The Trail of Deception

By W. C. Tuttle

Jim Bailey was reported dead—which gave him a clear field for a profitable game!

I

Jim Bailey was thoroughly disgusted and discouraged, as he sat down on a park bench. It was nearly dark, and the lights were blinking around him. Jim was only twenty-five years of age, fairly-well dressed, fairly good-looking; an average young man, trying to buck the world.

For two days he had tried to find a job, but with no success. He had two dollars in his pocket, owed ten dollars room rent, due right now—and an assurance from the landlady that unless he produced the back rent tonight—

Jim was a bookkeeper. That is, he tried to keep books, if he could have found some books to keep.

He tried to tell himself that he would be all right, if it was not for Cliff De Haven, that doggone chiseler! Cliff was an actor—a hoofer. That is, he was when there was a job for him. When there wasn’t he shared Jim’s room, but not in any financial sense of the word. He also ate at Jim’s expense. Cliff was a hard man to insult. At least, Jim Bailey found him so. Maybe Jim didn’t use the right words.

Cliff always had a big deal coming up. Last night he had told Jim that he was all set for the biggest deal of his life and that Jim would profit thereby. Cliff chummed with a down-at-the-heel private detective named Bob Hawley. Jim hated Hawley. Often he ate with Cliff, and Jim paid the check. Yes, if he could get rid of Cliff De Haven—but what was the use?

It was about eight o’clock when Jim got off the bench and walked to his room. He simply could not pay the bill, so there was no use trying to fool the landlady any longer.

The landlady was not in sight as Jim came in. He looked into the series of pigeon-holes at the desk, took out a letter addressed to Cliff De Haven and a folded sheet of paper, on which was printed in the landlady’s familiar hand:

Dear Mr. Bailey: Unless you can pay me ten dollars tonight, I must ask you to vacate early in the morning.

Jim Bailey crumpled the paper and tossed it into the wastebasket. No use keeping it. He went up to his room, where he tossed his hat aside and sat down on the edge of the bed. The built-in wardrobe door was open, facing him as he sat, and he got up quickly and investigated. His best suit was missing, his one best shirt, his best pair of shoes. On the table was a penciled note, which said:

Sorry, old man, but I had to put on a little dog. Will see you tomorrow. Also borrowed your watch, as I needed something to make a little flash. Thanks.

Cliff.

Jim threw the letter aside in disgust. It was like Cliff to do a thing like that. Suddenly it occurred to him that Cliff had neglected to empty the pockets, in which were several letters, cards and things like that. He had probably dressed and got out in a hurry, knowing that Jim would soon be back.

Jim expected a visit from the landlady, but she did not put in an appearance, so he went to bed, leaving the door unlocked. Cliff would probably show up before daylight, full of apologies and other things.

But Cliff did not show up. Jim got up about eight o’clock. He had an old suit-case, but little to put in it until Cliff came back with that suit and clothes. He went out to get some breakfast and ran into a new chambermaid at the bottom of the steps. He inquired about the landlady, and the woman said she was sick.

“Will she be here today?” he asked.

“She will not,” replied the woman. “She has some sort of infiction.”

Jim went out to the street, grinning. He said half-aloud, “I’ll bet she bit herself.”

He ate breakfast in a cheap restaurant and bought a paper, mostly for the want-ads. He glanced at the front page and his own name seemed to jump up at him. A smash-up between a truck and a street car—gasoline explosion—several people killed and injured! Only two bodies identified. Robert Hawley, a private detective. The other was, according to the police, Jim Bailey, address unknown. Partly-burned papers in his pocket and a wrist watch positively identified him. Hawley was identified by unburned articles in his possession.

Jim Bailey

Jim Bailey leaned against a post and drew a deep breath. His suit! His watch! He looked vacantly at the traffic along the street. Jim Bailey was dead—it said so in the paper. Walking in sort of a daze he went back to his room. Address unknown. He sat down on the edge of the bed and tried to realize what had happened. Jim Bailey was dead. That was a good joke.

He started to light a cigaret, then remembered the letter for Cliff De Haven. It was there on the table. There was no letterhead on the envelope, and the postmark was blurred. He opened the letter and looked it over. Cliff would never read it. It said:

You will find transportation waiting for you at the S. P. ticket office. Come to Pinnacle City and contact me at once. Office on the main street. Bob Hawley says you can do the job. Remember, your name is Jim Meade. Don’t talk with anyone, until we can get together on this deal, and don’t mention anything that Bob has told you. Wear no fancy clothes—you’re supposed to be in meager circumstances.

Jim Bailey read it twice and then sat there, an unlighted cigaret between his lips. This must have been the deal that Cliff had mentioned. He studied the postmark again and now he could see that it was Pinnacle City, Arizona. What sort of a deal was this, he wondered? Cliff was supposed to go to Pinnacle City, take the name of Meade—and what else?

Pinnacle City sounded interesting, like a small town. Jim Bailey had always lived in a big city. A sudden thought caused him to squint at the faded wall-paper of his room. Just suppose this Ed McLean had never—of course he had never seen Cliff De Haven. Bob Hawley had told McLean about Cliff. Why not take a chance? No job, no home, no ties of any kind. Jim Bailey grinned slowly.

“Wear no fancy clothes,” he quoted aloud. “You’re supposed to be in meager circumstances. Brother, you meant me!”

He took his almost-empty suit-case and left the house. There was no one in the lobby. He walked to the ticket office, where he asked about the transportation. After being shunted from desk to desk, he was sent into an office, where the man said:

“Have you anything for identification?”

Jim Bailey shook his head. “Not a thing. Oh, yes—this letter.”

It was the one sent to Cliff De Haven. The man looked at it.

“You look honest, young man,” he said smiling. “Here is your ticket, and here is the ten dollars expense money.”

Jim Bailey walked out of the office and headed for the depot.

“Good-by, Jim Bailey,” he said to himself. “I feel like a new man. Maybe I’ll just get kicked in the pants, maybe they’ll dump me into a nice Arizona jail. That is in the hands of the gods. There is one angle, though, in which I can excel—and that is in forgetting that my name ever was Cliff De Haven. If I live and prosper, I’ll send ten dollars to that landlady.”

The town of Northport is twenty-five miles north of Pinnacle City. Passengers for Pinnacle City get off the train at Northport, and take the stage. Northport itself is no metropolis, with its one street and few false-fronted buildings. Jim Bailey looked it over and decided it would be a good place to get out of at once. However, the stage would not leave for an hour, so he sat down in the little stage-depot and tried to enjoy a smoke.

The nearer he got to Pinnacle City the less he thought of this personal masquerade he was going to attend.

Northport was depressing. At least it was until a young lady came from the depot, carrying a valise, which she placed on a seat. She was little over five feet tall, with dark, wavy hair, a beautiful olive complexion, and wonderful eyes. Jim Bailey decided that there wasn’t anything wrong with those lips either. Jim Bailey admired beauty, but was woefully girl-shy. He had felt that a girl was a luxury far beyond his pocket-book.

An old timer came into the depot, grizzled, bow-legged, clad in overalls, flannel shirt and high-heeled boots. He stared at the girl for a moment and blurted:

“Mary Deal—or I’m a sizzlin’ sidewinder!”

“You’re not, Uncle Len,” laughed the girl. “How are you?”

“I’m finer’n frawg-hair, Mary. Golly, I’m shore glad to see yuh. It’s been—uh-h-h-h—Mary, I plumb forgot.”

“About Uncle Clint?” asked the girl. The man nodded.

“Why didn’t somebody send me a wire?” she asked. “Even a letter might have given me time to get here. I never knew it had happened for over two weeks after he was buried.”

The stage driver nodded sadly. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “Ed McLean was to have let yuh know, Mary. He knowed you was at college. He said he just forgot.”

“Well, I suppose it can’t be helped,” she said. “But I did want to be here, you see. After all he did for me—”

“Yeah, I know. It was too bad, Mary. Is that yore valise? I’ll put it on the stage.”

The driver looked at Jim Bailey.

“Are you my other passenger?” he asked.

“I believe I am, sir,” replied Jim.

“Good! My name’s Carson. What’s yours?”

“My name is Jim Meade.”

“Fine. Mary Deal, meet Jim Meade.”

They both smiled. Len Carson said, “I like to make my passengers used to each other. It’s a long ways to Pinnacle City.”

Mary and Jim meeting at the stagecoach door

“Mary Deal, meet Jim Meade”

“Can’t I ride on the seat with you, Uncle Len?” asked Mary.

“I’d shore love to have yuh,” replied the driver, “but I can’t. Company passed a rule agin it, Mary. Four, five weeks ago I had a whisky drummer on the seat with me. Hit a chuck-hole and lost m’ drummer. Hung him up by the seat of the pants on a manzanita snag, ten feet down on the side of Coyote Canyon. If he hadn’t been wearin’ awful tough britches, I’d have lost him. He sued the stage company for ten thousand dollars, but they settled for a hundred and a new pair of pants. Sorry, but I cain’t take chances, Mary. Women’s clothes wouldn’t hold up nothin’, snagged on a manzanita.”

Mary laughed and got into the old stage. Jim followed her in, and the stage headed for Pinnacle City. Len Carson was a wild driver, but he had never wrecked a stage. It was the first time that Jim had ever ridden over a road like that, and it rather frightened him, but Mary only laughed.

“Why are you going to Pinnacle City?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” replied Jim. “My plans are rather vague.”

“I haven’t been there for over eight months,” she said. “I’ve been away to school.”

“Is your home in Pinnacle City?” he asked.

“It was,” she replied. “I don’t know what will happen now.”

Jim looked at her curiously, and she explained.

“I have no father or mother. Clint Haverty adopted me several years ago. He was wonderful to me. He died a few weeks ago, but no one notified me in time to attend his funeral. I came as soon as I heard about him.”

“That wasn’t a fair deal,” said Jim.

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Was he a relative?”

Mary shook her head. “No, we were not related in any way. Uncle Clint knew my mother, and when she died I went to live at the Lazy H. But he’s dead now and I don’t know what will happen.”

“Has he any relatives?”

“He has two cousins in Pinnacle City, Ace and Dick Haverty. They own the Box Four H outfit. Uncle Clint never liked them.”

“This Box Four H and the Lazy H, and all that is Greek to me,” confessed Jim. “I have never been out of a city in my life before. I suppose they are places where cattle are raised.”

“That’s right, Mr. Meade. You’ll soon learn. Have you ever ridden a horse?”

“No, I never have. Is it difficult?”

“I don’t know,” said the girl smiling. “I’ve worked with horses ever since I can remember. You will learn—the hard way.”

“Everything I have ever learned was the hard way,” Jim admitted.

II

In spite of the dust and the rough road, the ride to Pinnacle City seemed short to Jim Bailey. Pinnacle City was booming with some new mining strikes. Jim left his valise in the stage depot and located Ed McLean’s office.

The lawyer was short, fat and nearly bald. Seated behind his desk, he looked at Jim Bailey thoughtfully. This young man didn’t exactly look like ready money.

“Well, young man, what can I do for you?” he asked.

“I am Jim Meade,” replied Bailey soberly.

McLean twitched visibly and his pale-blue eyes blinked.

“Jim Meade?” he asked. “You—uh—ah, yes, Jim Meade. Well, I—”

“I am answering your letter,” explained Jim.

“Oh!” the lawyer’s relief was explosive. “For a moment, I had an idea—sit down! I want to look at you. Hm-m-m-m. You don’t look very prosperous, but that is good.”

McLean leaned back in his chair, an expression of satisfaction on his face. Apparently Jim Bailey met with his approval.

“You’ll do,” he half-whispered. “Have you met anybody—talked with anybody?”

“I met a girl on the stage. Mary Deal.”

“Did she come in this morning?” asked McLean quickly. “I was expecting her, but I didn’t know when she was coming. Did she talk with you?”

“Yes, some. I told her my name was Meade.”

“Hm-m-m! Still, that name wouldn’t mean anything to her.”

“You were expecting her?”

“Yes—I wrote to her. But forget girls. This deal is a big one, and we can’t afford to miss out on it, my friend. How are you fixed for funds?”

“I am not.”

“I see. Well, go easy. Here is fifty dollars. Your room will not cost over a dollar a day. Don’t drink, don’t gamble. Let me handle everything. And above all, don’t try to explain anything.”

“Isn’t that a rather ridiculous order?” asked Jim. “After all, what could I explain?”

“True. But if anybody asks you questions about where you come from and what you are doing here—evade them.”

“When do I learn what this deal is all about?” asked Jim.

“Didn’t Hawley tell you anything about it?”

Jim shook his head, wondering if Hawley should have told him.

“Does Hawley get a cut out of the deal?” he asked.

“I’ll take care of Hawley. As soon as we can get together, I’ll explain everything. Too many people come in here. I’ll get in touch with you tonight, if I can, and we’ll go into the deal.”

Jim got his suit-case at the stage depot and secured a room at the hotel. He signed the register with the name of Jim Meade, and gave his address as San Francisco. The lobby was full of roughly-dressed men, some of them wearing chaps and spurs—and guns. Jim Bailey didn’t like that idea. He stopped at the top of the stairs and saw several of them examine the register.

“I feel like a criminal,” he told himself, “and I haven’t done a thing—yet.”

The food was good in the little restaurant, but Jim spent most of his time watching the people. In all his life he had never seen as many hard-looking men, but they seemed good-natured, having a good time. There were cowboys, cattlemen, miners, prospectors, and a sprinkling of dapper-looking gamblers. Just after dark he met Ed McLean on the street.

“I’ve been looking for you, Jim,” the lawyer said. “We can’t talk tonight, but I typed out some stuff for you to memorize. Put this in your pocket and study it in your room. See you tomorrow.”

Jim went back to his room and studied the paper. It read:

You are Jim Meade, born twenty-seven years ago in Denver, Colo. Your mother was Gale Haverty, your father was Henry Meade. He was a small merchant, and died fifteen years ago. Your mother died nine years ago. You heard vaguely of relatives in the Pinnacle country, and came here, hoping to get work.

Jim studied the few lines carefully. It still didn’t make sense. He repeated it over to himself several times, tore the note into small pieces and sifted them out the window, where they blew away in the breeze.

“Haverty?” queried Jim to himself. “That’s the name of the man who died and left the big ranch—the one Mary—” He stopped and thought things over. “But where does Jim Meade enter into the deal? Maybe Jim Bailey is getting in over his head. Well, I’ve got to know a lot more about it than this, before I get excited.”

Mary Deal sat on the big porch of the Lazy H and talked things over with Tellurium Woods, the old cook, who had been there for years. Tellurium was as wide as he was high, and he was only five feet, three inches tall. Except for a tuft above each ear, Tellurium was as bald as a billiard-ball.

“You’ll jist have to blame Ed McLean for not bein’ told about Clint dyin’,” sighed Tellurium. “I reckon he was too busy to do much thinkin’. Ed McLean and the Cattlemen’s Bank are the executioners of the will, which ain’t been read yet. I heard it was to be read tomorrow. You’ll get the Lazy H—that’s a cinch. Clint wouldn’t give Ace and Dick Haverty the sleeves out of his vest.”

