The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox. Ernest Haycox

talked the same language as us."

      Nightingale returned, hat on, and gun strapped to his hip. "All we need to complete this tale of border warfare is a set of heathenish bagpipes. You may like it or not, my estimable superintendent, but whither thou goest I shall follow. Lead on."

      Steve got up. "Mr. Nightingale, this ain't goin' to be no joke. God only knows—"

      "The disposition of Providence," said the Englishman gravely, "is not to be questioned. One prays and follows the light of conscience."

      Steve got in the saddle. Nightingale swung beside him, and together they cantered north-west. Steve found his first admiration of the man strongly kindled. He never pretended to understand the Bucket owner's moods. Humor and gravity were too closely blended; the man's thoughts were too contained, never breaking out into the broad wild fancies of the range. Sometimes Steve was certain Nightingale caught very little of what went on; and at other times, such as the present one, he had the uncomfortable feeling the cattleman's aloof indifference covered a sharp and penetrating mind. But, nevertheless, Steve usually felt at ease with Nightingale, for something about the Englishman kept reminding him of Denver.

      They ran down the trail without a word between them, crossed the open flats of the upper Bucket range, and went over the Helen Creek ford. Beyond a ridge they pursued a broad wagon leading by Lunt's home quarters. Steve intended to turn aside, but abreast the house he heard his name called in that crisp, assured manner so familiar. Instantly he checked in. Nightingale overran him and looked questioningly back. Steve grinned and muttered, "Be with yuh in a minute," and cantered to the ranch gate.

      Debbie Lunt came down the path, her pretty, sharply defined face studying him.

      "Were you going by without stopping in?"

      "Sort of busy today, Debbie."

      "I haven't seen you since the afternoon in Sundown."

      "Been all over the map meanwhile."

      "Apparently so," said Debbie. "I sent Bill over yesterday, but you weren't around."

      "Whistled for Rover but he wouldn't come, uh?"

      "That's not funny, Steve," said Debbie with increasing force. "I don't like that kind of humor, if you meant it as humor. If it was sarcasm, you ought to be ashamed. I wanted to see you yesterday. I have heard something. Can't you come to the house a minute?"

      Steve shifted in the saddle, looked at Nightingale waiting in the distance, and shook his head. "Debbie, I can't do it now."

      Debbie moved her shoulders impatiently. "I suppose I shouldn't insist. But you will have to listen to me. Steve, I have heard a horrible story, and I don't believe it. Dad was in Sundown yesterday and somebody told him a ghastly lie. That you had shot Dann."

      Steve waited. Debbie kept her eyes on him and finally said, "Well?"

      "No lie. I shot him."

      "Steve!"

      She drew back, put a hand to her face; and suddenly the color on her cheeks faded. She stared at him as if he were a stranger. A quick breath came out of her. "I don't believe it."

      "I told you, Debbie."

      "Oh, Steve! Why—why?"

      "Because I said I would," answered Steve. The girl clenched her palms together—a sign he knew of old, a sign he dreaded. Debbie's anger cut deep.

      "Because of Dave Denver?"

      "That's right."

      "So you dirtied your hands, made a killer out of yourself—because of him! What right does a dead man have to make you do a thing like that? I know he was your friend! What of it? I never liked him, and I don't now! The man despised me! And he could wrap you around his finger any time he chose! A friend! How far do you go for your friends?"

      Steve sat like a rock, taking the punishment without a change of expression. "As far as a friend would go for me. As far as Dave would have gone—which was all the way to hell if I'd asked him."

      "You thought more of Denver than you thought of me!" cried Debbie. "You do now!"

      "If you'd think straight," replied Steve, "you wouldn't say that. It's the same as sayin' a beefsteak tastes better than a rose smells. The things ain't the same."

      She flung back her head. "We must fight this out, Steve! We must settle it! I'll be expecting you for supper tonight."

      Steve sighed. "Debbie, it seems like yore askin' me to do things today I can't. I'll be in Sundown tonight."

      Debbie looked away, stormy eyed. She bit her lips, moved restlessly. "I suppose I must wait, then. If it is ranch business it comes before me. At least I'm glad to know you've got business to keep you from running idle through the hills."

      Steve said nothing, and Debbie challenged him swiftly. "It is ranch business, isn't it?"

      He seemed to debate his answer. "I ain't in the habit of lyin'. No, it's not."

      There was only one alternative in so far as Debbie was concerned. "Does it have anything to do with Denver—or Redmain?"

      "Right now," said Steve, "I can't answer you, Debbie. Next time I come back I will."

      "Then it does!" exclaimed Debbie. "You are going down there to mix up in Denver's quarrels again! Steve, I refuse to let you! The man's dead! Lou Redmain's done nothing to you! You've no business keeping up the fight. I refuse to let you, do you hear?"

      Very slowly Steve answered: "I reckon you don't own the right to tell me whether I can go or stay, Debbie."

      "Oh, don't I?" Debbie drew herself together. "Listen to me, Steve! If you don't come back here for supper you need never come back at all!"

      A slow, brick-red mantle crawled up Steve's neck. "Mean that, Debbie?"

      "You know I mean it! You be here!"

      Steve startled her into stiff silence by the changed pitch of his talk. "You fool girl, I wish the Lord had given yuh enough sense to get in outa the rain. I've been pushed around, led around, shoved around by you and yore family until it's a wonder I still wear pants. Who ever told you a man could be cussed into shape? It's about time you learned your limits. I'm no Santy Claus, and I'm no Lord Fauntleroy. There's lots of things about me dead wrong, and I've got sense enough to know it. As regards them, you can have your say any day in the week. But when it's a question of how I conduct myself with men, how far I'm to ride, when I'm to draw out, what I'm to say, neither you nor any other woman that breathes has got the right of tellin' me a thing. I do my work, I'll take care of my own conscience without help. And I don't propose to be humbled in my own estimation or go around with Jim Coldfoot's whipped-dog air. You seem to want a dummy for a husband. Ain't you satisfied to be a woman without tryin' to be a man likewise? Who taught you how to treat a man, anyhow? Yuh been actin' like a nine-year-old girl who was afraid somebody was goin' to steal her dolly. Grow up and get some average common sense. You've sorta indicated durin' the last six months that 'most everything about me was haywire. All right, I admit it. I've had to do a man's work ever since I was ten years old, and Yellow Hill is no place to get the education of a scholar and a gentleman. As for Dave Denver, he's a better man than me any time, any place. And I owe him too blamed much to let the Lunt family interfere, which includes yore maw and paw, yore brothers and sisters, yore aunts and uncles and cousins, and all the rest of the tribe which has offered free advice on my conduct. If I'm the total loss yuh seem to think, I'll relieve you of the burden here and now. Don't expect me tonight or any other night. Ma'm, I'll bid you good-day."

      He tipped his hat, turned, and spurred off. Nightingale joined him, and they galloped across the meadow. As the trees reached out to close them in Steve looked around; Debbie still stood by the gate, crying. Steve groaned, said, "Aw, hell!" and shot past the astonished Englishman.

      They reached town near the middle of the afternoon, racking their horses in front of the hotel. Nightingale cocked his blue eyes on Steve for further information.

      "I tell you," decided Steve. "You better bed down somewhere