Читать книгу The Man from Painted Rock - Jackson Gregory - Страница 6

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To a man of inquiring mind, there should be no more interesting study than the mysterious radiation of news from any given point in the cattle country to a thousand little nooks and corners where telegraphs and telephones and daily newspapers are unknown. It is as if it were borne upon the chance wind, carried with the flood of a gossiping creek, sung across the wide spaces by the whispering tongues of pine-needles, dropped here and yonder like rain from the bursting bosoms of scudding clouds.

Within two days from the time of the coming of the new owner to the Up and Down, word of the event had gone its thirty-mile way to White Rock and from that bustling outpost upon the skirts of the casually cultivated lands had run its many ways over the lower valley country. Within five days White Rock had distorted, magnified and transmitted the tale to the utmost of its wonderful ability.

Within ten days it is to be doubted if there was a man, woman, or child anywhere within a radius of fifty miles who had not heard of the theft of Silver Slippers, the punishment meted out to Hawley, the coming of Sherrod, and his reception by his foreman. The delicate morsel upon the tongue of gossip was the characterization of Sherrod himself, and gossip went womanfully to her task.

Then, after the news went up and down in many directions and to great distances, it traveled across the South Ridge upon the border of the Up and Down and dropped down into the corrals of Bull Plummer, foreman and owner of the Bar Diamond. And Bull Plummer, being a man of resource and initiative, got busy.

Mr. Sherrod had been with his outfit for two weeks, during which time he had had many adventures, though he had not fallen over the edge of a cliff, got himself drowned in the lakes, or had his head kicked off by a vicious horse in the corrals. He had fired one of his heavy revolvers in the general direction of a coyote, to the boundless glee of the two men who happened to be with him, Sunny Harper and a man they called “Mute” Adams. Adams had ducked his head, Sunny Harper had lost no time in reining his horse around until he was close up to Mr. Sherrod’s horse’s tail, and the coyote, having watched with an interest no less than the cowboys’ and having cocked his knowing eye at the bark chipped from a cedar some twenty or thirty feet above his head, moved on into the chaparral.

“I—I’m afraid I’m out of practice,” sighed the marksman, returning his revolver to its holster and wiping his glasses with the tip end of his gay neck-scarf. “I’ll have to put in a little time practicing at a target.”

It was that same evening, when the sun was just resting a broad golden disk upon the cliffs at the Lower End and Mr. Sherrod was devoting himself patiently and painstakingly to the drilling of little holes in the atmosphere at a respectful distance from the ace of spades tacked to a young pine tree, that Bull Plummer rode up to the bunkhouse.

It was too early for the men to have come in from work. Only the owner, Sunny Harper and Cookie, busy at his stove, were in camp.

Sunny Harper, very joyous over the spectacle of the target-shooting and the cold which he was doctoring manfully with an ample dosage of whisky from the bottle which Mr. Sherrod had donated for its medicinal properties, saw Bull Plummer’s big squat form rise up above a knoll, stared, rubbed his eyes, regarded his bottle accusingly, and refused stubbornly to believe that he saw what he did see.

“If it was just Santy Claus coming,” he murmured gently, “or a boy in brass buttons with a pitcher o’ lemonade, or a couple elephants, I might believe it. But Bull Plummer—on this range? Shucks! This must be awful powerful licker!”

Sharply he cried out to Sherrod: “It’s Bull Plummer! Now what in blue blazes do you reckon he’s looking for?”

Sherrod did not seem to have seen or heard, so intent was he upon his revolver practice. Then a thing happened which made Sunny Harper choke upon his whisky; and to gag upon one’s liquor was, in Mr. Harper’s way of thinking, “a terrible unsportsmanlike proceeding.” Sherrod, having missed his mark about three feet, squinted his eyes, set his teeth, and took long aim.

Harper, watching him, saw that Sherrod moved half a dozen quick steps to the right; surmised that still Sherrod was unaware of the approaching horsemen; noted furthermore that Sherrod’s swift change of base brought the wavering muzzle of his big revolver to bear in the general direction of the man from the Bar Diamond.

