The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox. Ernest Haycox

the nod and walked out of the saloon. At the next alley he paused, retreating into the shadows. Presently the elder man marched out and followed. San Saba's arm reached out and arrested him.

      "Where's yo' camp, Kunnel Wyatt?"

      "West three miles. San Saba, why the devil are you here? I thought you agreed to keep Gillette back on the trail."

      "Time enough yet. Go on, suh. My boys are in town. Don' want any to see me with yo'. I'll follow yo' to camp."

      They separated. San Saba returned to the saloon door. Lispenard was in a poker game, in the process of being professionally trimmed. San Saba went to his horse and, keeping to the shadows, rode out of Ogallala westward.

      III. LORENA WYATT

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      Twice during the short ride from town San Saba swung off his trail, back-tracked a hundred yards, and listened for the sound of pursuit; and when the chuck-wagon fire of the Wyatt outfit winked across the prairie he again hesitated, seeming to weigh his inclinations. Whatever this man's actions and thoughts, he consistently surrounded himself with a wall of caution. He liked to stay in the shadows; he never rode boldly into a camp, but, as at present, stalked and circled until he was sure of what he was to find. He possessed all the caginess of an animal that once had been trapped—he perpetually looked back over his trail, no matter where or when he rode. By nature he was a taciturn, isolated creature, seldom speaking a blunt or decisive word. He talked as he moved, warily, never giving another man more than a hint of what went on in that little nutshell head.

      Thus, when a few paces from the firelight, he paused to scan the faces he saw. He knew those fellows, he recognized Wyatt's paunchy figure standing by the flame. But not until he had thus covered the group did he expose himself to the light Wyatt threw up his grizzled mane, speaking impatiently. "What took you so long?" A scattered greeting rose from the recumbent punchers.

      "It's San Saba, by Joe. Cornin' back fer to work this brand again, Red?"

      "Well, if it ain't the same smilin', sunny gent. Ain't yo' pritty far no'th?"

      There was little enough warmth in the reception. These men had worked with San Saba, and they knew him. San Saba nodded his head; a brief, sparing smile flitted across his lips. "Howdy, boys. Diamond W looks both f'miliar an' prosp'rous. Kunnel Wyatt, suh, if yo' will step away a minute..."

      San Saba retreated beyond earshot of the crew and slipped from the saddle. Wyatt followed, still impatient. "God's Kingdom, man, will you ever quit burrowin' like a groundhog?"

      San Saba's reply was flat, singsong. "A man playin' two hands ain't in no position to march at the head o' the parade, suh."

      "Let it go—let it go. Hell's pit—what brings Gillette along so fast? I had a hundred miles less to go, I started a full week earlier. Yet here he is—here you are. What about it?"

      "Suh, Major Bob is a fast traveller."

      "Meaning, I suppose, I let my cattle drag all over Satan's half acre? By the beard o' Judas..."

      "No, suh—no, suh. I meant nothin' like that. It's just that he makes us march like a troop o' cavalry."

      "It's his cursed military style! I've heard of it before. Well, what are you doing? What about all those ideas you had? San Saba, did I not know you better I would say you broke no eggs. But I know you. Now, get busy. At this rate he'll beat me two weeks to the Little Missouri. That won't do. By the gates of Paradise, it won't do!"

      "Yo'-all sent yo' men no'th to perfo'm a certain chore, Kunnel?"

      "I did!"

      "Is that chore done?"

      "How am I to know? Neither man can write a letter. I presume they did. They understood exactly what I meant, and they're old hands. Even so, supposing Gillette beats me to the spot and finds my men on it where his men should be? Think he'll take it like a Sunday-school preacher? I'll be eternally fried in mutton grease if he will! He'll shoot my men and—there you are! I have got to get there first! You start your part."

      "Oh, I'll delay the Circle G, suh. Don't worry. Plenty of time yet. You know Major Bob, pers'n'lly, Kunnel?"

      "Met him once in Austin."

      "He's a hard man, suh. He has a son, suh." Here San Saba's words grew drier. "A son like the name."

      Wyatt grunted. "I recognize the qualities of the name. But once I get my outfit established on that particular piece of range St Peter's own crowbar won't pry me loose!" The Colonel slapped his hands together, and by that token San Saba knew the interview was over. Climbing into the saddle, he followed Wyatt back to the circle of light. Somebody had been telling a yarn, but it stopped as the Circle G foreman came within hearing, and nothing more was said. San Saba appeared on the point of speaking. Whatever the sentiment, it fell back from the barrier of his thin, tight-pressed lips. Gathering his reins, he turned about.

      Hoofs thudded across the prairie. San Saba's head came up quickly and he put a spur into the flanks of his animal. But before he could get again into the concealment of the night a rider slid in front of him, blocked his path, and he had to pull aside. Colonel Wyatt planted his feet apart, grumbling.

      "Lorena, where in the name of the Twelve Apostles have you been?"

      It was a girl—a girl on that vague border across which lie womanhood. Her face, revealed by the reluctant firelight formed a small oval; her cheeks were pink where the night air had touched them, her eyes sparkled, catching flame from the chuck- wagon blaze. And that was about all of the feminine about her, for her small body was encased in the clothing of a man, she wore a man's boots and a man's broad-brimmed hat, beneath which strayed a wisp of black hair. The bright beads of her gauntlets glittered as she sprang from the saddle.

      "Why, I've been to Ogallala. Do you think I'd go through Nebraska and not see Ogallala?" Then her eyes discovered and recognized San Saba, and all the gay exuberance vanished. Standing between her father and the Circle G foreman she turned first to one and then the other.

      "Now what's the trouble?"

      "Trouble?" echoed her father. "There's no trouble."

      "Then what's this man doing here?" she insisted.

      "Why, San Saba, he dropped in to pay a friendly call."

      Her boot heel sank into the sandy earth. "Friendly? What friends has he got here?" And, turning toward San Saba, she threw up her chin, crying, "Get out of here you—renegade."

      Colonel Wyatt roared, "Lorena, you talk like a lady!"

      "Pop, don't call me a lady. It sounds ridiculous. Get out, San Saba!"

      San Saba looked over her head to Wyatt. "One more thing, suh," spoke he in a level voice, "you better stay west of the trail a few days. I reckon yo' understan' why." Removing his hat, he bowed to the girl, swung, and galloped off.

      "Notion to tan your back," grumbled Wyatt,

      But Lorena was smiling again, smiling and humming a tune. She turned out her horse, threw her saddle to the ground, and prepared to climb inside the wagon that was her home on the long trail. "Don't you try it, Pop," she called back. "You'd lose a good cow hand—and you can't afford that. Good-night. I've got some questions to ask in the morning."

      By the light of the waning stars the Diamond W was under way. It was an earlier start than Colonel Wyatt usually made. He, despite his impatient spirit, had not the faculty of whipping his men through the preliminary chores or of overriding the unending series of petty obstacles always lying athwart a cattle drive. Nor, for that matter, did he have enough men. Counting himself and his daughter, there were but eight in the party. But the interview with San Saba had warned him to be up and doing; thus, sunrise found the herd well away from Ogallala and somewhat west of the main trail. Colonel Wyatt and Lorena rode to the fore, on point, while the rest of the crew were strung out behind. Nineteen hundred cattle