Front matter

Author of “Tramps of the Range,” “Sticky Ropes,” etc.

“I tell yuh he did make out a will! You’re danged right he did! That day he had Williams, the lawyer, from Broken Butte he made out that will. Aw-w-w, ——, you make me tired!”

“Wheezer” Bell spat angrily and hammered his boot-heel against the wall of the NR bunk-house. Wheezer was half-inclined to be mad at “Leather” Kleig, who was humped up in the shade, his thin, impassive face hidden under the brim of his wide sombrero.

“Chet” Wells, a broken-nosed, scar-faced cowboy, was stretched out, half in shade, half in sun, chewing a big portion of tobacco; while just beyond him sat “Wooden-shoe” Van Dorn, a fat, stolid-faced, pig-eyed cowboy.

“You engineered this deal, Leather—” Wheezer stopped hammering the bunk-house wall and glared down at the top of Leather’s hat—“and you sure raised —— and put a block under it, if anybody rises from the dead to inquire.”

Leather did not look up, but said slowly—

“Wheezer, you’re talkin’ too —— much!”

“Well, there ain’t no use of talkin’—much,” observed Wooden-shoe slowly, “and we don’t want to make trouble among us, do we, Wheezer?”

“Aw, I ain’t huntin’ trouble,” Wheezer assured him, “but we ain’t got a —— thing t’ show that the NR owes us a danged thing.”

“True as gospel preachin’,” agreed Chet warmly. “If Leather’d only said like this to the old man: You write——”

“Now, you’re gettin’ the tongue-trouble, too, eh?” interrupted Leather ominously, but did not look up.

Wheezer shoved away from the wall and stepped around in front of Leather Kleig, his thumbs hooked over the top of his cartridge-belt.

“Kleig, if you think for a minute that you can stop me from talkin’—cut yore wolf loose.” Wheezer’s voice was pitched low, but was full of meaning. “You’ve bossed this outfit too —— much; sabe? We’ve been gypped out of everythin’. Now, put up or shut up.”

Kleig did not move, but his eyes flashed to Wheezer for a second.

“Like I said before,” stated Wooden-shoe impassively, “we shouldn’t quarrel among us. Whatcha say, Wheezer? Let’s all be good little friends together.”

“Thassall right,” nodded Leather. “I ain’t sayin’ that I didn’t make a mistake, but yuh gotta agree that I lose as much as you fellers do.”

“Sure, sure,” agreed Chet indifferently. “I heard the old man tell yuh that he was goin’ to sell the NR and split the pot. Yuh can’t blame Leather ’cause the old man decides to die off, can yuh, Wheezer?”

“’S far as that’s concerned—no,” admitted Wheezer. “But it sure leaves us high and dry, Chet.”

Wooden-shoe suddenly burst into a dry chuckle.

“Now, what in —— are you laughin’ at?” demanded Chet.

“Just laughin’,” replied Wooden-shoe. “Here we’ve been stealin’ stock for over a year for old Nick Ralls, and ain’t got nothin’ for ourselves.”

“Except experience,” said Wheezer gloomily.

All of which was both sad and true. Many years previous to this time, Nick Ralls, an old gun-man of the Southwest, had migrated to the Broken Butte ranges and taken up the NR ranch. Nick Ralls was a bitter old codger, quick of temper, and very flexible of conscience.

He did not prosper, but made a living. There were few NR cows on the Broken Buttes when Leather Kleig, Wheezer Bell, Wooden-shoe Van Dorn and Chet Wells rode into the yard of the tumble-down ranch-house and informed old Nick that they were both hungry and tired.

The sheriff of the adjoining county lost them in the breaks and went home disgusted; but they did not know this. They needed sanctuary, and old Nick Ralls gave it to them, because he recognized them as kindred spirits.

Old Nick was growing old—raspingly old. The Broken Butte range was a fertile field for those who carried a running-iron and little regard for the law. And when the adjoining county had practically forgotten the four men who attempted to rob the bank at Dry Wells, the four men made an oral contract with old Nick Ralls.

Leather Kleig was a brand counterfeiter. His skill with a running-iron or razor was uncanny. Combination brands were an open book to him. Every animal that fell within their loop or corral was quickly made over into an NR, which would pass muster even on close examination, and old Nick Ralls chuckled evilly, while his herd grew until the hills of Broken Butte range were dotted with his possessions.

Then, as Wheezer described it:

“He ups and dies. And the or’nary old son-of-a-sea-cook knowed he was goin’ to die, didn’t he? Then why does he send for a lawyer to make out his will?”

All of which was not at all cheerful to the four men in the shade of the NR bunk-house.

“Yeah, it leaves us high and dry,” admitted Chet. “We ain’t got nothin’ to show for all our hard work. If yuh asks my opinion, I’d suggest that we all line up, give the word and all start shootin’. If there’s any survivor, he can take what money the other fellers has got and pull out.”

“Good idea!” exploded Wooden-shoe. “I’d like——”

“You would!” interrupted Wheezer sarcastically. “You ain’t got a danged cent to lose. Leather must have about six-bits, which is four-bits more than I’ve got. I dunno about Chet, but I reckon two-bits would about tap him.”

“Then that idea ain’t so good,” said Chet mournfully. “What’ll we do? Brand the NR cows all over and sell them to the sheriff?”

“——, the sheriff!” grunted Leather. “He’s too pious. Goes to church! —— deliver me from a church-goin’ sheriff.”

“One thing’s a cinch,” observed Chet thoughtfully. “If them misbranded critters are ever discovered, they can’t hang the deadwood on to us. We don’t own ’em. And no sensible man ever steals cows as a pastime.”

“I’m through stealin’ cows,” declared Wooden-shoe, emphatically. “I tell yuh, I’m through.”

“Reformin’, eh?” sneered Leather Kleig.

“Yeah, I’m goin’ to rob banks or trains—and I’m goin’ to steal for me; sabe?”

“We’re a —— of a fine bunch of outlaws,” declared Wheezer. “Bad men from Bitter Crick. ——! ’F we don’t look out, some old lady is goin’ to hoodle us off this range with a parasol.”

Chet’s voice quavered lovingly on the last line, and his broken nose twitched feelingly.

“You can do a lot of things better than yuh can sing,” observed Wooden-shoe sadly. “You ought to twist yore ears a little, Chet. Yuh sound like a couple of yore strings was loose.”

“Bein’ funny ain’t gittin’ us no place—” Wheezer dug his heel into the hard dirt. “What are we goin’ to do? That’s the question. If old Ralls didn’t leave no will, I s’pose the whole works will be sold by the sheriff.”

“I’d love to set on a fence and see that —— sheriff sell my cows!” exploded Leather.

“What ’d yuh do?” asked Wheezer. “Would yuh tell him how it comes that yuh feel bad about it, Leather?”

“Talkin’ makes me hungry,” stated Wooden-shoe. “Let’s go and see what Ma Coogan’s got for supper.”

“And that’s another thing,” said Wheezer. “What in —— is goin’ to become of Ma Coogan?”

“Yessir, that’s another thing,” agreed Wooden-shoe.

Ma Coogan was the cook and housekeeper of the NR, and was as much a part of the ranch as the old ranch-house. She was about sixty years of age; thirty of which had been spent in the range country.

Ten years previous to this time, Jim Coogan and his wife had been nesters in the Broken Butte range. Nesters were not wanted, and old Jim had absorbed a bullet; which left Ma Coogan destitute.

Nick Ralls, whose heart was bitter against everything, and nesters in particular, had installed the old widow as cook and housekeeper in the NR. He swore at the time that he did not do it to be kind, but to prove that he could be contrary to his own nature.

Ma Coogan was a little woman, with a typically Irish face, a heart of gold, but with a tongue that proved to Nick Ralls the advisability of running his end of the ranch and not interfering with the household.

It was five days since the burial of Nick Ralls, and Ma Coogan was beginning to get back to normal. She had never considered what Ralls’ death might mean to her. She was sitting on the porch, as the four men came up to the ranch-house, fanning herself with a magazine.

“Ye’re all hungry, I suppose,” she remarked. “And what have ye done to make ye hungry, I’d ask? Are ye goin’ to sit in the shade all the rest of your life?”

“Looks kinda like it, Ma,” said Wheezer. “But what’s the use of workin’? There’s nobody to pay salaries.”

“Nobody?” Ma Coogan stopped fanning herself. “Nobody to pay—well, bless me soul!”

She stared at them and her eyes shifted to the hazy hills, as a sudden realization of things came to her.

“I never thought of that,” she said softly. “Nobody to pay salaries, nobody to run the ranch. Now, what’s to become of everybody, I’d like to know?”

Wheezer shook his head.

“I dunno, Ma. Do you remember that lawyer comin’ up here a couple of days before Nick Ralls died?”

“That fat, fish-eyed feller from Broken Butte? Aye, he was with Nick Ralls for a long time.”

“He’s a lawyer, Ma. We was wonderin’ if Nick made out a will. He knowed he was goin’ to die, I reckon.”

“He did that,” declared Ma. “Belike he heard the banshee wailin’; I dunno.”

“What’s a banshee, Ma?” asked Wooden-shoe.

“Sure, it’s an Irish ghost. When ye hear one wailin’, ye’r goin’ to die, Wooden-shoe. There’s a lot of thim that has heard the banshee.”

Leather Kleig laughed sarcastically.

“Ghosts! No ghost would wail over Nick Ralls. What I’d like to know: Did Nick Ralls make out a will?”

“There was such a thing mentioned,” said Ma slowly. “I heard thim speak of a will, and there was a paper that I had to sign me name to, but I did not read it.

“This fish-eyed feller he puts his finger on one spot, and he says for me to write me name there. Ould Nick says that I’m a witness. I dunno what it was all about, but it looked like some sort of a cer-ti-fic-it.”

“That was a will,” declared Wheezer. “Did he ever tell yuh about any of his relatives, Ma?”

“He did not, Wheezer. I misdoubt if he had any. But Nick Ralls was no man to blather about any one. Hated the world, so he did. He even swore at the lawyer. Well, the poor soul has gone to glory, and if I don’t go in and finish gittin’ supper, the rest of ye will be failin’ for want of food.”

“If Nick Ralls has gone to glory, I hope I don’t,” declared Leather Kleig. “He wasn’t entitled to it.”

“Aw, sure, now—” Ma Coogan turned at the doorway and looked down at Leather, “ye mustn’t wish ill of a dead man. He wasn’t all bad, Leather. Do ye think that God is goin’ to punish ye by sendin’ ye to a hot place? What would He gain by it, I’d ask ye? Would it be a lesson to thim that stayed behind in this life?

“We wouldn’t see it. A lovin’ God wouldn’t git no satisfaction out of it, would He? Thin where is your reasons for a place of damnation, I dunno? I tell ye, I think that Nick Ralls went to glory.”

