of the hands and jerk a thumb toward the porch, nodding his head derisively. The old man relaxed in his chair, breathing hard. A grinding pain ran from his neck down his left arm and a old sweat covered him from head to foot. Of a sudden he was very weak and the world grew dim and distant. He seemed to be apart from his body—watching himself die. Well, he had a few regrets. He had lived his share of years, lived them up to the hilt and had all the fun any man could have wished. A few things, perhaps, he would like to have the power of undoing. But life wasn't that way; once a man played his hand there was no recalling it.
No, it wasn't for himself, but for his girl that he worried. Trono had the upper hand now, and Trono was a disloyal, self- seeking dog. Why hadn't he considered this long ago when he could have crushed the man with his fist? What would happen to the place after he died? Jill was a hard-headed little kid with a world of spunk, but she couldn't run a cattle ranch without help and she couldn't buck Trono if he was of a mind to make trouble. And the foreman meant to make trouble; the man's last warning indicated as much. There were a dozen ways in which a ranch could be stripped, mined and made unbearable for the girl. Breck gripped his hands together, feeling the sweat roll down his sleeves. This helplessness was something new, something terrible.
"I'm of a mind to kill him, by the Lord!" He groaned, and he thought of getting his gun and calling Trono back. Shoot him cold. Once he would have had no scruples, but the stomach was out of him now, just as the foreman had said.
The day grew dimmer and the sunshine turned to shadow. In the dim borderland which is passed by man but once he found himself thinking of Tom Lilly. There was a fighting heart and an honest face. He had seen men like that before. He had ruined men like that before. Ruined them and laughed. But there was no laughter in him now. "Jill," he muttered, "Jill! You send for the pill peddler. And bring Pattipaws to me. I've got one more shot in the barrel yet."
Tom Lilly ate his supper, rolled a cigarette and sat in the doorway watching the sun go down over the Buttes. With the lengthening shadows came a breeze that soughed through the cottonwoods and lulled him to a lazy, dreaming peace. There were plenty of things to think about, but for a time he let his fancy roll where it pleased. It was a mighty queer feeling, this, of being perched high above the heat of the desert and watching the world turn around from his own doorstep. Of course, it wasn't really his yet, but it would be. He meant to camp. The rolling stone had found a mighty fine place to grow a little moss.
"Joe Breedlove would shore laugh," he murmured. Tom Lilly a nester. Well, worse things had happened. Clerking in a store, for example, or doing roustabout's work in a stable. And this land suited him right down to the grass roots. He ran his eyes along the unfinished fence with a professional interest and he began to calculate the amount of hand labor that lay before him. There was plenty of it—but there was plenty of time, too. First and foremost, he would be busy with the JIB and its efforts to remove him from the valley.
So he sat until it was quite dark. Then he rose and lugged his saddle to a ridge a hundred yards left of the house and returned for his pony. It wouldn't do to sleep in the shack this night. Unless he was greatly mistaken there would be visitors along to see him. He picketed the buckskin in a hollow and rolled himself in a blanket, staring upward at the inky sky. It was very strange, this feeling of restfulness that took hold. Most usually he was always wanting to go on, always wanting to see the land beyond the ridge. He chuckled. "I'll have to tell Joe about this."
He wondered how much the girl knew of her father's affairs. By George, but she was a pretty one, and with her little head plumb full of fight! Those black eyes had changed powerfully quick from friendliness to resentment when he announced himself. "I wonder if she understands what her daddy and that Trono person have been up—"
The question was pushed to the back of his mind. The ground was telegraphing him the beat of many hoofs coming rapidly across the swelling valley floor. He rolled from his blanket and touched the butt of his gun; the rumbling grew louder and presently a party swept over the ridge and toward his house. He heard them stop and made out the murmur of voice. A match flared and by it he saw the dim blur of a face. According to the noise of the horses there must have been a half dozen in the party and they appeared to be waiting. A horse blubbered softly and a stray word floated over the still air. "Late."
