Читать книгу Arizona Ames - Zane Grey - Страница 8

CAPPY TANNER roamed the woods next day from dawn till dark, studying the game trails, the beaver dams, the piñon ridges, to find the run of fur-bearing animals so that he could plan a line-up for his traps. He found signs so plentiful that he assured himself of a bountiful season.

Next day he tramped up-country, through Doubtful Canyon, an all-day trip for even a hardy mountaineer like himself. So far as Cappy was concerned, Doubtful was going to have an unfelicitous name this winter. It was a certainty. The magnificent gorge had six beaver dams, one of them backing up a long lake acres in extent, and it seemed alive with beaver. A colony of bears had located high up on the east slope, which was covered with oak thickets. Deer and turkey had descended from the rim in numbers exceeding any he remembered. Round the springs were game tracks so thick that only the big bear sign could be distinguished.

But the beaver alone assured Tanner of a rich harvest. Evidently beaver had migrated from all over the country to this deep black gorge. The cuttings of aspen saplings far outnumbered the sum of all those in the years he had trapped there. It was unprecedented, and the opportunity to make him independent for life. He planned to devote himself solely to beaver-trapping, and to direct Rich Ames and Sam Playford in operations on fox, mink, martin, and other valuable fur-bearing species.

Cappy, in his way, was practical and thorough, so far as trapping was concerned. But always he had been a romancer and a dreamer over plans for the future. Unquestionably this winter’s catch would net him thousands of dollars, and also be a very profitable venture for Rich and Sam. He decided he would locate in the Tonto, somewhere between Doubtful and Mescal Ridge, and go into the cattle business with the boys. The idea grew on him. It was great. Thus indirectly he could bring prosperity to the Ames family, and possibly happiness to Nesta.

Sunset gilded the Mazatzals when he stalked through the grand outlet of Doubtful. First he looked back, and when he saw the lofty walls, cragged and ledged and turreted, shining in the golden light, and the yawning black gulf of timber with which the canyon was choked, he had a sudden stirring inspiration. He would homestead the gateway leading into Doubtful. No hunter or incipient rancher had yet despoiled Doubtful. It was too rough, too wild, too hard to clear and make into a paying proposition. But Cappy saw how he could do it; and right then and there he built a pyramid of rocks to identify his location. At last he had found a home. Only three miles from Mescal Ridge! And in the event that Nesta married Sam—a consummation to which Tanner pledged himself—he would be only a short walk over the ridge, to their homestead.

He sat there on a rock dreaming while the golden flare in the west grew dusky red and died. He was hungry and tired, and a long walk from his cabin. All at once his supreme loneliness struck him. Except for the Ames family he had no friends in all the world. Relatives were long gone and forgotten. He was dependent upon the Ames couplet of twins for what happiness there might be left. He realized then how and why his wandering life could no longer be sufficient.

In the gathering dusk he trudged down the Tonto trail, fighting his doubts, standing loyally by what he hoped and believed, despite the encroachment of sadness. Darkness overtook him on the trail, but he knew it as well as a horse familiar with the country. When he reached the valley under Mescal Ridge a light shone out of the darkness of the flat, and it was the lamp Mrs. Ames always burned, so long as any of her brood were absent. It cheered Tanner. The hounds scented him and bayed till the welkin rang. He stood a moment listening and watching.

“Wal, it’s settled I’ll stick hyar my remainin’ years,” he soliloquized, and there was content in the prospect.

* * * *

Next morning while Cappy applied himself briskly to his chores Rich Ames appeared, hatless, gunless, with a blue flame in his eyes.

“Mornin’, son,” said the trapper, innocently, but he was perturbed.

“Mawnin’—hell!” returned Ames, hotly. “Where you been for two weeks?”

“Why, Rich, it’s only been two days!” rejoined Tanner, suddenly conscious that even two days could brew disaster. “I’ve been plannin’ some lines for my winter trappin’.”

“Yes, you have. . . . You double-crossed me with Nesta an’ then run off an’ hid.”

“Double-crossed you!” ejaculated Tanner, facing about, red under his beard. “No, lad . . . at least not on purpose.”

“You backed her up aboot goin’ to the weddin’.”

“Wal—I saw thet she intended to go an’ I jest agreed. I figgered Nesta was in a queer state of mind. She can’t be drove any more, Rich. If you try thet any more, you’ll lose her.”

“Cap, it’s not a question of losin’ her any more. She’s lost.”

“Aw, Rich, you talk like a boy. What’s up?”

