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Dave Denver and Al Niland stood at one corner of Grogan's hundred-foot bar and downed an after-dinner whisky neat, as was the custom. The men of Sundown drifted in, took their liquor, and swapped unhurried talk. Denver looked around the room, nodding here and there at ranchers he hadn't seen during the winter. Niland leaned closer.

"Did you see the same fellow I happened to see get off the third stage?"

"Stinger Dann?"

"The same," grunted Niland. "Since when's he taken to payin' fare?"

"Maybe he's run all his good horses to death," suggested Denver.

"Somebody's doin' a lot of night ridin', that's certain," mused Niland. "It's a funny thing how this county reacts to the hint of trouble. All winter we've been quiet. Nothing's happened much. All of a sudden folks get a little skittish and quit talkin' out loud. The underground telegraph starts workin'. Look around the room and see how many men are swappin' conversation real close together and tryin' to appear aboveboard. I never saw the signs fail. Pretty soon something will break loose."

"Which brings us back to Stinger Dann," drawled Denver. "He's enterin' for his liquor. Where's he been the last few weeks?"

Niland spared a short, quick glance at a man with a burly frame and raw-red cheeks cruising toward the bar; Stinger Dann was scowling straight ahead and paying heed to nobody, as was his characteristic way of moving through life.

"Looks nowhere and sees everything," muttered Niland. "I don't know where he's been holin' up, Dave. You tell me where Redmain's been, and I'll tell you where Dann's been. Same place. He's probably here to cover the interests of his beloved chief in the Association meeting."

Dave Denver chuckled. "That would be just the nervy thing Lou Redmain might think of."

"There was some trouble over beyond Sky Peak a week ago. Will Wire's men ran into lead one night when they was crosscuttin' their range for home."

Denver considered the news thoughtfully. "That's gettin' a little closer to Sundown, ain't it? Usually the boys do their stealin' farther off."

"The time may come when we'll have to do some shootin' on our own account," prophesied Niland.

"Let's wait till the wolf howls first. All I seem to hear at present is a lot of bear talk. Enter Mister Steers, looking very sad. Which foot did the horse step on, Steve?"

"Aw, hell," grunted Steve and reached for a bottle.

"Expressive but vague," was Niland's ironic comment. "Somebody must of hurt your feelin's to the extent of offerin' you a job."

The compact, sandy-haired Steve Steers drank his potion and shuddered. "I don't never seem to get a break, men. Consider this item. I shore want to take in the show tonight, just for old time's sake. But Debbie's off up in Mogul country with her folks on a visit so I can't take her. And if I dared go to see Lola Monterey alone I never would hear the last of it. Nossir, I never seem to get a break."

"Wear false whiskers," suggested Niland.

"They'd fall off," mournfully remarked Steve Steers. "That's my luck. And somebody like Miz Jim Coldfoot would see me and go tell Debbie."

"Love," reflected Niland judicially, "is a mighty purifier of mortal man."

Denver, standing slightly aside and watching Steve out of grave eyes, drawled idly, "Depends on the man, Al. I reckon love would have to be some stronger than hydrochloric acid to purify Steve."

"Love," said Mister Steers. "Ha-ha."

Niland winked discreetly at Denver. "After you're married, Steve, it'll be better."

"Or worse," groaned Steve. "Let's have another drink of this here panther spit."

Stinger Dann was walking flat-footedly away from the bar. In the center of the room he threw a quick glance back to where Dave Denver stood, and his rude, cold eyes seemed to contain a definite challenge. So marked was the gesture that a lull came to Grogan's saloon, and two men standing beyond Dann moved out of range. Denver never stirred. A flare of stronger light flickered up to meet the gunman's challenge, and the rugged features hardened perceptibly. Dann moved on and left the saloon.

"That had all the earmarks of an opening play," said Niland quietly. "Didn't I tell you things was smokin' up hereabouts?"

"Let 'em smoke," mused Denver. "I'm mindin' my own business and having a good time doing it. Maybe I won't always be doin' that, but we'll wait and see."

Cal Steele rolled into the saloon. He marched up to his partners with a flashing, nervous smile. "Well, congratulate me."

"Where yuh been?" demanded Steve Steers.