Mary had no comments. A rider came up to the ranch-house and drew up at the porch. The rider was tall and thin, with a long, rather humorous-looking face. He took off his sombrero and grinned at them.

“I’m lookin’ for the ramrod of this spread,” he said quietly.

“If I ain’t mistaken, pardner,” replied Tellurium, “you’ll find Tex Parker down around the corrals.”

“Much obliged, mister—and ma’am,” he said soberly, and rode down across the yard.

“There goes Arizona,” said Mary.

“Huh? I didn’t git it.”

Mary laughed. “When I was at school, I thought of Arizona a lot, Tellurium—and Arizona was always a tall cowpoke on a long-legged horse, squinting into the sun.”

“Yeah, I know what yuh mean. That hombre looks like real folks, and he packs his gun low and handy. I like his grin.”

The tall cowboy found Tex Parker at the stable. Tex was a raw-boned cowboy, hard-faced, with little sense of humor. He sized up the stranger questioningly.

“Yo’re Tex Parker? Good! I’m knowed as Skeeter. Smith is the last designation. Glad to meet yuh.”

Skeeter Smith dismounted and leaned against the fence. “What can I do for yuh, Smith?” asked the foreman.

“A job,” replied Skeeter. “I was up in Pinnacle City, kinda askin’ around, and somebody told me that the bank was runnin’ the Lazy H; so I went to see the head-man of the bank, and he said you was startin’ a roundup next week.”

“I see,” said Parker. He didn’t like the idea of the bank taking things over like that. After all, nothing had been settled.

“I’m just a pilgrim,” said Skeeter. “Kinda moseyin’ around all the time, lookin’ at things and places. Right nice lookin’ spread you’ve got here. I’ve been rated as a top-hand with cows.”

Tex Parker smiled. “You pack yore gun awful low for jist a pilgrim,” he remarked.

“Long arms,” said Skeeter soberly. “Kinda lazy, too. Hate to have to crook m’ elbow too much. How about a job for a while?”

The foreman nodded. “All right, Smith. I’ll show yuh a bunk, and you can dump yore war-bag. Start workin’ in the mornin’.”

“Right nice and pleasant of yuh, Parker. Thanks.”

Skeeter Smith left his war-bag in the bunk-house, got on his horse and headed back for Pinnacle City. Tex Parker was thoughtful, as he went back to the stable.

“I’d like to know who that rannahan is,” he remarked to himself. “Pilgrim! Oh, well, all I want is a good cow-hand—and he talks like a good one.”

On the porch Tellurium and Mary were talking about Len Carson, the stage-driver.

“Ol’ Len’s a character,” laughed the cook. “I think he was exaggeratin’ about the drummer. I don’t believe he ever fell into Coyote Canyon. I heard the drummer made a derogatory re-mark about some woman in Pinnacle City, and Len knocked him off the seat. Didja hear about Len gettin’ held up? No?

“Yeah, that happened about a month ago. Two fellers stuck up the stage. Got away with some gold from the Santa Isabella mine, and some registered mail, I heard. Had masks on. Len wasn’t able to say who they looked like.”

“Len never told me about it,” said Mary. “In fact, we didn’t have much chance to talk.”

“You mentioned a passenger named Meade,” said Tellurium. “Yuh know, I’ve been thinkin’ about that name, and I kinda remembered Clint speakin’ of somebody named Meade. It seems to me that it was some relate of his’n, but I can’t be sure.”

“I suppose there are a lot of people by that name,” said Mary.

“Yeah, I reckon there must be. Well, I’ve got to start cookin’.”

Tellurium bow-legged his way into the house, headed for the kitchen. He whistled off-key, but with enthusiasm.

III

Jim Bailey’s first night as Jim Meade was fraught with bad dreams and bed-bugs. Stampeding cattle and bucking horses trampled him into the dust while Mary Deal hung suspended over the side of a cliff, her skirt twisted into a manzanita snag. Jim wanted to be a hero, and save her, but his former landlady showed up and chased him through the brush. However, the bugs were very real.

The bank had notified Ace and Dick Haverty to come in at ten o’clock that morning to listen to the reading of Clint Haverty’s will, and they were in, dressed in their Sunday clothes, looking very uncomfortable. They were a hulking pair of unshaved, unwashed cattlemen, expecting nothing from the estate of their uncle.

Ed McLean, the attorney, was there. No one had invited Mary Deal. Thomas Estabrook, the white-haired banker, was there, grim-visaged, as became a banker. Ed McLean, after a short preamble extolling the virtues of Clinton Haverty, opened the sealed envelope. The will was short and to the point, witnessed by the postmaster and the proprietor of the hotel.

It left the Lazy H ranch—buildings, furniture, all live-stock and money in the bank—to Jim Meade, son of his sister, Gale, and Henry Meade, last heard of in Denver, Colorado. It gave Ace and Dick Haverty each a silver dollar, but did not even mention Mary Deal. Mace Adams, the grizzled sheriff of Pinnacle City, was in at the reading.

“I have never heard of Jim Meade,” Estabrook said. “Didn’t Clint say anything to you about him, Ed?”

“I asked him about Meade, when he signed the will,” replied the lawyer. “He said, ‘It is up to you to find him.’ I have no idea where to look, Mr. Estabrook. Of course, we can—”

“Wait a minute!” exclaimed the sheriff. “Meade? Why, there’s a stranger at the hotel, and I’m sure he signed that name.”

“That,” said McLean, “would be a coincidence.”

“That would be my opinion, too,” said the banker meaningly.

The sheriff found Jim Bailey at the hotel, sprawled in a chair, reading an old paper.

“Your name is Meade—Jim Meade?”

“Why yes,” nodded Jim. He saw the insigna of office on the sheriff’s vest, and swallowed painfully.

“Come up to the bank with me,” said the sheriff. “If your name is Meade, we need you.”

Jim Bailey got slowly to his feet. “The—the bank hasn’t been robbed, has it?” he asked haltingly.

“Not yet,” smiled the sheriff. “This is about a will.”

Jim Bailey went with him. The presence of Ed McLean was reassuring, at least. The two Havertys looked at him indifferently.

“He says his name is Jim Meade,” announced the sheriff.

“I see,” mused the banker. “Your name is Jim Meade?”

Jim Bailey nodded. “What is all this about?” he asked.

“Do you claim that you are the nephew of Clinton Haverty?” asked McLean pompously.

“Clinton Haverty?” parroted Jim. “Why, I—I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” snorted the banker. “What are you doing in Pinnacle City, young man?”

“I happen to be minding my own business,” retorted Jim hotly. He didn’t like the attitude of Thomas Estabrook, and showed it.

“Let me handle this,” suggested the lawyer. “We understand that you are Jim Meade. The question is—are you related to the late Clinton Haverty?”

“I told you that I don’t know. I have heard that I had some relatives in this country, but I don’t know their names. I came here, looking for work.”

“What sort of work?” asked the banker.

“I am a bookkeeper.”

“Where and when were you born?” asked McLean.

“In Denver,” replied Jim. “I am twenty-seven.”

“That checks,” said McLean. “What was your mother’s maiden name—her first name?”

“Gale,” replied Jim quietly. The effect was good. “My mother died about nine years ago.”

It suddenly occurred to Jim that it was ridiculous for him not to know that his mother’s name had been Haverty, but no one asked him.

“What was your father’s given name?” the banker asked.

“Henry,” replied Jim Bailey. “He died fifteen years ago.”

The banker sighed and looked at McLean, who was lighting his pipe.

“What is this all about—or am I not supposed to know?” Jim demanded.

“Young man,” replied the banker, “Clinton Haverty died a few weeks ago and the bulk of his holdings have been left to a Jim Meade, who was born in Denver, twenty-seven years ago. It is very coincidental that you should come here at this time, but your answers seem definite. Of course, this will cannot be probated for a while, at least until the judge recovers from an illness. The court will, of course, demand all possible proof before accepting you as the legal heir to the Lazy H. The reading of this will was held up by me until such a time as Mary Deal could be present. I supposed, of course, that she would be mentioned. However, Mr. McLean neglected to tell me that she was not included.”

“I don’t know what to say,” said Jim Bailey. “I had no idea of anything like this. It rather—er—floors me, gentlemen.”

“All we git is a silver dollar apiece, eh?” grunted Ace Haverty. “That wasn’t worth ridin’ in for!”

“In these clothes, too!” added Dick Haverty.

“You didn’t expect he’d leave you anything, did you?” asked the banker curiously.

“Not ’less he had some loose debts hangin’ around,” replied Ace. Dick roared with laughter, slapping his leg.

“That’s a good’n!” he gasped. “Ace, yo’re a dinger!”

“I believe that is all, gentlemen,” said the lawyer. “Nothing more can be done until the will is offered for probate.”

“How about giving Meade a job in the bank?” asked McLean. It would do away with the problem of expense money.

The banker shook his head.

“There is no opening,” he replied, “and if there was, I’d have to know a lot about a man—a lot more than we know about Mr. Meade.”

Jim Bailey went back to the hotel, feeling that the banker was suspicious. Jim knew now what McLean’s game was and wondered just what he would have to do for McLean, in case he got the Lazy H. But Jim was not without certain fears. If they ever did discover his real identity, or prove that he was not Jim Meade—Jim Bailey didn’t like to think about it. He was anxious to have a long talk with Ed McLean, but realized McLean had to be careful.

It didn’t take long for the news of the will to become known. The general opinion was that Clint Haverty had done entirely wrong in not including Mary Deal in the will. As far as the two Haverty boys were concerned, they got too much. Tellurium Woods, the Lazy H cook, and Archie Haas, horse wrangler, came to Pinnacle City after dark. These two had stayed away from liquor up to the limit of their ability. They met with Cactus Spears, the deputy sheriff, who was a fraternal soul, dogged by thirst. Cactus was small, wiry, with a long nose and inquiring eyebrows. Archibald Haas was a long-armed, big-footed person, whose I.Q. was just below zero, but companionable. These three entered the Antelope Saloon and spaced themselves closely against the bar.

They drank soberly and solemnly, bowing to each other before each drink. Sam Ballew, the bartender, looked upon them with evident apprehension. They had started this way before and ended up in a blaze of glory.

“I unnerstand the Lazy H is roundin’ up t’morrow,” Cactus said.

“Thaz true,” replied Tellurium. “We’ve gotta count all the li’l dogies. The bank wants it.”

“Wha’ they goin’ do with ’em?” asked Archibald, “Put ’em in the shafe?”

It wasn’t funny. Even the bartender didn’t laugh.

“I shuppose you have heard ’bout Mary not bein’ mentioned in Clint’s will,” Cactus said.

“Heaven’s m’ home!” gasped Tellurium. “You mean— Cactus, old friend, yo’re lyin’ to me. You mean—yuh do?”

Patiently Cactus told them of the will and its contents. Archibald cried on the bar, but Tellurium, built of more solid fiber, cursed the name of Meade. In fact, he went back far beyond the immediate ancestry of Jim Meade, and laid the family tree out cold. When he had finished, or rather, run out of wind, Cactus added:

“If that gallinipper thinks he can come here and take things away from that li’l gal—he’s mishtaken.”

“Absholutely and positive,” agreed Tellurium. “We’ll run him out of here sho fasht that it’ll take sheven days of brill’nt shunshine to let his shadder catch up with him.”

“I vote f’r immediate mashacree,” piped up Archibald.

“Oh, yo’re jus’ im—im—petuous,” said Cactus. “Tha’s all—jist an ingpetuous pershon. Ol’ impetuous.”

“I’m Archibald,” corrected the horse-wrangler.

“Gotta go eashy,” warned Tellurium. “Might scare him. Wait’ll he goes to bed. Then we’ll schneak in on him.”

“Tha’s shenshible,” agreed Cactus. “Then what’ll we do to ’im?”

“Don’t rush me,” replied Tellurium. “I’ve got wonnerful ideas, but don’ rush me, Cactus. Let’s have ’nother dram.”

They had several. Luckily Mace Adams, the sheriff, didn’t find his deputy. He had warned Cactus to keep away from strong drink. It impaired the dignity of the office. It didn’t help Cactus’ own dignity either, because he became more bow-legged than ever. But they had decided to visit the iniquities of Clint Haverty on the victim of his choice.

“’F I didn’ do shomethin’,” declared Tellurium, “I could never look that sweet young lady in the fasch again.”

“I’m with you to the bitter end,” declared Cactus.

“Bit ’er end?” queried Archibald. “Esplain it to me, Tellurium.”

“Have ’nother drink, Archibald,” invited Cactus. “You’ve got to be drunk to obscure yore natural stupidity. Yore natural reshources are depleted, don’t-cha know it.”

“I’m jus’ a horsh-wrangler,” sobbed Archibald.

“Well, jus’ don’t tell the horshes, or you’ll have trouble with ’em.”

“The horshes know me,” said Archibald.

“Don’t get too familiar with ’em,” advised Cactus. “The firs’ thing you know they’ll be wranglin’ you. Have drink?”

“It makes me sick, thinkin’ about Mary,” said Tellurium.

“Don’t worry,” advised Cactus. “We’ll do her proud.”

Jim Bailey was getting ready for bed, when his door banged open and the three men came in. Cactus had a gun in his hand, waving it in wide circles, while Tellurium had a lariat-rope. Archibald was too drunk to more than lend his moral support to the project. Jim Bailey was clad in some old pajamas, and it might be recorded that the entrance of these men frightened him.

“Schtop runnin’ ’round like that!” Cactus ordered.

“I’m not moving,” assured Jim Bailey.

“Good!” grunted Tellurium, shaking out the loop.

“What’s the matter with you?” asked Jim. “What have I done?”

“It’s that will,” explained Tellurium. “You ain’t gonna git it, I’ll tell yuh that. This is yore finish, Misser Meade.”

Tellurium suddenly flung the loop. Perhaps Tellurium’s sense of direction was no better than Cactus’, because the loop missed Jim Bailey by three feet and circled the lamp on the table. The next moment the room was as dark as a dungeon.

For the next twenty seconds or more, there was only the sound of strong men in mortal combat, the crash of a chair, the upsetting of the table. Then Tellurium’s voice rang in triumph.

“I’ve got him! C’mon, grab the rope, and we’ll drag him out.”

Willing hands helped him in the dark. They yanked the door open, dragged their struggling victim the length of the dark hall and down the stairs. It was a soundless voyage, except for the scuffling feet, the dragging of the victim. Old Hank Voigt, the hotelkeeper, gazed in open-mouthed wonder, his glasses balanced on the end of his long nose, as they came down the stairs.

The three men were almost at the bottom of the stairs, before their victim, roped around the legs, came bumping down behind them, taking the brunt of the bumping on that part of him designed by nature for such things as bumps.

Cactus backed over a chair and went sprawling, and the other two ceased hauling when the victim landed on the floor-level.

“Wh-what’s goin’ on here?” blurted Old Hank. “What’s Archibald done?”

Tellurium leaned against the desk, panting wearily, blinking. Beside him, hanging onto the rope, was Jim Bailey, his pajamas flopping. At the foot of the stairs sat Archibald Haas, his two legs roped, a pained expression on his face, together with a fast-swelling eye. Cactus got slowly to his feet. Tellurium stared at Jim Bailey, looked over at Archibald and said:

“Didja ever see such hair on a dog?”

