The Rider of Golden Bar. William Patterson White

Walton. You did the bravest thing I ever knew a man or woman to do. You gambled your life to save mine. You might have been killed, you know it? And after me getting fresh there in the street, I dunno what to say, I don't."

      He knew that he was talking too much. But in the reaction that had set in he was so embarrassed that it hurt.

      "Yeah!" he gabbled on, red to the ears, "you certainly are a wonder. I—uh—I guess we better be getting back to town. You feel able to ride now? My horse is gentle. Besides, I'll lead him."

      It was then that reaction set in for Hazel Walton. As the strain on her nerves eased off, everything went black before her eyes and she keeled over sidewise in a dead faint.

      Chapter Five.

       Jack Murray Objects

       Table of Contents

      "You hadn't oughta shot the girl's mules," said fat Sam Larder, shaking a reproving head at disconsolate Jack Murray.

      The latter endeavored to defend himself. "I was drunk."

      "That's no excuse," averred Felix Craft. "You had no business picking a fight with young Riley in the first place. He's a popular lad, that one, and you ain't."

      "He made me mad, setting there in the sun joking with that damn Bill Wingo who's gonna be sheriff in my place. Besides, I was drunk."

      "I saw the whole affair," said Sam Larder. "Bill pushed Riley off the cracker box and you had to slur Riley about it. Fool caper."

      "I never did like Riley," grumbled Jack Murray. "He's a friend of Bill Wingo's and that's enough. I figured by downin' Riley and skippin' out and lettin' that stage hostler know where I was going, Bill Wingo would come pelting after and gimme a chance to settle with him all salubrious and private on the trail somewheres."

      Sam Larder bluntly called the spade by its correct name. "Bushwhack him, you mean."

      "Well, if I did, it's none of your business," snapped Jack Murray with an evil glance.

      "Then why make it our business by coming here bellyaching to me and Craft?" Sam Larder wished to know.

      "I came to you because I want my money—sixteen hundred dollars that bandit Bill Wingo stole off me."

      "He didn't say anything about any sixteen hundred," said Felix Craft, his eyes beginning to gleam. "Tell us about it."

      "Yeah," urged Sam. "Give it a name."

      Jack proceeded to give it a name—several names and all profane. When he was calmer he gave a fairly truthful account of the financial transaction between Hazel Walton, Bill Wingo and himself.

      "And I'm telling you here and now," he said in conclusion, "that six hundred dollars is too much for that broken-down team of jacks. And a thousand dollars for putting a few holes in Riley Tyler is plumb ridiculous. My Gawd, he'll be out of bed in a month. Wha' t'ell you laughin' at?"

      For his hearers were laughing—laughing immoderately. They whooped, they pounded the table, they beat each other on the back till they sank exhausted into their chairs.

      Jack demanded again to be told what they were laughing at.

      "I'll leave it to anybody if this ain't the funniest thing ever happened in the territory," declared Sam Larder, when he could speak with coherence.

      Felix Craft nodded. "Sure is. One on you all right, Jack."

      "Aw, hell, you fellers can't make a monkey out of me."

      "Bill Wingo seems to have done that pretty thoroughly," said Sam Larder with a fat man's giggle.

      "I'm not through with him yet," snarled Jack Murray.

      "Where's your sense of humor?" grinned Felix. "If you'll take my advice you'll walk round Bill Wingo like he was a swamp. Ain't you had enough?"

      "I want my money back!" squalled the indignant Jack.

      Sam Larder kissed the tips of his plump fingers. "The money's gone. Can't do anything about it now. Can we, Crafty?"

      "Don't see how."

      Jack sat up stiffly, his face red with rage. "You fellers mean to tell me you're gonna let me be robbed of sixteen hundred dollars?"

      Felix Craft spread eloquent hands. "What can we do?"

      "I thought you were friends of mine," disgustedly.

      "We are," Sam hastened to assure him. "If we weren't we'd have called in the sheriff long ago."

      "What's the sheriff got to do with it?"

      "He's got a warrant for your arrest—for assault and battery, malicious mischief, and assault with intent to kill. Besides, the folks hereabout have got it in for you. I wouldn't be surprised if they hang you—give 'em half a chance."

      "I know they would, damn 'em, but as long as they don't see me they can't lynch me, and they ain't likely to see me here in your house, Felix. But I don't like the idea of that warrant."

      "I suppose not," said Felix. "A warrant follows you all over while a necktie party generally stays close to home. And no matter what the present sheriff does, I got an idea Bill won't forget that warrant any after he takes office— Yeah, I know, cuss him out by all means, but after all, what are you gonna do about it?"

      "I didn't think he'd swear out a warrant," said Jack.

      Felix tendered his mite. "There's a reward offered, too."

      A warrant was bad enough, but a reward! Many people would be on the lookout to earn such easy money.

      Jack Murray felt an odd and sinking sensation in the region of his stomach. "How much is it?"

      "Only three thousand dollars."

      "Only, huh. Only? Who's puttin' up the cash?"

      "Riley Taylor put his name down for a thousand and Hazel's uncle, Tom Walton, added six hundred, and——"

      "Why, that sixteen hundred is my own money!" interrupted Jack Murray.

      "I expect so," continued Felix. "The other fourteen hundred was made up around the town."

      "I suppose you'll tell me you fellers put it up yourselves," said the sarcastic Mr. Murray, who did not expect any such thing.

      "Sure we did," said Felix. "We had to. Bill Wingo and Sam Prescott and Wildcat Simms brought the paper round, and we had to sign up. I'll be out a hundred if you're caught, Sam two hundred, Tip a hundred, Rafe the same, and that's the way it went. Even the district attorney chipped in his ante."

      Jack Murray was too horrified to speak for a minute. While he wrestled with his thoughts Sam Larder spoke.

      "You see, Jack," said he, "we had to sit in. If we hadn't, everybody would have said we sympathized with you, and we couldn't afford that—not with elections coming on. It would never do. Never. You see how it is, I guess."

      "Yes, I see," said Jack bitterly. "I see all right. I see you've skun me between you. That damn reward will make me leave the territory for a while."

      "Most sensible thing you could do," declared Sam Larder warmly. "We don't want to see you get into any trouble, Jack. You're young. Starting somewhere else won't be a hardship for you a-tall. We'll be sorry to lose you," he concluded thoughtfully.

      "You ain't lost me yet," Jack snapped back. "I may pull out for awhile, but I'll be back. You bet I'll be back, and when I do come back I'll sure make Bill Wingo hard to find."

      "Don't yell so loud," Sam cautioned him, "or you may have the opportunity sooner than you want it. You hadn't oughta come here, anyhow. You dunno whether you were seen or not."

      "And you don't want to get a bad name, I expect," sneered Jack Murray.

      "You expect right," Felix Craft