"Reviving some very pleasant memories," said Steele. He poured himself a drink and tipped the glass to the rest, standing quite erect; undeniably he had a carriage and a polish to him the others lacked. Somewhere along an unknown and carefully concealed past he had lived in gentle and scholarly surroundings, and the reflection of it was on his manners, his acts, and on the features that so easily shifted from high gayety to most bitter cynicism. "I drink, boys, to beauty, to talent, to the eternal flame that is woman—to Lola Monterey!"

Both Niland and Steers looked a little anxiously at the unsmiling Denver. But he nodded his head. "As usual, Cal, you get closer to the actual truth than any man I ever knew. You have described Lola. She is just that."

Cal put down his glass and laid an arm on Denver's shoulder. "And what good does truth do pie, or fine talk? You spoil the game for all of us, Dave. She sent me here. She wants to see you."

Denver's eyes smiled. "And that is a command."

"Association meetin' in a few minutes," grumbled Niland, frowning at Steele.

"I'll see you there," said Denver and went out. Niland spoke his mind to Steele. "Been better if you hadn't brought such a message. Dave ain't the man to cool his feet in Lola's string. They ain't the same kind of people at all."

But Cal Steele shook his head thoughtfully. "I know Lola. She's my kind. Up in the clouds, down in the mud, never still, never happy, easy angered, easy hurt. And"—he looked up—"though she is the most selfish woman in the world, she would give her life for a man she wanted to love. Sounds a little odd, doesn't it, boys? I know. She's my kind. And I happen to know she wants Dave."

"Get out," snorted Steve.

"She told you?" asked Niland skeptically.

"I'm not blind," murmured Cal Steele, face darkly shadowed. "Though I wish I were sometimes. I want her myself. Damned funny, isn't it? Let's drink to Dave and Lola."

Some of the more impatient ranchers were already aiming for the opera house, which had been designated as the meeting place for the Association, when David Denver swung toward the hotel. He heard one of them say rather angrily, "I don't give a damn who it is or how strong his wild bunch may be, we've got to stop it. There's too many people riding around in the dark. If they ain't disposed to sleep at night, then, by the eternal, we'd better give 'em somethin' that'll induce a permanent sleep." But this party seemed the only talkative one; the others were moodily silent, saving their words for formal delivery. Denver's glance swept Sundown slowly and deliberately as he advanced, and his mind registered this and that detail with a photographic distinctness that would, in moments of leisure, serve to help him build up his shrewd judgment of people and events. Stinger Dann had taken post against a wall of the Palace, shaded by the overhanging gallery. By the stable the Ysabel Junction stage was making up for a return trip. Eve Leverage stepped boyishly out of a dry-goods store and smiled at the world. Denver went into the hotel and climbed the stairs with a cloudy restlessness on his cheeks. Swinging down the hall he paused at Number One—the best room of the house—and heard Lola humming huskily inside. For one long interval he stared at the floor; then knocked. The humming stopped, the girl's voice rose with an eager, throaty "come in." Denver pushed the door before him, stepped through, and closed it.

He could not realize as he paused there, studying her with half a frown, rebellious hair tousled on his head, and a somber flare of emotion in the deep wells of his eyes, that he was the exact and unchanged picture of the man she had carried with her for three years; nor could he know that his blunt, "Here I am, Lola," was the exact phrase she felt David Denver would greet her with. But he did know that the old-time belle of the Palace had become a mature beauty. She stood in the center of the room, fine lacework clinging to her breast, jet hair tied severely back, and her lips pursed upon a smile or a cry. A mature beauty, yet still the same vital Lola Monterey, still with a queer, unfathomed glow in those eyes dusted with velvet coloring. She tipped her chin, laughed softly, and then caught her lip between her teeth.

"Here you are, David. You were scowling when I went away. You are scowling now. Is that all you have for me?"

"I suppose other men have told you that you're beautiful, Lola?"

"I suppose. But I have never listened to men as I listen to you. You know that."

"Then I'll say it. Something's rounded you out. There's something inside that body of yours—"

"Misery, maybe. They say it is good for people." She came over to him, brushed her finger tips across her own mouth and placed them on Denver's cheeks. "From me to you. That is my welcome—as I think you know it would always be. I have heard a thousand gallant speeches from men whose gallantry I doubted. It is good to know one man I never have to doubt—and wouldn't doubt even if I had reason. Come, sit down." She put an arm through his elbow and led him to a chair, then crossed and sat facing him.

