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“I bin wondering if I’ve writ her right,” said a querulous voice. Gawne turned his head to see a lanky puncher standing at the porch railing, awkwardly fumbling some sheets of dirty paper in his hands, a blush of abashed embarrassment on his face.

The man’s eyes gleamed. Here was the enthusiast pursuing a strange trail with a determination and devotion that would have merited applause had there been the slightest hope for him. Gawne frowned at him; then his expression softened to grim tolerance.

“You’ve written more of your story, eh, Scriptus? Well, spring it; I’m in the mood for any brand of horrific literature.”

“I’ve got to chapter three,” explained the puncher. “I’ve set up dawg-gawne all night a-scrawlin’ at her.” He smoothed the sheets of paper and grimaced at them. “I expect my lanwige don’t grade up, she never does; but I’ve heard tell as how them editor-fellers is consi’able clever at sloshin’ words around, an’ mebbe they’ll smooth ’em out a bit. I’ve heard tell they done that to what a feller named Doomus writ. Not that I’m admirin’ Doomus any; I never took no likin’ to them frog eaters. But what I’m a-tryin’ to git at is that if them editors done it for Doomus, they hadn’t orter renig on home talyunt.

“Books—stories, that is—ain’t writ to be read out loud, I reckon, so that must be why this here don’t seem to hit the high-water mark when I does the gassin’ myself. I sprung it on the boys this mornin’ whilest they was eatin’ their chuck—me not havin’ no appetite—an’ they seemed to like it a heap. Some of them was so overcome with their feelin’s that they sorta choked up an’ couldn’t swaller their grub—Hoppy McGonagle blowed his’n in Billy Springle’s face. It must be mighty interestin’, but, somehow, don’t you think you’d orter read her yourself, Boss?”

Gawne read the laborious scrawl:

Algernon Percival had got up in the mornin feelin perty blew his gal had went back on him he thought of commitin sooicide, an he says im a dam fule for livin as long as i have, whats the good of bein a millunairs sun if you cant have what you want an i wanted that gal so bad too an all i got was that darned bull dog what her paw tied up in the back yard to layfer me. he got up all elegunt in his perty pink underwear an steppin over a bag of pertaters leaned over the baluster an yells to his maw who was doin the washin. It bein monday mornin, maw wheres my pants. Im mendin em, sheyells back that musta bin a mighty big bulldog or else if he was a little one he got a mighty good hold of your pants she says. Algernon Percival—

“Had Percival’s father cut him off?” questioned Gawne at this juncture.

Scriptus scratched his head in perplexity, “No, I reckon not; he was just the same size as ever. Though I’m allowin’ that if I had a son like that I’d bring him down a peg or two. You see, what I meant was that Algernon Percival’s pants—”

“I mean had Percival’s father disinherited him?” Gawne’s face had grown very red.

“There’s bin nothin’ said about that, so far in the story. It is persoomed that Algernon Percival is still his father’s hair.”

“H-m. And his father a millionaire?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You betray an alarming ignorance of a millionaire’s sartorial resources, my dear Scriptus. It is conceivable that a bulldog might have destroyed the dear boy’s trousers, but it is incomprehensible that Algernon, being the son of his father, and basking in the parental favor, should show such poor taste as to permit his wardrobe to get into that deplorable condition.” Gawne turned his head and looked toward the bunkhouse. Grouped about the door of that building was the outfit. Every face was turned toward Gawne and Scriptus, and every face was strained in tense expectancy. Gawne shot a glance at Scriptus; the latter’s face was owl-like in its solemnity. In his eyes was a gleam of illumination.

“Meanin’ that Algernon orter have two pairs of pants?” he asked, looking a bit crestfallen.

“At least two,” gently said Gawne. “And,” he added, “if you want your readers to have faith in your accuracy it might be a good plan to pry Algey’s mother away from the family wash. It isn’t done, Scriptus.”

“It ain’t?”

