Short Stories (US)/Rifles at Eagle Pass

by H. Bedford-Jones

RIFLES AT EAGLE PASS

By H. BEDFORD-JONES
Author of “The Red Katy Trail,” “The Crows Craw,” etc.

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PECOS TAYLOR CAME RIDING SOUTH LIKE A TOPHAND DRIFTING FREE. BUT HE HAD A
GRIM MISSION ALL HIS OWN. WHEN HE FOUND THAT BUYING INTO THE SCOTT RANCH
WOULD HELP HIM IN HIS TASK HE BOUGHT AT THE DROP OF THE HAT—AND, BEFORE
HIS JOB WAS FINISHED, LIKEWISE HAD TO SHOOT THAT WAY, FREQUENT AND FANCY

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A LONE rider was lazily making his way up the western slope of Eagle Pass, his cowpony taking the steep grade and the rough road carefully while the rider lolled in the saddle and his second horse picked along behind.

“Puncher on the drift,” such would have been the verdict of any critical eye. The faded and worn attire, sun-bleached Stetson, gun at hip, rifle in boot; the battered old rig with its brass nails; the soogans aboard the second pony, secure beneath as perfect a diamond hitch as might be found, all these bespoke a tophand going where the winter would be warmer than up in the Big Horse country.

The man about whom this outfit centered had a hard, lean face, a laughing pair of blue eyes, a mop of sun-faded reddish brown hair, and the general manner of a gentleman who did not care whether school kept or not. When he laughed, his laugh was infectious and cheery; but there was an underlying glint in his eye that looked like business,

He was whistling softly, gaily, carelessly, when a shot broke the afternoon stillness of the pass, volleyed along and away in rising echoes, and silence fell again. That shot had come from close at hand. Swiftly, sharply, the rider jerked his rifle out of boot, held it ready; nothing happened. Nothing was in sight on the sharply twisting road. After a moment he rode on again, his eyes very sharp and alert.

He turned a bend and came into sight of a man lying dead in the road, horse standing to one side cropping at brush.

The rider's gaze roved about. No one was in sight; nothing moved along the brush clad slope above to the right, or below to the left. Ahead, all was still, hot, silent. The dead man lay on his back, shot through the heart. Near him, in the road, were a few bits of brush, a few leaves.

Dismounting, regardless of the possible danger of another rifle shot from the brush, though he kept his weapon ready; the rider went to the dead man, then looked up at the latter's horse and inspected the animal keenly. He crossed the road, saw a few more bits of brush clinging to the animal's coat, glanced frowningly at the dusty road. Tracks there were hard to read, yet it seemed as though the dead man had emerged from the brush—to meet a bullet. The road was in sight for only a short distance in either direction, at this point.

“Looks right queer, for a fact,” mused the puncher. “Hard faced old feller, smells of sheep. Huh! Didn't know there was any sheep in these parts, or I wouldn't have headed this way. Sure to be some o' them travelin' shepherds and they might recognize me, and——”

“Up!”

The sharp, curt word drove in upon his thoughts, full of danger. Even before turning to see whence it came, he obeyed the command—that voice held warning enough. Letting fall his rifle, he lifted his arms.

UPON the road, coming from the pass above, had appeared a rider, silently, cautiously, leveled rifle covering the man standing in the road. The rider was a grizzled bearded man of fifty, with a sheriff's star on his shirt. Now, seeing his command obeyed, he let his horse walk forward.

“Got ye plumb to rights, didn't I?” he observed. He was a man of uncompromising features and his face was anything but pleasant to look upon. “Dead to rights, huh?”

“Looks that way, only it ain't,” returned the puncher cheerfully. “I come along right after this feller was dropped, and was lookin' things over.”

“Yeah, looks that-a-way,” retorted the sheriff sarcastically. “Who be ye, pilgrim?”

“Name, Pecos Taylor; age, twenty-three; sex, male; business, punching cattle, two legged preferred; last place of residence, Three Star ranch in Bad Ax County; at present looking for a job elsewhere, not particular where or what at so long's it ain't' sheep. Satisfy you?”

This catalogue was rattled off by Mr. Taylor with a highly cheery and confident manner, but the sheriff glowered darkly upon him.

“How come you to shoot Eph Sawyer, here?”

“Didn't,” retorted: Mr. Taylor. “Eph come through the brush, to judge by the sign, and come out into the road right here and stopped a bullet first crack. Most likely you shot him.”

“Yeah, most likely,” said the sheriff, “I been up at the toll house until right now, so that don't hold water. You're under arrest, feller. A driftin' puncher, huh?”

“Yeah, drifters get blamed for anything,” said Taylor, and chuckled. “Look at my rifle, Sheriff—ain't been fired. You know well enough I didn't do it. I expect you know who done it, for that matter.”

“Rifle can be cleaned,” said the sheriff. He did not deign to notice the final remark. “You come here and I'll take your gun. Reckon you can march along with me.”

Taylor approached him, hands in air. His smile had vanished.

“I'm tellin' you I didn't do it, Sheriff, and you know it durned well,” he said, He came to a halt almost alongside the sheriff's horse. His arms were high. The sheriff's rifle was thrust down almost in his face, and the rifle was cocked. “Why are you tryin' to pin this on me, huh? Smells sort of bad, Sheriff.”

“Does it?” retorted the sheriff, eyeing him grimly. “I'll tell ye why, mister. Because I was over to the Sweetwater country las' fall, that's why! And I know you're a durned liar, that's why. Your name's Taylor, all right, but you're the gent that was mixed upin that there sheep war and got three good men hung. I know that there mug o' yours a mile away.”

“Yeah?” Taylor looked at him fixedly. “Don't that sort o' give you away, Sheriff?”

The bearded sheriff snarled down at him,

“Never mind that. You ain't going to live long enough to do no talkin'. I'll just take that there gun right here and now.”

The sheriff leaned forward, reaching down his left hand for Taylor's gun. A look of horrified comprehension broke upon Taylor's face.

“Sheriff, you ain't goin' to arrest me, honest?” he whined.

“Inch around there and shet up,” snapped the sheriff.

TAYLOR turned slightly, then moved like a flash. He dropped, caught the rifle as it exploded, held it harmlessly above his head. The sheriff let go, reached for his gun. Then Taylor's six-gun crashed out. Blown out of the saddle, the sheriff toppled backward as his horse plunged. He fell, dragged by one stirrup for a moment, then came free and lay on his face. His horse went careering down the steep trail and was lost to sight.

Taylor stooped above him for a moment, picked up the rifle, looked it over, laid it down again. He went to the body of Eph Sawyer, pulled out the latter's untouched gun, compared it with his own; both were ordinary revolvers, mates. He put Sawyer's in his own holster, dropped his own gun in the road near Sawyer. Then he turned to his own two horses, mounted, and started up the trail again. His face was serious now, his eyes were alert and reflective.

“Feller that shot Sawyer is still hidin' in the brush, maybe; and maybe not,” he mused. “If he is, then he seen me and the sheriff, but he don't know why. That's the main thing! Sheriff knew me; probably was the only man in these parts who would know me. What a durned piece o' bad luck! Bad luck for him. He should ha' had more sense than tryin' to use a rifle that-a-way. Especially on me. So he aimed to rub me out, huh? Well, that just about shows where this here sheriff stands on the deal.”

Another curve and another, and then into sight ahead came the toll gate.

The huge white bar was swung across the road. To the right, a house stood at the top of the divide, close to the road, a pretty house, painted white and green, with curtains at the windows and patches of flowers about. No lack of water here, evidently.

And to the left was opened up a sudden vista of that magnificent stretch of inland empire cut off by the Eagle Peaks from most of the world—the Medicine River Valley. It appeared flat as a pancake, seen from this height, and green as grass itself, with occasional flashes of silver where the Medicine River glimmered in the afternoon sunlight. Taylor drew rein and studied it.

He had never been here, but he knew the region none the less. Over to the right, just out of his sight, lay the town of Springvale, county seat of this hidden empire. All this flat land below him was cut up into farms, but not many, for the three big ranches of Medicine County held nearly the whole county in their grip. It was a selfish grip, since they had far more range than they could or did use. The highway that showed faintly ran to Moronia, eighteen miles away and the closest town to the railroad across the hills, a far bigger town indeed than Springvale, which had lapsed of recent years into idleness.

“Hm! Can't make it 'fore night. And besides, I'll have a lot o' talking to do here,” said Taylor, and turned toward the toll house.

On the latter's wide veranda, which overlooked the road, had appeared a figure at which the approaching Taylor stared with undisguised delight and interest. The young woman was perhaps twenty, but appeared older by reason of her very capable bearing and expression. Dark hair framed an eager, vibrant face; but her impulses were evidently tempered by very sound judgment. Mr. Taylor, as he removed his hat, told himself that here was a woman who knew how to do things.

“Howdy, ma'am,” he greeted her. “My name's Pecos Taylor, I'm bound for Springvale or somewheres, but I don't guess I'll get there fore night. Will there be any chance of getting me a bunk here?”

She studied him for a moment.

“I expect so,” she replied. “We'll see when my brother gets back. But I didn't know that a puncher had any need of a room in this weather.”

TAYLOR grinned. “Oh, I got my soogans along, ma'am, but I got money to pay for board too, and I sort o' like this here place. It's the prettiest looking outfit I've seen for quite a while. If it won't bother you none, I'll stop. If it will, just say so.”

“No, we have a couple of rooms that folks use at odd times,” she replied. “You'll find a stable around back; it isn't much, but it's enough. I'm Mary Scott, and my brother Russ will be back pretty soon, Fetch in what stuff you want, and——”

She broke off. Coming from the eastern side of the pass were two riders who seemed to be in some haste. They swung up to the veranda and drew rein.

“Howdy, ma'am,” exclaimed one. “Seen anything of Sheriff Atwater this afternoon?”

“Why, yes,” she replied. “He headed west about half an hour ago.”

Taylor intervened. “Was he a right big gent with grayish whiskers? Sheriff's star?”

“Yeah, that's him,” said the rider. “Meet him?”

“I seen him,” said Taylor calmly. “He ain't far—'bout a quarter mile down the grade, I reckon. Him and another feller. Looks like they'd shot each other. Seen a hoss there, too. Both bein' dead, wasn't no use me tryin' to tote 'em in.”

With startled exclamations the two riders swung their horses as Mary Scott swung the bar, and they went past at a spurring leap. Her hazel eyes startled and wide, the girl looked at Taylor.

“Is—is that true?” she said. “The other man—it couldn't be my——”

“I reckon not, ma'am,” said he. “He was an old lookin' feller with a checked shirt.”

Relief flooded into her face. Taylor turned his horse and followed a path that led around to the rear of the house.

Some little time elapsed before he had his two horses at ease. Leaving his belongings here, he returned to the front of the house and was just in time to see the two riders who had questioned him about the sheriff come back bearing the two bodies on Eph Sawyer's horse; the grisly load was covered from sight. The two men dismounted and came to Taylor, The girl was not in sight.

“Know anything about it, stranger?” asked one of them, rolling a cigarette.

“Don't seem able to recollect no more,” said Taylor lightly. “Not bein' acquainted with either gent, I had to use my good sense an' drift along. Why?”

“Cain't figger it nohow,” observed the other, “Looked like they'd met up an' gone to shootin' all right, and each one got the other. Hear any shootin' as you come up the pass?”

Taylor nodded. “Two-three shots. Thought it was someone after coyotes.”

The other looked him over. “Aimin' to stay around here long? I'd like to have your evidence down to town. Flickinger's my name—deputy. This here is Bud Carrol of the C in a Ring.”

Taylor acknowledged the introduction and gave his name.

“Sure, I'll be right glad,” he continued easily. “I'll drop in and see you tomorrow. Dunno what I'm goin' to do. Maybe find me a job somewheres around here. Ain't in no hurry. I got money and I aim to see the country a spell.”

THE others nodded comprehension. Flickinger was a slack jawed sort of man. Carrol was young, no older than Taylor himself; he had deep eyes under dark brows and a stubby, square-jawed face.

“You might do worse'n come out and see me if you take a notion to work,” he said. “So long!”

“So long, gents,” returned Taylor cheerfully. He reached up and swung the road-bar, and closed it again after the two had passed with the led horse. Mary Scott appeared at the door and he looked up at her, smiling.

“Reckon you don't want to make 'em pay, ma'am? Not under the circumstances, huh?”

“No, of course not,” she said, and looked after the two.

So did Taylor. He wondered why Carrol and the deputy had been after the sheriff.

II

MR. TAYLOR was sitting on the veranda and talking about sunsets in general, stock branding and other gentle subjects with Mary Scott, when Russ Scott showed up.

He was a man of perhaps thirty, much older than his sister, and wore a peculiar sullen, lowering expression which was at first extremely forbidding. Sizing him up, Taylor felt sorry for the sister. He set down Mr. Scott as weak-kneed, stubborn, vindictive, generally disliked, and too proud to fight in the open; none the less he tried to make himself agreeable, and gradually thawed out the other man with his cheery disposition.

“Sure ye can stay,” said Russ, sinking down, and leaning his rifle against the rail. “Well, sis, what news? I didn't get that danged coyote. Seen fresh deer tracks, though.”

“Some news,” said the girl. “The sheriff was killed just down the trail.”

Russ turned his head slowly, and his eyes were bulging.

“Huh?” he said. “Huh? The sheriff? Not him, surely—huh?”

“And another feller,” said Taylor. “Gent named Eph Sawyer. Killed each other.”

For a moment Russ Scott looked at Taylor. “By gosh!” he exclaimed. “Is that so? I ain't sorry 'bout neither of them. Wisht half this here county would kill off t'other half.”

Mary Scott went in to get supper ready, and Mr. Taylor talked attentively with his host. Discovering that Russ apparently hated everyone in sight, he was not long in probing to the cause. It seemed that the brother and sister had been left a large property by their father, consisting of the Lazy S ranch and this toll road, the only approach to the county from the southwest, and a fairly good paying proposition.

