The loot of the Lazy A
Date: 2026-02-24T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Western stories; Vendetta -- Fiction; Ranches -- Fiction

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Title: The loot of the Lazy A

Author: W. C. Tuttle

Release date: February 24, 2026 [eBook #78028]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Doubleday, Page & Co, 1926

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78028

Credits: Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LOOT OF THE LAZY A ***

THE LOOT OF THE LAZY A

By W. C. Tuttle

Author of “Romance,” “Straight Shooting,” etc.

CULTUS COLLINS ONCE MORE STARTS OUT TO INVESTIGATE FOR THE CATTLE ASSOCIATION, AND FALLS INTO MORE ACTION THAN HE THOUGHT COULD BE FOUND IN THE WHOLE SOUTHWEST. AND THE END OF IT ALL WAS HIS OWN DISCOVERY THAT IT NEEDS MORE STRENGTH TO BE BEST MAN AT A WEDDING THAN TO BE BEST MAN IN A GUN-FIGHT—WITH WHICH ROLE CULTUS WAS ONLY TOO FAMILIAR

It was one of those foggy, raining, dismal nights, when all the world seemed one vast drip, drip of water; cold gusts of wind from the bay, where the fog warnings boomed dismally, boat whistles shrilled; while on the streets of San Francisco, little less wet than the bay itself, cable-car motormen danced jigs upon their gongs, seeking to clear the tracks, which they could hardly see in the dim glow of their own headlights.

Standing in the protection of a half lighted doorway, just outside the borders of Chinatown, was a girl. She was dressed in a black suit, black hat. Close inspection would have shown that both the suit and hat were slightly more than well worn, and were also very wet. She carried no umbrella. She was not beautiful, but perhaps it was because of the abject misery in her big, dark eyes, the utter helplessness of her expression.

She was of medium height, slender, white-faced. In fact, her face was so white against the gloom of the doorway, which blended with her black garb, that it seemed like a white mask suspended invisibly against a dark curtain. The wind swirled past the doorway, showering her with rain, but she did not draw back—only stared ahead, dumbly.

A policeman emerged out of the fog, peered at her, as he went slowly past, glanced up the street toward the clanging of a street car bell, and went on. Possibly he thought she was waiting for a car.

A man emerged from a doorway farther up the street, and came down past her. He was tall, rather slender, his head surmounted by a huge Stetson sombrero, which made him look gigantic in the dim light. His heels hit hard on the sidewalk, because of the fact that he was wearing high-heeled boots, and in one hand he carried a suitcase.

The street car clanged past before he could reach the corner; so he placed his baggage on the sidewalk, shoved his hands deep in his pockets and leaned against a post, almost directly in front of where the girl stood. He turned and looked directly at her, but turned back and drew his hat farther over his eyes. He shivered a little. He had no overcoat either.

A man came from the opposite direction, swathed in a heavy overcoat, whistling aimlessly. He was a big man, the collar of his coat touching the brim of his derby hat. He did not see the girl until he was almost past her. He stopped and came back to her. It is possible that he did not see the tall man, who leaned against the post.

“Hello, Kid,” he said ingratiatingly. “What are you doing out in the rain, all alone?”

The girl did not reply, but drew back against the wall. The tall man turned his head.

“No coat, no umbrella?” The man in the overcoat laughed. “Say, you must be up against it, Kid. You don’t look so bad. Snap out of it. Gee, you don’t need to shiver on a corner.”

“Will you please go away?” asked the girl. “I’m all right.”

“I’ll say you are, Kid—all right. I like you. Don’t be uppish. Come on, and I’ll show you a good time.”

“Please let me alone.” The girl spoke softly.

“Don’t try to kid me,” laughed the man. “You’re going with me and I’ll show you the best time——”

The tall man had stepped in behind him and a huge hand, which gripped like a vise, had fastened to his shoulder.

“The lady asked yuh to let her alone, yuh know.” The tall man’s voice seemed mild, apologetic.

The man squirmed quickly. “Who in hell are you?” he demanded.

“Names wouldn’t mean anythin’,” the other said mildly.

The man jerked loose. “Then keep your hands off me! This is none of your business! Now, trot along and let us alone.”

“Ma’am,” the tall man spoke softly, ignoring the threatening attitude of the other man, “do yuh want to go with this man?”

“I certainly do not.”

“I reckon that’s final, don’tcha think?” The big man in the overcoat possibly did not agree with this, and he was foolish enough to swing a right-handed blow at the head of the tall man. The overcoat was a serious handicap. His blow had only traveled half of its arc, when a thick, bony fist, seemingly weighted with lead, caught him under the chin, and he went backward into the street, where he went down in a heap.

The girl stifled a scream, but the tall man’s chuckle was reassuring.

“Did yuh know this man, ma’am?” he asked, caressing his right hand.

“No, I did not. I don’t know who he is.”

“Neither does he—right now. Ain’t it cold! I hate this kind of weather. I s’pose it’s because I live so much on the desert.”

“On the desert?” The girl spoke softly. “Where everything is clean and good—and the sunshine——”

“Have you lived there?”

“Ages and ages ago.”

The tall man peered closer at her. “Yuh don’t look old.”

“I’m twenty-two.”

The tall man laughed softly. “Yeah, yo’re sure ancient, ma’am. And yo’re all wet and shiverin’. Will yuh—? Say, that’s funny. I just knocked that feller into the street for askin’ yuh to go with him, and I was about to do the same thing. He’s gettin’ up.

“Yeah, and he’s goin’ the other way. He’s stoppin’ at the sidewalk, prob’ly wonderin’ what to do about it. Mebbe he don’t know what it’s all about.”

The man had staggered to the opposite sidewalk, where he stood, humped slightly in the rain. His derby hat was out in the street, but he did not seem to miss it. A policeman was coming down that side of the street, and they heard the man say something, which caused the officer to stop.

“C’mon,” said the tall man, grasping the girl by the arm. “Yuh never can tell what that jigger will tell the law.”

Shielding her as much as possible from the rain, the tall man picked up his suitcase and escorted the girl around the corner and down the block. She did not hold back. There was too much sincerity in the voice of this big cowboy for her to feel afraid.

“Where are we going?” she ventured to ask.

“I know a place,” he said jerkily. “It ain’t so much to look at, and lotsa ornery folks eat there, but they sure sabe how to cook a steak, and make soup. Do yuh like soup?”

“Soup?” The girl spoke the word queerly, as though it was something she had once known, but had forgotten.

“Yeah, that’s it. Lotsa onions and meat. Here we are.”

He led her up a rickety stairs, where the air was redolent with odors of frying meats, garlic; the hundred-and-one odors that make up the atmosphere of a bohemian chop-house, where no questions are asked.

No head waiter met them. In fact they were almost knocked down by a hurrying waiter, carrying a tray of dishes; a short-haired, broken-nosed individual; a one-time artist in the manly art of scrambling ears.

It was warm up there amid all those smells. The tall man led the girl to a vacant booth, which an anemic-looking waiter was cleaning up, and they sat down opposite each other. The tall man had placed his suitcase beside the entrance, where he could watch it. It was the first time they had had a good look at each other.

The girl’s face was slightly flushed now, and when she removed her dripping hat, she was really pretty. Her hair was a soft brown. The man’s face was long and bony, with a large nose, keen gray eyes and a big mouth. His cheek-bones were prominent, his hair of a neutral shade, neither blonde, brown nor red.

His hands were huge, bony-wristed, flecked with freckles. He was dressed in a cheap brown suit, flannel shirt, and his trousers were tucked in the tops of his high-heeled boots. The girl looked intently at him. There was no denying that he was homely. Then he smiled at her. She caught her breath for a moment—and smiled back at him.

He was not the same man when he smiled. She caught herself staring at him, while the waiter took their order, wondering that a smile should so absolutely change a man. The waiter went away, marveling at the appetites these two must have.

“Ma’am,” said the tall man gravely, “my name’s Collins. My friends call me ‘Cultus’; Cultus Collins, from Cuyamac.”

“And I am just Mary Smith,” she said simply. “They used to call me Mary Elizabeth—when I had friends.”

“When yuh did have, Mary Smith?”

“Yes.”

“Uh-huh. Mary Smith, how long since yuh ate a meal?”

“Why—er—this noon.”

“Yuh don’t need to lie to me, Mary Elizabeth. Callin’ yuh that ought to prove me yore friend—and yuh hadn’t ought to lie to yore friends.”

Mary Smith looked into the gray eyes of Cultus Collins, and decided not to lie, because he seemed to know that she lied.

“It wasn’t a very big meal,” she said slowly.

“It wasn’t any meal at all, Mary Smith.”

“No, I guess it wasn’t.” And then Mary Smith bowed her head on her wet arms and cried, while Cultus Collins upset a bottle of catsup, trying to pat her on the shoulder and tell her to quit crying. Several diners looked curiously at them, but they were of the breed that mind their own business.

Mary Smith finally stopped crying, dabbled her eyes with a wet handkerchief, and tried to appear brave, while she choked over the first meal she had eaten in two days. Cultus did not question her, nor did she offer any explanation, until the steaks and baked potatoes and soup and salads were but memories, and they were eating huge slices of apple pie and cheese, for which the place was famous.

There were roses in Mary Smith’s cheeks now, even if her body was still wet from the rain. Bit by bit she told her story to Cultus Collins. It was not a new tale of woe. Mary Smith had come from a little town in New England; literally ran away, because she did not want to marry a certain man, greatly desired by her parents, and because she wanted to see some of the world. She had saved enough money to buy a ticket to the Middle West, and by selling a few pieces of jewelry she was able to stretch this ticket to San Francisco, where she had an aunt.

But the aunt was not there. Lack of a business education lost her several fairly good positions. Sickness cost her all her slender savings, and just now she was a week overdue on her room rent, and the room was locked against her. For three days she had haunted the stores, trying to get a position, but they merely looked at her shabby clothes and told her that there was nothing available just now.

Cultus Collins rubbed his chin and wondered what to do. He was not financially able to give her much assistance. He could give her enough money to square up her room rent and enough for a few days of square meals. But that would not remedy the clothes proposition—and without clothes she could not hope to get a paying position.

“Just what was yuh goin’ to do—standin’ there in the rain, Mary Smith?” he asked.

She shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. “I—I don’t know. My body was numb, and I guess my mind was not far from being in the same state. It was all so hopeless, don’t you see?”

“Uh-huh, I see. And yet yuh wouldn’t go with that man.”

She shook her head. “I was going the other way.”

“Toward the bay?”

Mary Smith nodded dumbly. Cultus sighed and shook his head.

“It’s a queer old world, Mary Smith. I’ve been here two days, and I was roomin’ in a little place jist up the street from where we met. I was leavin’, yuh see. I had plenty of time, but I hurried. That’s fate, I reckon.”

“It was fate for me,” sighed the girl. “The bay seems a long way from here, Mr. Collins.”

Cultus smiled widely. “Nothin’ like a steak to make a person change their mind.”

Another couple had entered the restaurant, and came up to the next booth. The man was fairly young, sleek-haired, flashily dressed. The woman was wearing a brown traveling suit, trimmed with expensive furs, and was wearing a small hat. She was young and beautiful, in an artificial way, but just now her face was contorted with indignation, as she faced the young man.

“I suppose you think that was a smart thing to do!” she fairly snapped at him. “Is it any of your business if I want to take a little trip? Explain yourself!”

The man deposited a suitcase beside the one Cultus had placed near the booth entrance and took the girl by the arm.

“Don’t talk so damn’ loud,” he advised. “Get in there and sit down, Janice. I just wanted to be sure you wasn’t doin’ a runout on me. This don’t look right to me. I happen to know that your lawyer friend has been up to see you twice in two days, and I know you haven’t any need of legal advice. Sit down!”

They sat down in the next booth, but their voices were pitched loud enough for Cultus and Mary Smith to hear what was said.

“I’ll explain nothing,” declared the girl. “Let that pocketbook alone!— Well, are you satisfied?”

It was evident that the man had investigated her bag.

“You’re not very well heeled, that’s true. But that don’t mean you won’t meet somebody at the Ferry Building. I heard you tell the taxi driver where to take you. Now, come clean, Janice. You were going to leave me flat. I’ve bought you clothes, diamonds, paid your rent, furnished you a car—and you run out on me.”

Came a few moments of inaudible conversation; the man’s voice was raised in anger.

“What do you care how I make my money? You’re getting rather prudish, it seems. I suppose you think that if the police get me, you’ll go along, because you spent my money, eh? Well, my money is as good as the money of that dirty bum of a lawyer! He’s as crooked as anybody in the district. Sa-a-ay! Are you giving me the gate for that welcher?”

“Your opinions do not interest me,” said the girl. “Call me a taxi. I’m sick of your insinuations.”

“Aw, pull that stuff and get a vaudeville contract! Why, you little bum, anybody would think you was Bernhardt! Snap out of it! Get away from me? Ha, ha, ha, ha! Fine chance. Na-a-aw! Sit still, or I’ll knock you for a loop!”

Cultus was not so interested that he failed to see two men come in. One was the big man he had knocked into the street, while the other was of the same type as the man with the girl. They halted midway of the room, ignoring the gestures of a waiter.

Then Cultus heard the man in the booth say, “There’s that dirty welcher now! Leggo me!”

A dish crashed to the floor, as the man jerked away from the girl and stepped out beyond the curtains of the booth. The two men had turned toward it, and the big man had stepped forward, his hand reaching inside his overcoat, as the woman’s companion emerged.

There were no preliminaries. It seemed to Cultus that both men knew what this meeting would mean. He saw the man at the booth whip out a snub-nosed gun. The other man was just as quick, and both guns spat rapidly, filling the room with short, snappy reports, both men shooting as fast as they could press the trigger. It was all done in the space of a few seconds. The man at the booth entrance dropped his gun, turned around, as though to re-enter the booth, but his grasping hands tore down the hanging curtains, pulling them down on top of him, as he fell.

The other man was on the floor, trying to stay on his hands and knees. A frightened waiter had dropped a filled tray, and was running toward the back of the room.

“My God, they hit that girl, too!” someone yelled.

And then somebody cut off the lights. Cultus and Mary had got to their feet and were at the booth entrance, when the lights went out, plunging the room in darkness. But Cultus had located the exit, and now he grasped his suitcase in one hand, while with the other he clung to Mary Smith, fairly dragging her to the top of the stairs, tearing a way through the frenzied mob.

At the top of the stairs he lifted her up with one arm, fending the strugglers away with his suitcase, and plunged down the rickety stairs and out into the rain, where he let her down. Cultus knew it would only be a minute or two until the police would be there; so he hurried Mary Smith down the street, around a corner, where they found a taxi.

Into this they went, and Cultus told the driver to take them to the Ferry Building. Mary had said nothing, and by the dim light of the cab, Cultus could see that she was very white. He patted her on the shoulder, and she tried to smile.

“Hang onto yore nerve,” he whispered, and then his eyes happened to fall upon the suitcase at their feet.

It was not Cultus’ bag at all; it was the other one!

Cultus looked at it closely. Only in the dark could it have been mistaken for the battered suitcase Cultus had owned. This one was of fine finish—an expensive thing—and was filled to capacity. But Cultus did not mention it to Mary Smith.

They got out at the Ferry Building and went inside. Cultus bought tickets to Oakland. It would be ten minutes before ferry time; so he led Mary Smith to a secluded seat, putting the suitcase on his lap. It was not locked. He unfastened the nickel buckles and opened the case, while Mary gasped with astonishment. It was filled with women’s clothes; dainty things which seemed to arise from the depths of the case, as they were released from pressure.

On the top were two envelopes. The first contained a ticket and Pullman accommodations to Oreana, Arizona and a hundred-dollar bill. The other was sealed in a plain envelope. Cultus ran the blade of his knife under the flap and opened the envelope without damaging it. Together he and Mary Smith read:

Dear M:

Introducing Janice Lee, alias anything you want to call her. She knows part of the game, and is a fair actress, if you can keep her sober. Good luck to you.

Yours,

L.

P. S. I only gave her a hundred out of that five you sent; so you only owe me a hundred, if it pans out all right. Better see that she gets hers, because I won’t swear to her playing on the square, unless you do.

Cultus looked sideways at Mary Smith, as he sealed the letter and replaced it in the suitcase. He removed the envelope, containing the tickets and hundred-dollar bill, which he handed to Mary Smith.

“Why give it to me?” she asked, looking queerly at him.

“Does fate scare yuh, Mary Elizabeth?” he asked softly. “I was going to Arizona, when yuh made me miss my car. I wasn’t headin’ for Oreana, but it’s on my way.”

“But I’m not going to Arizona.”

“Listen to me, Mary Elizabeth Smith. Yuh can’t buck fate. If I’m any judge of things as they look, that big feller was the one that was sendin’ that girl, Janice Lee, out to Oreana, Arizona.

“The big feller is plumb full of lead, and I heard somebody say that the girl was hit. She was behind him, yuh remember. A lot of lead was used this night. You was headin’ for the bay, wasn’t yuh? Here’s a suitcase full of clothes, and I’m sure I seen a trunk check stickin’ down in a corner. There’s a hundred-dollar bill. From now on, yo’re Janice Lee, a pretty fair actress, as long as yuh stay sober. And they better pay yuh what’s comin’ to yuh, or you’ll yelp. Sabe what it means?”

“But—but wouldn’t it be wrong?” faltered Mary.

“It started wrong, Mary.”

As Cultus fastened up the shining buckles, the ferry-boat passengers came crowding out. He picked up the suitcase, held out his hand to Mary Smith, and they went out together.

And while they listened to the throb of the engines and the eery wail of the foghorns a police officer reported to a desk sergeant:

“It was all over when we got there, Sarge. Two dead men and a girl they say can’t live. They sure did a good job. Everyone else was out of there, but we got a suitcase, which one of the waiters said ‘Speed’ Evans brought in. Loring, the lawyer, was all shot to pieces.”

Another officer came in, carrying the battered suitcase, and the detective bureau assisted in its examination. They found two pairs of overalls, several socks, a red shirt, a lariat rope and several packages of tobacco.

“If that belonged to Speed Evans, it’s too bad he got killed,” observed a hard-bitten detective, grinning.

“Why?” asked the desk sergeant.

“Why? Because the blamed crook must have been starting out to do something useful in the world.”

“What do you know about Loring, the lawyer?”

“Enough,” said the detective, “to shed very few tears over his demise.”

“And the girl?”

“Speed’s girl, Searg. Maybe Loring tried to get her. She’s badly shot from liquor. Got two automatic bullets through her, besides. No use investigating. They cleaned up everything for themselves. My gosh, that dump is a wreck.”

“Somebody else took a wallop at Loring tonight,” said an officer, who had been at the restaurant. “He was all over mud, and his hat was in the street. He tried to tell me what it was all about, but I told him to go home and wash his face.”

And thus ended the incident, as far as the police were concerned. Cultus Collins’ suitcase was thrown on a shelf, along with a lot more derelict bundles, and the officers went back to their work.

Oreana City was a typical cattle town of the Southwest; an old place, where the original settlers had builded with adobe, and was still half adobe. Most of the houses were one-story, arranged along a single dusty street, and the alignment of the buildings would have driven an engineer frantic. In early days they had builded along a crooked road, and the crooked road was still the main street of Oreana City.

It was located at the end of a branch railroad line, which served thirty miles of cattle and mining country. An irregular freight and passenger train made daily round trips over the line, making little pretense of a schedule. Oreana City, like the majority of cattle towns, was more unmoral than immoral. The honkatonk was the main center of amusement, and gambling was taken as a matter of course.

A stage line ran from Oreana City to the gold mines of Welcome Creek, thirty miles away. Being an outfitting center for both cattlemen and miners made Oreana City somewhat the pivotal center of that little universe. It was also the county seat.

Three miles northwest of Oreana City was the ranch of the Lazy A: three miles southwest of Oreana City was the ranch of the Star X. Between these two outfits was a feud which had lasted so long that no one paid much attention to it any more.

That is, they hadn’t, until the funeral of old Jud Ault, owner of the Lazy A. Over a year previous to the funeral, Jud Ault had been shot from ambush, the bullet injuring his spine and causing partial paralysis. Since then he had never been able to walk. It was generally believed that the bullet was fired by one of Eph Wheeler’s Star X outfit, if not by old Eph himself. But there was no evidence to convict them.

The feud had started so long ago that no one seemed to know just what had caused it. Some said it started over a card game, in which whisky played a prominent part; others said it was over the woman who married Jud Ault and died when their little girl, Faith, was but a tiny slip of a child. At any rate, Jud Ault and Eph Wheeler had been bunkies before this trouble, but had not met, face to face, in over twenty years.

Jud Ault, even before his injury, which finally killed him, was a grim, sour-faced old man, quick of temper. He hated mankind, and did not hesitate to say it. The Lazy A made Ault rich. Mining engineers had urged the old man to lease or sell part of his ranch, which was rich enough to make him a millionaire. But he refused. He hated miners. They dug holes in the ground. He did not want to be rich.

Faith had grown up in awe of her parent, the prettiest girl in the country, but denied suitors. Woe unto the gay cowboy who tried to jingle his spurs across the threshold of the Lazy A ranch-house. And when she was eighteen she married Jack Keene, a gambler; ran away with him, spent a short honeymoon, and came back for the paternal blessing.

But what they found was a door closed against them. Never again did Jud Ault speak to his daughter. He drew back in his shell, like an old turtle, even refusing to go to town. And when it was definitely decided that Jud Ault had made his final decision, Jack Keene, gambler, former lawyer (according to Miles Lane, a local attorney, who had formed a friendship for Keene), disappeared from Oreana City—alone.

Not even then did Jud Ault relent and take back his daughter, who had no means of support. Men went to him and urged him to take care of her, even if he did not want to see her, and he cursed them out. There was no doubt in the minds of everyone that Jack Keene had had an eye on the Lazy A when he married Faith; but had sneaked away like a cur when he found that his marriage did not mean money.

