Part 3

“I’m ridin’ out to the Dice ranch today,” he said. “Big Jim told me about a horse he had out there, and it’s about what I want. He’s got some good stock out there, I guess.”

“He ought to have,” observed Biddy. “He’s got enough money to just about raise the kind he wants.”

“Yeah, I reckon he gets what he wants,” said Lohman.

“He tries, anyway,” said Dick. “It’s gettin’ so a man can’t work around here, unless he works for Mott.”

“Or for Rory McPherson,” laughed Lohman.

“Yeah, that’s true,” agreed Biddy. “Rainbow Valley ain’t as big as Antelope--but it’s clean, Lohman.”

Some one had come in the saloon as Biddy started to speak, and he turned to see Big Jim Mott looking at him. Mott had heard Biddy’s statement, and he seemed about to say something, but changed his mind and came up to the bar.

Big Jim did not belie his name; he was big. He was well over six-feet tall, broad of shoulder and deep of chest, weighing about two hundred and forty pounds. But he was not fat. His face was blocky of contour, his nose a trifle too small for the rest of his face. He was less than forty years of age, but looked to be more, as his close-cropped hair was brushed with gray.

Big Jim dressed well. His linen was immaculate, clothes well pressed and boots shining. A big diamond glistened on a finger of his left hand, while another decorated his necktie. Except for his range clothes, he might be mistaken for a heavy-weight politician.

And it would not be a very great mistake, at that. While he did not come out openly in the political field, it was well known that Big Jim Mott’s hand was one of the few that stirred the political pot of the state.

He had never aspired to office; but was content to sit back and help pull the strings.

The bartender handed out a box of expensive cigars and Big Jim scooped out a handful. He carelessly tossed a bill on to the bar and turned away without asking for his change. Old Rory McPherson had cashed in his chips and was leaving the game, when he looked up and saw Big Jim looking at him.

Big Jim calmly bit the end off a cigar and lighted a match, ignoring the tall Scot who stared at him malevolently. Dick, Biddy and the sheriff grinned in anticipation of the coming clash.

“The coyotes ar-re not all holed up yet, I obser-r-rve,” said old Rory distinctly.

Big Jim glanced at him indifferently, but the insult was too direct to ignore completely.

“Were you speaking to me?” he asked.

“Not to ye,” said old Rory. “If I did, I would expect ye to bark or howl.”

Big Jim’s brows drew down over his eyes and the cigar was crushed under the pressure of his big fingers. There was a vast difference in their ages, and he could hardly expect to fight a man of Rory’s age.

“You appear to be hunting trouble, McPherson,” he said.

“Ye are a man of discernment, Mott.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Am I now? Since when did ye refuse to fight a drunken man?”

Big Jim turned and spoke to the sheriff--

“What would you do in a case of this kind, Lohman?”

Lohman laughed and shook his head.

“My opinion would be worth very little, I reckon.”

“The man must be advised,” said Rory, looking around the room. “Is there no one to tell him what to do?”

“You are a drunken old fool,” said Big Jim slowly. “If you were twenty years younger I’d twist your neck; but you are an old man, and your age saves you.”

“A drunken old fool, am I?”

Old Rory’s jaw shut tightly and he came toward Big Jim.

The old Scot did not move like an old man. He moved lightly on the balls of his feet, his shoulders hunched slightly. Big Jim looked at him queerly and stepped back, instinctively throwing up his hands in self-defense.

“Too old, am I?” queried the old man between his clenched teeth.

“Stop it, Rory!” ordered the sheriff. “You can’t fight here. Have a little sense, can’tcha?”

“Let him go,” whispered Biddy. “This is a good chance to show the old man that he ain’t what he used to be.”

The sheriff had started to step in between them, but now he stopped. The old man was still coming on, his half-shut eyes watching cat-like. Big Jim backed almost to the bar, when the old man sprang forward. It seemed ridiculous for a man of Rory’s age to pit himself against a man of Big Jim’s size, but that was just what he was doing.

And his first blow splatted against Big Jim’s temple, doing little harm, but showing that old Rory had not lost all his skill. Twice more he lashed at Big Jim’s head, but the blows only struck the big man’s forearms. At that, they must have carried a sting because Big Jim immediately went on the aggressive.

Twice he struck at old Rory; straight-arm punches that were aimed to punish, but the old man snapped aside instead of hurting his arms by blocking the blows. It seemed to surprise Big Jim, who rushed at old Rory, trying to grasp him. But the grasping was not good, and Big Jim suffered a smash on the nose that brought the claret in a stream.