HARD neighbors and a shiftless disposition had lost the ranch for Scott, and for the past year he and his sister had been settled here, working the toll road for support. The toll road was an unpopular institution, Insisting stubbornly on his legal rights, Scott had reached a state of virtual war with half the population “below”; and Taylor shrewdly judged that had it not been for Mary, Mr. Scott would have been run out of the county long since.

“Been a lot of excitement in these parts, I hear,” said Taylor, shifting the subject. “They tell me two main ranches have got a private war on, the stage and the mails have been robbed twice in the last month, and four-five fellers killed.”

“Yeah,” agreed Scott gloomily. “That's Barton's doin's. Him and Bud Carrol about run the roost around here. It was Barton took over our ranch, durn' him! He ain't got the title, though, and he ain't going to get it.”

“Huh?” Mr. Taylor pricked up his ears. “Meaning no offense, howcome, if he's got the ranch?”

“Oh, hell! It ain't no secret.” Scott seemed glad to talk, glad to get a chance to converse with someone he did not distrust and hate. “Dad left the prop'ty to me and Mary equal, sabe? Well, I got to drinking one time, and we needed cash and one thing and another, and I mortgaged my half to Barton. He figured he'd marry Mary and have the ranch, sabe? Well, I got caught, that's all. Ranch wasn't worth a durn any more and Mary she wouldn't mortgage her share, and there we were. She wouldn't marry Barton neither. Barton, he says let him take over the ranch and build it up, and he'd give us half the profits. So we moved up here and he took the ranch, and that's the last of it. Ain't sent no profits and won't.”

“Huh?” said Taylor, and whistled softly. “Think he's made any?”

“Made any?” Scott showed his teeth in a snarl. “Him and Sawyer—Eph Sawyer's his foreman and boss, or was—have got the place into elegant shape! We can't get no accounting out of him. He come over las' week and joshed us, and says he's losin' money and so on. But I know from Bud Carrol he done shipped out a big drive this spring and cleaned up on the high prices, and he's got a fine lot o' cattle there right now. Him and Carrol have a war on.”

“Yeah?” prompted Taylor. “Which side was Sawyer on?”

“Dunno.” Scott shot him a sulky, scared glance which made Taylor think. “Him and me wasn't friends. Him and Carrol ain't—Carrol grabbed one of our springs on a boundary dispute, and the two outfits have fought ever since. There you are.”

“Don't explain the robberies,” said Taylor. “Ranchers makin' money don't rob the mails.”

“No,” said Scott, then delivered himself of an unexpectedly shrewd observation. “But when the big fellers have protection, when killing and rustling and burning can go on, then their riders will raise hell other ways. Some hombres never know when to stop.”

“Right,” said Taylor, and rose as Mary Scott appeared with word that supper was ready.

It was a simple, delightful meal, and the interior of the toll house was charming; but Taylor felt more than ever sorry for the girl, as it progressed. Russ Scott said little, was in a black and sullen humor, and Taylor wondered how the girl could live with such a man if he were like this all the time.

THE whimsical temper of the visitor, his laughing eyes and infectious mirth, somewhat relieved the situation, and charmed Russ out of his bad humor. He eyed Taylor wonderingly, even admiringly; while his sister wakened into merry laughter at the droll tales and audacious sallies of the stranger. Within half an hour, the three were old friends.

“Must be you ain't never had a care in the world, Taylor,” said Russ suddenly. “You act it.”

“Who, me?” Taylor looked at him. “Listen, partner. When I was ten, my dad was gored by a steer, and died a year later. We had a ranch-house half built, my mother was sick, and I had a kid sister. I ran the outfit. When I was sixteen, we owned the place clear and had money. Year after that, my sister died, the house was burned, and every head o' stock we owned was rustled. When I was twenty—three years ago—the bank in Morgantown was cleaned out one day by three robbers. We lost everything. Them three gents stopped by our place that night, while I was away. They wanted grub and hosses, and got gay when my mother fed 'em, and she took down a gun to hold 'em off. They shot her and rode away. I sold out, took my hoss and gun, and started in to run down them three killers. I got one acrost the Mexican line ten months later. Last year I got the second one. I'll get the third one before I quit. No. I ain't had a care in the world—not to ride me! If I got any cares, I ride them.”

Mary Scott listened, her eyes shining as she heard this recital. Russ flushed a little.

“You're a man, by gosh!” he said. “If I had a feller like you with me, I—I'd go up against this here gang and wipe 'em clean!”

“Maybe,” said Taylor. “And maybe you'd get wiped. Was the late sheriff a friend o' Barton?”

“Nope,” said Russ. “Him and Bud Carrol were cousins. That's howcome he got killed. Sawyer was Barton's foreman.”

“Anyhow, that's what everybody'll say,” commented Taylor. Russ started.

“Huh? What you mean by that?”

Taylor smiled, pushed back his chair and rolled a smoke.

“Ain't saying.” His eyes met those of the girl for a moment. “Miss Scott, Russ was tellin' me outside about you-all losing the ranch. I ain't aiming to interfere, but I'm sort of interested. Just how does it stand? Has Barton got any title to it at all? What sort is he?”

“He's a rough sort, able to make his own way,” she returned slowly. “He grew up around here, went away, and came back two or three years ago pretty well fixed. He'd been in some sort of business up in Walla Walla. What was it, Russ?”

“Apple orchards and real estate,” said Russ Scott.

“Anyhow, he had quite a bit of money.” Mary Scott reddened slightly. “He bought a small ranch next to ours. Then he and Russ got friendly, and one thing and another happened, and——”

“Oh, tell him the straight of it,” said Russ gloomily. “I done so already.”

“He lent Russ money and Russ mortgaged him his share of the ranch, that's all,” said the girl. “Things went from bad to worse, and Barton simply took over the whole place, agreeing to split the profits with us. We moved up here. I wanted to get away from things. We've never had any profits, and he laughs at us. I wanted to get a lawyer to force an accounting, but there's only one in Smithvale, and he's a relative of Barton's. Bud Carrol wanted to force Barton into a showdown, but—but I wouldn't let him.”

“Bud's courting her,” said Russ. “Was, at least. Ain't now. Got his mind on a waitress over to Moronia. Right pretty girl, I hear, but sort o' shiftless.”

“I see,” said Taylor, with a whimsical glance at the girl. “Well, if you two want to take back your ranch, why don't you do it?”

“We'd have to pay that thousand dollars back to Barton first,” said Russ, “Ain't got it.”

Taylor frowned. “What? You mean to say the amount was only a thousand?”

“It's a lot when you ain't got it,” returned Russ Scott. “Besides which, he wouldn't give it up. We'd have to grab the place. That'd mean fighting him and his outfit. He's got five fellers there and a Mexican cook who's hell on wheels, they say. Mex gunmen ain't of much account, but this here Mig Estrada, he's right good.”

“Eh?” Taylor looked at Russ, and his eyes were suddenly sharp and keen. “Estrada—Miguel Estrada? Ain't a very common Mexican name, Well, folks, you don't know me, but I got a little proposition to make you—let you talk it over tonight. We got to have a yes or no tomorrow morning, because if it goes through, then there's got to be some sharp, swift action. Always take the other gent on the jump, is my motto.”

“A proposition?” repeated Mary Scott.

“Yep; pure business, too,” said Taylor briskly. He reached into his shirt and produced a small folded wallet, from which he drew a bank-note and a certified check. “Here's the last of my ranch price—thousand dollar bill and a check for fifteen hundred. Twenty-five hundred in all. Look 'em over.”

HE SHOVED the two objects across the table. Russ looked them over; his sister looked the stranger over, and her dark eyes were very level and cool, almost suspicious.

“I didn't aim to do this when I came here,” said Taylor, lighting his cigarette and breaking the match. “But I gamble a heap on folks. More'n I do on facts, to tell the truth. I ain't asked any proof o' your story; I believe it. My proposition is to turn this here money into the jackpot. You pay off that mortgage and do it at the bank, right early in the morning. Then you and me will amble along and throw Barton off the ranch, and Mary here can come along about tomorrow night. We can send out a wagon from town, I reckon, to move the stuff.”

Russ Scott stared at him, gaped with jaw fallen.

“My gosh, feller!” he exclaimed, handing back the check and bill. “You talk like it wasn't nothing to throw Barton out!”

“Won't be nothing after it's done,” and Taylor chuckled. “Ain't finished my proposition yet. There's fifteen hundred after the mortgage is paid. Keep it. I'll have a third interest, each of you a third. The only joker is that I'm to be manager. In running the ranch business, my word goes. I ain't aiming to over-ride you-all, but I'm good and I know it, and I aim to run whatever business my money is put into. There y'are, folks. Well, ma'am?”

Mary Scott's eyes were glowing, and color was rising in her cheeks.

“It—it's too good to be true!” she exclaimed, then checked herself. “But—but you're a wanderer, Mr. Taylor——”

“Pecos, ma'am.”

“All right, Pecos. You say yourself you've been on the go for about three years, hunting down your mother's murderers. What chance is there of you being content to settle down here in this place and running a ranch?”

Taylor met her gaze for a long minute.

“Every chance in the world—now,” he said; and if for an instant his words brought a glint of anger to her eyes, it fled as he went on. “You see, I don't have to go hunting the third man any further. I've done found him, I reckon,”

“Eh?” She paled a little. “You mean—oh, the Estrada you mentioned! The Mexican cook?”

Taylor shook his head and puffed at his cigarette before replying.

“Nope. He's in on the game, though—his being here shows the other man, the third one, is here also. Let that rest until later. You see, it looks like chance has combined with fate to work things out for us all around. Let my proposition wait until morning. You folks talk it over tonight when I ain't around to influence you, and if you don't like the notion of it, then no hard feelin's. But listen to one thing, Russ! If you say yes, then tomorrow you got to work a dinged sight harder'n you've worked for a long while! Sabe? If you go into it, you got to keep up with me; and keepin' up with Pecos Taylor is a man's job. Well, now let's forget it, and help Mary wash up! I ain't pottered round a real kitchen for a long while.”

MARY protested, but to no avail. Russ Scott, wide-eyed now and inclined to be feverishly excited over Taylor's proposal, lent a willing hand, and in no time at all everything was in shape and the three adjourned to the veranda over the road. In another hour the moon would be up and the view of a nearly full moon rising above the mighty stretch of country so far below was one not to be sneezed at, as Mary assured the visitor.

“Though,” she added, “ I don't know if you care much for views.”

“But you think I do, huh?” Taylor chuckled. “Miss Mary, you got me at a disadvantage.”

“How so?” she inquired.

“'Cause I'm right scared to make you mad. I like you folks a whole lot. As a rule I plow straight ahead with whatever comes into my mind; but if I like anybody, then I sure don't want to get 'em mad. So I'm walkin' on eggs where speech is concerned.”

“And why?” she said, laughing. “Are your thoughts so terrible you don't dare utter them?”

“They're mighty risky,” said Taylor, emboldened by the darkness around. “Yes'm, powerful risky. For a plumb stranger to up and say that you were a mighty wonderful sort o' girl, and that he seen things in your eyes he hadn't thought to see in anybody's eyes—why, you'd most likely feel insulted. So I ain't saying anything like that at all.”

“Hm!” said the girl after a moment. “Things that are said for effect depend on who says them and how, don't they? Yes, I expect you'd better watch your tongue, Pecos. It might run you into trouble, for a fact. But, mercy! I'd better go get that room ready.”

Mary Scott departed. The two men sat for a space in silence.

“Use your rifle any today, Russ?” demanded Taylor presently.

“Uh-huh. Didn't hit nothing, though. Doggoned gun ain't sighted right.”

“I s'pose you're tryin' to figure out howcome Sawyer killed the sheriff after he was dead, huh?”

Russ emitted a startled sound that might have been a low gasp, as he caught the import of these words.

“Meanin' what, Taylor?”

“Well, I ain't any fool and I'm pretty good at reading sign,” said Taylor calmly.

“So'm I, for that matter,” said Russ in the darkness. “I know durned well the sheriff wa'n't killed by Sawyer, and it's a cinch he didn't kill himself.”

Taylor chuckled quietly, and left it that way—with which Russ, seemingly, was more than content.

Taylor had learned what he wanted to know, however. Russ Scott had got larger game than coyotes that afternoon—and, from Taylor's viewpoint, had not got that game in any upstanding man-fashion. Had it not been for the sister, he would not have thought of riding forth in the morning with Russ Scott for partner; he read a sullen viciousness in the brother, a lack of all moral stamina, and it made him uneasy.

The talk ended there, for presently Mary came out with word that the room was all ready and Taylor could take his things in. She showed him to the room, and presently he rejoined them on the veranda, and so got his promised glimpse of the moonrise over Medicine Valley below. After which he yawned, tossed away his cigarette, and said good night, leaving brother and sister to discuss his proposal.

“If you say yes,” he said from the door, “then we got to be up and riding before the sun, that's all. Aim to hit that Springvale bank soon's the doors open, and be on our way. See you later, folks.”

PECOS TAYLOR was asleep almost as soon as he hit the linen sheets and the white pillow, luxuries he had not experienced in some time.

When he wakened, it was still dark, and Russ Scott was shaking him.

“Come alive, partner!” said Russ. “Mary's gettin' breakfast. I'll have the hosses ready 'fore you are, and we're ridin' together.”

“The proposition's good, is it?” asked Taylor, as he sat up.

“You bet. We cover your bet, feller. Hop to it!”

When Taylor had shaved and dressed, he came into the kitchen and found Mary setting breakfast on the table. She turned a face that was both radiant and anxious toward him.

“Good morning, Pecos! Well, you see, we've accepted. And I do hope it'll come out right.”

“It will,” he returned cheerfully. “Gosh, them biscuits smell good!”

“One thing.” She came close to him, dropped her voice. “Keep Russ away from liquor if—if you want things to go right!”

“It's a promise,” said Pecos Taylor.

Half an hour later, he and Russ Scott were riding down the eastern slope of Eagle Pass, on their way to destiny.

