Читать книгу The Maverick Queen - Zane Grey - Страница 4

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Kit Bandon, who had half risen just as the heavy table caught her, fell and rolled clear out of the alcove. The gamblers both went down, with Emery under the overturned table. But McKeever slid free and as he sat up, propped on his left hand, he reached for the gun in his vest. It gleamed brightly. Lincoln’s shot broke that draw, and evidently the gambler’s arm, for it flopped down, and the gun went spinning across the floor. McKeever let out a hoarse cry of fury and agony.

Linc, smoking gun in hand, swung the table off Emery, who then slowly labored erect, his features livid and contorted. Kit joined him, her face red with rage, and stood brushing the sawdust off her black dress.

“Damned fools! I told you,” she burst out, furiously. “Did he—kill Mac?”

“Looks that—way,” muttered Emery, hoarsely.

“No, I just winged him,” spoke up Bradway. “Miss Bandon, I’m sorry I had to mess up your party, but it could have been a lot worse. You’ll please excuse my rough manner.”

“I excuse you, Mr. Bradway,” she said, in a low voice, her dark eyes meeting his gaze. Whatever she felt, it hardly seemed to be anger for the cowboy from Nebraska.

“Emery, you made a crack to this lady a minute ago about what happened to the last cowboy she took a shine to,” flashed Lincoln to the gambler. “Wasn’t that cowboy Jimmy Weston?”

Amazement and fear held the gambler mute, and Kit Bandon stared at Lincoln, startled, her red lips parted, the rich color fading out of her cheeks.

“Weston was my pard,” went on Bradway. “I’ve letters of his that give me a hunch as to what happened to him, and I came here to prove it.... Get out, Emery.” Lincoln made a move with the still smoking gun that sent the gambler hurrying out into the crowd which was edging back again toward the alcove.

“Mac, are you bad hurt?” asked the woman, kneeling beside him.

“Arm busted. High up,” rejoined McKeever, weakly. “I’m bleeding bad.”

“Don’t move. I’ll get someone to look after you.”

Linc picked up the little gun and examined it. The weapon was a derringer and it had a large bore for such a small gun. He put it in his pocket.

“Mac, you better pack a real gun next time you meet me,” said Bradway, and started to go out. By this time Kit Bandon had arisen. She stood before him, visibly agitated, and was about to speak when he asked her: “How come such a fine girl as you could be hooked up with hombres as low-down as these?”

“Mac is Emery’s friend, not mine,” she whispered hurriedly. “Jess and I ... we have cattle deals. I own part of this place. It goes back to a long time ago ... Bradway, I must see you—talk with you....”

As he stood there close to this girl whom they called the Maverick Queen, Bradway felt himself drawn by her beauty and personality, just as she was clearly moved by the courage of this stranger. Linc saw the unmasked emotion in her dark eyes. She must have had a deep cue for passion, and he divined that it had its origin in his reference to Jimmy Weston. Remembrance of his friend and the part which this woman may have played in Jimmy’s death brought Linc back to his senses.

“Well, this is not the time nor place,” he replied coldly, and left her. The crowd opened to let him pass through and out into the street, where he sheathed his gun, and joined the stream of pedestrians on the wooden sidewalk of South Pass’s main street.

Linc kept looking back to see if he was being followed. He could not be positive until he had cleared the center of town. He passed the last pedestrians on his side, and then crossed the street. He caught sight of two men whose actions were kind of suspicious. Quickly he squared around, gun in hand. They made a quick retreat down a dark alleyway. This enabled him to gain his lodginghouse before his pursuers could tell where he had gone. The cowboy found his room, barred the door and lighted a kerosene lamp. Then for the first time in an hour he drew a breath of profound relief, and threw off his coat, its pockets heavy with gold coins and bulging with rolls of bills. The room had a window, but it was too high up for anyone on the outside to see in. Walls and doors were strongly built. For the time being he felt safe. But just how permanent his safety was depended upon how strong and bold the gamblers were in South Pass. He had made two treacherous men his bitter enemies. Moreover he had now in his possession between five and six thousand dollars, a fortune to Bradway, whatever it might be to them. As for Kit Bandon, the way she flashed money and bet it and lent it augured that it must come to her as easily as it went.

