Читать книгу Raiders of Spanish Peaks - Zane Grey - Страница 4

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Late in the afternoon of the second day Laramie and Lonesome rode into Dodge, the wide-open cattle town of the frontier.

They had gotten only far enough down the wide main street to see through the clouds of dust the vehicles, horses, and throng of men that showed Dodge was having one of its big days—the arrival of trail drivers with their herds from Texas.

A voice called: “Lonesome! Lonesome Mulhall!”

The owner of that name stiffened in his saddle while he reined his horse. “Laramie, did you hear some one call my name?” queried Lonesome, incredulously.

“I shore did,” replied Laramie, halting beside Lonesome to gaze up and down and across the street.

“Gosh! I reckoned I had the willies. . . . Somebody knows me, Laramie, sure as I’m the onluckiest——”

“Lonesome! For Gawd’s sake—is it you?” called the voice, husky of accent.

Laramie located whence it came. “Come, Lonesome, an’ don’t make a yell. . . . Looks like a jail to me. Shore wasn’t heah on my last visit to Dodge. The town’s growin’.”

On the nearer side of the street a solid-looking squat structure had a small window with iron bars across it. Between those bars peered out a pale face from which piercing black eyes fastened upon Lonesome. It required no more than that to acquaint Laramie with the likelihood of their having found the much-talked-of Tracks Williams, Lonesome’s one-time partner.

They rode up to the window, which was about on a level with their heads as they sat mounted. Lonesome had not let out the yelp Laramie had anticipated, a fact that attested to deeper emotion than Laramie had given him credit for. But his face had paled, and his chin wabbled.

“Don’t you know me, pard?” came from the window.

“You, Tracks! . . . Alive? . . . Aw, I’m thankin’ the good Lord! I reckoned you was dead.”

“I’m damn near dead and I will be soon if you don’t get me out of here,” replied the other, bitterly. Laramie saw a handsome thin white face, lighted by eyes black as night and sharp as daggers. Black locks hung dishevelled over a fine brow and a thin downy beard bespoke youthful years.

“You locked in?” queried Lonesome, swiftly.

“Yes, with a lot of lousy greasers and drunken cow-punchers.”

“It’s a jail, huh?”

“Do you think it’s a ballroom? . . . Who’s your riding pardner?”

“He hails from the Handle, Tracks,” answered Lonesome, as he turned to his friend. “Laramie, stick your hand in there an’ shake with my old pard, Tracks Williams.”

Laramie did as bidden. “Hod do. I cain’t say I’m glad to meet yu in heah, but I would be if yu was out.”

“Are you Mulhall’s friend?” came the eager query.

Laramie was about to admit this when Lonesome burst out, vehemently: “Tracks, he saved my neck. I was about to be swung up. We’re ridin’ away from Kansas.”

“Don’t ride away without me,” implored Williams.

“Huh! Did you have any idee we would?” grunted Lonesome, fiercely. “Not if we have to wipe this here Dodge off the map.”

“Lonesome, don’t waste time. Let me talk,” replied Laramie, who could see through the window that other inmates were listening. “What’re yu in for?”

“Not a damn thing,” declared Williams, with passion. “Wasn’t in any shooting fray, nor drunk, nor anything. It’s an outrage. Sheriff and his deputies made a raid to lock up a lot of newcomers. And I happened to be one.”

“Wal, we’ll get yu out one way or another,” declared Laramie.

“Come back after dark with a pick or crowbar. You can dig a hole through this wall in ten minutes.”

“What’d be the best time?”

“Any time after night. The guard leaves us here and goes into the saloon. We’d broke out long ago if we had anything.”

“Look for us about middle of supper time,” whispered Laramie, his sharp ears and eyes vigilant. A moment later a heavily armed man appeared around the corner.

“What you doin’ at thet winder?” he demanded.

“Howdy, officer. We was ridin’ by an’ some one begged for a cigarette. I was about to pass some makin’s in,” replied Laramie, his hand on his breast pocket, where the little bag of tobacco lay.