“All right, Ma,” said Leather gloomily. “I hope, if he has, that he can look down and see what a —— fool he was to leave the NR in this kinda shape.”

“Amen,” said Ma Coogan piously.

It was three days later that Eph Williams, the lawyer from Broken Butte, came again to the NR; and with him came Ben Murtch, the sheriff, and a lady.

The four cowboys looked with great disfavor upon Ben Murtch and Eph Williams, because they had little use for the law in any of its forms. But there was a certain amount of speculation regarding the lady.

Murtch was a bandy-legged person, broad-shouldered, and with a massive head. His features were of the type commonly known as bulldog, and he was reputed fast with a gun. On account of their wild doings in Broken Butte, Murtch had no use for the boys of the NR—and did not conceal his feelings.

Both Murtch and Williams attended the little church at Broken Butte, and at times Williams would pass the collection plate. The four cowboys from the NR went to church one Sunday night, more out of curiosity than from piety, and observed the actions of Williams and Murtch.

Hence Leather Kleig’s remark of—

“Lord deliver me from a church-goin’ sheriff.”

Williams, Murtch and the lady came out to the ranch in a top-buggy, and went straight to the ranch-house. The four cowboys sat at the bunk-house and speculated as to who the lady might be, until Murtch left the house and came down to see them.

“Howdy, boys,” he greeted them pleasantly, but they were not receptive to his greeting.

He stopped near them and hitched up his belt.

“Thought yuh might like to know who the lady is,” he remarked.

“Yeah?” Wheezer squinted sideways at him. “Yuh thought so, did yuh?”

“Yeah, I thought yuh would.”

“Reckon we ought to take a vote on it?” questioned Chet.

“That,” said Murtch, not a bit perturbed over their indifference, “that is Miss Jane Cleveland, who owns this ranch, lock, stock and barrel.”

“Oh, yeah!” Wheezer nodded quickly. “That’s who she is, eh?”

“Yeah, that’s her.”

“Who’s she?” Wooden-shoe hugged his knees and grinned at Murtch.

“That’s a —— of a question,” declared Murtch.

“It’s a good question, and there ought to be an answer layin’ around somewhere.”

Eph Williams was coming down from the house, and Murtch decided to wait and let him explain things.

“Fish-eye,” chuckled Wheezer. “Shore fits him.”

The rest of the cowboys grinned, and Eph looked uncomfortable, even if he did not know what had been said.

“Did you tell ’em, Murtch?” asked Williams. His voice was rather husky, as if suffering from a heavy cold.

“I left the job to you,” said Murtch. “You sabe it better than I do.”

“I sure as —— hope he does,” growled Leather.

“Well, it is simple,” smiled Williams. “Miss Cleveland just arrived from Helena to take charge of this ranch. Just before Nick Ralls passed on he had me make out his will. Miss Cleveland is the daughter of his only sister, and the only living relative of Nick Ralls. He had kept track of her all these years, and when he felt that his days were numbered, he sent for me, made out his will, and—” Williams spread his hands—“that is all there is to it.”

“Well, now, that’s quite a lot,” admitted Leather, and the other three cowboys knew what he meant.

“Miss Cleveland knows nothing about cattle,” stated Williams, “but she was more than willing to take charge. I do not know whether she will retain any or all of you boys. I have made no suggestions. As far as I can see there is no use of having four cowboys to handle the cattle, but I am leaving it to her to do things to suit herself.”

“That’s —— kind of yuh, I’m sure,” applauded Chet. “What did you say your business was?”

“I am an attorney-at-law,” said Williams stiffly.

“Oh, yeah—a lawyer?”

“Don’t waste words on ’em, Eph,” advised Murtch. “They’re tryin’ to get under your hide.”

“Wouldn’t be under it for the world,” denied Chet. “I’d smother t’ death in a minute.”

Williams whirled on his heel and went back toward the horse and buggy, walking stiff-legged, like an angry bear. Murtch looked after him and turned to the grinning cowboys.

“You fellers likely don’t know that Williams will have quite a lot to say about this place, do yuh? He’s goin’ to advise Miss Cleveland on business matters.”

“Lord help her,” said Wheezer sadly.

Murtch scowled and turned away, starting back to where Williams was getting into the buggy.

“You didn’t tell us what your business is,” reminded Wooden-shoe.

Murtch grunted something unintelligible, but did not turn his head.

They drove down past the bunk-house, on their way out of the ranch, but neither of them looked at the four grinning cowboys on the steps.

“A heiress,” said Wheezer dolefully. “A blasted heiress to our cows!”

“And a fish-eyed lawyer advisin’ her what to do with them,” added Chet. “If somebody’d stick a fork into us they’d find us well done.”

Chet got to his feet and executed a double-shuffle on the steps, while he sang sadly:

“That record sounds scratched,” observed Wheezer dryly. “Sounds like a Injun with hay-fever, tryin’ to give a imitation of C’ruso singin’ soprano.”

“Aw, ——!” Leather Kleig snorted his disgust and got to his feet. “Let’s go and meet the new boss.”

“Mebbe she’ll appreciate my voice,” said Chet hopefully. “I’ll take a chance.”

“I’ll shoot yuh, if yuh try singin’ to her,” threatened Wheezer, as they trooped to the ranch-house.

“Aw, he won’t make no never mind,” assured Wooden-shoe. “I hope he yodels and busts his windpipe.”

“What’s a yodel?” asked Wheezer.

Wooden-shoe stopped, pointed his nose toward the sky and began:

“Hi-i-i lee-e-e-e o la lay-ee-e-e— Leggo! Ouch!”

Wheezer and Chet had moved in swiftly beside him, each grabbing him by collar and boot and dumped him unceremoniously on top of his head. Then they let go at the same time and his heels hit the ground with a thud.

For a moment, Wooden-shoe’s breath was jarred from his body, and he lay there goggling at the sky.

“I hope he isn’t injured.”

The cowboys turned and stared at Jane Cleveland, who was standing on the porch, staring at Wooden-shoe, who sat up and puffed the atmosphere back into his lungs. He saw her and tried to laugh.

“No, ma’am,” said Wheezer foolishly. “You can’t hurt him.”

Wheezer had removed his hat, and now he stepped over, lifted Wooden-shoe’s hat off his head and placed it in his lap.

Jane Cleveland was a stately brunette, well-dressed, possibly twenty-five years of age. There was no question of her beauty, but it was marred a trifle by the superiority of her manner. She might well have been a queen, looking down upon them; making them feel rather out of place before her. Her lips lifted slightly in a semblance of a smile at Wheezer’s rough wit.

“You are the cowboys, I suppose?”

“Yes’m, I s’pose we are,” nodded Chet.

He looked at the other three and back at the girl.

“Yes’m, I’m sure of it now. Get up, Wooden-shoe. My gosh, you ain’t got no manners a-tall.”

“You’re Miss Cleveland, I s’pose,” observed Leather.

It was a perfect imitation of her question, and her eyes hardened slightly.

“Yes, I am Miss Cleveland, the owner of this farm.”

“My ——!” breathed Chet. “Farm!”

Ma Coogan had come out of the door, and Miss Cleveland turned.

“Was there something you wanted?”

“Nothin’, me dear,” said Ma Coogan.

“Then I think your place is in the kitchen—not on the veranda.”

Ma Coogan looked wonderingly at Miss Cleveland.

“Would ye mind sayin’ that again?”

“Are you not the cook?”

Miss Cleveland’s voice was icy.

“Yes, I’m the cook.”

“There is nothing to cook out here.”

“Well—” Ma Coogan swallowed painfully and looked appealingly at the four cowboys—“well, I s’pose that’s right. I never thought of that—in ten years.”

She turned and went back into the house. Leather Kleig cleared his throat, and his eyes narrowed dangerously, but Wheezer trod heavily on the side of his ankle and saved Leather from saying the wrong thing.

“I have not made up my mind what I am going to do with this place.” Miss Cleveland was talking, but the four boys were still staring at the doorway where Ma Coogan had disappeared and paid no attention to her.

“I would like to know just what I inherited from my uncle. Can you give me an estimate of how many cows, horses, etc., are included in this ranch?”

“Well—” Wheezer scratched his head thoughtfully—“that’s kinda hard, ma’am. There won’t be no round-up for a month, and ’till we kinda bunches them cows there ain’t no way of tellin’.”

“Didja know yore uncle very well?” asked Wooden-shoe.

“No, I never have seen him.”

“He didn’t have much sense, ma’am.”

“Is that so?” Miss Cleveland seemed indifferent to that statement.

“You goin’ to run the ranch yoreself, ma’am?” asked Leather.

“I suppose I will. Mr. Williams, the lawyer, will advise me in some of the details, and Mr. Murtch has offered his services at any time. Is there any reason why I cannot handle it?”

“Not with all that help—” Leather shook his head. “Of course you’ve got to hire some cowboys.”

“Naturally. Mr. Williams said that I could probably get along with less hired help than my uncle did. In fact, they informed me that every one wondered how uncle managed to make the ranch pay, with four cowboys in his employ.”

“Yeah, it is a wonder,” agreed Leather softly. “Yuh see, he hired us by the year and died two days before payday. This ranch owes us each four hundred and eighty dollars apiece.”

“Four hundred and eighty dollars apiece?”

“Yes’m,” said Wheezer grinning widely and making some rapid calculations. “The old NR owes us four punchers the grand total of nineteen hundred and twenty dollars.”

Wooden-shoe blinked and wet his lips with his tongue. He was a willing but slow liar, and he marveled at Leather telling a thing like that.

“And we sure worked faithful-like,” added Chet sadly. “A year’s a long time to go without a payday. ’Course the ranch is good for it, ma’am; so we ain’t worryin’.”

“Well,” said Miss Cleveland dubiously, “I know nothing about such things, but I shall take it up with Mr. Williams.”

“And Ma Coogan kinda got the worst of it,” said Wheezer mournfully. “Yuh see, when she goes to work for yore uncle, he says to her—

“ ‘If you work for me for ten years without pay, I’ll give yuh enough to keep yuh for the rest of yore life.’

“Well, she’s sure worked faithfully, y’betcha. It ain’t no cinch runnin’ her end of the job. Now, she’s old and can’t land no other job, but I reckon you’ll see that she gets what old Nick Ralls promised her.”

“But I know nothing about these things,” protested Miss Cleveland. “Is there any agreement—a written agreement, I mean?”

“Shucks, folks use their word instead of ink out here,” said Leather. “We’ve all heard Nick tell what he was goin’ to do for Ma Coogan. Why, jist the other day he says to me, like this—

“ ‘Leather, if anythin’ happens to me, will you see that Ma Coogan gits what’s comin’ to her?’

“I told him that I sure would, ma’am.”

“Why wasn’t she mentioned in the will?”

“I’ll tell yuh why, ma’am.” Chet moved in closer and lowered his voice. “Old Nick Ralls wasn’t in his right mind. He heard the banshee wailin’.”