As he thought over the events of the evening he exclaimed under his breath. “But maybe it’s bad luck. That outfit will do for me if they can. As for Kit Bandon—either I’m loco or she cottoned to me pronto. Did she turn white when I came out with Jimmy Weston’s name? My hunch must have been right. Whatever happened to Jimmy, the Maverick Queen had something to do with it. And whatever it was I’ve got to find out!”

He turned out all the rolls and wads of bills, and the many gold coins upon the bed. That pile of money amounted to more than Lincoln had ever seen in his life, let alone owned. He had won it fairly. And he was going to hang on to it! No more gambling. He would not need to ride trail or drive cattle while he was solving the riddle of Jimmy Weston’s death. He had not a doubt, however, that his problem would have been far easier and less perilous if he had not gambled and shot one of the players, thus bringing himself into prominence in South Pass. And yet, as a result of his forcing things tonight, he had learned some facts that might save him some time—if his luck still held.

Lincoln kept an old money belt in his bag. He took it out, stowing away in it all the bills of large denomination. The others and the coin he would exchange tomorrow. After that was done he thought of Jimmy’s letters, and taking them out he reread them with mingled emotions. Poor Jim had had no conception when he wrote these lines of the tragedy stalking him. There were several mentions of a girl named Lucy, and evidently she was someone of whom he thought a great deal. The fifth letter bore signs of labored writing. Jimmy was not himself. It was written in lead pencil, and some of it was hard to decipher. But so much was poignantly plain: “This dam black-eyed female I lost my haid over has queered me with Lucy. Honest, pard Linc, I didn’t mean to be that yellow. But you know what likker does to me an’ this woman made me forget all the decency I ever knew. I’ll get even with her. I’ll be as yellow to her as she made me be to the kid....” No doubt the kid referred to was the girl, Lucy.

Evidently the girl lived in or near South Pass, because Thatcher had mentioned her. And she was the one person Lincoln wanted to see next, before Kit Bandon, or anyone else.

Linc undressed and, turning out the light, he went to bed. But he was far from sleep. Over and over again he tried to piece all these details into a logical sequence. Each time he found that Kit Bandon seemed to be the nucleus of the plot. There could be no doubt that she was the “black-eyed female” Jimmy had referred to in his letter. Linc had a premonition, as he sat there in his pine-boarded room, that the “black-eyed female,” whom he had heard called the Maverick Queen, was going to play an important part in his own life during the coming weeks in South Pass.

He lay there in the dark thinking, and before he went to sleep he came to the conclusion that he must not let his feelings run away with his intelligence. He must imagine less and learn more. As for the menace to himself—that was certain. In the morning, when he was clear-headed again, he would give some thought to plans for his own self-preservation. Afterward, he would have patience and wait, and be as cunning as a fox. The incentive was great. Yet there was more to it than his love for his old friend and the firm resolve to avenge his death. There were some facets to this problem that intrigued him and whetted his curiosity. Who was this Lucy? And the dazzling, seductive Kit Bandon? Lincoln suddenly realized that he must be on his guard against succumbing as easily to her wiles as had Jimmy. There was passion and temptation in those sultry dark eyes. As sleep began to overpower him, his last conscious thoughts were of the Maverick Queen—the color and vividness—the fragrance that emanated from her—the symmetry of her form, and the provocation in her black eyes.

Linc Bradway was awakened by a yellow ray of sunshine that streaked through his little window. He was cold and glad to get up and dress. With daylight his mind again worked clearly. The possibility that he would have to fight for his life bothered him not at all. All these mushrooming gold towns were noted for bloodshed; it was hardly to be expected that he would meet an even break at gunplay in South Pass. His risk, he thought, lay in being shot from ambush. It would be known that he carried a large sum of money. Robbers and bandits would be as eager for that as Emery and his partner. Night would be the time for extreme caution, although he realized that he would have to move with care even during the day.

