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The little man of the olive skin who faded so successfully into the background of Sundown sat on a bench by the Palace and smoked his black paper cigarette puff at a time. He looked up to the large stars, thinking whatever sly and secretive thoughts his little head permitted; and he looked again to the dusty, lamp-patterned street and saw Steve Steers enter town. Very carefully the little man pinched out his smoke, crouched back, and waited. Steers went directly to the bank, tapped on the window, and was let in; five minutes later Steers came out, teetered between the restaurant and Grogan's, and succumbed to obvious temptation. The little man rose, crossed the street by a dark lane, and followed into the saloon, slouching against a wall. Steers was drinking. Beside him stood Al Niland, another citizen the little man found time to watch. The two were talking. The little man sidled forward.

"Can't I drink?" Steve was asking Niland.

"Don't baptize yourself in it again," warned Niland.

Grogan leaned over the bar in his striped silk shirt sleeves. "As a personal favor to me, Steers, go light on the liquor and I'll supply it free."

"It ain't worth the price, even gratis," observed Steve and won for himself a black regard. "Money in the bank. I wonder who gets it all?"

"What money?" asked Niland.

"I'm a regular Wells-Fargo messenger," muttered Steve mysteriously. "I brought a telegram today from the Junction to Storm. Code, accordin' to the station agent. Money comin' to the bank."

"Don't spend any of it here," warned Grogan. "That last jamboree won't bear repeatin'. I took all I ever will from you. We'll consider the slate clean. But don't try it no more. Just accept the advice of a kindly spirit. What money was you talkin' about?"

"Fatherly," grunted Steve. "You'd put a knife in me if yuh could, Grogan. I know. But don't worry. I didn't say it was my money, did I? It's the bank's, or will be when it comes Saturday."

Niland found a dozen interested listeners roundabout. He jogged Steve's elbow. "You've got no right peddlin' the contents of private telegrams, Steve. That applies double to bank affairs. Don't you know? Hush up and come get a steak."

"What's the harm?" Steve wanted to know. "Bank's a public institution. Money's common currency."

"Just so," agreed Niland. "Sometimes too commonly current. Ever hear the story about the man that held up the stage? Listen, are you coming after that steak or do I bring it to you in a sling shot?"

There was some friendly wrangling between them. The little man drank his glass down to the last neat drop, paid for it, and slid out of Grogan's just as inconspicuously as he had entered. On the street he paused to relight his black paper cigarette. Impulse, or perhaps a cautious desire to check what he heard, turned him toward the bank. Passing it he squinted through the window and saw Ed Storm locking up; a little farther on he drifted against Steve's horse and tentatively rubbed the animal's chest, feeling the crust of sweat and dirt. With these gleanings he drifted down an alley, skirted the back of the Palace and ascended upon Langdell's stairway. He listened, applied his eye to the keyhole, tapped discreetly. Langdell didn't call but the little man entered anyhow, with one swift and sliding motion.

Langdell looked up from his desk. The little man murmured, "You want me, Colonel?"

"No. Get out. I'm busy."

"Thought you wanted me."

Langdell straightened, slipped off his eyeshade and motioned the little man to stand farther from the windows. "Well, if you've got something let's hear it."

"Why should I?" parried the little man and fastened a hungry glance on Langdell's bottle locker. It seemed to be a ceremony Langdell had to endure. He nodded his head and the little man indulged himself in a full glass. "But I do know somethin'," he added. "Steers is in town."

"Not worth the drink," said Langdell. "I'd found it out myself soon enough."

"Him and Niland has got their heads together at Grogan's."

"What of it?"

"Steers is publishin' the fact he carried a telegram to Ed Storm. Money bein' shipped in Saturday."

"That telegram," grunted Langdell, "is always in code. How does he know? What right's he got to talk about it if he does know? Blabbin' is a fool caper. It's the bank's business."

"I thought I'd tell."

"Well, don't keep runnin' to me with stuff I can't use."

"You don't want me to see Redmain pretty soon?" persisted the little man.

