Front matter (continued 2)

“Sure thing. He’s in that big building on the other side of the cook-shack. You know him?”

“Nope, but I can find him.”

“I’ll go with you.”

Barney got his hat and they walked to the commissary building. Hank Stagg and Leach were talking to several men near the bunk-house. Leach said something to the men, which caused them to laugh.

Art Fields was a little, fat man, with an almost totally bald head and a serious face. He shook hands with Brick and waited for him to state his business.

“Yes, we buy from Mostano,” he said, in answer to Brick’s question. “He has been supplying us with beef for several months. It is cheaper than having it freighted in. Mostano packs it in on his horses. His ranch is only about six miles from here, I think.”

“Is it good meat?”

“Fine.”

“Does he bring the hides with it?” asked Brick.

“The hides? Why, I don’t think so. We don’t buy hides.”

“Sure yuh don’t,” grinned Brick, “but it’s a law, Fields. When yuh sell meat that-a-way you’ve got to show the hide.”

“Oh-h-h, I get the idea.” Fields looked very wise. “I never thought of that, sheriff. Why, sure, it would be easy to kill somebody’s cattle and sell ’em to us. I don’t know whether Mostano knows about this or not, but I’ll see that he does. Next time he shows up, he better have the hide.”

“Has somebody been killing cattle?” asked Barney softly.

“I don’t think so,” smiled Brick. “I got to thinkin’ about you havin’ to buy so much meat, and I thought yuh ought to know what the law was. It might save yuh trouble.”

“That’s right,” agreed Barney. “We want to stay inside the law, you bet.”

“I guess that Mostano is all right,” said Fields. “He seems to be a pretty good ’breed, and he is sure prompt on delivery. He will bring in a load tomorrow some time.”

“Well, I’m much obliged,” smiled Brick. “See yuh later.”

“Come any old time.”

Brick and Barney walked back toward the office, and met Hank and Sam Leach, who were coming toward the commissary.

“Land any converts?” asked Brick.

“Got a lot of promises,” grinned Hank drunkenly. “Thish here polit’cal business is hard on the stummick.”

“Aw, come on!” snorted Leach.

“Foller papa,” laughed Brick.

Leach snorted and started to say something, but evidently changed his mind. A man was riding in on a pinto horse and Barney called Brick’s attention to him.

“That’s Mostano, Brick.”

The rider was of medium height, rather heavy, sitting humped in his saddle, his face completely shaded by a wide sombrero. He rode around the corner of the cookshack, heading toward the commissary building. Brick stopped and looked back.

“I reckon I’ll go back there, Barney,” he said. “I’d kinda like to get a look at Mostano.”

Brick started back and Barney went with him. They stopped at the corner of the building, where they could hear the men talking. It was evident that an argument had started, in which Hank and Leach had joined.

“It’s none of my business,” said Fields, “but it’s the law. You’ve got to have the hide of the animal, Mostano. I didn’t know it until the sheriff told me about it today.”

“Aw, to with the sheriff!” Thus Sam Leach. “Let’s all have a drink. Fields, I want you to meet Hank Stagg. Hank is our next sheriff.”

Fields grunted an acknowledgment.

“Why do I bring hides?” queried Mostano. “My meat is good.”

“I’m not kicking about the meat,” replied Fields. “I’m just telling you—”

“Nobody pays any attention to that law,” interrupted Leach. “It’s a law all right, but what the ? We’ve got too many laws.”

“Hides make big load,” complained Mostano. “I have to pack one more horse. Too much work.”

“That’s right,” agreed Leach. “Here, have a drink, Fields. That ed sheriff is too officious. Wait until Hank is elected.”

There was silence while the bottle was being passed, and then Mostano’s voice grew a trifle more belligerent.

“I no like to pack hides.”

“All right,” grunted Fields. “Take a chance, if you want to. You never know when the sheriff is going to pop up on you. It’s your funeral—not mine.”

“He don’t come out here very often, does he?” asked Leach.

“I never met him until today. I may not be any judge of human nature, but I don’t want him catchin’ me breaking the law.”

“Aw, he ain’t so much,” said Hank thickly.

“You better take your sheriff prospect and put him to bed,” observed Fields, laughing. “He’s buckling at the knees.”

“I no bring hides,” declared Mostano.

Brick touched Barney on the arm and they walked back to the office. Brick was very thoughtful over what he had heard.

“That’s what whisky does,” said Barney. “Fields was all right, until he got that drink.”

“Don’t worry about him,” smiled Brick. “He’s just human. We’d all say the same thing, if we were in his place. Hank and Leach have the idea that whisky and cigars will bring votes. Maybe it would, if they could vote ’em right at the time. Well, I’ve got to be driftin’, Barney. Don’t say anythin’ to Fields.”

“It won’t get him into trouble, will it, Brick?”

“No-o-o. Maybe it’s better that way. So-long.”

Brick mounted and went slowly down the road about a quarter of a mile, where he swung up the side of hill, heading northwest of the Red Hill property. A narrow hog-back ridge led back to the top of the hill, from where he could get a bird’s-eye view of the big mine.

As he rested his horse he saw Mostano ride away from the mine, traveling in the same general direction as Brick was heading. Brick waited for Mostano to disappear in the timber before going on.

The ridge led back through fairly heavy timber, forcing him to travel slowly. About two miles from the mine he stopped. He knew that the old Hooper ranch was located about due north of where he was, and that Mostano must cross that ridge on his way home.

In a few minutes he was rewarded by seeing Mostano ride up the side of the hill, cross the ridge about two hundred yards beyond him and ride down into the next cañon. Brick moved on and found the trail. He gave Mostano plenty of time before following him.

The trail led around the head of the next cañon, twisted down the opposite side and came out into more open country. There were several head of cattle on this side, and Brick noted that all of them were branded with the big H.

The trail led to the edge of a high bluff, where he drew rein. Below the bluff, about half a mile away, he could see the buildings of the old Hooper ranch, standing in the middle of a big, partly cleared meadow. But he could see nothing of Mostano now.

There was no sign of life about the place. The corrals were empty. Brick considered the place for quite a while. He was suspicious of Mostano. Whoever was killing the beef must have a ready market for meat. There were other big mining crews at Redrock, but that was too far away for any one to transport the meat at a profit.

Finally he decided to take a closer view of the place; so he spurred down the bluff trail and rode boldly up to the old ranch-house. A half-breed woman came to the door, as he dismounted, shading her eyes from the sun. She was a slatternly looking woman, poorly dressed, bare of feet.

“Howdy,” grinned Brick. “You Mrs. Mostano?”

“Um-m-m.” She was not at all friendly.

“Where’s Joe?” he asked.

She squinted at him and shook her head. A number of mongrel dogs came from behind the house and created a din with their barking. Brick slapped at them with his hat and they went yelping for cover. It was evident that Mostano had taught them their place.

“Nice dogs yuh got,” offered Brick.

“Um-m-m.”

“Me and you don’t seem to be able to find things to talk about,” grinned Brick. “Don’tcha get lonesome livin’ up here?”

The woman squinted down at her bare feet and up at Brick.

“W’at you want here?” she demanded.

“I want to talk to Joe?”

“W’y you want Joe?”

“Mebbe I want to buy some cheap meat.”

She considered this thoughtfully. Brick thought he had made an impression, but this was quickly dispelled by—

“I think you liar.”

Then she turned, stepped into the house and shut the door. Brick laughed and swung back onto his horse.

“Mebbe that’s right, too,” he chuckled. “My reputation must ’a’ got here ahead of my winnin’ personality.”

He rode past the house and looked over the corrals. There was no sign of any one having butchered stock there, and Brick decided that Mr. Mostano must do the butchering in the hills. He was sure that Mostano had not come home, as there was no sign of himself nor of the pinto horse.

As he rode back past the house he noticed that the place commanded a fine view of the high bluff and trail. It would be impossible for any one to approach the ranch unseen in daylight from that direction.

At the top of the bluff he looked back, but there was no sign of any one moving around the house. He swung to the left, heading in almost a direct line toward Marlin City, taking a chance that he would be able to strike the Big Elk grades about where they sloped down onto the lower ground.

Brick had never been through that part of the hills, but felt that it would be easier than going back to the Red Hill mine. The timber was fairly heavy and that side of the hill was grown up with jack-pine and willows, making it rather difficult traveling.

He had just skirted a willow thicket and was looking for a good place to cross a rocky swale, when he caught a glimpse of a rider skirting the side of the hill about an eighth of a mile beyond him. The heavy cover made it difficult for him to catch more than a glimpse.

Brick drew his horse into the cover of a willow bush and waited. His sorrel horse blended in well with the colors of the hillside, and he was curious to know who this rider might be.

But try as he might he could not locate him again. He felt that the rider was not coming toward him, because it would be impossible for a horse to travel silently. He scanned the hills in all directions. There was something further up on the hill—something that moved.

“Prob’ly a cow,” said Brick to himself. “That jigger couldn’t ’a’ got up there that quick.”

Then came the smashing report of a gun. The echoes clattered from hill to hill, dying away in diminishing echoes. Brick dropped out of his saddle, gun in hand. He had not heard the bullet. Whoever it was, they were not shooting at him.

Again the rifle awoke the echoes. Brick grinned to himself.

“Shootin’ cattle,” he told himself. “Somebody is killin’ a load of meat for the Red Hill mine, and here’s my chance to put the deadwood upon him.”

There was no more shooting. Brick squatted on his heels and waited. He intended to give the man a chance to get busy on his butchering before making a search. He knew that this man might wait quite a while after his kill, to make sure that no one was going to make an investigation of the shots. Brick was a good waiter.

It was possibly fifteen minutes after the last shot had been fired, when Brick heard a noise. It came from below him, and sounded like the snapping of a dry stick. Brick’s horse was well concealed by the willows from any one coming up the slope.

Just below Brick was a jack-pine thicket, growing up out of a tangle of rocks and old logs, and he studied this closely. One of the jack-pine tops jiggled, as if something had struck it slightly. Brick humped a little lower and drew back the hammer on his six-shooter.

Something was coming out through the thicket within ten feet of Brick. At first he thought it was a bear. Brick did not want trouble with a bear just now. A six-shooter is an unreliable bear weapon—and Brick was after bigger game.

