Chapter VII

The following day Crane realized that he had made a sort of a fool out of himself, and that Big Jim might fire him. So he decided to go to Antelope at once and make his peace with the man who was paying him to run the XO-Bar-5.

Slim decided to go, too. He asked Bill Smith if he wanted to ride down with them, but Bill declined. As soon as they rode away, Bill saddled his horse and rode toward Rainbow Valley. He was curious to know what old Rory McPherson thought about Big Jim’s accusations, and he also wanted to see Della.

The RMP ranch had been home to Bill Smith. He knew every clump of trees, every twisting of the stream in Rainbow Valley. Yet he was a stranger in the place. He rode in past the big barns and up to the old ranch-house, sprawled under the shade of some giant sycamores which had been planted there when the first McPherson came to Rainbow.

A huge figure of a dog, half-mastiff, half-Dane, uncoiled itself from a spot near the kitchen door and came toward him, its head lowered, a deep rumble in its throat. Bill Smith grinned and swung out of his saddle.

“Pancho,” he said softly, “Pancho, do you know me?”

The great dog stopped and looked at him. Its eyes were a steel-blue in color, heavily-pouched. Its nostrils worked violently, as it caught the scent of a man it had known so well. Then, with a little rumble of delight, it came straight to Bill Smith, fawning upon him with its great paws, trying to lick his hands.

“You knew me, Pancho,” whispered Bill Smith. “You knew old Tex.”

He looked up quickly. On the porch stood old Rory McPherson and Della, a look of astonishment on their faces.

“Why, it’s Mr. Smith!” exclaimed Della. “And a ver-r-y rare young man,” added old Rory. “Old Pancho does not take to str-r-rangers, sir.”

“I can’t quite understand Pancho,” said Della. “Look at him, Uncle Rory.”

The big dog continued to manifest the greatest of joy. He had been used to romping with Tex Rowland every day, and this scent brought back joy memories to him. Faces meant nothing to him; but a voice and a scent did.

“Aye, lass; and it’s uncanny,” replied old Rory, coming down the steps to meet Bill Smith.

He held out his hand and did not wait for an introduction.

“I’d take the dog’s wor-r-rd for ye, sir,” said the old man, as they shook hands. “Ye can’t fool dogs and children. We grow up and lose that intuition. Will ye not come and sit on the por-rch? Della?”

He turned his head and looked back, but Della had slipped into the house.

“Anyway,” he said, turning back, “ye’ll sit with me, eh?”

Bill Smith accepted a seat on the porch and rolled a cigaret.

“Ye are a str-r-ranger, are ye not?” asked the old man. “I have never seen ye before.”

Bill Smith nodded.

“Yeah, I reckon I am, Mr. McPherson. I work for the XO-Bar-5.”

“Ye do, eh?”

The old man was on the defensive at once.

“Ye work for Jim Mott, do ye?”

“I did,” smiled Bill, as he examined his knuckles.

Luckily the blow had landed square, leaving only a slight soreness.

“And do ye not now, Mr. Smith?”

“I don’t know. I belted Big Jim in the jaw yesterday, and he was too tired to fire me at that time. Crane went to Antelope today, and Big Jim will probably send my time out to me by him.”

“Ye str-r-ruck him, ye mean?” demanded the old man eagerly. “Ye did? And ye brought him down?”

Bill Smith nodded slowly.

“Wonders will never cease,” said the old man softly. “Ye--” he squinted at Bill Smith closely--“ye are a chunk of a lad. Ye have the arms and chest of a man I know, and I’ve no doubt that ye jarred Mr. Mott. And did ye have a r-r-reason for comin’ here, or did ye just dr-r-rop in?”

“I came to see Miss Marsh.”

The old man regarded him steadily, glanced back toward the door and moved in closer to Bill Smith.

“Do ye know what happened yesterday in Antelope?”

“Yeah. I was there and I sure heard about it.”

“Tell me about it, will ye?”

“I’ll tell yuh what I know about it, Mr. McPherson.”

And in as few words as possible Bill Smith told the old man all he knew about the missing money and the accusation against Della. The old man’s bony hands gripped the arms of his chair, and his face grew white with wrath before Smith had finished his tale.

“Ye ar-re tellin’ me true, lad?” he panted. “This is not a fair-rry tale ye tell me?”

“Say, didn’t yuh know about this?” demanded Smith. “Didn’t she----”

“----, no! I knew there was somethin’ wr-r-r-rong, but--oh, the poor lass!”

The old man got unsteadily to his feet, panting with combined wrath and pity. As he turned toward the door, Della came out and up to him. She had been crying. He put his hands on her shoulders and they stared into each other’s faces.

“I heard him tell you,” she said firmly. “I wanted to tell you, Uncle Rory; but I--I just couldn’t. It’s a lie--all a lie. I never took the money.”

