Outlaw Ranch. Frank C. Robertson

before noon he emerged from the narrow canyon onto a sort of plateau, broken by rolling hills and long, shallow ravines. If the outlaws had been going to hold him up they would have done so in the canyon.

      A mile to his right he saw a log cabin, and a fenced pasture. This he judged to be Hopkins’ ranch. He was convinced that it was a rendezvous for the Wild Ones—in fact, Kirk Holliday’s gang had many such places scattered throughout the range country. It was nearly dinner time, and without the least hesitation he headed for the cabin.

      As he rode up he saw four saddled horses tied close to the cabin, and an equal number of men were outside in the shade. Another man was inside cooking dinner. And two of those men were Al Biggers and Jack Fossum. The latter was grinning up at Chet like a Cheshire cat. Biggers’ eyes glimmered with suspicion.

      Before he spoke Chet cast a swift glance at the other two men. One was small, dark and wiry; so very dark, in fact, that Chet suspected the man of having Indian or Mexican blood. The other was a blond young giant, with a pleasant face, but with baby blue eyes which were anything but innocent. Chet knew instinctively that those eyes were shrewd in the reading of faces, and he suspected that a flinty hardness lay behind their bland good-nature.

      Members of the Wild Ones, Chet catalogued them instantly. But he would have been utterly amazed had he known that the blond giant was none other than Kirk Holliday, the leader of the Wild Ones, and that the dark-skinned fellow was Blackie Payne, his chief lieutenant—a man who would shoot to kill upon the slightest provocation, and who had been known to shoot a man for asking if he was an Indian.

      “Well, well, Mr. Kelvin,” Jack Fossum greeted genially. “We been waitin’ for yuh.”

      FOUR

      CHET KELVIN would have been less than human had the present situation created no nervousness. His thoughts clicked with lightning speed, and he wondered if the hold-up he had expected back in the canyon was to come off now, or if, perhaps, the men knew that it was he who had turned the tables the night before, and were about to exact some more sinister vengeance. But he knew that it would do no good to betray either fear or too much surprise.

      “Why, hello, hombres,” he greeted easily. “This is a surprise to see you here. I thought yuh was headed for Pipe Springs.”

      Jack Fossum got lazily to his feet and stretched.

      “Git down, pardner, git down,” he invited. “Our good friend Hopkins’ll have dinner ready in a jiff. I’ll tell him tuh lay another plate.”

      “That’ll be fine,” Chet said, as he threw his left leg over the saddle horn and dropped to the ground. “It was thinkin’ about dinner which headed me over here in the first place. Wonder if I can git a feed of grain for my horse, or else turn him somewhere?”

      “I’ll see,” Fossum said, and disappeared inside the cabin.

      Kelvin was acutely aware that his two erstwhile drinking companions had failed to account for their change of plan. It wasn’t reassuring.

      The blond giant looked up indolently. “How far yuh made today?” he queried.

      “Can’t just say,” Chet replied just as casually. “Stayed all night with a Mormon bishop name of Carey.”

      “Yeah, I know him,” the blond man nodded. “In fact, I figger on stayin’ there m’self tonight.” He looked up quickly, but if he had expected to discover signs of confusion on the cattle buyer’s face he was disappointed.

      “That hawse o’ yore’s don’t look like he’d come that far this mawnin’,” spoke up the little dark man.

      “I left before daylight, an’ my horse has got a runnin’ walk that don’t sweat nor tire him,” Chet replied a bit curtly.

      It was the blond man who answered. “I see,” he nodded. “Does look like a right good horse. Orta have speed. I bet you could clean up some good money with him if you was tuh run into the Wild Ones. Kirk Holliday thinks he knows horses, an’ they say yuh kin always git a trade with him.”

      “That so? Mebbe I’ll look Mr. Holliday up—after I git my business done,” Chet said evenly.

      “That reminds me—I been waitin’ here just tuh talk business with you. What the hell’s the matter with you, Al—why don’t yuh introduce us tuh the stranger?”

      Chet felt that something was coming off, and whatever it was he was certain the men intended for him to get the worst of it. But he continued to smile, and hoped that it wasn’t too mechanical.

      “Oh, excuse me,” Biggers mumbled. “Kelvin, I wantcha tuh meet my friend Hank Stevens, o’ Stag-tail butte.”

      The blond giant leaped gracefully to his feet, and shook hands cordially. He had a firm, hearty handshake. “Plumb glad tuh know yuh,” he said warmly. “Plumb.”

      “An’ I’m glad tuh meet you,” Chet responded.

      “An’ this is ‘Happy’ Mack, Mr. Kelvin,” Biggers introduced the little dark man.

      Mack didn’t rise. He had been sitting with his knees cocked up, rolling a cigaret. “How,” he grinned, and offered the makings.

      “Thanks,” Chet drawled.

      Jack Fossum came out of a lean-to at one end of the cabin with a nose-bag two-thirds full of oats. Out of the corner of his eye Chet noticed that the lean-to was full of sacked grain.

      “Here yuh are, Chet, old boy. Slip this on that glass-eyed giraffe, an’ dinner is all ready,” Fossum said cheerfully.

      The Mike horse had moved a few yards away to a water trough made out of half a whisky barrel, where he was drinking noisily through the bit. Fossum walked over to the trough with Chet.

      “Did yuh give it back?” he queried in a half whisper.

      “Huh?” Chet blurted. Then he grinned as the young outlaw gave him a wink. He realized that there was no use to make a denial. Fossum, at least, knew that he was the man who had, as it were, plundered the Philistines.

      “Naturally,” he said. “If I’d been goin’ tuh keep anything I’d have took everything but yore underwear.”

      “That’s what I thought,” Fossum said. “Biggers thinks it was you, but he ain’t sure. Take a tip from me, brother, an’ hit the back trail.”

      The nose-bag was fastened on and they had to turn back. Chet was more puzzled than ever.

      “Jack,” he said loud enough for the others to hear, “you ain’t told me yet how yuh happened tuh change yore mind about goin’ tuh Pipe Springs.”

      “Oh, that,” Fossum said. “We found out there was a letter in the Curryville post office from our boss tellin’ us he’d changed his mind, an’ orderin’ us tuh come back. We left town right after you did a little while. In fact we got here just at dark, an’ have been here ever since, eh, Mark?”

      The lantern-jawed nester had come out to announce dinner, and he nodded a quick affirmation. “Yep, the boys have been right here. I’m allus glad tuh have comp’ny.”

      “I see,” Chet murmured. And he did see a carefully arranged alibi if the men should be accused of robbing the Harrisons. What he couldn’t understand was young Fossum’s attitude.

      “We’d have been a long way on our road if we hadn’t met Hank an’ Happy here,” Fossum chattered. “When we found out Hank was tryin’ tuh sell his cattle we remembered about you, an’ so we agreed tuh wait here with ’em till yuh come along.”

      “So you have some cattle tuh sell?” Chet remarked to the man who called himself Stevens.

      “Yeah, I have got a few,” the big blond man acknowledged, his baby-blue eyes meeting Chet’s with a cold and scrutinizing stare. The cattle buyer knew then that his first impression about the hardness of those eyes had been correct.