“Nesta’s gone.”

“Where?”

“Lil Snell rode in heah yesterday. She’s rushin’ her weddin’ an’ she said she needed Nesta bad. I wasn’t home an’ mother let Nesta go. When I got back I lit out on their trail, an’ over across the creek a couple of miles I found where they met up with two more horses. Then I was in a hell of a fix. If I’d caught up with them an’ Nesta had met Lee Tate again—Lord only knows what I’d have done. So I came home.”

“You did right. Nesta is not a child like Mescal or Manzi. She’s eighteen years old. If she chooses to meet Lee Tate or any other fellar, what can you do about it?”

“If it’s Tate I can do a hell of a lot,” declared Rich.

“Wal, mebbe it wasn’t. Mebbe it wasn’t nothin’ at all. A weddin’ is sure excuse for girls to be excited. . . . When is Lil Snell’s weddin’ comin’ off?”

“Day after tomorrow at her uncle’s in Shelby. A weddin’, dinner, an’ dance! Shelby will shore be roarin’.”

“Wal, we can go an’ roar a little ourselves, if we want to.”

“Cap, I’ll be there, but I wouldn’t take a drink for anythin’.”

“When’d you see Nesta last?”

“Day before yesterday. In the mawnin’ she went singin’ round the cabin, her cheeks like roses, an’ her eyes went right through you. I was sore an’ let her alone. Then Sam came down. Poor faithful jackass that he is! . . . I had to get away from them, though secretly I was glad she seemed kind to him again. But she wouldn’t let me alone, either. I’m as easy as Sam, only I can hide it. Well, she was full of honey an’ lightnin’. My insides just sort of curled up hot an’ tight. You cain’t help lovin’ Nesta. You cain’t!”

“Agree with you,” replied Tanner, bluntly, “so we’ll love her an’ let it go at thet. How’d you know she’d made a softy out of me?”

“I guessed that much. All Nesta said was you tracked her to Rock Pool. She gave me just one mysterious look an’ she held her chin up, in the way she has that makes you want to slap her pretty face. She didn’t need to tell me any more. You were her good friend if I wasn’t. You would back her against me or anybody. Then I reckoned you had double-crossed me.”

“Rich, you don’t believe that now?”

“I shore do. I know it. You crawled like a yellow dawg. You’re like mother. Just cain’t bear Nesta bein’ angry with you. Anythin’ but losin’ her. It’s always been that way. I’m the only one who has ever opposed her.”

“Wal, wal! I wonder,” rejoined Tanner, helplessly. “Rich, you’re only a lad. Only eighteen, an’ Nesta is heaps older. You may be wrong. Your mother seems wise about girls.”

“Mother makes me furious,” flashed Rich, heatedly. “She cain’t do a damn thing with Nesta. She likes to have the girl spoiled by men. She even gets somethin’ out of Lee Tate’s case on Nesta. Lee Tate! Who comes of the Tates that made away with father! . . . In her day mother was a flirt. I’ve heard father say so—an’ he didn’t mean to be funny, either.”

“But Nesta isn’t a flirt,” declared Cappy.

“No, I cain’t say that. At least not in a raw sense like Lil Snell an’ some more of these Tonto females. I reckon I know Nesta better than anyone, even our own mother. Nesta is half me. . . . An’ I’m tellin’ you, Cap, that if harm hasn’t already come to her through this Lee Tate-Lil Snell mixup it will come now, shore as Gawd made little apples.”

“Ahuh.—This Lil Snell used to be a bold one, didn’t she?”

“Ha! Used to be? She is yet, when the chance offers. Lil was one of Lee Tate’s girls an’ they were thick. I know. Well, she was always jealous of Nesta. Liked her, shore, because nobody can help that. But underneath all this late friendship between Nesta an’ Lil is somethin’ deeper. I felt it the first time I ever saw Nesta an’ Lil together. Lil has been playin’ Lee Tate’s game. That’s all. No one can tell me. An’ I’ve just had hell with Nesta an’ mother.”

“Son, if you’re figgerin’ correct, it’s too late,” replied Tanner, grimly, as he looked straight into the troubled eyes of Ames.