III

SPRINGVALE had started,out well, but stopped halfway. It had a big brick courthouse and jail, and nothing much else. Some three dozen houses, half a dozen stores, post office, livery corral and four saloons made up its ensemble, together with at least two dozen empty stores and houses. The bank was a small building of brick fronting the courthouse. The whole town straggled along the river, across which ran a huge, rumbling, covered bridge of wood. The river was fairly wide at this point, and the bridge was like a tunnel of darkness, unpenetrated by any light save that which seeped in from a few cracks here and there. Taylor had left his extra horse at the toll house. He and Russ Scott rode into town a few minutes before bank-opening time, and Russ suggested they start the day's activities with a drink.

“Nope,” said Taylor promptly. “We got to keep our heads, partner. The wrong move is going to gum things up, and we can't afford to have our rope draggin' today. I reckon we can go dry another day or so. Is the bank account in your name or Mary's?”

“In Mary's, what's left of it,” said Russ.

“Then clean off your mortgage and deposit the balance.” The two men had dismounted at the hitching rack in front of the bank and stood talking there. The few passers-by nodded to Russ and flung curious glances at the stranger. “We need a few riders, I reckon. Know anybody we can get?”

RUSS SCOTT considered. “Nope, not right here an' now. And if we find Barton's outfit to home, we're going to wish we had a few fellers behind us!”

“They won't be to home. Now, old timer, you let me do the talking when we get there,” said Taylor. “You're liable to show you're mad, and I don't show it until I shoot. And the first shot is going to make a whole lot o' difference.”

“Think there'll be a shot, huh?” grunted Russ.

“Sure,” said Taylor cheerfully. “I didn't want to scare your sister about it, though. Who will be sheriff, now that the late official ain't no more?”

“His deputy, I reckon,” said Russ, “He's a no-account feller name o' Horton.”

“I'll trot over and see him,” said Taylor. “Come over for me as soon as you get through here.”

He turned and crossed the street, heading for the jail and sheriff's office, which adjoined the courthouse,

The new acting sheriff was alone in the office, dazedly struggling to go through the mail and account books and other papers. He was not a gentleman of gigantic intellect, obviously; in fact, it was locally stated that Horton could not even hit a spittoon once out of five shots. He was lank, sallow, unshaven and considerably soiled about the edges, and being conscious of the fact that he was generally held in small respect, he was ready enough to cover this up by “biggety” talk and a hardboiled manner.

“Howdy said Taylor, walking in. “This Sheriff Horton?”

“Yep,” said Horton, eyeing him.

“My name's Taylor. I'm the one found the sheriff's body on the toll road yesterday. Feller named Flickinger claimed to be a deputy and was with Bud Carrol. I said I'd show up and see if any evidence was wanted.”

Horton swung his chair around.

“Set down, Taylor,” he said. “That danged Flickinger ain't no deputy. He was a special deputy on a posse last week—feller got killed up in the hills—but he ain't nothin' now. So you're Taylor, huh? Well, I reckon we don't want no evidence. Thing was clear enough. Sheriff gets buried today. Aiming to stay in these parts?”

“Yeah,” said Taylor, and drew a paper from his pocket. It was the agreement written and signed that morning between himself and the Scotts. “You might cast your eye over this.”

Mr. Horton did so, and his jaw fell.

“My gosh! You're partners with Russ Scott, huh? And aim to take over Barton's ranch?”

“Yep.” Taylor rolled a smoke and smiled brightly at the sheriff. “And we aim to have you ride along with us just to make sure Barton and his outfit don't start no fuss. Russ will be along in a minute with the papers showing his mortgage is paid off and all clear. We aim to serve 'em on Barton and take over the ranch, since he's got no title to it.”

“Good gosh, man!” Sheriff Horton was no relative of Carrol, but he followed the ways of his predecessor. He seemed to relish the idea of seeing Barton flung off the Scott property. “You got a program, all right—but I dunno if it's legal. Barton's got that there ranch, and he ain't a feller to let loose easy. You got a court order?”

Taylor grinned.

“Barton got any court order to stay on other people's land? I'm a partner in that there ranch, and I'm running it. Barton's got no shadow of right there, and he's refused any accounting. I'm grabbing the whole works, and he'll come a-running with his tongue hanging out to get the accounting done, soon's I got the place. Now, I got a heap of respect for sheriffs, and I'd admire to have you riding along with us. Being a stranger here, I sort of want you to keep your eye on things and see that I ain't starting any fight.”

“No,” said Horton, sarcastically. “You ain't starting nothing except a war, not if you aim to throw Barton off the Lazy S! I dunno had I ought to go along or not——”

“You're the new sheriff,” said Taylor, and through the open doorway saw Russ Scott coming up the walk. “Looks like you'd ought to take the chance to make yourself felt.”

“By gosh, that's an idea!” said Horton. “All right, I'll do it. Howdy, Russ.”

“Howdy,” said Scott entering.

“Taylor wants me to ride out with you-all and keep the peace,” said Horton. “When you going?”

“On our way now,” said Taylor, with a wink at Scott. “Want to get there before noon so's there won't be too much of a crowd on hand. Mortgage paid, Russ?”

“Yep.” Scott produced the document. “Reckon I'd better burn it.”

“Save it and show it to Barton,” and Taylor chuckled. “It'll surprise him a heap. Got your hoss handy, Sheriff?”

“Gimme five minutes,” said Horton. “Have a drink before we start?”

“Nope, we ain't drinking, not on an errand like this,” said Taylor. “Afterward, sure!”

Horton nodded.

IN TEN minutes the three men were mounting and riding out of town together, rattling across the wooden bridge in the cool gloom of its semi-darkness. Russ Scott confided to Taylor that his payment of the mortgage had created a small sensation at the bank.

To the Lazy S was no short jog. As the three rode, Horton talked a good deal; he was a garulous man, anxious to impress Taylor with his importance, and he was feeling his new office as a chance to impress everybody, a chance to redeem the former contempt in which he had been held by the world at large. He talked about Flickinger, who now considered himself deputy, and said profanely that he would be eternally condemned if he ever let Flickinger set foot inside his new office; he talked about everyone and everything he knew. Taylor was not long in comprehending the man, and chuckled to himself.

“I reckon your good qualities,” he said to Horton, “have been sort of over shadowed by the late lamented sheriff, ain't it so? Folks prob'ly depended on him, and you were just the deputy and nobody give a damn about you. Now that you're fillin' out his term—by gosh, you know what? If you was to start out your first day in office by clapping some hombre in jail, you'd make yourself felt! Yes, sir. There'd be no mistake about who was sheriff.”

Horton warmed to this idea. “Yeah, but who'll I clap in jail?” he said, with an eager grin.

“Well,” said Taylor, “you might grab some o' the stage robbers and bandits around here. I hear tell there's been a lot o' law-breaking—even the mails robbed. Now, if the late sheriff never done a thing about it, and you were to start out—gosh! You'd be made for life. Or if you were to show yourself strong enough to grab any gunman. S'pose one o' Barton's outfit tries to pull a gun on me and I beat him up and have you arrest him——”

“Yeah!” said Horton. “Fat chance. Any one o' that outfit goes for a gun, there ain't no beatin' up done. There's a burial.”

“Wait and see,” said Taylor. “You play my game and I'll play yours. Sabe?”

“You bet,” said Horton. “But about them bandits, nobody knows who they are. If I knew, by gosh, I'd go after 'em!”

Taylor judged that the man meant his words. Horton had been too small fry to be included in any actual knowledge of anything amiss going on. Now that he was abruptly raised to a place of power and responsibility, he was fired by a holy and righteous intent to show what was in him, or what he thought was in him. And if well used, such a man might be of utmost value.

The closer they came to the Lazy S, the less Sheriff Horton talked and the more he fully agreed that Taylor should be the chief actor in whatever might take place. Russ Scott, however, grew darker and more somber of mood the closer they came to his old home. Watching him narrowly, Taylor knew that here was his chief danger point. Russ might explode into anything—as he had probably exploded the previous afternoon at sight of Sawyer, who had doubtless ridden around the toll house rather than stop and pay toll. Sawyer's body was now in town awaiting burial late that afternoon, and Taylor had shrewdly figured Barton's outfit would not gather at the ranch before noon to come in for the ceremony. They probably would get in a good morning's work and take the afternoon and night off.

THEY were topping a sharp rise, just beyond which the Lazy S would come into view, when abruptly a rider appeared fifty feet ahead, coming toward them.

“There's luck,” said Horton. “That's Barton now.”

“Russ,” said Taylor quietly, “you keep yourself in hand, sabe? If there's any shootin' done here, I'll do it.”

Barton was evidently not overjoyed at sight of the three. He was a large, powerful man who looked more than his real age by reason of a square-clipped brown beard which accentuated the masterful lines of his face. He was plainly a man accustomed to have his own way; his eyes were heavy, dominant, penetrating. They touched on Horton, went to Russ Scott, and then gripped upon Taylor, who was in the lead.

“Howdy.” Taylor drew rein, and, after Barton nodded to the others, gave his name. “I've bought an interest in the Lazy S,” he said curtly. “Scott, here, has the paid mortgage to show you. We've come to take possession,”

Barton was thunderstruck. His eyes widened, and a flame grew and blazed in them as Scott handed him the mortgage. He glanced at it, then crumpled it in his fist and dropped it.

“What sort of a joke is this?” he demanded, and shot a threatening glance at Horton. “What game you playin', huh?”

Taylor got out the makings. A slight pressure of his knees, and while he deftly began to manufacture a smoke, his horse moved, apparently of its own volition, and came close to that of Barton's.

“Ain't no joke,” said Taylor amiably. “Y'see, Barton, you've done refused any accounting and you got no claim to the ranch, and you're movin'. Now it's us who'll give the accounting. I reckon to run this here ranch right and make money with her.”

Ignoring the other two, Barton fastened his attention on Taylor, rightly judging that this was the man he had to reckon with.

“Ain't you bit off a consid'able chew?” he asked in a low and menacing tone.

“Shucks, no!” Taylor grinned and began to roll the cigarette. He was apparently quite at his ease, unconscious of any tension in the air. His horse moved slightly, bringing him close to Barton's right side, stirrups almost touching. “You see, I figure that a feller knows when he's beat, and you ain't fool enough to buck a sure thing.”

“Is that so?” said Barton, eyes narrowing.

“Sure.” Taylor laughed easily, licked the cigarette, and pinched the end with critical approval. His careless air was tempting in the extreme. Probably Barton thought he was dealing with someone who could be bluffed out, and determined to carry off the matter with a high hand. At all events, without warning, Barton's hand slid to his gun and he jerked out the weapon.

But, swift as light, Taylor's hand flew to his wrist, caught and gripped it in iron fingers before he could even point up the gun. Barton snarled, there was a crashing report as the gun exploded. Taylor's grip keeping it pointing downward. Both horses plunged and reared wildly; the two men came out of their saddles, but Taylor had his feet loose in the stirrups and fell clear. Barton's heel caught and dragged, with Taylor hanging grimly to him, until Russ Scott halted his horse.

THE scene, pregnant with sharp tragedy, resolved itself into comic elements. Barton, furious but helpless, lay on his face, while Taylor sat astride him and shoved his whiskers into the dust. The gun lay where it had fallen.

“Now be a good boy,” said Taylor calmly to the cursing rancher. “Nice little fellers like you hadn't ought to play with guns and things. Sheriff, I reckon you got to arrest this feller for assault with a deadly weapon. I'll swear out the warrant when we get back to town. Gimme them handcuffs you fetched along.”

Barton turned a purpled face toward the sheriff and cursed blackly, threatening him. But Horton had just seen the mighty humbled, and was already thinking of what a figure he would cut fetching Barton to jail. He tossed the steel bracelets to Taylor, who deftly wrenched the arms of Barton around and pinioned him, despite his struggles, curses and threats. Russ had meantime brought in Taylor's horse, and was looking on in utmost astonishment.

It was a pardonable emotion. Of himself, Sheriff Horton would never have dared arrest Barton; but Taylor had prepared him to arrest somebody, and Taylor had here done all the work. Thus backed, Horton fell into line with pride and delight, and all the threats of Barton slid off him like water off a duck. Arms behind him, Barton was put into the saddle, and Taylor used his own rope to tie his feet in the stirrups.

“Can't take no chances with a jigger who'd pull a gun on me,” he declared, with a wink at the sheriff.

“Blast your dirty hide,” said. Barton, deadly pale under his mask of dirt and beard. “I'll get you for this, and get you quick! This fool of a sheriff won't have me in jail an hour, if he ever gets me there. And when I get out, Taylor, Lord help you!”

“Never mind about me bein' a fool, Barton,” cut in the sheriff proudly. “You and a few more jaspers around here are due to learn a few things, and you-all can bear in mind that I'm sheriff o' Medicine County and I aim to stay so. And you don't need to be so danged promiscuous with what you aim to do, unless you want a murder charge laid on you.”

Barton shot him one savage look, and said no more, but his bloodshot eyes were eloquent. Taylor remounted and reined in alongside his prisoner, and looked at him, for a moment.

“I reckon you made a mistake, feller,” he said slowly, his voice very cold. “Now, before we go on, let's you and me settle a little something. And lemme tell you, if you aim to get to Sawyer's funeral this afternoon, you talk turkey. Because if you don't, I'll sure as hell put a bullet into you.”

In these icy words, in the eyes of the man behind them, Barton sensed an unguessed peril and reacted to it. He was far from being a fool.

“What you want?” he growled.

“I s'pose you were up in Walla Walla three years ago in June?” said Taylor.

“Yeah.” Barton's eyes held his gaze steadily. “What's it to you?”

“It's this to you,” and Taylor touched his gun. “Was Estrada with you?”

“Estrada? My cook? Hell, no!” Barton frowned, puzzled. “Done picked him up when I come back here, him and two-three more fellers, and they been with me since.”

Taylor met his gaze for a long moment and felt truth in this reply.

“All right,” he said quietly. “Then never mind about it.”

“Huh!” said Barton. “I s'pose Bud Carrol put you up to all this business, huh?”

Taylor chuckled. “Nope,” he replied. “Not him. Well, Russ, let's go take over our ranch!”

