Starlight Riders Boxed-Set 50 Western Classics in One Edition. Ernest Haycox

      "I wouldn't trust San Saba out of my sight, Blondy."

      "Oh, look here! He's my friend, and I don't like to hear that said behind his back—"

      "Then," said Tom, "you are at liberty to tell him I made the statement."

      They left the level prairie behind, wound in and out of what seemed to be an old buffalo trail through the black, tree-studded hills. The guide kept almost out of sight, never stopping. Hour after hour, on the trail long before light until long after dusk. It even wrung a dismal groan from Quagmire.

      "They say death is a long sleep. Mebbe that's why we ain't doin' none of it now."

      But the day at last came when the guide poised himself on a ridge and waited for them to catch up. Major Bob galloped ahead, beckoning to the men nearest him. When Tom arrived, the guide was pointing to the west. "Thar she is."

      The rugged land formed a kind of bowl, the bottom of which made an isolated valley. In the distance, one side of the bowl gave way to the banks of the Little Missouri. Directly across the grassy plain ran a creek, sparkling under the sun. Cottonwoods fringed the edge of the distant rive and above the trees wavered a spiral of smoke. That caught and held their attention. Major Bob studied it long and in tently. "Must be Big Ruddy's fire."

      "I'm afraid it won't be that," muttered Tom. "Look over to the right—right where the ridge breaks into small pockets."

      Cattle! Cattle browsing peacefully along the slopes. And by their number and the compactness of their position it seemed to indicate they had only been thrown on the land a little while before. Major Bob rose in his stirrups, shaded his eyes. When he swung to the others there was danger in his eyes. In passing, his glance fell upon the foreman and rested there one long, grim moment. San Saba appeared to catch up his muscles, to draw off; his features became pinched. But the Major had nothing to say to him at that time. "Quagmire," he cried, "get back and bring the crew! Bring them with their guns! By Godfrey, if anyone's jumped this valley from me they'll have to fight! Come on!"

      It was not the guide's fight, and he let them go. Three together—the Major, Tom, and San Saba—they galloped down and across the little valley. Grass stood high along the ponies' legs, the creek was crystal clear; Tom surveyed this little paradise, acknowledging to himself in a wistful moment that it was worth driving a thousand miles to possess. All that man could want was right here, and though the land to either side might be equally fertile, it didn't seem to him possible there would be another site as ideal as this. The Major seemed to think so, too, for his eyes kept roving across the ground, and his head jerked from side to side as he flung out his few bitter words.

      "I was uneasy about those tracks we saw! Very uneasy! Well, it's mine by squatter's right. Mine, by Godfrey! If they've shoved Big Ruddy off they'll have to fight! They'll have to fight me!"

      San Saba lagged, saying nothing at all; his face was quite set, quite unusually devoid of expression.

      They came to a thicket and followed single file through it and on into the cottonwoods. The path broadened. Tom's eyes saw fresh ax marks and, as they went onward through the trees, his eyes discovered a lane leading into a clearing. There were wagons ahead, the smoke of a fire—and men standing in a group with rifles cradled. His father was to the fore and seemed not to see, so he called out.

      "Watch close there. I think they've got a reception committee."

      "They'll have to fight, I tell you!"

      A moment later the three of them had left the trees. Sharp warning fell athwart their path.

      "Stop where you are!"

      They reined in. In the moment of silence ensuing Tom took in the whole scene at one sweep. Eight men stood in a semicircle, each armed. To the front of the group was one who seemed to be in command—a short, paunchy gentleman with grizzled whitish hair and an excitable face. They had not been here long, for a dozen freshly peeled logs were rolled in a pile, the beginning of a cabin. Beyond the clearing were the banks of the Little Missouri. Still farther beyond stretched the naked hills. It was all very peaceful—all save this crew who stood so stolidly by their guns.

      Major Bob was in a thundering temper, yet he mustered a semblance of courtesy. "And why, sir, this exhibition of guns?"

      The paunchy gentleman spoke in rapid-fire phrases. "Hell's pit! You come swarming in on me like renegades! Got to watch out for 'em. Country's full of that kind. If you're peaceable, I'll down guns."

      "What outfit are you?" shot back Major Bob.

      "Colonel Jefferson Wyatt—Diamond W. Migrated from Texas. Sir, I believe I hear the Southern accent in your speech. To whom am I indebted..."

      Major Bob broke through this parley. "Don't you know you are jumping my grass?"

      "Sir!" cried Wyatt, turning purple. "By the whiskers of St. Anthony, that's a fine come-ye all! Your grass? Why, curse me, it's free grass, not your grass! