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  CHAPTER XI

  PAY DIRT

  In September there was a killing in the Good Luck Pool Room, the murderof a stranger whose friends made such an investigation, backed by thereal law-and-order element of Hereford, that the exposure brought aboutforfeiture of all licenses and a strict shutting down on gambling andillicit liquor. Plimsoll left Hereford for his horse ranch, deprived ofthe sheriff's official countenance, and Jordan began to worry aboutelection.

  One evening in early October a little body of riders came to the ThreeStar, all strangers to the county, men whose faces were grim, whocracked no jokes, whose greetings were barely more than civil. They werewell armed and they acted like men of a single purpose.

  "This is the Three Star, ain't it?" asked the leader of a cowboy, whonodded silently, taking in the appearance of the visitors.

  "Bourke, Peters and Manning?"

  "One and all," answered the Three Star rider. "Find 'em at chuck, Ireckon. You-all are jest in time. If you aim to stay overnight I'll tendyore hawsses an' put 'em in the corral."

  "You seem hospitable here."

  The tone was half sarcastic.

  "Rule of the ranch," replied Buck. "Folks arrivin' after sun-down, thesame bein' strangers, is expected to pass the night, if they're in nohurry."

  Sandy personally backed the invitation a moment later and steaks werebeing pan-fried as the men dismounted and lounged on the porch, awaitingtheir meal. The leader introduced himself by the name of Bill Brandon,claiming previous knowledge, without actual acquaintance, of Sandy,Mormon and Sam in Texas. Sizing each other up, man-fashion, eye to eye,appraising a score of tiny things that aggregated sufficiently to tipthe mental scale, the crowd grew more familiar and welded with supper,exchanged anecdotes with digestion, to get confidential over thetobacco.

  "We're out after a man who's been collectin' hawsses too primiscuous,"said Brandon finally. "We know you gents by past reputation an' by whatthey say of you in Herefo'd. Also, by that last reckonin', I ain'tfiggerin' you as any speshul pal of the man we're tryin' to round up. Ireckon you know who we mean. Jim Plimsoll, who owns what he calls theWaterline Hawss Ranch, sixteen miles east of you, more or less; an' whogits more fancy breeds out of the mangy cayuses he shows his breedin'mares an' stallions, than there is different fish in the sea. From all Ican figger most of his mares must have fo' foals a year.

  "Some of us are from this state--Mojave County--two of us from Nevada.Me, I'm from California. We've all been losin' hawsses off an' on an'we've final' got together an' compared notes. Seems most of the missin'stock sorter drifted across the Arizony line somewheres between MojaveCity an' Topock. Most of 'em have been sold or passed on. All of 'emhave been faked an' doctored more or less. Talk points to Plimsoll, sodo some facts, but not enough. An' this Plimsoll has got some mightyclose friends where they do the most good. You'd have to prove a damnsight more than we got to even sight a blank warrant."

  "You been over to his ranch?" asked Sandy.

  "Jest come from there. He's slick an' cool, is Plimsoll. We was supposedto be lookin' over hawsses for buyin', but he's careful who he sells to.We saw some. An' we recognized some. But you know how it is, Bourke, itain't hard to change a hawss. Dock its foretop, do a little doctorin',an' how you goin' to prove it? I'll say this for the man, he's thefinest brand-faker I've met up with. He suspicioned what we was afteran' we didn't see all he had. But we're goin' to git him yet an', whenwe do, there won't be any more hawss-stealin' an' fakin' in CoconinoCounty, Arizona. Hawss-stealin' was a hangin' matter when I first comewest an' I reckon there's some feels the same way now. Speshully whenthe courts back up a man like Plimsoll. Lead's cheaper than rope, butsomehow it ain't so convincin'."

  Brandon changed the subject after he had spoken, but it was plain thathe and his companions had not given up the matter; clear also that theywere sure of Plimsoll's guilt and laying plans to trap him. They stayeduntil the next morning and departed.