“What did you say about lettin’ the old man find out that he wasn’t much good?” grunted the amazed sheriff.

Some one flung the table and chairs aside to give more room, and Big Jim proceeded to rush old Rory across the room, trying to pin him against the wall; but the old man sent in a flurry of punches and managed to sidestep the rush.

No one seemed to want to stop the fight now--except Big Jim. His face was gory and his mouth was wide open, as he panted for breath. He was not whipped--not by any manner of means; but his wind was not good, and this old, red-whiskered ---- was hard to catch.

“Ye ar-r-re doin’ very well consider-r-rin’,” said Rory, “but ye would not have it so easy, if ye were not fightin’ a dr-r-runken old fool.”

The old man was breathing heavily, but was yet unmarked and there was a grin of joy on his thin lips. Big Jim threw all caution to the wind and rushed. He knew that this fight must be finished quickly or he would be disgraced forever. His big fists smashed awkwardly at the retreating face, and he slipped from the effort, throwing himself off balance.

It was old Rory’s big chance. Whether or not he was ready to strike the blow anyway is a question, but his swing had started as Big Jim slipped and the clenched fist caught Big Jim flush in the ear, knocking him sidewise, where he collided with a chair and went down heavily.

For a moment there was silence. Then the sheriff spoke--

“He’s sure as ---- gettin’ old and decrepit.”

Willing hands were helping Big Jim to his feet, but there was no fight left in him. The blow had upset him, and his fall over the chair had dazed him badly. Old Rory had stepped back, his mop of red hair hanging over his brow like the mane of an old lion.

“Weel,” he said huskily, “that brought a cer-r-rtain amount of satisfaction. I may be dr-r-runk and a fool; but I’ll na admeet that I’m old. At seexty, a McPherson is in his pr-rime. Biddy if ye please, lad; we’ll go home noo.”

And Big Jim Mott leaned dazedly against the bar and watched the three men from Rainbow Valley file out of the place. The last to go out was old Rory. He stopped in the doorway and looked back at Jim Mott; looked at him long and steadily before turning and disappearing through the doorway.

“It was an accident, Mr. Mott,” said the bartender sympathetically, “that chair----”

“Give me a drink!” snorted Mott, whirling around, still holding to his swollen ear where old Rory’s last punch had landed.

“Well, by ----!” snorted one of the men, “I don’t know yet how it was done. Why, old Rory is old, I tell yuh.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Big Jim painfully, “I didn’t want to hurt him.”

“Sure yuh didn’t,” agreed another. “A feller can’t get a reputation for fightin’ old men.”

“Not his kind,” said the sheriff meaningly. “I’ll put my money on the old man every time.”

Big Jim shot an angry glance at the sheriff, but turned back to his drink. It was a humiliating thing to happen to a man of his standing in the community; a man of his physical size--to be whipped by a man old enough to be his father. He had always hated old Rory McPherson. The old hard-faced Scot and his wild riding crew of punchers had never shown any respect for the man who practically owned and controlled the Antelope country. They gave no allegiance to any one.

Rainbow Valley was always in the “doubtful” column in the politics of the county, where the vote was so small that even one cattle outfit might turn defeat into victory.

The valley was about five miles long by three miles wide, surrounded on two sides by rolling hills, which swept back to the main divide of the Wild Horse mountains. At the northwest end of the valley was a low divide, leading into the Frogpond Basin, a big sheep country. The lower, or southeast, end of the valley opened out onto the flat reaches of the Antelope.

It was about seven miles from the entrance of the valley to the town of Antelope, and Jim Mott’s ranch, the Dice brand, was located about three miles slightly southwest of the town. The brand consisted of a square, inside of which were five dots. The brand was registered as the Box-Five-Dot; but it was generally known as the Dice brand.

The XO-Bar-5, which had also been acquired by Big Jim, was located about four miles North of Antelope. Marvin Crane had been known as the owner of the XO-Bar-5 for several years, and it was not generally known that Big Jim was the owner.

* * * * *

Big Jim finished his drink and then attended to his swollen nose, with the aid of the bartender. The bleeding had stopped, and in a few minutes, barring a slight discoloration, the olfactory organ was as good as ever.