Then the bear resolved itself into a man—Santel. He lifted his head slowly, his eyes searching ahead—and looked into the muzzle of Brick’s six-shooter.

For several moments they looked at each other. Then:

“It’s yuh, eh?” said Santel softly.

“Yeah,” nodded Brick. “Yuh better let go that gun, Santel.”

“I know it.”

Santel sat up, leaving his gun on the ground, while Brick moved down and secured it. Then he sat down and they considered each other.

“Where’s your rifle?” queried Santel. He did not seem greatly concerned over his capture.

“I haven’t any,” replied Brick.

“No?” Santel wrinkled his nose thoughtfully. “No rifle? Huh! Yuh didn’t kill my horse with a six-gun?”

“I didn’t even shoot at your horse,” declared Brick.

“No?” Santel’s brows lifted slightly, and a grin twisted his lips. “Well, somebody did, sheriff. My horse is dead—neck broke.”

“Yeah?” Brick’s blue eyes squinted thoughtfully. “This must ’a’ been a three-handed game, Santel. Just what are yuh doin’ over here?”

“Just lookin’. No law against lookin’ around, is there?”

Brick grinned and handed Santel his gun.

“Not a bit.”

“Thanks,” Santel holstered his gun. “What was it all about?”

Brick shook his head. He was as much in the dark as Santel. He told Santel what he had seen, but he did not say that he was of the opinion that the shots were fired by a meat-thief.

Santel got to his feet and looked around. Brick walked back to his horse and picked up the reins.

“You ride a sorrel, too, eh?” remarked Santel thoughtfully. “My horse is a sorrel.”

“Mebbe,” said Brick seriously, “it was a good thing for me. We’ll cache yore saddle and ride my horse double.”

They found Santel’s horse, unsaddled it and hid the saddle in the heavy foliage of a fir-tree. Santel studied the landmarks to get his bearings, mounted behind Brick and they headed for Marlin City.

“Have yuh got any idea who done that shootin’?” asked Santel.

“Not for publication,” replied Brick. “Anyway, the county commissioners told me to let yuh alone, Santel. They said that yuh wouldn’t need my help in findin’ out things.”

“Tha’sso?”

“Yeah, yo’re supposed to be a regular finder, yuh know.”

“I’m tryin’ to find out some things, sheriff.”

“Well,” laughed Brick, “they can’t expect to have yuh find out everythin’.”

“They probably will be ed sorry if I do.”

“Oh, yeah,” grunted Brick. “I’ll betcha that’s right.”

But Brick hadn’t the slightest idea what Santel meant.

They rode to the Star Dot ranch, where they found Hank Stagg and Sam Leach sitting on the porch, talking with Bill Grant. Their coming, mounted on one horse, must have caused a certain amount of speculation in the minds of the three men, but no questions were asked.

Santel dismounted and held out his hand to Brick.

“I’m sure much obliged to yuh, sheriff,” he said.

“Same here,” smiled Brick.

“Get off and rest yore feet, Brick,” invited Grant.

Brick shook his head and gathered up his reins:

“Not today, Bill, thank yuh. I’m kinda busy these days, lookin’ after the morals of our feller-men.”

“That’s a good job for you,” declared Sam Leach.

“Y’betcha. There’s a lot of ’em that need lookin’ after, Leach. I don’t want to be personal, but I will say that there’s a lot of loose cinches in this country, and if they ain’t tightened up pretty quick—somebody’s saddle is goin’ to turn.”

“Meaning what?” queried Leach.

Brick swung his horse around and headed for the gate, without answering Leach’s question. In fact, he couldn’t have answered it. He disliked Leach, and he knew that such a statement would rankle in Leach’s bosom for quite a while.

That someone had mistaken Santel for him—Brick—was almost a certainty, Brick decided. Just what Santel was doing in that part of the hills, he had no idea. Brick had left the Red Hill mine and had ridden up the hog-back in full view of the mine. It was possible that Mostano had seen him and had tried to kill him.

It was not a place frequented by cowboys, and it would have been easy for Mostano to mistake Santel for Brick, as they were both mounted on sorrel horses. At any rate, thought Brick, Joe Mostano was worth watching.

Santel’s statement regarding the county commissioners set Brick to thinking. Just what would it make them sorry for him to find out, he wondered? Miss Miller had recognized Santel as being a bad man—a gun-fighter. According to her, Santel had been a hired gun-man for the sheep interests, and had been suspected of murdering two cowpunchers in Idaho.

Brick was willing to discount the murder statement. He knew that, under those circumstances, an ordinary killing would be termed murder. Santel did not look like a murderer, but he did look like a gun-man, whose gun might be for rent.

“Well,” Brick resolved, “I’m not goin’ to worry about Santel. Mebbe between us we can kinda launder old Sun Dog and hang her out to dry in the sun. Anyway, somebody has fired the first gun of the battle—and all they got was a horse.”

It was several days later that Soapy Caswell came to Marlin City, driving a spirited pair of bronchos, hitched to a buckboard. He tied them at the Dollar Down hitch-rack and met Brick in front of Wesson’s store.

“Goin’ some place, or just got there?” queried Brick.

“If I wanted to go some place, I wouldn’t stop here,” grunted Soapy. “Don’t like yore town. What do yuh think of that?”

“That’s fine,” grinned Brick. “Mebbe we better call a meetin’ and let everybody grieve. What do yuh know, Soapy?”

“Danged little, Brick. Doin’ any good for yoreself?”

“Not much.”

“Uh-huh.” Soapy lowered his voice. “Did that detective ever show up?”

“Been here quite a while, Soapy. Name’s Santel.”

“Tha’sso? I reckon I might as well expect to get all that stolen money back pretty soon, eh?”

“Yuh might as well expect to, Soapy.”

“Gosh, that’s fine! I’m all excited, like an old lady. It’s too bad he wasn’t here to find the little Malloy boy.”

“He was here. He helped hunt for him, Soapy.”

“Pshaw! Then he ain’t no wizard, is he? Well, mebbe I won’t get that money back. What are yuh doin’ today, Brick? Anythin’ special?”

“Nope.”

“Then come and take a ride with me, will yuh? I’ve got to go out to the Red Hill mine and see Barney Devine, and I sure hate to travel alone. We’ll be comin’ right back. What do yuh say?”

“Well, all right, Soapy. I’ll tell Harp that I’m goin’.”

Brick went to the office, where he found Harp stretched out on a cot, groaning out an alleged tune on his jew’s-harp.

“I’m goin’ to Red Hill with Soapy Caswell,” stated Brick. “If anybody tries to break into jail—stop ’em, Harp.”

“Aw-w-w right. Leave me plenty of shells for the riot-gun and I’ll sure keep the place sanitary. I’ve got a new tune, Brick. Listen to this, will yuh? It’s a dinger. Wa-a-ait a minute!”

But Brick ducked out through the doorway and hurried up to the hitch-rack, where Soapy waited for him. Harp got up and went to the doorway, where he watched Soapy and Brick drive out of town.

Slim Hunter was dismounting in front of Wesson’s store, so Harp wandered up there. Slim was talking to Cale Wesson about putting up an announcement in his store, when Harp came in.

“Hello, yuh long-geared ant-eater,” greeted Harp.

“Same to you, you bat-eared cattywampus,” grinned Slim. “How are yuh?”

“Finer ’n frawg-hair. Watcha doin’, Slim?”

“Advertisin’ a dance.”

“Tha’sso? Where—Silverton?”

“Y’betcha. Next Friday night. Oyster supper, too. Goin’ to have some reg’lar music, too, Harp. Yuh want t’ be there.”

“Friday night, eh?”

Harp was thinking fast. Here was his chance to take Miss Miller and he was not going to lose any time in asking her.

“See yuh later, Slim,” he grunted, turning to the door. “I’m kinda in a hurry right now.”

Harp went outside and headed for Wesson’s home, going as fast as he could walk on high heels. Mrs. Wesson answered his knock, squinting at him quizzically.

“Miss Miller to home?” asked Harp.

Mrs. Wesson shook her head.

“No, she is still at the schoolhouse, Harp. She won’t be home until after four o’clock.”

“Uh-huh.” Harp shifted his feet nervously. “There’s goin’ to be a dance at Silverton next Friday.”

“So I heard.”

“Yuh did? Who told yuh, Mrs. Wesson?”

“Why, Sam Leach was here kinda early this mornin’ to ask Miss Miller to go with him.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Harp in a far-away voice, “Uh-huh. We-ell, I reckon they’ll have a real nice dance. Much obliged, Mrs. Wesson.”

“I’m makin’ some doughnuts,” offered Mrs. Wesson, knowing Harp’s fondness for such delicacies. But this was one time when Harp’s sweet tooth had turned sour.

“Just as much obliged,” he said painfully. “I’ve been havin’ a touch of inde-jest-shun. Mebbe next time, thank yuh. Nice weather we’re havin’, Mrs. Wesson. Well, I’ll be jiggin’ along.”

Mrs. Wesson stood in the doorway and watched Harp go back to the street, walking dejectedly. She tried to laugh, was a failure; so she went back to her kettle. Harp went back to the street and headed for the Dollar Down.

His soul was sore within him and he needed a bracer. Slim Hunter had given the bartender one of the notices to put on the back-bar, and Harp gazed upon it with sad eyes.

“Drinkin’ anythin’?” queried Slim.

“Yeah—anythin’,” replied Harp sadly. “My stummick is kinda antegodlin’, and mebbe a shot or two will fix her up.”

They had a drink on Slim, one on Harp and then the bartender opened his heart enough to shove out the glasses. After these three drinks, Slim began to dilate upon the wonders of the coming dance.

“Naw, I don’t want to listen to it,” declared Harp sadly. “If you’ve got any tale of sufferin’—tell it to me, Slimmie. My soul is in the slough of despond. Stummick trouble sure does paint things blue.”

“You ought to do somethin’ about it,” stated Slim. “Feller like you ain’t got none too many insides; so yuh got to protect what yuh have got. Mebbe another drink, eh?”

“Yuh sure diagnose, cowboy,” applauded Harp.

But liquor only served to make Harp more sad. He became maudlin in his grief, trying to tell the story of his life and only remembering some sad stories he had read. His grief affected Slim, and they cried crocodile tears on the top of the bar and swore eternal friendship, while the bartender begged them to go away and let him sleep.

