"You are right now," he assured him; "there has been no harm done."

Standing, the young man favored Hollis with a careful inspection. He flushed again. "You're the man that rode through the draw," he said. "I saw you and thought you were one of Dunlavey's men. I shot at you once, and was going to shoot again, but something cracked in my head. I hope I didn't hit you." Embarrassment again seized him; his eyes drooped. "Of course you are not one of Dunlavey's men," he added, "or you wouldn't be here, talking to sis. No friend of Dunlavey's could do that." He looked at the girl with a tender smile. "I don't know what I'd do if it wasn't for her," he added, speaking to Hollis. "But I expect it's a good thing that I'm not crazy all the time." He looked searchingly at Hollis. "I've never seen you before," he said. "Who are you?"

"I am Kent Hollis."

The young man's eyes lighted. "Not Jim Hollis's son?" he asked.

Hollis nodded. The young man's face revealed genuine pleasure. "You going to stay in this here country?" he asked.

"I am going to run the Circle Bar," returned Hollis slowly.

"Bully!" declared the young man. "There's some folks around here said you wouldn't have nerve enough to stay." He made a wry face. "But I reckon you've got nerve or you'd have hit the breeze when I started to stampede." He suddenly held out a hand. "I like you," he said impulsively. "You and me are going to be friends. Shake!"

Hollis saw a smile of pleasure light up the girl's face, which she tried to conceal by brushing the young man's clothing with a gloved hand, meanwhile keeping him between her and Hollis.

Hollis stood near the boulder, watching them as they prepared to depart, the girl telling her brother that he would find his pony on the plains beyond the canyon.

"I am glad I didn't hit you," the young man told Hollis as he started away with the girl. "If you are not scared off you might take a run down to the shack some time—it's just down the creek a ways."

Hollis hesitated and then, catching the girl's glance, he smiled.

"I can't promise when," he said, looking at the girl, "but you may be sure that I will look you up the first chance I get."

He stood beside the boulder until he saw them disappear around the wall of the canyon. Then with a satisfied grin he walked to his pony, mounted, and was off through the draw toward the Circle Bar ranchhouse.



CHAPTER VI

HOLLIS RENEWS AN ACQUAINTANCE

Rumor, that mysterious disseminator of news whose tongues are legion, whispered that the Dry Bottom Kicker was to come to life. Wherefore curiosity led many of Dry Bottom's citizens past the door of the Kicker office to steal covert glances at the young man whose figure was bent over the desk inside. Many passed in silence after looking at the young man—he did not see them. Others commented gravely or humorously according to their whim—the young man did not hear them. Seated at the desk he gave his attention to the tasks before him—he was not concerned with rumor; the curiosity of Dry Bottom's citizens did not affect him. Seriously, methodically, steadily, he worked at his desk, while rumor wagged her tongues and curiosity lounged past the window.

It was Hollis's first visit to the Kicker office; he had come to work and there was much that he could do. He had found the Kicker installed in a one story frame building, verging upon dilapidation, unpainted, dingy. The appearance of its exterior had given Hollis a queer sensation in the pit of the stomach. He was cheered a little by the businesslike appearance of the interior. It was not what he had been used to, but he felt that it would answer very well in this locality, and—well, he planned to make improvements.

About twenty by forty, he estimated the size of the interior. Originally there had been only one room. This had been divided into three sections by partitions. An old, flat-topped desk sat near the front window, a swivel chair before it. Along the wall above the desk were several rows of shelving with paste-board boxes and paper piled neatly up. Calendars, posters, and other specimens of the printer's art covered the walls. In the next room was another desk. Piles of advertising electrotypes, empty forms, and papers filled the corners. The composing room was in the rear. Everything was in order here; type cases, stands, forms. There were a proof press, some galley racks, a printing press, with a forlorn-looking gasolene engine near it. A small cast-iron stove stood in a corner with its door yawning open, its front bespattered with tobacco juice. A dilapidated imposing stone ranged along the rear wall near a door that opened into the sunlight. A man stood before one of the type cases distributing type. He did not look up at Hollis's entrance.

"Hello!" greeted Hollis.

The man hesitated in his work and looked up. "Hello," he returned, perfunctorily.

"I suppose your name is Potter?" Hollis inquired cordially. Judge Graney had told him that if he succeeded in finding the compositor he would have him at the Kicker office this morning. Potter had gone to work without further orders.

"Yes," said the man. He came forward.

"I am the new owner of the Kicker," Hollis informed him with a smile.

"Jim Hollis's boy?" inquired Potter, straightening. At Hollis's nod he stepped quickly forward and grasped the hand the latter offered him, squeezing it tightly. "Of course you are Jim Hollis's boy!" he said, finishing his inspection. "You are the living image of him!" He swept his hand around toward the type case. "I am working, you see. Judge Graney wrote me last week that you wanted me and I came as soon as I could. Is it true that the Kicker is going to be a permanent institution?"

"The Kicker is here to stay!" Hollis informed him.

Potter's face lighted with pleasure. "That's bully!" he said. "That's bully!"

He was of medium height, slender, lean faced, with a magnificent head, and a wealth of brown hair thickly streaked with silver. His thin lips were strong; his chin, though a trifle weak, was well formed; his eyes slightly bleared, but revealing, in spite of this defect, unmistakable intelligence. In the first flashing glance which Hollis had taken at him he had been aware that here was a person of more than ordinary mental ability and refinement. It was with a pang of pity that he remembered Judge Graney's words to the effect that he was a good workman—"when sober." Hollis felt genuinely sorry for him.

"I have had a talk with Judge Graney," volunteered Potter. "He tells me that you are a newspaper man. Between us we ought to be able to get out a very respectable paper."

"We will," calmly announced Hollis; "and we'll get the first issue out Saturday. Come in here and we'll talk about it."

He led the way to the front room and seated himself at the desk, motioning Potter to another chair. Within the next hour he knew all about the Kicker. It was a six-column sheet of four pages. The first page was devoted to local news. The second carried some local advertisements, exchange clippings, and two or three columns of syndicate plate matter. On the third page two columns were devoted to editorials, one to advertisements, and three to local news in large type. The fourth, and last page was filled with more plate matter and a litter of "foreign" advertising—patent-medicines, soaps, hair-dye.

At the first glance it appeared that the paper must be a paying proposition, for there were a goodly proportion of advertisements. Yet Hollis had his suspicions about the advertisements. When he had spoken to Potter about them he discovered that quite a number of them were what is known to the craft as "dead ads"—which meant advertisements upon which payment had ceased and which were carried either for the purpose of filling up the paper or because it was found cheaper to run them than to set type for the space which would be left by their absence.

"We won't carry any dead ads!" announced Hollis.

"Several of these are big merchants," said Potter, pointing them out with inky forefinger; "though the contracts have run out the appearance of their ads lends the Kicker a certain moral support—the little fellows don't know that they are not paid for and it draws their business."

"We don't care for that kind of business," smiled Hollis; "we're going to run a real newspaper. We're going to get paid ads!"

"I hope so," hesitatingly replied Potter.

"Of course you do," laughed Hollis; "but whether we get paid ads or not this newspaper is coming out regularly and on time. Furthermore, we're going to cut down on this plate stuff; we don't want a paper filled with stale articles on snakes, antedated ocean disasters, Egyptian monoliths, and the latest style in opera hats. We'll fill the paper with local news—we'll ginger things up a little. You are pretty well acquainted here—I'll leave the local items to you. What town near here compares with Dry Bottom in size?"

"There's Lazette," returned Potter; "over in Colfax County."

"How far from here?"

"Eighty miles."

"Got a newspaper?"

"Yes; the Eagle."

"Bully! Step on the Eagle's toes. Make the Eagle scream. Get into an argument with it about something—anything. Tell Lazette that as a town it's forty miles behind Dry Bottom. That will stir up public spirit and boom our subscription list. You see, Potter, civic pride is a big asset to a newspaper. We'll start a row right off the reel. Furthermore, we're going to have some telegraph news. I'll make arrangements for that to-day."

Hollis's enthusiasm was infectious; a flash of spirit lighted up Potter's eyes as he rose from his chair. "I'm going to set up the head for the first page," he said. "Probably you'll want a slogan; that sort of thing is the style out here."

"We'll have one," returned Hollis briskly. "Set this in triple leads: 'We Herald the Coming of the Law! The Kicker is Here to Stay!'"

"Good!" declared Potter. He went into the composing room and Hollis saw his fine old head bent over a type case. Hollis turned to his desk.

He sat there long, his tall, lithe body slack, grim, serious lines in his lean face. He had thought of his conversation with Judge Graney concerning ambition—his ambition, the picture upon which his mind had dwelt many times. A little frame printing office in the West was not one of its features. He sighed with resignation and began methodically to look over the papers in the desk, finding many things to interest him. He discovered that in spite of his father's one great fault he had been a methodical man. He smiled regretfully, wishing that he might have been able to have seen more of him. Among the papers he hoped to find a personal note—a word—from his father. He found nothing of that character.