Then came the Keene baby. Men said that old Jud Ault would relent now. But he never saw his grandchild. Faith Keene lived in a little shack of a house, which Jack had partly furnished. She tried to make a living by taking in washing, but the returns were too small compared to the physical labor involved. Also she was obliged to compete with a Chinese laundry—which some of the cowboys offered to put out of business and give her a clear field. But she declined their offer.

Things were breaking very badly for Faith Keene, when Miles Lane came to her with some money, which he told her came from Jack Keene. She did not wonder why he did not send her this money direct, because she was too thankful to get it. Lane would not tell her where Jack Keene was. Every month the Oreana City lawyer would bring her enough for her monthly wants, and she was able to struggle along and take care of her baby.

East of Oreana City, about four miles, were the tumbledown ranch buildings of the Cross Arrow, owned by “Badger” Hill and his son, known as “Shif’less.” They were veritable range derelicts, these two. Badger was a short, squatty, bewhiskered sort of a man, who greatly resembled his namesake. His vocabulary was limited to a few words—mostly profane.

Shif’less was a big hulk of a man, less than thirty years of age. He was not unhandsome, in his big, lumbering way. His features were strong, blocky, and his wistful gray eyes seemed to be continually wondering at the world from beneath a huge mop of blonde hair, which seemed forever to stand on end.

It was hinted that the Cross Arrow existed through the taking of oreanas—calves which had escaped the branding-iron of their original owners. Farther to the north, these animals were designated as mavericks. And it was also hinted that Badger Hill was not averse to forcing an oreana—taking a calf away from its mother, that he might later run it on the Cross Arrow and claim it for his own.

Shif’less Hill had, in a way, grown up with Faith Keene, and always admired her from afar. Jud Ault had detested Badger Hill and his big cowpuncher son—making it mutual, because both Badger and Shif’less hated the hard-faced owner of the Lazy A.

Eph Wheeler was a mild-mannered old man, thin-faced, keen-eyed; one of the old type of cattlemen, who cursed with no trace of emotion, and fanned the hammer of his six-shooter, when the need arose, with the air of a man who had a slightly disagreeable task to do, and wished to do it as quickly as possible.

“Dude” Wheeler, the son, was a tall, straight-backed young man, who walked so straight in his high-heeled boots that it seemed as though a gust of wind would blow him over backward. He was thin of face, with a wide mouth, showing excellent teeth when he smiled. His eyes were deep-set, black as India-ink, beneath heavy brows, while his nose was bony.

His love for gaudy clothes had won him his cognomen, and he was the flashiest cowboy in the Oreana country. But Dude Wheeler was a top-hand cowboy; ready to fight, drink, gamble or race. He had been taught to hate the Lazy A. But now there was no Lazy A, as far as the Ault family was concerned. Faith had been disowned, and no one ever heard Jud Ault speak of having any relatives. So, as long as there was no Ault family to fight, it seemed that the feud would, or had, died. No one considered that Faith Keene was an Ault.

The Lazy A was in the hands of “Idaho” Breen, who had been Ault’s foreman for years. Idaho was small of stature, as gray as a badger and with about the same disposition. Perhaps association with Jud Ault had caused Breen to become cynical, never smiling.

Cleve Sears, the sheriff, had well described Idaho Breen, when he said, “If I was goin’ to pick out a man to do a first-class job of murderin’ somebody, I’d pick Idaho Breen, ’cause he’d be sure that it was a neat job—and I don’t reckon his conscience would ever bother him at all.”

Not that Idaho had ever killed anybody—not in the Oreana country, at least. No one had ever heard him mention the feud between the Lazy A and the Star X, but for years he had ridden with a Winchester rifle in a boot under his saddle fender.

It had been hinted that Dude Wheeler had found Faith Ault rather easy to look upon, but, because she was an Ault, he had rarely seen her. Seldom did the Lazy A and the Star X outfits meet in Oreana City, but when they did both sides were coldly civil. They came to the same dances, thereby causing the sheriff much mental anguish for fear of trouble, as he wanted to play square with both sides.

But the Aults were gone now, and there were only Idaho Breen his three punchers, “Omaha” Woods, “Mex” Leone, and “Pie” Ide. But they were enough. In range language, a man had to be salty to work for the Lazy A. Omaha Woods was broad of beam, with the neck and shoulders of a wrestler and the mustache of a Viking.

Mex Leone was small, slender, almost as black as an Indian; possibly the best bronc rider in the country. Pie Ide was rangy built, tall, powerful. Men likened him to Abraham Lincoln in his facial aspect, but the physical likeness was the only way in which he resembled the great Emancipator. Pie Ide was as hard-bitted as a roundup bucker, but with a sense of humor, which neither Omaha nor Mex seemed to possess.

It was about a week after the funeral of Jud Ault. Shif’less Hill was on his monthly peanut spree. While the other cowboys spent their monthly salary, or a great part of it, for liquor and cards, Shif’less Hill consumed large quantities of peanuts and a sprinkling of peppermint candy hearts, chuckling to himself over the inane inscriptions thereon.

Just now he had strolled to the front gate of Faith Keene’s little place, where Faith was sitting on the porch with the little boy. She spoke to Shif’less, who opened the gate and came in, sprawling lazily on the steps.

He offered Faith some peanuts, but she declined, smiling at the boyish actions of the big cowboy, who poked a finger at the boy, who chuckled with delight.

“Hyah makin’ it?” he asked Faith.

“Oh, all right, Shif’less.”

“Uh-huh,” Shif’less crunched a mouthful of peanuts, his big hands hanging limply on his knees. “Tha’s good, Mrs. Keene. Glad to hear it. Say,” he looked up at her quizzically, “I heard that yore dad left a will.”

Faith looked blankly at him. “Why, I—I never heard——”

“Well, he did. I heard Idaho Breen tellin’ about it. Miles Lane helped him make it out. Idaho signed it, so he said. Some of the boys got to talkin’ about the Lazy A, and some of ’em seemed to think that you was agoin’ to git it. But Breen said there was a will. He didn’t tell much about it, except that there was a niece, or somethin’ like that, mixed up in it. I was a wonderin’ if Miles Lane had told yuh anythin’ about it, yuh know.”

“He didn’t, Shif’less,” Faith sighed deeply. “No, I didn’t know anything about it.”

“Uh-huh. I hear lotsa fellers goin’ around, kinda admittin’ that Jud Ault was all right. I suppose that’s the thing to do, after a man’s dead and gone, but they all knowed that——”

“He was my father, Shif’less.”

“That’s all right. Bein’ a father seems to be more or less of a responsibility, Mrs. Keene; but yore dad shucked his. Yeah, he’s dead and gone, and you get tears in yore eyes when folks talk about him. Mebbe yo’re right. I’ve got a dad,” Shif’less smiled slowly, his wistful eyes fixed upon the little boy on Faith’s lap, “and lotsa folks say he ain’t worth nothin’. He’s a mean voiced, hard-fisted old pelican. Yeah, I know him better than anybody else does.

“They say he steals cattle. But they ain’t never caught him at it. Mebbe he’s a thief, and he sure uses bad language. Sometimes he gets drunk and acts pretty rough. But as long as I can remember, Mrs. Keene, he’s never said a mean thing to me, except,” Shif’less smiled and filled his mouth with peanuts, “except the time he said that I shore as hell was a throw-back to my monkey ancestors. Dad hates peanuts.”

Faith laughed, and the boy chuckled, as though he understood.

“Yuh named him Jack, didn’t yuh?” asked Shif’less.

“Yes,” softly. “Jack Keene, Junior.”

“Uh-huh. Well,” Shif’less got to his feet, brushing the peanut shells off his lap, “I’ll be anglin’ along. Say, I was jist a-thinkin’. Out at the ranch I’ve got a little painted bronc. He ain’t bigger’n a minute. Been goin’ to break him to ride, but he’s so small that m’ feet hit the ground. I was jist a-wonderin’ if little Jack wouldn’t like him.”

“Oh, that’s thoughtful of you, Shif’less, but don’t you realize that little Jack won’t be able to ride a horse for a long time?”

“Uh-huh. Well, I—uh—tha’s all right, too. Yore welcome. I’ll give him the bronc, and keep it out at the ranch until yuh need it. Them painted ones shore live a long time. Well, good day, Mrs. Keene. I reckon I’ll git more peanuts, and head for home.”

Shif’less walked back to the main street, and was heading toward the New York General Merchandise Store, when he met Cleve Sears, the sheriff. Sears was short and fat, with a full-moon sort of a face. His idea of a good time was to sit in the shade and whittle.

“Hello, Shif’less,” he said jerkily. Too much fat had made him short of breath.

“’Lo, Cleve,” drawled Shif’less. “Whatcha know?”

“I know that Idaho Breen is sore as hell. Know what he done? This mornin’, so he says, he found fifty-three Lazy A cow hides in a prospect hole, somewhere between the Lazy A and the road to Welcome Creek. Said the damn’ hole was about fifty feet deep, and he didn’t know that them hides was there until he smelled ’em.”

“Smellin’ kinda deep, wasn’t he?” smiled Shif’less.

“Prob’ly the smell come out the mouth of the shaft.”

“Prob’ly. Still that ain’t so bad for him. Hides are worth good money right now.”

The sheriff breathed heavily. “I dunno. Idaho’s mad. Says he’ll show the Star X where to git off at.”

Shif’less cracked his few remaining peanuts, poured them into his mouth and began chewing complacently. “Didja hear that old Jud Ault wrote out a will before he died?”

“Somebody said he did. Left the Lazy A to a niece of his.”

“And left his daughter out in the cold.”

“Yeah, that’s true. I hear her husband is sendin’ her money every month. That’s how she gits along, Shif’less. He can’t be such an awful jigger, if he does that for her.”

“Must be all right,” mumbled Shif’less. “Don’t yuh reckon the feud between the Lazy A and the Star X is ended?”

“It ort to be, Shif’less. Still, yuh never can tell. They tell me that this niece of Jud Ault’s is named Ault—Mary Ault. Ordinarily I’d say that a woman ain’t got no business runnin’ a cow ranch, but if she keeps Idaho Breen there she won’t have to do much of the runnin’. Idaho’s been in charge ever since Jud Ault got shot.”

“Uh-huh. The Lazy A is worth a lot of money, Cleve. I had a talk with one of them minin’ engineers ’bout a year ago. He was pokin’ around the hills out near our place, and he told me that the surface showin’ on the Lazy A was worth a cold million.”

“Yeah, I heard it, too. Old Jud knowed it was there. But the Lazy A made him plenty of money—and he hated holes in the ground. I asked Miles Lane if the old man’s will stated that no minin’ was ever to be done on the Lazy A, but he said it didn’t.”

“I was jist wonderin’ if Faith Keene couldn’t contest that will, Cleve.”

“Miles says she can’t, because the old man left her one whole dollar. He says he disowned her and didn’t want to even leave her the silver dollar, but Miles showed him where she could bust the will, if he didn’t mention her at all.”

“Uh-huh,” Shif’less picked his teeth with a match. “It ’pears to me that them damn’ lawyers jist has to be accurate, even if it wrongs the right folks. Well, I’m all out of peanuts. See yuh later, Cleve.”

“S’-long, Shif’less.”

Shif’less sauntered on up the street. He saw Idaho Breen in front of Miles Lane’s office, talking with Lane. They nodded coldly to him, as he went past and entered the store just beyond.

Miles Lane was above average height, slightly stooped. His sandy hair was thin and wiry; his eyes, close-set, were buried beneath beetling brows, which grew together over the bridge of his thin nose. The hinges of his wide jaws were knobby from incessant gum-chewing. But although the jaw was wide at its hinge, it tapered down to a weak chin, which gave his head the appearance of being top-heavy.

He invariably wore a winged collar and a stringy black tie, which no doubt gave him a judicial air. Lane was a bottle drinker. Perhaps so because of its economy. And as a result he was very often under the influence of liquor.

“You said she’d be here Wednesday, eh?” questioned Idaho Breen, his cold eyes studying the flushed face of the lawyer.

“Yes; Wednesday, Breen.”

“Uh-huh. When is the will to be read?”

“Oh, after she gets here. We’ll have the judge and the sheriff there to hear it. I suppose the best thing to do will be to take her right out to the Lazy A as soon as she comes.”

“That’s what I aim to do, Miles. I was just wonderin’ if Faith Keene will make any move to contest the will. It looks as though she could do that.”

“If she had enough money to make a fight of it, Idaho. I’m goin’ to have a talk with her and see how she feels about it. But she can’t do much. The will gives her one dollar. That’s a legal point. And everybody around here knows that Jud Ault wouldn’t let her in his house. He disowned her.

“No, I don’t think she’s got a chance to contest the will. In fact, I don’t think she ever thought of such a thing. She’s proud.”

“How much do yuh really think the Lazy A is worth, Miles?”

The lawyer smiled thoughtfully. “The mineral rights are easily worth a million. I talked with those engineers when they prospected it and they said it was so rich that they were afraid to estimate. One of ’em got drunk and talked. They were employed by Eastern capital, and I happen to know that Jud Ault was offered more money than he knew existed, just for the mineral rights.”

“I know that,” said Idaho. “I’ve had assays made, too. Oh, it’s there, Miles.”

“You bet it’s there. Now, what about those cow-hides?”

“Just what I told you. That prospect hole is full of Lazy A hides. That damn’ Star X outfit used that deep shaft to get rid of Lazy A hides. They’ve been eatin’ Lazy A meat for years, and I’ve wondered where they threw the hides.”

“Any proof?” asked Lane judicially.

“Proof? No! How can yuh prove who shot a beef? They’ve all been shot.”

“Then drop the subject until you’ve got proof, Idaho. There’s no use starting a battle with the Star X.”

“Just let ’em keep on eatin’ our meat, eh?”

“Have you ever eaten any Star X beef?”

“Yo’re damn’ well right, I have! But not that much.”

“The amount doesn’t matter. What I want you to do is to forget those hides. If you can get the goods on the Star X, I’m for it. But right now we don’t want to stir up any war. Get this girl established out at the Lazy A, Breen. I suppose every cowpuncher in the country will want to marry her.”

Breen laughed coldly. “I suppose. My own outfit have taken to washin’ their necks, ever since they heard she was comin’.”

“She’d be a good catch,” Lane laughed softly. “I might marry her myself.”

“You better quit drinkin’,” advised Idaho coldly.

“I don’t drink enough to hurt me.”

“Well, I don’t want yuh to drink enough to hurt me.”

Miles Lane laughed. “I guess you won’t get hurt much. Just forget those cow-hides, Idaho. We’ll deal with the Star X when we get the goods on ’em. Anyway, rustling is petty larceny beside what we’ll get.”

Something prompted Idaho to step over to the front window, which looked out on the crooked main street. Leaning against the wall, near the window, was Shif’less Hill, still eating peanuts. Idaho motioned to Lane, who came over to the window. Apparently Shif’less was merely engaged in eating more peanuts.

Idaho watched the big Cross Arrow puncher, who finally dusted the peanut shells off his shirt front, shoved the remainder in his chaps pocket and walked away. He did not even glance toward the window. Idaho stepped back, his eyes squinting narrowly.

“Do yuh suppose that big fat-head was listenin’ to what he might hear?”

“I don’t think so, Breen. Anyway, what could he hear?”

“Nothin’, I reckon. I don’t like him.”

“He’s harmless.”

“Yeah, I suppose he is. Except when it comes to stealin’ calves.”

“Anyway, our conversation was none of his business.”

But perhaps Shif’less Hill felt differently about it. He untied his horse at the New York Store hitch-rack, mounted and rode toward home. He had not stopped in front of Miles Lane’s office with the intention of listening. In fact, he had heard only the dull mumble of conversation, until Lane had raised his voice slightly and said:

“Just forget those cow-hides. What do we care? Rustling is petty larceny beside what we’ll get.”

“Beside what we’ll get,” muttered Shif’less. “Now, jist why did he say that, I wonder?”

Dear Al:

You heard about me getting shot? It was over a year ago. Since then I’ve been a cripple—paralysis. Bullet lodged against my spine, and the doctors are afraid to take it away. I’ve lost my nerve, Al. I’m as old as hell, and they say I’m as bitter as gall. Maybe I am. I haven’t a kindly feeling towards anyone. You don’t know how it is, Al; to be old, crippled, nothing to look forward to. I can’t get around. The damn’ doctor won’t tell me the truth. If you want honesty, don’t expect it after you’re old and crippled.

Al, I’m not appealing to the Association. I don’t want no cozy detective hanging around me. But I do want a man who can find out things. I’ll pay well. Maybe I’m crazy. I know they are saying I am. But I feel that everything is not right. The old Lazy A is worth a lot of money. I’ve made my will. But something makes me feel like an old bull, dyin’ out in the open, surrounded by coyotes and buzzards, waiting. I suppose they hate me. I don’t blame ’em. I’ve hated a lot in my time. See if you can find the right man, Al. The Lazy A can pay well for what it gets. Hope I’ll see you some day.

Yours truly,

Jud Ault.

Cultus Collins looked up from reading the letter. A gray-haired man, with kindly blue eyes, was seated at a desk beside him, idly drawing circles on a desk blotter with a pencil. On the walls were detail maps of Arizona, a meat packer’s calendar, a framed picture of a longhorn steer. From the adjoining room came the clicking of a typewriter.

“I had a hard time locating you, Collins,” said the gray-haired man. “I got that letter nearly three weeks ago.”

“Yuh say this Lazy A is at Oreana City?”

“Yes. Have you ever been there?”

Cultus smiled grimly, but shook his head.

“No. Do you believe in fate?”

“In fate? Why, I don’t know, Collins. Do you?”

“I’m beginnin’ to,” Cultus smiled softly, as he folded up the letter. “That’s a queer sort of a letter, Al. There’s a lot in it; a lot of the soul of a bitter man. Mebbe I better see if I can help him. I dunno what he wants done, do you?”

“No. Perhaps it’s merely hallucinations, Cultus. I don’t know much about the place. If you take the job, it’ll be up to you to go there and see what you can find out. I’ll give you a note to Ault so he’ll know you’re on the job.”

“All right.”

The secretary of the Cattlemen’s Association penciled a note for Cultus, while the lean-faced cowboy grinned softly over the manufacture of a cigarette; grinned to himself, because he still had an hour to catch the same train that Mary Smith was taking to Oreana City.

Cultus had had no inkling that the Cattle Association was going to send him to Oreana City. He had told Mary Smith good-by, and had promised to join her as soon as possible to help carry out the deception. Neither of them knew what it meant, but there was no question that it was a crooked deal. And now the Association was sending Cultus to the same location.

“What seems so funny to you?” queried the secretary, as he folded the note. Cultus grinned widely, but did not reply. They shook hands and Cultus went back to the busy street of an Arizona metropolis. He headed for the depot, where he found Mary Smith.

Part of the hundred-dollar bill had been invested in a modest gray suit and a small hat. There were roses in her cheeks now, as she sprang up to greet Cultus.

“I’ve got to buy a ticket to Oreana,” he grinned.

“Oh, are you going with me?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Oh, I’m so glad, Mr. Collins!”

“Well, that’s nice of yuh, Miss Janice Lee,” Cultus sobered quickly. “Don’t forget that’s who yuh are, little woman. Forget Mary Elizabeth Smith. And my name ain’t Collins. My name’s Jones, and I’m from Oklahoma. All you know about me is that yuh met me on the train, and yuh think I’m buyin’ cattle.”

“But—but what is the idea?”

“Strictly business. Miss Lee. Unless I’m mistaken, there’ll be someone to meet yuh in Oreana City. You don’t know, and I don’t know what the game is. But let ’em do the talkin’, and you’ll soon know. I can’t be with yuh. But don’t be scared. They won’t hurt yuh; that ain’t what they want yuh for. But I won’t be far away. Play the game, Mary Elizabeth.”

“Oh, I’ll do that, Mr. Jones of Oklahoma.”

“Buena muchacho,” smiled Cultus. “I have a feelin’ that yo’re goin’ to be a help in my business this time.”

“What is your business, anyway?”

“Bein’ Jones of Oklahoma—a cattle buyer.”

“Off that shirt! Off that shir-r-r-rt!” Pie Ide’s voice almost lifted the shingles off the Lazy A bunkhouse. Mex Leone stopped putting on a cerise creation, and stared at Ide, who had been shining his boots with Rising Sun stove-polish, which was smelling to high heaven.

“Ain’t this my shirt?” asked Mex softly.

“Yore shirt! Sa-a-a-ay, when did you own a shirt like that? I bought that shirt in Phoenix three years ago, Mex. I’m not dressin’ both of you jiggers. Omaha’s got on a pair of my socks, and if that ain’t my red tie he’s— Hey, Omaha, that’s my collar!

“Yeah, it is, too! You never had none as high as that. My Gawd, if you ever set down hard, you’d slice off yore ears. Now, look at it! Why don’tcha polish yore boots after yuh dress yore neck? Hell, I can’t wear that collar now! And there ain’t— Wear one of yours, Omaha? That’s right neighborly of yuh, cowboy. I’ve got a fifteen and a half neck, and you’ve got a seventeen.”

“I’d rather have a phonygraft, wouldn’t you, Omaha?” asked Mex, searching his war-sack for another shirt. “Yuh can shut off a phonygraft.”

“I don’t pay no attention to the big scorpion,” said Omaha. “He thinks he can claim things by talkin’ louder than anybody else. That was my collar. Provin’ it to him jist ruined it for both of us. And this tie——”

“Give us the hist’ry of it,” begged Pie Ide. “After you’ve done lied yore soul into purgatory, I’ll tell yuh where and how I got that tie. Mex! Didn’t I tell yuh to let that shirt alone? Flimsy? Of course it’s flimsy! But yuh didn’t need to rip it down the bosom thataway, jist showin’ it was flimsy. O-h-h-h-h, why didn’t yore folks wean yuh in yore callow youth?”

