Chapter II: Part 2

“If you’d ’a’ said you was clean-souled, I’d keep still, ’cause yore soul ain’t visible,” grinned Mex. “You ain’t took a bath since yore bronc bogged down in the Little Muddy last spring. With all the land she’s gettin’ on the old Lazy A, I don’t reckon the lady would want any extra real estate, Pie.”

Mex dodged gracefully through the doorway, just ahead of the shoe-brush, which Pie hurled the length of the room. It was a good throw--as far as velocity was concerned--but the angle was bad and Omaha looked up just in time to get the handle of it across the bridge of his nose. Omaha went backward over a chair, landing on the back of his neck near the door, howling bloody murder. Nothing could ever convince Omaha that Pie Ide had not intended to hit him. He came to his feet, swearing a streak, blood running from his injured nose, eyes half blinded.

His grasping hands came in contact with his belt and gun on a bunk, and he fired one wild shot, as Pie Ide went under a bunk on his hands and knees.

“Gdigyuh!” wailed Omaha. He staggered to the center of the room, one hand held to his streaming nose, as he tried to locate Pie under the bunk.

“What’s goin’ on in here?” Idaho Breen had just heard the commotion, and had come from the stable. “What happened to you, Omaha? Put down that gun!”

“It was an accident, Idaho!” panted Pie, sticking his nose and eyes out between a drapery of blankets, which hung down over the end of the bunk. “I throwed that brush at Mex, and Omaha walked into it. Take the gun away from him, Idaho.”

“I’d wadden’t no dab aggcided,” denied Omaha. “He idtedded to hid be.”

“He throwed it at me,” Mex stuck his head around the corner of the doorway. “But you’ve got my consent to kill him, Omaha.”

“Some of you damn’ fools are goin’ to kill each other one of these days,” declared Idaho. “Why don’tcha ever grow up?”

Omaha tossed the gun to the bunk, and turned to the broken mirror to examine his injury. The nose was swelling, and was tinged with purple across the bridge. Idaho grunted disgustedly and walked out, while Pie crawled from beneath the bunk and advised Omaha to hold his breath and stop the bleeding.

“Will thad stob id?” asked Omaha wearily.

“Sure it will.”

Omaha tried it, but with no results. “How log?” he asked heavily. “How log do you hab to hold id?”

“All depends on the person,” said Pie seriously. “Some die a lot harder than others.”

But this time Pie had secured Omaha’s gun, and walked outside to join Mex. Idaho was hitching up the buggy team, with the intention of going to Oreana City to meet the train. Idaho had not dressed for the reception of the heiress of the Lazy A, but the three cowboys felt differently about it. All they knew was that Mary Ault, old Jud Ault’s niece, was coming to the Lazy A. Idaho had told them that she was a fairly young woman. It was not often that the Lazy A boys dressed up, but when they did they made an event of it.

Pie had suggested that they all go to the depot to meet her, but Idaho vetoed that idea. Idaho drove away. It would be several hours before train time. Omaha came from the bunkhouse, looking queer with his purple nose, which resembled a potato in contour.

“All dressed up and no place to go,” complained Pie. “It’s hours before the train comes in.”

“And nothin’ to drink on the ranch,” wailed Omaha. “I’d sell my soul for a shot of liquor.”

“Got over yore hayfever, eh?” grinned Mex. “Yore nose looks like the handle on a door.”

“Thasall right,” growled Omaha. “Ne’ mind my nose.”

“It strikes me that somethin’ must be done,” said Pie. “We can’t gloom around here for hours, dressed thisaway. Suppose we go to town, keep out of sight of Idaho, and when the train whistles we can head for home.”

“Yore voice is tuned for my heartstrings,” said Mex. “How about you, Omaha?”

“Pshaw, I’m halfway there right now. C’mon.”

And while the three Lazy A cowboys headed for town, four other riders, “Buck” Wing, “Heinie” Moriarity, “Klondike” Evans and Joe Chevrier, of the Star X, foregathered in the Oreana saloon and gambling house, with enough money in their pockets to make the visit worthwhile.

Buck Wing was a long-legged, buck-tooth cowboy, with one eye slightly out of line, and one of his ears, in prize fight parlance, was slightly cauliflowered. Moriarity was short, broad of shoulder, typically Celtic, even to his love of battle.

Klondike Evans was of medium height, bald-headed, sallow complexioned, which accentuated the wispy black mustache on his long upper lip. Joe Chevrier was a little, red-faced, French-Canadian, voluble, excitable, the butt of most of the rough jokes originated by Buck and Heinie.

The Lazy A and the Star X outfits had never met since the funeral of Jud Ault. Personally there had never been any bad blood between the cowboys, but they had been loyal to their own outfits, respecting the ancient enmity.

Idaho Breen saw that the Star X outfit was at the Oreana; so he tied his buggy team in front of the New York Store, and gave the Oreana a wide berth. This was as Pie Ide had expected; so the Lazy A trio tied their horses at the rear of the Oreana and made their entrance through the rear door.

The four Star X boys were at the bar. Omaha, Pie and Mex stopped about midway of the room, looking at the Star X men.

Buck Wing grinned widely. He had imbibed plenty of liquor and his soul was mellow toward everybody.

“’S far as I kin see,” he said slowly, “there ain’t no feud left. Hyah, cowboys!”

And for the first time since the feud started, the Star X punchers shook hands with those from the Lazy A. After about the sixth drink, Omaha offered this explanation:

“This here Miss Ault, which the old man designates in his will-paper as bein’ the one he chooses to own the Lazy A, is due to hit Oreana City this evenin’. Idaho Breen aims to take her out to the ranch. That’s the reason we’re all duded up this-a-way. When that train toots for Oreana City, we fogs for home and lines up at the front door to welcome her.”

“Perfec’ly proper,” said Klondike owlishly. “My, my, I don’t see how you boys ever got so stylish! I take one look at Pie Ide, and I says to myself, ‘Here’s a ’Piscopal preacher.’ You shee it was that collar that fooled me.”