After a time he took up a pen and began to write. Long ago he had decided that in the first issue of the paper he would attack the Cattlemen's Association. Judge Graney had ridden out to the Circle Bar on the previous Saturday afternoon, remaining over Sunday, and accompanying Hollis on the return trip Monday morning.

While at the ranch the Judge had spent much of his time in communicating to Hollis his views of the situation in Union County and in acquainting him with the elder Hollis's intentions regarding the newspaper. Hollis had made some inquiries on his own account, with the result that when he reached the Kicker office this morning he felt that he had acquired a good and sufficient knowledge of the situation.

Looking over the old copy of the Kicker he studied some of the advertisements. Evidently some Dry Bottom merchants had been brave enough to antagonize Dunlavey by advertising in the Kicker. With this copy of the Kicker in hand Hollis rose from his desk, told Potter he was going out, and proceeded to visit some of the merchants whose advertisements appeared in the paper, hoping that their bravery still abided with them. He made a good solicitor. Some of the merchants flatly refused, saying they did not care to risk Dunlavey's anger. Others demurred, confidentially announcing that they had never considered the paper seriously and that there was really no good in advertising in Dry Bottom anyway—the town wasn't big enough. Half a dozen listened quietly while he told them that the Kicker was in Dry Bottom to stay and then smiled and told him to run their advertisements. They rather admired his "nerve" and were not afraid of Dunlavey.

At noon Hollis stepped into a restaurant called the Alhambra. While he ate he was critically inspected; the Alhambra swarmed with customers, and the proprietor quietly informed him that he was a "drawin' card" and hoped he'd "grub" there regularly. In return for his promise to do so Hollis secured his advertisement.

Leaving the Alhambra he returned to the Kicker office, seating himself again at his desk. The sun came slantwise through the window full upon him; the heat was oppressive; the flint-like alkali dust sifted through the crevices in the building and settled over everything in the room; myriad flies droned in the white sunlight before the open door. He heard nothing, felt nothing, saw nothing—for his thoughts were miles away, in an upper story of a big office building in the East from whose windows he even now looked down upon a bustling city.

Life would be so different here. He heard a sound behind him and turned. Dunlavey was standing just inside the door, his great arms folded over his chest. He had been watching Hollis, his eyes narrowed with a cynically humorous expression.

Hollis knew that by this time Dunlavey must have discovered his identity. He swung slowly around in his chair, his face wearing an expression of whimsical amusement as he greeted his victim of a few days previous.

"Welcome to the Kicker office," he said quietly.

Dunlavey did not move. Evidently he had expected another sort of greeting and was slightly puzzled over Hollis's manner. He remained motionless and Hollis had an opportunity to study him carefully and thoroughly. His conclusions were brief and comprehensive. They were expressed tersely to himself as he waited for Dunlavey to speak: "A trickster and a cheat—dangerous."

Dunlavey's eyes flashed metallically for an instant, but immediately the humorous cynicism came into them again. "I don't think you mean all of that," he said evenly.

Hollis laughed. "I am not in the habit of saying things that I do not mean," he said quietly. "I am here to do business and I am ready to talk to anybody who wants to do business with me."

Dunlavey's hands fell to his sides and were shoved into his capacious trousers' pockets. "Right," he said tersely: "that's what I'm here for—to talk business."

He pulled a chair over close to Hollis and seated himself in it, moving deliberately, a certain grim reserve in his manner. Hollis watched him, marveling at his self-control. He reflected that it required will power of a rare sort to repress or conceal the rage which he surely must feel over his humiliation of two weeks before. That Dunlavey was able to so mask his feelings convinced Hollis that he had to deal with a man of extraordinary character.

"I recollect meeting you the other day," said Dunlavey after he had become seated. He smiled with his lips, his eyes glittering again. "I'll say that we got acquainted then. There ain't no need for us to shake hands now." He showed his teeth in a mirthless grin. "I didn't know you then, but I know you now. You're Jim Hollis's boy."

Hollis nodded. Dunlavey continued evenly: "Your father and me wasn't what you might call bosom friends. I reckon Judge Graney has told you that—if he ain't you've heard it from some one else. It don't make any difference. So there won't be any misunderstanding I'll tell you that I ain't figgering on you and me hitching up to the mutual friendship wagon either. I might say that we wasn't introduced right." He grinned evilly. "But I ain't letting what happened interfere with the business that's brought me here to-day. I've heard that you're intending to start the Kicker again; that you're figgering on staying here and running the Circle Bar. What I'm here for is to buy you out. I'm offering you fifteen thousand dollars for the Circle Bar and this damn newspaper."

Dunlavey had lost a little of the composure which had characterized his actions since entering the office and the last words of his speech had writhed venomously through his lips.

Hollis's face betrayed absolutely no emotion. Though Dunlavey's visit to the Kicker office had surprised him he was not surprised at his offer for the ranch and the newspaper, for according to Judge Graney he had made some such offer to the elder Hollis. Coming now, with an addition of five thousand dollars, Dunlavey's offer seemed to advertise his reluctance to continue the war that he had waged. Hollis appreciated the situation. If Dunlavey were to buy him off now there would come an end to the warfare that had already been an expensive one for the interests represented by Dunlavey. Likewise, the acceptance of the offer would give Hollis an opportunity to withdraw gracefully. Dunlavey had placed the issue squarely before him. The young man held his future in his hands and he did not reply at once.

He sat silent for a few moments, studying the coarse, brutal face of the man seated before him, noting that his under jaw had come forward slightly, and that the cold, hard glitter had come again in his eyes. However, Hollis's silence meant nothing beyond the fact that he was going slowly over the history of the fight between his father and the man who sat there representing the interests which had begun the war. He had no thought of surrendering—that would be dishonorable. He was merely revolving the situation in his mind, considering how best to word his refusal. He did not want to appear belligerent; he did not want to precipitate war. But he did want Dunlavey to know that he purposed to have his rights; he wanted Dunlavey to know that he could not be frightened into surrendering them. He clasped one hand over his knee and leaned back in his chair, his gaze meeting Dunlavey's steadily.

"Dunlavey," he said quietly, "what is the actual value of the Circle Bar ranch?"

Dunlavey smiled blandly. "You couldn't find any man around these parts to take it at any price," he returned.

"Why?" questioned Hollis.

Dunlavey grinned mysteriously. "I reckon you know why," he returned; "you're pretty much of a tenderfoot, but I reckon Judge Graney has put you wise to the situation. There ain't nobody wants to buy the Circle Bar except me."

"Why?" persisted Hollis.

"I reckon you know that too," laughed Dunlavey. "It ain't no secret. The Cattlemen's Association is running things in this here county and it ain't wanting anyone to buy the Circle Bar except me. And nobody is fool enough to antagonize the Association. That's the why, if you want to know real bad."

"You are frank about it at any rate," conceded Hollis smiling slightly. "But that doesn't get us anywhere. What I am trying to get at is this: what would the Circle Bar bring in cash if the Cattlemen's Association ceased to be a factor in the county?" Dunlavey grinned broadly. "For a tenderfoot you're real amusing," he derided. "There ain't nobody out here crazy enough to think that the Cattlemen's Association will ever be put out of business!"

Hollis's lips curled a little, but his gaze was still steady.

"That's evasion, Dunlavey," he said quietly. "You will remember that I asked you what the Circle Bar would bring 'if' the Association ceased to be a factor."

Dunlavey favored Hollis with a perplexed grin. "I don't know what difference that makes," he returned. "We're dealing with what's before us now—we ain't considering what might be. But if you want to know my personal opinion it's that the Circle Bar might bring thirty thousand."

"Thanks," said Hollis dryly; "that's getting somewhere. And now we'll be able to talk business. We've got thirty thousand to start with. I am told that when the Association began its war against my father he was rather prosperous. Usually he rounded up about two thousand head of cattle. But we'll call it a thousand. We'll say that they brought about thirty dollars a head, which would make an income of thirty thousand dollars a year, gross. We'll deduct fifty per cent for operating expenses, losses, and so on. That would leave about fifteen thousand. You've been fighting the Circle Bar for several years. We'll call it five. Five times fifteen thousand is seventy-five thousand. That represents the sum which my father would have made from the Circle Bar if you had not fought him. Add to that the thirty thousand which you admit would be a fair figure for the ranch if the Association were eliminated as a factor, and we have a total of one hundred and five thousand dollars." He smiled and leaned a little farther back in his chair, narrowing his eyes at Dunlavey. "Now we have reached a point where we can get somewhere. I'll take one hundred thousand dollars for the Circle Bar."

The calm announcement had no effect upon Dunlavey except to cause him to grin derisively.

"For a tenderfoot you're pretty slick," he allowed, his teeth showing. "You've figgered it out so that it sounds right reasonable. But you've forgot one thing. The Cattlemen's Association ain't eliminated. It says that the Circle Bar is worth fifteen thousand. You'll take that or——" He smiled grimly, holding back the threat.