“Hey there, Mr. Sherrod!” yelled the suddenly galvanized Sunny Harper, his mellowed soul in no mood to witness an accidental manslaughter, even though the victim be Plummer. “There comes Plummer! Look out, or—Oh, my God!”

He sat back weakly and shivered a little. Had Sherrod been blind or deaf? Had he not understood or had he not cared? The revolver in his hand spat flame, and its leaden missile, missing the tree more widely than its predecessors, sped on toward the man on horseback.

Yes; Sunny Harper gasped and choked and did not know that he did so. For he had seen an amazing thing. Sherrod’s bullet had not missed Plummer’s head three inches; it had torn a great, vicious hole in the peaked crown of Plummer’s hat; it had carried the hat away and with it a lock of Plummer’s black hair.

Plummer ducked wildly as a second bullet winged its way by his ear and announced his presence with a mighty shout, jerking his horse savagely back upon its haunches.

Sherrod, before he advanced toward the newcomer, turned for an instant to Harper.

“Plummer, you said it was, didn’t you?” he asked softly.

“It sure is,” grunted Sunny. “An’ it makes me seasick thinking what chances I’ve took watching you shoot!”

Then Sherrod went to meet Plummer. Not, however, until Sunny Harper had seen his eyelid, the left eyelid, flutter downward behind his glasses in an unquestionable wink!

“Do you suppose,” the astounded Sunny Harper communed within himself, “that he—he winked! Damn it, I seen it! He shot a hole in Plummer’s hat and he says to me, ‘Plummer, ain’t he?’ An’—he winked!”

Slowly he lifted the bottle. Not to his lips, but up so that his wide eyes might stare at it. Slowly he put it down beside him, shaking his head.

“I don’t give a hoot if I am drunk,” he affirmed. “Sherrod popped a hole in Plummer’s hat and then—he winked!”

Again Plummer was coming on swiftly. He had reined his horse about, leaned outward and downward from the saddle, had swept up his hat from the ground with an angry jerk, and now, his face red, his eyes roving restlessly about the bunkhouse, came up to Sherrod.

“What do you mean by this?” he snapped viciously.

“I say,” laughed Sherrod, and the men who heard must guess as to whether the laugh was one of amusement or of nervousness, “I came pretty near getting you that shot, didn’t I?”

“You sure did,” growled Plummer, scowling briefly at his hat. “If you’re lookin’ for trouble—”

“Mercy!” cried Sherrod, shoving his gun back into its holster. “Don’t you see? My target there—I was practicing up. You came up unexpectedly. Looks like my shot went rather wild, doesn’t it?”

“You’re Sherrod, I take it?” grunted Plummer.

“Yes. You wanted to see me?”

He wiped his forehead, polished his glasses, and turned his eyes speculatively upon the Bar Diamond man. What they saw was a very heavy-set man upon a very beautiful horse.

The saddle-animal was black, young, spirited, groomed like a race horse, legged like a greyhound. Sherrod’s eyes swept the clean-cut lines of the horse admiringly and went curiously to Plummer. Here was a man larger than Hard Ross, thicker of neck, of arm, of thigh, of body. The bared throat was hairy, almost black with the tan of sun and air. The eyes were small and black, given unusual brilliance, beadlike, by the emotion which a moment ago had reddened his face; the mouth large, with heavy, slightly protruding under lip.

Plummer’s eyes, in the meantime, had found out Sunny Harper where he sat cross-legged under a stunted oak, and had again come to rest upon Sherrod. Here they tarried, their gaze keen, intent, measuring.

“You see,” said Sherrod pleasantly, “in shooting, as in anything else, practice makes perfect. I’ve come out here to stay, and a man living in this corner of the world ought to be a good shot, oughtn’t he?”