“So long’s you let me see you do it,” returned the guard.

Whereupon Laramie passed his tobacco-pouch in with the words: “There yu are, cow-puncher. Hope yu get out soon. Good luck an’ so long.”

He and Lonesome rode on up the street, and when they had reached a safe distance Lonesome breathed low: “Say, Laramie, but you are a quick-witted cuss. I was about to throw a gun on thet guard.”

“Think twice before yu do anythin’, now yu’re with me,” replied Laramie, sharply. “Let’s get our haids together. We’ll need another hawse, saddle, bridle, an’ such. Some grub an’ water, for we’ll have to rustle out of heah pronto. Also somethin’ to break a hole in thet wall.”

Before they reached the busy section of Dodge, inquiry led them up a side street to a stable and corral maintained for incoming riders. Bargaining for an extra horse with equipment took but a few moments. While Laramie paid for this and feed for the horses, Lonesome went sauntering around. Upon his return Laramie gathered from his bright wink that he had hit upon something interesting or useful.

“Leave the hawses heah in the corral. We’ll be rustlin’ out before sunup,” said Laramie.

“Ain’t youse a-goin’ to paint the town?” queried the stableman, with a grin.

“Shore. But thet takes us only one night. . . . Come on, pard, let’s rustle some fodder for ourselves.”

They made for the main street, boots scraping and spurs jangling, after the manner of riders unused to walking.

“Wal, do we hunt up a hardware store?” drawled Laramie.

“Nix. I spotted tools under thet open shed. We’ll approperate a couple of them,” replied Lonesome, grinning.

“Lonesome, this heah approperatin’ habit of yorn worries me,” declared Laramie, humorously.

“It ain’t no habit. It’s a disease.”

“Wal, whatever it is yu must curb it. Thet cowman at the camp last night—he was shore decent. An’ right under his nose yu stole his tobacco-pouch.”

“Aw, not stole.”

“Dog-gone-yu. Thet’s what he’d say. If we ever fall into respectable company yu’ll disgrace us.”

“No fear then. . . . Gosh! you can’t see the town for the dust. Regular roarin’ place, this Dodge. No wonder Tracks got run in.”

“Let’s buy a canvas bag to pack grub in, an’ a couple of water-bottles,” suggested Laramie.

They sallied into a merchandise store, where they made more purchases than Laramie had bargained for. Manifestly being in town went to Lonesome’s head. It was dusk when they arrived back at the corral with their supplies. The stableman evidently had locked up his stable for the night. While Laramie filled the canvas water-bottles at the watering-trough, Lonesome went to secure some tools. He came jingling back almost immediately.

“Got a pick an’ a crowbar,” he announced, highly elated. “We can bust thet jail wide open in a jiffy.”

“Hide ’em along the corral fence,” replied Laramie. “I shore hope this heah job doesn’t land us in jail.”

“Now I’ve found Tracks, I’d rather be with him, in jail or out.”

“Wal, I can appreciate thet,” rejoined Laramie, dryly. “But if it’s all the same to yu we’ll stay out.”

They returned to the main street and approached the center of the great stock town. Lights shone yellow through the dust. Wagons and riders were on the move. Lonesome wanted to walk on forever, but Laramie dragged him into a restaurant. Only a few customers were there, which was fortunate for the two riders, as by the time their meal was served to them the place had filled up with a noisy throng of teamsters, cow-punchers, trail drivers and ranch hands, with a sprinkling of hard-looking individuals whose calling Laramie had his doubts about. Their conversation was loud, punctuated by guffaws, and the content was movement and sale of cattle, and the excitement of Dodge.

Laramie had to drag Lonesome out of the eating-hall. By now the dust had settled and the main street was no longer obscured. Not so many pedestrians passed to and fro. But the saloons, restaurants, and dance-halls were already roaring.

“Wal, Dodge is a sight tamer than she used to be,” was Laramie’s comment.

