Part 2

“Glad to see yuh, Peace,” greeted the sheriff. “How’s everythin’ in the Chinook?”

“Kinda gettin’ along,” grinned Peace. “How’s Tarp?”

“Well,” Houston indicated the filled hitch-racks, with a flirt of his hand, “yuh can see that the census is about filled t’day. There’s a few yet t’ come from Chinook, but I reckon that most of Fossilshell is here a’ready.”

“Good business for Tarp City,” observed Peace.

“Yeah,” grudgingly, “but ---- bad business for the sheriff’s office. Who owns that black race horse over there at the Royal rack, Peace?”

“Campion. That’s his reg’lar mount, I reckon. Looks like a runnin’ son-of-a-gun, don’t it?”

“Uh-huh. What kind of a feller is Campion?”

“All right, I reckon.”

“Which he ain’t,” declared Houston. “No man’s all right that runs the tripe out of a blooded animal and leaves it out that-away.”

“Mebbe he’s just thoughtless,” suggested Peace.

“Um-m-m, mebbe. Know anythin’ about his gang?”

Peace shook his head.

“No. Yuh see, they don’t mix with us much. Look like a bunch of top-hands, though, and it’s their business if they want to be lonesome.”

“Don’t you never dislike anybody enough t’ say somethin’ against ’em, Peace River? You’d say somethin’ good of the ----, wouldn’t yuh?”

“Well,” grinned Peace, “it wouldn’t hurt me none and it might do him some good, don’tcha think? Yuh can’t expect old Nick to ever do any good, with everybody down on him the way they are.”

“All right, I pass,” laughed Houston.

Barney McManus came out of the store and his wrinkled face broke into a smile at sight of Peace. Barney was one of the old Chinook Valley punchers, prematurely old in appearance, and filled with the belief that anything a cowpuncher did was the right thing.

“Ah-h-h!” grunted Barney. “The meanest man in the old Valley comes to visit us, does he?”

“Hello, you old bog-trotter,” greeted Peace.

“Bog-trotter, eh? Is that all the respect ye have for the law, Peace Parker? Will ye answer me one question by yes or no?”

“Sure,” grinned Peace.

“Well,” Barney grinned expansively, “have ye quit rustlin’ cattle for the Cross L?”

Peace looked at him blankly for a moment.

“I’ll buy the drink, Barney.”

“That makes five already today,” chuckled Barney. “Nobody seems to want to incriminate themselves. Sure, it’s a elegant question, but I’ve got to quit askin’ it. When do we accept your kind offer?”

Houston nodded to Peace’s unspoken question, and the three of them crossed toward the Royal saloon. Hart and Horn were coming down the street from the livery-stable and joined them at the saloon door.

The saloon was nearly filled with men and the games were all running full-blast. There were a number of cowpunchers from the Fossilshell at the bar, acting like a lot of kids just out of school. They fell upon Houston and insisted that the drinks were on Fossilshell. The boys from the Chinook were included in the invitation, but Gus Mehl, who had been drinking heavily, moved away from the bar.

One of the Fossilshell cowboys, evidently considering this an insult to their hospitality, said to Mehl--

“Pardner, that invite went to everybody at the bar.”

Mehl laughed crookedly and shook his head. His face was flushed from liquor and his step was none too steady.

“Thasall right,” he gulped. “I don’t mind drinkin’ with you Fossilshellers, but I ain’t drinkin’ with everybody.”

“Meanin’ us?” queried Bert Hart quickly, but Peace grasped Bert by the arm.

Mehl laughed mockingly. He was all primed for trouble, but hardly drunk enough to lose sight of the fact that the odds were against him.

“Meanin’ what I mean,” he replied slowly. “I drink with who I ---- please; _sabe_?”

“Yo’re plumb welcome,” said Horn meaningly, shoving away from the bar, but the sheriff blocked him from Mehl.

“Wait a minute,” begged the sheriff. “This ain’t worth havin’ trouble over, boys. If the gent from the Three Dot don’t want to drink, he don’t drink. But,” he added meaningly, “the gent from the Three Dot might at least decline in a gentlemanly way.”

Houston’s manner amused Peace, who grinned widely.

“Funny, ain’t it!” sneered Mehl drunkenly. “Yo’re the notorious Peace River Parker, ain’t yuh? Understand that they think yo’re a little tin god around here. Well,” Mehl braced himself carefully, “I want to tell yuh right now that us fellers from the Three Dot ain’t worshipin’ no tin gods. What do yuh think of that?”

