in the situation. It was too much of a coincidence to suit him.

“Outside of that,” he said dryly, “I’ve got some bad news for you, Marion. Your father, Buck and Peeler are in jail at Blue Wells.”

“In jail?” Marion stared at Tex. “Why, what for, Tex?”

Tex shrugged his shoulders.

“Robbin’ that train, it seems.”

“But they never robbed that train, Tex!”

“Quien sabe. They’re in jail. Between the sheriff and that railroad detective they cooked up some sort of a case against ’em. I didn’t get all of it, but it seems that Olson, Porter and the detective, a man named Wade, came out here to the ranch. During the conversation the detective kicked the dog. Buck bawled him out for it, and the detective asked Buck if it was his dog.

“Buck said it was, it seems. The sheriff asked Buck how long he had owned the dog, and Buck said he raised it. They’ve got the dog in jail, too, holding him until they can get the engineer, fireman and the express messenger here to identify it. From what I can hear, the dog belonged to the bandits.”

Jimmy Legg stared across the patio, his eyes smarting in the bright sunlight.

“Buck never raised that dog,” said Marion hoarsely. “It was a dog that picked up with them—with dad, Buck and Peeler.”

“How long ago?” asked Tex.

“The—” Marion faltered. “It was the day after the robbery that he came here with them, Tex. They had been back on Yellow Horn mesa, looking for cattle. They left the day of the robbery.”

“What kind of a dog was it?” asked Jimmy Legg.

“Just a stray mongrel,” said Marion. “It was coarse-haired and sort of a yellowish-red color.”

There was no question in Jimmy’s mind that this dog was Geronimo.

“Quite a lot of strays comin’ to this country lately,” said Tex Alden, as he looked meaningly at Jimmy.

Jimmy caught the implication, but said nothing. He did not want to have any trouble with Tex Alden.

“I suppose yore father can prove that the dog don’t belong here, can’t he?” asked Tex.

“I don’t see why not,” replied Marion quickly.

“I was just wonderin’, Marion. There’s so many dogs around here that nobody pays much attention to ’em. Anyway, the sheriff says that even if they can prove away the dog, they’ll have to show him where they were the night of the robbery.”

“But they can’t—except their word, Tex. They were back on Yellow Horn mesa, and no one saw them back there.”

Tex smiled.

“Makes it kinda tough. If yo’re aimin’ to ride to Blue Wells, I’ll ride back with yuh.”

Marion looked at Jimmy, who was sitting on the edge of the curb, his sore feet encased in a pair of Buck’s woolen socks.

“I suppose I’ll have to go,” she said slowly. “But I don’t like to leave the ranch alone. If Mr. Legg will stay here until I get back—”

“That won’t hardly do,” said Tex quickly. “You don’t know this man, Marion. We can get some one in Blue Wells—”

“Oh, I don’t mind staying,” said Jimmy earnestly.

“But you can’t stay here with a strange man.”

“I meant—until I got back,” said Marion coldly. “And how long since you started running the Double Bar 8, Tex Alden?”

Tex flushed hotly.

“I’m not tryin’ to run the ranch, Marion.”

“Then don’t. I think Spike is around by the corral; so if you will excuse me, I’ll get him.”

Tex made no effort to get the horse for her, because he wanted a word in private with Jimmy Legg. After she had gone out through the patio gate, Tex turned to Jimmy.

“Let me give you a word of advice, young feller. Yo’re new to this country; so jist take my word for it that we don’t want strangers around. You tramped in here; now tramp out. The climate of the Blue Wells country is sure damp for yore kind.”

“I don’t think I understand what you mean,” said Jimmy. “I’m not a tramp, Mr. Alden.”

“You walked into Blue Wells. Anyway, you told the sheriff yuh did. Ain’t that trampin’?”

Jimmy smiled and shook his head.

“There’s a difference, I think, between a man who merely walks in, and a man who tramps in.”

“Not a —— bit of difference around here, Legg. I’ll probably ride back with Miss Taylor; and I don’t want to find you here. If yo’re wise, you’ll heed what I’m tellin’ yuh. I’ve give yuh a fair warnin’.”

“Reminds me of what Miss Taylor said about rattlesnakes,” said Jimmy innocently. “They nearly always buzz before they strike, it seems. She says that is what makes them less to be feared than any other poisonous snakes.”

Tex stepped in closer to Jimmy, his eyes snapping.

“Do you mean to call me a snake?”

“No; only the warning. And don’t forget, you called me a tramp.”

“If you wasn’t such an ignorant —— fool,” began Tex—but at that moment Marion made her appearance leading the blue-black horse which had left her stranded in the hills, and Tex turned to her, leaving his statement to Jimmy unfinished.

“Mr. Legg won’t be able to stay,” stated Tex. “If you’ll show him which horse to ride back to the AK, Marion—”

“I’ve changed my mind,” said Jimmy, hugging his knees. “I’m going to stay, Miss Taylor.”

“Thank you, Mr. Legg.”

Marion turned away to hide a smile. She realized that Tex had tried to make Jimmy’s decision for him, and she was glad that Jimmy defied him.

Tex glared at Jimmy, but said nothing. Marion waved at Jimmy from the patio gate, but Tex did not turn his head. Marion had little to say to Tex on the way to Blue Wells. He tried to apologize to her for what he had said to Jimmy Legg, but she paid little attention to his excuses. As a result, Tex rode to Blue Wells with a distinct peeve against this stranger.

He left Marion at the doorway of the sheriff’s office, and met Lee Barnhardt a little farther up the street. The lawyer might have ignored Tex’s presence had not Tex stepped in beside him. It was the first time they had met since the day after the hold-up.