“She’s wild enough for me,” declared Lonesome, halting in front of a wide-open palace of iniquity. “Gosh! it’s sure good we can’t linger in this burg. . . . Look at them pale-faced black-coated gamblin’ gents. They wouldn’t fleece us, not atall. An’ look——”

“Come on, yu tenderfoot,” interrupted Laramie, dragging him on.

“Tenderfoot! Me?—Say, thet’s a good one.”

Lonesome chuckled over that, very sincere in his own opinion that it went wide of the mark. They came abreast of an open lighted door whence issued strains of music. A young woman, bare-necked and bare-armed, with a pretty painted face and eyes of a hawk, about to enter the hall, gaily hailed Lonesome:

“Hello, sweetheart!”

A yoke of oxen could not have checked Lonesome more effectively. There was a dash of gallantry in the manner with which he doffed his sombrero.

“Howdy. Where’d I ever meet you?” he replied.

“It was on the boat from Kansas City to New Orleans. Come in and dance.”

Laramie felt the urge in the lad and held on to him.

“Sorry. I—I got an important job on hand,” floundered Lonesome.

“Who’s your gun-packing pard?” queried the girl as she backed into the doorway, with her hawk eyes on Laramie. “I’ve seen him somewhere.”

“I’m his dad an’ he’s a bad boy,” drawled Laramie.

She trilled a mirthless laugh. “I thought his mother didn’t know he was out.”

Lonesome flounced out of Laramie’s grip and lunged on down the street.

“Smart Alec of a girl! I never rode on no boat to New Orleans.”

“Reckon yu don’t know her kind, Lonesome. Boy, yu’d be a lamb among wolves in this heah town. Let’s rustle to dig Williams out an’ then hit the road.”

As they strode off the lighted street into the dark one Laramie decided the best plan would be to saddle the three horses and lead them out to a clump of cottonwoods at the edge of town, then return with their implements to free Williams. All was dark and quiet in the vicinity of the corral. They lost no time saddling up. Then they set out, with Laramie leading the horses and Lonesome following with the tools. They proceeded cautiously and kept to the back road which soon led out into the open country.

Laramie halted. “Lonesome, this heah is haidin’ east. We want to strike west.”

“Sure we do. An’ we’ll ride straight back through this here Dodge town,” asserted Lonesome.

“Suits me, unless we get surprised breakin’ open the jail. Now let’s work down to the main road an’ find thet bunch of cottonwoods.”

Soon these were located and the horses haltered. Whereupon the rescuers hurried into town again. Lonesome was excited, hard to hold back and keep still. Fortunately there was not a light in one of the several houses they passed before reaching the jail. It too was dark. Laramie had forgotten that the small window was high off the ground. After peering through the darkness up and down the road, listening the while, Laramie lifted Lonesome up to a level of the window. The inmates were not by any means silent, but Lonesome’s sibilant whisper brought instant results.

“All right, pard. Coast’s clear. Got any tools?”

“Sure. Crowbar an’ pick,” replied Lonesome, in his shrill whisper.

“Pass the bar in. Then you keep watch outside. Tap on the wall if any one comes.”

Laramie had to let Lonesome down to get the crowbar, then hoist him aloft again. The implement was easy to hand in, but not so with the pick. Dull thuds sounded on the inside of the wall. Crumbling sounds were soon deadened by rough jolly songs of the cow-camps. Williams had coached his accomplices in this jail-breaking. Laramie could not have heard any approaching footsteps. It was all a matter of luck. Suddenly the crowbar split through the outside planking. Lonesome then attacked the place with his pick, and in less than two minutes there was a hole as large as the mouth of a barrel.

“Pile out, yu jailbirds,” called Laramie, low-voiced and grim. If they were discovered it meant gun-play.

A dark form crawled out to leap erect. In the starlight Laramie recognized the pale face and black head of Williams. The next instant Lonesome was hugging him.

“Pard!—My Gawd—I’m glad!”

“Dear old Lonesome! To think it had to be you!”

Other forms crawled out of the hole, like rats out of a broken trap. Laramie lingered as Lonesome hurried Williams down the road. Nine men emerged, all of whom except the last, scuttled away in the darkness. This fellow was burly of shoulder, bushy of head and beard. He loomed over Laramie, peering with big gleaming eyes.

