Читать книгу Complete Novels - Ernest Haycox - Страница 70

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"Consider Charterhouse to speak for me on any occasion when I am not personally with you," said old John Nickum, facing the assembled Box M riders. "When he gives an order, you are to obey it without qualification. Is that clearly understood? I want no doubts on the subject. This applies to everybody, no exceptions. From now on he is my right-hand man."

In the hot morning's sun he looked grim and gray; overnight he had aged. But the fighting flare was in the chilly eyes and the boom of his voice was as aggressive as ever. The group of men—Charterhouse counted forty in that crowd—stood silent. Haggerty shifted, no light relieving the sour, stringy face.

"I'm to work with him?" demanded the foreman, pitching the question in a surly tone.

Nickum stared down at the man long enough to make the silence oppressive. "I thought I made myself plain, Haggerty. You work under him, and no debate about it."

"I thought I was foreman of this outfit, Nickum."

"You still are—unless the job don't satisfy you. In that case—''

"I said nothing about not being satisfied," retorted Haggerty. "But it's a funny pass when a foreman don't run the spread direct under the owner. Charterhouse ain't friendly to me, and it goes hard on a man to take orders thataway."

Nickum turned to Charterhouse. "Want to declare yourself on that point?"

"Yes," said Clint. "Haggerty's got nothing to fear if he'll play poker with me. We had a run-in on the prairie and I took exception to some of his remarks. I still do. But this is business, and I'll hold down my private opinions if he'll do the same."

"Hear that, Haggerty?" challenged Nickum.

"I heard," grumbled the foreman. "Agreeable to me."

"Now," went on Nickum, "I have got news for you boys. We are going to bust this country wide open. We're going to smash the outlaws if we have to wreck Casabella to do it. The gun's out. Anybody that happens to be a mite squeamish can bunch the job now. The rest of you will hold yourself ready to ride at any time, day or night. This morning Charterhouse and me are taking a little trip toward Angels. Haggerty, you pick ten men and cruise over toward Dead Man. Be back by noon. Look for anything interesting. Seastrom, you stick around the house and watch. Fitzgibbon."

A small, bald and oldish puncher with incredibly bowed legs inclined his head. "Yes, sir?"

"Take four-five riders and hit north and see how our stock lays up yonder. Also be back by noon. I want nobody ambling off alone from now on."

"You and Charterhouse are riding pretty light," observed Seastrom. "Ought to have somebody else along."

"Never mind," countered Nickum. "I've been shot at before. Come on, Charterhouse."

The two wheeled and trotted away from the home quarters side by side. All the prairie lay fresh before them. Dead Man's Range was clear on the east and the pine ridge stood up in the more immediate southwest, to which they were now going. For almost an hour they went racking along without a word, covering eight or nine miles and bringing the trees within a short hail. Nickum seemed plunged in unpleasant thoughts and Charterhouse had no desire to break in. For himself, he surrendered his senses to the clear, heady feel of the morning. Sun beating down warmly, the soft air pungent with earth's smell, and the vast distances reassuring him of the old, old freedom. It was a beautiful country; one he never wanted to leave. He brought himself out of a comfortable indolence to see Nickum dropping slightly behind. The old man appeared a little paler than usual.

"No hurry," grunted Nickum. "We'll take it easier. When a man rides the saddle forty years he gets some churned up inside. I'm about arrived at my rocking chair days, Charterhouse, and by gosh, I hate to think of it! I'd slice off all but ten acres of this range to be twenty years younger."

"That's why I cut loose and drifted," mused Charter-house. "Wanted to kick up my heels before the sun went down."

"That's the way I was," replied Nickum with gruff regret. "Always wanted to feel my oats. Well, I got nothing to complain about. Lived a pretty full life. Came in here before the Indians left. Wild country and wild men. Even wilder than they are now. This present breed of rats can't teach me any tricks. I learned 'em all from tougher eggs than they ever will be. But I wish I was younger. Hell to want to be able to do things you can't any more. Ride forty miles, dance all night, and ride forty miles back to work all day. One time Buck Manners' dad and me hugged the lip of a water hole and fought a young army of rustlers ten straight hours." He checked his impulse toward reminiscence. "I brought you out here to show you some trails leading around Red Draw and through the pines. It's where we will do a lot of riding. Curly's hanging around Dead Man, but that don't fool me. He'll hook up with Shander's outfit and break for these pines. It's better shelter, closer to Box M and offers all of 'em a better chance to lick me. You've got to know where the best hiding places are."