“What do yuh know about the arrest of Taylor, Buck and the half-breed?” asked Tex. Barnhardt glanced sidewise at Tex, and a knowing smile twisted his lips.

“I know it’s probably lucky for some folks, Tex. You see, I’ve talked with them, and I’ll probably defend their case; so I haven’t any information to give out.”

“Yea-a-ah?”

“Yea-a-ah,” Barnhardt mimicked Tex’s drawl perfectly, but the expression in Tex’s eyes caused Barnhardt’s Adam’s-apple to jerk convulsively. The lawyer was a physical coward, and Tex knew it; so he grasped Barnhardt by the sleeve, whirled him around and slammed his back against the front of the office.

“—— you!” gritted Tex. “I’ve stood about all I’m goin’ to stand from you, Lee. Yo’re as crooked as a snake in a cactus patch, and we both know it. You told me about that Santa Rita pay-roll, because you wanted yore share. Now, —— yuh—get it, if yuh can!”

Tex stepped back, his eyes narrowed dangerously, as he looked at Barnhardt’s thin face, which twisted to a sneering grin, when he felt sure that Tex was not going to do him bodily harm.

“All right, Tex,” he said hoarsely. “No bad feelings, I hope.”

Tex shook his head slowly.

“I don’t sabe you, Lee,” he said softly. “Mebbe some day I’m goin’ to have to kill you.”

Tex spoke in a matter-of-fact way, as though the killing of Lee Barnhardt would be merely a disagreeable task. Barnhardt smiled crookedly.

“You don’t need to threaten me, Tex,” he said.

“Oh, that’s not a threat.”

Barnhardt straightened his collar.

“You called me a crook,” he remarked. “You can’t prove anything, Tex; but you embezzled eight thousand dollars—and I can prove it.”

“How can yuh? You haven’t the bill of sale, nor a copy of it. You had nothing to do with the sale. The check was made out to me.”

“All right,” Barnhardt laughed shortly. “In two weeks the Fall round-up will be held, Tex. There’s going to be a shortage of X Bar 6 stock to account for. My report will show this, and I’ll have to explain just what happened—unless—”

“Unless what?”

“Unless you shoot square with me, Tex.”

“In other words,” said Tex coldly, “if I’ll play a crooked game with you, you’ll protect me, eh?”

“You don’t need to be so —— virtuous!” snapped Barnhardt. “You’re in pretty deep already. And any time I want to, I can cut you loose from your present job. Don’t forget that I can do you a lot of harm, if I want to, Tex. One of these days that X Bar 6 is going to be mine.”

“Yea-a-ah? How do yuh figure that, Lee?”

“That’s my business. You think things over, Tex.”

Tex nodded shortly.

“All right. What kind of a case have they got against Taylor?”

“I don’t know. That Wade, the railroad detective, seems to think the dog links ’em pretty close to the case, but he’s got to wait until the engine crew and the messenger identify the dog as being the one that was on the express car.”

“Marion says it’s a dog that picked up with them the day after the hold-up. I don’t remember any such a dog around the Double Bar 8.”

“Well, you don’t need to worry about it, do you?”

“Why not? I expect to marry Taylor’s daughter.”

“Well? She’s not under arrest. You better look out for Le Moyne, Tex. He’s got the same ideas that you have, and I understand that Apostle Paul thinks a lot of Le Moyne.”

“Le Moyne don’t interest me, Lee.”

“Sure he don’t. But he don’t have to interest you. Le Moyne is a handsome devil, and if I was in your boots—”

“Well, you’re not!” Tex flushed angrily. “I’ve got to help Marion find some woman to stay at the ranch with her. She can’t stay there alone. That —— tenderfoot from the AK was there when I left. His horse pitched him off in the hills, and he wore his feet out walkin’ to the Double Bar 8.”

“His name is Legg, isn’t it?” queried Barnhardt.

“Yeah.”

“What else do you know about him, Tex?”

“Not a thing—do you?”

“Only what Johnny Grant said. Legg told him that he used to be a bookkeeper in San Francisco.”

“Yeah? Well, he better go back and sling some more ink.”

Barnhardt smiled slowly.

“And he’s staying at the Double Bar 8, is he?”

“Not very —— long, he ain’t!” snapped Tex.

He whirled on his heel and looked down toward the sheriff’s office, where Marion was just coming out, accompanied by the sheriff.

“How long before they can identify that dog, Lee?” he asked.

“When the train gets in tonight, Tex.”

“Uh-huh. I’ll see yuh later, Lee.”

“All right; and in the meantime you better think over some of the things I’ve told you.”

But Tex did not reply. Marion had mounted her horse. Tex called to her, but she did not reply, as she spurred her horse to a gallop, heading toward home. Tex swore softly and went on, joining the sheriff at the doorway of the office.

“Hyah, Tex,” greeted the sheriff.

“All right, Scotty,” grunted Tex. “Mind lettin’ me see the Taylor family?”

The sheriff shook his head.

“Can’t do it, Tex. I’ve got my orders from the prosecutor. After t’night, yuh maybe can; but no chance, until after we know a little more about things.”

Tex scowled heavily.

“What evidence have yuh got, Scotty?”

“Dog. Answers the description.”

“Yea-a-ah?”

Tex leaned one shoulder against the wall of the building and began rolling a cigaret. He looked quizzically at the sheriff as he said—

“Scotty, did yuh ever wonder why them three men locked yuh in yore own jail?”

The sheriff considered the question gravely, as if it had never occurred to him before. He smiled softly and shook his head.

“No; did you, Tex?”