“’S one of mine,” said Omaha. “Pie punched button-holes in it. Had t’ kinda lap the ends over to fit his neck.”

“My Gawd, he shore is a dude!” applauded Buck Wing. “Yo’re all pretty gaudy, if yuh ask me. Still, it’s perfec’ly proper under the circumstances. Whatcha say, Joe?”

Joe Chevrier hadn’t said anything. Liquor made him just a trifle mournful, it seemed. He looked gloomily upon the three Lazy A punchers.

“I say not’ing,” he replied. “Me, I’m jus’ t’ink w’at somebody say ’bout Star X kill Lazy A beef and t’row hide in de prospec’ hole.”

“Drop it!” growled Heinie. “This is no time to stir up a lot of smelly cow-hides, you frog-eater!”

Frenchy was properly squelched, but continued to glower. He was just drunk enough to hold a grudge, and his remarks brought a decided chill over the festivities.

“I’m for buryin’ any hatchet that might be around,” said Pie Ide. “We might as well all be good little friends together.”

“Sure thing,” agreed Buck Wing. “I’m willin’. But you know yourself, Pie, that Idaho Breen made some remarks that are hard to overlook.”

“You say somet’ng true,” applauded Joe.

“And I’m goin’ to squirsh you, if yuh don’t shut up!” snapped Heinie.

“And I’ll help yuh,” offered Omaha. Heinie glared at Omaha.

“The hell yuh will!”

“If yuh need help,” amended Omaha quickly.

“I’m not scare from de Lazy A, you bet,” declared Joe.

“You shore don’t need to be, Joe,” said Klondike warmly.

“Well, yuh can’t hold us responsible for what Breen said, can yuh?” asked Pie Ide. “I’d crave to know if we’re responsible for what our boss says; that’s what I’d crave to know.”

“You seems to have a cravin’, cowboy,” observed Buck coldly. “Folks that crave hard enough usually gits, yuh know.”

“Aw, you don’t need to git yore tonsils all swelled up,” said Pie. “We came here in a peaceful mood. Yo’re four to our three, but nobody ever seen the Lazy A----”

“Let’s arbitrate,” interrupted Omaha. “I’ll buy a drink. And we don’t care how many Lazy A cows you’ve rustled. We don’t care if you’ve filled every prospect hole from here to Welcome Creek with Lazy A hides. Whatcha drinkin’, gents?”

“Are you admittin’ to yourself that we has done such a thing?” Heinie Moriarity hitched up his belt, his eyes snapping.

“Let’s have the drink first,” suggested Klondike.

Arguments were forgotten for the moment, while seven men drank. Joe Chevrier threw his glass in a cuspidor, smashing it into a hundred pieces.

“I drink no more wit’ Lazy A,” declared Joe, waving his arms. “I’m insult from w’at Breen say about de cow-hide.”

“Why,” said Omaha expansively, “don’t some of you Star X gents kill that damn’ Frenchman? He’s a menace to friendship.”

“’O’s a menace?” demanded Joe belligerently. “Tak’ dat off! By gosh, I no stand for dat!”

“He ain’t no menace,” said Klondike. “You hadn’t ought to call him that.”

“Then why don’t he forget them cowhides?” wailed Omaha.

“He’s so honest it hurts him,” explained Buck Wing thickly.

“Hurts him to be honest,” nodded Mex. “I sabe what yuh mean.”

“You don’t sabe nothin’!” snorted Buck Wing.

“All right, all right,” Pie Ide hitched up his belt. “I can see that you Star X whip-poor-wills are pinin’ for battle. But we ain’t in the market for no wars t’day. We got to remain safe and sane until our new she-boss arrives. After she’s kinda inaugurated, we’re receptful to anythin’ you hedge-hawgs nominate. We meets yuh any old place yuh ain’t afraid to go, and we’ll let yuh choose yore weapons. Yo’re four to three, but after the first two has been choosed, I whip the remainin’ two.”

“You kinda hates yourself, don’tcha?” asked Buck Wing.

“Yeah; but I’ve got enough to cover you four ant-eaters.”

“If you fellers has got any quantity of brawlin’ to do, I wish you’d go some’ers else,” said the bartender mildly.

“Who’s brawlin’?” demanded Klondike. “This here is jist an argument among men--so keep out of it.”

Both sides knew that there was no chance for peace. Omaha hitched up his belt, spat dryly and said, “All right. You Star K’s don’t want no peace, I can see that; so we’ll go away. That cowhide matter don’t mean nothin’ to any of us. All I can say is that if yuh ate all the beef that was inside them hides yo’re shore plenty fat on good meat.”

Then the three Lazy A cowboys filed out through the front door and headed down the street toward the Rawhide saloon, just well enough organized to ignore the fact that Idaho Breen might meet them.

“All six of ’em went, eh?” Joe Chevrier looked owlishly toward the front door.

“There was only three,” said Klondike.

“By gosh, dere was six went out!” exploded Joe. “I tell you w’at, I’m sore. Caus’ now I c’n whip all six--me!”

“You couldn’t whip a canary,” declared Buck Wing. “Shut up.”

“But dey accuse,” wailed Joe.

“They ort to be teached a lesson,” observed Klondike.

“They will be,” nodded Buck. “I’ve got a scheme. That train gets in after dark, and there won’t be nobody there to meet the girl, except Idaho Breen. How’d it be--?” Buck scratched his chin thoughtfully. “How’d it be to swipe that girl and take her out to the Star X?”

“I’ll buy a drink!” exploded Heinie.

“You’ve spoke yore piece.”

* * * * *

When Idaho Breen came to Oreana City he drove his team to the little depot, where he left it to await the arrival of Mary Ault. He went to the depot, where the agent divulged the information that the train would be about three hours late.

“I got a telegram for Jud Ault,” he grinned. “Didn’t just know how to deliver it--do you, Breen?”

“That’s funny, ain’t it?” laughed Idaho. “Mebbe I better take it along with me; it might concern the business, yuh know.”

“Sure. Here she is. Lookin’ for somebody on the train?”

Idaho pocketed the telegram. “Yeah; the new owner of the Lazy A is due in on this train.”

