The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox. Ernest Haycox

too small for his body and indeed all his features seemed shrunken, from his narrow chin up to his sloping forehead which in turn slid back into sandy red hair. Tom Gillette thought he never had seen a more cruel mouth or such gimlet eyes. The colour of them he could not tell, but a reddish pall seemed to hang over the surface, and the lids were likewise rimmed with the same colour.

      "This," said Major Bob, "is my foreman, San Saba."

      San Saba met Tom Gillette with a hurried, expressionless glance and dropped his head in scant recognition. Nor did he offer his hand until Tom first extended his own. Then there was only a slight pressure and a quick withdrawal.

      "Han'somely pleased," drawled San Saba in flat, monotonous syllables. That was all; he backed away and was lost in the shadows. Major Bob disappeared from view and then most of the crew returned to their blankets. The introduction was over. Tom and Lispenard squatted before the flames, hearing Quagmire's rumbling voice take up some yarn he had been spinning.

      "So them greasers staked me out on the ant hill an' let the bugs get a good feed. I was there twelve hours when the Rangers come up. We caught them renegades later, an' I skelped me the cuss what tied me down."

      Lispenard was sober and morose. He stared at Quagmire, then spoke to Tom in a tone meant to carry across the fire.

      "I suppose I'll be hearing all sorts of fool fish stories from now on. Do I look green?"

      Quagmire appeared not to hear. But presently he swung his head a little, and the light played upon the left side of his face; it was nothing but a great pocket where some injury had scored him. Lispenard sprang to his feet, swearing. "Where do we sleep? My nerves certainly must be in a hell of a state."

      The colored cook met them on the edge of the shadows, throwing two bedding rolls from his massive shoulders. He had no attention for Lispenard, but one fist gripped the younger Gillette's arm. "Marse Tom, yo' don' know me no mo'?"

      Tom's voice sang upward. "Why, Old Mose! You ornery rascal—I've been wondering about you! Mose, remember the time we trapped the bear in the caves?"

      The Negro's head bobbed like a cork in water. "Ya-as, ya-as. I been waitin' fo' yo', Marse Tom. Sho' seemed like a mighty long spell. I'll sho' see yo' coffee cup am allus full. Sho'!"

      Quagmire watched and listened. And when the two newcomers had faded into the darkness he spoke cryptically, announcing his conviction as to them. "One range hoss come back to the old stampin' grounds. Once a man gets the smell o' fire smoke in his nose it's hard to stay away. But as fo' sugar-fed pets, half broke, half wild, I nev' had any likin'. Man, short o' days an' full o' trouble."

      The fire died to a golden glow. The camp settled to rest save for Quagmire, who was a notorious nighthawk. His thin and brooding face peered into the ashes as if seeking the mystery of creation there. Overhead the moon swung on its vast arc. Tom, once more sleeping under the stars, felt again the throb of the universe. It came to him out of the fathomless vault, it bore up on the night wind. He felt the presence of the herd, he made out the mutter and the snuffle of the animals on their bedding ground. The tuneless drone of the punchers on circle wavered up from the distance. A match flared, and he saw a face illumined for one moment. Again the drone:

      "He was only a cowboy, gone on befo',

       He was only a cowboy we'll see no mo'..."

      Lispenard turned on his blankets and muttered an irritable question. Tom never heard it. Five years he had been away from all this. Now he was back home. Back home! Why had he expected to be a stranger in his own land? The old life, the old sounds and smells, the old mystery of it returned to him as if he never had been away. The current picked him up and carried him on. Near the border of sleep he seemed to see San Saba's little red eyes staring at him out of the shadows.

      II. ON THE TRAIL

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      It was yet starlight when Old Mose, drumming his knuckles against a wash pan, sang out reveille. "Arise, yo' sons o' sin! Mo'nin' comes, the sun will shine, an' the little dogies am ready fo' to go! Rise to beans an' biscuits!"