"No," said Langdell. "Get out." He swung his chair back to the desk and bent his head. His pen made a flourish and stopped in the air; kicking the chair around again he stared at the little man who stood like a shadow in the corner. "What put that in your mind?" snapped Langdell.

"What?"

"Don't bluff. You know Redmain very well, don't you?"

"Not bein' allowed to talk much," said the little man, "I use my eyes and ears considerable."

"You think he'd try that?"

"He's et raw meat and likes the taste of it," averred the little man. "He might try this, if he was told to. Mebbe would anyhow, told to or not."

"You're too cursed wise," said Langdell, frowning. "You know too much."

"If you want him to, I had better go see him. If you don't want him to, I better see him also. What am I to do?"

Langdell rose and poured himself a drink; when he lifted his face a cold, sea-green light flashed against the lamp rays. "He's eaten too much raw meat to be of much use to me these days. I'll have to talk to him. Say nothing about the money. Tell him I'll be at the Fish Creek crossing Friday. He's to be there."

"I thought you might want to see him," said the little man and slipped away. The door closed soundlessly, leaving Langdell in the center of the room, frowning at his empty glass.

As for the little man, he found his horse in a back shed and rode out of Sundown. Twice he turned, shifted direction, and curled back on his trail. He came to a bridge but avoided it and forded the creek at a dark eddy. More than an hour from Sundown he caught the flicker of camp light and approached it directly. There was no hesitation about him, no groping. One moment he stood in the dangerous outer darkness; next moment he was stepping down from the saddle beside the fire, gravely eying the men who sprang up.

"The chief?" he murmured, comforting himself with a cigarette. There was a long delay. Men murmured; a soft call went out. Boots slid around the little man; Redmain stepped into sight.

"Some of these days," said Redmain, "you're going to get shot so full of holes you won't hold baled hay. You sift in here too easy. How did you know I'd changed camp?"

"I knew," said the little man and held his peace.

"What's up?"

"This is news," said the little man. "There is money coming to the bank. And a certain person wants to see you at the Fish Creek crossin'."

"He told you to tell me about the money?" demanded Redmain, interest sharpening his face.

"No. I'm tellin' you about the money. You want to know things, don't you?"

Redmain put out his arm and hauled the little man nearer the light. He studied the passive face carefully. "You're a nosey little rat. Who told you about any money?"

"Overheard Steers tellin' it," remarked the little man. "He brought a message from the Junction to Storm at the bank. It was in the saloon. Steers was drinkin' a little."

"Pay-day money," reflected Redmain and seemed to harden with suspicion. "But what's Steers got to do with it?"

"Couldn't say. I felt his horse. Seemed likely he'd come from the Junction, though. Horse crusted some with sweat and prairie grit."

"When is this to be?"

"Money comes Friday. He wants to see you at Fish Creek crossin' Saturday."

Redmain moved his head. The little man got on his horse and merged with the night, not realizing he had twisted his dates.

Redmain stood by the fire a long while afterward, looking into the heart of the flickering coals. "I don't trust him, and I don't trust Langdell," he muttered. "I don't trust anybody. But if that is true, by the livin' Judas, I'll wring Sundown dry before I set it ablaze. Here—Hugo, Slats, Mexico—come over here. I want you to ride tonight."

The men came nearer. Redmain spoke in quick phrases. "If this is bait, I'll find out. One of you camp near Nightingale's all day tomorrow and until Friday afternoon. Keep an eye open for riders movin' away. Hugo, do that. Slats, same around the Denver outfit. Mexico, ride on the hill above Sundown and see if that joint gets heavy with any undue population."

"Leverage?" queried one of the men.

"Leverage's out," stated Redmain. "And I'll do the thinkin' for this camp. Go on, you men. If it's straight, we're due for a young fortune—and a bonfire like you never have seen before!"

"How do yuh feel?" inquired Lyle Bonnet, facing Denver in the big room of the D Slash house.

"That's the fourth time you've asked me in the last half hour," said Denver. "I look sound, don't I? Well, that's the way I feel."

"I wish yuh didn't limp thataway," muttered Bonnet, "and I wish that left arm wasn't tied in no sling. It's bound to affect yore speed."