“That so? Oh, I did hear about Jud Ault making out a will.”

Idaho nodded and walked out to his team. He opened the telegram. It was from the secretary of the Cattlemen’s Association, and read:

Sending you best titan for job will identify himself.

Al Traynor.

Idaho leaned against a buggy wheel and pondered over the telegram.

“Sendin’ you best man for job.” he muttered. “What job? A telegram to a dead man! And Al Traynor is secretary of the Association. I wonder jist what job they had in mind.”

He folded up the telegram and went back up the street. The sheriff was sitting in front of the New York Store, whittling, his eyes scanning the front of the Oreana saloon. Idaho spoke to him, and the sheriff moved over to give him a seat.

“Yore gang and the Star X gang are over there in the Oreana,” offered the sheriff, pointing with his pocket-knife. “They’ve been in there for about fifteen minutes, and nobody ain’t been throwed out yet.”

Idaho scowled heavily. “All gettin’ drunk, eh?”

“All got drunk,” corrected the sheriff.

Just at that moment the three Lazy A boys filed out and headed for the Rawhide. None of them were able to follow a chalk-line. They filed into the Rawhide, and the sheriff breathed easier.

“Well, I’m glad that’s over,” he said thankfully.

The sun had gone down, and it would soon be dark. They were lighting one of the hanging lamps in the Oreana, when Joe Chevrier and Klondike Evans came from the place. Both of them were unsteady on their feet. It seemed that Klondike was trying to argue Joe out of doing a certain thing of which Joe was bound and determined to do.

“My gosh, I’m insult!” roared the little cowpuncher angrily, as they came across the street. “He tak’ it off, Klondike!”

“Thasall ri’.” mumbled Klondike. “You ain’t got no shense. I tell you for-f’rgit it, da-aw-gone yuh. Whatsa use----?”

“Ho, ho!” Joe had seen Idaho and the sheriff. He braced his feet, roaring out his war-whoop, “You sonn-of-a-gonn!”

Klondike made an ineffectual grab at Joe, who had dragged out his six-shooter, staggering out of Klondike’s reach.

_Wham! Crash!_ His bullet smashed through the window just over Idaho’s and the sheriff’s heads.

_Wham! Wham!_ Two more bullets practically ruined the rest of the window, while Idaho and the sheriff, running like a team of heavy-bodied fire-horses, headed for the sheriff’s office.

_Wham!_ Another bullet struck the side of the building, as they fell through the doorway. Heinie Moriarity and Buck Wing staggered out of the Oreana, while from the Rawhide, a short block down the street, and almost opposite the sheriff’s office, came the boys from the Lazy A, seeking to find what the shooting was about.

Wham! Joe’s fifth bullet struck the dirt just in front of Omaha Woods, who almost fell over backward, when the spray of gravel blew up in his face. And without any further argument, Pie Ide drew his six-shooter and proceeded to take pot-shots at the Star X gang.

A bullet knocked Klondike’s sombrero off and when he stooped over to get it, another hunk of lead threw gravel in his face: so he forgot the hat and went galloping drunkenly toward the doorway of the Oreana, where he caught his toe on the step and fell halfway through the doorway.

The shooting became general, except Joe Chevrier, who was the cause of the whole thing, and who was trying to stuff more cartridges into his six-shooter, but with little success. Buck Wing had run in close to the side of the Oreana, while Heinie sat down in the street, shooting across one bended knee.

_Bang!_ A note entirely different from that of the six-gun. Joe Chevrier yelped like an injured pup and galloped toward the far corner of the Oreana, grasping at the rear of himself. The enraged sheriff had poked a ten-gauge shotgun through a pane in his office window, and had given the Star X Frenchman something to think about besides loading his gun.

Heinie’s gun was empty; so he crawled on his hands and knees back to the Oreana. The Lazy A outfit had tracked to the door of the Rawhide, only to find it barred against them. The saloon-keeper was taking no chances of them using his place as a fort.

“Is anybody hurt?” panted Pie Ide, as they leaned against the barred door.

“I got my mustache full of gravel!” wailed Omaha. “And some of it hit my sore nose.”

“Didja see what happened to the frog-eater?” chuckled Mex. “The sheriff busted him with a load of duckshot.”

“I wonder what started it?” grinned Pie, as he reloaded his long Colt .45. “Let’s go across the street and set on the sidewalk. Them snakehunters are too drunk to hit a house, and it’ll soon be dark.”

“Yuh didn’t see us hittin’ anything didja?” inquired Omaha, pawing at his mustache. “We’re a fine lot of shooters! We never hit anybody.”

“We fanned ’em out of the street, didn’t we?” fleered Mex. “Didja want to kill ’em, Omaha?”

“Well, I didn’t want to kiss ’em. Let’s sneak around and get in the back door of the sheriff’s office.”

“And git a hideful of duck-shot, eh?” Pie Ide shook his head so hard that his hat fell off. “We’ve got all the war we can handle, without foolin’ with the sheriff and Idaho Breen.”

The Star X boys were of the same opinion as three of them leaned against the Oreana bar. Klondike was bitter. His fairly new Stetson had a jagged hole in the crown.

“Well, what started it, anyway?” demanded Buck Wing.

“Joe Chevrier took a shot at Idaho Breen and the sheriff.”

“Danged fool! Did we kill any of the Lazy A?”

Nobody seemed to know. Joe came through the rear doorway, limping. He had sobered considerably.

“By gar, I’m get stoong by fortee bee!” he exclaimed. “Behin’ me I’m feel like de centipeed walk h’all over me.”

“Yuh got a load of duck-shot in yore back!” snorted Buck Wing disgustedly. “It’s too damn’ bad he didn’t use a cannon. What made yuh start shootin’ out here, you danged Canuck? Yuh shore put us in bad.”

“Well,” Joe grimaced painfully, “I’m see dat Ida-hoo, and I’m so insult about de raw-hide.”

“We might go down and apologize to the Lazy A boys,” suggested Heinie Moriarity. “They’re prob’ly in the Rawhide.”