AND, with the sheriff leading his captive's horse behind them, Taylor and Russ Scott turned and headed for the Lazy S.

“My gosh!” said Russ in a low voice, “I'd never ha' believed it!” Taylor chuckled again.

IV

TAYLOR could understand why a low groan broke from Russ Scott as they drew closer to the Lazy S and could distinguish details, and why Russ rode on with smoldering eyes and tightly clenched lips, as though not daring to say anything lest he burst forth in explosion. Now that the incredible had happened, now that Barton was humbled and his new partner riding cheerfully to new triumphs, Russ Scott was quite cocky and confident of a sudden.

The Lazy S showed traces of its former beauty, but only traces, for under Barton it had become distinctly a bachelor ranch and showed it. The whole place bore the trademark “For Business Only.” The house was long and low, with a wide ell, and lay among cool trees beside the creek, the other buildings being three hundred yards further up. Where had once been flower beds, were now tools and impedimenta. By the front door, the chuckwagon was undergoing needed repairs. The windows were bare of curtains, a huge pile of empty tins reposed outside the kitchen door, and the general air of untidiness was everywhere in evidence.

By the bunkhouse and barns, one man was in sight, working over the rods of the windmill with bucket and slush brush. At the chuckwagon, another man was at work, a swarthy man, whom Taylor knew must be the cook, Estrada. He turned to Barton.

“Now,” he said, “you let out one yip and you'll get your teeth bashed in. Sabe? Look after him, Russ. Don't make any halfway business of it—give him your gun over his mouth if he says a word. Sheriff, s'pose you and me ride along and do the talking.”

Nothing loath, Horton turned over his prisoner to Russ Scott, and rode ahead with Taylor.

“This hombre is bad,” he said warningly, but Taylor only smiled.

At their approach, Estrada stood up, hitched forward his gun, waited. He was a wide shouldered Mexican and extremely handsome, bold of eye, with an assured and confident manner, altogether an unusual type of vaquero, the Indian strain showing strongly in dark skin and high cheekbones. Sight of the sheriff, the stranger and Russ Scott, with Barton in obvious constraint, must have shown him instantly that something was wrong. He nodded to the sheriff, and then transferred his attention to Taylor, as the latter dismounted and approached him.

“Howdy,” said Taylor amiably, and gave his name. “You're Miguel Estrada, huh? This here ranch has changed hands, hombre, your boss is under arrest, and you're free to pack your soogans if you got any and be on your way. But first I got something to ask you.”

Estrada nodded coolly and proceeded to roll a cigarette, but his eyes were very alert.

“What man came up to this country with you?” asked Taylor in Mexican. Estrada started slightly, paused in his work, regarded him steadily and carefully.

“Is that any of your business, señor?” he returned.

“Yes,” said Taylor. “I should like you to tell me the man's present name, caballero. He is not known to me, but I should like to make his acquaintance. Down below, I believe he was called Arkansas Red.”

Estrada shrugged.

“I have never heard of such a man, señor,” he replied, and continued with his cigarette. “I am desolated at being unable to help you to his acquaintance, but I came alone to this country, and have no friends.”

“Careful, Estrada!” said Taylor. At his tone, Estrada's eyes shot to him and widened a little, for Taylor meant business now. “I have said nothing to anyone about that bank robbery down at Morgantown. That is not my business at all. I know you were not concerned in it, nor in what followed it—you simply met the other three men at a certain place with horses. Therefore, as I say, it does not concern me, But I want this man's name,”

THE cigarette, half made, fell from the fingers of Estrada. Into his face came an ashen pallor; he stood motionless, hands outstretched, and for an instant Taylor believed he was about to go for his gun.

Then a mask fell over the swarthy face, and the beady eyes dwelt on Taylor, blazing pinpoints of peril.

“You are mistaken, señor,” he replied quietly. “I do not know what you are talking about.”

“All right,” said Taylor, in English. “Get your duffle packed up and get out. Men all out?”

“All but Slim, who hurt his foot yesterday,” and Estrada motioned toward the man from the windmill, who was approaching at a limp—a staring rider, unarmed.

“By golly, what's goin' on?” demanded Slim.

“You are,” said Taylor, with a grin. “Outfit has changed hands. Barton's on his way to jail. You and Mig can saddle up, pack your bags, and be off out o' the way before the other boys come home to dinner. Barton, you might save a heap o' trouble all around by confirming them orders.”

“All right, boys,” said Barton. “Pack your-stuff into town. I'll not be in jail more'n ten minutes, and after Eph's funeral we can get together. Pack up and ride in with us.”

Slim and Estrada departed toward the bunkhouse with no more words. Taylor looked after the Mexican, lips compressed. He knew nothing about the man of whom he was in search, other than the name of Arkansas Red, which would indicate that the man had red hair. It was not pleasant to have Estrada prove too sharp for him. Also, Estrada would now be certain to get warning to the man, unless the latter were, as Taylor hoped, among the Lazy S riders.

“Taylor,” spoke out Barton, now relieved of the order to silence, “I warn you and Russ not to lay a finger on my stuff here. You can't jump in and grab a feller's private property.”

“Don't want your danged private property,” said Taylor, laughing. “Anyhow, we ain't playing your game—we'll have that accounting soon as you come along to go over the books, if you got any. We aim to play square, so don't worry.”

“I ain't worried,” returned Barton. “You will be, quick enough. Didn't have no luck with Mig about your durned Arkansas Red, huh?”

“So you speak Mex, huh?” Taylor looked at him. “Know this Arkansas Red?”

“No,” spat out Barton. “And if I did, I won't let on to you, durn your lousy hide!”

Taylor turned away. Slim and Estrada, having lost no time packing up, were saddling two horses at the corral. He watched them at work, saw them mount and ride to the house. Slim came on to join Barton and the sheriff, Estrada paused at the kitchen door, dismounted, and went into the house.

“Sheriff,” said Taylor, “think you'll get him to town all right? Them two jaspers going along might take a notion to persuade you to let him loose.”

Horton grinned at Slim. “Let 'em try it,” he returned. “They'll ride in front anyhow.”

Taylor went to the kitchen door, and there paused admiringly. Estrada's one horse was a magnificent sorrel, not a cow-pony at all, but a horse with some touch of the old Moorish strain, delicate of muzzle and hoof. As he stood, Taylor's back was to the doorway.

HE CAUGHT a slight sound, a “click”—the sound of a gun hammer going back. Slight as it was, tenuous as was any warning in it, he did not hesitate; his knees buckled under him, and he let himself go limp and prostrate, hand jerking to gun as he fell.

A gun roared in the doorway. Estrada stood there firing. Taylor's abrupt drop had saved him. for the bullet caught his hatbrim as he went down and tore it half away. Even as he hit the dust, even as the horse beside him plunged in startled alarm, a jet of white flame spurted from his body; his gun crashed out, and Estrada spun around and came staggering out a step, then fell forward and lay quiet.

Taylor rose and put up his gun. The sheriff came spurring up to him, while Russ Scott held his gun on a dazed and protesting Slim.

“Gosh, you're a quick one!” exclaimed the sheriff, dismounting. “Didn't he get you?”

“Nope, but I reckon I got him,” said Taylor.

“Yep, you sure did.” Sheriff Horton bent over Estrada, then straightened up. “Well, if I hadn't seen the whole thing I wouldn't believe it, by gosh! I'll catch his hoss. We'll take him into town and bury him with Eph. That'll keep Slim busy on the way in, too.”

Taylor looked at the dead gunman, his eyes hard and grim. Despite the pros and cons, he was sorry for this action. Through Estrada he might have reached the man he had sought so long, the man unknown to him.

“That's twice I've had to spoil things with a gun,” he reflected. “Back there with the late departed sheriff, who was hand in glove with the crooks and might ha' spilled a lot if I'd had a chance to handle him. And now Estrada. It's a cinch he was in with whatever gang has been working here, too!”

Sheriff Horton brought in the Arab, and a sudden idea struck Taylor at sight of the bedroll behind the high Mexican saddle.

“Say, Horton,” he drawled. “This here Estrada might have known something about the mail robberies up this way. S'pose you take a look through his roll.”

“Ain't a bad idee,” said Horton, and waved his hand. “Hey, Slim! Come along and lend us a bit o' help here.”

Slim came up sullenly and helped the sheriff tie Estrada's body to the saddle, after the man's pockets were examined. From these, and from the roll behind the saddle, Sheriff Horton produced a handful of gold eagles, two watches, and a large packet of crisp, new hundred-dollar bills.

Taylor watched Slim narrowly. The man was gaping, wide-eyed; he was a simple fellow and his astonishment at this unveiling of wealth in the possession of the cook was so obvious that he was evidently unaware of anything wrong. Sheriff Horton came over to Taylor.

“You're a mind reader, feller,” he exclaimed. “My good gosh, if you ain't dropped onto it! Look at them two gold watches—and them bills!”

“Check up with the Federal authorities in the capital,” advised Taylor. “I seen in the paper that some o' the loot them jiggers got was a batch o' new Federal Reserve bank notes, and the numbers will be known. Looks to me, Horton, like you'd took in a pretty heavy jackpot your first day in office. You play your cards right, and if you ain't settin' pretty by tomorrow, I'm a Dutchman!”

Horton nodded. “And I ain't forgetting howcome it's happened, Taylor,” he said. “You've handled things right for me, and when you need a favor, come a-running. My gosh, but you've sure steered me into something big!”

“All right, forget it and play your cards,” said Taylor, “And don't let Barton talk you out of it before you reach town. So long, and good luck!”

BARTON, no less than Slim, had been dumbfounded by Estrada's wealth; his amazement was too genuine to be doubted. Taylor watched him ride back on the road to town with Sheriff Horton, preceded by Slim and the corpse-laden Arab. Russ Scott, who had dismounted, whistled under his breath.

“Don't it beat all!” he exclaimed, turning a wondering face to Taylor. “To think o' Mig bein' one o' them bandits! Well, it goes to prove what I said. He seen everybody' pulling off rough stuff and getting away with it, and him and a few more got to acting up.”

“Who?” demanded Taylor. “You know this outfit—who'd his partner be? Know anybody with red hair?”

“Nope, not in this outfit,” said Russ promptly. “Well, partner, I reckon we got some work to do before Sis gets here! She'd have heart failure to see the old place lookin' like hell, the way it does.”

“And we'll have a little more work on hand when the outfit straggles in about noon to wash up and get to town for Sawyer's funeral,” said Taylor. “Let's turn in the hosses and get busy.”

He himself went to the bunkhouse and there made a thorough search through everything in and out of sight, but it was fruitless. If any of the Lazy S outfit were in with Estrada on the banditry, their loot was well cached. Taylor rather thought the Mexican had been the only one in the outfit to be connected with the gang, however. The others must be sought elsewhere. The gang was probably drawn from several ranches,

Rejoining Russ, he went over the house, which was a large one. It was untidy enough, but not actually dirty; Barton subordinated everything to work, and had kept up the place in all respects save that of looks.

“Sis won't get here 'fore sundown, unless she's mighty. impatient,” said Russ. “I done sent out a wagon from town, to get there 'bout noon. Time she gets the stuff loaded up and rides the wagon here——”

“Not her,” cut in Taylor dryly. “Bet you ten bucks she forks a bronc and gets here ahead of the wagon, partner! Pitch in.”

Pitch in they did, although each of them were impatient enough to do other things—Russ Scott to go through the room Barton had used as an office, and find out how the ranch accounts stood, and Taylor to go through things on general principles. The bedrooms, three of which were used as storerooms, had to be emptied out and Barton's room given a good cleaning; noon was at hand before they had made a dent in the general appearance of things.

“How many riders in Barton's outfit?” said Taylor, glancing from a window and starting for the door.

“Five beside the late Eph Sawyer and Mig,” returned Russ. “Why?”

“One gone to town with Mig Estrada leaves four,” returned Taylor hastily. “And here's three coming in a bunch. Fetch your gun.”

HE MADE his way to the kitchen door. The ranch kitchen was a huge one, and was used by Barton's outfit as a messroom. The three incoming riders turned their horses into the corral and trooped over to the kitchen, shouting for Estrada. They came to a halt as Taylor lounged into the doorway, facing them, and with careful pose began to roll a cigarette.

“Howdy, boys,” he greeted them cheerfully. “Lookin' for somebody?”

“Yeah, the boss,” returned one. He noted that all three were probably tophands. They were tough enough in general appearance to top anything.

“Speaking,” said Taylor. “Pecos Taylor, partner in this here outfit and new boss.”

Russ Scott came into sight, and the three recognized him with astonishment.

“I've taken back the ranch, gents,” he explained curtly.

“Where's Barton?” asked one of the three.

“In jail,” said Taylor, and lit his cigarette. “Sent him there this morning. He says for you boys to pack your bags and come along and camp out in town after the funeral. He might have some idea of throwing me and Russ out of here. So I reckon it's your move!”

“Huh!” exclaimed the spokesman, shoving forward. “Think so, huh? Where's Estrada?”

“Gettin' measured,” said Taylor calmly.

“Measured?” The rider scowled. “You tryin' to joke?”

“Nope.” Taylor chuckled. “Mig had about the same notion you have, feller. There's his gun layin' on the ground yonder, Slim packed him into town, and I expect they're measuring him right now for a wooden suit to keep Sawyer company.”

“By gosh!” exclaimed another of the three, looking at the gun in the sunlight. “That sure as hell is Mig's gun! Say, what's been going on?”

“Quite a lot,” said Taylor, eyeing them. “You'll have to make town in time for dinner, boys. We been too busy to cook up a thing.” His voice changed suddenly. “And I'd advise you gents to stop wagging your tongues and get a-going. If you got any biggety notions, just go right after them guns you're wearing. Do one thing or the other, gents, and do it quick.”

Three against two—and a gun lying in the hot sunlight, and a fly-covered patch of blood where Estrada had fallen. The three knew Estrada well, Taylor was an unknown quantity, and their hesitation won the day. They exchanged a look, a low word, and then turned in unison and departed to the corral.

Five minutes later they were saddled up, packing their soogans, and presently they rode off toward town.

