The Complete Novels of Ernest Haycox. Ernest Haycox

his own fluid in this country, stranger. Ain't you knowin' the ways? Too many dam' pilgrims clutterin' the Territory. Git down—come to the fire."

      San Saba dismounted. Lispenard dropped clumsily to the ground and walked abreast the ex-foreman. The prospectors stood on the edge of light, a pair of burly creatures full bearded and gimlet eyed. San Saba spread his hands over the flame points. "Gits cold almighty sudden after sundown. No, suh, we ain't pilgrims. Texans, suh. My pardner is a-lookin' for a man this way. Got a impo'tant letter. Blondy, yo' got that letter in yo' breeches pocket, ain't yo'?"

      The Blond Giant stood uncertainly in his tracks. What was San Saba driving at now? He licked his lips, feeling the weight of the man's little red eyes. And of a sudden he understood San Saba was giving him a chance to drop his arms nearer his holster. He obeyed. San Saba muttered "now" in a husky, remote voice. Half blind, Lispenard clawed for his weapon. The two figures of the miners seemed to blur and weave aside. A carbine flew up in his face. There was a shot, and he felt his own kicking back in his hands, time and again. And still this scene was but a blur, and he was sick at his stomach, and the blood pounded in his head. Somebody still fired, but the miners had disappeared from his vision.

      San Saba's brittle voice warned him. "That's enough. Yo' killed him. Pull up—don't he'p none to scatter bullets in a co'pse."

      Lispenard dropped his gun, seeing one of the miners aprawled at his feet, face downward and dead. He stumbled around the fire trying to find something to lean against. But San Saba was bent over the men, and presently the ex-foreman stood up, grimly triumphant. "No prospector comes from Deadwood lessen he totes a full poke. Here's yo' poke. Now, come away. We ride all night."

      Lispenard's mind grew clearer. The poke weighed considerable. He slipped it into his coat pocket and groped back toward his horse. If that was all to killing a man—San Saba already had passed beyond, and Lispenard spurred in pursuit.

      "I'd protected yo' case it was nes'arry," murmured San Saba. "But yo' did well. First fight is allus blind. Nex' time keep yo' wits. Aim straight an' don' use more'n one bullet. We ride fo' Deadwood."

      "What was the idea of this?" muttered Lispenard. "Cold murder, man! We could have done it without that."

      "Sho'. I told you I'd teach you tricks. First kill is allus hardest. I picked miners for yo' to try on. Miner's shoot pritty poor."

      Lispenard was stone sober and chilled to the bone. "Some day, my friend, I'll have to kill you. By God, I will have to do it or be killed myself."

      San Saba's dry chuckle reached him. "Mebbe—when yo' get too big fo' me. Meanwhile, we got a stake, and Deadwood is full o' chances. Fifty-fifty."

      "See you don't forget that," growled Lispenard.

      "We'll come back to Mister Gillette later," murmured San Saba. "Prick that pony."

      XI. THE RAID

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      There was a windstorm brewing in the south; Tom Gillette, poised on a ridge, saw the gray screen of sand in the distance. Presently it would be on him, beating against him like so many needles, choking the wind down his throat. Reluctantly he turned ranchward; for a week the far edge of his daily ride had brought him to this high point separating his range from that of the Wyatts. And here he tarried, not sure why he waited, yet always looking eastward for a telltale fluffing of dust against the sky and the view of Lorena's lithe body swaying in the saddle like that of an Indian. She had formerly kept a casual rendezvous with him, and the sight of her clear, grave face had always made the day a little more pleasant, even though she had the trick of puzzling him with odd emotions now and then mirrored in her black eyes. But for a week, since the fight with Lispenard she had forsaken this ridge; and no news came from the Wyatt ranch.

      He travelled back, uneasy and dissatisfied. In the distance he caught a glint of the river, a thin trickle above the porous sands; alkali dust stung his throat, the blazing, blistering sun beat against the dun earth until the eye wearied of the sight The prairie quivered under shimmering heat waves; southwest the dark folds of the Black Hills reared against the brazen sky. Over there in the heart of the hills men dug yellow metal and a town was in the full tide of a boom.

      News came slowly to his section of the territory; he heard that all the Texans along the river were gone, save Wyatt. According to the P.R.N. resident agent Wyatt likewise had sold, but Tom Gillette only half believed the tale. Wyatt had been too anxious to acquire that strip, and Lorena, who swayed her father to some extent, bucked the idea of moving. Why was it she kept away from him? Whatever she thought of Christine Ballard and his relations with the girl was wrong. He wanted to tell her she was wrong.

      "What difference does it make?" he muttered. "But couldn't she see for herself there's nothing between Kit and me?"

      It left him irritable. He was a man; he didn't understand women, and he knew he never would be able to understand them. They muddied up the current of life, they cut across the established order of things, they acted out of impulse—or if it were not impulse then it was some obscure motive he couldn't grasp. Kit always had been elusive and enigmatic, but he thought Lorena moved more straightforwardly, that she had no contradictions in her nature. He had thought so until the fight. And then, when her cool hand slid over his face and those queer muffled words reached him he knew all women were essentially alike.

      The van of the windstorm swept across the prairie, sage stalks rolling along before. "Mosey," said Gillette, and raised his bandana. At the moment of action he saw scuffed hoof prints on the ground, and he checked his horse, bending over to study them. They came out of the northeast and struck directly into his range. Slightly stale hoof prints. In another ten minutes the wind would erase them completely. Tom touched his spurs, and the pony bunched to a gallop. That made the second time he had found strange spoor on his territory; Circle G men didn't often travel in pairs, and they didn't cover this end of the range.

      "Mosey!" The wind bore down of a sudden, and the word was whipped out of his mouth. There was a sound like canvas slatting; the perspective of the land changed, the horizon was wiped out. A gray driving pall slanted past him, the spraying sand sheered against his neck. Breathing became more difficult.

      "Mosey!"

      The horse raced on, pushed by the storm; up and down the rolling prairie. A gray row of skeletons marched through the unnatural dusk, and he was in the heaven of his home buildings. He left the pony in a shed and himself quartered to the house. Christine Ballard stood in the middle of the room, one hand pressed against her breast, white of face. "What is it, Tom?"

      He lowered his bandana and shook out the sand. "Dry storm. Nothing to get worried about."

      She had been reading a book. One finger marked the page. Stirred by fretfulness, she threw it across the room and sank into a chair. She had a peculiar manner of drawing herself together, of tucking her legs beneath her; and thus she sat, chin cupped, staring at Gillette while the shadows weaved across her expressive eyes. Gillette loaded his pipe and smoked, sitting on the table.

      "And this is your country, Tom?" Her slim shoulders rose. "Well, a man can find pleasure in odd places. I was frightened out of my mind until you came in. It's too raw, it's ungenerous. There's no sport to it. It's cruel. Listen to that wind—do you hear what it says, Tom?" Suddenly she threw back her head and the white triangle of her throat gleamed; one fist was clenched. Tom Gillette marked that picture well, for there was beauty in it. And Christine's eyes were sombre, a rare mood for this girl who seldom let herself be touched by too deep an emotion. "It's telling me I'm small, I'm nothing, and that I can be crushed. Hear it?"

      Gillette nodded. "It's been in my ears all my life, except the time I spent East. You bet. But what's wrong with knowin' yourself to be a humble thing, walkin' under a canopy that's got no corners and no ceilin'?"

      Her answer was almost aggressive. "I hate to be reminded of it. I like to think I amount to something."

      "Sho'. In the East folks lose sight of the truth. Inside a house they're