"Oh, I—I'd like to pay him a 'party call,'" he blurted out.

Minky was about to speak, but Wild Bill kept him silent with a sharp glance. An audible snigger came from beyond the window.

"Guess you know jest wher' you'll locate him?" inquired the gambler.

"No, but I'm going to find him, sure," replied Scipio doggedly. Then he added, with his eyes averted, "Guess I shan't let up till I do."

There was a weak sparkle in the little man's eyes.

"What's your game?" rasped Bill curiously.

"Oh, just nothin'."

The reply caused a brief embarrassed pause. Then the gambler broke it with characteristic force.

"An' fer that reason you're—carryin' a gun," he said, pointing at the man's bulging pocket.

Sandy Joyce ceased stacking his "chips"; Toby squared his broad shoulders and drained an already empty glass. Minky blinked his astonishment, while Wild Bill thrust his long legs out and aggressively pushed his hat back on his head. It was at that moment that curiosity overcame Sunny Oak's habitual indolence, and his face appeared over the window-sill.

"He's stole from me," said Scipio in a low tone.

"What's he stole?" demanded the gambler savagely.

"My wife."

The stillness of the room remained unbroken for some moments. Actions came far easier to these men than mere words. Scipio's words had a paralyzing effect upon their powers of speech, and each was busy with thoughts which they were powerless to interpret into words. "Lord" James was a name they had reason to hate. It was a name synonymous with theft, and even worse—to them. He had stolen from their community, which was unforgivable, but this—this was something new to them, something which did not readily come into their focus. Wild Bill was the first to recover himself.

"How d'you know?" he asked.

"She wrote telling me."

"She went 'cos she notioned it?" inquired Sandy.

"He's stole her—he's stole my Jessie," said Scipio sullenly.

"An' you're goin' to fetch her back?" Bill's question whipped the still air.

"Sure—she's mine."

Scipio's simplicity and single-mindedness brought forth a sigh of intense feeling from his hearers.

"How?" Wild Bill's method of interrogation had a driving effect.

"She's mine, an'—I'm going to get her back." There was pity at the man's obstinate assertion in every eye except Wild Bill's.

"Say, Zip, he'll kill you," said the gambler, after a pause.

"She's my wife. She's mine," retorted Scipio intensely. "An' I'll shoot him dead if he refuses to hand her over."

"Say," the gambler went on, ignoring the man's protest—the idea of Scipio shooting a man like James was too ludicrous—"you're up agin a bad proposition, sure. James has stole your—wife. He's stole more. He's a stage-robber."

"A cattle-thief," broke in Sandy.

"A 'bad man' of the worst," nodded Minky.

"He's all these, an' more," went on Bill, scowling. "He's a low-down skunk, he's a pestilence, he's a murderer. You're goin' to hunt him back ther' to his own shack in the foothills with his gang of toughs around him, an' you're goin' to make him hand back your wife. Say, you're sure crazy. He'll kill you. He'll blow your carkis to hell, an' charge the devil freightage for doin' it."

There was a look of agreement in the eyes that watched Scipio's mild face. There was more: there was sympathy and pity for him, feelings in these men for which there was no other means of expression.

But Scipio was unmoved from his purpose. His underlip protruded obstinately. His pale eyes were alight with purpose and misery.

"He's stole my—Jessie," he cried, "an' I want her back." Then, in a moment, his whole manner changed, and his words came with an irresistible pleading. Hard as was the gambler, the pathos of it struck a chord in him the existence of which, perhaps, even he was unaware.

"You'll lend me a horse, Bill?" the little man cried. "You will, sure? I got fifty dollars saved for the kiddies' clothes. Here it is," he hurried on, pulling out a packet of bills from his hip pocket. "You take 'em and keep 'em against the horse. It ain't sufficient, but it's all I got. I'll pay the rest when I've made it, if your horse gets hurted. I will, sure. Say," he added, with a happy inspiration, "I'll give you a note on my claim—ha'f of it. You'll do it? You—"

Bill's face went suddenly scarlet. Something made him lower his eyelids. It was as though he could not look on that eager face unmoved any longer. Somehow he felt in a vague sort of way that poor Scipio's spirit was altogether too big for his body. Bigger by far than that of those sitting there ready to deride his purpose, and crush it to a weak yielding such as, in their minds, was the only possible thing for a man of his like.

"You set them bills right back in your dip," he cried, with a savageness that was only a mask to his real feelings; "I don't need 'em. You ken get right out to the barn an' have your pick o' my plugs, an' anythin' you need else. Guess you best take the black mare. She'll carry you all day for a week, sure, an' then laff at you. Get right on, an'—an'—good luck!"

There are actions performed in every man's life for which he can never account, even to himself. Such was the act Wild Bill performed at that moment. Gambling was his living, but his horses were a passion with him. He possessed, perhaps, some of the finest in the country, and he worshiped them. He had never been known to lend a horse to his best friend, and no one but himself had ever been allowed to feed or groom them. He was prouder of them than a father might be of his firstborn son, and as careful of them as any doting mother. Therefore his assent to Scipio's request was quite staggering to his companions. Nor did he know why he did it, and a furious anger followed immediately upon this unusual outburst of good-nature.

Scipio was profuse in his thanks. But he was cut short with a violence that seemed quite unnecessary. For the moment, at least, Bill hated the little man almost as much as he hated this "Lord" James he was setting out in search of.

After that no word passed until Scipio had left the store for the barn. Bill sat wrapt in moody thought, his fierce eyes lowered in contemplation of his well-shod feet. His cards were forgotten, the men around him were forgotten. Sandy and the storekeeper were watching his harsh face in wonder, while Toby's head was turned in the direction of the departing man. It was Sunny Oak from his post at the window who finally broke the silence.

"Guess you gone plumb 'bug,' Bill," he said, with an amiable grin. Then, as only a flicker of a smile from the others answered him, and Bill ignored his charge altogether, he hurried on, "You're helpin' that misguided feller to a dose of lead he'll never have time to digest. If ever Zip runs foul of James, he'll blow him to hell as sure—as ther's allus work for those as don't need it. An', wot's more, you'll never set eyes on your black mare agin, 'less it's under James' saddle. You're sure 'bug.' You oughter be seen to."

It was only Sunny Oak who would have dared to say so much to the gambler. But then, for some unstated reason, Sunny was a privileged person on Suffering Creek. Nobody paid much attention to the manner in which he allowed his tongue to run on, and, besides, he was too lazy to be afraid of anybody.

Bill looked round.

"You're side-tracked," he observed contemptuously. "James won't shoot Jessie's husband. Maybe he'll kick him out, maybe he'll roast him bad, and tongue-lash him. Anyways, every man's got to play his own hand. An'—it's good to see him playin' hard, win or lose. But Zip'll git back, sure. An' he'll bring my mare with him. Go to sleep, Sunny; your thinkin'-pan's nigh hatched out."

"I don't guess he'll ever get alongside James," observed Minky thoughtfully. "We've all looked for him a piece. We know he's got a shanty back in the foothills, but I don't seem to remember hearin' of anybody findin' it. I don't guess Zip's wise to where it is."

Bill's eyes lit with a curious fire.

"Guess Zip'll find him," he said quietly. "Maybe it'll take him time—"

"An'," cried Sunny, "how's them pore kiddies to live meanwhiles?"

The loafer fired his little bomb with the desired effect. The men had no answer for some moments. And gradually all eyes fixed themselves upon Bill's face, as though acknowledging his leadership. He answered the challenge in characteristic fashion.

"Guess we'll turn Sunny loose to wet-nurse 'em."

An announcement which set Sunny plunging headlong to his own defense.

"Say, ain't ther' no sort o' peace for a feller as needs rest? You're all mighty smart settin' folks to work. But this is your game, Bill, an' it's up to you to put it thro'. I 'low you'd make an elegant wet-nurse—so soft and motherish."

But Bill had had enough, and turned upon the face at the window in his most savage manner.

"See here," he cried, with fierce irony, "we've all know'd you since Sufferin' Creek was Sufferin' Creek, an' nobody ain't never kicked. But it's kind o' ne'ssary for every feller around these parts to justify 'emselves. Get me? You need 'justifyin'.' Wal, I guess you'll see to them kiddies till Zip comes back. It's going to be your work seein' they don't get fixed into any sort o' trouble, an' when Zip gets back you'll hand 'em over clean an' fixed right. Get that? I'm payin' for their board, an' I'm payin' you a wage. An' you're goin' to do it, or light right out o' here so quick your own dust'll choke you."

"Here, here!" cried Toby, with a delighted laugh.

Sandy grinned into the loafer's angry face, while Minky nodded an unsmiling approval.

"Gee, you beat hell for nerve!" cried Sunny.

"Guess I ken do better. I ken beat you," retorted Bill contemptuously. "You'll do it, or—you ken start gettin' out now," he added.

Sunny realized his position by the expression of the other men's faces, and, quickly resuming his good-humored plaint, he acquiesced with a grumble.

"Gee! but it's a tough world," he complained, dropping back on to his bench hurriedly, lest fresh demands should be made upon him, and just in time to witness Scipio leading a beautiful black mare up to the tying-post.

The men in the store turned out at the sound of horse's hoofs, and stood gathered on the veranda. Bill's keen eyes were fixed regretfully on the shining sides of his favorite animal. She was a picture of lean muscle and bone, with a beautiful small head, and ears that looked little larger than well-polished mussel-shells. She stood pawing the ground impatiently while Scipio tied her to the post, and she nuzzled his ribs playfully with her twitching lips in the most friendly spirit. But Bill's eyes were suddenly arrested by the manner in which she was saddled and bridled. Poor Scipio had blundered in a hopeless fashion.

Other eyes, too, had seen the blunder, and Sandy Joyce suddenly pointed.

