Chapter III

Old Rory McPherson, with a cow-puncher riding on each side of him, came to Antelope town. It was an event, when Rory came to Antelope. He was past middle-age, a tall, thin man, with a thatch of flaming red hair, red whiskers and a fighting eye. His face was thin and almost as red as his whiskers, while his eyes were of an iceberg blue.

Rory had been a powerful fighting man in his youth, and woe unto him who might hint that Rory was not as young as he used to be! He swung off his big roan horse, tied it to a hitch-rack, and looked around belligerently, as if daring any one to contest his right to be in town.

None did. Rory knew that they would not; but he always waited for some one to try. With him was Dick Clarey and “Biddy” Toole, two of his cowpunchers. They wore their sombreros at an aggressive angle, swaggered in their walk and talked boldly.

Antelope was a town of about two hundred inhabitants; but it boasted a two-story brick building wherein was housed the bank. Two-story brick buildings were not common in that part of the range country, and Antelope had a right to be proud.

The rest of the business houses were of the false-front, one-story variety, with wind and sand-scoured signs, badly in need of paint. There were the inevitable board sidewalks, built well above the ground for no apparent reason, except, as one of the old timers said, “It makes ’em high enough t’ set on kinda good.”

Old Rory shoved his hands into his overall pockets and threw back his head as he stared at the brick building. It was not new. Rory had seen it many times; but he always stared at it, muttering a curse into his red beard.

He hated “Big Jim” Mott, the man who had built and owned that brick building; hated him with every drop of his Scotch blood.

Big Jim had said--

“---- you; I’ll sheep out Rainbow Valley one of these days!”

Old Rory McPherson owned Rainbow Valley and he replied:

“Ye will? Then that will be many a long year after the sheep have made a vile-smellin’ dust heap out of Antelope.”

And Big Jim Mott owned Antelope range. The feud between Rory and Big Jim had started before the advent of the branch railroad into Antelope. The railroad had made old Rory even more bitter.

The logical thing, according to Rory, would have been for the railroad to have come in through Rainbow Valley, leaving the main line at a point about three miles north of Claymore, the little village at the upper end of Rainbow, and following an easy grade down through Rainbow and into the Antelope country.

But instead, it came in from the town of Welcome, twisted in and out of the hills, barely touching the lower border of Rainbow and running due south to Antelope. And old Rory McPherson knew why the railroad did not come in through Rainbow. He knew that Big Jim’s political pull kept the railroad out of Rainbow Valley.

It had been of no advantage to Big Jim, and had not injured Rory McPherson, as far as that was concerned; but a railroad through Rainbow Valley would have been of decided advantage to Rory. And Rory knew that Big Jim had done all this with malice aforethought.

“You and your dir-r-rty buildin’!” muttered Rory.

“What did yuh say?” asked Dick Clarey.

“Nawthin’.”

Rory squinted across the street, jerking the brim of his sombrero a trifle lower, as he spelled out a faded sign--

MISS FREELAND, MILLINERY

He nodded slowly and turned to the two cowboys.

“Be cir-r-cumspect, will ye? I’ve an errand just now.”

He turned on his heel and crossed the street toward the little millinery store, while the two cowboys looked at each other. They grinned as they turned toward a saloon entrance.

“What in the ---- is he goin’ to do there?” wondered Dick.

“He’s not goin’ to buy hats, that’s a cinch,” laughed Biddy.

Old Rory rattled his spurs up to the door and knocked loudly. After a moment the door creaked half-way open and a faded-looking little woman stared out at him.

“I’m lookin’ for Miss Della Mar-r-rsh,” he told her. “She wor-rks here, I’ve been told.”

The little woman shook her head quickly. “She did work here,” she said, as if apologizing, “but they gave her a position over in the bank, Mr. McPherson. She has been there nearly a week now.”

Old Rory stared at her, turned his head slowly and squinted at the hated building.

“Over there?” He jerked his thumb in that direction. “Do ye mean to say that she’s wor-r-rkin’ in that building, ma’am?”

“Yes--for the bank.”

“Oh, ho-o-o! For the bank, ye say? Now what the ---- do ye know about that?”

The door shut quickly behind him. But he did not mind. In fact he had forgotten all about the little milliner lady. He clenched his freckled old hands until the knuckles looked like rows of white marbles, and his lower jaw jutted angrily. There was no question but what Rory McPherson was very angry.

He started across the street toward the bank, but changed his mind and went to the saloon, where he found Dick and Biddy at the bar.

