CHAPTER XIV
THE SHERIFF STATES SOME FACTS

“How do you do?” he cried heartily, acknowledging the introduction. “I am glad to meet you, for I’ve heard a whole lot about you. I hope you’ll like this country–greatest country under the sky! You stay out here a month and I’ll bet you’ll be just like lots of people, and not want to go back East again.”

“It seems as though we have always known Mr. Blake, for James has written about you so much,” replied Helen, and then she laughed: “But I am not so sure about liking this country, although very unusual things seem to take place in it. The journey was very trying, and it seemed to get worse as we neared our destination.”

“Well, I’ll have to confess that the stage-ride part of it is a drawback, and also that Apaches don’t make good reception committees. They are a little too pressing at times.”

“But, speaking seriously,” responded Helen, “I have had a really delightful time. James has managed to get me a very tame horse after quite a long search, and I have taken many rides about the country.”

“Wait ’til you see that horse, Tom,” laughed the sheriff. “It’s warranted not to raise any devilment, but it can’t, for it has all it can do to stand up alone, and can’t very well run away.”

“I see that The Orphan delivered my message, contrary to the habits of men,” remarked the sheriff’s wife as she took the guest’s hat and offered him a seat. “I spoke to James about it several days ago, and asked him to send you word when he could, for you have not been here for a long time. And the wonderful thing about it is that he remembered to tell The Orphan.”

“Thank you,” he replied, seating himself. “Yes, he delivered it all right, it was about the second thing he said. But I just couldn’t get here any sooner, Mrs. Shields. And I was just wondering if I could get over to-night when he told me. When he said ‘apricot pie’ he looked sort of sad.”

“Poor boy!” she exclaimed. “You must take him one–it was a shame to send such a message by him, poor, lonesome boy!”

“Well, he ain’t so lonesome now,” laughed Blake.

Helen had looked up quickly at the mention of The Orphan’s name, and the sheriff replied to her look of inquiry.

“I sent him out to punch for Blake, Helen,” he said quickly. “If he has the right spirit in him he’ll get along with the Star C outfit; if he hasn’t, why, he won’t get on with anybody. But I reckon Tom will bring out all the good in him; he’ll have a fair show, anyhow.”

“And you never told us about it!” cried Helen reproachfully.

“Oh, I was saving it up,” laughed the sheriff. “What do you think of him, Tom?” he asked, turning to the foreman.

“Why, he’s a clean-looking boy,” answered Blake. “I like his looks. He seems to be a fellow what can be depended on in a pinch, and after all I had heard about him he sort of took me by surprise. I thought he would be a tough-looking killer, and there he was only a overgrown, mischievous kid. But there is a look in his eyes that says there is a limit. But he surprised me, all right.”

“You want to appreciate that, Miss Ritchie,” remarked the sheriff, smiling broadly. “Anything that takes Tom Blake by surprise must have merit of some kind. And he is a good judge of men, too.”

“I do so hope he gets on well,” she replied earnestly. “He was a perfect gentleman when he was here, and his wit was sharp, too. And out there on that awful plain, when he stood swaying with weakness, he looked just splendid!”

“Pure grit, pure grit!” cried the sheriff in reply. “That’s why I’m banking on him,” he added, his eyes warming as he remembered. “Any fellow who could turn a trick like that, and who has so much clean-cut courage, must be worth looking after. He’s got a bad reputation, but he’s plumb white and square with me, and I’m going to be square with him. And when you know all that I know about him you’ll take his reputation as a natural result of hard luck, spunk, and other people’s devilment and foolishness. But he’s going to have a show now, all right.”

“What did your men say when they saw him? Do they know who he is?” asked Mrs. Shields anxiously.

Blake laughed: “Oh, yes, they know who he is. They ain’t the talking kind in a case like that; they won’t say a word to him about what he has done. Besides, he was under their roof, eating their food, and that’s enough for them. Of course, they were a little surprised, but not half as much as I thought they would be. He is a man who gives a good first impression, and the boys are all fine fellows, big-hearted, square, clean-living and peaceful. Reputations don’t count for much with them, for they know that reputations are gossip-made in most cases. I asked him to stay, and they haven’t got no reason to object, and they won’t waste no time looking for reasons, neither. If there is any trouble at all, it will be his own fault. Then again, they know that he is all sand and that his gunplay is real and sudden; not that they are afraid of him, or anybody else, for that matter, but he is the kind of a man they like–somebody who can stand up on his own legs and give better than he gets.”

“I reckon he fills that bill, all right,” laughed the sheriff. “He can stand up on his own legs, and when he does he makes good. And as for gunplay, good Lord, he’s a shore wizard! I reckoned I could do things with a gun, but he can beat me. He ain’t no Boston pet, and he ain’t no city tough, not nohow. And I’d rather have him with me in a mix-up than against me. He’s the coolest proposition loose in this part of the country at any game, and I know what I’m talking about, too.”

“You promised to tell us everything about him, all you knew,” reproached Helen. “And I am sure that it will be well worth hearing.”

“Well, I was saving it up ’til I could tell it all at once and when you would all be together,” he replied. “There wasn’t any use of telling it twice,” he explained as he brought out a box of cigars. “These are the same brand you sampled last time you were here,” he assured his friend as he extended the box.

“By George, that’s fine!” cried the foreman, picking out the blackest cigar he could see. “I could taste them cigars for a whole week, they was so good. There’s nothing like a good Perfecto to make a fellow feel like he’s too lucky to live.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Shields. “Then you won’t care for the coffee and pie and gingerbread,” she sighed. “I’m very sorry.”

Blake jumped: “Lord, Ma’am,” he cried hastily, “I meant in the smoking line! Why, I’ve been losing sleep a-dreaming of your cooking. Every time the cook fills my cup with his insult to coffee I feel so lonesome that it hurts!”

“You want to look out, Tom!” laughingly warned the sheriff, “or you’ll get yourself disliked! When I don’t care for Margaret’s cooking I ain’t fool enough to say so, not a bit of it.”