“Another feller due,” said Russ Scott. “That'll be Baldy. He ain't a bad feller, neither. Good hand, and Mary likes him.”

“Hint accepted,” said Taylor briskly, and pointed to a flurry of dust up the valley. “I expect that's him heading in now.”

Baldy it was, riding in just after the other three had passed out of sight. He came direct to the kitchen door, seeing the two there, and nodded cordially enough to Scott as he swung down. He was a wrinkled, bald little man of perhaps fifty, with bright and laughing eyes.

“Howdy, gents,” he said. “Where's everybody?”

“All of us here,” returned Taylor. “New partner and boss; old partner; old partner's sister coming this aftenoon. Late squatter gone to jail. Cook dead. Outfit chucked out. There's the layout, feller. You're the only one sort o' lost and strayed. I hear tell there's a regular job waiting right here if you stay with the outfit.”

BALDY took a minute or two to digest this, his shrewd, sparkling eyes appraising Taylor carefully, sweeping to Russ, then casting about and catching sight of Estrada's gun there in the sunlight.

“So that's it, huh?” he commented, and ejected a stream of tobacco juice. “Huh!” He wiped his lips with a leathery hand. “Allus said somebody faster'n Mig would come along one day and learn him to play tricks. Old partner looks good; old partner's sister listens good; new partner looks like he was out o' didies and kind o' salty—huh? Suits me. When do we eat?”

“Soon's we rustle up some grub,” and Taylor grinned. “Come on in and lend a hand.”

In this manner did the Lazy S change hands.

V

{{di|HEN the interior of the house had been placed in at least fair condition, Russ continued with this while Taylor and Baldy got a team hitched up and went to work at the tin cans and rubbish outside.

The more Taylor saw of wizened old Baldy, the better he liked the man. Baldy had been with Barton a year, had no love for the man, but proclaimed him a good cowman.

“Got nothin' to say ag'in him,” he stated. “Rough feller. That's natural. He's sure pulled this here place up and set her on her feet. Russ and Miss Mary comin' back suits me. She's a peach, that there gal! Her and me is good friends. If I was thirty year younger, by gash, I'd give all you young fellers a run for your money!”

Taylor grinned. “Know anybody around here with red hair? Answers to Arkansaw Red?”

“Nope,” said Baldy promptly.

“Who was Estrada's partner?”

“Didn't have none,” said Baldy. “He teamed around with anyone. Used to go over to the C in a Ring occasional. Flickinger and another feller over there talk Mex.”

“Flickinger? Who's he?”

“Bud Carrol's foreman. Come to think of it, he's got sort o' sandy hair. Ain't red, though. What's our program with them jaspers? Fight 'em as usual?”

“Not if we can help it,” said Taylor. “We got no quarrel with 'em.”

Baldy grunted, as though he had his own notions about this.

With three men hard at work, a comparatively short time saw a vast difference in the looks of the place. They got the foreground largely cleared up and had knocked off for a smoke on the veranda, when Baldy jerked his thumb up the road.

“Feller coming,” he observed.

The dust spurt developed into a rider spurring hard.

“Bud Carrol,” stated Russ. “The danged fool always rides like a house afire. When he gets a hoss, that hoss is done for.”

MR. SCOTT had changed for the better, under the influence of finding himself once more in unexpected possession of the Lazy S, and the hard work he had been doing. He had lost much of his surly enmity toward all the world, since leaving the toll house that morning, and had become almost cheerful.

From his encounter of the previous afternoon, Taylor recalled Bud Carrol as a heavy-jawed, hard-eyed young gentleman who seemed abundantly able to carve out his own fortune. A question to Baldy elicited that Carrol had inherited the C in a Ring, which for some inexplicable reason was not known as the Circle C, and had made good with it; also that Carrol was a good poker player, a hard drinker, and altogether an up-and-coming sort of man if he did not stop lead before he came.

“Funny Bud ain't in town, him bein' Sheriff Atwater's cousin—ought to be to the funeral,” said Baldy.

“Prob'ly come out here to get in touch with me,” and Russ Scott chuckled. “Heard the news and had a drink and rode out here.”

“More likely, to find me,” said Taylor. Baldy gave him a look of inquiry, but he only shrugged. He had no reason for his words. It was a mere hunch. Yet it was right enough.

Carrol reined in, dismounted, and stood at the steps. He flung a curt greeting at Russ and Baldy, but his gaze was fastened upon Taylor.

“You're Taylor, huh? New partner here—had Barton arrested and threw out his riders, huh? Yeah, I seen you yesterday all right. Want to have a word with you.”

“Shoot ahead,” drawled Taylor. “I got no secrets. Come on up and set a while.”

“Like hell I will,” snapped Carrol. “As for havin' secrets, you'll maybe change your mind about that 'fore I get done talking. Miss Mary here, Russ?”

“Not yet,” said Russ. “On the way, I reckon.”

Carrol nodded, and looked again at Taylor.

“Come on down and you and me go for a walk,” he said. “I got no gun, so you don't need to be scared I aim to plug you. You and me got to have a word together.”

“All right,” rejoined Taylor.

BALDY caught his eye, leaned over so that Carrol could not see his gesture, and motioned with his hand as though in the act of stabbing. Taylor caught the warning and nodded. He had already seen that Carrol wore no gun belt; as for any danger from a knife, he laughed at the idea. Yet the warning was well heeded.

Leaving the porch, he joined Carrol and they walked a little way toward the creek together, until Carrol halted, well beyond earshot of the house.

“Now, then,” he said, eyeing Taylor aggressively, challengingly, “out with it! Let's hear where you stand.”

“Huh?” Taylor frowned. “I don't get you, Carrol.”

“Nor me you. Are you aiming to fight Barton?”

“Search me.” Taylor chuckled. “Depends on him.”

“Then you'll sure as hell fight. He'll come over here and run you-all out. Want me to lend you a hand?”

“Huh?” Taylor was openly amazed at this query. “Why should you?”

“Because I want that there ranch o' Barton's—I mean the one he started with. It ain't no good to the Lazy S but would do me a heap o' good. Him and me had a meeting last week and signed up the papers—the bank's got 'em now in escrow, sabe? We quit our private war. I bought his old range off him, and he threw in the piece o' Lazy S range I grabbed. He's to give me possession first o' the month, and I complete the payment.”

“I didn't know of that,” said Taylor.

“Nobody else does neither,” said Carrol. “It was a private agreement. And now you've played hell with it all.”

“How come?” Taylor was momentarily puzzled by the man's attitude. There was something in all this he could not comprehend.

“Well,” said Bud Carrol, “here Sheriff Atwater and Eph Sawyer killed each other—lookin' like the war was still goin' on. Now you jump in, rush Barton off his feet, throw him out of here. What's he goin' to do? Go back to his old little ranch, that's what, and throw over his agreement with me! Nothin' else he can do, except get out—and you can gamble he ain't a-doing that. Now, I need that there Lazy S jog to fill out my range. Barton couldn't gimme title to it, but you folks can. So far's his ranch goes, I can throw him out o' there and grab it, the papers bein' in escrow. So I thought I'd see you, before Barton comes arunning to me proposing that him and me throw you out o' here and split the difference.”

Taylor began to see light. Shrewd Bud Carrol was playing his own hand regardless, and was playing it craftily. Barton's ranch was practically his now, though he might have to fight for it, but he also wanted the Lazy S strip he had grabbed illegally.

“Hm!” said Taylor. “You want us to deed you that strip, huh?”

“You bet. And you'd better do it.”

FROM one viewpoint, this was true; it was the cheapest way out of sure trouble. Barton, his force already badly crippled, would cast about for allies. He would certainly try to get Carrol to join him, oust the Scotts and Taylor from the Lazy S, and regain possession, such being nine points of the law. The matter of actual ownership did not trouble Barton. He had been surprised and caught napping. If he could turn the tables and hold the Lazy S long enough to ship out the stock on the range, he would clean up handsomely.

“Your advice is pretty good, Carrol,” said Taylor. “How much you expect to pay for that there Lazy S strip?”

“Huh? Pay?” Carrol looked his indignation. “Don't be a fool. I got the strip now, ain't I? I want a deed to it. I'll pay by helpin' you ag'in Barton.”

“I don't reckon we need help that bad, for a fact,” observed Taylor. “I sort of object——”

“Now listen here, feller,” said Carrol, tapping him on the arm. “Just waive them objections and persuade the Scotts to make out that deed, sabe? You better had, and I'll tell you why. Me, I ain't no fool. Me and Flickinger packed in Sawyer and the sheriff yesterday, remember. I looked things over pretty good. Atwater, he hadn't shot Sawyer at all—Eph was killed by a thirty-thirty bullet. Atwater was killed by a revolver shoved up ag'in him so's it burned him—real close. And Sawyer was thirty foot away. Now, I dunno who killed Sawyer, and I don't give a durn. That's Barton's lookout! But puttin' one thing with another, I could come pretty close to sayin' who shot Sheriff Atwater. I expect you get the drift.”

Taylor grinned at him.

“Bud, you sure have got your nerve! What's to hinder me plugging you here and now?”

Carrol met his gaze squarely.

“Hell! You're square enough, I seen that first thing,” he rejoined. “You may be a killer, but you ain't a coward. Now, far's I'm concerned, I'm willin' to pass up the whole thing, provided you arrange about that there deed.”

Taylor reflected. He could size up this man pretty well by this time, and the prospect was not pleasing. Carrol was entirely and absolutely selfish, willing to advantage himself in any way possible, and was ready to start a fight in any quarter that offered the best takings. In a way he was square enough, but he was not oppressed by any minor delicacies. And he was certainly strong.

“I'll tell you what happened yesterday,” said Taylor quietly. “I come along and found Sawyer dead. Atwater showed up, thought I'd killed him, and wouldn't listen to reason—wouldn't even look to see that my gun hadn't been used. He had his gun on me and I jumped him, that's all.”

That was not quite all, but it was enough to satisfy Carrol.

“I believe you,” he responded. “After hearin' how you got Estrada, I'd believe anything of you. Well, do we hitch or not?”

“I can't give you any answer now, Bud,” said Taylor quietly. “I got an interest in the place, that's all; when it comes to deeds, I got to talk things over with Miss Mary and Russ. You can see that for yourself.”

“Sure.” Carrol shot a glance at the veranda. “Far's Russ is concerned, I'd bend a gun over his head and persuade him quick enough. But Mary's another matter.”

“S'pose we leave it like this, then,” said Taylor. “I'll talk with 'em tonight. Tomorrow I'll ride over to your place and let you know, yes or no. Suit you?”

“Fair enough.” Carrol eyed him. “If it's no, ain't you scared we'll jump you?”

“Try it,' said Taylor coolly, and both men grinned. “Say, that feller Flickinger who was with you yesterday, he looked like a jigger I used to know down to Las Vegas two year ago. Was he down there then?”

“Nope.” Carrol turned, and they walked toward his horse. “Flick's been with me now going on three year. Well, we'll look for you tomorrow, then. Adios!”

“Hasta la vista,” rejoined Taylor.

CARROL waved his hand to the two men on the porch, mounted, and departed at a rapid pace. Taylor returned to the porch.

“Blackmail,” he said curtly. “Bud had it figured that I killed Atwater yesterday, and he wants us to deed him that there piece of Lazy S range he's grabbed. Otherwise, he'll throw in with Barton against us.”

“Huh!” Baldy surveyed his new boss. “And did you kill Atwater or not?”

Taylor nodded and sat down. Russ Scott exploded in an oath.

“Deed him nothing! I'll see that jigger in hell first! Well, goin' back to work?”

Work was resumed.

VI

MARY SCOTT did exactly what it was predicted she would do. She got the wagon loaded, then forked a bronc and came right along to the Lazy S. Packing up had taken time, however, and she did not get out to the ranch before it was in fair shape for her. She did not beat the team and wagon by so much, either, since she had to come through town, and as everyone thought she was there for the funeral ceremonies she had to attend them out of pure womanly decency. What she heard, however, sent her on out to the ranch in a hurry.

“Is all this true?” she exclaimed, dismounting at the steps, where the three men were gathered to welcome her.

“Yep, all true. We're here, and so are you,” said Taylor, grinning. “Welcome home, ma'am, and we sure hope you'll like it.”

“Stop fooling!” she snapped. “Is it true about you having a fight with Estrada and arresting Barton and——”

“Sho, now!” said Taylor soothingly. “I reckon you done picked up a lot o' gossip somewheres, ma'am. Estrada was one o' them mail robbers and he done got killed. I had a scrimmage with Barton, sure, but he wasn't hurt none and he's in jail or bailed out by now. Just you forget all your troubles and look at the work we got done here, and let bygones be bygones.”

“I must say you take it calmly!” she exclaimed, staring at him.

“Why not, maam?” put in Baldy. “Howdy! I'm right glad to be, workin' for you-all, lemme tell you! Come on in, ma'am—this here place is yours. I'll put up your hoss.”

Mary Scott was not to be put off by fair words, however. Not until she had heard everything that had taken place, would she so much as take a survey of the house; and then she rendered a verdict that was flattering if dubious.

“Well, we seem to be here—for a while anyhow! And you've accomplished wonders, Russ, you and Pecos, in doing so much; I never dreamed you'd have possession of the place so soon. Let's go all over the old house. I suppose it's dreadfuly changed since we left.”

SHE found it changed, indeed, but had no great opportunity to mourn, because the wagon arrived with their household belongings before many minutes. The only room left untouched by the house-cleaners was the former parlor, now used as an office by Barton. It held a large desk, a locked safe in one corner, and was strewn with books, papers, letters and other personal belongings of the late occupant.

“Here's our job, tonight,” observed Taylor, as they looked into the room. “Baldy, if you got nothin' better to do, s'pose you ride in to town and see what Barton's up to. He's got three men in his outfit, and might make trouble.”

“Yeah,” said Baldy. “You aiming to run a ranch without no hands? We got consid'able stock roamin' loose. Feller was due from Harmer City tomorrow or next day to look 'em over. Buyer. Barton aimed to clean out about five hundred head, sellin' on the hoof.”