"Mackinaw! Jest get that," he cried.

"By Gee!" laughed Sunny.

But Wild Bill cut them all short in a surprising manner.

"Say, guess you fellers ain't never made no sort o' mistakes—any o' you. You're laffin' a heap. Quit it, or—" His eyes flashed dangerously. Then, as the men became silent, he darted across to where Scipio was still fumbling with the neck rope.

The little man's attempt at saddling, under any other circumstances, would have brought forth Bill's most scathing contempt. The saddle was set awry upon an ill-folded blanket. It was so far back from the mare's withers that the twisted double cinchas were somewhere under her belly, instead of her girth. Then the bit was reversed in her mouth, and the curb-strap was hanging loose.

Bill came to his rescue in his own peculiar way.

"Say, Zip," he cried in a voice that nothing could soften, "I don't guess you altered them stirrups to fit you. I'll jest fix 'em." And the little man stood humbly by while he set to work. He quickly unfastened the cinchas, and set the blanket straight. Then he shifted the saddle, and refastened the cinchas. Then he altered the stirrups, and passed on to the mare's bridle—Scipio watching him all the while without a word. But when the gambler had finished he glanced up into his lean face with an almost dog-like gratitude.

"Thanks, Bill," he said. "I never done it before."

"So I guessed." And the gambler's words, though wholly harsh, had no other meaning in them. Then he went on, as Scipio scrambled into the saddle, "You don't need to worry any 'bout things here. Your kiddies'll be seen to proper till you get back, if you're on the trail a month."

Scipio was startled. He had forgotten his twins.

"Say—you—"

But Bill wanted no thanks or explanations.

"We're seein' to them things—us, an' that all-fired lazy slob, Sunny Oak. Ther' won't be no harm—" He flicked the restive mare, which bounded off with the spring of a gazelle. "Ease your hand to her," he called out, so as to drown Scipio's further protestations of gratitude, "ease your hand, you blamed little fule. That's it. Now let her go."

And the mare raced off in a cloud of dust.



CHAPTER V

HUSBAND AND LOVER

Where all the trail-wise men of Suffering Creek and the district had failed, Scipio, the incompetent, succeeded. Such was the ironical pleasure of the jade Fortune. Scipio had not the vaguest idea of whither his quest would lead him. He had no ideas on the subject at all. Only had he his fixed purpose hard in his mind, and, like a loadstone, it drew him unerringly to his goal.

There was something absolutely ludicrous in the manner of his search. But fortunately there are few ready to laugh at disaster. Thus it was that wherever he went, wherever he paused amongst his fellows in search of information he was received perfectly seriously, even when he told the object of his search, and the story of its reason.

An ordinary man would probably have hugged such a story to himself. He would have resorted to covert probing and excuse in extracting information. But then it is doubtful if, under such circumstances, his purpose would have been so strong, so absolutely invincible as Scipio's. As it was, with single-minded simplicity, Scipio saw no reason for subterfuge, he saw no reason for disguising the tragedy which had befallen him. And so he shed his story broadcast amongst the settlers of the district until, by means of that wonderful prairie telegraphy, which needs no instruments to operate, it flew before him in every direction, either belittled or exaggerated as individual temperament prompted.

At one ranch the news was brought in from the trail by a hard-faced citizen who had little imagination, but much knowledge of the country.

"Say, fellers," he cried, as he swung out of the saddle at the bunkhouse door, "ther's a tow-headed sucker on the trail lookin' fer the James outfit. Guess he wants to shoot 'em up. He's a sawed-off mutt, an' don't look a heap like scarin' a jack-rabbit. I told him he best git back to hum, an' git busy fixin' his funeral right, so he wouldn't have no trouble later."

"Wher's he from?" someone asked.

"Sufferin' Creek," replied the cowpuncher, "an' seems to me he's got more grit than savvee."

And this opinion was more or less the general one. The little man rode like one possessed, and it was as well that of all his six treasured horses Wild Bill had lent him his black beauty, Gipsy. She was quite untiring, and, with her light weight burden, she traveled in a spirit of sheer delight.

At every homestead or ranch Scipio only paused to make inquiries and then hurried on. The information he received was of the vaguest. James or some of his gang were often seen in the remoter parts of the lower foothills, but this was all. At one farm he had a little better luck, however. Here he was told that the farmer had received an intimation that if he wished to escape being burnt out he must be prepared to hand over four hundred dollars when called upon by the writer to do so; and the message was signed "James."

"So ye see," said the farmer—a man named Nicholls—despondently, "he's som'eres skulkin' around hyar."

"Seems like it," acquiesced Scipio.

Then, of a sudden, a suspicion flashed through the other's mind, and the man-hunter spent an uncomfortable few seconds.

"Say, you're lookin' fer him?" the farmer questioned harshly. Then he leant forward, his eyes lighting with sudden anger. "If I tho't you was—"

But Scipio's mild blue eyes, and his simple reply had a pacific effect at once.

"I'm looking for him because he's stole my wife. And I'm goin' on chasin' till I find him."

There was such mild sincerity in his visitor's manner that it was impossible for the farmer to retain his suspicion.

"What you goin' to do about that four hundred?" inquired Scipio later.

"He'll get no dollars out o' me. I ain't got 'em," replied Nicholls hopelessly. Then his temper rose. "But I'm just goin' to sleep with a gun to my hand, an' he'll get it good an' plenty, if he shoots the life out of me, an' burns every stick I got, after."

Scipio nodded sympathetically.

"I'd feel that ways," he said. "Well, I guess I'll be gettin' on. My mare'll be fed an' rested by this. Thanks for the feed. Guess I'll hunt around this district a piece. Maybe I'll find—"

But suddenly the farmer awoke from the contemplation of his own troubles and eyed the diminutive figure of his guest wonderingly, as he stood up to go.

"Say," he observed critically, "guess you must be bustin' with grit chasin' this feller."

Scipio shook his head.

"No," he said, with a wan smile. "But he's got—my wife."

"Ah."

And there was a world of understanding in the man's monosyllable.

Five minutes later the man-hunter was on the trail again. It was the afternoon of the second day of his quest. He was saddle-sore and weary, but his purpose knew no weakening. Gipsy was going fresh and strong, and though she had already traveled probably a hundred miles in her rider's aimless wanderings, she moved as though she was out for a morning's exercise on a liberal diet of oats.

True to his intention Scipio scoured the district with an excess of enthusiasm which carried him far, and sundown found him amongst the beehive hummocks which form the approach to the greater hills. Up and down these wonderful grassy dunes he roamed searching a resting-place for himself and his mare. There was nothing of the sort in sight, nothing but the endless series of grassy knolls, and the dividing hollows which might conceal anything, from a ranch house to an outlying cattle station. And finally he abandoned all hope of shelter.

He had certainly lost himself. But, even so, he was not greatly concerned. Why should he be? What did it matter? He knew that if the worst came to the worst his mare could eat her fill of grass, and, for himself, sleep in the open had no terrors. Of food for himself he had not even begun to think. So he rode on until the last blaze of the setting sun dropped behind the sky-line.

He was descending into a hollow, something deeper than usual. Hope ran high that it was one of those hidden breaks, which, at intervals, cross the sea of grassy dunes, and mark a mountain waterway. Nor was he disappointed. A few moments later, to his delight, he found himself gazing into the depths of one of the many rivulets trickling its shallow way between low cut banks. Promptly he made up his mind that it was the place for him to camp.

At the water's edge he scrambled out of the saddle and began to seek a place where his mare could drink. It was a little difficult, for the banks were sharp, and the bushes plentiful, and he had wandered at least a hundred yards in his search for an opening when a human voice abruptly hailed him from the far side of the stream. He looked across without answering, and, to his intense surprise, beheld a horseman on the opposite bank. The man, judging by his appearance, was a cowpuncher, and, to Scipio's simple mind, was, like himself, benighted.

"Hello," he replied at last, after a thoughtful stare.

The man was eyeing the yellow-headed figure with no very friendly eyes, but this fact was lost upon Scipio, who saw in him only a fellow man in misfortune. He saw the lariat on the horn of the saddle, the man's chapps, his hard-muscled broncho pony gazing longingly at the water. The guns at the man's waist, the scowling brow and shifty eyes passed quite unobserved.

"Wher' you from?" demanded the man sharply.

"Suffering Creek," replied Scipio readily.

"Guess you've come quite a piece," said the other, after a considering pause.

"I sure have."

"What you doin' here?"

The man's inquiry rapped out smartly. But Scipio had no suspicion of anybody, and answered quite without hesitation.

"I'm huntin' a man called James. You ain't seen him?"

But the man countered his question with another.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Scipio—and yours?"

In the dying light the man's saturnine features seemed to relax for a moment into something like a smile. But he spoke at once.

"Come right over," he invited. "Guess my name's Abe—Abe Conroy. I'm out chasin' cattle." And the fact that he finished up with a deliberate laugh had no meaning at all for his companion.

Scipio gladly accepted the invitation, and, in response to the man's instructions, moved farther along the stream until he came to a shelving in the bank where his mare could climb down. He crossed over, letting his horse drink by the way, and a few moments later was at his new acquaintance's side.

The stranger's mood seemed to have entirely changed for the better by the time Scipio came up. His smile was almost amiable, and his manner of speech was comparatively jocular.

"So you're chasin' that crook, James," he said easily. "Queer, ain't it?"

"What?"

"Why, he's run off a bunch of our stock. Leastways, that's how I'm guessin'. I'm makin' up to his place right now to spy out things. I was jest waitin' fer the sun to go. Y'see we're organizin' a vigilance party to run—Say, I'd a notion fer a moment you was one of his gang."

But Scipio disclaimed the honor promptly.

"No. I just need to find him. I'm needin' it bad."