Lincoln went out on the street to have his first glimpse of South Pass in the light of day. He was most agreeably surprised. It spread along the bed of a narrow valley, and despite its new raw atmosphere of pine-board buildings and canvas tents, it seemed the most picturesque mining town he had ever seen. Early though the hour, there was already color and bustle in the streets. Heavy-booted miners, packing tools, were passing along the wooden sidewalks; stores were open; the saloons were being swept out; and Linc heard the rattling whirr of roulette wheels that never stopped. Over the hill east of the town hung clouds of yellow and black smoke from the gold mills. The western hillside was dotted with prospectors’ tunnels, where they had dug for traces of the precious metal. Beyond the hill that rose to the north, white peaks of snow glistened in the sunlight. Cold and white, they notified the watcher where this nipping air came from. They marked the southern end of the Wind River Range, where it opened out into the Pass that Jim Bridger had discovered in the early days, and through which ran the famed Oregon Trail.

Entering the restaurant Lincoln found a few early birds, too hungry to pay any particular attention to him. The Chinese proprietor did not appear. A serving girl waited upon Lincoln. He ordered a good meal of ham and eggs that would last him the whole day and longer if necessary. Then, with a hitch to his belt, Lincoln went out upon the street again, his gaze as restless as a compass needle.

South Pass, by this time, had definitely awakened for the day. Miners and other workmen had increased in numbers; ranch vehicles and horsemen were in evidence; a chuck wagon was being loaded with supplies in front of the big store at the intersection of the two main streets. Cowboys’ saddled horses stood bridles down before the saloons. Lincoln crossed to the opposite corner, where he encountered Thatcher coming out of the store. The cowboy jerked up his head and stared.

“Ahuh. You must be more’n one feller,” he said.

“Good morning, Mel. I saw you first,” replied Linc, cheerfully.

“Yes, I’ll bet that’s your way.”

“Look here, Thatcher, you got me wrong. I’m not such a bad hombre, if I like you.”

“Mebbe you’re not at that.... I was in the Leave It last night when you called them gamblers. I’m bound to admit it looked pretty good to me, and others.”

“Mel, now you’re being more friendly. I won a little coin. Is there a bank in this place?”

“Up this side street. That low stone building ... only stone building in town. So you won a little coin? Lordy, what would you call a lot? But, cowboy, you don’t need a bank. You need a morgue of which we have none here.”

“You reckon they’ll lay me out?”

“Sure do. You bucked the wrong tiger last night. I think I’m giving you a good hunch when I advise you to take the eight o’clock stage and vamoose with your little coin.”

“Thanks. You’re right kind, or else you want to see the last of me around here.”

“So do we all,” replied Thatcher, with a smile that disarmed his words.

“But for what reason?”

“One reason is you’re sure a handsome stranger. And we only have a few women in these diggings that a feller can be serious about.”

“Can’t you be sport enough to introduce me?”

“Well, you didn’t need no one last night.”

“Is Kit Bandon one of these few women you’re bragging about?”

“Nope. She’s not in the class I mean. She’s in one all by herself.”

“Struck me deep, that lady did. Does she specialize in cowboys same as mavericks?”

“You’ll have to find out for yourself,” returned Thatcher, significantly.

“Where you bound for? I see you’re packing out supplies.”

At this moment Thatcher’s comrades of the preceding night showed up, clean-shaven and bright of eye. They responded to the cowboy’s civil greeting.

“Boys, when I go broke I’d like to ride on your outfit,” he said.

“You could get on, all right,” said Thatcher. “I’m foreman for Lee. You met him last night. Any cowboy who calls him Colonel is riding high right then.”

“Mr. Lee, eh? Nice man. No fool at cards, either. But that outfit seesawed him broke.... So long, boys. I’ll be riding out to see you some day.”

“Doggone it! I reckon I’d be glad to see you.... Bradway, you won’t listen to no good advice from us cowboys?”

“Not if you’re advising me to move on,” concluded Lincoln, and turned up the cross street. Those boys were not half-bad fellows. They just had some secret or were in some fix that they preferred a stranger not to know about. Linc began to think that perhaps he had been too precipitous in mentioning his connection with Jimmy Weston.

The street ended at the bank, a low, squat building made of irregular-sized bareheads. Entering, Lincoln presented himself at the counter and asked if he could exchange some gold and small currency for large bills. It was evident that word of his little to-do at the Leave It the preceding night had not reached the bank official, who proved to be most agreeable and businesslike. Perhaps such a gambling flare-up was no rarity in South Pass. He was not invited to open an account. Other customers stamped in, some of them rough miners with sacks of gold dust. There was a scale on the counter. Linc lingered long enough to observe that gold, too, was far from rare in this camp.