“Then I hope to Gawd I’m wrong,” burst out Rich. “But right or wrong, I’m goin’ to break up this case between Nesta an’ Tate. One way or another! Before he took after Nesta she was the sweetest, gayest, happiest girl in the world. She loved Sam an’ was contented at the prospect of helpin’ him with his homestead. But Tate flattered her, excited her, upset her—an’ I don’t know what else. Nesta used to like pretty clothes, but she wasn’t crazy over them. She could bake an’ sew—why, she was most as good a worker as mother. Lately she’s idle. She moons around. She has somethin’ on her mind. . . . Now, Cap, you can look me square in the eye an’ declare yourself.”

“Wal, son, you’re callin’ my hand,” replied the old trapper, not without dignity. “I’m bound to admit you’ve got this situation figgered. I didn’t have. An’ if your mother did, she either ain’t carin’ much or else she sees it’s no use. Mebbe she knows more of life than both of us together. I’m mighty fond of Nesta. I couldn’t be more so if she was my own. But now you put it up to me, I’d sacrifice her love for me to do her good. Reckon thet’s what you mean an’ what you’ll have to do. If we lose her we’ll still have Mescal an’ Manzi. . . . I agree. We’ve got to break Tate’s hold on Nesta. One way or another. I reckon the best way would be to marry her to Playford. Onless she doesn’t care for him any more.”

“She does. An’ that’s shore my first plan.”

“How about Playford? Nesta said he was fine. Never nagged her. But will he stand any more?”

“Sam is true as steel. Yesterday we talked aboot it. An’ he said: ‘Rich, if you cain’t bust up this moonshine of Tate’s, I’ll have to. Nesta will never marry me then, even if I came out of it free. But it’s got to be done.’ . . . An’ I swore I’d do it.”

“Wal, let Nesta have her fling for this weddin’. Watch her close, without her knowin’. Then the three of us will go after her, one at a time, or all together, an’ persuade her to marry Sam. . . . But, Ames, she told me she just had to break off with Sam, only she couldn’t.”

“Did she say that?” queried Rich, in consternation. “Lord! but we’re up against a tough knot! If she still cares for Sam, an’ she swears she does—why must she break it off?”

Tanner shook his grizzled head. He did not have the courage to voice his fears. When had he ever seen agony and terror in the lad’s once fearless blue eyes? It struck the old trapper that Rich Ames had been forced into manhood.

“Cap, she’s ashamed of somethin’,” went on Ames, hoarsely.

“Reckon she is. But if she still loves Sam an’ he’ll stand for—for anythin’—why, it’ll all come out. All’s well thet ends well.”

“Damn you, Tanner!” bit out Ames, his lips suddenly drawn. “You know more’n you’ll tell.” Then he covered his face with his hands and sobbed: “Nesta!—Nesta!—Oh, little—sister!”

This was an ordeal for Tanner. He cursed.

“Hyar! what the hell kind of talk an’ goin’s-on is this?” he demanded, struck to the heart by Rich’s grief. “Nesta ain’t no little sister. She’s a big one. A grown woman, hot-headed an’ provokin’ the more for thet. Her beauty an’ sweetness only make her wuss. . . . Women hurt men. You can lay to thet. We’ll save her an’ I reckon she’ll turn out good as gold. But for Gawd’s sake get over the idee she’s still a baby.”

Rich Ames uncovered his face, now haggard and wet, and stood unashamed, as if not conscious of his weakness.

“Thanks, Cap. I reckon you hit the nail on the haid,” he declared, and with a strange smile and violent wrestle he seemed to recover his equanimity. “Sam an’ I are ridin’ in to Shelby today. Shall I saddle a horse for you?”

“Might as well. I hate ridin’, but I reckon I won’t have to keep up with you young bucks.”

“Sam will be heah by now. So come along,” said Ames, turning on his heel.

“I’ll be there pronto,” replied Cappy, watching the lithe figure glide away down the trail. Suddenly he had a queer premonition or a wondering thought that he would never again see Rich Ames like that.

Cappy hurried to change his soiled garb for the best he owned, and sallied forth to meet the boys. They were waiting with the horses under the spruces, talking earnestly. Cappy saw Rich make a gesture of fierce repudiation, as if he were thrusting back the thing that opposed him.

“Mother an’ the kids have gone,” announced Rich, when Cappy joined them. “They rode up to Lows’, who’re goin’ to town in their wagon.”

“Howdy, Cap! You’re all spruced up,” said Playford.

“Wal, I don’t see as you boys are wearin’ your wust. . . . Ride along now, an’ never mind about me.”

It took a few moments for Tanner to adjust the stirrups for his short legs, during which time Ames and Playford rode on ahead. When Cappy mounted they were fording the creek. The day was perfect. Indian summer still lingered in these deep canyons of the Tonto. A smoky haze filled the air. Mescal Ridge shone silver and green under the mounting sun.