“Dog?” queried Jim Bailey blankly.

“You!” snorted Tellurium. “What’r you doin’, hangin’ onto that rope, feller?”

Jim Bailey swallowed heavily. “You—you said, ‘Grab the rope,’ and I—I grabbed.”

“Who hit me?” asked Archibald, getting loose and to his very unsteady feet. “I crave to know who hit me—that’s what I’ve got a cravin’ t’ know.”

Cactus sat down in a chair, tears running down his cheeks. Tellurium shrugged helplessly, while Jim Bailey leaned against the counter and tried to reason out a few things. Hank Voigt said:

“Young feller, you better go back and hide yore shame. There’s a two-foot rip in the back of them drawers.”

Jim Bailey went up the stairs in nothing flat, clutching at his rear. Tellurium looked Archibald over critically.

“Archibald, if yo’re through foolin’, we’ll go home,” he said.

“I’d love it,” said Archibald soberly. “Yuh know, when I’m in the city I jist cain’t re-lax.”

Jim Bailey went back to his room, righted the table and managed to light the lamp. The chimney was broken, but the rest of the lamp was all right. Some oil had spilled, and the place smelled of kerosene, but Jim was too upset to care. Those men might have killed him.

He could not quite figure out just why he helped them haul Archibald Haas down the stairs. Perhaps he had been a bit confused. He was about to blow out the guttering lamp and go to bed, when someone knocked softly on his door.

It was Ed McLean, the lawyer. He glanced at the lamp, sniffed disgustedly and sat down.

“I came up the back stairs,” he explained. “Didn’t want to be seen coming up here. What happened a while ago? I heard Cactus Spears trying to explain it to the sheriff.”

Jim Bailey told him what his experience had been, and McLean’s comment was, “Drunken fools!”

“Not too drunk,” corrected Jim nervously. “I don’t like it. What is this deal, McLean? I am beginning to realize that you want control of this estate—but what do I get?”

“Keep your voice down,” warned the lawyer. “These walls are mighty thin. You get control of the Lazy H. After that, I get financial backing and buy you out. Simple, isn’t it?”

“You buy me out, eh?” said Jim quietly. “How much?”

Ed McLean looked narrowly at Jim. Maybe this wasn’t as easy as it had looked.

“How much do you expect?” he asked.

“All I can get. Tonight has proved to me that I am not here for my health.”

“Oh, they were just drunk.”

“You die just as dead when a drunk kills you, McLean. What about this Mary Deal?”

“She has no legal claims. She wasn’t even legally adopted.”

“I’m not talking about that. Why didn’t this Haverty person name her in the will?”

McLean shrugged his shoulders, and Jim continued:

“That banker is suspicious, McLean. The will should have been read two weeks ago. Me being here right on the dot is a coincidence that the banker doesn’t want to swallow. And another thing I’d like to mention. If that banker stops to think things over, he’ll realize I should have known that my mother’s maiden name was Haverty. Me knowing I had relatives around here and not knowing the name!”

McLean scowled thoughtfully. “Bob Hawley said you were dumb,” he remarked.

“I am, McLean. If I wasn’t I’d leave here tomorrow. Just what will I make out of this deal?”

“Ten thousand dollars.”

“I see. From what I can learn, listening around, there must be more cash than that in the local bank. The ranch and cattle are worth over a hundred thousand. There was something else. I heard two men talking in the lobby and one said, ‘The best gold prospect of them all is located on the Lazy H.”

“A prospect doesn’t mean a paying mine,” said McLean.

“Taking it all in all, isn’t ten thousand small money for my share of the deal, McLean?”

“All right,” said the lawyer grimly. “How much do you want?”

“At least half.”

“Ridiculous!”

Jim Bailey shrugged. “Fifty percent. Without me you are lost.”

Finally the lawyer nodded. “All right. I’d like to punch Bob Hawley right in the nose.”

“He would probably take it lying down,” said Bailey dryly. “You make out the papers, McLean.”

“Papers? You—do you—wait a minute! You mean papers on our agreement?”

“Why not?” asked Jim. “I’m afraid we don’t trust each other.”

“We better!” snapped the lawyer, getting to his feet. “There will be no papers.”

“Suit yourself. I might claim more than fifty percent. In fact, I might take over the whole of the estate.”

“Listen, my friend,” warned the lawyer, “you play the game my way or you won’t get anything. I’m not threatening you—I’m merely stating facts. Accidents happen. Think it over, and I’ll talk with you later. Doublecrossing won’t pay dividends in this part of the country.”

McLean walked out and closed the door. This time Bailey locked it and went to bed. He pounded the pillow into shape and lay down. He wasn’t in the habit of talking to himself, but he did say:

“Cliff De Haven, I don’t wish you any bad luck, but I do wish you had lived to take over this job.”

IV

Clint Haverty had told Mary one day that she did not need to worry about her future and he had not even mentioned her in his will. She had nothing now, but she did not complain. Clint Haverty had been more than generous with her, and she was very grateful. The crew of the Lazy H had finished up their first day of the spring count, and the new man, Skeeter Smith, had proved himself a good worker with cattle.

Late in the evening, after the men had eaten, Skeeter drifted around to the front porch, smoking a cigaret, and found Mary sitting there alone.

“Hello,” she said.

Skeeter sat down on one of the steps.

“It’s shore nice around here, Ma’am,” he said.

“I love it,” she said quietly. “It has been my home for eight years. I love the sunsets, the sunrise and the moonlight.”

“They’re pretty,” he admitted. “The boys was tellin’ me about the readin’ of that will, and I’d like to say that I’m sorry.”

“Thank you, Mr. Smith,” she said simply.

“Folks don’t call me mister—I’m Skeet.”

“They don’t call me ma’am either.”

“I reckon we’re even.”

“Is your home in Arizona?” she asked.

“Home? No, I haven’t any home—Mary. Wherever I hang my hat. I’m sort of a pilgrim I reckon.”

“I’ll have to be a pilgrim now, I suppose,” said Mary. “I can’t make this my home much longer. As soon as the will is probated the new owner will take over the Lazy H.”

“Yeah, I reckon that’s how they do it. Life’s a funny thing. Yuh never know what you’ve got—not for sure. Where will yuh go?”

“Oh, I suppose I can find a job—maybe.”

“Yeah, I reckon so. Still, a woman can always marry somebody, and not have to work.”

“I haven’t given much thought to marriage,” she said.

“I didn’t dare to,” grinned Skeeter. “Have you ever seen the feller they’re givin’ the Lazy H to?”

“I came in from Northport on the stage with him.”

“Yeah? What sort of a feller is he, Mary?”

“Oh, just—well, I’d say he was average—as far as I could see. I didn’t know he was the heir to the Lazy H at that time.”

“City feller, I suppose.”

“Oh, yes. He said he had always lived in a city.”

Dell Howard, one of the cowboys, came around the corner.

“Skeet, do yuh want to ride to town with me and Dan?” he asked. Skeeter got to his feet.

“I’ll be with yuh, Dell,” he replied, and to Mary he said:

“Keep yore chin up, Mary. Speakin’ as a drifter, the things yuh worry most about never happen. A feller died once and willed me his socks, but I never got ’em.”

“What happened to them?” asked Mary.

“Oh, nothin’ much. They buried him with ’em on before they read his will. See yuh later.”

Going up the street in Pinnacle City that evening, Skeeter Smith and Dell Howard found Cactus Spears and Jim Bailey talking in front of the hotel. Dell introduced Skeeter to Cactus, who in turn introduced Jim to them.

“Meade, eh? So yo’re the heir to the Lazy H?” Dell asked.

“That’s what they say,” replied Jim. No one had any comments, nor anything else, it seemed to Jim. Dell said:

“I’ll go to the postoffice, before it closes, Skeet,” and went on.

“Glad to have met yuh, Smith,” Cactus said. “I’ve got to go to the office.”

That left Jim Bailey and Skeeter Smith together.

“This happens all the time,” Jim said. “As soon as they find out who I am they leave me alone. They resent me.”

“Don’t feel too bad about it,” advised the tall cowpoke. “If you can prove that yo’re entitled to the property, I don’t see what they can do about it.”

“Something happened last night,” said Jim soberly.

“Yeah, I heard about that at supper tonight. Tellurium was tellin’ us how Archibald got his black eye.”

“It wasn’t funny—not to me.”

“You was prejudiced,” grinned Skeeter.

“One man threatened me with a gun.”

“Yeah, I reckon he did. But that’s nothin’, he didn’t shoot. They resent you takin’ over the Lazy H of course. But if you are entitled to it, why worry? They’ll make yuh prove it.”

“But suppose the court won’t accept my proof?” asked Jim.

“That,” replied Skeeter seriously, “would be too bad. Folks in this kind of country believe the court is right.”

“What do you mean?”

“If the court says yo’re a fraud—they’ll hang yuh.”

“They wouldn’t do that!” exclaimed Jim.

“My friend,” said Skeeter earnestly, “there’s boot-hills made up of tombstones of men who made that same remark and believed they were right. This is no country to doublecross the people. I’ll see yuh later, Mister Meade.”

Jim went back into the hotel and sat down. That was the second warning he had received on a double-cross. If he double-crossed Ed McLean he’d suffer, and if he double-crossed the people, they’d hang him.

“Fifty percent is entirely too little for my job,” he told himself. “I should get it all—and a bonus.”

Still, he mused, fifty percent of a hundred thousand dollars was an awful lot of money. And then the thought struck him that Ed McLean had been all too quick to agree to a fifty-fifty split. It wasn’t what a lawyer would do. Offer ten percent, and then agree to a fifty percent. There was something fishy about the whole thing. Of course, he could understand why McLean did not want any written agreements.

Jim was very careful to lock his room that night, but no one came to mar his slumber.

It was after ten the next morning when Jim Bailey came down from his room. It was very hot in Pinnacle City, and the little hotel lobby was deserted. Jim flung his key on the desk and had turned toward the door when he heard a sound that was very much like a partly muffled shot.

Through the open doorway he could see several men over in front of the Antelope Saloon, looking across the street. Two of them started to cross the street, traveling at a fast pace. At that moment Hank Voigt, the hotelkeeper, skidded around to the entrance of the hotel, and fairly fell into the place.

“Bank robbery!” he exclaimed. “Bank robbery!”

He caught his balance and looked at Jim Bailey.

“Well, do somethin’!” he barked at Jim.

“Do what?” asked Jim, watching more men run from across the street. Hank flopped his arms helplessly.

“Shot at me,” he said in amazement. “Imagine that, will yuh?”

“I shall try, Mr. Voigt.”

“Well—good! You’ll— There goes the sheriff!”

Jim Bailey walked out and went up to the bank, where a goodly crowd had gathered.

Cactus Spears was trying to keep them out of the bank.

“Thomas Estabrook is prob’ly dead,” he reported. “We’ve sent for the coroner. Now, dang yuh, keep out and give us room!”

No one seemed to know any of the details. Thomas Estabrook was dead, sprawled behind the counter, a gun on the floor beside him. He had apparently tried to defend himself. The robber, or robbers, had left via the rear doorway. No money had been touched, the bandits frightened away after having shot the banker.

Old Hank Voigt said he didn’t see how many men were in there. He had gone to make a deposit, and as he came into the doorway he heard a shot fired. A moment later a bullet blew splinters from a side of the doorway near his head, and he didn’t stop running until he skidded into his own hotel.

Estabrook was alone in the bank at that time, the bookkeeper having gone to Northport to have a tooth repaired. He was expected to be back later in the day. The sheriff closed the bank for the day.

Jim Bailey saw Ed McLean at the bank, but did not get a chance to talk with him. Jim went back to the hotel and sat down on the shaded porch. The town buzzed over the killing of their banker, who was a much respected citizen. McLean sauntered over to the hotel porch and sat down with Jim.

“Well,” he remarked quietly, “there is another coincidence. The one man we feared has been removed.”

“I hadn’t thought about that,” said Jim. “It was a terrible thing.”

“I have some news for you,” said the lawyer. “I had a talk with the judge a while ago. He won’t be back on the bench for another two weeks. We discussed the will, and I suggested that you be allowed to live at the Lazy H, at least, until the will has been probated. The judge said that if I was satisfied that you are the legal heir to the Lazy H, it will be all right for you to take up your residence out there. I said I was satisfied.”

Bailey thought it over for a while.

“Meaning,” he remarked, “that I must be out there with Mary Deal, who—”

“Hang it!” snapped the lawyer. “Can’t you understand that she wasn’t even mentioned in the will? She has no more claim than I have!”

“Pinnacle City seems to think she has, McLean.”

“Hang Pinnacle City!”

“With pleasure, McLean—and Pinnacle City feels the same way about me. I have a feeling that the men at the Lazy H hate me, and if I am out there—I have heard that a broken neck is quite a nuisance.”

“They won’t harm you.”

“Perhaps not. And you would benefit thereby, not having to pay my hotel expenses. Well, after all, why not?”

“Sure,” nodded the lawyer. “If they wanted to hang you they could do it here as well as at the ranch. I’ll take you out there this afternoon. Pack up your stuff.”

Jim Bailey grinned. Pack up his stuff! He could just about carry it all in a folded handkerchief. McLean got to his feet, sighed with relief and promised to be after Jim in a little while.

Old Hank Voigt listened to Jim’s explanation for leaving the hotel. He shook his head sadly.

“I’d like to wish you luck, young man,” he said, “but it’ll take more’n that to help yuh. There’s so many different ways of causin’ a demise around a ranch. Accidental shot, bad broncs, some knot-headed ol’ cow, which recognizes you as the one who took her calf to market—oh, a lot of legitimate ways of openin’ your earthly envelope. But, as I say,—or didn’t I?”

“You said quite a lot, Mr. Voigt.”

“Yeah, I reckon I covered the subject pretty well. Well, if I don’t see yuh again, it’s nice to have knowed yuh, my boy.”

Jim Bailey winced over the handshake—not the physical hurt, but the implied fact that he was rushing in where angels fear to tread.

He tried to grin, as he said, “I shall do my best.”

“I’d advise that yuh get some overalls, boots and a gun, and don’t be too slick-jawed. When yore face starts to itch, that’s time enough to shave.”

“I have never fired a gun, Mr. Voigt,” said Jim. “Why, I might shoot myself—or somebody else.”

“That’s what they’re made for, my boy—somebody else.”

“I would hate to take that chance.”

“You’d hate to take that chance?” Hank Voigt looked at him in amazement. “You—uh—yo’re claimin’ the Lazy H, ain’t yuh?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“Huh! Gaggin’ on a fox-tail and tryin’ to swaller a stack of hay!”

“I don’t believe I understand, Mr. Voigt.”

“You run along and keep claimin’, my boy, and maybe it’ll dawn on yuh some day.”

“Well, thanks, anyway; you’ve been nice to me.”

“You paid and I ain’t cravin’ no cowranch.”

V

Ed McLean had his own horse and buggy. They tossed the valise into the back of the vehicle and headed for the Lazy H. Jim told the lawyer what Hank Voigt had said, but McLean only laughed.