A path led along the hillside back of the buildings on the main street. Linc followed this path around the slope from which vantage point he could view the northern side of the town. The narrow valley widened here, and from it a rocky gully led up to the noisy, smoking mill. The street crossed below the mouth of the gully, and followed it up to where the big rusty structure stood dark against the sky. Houses spread all over this area; and back of them, on the slope, clung rough little shacks and huts, their crude chimneys or stovepipes told of permanency, and that the winters were severe. The brook brawled down from the mountains, and all along it for a mile, until it disappeared in a green-timbered gorge where huge banks of sand and gravel indicated an extensive placer mining operation on each side of the rushing stream.

South Pass was the only town near the center of the Sweetwater Valley, already alive with cattle. Some traveler had told Bradway that there already were several hundred thousand head of cattle between Independence Rock and the end of the valley where the Sweetwater flowed from its source in the mountains.

Lincoln walked up to the mill, conversing with any miner he met who would talk. The mill turned out to be a huge structure filled with noise and smoke. He was not permitted to enter. The guard pointed to a small building on one side of the works, and here the Nebraskan found an office with busy clerks. He hung around until he was able to see the superintendent, a robust, bluff man of thirty.

“They threw me out down there,” complained Linc. “I didn’t have any idea of holding up the place.”

“What did you want? A job?” inquired the man, quizzically, directing a sharp gaze of recognition upon his visitor.

“I might buy your gold mill,” drawled Linc, in reply to the mill man’s look.

“Didn’t I see you in Emery’s saloon last night?”

“You must of, if you were in there early,” replied the cowboy. “Hope you’re not a friend of Emery’s.”

“No, indeed. As far as I’m concerned personally, I think you let them off too easily.... Excuse me for being inquisitive, but are you any person in particular, or just a wandering cowboy, quick of temper and trigger?”

“Well, I reckon I’m just a wandering cowboy, and I’m not offended. Now let me ask one. Who in hell in this mining dump will talk?”

“Talk!—What about?”

“Oh, everything in general, and in particular that outfit I bucked last night, especially the Bandon woman.”

“I doubt if there is anyone here who will talk about Kit Bandon,” rejoined the superintendent, coldly.

“Ahuh. All stuck on her or scared to talk,” said Linc, with heavy sarcasm.

“Hardly that. Couldn’t you see for yourself that she is a good sport, a thoroughbred gambler, square as they come on this frontier, and friendly with everybody?”

“Sure, I saw all that, and a heap more. But that isn’t enough.”

“Sorry I can’t oblige you, cowboy,” returned the mill boss, curtly.

Linc stalked out, a little nettled until he reflected that suspicion, even hostility, here in this town were all he had any right to expect. He must curb his impatience and proceed more slowly. On the way back to town he saw a livery stable and made for it with quicker step. Anyone who earned his living with horses was a potential friend of Linc Bradway. He found in charge of the stable a cheerful red-bearded man of the miner type, who limped as he came out to meet Lincoln.

“Howdy, cowboy,” was his laconic greeting.

“Howdy, miner. How come you’re dealing with horses?”

“Wal, son, when I had this laig broke I bought out Jeff Smith, an’ hyar I am, not doin’ so bad either for a miner.”

“Say, anything to do with horses is good. I’m from back Nebraska way. Name is Bradway.”

“Mine is Bill Headly. Glad to make yore acquaintance.”

“Same to you. Bill, I want to buy a horse, and have someone to take care of him while I’m in town. Only he’s got to be the best horse in these hills. ’Cause I might be chased!”

“No! Not really? Son, I’d never took you for that kind of a cowboy.”

“Well, Bill, I’m not crooked, and if I am chased it’ll be by men who are. Savvy that?”

“Don’t savvy exactly, but you sound convincin’.... In any case, howsomever, I have not only one, but two horses hyar thet can’t be beat in the Sweetwater Valley. Just happened I got them. Yestiddy, a cowboy down on his luck—fired off his range—come to town. Red likker an’ cyards. You know. An’ he sold his horses to me. He’s due hyar at ten o’clock to get his money.”

“How much?”

“Wal, I shore hate to tell you. Shows me up. But he done it. I’m no horse buyer. I had to borrow the hundred dollars.”