“Ain’t you goin’ to shave?” asked Omaha mildly.

“Not with my razor,” said Mex. “Every time Pie shaves with my razor I have to pay a barber a dollar to hone the nicks out of it.”

“Aw, he’s beautiful enough,” grinned Omaha. “When that girl takes a look at him, she’ll——”

“Wonder how I can stand to live with you two misfits,” finished Pie. “Yeah, I’m goin’ to shave—with Mex’s razor. I’m goin’ to wear that flimsy shirt and I’m goin’ to accept one of Omaha’s clean collars, even if I have to punch some new buttonholes to ram my collar-button through.”

“And ruin it for me?” wailed Omaha.

“Prob’ly.”

“Are you aimin’ to make a play for this heiress?” asked Omaha resignedly.

“Jist like a road-runner pickin’ a grasshopper,” said Pie seriously. “Ain’t it legitimate? She’s single. There ain’t nothin’ in the constitution of the State that says I ain’t eligible, is there? I’m a clean, whole-souled young feller, and I’ve got ambitions to be somethin’ in the world.”

“If you’d ’a’ said you was clean-souled, I’d keep still, ’cause yore soul ain’t visible,” grinned Mex. “You ain’t took a bath since yore bronc bogged down in the Little Muddy last spring. With all the land she’s gettin’ on the old Lazy A, I don’t reckon the lady would want any extra real estate, Pie.”

Mex dodged gracefully through the doorway, just ahead of the shoe-brush, which Pie hurled the length of the room. It was a good throw—as far as velocity was concerned—but the angle was bad and Omaha looked up just in time to get the handle of it across the bridge of his nose. Omaha went backward over a chair, landing on the back of his neck near the door, howling bloody murder. Nothing could ever convince Omaha that Pie Ide had not intended to hit him. He came to his feet, swearing a streak, blood running from his injured nose, eyes half blinded.

His grasping hands came in contact with his belt and gun on a bunk, and he fired one wild shot, as Pie Ide went under a bunk on his hands and knees.

“Gdigyuh!” wailed Omaha. He staggered to the center of the room, one hand held to his streaming nose, as he tried to locate Pie under the bunk.

“What’s goin’ on in here?” Idaho Breen had just heard the commotion, and had come from the stable. “What happened to you, Omaha? Put down that gun!”

“It was an accident, Idaho!” panted Pie, sticking his nose and eyes out between a drapery of blankets, which hung down over the end of the bunk. “I throwed that brush at Mex, and Omaha walked into it. Take the gun away from him, Idaho.”

“I’d wadden’t no dab aggcided,” denied Omaha. “He idtedded to hid be.”

“He throwed it at me,” Mex stuck his head around the corner of the doorway. “But you’ve got my consent to kill him, Omaha.”

“Some of you damn’ fools are goin’ to kill each other one of these days,” declared Idaho. “Why don’tcha ever grow up?”

Omaha tossed the gun to the bunk, and turned to the broken mirror to examine his injury. The nose was swelling, and was tinged with purple across the bridge. Idaho grunted disgustedly and walked out, while Pie crawled from beneath the bunk and advised Omaha to hold his breath and stop the bleeding.

“Will thad stob id?” asked Omaha wearily.

“Sure it will.”

Omaha tried it, but with no results. “How log?” he asked heavily. “How log do you hab to hold id?”

“All depends the the person,” said Pie seriously. “Some die a lot harder than others.”

But this time Pie had secured Omaha’s gun, and walked outside to join Mex. Idaho was hitching up the buggy team, with the intention of going to Oreana City to meet the train. Idaho had not dressed for the reception of the heiress of the Lazy A, but the three cowboys felt differently about it. All they knew was that Mary Ault, old Jud Ault’s niece, was coming to the Lazy A. Idaho had told them that she was a fairly young woman. It was not often that the Lazy A boys dressed up, but when they did they made an event of it.

Pie had suggested that they all go to the depot to meet her, but Idaho vetoed that idea. Idaho drove away. It would be several hours before train time. Omaha came from the bunkhouse, looking queer with his purple nose, which resembled a potato in contour.

“All dressed up and no place to go,” complained Pie. “It’s hours before the train comes in.”

“And nothin’ to drink on the ranch,” wailed Omaha. “I’d sell my soul for a shot of liquor.”

“Got over yore hayfever, eh?” grinned Mex. “Yore nose looks like the handle on a door.”

“Thasall right,” growled Omaha. “Ne’ mind my nose.”

“It strikes me that somethin’ must be done,” said Pie. “We can’t gloom around here for hours, dressed thisaway. Suppose we go to town, keep out of sight of Idaho, and when the train whistles we can head for home.”

“Yore voice is tuned for my heartstrings,” said Mex. “How about you, Omaha?”

“Pshaw, I’m halfway there right now. C’mon.”

And while the three Lazy A cowboys headed for town, four other riders, “Buck” Wing, “Heinie” Moriarity, “Klondike” Evans and Joe Chevrier, of the Star X, foregathered in the Oreana saloon and gambling house, with enough money in their pockets to make the visit worthwhile.

Buck Wing was a long-legged, buck-tooth cowboy, with one eye slightly out of line, and one of his ears, in prize fight parlance, was slightly cauliflowered. Moriarity was short, broad of shoulder, typically Celtic, even to his love of battle.

Klondike Evans was of medium height, bald-headed, sallow complexioned, which accentuated the wispy black mustache on his long upper lip. Joe Chevrier was a little, red-faced, French-Canadian, voluble, excitable, the butt of most of the rough jokes originated by Buck and Heinie.

The Lazy A and the Star X outfits had never met since the funeral of Jud Ault. Personally there had never been any bad blood between the cowboys, but they had been loyal to their own outfits, respecting the ancient enmity.

Idaho Breen saw that the Star X outfit was at the Oreana; so he tied his buggy team in front of the New York Store, and gave the Oreana a wide berth. This was as Pie Ide had expected; so the Lazy A trio tied their horses at the rear of the Oreana and made their entrance through the rear door.

The four Star X boys were at the bar. Omaha, Pie and Mex stopped about midway of the room, looking at the Star X men.

Buck Wing grinned widely. He had imbibed plenty of liquor and his soul was mellow toward everybody.

“’S far as I kin see,” he said slowly, “there ain’t no feud left. Hyah, cowboys!”

And for the first time since the feud started, the Star X punchers shook hands with those from the Lazy A. After about the sixth drink, Omaha offered this explanation:

“This here Miss Ault, which the old man designates in his will-paper as bein’ the one he chooses to own the Lazy A, is due to hit Oreana City this evenin’. Idaho Breen aims to take her out to the ranch. That’s the reason we’re all duded up this-a-way. When that train toots for Oreana City, we fogs for home and lines up at the front door to welcome her.”

“Perfec’ly proper,” said Klondike owlishly. “My, my, I don’t see how you boys ever got so stylish! I take one look at Pie Ide, and I says to myself, ‘Here’s a ’Piscopal preacher.’ You shee it was that collar that fooled me.”

“’S one of mine,” said Omaha. “Pie punched button-holes in it. Had t’ kinda lap the ends over to fit his neck.”

“My Gawd, he shore is a dude!” applauded Buck Wing. “Yo’re all pretty gaudy, if yuh ask me. Still, it’s perfec’ly proper under the circumstances. Whatcha say, Joe?”

Joe Chevrier hadn’t said anything. Liquor made him just a trifle mournful, it seemed. He looked gloomily upon the three Lazy A punchers.

“I say not’ing,” he replied. “Me, I’m jus’ t’ink w’at somebody say ’bout Star X kill Lazy A beef and t’row hide in de prospec’ hole.”

“Drop it!” growled Heinie. “This is no time to stir up a lot of smelly cow-hides, you frog-eater!”

Frenchy was properly squelched, but continued to glower. He was just drunk enough to hold a grudge, and his remarks brought a decided chill over the festivities.

“I’m for buryin’ any hatchet that might be around,” said Pie Ide. “We might as well all be good little friends together.”

“Sure thing,” agreed Buck Wing. “I’m willin’. But you know yourself, Pie, that Idaho Breen made some remarks that are hard to overlook.”

“You say somet’ng true,” applauded Joe.

“And I’m goin’ to squirsh you, if yuh don’t shut up!” snapped Heinie.

“And I’ll help yuh,” offered Omaha. Heinie glared at Omaha.

“The hell yuh will!”

“If yuh need help,” amended Omaha quickly.

“I’m not scare from de Lazy A, you bet,” declared Joe.

“You shore don’t need to be, Joe,” said Klondike warmly.

“Well, yuh can’t hold us responsible for what Breen said, can yuh?” asked Pie Ide. “I’d crave to know if we’re responsible for what our boss says; that’s what I’d crave to know.”

“You seems to have a cravin’, cowboy,” observed Buck coldly. “Folks that crave hard enough usually gits, yuh know.”

“Aw, you don’t need to git yore tonsils all swelled up,” said Pie. “We came here in a peaceful mood. Yo’re four to our three, but nobody ever seen the Lazy A——”

“Let’s arbitrate,” interrupted Omaha. “I’ll buy a drink. And we don’t care how many Lazy A cows you’ve rustled. We don’t care if you’ve filled every prospect hole from here to Welcome Creek with Lazy A hides. Whatcha drinkin’, gents?”

“Are you admittin’ to yourself that we has done such a thing?” Heinie Moriarity hitched up his belt, his eyes snapping.

“Let’s have the drink first,” suggested Klondike.

Arguments were forgotten for the moment, while seven men drank. Joe Chevrier threw his glass in a cuspidor, smashing it into a hundred pieces.

“I drink no more wit’ Lazy A,” declared Joe, waving his arms. “I’m insult from w’at Breen say about de cow-hide.”

“Why,” said Omaha expansively, “don’t some of you Star X gents kill that damn’ Frenchman? He’s a menace to friendship.”

“’O’s a menace?” demanded Joe belligerently. “Tak’ dat off! By gosh, I no stand for dat!”

“He ain’t no menace,” said Klondike. “You hadn’t ought to call him that.”

“Then why don’t he forget them cowhides?” wailed Omaha.

“He’s so honest it hurts him,” explained Buck Wing thickly.

“Hurts him to be honest,” nodded Mex. “I sabe what yuh mean.”

“You don’t sabe nothin’!” snorted Buck Wing.

“All right, all right,” Pie Ide hitched up his belt. “I can see that you Star X whip-poor-wills are pinin’ for battle. But we ain’t in the market for no wars t’day. We got to remain safe and sane until our new she-boss arrives. After she’s kinda inaugurated, we’re receptful to anythin’ you hedge-hawgs nominate. We meets yuh any old place yuh ain’t afraid to go, and we’ll let yuh choose yore weapons. Yo’re four to three, but after the first two has been choosed, I whip the remainin’ two.”

“You kinda hates yourself, don’tcha?” asked Buck Wing.

“Yeah; but I’ve got enough to cover you four ant-eaters.”

“If you fellers has got any quantity of brawlin’ to do, I wish you’d go some’ers else,” said the bartender mildly.

“Who’s brawlin’?” demanded Klondike. “This here is jist an argument among men—so keep out of it.”

Both sides knew that there was no chance for peace. Omaha hitched up his belt, spat dryly and said, “All right. You Star K’s don’t want no peace, I can see that; so we’ll go away. That cowhide matter don’t mean nothin’ to any of us. All I can say is that if yuh ate all the beef that was inside them hides yo’re shore plenty fat on good meat.”

Then the three Lazy A cowboys filed out through the front door and headed down the street toward the Rawhide saloon, just well enough organized to ignore the fact that Idaho Breen might meet them.

“All six of ’em went, eh?” Joe Chevrier looked owlishly toward the front door.

“There was only three,” said Klondike.

“By gosh, dere was six went out!” exploded Joe. “I tell you w’at, I’m sore. Caus’ now I c’n whip all six—me!”

“You couldn’t whip a canary,” declared Buck Wing. “Shut up.”

“But dey accuse,” wailed Joe.

“They ort to be teached a lesson,” observed Klondike.

“They will be,” nodded Buck. “I’ve got a scheme. That train gets in after dark, and there won’t be nobody there to meet the girl, except Idaho Breen. How’d it be—?” Buck scratched his chin thoughtfully. “How’d it be to swipe that girl and take her out to the Star X?”

“I’ll buy a drink!” exploded Heinie.

“You’ve spoke yore piece.”

When Idaho Breen came to Oreana City he drove his team to the little depot, where he left it to await the arrival of Mary Ault. He went to the depot, where the agent divulged the information that the train would be about three hours late.

“I got a telegram for Jud Ault,” he grinned. “Didn’t just know how to deliver it—do you, Breen?”

“That’s funny, ain’t it?” laughed Idaho. “Mebbe I better take it along with me; it might concern the business, yuh know.”

“Sure. Here she is. Lookin’ for somebody on the train?”

Idaho pocketed the telegram. “Yeah; the new owner of the Lazy A is due in on this train.”

“That so? Oh, I did hear about Jud Ault making out a will.”

Idaho nodded and walked out to his team. He opened the telegram. It was from the secretary of the Cattlemen’s Association, and read:

Sending you best titan for job will identify himself.

Al Traynor.

Idaho leaned against a buggy wheel and pondered over the telegram.

“Sendin’ you best man for job.” he muttered. “What job? A telegram to a dead man! And Al Traynor is secretary of the Association. I wonder jist what job they had in mind.”

He folded up the telegram and went back up the street. The sheriff was sitting in front of the New York Store, whittling, his eyes scanning the front of the Oreana saloon. Idaho spoke to him, and the sheriff moved over to give him a seat.

“Yore gang and the Star X gang are over there in the Oreana,” offered the sheriff, pointing with his pocket-knife. “They’ve been in there for about fifteen minutes, and nobody ain’t been throwed out yet.”

Idaho scowled heavily. “All gettin’ drunk, eh?”

“All got drunk,” corrected the sheriff.

Just at that moment the three Lazy A boys filed out and headed for the Rawhide. None of them were able to follow a chalk-line. They filed into the Rawhide, and the sheriff breathed easier.

“Well, I’m glad that’s over,” he said thankfully.

The sun had gone down, and it would soon be dark. They were lighting one of the hanging lamps in the Oreana, when Joe Chevrier and Klondike Evans came from the place. Both of them were unsteady on their feet. It seemed that Klondike was trying to argue Joe out of doing a certain thing of which Joe was bound and determined to do.

“My gosh, I’m insult!” roared the little cowpuncher angrily, as they came across the street. “He tak’ it off, Klondike!”

“Thasall ri’.” mumbled Klondike. “You ain’t got no shense. I tell you for-f’rgit it, da-aw-gone yuh. Whatsa use——?”

“Ho, ho!” Joe had seen Idaho and the sheriff. He braced his feet, roaring out his war-whoop, “You sonn-of-a-gonn!”

Klondike made an ineffectual grab at Joe, who had dragged out his six-shooter, staggering out of Klondike’s reach.

Wham! Crash! His bullet smashed through the window just over Idaho’s and the sheriff’s heads.

Wham! Wham! Two more bullets practically ruined the rest of the window, while Idaho and the sheriff, running like a team of heavy-bodied fire-horses, headed for the sheriff’s office.

Wham! Another bullet struck the side of the building, as they fell through the doorway. Heinie Moriarity and Buck Wing staggered out of the Oreana, while from the Rawhide, a short block down the street, and almost opposite the sheriff’s office, came the boys from the Lazy A, seeking to find what the shooting was about.

Wham! Joe’s fifth bullet struck the dirt just in front of Omaha Woods, who almost fell over backward, when the spray of gravel blew up in his face. And without any further argument, Pie Ide drew his six-shooter and proceeded to take pot-shots at the Star X gang.

A bullet knocked Klondike’s sombrero off and when he stooped over to get it, another hunk of lead threw gravel in his face: so he forgot the hat and went galloping drunkenly toward the doorway of the Oreana, where he caught his toe on the step and fell halfway through the doorway.

The shooting became general, except Joe Chevrier, who was the cause of the whole thing, and who was trying to stuff more cartridges into his six-shooter, but with little success. Buck Wing had run in close to the side of the Oreana, while Heinie sat down in the street, shooting across one bended knee.

Bang! A note entirely different from that of the six-gun. Joe Chevrier yelped like an injured pup and galloped toward the far corner of the Oreana, grasping at the rear of himself. The enraged sheriff had poked a ten-gauge shotgun through a pane in his office window, and had given the Star X Frenchman something to think about besides loading his gun.

Heinie’s gun was empty; so he crawled on his hands and knees back to the Oreana. The Lazy A outfit had tracked to the door of the Rawhide, only to find it barred against them. The saloon-keeper was taking no chances of them using his place as a fort.

“Is anybody hurt?” panted Pie Ide, as they leaned against the barred door.

“I got my mustache full of gravel!” wailed Omaha. “And some of it hit my sore nose.”

“Didja see what happened to the frog-eater?” chuckled Mex. “The sheriff busted him with a load of duckshot.”

“I wonder what started it?” grinned Pie, as he reloaded his long Colt .45. “Let’s go across the street and set on the sidewalk. Them snakehunters are too drunk to hit a house, and it’ll soon be dark.”

“Yuh didn’t see us hittin’ anything didja?” inquired Omaha, pawing at his mustache. “We’re a fine lot of shooters! We never hit anybody.”

“We fanned ’em out of the street, didn’t we?” fleered Mex. “Didja want to kill ’em, Omaha?”

“Well, I didn’t want to kiss ’em. Let’s sneak around and get in the back door of the sheriff’s office.”

“And git a hideful of duck-shot, eh?” Pie Ide shook his head so hard that his hat fell off. “We’ve got all the war we can handle, without foolin’ with the sheriff and Idaho Breen.”

The Star X boys were of the same opinion as three of them leaned against the Oreana bar. Klondike was bitter. His fairly new Stetson had a jagged hole in the crown.

“Well, what started it, anyway?” demanded Buck Wing.

“Joe Chevrier took a shot at Idaho Breen and the sheriff.”

“Danged fool! Did we kill any of the Lazy A?”

Nobody seemed to know. Joe came through the rear doorway, limping. He had sobered considerably.

“By gar, I’m get stoong by fortee bee!” he exclaimed. “Behin’ me I’m feel like de centipeed walk h’all over me.”

“Yuh got a load of duck-shot in yore back!” snorted Buck Wing disgustedly. “It’s too damn’ bad he didn’t use a cannon. What made yuh start shootin’ out here, you danged Canuck? Yuh shore put us in bad.”

“Well,” Joe grimaced painfully, “I’m see dat Ida-hoo, and I’m so insult about de raw-hide.”

“We might go down and apologize to the Lazy A boys,” suggested Heinie Moriarity. “They’re prob’ly in the Rawhide.”

But that suggestion didn’t go well with Buck Wing. Except for the bartender, they had the Oreana all to themselves. What few other patrons had been in there had sneaked out the back door during the shooting, and had given the main street a wide berth. The bartender, while still sticking to the ship, did not feel any too secure.

“I don’t apologize to nobody,” declared Buck. “If Joe wants to apologize to Idaho and the sheriff——”

“She don’t!” snorted Joe. “I’m ver’ sore jus’ now.”

“I’d suggest that we go home,” said Klondike, mourning over his sombrero.

“And let the Lazy A think they run us out?”

“Let ’em think what they will. What they don’t know won’t hurt ’em.”

The Lazy A bunch, sitting like three buzzards on the sidewalk, saw the Star X boys ride away from the Oreana hitchrack, and chuckled with glee. It was too dark to see them get their horses at the rack. Idaho Breen and the disgruntled sheriff also saw them ride away, and breathed a sigh of relief.

“We whipped ’em!” declared Mex.

“We shore did, by golly!” chuckled Omaha. “Here comes Idaho and the sheriff. I suppose they’re comin’ to congratulate us.”

But Idaho Breen was not in a congratulatory frame of mind.

“Why in hell didn’t you fellers stay at the ranch and behave yourselves?” he demanded angrily. “Comin’ down here and startin’ trouble!”

“Who started any trouble?” grunted Pie Ide. “If we hadn’t been here to turn the tide you and the sheriff would ’a’ had to pull another Alamo. They’d shore made yuh hard to catch.”

“You fellers started it! Yuh mixed with that Star X outfit in the Oreana, and made trouble.”

“Well, whatcha goin’ to do about it?” asked Omaha. “Is this a free country, or are we workin’ for a Czar?” Idaho debated. Good cowhands were not plentiful. He knew he was just on the verge of losing all three of them.

“Well,” he said slowly, “I suppose it’s all right. But I didn’t want you boys drunk when Miss Ault comes. Dang it, that ain’t the right spirit, boys. She prob’ly ain’t used to seein’ a lot of drunken punchers.”

“Who’s drunk?” demanded Omaha.

Idaho shook his head. “Mebbe I was mistaken. I—I was judgin’ from the shootin’ that yuh wasn’t cold sober. Why, some of yore bullets hit the sheriff’s office, and it ain’t noways in the line between where you was and the middle of the street.”

“Oh, we didn’t want to kill ’em,” said Pie Ide. “All we wanted to do was to scare ’em out of town; so they’d let you and the sheriff out of the office.”

“My shotgun settled that,” said the sheriff, panting heavily. “I handed Joe Chevrier an ounce and a quarter of number fives, and he’ll itch for a long time.”

“There ain’t no fun left, anyway,” said Mex mournfully. “I’d jist as soon go home.”

“Same here,” nodded Omaha. “We was jist killin’ time, anyway.”

So the Lazy A boys went behind the Oreana, where they mounted their horses and headed for home. Idaho tried to find Miles Lane, but the lawyer was not in evidence. The town had recovered its composure after the bloodless battle, and there was much speculation as to what would happen next time the two outfits met.