"Wot fer?"

For once the man-hunter hesitated. A quite unaccountable feeling gave him a moment's pause. But he finally answered frankly, as he always answered, with a simple directness that was just part of him.

"He's stole my wife," he said, his eyes directly gazing into the other's face.

"Gee, he's a low-down skunk," declared the other, with a curse. But the ironical light in his eyes quite escaped his companion's understanding.

Scipio was full of his good fortune in falling in with a man who knew of James' whereabouts. A dozen questions sprang into his mind, but he contented himself with stating his intention.

"I'll ride on with you," he said.

"What, right up to James' lay-out?"

"Sure. That's wher' I'm makin'."

For a moment the man calling himself Conroy sat gazing out at the afterglow of the setting sun. His whole appearance was ill-favored enough to have aroused distrust in anybody but a man like Scipio. Now he seemed to be pondering a somewhat vexed question, and his brows were drawn together in a way that suggested anything but a clear purpose. But finally he seemed to make up his mind to a definite course. He spoke without turning to his companion, and perhaps it was for the purpose of hiding a lurking derisive smile.

"If you're set on makin' James' shanty, you best come right along. Only"—he hesitated for the barest fraction of a second—"y'see, I'm out after this cattle racket, an' I guess I owe it to my folks to git their bizness thro' without no chance of upset. See?"

Scipio nodded. He saw the man's drift, and thought it quite splendid of him.

"Now, I got to spy out things," the man went on, "an' if you get right up ther' first it'll likely upset things fer me—you goin' ther' to hold him up as it were." His smile was more pronounced. "Now I guess I'll show you where his lay-out is if you'll sure give me your promise to let me hunt around fer ha'f-an-hour around his corrals—'fore you butt in. Then I'll get right back to you an' you can go up, an'—shoot him to hell, if you notion that fancy."

Scipio almost beamed his thanks. The man's kindness seemed a noble thing to him.

"You're a real bully fellow," he said. "Guess we'll start right now?"

The man turned and his shrewd eyes fixed themselves piercingly on the little man's face.

"Yes," he said shortly, "we'll get on."

He led the way, his horse slightly in advance of the mare, and for some time he made no attempt to break the silence that had fallen. The twilight was rapidly passing into the deeper shadows of night, but he rode amongst the hills as though he were traveling a broad open trail. There was no hesitation, no questioning glance as to his direction. He might have been traveling a trail that he had been accustomed to all his life. At last, however, he glanced round at his companion.

"Say, what you goin' to do when—you get there?" he asked.

"Fetch my wife back," replied Scipio earnestly.

"What'll James be doin'?"

"He can't keep her—she's mine."

"That's so. But—if he notions to keep her?"

Scipio was silent for some moments. His pale eyes were staring straight ahead of him out into the growing darkness.

"Maybe, I'll have to shoot him," he said at last, as though there could be no question about the matter.

The man nodded.

"Got useful guns?" he inquired casually.

"Got one."

"Ah, what is it? Magazine?"

Scipio pulled his antique possession out of his pocket and handed it over for the man's inspection.

"It's all right," he said. "Guess the sights ain't good over a distance, but at close range it'll make a nasty hole."

Conroy took the weapon in his hand. His keen eyes noted the age of the pattern. He also saw the battered condition of the sights, and the clumsy, rusted, protruding hammer. It was six-chambered, and he knew that it must be all of forty years old. One of the earliest pattern revolvers. The sight of it filled him with cruel amusement, but he kept a serious face.

"I 'lows that should bring James to his senses," he observed, as he handed it back to its owner.

Scipio read his answer as approval, and warmed towards him.

"I'd say so," he said, returning his antiquity to his pocket. "You see, a gun's li'ble to rattle a feller like James. A man who can get around when a feller's back's turned, an' make love to his wife, ain't much of a man, is he? I mean he hasn't much grit. He's a coward sure. If he'd got grit he wouldn't do it. Well, that's how I figger 'bout this James. He's mean, an' a cowardly dog. I don't guess I'll have to use that gun, but I jest brought it along to scare him to his senses, if he needs it. Maybe though he won't need it when he sees me come along—y'see, I'm Jessie's husband—guess that'll fix him sure."

"Guess you got James sized up good," observed the man, with his eyes fixed ahead. "No, I don't see you'll need that gun."

They rode on, Scipio's spirits rising with every yard they traveled. He knew he was nearing his wife with every passing moment. He had no doubts, no fears. So long as he could reach her side he felt that all would be well. In spite of her letter it never entered his head that she cared for the man she had gone off with. He blamed James, and it was no mere figure of speech when he said that he believed he had "stolen" her. He believed such to be the case. He believed she had gone unwillingly. In his mind it was a case of abduction. Again and again he thanked Providence that he had fallen in with this man, Conroy. He was a good fellow, he told himself, a good friend. And his ideas were so coincident with his own about James.

They were approaching the higher hills. Towering, broken crags loomed ahead darkly in the gathering gloom. The vast riven facets cut the sky-line, and black patches of pine forests, and spruce, gave a ghostly, threatening outlook. They must have been riding over two hours when Scipio realized they were passing over a narrow cattle track on the summit of a wooded hill. Then presently their horses began a steep shelving descent which required great caution to negotiate. And as they proceeded the darkness closed in upon them, until they appeared to be making an almost precipitate descent into a vast black pit. There was no light here at all except for the stars above, for the last glow of twilight was completely shut off by the great wall they were now leaving behind them.

No word was spoken. Each man was busy with his horse, and the animals themselves were stumbling and floundering as they picked their uncertain way. A quarter of an hour of this went by, then, suddenly, ahead, still farther down the slope, two or three dim lights shone up at them like will-o'-the-wisps. They seemed to dance about before Scipio's eyes as they rode. Nor, as he pointed them out to his companion, did he realize that this peculiarity was due to the motion of his mare under him.

"Yep," replied Conroy dryly. "Them's James' lights."

"He's got a large place," said Scipio, with some awe in his tone.

"He sure has," agreed Conroy, smiling in the darkness. "He's got the biggest an' best-stocked ranch in Montana."

"You say he's a—cattle thief?" Scipio was struggling to get things into proper focus.

"He sure is." And Conroy's tone of satisfaction had the effect of silencing further comment by his companion.

A few moments later the descent was completed, and the soft grass under her feet set Gipsy dancing to get on, but Conroy pulled up.

"Here," he said authoritatively, "you set right here while I get on an' get thro' with my business. I'll come along back for you."

Without demur Scipio waited, and his companion vanished in the darkness. The little man had entered into an agreement, and had no desire, in spite of his eagerness to be doing, of departing from the letter of it. So he possessed himself in what patience he could until Conroy's return.

The soft pad of the retiring horse's hoofs on the thick grass died away. And presently one of the twinkling lights ahead was abruptly shut out. The horseman had intervened on Scipio's line of vision. Then the yellow gleam as suddenly reappeared, and the last sign of Conroy passed. The waiting man watched with every faculty alert. His ears and eyes straining for the least unusual sound or sight. But there was none forthcoming.

Then he began to think. He began to consider the situation. He began to picture to himself something of the scene that he hoped would shortly take place between himself and the man James. It was the first time he had thought of the matter deliberately, or attempted to estimate its possibilities. Hitherto he had been too torn by his emotions to consider anything in detail. And, even now, so imbued was he with the right of his cause that he only saw his own point of view, which somehow made James a mere plaything in his hands.

He found himself dictating his will upon the thief in firm tones. He demanded his wife without heat, but with the knowledge of the power of his gun lying behind his words. He felt the restraint he would use. He would not bully. Who was he to bully after having had Jessie restored to him? James should be dealt with as gently as his feelings would permit him. Yes, thank God, he had no actual desire to hurt this man who had so wronged him. The man was foolish, and he could afford to be generous, having had Jessie restored to him. No, he would try hard to forgive him. It would be a tremendous struggle, he knew, yet he felt, with Jessie restored to him, he ought to make the effort. Somehow, even now, he almost felt sorry for so misguided a—

But his reflections were suddenly cut short by the sound of horses' hoofs returning, and, a moment later, Conroy loomed up in the darkness. He came quite close up before he spoke, and then it was almost in a whisper.

"I've located things," he said, with an air of deep satisfaction. "Guess we'll make Mr. 'Lord' James hunt his hole 'fore we're thro' with him. I figger a rawhide fixed neat about his neck'll 'bout meet his case. An' say, I've news fer you. Ther's some o' his boys around. He's jest right in ther' wher' you ken see that biggish light," he went on, pointing at the illuminated square of a window. "I see him through an open door round back. He's lyin' on a heap o' blankets readin' a book. Ef you git along now you'll get him wher' you need him, an'—an' I wouldn't take no chances. Get a drop on him from outside the door, an'—wal, guess a feller like you'll know what to do after that. I'm gettin' back to home."

Scipio glowed. He felt he could have hugged this good-natured stranger. But he did not altogether agree with the man's suggestion of getting the drop on James. He felt it would hardly be playing the game. However, he intended to be guided by circumstances.

"Thanks, friend," he said, in his simple fashion. "You must let me call you that," he went on eagerly. "You see, you've done something for me to-night I can't never forget. Maybe you've got a wife of your own, and if so you'll sure understand."

"Can't rightly say I've got a—wife," the man replied, "but I ken understan' all right. James is low—doggone low," he added. And his face was turned well away so that he could grin comfortably without fear of the other seeing it.

"Well, so long," said Scipio hastily. "Seeing I shan't see you here when I get back, I'd just like to thank you again."

"So long," replied the other. "An' you needn't to thank me too much."

Scipio urged his mare forward, and the man sat looking after him. And somehow his face had lost something of its satisfied expression. However, he sat there only a moment. Presently he lifted his reins and set his horse at a canter in the direction of one of the more distant lights.