“Only one hundred for two good horses? Bill, you are a swindler. ... But here, take two hundred. I’m buying that cowboy’s ponies.”

“Without seein’ them?” queried Headly, dazzled at the sight of the two greenbacks thrust into his hands.

“I take your word.”

“Wal, I took the cowboy’s. Let’s see—his name? ... Vince somethin’. But he’ll be hyar in a minnit. Set down, Bradway. I’ll fetch them out.”

Presently the man led out a sorrel, and a white-faced bay. Both were superb, the sorrel having a shade the better of it. But that glossy bay, deep-chested, strong-limbed, would have thrilled any cowboy, even one more critical than Bradway. He decided not to put a hand on either animal until an idea of his had a chance to work out.

“Hyar comes Vince now,” spoke up Headly. “Comin’ to his funeral! ... Bradway, wouldn’t thet wring yore heart?”

A sturdy, bow-legged cowboy appeared shuffling slowly toward the livery stable, his sombrero in his hand, his towhead bowed.

“Headly, don’t mention the sale right off,” suggested Linc. How many times had he seen cowboys come or go like this! Grief, shame, despair could not have been better exemplified, not to Linc Bradway’s keen eyes. Inexplicably he liked this down-on-his-luck cowboy without ever having seen his face. A moment later, when the young man arrived and showed his face, Linc saw a homely, sun-tanned young countenance, darkly shadowed by two days’ growth of beard.

“Mawnin’, Bill. Heah I am, an’ I hope to die.” ... Then the speaker espied Linc, who stepped out from behind the horses.

“Howdy, Vince,” spoke up Headly. “Meet this young feller who jest called on me. Linc Bradway—Vince—I didn’t get yore other handle.”

“Vince is enough, I reckon.... How do, cowboy.... What you lookin’ over my horses for?” asked Vince. He was sober, but a little surly.

“Glad to meet you, Vince. I’m a cowboy on the loose. Asked for a horse and Bill here showed me yours. That sorrel is mighty nice. And the bay, well, he’d suit me.... Which one do you fancy most?”

“Fancy?—Hell, I raised ’em both from colts. Brick is the best horse on the Sweetwater, bar none. An’ Bay is all horse too. Only I could stand to lose him.”

“Vince, I just bought both your horses,” said Lincoln, quietly.

“Aw! ... Then it’s too late? Bill, I was goin’ back on sellin’ Brick. I jest couldn’t. I’m sober this mawnin’.”

“Sorry, Vince. I been paid for them, an’ hyar’s yore hundred dollars,” interposed Headly, regretfully.

Vince’s reception of the disaster and the money thrust upon him brought about one of Linc’s quick reactions. At that moment he thought he saw through the cowboy. He remembered that Jimmy had been weak, too, and prone to make mistakes and regret them afterward.

“Vince, I happen to have a weakness for good horses, too,” he said. “I bought Brick, but I’m giving him back to you.”

“What the hell! ... Givin’ him back? ...” The cowboy burst out incredulously, and though disbelief leaped to his face, so did a dazzling light of hope.

“Straight goods. Just a little present from a flush cowboy to one down on his luck.”

“Flush! ... By thunder! Then you could be the feller who cleaned out Emery’s joint last night an’ shot thet hatchet-faced McKeever?”

“Yes, Vince, I’m that hombre. Did you happen to be there?”

“No, wuss luck. My Gawd, I’d like to have seen thet mixup.... But, what’s up yore sleeve? Shore you’re flush. You must be a millionaire. An’ I savvy what a cowboy can do. I was damn near thet big myself once.”

“Vince, there’s nothing up my sleeve, as far as you’re concerned,” replied Lincoln, earnestly. “I felt sorry you had to sell your horses. That you had been fired. And I like your looks.”

“Bradway, I shore like yore’s. But ain’t you got no other reason at all?”

“None, except I’m a lonesome cowboy in a strange country, a long way from home, and I’ve made enemies.”

“Wal, you’ve made a friend, too. One who’ll stick to you till hell freezes over, if you want him.” The cowboy’s voice shook and there was fire in his blue eyes. “Things happen powerful strange, don’t they? I was jest thinkin’ downtown, when I heerd about you, how I’d like to meet you. An’ it shore was worthwhile! ... But, Bradway, you an’ Bill please excuse me for ten minutes.... I sold my horses to get money I’d borrowed from a woman. An’ I could kill myself runnin’ to pay it back!”