"If you keep harpin' on disaster much longer, Lyle, I'll tie crêpe on your arm. Stop squintin' out of the window. What do you see, anyhow?"

"A blamed dark day," gloomed Bonnet. "It's goin' to rain before night. That mebbe don't mean a thing, but it's funny it should cloud up just before we move against Redmain."

"The sooner dark falls tonight the better."

"Yeah? Say, do yuh realize that this is Friday and it falls on the thirteenth? I ain't got a lick of superstition in me, but I don't see the necessity of goin' outa our way to borrow trouble."

"Get out of here before you break down and cry," said Denver. He looked at his watch. "Time to roll the ball. I guess we're organized right. There's ten men along the Copperhead on roundup. Seven out draggin' the Little Bull Canyon for strays. Four left here. Five scouting for sign of Redmain. That's twenty-six. The three boys that took their walkin' papers brings it to twenty- nine. All of 'em nicely scattered. That's the big point, Lyle. We can't go toward Sundown in a bunch. You managed to get word to the fellows on scout?"

"They're to drift toward Sundown," said Lyle Bonnet, "and meet in the timber back of Lola Monterey's house. Ahuh."

"That's right. The seven in Little Bull Canyon will wait until dusk and ride for the same place. But the bunch on the Copperhead will come to the ranch, eat supper, and walk around the yard. Then sift off one by one. We can get away with that. If anybody's watchin' us from the brush they won't be the wiser, for there'll be about five to stay behind and act as a sort of blind. We should all be behind Lola's house by eight o'clock and ready to move."

"Leavin' them five behind pulls us down to twenty-four," observed Bonnet. "And if I can't get in touch with Gallup and Limerick Lane durin' the afternoon that'll reduce us to twenty- two. Ain't enough."

"Plenty, if things go right," returned Denver.

"Supposin' things don't go right," Bonnet wanted to know.

"Did you ever hear of anything absolutely sure and certain in this crooked universe, Lyle?"

"Death an' taxes," grumbled Bonnet. "And the trickiness of Lou Redmain."

"Time for you to pull out. When you get to the Copperhead, send one man over to Nightingale's and tell Steve to be behind Sundown by seven o'clock."

"That helps," said Bonnet. "How are yuh feelin'?"

"Get out of here!"

Bonnet departed. Denver took up a slow tramp about the room, trying to work the stiffness from his muscles; trying to suppress the wild impatience feeding into his veins.

Hank Munn, who had been dispatched by Lyle Bonnet to warn Steve, reached Nightingale's about noon and found the home part of the crew eating. Both Nightingale and Steve were at the table and Munn drew up a chair willingly. Not until he had quieted his appetite and risen from the table did he speak of business, and then it was in a very casual way.

"We got nine o' yore strays held out for yuh, Steve."

"I'll send a couple hands right over," said Steve and idly walked with Munn to the latter's horse. Munn swung up, observed that they were beyond earshot, and murmured, "Denver says to be in the little clearin' above Lola Monterey's house around seven o'clock tonight. That's all." And he rode away.

Steve built himself a cigarette and walked for the porch. En route, he called two of his men over and told them to lope after the strays. Then he settled himself on the porch steps and waited until Nightingale came from the table.

"I think," mused Steve, "I had ought to hit Sundown this aft'noon."

"You're the boss," agreed Nightingale.

"I mebbe won't be back till late."

Nightingale stuffed his pipe, azure glance flickering along the back of the foreman's neck. "The world will meanwhile toss along its accustomed orbit," he observed.

"In fact, I dunno just when I will be back."

Nightingale's match waved gently across the pipe bowl. There was a prolonged silence. "One would infer," the Englishman presently reflected, "that the nature of your business is vague to the border of doubt."

"Ahuh," said Steve. "Just so, only more so."

"One is led to wonder," proceeded the Englishman with the same indifferent calm, "whether or not there might be some mystical connection between the D Slash gentleman's arrival and your departure."

"Was it that plain?" grunted Steve, turning to his boss. Alarm showed on his face.

"Not so," said the Englishman. "I was merely applying the ineluctable law of physics. Action and reaction. The little pebble dropped into the pool produces ripples that run their concentric course."

