Читать книгу Saddle and Ride: Western Classics - Boxed Set - Ernest Haycox - Страница 67

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From his hide-out in the trees a few hours later, Clint Charterhouse looked down into a small meadow sparkling with dew the early morning's sun had not yet dissipated. A cabin, a barn and a corral stood here. Wisps of smoke rose from the cabin and a cow browsed at the end of a picket, bell clinking melodiously in the still, fresh air. Out of the barn stalked a cattle dog whose baying had been in Charterhouse's ears all during the night; and the dog crossed to the cabin to sit on its haunches and stare directly upward at the trees. The door opened. A wizened and shabby old man stepped out with a tin pail. For a moment he lifted his head to the sky and nodded at the fine, crisp air as if he found it good; then he went over to the cow and knelt down to milk. It seemed to Charterhouse that the fellow walked awkwardly, with a great deal of hesitation, and his impression was confirmed a little later when, milking done, the man rose and came back, stumbling over some small tuft of earth.

"Kind of feeble," guessed Charterhouse. "And none too safe, if he's alone. Must be the one they called Bowlus."

The man stopped at the doorway and swung about to face the hillside. His high-pitched voice took Charterhouse by complete surprise. "If you're hungry, come on down to breakfast."

"Hell, what's given me away?" muttered Charterhouse. He thought a moment, sharply studying the clearing. The old fellow spoke again.

"Don't worry none. It ain't the first time I've had visitors on the dodge. Come on down."

Charterhouse chuckled and stood up. He brought his horse to the edge of the trees and went down alone. A closer inspection of the man erased his humor. The poor devil was blind, or nearly so; that explained the stumbling, and also the guide ropes that lay on the ground and extended out from the cabin to the barn and to the corral.

"Can't see as good as I used to," explained the man, feeling Charterhouse's inspection. "My dog does that for me. He's been a- fretting most of the night, and so I knowed you was making a dry camp yonder. I'm Bowlus and there ain't a drop of unfriendliness in me for man or beast. What I know, I keeps to m'self. I can't see you and I don't know what you look like. So I wouldn't be no help to a posse at all, would I? And I'm too old to be shot for harboring folks like you. So we're both safe. Come in."

The room was as tidy as any proud housewife's kitchen. Bacon and coffee smell wafted up from the stove, a bunk was neatly made and a row of utensils hung in orderly row against the wall. Charterhouse chuckled when he glanced at the table; it was set for two.

"Pretty shrewd. I can see you know your country pretty well."

"Sit down. Pitch into the larrup and bread. You most likely are in a haste. Gen'ly speaking you boys are. Well, I've had all kinds of 'em, and they've treated me fair. Law enforcing ain't my business and I don't purpose to stand at my door with a gun. Can't help it if this cabin's right on the trail between coming and going. Yessir, I've seen lots of 'em. Some undeniably bad, mister; some as good as the best. Never can tell about a man. I've had 'em pressed so hard they wouldn't no more'n get beyond the barn afore the sheriff or a posse was swamping down from the trail. Here's the bacon and coffee. Pitch right in."

"I'm not in such a hurry," explained Charterhouse and waited until the man had settled across from him. "But I ain't anxious to be seen in the wrong places."

"So it's come to that already?" muttered old Bowlus. "I knowed it would, ever since Nickum's boy was killed up by the Draw. Another bloody hell. Casabella politics. I dunno who you are or where you come from, but unless somebody's hired your gun you'd be better off by departing in peace. Say, you ain't that Charterhouse stranger which had his horse stole?"

"How do you know?" grunted Charterhouse, surprised again.

"I keep abreast o' things pretty well," said Bowlus shrewdly. "Fought in one of these wars twenty years ago, with Nickum. You bet I'm a Nickum man, skin and hair. Ev'rybody knows it, but I'm too old to draw any trouble from the other side."

"You might be talking to a man from the other side right now," suggested Charterhouse.

Bowlus rose and carried his cup to the stove for another jot of coffee which he drank standing up. "No-o," he decided, "you ain't got that kind of a voice."

"I'm obliged for the meal," said Charterhouse and quietly slipped a silver dollar on the table. Bowlus wasn't even looking in that direction but he spoke quickly.

"I didn't ask you for that, mister."

"You haven't got anything wrong with your sight," grinned Charterhouse. "Never mind, you can't furnish a free lunch to promiscuous travelers. I appreciate the—"

A silvery-sounding hail floated across the meadow. Charterhouse squared for the door but Bowlus was already there.

"Never mind. It's Sherry Nickum. She comes to buy milk off me. I got the only producing cow in Casabella."