  "That man Brandon's got some trick up his sleeve to trap Plimsoll," saidSam, watching them ride off. "He ain't quite got it fixed up yet to suithimself but it's a good un."

  "He's got brains," commented Sandy, rubbing Grit's ears. The collie hadpicked up since Sandy's return, sensing some connection with hismistress closer than that of Mormon and Sam. He would feed only fromSandy's hand and attached himself to the latter almost as permanently ashis shadow. "So has Jim Plimsoll. I ain't hankerin' fo' another man toclean him up befo' I get my own chance. But that bunch sure meanbusiness."

  The incident was forgotten as the round-up days grew near, with frostymornings when the mountains looked as flat as if they had been profiledfrom cardboard and stuck up along the horizon--until the lifting sunmodeled them with shadows--with sweltering noons tapering slowly off tocool nights while horses raced after the flying cattle, driving andcutting out, and so to the corral brandings, where the three partnersfound their increase better than they had anticipated.

  Molly was not to come home at Christmas after all. She formed afriendship, the first close one she had made, and Barbara Reddingadvised that the invitation extended by this new acquaintance to spendthe holidays be accepted. There had been plans of a Christmas tree anda celebration, but the gifts were boxed and sent off. Others arrivedfrom the East in exchange, a collar for Grit, a cigarette case forSandy, a necktie for Mormon and a three-decked harmonica for Sam. Therewas a picture too, not so much of a girl but a young woman, a somewhatwistful look in her eyes, but a firm-lipped, resolute-chinned youngwoman for all that, who smiled out at them frankly and confidently. Itwas signed

  A Merry Christmas and a Prosperous New Year from the Mascotte of the * * *

  MOLLY.

  "I dunno about the merry Christmas," said Mormon. "We're prosperousenough, short of bein' profiteers. Molly's gettin' to be a good-looker,ain't she? Goin' to git it framed, Sandy?"

  Snows fell, the temperature ranged down far below zero at times, wintergave reluctant place to spring until the last moment when it turned andfled and, far into the desert, myriads of flower-blooms sprang upovernight while everywhere the cactus gleamed in silken blooms in yellowand crimson.

  One April night the Bailey flivver came charging up to Three Star,smothering itself in a cloud of dust that had not settled before theresprang out of it Miranda Bailey and the lanky Ed, temporarily chargedwith a tremendous activity. The cause of young Ed's galvanism was sostrong that he actually won from his aunt as bearer of the news.

  "Gold!" he cried. "They've struck pay dirt at Dynamite! Chunks ofsylvanite that sweat gold in the fire. Assay thirty thousand dollars aton. Whole streaks of it. Vein's twelve foot wide. The whole town'sstampedin' by way of White Cliff Canyon. I'm goin'. Got a pick an' shovelin the car. Aunt Mirandy, she was bound we'd come this way. Mebbe we canpack you all in. But you got to hurry or they'll swarm over Dynamitelike flies on a chunk o' liver!"

  "It's true," backed Miss Bailey. "Folks over to Hereford have gonecrazy. I caught a word or two that Plimsoll's to the bottom of the rush.Ed heard he got hold of some samples them easterners took an' had 'emsent away an' assayed. They turned out to be the big stuff. 'Course youcan't depend on gossip, when folks are talkin' mines but, if it's so,Plimsoll's burned the wind to git first pick. An' he'll grab thoseclaims of Molly's first thing. That's one reason I made Ed come thisway. Thought you might like to come erlong, on'y he took the words outof my mouth."

  "You goin'?" asked Mormon. There were two red splotches in Miranda'scheeks, a glitter in her eyes that suggested she had not escaped thegold fever.

  "Sure am," she answered. "Ed Bailey Senior, he 'lows there's no sense inchasin' gold underground. Says he likes to see his prospects growin' upunder his own eyes an' gazin' on his own land. I'm the adventurous oneof the Bailey fam'ly, though you mightn't guess it to look at me," shesaid with a twitch of her lips. "Me an' young Ed here. He takes afterme. Got the gamblin' germ in our systems. Want to git somethin' fo'nothin'," she went on with grim humor. "I reckon
Ed's right but,land-sake, doin' the same thing, day in an' out--gits mighty monotonous.Bein' a woman, you're more tied than a man. I tried to work my extryenergy out in politics but it all come my way too easy.