“Positively not”

“Well, then—” the budding writer shot an embarrassed glance at his critic—“I’ll have to git Algernon another pair of pants, some way—if I have to steal ’em.” He was backing away, when from the direction of the bunkhouse came a cackle. Then came another and another, and presently rose a noise that might have been made by an entire coop full of delighted hens. A slow, reluctant grin spread over the face of the would-be writer.

“That’s the way they acted when I read it to them this mornin’,” he said. “They ain’t got no regard for the refinin’ inflooence of literchoor.”

“No, I expect not,” said Gawne. And as Scriptus turned away he sank back to the railing and made noises that sounded very much like those that had reached him from the direction of the bunkhouse.

Looking up after a time, he saw that the space in front of the bunkhouse was alive with leaping, screaming men. They had seized the unfortunate author and a dozen of them were tossing him into the air. And while Gawne watched, his face still convulsed, they carried Scriptus away on their shoulders in—it seemed to the watching man—triumph.

It was fully half an hour later that Billings, the Diamond Bar foreman, paused before the railing on which Gawne still sat. Billings was tall as Gawne, lean of face, bronzed by sun, wind, and dust, his eyes were perpetually squinting, and deep wrinkles concentrated at their corners, splaying outward.

“We’re getting a bunch out uh th’ timber today. O.K., eh?” he added when Gawne did not reply. “Turn ’em back this ways? They’re getting too far—them rustlers—”

“All right, Billings, you know what to do.”

“Uh-huh.” Billings stepped away, turned and faced Gawne again. “Rode in to Bozzam City yesterday. Hame Bozzam’s laid up with a twisted ankle—ought to be his neck. Jess Cass is runnin’ things—an’ runnin’ ’em wild. Gang’s wallyeyed drunk, an’ rippin’ the gates outa hell.”

“Where’s the sheriff?” Gawne’s lips curved sarcastically.

“Oh, Reb Haskell ain’t botherin’ his friends none. I seen him an’ Nigger Paisley playin’ faro in the Palace, whilest some more of Cass’s gang was worrin’ a stranger. They bored the stranger, finally—in the stummick. Haskell held the inquest in the Palace—not stoppin’ the faro game. I was in there. Damned farce, as usual. ‘I pick the aces to lose,’ says Haskell to the ‘hearse-driver’. ‘You say this locoed stranger was arguin’ with Bill Hilliard, an’ Bill—’

“ ‘The stranger reaches for his gun,’ offers one of Cass’ men.

“ ‘I’ll copper that to lose,’ Haskell tells the ‘hearse-driver’, not stoppin’ his game. ‘So this here stranger tries to draw on Bill,’ says Haskell. ‘Well, why in hell don’t you plant him an’ quit botherin’ me?’ Which they proceeds to do, an’ Haskell goes on with his faro game, regardless.”

Gawne did not speak. The wrinkles around Billing’s eyes grew deeper as he watched him. He moved off a few steps, and retraced them.

“Colonel Harkless’s daughter is reachin’ Bozzam City today,” he said.

Gawne’s lips slowly straightened. “So she’s coming at last.” He did not look at Billings. “Stage, I suppose?”

“That’s the word. Cass’ outfit is doin’ a heap of speculatin’. Colonel Harkless has gassed a lot about the girl, an’ the outfit is dead anxious to look her over. An’ that gang—” The foreman grunted with repugnance.

“I understand,” said Gawne. “The Colonel is a weak-minded fool. The daughter doesn’t know that, of course; and if she did, she possibly would not believe it. He hasn’t seen her since she was eight years old, Billings. Some trouble between the Colonel and his wife. Now the wife is dead, and the daughter is coming to live with her father. She’s been reared correctly, the Colonel tells me—more’s the pity.”

“An’ he ain’t been advertisin’ that he’s tied up with Hame Bozzam. She thinks he’s a big man in this neck of the woods—an’ she’s due for a shock.”

“The Colonel won’t tell her,” declared Gawne.

