The Complete Novels of Ernest Haycox. Ernest Haycox

his women safe. Bein' married, bein' a father made him see that. I didn't. I'm just a half-wild rider, nothin' more. Good God, I wish I was up!"

      His head was so tangled with all this thinking that he lost trace of what he was trying to unravel. He closed his eyes, and the extra exertion of the morning put him to sleep.

      When he awoke, alert and startled, there was the sound of singing out in the big room. A woman singing. He had no need to guess; only Lola Monterey's voice carried that husky, infinitely sad pitch—only Lola had the power of throwing herself into words until the very air vibrated with her personality. The song was in Spanish, and the melody of it seemed to blend all the ancient wisdom of love and life and tragedy. It swayed hauntingly, fell to a whisper, and rose like a clear call. And suddenly broke off, to leave the silence bleak and tense. Denver lay immovable. A quick step tapped over the big room's floor. She spoke.

      "David."

      She was at his door, her hand brushing it lightly. Denver watched the knob, suspended between a desire to call and the grim need of being silent. But he never had the opportunity of deciding. Lola cried, "David!" again. The door flew open. She paused, tall and beautiful and supremely moved. Then she threw herself into the room and fell beside him, head on his chest, choking out her words.

      "David—I sang to wherever you were! To call you back, my love! And then I knew you were not dead!"

      One of the hands appeared in the door and motioned apologetically. "She jest wanted—"

      "Get out of here," said Dave. He put his hand on the jet and shining head. Saying nothing for a while, knowing nothing ought to be said. The pound of her heart lessened; the trembling of her body died away, and it was as if she slept, hands tight on his shoulders. He had no idea how long a time passed, for his thoughts traveled the old bitter pathway backward, and he was lost in a memory that was fire and flame, laughter and quarrel—like sunlight flashing intermittently through storm clouds. Then Lola sprang up, tipped her chin; and through the film of tears her eyes were smiling.

      "So I live always, David. From hurt to joy. Never even, never serene. Why did you do it—why did you?"

      He shook his head. "I can't tell you, Lola. All I say now is that when you go out of this house you've got to carry yourself just the same as when you came in. Not by a single look or thought or word must you be changed. I'm publicly dead—and so I remain until—"

      "There is only one reason," said Lola, whose eyes never left his face. "You hope to get Lou Redmain."

      He had no reply. Lola spoke swiftly. "Lou is deadly."

      "I'm not exactly skimmed milk, Lola. Wasn't there a time when you called me a hard man?"

      "I know, but Lou never gave anybody a fair chance in all his life—except me. There's something in him that warps every good impulse. He will tell you he is your friend. He will actually mean to be honest and fair and straight. But after a little while he turns aside. I never realized that until I had thought back from the very beginning of when I'd known him. He tricked you up in the hills, didn't he? Dave, he will do it again. And you'll go straight ahead, as you always do, and—"

      "Not with Redmain," grunted Denver. "I fight him as dirty as he fights me. I expect nothin' and I give nothin'."

      She was silent a moment. Then: "Does Eve know—"

      "Lord forgive me, no! She thinks I'm dead."

      Very softly she added a question: "And how about me, David? Did it occur to you I might be hurt too?"

      "I reckon I've always hurt you, Lola."

      "The light of day," said she in a half whisper, "died out." But she shifted to gayety on the instant. "I must not carry on. Who wants to see Lola Monterey in tears? Only women who are loved can afford to show unhappiness. David, my dear, get well. You are scowling because you can't be on your feet, because you are not the old domineering David Denver."

      "Not sure," he mused. "A man does some powerful thinkin', flat on his back. The little round world don't look the same. Maybe I've been a fool. Maybe I've rode alone too long. It's lonely."

      "Then there is hope for you," said she, her red lips dimpling at the corners. "And perhaps some hope even for me." Leaning swiftly down she kissed him. "For old times, David. Be good."

      "You've got to forget I'm alive," he warned her. "You've got to hide your feelings."

      "What have I been an actress for all my life? Isn't that just what I always must do—seem sad when I'm so happy I want to cry out, and seem glad when there's nothing in me but an ache?"

      She went out, trailing grace and vivid color. And the room was again four shabby walls.

      Doc Williamson, returning in the late afternoon, found his patient locked in gray rebellion.

      "You've got to fix me up," said Denver. "What with?" was Williamson's sarcastic rejoinder.

      "What do I care? Use dope, or balin' wire, or an ax. But you've got to do it. You're a doctor, ain't you? Then get busy."

      "For that," promised Williamson, "I'm going to rub you so hard you'll yell like a dyin' Comanche."

      "Go ahead. Try and make me yell."

      "Wait'll I get some hot and cold water."

      Williamson was just rolling down his cuffs and looking rather more tired than usual when Lyle Bonnet returned. Bonnet grinned.

      "Did yuh give him the works, Doc? That sucker bed this mornin' and tried to walk."

      "Sure, all lunatics are like that," said Williamson.

      "What's the news?" was Denver's impatient interruption.

      "The most important item is," reflected Bonnet, "that Steve Steers has posted his intentions of gettin' Dann, and has challenged Dann to meet him any place, at any time."

      Denver swore in round, blistering phrases. "That damn idiot! He can't do it—Dann's too fast for him. We've got to stop it. Listen, you race a man over to Nightingale's. Use any excuse to get Steve here. I'll break the news. I didn't want to do it for another couple days, but we've got to haul him around, or he'll get shot cold. Hurry up."

      THE DUEL

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      Stinger Dann kicked the ashes of his small fire together and ground them out. Sunlight streamed into the glade, the odor of bacon and coffee lingered faintly on—and Red- main's right-hand gunman greeted his fourth day of lone hunting with an accumulated moroseness.

      There were two sides to Dann, neither of them any credit to him. In a pitched engagement, such as with the vigilantes and Denver, he let himself go with an unreasoning and tigerish fury, never considering safety, never slacking off in his desire to destroy and inflict pain. But in this present affair with Steers he was a different man altogether, stolidly patient enough to wait all year for his chance, and avoiding every false move. He might have forced the issue sooner, for he had seen Steve Steers two or three times from afar, and he recognized the fact that Steers was advertising his position and issuing a challenge. In each instance Dann recoiled from the setting, thinking a trap to exist, or considering the odds uneven. So he held back, waiting for the time when Steers, tired of the crossplay, would become reckless. Dann knew the occasion would arise. Because of that belief he kept to the high levels, out of the traveled areas, and changed locations each night. He had waited behind Shoshone Dome, watching the stage road. He had taken a covert position near the Copperhead bridge. Then, shifting his position, he had settled down near Nightingale's ranch. But of all places this was the least profitable. Steers was not using the ranch as a base. Therefore Dann moved south of Starlight and took to his present position, which was on a wooded butte commanding the end of Sundown Valley, the stage road, a half dozen forking trails, and the prairie.

      He had another definite reason for holding off. Not being a fool, he knew no man in Redmain's shoes