Part 7

“And he told the sher-r-riff to arrest her, did he?”

“Yeah. But she pulled out ahead of ’em.”

Old Rory turned and stared at Della. His face softened and he put a hand on her shoulder.

“They’d put ye in jail, lass? He’d drag your name in the dirt, would he?”

He turned suddenly and stared at Bill Smith.

“And what inter-r-rest have ye in this, sir?” he demanded.

“Tex Rowland was my best friend.”

Old Rory moved a pace or two nearer to Bill Smith, looking at him closely. Della was staring at him, wide-eyed, too.

“Ye were Tex Rowland’s friend?”

“We were closer than twin brothers,” said Bill Smith.

“Aye, is that so? Years ago, per-r-r-haps?”

“No--just a while ago.”

“But Tex lived here for years and you--” the old man hesitated and lowered his voice--“you wasn’t in--in there with him?”

Bill Smith nodded slowly.

“Oh, yes!”

Old Rory straightened up with a sigh.

“Do you know where he is now?” asked Della, almost whispering the question.

“Yeah, I know where he is but I can’t tell yuh now. Tex is hidin’ out where they won’t find him. He don’t need money, Miss Marsh.”

“And he’s alive?”

“Y’betcha.”

“Thank God for that.”

She smiled through her tears. It was worth a lot for her to know that Tex was safe and that he did not want for money. She was willing to bide her time now.

“I’ll go to Antelope tomorrow,” said the old man slowly, thoughtfully, “and I’ll kill Big Jim Mott.”

“That wouldn’t do no good,” said Bill Smith quickly. “They’d hang you, tha’s-all. And your hangin’ wouldn’t clear up that stolen thousand dollars, don’tcha see?”

“Why, Uncle Rory, you mustn’t talk like that,” said Della. “He told me that he wanted to break your heart.”

“He told you that, lass?”

“Yes. It was after I demanded an investigation. He got mad and said things that he didn’t intend to.”

“He didn’t want to investigate?” asked Bill Smith.

“No. He wanted to forget it all, he said.”

Bill Smith was rolling a cigaret and now he lifted his head and looked straight at her.

“Wanted to forget it, eh? And what was the price?”

Della stared at him for a moment, but her cheeks flushed crimson and she turned away, going quickly into the house. Bill and the old man looked at each other for several moments. Old Rory was not quick to comprehend such things, but he gradually digested it. Then he struck the porch-post with the side of his clenched hand and swore bitterly.

“He’d try to buy her for a thousand dollars,” he said hoarsely. “That price for a McPherson! By ----, I’ll show him what the pr-r-rice will be.”

“And if the sheriff comes to arrest her--don’t quarrel with him,” advised Bill Smith. “He’s all right. It’s a bailable offense, and yuh can see that she don’t stay in jail.”

“Aye, that’s good advice, lad; and I thank ye for it.”

Bill Smith got to his feet and held out his hand.

“I reckon I’ll be siftin’ along, old timer,” he grinned. “I’ve enjoyed the visit with yuh. You tell the little lady good-by for me, will yuh?”

“But won’t ye stay, lad? There’s room for ye.”

“There’s Tex Rowland to look after,” whispered Bill Smith.

“Oh, aye. Then be on your way, and God bless ye. Come soon.”

Bill Smith swung on to his horse, and rode slowly down the old highway toward Antelope with a determined smile on his lips. Pancho, the big, blue dog, followed him to the corner of the fence and watched him disappear around a bend in the road, while old Rory leaned against the post and looked moodily out across the Rainbow hills.

“Bill Smith,” he muttered softly. “Now, who in the ---- are ye, lad? Ye have a fine face, and even old Pancho--now that beats anything I’ve ever seen. He hates strangers, but he almost wore out his paws on Bill Smith. There’s queer things in the wor-rld.”

Della had come back to the doorway and was looking down the valley. Old Rory turned and looked at her.

“He’s gone. Pancho followed him to the cor-r-rner, lass.”

“Then he must be all right,” she said simply.