But that suggestion didn’t go well with Buck Wing. Except for the bartender, they had the Oreana all to themselves. What few other patrons had been in there had sneaked out the back door during the shooting, and had given the main street a wide berth. The bartender, while still sticking to the ship, did not feel any too secure.

“I don’t apologize to nobody,” declared Buck. “If Joe wants to apologize to Idaho and the sheriff----”

“She don’t!” snorted Joe. “I’m ver’ sore jus’ now.”

“I’d suggest that we go home,” said Klondike, mourning over his sombrero.

“And let the Lazy A think they run us out?”

“Let ’em think what they will. What they don’t know won’t hurt ’em.”

The Lazy A bunch, sitting like three buzzards on the sidewalk, saw the Star X boys ride away from the Oreana hitchrack, and chuckled with glee. It was too dark to see them get their horses at the rack. Idaho Breen and the disgruntled sheriff also saw them ride away, and breathed a sigh of relief.

“We whipped ’em!” declared Mex.

“We shore did, by golly!” chuckled Omaha. “Here comes Idaho and the sheriff. I suppose they’re comin’ to congratulate us.”

But Idaho Breen was not in a congratulatory frame of mind.

“Why in hell didn’t you fellers stay at the ranch and behave yourselves?” he demanded angrily. “Comin’ down here and startin’ trouble!”

“Who started any trouble?” grunted Pie Ide. “If we hadn’t been here to turn the tide you and the sheriff would ’a’ had to pull another Alamo. They’d shore made yuh hard to catch.”

“You fellers started it! Yuh mixed with that Star X outfit in the Oreana, and made trouble.”

“Well, whatcha goin’ to do about it?” asked Omaha. “Is this a free country, or are we workin’ for a Czar?” Idaho debated. Good cowhands were not plentiful. He knew he was just on the verge of losing all three of them.

“Well,” he said slowly, “I suppose it’s all right. But I didn’t want you boys drunk when Miss Ault comes. Dang it, that ain’t the right spirit, boys. She prob’ly ain’t used to seein’ a lot of drunken punchers.”

“Who’s drunk?” demanded Omaha.

Idaho shook his head. “Mebbe I was mistaken. I--I was judgin’ from the shootin’ that yuh wasn’t cold sober. Why, some of yore bullets hit the sheriff’s office, and it ain’t noways in the line between where you was and the middle of the street.”

“Oh, we didn’t want to kill ’em,” said Pie Ide. “All we wanted to do was to scare ’em out of town; so they’d let you and the sheriff out of the office.”

“My shotgun settled that,” said the sheriff, panting heavily. “I handed Joe Chevrier an ounce and a quarter of number fives, and he’ll itch for a long time.”

“There ain’t no fun left, anyway,” said Mex mournfully. “I’d jist as soon go home.”

“Same here,” nodded Omaha. “We was jist killin’ time, anyway.”

So the Lazy A boys went behind the Oreana, where they mounted their horses and headed for home. Idaho tried to find Miles Lane, but the lawyer was not in evidence. The town had recovered its composure after the bloodless battle, and there was much speculation as to what would happen next time the two outfits met.

It was almost time for the train arrival, when Idaho went to the depot. He went in the waiting room, where the agent told him the train would be in very soon. Then he went out on the platform and walked around the corner of the depot, with the intention of changing the position of his half broke buggy team, which might get frightened at the train. But as he swung around the corner, three or four men piled upon him, bearing him down by sheer weight of numbers. An old saddle-blanket was flung over his head, and inside of two minutes Idaho Breen was trussed up like a mummy, and dumped unceremoniously behind the depot.

The train ground ponderously up to the station, and when Mary Smith climbed down the steps, assisted by the gray-haired conductor, she was met by Buck Wing and Klondike Evans of the Star X. Behind her came Cultus Collins, apparently paying no attention to her.

“Howdy, Miss,” greeted Buck Wing, a half smile on his face. “Are you Miss Ault?”

“Why, yes,” said Mary, who was prepared to be “alias anything she was called.”

Klondike grasped her suitcase and she walked with Buck, who guided her around to the hitch-rack, where the frightened team was being taken care of by Heinie and Joe. Mary noted a strong smell of liquor about them.

It seemed settled that Klondike was to do the driving. He got in and took the lines, while Heinie and Joe clung to the bridles of the rearing broncos.

“Head for the ranch,” said Buck. “We’ll catch yuh.”

“You’ll go some, if yuh do!” snorted Klondike, surging back on the lines. The team whirled around, almost upsetting the buggy, and went up the main street of Oreana City like a pair of racehorses heading for the wire.

Mary got little view of Oreana City, as she was entirely occupied in clinging to the seat of the open buggy. The road was far from smooth, and they went bouncing off the street into a wide sweep of low hills, gray and blue in the starlight. Klondike clung to the frail lines, content to keep the running team in the road.

The light buggy meant nothing to the broncos; running, wild, cold-jawed. A mile or more reeled out behind them. Klondike knew of a bad spot in the road, where a washout had cut a deep furrow across the highway. To go into this at top speed would mean a smashup. He shortened his lines, braced his feet and pulled steadily. But the cold-jawed broncs did not mind the pull on the straight-bar bits.

Klondike, still half drunk, realized that things were not working out just right. He shot a glance at the girl beside him, who was clinging to the seat with both hands, and surged back on the lines again. He knew the washout was very close now.

_Snap!_ The left line broke and came back, striking Klondike in the chest, and throwing all the pull on the right line. It swerved the team to the right, and a wheel went over a mesquite snag, throwing Klondike off the seat.

Just beyond here an old road turned to the right; an old road, which had not been used for years. The buggy slewed around, skidded dangerously, and then straightened up as the frantic team headed up the old road.

Mary was thrown off the seat and down against the dash, but managed to get back to the seat. Her mind was in a whirl, as she realized that the driver had been thrown off. She wanted to jump, but realized the danger. The buggy was careening over the old road, possibly half a mile from where Klondike had been thrown out, when the team whirled suddenly, throwing Mary off into a patch of brush, and headed back in the general direction of the Star X, cutting across country.