“You’re a nice one to talk like that!” cried his wife. “You are just like a little boy on baking day–I can hardly keep you out of the kitchen. You bother me to death, and it is all I can do to cook enough for you!”

After the laugh had subsided and a steaming cup of coffee had been placed at the foreman’s elbow, Helen impatiently urged her brother to begin his story.

He lighted his cigar with exasperating deliberateness and then laughed softly: “Gosh! I’m getting to be a second fiddle around here. From morning to night all I hear is The Orphan. The first thing that hits me when I come home is, ‘Have you seen The Orphan?’ or, ‘Have you heard anything about him?’ The worst offenders are Miss Ritchie and Helen. They pester me nigh to death about him. But here goes:

“I reckon I’d better begin with Old John Taylor,” he slowly began. “I’ve been doing some quiet hunting lately, and in the course of it I ran across Old John down in Crockettsville. You remember him, don’t you, Tom? Yes, I reckoned you wouldn’t forget the man who got us out of that Apache scrape. Well, I had a good talk with him, and this is what I learned:

“About twenty years ago a family named Gordon moved into northwestern Texas and put up a shack in one of the valleys. There was three of them, father, mother, and a bright little five-year-old boy, and they brought about two hundred head of cattle, a few horses and a whole raft of books. Gordon bought up quite a bit of land from a ranch nearby at almost a song, and he never thought of asking for a deed–who would, down there in those days? There wasn’t a rancher who owned more than a quarter section; you know the game, Tom–take up a hundred and sixty acres on a stream and then claim about a million, and fight like the very devil to hold it. We’ve all done it, I reckon, but there is plenty of land for everybody, and so there is no kick. Well, he was shore lucky, for his boundary on two sides was a fair-sized stream that never went dry, and you know how scarce that is–a whole lot better than a gold mine to a cattleman.

“They got along all right for a while, had a tenderfoot’s luck with their cattle, which soon began to be more than a few specks on the plain, and he was very well satisfied with everything, except that there wasn’t no school. Old man Gordon was daffy on education, which is a good thing to be daffy over, and he was some strong in that line himself, having been a school teacher back East. But he took his boy in hand and taught him all he knew, which must have been a whole lot, judging from things in general, and the kid was a smart, quick youngster. He was plumb crazy about two things–books and guns. He read and re-read all the books he could borrow, and got so he could handle a gun with any man on the range.

“About five years after he had located, the ranchman from whom he bought his range and water rights went and died. Some of the heirs, who were not what you would call square, began to get an itching for Gordon’s land, which was improved by the first irrigation ditch in Texas. There was a garden and a purty good orchard, which was just beginning to bear fruit. It was pure, cussed hoggishness, for there was more land than anybody had any use for, but they must grab everything in sight, no matter what the cost. Trouble was the rule after that, and the old man was up against it all the time. But he managed to hold his own, even though he did lose a lot of cattle.

“His brand was a gridiron, which wasn’t much different from the gridiron circle brand of the big ranch. It ain’t much trouble to use a running iron through a wet blanket and change a brand like that when you know how, and the Gridiron Circle gang shore enough knew how. Their expertness with a running iron would have caused questions to be asked, and probably a lynching bee, in other parts of the country, but down there they were purty well alone. They let Gordon know that he had jumped the range, which was just what they had done, that he didn’t own it, and that the sooner he left the country the better it would be for his health. But he had peculiar ideas about justice, and he shore was plumb full of grit and obstinacy. He knew he was right, that he had paid for the land, and that he had improved it. And he had a lot of faith in the law, not realizing that he hadn’t anything to show the law. And he didn’t know that law and justice don’t always mean the same thing, not by a long shot.

“Well, one day he went out looking for a vein of coal, which he thought ought to be thereabouts, according to his books, and it ought to be close to the surface of a fissure. He reckoned that coal of any quality would be some better than chips and the little wood he owned, so he got busy. But he didn’t find coal, but something that made him hotfoot it to his books. When the report came back from the assay office he knew that he had hit on a vein of native silver, which was some better than coal.

“It didn’t take long for the news to get around, though God Himself only knows how it did, unless the storekeeper told that a package had gone through his hands addressed to the assay office, and things began to happen in chunks. He caught three Gridiron Circle punchers shooting his cows, and he was naturally mad about it and just shot up the bunch before they knew he was around. He killed one and spoiled the health of the other two for some time to come, which naturally spelled war with a big W. Then about this time his wife went and died, which was a purty big addition to his troubles. As he stood above her grave, all broken up, and about ready to give up the fight and go back East, he was shot at from cover. He didn’t much care if he was killed or not, until he remembered that he had a boy to take care of. Then he got fighting mad all at once, all of his troubles coming up before him in a bunch, and he got his gun and went hunting, which was only right and proper under the circumstances.”

The sheriff flecked the ashes of his cigar into a blue flower pot which was gay with white ribbons, and poured himself a cup of coffee.

“I hate to think that it is possible to find a whole ranch of hellions from the owner down,” he continued, “but the nature of the owner picks a dirty foreman, and a dirty foreman needs dirty men, and there you are. That fits the case of the Gridiron Circle to a T. There was not one white man in the whole gang,” and he sat in silence for a space.

“Well, the boy, who was about fifteen years old by this time, took his gun and went out to find his daddy, and he succeeded. He cut him down and buried him and then went home. That night the shack burned to the ground, the orchard was ruined and the boy disappeared. Some people said that the kid took what he wanted and burned the house rather than to have it profaned as a range house by the curs who murdered his dad; and some said the other thing, but from what I know of the kid, I reckon he did it himself.