While Harp bathed his soul in tears, Brick and Soapy rode along the Big Elk grades, rattling along at a good pace over the narrow road. They were nearing the spot where the stage had gone over the edge, and Brick was telling Soapy about how he and Harp had passed the wreck without knowing it.

Suddenly the team swerved widely on a hairpin turn, throwing one rear wheel off the grade. Brick grabbed the side of the seat, as he was thrown violently over the side, and his eyes caught a flash of a masked man just ahead of the horses, his rifle pointing at them.

The next moment he landed in a heap on the steep side-hill and rolled into a clump of brush, so badly jarred that he was unable to move. It was possibly a minute before he could realize what had happened to him.

He sat up and looked around at a landscape that would not hold still. His eyes gradually regained their focus on objects and he got painfully to his feet. He was bruised all over and his face was bleeding from several cuts. He looked back at the grade, but was unable to see anything on account of the extreme angle.

He remembered the flash he had had of the masked man. His holster was empty, but about half-way up to the grade he found his gun, wedged in the rocks. It was a stiff climb back to the grade, where he found Soapy trying to untangle his team.

Soapy gawped at him and swore wonderingly.

“By , I thought you was killed,” he told Brick.

“I was,” panted Brick. “What in was it, Soapy? Was it a hold-up?”

Soapy yanked the team straight on the grade.

“Whoa! You ed rattle-brains! Was it a hold-up?”

“Well, was it?” queried Brick, hanging to a rear wheel.

“Git in,” ordered Soapy. “I can’t keep these ed hummin’-birds on the grade, if we don’t git goin’.”

Brick climbed into the seat and Soapy got in beside him. The team started with a jerk and they rattled away toward the Red Hill mine. Brick noticed that Soapy’s jaw was set at a belligerent angle and that his profanity was even more cutting than usual.

“Mind talkin’ about it?” queried Brick. “Yuh must remember that I unloaded early in the game, and all I got was a glimpse.”

“You was pretty ed lucky, at that,” said Soapy. “Did yuh notice the stuff I had in the back of the rig? That old gunnysack and an old rug?”

Brick glanced back. There was nothing in the rear of the buckboard now.

“Yeah, I remember it, Soapy. Where’d it go?”

“It didn’t go—it was taken. I’ve been held-up, by !”

“Held-up? Then it was a”

“Appears that it was,” dryly. “Do yuh remember—” Soapy jerked the team to a slow trot—“do yuh remember me tellin’ yuh once that I was the biggest ed fool I had ever met?”

“Yeah, I remember it,” grinned Brick, wiping some blood off his face.

“Well, I ain’t been improvin’,” stated Soapy bitterly. “That old gunnysack and that old rug was concealin’ the monthly payroll of the Red Hill mine.”

“Love of gosh!” exploded Brick. “The payroll? Why, Soapy, that must ’a’ been”

“Right dog-gone close to twenty-seven thousand dollars.”

Brick caressed his bruised face and tried to collect his thoughts.

“I’m smart,” said Soapy bitterly. “I was afraid to take a chance on the stage. Just one man, Brick; one man with a Winchester. He didn’t say much. By , I don’t think he said anythin’, come to think of it.

“The team swerved into the bank, after you fell out, and I stopped ’em. He motioned for me to get out—and I got. He made me unbuckle my belt and drop it. Then he walked past me, kicked the belt and gun along with him and lifted the sack out of the buckboard.

“It was a mighty heavy sack, Brick. The team got to fussin’ and I had my hands full with them. When I looked back, he was gone around the turn—and that’s all.”

“What did he look like?” asked Brick eagerly.

“I dunno. The hole in the muzzle of that rifle was perfectly round—if that’s any description. He knowed how to do it.”

“Didn’ yuh get any idea of what he looked like, Soapy? Was he a big man, small man, thin man, or what did he look like?”

“He sure was,” nodded Soapy seriously. “I’ll betcha that’ll cover him to a T. He was wearin’ clothes, too.”

“And he didn’t talk, eh?”

“, he didn’t need to, Brick. A man with a gun don’t have to tell me what to do. Now, I’ve got to go to the Red Hill and tell Barney to wait another day. Tomorrow is pay-day, too.”

“Twenty-seven thousand dollars,” muttered Brick. “That’s a lot of money, Soapy.”

“Uh-huh. There’s over two hundred men at that mine, and their wages runs about five dollars a day apiece. Figure it out for yourself. I’m the loser, Brick.”

“Soapy, yo’re the best loser I ever seen,” complimented Brick seriously.

“No, I ain’t. If I had any sense, I’d get so mad that I’d bite myself. Yessir, I’d just faunch around until I got me a temperature, bust a blood-vessel or a ham-string. But I’m just fool enough to set down and make fun of myself.”

“Well, why didn’t yuh tell me what yuh was carryin’?” asked Brick. “I’d ’a’ brought the sawed-off shotgun and we’d ’a’ stopped his play.”

“Yeah, you’d sure looked fine doin’ a high-dive with a short shotgun in your hands, wouldn’t yuh? Prob’ly shot yourself and me, too.”

“Who knew you was goin’ to carry the payroll?”

“Not a danged soul. I hope Barney won’t be put out about it. “I suppose I should ’a’ sent it by stage, with half a dozen guards—but I didn’t. No-o-o, I got real smart and tried to take it in for myself, thinkin’ that nobody would think that I had the danged stuff. Too ed much thinkin’, tha’sall.”

It was almost four o’clock when Harp began to get back to normal. Whisky had only made him feel his troubles more keenly. He left Slim arguing with the bartender and started back toward the office. He was not on exactly an even keel and his vision was slightly impaired.

As a result he almost ran into Mrs. Wesson, who was coming out of the store, carrying some groceries.

“How doo-o-o,” he said thickly.

“Hello, Harp,” she smiled. “Did you see Miss Miller?”

Harp scratched his head and gawped at her.

“Shee Miss Miller? Whaffor?”

“Wasn’t you goin’ to ask her to the dance at Silverton?”

“Oh!”

Harp rubbed his long nose and reflected deeply, with both eyes closed. Then—

“But you said she was goin’ with Sam Leach.”

“I didn’t say she was goin’ with him, Harp. I said that he asked her to go with him. She told him that she had already been invited.”

“By whom had she been invited—by whom?” asked Harp.

“I don’t think she has been invited by any one, Harp. I know she didn’t want to go with Leach; so that was her excuse.”

Mrs. Wesson bustled on down the sidewalk, leaving Harp looking after her. He cuffed his hat over one ear and hitched up his belt, as he headed for the office. He wanted to find a place where he could sit down alone, because his soul was filled with joy and he wanted to express his feelings with music.

It was nearly supper-time when Brick and Soapy drove into Marlin City. Soapy had promised Barney Devine to have the money for the payroll out to the mine by noon the next day, and now he hungered for a session of poker. Brick was stiff and sore from his fall off the grade, but he got a bite to eat at the restaurant, saddled his horse and headed for Silverton.

Brick was certain that someone knew about Soapy going to take the payroll money to the Red Hill mine. Soapy had sworn that no one knew about it, but Brick knew that Soapy was just a trifle absent-minded.

Brick tied his horse to the Short Horn hitch-rack and went into the saloon. The games were in progress, but there were few players. Several men nodded to Brick as he came in and went to the bar. Brick knew Charley Meecham, the cashier of the bank, but did not know where Meecham lived; so he inquired of the bartender.

“Charley Meecham? Yeah, I know where he lives.” The bartender leaned on the bar and drew an imaginary map on the top of the bar with a stubby finger.

“That’s the old Wheaton house, ain’t it?” queried Brick.

“Yeah, sure. Meecham has been livin’ there nearly a year now. Nice feller, Charley is.”

Brick nodded and went down the street, past McGill’s saloon, turning to the left and going to an old two-story dwelling-house, which was set back considerable distance from the street.

Mrs. Meecham answered his knock. Brick had never met her, but knew her by sight. Mrs. Meecham was a thin, angular, rather young woman, with a mop of blond hair and a knack of talking about everything that was none of her business.

“Charley’s up at the bank,” she told Brick. “He went up to do a little work. Won’t you come in? You’re Mr. Davidson, the sheriff, ain’tcha? Uh-huh, I’m Mrs. Meecham. Come on in and set down in the parlor.

“Nice weather, ain’t it? Charley will be back pretty soon, I think. How is everythin’ in Marlin City? I met your new school-teacher at the last dance. Nice girl. Take that chair over there. This one looks solid, but it ain’t. Sam set down on it the other night and it spread out on him.”

Brick sat down and balanced his sombrero on his knees. Mrs. Meecham made him feel nervous. The parlor was a stuffy little room, high-ceiled, with the walls plentifully hung with crayon portraits. An upright organ occupied one corner, and Brick prayed internally that Mrs. Meecham wouldn’t attempt to entertain him with music.

“We’re going to have another dance Friday night,” continued Mrs. Meecham. “You ought to come, Mr. Davidson. I hear that you are quite a dancer. I sure do love a good dance. Sam is a good dancer. He had the Marlin school-teacher down here to the last dance. He’s kinda crazy about her.”

“Sam Leach?” asked Brick.

“Yes. Sam’s my brother. He’s over here quite a lot.”

“Oh, yeah.” Brick crossed his knees and leaned back in his chair. “Your brother, eh? I didn’t know that.”

“Say, you go ahead and smoke, if you want to. Charley and Sam smoke all the time, and I don’t mind it. Keeps out moths.”

Brick nodded and began rolling a cigaret.

“You been livin’ here long?” he asked.

“About a year—in this house. We’ve been in Silverton for about two years.”

“Like it here?”

“Not so very. Still, it’s all right. Silverton folks are real sociable, what there is of them. Charley’s got a good job and I ain’t got no kick comin’.”

“You came here from the East, didn’t yuh, Mrs. Meecham?”

“I should say not! My folks came from Ohio, but I was born up in the Okanagan country. I never been East. In fact, I ain’t never had no hankerin’ for the East. We came here from Idaho. That’s where me and Charley were married. I liked it up there. It was more like home. Of course we knew everybody, and that helps a lot.”

“Yeah, it sure helps,” agreed Brick, inhaling deeply. “Is Sam from up in that country?”