It was almost time for the train arrival, when Idaho went to the depot. He went in the waiting room, where the agent told him the train would be in very soon. Then he went out on the platform and walked around the corner of the depot, with the intention of changing the position of his half broke buggy team, which might get frightened at the train. But as he swung around the corner, three or four men piled upon him, bearing him down by sheer weight of numbers. An old saddle-blanket was flung over his head, and inside of two minutes Idaho Breen was trussed up like a mummy, and dumped unceremoniously behind the depot.

The train ground ponderously up to the station, and when Mary Smith climbed down the steps, assisted by the gray-haired conductor, she was met by Buck Wing and Klondike Evans of the Star X. Behind her came Cultus Collins, apparently paying no attention to her.

“Howdy, Miss,” greeted Buck Wing, a half smile on his face. “Are you Miss Ault?”

“Why, yes,” said Mary, who was prepared to be “alias anything she was called.”

Klondike grasped her suitcase and she walked with Buck, who guided her around to the hitch-rack, where the frightened team was being taken care of by Heinie and Joe. Mary noted a strong smell of liquor about them.

It seemed settled that Klondike was to do the driving. He got in and took the lines, while Heinie and Joe clung to the bridles of the rearing broncos.

“Head for the ranch,” said Buck. “We’ll catch yuh.”

“You’ll go some, if yuh do!” snorted Klondike, surging back on the lines. The team whirled around, almost upsetting the buggy, and went up the main street of Oreana City like a pair of racehorses heading for the wire.

Mary got little view of Oreana City, as she was entirely occupied in clinging to the seat of the open buggy. The road was far from smooth, and they went bouncing off the street into a wide sweep of low hills, gray and blue in the starlight. Klondike clung to the frail lines, content to keep the running team in the road.

The light buggy meant nothing to the broncos; running, wild, cold-jawed. A mile or more reeled out behind them. Klondike knew of a bad spot in the road, where a washout had cut a deep furrow across the highway. To go into this at top speed would mean a smashup. He shortened his lines, braced his feet and pulled steadily. But the cold-jawed broncs did not mind the pull on the straight-bar bits.

Klondike, still half drunk, realized that things were not working out just right. He shot a glance at the girl beside him, who was clinging to the seat with both hands, and surged back on the lines again. He knew the washout was very close now.

Snap! The left line broke and came back, striking Klondike in the chest, and throwing all the pull on the right line. It swerved the team to the right, and a wheel went over a mesquite snag, throwing Klondike off the seat.

Just beyond here an old road turned to the right; an old road, which had not been used for years. The buggy slewed around, skidded dangerously, and then straightened up as the frantic team headed up the old road.

Mary was thrown off the seat and down against the dash, but managed to get back to the seat. Her mind was in a whirl, as she realized that the driver had been thrown off. She wanted to jump, but realized the danger. The buggy was careening over the old road, possibly half a mile from where Klondike had been thrown out, when the team whirled suddenly, throwing Mary off into a patch of brush, and headed back in the general direction of the Star X, cutting across country.

The cause of their sudden turn was a lone horseman, who had appeared suddenly just a few yards ahead of them. The team was almost into him, when it turned, and Mary narrowly missed being thrown against his horse. The horse whirled wildly, but he reined it back, dismounted swiftly and ran over to the girl.

With little difficulty he disentangled her from the bush, which had broken her fall, and placed her on the ground. It was Dude Wheeler, cutting across country toward the Star X, his face a mixture of wonder and astonishment as he scratched a match and looked down into the frightened eyes of Mary Smith.

“Are yuh hurt?” he asked, when he saw her eyes open. She did not say—merely blinked at the match, which burned Dude’s fingers before he dropped it.

“I—I don’t think I’m hurt—much,” she said, as he scratched another match. She managed to sit up and he braced her with one arm. “I guess I’m—I’m badly shaken,” she admitted.

“Yeah, I’ll bet you are. But how did yuh happen to be up here, all alone with a runaway team?”

“Why, I don’t know exactly. The driver fell off, you see.”

“Yeah, I see—that much,” Dude Wheeler was lighting several matches, so he might get a better look at this girl.

“Who was the driver?” he asked. Mary shook her head. “I don’t know. I just came in on the train tonight, you see.”

“In on the train,” echoed Dude. He looked closer at her. “Say, are you Miss Ault?”

“Why—er—yes,” said Mary, turning her eyes away.

The matches burned out, and Dude did not light another.

“I see,” he said slowly. He got to his feet and stood there, gazing across the hills. “Yo’re a long ways from the Lazy A,” he said. “I dunno what—I wonder—that was a Lazy A team. You don’t know who the driver was?”

“No, I have no idea who he was. They just put me in the buggy, and the team ran away.”

“I see. I’m Jack Wheeler, Miss Ault. Folks call me ‘Dude.’”

“Oh, what a queer name!”

“We own the Star X outfit.”

“Isn’t that nice? I—I think I’ve hurt my ankle, Mr. Wheeler.”

“I reckon you got off lucky, if that’s all.”

He helped her to her feet, but she was unable to walk.

“I dunno,” said Dude slowly. “It’s a long ways to the Lazy A. I hadn’t ought to take yuh to the Star X, but it’s the nearest place. Can yuh stand alone until I get my bronc?”

Mary clung to the brush, while he led his horse up to her.

“You can’t straddle no horse in that skirt,” he told her.

“No, I suppose not,” admitted Mary. “What will we do?”

“And if I set yuh sideways on that saddle and got on behind yuh, we’d prob’ly both get throwed off, because that bronc ain’t broke to pack double. I reckon there’s just one thing to do.”

He swung her up in his arms, lifted her to the saddle and got up with her, lifting her in his arms as he got into the saddle.

“But you can’t carry me in your arms,” she protested.

“This is all the evidence in the world against yore idea,” he said, as he rode off through the hills. “If you can stand it, I shore can, Miss. I’ll try and not hurt yore ankle.”

Klondike Evans had landed just off the road, and just hard enough to daze him for a minute or more. When he recovered sufficiently to realize what had happened, the team was far away; too far for him to even hear it. He was walking circles in the road, when Buck Wing, Joe Chevrier and Heinie Moriarity came galloping up the road, leading Klondike’s horse. They drew up and considered Klondike, who was still half-speechless from hitting the ground so hard.

“What in hell happened?” panted Buck. “Where’s the team?”

“Gone,” Klondike puffed heavily and flapped his arms helplessly. “Th-throwed me out! Line busted. I dunno what happened next.”

“My Gawd!” blurted Heinie piously. “She’ll be kilt!”

“Already killed, I’ll betcha!” exploded Buck. “Git on yore bronc, Klondike! We’ve got to head ’em off.”

“Head ’em off?” Klondike lurched to his horse and climbed into the saddle. “Head nothin’! They’re miles away and goin’ strong. I couldn’t even check ’em.”

But no one was listening to him; they were spurring ahead as fast as their horses could run.

“Watch for her along the road!” yelled Buck.

Their horses never slackened their run, until they reached the big gate of the Star X, where they found the buggy, almost wrapped around one of the gate-posts. It was the end of the road. Inside the yard were the two horses. One had lost all its harness except the collar and limped badly. The other seemed to be all right.

The boys dropped off their horses, cold sober now, and searched all around. But there was no sign of the girl. Sadly they mounted and rode back toward town, going slowly, searching both sides of the road carefully, afraid of finding the girl dead.

“They’ll hang us,” wailed Klondike. “I’ll betcha they will.”

“You get ’bout feefty shot in de hin’side, and you not scare from hang,” declared Joe, who rode standing up in his stirrups. “She’s sure kill h’all de joy for you.”

“That was a fool thing to do,” complained Buck.

“This is a nice time to think about it,” retorted Klondike. “It sounded good when we was drunk. Anyway, it was yore idea, Buck.”

“Originally, Klondike. You was the one that suggested ridin’ a circle and comin’ back to the depot, yuh remember. Don’t lay it all onto me.”

“She was a danged pretty girl, too,” said Klondike. “I got a good look at her.”

“Sure; and pulled all on one line.”

“Aw, let up on him, Buck,” said Heinie. “We’re all to blame. Dude will fire all of us for this, anyway; so we might as well go to town, get drunk and take our medicine. If there ever was four bigger fools, I’d like to see what they look like.”

Cultus Collins walked from the depot and engaged a room at the Oreana hotel, after which he went to the Oreana saloon. The sheriff and Miles Lane were at the bar, talking with the bartender, who was explaining the argument between the Lazy A and the Star X. They nodded to Cultus, who sat down at a table and picked up a newspaper.

“I wasn’t here to see the fun,” laughed Lane. “Lucky that no one was hurt, except Joe Cheerier. Those few shot probably won’t hurt him much. Do you know if Miss Ault came in tonight?”

“I think so,” said the sheriff. “Idaho was there to meet her, and I saw his outfit go out of town on the run. Just got a flash of the buggy, and I think the girl was in it. Idaho was drivin’ a half broke team.”

“Joe Chevrier said he had been stung by forty bees,” laughed the bartender. “He didn’t get much sympathy.”

Lane turned to Cultus. “Have a drink with us, stranger?”

Cultus dropped the paper and came up to the bar.

“My name is Jones,” he said. “Jones of Oklahoma.”

“Mine is Lane.” The lawyer introduced Cultus to the rest. “Did you come in on the train tonight?”

“Yeah,” nodded Cultus.

“Was there a lady got off here?” “Yeah. I think her name was Ault. I talked with her a little.”

“A niece of old man Ault, who died a while back,” said the sheriff.

Cultus squinted at his glass. He had a letter of introduction to a dead man, it seemed.

“She inherited the Lazy A ranch,” offered the sheriff.

“She didn’t say anythin’ about it,” said Cultus thoughtfully. “A nice sort of a girl, it seemed to me.”

“She’ll be rich.” The sheriff backed against the bar, holding his glass. “That Lazy A is worth a mint of money.”

“Cattle?” asked Cultus.

“Gold. The old man could have sold out for a million, but he hated holes in the ground. Queer old jigger, Ault was.”

“Have you ever been here before?” asked Lane curiously.

Cultus shook his head, “No, this is my first trip. Kinda lookin’ over the cattle crop for a Chicago packer.”

“Oh, I see. You——”

Lane’s question was interrupted by the entrance of Idaho Breen. He was hatless, a smear of blood across his mouth and a livid scratch across over his right eye. He spat angrily and lurched against the bar.

“Give me a drink!” he snorted, “Here, gimme that bottle!”

Idaho grasped the bottle and took a heavy swig; so heavy that the bartender gasped. It was probably the biggest drink ever taken in the Oreana. Idaho slammed the bottle back on the bar, wiped the back of his hand across his lips and tried to blink the tears out of his eyes.

“That’s what I’d call a snifter,” observed the sheriff.

“Sa-a-ay!” Idaho pounded on the bar with both hands, as though to give force to his statement. “A-a-a-ahem-m-m-m! I was assaulted by several men a while ago. They hog-tied me in a dirty blanket and left me out back of the depot. The agent happened to find me. My team’s gone—the girl’s gone!”

“You was?” exclaimed the sheriff. “Whatcha know—say, I seen yore buggy team go up the street just after the train came in.”

“My buggy team?” choked Idaho. “Are yuh sure?”

“Yeah. It was goin’ kinda fast, but I’m sure I seen a woman in it, Idaho.”

“Yuh did, eh?” Idaho struck the top of the bar with his fist. “It was that damn’ Star X outfit! They laid for me and stole the girl! They never left town!”

“Who was the girl they stole?” asked Cultus. Idaho glared at him. “Who are you?”

“This is Jones of Oklahoma,” said the sheriff. “Mr. Jones, this is Mr. Breen, foreman of the Lazy A.”

“The girl they stole,” said Idaho, not offering Cultus his hand, “was the new owner of the Lazy A outfit.”

“The girl we spoke about,” said the sheriff. “The one that came in on the train with you.”

“Oh, yeah—that one.”

“Was you there?” asked Idaho quickly. “Didja see her git off the train? Who met her, eh? What’d they look like?”

Cultus grinned widely. “I dunno. It was kinda dark, and I didn’t pay much attention.”

“It has been over an hour since the train came in,” said Lane, looking at his watch. “Have you——?”

“I have!” rasped Idaho. “With a dirty blanket over my head, and part of it in my mouth. I thought I was goin’ to have to stay all night.”

“Just why would the Star X steal that girl?” asked Cultus.

“Because they hate the Lazy A!” snorted Idaho. “We had a regular battle in the street tonight. Nobody got killed. I suppose both sides were too drunk to shoot straight. They’d do anythin’—them dirty coyotes. I’m goin’ out to the Star X and get that girl.”

“Think about it a while,” advised the sheriff. “Them boys won’t eat her. In spite of yore opinion of the Star X, they ain’t cannibals. They was all drunk, Idaho; and their idea of a good joke would be to steal the owner of the Lazy A.”

“Dirty cow-thieves!” Idaho was very mad, indeed.

“That’s a killin’ statement,” said the sheriff. “Don’t let Dude Wheeler hear yuh say it.”

“Bad medicine?” asked Cultus.

“Bad enough to resent a statement like that.”

“You shouldn’t say things like that, Idaho,” said Lane.

“Well, by God, I found fifty-three Lazy A cow-hides in——”

“We know that,” interrupted the sheriff.

Idaho reached for the bottle and took another drink, as a cowboy came in. He was from one of the small ranches south of Oreana. He nodded pleasantly to everyone.

“I was wonderin’ if any of the Lazy A gang were in town,” he grinned. “The Star X outfit are down in the Rawhide.”

“Down in the Rawhide?” asked Idaho. “How long have they been down there?”

“Well, I dunno. I heard the bartender tell ’em that the Lazy A thought they’d run ’em out of town, and the Star X boys said they hadn’t never left town.”

Idaho glared thoughtfully. The taste of the blanket was in his mouth, and he spat disgustedly.

“Did the agent see the girl get off the train?” asked Lane.

Idaho shook his head. “He said he didn’t.”

“I reckon that Jones of Oklahoma is the only one that’s sure she ever came,” observed the sheriff.

“I saw a girl get off,” corrected Cultus.

Miles Lane cleared his throat softly. “If I were in your place, Idaho, I’d go home and sleep on it. I don’t think that girl is in any danger of being hurt, and you can’t do a thing tonight.”

“That’s good advice,” nodded the sheriff. “Tomorrow mornin’, if the girl ain’t showed up, I’ll go with yuh to the Star X.”

“Yeah, and I’ll take my whole gang,” flared Idaho. “I’ve got to hire a horse to ride home on.” He stamped out of the saloon, and they heard him going down the rickety sidewalk, heading for the livery stable.

Cultus went back to the hotel, puzzling over what had become of Mary. He could have described the two men who met her at the train, but decided not to. He could identify Buck Wing and Klondike Evans any time, and Cultus wanted to know more of things before he told anybody what he knew.

Dude Wheeler saw the wreck of the Lazy A buggy, when he rode through the gate, with Mary in his arms. In the dim starlight he could see the two horses down near a corral; so he decided that the runaway team had cut back to the road which they had followed to the ranch gate.

He drew up at the porch of the ranchhouse and dismounted, still carrying Mary in his arms.

“Your arms must be paralyzed,” she said.

“Not exactly,” he laughed. “Yo’re not as light as yuh was when I first picked yuh up. How’s the ankle feelin’?”

“Why, it seems numb, but there is little pain.”

“That’s good.” He picked her up and they went in the house.

The Star X living-room was a commodious place, rough finished, with a huge fireplace on one side. The floor was strewn with Navajo rugs, and many of the chair-seats and backs were of cow-hide, untanned. It was a typical man’s abode. At one side of the front door was a gun-rack, filled with rifles. Loose cartridges, a heavy Colt revolver, coil of spot-cord rope, packages of tobacco, and some dog-eared magazines were scattered over the rough table top in the center of the room.

On the floor in front of the fireplace was the skin of a grizzly bear, while over the mantle was a huge elk head, with magnificent antlers. Mary gazed around the room, after Dude had placed her in their easiest chair.

“I’ll get some hot water,” said Dude. “Mebbe some liniment will help it out. You take it easy, and I’ll fix yuh up fine.”

Mary watched the tall, straight-backed cowboy leave the room, and sank back in her chair with a sigh, wondering what would happen next. Her life had been adventurous indeed since she had met Cultus Collins. She had no idea just what she was to do in Oreana City. Thinking it over calmly was impossible for her. She was an impostor. And whether she could carry out the deception remained to be seen.

Someone had entered the room behind her and she turned to see Eph Wheeler, clad in an old red undershirt, overalls and a pair of mismated woolen socks. The old man’s sparse hair was standing straight up, and his face appeared very thin in the lamplight. He squinted closely at her, glanced toward the kitchen, where Dude was noisily poking wood in the stove, and then came a little closer to her.

“Just who might you be?” he asked curiously. “I thought I must be dreamin’ when I heard a woman’s voice out here.”

“I am Mary Ault,” said Mary bravely.

The old man’s mouth opened, but he did not speak. He rubbed his right hip with his right elbow, frowned at the lamp, shifted his feet.

“Mind sayin’ that again?” he asked.

Mary repeated the name. The old man nodded. Dude came in from the kitchen, saw his father, and stopped short.

“Did we wake yuh up, Dad?” he asked.

The old man did not reply; he was too interested in Mary.

“This is Miss Ault,” said Dude.

“That’s what she said. Where’d you pick her up?”

Dude explained about the runaway and how he had found Mary. He was unable to tell who had been driving the team, and Mary did not know.

“It’s a Lazy A rig,” said Dude. “Blue buggy with red wheels. It’s wrapped around one of our gate-posts. The horses are down by the corral. I can’t imagine what a Lazy A rig would be doin’ out here.”

“My suitcase was in it,” said Mary. Dude walked out, and came back in a few moments, carrying the suitcase, which was none the worse for the runaway. The old man sat down and watched Mary, while she soaked her swollen ankle in hot water.

“So Jud Ault was yore uncle, eh?” he remarked. “Know him?”

“No,” said Mary. She hadn’t the slightest idea who Jud Ault was.

“He was a dirty old pup.”

Mary flinched. She was evidently not related to a saint.

“He turned his own daughter out,” continued the old man. “But he was a dirty old pup long before that.”

“Dad, I don’t reckon she cares to know all this,” said Dude softly.

“Well, she ought to. Anyway, she might as well hear it from me, ’cause she’s goin’ to hear it sooner or later.”

“That liniment will take a lot of the soreness out,” said Dude. “I’ll soak a bandage and——”

“It seems to me yore takin’ a lot of pains with an Ault,” said the old man. Dude flushed, but did not reply.

“Been packin’ a Winchester for ’em for years; now yo’re wrappin’ up their ankles.”

Mary laughed, because she did not realize how serious had been the hatred between the two ranches.

“What is a Winchester?” she asked.

“A gun,” said Dude. His hand trembled slightly and he spilled a little of the liniment.

“Do all men carry guns out here?” she asked. Dude looked up at her, his eyes serious.

“Most of ’em do.”

“Tell me about Jud Ault turning his daughter out.”

“It’s true.” Dude did not look up at her. “She married a gambler. Some say he was also a lawyer, but he didn’t practice law here. Old Jud Ault wouldn’t speak to her again. She lives in Oreana City, with her little boy.”

“And he didn’t leave her anything when he died?”

“A dollar.”

“And the ranch is worth a million, they say,” growled the old man. “Yo’re sure lucky.”

“I—I didn’t know much about it,” faltered Mary.

“Lane sent for yuh, I reckon. He made out Jud Ault’s will.”

“Yes,” said Mary, because she didn’t know what else to say.

Dude finished bandaging the ankle and took the water back to the kitchen.

“Are you thinkin’ of stayin’ here tonight?” asked the old man.

“Why, I—I don’t know,” said Mary.

“I guess you’ll go back to town.”

Dude came back and the old man turned to him. “Yuh better harness up the team and take her back to the hotel, Dude.”

They looked at each other for several moments.

“That might be the best thing to do,” said Dude slowly then. “I’ll hitch up the team.”

He went out, softly closing the door behind him. Mary curled up on the big chair, her chin in her hand. She did not like the old man, who filled his pipe and smoked noisily.

“You’ll sell the Lazy A, won’t yuh?” he asked, not unkindly.

Mary shook her head. “I’m sure I don’t know, Mr. Wheeler.”

“Runnin’ a cow-ranch ain’t no woman’s job,” he sucked heavily on his pipe. “Of course, you might marry a cow-man.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Yo’re a queer sort of a girl. That’s about all most girls think about!”

“Do you know much about girls?”

“Hmph! Well, don’t they?”

“Do they?”

Eph Wheeler threw his pipe on the table, with a grunt of disgust. “I’m glad yo’re goin’ back to town! I hate an argument.”

“And you start them yourself.”

“I do not!” The old man drew himself up angrily, his eyes flashing. “I never—say, I dunno what this is all about. I wish Dude would hurry with that team. You make me mad. Aults always made me mad. You remind me of Jud Ault.”

Mary laughed openly at him, and he stalked from the room, swearing under his breath. He did not put in an appearance, when Dude carried her out to the buggy, and Dude did not mention him until they were well on their way to Oreana City.

The moon was up now, and the hills were bathed in a silver glow; blue in the depths, and silver, where the moonlight brushed the ridges: a mystic fairyland where the moon and stars came down close to the world. Mary leaned back in the buggy seat and looked at a world she had never seen before.

“Oh, isn’t it beautiful!” she said simply.

“Yes’m, it is. I never get tired of these hills at night. The rough edges are all gone. Lotsa nights I just ride into the hills; ride away back on the ridges. It’s like goin’ away from the rest of the world.

“I’m sorry dad talked like he did. But he’s old, and he hates the Lazy A. There’s no women at the Star X. Pretty soon our four cowpunchers will be driftin’ home from town, loaded to the gills with liquor—and it might not be a nice place for a lady—the Star X ranch. They’re a rough lot. You’ll be better off at the hotel. I put yore suitcase in the back of the buggy.”