“Right there and then things began to happen that hurt the ease and safety of the Gridiron Circle. Cows were found dead all over the range–juglars cut in every case. Three of their punchers were found dead in one week–a .5O-caliber Sharps had done it. A regular reign of terror began and kept the outfit on the nervous jump all the time. They searched and trailed and searched and swore, and if one of them went off by himself he was usually ready to be buried. Ten experienced, old-time cowmen were made fools of by a fifteen-year-old kid, who was never seen by anybody that lived long enough to tell about it. When he got hungry, he just killed another cow and had a porterhouse steak cooked between two others over a good fire. He ate the middle steak, which had all the juices of the two burned ones, and threw the others away. Three meals a day for six months, and one cow to a meal, was the order of things on the ranges of the Gridiron Circle. He had plenty of ammunition, because every dead puncher was minus his belt when found and his guns were broken or gone; and early in the game the boy had made a master stroke: he raided the storehouse of the ranch one night and lugged away about five hundred rounds of ammunition in his saddle bags, with a couple of spare Colts and a repeating Winchester of the latest pattern, and he spoiled all the rest of the guns he could lay his hands on. Humorous kid, wasn’t he, shooting up the ranch with its own guns and cartridges?

“Finally, however, after the news had spread, which it did real quick, a regular lynching party was arranged, and the U-B, which lay about sixty miles to the east, sent over half a dozen men to take a hand. Then the Gridiron Circle had a rest, but while the gang was hunting for him and laying all sorts of elaborate traps to catch him, the boy was over on the U-B, showing it how foolish it had been to take up another man’s quarrel. By this time the whole country knew about it, and even some Eastern papers began to give it much attention. One of the punchers of the Gridiron Circle, when he found a friend dead and saw the tracks of the kid in the sand, swore and cried that it was ‘that d––n Orphan’ who had done it, and the name stuck. He had become an outlaw and was legitimate prey for any man who had the chance and grit to turn the trick. For ten years he has been wandering all over the range like a hunted gray wolf, fighting for his life at every turn against all kinds of odds, both human and natural. And I reckon that explains why he is accused of doing so much killing. He has been hunted and forced to shoot to save his own life, and a gray wolf is a fighter when cornered. I know that I wouldn’t give up the ghost if I could help it, and neither would anybody else.”

“Oh, it is a shame, an awful shame!” cried Helen, tears of sympathy in her eyes. “How could they do it? I don’t blame him, not a bit! He did right, terrible as it was! And only a boy when they began, too! Oh, it is awful, almost unbelievable!”

“Yes, it is, Sis,” replied Shields earnestly. “It ain’t his fault, not by any manner or means–he was warped.” And then he added slowly: “But Tom and I will straighten him out, and if some folks hereabouts don’t like it, they can shore lump it, or fight.”

“Tell me how you met him, Jim,” requested Blake in the interval of silence. “I’ve heard some of it, second-handed, or third-handed, but I’d like to have it straight.”

“Well,” the sheriff continued, “when he came to these parts I didn’t know anything about him except what I had heard, which was only bad. He had a nasty way of handling his gun, a hair-trigger and a nervous finger on his gun, and he had a distressing way of using one cow to a meal, so I got busy. I didn’t expect much trouble in getting him. I knew that he was only a youngster and I counted on my fifty years, and most of them of experience, getting him. Being young, I reckoned he would be foolhardy and hasty and uncertain in his wisdom; but, Lord! it was just like trying to catch a flea in the dark. He was here, there and everywhere. While I was down south hunting along his trail he would be up north objecting to the sheep industry in ingenious ways and varying his bill of fare with choice cuts of lamb and mutton. And by the time I got down south he would be–God only knows where, I didn’t. I could only guess, and I guessed wrong until the last one. And then it was the toss of a coin that decided it.

“After a while he began to get more daring, and when I say more daring I mean an open game with no limit. He began to prove my ideas about his age making him reckless, though he was cautious enough, to be sure. One day, not long ago, he had a run-in with two sheepmen out by the U bend of the creek, who had driven their herds up on Cross Bar-8 land and over the dead-line established by the ranch. They must have taken him for some Cross Bar-8 puncher and thought he was going to kick up a fuss about the trespass, or else they recognized him. Anyway, when I got on the scene they were ready to be planted, which I did for them. Then I went after him on a plain trail north–and almost too plain to suit me, because it looked like it had been made plain as an invitation. He had picked out the softest ground and left plenty of good tracks. But I was some mad and didn’t care much what I run into. I thought he had driven the whole blasted herd of baa-baas over that high bank and into the creek, for the number of dead sheep was shore scandalous.

“I followed that cussed trail north, east, south, west and then all over the whole United States, it seemed to me. And it was always growing older, because I had to waste time in dodging chaparrals and things like that that might hold him and his gun. I went picking my way on a roundabout course past thickets of honey mesquite and cactus gardens, over alkali flats and everything else, and the more I fooled about the madder I got. I ain’t no real, genuine fool, and I’ve had some experience at trailing, but I had to confess that I was just a plain, ordinary monkey-on-a-stick when stacked up against a kid that was only about half my age, because suddenly the plainness of the trail disappeared and I was left out on the middle of a burning desert to guess the answer as best I could. I knew what he had done, all right, but that didn’t help me a whole lot. Did you ever trail anybody that used padded-leather footpads on his cayuse’s feet, and that went on a walk, picking out the hardest ground? No? Well, I have, and it’s no cinch.

“I got tired of chasing myself back to the same place four times out of five, and I reckons that it wouldn’t be very long before he had made his circle and got me in front of him. It ain’t no church fair to be hunting a mad devil like him under the best conditions, and it’s a whole lot less like one when he gets behind you doing the same thing. I didn’t know whether he had swung to the north or south, so I tossed up a coin and cried heads for north–and it was tails. I cut loose at a lope and had been riding for some time when I saw something through an opening in the chaparrals to the east of me, and it moved. I swung my glasses on it, and I’m blamed if it wasn’t an Apache war party bound north. They were about a mile to the east of me, and if they kept on going straight ahead they would run across my trail in about three hours, for it gradually worked their way. I ducked right then and there and struck west for a time, turning south again until I hit the Cimarron Trail, which I followed east. Well, as I went around one side of the chaparral six mad Apaches went around the other, and they hit my trail too soon to suit me. I heard a hair-raising yell and lit out in the direction of Chattanooga as hard as I could go, with a hungry chorus a mile behind me.