"I overheard Shander and Curly speak of having thirty or thirty-five men in Dead Man."

Nickum was frowning at him. "Why didn't you spill that last night when Manners asked you?"

"We-ell," reflected Clint, hazel eyes narrowed against the increasing heat, "I sort of figured the information belonged to you privately. You're paying me, not Manners."

"Don't get any fool notions about him," emphasized Nickum. "That boy's straight as a string. I know that breed. Sorry you mistook his caliber. I'll tell him about that crew when I see him next. It's his right to know."

"You're the doctor," acquiesced Clint. "I thought I'd tell you first. Do what you want."

"So they figure to swamp me?" growled Nickum. "Well, I'll sprinkle some bait and bring that bunch right where I want. Should have cracked Curly in the head five years ago, before he got big ideas about himself. Now he's powerful and it'll take blood spilling. There's a lesson for you, Charterhouse. Never get tender-hearted over a crook. It only means a worse fight later on."

"Did you hear some shots beyond the ranch last night?" queried Charterhouse.

Nickum stared straight ahead for a matter of two or three minutes. "So you heard that, too? My boy, I made no mistake in picking you. I heard 'em. I know what it means. More than that, I've known I had some traitors in my outfit for a long time. That's what makes an old man out of me. Traitors on Box M and no way of catching on who they are. Damn that brand of a yellow belly!"

"Might be used to advantage,". suggested Clint. "Let them get wind of your plans. They'll tattle. Then change your plans. For instance, the trail from Dead Man Range and from Shander's goes by Bowlus' place and through the trees into Angels. Let it be rumored you aim to station a few men there to pick off any hostile outfit that passes. Just say aloud you figure to put about a half dozen men in concealment."

"Then what?"

"Then send out your half dozen men and put them there."

"So Shander can swamp 'em, boy? He'll do that."

"Exactly," pursued Clint. "But at the last minute get about fifteen more men, take them on some wild goose chase so that there won't be any leak of information, and push them into your first bunch, then let Shander come."

Nickum grunted approval. "I don't see why I figured it necessary to show you around. But we'll hit down on Bowlus for a visit anyhow."

The country grew more seamy and undulating. They dipped and rose from one arroyo to another. A spur of the ridge reached out to meet them, but Nickum veered away to skirt the trees and keep in the open. Charterhouse swept the country with a more earnest attention; they passed stale tracks, stopped a moment to study them, and pressed on.

"Too many riders at night," muttered Nickum. "Sure sign of hell ready to bubble over. Turn a little more to the left. We're getting too close to those trees. I'd despise to die of a rifle shot."

"How big an outfit has this Manners got—and where is it?" questioned Clint.

"Northwest of me. His range runs about half as big as mine. Not so well watered and not so thrifty for stick, but—"

He was a few feet ahead of Charterhouse at the moment; in the middle of his sentence a shot cracked over the desert, breaking the sun-filled silence. Charterhouse instinctively spurred his horse around to cover the rancher on the ridge side. Nickum's face changed swiftly and he lifted his head in sudden pain toward the bright sky. Clint saw the old man's left hand reach down and press against his coat.

"The other way," panted Nickum. "He caught me from the prairie. In one of those arroyos—"

"Get down!" cried Charterhouse and crowded his horse against the rancher.