Plummer nodded briefly. Again, before answering in words, he found time for a keen scrutiny which missed nothing of the conspicuous revolvers, the chaps which had remained so amazingly white, or the untouched ace of spades in the center of a rudely scarred circle made by much flying lead, tacked to the tree. When he spoke it was a little contemptuously, as perhaps a cattleman could not have helped speaking, though he strove to make expression and voice alike pleasant.

“I’m Plummer, from the Bar Diamond,” he explained. “Seein’ as we’re neighbors, I thought I’d drop over an’ say ‘Howdy.’ ”

“I’m glad you’ve come,” cried Sherrod heartily. “Get down, Mr. Plummer. You’ve met Mr. Harper?”

“Oh, yes,” returned Plummer easily, slipping out of the saddle and tossing his horse’s reins to the ground. “Hello, Harper.”

Sunny Harper’s answer was a grunt which might have meant nothing or a very great deal. Plummer looked at him swiftly, shrugged his broad, sloping shoulders, and once more gave his attention to Sherrod.

“Like I said,” repeated Plummer, looking straight and deep into Sherrod’s unwavering eyes, “seeing as how we’re neighbors, we ought to know each other.”

“That’s right,” agreed Sherrod quickly. “I’m glad you came over.”

“An’ besides,” went on Plummer in his slow, heavy drawl, “I wanted to talk business with you.”

Sherrod’s white fingers sought out a silver-chased cigarette case. “Business is dry work,” he suggested mildly. “And you haven’t had a drink yet. If Harper there doesn’t need it all, we’ll have a little drink to commemorate the occasion.”

Plummer made no objection. Sunny Harper looked at his bottle with lingering affection, at the visitor with unconcealed dislike and distrust, and surrendered his cold-medicine with exceedingly bad grace.

A very few minutes later Bull Plummer again spoke of business. A couple of cigarettes had been smoked, the din of pans and pots from the cook’s quarters told what that individual was about, the sun had slipped down behind the cliffs, and out in the valley some of the boys were riding toward rest and supper.

Sherrod seemed to hesitate a moment, and suggested:

“Suppose we go into my tent, Mr. Plummer? The boys are coming in, and I think we could talk better out there.”

A quick smile on Plummer’s heavy lips told that he understood that his host realized he would not be a welcome guest when Hard Ross and the others arrived. He shrugged his shoulders again, and with no comment followed Sherrod to the little tent which the latter had helped with his own hands to pitch under a tree a hundred yards from the bunkhouse.

Sunny Harper, before the coming of the boys, had gotten to his feet and had walked to the well. He stumbled once and drew up frowning.

“I ain’t drunk,” he told himself severely. “I’m awful sober. If I keep my mouth shut, Ross ain’t even going to smell my breath, he’ll be that busy cogitating over Plummer’s next move. But if I take him into my confidence, if I say to him, ‘Ross, this new city boss of our’n just shot a hole in Plummer’s hat—an’ winked at me,’ Ross is going to make a mistake an’ say I’m drunk!”

Sunny went on, stumbled again, clapped his mouth tight shut and, when he drank from the well dipper, took his water between set teeth.

Just what passed that evening between the two men in the tent, the boys in the bunkhouse could not know. They knew that the owner of the Up and Down and the owner of the Bar Diamond talked long, and evidently with considerable earnestness. That alone was enough to drive Hard Ross into a fury of anger. In his way of thinking, Bull Plummer was several degrees lower in the scale than a coyote, a man who was crookeder than his reputation, and that was saying a very great deal.

“Sherrod ought to know it, too,” he snarled over the meal which he did not know he was eating. “I’ve talked plain enough for a bonehead of a weak-eyed city guy to get wise. If he’d take a potshot at the lowdown cattle thief with one of them young cannon of his, even if he missed him a mile an’ shot his own foot off, I’d think the better of him.”

Sherrod himself had come into the bunkhouse for something to eat for his guest and himself, had carried the plates and cups away, saying apologetically that they were very busy and could talk better out there alone.