Up on top, however, the air was cool, and the wind whipped at the pine thickets. Cappy did not see Rich and Sam again. He let his horse walk and found the miles and hours too short for the problem on his mind. The Tate ranch at Spring Valley appeared to have been vacated by its human inhabitants, of whom there were many. The wide green pastures were dotted with horses and colts. Wild ducks on the way south had descended to sport in the pond. Well-cared-for acres and fences, the numerous corrals and barns, and the big rambling house surrounded by cabins attested to the prosperity of the Tates. The whole range south of Spring Valley was under their dominance, if it did not actually belong to them. Possessions, however, were not the sole attributes that rendered the Tates formidable. Slink Tate, a nephew of the rancher, bore a bad repute and had taken the initiative in several fatal shooting affrays. Veiled Tonto rumor linked his name with the ambush of Rich Ames’ father. Most of the younger Tates were hard riders, hard drinkers, and not slow with guns. Lee Tate, however, did not shine with horses, ropes, or guns; but as a damsel-killer he stood supreme in the Tonto.

Cappy Tanner rode by Spring Valley with these reflections gradually rousing rancor in his usually mild breast. He had a lonely ride and ample time for cogitation. Darkness fell before he reached Shelby, and it was something more than an hour later when he rode down the wide dark street, with its dim yellow lights, its high board fronts. Cappy had anticipated that the tavern would be full, so he went to the house of a blacksmith, Henry, by name, a friend who did a little trapping, who welcomed him heartily. The blacksmith’s genial wife filled Cappy’s ears with the current gossip, and the last of it, anent the supposed jilting of Sam Playford by Nesta Ames, in the interest of a wild infatuation for devil-may-care Lee Tate, augured ill for the hopes and plans of Rich Ames.

Cappy went out, ostensibly to do the same as all visitors, stroll from tavern to store and from store to saloon, to chat or drink with acquaintances, to watch the gambling games; but in reality he was anxious to find Rich Ames. Presently he encountered Sam Playford, who, even in the dim light, appeared pale and gloomy.

“Where’s Rich?” queried Tanner, brusquely, without even a greeting.

“Just put him to bed an’ locked him in,” replied Playford.

“Bed!—Aw, don’t say Rich went an’ got drunk?”

“We had a couple of drinks,” admitted the other, seriously. “But they never phased me. Went to Rich’s head or somethin’. You know he drinks very little, an’ can’t stand much. We heard some talk right off. Must have upset Rich. He sure had a chip on his shoulder. Was goin’ to punch some fellow with Jim Tate. But I blocked that. Then this damn sheriff, Stringer, threatened to arrest Rich. His meanness sure came out, an’ his friendship for the Tates. . . . My God, but Rich scared me! He said: ‘Go ahaid, Stringer, an’ try it!’—Stringer laughed it off, but he was scared, too. So I dragged Rich off to bed an’ I’ll go back to our room pronto. He might climb out of the window.”

“What talk did you hear?” queried Tanner, gruffly.

“It’s all over town that Nesta has jilted me for Lee Tate. An’ worse, they say it won’t do her any good. Tate is only playin’ with her. They say his father wouldn’t hear of him marryin’ into the Ames family.”

“Ahuh. Is there any ground for this jilt talk?”

“Nesta has never even hinted it to me. Yesterday she was somethin’ like her old self. Lately, though, she has been queer an’ cold when we met, then little by little she’d grow more natural. Yesterday she even thawed out. I’m afraid I cain’t understand it all.”

“Wal, I reckon I can,” responded Cappy. “You don’t need to. But stick to thet girl till hell freezes over.”

“You bet,” replied Sam, with emotion. “But just now it’s Rich who worries me most.”

“Huh! Rich ain’t worryin’ me none,” declared Tanner. “I’ve a hunch lately he’s on the right trail to clear up this mess. He’s got blood in him, Playford. An’ it’s workin’. But Rich has sense. Even if he got drunk he’d never lose his head. If he breaks loose you can gamble there’s reason. All we want to do is stand by an’ back him, if it comes to a fight. Are you packin’ a gun?”

“I reckon I am,” replied Sam, tersely. “But for Nesta’s sake—her good name—I hope we dodge a fight.”

“Dodge nothin’. So far as this two-bit of a town is concerned, gossip has already done for Nesta’s good name. An’ a healthy fight would help more’n hurt her. But let’s keep Rich from drinkin’. You go back to your room an’ stick with him. I’ll mosey around an’ listen. See you early in the mornin’.”