“Well, I think yo’re wise,” grinned Peace.

“Yuh do, eh? Pullin’ in yore horns. Blah! Somebody told me that you was a fighter. Huh! Somebody lied!”

Mehl turned and lurched away toward a roulette table, swaggering drunkenly, bumping into every one who got in his way. The crowd at the bar turned back to their drinks, but Hart and Horn continued to glare at Mehl.

“Let him alone,” advised Peace. “He’s drunk and ain’t responsible.”

But Mehl was not through yet. Campion was at the poker table and Mehl caught sight of him.

“Hey, Frank!”

Mehl’s voice was pitched high enough to be heard above the roar of conversation.

“I curried the he-buzzard of Chinook. Made Peace Parker swaller his talk, y’betcha. I betcha he’ll be good, or I’ll ride him ag’in.”

Many of the crowd looked toward the bar, but Peace did not even look at Mehl. Bert Hart fidgeted around, casting imploring glances toward Peace, who continued to talk with the sheriff. Barney nudged in closer and whispered to Peace--

“Wait’ll the sheriff sneaks home, and then yuh can have plenty of room to put a sharp point on that jasper’s head.”

Peace grinned and turned away from the bar. Mehl was still crowing loud enough for every one to hear. Bender was bucking the faro game and Erne was playing roulette, but neither of them was paying any attention to Mehl.

“Well, I reckon I’ll have to leave yuh,” observed Peace, “I’ve gotta get me a pair of boots and some overalls before the store closes.”

“Aw-w, shucks!” exploded Horn. “That hombre will think he run yuh out of Tarp City, Peace.”

“Well,” grinned Peace, “it won’t hurt me none and it may do him some good. You and Bert keep half-way sober. It looks like there might be storm and strife around here before long and you’ll be danged well off if yuh ain’t mixed into it.”

“Sure, we’ll be meek like two lambs,” agreed Horn.

Peace turned and walked out of the door. Mehl saw him go and a drunken grin wreathed his lips. He thought he had run Peace Parker out of the saloon. But he was not content. His one-idea brain pictured more honors to come; so he lurched through the crowd and followed Peace, who crossed the street and went into a general store.

Bert Hart saw Mehl leave the room and motioned Horn to follow. Campion was watching Mehl, and when Hart and Horn started for the door, Campion drew out of the game and came out behind them. Mehl lurched across the wooden sidewalk and in through the open door.

The two cowpunchers stopped just outside the saloon door, as did Frank Campion. They watched him closely, but he paid them no heed.

Suddenly the door of the store banged open and out came Peace Parker with Mehl in his arms. He walked deliberately to the edge of the sidewalk and cast Mehl into the street where he rolled over and over. Then he tossed Mehl’s gun into the dust, adjusted his own belt, turned his back and walked into the store.

Mehl got to his feet, staggered a circle and looked back at the store. Twice he tried before he could pick up his gun and then he came back toward the saloon. Both of his eyes were assuming a mauve tint and he seemed rather at a loss to know what had happened.

He halted at the edge of the sidewalk, looked back and then at Campion.

“Di’zuh see it?” he demanded.

“You are a ---- fool, Mehl!” declared Campion.

“Oh, tha’ was it, eh?”

Mehl blinked owlishly through his swollen eyes and began to pity himself. Whisky tears started and he became very indignant.

“Oh, shut up!” snapped Campion. “You’re partly to blame, but he had no right to hit you when you were drunk.”

“Is--that--so?” drawled Hart. “Kinda looks to me like Peace Parker held off a ---- long time. If it had been me I’d ’a’ popped him ten minutes ago. He was lookin’ for it.”

“Is this any of your business?” demanded Campion.

“We kinda act thataway, don’t we?”

Campion did not seem to have a ready reply; so he herded Mehl inside the saloon, while the two cowboys grinned gleefully and slapped each other on the back.

“Let’s go back and have another snifter,” invited Hart. “It’s worth a drink to see old Peace hoodle that bad jasper out of the store. Whoo-ee! Mehl lit settin’ down and about tomorrow he’ll be ridin’ with short stirrups.”

* * * * *

They went back to the bar, but did not neglect to see what was going on. Campion had gone to the roulette layout and was talking earnestly to Erne. He turned from there and strolled over to the faro table where he stopped long enough to speak to Bender.