And as they talked Bull Plummer’s heavy voice grew always lower so that no chance word was blown upon the evening breeze to the bunkhouse door, where the men went for their smokes. Steadily, as Plummer’s tones sank, Sherrod’s rose. Now and then a little gurgle of laughter came from him, and Sunny Harper thought begrudgingly of his cold-medicine.

“The four-eyed fool’s getting drunk,” he muttered disgustedly. “When you can measure a man by what little was left in that quart bottle, he ain’t a man as you’d speak of with pride.”

“Plummer ain’t above stealing his stick-pin with the sparkler in it,” growled Hard Ross. “An’ I hope he does. Sh! What’s that?”

No one answered as they all listened, for answer was superfluous. From the tent came the unmistakable click, click, click of poker chips being dropped into stacks by toying fingers.

Swiftly the darkness came on. There was a coal-oil lantern on the little table which Sherrod had placed by his bedside, and upon the tent walls were the silhouettes of the men whose business had gone the old way through the neck of a whisky bottle to a deck of cards. The table was between them now; Bull Plummer, sitting in the one chair, showed monstrously large against the white canvas; Sherrod, on the edge of the bed, again and again lifted a thick cup to his lips.

“Getting drunk an’ playing Bull Plummer at the same time!” grunted Little John. “One guess to figger out what’s going to happen.”

“Same as a two-weeks-old calf playing tag with a mountain wolf,” offered a man whom they called “Needles,” one not usually guilty of idle remarks, a man given to silence like his side-kick, “Mute” Adams.

The click of the poker chips continued. Before long the musical chink of gold and silver added its account of what was happening. It grew late, and the game went on. Happy Day Tennant yawned, stretched his short arms as far as was physically possible above his round body, and went to bed. One by one the others followed him.

Still the game went on, and Hard Ross alone sat on the doorstep, a cigarette dead between his lips, his eyes frowning and bent steadily upon the shadow shapes.

The stars floated out into a dark heaven absolutely cloudless, the little wind died down, the moon at the full paused a moment over the steep cliffs standing like Titan-piled walls at the Upper End, then moved its golden way through the golden stars, and still the game went on and Hard Ross watched and waited. He didn’t see the stars, and he hadn’t noticed the moon. His thoughts were full of Bull Plummer and Sherrod, of Hawley and a mare named Silver Slippers.

“Bull Plummer knows just where Silver Slippers is right now,” muttered Hard Ross heavily. “He knows where more’n one long-horn wearing a U an’ D brand on its hide has gone the last year. He knows I know it. An’ he’s got the nerve to show up here, right under my nose! He’d ought to know it ain’t real safe to monkey aroun’ on the Up an’ Down while I’m on the job an’ while the rest of the boys is feeling strong enough to walk. Now, what’s his play? What did he come for? Huh?”

The play was made; what did it mean? Bull Plummer had come to the range, and he had said that it was just to get acquainted with his new neighbor. That made Hard Ross want to laugh. Plummer wasn’t in the habit of riding ten miles of hard trail just to pay a social call.

Ross made one cigarette after another and sat still, staring at the colossal shadow of the man he distrusted. The hours slipped by, the click of chips and jingle of coins continued. It was on the edge of midnight when the big shadow straightened up, and Sherrod threw back the flap of the tent.

Ross, in the shadows of the bunkhouse, did not move. He pinched out the fire of his cigarette and watched the two men as they moved away toward the horse which Plummer had left to wait for him during the hours of his stay without grain or water. He saw that Plummer walked swiftly, steadily, turning his head this way and that like a man suspicious of danger. He saw that Sherrod lurched a little, that once he laid his hand on his companion’s arm, and guessed what he had guessed before, that Sherrod had drunk most of the whisky.

He heard a brief conversation end as Plummer swung up into the saddle, heard Sherrod agree to ride over to the Bar Diamond for another game, and with tight-set lips watched the big man ride away through the shadows of the moonlit night.