“All right,” said Taylor. “Can you hire a couple fellers in town?”

“There or beyond,” said Baldy.

“You're range boss. Go to it. Arrange to meet that buyer and we'll do our own stock selling. And bring out word, or send it, where Barton is.”

Before Baldy departed, the wagon arrived, and the rest of the afternoon was spent in getting the house arranged to Mary Scott's satisfaction. This kept both Taylor and Russ hard at work, and as there was no lack of room in the old house, it was arranged that Taylor should occupy a bedroom here rather than a bunk in the men's quarters,

Sunset saw everything in good shape, and Mary Scott summoned the two men to a plentiful supper that was something in the nature of a celebration. She was flushed, starry-eyed, happy, and Pecos Taylor found it hard to concentrate his attention on the food or anything else than the suddenly exuberant girl across the table. Yet he knew this was no time for light words.

“We have work tonight,” he said gravely. “Barton will be here tomorrow, and I have to pay a call on Mr. Carrol—who has fortunately tipped his hand to me. We caught Barton napping, and we've got everything of his under our hand, account books, cash and all the rest.”

“The safe's locked,” growled Russ Scott.

“And it'll stay locked,” said Taylor, “until Barton opens it. Now, as soon as we get the dishes cleaned up, let's settle down in the office and find out just where we stand financially. By all indications, we should have a good thing, if we can hold it! Suit you, folks?”

“You bet,” said Russ, and the shining-eyed girl nodded.

“All except you doing the dishes,” she said. “That's my job.”

“Nix, we all turn in on that right now,” said Taylor, and suited action to words.

Half an hour later they lighted the swinging lamp in the office and settled down to find out whether the Lazy S had come back to its owners bearing riches or poverty.

Russ Scott went into the matter scowling, absorbed, intent upon the outcome. Taylor cared very little one way or the other, to tell the truth; he was more than satisfied with things as they were, and if the ranch were not well-to-do, it could be made to pay ultimately. Mary Scott, too, seemed interested but not eager. She observed the cool, detached manner of Taylor, and glanced at him with a smile.

“What's the matter, pardner? You seem to have something on your mind.”

“I have had,” said Taylor, with a laugh, “ever since I first met you. But——”

“Here we are!” broke in Russ Scott exultantly as he drew out a drawer from the desk. “Here's the books, by gosh, bank balance too! And durned if he ain't carried on the same old set o' books we left here. Look into 'em, Sis! You can tell right quick!”

Mary Scott looked into them, excitedly enough.

WITHIN fifteen minutes it became increasingly evident that Mr. Barton had never intended any eye but his own to see those books; and certainly not a Scott eye. He had kept up the books carefully, just as he had handled the ranch carefully, and it required only a very little figuring on the girl's part to discover that the ranch and its finances were in a state of astonishing prosperity. Barton had made two cattle shipments, had put some of the proceeds back into white-faced stock, and the Lazy S was in a position to make another shipment any time and stand the depletion of stock without a quiver.

“All of which,” commented Mr. Taylor, “shows what a good man can do with this here ranch if he knows how. Slide us that there bank-book, Russ. Get your figures straightened out, Miss Mary, and let's see how things balance up.”

Barton's bank balance proved to be impressive. When Mary Scott had brought her figuring to an end, and learned the bank balance in cash, she uttered an exclamation.

“Do you see? It's just about even—he's brought up the ranch value heavily, but probably a large share of this cash if not a full half, belongs to us, or would if we could get an accounting! We can't touch his money without going to law, but we can turn it all over to him, take the ranch and stock as it stands, and be even!”

When he was satisfied that her figures were approximately correct, Taylor leaned back in his chair, lighted a cigarette, and grinned comfortably.

“Partners,” he announced, “we play the cards as they lay! Barton's licked, and he knows it. Now that we got a woman on the place, he ain't likely to try and run us off or kill us, grab and sell what stock he can rustle up, and light out. Nope; he'll be over tomorrow and we'll have a peaceful settlement—for the moment.”

“You don't know him,” said Mary Scott anxiously.

“Know him? One look at that hombre is enough to know him clear to the ground.” Taylor puffed a moment, then continued, “If I'm here tomorrow, he's liable to start gunplay. If you're here with me and Russ gone, then he's blocked. So Russ and I won't be here.”

“Huh?” Russ looked up. “Mean to say you'll leave her alone!”

Taylor grinned. “Listen, cowboy—this here female is just as able to take care of herself as you or me, maybe better. Besides which, I figure Baldy will be back, to set on the porch with a shotgun and keep an eye on life in general. Miss Mary, you're a right good business woman—make whatever bargain suits you, and it'll suit me. I reckon Barton ain't at his best when he's dealin' with a woman, neither.”

“It doesn't worry you, though, does it?” asked the girl.

“Not a bit,” chuckled Taylor. “Depends on the woman, most generally.”

Her gaze searched him. “Have you—have you had any luck—with the third man, I mean?”

Taylor shook his head. “He's here, all right; question is, to find him. I hope to find him tomorrow, at Carrol's place.”

“Then I'm ridin' with you,” said Russ Scott. Taylor nodded, as though he had counted on it, but said nothing.

BALDY returned unexpectedly. He had sent word to a couple of good men he knew, and was sure they would turn up sometime next day. Regarding Barton, his report was more dubious. The sudden deluge of funeral ceremonies had somewhat staggered Springvale; so had the prominence of the new sheriff, whose activities had made him cock of the walk. Barton, released from jail on bail, had done no talking but had gone home late in the afternoon with his three remaining men—home being his old little ranch, over beyond the C in a Ring.

So Baldy drew his orders to remain close to home in the morning and keep the scattergun handy, and the wizened little rider grinned knowingly.

Mr. Taylor slept the sleep of the just that night. It had been a long day's work, and well done; but he had a harder day's work on the morrow. He knew the situation had to be clarified, had to be settled sharply, unless the Lazy S wanted to be in for a long and desultory range war. Carrol and Barton had to be settled once and for all, and without gloves.

As to Arkansaw Red, that was another story. The presence of Miguel Estrada proved that Red, his partner, was close at hand; Taylor had thought Flickinger might be the man, but Carrol's statement that Flickinger had been with him for three years disproved it. There was one fairly certain means of identification, however—Arkansaw would certainly try to do for the man who had killed Estrada.

“And then I'll get him,” determined Taylor, thinking these things over as he dressed and shaved in the morning. “And then I'll settle down here for life and quit chasing bad men—if! All depends.”

The sun was just over the horizon when Taylor and Russ Scott rode away from the Lazy S. Neither of them spoke until the ranch-house behind them had faded into a blur; then, as the highway appeared ahead, Taylor drew rein.

“What's the quickest way to Carrol's ranch, Russ?”

Scott motioned to the highway. “Half a mile to the left there's a road in. I'll show——”

“No! You go to town,” said Taylor. “Now listen, hombre! We don't know who was in that gang o' bandits, but there's two-three anyhow, and they'll have taken warning after hearing about Estrada. The man I'm after is one of them, prob'ly. I aim to prowl around, learn what I can learn, come to an understanding with Carrol, and then head for town. I may need you bad as quick's I get there, sabe? You get hold o' the new sheriff, and leave liquor alone.”

“Huh?” said Russ, scowling a little. “Liquor don't hurt me none.”

“No, but it hurts anybody's brains, and right now we need all the brains we got.”

“All right,” assented the other sullenly. “But you don't need to talk like I was a boy. If ye don't want me along, that's all right. Į aimed to lend a hand.”

“I know it, old man, but you can help me better in town,” said Taylor.

UPON this they parted. Taylor, riding along, looked over his rifle and six-gun and made sure he was in readiness for anything and everything.

He expected nothing definite, yet he expected almost anything. For weeks silent forces had been gathering slowly to a head; criminals, bandits and murderers, probably in league with the late sheriff; bad blood between ranges, jealousy and greed, secret but strong on every hand; and this festering sore had been abruptly pricked. Now it must be cleansed rapidly. And it could only be cleansed by an eruption of men's passions, by jail or death.

From the moment he had been recognized by the late sheriff, he knew that his own existence depended on quick thinking, quick action, and quick shooting. The sheriff was not the only person in Medicine County allied with the outlaws. Barton was not guilty; Taylor thought Carrol was innocent of any connection. But someone——

“Estrada's old partner, Arkansaw Red!” thought Taylor as he rode. “There's the man! If I knew who he was, I'd be all set. So Estrada used to go over to Carrol's ranch to talk with Flickinger and another jasper, huh? Well, we got to find who else talks Mex over there, and then we got him. Maybe!”

This idea, added to the fact that Arkansaw would undoubtedly try to get Estrada's killer, made things look better, and more certain. Mr. Taylor rode on his way with a cheerful whistle, as though bound for a wedding instead of for a possible funeral.

VII

THE Carrol outfit was a magnificent property, denoting what inheritance added to ability could do for a man in Medicine County.

The buildings lay amid a perfect grove of trees, all of them old and stately and spaced wide. The house was well off by itself, and toward this Taylor turned his way. The building was of timber, the clapboards white with fresh paint, the window shutters vivid green; the place looked more like some old fashioned farm house of the Middle West than a ranch-house set in the distant places afar from railroads.

The house had a wide gallery or porch, stretching clear across the front, almost level with the ground, and shaded by a dropped canvas awning. Seeing two figures sitting here, Taylor took for granted that one was Carrol. He did not discover his mistake until he had dismounted, and was at the single step leading to the gallery floor. Then he perceived that one man was Flickinger, the other a stranger.

“Howdy, Taylor!” said Flickinger, rising. “Come along and set. Carrol allowed you was coming, but didn't look for you till afternoon. He's done gone to town. Set down and have a drink and a smoke. Meet Jabe Hartley. Jabe's a friend o' the boss, and roosts out here when he ain't running county politics. We got room and to spare here.”

TAYLOR shook hands with Mr. Hartley and accepted a seat and a cigar. He was conscious of a keen and sustained scrutiny from Hartley, and repaid it with interest. The politician was a spare, rather undersized man, with two bright blue eyes that glittered in a dried-up face devoid of all expression; a perfect poker-face it was, framed by unruly hair of deep and lustrous blue-black, and the bright blue eyes shone in it like jewels.

“You've got a beautiful place here, all right,” said Taylor. “So Carrol's gone to town, eh?”

“Yeah. Was you aiming to see him on business?”

“Yep. Personal,” said Taylor. “I hear the sheriff raised quite a ruction by finding that Estrada was one o' them bandits.”

Flickinger sneered. Hartley flung away his cigar and chuckled.

“This here new sheriff,” he observed, “was maybe a mite hasty. I dunno the rights of it yet, but he ain't no shucks as a sheriff. He ain't a friend o' yours, Taylor?”

Taylor smiled a little. “Never met him before yesterday, so don't worry none. You can't offend me by talkin' about him.”

“Thought so,” said Hartley. “You aiming to square things up with Carrol? About that Lazy S strip?”

Taylor looked at the speaker, his lean face equally expressionless, his eyes cold and hard. Hartley sat quite motionless, which few men can do; it showed there was something to this man.

“That's for me and Carrol to settle,” returned Taylor quietly. “I think I'll ride along toward town and meet him.” He looked at Flickinger and spoke in Mexican. “Have you any message to send him?”

Flickinger shook his head, but Hartley smiled and answered in the same tongue.

“You might tell him that if he forgets to mail my letter I'll paralyze him!”

Taylor nodded and rose, He stepped out to his waiting horse, mounted, waved his hand to the two men, and headed for town.

So Hartley spoke Mex! There was one problem solved. Hartley, however, could not be Arkansaw Red. The only thing Taylor knew about his prey was that Arkansaw was a tow-headed man; and this fitted nobody in sight. Nor had Hartley displayed any animosity toward Estrada's killer.

“Looks like I drew blank, sure enough,” said Taylor to himself as he rode. “Something wrong about them two jaspers settin' there. Can't figure it out nohow, but something wrong! Question is, has Carrol laid some trap? Looks like there's more in this than I knew! And I'd better get to town. Wasted time enough now, with Russ Scott and Carrol both there. Makin's of trouble, li'l hoss, sure's you're born! I was a fool to send Russ to town.”

Although he pressed his horse, time passed ere Springvale hove in sight; the morning was wearing on toward noon, and the dilapidated county seat was inviting enough with its wide-spreading old trees.

As he rode into town, Taylor noted a scattering of horses before the hitching-racks of the five saloons, but few elsewhere. As his horse rumbled across the huge covered wooden bridge, the noise carried down Main Street, and one or two sauntering figures came forth to see who had arrived, then took to cover again.

HIS intent to find Russ Scott and get him away from a possible meeting with Carrol, Taylor dismounted before the War Arrow, the largest saloon, and strode inside. As he crossed the threshold from the blinding sunlight without, he was halted by two men; one was Sheriff Horton, the other a stranger.

“Hold up, Taylor!” exclaimed Horton in a low voice. “Gone too far to stop now——”

Taylor let himself be drawn to one side of the doorway, and blinked at the scene before him.

Except for two men at the bar, facing each other, the saloon was apparently empty—only a protruding head or two showed that men had taken to refuge a moment previously. The two at the bar were Carrol and Russ Scott, and the latter was speaking in a drunken rage.

“Deed you nothing, you polecat!” he was storming in violent anger. “That's done been settled! What's ours, we hang on to! And as for your throwin' in with Barton, do it and be damned to you!”

“That's fightin' talk, Russ,” said Carrol in a low voice. “But I don't aim to kill you. I ain't aimin' to hurt you none. If——”

“T'ell with you and your aiming!” cried Russ Scott, glaring at him. “I'm a better man than you any day, with a gun or without it——”

“Yeah? And who shot Eph Sawyer t'other day, huh?” drawled Carrol.

Taylor, given no chance to interfere, saw Russ Scott go for his gun, saw Carrol move and draw; the two shots came almost together. Carrol sagged back against the bar, and the gun fell from his hand; Russ Scott continued firing, three more shots in all, continued pumping bullets into the figure before him, then he crumpled suddenly and pitched forward. Carrol's one bullet had blown a hole through his body.