"No doubt yore right," agreed Steve. "Anyhow, it sounds like it ought to be somethin' swell."

"Old fellow," said the Englishman, "don't be so dashed shy. Y'know, you are not as hard to read as a Babylonian tablet. Two and two do not always make four, but it is a safe thing to count it so. I should not wish to pry into your affairs, but I will remind you I liked Denver. And I've had no huntin', no fishin' durin' the age of an extr'ord'n'ly mature coon."

Steve faced the Englishman. "All right. I'll say it. Denver ain't dead."

"My sacred aunt," said Nightingale, hauling the pipe from his mouth. The ruddy angular face did not bend to every passing emotion, and it scarcely showed astonishment now; but there was a brightening of the blue eyes.

"I said worse than that when I found out," said Steve. "Well, he ain't dead. He's only played 'possum to throw Redmain off. And he's got a plan to get Lou. It ain't for me to say how or when. Only, I'm ridin' to Sundown, and yuh'll see me when yuh see me." The Englishman carefully knocked out his ashes, rose to his full length, and turned into the house. "Ad interim," he called back, "remain as you were."

Steve gloomed into the distance. "Some of these days I'm goin' to get a toe holt on one o' them outlandish words and pin it to the mat. Meanwhile I just look intelligent and hope he ain't swearin' at me. It goes to show how ignorant folks can be. Here I been all these years thinkin' Englishmen talked the same language as us."

Nightingale returned, hat on, and gun strapped to his hip. "All we need to complete this tale of border warfare is a set of heathenish bagpipes. You may like it or not, my estimable superintendent, but whither thou goest I shall follow. Lead on."

Steve got up. "Mr. Nightingale, this ain't goin' to be no joke. God only knows—"

"The disposition of Providence," said the Englishman gravely, "is not to be questioned. One prays and follows the light of conscience."

Steve got in the saddle. Nightingale swung beside him, and together they cantered north-west. Steve found his first admiration of the man strongly kindled. He never pretended to understand the Bucket owner's moods. Humor and gravity were too closely blended; the man's thoughts were too contained, never breaking out into the broad wild fancies of the range. Sometimes Steve was certain Nightingale caught very little of what went on; and at other times, such as the present one, he had the uncomfortable feeling the cattleman's aloof indifference covered a sharp and penetrating mind. But, nevertheless, Steve usually felt at ease with Nightingale, for something about the Englishman kept reminding him of Denver.

They ran down the trail without a word between them, crossed the open flats of the upper Bucket range, and went over the Helen Creek ford. Beyond a ridge they pursued a broad wagon leading by Lunt's home quarters. Steve intended to turn aside, but abreast the house he heard his name called in that crisp, assured manner so familiar. Instantly he checked in. Nightingale overran him and looked questioningly back. Steve grinned and muttered, "Be with yuh in a minute," and cantered to the ranch gate.

Debbie Lunt came down the path, her pretty, sharply defined face studying him.

"Were you going by without stopping in?"

"Sort of busy today, Debbie."

"I haven't seen you since the afternoon in Sundown."

"Been all over the map meanwhile."

"Apparently so," said Debbie. "I sent Bill over yesterday, but you weren't around."

"Whistled for Rover but he wouldn't come, uh?"

"That's not funny, Steve," said Debbie with increasing force. "I don't like that kind of humor, if you meant it as humor. If it was sarcasm, you ought to be ashamed. I wanted to see you yesterday. I have heard something. Can't you come to the house a minute?"

Steve shifted in the saddle, looked at Nightingale waiting in the distance, and shook his head. "Debbie, I can't do it now."

Debbie moved her shoulders impatiently. "I suppose I shouldn't insist. But you will have to listen to me. Steve, I have heard a horrible story, and I don't believe it. Dad was in Sundown yesterday and somebody told him a ghastly lie. That you had shot Dann."

Steve waited. Debbie kept her eyes on him and finally said, "Well?"

"No lie. I shot him."

"Steve!"

She drew back, put a hand to her face; and suddenly the color on her cheeks faded. She stared at him as if he were a stranger. A quick breath came out of her. "I don't believe it."