“I had just passed that freak bowlder on the Apache Trail when the man I was looking for turned up, and with the drop, of course. We reckoned that two was needed to stop the war-paints, which we did, him running the game and doing most of the playing. I felt like I was his honored guest whom he had invited to share in the festivities. He had plenty of chances to nail me if he wanted to, and he had chipped in on a game that he didn’t have to take cards in; and to help me out. He could have let them get me and they would have thought that I had done all the injury and that there wasn’t another man on the desert. But he didn’t, and I began to think he wasn’t as bad as he was painted.”

Then he told of the trouble between The Orphan and Jimmy of the Cross Bar-8, and of the rage which blossomed out on the ranch.

“That shore settled it for the Cross Bar-8. They wanted lots of gore, and they got it, all right, when he played five of their punchers against the very war party he had sent north to meet me, while I was chasing him. That war party must have found something to their liking, wandering about the country all that time.”

Blake interrupted him: “War party that he sent north to meet you?” he asked in surprise. “How could he do that?”

“That’s just what I said,” replied Shields, and then he explained about the arrow. “Any man who could stack a deck like that and use one danger to wipe out another ain’t going to get caught by an outfit of lunkheads–by George! if he didn’t work nearly the same trick on the Cross Bar-8 crowd! Oh, it’s great, simply great!”

The foreman slapped his knee enthusiastically: “Fine! Fine!” he exulted. “That fellow has got brains, plenty of them! And he’ll make use of them to the good of this country, too, before we get through with him.”

Shields continued: “After he sic’d the chumps of the Cross Bar-8 on the Apaches he shore raised the devil on the ranch and I was asked to go out and run things, which I did, or rather thought I would do. Charley and I and the two Larkin boys laid out on the plain all night, covered up with sand, waiting for him to show up between us and the windows–and the first thing I saw in the morning was Helen’s flower pot here–it used to be Margaret’s–setting up on top of a pile of sand under my very nose where he had stuck it while I waited for him–and blamed if he hadn’t signed his name in the sand at its base!” He suddenly turned to his sister: “Tell Tom about him calling on you while I was waiting for him out on the ranch, Helen.”

Helen did so and the way she told it caused the women to look keenly at her.

Blake laughed heartily: “Now, don’t that beat all!” he cried.

“It don’t beat this,” responded the sheriff, turning again to Helen. “Tell him about the stage coach, Sis.”

“Well, I don’t know much about the first part of it,” she replied. “All I remember is a terrible ride –oh, it was awful!” she cried, shuddering as she remembered the tortures of the Concord. “But when we stopped and after I managed to get out of the coach I saw the driver carrying a man on his shoulders and coming toward us. He laid his burden down and revived him–and he was a young man, and covered with blood.” Then she paused: “He was real nice and polite and didn’t seem to think that he had done anything out of the ordinary. Then we went on and he left us.”

The sheriff laughed and leveled an accusing finger at her:

“You have left out a whole lot, Sis,” he said affectionately. “Helen acted just like the thoroughbred she is, Tom,” he continued. “I guess Bill told you all about it, for he’s aired it purty well. Why, she even lost her gold pin a-helping him!” and he grinned broadly.

Helen shot him a warning glance, but it was too late; Mary suddenly sat bolt upright, her expression one of shocked surprise.

“Helen Shields!” she cried, “and I never thought of it before! How could you do it! Why, that horrid man will show your pin and boast about it to everybody! The idea! I’m surprised at you!”

“Tut, tut,” exclaimed Shields. “I reckon that pin is all right. He might find it handy some day to return it, it’ll be a good excuse when he gets on his feet. And I’d hate to be the man to laugh at it, or try to take it from him. Now, come, Mary, think of it right; it was the first kind act he had known since he lost his daddy. And that pin is one of my main stand-bys in this game. I believe that he’ll be square as long as he has it.”

“Well, I don’t care, James,” warmly responded Mary. “It was not a modest thing to do when she had never seen him before, and he her brother’s enemy and an outlaw!”

“How could I have fastened the bandage, sister dear?” asked Helen, her complexion slightly more colored than its natural shade. “It was so very little to do after all he had done for us!”

“Well, Tom and I have some business to talk over, so we’ll leave you to fight the matter out among yourselves,” the sheriff said, arising. “Come to my room, Tom, I want to talk over that ranch scheme with you. You bring the coffee pot and the cigars and I’ll juggle the pie and gingerbread,” he laughed as he led the way.

“Oh, Tom!” hastily called Mrs. Shields after good-nights had been said, and just before the door closed; “I promised you a dinner for your boys when Helen and Mary came, and if you think you can spare them this coming Sunday I will have it then.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Shields,” earnestly responded Blake, turning on the threshold. “It is awful good of you to put yourself out that way, and you can bet that the boys will be your devoted slaves ever after. If you must go to that trouble, why, Sunday or any day you may name will do for us. Gosh, but won’t they be tickled!” he exulted as he pictured them feasting on goodies. “It’ll be better than a circus, it shore will!”

“Why, it’s no trouble at all, Tom,” she replied, smiling at being able to bring cheer to a crowd of men, lonely, as she thought. “And you will arrange to have The Orphan with them, won’t you?”

“I most certainly will,” he heartily replied. “It’ll do wonders for him.” He glanced quickly at Helen, but she was busily engaged in threading a needle under the lamp shade.

“Good night, all,” he said as he closed the door.

CHAPTER XV
AN UNDERSTANDING

They sat each lost in his own thoughts, in a silence broken only by the very low and indistinct hum of women’s voices and the loud ticking of the clock, which soon struck ten. The foreman sighed, stirred to knock the ashes from his cigar, and then slowly reached his hand toward the pie. Shields came to himself and very gravely relighted his cigar, watching the blue smoke stream up over the lamp. He looked at his contented friend for a few seconds and then broke the silence.

“Tom,” he said, “what I’m going to tell you now is all meat. I couldn’t say anything about it while the women were around, for they shore worry a lot and there wasn’t no good in scaring them.