"I think I know what you mean," said Hollis quietly, without changing color. "You mean that the Cattlemen's Association will continue its fight and eventually ruin the Circle Bar. Perhaps it will—no man can tell what lies in the future. But I can tell you this: you can't retard progress."

"No?" said Dunlavey with an irritating drawl.

Hollis smiled composedly. He spoke without bitterness. "Dunlavey," he said, "I'm going to tell you something which you perhaps know but will not admit. Your Association has been successful in pulling the strings which make the politicians at Washington jump to do your bidding. I don't accuse you of buying them, but in any event they have greased the ways over which your Association has slipped to power. And now you think that the impetus you have gained will carry you along indefinitely. It won't. Everything in this world runs its natural course and when it does there comes an end.

"If you were endowed with the average foresight you would be able to see that things cannot always go on the way they have. The law must come. It is inevitable. Its coming will be facilitated by such organizations as the Cattlemen's Association and by such men as you. Back in the East the forces of Good and Bad are battling. The forces of Good will be victorious. The government at Washington is familiar with the conditions that exist here and sooner or later will be compelled to act. When it does the small cattle owner will receive protection."

"We're holding tight till the law comes," sneered Dunlavey; "which won't be soon."

"Perhaps not," admitted Hollis dryly; "good things come slowly. Meanwhile, if you don't care to accept my figure for the Circle Bar I shall follow your example and hold tight until the law comes."

"Meaning that you won't sell, I suppose?" sneered Dunlavey.

"Meaning just that," returned Hollis quietly. "I am going to fight you. I have offered the Circle Bar at a fair figure and you have responded with threats. I wouldn't sell to you now if you offered one hundred and fifty thousand. The Circle Bar is not for sale!"

Dunlavey had not moved. He sat quiet, leaning a little forward, his hands resting on his knees, his eyes narrowed to glittering pin-points as he watched Hollis. When the latter had concluded he leaned back, laughing hoarsely.

"What are you going to do with this damn newspaper?" he demanded.

"The newspaper will be used as a weapon against you," returned Hollis. "It will kick loud and long against such organizations as the Cattlemen's Association—against such men as you. Ostensibly the Kicker will be a Dry Bottom newspaper, but it will appear in every city in the East; the matter that appears in it will be reprinted in Chicago, in Washington, in New York—in fact in every city in which I have a friend engaged in the newspaper business—and I have a number. I am going to stir up sentiment against you. I am going to be the Law's advance agent!"

Dunlavey rose, his lips curling with contempt. "You make me sick!" he sneered. He turned his back and walked to the door, returning and standing in front of Hollis, ominously cool and deliberate. "So that's the how of it?" he said evenly. "You've come out here looking for fight. Well, you'll get it—plenty of it. I owe you something——"

"Wait, Dunlavey," Hollis interrupted, without excitement; "I want you to understand that there isn't anything personal in this. I am going to fight you because you are a member of the Cattlemen's Association and not because you were my father's enemy. I am not afraid of you. I suspect that you will try to make things decidedly interesting for me from now on and I suppose I ought to be properly troubled. But I am not. I shall not be surprised at anything you do. I think that is all. Please close the door when you go out."

He turned to the desk, ignoring Dunlavey. Sitting there, his senses alert, he heard the door slam. From beyond it came a curse. Silence again reigned in the office; Hollis was alone with the dust and the heat—and some very original thoughts.



CHAPTER VII

THE "KICKER" BECOMES AN INSTITUTION

It was mid-July—and hot. The sun shone continually; the nights were uncomfortable, stifling. The dust was everywhere and grew deeper and lighter as the days passed. Water grew scarce; cattle suffered, lowing throughout the night, during the day searching the bogs and water holes for drops of moisture. Men looked up at the clear, cloudless sky and prayed—and cursed—for rain. The rain did not come. It was one long, continuous nightmare of heat.

The Kicker had appeared four times—on Saturdays—on time. Telegraphic communication with the outside world had been established. Potter had taken up his residence at the Circle Bar. War had been declared between the Kicker and the Lazette Eagle. Hollis had written an argumentative essay on the virtues of Dry Bottom as a town, dwelling upon its superiority over Lazette. The editor of the Eagle had replied with some bitterness, setting forth in detail why Dry Bottom did not compare with Lazette. As the editor of the Eagle mentioned population and civic spirit in his bill of particulars the war promised to be of long duration—questions of superiority between spirited persons are never settled. And Hollis had succeeded in arousing the spirit of Dry Bottom's citizens. They began to take some interest in the Kicker. Many subscribed; all read it.

From the "local" columns of the paper one might have discovered that many public and private improvements were contemplated. Among these the following items were of the greatest interest:

Steps are being taken by the government toward the erection of a fence around the court house grounds. Judge Graney is contemplating a lawn and flowers. When these improvements are completed there will be no comparison between our court house and the dilapidated hovel which disgraces the county seat of Colfax. The Lazette Eagle please notice.

* * * * *

William Dunn, the proprietor of the Alhambra eating house, announces that in the near future he will erect a new sign. Thereafter the Alhambra will be known as the Alhambra Restaurant. This is a step forward. We have been informed that there is no restaurant in Lazette. Good boy, Dunn.

* * * * *

Chet Miller's general merchandise store is to be repainted throughout. Chet is public spirited.

Everybody of any importance in Dry Bottom received weekly mention of some sort in the Kicker. Chet Miller was heard to say that the Kicker was a "hummer," and no one ascribed his praise of the paper to thanks for the appearance of his name therein, for all who would have criticized were silenced by the appearance of their own names.

In the fourth issue of the paper appeared several new advertisements. Judicious personal mention and lively news locals had aroused public spirit to a point where it ignored thoughts of Dunlavey's displeasure.

Upon the Saturday which had marked the first issue of the Kicker under Hollis's ownership he had employed a circulation manager. That afternoon on the street near the Kicker office he had almost collided with a red haired youth of uncertain age who had bounded out through the door of a private dwelling. In order to keep from knocking the youth over Hollis was forced to seize him by the arms and literally lift him off his feet. While in the air the youth's face was close to Hollis's and both grinned over the occurrence. When Hollis set the youth down he stood for an instant, looking up into Hollis's face and a grin of amusement overspread his own.

"Shucks!" he said slowly. "If it ain't the tenderfoot editor!"

"That's just who it is," returned Hollis with a smile.

The youth grinned as he looked critically at Hollis. "You gittin' out that there paper to-day, mister?" he questioned.

"Right now," returned Hollis.

"Bully!" exclaimed the youth. He surveyed Hollis with a frank admiration. "They said you wouldn't have the nerve to do it," he said; "but, say! I reckon they ain't got you sized up right!"

Hollis smiled, remembering that though the paper had been printed it was not yet distributed. He placed a hand on the youth's shoulder.

"Have you got nerve enough to pass the Kicker around to the people of this town?" he questioned.

"I reckon," grinned the youth. "I was comin' down to ast you for the job when you bumped into me. I used to peddle them for your dad. My name's Jiggs Lenehan—mebbe you've heard of me?"

Hollis smiled. "The question of delivering the Kicker was one of the details that I overlooked," he said. "But fortunately it is arranged now. Henceforth, Jiggs, you are the Kicker's official circulation manager. Likewise, if you care to add to your income, you can help Potter around the office."

So it had been arranged, and Jiggs entered upon his duties with an energy that left little doubt in his employer's mind that he would prove a valuable addition to the force.

In Hollis's "Salutatory" to the people of Dry Bottom he had announced in a quiet, unostentatious paragraph that while he had not come to Dry Bottom for a free fight, he would permit no one to tread on his toes. His readers' comprehension of the metaphor was complete—as was evidenced by the warm hand-clasps which he received from citizens who were not in sympathy with the Dunlavey regime. It surprised him to find how many such there were in town. He was convinced that all this element needed was a leader and he grimly determined to step quietly into that position himself.

The second issue of the Kicker was marked by a more aggressive spirit—a spirit engendered by the sympathetic reception of the first issue. In it he stated concisely his views of the situation in Union County, telling his readers that the best interests of the community demanded that Dunlavey's evil influence be wiped out. This article was headed: "Dry Bottom's Future," and won him many friends.

The third issue contained stronger language, and the fourth was energetically aggressive. As he had decided before the first appearance of the paper, he took a certain number of copies of each issue, folded them neatly, stamped and addressed them, and mailed them to a number of newspapers throughout the country whose editors he knew. He also directed copies to a number of his friends in the East—to the president of his college, and last, to the Secretary of the Interior at Washington, who had formerly resided near him in Boston, and with whom he had a long acquaintance. There had been a change of administration the fall previous and he was certain that the new administration would not ignore the situation. To the Secretary, and also to a number of his friends, he wrote personal letters, explaining in detail the exact condition of affairs in Union County.

He had not seen Dunlavey since the day the latter had come to the Kicker office to negotiate for the purchase of the paper. On several of his rides to and from the Circle Bar ranch he had seen signs of life at the Circle Cross; once or twice he thought he saw someone watching him from a hill on the Circle Cross side of the Rabbit-Ear, but of this he was not quite certain, for the hill-top was thickly wooded and the distance great.