"He's a pore fule," he muttered, "but it's a lousy trick anyways." Thus he dismissed the matter from his mind with a callous shrug.

In the meantime Scipio neared the house from which shone the larger light. As he drew towards it he saw its outline against the starlight. It was a large, two-storied frame house of weather-boarding, with a veranda fronting it. There were several windows on the hither side of it, but light shone only in one of them. It was by this light the horseman saw a tie-post some yards from the house. And without hesitation he rode up to it, and, dismounting, secured his mare. Then, following Conroy's directions, he proceeded on foot to the back of the house where he was to find an open door. He turned the angle of the building. Yes, the door was there all right, but whereas Conroy had said that James was lying on his blankets reading, he now discovered that the doorway was filled by that handsome thief's presence.

Before he realized what had happened, Scipio found himself in the full glare of the light from the doorway, and James was smiling down upon his yellow head with a curious blending of insolence and curiosity.

"I was wondering when you'd get around," he said, without shifting his position. Then, as Scipio made no answer, he bestirred himself. "Come right in," he added, and, lounging out of the doorway, he dropped back into the room. "You'll find things a bit untidy," he went on calmly, "you see I'm making changes in my domestic arrangements. This is temporary, I guess. However, if you don't just mind that, why—come right in."

The man's whole manner was one of good-humored indifference. There was an unruffled assurance about him that was quite perfect, if studied. Scipio's presence there seemed the last thing of concern to him. And the effect of his manner on his visitor entirely upset all the latter's preconceived intentions. Astonishment was his first feeling. Then a sudden diffidence seized him, a diffidence that was nearly akin to fear of his rival. But this passed in a moment, and was instantly replaced by a hot rush of blood through his small body. All his pictured interview died out of his recollections, and, in place of that calmness with which he had intended to meet the man, he found his pulses hammering and hot anger mounting to his head. The commonest of human passions stirred in him, and he felt it would be good to hurt this man who had so wronged him.

"Where's my wife?" he demanded, with a sudden fierceness.

"Oh—it's that. Say, come right in?"

James was still smiling pleasantly. This time Scipio accepted the invitation without thought of trap or anything else. He almost precipitated himself into the room.

Nor in his fury did he observe his surroundings. He had no eyes for the furnishings, the cheap comfort with which he was surrounded. And though, as James had said, the place was untidy, he saw nothing and none of it. His eyes were on the man; angry, bloodshot eyes, such eyes as those of a furiously goaded dog, driven into a corner by the cruel lash of a bully's whip.

"Yes, that's it. Wher's my wife?" Scipio demanded threateningly. "You've stole her, and taken her from me. I've come to take her back."

The force of his demands was tinged with the simplicity of a naturally gentle disposition. And maybe, in consequence, something of their sting was lost. The forceful bluster of an outraged man, determined upon enforcing his demands, would probably have stirred James to active protest, but, as it was, he only continued to smile his insolence upon one whom he regarded as little better than a harmless worm.

"One moment," he said, with an exasperating patience, "you say I stole her. To have stolen her suggests that she was not willing to come along. She came with me. Well, I guess she came because she fancied it. You say you're going to take her back. Well," with a shrug, "I kind of think she'll have something to say about going back."

For a moment Scipio stood aghast. He glanced about him helplessly. Then, in a flash, his pale-blue eyes came back to the other's face.

"She's mine, I tell you! Mine! Mine! Mine!" he cried, in a frenzy of rage and despair. "She's mine by the laws of God an' man. She's mine by the love that has brought our kiddies into the world. Do you hear? She's mine by every tie that can hold man and wife together. An' you've stole her. She's all I've got. She's all I want. She's just part of me, and I can't live without her. Ther's the kiddies to home waitin' for her, and she's theirs, same as they are hers—and mine. I tell you, you ain't going to keep her. She's got to come back." He drew a deep breath to choke down his fury. "Say," he went on, with a sudden moderating of his tone and his manner, taking on a pitiful pleading, "do you think you love her? You? Do you think you know what love is? You don't. You can't. You can't love her same as I do. I love her honest. I love her so I want to work for her till I drop. I love her so there's nothin' on earth I wouldn't do for her. My life is hers. All that's me is hers. I ain't got a thought without her. Man, you don't know what it is to love my Jessie. You can't, 'cos your love's not honest. You've taken her same as you'd take any woman for your pleasure. If I was dead, would you marry her? No, never, never, never. She's a pastime to you, and when you've done with her you'd turn her right out on this prairie to herd with the cattle, if ther' wasn't anywher' else for her to go." Then his voice suddenly rose and his fury supervened again. "God!" he cried fiercely. "Give me back my wife. You're a thief. Give her back to me, I say. She's mine, d'you understand—mine!"

Not for an instant did the smile on James' face relax. Maybe it became more set, and his lips, perhaps, tightened, but the smile was there, hard, unyielding in its very setness. And when Scipio's appeal came to an end he spoke with an underlying harshness that did not carry its way to the little man's distracted brain.

"She wouldn't go back to you, even if I let her—which I won't," he said coldly.

The man's words seemed to bite right into the heart of his hearer. Nothing could have been better calculated to goad him to extremity. In one short, harsh sentence he had dashed every hope that the other possessed. And with a rush the stricken man leapt at denial, which was heartrending in its impotence.

"You lie!" he shouted. The old revolver was dragged from his pocket and pointed shakingly at his tormentor's head. "Give her back to me! Give her back, or—"

James' desperate courage never deserted him for an instant. And Scipio was never allowed to complete his sentence. The other's hand suddenly reached out, and the pistol was twisted from his shaking grasp with as little apparent effort as though he had been a small child.

Scipio stared helpless and confused while James eyed the pattern of the gun. Then he heard the man's contemptuous laugh and saw him pull the trigger. The hammer refused to move. It was so rusted that the weapon was quite useless. For a moment the desperado's eyes sought the pale face of his would-be slayer. A devilish smile lurked in their depths. Then he held out the pistol for the other to take, while his whole manner underwent a hideous change.

"Here, take it, you wretched worm," he cried, with sudden savagery. "Take it, you miserable fool," he added, as Scipio remained unheeding. "It wouldn't blow even your fool brains out. Take it!" he reiterated, with a command the other could no longer resist. "And now get out of here," he went on mercilessly, as Scipio's hand closed over the wretched weapon, "or I'll hand you over to the boys. They'll show you less mercy than I do. They're waiting out there," he cried, pointing at the door, "for my orders. One word from me and they'll cut the liver out of you with rawhides, and Abe Conroy'll see it's done right. Get you right out of here, and if ever you come squealing around my quarters again I'll have you strung up by your wretched neck till you're dead—dead as a crushed worm—dead as is your wife, Jessie, to you from now out. Get out of here, you straw-headed sucker, get right out, quick!"

But the tide of the man's fury seemed to utterly pass the little man by. He made no attempt to obey. The pistol hung in his tightly gripping hand, and his underlip protruded obstinately.

"She's mine, you thief!" he cried. "Give her back to me."

It was the cry of a beaten man whose spirit is unquenchable.

But James had finished. All that was worst in him was uppermost now. With eyes blazing he stepped to the door and whistled. He might have been whistling up his dogs. Perhaps those who responded were his dogs. Three men came in, and the foremost of them was Abe Conroy.

"Here," cried James, his cruel eyes snapping, "take him out and set him on his horse, and send him racing to hell after m'squitoes. And don't handle him too easy."

What happened to him after that Scipio never fully understood. He had a vague memory of being seized and buffeted and kicked into a state of semi-unconsciousness. Nor did he rouse out of his stupor, until, sick and sore in every limb, his poor yellow head aching and confused, he found himself swaying dangerously about in the saddle, with Gipsy, racing like a mad thing, under his helpless legs.



CHAPTER VI

SUNNY OAK PROTESTS

Wild Bill was gazing out across the camp dumps. His expression suggested the contemplation of a problem of life and death, and a personal one at that. Sandy Joyce, too, bore traces suggestive of the weightiest moments of his life. Toby Jenks stood chewing the dirty flesh of a stubby forefinger, while the inevitable smile on Sunny Oak's face made one think of a bright spring morning under cover of a yellow fog.

"How am I to see to them pore kiddies?" the latter was complaining. "I've had to do with cattle, an' mules, an' even hogs in my time, but I sure don't guess you ken set them bits o' mites in a brandin' corral, nor feed 'em oats an' hay, nor even ladle 'em swill for supper, like hogs. Fer other things, I don't guess I could bile a bean right without a lib'ry o' cook-books, so how I'm to make 'em elegant pap for their suppers 'ud beat the Noo York p'lice force. An' as fer fixin' their clothes, an' bathing 'em, why, it 'ud set me feelin' that fulish you wouldn't know me from a patient in a bug-house. It makes me real mad, folks is allus astin' me to get busy doin' things. I'm that sick, the sight of a ha'f-washened kid 'ud turn my stummick to bile, an' set me cacklin' like a hen with a brood o' ducklings she can't no ways account fer. You'se fellers are a happy lot o' Jonahs to a man as needs rest."

"You're sure doing the cacklin' now," observed Bill contemptuously.

"Maybe he's layin' eggs," murmured Toby vaguely.

The men were standing on the veranda, gathered round the bench on which Sunny Oak was still resting his indolent body. And the subject of their discourse was Scipio's two children. The father had ridden off on his search for James, and the responsibility of his twins was weighing heavily on those left behind.

"Kind o' handy ladlin' it out to folks," said Sunny, grinning lazily. "But, with all your brightness, I don't guess any o' you could mother them kiddies. No, it's jest 'send Sunny along to see to 'em.' That bein' said, you'll git right back to your poker with a righteous feelin' which makes it come good to rob each other all you know. Psha! You ain't no better'n them lousy birds as lays eggs sizes too big, an' blames 'em on to some moultin' sparrer that ain't got feathers 'nuff to make it welcome at a scratchin' bee."