He went down the street to the bank and entered. It was not often that Big Jim came to the bank, although he had a desk in one of the private rooms. He nodded shortly to Frank Eddy, the cashier, who followed him into the private room. Big Jim sat down heavily and lighted a cigar, while Eddy remained standing, waiting for Big Jim to talk.

“Old Rory McPherson wasn’t here today, was he?” asked Big Jim.

“No, sir. But two of his men, Clarey and Toole, were in here a while ago.”

“Did they talk to Miss Marsh?”

“Yes. They were only here a few minutes, but talked to her all the time.”

Big Jim smoked thoughtfully for a while.

“You said something a month ago about Jevne, didn’t you?”

Eddy nodded quickly.

“Yes, I did, Mr. Mott. I told you that I did not like Jevne. He is capable and all that, but I do not like his personality.”

“How is Miss Marsh?” asked Big Jim. “Is she capable?”

“She is doing well,” admitted Eddy. “The work is new to her, of course, but----”

“Give her Jevne’s job.”

“Jevne’s job?” The cashier exploded his astonishment.

“Yes. Fire Jevne. Give him a month’s pay and let him go. Then put Miss Marsh in his place.”

“But she is not capable of doing an assistant cashier’s work, Mr. Mott.”

“You are capable of teaching her--or I can find men who will.”

Eddy nodded slowly. He knew there was no use arguing with Big Jim Mott.

“It will be rather new,” said Eddy slowly. “But I suppose she will be able to do the work. How soon shall I notify her?”

“Send her in here, Eddy.”

“Yes, sir.”

In a few moments Della Marsh came in, wondering what Big Jim Mott could wish of her. He held out his hand and she smiled shyly as their hands met.

“Did you see your uncle today?” asked Big Jim.

“No, I did not, Mr. Mott.”

“I see. Do you like your work here, Miss Marsh?”

“Why, yes.”

“Jevne is leaving today,” said Big Jim slowly, looking at her intently.

She looked at him inquiringly and he continued--

“You will take his job, Miss Marsh.”

“I--you mean that I am to take Mr. Jevne’s position?”

“As assistant cashier, Miss Marsh. You are entirely capable, and Mr. Eddy will teach you what you don’t already know. No, don’t thank me.”

“Well, I do not know what to say,” said Della a trifle nervously. “It is quite a jump from trimming hats to----”

“I believe in wide jumps,” laughed Big Jim. “You will be able to do the work, Della. You don’t mind if I call you Della, do you? I’ve known you by that name for a long time, and Miss Marsh is too much like talking to a stranger. You may call me Jim, if you care to.”

“No, I--I don’t think I would mind,” she stammered. “But I don’t think I could ever call you anything except Mr. Mott. You do not seem like a man who could be called by his given name.”

Big Jim laughed at her and held out his hand:

“You may change your mind, Della. I congratulate you on your new job. That is all for today.”

He followed her out into the bank, where he turned her over to the cashier, and went out to his horse. He caressed his sore ear as he squinted off across the hills toward Rainbow Valley.

“You dirty old Scotch pup!” he muttered half-aloud. “I’ll break you, if it’s the last thing I ever do.”

He yanked his horse around savagely and rode out of town at a gallop.

And while Big Jim rode toward home, with a heart filled with rage and bitterness, old Rory and his two cowboys headed back into Rainbow Valley, where the lowering sun threw the purple shadows of the high hills across their road. Cattle moved lazily along the cottonwood-bordered streams, or straggled off the hills, heading down into the valley, looking curiously at the three riders as they passed.

And most of them wore the brand of Rory McPherson--the RMP--which caused many to refer to Rory’s outfit as the Royal Mounted Police. He was not as rich in stock as was Big Jim, but the RMP had the better range.

There had been little conversation on the return trip. Old Rory rode silently, his eyes half-shut against the glare of the sun. Dick and Biddy said nothing, although they exulted inwardly over the outcome of the fight. It would be worth the telling.

“Big Jim owns the XO-Bar-5, I hear,” said Biddy, as they passed the road leading to that ranch.

Old Rory nodded slowly, his shoulders drooping a trifle more.

“Aye, he does that, Biddy. He owned it at the time they sent poor Tex to prison. Did ye hear any more news of Tex in town?”

“Not a word,” said Dick. “If they’d ’a’ caught him, some one would have heard it.”

“I’d sure like to hear Tex tell what happened,” said Dick. “The papers said that Tex hit the warden when the warden’s hands were up; but that’s a ---- lie. Tex wouldn’t do that to save his own life. I dunno why they always have to lie about a thing like that.”

