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

      "That's right. I'm here, sure enough."

      "How long you been here?"

      "Been hanging round the place ever since my escape. You kept so close a watch I couldn't make my getaway. Some time the other side of noon I drifted in here, figuring some of you would drive me from cover by accident during the day if I stayed out in the chaparral. This room looked handy, so I made myself right at home and locked the door. I hate to shoot up a lady's boudoir, but looks like that's what I've done."

      "You durn fool! Who were you shooting at?" Phil asked contemptuously.

      But his father stepped forward, and with a certain austere dignity, more menacing than threats, took the words out of the mouth of his son.

      "I think I'll negotiate this, Phil."

      Buck explained the accident amiably, and relieved himself of the imputation of idiocy. "Serves a man right for smoking without permission in a lady's room," he admitted humorously.

      A man came up the stairway two steps at a time, panting as if he had been running. It was Keller.

      That the cattleman must have been discovered, he knew even before he saw him grinning round on a circle of armed foes. Weaver nodded recognition, and Larrabie understood it to mean also thanks for what he had done for him last night.

      "We'll talk this over downstairs," old Sanderson announced grimly.

      They went down into the big hall with the open fireplace, and the old sheepman waved his hand toward a chair.

      "Thanks. Think I'll take it standing," said Buck, an elbow on the mantel.

      He understood fully his precarious situation; he knew that these men had already condemned him to death. The quiet repression they imposed on themselves told him as much. But his gaze passed calmly from one to another, without the least shrinking. All of them save Keller and Phil were unusually tall men—as tall, almost, as he; but in breadth of shoulder and depth of chest he dwarfed them. They were grim, hard men, but not one so grim and iron as he when he chose.

      "Your life is forfeit, Buck Weaver," Sanderson said, without delay.

      "Made up your mind, have you?"

      "Your own riders made it up for us when they murdered poor Jesus Menendez."

      "A bad break, that—and me a prisoner here. Some of the boys had been out on the range a week. I reckon they didn't know I was the rat in your trap."

      "So much the worse for you."

      "Looks like," Weaver nodded. Then he added, almost carelessly: "I expect there wouldn't be any use mentioning the law to you? It's here to punish the man that shot Menendez."

      "Not a bit of use. You own the sheriff and half the juries in this county. Besides, we've got the man right here that is responsible for the killing of poor Jesus."

      "Oh! If you look at it that way, of course——"

      "That's the way to look at it I don't blame your riders any more than I blame the guns they fired. You did that killing."

      "Even though I was locked up on your ranch, more than twenty miles away."

      "That makes no difference."

      "Seems to me it makes some," suggested Keller, speaking for the first time. "His riders may have acted contrary to orders. He surely did not give any specific orders in this case."

      "His actions for months past have been orders enough," said Cuffs.

      "You'd better investigate before you take action," Larrabie urged.

      "We've done all the investigating we're going to do. This man has set himself up like a czar. I'm not going through the list of it all, but he has more than reached the limit months ago. He's passed it now. He's got to die, by gum," the old sheepman said, his eyes like frozen stars.

      "We all have to do that. Just when does my time come?" Weaver asked.

      "Now," cried Sanderson, with a bitter oath.

      Phil swallowed hard. He had grown white beneath the tan. The thing they were about to do seemed awful to him.

      "Good God! You're not going to murder him, are you?" protested Larrabie.

      "He murdered poor Jesus Menendez, didn't he?"

      "You mean you're going to shoot him down in cold blood?"

      "What's the matter with hanging?" Slim asked brutally.

      "No," spoke up Keller quickly.

      The old man nodded agreement. "No—they didn't hang Menendez."

      "Your sheep herder died—if he died at all, and we have no proof of it—with a gun in his hands," Larrabie said.

      "That's right," admitted Phil quickly. "That's right. We got to give him a chance."

      "What sort of a chance would you like to give him?" Sanderson asked of the boy.

      "Let him fight for his life. Give him a gun, and me one. We'll settle this for good and all."

      The eyes of the old Confederate gleamed, though he negatived the idea promptly.

      "That wouldn't be a square deal, Phil. He's our prisoner, and he has killed one of our men. It wouldn't be right for one of us to meet him on even terms."

      "Give me a gun, and I'll meet all of you!" cried Weaver, eyes gleaming.

      "By God, you're on! That's a sporting proposition," Sanderson retorted promptly. "Lets us out, too. I don't fancy killing in cold blood, myself. Of course we'll get you, but you'll have a run for your money first, by gum."

      "Maybe you'll get me, and maybe you won't. Is this little vendetta to be settled with revolvers, or rifles?"

      "Make it rifles," Phil suggested quickly.

      There was always a chance that, if the battle were fought at long range, the cattleman might reach the hill cañons in safety.

      Keller was helpless. He lived in a man's world, where each one fought for his own head and took his own fighting chance. Weaver had proposed an adjustment of the difficulty, and his enemies had accepted his offer. Even if the Sandersons would have tolerated further interference, the cattleman would not.

      Moreover Keller's hands were tied as to taking sides. He could not fight by the side of the owner of the Twin Star Ranch against the father and brother of Phyllis. There was only one thing to do, and that offered little hope. He slipped quietly from the room and from the house, swung to the back of a horse he found saddled in the place and galloped wildly down the road toward the schoolhouse.

      Phyllis had much influence over her father. If she could reach the scene in time, she might prevent the duel.

      His pony went up and down the hills as in a moving-picture play.

      Meanwhile terms of battle were arranged at once, without haggling on either side. Weaver was to have a repeating Winchester and a belt full of cartridges, the others such weapons as they chose. The duel was to start with two hundred and fifty yards separating the combatants, but this distance could be increased or diminished at will. Such cover as was to be found might be used.

      "Whatever's right suits me," the cattleman said. "I can't say more than that you are doing handsomely by me. I reckon I'll make that declaration to some of your help, if you don't mind."

      The horse wrangler and the Mexican waiter were sent for, and to them the owner of the place explained what was about to occur. Their eyes stuck out, and their chins dropped, but neither of the two had anything to say.

      "We're telling you boys so you may know it's all right. I proposed this thing. If I'm shot, nobody is to blame but myself. Understand?" Weaver drove the idea home.

      The wrangler got out an automatic "Sure," and Manuel an amazed "Si, senor," upon which they were promptly retired from the scene.

      Having prepared and tested their