The Complete Novels of Ernest Haycox. Ernest Haycox

upon fording the river, travelled in a direct line toward the most rugged piece of land within five miles as if making for a place well known to him. But once lost in the weblike tangle of pockets and ridges, he proceeded with an unusual amount of caution; and when the echo of a shot floated faintly over his shoulder from the rear he instinctively ducked. Then he turned about, reached a commanding summit, and dismounted. Flat on the ground he shaded his eyes against the earth's glare and waited.

      He had not long to wait. Presently he made out a figure spurring toward him, travelling as fast as horse-flesh would allow. From time to time the man fell below a ridge and momentarily was out of sight, each time reappearing at a different corner of the compass. Only a man in flight, or a man extraordinarily cagey would act like that. The Blond Giant traced him for a good twenty minutes, or until the tall and lank body had come within hailing distance. And then, though not without a certain reluctance of movement and a reassuring pat on the butt of his gun, he crawled to his knees.

      If the meeting was to take place it must be before San Saba got within good revolver range. Up stood Lispenard, one arm hailing the renegade ex-foreman.

      San Saba's horse sat abruptly on its haunches. San Saba's thin, dust-powdered face screwed into a series of ragged lines. He made no particular move toward his gun, but his voice, sharp as the edge of a skinning knife, slit across the interval. "Well?"

      "Oh, drop that," muttered Lispenard. "Don't you know a friend when you see one?"

      The ex-foreman thought on this for a spell, his free arm akimbo. Lispenard had never before realized just how searching and cruel one man's glance could be. It touched his nerves.

      "How'd yo' know I'd be here?" demanded San Saba.

      Lispenard grinned, though his lips were dry and slightly trembling. "Trailed you for a week. Didn't catch wind of me? Well, then, I guess I'm not so poor at this sort of thing. Come on, be neighbourly. I'm not out for your hide. You haven't taken any of my toys."

      For all his treachery, San Saba had grit in his make-up, or perhaps he read Lispenard well enough to understand. At any rate, he walked his horse to the top of the ridge and a little down the farther side before dismounting. Even then he was careless of the other's presence, his first attention being spent on the skyline eastward. His hard face relaxed, he squatted and rolled a brown- paper cigarette, meanwhile studying this unexpected visitor.

      "Well?"

      "Well," mimicked Lispenard. "Hell, San Saba, but you're a hard fellow to locate. Anyhow, you didn't catch on I was ramblin' across your trail."

      "Don't fool yo'self," murmured San Saba.

      Lispenard's satisfaction was destroyed. It made him irritable, a little sullen. "That being so, why didn't you meet up with me?"

      "Wanted to see what yo' game was."

      "Dam' queer you couldn't trust me," grumbled Lispenard.

      "Do—so long as yo' near at hand. Remember what I once said in Ogallala?"

      "Something—but I was too blessed drunk to catch it. Explain."

      San Saba was not rash with his words. It took time to reach down and bring out the phrase that at once illumined his own character and his opinion of the other man's. "Said we was both rascals an' that it paid rascals to stick together."

      Lispenard grinned. "Admirable powers of perception—and deception."

      "Both good items to have," was San Saba's laconic answer. "How'd yo' know I was still in the country?"

      It was Lispenard's turn to be shrewd. "There's something sticking in your craw, my boy. And I thought you'd hang around till you swallowed it."

      San Saba's little red eyes were partially curtained behind a screen of cigarette smoke, but the Blond Giant was startled to see a film of colour moving across those pupils. The cigarette suffered destruction; the foreman sighed. "Yo' not such a poor hand, yo'self, friend. We wouldn't make a bad pair."

      "I've thought about that. This sedentary life palls on me. Not to mention the puritanical atmosphere surrounding the Circle G. I had enough of that sort of thing back East. Don't appreciate it out here. My forte is something different."

      "Big words," mused San Saba.

      "When are you pulling freight?"

      "Direct questions ain't stylish," was the man's dry rejoinder.

      "Oh, come out of it!" grumbled Lispenard. "If I'm going to trail with you..."

      He felt again the weight of that hard, unfriendly glance. The light of day was directly in San Saba's eyes, yet it was queer how little of that light reflected back from the ex-foreman's face. Something cold and deadly lay coiled behind the brittle, impassive features; Lispenard had a sudden doubt. The foreman looked at the Eastern horizon once more; he seemed to be calculating, his nutlike head bent forward. He rose.

      "I'll wait here fo' yo', friend. When yo' come we'll go. They's still a bone to pick, understan'? But it can wait. Ain't no hurry. It's a long life."

      "Bully. United we stand—divided we doubt. You'll be wanting grub, old-timer. Hiding in the hills on an empty belly is a cursed poor vacation."

      San Saba permitted the wisp of a smile to pass his colourless lips. "Yo' learn fast, friend. I give yo' credit Where'll yo' get it?"

      "I'll drop into Nelson in the morning and load up. See you here to-morrow at dark. Providing you're not afraid of my bringing the posse."

      San Saba rose. "It's a bet. As to the posse..." He raised and lowered his thin shoulders, and Lispenard had an uncomfortable sensation of fitting too snugly with the man's purposes. There was now and then the hint of death about this character. It popped out, unsuspected, in those catlike gestures, in the occasional sidewise flashes of eye. He dismissed the thought. He outweighed San Saba a full fifty pounds; he had learned something of the rough and tumble himself. Let San Saba walk the narrow path with him. He, too, had his plans. San Saba spoke again. "Then we pull freight, eh, friend?"

      "Not to-morrow. Give me a couple more days."

      "She's a pretty wench," ventured the ex-foreman.

      "Damn your sly tongue, she is," grunted Lispenard. He extended his arm. "Bargain signed, sealed, and notaried." San Saba's hand was clammy, there was no pressure to the grip. Lispenard felt the reservations in that bargain, but he dismissed his fears, got to his horse, and rode off, flinging back a casual arm. Beyond sight of the renegade he wiped a drop of sweat from his temple and grinned.

      "By the Lord, I'll have my cake and I'll eat it too. That gentleman will be good to me. I can be sly as well. And he's an old enough head to teach me a few things."

      He crossed the ford and unsaddled, throwing the horse into a corral. And when he came inside the door of the main cabin and saw the girl he threw up both arms in pleased surprise.

      "Kit Ballard—of all the beautiful happenings!"

      She bad a brilliant smile for him as he crossed the room and took both her arms. "Still the same gallant Apollo," said she gaily. And then, seeing how quiet Tom had turned, she disengaged her hands. "How like the old times. If we only had another lady we might put on one of those cotillions."

      Lispenard threw his hat across the room. "There is another, by George! Thomas, I command you to ride over and get the prairie beauty."

      Christine Ballard's smile tightened, though it was wholly imperceptible to Tom. She threw a swift glance at Lispenard—a glance that he perfectly understood—and murmured:

      "Yes? Tell us about her, Tom. You have been keeping something from me."

      IX. CONFLICT

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      Tom roused himself from a study; and though he was still a little under the spell of this girl's brilliant, elusive beauty,