“I don’t know,” said old Rory sadly. “There’s always more lies than truth in the wor-r-rld. Ye know how I felt toward Tex. He was like me own son. They took him away, so they did. I hoped that Tex and Della would marry--and they would. They would get Rainbow Valley. Della is all I have in the wor-r-rld of me own flesh and blood--and I haven’t her now.”

Biddy squinted sidewise at the old man’s face. There was none of the “Fighting McPherson” about him now. He was an old, old man, with tired eyes; eyes that might have been moist from staring into the sunlight.

“I reckon it’s fate,” said Biddy softly.

The old man with the tired eyes faded, and in their place came the tensed expression, the thin line of set lips, the jutting, red-bearded jaw. He looked at Biddy thoughtfully for a moment, then turned and looked straight ahead as he spurred his horse savagely.

“Fate, ----!” he snorted.

And while both factions were heading home, Della Marsh, the new assistant cashier of the Antelope bank, sat down on the porch of the little milliner’s home and tried to puzzle it all out. In her hands was a belated letter, from the State Pardon Board, which she had just finished reading. It said, in part:

Your petition, signed by a sufficient number of names, for the release of Tex Rowland from our penal institution, is herewith returned. Owing to his escape a short time ago, no official action was taken by us.

The little milliner came down the path and turned in at the gate. Della handed her the letter, which she read slowly and gave back.

“And they wouldn’t never pardon him now, if he is caught,” she said sadly. “You worked so hard to get all those names, Della. Why, even Big Jim Mott signed it, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s just like a man to escape when he is almost ready to walk out free.”

“But Tex didn’t know it, Miss Freeland.”

“No, I suppose not, Della; but he might have stayed a while longer. I never trust a man--not any man. Did you see your uncle?”

“No, he didn’t come over to the bank.”

“He came to see me and I told him where to find you.”

“What did he say, Miss Freeland?”

“I’d not repeat it.”

Della laughed softly, in spite of the fact that laughter was far from her at that moment.

“I have been promoted to assistant cashier of the bank,” she stated.

“You have? To assistant cashier? Wasn’t Mr. Jevne the----”

“Yes. Mr. Mott gave me Mr. Jevne’s position. They let him go.”

“Well, that’s nice,” said Miss Freeland, but a trifle dubiously. “You--well, I’d hate to have so much responsibility. You’ll have to deal with men all the time, and I wouldn’t like that. Let’s get supper, Della. I bought some canned fish for supper. I didn’t know whether you liked it or not; but I felt just like a fish.”

A smile chased across Della’s lips, but she did not reply, as she got to her feet and followed the little milliner into the house.

IV

Paint Pablo was not a pleasant sort of a gentleman. In fact, it is stretching the imagination considerably even to speak of him as a gentleman. It is also doubtful whether Pablo ever laid any claims to the appellation.

He was about five feet five inches in height, fairly wide of girth for such a short person, and with an evil, pock-marked face. His little brown eyes were close together, his nose little more than a blob of flesh, his mouth crooked and badly in need of a dentist.

Still, he thought well of Mr. Pablo. He had a passion for pinto horses. His four cowboys, “Tucson Charley,” Mose Dickey, “Pokey” Speed--who had been christened Polk--and Mike John all rode painted ponies.

Tucson Charley’s mother had been a Piute, his father, a Spaniard. Mose Dickey’s paternal ancestors were unknown to him. Pokey boasted Irish and Mexican blood, while Mike John’s blood was a mixture of Yaqui and Basque.

It was an aggregation to be proud of, and Paint Pablo was proud of them. So variegated was everything about the ranch that it was commonly known as the “Paint Pot.” It was located across the Antelope range from the mouth of Rainbow Valley, and about ten miles in a straight line northeast from the town of Antelope.

That Paint Pablo was dishonest, there was no doubt in the minds of Antelope and Rainbow Valley folks. But he had never been caught. If there was a hold-up within miles of that country, Pablo and his crew were under suspicion. But Pablo did not mind. He went along in his own dumb way, caring little what any one thought about him.

His ranch house was a huddle of unpainted shacks in a grove of cottonwoods, sitting high enough on the hill to overlook much of the country. Paint Pablo did not build up there for the view.

And it was at this Paint Pot ranch that Bill Smith, erstwhile Tex Rowland, Number 1733, made his first stop on his return to Antelope. He rode in on a jaded gray horse, cheap saddle and a bridle that was little more than a leather thong.