“I don’t forgit a good turn. Who air you, stranger?” he said, gruffly.

“Laramie, for short.”

“Steve Elkins is mine. Put her thar.”

They shook hands.

“Anyone left inside?”

“Hell yes. Some drunk an’ some asleep. Don’t risk wakin’ them. Thet new Dodge sheriff shore goes off half-cocked.”

Laramie stole away in the gloom and presently broke into a light trot. Soon he espied two dark forms in the middle of the road.

“Thet you, Laramie?” called Lonesome, eagerly.

“Shore. All safe,” panted Laramie.

“Meet my pard, Ted Williams. . . . Tracks, this is my new pard. Calls himself Laramie. Salt of the earth! An’ by Gawd! I’m a lucky an’ a reformed man.”

That ceremony over, the three hurried down the road to the clump of cottonwoods, to find all well with their horses.

“Lonesome, I’ve changed my mind about ridin’ through town,” said Laramie. “We’ll circle an’ hit the road somewhere west.”

“Dog-gone! I’d liked to have had a peep at thet girl who called me sweetheart,” complained Lonesome.

They mounted and rode out into the starlight, where each instinctively halted. It was a fresh start—new and different life for each. Laramie heard Lonesome choke up. But it was Williams who broke the pregnant silence.

“Two’s company. Three’s a crowd. Hadn’t I better go my own way?”

Laramie sensed loyalty to others in Williams’ terse query. He belonged to the best of that fire-spirited breed who rode the ranges of the West, though perhaps, like so many others, had a name or a deed to hide.

“Not on my account,” replied Laramie.

“Ted, it’d kill me to lose you now—an’ Laramie—how could I ever split from you?” cried Lonesome, poignantly.

“Wal, I reckon three’s as good a combination as two,” rejoined Laramie.

“Thanks for putting it up to me,” said Williams, his voice ringing. “We’ll stick together. . . . Three for one and one for three!”

Months afterward a rancher over on the Platte wanting to keep Laramie and Tracks, but to discharge Lonesome, called them The Three Range Riders. And that name, augmented by gossip from cow-camp to cow-camp, traveled over the prairie ranges. Laramie’s fame with a gun, Williams’ as a tracker, Lonesome’s irresistible attraction and weakness for women, preceded them in many instances, and in all soon discovered them. Cattle thronged the immense area of western Kansas and jobs were easy to be had. Keeping them, however, was a different matter. Trouble gravitated to the three range-riders. If it was not one thing it was another. If a cattleman wanted one of them he had to hire all: if he wished to get rid of one he lost the three. They rode a grub-line from camp to camp, from range to range; and they got on at this ranch and then at that. At Tellson’s Diamond Bar an irate and jealous cow-puncher made an illuminating remark: “Them three flash range-riders never spend a dollar!”

This was almost true and Laramie was the genius. He bound his two comrades to an oath agreement that they turn over their earnings for him to save. Lonesome and Tracks kept their word, but not without wailings and implorings. Laramie was inexorable. The three wore clothes so ragged that they resembled the scarecrows of eastern Kansas fields, and they made a pouch of tobacco go a very long way. No drinks! No candy! No new gloves or other accoutrements! Laramie had become obsessed with a great idea and was relentless in its fulfillment. When the three had earned enough money they would find a good lonely range over in Colorado or New Mexico and buy cattle enough to start ranching on their own account. All three were heart and soul in the hope, but it was Laramie’s will that might make it possible.

In the little town of Pecord, upon which they happened one hot summer day, they halted long enough to eat a much-needed meal. Tracks begged for ice cream and Lonesome begged for apple pie. But Laramie was obdurate.

“Yu galoots can starve for dainties,” declared their chief, scornfully. “Do yu heah me shoutin’ for blackberry jam when I love it better than my life?”

Tracks restrained his longings, but when, once more riding along the road, Lonesome produced a sadly mashed piece of apple pie from inside his open shirt, then Tracks exploded, “Where in hell did you get that pie?”