“Hank is quite a joker,” he said.

“I hope he was joking, McLean.”

“Of course he was. We’re all set now. Estabrook might have made trouble for us, but it is clear sailing from now on.”

“I hope you are right, but something tells me that everything is not right. These people, as I understand it, do not always depend on the law to settle their troubles. The court might accept me as the legal and lawful heir to the Lazy H, but some of these cowpokes, as they are called, might not.”

“Forget that part of it. They’re law-abiding people. Just because they carry guns and talk a queer lingo they are not necessarily killers.”

“Maybe not. I was thinking about that new man at the Lazy H. Skeeter Smith, I believe. He intimated that they hang a man for a doublecross in this country.”

Ed McLean shot a side glance at Jim Bailey.

“O-o-oh!” he exclaimed. “Just why did he say that?”

“Oh, we were talking about my claims. I intimated that perhaps the court might not accept my credentials. He said that if the court decided that I was a fraud the people would probably hang me.”

“Bosh!” snorted the lawyer. “My friend, you talk too blasted much! Let others do the talking, you listen.”

“Of course,” remarked Jim, “my life doesn’t mean anything to you, McLean. All you are interested in is using me for a cat’s-paw. You want the Lazy H. If this deal works out, very likely you will get it. We are a fine pair of crooks.”

“And we can’t afford to fall out, remember that, Jim.”

“Remember that yourself, McLean. I will not be bossed. You may suggest something, but don’t order. I’ve taken orders all my grown-up life and I don’t like it.”

“I’ll remember that, Jim. Sometimes you rub me the wrong way.”

“Sorry. I am going to need some overalls and boots. And if you know where I can get a gun—”

“What in the world would you do with a gun?”

“That,” replied Jim soberly, “is something that no man knoweth, until the experiment has been made. I want to be a man among men.”

“I see,” replied Ed McLean. “Well, I’d offer good odds that the first time you pull that gun, you’ll be the only horizontal one among the men.”

Mary Deal was the only one to greet Jim Bailey with a smile. Tex Parker turned and walked away, and Tellurium backed into the kitchen. There was an extra room in the ranch-house, which was turned over to Jim. Ed McLean talked quite a while with the foreman, and then came up to have a few words with Tellurium, out at the wood-pile.

“Listen t’ me, McLean!” Tellurium griped. “Do you think I’m going to cook good food for that anteloper?”

“The word is interloper,” corrected McLean.

“The word,” declared the cook, “is no!”

“You need a job, don’t you, Tellurium? Well, just remember that this young man is the heir to the Lazy H.”

“You don’t need t’ rub it in. As far as a job is concerned I can stretch m’ apron at any spread west of the Mississippi. Don’t tell me what I’ve got to do. You keep up this yappin’, and you won’t be hired to misquote law to a strange dog in this man’s country.”

“Look at it this way,” suggested McLean. “The young man can’t help that he was Clint Haverty’s nephew.”

Tellurium thought about that.

“All right. In mem’ry of Clint Haverty, I’ll feed him. But I ain’t goin’ to nurse him along. The boys won’t like it. He won’t be welcome, but if he can stand it we’ll try.

“That’s fine, Tellurium. You’re sensible.”

“You git out of here, before I split yuh with the axe. Sensible! Huh!”

McLean went back to Pinnacle City in a happy frame of mind. At least the expense problem was settled. He even decided to get Jim Bailey some boots and overalls. As far as the gun was concerned, he felt that Jim was a little too new for things like six-shooters.

Jim soon found that he was a pariah at the Lazy H. He ate with the cowboys and they snubbed him completely. The food was plentiful and very good. Archibald Haas was still sporting a discolored eye, and he looked daggers at Jim Bailey, remembering that Jim had helped Tellurium and Cactus drag him down the hotel stairs. Mary ate alone, and after supper that night, Jim went out on the porch, where Mary was sitting.

“Did you enjoy your supper?” she asked pleasantly.

“I enjoyed the food,” he replied, “but the company was entirely anti-me.”

Mary nodded sadly. “I’m sorry, Jim,” she said. “It isn’t a thing that I can help. I have talked with the boys, but they all have minds of their own.”

“I understand,” he said quietly. “They treated me the same way in town. Mary, let me ask you a question. If I left this country, gave up this inheritance, would you get the Lazy H?”

Mary shook her head. “No, I am not—was not, I mean—related to Clint Haverty. It would go to Ace and Dick Haverty because they are the next of kin—all his remaining relatives, as far as anyone knows.”

“I have seen them both,” said Jim. “I think I’ll stay.”

“I believe you are sensible, Jim. Your going away would not help me in the least.”

“Mary, tell me something about Clint Haverty. Didn’t he ever tell you that you might share in the estate?”

“He told me that I would have nothing to worry about.”

“I see. Was he all right physically and mentally?”

“The only thing on earth wrong with Clint Haverty, as far as anyone knew, was bad eyesight. He didn’t want anyone to know his eyes were bad; and he wouldn’t wear glasses. I read most of his letters to him.”

“He died a natural death, I suppose?” Jim asked.

“Oh, didn’t you hear?” asked Mary.

“Only that he died, Mary.”

“He was thrown from his horse, coming back from Pinnacle City, and had a skull fracture. He usually rode a bad horse, and the doctor says this one threw him and then kicked him in the head.”

“I didn’t know that,” sighed Jim. “I am afraid of horses.”

“You’ll get over that,” laughed Mary. “In a few months you’ll be wearing chaps and riding the hills with the rest of the boys.”

“It sounds very romantic, but I still don’t believe I will.”

Skeeter Smith finished supper and came around to the porch to enjoy a cigaret. After the customary greetings, he said to Jim:

“If yo’re goin’ to own and operate the Lazy H, here’s somethin’ you ought to know, Meade. The Lazy H is bein’ robbed. At least, this is the opinion of Tex Parker and the boys.”

“Tex has said that several times, Skeeter,” said Mary.

“I know. He says it shows up in the count. Tex has gone to town to talk with the sheriff. This is serious, Mary.”

“How does one steal a cow?” asked Jim.

Skeeter’s brows lifted slightly, and he glanced at Mary, who was smothering a smile.

“The methods,” replied Skeeter, “vary.”

“I see,” remarked Jim vaguely. “I really didn’t know.”

There was no conversation for a while. Then Skeeter said:

“How do you like the cattle country, Mr. Meade?”

“I am afraid of it,” replied Jim honestly.

Skeeter smiled. “The thing for you to do is to get on a bronc and learn it first-hand.”

“A bronc is a horse, isn’t it, Mr. Smith?”

“It is—and call me Skeeter.”

“Thank you. I have never ridden a horse, but I suppose I must learn. First I must get some overalls and boots, I suppose. Then I can get a gun and—”

“Wait!” Skeeter laughed. “Have you ever fired a six-shooter?”

“Never. But I supposed—”

“You won’t need a gun. The longer yuh can get along without a gun, the better off you’ll be. Take my advice, Jim, learn to ride and rope, brand, judge beef and all that. That six-shooter don’t brand yuh as a cowpoke—it brands yuh as a man, who, for some reason or another, expects trouble to cut his trail some day.”

“Thank you, Skeeter—you have been very kind to me.”

Skeeter laughed and got to his feet.

“My friend,” he said, “somewhere in the Bible, I believe it says somethin’ about being cautious about them who come bearin’ gifts.”

“But you haven’t brought me any gifts, Skeeter.”

“Friendship is a gift.”

“You mean that I should beware friendship?”

“Until it has been tried and proved—yeah.”

Skeeter went back to the bunk-house. Jim said:

“Mary, he is a queer sort of cowboy, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” replied the girl. “He is different. I believe he would make a wonderful friend, and I would hate to be his enemy.”

“I don’t believe I have ever had a real friend, Mary.”

“Few people ever do, Jim. Uncle Clint used to say that a friend was someone who knew all about you, but liked you in spite of it.”

“In my case,” said Jim slowly, “I could hardly expect it.”

“In the morning,” said Mary, “I’ll ask Archibald to saddle a horse for you, Jim. You might as well learn to ride as soon as you can.”

“You are too kind to me, Mary,” he said earnestly.

“Say that tomorrow evening and I’ll believe you,” she said dryly....

It was midafternoon next day at the Lazy H. Archibald Haas sat on the corral fence in the shade of a sycamore and looked at Jim Bailey, astride an ancient charger called Peter the Hermit, so named from his habit of staying alone as much as possible.

“That there lump on the front end of the saddle,” explained Archibald, “is the horn. It’s used to dally a rope around, not to be hugged. If yuh cain’t think of anythin’ to do with yore extra hands, let ’em dangle, they won’t fall off.”

“I might,” suggested Jim Bailey wearily.

“Uh-huh—yuh might. Now, the thing t’ do,” suggested Archibald, “when the horse starts lopin’, you try and lope with him. You and Pete ort to git together. And when he trots, brace yore legs. No use of him goin’ one way and you the other. And another thing; that horse is rein-broke. Yuh don’t have to take holt of one rein with both hands and yank his jaw loose. Try it again.”

At supper time Jim Bailey staggered to the house. Peter the Hermit didn’t stagger at all, he lay down where he was. This was almost too much for his ancient bones. Archibald Haas said to Mary:

“All he needs is the finishin’ touches.”

“What do you mean, Archie?” she asked.

“Jist shoot him and put him out of his misery.”

“You’ll not shoot Peter the Hermit!”

“’Course not. I didn’t mean him.”

VI

Jim Bailey was in bad shape next morning. He was barely able to limp to the breakfast table. The rest of the crew had eaten and gone away, long before Jim Bailey came to breakfast. Archibald Haas was there.

“I’ve got a bronc all saddled for yuh,” he said.

Jim Bailey groaned.

“This’n is a little faster than Pete,” Archibald said. “And more durable.”

Tellurium placed Jim’s breakfast on the table, stepped back and looked Jim over appraisingly.

“I found a pair of boots for yuh,” he said. “They ain’t no Sunday specimens, but they’ve got heels. You’ve got to have heels.”

“What I need,” groaned Jim, “is two new legs, two new arms and a headache tablet.”

“Does it hurt yuh to set down?” asked Archibald.

“It does,” replied Jim grimly, “but it also hurts me to stand up or lie down.”

“Didja ever try hangin’ by yore hands?” asked Tellurium soberly.

Archibald stood in the kitchen doorway, yawned widely and announced:

“Here comes that knot-headed lawyer from Pinnacle.”

Jim didn’t want to talk with Ed McLean. In fact, he didn’t want to talk with anybody, but McLean came up to the kitchen. Hot weather gave McLean a beaded complexion and he continually polished his bald head with a pink handkerchief. Jim could see that the lawyer was not in good humor. He refused breakfast curtly.

Jim finished and limped outside with McLean, who led him down by the corral, where he could talk without being overheard.

“In my mail last evening,” said McLean, a bit grimly, “I got a letter and a clipping from a friend of mine in Frisco. The clipping deals with the death of Bob Hawley.”

“Bob Hawley?” asked Jim quickly. “Is Bob dead?”

Ed McLean looked at Jim Bailey, and his expression was not exactly friendly.

“According to the time element,” he replied, “Bob Hawley must have died the night before you left San Francisco. Bob Hawley told me that your name was De Haven.”

“Well,” said Jim, “is that remarkable?”

“According to this clipping—yes. The body believed to be that of Jim Bailey has been identified as that of Cliff De Haven, and the police are looking for Jim Bailey, who roomed with De Haven. They would like to know why De Haven had articles on his person, which identified him as Bailey.”

Jim Bailey thought the thing over carefully. It would be easy to explain to the police, as far as he was concerned. He said:

“Well?”

The lawyer accusing Jim of being an impostor

“You are an impostor!” said the lawyer.

“You,” said the lawyer accusingly, “are an impostor.”

Jim Bailey laughed, “So the pot calls the kettle black, eh?”

“You can tell me the truth, Bailey,” McLean said. “I don’t want the San Francisco police tracing you to Pinnacle City.”

“They won’t get that far,” said Jim, and proceeded to tell the lawyer exactly what happened.

“So De Haven merely appropriated your suit, eh?”

“That’s all. I took his letter—and took a chance.”

“All right. I’ll go back now. What makes you so lame?”

“Learning to ride a horse,” groaned Jim.

“Stay off the bad ones,” warned the lawyer. “At least, stay off them, until this deal is finished. I need a live heir to the Lazy H.”

Ed McLean drove away, and Archibald came down from the kitchen, carrying a pair of old, high-heel boots. The heels were worn off on the outside, indicating that the owner had been bow-legged.

“They ain’t much—but they’ll help,” Archibald said.

Leaning against the corral fence, Jim painfully pulled them on. They were a little tight, but not too bad. Walking was difficult, especially with his aching legs. There was an old pair of overalls and an old sombrero hanging on a peg in the stable. The overalls were tight but the sombrero was loose.

Archibald looked him over approvingly.

“Right now,” he declared, “yo’re three looks and a whoop from bein’ a tenderfoot. I ain’t sure whether you’d be diagnosed as a broken-down cowpoke, or a up-and-comin’ sheepherder. However, my friend, you won’t scare the cows.”

Mary came down to the stable. She wanted to be sure that no tricks were being played on Jim. When she saw him she emitted a smothered shriek, and he laughed heartily.

“How do I look, Mary?” he asked.

“How do you feel?” she whispered huskily.

“Terrible.”

“You look just that way, Jim. Are you going to ride again?”

“I am going to try.”

Archibald came out with a Roman-nosed sorrel, saddled and bridled. There was little comparison between this horse and Peter the Hermit, except that they both had four legs. Mary said:

“Do you think he’s capable of handling Blondy, Archie?”

“Well,” replied the wrangler, “I figure that Blondy is the only horse around here capable of handling him. He won’t buck. You know Blondy. If he gits four, five miles away from the ranch, he’ll come back in spite of hell and high-water.”

Mary nodded, and watched Jim get into the saddle. It was a very painful procedure, and Jim’s face showed it.

“Don’t go too far,” she advised. “If you get lost, give Blondy his head, and he’ll come home. And if he wants to come home, don’t try to stop him; it makes him mad.”

“I shall do my best,” replied Jim.

“You let Blondy do that, you jist set,” advised Archibald.

Mary shook her head as Jim disappeared down an old road.

“You ain’t worryin’ about that gallinipper, are yuh?” asked the wrangler.

“Not worrying, no,” she replied. “I didn’t think he would have the nerve to get on a horse today.”

Archibald chuckled. “Not only that, but he looks almost human in them clothes, Mary.”

“People’s ideas of humanity differ, I’m afraid,” said the girl.

Jim Bailey soon found out that Blondy was not like Peter the Hermit. Blondy wanted to go places. Mary had said that Blondy would bring him home; so why worry? There was a cooling breeze in the hills, which made riding pleasant. He struck a trail, leading up through a wide swale, and sent Blondy over it in a swinging walk.

For the first time in his life Jim Bailey felt freedom. He was not going any certain place, and he was not going home until the horse decided to go back. All he had to do was enjoy the scenery. The sore muscles were much easier now, and he began to like riding.

