Front matter (continued 2)

"Well, well," beamed Henry, "you must be a Southerner, I reckon, to be talking of fighting a duel. It ain't done much out here, they run more to bushwacking and shooting a man in his door; but back in Tennessee, where I was born and raised, they had duels every court-day. I've seen two mountain men grab the ends of a handkerchief and cut and slash away with their bowie knives till one or the other dropped dead, but these Texans are that treacherous they'd shore shoot you in the back before you'd stepped off five paces. A duel is for gentlemen, but I don't count them Scarboroughs as human—and I told 'em so p'intedly one time. They've abused me and my boys till we won't stan' it no more, and some day they's going to be a killing. I'm a peaceable man, but I can't git no jestice—leastwise I can't git it in the courts—and when they went to hiring gunmen they fo'ced my hand and I had to throw in with them sheepmen. Don't like sheep, I reckon, any more than you do; but Grimes and his Mexicans are fighters. They'll shore put a torch under them Texas bad men that'll burn 'em off the face of the earth. Me and my cubs ain't robbed no bank, nor paymaster's wagon neither, and we ain't got the money to hire gunmen; but after Grimes has got through with 'em I reckon the Bassetts can clean up on what there is left."

He winked and nodded wisely and, as the boys went on out, the squaw after a silence came timidly in and went on with cooking the dinner. She was still strong and vigorous, though her hair was turning gray; and from time to time, as Old Henry ran on, she glanced up at him with grave, adoring eyes.

"Yes, they call me a squawman," he confessed confidentially, when his wife had left them alone, "but I've had other women and they was never a one of 'em that suited me as well as this one. I thought I'd git rid of her when I come to this country, taking Sharps and Winchester with me; but she located me somehow and come a thousand miles overland, bringing Bill along on her back. That's faithfulness, I say, and I let her stay with me—and she shore thinks the world of Old Hank."

He smiled complacently as she came back to her kitchen, the hearth and hobs of the fireplace, and squatted down to look into the Dutch ovens; and when she was gone he jerked his head knowingly and lowered his voice again.

"Don't you worry," he said, "she savvies what's going on—understands every word I say; but you can't git her to speak English, not unless the house ketches afire or a horse gits down in the barn. She's afraid of them Scarboroughs; she claims they're bad medicine—'all same snake in the grass'—but this sheepman, Grimes, will shore crush their head, though their head may bruise his heel. That's what the Scripture says, according to Grimes—he's religious, some kind of a jack Mormon. Calls 'em 'Brother' when he's among 'em and sons of dogs when he's away from 'em, the same as all these other danged sheepmen. I never did like a sheep, to tell you the truth; but what else is they to do? If I don't bring in Grimes, them Scarboroughs are fixing to git me, and run me and my boys out of the country. Ain't a man got a right to protect his home? They crowded me to it, that's all."

The old man spent the day denouncing the meanness of the Scarboroughs and justifying his alliance with Grimes; but when, in the evening, Grimes himself rode in, Hall could see he was none too welcome. He was cordially received, for that was their custom, but after the first greetings the talk died down to nothing and the sheepman cast about for a listener. He was a big, burly man with a Scotch turn to his tongue, and when he talked he thrust out his head vehemently and showed the bloodshot whites of his eyes. A month's growth of beard did not add to his appearance, and the hair lay in a mat on his chest; and he seemed to be mad, mad all the time, with a primal, caveman rage.

"I'll show 'em, the dirty cowards!" he burst out vindictively, addressing his harangue to McIvor. "Did you ever see a cowman that would stand up to a Winchester? Well, I haven't and yet I've seen lots of them. That Slash-knife outfit now is reputed to be a bad one, and they lay claim to the whole upper range; but here's one sheepman that they've never moved yet, and what's more, they never will. I can ride across there any place and they'll give me the trail, they know me as far as they can see me through a telescope. And these herders of mine, though they're nothing but Mexicans, are proper fighting fools—every one. I won't have 'em otherwise; and the first man that weakens I make him walk back to town. We're coming here to-morrow with ten thousand sheep under a lease from Henry Bassett. That gives us a right, don't it? We're running them on shares, and this has always been his range. But if any of them smart gunmen, like they tried to do yesterday, ride in and interfere with my herders; I ain't saying nothing, I'll jest drop off my mule and shoot the matter out, right there!"

"That's your privilege," conceded McIvor, "but wouldn't it be better to stay on the east side of Turkey Creek?"

"One side or the other—it's nothing to me! This is government land, see? And I'm a U.S. citizen. These dead-lines don't go with me!"

McIvor nodded and fell silent, for he knew the Scotch blood, but Grimes was pacing the floor.

"They'll draw a dead-lines, will they?" he demanded menacingly; "they'll tell me where I'll go and not go? I'm a free agent, see? I know what's my rights, and I don't give a dam' for the Scarboroughs! Didn't I meet their men yesterday, up on the Canyon Crick trail? Yes, and the whole suffering outfit rode over the top of a mountain to git away from my gun. You couldn't see 'em for dust, they were that anxious to escape me—if they'd had a feather in their hand they'd've flew—and now they send word that they've made a new dead-line, only this time it's Turkey Crick! I'll show 'em a dead-line, and I'll go out and kill a cow every time they kill one of my sheep. They's no law here and I know it, so we'll get back to first principles and fight it out man to man.

"If you ever read any poetry you may remember those famous lines about Rob Roy and the good, old simple plan:

"'That they should take who have the power And they should keep who can.'

"That was the plan back in Scotland for many a long year, and it's the plan out here to-day; and I, for one, will never speak against it, for it has served me well so far."

"Apparently so," replied McIvor, who was beginning to turn against him. "I suppose every man follows his own nature."

"What do you mean, my friend?" demanded the sheepman truculently. "Don't you think I'm within my rights? Well, what do you mean then about following my own nature—are you one of these cowmen, too?"

"No," responded Hall, "I am a stranger in these parts. But after what I have seen of feuds and family wars I should certainly hesitate to start one."

"Oh, you're a stranger, eh? Well, I believe you, there—because any man that knows the Scarboroughs will tell you they'll never fight. You don't believe me, eh? Well, I'll see you to-morrow—be back with a big band of sheep—and if I don't pasture them sheep in the middle of that plain I'll buy you a ten-dollar hat."

"Very well, sir," bowed Hall, "I see you are determined. But I don't need a hat that bad."

CHAPTER IX

AMBUSH

The night was filled with the drumming of horses' feet and the rush and challenge of the hounds. They gathered by the gate and bayed and barked continuously, racing far out across the open plain; and when at dawn the Bassetts looked out, the Basin was stripped bare of stock. Not a cow or horse was left for Grimes to wreak his vengeance on if his sheep were shot up and scattered—the stage was cleared and set for the play, which promised to be a tragedy. The Bassetts peered out warily, using their glasses through the portholes as they scanned the neighboring hills for gunmen; then the old squaw ventured out, to bring in wood and water and cook their bread and coffee on the hearth. As the sun rose higher the oak door was thrown open, giving an unobstructed view of the plain; and at last the Bassetts stepped out into the open, for the hour for ambushing had passed.

There are crimes that stalk by noonday, and others that fear the light; but the men who shoot from ambush creep up in the night-time and kill at the first peep of day. Or, failing of their victim, they skulk off through the brush, before they, too, are marked down for revenge. All this the Bassetts knew, as well as that strange crotchet which keeps murderers from shooting down women; and so they stayed close till the hour for "tapping" had passed, sending their woman out instead. She plodded about stoically, apparently busy with her duties, but every possible hiding place was carefully scrutinized before she consented to let her men-folks come out.

They stood now in the sun, rolling a smoke and looking northward for the first of the four bands of sheep; and as the clamor of their bleating came faintly down the wind, old Susie, the Indian woman, came out. First she glanced at Bill and Winchester, who were talking and laughing together, and then at sullen-faced Sharps; and then she, too, looked away to the north where the sheep were beginning to move.

"No good!" she exclaimed, stamping her foot and turning to Henry; and while the other looked on she harangued him in Indian, pointing repeatedly at her sons and the sheep. But Henry Bassett was not the man to listen to a woman when it was a question of peace or war, and after a few words he dismissed her impatiently and joined his grinning "cubs."

"She don't like that man Grimes," he explained shamefacedly, "but it's too late now for sech talk. All the same, boys, this sheep-war ain't no concern of ours so we'll stay right close to the house. I'm shore sorry now that I said what I did; because if he wins, boys, he'll sheep us out, too. But it was that or knuckle down to them dastardly Scarboroughs, and I shore can't stummick that!"

He maundered on, arguing it over with himself, seeking vainly to justify his acts; and all the while the braying of the sheep grew louder as the herds drifted down through the pass. For weeks they had been struggling through scrub oaks and pines, and dense thickets of manzanita and buckthorn; and when at last they burst into the open the leaders advanced on the run. The first band was made up of big, sturdy wethers, their fleeces torn and tattered from trailing through the brush, but strong and active as bucks. They came on in a line which quickly spread out like the front of an advancing flood, and as the last of the herd came clear of the creek-bed the clangor of their baaing ceased. They fed along slowly, the leaders lingering to eat, the drag drifting past them to the front; and in the silence that followed a Mexican herder stepped out and looked down across the waving plain.