Next moment the War Arrow came alive, as men flooded out from shelter and others came in from all directions to seek the cause of the shooting. Horton took charge, having the bodies placed in the back room. Pecos Taylor stood alone at the end of the bar, and took a stiff drink. He needed it. Presently the sheriff joined him and poured another.

“How! Well, Russ done it,” said Horton, wiping his mustache. “He'd been sp'iling for trouble all morning. Now there's hell to pay.”

“There is—for me,” assented Taylor gloomily. “I got to tell his sister.”

The sheriff eyed him strangely. “Say, Pecos, I like you! And I owe you a lot, and I ain't forgot it, but there's more hell to pay than you know, maybe. Know Hartley?”

“Met him this morning,” said Taylor, “I was out to the ranch to find Carrol.”

HORTON swore softly. They were alone together at the end of the bar and could speak freely without being overheard.

“This gent Hartley is bad med'cine, plumb bad,” said the sheriff. “I been prayin' all day you'd git to town quick. I spoke to Russ, but he wouldn't talk none to me—he was in a bad mood. Well, this here Hartley was in town las' night, sabe? He come over to my office and had a talk. He says I'll have to give up the sheriff's star to Flickinger, and I says he can go to hell and Flickinger likewise. Hartley, he just laughs, and goes out. I heard later he was asking a lot o' questions about you from everybody.”

“He's welcome,” said Taylor.

“Yeah—you don't know him. Him and Carrol had a sort of agreement—he'd put some money into the property and was a silent partner. Well, last night I heard tell they had quarreled, but nobody knew what about. Now, this here Hartley, lemme tell you——”

“Never mind the whisky talk,” said Taylor curtly, seeing that the sheriff had taken a drop too much. “Cut out the drinking if you want to keep that star on you! Forget Hartley. Have you heard anything about the bank loot you found on Estrada?”

“Nope. I sent in word about it, but no answer's come. The point is, Taylor,” went on the sheriff earnestly, “this here Hartley has a lot o' friends in town, sabe? Most o' Carrol's riders are somewhere's around, too. Ain't seen a one of 'em come in here, though. It looks mighty queer. I can feel danged well that something's up, but I dunno what it is. Now that Carrol's been killed, his gang will sure as hell try to clean up on you. There's queer talk goin' around, too. I dunno just what, but something about you havin' planted that there money in Estrada's warbag.”

“Yeah?” Taylor looked at him hard and straight. “How far do you back me up?”

“Till hell freezes!” exclaimed the sheriff, but his eyes did not back up the conviction of his words.

“Is Barton behind whatever monkey-work is going on?”

“I dunno, for a fact,” said Horton. “I kinda think he ain't, to tell the truth.”

“Hm! Who's this Hartley? Where'd he come from?”

“Lived around here all his life,” said the sheriff. “Oh, he's been away spells, maybe two-three year at a time; always come back here, though. Gambler, that's what he is. He's got a thumb and six fingers in county politics over to Moronia, too. That hombre is plumb bad.”

Taylor finished his drink, “All right. I got a mean job to do at home, so I reckon I'll pull my freight and do it. Have Russ taken care of until I send word about the body.”

He walked out of the War Arrow, thoughtfully mounted his horse, and started out of town. He shrank from telling Mary Scott about her brother, and was thinking more about this unpleasant duty than about Hartley.

Hartley puzzled him. If the man were really a little tin god in Medicine County, why had he taken on a vicious animosity to Pecos Taylor? The answer was obvious. He was allied with the bandits—perhaps had headed the gang. He and Flickinger might both be in on the game. At this thought, Taylor straightened in the saddle, and his eyes flashed.

“By jingo, I bet a dollar that's the answer! Them two jaspers were in with Estrada, sure as shooting. And if I could get out to Carrol's ranch and go through their property, I'd most likely turn up more of the loot they hadn't got rid of yet.”

HE WAS passing the last houses of the town, before reaching the bridge. A startled yell rang out, followed by the crack of a shot; the bullet whistled past Taylor's cheek. One swift glance showed him a clump of horses at the side of a house, showed him four or five men tumbling out of the house, scrambling for their saddles. The bridge opening loomed ahead, and two or three shots together sent bullets spanging into the timbers around. Then, his spurs driving in, Taylor plunged into the cool darkness of the covered bridge.

Luckily, his talk with the sheriff had given him warning.

The dark tunnel loomed empty before him, as his horse lifted rattling reverberations from the planks. The men who had gathered at that house were undoubtedly Carrol's outfit; whether or not Hartley had instigated them to trouble, Carrol's death had touched off the spark.

“Caught 'em by surprise. They hadn't figured I'd leave town so quick,” thought Taylor, and reached for his gun. “If they come after me——”

They were coming, and no mistake. He was two-thirds of the way across when yells and the rolling thunder of hooves filled the obscurity, and the roof echoed to the cavernous report of pistols. The bullets went wild.

Ahead, the opening grew and widened, empty. Taylor headed his horse as far as possible to the left, to keep himself out of the bull's-eye, and the instant he was out of the tunnel he pulled the animal clear to one side of the road and slipped from the saddle. He darted back inside the bridge, now a wild roar of thunderous hooves, and, unseen, emptied his gun down the tunnel.

The result was terrible.

There was a crash that shook the whole structure. To see what happened was impossible, but more than one horse must have gone down, and the others, unable to stop, piled up. Yells and screams, oaths and shots, vomited down the dust filled tunnel, but not a single rider spurred on to the opening. That bridge had been a death trap, and the pursuit had turned into a horrible welter of kicking animals and frantic men.

“I reckon that'll give 'em a lesson!” muttered Pecos Taylor, as he swung into the saddle.

Reloading as he rode, he headed sharply out along the road to get away from Springvale as rapidly as possible. But he was not bound for home now; his thoughts were all on Hartley and Flickinger, sitting on the cool gallery of the ranch-house. Why had they sent their men into town to kill him?

“We'll find out, maybe. Got to have the full story to tell Mary Scott!” muttered Taylor, and grinned mirthlessly at the white road.

VIII

THAT noon, three men were gathered in conclave at the C in a Ring, where no one remained of the outfit except the cook.

Barton had dropped in there, after visiting the Lazy S. He was not wearing any air of triumph, either. Finding that Carrol had gone to town, he consented to stay for dinner and wear out the heat of the day, more especially as Carrol's private stock of whisky was famous for quality .

He made no secret of his morning's work.

“I'm up against it, that's all,” he said as they setted down at the dinner table. “So far as that there Taylor goes, I'll settle him one o' these days. But the danged cuss was slick enough to drag Mary Scott into it. With her on the place, I can't throw in a bunch o' men and go to shooting.”

“Far's I can see, you ain't got a shadder o' right to do it anyhow,” said Hartley. Barton gave him a dark look and grinned.

“Well, I'd aimed to clean up on a sizable herd o' stock,” he confessed frankly. “Can't be done now, though. I ain't carrying no war on women. And we made a settlement, her and me, this morning. I dunno as I hadn't ought to be satisfied.”

“My gosh, you're talkin' mighty low!” put in Flickinger. “That jigger Taylor was here this mornin', looking for Carrol. I wouldn't be s'prised if the two o° them had framed up something. Carrol, he's got the same notion you have about carryin' a war to women. He was right sweet on Mary Scott, too, one time. And this here Taylor is a slick one.”

HARTLEY grunted, and his blue agate eyes swept the faces of the two men before him. “He's a durned slight slicker'n you gents know or think,” he said slowly. “He's the feller who was workin' as association detective over in that there Sweetwater country sheep war last fall. Three cowmen was hung on his testimony, for killin' a shepherd. Three good men strung up, by gosh, for killin' a lousy, ornery shepherd that hadn't no excuse to live, anyhow!”

His words struck the others like a bombshell.

“What!” cried Barton, staring at him. “You mean to say he's that jasper? How you know?”

“Seen his picture. Same name, too,” said Hartley.

“Then, by gosh, he ain't going to settle down near me!” said Barton, and swore a great oath. He started suddenly. “Say! I just thought o' something. Mary Scott, she says Russ was with Taylor. Both of them here, or just Taylor?”

“Just Taylor,” said Flickinger. “Why?”

“Then it's a cinch Russ went to town,” said Barton. “And if Carrol's there too, I bet you some fireworks go off! Most of your outfit there, Flick?”

“Yeah, all but a couple of riders workin' on the north range,” said the foreman. He shrugged. “It don't worry me none if Russ gets his needin's.”

“Yeah,” said Barton, “but Carrol——”

“Blast Carrol,” broke out Hartley, his blue eyes venomous. “Carrol's a fool, I tell you! I got an interest in this here outfit, and me and Carrol don't hitch. You might's well know it, Barton.”

“Yeah.” Barton surveyed him. “Carrol's square as a die, and you ain't. You needn't to get riled up, neither. I've knowed you a long while Hartley, and——”

“My gosh, can't you two jiggers do better'n go to bawling each other out?” broke in Flickinger, anxiously. “Cut it out. If Taylor gets out o' town with a whole skin, which same he won't, then——”

“Why won't he?” snapped Barton.

“Because our outfit has orders to get him,” said Hartley, a rasp in his voice. His gaze went to Barton challengingly. “Carrol wouldn't hear to it, and I gave 'em the orders, so there ye are. Like it?”

Barton nodded. “Suits me,” he said. “Needn't think you can make me mad by killin' this Taylor! If you don't do it, I will, by gosh. I ain't evened up with him, by a durned sight!”

“Well, if you want my guess, here it is.” Hartley leaned forward across the table. “Barton, you know about findin' that there bank loot in Estrada's roll? You seen it done?”

“Taylor found it,” said Barton.

“Yeah. Him and Estrada were partners, by gosh! I can swear to that. Estrada told me about it a while back.” Hartley, whatever the purpose of his lie, could lie with the effrontery of a veteran. “The two o' them pulled off a lot o' jobs up beyond Moronia, sabe? Taylor, he come along here and Estrada seen right off he had turned ag'in him, and Estrada done tried to get him. Well, you-all know what happened.”

“My gosh!” exclaimed Barton, staring. “So that's howcome, huh? Prob'ly this Taylor had heard from Estrada all about me havin' the Lazy S and so forth. He sneaked along in and went right to Russ Scott and bought an interest—he had lots o' cash. Then he comes along and jumps Estrada, and tries to make a play about Estrada bein' a bandit! No wonder he could play a good game, with all them cards!”

“And by gosh, it was him killed Atwater!” cried out Flickinger eagerly. “Remember, Barton, the sheriff was over to the Sweetwater country time o' that sheep war? Bet you a dollar he seen Taylor there, and they met up on the road, and Atwater says something about it, and Taylor up and plugs him!”

“Huh!” exclaimed Barton. “But what about Eph Sawyer, then?”

“Shucks! I reckon Russ Scott shot him—he was killed with a rifle bullet, and Atwater with a six-gun held up ag'in him!” said Flickinger, “Me and Carrol figgered that all out.”

THE blue eyes of Hartley glowed with an unholy light. This was even better than he had looked for.

“Lemme tell you birds something,” he said earnestly. “This here Taylor ain't nobody's fool. He's so durned salty the cows come to lick his boots. I bet you he pulls out o' Springvale alive, for all of our outfit! I was talkin' to Horton las' night, but there's no use tryin' to drag that fool into it. He's all puffed up over jailin' Barton and finding the bank loot on Mig Estrada. The three of us have got to act.”

“Shoot the works,” said Barton. “Let's go out to the porch. Too durned hot here.”

Their meal being over, the three men adjourned to the gallery, absorbed a shot of liquid nourishment, and lighted cigars. Then Hartley voiced his program.

“Gents, we got to get this Taylor—providing he leaves town alive. Now, it's a cinch that if he had money enough to buy into the Lazy S, he's got the rest of his loot with him.”

“Then you've known quite a spell about Estrada bein' in that bandit gang?” demanded Barton.

“Sure. He says he'd reformed,” said Hartley glibly. “About Taylor, now—the thing to do is to make that cuss Horton resign and get Flickinger appointed sheriff. I'll answer for the prosecutin' attorney and the rest of the boys. First thing, we'll fix Taylor. And when we go through his stuff, we'll find his share of the loot.”

Barton did not like Hartley. Barton had his faults, but he was not yellow or crooked.

“I dunno just what you're drivin' at,” he said flatly, “but I aim to get Taylor my own self and do it my own way.”

Hartley hesitated, and shot Flickinger a glance, perhaps of warning.

“Well, that's all right,” he said. “But about the sheriff——”

“Suits me to kick him out,” said Barton.

Flickinger rose and went into the house. Hartley, saying he did not like the brand of whisky on the table, went in search of another. Barton emptied his glass and chewed on his cigar, eyes on the landscape. Presently Hartley returned with a fresh bottle.

“Somebody comin', looks like,” observed the rancher. Hartley glanced up, eyed the distant rider, and hastily went back into the house, calling Flickinger.

Barton rose, after a moment, and hitched his gunbelt around. He, too, had recognized the oncoming rider. He poured another drink and downed it at a gulp; then, with a flush rising in his dark face, he stepped from the porch and started out to meet Pecos Taylor.

Coming up, Taylor saw Barton there, awaiting him, impassive, silent. The porch was empty, but as Taylor dismounted, Flickinger came hastily forth and then halted,

“Taylor,” said Barton in a rather thick voice, “I'm lookin' for you.”

Taylor, hands at his sides, could not mistake the import of the rancher's words and air, but he gave no indication of anger.

“Let your lookin' wait for a better time, then,” he said quietly. “Prob'ly you don't know that Carrol and Russ Scott have just killed each other in town. It's no time for starting any more war, Barton.”

HEARING this, Flickinger flung a look at the doorway of the house, but it was empty. Hartley had not appeared. The news made no impression upon Barton.

“I ain't studying nobody else's business,” said Barton. “I got my own to mind. And I don't aim to take lying down what I've took off you.”