“Oh, sure. He came down here a couple of years before we did. You know Hank Stagg, don’tcha? Sure, you do. Hank used to be up there. I never knew him, but Sam did. Hank used to drive a stage up there. Him and Baldy Malloy worked for the same outfit. Wasn’t it too bad about Baldy’s little kid. Gee whillikens, that was awful! Just think of that poor little tyke getting lost like that. And Baldy getting killed. I wonder if he went to sleep and ran off the grade.”

“I think so,” said Brick slowly. “Yeah, I don’t think he knew when he went off.”

“That must have been it. Baldy was a good driver, too. You and Hank are rivals for the sheriff’s office, ain’tcha? Well, that don’t have to make enemies out of folks. Hank is a good scout.”

“Well,” grinned Brick, “I ain’t sore at anybody.”

“Sure you ain’t. I’ve always heard that you was good-natured.”

The front door opened and Mrs. Meecham got to her feet.

“That’s Charley. Hoo-hoo, Charley! C’mon in; I’ve got company.”

Meecham came to the doorway and squinted at Brick. He was a fleshy, black-haired man of about thirty-five, quietly dressed. His eyes were deep-set, cheeks florid and his mouth full-lipped. He smiled and came into the room.

“Hello, Davidson,” Meecham held out his hand to Brick. “How are you?”

Brick shook hands with him and they both sat down.

“I’ve been doing a little work,” explained Meecham.

Brick smiled and rolled a fresh cigaret.

“I wanted to ask you a few questions,” stated Brick slowly. “Did you get a good look at the man who held you up in the bank?”

“Well, there were three of them, sheriff. Anyway, I think there were three. I’m sure that one stayed near the door. The one who did the talking was a thin sort of a fellow.”

“Couldn’t recognize his voice, if yuh heard it?”

“Hardly. Still, I might.”

“Wasn’t there a fire broke out about that time?”

“Yes, there was,” said Mrs. Meecham quickly. “It was down at Baldy Malloy’s shack. His wood-shed burned down.”

“Didja ever hear how it got started?”

Meecham pursed his lips and shook his head wisely.

“Mebbe it was set on purpose, eh?” suggested Brick.

“Possibly.”

Brick got to his feet and picked up his hat.

“Well, I reckon that’s about all. It kinda looks like somebody was gettin’ rich off Sun Dog banks. It sure hits Soapy Caswell hard. I reckon I’ll have to ride out and see him soon.”

“I saw him this morning,” volunteered Mrs. Meecham. “He was in front of the bank in a buckboard.”

“He uses a buckboard most of the time,” said Meecham.

“Gray team?” queried Brick.

“Yes.”

“By golly, that must ’a’ been him at the Red Hill mine. I was back on the hill and saw the rig drive up to the mine office. I never thought about it bein’ Soapy. A little later I was down at the office and talked with Barney Devine, but he never mentioned that Soapy had been there.”

As Brick manufactured this out of whole cloth, Meecham stepped over to the organ and arranged the scattered sheets of music. He turned back to Brick, nodding indifferently.

“Possibly he drove out there,” he said. “He didn’t say where he was going.”

“He wasn’t there long—if it was Soapy,” added Brick. “I seen ’em take something from the buckboard and take it into the office. They were in there just a minute, when one of ’em came out, got into the buckboard and drove back down the road. Well, I reckon I’ll be movin’, folks.”

“You ought to come to that dance Friday night,” urged Mrs. Meecham. “We’ll sure have a good time.”

“I’ll betcha yuh will,” smiled Brick. “I dunno whether I’ll have time or not. I’ve got a lot of work mapped out ahead of me and I’ll prob’ly be too busy.”

“Electioneering?” queried Meecham.

Brick thought there was just the hint of a sneer in the question.

“Nope. Just tryin’ to make good on what’s left of this term of office, Meecham.”

“Oh, I see. Well, come and see us again, sheriff.”

“Thank yuh,” nodded Brick. “Come and see me too. Adiós.”

Brick walked back to the Short Horn saloon, but did not go inside. Leach was in there, standing at the bar, talking to several other men. Brick went to the rack and got his horse, mounted and headed for Marlin City.

He had found out several worth-while things, which paid him for the ride to Silverton. It was interesting to know that Meecham was Leach’s brother-in-law, and that both of them, together with Hank Stagg and Baldy Malloy, were from Idaho. Leach had come first. Brick decided that he would find out from Soapy just how he happened to employ Charley Meecham.

“It’s kinda danged funny, anyway,” observed Brick, as he rode back through the night. “Leach got established, and then he gets his brother-in-law to come down. Then comes Hank Stagg and Baldy Malloy. They used to work for the same outfit. I’ll sure have to talk with Soapy about this. But if Meecham knew anythin’ about Soapy takin’ that payroll to the Red Hill he didn’t show it. Mebbe I’m barkin’ up the wrong tree, I dunno.”

It was after nine o’clock when Brick got back to Marlin City and stabled his horse. Soapy’s team was still at the rack; so Brick felt sure that a big poker game was in progress. He was tired and sore, so he rubbed his bruises with liniment and went to bed. There was no sign of Harp, but Brick knew that Harp would never think of going to bed as long as there was anything going on in town.

And Brick was right. Harp sat between Soapy Caswell and Bill Grant at the poker-table, trying to make his meager stack of chips weather the storm. Harp knew that he had no business in a game with these two men. Banty Harrison, owner of the livery-stable, and Lew Slater, a professional gambler, were the other two in the game.

Harp played carefully, hoarding his money, and drinking hard liquor at regular intervals. He had failed to get up nerve enough to ask Miss Miller to go to the dance with him. Luck and keen judgment kept Harp in the game until three o’clock in the morning, when he grew bold enough to try and make two deuces beat Bill Grant’s full house.

“I’m through,” announced Harp. “I’ve done well to last this long.”

“I’ve got a-plenty, too,” agreed Soapy.

They shoved back from the table, while Slater counted their chips, and then all went to the bar for a final drink. Harp was the first one to leave the place. He stopped on the porch of the saloon and gulped in deep breaths of the cool air.

He turned his head quickly and glanced toward the corner of the building. It seemed to him as though someone or something had moved there. But he was unable to see anything. Anyway, it was probably a dog or a cat.

He stepped off the sidewalk and started to cross the street, going diagonally, toward the office. He heard someone step out onto the sidewalk, and a moment later came the roar of a heavy gun-shot.

Harp almost fell down, as he whirled quickly, jerking out his gun. But there was nobody in sight. A gust of smoke drifted past the open doorway, showing that the shot had been fired from near where he had heard the noise.

Men were crowding out of the doorway now; so he trotted back to the edge of the sidewalk. Someone was stretched out on the boards, and now Bill Grant scratched a match, looking down at the man on the sidewalk.

“What in happened?” queried Harp.

“It’s Soapy!” grunted Grant. “Somebody help me take him inside.”

They carried him into the saloon and laid him out on the floor. He was unconscious and bleeding badly.

“I’ll get the doctor,” offered Slater, and went out of the door on the run.

“Now, who in shot him?” demanded Grant. “By , they must have waited for him to step out.”

“I heard somebody there,” offered Harp. “When I went out I heard a noise over by the corner, but I thought it was a dog.”

“Well, he’s still alive,” said Banty Harrison. “While there’s life there’s hope. By , I’d like to get my hands on that dirty murderer. I’d sure”

Banty stopped when Brick Davidson, half-dressed, came through the doorway. He squinted around at everyone, stepped in close to Soapy and looked down at him.

“I heard the shot,” said Brick. “Tell me about it, somebody.”

“Not much to tell, Brick,” said Grant. “Soapy stepped out on the porch and somebody shot him. They must have been layin’ for him. Slater has gone after Doc Meyers.”

A few moments later the doctor came, half-asleep, half-dressed. He knelt down beside Soapy, while Brick assisted him with his examination.

“Buck-shot,” said Brick angrily. “They wasn’t takin’ no chances, boys.”

The doctor was counting the wounds and estimating just what to do.

“What’s his chances, Doc?” queried Brick.

“Odds against him, I’m afraid. Five of them hit him above the waist and he’s got a couple in his thigh. Somebody get a blanket for a stretcher and we’ll carry him down to my place. None of the lead hit him in a vital spot, but he will have a fight ahead of him. I suppose that some of ’em will be hard to locate, but we’ll do our best.”

“I’ll beat it for Silverton to tell his family,” offered Banty.

They carried Soapy to Doctor Meyers’ office, where the doctor immediately went to work, trying to locate the buckshot. Brick and Harp went to the office and sat down. Brick held his head in his hands, thinking of every angle of the affair; trying to find a reason why anyone would murder Soapy Caswell.

“They waited for him,” said Harp hoarsely. “ ’em, they was there when I came out. But why did they shoot old Soapy? Why, he’s a good old jigger, Brick. Soapy barked a lot, but he never bit anybody.”

“They rohbed him of twenty-seven thousand dollars today,” said Brick. “He had it in the back of that buckboard, and we were held up on Big Elk grade, near where Baldy went over the edge.”

“You jokin’, Brick?” Harp did not believe.

“Look at the skin off my face,” suggested Brick. “One wheel went off the edge and I took a header down the hill. One man pulled the trick. He was masked—and he knew Soapy was carryin’ that payroll money, Harp.”

Harp swore softly and looked closely at Brick. He still thought that Brick was joking.

“Twenty-seven thousand dollars, Brick? My , how much money is that?”

“Well, it’s twenty-six days’ wages for over two hundred men. Soapy said that their wages would average about five dollars per day. Figure it out, cowboy.”

“Well, I’ll be ed, if this country ain’t gettin’ awful salty, Brick. But what can we do? When they start shootin’ buckshot from ambush in the dark, what’s the use of us, I’d like to know? By cripes, I’d sure like to swap lead with the jigger that shot Soapy.”

“I hope we will, Harp. In fact, I’m kinda sure we will.”

“When?” Harp jumped out of his chair and grabbed Brick by the shoulders. “When do we start, Brick?”

“As soon as we find out who shot him.”

“Aw-w-w, !” Harp exploded his disgust and walked to the doorway. “I thought you had some idea who done it.”

“It was somebody who wanted to kill Soapy Caswell—and they wanted it bad enough to bushwhack him with a shotgun. Now, if we can find out who wanted him dead”

“That ought to be easy, Brick. We’ll start askin’ questions as soon as it gets daylight, eh?”