Another shot broke through the air; Charterhouse lifted Nickum bodily from the saddle and dropped him. Setting his spurs, he drove directly eastward, marking where a small dark spot stood against the rim of an arroyo a hundred yards away. As he flung himself forward he zigzagged his pony and lay flat against the horn, gun lifted. He caught the sun glinting on a rifle barrel. A distorted face lay along the butt of the gun, aiming carefully. Charter-house yelled and fired, bringing up a scatter of dust. This caused the fellow to flinch slightly and his answering bullet went wild. Losing his cold killer's poise, he pumped the lead furiously and then rose erect and reached for his revolver, while Charterhouse swept down on him with a mad recklessness.

The ambusher began to step backward, once more opening up. His lips moved and sweat poured across desperately frozen features; after one futile try he never pulled trigger again, for Charterhouse descended into the arroyo with dust rising thickly all around and plunged his lead across the point-blank interval. The ambusher coughed and sank, cursing. A choked cry for mercy came out of him; he rolled deeper into the arroyo and lay with his face pitched sightlessly to the sky.

Charterhouse reined about, staring at the dead man without pity. "Another dog dead," he muttered, hazel eyes flaring. "I've seen that mug before. At Shander's. They must have a gun artist hid in every damned prairie dog hole hereabouts." A horse stood away down the arroyo, indicating how far the ambusher had paralleled the riders before taking his chances. Charterhouse cantered on to the waiting animal, led it out of the arroyo and left it in plain sight for scouting riders to see. "Considering how shot with crookedness this country is, it won't be long before friendly pallbearers will be on the scene. Hardly before I turn my back, I reckon."

He returned swiftly to Nickum. The rancher had collapsed and lay on the sand, one elbow propping him up. Blood made a dull, irregular shield on his left side; all ruddiness was gone out of the old baron's face, and the steel-blue eyes held a glance that caused Charterhouse a stab of compassion.

"Get me on the horse...and take me home," said Nickum, straining to get the words distinct.

"Bowlus' cabin is closer," Clint suggested tersely. He winced at the unspoken hint that Nickum would never live to see the end of that journey.

But the rancher insisted. "Get me on the horse. I'll die in my own bed. Won't leave my ghost in any other man's house. Hurry up, boy. I ain't immortal."

Clint hauled Nickum into the latter's saddle with considerable effort; the rancher seemed to have lost the use of his legs, but he gripped the horn with both big hands and steadied himself. Charterhouse mounted and closed in, offering one arm.

Nickum shook his head. "Make it under my own power. You get that fellow?"

"I got him."

"Circle thataway. Want to look at his face."

They went slowly to the arroyo and halted. Nickum looked down grimly. "Elva Smith—God pity the man. Used to work for me, then he went to the wild bunch. Let's go home."

They veered, established a true course to the northeast and settled down to a slow, tedious walk. The sun's heat increased and small atmospheric waves shimmered about them. Clint watched Nickum closely for the inevitable collapse and marveled that it was so long postponed. Nickum was dredging up the last dogged remnants of strength and making them serve his will.

"So Shander got me. Knew he would some day. Don't mind dying, but I wish I could last till sunset and feel the wind come. Always had a weakness for that time of day."

He shut his lips, conserving his strength; and not for an hour did he speak again. Then it was in close, small phrases. "Sherry's ranch. But you've got to stick and see it through. She'll marry Buck, but he ain't the right kind of a fighter. He's apt to go out and get his head blowed off, too. You won't. Too slick. I'll tell Sherry she's got to keep you till it's all done. Want you to sweep clean like a new broom. Promise that?"

"You've got it," muttered Clint.

"Good boy. We're almost home. I'll make it now."

Stubbornness alone brought him alive to the Box M quarters. Riders fanned out to meet them; Nickum waved all offers aside and drew up to his own house porch. Sherry ran out, crying suddenly. But Nickum, sliding into Clint's arms, gruffly rebuked her.

"No tears, girl. No tears, I don't—"

"Dad!"

"Hell, I can do anything once. Even die. Wait a minute, Charterhouse."

Clint stopped to let Nickum face the gathering crew. "Boys, it's Sherry's ranch now. I want you to mind her—and mind Charterhouse. Do what he tells you. He's going to fight it out. If you don't lick Casabella, I'll come back to haunt you, so help me."

Clint took him up the stairs and inside. Sherry opened a bedroom door and Clint put the old fighter down on the bed and stepped back.