At the top of the swale they found another well-worn trail, and kept on going. For an hour or more they followed trail after trail, until Jim began to wonder how long before Blondy would feel the urge to go back to the ranch. By this time they were high in the breaks, where he could see the blue haze of the valley. There were cattle along the trail, wild-eyed creatures, moving quickly aside into the brush. Two deer broke out of a thicket and went bouncing into the heavy cover. It was all very new to Jim Bailey. Suddenly Blondy stopped short, shaking his head. Jim booted him gently, but the horse whirled, almost upsetting his rider, struck a down-trail through the brush, and went along at a swinging walk. Jim laughed aloud. Blondy was going home.

It seemed that Blondy was taking a short-cut, instead of going around the way they came. The trail was steep, and the hoofs of the horse cut deep into the dirt, angling down into a canyon. They struck the bottom and kept on going down through a mesquite thicket, where the trail was almost too narrow. Those mesquite claws slashed at Jim’s overalls and boots, and now he understood why cowpokes wore leather chaps.

Suddenly they broke into an opening, possibly two acres in size. Just ahead, standing against the edge of the brush, were two saddled horses. Near the horses were two men, one of them kneeling down beside a roped yearling. A few feet away was a tiny pile of sticks, a thin spiral of almost colorless smoke indicating the branding fire. Blondy stopped short, and one of the horses nickered softly.

Both men whirled, the one lurching to his feet. Jim started to call a greeting to them, when a gun flamed and he felt Blondy jerk back from the impact of the bullet. Another shot blasted, and Jim found himself pitching into space as the horse fell sideways. Only slightly dazed from the fall, Jim got to his feet, dimly realizing that these men were shooting at him. A bullet tugged at his sleeve, and Jim Bailey had a sudden urge to get as far away as possible in the least space of time.

Jim being fired upon by two men with pistols

Another shot blasted and Jim pitched into space.

It has been said that it is impossible to run fast in high-heel boots, but Jim Bailey disproved this theory. It was the first time he had ever been obliged to run in order to save his life, and he made the best of it. There was no soreness left in his legs, and he went into that heavy brush with all the dispatch of a frightened cottontail. Not only did he go into the brush, but he kept right on going, while bullets whistled past him.

Finally he sprawled, exhausted, and waited for the worst. He could not hear any sounds of pursuit. A half-hour passed, but there were no sounds, except the buzzing of a bee, the call of a bird. Jim got carefully to his feet. Something else buzzed near him, and he instinctively held still. After a few moments a diamond-back rattler slowly uncoiled and slid easily away in the undergrowth. Jim Bailey shivered. The snake had rattled not over five feet away.

Cautiously he made his way back to the cleared space. There was Blondy, flat on his side, but no sign of the two men. He went to the horse, but the animal was dead. Jim’s heart sank. He knew it was a long way back to the Lazy H, but in just what direction?

“It must be downhill,” reasoned the young man, “because we came all the way uphill. If I ever get out of this alive, I’ve had all I want of the West.”

It was after sundown that evening, when Skeeter Smith came riding along the base of the hills north of the Lazy H. He saw a man stumble out of the mouth of a small canyon. The man stopped in the open, looking around. When he saw Skeeter he ducked down behind some brush. He was acting so queerly that Skeeter approached him cautiously.

It was Jim Bailey, scratched and torn, his face bleeding, hands cut. One sleeve of his shirt was entirely gone, the rest of the garment in tatters. One bare knee protruded from a split overall leg, and there were cactus spines in that knee.

“Meade! What happened to you?” Skeeter gasped.

“I’ve been walking,” replied Jim wearily.

“Yeah, I reckon you’ve been doin’ somethin’. Here,” Skeeter slipped his left foot out of the stirrup, “hook your foot into that stirrup and come up behind me.”

“You mean two on one horse?”

“That’s right. Hook that stirrup and I’ll help yuh on. Don’t stand there like a billy-owl—climb up.”

With his help, Jim managed to get up behind Skeeter. He drew a deep breath.

“I went riding and somebody shot my horse,” he said.

“They did? Well, that’s interestin’. Shot yore horse, eh?”

“Tried to shoot me, too,” complained Jim. “Are you sure you know the way back to the ranch? I think you’re going the wrong way.”

“Yore compass is busted, pardner,” chuckled Skeeter.

“I feel completely busted,” said Jim. “Even the snakes buzzed at me.”

The boys were all at the ranch, waiting for supper when the two men rode in. Mary was anxious over the safety of Jim. They mopped him off with water and put his blistered feet to soak, while Archibald, with the aid of pliers, began taking out cactus spines.

Jim told them what had happened to him and Blondy. No one offered sympathy. Tex Parker asked Jim if he could find the spot where they had killed Blondy.

“I hope not—ever,” Jim said.

Tex said, “Let’s eat, boys. We’ll have to watch the buzzards to find Blondy and get that saddle back. It sounds to me like somebody was doin’ some range-brandin’ on other people’s cows. That could be their only reason for smokin’ up the kid. I wish I’d been in his place.”

“You’d prob’ly stayed in the canyon,” said Tellurium. “Come and git it—before I dump it out!”

Jim managed to hobble to the table and ate a good meal though he was one mass of sore spots.

“Soon’s yuh git ready for bed,” Tellurium said, “I’ll sneak in with the horse-liniment. That’s a he-man’s cure for everythin’ from ingrown toenails to dandruff. How do you like bein’ a cowpoke?”

“Ask him that in the mornin’,” advised Dell Howard, “he’s sound asleep.”

VII

Skeeter Smith went to Pinnacle City alone that evening. When he tied his horse at the saloon hitch-rack, he saw a light in Ed McLean’s office. The lawyer was working on some papers as the tall, lean cowpoke came in. The fat lawyer shoved the papers aside and leaned back in his chair, wondering what caused the newcomer at the Lazy H to come into his office. Skeeter said “Howdy” and sat down.

“What can I do for you, sir?” asked McLean, reaching for his pipe on the desk-top.

“I thought yuh might like to know that Jim Meade rode into the hills today and some rustlers shot the horse from under him. The kid had to walk home, and he’s pretty sick of his job.”

“Job?” queried the lawyer. “He is not working for the Lazy H.”

“Well,” drawled Skeeter, “we’ll call it a deal, instead, eh?”

McLean puffed violently at his empty pipe, his eyes watching the lean face opposite him.

“Deal?” queried McLean quietly.

“Yeah—deal.” Skeeter leaned forward, lowering his voice.

“I want in on this deal, McLean,” he said.

McLean stared at Skeeter, but encountered only a pair of level, gray eyes. He swallowed painfully and looked at his pipe.

“I don’t understand what you mean,” he protested.

“No?” Skeeter smiled slowly. “What would you say if I told yuh that I know Jim Meade?”

“I’d say you lied—unless you mean the Jim Meade at the Lazy H. He’s the only Jim Meade in this deal.”

Skeeter shook his head. “Yo’re wrong, my friend. I know the real Jim Meade, the only one.”

“That is a lie—and I know it’s a lie!” snapped McLean.

“Clint Haverty told yuh that Jim Meade was dead, didn’t he? Jim Meade was supposed to have been killed seven years ago in a mine explosion in Colorado.”

“Clint Haverty said he was!” snapped McLean. “What are you driving at, Smith?”

“Clint Haverty’s idea of willin’ a ranch to a dead man.”

Ed McLean realized that he had fallen into his own trap. He looked slit-eyed at the tall cowboy and said harshly:

“What’s your price, Smith?”

“What does the kid get?” asked Skeeter.

“Half—I suppose.”

“All right—I’ll take half of your half, McLean.”

“By what right?” snapped McLean hotly. “Why, you—”

“Think it over,” advised Skeeter calmly. “I can ruin yore deal, McLean. And don’t try any funny stuff.”

“What do you mean, Smith?”

“Well,” grinned Skeeter, “you might shoot yourself and ruin the whole deal. I’d like to make some big money.”

Skeeter got up and walked out, closing the door quietly behind him. Ed McLean went to the doorway. In the lights from the Antelope Saloon he saw Skeeter Smith ride away from the hitch-rack, heading back to the Lazy H. McLean sat down at his desk, his expression very grim.

“I don’t dare tell Bailey,” he said to himself. “He’d get so frightened he’d leave. Half of my half, eh? Why, the poor fool, who does he think I am, anyway? If anybody thinks he can stop me from making this deal—let him try.”

He put on his hat, put out the light, locked the front door and went out the rear entrance to his small stable. McLean kept a buggy horse in the stable, but that horse was also a very good saddler.

Aching in every joint, and reeking of horse-liniment, Jim Bailey sat on the ranch-house porch, his swollen feet encased in a pair of Tellurium’s old slippers. Cactus Spears, the deputy sheriff, and Tellurium, the cook, sat on the steps, discussing Jim’s adventure with the rustlers. Cactus said complainingly:

“If you could only remember what color them horses was. They didn’t happen to be pink, did they?”

“Pink?” queried Jim Bailey. “They might have been.”

“Pink!” snorted Tellurium. “Why not green?”

“Not this time of year,” said Cactus. “Most of ’em are ripe now. No, I don’t think you’d find a green one, Tellurium.”

“No, it’s a little late, I reckon,” nodded the cook soberly.

“The boys are watchin’ the buzzards today?” asked Cactus.

Tellurium nodded. “That’s the only way they’ll ever find the saddle and bridle, Cactus. Jim ain’t got no idea where he met his Waterloo.”

Cactus grinned. “You must have went awful fast, Jim,” he remarked.

“I have no recollection of speed nor effort,” replied Jim seriously. “One moment I was there by the horse, being shot at, and the next moment I was yards away from there, hiding under a bush with a snake.”

“Yea-a-ah,” drawled Tellurium, scratching his chin, “I’ll betcha the snake took one look at him and said, ‘No use strikin’ at him, ’cause he’s too blamed fast.’”

After a short pause Tellurium said:

“He’s shore hard on the rollin’ stock of this here ranch. Poor Ol’ Peter the Hermit is all stove up, and Blondy has done gone. I dunno what caballo we’ll issue to him next.”

“If caballo means horse—banish the thought,” said Jim, rubbing the cramped calf of one leg.

Mary came from the main room of the house and joined them.

“We’re wonderin’ what horse to give Jim next,” said Cactus.

“I think he got off very lucky,” said Mary. “Two men shooting at him, getting lost in the hills and all that. It was quite an experience.”

“It shore was,” agreed Cactus, getting to his feet. “I’ll have to go back to town and tell Mace Adams that Jim didn’t stop to look at the colors of the horses. See yuh later, folks.”

The boys came in from work that evening, but had not found the dead horse. Tellurium wanted to go to town after supper. He asked Archibald to go along, but Archibald had a poker date at the bunk-house; so Tellurium asked Jim Bailey to go along. Skeeter Smith and Tex Parker went in ahead of them. Jim had to wear the old slippers, but most of the pains had left him.

Tellurium and Jim rode in the ranch buckboard. Tellurium had a grocery order, and left Jim to his own devices. In front of the hotel a little later Jim met Ed McLean. The lawyer looked disgruntled over something, and his eyes showed the need of sleep. He looked Jim over critically.

“You’re a fine looking heir to the Lazy H.”

Jim Bailey looked back grimly at the fat lawyer.

“You don’t need to be sarcastic, McLean. I darn near got killed yesterday.”

“Yes, I heard about it. You keep out of the hills.”

His tone made Jim Bailey angry. He flared up.

“Don’t try to order me around,” he said. “I’ve told you that before. I’ve got a mighty good notion to throw the whole deal back at you, and leave this country.”

“Oh, you have, have you? Listen to me, Bailey.” McLean came in closer, lowering his voice. “You’re not leaving here.”

“I’m not, eh? Who will stop me?”

“I will—and mighty quick!”

Jim Bailey took aim. Never in his life had he hit a man, but now he hit Ed McLean smack on the nose with every ounce of muscle at his command. It dropped the lawyer squarely on the broad seat of his pants. Then, in a half-hysterical move, Bailey reached down, grasped one of McLean’s ears, yanked his head sideways and yelled into the upturned ear:

“You and who else, McLean?”

If McLean knew, he did not answer.

Jim Bailey stepped back and looked around. Skeeter Smith had emerged from the hotel doorway, and was looking at him, a queer grin on his face.

“That was a funny thing to do, wasn’t it?” Jim asked.

“It looked funny to me,” replied Skeeter.

Ed McLean got slowly to his feet, one hand clutching at his bleeding nose. He did not say anything—just went across the street to his office. Several people had seen what happened, and they looked curiously at Jim Bailey. Tellurium was loading some boxes into the buckboard in front of the general store.

“I guess Tellurium is ready to go back to the ranch,” Jim said.

“Yeah, he’s loadin’ up,” agreed Skeeter, and watched Jim Bailey walk up the sidewalk.

“You and who else?” parroted Skeeter Smith to himself. “I wonder what McLean said to him?”

Jim Bailey and Tellurium rode back to the ranch.

“What’s itchin’ yuh, Kid?” the cook asked. “You ain’t talkin’ none.”

“I knocked a man down on the street,” replied Jim.

Tellurium said, “Whoa!” and slowed the team down to a walk.

“You knocked a man down?” he asked incredulously.

“I struck him right on the nose. You see, I never hit a man before.”

“Yuh mean yuh intended to hit him?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Hm-m-m-m! Who was he?”

“Ed McLean, the lawyer.”

“McLean, the—you ain’t jokin’ with Ol’ Tellurium, are yuh?”

“No, I’m not joking, Tellurium. I knocked him down.”

“Well, man, howdy!” exclaimed the cook. “Son, yo’re improvin’. Yessir, Arizona is makin’ a man out of yuh. Well, well!”

“Was it terrible?” asked Jim quickly.

“In a way—yeah, it shore was.”

“In a way? In what way?” asked Jim.

“I didn’t git a chance to see it done. I’d have loved it.”

Jim Bailey drew a deep breath. “You don’t like McLean?”

“Well, I never sent him any love and kisses, son.”

The boys in the bunk-house didn’t believe Tellurium until Skeeter Smith came back and told them the same story. There was so much speculation over the reasons for it that the poker game broke up. Dell Howard said soberly:

“It kinda sounds like he might have some Haverty blood in him, at that. Clint Haverty would poke yuh in the nose as quick as he’d look at yuh. Well, it won’t hurt the looks of McLean’s nose, anyway. It might perk him up a little bit.”

“The funny thing about it,” remarked Skeeter, “was the fact that after he knocked McLean down, he grabbed one of McLean’s ears, yanked his head sideways and yelled in his ear, ‘You and who else?’”

“Maybe,” remarked Tex Parker, “we’ve underestimated the boy.”

“He’s been after me to git him a six-gun,” said Tellurium.

“Hold him off,” said Dell Howard. “We all want to live until after the ranch changes hands.”

VIII

At the request of relatives the body of Thomas Estabrook was shipped to Philadelphia. The incoming head of the Cattlemen’s Bank was James Wells, a new man to the country. Ed McLean, still suffering from a sore nose and outraged feelings, lost no time in taking up the matter of the Haverty will with the new banker. Wells, naturally, had no suspicions, and McLean was very persuasive. Wells said he was willing to leave everything to the court and McLean breathed easier.