He had been warned by Norton not to ride too often over the same trail lest Dunlavey send someone to ambush him.

Hollis had laughed at the warning, though thanking Norton for it. He told his range boss that he did not anticipate any immediate trouble with Dunlavey.

"It all depends on how Big Bill feels," returned Norton with a grim smile. "If you've got him mad there's no telling. And there are plenty of places between here and Dry Bottom where a man might be shot from ambush. And nobody'd ever know who done it. I wouldn't ride the Dry Bottom trail every day. There's the old Coyote trail, that takes you past the Razor-Back and through Devil's Hollow to Little Canyon an' along the hills to the other side."

He laughed. "There's only one thing you need to be afraid of if you take the Coyote trail, an' that's Ed Hazelton. Ed gets spells when he's plum crazy. He's Nellie Hazelton's brother—her that Dunlavey was pesterin' when you slammed him." He laughed again, significantly. "Though if Ed knowed you was the man who took his sister's part you wouldn't need to be much scared of him—I've heard that he's got a pretty good memory for his friends—even when he's off."

Hollis had not told Norton of his experience in Devil's Hollow, nor did he tell him now. But he followed his advice about taking the Coyote trail, and the following day when he made the trip to Dry Bottom he returned that way. About half way between Dry Bottom and the Circle Bar he came upon a little adobe cabin snuggling an arroyo through which trickled a small stream of water.

It was an ideal location for a small rancher, and Hollis observed that the buildings were in order—evidently Nellie Hazelton and her brother were provident. He saw some cattle grazing on the edge of a small grass plateau which began at the slope of the arroyo through which the stream of water ran. A shout reached his ears as he sat motionless in the saddle looking about him, and he saw Ed Hazelton on the plateau among the cattle, waving a hand to him. The young man began to descend the side of the plateau, but before he had fairly started Nellie Hazelton had come out of the front door of the cabin and stood on the edge of the small porch, smiling at him.

"So you did come, after all?" was her greeting.

Hollis spurred his pony closer and sat smiling down at her. "I don't think anything could have stopped me after your invitation," he returned quickly.

"Oh!" she said. The sudden color that came into her face told of her confusion. It betrayed the fact that she knew he had come because of her. Her brother's invitation in Devil's Hollow had been merely formal; there had been another sort of invitation in her eyes as she and her brother had left him that day.

"Won't you get off your horse?" she said while he still sat motionless. "It's quite a while before sundown and you have plenty of time to reach the Circle Bar before dark."

He had determined to discover something of the mystery that surrounded her and her brother, and so he was off his pony quickly and seating himself in a chair that she drew out of the cabin for him. By the time her brother had reached the porch Hollis was stretched comfortably out in the chair and was answering several timid questions concerning his opinion of the country and his new responsibilities.

She was glad he liked the country, she said. It was wonderful. In the five years they had been here they had enjoyed it thoroughly—that was, of course, barring the trouble they had had with Dunlavey.

Of their trouble with Dunlavey Hollis would hear much later, he told himself. At present he was more interested in discovering something about her and her brother, though he did not wish to appear inquisitive. Therefore his voice was politely casual.

"Then you are not a Westerner?" he said.

She smiled mournfully. "No," she returned; "we—Ed and I—were raised in Illinois, near Springfield. We came out here five years ago after—after mother died." Her voice caught. "Sometimes it seems terribly lonesome out here," she added; "when I get to thinking of—of our other home. But"—she smiled bravely through the sudden moisture that had come into her eyes—"since Ed got hurt I don't have much time to think of myself. Poor fellow."

Hollis was silent. He had never had a sister but he could imagine how she must feel over the misfortune that had come to her brother. It must be a sacrifice for her to remain in this country, to care for a brother who must be a great burden to her at times, to fight the solitude, the hardships, to bear with patience the many inconveniences which are inevitable in a new, unsettled country. He felt a new admiration for her and a profound sympathy.

"I think that you must be a very brave young woman," he said earnestly.

"Oh!" she returned with a sudden, illuminating smile. "It isn't hard to be brave. But at times I find it hard to be patient."

"Patience is one of the cardinal virtues," declared Hollis, "but it takes bravery of a rare sort to remain in this country, surrounded with the care——"

Her fingers were suddenly over her lips warningly, and he saw Ed Hazelton nearing the porch.

"I wouldn't have him know for the world," she said rapidly. "It isn't a care to look after someone you love."

Hollis smiled grimly at the reproach in her voice and rose to greet her brother.

The latter seemed to be quite recovered from the attack he had suffered in Devil's Hollow and talked freely and intelligently of affairs in the country. Hollis found that on the whole he was a well informed young man—quiet, modest, and apparently well able to give a good account of himself in spite of his affliction. He was bitter against Dunlavey and thanked Hollis warmly for his defense of his sister.

At sundown Hollis departed, telling the Hazeltons that since he was their neighbor he would not neglect to see them occasionally. As he rode away into the dusk Nellie Hazelton stood on the porch smilingly waving her hand at him. As he threaded his way through the rapidly growing darkness he felt an unaccountable satisfaction over the fact that he had elected to remain in Union County; that henceforth his fortunes were to be linked with those of a brave young woman who had also accepted the robes of sacrifice and who was committed to war against their common enemy—Dunlavey. Curiously, during the past few days he had felt a decided change in his attitude toward life. His old ambition was no longer uppermost in his mind—it had been crowded out of his existence. In its place had been erected a new pinnacle of promise. A seat among the mighty was a worthy goal. Yet the lowly bench of sacrifice was not without its compensations.



CHAPTER VIII

CONCERNING THE "SIX-O'CLOCK"

On Friday evening previous to the Saturday on which the Kicker was to be issued for the fifth consecutive time by Hollis, Potter did not ride out to the Circle Bar. There still remained some type to be set and Potter had declared his intention of completing the work and staying overnight in town. Hollis had acquiesced and had departed for the Circle Bar alone.

When he reached Dry Bottom the following morning he found a small crowd of people in front of the Kicker office. During the night someone had posted a written notice on the front door, and when Hollis dismounted from his pony there were perhaps a dozen interested citizens grouped about the door, reading the notice. There were several of the town's merchants and a number of cowboys—new arrivals and those who had remained overnight to gamble and participate in the festivities that were all-night features of the dives. There were also the usual loafers, who constitute an element never absent in any group of idlers in any street. All, however, gave way before Hollis and allowed him to reach the door without molestation, though in passing he observed significant grins on several faces.

The notice was written in a bold, legible hand.

"Mr. Hollis:"—it read, the prefix under-scored—"The express leaves town this afternoon at six o'clock—goin' east. Better be on it."

Signed—"Y. Z."

Hollis read the notice and then turned and quietly surveyed his watchful, interested audience. He smiled grimly, seeing several faces which, though plainly expressing amusement, seemed quietly sympathetic. He felt that these were wishing him success, though doubting his ability to cope with his enemies. Other faces were plainly antagonistic in expression. He looked at both for an instant and then turned again to the notice and producing a pencil printed boldly on its face the slogan he had devised:

"We Herald the Coming of the Law! The Kicker is Here to Stay!"

And below he indulged in this sarcasm: "Don't hold the express on my account!"

Signed—"KENT HOLLIS"

Leaving his audience to stare after him Hollis pushed open the door of the office and entered.

He found Potter bending over the imposing table, hard at work on one of the forms. Three other forms, locked and ready for the press, stood in a corner. Potter looked up and smiled as his chief entered.

"See the notice on the door?" he inquired.

"Some of Dunlavey's work, I suppose," returned Hollis.

"Well, yes. I suppose Dunlavey is back of it. But Yuma tacked the sign up." He smiled soberly as Hollis flashed a grin at him. "They tried hard last night to get me to drink. Of course their purpose was to get me drunk so that I wouldn't be able to get the paper out today. I am not going to tell you how hard I had to fight myself to resist the temptation to drink. But you can see for yourself that I succeeded. The Kicker will be ready to go to press in an hour."

He felt Hollis's hand patting his shoulder approvingly and he continued, a little hoarsely. "I took one drink at the Fashion last night after I got through here. Then I came back and went to sleep. I am a light sleeper and when some time after midnight I heard a sound at the door I got up and peered out of the window. I saw Yuma tacking up the notice. I suppose Dunlavey wrote it." He looked at Hollis with a whimsical expression. "I suppose you are going to take the express?" he inquired.

"Tried to get you drunk, did they?" shaking his head negatively to Potter's question, a smile on his face. "I can't understand that game," he continued, soberly. "Of course getting you drunk would have prevented the appearance of the paper on scheduled time. But if they wanted to do serious damage—of course I mean to the paper," he apologized with a grim smile, "why didn't they come down here—some of them—during your absence, and smash things up? That would have made the thing sure for them."

