Clattering Hoofs. William MacLeod Raine

      An angry flush swept McNulty’s face. Blunt had come from the forge and was standing beside Ranger, a pleased smile in his eyes. He did not object to hearing the little scamp told off. But Pete resented public castigation.

      “If that’s the way you want it, suits me.” he blustered. “Since you’re askin’ for it, I’ll say I’m not satisfied yet. By my way of it, you’re still a cow thief.”

      “For that, next time we meet I’ll flog you within an inch of yore life,” Sloan promised, a silken threat in his low voice.

      “You can talk tough now, because you claim you’re a sick man,” Uhlmann said sourly. “But when you’re well don’t try to ride me, unless you want to come with your gun a-smokin’.”

      “Enough of that, boys,” Ranger interrupted hurriedly. “Mr. Sloan has a right to be annoyed. If you two had got your way, we would have hanged an innocent man. You ought to be mighty pleased he’s living. It’s a lesson to all of us not to go off half-cocked. If you’re ready, we’ll go now, Sloan.”

      Cape Sloan rose, a wiry brown man with a dynamic force in him that was arresting. His gaze traveled with leisurely contempt over McNulty and rested on the pachydermous face of Uhlmann. He stood apparently at careless ease, a thumb hooked in his sagging belt.

      “In a moment, Mr. Ranger.” His steady narrowed eyes were still on Uhlmann. “It was my left shoulder the greaser cut,” he mentioned, slurring the words gently. “My right arm is good as ever, if anybody wants to find out.”

      Ranger stepped swiftly between the German and Sloan. “Cut out that kind of talk, both of you,” he ordered sternly. “You’re grown men, not kids. You fellows let each other alone. The difficulty is settled now.”

      Sloan’s smile was grim. “You in particular stay away from me, McNulty,” he said. “My promise still stands. You can’t call me a rustler and get off scot-free. If we meet again I’ll wear a quirt on you.”

      He turned his back on Pete and climbed into the wagon.

      7. Jim Budd and Sloan Agree to Bury the Past

      THE CIRCLE J R RANCHHOUSE WAS A LONG LOW RAMBLING building that had been constructed bit by bit, new wings being added as the owner grew more prosperous. Deep porches ran around the front and sides, with vines climbing trellises to give protection from the broiling heat of midday. The house was furnished comfortably and with taste. There was a piano in the sitting room, and along the walls were well-filled bookcases. The tawdry bric-a-brac one usually found in parlors was notably absent. In the bedroom to which Nelson took the guest cheerful chintz curtains had been hung. The armchair beside the window was deep and built to give the body rest.

      As soon as Sloan had washed away the dust of the journey he was called to supper. He was starting to sit down when a huge black man in an apron came in from the kitchen carrying a platter of fried chicken. The Negro’s staring eyes goggled at him. It was a bad moment for Cape Sloan. His stomach muscles tightened. For a second or two he missed what Ranger was saying, but he picked up the sequence and answered before the cattleman noticed. During the rest of the meal he gave his surface mind to the conversation at the table. His deeper thoughts were concerned with Jim Budd and the consequences of this unfortunate meeting.

      Since he was a convalescent, Sandra insisted that he retire early. He protested only formally, for he was tired from the jolting journey in the wagon. While he was undressing a knock came on the door of his room. It was Jim Budd who tiptoed in after his invitation to enter. He had expected Jim would make him a visit.

      Sloan looked up at him from the bed where he was sitting. He wondered what winds of mischance had blown the Negro here.

      “And to think I had to bump into you,” he said, with obvious distaste.

      “Yassuh,” Jim agreed. “We sure done come a long way to meet up.”

      “Do they know who you are?”

      “They don’ know where I wuz.”

      “How do you happen to be working at the Circle J R?”

      “Why, when they turn me loose I kinda jes’ started driftin’ east, as you might say. Mister Ranger was lookin’ for a cook. Me, I was workin’ in a restaurant at Benson where he come in, an’ we fix up for me to do the cookin’ here.”

      “If they knew you had been in the pen they wouldn’t keep you a day.”

      “I reckon that’s c’rect. But I wouldn’t know. Mister Ranger sure a fine man, an’ the little missis sho the finest lady in de land. Mebbe they might keep me.” His face took on a look of humble pleading. “You wouldn’t go for to tell them, Mister Webb.”

      “The name is Sloan.” He frowned at the honest dish face of the cook. “I don’t know. I’ll have to think about that.”

      “I ain’t any bad man. I never wuz. That fellow Candish I gouge was a mighty bad killer. He jump me, jes’ because I was a colored man.”

      Sloan knew that was true. Budd had been railroaded to prison. He had wounded Candish in self-defense. The chances were that he would live peaceably the rest of his life. No doubt he was devoted to the family for whom he was now working. The ranch guest felt a wry sense of sardonic amusement at the way he had inverted their rôles. He was the one who would be in danger if the truth were known. For he had escaped before his sentence was finished and if discovered would be dragged back, flogged, and lose his time for good conduct.

      “Mister Webb ——”

      “Sloan,” interrupted the ranch guest.

      “All right, Sloan then. You wuz Webb when you wuz in the pen at Yuma with me, but if you say Sloan that all right with me. What I wanna say is that I done served my time in prison for wounding Candish. I hadn’t ought to of been in there a day. When they turned me loose I came ’way out here to make a fresh start. I’m doing fine. I’m with good folks I would do a heap for. I never done you any harm. Whyfor do you want to stir things up and get me flung out on my ear?”

      “I don’t want to throw you out of a good job where you are giving satisfaction, Jim. But I want to play fair with the Rangers too.”

      There was a faint gleam of grinning irony in Jim’s reply. “I reckon then you’ll want to tell them all about yo’self too, Mister We — Sloan.”

      “No, Jim, I don’t want to do that. I’m here just for a short visit. I don’t want them or anybody else to know about my stay in the pen at Yuma.” Sloan came back to Jim’s case. “We all knew there that you aren’t a bad man, Jim. You ought never to have been convicted. I don’t see how it can hurt the Rangers for you to stay here. You really like them?”

      “I ain’t got any folks of my own—never did have. My wife run away with a yaller nigger, and that busted up what li’l’ home I had. Here’s where I wan’ to stay the rest of my life. They good to me. Never was any people I like as well. I feel like they’re mine, kind of, if you understand me.”

      “That is fine, Jim. We’ll call bygones bygones. What about me? Can you keep that big grinning mouth shut and not let anybody know you’ve ever seen me before?”

      “Sure I can. Listen, Mister Webb-Sloan.”

      “Sloan,” corrected the other. “Be sure to get that right.”

      “Yessir. Well, I think a powerful lot of Miss Sandra. When you rode in hell-for-leather and saved her from a whole passel of bandits you ce’tainly made me feel a powerful lot of respect, Mr. Sloan. My big mouth is done already padlocked.”

      8. Sandra Speaks Out

      AT THE CIRCLE J R THE GUEST TOOK LIFE EASIER THAN HE had done for many a day. Sandra did not let him get up with the family, but saw that Jim prepared a breakfast for him long after the others had eaten. He lounged about the place and let the