Bender listened closely, glanced around the room and nodded. Mehl had sat down near the poker table and was holding his head in his hands. The sheriff had left the saloon, and was, no doubt, on his way home, but Barney McManus had anchored himself into a poker game and proceeded to forget that he represented the law of Tarp City.

The two cowpunchers leaned back against the bar and watched developments. Bender cashed in his chips and joined Erne who also quit playing. They came over to the bar and had a drink, but neither of them even looked at the two from the Cross L.

“We better stable our broncs,” said Bender quietly. “No use leavin’ ’em out there at a hitch-rack.”

Erne nodded and they went out of the door. Campion was watching the poker game and did not look up as his two men left the place, but the Cross L boys followed them outside and watched them lead their horses down the street toward the livery-stable.

There was nothing about their actions to excite the suspicions of any one, but Jim Horn was not satisfied that everything was all right.

“I dunno,” declared Jim. “Campion never took the trouble to go around whisperin’ to them jaspers to go and put their broncs in the stable.”

“Aw, I reckon it’s all right,” replied Bert. “Mebbe they ain’t got sense enough to do it without bein’ told. Let’s go back and enjoy the fullness of the season.”

Peace Parker completed his purchases, talked a few minutes with Bill Carney and decided to go back to the Cross L. He gave little thought to his trouble with Mehl, blaming most of it to liquor, and sorry that he was forced to knock Mehl down and throw him out of the store; but Mehl was trying to draw a gun.

“I wouldn’t never monkey with them kinda people,” declared Carney. “You didn’t learn him nothin’, Peace. My motter is to hit ’em so ---- hard on the head that it’ll bust the arches of their feet.”

“He was just drunk, Bill,” protested Peace.

“Thasso? Lemme tell yuh, pardner, that a man’s disposition only shows when he’s drunk. That jasper’s a trouble hunter, but when he’s sober he ain’t got the nerve. You watch him.”

“All right, Bill.” Peace laughed and picked up his bundles. “See yuh later.”

As Peace crossed the street toward the hitch-rack he saw Campion come out of the Royal and also start for the rack. He was paying no attention to Peace. His black horse was at the nearer rack, but he passed it and went on toward where Peace’s horse was tied.

Peace expected Campion to continue on up the street, but he stopped at the rack and waited for Peace to arrive. At this moment Bender and Erne came from the rear of the feed store and approached the sidewalk beyond the hitch-rack.

Peace nodded to Campion and began fastening his purchases to his saddle. Bender and Erne came in closer and stopped near Campion.

“Didja want to see me for somethin’?” asked Peace, turning his head toward Campion.

“Yeah,” Campion nodded quickly. “I just wanted to know what was the trouble between you and Gus Mehl.”

“Oh!” Peace finished tying his bundles and turned.

“Why, I dunno exactly what was the trouble, Campion.”

“That’s what I thought. I don’t suppose you stopped to think that Mehl was drunk, did you?”

“Yeah, I know he’s drunk.”

“Well, I want you to understand that I’m not drunk.”

“No-o-o, I wouldn’t say that yuh was--but yuh ain’t far from it.”

Peace grinned widely at Bender and Erne, but only received black looks for his trouble.

“Is that so?”

Campion’s face grew tense and the muscles twitched around his eyes.

“Now, let’s be reasonable,” urged Peace softly. “Yo’re all warmed up over somethin’, and I can’t see no reason for us havin’ trouble. Mehl got drunk and tried to abuse me. I got away from him, but he follered me and tried to draw his gun. I’d ’a’ been justified in pluggin’ him, but he was too slow with his gun; so I just knocked him loose from the floor and threw him out.”

“You’re so ---- fast yourself, I suppose?”

“No, I don’t claim to bust no records, Campion.”

Peace turned to his horse and prepared to mount, but Campion was not through yet. He moved in closer.

“You know what I think of anybody that’ll hit a drunk man?” he asked.

Peace turned and looked closely at the three men.

“Campion,” Peace spoke softly and without a trace of nervousness. “I don’t want trouble with you. You’ve brought two of your men with you to see that yuh don’t get hurt, and that kinda puts me in a bad hole.

“I ain’t got no quarrel with you. I didn’t want to hurt yore cowboy, but he insisted on it. Now, let it go as it lays.”

Campion laughed sarcastically.