“There’s others that will,” laughed the foreman, harshly. “Jess Cass has seen her pitcher, an’ he’s dead stuck on her—pretty near as much as he’s stuck on himself. I heard him tellin’ Nigger Paisley that he’s goin’ to put her wise to what the Colonel is, so’s she’ll be drug down to his level, an’ he’ll have a chance with her.”

Gawne did not reply. He had seen the girl’s picture, too. The Colonel had placed it in his hand and he had sat for five minutes, studying the girl’s face, unconscious of the Colonel’s small talk, and then he had laid it down with a fleeting, cynical half-smile which the Colonel did not see. He had no faith in the direct eyes; once he had had faith, but latterly he had reflected much and had reached the conclusion that women’s eyes were fickle, like their hearts, and that a direct gaze was not an assurance of honesty, that treachery lurked behind it, that duplicity, mockery, and a thousand other trickeries were veiled there. Now, thinking of the picture, and listening to his foreman, he was conscious only of an idle curiosity to see how the girl would take the knowledge of her father’s ill fame. It wasn’t his affair.

He watched Billings go back to the bunkhouse. Later, he saw the outfit ride away. He went into the house and breakfasted in silence. In his room, afterward, he buckled on a cartridge belt, tied the holsters of the pistols to the leather chaps he wore on his legs, swinging the weapons low down so that his hands swept the butts easily; examined the pistols themselves, then went out to the corral, caught up his favorite horse, Meteor—a dark gray, superbly muscled, tall and rangy, with speed in every line and spirit in the quivering nostrils—mounted and rode over the mesa toward Bozzam City, silent, somber, and grim.

CHAPTER II

A MAN’S WORD IS LAW

At a distance of ten miles Bozzam City appeared to be a romantic collection of squarely built, substantial houses gracing the center of a green-brown grass plain. At five miles the illusion of romanticism began to disperse and one yielded to doubt. At a hundred yards a conviction that distance made Bozzam City a fraud became deeply settled. By the time one dismounted at the hitching rail in front of the Palace—after sweeping Bozzam City’s meager dimensions with a contemptuous glance—one was convinced that distance is a liar and Bozzam City a libel on civic nomenclature.

Gawne felt that way about Bozzam City each time he had occasion to enter it. He did not give so much thought to the subject today, for his mind was upon other things.

A dozen pairs of eyes watched him as he rode down the dust-windrowed street. Intent—some glowering, others wavering, all curious—those same eyes remained fixed on Gawne while he dismounted from Meteor, stretched himself, looked about him—noting none of the eyes, for their owners watched from divers places invisible to the visitor—and strode into the front door of the Palace.

Several men were ranged beside the bar. One might have noticed from the slow stiffening of bodies that Gawne had enemies here. Not all of the men stiffened; there were some who seemed to expand with good feeling, their faces softened, their eyes glowed. Two nodded cordially; the others appeared to be ignorant of Gawne’s presence.

The barroom was big—wide, long, and squat. A cluster of kerosene lamps swung from the center of the ceiling; colored lithographs adorned sections of the walls; an elk’s head looked stonily down from its prominent position behind the bar, flanked by serried rows of bottles. The place reeked with the mingled odors of stale beer, whiskey, and tobacco. From a rear room, through a wide archway, came a rattle of poker chips and a rumble of lurid talk. Gawne caught a glimpse of the faces of two players; two others had their back toward the archway. On the floor near the front door was piled a monument of miscellaneous articles—bags, satchels, bundles, and packages—to be borne eastward presently by the stage. Several strangers, presumably the owners of the impedimenta, were draped on chairs fringing the wall opposite the bar; they were unimportant human atoms that had no place in Bozzam City’s scheme of things.

The barkeeper, who knew Gawne, hurried to serve him, nodding respectfully. Gawne drank sparingly.

“Stage due at eleven?” he said.

“Correct,” returned the other. He grinned. “Bozzam City’s takin’ a heap of interest in the stage today.”

“Why?”

“Don’t you know? Ol’ Harkless’ daughter is comin’ in on her. The boys is all slicked up!

“H-m,” said Gawne; “where is Jess Cass?