Sherrod, still swaying a little, turned from Plummer and walked unsteadily toward the tent. Hard Ross, springing to his feet, went with long strides to the new owner’s side.

“He skinned you nice an’ plenty, I reckon,” snorted the foreman. “Huh?”

Sherrod’s amiable smile showed weak in the wan light.

“Come on inside the tent, Ross, that’s a good fellow,” came the answer as unsteady as the man’s walk. “Want to tell you about it.”

Ross followed as Sherrod led a devious way. Within the tent Sherrod threw himself upon the bed, murmuring.

“He’s a fine fellow, Plummer. Great fellow.”

“That’s all right,” cut in Ross sharply. “You can’t tell me much about him I don’t know already.” His stern eyes ran quickly from table littered with cards and chips to overturned chair and empty bottle. “Tell me what happened.”

“Great chappie, Plummer,” Sherrod wandered on absently. “Plays fine hand of cards. And I know, Ross. I’m no baby myself when it comes to the good old game, you know. I’m going over to his home; we’re going to play some more. Better come along, Ross, old chap.”

“Tell me what happened!” snapped Ross, losing patience. “How much did he skin you out of?”

“Oh!” Sherrod laughed unevenly. “How much did he skin me out of? Why, let me see.”

He sat up, adjusted the nose-glasses which had slipped awry, and ran his fingers into his vest pockets. Then he stood on his feet and put his hands into his trousers pockets, swaying dangerously. The smile gradually broadened on his face.

“Say, Ross, don’t tell the boys,” he chuckled. “He played the greatest run of luck you ever saw. He’s the luckiest man dealing cards I ever saw. On my deals it wasn’t so bad. Yes, sir.” His laugh made Ross’s hands clench. “Every time he’d deal me a hand, I thought my luck had changed, the hand was so good. And then his would be better, and he’d win! Talk about a man’s lucky night!”

“How much did he win?” thundered Ross.

“Why,” hazarded Sherrod, smiling. “About five hundred, I’d say. He—”

But Hard Ross had swept back the tent flap and was running toward the stable.

“What’s the matter?” called Sherrod after him. “Where are you going, Ross? What’s the hurry? Let me tell you—”

“I’m goin’ to get my horse an’ go for a little ride,” Ross’s angry voice boomed back at him. “An’ you better go to bed an’ put your clothes under your pillow, so some jasper don’t come an’ skin you out’n them.”

Hard Ross wasn’t always in a towering rage. There were times when he sang—at least Ross accounted it singing. There were times when, in affable humor, he made jokes and perhaps the worst puns that were ever made. But here of late it seemed to him that most happenings conspired to put him into the mood to chew tenpenny nails. As if he didn’t have trouble enough on his hands without the advent of this four-eyed fool, Sherrod!

The Up and Down ranch was Hard Ross’s life. The late owner, Hodges, would let two or three years pass without showing up; Ross, quite excusably, got into the way of figuring that the spread was his. He took his job seriously. He didn’t mean that anyone, Bull Plummer or another, should put anything over on the Up and Down. Then look at tonight! Just look at it! Bull Plummer had made a howling jackass out of the new owner; that meant that he had thumbed his nose at the Up and Down. And again Hard Ross was good and mad.

“He can’t do that to me,” said Ross, and rode.

It was a night of big fat clouds and a moon, so at times he rode in the dark and at other times in bright spots of moonlight. He realized that Bull Plummer had a good head-start; but then, Hard Ross was in the greater hurry, since he knew what was ahead of him and Plummer did not in the least suspect what was following him.

“No, sir, he can’t do that to me,” said Ross again. It didn’t strike him that it had been done to Sherrod, perhaps even to the Up and Down. Dammit, who ran the Up and Down and was responsible for everything on it? Hard Ross, nobody else.

Once in a while poor old Hard Ross groaned; he couldn’t help it. Why did he have to have a boss like this Sherrod, a man whom, it seemed, he’d have to nurse like a baby? Why did the doggone fool have to give his shirt to Bull Plummer, the man who was already robbing him?