      One by one the Circle G riders shook out their blankets, rolled bedding, and helped themselves to breakfast. Fog hung low over the ground; the damp sage rendered up its pungent smell. Already the cattle were stirring and the nighthawk was in with the cavvy. It was no time for lagging, no time for talk. Men drank their coffee in morose silence and went to the improvised rope corral for their ponies. Sharp profanity crackled in the cold air, loops whistled, dust rose; saddle gear jingled and squeaked, the horses crowhopped under their riders—and the day's work began.

      Tom found his old saddle in the supply wagon and lugged it to the corral, shaking out his rope. Major Bob, already mounted, came up. "I brought an extra string for you, Tom. Catfish, there—Slit Ears—the Lawyer—the buckskin with the straight belly—that leggy roan. We had no time to do more than to break 'em rough. They'll carry you if you haven't forgotten how to ride."

      Tom picked the buckskin with the straight belly, roped him and led him aside. The crew had scattered, but Tom, tightening his cinches, saw them covertly watching, and he grinned wryly. He stepped a foot in one stirrup, flipped over the reins, and was in the saddle. The buckskin's muscles quivered, snapped together. Tom felt the pony's back hump; and as the animal's head dropped forward he was swept by the old emotion of wild, half-savage joy. "Pitch, you crowbait, pitch, or I'll rake hide!"

      He was carried fifty yards in a series of weaving, necksnapping jumps. Dust obscured him, the earth disappeared, leaving him high and lonesome in his seat. He weaved like a drunken man, hearing himself yell. That yell came back to him—it was Quagmire's bullfrog croak. The buckskin wound itself into a last wicked bundle of knots, lurching sidewise, always sidewise to loosen and throw the rider off balance. Trip hammers pounded on Tom's skull, the pit of his stomach was a ball of fire. Then it was over and the buckskin swept across the prairie like the wind. Tom shook himself together and assembled his grin. "What a man learns, he never forgets. You old sidewinder, you're going to be a spunky horse. Swing around now."

      When he got back to the chuck wagon Major Bob had only a silent nod for him. Tom spoke laconically, unconsciously falling into the old way of speech with its slurring softness. "Reckon he'll be tole'ble."

      Lispenard had switched into more appropriate clothes—bought in Dodge—and stood watching Quagmire saddling another horse. The aftermath of his celebration in town was a fretful humour. He shook his shoulders, grumbling, "Here I am, dressed like Simon Legree. Now I suppose I'll have to board that vicious rack of bones and get my neck shook off."

      Major Bob looked sharply at Lispenard, yet spoke with unusual courtesy—always a sign that he struggled with his temper. "You are a guest of the outfit, sir. Be assured. Quagmire is saddling the gentlest beast. If you were a rider, like my son, you would have to take your chances. In this country we don't break horses for other men. I will permit no hazing with you."

      Lispenard walked slowly toward Quagmire. "I'd feel better about it if I had a drink. It's a hell of an animal to be called gentle."

      The pony was an undersized brute, coloured like grandmother's blanket. It turned a scrawny neck and looked at Lispenard from two expressionless glass-green eyes, dropping one ear. The man rubbed his hands along his pants. "Never think a horse has no brain. That creature is openly sneering at me."

      Quagmire cast a glance back at the Gillettes. As he gave over the reins he whispered sibilantly, "Don't like the way he holds his ears. Plumb bad sign. If he starts groanin' like a los' soul, you pile off hell bent fo' election. It means he's des'prit."

      Lispenard scanned Quagmire's face. Nothing but solicitude and benevolence appeared on the puncher's warped features. The Blond Giant said, "Oh, well, here goes," and stepped gingerly into the saddle, holding the reins with one hand and clutching the horn with the other. Quagmire backed hurriedly off as if expecting trouble. The glass-eyed calico stood with his eyes to the earth like a bemused philosopher for a moment, then gave vent to a long, dreary