The cause of their sudden turn was a lone horseman, who had appeared suddenly just a few yards ahead of them. The team was almost into him, when it turned, and Mary narrowly missed being thrown against his horse. The horse whirled wildly, but he reined it back, dismounted swiftly and ran over to the girl.

With little difficulty he disentangled her from the bush, which had broken her fall, and placed her on the ground. It was Dude Wheeler, cutting across country toward the Star X, his face a mixture of wonder and astonishment as he scratched a match and looked down into the frightened eyes of Mary Smith.

“Are yuh hurt?” he asked, when he saw her eyes open. She did not say--merely blinked at the match, which burned Dude’s fingers before he dropped it.

“I--I don’t think I’m hurt--much,” she said, as he scratched another match. She managed to sit up and he braced her with one arm. “I guess I’m--I’m badly shaken,” she admitted.

“Yeah, I’ll bet you are. But how did yuh happen to be up here, all alone with a runaway team?”

“Why, I don’t know exactly. The driver fell off, you see.”

“Yeah, I see--that much,” Dude Wheeler was lighting several matches, so he might get a better look at this girl.

“Who was the driver?” he asked. Mary shook her head. “I don’t know. I just came in on the train tonight, you see.”

“In on the train,” echoed Dude. He looked closer at her. “Say, are you Miss Ault?”

“Why--er--yes,” said Mary, turning her eyes away.

The matches burned out, and Dude did not light another.

“I see,” he said slowly. He got to his feet and stood there, gazing across the hills. “Yo’re a long ways from the Lazy A,” he said. “I dunno what--I wonder--that was a Lazy A team. You don’t know who the driver was?”

“No, I have no idea who he was. They just put me in the buggy, and the team ran away.”

“I see. I’m Jack Wheeler, Miss Ault. Folks call me ‘Dude.’”

“Oh, what a queer name!”

“We own the Star X outfit.”

“Isn’t that nice? I--I think I’ve hurt my ankle, Mr. Wheeler.”

“I reckon you got off lucky, if that’s all.”

He helped her to her feet, but she was unable to walk.

“I dunno,” said Dude slowly. “It’s a long ways to the Lazy A. I hadn’t ought to take yuh to the Star X, but it’s the nearest place. Can yuh stand alone until I get my bronc?”

Mary clung to the brush, while he led his horse up to her.

“You can’t straddle no horse in that skirt,” he told her.

“No, I suppose not,” admitted Mary. “What will we do?”

“And if I set yuh sideways on that saddle and got on behind yuh, we’d prob’ly both get throwed off, because that bronc ain’t broke to pack double. I reckon there’s just one thing to do.”

He swung her up in his arms, lifted her to the saddle and got up with her, lifting her in his arms as he got into the saddle.

“But you can’t carry me in your arms,” she protested.

“This is all the evidence in the world against yore idea,” he said, as he rode off through the hills. “If you can stand it, I shore can, Miss. I’ll try and not hurt yore ankle.”

* * * * *

Klondike Evans had landed just off the road, and just hard enough to daze him for a minute or more. When he recovered sufficiently to realize what had happened, the team was far away; too far for him to even hear it. He was walking circles in the road, when Buck Wing, Joe Chevrier and Heinie Moriarity came galloping up the road, leading Klondike’s horse. They drew up and considered Klondike, who was still half-speechless from hitting the ground so hard.

“What in hell happened?” panted Buck. “Where’s the team?”

“Gone,” Klondike puffed heavily and flapped his arms helplessly. “Th-throwed me out! Line busted. I dunno what happened next.”

“My Gawd!” blurted Heinie piously. “She’ll be kilt!”

“Already killed, I’ll betcha!” exploded Buck. “Git on yore bronc, Klondike! We’ve got to head ’em off.”

“Head ’em off?” Klondike lurched to his horse and climbed into the saddle. “Head nothin’! They’re miles away and goin’ strong. I couldn’t even check ’em.”

But no one was listening to him; they were spurring ahead as fast as their horses could run.

“Watch for her along the road!” yelled Buck.

Their horses never slackened their run, until they reached the big gate of the Star X, where they found the buggy, almost wrapped around one of the gate-posts. It was the end of the road. Inside the yard were the two horses. One had lost all its harness except the collar and limped badly. The other seemed to be all right.

The boys dropped off their horses, cold sober now, and searched all around. But there was no sign of the girl. Sadly they mounted and rode back toward town, going slowly, searching both sides of the road carefully, afraid of finding the girl dead.

“They’ll hang us,” wailed Klondike. “I’ll betcha they will.”

“You get ’bout feefty shot in de hin’side, and you not scare from hang,” declared Joe, who rode standing up in his stirrups. “She’s sure kill h’all de joy for you.”

“That was a fool thing to do,” complained Buck.

“This is a nice time to think about it,” retorted Klondike. “It sounded good when we was drunk. Anyway, it was yore idea, Buck.”

“Originally, Klondike. You was the one that suggested ridin’ a circle and comin’ back to the depot, yuh remember. Don’t lay it all onto me.”

“She was a danged pretty girl, too,” said Klondike. “I got a good look at her.”

“Sure; and pulled all on one line.”

“Aw, let up on him, Buck,” said Heinie. “We’re all to blame. Dude will fire all of us for this, anyway; so we might as well go to town, get drunk and take our medicine. If there ever was four bigger fools, I’d like to see what they look like.”

* * * * *

Cultus Collins walked from the depot and engaged a room at the Oreana hotel, after which he went to the Oreana saloon. The sheriff and Miles Lane were at the bar, talking with the bartender, who was explaining the argument between the Lazy A and the Star X. They nodded to Cultus, who sat down at a table and picked up a newspaper.

“I wasn’t here to see the fun,” laughed Lane. “Lucky that no one was hurt, except Joe Cheerier. Those few shot probably won’t hurt him much. Do you know if Miss Ault came in tonight?”

“I think so,” said the sheriff. “Idaho was there to meet her, and I saw his outfit go out of town on the run. Just got a flash of the buggy, and I think the girl was in it. Idaho was drivin’ a half broke team.”

