Wyoming. William MacLeod Raine

y'u'll make trouble for yourself,” he said quietly.

      “Why?”

      “I don't know myself just why.” He hesitated before adding: “They say him and Bannister is thicker than they'd ought to be. It's a cinch that he's in cahoots somehow with that Shoshone bunch of bad men.”

      “But—why, that's ridiculous. Only this morning he was trying to kill Bannister himself.”

      “That's what I don't just savvy. There's a whole lot about that business I don't get next to. I guess Bannister is at the head of them. Everybody seems agreed about that. But the whole thing is a tangle of contradiction to me. I've milled it over a heap in my mind, too.”

      “What are some of the contradictions?”

      “Well, here's one right off the bat, as we used to say back in the States. Bannister is a great musician, they claim; fine singer, and all that. Now I happen to know he can't sing any more than a bellowing yearling.”

      “How do you know?” she asked, her eyes shining with interest.

      “Because I heard him try it. 'Twas one day last summer when I was out cutting trail of a bunch of strays down by Dead Cow Creek. The day was hot, and I lay down behind a cottonwood and dropped off to sleep. When I awakened it didn't take me longer'n an hour to discover what had woke me. Somebody on the other side of the creek was trying to sing. It was ce'tainly the limit. Pretty soon he come out of the brush and I seen it was Bannister.”

      “You're sure it was Bannister?”

      “If seeing is believing, I'm sure.”

      “And was his singing really so bad?”

      “I'd hate ever to hear worse.”

      “Was he singing when you saw him?”

      “No, he'd just quit. He caught sight of my pony grazing, and hunted cover real prompt.”

      “Then it might have been another man singing in the thicket.”

      “It might, but it wasn't. Y'u see, I'd followed him through the bush by his song, and he showed up the moment I expected him.”

      “Still there might have been another man there singing.”

      “One chance in a million,” he conceded.

      A sudden hope flamed up like tow in her heart. Perhaps, after all, Ned Bannister was not the leader of the outlaws. Perhaps somebody else was masquerading in his name, using Bannister's unpopularity as a shield to cover his iniquities. Still, this was an unlikely hypothesis, she had to admit. For why should he allow his good name to be dragged in the dust without any effort to save it? On a sudden impulse the girl confided her doubt to McWilliams.

      “You don't suppose there can be any mistake, do you? Somehow I can't think him as bad as they say. He looks awfully reckless, but one feels one could trust his face.”

      “Same here,” agreed the new foreman. “First off when I saw him my think was, 'I'd like to have that man backing my play when I'm sitting in the game with Old Man Hard Luck reaching out for my blue chips.'”

      “You don't think faces lie, do you?”

      “I've seen them that did, but, gen'rally speaking, tongues are a heap likelier to get tangled with the truth. But I reckon there ain't any doubt about Bannister. He's known over all this Western country.”

      The young woman sighed. “I'm afraid you're right.”

CHAPTER 5. THE DANCE AT FRASER'S

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“Heard tell yet of the dance over to Fraser's?”

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      He was a young man of a brick red countenance and he wore loosely round his neck the best polka dot silk handkerchief that could be bought in Gimlet Butte, also such gala attire as was usually reserved only for events of importance. Sitting his horse carelessly in the plainsman's indolent fashion, he asked his question of McWilliams in front of the Lazy D bunkhouse.

      “Nope. When does the shindig come off?”

      “Friday night. Big thing. Y'u want to be there. All y'u lads.”

      “Mebbe some of us will ride over.”

      He of the polka dot kerchief did not appear quite satisfied. His glance wandered toward the house, as it had been doing occasionally since the moment of his arrival.

      “Y'u bet this dance is ace high, Mac. Fancy costumes and masks. Y'u can rent the costumes over to Slauson's for three per. Texas, he's going to call the dances. Music from Gimlet Butte. Y'u want to get it tucked away in your thinker that this dance ain't on the order of culls. No, sirree, it's cornfed.”

      “Glad to hear of it. I'll cipher out somehow to be there, Slim.”

      Slim's glance took in the ranchhouse again. He had ridden twenty-three miles out of his way to catch a glimpse of the newly arrived mistress of the Lazy D, the report of whose good looks and adventures had traveled hand in hand through many canons even to the heart of the Tetons. It had been on Skunk Creek that he had heard of her three days before, and now he had come to verify the tongue of rumor, to see her quite casually, of course, and do his own appraising. It began to look as if he were going to have to ride off without a glimpse of her.

      He nodded toward the house, turning a shade more purple than his native choleric hue. “Y'u want to bring your boss with y'u, Mac. We been hearing a right smart lot about her and the boys would admire to have her present. It's going to be strictly according to Hoyle—no rough-house plays go, y'understand.”

      “I'll speak to her about it.” Mac's deep amusement did not reach the surface. He was quite well aware that Slim was playing for time and that he was too bashful to plump out the desire that was in him. “Great the way cows are jumpin', ain't it?”

      “Sure. Well, I'll be movin' along to Slauson's. I just drapped in on my way. Thought mebbe y'u hadn't heard tell of the dance.”

      “Much obliged. Was it for old man Slauson y'u dug up all them togs, Slim? He'll ce'tainly admire to see y'u in that silk tablecloth y'u got round your neck.”

      Slim's purple deepened again. “Y'u go to grass, Mac. I don't aim to ask y'u to be my valley yet awhile.”

      “C'rect. I was just wondering do all the Triangle Bar boys ride the range so handsome?”

      “Don't y'u worry about the Triangle Bar boys,” advised the embarrassed Slim, gathering up his bridle reins.

      With one more reluctant glance in the direction of the house he rode away. When he reached the corral he looked back again. His gaze showed him the boyish foreman doubled up with laughter; also the sweep of a white skirt descending from the piazza.

      “Now, ain't that hoodooed luck?” the aggrieved rider of the Triangle Bar outfit demanded of himself, “I made my getaway about three shakes too soon, by gum!”

      Her foreman was in the throes of mirth when Helen Messiter reached him.

      “Include me in the joke,” she suggested.

      “Oh, I was just thinkin',” he explained inadequately.

      “Does it always take you that way?”

      “About these boys that drop in so frequent on business these days. Funny how fond they're getting of the Lazy D. There was that stock detective happened in yesterday to show how anxious he was about your cows. Then the two Willow Creek riders that wanted