"You have not changed," she went on swiftly. "And I'm glad—and sorry."

His face cleared and a piece of a smile came to his eyes. "That sounds just like you."

"Well, isn't it nice to come home and find the same landmarks? That makes me happy. But you are still stormy, still unhappy, still savage with yourself. That makes me sad."

"Let's talk about you for a change, Lola."

She shook her slim head so vigorously that the jade earrings danced against the satin of her skin. "Let other men talk about me. You and I—we will talk about you. You know about me—all about me. There is nothing to add for these three years. I am still that hungry little girl of the Palace whose body never grew up to her temper. You have prospered, David?"

"The ranch has grown," he admitted.

"You have a big ranch house now, facing down Starlight Canyon—and you sit on the porch at night and look across the prairie, alone."

"Who told you that?" demanded Denver.

"I made Cal Steele tell me everything that had happened to you in three years. I know about that scar on your cheek, I know about the arm you broke, the battles you have fought. So I have the history of David Denver, cattleman, gentleman. From poor Cal, who wanted to talk of himself and me."

"Cal," said Denver, "is the best friend I ever hope to have. He's in love with you, Lola. You couldn't find a better man—"

Her swift smile interrupted him. "You will not get rid of me that easy, David!"

Suddenly the old temper returned to him. His big hands closed. "Why did you run away, Lola?"

The answer came swift and straight. "Because I loved you too much!"

"Then why in God's name have you returned?"

"Because," said she just above a whisper, "because I loved you too much."

"We were better off apart. All the struggle and misery—"

Instantly she was fire and flame. "Don't I know? You were born to hurt me. You always will. And I will always try to find a smile in your unhappy eyes! Always, even when you have cut my pride to pieces! I am just a beggar, asking for something I think I never will get! Lola Monterey doing that! David, my dear, there's no woman born who will ever be able to hold you. No woman will ever be able to smooth away that sadness and bitterness. But—"

She caught her breath and watched him. He said nothing; only looked steadily back to her.

"—but I have been able to make you forget yourself and think of me, just for little spells of time. I can lift you to me, make you smile. That is enough for me—it is more than another woman has done. You see—I still hope."

He rose, speaking gently. "I reckon I'd cut off my arm rather than hear you say that. You've got beyond Sundown now, Lola. Tonight you'll play for us. Tomorrow you'll be gone. And that will be the end, for us. I'll not be seeing you again. I remember Lola Monterey of the Palace, and I don't think I want to see Lola Monterey of—"

"You will be there tonight, David," she broke in softly. "I know you better."

"If so, I'll not be near enough to say goodbye. So I'll say it now."

But she shook her head. "No. Tonight I sing. Tomorrow the company goes on without me. I am staying here, David. I have thought about it for a year. It is arranged. I think I might go higher still in my work. I love it. But I love something else better, and so Sundown is home for me again."

"You are making a mistake."

She came toward the door and touched his arm with the tip of her fingers. "I am always making them, David. I always will. Didn't I say I was a beggar? Beggars cannot be choosers. When I am hurt, which is so often, I must smile and think that I came from nothing and should be glad. Who wants to see Lola Monterey crying? But I often wonder what happiness is like. Perhaps some day I shall know, perhaps not. Now go along. And, tonight, when you hear me sing, remember that I sing to you."

The gentle pressure of her fingers put him in the hall. He had a glimpse of her velvet eyes, round and shining, and then the door closed, and he walked heavily down the stairs to the street. Somebody spoke to him. Colonel Fear Langdell dropped in step, talking crisply. "Let's get the ball rolling. I have been waiting around for you. Expect you to influence a great many of the weak hearted, Dave. In fact, I expect you to take the leadership in a disagreeable chore. Men will ride for you who wouldn't ride for anybody else."

The two passed into the opera house, and thus engaged Denver failed to see Eve Leverage pass in a rig driven by Joe Peake. But Eve had seen him come out of the hotel just as she had seen him go in previously. And she knew where he had spent the intervening minutes. Sitting very straight and sober beside Peake, she stared bleakly across the sloping hills, saying to herself over and over again, "That old story about them is true. It is true, all of it. But what difference does it make? I don't care—I don't care! I can't find fault with David!"