“Maybe I’m getting soft,” grumbled Ross. “Maybe I ought to go back right now and cut Sherrod’s throat for him, and get it over the easiest way, the shortest and best way.”

But it stuck in his craw that Plummer had ridden off with five hundred dollars, Up and Down money, and that Plummer, getting Sherrod cock-eyed, had cheated him out of every cent. No, Plummer couldn’t do that to him—meaning Hard Ross. The devil take Sherrod, anyway. But there was the Up and Down ranch to be remembered, and there was its foreman, and Bull Plummer wasn’t going to laugh at either of them. Not long, anyhow.

So Hard Ross dipped his spurs and made the best time he could, always watching the patches of moonlight for a sight of the man who rode on ahead.

Ross caught sight of Plummer just in time to see him meet somebody riding down the valley. He saw Plummer rein in across the trail, and stop. The other rider, so narrow was the trail there, stopped perforce.

Ross heard their voices through the stillness. He sat his horse at the edge of a grove of gay, shimmering young aspens that were tipped at the top with moonshine and cloaked in darkness below. Ross stopped discreetly in the shadows and listened.

He heard Plummer say—and he even saw how Plummer, in his clumsy way, pulled his hat off:

“Oh, hello, Miss Dawn! It’s you, is it? Where do you think you are going this time of night?”

The girl’s voice, though she spoke softly, came to Hard Ross clearly.

“Mr. Plummer, isn’t it? It was just such a lovely night that I had to go for a ride. You’re going home, aren’t you? Well, I’ll ride a little farther down the valley and then go home, too. Good night, Mr. Plummer.”

“Oh, look here, Dawn,” said Plummer. “There’s no rush; you’re in no hurry and neither am I. Let’s ride along together. Anywhere you say.”

The girl answered—and Ross thought that her throat had tightened—he thought that she was frightened and did not want Plummer to know. She said, fairly steadily:

“Thank you, Mr. Plummer. But I know you are homeward bound. And then, too, don’t you know how it is when one wants to be all alone? Just to ride and sort of drift along and not to have to do any thinking. Good night.”

Plummer shot his hand out and gripped her wrist. Hard Ross saw that, too.

“Dawn!”

The girl wrenched away. Hard Ross saw her lift her quirt. And that was all he needed to see.

Much to Bull Plummer’s surprise, about two minutes later he had not only a girl on a lonesome trail to deal with, but the foreman of the Up and Down.

“Miss Dawn,” said Hard Ross, “you ride on anywhere you please. Me and Plummer has got some business to talk over, awful confidential business, Miss Dawn. So you just ride. And if I was you, I’d streak straight back home—and I wouldn’t go riding all alone this time of night.”

“Mr. Ross! You’re Mr. Hard Ross, aren’t you?”

“That’s me,” said Ross. “And now will you head home?”

“But—”

“There ain’t no buts,” said Ross, and grew impatient. “You ought to know when you’re well out of a jam—so use your spurs.”

Still she hesitated. She saw trouble brewing; Ross’s voice gave her the first clue, Bull Plummer’s absolute silence proved the case.

“I’ll go if you’ll ride with me, Mr. Ross,” she decided to say.

“Can’t,” said Ross. “Me and Plummer will be talking here long enough for you to be as good as home. Ride, won’t you?”

“But, Mr. Ross—”

“I told you there wasn’t any buts. Make up your mind. Am I going to turn tail and leave you and Plummer together? Or are you going to get going?”

She said quite simply, “Thank you, Hard Ross. I’m glad that you came. And I know that everything is going to be all right with you.”

“It always is!” Ross called after her as she reined about and shot back along the uptrail.

Hard Ross was in no mood, feeling impatient and disgruntled, to take any unnecessary chances. So he had a gun in his hand; in a shaft of moonlight Bull Plummer saw its ugly nose resting on the horn of Hard Ross’s saddle.