  "Plimsoll ain't got much love for me. He figgers I lost him his licensean' his brother-in-law sheriff his badge. He's right. I did. I figgeredyou'd not be anxious to let him have his own way about Molly's claimsan' I 'lowed I'd like to be along an' see the excitement. Me an' Edhere'll stake off suthin' for ourselves. I'd jest as soon git some easymoney as the rest of 'em. If I do I'll buy another car. This thing"--shesurveyed the panting flivver contemptuously--"is nigh worn out and it'sjest a tin kittle on wheels. Biles if you leave it out in the sun."

  Sandy, after a swift word of apology, turned away toward the bunk-house.Mormon, with a sweeping salute from his bald head to his knees, voicedhis opinion.

  "Marm," he said, "you're a dyed-in-the-wool sport an' I'd admire totrail with you. But that kittle, as you call it, 'll sure bu'st itscinches with we-all ridin' it. I'm no jockeyweight, fo' one."

  "It'll stand up. We've got to make time. I was wonderin' if we c'udmake it by the old road, where you found Molly? It's shorter than WhiteCliff Canyon an' we've lost time comin' out here."

  Sam shook his head.

  "No'm, c'udn't be done. There ain't no road. Las' winter 'ud finish whatwas left of it an' there was spots this side of where we found Caseywhere a wagon c'udn't have passed. We just made it with the buckbo'd.Ask Sandy."

  Sandy, coming up, endorsed Sam.

  "We'll have to go the long way," he said. "How are you off fo' grub?It'll be sca'ce an' high in Dynamite. Some of us may have to stay an'hang on to claims until they're recorded an' the new camp settles down.An' one of us sh'ud stay an' run the ranch," he added. At which hispartners balked resolutely.

  "We've got some food," said Miranda. "You might fetch along some cannedstuff if you've any handy. Ed, you sure you got plenty ile, gas an'water? Better look her all over."

  With orders to Buck, with some provisions, ammunition and a few tools,the hurried start was made. Mormon clambered to the front seat besideyoung Ed, Miranda Bailey sat between Sandy and Sam. Whatever lack ofenergy the lank Ed Junior displayed on his feet, he eliminated as adriver. The springs creaked, chirpings arose from various parts of thecar as it ran, but he coaxed the engine, performed miracles at badplaces in the road, nursed the insufficient radiator surface and keptthe "kittle" at a simmer.

  He judged grades, rushed them, conquered them, sometimes at a crawl,slid and skipped and jumped down slopes, negotiated curves on two wheelsand brought them triumphantly through White Cliff Canyon, over themalpais belt, up and across a mesa and so to the far brink of it an hourbefore dawn without puncture, without a broken leaf in the springs, withshock absorbers still on duty and the cylinders performing full service.

  Cold and raw as it was, the engine was hot and they halted to cool it.They could see a light or two glimmering at the foot of the mesa,something that had not shown in the deserted mining camp for many years.Miranda Bailey shivered as she got stiffly from the car.

  "I've got some powdered coffee an' some solid alcohol," she announced."We can all have somethin' hot to drink anyway. It won't take but aminute. Here's some cold biscuits we can warm up on that radiator. It'snigh as good as a stove."

  The trio watched interestedly the capable way in which she got togetherthe meal, adding sugar and evaporated milk to her coffee. Sam picked upthe tin of solid alcohol after it had cooled off.

  "It's too bad they can't fix up the real stuff that way," he said. "It'ud sure make a hit. Canned Tom-and-Jerry, all ready for heatin'."

  "And you called Soda-Water Sam," said Miranda Bailey.