Charterhouse heard her draw in and slip to the ground, speaking with a kind of gay gustiness to the old man. "A little early this morning, Henry. Had to duck away. There's trouble coming and they don't want me to ride alone any more. I've got a couple of dressed hens here for you. I—"

She was framed in the doorway, startled to silence by the sight of Charterhouse; a tall, lazy-eyed girl with a mass of copper red hair rebelliously trying to escape a scarlet turban. She was in riding breeches and boots and her sturdy shoulders unconsciously straightened before him; a flare of interest came to her slim face. The rounding lips seemed about to quirk into a smile and then pursed together as if forbidding it. Charterhouse took off his hat and nothing on earth could have forbidden his frank, glimmering humor.

"Henry," he drawled, "you're a lucky man, even without the gift of those hens."

She considered this with perfect gravity. He felt himself being weighed and tallied by the long, level glance that ended with a sedate murmur to Bowlus. "I see you're running your restaurant for strayed pilgrims again."

Charterhouse chuckled. "Shot plumb through the heart by an off-hand bullet."

She walked to the table and placed a basket on it, by chance touching the dollar Charterhouse had laid there. That brought her eyes quickly back to him with an expression slightly puzzled and more friendly. Bowlus, still at the door, tranquilly made explanation.

"This is the fellow that had his horse stole in Angels, Sherry."

"The name," said Clint, "is Charterhouse."

She sat on the edge of the bunk and tapped the floor with one boot heel. "So you're that man? Do you know you are being talked about? My dad doubts you, Seastrom thinks you are about it, good or bad, and Buck Manners respects you for doing what nobody else ever did to him before."

"Accident," mused Charterhouse, marking the melody of her voice.

"Hardly that. Nobody wins from Buck by accident. They earn their victories."

"Reckon you know him better than I do," agreed Charterhouse. "Right now I'm most interested in finding out what your own opinion is."

He found she had a grave manner of considering his words in lengthening silence. A flicker of impish delight appeared in the gray eyes, followed by a deliberate answer.

"I ought to know about Buck, being engaged to him."

He failed to put on his poker face quickly enough. She saw his features settle and cloud. For some reason she dropped her eyes, flushing.

"My apologies," said he gently, "for asking fool questions."

"I didn't consider it foolish," said she, and drew all the sting out of his new knowledge with a warming smile. "I hear you are looking for work. Buck Manners could use good hands any time."

"I've sort of been discouraged."

"Don't let anything my father says bother you. He...he has had many worries."

"Where's he now, home?" broke in Bowlus.

"Started to Angels on business after I pulled out," said the girl.

Charterhouse looked at his watch. "Time for me to be on my way. I'm inside the Box M deadline, which Mister Haggerty doesn't like."

"Haggerty's a fool sometimes," retorted the girl energetically. "He doesn't use his head and his tongue's too bitter."

"I observe," said Charterhouse. He turned to Bowlus. "No objections to my bringing down the pony for a drink?"

"Help yourself."

The girl had risen, still looking at Charterhouse. "If you are bound out of this country, good luck." There was a small wistfulness about the words that drew him around and roused some latent recklessness.

"Supposing I'm staying around here for a while—what then?"

Her answer was long in coming. "Still—good luck," said she and met his eyes squarely.

He bowed and went out, climbing the slope for his horse and returning to the well by the cabin. She was in the doorway and as he lifted a full bucket and turned the pony to it, he heard her speak with a sudden change of tone. He looked up to find cold suspicion on her face. "You've got a horse with Shander's brand on it!"

"Yeah," he drawled. "I had to borrow it under pressing circumstances. I—"

"Then I can wish you no luck at all," cried Sherry Nickum angrily. "I hate Shander. I hate any man who works for Shander, accepts Shander's help, or even speaks to Shander! I wish you no luck—and get off Nickum range!"

The pony drank to the bottom of the bucket. Charter-house, never moving a muscle of his countenance, swung to the saddle and pulled about to face the girl's straight and rigid figure in the doorway. He caught something of old John Nickum's unbending, fighting spirit in her at that moment; a flash of the same imperious temper. And though the picture she made brought back his own vision of all that was fine and desirable in a woman, he was stung badly by the scornful fire of her eyes and the sudden bitter distrust. Nor did it help him to know that she belonged rightfully to another man, a man of power and influence far above his own. So he bowed with stiff courtesy and gathered the pony.

"When wishes change so soon, Sherry Nickum, it is better not to have them at all. Since you do not mean to be friendly, I will forget your first friendly words." He rode into the timber, never looking back.

The farther Clint traveled the more the injury smarted. "Slapped again," he muttered. "Seems to me I'm taking an undue amount of punishment. What's the matter with the looks of my face? Or has everybody gone crazy of a sudden?" His own clear sight told him that the threat of range war was responsible for all this touchiness and hard suspicion. But even so, it was a distinct blow to his pride to know that others failed to see the prevailing honesty of his impulses. Was the dividing line in Casabella so thin that people refused to trust all outward appearances? "Saint Peter," he grumbled, "would get run out of Casabella for being suspected of sheepherding. I never saw such a state of affairs."