The grass was knee high and still green from winter rains, and it flowed away before them like a billowing field, for the sheep had never been there before. Yet this silence, this emptiness, this absence of man or beast, had its sinister side as well; and, after a long look, the herder disappeared and came out further down the creek. He kept under the bank, only showing among the shadows as he kept cover beneath the towering cottonwoods; but as his sheep drifted away towards the grassy western hills he rushed out and turned them back with his dogs. Still the silence, the great emptiness, and as other herders came up they stepped out boldly into the open. Each man carried a gun and had his face to the hills, but no gun roared out its loud challenge. They drifted on slowly, down the broadening valley yet keeping close in to the creek, and at noon they had edged away from the menacing western ridges and gained the open Basin at last.

But now the fat wethers had eaten their full, and as the heat came on they took shelter in the river-bottom, drowsing peacefully in the shade of the willows. The camp-rustlers came up with their burros and kyacks, a fire was soon going at their camp; and as his burros, and Mexicans took their afternoon siesta Dave Grimes ambled over to the house. He rode up on a black mule, gaudy with martingale and fancy trimmings, and greeted the Bassetts at the gate.

"Well," he challenged, "didn't I tell ye I could do it? They see my men was armed—and I had others to do the flanking—and nobody fired a shot. Now I'm out in the open, where they can't sneak up on me; and I can fight 'em man to man!"

"They may not fight you that way," suggested Winchester amiably, but the rest of the Bassetts said nothing. The sight of the sheep actually cropping off the grass which they had depended upon to pasture their horses, had brought up a sober second thought, and Sharps and Bill were furious.

"What d'ye think you're going to do?" demanded Bill rebelliously, "bed your sheep down right in front of the door? We'd like a little feed where we can stake out our horses, without walking plumb over to the Scarboroughs."

"Oh, you would, hey?" returned Grimes, but there he stopped and swallowed his scathing retort. "Well, I'll speak to my herders," he said at last. "We've got to be neighborly, of course. But when I git through with 'em you can walk to the Scarboroughs' without dodging any forty-five ninetys. I see they've gathered all their cattle and drove 'em off west—and their gunmen are over there, too—but the first danged man that takes a shot at my sheep will find I've got a forty-five, too. I've seen that tried before—riding out at my herders and jumping my sheep off some bluff—but I've got a way to stop it that's never failed yet, I jest give 'em a taste of this!"

He patted the stock of a forty-five ninety rifle that stuck up from under his knee and Sharps broke his day-long silence.

"You're bad, ain't ye?" he rumbled, and Grimes saw that his new partners had already repented of their bargain.

"Yes, I'm bad," he said, "and I don't care who knows it. Anything more you'd like to say?"

"Nope," answered Sharps, and regarded him morosely at which Grimes wheeled his mule to go.

"Well, so long," he said, "can't be chatting here all day. But if you think you're so bravo, why didn't you clean them Scarboroughs yourself, without calling for help on me?"

He flashed his eyes at Sharps and galloped over to his camp, leaving the Bassetts with something more to think about.

Why indeed had they brought in this barbarian, with his Mexicans and his sheep, when with a little more nerve they could have taken on the Scarboroughs and run them out of the country themselves? But it was too late now to ask that question, for Grimes and his sheep were there; and on the other hand it was too early to give way to despair, for the battle had just begun. The Scarboroughs might be cowards but, even then, they were cowmen; and a cowardly cowman will rise up and fight sheep when he would never fight anything else. No, the battle was not over, it had not yet begun; and before he had finished the self-satisfied Mr. Grimes might find himself hollering for help. But help he would never get, not from the Bassetts and their clan, for they had seen his raw work and he had tipped his own hand—he was there to sheep them all out!

They waited in sullen silence as the sheep began to move and the herders followed after them from the bedding ground; for that was the way these besotted sheepmen worked, they made themselves the slaves of their sheep. And the memory of that grass, so rich and sweet, had roused the sheep up early from their dreams; they set off in single file, each group behind its leader, and the leaders all heading for the plain. A single herder followed, his gun across his arm, his eyes on the distant hills; and from a knoll near their camp the extra herders watched him, for they knew he took his life in his hands. What they feared they could not say, more than the treachery of the cowmen who had disappeared so mysteriously into the hills, but they watched him nevertheless, and as they followed his squat form suddenly he staggered and dropped down in the grass. And then the answer came, a single shot in the silence, and the sheep broke into a run.

There was a volley then, from the rolling plain in front of them; and from a thin line of willows which marked the course of a dry stream the smoke rose up in white puffs. The sheep, which had rushed one way, now turned and rushed another; and as they went down in sudden rows the survivors stampeded, running frantically away from the smoke. The heavy bang of cowmen's rifles, shooting ninety grains of powder, added the final touch of panic to their flight, and as they scooted across the plain the big, forty-five caliber bullets plowed through them until they dropped by scores. It was the vengeance of the Scarboroughs for the invading of their range, but the Bassetts did not rush for their guns. They looked on in stony silence, for it was no quarrel of theirs—and Grimes had tipped his hand too soon.

CHAPTER X

THE SHEEP-WAR

If Grimes had thought to win a bloodless victory and take over Maverick Basin for his sheep he was brought back to earth by that first rifle-shot, which had struck down his boldest caporal. And the fusillade which followed, killing his sheep by the hundreds and scattering them across the plain, showed the presence of an enemy as ruthless as himself and as determined to play a bold hand. No, it was too rich a prize to be given up lightly and the Scarboroughs were fighting to win. For an hour, while Grimes raged about in the distance and cursed his cowering herders, the rifle-shots continued and the sorely harried sheep went down until there were no more to kill. It was a slaughter of the innocents, but each sheep that went down sent a pang through Grimes' hard heart.

The position of the Scarboroughs, behind the bank of the low creek-bed which meandered across the plain, was impregnable from every side; and even after dark Grimes was afraid to venture out, lest he walk into yet another ambush. They were playing his own game—the way he had often played it when rash cowboys had charged down on his camp—and after gathering a few strays he was compelled to retreat, taking his much-vaunted Mexicans with him. Out of three thousand sheep he did not have fifty left; and his fighting caporal lay dead on the plain, shot down by a cowman's bullet.

But Grimes had made his boast that he would "show" the Scarboroughs, and the next morning early he came riding down the creek bed at the head of more than twenty armed Mexicans. They were ferocious looking creatures, each armed with a rifle and a pair of forty-five six-shooters, and as they rode past the house they charged the Bassett dogs and put them to flight with their ropes. Then they galloped on, laughing, to join Grimes and the rest, who had dismounted and tied their mules in the brush.

The Bassetts watched them through loop-holes, not without muttered curses for the bravos who had lashed their pet hounds; but when they saw the Mexicans start up a stream-bed to the west they paused and reserved their judgment. It was the mouth of that same wash which had sheltered the ambushed Scarboroughs when they had shot down the herder and his sheep, and if the Scarboroughs were still there—they waited in tense silence, but no battle sprang up on the plain. All was quiet and still, and at last Grimes himself walked out to the body of his caporal. The Mexicans followed after him, they carried the body back; and then for a long time not a head was seen above the cut-bank of the wash.

At the Rock House, far away, Hall could see through his glasses other men looking on from the mound. The Scarboroughs were at home, their horses caught and saddled, waiting to see what the next move would be. The sun mounted higher and the Bassetts stepped forth, the better to watch the grim drama; and then, from the north, there came the faint baaa of sheep—Grimes was throwing another herd into the Basin. They came on at a trot, urged along from behind by herders and racing dogs; and as the first band left the brush another followed behind it, and after that a third. In long, bleating columns they strung out across the plain, heading straight for the guarded creek; and while the Scarboroughs ran to mount the bands swung to right and left and were held close along its bank. All three of Grimes' herds were now safely pastured in the very heart of the Basin; and he and his men were between them and the Scarboroughs, securely hidden behind the cut-bank of the wash. He came out into the open and held up his gun, but nobody answered the challenge.

As the Scarboroughs, the day before, had been impregnable to assault, so now Grimes held the upper hand; and, while his Mexican fighters patrolled the dry stream-bed, the sheep mowed down the grass. They were held in compact bands, each close to the creek, but as no one moved against them they were allowed to spread out and the clamor of their braying ceased. All was still in the Basin—as it had been before when the first band had gone to its fate—and as the heat came on the sheep huddled up together and slept in each other's shade. But the Scarboroughs had disappeared, some riding south and some west, and that was a bad sign for sheep.

At the log fort of the Bassetts they watched in patient silence, now scanning the hilltops for any signs of riding men, now turning again to the sheep. These had roused up from their drowsing and drifted out across the grasslands, anxiously guarded by three pairs of crouching herders; but if Grimes had hoped that the Texans would charge him he was disappointed again. They were playing a waiting game, or planning some new ambush which would mean fresh disaster to his sheep; and as the afternoon wore on Grimes scouted about uneasily, finally returning to mount his black mule. He started back towards his herds, then changed his mind suddenly and galloped up to the Bassett door.