"I told you, Debbie."

"Oh, Steve! Why—why?"

"Because I said I would," answered Steve. The girl clenched her palms together—a sign he knew of old, a sign he dreaded. Debbie's anger cut deep.

"Because of Dave Denver?"

"That's right."

"So you dirtied your hands, made a killer out of yourself—because of him! What right does a dead man have to make you do a thing like that? I know he was your friend! What of it? I never liked him, and I don't now! The man despised me! And he could wrap you around his finger any time he chose! A friend! How far do you go for your friends?"

Steve sat like a rock, taking the punishment without a change of expression. "As far as a friend would go for me. As far as Dave would have gone—which was all the way to hell if I'd asked him."

"You thought more of Denver than you thought of me!" cried Debbie. "You do now!"

"If you'd think straight," replied Steve, "you wouldn't say that. It's the same as sayin' a beefsteak tastes better than a rose smells. The things ain't the same."

She flung back her head. "We must fight this out, Steve! We must settle it! I'll be expecting you for supper tonight."

Steve sighed. "Debbie, it seems like yore askin' me to do things today I can't. I'll be in Sundown tonight."

Debbie looked away, stormy eyed. She bit her lips, moved restlessly. "I suppose I must wait, then. If it is ranch business it comes before me. At least I'm glad to know you've got business to keep you from running idle through the hills."

Steve said nothing, and Debbie challenged him swiftly. "It is ranch business, isn't it?"

He seemed to debate his answer. "I ain't in the habit of lyin'. No, it's not."

There was only one alternative in so far as Debbie was concerned. "Does it have anything to do with Denver—or Redmain?"

"Right now," said Steve, "I can't answer you, Debbie. Next time I come back I will."

"Then it does!" exclaimed Debbie. "You are going down there to mix up in Denver's quarrels again! Steve, I refuse to let you! The man's dead! Lou Redmain's done nothing to you! You've no business keeping up the fight. I refuse to let you, do you hear?"

Very slowly Steve answered: "I reckon you don't own the right to tell me whether I can go or stay, Debbie."

"Oh, don't I?" Debbie drew herself together. "Listen to me, Steve! If you don't come back here for supper you need never come back at all!"

A slow, brick-red mantle crawled up Steve's neck. "Mean that, Debbie?"

"You know I mean it! You be here!"

Steve startled her into stiff silence by the changed pitch of his talk. "You fool girl, I wish the Lord had given yuh enough sense to get in outa the rain. I've been pushed around, led around, shoved around by you and yore family until it's a wonder I still wear pants. Who ever told you a man could be cussed into shape? It's about time you learned your limits. I'm no Santy Claus, and I'm no Lord Fauntleroy. There's lots of things about me dead wrong, and I've got sense enough to know it. As regards them, you can have your say any day in the week. But when it's a question of how I conduct myself with men, how far I'm to ride, when I'm to draw out, what I'm to say, neither you nor any other woman that breathes has got the right of tellin' me a thing. I do my work, I'll take care of my own conscience without help. And I don't propose to be humbled in my own estimation or go around with Jim Coldfoot's whipped-dog air. You seem to want a dummy for a husband. Ain't you satisfied to be a woman without tryin' to be a man likewise? Who taught you how to treat a man, anyhow? Yuh been actin' like a nine-year-old girl who was afraid somebody was goin' to steal her dolly. Grow up and get some average common sense. You've sorta indicated durin' the last six months that 'most everything about me was haywire. All right, I admit it. I've had to do a man's work ever since I was ten years old, and Yellow Hill is no place to get the education of a scholar and a gentleman. As for Dave Denver, he's a better man than me any time, any place. And I owe him too blamed much to let the Lunt family interfere, which includes yore maw and paw, yore brothers and sisters, yore aunts and uncles and cousins, and all the rest of the tribe which has offered free advice on my conduct. If I'm the total loss yuh seem to think, I'll relieve you of the burden here and now. Don't expect me tonight or any other night. Ma'm, I'll bid you good-day."