“I looked for you to say that, Parker. You’ve got a ---- of a big reputation around here, but you ain’t got the guts to protect it. We’ve heard that you are a fighter, but this part of the country must be awful shy on fighting material to speak of you that way.”

“I s’pose,” nodded Peace and turned back.

He was trying his best to avoid trouble, but Campion was in no mood to be pacified. He felt that Peace was afraid of trouble, and it made him more abusive. Campion had drunk just enough to make him reckless of words.

“You suppose, do you?” sneered Campion. “You’re a four-flusher, Parker. These two men of mine have nothing to do with this, if that’s holding you back. I think you are a big-mouthed quitter, and I’ve a ---- good notion to----”

“With your gun or your hands?” Peace turned quickly, a wide grin on his face, but his eyes were not smiling.

Campion jerked back slightly. He had not expected Peace to accept his challenge, and now that it was put directly up to him, he hardly knew what to say.

Peace shook his head.

“Campion, you don’t want trouble with me. You think it over for a while and you’ll see just how foolish yo’re actin’.”

For a moment Campion only stared at him and Peace turned to reach for the tie-rope, but a wave of anger flashed across Campion’s face and he stepped in closer, grasping Peace by the arm, as though to whirl him around.

And if that was Campion’s intention, the results far exceeded his expectations, because Peace turned like a flash and his right fist caught Campion square in the face. The blow struck too high for a knock-out, but it sent Campion off his feet and he went down on the back of his neck in the dust.

The action had been so sudden that Bender and Erne had no time to assist Campion, and Peace was facing them, smiling easily, his right hand swinging near the butt of his holstered gun.

Campion struggled to his feet and stood there in sort of a daze, looking at the man who had hit him, but making no further effort to continue the battle. Bert Hart and Jim Horn were hurrying from the Royal, and several men were crossing from the opposite side of the street.

There was nothing dapper looking about Campion now. The bridge of his nose was skinned badly and one eye was fast swelling shut. He was still dazed from the blow, but fully realized what had happened and his face was white with hate against the man who had knocked him down.

Suddenly his right hand flashed toward the butt of his gun. It was an unlooked for action on the part of every one, except Peace Parker, whose hand jerked upward from his side and he shot directly from his hip.

Campion jerked sideways and his gun thudded into the dust. Whether through accident or design, Peace’s bullet had smashed into the curving butt of Campion’s gun, splintering the bone handle and cutting Campion’s fingers badly.

Bender and Erne made no move, as Campion looked down at his crippled hand and cursed wickedly. Jim Horn was standing directly behind Bender and Erne, waiting for either of them to make a hostile move. Erne glanced back at him, turned on his heel and went back toward the saloon, with Bender following him.

There was an awkward silence for several moments and Campion picked up his hat, dusted it off against his knee, his face a mixture of anger and chagrin. Then he walked to the hitch-rack, mounted his horse and rode away.

Bender and Erne watched him from the saloon door, and, in a few moments, went toward the livery-stable. Campion was heading straight toward the Poncho Pass road.

Peace shook his head at the crowd, which volleyed him with questions as to the why and wherefore of this trouble.

“Just foolishness,” said Peace, but Bert and Jim led him away from the crowd.

“It was a frame-up,” declared Jim. “We seen Campion whisper to Bender and Erne, and then they took their horses to the livery-stable--or said they was goin’ to and we seen ’em go down there.

“We didn’t see Campion go out, and Bender and Erne didn’t come back. A little later I looked out back of the Royal, and there was two of them Three Dot horses tied to that old corral fence. They’d made a bluff to stable ’em, but circled back and tied to the fence. Me and Bert fogged out to the street just in time to see yuh swat Mr. Campion.”

“Well, I dunno what they want to frame up on me for,” grinned Peace. “I never done nothin’ to them.”

“Don’t make no never mind,” Jim shook his head. “It was all framed, Peace.”

“Wait a minute,” said Bert, and bow-legged his way to the rear of the feed store.

He came back in a minute and grinned wonderingly.

“Both broncs are gone. I’ll betcha that all three of them jaspers has headed for home.”

Peace grinned thoughtfully, as he walked back to his horse and swung into the saddle.

“We’ll be home by Monday mornin’,” assured Jim.

Peace nodded and rode away slowly. It was a long, hard ride to the Cross L, but Peace was in no hurry. Ahead of him was Campion, Bender and Erne, somewhere along the high grades of Poncho Pass.