"Home again," muttered Nickum, very pale. "Nice place to be. Sherry, you use your judgment in this matter. But give Charterhouse free rein to scrap it out the way he wants. I got a mighty big lot of faith in him. I reckon you'll marry Buck, but don't be in no hurry about it. Live a good long life and get as much fun out of it as I did. Well—"

Charterhouse turned and left the room. He knew the old man was dead before he got out of the door; Sherry had fallen beside the bed. Clint passed into the yard. It was beyond noon and Haggerty's party came racking in from their tour of inspection. A phrase ran out through the scattered hands.

"Nickum's dead."

Haggerty's sour face jerked up swiftly, darted all around and came to rest on Charterhouse. The latter saw a release of some tigerish emotion in the small, sullen eyes. Then the foreman got down and walked away.

"Mighty little sadness the news seems to cause him," reflected Charterhouse and returned to sit on the porch, waiting for Sherry to call him and meanwhile somberly thinking his way through the tangle of events.

The death of the old man had made a tremendous effect on the ranch. Charterhouse saw how moody and uncertain and dispirited the punchers in the yard were. They shifted about, collecting in knots, moving away, and collecting again. Old John Nickum's spirit had held them together and made a closely-welded, hard-riding clan out of them. Now they were lacking that inspiration and falling back to individual members, each doubting his own strength and perhaps fearing for his own safety. Box M was in danger of dissolution. Once that happened, the ranch was easy prey to marauding elements.

Yet anger and a desire for retribution were to be seen also. The happy-go-lucky Seastrom reflected it by his restlessness, and others were likewise itching to be on the move. Out of this desire something might be done. But one thing was very certain—it would not do to let the crew go slack too long or they would lose morale. Charterhouse rolled a cigarette reflectively.

"Whoever runs the outlaw bunch is slick. He knew this very let-down would happen. He is planning on it. He means to use it for his big opportunity. Now, what would the man's first move be, and how soon would it be?"

That depended, he figured, on who ran the outlaw bunch. If Curly had the final word, then Curly would attack, being aggressive and impatient. Shander, on the other hand, was a trickier man, more subtle and might use nibbling tactics, like depleting Box M range, killing off individual Box M riders, breaking up the crew and starving out Sherry Nickum. Studd was ruthless and heavy-handed, but also had a catlike caution and would move even more circumspectly. Not knowing what to expect, the wise policy would ordinarily have been to put things in order and wait out the renegades; considering the uneasy state of the crew's mind and the bushwhacking tactics so far employed, this was not possible. There was but one thing to do. Go out and attack. It didn't make much difference where. Anything to open up the outlaw ranks and provoke a general alignment of factions.

"Here I am talking like I owned this spread," he told himself. "Sherry might have different ideas. She might call everything off, sell the place or marry Manners. And that would certainly let me out. He wouldn't stand for my kind of fighting."

Seastrom and the grave, runty Fitzgibbon came over and squatted on the porch. Seastrom cleared his throat. "Who did it?"

"Nickum viewed the corpse and said it was a gent known as Elva Smith," replied Clint, conveying two pieces of information at once. He saw the men exchange a glance of tight satisfaction.

"You got him cold?"

"I got him."

"Two to your credit," grunted Seastrom. "No—three, including Graney. Seems to me you have done this outfit more good than the whole pack of us pitched together in the last two days. Elva Smith belonged to the wild bunch."

"A Shander man, too," put in Fitzgibbon who never had much to say.

Seastrom looked directly at Charterhouse. "We been talking things over with the rest of the bunch. It's general opinion that we'll string along behind you any time and place. The sooner the better and the rougher the better. That goes for all but about four boys who seem to have reservations on the subject. Naturally we ain't speaking for Haggerty. He'll have to announce himself."

"Which I guess he considers himself competent to do," replied Clint dryly. "I'm appreciating your trust in me, boys. If it was my spread, I'd move out now. But I won't say a word until I hear what Sherry's got to say—"

He broke off. Buck Manners, followed by four other riders came jauntily into the yard and drew up by the porch. The yellow- haired cattleman instantly caught the air of trouble.