For quite a long length of time Clint Charterhouse forgot the nature of his business. Not until he arrived at the top of the ridge and came upon a small glade flooded with the golden morning's light did he think much about his reasons for returning this way. The main trail leading north and south kept to the high ground; that trail he had followed out of Angels the day before. Upon it were many hoofprints but none fresh enough to have been made that morning. Old John Nickum had not yet passed down, if indeed the cattleman meant to come this way at all. Considering the problem, Charterhouse wondered why Shan-der was so very sure Nickum would keep to the trail. There was something queer about that, something that did not meet the eye. Yet he had no time at present to dig into the mystery; Nickum was on the way and possibly would soon pass by. Another half mile would bring the bluff old baron to the edge of timber and up against the rim of Red Draw. At some place along that draw the trap was set. Shander had said so and there was no doubting the man's grim, ruthless sincerity on that point.

"What of it?" Charterhouse asked himself. "Slapped three times and here I stand asking for more. A bigger damn fool never came out of the shell. Nobody's asked me to butt into this business. So why don't I roll my hoop?"

The drumming of a woodpecker shot through the trees with a startling clarity, rousing him from all this tedious thinking. No matter how little license he had for intruding on the quarrel, he had, nevertheless, lived too long with his own code to throw it over now. His reason told him that Nickum and Nickum's adherents were in the right; Shander was certainly on the opposite side of the fence—and he had always hated the kind of outlawry Shander stood for.

There was his answer. He would dip an oar in this muddy water and later tell Nickum to go plumb straight to hell, just for the pleasure of it. With that in mind he passed across the trail and threaded through the thickening pines. Underbrush impeded him in places and every few minutes he stopped to put an ear against the still air; presently he saw a break in the pines and he went forward on foot, to step to the very brink of Red Draw.

At this point the trees grew up to the margin and the winding of the chasm shut off his view to the south. Retreating, he led the horse parallel to the draw for a quarter mile and again crawled back to scan the freakish slash in the earth. This time he commanded a tolerably good view and made out where the pines dwindled to open country. It was open country also across the draw, but gigantic bald-faced boulders made a sort of parapet along the rim of the farther side and shut off most of his view. Still dissatisfied, he repeated the trick of retreating and paralleling until streaks of stronger light ahead told him he was very nearly arrived at the end of shelter; the trail, moreover, was sweeping nearer him. He veered farther away from it, left his pony in the deepest thicket he could find and squatted at the brink of the canyon with tightening anticipation. Shander had mentioned the spot of ambush to be near three particular rocks; and unless his eyes betrayed him, three such rocks, standing shoulder to shoulder, commanded the far side of the draw at the exact spot where the trail shot out of the trees. Thus any man coming down from the pines would present first a head-on target for anyone behind the opposite rocks; and later an exposed flank passing by. The distance across the chasm could not be much more than twenty-five feet, which made good revolver range and deadly for a rifle bullet. Yet the ambusher would be absolutely safe, for neither horse nor man could make the leap across and the bulwark of rising rocks formed perfect concealment.

"I believe this is the spot," Charterhouse mused. "But how am I going to find out? And I think I hear—"

His ears picked up some stray sound from up the trail about the same time his eyes lifted to the pine tops. Those ladder-like branches invited him up to have his look-see, which he promptly accepted. With both feet off the ground, it occurred to him that the warlike Shander partisan whose horse he had so unceremoniously borrowed, had been carrying a rifle in a saddle boot; so, chuckling to himself, and restored to much better humor at the prospect of a little excitement, he dropped out of the tree and went over to get the gun.

"This gun being used in wrong hands reminds me of a gent being caught in his own bear trap."

Faint rumors of men talking came down the ridge. Charterhouse threw open the rifle's breech, verified the waiting shell, and closed it carefully to prevent the metallic sound from telegraphing through the still air. Carrying it back to the tree, he took the first branches with considerable exertion; at twenty feet he found a small break in the greenery that gave him a partial glance across the canyon; he thought he saw the tip of some dark figure in the stony crevices, but was not sure. The next ten feet he climbed with cat-like caution. Right above him was a full tunnel through the branches; and he poked his head around the tree like some wary chipmunk. At the far end of this sharply angled vista, sprawled full length behind an enormous stone, was a man whose shoulders were wedged into an aperture that gave him command of the trail on this side. He looked like a Mexican, but Charterhouse couldn't be sure. A hundred yards rearward in a hollow stood a waiting horse. Voices came along the trees distinctly; whereat Charterhouse turned to catch sight of Nickum's party and only saw a momentary passage of three riders. "One more'n Shander figured," he reflected. Lifting his rifle, he rested it on a branch and drew full bead on the ambusher.

