The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox. Ernest Haycox

swerved, making for the bed. The door opened, and Bonnet stepped in with his mouth half open to speak. Denver stopped dead and essayed a smile—a crooked, furtive smile as of a man caught stealing chickens. Bonnet slammed the door behind him and lifted the quirt dangling on his wrist.

      "Damn you, Dave Denver," he cried, hard and angry, "get back in that bed! Ain't there a lick of sense in your stubborn head? What the devil do you think Williamson's makin' a long trip out here for every day? Can't nobody tell you nothin'? Get back there! Go on. I've got a ninety per cent notion to tie yuh in."

      "All right—all right, I'm goin'," muttered Denver. Getting down was harder work than rising. He made three futile attempts to lift one foot and collapse gradually. Bonnet stood by in stony silence. Denver swore and closed his mind to the inevitable hurt; he swung his good shoulder to the bed and pitched forward, rolling the rest of his body after. Very slowly he clawed the quilts around him. "All right, Simon Legree," said he, panting like an engine, "crack your whip and see if I care."

      "Listen, Dave, I want yore promise not to essay that stunt again today. Either that or I don't budge. I'm gettin' all-fired tired of playin' wet nurse, and I ain't goin' to see yuh do anything that'll stretch it out. Do I get the promise?"

      "You got it. What'd you come back for, anyhow?"

      "Had a blamed good idea what you was up to. Saw the glitter in yore eyes."

      "Well, I'll stay quiet today. But I'm a sound man, Lyle. And tomorrow I aim to get on my hoofs again. Williamson's all wrong about this week business. I can't wait a week."

      "Why not?"

      "I know Redmain too well. Hell's brewin' somewhere. I don't know where, and I don't know how. But I know. There never was a time of trouble in this country that I didn't get the whisper of it. The old feelin'. Somethin' passin' through the air. Medicine drums beatin'. And I'm just enough savage to feel it—hear it. Go on, Lyle. I'll stay in bed today. But when I get well I'm going to burn the cursed thing."

      "Lay there, doggone yuh," said Bonnet, and went out.

      "Either I fire that buzzard," decided Denver, "or I give him a quarter interest in the ranch."

      A steady ache throbbed through his body. He shut his eyes, but that only seemed to bring him nearer the pain; so he opened them again and stared at the ceiling. There was a drifting crack in the plaster that reminded him a little bit of the Copperhead's meandering course. The reverse turn would be about at the lower falls. The first little offshoot was Butte Creek. Weeping Woman fell in just above. But from that point the crack curved the wrong way, and Denver had an impatient desire to get up to the ceiling and correct the error. He closed his eyes again, groaning. "If I ever get off my back I'll sleep on my stomach the rest of my life."

      Once he had thought this bedroom to be a pretty nice place. After the dreary hours in it he decided he had never seen a more barren room in all his days; and suddenly it occurred to him his own life was equally barren. What sort of a game had he been playing all these years—and where did it lead? What was he fighting for, why was he building up the ranch? Who cared, other than himself, whether he had a dime or a fortune? Always until now the day and its work had been sufficient. His own energy had carried him along, from the first flush of dawn until dark. Up and away in the saddle, riding the trails, standing over the hot brand fire, full in the brawl of the dusty, bellowing herds. Into town to watch his accounts, to meet with the Association, to drink and joke a while among men of his kind. And home to eat and sleep. That was all the ranch house meant—a place to go to and to depart from. Nothing more.

      In such a day there was no time for reflection, no need of long brown thoughts. Nor was he a man given to introspection. His own vitality, his own love of rough life sufficed; the primitive pleasure of feeling the rain slash his cheeks or the sight of the sun exploding riotously into a crimson setting—these things were enough for a pagan. They had filled his day.

      Until now. The house was too quiet, too empty. The cook's footfalls echoed too blankly. With a growing uneasiness he reflected that his own career was much the same—full of sounds echoing into blank corners. It surprised him to find he had blank corners. He thought he had done very well by himself. It surprised him to find this strange disquietude running through his body. Actually it was like hunger, a hunger for something he had never had—something he couldn't even place.

      His turning thoughts skipped the gap, and he recalled the evenings he now and then spent at Leverage's. Jake Leverage seemed to mellow and take his ease inside the walls of that pleasantly warm and comfortable house. No blank corners there—none whatsoever. And in another abrupt jump Denver saw Eve standing at the door, smiling out of her steady eyes, the fragrance of perfume in her hair faintly crossing the shadowed porch to perplex him. A serene, boyish figure with lurking laughter about her; yet this was the Eve who had taken a gun to fire on Dann. Denver closed his fists and glowered at the ceiling.

      "That pack of dogs has got to be wiped off the earth," he muttered. "They might have hurt her. I've been the Lord's worst fool to stand aside all this time and let Redmain get enough power in his hands to be able to do that. Leverage was right. It didn't make any difference to him if there was crooked influences back of the vigilante idea. He was fightin' to keep his women safe. Bein' married, bein' a father made him see that. I didn't. I'm just a half-wild rider, nothin' more. Good God, I wish I was up!"

      His head was so tangled with all this thinking that he lost trace of what he was trying to unravel. He closed his eyes, and the extra exertion of the morning put him to sleep.

      When he awoke, alert and startled, there was the sound of singing out in the big room. A woman singing. He had no need to guess; only Lola Monterey's voice carried that husky, infinitely sad pitch—only Lola had the power of throwing herself into words until the very air vibrated with her personality. The song was in Spanish, and the melody of it seemed to blend all the ancient wisdom of love and life and tragedy. It swayed hauntingly, fell to a whisper, and rose like a clear call. And suddenly broke off, to leave the silence bleak and tense. Denver lay immovable. A quick step tapped over the big room's floor. She spoke.

      "David."

      She was at his door, her hand brushing it lightly. Denver watched the knob, suspended between a desire to call and the grim need of being silent. But he never had the opportunity of deciding. Lola cried, "David!" again. The door flew open. She paused, tall and beautiful and supremely moved. Then she threw herself into the room and fell beside him, head on his chest, choking out her words.

      "David—I sang to wherever you were! To call you back, my love! And then I knew you were not dead!"

      One of the hands appeared in the door and motioned apologetically. "She jest wanted—"

      "Get out of here," said Dave. He put his hand on the jet and shining head. Saying nothing for a while, knowing nothing ought to be said. The pound of her heart lessened; the trembling of her body died away, and it was as if she slept, hands tight on his shoulders. He had no idea how long a time passed, for his thoughts traveled the old bitter pathway backward, and he was lost in a memory that was fire and flame, laughter and quarrel—like sunlight flashing intermittently through storm clouds. Then Lola sprang up, tipped her chin; and through the film of tears her eyes were smiling.

      "So I live always, David. From hurt to joy. Never even, never serene. Why did you do it—why did you?"

      He shook his head. "I can't tell you, Lola. All I say now is that when you go out of this house you've got to carry yourself just the same as when you came in. Not by a single look or thought or word must you be changed. I'm publicly dead—and so I remain until—"

      "There is only one reason," said Lola, whose eyes never left his face. "You hope to get Lou Redmain."

      He had no reply. Lola spoke swiftly. "Lou is deadly."

      "I'm not exactly skimmed milk, Lola. Wasn't there a time when you called me a hard man?"

      "I know, but Lou never gave anybody a fair chance in all his life—except me. There's something in him that warps every good impulse. He will tell you he is your friend. He will actually mean to be honest and fair and straight. But after a little while