"What's up?"

"Nickum in there—dead," muttered Seastrom.

Manners threw himself impetuously across the porch. "Sherry—Sherry, you poor kid." The door slammed behind him and Charterhouse heard the girl sobbing. He stared at his cigarette. "Sometimes sympathy is better kept down," he mused. "All he did was make her cry."

"If Manners takes over the place," observed Seastrom, "I dunno."

"I do," was Fitzgibbon's laconic interpection. "Palaver. More palaver. I'll quit."

The crying stopped. Man and girl were talking in there, his words running swiftly, hers very slow. Yet without attempting to eavesdrop, Clint thought her speech gathered strength as time went on. Presently the door opened and Manners nodded at Charterhouse with some impatience. Clint went inside, to find Sherry standing beside a chair, straight and white. She had fought back her weakness, meeting the grim necessities of the moment with supreme courage. Her gray eyes touched Clint and remained on his face.

"I don't see why you have to bring Charterhouse into this," Manners was saying with the least trace of asperity. "It's between us, isn't it, Sherry?"

"I can't throw aside the directions my father left, Buck."

"I suppose not," countered Manners slowly and turned his attention to Clint. "I have told Sherry that the easiest way out is to let me take charge completely. Join the ranches. We might as well look at it frankly. We're to be married and it would have happened some day. Why not now? It would throw all this trouble on my shoulders and I doubt if there's any group of men in Casabella willing to tackle as big an outfit as mine and Box M put together. It seems a very simple and easy solution to me."

Sherry's eyes seemed to hold an appeal for Clint. He shook his head. "I reckon this is something I haven't got any part in, folks. It's your problem. I can say, however, that I'm ready to carry out what Sherry's dad intended me to do. If it is decided to fight the battle clear to the end, I'll do it."

"Why fight?" insisted Manners. "Double up the outfits under me and there won't be any fight. Shander and Curly can't muster enough men to beat me."

Rather reluctantly Clint found himself arguing against the idea, somehow feeling the girl wanted him to do so. "If that bunch of renegades have been willing to bust against Nickum, when they knew all along that you supported him, why wouldn't they be willing to bust against you alone? I don't see any difference. But it ain't my problem and I'll keep still."

"Thanks," was Manners short answer. Charterhouse caught the veiled antagonism and couldn't find it in his mind to blame the man. It was only human to resent the advice of an outsider. "Still," went on the yellow-haired ranchman, "I think it would take all the worry away from Sherry. Good Lord, she can't live here and go through a range war. Don't you understand, Sherry, that this is going to be mighty grim business? That pack of wolves might do anything. Anything, Sherry."

"I understand it better than you do, Buck," said the girl tonelessly. "Except for me, they have wiped out the family. I wouldn't even put it beyond them to kill me. What makes you think I don't understand war? Since I was old enough to know the meaning of words I have heard nothing but trouble and quarrel. Nothing but gun shots and hostility. I understand it so well, Buck, that I am going to go ahead just as my father wished. If I were like the ordinary woman, I'd call everything off. If I thought that peace would come for the asking, I would never let a Box M man lift a hand. But it won't—it never will. These beasts that creep in the night will never let us alone, until they are gone or we are gone."

"I think you ought to rely a little on my judgment, Sherry," pressed Manners. "It's a man's country."

"So it is," agreed the girl, "and I shall do as men do. Not because I want vengeance, but because until all that terrible crowd is wiped out there will be no end of sorrow. Clint, you go ahead. The ranch and all the men and all our resources are yours to use. Consider that you are in command. My father wanted it that way—and so it shall be. I am as much of a Nickum as he was."

Manners pressed his lips together. Once more Charter-house got the impression of an enormous will and vitality surging in the man's body, ready to burst against barriers at any convenient opportunity. Manners was weighing him with the same calculation he had noticed in the saloon when they matched strength; the same flashing, fighting purpose glimmered in his blue eyes. Finally the ranchman shrugged his shoulders. "It amounts to turning me down, Sherry. Have I no place in your affairs at all? What makes you so sure Charterhouse is a better fighter than I am? It's yet to be proved."