In the narrowing interval of time he debated giving the fellow a warning. He decided against it. This was war and the man had elected to kill in the meanest way known to the West. "Moreover," reflected Charterhouse, "if I sing out, he's apt to rise up and take a pot shot anyhow and run like hell, leaving me treed and openly suspected of being some help to him. No, can't be done. Good-by, brother."

Clint had his sights true on the man and the slack of the trigger taken up. From the corner of his eye he saw Nickum, Heck Seastrom and Haggerty come into the open, single file. Haggerty's face twitched aside, staring across the draw; after that Charterhouse saw nothing but the hidden killer. His breath stopped; he squeezed. A smash of sound beat over tree and rock and the clear air rang with the splitting fragments of the echo. The ambusher jumped once, and never moved again. Haggerty had thrown himself out of the saddle to the ground and was firing point-blank at the rocks, emptying his gun with a certain heedlessness. Seastrom and Nickum were still mounted, but they had swung around and were opening up more coolly.

"Get down!" yelled Haggerty. "He's trying to pot you! Same spot they got your son, John! Get down outa the sky!"

"Not for any Shander rat in the world!" boomed Nickum. Heck Seastrom had fired two shots with careful intent and lowered his gun.

"He's done," he called calmly. "I can see the front end of his rifle tipped down. Yeah, there's his head, flopped against the rock. We got him. Get up, Haggerty, you don't have to eat all the dirt off the trail."

Haggerty rose, squinting over the canyon. He had lost his hat, and Charterhouse had a fair chance to see the sour, sullen glare of the Box M's foreman's face as it turned from point to point. "May be more of 'em," he grunted.

"Then mebbe you had better fall on your belly again," retorted Seastrom.

"I'll take no more of that from you!" bellowed Haggerty. He squared himself at Seastrom. "Seems to me you're taking this affair some calm. Might be a reason for it."

"What would you judge?" drawled Seastrom.

"Mebbe you already knew the bullet wouldn't be for you!"

Seastrom reached for his papers indolently. "In other words, I knew this was a frame to get the boss, uh? To be plumb plain, I'm working for Box M but wearing Shander's britches?"

"I'll let you state the case," droned Haggerty. "You do it with a slick enough tongue."

"A-huh," Seastrom poured himself a smoke. "Brother Haggerty, you don't like me, and I don't like you. If we wasn't working for the same boss, we'd sure as fate tangle. As it is, you range louse, don't ever open your trap to me that way again or just let you try that trick gun flip you've been practicing the last year. Pull in that vinegar mug and keep still."

"You boys," broke in Nickum sharply, "cut that out. I'll have no fighting in my outfit. What in hell makes you two so cagey? Quit spitting like a couple of puff adders. You had no call to make those remarks, Haggerty. We were just foolish to walk into the same trap my son did. It won't happen again. That piece of skunk bait missed his shot—"

Charterhouse had meanwhile slipped quietly down the tree and ridden his horse to the edge of the trees. He cut into the conversation casually. "Mister Nickum, he never fired a shot. I plugged him from the top of that tree."

Haggerty whirled and let his arm half-fall toward his gun butt. Nickum boomed at his foreman and stopped the threat of gun- play, himself riding between the two. His ruddy face swept Charterhouse and then tilted to the pine tips. "You shot, uh? Let's see your gun."

Charterhouse lifted the rifle and passed it over. Nickum threw open the breech, saw the empty shell spin out, and put his nose down against the chamber. He handed it back with stiff courtesy.

"How in hell did we misjudge the sound of that bullet? It must have been pretty close. What's more important, how did you know about this business, friend?"

"Simple answer to that," drawled Charterhouse, catching Seastrom's friendly wink. "After your efficient foreman told me to get off Box M range I ran into a house yonder for the night. Shander's house. Overheard a few things and made my departure, having to borrow one of his horses sort of sudden. So I thought I'd come back to see how the play ran out."

"I'd be an ungrateful pup if I failed to make my due thanks to you," stated Nickum gruffly. "Why didn't you stop us up in the timber instead of doing it this way?"

"You think you would have believed my yarn?" challenged Charterhouse. "Not in a pig's eyes. You'd of burnt my nose again, and I'm getting kind of sensitive on the smeller."

Nickum's florid cheeks took on a deeper flush, yet the unerring instinct for justice made him admit Charter-house's reasoning. "I reckon you have plenty of right to believe us uncharitable in judgment. Though you have got to admit nobody can afford to be overfriendly at a time like this. I will ask you to accept my apologies."

"Took, and we will consider the thing squared all around," said Charterhouse, a little embarrassed. He had nourished a healthy dislike of Nickum but now found he could not support it against such bluff fairness. Seastrom was on his stomach at the edge of the draw, peering at the rocks on the far side. Haggerty stood a few yards removed, small eyes never leaving Charterhouse, catching every move of muscle and every change of features. He seemed like a man poised for either attack or flight.