* * * * *

Contrary to Bill Smith’s expectations, Big Jim Mott did not tell Crane to fire him. Not that Bill Smith cared in the least, except that he liked both Crane and Slim Whelan, and his job on the XO-Bar-5 kept him at a point about midway of the warring factions.

It was two uneventful days after Bill Smith’s visit to Rory McPherson’s ranch in Rainbow Valley, that he and Slim rode to Antelope town. There had been no work to do at the XO-Bar-5, and they were both tired of inaction.

Big Jim Mott rode into town half an hour after their arrival and met them in the Fashion Bar. Bill half-expected that Big Jim would try to even matters with him on sight, and was not prepared for Big Jim’s hearty invitation to have a drink.

“How are things at the ranch?” he asked, as they filled their glasses.

“Kinda slow,” admitted Slim. “We just kinda foller each other around, hopin’ that somebody will discover somethin’ to do.”

Big Jim laughed and tossed off his drink. He was in rare good humor and seemed to hold no grudge against Bill Smith for the knock-down; but Bill Smith did not relax his caution. Finally Big Jim turned to him--

“Smith, I’ve got a better job for you, if you care to take it.”

“Tha’sso?”

Bill slid his empty glass down the bar.

“Hundred a month,” stated Big Jim.

“Yeah?” Bill Smith was interested. The XO-Bar-5 was paying him forty dollars per month, and this added sixty dollars was worth considering.

“Taking charge of the Lightning ranch,” he said slowly. “I’ll give you two punchers to help you run the place. It will take quite a lot of work to put the house in shape, I suppose.”

“Uh-huh,” nodded Bill, “I reckon it will.”

“The Lightnin’?” queried Slim wonderingly. “The Paint Pot?”

Big Jim smiled and turned back to the bar, motioning to the bartender to fill the glasses.

“Yes, I bought Pablo out yesterday,” he stated. “He had some stock I wanted, but he was too hard to do business with; so I made him a good offer for the whole works and he sold out.”

“Well, I’ll be darned!” grunted Slim. “I’ll betcha yuh had to show him all the money in one pile, didn’t yuh?”

“Something like that, Slim.”

“When do yuh take charge?” asked Bill.

“Took it over yesterday. There’s nobody running the place yet, but it’s ready for you to start in on right away.”

Bill Smith considered the proposition. He did not trust Big Jim. He had knocked Big Jim down publicly, and Big Jim was not the kind of a man to forget it. Still he was not in a position to refuse the offer; so he nodded slowly.

“I’ll take yuh up on that,” he agreed. “I’ve always wanted to run a ranch. Do I pick my own punchers?”

“I suppose so. Mike John and Mose Dickey are still out there. They’re good punchers, but rather shy on brains. You might keep them until you find better ones. Might be a good scheme to go out there and look the place over, Smith. It’ll need a lot of fixing. When you find out what you need, come down to the bank and draw money enough to cover it.”

“All right,” grinned Bill. “I never had a bank to draw on; so yuh better warn the cashier to look out for me.”

Slim and Bill stood for a long time at the bar after Big Jim had gone away. Slim was wondering why Big Jim had given the foremanship of the Lightning to Bill Smith instead of to him; and Bill Smith was doing quite a bit of wondering himself.

“Mebbe he wants to keep track of me,” mused Bill to himself. “It ain’t ’cause he loves me, that’s a cinch.”

Finally Slim grinned and held out his hand.

“I’m plumb glad yuh got the job, Bill,” he said sincerely. “I was wonderin’ why he didn’t give it to me, especially after yuh batted him in the jaw the other day; but that’s his business. Let’s have another drink.”

“I’m wonderin’, too, Slim,” smiled Bill, accepting the invitation. “I reckon he’s stuck on my shape. He don’t know whether I’m capable of runnin’ the place, nor whether I’m honest nor anythin’.”

Slim laughed and wiped his lips with the back of his hand:

“I’ll play yuh a game of pool, Bill. I ain’t played since last year, but I used to be a dinger.”