Potter laughed mirthlessly. "Of course they could have done that," he said; "it would have been easy—will be easy any time. But it wouldn't be artistic, would be coarse in fact. Dunlavey doesn't do things that way. If they smash your stuff, destroy your plant here, ruin your type and press, and so forth, they invite sympathy in your behalf. But if they prevent the appearance of your paper without having done any damage to your plant they accomplish something—they expose you to ridicule. And in this country ridicule is a potent weapon—even if it involves nothing more serious than a drunken printer."

Hollis shook Potter's hand in silence. He had expected violence from Dunlavey; long before this he had expected him to show his hand, to attempt some covert and damaging action. And he had been prepared to fight to get the Kicker out. He had not expected subtlety from Dunlavey.

He went to his desk and sat in the chair, looking out through the window at the crowd that still lingered in front of the office. Most of the faces wore grins. Plainly they were amused, but Hollis saw that the amusement was of a grim sort. They appreciated the situation and enjoyed its humor but felt the tragedy behind it. Probably most of them were acquainted with Dunlavey's methods; some of them probably knew of the attempt that had been made to incapacitate Potter. Certainly those of them that did know had seen the failure of the attempt and were now speculating upon Dunlavey's next move. Looking out of the window Hollis felt that some of his audience must be wondering whether the editor of the Kicker would pay any attention to the notice on the door. Would he scare?

Hollis had already decided that he would not "scare." He grinned at several of the men who watched him and then turned and instructed Potter to take down a column of type on the first page of the paper to make room for an article that he intended to write. Then he seized a pen and wrote a red hot defiance directed at the authors of the notice, which Potter set up under the heading:

"Why the Editor of the Kicker Won't Take the Express."

In clear, terse language he told his audience his reasons. This was America; he was an American, and he didn't purpose to allow the Cattlemen's Association—or any other association, gang, or individual—to dictate the policy of his paper or influence his private actions. Least of all did he purpose to allow anyone to "run him out of town." He printed the notice entire, adding his answer, assuring readers that he was sending copies of the Kicker to every newspaper in the East and that notices such as had been affixed to his door would react against the authors. He ended with the prophecy that the law would come into Union County and that meanwhile the Kicker purposed to fight.

At noon Hollis took the usual number of copies to the station and mailed them. Walking down the street on his return from the station he attracted much attention. Men stood in the open doorways of saloons watching him, a number openly jeered; others sent subtle jibes after him. Still others were silent, their faces expressing amusement.

But he looked at none of them. He swung along the board walk, his face a little pale, his lips tightly closed, determined to pay no attention to the jeers that reached his ears.

When he passed the Fashion there were a number of men draped along its front; and he was conscious of many grins. Passing the men he heard low laughter and profane reference which caused his cheeks to redden. But he walked steadily on. Near the Kicker office he met Jiggs Lenehan. Followed by the youth he reached the office to find that Potter had completed the press work and that several hundred copies of the paper, the ink still moist on its pages, were stacked in orderly array on the imposing stone. In a very brief time Jiggs burst out of the office door, a bundle of papers under his arm, and began the work of distribution. Standing back from the window with Potter, Hollis watched Jiggs until the latter reached the crowd in front of the Fashion saloon. Then all that Hollis could see of him was his red head. But that trade was brisk was proved by the press around Jiggs—the youth was passing out papers at a rapid rate and soon nearly every man in the crowd about the Fashion was engaged in reading, or,—if this important feature of his education had been neglected—in questioning his neighbor concerning the things that appeared in the paper.

Presently Jigg's customers in front of the Fashion were all supplied. Then other purchasers appeared. Soon the Kicker was being read by—it seemed—nearly every grown person in Dry Bottom. Business was suspended. Down the street men were congregated about the doors of many of the stores; others were sitting in doorways, still others leaned against buildings; some, not taking time to search for support, read while walking, or stood motionless on the board sidewalks, satisfying their curiosity.

Hollis watched through the window until he began to be certain that every person in town was supplied with a paper. Then with a grim smile he left the window and sought his chair beside the desk. He was satisfied. Dunlavey had made the first aggressive movement and the fight was on.



CHAPTER IX

HOW A BAD MAN LEFT THE "KICKER" OFFICE

It was about one o'clock in the afternoon when the Kicker appeared on Dry Bottom's street. At about five minutes after one, Potter left the front of the office and walked to the rear room where he halted at the imposing stone. There he proceeded to "take down" the four forms. This done he calmly began distributing type.

While Potter worked Hollis sat very quietly at his desk in the front office, his arms folded, one hand supporting his chin, his lips forming straight lines, his eyes narrowed with a meditative expression. Occasionally Potter glanced furtively at him, his eyes filled with mingled expressions of sympathy, admiration, and concern.

Potter appreciated his chief's position. It meant something for a man of Hollis's years and training to bury himself in this desolate sink-hole of iniquity; to elect to carry on an unequal war with interests that controlled the law machinery of the county and Territory—whose power extended to Washington. No doubt the young man was even now brooding over the future, planning his fight, pessimistically considering his chances of success. Potter's sympathy grew. He thought of approaching his chief with a word of encouragement. But while he hesitated, mentally debating the propriety of such an action, Hollis turned quickly and looked fairly at him, his forehead perplexed.

"Potter," he remarked, "I suppose there isn't a good brain specialist in this section of the country?"

"Why—why——" began Potter. Then he stopped and looked at his chief in wordless astonishment. His sympathy had been wasted.

"No," laughed Hollis, divining the cause of the compositor's astonishment, "personally I have no use for a brain specialist. I was thinking of some other person."

"Not me?" grinned Potter from behind his type case. He flushed a little at the thought of how near he had come to offering encouragement to a man who had not been in need of it, who, evidently, had not been thinking of the big fight at all. "Perhaps I need one," he added, eyeing Hollis whimsically; "a moment ago I thought you were in the dumps on account of the situation here—you seemed rather disturbed. It surprised me considerably to find that you had not been thinking of Dunlavey at all."

"No," admitted Hollis gravely, "I was not thinking of Dunlavey. I was wondering if something couldn't be done for Ed Hazelton."

"Something ought to be done for him," declared Potter earnestly. "I have watched that young man closely and I am convinced that with proper care and treatment he would recover fully. But I never heard of a specialist in this section—none, in fact, nearer than Chicago. And I've forgotten his name."

"It is Hammond," supplied Hollis. "I've been thinking of him. I knew his son in college. I am going to write to him."

He turned to his desk and took up a pen, while Potter resumed his work of distributing type.

About half an hour later Jiggs Lenehan strolled into the office wearing a huge grin on his face. "'Pears like everybody in town wants to read the Kicker to-day," he said with a joyous cackle. "Never had so much fun sellin' them. Gimme some more," he added breathlessly; "they's a gang down to the station howlin' for them. Say," he yelled at Hollis as he went out of the door with a big bundle of Kickers under his arm, "you're cert'nly some editor man!" He grinned admiringly and widely as he disappeared.

Hollis finished his letter to Hammond and then leaned back in his chair. For half an hour he sat there, looking gravely out into the street and then, answering a sudden impulse, he rose and strode to the door.

"Going down to the court house," he informed Potter.

He found Judge Graney in his room, seated at the big table, a copy of the Kicker spread out in front of him. At his appearance the Judge pushed back his chair and regarded him with an approving smile.

"Well, Hollis," he said, "I see Dunlavey has played the first card."

"He hasn't taken the first trick," was the young man's quick reply.

"Fortunately not," laughed the judge. He placed a finger on a column in the Kicker. "This article about the Cattlemen's Association is a hummer—if I may be allowed the phrase. A straight, manly citation of the facts. It ought to win friends for you."

"I've merely stated the truth," returned Hollis, "and if the article seems good it is merely because it defends a principle whose virtue is perfectly obvious."

"But only a man who felt strongly could have written it," suggested the Judge.

"Perhaps. I admit feeling a deep interest in the question of cattle."

"Your ambition?" slyly insinuated the Judge.

"Is temporarily in abeyance—perhaps permanently."

"Then your original decision about remaining here has been—well, strengthened?"

Hollis nodded. The Judge grinned mysteriously. "There is an article on the first page of the Kicker which interested me greatly," he said. "It concerns the six o'clock train—going east. Do you happen to know whether the editor of the Kicker is going to use the express?"

Hollis smiled appreciatively. "The editor of the Kicker is going to use the express," he admitted, "though not in the manner some people are wishing. The usual number of copies of the Kicker are going to ride on the express, as are also some very forceful letters to the President of the United States and the Secretary of the Interior."

"Good!" said the Judge. He looked critically at Hollis. "I know that you are going to remain in Dry Bottom," he said slowly; "I have never doubted your courage. But I want to warn you to be careful. Don't make the mistake of thinking that the notice which you found on the door of the Kicker office this morning is a joke. They don't joke like that out here. Of course I know that you are not afraid and that you won't run. But be careful—there are men out here who would snuff out a human life as quickly as they would the flame of a candle, and with as little fear of the consequences. I shouldn't like to hear of you using your revolver, but if you do have occasion to use it, use it fast and make a good job of it."