He tipped his hat, turned, and spurred off. Nightingale joined him, and they galloped across the meadow. As the trees reached out to close them in Steve looked around; Debbie still stood by the gate, crying. Steve groaned, said, "Aw, hell!" and shot past the astonished Englishman.

They reached town near the middle of the afternoon, racking their horses in front of the hotel. Nightingale cocked his blue eyes on Steve for further information.

"I tell you," decided Steve. "You better bed down somewhere so not to draw too much attention. Nothin's booked to happen till after seven."

"Well enough," said the Englishman. "I shall get whatever newspapers are available and settle right yonder in the porch rocking chair for some leisurely reading. Give me the appropriate gesture when you are ready."

"Read?" grunted Steve, whose increasing nervous tension would not let him be still. "Imagine that!"

"Well, yes," murmured Nightingale, sauntering away. "People have been known to do it."

Steve rolled to the nearest building wall and leaned against it. Under the pretext of building a smoke he ran his glance from one end of the street to the other. Sundown seemed unduly empty until he caught partial sight of a crowd inside the courthouse. Promptly he strolled across and went in, his entry marked by a sharp gavel tap. The judge was speaking.

"...Thus with all the evidence before me, I am bound to render decision. Litigants will remember that while the broad and noble structure of the law incorporates and irradiates the sum of human wisdom and human error of the toiling centuries, it is not meet to say that it represents always infallible justice. The law is both an embodiment of common sense and arbitrary rule, without which confusion would reign sans end. The law is an increasingly crystallized thing, a thing of tangible substance, form, and shape. The forms of the law are, as it were, the ribs which hold in the essence of the social body, and if, perchance, some of that essence should trickle through those ribs and fall wasted to the receptive earth, we can only say that nothing conceived by mortal man is perfect, and nothing conceived by mortal man will ever cover the infinite vagaries of social experience and the multitudinous variations of human conduct. With that in mind this court made the attempt to bring plaintiff and defendant into harmony before trial. Failing, this action ensued, dragging its weary lucubrations over the diurnal face of the calendar."

The court paused and scratched its judicial nose.

Up from the packed and stricken silence wavered a faint cry.

"True, brother, true."

Sheriff Ortez leaned against Steve and whispered, "All this fer a six-dollar pony on the aidge of nervous breakdown. Nobuddy can say the judge ain't give 'em their money's worth."

"In re Wilgus versus Tuggs," stated the court, "concerning the identity and ownership of one male horse of problematical age, unknown antecedents, and endless branding, we find for the plaintiff. So entered."

Wilgus rose grinning from his seat and yelled. "I said it was my hoss all the time and I could of told you in the beginning! What's mine's mine, and I'll have it! Let that be a lesson to you, Tuggs!"

The gavel slammed down. "Five dollars for contempt of this court," said the judge.

Wilgus subsided, muttering. Fear Langdell rose. "Your honor, may I thank you for the just verdict? To my client this represents a sweeping corroboration of a principle. And now I should like to present the bill of costs, to be entered against the defendant for payment."

"You bet," mumbled Wilgus. "He lost. Let him pay."

"The clerk will read the bill of costs," said the court.

The clerk accepted the statement from Langdell, shifted his tobacco and read without emotion.

"'...Do swear the following items have been personally and beforehand paid by plaintiff, as follows:

"'To stable rent at Grover's two weeks—$ 15.00

To extra feed—37.75

To 45 bales hay, extra bedding on acc't feeble condition of animal in question—22.50

To carpenter work, knocking out stall for extra space, also on acc't feeble condition—12.50

To material, same—8.30

To damage to Grover's stable, knocking out stall—11.00

To lost rent on stall so knocked out—15.00

To special stable hand to care for horse in lieu of sheriff—12.50

To veterinarian's calls, 14 @ $5 per each—70.00

To medicine, same—16.20

To veterinarian's night calls, 4 @ $10—40.00

To ten witnesses, 1 day @ $3—3.00

To four witnesses, 2 days @ $3—24.00

To state veterinarian, subpoenaed to testify as to brands of horse; witness fee, 1 day @ $3—3.00

To state veterinarian, travel exp—36.37

To same, board and lodging same—41.40

To incidentals—19.60

To same—1.00

TOTAL—$416.12'"

The court looked at Al Niland, found no objections, and said, "So entered."