They walked over to the pool table and were chalking their cues when a man came into the saloon, with two dogs on leash. The man was well dressed and evidently more than half-intoxicated.

“What kind of danged dogs are them?” queried Slim, pointing at them with his cue. “Ain’t fox-hounds, are they, Bill?”

“Bloodhounds,” said the man proudly, but thickly, as he tried to untangle the leash from his knees.

“Best pair of trailers in the world, tha’s what they are.”

“You ain’t lost nothin’, have yuh?” asked Slim seriously.

“Huh?”

“I said we might have a hard Winter,” replied Slim loudly.

“What the ---- do I care about Winter? Let’s have a drink.”

Slim and Bill placed their cues on the table and walked back to the bar. Bill stooped down and petted one of the dogs on its head. They both fawned around him until yanked away by their keeper.

“Don’t monkey with ’em,” he grunted. “They’re worth lots of money, don’tcha know it?”

“Pettin’ ’em takes away their value, eh?” asked Bill.

The man was too occupied with his drink to answer.

“How long yuh been here?” asked Slim.

“Come in thish mornin’.”

The man twisted his face from the bite of the whisky and leaned both elbows on the bar.

“Dogs drag yuh in?” queried Bill.

“Dogs drag--shay, whatcha talkin’ ’bout, hey?”

“Dogs--not hay. Let’s have another.”

“Aw ri’. Thish is re’l nice town around here. I like it.”

“You can have it,” replied Slim seriously.

“I’ll take it, frien’. Mush obliged.”

“Oh, don’t mention it. We’ll give it to him, won’t we, Bill?”

“Give him the whole county, Slim,” grinned Bill. “Don’t be a piker.”

“All right, the whole county it is. You’ll take it, won’t yuh, Mister Blood Hound?”

“Yesshir. M’ name’s Alfred Henderson Failing.”

“You’ve got quite a family tree,” observed Bill, but his meaning was lost upon the man with the bloodhounds.

A man came in through the doorway and halted near the bar. Bill Smith turned his head and looked square into the face of McHague, head warden of the Elk Lodge penitentiary. Their glances held for a moment, but there was no recognition in the eyes of the warden.

He was wearing a gray-checked suit, black derby hat and a pair of glaring, yellow shoes, which creaked with every movement of his beefy body. The butt of a badly-chewed cigar was clenched between his teeth, a trickle of its juice making a brown streak down his slightly stubbled chin.

Bill Smith felt a thrill down his spine as he squinted at McHague; but the big warden knew him not.

“What the ---- are you doin’ here with them dogs?” snarled McHague at Alfred Henderson Failing, who was trying to brace himself and try to look dignified.

He swallowed with difficulty and squinted down at the two hounds, as if trying to figure out a reasonable explanation.

“You’re drunk!” snorted McHague angrily. “Now you get to ---- back to the hotel with them dogs, you drunken bum!”

“Yesshir.”

Failing tried to appear at ease and untangle the dogs at the same time. He even essayed a whistling solo, much to the disgust of McHague. After much effort he managed to straighten out both leashes and went out through the front door, half-falling from the pull of the two hounds.

McHague watched him go and then turned to those at the bar.

“Have a drink, gents?” he asked.

Slim and Bill leaned against the bar, watching McHague unroll some bills.

“Val’able dogs?” asked Slim.

“Couldn’t buy ’em for a thousand apiece,” grunted McHague.

“My----!” exploded Slim, “I’ve got to look at ’em agin’. Was they set with diamonds?”

“Good rabbit-dogs come high,” offered Bill Smith seriously.

McHague tossed a bill onto the bar and spat out his cigar, as if disgusted with their ignorance.

“What the ---- are you talkin’ about?” he grunted. “Them ain’t rabbit-dogs.”

“Ex-cuse us,” said Slim quickly, “we’re ignorant enough to ask yuh what they are, mister.”

“They’re the best pair of bloodhounds in the West. They never lose a scent.”