Vince hurriedly made off. His earnestness was manifest in his effort, but one could see he had not been used to foot races.

When he disappeared Bill turned to Linc with a queer expression, which Linc could not quite solve, though he read in it approbation of his conduct over the horse deal, and something that might have been a better understanding of Vince. He did not care to inquire how the ex-miner felt. Again he had stumbled upon an incident, if not fateful, certainly one that was pregnant with possibilities important to him.

“Bill, I wonder who was the woman Vince rushed off to pay so quick?” queried Linc, thoughtfully.

“Wal, it couldn’t be no one else but Kit Bandon,” returned the livery man. “She stakes cowboys an’ shore holds them to strict account. Howsomever, I reckon no cowboy would want to cheat Kit. She’s as square as Calamity Jane. Why, any lone rider, or cowboy on a grub line, or tramp, is always welcome at her ranch.”

“Stands ace-high with the cowboys?” asked Lincoln, his question an assertion.

“You bet. But Kit an’ the cattlemen don’t seem to hit it thet way. I reckon because most of them have tried to marry her one time or another.”

“Does that cardsharp Emery have the inside track with Miss Bandon?”

“Wal, when she’s in town week ends. But out on the range it’s another story, so they say. Emery never goes there.”

“Just life. Like any other cattle country. Same old things underneath the surface....”

The talk became desultory after that, until they saw Vince returning. The cowboy who approached now might have been someone else, so changed was he. This boy had recaptured his self-respect. He beamed upon Headly, and in his attitude toward Bradway there seemed the birth of something big.

“Pard, if I may call you thet, you’ll never know how I feel,” he said.

“Gosh, Vince, how come paying some dame fifty bucks can brighten you up so?” asked Linc, casually.

“It wasn’t just payin’ thet debt. It was endin’ somethin’, by Gawd, forever!” He spoke with finality and his dignity at the moment permitted of no inquisitiveness. Linc registered that subtle expression in his mind as one to ponder over later.

“Where’s your gun, cowboy?” he asked. “Or don’t you pack one?”

“Yes, I pack hardware, an’ I can use it, too, as I’ll bet you discover,” Vince replied, spiritedly. “But mine’s in hock. I’ll get it out somehow.”

“You can’t trail around with me without being heeled,” said Bradway, quietly.

“Am I goin’ to trail with you?” the cowboy asked, eagerly.

“Didn’t you make an exaggerated statement a little while back about sticking to me?”

“Shore, but thet was more hintin’ than sayin’. If you want it straight, no feller I ever met hit me so deep an’ hard as you. It was the time, I reckon. Someday, mebbe, I can tell you.”

“Vince, you hit me plumb center, too. Part ’cause you were in trouble, but most because you’re like an old pard I lost.”

“Daid?”

“Yes,” returned Linc, looking down. To think of anyone taking Jimmy’s place was strange, almost unbelievable. Yet life had to go on and he needed a friend.

“Aw, thet’s hell. I’m sorry.”

“Before we shake hands let me warn you that trouble and gunplay and blood seem to trail me everywhere.”

“All in the day’s ride for me! Let me tell you thet I’m a ruined cowboy on this range.”

“Ruined? You mean there’s no outfit you can ride with any more?”

“I reckon not—thet is, not in the valley. I cain’t tell you, pard. ... Mebbe, some day—”

“Tell me nothing. I don’t want to know. I’ve pulled crazy deals myself. I take you for what you are to me.... Let’s mosey down the street and reclaim your gun. And you’re a pretty ragged cowboy, I notice. Just about walking on your bare feet. I’ve done that, too.... Bill, take better care of Brick and Bay from now on.”

They walked down the street wrapped in an eloquent silence. Linc had an idea this chance meeting might prove to be even more fortunate for him than for Vince. Just before they reached the main thoroughfare, he passed some greenbacks to Vince. “Get your gun out and strap it on. Then meet me in front of that big outfitting store on the corner.”

“Would you kick me one in the pants jest to prove this ain’t no dream?” asked Vince.

“Cowboy, it’ll be a nightmare pronto. Rustle now.”