“It’s a wonder it didn’t get all smashed.”

“And you, too.”

“Yes, that’s true. I’m sorry to have put you to all this trouble, Mr. Wheeler. I just can’t imagine what would have happened to me, if you hadn’t met that runaway.”

“Well, it was kinda lucky. About a hundred yards beyond where you was throwed out, there’s a deep washout. I reckon things would a’ gone to smash in there. It’s about thirty feet across—and there ain’t no road.”

“You mean, a deep rut?”

“Yuh might call it a rut, ma’am; it’s about twenty feet deep.”

“Oh!” Mary shuddered. “I’m glad I met you.”

“Well, so am I,” said Dude softly. “And it wasn’t any trouble; so yuh don’t need to thank me.”

“But you hate the Ault family, you know.”

“I just wonder if I do. It seems like kind of a small thing to do—this hate. It ain’t never got me anythin’. You and Faith are the only Aults I know—and I don’t hate either of yuh.”

“Faith?”

“Yeah; Jud Ault’s daughter.”

“The one he turned out of his home?”

“Uh-huh. There’s the lights of Oreana City. I’ll fix yuh up at the hotel. It ain’t no great place, but it’s all right. You’ll prob’ly go out to the Lazy A tomorrow.”

They drove up to the hotel. Dude carried her suitcase in and Mary was able to walk slowly. The proprietor was reading by the light of a smoky old oil lamp. He stared over his glasses at Mary.

“Give Miss Ault yore best room. Charley,” said Dude. “She’s only goin’ to be here one night.”

“Sure, sure! Miss Ault. Huh! Huh! Yes, ma’am! Looks like old Jud, eh? Know her any place. Naw, yuh don’t need to register. We never had but one book, and somebody stole it. I suppose they was collectin’ horse-thieves’ autographs. Ha, ha, ha, ha!”

The old man bent double over his stock joke, grabbed the lamp in one hand, the suitcase in the other and led the way down a narrow hall.

“I’ll put ye in the president’s sweet,” he chuckled. “It’s the only one that the wash-bowl ain’t cracked.”

Dude watched them turn into a room, and went outside. There was plenty of noise in the Oreana, so he went over. Klondike, Buck, Heinie and Joe were decidedly drunk. They goggled at him owlishly, sobering a trifle. It was rather unusual for Dude to come to town at that time of night. Buck invited him to have a drink, but he declined.

A sudden notion struck him, and he took Buck by the arm.

“I want to talk to yuh, Buck,” he said.

“Oh, yeah,” Buck held back. “Now lissen to me, Dude. You’ve——”

“Not in here,” whispered Dude. “Come outside.”

“Oh, all right. Shay, now lissen——”

Dude drew him outside the saloon and walked him a few steps up the sidewalk, where he braced Buck against the wall.

“I know whasha want,” said Buck knowingly. “I didn’ know Klondike was gonna bust the lines. Oh, it’s an awful thing, ol’-timer. She mush ’a’ been killed. She——”

“You stole that girl, did yuh, Buck?”

“Oh, yesh. Firs’ we had a fight with the Lazy A, and the sheriff shot Joe in the pants with a sh-shotgun. Oh, ter’ble! Idaho Breen wash in it, too. Oh, cert’nly! So we tied him up in an old saddle-blanket and stole the girl. We admit it. Cert’nly, we do. We can’t deny it. ’S too bad, but it’s done, Dude.”

“Who knows about it, except you four, Buck?”

“Thasall.”

“Did Idaho recognize yuh?”

“’F he did, he’s a good li’l recognizer.”

“Then don’t say anythin’ about it, Buck. They can’t prove it on yuh; so keep still.”

“You mean that, Dude?” Buck goggled owlishly, pawing at Dude.

“Sure I mean it.”

“Is—is that girl dead?”

“Not hardly, Buck.”

“Oh, my; thash good. Mush obliged, Dude. An’ you ain’t goin’ to fire ush?”

Dude laughed softly. “No, Buck; I think not. Mebbe I’ll thank yuh instead. Go back and finish up yore job.”

Buck weaved back to the bar, where the other three boys awaited a verdict. Buck leaned against the bar, poured out a drink, a vacant sag to his lower lip.

“Whassa matter?” gurgled Klondike. “What’d Dude want?”

“Sh-h-h-h-h!” Buck sagged back on his heels. “It’s a shecret. Dude says to keep our mouth shut about it.”

“Zasso?” Heinie nodded solemnly. “Does Dude know about it?”

“Shertenly does,” rather loftily. “Oh, shertenly he does.”

“And he wasn’t awful mad, Buck? Didn’t fire us?”

“Nossir. He—he con-con-congratulated ush.”

“By gosh, dat’s fine!” exploded Joe. “My min’ is relieve, but I’m still got de li’l duck-shot in de skin.”

“Dude wasn’t drunk?” queried Klondike.

“Jus’ as shober as—as we are,” declared Buck.

“Then it’s all right. Here’s happy days, gents.”

It was early the following morning when Idaho Breen and his three cowboys rode in to Oreana City. Each man carried a rifle in a scabbard, and an extra belt of cartridges. The Lazy A was prepared for war. Cleve Sears, the pudgy sheriff, sighed mournfully when he saw them. He wanted to be fair with both sides, even if Joe Chevrier did try to kill him the evening previous. Idaho briskly stated his intentions of going out to the Star X and demanding the girl and an explanation.

“And you better come along, Cleve,” he said. “It’s yore place to see that we get a square deal.”

“No-o-up,” the sheriff shook his head. “In the first place, yuh don’t know they took her. Last night yore outfit staged a battle with the Star X, which wasn’t noways decisive. If yuh go out there, all heeled for a scrap—you’ll git it, Idaho. And I’m not goin’ to back yore play. And I jist want yuh to know that the law ain’t back yuh. If yuh kill some of the Star X, set to kill somebody. That’s ag’in the law. If you go out there and git some of yore men killed, yuh ain’t got no law to back yuh. If yuh kill some of the Star X, all hell can’t save yuh from bein’ tried for murder. Better do quite a lot of thinkin’ about it, Idaho.”

It was a long speech for Cleve Sears to make, and it left him gasping for breath. It also left Idaho breathless.

“Are you backin’ the Star X?” demanded Idaho. “You went and used a shotgun on Joe Chevrier last night, and now yuh want to back their——”

“I’m not backin’ anybody! Chevrier tried to kill one of us; mebbe both. But that was last night. Yo’re goin’ out there to pick a fight. Well, go ahead, but remember what I told yuh.”

“But I want to find the girl,” wailed Idaho. “I’m not lookin’ for a war, Cleve. That girl was stolen, don’tcha see? Why, I’ve got a charge of horse-stealin’ I can put ag’in the man who took my team. There ain’t no law against killin’ a horse-thief.”

“Ain’t never been no law ag’in it,” said the sheriff slowly. “At least, when yo’re sure you’ve got the right man.”

“Well, I don’t think yo’re playin’ square, Cleve.”

Idaho joined his men in front of the Rawhide saloon, where they sat down to debate over their next move. The sheriff went on up to the hotel dining-room, where he usually ate his meals. He was just in the act of making an attack on a platter of ham and eggs, when Mary limped into the room and sat down.

Cleve Sears was a bachelor, but not feminine-proof. He stared at Mary, and found it difficult to concentrate on breakfast. She paid no attention to him, but ordered her breakfast from the hotel proprietor, who asked her how her “laig” was this morning.

“Much better, thank you,” she smiled.

“Don’t mention it, Miss Ault. Want yer aigs lookin’ up, or blind?”

“I don’t think I know what you mean.”

“Leave ’em as they lay, or turned over, ma’am?”

“Oh, as they lay,” laughed Mary. The man shuffled away to the kitchen. The sheriff’s breakfast was unfinished, but he hurried outside and crossed the street to where Idaho and his men were still debating what to do.

“If yo’re lookin’ for a Miss Ault—she’s eatin’ breakfast in the hotel,” announced the sheriff.

Idaho blinked rapidly. “Over there? Huh! How’d she git there?”

“I didn’t ask her,” said the sheriff coldly. “I suppose she stayed there last night. Pers’nally, I think you was drunk and didn’t meet the train.”

“No such a damn’ thing! I tell yuh—oh, well, I don’t care what you think.”

They all filed over to the hotel, and on the way they saw Miles Lane coming down the street. He was greatly surprised at the news and anxious to see her. The four cowboys stayed in the hotel lobby, while the sheriff, Idaho and Lane went into the dining-room.

Miles Lane lost no time in introducing himself, and also introduced Idaho Breen and the sheriff. Mary had finished her breakfast; so Lane asked her to go to his office with him and Idaho.

“You’ve got yore credentials, ain’t yuh?” asked Idaho. Mary produced the letter, which Lane glanced through, nodding quickly. He turned to the sheriff.

“Cleve, I wish you’d get old Judge Mears and bring him to my office. We don’t exactly need him, but I’d like to have him there when we read the will.”

The sheriff turned away, and Lane led the way to his office, ignoring the three cowpunchers, who were anxious to meet the girl. Once inside the office, Lane closed the door and motioned Mary to a seat. Idaho lounged against the closed door, looking speculatively at Mary, who tried to appear at ease.

“This letter says to keep you away from liquor,” said Lane seriously. “Maybe you understand that.”

“Yes,” said Mary softly.

“I’ll say that Loring was a good picker,” Lane laughed softly. “How much did he tell you about this deal?”

“Not very much.” Mary glanced at the floor.

“All right. You’d fool anybody, my dear. I was afraid Loring might send a hard-boiled female.”

“Yuh can’t tell by the label,” laughed Idaho.

“That’s true.” Lane moved closer to Mary and lowered his voice. “I don’t know how much Loring told you, but you don’t need to know very much. What you don’t know won’t hurt you. Just do as we say, and you’ll get your money. Is that plain?”

Mary nodded, not trusting her voice.

“All right. We’ll read that will, as soon as the men get here, and then you’ll go out to the Lazy A. And remember—you are Mary Ault as long as you are here. You play square with us, and you’ll get your profit.”

“And if she don’t——” Idaho Breen hesitated.

“We won’t discuss such a remote possibility, Idaho. Now,” Lane became quizzical, “will you please tell us what happened to you last night?”

“I—I hardly know,” faltered Mary. “A man met me at the train, put me in a buggy, and the team ran away. Another man found me, after I was thrown out, and brought me to the hotel. I hurt my ankle, but it is much better this morning.”

“Would you know these men if you seen ’em?” asked Idaho.

Mary shook her head quickly. “It was quite dark, you see.”

“Hear any names?”

“No—except the man who brought me in. His name was Wheeler.”

“Dude Wheeler, eh?” Idaho laughed harshly.

“That was his name. He was very nice to me.”

Idaho laughed, but dropped the subject, because the sheriff and old Judge Mears, the district judge, were coming in. The cowboys from the Lazy A crowded in and listened to Miles Lane read the will of Jud Ault, in which, with the exception of one dollar, the entire Lazy A property was left to his niece, Mary Ault, his brother’s only child—an orphan.

The old judge nodded over the legality of the instrument, and the reading was over. The will had been witnessed by Idaho Breen and Pie Ide.

As they came from the office, Cultus Collins met them near the door. He nodded pleasantly to everyone. Idaho turned to Pie Ide and asked him to go over to the livery stable and secure a rig to take Mary out to the ranch.

Cultus moved in close to Idaho. “I’d like to speak to you on a little business matter,” he said.

Idaho squinted narrowly at Cultus, as they moved down the street a short ways away from the crowd. Cultus drew out the letter he had brought to Jud Ault, and let Idaho read it.

“Now, I don’t know what it’s all about,” confessed Cultus. “It kinda seems to me that I’ve arrived too late; but mebbe you know what the old man wanted done.”

Idaho’s eyes hardened slightly. “I dunno just what—oh, yeah.” He looked at Cultus, a half smile on his lips. “I reckon I know what it was about. Yuh see, we’ve been losin’ a lot of cattle. Jist a while ago I found a lot of Lazy A hides in a prospect hole about three miles from our ranch. Somebody has been killin’ our stock, and the old man was worried about it. There’s been bad blood between our outfit and the Star X for years, and that bothered him, too. If you can clean up all this cattle stealin’, yore a wonder. Do yuh think yuh can?”

Cultus smiled widely. “I dunno; I’ll try.”

“Fine!” Idaho fairly beamed.

“Yuh better give me a job on the Lazy A,” suggested Cultus. “It would kinda mask my real work, don’t yuh see?”

“Well,” Idaho rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Yeah, I can. You ain’t got no horse here, have yuh? No? Say, you git yore stuff out here and put it in the buggy, and you can drive Miss Ault out to the ranch. We’ll be along with yuh.”

“All right. But I ain’t got nothin’ to take along. Mebbe I better buy a couple of shirts. Anyway, I’ll get along.”

“Yeah. Git what yuh need. Ide will be here with the buggy in a few minutes.”

Cultus nodded and went to the New York Store, while Idaho went back and drew Miles aside, showing him the telegram he had, which was sent to Jud Ault. Then he told Miles about the letter of introduction Cultus had from the secretary of the Cattlemen’s Association, and of how he was going to keep Cultus out at the Lazy A, to hunt rustlers.

“His name is Jones, isn’t it?” asked Lane.

“That’s the name he gave last night. The letter he had didn’t mention any names. But Jones or not Jones, he’ll hunt rustlers to his heart’s content: and I’ll have him where I can watch him all the time.”

Lane laughed softly. “It’s working out fine.”

“Better than that, Miles. How do yuh like our heiress?”

“Better than I thought I would. She sure fits the part. Why, you’d almost take her for a decent girl.”

“Almost,” grinned Idaho. “Loring knew what we needed. The only thing that worries me is that Loring is in a position to demand more money. He knows too much.”

“Let him try anything like that, and I’ll send him to the penitentiary for life,” growled Lane. “Here comes the rig.”

They helped Mary into the buggy, while one of the boys got her suitcase from the hotel. She gave Lane the check for the trunk, and Idaho promised to send a wagon after it. Cultus came from the store, carrying a bundle, and Idaho motioned for him to take the lines. Lane hastened to introduce Mary, and Cultus smiled.

“I met Miss Ault on the train,” he said. “I didn’t know who she was at that time.”

“We’ll lead the way,” said Idaho. “Head straight out of town and take the road that leads to the left.”

Cultus nodded and drove slowly up the street, while the men crossed the street and mounted their horses.

“Hang onto yore nerve,” cautioned Cultus. “I’m goin’ to stay at the Lazy A and hunt rustlers. I had to show my hand, in order to keep an eye on you, Mary Elizabeth. This is a game, and we’ll play it together; but don’t let anybody know, because it’s a dangerous pastime. They’re goin’ to ride in close now; so be careful what yuh say to me.”

Mary nodded and looked straight ahead as the cowboys spurred in close to them.

“Yore name is Jones, ain’t it?” said Idaho, leaning from his saddle.

Cultus nodded quickly. “Bill Jones, to be exact.”

“From Oklahoma?”

“That’s the place.”

“Uh-huh,” Idaho straightened in his saddle, and there was a smile on his lips, as he looked straight ahead. Perhaps he didn’t know it, but there was also a smile on the lips of Jones of Oklahoma, too, and he was also looking straight ahead.

Old Jud Ault had had little pride in appearances, and as far as the Lazy A was concerned he was content to let it run down. The old ranch-house was half adobe, two stories; a very livable place, but not much to look at. A wide veranda extended the width of the front, on the ground level, with the old flagged floor still intact. The big living-room was much the same as that of the Star X, which was of decidedly masculine flavor.

Old Wang Lung, a wizen-faced old Celestial, presided over the culinary end of the Lazy A. He had been with the Lazy A for many years, and was known as “Hop,” for no reason at all. He had accepted both Mary and Cultus without comment. He was jealous of his kitchen, and woe to anyone who intruded.

Idaho Breen had told the boys confidentially that Bill Jones, of Oklahoma, was an Association detective. Cowboys, as a rule, do not care much for a range detective; and this rangy, homely specimen, with the solemn visage, rather amused them.

Pie Ide tried to frame up some practical jokes to play on the detective, but discarded each one shortly after its inception.

“I jist can’t do it,” he confided to Omaha, as they sat on the top pole of the corral together. “I git a swell idea for a joke on him, and then I can’t seem to pull it off. He looks at me with them funny eyes, and I kinda—you know how the hair raises up on the back of a dog when it’s scared? That’s the way I kinda crinkle.”

“Well, you ain’t scared of him, are yuh?” Omaha smoothed his mustache and stared at Pie Ide. The tall cowboy shook his head.

“It ain’t exactly bein’ scared, Omaha. But somethin’ tells me that he knows all about that joke. Even when I think of a new idea, he looks at me just as though he knowed what I was thinkin’ about, and that the joke was as old as the hills.”

“Aw, he ain’t so smart,” said Omaha “He’s been here a week and he ain’t done nothin’—much.”

“I know. He was over to that prospect hole, where Idaho found them cowhides. I asked him what he thought of ’em, and he jist looks at me kinda funny and says, ‘I think the cows that wore all them hides are dead.’”

Omaha snorted. “He did, eh? Gawd, he sure is a detective!”

“Idaho don’t think much of him,” said Pie. “I heard him ask Jones the other day how long he figured the Lazy A was goin’ to pay him a salary, if he didn’t do some detectin’.”

“What did he say, Pie?”

“He said he was doin’ his best. Idaho asks him how he goes about it to find a rustler, and he says he usually tries to put himself in the place of the rustler. I dunno what he meant, and I don’t think Idaho did, but Idaho says, ‘Well, have yuh done it in this case?’ Jones says he had, but it didn’t seem to work out. Idaho asks him what he intends to do now, and Jones says, ‘Well, mebbe I’ll put myself in the cow’s place, and kinda work it out from that angle.’”

“I think Jones is a plain damn’ fool,” said Omaha.

“I think,” said Pie slowly, “that that is jist what Jones of Oklahoma wants us to think. Omaha, the Association ain’t in the habit of sendin’ fools on a job of this kind.”

“Thasso? Huh! I never seen a cow-detective that had sense enough to pour sand out of a boot.”

“Allasame, I’m glad I’m pure,” grinned Pie. He lifted his head and squinted toward the main gate. “Here comes Miles Lane. Do yuh know, Omaha, I’m beginnin’ to suspect that he’s stuck on our new boss.”

“Danged fool!” growled Omaha. Pie laughed softly. “Lotsa fools around here, it seems to me. Even Cleve Sears, our estimable sheriff, ain’t losin’ no chances to come out here.”

All of which was very true, much to the disgust of Idaho Breen, who met Miles Lane at the front door.

“Well, what do yuh know?” asked Idaho.

Miles produced several pieces of mail, among which was a letter directed to Mary Ault. Idaho looked closely at it, put it in his pocket, and looked over the rest of the mail. The front door was closed behind them.

“That letter was mailed in Oreana City,” observed Lane. Idaho nodded, and walked to the far end of the veranda, followed by the lawyer. Idaho took out the letter and tore open the flap. It read:

My dear Miss Ault:

By this time you probably realize that there is little friendship lost between your ranch and mine, but after all there is no reason why we cannot be friends. You understand that I can’t very well come to see you at the Lazy A, and I do want to see you again. Can’t you meet me in town? Just drop me a note, and I’ll be waiting there for you. Make it soon.

Sincerely yours,

“Dude” Jack Wheeler.

Idaho snorted disgustedly and tore the letter into shreds, scattering them in the breeze.

“Not going to give it to her, eh?” queried Lane.

“Don’t look like it, does it?”

“Suits me. How is she?”

“All right. Sa-a-ay! Dude Wheeler’s got a lot of nerve! I’d like to see him moonin’ around here!”

Lane laughed softly. “You’ve got to expect those things. She’s a pretty girl.”

Idaho looked closely at Lane. “You ain’t lettin’ that bother you, are yuh? Her looks don’t mean anythin’ to you, do they?”

Lane flushed slightly. “Not a bit.”

“Well,” said Idaho softly, “they better not, Miles. I’ll be glad when everythin’ is fixed up, and she’s out of here. By God, I can’t git any work out of three fool punchers, who insist on wearin’ white collars and takin’ baths.”

“How about Jones of Oklahoma?”

Idaho grinned. “That poor fool. I wonder if the Association was playing a joke on the Lazy A, or if they jist wanted to git rid of Jones. Every day he saddles his horse and goes ridin’ in the hills—alone. But he ain’t found out anythin’.”

“Where does he ride?” asked Lane.

“Oh, I dunno. I don’t pay much attention to him.”

They sauntered back to the front door and went into the house. Mary was curled up on a couch, reading an old magazine, but started to leave the room, when they came in. She had grown to dislike the Oreana attorney.

“Don’t go,” said Lane. “You’re always running away, it seems.”

“She wanted to go to town today.” offered Idaho. “But I told her we’d get anythin’ she wants.”

“Sure we will,” nodded Lane.

“Does that mean that I’m a prisoner here?” asked Mary indignantly.

“Have it that way, if yuh want to,” replied Idaho. “This deal is almost settled, and we’re not takin’ any chances on you.”

“But what harm would there be in going to town?” she asked.

“You’ll stay here,” declared Idaho. “You can go when we tell yuh to go—and then we don’t care where yuh go, just so yuh go a long ways from here. You’ll be well paid for the job, and yore only instructions, after yuh leave here, is to forget that yuh ever seen the place. I reckon Loring explained that to yuh.”

Mary turned her attention to the magazine, glad to drop the subject. Lane and Idaho went outside and finished their conversation, while Mary stared out of the window. She had virtually been a prisoner since she arrived at the Lazy A. Hop served her meals to her in the living-room, keeping her away from the dining-room and from any contact with the men.