“In which I don't blame you none,” said Taylor, with the vestige of a smile. “But let it wait a spell, Barton. I'll meet you in town tomorrow if you want, but for today I got more important work than killing you. And I don't want to kill you now or later, if I can help it.”

“This here is the day and the time,” said Barton, as though he had not heard. “My gosh, do I got to draw and shoot you down like a dog?”

“I reckon you do, if you mean it,” said Taylor crisply. Anger lightened his eyes. “Don't be a fool, man!” he exclaimed. “There's been altogether too much killing around here. It's got to end sometime. There's nothing between us that asks for gunplay

“Well, you started it, so I reckon you can finish it,” said Barton grimly. “And I ain't anxious to be neighbors with no sneakin' association detective, neither. That got under your hide, huh?”

Taylor reddened, and shot a look at Flickinger. How had Barton learned this?

“I'm not an association detective,” he said curtly.

“You lie!” cried Barton, and went for his gun.

Taylor caught the motion, read the deadly, murderous intent in the rancher's eyes, and in desperation reacted to save his own life.

Against this man, Barton had not a chance. As the rancher's gun leaped up, Taylor's weapon crashed out on the hot sunlight. Barton whirled half around; his gun went off wildly, the bullet going into the ground. Then he pitched down and lay on his face.

Taylor strode forward, knelt above him, looked up at Flickinger.

“Come out and look after him,” he said, rising. “Prob'ly broke his leg, nothing worse.” Then his gun jerked up. “Hear me? Step out here. Unbuckle your belt as you come. Drop the gun!”

“What you mean by this?” demanded Flickinger, coming out into the sunlight, fumbling at his belt.

“I mean what I say,” snapped Taylor. “Let that gun drop—and grab for it if you want to take the chance! Where's Hartley?”

“Dunno,” said Flickinger sullenly, letting his gunbelt fall. “He rode off about an hour ago. Said he had an errand.”

“Probably setting some more of the outfit on my trail, huh?” said Taylor. “Well, you look after Barton, and do the job right.”

He picked up Flickinger's belt and gun, and stepped to the porch. As he glanced around, he caught sight of something moving in the open crack of the door, between door and jamb. He whirled like a shot—but he had detected the movement too late.

The white flame of a gun leaped out, and Taylor went down.

IX

AROUND the corner of the porch came the cook, running.

“What's the shootin' about?” he exclaimed, then caught sight of Barton. “My gosh, Flick! Who killed him?”

“Here, Ben!”

Hartley beckoned the cook to the porch, and pointed to the figure of Taylor, beside him.

“This gent done for Barton, but Barton got him,” he said glibly. “Hustle in, now. Fetch cloths and water—hot water, if you got it. Barton ain't dead. Move!”

The cook vanished on the jump. Hartley leaned over the figure of Taylor for a moment, and then rose, and came out to join Flickinger.

“He ain't dead—creased him around the ribs,” he said hastily. “I fixed things; so much the better! Now we'll make the job stick on him. Don't forget—Barton's bullet struck him, sabe? Barton won't know the difference. Here, we'll carry him up.”

THEY lifted Barton and carried him up to the gallery. His leg was broken just below the knee. At this moment the cook appeared with a kettle of water and some more or less clean rags.

“Look at that jigger on the floor, while we get Barton fixed,” directed Hartley.

The cook obeyed. He turned Taylor about on his face, and opened his shirt.

“My gosh!” The startled exclamation broke from him. “Looky here, Flick! Is this real?”

He showed them a flat, thick packet of brand new hundred-dollar bills that had fallen from inside the shirt of Taylor as he opened it. They were blood-stained now.

“Is he dead?” said Hartley, placing the bills on the table.

“Nope. Ain't going to be, neither. But my gosh! What a roll o' money!”

“S'pose you remember how you found it, Ben,” said Flickinger. “This feller is the one Estrada told us about, Hartley—one o' them bandits. Go get a rope. We'll tie him up.”

“And do it quick,” added Hartley. “Looks as though some folks would be along from town most any time now.”

In this, Hartley was more than right.

Taylor came to himself, to find that he was securely tied in a chair. His wound was of no serious import; a broken rib, loss of blood, damaged flesh and skin. A groan drew his attention to one side, where Barton was being held by Ben and Flickinger, while Hartley set the broken leg. The bullet had been extracted.

“All right,” said Hartley calmly, as Barton relaxed. “She's set, and he's done fainted; so much the better. Got them splints, Flick? Gimme a hand with 'em. Ben, go get the bottle on my dresser with arnicy in it.”

Ben departed hastily.

Taylor comprehended something of his own position, but did not understand why he was tied in the chair. He watched Hartley and Flickinger finish their job of rough surgery, and a very good job they made of it. Barton did not regain consciousness, for the pain had been terrific.

“All right, Flick.” Hartley stood up. “Reckon we can go and wash. Hello! Taylor's awake. How you feelin', Mr. Taylor? Durn your lousy hide, you'll be feelin' worse pretty quick!”

Taylor made no response. In the glittering blue eyes of Hartley, in that queer poker-face, he read a venomous hatred. It puzzled him. Flickinger regarded him with a grin, but it did not hold the deadliness of those blue eyes.

The two men passed around to the side of the house, for their hands and wrists were red with blood. Taylor saw that they must have bandaged him before attending to Barton, since his wound was stanched and his shirt had been roughly replaced.

Ben stumbled out on to the gallery, came to the table, and then swore softly.

“Hell's bells! This ain't the arnicy—it's Hartley's hair-dye!”

He swung around, but Taylor's sharp exclamation halted him.

“Hair-dye? Does Hartley dye his hair?”

Ben grinned. “Does he? Durned if he ain't the worst towhead you ever seen! Used to be, anyhow. You're lucky, feller! Yes, sir, I bet you can feel mighty lucky you ain't got but a scratch, and you can go to jail——”

TAYLOR did not hear what the cook was saying; he had closed his eyes, for realization had come to him with anguish and bitterness.

Hartley was Arkansas Red!

Now everything was explained by sight of that hair-dye. Hartley had altered his identity very simply; he was Estrada's old friend and partner; his vindictive hatred for Taylor was no longer a mystery, for he was the third man.

When Taylor opened his eyes and looked out at the landscape, his face was set in hard and bitter lines. He saw a lifting dust-spurt of approaching horsemen, but it meant nothing to him. He looked at Hartley and Flickinger as they came around the corner of the house, and when they grinned at him he said nothing.

“Pretty good catch, ain't he?” said Hartley. “Feelin' better, Taylor?”

Taylor did not reply, but under his steady gaze Hartley whitened a little, and then swore softly.

“Somebody coming,” announced Ben from the doorway. “Hey, Hartley! Want that arnicy?”

“Don't matter—I done forgot about it,” said Hartley. “Barton's bandages is on now. That'll be the outfit, Flick. Better send a rider to town and get the sheriff.”

“And, by gosh, remember it was me found the money on this feller!” spoke out Ben proudly. “If they's a reward for him, then——”

“Then it's yours, you bet,” said Hartley.

Taylor saw his grin, saw the packet of banknotes on the table, and suddenly comprehended that Hartley had trapped him. Then, for the first time, he spoke.

“You're done, Arkansas Red,” he said, meeting the gaze of Hartley. “You'd better start in sayin' your prayers, for my trail's ended! You know who I am and what I want you for.”

“Yeah, your trails ended all right,” said Hartley with a sneer. “It's ended in the pen, that's where! Are them the boys, Flick?”

“Nope.” Flickinger was eyeing the approaching group of riders with a puzzled frown. “Looks like Shorty's hoss, all right—— Bygosh, it's that danged sheriff! And a couple more fellers from town, and a couple I don't know! Shorty and Poke are with 'em, though.”

Taylor laughed harshly. “I reckon your outfit has lost considerable today,” he said.

The others stood staring, as the string of riders, half a dozen in all, swept up toward the ranch-house. Two of them belonged to the outfit, two were complete strangers; Sheriff Horton and two deputies completed the group. As they came closer, Flickinger swore.

“Shorty and Poke are tied up, Hartley!” he exclaimed, startled. “Something wrong.”

“We'll fix it,” said Hartley quietly.

THE riders drew rein. The two men of the outfit kept their saddles; the other five dismounted and approached the gallery, the sheriff in the lead.

“Howdy, boys,' he said. “My gosh, what's been goin' on here? Barton hurt? And what you got Taylor tied up for?”

“For you to arrest,” said Hartley. “Come on up and have a drink and' go into it. Who's your friends?”

The sheriff turned to the two strangers and introduced them.

“McGee and Foster, gov'ment men,” he said proudly. “They heard about me locating Estrada as one o' that there bandit gang, and come along to see about it.”

“Well, we got Estrada's partner right here, and caught him with the goods on him,” said Hartley, motioning to Taylor. The latter said nothing. His eyes met and held those of the two government men for a moment, but he made no response. The sheriff looked at him, frowning.

“This feller? Taylor?” said Horton. “Gosh, Hartley, you must be wrong there——”

“Well, come on up and take it easy—explaining's simple,” said Hartley. “What you got them two boys tied up for?”

“For raising hell,” said the sheriff promptly. “Your durned riders tried to shoot up Taylor, and he crippled the hull gang all but these two, and we gathered them in as we come along.”

All five of them came trooping up, disregarding Taylor and the senseless Barton. Ben hustled inside and brought out more glasses, and the bottle was passed around. McGee and Foster, the government men, did not drink. They looked at the package of money, and the sheriff handed it to them.

“What about this, gents? Is it loot?”

“Out o' the same lot you showed us at your office, sheriff,” said McGee curtly. “Come out of a registered mail pouch; bank number's still on the paper around it. Where'd you get it?”

All looked at Hartley, who turned with a gesture to Ben. The cook spoke up proudly.

“There's the guy,” and he pointed to Taylor. “It fell out o' this jigger's shirt when I went to turn him over.”

“How about it?” snapped McGee.

Taylor said nothing at all; he sat there as though carven in stone; but his eyes remained fastened on Hartley. Now the latter spoke.

“Gents,” he said slowly. “I've knowed for some time that Mig Estrada had been in that there bandit gang. He says he had got nothing out of it, and he had reformed and so forth, and would I keep quiet; I done it, so's to give him a chance to go straight. Well, you all know he fooled me, I reckon. The point is, he says to me one day that this feller Taylor had been the head o' that there outfit. Flickinger heard him.”

“Yeah,” said Flickinger, with a nod of assent.

“This Taylor came along today,” pursued Hartley, “and Barton was here. Barton, he steps off the porch to meet Taylor and pulls a gun. He shot Taylor, and got shot. Me and Flick was looking at him, and Ben was seeing if Taylor was dead, and gives a holler, and shows us the money.”

McGEE and Foster looked at each other, then looked at Taylor. The sheriff rubbed his nose uneasily, but was obviously helpless to intervene.

“Taylor's played a right smart game,” went on Hartley. “He met up with Sheriff Atwater in Eagle Pass. The sheriff hadn't been killed by Eph Sawyer at all. Me and Carrol found the two bodies and figured out that Atwater had been killed by a gun held close to him. He was powder-burned. Well, seems like Taylor must ha' killed him. That don't signify, but it goes to show how slick Taylor is. I s'pose you'll deny it, Taylor?”

Everyone glanced at Taylor, who smiled grimly.

“Not a bit of it,” he said, to the surprise of all. Then he fell silent again.

There was a moment of silence, then McGee cleared his throat and produced a pair of handcuffs. He jingled them in his hand.

“Looks like we'd got our man, Foster,“ he observed, and the other nodded. “I reckon you got no objection to our takin' him along, Sheriff?”

“I reckon not,” said Sheriff Horton, none too happily.

McGee came over to Taylor, and motioned to the rope.

“Cut him loose, Foster,” he said. “I'll 'tend to him when you get his arms loose.”

Taylor said nothing. Foster worked at the rope, and after a moment it began to come loose. McGee reached down and caught Taylor's right wrist.

V

SOMETHING astonishing happened—something so astonishing that for an instant none of those who witnessed it could believe their senses. And that instant was fatal to one of the men who stood staring.

Instead of clapping the handcuffs on Taylor's wrist, McGee jerked out his gun and slipped it into Taylor's hand, then stood back.

“You boys slipped up on one point,” he said. “Taylor happens to be the United States marshal in charge of this case. Play your cards, Taylor.”

TAYLOR grinned at the group of paralyzed men, as the rope fell loose and he came to his feet.

“Up, gents!” he said to Flickinger and Hartley. “You two jiggers are under arrest. Hartley, you're the leader of this bandit gang. Foster, you'll probably find what's left of the mail robbery loot in Hartley's possession. He slipped that package of notes into my shirt so they'd be found. Flickinger's hand in glove with him. Iron them, McGee.”

McGee was already crossing the gallery floor. He seized the uplifted hands of Flickinger and snapped on the handcuffs. Flickinger, pop-eyed, was too stupefied to find words. Foster moved toward Hartley, producing another pair of bracelets. For an instant his figure came between Taylor and Hartley.

In this instant, Hartley moved.

He ducked, a gun leaped into his hand, a shot crashed out. Another shot answered it like an echo. Hartley spun around and collapsed in a heap. Taylor lowered his smoking gun. There was a red crease on his cheek where Hartley's bullet had passed. A drop of blood gathered and fell to his chin.

“So that's the finish of Arkansas Red,” he observed calmly. “Sorry, McGee—you'll have to be satisfied with Flickinger. Sheriff——”

“By gosh!” Sheriff Horton came to him hastily, seized his hand, and pumped it. “By gosh, Taylor, I'm right glad! I didn't see no way to help you—and now it's all right——”

“And you'd better turn them boys loose,” said Taylor, indicating the two riders still in the saddle. “They were only obeying orders, and the outfit didn't hurt me none. McGee, if it's all right with you, I'll go for a ride. I got an errand to do, and it can't wait.”

“Sure,” said McGee. “Sure. We'll see you in town tomorrow, old timer.”

Taylor strode out to where his horse waited with the others. Grimacing with pain, he mounted; then, without looking back, he headed for the Lazy S and Mary Scott.

His trail was ended.