“The—what do you mean?” Miss Cleveland frowned slightly. “What did he hear?”

“A banshee wailin’. There’s lot of ’em, ma’am. When yuh hear one, yuh might as well practise up on some kind of a harp, ’cause yuh ain’t got no chance left.”

“I do not think I understand—nor care. By the way, I do not know your names.”

“I’m Wheezer Bell,” Wheezer indicated himself. “That’s Leather Kleig. Got his front name from reachin’ for a saddle-horn so often. This’n,” pointing at Chet, “this’n is Chet Wells. He’s old man Wells’ son. That other one is Wooden-shoe Van Dorn, the only Dutch cowpuncher in captivity. He can squeak like a windmill, and he wakes up yelling at night, thinkin’ that the dykes have busted.”

“Thank you very much.”

She turned and went into the house.

The four cowboys looked at each other and went back to the bunk-house, where they draped themselves in the shade and stared at each other.

“Leather,” said Wheezer softly, “yo’re the first —— liar I ever loved. But can we work that idea?”

“Who in —— can say that we lied?” queried Chet. “Nick Ralls never kept no books.”

“I dunno—” Leather shook his head sadly—“I’m a son-of-a-gun if I ever seen a look on anybody’s face like there was on Ma’s, when Miss Cleveland ordered her back to the kitchen.”

“Aw, that was too bad,” nodded Wheezer, “and Ma took it, too.”

“Yeah, and we better kinda look a little out,” said Wooden-shoe. “She’d fire the whole bunch of us. There wasn’t no use lyin’ about Ma Coogan. Us liars can stick together, but Ma wouldn’t back us up.”

“She’s goin’ to be advised by Williams and helped by Murtch,” mused Leather aloud; “I dunno——”

He shook his head sadly and began manufacturing a cigaret.

“—— old Nick Ralls!” exploded Chet.

“He sure had a cause to keep away from his relation,” said Wheezer. “That woman ain’t got no heart, don’tcha know it?”

“Pretty ones hardly ever do have,” said Leather.

“You’ve knowed so many of them,” grinned Chet.

“I betcha she won’t eat at the table with us,” offered Wooden-shoe. “I betcha she makes Ma set a table in the front room for her.”

“I sure hope she does,” declared Chet. “If she don’t—we will. By golly, she’s pretty, though.”

“Yore rope’s draggin’,” cautioned Wheezer.

“Well, suppose it is, I didn’t say I was stuck on her, did I?”

“I suppose Wooden-shoe will be makin’ love to her pretty quick,” said Leather.

“No sir,” Wooden-shoe shook his head vehemently and his face flushed hotly. “I stole cows for a year for her, and that’s enough. She can’t expect too much.”

Ma Coogan’s hammering of the steel triangle, which hung at the kitchen-door, broke up the meeting, and the four cowboys trooped to the rear of the kitchen to wash up for supper.

There was no sign of the new owner, and Ma Coogan was strangely silent. Even the cowboys ate silently, which was unusual.

“My ——!” grunted Wheezer. “You’d think somebody done died around here.”

“Somethin’ has, I reckon,” whispered Chet seriously, and Ma Coogan shook her head warningly at him.

At the conclusion of the meal, which none of them enjoyed, Leather Kleig drew Ma Coogan out of the back door, while the others grouped close around them.

“Ma,” said Leather, “did you know that Nick Ralls told you that, if yuh stayed here ten years, he’d fix yuh up so yuh wouldn’t have to work no more?”

She squinted at Leather and around at the other cowboys wonderingly.

“You know he said that, don’tcha, Ma?” asked Chet.

“Well, bless my soul! Where did ye ever get that strange idea?”

“That’s what he told me.”

Leather Kleig was serious enough to have been telling the truth.

“Nick Ralls told ye that, Leather?”

“Honest Injun, Ma.”

“Well, I dunno—” Ma looked vacantly around. “That’s news, so it is. I’ve niver heard—sure, you’re jokin’, now.”

“Ma, look here.” Wheezer put his hand on her shoulder. “You’ve been here ten years, workin’ hard. Did yuh ever think what Nick Ralls’ death would mean to you? This here lady boss ain’t noways human. She’d fire her own father. If she lets yuh out—what’ll become of yuh, Ma?”

Ma Coogan gasped slightly and shook her head.

“Sure, I—I dunno, boys. Why, the old ranch has been a home and I niver thought of bein’ fired. I—I’d hate to leave—here. But,” she lifted her head and smiled around at them, “sure, there’s no use of borryin’ a lot of trouble. The things ye worry the most about never happen.”

“Jist the same it’s wise to have your gun loaded,” observed Wheezer. “We was jist wonderin’ if yuh knowed what Nick Ralls intended to give yuh. We supposed that you knowed all about it, ’cause he told us.”

Ma Coogan looked straight into Wheezer’s eyes, and he turned away under her steady gaze.

“Ye’r’ a lovable liar, Wheezer,” she said softly, “but ye can’t fool old Ma Coogan. Sure, it’s nice of ye all, but ye know well that Nick Ralls niver had any such foolish ideas.”

Wheezer shuffled his feet nervously and shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

“Ma, we’re tryin’ to get a square-deal, thassall. If that fish-eyed lawyer asks yuh about it, would yuh mind just askin’ him if it ain’t in the will?”

“In the will?”

“Yeah. You don’t have to tell no lie, Ma. If he starts jawin’ around, which he will, just ask him that, will yuh?”

“Sure, I dunno what good it’ll do, but I’ll ask him.”

“Where’s the beautiful princess?” asked Wooden-shoe.

“Eatin’ in her own room. She’ll have her breakfast in bed, so she says—at tin o’clock. She asked me if you boys were fair samples of cowboys, and I told her that the NR niver hired samples.

“Thin,” Ma Coogan lowered her voice, “she asked me what a cattle-rustler was, and I told her it was a cowpuncher out of work. She said she’d have more respect, or there’d be four cattle-rustlers lookin’ for new positions. Sure, that’s what she said—‘positions’.”

Leather grinned and shook his head—

“She’s goin’ to be advised by the fish-eyed lawyer, Ma.”

“Thin, may God help the old ranch!” Ma exclaimed piously.

“It’ll sure need somethin’ from the outside,” said Wheezer sadly. “Don’t forget what you’ve got to say to him, Ma. It won’t be lyin’.”

Ma nodded and went back into the kitchen, while the four cowboys went back to the bunk-house.

“Suppose we can’t make that stick with the lawyer; what’ll we do?” asked Wooden-shoe.

“Do?” Leather Kleig flung one of his boots across the rough floor and wiggled his toes through a hole in his sock. “What’ll we do? By ——, we stole most of them NR cows for Nick Ralls, didn’t we? Then what in —— is goin’ to stop us from stealin’ ’em from the NR?”

“Not me,” Wooden-shoe shook his head quickly. “I’m a re-formed cattle-rustler, by gosh! From now on, I don’t rob nothin’ but stages and banks.”

“You goin’ to Broken Butte tomorrow, Leather?” asked Wheezer.

“What for? We ain’t even got enough money to play a game of seven-up.”

“Mebbyso we will have. Clay Hardy offered me fifty for that glass-eyed sorrel a week ago, but I wanted a hundred. Mebbe he’ll be wantin’ sixty dollars worth tomorrow, and if he does—that’s fifteen apiece.”

“I sabe a roulette system,” declared Wooden-shoe. “It’s a cinch. All yuh do——”

“Make it twenty apiece for three of us,” interrupted Leather. “That’s a better system than Wooden-shoe’s.”

The town of Broken Butte was a county seat, but, outside of that fact it had little to boast about. Perhaps there were a few more false-fronted buildings than in the average Western cow-town; perhaps it was a little hotter in Summer and colder in Winter; but it was still a weather-beaten, hitch-rack decorated, dusty-streeted cow-town.

There was the usual array of restaurants, where the inner man might be well appeased for two-bits. The fact that there were two livery-stables rather lifted Broken Butte out of the mediocre class, but its chief claim to distinction was the Shoshone Saloon, where wine, women and song brought surcease from range-land sorrows, and kept the cowboys broke but contented.

“Battler” Morgan owned the Shoshone, a pugnacious jaw, one cauliflower ear and a memory of the days when men fought with bare knuckles. He could throw a bottle almost as straight as a cowboy could shoot a gun—but not quite.

He had found this out to his sorrow, when he essayed to bounce a bottle off the head of Wheezer Bell. Wheezer had incurred Battler’s displeasure by slamming a bullet into the bottle, in mid-air. The bottle was coming toward Wheezer, but the .45 bullet caused it to sort of evaporate, and the neck of the bottle boomeranged into Battler’s front teeth.

Wheezer admitted that he shot at the bottle, which the rest of the NR gang knew to be a mistake, but it established Wheezer as a bad man to monkey with. Battler bought some “store” teeth and quit throwing bottles at gunmen.

Eph Williams owned an office on the main street, and he was climbing into a top-buggy when the four cowboys rode in from the NR ranch. Williams sighed with relief as he drove out of town.

He had no wish to meet these four men. He knew, to his sorrow, that they did not respect him in the least, and he secretly wished that they might be hailed into court, charged with a serious offense.

For Eph Williams, in spite of the fact that he passed the collection plate at church, did not “Do unto others as you would have others do unto you.” These four men laughed at him, and he did not like that. He had often wondered why Nick Ralls hired these four men. One day he had asked Nick Ralls regarding them, and Nick Ralls had told him that it was none of his adjectived business.

The four cowboys watched Eph Williams drive out of town, and Chet wailed over the fact that they would not be at the ranch to greet him.

“We’d take off his wheels and make him walk home.”

“Yeah, and have him advise Cleopatra to fire us,” said Wheezer. “You ain’t got a —— bit of fi-ness.”

“That’s a nice word to call a friend,” said Chet accusingly. “You go and sell that wall-eyed cayuse to ‘Clay’ Hardy, professor.”

“Yeah, you do that,” agreed Leather. “But if yuh see that bat-headed Murtch, don’t antagonize him. He’s in cahoots with Williams.”

“Rope’s draggin’!” Wheezer whispered warningly.

Leather turned quickly and saw Murtch standing within five feet of him. He had come out of the Shoshone Saloon while they were talking. There was not the slightest doubt but what Murtch had heard what Leather Kleig had said, but his face told them nothing.

“All right, I’ll go and find Clay,” said Wheezer. Then to Murtch—

“Is Clay at the office?”

Clay Hardy was Murtch’s deputy; a vile-tempered, pasty-faced individual, who was reputed to be the best rifle-shot in the country, in spite of the fact that he was of the jerky, nervous type.

“I reckon he’s there,” replied Murtch softly, and walked past them, going across the street.

Wheezer led the sorrel down the street toward the sheriff’s office, while the other three cowboys went into the Shoshone, to wait for Wheezer to bring them funds enough for a little riotous living.