"That's a Mexican yonder," called Seastrom.

"Shander's got plenty of 'em to waste," was Nickum's blunt retort. "I don't exactly get this, Charterhouse. Since you considered yourself injured by Box M, what made you lend a hand like this?"

"I guess that's the kind of a damn fool I am," grunted Charterhouse. "Never did like to see a crook rig up a killing against a straight man. Sort of goes against the grain. But you've got a right to complain at my horning in without an invite."

"Complain, hell," said Nickum. "I'm here to offer apologies for what happened at Studd's. I'd admire to see you on my ranch. How about it?"

"Hold on, boss," intervened Haggerty. "This might be one of Shander's stunts. I'd be mighty careful about hiring the gent."

"I'll take the chance and I'll do the worrying for Box M," stated Nickum impatiently.

"If I'm foreman of your outfit, my word ought to count some," insisted Haggerty with a sullen twitch of his mouth. "Dammit, I don't like this man and I don't want to work with him."

Nickum's frosty glance remained an uncomfortably long time on Haggerty. "I never had a better foreman, Driver. You're a good man. But I will observe you seem mighty skittish lately. You've lost your grip on that bad temper, and I don't approve of it. I'm expecting you to work with the crew, not fight 'em. That applies to Charterhouse—if he takes my offer."

"I don't hone to stir up bad blood on a ranch," said Charterhouse thoughtfully.

Nickum shrugged his shoulders. "You're the doctor. But I'll suggest something. You've got a Shander horse under you, and he's apt to make a charge of stealing out of it, just to provoke a fight. You'd better keep your skirts clean. Ride into Angels with me and turn the brute over to Studd. I'll stand you to another animal."

"Angels ain't such a safe place for you, considering Shander's intentions."

Nickum doubled his fist. "The yellow dog ain't got the brass to fight me in the daylight! I'll ride into Angels—and out of it again!"

"Let's go, then," said Charterhouse and put his pony on the trail. Haggerty paired off with Nickum quickly, as if to stop further talk between the two, and this move brought Seastrom back beside Charterhouse. So they rode on along the open country and down the slope toward Casabella's county seat. Seastrom grinned frankly at Charterhouse and offered his hand.

"I will remark there ain't nobody I'd rather ride with," he murmured. "All I'm asking is that when the trouble busts, as it will sure's little green apples grow into big red ones, that you'll call your shots. No use both of us breaking the same gent's neck."

Charterhouse accepted the hand, smiling back. It was impossible to resist the rugged, irrepressible humor of Heck Seastrom. "Reckon you're training on a bigger rock since Manners hefted the other," he suggested.

"I'm through," chuckled Seastrom. "Saving my energy for bigger sport. But—" and he cut off further talk with a slight wave of the hand, indicating the men in front knowingly. Haggerty turned in the saddle to look forebodingly at them. Seastrom spoke with a tantalizing solicitude. "It's all right, Driver. We're watching the back trail. If any bold, bad man shows up, I'll tell you when to flop on your belly."

A flare of black hate deepened the vindictive ugliness of the foreman's face. He seemed about to let himself go but finally jerked about and rode on in glowering silence. Seastrom winked at Charterhouse and passed a finger across his throat significantly. The huddled buildings of Angels appeared as they turned a shoulder of the ridge; they straightened for it and presently were entering the plaza, a plaza swimming with the increase of heat and devoid of life. Nickum led across to Nero Studd's and dismounted.

"Buck Manners is supposed to meet me here," he explained. "Guess he's late. Let's go in and get this horse business settled."

Studd was at a table, playing listless poker with four others. Nickum strode over. "Nero, Charterhouse had to borrow a pony off Shander the other night. He's leaving it in your stable."

"With my best personal regards to Mister Shander," drawled Charterhouse. "Due to intentions of hospitality he kept the one you lent me. You fellows can swap."

"Let Charterhouse have a pony out of your stable," directed Nickum. "On my account."

"Anything to please," agreed Studd and rose from the game. "Have a drink on me, boys. Heard about this horse business already."

"As how?" asked Charterhouse.

Studd lifted his immense shoulders. "It ain't my opinion, understand. It's only what I hear. Shander considered his horse was stolen and swore out a warrant for Sheriff Wolfert to execute."

"Let Wolfert try to trump a charge against a Box M man," said Nickum, all the fighting iron of his nature hardening the dogged face.

"Guess nobody knew he'd become one of your riders," suggested Studd, passing a bottle over the bar. "Don't think unkindly of me just because I broke the bad news to you. I know where my bread's buttered and I sure hope I never see the day when Box M is challenged. Empty the bottle. I'll run across and see about getting a horse."

They saw his burly frame cruise deliberately over the shade of the porch and on into the drenching sunlight of the open plaza. The saloon droned and those loitering men at the tables handled their cards with a futile laziness that was oppressive. Haggerty drank a second glass with a touch of nervousness and kept looking out upon the street. Seastrom chuckled.