There were about sixty men in the opera house, part of them owners, part of them foremen, and a few belonging to the more responsible trading element of Sundown. Niland and Steele and Steers were sitting together, and as Denver took a seat beside them Niland bent a rather ironic glance at him. "The vested interests of this county," he whispered cynically, "are on their ears. Bet you ten dollars Langdell mentions the sacred rights of the Constitution and the sanctity of property." Dave Denver nodded and swept the assembled men gravely. They were not talking much; they were sitting rather stiffly upright, jaws set and arms folded. This was the attitude of people who already had settled their minds and arrived at conclusions. Denver knew that no matter what argument developed and no matter what minority opposition rose, the Association would come to but one decision. That thought caused him to frown stubbornly. It was a part of his lonely, rebellious nature to despise mass action. He hated the manner in which the big cattlemen had so cannily and insistently pressed their will on the rank and file, had brought pressure to bear upon the smaller owners, had circulated rumors and hair- raising tales about outlawry until the whole region, from Sky Peak to the Rim and from Ysabel Flats to the Mogul Hills was astir with fear and excitement. His dominant individualism detested all this, and he stared unfavorably at Colonel Fear Langdell as the latter rose on the stage and lifted a rather imperious hand.

"This being a special meeting of the Association," said Langdell in a cold clipped voice, "I suggest we dispense with roll call and minutes."

The motion was put and passed. Al Niland moved restlessly and grunted. He had crossed swords with Langdell, also a lawyer, in court many times, and he had little love for the man. Langdell, involved in all kinds of land deals and commercial enterprises, never failed to represent the close conservatism of the county and seldom let an opportunity pass to call Niland a firebrand. Standing on the stage, stiff and spare and confident, Langdell turned his sharp, shrewd face around the hall to build up an expectant silence. Into this silence he placed his words like sharp javelins.

"Perhaps as presiding officer I ought not assume the right of expressing the purpose of this meeting. But I feel we are all conscious that the sense of the meeting is to come immediately to one question and settle it for once and all. And I shall take the liberty of saying that question is—what are we going to do about the damnable and increasingly arrogant banditry of the crooked elements that infest Yellow Hill County? For two years we have sat still and let outlawry grow under the false sentiment that every man is entitled to his fling before settlin' down. I say false sentiment because those kind of men never settle down. Property is property whether fixed in a building or moving on hoof. The owner's right is absolute and never should be violated. What is the record for the past two years? Four men shot down, approximately a thousand head of stock lost, banditry organized, and every trail and stage road in the county made unsafe for peaceable riders. There have been three stage hold-ups and one driver murdered because he had the guts to resist, and I say we ought to build a monument to that kind of a fellow. Instead of that, what do we do? We catch a few isolated rustlers, a sentimental jury tries them and lets them out to rustle again. Well, what are we going to do about it?"

"He forgot the Constitution," whispered Niland humorously. Cal Steele slumped in his seat with closed eyes and a faint boredom on his face. Fleabite Wilgus, enormously wealthy operator of the Gate ranch, was on his feet and talking in a whining voice few could hear. Threadbare and dirty, he appeared to worse advantage than the most shiftless rider around Sundown. One of his phrases reached through the room.

"I'm a kindly man, as everybody knows. But if I had my way I'd give no shrift to a caught rustler, and I wouldn't waste the time of bringin' him to jail. That's me."

Steve Steers leaned indignantly forward and muttered. "Kindly, is he? Say, I worked on his spread a week and I wouldn't repeat for all the money on God's footstool. Actually, he counted out the sugar for the table and fired one cook for cookin' three slices extra bacon."

"My boy," said Niland sardonically, "you don't understand the humble duty of a wealthy man toward his wealth. It's a sacred trust."

Leverage was up and wasting no words. Everybody liked Leverage and listened carefully. "When I was twenty years younger in this country we didn't have any law, and we did have a pack of trouble makers. There was just one way of gettin' at the solution, which was rope and gun. I'm frank to say I didn't much like it, for some fairly good men got strung up with the bad ones, and I was mighty glad to see the legal way come to Yellow Hill. I still prefer the legal way—when it works. But it don't seem to be workin' very good now, and it hasn't for some time. I cast no reflections on judges or law officers, but I'm frank to say there always seems to be one man on a jury who'll hang it and I've got my own private opinions as to how that occurs. So, since influences outside the law get around justice, my belief is that influences outside the law must bring justice back. In case that ain't plain enough, I mean vigilantes!"