But the sarcasm of Harp’s question was lost upon Brick, who sat staring intently at the floor, trying to convince himself that certain things might be true. Bill Grant came to the office and sat down with them.

“Doc’s pickin’ out shot,” he told them hopefully. “Soapy don’t know what it’s all about, but he’s doin’ a lot of cussin’ over it. Soapy’s a tough old customer and he’s got a fightin’ chance, boys.”

“We’re pullin’ for him, Bill,” said Harp. “Brick is pullin’ for him—or for somethin’. When Brick gets to thinkin’ that-a-way, somethin’ is due to rattle real hard.”

Brick looked up, his brow furrowed deeply.

“Got an idea, Brick?” queried Grant.

Brick sighed and reached for his cigaret makings.

“It’s far-fetched, Bill. Mebbe it’s too ed far-fetched, but I’m goin’ to work on it.”

They sat and talked until daylight, when they went over to the Dollar Down and searched for evidence. Some distance away from the saloon they found the empty shotgun cartridge. It was a 12 gage, brass shell. Brick examined it closely and dropped it into his pocket.

“No clue in that,” he told them. “Every shotgun in the country is 12 gage, and mostly every one reloads their own shells.”

They went down to the doctor’s office and found that Soapy was doing as well as possible. Grant got his horse and rode back to his ranch, while Harp and Brick went back to the office to get some sleep.

“You goin’ to that Silverton dance Friday night?” asked Brick, as they pulled off their boots.

“I dunno,” Harp shook his head sadly. “I was goin’ to ask Miss Miller, but I kinda lost my nerve. I found out about that dance after you went away yesterday; so I went right down to Wesson’s. Mrs. Wesson told me that Leach had been there early that mornin’ to ask Miss Miller to go with him.

“I thought that ended it. Later on I met Mrs. Wesson and she said—” Harp snapped off a boot and flung it across the floor—“Mrs. Wesson’s the dangdest josher I ever seen, Brick. She said that she only told me that Leach had asked Miss Miller; but she didn’t say that Miss Miller refused him.”

But the point of the joke was lost on Brick, who was looking straight at Harp, a queer expression in his blue eyes.

“Leach asked her, eh?”

“Yeah.”

“Before you knew about the dance, Harp?”

“Yeah. It must ’a’ been before Miss Miller went to school.”

“Uh-huh.”

Brick rolled a cigaret thoughtfully, but did not light it. Then he removed his clothes, placed the cigaret on a chair beside the cot and got into bed.

“Well,” Harp yawned and rolled into his blankets, “you’ve lost yore sense of humor, Brick—or didn’t yuh hear what I told yuh?”

“I heard it all right, Harp, and I thank yuh.”

“Yuh thank”

Harp raised up and squinted at Brick, but there was nothing to see, except the mop of tousled red hair against the pillow. Harp snuggled back down into his blankets and grinned to himself. He knew that Brick’s mind was pretty busy, when he failed to see a joke.

It was nearly noon when someone hammered on the office door and awoke Brick, who wrapped a blanket around himself and went to the door. It was Barney Devine. He stepped inside and Brick closed the door behind him.

“Kinda forgot to wake up,” smiled Brick, shoving out a chair for Barney. “Set down while I put on some clothes.”

Harp awoke and sat up, rubbing his eyes.

“Hello, Barney,” he said hoarsely. “How yuh comin’?”

“With a little news,” said Barney seriously. “I heard about Soapy Caswell a few minutes ago, and I’m bringing more grief. Last night, or rather about two o’clock this morning, somebody dynamited my safe.”

“Dynamited your safe?” Brick had his shirt half-way on, and his head popped out the collar like a jack-in-the-box.

“Completely,” nodded Barney. “In fact they ruined it.”

“I’ll be ed!” exploded Harp.

“What did they get?” asked Brick.

Barney spread his hands and shrugged his shoulders.

“About ten dollars. They ruined some books and a quart of good whisky—and a good safe. They also ruined one of the walls of the office.”

“They must ’a’ thought there was money in that safe, didn’t they?” queried Harp.

Barney looked questioningly at Brick, who grinned.

“I told Harp about the hold-up, Barney.”

“Well, what’s the answer?” asked Barney. “It looks to me like two gangs working, Brick. One of them evidently thought that the payroll got there O. K. Don’t it look like it to you?”

Brick picked up the cigaret he had rolled before going to bed, moistened it with his tongue and scratched a match on the floor.

“Yeah, it looks somethin’ like that, Barney.”

“What about your payroll?” asked Harp.

“I’ll have to take it from here, I suppose. Soapy told them that the payroll money would go from here today. It’s a lucky thing he spoke to them about it, because I’ve got to have that money at the mine before quitting-time today.”

“We’ll go with yuh, Barney,” stated Brick softly, and added, “And I hope somebody tries to hold yuh up. Get yore clothes on, Harp. We’ll devour some ham and eggs right away, Barney; and then we’ll see that yuh get safely to the mine, if we have to shoot every crook in Sun Dog County.”

“They won’t try any monkey business with us,” declared Harp.

“Tha’sso?” Brick grinned and buckled on his belt. “Yuh must remember that my presence didn’t help much yesterday.”

As a measure of precaution and convenience they split the money into three parts, and rode away. Harp and Brick carried Winchesters handy, and after they reached the Big Elk grades they rode in single file, about fifty feet apart.

And there was no wild riding this time. They took plenty of time, and if there were any hold-up men on the Big Elk grades they changed their mind about trying to hold up the second payroll of the Red Hill mine.

Barney was profuse in his thanks and asked them to stay a while, but Brick shook his head. Barney had enough trusted men to look after the money until pay-time, and Brick was anxious for action. They rode back along the grades to where Soapy and Brick had been held up.

Beyond the curve, where Brick had been thrown off the grade, they dismounted and led their horses along the upper side of the grade, trying to find where the robber had left the road. About a hundred yards beyond the curve, where the road curved sharply around the head of a ravine, they discovered an old trail, which angled up through the brush. They mounted and followed the old trail to the top of the divide, where it disappeared. There was nothing to show that the bandit had taken that trail, except that it was the nearest available place where he could have left the grade and traveled under cover.

It was not far from where Santel’s horse had been killed; so they rode down there and found that Santel had taken his saddle away. Brick had told Harp about his suspicions of Mostano, and they decided to ride over and take a look at Mostano’s place.

But instead of approaching it from the bluff, Brick led the way around to the east, where they came out on the side of a hill about half a mile from the ranch-house. From their elevation they were able to command a good view of the place. There were two horses in the corral, and the half-breed woman was out in the yard.

“Too danged bad we haven’t a pair of glasses,” mused Brick. “I’d like to get a good look at that place.”

“Let’s go down there,” suggested Harp.

They had dismounted, and as they climbed into their saddles and started angling down the hill, they heard the report of a rifle. The shot had been fired from considerable distance away. They drew up and studied the house. The woman was hurrying into the house, as though the rifle shot had been a signal for her to get under cover.

Brick laughed and began rolling a cigaret.

“No use goin’ down there now, Harp,” he said. “We’ve been spotted. Mostano is no fool. My visit to his place warned him that we might be dangerous; so he’s watchin’ for us. I’m bettin’ that he sees everybody that comes over Big Elk grade. Next time we won’t play the game to suit him, and he’s goin’ to be a sorry half-breed. Let’s go home.”

“Do you think he had anythin’ to do with the shootin’ of Soapy?” asked Harp.

“Prob’ly not. Mostano is a meat thief, Harp.”

“Well, what has meat thieves got to do with all this dirty work?” demanded Harp.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Brick yawned and swung his horse around. “I’ve just got a fool idea, tha’sall. C’mon.”

“And I’m here to state that Brick Davidson is jist about all through bein’ sheriff of this county.”

Ike Welden, driver of the Redrock stage, hooked his prominent shoulder-blades over the top of the Dollar Down bar and spat viciously. Ike was a sallow-complexioned young man, with wry-neck, tobacco-stained chin and very bony wrists.

Ike had little imagination, which made him dangerous. Danger had little terrors for him, because his mind was of the single-track variety, and his future did not extend beyond the next meal time. Just now he was rather drunk and inclined to be quarrelsome. His thin waist-line sagged sidewise under the drag of the heavy, holstered gun on his thigh, as though weakening under the strain.

There was a motley crew in the Dollar Down, but only one of them, Silent Slade, paid any attention to Ike’s remark. Silent was standing beside a poker table, watching the play, but now he considered Ike Welden closely.

Several of the men were from Silverton, who had come to Marlin City upon receipt of news regarding Soapy Caswell. Leach was in the poker game, as was Al Hendricks. Santel was tilted back in a bar-room chair, seemingly paying little attention to anyone. Banty Harrison and Slim Hunter were engrossed in a game of pool, while several others stood around the table and offered advice.

“And I know ed well what I’m talkin’ about,” declared Welden loudly.

Hank Stagg came into the room, nodded to everyone who paid him any heed, and went to the bar.

“Ain’t I right, Hank?” queried Ike.

“I dunno what yo’re talkin’ about, but I’ll bet yuh are,” laughed Hank. “Have a drink?”

“I can’t refuse,” grinned Ike widely. “I’m a he-buzzard and I’m soarin’ strong. I jist said that Brick Davidson is all through in this county, Hank. Nobody had guts enough to say that I was wrong. No, I don’t want no water with mine. I’m a he-buzzard. Here’s how.”

A moment later Ike squealed like a rabbit. As he lifted his glass of liquor, a strong hand grasped his collar, while another gathered up the slack of his pants. He twisted his head enough to see that Silent Slade was behind him, and then he was lifted bodily, carried to the door and cast out into the street.

Ike landed on his hands and knees on the hard ground, busting the knees out of his overalls and bruising his hands on the gravelly earth. His gun went spinning out of its holster and skidded into the dust.

It was an ignominious thing to happen to a man such as Ike thought he was. He got slowly to his feet, cursing wickedly, and looked at Silent, who stood in the doorway. He turned from Silent, dusted off his sore knees with his sore hands and went to his gun. As he stooped over to pick it up, the dust fairly exploded under his hand, while from behind him came the crashing report of Silent’s six-shooter. Ike yanked away and almost fell down.

“Yo’re kinda ignorant, ain’t yuh?” queried Silent coldly. “Better leave that gun alone until yuh sober up.”

