The Best Western Novels of William MacLeod Raine. William MacLeod Raine

he was shaking the tobacco from the pouch to the paper, Slim spoke. "The boys ought all to be here in another hour, Budd. After that, it won't take us long."

      "Not long," the fat man answered uneasily.

      There was a silence. Slim broke it. "We got to do it, o' course."

      "Looks like. Got to make an example. No peace on the range till we do."

      "I hate like sin to, Budd. He's so damn game."

      "Me, too. But we got to. No two ways about it."

      "I reckon. Brill says so. But I wish the cuss had a chanct to fight for his life."

      They moved off together in troubled silence, Budd's cigarette glowing red in the darkness. Behind them they left a girl shocked and rigid. They were going to lynch him! She knew it as certainly as if she had been told it in set words. Her blood grew cold, and she shivered. While the confused horror of it raced through her brain, she noticed subconsciously that her fingers on the sill were trembling violently.

      What could she do? She was only a girl. These men deferred to her in the trivial pleasantries, but she knew they would go their grim way no matter how she pleaded. And it would be her fault. She had betrayed the rustler to them. It would be the same as if she had murdered him. He had known while she was tending his wounds that she had delivered him to death, and he had not even reproached her.

      Courage flowed back to her heart. She would save him if it were possible. It must be by strategy if at all. But how? For of course he was guarded.

      She stepped out into the corridor. All was dark there. She tiptoed along it to the guest room, and found the door unlocked. Nobody was inside. She canvassed in her mind the possibilities. They might have him outdoors or in the men's bunk house with them under a guard, or they might have locked him up somewhere until the arrival of the others. If the latter, it must be in the store, since that was the only safe place under lock and key.

      Phyllis slipped out of the back door into the darkness, and skirted the house at a distance. There were lights in the bunk house of the ranch riders, and through the window she could see a group gathered. Creeping close to the window, she looked in. Their prisoner was not with them. In front of the store two men were seated in the darkness. She was almost upon them before she saw them. Each of them carried a rifle.

      "Hello! Who's that?" one of them cried sharply.

      It was Tom Dixon.

      Phyllis came forward and spoke. "That you, Tom? I suppose you are guarding the prisoner."

      "Yep. Can't you sleep, Phyl?" He walked a dozen yards with her.

      "I couldn't, but I see you're keeping watch, all right. I probably can now. I suppose I was nervous."

      "No wonder. But you may sleep, all right. He won't trouble you any. I'll guarantee that," he promised largely. "Oh, Phyl!"

      She had turned to go, but she stopped at his call. "Well?"

      "Don't you be mad at me. I was only fooling the other day. Course I hadn't ought to have got gay. But a fellow makes a break once in a while."

      Under the stress of her deeper anxiety she had forgotten all about her tiff with him. It had seemed important at the time, but since then Tom and his affairs had been relegated to second place in her mind. He was only a boy, full of the vanity that was a part of him. Somehow, her anger against him was all burnt out.

      "If you never will again, Tom," she conceded.

      "I'll be good," he smiled, meaning that he would be good as long as he must.

      "All right," she said, without much enthusiasm.

      She left him and passed into the house without haste. But once inside she fairly flew to Phil's room. On a nail near the head of his bed hung a key. She took this, descended to the kitchen, and from there noiselessly down the stairway to the cellar. She groped her way without a light along the adobe wall till she came to a door which was unlocked. This opened into another part of the cellar, used as a room for storing supplies needed in their trade. Past barrels and boxes she went to another stairway and breathlessly ascended it. At the top of eight or nine steps a door barred progress. Very carefully she found the keyhole, fitted in the key, and by infinitesimal degrees unlocked the door.

      The night seemed alive with the noise of her movements. Now the door creaked as it swung open before her. She waited, heart beating like a trip hammer, and stared into the blackness of the store.

      "Who is it?" a voice asked in a low tone.

      "It's me, Phyl Sanderson. Are you alone?" she whispered.

      "Yes. Tied to a chair. Guards are just outside."

      She went toward him softly with hands outstretched in the darkness, and presently her fingers touched his face. They travelled downward till they found the ropes which bound him. For a moment she fumbled at the knots before she remembered a swifter way.

      "Wait," she breathed, and stole back of the counter to the case where pocketknives were kept.

      Finding one, she ran to him and hacked at the rope till he was free.

      He rose and stretched his cramped limbs.

      "This way." Phyllis took him by the hand, and led him to the stairs. Together they descended, after she had locked the door. Another minute, and they stood in the kitchen, still hand in hand.

      The girl released herself. "You will find Slim's horse tied to the fence of the corral. When you reach it, ride for your life," she said.

      "Why have you saved me after you betrayed me?" he demanded.

      "I save you because I did betray you. I couldn't have your blood on my head. Now, go."

      "Not till I know why you betrayed me."

      "You can ask that." Her indignation gathered and broke. "Because you are what you are. Because I know what you told Jim Yeager this afternoon. Why don't you go?"

      "What did I tell Yeager? About the knife, you mean?"

      "You tried to lay it on Phil to save yourself."

      "Did Yeager tell you that?"

      "No, but I know it," She pushed him toward the door. "Go, while there is still a chance."

      "I'm not going—not yet. Not till you promise to ask Yeager what I said."

      A footstep sounded, and the door opened. The intruder stopped, his hand still on the handle, aware that there were others in the room.

      "Who is it?" Phyllis breathed, stricken almost dumb with terror.

      "It's Slim. Hope I ain't buttin' in, Phyllie."

      Unconsciously he had given her the cue she needed.

      "Well, you are." She laughed nervously, as might a lover caught unexpectedly. "It's—it's Phil," she pretended to pretend.

      "Oh, it's Phil." Slim laughed in kindly derision, and declared before he went out: "I expect you would spell his name B-r-i-double l. Don't forget to invite me to the wedding, Phyllie. Meanwhile I'll be mum as a clam till you say the word."

      With which he jingled away. The door was scarce closed before the girl turned on Keller.

      "There! You see. They may catch you any moment."

      "Will you ask Yeager?"

      "Yes, if you'll go."

      "All right. I'll go."

      Still he did not leave. The magic of this slim girl had swept him from his feet. In imagination he still felt the touch of her warm fingers, soft as a caress, the thrill of her hair as it had brushed his cheek when she had stooped over him. The drag of sex was upon him and had set him trembling strangely.

      "Why don't you go?" she cried softly.

      He snatched himself away.

      But before he had reached the door he came back in two strides. Startled