"What—hiding in the house?" he hailed in mock surprise. "You'll get white from not seeing the sun. Or—well, I mean no disrespect, but where is that man Sharps, that misdoubted I would ever win my point? Will you look out there now and see my bands of sheep, feeding along like the beauties they are? And where are the Scarboroughs that were going to wipe me out if I dared to assert my rights?"

"They're hiding in the hills," answered Winchester grimly, "and you'd better git off and come in."

"Ah, weel," laughed Grimes, "I see you're no great fighters or you'd be in the hills yourselves. A man must come out boldly if he expects to get his rights, but we all of us follow our own nature. And that reminds me—how'd do, Mr. Hall—I'll be back for that ten-dollar hat!"

He turned his mule to go, looking back for the answer, and a bullet struck the ground close behind him.

"Yes you will!" called out Bill, as the mule cringed his tail and Grimes dropped down quickly with his gun. "Git around behind the house or they'll tap you off sure—they're shooting from the top of that hill!"

"The damned cowards!" cursed Grimes, suddenly jumping at a close shot and dragging his mule by the head; but as he struggled to lead it off a third bullet came that struck the poor animal dead.

"Come in here!" yelled Winchester, throwing open the door, but Grimes had gone out of his head.

"Stay in there if you want to!" he shouted back defiantly, and started on a run for the brush. It was a scant hundred feet to the edge of the river-bottom, and as they watched him through the port-holes they saw him gliding from tree to tree, vengefully stalking the slayer of his mule. But it was far to the hilltop and before he had more than started there was a shot from out on the plain. It was answered by another and then by a fusillade, and once more the sheep broke and ran. Who was shooting, and from where, it was impossible to say; but all the herders were gone and the Mexicans along the stream-bed were firing off their guns at random. The only thing that moved besides the rush of frightened sheep was Grimes, running savagely up the wash.

From the shelter of their fort the Bassetts looked after him, and Sharps grunted scornfully to himself. But no shower of bullets followed the sheepman in his flight, he kept on and rejoined his frightened men; and when their frantic shooting had been stilled by his boot, the old silence fell again. Only the skuff-skuff of myriad feet as the sheep made a rush, then listened and rushed off again, broke the stillness which hung over the plain; but when a hiding herder sprang up to turn them back he went down before a single, distant shot. Then the Mexican fusillade reopened and when it had been silenced the sheep were left to their fate. From the hills far away plunging shots fell among them, to add to their senseless panic; and each bullet seemed to explode, throwing up dirt and tufts of grass, making the disaster more complete.

The bulk of the herd fled back up the broad canyon and took shelter in the brush along the creek, but there once more the explosive bullets fell among them and drove them into the hills. As dusk came on they were scattered in small bunches, hiding close and then rushing in full flight; and at dawn they still hid there, for Grimes' Mexicans had deserted him, thinking of nothing but to save their own lives. Three more of their number had gone down before the gun of that marksman who never missed a shot; and in the night they fled north, leaving Grimes to gather his sheep, or leave them to the wolves if he chose.

CHAPTER XI

ALLIFAIR

There was a time, in the proud days of chivalry, when knights like Sir Launcelot had to ride forth disguised in order to tempt others to fight; but all this was changed when Colonel Colt and his six-shooter reduced men to about the same size. Dave Grimes had ridden in and challenged the Scarboroughs to fight him, to come out and battle for their range; but they had taken a leaf from his own book of warfare and kept under cover like Indians. Not for them the bold charge, the midnight raid on armed camps; they gave him his head until they had him where they wanted him and then shot his Mexicans from ambush. Four men had been struck dead and even then the wary Scarboroughs had kept beyond the range of his guns. They were playing safe, a hundred per cent safe, and Grimes threw up his hands and quit.

Of the ten thousand sheep, worth five dollars apiece, that he had driven in to eat out their range he took back a thousand or fifteen hundred at the most, leaving the rest to the mercy of the wolves. He was broken, beaten, but as he looked back across the Basin he shook his grimy fist and swore vengeance. He had left their valley astench with the bodies of sheep, and three herders lay unburied on the plain; but as he retreated up the canyon he sent word to the Scarboroughs that they should pay for their killings, and more.

They watched him from the ridges until he was well on his way and then headed back towards the store, riding down the valley at a gallop and shooting off their pistols while they whooped their derision at the Bassetts. There were drinks, and more drinks, and wild rides across the battlefield, while the Bassetts looked on somberly. A great peril had been lifted, the sheep were gone, but now they were at the mercy of this band of drunken Texans who might any time charge down on their house. Or slip up in the night-time, like the skulkers they were, and shoot them down at dawn! Even Bill was quiet and Old Susie muttered as she gazed across the plain at their enemies. The Scarboroughs were so many and they were so few—but Old Henry refused to be alarmed.

The day wore on and, as the revelry became wilder, a messenger rode over with his hand up for peace and handed the Bassetts a note. Sharps gazed at it blankly and passed it to Bill, who passed it along to Winchester.

"Says here," he read: "'Take yore black squaw and go, you dirty sons——' well, that's enough for me."

"Who give you that?" he demanded of the startled "neutral," and the messenger wheeled his horse.

"Isham Scarborough!" he replied, and was starting to go when Winchester beckoned him back.

"What's your rush?" he asked. "Can't you wait for the answer? Well, you tell Isham Scarborough that I'll shoot him on sight—and that goes for Red and Elmo. And you tell the three Scarboroughs, if they'll ride out halfway, we'll meet 'em on horseback—with six-shooters. Can you keep that from rattling around in your head?"

"W'y—yes!" stuttered the neutral, and went galloping back, while the Bassetts ran for their horses.

"That sheepman was right, boys," observed Winchester soberly, as they sat mounted and waiting to go. "If we'd had the nerve we'd've done this long ago and never have called him in. He's gone now, thank God, and we're back where we started from; but you know them Scarboroughs—we're next."

"Yes, you're right, son," quavered Old Henry, "they're dead sot agin us—they're determined to wipe us out. I've allus been peaceable but a man must protect himself, only don't take no chances with Isham. You head for him first, Winchester, and let Sharps take on Red, and Bill can shore clean up on Elmo!"

"Yes, you bet I can," cursed Bill, "but the cowardly whelp is fixing to ride back home."

"They're all going," growled Sharps, and reined his horse out the gate. "Come on," he said, "let's rush 'em!"

"Nope," vetoed Old Henry, "you want to be keerful, boys; and remember your old dad and mammy. Jest ride out slow and hold up your guns; and if they don't come out they're cowards."

"No use," grumbled Winchester as the Scarboroughs galloped off, "you couldn't high-life that outfit and make 'em fight. But come on, boys, anyway; let's go over to the store and lay in a little grub and tobacco."

"I'll go with you," spoke up Hall, who had been chafing for action, and he swung up on his waiting roan.

"Well, all right," smiled Winchester, "you seem to be willing, if you ain't drawing a gunman's pay. And anything we can do for you——"

"Don't mention it!" smiled back Hall, and they rode off together, for already they had come to be friends.

The trail to the store was cumbered with dead sheep which already had drawn flocks of crows, and as they rose up cawing McIvor had a vision of a picture he had once seen of War. Here was the same grim battlefield, only the victims were sheep; and there, riding off was the horde of barbarians who had left such wrack in their wake. They strung off across the Basin, and, well up in the lead, Hall could see the buckskin pony of Meshackatee. Since he had quit the arrogant Scarboroughs he had had his misgivings about Meshackatee, for he knew he stood high in their counsels; and he wondered whether this slaughter of Mexican herders and their sheep was not the result of his wiles.

He was a shrewd man, Meshackatee, and he had admitted himself that he was doing the heavy thinking for the gang. But would he now consent to turn these Indian tactics against Old Henry Bassett and his sons? Hall was loath to believe it; and yet he was not sure, for Meshackatee had a strange sense of loyalty. He called himself a hired bravo, and then in the next breath he said that no man could buy him. He would think what he pleased, only as long as he took his money he felt he owed Isham his service. And Meshackatee had made a bargain with him, Hall McIvor, which circumstances had soon brought to nothing; but Hall still wondered if Meshackatee understood, for he had favored Hall with a sly wink at parting. Was it not possible, even yet, that Meshackatee considered him a spy, and his joining the Bassetts a mere blind; and that perhaps already Allifair was waiting to greet him, when he should return and bring his news? He gazed at the huge form on the distant buckskin horse and shook his head, though sadly.

Right or wrong he had thrown in his lot with the Bassetts, and if it came to a fight he would feel it his duty to protect them against all aggression; and yet—the days were longer than any he had known and the watches of the night were endless. He could see her through his glasses when he watched the far Rock House, this woman whose heart had remained faithful to his memory when she had given him up for dead. Was it right, after all, for him to follow his conscience when it left her to work like a slave? And could he not, in a pinch, turn upon the savage Sharps and so gain his freedom once more? But no, he could never meet Isham again without shooting it out then and there. They were born to be enemies, to oppose each other to the end; and he had crossed his Rubicon when he had slapped Isham in the face and called him a coward and a fool.