“Joe Chevrier said he had been stung by forty bees,” laughed the bartender. “He didn’t get much sympathy.”

Lane turned to Cultus. “Have a drink with us, stranger?”

Cultus dropped the paper and came up to the bar.

“My name is Jones,” he said. “Jones of Oklahoma.”

“Mine is Lane.” The lawyer introduced Cultus to the rest. “Did you come in on the train tonight?”

“Yeah,” nodded Cultus.

“Was there a lady got off here?” “Yeah. I think her name was Ault. I talked with her a little.”

“A niece of old man Ault, who died a while back,” said the sheriff.

Cultus squinted at his glass. He had a letter of introduction to a dead man, it seemed.

“She inherited the Lazy A ranch,” offered the sheriff.

“She didn’t say anythin’ about it,” said Cultus thoughtfully. “A nice sort of a girl, it seemed to me.”

“She’ll be rich.” The sheriff backed against the bar, holding his glass. “That Lazy A is worth a mint of money.”

“Cattle?” asked Cultus.

“Gold. The old man could have sold out for a million, but he hated holes in the ground. Queer old jigger, Ault was.”

“Have you ever been here before?” asked Lane curiously.

Cultus shook his head, “No, this is my first trip. Kinda lookin’ over the cattle crop for a Chicago packer.”

“Oh, I see. You----”

Lane’s question was interrupted by the entrance of Idaho Breen. He was hatless, a smear of blood across his mouth and a livid scratch across over his right eye. He spat angrily and lurched against the bar.

“Give me a drink!” he snorted, “Here, gimme that bottle!”

Idaho grasped the bottle and took a heavy swig; so heavy that the bartender gasped. It was probably the biggest drink ever taken in the Oreana. Idaho slammed the bottle back on the bar, wiped the back of his hand across his lips and tried to blink the tears out of his eyes.

“That’s what I’d call a snifter,” observed the sheriff.

“Sa-a-ay!” Idaho pounded on the bar with both hands, as though to give force to his statement. “A-a-a-ahem-m-m-m! I was assaulted by several men a while ago. They hog-tied me in a dirty blanket and left me out back of the depot. The agent happened to find me. My team’s gone--the girl’s gone!”

“You was?” exclaimed the sheriff. “Whatcha know--say, I seen yore buggy team go up the street just after the train came in.”

“My buggy team?” choked Idaho. “Are yuh sure?”

“Yeah. It was goin’ kinda fast, but I’m sure I seen a woman in it, Idaho.”

“Yuh did, eh?” Idaho struck the top of the bar with his fist. “It was that damn’ Star X outfit! They laid for me and stole the girl! They never left town!”

“Who was the girl they stole?” asked Cultus. Idaho glared at him. “Who are you?”

“This is Jones of Oklahoma,” said the sheriff. “Mr. Jones, this is Mr. Breen, foreman of the Lazy A.”

“The girl they stole,” said Idaho, not offering Cultus his hand, “was the new owner of the Lazy A outfit.”

“The girl we spoke about,” said the sheriff. “The one that came in on the train with you.”

“Oh, yeah--that one.”

“Was you there?” asked Idaho quickly. “Didja see her git off the train? Who met her, eh? What’d they look like?”

Cultus grinned widely. “I dunno. It was kinda dark, and I didn’t pay much attention.”

“It has been over an hour since the train came in,” said Lane, looking at his watch. “Have you----?”

“I have!” rasped Idaho. “With a dirty blanket over my head, and part of it in my mouth. I thought I was goin’ to have to stay all night.”

“Just why would the Star X steal that girl?” asked Cultus.

“Because they hate the Lazy A!” snorted Idaho. “We had a regular battle in the street tonight. Nobody got killed. I suppose both sides were too drunk to shoot straight. They’d do anythin’--them dirty coyotes. I’m goin’ out to the Star X and get that girl.”

“Think about it a while,” advised the sheriff. “Them boys won’t eat her. In spite of yore opinion of the Star X, they ain’t cannibals. They was all drunk, Idaho; and their idea of a good joke would be to steal the owner of the Lazy A.”

“Dirty cow-thieves!” Idaho was very mad, indeed.

“That’s a killin’ statement,” said the sheriff. “Don’t let Dude Wheeler hear yuh say it.”

“Bad medicine?” asked Cultus.

“Bad enough to resent a statement like that.”

“You shouldn’t say things like that, Idaho,” said Lane.

“Well, by God, I found fifty-three Lazy A cow-hides in----”

“We know that,” interrupted the sheriff.

Idaho reached for the bottle and took another drink, as a cowboy came in. He was from one of the small ranches south of Oreana. He nodded pleasantly to everyone.

“I was wonderin’ if any of the Lazy A gang were in town,” he grinned. “The Star X outfit are down in the Rawhide.”

“Down in the Rawhide?” asked Idaho. “How long have they been down there?”

“Well, I dunno. I heard the bartender tell ’em that the Lazy A thought they’d run ’em out of town, and the Star X boys said they hadn’t never left town.”

Idaho glared thoughtfully. The taste of the blanket was in his mouth, and he spat disgustedly.

“Did the agent see the girl get off the train?” asked Lane.

Idaho shook his head. “He said he didn’t.”

“I reckon that Jones of Oklahoma is the only one that’s sure she ever came,” observed the sheriff.

“I saw _a_ girl get off,” corrected Cultus.

Miles Lane cleared his throat softly. “If I were in your place, Idaho, I’d go home and sleep on it. I don’t think that girl is in any danger of being hurt, and you can’t do a thing tonight.”

“That’s good advice,” nodded the sheriff. “Tomorrow mornin’, if the girl ain’t showed up, I’ll go with yuh to the Star X.”

“Yeah, and I’ll take my whole gang,” flared Idaho. “I’ve got to hire a horse to ride home on.” He stamped out of the saloon, and they heard him going down the rickety sidewalk, heading for the livery stable.

Cultus went back to the hotel, puzzling over what had become of Mary. He could have described the two men who met her at the train, but decided not to. He could identify Buck Wing and Klondike Evans any time, and Cultus wanted to know more of things before he told anybody what he knew.