The old man laughed fiercely, gripping her shoulders until she winced from the pain.

“A lie!” he fairly shouted. “Of course it’s a lie!”

He whirled on Bill Smith, fairly shaking his bony fist under the cowpuncher’s nose.

“Do ye think it’s true? Do ye think----”

“If I did,” said Smith calmly, “I wouldn’t ’a’ smashed him in the jaw yesterday.”

“Oh, aye.”

He gripped a porch-post fiercely and looked down the valley, his old eyes blood-shot with emotion.

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

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

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

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

He turned suddenly and stared at Bill Smith.

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

“Tex Rowland was my best friend.”

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

“Ye were Tex Rowland’s friend?”

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

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

“No--just a while ago.”

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

Bill Smith nodded slowly.

“Oh, yes!”

Old Rory straightened up with a sigh.

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

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

“And he’s alive?”

“Y’betcha.”

“Thank God for that.”

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

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

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

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

“He told you that, lass?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tha’sso?”

Bill slid his empty glass down the bar.

“Hundred a month,” stated Big Jim.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Something like that, Slim.”

“When do yuh take charge?” asked Bill.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally Slim grinned and held out his hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

The man was too occupied with his drink to answer.

“How long yuh been here?” asked Slim.

“Come in thish mornin’.”

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

“Dogs drag yuh in?” queried Bill.

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

“Dogs--not hay. Let’s have another.”

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

“You can have it,” replied Slim seriously.

“I’ll take it, frien’. Mush obliged.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yesshir.”

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

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

“Have a drink, gents?” he asked.

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

“Val’able dogs?” asked Slim.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

McHague tossed off his drink and grinned widely.

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

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

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

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

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

McHague flushed angrily.

“What do you know about Tex Rowland?”

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

“The ---- he is?”

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

“Your best friend, eh?”

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

“Yeah, that’s what I said, McHague.”

“You seem to know my name.”

“I know more than that about yuh.”

“What do yuh mean?”

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

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

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

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

“He lied!” snorted McHague.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“All right, Mac.”

“You’re ---- right, it’s all right!”

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

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

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

“Looks like it, Slim.”

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

They drew up in a cloud of dust.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know it, Slim. C’m’on.”

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

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

“Where’s Pablo?” asked Bill.

Mike John squinted thoughtfully and shook his head.

“Pablo gone.”

“Where’s Mose Dickey?”

“Down by corral.”

“Where’s Pokey?”

“Go with Pablo.”

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

“Yes’day. No come back, I s’pose.”

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

“Long way, I s’pose.”

“All right. I’m new boss here, Mike.”

Mike grinned slightly. Then he spat and nodded.

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

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

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

The two breeds exchanged quick glances.

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

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

“That’s what I said,” nodded Bill.

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

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

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

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

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

“He told Pablo that?” asked Bill.

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

“Uh-huh!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not very well,” admitted Bill dryly. “You remember the day Tucson was killed?”

“---- right!” grunted Mike John. “Pablo and Tucson go to Antelope. Pablo go get money from Big Jim. Pablo pay Tucson in Antelope. Pablo come home bimeby. Nex’ day Tucson come home dead.”

“That’s how it was, eh?”

Bill grew thoughtful. There was not much of a clue in that.

“What Big Jim’s girl do here that day?” queried Mose.

“Is she Big Jim’s girl?” asked Slim.

“---- right. Big Jim marry her--mebbe.”

“Mebbe,” grinned Bill Smith.

“Why she come?” persisted Mose.

“You remember Tex Rowland?” asked Bill.

“---- right!”

“All right.”

Bill squatted on his heels and drew out his tobacco. The others squatted with him and watched his fingers as he deftly rolled a cigarette and handed the sack around the circle. Then:

“Tex Rowland write letter to that girl. You _sabe_?”

The two breeds nodded quickly.

“Tex Rowland give letter to Tucson Charley and tell him to give to girl. Tucson give letter to girl; _sabe_? She write on same letter and give back to Tucson Charley. She tell him to give it to Tex Rowland. Tucson Charley put letter in pocket. Then he drink too much and somebody kill him. Letter gone. That’s what girl was out here to get. She wanted the letter. Now you _sabe_?”

“Somebody take letter?” queried Mike John.

“Yeah!”

“Tex Rowland give Tucson Charley letter? Tex Rowland in town?”

Bill laughed softly--

“Looks like it, Mike.”

“You think Tex Rowland kill Tucson Charley?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Um-m-m.”

Mike John inhaled deeply, letting the smoke curl slowly out of his wide nostrils. Then--

“If Tex Rowland give Tucson Charley letter--Tex Rowland kill Tucson Charley, so Tucson no tell where Tex hide.”