There was little warmth in Battler Morgan’s reception, but he did invite them to have a drink.

“What’sa matter with it?” asked Chet wonderingly.

“With what?” asked Battler.

“Yore liquor,” explained Chet. “You givin’ it away, kinda makes me wonder. How’s tricks, Battler?”

“All right,” growled Battler. He was not very quick witted. “Whatcha drinkin’?”

“I’ll smoke a see-gar,” stated Wooden-shoe. “Gift whisky hurts my stummick. Got any of them two-bit Flor de Loco Weeds? Yuh know what I mean—them dusty ones.”

“Never look a gift see-gar in the dust,” advised Leather, leaning across the bar and studying the labels on some dusty-looking case-goods.

“Well, name your drinks,” said Battler impatiently.

“W-h-i-t-e S-e-a-l,” spelled Leather. “What’s that—sody-water, Battler?”

“Champagne,” gruffly.

“I’ll take a chance on her,” nodded Leather.

“Yuh will? At ten dollars per bottle?”

“Well, ain’t we yore friends?” asked Chet. “Ten per bottle ain’t nothin’ between friends, ’specially when we’ve got a lady boss. Didja hear about it, Battler?”

Battler nodded.

“Murtch was tellin’ me. What you jaspers goin’ to do for a job?”

“Work for the NR,” replied Leather dryly, motioning for the bartender to open a bottle of champagne.

“Want me to open a bottle, Battler?”

The bartender wanted official sanction.

“No!” snapped Battler. “I ain’t wastin’ champagne on cowpunchers. Whisky’s good enough.”

“Not for me, it ain’t,” declared Leather, turning his back on the bar. “Battler won’t treat us right, ’cause he thinks we ain’t got nothin’ to spend in his danged place.”

“You fellers ain’t had no pay-day.”

Battler was so old in the liquor business that he did not mind admitting a lack of enthusiasm in treating men who were broke.

“Did yuh ever know us to have a pay-day?” asked Chet.

Battler thought it over and shook his head.

“No, I don’t think I have. You fellers has spent money, but I never heard yuh mention pay-day.”

“You remember that, will yuh?” asked Leather, but before Battler could ask a reason for remembering such a trifling thing, Wheezer came bustling in, kicking his spurred heels on the floor.

“Hookum cow!” he chortled, executing a very poor jig-step. “Nailed Clay for seventy dollars.”

He pulled the money out of his chaps pocket and piled it on the bar.

“Are you a sport?” queried Leather.

“Dang right!” exploded Wheezer. “Gimme action.”

Leather poked a ten-dollar gold piece out of the pile and shoved it across the bar.

“Give me that bottle of champagne.”

The bartender handed it across to him, while Wheezer leaned in close and peered at the dusty, long-necked bottle.

“Whazzat?” he asked curiously.

“This?” Leather patted the bottle. “This is the drink of kings, Wheezer.”

He took out his knife and inserted the blade under the wired top.

Wheezer glanced at the cash register and blinked at Leather.

“Ten dollars for a little bottle? My ——, what’s in it?”

Pwhop!

The cork hit Wheezer in the mouth, and most of the champagne struck him in the chest. Leather tried to hold his hand over the neck of the bottle, with the result that a stream of the liquor shot square into Wooden-shoe’s face. A shift of the hand shot the stream up into Leather’s face and he dropped the bottle on the floor.

Wheezer wiped his sleeve across his face and looked down at the bottle. He scooped up the rest of the money and stuffed it into his pocket.

“Yo’re all through playin’ king with my money,” he announced.

“You don’t open champagne like that,” explained the bartender chokingly. “You put a towel over——”

“Aw-w-w, ——!” snapped Leather. “I’ve opened lots of it.”

“Yeah, there was quite a lot in that bottle,” admitted Chet, feeling of his sticky shirt collar. “Kind of a magic bottle, ain’t they?”

“I’ll open a bottle,” announced Battler joyfully. “I’ll show yuh how it’s done.”

“After we’re gone, Battler—not now—” Wheezer was very emphatic—“I’ve swallowed a cork and I smell like I’d had a bath in hard cider. If yuh want to treat, I’ll take a see-gar.”

The other three nodded dismally and accepted an ancient cigar on the house, which they discarded after a puff or two in favor of a Durham cigaret. Wheezer relented and split his money among them, after which they wooed the goddess of chance in their own ways.

It was about three hours later that Eph Williams drove back to Broken Butte. It was only five miles to the NR ranch, which was far enough to give him a chance to cool his anger against the four cowboys.

He took his horse and buggy to the livery-stable and went back to his little office. Murtch had seen him, and wended his way to Williams’ office, where he found Williams in a vile mood. Murtch sat down and waited for Williams to cool down. These two understood each other very well.

“What’s the matter?” queried Murtch. “You act all het up, Eph.”

“Aw, ——!” exploded Eph, kicking a perfectly good law book off the corner of his desk, that he might have a resting-place for his feet.

“I just came in from the NR, and I find out that them four punchers are claiming that Ralls agreed to pay them once a year, and that the NR owes them four hundred and eighty dollars apiece.”

“That’s a —— of a thing to claim!” exclaimed Murtch indignantly. “Why, they can’t——”

“That ain’t all, Murtch. Miss Cleveland told me that Nick Ralls had promised old lady Coogan that he was going to settle enough money on her, after she had been there ten years, to keep her the rest of her life. And she’s been there just ten years.”

“Of all the —— fool things I ever heard!”

“Nick Ralls never kept any books. There ain’t a scratch of a pen to show how he run his ranch.”

“But they can’t git away with anythin’ like that,” protested Murtch. “There ain’t nobody runs a ranch that way, Eph.”

“Them four claim a total of nineteen hundred and twenty dollars,” said Eph thoughtfully. “That’s a —— of a lot of money, Murtch.”

“Ain’t she goin’ to fire ’em, Eph?”

“I suppose.”

Eph got to his feet and walked over to the door. Wheezer and Chet were coming across the street and their legs seemed a trifle unsecure. Eph opened the door and scowled at them.

“H’lo,” greeted Wheezer owlishly. “We’re after some legal advice.”

“Legal advice, eh?”

Williams squinted at them closely, but, in spite of the fact that they had been drinking, they seemed deadly serious.

Murtch came to the door and looked at the cowboys, who grinned widely at him.

“H’lo, sheriff!”

Wheezer cuffed his hat on to one side of his head and grinned wickedly.

“Whazza matter? You in trouble, too?”

“Not that anybody knows about,” retorted Murtch.

“Oh—” Wheezer’s lips formed a perfect O and he nodded wisely. “Not that anybody knows about, eh? Well, I s’pose it ain’t right to expose yoreself, but me and Chet are open and above-board in everythin’, ain’t we, Chettie?”

“Oh, very much so,” nodded Chet. “We don’t have no mustache to deceive the eye.”

Murtch grunted angrily and hooked his thumb over his belt above his holster. But this action did not frighten the two cowboys.

“He’s half-way home after his gun,” observed Chet wisely.

“Just what did you want to know?” asked Williams.

He knew that this talk was only leading up to trouble, and he wanted to avoid it if possible.

“Li’l point of law,” explained Wheezer.

“Me ’n Chet has had a argument about lawyers, don’tcha see?”

“What was the argument?”

“Well—” Wheezer cuffed his hat sideways again and grew very solemn—“well, this was the argument: I said that lawyers was predatory animals, but Chet argues that there must be a open and a closed season on ’em. Me ’n Chet don’t want to break no game laws.”

Williams’s lips tightened and his face flushed. He was fighting mad, but his better judgment told him to move carefully. Murtch swore under his breath and looked away, but Williams said nothing, as he turned slowly and went back into the office.

“There ain’t no answer,” said Chet softly.

“Betcha he’s gone to look in a book. Lawyers always have to look into books, Chettie.”

“My advice to you fellers would be—” began Murtch angrily, but Wheezer interrupted with—

“Nobody asked you for advice, Murtch.”

“And nobody, if they’ve got any brains, ever will,” added Chet.

“Is that so? Lemme tell you fellers somethin’. Broken Butte is tired of you four jaspers from the NR, and if you want to get away with a whole hide, yuh better move fast.”

“My ——, you frighten me!” squeaked Wheezer. “My tonsils are weak and any sudden shock makes me choke all up.”

“Aw, that’s too bad,” wailed Chet sadly. “Broken Butte is all through with us, Wheezer, don’tcha know it. Just like the song:

Chet’s unmusical voice clung lovingly to the last notes and his eyes closed with ecstasy. Murtch snorted his indignation and walked swiftly away toward his office, both hands clenched around his cartridge-belt, while Wheezer sat down on the wooden sidewalk and shook with unholy mirth.

“What’s so —— funny about it?” demanded Chet. “That’s a sad song, ain’t it? Somebody has to tell yuh when to cry. My, my! Yo’re ignorant, cowboy.”

Leather came out of the Shoshone and crossed the street to them. He was perfectly sober and his thin lips were tightly drawn, as if suppressing a grin.

“I tapped the old roulette for a hundred and fifty,” he informed them. “And Wooden-shoe has corralled most of the chips in the stud-poker game. C’mon.”

“Where yuh goin’?” demanded Wheezer.

“Clerk and Recorder’s office. I’m goin’ to take a look at old Nick Ralls’ will.”

“Why spoil a perfec’ day? We jist insulted Williams and Murtch.”

“We hope we did,” amended Chet, “but I doubt it.”

“All right,” nodded Leather. “Go ahead and get us all fired.”

The clerk’s office was located at the north end of the town. Broken Butte had never been financially able to build a court house; so the county offices were badly scattered.

The clerk showed them the recorded will, and even volunteered to read it to them. It was short and to the point.

“Bein’ in good health and sound of mind, eh?” grinned Leather, as the clerk finished reading. “That danged old gopher never was sound of mind. Leaves all his earthly possessions to Miss Jane Cleveland, his niece, who is his only known living relative.”

“I understand that she has taken possession,” remarked the clerk.

“Yo’re danged right she has,” grinned Wheezer. “Man, she’s sure took right hold of the old ranch.”

They left the clerk’s office and started down the street. The stage was just driving up to the front of the general merchandise store, in which the post-office was located, and the three cowboys stopped to watch a newcomer disgorge himself from the interior of the dusty stage.

He was of medium height, slender of build and well dressed. His olive-tinted face was handsome, in spite of its lines of dissipation, and his tiny black mustache was waxed to needle-like points.

He dusted himself off with his hands, paid the driver his fare and watched him unpack two valises off the boot of the stage. He looked at the three cowboys and a flash of recognition crossed his face, but he turned back to the driver, picked up his valises and went down the side-walk toward the Broken Butte hotel.

“You know that dude hombre, Leather?” asked Wheezer.