Sunny's flow was a little overwhelming, and perhaps there was just enough truth in his remarks to make it unadvisable for the others to measure wits with him. Anyway, he received no reply. Bill continued to gaze out at Scipio's hut in a way that suggested great absorption, while Toby had not yet lunched sufficiently off his tattered forefinger. Sandy was the only one of the three apparently alive to the true exigencies of the case, and Sunny addressed himself more exclusively to him.

"Say," he went on, his good-humored eyes smiling cunningly up into the widower's face, "I've heerd tell that you once did some pore unsuspicious female the dirty trick of marryin' her. Mebbe you'll sure hev' notions 'bout kiddies an' such things. Now, if Wild Bill had come along an' pushed a shootin'-iron into your map, an' said you'll handle Zip's kiddies—wal, I ask you, wot 'ud you ha' done?"

"Told him to git his head cooled some," retorted Sandy promptly.

"Ah, guess you bin saved a heap o' trouble," murmured Sunny. "But if you hadn't said that—which you said you would ha' said—an' you'd got busy as he suggested—wal, what then?"

Sandy cleared his throat, and, in his sudden interest, Toby deferred the rest of his meal.

"Wal, I'd ha' gone right up to the shack an' looked into things."

Sandy's first effort seemed to please him, and, hitching his moleskin trousers up deliberately, he proceeded with some unction—

"Y'see, ther' ain't nothin' like gettin' a look around. Then you kind o' know wher' you are. You sure need to know wher' you are 'fore you get busy proper. It's most like everything else. If you get on the wrong trail at the start, it's li'ble to lead you wher' you don't want to go. What I says is, hit the right trail at the start, then you got a chance o' gettin' thro' right, which, I take it, is an elegant way o' doin' most things. Wal, havin' located the right trail—"

"We're talkin' o' Zip's twins," murmured Sunny gently.

"Sure, that's where I'm gettin' to—"

"By trail?" inquired Toby seriously.

"Say, you make me tired," retorted Sandy angrily.

"Best quit the trail, then," said Sunny.

"Go to blazes!" cried Sandy, and promptly relapsed into moody silence.

At that moment Bill turned from his contemplation of the house beyond the dumps and fixed his fierce eyes on Sunny's grinning face.

"Here, you miser'ble hoboe," he cried, "get right up out of that, and hump across to Zip's shack. You're doin' enough gassin' fer a female tattin' bee. Your hot air makes me want to sweat. Now, them kiddies'll need supper. You'll jest ast Minky fer all you need, an' I pay. An' you'll see things is fixed right for 'em."

Sunny lurched reluctantly to his feet. He knew the gambler far too well to debate the point further. He had made his protest, which had been utterly ineffective, so there was nothing left him but to obey the fiercely uttered mandate.

But Sandy Joyce felt that somehow his first effort on behalf of the children had missed fire, and it was his duty not to allow himself to be ousted from the council. So he stayed the loafer with a word.

"Say, you'll be knowin' how to feed 'em?" he inquired gravely.

Sunny's eyes twinkled.

"Wal, mebbe you ken give me pointers," he retorted, with apparent sincerity.

"That's how I was figgerin'," said Sandy cordially. He felt better now about his first effort. "Y'see, Minky's stock is limited some; ther' ain't a heap o' variety, like. An' kiddies do need variety. Y'see, they're kind o' delicate feeders, same as high-bred hosses, an' dogs an' things. Now, dogs need diff'rent meat every day, if you're goin' to bring 'em up right. A friend o' mine sure once told me that meat, good meat, was the best feed fer prize dogs, an' he was a feller that won a heap o' prizes. He had one, Boston bull, I—"

"'ll I need to git dog-biscuit for them kiddies?" inquired Sunny sarcastically.

"Say, you make me sick," cried Sandy, flushing angrily.

"Guess that's how you'll make them kiddies," interposed Toby.

Sandy glanced viciously from one to the other. Then, assuming a superiority that scarcely hid his chagrin, he ignored the interruptions.

"You best ast Minky fer some dandy canned truck," he said decisively, deliberately turning his back on Toby Jenks. "Mebbe a can o' lobster an' one o' them elegant tongues stewed in jelly stuff, an' set in a glass bowl. Y'see, they kids needs nourishin', an' that orter fix them 'bout right. I don't know 'bout them new sides o' sow-belly Minky's jest had in. Seems to me they'll likely need teeth eatin' that. Seein' you ain't a heap at fixin' beans right, we best cut that line right out—though I 'lows there's elegant nourishin' stuff in 'em for bosses. Best get a can o' crackers an' some cheese. I don't guess they'll need onions, nor pickles. But a bit o' butter to grease the crackers with, an' some molasses an' fancy candy, an' a pound o' his best tea seems to me 'bout right. After that—"

"Some hoss physic," broke in Toby, recommencing the chewing of his forefinger.

But Wild Bill's fierce eyes were on Sandy, and the erstwhile married man felt their contempt boring into his very soul. He was held silent, in spite of his anger against the broad-shouldered Toby, and was possessed of a feeling that somehow his second effort had been no more successful than his first. And forthwith the impression received confirmation in a sudden explosion from Wild Bill.

"Jumpin' mackinaw!" he cried, with a force calculated to crush entirely the remnants of Sandy's conceit. "You'd sure shame a crazy sheep fer intellect." Then he added, with withering sarcasm, "Say, don't you never leave your mouth open more'n two seconds at a time, or you'll get the flies in it, an'—they'll start nestin'."

Then without pause he turned on Sunny and delivered his ultimatum.

"Get busy," he ordered in a tone there was no denying.

And somehow Sunny found himself stirring far more rapidly than suited his indolent disposition.

Having thoroughly disturbed the atmosphere to his liking, Bill left the veranda without another look in his companions' direction, and his way took him to the barn at the back of the store.

The gambler was a man of so many and diverse peculiarities that it would be an impossibility to catalogue them with any degree of satisfactoriness. But, with the exception of his wholesale piratical methods at cards—indeed, at any kind of gambling—perhaps his most striking feature was his almost idolatrous worship for his horses. He simply lived for their well-being, and their evident affection for himself was something that he treasured far beyond the gold he so loved to take from his opponents in a gamble.

He possessed six of these horses, each in its way a jewel in the equine crown. Wherever the vagaries of his gambler's life took him his horses bore him thither, harnessed to a light spring cart of the speediest type. Each animal had cost him a small fortune, as the price of horses goes, and for breed and capacity, both in harness and under saddle, it would have been difficult to find their match anywhere in the State of Montana. He had broken and trained them himself in everything, and, wherever he was, whatever other claims there might be upon him, morning, noon and evening he was at the service of his charges. He gloried in them. He reveled in their satin coats, their well-nourished, muscular bodies, in their affection for himself.

Now he sat on an oat-bin contemplating Gipsy's empty stall, with a regret that took in him the form of fierce anger. It was the first time since she had come into his possession that she had been turned over to another, the first time another leg than his own had been thrown across her; and he mutely upbraided himself for his folly, and hated Scipio for having accepted her services. Why, he asked himself again and again, had he been such an unearthly fool? Then through his mind flashed a string of blasphemous invective against James, and with its coming his regret at having lent Gipsy lessened.

He sat for a long time steadily chewing his tobacco. And somehow he lost all desire to continue his poker game in the store. His whole mind had become absorbed by thoughts of this James, and though he, personally, had never suffered through the stage-robber's depredations, he found himself resenting the man's very existence. There were no ethical considerations in his mind. His inspiration was purely personal. And though he did not attempt to reduce his hatred to reason, nor to analyze it in any way, the truth of its existence lay in the fact of a deadly opposition to this sudden rise to notoriety of a man of strength, and force of character similar, in so many respects, to his own. Perhaps it was mere jealousy; perhaps, all unknown to himself, there was some deeper feeling underlying it. Whatever it was, he had a strong sympathy with Scipio, and an unconquerable desire to have a hand in the smoothing out of the little man's troubles.

He did not leave the barn, and scarcely even took his eyes off Gipsy's empty stall, until nearly sundown. Then, as he heard the voices of returning prospectors, he set to work on his evening task of grooming, feeding, watering and bedding down his children for the night.



CHAPTER VII

SUNNY OAK TRIES HIS HAND

In the meantime Sunny Oak was executing his orders with a care for detail quite remarkable in a man of his excessive indolence. It was a curious fact, and one that told a great deal of his own character, as well as that of the gambler. His implicit obedience to Wild Bill's orders was born of a deeper knowledge of that individual than was possessed by most of his comrades in Suffering Creek. Maybe Minky, who was Bill's most intimate friend, would have understood. But then Sunny Oak possessed no such privilege. He knew Bill through sheer observation, which had taught him to listen when the gambler spoke as he would listen to a man in high authority over him—or to a man who, without scruple, held him helpless under an irresistible threat. Which power it was inspired his obedience he did not pause to consider. He simply accepted the fact that when Bill ordered he preferred to obey—it was so much easier.

"Hoboe"—the local term for one suffering from his indolent malady—as he was, Sunny Oak was a man of some character. Originally this cloak of indolence in which he wrapped himself had been assumed for some subtle reason of his own. It was not the actual man. But so long had he worn it now that he had almost forgotten the real attributes enshrouded in its folds. As a matter of fact, he was very much a man, and a "live" man, too. He really possessed an extraordinary energy when he chose to exercise it. But it was generally his habit to push his interest aside for the easier course of indifference. However, his capacity was none the less there.