Wilgus could be heard again, murmuring his shocked surprise to Langdell. "Great guns, Fear, you sure did lay it out. I told yuh to go ahead, but I never did think it would come that high. Supposin' I'd lost and had to pay?"

All through the courtroom was a mutter of discontent. The gallery gods found this an unhappy ending to the thus far splendid entertainment. Tuggs sat miserably downcast. But Al Niland rose, smiling in that tight and gleaming manner Sundown knew presaged trouble. The silence became absolute again. Niland cleared his throat and made a generous gesture toward Wilgus. "I congratulate you in having won a victory of principle. To such a man of principle as all Yellow Hill knows you to be, the verdict must be especially pleasing. There seems at this juncture nothing for the defendant to do but pay the bill and bear up. In so far as Tuggs is able to do these things he will. Fortunately we spent very little on the case, having little to spend. I think our costs will run about twelve dollars. A kind friend of Tuggs's was generous enough to pay this. As to the bill just rendered by the plaintiff, we will willingly pay all that we are able, and to that end Tuggs has itemized for me a list of all his earthly possessions. They include, two blankets, three quilts, some dishes, the suits of clothes he wears, a mouth organ, and one valise. Estimated value, five dollars at forced sale, excluding the suit of clothes, which by law he is entitled to keep. Therefore, your honor, we will pay over the five dollars readily, leaving Mr. Wilgus out of pocket only $411.12."

The ensuing roar almost lifted the ceiling of the room. The judge stood up and banged his gavel viciously; and above all this turmoil and fury rose the agonized screech of Fleabite Wilgus. "I'll see about that! It ain't so! I won't stand a penny of it! I'll slap an attachment, a lien on every gol-blasted thing he's got! There's stock—there's implements—!"

"Silence in this court!" bellowed the judge.

"You can't skin me!" cried Wilgus, and shook his fist at the judge. "You neither, you mealy-mouthed son-of-a-gun!"

"Twenty-five dollars for contempt!" said his honor.

Niland still stood and still smiled. His answering words quieted the room. "For a man of principle, Mr. Wilgus, you should not object to the price. If you can find anything to attach other than the aforementioned articles, go to it. Tuggs rents the place he lives on. He rents the implements, the harness, the very wood he lights his fire with. He had five head of milk stock, which by strange coincidence he sold twenty-four hours before the papers in this suit were filed. He has one horse, loaned to him by the late David Denver. Other than that he has nothing. The horse you might have bought for twenty dollars now costs you better than four hundred. It's the principle of the thing, Mr. Wilgus."

Wilgus shook his fist at his attorney. "Yore a fine lawyer! Why didn't you tell me he didn't have nothin'? What made you run up them bills so high, anyhow?"

Through all this Langdell had remained aloof and very faintly amused. He stopped Wilgus curtly. "I said you might be better off buying the horse, Wilgus. I said you would gain nothing otherwise. Please be kind enough to stop moving your fist in my face!"

"You paid them bills out of your own pocket!" shouted Wilgus. "Just try and get any money outa me! You'll see!"

"The money," said Langdell, so quietly that only the front rows heard it, "has already been deducted from the sum I owe you on livestock purchases. Including my attorney's fee of $150. Stop scolding your own lawyer, you fool."

Wilgus extricated himself from the fore part of the courtroom and started out. At that same moment Grover, the livery stable man, came in.

"Y'honor," he called, "whose horse have I got, anyhow?"

"Turn it over to Wilgus," directed the court.

"Fine enough," grunted Grover. "Git yuh a team, Wilgus, and drag him outa my place. He died on me, twenty minutes ago."

The courtroom became a weird scene of thirty or more men collapsing on the benches; and the howling laughter started a runaway down Main Street.

Steve shouldered to the street, for the moment at ease in mind. Langdell emerged with graven irony; then Wilgus came leaping after, stopped Langdell, and cursed him. "Listen, you! I'll have yuh disbarred for this! Don't think I won't!"