Bradway strolled along, close to the buildings on his side, watching everything that went on in the street with hawk eyes. He halted every little while to back up to a wall and lean there just as though he were in no hurry at all, the better to appraise what was going on. It was a busy street, and it bore evidence that South Pass was the supply center for a wide area. Freighters were unloading. One big wagon was full of kegs which spoke eloquently of the favorite beverage South Pass consumed. The cowboys and chuck wagon he had seen in the early morning were gone. An overland stage was just rolling in from the West, down the dusty hill road, its four lathered horses breathing hard. Several canvas-covered prairie schooners were laboring up the same slope, headed westward on the Oregon Trail. The tall Nebraskan ambled on down to the store. It was a lively corner. Some boys were playing dangerously close to the busy street, and a spirited team hitched to a buckboard came within a few inches of running them down. The youngsters were scrambling on the board sidewalk, and one of them, the oldest evidently, had bent over to pick up something.

“Hey, kid, you’re too big to be sprawling in front of horses,” said Linc, severely. He made a grab at the youngster, but he dodged and piled headfirst into the three smaller ones and down they went in a heap.

The lad Linc had tried to seize leaped up with amazing agility and whirled as quickly. The cowboy looked into the scarlet face and blazing eyes of a girl dressed in boy’s clothes. As if by magic the youngster in gray blouse and blue jeans was transformed into a slim feminine creature, burning with fury.

“What do you mean?” she blazed, swinging a gauntleted hand which just grazed Linc’s cheek.

He drew back thunderstruck, staring incredulously, his hand going to his face.

“Oh! a girl—excuse me—miss,” faltered the tall cowboy. “I—I thought you were a boy old enough to set these little tykes a better example—” He stopped in confusion as he saw the girl’s pretty face with its eyes of blue fire.

“You did—like hob!” she retorted, and her scornful glance raked him up and down. “I’m used to fresh hombres trying to introduce themselves in this town but I’ll thank you, Mr. Cowboy, to keep your hands off me!”

Clinking spurs and quick footsteps announced the presence of Vince, who stepped between the fiery girl and the stammering Nebraskan.

“Whoa girl, what you doin’?” he burst out, in alarm, as he held her.

“Oh, Vince!—Shoot this cowboy for me,” she cried.

“Aw!—There’s some mistake,” exclaimed Vince.

“Mistake, nothing. This—this hombre insulted me. He tried to grab me—” The younger children were standing by, speechless, watching the action. Linc was looking for a hole to fall through.

“Aw, no! Not this cowboy.”

“Yes, this cowboy. You punch him, Vince, if you haven’t nerve to shoot him, or I’ll get someone else.”

“Insulted—you! I jest cain’t believe that, Lucy. This cowboy is my pardner.”

“I told you, didn’t I? ... He—he attacked me—when I was just—just—trying to stop the boys fighting—”

“Attacked you? ... My Gawd! You must—why, Lordy, he jest ain’t—why—”

Suddenly Linc came out of his trance. “Yes, she’s right, I did, Vince. It’s unforgivable—but I took him—her—for a boy—too close to the street. But what he—I mean she—says about attacking her was only—I just tried to hold her—I mean restrain her. Vince, you’ll have to believe me, I don’t strike girls even when I think they’re— She won’t listen to me, Vince. You seem to know the young lady. Tell her I’m sorry for what she says I did.”

“He apologizes, Lucy,” interposed Vince, most earnestly. “He’s my friend, he’s not drunk—or one of these—you know—kind of cowboys. ... Lucy, this is Linc Bradway, from Nebraska. Speak up, Linc, square yoreself.”

But Linc had been struck dumb by that name, Lucy—by the remarkable change he noted in the girl’s expression.

“Oh, Vince—did you—did you say—Linc Bradway?” she faltered, her face paling, her eyes growing large and dark.

“Shore I said Linc Bradway,” declared Vince, puzzled. “Cain’t you folks heah?”

Suddenly the girl’s two gauntleted hands seized Linc’s arm and she leaned impulsively toward him, gazing pleadingly into his eyes. Lincoln caught his breath. He actually thought she meant to kiss him.

“Linc Bradway? ...” she breathed. “Oh, what a way for us to meet! ... Indeed I know you very well.... I was Jimmy Weston’s girl—Lucy Bandon!”