Ike squinted at Silent for a moment, straightened up and went across the street. He stopped in front of Wesson’s store and looked back, before he headed down the street. Silent went back into the saloon, where the poker game was resuming play. Banty Harrison and Slim Hunter had crowded in behind Silent, carrying their billiard cues, and now they whooped loudly and dragged Silent to the bar.

“That’s bouncin’ ’em!” applauded Banty. “I’ll betcha he won’t do much crawlin’ for a while. I just knowed that Ike was goin’ to talk himself out of here.”

Banty lowered his voice and glanced at Hank Stagg, who had moved over by the poker table.

“Look out for Ike, Silent. He’s a dirty little pup, and he’s a streak with his gun.”

“Kill him first, that’s my motto,” grinned Slim.

“That’s right,” nodded Banty. “Every man that Slim has killed has been killed in just that way.”

They finished their drinks and went back to their game. Silent remained at the bar, where he could watch both front and rear. He noticed that Santel had paid no attention to the trouble, not even getting out of the chair to see what was going on outside.

“A salty gent,” decided Silent, “and worth watchin’!”

Silent had hoped to find Brick and Harp in town, but had been informed that they had ridden away with Barney Devine. Soapy Caswell was still unconscious, but the doctor was optimistic.

Slim and Banty finished their game and Silent joined them.

“Yore fussy friend decided to sleep off his jag, I reckon,” opined Slim.

“Mebbe.” Silent wasn’t so sure. “How does it come that Ike ain’t drivin’ stage today?”

“He quit the job,” laughed Slim. “It was prob’bly too much for his brain. The strain must ’a’ been awful.”

They walked outside and stood on the porch. Ike’s gun was not in the street and they all noticed this.

“Sneaked back and got it,” said Silent seriously. “It’ll take him quite a while to clean the dust out of it, I’ll bet.”

Brick and Harp were riding into town and the three men crossed to the office to meet them.

“Hyah, pleecemen,” greeted Silent. “What do yuh know that’s worth the wear and tear on our ear-drums?”

“Not much,” grinned Brick, turning his horse over to Harp, who took them away to the little stable at the rear of the office.

“Silent just throwed Ike Welden out of the saloon,” laughed Slim. “Took him by the collar and the seat of his pants and throwed him plumb into the middle of the street.”

“What for?” queried Brick.

“Too much talk about you.”

“Yeah,” Brick grinned affectionately at Silent. “What’s the latest from Soapy?”

“Last report said he was still alive,” rumbled Silent.

Bill Grant and Al Hendricks came out of the Dollar Down and went toward the doctor’s office. In a few moments Santel came out and went to the hitch-rack, where he mounted a gray horse and rode toward the Star-Dot. Banty and Slim started arguing over their respective pool abilities, and adjourned to the Dollar Down to settle the championship of the world, as far as they were concerned.

Silent, Brick and Harp went into the office and sat down.

“I ain’t gettin’ a square deal,” declared Silent seriously. “There’s a lot of dirt blowin’ around and I ain’t in on it, Brick. Somehow, I’ve kinda got a feelin’ that somebody is goin’ to burn powder, and that I ain’t goin’ to smell none of it.”

“Just be danged thankful yuh ain’t, Silent.”

“How in do yuh figger it? I’m a strong, good-lookin’ young feller, and it ain’t noways fair. I just had a taste of action a while ago, and I kinda hankers for somebody to shoot at me.”

“Yo’re crazy all right,” declared Harp. “Any old time that I wish somebody to shoot at me, he don’t. I ain’t been shot at for quite a while, but with all these things happenin’ around here, I’m gettin’ so’s I duck every time anybody sneezes.

“Sun Dog is gettin’ so she ain’t no place for to live into. Every day there’s a hold-up or a murder. When I think of these ed fools fightin’ for the sheriff’s office, I have to laugh. They sure must seek suicide, by golly.”

“All right,” grinned Silent. “You resign, Harp. I’m willin’ to take yore job, if yo’re gettin’ scared. No use frazzlin’ out all yore nerves, cowboy.”

“Yeah?” Harp stretched out on a cot and crossed his knees. “Any old time, Silent. It ain’t because I hanker for the job, but I’d hate to leave Brick in the lurch. Right now he needs a man with brains—so I stay with him; sabe?”

At supper-time there was no change in Soapy Caswell’s condition. His wife and daughter had come from Silverton and were with him at the doctor’s home. Ike Welden had come back to the Dollar Down, but now he minded his own business and drank alone.

It was nearly dark when Brick called Harp aside.

“Sneak the horses out, Harp,” he said, “and tie ’em back of the stable. Don’t let anybody see yuh, if yuh can help it. Mebbe yuh better wait ’till it’s a little darker.”

“Y’betcha,” grinned Harp.

He had visions of a ride and of possible trouble. Silent had taken a seat at the poker-table and would stay there as long as the game, or his money, lasted.

A little later Harp joined Brick at the saloon, where they stayed until about nine o’clock.

“Want to set in on the game, Brick?” asked Grant.

Brick yawned and shook his head.

“No-o-o, not tonight, Bill. I’m goin’ to fold up a little of the sleep stuff.”

“Same here,” grinned Grant. “I’m gettin’ old, I guess. Just a few more hands and I’ll be ridin’ toward the blanket.”

Brick got up and started for the door, with Harp behind him. They went to the office, drew the curtains, lighted the lamp and sat down.

“What’s the idea?” queried Harp.

Brick did not reply, so Harp did not repeat the question. For probably fifteen minutes they sat there before Brick blew out the light. Then they went to the rear of the place, crawled out through a window, closing it carefully behind them, and went out to their horses.

They led the horses quite a distance from the stable before mounting, and then Brick led the way straight back toward the Big Elk grades. There was no moon to light their journey, but Brick set the pace at a steady gallop until they reached the upgrade of Big Elk cañon. Harp asked no questions. He knew that Brick would explain things to him when he got good and ready, and not before.

They turned off the grade at the little trail and wormed their way up through the brush to the top of the divide. There the rising moon silvered the timbered hills and lighted their path, making it much easier for Brick to lead the way to where he and Harp had been when the warning shot had been fired.

Here they stopped and rested the horses. There was a dull glow, as from a fire, at Mostano’s place, but it was impossible for them to tell whether it was within the house or outside. Then they saw someone go from the house to the fire, carrying a lighted lantern.

“We’ll take a li’l trip over and look at ’em,” decided Brick. “But we’ve got to be danged careful, Harp.”

They rode down the hill, circled the ranch, and came in on the opposite side from the fire. At a tumble-down corral they left their horses and went on afoot. There was no light in the house, so they sneaked up to the side and circled toward the rear.

At the corner they were able to get a look at the fire, which seemed to be burning inside the corral. There was an odor of burning hair, mixed with wood-smoke, and Brick chuckled to himself, as he instructed Harp:

“They’re butcherin’ inside the corral and burnin’ the hides. We’ve got ’em dead, Harp; but look out. Keep down low.”

Brick led the way toward the corral, both of them almost crawling the last fifty feet. They gained the side of the corral unseen, and it was then that Brick realized that he had miscalculated on the gate. It would be suicide to try to climb the fence, and possibly disastrous to try to arrest them from that distance. And it would be almost impossible to go as far as the gate without being detected.

The fire was burning briskly, but the green hides were cutting off the blaze to such an extent that it was impossible for them to see how many men were there and just what they were doing. The lighted lantern was sitting on the ground, but it did little to light up the scene.

“Got to take a chance on ’em, Harp,” breathed Brick. “If they look this way they’ll see us. C’mon.”

Slowly, cautiously, they raised up, gun in hand, and started to climb the fence. Someone picked up the lantern swung it around and the yellow light picked them up instantly.

Came a quick word of warning, a guttural grunt, and the lantern was dashed out. Then a tongue of yellow light flashed at them, and Brick felt the bullet brush his cheek. He and Harp were only half-way up the side of the fence, and in a bad position to shoot.

Brick climbed swiftly to the top, while Harp dropped to the ground and raced for the gate. Two more shots licked out into the night toward Brick, who was shooting at the flashes, while Harp was pounding along, trying to block the one exit.

He gained the gate, shooting swiftly at a shadowy figure, when he felt a thudding blow against his shoulder and the gun fell from his fingers. Someone darted past him and faded into the night. Brick came running across the corral, calling to Harp, who was leaning against the fence, searching dizzily for the thing that was searing his shoulder.

Brick almost ran into him.

“Where’d they go, Harp?” he panted.

“I dunno,” muttered Harp. “Come and help me, will yuh, Brick? I’ve got hit with somethin’.”

“You got hit, Harp? For sake! Wait a minute.”

Brick lighted a match and held it between them. Then he whistled softly.

“Hang onto yourself, Harp,” he cautioned. “They knifed yuh. Grit yore teeth, cowboy.”

They both grunted softly and Brick laughed shortly.

“There she is, Harp. I don’t think it was deep enough to be dangerous. Does it hurt much?”

“Not so much now.” Harp’s voice sounded weary. “The ed thing kinda paralyzed my whole arm. It feels a lot better, but it’s soakin’ me a-plenty. Didja get any of ’em, Brick?”

“No, I don’t think so. How many did you see, Harp?”

“Just one—the one that threw the knife at me. I think it was the squaw. Now what do we do?”

“Go back and have your arm fixed up. Aw, , this was a fizzle. We don’t know any more than we did before, except that we’re dead sure that Mostano’s outfit are the meat-thieves.”

Brick went over to the smoldering fire and kicked the green hides aside. The flames flared up, and as Brick leaned over to search for brands on the hides, a bullet splatted into the fire and threw sparks up into the air.

Brick swore at himself for being such a fool, and ran back to Harp, dragging the hides with him.

“We better be high-tailin’ it out of here,” panted Brick. “Can yuh run all right, cowboy?”

“I never got hit in the leg,” retorted Harp. “ this moonlight! C’mon!”

They ducked low and started back toward the house, running as fast as possible. A rifle bullet screamed past them and hit the old ranch-house a resounding thwack. Brick had glimpsed the flash of the rifle and knew that the shooter was off to their right; so he ducked to the left and led the way around the other side of the ranch-house, where he halted their headlong flight.

They were in the heavy shadow now. Brick stepped back to the corner and peered in the direction where he had seen the flash, but the light was not good enough to distinguish objects clearly. The fire in the corral was blazing merrily, painting the old pole corral with red high-lights.