The barkeeper jerked a thumb toward the rear room. “Playin’ poker.”

Gawne strode into the rear room. Several men looked on at the game here, and Gawne joined them, keeping his gaze fixed on Jess Cass.

The latter was solidly built, muscular, heavy of face. Habit of disagreeable thought had drawn the right corner of his mouth downward; the same habit had made his eyes truculent. Petty vices, long uncontrolled, had coarsened his features; larger vices had affected his poise; and as he sat at the table there was a sneaking droop to his shoulders. Yet Gawne knew him for a dangerous man—perhaps the most dangerous of Bozzam’s outfit.

Cass was deeply interested in the game, and yet he seemed to grow slightly uneasy; and finally, compelled by the fixity of Gawne’s stare, he looked up and met the Diamond Bar owner’s eyes. Gawne closed one of them at him, and moved his head slightly toward the street. Then Gawne sauntered out and lounged at the hitching rail near his horse, aware that his signal to Cass had not been seen by the others. After a decent interval Cass cashed his chips and followed Gawne to the street, stopping an instant at the bar for a drink. In the street, Cass grinned shallowly at Gawne.

“Business that pulls a man away from a poker game must be damned important,” he suggested.

“Very important,” said Gawne. “Is Colonel Harkless coming to meet his daughter?”

“No. The Colonel ain’t feelin’ up to the ride. He sent word over by Joe Allen, yesterday, tellin’ me to fetch the girl over to the Triangle.”

“Where is Joe now?”

Cass grinned widely. “In the back room of the High Card—pickled to the ears. He’s a hell of a trustworthy man, ain’t he?”

“I see,” said Gawne. He looked straight at Cass and the other’s face flushed.

“What do you see?” he demanded.

“The play, Cass; it doesn’t go. I’m taking Miss Harkless to the Colonel.”

“So that’s the game, eh?” Cass dropped back a step, furtive-eyed, alert, the drooping corner of his mouth quivering stiffly. “You’re interferin’ again eh? You’ve done it before, an’ we let you get away with it. But—” His right arm became rigid, curved above his pistol holster, the fingers drooping, claw-like.

Gawne had not moved; he still was in the lounging attitude. “Pull it, you white-livered sneak,” he invited, his voice cold and taunting.

Cass had had notions—vicious ones. He felt them shrivel. It had happened to him before, this incident; the procedure was identical. The will to murder had been in his heart; it had gone. Courage had been in his heart; it had been whelmed by icy chills that crawled up his back. His body was rigid, paralyzed; he could not have moved his arm downward a quarter of an inch for a bag of gold as big as the Sunshine Mountains, looming northwestward. He was held in the cold grip of fear, and he could not have told why. There was nothing menacing in Gawne’s attitude—it was the perfection of studied carelessness; nor was Gawne’s voice remarkable for the promise of dire things. It was all in Gawne’s eyes; they were blazing with the fires of wrath and destruction, wanton and bitter; yet lurking behind the fire was a frigid complacence, a confidence, a certain knowledge, that their owner would emerge victorious from any danger. One stopped to wonder at this—and was lost. Cass was lost; he knew it. One little downward movement of his right hand and Gawne’s pistol would be out barking forth death to him. Cass knew he would be slow—the blazing eyes holding his told him he would—they advertised it, they mocked his impotency. It was that way with every man of the Hame Bozzam outfit—with those who had met Gawne in a battle of the spirit—to quail before him, with those who had the courage to admit it to their fellows. They were puzzled; something in Gawne’s eyes warned them not to take the chance. Two had taken the chance in the past, and the inevitable had happened, just as Gawne’s eyes had told them it would happen—only the two had not heeded. It was mystifying, and yet it was undoubtedly a bar to the designs of the Bozzam outfit. Not in two years had a Bozzam man permitted himself to get into the position where Cass found himself; and now Cass was wishing he had not made that foolish move. They—Bozzam’s men—had nicknamed this man “Riddle”, and Cass was no nearer solving the magnetic puzzle than the others of the outfit who had clashed with him.