“By ----, that so!” Mose said explosively.

Bill got to his feet, a grin on his lips.

“Mike, have you got two good saddlehorses handy?”

“Two ---- good pinto. You want.”

“Bring ’em out, will yuh? We’ll slap our hulls on ’em, Slim. I reckon our broncs are about run to a frazzle.”

The two breeds trotted down to the corral where several painted horses were dozing in the shade, while Slim and Bill yanked the saddles off their sweat-stained animals and let them drift away loose.

“How in ---- did you know that Big Jim and Pablo had a quarrel, Bill?” queried Slim wonderingly.

“I didn’t. Those breeds are like children, Slim. I just had a hunch that they might have had a quarrel, but I didn’t ask Mike and Mose if they had; I said they had. If I’d ’a’ ask them the question, we’d never found out a thing.”

“Where are we goin’ now?” asked Slim.

“Back to Antelope, cowboy. When I get an idea I’ve got to run it plumb ragged, right away, or I might forget what it was.”

“All right, pardner,” grinned Slim. “Lemme in on the bloody details enough so I’ll _sabe_ when to yank m’ gun.”

“You’ll know when I do, Slim. Here’s the spotted broncs.”

* * * * *

The arrival of the sheriff and the two cowpunchers from the RMP caused plenty of excitement in Antelope. Biddy Toole shoved the doctor into a livery-rig, and they went out of town in a flurry of dust while the sheriff quickly swore in a posse to search the hills for Della Marsh.

The shooting of old Rory McPherson was only a detail compared with the kidnapping of Della Marsh. She was well-known in Antelope, and the sheriff had no trouble of getting more riders than he needed to fill up his posse. In fact, there were several independent detachments started out on their own hook, impatient to put a hangman’s knot under the left ear of the man, or men, who would steal a woman.

Big Jim was not in town, having left an hour or two previously for his ranch. McHague and Failing were there, but making no move to assist in the search. Failing was still half-drunk. The dogs had been locked in a store-room at the hotel, where ever and anon they lifted their voices in wailing lamentations.

Slim and Bill met the sheriff and posse a few miles out of town, but only stopped long enough to ask the sheriff the exact spot where old Rory had been found, before galloping into town and leaving their horses at the Fashion hitch-rack.

The town seemed deserted. There was no one, except the bartender and a couple of drunken old bar-flies, in the Fashion, and the bartender welcomed some one to talk to, bewailing the fact that he was too fat to straddle a horse and join the posse.

Failing and McHague started to come into the place, but McHague caught sight of Bill Smith and changed his mind. Failing came on in and joined them at the bar.

“Lots of excitement in the old town,” he observed. “I never seen folks get so excited over anythin’ in my life.”

“Mebbe you ain’t lived very long,” said Bill slowly. “Anythin’ is liable to happen to yuh, if yuh live long enough. Are you McHague’s hired man?”

“I’m employed by the prison--not by McHague.”

“What’s your job around the prison?” asked Slim.

“Oh, kinda general work. I take care of the dogs most of the time. I’m a trainer of bloodhounds. Whatcha drinkin’?”

They named their choice and the conversation lagged for a while. Then Bill Smith got another idea:

“Bloodhounds must be kinda queer critters, Failing. They ain’t noways savage, are they?”

“Nossir. Bloodhounds are the kindest thing yuh ever seen.”

“Well,” Bill laughed softly, “what’s to stop a man from just adoptin’ one when they’re after him?”

“You sure could, if they were turned loose; but we work ’em on a leash all the time.”

“Oh, that’s the idea, eh? And they can trail anybody by just sniffin’ somethin’ that the person has wore, can’t they?”

“They sure can. Them two dogs are the best you ever seen. I’ve got ’em locked up in that little buildin’ back of the hotel. Can’t take a chance with dogs as valuable as them two. Whatcha drinkin’?”

Bill winked at Slim, and when Failing was not looking they poured their drinks into a cuspidor. Round after round of drinks followed that one, until Failing became goggle-eyed and boastful. Slim and Bill became more sober, while the bartender spoke feelingly of ---- fools, who would pay good money for whisky and not drink it. But Failing did not pay any attention. He was having a good time.

“I sure reckon that you’ve got a fine pair of dogs,” agreed Bill Smith, after Failing had almost exhausted his vocal cords in describing some of their feats.

“I didn’t think so much about ’em, at the time,” he explained. “Dogs are just dogs to me, don’tcha know it? But after listenin’ to you, I’d sure like to see ’em ag’in.”

“Well, ----, come on!” gurgled Failing, shoving himself away from the bar. “I’ll show ’em to yuh. I c’n tell yuh lo’s of things ’bout dogs. I’m--I’m shome dogger, y’betcha.”