She had had no chance to talk with Cultus. Breen had treated her respectfully enough, for which she was grateful, but she did want a few words with Cultus. Idaho Breen took no chances on her, and stayed close to the ranch, while Miles Lane handled the legal end of the inheritance.

As yet she had been told nothing of what they wanted, except that she was Mary Ault, the new owner of the Lazy A. She had been given the room formerly occupied by Jud Ault, which had been scrupulously cleaned by Hop. As far as physical comforts were concerned, she was all right.

The Lazy A had furnished Cultus with a horse and saddle, and Breen had told him to do as he pleased. Cultus realized that Mary was more or less of a prisoner, but there was nothing he could do to relieve the situation. He also knew that Breen was little interested in the stolen cattle, except that he would like to make some trouble for the Star X.

That Idaho Breen and Miles Lane intended to loot the Lazy A was easy to see. Cultus realized how easy it would be for him to prove that Mary Smith was not Mary Ault, but it would be difficult to prove that there was no Mary Ault. It would only serve to brand Mary Smith as an impostor, and him as her confederate.

Cultus surmised that Breen and Lane intended to merely use the girl as a tool to get the ranch cheap. The letters proved that the girl who was shot in San Francisco was Janice Lee, or at least she was not Mary Ault. After associating with the three cowpunchers at the Lazy A, Cultus decided that they were not in the plot. It was evident that they believed, as did everyone else, that Mary Ault was genuine. In fact, there was no reason for anyone to think otherwise.

On the same day that Lane brought the letter from Dude Wheeler, Cultus rode in at the tumbledown Cross Arrow, and met Badger and Shif’less Hill. The old man was sitting on his little porch, clad in a sleeveless undershirt, faded pair of overalls, without boots or socks—his bare feet resting on the porch-rail, while he slumped back in a rickety chair, smoking his pipe.

He unbent enough to remove his pipe from his mouth and to grunt a welcome. Cultus dismounted, tied his horse, and sat down on the steps. As Cultus rolled a cigarette, Shif’less came out, stooping a little, as he stepped through the doorway.

“Howdy,” he said pleasantly. “I didn’t know we had company. Yo’re Jones, ain’t yuh?”

“Yeah, I’m Jones,” Cultus got up and shook hands with Shif’less.

“Somebody—I reckon it was the sheriff—said who yuh was. Yo’re with the Lazy A, ain’t yuh?”

“I’m over there,” smiled Cultus.

“Damned outfit!” snorted the old man. Shif’less smiled.

“Don’t like ’em, eh?” queried Cultus.

“No! Why should I like ’em?”

“No reason, I suppose,” Cultus smiled over his cigarette. “Seems like a good outfit. What’s wrong with ’em?”

“I reckon it’s all right since Jud Ault died,” said Shif’less, before the old man could speak. “This girl can’t be blamed for what Jud Ault done. Mebbe she’s mighty fine.”

“She’s a fine girl,” said Cultus. “How’s things with you folks?”

“We can’t kick,” smiled Shif’less.

“As long as the other outfits raise plenty of calves—we’re doin’ well,” said the old man. “At least that’s what they say about us.”

Shif’less tried to stop him, but the old man shook his head violently. “What’s the difference? They all say it.”

Shif’less smiled grimly at Cultus, who smoked slowly, looking at the old man.

“It just happens,” said Shif’less slowly, “that Mr. Jones is an Association detective, sent here to try and find out who is stealin’ Lazy A cattle.”

The old man jerked slightly, and looked at Cultus, his eyes blazing. Cultus remarked to himself how much the old man did look like a gray old badger, angry over something.

“So that’s what yuh are, eh?” he snarled. “Kinda lookin’ over the Cross Arrow, are yuh? Well, go ahead!”

Cultus looked at Shif’less, ignoring the old man. “Who told yuh that?” he asked.

“Miles Lane, the lawyer.”

Cultus nodded. He had suspected this. He wondered if all the cattle outfits in the Oreana country didn’t know what he was doing.

“Are you a pretty good friend of Lane?” he asked.

Shif’less hesitated for a moment. “Well, I’ve known him quite a long time, Jones. He didn’t lie about yuh, did he?”

Cultus shook his head slowly. “No, he told the truth—as far as he knew it, Hill.”

“As far as he knew it?”

“Even a lawyer don’t know it all.”

“Well, what in hell are yuh doin’ here at my ranch?” rasped the old man.

“Tryin’ to be friendly.”

“Tryin’ to be—what?”

“Friendly.”

“Oh, yeah. And then see what yuh can find out, eh?”

“If you don’t steal cattle, you’ve got nothin’ to fear,” said Cultus slowly.

“Well, that’s nice of yuh.”

Shif’less studied the tall, homely cowboy. There was a world of power in that lean body. He sat, humped over on the steps, and his cotton shirt, drawn tight, showed the ripple of his back and shoulder muscles as he moved the slightest. His wide, lean hands, with the long fingers, the broad bony wrists, bespoke vise-like power.

“I didn’t come over here, because of what I’ve heard,” said Cultus slowly, “because I hardly ever believe what I hear. I’m not denyin’ that I was sent here by the Association, but it was because Jud Ault wanted me to come.”

“But he’s been dead quite a while, Jones.”

“It took quite a while to locate me, and they didn’t know the old man was dead.”

“Now, what in hell did that old crook want of a detective?” demanded Badger Hill.

“I don’t know,” confessed Cultus. “He didn’t know either. But he thought things wasn’t just right.”

“You bet they wasn’t right!” said Shif’less hotly. “Jud Ault turned his daughter out of his house, because she married a man he didn’t like. And after the man left her without any support, the old man wouldn’t help her.”

“She’s a pretty nice sort of a girl, I hear,” said Cultus. He was looking at Shif’less Hill, as he spoke. He saw the jaw of the big, indolent-looking cowboy shut tightly, and his wistful blue eyes stared out across the hills.

“Yeah, she’s—nice,” said Shif’less slowly. The old man glanced at Shif’less and at Cultus, and Cultus saw an expression of amusement in the old man’s eyes.

“They say her husband is still supportin’ her,” said Cultus.

Shif’less nodded, but did not speak.

“Has he been here since he left his wife?”

“No.”

“Yes,” said the old man quickly. “I saw him. Yuh don’t need to argue with me, Shif’less,” said the old man, when Shif’less opened his mouth to speak. He turned to Cultus. “I saw Jack Keene in Oreana City, talkin’ to Miles Lane, one night. Shif’less says I was mistaken, but I know what I see.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Over a year ago.”

“A year ago last June,” said Shif’less. “I think it was about the fifteenth of the month. We’ve argued about it enough, that I remember the date.”

They talked for a while about cattle conditions, but rustling was not mentioned again. Old Badger Hill shook hands with Cultus when he left, and asked him to visit them again.

Cultus had been to the prospect shaft, where Idaho Breen found the Lazy A cowhides, but there was no clue in a lot of hides. The animals had all been shot, and the hides showed that the cattle had been killed at intervals for several months.

He rode back to Oreana City, and found the sheriff talking to Mrs. Keene in front of his office. The sheriff introduced them. Mrs. Keene was carrying several packages, which Cultus offered to take. The little boy accepted Cultus at once, when Cultus smiled at him, and the three of them walked to Mrs. Keene’s home.

Mrs. Keene was interested in Mary Ault, and asked Cultus about her. Cultus confessed that he could tell little about her. Cultus carried the packages through the little living-room to the kitchen, and on the way back he stopped to glance at a photograph on the center table.

“That is little Jackie’s father,” said Mrs. Keene. Cultus nodded thoughtfully, as he looked down at the unmistakable features of Loring, the San Francisco lawyer, who had been killed in the café gun battle; the man he had knocked into the muddy street.

“Jack Keene?” queried Cultus.

Faith Keene nodded. “Did you know him?” she asked softly.

Cultus shook his head and turned toward the door.

“I’m mighty glad to have seen yuh, ma’am,” he said, as he held out his hand.

“It was kind of you to carry the packages for me,” she replied. He shook hands gravely with the little boy, and went down to the main street, wearing his sombrero pulled down over his eyes. He was finding out more than he had expected.

Jack Keene was the man who was sending the woman to pose as the niece of Jud Ault, and it was very evident to Cultus that Keene, or Loring, as he was known in San Francisco, was in some plot to loot the Lazy A. But Keene was dead, and Cultus did not think that either Lane or Breen knew of the shooting. The girl, Janice Lee, was probably dead or in a hospital, and possibly she did not know enough about the details of the plot to ever let Lane and Breen know what happened.

As Cultus sauntered up the crooked street, Miles Lane rode in and took his horse to the livery stable. Cultus leaned against a post in front of the Oreana saloon until Lane went to his office, and then crossed the street.

Lane greeted him pleasantly and they sat down together in the office. Lane told him that he had just returned from the Lazy A.

“I was just talkin’ to Mrs. Keene,” said Cultus.

“A nice girl,” said Lane briskly. “Too bad she lost out on the Lazy A. Possibly Jud Ault was too severe. But he hated Jack Keene, and—— Oh, well, it was his business, I suppose. What have you found out in regard to the missing cattle?”

“Not very much. What do yuh know about the Cross Arrow?”

“Less than nothing—except hearsay. I know the Hill family to speak to them. They haven’t a good reputation.”

“And the Star X?”

“You’ve heard about the feud?”

“Sure. They staged a battle in the street here the night I came. Breen talks about ’em killin’ Lazy A stock, and all that, but I can’t quite swallow it, Lane. The Star X is as big as the Lazy A, and they don’t need to kill Lazy A cattle.”

Lane looked up quickly. “Have you been at the Star X?”

“I was out there yesterday and had a talk with the Wheelers.”

“And they knew you were from the Lazy A?”

“They knew I was from the Association,” corrected Cultus.

Lane smiled crookedly. “That information won’t help you any, Jones.”

“Mebbe not,” smiled Cultus. “Yuh see, I wasn’t the one that told ’em.”

“No? Who do you suppose——?”

“They say you did, Lane.”

“That I told them? Why, that is preposterous, Jones!”

“And old man Hill——”

“Did he say I told him?”

“Shif’less did.”

“Pshaw!” Lane colored, tried to swallow, failed. “I don’t know why they would say such a thing, Jones.”

“Nor you,” said Cultus softly. “Unless yo’re tryin’ to get me killed off.”

“Why, the idea is ridiculous. Jones. I haven’t any interest in your affairs, except as they affect the Lazy A. I have been attorney for Ault for years, and naturally I am interested in anything affecting the Lazy A ranch. Idaho Breen wants you to clean up this rustling. Why, I’d be the last person on earth to seek to injure you, Jones.”

“Well, that’s fine of yuh,” drawled Cultus. He shook hands with Lane and sauntered out. Dude Wheeler was just going into the post office, and waved a salute to Cultus, who walked up and met him.

“I want to ask yuh somethin’, Jones,” said Dude, a bashful grin on his face. They moved close to the door of the post-office. “Yuh know I met Miss Ault the night she came in.” said Dude. “She’s sure a nice girl.”

Cultus grinned widely. “Go ahead, cowboy.”

“I’m glad yuh understand,” sighed Dude. “It’s thisaway, Jones. I ain’t seen her since that night, and yuh see I can’t very well go out there to the Lazy A. I wrote her a letter and posted it to her this mornin’. I just found out that Miles Lane took the Lazy A mail out to the ranch today.

“And Miles Lane,” Dude hesitated. “He’s dressin’ up to go out there. Yuh see, I don’t trust him, and I’m wonderin’——”

“If he delivered the letter, eh?”

“Yuh might put it thataway, Jones. I know him pretty well.”

“All right,” grinned Cultus. “What can I do for yuh?”

“Will yuh hand her a note from me?”

“Yeah, I’ll do it. I ain’t seen her to speak to for a long time, but if it’s possible, I’ll see that she gets it.”

Dude secured some paper and an envelope, and when Cultus rode back to the Lazy A he carried the note to Mary. It was almost supper time, and the boys were all at the ranch. Cultus went to the long wash-bench just outside the kitchen door, and began washing, while Hop stood in the kitchen door, dangling a ladle in his hand.

“Hop, do you happen to know a Chinaboy in Frisco, whose name is Wang Lee?” asked Cultus.

Old Hop smiled widely. “Yessa—my clousin. He lun chop-suey lestlant.”

Cultus grinned and nodded his head. “That’s the feller, Hop. Wang Lee good friend of mine.”

This was not true, because Cultus did not know Wang Lee, and only knew of a popular chopsuey restaurant of that name. But old Hop beamed. “Wang Lee velly lich—my clousin.”

“That’s fine,” Cultus mopped his face with a towel, as he moved in closer to the Chinaman. “Wang Lee my friend, Hop. You, his cousin, must be my friend. You sabe?”

“Yessa.”

“Good.” Cultus took the envelope from his pocket, caught it in a fold of the towel and handed it to Hop.

“That note is for Miss Ault, Hop. Nobody must see.”

The old Celestial accepted the towel, slipped the envelope inside his shirt and turned away without a word. It was evident that Mary received the note, but her reply was to Cultus, which was given to Cultus by old Hop, after they had finished supper. She wrote:

Am virtually a prisoner. Tell Mr. Wheeler I will see him as soon as possible. Would like to talk with you, but Breen says I am to talk with no one. If Hop will carry notes, it will be of some help to us. They are treating me all right.

The note was unsigned. The fact that she was a prisoner was no news to Cultus, and he knew Dude Wheeler was right in suspecting that Miles Lane had not delivered the letter to Mary. Cultus realized that under the law, it would require nearly a year to probate the will of Jud Ault, advertise for creditors, and to follow out all the legal phases of the instrument, but he also knew, that, while hardly ethical, it would be legal for an heir to sell out his or her interests to anyone who was willing to take a chance on the legality of the will in question.

And if Breen and Miles Lane intended doing such a thing, there was nothing he could do to prevent it. Mary, without the advice or assistance of anyone, would be obliged to sign the name of Mary Ault to a bill of sale to the Lazy A. Of course he could notify the authorities of fraud, possibly defeat the purpose of Breen and Lane; but only serve to throw the will into courts indefinitely—or until it might be proved that no Mary Ault existed.

Cultus decided that there was nothing for him to do, except to wait until something happened that would give him a chance to puzzle out a solution of the case. In the meantime he decided to keep working on the cattle stealing end of the case. He had a talk with Idaho Breen about the cattle that night, but the Lazy A foreman did not seem interested. He tried to lead Breen into a discussion of Jack Keene, husband of Faith Ault, but Idaho side-stepped the subject; so Cultus dropped it and went to bed, after deciding to visit Welcome Creek the next day.

Earlier that afternoon Shif’less Hill had ridden to Oreana City, and gone to the depot. He had sent a rifle to a San Francisco gunmaker for some repairs, and it was due back. He paid the express charges and took the package outside, where he sat down on the edge of the station platform and unwrapped the rifle. It had been encased in a light wooden box and packed tightly with newspapers.

Shif’less tried the action, found it functioning perfectly, and began putting the papers back in the long, narrow box, when his eyes happened to get a flash of a pictured face on one of the wrinkled newspapers. Quickly he spread it out, emitting a grunt of wonderment.

The unmistakable features of Jack Keene stared up at him, along with the face of a pretty girl, beneath whose portrait was the name Janice Lee. But the name beneath Keene’s picture was J. Loring. Connecting the pen and ink scroll, which joined the two portraits, was an artist’s conception of the gun battle between two men, and behind one of them was a girl, dressed in a traveling suit.

The story told of a gun battle in a San Francisco café, in which J. Loring, an attorney, and Speed Evans, alleged gangster and dope peddler, had killed each other. Janice Lee had been struck twice and had died twelve hours later, without regaining consciousness. It had little to say about Loring, except that he was little known outside the tenderloin.

Shif’less read it through twice, the rifle lying across his lap. There was no question in his mind about this man being Jack Keene. He noted the date of the paper, carefully tore out the article and put it in his pocket.

Picking up the rifle and the box, he walked around the depot, threw the box into a weed patch and went back to his horse. He rode back up the street to Miles Lane’s office. It was getting late, but he found Lane there.

“What’s on your mind, Shif’less?” asked Lane, when Shif’less placed his rifle on the desk and drew out the clipping. The Oreana City attorney took the clipping and stared at the picture of Jack Keene. And as he read the story he seemed to sway slightly and his eyes blinked painfully.

He lifted a hand and wiped the tears from his eyes; not tears of grief or remorse, but tears like a man might get whose eyes had stared into a bright light. For a long time he did not speak, although Shif’less knew he had read the article.

“What do yuh know about that?” asked Shif’less softly.

“My God!” breathed Lane hoarsely. “Jack Keene dead!”

“Well, he’d prob’ly finish thataway,” said Shif’less.

Lane looked at Shif’less blankly. “What did you say?” he asked.

“I said he’d prob’ly finish thataway.”

“Oh—yes,” Lane looked at the clipping again. Shif’less had torn it through, leaving the dateline at the top of the page. Lane looked at this and glanced quickly at a calendar on the wall.

“We’ve got to keep Faith from finding it out, Miles,” said Shif’less softly. “We can’t let her know.”

“Faith? Oh, yes. Yes, we must keep it quiet, Shif’less. You won’t tell anyone, will you? I can trust you, can’t I?”

“Well, I’d be the last to tell her,” drawled Shif’less. “Heck! I wouldn’t have her find it out—not now.”

“That’s fine!” Lane almost pawed for Shif’less’ hand. “We’ll keep it dark, eh? Don’t let anybody know. If one person finds it out, they’ll all know it.”

“I won’t tell,” Shif’less shook his head. “Nossir. Say, Miles, Jack must ’a’ been pretty tough, eh? I wonder if that was his girl. Prob’ly was. Faith still thinks he’s all right,” Shif’less looked wistfully out through the window. “Still thinks he’s all right, Miles.”

“Yes, yes,” impatiently. “You never can figure a woman, Shif’less.”

“Nor anybody else,” softly. “Jack Keene took a different name and left his wife——”

“I know how you feel, Shif’less. You love Faith Keene. No, don’t shake your head. Maybe she thinks a lot of you. I’ll help you.”

“I don’t need no help, Miles. I asked her the other day why she didn’t get a divorce from Jack, and she said he was still supportin’ her; and that she couldn’t never marry anybody as long as Jack was alive. Now, Jack’s dead—and we can’t tell her. Still, what difference does it make? If she’d marry——”

“No, don’t tell her!” Lane grasped him by the arm. “Don’t do it, Shif’less. Anyway, it isn’t for you to do. Don’t you see, she’d think you—you were trying to hurry things? Don’t you see?”

“Yeah, I see,” Shif’less nodded slowly. “I reckon we better keep it dark for a while. Well, I’m headin’ home. Miles. Hang onto that piece of paper, won’t yuh?”

“Oh, I’ll keep it safe, Shif’less. Good night.”

Shif’less mounted his horse and rode out of town, carrying the rifle in the crook of his right arm, while Miles Lane locked his front door and flopped in his office chair, trying to gather his scattered senses. He studied the clipping again. Janice Lee! That was the name on the note of identification! It was evident that the girl out at the Lazy A was not Janice Lee. But who was she? Miles Lane’s brain whirled. Did this Association detective, Jones of Oklahoma, have anything to do with it, he wondered. Where did this girl come from, and where did she get the identification papers?

Jack Keene, alias J. Loring, was the man who wrote the note—and he was dead. Lane wondered if this girl at the Lazy A had stolen the papers at the time of the gun battle. And if she did, who was behind her masquerade?

Lane drew a big bottle from a desk drawer and took a drink. He left the bottle uncorked, and every few minutes he would lower the contents perceptibly. He decided to go to the Lazy A ranch and show the clipping to Idaho Breen, but the quart bottle was empty when he got his horse at the livery stable—and Mr. Lane was very drunk.

In fact, he was so muddled from drink that he took the wrong road out of Oreana City in the dark, and when he sobered to the extent that he cared to realize anything he found that he was not on any road, had no sense of direction—and nothing to drink. So he just rode on and on, wondering dully if the moon would ever come up and show him some familiar landscape.

After a while he saw the silhouette of an old building, which he recognized as being the deserted stamp-mill and buildings of the abandoned Suicide mine. It had not been worked for several years. Jim Scott, the original owner, had sunk every cent he owned in it, failed to make it pay, and hung himself in the shafthouse—thus giving it a new name. Others had tried in vain to make it pay, and it was finally abandoned.

Lane did not realize that the night was nearly over; so he was not going to take any chances on getting lost. As long as he had the buildings of the old mine as landmark, he knew it would not be difficult in daylight to cut across the hills to the Lazy A.

He struck one of the old trails and rode up closer to the old shaft-house, where he intended to dismount. A cold breeze was sweeping across the hills, and Miles Lane, not dressed too warmly, needed shelter.

Suddenly he saw the dull gleam of a light shining through a crack in the old building, and almost at the same instant he realized that he had ridden in beside a saddled horse. He was still a little dazed from the liquor, but instinct told him that something was not just right.

Turning his horse around he rode slowly back down the trail, turned his horse into the shelter of a mesquite clump in a dry wash, and dismounted. Curiosity prompted him to climb back up the trail again, but this time he circled to the opposite side of the building. He took plenty of time and was particular about making unnecessary noises.

He came in against the wall of the building and worked his way around to when a broken board gave him a fairly good view of the interior. The machinery had been moved away, but there still remained the old framework of the hoist parts of the old trades, and the huge timbers were where the hoisting engine had stood.

But Miles Lane was not interested in the details of the old building. An old lantern hung from a nail in the old hoist frame, and in its faint illumination Lane could see the huge bulk of a man, his shadow dancing grotesquely on the walls, as he skinned out the carcass of a steer, which was also suspended from the hoist-frame.