“Bloodhounds?” queried Bill. “Man trailers?”

“You betcha. Finest bred dogs in the world. They belong to me.”

“You kinda hate them dogs, don’tcha?” grinned Bill. “They don’t look like much, except that they’re sad in the face.”

“You’d be sad, if they were on your trail,” replied McHague.

“I s’pose so. Say, your face is familiar, somehow. Seems like I’ve knowed you some place.”

McHague tossed off his drink and grinned widely.

“Maybe you have. I’m the head warden at Elk Lodge.”

Slim choked on his drink and it was some time before conversation was renewed.

“You say that them dogs never lose a scent?” queried Bill.

“That’s what I said,” replied McHague proudly.

“Uh-huh. Then they’re the ones yuh used when yuh caught Tex Rowland, ain’t they?”

McHague flushed angrily.

“What do you know about Tex Rowland?”

“He’s my best friend,” said Bill Smith softly.

“The ---- he is?”

McHague’s hands clenched and his brows drew down slightly over his eyes.

“Your best friend, eh?”

Bill Smith nodded slowly and moved a trifle away from the bar.

“Yeah, that’s what I said, McHague.”

“You seem to know my name.”

“I know more than that about yuh.”

“What do yuh mean?”

“Tex told me a few things, McHague. He told me about yuh stealin’ his letters, and how yuh bragged to him about it. Yuh had him where he couldn’t get away, didn’t yuh? He didn’t have a Chinaman’s chance to do anythin’. Yuh framed to kill him, too. Yuh tried to force him to start trouble, so your hired murderer could shoot him down. But he double-crossed yuh, McHague--him and the old trusty.”

McHague’s scowl almost concealed his eyes before Bill Smith had finished his accusation. His lips were shut in a thin, white line, below which jutted his undershot jaw like the prow of a fighting ship.

“Where in -- did you get all that?” he gritted.

“From Tex Rowland. And by ----, he told the truth!”

“He lied!” snorted McHague.

“He did not! You forced him into a fight, McHague--and he whipped you in your own office, you dirty coyote!”

Bill Smith had not intended going so far with the accusation, but his soul was still bitter against McHague and he forgot all caution.

“Who’s a dirty coyote?” snorted McHague.

And as McHague snapped his question, his right hand reached back under his coat and whipped out a revolver. But Slim was looking for just such a move, and, before McHague could level the gun, Slim grasped his wrist with both hands, twisting so quickly that the gun went spinning across the floor.

Slim sprang back, leaving McHague cursing wickedly, his shoulders hunched as he faced Bill Smith.

“What kind of a ---- deal is that?” he demanded. “You going to double-team me? You’ve still got a gun.”

Bill grinned, as he flipped out his gun and placed it on the bar.

“I better put it away before somebody takes it away from me,” he said.

McHague glanced at the bar and back at Bill Smith. Down deep in his heart he did not want to fight. He had been warned that this country was friendly to Tex Rowland, but this seemed to be carrying friendship too far.

There were a number of men in the saloon, and now they swarmed to vantage points. The bartender, in no uncertain terms, swore at everybody concerned, and threatened to make them pay for every bit of damage done. His warnings fell upon deaf ears, whereupon he changed his attitude and offered to bet odds on McHague.

The first blow had not been struck when Big Jim Mott came in. He took in the situation at a glance and shoved his huge bulk between them.

“Here, here!” he grunted. “What the ---- is going on? What’s all the trouble about, Smith?”

“Ask McHague,” grinned Bill. “He tried to fire the first shot.”

“Oh, ----, the party’s ruined!” wailed Slim.

He crossed the room, picked up McHague’s gun and gave it to him. McHague shoved it down in his pocket, glared balefully at Bill Smith and strode out of the saloon.

After a moment’s indecision Big Jim turned and followed him outside, catching up with him half-way across the street.

“That’s Tex Rowland’s friend,” said Big Jim. “He’s the one I told you about, Mac.”