“Oh, that’s understood,” said Bill. “You’re a wizard. I betcha you know a lot more about dogs than the dogs know about themselves.”

“I don’t wan’ to brag, y’understand,” explained Failing. “I’m modesht, I am; but--c’mon.”

They followed him across the street, assisting him in keeping right side up. There was no sign of McHague, for which Bill was grateful. Failing led them to the rear of the hotel and fumbled with a key until Slim took it away from him and unlocked the door.

The two bloodhounds proceeded to climb all over their keeper and he sat down in the middle of the floor, slapping weakly at them. Slim shut the door behind them, laughing at the drunken Failing trying to protect himself from the dogs.

Then Failing gave it up as a bad job, stretched out on the floor and proceeded to snore raucously. The two dogs sat down on their haunches and looked sadly at him. They merely glanced at Bill, as he snapped the leashes on to their collars, but seemed willing to follow him.

“What’s the idea?” asked Slim.

“We’re goin’ to swipe these dogs, Slim. We’ll likely have to pack ’em in our arms when we get on our broncs.”

“I getcha,” snorted Slim. “We use ’em to trail Della, eh?”

Bill hesitated. There was one thing he had overlooked.

“We’ve got to have somethin’ that she wore, Slim.”

“By golly, that’s right, Bill! Say, she used to work at that little female’s hat-store just down the street, and mebbe they’ve got somethin’ there. You wait here, while I take a look.”

Slim was back in a few minutes, highly elated.

“I got her old apron,” he grinned. “The little female wanted to talk about it, but I didn’t have time. Now what do we do?”

“Get out of town. I hope to gosh that nobody sees us.”

They locked the door behind them, leaving Failing snoring peacefully. The dogs were willing to go fast, but the two cow-punchers snubbed them up close and went carefully back to the street.

There was no one in sight; so they hurried over to the hitch-rack and untied their horses. Both animals objected strenuously to having the bloodhounds hoisted upon them, but the two men were not concerned with the likes and dislikes of the two pinto horses.

As they swung into their saddles some one yelled at them from down the street, and they turned to see McHague running toward them from the hotel, waving his arms.

“Aw, ----!” snorted Slim, shifting the dog’s weight to his left hand and arm. “I s’pose I’ll have to kill this jigger.”

“There’s Big Jim ridin’ in,” chuckled Bill Smith, nodding toward the lower end of the street. “----, we might as well have advertised our departure.”

McHague was still coming, swearing at them for being a pair of thieves. The two pintos twisted and whirled around, anxious to run.

_Wham!_

Slim’s bullet splatted into the dust in front of McHague, and went _pouee-e-eing_ down the street. McHague stopped so quick that he almost fell on his face. Slim threw up his gun again, but McHague did not wait to see where the next shot would strike.

He whirled and went galloping down the street, losing his hat at the first jump. Slim yipped softly and sent another bullet straight down the street, over McHague’s head. McHague gave one long leap ahead, ducked sidewise and fairly fell over the sidewalk into an alley.

Then the two cowpunchers whirled their pinto mounts around and went galloping out of town, hanging on to the bloodhounds, which threatened to leave them at every jerk of the running horses.

“Yuh missed him both shots, Slim,” yelled Bill, as they swept out through the hills.

“Practise makes perfect,” laughed Slim joyously. “Mebbe I won’t miss him next time.”

Big Jim lost no time in riding up to McHague, who was sitting up in the alley, swearing bitterly. His pants were split at the knees and both of his hands were filled with splinters from the old sidewalk.

“They stole my hounds!” he howled at Big Jim. “That ---- friend of Tex Rowland’s swiped my dogs, so I couldn’t use ’em in trailin’ Tex. By ---- I’ll send ’em both up for this.”

Big Jim did not sympathize with McHague, who talked rather disjointedly about what he was going to do. Finally he bewailed the fact that the sheriff was out hunting for a kidnapper and that there was nobody to rescue his dogs.

“What in ---- are you talking about?” demanded Big Jim.

“Didn’t you hear about it?” queried McHague. “An old jigger named McPherson got shot and they can’t find his daughter. The whole ---- town, including the sheriff, is huntin’ for her.”

Big Jim grunted, swung off his horse and strode into the saloon, where he secured the rest of the information from the bartender, who was more than willing to tell all he knew. Big Jim’s jaw tightened as he turned and strode outside.

McHague was waiting outside for him. Big Jim considered him for a moment. Then:

“Go to the livery-stable and get a horse and saddle!” he barked. “Tell ’em to give you a good horse. Ask the stable-man to lend you a pair of chaps, too.”

McHague trotted toward the stable while Big Jim went into the bank, and came out in a minute carrying two rifles in scabbards. He swung on to his horse, rode down to the stable and helped McHague get ready. A few moments later they galloped out of Antelope, heading toward the northern part of the range.