“Yeah. That’s the crookedest gambler unhung. I dunno who he is now, but when I knew him in Sunset City he was called ‘Spade’ Hollister.”

“Here comes Wooden-shoe,” said Chet. “He’s grinnin’; so I betcha he made a cleanup, too.”

“Hundred and eighty dollars,” announced Wooden-shoe joyfully. “Such an easy game to beat.”

“Let’s go home,” suggested Leather. “This town ain’t noways friendly, and I’m kinda curious to know what the beautiful maiden has done to the NR since we left.”

“Go home—now!” Wooden-shoe was explosively surprized. “And me with a hundred and eighty?”

“Ain’t noways fair to the heathen,” admitted Chet.

“All right, I’m goin’,” announced Leather, starting toward the hitch-rack.

“I’ll trail yore bet, Leather.”

Wheezer turned and followed Leather, but Chet and Wooden-shoe laughed derisively at such a foolish move, and went back to the Shoshone Saloon. That hundred and eighty dollars was burning a hole in Wooden-shoe’s pocket, and the fact that Broken Butte was hostile to him made not the slightest difference.

Leather and Wheezer went back to the ranch. Miss Cleveland was sitting on the ranch-house porch, as they rode past, and motioned for them to stop. They dismounted and came up to her.

“Mr. Williams was here this morning, and I spoke to him in regards to your yearly salaries,” she stated evenly. “He said that your claims were absurd. I quite agree with him. We have decided to pay you each forty dollars and dispense with your services, beginning tomorrow.

“Mr. Williams will be here in the morning and pay you off, I believe. I also spoke to him regarding Mrs. Coogan, and her claims, and he said that such a thing would be impossible.”

“Yeah, I see,” nodded Leather absently. “Williams is takin’ quite a lot upon himself, ain’t he, ma’am?”

“He is handling the legal matter for me.”

“You known Eph Williams long, ma’am?”

She shook her head.

“You need somethin’ beside legal advice, ma’am,” said Wheezer solemnly. “That fish-eyed shyster’ll git yuh into trouble, if yuh don’t watch out.”

“I am perfectly able to attend to my own affairs.”

Miss Cleveland’s tone chilled Wheezer, but he grinned widely.

Leather dropped his reins and leaned against the railing of the porch.

“Ma’am, I’d like to talk to yuh a little,” he said. “I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ for me and the boys. We don’t like this ranch—much. Losin’ a job don’t mean nothin’ to us, but I’d like to say somethin’ for Ma Coogan.

“Ma’s old, ma’am. Must be past sixty. It ain’t noways easy for her to land another job, don’tcha see? She’s fine, Ma is. You won’t find nobody like her. She’s got to have a home. Old folks, like her, has got to have a home, don’tcha see, ma’am?”

Miss Cleveland studied Leather, as he talked, but he knew that she was not impressed with his argument.

“I am sorry,” she said, “but Mr. Williams will handle that part of it for me. I have no doubt but that Mrs. Coogan is a fine cook, but Mr. Williams has advised that I change the personnel of this ranch entirely and I am following his advice. Of course, you know, I am not running a charitable institution.”

“No, I didn’t reckon yuh was,” Leather sighed and picked up his reins.

For a moment he seemed downcast over her decision, but lifted his eyes and looked squarely into her face. Wheezer started instinctively forward as he saw the expression on Leather’s face.

Wheezer knew that Leather was at white heat. He had seen that same expression on Leather’s face before, and it meant that the devil within him had torn loose.

“Ma’am,” Leather’s tone was hoarse, as if he were suffering from a bad cold, “we ain’t askin’ for charity—ain’t askin’ nothin’ from you—now. You own the NR ranch, and you can do what yuh please with it. Lookin’ at you, I wonder what makes yore blood circulate. You ain’t got no heart.”

She sprang to her feet and faced him, and for a moment Wheezer thought she would attack him with her hands, but Leather’s eyes did not waver and she stepped back, as if wondering.

“You coward!” she exclaimed. “To talk that way to a woman!”

“You are a woman,” Leather nodded slowly. “But you are not a lady—not human.”

“You get off this ranch!” Miss Cleveland bit her under-lip and pointed back to the road.

Leather shook his head.

“No. You own this ranch, but you don’t know how much of it you don’t own.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is what I mean.” Leather turned and pointed toward the rolling hills.

“There’s a lot of NR cattle out in them hills, but you don’t own many of them.”

“Why—if they are NR brand—what do you mean?”

Leather laughed and walked off the porch to his horse, before he replied.

“Ask Eph Williams what I mean. If he don’t know, I’ll tell him. C’mon, Wheezer.”

They led their horses down to the barn, while the girl looked after them, her face a mixture of emotions. Then she swore a good United States oath and went into the house.

It was nearly daylight the next morning when Chet Wells rode up to the NR corral-fence, tied his horse and hammered loudly on the bunk-house door. After making considerable racket he kicked the door open and went inside, where he war-whooped, like an Indian.

“Shut up and come to bed,” said Leather sleepily. “Whatcha think this is around here?”

“Yee-o-o-o-ow!” yelped Chet. “I’m a coyote!”

“Dang right yuh are,” agreed Wheezer. “Crawl into a hole before a he-human collects yore ears. Chet, you —— brayin’ burro, shut up!”

But Chet would not shut up. He climbed up on Wheezer’s chest and sat down, while he sang—

“Yeah, and you’ll get it, too,” declared Leather angrily.

“Woosh!”

Wheezer managed to dump Chet on to the floor and sat up, gasping for breath.

“Are yuh all woke up?” queried Chet. “My gosh, you sure are heavy sleepers!”

“Where’s Wooden-shoe?”

“Wooden-shoe is in jail.”

“In jail?”

“Yeah, in jail! Want me to yell it louder?”

“What for, Chet?”

“Talkin’ too much.”

Leather slid out of bed and reached for the makings of a cigaret.

“Oh, he talked too much, eh?” said Wheezer. “If that was a crime, you’d ’a’ been hung years ago, Chet. What did he talk about?”

“That wall-eyed bronc you sold to Clay Hardy. Yuh see—” Chet helped himself to Leather’s tobacco and papers—“Clay and Murtch runs into me and Wooden-shoe, and they asks us to have a drink. We got to talkin’ about that wall-eyed bronc, and Wooden-shoe, like a danged fool, tells ’em that he was the original owner. He says that you won it from him in a poker game out here.”

“Well, s’pose he did,” asked Wheezer. “What then?”

“Murtch asked Wooden-shoe who he got the bronc from and Wooden-shoe jist naturally can’t say. Murtch says it’s kinda funny, bein’ as the bronc has got a D-Bar-D brand on its shoulder and no other marks.

“Well, Wooden-shoe’s drinkin’, which makes him foolish and he tells Murtch to go to ——. Then Murtch arrests him for stealin’ a D-Bar-D horse.”

“And that’s a —— of a note!” exploded Wheezer.

“The D-Bar-D outfit is over in Foster County,” volunteered Chet dismally. “Murtch says that the brand never was put on very deep, and the hair covered it.”

“And if the D-Bar-D keeps a sale record—Wooden-shoe is in bad shape,” said Leather. “Dang the luck, I don’t know how we overlooked that brand. Cinch to burn on the two sides to that bar and make it a DAD brand.”

“Which won’t get Wooden-shoe out of jail now,” Chet reminded them sadly.

“We vented a lot of D-Bar-D’s, if I remember,” said Wheezer thoughtfully, “and if that outfit comes over to identify that wall-eyed bronc they’ll likely kinda look around for more.”

“Yuh can’t identify a vented brand,” said Chet.

“No, but yuh can get —— suspicious of an outfit with as many as the NR has on the range. Believe me, gents, I’m plumb ready to pull m’ freight.”

“What we need is a lawyer,” grinned Leather.

“I betcha we do,” Chet was serious.

“Might hire Eph Williams,” grinned Wheezer.

“Yeah, we might do worse,” nodded Leather. “He’s just crooked enough to defend a bunch of horse thieves and get away with it. I s’pose he’d want us to give him a bill of sale of the animals we stole.”

Chet kicked off his boots and stretched out on the bunk, where he proceeded to snore loudly. It was too early to dress; so Leather and Wheezer crawled back under their blankets again, and in a few minutes there was a trio of snores.

It was about eight o’clock when Leather and Wheezer got out of bed and slid into their clothes. Chet still snored loudly, but they did not wake him up. Wheezer went to the window and looked toward the ranch-house.

“Horse and buggy up there,” he announced. “Reckon the sweet lady’s guardian angel has arrived already.”

They finished dressing and went up toward the house. Eph Williams backed out of the door, carrying one end of a trunk, the other end of which was being carried by a Chinaman.

Williams merely glanced at the two cowboys and went back into the house, followed by the Chinaman.

“Well, whatcha know about that?” grunted Wheezer.

They walked around to the back door, where they found Ma Coogan sitting on the wash-bench. Her old face was streaked with tears, and she was wearing a very old alpaca dress, which she had not worn for years, and beside her on the bench was a little old hat with a moth-eaten feather.

She looked up at them, but did not speak. Leather frowned and hitched at his belt as he and Wheezer looked at each other queerly.

“I—I’m goin’—somewhere,” said Ma Coogan painfully. “They got a Chinaman.”

She did not look up at them. Leather turned away and rubbed his chin violently. Then he whirled on Wheezer.

“Go down and wake up Chet and saddle the horses. We’ll have to bust that jail and get Wooden-shoe out and——”

Wheezer whirled to go back to the bunk-house, but Leather stopped him.

“Wait. That won’t do no good either. I was going to kill that —— lawyer, but that won’t help Ma.”

“Bless your hearts,” Ma looked up at them. “Sure, ye don’t need to worry about me.”

“No, I reckon not,” said Leather softly, “but we don’t want to have to eat Chink cookin’, Ma.”

“But the Lord love ye, we’re all fired.”

“That’s right. I’ll have to see that lawyer. Set still.”

Leather hurried around the house and Wheezer almost trod on his heels. Williams and Miss Cleveland were on the porch, and the Chinaman was putting the trunk into position to load it on to the back of the buggy.

“Whose trunk is that?” asked Leather.

“Mrs. Coogan’s,” said Williams defiantly.

Leather strode out to the Chinaman and pointed at the trunk.

“Roll it back to the porch, John.”

The Chinaman squinted at Leather and then at Williams.

“Didja hear what I said?” asked Leather.

“Yessah.”

The Chinaman tried to grin, but it was a weak effort.

“Then roll it back like I told yuh to do.”

“Just a moment.”

Williams grew very indignant and came down the steps.

“Let that trunk alone.”

“Roll it over to the porch, John,” ordered Leather. And then to Williams:

“Yo’re on thin ice, pardner. Keep out of the argument.”

The Chinaman rolled the trunk back to the porch.

“Now, get into that buggy,” ordered Leather, and the Chinaman lost no time in obeying. He had lived long in the range-country and knew better than to refuse an armed cowboy.

