succinctly. "It's too hard to git partners, an' I don't want yuh shot down until I git back what yuh owe me. As for the gent whose name yuh was so careless as to mention out loud—don't do it no more. You don't know him. You never heard of him, see? Let yore betters worry about that business. You and me is humble folks with an itch to keep on breathin'."
"Trouble's comin', nev'less," maintained Wango.
"Comin' hell a-riot," agreed Meems. "That's what the Association is meetin' for. That's why yuh see Dave Denver stalkin' around the streets lookin' about as hard as I ever saw him. But you and me is out of it, see? Or have I got to spell the words?"
"Oh, well," breathed Wango and cast a sidewise glance at his partner. "How about a drink?"
"Thanks for the invite," said Meems, and rose instantly.
"I never said nothin' about an invite—"
"And it was nice of yuh to offer to pay my way," broke in Meems firmly. "Come on."
STORM WARNING
Dave Denver and Al Niland stood at one corner of Grogan's hundred-foot bar and downed an after-dinner whisky neat, as was the custom. The men of Sundown drifted in, took their liquor, and swapped unhurried talk. Denver looked around the room, nodding here and there at ranchers he hadn't seen during the winter. Niland leaned closer.
"Did you see the same fellow I happened to see get off the third stage?"
"Stinger Dann?"
"The same," grunted Niland. "Since when's he taken to payin' fare?"
"Maybe he's run all his good horses to death," suggested Denver.
"Somebody's doin' a lot of night ridin', that's certain," mused Niland. "It's a funny thing how this county reacts to the hint of trouble. All winter we've been quiet. Nothing's happened much. All of a sudden folks get a little skittish and quit talkin' out loud. The underground telegraph starts workin'. Look around the room and see how many men are swappin' conversation real close together and tryin' to appear aboveboard. I never saw the signs fail. Pretty soon something will break loose."
"Which brings us back to Stinger Dann," drawled Denver. "He's enterin' for his liquor. Where's he been the last few weeks?"
Niland spared a short, quick glance at a man with a burly frame and raw-red cheeks cruising toward the bar; Stinger Dann was scowling straight ahead and paying heed to nobody, as was his characteristic way of moving through life.
"Looks nowhere and sees everything," muttered Niland. "I don't know where he's been holin' up, Dave. You tell me where Redmain's been, and I'll tell you where Dann's been. Same place. He's probably here to cover the interests of his beloved chief in the Association meeting."
Dave Denver chuckled. "That would be just the nervy thing Lou Redmain might think of."
"There was some trouble over beyond Sky Peak a week ago. Will Wire's men ran into lead one night when they was crosscuttin' their range for home."
Denver considered the news thoughtfully. "That's gettin' a little closer to Sundown, ain't it? Usually the boys do their stealin' farther off."
"The time may come when we'll have to do some shootin' on our own account," prophesied Niland.
"Let's wait till the wolf howls first. All I seem to hear at present is a lot of bear talk. Enter Mister Steers, looking very sad. Which foot did the horse step on, Steve?"
"Aw, hell," grunted Steve and reached for a bottle.
"Expressive but vague," was Niland's ironic comment. "Somebody must of hurt your feelin's to the extent of offerin' you a job."
The compact, sandy-haired Steve Steers drank his potion and shuddered. "I don't never seem to get a break, men. Consider this item. I shore want to take in the show tonight, just for old time's sake. But Debbie's off up in Mogul country with her folks on a visit so I can't take her. And if I dared go to see Lola Monterey alone I never would hear the last of it. Nossir, I never seem to get a break."
"Wear false whiskers," suggested Niland.
"They'd fall off," mournfully remarked Steve Steers. "That's my luck. And somebody like Miz Jim Coldfoot would see me and go tell Debbie."
"Love," reflected Niland judicially, "is a mighty purifier of mortal man."
Denver, standing slightly aside and watching Steve out of grave eyes, drawled idly, "Depends on the man, Al. I reckon love would have to be some stronger than hydrochloric acid to purify Steve."
"Love," said Mister Steers. "Ha-ha."
Niland winked discreetly at Denver. "After you're married, Steve, it'll be better."
"Or worse," groaned Steve. "Let's have another drink of this here panther spit."
Stinger Dann was walking flat-footedly away from the bar. In the center of the room he threw a quick glance back to where Dave Denver stood, and his rude, cold eyes seemed to contain a definite challenge. So marked was the gesture that a lull came to Grogan's saloon, and two men standing beyond Dann moved out of range. Denver never stirred. A flare of stronger light flickered up to meet the gunman's challenge, and the rugged features hardened perceptibly. Dann moved on and left the saloon.
"That had all the earmarks of an opening play," said Niland quietly. "Didn't I tell you things was smokin' up hereabouts?"
"Let 'em smoke," mused Denver. "I'm mindin' my own business and having a good time doing it. Maybe I won't always be doin' that, but we'll wait and see."
Cal Steele rolled into the saloon. He marched up to his partners with a flashing, nervous smile. "Well, congratulate me."
"Where yuh been?" demanded Steve Steers.
"Reviving some very pleasant memories," said Steele. He poured himself a drink and tipped the glass to the rest, standing quite erect; undeniably he had a carriage and a polish to him the others lacked. Somewhere along an unknown and carefully concealed past he had lived in gentle and scholarly surroundings, and the reflection of it was on his manners, his acts, and on the features that so easily shifted from high gayety to most bitter cynicism. "I drink, boys, to beauty, to talent, to the eternal flame that is woman—to Lola Monterey!"
Both Niland and Steers looked a little anxiously at the unsmiling Denver. But he nodded his head. "As usual, Cal, you get closer to the actual truth than any man I ever knew. You have described Lola. She is just that."
Cal put down his glass and laid an arm on Denver's shoulder. "And what good does truth do pie, or fine talk? You spoil the game for all of us, Dave. She sent me here. She wants to see you."
Denver's eyes smiled. "And that is a command."
"Association meetin' in a few minutes," grumbled Niland, frowning at Steele.
"I'll see you there," said Denver and went out. Niland spoke his mind to Steele. "Been better if you hadn't brought such a message. Dave ain't the man to cool his feet in Lola's string. They ain't the same kind of people at all."
But Cal Steele shook his head thoughtfully. "I know Lola. She's my kind. Up in the clouds, down in the mud, never still, never happy, easy angered, easy hurt. And"—he looked up—"though she is the most selfish woman in the world, she would give her life for a man she wanted to love. Sounds a little odd, doesn't it, boys? I know. She's my kind. And I happen to know she wants Dave."
"Get out," snorted Steve.
"She told you?" asked Niland skeptically.
"I'm not blind," murmured Cal Steele, face darkly shadowed. "Though I wish I were sometimes. I want her myself. Damned funny, isn't it? Let's drink to Dave and Lola."
Some of the more impatient ranchers were already aiming for the opera house, which had been designated as the meeting place for the Association, when