There was no one at the store but the weak-eyed Mr. Johnson and a group of staring neutrals, but the bottles were everywhere and several of the settlers were drunker than strict neutrality called for. The Bassetts rode up slowly, scanning every face in the slack crowd; and while the others went in Sharps stood by outside the door, to be ready for any treachery.

"Gimme five dollars worth of smoking tobacco," began Winchester peremptorily, "and we want to git an order of grub."

"Why, yes—certainly," cringed Johnson, starting to get it and drawing back, "but—er—I'm sorry, but the Scarboroughs have forbidden me——"

"I'm talking to you!" rasped Winchester, and there was a moment of silence as the meaning of his statement went home.

"But they said they'd come back," protested Johnson in desperation, "and tear down my store if I did!"

"I'll tear it down right now!" answered Winchester, "if you don't shell out that grub."

The store-keeper shelled out, but he showed a mean spirit and Winchester tapped on the counter with his gun.

"Mr. Johnson," he said, "have you joined the Scarborough gang? Oh, you ain't, eh? You're a neutral! Well, try to act the part then, or we'll come over and clean you out. Good day—and keep your mouth shut."

They rode back heavy laden with supplies and tobacco, for the Bassetts looked forward to a siege; but no siege came and they went to slaughtering hogs, oblivious of the Scarboroughs' threat. It was Winchester who took the lead, for the banter of the sheepman had stung him to the quick; and day or night he rode forth boldly, gathering horses or riding to his hounds. If Old Henry disapproved he did nothing to show it, and Bill and Sharps worked on stoically; but the Indian woman sat where she could always see the hills and Hall watched the Rock House through his glasses.

A week went by and no storm broke upon them, the Scarboroughs had gone west to work their cattle; and then in the night Hall heard the hounds rush out, and a woman's voice called for help. The Bassetts sprang up and ran to their loop-holes, for their first thought was always of treachery; but Hall recognized the voice and rushed out through the doorway, striking the hounds aside as he ran.

"Allifair!" he cried, gathering her close into his arms and lifting her up from the dogs; and as the Bassetts stood staring he carried her into the house while the hounds followed meechingly behind.

CHAPTER XII

THE MAN-KILLING BASSETTS

She stood trembling and holding close to him, her eyes on the swarthy Bassetts and the old squaw who was stirring up the fire; but when they had retired and left the lovers to themselves Allifair whispered swift words into Hall's ears.

"They're coming," she warned. "I know it for a certainty, because Meshackatee told me himself. And they're going to kill all the Bassetts!"

He gripped her and sat still, his eyes on the weak blaze which was lapping the black stones of the fireplace, and then he inclined his head. The Bassett boys were near, lying stolidly on their beds, which they had dragged back a little into the darkness, but he knew that some of them were listening. The jealous-eyed Sharps had never ceased to watch him since the day he had come to the house; and, seeing him now with this niece of the Scarboroughs, his ears would be straining for every word.

"They're strangers," she whispered, "some Slash-knife men that Isham sent out and hired secretly. And when they ride up and catch the Bassetts off their guard, they're to draw their guns and shoot."

He gripped her again, for she was whispering too loud—or so it seemed to his jangled nerves—and then he sat waiting in the silence. It pressed in upon him, as oppressive as the darkness, as fearful as the thoughts it brought up; and the stir of their breathing, even the beating of their hearts, took on a terrible distinctness. But her message was not finished, and as he held her close she whispered very softly in his ear.

"We must go," she said. "He told me to tell you. He'll be waiting with horses—down the creek."

He nodded, and his mind slipped back into the past and then leapt forward to the future. In a whirlwind of dancing visions he pictured their flight down the dark canyon, and Meshackatee waiting with the horses; and then his mind struck back and he could see the Bassetts, and the Slash-knife men riding in. He imagined their short parley, the secret signal, the flash of guns; and then these men who lay about him now would be shot down and left like the sheep-herders.

"I can't leave," he whispered back. "I've got to stay and help them. But you——"

She clutched him again and was whispering earnestly into his ear when Sharps rose up from his bed. It was just a fold of blankets, laid down on the dirt floor; and as he rose, Bill rose up too.

"What are you folks whispering about?" demanded Sharps, advancing in his stocking feet from the gloom, and Winchester sat up suddenly.

"Oh, you mustn't tell!" pleaded Allifair, frantically. "I promised him I wouldn't, you know."

"Promised who?" inquired Sharps, and as she shrank away from him Hall laid a soothing hand on her head.

"She came," he said, "to deliver me a message—a friend has offered to help us escape. We were engaged to be married and I came up here to find her, but she has been held a kind of prisoner at the Rock House."

"Yes, but didn't I hear her say," challenged Sharps, still unconvinced, "that some one was coming to kill the Bassetts?"

"You bet you did!" put in Bill, "because I heard it myself. This here don't look good to me."

"If you gentlemen will just step back," suggested McIvor quietly, "and let us talk this over a minute——"

"All right," spoke up Winchester, coming quickly to the front, "get back, boys; we know he's our friend."

"Well, I don't," grumbled Sharps, but he made room, reluctantly, when Winchester shoved him away. They gathered in a knot in the back part of the room, arguing angrily among themselves, while Hall talked in low tones with Allifair.

"I am in honor bound to stay," he ended gently, "so you will have to go back—and wait."

"What—back to the Rock House?" she protested indignantly. "And leave you here to be killed! No, Hall, I am going to stay."

"Well, that is your right," he responded, after a silence. "God knows I'll protect you, if I can. How many did you say there were?"

"Oh, were you going to fight them? Why not leave it to——But no, I know you too well. There are eight or ten of them, Hall."

"And since your life and mine are involved in it now——"

"You can tell them," she consented, and sighed.

The Bassetts listened grimly as he told the brief story of Isham and his Slash-knife killers, and then Winchester held out his hand.

"Don't you worry," he said, with a smile to Allifair, "we'll take care of you, lady—and him. All we needed was to know their little game."

He stepped out jauntily as he laid her a bed by the fire and then took his brothers outside. What he said Hall never knew but when they came back even Sharps had a friendly smile.

They slept till daylight—or lay in their blankets—and at dawn there was a man at every loop-hole, searching the country for the first sight of the gunmen. The sun was just up when they appeared In the north, riding down on the Turkey Creek trail: but as they left the brush two men fell behind and disappeared in the creek bed.

"One of them fellers was Red!" announced Bill, who was looking through the glasses. "I'd know that wool hat of his anywhere. There's eight of 'em now, altogether."

"Let me look!" demanded Winchester, and after peering through the port-hole he passed the glasses on to Sharps.

"All Teehannos," he said. "Well, boys, this means business; and we might as well shoot to kill. I'll meet 'em at the door and when they go for their guns—well, you know, don't wait too long."

Sharps grunted and caught up his rifle impatiently. Bill watched them as they rode down the valley; and when they turned off and took the trail to their house he too dropped down by a port-hole. As for Hall, he led Allifair to Old Susie's room and leaned his carbine against the left side of the door. This opened to the right, as most doors do, and there was a boxing that just hid the gun.

"What's the idee?" inquired Winchester, with the old, care-free smile which seemed to come to him in moments of danger; and Hall smiled back, though soberly.

"I'm left-handed," he explained, "that is, with a rifle; with a pistol I use the right hand. Well, they'll be watching my right hand; but I'll reach in with my left and have my carbine before they know it."

"And then?" suggested Winchester, but Hall only shrugged and glanced back significantly at Allifair. Already she had left the room in the rear and was looking on with growing alarm—for the horses were outside the door. There was a rush of hounds, a curse and a yelp, and then a voice hailed the house.

"Well?" inquired Winchester, opening the door about a foot and looking them over coldly, and the leader of the cowboys spoke roughly.

"We're lost," he said, "been riding all night. What's the chances for something to eat?"

"I guess you've come to the wrong house," returned Winchester politely. "That's the Scarborough place over there."

He opened the door and pointed off across the plain, but the Texans were not to be denied. They were Texans, every one, and there was a wild look in their eyes as they reined in their horses and sat waiting. Winchester noted it, but his manner was calm.

"Well, all right," he said, when they protested ignorance of the Scarboroughs, "we ain't running no restaurant but if you'll wait outside a while——"

"Outside!" snapped the leader, quick to snatch at some offense, and his men ranged in behind him.

"We have ladies in the house," explained Winchester, still suavely; and Allifair appeared behind him.

"Well, tell 'em to come out of that!" ordered the boss cowboy threateningly, "and git us something to eat!"

"Take her away," whispered Hall, brushing Winchester aside and stepping in front of Allifair.

"Good morning, gentlemen," he said—"I hope you'll excuse us——"

"Send the women out!" snarled the cowboy, glaring at Hall in a fury. "You'd better, if you know what's good for you."

"What do you mean?" demanded Hall; and, as Winchester came back and stood in the door, the killer gave the signal to shoot.

"We have a way," he announced, "of getting what we want!" And he laid his hand on his gun.