* * * * *

Dude Wheeler saw the wreck of the Lazy A buggy, when he rode through the gate, with Mary in his arms. In the dim starlight he could see the two horses down near a corral; so he decided that the runaway team had cut back to the road which they had followed to the ranch gate.

He drew up at the porch of the ranchhouse and dismounted, still carrying Mary in his arms.

“Your arms must be paralyzed,” she said.

“Not exactly,” he laughed. “Yo’re not as light as yuh was when I first picked yuh up. How’s the ankle feelin’?”

“Why, it seems numb, but there is little pain.”

“That’s good.” He picked her up and they went in the house.

The Star X living-room was a commodious place, rough finished, with a huge fireplace on one side. The floor was strewn with Navajo rugs, and many of the chair-seats and backs were of cow-hide, untanned. It was a typical man’s abode. At one side of the front door was a gun-rack, filled with rifles. Loose cartridges, a heavy Colt revolver, coil of spot-cord rope, packages of tobacco, and some dog-eared magazines were scattered over the rough table top in the center of the room.

On the floor in front of the fireplace was the skin of a grizzly bear, while over the mantle was a huge elk head, with magnificent antlers. Mary gazed around the room, after Dude had placed her in their easiest chair.

“I’ll get some hot water,” said Dude. “Mebbe some liniment will help it out. You take it easy, and I’ll fix yuh up fine.”

Mary watched the tall, straight-backed cowboy leave the room, and sank back in her chair with a sigh, wondering what would happen next. Her life had been adventurous indeed since she had met Cultus Collins. She had no idea just what she was to do in Oreana City. Thinking it over calmly was impossible for her. She was an impostor. And whether she could carry out the deception remained to be seen.

Someone had entered the room behind her and she turned to see Eph Wheeler, clad in an old red undershirt, overalls and a pair of mismated woolen socks. The old man’s sparse hair was standing straight up, and his face appeared very thin in the lamplight. He squinted closely at her, glanced toward the kitchen, where Dude was noisily poking wood in the stove, and then came a little closer to her.

“Just who might you be?” he asked curiously. “I thought I must be dreamin’ when I heard a woman’s voice out here.”

“I am Mary Ault,” said Mary bravely.

The old man’s mouth opened, but he did not speak. He rubbed his right hip with his right elbow, frowned at the lamp, shifted his feet.

“Mind sayin’ that again?” he asked.

Mary repeated the name. The old man nodded. Dude came in from the kitchen, saw his father, and stopped short.

“Did we wake yuh up, Dad?” he asked.

The old man did not reply; he was too interested in Mary.

“This is Miss Ault,” said Dude.

“That’s what she said. Where’d you pick her up?”

Dude explained about the runaway and how he had found Mary. He was unable to tell who had been driving the team, and Mary did not know.

“It’s a Lazy A rig,” said Dude. “Blue buggy with red wheels. It’s wrapped around one of our gate-posts. The horses are down by the corral. I can’t imagine what a Lazy A rig would be doin’ out here.”

“My suitcase was in it,” said Mary. Dude walked out, and came back in a few moments, carrying the suitcase, which was none the worse for the runaway. The old man sat down and watched Mary, while she soaked her swollen ankle in hot water.

“So Jud Ault was yore uncle, eh?” he remarked. “Know him?”

“No,” said Mary. She hadn’t the slightest idea who Jud Ault was.

“He was a dirty old pup.”

Mary flinched. She was evidently not related to a saint.

“He turned his own daughter out,” continued the old man. “But he was a dirty old pup long before that.”

“Dad, I don’t reckon she cares to know all this,” said Dude softly.

“Well, she ought to. Anyway, she might as well hear it from me, ’cause she’s goin’ to hear it sooner or later.”

“That liniment will take a lot of the soreness out,” said Dude. “I’ll soak a bandage and----”

“It seems to me yore takin’ a lot of pains with an Ault,” said the old man. Dude flushed, but did not reply.

“Been packin’ a Winchester for ’em for years; now yo’re wrappin’ up their ankles.”

Mary laughed, because she did not realize how serious had been the hatred between the two ranches.

“What is a Winchester?” she asked.

“A gun,” said Dude. His hand trembled slightly and he spilled a little of the liniment.

“Do all men carry guns out here?” she asked. Dude looked up at her, his eyes serious.

“Most of ’em do.”

“Tell me about Jud Ault turning his daughter out.”

“It’s true.” Dude did not look up at her. “She married a gambler. Some say he was also a lawyer, but he didn’t practice law here. Old Jud Ault wouldn’t speak to her again. She lives in Oreana City, with her little boy.”

“And he didn’t leave her anything when he died?”

“A dollar.”

“And the ranch is worth a million, they say,” growled the old man. “Yo’re sure lucky.”

“I--I didn’t know much about it,” faltered Mary.

“Lane sent for yuh, I reckon. He made out Jud Ault’s will.”

“Yes,” said Mary, because she didn’t know what else to say.

Dude finished bandaging the ankle and took the water back to the kitchen.

“Are you thinkin’ of stayin’ here tonight?” asked the old man.

“Why, I--I don’t know,” said Mary.

“I guess you’ll go back to town.”

Dude came back and the old man turned to him. “Yuh better harness up the team and take her back to the hotel, Dude.”

They looked at each other for several moments.

“That might be the best thing to do,” said Dude slowly then. “I’ll hitch up the team.”

He went out, softly closing the door behind him. Mary curled up on the big chair, her chin in her hand. She did not like the old man, who filled his pipe and smoked noisily.

“You’ll sell the Lazy A, won’t yuh?” he asked, not unkindly.

Mary shook her head. “I’m sure I don’t know, Mr. Wheeler.”

“Runnin’ a cow-ranch ain’t no woman’s job,” he sucked heavily on his pipe. “Of course, you might marry a cow-man.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Yo’re a queer sort of a girl. That’s about all most girls think about!”

“Do you know much about girls?”

“Hmph! Well, don’t they?”

“Do they?”