“You are just wasting your breath,” stated Williams with a weak smile. “Being armed, you have the advantage—for the moment.”

With a quick twist of his wrist, Leather flipped the gun from his holster and tossed it aside.

“Now, whatcha say?” he asked softly.

“My dear man, there is no use of a quarrel.”

Williams spread his hands and shrugged his shoulders. He tried to be friendly, but it was all lost on Leather.

“Yo’re seven-eighths coyote and—no, I won’t say that either. There’s two skunks in Broken Butte, and yo’re both of ’em.”

“You seem determined to quarrel with me, I see,” said Williams sadly. “I am only doing my duty, Kleig.”

“Yeah?”

Leather considered Williams for a space of time and nodded slowly.

“I reckon yo’re all right, Williams. I never trust a man that’ll back down. Shake, will yuh?”

Leather shoved out his hand, and Williams, a look of wonder on his face, shook hands solemnly with him. Wheezer swallowed with great difficulty and kicked himself on the ankle to see if he was asleep. Miss Cleveland’s face expressed astonishment, and even the Chinaman’s expressionless face changed its placid contour for a moment.

“I want to talk with yuh kinda private,” said Leather softly. “Mebbe we better go down to the bunk-house, eh? C’mon, Wheezer.”

Williams swallowed painfully, wonderingly and looked at Miss Cleveland, but followed behind them to the bunk-house steps, where they sat down.

“I ain’t never hired a lawyer before,” stated Leather, “and I dunno just how to go about tellin’ him things. Is it a fact that what yuh tell a lawyer is kinda—uh——”

“I think I know what you mean,” nodded Williams. “Whatever you tell me will be sacred.”

“Yeah, that’s the word I was huntin’ for,” grinned Leather. “Yo’re educated, Williams, and I sure like to talk to educated folks.”

Wheezer choked over his cigaret and dug his heels into the dirt. He wanted to yell out loud. Williams accepted the compliment as his just due.

“It better be sacred,” said Leather, “or four good punchers will swell the census of the penitentiary.”

Williams pricked up his ears, but tried to appear unconcerned.

Leather glanced sideways at him, but Williams was rubbing his chin thoughtfully and trying to control his elation. He had been insulted many times by these four wild-riding cowpunchers, and he was more than willing to have them bare their guilty secrets.

“I ain’t doin’ this so much for us as I am for the lady,” explained Leather slowly. “She thinks she inherited somethin’, pardner.”

“Ahem-m-m!”

Williams cleared his throat raspingly, but waited for Leather to continue.

“It dates back quite a while,” continued Leather. “Yuh see, old Nick Ralls wasn’t no saint. The NR wasn’t no payin’ proposition and old Nick was just about at the hondo end of his rope when we showed up.

“We kinda made him a proposition. It’s hard for a cattle-rustler to dispose of stock these days, don’tcha know it?”

“I—er—shouldn’t be surprized,” nodded Williams.

“Anyway,” continued Leather, “here’s what was done. The four of us misbranded every danged critter we could find. We worked plumb over into Foster County. ’Course we didn’t steal a lot of Broken Butte cows, but there’s a few.

“We branded ’em with the NR iron, and Nick Ralls was to do the sellin’. His idea was to make the old NR look like a regular cow-ranch and sell out the whole works. Then he was to split the money; sabe?”

Williams squinted painfully at Leather. Somehow he could hardly believe that statement, and wondered where the joke came in. But Leather’s face was serious.

“You—you are not joking?” asked Williams.

“Don’tcha believe it. I ain’t tryin’ to excuse us. The NR owes us plenty of money, which we’ve got to collect, but I just wanted yuh to know how we stand, and how the lady—well, yuh can see what she inherited.”

“Yes, yes!” Williams seemed to be doing a lot of fast thinking. “Do you think there is any danger of an investigation? Is there—nobody suspects you, do they?”

“Here’s the point.” Leather tapped Williams on the shoulder and lowered his voice. “Yesterday we sold a horse to Clay Hardy. We didn’t know it, but that horse had a D-Bar-D brand on its shoulder. Murtch arrested Wooden-shoe Van Dorn and throwed him in jail.

“Murtch is goin’ to send word to the D-Bar-D outfit, over in Foster County, and find out how it comes that we had that horse.” Leather pointed out toward the hills and laughed grimly. “Them hills are full of D-Bar-D cows, with the brands vented and the NR run on.

“If that outfit comes over here to see about that wall-eyed bronc, they’ll start lookin’ for other stock they’ve lost, don’tcha see?”

“That’s right. But you vented the brands——”

“Yeah, and there’ll be a —— of a lot for us to explain if they find out about all them vented brands. It’ll look kinda bad, don’t yuh think?”

Williams got to his feet.

“You sit tight, all of you,” he ordered. “I’ll stop Murtch, if it isn’t too late.”

He hurried toward the buggy, sprang in beside the Chinaman and whirled the horse around. Miss Cleveland called to him, but he put whip to horse and turned out of the ranch-house gate on two wheels.

Leather watched him disappear in a cloud of dust and then looked wonderingly at Wheezer.

“He—he’s in a hurry,” observed Wheezer.

Leather looked back up the road and nodded slowly, as a smile creased his thin features.

“Whatcha want to—” began Wheezer, but Leather stopped him.

“Don’t talk to me, Wheezer! Lemme think, will yuh? I’ve got an idea, but some of the parts are missin’.”

Chet Wells opened the door behind them and blinked into the sunlight.

“Leather hired Williams for our lawyer, Chet,” said Wheezer solemnly.

“Yeah, I heard it,” nodded Chet. “I heard old fish-eye’s voice; so I glued m’ ear to the door. Whatcha tryin’ to do—put us in the penitentiary, Leather?”

“He won’t talk to yuh,” stated Wheezer. “He’s thinkin’, Chet.”

“She’s about time he done a little thinkin’. He sure didn’t do any thinkin’ when he told our shame to that danged lawyer.”

Leather got to his feet and went to the house. Ma Coogan was still sitting on the wash-bench, waiting for Williams to take her away. She looked up at him and he grinned softly.

“Ma, you take off that dress,” he ordered kindly. “You can’t cook no breakfast, all dressed up thataway.”

“Cook breakfast? The Lord love ye, I’m——”

“Williams has gone back with his Chinaman, Ma. You go right back and fry us a flock of eggs. Mebbe there ain’t goin’ to be no change.”

“Do ye mean that, boy?” Ma got to her feet and put a trembling hand on his arm. “Ye’re not jokin’, are ye?”

Leather shook his head.

“No, I’m not, Ma. You’re still the chief cook of the NR ranch. The lawyer feels kinda different than he did a while ago.”

“Sure, I dunno what to say.” The old lady’s eyes sparkled with happiness as she looked around and picked up her old hat. “It’s like wakin’ from a bad dream, so it is. God is good to me, Leather Kleig. I’m goin’ to fry thim eggs—now.”

She stopped in the doorway and looked back at him, the tears running down her face, but went on into her beloved kitchen. Leather blinked uncertainly and shoved down on his cartridge-belt, after which he went around the house and picked up the six-shooter he had discarded.

Jane Cleveland was standing on the porch and she looked curiously at him. He grinned at her and gazed down the road.

“The lawyer went away in a hurry,” he observed. “I reckon I better carry Ma’s trunk back into her room.”

“I do not understand it,” she said.

“Neither do I,” he admitted, swinging the trunk back on to the porch, “but I reckon it’ll be all right, ma’am.”

He deposited the trunk in Ma Coogan’s little room and came back to the porch, but Jane Cleveland had gone to her room.

It was about three hours later that Wooden-shoe rode into the ranch and dismounted at the bunk-house. He was grinning widely.

“Bust out?” queried Chet.

“Huh!” Wooden-shoe grinned knowingly. “Much obliged to yuh. That sheriff was mad enough to eat hay. How did you fellers manage to sneak in and vent that brand last night?”

“Eh?” grunted Wheezer. “Whatcha mean?”

“Aw-w-w!”

Wooden-shoe turned the horse around and showed them the left shoulder of the animal, where a hot iron had completely destroyed any possibility of ever deciphering the original brand.

“That’s a good joke,” grinned Wooden-shoe. “Murtch was awful sore. He said it was a —— good thing that he hadn’t sent word to the D-Bar-D. He knows who done it, but he can’t prove it, and he knows that, too.”

Chet and Wheezer looked inquiringly at Leather, but he merely grinned and nodded.

“Well, what’s the answer?” queried Chet wonderingly.

“Our lawyer is workin’,” Leather said with a chuckle.

“Kinda looks like it,” admitted Wheezer. “But lawyers come pretty high, don’t they? How are we goin’ to pay him, Leather?”

“I dunno—yet.”

That afternoon the four cowpunchers saddled their horses and headed for Broken Butte. There was nothing for them to do at the ranch—and they still had money left.

Miss Cleveland had spent most of the day in the shade of the porch, reading, while Ma Coogan lifted her quavering voice in song in the kitchen.

Half-way to town they met Eph Williams, driving toward the ranch. He drew up his horse and smiled, or rather smirked at them.

“You sure got into action real fast,” said Leather, “and we’re sure much obliged to yuh, Williams.”

“Yes, I think it was well handled, Kleig. Now, my advice to all of you would be to leave this country as soon as possible. In defense of my client I shall bend every effort to protect what is legally her property.

“As far as your salary claims are concerned, I am afraid they can not be met. Miss Cleveland has no money, and Nick Ralls left nothing but property, which would be hard to dispose of right away.”

“Yeah, that’s right, I reckon,” nodded Leather, “but it ain’t hardly fair to us. I’ll tell yuh what we might do: We might each take twenty-five head of beef steers and sell ’em. They’re worth about twenty dollars on the hoof right now.”

“Well—” Williams smiled weakly—“I’d hardly advise that either.”

“How many would we take for Ma’s share?” queried Chet seriously.

“Hard to tell.” Leather rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Ranch cooks gets about fifty per month, and if yuh figure that out for ten years and divide it by twenty—it would be quite a few cows.”

“Be about three hundred head,” said Chet. “We’ll take four hundred head of NR steers and call it square.”

Williams shook his head quickly.

“No, that would not be hardly fair to Miss Cleveland. She had nothing to do with this matter, and all claims against the estate must be in a form that the court would consider. Verbal agreements are, I am sure, something that would hardly be considered in a court of law.”

“Well, we’ll kinda hang around,” stated Leather. “Yuh never can tell what might happen. I think that old Nick was plumb loco when he wrote that will.”

“Not at all, Kleig; he was perfectly sane—perfectly.”

“I dunno how he got thataway,” grinned Wheezer. “He sure was always loco before.”

They rode on toward town, and Williams went on toward the NR. Leather was very thoughtful. There was the germ of an idea in his mind—a far-fetched feeling that it was a bright idea, and he grinned softly under the brim of his sombrero.