“We’ve got to bust out across that open space to the horses,” declared Brick. “Mebbe we better separate quite a ways apart, ’cause one man is a hard target in this light.”

They went to the other corner of the house and looked in the direction of the horses. Brick grasped Harp by the arm and pointed toward the bluff trail, where two shadowy objects were plainly visible in the moonlight, going away.

“Our broncs!” snorted Harp. “By , they’ve set us on foot, Brick!”

“It sure has all the earmarks of such a deed,” agreed Brick sadly. “Our rifles are on them saddles, too; and we’ll have one sweet waltz home, cowboy. How’s the arm?”

“Feels kinda numb, but I think it has quit bleedin’. I don’t care a dang how sore it gets, but I can’t afford to lose a lot of blood. What’s the next thing to do, I wonder?”

“Walk home, I reckon.”

“Yeah—and get plugged when we start.”

“Looks that-a-way,” reflected Brick, squinting out into the hazy distance. “We bit off more than we could chaw, cowboy. If we’d had any sense we’d ’a’ cached them broncs.”

“Hind-sight ain’t noways valuable,” sighed Harp, and a moment later a bullet showered splinters off the side of the house.

They dropped flat on the ground and swore foolishly.

“Somebody is prospectin’,” opined Harp. “A foot lower and they’d ’a’ made a strike. Mebbe yuh like this, Brick, but old man Harris’ offspring desires a change of climate. Right above me is a window-sill, Brick; and from my point of view, I’d rather be inside that house.”

“Might be a happy idea,” admitted Brick. “Get up and see if the window is locked.”

“Thank yuh very kindly—but that ain’t my suggestion, Brick.”

Brick slid to a crouching position, straightened up close to the wall and examined the window. It slid up silently.

“C’mon,” whispered Brick.

Swiftly they slid in through the window and the cheap calico curtain dropped behind them, leaving them in total darkness.

Silent Slade lowered his head and looked at himself in the back-bar mirror. He tilted his hat down over his eyes, lifted his head as he sang—

He turned and looked at Sam Leach, who was leaning on the bar, looking solemnly at a glass of liquor. The poker game had just broken up, leaving Silent Slade winner. And Silent was just intoxicated enough to crow over his poker-playing ability.

“Aw, you were just kinda lucky,” observed Leach.

“Tha’sso?” Silent laughed. “Lucky, eh? Any time you whippoorwills from Silverton mingle cards with a Marlinite—look out. They tell me that yo’re backin’ Hank Stagg for sheriff.”

“Well, what if I am?”

“Are yuh tryin’ to be funny—or don’tcha know any better?”

“What’s the matter with Hank Stagg?”

“What?” Silent stared at Leach in amazement. “My , yuh don’t expect me to stand here and tell yuh everythin’ that’s the matter with him, do yuh? I’m limited to just so many words, and they ain’t enough to tell yuh more than half what’s wrong with Hank Stagg.”

“Let’s all be good friends, eh?” suggested the bartender, lifting a bottle to the top of the bar. “Election ain’t nothin’ between friends.”

Silent squinted gravely at the bartender.

“Li’l dove of peace, this ain’t between friends.”

“Well, I’m not goin’ to quarrel with you, Slade,” said Leach. “Yo’ve got your own opinions on the matter.”

“You ain’t goin’ to quarrel with me?” Silent seemed sad over the information. “You ain’t? Well, I won’t quarrel with the bartender; so I guess I’ll go home. My , I’m sorry yuh won’t quarrel with me, Leach. I’m feelin’ quarrelsome, I am.”

Silent adjusted his hat to his satisfaction and walked out of the door, heading straight for the hitch-rack. It was almost midnight, and Marlin City was truly a deserted village. At the hitch-rack Silent stopped and studied the situation. His horse was not there.

Just to be doubly sure he put his hand on the rail of the rack and walked all the way around it.

“If there was a horse there I’d encounter same,” he said aloud. “The question is this: Where’s my horse?”

As far as he could see there was not a horse at any of the hitch-racks. He deliberated deeply. It might be that someone had put the horse in the livery-stable, he thought. Perhaps Brick and Harp had done this as a joke.

He wended his way to the stable and woke up the stableman, who swore witheringly at Silent for dumping him off his cot.

“You want your horse? , you ain’t got no horse here!”

“Ain’t I?” Silent seemed surprized. “Well, now, that’s funny.”

The stableman turned up the light of his lantern and spat thoughtfully.

“You never brought your horse here, Silent.”

“Nope. But she ought to be here, Jimmy.”

“Why?”

“Well,” Silent spread his big hands, “she ain’t at the rack where I left her, that’s why.”

“Oh, for gosh sake, can yuh beat that?” Jimmy Meeker’s voice was squeaky with disgust. “Go on home, Silent.”

“Hu-huh,” Silent had a new idea now. “Say, Jimmy, didja see anythin’ of Ike Welden this evenin’?”

“He left here about nine o’clock, I think.”

“It’s a good thing he did, too,” growled Silent. “I’ll betcha he turned my bronc loose. That ornery little pup! When I catch him he’ll wish”

“Go and catch him,” advised Jimmy sleepily. “Either do that or hire a hall. Good-night.”

Silent turned on his heel and went outside. He did not want to go to the hotel and he couldn’t walk to the Nine-Bar-Nine. There was only one thing for him to do—wake up Brick and occupy one of their cots for the night. A cold wind was blowing and Silent shivered. He knew that Brick and Harp would swear at him for waking them up, but he did not care.

He crossed the street and went up to the door, where he knocked several times. There was no response. Silent deliberated. They were probably sleeping in the rear half of the office, with the door shut in between.

He walked through the narrow alley between the sheriff’s office and the old feedstore and went up to the back door. There was someone going away from the rear of the office, going past the little stable, and Silent wondered who this might be.

It looked suspicious to Silent, who started after this mysteriously-acting person, but turned and came back to the door. He felt that there was no use in chasing around in the dark after someone.

“Anyway, I dunno who he is,” said Silent to himself. “Mebbe it’s all right. Hey, Brick!”

He hammered on the back door until the lock threatened to rattle loose, but no one answered him. He grasped the knob and gave it a twist, finding the door locked.

“That’s funny,” he mused, and as he started to turn away from the door, the world seemed to come to an abrupt end.

Came a deafening crash, a glaring flash of light. Silent was dimly conscious of these things, and felt that he was being hurled away by a great force. Then he seemed to hear men shouting and the world was lighted with the glow of a fire.

He managed to get to his feet and take stock of himself. His body felt numb, but his mind was clearing swiftly now. Just beyond him the flames were eating swiftly into the flimsy old frame buildings, while men and women darted in and out of the glow, fighting it with buckets of water and axes. There were more people arriving at each moment, until every man, woman and child in Marlin City fought to save the town.

Silent went slowly to them. He was unable to walk fast, but he knew that none of his bones had been broken in the explosion. Swiftly the flames were eating toward Wesson’s store, and a gang of men began removing the stock.

“Watch the other side of the street, boys!” yelled Cale Wesson. “The himself couldn’t stop it from takin’ this side.”

Silent took hold of Cale Wesson’s arm and pointed to the spot where the sheriff’s office had been.

“Where’s Brick and Harp?” he croaked. “Did they get out?”

Wesson stared at him.

“Were they in the office? My , look at your face, Silent! What happened to you?”

“Where are they?” insisted Silent.

“By gosh, I’m ’fraid for scare,” said Le Blanc, the blacksmith. “De sheriff h’office she’s gone for good. Don’ somebody know w’ere Breek and Harp be?”

“They went to bed about nine o’clock,” volunteered the bartender. “I know that much. But what in happened, Wesson? Was it some dynamite exploded?”

“It hit me,” said Silent. “I was tryin’ to wake Brick up at the back door.”

“If they were in the office, they’re done for,” declared Cale Wesson. “That was a heap of ruins when I got here, and I was one of the first.”

Mrs. Wesson and Miss Miller, their dresses scorched, faces red from the heat, heard Cale Wesson’s opinion.

“Do you mean to say that Brick and Harp were in their office?” demanded Mrs. Wesson shakily.

“They went to bed at nine o’clock,” declared the bartender.

“My !” gasped Mrs. Wesson. “I can’t believe it. What was it, Cale? What started it?”

“I dunno.” Cale was glumly watching the flames eat through the buildings toward his store. “I’ve got to save what I can, Ma. You keep out of it, can’tcha?”

Cale hurried away toward the store, while Silent, Mrs. Wesson and Miss Miller went as near as possible to the blazing heap that had been the sheriff’s office and stood together, watching it.

The bucket-brigade had shifted their operations to putting out any small blaze that might occur on the opposite side of the street, as they knew that their puny efforts would avail nothing against that blaze, which sent fire-streamers far up into the sky, showering blazing cinders in the wind.

“Can it be possible that they were in there?” asked Miss Miller wearily, pointing at the flames.

“Somebody dynamited the office,” declared Silent.

His mind was functioning perfectly again, and he remembered the man he had seen leaving the rear of the office.

“Do you think it was done on purpose?” queried Mrs. Wesson.

“Yes’m, I sure do. Brick and Harp never kept any dynamite in the office.”

“But why would any one do a thing like that?” asked Miss Miller. “Surely no one would do it.”

“Wouldn’t they?” Silent laughed hoarsely and began feeling of his face. “By grab, I come danged near bein’ included.”

His face was badly skinned. In fact, one eyebrow was almost obliterated, his nose flattened, lips swollen.

“I reckon the door patted me in the face and I slept fifteen minutes,” he said, trying to grin. “I’m full of splinters, that’s a cinch.”

“Well, who would do it?” demanded Mrs. Wesson hotly.

“If I knowed, I’d sure tan his hide and make me a new latigo. Somebody stole my horse, too. I tell yuh this country is gettin’ ornery, Mrs. Wesson. What this country needs is a good old wholesale killin’. And—” Silent pointed toward the flames—“if old Brick ain’t in there, I’ve got a danged good hunch that there will be.”

“Oh, do you think there is a chance that they were not in that office?” asked Miss Miller anxiously, hopefully.

“I couldn’t wake ’em up,” explained Silent. “I hammered on the front door and then the back door hammered on me.”