They parted. Tanner went the rounds of all the places in town where men congregated, and while pretending to be a little loquacious from liquor, he had a keen ear for all the talk. Late at night he returned to his lodgings, stirred to deep resentment, sorry for the loyal Sam Playford, bitter at Lee Tate, thrillingly conscious that he was not alone in his estimate of the latent potentialities of Rich Ames.

Tanner awoke to the onslaught of the merry blacksmith on his door. Late hours and sleeping indoors were not conducive to early awakening. Tanner had breakfast with his friend, accompanied him to the forge, and presently went on into town. The wide street, by day, presented an interesting spectacle. Normally, and even on Saturdays, a few saddle-horses were hitched to the rails, a wagon or two and a buckboard standing in front of the buildings. But today there was not a space left in the main block. The whole population of the Tonto, at least the northern half of the basin, had turned out to see Lil Snell married. For that matter, they turned out for any wedding. Such events were rare in this isolated community.

Troops of children romped up and down the street, unmindful of their Sunday garb; groups of brightly clad women and girls in gaudy colors paraded from store to tavern, with tremendous interest in the big house of James Snell, where the bride and her contingent were supposed to be mysteriously ensconced.

Cappy had neglected to find out from Sam Playford where he and Rich were located, but he expected to see them at one of the few centers of intercourse. He failed, however, and it took him some little while to find their room. At his knock the door was opened by Sam, whose greeting certainly did not lack relief.

“Howdy, boys!” said Tanner, with good cheer, as he entered.

Rich sat on the bed, clean-shaven, his hair wet and plastered down. If Cappy had expected to find him sullen or thick he was vastly mistaken. Never had Rich appeared so handsome, so cool and self-contained. Again Cappy sustained a nervous shock at the subtle possibilities emanating from the scion of old Texas fighting-stock.

“Hello, Cap!” drawled Rich. “We was just debatin’ whether to get outside a gallon of red liquor an’ take some shots at Jeff Stringer’s boots, or keep sober, lay low, an’ watch the whole show. What say you?”

“Wal, I incline to the first, but common sense an’ regard for Nesta decide me on the last,” replied the old trapper, sententiously.

“Shore you’d fetch Nesta in,” declared Rich, almost mockingly. “Damn her lovely face! . . . All right, Cap, we’ll stick to your hunch an’ stand a hell of a lot from these hombres. But my Gawd! I’d like to start somethin’! Sam heah is rarin’ to. First time he’s showed any spunk, Cap. He came boltin’ in heah, fire in his eye, a chip on his shoulder. An’ then he won’t tell me nothin’.”

“Anythin’ rile you, Sam?” queried Cappy, bending speculative eyes upon the young homesteader.

“Hell yes!” retorted Sam. “But no matter. It’s not what I’d like to do. Rich an’ me are in bad here with all these Tate followers. But for Nesta’s sake I think we ought to see nothin’, hear nothin’, do nothin’. . . . An’ rustle home quick—tonight before all these hombres are drunk.”

“Thet’s sense, an’ we’ll act on it,” replied Tanner, decisively. “Not one single snack of liquor! Hear that, Rich Ames, you Arizona gopher?”

“Shore I heah you,” said Rich, nonchalantly. “The two drinks I had yesterday will last me a spell. Gee! I thought I’d been kicked by a mule.”

“Wal, come on, an’ act like a couple of moony youngsters with their pa,” said Tanner, in conclusion.

Whereupon they went out, a quiet, amiable-appearing trio, vastly deceiving, according to Cappy’s thought. His admiration for Rich Ames grew in leaps and bounds. Any other young buck of the Tonto would get drunk and start trouble. Rich had developed depth and was the more dangerous for it. They made the round of the saloons, lounged in and out of the tavern, made odd purchases in the store, and rubbed elbows with a hundred or more of the male element. They rather avoided the women, more conspicuous and almost as numerous. Playford seemed aloof. In fact, he could not see any women. Rich was cool, careless, easy-going, almost smiling as he passed the girls, many a one of whom cast shy glances at his handsome face.

It was in Turner’s hall that Cappy’s sharp gaze set upon young men of the Tate faction, whom he had expected to encounter sooner or later. He did not need to be told that Rich had espied them first.