“Bull Plummer,” said Hard Ross, “I’m here to tell you something. Matter of fact, I rode all this way to have a nice little talk with you. And while I’m talking, you better not waggle an eyebrow, or I’ll shoot you through the gizzard.”

“What the hell’s eating you, Ross? Gone crazy?”

“I don’t like the way you wear your face, Bull Plummer. I don’t like the way you talk to a nice girl. I don’t like the way you play poker. I sort of guess I don’t like anything about you.”

“You’re drunk, you fool!”

“No. For one thing, I don’t like you slapping down your feet on Up and Down land.”

Bull Plummer laughed at him.

“You! You’ve had your free hand with that ranch quite a spell now, haven’t you, Ross? But old man Hodges is out, and Sherrod is in—and I happened to be Sherrod’s guest! Visiting your boss, Mr. Hard Ross. Get that in your nut, will you? Now quit sticking your damned gun in my general direction and be on your way, cowboy.”

“I’ve been responsible for that outfit, like you say, a good many years, Bull Plummer. Now this Johnny-come-lately, name of Sherrod, buys the place. Just the same he keeps me on as foreman. So it’s still up to me. And if you think you can come back, long as I’m holding down my job, just think again; orders to the boys is to shoot all coyotes on sight, including Bull Plummer. Another thing—”

“Oh, shut up,” said Plummer. “Dry up and blow away, cowboy. I’ve got places to go, and—”

“And there’s this,” said Hard Ross. “I don’t like you to come and get the boss drunk and steal his money. It’s five hundred bones you lifted off the damn fool tonight. Well, fork it over; I’ll take it back to him. Get busy, Plummer.”

Plummer’s laugh, full of contempt and mockery, preluded Plummer’s answer.

“Any time, Ross!” he jibed. “You’d take it back to him, would you? Or maybe stick it in your own jeans? What do you take me for, anyhow?”

“For a low-life, a polecat, and the sort that would hold up a decent girl on a lonely trail. Now, fork over, Plummer. The wind’s blowing from you to me, and I don’t like the smell of it; I want to be on my way.”

Plummer shifted in the saddle. Ross’s gun, lifted now a few inches above his saddle horn, did not shift.

Plummer, enraged, said hoarsely, “I’ll see you in hell first, you—”

“No you won’t,” Ross told him evenly. “I’ve got the drop on you, and you know it. And just a half-excuse for filling you full of lead is all I need. Dig, Plummer!”

“Am I going to dig my own grave?” roared Plummer. “The money is in my tail pocket. The minute I dropped my hand down to my pants, you’d take your chance and pop a bullet through me! I’m no sucker like that, Hard Ross!”

Hard Ross sat very still a moment. Then, in what moonlight there was, a golden shaft across his face, Plummer saw his broadening grin. Ross said gravely:

“So the money’s in your pants pocket, huh? Well, I reckon it would be. So suppose, Mr. Plummer, that you slide down out of the saddle, take your pants off, and hand them to me with whatever’s in them! It’s an idea! Then you can ride along home!”

Plummer, his rage burning hotter than ever, made a quick gesture toward his hip. Hard Ross promptly shot a hole in the air within an inch or two of Bull Plummer’s right ear.

“Kind of bad shooting,” said Ross. “But then, the light ain’t so good, sort of tricky you know. Next time I can do better.” Then his voice hardened. “Pile out of your saddle damn quick and do what I say, or, so help me, I’ll kill you!” he said.

There was no temporizing when a voice like that issued such simple orders. Plummer slipped down from the saddle, unbuckled his belt, kicked off his nether garments, and flung them at Hard Ross. Ross caught them neatly over his arm. His hand explored the pockets; it found what he wanted. He said, “Get on your horse and ride, Plummer. And when you get home, just tell the boys you got so scared you jumped clean out of your pants! Ride, Plummer, before I start shooting your bootheels off. And remember, you don’t come back any more to the Up and Down.”

Plummer mounted and rode. An undignified sight, judged Hard Ross who sent an unkind but heartfelt gale of laughter after him.