"I have wound up my affairs with you, Wilgus," said Langdell, cold as ice. "I wish to have no more to do with you. You disregarded my first advice. I took your case in doubt. Now that it is over I am free to say I'm not sorry at the result. I despise your hypocritical manner, you dirty codger. Take this warning from me: If ever you address me again in the same terms you have just used, I shall challenge you on the street. Get out of here!"

Wilgus glared at him and shambled swiftly off. The last Sundown saw of the man was a pair of coat tails streaming down Prairie Street on top of a fast traveling horse. Langdell drew out a handkerchief, wiped a fleck of dust from his sleeve, and turned in the direction of his office, throwing a non-committal glance at Steve. Directly afterward Niland strolled through the courthouse door. And then the ominous weight of oncoming events dropped down on Steve's shoulders with an actual physical hurt. Niland's eyes warned him. Together they walked as far as the hotel.

"Anything more?" murmured Niland.

"He's collectin' the boys. Seven o'clock up behind Lola Monterey's."

"What am I to do?"

"No instructions. Wait till then and duck up there."

"Careful—careful," said Niland. "There's Redmain men in this town. Not his riders, but sympathizers. What's Dave aim to do?"

"Have to ask him. I wish I had a drink."

"Not now," said Niland quickly. "By the Lord, this thing either goes off right, or it'll be the worst mess ever come to pass. Frankly, I'm nervous. How does he figure to hold twenty or more men just outside of Sundown all of tonight and most of tomorrow without being seen? That's just the kind of a situation Redmain loves."

"I know. What time is it?"

Niland looked at his watch. "Four-thirty."

Steve let out an enormous breath. "Great guns—"

Both of them drew up by the hotel. A rider came in slowly.

"Limerick Lane," muttered Steve. "And he either knows somethin' we ought to know, or we know somethin' he ought."

"I'm going back to the office. Shouldn't be herdin' up like this. See you later."

Niland turned away. Limerick edged his horse toward the sidewalk and looked down at Steve.

"Got a match?"

Steve supplied it. Limerick lighted his cigarette and tossed the match away with an easy glance all around the street. "What you know these days, Steve?"

"That ain't the question," grunted Steve. "I know what you know, up to noon today. What comes next?"

Limerick grinned cheerfully for the benefit of the world, but his quiet words expressed trouble. "That's it. I thought you was in this. I ain't got in touch with Bonnet for two days. I found somethin' a few hours back, and I'm afraid to take the risk of ridin' over to the ranch and bein' traced. I ain't supposed to belong to D Slash any more. Those hard nuts have got the country speckled with eyes. What'm I goin' to do?"

The street darkened unaccountably; Limerick's body grew gray. Steve looked up to a sky filling with black; a far-off clap of thunder sent its running warning across the heavens.

"What's your information?" inquired Steve, more and more uneasy.

"Just about two hours ago I cut across an old worn-out trail north of here. A whole slew of tracks on it, warm enough to cook eggs. I think it was Redmain, borin' for the south at a fast clip. Understand? South is D Slash, Nightingale's, Steele's, Leverage's. Hell, south might be anything."

"Listen," said Steve earnestly, "you ease out of here slow and put the prod after you get into the trees. Dave ought to know that. He's figgered Redmain different."

"I was told not to go back there," mused Limerick. "I was told to stick here and pass word to any D Slash man I saw."

"Never mind—you go. And don't let any dust settle on yuh, Limerick. Denver will be on his way here in another hour!"

Limerick considered it, forgetting to smile. "I suppose," he muttered. "Well, I'll have to get a drink and make a stab at lookin' lazy for a few minutes."

"If you can manage anythin' resemblin' a look o' laziness," said Steve, "yore a better man than me. I got a case o' swamp fever right now."

Limerick nodded and rode off. Steve felt a heavy drop of rain strike his hat. Nightingale was on the porch, buried in the folds of a paper. Steve drew himself together and headed for the restaurant. "If Redmain's caught wind of anything and intends to catch Dave on the flank again—" He cursed under his breath. "I don't dare move for fear of upsettin' the apple cart. It's Dave's game, and I got to stick tight!"