"Be patient with me, Buck. And help us when Clint asks it. He has proved himself and you know it. I can't marry you until this is all settled. Then—"

"Then what?" insisted Manners, still struggling to keep the sharpness from his words.

The girl turned away. "We'll wait and see. Clint, will you send a man to Angels for a doctor?"

Clint nodded. Both men went out, leaving Sherry alone behind the closed door. Seastrom and Fitzgibbon waited on the porch, and Haggerty was crossing the yard slowly.

Manners rolled a cigarette, scowling at his finger tips. "Well, Charterhouse, it looks like you're first fiddle and I'm second. Seems you've done pretty well by yourself in the space of two days. Now what?"

Clint disregarded the latent antagonism. The waiting punchers drifted toward the porch. Haggerty slouched on the steps, staring at him without friendliness. "We're going to move out and start the ball. Right away."

"Can't you wait until Nickum's decently buried?" fretted Manners.

"I don't observe the other side standing on etiquette," replied Clint. "The question is, which way to hit. What would you do, Manners?"

"Wait them out," was the ranchman's prompt reply. "I believe in letting the other fellow lead from his chest."

"What would you do, Seastrom?"

"I'd hightail into Dead Man Range and bust up Curly," opined the puncher.

"Too much chasing around," countered Clint. "He'd play hide and seek with us until our tongues were hanging out."

"Right," agreed Fitzgibbon. "Why play another gent's favorite game? Better idea is to swarm down on Shander's joint and burn it to the ground and take that buzzard out to the nearest tree."

"You fellows are talking too much lynch law," stated Manners abruptly. "I said I'd stand behind you, Charter-house, and I mean it. But I won't be a party to unprovoked attack. Whatever we think of Shander or the others, at least we ought to have some open act of aggression on their part before we take so much authority in our hands. You've got to abide by some rules."

Charterhouse began to see why old John Nickum had doubted his prospective son-in-law's ability in rough and tumbling fighting. Manners kept singing the song of orderliness while the lawless elements in Casabella laughed. Some curious streak of hesitancy seemed to blend in with the ranchman's otherwise frank and rowdy nature.

Clint turned to Haggerty. "What's your opinion?"

But Haggerty sourly rejected the invitation. "I'll listen to wise men. You're supposed to do the thinking, ain't you?"

"Correct," assented Charterhouse, refusing to rise to the bait. "Sherry Nickum has told me to go ahead and fight my own style. I'm sorry to say I can't see Manners' desire to walk humbly. There can be no doubt about Shander or Curly, none whatsoever. They made their bed and they know what to expect. We'll never get any place by waiting for somebody else to be shot. From today on there will be nothing but straight, stiff fighting, and if anybody in this crowd doesn't like the looks of it, or if anybody doesn't feel he wants to take my orders and do as he's told, then I want him to speak up now, get his war bag and quit."

Absolute silence met the challenge. Clint waited a little while and went on, feeling he had the crew with him. "I'm not always going to take the trouble to explain things as we go. When we ride, we ride fast. When we hit, we hit hard. Seastrom, I want you to take eight men, pack a little cold grub in your roll, and hit down the trail toward Angels. Make camp in the trees below the Bowlus place where the road from Dead Man cuts over the ridge to town. Keep out of sight. Curly's outfit and Shander's uses that trail a lot. Take whatever comes along."

Seastrom rose with a suppressed grin. "That sounds good to me," he stated. Manners shook his head.

"Not to me. It's a style of war I don't approve of. I'll lend a hand against any attack they make, but I won't send men bushwhacking, Charterhouse."

"Won't ask it," delcared Charterhouse. "But will you send one of your men for the doctor? I can't trust a single Box M man in Angels."