However, McLean was far from satisfied with the way things were going. Jim Bailey had proved belligerent and Skeeter Smith had thrown a monkeywrench into McLean’s machinery. Between the two of them it would seem that McLean could expect very little from the Lazy H.

There was some small activity around the Lazy H that morning. Mary was upstairs, watching through a window, while Tellurium and Archibald were safely ensconced in the kitchen. Sitting on a corral fence near the stable were Jim Bailey and Cactus Spears. Jim was examining an old Colt .41, with a sicklebill handle, and Cactus was patiently explaining the deal.

“It’ll cost yuh twenty dollars, but I’m willin’ to wait for my money, until yuh—until the court passes judgment on yuh, if yuh live that long. Anyway, I’d get the gun back—I hope.”

“What do you mean—if I live that long, Cactus?”

“The way you’ve been handlin’ that hog-leg would indicate a awful sudden de-mise for you—or somebody.”

“I can learn, can’t I?” asked Jim.

“Do you know what a moot is?” asked Cactus soberly.

“A moot? No, I don’t believe I do, Cactus.”

“Well, this is a moot question. You’ve got a long ways t’ go, before you ain’t a menace to yourself. After that, yo’re a menace to everybody else.”

“I want to learn how to handle a gun,” sighed Jim. “I feel it is necessary, Cactus.”

“All right, we’ll try her again. You don’t shoot with both hands. If that was the right way, they’d put two handles on it. That there thing is the hammer. That point on the face of it is supposed to puncture the cap on the shell, not yore left thumbnail, as heretofore demonstrated.

“That doo-jingus under there is the trigger. Yuh don’t yank it. Now, let’s get together on it. Go ahead and cock it. He-e-ey! Don’t point it at my knee! That’s better. Now it’s cocked. Grip it in yore right hand. That’s right. Now, yuh place the first finger of yore right hand around the trigger and—”

Wham! Part of Cactus’ left heel disappeared, the gun bucked out of Jim’s hand and fell behind him and Cactus Spears swiftly bow-legged his way toward the house and safety!

“Come back here and show me something!” called Jim, but Cactus merely flinched and kept on going into the kitchen.

“I hope yo’re satisfied!” barked Tellurium. “Git away from that door—it’s thin wood!”

“Look at m’ boot-heel!” complained Cactus.

“Too bad it wasn’t yore head,” said Tellurium. “Bringin’ a gun out to that kid! He can’t shoot.”

Jim Bailey came up and peered through the window at them.

“Git away from there, you—you menace!” howled Archibald, grabbing at the curtain.

“I can’t shoot any more—this gun is empty,” called Jim.

“Good!” breathed Cactus. “He shot twice accidently and three times unconsciously. One thing—he ain’t scared of the gun.”

“I suppose yuh call that a virtue!” snorted Tellurium. “I was out there, cuttin’ wood, and that first bullet hit the axe.”

“I done told him to select a simple target for his first shot,” sighed Cactus.

“Yuh mean—he was really shootin’ at Tellurium?” gasped Archibald.

“That’s enough out of you!” snorted Tellurium. “You was scared so bad yuh ate two yeast-cakes, thinkin’ they was crackers!”

“I thought they tasted kinda fuzzy. They won’t hurt me, will they?”

“Keep out of the sun,” advised Tellurium. “If they ever get heated up and start to raise—you better tie yore feet down.”

Jim walked around and sat down on the porch, placing the gun beside him. Mary came out, and he smiled at her.

“Lesson over, Jim?” she asked.

“I ran out of ammunition—and instructors,” he replied. “I am not what you would call an apt pupil, Mary.”

“You will learn,” she said encouragingly.

“I doubt it. I never do anything well. In fact, all I know is how to keep a set of books and not too well, at that. Out here, all that seems so far away and hazy, like something you dream and try to remember.”

“Don’t you love it out here?” she asked.

“Love?” Jim smiled slowly. “No, I can’t say I do. I don’t fit in, Mary. You see, at first I thought most everybody out here was rather dumb. When I try to do the things that they do, I know I am the dumb one.”

“You’ll learn, Jim,” she said quietly. “After you have owned the Lazy H for a while, you wouldn’t trade one little dogie for a whole city. You’ll never want to go back there.”

Jim shook his head slowly. “I don’t understand you, Mary. You will be the only one really to suffer, and still you don’t resent me. Everybody else resents me.”

“Why should I?” she asked. “It isn’t my ranch.”

“But don’t you resent the fact that—that Clint Haverty did not leave you anything?”

“No, Jim, it is not resentment. It hurt a little—at first.”

“You’re a mighty sweet girl,” said Jim slowly, but he did not look at her as he said it. “I think you are the sweetest girl I have ever known. I’ve always been afraid of girls—but I’m not afraid of you.”

There was a chuckle in Mary’s voice as she said:

“You’re not trying to make love to me, are you, Jim?”

“No,” replied Jim, getting to his feet. “I—I couldn’t do that. I guess I just wanted you to know that I appreciate you. I don’t know anything about love—except that it should be honest.”

Then he walked off the porch and went down to the stable. Tellurium came out cautiously and squinted at his back.

“He didn’t find no more shells, did he, Mary?” asked the cook.

“I don’t think so, Tellurium; there’s his gun on the porch.”

“He ain’t such a bad feller, Mary,” remarked the cook. “I don’t reckon he’d hurt anybody intentionally, but, man, what he’d do to yuh accidently! I’d better put that gun away before he finds some more shells. He’s got more, ’cause Cactus gave him almost a full box.”

“I’m sure Jim will be careful next time, Tellurium.”

“He will, huh? Listen, my dear, if he was jist six times more careful next time, there wouldn’t be enough of us left to go to the polls next election. What he needs is a pea-shooter with a busted spring.”

Archibald found a quart of hard liquor hidden in the oat-box at the stable that afternoon. Some one of the cowpokes had cached it there, but Archibald wasn’t choosey. He took his liquor where he found it. Then he notified Tellurium and they went down to the stable and sat on the oat-box. They didn’t need anything for a chaser. After a few drinks Tellurium said thoughtfully:

“Archie, I’ve been doin’ some thinkin’ f’r myself.”

“Gettin’ yore brain all wrinkled, huh?” remarked Archie, who was not interested in Tellurium’s conclusions. “Hit her again, she’s still a-standin’ up.”

They had another drink.

“Yuh know, Archie,” Tellurium said, “I’ve been cogitatin’ to myself. Why didn’t Clint leave somethin’ to Mary? Don’t answer that—you’ll only confuse me. He loved her like a daughter, and you know it.”

“What’r yuh tryin’ t’ do—make me cry?”

“I’m tryin’ to make yuh understand, Archie. There’s been crooked work done. What’d Clint care about this young gallinipper? Why, he never seen Jim Meade in his life. Archie,” Tellurium lowered his voice to a stage-whisper, “there’s dirty work at the crossroads.”

“Which one?” asked Archibald.

“Yo’re a big help,” sighed Tellurium. “What I mean is this; that will ain’t right. Clint Haverty never intended it thataway.”

“There’s three, four big swallers left for each of us,” said Archibald, “and we don’t want the owner of that bottle to find us. We’ll hide the empty in the oats.”

“Archibald,” said Tellurium severely, “how good are you as a holdup man?”

Archibald stared owl-eyed at Tellurium.

“Yo’re tryin’ to dig into m’ past, huh?” he grunted. “Yo’re a-gettin’ me drunk, so yuh can put some deadwood on me, huh?”

“Archie, yo’re the past-master of the Loco Lodge!”

“All right—heap me with honors, but yuh can’t slicker me. Let sleepin’ dogs lie—that’s my motter. Well, who do yuh want to rob?”

Tellurium whispered quietly, and Archibald nodded dumbly. It was a crazy scheme, but it appealed to Archibald.

“We go to town right after supper,” said Tellurium, “and don’t forget to put a big handkerchief in your pocket, Archie.”

“I’ll be there with bells on,” declared Archibald.

“You can leave the bells here—this ain’t no shivaree.”

Ed McLean was more than a little worried over the way things were going. That punch in the nose indicated that Jim Bailey had a mind of his own and might make trouble. And there was that hard-eyed, cold-jawed Skeeter Smith, who knew too much. McLean had no idea of giving Skeeter Smith any part of the Lazy H. If things came to a bitter showdown, he’d swear that Jim Bailey had fooled him; that McLean had accepted him at face value. Bailey had no proof otherwise. Bob Hawley, the detective, was dead, and he had McLean’s only contact to secure the right man.

McLean sat at his desk that night, thinking things over. Personally, he felt secure, but he wanted more than personal security—he wanted ownership of the Lazy H. He had schemed long and hard to put over this deal. He looked at his old safe, half in the shadows from the lamp on his desk, wondering if there could be any scrap of paper in that safe that would, or could, incriminate him, in case of an investigation. He felt sure that everything dangerous had been removed, but as he looked at the safe, he felt a desire to sift things again and be sure.

He went over to the safe and twisted the dial carefully, swung the heavy door open and began taking out the papers, placing them on his desk. A sudden draught caused a paper to flutter off the desk, and a chill breeze struck the back of his neck.

Slowly he turned his head, realizing that someone had opened the rear door. Two masked men were standing there, one of them covering him with a six-shooter. The man growled behind his mask:

“Don’t move! Keep yore hands in sight.”

The other man stepped over to the desk, grasped a handful of the papers and started to put them in his pocket. In fact, he had some of them in his coat pocket, when a voice behind him said:

“Drop the papers!”

His hand came away from his pocket, dragging papers out, and he dropped them on the pile of papers atop the desk.

“Back over by the door,” growled the voice again, and the first two masked men obeyed. One of them whispered:

“My gosh—another set!”

He was right, there were two more masked men behind them. McLean, white-faced, watched one of the second pair sweep up the papers and dump them into a sack.

“Is the safe empty?” asked the holdup man.

“Yes,” whispered McLean huskily.

Swiftly the two men backed away, and went outside. The first two were watching McLean narrowly. They too backed out, leaving the frightened attorney still on his knees beside the safe.

Slowly he got to his feet, walked to the rear door and looked out into the night. There was nobody in sight. He locked the door and went back to his desk, where he sat down heavily, staring at his empty safe. Every paper was gone. Suddenly he said aloud:

“What am I worried about, anyway? There was not an incriminating paper in the safe. This is a job for the sheriff.”

He put on his hat, locked the door and went down to the sheriff’s office. Cactus Spears was there, but McLean didn’t want to talk with the deputy. He found the sheriff at the Antelope Saloon, ensconced in a draw-poker game. Also in the game was Skeeter Smith. McLean waited until the sheriff dropped out of a pot. “Mace, can I have a word with you?” he asked.

The sheriff followed him outside, where McLean told him what happened in the office.

“Two different sets?” the sheriff said. “Ed, that sounds like you must have dreamed it. Why on earth would those four men want your papers?”

The lawyer shook his head. “Sheriff, I wish I knew,” he said.

“Couldn’t you identify any of the four?”

“No, I couldn’t, damn ’em! Things like that confuse you.”

“Well, I don’t know of anythin’ we can do about it, Ed. They’re gone—and so are yore papers. Maybe they’ll send ’em back to you.”

“I suppose I’ll have to wait and see,” sighed McLean.

Tellurium Woods and Archibald Haas rode slowly on their way back to the Lazy H. Not much had been said since they entered Ed McLean’s office. Finally Tellurium spoke.

“Archie, did you get a good look at them two?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I seen ’em good.”

“Good enough to identify ’em?”

“Nope—good enough to stand where they told me to.”

“Yuh know,” remarked Tellurium, “it’s awful funny that two other men should get an idea jist like mine. It shows I’m smart.”

“Yeah,” agreed Archibald, “yo’re smart, Tellurium—but them two was the smartest.”

“How do yuh figure that?”

“They brought a sack.”

IX

The news of the robbery at McLean’s office was brought back to the ranch by Skeeter Smith, and Jim Bailey heard it next morning at breakfast. He realized that if there had been anything incriminating in that safe, it was too late to do anything about it now. And, strangely enough, Jim Bailey didn’t care. He had lost all desire to help McLean. Naturally, he wanted Mary to get some of the Lazy H, but that was something beyond his control. As far as his share of the deal was concerned, he never did feel that he would ever receive it. He didn’t trust McLean at all, and the longer it went, the less his trust.

Ed McLean came out to the Lazy H that afternoon. He said he was out to get a breath of fresh air, but he soon got Jim alone.

“I heard about your robbery,” said Jim. “Did they get anything?”

“They took every paper out of my safe,” replied McLean, “but little good it will do them—I saw to that. Day after tomorrow that will is to be probated. I’ve talked with the judge. All you have to do is appear in court with me and answer questions. If anybody in Pinnacle City thinks that they can stop me from getting control of this ranch, they’re badly mistaken.”

“I can,” declared Jim Bailey soberly.

“You?” gasped the lawyer. “Don’t be a fool, Bailey.”

Jim Bailey laughed shortly. “I’m through with it, McLean—and you better be, too.”

“Yellow, eh?” sneered the lawyer.

Jim shrugged. “I’ll take it on one consideration, McLean.”

“What’s that?”

“That as soon as I get the ownership of the Lazy H, I turn it over to Mary Deal.”

“Well, what a fool you’ve turned out to be! Do you think for a minute that I’d—so you’re stuck on the girl, eh? Well, if—”

“Turn it over to her,” said Jim doggedly, “and we’ll both pull out. You say I am yellow. I suppose that means, I’m afraid. I am. I believe that robbery last night was done because four men do not believe that will was on the square. My acceptance by the court won’t change their minds. You know as well as I do that the will was not on the square, McLean. Clint Haverty did not cut Mary Deal out of her share—and you know it.”

McLean’s eyes slitted, as he looked at Jim Haverty. If looks could kill, Jim Bailey would have died in his tracks.

“What else do you know that’s funny?” asked the lawyer tensely.

“I know that when you go into court to probate that will, Jim Bailey won’t be there. When I came here, I fell for your crooked deal, because I didn’t know these folks. It looked like a chance for easy money. But I don’t want that easy money now.”

Ed McLean stared grimly into space. His plans were shattered if this foolish kid persisted in not doing his part.

“You’re letting a pretty face keep you from a fortune,” he said.

“We will leave the woman out of it, McLean. I’m walking out. Even if the Haverty brothers get the Lazy H—I can’t help it.”

“So that is your final word, eh, Bailey?”

“That is final, McLean.”

“All right, you’re the loser,” said the lawyer and started over to get into the buggy. “I’ll see you in court,” he said, and drove away.

“He’ll see me in court?” queried Jim to himself. “What has he got under his hat, I wonder?”

He walked up to the house and met Archibald Haas.

“How about some pistol practice, Jim?”

Jim smiled. “Are you willing to take chances?”

“Shore—if yuh want to try it. A feller never knows when he’ll need a gun. It’s good to be able to shoot.”

“Yes, I believe you are right, Archibald; I’ll get the gun. One never does know when a gun might be useful.”

