The Texican. Coolidge Dane

still on their faces and beards and their hands smeared with blood. Each in turn glanced furtively at Pecos Dalhart, who sat off at one side contemplating the landscape, grabbed a plate and coffee cup and fell to without a word. Last of all came Isaac Crittenden, the Boss, tall, gaunt, and stooping, his head canted back to make up for the crook in his back and his one good eye roving about restlessly. As he rode in, Pecos glanced up and nodded and then continued his industry of drawing brands in the dust. The Boss, on his part, was no more cordial; but after the meal was finished he took another look at the newcomer, spoke a few words with the cook, and strolled over for a talk.

      "Howdy, stranger," he began, with a quick glance at the brands in the sand; "travellin' far?"

      "Nope," responded Pecos, "jest up the trail a piece."

      A shadow crossed the Boss's face—Upton's was "up the trail a piece"—but he did not follow that lead.

      "Know any of them irons?" he inquired, pointing to the sand-drawings, which represented half the big brands between the Panhandle and the Gila.

      "Sure thing," replied the cowboy, "I've run 'em."

      "And burnt 'em, too, eh?" put in Crittenden, shrewdly; but Pecos Dalhart was not as young as he looked.

      "Not on your life," he countered, warily, "that don't go where I come from."

      "Of course not, of course not," assented the cowman, instantly affecting a bluff honesty, "and it don't go here, neither, if any one should inquire. A man's brand is his property and he's got a right to it under the law. I've got a few cows here myself—brand IC on the ribs—and I'd like to see the blankety-blank that would burn it. I'd throw 'em in the pen, if it was the last act. Where you travellin'?"

      He jerked this out as a sort of challenge, and the cowboy rose to his feet.

      "Upton's," he said briefly.

      "Upton's!" repeated Crittenden, "and what do you figure on doin' up there?"

      "Well, I heard he was a good feller to work for—thought I'd take on for a cow hand."

      Pecos stated the proposition judicially, but as he spoke he met the glowering glance of Crittenden with a cold and calculating eye. The cattle-stealing war between John Upton of Tonto Basin and Old Crit of Verde Crossing was no secret in Arizona, though the bloody Tewkesbury-Graham feud to the north took away from its spectacular interest and reduced it to the sordid level of commercialism. It was, in fact, a contest as to which could hire the nerviest cowboys and run off the most cattle, and Pecos Dalhart knew this as well as Isaac Crittenden. They stood and glared at each other for a minute, therefore, and then Old Crit broke loose.

      "Whoever told you that John Upton is a good feller is a liar!" he stormed, bringing his fist down into his hand. "He's jest a common, low-down cow-thief, as I've told him to his face; and a man that will steal from his friends will do anything. Now, young man, before we go any farther I want to tell you what kind of a reptile John Upton is. Him and me run our cattle over in Tonto Basin for years, and if we'd ever have any question about a calf or a orehanna I'd always say, 'Well, take 'im, John,' jest like that, because I didn't want to have no racket with a friend. But they's some people, the more you give in to 'em the more they run it over you, and they come a day when I had to put my foot down and say, 'No, that calf is mine,' and I put my iron on 'im right there. Now that calf was mine, you understand, and I branded him IC on the ribs, in the corral and before witnesses, accordin' to law, but about a week afterward when I come across that critter, John Upton had run a big U after my brand, makin' it ICU. Well, you may laugh, but that's no kind of a joke to play on a friend and I jest hopped down off'n my horse and run a figger 2 after it, making it ICU2; and about the time John Upton gits his funny ICU brand in the book I goes down and registers ICU2, goin' him one better. Now that's carryin' a joke pretty far, and I admit it, but Upton wasn't funnin'; that crooked-nose dastard had set out to steal my cows from the start and, seein' I'd euchered him on the ICU racket he went ahead and slapped a big J in front of my IC iron, and began branding my cows into what he called his Jay-Eye-See brand. Well, that settled it. I'm an honest man, but when a man steals cows from me I don't know any way to break even in this country but to steal back, and while he was putting his J's on my IC critters I jumped in and put IC2's on his U's until he was ready to quit. He's afraid to burn my brand now—he dassent do it—and so he's beginnin' to squeal because I've got 'im in the door; but say—" he beckoned with his head—"come over here by the corral, I want to talk to you."

      Throughout this long tale of woe Pecos Dalhart had shown but scant interest, having heard it already, with variations, from Babe. According to that faithless individual Old Crit would steal fleas from a pet monkey and skin them for the hide and tallow; his favorite pastime, outside of cattle-rustling, being to take on cowboys and then hold out their pay, a rumor which caused Pecos Dalhart to regard him warily.

      "Now say," began the Boss of Verde Crossing, as soon as they were out of hearing, "you don't need to go to that hoss-thief Upton in order to git a job. I'm always lookin' for the right kind of man, myself. Have you had any experience at this kind of thing?" He went through the dexterous pantomime of burning a brand through a blanket, but the cowboy only turned away scornfully.

      "If I had I'd never be dam' fool enough to talk about it," he said.

      "Oho!" observed Crit, rubbing the side of his nose slyly, "you're travelling for your health, are you?"

      "No!" snarled the Texan. "The only people that are lookin' for me are tryin' to keep away from me, so you don't need to work that auger any deeper. Now, Mr. Crittenden, I'm a man of few words—what can I do for you?"

      "We-ell," began the cowman, and once more he paused to meditate.

      "Since you inquire," continued the cowboy, "I don't mind tellin' you that I'm travellin' for excitement—and to grab some money. If you've got any proposition that might appeal to me, spit it out—if not, they's no harm done."

      "Well, wait a minute!" cried Old Crit, peevishly.

      "My time's valuable," observed Pecos, sententiously. "You can trust me as good as I can trust you—mebby better. I don't hear nobody accuse you of being sure pay, but if I take your job I want you to remember that I draw my money at the end of every month or else I collect and quit. Now if you can jar that proposition out of your system, I'll listen to it."

      "I guess you'll do," said the cowman, as if quieting his own misgivings. "I've got a little special work that I want done on the quiet, markin' over some cows and calves. The man that does it will have to hide out up in that rough country and I'll pay him—forty dollars."

      "Eighty," said the Texan.

      "W'y, I'm only payin' my round-up hands thirty," protested Crittenden, weakly; "I'll give you fifty, though."

      "Eighty, cash," said the cowboy. "You'll make that on the first ten calves."

      "Sixty!" pleaded Crit.

      "I want my money in my hand at the end of every month," added Pecos, and then there was a silence.

      "All right," grumbled the cowman, at last, "but you understand I expect something to show for all that money. Now I want you to go around the corner thar like you was mad, 'n' saddle up and ride on, like you was goin' to Upton's. Then when it comes night I want you to ride back and camp out there by that big ironwood over against the mesa. As soon as me and the boys are out of sight in the mornin' my Mexican, Joe Garcia, will come out to you with some grub and take you over to Carrizo Springs, and I want you to stay there as long as I keep driftin' U cows in over the Peaks. Now look—here's your job—I want you to burn every one of them Upton cows over into a Wine-glass"—he made the figure in the sand—"and run it on the calves. Savvy? Well, git, then, and remember what I said about lookin' mad—I don't want my punchers to git onto this!"

      CHAPTER III

       THE DOUBLE CROSS