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

an hour ago, the other would have agreed with him. The man that shot his enemy from cover was a coyote—nothing less. But about that brown slip of a creature, who had for three minutes crossed his orbit, he wanted to reserve judgment.

      "I expect I haven't got a thing to tell you that would help any," he drawled, his eye full on that of the cowpuncher.

      Pesky threw away his cigarette. "All right. You're the doctor. I'll amble back, and report to the boss."

      He did so, with the result that a truce was arranged.

      Keller gave up his post of vantage, and came forward to surrender.

      Weaver met him with a hard, wintry eye. "Understand, I don't concede your innocence. You're my prisoner, and, by God, if I get any more proof of your guilt, you've got to stand the gaff."

      The other nodded quietly, meeting him eye to eye. Nor did his gaze fall, though the big cattleman was the most masterful man on the range. Keller was as easy and unperturbed as when he had been holding half a dozen irate men at bay.

      "No kick coming here. But, if it's just the same to you, I'll ask you to get the proof first and hang me afterward."

      "If you're homesteading, where's your place?"

      "Back in the hills, close to the headwaters of Salt Creek."

      "Huh! You'll make that good before I get through with you. And I want to tell you this, too, Mr. Keller. It doesn't make any hit with me that you're one of those thieving nesters. Moreover, there's another charge against you. In the Malpais country we hang rustlers. The boys claim to have you cinched. We'll see."

      "Who's that with Curly?" Pesky called out. "By Moses, it's a woman!"

      "It is the Sanderson girl," Weaver said in surprise.

      Keller swung round as if worked by a spring. The cow-puncher had told the truth. Curly's companion was not only a woman, but the woman—the same slim, tanned creature who had flashed past him on a wild race for safety, only a few minutes earlier.

      All eyes were focused upon her. Weaver waited for her to speak. Instead, Curly took up the word. He was smiling broadly, quite unaware of the mine he was firing.

      "I found this young lady up on the rock rim. Since we were rounding up, I thought I'd bring her down."

      "Good enough. Miss Sanderson, you've been where you could see if anyone passed into the cañon. How about it? Anybody go up in last ten minutes?"

      Phyllis moistened her dry lips and looked at the prisoner. "No," she answered reluctantly.

      Weaver wheeled on Keller, his eyes hard as jade. "That ties the rope round your neck, my man."

      "No," Phyllis cried. "He didn't do it."

      The cattleman's stone wall eyes were on her now.

      "Didn't? How do you know he didn't?"

      "Because I—I passed him here as I rode up a few minutes ago."

      "So you rode up a few minutes ago." Buck's lids narrowed. "And he was here, was he? Ever meet Mr. Keller before?"

      "Yes."

      "When? Speak up. Mind, no lying."

      This, struck the first spark of spirit from her. The deep eyes flashed. "I'm not in the habit of lying, sir."

      "Then answer my question."

      "I've met him at the office when he came for his mail. And the boys arrested him by mistake for a rustler. I saw him when they brought him in."

      "By mistake. How do you know it was by mistake?"

      "It was I accused him. But I did it because I was angry at him."

      "You accused an innocent man of rustling because you were sore at him. You're ce'tainly a pleasant young lady, Miss Sanderson."

      Her look flashed defiance at him, but she said nothing. In her slim erectness was a touch of feminine ferocity that gave him another idea.

      "So you just rode into the cañon, did you?"

      "Yes."

      "Meet up with anybody in the valley before you came in?"

      "No."

      His eyes were like steel drills. They never left her. "Quite sure?"

      "Yes."

      "What were you doing there?"

      She had no answer ready. Her wild look went round in search of a friend in this circle of enemies. They found him in the man who was a prisoner. His steadfast eyes told her to have no fear.

      "Did you hear what I said?" demanded Weaver.

      "I was—riding."

      "Alone?"

      The answer came so slowly that it was barely audible. "Yes."

      "Riding in Antelope Valley?"

      "Yes."

      "Let me see that gun." Weaver held out his hand for the rifle.

      Phyllis looked at him and tried to fight against his domination; then slowly she handed him the rifle. He broke and examined it. From the chamber he extracted an empty shell.

      Grim as a hanging judge, his look chiselled into her.

      "I expect the lead that was in here is in my arm. Isn't that right?"

      "I—I don't know."

      "Who does, then? Either you shot me or you know who did."

      Her gaze evaded his, but was forced at last to the meeting.

      "I did it."

      She was looking at him steadily now. Since the thing must be faced, she had braced herself to it. It was amazing what defiant pluck shone out of her soft eyes. This man of iron saw it, and, seeing, admired hugely the gameness that dwelt in her slim body. But none of his admiration showed in the hard, weather-beaten face.

      "So they make bushwhackers out of even the girls among your rustling, sheep-herding outfit!" he taunted.

      "My people are not rustlers. They have a right to be on earth, even if you don't want them there."

      "I'll show them what rights they have got in this part of the country before I get through with them. But that ain't the point now. What I want to know is how they came to send a girl to do their dirty killing for them."

      "They didn't send me. I just saw you, and—and shot on an impulse. Your men have clubbed and poisoned our sheep. They wounded one of our herders, and beat his brother when they caught him unarmed. They have done a hundred mean and brutal things. You are at the bottom of it all; and when I saw you riding there, looking like the lord of all the earth, I just——"

      "Well?"

      "Couldn't help—what I did."

      "You're a nicely brought up young woman—about as savage as the rest of your wolf breed," jeered Weaver.

      Yet he exulted in her—in the impulse of ferocity that had made her strike swiftly, regardless of risk to herself, at the man who had hounded and harried her kin to the feud that was now raging. Her shy, untamed beauty would not itself have attracted him; but in combination with her fierce courage it made to him an appeal which he conceded grudgingly.

      "What in Heaven's name brought you back after you had once got away?" Weaver asked.

      The girl looked at Keller without answering.

      "I reckon I can tell you that, seh," explained that young man. "She figured you would jump on me as the guilty party. It got on her conscience that she had left an innocent man to stand for it. I shouldn't wonder but she got to seeing a picture of you-all hanging me or shooting me up. So she came back to own up, if she saw you had caught me."

      Weaver nodded. "That's the way I figure it, too. Gamest thing I ever saw a woman do," he said in an undertone to Keller, with