Archibald led the way far down a dry-wash, where even the worst shot in Arizona would not endanger lives. After an hour of instructions, Archibald threw the undamaged tin can into the brush. “Ten feet, or a hundred, yuh miss ’em all plenty far,” he said.

“That last shot would have killed a man,” said Jim.

“Yeah, I know—but I ducked. You ain’t cut out for no gunman, Jim. You shut yore eyes, grit yore teeth, and git stiff enough to skate on. Then the gun jumps out of yore hand and I spend my val’able time, diggin’ the sand out of it. Didja ever try a shotgun?”

“Would I do better with one?”

“Well, yuh couldn’t do any worse.”

Jim flopped disgustedly on the porch, and tossed the gun aside. Tellurium came out, wiping his hands on his apron, grinning a little.

“Mucho boom—no hit, eh?” he remarked.

“That’s right. I simply cannot shoot a six-shooter, Tellurium.”

“Well, it’s a good thing to find out. Mary went to town a while ago. She wondered if you’d like to go along, but you was too busy throwin’ lead and I wouldn’t go and get yuh—too dangerous.”

“I’d have been honored to go with her,” said Jim. “Sorry. When will she be back?”

“I dunno. She said she might go down and visit with Mrs. Voigt for a while; mebbe stay for supper—she didn’t know. Was McLean around, checkin’ up to find out who robbed him last night?”

“No, I don’t believe he was,” laughed Jim. “He said they did not get anything of value from his safe.”

“I jist wondered,” said Tellurium, and went into the house.

Jim sat there and thought it over. He knew that Tellurium and Archibald had gone to town last night. Could those two old timers have been one of the two pairs of masked men? It would be like them to do a thing like that, trying to help Mary Deal. But who were the other two, he wondered?

Mary Deal did not come home for supper, but no one was concerned. Tellurium sat up until midnight, waiting for her, but she did not come. Jim heard Tellurium moving about the main room and came out to see what was wrong. The old alarm clock on Jim’s dresser showed the time to be almost half-past twelve. Tellurium was standing at a window, peering out into the night.

“What is wrong?” asked Jim. The cook turned away from the window and looked at Jim.

“Mary ain’t home yet,” he said, a worried note in his voice. “She wouldn’t stay this late—alone—not unless she said she’d stay there all night.”

“What could happen to her?” asked Jim anxiously.

Tellurium shrugged. “Quien sabe? Put on yore pants, kid, we’re headin’ for town—me and you.”

Tellurium hitched up the buckboard team, and they headed for Pinnacle City. Tellurium knew where the Voigt family lived; so he hammered on the door until Mrs. Voigt came. Mary had eaten supper with them, and had left about seven o’clock. She had said that she was going home.

It was too late to seek more information; so they drove back to the ranch, hoping that Mary might be home, but she was not; so Tellurium went to the bunk-house and awakened the boys. They all gathered in the main room, where they talked it over.

“She rode Irish,” said Tellurium. “He’d come home.”

The boys nodded.

“No one would harm Mary,” Tex Parker said.

“Maybe she fell off the horse, or was thrown,” suggested Jim.

“Mary is a good rider,” said Dell Howard, “and Irish never bucked in his life. Mary broke him thataway.”

“All right,” said Tex, “we’ve got to do somethin’. Tellurium, you and Jim stay here—the rest of us go to town. We’ll search along the road, and check on everybody in town. Somebody must have seen her after she left Voigt’s place. C’mon boys.”

They hurried out, heading for the stable.

“You might as well go to bed, Jim,” Tellurium said. “No use settin’ up.”

“This,” replied Jim, “is no time to sleep.”

It was a long night. Dell Howard and Buck Ives came back for breakfast and to see if Mary had returned.

“We can’t find any trace of her in Pinnacle City,” Dell told them. “We’re makin’ up two posses for the search.”

“I’m goin’ with yuh,” declared Tellurium. “I’d go crazy, not doin’ anythin’. Jim can take care of the ranch.”

“I’d like to go along,” said Jim.

“You’d do us more good right here,” said Dell.

The three of them rode away in a cloud of dust. Jim wandered around the place, not knowing what to do. Dell Howard had tossed the ranch mail on the table, and Jim glanced at it. There was a paper from Phoenix, a small mail-order catalogue, and one letter in a plain brown envelope. Jim looked at the name, a puzzled expression on his face. It was addressed to Jim Meade, care of the Lazy H, Pinnacle City, Arizona.

Slowly he opened it, wondering who would write him. Inside was a single sheet of soiled paper, on which had been written in ink, the letters faded;

YOU STICK ON THIS DEAL AS AGREED OR SHE WON’T NEVER COME BACK.

It was unsigned, undated. Jim sat down in a chair and stared at the open doorway, the paper clutched in his hand.

“Stick to the deal, or she won’t never come back,” he whispered. “That must be McLean’s work.”

He read the note again, holding it to the light, the ink was that weak. He heard a horse walking across the yard outside. He shoved the paper into his pocket and went to the doorway. It was Irish, Mary’s saddle-horse, the reins tied up. Irish nickered at him, and he went out to the animal, which seemed to be all right.

Jim tied Irish to the porch-rail and went into the house. He had no idea just what he was going to do, but he was going to do something. He put on those hated, high-heel boots, borrowed an old belt and holster, and buckled on his .41. Anything was better than sitting there at the ranch-house.

Mary’s stirrup leathers were too short, but luckily, they were of the buckle-type, and he was able to lengthen them. Irish didn’t seem to mind. In fact, the little bay gelding rubbed his nose against Jim’s elbow.

“You came home, Irish,” said Jim, “so why can’t you take me to Mary?”

The horse made no audible reply. Jim remembered that he had forgotten to load the gun, so he filled the cylinder with stub-nosed .41’s, replaced it in the holster, and headed down past the stable. He was going back the way he had gone when Blondy was shot. It might be the wrong way, but it was the only way he had ever traveled on a horse. Anyway, he reasoned, with the hills full of searching riders, one was as good as another.

It seemed that Mace Brown, the sheriff, had enlisted every rider in the country, split them into three sections, and given each one a certain territory. No one had any idea of what had happened to Mary, nor where to search. It was a blind trail, but the men were all anxious for action.

Ed McLean stood grimly in his office and watched the riders sweep out of Pinnacle City. He had been forced to play his ace-in-the-hole, and he wondered how Jim Bailey had reacted. He was sure they had left Bailey at the Lazy H, because he was not worth taking along on the search. There was not a scrap of evidence to connect McLean with the disappearance of Mary Deal and if the worst came to the worst—McLean shrugged. After all, he must protect himself. The court would consider that will tomorrow, and now he was very sure that Jim Bailey would not back out of his part in the deception.

There was only one angle that worried McLean and that was the possibility that Jim Bailey never received that letter. It was an annoying thought, and he finally decided to ride out to the Lazy H and have a few words with Bailey. He saddled his horse and rode out, only to find the ranch-house deserted. He went in and looked around. On the floor of the main room, near a table, was the opened envelope in which the note had been mailed.

McLean put the envelope in his pocket, a grin on his fat lips. No one would ever be able to identify the penciled writing on that envelope, and as far as the note was concerned, McLean was not afraid of that. After satisfying himself that no one was at the ranch, he rode back to Pinnacle City.

X

Near sunset, Jim Bailey began to take stock of his situation. He had ridden miles, but had not seen a human being and just now he had no idea where he was. He had lost all sense of direction, but strangely enough, was not worried. The fact that darkness comes swiftly after sundown had no terrors for him.

He rode along a cow-trail, angling up around the point of a hill, and saw a group of buildings below him. He drew up, partly screened by the tall brush. The place consisted of a roughly-built ranch-house, of two or three rooms, a series of tumble-down corrals and a huge, sway-backed stable. Two loose horses browsed around the littered yard.

As Jim looked the place over, two riders came in from behind the house, traveling slowly. Suddenly one of them pointed out past the stable. A moment later the other rider reined swiftly to the right and galloped down past the corrals and drew up in the heavy brush between Jim and the ranch-house. Jim could not see him, but sensed he had concealed himself. The other rider dismounted, dropped his reins to the ground and went into the house.

The actions of the two men seemed strange to Jim Bailey. In a few minutes five riders came in past the stable and drew up at the house. He saw the man come outside, bareheaded, and talk with them. After a short conversation he went back, got his hat, climbed into his saddle, and rode away with them.

Jim felt that these five men were one of the searching parties and that this man had joined them. But why did the other one hide from them, he wondered? After a few minutes he saw the other man ride back past the corrals, dismount at the house and go inside.

Jim decided not to go down there. He had noticed there was a road leading away from the ranch, and he surmised that it would lead to Pinnacle City. The man was in there quite a while, but finally came out, carrying a sizable bundle, which he tied on the back of his saddle. The man seemed to be keeping watch of the surroundings and after he mounted his horse he kept turning his head, looking things over.

Then he turned his horse and headed back the same way they had come to the ranch. Why Jim Bailey elected to follow this man, he had no idea. He rode off the point of the hill and swung in behind the horseman who rode slowly, but in the opposite direction from Pinnacle City.

Jim Bailey kept the man in sight through a long, brushy swale, following a well-used cow-trail. It was growing darker all the time, but he could still see the man after they went out of the swale. He was bearing off across rough country, and Jim was afraid he would lose track of him. He didn’t dare hurry. Objects became more indistinct, until suddenly he realized it was dark. The last he saw of the other rider, he was heading over some broken country, and holding a fairly straight line.

There was a full moon, but its effect was of little value this early in the evening. Jim stopped and tried to take stock of his position. After looking around he had no idea which way he had come. Irish was perfectly willing to rest.

“If we go on,” Jim said aloud, “we can’t be more lost than we are now. Just why I followed that man I don’t know, Irish. Well, he must have a destination in mind and that is what I need most right now—a destination.”

So Irish went on, dodging brush and piles of rock, circling brushy washouts, until Jim suddenly realized that he was on the rim of a mighty canyon. Far across the canyon he could see moonlight shining on the cliffs. Somewhere a coyote lifted its voice in displeasure, and Jim’s spine tickled a little. Another and still another added their voices, until they sounded like gabbling geese.

Jim turned Irish gently and started along the rim. Stunted pines and huge, gnarled manzanitas grew along the rim. The flinty rock scraped under Irish’s shod hoofs. Suddenly a horse nickered ahead. The animal was tied to a manzanita snag, standing full in the moonlight. It was the horse Jim had followed.

He rode into the shadow of some small pines and dismounted. He tied Irish securely and went back to the other horse. The rider was not there, but Jim found an old trail down the sharp side of the cliff. At that, it wasn’t much of a trail, but even in the moonlight he could see the fresh scrapes of boot-marks.

Jim looked the situation over carefully. Twenty feet down, the trail was in absolute darkness.

“Suppose Mary is down there,” he said to himself. “Suppose they hid her down there. Why would that man go down the trail, unless he had a very urgent reason—and what could the reason be? This man hid from the posse, while the other went along. That, in itself, looked suspicious.”

He looked at the moon, at the depths of the canyon, and added, half-aloud:

“While asking questions, Bailey—what in the devil are you doing up here—all alone—and lost?”

Shivering a little, he slid off the rim and started down the trail, leaning in against the bank, carefully digging his high-heels into the dirt and against the rocky projections. Jim Bailey was frightened. The light had gone now, and he had to go slowly, feeling his way. It seemed hours since he had left the rim. It was like going down a slanting ladder, feeling ahead for each rung. Something scraped against his cheek, and he stopped, groping around with his left hand. It was a rope.

It was larger than an ordinary lariat, and he was able to discover that it was tied around some sort of an old snag. Cautiously he investigated. Just below him the trail broke almost sheer. Evidently the rope was there to help men go down the impossible part of that trail. Below was only a dark mass, like a lot of houses piled on top of each other.

Jim took a deep breath, grasped the rope tightly, turned around and went down slowly, his feet seeking purchase on the side of the wall. It was hard on his hands, that rough rope, but he was making progress slowly. He had gone down about a dozen feet, when he felt a heavy tug on the rope. He thought for a moment that he had been discovered, but a continuous tugging indicated that someone was coming up the rope. Jim thought wildly of trying to go back, but it was impossible. One of his flailing legs caught around the rope, giving it one turn, and he started down fast. The rope burned his hands, but he didn’t even feel it. Suddenly he crashed into somebody.

The rest of the descent was rather hazy for Jim Bailey. He lost control of the rope with his left hand, his right was jerked loose and he went into space for a few feet, landing in sliding rubble, to bring up sharply on a smooth space, against a rock.

All he had heard from the other man was a startled curse when he had crashed into him, but he knew the other was not far away. Jim realized he had cut his cheek, because the blood was trickling into his mouth, and his hands felt as though they had been burned. Still he was sure no bones had been broken.

But Jim Bailey stayed put. He was in a dark corner and he was not going to move until the other man started something. His gun had stayed in his holster, and now he took it out. The feel of that gun was reassuring, even if he knew he couldn’t hit anything with it.

Then he heard the other man off to his right. He was cursing in an undertone, his rough clothes rasping against rock. Then he lifted his voice to a conversational level and said:

“Who is it? Quien es?”

Jim did not answer. The man cursed some more, flinging rocks into the dark spots. One barely missed Jim’s head, and it made him mad. He picked up a shattered part of the rock and flung it back at the man. Judging from the response, it must have registered, but the man wasn’t sure from what direction it had come.

“Come out of there, or I’ll kill yuh!” rasped the man.

Jim thought he had been seen, but a moment later the man fired a shot, almost at right-angles to where Jim was hidden. The man was evidently searching out the darkest spots for his bullets. Jim hunched lower, the old .41 gripped in both hands.

Wham! The man fired again and the bullet smashed into the rocks almost directly behind Jim, who swung the muzzle of his gun, shut his eyes and yanked the trigger. The .41 blasted flame, almost jumped out of Jim’s two-handed grip, and the hidden man yelped, either in pain or surprise.

“Don’t tell me I hit something!” exclaimed Jim, aloud.

The man didn’t say; he was cursing bitterly, and Jim heard him rasping around over the rocks. Anyway, he wasn’t doing any more shooting. Jim eased his position cautiously, watching further up the rocks, where the moonlight streaked them with blue. From the sounds it seemed as though the man was trying to get away.

Jim suddenly realized that if his enemy were able to get back to that rope, and climb up to the trail, he might take the rope along. Without the rope it might be impossible ever to get back to the rim. The thought made him panicky for a moment, and he crawled out into the moonlit strip. But nothing happened.

Trying to find his way back, he almost went over the sheer edge of the cliff. Peering down, he could see, possibly a hundred feet below, to where the moonlight streaked the rocks. He edged his way back and a loose rock, the size of a football, crashed beside him. Several pieces banged into him, but not against his head. Quickly he slid into the heavy shadow again, thankful to be alive, but realizing that the other man was above him now.

Jim worked cautiously now. He could hear the man once in a while, but was unable to locate him exactly. Jim suddenly realized how tired he was. His face was swollen, his hands swollen too, and he had bruises too numerous to mention. He found loose rock, which gave under his knees as he crawled carefully upward. He remembered that he had landed in loose rock and dirt. Perhaps this was the place.