He was quick, but Hall was quicker—his hand snatched out the rifle and he shot from the hip at the leader. Then as the cowboys drew their pistols he plunged into the midst of them, shooting right and left with his carbine. There was a fusillade of pistol shots, the bang of rifles from loop-holes, and as the horses pitched and jostled three men fell down between them and were trampled in the wild stampede. The horses did the rest—they bolted to escape the shooting and their riders soon gave them their heads. It was a rout, but the Bassetts had gone out of their heads with rage and the lust for blood. They had turned berserk in a moment and as the Texans galloped away they shot two more off of their horses. Of the three men who were left, two took to the creek bottom and the other dropped down behind his horse.

"Leave him to me!" ordered Winchester, stepping out into the open, and the killer grabbed for his gun. It was on the wrong side, the one towards the house, and as he reached under his horse's neck Winchester shot at his head and clipped off a part of one ear. The killer jerked back and reached over his horse's neck, only to receive another wound in the arm.

"Get away from that horse!" shouted Winchester fiercely, and then shot it through and through. The killer turned and fled, his broken arm flapping, and the Bassetts let him go. They had had their fill of killing and blood, for three men lay dead in the yard. Of the two wounded who escaped, one was never seen again; and the other, fleeing north, encountered a she bear with cubs, which mangled him so that he died. Only two escaped unhurt, to return to the Slash-knife and tell of the man-killing Bassetts.

CHAPTER XIII

BACK FROM THE DEAD

As in desert spaces the bodies of the dead draw vultures from hundreds of miles, so the news of the battle, spread by some mysterious means, brought the "neutrals" to the scene of the killing. They came from distant canyons, from up under the Rim and from the west as far as Clear Creek; and as they gazed at the dead cowboys they muttered among themselves and glanced at the Bassetts, and Hall. There was awe and wonder—and a new respect—in their eyes; for each man had been shot stone dead. Two in the heart and one through the brain, and the horses had been bucking like broncs. That was shooting—and done by the Bassetts.

The story of Winchester's duel passed from lip to lip—how he had put an underbit in Tucker's left ear and broken his arm when he reached over. He it was who had shot Paine through the heart, unless the preacher man had beat him to it; and Bill and Sharps must have got the rest, because the wounds had all been made with a rifle. And so these were the half-Indians that the Scarboroughs had been so scornful of and had called the Dirty Black so-and-sos! They gazed and rode home, and their neighbors returned just to look at the fighting Bassetts. Then they gathered at the store, and what they said there was carried to the crestfallen Scarboroughs.

No longer did they dare to ride over to the store and buy the drinks for their gunmen, and the neutrals. A wave of resentment had been roused up against them by the exposure of their treacherous plan, and they kept close to the Rock House and waited. But they were far from being whipped, and when Hall spoke of leaving he was warned that they were watching the trails. So he lingered on from day to day, hardly noticing the passage of time as he talked of the future with Allifair. But though she smiled bravely and agreed to all his plans, she had caught a trick from the watchful old squaw; and, whether they strolled beneath the cottonwoods or rode out across the plain, her eyes were always straying to the hills. Perhaps it was presentiment, a premonition of coming bloodshed—or perhaps, having lived with the Scarboroughs so long, she sensed what was going on—but each day she grew more watchful, more apprehensive of danger, though she passed it off with a smile.

As she passed through the doorway she glanced instinctively at the bullet-holes where the Slash-knife men had shot up the house; and the dark, bloody stains where three men had died sent a shudder through her body as she passed. Old memories leapt up of other days when her own kinsmen had been shot down at their doors, and when the man at her side had come prowling back at night to shoot down even more. He had killed her own kin, and her brothers had killed his; and now, like a nightmare, another feud rose to thwart them, for the Scarboroughs would shoot him on sight. For it was Hall, leaping out into the midst of the killers, who had defeated them by spoiling their aim; and she, by running away and revealing the plot, had added fresh fuel to their hate. But they would not kill her—even the Scarboroughs had their shame—all they would do would be to shoot down her lover. And so she waited, and trembled.

For a week and more the Bassetts had kept close, sensing the mischief in the air, but as the days wore by and the Scarboroughs did not strike, their vigilance at last relaxed. None of the Scarboroughs had been killed, it was not a blood-feud yet, but only some sheep-herders on the side of the Bassetts and some cowboys employed by the Scarboroughs. The old enmity remained and the Scarboroughs were implacable, but the Bassetts were still for peace. They had proved their worth as fighting men par excellence and were content to let sleeping dogs lie. So, as all remained quiet, Winchester rode out across the range; and the next day was Sharps' turn to go.

There had been a rain in the night and the morning was crystal clear, all the hills stood out clean against the sky, and as the sun rose up higher without revealing any ambush the men took their ropes and stepped out. It was Sharps who went first, heading straight across the flat to where his night-horse was circling its stake; and Winchester and Bill had started after him when something called them back. Hall ventured forth last of all, for Allifair had delayed him, and halfway to his horse she called him again. He turned, but too late—there was a volley from the hills and he and Sharps went down.

There was a silence, an aching moment when even the horses stood still; and then, as Allifair sprang out to run to Hall, a strong hand hurled her back. The door slammed behind her and as the bar fell in place she heard Winchester's voice in the darkness.

"It's them Scarboroughs!" he cursed. "Don't you step outside the door or they'll shoot you down like a dog. Bill, take that far loop-hole—they're up on this first hill—and Dad, you watch the door."

He fumbled for his gun and hurried off to guard a port-hole, and Old Henry took his post by the door. Within the darkened house there was silence again, except for the wailing of Susie and the muttering of the startled men. They were taken by surprise, and as they scanned the empty landscape they imagined enemies springing up everywhere. Bill watched the creek bed and Winchester the south hill; and Old Henry, his voice plaintive, gave way to senile laments as he gazed at the body of Sharps.

"He's—he's alive, boys!" he quavered, as he saw the huge bulk move; and before they could stop him he had unbarred the door and dashed out into the open. The assassins on the hilltop seemed to hesitate from shame, or perhaps they were waiting to make sure; but as he passed out the gate a heavy rifle roared and the old man tottered and fell.

"Come back here!" shouted Winchester, snatching Allifair as she fled; and, while he was dragging her back, Old Susie eluded him and ran screaming to bring in her husband. He had risen on his knees but as she stooped to lift him up a second bullet, aimed deadly straight, almost tore him from her arms. Old Henry was struck dead, but she would not believe it; she dragged him back anyway, crying out against his murderers, while the men on the hill-top laughed.

"That's three of 'em!" they yelled, and Winchester barred the door again, for he feared that his mother would be next. The Scarboroughs had come to make good their boast and kill the last of the Bassetts; and the old Indian woman was no more to them than one of his barking dogs. They had come to kill them all, and even the gentle Allifair could not pass out that door and come back. They were killers, after all, these cowardly Scarboroughs, whom he had allowed to live too long; but killers in their own way, the sneaking, stealthy way of the Apaches, who hunted men down like game. Three men already had fallen before their guns; but he knew them, they would not fight in the open. They would not rush the house, and, while Bill kept a lookout, Winchester stood with his hand on the door.

Outside, on the plain, Hall McIvor lay limp where he had dropped at the first fatal volley; but Sharps, groaning and grunting like a huge, wounded bear, was clawing the earth with his hands. He did not call out, but inched feebly towards the house, and Winchester turned away. The men on the hill were letting Sharps live in order to trap both him and Bill; for before they could reach Sharps the Scarboroughs would shoot them down, and then they would finish him. It was a part of their system, figured out to a nicety, but Winchester and Bill did not go out. They stayed by their loop-holes, searching the hill-top for some movement that would reveal the cunning ambush of the enemy.

The sun came out hot and Sharps sank back exhausted; his black head heaved, and he was dead. Of all the Bassetts, the Scarboroughs had feared him most, and now that he was gone they hooted. Winchester and Bill, by their loop-holes inside the house, still watched the hillside, so ominously barren of life; but not a man moved and they did not fire a cartridge, for they would need them all, if they lived. They were outnumbered and surrounded, and when night fell their enemies would creep down close. They would slip up to the house, which two men could not guard, and fire it or break down the door; and then the Bassetts, if they lived that long, might hope to avenge their dead.

In the corner old Susie sat swaying back and forth while she mourned over the body of her husband, and at the loop-hole by the door Allifair gazed out through her tears at the form which had once been her lover. He lay on his face in a shallow hole, where the hogs in rooting had dug out a wallow in a slight depression in the ground. Her first madness was gone now and she knew better than to go near him; for before she could rush out and bring in his body they would riddle it again with bullets. It was better to wait, though it wrung her heart to do so, until night should bring its black shroud, and then she could go forth and take him in her arms and weep out the anguish in her breast.

She closed her eyes in prayer—though for what she did not know, since all that she lived for was lost—but as she looked out again she thought she saw his body move, his hand draw slowly back! She stepped to the door, which had been barred against her, and pulled it open to see. Yes, his body had moved, but at the snouting of a huge hog which even now was grunting in his face!

