time.”
“Thanks; I will be glad to,” replied the sheriff. “You’ll take your pitcher to the well once too often some day, my friend. This courtesy,” glancing at the restored revolver, “might have cost you dearly.”
“Shoo! I did that once an’ th’ feller tried to use it,” replied the cowboy as he backed through the door. “Some people are awfully careless,” he added. “So long—”
“So long,” replied the sheriff, wondering what sort of a man he had been entertaining.
The door closed softly and soon after a joyous whoop floated in from the Street. The sheriff toyed with the new gun and listened to the low caress of a distant guitar.
“Well, don’t that beat all?” He ejaculated.
Chapter IX.
The Advent of McAllister
The blazing sun shone pitilessly on an arid plain which was spotted with dust-gray clumps of mesquite and thorny chaparral. Basking in the burning sand and alkali lay several Gila monsters, which raised their heads and hissed with wide-open jaws as several faint, whip-like reports echoed flatly over the desolate plain, showing that even they had learned that danger was associated with such sounds.
Off to the north there became visible a cloud of dust and at intervals something swayed in it, something that rose and fell and then became hidden again. Out of that cloud came sharp, splitting sounds, which were faintly responded to by another and larger cloud in its rear. As it came nearer and finally swept past, the Gilas, to their terror, saw a madly pounding horse, and it carried a man. The latter turned in his saddle and raised a gun to his shoulder and the thunder that issued from it caused the creeping audience to throw up their tails in sudden panic and bury themselves out of sight in the sand.
The horse was only a broncho, its sides covered with hideous yellow spots, and on its near flank was a peculiar scar, the brand. Foam flecked from its crimsoned jaws and found a resting place on its sides and on the hairy chaps of its rider. Sweat rolled and streamed from its heaving flanks and was greedily sucked up by the drought-cursed alkali. Close to the rider’s knee a bloody furrow ran forward and one of the broncho’s ears was torn and limp. The broncho was doing its best—it could run at that pace until it dropped dead. Every ounce of strength it possessed was put forth to bring those hind hoofs well in front of the forward ones and to send them pushing the sand behind in streaming clouds. The horse had done this same thing many times—when would its master learn sense?
The man was typical in appearance with many of that broad land. Lithe, sinewy and bronzed by hard riding and hot suns, he sat in his Cheyenne saddle like a centaur, all his weight on the heavy, leather-guarded stirrups, his body rising in one magnificent straight line. A bleached moustache hid the thin lips, and a gray sombrero threw a heavy shadow across his eyes. Around his neck and over his open, blue flannel shirt lay loosely a knotted silk kerchief, and on his thighs a pair of open-flapped holsters swung uneasily with their ivory handled burdens. He turned abruptly, raised his gun to his shoulder and fired, then he laughed recklessly and patted his mount, which responded to the confident caress by lying flatter to the earth in a spurt of heart-breaking speed.
“I’ll show ‘em who they’re trailin’. This is th’ second time I’ve started for Muddy Wells, an’ I’m goin’ to git there, too, for all th’ Apaches out of Hades!”
To the south another cloud of dust rapidly approached and the rider scanned it closely, for it was directly in his path. As he watched it he saw something wave and it was a sombrero! Shortly afterward a real cowboy yell reached his ears. He grinned and slid another cartridge in the greasy, smoking barrel of the Sharp’s and fired again at the cloud in his rear. Some few minutes later a whooping, bunched crowd of madly riding cowboys thundered past him and he was recognized.
“Hullo, Frenchy!” yelled the nearest one. “Comin’ back?”
“Come on, McAllister!” shouted another; “we’ll give ‘em blazes!” In response the straining broncho suddenly stiffened, bunched and slid on its haunches, wheeled and retraced its course. The rear cloud suddenly scattered into many smaller ones and all swept off to the east. The rescuing band overtook them and, several hours later, when seated around a table in Tom Lee’s saloon, Muddy Wells, a count was taken of them, which was pleasing in its facts.
“We was huntin’ coyotes when we saw yu,” said a smiling puncher who was known as Salvation Carroll chiefly because he wasn’t.
“Yep! They’ve been stalkin’ Tom’s chickens,” supplied Waffles, the champion poker player of the outfit. Tom Lee’s chickens could whip anything of their kind for miles around and were reverenced accordingly.
“Sho! Is that so?” Asked Frenchy with mild incredulity, such a state of affairs being deplorable.
“She shore is!” answered Tex Le Blanc, and then, as an afterthought, he added, “Where’d yu hit th’ War-whoops?”
“‘Bout four hours back. This here’s th’ second time I’ve headed for this place—last time they chased me to Las Cruces.”
“That so?” Asked Bigfoot Baker, a giant. “Ain’t they allus interferin’, now? Anyhow, they’re better’n coyotes.”
“They was purty well heeled,” suggested Tex, glancing at a bunch of repeating Winchesters of late model which lay stacked in a corner. “Charley here said he thought they was from th’ way yore cayuse looked, didn’t yu, Charley?” Charley nodded and filled his pipe.
“‘Pears like a feller can’t amble around much nowadays without havin’ to fight,” grumbled Lefty Allen, who usually went out of his way hunting up trouble.
“We’re goin’ to th’ Hills as soon as our cookie turns up,” volunteered Tenspot Davis, looking inquiringly at Frenchy. “Heard any more news?”
“Nope. Same old story—lots of gold. Shucks, I’ve bit on so many of them rumors that they don’t feaze me no more. One man who don’t know nothin’ about prospectin’ goes an’ stumbles over a fortune an’ those who know it from A to Izzard goes ‘round pullin’ in their belts.”
“We don’t pull in no belts—we knows just where to look, don’t we, Tenspot?” Remarked Tex, looking very wise.
“Ya-as we do,” answered Tenspot, “if yu hasn’t dreamed about it, we do.”
“Yu wait; I wasn’t dreamin’, none whatever,” assured Tex.
“I saw it!”
“Ya-as, I saw it too onct,” replied Frenchy with sarcasm. “Went and lugged fifty pound of it all th’ way to th’ assay office—took me two days! an’ that there four-eyed cuss looks at it and snickers. Then he takes me by di’ arm an’ leads me to th’ window. ‘See that pile, my friend? That’s all like yourn,’ sez he. ‘It’s worth about one simoleon a ton at th’ coast. They use it for ballast.’”
“Aw! But this what I saw was gold!” exploded Tex.
“So was mine, for a while!” laughed Frenchy, nodding to the bartender for another round.
“Well, we’re tired of punchin’ cows! Ride sixteen hours a day, year in an’ year out, an’ what do we get? Fifty a month an’ no chance to spend it, an’ grub that’d make a coyote sniffle! I’m for a vacation, an’ if I goes broke, why, I’ll punch again!” asserted Waffles, the foreman, thus revealing the real purpose of the trip.
“What’d yore boss say?” Asked Frenchy.
“Whoop! What didn’t he say! Honest, I never thought he had it in him. It was fine. He cussed an hour frontways an’ then trailed back on a dead gallop, with us a-laughin’ fit to bust. Then he rustles