His other possessions, too, were excellent in their way, although he had encouraged the germ of rust in a deplorable degree. His good-nature would not be denied, and was obvious to all. But an extremely alert mind, an infinite resource of keen, well-trained thought, a profound love of the beautiful, a more commonplace physical courage supported by the rarer moral courage, he contrived to keep well hidden from the vulgar gaze.

These were some of the features so long concealed under the folds of his cloak of indolence that even he had almost forgotten their existence. Thus it was, in all seriousness, he cried out bitterly in protest when an attempt was made to lift the covering and lay bare the man beneath it. And his lamentations were perfectly genuine.

After leaving the store with a sack of provisions over his shoulder he grumbled his way across the dumps to Scipio's house. He cursed the weight he was forced to carry, and anathematized the man who had driven him to so bestir himself. He lamented over this waste of his precious energies, he consigned Scipio and his children to eternity, and metaphorically hurled Jessie headlong to the depths of the uttermost abyss of the nether-world. But he went on. In spite of his foulest language and vilest epithets, it was his full intention to do his best for the children.

What he found on entering Scipio's hut set his small eyes twinkling again. His unclean face creased up into a grin, and, softly tiptoeing to a far corner of the room, he deposited his sack with the greatest care. Then he stood up, and his eyes fixed themselves on a curious heap under the table. It was a tumbled pile of pale blue, dirty white, with a four-legged dash of yellow. And out of the heap he made the forms of two small sleeping children, each hugging in their arms an extremity of a yellow cur pup, also sound asleep, in the shaft of sunlight which flooded in through the open doorway.

Sunny rubbed his eyes and thought hard, nor did he find the process irksome. From the miserable camp pup he glanced at the grubby face of Jamie. Then his eyes passed on to Vada's pretty but equally dirty features. And swift action at once followed his thought. He glanced at the dying fire in the cookstove, and saw the small clothes hanging on the chair in front of it. He felt them; they were quite dry. Then he tried the kettle on the stove; it still had water in it. Then he went to the fuel-box; yes, there was fuel.

Now with his fingers he replenished the fire, and noiselessly re-filled the kettle. Then he removed the clothes and put the chair aside. The children still slept on. He further investigated the resources of Scipio's menage. He found a wash-bowl and soap and a towel, three things he rarely sought for any purposes of his own. Then, after looking into the cupboard, he shook his head. It was deplorably bare of all but uncleanliness. And it was the former that caused his headshake, not the latter. With some pride he re-stocked the shelves with the liberal purchases he had made at Bill's expense. He had provided everything that a man's mind could conceive as being necessary for the interior of healthy childhood. True, he had made no provision for a yellow pup.

By this time the kettle was boiling, and it served him as a signal. In a harsh, untuneful voice he began to chant an old coon-ditty. The effect of his music was instantaneous as regards the more sensitive ears of the pup. Its eyes opened, and it lifted its head alertly. Then, with a quick wriggle, he sat up on his hind quarters, and, throwing his lean, half-grown muzzle in the air, set up such a howl of dismay that Sunny's melody became entirely lost in a jangle of discords. He caught up his empty sack and flung it at the wailing pup's head. It missed its aim, and in a moment the twins had joined in their yellow friend's lament.

Sunny never quite understood the real cause of that dismal protest—whether it was the sight of him, his doleful singing, or the flinging of the sack. All he knew was that it was very dreadful, and must be stopped as quickly as possible. So, to that end, he began to cajole the children, while he surreptitiously let fly a kick at the pup.

"Say, you bonny kids, you ain't scairt o' poor Sunny Oak," he cried, while a streak of yellow flashed in the sunlight and vanished through the door, a departure which brought with it renewed efforts from the weeping children. "It's jest Sunny Oak wot nobody'll let rest," he went on coaxingly. "He's come along to feed you supper. Say," he cried, laboring hard for inspiration, "it's such a bully supper. Ther's molasses, an' candy, an'—an' lob-ster!"

Whether it was the smacking of his lips as he dwelt on the last word, or whether it was merely the fact that their fright was passing, matters little; anyhow, the cries of the twins died out as suddenly as they began, and their eyes, big and round, gazed wonderingly up at Sunny's unkempt face.

"Who's you, ugly man?" asked Vada at last, her brain working more quickly than her brother's.

"'Ess—ug'y man," added Jamie unmeaningly.

Sunny's hand went up to his face, and he scratched amongst his sparse beard as though to test the accuracy of the accusation. Then he grinned sheepishly.

"Guess I'm jest an ugly fairy that wants to be kind to two lonesome kiddies," he beamed.

"O—oh! You'se a fairy?" said Vada doubtfully.

"'Ess," nodded Jamie, thrilling with wonderment, and eyeing him critically.

Elated with his success, Sunny went on warmly—

"Yep. Jest a fairy, an' I bro't a heap o' good grub fer you kiddies t' eat."

But Vada's small brain was following out its own train of thought, and passed the food question by.

"Awful ugly," she said, half to herself.

"'Ess," muttered Jamie abstractedly.

"Mebbe," said Sunny, with a laugh. "Wal, if you crawl right out o' there an' git around, I got things fixed so we'll hev' a bully time."

But his proposition hadn't the effect he hoped. Instead of moving, Jamie suddenly beat his head with his little clenched fists.

"Me wants yaller pup," he cried, and forthwith howled afresh.

Again Sunny realized his helplessness, and, glancing about for further inspiration, caught sight of an inquiring yellow head peering furtively in through the doorway.

"Why, ther' he is," he cried, vainly hoping to pacify the child. Then he began at once a clumsy encouragement of the dog. "Here, you yeller feller," he cried, flicking his fingers coaxingly. "Come along! Gee, you're a pretty feller. Hi! come along here."

But the dog made no attempt to move, and Sunny began to lose patience. "Come along, pups," he cried, with increasing force. "Come on, you miser'ble rat. Don't stan' ther' waggin' your fool tail like a whisk-broom. Say, you yaller cur, I'll—" He started to fetch the creature, but in a twinkling it had fled, to the accompaniment of a fresh outburst from Jamie.

"I tho't you was a fairy," protested Vada. "Fairies ken do most anything. You're jest an ugly ole man."

Sunny stood up and drew the back of his hand across his perspiring forehead. He was worried. The fairy business was played out, and he felt that he must begin again. Children were by no means as easy to handle as he had thought. He racked his brains, and suddenly bethought him of another move.

In spite of Jamie's whimpering, he went to the cupboard and produced a tin of molasses. This he carefully opened in full view of Vada's questioning eyes. Jamie had also become silent, watching him intently. He dug his finger into the sticky contents and drew it out. Then he licked his finger with tremendous enjoyment.

"Bully," he muttered, apparently ignoring the children.

Instantly Vada was on her knees, crawling from under the table, followed closely by her faithful shadow. She came cautiously up to Sunny's side and stood up.

"M'lasses?" she inquired, and her eyes spoke volumes.

"O-oh!" muttered Jamie, scrambling to his feet beside her holding up one fat hand.

Sunny, without replying, allowed them to dip their fingers into the pot and taste the molasses. He felt that the moment was critical, and he would not risk words which might easily set them scuttling back to their stronghold.

His strategy was successful. Up came the hands again, and he knew he had won their confidence. He allowed them another dip into the pot, and then began the business in hand.

"We'll save the rest fer bimeby," he said decidedly. "Meanwhiles we'll fix things right."

"Wot things?" inquired Vada.

"M'lasses," said Jamie, with tearful eyes.

Again Sunny felt the crisis, but he carried the situation with a firm hand.

"Bimeby, laddie," he said cheerfully. "Meanwhiles we'll jest have a wash all round."

And forthwith he set the wash-bowl ready and filled it with warm water. Then, after some consideration and trouble, having discovered a rag which had been used in the household "wash-up," and a piece of soap, he prepared to start on little Vada. But she instantly protested.

"You first, Mister Fairy," she said cheerfully. "My poppa allus washes first. Then we has his water."

"'Ess," agreed Jamie.

And, to his disgust, Sunny was forced to an unwilling ablution, which, by strategy, he had hoped to escape. However, the ordeal was manfully borne, and his reward was quite worth his trouble. Vada promptly exclaimed when she saw his face emerge from the dirty towel, shining with grease off the house-flannel.

"You'se a fairy, sure," she cried, clapping her hands and dancing about gleefully. "On'y fairies can change theirselves. You'se a pretty, pretty man—now. Now, Jamie dear. You next," she added, with feminine assurance. And with clumsy but willing enough hands Sunny Oak contrived to cleanse his charges.

By the time his task was accomplished perfect good-will reigned all round, and the climax was reached when the yellow pup returned of its own accord, and was promptly hugged to Jamie's affectionate little bosom.

The next thing was to prepare the children's supper. This was a far more serious matter for the loafer. But he finally achieved it, having learnt, by the process of cross-questioning the girl, what was usual and therefore expected. However, it was not without some difficulty that he succeeded in providing an adequate meal, which consisted of bread and milk, with bread and molasses as a sort of dessert. For himself, he was forced to fare off a tin of lobster and tea. Still, his difficulties were not of much consequence so long as the children were satisfied. And any bother to himself was his own fault, in having relied for a moment on Sandy Joyce's ideas of a menu.

Supper over and the table cleared, he decided on further catechizing little Vada on points that still were a mystery to him. So, with Jamie busy on the floor endeavoring to solve the mystery of the pup's wagging tail, he lit his pipe and took Vada on his knee. He endeavored to recall incidents of his own childhood; to remember something of his own early routine. But somehow nothing was very clear.

He had washed the children and given them food. Those things seemed to him to be perfectly sound. Well, what next? It was a little difficult. He glanced at the sun. Surely bed would be quite in order. Bed—ah, yes, that was a happy thought. He remembered now, when he was young he always used to get himself into trouble purposely so they would send him to bed. But with this thought came the regretful recollection that his predilection for bed was quickly discovered, and his further penalties took the form of the buckle end of his father's waist-belt. However, he put the proposition with much tact.

