Trouble Shooter (Musaicum Vintage Western). Ernest Haycox

she passed on to the platform. The train had stopped.

      "A beauty," murmured Overmile.

      Peace reared out of the seat and left the car by the other door, stepping into a yellow clay soup two feet deep. Wind howled up from the south and the lights of the surrounding shanties sparkled through a thick, hard-driven rain. He stood there indifferently, watching the girl crawl along the edge of the train, Campeaux walked beside her and Mitch Dollarhide sloshed behind.

      Overmile said: "Stand still and you'll sink out of sight. Come on."

      They found a walk cutting across the mud and took to it single file. "I got the horses over there in that shed," Overmile grunted.

      Peace stopped so suddenly that they all banged together; Phil Morgan fell off the walk, the mud reaching up to his knees. He said, "Good God, Frank!" But Peace didn't hear. The girl stood now on the track in front of the engine, its headlight playing on her. Campeaux and Dollarhide had gone.

      Peace said: "Bring the horses over there, Leach," and wallowed deliberately through the mud toward her. The wind was a strong rush in his ears; he had to lift his voice.

      "Listen—"

      The glare of the engine's light made her drop her head. She had her hands tucked into the pockets of the military coat, and water dripped steadily off her hat.

      She said: "How far is it to Laramie?"

      "Four miles." He thought about that for a minute. "I'm going to Fort Sanders—that's only two miles. You can put up there."

      "Mr. Campeaux has a rig waiting for us here."

      He said; "All right."

      Her head rose quickly. "I wouldn't judge too soon, if I were you."

      He kept his tone civil; he kept his temper down. "My mistake."

      "You've been trying to make up your mind about me all the way from Omaha, Is it necessary?"

      Two horses struggled across the mire, pulling Campeaux and Mitch Dollarhide in a covered rig. Mitch Dollarhide jumped down and slumped forward, his feet catching and throwing up the semi-liquid. His shoulders were thrust forward, he swung his fists as he ran. Peace turned to keep a strict eye on this man. He said to the girl: "Good luck."

      But she touched rhis arm. "Did you ever hear of a Jim Normandy out here?"

      "No."

      Dollarhide reached the track's gravel. He stopped two yards from Peace, expelling a heavy breathing. "We had enough trouble from you, Bully. Get the hell away from us."

      "Shut up, Mitch."

      Mitch Dollarhide swayed, a savage and uncertain expression licking across his mouth, Big Sid Campeaux tooled his team through the rain-bubbled mud and stopped beside the track. He stood up in the seat and threw a solid yell back behind him. "Al!"

      There was a man riding forward from that darkness on a high gray horse. He sloshed around the buggy, wheeling before Frank Peace. Rain glistened all down his yellow slicker; it roped off his hat. He tipped up the brim of the hat a little to show a face entirely smooth and thin and unemotional.

      He said: "Hello, Frank."

      Peace murmered, "How are you, Brett?"

      Mitch boosted his heavy complaint back over one shoulder, never letting his eyes lose Peace. "I don't need any help to handle Bucko."

      Nan Normandy looked from Campeaux to Al Brett to Mitch Dollarhide. All these three were taciturnly established in their places, attentions narrowed on Peace. It was a scene, and it was clear to her. Her words reached Peace calmly: "Don't make an issue of it—not for me."

      Al Brett said: "Trouble here, Campeaux?"

      Campeaux said: "Ask Peace if he's lookin' for it."

      "You standin' in the way, Bucko?" questioned Al Brett, gentle with his talk.

      Peace showed a hard and instant grin. It fired up his face, swinging it immediately reckless. "You don't have to go with these men, Miss Normandy."

      Campeaux hurled his warning against an increasing wind. The rain whirled rashly down from the ruptured clouds overhead, each fat drop glittering diamond-bright in the headlight's glare.

      "Don't interfere with me this year, Peace! Keep out of my way—and keep your hands off my business! Mitch—help Miss Normandy over to the buggy!"

      Peace repeated himself. "You don't have to go with Sid, Miss Normandy."

      Al Brett unhooked the front of his slicker, the wind instantly ripping it back from his wire-thin body. He put his right hand casually on a holster there. He was remotely smiling.

      "I wouldn't be proud, Bucko," he called.

      The engine's bell started up a steady ringing. Campeaux yelled at Dollarhide; he swore at Dollarhide. "Lend Miss Normandy your arm!"

      A pair of Irishmen from the train stumbled forward into the light, both carrying rifles; and at that moment Overmile and Morgan and Ed Tarrant came up from the turbid blackness at a slashing gait. They rode onto the track. Overmile got down; he took his station near Peace.

      "Mother," he drawled, "I'm about to be queen of the May. You want a party, Al?"

      "Anytime you say," called Al Brett and sat still. Mitch Dollarhide shifted doggedly toward the girl. Water collected at the corner of his stringy mustache and dripped down. He froze in his position, dull and stubborn.

      One of the Irishmen near the engine called out: "You want help, Mr. Peace?"

      Campeaux said: "What are you going to do, Miss Normandy?"

      The girl swept the scene with a long glance. There was no give to any of these men. An old hatred seemed to have brought them together in this wild, bleak night; an old hatred kept them here. She saw no fear and no softness. Their tempers were beds of tinder waiting for a careless spark. Overmile's lazy, unmoved face revealed a faint rashness. Al Brett continued his still attitude, one hand touching the gun butt, a remote smile at the corners of his lips. Campeaux was a shadow in the buggy. Dollarhide a dull presence beside her. Frank Peace didn't speak again. He had his head tipped toward her, and she clearly observed the long riot of his temper. On the train she had guessed he was like this and her guess was confirmed now. Not one of them would retreat; the idle quietness they displayed was a lie.

      She said to Peace: "Please," and took hold of Mitch Dollarhide's arm. She went across the track and climbed up the hub wheel to the seat, beside Campeaux, Dollarhide went around, crawling in behind the buggy. Al Brett was broadly grinning now.

      "No luck tonight, boys."

      "Not tonight," said Overmile, only indolent.

      Al Brett lifted his reins. Campeaux turned the horses around, driving them straight through the mud toward the trackless grade beyond. Fires far off to the north laid fitful beacon lights along the way. Brett said coolly: "Don't worry, Leach. I'll blow a hole through your guts before the summer's done." He had one more look at Frank Peace—a long, smileless look. "See you in Laramie, Bucko," he said, and rode away.

      Overmile had left Peace's horse beyond the track. Peace slogged through the mud and swung into a thoroughly wet saddle. He came back, following the rails until they suddenly quit. Loose ties lay scattered ahead, indicating where the steel would march tomorrow. He paralleled the ties, his partners riding behind him, and came at last to the pure dirt grade running north, Leach Overmile forged abreast; Tarrant and Morgan made a pair behind. The engine's headlight died out and they traveled beneath the uneasy, leaking sky, the western wind slapping strongly on them. Deep rain pools were forming, water channeled all the ruts, and yonder they saw Campeaux's rig appear abreast another grader's fire and sink then into the murk.

      "If it keeps rainin'," said Overmile, "you'll want pontoons on your trains."

      Due ahead, the lights of Fort Sanders blinked intermittently; farther on was the stronger glitter of Laramie Town waiting restlessly for its hour to come. They passed the last