"Something sort of reminds me of trouble smoking up."

"Never knew a yellow dog yet that would stand and fight," said Nickum. "We'll just stick around and find out if Wolfert wants to make an issue of this. I'd be pleased to have him declare his intentions."

Meanwhile Nero Studd strode through the stable, only checking his pace to throw an order at the roustabout.

"Put a saddle on the claybank, and I'll be back for it."

Going through the rear door, he swung to the right and walked the breadth of three buildings. Knocking briefly at the door of the fourth, he went into a small back room. Beef Graney and Sheriff Ike Wolfert were standing in it and shifted expectantly.

"What's on old John's mind?" asked Wolfert.

"He's took Charterhouse as a rider," said Studd. "That makes it bad. Gosh only knows how much Charterhouse learned at Shander's last night, or how much he's told Nickum. Looks to me as if our chance of getting the stranger out of the way is some slimmer. Would of been easy. Now that Nickum's back of him it ain't."

"That's why I ducked in here when I saw 'em ride up," said Wolfert. "I'll be boiled in grease afore I try to serve a warrant in front of Nickum. Damn Shander! Why'd he let Charterhouse get away?"

Graney's beefy cheeks stiffened. "Studd, there won't be any better time than now. You get me? Here they are, a long ways from help. No use of trying to smile it out. Nickum must have got warning about the ambush. There's some of Charterhouse's work, I'm betting. Well, why not do it now? Don't forget that—"

Studd held up a warning arm. "Don't mention any names, Graney. Not even to yourself. Dangerous. But your idea is good. And we can use Charterhouse's stolen horse to rig the business up right. Wolfert, you go around town, keeping out of sight, and drum up five or six boys. Post 'em around the saloon where they won't be seen. One in the stable. Another in front of Madame LeSeur's. I'll ease back to the saloon with a horse I promised Charterhouse and stick there. Graney, you go down and saddle up Charterhouse's original animal and ride into sight. Charterhouse will jump you about it in a minute. You produce a bill of sale—write one now and sign anybody's you want. He'll argue about it and then it is just a matter of what happens next. That clear?"

Graney nodded. "Suits me. I'll take care of Charter-house. But you be damned sure the others are blocked off and shot down."

Wolfert stirred uneasily. "What am I to do?"

"Come in a little ahead of Graney," decided Studd, "and argue with old John. When the shooting starts, just let him have it."

"How about Seastrom?"

Studd's stolid countenance turned almost sly. "Who would you suppose would finish the Swede? Use your head. All right, I'm going back. Give yourself fifteen minutes, Graney. Wolfert, you get busy now." He backed out of the room and returned through the stable, catching up the horse the roustabout had saddled. He left it in front of his saloon and entered. Upon the impassive, swarthy skin was not even a flimsy trace of the death sentence he had improvised and so shortly would add another weltering, grim chapter to a town already old in violence.

A faint beam of friendliness struggled through Studd's murky eyes, and the same heavy joviality was in his voice when he returned to the saloon.

"I'm giving you the claybank this time, Charterhouse. A stout horse. And, by the way, I'll pay off on your stolen rig whenever you say the word. I figured it was my fault in a way. Have another drink." Passing down the room, his foot struck a chair and he grumbled at the indolent players. "You boys have roosted here long enough. Go sleep some place else for a change."

Charterhouse, swift to detect subtle changes of human temperature, felt some strange current pass through the saloon. The men at the table rose and sauntered through the front door, leaving Studd's empty excepting for the saloonkeeper and the Box M quartet. Neither Nickum nor Haggerty appeared to draw out of their own thoughts, but Seastrom's flash of humor grew more brilliant and he dropped an eyelid to Charterhouse.

"Well, what next?"

Nickum pushed away the bottle. "Where's Wolfert?"

"Snoozing somewheres, I guess," said Studd. "No, here he comes now. Ike, step in."

Wolfert veered from the walk and stopped on the threshold. "Yeah? Hello, Nickum. Thought I heard—"

Nickum cut in brusquely. "I hear you carry a warrant for horse stealing."

Wolfert licked his lips. "That's right. Shander swore it for this gentleman"—indicating Charterhouse—"bright and early this morning."

"Going to serve it?"

"Well, John, you know I got to do what the law requires. No option on my part. I didn't swear out the warrant. Pm only sworn to carry out my duty."

Nickum snorted. "Taking your duty pretty serious lately, ain't you, Wolfert?"

"Don't like to hear you make insinuations," muttered Wolfert. "I have done my level best to cater to Box M. You got no call to say I ain't reasonable thataway."

"Charterhouse is under Box M protection," stated Nickum bluntly. "Your warrant is just a piece of paper, nothing more. Wouldn't advise you to draw it on him today or any other time."