With a cry she flung the heavy door wide open and dashed out to save his dear body. To be mangled by hogs, and within sight of those who loved him—her anger swept her forth before she knew it. So swiftly did she run that she had reached down and caught him up before the first shot rang out, and, knowing their purpose, she shielded him with her body while the bullets smashed spitefully all about her. They were trying to frighten her, to make her drop her burden or expose him to a last vengeful shot, but the blood of Southern feudists ran strong in her veins and she faced the hill disdainfully. Then, as she gathered him closer and started for the house, the storm of bullets ceased. Winchester and Bill had marked down their men and their rifles were clearing the hill.

She dragged him through the doorway and sank down, half-fainting—and when she came to he was alive. Alive and smiling, though with grim lines about his mouth and a terrible intentness in his eyes.

"My sweetheart," he murmured, stooping to kiss her once more, and then he lifted her up. Yes, her lover who had been dead, had come back to life, to cherish and protect her still; and asking no questions she drew down his head and tried to kiss the anger from his eyes.

CHAPTER XIV

A MCIVOR

There is a look in the eyes of eagles which sometimes is found in men—a bold, resolute look, changing swiftly to defiance and a hatred that nothing can quench. It is the sign of the fighting man—not the sly, vicious killer, but the man who will fight till he dies. Hall McIvor wore it blazing when he reached for his rifle and strode over to join the Bassetts.

"Played 'possum, eh?" muttered Winchester, who had lost his old smile.

"Well, I wish we could bring in Sharps."

"No use," answered Hall, "they're just waiting to get you. Shall I kill the rest of those hogs."

"Yes, kill the last one of them!" burst out Winchester in a frenzy. "My God, them Scarboroughs ain't human!"

"No, they're not," replied Hall, and glanced up at the hill before he crossed the room to attend to the hogs. He surveyed them with loathing, with a shudder of horror at the fate he had so narrowly missed; and then, very carefully, he shot them one by one as they gathered about the body of Sharps. They followed their own nature, even as the men upon the hill, and so he shot them down; and so he would shoot—and without any more remorse—the men who had ambushed Sharps. Their bullets had gone wild or they would have shot him too and left him a carcass for the hogs; and, but for the devotion of the woman that he loved, he would be at their mercy still.

At the first volley of shots he had known that he was caught, and that to run was to invite certain death; and so he had dropped down, rolling swiftly out of sight while the smoke was still in their eyes. It was a trick that he had learned from the same careful father who had reared him with but one object in life—to make him a killer of men, a terror to the Randolph clan. He it was who had taught him to shoot left-handed with the rifle, since then he would present his right side to the enemy and avoid a fatal bullet through the heart. But in the battle a bullet had found his guarded heart, he had been left on the field for dead; and now, a second time, he had been spared from death in order to live for revenge.

They still thought he was dead, those whooping cravens on the hillside who had seen him dragged into the house; but if there was a God above to look down and judge men's hearts he swore to make them pay. Not while he could lift a hand should they shoot down white-haired men and make sport of weeping women; they had invited the wrath of Almighty God and he would be His sure sword. His hand, which they thought dead, should rise and smite them; he would kill them one by one——He paused, for Allifair had laid her hand on his and was gazing deep down into his eyes.

"Remember," she said, "you are mine now—I saved you. And we must leave this horrible place."

He frowned and drew back, a stern refusal on his lips as he remembered the pitiless code of the feudist—but at the look in her eyes he bowed his head and gave her his hand in assent.

"It is the only way," she whispered, "if we are ever to end the feud before all our kinfolks are dead. Let these men fight it out—but if you join in with them now, I know you, you will never draw out. Let Winchester and Bill take their revenge on the Scarboroughs, and we will go back home. They cannot kill us then, because I shall be a McIvor and you will have married a Randolph."

"Yes, dear," he nodded, but he would not say more and she left him to watch over the dead.

The long day dragged on with men shouting from the hilltops, and then the smash and thud of the big, explosive bullets announced the beginning of a new attack. In some way the Scarboroughs had procured bullets which blew up the instant they struck against the house, and at each volley of shots the mortised logs crashed and jumped, while the chinks gave off a thin smoke. But after the first volleys the shooting died away and again a voice shouted from the hill. Hall muttered—it was the voice of Isham.

"Hey! Send out that woman!" he called down loudly. "Last chance—we're going to do a clean job!"

"Yes you are!" yelled back Bill, but Winchester was silent and it remained for Hall to speak.

"You'd better go, Allifair," he said. "I'll try to join you later." And then he whispered a few last words into her ear.

"Dare to trust 'em?" questioned Winchester as Hall opened the door, and when Hall nodded he assented. "Well, good-by, then," he said, giving his hand to Allifair, "I'll see that Mr. Hall gets away."

"Oh, will you?" she cried, and glanced guiltily at her lover; then gave the haggard Winchester both her hands. But there was something more behind, and as she gazed at him inquiringly he reached down and picked up a blanket. "For him," he said, and, glancing out at Sharps, he turned and strode abruptly away. Then she knew and the tears started suddenly to her eyes as she stepped bravely out into the open.

"Go back to the Rock House!" directed Isham from his hiding-place, but she went past the body of Sharps. Hall watched her as she bent down and covered it up without even a glance at the hill; and as she went across the plain he followed her through his glasses, though the bullets were smashing against the house. As each ball struck it seemed to rend the timbers, spitting lead viciously in through the chinks; and once more old Susie raised her voice in a wail, for she knew that the end was near. While the sun was in the sky Winchester could keep them at bay; but when the shadows fell and blurred his sights, then the Scarboroughs would come down from their hill. They would creep up to the house and throw fire on the roof and shoot them all down as they ran; and the body of her husband would be burned where it lay—the Scarboroughs would destroy them all. But Winchester had taken the shovel from the fireplace and started a hole under the wall, and as evening came on he buckled on his two six-shooters and stepped to the mouth of his tunnel.

"Well, boys," he said, "we've got to skip out or they'll burn the old woman's house. I'm heading south, myself, as soon as it gets dark; and Bill, you'd better head north. Don't no one come near me, because I'm going to run hog-wild and shoot at every bush I see move. You stay right here, Hall, until the fireworks begin and then give the lady my regards. If I git out of this alive I'll take care of them Scarboroughs without any assistance from you."

He shook hands with them gravely and dropped down into the hole; they heard him digging, and then he was gone. Bill wriggled out after him, bellying off through the weeds, and Hall watched from the bottom of the hole.

Already the evening star was glowing in the west and the dusk gathered deeper among the trees; every shadow veiled some movement, the very earth seemed to whisper and the wind rustled by like a snake. He started and crouched back as he heard a shot up the creek, then three more and a racing through the brush; but still he held back until, down towards the south, the night suddenly burst into flame. There were shouts and loud challenges, a running fusillade that led away rapidly around the hill; and then, like a shadow, he glided out of his hiding-place and disappeared in the river-bottom below. A half hour later, riding a Scarborough horse which he had stolen from its picket on the plain, he circled around and edged in on the Rock House, where the dogs were baying like mad.

Along the hillside to the east the fight was still raging, breaking out after a short silence in a sudden rattle of pistol shots, punctuated by the bang of heavy rifles. Winchester had carried the war into the Scarborough camp, and, knowing every man for his enemy, he had set them all to shooting by the swiftness with which he moved. When they were not firing at him they were firing at each other; and from the Indian mound, where he had agreed to meet Allifair, Hall could see that they were scattered everywhere. Fights were springing up like wild-fire, only to die down suddenly after a veritable blaze of shooting; and in his man-hunter's mind he saw the wisdom of Winchester's move in going among them alone. But he had come to find Allifair and hurry her away before the Scarboroughs returned from their siege; and, standing beneath the oak tree, where she could just see him against the sky, he looked across the creek at the house.

It was dark, except for a dim light in the kitchen, and against the square doorway he could see women's forms as they hastened to and fro. And a woman's voice, loud, scolding and insistent, made known the presence of the vixenish Zoolah. At long intervals, as he listened, he could hear the voice of Allifair as she attempted some faint defense; and then Miz Zoolah would burst out afresh as she hurried out to listen to the shooting.

"I hope he kills them all!" she railed from the doorway. "Yes, and leaves them lay for the hogs!" She dodged into the house to renew her loud scolding and Hall settled down to wait. From the loop-hole in her kitchen Allifair could look out and see him, dimly outlined beneath the branches of the tree; but she could not come out until the battle was ended and Miz Zoolah had retired to her rest. From the bunk-house beyond and around the lighted kitchen, the watchdogs still bayed at the east; but no messenger came to bring news of the fighting and Mrs. Scarborough lingered on and on. At last the shooting stopped and the hounds challenged a galloping rider, who stayed to eat and then spurred away; and as midnight approached the house quieted down and a form came silently up the path.

It was Allifair, her few clothes tied up in a bundle, turning nervously to look back at the house; and as Hall rose to meet her she ran to his arms and burst into long-repressed tears.

"Oh, that woman!" she sobbed, "if she wasn't my own aunt——" And then she fell to weeping. "But anyway," she went on, "Bill and Winchester got away, and two or three men got shot. They're looking for them everywhere, and I suppose the trails will be watched—do you think we can get past their guards?"