“Have a little drink, Rory?” invited Biddy, moving aside to give the old man room.

But Rory shook his head angrily.

“I’ve no stomach for-r-r anythin’ in this town!” he snorted. “I’ve been insulted by me own flesh and blood. It may not be a Christian thing to tak’ the name of the Lord in vain, but right noo I’m gr-r-ropin’ for wor-r-rds that will fit the occasion.”

“What’s gone wrong?” queried Dick Clarey.

“Wrong? Did ye say wrong, Dick? Everythin’! Della has gone to wor-r-rk for that----”

Old Rory shut his lips tightly, and his beard lifted like the hair on the back of an angry dog.

Dick and Biddy understood what he meant. Biddy fingered his glass, his head cocked on one side thoughtfully.

“At the ranch, Rory?” he asked.

“In the bank, Biddy.”

“What doin’?” queried Dick.

“No matter what doin’!” snorted Rory. “It’s another of his dir-rty deals. I came here to take her awa’ from the makin’ of hats. No job is that for a bit o’ a lass; not while her uncle has a cent. And I find her wor-rkin’ for--that! Shamin’ me, he is.”

The old man’s voice trembled with anger, but he threw up his head and turned to the bar, which he thumbed with his clenched fist.

“Gi’e me whusky,” he ordered hoarsely. “When ye’r hear-rt tells ye to kill--drink whusky for ballast. Gi’e me the bottle, will ye? That glass is no sup for a sufferin’ mon.”

After a few big drinks Rory was well organized for anything. His Scotch brogue grew more broad, but the whisky softened his bitterness. A vacant chair at a poker table called to him; so he sat down to play, while Dick and Biddy slipped out of the place and went down to the bank. They knew that the old man was good for several hours and several more drinks, and that he was not liable to get into trouble while under the influence of liquor. It seemed that liquor softened his nature, although his conversation became so full of burs that no one could understand him.

They found Della Marsh in the bank; a slip of a girl, with an oval face framed in a mass of brown hair. There seemed to be a perpetual sadness about her wide, blue eyes, and she greeted them with a wistful smile.

“How long have yuh been here, Dell?” asked Dick.

“About a week, Dick. How is Rainbow Valley?”

“Fine. The old man came in with us.”

“Uncle Rory? Where is he?”

“Over in the Eagle saloon. Say, Dell, he’s sore as a boil.”

“Sore? What about, Dick?”

Dick lowered his voice:

“Because you’re workin’ here. You know this bank belongs to Big Jim Mott, don’tcha?”

“Why, yes, I know it. But I don’t see--”

“Listen,” interrupted Biddy. “He came in today to get yuh to go back to the ranch, Dell. He knowed that yuh was workin’ at that millinery store. He wants yuh to come back home. I reckon we all want yuh to come back, too, Dell.”

Biddy shuffled his feet nervously. Della looked at him, her eyes smiling. But she shook her head slowly:

“No, I don’t want to go back there, Biddy. I don’t want to be dependent on any one, don’t you see? I can make my own living.”

“That’s true,” nodded Biddy. “If it was anybody but Mott.”

“You didn’t ask for the job, did yuh, Dell?” asked Dick.

Della colored slightly, but shook her head.

“No, I didn’t, Dick. Mr. Mott asked me if I wanted to work in the bank. It is not hard work.”

“It’ll sure be hard for Rory McPherson,” declared Biddy.

“Oh, I’m sorry about that,” said Della wistfully. “I wish that Uncle Rory and Mr. Mott would be friends. Mr. Mott seems so big and generous; not at all as I had believed him to be.”

“A snake is slick,” muttered Biddy, “and a coyote ain’t no homely critter.”

“That is unkind, Biddy,” said Della softly.

“Ex-cuse me,” said Biddy quickly. “I was thinkin’ outloud. And we just found out the other day that Jim Mott owns the old XO-Bar-5.”

“The XO-Bar-5?” questioned Della wonderingly. “Why, I thought it belonged to Marvin Crane.”

“Well, it don’t,” declared Biddy. “He was just runnin’ it.”

“Then it was Mott who--”

Della stopped and stared out through the open door.

“Yeah,” nodded Dick seriously. “It was Big Jim Mott who sent Tex Rowland to the penitentiary, Dell. Of course, yuh can’t hold a thing like that ag’in’ Mott; but it was him--not Crane.”

The three were silent for several moments. Then Della looked at both men and spoke softly--

“Is there any news of Tex?”