This was interesting. Lilly gathered himself and crept down the side of the ridge until he made out the faint outline of men and beasts. In a few moments he heard the rumbling of another rider and he stopped, plastering himself to the ground. The newcomer spurred out of the east and reined in with a jingling of gear. A heavy, grumbling voice that was quite familiar to him floated across the black gulf of space. "Hey, Stubbins, this is a hell of a place to stop. They's that red-head around here. He's took up Hamby's claim."
A ripping, explosive oath. Men dropped out of their saddles and circled around the house. A match flared again and by it Lilly saw someone move in and out the door of the shanty. "Well," announced a voice, "He ain't here now. Guess he got cold feet an' departed. Whyn't you let me know this before, Trono?"
"Wasn't able to get away. Been a lot o' thunder raised at the rancho."
"Old man gettin' ticklish, eh?"
"I told him where to head in," muttered Trono. He was in the saddle again, moving toward Lilly's position. "And I give this red-head twenty-four hours to vamoose, but he's plumb bull-faced an' won't scare. Can't have him puttin' his long nose into our affairs, Stubbins."
"Well, if he meddles he'll get badly scorched," replied the Englishman. "No great worry about that. You're always issuin' some sort of a challenge, me lad. Better salve yourself. And I wouldn't cross old Jim. He's a tough fellow. Easy does it."
"Pussyfoot," snorted Trono. He was within ten feet of Lilly, turning from side to side in his saddle. "That don't get you nowhere."
"Sometimes it does," countered the Englishman. "The trouble with you, me lad, is that you fail to understand when a soft word will do the work of a hard one. I have no scruples about violence, you mind. But I'd rather take the easy path than the hard one. There is trouble enough in this country without creating more. Well, let's haze these brutes out of the timber before daylight. Onward."
The party drifted around the shack and were lost in the rising ground to the south. Lilly rose and returned to his blanket, piercing together diverse bits of information. Trono was a JIB man and Stubbins ran the 3Cross. Why all this fraternizing when the two outfits were in a state of armed truce? The answer was simple enough. Trono was knifing his boss. This night party was making a raid on JIB stock; they meant to break the old Octopus who was no longer able to fight for himself. Lilly shook his head in disgust. "I'd as lief sleep with a skunk as have any business with Trono. The doggone doublecrosser! If he ain't even loyal to his own outfit he ain't fit to be shot." Perhaps old Jim Breck was unscrupulous, but it was plain dirty to knife a man when he was down. And so he drifted off to a light slumber, mildly sympathizing with the man he had not long before defied.
He had trained himself to wake at the slightest sound. Yet when he did wake it was at no sound, but rather from a sense of danger close by. Even before his eyes opened the nerves at the back of his neck sent a chilly warning through him and he groped for his gun, rolling swiftly aside from his blanket. Gray dawn had come and at his very feet, crouched, was the skinny Indian buck who had held his reins the day before, Pattipaws. The Indian had crept within five feet of Lilly without betraying himself and now as he saw Lilly rising up in self-defense he held out a hand, palm to the front, and the inscrutable copper-colored visage moved from side to side. "Pattipaws a frien'. You come with me. Boss he want to see you now."
Lilly studied the Indian with mild indignation. "You shore had me in a hole, Smoke Face. First time I was ever trapped like that."
"Indian way," said Pattipaws briefly. His faded, murky eyes played across Lilly's face for a long while. He put out his hand. "We frien's. Come."
Lilly saddled and swung up. The Indian trotted over the ridge and reappeared on a flea-bitten paint pony, riding bareback. Together they galloped eastward toward the ranch. Rose dawn suffused the sky and the light, cold air carried the heavy aromatic smell of the sage. Lilly bent toward Pattipaws. "This a peace talk, Smoke Face, or are we raisin' the hatchet?"
"Plenty