"We can try," answered Hall, "that is, if you wish. But perhaps it would be better if I came back for you later, when the excitement has kind of died down. You could hardly stand the journey now; this day has been too much."

"Yes, it has," she acknowledged, sinking down on the ground and pillowing her head against his breast, "and yet—we are always putting it off. Back home we could have married, but you had to build our cabin first; and now—well, where could we go?"

"I don't know," answered Hall, "because I'm a stranger in this country—I only know one trail out. And that trail will be guarded; so perhaps, after all——"

"But you'll come back soon, won't you?" she murmured wearily. "I'm afraid I can't go now. The strain was too much for me, when I thought you were dead—something seemed to snap in my brain. But now listen, dear, please don't join in this fighting. Will you always remember me first? And think of our kinsfolk back there in Kentucky—and of all our happiness, too. Think how happy we could be if we were married at last and back in our own mountains again; and the Randolphs and McIvors, after all these years——"

She stopped and sat bolt upright, a nervous tremor running through her, for Mrs. Scarborough had risen up before them. She held a pistol in one hand and behind her followed a dog which bristled at McIvor and growled.

"Put up those hands!" she commanded, pointing her pistol at him threateningly. "And so you're Hall McIvor! Well, let me tell you, Mr. McIvor, your father killed my brother and he killed my sister's son, too. You're nothing but a murderer and if you make the least move I'm going to shoot you dead. And before I'll let Allifair marry a son of Bland McIvor I'll shoot her down in her tracks!"

She towered above them, like a witch in the starlight, and as Allifair broke down and gave way to tears, Hall lifted her gently up.

"You don't need that pistol," he said to Miz Zoolah, "because no man that claims to be a gentleman ever raised his hand against a woman. I never have, and I never will."

"Yes, there you go again," she burst out vindictively, "I ought to have known it was you. Was there ever a McIvor that didn't have the same twaddle about his 'honor,' and being a gentleman? Well, what kind of honor is it when a grown man like your father shoots down my sister's boy? He was just a child, hardly fourteen years old——"

"Yes, but he shot at my father twice. And a boy, Mrs. Scarborough, can pull just as hard on a trigger as a man that's forty years old."

"Well, if that isn't a McIvor!" she burst out, laughing spitefully, "but I'll fix you, here and now. You put that fool down and march back to the house—I'll turn you over to Isham."

"You know he'll kill me," replied Hall, suddenly stepping away from Allifair, and Zoolah raised her voice.

"Yes, and I'll kill you!" she yelled, "you miserable murderer! Go on, now—step off down that path!"

He hesitated, for his hot Southern blood was up, and Allifair sprang at her aunt.

"Run!" she cried, striking the gun aside, and Hall made a jump into the darkness. The dog, which had been watching him, rushed in and grabbed his leg; but McIvor turned and kicked him off and as Miz Zoolah began to shoot he plunged down the hill and was gone.

CHAPTER XV

THE CASTLE IN THE AIR

When a man flees for safety it is seldom into the unknown, for that is always fearful. Nine times out of ten he heads for some old stamping-ground, and generally he heads for home. Hall McIvor was lost in a country so wild that not even a wagon-track entered it; four trails led in and out and he took the one he knew, the one that went to Tonto. It was night, but he had a horse that knew the way, or at least that could follow a trail; and at the first flush of dawn he spurred down Jump-Off Point and splashed into Turkey Creek. Then he rode without stopping until, at Cold Spring, his horse threw up its head and quit. Hall was back where his troubles had begun.

At this same spot, not a month before, Isham Scarborough and Red had held him up and charged him with being a Bassett. Now the month had passed and he was a Bassett, and the Scarboroughs would be hot on his trail; and if they caught him again the hangman's knot in the cliff-dwelling would be something more than a grim joke. The Scarboroughs were desperate; they had tried to kill off the Bassetts as they would stamp out a nest of rattlesnakes; but the most dangerous one had escaped, leaving his mark on three of them, and they would ride like the wind to cut him off. And, next after Winchester and the impetuous Bill, they would seek for Hall McIvor. Miz Zoolah would see to that, now that she knew he was Allifair's lover, and Isham would shoot him on sight. He looked around anxiously, casting about for some hiding place, and his eyes came to rest on a cliff-dwelling.

It was stuck like a swallow's nest in a hole in the rocks, high up against the base of the crag; and there, though he would have neither food nor water, he would find shelter from his enemies. For that very purpose the ancient cliff-dwellers had built it there, and every steep trail and close-built rampart had been constructed with the idea of defense. Yet if he left his horse below they would know he was hiding near and hunt him down like a rabbit—he mounted again and spurred on down the trail until once more he came to the creek. There he loosened the horse's saddle and set him free, stepping off into the running water.

The trail itself had struck over a long point which came down from Baker Mountain to the west and he turned up the creek-bed, stepping from stone to stone, until he had made his way back to Cold Spring. Then he waded up the torrent which rushed down from the cliffs and as he ducked under the wild grapevines his feet fell into a natural pathway, worn deep along the sides of the chasm. It was an ancient trail, half obliterated by cloudbursts and the rush of tumbling waters, but as it led up higher and the chasm widened out, Hall had a feeling that it was leading him somewhere. Not to the dwelling beneath the crag, for that was far to the left, but to some sanctuary where he might take shelter with Allifair. But the trail split and was lost in a maze of huge boulders and he found himself up on the bench.

Behind him rose the cliffs, terrace above terrace of shattered porphyry, but already his pursuers were in the canyon below—four Texans and hard-riding Isham. He watched them from the rim as they went whipping down the trail, then settled back and waited grimly. Down the creek-bed they galloped, then up and over the point and down once more into the creek; but as they saw his horse grazing they wheeled and took cover, dropping off to reconnoiter on foot. For half an hour or more their heads bobbed up as they crept along the bank of the stream and then in disgust they strode down to the water and gathered about his horse. He smiled as he saw them cutting circles for sign—they were trying to find his tracks; but he had covered them too well and after hunting for several hours they came back and camped at Cold Spring.

From his lookout among the crags Hall could hear their loud arguments, and their guesses at where he had gone; he could see their food, almost smell the can of coffee that they boiled over the mesquite coals; but still he lingered, eating acorns to stay his hunger, until at last they mounted and rode on. More than one had shrewdly guessed that he was around there somewhere, but the brush was so thick as to make pursuit hopeless and they were loath to work on foot. So they went away and left him, agreeing to ride the trail first, and Hall began to think about food. On the bench to which he had mounted the grass stood knee-high and there were deer and bear tracks everywhere, but one shot from his rifle would bring the Scarboroughs back so he prowled through the oaks after turkey. They were there by the hundred, fat gobblers who just escaped him and hens that ran like lightning through the brush; but as he pursued a brood of young ones he discovered a nest of eggs and the food question, for the moment, was solved. The eggs were still fresh, and, after eating one raw, he hastened back to his lookout.

Already a feeling of security had come over him and as he waited for their return he worked busily on a turkey trap, which he planned to set at a spring. First he cut some long sticks, to make the top and sides, and then with limber switches he wattled them together, and at evening he took them down to the spring. It lay in the bottom of a brushy gulch and the turkey tracks led down to it everywhere. Cutting out a space above the spring he planted his wattled cage firmly; and then, digging a trench to lead the turkeys up and under it, he staked off the entrance inside. That was all it was, a fenced trench and a cage, but if any turkey strayed into it and lifted his head he would try, turkey-like, to find a hole between the slats instead of stooping down to pass out at the hole. Hall concealed the trap with brush and strewed acorns along the trench; and then, as no turkeys came, he built wings leading up to it and hid himself in the oak trees below.

There was a loud gobble from the hillside, the anxious quilp-quilp of a hen, and the great birds leapt out and came sailing down through the air to land with a thump by the spring. For a moment they crouched frozen as they saw the wings of the trap, but no one had ever hunted them and they soon recovered from their alarm while still others soared down from the heights. An old hen with her little ones came trailing up from the chasm, and Hall watched them with bated breath; but as even these refused to go near his trap he rose up and made a rush. The hen dodged away, calling loudly to her brood, but in the stampede which followed he drove three of them into the wings and up the trench into the trap. That evening he ate meat, and when the morning came he set out to explore his domain.

The chasm up which he had come cut its way through the crags to a level mountain-top far beyond; and that, according to Meshackatee, was preempted by Old Man Baker, who claimed the whole mountain for himself. Since the Indians had killed his son, no Apache dared venture up there; and Hall made up his mind to follow their example, for Baker had shot every Indian on sight. There was game enough and to spare on the first low bench; and farther up the canyon he discovered a hidden basin, where the deer and wild turkey swarmed. But what he sought for most was a hiding place among the cliffs, which would shelter him and his mate; and he clambered along the bear-track which led off around the point to the first of the dizzy cliff-dwellings.