“Um-yum-yum,” was all the satisfaction he got from the ravenous rider.

“Wal, yu ugly little bow-legged toad!” exploded Laramie, when he saw the pie. “Yu approperated thet!”

“Give me a bite, you hawg!” importuned Tracks.

All to no avail were his importunities. Lonesome gobbled all the pie and even went to lengths of picking bits of crust off his chaps to devour them also.

“Tracks, he stole thet pie,” declared Laramie, in an awful voice. “Shore as the Lord made little apples, Lonesome will ruin us yet.”

“Beat hell out of him first!” quoth the fiery Williams.

So they rode on to the next cow-camp, where they worked for three weeks and were elated, feeling that their luck had changed. Yet not so! Vast as the Great Plains were, they constituted only a small world. Who should ride in with a herd of steers but Herb Price, two hundred miles and more from the range where he had aimed to hang Lonesome! Laramie was for calling Price out, saying he would be sure to bob up again. But Lonesome would not hear of that. “Fork yore hosses, pards. We’re on our way,” he said, and without word to the kindly rancher and with wages due they rode away into the melancholy autumn night.

They drifted west and at the approach of winter were glad to accept poor pay from a trail-driver boss on the way back to Texas to fetch up another herd. Down the Pecos to the Braseda they rode, and on to the gulf part where the big cattle herds formed. They lost that job to find a better, and drove stock with vaqueros during the winter months, to start north in the spring over the old Chisholm Trail. That was a tough trip, and when they ended up at Abilene they were a tough trio, though still motivated by their cherished dream. And their savings had mounted to almost incredible proportions.

Out of Abilene one night the three rangers made camp on the river, where they were joined by several self-styled cowmen riding home. They were jovial fellows. That night, despite the fact that Laramie slept on his precious wallet, it was stolen from him. In the morning the home-riding strangers were gone. But they could not shake a tracker like Tracks Williams. A hound on a trail, he tracked them to Hays City. Laramie cornered them in a gambling-hall, killed the leader, crippled the second, and held up the third, who confessed and swore that the money had been gambled away.

It proved a terrible blow to the three range-riders. They let down. Lonesome got drunk and Tracks picked a fight. Laramie, almost too discouraged to begin all over again, looked upon red liquor himself. Yet when destruction threatened he pulled out, got his partners away, and faced the long trail once more.

Vicissitudes common to range-riders of the period dogged their tracks for a year, at the end of which they were as badly off as ever. What they did not experience in life on the ranges was certainly inconsequential. All the mean and hard jobs around cow-camps fell to their lot. Beggars could not be choosers. Laramie recaptured his spirit and clung to it unquenchably because he realized Lonesome and Tracks were slipping down the broad and easy trail. They had come to be more than brothers to him. He fought them with subtle cunning, with brawn and actual threat. But the frontier was changing from the bloody Indian wars and buffalo massacres a few years back to the cattle regime and the development of the rustler. For young men the life grew harder, for not only did the peril to existence increase, but also the peril of moral ruin. The gambler, the prostitute, the rustler, the desperado, the notoriety-seeking, as well as the real gunman, followed hard on the advent of the stock-raising.

Laramie had his work cut out for him to save his young fire-brands from going the way of the many. And the worst of it was he realized that another backset or two would break his shattered hopes. Something extraordinary had to happen soon or he would flunk the job and that would be the end of Lonesome and Tracks. Laramie prayed for a miracle.

One weary day in the spring the inseparable three rode into a growing prosperous town. Laramie did not know it or that it was on the railroad. Both Lonesome and Tracks balked when they discovered it.

“I’m gun-shy,” said the aloof Williams, growing harder and harder to reach.

“An’ I’m girl-shy,” added Lonesome, doggedly.

“Wal, I’ve done my best for yu both,” replied Laramie, with bitter finality. “If yu don’t brace an’ come on I’ll be drunk in half an hour.”

That dire threat fetched them. The idea of Laramie getting drunk was insupportable.