Above him he could hear the rasp and scrape of what sounded like someone sliding on rock. He stood up, and something brushed his arm. It was the rope again. He grabbed for it, but it was yanked out of his hands. The man had reached the trail and taken the rope.

In sudden desperation Jim braced against the wall, cocked his gun, gripped it in both hands and shot almost straight up. There was no target, nothing to shoot at. He jerked back, losing his footing for the moment, and a fraction of a second later a heavy object crashed into him, and his consciousness went out in a shower of shooting stars.

XI

He had no idea how long he was unconscious, except that the angle of the moonlight had changed. He sat up, trying to remember where he was. It was very confusing for a while, until memory came back. There was a cut on his head, and a numb feeling in his legs, but the numbness was caused by the twisted position he had occupied for an uncertain length of time.

After a while he was able to move around, and he decided that no bones were broken. Just below him on a moonlit ledge was a bright object, which turned out to be a perfectly good six-shooter, three chambers loaded. To the right was the edge of the cliff, where he had almost fallen in the darkness. Suddenly he realized that the man had fallen from the trail, crashed into him and gone over the edge.

It was a sickening thought, realizing he had shot a man. He went slowly back on the ledge. The moonlight illuminated it now, and he stood looking at it. He remembered something about the ancient cliff dwellers, and wondered if this was one of the places where they had lived. Some of the ancient walls were still there. He crawled through a broken place and into what might have been another room of the dwelling.

Full in the moonlight, sitting against the wall, gagged and blindfolded, her arms and legs tied, sat Mary Deal. Very little of her face was visible, but Jim knew who she was. Clumsily he took away the bandages and ropes. His hands were too swollen to let him work fast or surely.

“How are you, Mary?” he asked.

But Mary wasn’t able to answer, because her jaws were cramped. He could see the moonlight glitter on the tears down her cheeks, and he said, “Well, my gosh.”

She was trying to rub her jaw with her hands, but her hands wouldn’t work. Jim helped her, carefully massaging her jaw, until she could speak.

“I’m all right, Jim,” she said huskily.

But she wasn’t all right. Returning circulation is painful. Jim rubbed her hands and fingers.

“Where did you come from?” she asked.

“The ranch,” he replied. “I know where I came from, but I do not know where I am.”

“This is Destruction Canyon, Jim. The deepest in the country.”

“It looks deep,” he said. “Did they hurt you?”

“No—not much. What became of that man? I heard shots—”

“I shot him,” said Jim simply.

“You shot him?” Her tone was incredulous.

“Accidentally—but with certain intentions,” he said. “You see, he was up on the trail, trying to take the rope away; so I—I sort of shot up the rope, as you might say. He fell into the canyon. Do you know who he was, Mary?”

“No. They caught me just outside town in the dark. They blindfolded me and put a cloth in my mouth. I remember that rope. They tied it under my arms and let me down here. But how did you find me, Jim—you of all people?”

“Irish came home,” he said. “They all went hunting you and left me at the ranch; so I rode Irish. We followed that man.”

“They are hunting for me?” she asked.

“Every man in the country. What is in that sack?”

Mary didn’t know. Jim dumped the contents and found that it was food—canned food and some cold biscuits.

“I haven’t eaten since last night,” Mary said. “Maybe they were going to feed me. But, Jim, what do they think became of me?”

“They don’t know, Mary—but I did. I’ll show you something.”

He took the letter from his pocket, spread it flat and lighted a match. The paper was bare of any marks. Jim stared at it until the match burned his fingers.

“I don’t understand,” Mary said.

“I do,” said Jim wearily. “They used disappearing ink.”

“But what was it all about?” asked Mary. “You said you knew what became of me—”

“I—I didn’t know what—I only knew why, Mary. I’ve got to tell you. My name is Jim Bailey—not Jim Meade.”

“Jim Bailey? Why—I thought you—”

“I know. Listen Mary—I’ll tell you the story. I’m not a bit proud. I didn’t know you might get hurt. That wasn’t in the deal but I can see why it was done.”

And then Jim Bailey, hunched on part of the doorway of an ancient and departed race, told Mary Deal the whole tale, beginning in San Francisco, with Cliff De Haven and Bob Hawley, and extending up to the time he left the Lazy H ranch-house on Mary’s own horse. Jim did not spare himself, he told it all.

Mary didn’t interrupt him once. When he had finished, she said:

“Jim, it is almost morning; we’d better get out of here—if we can.”

“Don’t you want to eat something, Mary?”

“Not now—we have to hurry—before that other man comes here.”

“That’s right,” agreed Jim. “I can’t hit a thing in the daylight.”

They managed to find their way back to the rope. The light was better, and the climb did not look nearly as formidable as it did in the darkness. Mary went first, clinging to the rope, hooking her feet over the projections, until she swung up beside the old snag, out of breath, but safe. Jim’s hands were in no shape to handle that rope, but he managed to get up there, ready to collapse. They rested a while, before climbing to the top.

“Your hands are bleeding, Jim! Oh, I didn’t notice them before. And your face is swollen!”

“I’m all right,” said Jim wearily. “I’m alive and you’re alive—and that is really something.”

“Something I didn’t expect,” said Mary quietly. “Look, Jim! The east is rosy. It will soon be full daylight.”

“We better get to the top, Mary.”

There was still a steep, dangerous climb, but they didn’t mind it, until they reached the top, when their knees went weak, as they looked back down the cliffs. Irish was there, and so was the other man’s horse.

“You better ride Irish, Jim,” Mary said, “we don’t know the other one.”

Jim laughed weakly. “Listen, woman,” he drawled, imitating Archibald and Cactus Spears, “I can ride anythin’ on four laigs. Lemme at him.”

The horse snorted at Jim as he started to untie him. Suddenly Mary yelled a warning and Jim whirled. A horseman was coming down through the rocks near the rim, not over fifty yards away. He saw them and jerked up quickly.

Jim Bailey had two guns now, but he drew the one he had found. The rider fired one shot, and barked the tree to which the horse was tied, missing Jim Bailey’s head by three feet.

Then Jim Bailey fired—fired with one hand—his eyes open. The rider jerked back in his saddle, the horse swung sharply and the rider dropped his gun, grabbing at the saddle horn, as he spurred his horse savagely. A moment later he was gone, racing back along the rim.

“No!” exclaimed Jim Bailey in amazement. “I can’t believe it!”

“You hit him!” exclaimed Mary.

“Yeah!” breathed Jim Bailey. “You know, Mary—I was shooting at the wrong kind of targets—tin cans.”

Jim had a little trouble in mounting, but he made it, and drew up the horse sharply.

“Do you know the way to Pinnacle City?” he asked.

“We are going to the ranch,” she said sharply. “You must have those hands fixed up.”

“We are going to Pinnacle City,” he declared soberly. “I want to look at buildings—a street—people. Not only that, but I’m due in court to prove who I am. You lead the way.”

“Yessir,” she said soberly. “Follow me, please.”

The three groups of riders, out searching all night, were back at Pinnacle City eating breakfast, tired and discouraged. They were finishing breakfast when Tellurium and Archibald came in from the Lazy H. Tellurium shook his head sadly, in answer to their unspoken question. Archibald said wearily:

“That blamed dude ain’t even there. He ain’t been there all night either, ’cause no bed has been slept in.”

“My gosh, have we lost him, too?” asked Cactus.

Tex Parker said, “What horse did he take?”

“None I reckon,” replied Tellurium. “Ain’t no saddle missing, Tex.”

Ed McLean joined them and heard them discussing Jim Bailey. It was almost time for the court to open. McLean’s eyes were a bit bleak, as he said to Tex Parker:

“Where would Jim Meade go, Tex?”

Tex shook his head. Skeeter Smith smiled wearily.

“You may not have a candidate for the Lazy H, McLean,” he said.

McLean turned away and walked toward the frame building, which housed the court of Pinnacle City. The men looked curiously at Skeeter.

“What did yuh mean, Skeet?” Cactus asked.

“They’re probatin’ that Haverty will this mornin’, Cactus.”

Cactus nodded. The men were all too tired to care much. They stood around, waiting for the sheriff to suggest their next move.

“Boys,” he finally said, “I don’t know what to do next. We’ve covered every likely place, and—” Mace Adams stopped, staring up the street, where a lone rider had appeared. He seemed to be sitting drunkenly in his saddle, as he came slowly into town.

“That’s Ace Haverty!” exclaimed Cactus. “He wasn’t drunk, when he left us last night.”

“This mornin’,” corrected the sheriff.

Ace Haverty pulled up in front of the court-house, tried to get out of his saddle and fell off into the dirt. He staggered to his feet and headed for the door of the court house.

“That’s queer,” declared the sheriff. “We better find out—”

Ace had trouble, trying to open the door. The men came in behind him, and he snarled:

“Keep away from me—I’ll kill yuh!”

“He’s been shot!” whispered someone.

There were several men in the big court-room. The elderly judge was at his desk, and McLean was with him, talking fast, asking the judge to postpone probating the will, while he looked for Jim Meade, who had disappeared. Then the door was flung open and Ace Haverty staggered in. His left shoulder and arm were blood-caked, his knees rubbery, as he came haltingly toward the judge’s desk.

“What in the name of heaven!” gasped the judge.

Ace Haverty tried to say something, tried to hold his balance, but suddenly collapsed in front of the desk. The men were crowding in through the doorway. McLean’s face was the color of wood-ashes, as he stared from Ace Haverty to the crowd.

From outside came a shrill yell.

“Here’s Mary Deal and the tenderfoot!”

McLean’s move was totally unexpected. He whirled, leaped to an open window, which opened on the main street, and dived through it like a trained dog going through a hoop. He landed on his hands and knees on the sidewalk, rolled into the dusty street, and landed against the legs of Jim Bailey, who had just dismounted. The horse whirled away, but Jim Bailey fell on top of the lawyer. A moment later Jim Bailey had a tight grip on McLean’s two ears and was bouncing his face up and down in the dust.

Then strong arms reached through the dust cloud, lifted Jim Bailey away, picked up the choking lawyer and carried him into the court house. Jim Bailey followed them in. Mary was there, and everybody was trying to talk at once.

McLean, half-choked from the dust, pointed a shaking finger at Jim Bailey and spluttered:

“He’s a liar! That man is an impostor! Arrest—”

“Shut up!” snapped the sheriff. “Stop the noise! Let’s get some sense out of this. Mary, what happened to you? The rest of yuh shut up and let her tell it.”

Mary told them all about it. She told them how Jim Bailey found her, fought with an unknown man on the cliff and what he told her about himself. The crowd was silent, until Tellurium came galloping through the doorway, waving a piece of paper.

“Look at this, will yuh?” he yelled. “I—I just found it! It’s Clint Haverty’s own writin’. It’s what he told McLean to put in the will! I had it in my pocket and— Whoa, Blaze!”

“You dirty thief!” screamed the lawyer. “You held me up! You—” McLean stopped short, his eyes blinking tearfully.

“Let me see that, Mr. Woods,” said the judge.

Tellurium handed it to the judge, who peered at it closely.

“This is Clinton Haverty’s writing,” he said. “It appears to be instructions regarding his will. It says, ‘Give Tex Parker one thousand dollars, Tellurium and Archibald five hundred apiece, one dollar each to Ace and Dick Haverty. The rest of the Lazy H I wish to give to Mary Deal. This includes the ranch, stock and everything I own, including any money in the bank. That covers it. Make it up like this right away.’”

The judge looked up at the crowd and said, “It is signed by Clint Haverty, gentlemen. Mr. McLean, what do you know about this paper?”

McLean shook his head.

“Judge, the man lies,” Skeeter Smith said. “He worked with Ace and Dick Haverty, robbin’ the Lazy H. They robbed the stage and took registered mail, and they held up the bank and killed Mr. Estabrook!”

“I didn’t!” husked McLean. “Those two ignorant fools took the mail. I told them—they tried to rob the bank and—”

“Thank you, McLean,” smiled Skeeter. “I had the deadwood on yuh for alterin’ the Lazy H to the Box Four H, but I had to have you tell me about the mail robbery. I figured out the brand deal right away, and I suspected the mail robbery, but I had to wait for it to stew a while.”

The judge fixed a baleful eye on Jim Bailey. “Well, young man, what have you to say for yourself?”

“Not a thing, Judge,” replied Jim wearily. “I admit everything. I told McLean I would not go through with the deception; so he had Mary Deal kidnapped to force me to appear. You see, Judge, after Mary disappeared, I received a note, saying that if I did not go through with my agreement, she would never come back.”

“Have you that note, sir?”

Jim Bailey smiled and drew a paper from his pocket.

“It was written in disappearing ink, Judge—here is the paper.”

The judge examined the paper and placed it on his desk.

“Young man, do you admit that you are not Jim Meade?”

“I insist that I am not, Judge.”

“The kid is all right, Judge,” said Skeeter Smith. “He started wrong, but he’s all right now. McLean saw a chance to steal the Lazy H. Haverty’s eyesight was bad, so McLean shuffled the wills, and tricked Haverty into signing the one he made to suit his own needs, givin’ the Lazy H to Jim Meade, instead of to Mary Deal. Yuh see, Judge, I knew all the time that this boy was not Jim Meade.”

“You knew it all the time, sir? And just how did you know that this boy was not Jim Meade?”

Skeeter smiled. “Because I am Jim Meade, Judge. A few years ago I was reported killed in an explosion.”

“I see. So you are Jim Meade. Well, I—isn’t it rather coincidental that you should come here at this particular time, sir?”

“Not exactly, Judge,” smiled Skeeter. “You see, I am a deputy U. S. Marshal, sent here to investigate that mail robbery, but I use the name of Smith, especially when I smell a rat.”

Mace Adams snapped handcuffs on McLean who stared at them with stony eyes.

Tellurium said, “And they say the kid shot both of the Haverty boys. Seein’ is believin’ on my part—I saw what he didn’t do to a tin can. Why don’t somebody get a doctor for Ace Haverty—he ain’t dead. C’mon, Jim—I’m takin’ you out to the ranch, where I can fix yuh up with some horse-liniment.”

Jim shook his head. “I’m sorry, Tellurium,” he said, “the masquerade is over. I won’t be going out to the ranch again.”

Jim Bailey limped toward the doorway, going out alone. No one said anything, but they looked at Mary, who got to her feet and limped after him. They disappeared outside.

“I ain’t no bettin’ man,” Archibald Haas said, “but I’ll bet a dollar agin a bent-nail that he goes out to the Lazy H again.”

Skeeter and Tex Parker stepped over to the open window, where McLean had done his high-dive. Mary and Jim were only a few feet away, facing each other.

Jim said, “But, Mary, I’m a cheat. I’ve lied to everybody. I’m just a no-good hound. And you—”

“I’m glad you realize it,” said Mary soberly. “You said that love had to be honest—and you are honest, Jim.”

“Anybody want to take m’ bet?” asked Archibald.

Skeeter and Tex turned away from the window, and Skeeter said seriously:

“I don’t like to ruin what looks like a good bet, boys, but keep yore bent nails in yore pockets.”

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the Spring, 1948 issue of Giant Western magazine.