Biddy shook his head:

“Not a word, Dell. Accordin’ to the papers they can’t find a trace of him. He made a clean getaway.”

“Will he ever come back here, do you think?”

Biddy shook his head slowly.

“No, I don’t reckon he will, Dell. It’s hard to tell where old Tex will hole-up. He’s been out almost a month. Well, I reckon we better be goin’, Dell.”

They shook hands with her and went outside, heading back to the saloon.

“She sure thinks a lot of old Tex,” observed Dick.

Biddy nodded:

“The old crooked-nosed son-of-a-gun. By golly, Dick, he was a danged good feller. They don’t make ’em better than Tex Rowland. He was homely as the ----, wasn’t he? Kinda like findin’ an old bent can, without any label; and when yuh open it up yuh find she’s full of peaches. That’s old Tex--a peach on the inside.”

* * * * *

At the doorway of the saloon they met Jack Lohman, the sheriff, whose office was at Welcome, the county seat. He was a tall, squint-eyed man, and as hard as the job he had been voted into.

“Hyah, Lohman,” greeted Biddy, as they shook hands. “How’s the law and order comin’?”

“’Sall right,” grinned Lohman. “How’s crime?”

“Doin’ right well. Whatcha doin’ down in this neck of the woods?”

“Electioneerin’.”

“Thasso?” Biddy grinned widely. “You’re startin’ early, ain’t yuh? You was only re-elected last Fall. I’ll bet you’re lookin’ for Tex Rowland.”

Lohman grinned, but grew serious, as he said:

“Kinda funny they never located Tex. Either he’s smarter than the law, or he’s lucky as ----. They were on his trail within ten minutes after he went out through the gate; but he sure faded complete-like. He don’t know nothin’, except punchin’ cows, and some day he’ll be picked up on some cow-ranch.”

“It won’t be in this end of the country,” said Dick. “He wouldn’t be fool enough to come back here.”

“Suits me,” said Lohman. “I ain’t got nothin’ against Tex. He always treated me fine, and as far as I’m concerned he can stay out of jail. I got a letter from McHague, the warden at the pen, the other day tellin’ me to watch out for Tex around here.”

“And you’d pick him up in a minute, too,” grinned Biddy.

“I wonder if I would,” said Lohman seriously.

“That calls for a drink,” said Dick warmly. “You ain’t on the wagon, are yuh, Lohman? Or mebbe the law don’t allow yuh to drink.”

“I never swore I wouldn’t,” laughed Lohman, and they went to the bar together.

Old Rory McPherson did not seem to be having any great luck at poker. He played a hard game, but not a scientific one. He did not bluff; but played every hand for what he thought it was worth.

“I’ll not lie,” he told them seriously. “’Tis the Scotch in me, I’m thinkin’.”

“It’s the rye in yuh, yuh mean,” grumbled a disgruntled player, who had tried to bluff the old man out of a good pot, only to find him holding a full-house.

“Rory don’t come down here very often, does he?” asked Lohman.

“Not any oftener than he has to,” assured Biddy. “He ain’t got much use for Antelope. Him and Big Jim ain’t friendly, yuh know.”

“Too bad,” said Lohman. “It kinda splits this country. I was over to the Lightnin’ ranch yesterday. Pablo acted like I wasn’t a bit welcome.”

“Nobody welcome around there,” grinned Biddy. “As far as I’m concerned, they don’t need to welcome me. ‘Paint’ Pablo is loco over pinto horses. I hear he sold a car-load to some circus.”

“He’s a breed, ain’t he?” asked Lohman.

“Nez Perce and French,” said Dick, “with the rattle-snake predominatin’.”

Lohman laughed and turned back to the bar.

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

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

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

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

“Or for Rory McPherson,” laughed Lohman.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Were you speaking to me?” he asked.

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

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

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

“Ye are a man of discernment, Mott.”

“You’re drunk.”

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

Big Jim turned and spoke to the sheriff--

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

Lohman laughed and shook his head.

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

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

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

“A drunken old fool, am I?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

“Did they talk to Miss Marsh?”

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

Big Jim smoked thoughtfully for a while.

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

Eddy nodded quickly.

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

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

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

“Give her Jevne’s job.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Send her in here, Eddy.”

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

“No, I did not, Mr. Mott.”

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

“Why, yes.”

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

She looked at him inquiringly and he continued--

“You will take his job, Miss Marsh.”

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

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

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

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

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

Big Jim laughed at her and held out his hand:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fate, ----!” he snorted.

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

“What did he say, Miss Freeland?”

“I’d not repeat it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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