"I don't like to use a gun," returned Hollis gravely, "but all the same I shall bear your advice in mind." An expression of slight disgust swept over his face. "I don't see why men out here don't exhibit a little more courage," he said. "They all 'pack' a gun, as Norton says, and all are apparently yearning to use one. I don't see what satisfaction there could be in shooting a man with whom you have had trouble; it strikes me as being a trifle cowardly." He laughed grimly. "For my part," he added, "I can get more satisfaction out of slugging a man. Perhaps it isn't so artistic as shooting, but you have the satisfaction of knowing that your antagonist realizes and appreciates his punishment."

Judge Graney's gaze rested on the muscular frame of the young man. "I suppose if all men were built like you there would be less shooting done. But unfortunately nature has seen fit to use different molds in making her men. Not every man has the strength or science to use his fists, nor the courage. But there is one thing that you will do well to remember. When you slug a man who carries a gun you only beat him temporarily; usually he will wait his chance and use his gun when you least expect him."

"I suppose you refer to Yuma Ed and Dunlavey?" suggested Hollis.

"Well, no, not Dunlavey. I have never heard of Dunlavey shooting anybody; he plays a finer game. But Yuma Ed, Greasy, Ten Spot, and some more who belong to the Dunlavey crowd are professional gun-men and do not hesitate to shoot. The chances are that Dunlavey will try to square accounts with you in some other manner, but I would be careful of Yuma—a blow in the face never sets well on a man of that character."

An hour later, when Hollis sat at his desk in the Kicker office, Judge Graney's words were recalled to him. He was thinking of his conversation with the Judge when Jiggs Lenehan burst into the office, breathless, his face pale and his eyes swimming with news. He was trembling With excitement.

"Ten Spot is comin' down here to put you out of business!" he blurted out when he could get his breath. "I was in the Fashion an' I heard him an' Yuma talkin' about you. Ten Spot is comin' here at six o'clock!"

Hollis turned slowly in his chair and faced the boy. His cheeks whitened a little. Judge Graney had been right. Hollis had rather expected at some time or other he would have to have it out with Yuma, but he had expected he would have to deal with Yuma himself. He smiled a little grimly. It made very little difference whether he fought Yuma or some other man; when he had elected to remain in Dry Bottom he had realized that he must fight somebody—everybody in the Dunlavey crew. He looked at his watch and saw that the hands pointed to four. Therefore he had two hours to prepare for Ten Spot's coming. He smiled at the boy, looked back into the composing room and saw that Potter had ceased his labors and was leaning on a type case, watching him soberly. He grinned broadly at Potter and turned to Jiggs.

"How many Kickers did you sell?"

"Two hundred an' ten," returned the latter; "everybody bought them." He took a step forward; his hands clenching with the excitement that still possessed him. "I told you Ten Spot was comin' down here to kill you!" he said hoarsely and insistently. "Didn't you hear me?"

"I heard you," smiled Hollis, "and I understand perfectly. But I don't think we need to get excited over it. Just how much money did you receive for the two hundred and ten papers?"

"Six dollars an' two bits," responded the boy, regarding Hollis wonderingly.

"It is yours," Hollis informed him; "there was to be no charge for the Kicker to-day."

The boy grinned with pleasure. "Don't you want none of it?" he inquired.

"It is yours," repeated Hollis. He reached out and grasped the boy by the arm, drawing him close. "Now tell me what you heard at the Fashion," he said.

Rapidly, but with rather less excitement in his manner than he had exhibited on his entrance, the boy related in detail the conversation he had overheard at the Fashion. When he had finished Hollis patted him approvingly on the back.

"The official circulation manager of the Kicker has made good," he said with a smile. "Now go home and take a good rest and be ready to deliver the Kicker next Saturday."

The boy backed away and stood looking at Hollis in surprise. "Why!" he said in an awed voice, "you ain't none scared a-tall!"

"I certainly am scared," laughed Hollis; "scared that Ten Spot will change his mind before six o'clock. Do you think he will?"

"No!" emphatically declared the boy. "I don't reckon that Ten Spot will change his mind a-tall. He'll sure come down here to shoot you!"

"That relieves me," returned Hollis dryly. "Now you go home. But," he warned, "don't tell anyone that I am scared."

For an instant the boy looked at Hollis critically, searching his face with all a boy's unerring judgment for signs which would tell of insincerity. Seeing none, he deliberately stretched a hand out to Hollis, his lips wreathing into an approving grin.

"Durned if you ain't the stuff!" he declared. "I'm just bettin' that Ten Spot ain't scarin' you none!" Then he backed out of the door and still grinning, disappeared.

After Jiggs had gone Hollis turned and smiled at Potter. "I suppose you know this man Ten Spot," he said. "Will he come?"

"He will come," returned Potter. His face was pale and his lips quivered a little as he continued: "Ten Spot is the worst of Dunlavey's set," he said; "a dangerous, reckless taker of human life. He is quick on the trigger and a dead shot. He is called Ten Spot because of the fact that once, with a gun in each hand, he shot all the spots from a ten of hearts at ten paces."

Hollis sat silent, thoughtfully stroking his chin. Potter smiled admiringly.

"I know that you don't like to run," he said; "you aren't that kind. But you haven't a chance with Ten Spot—unfortunately you haven't had much experience with a six-shooter." Potter's hands shook as he tried to resume work at the type case. "I didn't think they would have nerve enough for that game," he added, advancing again toward Hollis. "I rather thought they would try some other plan—something not quite so raw. But it seems they have nerve enough for anything. Hollis" he concluded dejectedly, "you've got to get out of town before six o'clock or Ten Spot will kill you!

"You've got plenty of time," he resumed as Hollis kept silent; "it's only a little after four. You can get on your horse and be almost at the Circle Bar at six. No one can blame you for not staying—everybody knows that you can't handle a gun fast enough to match Ten Spot. Maybe if you do light out and don't show up in town for a week or so this thing will blow over."

"Thank you very much for that advice, Potter," said Hollis slowly. "I appreciate the fact that you are thinking of my safety. But of course there is another side to the situation. You of course realize that if I run now I am through here—no one would ever take me seriously after it had been discovered that I had been run out of town by Ten Spot."

"That's a fact," admitted Potter. "But of course——"

"I think that is settled," interrupted Hollis. "You can't change the situation by argument. I've got to face it and face it alone. I've got to stay here until Ten Spot comes. If I can't beat him at his game he wins and you can telegraph East to my people." He rose and walked to the window, his back to the printer.

"You can knock off for to-day, Potter. Jump right on your pony and get out to Circle Bar. I wouldn't say anything to Norton or anyone until after nine to-night and then if I don't show up at the ranch you will know that Ten Spot has got me."

He stood at the window while Potter slowly drew off his apron, carefully folded it and tucked it into a corner. He moved very deliberately, as though reluctant to leave his chief. Had Hollis shown the slightest sign of weakening Potter would have stayed. But watching closely he saw no sign of weakness in the impassive face of his chief, and so, after he had made his preparations for departure, he drew a deep breath of resignation and walked slowly to the back door, where his pony was hitched. He halted at the threshold, looking back at his chief.

"Well, good-bye then," he said.

Hollis did not turn. "Good-bye," he answered.

Potter took one step outward, hesitated, and then again faced the front of the office.

"Damn it, Hollis," he said hoarsely, "don't wait for Ten Spot to start anything; when you see him coming in the door bore him. You've got a right to; that's the law in this country. When a man gives you notice to leave town you've got a right to shoot him on sight!"

For a moment he stood, awaiting an answer. None came. Potter sighed and stepped out through the door, leaving his chief alone.

* * * * *

At one minute to six Hollis pulled out his watch. He sighed, replaced the time-piece, and leaned back in his chair. A glance out through the window showed him that the street was deserted except for here and there a cow pony drooping over one of the hitching rails and a wagon or two standing in front of a store. The sun was coming slantwise over the roofs; Hollis saw that the strip of shade in front of the Kicker building had grown to wide proportions. He looked at his watch again. It was one minute after six—and still there were no signs of Ten Spot.

A derisive grin appeared on Hollis's face. Perhaps Ten Spot had reconsidered. He decided that he would wait until ten minutes after six; that would give Ten Spot a decent margin of time for delay.

And then there was a sudden movement and a man stood just inside the office door, a heavy revolver in his right hand, its muzzle menacing Hollis. The man was tall and angular, apparently about thirty years old, with thin, cruel lips and insolent, shifty eyes.

"'Nds up!" he said sharply, swinging the revolver to a threatening poise. "It's six o'clock, you tenderfoot —— —— —— ——!"

This was the vile epithet that had been applied to Hollis by Yuma Ed, which had been the direct cause of Yuma's downfall the day of Hollis's arrival in Dry Bottom. Hollis's eyes flashed, but the man was several feet from him and out of reach of his fists. Had Hollis been standing he would have had no chance to reach the man before the latter could have made use of his weapon. Therefore Hollis remained motionless in his chair, catching the man's gaze and holding it steadily with unwavering, narrowed eyes.