“----, don’t I know it?” snarled McHague. “That’s what it was all about. I’ll shoot the liver out of him if he monkeys with me.”

“Well, you better do it from ambush,” advised Big Jim. “He’s got the punch of an army mule, and he don’t wear that gun as a decoration.”

“The other one took my gun away from me.”

“Then you better thank him the first chance you get, because he probably saved your life.”

“These ---- cowpunchers can’t run no sandy on me, Mott.”

“All right, Mac.”

“You’re ---- right, it’s all right!”

McHague turned away and went into the hotel. Big Jim looked after him, a scowl on his face. Then he turned and went diagonally down the street toward the bank.

Over in the saloon Slim leaned back against the bar, roweling a spur thoughtfully against the rail, while Bill Smith faced the bar, as he rolled a cigaret.

“That’s what I call stickin’ up for a friend,” said Slim thoughtfully. “I helped send him over the road. ----, there wasn’t nothin’ else I could do, under the circumstances. I s’pose he’s got them there bloodhounds over here to try and nose out old Tex, eh?”

“Looks like it, Slim.”

“Uh-huh. Thousand dollars apiece, eh? Well, I ain’t got nothin’ again’ them flappy-eared, sad-eyed pups, but, by the horns on the moon, they better not start snifflin’ around too much.”

“They won’t do much,” said Bill softly. “Let’s me and you ride out to the Paint Pot and see how much disinfectant the danged old place needs.”

* * * * *

They went out to the hitch-rack, mounted their horses and rode away. Bill Smith was not very optimistic over his new job. He did not like the idea of retaining Mike John and Mose Dickey, the two half-breeds. In fact, he did not like the idea of going to work for Big Jim as a manager.

“Well, that gives Big Jim control of every ranch in the Antelope,” declared Slim. “The Paint Pot was the last one to fall. If he could buy out Rainbow Valley, he’d have some range, Bill.”

“He’ll never get that place,” declared Bill. “McPherson would rather die than to see Big Jim own Rainbow.”

They were opposite the XO-Bar-5 and almost to the forks, where one road led to Rainbow Valley and the other to the Paint Pot, when they met Lohman, the sheriff, Biddy Toole and Dick Clarey, riding furiously toward town.

They drew up in a cloud of dust.

“What’s all the rush?” asked Slim, as the three lathering horses danced nervously from their run.

“Old Rory has been shot and badly hurt,” explained the sheriff, trying to hold his horse on the road.

“Old Rory McPherson?” blurted Bill Smith. “How did it happen?”

“We don’t know,” Lohman swore at his horse, pulling it around against Biddy Toole’s horse. “Old Rory and his daughter were at Welcome all night. You know about Big Jim demanding her arrest, don’t yuh?”

“Well, they came in and stayed all night. Old Rory put up her bond and they started back this mornin’. About two hours later I got a wire from Antelope to come down and join forces with some officers from the penitentiary; and I finds old Rory on the road.

“He’s been shot through the body and is in pretty bad shape. We fixed him up as much as possible and we’re after a doctor right now.”

“But what about Della?” asked Slim anxiously. “Didn’t she----”

“That’s what we don’t know,” said Biddy helplessly. “She ain’t never come home.”

“And she wouldn’t go away and leave the old man,” added Dick.

“It’s a ---- or a mixup somewhere,” declared Lohman. “And it looks to me like whoever shot the old man took her along with ’em.”

“Nobody would dare to do that,” declared Bill Smith thickly.

“Wouldn’t they?” Thus Dick Clarey bitterly. “Don’t fool yourself, stranger. C’mon, Lohman.”

They spurred on, leaving Slim and Bill staring after them.

Bill turned in his saddle, staring blindly up the road, trying to figure out just what to do; trying to realize that some one had stolen Della Marsh.

Far off to the west were the broken heights of the Wild Horse Range, showing almost black in the sunlight. Bill Smith knew those mountains; knew them better than any one in the country. There were few trails, and much of it was impassable.