There was a big poker game in progress in the Shoshone when they came in. Battler Morgan, “King” Cole, a big horse raiser from the south end of the range, Jim Kelly, owner of the general merchandise store, Clay Hardy and Spade Hollister.

A number of men were watching the play, among them being Murtch. He scowled at the four cowpunchers, and moved around to the far side of the table. Spade Hollister glanced up at Leather, who was standing almost behind Clay Hardy, and half-nodded in recognition. Leather watched Spade closely—especially when he was dealing. His long, slender fingers dealt with baffling speed, but there was little chance for crooked play.

“Deal ’em a little slower, if yuh don’t mind.”

Clay Hardy was losing and inclined to be nasty about it.

“I didn’t learn poker in a hay-loft,” said Spade softly, and King Cole laughed heartily.

Clay Hardy scowled, as he picked up his hand, but did not reply. Leather glanced down at Hardy and noticed that Hardy’s holster was empty. A closer inspection showed that Mr. Hardy had the gun on his lap.

Leather’s lips tightened perceptibly. It looked to him as if Hardy was anticipating trouble. Leather glanced at Murtch who had moved from behind Hollister and was almost directly behind King Cole.

Clay lost that pot and swore softly at his luck. Spade glanced keenly at Hardy and flashed a look at Murtch.

“Spade’s the one Clay’s watchin’,” observed Leather to himself, “and Spade knows it.”

Battler Morgan dealt and the pot was passed. Hardy failed to deal openers and the deal passed to Kelly. On Kelly’s deal, Cole passed. Spade deliberated, but passed, and Battler opened moderately.

Hardy tilted the pot heavily, which caused Cole and Kelly to pass, but Spade called the raise and boosted the pot a hundred dollars. Battler passed and Hardy called. It took all of his chips, except one small stack of whites.

Leather watched the draw closely. Hardy tossed his discards on to the table, spinning them just a trifle too far, and two of them slid in front of Hollister, who brushed them aside.

Spade drew one card and Hardy drew three. He peered at the corners of his cards and his right hand drew off the table and dropped to his lap. Spade passed. For a moment Clay Hardy’s eyes squinted grimly at Spade and his lips tightened. Then—

“Pass,” he said softly.

Spade flipped his cards over. He had three kings and a pair of nines. Hardy leaned across and looked at them. Then he exposed his hand.

“Aces and sevens,” muttered Battler.

“Yeah, aces and sevens,” said Hardy, “and they’d ’a’ been good, if that —— tin-horn gambler hadn’t stole the king I discarded.”

For an instant there was a dead silence. Then Spade jerked back in his chair. Quick as a flash, Clay Hardy’s hand came up over the table-top, gripping a revolver, but before he could level it at Hollister, Leather had flung himself across Hardy, blocking him and tearing the gun out of his hand.

Then he upset Hardy, who went sprawling and cursing against the corner of the wall.

Leather staggered sidewise, caught his balance and faced the crowd. The players had got to their feet and were looking at Hardy, who was swearing vengeance and getting to his feet.

“Lucky thing yuh blocked him, Kleig,” said King Cole. “He sure gets his gun quick.”

Leather was facing Hardy now, and Hardy was frothing with anger, but mindful of the gun which Leather was holding against his ribs.

“Yeah, he gets a gun quick,” smiled Leather, “but he got it off his lap—not out of his holster.”

“He stole my discard!” panted Hardy. “I tell yuh——”

“You’re a liar,” said Leather softly. “I watched him. You discarded into him to get an excuse to kill him. You wasn’t goin’ to give him an even break.”

“What’s that to you, you horse-thief?”

Clay Hardy spat out the question loud enough for every one in the place to hear. Leather did not move for a moment. He seemed to be deliberating just what to do. Then he handed King Cole the gun he had taken from Hardy.

“Put that in his holster,” he said softly.

Cole looked curiously at him, but stepped over and dropped the gun into Hardy’s holster. Hardy’s hands were hanging loosely at his sides, and he was hunched forward staring at Leather, who had lifted his right hand waist-high above the butt of his holstered-gun.

“Hardy,” Leather’s voice was low pitched, “you’re a dirty coyote pup. You spoke out of turn just now, and I’m givin’ yuh a chance to see if you’ve got guts enough to reach for a gun. I’m waitin’.”

Hardy’s face looked pinched and white now, and he was breathing fast. His eyes flashed around, as though wanting some one to interfere. Then his eyes came back to Leather Kleig and his knees quivered.

Then his hand came slowly up to his mouth and the back of it trembled across his dry lips. He turned and went out of the door, striking his shoulder against the side, like a drunken man who is not sure of his step.

“He’s whipped,” stated King Cole hoarsely. “Didja ever see a man get scared thataway? My ——, it sure was worth seein’.”

“Yeah, he sure turned yaller,” agreed Battler, turning back to his chair. “I s’pose that busts up a perfectly good game.”

Murtch had nothing to say. Spade Hollister seemed to watch him closely, but Murtch did not look toward him. Battler cashed in the chips and invited every one to have a drink, but Murtch went out without accepting the invitation.

Spade Hollister came over to Leather and stood beside him at the bar.

“Kleig, I’m much obliged to you,” he said.

“Tha’sall right,” said Leather gruffly. “I wouldn’t ’a’ said a word, if you’d ’a’ stole that king.”

Spade looked curiously at him and back to the bartender, who was taking their order. Wheezer, Chet and Wooden-shoe were at the bar, chuckling among themselves over what had just happened.

They drank and moved away from the bar. Hollister looked at Leather, who started away from the bar. He half-smiled and stepped over beside him.

“Kleig, if I can ever help yuh in any way—just speak the word.”

Leather turned and looked keenly at him.

“Spade Hollister, I’d ’a’ done that for any man. I’m no angel, but I’d have to hate —— out of a man to stand by and see him murdered. I s’pose you know what it was all about, don’tcha? Then yuh know who to look out for. If I need yuh—I’ll yelp.”

“And I’ll come,” nodded Spade as he turned and walked over to a roulette lay-out.

The other three cowboys edged up to Leather and they grouped together near the door.

“Cowboy, yuh sure work fast,” applauded Wheezer, slapping Leather on the shoulder. “And yuh sure put the fear of —— into Clay Hardy.”

“Yeah, but look out for him,” cautioned Wooden-shoe. “He’s whipped, but he ain’t dead. That gambler sure owes you a lot. In another second he’d have been plugged.”

“And what for?” questioned Wheezer. “He’s a plumb stranger here, ain’t he? What’s Clay Hardy gunnin’ at a stranger for, I wonder?”

Leather shook his head and turned to King Cole, who came up to him. Cole grinned and slapped Leather on the shoulder.

“Kleig, I hear that you’ve got a female boss out at the NR. It can’t be done. If you fellers need a new job, come down to the KC horse outfit and go to work. It’s the same old forty-a-month and eats.”

Leather smiled and shook his head.

“Yuh heard Clay Hardy call me a horse-thief, didn’t yuh Cole?”

“Yeah, and yuh never denied it. Yuh never did steal many horses, did yuh?”

“Half a dozen, mebbe.”

“Pshaw, that don’t make yuh a horse-thief. Some folks draws the line too close.”

Cole laughed at his own wit and went to the door, where he turned.

“That offer holds good. Come any old time.”

“Thank yuh, Cole,” grinned Leather.

“Well, that’s a job, if we need it,” said Chet.

“If we need it,” nodded Leather.

The cowboys went back to the games, but Leather did not play. He took a seat against the wall, where he tilted back and appeared to be half-asleep. Once he counted his money carefully and stowed it away in the watch-pocket of his overalls.

There was no sign of Murtch nor Hardy. The afternoon wore away, and the oil chandeliers of the Shoshone were lighted. It was Saturday night and there was a heavy influx of cowboys.

The three-piece orchestra began screeching, and the dance-hall girls were out in force, mingling with the men. Wheezer, Chet and Wooden-shoe were firmly implanted in different games; so Leather crossed the street alone to a restaurant. The waiter was the same Chinese that Williams had brought to the ranch, and he grinned in a friendly manner at Leather.

“No sabe,” he told Leather seriously. “Catchum job quick, lose ’m allesame.”

“Yuh didn’t last long, that’s a fact, John.”

“No last. Man swear alletime. Velly mad, I t’ink. W’at you like eat, eh?”

“What did he say about us, John?”

“No talk ’bout you—talk ’bout God. Yo’ sabe?”

“Religious, eh?”

“’Ligious? Yo’ mean—same like wo’ship?”

“Yeah, like worship, John.”

The Chinaman grinned and shook his head.

“No like. Yo’ wan’ soup?”

Leather finished his meal and went outside. He was a trifle cautious, for fear that Clay Hardy might try to ambush him. He knew that Clay would welcome a chance to get even for what had happened in the Shoshone, but he was sure that Clay would never face him in the light.

He strolled up the street and was going past the Broken Butte hotel, but stopped and stared in the window. Then he whirled around and went quickly inside. Ma Coogan was sitting in one of the hotel chairs against the wall, her hands folded in her lap.

She looked up as he came in and a smile wreathed her wrinkled old face.

“Sure I’ve been wonderin’ if I’d see you,” she said.

“Well, what are you doin’ here, Ma?” he demanded.

“I was brought here by the lawyer. Ah! I think it’s no use, Leather. He came this afternoon and had a long talk with Miss Cleveland, and thin—” Ma Coogan stopped and shook her head sadly—“and thin they loaded my trunk in the back of the buggy and made me come along.”

“I see.” Leather’s face hardened and he squinted thoughtfully. “He waited until we were gone. Have you got a room here, Ma?”

She shook her head.

“Leather, I have no money. Ye well know that Nick Ralls only gave me a home and——”

Leather turned and strode over to the desk.

“Give this lady a room,” he demanded. “She’s got a trunk somewhere. Here—” He tossed a twenty dollar gold piece on the desk—“that’s enough for now. When that’s gone, I’ve got more.”

“Yeah, sure, I’ll fix her up,” said the frowsy-looking clerk. “Dollar a day’s the best we’ve got.”

Leather went back to Ma and handed her another twenty.

“Yuh got to eat, Ma. This feller’ll fix yuh up for a room. Now don’tcha worry about anythin’.”

He patted her on the shoulder and escaped out of the door before she fully realized what he had done.

“Yo’re a —— of a gunman, ain’tcha!” Murtch snorted angrily, but it had little effect on Clay Hardy, who sat hunched up in one of their office chairs, chewing tobacco violently. He only increased his mastications per minute.

Murtch jerked a chair into position and flopped down, facing Hardy.

“Everythin’ worked wrong,” complained Hardy nervously. “If that —— Kleig hadn’t come in when he did and put the whole thing into a jam.”

“Yuh had an even break with him.”

“Yeah—with him.”

“Scared of him, eh?”