Eph Wheeler threw his pipe on the table, with a grunt of disgust. “I’m glad yo’re goin’ back to town! I hate an argument.”

“And you start them yourself.”

“I do not!” The old man drew himself up angrily, his eyes flashing. “I never--say, I dunno what this is all about. I wish Dude would hurry with that team. You make me mad. Aults always made me mad. You remind me of Jud Ault.”

Mary laughed openly at him, and he stalked from the room, swearing under his breath. He did not put in an appearance, when Dude carried her out to the buggy, and Dude did not mention him until they were well on their way to Oreana City.

The moon was up now, and the hills were bathed in a silver glow; blue in the depths, and silver, where the moonlight brushed the ridges: a mystic fairyland where the moon and stars came down close to the world. Mary leaned back in the buggy seat and looked at a world she had never seen before.

“Oh, isn’t it beautiful!” she said simply.

“Yes’m, it is. I never get tired of these hills at night. The rough edges are all gone. Lotsa nights I just ride into the hills; ride away back on the ridges. It’s like goin’ away from the rest of the world.

“I’m sorry dad talked like he did. But he’s old, and he hates the Lazy A. There’s no women at the Star X. Pretty soon our four cowpunchers will be driftin’ home from town, loaded to the gills with liquor--and it might not be a nice place for a lady--the Star X ranch. They’re a rough lot. You’ll be better off at the hotel. I put yore suitcase in the back of the buggy.”

“It’s a wonder it didn’t get all smashed.”

“And you, too.”

“Yes, that’s true. I’m sorry to have put you to all this trouble, Mr. Wheeler. I just can’t imagine what would have happened to me, if you hadn’t met that runaway.”

“Well, it was kinda lucky. About a hundred yards beyond where you was throwed out, there’s a deep washout. I reckon things would a’ gone to smash in there. It’s about thirty feet across--and there ain’t no road.”

“You mean, a deep rut?”

“Yuh might call it a rut, ma’am; it’s about twenty feet deep.”

“Oh!” Mary shuddered. “I’m glad I met you.”

“Well, so am I,” said Dude softly. “And it wasn’t any trouble; so yuh don’t need to thank me.”

“But you hate the Ault family, you know.”

“I just wonder if I do. It seems like kind of a small thing to do--this hate. It ain’t never got me anythin’. You and Faith are the only Aults I know--and I don’t hate either of yuh.”

“Faith?”

“Yeah; Jud Ault’s daughter.”

“The one he turned out of his home?”

“Uh-huh. There’s the lights of Oreana City. I’ll fix yuh up at the hotel. It ain’t no great place, but it’s all right. You’ll prob’ly go out to the Lazy A tomorrow.”

They drove up to the hotel. Dude carried her suitcase in and Mary was able to walk slowly. The proprietor was reading by the light of a smoky old oil lamp. He stared over his glasses at Mary.

“Give Miss Ault yore best room. Charley,” said Dude. “She’s only goin’ to be here one night.”

“Sure, sure! Miss Ault. Huh! Huh! Yes, ma’am! Looks like old Jud, eh? Know her any place. Naw, yuh don’t need to register. We never had but one book, and somebody stole it. I suppose they was collectin’ horse-thieves’ autographs. Ha, ha, ha, ha!”

The old man bent double over his stock joke, grabbed the lamp in one hand, the suitcase in the other and led the way down a narrow hall.

“I’ll put ye in the president’s sweet,” he chuckled. “It’s the only one that the wash-bowl ain’t cracked.”

Dude watched them turn into a room, and went outside. There was plenty of noise in the Oreana, so he went over. Klondike, Buck, Heinie and Joe were decidedly drunk. They goggled at him owlishly, sobering a trifle. It was rather unusual for Dude to come to town at that time of night. Buck invited him to have a drink, but he declined.

A sudden notion struck him, and he took Buck by the arm.

“I want to talk to yuh, Buck,” he said.

“Oh, yeah,” Buck held back. “Now lissen to me, Dude. You’ve----”

“Not in here,” whispered Dude. “Come outside.”

“Oh, all right. Shay, now lissen----”

Dude drew him outside the saloon and walked him a few steps up the sidewalk, where he braced Buck against the wall.

“I know whasha want,” said Buck knowingly. “I didn’ know Klondike was gonna bust the lines. Oh, it’s an awful thing, ol’-timer. She mush ’a’ been killed. She----”

“You stole that girl, did yuh, Buck?”

“Oh, yesh. Firs’ we had a fight with the Lazy A, and the sheriff shot Joe in the pants with a sh-shotgun. Oh, ter’ble! Idaho Breen wash in it, too. Oh, cert’nly! So we tied him up in an old saddle-blanket and stole the girl. We admit it. Cert’nly, we do. We can’t deny it. ’S too bad, but it’s done, Dude.”

“Who knows about it, except you four, Buck?”

“Thasall.”

“Did Idaho recognize yuh?”

“’F he did, he’s a good li’l recognizer.”

“Then don’t say anythin’ about it, Buck. They can’t prove it on yuh; so keep still.”

“You mean that, Dude?” Buck goggled owlishly, pawing at Dude.

“Sure I mean it.”

“Is--is that girl dead?”

“Not hardly, Buck.”

“Oh, my; thash good. Mush obliged, Dude. An’ you ain’t goin’ to fire ush?”

Dude laughed softly. “No, Buck; I think not. Mebbe I’ll thank yuh instead. Go back and finish up yore job.”

Buck weaved back to the bar, where the other three boys awaited a verdict. Buck leaned against the bar, poured out a drink, a vacant sag to his lower lip.

“Whassa matter?” gurgled Klondike. “What’d Dude want?”

“Sh-h-h-h-h!” Buck sagged back on his heels. “It’s a shecret. Dude says to keep our mouth shut about it.”

“Zasso?” Heinie nodded solemnly. “Does Dude know about it?”

“Shertenly does,” rather loftily. “Oh, shertenly he does.”

“And he wasn’t awful mad, Buck? Didn’t fire us?”

“Nossir. He--he con-con-congratulated ush.”