  "That title was give me in derision," replied Sam. "Me, I don'thesitate to say I like my licker. Likewise I can do 'thout it. Theyclaim that I used to leave nothin' but the sody-water inter a saloononce I'd entered it. Which same is a calummy. Gittin' light in the east,ain't it, folks?"

  Coffee-comforted, they made the down-road as the sun rose above the rimof the eastern range, so jagged it seemed trying to claw back themounting sun. Ever in view below them lay the intermountain valley inwhich the camp had been located. Its floor was jumbled with hard-coredhills. There was little greenery. A few cottonwoods, fewer willows alongthe deep bed of a scanty stream. Under the sunrise the whole scene wastheatrical with vivid light and shade. The crumpled ground, thedeep-ridged hills, all seemed unreal, made up of papier-mache, crudelymodeled and painted, garish, unfinished. The effect was enhanced by theappearance of the one main street of the camp and the few scatteringcabins on the hills, the ancient dumps in front of the lateral shaftswhere the weathered timbers sagged.

  There were a few tents, some wagons and picketed horses, and there werea great many machines parked at will. But, from the height, it alllooked like the miniature scene of a panoramic model, the housescardboard, the horses and wagons toys of tin. The horses were the onlymoving objects, no smoke curled yet from the chimneys.

  Here and there unbroken glass in the windows flung back the sun. A dooropened and a midget in shirtsleeves came out, stretching arms, palpablyyawning. Suddenly smoke jetted from a tumbled chimney, other puffsfollowed and steady vapors mounted. Ant-like men emerged from everyhouse, gathered in little knots, busied themselves with the horses,hurried back to breakfasts. Faint sounds came up to the travelers.

  "W'udn't think that place had been dead as a cemetery fo' years?"commented Sandy. "Stahted up overnight like an old engine. That's thehotel, with the high front. Furniture all in it an' in the cabins. Mostof the fixtures left in the saloons, an' there was a plenty of them. Twohotels, five restyronts, seven gamblin' houses, twenty-two saloons an'the rest sleepin' cabins. That was Dynamite. When they git it dusted offand started up it'll run ortermatic."

  "Cuttin' out the saloons," said Miranda.

  "I'm not so sure of that," said Mormon, turning in his seat. "You-allwant to remember, ma'am, that this is an unco'porated town an' that'sthere's allus a shortage of law an' order for a whiles wherever there'sa strike, gold, oil or whatever 'tis. Eighty per cent. of the rush is ahard-shelled lot an' erlong with 'em is a smaller bunch that thrivesbest when things is run haphazard. There'll be licker down there, an'it'll sure be quickfire licker at that. If you warn't the kind you are,"added Mormon, "I'd tell you that down there ain't no place fo' a woman?"

  "Meanin'?" snapped Miranda Bailey. But there was a gleam in her eye thatshowed of a compliment accepted.

  "Meanin'," said Mormon "that, ef you'll take it 'thout offense, you-allair plumb up-to-date. When wimmen took up the ballot I figger theywasn't on'y ready fo' equal rights, they knew how to git 'em. 'Side fromthe shootin' end of it, I'd say you was as well equipped as any man tolook out fo' yore own interests."

  "Thanks," replied Miranda. "I suppose you mean that as a compliment.Also I know one end of a gun from another an' I can hit a barn if itain't flyin'. Ed, what you stoppin' fer?"

  "Blamed if they ain't a puncture," said Ed as he put on the brakes. "Wegot a spare tire but 'twon't do to spile this 'un. We got to git backsome time. Might not be able to buy a spare round here. I got to fixthis."

  "Fix it when you git down," said his aunt. "Put on the spare. I'm kindernervous to git my claim staked. There's a sight of folks here. Look at'em runnin' around like so many crazy chickens. Put on the spare, Ed,while we pile out. An' hurry."

  The spare was soon adjusted and they rolled down to the valley and overthe dusty road to the camp. Before they reached the main street a carpassed them from behind with a rush, driver and passengers reckless,whooping as they rode, one man waving a bottle, another firing his guninto the air.

