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

One of his hands was under the pillow of the cot upon which he sat. His fingers circled the butt of a revolver he had found there, where one of the riders had chanced to leave it that morning.

      "I'm going to turn you loose to go home to the hills," Weaver told him.

      "And my sister?"

      "She stays here."

      "Then so do I."

      "That's up to you. There's no law against camping on the plains—that is, out of range of the Twin Star."

      "What are you going to do with her?" the boy demanded ominously.

      "If you ask no questions, I'll tell you no lies."

      "You'll let her go home with me—that's what you'll do," cried Phil.

      "I reckon not. You've got a license to feel lucky you're going yourself."

      "By God, I say you shall!"

      The cattleman's eyes took on their stony, snake-like look. His hand did not move by so much as an inch toward the scabbarded revolver at his side.

      "All right. Come a-shooting. I see you've got a gun under that pillow."

      The weapon leaped into sight. "You're right I have! I'll drill you full of holes as soon as wink."

      Weaver laughed contemptuously. "Begin pumping, son."

      "I'm going to take my sister home with me. You'll give orders to your men to that effect."

      "Guess again."

      "I tell you I'll shoot your hide full of holes if you don't!" cried the excited boy.

      "Oh, no, you won't."

      Buck Weaver was flirting with death, and he knew it. The very breath of it fanned his cheek. During that moment he lived gloriously; for he was a man who revelled in his sensations. He laughed into the very muzzle of the six-shooter that covered him.

      "Quit your play acting, boy," he jeered.

      "I give you one more chance before I blow out your brains."

      The cattleman put his unwounded hand into his trousers pocket and lounged forward, thrusting his smiling face against the cold rim of the blue barrel.

      "I reckon you'll scatter proper what few brains I've got."

      With a curse, the boy flung the weapon down on the bed. He could not possibly kill a man so willing as this. To draw guns with him, and chance the issue, would have suited young Sanderson exactly. But this way would be no less than murder.

      "You devil!" he cried, with a boyish sob.

      Weaver picked up the revolver, and examined it. "Mighty careless of Ned to leave it lying around this way," he commented absently, as if unaware of the other's rage. "You never can tell when a gun is going to get into the wrong hands."

      "What are you letting me go for? You've got a reason. What is it?" Phil demanded.

      Weaver looked at him through narrowed, daredevil eyes. "The ransom price has been paid," he explained.

      "Paid! Who paid it?"

      "Miss Phyllis Sanderson."

      "Phyllis?" repeated the boy incredulously. "But she had no money."

      "Did I say she paid it in money?"

      "What do you mean?"

      "She asked me to set you free. I named my price, and she agreed."

      "What was your price?" the boy asked hoarsely.

      "A kiss."

      At that, Phil struck him full in the sardonic, mocking face. Blood crimsoned the lips that had been crushed against the strong, white teeth.

      "Again," said Weaver.

      The brown fist went back and shot forward like a piston rod. This time it left an ugly gash over the cheek bone.

      "Much obliged. Once more."

      The young man balanced himself carefully, and struck hard and true between the eyes.

      A third, a fourth, and a fifth time Phil lashed out at the disfigured, grinning face.

      "Let's make it an even half dozen," the cattleman suggested.

      But Phil had had enough of it. This was too much like butchery. His passion had spent itself. He struck, but with no force behind the blow.

      Weaver went to the washstand, dashed some water on his face, and pressed a towel against the raw wounds. He flung the red-soaked towel aside just as Curly cantered up on Sanderson's horse. The cow-puncher stared at his boss in amazement, opened his lips to speak, and thought better of it. He looked at Phil, whose knuckles were badly barked and bleeding.

      Curly had seen his master marked up before, but on such occasions the other man was a sight for the gods to wonder at. Now Weaver was the spectacle, and the other was untouched. In view of Buck's reputation as a rough-and-tumble fighter, this seemed no less than a miracle. Curly departed with the wonder unexplained, for Weaver dismissed him with a nod.

      "Like to see your sister before you go?" the cattleman asked curtly of Phil, over his shoulder.

      "Yes."

      Buck led the way across the plaza to the house, and clapped his hands in the hall. Josephine answered the summons.

      "Tell Miss Sanderson that her brother would like to see her."

      The woman vanished up the stairway, and the two men waited in silence. Presently Phyllis stood in the door. Her eyes ignored Weaver, and were only for her brother. Her first glance told her that all was well so far as he was concerned, even though it also let her know that the boy was anxious.

      "Phil!" she breathed.

      "So you bought my freedom for me, did you?" the boy said, his voice trembling.

      Phyllis answered in the clearest of low voices. "Yes. Did he tell you?"

      "You oughtn't to have done it. I'll have no such bargains made. Understand that!" cried her brother, emotion in his high tones.

      "I couldn't help it, Phil. I did it for the best. You don't know."

      "I know that you're to keep out of this. I'll fight my own battles. In our family the girls don't sell kisses. Remember that."

      Phyl hung her head. She felt herself disgraced, but she knew that she would do it again in like circumstances.

      Weaver broke in roughly: "You young fool! She's worth a dozen of you, who haven't sense enough to sabe her kind."

      The girl glanced at him involuntarily. At sight of his swollen and beaten face, she started. Her gaze clung to him, eyes wild and fluttering with apprehension.

      "I've been taking a massage treatment," he explained.

      Phyllis looked at her brother, then back at the ranchman. The thing was beyond comprehension. Ten minutes ago, this ferocious Hercules had left her, sound and unscratched. Now he returned with a face beaten and almost beyond recognition from bloodstains.

      "What—what is it?" The appeal was to her brother.

      "He let me beat him," Phil explained.

      "Let you beat him! Why?"

      "I don't know."

      What the boy said was true, yet it was something less than the truth. He was dimly aware that this man knew himself to have violated the code, and that he had submitted to punishment because of the violation.

      "Tell me," Phyllis commanded.

      Phil told her in three sentences. She looked at Weaver with eyes that saw him in a new light. He still sneered, but behind the mask she got for the first time a glimpse of another man. Only dimly she divined him; but what she visioned was half devil and half hero, capable of things great as well as of deeds despicable.

      "I'm