“I ain’t no crazy suicide, Murtch.”

“You was plumb scared to breathe, Clay.”

“Uh-huh. You’d ’a’ been the same. He’s got under yore hide, and yuh never call him for it, Murtch. How did I know that Kleig was goin’ to block me?”

“You was a fool to have that gun in your lap.”

“Yeah,” nodded Clay seriously, “I was a fool to have a gun a-tall. I ought to pack a doughnut.”

Murtch laughed hoarsely.

“Well, I reckon it kinda spoils our plans, but there’s more than one way to skin a cat. We’ve got the goods on that NR gang, if we want to use it.”

“Yo’re the boss, Murtch. All I ask is that yuh don’t get me into no mix-up with ’em. They don’t use no judgment. Law and order don’t mean nothin’ to that bunch, and a sheriff’s star looks like a bulls-eye to them.”

“I’d hate to hear what folks will say about you, after the way yuh acted in front of Kleig.”

“I’d a —— sight rather be able to hear ’em say I backed down than to not hear ’em say I was crazy to try to beat Kleig on the draw.”

“Well, there might be somethin’ to that. Let’s go and see what Williams has got to say.”

They locked up the office and went up the street to Williams’ place. He had but lately arrived from the ranch and greeted them with a grin.

“I brought the old woman down with me,” he explained. “So that’s that much done. I’ll take the Chink out there again in the morning. What did you do on that other proposition?”

Briefly, but with sundry oaths, Murtch told of what had happened in the Shoshone. Hardy made no comments. Williams scowled deeply and tapped on the table-top with his finger-tips.

“What do yuh advise?” asked Murtch.

“Sitting tight. There has been too many mistakes. There will be a howl raised when they find that the old woman has been discharged. Miss Cleveland did not want to stay out there alone, but I assured her that everything would be all right.”

“Well, I hope yo’re right,” nodded Murtch getting to his feet. “If that bunch get drunk, yuh never can tell what they’ll do. They think a lot of the old woman.”

“Pshaw! What does a horse-thief care about an old woman? They’ve got enough to look after, if they keep themselves out of jail.”

“All right. We’ll figger things out in the mornin’. Come on, Clay.”

They went out and closed the door. Williams lighted a frayed cigar and opened his safe, which was set into the wall behind his desk. It was an old-fashioned safe, which opened with a key.

He took out a mass of papers and looked them over in the light of his lamp. For a long time he studied them and then replaced them in the safe, after which he pocketed the key.

As he turned down the lamp, preparatory to blowing it out, there came a knock on the door. He hesitated for a moment and seemed about to call out, but changed his mind and went to the door. He turned the knob and looked outside.

There was no one in sight. He leaned out and glanced down the street. Then something crashed down upon his head and he fell backward into the room.

It was about three o’clock in the morning when Wheezer, Chet and Wooden-shoe decided to go back to the ranch. None of them had seen Leather, and, as his horse was missing from the hitch-rack, they decided that he had preceded them to the NR.

The gods of the green cloth had not been good to the trio, and there was little merriment within them as they left Broken Butte.

“I’m as clean as the dew,” said Wheezer sadly. “I spent m’ substance in tryin’ t’ make two-pair beat three of a kind.”

“Yuh ought to play roulette,” observed Wooden-shoe. “Get yuh a little system, that’s all yuh need.”

“How much you got left?” demanded Chet.

“I still got my system left—and a four-bit piece.”

“I sure hope that Leather’s got some money left,” said Chet. “My pesos has all gone where the woodbine twineth and the pelican trilleth to its mate.”

They unsaddled their horses and went up to the bunk-house door. It was bright moonlight, almost as light as day, and their eyes beheld a great and varied assortment of things piled on the steps.

They looked the things over carefully and grunted their amazement.

“Looks like somebody done moved us out,” observed Wheezer. “What’s on the door?”

He climbed over the stuff and studied a square of white paper which was tacked on the door. He scratched a match and read the message aloud.

“Notice. Any one entering this building without my permission will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.”

Wheezer whistled softly and looked back at them.

“And she’s signed by Miss Jane Cleveland, owner of the NR ranch.”

“Door locked?” asked Chet.

“Locked ——! It’s nailed tight.”

“Well,” observed Wooden-shoe optimistically, “it’s a good thing that it ain’t Winter and zero weather.”

“That’s a —— of a thing to be joyful about.”

Wheezer climbed back and sat down on a pile of blankets.

“I wonder where Leather is.”

“Prob’ly asleep in the barn,” said Chet. “That —— lawyer sure foxed us, didn’t he? That whippoorwill ain’t workin’ for us, that’s a cinch, and I’m goin’ to curry him to the queen’s taste. Yessir, I’m goin’ to hit him so hard that he’ll have a permanent part in his hair.”

“I hope,” said Wooden-shoe, “he dies before his time comes.”

“Let’s go down to the barn and join Leather in the hay,” suggested Wheezer. “Mebbe there ain’t no notice on the hay-loft.”

They filed down to the big barn and crawled into the loft, which still contained a ton or so of hay, but Leather was not there.

“Prob’ly never left town,” said Wheezer as he burrowed into the hay. “Gosh dang it, we’ll wake up full of fox-tail, I betcha.”

He was facing the opening of the loft, a doorless opening, about six-feet square, which gave him a view of the ranch-house yard and the big gate. The moon was partly obscured for a few minutes, which made objects rather hazy, but he saw a horseman coming toward the gate, traveling slowly.

“Here comes Leather,” he stated. “Let him see the notice, et cettery, and then listen to him cuss.”

The others shifted their positions to watch him. He was almost under the arch of the gate, when a streak of orange-colored flame seemed to spurt up at him from a brush-tangle just beyond, and the thud of a revolver shot broke the stillness.

The boys in the loft were unable to see just what did happen, but the rider was shooting now. Another spurt of flame came from the tangle. Three times the rider’s gun spat fire, the reports mingling with those from the brush.

“My ——, what’s goin’ on?” gasped Wheezer, almost falling out of the loft opening.

“There he goes!” exclaimed Chet.

The rider had turned and was riding rapidly away, the sound of the galloping horse dying away in the distance.

They tumbled out of the loft and raced toward the gate, each man carrying a gun in his hand. Out through the gate they ran and stopped in the road.

“Over here!” panted Wheezer. “He was shootin’ from that bunch of—look out! There he is.”

A man was lying sprawled on his face in the tangle, and the moonlight glinted on his revolver, which was lying on the ground near him. They did not need to turn him over to see it was Clay Hardy.

“Whatcha know?” panted Chet. “The dirty bushwhacker!”

“Yeah, he shot first,” agreed Wheezer. “I seen him shoot first. Wonder if he’s dead.”

“Feel of his heart,” said Wooden-shoe. “If it ain’t beatin’, he’s dead.”

“It sure takes brains to know that!” grunted Chet.

Wheezer turned him over and felt of his heart. It was beating jerkily.

“He ain’t dead—yet. What’ll we do with him?”

“Take him to a doctor,” suggested Wooden-shoe.

“And go to the pen for shootin’ him?” queried Chet.

“He got cultivated on the head,” stated Wheezer. “A bullet sure danced a jig on his noodle, but I don’t reckon it went through. Was that Leather?”

“Looks like it might ’a’ been. Him and Hardy had a run-in, and I’ll betcha Hardy sneaked out here and laid for him. He never budged when we came through.”

Chet walked back down the road, where a number of cottonwoods made a black blotch against the sky. Just to the left of them grew a tangle of stunted willows.

“Here’s his horse!” called Chet, and went over into the willows after it.

They could see the outlines of the ranch-house, but the shooting had not caused any one to light a lamp nor come to investigate.

“I’ll betcha that Cleopatra’s scared stiff,” said Wheezer.

“Cleopatra ain’t got a —— thing on me if she is,” declared Wooden-shoe. “I’m scared, too, y’betcha.”

Chet came back with the saddled horse and they boosted Clay Hardy aboard.

“We’ve got to have ropes to hold him on with,” said Chet, as they tried to balance the swaying figure. “We’ll take him over to the barn and rope him on good, and then we’ll saddle up and take him to town.”

It took Eph Williams a long time to wake up from the smash on his head. He had been hit a solid clip and things were rather hazy in his mind for some time. It cost him considerable pain to crawl over to his chair, where he sat and recuperated.

He was not in the best physical condition and he cursed himself weakly, while he wondered what had happened to him. A bump the size of an egg on his head attested to the fact that something had hit him—and hit him hard.

Gradually he recovered sufficiently to try to analyze what had really occurred. He knew now that some one had knocked him down. Who it was and why, he did not know. He examined the contents of his pockets, but everything was intact. The safe was locked, the papers on his desk all in place.

“Must have been a personal matter,” he observed thankfully, but was unable to blame any certain person. A lawyer of his type makes many enemies.

He secured some water and bathed his head carefully, after which he took a bottle of whisky from his desk and indulged freely. It was nearly daylight now. He looked at his watch, tried to put his hat on over the knob on his head, but decided it was too painful; so he went outside bare-headed, locked his office and went down to see Murtch.

Murtch was not ready to get out of bed, and he swore peevishly at Williams, who persisted on hammering on the front door of the office. Finally Murtch came and opened the door.

“Now, what in —— do you want?”

“Somebody hit me on the head,” explained Williams.

“Yeah?” Murtch was very sarcastic.

“Prob’ly didn’t want to hurt yuh, so they hit yuh on the head.”

“Must have had a gun or something,” said Williams, feeling tenderly of his recently acquired swelling.

“What’s the joke?”

“No joke,” Williams shook his head. “I tell you, I got knocked down in the doorway of my own office. Look at my head.”

Murtch examined the swelling and his demeanor changed.

“Come on inside.”

Murtch lighted a lamp and drew on his pants and boots.

“Now, who hit yuh, Eph?”

“I don’t know. A while after you left I heard some one knock. I went to the door, stuck my head outside—and got hit. I tell you, it made me sick.”

“Huh!”

Murtch drew out his watch and glanced at it.

“You must ’a’ been knocked out quite a while.”

“Yes, I think so. I didn’t come down here right away, because I was too sick. I haven’t the slightest idea of why it was done. I was not robbed and there is nothing missing from my office.”

“That’s danged queer,” observed Murtch. “Yo’re sure they didn’t take anythin’?”

“Not a thing. Where is Clay Hardy?”

“I dunno. He got sore at me and went away. Mebbe I talked a little too tough to suit him.”

Williams rubbed his sore head and thought deeply.

“Those cowpunchers have likely gone back to the ranch,” he said thoughtfully, “and I’ve promised to bring that Chinaman out there this morning, but I don’t feel like it.”

“I’ll take him out,” offered Murtch.

“You will? Well—” thoughtfully—“perhaps that would be better. You see, I nailed up the bunk-house door, after I moved out all their things, and put a trespass notice on the door.”