"You're sure leaving me in a bad place, John. What'll Shander say?"

"Let him cook up another lie better'n this one. It's so rotten it stinks."

"That ain't for the to say," was Wolfert's surly response. "I ain't the judge."

Charterhouse stepped carefully away from the bar and pointed through the door. "What's the gentleman's name who's so polite as to ride my horse to town?"

"Graney, by golly," muttered Seastrom. And dead silence fell over the room. Graney rode into the saloon rack and slid idly to the ground. The black hide of Charterhouse's mount glistened under the sun and the silver corners of the fine acorn leaf saddle flashed brilliantly.

Charterhouse turned back to the group, graven-cheeked. His skin crawled with the shock of electric excitement; for the second time he found himself trying to penetrate Nero Studd's poker expression. Of the whole party, Haggerty alone seemed to display honest surprise. The foreman shifted uneasily, looking from the door back to Nickum and thence to Studd. Seastrom was rubbing the palms of his hands along the bar, producing a small squeaking sound that seemed to irritate both Haggerty and Wolfert. Both of them glowered at Seastrom, whereupon he laughed and broke the tension.

"Your horse?" challenged Nickum.

"Mine," drawled Charterhouse.

Graney had turned away from the rack and was walking off. Charterhouse, without haste, strolled out of the door and hailed the man, feeling the others come crowding after him.

"Just a minute, partner. You've got a piece of nice horseflesh there."

Graney whirled, almost too swiftly. Charterhouse's elbows crooked and stopped. Graney threw his own hands wide of his hips and growled, "Sure I have, and what of it?"

It was a pretty raw rig, Charterhouse reflected. A pretty crude way to bring on a scrap. Looking at the profusely sweating Graney, he wondered just how the cards lay. A man had popped into sight by the stable; and the men behind him were shifting. He wanted to turn and see where Studd and Wolfert were standing but didn't dare.

"Naturally," went on Charterhouse, slurring the words, "you've got a bill of sale for this gear?"

"Correct. I take a receipt for my money. If you stick around Casabella very long, you'll get that habit, too."

"A-huh. Well, let's see this bill of sale."

"What for?" demanded Graney, coming closer.

"You know the answer as well as I do," murmured Charterhouse. "But in order to play up to your game, I'll mention this is my horse and rig."

"Might have been. Ain't now."

"Beg to differ."

Graney went into his coat pocket and affected to have trouble finding a slip of paper that he finally flourished. Charterhouse took it and saw a formal bill of sale from one Ramon de Rio, signed with considerable of a flourish.

"Yeah. Legal and everything," drawled Charterhouse. "Who is this Ramon de Rio?"

Seastrom's amused reply cut over Charterhouse's shoulder. "That one, huh? Well, Beef, you sure picked a good one. Ramon's dead up in the rocks of Red Draw. He missed his shot at Nickum."

Charterhouse felt the effect of that statement. It audibly disturbed those back of him. Beef Graney dashed the sweat out of his eyes with a round oath. "What's that got to do with me? I paid for that horse. Yeah, I know it used to be yours, Charterhouse. Ramon bought it from you in town yesterday."

"Oh, you've got it worked out that complete?" said Charterhouse. "Too bad. It ain't the true facts, even if Ramon said so, which I'm inclined some to doubt."

"Be careful of your words," Graney warned him. "You'll stand accountable for them."

"Willing to," averred Charterhouse. "Now the next move seems to be up to me. Which I will make, according to rule. This is my horse. It always was, and it always will be. You've had your little ride in a white man's saddle and that's all you'll get."

"Stay away from that horse, Charterhouse!"

"Boys," broke in Wolfert. "I'll have no shooting around Angels. Take your troubles to the judge."

"Very noble," applauded Charterhouse. "Sorry I can't look around to congratulate your sentiments. Mister Graney, I intend to step slowly back to the horse, take the reins, and step aboard."

"When you touch the ribbons, you'll have to draw!" snapped Graney and tried again to clear the sweat out of his eyes. Charterhouse took a backward pace and halted. A rider came posting into Angels from the east, kicking up a high cloud of plaza dust. He cut across to the saloon and sprang down before the pony had completely stopped—Buck Manners. He showed his usual cheerful manner, but it was instantly repressed at sight of Graney and Charterhouse confronting each other so cagily.

"Now what?"

"A little dicker about horses," called Nickum. "Stay aside, Buck."

Manners scanned the plaza with a quick glance. "Listen, why fight? Let's get these fellows to talk it over and come to a peaceful—"

"Stay aside, Buck," repeated Nickum gruffly. "I'm waiting to see if a yellow dog will actually fight in the open. Get off your horse before somebody takes you for a target."

Manners stared at Graney. "You sure that's your horse, Beef?"