“The Cross Bar-8 outfit got saddled with the idea that they wanted a new sheriff, and four of them didn’t care a whole lot how they made the necessary vacancy. I got word that they were going to pay Bill Howland for the part he played, and on the face of it there wasn’t nothing more than that. It was natural enough that they were sore on him, and that they would try to square matters. Well, of course, I couldn’t let him get wiped out and I took cards in the game. But, Lord, it wasn’t what I reckoned it was at all. He was in for his licking, all right, but he was the little fish–and I was the big one.

“They got Bill in the defile of the Backbone and were going to lynch him–they beat him up shameful. He wouldn’t tell them that I was hand-in-glove with The Orphan, which they wanted to hear, so they tried to scare him to lie, but it was no go.

“Well, I followed Bill and, to make it short, that is just what they had figured on. They posted an outpost to get the drop on me when I showed up, and he got it. Tex Williard seemed to be the officer in charge, and he asked me questions and suggested things that made me fighting mad inside. But I was as cool as I could be apparently, for it ain’t no good to lose your temper in a place like that. I suppose they wanted me to get out on the warpath so they could frame up some story about self-defense. It looked bad for me, with three of them having their guns on me, and Tex Williard had just given me an ultimatum and had counted two, when, d––d if The Orphan didn’t take a hand from up on the wall of the defile. That let me get my guns out, and the rest was easy. We let Bill get square on the gang for the beating he had got, by whipping all of them to the queen’s taste. When they got so they could stand up I told them a few things and ordered them out of the country, and they were blamed glad to get the chance to go, too.

“The Orphan didn’t have to mix up in that, not at all, and it makes the third time he’s put his head in danger to help me or mine, and he took big chances every time. How in h–l can I help liking him? Can I be blamed for treating him white and square when he’s done so much for me? He is so chock full of grit and squareness that I’ll throw up this job rather than to go out after him for his past deeds, and I mean it, too, Tom.”

Blake reached for another piece of pie, held his hand over it in uncertainty and then, changing his mind, took gingerbread for a change.

“Well, I reckon you’re right, Jim,” he replied. “Anyhow, it don’t make a whole lot of difference whether you are or not. You’re the sheriff of this layout, and you’re to do what you think best, and that’s the idea of most of the people out here, too. If you want to experiment, that’s your business, for you’ll be the first to get bit if you’re wrong. And it ain’t necessary to tell you that your friends will back you up in anything you try. Personally, I am rather glad of what you’re doing, for I like that man’s looks, as I said before, and he’ll be just the kind of a puncher I want. He’s a man that’ll fight like h–l for the man he ties up to and who treats him square. If he ain’t, I’m getting childish in my judgment.”

“I sent him to you,” the sheriff continued, “because I wanted to get him in with a good outfit and under a man who would be fair with him. I knew that you would give him every chance in the world. And then Helen takes such an interest in him, being young and sympathetic and romantic, that I wanted to please her if I could, and I can. She’ll be very much pleased now that I’ve given him a start in the right direction and there ain’t nothing I can do for her that is not going to be done. She’s a blamed fine girl, Tom, as nice a girl as ever lived.”

“She shore is–there ain’t no doubt about that!” cried the foreman, and then he frowned slightly. “But have you thought of what all this might develop into?” he asked, leaning forward in his earnestness. “It’s shore funny how I should think of such a thing, for it ain’t in my line at all, but the idea just sort of blew into my head.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Helen, being young and sympathetic and romantic, as you said, and owing her own life and the lives of her sister and friend, not to mention yours, to him, might just go and fall in love with him, and I reckon that if she did, she would stick to him in spite of hell. He’s a blamed good-looking, attractive fellow, full of energy and grit, somewhat of a mystery, and women are strong on mysteries, and he might nurse ideas about having some one to make gingerbread and apricot pie for him; and if he does, as shore as God made little apples, it’ll be Helen that he’ll want. He’s never seen as pretty a girl, she’s been kind and sympathetic with him, and I’m willing to bet my hat that he’s lost a bit of sleep about her already. Good Lord, what can you expect? She pities him, and what do the books say about pity?”

The sheriff thought for a minute and then looked up with a peculiar light in his eyes.

“For a bachelor you’re doing real well,” he said, still thinking hard.

“Being a bachelor don’t mean that I ain’t never rubbed elbows with women,” replied the foreman. “There are some people that are bachelors because they are too darned smart to get roped and branded because the moon happens to be real bright. But I’ll confess to you that I ain’t a bachelor because I didn’t want to get roped. We won’t say any more about that, however.”

“Well,” said Shields, slowly. “If he tries to get her before I know that he is straight and clean and good enough for her, I’ll just have to stop him any way I can. First of all, I’m looking out for my sister, the h–l with anybody else. But on the other hand, if he makes good and wants her bad enough to rustle for two and she has her mind made up that she’d rather have him than stay single and is head over heels in love with him, I don’t see that there’s anything to worry about. I tell you that he is a good man, a real man, and if he changes like I want him to, she would be a d––d sight better off with him than with some dudish tenderfoot in love with money. He has had such a God-forsaken life that he will be able to appreciate a change like that–he would be square as a brick with her and attentive and loyal–and with him she wouldn’t run much chance of being left a widow. Why, I’ll bet he’ll worship the ground she walks on–she could wind him all around her little finger and he’d never peep. And she would have the best protection that walks around these parts. But, pshaw, all this is too far ahead of the game. How about that herd of cattle you spoke of?”

“I can get you the whole herd dirt cheap,” replied the foreman. “And they are as hungry and healthy a lot as you could wish.”

“Well,” responded the sheriff, “I’ve made up my mind to go ranching again. I can’t stand this loafing, for it don’t amount to much more than that now that The Orphan has graduated out of the outlaw class. I can run a ranch and have plenty of time to attend to the sheriff part of it, too. Ever since I sold the Three-S I have been like a fish out of water. When I got rid of it I put the money away in Kansas City, thinking that I might want to go back at it again. Then I got rid of that mine and bunked the money with the ranch money. The interest has been accumulating for a long time now and I have got something over thirty thousand lying idle. Now, I’m going to put it to work.