"Say, kiddies," he began, "how soon does your momma put you to bed?"

Vada shook her wise little head.

"Momma don't. Poppa does."

"And when's that?" he inquired, driving at his point deliberately.

"When momma says."

Vada was fastening and unfastening the man's dirty waistcoat with great interest.

"An' when does your momma say it?" Sunny persisted.

"When poppa's done the chores."

"Ah!"

He felt himself on the wrong tack, and cast about for a fresh line of argument.

"Guess you kiddies like bed some," he hazarded doubtfully.

"Me like m'lasses," piped Jamie, who had managed to get the pup's tail over his shoulder, and was hanging on to it with both hands. Vada shrieked as the pup began to yelp.

"Oh, look at Jamie," she cried. "He's pulling Dougal's tail right out. You're a naughty, naughty boy."

"Not naughty," protested Jamie, pulling harder.

Sunny reached down and released the mongrel, who promptly turned round and licked the boy's face. Jamie fought him with his little clenched fists, and finally began to cry.

Again Sunny went to the rescue, and with some difficulty peace was restored. Then he went back to his subject.

"Guess we'll hev to go to bed right now," he suggested, with an air of authority.

"Momma ain't back," said Vada, her eyes round and wondering.

"She'll be right along presently," lied Sunny.

"'Ess," declared Jamie, "an'—an'—we go find 'piders an'—an' bugs."

Vada nodded.

"Lots an' lots."

"That's to-morrow," said Sunny, taking his cue wonderingly.

"Poppa ain't back neither," protested Vada.

"He's gone visitin'," said Sunny. "Maybe he'll be late. Guess he's havin' a hand at poker down at the store."

Sunny was getting uncomfortably hot. Lies came easily enough to him in the ordinary way, but with these poor children it was somehow different.

"Poppa don't play poker," defended Vada. "On'y wicked men does."

"'Ess," agreed Jamie.

"That's so." Sunny felt himself on dangerous ground.

He smoked on thoughtfully for some moments. He felt that a desperate move was required, and considered how best to make it. Finally he resolved that he must assert his authority. So, setting Vada on the ground, he stood up.

"Bed," he said, with a great assumption of finality.

Vada's eyes rolled ominously, and a pucker came to her little sunburnt brow. Jamie offered no preliminary, but howled at once. And when, after the slightest hesitation, Vada joined in his lament, Sunny's distress became pitiable. However, he managed to ease his feelings by several well-directed mental curses at Wild Bill's head, and all those others concerned in reducing him to his present position. And with this silently furious outburst there came a brain-wave of great magnitude.

"First in bed sure gets most m'lasses," he cried, darting to the cupboard door and holding the well-smeared pot up above his head.

The children's cries ceased, and for a second they stood staring up at him. Then, like a pair of rabbits, they turned and ran for the bedroom, vanishing behind the curtain amidst shrieking excitement. Sunny followed them with the molasses and a handful of crackers.

They were both on the bed when he passed into the room, huddling down under a couple of cotton blankets. The man glanced round him. On the other side of the room was the big bed where their father and mother slept. Both beds were unmade, and the room was littered with feminine garments in a manner that suggested the mother's hasty flight. Hardened as he was, the sight and all it suggested depressed him. But he was not allowed much time for reflection. Two childish voices shrieked at him at once.

"Me first!" they cried in one breath.

And Sunny ladled them out molasses and crackers to their hearts' content. When they had eaten all he thought good for them Vada scrambled to her knees.

"Prayers," she said, and clasped her hands before her face.

Jamie wobbled up to her side and imitated her. And Sunny stood by listening wonderingly to something that brought back a world of recollection to him. It brought him more. It laid before him a mental picture of his present manhood which somehow nauseated him. But he stood his ground till the final "Amens," then he hustled the twins almost roughly into the blankets, and, having extracted a promise from them not to leave the bed again until he returned, hurried out of the room.

He stood for a moment in the living-room. He was in a doubt that almost confused him. Mechanically he looked at the stove. The fire was quite safe. The window was secure. Then he moved to the door. There was a lock to it and a key. He passed out, and, locking the door behind him, removed the key.

"Gee!" he exclaimed, drinking in a breath of the evening air, "five minutes more o' that an' I'd 'a' bin singin' funeral hymns over my past life. Gee!"

* * * * *

Ten minutes later he was in Wild Bill's hut down at the camp, and had finished his account of his adventures.

"Say," he finished up peevishly, "ther's things a feller can do, an' things he sure can't. I tell you right here I ain't learned how to cluck to my chicks, an' I ain't never scratched a worm in my life. I 'low I'm too old to git busy that ways now. If you're goin' to raise them kids fer Zip while he's away, it'll need a committee o' us fellers. It's more'n one feller's job—much more. It needs a wummin."

Bill listened patiently until his deputy had aired his final grievance. His fierce eyes had in them a peculiar twinkle that was quite lost on Sunny in his present mood. However, when the injured man had finished his tale of woe the gambler stretched his long legs out, and lolled back in his chair with a fresh chew of tobacco in his mouth.

"You ain't done too bad," he said judicially. "That m'lasses racket was a heap smart. Though—say, you'll get around ther' come sun-up to-morrer, an' you'll fix 'em right all day. Maybe Zip'll be back later. Anyways, you'll fix 'em."

"Not on your life—" began Sunny, in fierce rebellion. But Bill cut him short.

"You'll do it, Sunny," he cried, "an' don't you make no mistake."

The man's manner was irresistibly threatening, and Sunny was beaten back into moody silence. But if looks could have killed, Bill's chances of life were small indeed.

"Guess you're off duty now," the gambler went on icily. "You're off duty till—sun-up. You're free to get drunk, or—what in hell you like."

Sunny rose from his seat. His rebellious eyes were fiercely alight as he regarded his master.

"May your soul rot!" he cried venomously. And with this final impotent explosion he slouched out of the hut.

"Dessay it will," Bill called after him amiably. "But it ain't started yet."

But his jibe was quite lost on the angry Sunny, for he had left him with the haste of a man driven to fear of whither his anger might carry him.

Left alone, Wild Bill chuckled. He liked Sunny, but despised his mode of life with all the arrogant superiority of a man of great force, even if of indifferent morals. He had no patience with a weakened manhood. With him it was only strength that counted. Morality was only for those who had not the courage to face a mysterious future unflinchingly. The future concerned him not at all. He had no fears of anybody or anything, either human or superhuman. Death offered him no more terrors than Life. And whichever was his portion he was ready to accept it unquestioningly, unprotestingly.

He allowed the hoboe time to get well clear of his shack. Then he stood up and began to pace the room thoughtfully. A desperate frown depressed his brows until they met over the bridge of his large thin nose. Something was working swiftly, even passionately, in his brain, and it was evident that his thoughts were more than unpleasant to himself. As the moments passed his strides became more aggressive, and his movements were accompanied by gesticulations of a threatening nature with his clenched fists.

At last he paused in his walk, and dropped again into his chair. Here he sat for a long while. Then, of a sudden, he lifted his head and glanced swiftly about his bare room. Finally he sprang to his feet and crushed his slouch hat on his head, and, crossing over to the oil-lamp on the table, blew it out. Then he passed out into the night, slamming and locking the door behind him.

The night was dark, and the moon would not rise for at least another hour. The air was still laden with the heat of the long summer's day, and it hummed with the music of stirring insect life. He strode along the trail past the store. He glanced at the lighted windows longingly, for he had an appointment for a game in there that night. But he passed on.

As he came to the camp dumps he paused for a moment to take his bearings. Then he continued his way with long, decided strides, and in a few minutes the dim outline of Scipio's house loomed up before him. He came close up, and walked slowly round it. At one window he paused, listening. There was not a sound to be heard outside. At the window of the bedroom he listened a long time. No, he could not even hear the children breathing.

At last he reached the door which Sunny had locked. He cautiously tried the handle, and the sound brought a whimper from the yellow pup within. He cursed the animal softly under his breath and waited, hoping the wretched creature would settle down again. He heard it snuff at the foot of the door, and then the soft patter of its feet died away, and he knew that the poor thing had satisfied itself that all was well.

He smiled, and sat down at the foot of the door. And, with his knees drawn up into his arms, he prepared for his long vigil. It was the posting of the night sentry over Scipio's twins.



CHAPTER VIII

WILD BILL THINKS HARD—AND HEARS NEWS

Wild Bill stretched himself drowsily. It was noon. He knew that by the position of the patch of sunlight on the floor, which he gazed at with blinking eyes. Presently he reached out his long arms and clasped his hands behind his head. He lay there on his stretcher bed, still very sleepy, but with wakefulness gaining ascendancy rapidly. He had completed two successive nights of "sentry-go" over Scipio's twins, never reaching his blankets until well after sun-up.

For some minutes he enjoyed the delicious idleness of a still brain. Then, at last, it stirred to an activity which once again set flowing all the busy thought of his long night's vigil. Further rest became impossible to a man of his temperament, and he sprang from his blankets and plunged his face into a bucket of fresh water which stood on an adjacent bench. In five minutes he was ready for the business of the day.

It was to be a day of activity. He felt that. Yet he had made no definite plans. Only all his thoughts of the previous night warned him that something must be done, and that it was "up to him to get busy."

A long wakeful night is apt to distort many things of paramount interest. But the morning light generally reduces them to their proper focus. Thus it is with people who are considered temperamental. But Bill had no such claims. He was hard, unimaginative, and of keen decision. And overnight he had arrived at one considerable decision. How he had arrived at it he hardly knew. Perhaps it was one of those decisions that cannot be helped. Certain it was that it had been arrived at through no definite course of reasoning. It had simply occurred to him and received his approval at once. An approval, which, once given, was rarely, if ever, rescinded. This was the man.