“The store is on fire, Ma,” said Cale Wesson, joining them. “There goes everythin’ we own—almost.”

“Well, we ain’t in it, Cale. There’s always somethin’ to be thankful for.”

“Yeah, I reckon so, Ma. Don’t get too close, folks. There a drum of kerosene in there and a lot of ca’tridges. The kerosene will go straight up, I s’pose; but nobody knows which way all them shells are pointin’.”

“I hope they’re pointin’ toward the jigger that set off that dynamite,” said Cale after a moment’s pause.

“I don’t,” grunted Silent. “I want that pleasure m’self.”

For several minutes Brick and Harp remained motionless. The house was as silent as the tomb. Then Brick scratched a match, shielding it with his hands, as he reflected the light around.

To the right of them was the rear door, while directly across the room was another window. Brick went to the door and locked it securely, crossed and looked at the window, finding it nailed down.

Another match lighted them into the living-room, where they locked the front door and took stock of their surroundings. There was a candle in the neck of a bottle on the table, which Brick lighted. The front and side windows were nailed down and heavily curtained.

“How’s the shoulder?” asked Brick.

Harp flexed his arm carefully and grimaced a little.

“It ain’t goin’ to stop me,” he declared. “But it sure had me guessin’. My shirt’s all blood, but the cut is sealed shut.”

The Mostano family kept house in one room only. There was a rusty cook-stove, on which was a greasy looking stew-kettle and a battered frying-pan. A home-made table fitted into one corner, on which was piled the rest of their utensils. In the other corner was a built-in bunk, with a collection of tumbled blankets.

The floor was filthy and the air was filled with odors of long-departed food. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling in profusion.

“Ugh!” grunted Harp disgustedly. “What a place to live!”

“Yeah, that’s right,” grinned Brick. “And what a place to die.”

Harp laughed and laid his six-shooter across his knees, as he tried to roll a cigaret.

“Let me do that,” said Brick. “Yore hand ain’t workin’ so good.”

He reached for the tobacco and papers and had just started to roll the cigaret, when a peculiar noise sent both of them onto the floor, clutching their guns. Swiftly their eyes searched everywhere and came back to each other’s faces.

“What the was that?” whispered Harp.

Brick shook his head. Then it came again—

“Yea-a-a-a.”

Brick squinted at the bunk. There was a curious expression in his eyes, as he turned and looked at Harp. Then he got to his feet and strode across the room to the bunk.

“C’mere,” he whispered to Harp, who went over to him.

Brick threw back the blanket, disclosing a little copper-colored baby about a year old, possibly less. The little one was looking up at them with its round, black eyes. Then it grinned widely and kicked both feet up against the blanket.

The two men looked at each other and laughed foolishly.

“Little son-of-a-gun,” whispered Brick. “Ain’t he a dinger?”

“Why not ‘she’?” grinned Harp.

“Mebbe,” Brick grinned down at the baby. “I dunno much about ’em, but I’d say that this one is kinda cute. Look at the son-of-a-gun kick.”

Harp looked around quickly and went back to the door, where he listened closely.

“We don’t want to forget where we are, Brick. I’m thinkin’ that the Mostano family will be kinda curious to know how that kid is gettin’ along.”

“I know danged well I would if it was mine,” grinned Brick. “Anyway, it kinda stops ’em from promiscuous shootin’ around here; so we’ll set tight and wait for mornin’.”

“Tha’sall right,” said Harp thoughtfully, “but what are they so anxious to kill us off for? I should think they’d be danged willin’ to let us get out of here.”

“Does look curious,” admitted Brick. “Mebbe they think that they can kill us off and do as they please the rest of their lives. A breed is a queer character, Harp. He prob’ly figures that I’m the law; and when I’m wiped out—blooey goes the law.”

They sat down against the wall, where they could watch both doors, and enjoyed a smoke. The baby began to cry fitfully.

“Betcha it’s hungry,” declared Harp. “They allus weep that-a-way when they’re needin’ food.”

“A sweet chance it’s got of gettin’ a feed tonight.”

But the baby did not appreciate that fact, and raised its voice in lamentations. Brick grew nervous over the prolonged wailing.

“How long does it take a kid to starve to death, Harp?”

“I dunno. Prob’ly a couple of hours, at least. That little jigger won’t never live to starve to death, Brick.”

“Why not?”

“Why, he’ll bust his windpipe squallin’ that-a-way. Didja ever hear such wheezy yelps? Mebbe it’s got the croup.”

“It has sure got somethin,” declared Brick. “They ought to call that kid A. S. Mostano.”

“Why the A. S., Brick?”

“Almighty Squawk. Whoo-ee, listen to him yowl!”

The baby was giving a good imitation of a discordant accordion now; every breath a yelp. Brick got to his feet and started toward the bunk, intending to do everything within his power to soothe the child, but stopped midway of the room.

Someone was knocking gently on the front door. Brick and Harp exchanged glances of wonderment. Brick stepped over beside the door and said—

“Who’s there?”

“I mus’ have baby, please.” It was Mrs. Mostano’s voice.

Brick turned his head and grinned at Harp.

“You want the baby, eh?” questioned Brick. “Who’s with yuh?”

“Nobody with me. I want baby.”

“Uh-huh!”

Brick motioned Harp to come over beside him and they backed close to the wall.

“If she ain’t alone, smoke out of ’em, Harp,” whispered Brick.

“I wouldn’t let her in,” declared Harp. “To with the whole gang, Brick.”

“I’d rather be shot than to listen to that yowlin’ all night. Get set, cowboy.”

Brick reached over and lifted the bar off the slots, letting the door swing open. For a moment there was silence, then the half-breed woman poked her head inside. Her eyes bored into Brick’s face, but his grin reassured her and she stepped inside.

“Put that bar across the door,” ordered Brick.

She turned and barred the door. The two men relaxed and watched her hurry across to the bunk, where she picked up the crying baby.

“Goin’ to take him with yuh?” queried Brick.

The woman shook her head, as she wrapped the baby in a piece of bright-colored blanket. Brick grinned and stepped back to the connecting door. For some reason he was suspicious of this woman. Still he could not see where she could do them any harm.

She was crooning an Indian song to the youngster, as she bundled him up well and placed him on the bunk. Harp was still standing near the front door, listening intently for any noise outside.

The Indian woman flung another blanket across half of the child. Then she took hold of the bunk with both hands, drew it away from the wall and swung it completely around. Brick squinted at her and wondered why she should change the position of the bunk.

Then he knew. In the half-light from the candle he saw the floor lift up where the bunk had been. In a flash he realized that the bunk had stood over a trap-door and that the woman had used the baby as an excuse to uncover that entrance.

Harp had seen it, too. He darted toward Brick, shouting a warning. But Brick had already swung up his gun and fired one shot at the black mass under the trap-door.

“The back door!” snapped Brick, as Harp darted past him.

Then he swung his gun around and his next shot smashed into the bottle under the guttering candle and the room went dark.

Brick whirled and ran to Harp, who had managed to claw the bar away from the door, and without a thought of what might be waiting outside for them, they darted out into the night.

But no one tried to block them now, as they pounded heavily away from the house, circling toward the bluff trail. After about two hundred yards at top speed, Brick stopped and looked back. Not a light was showing in the old ranch-house. They listened, but there was not a sound.

“By , that ’breed female came darned near to bein’ the death of us,” panted Harp. “Didja see anybody, Brick?”

“No. I shot once at the trap-door and once at the candle, but I didn’t see nobody. Pretty foxy, eh? Their foolish move was in openin’ that trap so soon. If they’d ’a’ waited a little while, we’d ’a’ been easy pickin’, I reckon.”

“By golly, there was more than one person in that deal, Brick.”

“Oh, yeah. Well” Brick drew a deep breath and hitched up his belt. “I reckon we’ve got to walk to Marlin City, cowboy.”

It was at least fifteen miles; and fifteen miles is a long ways, walking on high-heeled boots.

“Let’s go over to the Red Hill mine and borrow a couple of broncs from Barney Devine,” suggested Harp.

“That’s a pious idea,” agreed Brick. “And if he ain’t got no rollin’ stock, we’ll stay all night and ride in on the stage tomorrow. It’s sure a nice thing for the sheriff to let somebody steal his horses. But,” he added optimistically, “I reckon I’m about the only one in Sun Dog that could have his horses stolen without yellin’ to high Heaven for a new sheriff.”

“I’m kinda in favor of a new one m’self,” grunted Harp. “And I hope to gosh he ain’t so friendly to me that I can’t refuse to be his deputy.”

Marlin City was a sorry-looking place in the gray dawn. One whole side of the main street was a smoldering mass of ruins, while the buildings on the opposite side were badly scorched and warped from the extreme heat. The street was like an ash-heap, and strewn with everything that was possible to salvage from the doomed buildings.

Silent Slade, his face covered with strips of plaster, poked moodily among the blackened ruins of the sheriff’s office, hoping against hope that he would not find anything resembling a human remain. A number of men wandered about the street, talking about the fire, and Slade noticed that some of them were from Silverton.

Ike Welden sat on the sidewalk in front of the Dollar Down, and Silent scowled at him. He blamed Ike for the loss of his horse and wondered how he could prove it sufficiently to take Ike and tie him into a bow-knot. A rider was coming up the street, and Silent recognized him as Meecham, the cashier of the Silverton bank. He dismounted and looked at the results of the fire.

“Pretty bad blaze,” he said to Silent.

“Yeah, pretty bad,” admitted Silent.

“How did it start?”

“With a of a crash.”

Meecham looked curiously at him, but Silent did not feel in any mood to talk about it.

“Did you hear how Mr. Caswell is this morning?”

Silent shook his head. He was not interested in Soapy. Meecham glanced up the street, where Leach, Bill Grant and Slim Hunter were coming toward them. There was a bullet-hole in the cantle of Meecham’s saddle, which was plainly visible, and Silent wondered how it came there.

The three men spoke to Meecham and from them he gathered the information that Soapy was conscious again and stood a good chance of complete recovery. Then Meecham mounted and rode up the street toward the doctor’s home.

“Find anythin’, Silent?” queried Grant.

“Not a thing, Bill. They wasn’t in that fire, that’s a cinch. That fire wasn’t hot enough to”

Silent paused to stare at two saddled horses, which were straggling into view, coming toward the ruins of Brick’s old stable.