“I ran across Crawford last week, and he is dead anxious to sell out and go back East–he don’t like the West. I’ve determined to take the A-Y off his hands, for it’s a good ranch, has good buildings on it, two fine windmills over driven wells, good grass and shelters. Why, he has put up shelters in Long Valley that can’t be duplicated under a thousand dollars. His terms are good–five thousand down and the balance in installments of two thousand a year at three per cent., and I can get over three per cent, while it is lying waiting to be paid to him. He is too blamed sick of his white elephant to haggle over terms. He was foolish to try to run it himself and to sink so much money in driven wells, windmills and buildings–it would astonish you to know how much money he spent in paint alone. What did he know about ranching, anyhow? He can’t hardly tell a cow from a heifer. He said that he knew how to make money earn money in the East, but that he couldn’t make a cent raising cows.

“If The Orphan attends to his new deal I’ll put him in charge and the rest lies with him. I’ll provide him with a good outfit, everything he needs and, if he makes good and the ranch pays, I’ll fix it so he can own a half-interest in it at less than it cost me, and that will give him a good job to hold down for the rest of his life. It’ll be something for him to tie to in case of squalls, but there ain’t much danger of his becoming unsteady, because if he was at all inclined to that sort of thing he would be dead now.

“This ain’t no fly-away notion, as you know. I’ve had an itching for a good ranch for several years, and for just about that length of time I’ve had my eyes on the A-Y. I was going to buy it when Crawford gobbled it up at that fancy price and I felt a little put out when he took up his option on it, but I’m glad he did, now. Why, Reeves sold out to Crawford for almost three times what I am going to pay for it, and it has been improved fifty per cent. since he has had it. But, of course, there was more cattle then than there is now. You get me that herd at a good figure and I’ll be able to take care of them very soon now, just as soon as I close the deal. But, mind you, no Texas cattle goes–I don’t want any Spanish fever in mine.

“I’m thinking some of putting Charley in charge temporarily, just as soon as Sneed gets some men, and when The Orphan takes it over things will be in purty fair shape. I won’t move out there because my wife don’t like ranching–she wants to be in town where she is near somebody, but I’ll spend most of my time out there until everything gets in running order. Oh, yes–in consideration of the five thousand down at the time the papers are signed, Crawford has agreed to leave the ranch-house furnished practically as it is, and that will be nice for Helen and The Orphan if they ever should decide to join hands in double blessedness. You used to have a lot of fun about the high-faluting fixings in your ranch-house, but just wait ’til you see this one! An inside look around will open your eyes some, all right. It is a wonder, a real wonder! Running water from the windmills, a bath-room, sinks in the kitchen, a wood-burning boiler in the cellar, and all the comforts possible. If Crawford tries to move all that stuff back East it would cost him more than he could get for it, and he knows it, too. It’s a bargain at twice the price, and I’m going to nail it. I can’t think of anything else.”

“Well,” replied Blake, “I don’t see how you could do anything better, that’s sure. It all depends on the price, and if you’re satisfied with that, there ain’t no use of turning it down. I know you can make money out there with any kind of attention, for I’m purty well acquainted with the A-Y. And I’ll see about the cattle next week, but you better leave The Orphan stay with me a while longer. My boys are the best crowd that ever lived in a bunk-house, and if he minds his business they’ll smooth down his corners until you won’t hardly know him; and they’ll teach him a little about the cow-puncher game if he’s rusty.

“You remember the time we had that killing out there, don’t you?” Blake asked. “Well, you also remember that we agreed to cut out all gunplay on the ranch in the future, and that I sent East for some boxing gloves, which were to be used in case anybody wanted to settle any trouble. They have been out there for two years now, and haven’t been used except in fun. Give the boys a chance and they’ll cure him of the itching trigger-finger, all right. They’re only a lot of big-hearted, overgrown kids, and they can get along with the devil himself if he’ll let them. But they are hell-fire and brimstone when aroused,” then he laughed softly: “They heard about your trouble with Sneed and they shore was dead anxious to call on the Cross Bar-8 and make a few remarks about long life and happiness, but I made them wait ’til they should be sent for.

“They know all about The Orphan–that is, as much as I did before I called to-night. Joe Haines is a great listener and when he rustles our mail once a week he takes it all in, so of course they know all about it. They had a lot of fun about the way he made the Cross Bar-8 sit up and take notice, for they ain’t wasting any love on Sneed’s crowd. And it took Bill Howland over an hour to tell Joe about his experiences. So when The Orphan met the outfit they knew him to be the man who had saved the sheriff’s sisters, which went a long way with them. Say, Jim,” he exclaimed, “can I tell them what you said about him to-night? Let me tell them everything, for it’ll go far with them, especially with Silent, who had some trouble with the U-B about five years ago. He was taking a herd of about three thousand head across their range and he swears yet at the treatment he got. Yes? All right, it’ll make him solid with the outfit.”

“Tell them anything you want about him,” said the sheriff, “but don’t say anything about the A-Y. I want to keep it quiet for a while.”

Shields poured himself a cup of coffee and then glanced at the clock: “Too late for a game, Tom?” he asked, expectantly.

The foreman laughed: “It’s seldom too late for that,” he replied.

“Good enough!” cried his host. “What shall it be this time–pinochle or crib?”

The foreman slowly closed his eyes as he replied: “Either suits me–this feed has made me plumb easy to please. Why, I’d even play casino to-night!”

“Well, what do you say to crib?” asked the sheriff. “You licked me so bad at it the last time you were here that I hanker to get revenge.”

“Well, I don’t blame you for wanting to get it, but I’ll tell you right now that you won’t, for I can lick the man that invented crib to-night,” laughed the foreman. “Bring out your cards.”

Shields placed the cards on the table and arranged things where they would be handy while his friend shuffled the pack.