There was a sharp and instant applause. Somebody yelled, "And hangin' on the spot of capture!"

Leverage looked thoughtful. "I suppose so. I dislike takin' life thataway. But one or two heavy doses of medicine will go a long way toward doin' away with the necessity of a ridin' committee. After that, let us confine our job to catchin' and provin' a rustler guilty, and let the court pronounce sentence."

Fee, of the Flying F spoke briefly. Short-ridge, another large owner, was just as brief but a great deal more vehement. Then there was a lull in which Fear Langdell waited for further war talk. Denver realized that Langdell expected some fighting speech that would weld everybody together and actually put the vigilante proposal into enthusiastic commission. Leverage, by his slight touch of reasonable hesitancy, had just missed setting off the spark, and the increasing delay served somehow to dampen the meeting. Langdell looked about to find the proper man. His eyes lighted on Denver.

"Dave, you've been silent a long while. Get up and say your mind."

"I'm listenin'," drawled Denver.

"Let others do the listenin'," countered Langdell impatiently. "We expect you to talk."

Denver rose, feeling the eyes of his three partners boring into him curiously. Niland had turned nervous, and Steve Steers hitched forward; but Cal Steele had a queerly set cast to his cheeks and had dropped his pose of sleepiness.

"Maybe you expect me to talk," stated Denver coolly, "but you can't expect me to follow the piper. I'm not built that way. Granting most of your bear talk to be true, and granting the necessity for fighting back, I'm sorry to say I can't see this vigilante stuff and won't be a party to it."

"Why not?" snapped Langdell angrily.

"If a man rustled me," went on Dave, "I'd personally go out and hunt him, and I'd personally settle the account. I wouldn't ask anybody else to do it. I wouldn't shove such a chore on the shoulders of a whole community. I wouldn't ask another man to be my catspaw, and I'm damned if I'll be catspaw for a few men who are well able to keep their own range clean."

"Afraid of lead, uh?" demanded Langdell sarcastically.

"You know my record better," said Dave softly, "and I take exception to the remark. Are you willing to stand accountable for it, Colonel Langdell?"

The drawling question fell flatly across the utter silence. Rather abruptly Langdell made amends. "I did not mean that personally, Denver. But you make a mistake. This is not a one-man affair. The whole country is interested."

"I'm not. None of my beefs been borrowed. For that matter, nobody within ten miles of Sundown's been bothered. The night ridin' so far is all across Sky Peak. Why don't the gentlemen yonder do their own hangin'? I say I don't understand all the steam and smoke certain parties have been throwin' out lately. This vigilante business is too dangerous. Ridin' committees never know when to quit, and they don't always use good judgment. I'll admit the stage robberies hit nearer home—but that is distinctly a matter for the sheriff. And if the present one doesn't work, why not get another? That's also a matter that gets me to wonderin'."

A voice from the back of the room boomed out. "By God, I don't know as I'll accept them remarks, Denver!"

It was the sheriff, Magnus Ortez. Denver turned to him. "You're a public official and open to public discussion, Ortez. And I never make a remark I'm not willing to stand by."

He had touched off the long-suppressed anger of the aggrieved ranchers and the warlike ones. The opera house began to sing with the rising clamor. Here and there Denver saw men who sat still and refused to join, but he felt he had played into Langdell's hand unconsciously, had served as a whip. Langdell was tightly triumphant and shouted another question:

"You believe in coddlin' these outlaws, uh? You believe in lettin' crookedness get by?"

"I believe in mindin' my own business until other people won't let me. I run my affairs. Let others do the same. As for crooks, that's an open question. Quite a few very respectable citizens in the West made their strictly honest fortune out of a half-dozen stray cattle. I don't consider myself any fit judge of honesty. Put up a million dollars for the man able to take it—and who will be so damned honest then? You wanted to hear me talk—and you got your wish."

"I move," shouted a voice, "we establish a vigilante committee and name a leader who is to choose his own men, work in his own way, and receive our full sanction and support!"

"Second!"

"Vote it!"

They rose to vote. Denver and his three partners kept their seats: Steers a little awkward but absolutely loyal to Denver; Niland contemptuous of the whole affair; Cal Steele with his eyes closed and his face entirely passive. Niland muttered, "They are as crazy as loons!"