  "That's the kind that'll figger to run Dynamite fo' a while," saidSandy. "I'll bet there ain't twenty old-timers in the camp--real miners,I mean."

  The street was alive with changing groups, merging, breaking up tolisten to some fresh report of a strike, or opinion as to the prospects.There were no women in sight. The me
n were of all sorts, from cowboys intheir chaps, who had left the range for the chance of sudden wealth, tostorekeepers from Hereford and other towns. Excitement reigned, no onewas normal. Bottles passed freely. Among the crowd moved shifty-eyed menwho had come to speculate. There were gamblers, plain bullies,swaggerers, with here and there a bearded miner, gray of hair and fadedblue of eye, either moving steadily through the throng or held up by alittle crowd to whom he declaimed with the right of experience. Some, itseemed certain, must be on their claims, but the bulk of the men whofilled the street of the resurrected town, were those who prey upon thework and luck of others, camp-followers of the Army of Good Fortune.

  Mormon's pronouncement that the town, after its long desertion, hadautomatically refunctioned, was not far wrong. Rudely lettered signsproclaimed where meals could be bought and boldly announced gambling.

  KENO--CHUCKALUCK AND STUD CRAPS AND DRAW POKER THE OLD RELIABLE FARO BANK J. PLIMSOLL, PROP.

  read Sandy.

  "He's here, lookin' fo' easy money, both ends an' the middle," hedrawled. "W'udn't wonder but what we'd rub up ag'in' him 'fo' we leave."

  "You'll want to go right through to Molly's claims, I suppose," saidMiranda Bailey. "Do you know where they are?"

  "I can soon find the location," replied Sandy. "But there ain't anyextry hurry. They've been recorded. They'll keep. We'll git us some realhot grub at one of these restyronts an' listen a bit to the news. Findout where is the most likely place fo' you an' yore nevvy to locate."

  "Ain't you afraid Plimsoll or some one'll have jumped those claims?"asked the spinster.

  "W'udn't be surprised. But there's allus two ways to jump, Miss Mirandy.In an' _out_. Let's try Cal Simpson's Place. I knew him when he wasrunnin' a chuck-wagon. He's sure some cook if it's him."

  They pressed through the crowded street to the sign. Next door to thecabin that Simpson had preempted on the first-come-first-served orderthat prevailed, was one of the olden saloons. Through door and windowthey could see the crowded bar with bottles and tin mugs upon theancient slab of wood. Over the door the inscription:

  ROCKY MOUNTAIN GRAPEJUICE MULE BRAND TWO KICKS FOR ONE BUCK

  Some looked curiously at Miranda Bailey, but the sight of her escortchecked any familiarity. Covered with dust from their ride, guns onhip, the three musketeers did not encourage persiflage at the expense oftheir outfit and they passed unchallenged into the eating-house where astubby man with a big paunch shouted greetings at Sandy.

  "You ornery son of a gun! _An'_ Mormon. This yore last, Mormon. No? Ibeg yore pardon, marm. I c'ud have wished Mormon 'ud struck somethin'sensible an' satisfactory at last. It's his loss more'n your'n. What'llyou have, folks? I've got steak an' po'k an' beans. Drove over somebeef. More comin' ter-morrer. I'll have a real mennoo by the end of theweek. Steak? Seguro! Biscuits an' coffee."

  He shouted orders to a helper and hurried off to pan-broil the steaks.To the order he added some fried potatoes.

  "They ain't on the bill-of-fare," he said. "Try 'em, marm. Hope youstrike it lucky, Sandy. Damn few--beggin' yore pahdon, miss--damn few ofthis crowd ever had a blister on their hands. It ain't like the old dayswhen the sourdoughs made a strike. They worked their own shafts. Thisbunch specklates on 'em. A claim'll change hands twenty times betweennow an' ter-morrer night.

  "Rush is over fo' the mornin'. I'll sit in with you, if you don't mind.I got my steak in that pan."

  "What's the indications?" asked Sandy, after Simpson had rejoined them.