Beyond the mesas lived the wild goat and big-horn sheep. Bill Smith, when he was Tex Rowland, hunted them on the rocky ledges above the purple chasms, and he knew that there were places in those cliffs where one man could stand off an army.

“That’s where she’d be,” said Slim, answering Bill’s unspoken question. “The ---- himself couldn’t track anybody there.”

“I know it, Slim. C’m’on.”

Bill spurred ahead and Slim swung in behind him, wondering where Bill was going. Straight to the Paint Pot ranch they went, with both horses almost collapsing as they drew up at the front of the ranch-house.

Mike John came out to them, his wide face and black eyes expressionless, although a trifle suspicious of their speedy arrival.

“Where’s Pablo?” asked Bill.

Mike John squinted thoughtfully and shook his head.

“Pablo gone.”

“Where’s Mose Dickey?”

“Down by corral.”

“Where’s Pokey?”

“Go with Pablo.”

“Uh-huh,” Bill glanced around quickly. “When did Pablo and Pokey leave here?”

“Yes’day. No come back, I s’pose.”

“You suppose not, eh? Where did they go?”

“Long way, I s’pose.”

“All right. I’m new boss here, Mike.”

Mike grinned slightly. Then he spat and nodded.

“All right,” he said. “I don’ give----”

Mose Dickey came waddling up from the corral and joined them. His face was as expressionless as Mike John’s, but he grinned when the two cowpunchers spoke pleasantly to him.

“Did you hear the quarrel between Pablo and Big Jim?” asked Bill, suddenly inspired with an idea.

The two breeds exchanged quick glances.

“Big Jim told me that Pablo was a thief,” said Bill easily. “I don’t think Pablo is a thief. Big Jim awful mad at Pablo. He says Pablo no good.”

“Um-m-m!” Mike John rumbled throatily. “Big Jim ---- fool!”

“That’s what I said,” nodded Bill.

Slim’s long nose was twitching and he wanted to laugh. He did not know what it was all about, but was willing to swear that Bill Smith was right.

“Yeah, he sure is,” agreed Bill heartily. “He tell me that he send Pablo to the prison--mebbe.”

“By ----, no!” exclaimed Mose Dickey angrily.

“You know how much he pay Pablo?” asked Bill. “Big Jim say he give Pablo much money--much gold.”

“---- lie!” snorted Mike. “Big Jim want all money for himself. He no pay Pablo. By ----, no! He tell Pablo, you go to ---- away from here. Bimeby somebody put you in jail long time.”

“He told Pablo that?” asked Bill.

“Um-m-m. Big Jim two-tongue. He lie to Pablo.”

“Uh-huh!”

Bill rolled a cigaret slowly. He was learning a lot from the angry half-breeds, without them suspecting that he was pumping them for information. He lighted his cigaret, inhaled deeply and handed the tobacco and papers to Mike John.

“Mike John, do you know who killed Tucson Charley?” asked Bill Smith.

Mike’s eyes lifted from the cigaret-making and bored into those of Bill Smith.

“No,” he said softly. “By ----, I like to know.”

“No horse kill Tucson Charley,” said Mose Dickey. “You go look Tucson Charley; you look at pinto hoof. You know. We see you. Pablo say you look see. What you find out?”

“Didn’t a horse kill Tucson Charley?” asked Slim.

“No, Slim. That pinto was barefooted. Tucson Charley might have been kicked by a sharp-shod horse, but not by a clean hoof. A barefooted horse could kill a man, but couldn’t leave a wound like that. It looked to me like it had been done with a six-gun barrel, or some heavy instrument.”

“I seeum,” said Mike John. “Too much cut for bare hoof. That pintado no kick. Broke plenty. I see you throw hat--horse no kick.”

“That’s right,” smiled Bill. “And if that pinto was a kicker he’d ’a’ kicked Tucson more than once.”

“But who in ---- would kill him?” queried Slim. “Tucson never done anything to anybody.”

“Tucson good boy,” nodded Mose Dickey sadly. “He goin’ marry Alice Spotted Horse. Now can’t do.”