He had first thought a great deal about Scipio. He felt that the time had come when his fate must be closely inquired into. The blundering efforts of Sunny Oak were so hopelessly inadequate in the care of the children, that only the return of their father could save them from some dire domestic catastrophe.

Sunny apparently meant well by them. But Bill hated well-meaning people who disguised their incompetence under the excellence of their intentions. Besides, in this case it was so useless. These two children were a nuisance, he admitted, but they must not be allowed to suffer through Sunny's incompetence. No, their father must be found.

Then there was his mare, Gipsy; and when he thought of her he went hot with an alarm which no threat to himself could have inspired. This turn of thought brought James into his focus. That personage was rarely far from it, and he needed very little prompting to bring the outlaw into the full glare of his mental limelight. He hated James. He had seen him rarely, and spoken to him perhaps only a dozen times, when he first appeared on Suffering Creek. But he hated him as though he were his most bitter personal enemy.

He had no reason to offer for this hatred, beyond the outlaw's known depredations and the constant threat of his presence in the district. At least no reason he would have admitted publicly. But then Wild Bill was not a man to bother with reasons much at any time. And it was the venomous hatred of the man which now drove him to a decision of the first importance. And such was his satisfaction in the interest of his decision, that, for the time being, at least, poker was robbed of its charm, faro had become a game of no consequence whatever, and gambling generally, with all its subtleties as he understood them, was no longer worth while. He had decided upon a game with a higher stake than any United States currency could afford. It was a game of life and death. James, "Lord" James, as he contemptuously declared, must go. There was no room for him in the same district as Wild Bill of Abilene.

It would be useless to seek the method by which this decision was reached. In a man such as Bill the subtleties of his motives were far too involved and deeply hidden. The only possible chance of estimating the truth would be to question his associates as to their opinion. And even then such opinions would be biased by personal understanding of the man, and so would be of but small account.

Thus Minky would probably have declared that his decision was the result of his desire for the welfare of the community in which he claimed his best friends. Sandy Joyce would likely have shaken his head, and declared it was the possibility of something having happened to his mare Gipsy. Toby Jenks might have had a wild idea that Bill had made his "pile" on the "crook" and was "gettin' religion." Sunny Oak, whose shrewd mind spent most of its time in studying the peculiarities of his fellows, might have whispered an opinion to himself, when no one was about, to the effect that Bill couldn't stand for a rival "boss" around Suffering Creek.

Any of these opinions might have been right, just as any of them might have been very wide of the mark. Anyhow, certain it is that no citizen of Suffering Creek would, even when thoroughly drunk, have accused Bill of any leaning towards sentimentalism or chivalry. The idea that he cared two cents for what became of Scipio, or his wife, or his children, it would have been impossible to have driven into their heads with a sledge-hammer. And maybe they would have been right. Who could tell?

His decision was taken without any definite argument, without any heroics. He frankly declared to himself that James must go. And having decided, he, equally frankly, declared that "the proposition was up to him." This was his silent ultimatum, and, having delivered it, there was no turning back. He would carry it out with as little mercy to himself as he would show to any other concerned.

The men of Suffering Creek thought they knew this man. But it is doubtful if anybody, even the man himself, knew Wild Bill. Probably the nearest approach to a fair estimate of him would have been to describe him as a sort of driving force to a keen brain and hot, passionate heart. Whether he possessed any of the gentler human feelings only his acts could show, for so hard and unyielding was his manner, so ruthless his purpose when his mind was made up, that it left little room for the ordinary observer to pack in a belief of the softer side to the man.

Ten minutes after performing his primitive ablutions Wild Bill was eating breakfast in the dining-room at the store, with Minky sitting opposite to him. The storekeeper was telling him of something that happened the night before, with a troubled expression in his honest eyes.

"I was wonderin' when you'd get around," he said, as soon as Birdie Mason had withdrawn to the kitchen. "I'd have given a deal for you to have been playin' last night. I would sure. There was three fellers, strangers, lookin' for a hand at poker. They'd got a fine wad o' money, too, and were ready for a tall game. They got one with Irish O'Brien, an' Slade o' Kentucky, but they ain't fliers, an' the strangers hit 'em good an' plenty. Guess they must ha' took five hundred dollars out of 'em."

Bill's sharp eyes were suddenly lifted from his plate. He was eating noisily.

"Did you locate 'em—the strangers?" he grated.

"That's sure the pinch," said Minky, wiping his broad forehead with a colored handkerchief. The heat in the dining-room was oppressive. "I've never see 'em before, an' they didn't seem like talkin' a heap. They were all three hard-lookin' citizens, an'—might ha' been anything from bum cowpunchers to—"

"Sharps," put in Bill, between noisy sips at his coffee.

"Yes."

Minky watched a number of flies settle on a greasy patch on the bare table.

"Y'see," he went on, after a thoughtful pause, "I don't like strangers who don't seem ready tongued—none of us do, since the stage-robbin' set in."

"You mean—" Bill set his cup down.

Minky nodded.

"We ain't sent out a parcel of gold for months, an' I'm kind o' full up with dust about now. Y'see, the boys has got to cash their stuff, and I'm here to make trade, so—wal, I jest got to fill myself with gold-dust, an' take my chances. I'm mighty full just now—an' strangers worry me some."

"You're weakenin'," said Bill sharply, but his eyes were serious, and suggested a deep train of swift thought. Presently he reached a piece of bread and spread molasses on it.

"Guess you're figgerin' it 'ud be safer to empty out."

Minky nodded.

"And these strangers?" Bill went on.

"They've lit out," said Minky ruefully. "I ast a few questions of the boys. They rode out at sun-up."

"Where did they sleep?"

"Don't know. Nobody seems to know."

Minky sighed audibly. And Bill went on eating.

"Ain't heerd nothing o' Zip?" the storekeeper inquired presently.

"No."

"'Bout that mare o' yours?"

Bill's face suddenly flushed, and his fierce brows drew together in an ominous frown, but he made no answer. Minky saw the change and edged off.

"It's time he was gettin' around."

Bill nodded.

"I was kind of wonderin'," Minky went on thoughtfully, "if he don't turn up—wot's to happen with them kids?"

"I ain't figgered."

Bill's interest was apparently wandering.

"He'll need to be gettin' around or—somethin's got to be done," Minky drifted on vaguely.

"Sure."

"Y'see, Sunny's jest a hoboe."

"Sure."

"Don't guess Zip's claim amounts to pea-shucks neither," the storekeeper went on, his mind leaning towards the financial side of the matter.

"No."

"Them kids'll cost money, too."

Bill nodded, but no one could have detected any interest in his movement.

"How'd it be to get that claim worked for him—while he's away?"

Bill shrugged.

"Mebbe Zip'll be gettin' back," he said.

"An' if he don't."

"You mean?"

There was interest enough in Bill now. His interrogation was full of suppressed force.

"Yes. James."

Bill sprang to his feet and kicked back his chair. The sudden rage in his eyes was startling, even to Minky, who was used to the man. However, he waited, and in a moment or two his friend was talking again in his usually cold tone.

"I'll jest git around an' see how Sunny's doin'," he said.

Then he drew out a pipe and began to cut flakes of tobacco from a black plug.

"See here, Minky," he went on, after a moment's pause. "You need to do some thinkin'. How much dust have you got in the store?"

"'Bout twenty thousand dollars."

"Whew!" Bill whistled softly as he packed the tobacco in his pipe. "An elegant parcel for strangers to handle."

The storekeeper's face became further troubled.

"It sure is—if they handle it."

"Jest so."

Bill's pipe was alight now, and he puffed at it vigorously, speaking between the puffs.

"Y'see, this feller James plays a big game. Cattle duffin' and ord'n'ry stage-robbin' ain't good enough, nor big enough, to run his gang on. He needs gold stages, and we ain't sendin' gold stages out. Wal, wot's the conclusion? I ast you?"

"He'll hev to light out, or—"

"Jest so. Or he'll get around here to—look into things. Those strangers last night were mebbe 'lookin' into things.' You'll need to stow that dust where the rats can't gnaw it. Later we'll think things out. Meanwhile there's one thing sure, we don't need strangers on Suffering Creek. There's enough o' the boys around to work the gold, an' when they get it they mostly know what to do with it. Guess I'll get on up to Zip's shack."

The two men walked out into the store. Minky in a pessimistic mood passed in behind his counter. This question of gold had bothered him for some weeks. Since the first stage-robbing, and James' name had become a "terror" in the district, he had opened a sort of banking business for the prospectors. Commercially it appealed to him enormously. The profits under his primitive methods of dealing with the matter were dazzlingly large, and, in consequence, the business became a dominant portion of his trade. Nor was it until the quantity of gold he bought began to grow, and mount into thousands of dollars' worth, that the difficulties of his traffic began to force themselves upon him. Then it was that he realized that if it was insecure to dispatch a gold stage laden with the property of the prospectors, how was he to be able to hold his stock at the store with any greater degree of security.

The more he thought of the matter the greater the difficulties appeared. Of course he saw possibilities, but none of them offered the security he needed. Then worry set in. History might easily repeat itself on Suffering Creek. James' gang was reported to be a large one. Well, what if he chose to sweep down upon the camp, and clean the place out. Herein lay the trouble. And in consequence his days and nights were none too easy.

He had never spoken of the matter before. It was not a subject to be discussed with anybody. But Bill was different from the rest, and, for several days, Minky had sought an opportunity of unburdening himself to his friend. Now, at last, he had done so, and, in return, had received small enough comfort. Still he felt he had done the best thing.