Though he had waited for the coming of Ten Spot, he had formulated no plan of action; he had felt that somehow he would come out of the clash with him without injury. He still thought so. In spite of his danger he felt that some chance of escape would be offered him. Grimly confident of this he smiled at the man, though still holding his gaze, determined, if he saw the faintest flicker of decision in his eyes, to duck and tackle him regardless of consequences.

"I suppose you are Ten Spot?" he said slowly. He was surprised at the steadiness of his voice.

The man grinned, his eyes alert, shifty, filled with a chilling menace. "You've got her right, tenderfoot," he said; "'Ten Spot's' m' handle, an' if you're a-feelin' like criticizin' of her do her some rapid before I starts dealin' out the lead which is in my pritty."

Just how one man could be so entirely remorseless as to shoot another when that other man was looking straight into his eyes Hollis could not understand. He could readily realize how a man could kill when provoked to anger, or when brooding over an injury. But he had done nothing to Ten Spot—did not even know him—had never seen him before, and how Ten Spot could deliberately shoot him—without provocation—was incomprehensible. He was convinced that in order to shoot, Ten Spot must work himself into an artificial rage, and he believed that the vile epithet which Ten Spot had applied to him immediately upon his entrance must be part of his scheme. He was convinced that had he shown the slightest resentment over the application of the epithet Ten Spot would have shot him down at once. Therefore he resolved to give the man no opportunity to work himself into a rage. He smiled again as Ten Spot concluded and carelessly twisted himself about in his chair until he was in a position to make a quick spring.

"'Ten Spot' is a picturesque name," he remarked quietly, not removing his gaze from Ten Spot's eyes for the slightest fraction of a second; "I have no criticism to make. I have always made it a point to refrain from criticizing my visitors. At least I do not recollect ever having criticized a visitor who carried a gun," he concluded with a smile.

Ten Spot's lips curled sarcastically. Apparently he would not swerve in his determination to provoke trouble.

"Hell," he said truculently, "that there palaver makes me sick. I reckon you're too damn white livered to criticize a man that's lookin' at you. There ain't no tenderfoot (here he applied the unprintable epithet again) got nerve enough to criticize nothin'!"

Hollis slowly raised his hands and placed them on the arms of his chair, apparently to steady himself, but in reality to be ready to project himself out of the chair in case he could discern any indication of action on Ten Spot's part.

"Ten Spot," he said in a low, even, well controlled voice, conciliatory, but filled with a manliness which no man could mistake, "at four o'clock this afternoon I heard that you and Yuma Ed were framing up your present visit. I am not telling who gave me the information," he added as he saw Ten Spot's eyes brighten, "but that is what happened. So you see I know what you have come for. You have come to kill me. Is that correct?"

Ten Spot's eyes narrowed—into them had come an appraising, speculative glint. He nodded. "You've got her right," he admitted gruffly. "But if you knowed why didn't you slope?" He looked at Hollis with a half sneer, as though unable to decide whether Hollis was a brave man or merely a fool.

Hollis saw the indecision in Ten Spot's eyes and his own brightened. At last he had planned a form of action and he cooly estimated the distance between himself and Ten Spot. While Hollis had been speaking Ten Spot had taken a step forward and he was now not over four or five feet distant. Into Ten Spot's eyes had come an amused, disdainful gleam; Hollis's quiet, argumentative attitude had disarmed him. This was exactly what Hollis had been waiting for.

Ten Spot seemed almost to have forgotten his weapon; it had sagged, the muzzle pointing downward—the man's mind had become temporarily diverted from his purpose. When he saw Hollis move suddenly forward he remembered his gun and tried to swing its muzzle upward, but it was too late. Hollis had lunged forward, his left hand closing on Ten Spot's right wrist, his right fist reaching Ten Spot's jaw in a full, sweeping, crashing uppercut.

The would-be killer did not have even time enough to pull the trigger of his six-shooter. It fell from his hand and thudded dully to the floor as his knees doubled under him and he collapsed in an inert, motionless heap near the door.

With a grim smile on his face Hollis picked up Ten Spot's weapon and placed it on the desk. For an instant he stood at the window, looking out into the street. Down near the Fashion he saw some men—Yuma Ed among them. No doubt they were waiting the sound of the pistol shot which would tell them that Ten Spot had disposed of Hollis. Hollis grinned widely—Yuma and his gang were due for a surprise. For perhaps a minute Hollis stood beside the desk, watching Ten Spot. Then when the latter's hands began to twitch and a trace of color appeared in his face, Hollis pulled out his own revolver and approached him, standing within a few feet of him and looking down at him.

There was no mark on Ten Spot's jaw to show where Hollis's blow had landed, for his fist had struck flush on the point, its force directed upward. Ten Spot's mouth had been open at the instant and the snapping of his teeth from the impact of the blow no doubt had much to do with his long period of unconsciousness.

He stirred presently and then with an effort sat up and looked at his conqueror with a glance of puzzled wonderment. Seeing Hollis's weapon and his own on the desk, the light of past events seemed to filter into his bewildered brain. He grinned owlishly, felt of his jaw and then bowed his head, a flush of shame overspreading his face.

"Herd-rode!" he said dismally. "Herd-rode, an' by a tenderfoot! Oh, Lordy!" He suddenly looked up at Hollis, his eyes flashing with rage and defiance.

"Damn your hide, why don't you shoot?" he demanded. He placed his hands, palm down, on the floor, preparatory to rising, but ceased his efforts when he heard Hollis's voice, coldly humorous:

"I shall shoot you just the instant you get to your feet. I rather think that I am running things here now."

Ten Spot sagged back and looked up at him. "Why I reckon you are," he said. No method of action having suggested itself to him, he continued to sit, watching Hollis narrowly.

The latter retreated to his chair and dropped into it, moving deliberately. When he spoke his voice was cold and metallic.

"When you first came into the office," he said, "you applied a vile epithet to me. Once after that you did it again. You have asked me why I don't shoot you. If you really want me to shoot you you can keep your mouth closed for just one minute. If you want to continue to live you can tell me that you didn't mean a word of what you said on those two occasions. It's up to you." He sat silent, looking steadily at Ten Spot.

The latter fidgeted, shame again reddening his cheeks. "Why," he said finally, "I reckon she don't go, tenderfoot. You see, she's only a noma de ploom which we uses when we wants to rile somebody. I cert'nly didn't mean nothin' by it."

"Thanks," drawled Hollis dryly; "I'll call that sufficient. But you certainly did 'rile' me some."

"I reckon I must have done just that," grinned Ten Spot ruefully. "You're shorely some she-wolf with them there claws of your'n. An' I done laffed at Dunlavey an' Yuma after you'd clawed them." His face sobered, his eyes suddenly filling with an expression of defiant resignation.

"I reckon when you're done triflin' with me you c'n start to pumpin' your lead," he said. "There ain't no use of prolongin' the agony." He looked steadily at Hollis, his eyes filling with decision as he again placed his hands beside him on the floor to rise.

"You c'n open the ball when you get damn good an' ready," he sneered, "but I'm gettin' up right now. I ain't goin' to die off my pins like a damn coyote!"

He rose quickly, plainly expecting to be shot down the moment he reached his feet. When he discovered that Hollis evidently intended to delay the fatal moment he stiffened, his lips twitching queerly.

"Ten Spot," said Hollis quietly, "by apologizing for what you said when you came in you have shown that there is a great deal of the man left in you despite your bad habits and associations. I am going to show you that I think there is enough of the man left in you to trust you with your gun."

He turned abruptly to the desk and took up Ten Spot's weapon, holding it by the muzzle and presenting it to the latter. Ten Spot looked from the weapon to Hollis and back again to the weapon, blank amazement pictured on his face. Then he reached out mechanically, taking the weapon and holding it in his hands, turning it over and over as though half inclined to believe that it was not a revolver at all.

"Chuck full of cattridges, too!" he exclaimed in amazement, as he examined the chambers.

"Why, hell——" He crouched and deftly swung the six-shooter around, the butt in his hand, his finger resting on the trigger. In this position he looked at Hollis.

The latter had not moved, but his own weapon was in his right hand, its muzzle covering Ten Spot, and when the latter swung his weapon up Hollis smiled grimly at him.

"Using it?" he questioned.

For an instant it seemed that Ten Spot would. An exultant, designing expression came into his eyes, he grinned, his teeth showing tigerishly. Then suddenly he snapped himself erect and with a single, dexterous movement holstered the weapon. Then his right hand came suddenly out toward Hollis.

"Shake!" he said. "By ——, you're white!"

Hollis smiled as he returned the hearty handclasp.

"You're cert'nly plum grit," assured Ten Spot as he released Hollis's hand and stepped back the better to look at the latter. "But I reckon you're some damn fool too. How did you know that I wouldn't turn you into a colander when you give me back my gun?"