Another whole beef, all dressed, hung near him. Lane could recognize him now. It was Shif’less Hill. He was working swiftly, his skinning knife flashing in the yellow light. Lane licked his lips and swallowed heavily. He could see the lantern light flash on the cartridge-heads in his belt, and against the wall near him stood a Winchester rifle. Lane was unarmed, and he suddenly realized that it might not be healthy for him, in case Shif’less suspected his presence. As though fascinated he leaned against the building and watched the big cowboy strip off the hide. He did not realize that daylight was creeping over the hills.

Shif’less finished skinning the animal and threw the hide down the shaft. Lane grinned to himself. He had plenty of evidence to send Shif’less Hill over the road for a long time—in case he needed to use it.

He shoved away from the wall, realizing it was daylight, and crept away in the direction of his horse. He did not want Shif’less Hill to find him there.

The three Lazy A cowboys were a snoring trio when Cultus left the bunkhouse and went to the stable, where he saddled his horse. It was still early, and Cultus knew that Hop would not serve breakfast for another hour, at least: so he decided to postpone his morning meal until he reached Welcome Creek.

Cultus had never been to Welcome Creek, but he knew it was not over fifteen miles east of the Lazy A, and that by traveling past where Idaho Breen had found Lazy A hides in the prospect hole, he would strike the wagon road, which led from Oreana City to Welcome Creek.

Cultus mounted and rode away from the south. Breen had given him a tall roan gelding, which had plenty of speed, and the cool of the early morning gave it plenty of condition to go ahead. The going was fairly good, and Cultus let the roan pick its own speed.

Cultus had never seen the old Suicide Mine, but had heard the boys speak about it. He rode around the side of a hill and came in view of the old buildings, shortly after daylight. His horse made little noise in the sandy soil, and he was within a hundred yards of the old shaft-house, when he saw Miles Lane sneaking away from beside the building. Cultus’ horse was poorly masked by the brush; so Cultus quickly dismounted. He recognized Lane immediately. Leading his horse to the post, he was able to watch the lawyer, who walked down a dry wash, mounted his horse behind a mesquite clump, and rode quietly away, going toward the Lazy A. “That’s kinda queer,” observed Cultus. “Now just what was a lawyer doin’ there this time in the mornin’?”

Cultus watched Lane ride across a ridge and disappear, before moving on down to the shaft-house. He dropped his reins and walked boldly to the sagging old door, where he stepped inside and jerked to a standstill, when he found himself looking the muzzle of a rifle in the hands of Shif’less Hill.

It was still half dark in the old building. Shifting his eyes from the menacing gun muzzle, Cultus could see the two beeves hanging. Neither of the men spoke for several moments. The gun muzzle did not waver.

“Well, what about it?” asked Shif’less in a flat voice.

A smile chased across Cultus’ lips and he shook his head.

“I reckon that’s up to you, Shif’less.”

“Yeah? I’m wonderin’ how yuh guessed I’d be here.”

“I didn’t,” grinned Cultus.

“No? Kinda early in the mornin’, ain’t it?”

Cultus nodded. “Yeah. I was on my way to Welcome Creek.”

“And jist stopped to look, eh?”

“Well, no-o-o. Yuh see, I didn’t have no idea of stoppin’ here until I seen our friend the Oreana City lawyer sneak away from outside there, grab his horse and fog for the Lazy A.”

“Miles Lane?”

“That’s the feller.”

Cultus could see that the big cowboy was puzzled.

“What was Miles Lane doin’ here?” he demanded.

“Search me: but he was here. Put down the gun, Shif’less.”

“I suppose I might as well, Jones. I’m caught with the goods. If Lane is headed for the Lazy A, he’ll prob’ly bring back the whole gang.”

Cultus walked past him and looked at the beef. “Threw the hides in the old shaft?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Intendin’ to pack the meat to Welcome Creek tonight, eh?”

The big cowboy leaned against one of the uprights and nodded gloomily. “I dunno how yuh guessed it; but yo’re right.”

“That wasn’t hard to guess. You killed those animals that wore all them Lazy A hides——”

“That Breen found,” finished Shif’less. “Yeah, I did.”

“Welcome Creek was the only possible market, I figured. You couldn’t sell all that beef. Breen had an idea that the Star X was the ones that was killin’ off his stock; but the Star X don’t need to kill beef.”

“I’ve been killin’ oft Lazy A beef for over a year,” said Shif’less slowly. “I couldn’t handle much at a time. It’s quite a job for one man. Dad wouldn’t help me. He said I was a damn’ fool; and I sure was. Now, what are yuh goin’ to do about it?”

“How deep is this shaft?”

“Two hundred feet. There’s big stopes, of course.”

“All right. How could the Lazy A find those hides? Is there any way to get down there?”

“Not unless they go down on a rope.”

“Which they won’t do,” said Cultus. “Where’d they ever find a two hundred foot rope? Lane thinks you don’t know he saw yuh; so we’ll just heave them two beeves down the shaft, which will destroy all the evidence. What little blood is scattered around won’t convict anybody. C’mon, let’s get busy.”

“What’s yore game?” queried Shif’less.

“Helpin’ out a damn’ fool.”

The Lazy A was at breakfast when Miles Lane rode in. Breen left the table and met him at the front door.

“What’s the matter with you?” asked Breen. “You look pretty tough, Miles.”

The lawyer took hold of Breen’s sleeve and drew him off the porch and around the corner.

“Is Jones and the girl still here?” he asked.

“The girl is; Jones has gone to Welcome Creek. What’s the matter?”

Lane drew out the newspaper clipping and showed it to Breen.

“There’s what’s the matter, Idaho. Jack Keene is dead. Look at the date-line on that paper. That girl’s name is Janice Lee, and she’s dead.”

Idaho lifted his eyes from the paper, staring blankly at the lawyer. “But what does it mean?” he whispered.

“What does it mean? It means that this girl is not Janice Lee; that she is somebody else! This is not the girl Jack Keene sent us. We’ve been double-crossed, Idaho!”

“You think——?”

“I know! What’s behind it—I don’t know. But this girl came on the same train with Jones, the detective. Idaho, we’ve got to work fast. They don’t know that I know this; so that helps.”

“Does anybody else know it, Miles?”

“Shif’less Hill. He gave me the clipping.”

“Then we’ve got to stop him from meetin’ Jones. I’ll bet Jones knows that Keene is dead, and he figures we don’t. If he knows that we know——”

“I’ve got the goods on Shif’less Hill!” exclaimed Lane, and then he told of seeing Shif’less butchering cattle in the old shaft-house of the Suicide mine.

“By God, we’ll get him!” snorted Breen. “Here’s what we’ll do. You beat it for town and get the papers. I’ll send the boys over to investigate this butcherin’ and we’ll make this female sign the paper while they’re gone. Jones is headin’ for Welcome Creek, and when he comes back we’ll settle with him.”

“And turn this girl loose to tell all she knows?”

“What you don’t know won’t hurt yuh. Get yore bronc and go after them papers.”

Lane got his horse and rode back toward Oreana City, while Breen went back to the dining-room. The cowboys were rolling their after-breakfast cigarette when Breen called them outside.

“You fellers saddle up and go to the old Suicide mine,” he ordered. “Lane just brought word that somebody has been doin’ a job of butcherin’ down there in the old shaft-house, and we’ve got a hunch that Shif’less Hill is the one who has been doing it. If yuh find Hill around there, yuh better watch him.”

“All right,” said Pie Ide shortly. “Supposin’ we go and get him, Idaho?”

“Yo’re runnin’ that end of it, Pie,” said Idaho grimly. “Better be sure—first Shif’less will fight. He threw the hide in the old shaft, and the devil himself couldn’t get down there to find ’em; we’ve got to take a chance that he killed Lazy A cattle. You’ll find the beef in the shaft-house.”

The cowboys hurried after their horses. Not that they disliked Shif’less Hill, but that they desired action. They rode away with their rifles, and Idaho went back to the house, where he found Mary in the living-room.

“I’m goin’ to talk turkey to you,” he told her. “In an hour or so. Miles Lane will be out here with the papers for you to sign—and you better sign ’em without any argument, sabe?”

“What papers, Mr. Breen?” Mary was frightened at Breen’s tone.

“The bill of sale to the Lazy A,” growled Breen. “He’ll have it all made out, and all you’ll have to do is to sign ’em. You turn the whole works over to me.”

“I give you a bill of sale to the Lazy A ranch?”

“Yuh sure do, young lady. As soon as that’s done I’ll take you to Oreana City and send yuh back where yuh came from.”

Breen walked over to a front window and glanced out. He was just a little suspicious of Jones of Oklahoma. Suddenly he turned and glared at Mary, who stood beside the center table, looking at him.

“You and yore detective friend thought yuh was damn’ smart, didn’t yuh?” he said. “I happen to know that yo’re not the girl who was supposed to come here. What do you think of that?”

He came toward her, grin on his hard face. “Yeah, I know all about it. You think yo’re goin’ to get a thousand dollars for signin’ them papers. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! You poor little fool! Do you think you was foolin’ me?

“Set down! Scared, eh? You need to be. Do you think I’m goin’ to let you beat me out of a million dollars? No, I’m not goin’ to put my hands on yuh. Yore friend has gone to Welcome Creek, and he won’t be back until later; so yuh don’t need to look toward the window. You won’t be here when he comes back, and I’ll be here to welcome him. I don’t like detectives.”

Mary sat down in a chair beside the table, wondering what to do. She was afraid of Breen. From a window she had seen the cowboys ride away. Hop was in the kitchen, washing dishes, but she knew she could expect no help from him.

“Where are you going to send me?” she asked helplessly.

“Where?” Breen laughed shortly.

“Quien sabe. Understand Spanish? That’s Spanish for ‘who knows?’ Ha, ha, ha, ha! Who knows where we’ll send you. Why, a poor little fool, where can we send you where you can’t talk? And we can’t let you talk about this.”

“If I promise not to——”

“Promise! What’s a promise of that worth? Set still! You act sensible and sign those papers, and we’ll see about your promises—Mary Ault!” Breen laughed harshly. “Mary Ault! And you tried to fool me.”

Cultus and Shif’less rode away from the old mine, heading toward the Cross Arrow. Shif’less was still a little mystified as to why Cultus had helped him destroy the evidence. They had left nothing for the Lazy A to find as evidence, unless they were willing to search the two hundred foot level of the crumbling old shaft.

“I reckon Mr. Lane didn’t lose any time in tellin’ Breen what he saw back there,” observed Cultus.

Shif’less nodded gloomily. “Prob’ly not, Jones. I don’t sabe what Lane was doin’ there at that time in the mornin’.”

“I don’t know. Shif’less, I’ve heard that you kinda think a lot of Faith Keene.”

Shif’less turned in his saddle. “You heard it, did yuh?”

“That’s nothin’ ag’in yuh, cowboy. Why don’t yuh marry her?”

“Plenty of reasons, I reckon. In the first place, I dunno if she’d marry me if she could, and in the second place—she’s still got a husband.”

“Well,” smiled Cultus, “yuh can easy find out the first part of it, and in the second place, jist between me and you, her husband is dead.”

Shif’less stared at Cultus.

“How do yuh know, Jones?”

“I happened to be there when he was killed. I didn’t know it at the time, but I seen his picture later, and it was the face of a feller they called Loring, a cheap lawyer in Frisco.”

Shif’less nodded quickly. “There was two men killed—and a woman. Her name was Janice Lee.”

Cultus leaned closer to him. “How do you know that?”

It did not take Shif’less long to explain about finding it in the paper.

“I took it to Lane.” he said. “Lane was Keene’s friend, and I thought——”

“You took it to him last night?” Cultus jerked up his horse.

“Yeah.”

“Good gosh!” exploded Cultus. “And Lane has gone to meet Idaho Breen. Listen, Shif’less; you go to town. If Breen or Lane show up there with that girl—Mary Ault—stop ’em. No, I can’t tell yuh why. Just stop ’em, and then come out to the Lazy A.”

Cultus whirled his horse around, drew his hat down over his eyes, and sent the roan on a stiff gallop back toward the Lazy A. He realized that the newspaper clipping would prove to Lane and Breen that Mary Smith was an impostor. It was something unforeseen, and Cultus knew that Breen would stop at nothing now to get control of the Lazy A.

And about the time that Cultus had found out about the newspaper clipping, Miles Lane was riding back to the Lazy A with the papers for Mary to sign. He had had them prepared for days. They were snake-tight, and all they needed was the signature of Mary Ault, and his own, as notary public. He had made the imprint of his seal before he left the office.

Her signature would make Idaho Jim Breen owner of the Lazy A estate, and Idaho Breen would take Miles Lane in as a full partner in the holdings. Even the partnership papers were all prepared. Lane was very thorough in his crooked work.

He rode his lathering horse up to the ranch-house and went in. Mary was sitting beside the table, her face very white. On a chair against the wall sat Idaho Breen. He had been drinking from a bottle, and was just drunk enough to be alert.

“Got everythin’ ready?” he asked. Lane nodded and spread the papers on the table. “Get the pen and ink, Idaho.”

Mary stared at the typewritten sheets.

“Take a good look at ’em, sister,” laughed Breen, as he came, with the pen and ink and placed them on the table.

Lane dipped the pen in ink and handed it to her, placing his finger on the ruled line. “Put your name right there. Just write Mary Ault.”

Mary looked up at them, her hand trembling. “But that isn’t my name.”

“Nobody knows it better than we do,” laughed Breen. “Write it out, and we’ll take a chance on it. You wasn’t supposed to come here, yuh know.”

“Suppose I refuse to sign,” Mary shut her lips and looked defiantly at Breen. “You can’t make me sign.”

“Tryin’ a holdup, eh? No good, my dear. Everybody knows you are the owner of the Lazy A, and if yuh refuse to sign, we’ll fake a signature.”

“And I’ll swear it isn’t mine—and prove it.”

Breen’s jaw tightened and he leaned closer to Mary. “No, yuh won’t; you won’t prove anythin’. If you’ve got a lick of sense, you’ll sign that paper right now.”

Mary took the pen and signed the name of Mary Ault. There was nothing else for her to do. Breen laughed softly, as Lane handed him the paper, and reached for the bottle.

“Better go easy on that stuff,” advised Lane. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

Breen took a big drink and put the bottle on the floor. He turned to Mary, who still held the pen in her hand.

“Git dressed for travelin’,” he ordered. “Pack yore suitcase. In ten minutes we’re pullin’ out. Poco tiempo!”

He turned to Lane. “You stay here with her, while I hitch up a team to the buggy.”

Mary walked back to her room and packed her clothes. She put a few things in the suitcase, but did not bother to pack the trunk. She had not worn any of Janice Lee’s clothes, as she had not been out of the house since her arrival.

She was glad to leave the Lazy A, but down in her heart was a fear that these two men were not through with her yet. She had been living in sort of a daze ever since that night at the restaurant in San Francisco. And when she had asked Breen where he was going to send her, he had said, “Quien sabe”—who knows?

She carried the suitcase in to the living room and sat down in an old rocking-chair. Lane was helping himself to Breen’s bottle, and his hand trembled as he looked at Mary.

Breen was hitching up a pair of vicious-looking grays, a half broken team. He was obliged to tie them to the corral fence and drag the buggy around to them. As soon as they were hitched he went to the house and flung open the front door.

“You pull out ahead of us, Miles,” he growled. “Hit the grit, hombre, because we’ll need an open road.”

Lane placed the bottle on the table and walked out, going straight to his horse which he mounted and rode swiftly away. “What about my trunk?” asked Mary. Breen turned from watching Lane gallop out of sight.

“You don’t need to worry about that.”

Mary shivered slightly, as Breen emptied the bottle down his throat and threw the bottle viciously aside. He picked up her suitcase and pointed toward the door.

“Start goin’,” he growled. Mary preceded him from the house and they went down to the corral, where the gray team humped angrily under the feel of the harness.

Breen threw her suitcase in the back of the buggy and motioned her to get in. As she sat down and looked at him, he half turned and was staring past the end of the stable. Then he began running toward the front of the stable, which was near the main gate.

He was within twenty yards of the gate when Cultus came in sight, swinging his horse toward the gate. Mary saw Breen jerk to a stop, throwing up his right hand which held a six-shooter. She tried to cry out to Cultus, who was partly masked from Breen by the huge gate-post, but before she could utter any sound, Cultus turned to come through the gate, and Breen fired.

Cultus jerked sideways from the shock of the heavy bullet, and his tall roan whirled quickly, throwing Cultus heavily just inside the enclosure. The horse trotted a few yards away, whirled in against the fence and stopped, looking back at its rider.

Breen ran up to him and quickly turned him over. Evidently satisfied that Cultus was out of the game for good, he ran back to the buggy and untied the horses, which were still jerking nervously from the sound of the revolver shot.

He climbed in beside Mary, whirled the team around and went out through the gate at racing speed. The lurch of the buggy almost threw Mary out, and she did not get a look at Cultus as they raced past. Breen did not try to check the horses. His jaw was set tightly, and Mary could see that his lips were white. He did not speak to or look at her.

Mary had only been over the road once, but she knew it was even more dangerous than the one she had ridden over in the runaway the night she came to Oreana City. About a mile below the Lazy A the road looped around over some dizzy grades above a deep canyon, and she remembered that Cultus had remarked that it was a place where a driver was only allowed one mistake.

She looked at Breen, wondering why he did not make any attempt to check the running team. He was crouched on the edge of the seat, his feet drawn well under him, his eyes shut to mere slits, as the buggy lurched and bounded over the uneven road. They whirled down through a swale, where the mesquite ripped along the wheels and sides, like the sound of tearing silk.

A rock sent them skidding wildly, but the buggy did not upset. It threw Mary to her knees, but Breen, ripping out an oath, yanked her back in the seat, his elbow striking her in the mouth, as he recovered his balance. She threw up both hands to protect her face, and the next instant Breen had flung himself clear of the buggy. Mary whirled around, trying to see him, but he was blotted out in a swirl of dust.

She jerked around in the seat, and saw just ahead of her the beginning of the grades around the deep canyon. There was nothing she could do now. To attempt a jump from the buggy would mean that she would have to choose between falling into the canyon or being smashed against the rocky side of the grade.

The two horses were running at top speed, their bellies low to the ground, the lines whipping through the air, the buggy and its one occupant bounding along behind them. Mary tried to pray, but she was so dazed, so frightened that she could only hang on.

They whirled around the first turn on two wheels, straightened perilously near the outer edge, and headed for the next sharp curve. It was a sharp turn to the right, and on the left hand side was an old washout, filled with brush.

But the running team turned too late, and the inside wheels of the buggy smashed against the wall. Came a whirl of dust and gravel, a cataclysm of overturned buggy, flying hoofs, the scream of a horse, and the outfit hurtled over the edge, dropping straight down for fifty feet, where it struck the apex of a broken ledge, seemed to hang for a moment, and then went crashing and rolling into the bottom of the gorge a hundred feet below.

Cultus had seen Idaho Breen just before the shot was fired, and before the shock of the bullet had knocked him unconscious he knew that Breen had shot him. He was shocked back to consciousness by a deluge of cold water, and opened his eyes to see Hop, the Chinese cook, standing over him, bucket in hand.

“You hu’t pletty damn’ bad?” queried the Chinaman anxiously.

Cultus struggled to a sitting position, clamping his jaws to hold back the exclamation of pain which came to his lips. It seemed that a red-hot iron was searing deeply in his left shoulder. He panted for several moments, while cold perspiration dripped from his face.

But his mind cleared rapidly, and the Chinaman helped him to his feet. He wasn’t just sure why Breen had shot him. He felt for his gun and found it still in the holster.

“Why did he shoot me?” asked Cultus hoarsely.

The Chinaman shook his head. “Do’ know. I not see; I hea’.”

Cultus looked vaguely around, as though trying to see Breen.

“He go ’way,” said Hop. “He take li’l missie way in buggy. Mebbe go town. Go like hell. Team run ’way. Yo’ sabe?”

“Team run away?”

“Plitty bad team: not bloke yet.”

“For gosh sake!” Cultus wiped the back of a hand across his eyes. “Hop, was Miles Lane here today?”

“Yessa. He lide way jus’ befo’ you come. Lide damn’ fast.”

“That’s it,” muttered Cultus. “A runaway team—and those grades. Oh, Hop, I’ve been a fool.”

Cultus went gropingly out to his horse, which did not try to get away from him. He climbed into the saddle, forgetting to pick up his sombrero, and spurred the animal savagely through the gateway and down the road toward Oreana City. His shoulder was bleeding and he was racked with pain, but he shut his teeth against the hurt and weakness and drove the roan at racing speed, feeling down in his heart that nothing could save Mary Smith now.

The tall roan slowed down the moment they struck the grade, and Cultus, half blinded by pain and weakness, swayed in the saddle, as he peered over the edge of the grade, knowing that only a miracle could prevent the running team from disaster.

The first curve showed nothing, except that wheels had torn deeply into the outer edge of the grade. But at the next turn he found the left front wheel of the buggy, which had torn off from the impact against the rocky wall. Here was also plenty of evidence that something had gone off the edge, as the grade was sloughed off.

Cultus dismounted and leaned against his horse, trying to overcome the dizziness which caused his knees to sag. He tried to walk around the horse toward the edge of the grade, but he staggered like a drunken man and fell to his knees.

“Keep a-goin’, you quitter!” he muttered bitterly. “Are yuh goin’ to let yore own body lay down on yuh?” He stopped talking to himself and his eyes focused sharply on a spot in the brush on the left side of the road.

Then he lurched to his feet, staggered off the road and tore his way into the brush, where Mary Smith was half lying, half sitting in the brush, her eyes open, a smear of blood across her face. When the rig struck the rocky wall it had thrown her to the uphill side of the grade, and into the tangle of brush.

Cultus went to his knees beside her, trying to disentangle her from the brush while she looked at him dazedly. Summoning all of his strength he lifted her from the brush and carried her back to the road, where he went to his knees again.

“Mary Smith,” he said brokenly. “Mary Smith!”

Her eyes were open and she did not seem badly hurt, but she did not know him.