The foreman pushed the cards toward his host: “There you are–low deals as usual, I suppose.”

“Oh, you might as well go ahead and deal,” grumbled the sheriff good-naturedly. “I don’t remember ever cutting low enough for you–by George! A five!”

Blake picked up the cards and started to deal, but the sheriff stopped him.

“Hey! You haven’t cut yet!” Shields cried, putting his hand on the cards. “What are you doing, anyhow?”

Blake laughed with delight: “Well, anybody that can’t cut lower than a five hadn’t ought to play the game. What’s the use of wasting time?”

“Well, you never mind about the time–you go ahead and beat me,” cried the sheriff. “Of all the nerve!”

Blake picked up the cards again: “Do you want to cut again?” he asked.

“Not a bit of it! That five stands!”

“Well, how would a four do?” asked the foreman, lifting his hand. “It’s a three!” he exulted. “All that time wasted,” he said.

“You go to blazes,” pleasantly replied the sheriff as he sorted his hand. “This ain’t so bad for you, not at all bad; you could have done worse, but I doubt it.” He discarded, cut, and Blake turned a six.

“Seven,” called Shields as he played.

“Seventeen,” replied Blake, playing a queen.

“No you don’t, either,” grinned the sheriff. “You can play that four later if you want to, but not now on twenty-seven. Call it twenty-five,” he said, playing an eight.

Blake carefully scanned his hand and finally played the four, grumbling a little as his friend laughed.

“Thirty-one–first blood,” remarked the sheriff, dropping the deuce.

While he pegged his points Blake suddenly laughed.

“Say, Jim,” he said, “before I forget it I want to tell you a joke on Humble. He thought it would be easy money if he taught Lee Lung how to play poker. He bothered Lee’s life out of him for several days, and finally the Chinaman consented to learn the great American game.”

Blake played a six and the sheriff scored two by pairing, whereupon his opponent made it threes for six, and took a point for the last card.

“As I was saying, Humble wanted the cook to learn poker. Lee’s face was as blank as a cow’s, and Humble had to explain everything several times before the cook seemed to understand what he was driving at. Anybody would have thought he had been brought up in a monastery and that he didn’t know a card from an army mule.”

Blake pegged his seven points and picked up his cards without breaking the story.

“But Lee had awful luck, and in half an hour he owned half of Humble’s next month’s pay. Now, every time he gets a chance he shows Humble the cards and asks for a game. ‘Nicee game, ploker, nicee game,’ he’ll say. What Humble says is pertinent, profane and permeating. Then the boys guy him to a finish. He’ll be wanting to teach Lee how to play fan-tan some day, so the boys say. Lee must have graduated in poker before Humble ever heard of the game.”

Shields laughed heartily and swiftly ran over his cards.

“Fifteen two, four, six, a pair is eight, and a double run of three is fourteen. Real good,” he said as he pegged. “Passed the crack that time. What have you got?”

The foreman put his cards down, found three sixes and then turned the crib face up. “Pair of tens and His Highness,” he grumbled. “Only three in that crib!”

“That’s what you get for cutting a three,” laughed the sheriff.

The game continued until the striking of the clock startled the guest.

“Midnight!” he cried. “Thirty miles before I get to bed–no, no, I can’t stay with you to-night –much obliged, all the same.”

He clapped his sombrero on his head and started for the door: “Well, better luck next time, Jim–three twenty-four hands shore did make a difference. Right where they were needed, too. So long.”

“Sorry you won’t stay, Tom,” called his friend from the door as the foreman mounted. “You might just as well, you know.”

“I’m sorry, too, but I’ve got to be on hand to-morrow–anyway, it’s bright moonlight–so long!” he cried as he cantered away.

“Hey, Tom!” cried the sheriff, leaping from the porch and running to the gate. “Tom!”

“Hullo, what is it?” asked the foreman, drawing rein and returning.

“Smoke this on your way, it’ll seem shorter,” said the sheriff, holding out a cigar.

“By George, I will!” laughed Blake. “That’s fine, you’re all right!”

“Be good,” cried the sheriff, watching his friend ride down the street.

“Shore enough good–I have to be,” floated back to his ears.

CHAPTER XVI
THE FLYING-MARE

Silent, who was noted among his companions for the length of time he could stay under water, challenged them to a submersion test. The rules were simple, inasmuch as they consisted in all plunging under at the same time, the winner being he who was the last man up. Silent had steadfastly refused to have his endurance timed, which his friends mistook for modesty, and no sooner had all “ducked under” than his head popped up–but this time he was not alone. Humble, whose utmost limit was not over half a minute, grew angry at his inability to make a good showing and craftily determined to take a handicap. The two stared at each other for a space and then burst into laughter, forgetting for the time being what they should do. Other heads bobbed up, and the secret was out. Only that Silent was the best swimmer in the crowd saved him from a ducking, and as it was he had to grab his clothes and run.

After being assured that he was forgiven for his trickery he rejoined his friends and his towel.

More fun was now the rule, for dressing required care. The sandy west bank sloped gradually to the water’s edge, and it was necessary to stand on one foot on a small stone in the water while the other was dipped to remove the sand. Still on one foot the other must be dried, the stocking put on, then the trouser leg and lastly the boot, and woe to the man who lost his balance and splashed stocking and trouser leg as he wildly sought to save it! Humble splashed while his foot was only half-way through the trouser leg, and The Orphan fared even worse. Then a race of awkward runners was on toward the bunk house, where breakfast was annihilated.

“Hey, Tom, what time do we leave?” asked Bud for the fifth time.

“Nine o’clock, you chump,” replied the foreman.

“Three whole hours yet,” grumbled Jim as he again plastered his hair to his head.

“I’ll lose my appetite shore,” worried Humble. “We got up too blamed early, that’s what we did.”

“Why, here’s Humble!” cried Silent in mock surprise. “Do you like apricot pie, and gingerbread and real coffee?”

“You go to the devil,” grumbled Humble. “You wouldn’t ’a’ been asked at all, only she couldn’t very well cut you out of it when she asked me along. I’m the one she really wants to feed; you fellers just happen to tag on behind, that’s all.”