Turner’s hall was the largest place of its kind in Shelby. It had been decorated for the ball that night, and feminine hands had assuredly superintended the arrangement of flags, bunting, autumn leaves, and other gay accessories. This hall was used for all public gatherings. Today it served, as on most days, for the gambling prevalent in the Tonto. Turner’s bar was in the adjoining room, into which it opened by swinging doors, now concealed by curtains.

Perhaps two dozen were in the hall, most of them gambling, and others looking on. Lee Tate, with a companion Tanner did not recognize, was watching a table at which sat Jeff Stringer, the sheriff, Slink Tate, and two cowboys whom Cappy knew but could not place.

Cappy would have passed on, had it not been that Rich halted by the table, with Sam following suit.

“Howdy, everybody!” drawled Rich, in his lazy way.

Lee Tate sneered a voiceless response. He was tall, with olive-skinned face scarcely tanned, dark-eyed and dark-haired, and he looked his reputation with the Tonto women. He appeared older than his twenty-two years, and though dissipation stamped his features it had not yet marred their perfection. He wore dark clothes, high-top glossy boots, and spurs.

Slink Tate might not have been a relative of Lee’s, he was so different. He had the face of a surly hound. He lifted sunken, gloomy eyes to Ames, and accorded him a curt nod.

“Hullo, Ames!” spoke up Stringer, in dry, caustic tone. “Sober again, hey?”

“Shore am,” drawled Ames. “Reckon I want to see awful clear today.”

Cappy plucked at Rich’s sleeve and attempted gently to start him on the move. This was atmosphere charged with menace. But Rich did not take the hint.

“Powerful interested in weddin’s, hey?” queried Stringer, as he slapped down a card.

“Shore am. My sister Nesta is marryin’ Sam heah next week an’ we want to get some pointers.”

“Haw! Haw!” laughed the sheriff, interested out of his gruffness. “Wal, I’m darn glad you’ve sobered up. Was afraid I’d have to jail you.”

“Say, Jeff, there were a dozen cowpunchers roarin’ around last night,” declared Rich, sarcastically. “Why didn’t you arrest them?”

“Wal, thet’s my business. But they wasn’t no pertickler menace to the community.”

“An’ I am? Ahuh. I see the point,” returned Ames. “You shore got me figgered correct.”

Cappy had taken a swift glance at Lee Tate the instant Ames made his startling statement about Nesta. Whatever had prompted Ames to launch this retort, it certainly reached home. Lee Tate’s face turned a burning red of surprise and rage. During the byplay between Ames and Stringer he stared at Playford, slowly paling.

“Say, Playford,” he queried, sharply, in the pause that followed Ames’ caustic reply to Stringer, “are you really gettin’ married next week?”

Sam rose to the occasion. “Sure am,” he said, with innocent importance. “Didn’t Nesta tell you?—She hasn’t set the day, though. I wanted it on Monday an’ Rich compromised on Wednesday. But Nesta will likely put it off till Saturday. Worse luck. . . . Are you congratulatin’ me, Tate?”

“Not so you’d notice it,” returned Tate, sourly, and distortion of passion disfigured his beauty. “No later than last night Nesta Ames swore to me she was breakin’ with you.”

“Ha! Ha!” laughed Playford, and there was a ring of more than mirth in his voice. “Do you reckon you can make a monkey out of Nesta, like you have so many Tonto girls? Ho! Ho! . . . Tate, she was only givin’ you a little of your own palaver. Why, Nesta told me she was goin’ to.”

“The hell you say!” ejaculated Tate, growing purple.

“Yes, the hell I say,” repeated Sam, hotly.

“Well, by God! there are some things she can’t tell you!” burst out Tate, with dark and malignant significance.

Suddenly Ames leaped like a panther to confront Tate.

“There are?” he rang out. “But she’ll tell me, Lee Tate. An’ if you’ve wronged her in word or deed—God have mercy on you.”

Tate’s expression changed swiftly. Yet his intensity of amaze and rage had scarcely flashed into a gulping recognition of sinister menace when Ames struck him a terrific blow. The blood flew from his smashed nose. He fell over a table, and it, with bottles and chairs, went to the floor with a crash.

Ames backed to the door, his right hand low at his side, his blue eyes magnificently bold and bright with disdain, scorn, hate. First they transfixed Slink Tate, and seeing that he did not intend to accept the challenge they included the gaping sheriff.

“Jeffries, I’ll be waitin’ for you over by the jail,” he drawled, with the coolest of sarcasm. And the accompanying thin-lipped smile seemed assurance that the sheriff would not be there.