  "Big. Look here. White gold!" He pulled out a piece of tin white mineralwith a brilliant metallic luster, sparkling with curious crystals."Sylvanite--twenty-five per cent, gold an' twelve an' a half silver.Veined in the porphyry. There's a young assayer come in last night. He'lows it's sylvanite, same as they have over to Boulder County inColorado. He comes from the Boulder School of Mines. He's a kid, but Iw'udn't wonder but he knows what he's talkin' about. Some calls ittelluride. But it's gold, all right, an' there's a big vein of it closeto the surface on the knoll east side of Flivver Crick."

  They passed the heavy mineral from hand to hand, examining it with eagercuriosity. Simpson rambled on.

  "Over five hundred in camp an' more comin' all the time. The rush ain'tstarted yet. Goin' to be an old-time boom, sure. Bound to make money efyou don't hold on too long. Peg you out a claim or two 'long that eastbank, Sandy. Don't matter 'ef she's located or not, you can sell it fo'mo'n you'll ever git out of it by workin' it.

  "This man Plimsoll aims to make him a fortune," he continued. "He's gota gang of bullies with him who're stakin' out the best claims an'jumpin' others. He's runnin' a game wild. He's here to clean up. I tellyou, Sandy, the sheriff ought to be on the job on the start of a rushlike this. But he's t'other end of the county, they tell me, an' likelyhe won't hear of it for three-four days. And by that time she may haveblew up ag'in," he closed pessimistically. "Blew up once, did Dynamite.This may be jest a flash in the pan, a grass-root outcrop. That's theway she started when old man Casey drifted in an' his burro kicked uppay-ore. Damn--dern--few of this crowd'll ever stop to run shaft ortunnel. Though this young assayin' feller talks big about folds an'uplifts, synclines an' anticlines. Claims the po'phyry is syncline. Yougot to catch it where the fold is shaller or else dig half-way to China.You still in the cow business, Sandy?"

  So he chatted until fresh customers came in and claimed his skill andsteaks. Miranda Bailey and her companions finished the meal and startedout.

  The Casey claims were on the east side of the creek, Sandy knew. The oldprospector's lore, or instinct, had been unfailing. It remained to seeif his marks and monuments had been respected. Molly had said that theassessment work had been done, and she had so described the place in anarrow terrace of the hill that Sandy felt sure of finding them withouttrouble.

  He pointed out a sign over the door of a shack ahead, white lettered onblack oil cloth:

  CLAY WESTLAKE. ASSAYER--SURVEYOR AND MINING ENGINEER.

  A knot of men were milling about the place.

  "Doin' a trade already," said Sam. "Must have brung that sign erlongwith him. Smart, fo' a youngster. Simpson said he was a kid. How 'boutseein' him befo' Miss Bailey an' Ed here stake their claims? I'm aimin'to mark out one fo' me, same time."

  "Also me," said Mormon.

  Guffaws suddenly rose from the little crowd by the assayer's sign. Adeep voice boomed out in bullying tone, followed by silence, then morelaughs. Sandy leaned to Mormon.

  "You keep her an' young Ed back," he said. "Trouble here, I figger."

  Mormon nodded, stepping ahead, blocking Miranda's progress in apparentlyaimless and clumsy fashion while Sandy, his hands dropping to his gunbutts, lifting the weapons slightly and, releasing them into theholsters once again, lengthened his stride, walking cat-footed, on thesoles of his feet, as he always did when he scented trouble. Sam, easinghis own gun, lightly touched his lips with the tip of his tongue andfollowed Sandy with eyes that widened and brightened.

  "Bullyin' the kid, I reckon," he said to Sandy as they went. Sandy didnot need to nod before they reached the half-ring that had formed abouta young chap in khaki shirt, riding breeches and puttees, whose fairhair was curly above a face tanned, and resolute enough. Yet he wasclearly nervous at the jibes of the crowd and the actions of the man whofaced him, heavy of body, long of arm, heavy of jowl; a deep-chested,broad-shouldered individual whose head, cropped close, tapering in arounded cone from his bushy eyebrows, helped largely to give him theaspect of a professional wrestler, or a heavyweight prizefighter. Hecarried a big blued Colt revolver, and the way he spun the weapon on thetrigger guard showed familiarity with the weapon.