“Tracks, we got to stick to Laramie,” swore Lonesome.

“We’re a couple of measly quitters,” replied Tracks, with remorse. “But, Laramie, old man, it’s not that we don’t love you and swear by you. It’s that we’re hopeless, hungry, ragged, and sick. We’re for holding up a stagecoach.”

“Wal, let’s try once more,” entreated Laramie, for the hundredth time in less than that many days. They rode into the town and dismounted at a livery stable.

“Boy, what place is this heah?” asked Laramie, of the lad who came to take their horses.

“Garden City.”

Laramie turned to his comrades. “Shore it’s a new town for us. Heah our luck will change.”

“Ahuh. What’s the idee?” queried the glum Lonesome.

“We’re three ragamuffins,” declared Tracks, hopelessly. “We’ll be taken for rustlers on the run.”

“Let’s go eat. I’ve got some money left. Then we’ll feel better to tackle this heah place.”

“You son-of-a-gun!” ejaculated Lonesome, admiringly.

“He’s a magician,” declared Tracks. “How many times has he had a little money left!”

With a square meal in sight the down-hearted trio brightened, and they forgot their tattered garments, their worn-out boots. Laramie would not enter the first eating-shop, nor the second, though his friends dragged at him.

“Not good enough for us,” he asserted.

“Hell, we’ll get throwed out,” replied Lonesome, giving up.

It was about the noon hour and the broad street did not present numerous pedestrians, though sidewalks on each side were lined with vehicles and horses. Laramie strode on until he came to a pretentious hotel, and was entering the lobby, followed by his reluctant and grumbling partners, when suddenly he was halted by a man.

“Look out, Lonesome! Duck!” called Tracks, who was ahead.

But the Westerner with the broad-brimmed sombrero let out a whoop.

“Laramie! . . . By the Lord Harry, where’d you come from?”

Quick as a flash Laramie recognized the lean, lined, tanned face with its gray eyes of piercing quality.

“Buffalo Jones or I’m a daid sinner! I shore am glad to meet yu heah.”

Their hands met in a grip that bespoke a period in the past which had tried men’s souls.

“You’re older, Laramie, a little peeked an’ drawn, but I wouldn’t have known Old Nigger Horse any better, if he’d come along,” said Jones, heartily.

“Wal, Buff, yu haven’t changed a whit,” declared Laramie.

“I’m fit as a fiddle. . . . You look like we did after that Comanche campaign. . . . Say, man, come to take you in you’re a sight. . . . An’ your pards here—they’re about as tough. What you been fightin’? Wild cats in a thorn thicket?”

“Nope. Greaser hawse-thieves down in the river bottom,” replied Laramie, lying glibly. “Boys, meet Colonel Buffalo Jones. Yu’ve often heahed me speak of him. . . . Buff, meet my pards, Mulhall an’ Williams.”

The plainsman’s greeting defined Laramie’s status and the regard in which any friends of his must be held. Then Jones turned to a pale, rather handsome man, with whom he had been talking before the interruption and who had stepped back.

“Lindsay, you must meet these boys,” said Jones, drawing the man toward Laramie. “This is Laramie Nelson. He was with me when I had the campaign against Old Nigger Horse, the Comanche chief. You heard me tell the story to your daughters only last night. Laramie was a boy then.”

Laramie quickly responded to the Easterner’s genuine interest and pleasure. Then he introduced Lonesome and Tracks. To do them credit, they acquitted themselves with modest restraint. Laramie was not now afraid of their appearance. That was a recommendation. This meeting augured well.

“Laramie, it’ll interest you to learn Mr. Lindsay is from Ohio,” went on Jones, “and has come West for his health. With his wife, three daughters, and a son! Isn’t that just fine? The West needs Eastern stock, good blood with the pioneer spirit.”

“We’re shore glad to welcome yu,” said Laramie, warmly, and Tracks and Lonesome seconded him.

“Laramie, you know this country like a book. Lindsay has bought a ranch and a big herd of cattle over in Colorado. Pretty high up on the plains. Lester Allen sold out to him. I’m curious about the deal. Maybe you know Allen?”