"I'm riding down there on a quick trip. I'll see to it." Manners swung to the saddle and gathered his riders. He studied the Box M crew thoughtfully. "You boys are hell-bent on fighting now. But when some of you get riddled, you'll see my policy is better. However, I'm not the boss. Whatever happens, I'll be keeping a watch on the ranch-house. There'll always be one of my men cruising around to see that nothing happens to Sherry. I'll hold you personally to account if anything does happen to her, Charterhouse. I'll be back tonight to take care of old John's funeral."

Clint nooded and watched the group swing south. Seastrom had gone about his chore enthusiastically and was even now bringing up his chosen riders. One of them went to the kitchen for cold grub.

Clint beckoned Seastrom apart from the rest and spoke a low warning. "Watch your flanks, Heck. Don't be taken by surprise."

Seastrom looked lazily at him. "I was wondering if you had some other reason for sending us down there."

"Sugar draws flies," said Clint. "Do what I tell you—and don't move away from that trail until you get word."

Seastrom winked blandly. "I guess you're dry behind the ears." He motioned his party to follow. They filed past the kitchen, got their provisions and posted along in pursuit of Manners' party.

Charterhouse turned back and spoke to Fitzgibbon. "You collect ten more hands, Fitz. We're riding another way. May not be back tonight. Now the rest of you," nodding at the assembled crew, "are to stick tight. Keep a strict watch and let nobody surprise you. Haggerty, you're in charge of quarters. Keep a guard out tonight. You've got about fifteen men and that's ample to stave off any sort of trouble."

"I reckon I know my business," grunted Haggerty.

So far Charterhouse had let the foreman's hostile talk pass unnoticed. He saw now it was time for him to challenge Haggerty so that the crew would know exactly where he stood.

"Listen, if I didn't think you knew your business, you'd be on your way. You work with me—or you take your time and walk. Is that clear?"

"I'm a Box M man," growled Haggerty. "And was one long before you came. I know what to do. I'll stick. But that ain't saying you and me won't settle our private argument some of these days."

"I'm looking forward to the time—with interest," drawled Charterhouse.

Haggerty glared harshly at him and stalked away. Fitzgibbon was organizing the second group of riders as quickly and efficiently as Seastrom had the first, but with only a tenth of the talk and energy. The more Charter-house saw of this quiet, unromantic little man the better he liked him. Haggerty had stopped by the barn and was talking to one of the men covertly; Clint paid a moment's attention and then went into the house and shut the door.

Sherry Nickum sat in a chair, looking at him with queerly set features. It seemed to Clint she had fought so hard to suppress the grief and tragic remembrance that the struggle had left her bereft of strength. Even so, his throat tightened from the effect of her slim, relaxed beauty, and he had difficulty in carrying out his calm announcement.

"I'm moving," said he. "Don't know when I'll be back, nor do I know what will happen. But we're riding, and it seems likely we'll lock horns with the renegades somewhere along the line. Maybe it appears as if we're hurrying the business unduly. For me, I see nothing but danger in further delay."

She rose from the chair and came to him, gray eyes blurring. "I want you to do what you think best. I'll hold up my part—"

Then she gave way at last, swaying against him, a wild burst of emotion beating against his chest. Like a father, he put his arms around her while the minutes went by and her body trembled to the torrent so suddenly released. Then the sound of her crying died in the quiet room and her voice came up, muffled and small.

"Sorry, but I had to get it out of me, Clint. I'm through now and the worst of the hurt is over. Take care of yourself. Be as kind and just as you can in this terrible business. That's all I can say. I've lived in Casabella too long ever to expect a happy ending. Always it has been black curses, killings, treachery and brutality. I will stay here, no matter what happens. And...be careful."

She drew away, and as he turned he caught one glimpse of her white, clear face. Then he was on the porch, finding his party ready. He mounted and led it north along the yard, halting once to give Haggerty a last order. "Get the handy man to turn out a box for Nickum—and the rest of it. Don't leave this place until you hear from me."

"Where'll you be?" challenged Haggerty, a glint of slyness in the sullen eyes.

"Somewhere north of here," replied Clint, and presseti on. He swept on out into the prairie. Some time after he looked back and discovered a rider cutting away from the ranch to the southwest; and he smiled grimly.