Dead Man's Range. Any rider caught across that line will explain himself clearly or take the consequences."
"Answering for myself," said Shander, violently angered, "I never have had any desire to ride on your damned range and haven't now. Since you have been aiming your shots at me during this powwow, I want to say you can expect no further friendliness from myself or my men. I object to your insinuations. I hope Curly rustles you poor, curse you if I don't! Keep your riders off my range! I won't stand good for their safety from this day. And if you have any business with me, do it through a third party."
"I am glad to know," said Nickum formally, "you are willing to put yourself that far in the open. I detest a man concealing his state of mind."
"You're going too far, Nickum!"
"Meeting's adjourned," broke in Buck Manners and rose to place himself between the two men. "I guess we know where we stand. As for me, I string with Nickum any time, anywhere. I'd hate to see a range war, but I'll take care of my share of it when it comes."
"Listen," said Sheriff Wolfert, "you men are making it awful hard on me. If there's going to be ill will between outfits, there's sure to be gun play in Angels. Now I want this to be neutral ground all the time."
"I will state another fact," went on old John Nickum, "After this my men will come and go in parties, peaceably and without intent to quarrel."
Everybody waited for Shander to say as much. But he was halfway to the door and only flung a short reply over his shoulder. "My riders can take care of themselves."
The meeting broke up. Nero Studd had already gone. Beef Graney overtook Shander and they left together. Wolfert remained seated, wrapped in gloom and only roused himself to shoot a covertly unpleasant glance at Nickum as the latter went out accompanied by Manners and Nickum's vinegary foreman, Driver Haggerty.
Nickum, striding massively between the two, looked all around the Plaza, the wrath still simmering in him. "Border jumpers, professional gunslingers, knife artists—the place is full of them. Look yonder by Nero Studd's joint. See those two fellows leaning against the porch post? Curley's men, ain't they?"
"Just so," agreed Buck Manners lazily.
"Shander's asking for trouble," muttered Nickum. "And he'll get it. He ain't smart enough for an old hand like me, not for a minute. He's the man who's drawing all the crooks together. He's making a play at me. He's got Wolfert obeying his orders. He's got Beef Graney, the poor fool, under his thumb. He's probably working hand in glove with that yellow-livered, greasy-fingered Nero Studd. Studd was always a cheap and crooked politician and always will be—sees everything, knows everything I and draws the support of every outlaw in this country. And I'm betting Shander and Studd, between 'em, have got Curly lined up. A fine set of thieves—all pointing at me! Wolfert let the cat out of the bag when he same as said he'll be elected another term. Meaning he's got all the underhanded support."
Manners laughed. "I observed that Graney and Studd and Shander gave him some very dirty looks for making that break."
"You bet. Hand in glove." Nickum closed one big paw and struck at the air. "I am too old at this game to be beat now. I've licked harder men than they ever will be. They want war. I'll give 'em a bellyful of it, Buck! Who's that over there?"
He ducked his head at the ambling figure of Clint Charterhouse who, hat tilted rakishly against the burning sun, was crossing back to Studd's Saloon. Buck Manners stared intently. Driver Haggerty shifted his chew and spoke for the first time in an hour. "Stranger. Rode in a little while ago. Elegant horse with a strange brand and a heap expensive saddle."
"Strangers from now on had better declare themselves," grunted old John Nickum.
"Let's amble into Studd's for a drink," suggested Buck Manners. "Nero's probably got the man's personal history eight generations back."
"I wouldn't trust Nero behind my back in a crowded room," retorted Nickum. "Where's Sherry gone?"
"She's in Ortega's, buying a lot of notions," chuckled Manners, face lighting. Driver Haggerty's stringy countenance veered and covered Manners for a brief moment. Then all three of them passed into Nero Studd's.
Clint Charterhouse was standing beside Studd when the party entered and his attention instantly lighted on old John Nickum's imposing bulk. He knew a typical cattleman when he saw one and his reaction was to question the saloon keeper.
"Him?" replied Studd. "That's Nickum, Box M. Biggest outfit in Casabella. That homely mutt who looked like he's swallowed his tobacco is Haggerty, the foreman. Other man runs a range almost as big as Nickum's—Buck Manners Inherited from his dad a year back."
"When I work," reflected Clint Charterhouse cheerfully, "I work for the top dog." He went forward, facing Nickum. The old ranchman stopped and stared truculently.
"Can you use another rider?" asked Charterhouse.
It was then that John Nickum committed an error. Almost always the soul of courtesy and usually the keenest judge of men, he was this afternoon in the grip of anger, stung by trouble and perplexed with the devious politics of the county. Thus he allowed himself to be gruff and unfriendly.
"I don't know you, sir."
Nettled by this obvious violation of the range's freemasonry, Charterhouse became gravely polite. "The same can be said, I reckon, of most men you hire. I didn't ask for partnership in Box M. I just asked for a job."
"So?" snapped Nickum, hackles rising. "Are you undertaking to dress me down, sir? I know my business well enough. And I'll repeat I don't know you. I have hired strangers and probably will again, but not at a time like this. At present drifters bear a bad name in Casabella. Where did you work last?"
"Since you don't intend to hire me," replied Charter-house, increasingly formal, "I doubt if it's necessary to say. My apologies for taking your good time. It won't happen again."
The crowd in Studd's held its breath, waiting for the inevitable explosion to follow. Driver Haggerty's red little eyes glinted ominously, but Buck Manners relieved the tension with his infectious chuckle. "Damned if there isn't more powder in Angel's air today than ever I smelled before. After all, John, he's just looking for work. I don't see any horns on him." And he winked jovially at Charterhouse.
Once having taken his position, the old rancher would not back down. But his ingrained sense of propriety made a necessary concession. "If my talk seems unduly hard on your pride, sir, accept apologies. I am not hiring today."
"We will consider the incident closed," said Charter-house levelly and turned his back on Nickum. Heck Seastrom bawled an order from the rear of the saloon. "Clear a space, you dudes! Hey, Manners, I got something that's a-going to stop you now. Take a look and bust out crying!"
A lane was made, revealing the irrepressible puncher standing affectionately over his immense rock. Manners laughed. "Still trying to cook up something to best me, huh? What do I do, lift it?"
"I got a month's pay salted which says you can't," stated Seastrom roundly. "Down on your heels, one hand, and she's got to go the full length of your arm overhead."
"Another month's pay I can," said Manners, crouching in front of the rock.
"Took!"
Manners threw off his hat, the curly yellow hair shining even in this dull light. The face grew astonishingly sober and hard, reminding Clint Charterhouse of a man slipping off a mask to reveal his true lineaments. Buck's palm rested beneath the rock; he put a tentative pressure against it, swayed on his heels once and said, "Hup!" mightily, body rising, weaving, and swinging around; the muscles of his slim neck went white, like taut cables, and the rock was poised overhead. He grinned again and cried, "Watch out!" Men ducked and the rock sailed down the room and went crashing through the floor.
The crowd yelled. "Now you've busted my floor!" cried Nero Studd angrily. But he was drowned out by Heck Seastrom who flung his hat down and stamped on it.
"Busted your floor? Hell, he's busted me! Two months' wages! I'll