“They knew I was ready to go home,” reflected Peace, “and them pullin’ out of town thataway don’t look good to me a-tall. Cowpunchers don’t leave a saloon on payday without a danged good reason. Mebbe they’re lookin’ for me.”

* * * * *

The sun was setting behind the V-shaped notch of Poncho Pass and the graded road was already plunged into the shadows of evening, when Peace drew rein and scanned the country about him.

To the left was a rocky, brush-covered hog-back ridge, which broke sharply against the cliffs beyond. There was little footing for a horse and no sign of a trail, but Peace urged his horse off the road and up this ridge.

Twisting in and out of the brush, he gradually climbed until the road was far below him. Then he swung to the left through a rocky swale and along the north side of a rock-bound cañon.

There he picked up what might have been an old, old trail, which led down across the cañon and angled up the other side among the barren rocks. A bevy of blue-grouse whirred up about him, came to roost in the branches of a stunted pine and craned their necks curiously at him.

A little beyond there a mule-deer crossed the ridge ahead of him, stopped and looked him over curiously. Then it whistled and bounded heavily down the hill, disappearing in the trees.

Peace was following the marks of the old trail now, paying no attention to the back trail. This was the one secret way into the Valley of the Chinook and was only known to a few men, who guarded the secret well.

He came at last to the beetling crags which marked the timber-line, and the trail led him down over the lip of another narrow cleft, where he angled his way to the slope of the valley side. It was not a difficult pass, but no one would ever look for it at that part of the range. Those who knew of it only used it at rare times and were careful not to follow exactly the same route, except through the very pass itself.

It was fast growing dark when Peace started down the rocky slope that led to the foothills of the valley. Below him the valley seemed a huge, mystic bowl, rimmed with a jagged edge which was high-lighted with the gold of sunset.

Slowly he descended into the purple shadows. About a mile further down he came to the beginning of a well-beaten trail, where the cattle had cut deeply into the ground on their way to water.

He rode beside this trail, where his horse’s tracks would not show in the dust. It was a long way from the secret pass, but Peace did not want his horse’s track even to show up there.

He drew rein beside the trail and looked back up the dim slopes behind him. He could see only a short distance, but he had a vague feeling that something was behind him. He grinned at his own foolish imagination and began to manufacture a cigaret.

He hesitated about scratching a match. Suddenly he heard a sound. It was like the click of a shod hoof on stone. Quickly he turned away from the trail and rode further back into the jack-pine thicket, where he stopped to listen. The sound was not repeated. Unluckily he had moved too far back to catch a view of the trail.

Once he thought he heard the jingle of a bit-chain, but decided that it was his imagination. He waited for perhaps ten minutes before going back to the trail. There he dismounted, lighted his cigaret and held the match close to the dusty trail.

He examined it closely for a few moments, pinched out the match and swung back into his saddle. In the trail was the well-defined track of a horse, heading down into the valley, and the track showed that the horse was shod with thin shoes--almost as light as racing-plates.

“Campion followed me through,” reflected Peace wonderingly. “He must ’a’ swung in behind me and watched me leave the road.”

Far down in the valley an owl hooted dismally, and from the timber-line a coyote seemed to answer with a wailing howl. Peace ground the lighted end of his cigaret against the leg of his chaps, settled himself in his saddle and went slowly down the trail toward the Cross L.

* * * * *

Sunday was a dull day at the Cross L. Peace slept late and was only awakened by the sound of a wagon leaving the ranch, as Cross L Marshall took Jess to church at Pasiooks.

It was an ordeal for Cross L, this Sunday pilgrimage to the little church; an hour or so of misery, while he listened to the denunciation of sin, which the minister seemed to point directly to him. Cross L hated to _have_ to do anything, and hoped for the day when Jess might have a man to take her to church, and let her tired old dad sleep late and loaf around the house in his slippers, instead of going to church in a pair of creaking, palpably new Sunday boots and a suit of black, uncomfortable clothes.

He usually salved his outraged feelings thus--

“I ante a certain amount in this here church game every year and I reckon I’ve got to play out the hand.

“The preacher says that yuh can’t go to heaven unless you’re a Christian, don’t he? He sure hammers it into us and I kinda feel uplifted when I leave the church, but it don’t stay with me longer than supper-time. I’ve either got to die between noon and six o’clock on a Sunday, or I ain’t got a chance in the hereafter.”

They had often urged Peace to attend church with them, but he shook his head.