“Going to take Lightning with you, Humble?” asked Docile, winking at the others.

“Why, I shore am,” replied Humble in surprise. “Do you reckon I’d leave him and that d––-d Chink all alone together, you sheep?”

“I was afraid you wouldn’t,” pessimistically grumbled Docile, but here he smiled hopefully. “Suppose you take Lee Lung and leave the dog here?” he queried.

“Suppose you quit supposing with your feet!” sarcastically countered Humble. “I know you ain’t got much brains, but you might exercise what little you have got once in a while. It won’t hurt you none after you get used to it.”

“How are you going to carry him, Humble–like a papoose?” queried Joe with a great show of interest.

Humble stared at him: “Huh!” he muttered, being too much astonished to say more.

“I asked you how you are going to carry your fighting wolfhound,” Joe said without the quiver of an eyelash. “I thought mebby you was going to sling him on your back like a papoose.”

“Carry him! Papoose!” ejaculated Humble in withering irony. “What do you reckon his legs are for? He ain’t no statue, he ain’t no ornament, he’s a dog.”

“Well, I knowed he ain’t no ornament, but I wasn’t shore about the rest of it,” responded Joe. “I only wanted to know how he’d get to town. There ain’t no crime in asking about that, is there? I know he can’t follow the gait we’ll hit up for thirty miles, so I just naturally asked, sabe?”

“Oh, you did, did you!” cried Humble, not at all humbly. “He can’t follow us, can’t he?” he yelled belligerently.

“He shore can’t, cross my heart,” asserted Silent in great earnestness. “If he runs to Ford’s Station after us and gets there inside of two days I’ll buy him a collar. That goes.”

“Huh!” snorted Humble in disgust, “he won’t wear your old collar after he wins it. He’s got too much pride to wear anything you’ll give him.”

“He couldn’t, you mean,” jabbed Jim. “He’s so plumb tender that it would strain his back to carry it. Why, he has to sit down and rest if more’n two flies get on the same spot at once.”

“He can’t wag his tail more’n three times in an hour,” added Bud, “and when he scratches hisself he has to rest for the remainder of the day.”

Humble turned to The Orphan in an appealing way: “Did you ever see so many d––d fools all at once?” he beseeched.

The Orphan placed his finger to his chin and thought for fully half a minute before replying: “I was just figuring,” he explained in apology for his abstraction. Then his face brightened: “You can tie him up in a blanket–that’s the best way. Yes, sir, tie him up in a blanket and sling him at the pommel. We’ll take turns carrying him.”

“Purple h–l!” yelled Humble. “You’re another! The whole crowd are a lot of ––!”

“Sing it, Humble,” suggested Tad, laughing. “Sing it!”

“Whistle some of it, and send the rest by mail,” assisted Jack Lawson.

“Seen th’ dlog?” came a bland, monotonous voice from the doorway, where Lee Lung stood holding a chunk of beef in one hand, while his other hand was hidden behind his back. Over his left shoulder projected half a foot of club, which he thought concealed. “Seen th’ dlog?” he repeated, smiling.

“Miss Mirandy and holy hell!” shouted Humble, leaping forward at sight of the club. There was a swish! and Humble rebounded from the door, at which he stared. From the rear of the house came more monotonous words: “Nice dlog-gie. Pletty Lightling. Here come. Gette glub,” and Humble galloped around the corner of the house, swearing at every jump.

When the laughter had died down Blake smiled grimly: “Some day Lee will get that dog, and when he does he’ll get him good and hard. Then we’ll have to get another cook. I’ve told him fifty times if I’ve told him once not to let it go past a joke, but it’s no use.”

“He won’t hurt the cur, he’s only stringing Humble,” said Bud. “Nobody would hurt a dog that minded his own business.”

“If anybody hit a dog of mine for no cause, he wouldn’t do it again unless he got me first,” quietly remarked The Orphan.

Jim hastily pointed to the corner of the house where a club projected into sight: “There’s Lee now!” he whispered hurriedly. “He’s laying for him!”

There was a sudden spurt of flame and smoke and the club flew several yards, struck by three bullets. Humble hopped around the corner holding his hand, his words too profane for repetition.

Smoke filtered from The Orphan’s holster and eyes opened wide in surprise at the wonderful quickness of his gunplay, for no one had seen it. All there was was smoke.

“Good God!” breathed Blake, staring at the marksman, who had stepped forward and was explaining to Humble. “It’s a good thing Shields was square!” he muttered.

“Did you see that?” asked Bud of Jim in whispered awe. “And I thought I was some beans with a six-shooter!”

“No, but I heard it–was they one or six?” replied Jim.

“I didn’t know it was you, Humble,” explained The Orphan. “I thought it was the Chink laying for the dog.”

“–– ––! Good for you!” cried Humble in sudden friendliness. “You’re all right, Orphant, but will you be sure next time? That stung like blazes,” he said as he held out his hand. “I can always tell a white man by the way he treats a dog. If all men were as good as dogs this world would be a blamed sight nicer place to live in, and don’t you forget it.”

“Still going to take Lightning with you, Humble?” asked Bud.

“No, I ain’t going to take Lightning with me!” snapped Humble. “I’m going to leave him right here on the ranch,” here his voice arose to a roar, “and if any sing-song, rope-haired, animated hash-wrastler gets gay while I’m gone, I’ll send him to his heathen hell!”

“Come on, boys,” said Blake, snapping his watch shut. “Time to get going.”

“Glory be!” exulted Silent, executing a few fancy steps toward the corral, his companions close behind, with the exception of The Orphan, who had gone into the bunk house for a minute.

As they whooped their way toward the town Blake noticed that a gold pin glittered at the knot of the new recruit’s neck-kerchief, and he chuckled when he recalled the warning he had given to the sheriff. He shrewdly guessed that the apricot pie and the rest of the feast were quite subordinated by The Orphan to the girl who had given him the pin.