“I—I wanted to answer your note,” she told him. “But they watched me too closely. I wanted to see you again.”

She began crying softly, and Cultus pawed clumsily at her hair, trying to soothe her.

“Yeah, I know,” he whispered. She thought she was talking to Dude Wheeler. And Cultus knew.

“Where’s Idaho Breen?” he asked. Mary stared up at him. The question stirred something in her mind.

“He jumped,” she said simply.

Cultus nodded. “I thought he did.”

Cultus managed to catch his horse. It was a difficult job for him to get into the saddle with Mary Smith, but he did it. The tall roan went slowly, while Cultus reeled in the saddle, his arms locked around Mary Smith. Cultus forgot that he had been shot. It was a nightmare, he thought. Someone was coming down the grade toward him, and he laughed foolishly.

The man came up to him, shoving his horse in close. Now he was trying to take Mary Smith away from him. Cultus tried to prevent this. The man was talking to him imploring him to let him take the girl. Cultus wanted to draw his gun on the man but didn’t dare let loose of Mary with his right hand. It seemed to Cultus that he had lost his left hand.

The man’s voice seemed familiar, and Cultus tried to remember who he was. It suddenly dawned upon him that this man was Dude Wheeler, and he laughed aloud at the queer kinks of a nightmare.

“Let me have her, Jones,” begged Dude. “Man, you’re hurt!”

This statement seemed to drive the mists from Cultus’ brain. He could see Dude Wheeler plainly now, feel the surge of Dude’s sorrel against the roan.

“I want her, Jones,” said Dude.

“Aw-ri’,” Cultus nodded drunkenly.

“She wants you, I—I reckon.”

He released his hold on Mary and let Dude have her. He reeled in his saddle and grasped the horn for support.

“Got me pullin’ leather,” he grimaced painfully.

“Who shot yuh, Jones?”

“Who?” Cultus didn’t seem to remember. “Oh, that was a long time ago.”

“I met Idaho Breen. He’s headin’ to town for help. The team ran away, and he said Mary was at the bottom of the canyon.”

“Headin’ for town?” Cultus laughed weakly.

“But who shot you, Jones? You’ve been shot, ain’t yuh?”

“I s’pose I have. I don’t remember. Yeah, I do remember somethin’ about it.”

He stared at Dude. “Yuh say Idaho Breen is headin’ for town? Was that today, Dude?”

“Not ten minutes ago, Jones.”

“Well, that’s funny. It seems so long ago.”

“You’ve got to get a doctor, Jones. We’ll go to town, if yuh think you can ride.”

Cultus laughed. “Why not?” He rubbed a hand across his eyes. “There’s Mary Smith to think about,” he said slowly.

“Mary Smith?” said Dude. “Not Mary Ault?”

“Mary Elizabeth Smith. I’m Jones from Oklahoma. We’re both liars, Dude. No, she ain’t a liar—I lied for both. But I’ve got to lie to clean up a crooked game. They were lootin’ the Lazy A; stealin’ from a dead man and a widder. We got to go to town today.”

Dude was staring at him, wondering what he meant. Mary looked up at Dude, puzzled expression in her eyes.

“What was it?” she whispered. Dude looked down at her, his arms tightening.

“It’s all right, Mary,” he said. “Don’t you worry.”

“I’m not worrying,” she said. “I—I knew you’d come.”

Cultus swayed weakly, spurred his horse past Dude, who swung around, and they headed for Oreana City.

Miles Lane lost no time in getting back to Oreana City. He had no idea what Idaho Breen might have done, but Lane was just wise enough to absent himself to town, where he could have a good alibi.

He stabled his horse and headed for his office just as the three cowboys from the Lazy A rode in. He waited for them at the Oreana hitch-rack, and received a scowl from Pie Ide.

“You and yore derned evidence!” snorted Pie, as he turned from the rack. “We couldn’t find a thing at the old mine.”

“Did you look in the shaft?”

“Two hundred feet down?” Pie hooked his thumbs over his belt and glared at the attorney. “Every time I look at you, Lane, I wonder how much real brains it takes to git admitted to the bar. If yo’re capable of bein’ an attorney, any danged one of us punchers is capable of bein’ a supreme court judge.”

“You can’t talk to me like that!” Lane fairly bristled.

Little Mex Leone shoved Pie Ide aside and faced Lane.

“What he jist said goes double for me,” said Mex. “I’m the smallest one of the bunch, and I’m plumb willin’ to hear all the war-talk you can bring up.”

Lane turned on his heel and walked away, while the three cowpunchers guffawed loudly and went toward the Oreana, their spurs rasping belligerently. Shif’less Hill had ridden into town ahead of the Lazy A bunch, and they found him in the Oreana saloon.

A reckless spirit prompted Omaha Woods to call Shif’less aside, and he did not mince matters when he told him of the report Miles Lane had brought to Idaho Breen. Shif’less said nothing to affirm or deny Lane’s report.

“Breen sent us down there to investigate,” said Omaha. “But we didn’t find a thing. I’m jist tellin’ yuh this for yore own benefit, Shif’less; not try in’ to start anythin’ with yuh.”

“Much obliged, Omaha,” drawled Shif’less. “That’s shore kind of yuh.”

Shif’less moved slowly from the saloon and went across the street to the store, where he bought a bag of peanuts. Then he came out, crunching them between his strong teeth, and went to Miles Lane’s office. The attorney started slightly at sight of the big cowboy, but relaxed with a forced smile.

“You don’t look very well,” said Shif’less. “Kinda chalky around the gills.”

Lane swallowed heavily and shifted his position. “No. I’m all right.”

“Physically?”

“Why, yes, certainly. What did you mean, Shif’less?”

“Morally.” Shif’less crunched slowly on some peanuts. “You always pretended to be my best friend, and so yuh sneaked out to the old Suicide mine and tried to put the deadwood on me.”

“Why—uh—no, no! Shif’less, who told you that? I—I got lost last night, and—listen, I—I——”

Lane stopped to swallow. He didn’t like the expression in the eyes of the big cowboy.

“You’ve got the loop around yore feet,” said Shif’less. “You sent the Lazy A gang out to get me, Miles Lane.”

“But they didn’t find anything. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! I knew they wouldn’t find—uh—listen, Shif’less; that was——”

“You was tryin’ to play a joke on me, eh?” Shif’less dusted his hands on the knees of his chaps. “You thought it would be awful funny for me to git hung. You’ve shore got a sense of humor.”

Lane was speechless, but his brain was working swiftly. He was in a precarious position, and he knew it well.

“I runs across Jones, the detective,” said Shif’less. “He knowed that Jack Keene was dead; so I told him about what I found in the paper, and he went whalin’ back toward the Lazy A. He’s a queer sort of a jigger. He saw you sneak away from the old mine this mornin’, Miles.”

“He knew about Jack Keene?”

“Shore did. Said he saw Jack git shot.”

“My God! Then that girl—” Lane stopped, realizing that he was talking too much. His hand shook, as he reached into a desk drawer, getting to his feet as he did so to mask the fact that he had taken a gun from the desk.

“What about the girl?” asked Shif’less.

“None of your business!” rasped Lane, and he turned and walked to the doorway, his mind in a whirl. He was afraid of Jones of Oklahoma, who had seen Jack Keene killed. He wanted to see Idaho Breen. If Idaho Breen was bringing that girl to Oreana City, he should be here by this time, he thought. What could be keeping him? Had Jones reached the Lazy A before Idaho and the girl were ready to leave, he wondered?

He saw Cleve Sears, the pudgy sheriff, coming up the street. Lane swung away from the office and hurried down to meet the sheriff, while Shif’less sauntered to the office door and saw them meet farther down the street.

“Hyah, Miles,” puffed the sheriff. “How are yuh t’day?”

“Don’t look toward my office,” cautioned Lane. “Shif’less Hill is watching us. I saw him butchering cattle at the old Suicide mine early this morning—in the shafthouse. The boys from the Lazy A went there to get him, but he had thrown all the evidence into the shaft. There must be a way to recover it, Cleve; so you better arrest Shif’less and put him in jail. But look out for him. He knows I saw him, and he probably knows I’m telling you about it now.”

The sheriff nodded slowly. “Are yuh sure, Miles?”

“Sure? Why, I saw him. He wouldn’t be butchering his own cattle up there in that old building. All we’ve got to do is to get the evidence out of the shaft.”

“And it’s two hundred feet deep. But I’ll arrest him, if yuh say so, Miles; and you can swear out the warrant later.”

“That’s all right, Cleve. I’ll do it.”

Lane crossed the street, headed for the livery stable, and Shif’less walked swiftly across to the Oreana saloon. The sheriff hesitated for several moments. He hated to arrest this big cowboy. He had known Shif’less for years, and it was like arresting his brother. Shif’less had disappeared in the saloon, when the sheriff started across the street.

But Shif’less did not stop in the saloon. He surmised that Lane had told the sheriff so he walked straight through the saloon, went out the rear entrance and circled around to the livery stable, where he went inside.

The stableman had led out Lane’s saddle horse, and was assisting Lane in saddling it. Neither of them heard Shif’less come in and Lane did not see him until he turned his head and saw the big cowboy leaning against the side of the stall, six feet away. Lane’s eyes hardened and his right hand fumbled at his coat pocket.

“Yuh hadn’t ought to do that,” warned Shif’less. “Yuh know I seen yuh put a gun in that pocket, and I’m superstitious.”

Lane dropped his hand and reached for the reins.

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere,” said Shif’less quietly. He turned to the mystified stableman. “You can yank the hull off that critter and tie him back to the hay-box. Mr. Lane ain’t goin’ ridin’—not yet.”

“What in hell do you mean?” asked Lance angrily. “Since when did you start telling me what to do?”

“Well,” smiled Shif’less, “Mr. Jones told me to kinda keep an eye on you, Lane; and I’m not goin’ to ride herd on yuh, that’s a cinch. You told Cleve Sears to arrest me, didn’t yuh? No, yuh don’t need to lie about it.”

“You poor fool!” panted Lane. “Do you think you can keep me from doing what I please?”

“I dunno, Miles. It might be worth an experiment. Supposin’ you jist make a break.”

Lane flapped his arms helplessly. Something seemed to tell him that Shif’less Hill was dangerous, in spite of his lazy grin, and he knew that he could never get a gun from the side pocket of his coat as quickly as Shif’less could draw from his holster.

“All right; put the horse up,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll probably be back for him pretty soon; so you don’t need bother taking the saddle off.”

Lane walked out the wide entrance, and Shif’less came behind him. There was no sign of the sheriff, but a man was running down the middle of the street—Idaho Breen!

“What’s the matter with him?” gasped Miles Lane, as Idaho stumbled across the sidewalk and into the Oreana saloon. There was no one to answer Lane; so he started running toward the saloon, followed by Shif’less, who ran awkwardly in his high-heeled boots.

Faith Keene and her little boy came down a cross street and stopped to let the two running men pass her. Shif’less stopped short beside her.

“What is the matter, Shif’less?” she asked anxiously. He shook his head. “I don’t know, Faith.” It was the first time he had ever called her Faith. “There’s somethin’ wrong, and it affects the Lazy A Ranch. I don’t sabe it. But I want to tell you somethin’, Faith; Jack Keene is dead. He’s been dead quite a while.”

She stared at him wonderingly. “Jack Keene dead, Shif’less?”

“Yeah. I found it out last night. You better take the boy over to the store. I don’t know what this all means, but yuh better be in a safe place. Here comes the Star X outfit—and the Lazy A boys are already here.”

Faith nodded and hurried the little boy across the street, while Shif’less went straight to the Oreana saloon, where an excited crowd of men listened to Idaho Breen’s story of how his team had run away, thrown him out, and had gone over the edge of the grade with Mary Ault.

“Aw, she couldn’t go over that edge and live,” declared Pie Ide. “So whatsa use of gettin’ the doctor?”

“The whole works went over,” panted Idaho. “I ran all the way to town. Couldn’t do anythin’ alone. She didn’t like it out there; so she sold out to me today.” He stopped to get his breath. “I didn’t have the money to buy it—not enough to pay it all, because she wanted a big price—but I’ve got it—got a bill of sale. My God, it’s awful! I was bringin’ her down early; so she could get a train back to San Francisco.”

“Well, you couldn’t help it,” said someone. “Gosh, that’s an awful way to pass out. Yuh can see it comin’.”

“Well, let’s get out there!” snorted Pie Ide. Lane had already joined the crowd, and a few moments later Shif’less walked in, followed by Buck Wing, Heinie, Moriarity, Klondike Evans and Joe Chevrier.

The sheriff backed against the bar, forgetting all about arresting Shif’less in his fear that the Lazy A and the Star X outfits might pick up the battle where they had left off the night Mary came to town. The Star X boys halted just inside the place, and the sheriff seemed to think that this was an opportune time to take their mind off any possible continuation of the feud.

“Don’t start anythin’, boys,” he said warningly, speaking to Buck Wing who was in the lead. “This is no time to start trouble. Miss Ault has jist been killed in a runaway, and we’re goin’ out to get her.”

The sheriff stopped. For several moments no one spoke. Lane stepped in close to the sheriff and touched him on the arm.

“Get Shif’less Hill,” he said. Shif’less was only a few feet away, but made no move to get away. The sheriff scowled at Lane, but stepped over to Shif’less, who still made no move.

“Shif’less, I’ve got to arrest yuh for butcherin’ Lazy A beef,” he said slowly. “Miles Lane says he seen yuh doin’ it; so there ain’t nothin’ I can do.”

“Thasall right, Cleve.”

“The rest of you jiggers get yore horses. Somebody get a rig at the stable, and somebody else rustle the doctor,” said the sheriff.

The crowd made a break for the front door, fairly shoving Shif’less and the sheriff outside. Just across the narrow street a small group had gathered around the figure of a woman. Faith Keene was on her knees beside the figure, talking to Dude Wheeler.

Coming across the street toward the Oreana saloon was the man whom they knew as Jones of Oklahoma. His shirt was plastered with blood from the wound in his left shoulder, and he shambled in his walk, as though his knees were jointless. His face was dirty, bloody, but his jaws were tight and there was hardly a line to show where his lips were. Breen had been shoved out at the forefront of the crowd, as was Miles Lane.

“What in thunder happened to you?” gasped the sheriff.

Cultus stopped, bracing his feet far apart, his half shut eyes fixed upon Idaho Breen, who had whirled sideways, as though to try to force his way back through the crowd.

“Breen, don’t move!” Cultus’ voice croaked like that of a raven. Breen was half turned around, as the men behind him fought to get out of line.

“Don’t move, Lane!” It was hardly more than a whisper.

“What is it?” panted the sheriff. He had forgotten that he had a prisoner. “What’s wrong with you, Jones?”

“He’s been shot!” said someone.

“Plumb loco.”

“Blood all over him. Look out for him, boys.”

“Don’t move, Breen!” It was a weak warning. “You bushwhacker! You dirty murderer, thief! You tried to steal the Lazy A. Oh, I’ve got the goods on you. I seen Jack Keene killed. I know your game. And you tried to murder that girl to cover your steal—you and Miles Lane!”

Idaho Breen was game. His hand flashed back to his holster; came back so swiftly that few saw him make his draw, but the bloody-faced cowboy, bracing his knees to stay on his feet, only made one move. His right hand, dangling loosely at his side, flipped up and forward, firing the gun almost as it left the holster.

Came the crash of breaking glass in the store-front across the street, when Breen’s bullet missed Cultus by several feet, and Breen pitched forward on his face, flinging his gun almost out to Cultus’ feet.

For a moment everyone had forgotten Miles Lane. He darted sideways, running swiftly toward the hitch-rack, taking a chance that no one would shoot at him for fear of killing a horse. He had drawn a gun. The crowd surged toward him, hardly knowing what to do. Cultus was running slowly toward the hitch-rack, cutting across in an angle to try and prevent Lane from going north.

Swiftly, Lane untied a wicked-looking gray horse, which bore the Star X brand. The horse whirled madly as Lane caught a foot in the stirrup, and he was forced to drop his gun in order to make the mount. Again the horse whirled, as Cultus ran toward it, and Lane’s right knee was atop the saddle, fighting to keep his balance. He managed to get seated; but before he could swing the horse around Cultus had hung one arm around the frightened animal’s head, swinging sideways with his whole weight.

With a scream of rage and fright the Star X gray seemed to fairly pin-wheel on one front leg, and crashed down on its right side, flinging Lane under the feet of several rearing, pulling broncos, which were doing their best to break away.

Quickly the crowd rushed in, cut the horses loose and got Lane, while some of them lifted Cultus out of the dirt and carried him away from the hitch-rack. He sat up and looked around, a half grin on his grimy face.

“By God, that’s bull-doggin’ ’em!” snorted Pie Ide, propping Cultus’ head against his knee. “How are yuh, Jones?”

The sheriff shoved his way to Cultus. “Breen’s dead,” he said. “We’ve sent for the doctor for Lane. Hey! Are yuh listenin’ to me? That Ault girl ain’t dead!! She’s over there across the street. What’s it all about, Jones? Did Breen shoot yuh?”

Cultus looked up at him. “Is Lane badly hurt?”

“He shore is! Kicked and tromped all to pieces.”

“Help me up, will yuh?”

They helped Cultus to his feet, and Buck Wing and Pie Ide assisted him over to where Lane was lying. The doctor was just looking him over when they arrived. Lane was conscious, but badly hurt. He scowled at Cultus and groaned under the examination of the doctor.

Cultus looked up to see Mary Smith, Faith Keene, Dude Wheeler and Shif’less Hill. Mary Smith was very pale, weak, but beyond the shock of her fall and a few minor bruises she was all right. The doctor shook his head and got to his feet.

“That means I’m all through, eh?” whispered Lane. “Tell me the truth, Doc.”

“I’m sorry, Lane; you’re right.”

“Breen?” he asked, his eyes fixed on Cultus.

“He’s gone,” said the sheriff. Lane tried to smile, but the pain was too much. “Did Jack Keene shoot Jud Ault?” asked Cultus. Lane shifted his eyes and looked at Faith, who was looking down at him, her eyes wide with amazement and fright. Lane slowly shook his head.

“Breen shot him,” he said wearily.

“Breen did?”

Lane turned his head and looked at Cultus.

“You know he did, Jones. He’s gone; so it won’t hurt him any.”

Then Cultus knew that Jack Keene had shot Jud Ault, but that Miles Lane was trying to save a heartache for Faith.

“I was sure he did,” replied Cultus. “Let’s clear it all up this time, Lane. Was Shif’less Hill guilty of what you said?”

“I—I—” Lane shook his head. “No, you can drop it. Sheriff. Shif’less is all right. The Lazy A will was a lie. Breen and I made one to suit us and I had Jud Ault sign it. He thought he was signing one he’d dictated. Idaho Breen and I were going to steal the ranch. I can swear to you all that Faith Keene owns the Lazy A. There is no Mary Ault. We’d have made it all right, if it hadn’t been for Jones of Oklahoma. Why don’t you light the lamps? I don’t know why it gets dark early. Idaho, what about—that—girl? Look—out—for—Jones—right—on—that—line. Idaho, we’re—lost——”

The crowd turned away. Cultus was swaying in his tracks, when Shif’less caught him. Mary ran to him, grasping his hands. He tried to smile at her, but it was only a grimace. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to see Dude Wheeler.

“Good boy, Jones,” whispered Dude. “You sure cleaned up the crooks. We’ll get you to the doctor.”

“I’m all right,” whispered Cultus. “You look out for Mary.”

“I hope to, Jones; all my life.”

Cultus looked at Mary. Everything was hazy, and her face seemed to stand out from the fog, as it did the night he met her in San Francisco. She was smiling through her tears.

“I wanted you to know it first,” she said. “I am going to marry Dude Wheeler. Jones of Oklahoma, you have almost killed yourself bringing me happiness.”

“I—I think it was worth it, Mary Elizabeth,” he said, trying to smile.

They seemed to fade out and he was talking to Shif’less and Faith Keene.

“I’ve told her the whole story, Jones,” said Shif’less. “She had to know that for over a year I’ve been stealin’ Lazy A cattle, sellin’ ’em to a butcher in Welcome Creek and givin’ her the money; the money Jack Keene was supposed to be sendin’ her. But she won’t prosecute me, because she owns the Lazy A now.”

“We do, Shif’less,” corrected Faith. “Or soon will.”

Cultus laughed softly. “I’m glad. I’m sorry for Breen and Lane, but there’s enough happiness to more than balance it. Is that doctor ever goin’ to quit foolin’ around and do somethin’ for my shoulder? I’m sure gettin’ weak in the knees.”

“You’re all fixed up,” said Faith. “This is the first time you’ve been rational since the shooting, three days ago. You’ll be as good as new in a few days. You’ll have to be, because you are going to be best man at a double wedding.”

Cultus stared up at the ceiling and around the room.

“And both the Star X and the Lazy A gangs are settin’ outside the house, waitin’ for the doctor to tell ’em you’ll get well,” said Shif’less.

“Settin’ together?” queried Cultus.

“Have been for three days. They’re workin’ the place in relays, like me and Faith and Dude and Mary. They’ll be here soon.”

“Mary has told us the whole story,” said Faith softly. “Personally, I think she should have married you.”

Cultus shook his head slowly, averting his eyes. “No-o-o, it’s better this way. Yuh see,” he turned and smiled bravely. “I’m kind of a nervous disposition, and I’d never be contented with a wife that—that was always ridin’ runaways.”

Shif’less laughed heartily, and wondered why it didn’t sound funny to Faith—who understood. But the looting of the Lazy A was over, the feud ended; so Cultus smiled and went to sleep, realizing that he would need more strength to be best man at a wedding than he would to be best man at a gun-fight.

Transcriber’s note: This story appeared in the August 10, 1926 issue of Short Stories magazine.

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Table of Contents

- THE LOOT OF THE LAZY A

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE