The Complete Novels of Ernest Haycox. Ernest Haycox

anybody needed. The name meant nothing to Lorena, and she shrugged her shoulders, dismissing the matter. There were more important things to think about than some remote notable. The proprietor, noting her professed ignorance, was mildly scandalized.

      "Great snakes, girl, Billy Costaine's a U. S. Senator. That breed o' cat don't stray into the hills very often. More than that, he happens to be chairman of the public lands committee, and he can sure help Deadwood. You bet we'll show him the sights. When you comin' back to work?"

      She didn't know when, if ever, and told him as much. In the kitchen she filled her basket, chatted awhile with the cook, and reached the street just as the band struck up a tune; the harmony was a little off, but the volume was sufficient to prick the nerves of every horse on the street, and for a few moments there was an informal rodeo and bucking contest. Guns began to crack, men swept along the way yelling and down at the far end a party rode slowly into the town as if on parade. Lorena craned her neck to watch; an arm touched her, and an absymally deep and mournful voice said thrice over:

      "Hey, ma'am—ma'am—doggonit, ma'am!"

      It was Quagmire, his gloom-ridden, wrinkled face as near a smile as it ever came. He was travel strained, he was gaunt and he looked to her almost with appeal. "Doggonit, ma'am, it's shore elevatin' to see yo'. Deadwood—shucks, what a town. I been here six mortal days, stepped on, pushed aside, and about stranglin' fer fresh air. Ma'am, what you livin' in sech a hog- waller for?"

      "Why, Quagmire! Oh, but I'm glad to see you! Come back here." She pulled him toward the bulding walls, removed from the crowd. "Are you looking for Tom?"

      "I'll announce it far an' wide I am," he muttered. "About give up hope, too."

      "He's up at my cabin, Quagmire. Sixteen days ago he was shot and nearly killed. He's just able to move about now."

      Quagmire studied her long and earnestly. Something happened inside him. "Who did it—San Saba?"

      She nodded. "And several other men with him—Hazel's gang. I've been hiding him. If they knew where he was they'd kill him surely. You've come just at the right time. He'll be riding some of these days, as weak as he is. And they'll try to get him again."

      He turned away, muttering to himself. When he swung about again his eyes were tinged with red. "Sorrer is the rule in this here universe, but it ain't no reason why bad luck should roost on a Gillette forever. Too much has happened to that boy. Now, by Judas, I'll play a stack in this. Lead the way."

      Horsemen swept past, the band flared. Lorena looked out directly upon the distinguished visitor to Deadwood, Senator William Costaine. The Senator was a big man with an angular framework and the face of a bloodhound. There was no fellowship in the steel-tinted eyes that swept the crowd, no leaven of humour on the gray fighter's face. Here was a man who had been through the mill, who had emerged at the top of his profession with few illusions and no fear. It looked as if he was thinking, "What's the joker behind this celebration?" yet he was saved from downright cynicism by an air of intense honesty. Lorena, of course, was not aware of his reputation; but back in Washington he was the scourge of the lobbyists. He hunted them with the same ruthless pleasure he would have hunted predatory animals. His cold, legalistic brain infallibly sought for the hidden clauses, the quietly inserted riders; and when he spoke in the Senate men listened, even while some of them were being stripped of their reputations. He worked with nobody, he was a hater of compromise; and therefore the Senator was almost entirely a destructive force. But because of that very caustic quality he was a valued and respected servant.

      Quagmire shook his head. "Reckon he'd be a bad man to meet out on the road. Le' go, ma'm."

      As the two of them went up the slope, Quagmire leading his horse, Lorena told him all she knew of the encounter. She even mentioned her meeting with Lispenard. Quagmire grew more and more taciturn. "I reckon Tom's got yo' to thank for bein' alive," he muttered. The girl said nothing, but the puncher saw her face and nodded to himself sagely. "Yeah, I see." And still he seemed wrapped in despair until they left the main trail and progressed along the smaller pathway. The cabin appeared between the pines. Tom Gillette stood in the doorway, sunning himself. The two men came face to face, and when Lorena saw how they looked at each other and struggled to maintain a grave and casual expression, a lump rose in her throat.

      "Well, Quagmire."

      "Yeah, Tom."

      "Ranch burn up or did you fire yourself?"

      "Figgered I'd give m'self a vacation an' go see the flesh- pots. What's the use o' bein' jef if yo' can't cut a caper? Been engaged in a little lead traffic, fella?"

      "Some. Well, get it off your chest."

      "Get what off?" mumbled Quagmire defensively. "Nothin' on it but a dirty shirt."

      Tom shook his head and waited. Quagmire turned to the girl. "Ain't he a gloomy fool? Why should I have bad news? Ain't we got enough? An' if I got bad news why can't it wait? Anyhow, they's lots o' land in Dakota even if we been told to move from present headquarters. Never did think much of our range—let Grist an' his Eastern bosses have it if they want it so cussed bad. Of course, a writ o' eviction has got to be obeyed, but mebbe they's ways to flank it. Me, I allus thought we'd filed on the water we said we filed on, but if they's been a mistake made in figgers—like they claim—why, then whose fault is it, the surveyor's, ours, or the land agent's? I'm askin'."

      "Spoken like a lawyer," muttered Tom gravely. "Come in and find a chair. Now that you're empty you might float away."

      "Wait," interrupted the girl. "What are you telling us, Quagmire? That Tom is being forced off his ranch?"

      "Yeah," drawled Quagmire.

      "Come inside," repeated Tom. The three of them went into the house. Gillette sat on the bunk and rolled himself a cigarette, never saying a word, but the girl observed a cloud passing across his eyes, and she felt infinitely sorry for him.

      "But how can they do that?" she demanded. "Haven't you filed on it? How can they take it away from you?"

      "Which is what I'm wanting to know," said Gillette.

      Quagmire raised his two hands, palms up. "What I sorter gathered was they was a mistake in figgers, and the water yo' filed on ain't the water you're roostin' on."

      "I've heard of such jugglin' before," murmured Tom. "Well, Grist said he'd get me, one way or another. Rustlin' didn't work, so he's turned to another kind of crookedness."

      "Yo' better hit home right off," said Quagmire. "The marshal said he'd wait till yo' returned, but mebbe that Grist fella can force the transaction."

      "I'll have to scotch it," agreed Gillette.

      "Yes, but you can't travel for another week, Tom," objected Lorena. "You're not fit."

      "An', by the way," put in Quagmire with marked casualness, "this Grist hombre's also got a warrant agin yo' fo' killin' his range boss."

      Gillette swung his head. That seemed to touch him more than anything else. "The man's ridin' for a fall, Quagmire! By Judas, he's pressin' too far. I'll fight that outfit until something breaks—and there's gospel."

      The girl, meanwhile, had gone about getting a meal. But in the midst of this chore she had a sudden idea, and she abandoned everything and entered the discussion again. "Tom, are you sure the P.R.N. is behind all this?"

      "Absolutely sure."

      "Well, isn't all this land in the hands of the government—doesn't the government have control of the disposal of it?"

      "That's right, too."

      She stood in the doorway, looking down the trail. "I have heard my father say some queer things about the P.R.N: If they are crooked, why doesn't the government stop them?"

      "Because it's a long way to Washington," said Gillette. "The people behind the P.R.N. are pretty smart—and evidently they've got plenty of influence. Money will go a long way, Lorena."

      "It isn't right," she murmured. "I don't believe the government would allow it."

      Quagmire