"I said it," retorted Graney, "and I ain't backing down now."

"All right. No objections from me. A free and open fight. Leave 'em alone, everybody." There was a rising ring of authority in his words. "Get out of range, Wolfert, you dummy."

"Say, Manners—"

"Shut up. If it's going to be a fight, I'll help see it's on the level."

"You touch that horse, Charterhouse," repeated Graney, furrows of worry coming to his forehead, "and you take a slug."

Charterhouse stepped deliberately back and whipped the dangling reins with his left hand, letting them drop the following instant. He had called Graney's bluff and across the interval he saw the heavy fellow's face, dripping wet, swing slowly from side to side, containing a mixture of puzzlement and anger. Quite obviously he had missed the fighting moment; during the delay he appeared to be struggling with unforeseen circumstances and trying to adjust himself to them. The crowd stood rooted, without a sound; Charterhouse never let his attention stray. Graney's eyes burned against him, increasingly intent, and Graney's body was pitched a little forward as if ready to send all his muscles into a mighty effort. Then Buck Manners laughed outright and said ironically, "Somebody get a camera and snap this comic opera. Charterhouse—"

Charterhouse turned his head slightly to catch Manners' face. Graney moved. His palm slapped against leather in the utter stillness. His rounding body plunged aside with the lift and explosion of his gun. Charterhouse, never moving out of his tracks, worked with the smoothness of an automatic machine and hardly was conscious of his draw until the smash of his own revolver beat against him and his wrist kicked back with the weapon's recoil. Graney stiffened, all his chubby face beaded in big globes of sweat; a leer of pain stamped his lips, but there was again the roar of a shot, and as the echo of it rocketed away into the droning heat of Angels, Graney emitted a cracked, forlorn cry and dropped straight down. Charter-house heard him mutter, "Manners!" and that was all.

The tendrils of gun smoke eddied into Charterhouse's nostrils. Swinging toward Manners he spoke in a dry, distant voice that seemed not his own. "Was you aiming to take my attention away from Graney when he was about to draw?"

Manners stared at the dead man with an unusual soberness. "Don't be a damned fool, Charterhouse. I wanted you to put up your gun. I would have covered him myself while we talked the business over. He knew he was on the poor end of the bluff and I don't think he wanted to go through with it. Sorry for the fellow, but it was his own making."

Charterhouse turned around. Seastrom and old John Nickum were standing shoulder to shoulder against the saloon wall. Haggerty was also against the wall but slightly removed from them. On the outer edge of the walk Studd and Wolfert were posted; so the opposing parties stood, saying nothing, watching for anything. At the far end of the street a man came suddenly around a building with a rifle half lifted and ducked back. Charterhouse challenged Wolfert.

"Any inclination to serve that warrant on me, Sheriff?"

"I'm trying to get along with you men," muttered Wolfert. "Don't make it hard for me. I ain't tried to serve no warrant, have I? Blamed if I don't think I'll turn in my star. Public official in this county just gets kicked from corner to corner. No thanks and plumb little pay."

Old John Nickum shot a coldly triumphant glance at Wolfert and Studd. "Why don't you go through with it? What's stopping you?"

"Through with what?" Studd wanted to know.

"Don't fake with me," snorted Nickum. "You had a killing ribbed up. I'm too old not to understand the signs. You boys are pretty crude in your ways. What's all those men posted around for? Reckon I ain't seen 'em waiting to get a fair shot? Hell, Studd, you're clumsy. Graney was the only one with guts enough to go through with his play. None of you others had sand enough to back him up."

"You still got me wrong," complained Studd and spread his broad paws outward.

"Looks to me," broke in Manners, "as if I was going to have to station about twenty of my men in this town to keep it straight. If you can't keep order, Wolfert, you'd better resign. It's a poor day when Angels turns against Box M. I've tried to maintain a fair and open place with the whole county, but I will not stand by and see John Nickum injured. First thing you know, Box M will come into Angels and give it a clean-up."

"Yellow dogs never fight in the open," boomed Nickum. "Come to the hotel, Buck, and let's transact our business."

The two of them strolled over to Madame LeSeur's. Twenty minutes later they came out again. Nickum found his party waiting for him in the shade of the stable.

"If the offer is still open," said Charterhouse, "I'll be glad to ride for Box M."

Nickum surveyed Charterhouse with manifest approval. "You bet the offer is open. I know a fighter when I see one. Let's go."

The four of them strung out of Angels leisurely. Haggerty was again paired off with the boss, sour face clamped around a chew of tobacco, never speaking and never looking aside. Seastrom chuckled and winked at Charter-house.

"Brother, you looked hard when you fronted Mister Graney. What I mean is you looked hard."

"Over and done with," said Charterhouse soberly.

"Better get that out of your coco. The ball's just started. And it will be hell on greased wheels. Casabella goes crazy at the smell of a little blood."