The Rider of Golden Bar. William Patterson White

      Obviously Jack Murray understood. He lowered his left hand and worked his gun-belt loose and down over his hip bone with exemplary slowness. The shock of his capture had evaporated the last effects of the liquor. He was cold sober and beginning to perceive the supreme folly he had committed in shooting a woman's mount from under her.

      "One step ahead," directed Billy when the gun-belt was on the ground. "And up with that left hand."

      Jack Murray, thumbs locked together over his head, stepped out of the gun-belt. Billy went to him, rammed the six-shooter muzzle against his spine and patted him from top to toe in search of possible hide-outs. He found none except a pocket knife which did not cause him apprehension.

      "Le's take up the thread of our discourse," said Billy, "farther down the hill. Walk along, cowboy, walk along."

      With Billy carrying both rifles and Jack's discarded gun-belt, they walked along downhill to where Billy's pony stood in a three-cornered doze. It was then that Jack Murray caught sight of Hazel Walton lying on her back behind a stone, her arms over her face. She looked extremely limp and lifeless.

      "I didn't shoot her!" cried the startled Jack.

      "I know you didn't," said Billy. "The lady's restin', that's all. We'll wait till she feels like moving."

      Hazel Walton uncovered her face. There was a large and purpling lump in the middle of her forehead, the skin of her pretty nose was scratched, a bruise defaced one cheek bone, and one eye was slightly black.

      "Your work, you polecat," Billy declared succinctly. "You'll be lynched for mauling her like that."

      But Hazel Walton was just. She sat up, supporting herself by an arm, and dispelled Billy's false impression. "He never touched me—and he could have shot me if he'd wanted to."

      "So kind of him not to," said Billy with sarcasm. "Who is responsible for hurting you? Your face is bruises all over."

      "Is it?" she said, with an indifference born of great weariness. "I suppose it must be. I remember I struck on my face when he shot the mule I was riding. He—he shot both mules."

      "He'll be lynched for that, then," Billy said decisively.

      "Who'll pay for the mules?" Hazel wished to know. "We needed those mules," she added.

      Billy nodded. "That's so. If he's lynched for this attack on you—your mules—same thing if you know what I mean—you lose out on the mules. Maybe we can fix it up."

      "Sure we can," Jack Murray spoke up briskly.

      "I'm not talkin' to you," pointed out Billy. "Whatever fixing up there is to do, I'll do it. You have done about all the fixing you're gonna do for one while. Yeah. I came out after you, Jack, to make you a better boy, but now that we got you where you'll stand without hitching, I can't do it. I ain't got the heart. Of course, if you were to jump at me or something, or make a dive for your gun I'm holding, I don't say but I'd change my mind in a hurry. I kind of wish you had seen me back there a-lying under my currant bush. Then we'd have had it out by this time, and I'd be going back to town for a shovel."

      "Don't you be too sure of that," snarled Jack Murray. "Just you gimme my gun back, and I'll show you something."

      "I'll bet you would," acquiesced Billy, "but I'm keeping your guns, both of 'em. I'd feel too lonesome without 'em."

      "Can't you do nothing but flap your jaw?" demanded Jack in a huff. "I'd just as soon be downed outright as talked to death."

      "But you haven't any choice in the deal," Billy told him in mild surprise. "Not a choice. You shut up. I'll figure out what to do with you. Y'understand, Jack, I've got to be fair to Miss Walton too. If you're lynched she won't get paid for her team, and I can't have her losin' a fine team of mules thisaway and not have a dime to show for it. That would never do. Never. Lessee now. You got any money, Jack?"

      "A little."

      "How much?"

      "Maybe ten or twelve dollars."

      "Maybe you've got more. You know you never were good at figures. Lemme look."

      He looked. From one of Jack Murray's hip pockets he withdrew a plump leather poke that gave forth a jingling sound. A search of the inner pocket of the vest produced a thin roll of greenbacks. But the bills were all of large denominations.

      "There," said Billy, "I knew you'd made a mistake in addition, Jack. You count what's here, Miss Walton."

      He tossed the greenbacks and the heavy poke into the lap of the girl who was now sitting up cross-legged, her back against the rock.

      "Sixteen hundred and twelve dollars and sixty-five cents," announced Hazel a few minutes later.

      "How much did your mules cost?" queried Billy.

      "Five hundred and a quarter the team," was the prompt reply.

      "Call it six hundred," said Billy briskly. "It's only right for you to take something at an auction thisaway. Strip off six hundred dollars worth of greenbacks and put them in your pocket."

      "Oh, I wouldn't feel right about taking more than the regular price," demurred Hazel.

      "No reason why you shouldn't. No reason a-tall. Jack's only paying you for the damage he did. He's glad to pay. Ain't you, Jack?"

      "I suppose so," grunted Jack.

      "There, you see. Your uncle would want you to. I know he would. In fact, he'd be a heap put out if you didn't. Those bumps of your's now. What do you say to one hundred wheels a bump? You got three bumps and a scratched nose. Which last counts as a bump. In round numbers that makes four hundred dollars. One thousand dollars to you, Miss Walton."

      "Here!" cried the outraged Jack Murray. "You're robbin' me! You're takin' every nickel I got!"

      "No, I ain't," denied Billy, "and don't go and get excited and put those hands down. Don't you, now. About that money—the worst is yet to come. Young Riley Tyler not being here to assess his own damages, I'll assess 'em for him. You put three holes in Riley. Call it two hundred dollars a hole. That makes six hundred dollars. Just put that six hundred in a separate pile for Riley, Miss Walton."

      "I don't mind the man paying for the mules," said Miss Walton firmly, "but I can't take any money for my scratch or two."

      Billy looked at her, decided she meant it and said:

      "All right, put that four hundred with Riley's six. Riley won't mind."

      "But I do!" shouted Jack Murray, his arms quivering with rage. "You can't rob me thisaway. By Gawd——"

      "Now, now," Billy cut in sharply, "no swearing. You forget Miss Walton. You're right about the money, though. I can't rob you. Miss Walton, dump all that money back in the poke and hand it to him. He wants to go back to Golden Bar and be lynched."

      "I got friends in Golden Bar," blustered the prisoner.

      "None of 'em will be your friends after I tell 'em what you did to Miss Walton, Jack. There's a prejudice in this country against hurting a woman. Folks don't like it. Aw right, get a-going, feller. No, the other way—toward Golden Bar."

      A hearty groan wrenched itself from the depths of Murray's being. "Uncle! Uncle!" he cried angrily. "Have it your own way. I don't want to go to the Bar. Take all my money and be done with it."

      "I wouldn't think of such a thing," declared Billy, "though it wouldn't be any more than right if I did. You're getting off too easy. You'll live to be hung yet, I'm afraid, but I can't just see my way to downing you now and here. No, you divide the money again, Miss Walton. Six hundred for you, a thousand for Riley and twelve dollars and sixty-five cents tobacco money for this gentleman.— Don't bother reaching for the money, Jack. I'll put it in your pocket. There you are. Now, Miss Walton, if you'll wait here while I get this citizen started— You've got a horse somewhere, I expect, Jack. Lead the way."

      "Oh, sure I saw him off all right. I don't guess he'll be back for a while—not if he has brains. You know,