  The young assayer had no holster to his belt, seemingly no gun. Hisclean shaven jaws were clamped tight so that the muscles lumped here andthere, and he fronted the unsympathetic crowd and the jeering bully witha courage that was partly born of desperation.

  "Mining engineer!" read the bully. "Smart, ain
't he, for a curly-headedkid! Engineer? Peanut butcher 'ud suit better. Looks like a moviepitcher actor, don't he? Mebbe he's a vodeville performer. I'll bet heis, at that. What's yore speshulty, kid? Singin' or dancin'. Or both."

  He flung a shot from the gun into the ground between the young man'sfeet.

  "Show us a few steps, you powder-faced dood! Mebbe we'll let you stay incamp if you amuse us."

  Sandy and Sam had elbowed their way lightly through the ring and theformer turned to the man beside whom he happened to stand.

  "What's the idea?" he asked.

  "The young 'un good as told Roarin' Russell he didn't know what he wastalkin' about. Chap asked the kid's opinion on a bit of ore an' he giveit. It didn't suit Russell."

  "It didn't, eh? Now, that's too bad," drawled Sandy. The other looked athim curiously. Sandy's drawl was often provocative. Russell's gunbarked again.

  "Dance, damn ye! An' sing at the same time; blast you for a buttin' intenderfoot! Won't, eh?"

  The victim, game but despairing, flung a look of appeal about him. Togive in meant to become the laughing-stock of the camp, to have itsribaldry follow him, to be laughed out of the camp, branded as a coward.Yet to resist was a challenge to death. The bully had been drinking, thegleam in his eyes was that of the killer, a man half insane fromalcohol.

  "Up with yore hands! Up with 'em, or I'll shoot the knuckles off of 'em!I'll make a jumpin'-jack of you or I'll shoot yore...."

  The first syllable of the intended volley of foulness was barely outwhen Sandy, stepping forward, touched the bully on the shoulder. Russellwhirled as a bear whirls, gun lifting.

  "Lady back here in the crowd," said Sandy quietly.

  For a second Russell gasped and stared and, as he stared, the cold hardlook in Sandy's eyes told him the manner of man who had interrupted him.But this man's guns were in the holsters, Russell's weapon was in handthough its muzzle was tilted skyward. The crowd, thickening, waited hisnext move. He had been stopped in his baiting. He saw no woman back ofthe big bulk of Mormon, keeping Miranda well away, not seeing what wasgoing forward.

  "To hell with the lady!" shouted Russell. At his back was only theunarmed assayer. This lean cold-eyed interferer was a hardy fool whoneeded a lesson. He swept down his gun, thumb to hammer. Two guns grewlike magic in Sandy's hands. Russell read a message in Sandy's glance,he heard the gasp of the crowd. With his own gun first in the open thestranger had beaten him to the drop and fire. He felt the fan of thewing of death on his brow. His gun flew out of his fingers, wrenchedaway by the force of impact from Sandy's bullet on its muzzle, low down,near the cylinder. Dazed, he watched it spinning away, his hand numb.

  "Back up to that door, you! Back up!" Sandy's voice was almostconversational but it was profoundly convincing. The bully obeyed him,standing at the door in the place of the assayer, who stepped aside,feeling a little sick at the stomach, Sam bracing him in friendlyfashion by one elbow.

  "I won't shoot _yore_ knuckles off," said Sandy, "pervidin' you keepyore fingers wide apaht, an' don't wiggle 'em. Spread 'em out againstthe wood, bully man!"