By the merest chance Laramie was able to connect the name of Lester Allen with Spanish Peaks Ranch, and he said so casually.

“Lindsay, you’re in luck,” declared Jones, with a flash of his wonderful eyes. “You’re an Easterner, a tenderfoot, if you’ll excuse me. You’ve bought a strange ranch from a stranger, without seeing either. It’s an irregular transaction. You must have a man you can trust. Here he is, Laramie Nelson. I vouch for him, stand back of him. He knows the West from Texas up. He knows cattle, and what’s more to the point—the ways of cattlemen, honest and dishonest. Last he had few equals with a gun—and that was years ago.”

“Mr. Nelson, you’re spoken so highly of that I’d want you even if I didn’t need you, and indeed I do,” said Lindsay, earnestly. “My family and I are up a tree, so to speak. Can I persuade you to come along and help us run Spanish Peaks Ranch?”

“Thanks. I’ll be glad to talk about it,” replied Laramie, biting his tongue to restrain it within bounds, and he had all he could do to keep from kicking Lonesome and Tracks, who kept edging in, eyes wide, mouths agape. “We’re pretty tuckered out an’ need a rest. But I might take yu up, provided, of course, I could bring my riders, Mulhall an’ Williams. I don’t want to brag about them, but I never saw a rider as good with a hawse an’ rope as Mulhall, or a tracker in Williams’ class.”

“To be sure I’d want them. By all means,” replied Lindsay, hastily. Then he turned to Jones. “The wife is waiting for me. Suppose you excuse me now and meet me here in an hour, say?”

“We’ll be here, Lindsay. Meanwhile I’ll try to talk Laramie into going with you,” said Jones.

Whereupon Lindsay bowed and left them, to join two ladies who were waiting at the corner. It discomfited Laramie to become aware that the younger of this couple bent grave, fascinated eyes upon him. As he wheeled he was in time to see Lonesome come out of a trance, apparently, and turn a radiant face to him. Sometimes that homely, dirty, bearded face could shine with beauty. It did so now.

“My Gawd, Tracks, did you see what I seen?” he whispered.

“No. What was it?”

“A girl—a slip of a girl—inside the lobby here. She had the wonderfulest eyes. . . . But she’s gone!” he ended, tragically.

“So are you gone,” retorted Tracks.

Laramie heard all this while Jones was questioning him further.

“Boys, go in the lunchroom an’ order some grub. I’ll be along pronto.” And after they had rushed in Laramie turned to Jones.

“No, I’m not acquainted with Lester Allen, but if Luke Arlidge is his foreman there’s shore a nigger in the woodpile.”

Buffalo Jones cracked a huge fist in a horny palm, and his eagle eyes flashed as Laramie had seen them years before.

“Laramie, that deal had a queer look,” he declared, forcibly. “It had been settled—money paid—papers signed—before I met this merchant from Ohio. And Allen had gone. Allen is not well known here. No one would say good or bad of him. And that’s bad. If you know Luke Arlidge is off color——”

“Shore I know thet,” interposed Laramie, as the plainsman hesitated.

“Then another trusting Easterner has been bilked. It’s a damn shame. Fine man. And the nicest family. The boy, though, he’ll blow up out here. . . . Do you want my advice?”

“Shoot, old timer, an’ yu bet yore life I’ll take it.”

“Chance of your life to help a worthy family and get——”

“Thet’s enough for me. Never mind what I’ll get. But, Jones, I was throwin’ a bluff. We’re daid broke. We haven’t had work for weeks. We hadn’t any in sight. An’ we just cain’t go along with this Lindsay outfit half naked.”

“I’ll fix that, Laramie,” replied the plainsman. “Lindsay has plenty of money. I’ll get you an advance. . . . No. It might be better to lend you some. I’ll do it. But don’t you be in a hurry sprucing up. Let this Eastern outfit see you in real Wild West rags. Savvy? Go and eat now. Meet me here in an hour.”