"I didn't know," smiled Hollis. "I just took a chance. You see," he added, "it was this way. I never intended to shoot you. That sort of thing isn't in my line and I don't intend to shoot anyone if there is any way out of it. But I certainly wasn't going to allow you to shoot me." He smiled oddly. "So I watched my chance and slugged you. Then when I was certain that you weren't dangerous any more I had to face another problem. If I had turned you loose after taking your gun what would you have done?"

"I'd have gone out an' rustled another gun an' come back here an' salivated you."

"That's just what you would have done," smiled Hollis. "I intend to stay in this country, Ten Spot, and if I had turned you loose without an understanding you would have shot me at the first opportunity. As it stands now you owe me——-"

"As it stands now," interrupted Ten Spot, a queer expression on his face, "I'm done shootin' as far as you're concerned." He walked to the door, hesitated on the threshold and looked back. "Mister man," he said slowly, "mebbe you won't lick Big Bill in this here little mix-up, but I'm telling you that you're goin' to give him a damn good run for his money! So-long."

He stepped down and disappeared. For a moment Hollis looked after him, and then he sat down at the desk, his face softening into a satisfied smile. It was something to receive a tribute from a man like Ten Spot.



CHAPTER X

THE LOST TRAIL

It was after seven o'clock when Hollis mounted his pony in the rear of the Kicker office and rode out over the plains toward the Circle Bar. He was properly elated by the outcome of his affair with Ten Spot. The latter had come to the Kicker office as an enemy looking for an opportunity to kill. He had left the office, perhaps not a friend, but at least a neutral, sympathetic onlooker, for according to Hollis's interpretation of his words at parting he would take no further part in Dunlavey's campaign—at least he would do no more shooting.

Hollis was compelled to make a long detour in order to strike the Circle Bar trail, and when at seven-thirty o'clock he rode down through a dry arroyo toward a little basin which he must cross to reach a ridge that had been his landmark during all his trips back and forth from Dry Bottom to the Circle Bar, dusk had fallen and the shadows of the oncoming night were settling somberly down over the plains.

He rode slowly forward; there was no reason for haste, for he had told Potter to say nothing about the reason of his delay in leaving Dry Bottom, and Potter would not expect him before nine o'clock. Hollis had warmed toward Potter this day; there had been in the old printer's manner that afternoon a certain solicitous concern and sympathy that had struck a responsive chord in his heart. He was not a sentimentalist, but many times during his acquaintance with Potter he had felt a genuine pity for the man. It had been this sentiment which had moved him to ask Potter to remove temporarily to the Circle Bar, though one consideration had been the fact at the Circle Bar he would most of the time be beyond the evil influence of Dry Bottom's saloons. That Potter appreciated this had been shown by his successful fight against temptation the night before, when postponement of the publication of the Kicker would have been fraught with serious consequences.

Riding down through the little basin at the end of the arroyo Hollis yielded to a deep, stirring satisfaction over the excellent beginning he had made in his fight against Dunlavey and the interests behind him. Many times he smiled, thinking of the surprise his old friends in the East must have felt over the perusal of their copies of the Kicker; over the information that he—who had been something of a figure in Eastern newspaperdom—had become the owner and editor of a newspaper in a God-forsaken town in New Mexico, and that at the outset he was waging war against interests that ridiculed a judge of the United States Court. He smiled grimly. They might be surprised, but they must feel, all who knew him, that he would stay and fight until victory rewarded him or until black, bitter defeat became his portion. There could be no compromise.

When he reached the ridge toward which he had been riding for the greater part of an hour night had come. The day had been hot, but there had been a slight breeze, and in the Kicker office, with the front and rear doors open, he had not noticed the heat very much. But just as he reached the ridge he became aware that the breeze had died down; that waves of hot, sultry air were rising from the sun-baked earth. Usually at this time of the night there were countless stars, and now as he looked up into the great, vast arc of sky he saw no stars at all except away down in the west in a big rift between some mountains. He pulled up his pony and sat motionless in the saddle, watching the sky. A sudden awe for the grandeur of the scene filled him. He remembered to have seen nothing quite like it in the East.

Back toward Dry Bottom, and on the north and south, rose great, black thunderheads with white crests, seeming like mountains with snowcapped peaks. Between the thunder-heads were other clouds, of grayish-white, fleecy, wind-whipped, weird shapes, riding on the wings of the Storm-Kings. Other clouds flanked these, moving slowly and majestically—like great ships on the sea—in striking contrast to the fleecy, unstable shapes between the thunderheads, which, though rushing always onward, were riven and broken by the irresistible force behind them. To Hollis it seemed there were two mighty opposing forces at work in the sky, marshalling, maneuvering, preparing for conflict. While he sat motionless in the saddle watching, a sudden gust of cold wind swirled up around him, dashed some fine, flint-like sand against his face and into his eyes, and then swept onward. He was blinded for an instant, and allowed the reins to drop on his pony's neck while he rubbed his eyes with his fingers. He sat thus through an ominous hush and then to his ears came a low, distant rumble.

He touched his pony lightly on the flanks with his spurs and headed it along the ridge, convinced that a storm was coming and suddenly realizing that he was many miles from shelter.

He had traveled only a little distance when clouds of sand and dust, wind-driven, enveloped him, blinding him again, stinging his face and hands and blotting out the landmarks upon which he depended to guide him to the Circle Bar. The sky had grown blacker; even the patch of blue that he had seen in the rift between the distant mountains was now gone. There was nothing above him—it seemed—except inky black clouds, nothing below but chaos and wind. He could not see a foot of the trail and so he gave the pony the rein, trusting to its instinct.

When Norton had provided him with an outfit the inevitable tarpaulin had not been neglected. Hollis remembered that this was attached to the cantle of the saddle, and so, after he had proceeded a little way along the crest of the ridge, he halted the pony, dismounted, unstrapped the tarpaulin, and folded it about him. Then he remounted and continued on his way, mentally thanking Norton for his foresight.

The pony had negotiated the ridge; had slowly loped down its slope to a comparatively low and level stretch of country, and was traveling steadily forward, when Hollis noticed a change in the atmosphere. It had grown hot again—sultry; the heat seemed to cling to him. An ominous calm had succeeded the aerial disturbance. From a great distance came a slight sound—a gentle sighing—gradually diminishing until it died away entirely. Then again came the ominous, premonitory silence—an absolute absence of life and movement. Hollis urged the pony forward, hoping the calm would last until he had covered a goodly part of the distance to the Circle Bar. For a quarter of an hour he went on at a good pace. But he had scarcely reached the edge of a stretch of broken country—which he dreaded even in the daylight—when the storm was upon him.

It did not come unheralded. A blinding flash of lightning illuminated miles of the surrounding country, showing Hollis the naked peaks of ridges and hills around him; gullies, draws, barrancas, the levels, lava beds, fantastic rock shapes—mocking his ignorance of the country. He saw them all for an instant and then they were gone and darkness—blacker than before—succeeded. It was as though a huge map had suddenly been thrust before his eyes by some giant hand, an intense light thrown upon it, and the light suddenly turned off. Immediately there came a heavy crash as though the Storm-Kings, having marshalled their forces, had thrown them together in one, great, clashing onrush. And then, straight down, roaring and shrieking, came the deluge.

The wise little plains-pony halted, standing with drooping head, awaiting the end of the first fierce onslaught. It lasted long and when it had gone another silence, as ominous as the preceding one, followed. The rain ceased entirely and the pony again stepped forward, making his way slowly, for the trail was now slippery and hazardous. The baked earth had become a slimy, sticky clay which clung tenaciously to the pony's hoofs.

For another quarter of an hour the pony floundered through the mud, around gigantic boulders, over slippery hummocks, across little gullies, upon ridges and small hills and down into comparatively level stretches of country. Hollis was beginning to think that he might escape a bad wetting after all when the rain came again.

This time it seemed the Storm-Kings were in earnest. The rain came down in torrents; Hollis could feel it striking against his tarpaulin in long, stinging, vicious slants, and the lightning played and danced along the ridges and into the gullies with continuing energy, the thunder following, crashing in terrific volleys. It was uncomfortable, to say the least, and the only consoling thought was that the deluge would prove a God-send to the land and the cattle. Hollis began to wish that he had remained in Dry Bottom for the night, but of course Dry Bottom was not to be thought of now; he must devote all his energy to reaching the ranch.

It was slow work for the pony. After riding for another quarter of an hour Hollis saw, during another lightning flash, another of his landmarks, and realized that in the last quarter of an hour he had traveled a very short distance. The continuing flashes of lightning had helped the pony forward, but presently the lightning ceased and a dense blackness succeeded. The pony went forward at an uncertain pace; several times it halted and faced about, apparently undecided about the trail. After another half hour's travel and coming to a stretch of level country, the pony halted again, refusing to respond to Hollis's repeated urging to go forward without guidance. For a long time Hollis continued to urge the animal—he cajoled, threatened—but the pony would not budge. Hollis was forced to the uncomfortable realization that it had lost the trail.