He had managed to scrape together an outfit of cowboy raiment, belt, gun and a small stock of ammunition. Pablo was sitting in the shade of a cottonwood, putting a hondo on his rope, when Bill Smith rode in and dismounted.

He had known Pablo for years, and felt that Pablo would recognize him, if such a thing was possible. But there was no sign of recognition in his little eyes; only suspicion of this handsome cowpuncher. Pablo was no conversationalist. He grunted softly and continued to work on his rope.

Bill Smith grinned and rolled a cigaret.

“What outfit is this?” he asked.

Pablo grunted, spat thoughtfully, and drew the lightning sign in the dust with his forefinger.

“Lightnin’, eh?” queried Bill.

“Um-m.”

“You know Rory McPherson?”

“---- right.”

“You know Big Jim Mott?”

Pablo shifted uneasily.

“Um-m.”

“You know Tex Rowland?”

Pablo looked up quickly, a glint of suspicion in his eyes.

“You officer?” he asked.

“Nope. Tex was my friend.”

“Um-m. What you want?”

“Job.”

“You look for Tex?”

“Not so you’d notice it. I need a job, and I was just wonderin’ if McPherson could put me to work.”

Pablo squinted closely at him.

“You been sick? You pretty ---- white skin.”

“Yeah, I been sick,” grinned Bill Smith, “Almost died.”

“Too bad. I was sick once. Wood alcohol! ---- near die, too.”

“What about that job?” asked Bill.

Pablo shook his head and went to work on his rope.

“No job here,” he declared, “I got too much help. Mebbe Jim Mott give you job; mebbe McPherson give you job--I dunno.”

“Got a horse yuh want to trade?”

Pablo took a quick glance at the skinny gray and shook his head. He was not interested in anything but painted horses. Bill Smith threw away his cigaret, told Pablo good-by and rode on toward Antelope.

He was satisfied now that no one would recognize him. If he escaped the keen eyes of Pablo, there was little chance of any one discovering that Tex Rowland was back of that handsome face. It was going to be difficult for him to pose as a stranger in a place where he knew every one. He was beginning to get used to his new face and name. It would be like coming back from the grave to hear himself discussed, and he felt sure that he would soon know what folks thought about him.

He rode into Antelope and tied his horse to a hitch-rack. It did not seem to him that he had ever been away from the old town. Old Ase Bradley, who owned a general store, was sitting on the same old bench in front of the store, chewing tobacco and arguing politics with a couple of old cronies.

Pete Sutherland, the blacksmith, was swearing audibly at a broncho that wouldn’t stand still. Pete always swore at them, whether they stood still or not. It was a habit with him. A girl was coming out of the bank, and Bill Smith stood silently watching her.

It was Della Marsh, coming straight toward him; Della Marsh, the girl he was to have married. He stared at her hungrily. It was the supreme test of his disguise. She glanced at him without recognition and passed on into a restaurant. Bill Smith sighed deeply and walked slowly on. For the first time since his recovery he realized that even Della would not know him.

And that moment he realized that he was a stranger to everybody--everywhere. He was the only living person who knew who he was. The gods of fate had created a full grown human being; created a creature which had no past.

“My ----!” exclaimed Bill Smith to himself, “I dunno whether I’m winner in this game or not. I can’t claim relationship with anybody on earth. I was born in a train wreck, where a lot of folks died--and among them was Tex Rowland. I’m just a ghost, tha’sall.”

No one spoke to him in the Fashion Saloon. There were men he had known intimately for years; men who were his friends. They looked at him and saw only the good-looking puncher, a trifle run down as to raiment, a stranger to Antelope.

Big Jim Mott was there, playing poker. He glanced at the stranger and went on with his game. Bill Smith bought himself a drink. It was the first one he had drunk since his arrest. He questioned the bartender about the cattle ranches, intimating that he was looking for a job. The bartender advised him to see Big Jim. Bill Smith grinned to himself. It seemed ridiculous for the bartender not to know him.

Marvin Crane was also in the poker game. He was a thin-faced, swarthy-complectioned, middle-aged man, who was continually blinking his eyes. It was Crane who had sworn to the complaint charging Tex Rowland with the theft of six XO-Bar-5 horses.

Some one had corralled the horses in an old pole-corral in a coulée, several miles from the XO-Bar-5 ranch-house, and with the six XO-Bar-5 horses was a RMP mare which Tex had been looking for.