"Passed!" shouted Langdell. "And I make this motion, even if it is not my place to do so! I move Jake Leverage to be ridin' boss of the vigilantes with absolute authority and all our resources to call on!"

"Vote it!"

Leverage's voice rose futilely against the rising tumult. The Association, with at last a course of aggressiveness suggested, let itself go.

"Stampede!" whooped Niland, grinning.

"Everything said about outlaws here today is right," muttered Denver, "but there's something rotten about it, and I can't seem to get straightened out. All I know is I'll be no party to it."

Cal Steele opened his eyes and said briefly, "You're right, Dave."

"I do what you boys do," affirmed Steers. "All the same to me."

The clamor subsided. Leverage was on his feet. "I didn't ask for this," he said. "I don't like the responsibility, either. But I'm not the kind to bellyache and then lay down when my hand's called. All I want to say is I'll go through to the best of my ability, and I'll gather my men. I want your support. And I don't want any of you fellows to be unfriendly with me, even if you don't approve my course. I'll be as fair as I can."

"As fair as the pack will let him be," muttered Denver, and turned out of the hall. "I hate to see old Jake Leverage the goat," he told the others when they came abreast of him.

An elderly man hurried up and spoke quietly to Denver. "I'd of gone in if you had," said he. "But you changed my mind, as well as a few others. So just remember, you've got support."

"Thanks," said Denver and studied the street.

Stinger Dann still stood under the Palace gallery, sullen and indifferent. The sight of him roused Denver's thoughts to a different angle, and he began to look more carefully about him. There was a strange rider loitering by the blacksmith shop, and another man he knew only by reputation posted at Grogan's. The arrangement of the three drew his brows together.

"I think it's time for a drink," suggested Niland.

Cal Steele roused himself from his distrait moodiness. "Any time's time for a drink."

Meems and Wango were conferring earnestly at the entrance to Grogan's, and Meems winked heavily at Denver. "It ain't possible, it ain't even natural, but the fact remains, nev'less."

"All right," agreed Denver, "I'll bite. What is it?"

"That Englishman's got a name that's the original stem-winder of all monickers I ever heard. It takes two to git a bit on it. Ready, Pete?"

"Ahuh, shoot!"

Meems drew a deep breath. "Almaric—"

"St. Jennifer—" lisped Wango in turn.

"Crèvecoeur—"

"Nightingale!"

Cal Steele repeated it rather gently to himself. "Almaric St. Jennifer Crèvecoeur Nightingale. His father and mother loved him. Where'd you find out, Buck?"

"It's on the hotel register," asseverated Meems. "Took two lines to get it all in."

"I think," crooned Cal Steele, "we shall have to conduct a surgical operation on that name and get it down to homely Western proportions. He may stay with us a while, and I doubt if Sundown could clamp its jaws around the original." He closed his eyes a moment, smiling faintly. "Yes, indeed. The inevitable contraction would be—Jenny's Nighty."

The group howled. Denver chuckled and looked up at the mention of his name. Dr. Williamson drew alongside the walk with his buckboard. "Dave, you going toward your ranch pretty soon?"

"I thought I might stay over here tonight," replied Denver. "But if there's anything you want just ask it."

The doctor, weathered and lined with the years of his service, took a decent chew of tobacco. "Well, one of Fee's riders was coming along Copperhead River and saw old man Jesson across the stream. Jesson spelled 'doctor' in the air with his hands, the river makin' too much noise to hear a thing. So the rider came right to me. I calculate it's Jesson's wife needing me. It's about time. Copperhead's pretty high, and I might not be able to ford it, but I don't want to waste time by taking the twenty-mile detour to the bridge. If I could get some help I might—"

"Right with you," said Denver, and motioned for Steve Steers. "Let's sift. We'll be back in time for the show."

Together they crossed to the stable for their horses and then followed Doc Williamson down Prairie Street to the rolling ridges beyond. Denver looked back once. Stinger Dann was staring at him. The two others—those Denver had noticed stationed by the stable and Grogan's—were drifting toward the gunman. Some sort of signal passed between the three. Then they disappeared into the Palace.

"Layin' for somebody," mused Denver. His jaws hardened. "Possibly me. They shall have their chance tonight."