Riders West. Ernest Haycox

a gentle grade and presently tipped into a valley; and it was, Nan thought, like putting away from shore. To right and left—perhaps eight miles in either direction—were low enclosing ridges now being slowly blurred by the haze of summer. Northward at a greater distance lay a high and black pile of hills toward which the tawny-grassed flooring ran in long, slow undulations. The road pointed that way straight as a chalk line. A red sun climbed into a sky that was very blue; one gleaming cloud pillar stood alone. Morning's breeze died, and she felt at once the day's sultriness closing in. Cattle lay scattered and apparently motionless all about the flats. Two miles or more onward she looked back to see the whole distance to town marked by a risen banner of dust that clung cloudily to the air.

      Dan Bellew had so far said nothing. From the corner of her vision she saw him loosely straight on the seat, his bronzed face soberly composed. Now and then his head described a long arc, as if he regularly searched the horizons, and he appeared to be oblivious of her presence. Presumably he had felt her attitude of resentment and meant to respect it. Yet, the situation promised to grow intolerable, even ludicrous; two people could not ride together by the hour and ignore each other. That calm of his was monumental, she thought irritably; yet another reflection, and a fairer one, told her she had set the precedent and so had to make the first overture. Her voice seemed to her to be ridiculously stiff:

      "How far is this place?"

      "About fourteen miles from Trail."

      He had returned the same exact measure of words.

      She told herself, "He's either trying to discipline me or ignore me," and decided to remain silent all the rest of the way. A long time afterward she was a little surprised to hear him talking impersonally:

      "This is plain cattle country, nothing else. Off to the left rear—where you see a slight break in the ridge—is Simon LeBoeuf's ranch. His range comes over as far as this road. Look to the right now and you'll see Gunderson's quarters." His long arm pointed, and she discovered the outlines of grouped houses against the foot of that rightward ridge. "LeBoeuf and Gunderson control all the lower half of the valley. The upper half, which is narrower, is my range. Broken Stirrup. There's maybe a dozen small outfits here and there, in addition. That's all."

      She had begun to observe that upper narrowing of the flats. Those left and right ridges were gradually closing in. She asked about it, more to avoid embarrassing silence than anything else.

      "Yes," said Dan. "They meet up yonder by those dark peaks to form Smoky Pass. Your place is there." A lighter and more indolent manner came to him. "The Indians have a legend about those two ridges. Seems like there once was a maid and a man who quarreled. So the gods turned 'em into hills. That eastern one is Buck ridge; the western one, Squaw ridge. But the maid got sorry, and even stones couldn't keep her away from the man. So there's the result." His arm traced the far-off bending of Squaw ridge. "She went back to the man. Squaw and Buck ridges join at the pass."

      "The man," said Nan, coolly, "made no move to meet the maid?"

      "Men are stubborn, I guess."

      "It is easy to see that a man created the myth," was Nan's brief retort.

      "I was waiting for that," drawled Dan. For the first time their glances locked. Nan saw the humor lying quietly in his eyes. It only increased her defensive aggravation. "You seem sure of my reactions, Mr. Bellew."

      "I have a couple previous ones to judge from. As for the man, maybe he thought the maid had him all wrong—and waited till she changed her mind."

      "Quite probably he would think himself the injured one."

      "I suppose so," agreed Dan. "But right or wrong, about all the buck could do was wait. If he was right he had an apology coming. If he was wrong he'd naturally suppose the woman was through with him." Then he added idly: "Another strictly man's idea, of course."

      "Don't you suppose the woman may have thought the same way?"

      "Don't lay that trap for me," countered Bellew. "How do I know what a woman thinks?"

      "She may have thought this man unjust and blind—and still have gone to him because she couldn't help it."

      "She wouldn't be finished with him?"

      "No," said Nan, suddenly feeling the conversation out of control. "Not if she loved him. That—that's a weakness. I'm not applauding the woman for it."

      "I believe," murmured Bellew, "I would."

      "Of course," retorted Nan.

      He looked obliquely at her, then turned his attention across the flats to sudden bomblike clouds of dust. The road made a swinging circle toward the eastern ridge and gradually ran a parallel course beside it. The dust cloud rolled nearer, and presently Nan recognized a compact body of horsemen advancing at a set gallop. Dan. Bellew was quite silent, and she looked curiously at him, feeling a strange stiffening of his attitude. The direct glance was pinned on the cavalcade; his face had gone quite smooth. Something about him sent a small current of excitement through her. The group arrived within a few hundred yards, broke out of the gallop to a slower pace. Two men spurred abreast the leader—and so the team and wagon came upon them. Bellew said "Who-oa" expressionlessly and halted. "Hello, St. Cloud."

      "Hello, Dan."

      The name registered instantly with Nan, but for a moment her attention strayed to the two other flanking riders. One—this was Ruel Gasteen, though she didn't know it—she had seen for a moment during the previous night and had remarked the excessive lower jaw and the tight leather skin. The other was very short and very broad, with a face quite unrelieved by intelligence or humanity. His wide mouth was indescribably bitter, his eyes intensely glowing; a broad cowlick of hair covered a half of his forehead and hung just above one eye, to give him a sullen, dull-witted appearance. One leg, she saw, was short and deformed. Then her glance passed to the center man and found a quick contrast. This Neel St. Cloud, whose name seemed to be a password of trouble, was a slim, cavalry-figured person as tall as Bellew. He had yellow hair, a sharp, mobile face, a cream-ruddy complexion. And he was, she instantly guessed, rather educated. That air was about him. But the dominating impression he left with her was of a lurking, restless laughter; of a cynical nonchalant cheerfulness at once keying his character. He was obviously sure of himself, almost disdainfully sure, and he made so great a contrast to the more animal types beside him that Nan found herself absorbed. She was, consequently, half startled at the swift answering interest this Neel St. Cloud passed to her. She looked quickly away.

      "Trust you had a nice train trip," said St. Cloud to Bellew.

      "Been informed, I see," replied Bellew.

      "Sure."

      "Any objections?"

      St. Cloud's ironic smile grew more pronounced. "None, my friend. None at all."

      "I don't suppose one man more or less counts much with you," agreed Bellew.

      "It is not the checkers that count, Dan. It's the game."

      "I judge so."

      The antagonism of these two reached out and touched Nan. It was something distinct and embodied. It inflected each of those soft, courteously spoken words. She observed something else about St. Cloud, too. Careless as he was, apparently reckless as he was, his attention remained on Bellew as a sharp, constant thing. There could be, she reflected, no pair so opposed. Bellew was solidity itself, slow and even-tempered, his energies stored away. By contrast, St. Cloud was mercurial, his mobile face reflecting the lightness and darkness of his thoughts. Bellew said abruptly:

      "—I'd like to see you soon, St. Cloud. For a talk."

      "On my way back from town I'll drop over," promised St. Cloud and reined his pony around the wagon. In passing he lifted his hat to Nan and smiled directly at her. Then the whole cavalcade went storming by, Bellew put his team in motion.

      "He is a rancher?" asked Nan.

      "Has a ranch. Beyond the pass, in Smoky Draw."

      "Those were his men?"

      "Yes."

      The