It proved to be no more than some walls of broken rock, piled up in a shelving hole; and house after house, as he inspected them closer, turned out to be nothing but skeletons. Most of them had no roofs, they were all hard to get to and entirely too far from water; and the trails that led up to them made it absolutely certain that he would be seen going to and fro. There was only one place which would answer his purpose and it was like an eagle's nest above him. Within a great, arching cave, high up in the cliff, there stood a huge dwelling, with doors and windows sealed and a rampart across its front. It was a medieval castle, transported from dreamland and set like a jewel in the cliff. At the extreme southern side there was a rift in the solid roof that gave promise of a possible descent; but the path which led up to it, if path there ever was, had vanished with the passing of the centuries. Perhaps it had caved off and was buried in the talus which extended along the base of the precipice; but there his castle stood, aloof and unapproachable, whichever way he came.

The days passed and he became a wild animal, prowling the hillside like a mountain lion as he stalked the young turkeys or sought the hidden way to his castle. He knew it must be there, some cave or hidden passageway, for the rift from above had turned out a mere crack down which a rat could hardly crawl. He sickened of the taste of eggs and broiled turkeys, and of acorns ground up and boiled; yet the sight of that dwelling, high up above the canyon, held him on from day to day. It was a haven of refuge, if he could only reach it—and he knew there must be a path to it somewhere.

From the bench below he often stood and looked up at it, trying to imagine where the path might have passed; and at last he went back and began to explore the chasm, for there could be no other way to the cave. Above, below and far to the south of the dwelling the cliff rose sheer and smooth; but the gateway to the chasm was not so far from the castle that it could not give entrance from the side. Already he had threaded the narrow pathway that led up the bed of the stream; but now he climbed higher and, from the opposite side, looked across for some suggestion of a trail. The canyon wall was steep but not too steep; in places he almost imagined he saw a trail—a row of cat-steps here, a stretch of natural stairs, an ascent from shelf to shelf. But of what value was an ascent if it took him to no passageway—what he sought was a way to the cave. He lay idly in the shade, gazing across at the canyon wall, and as the silence came back he saw a shadow move down the stream-bed, pause stealthily and move again. Then, etched against the granite, a huge mountain-lion stood out, tawny red and almost invisible until it moved.

He looked on, still idly, for not since he had come there had he ventured to fire a shot; and the lion, which had been hiding from him, started stealthily up the path that he had been tracing from shelf to shelf. He padded softly up the cat-steps, took the stairs at a bound—and disappeared in a high, narrow crack. A half hour later Hall followed in his footsteps and at the mouth of his cave he received the last assurance that the pathway led to the castle. A cool wind breathed out of it, tainted with the strong musk of lions; and where could it come from but there?

He turned back eagerly to gather pitch-pine from a piñon stump; then entered, holding the torch like a club. There was a rustle before him, an uneasy growl, the flash of startled eyes; but still they fled on and he followed through the darkness until he saw a cleft of light overhead. It merged into an orifice that let in a soft glow and the vision of a skulking form; and then the invisible path, which had held his feet through the darkness, took him out into blinding day. He was standing in the court of his castle in the air and the lion was crouching by the door.

CHAPTER XVI

THERE'S ALWAYS A WAY

Every window and door of the cliff-dwellers' castle had been sealed against man and beast—the mountain lion was at bay and as he crouched down to spring Hall shot him through the head. He leapt into the air and fell kicking on his back and the man took possession of his den. That was the way he had learned of getting what he wanted, and the castle had been his dream. But the doors had been walled up and plastered over with mud a thousand years before and he hesitated to break them in. Perhaps within those walls there lay the bones of chiefs, with their weapons close to their hands; and after the passage of the centuries it seemed an impious thing to break in and disturb their ancient dust. The court alone was large enough to give him room to live and the whole world lay at his feet.

At the crack of his rifle the echoes of Deadman Canyon had awakened from their week-long sleep; they bandied it back and forth, from cliff to distant cliff, the news that a man was there. Hall stood at the rampart and gazed up and down the canyon, and far away to the east; and as he watched he saw a horseman drop down into a ravine and ride for the Scarborough's stalking-ground. The rifle-shot had drawn him from a dim trail miles away, so keen had been his ears, and as he edged out on a point and crept forward to observe the spring Hall knew he was one of the man-killers. For an hour and more he scouted about the water, but when at last he stepped out into the open Hall saw at a glance it was Meshackatee.

There was the same huge bulk, the same battered hat, the jumper and the bulging chaps; and the horse which had blended into the landscape like a deer was the buckskin pony, Croppie. Yes, the man was Meshackatee; but what was his mission there, and why did he keep hid in the brush? A cold hand seemed to take McIvor by the throat—perhaps he was hunting for him! Although their relations had been friendly for the short time they were together, since then Meshackatee had had plenty of occasion to regret the trust he had bestowed. Instead of spying upon the Bassetts, Hall had joined them against the Scarboroughs; and later, when Meshackatee had sent him warning by Allifair, he had turned the information against them. Yes, more than that, he had left Meshackatee waiting down the creek while he stayed and did battle with the Slash-knives.

Hall watched him from his eyrie as he studied the trail for signs and finally retired to the cliff-dwellings, and then he went back through the cold blackness of the tunnel to store his hiding-place with food. What he feared most had happened, the first shot from his gun had brought the man-hunters upon him. Perhaps they had been watching through their high-powered glasses, or slipping down to look for his tracks; but now they knew he was there—or at least Meshackatee did—and there was nothing to do but to prepare for a siege. He ran hurriedly to the turkey traps which he had set up the canyon and came back with a pair of big birds; and then he went for acorns and filled his one canteen with water from the ice-cold creek. By that time it was dark and he returned to his lookout to await the next move of his enemies.

All that evening he watched the flicker from Meshackatee's lurking place, the loop-holed dwelling above the spring; but the fire was a blind for in the morning Meshackatee came back, leading a pack-animal down from the east. During the day he stayed close and Hall put in the time by skinning the mountain lion. But as evening approached again and none of the Scarboroughs rode in, his patience gave way before a yearning for human society, a craving for companionship—and food. So weary had he become of his perpetual turkey diet that he had broiled a steak from the haunch of the panther, and found it far from bad. But he could not live forever without coffee and salt; and, since he must make a move some time, he decided to make it right then and put Meshackatee's friendship to the test.

As darkness fell he crept down the gloomy chasm and waded across the creek; and then, with a stealthiness that not even an Indian could excel, he stalked Meshackatee's camp. He had retired within the cliff-dwelling, trusting to the watchfulness of his dog more than to any special vigilance of his own; and when Hall peered through the doorway he saw him sitting by the fire, deeply engaged in some mechanical task. In one hand he held a small bow with its string wound round a shaft which seemed to twirl in his grasp like a drill, and in the other he held some object that gleamed in the firelight and looked like a .45 cartridge. The dog 'Pache lay asleep on the far side of the fire, there was a whirring noise from the drill; and when Meshackatee looked up Hall was standing in the doorway with a questioning look in his eye. If Meshackatee noticed the rifle, held negligently at the hip, he concealed his knowledge well.

"Hello there!" he hailed, and the dog sprang up barking, his hair bristling forward with rage. "Aw, shut up, now, 'Pache!" rebuked Meshackatee indignantly, "you're a hell of a watch-dog, I swow! Come in, Hall; come in! Been looking for you everywhere! Shut up, you whelp, or I'll warp ye!"

He reached for a stick and the dog retired growling, skinning his teeth at the disturber of his dreams.

"Kinder startled him," explained Meshackatee, as Hall stepped inside, but McIvor spoke to the point.

"You've been looking for me?" he inquired. "Well, let's come to an understanding—are you still in the employ of the Scarboroughs?"

"Hell—no!" burst out Meshackatee with explosive emphasis, "I quit 'em two weeks ago. Their work got too raw for me."

"Then we can be friends," suggested Hall, holding out his hand and Meshackatee rose up and took it.

"You're whistling!" he said, "and I guess mebby you need one—how long since you had a square meal?"

"Well, some time," admitted Hall, "but tell me, first of all, have you heard any news from Allifair?"

"Ye-es," returned Meshackatee, "she's still with the Scarboroughs. I sent an Injun in last week to look around. He said there was lots of cowboys, and two womenfolks cooking, and the cowboys was rounding up stock. But I heard from other sources that Miz Zoolah has written home and told Allifair's brothers to come out."

"What—to get her?"

"Or you!" hinted Meshackatee grimly, and Hall nodded his head regretfully.

"I was afraid of it," he added. "Cal and Ewing are hard men—we've had several encounters already."

"Well, the word I git is that the Scarboroughs are sending everywhere to hire all the gunmen they can. And, since they've killed Sharps and old Henry Bassett, they've come right out into the open. Everybody always knew they had a weakness for stray stock, but now they've joined a gang that works in three states and steals horses from plumb down in Texas. That judge down in Tonto that give the Maverick Basin boys a tip to settle their differences with a Winchester—well, he claims he never said it, but he sure played merry hell, because the wrong outfit is coming out on top. Them ranchers down on the Verde and clean to Geronimo are making an awful howl, and this gang of Texas horse-thieves is driving their stock off by the hundreds and running them up into the Basin. It's a regular hold-out, a horse-thieves' exchange, where Arizona horses are traded into Texas and Texas broncs swopped the other way. I been down in Tonto and the folks is all het up over it—some talk of a Vigilance Committee, and so forth."