  His face whitening from the ebb of blood to his cowardly heart, Roarin'Russell opened his fingers wide, judging implicit obedience his greatestsafety. Sandy did not move position, he hardly seemed to move wrist orfinger as his guns spat fire, left and right, eight shots blending,eight bullets smashing their way through the door between the "V's" ofthe bully's fingers while the crowd held their breath for theexhibition.

  Sandy quickly reloaded, quickly but without obvious haste. He did notreturn the guns to their holsters and he paid no attention to theadmiring comments of the crowd.

  "Who is he? Two-gun man! They say his name's Sandy Bourke."

  "You-all interfered with a friend of mine," said Sandy. "It ain't ahealthy trick. An' you ain't apologized to the lady. I don't know howWestlake feels about it, but you've sure got to apologize to the lady."

  The assayer, bewildered at Sandy's assumption of friendship, waved hishand deprecatingly. Russell's eyes rolled from side to side toward hisstill elevated hands.

  "You can lower 'em if you can't talk with 'em up," said Sandy. "I'mwaitin' fo' that apology, but I'm in a bit of a hurry."

  "I didn't see no woman," mumbled the bully, crestfallen.

  "I told you there _was_ one," said Sandy. "I don't lie, even tostrangers. You're sorry you swore, ain't you?"

  "You're quicker'n I am on the draw with yore two guns," retorted thegoaded Russell. "I c'ud lick you one-handed 'thout guns--or any man inthis crowd," he blustered in an attempt to halt his departing prestige.

  "You-all had a gun in yore hand when we stahted in," said Sandy equably."You're sorry you swore--_ain't_ you?"

  The repeated words, backed by the cold gaze, the ready guns, weremerciless as probes.

  "I apologizes to the lady," growled Russell.

  "Now, that's fine," said Sandy. "Fine! Westlake, will you come erlongwith me fo' a spell?"

  He made his way through the opening group. Sam followed with the assayerwho now began to realize that Sandy's interference had established afriendship that would continue protective. They met Mormon, almostpurple in the face from suppressed feelings. Young Ed Bailey eyed Sandywith awe and new respect. Miranda Bailey's attempt to learn exactly whathad happened was thwarted by Sandy's presentation of Westlake. Duringthe introduction Mormon slipped away. Roaring Russell was endeavoring toreadjust his swagger when the stout cowboy met him.

  "I was with the lady," said Mormon. "Consequent I c'udn't git heresooner. You said you c'ud lick any one in the camp one-handed, gunsbarred. Now I don't like the way you apologized, sabe? It warn't willin'enough, nor elegant enough, nor spontaneous enough. Ter-night, after Igit through showin' the lady around the diggin's, I'll meet you whereyou say for fun, money or marbles, an' argy with you barehanded.Thisaway."

  He slapped Russell on the cheek. The bully roared and the crowd steppedback. Mormon, with the surprising alertness he showed in action, for allhis bulk and weight, sprang back, poised for strike or clutch. MirandaBailey came with a rush and stepped between the two men. Russellforesaw a laugh at his expense and curbed himself, the sooner for hisnew-found consideration for Sandy's gunplay.

  "You ought to be ashamed of yoreselves, both of you," exclaimed thespinster. "I'll have no one fightin' over me. I can take care ofmyself."

  "Yes, m'm, I reckon you can. I reckon we are ashamed," said Mormonmeekly, as the crowd roared in laughter that died away before the evenlyswung gaze of Sandy, backed by Sam. Russell slipped off and the mendispersed. Miranda addressed Mormon.

  "I'll not have you fighting with that hulkin' brute on my account," shesaid. "Do you understand?"

  Mormon gulped. He seemed summoning his courage, gripping it with bothhands.

  "Marm," he said desperately, "you can't stop me."

  The spinster gasped, met his eyes, flushed and turned away. Sam nudgedMormon with elbow to ribs.

  "You dog-gone ol' desperado," he said in a whisper. "I didn't think youhad it in you. That the way you treated the first three?"

  "No, it ain't," said Mormon, mopping his forehead. "And she ain't thesame kind they was, neither. Come on, or we'll lose 'em."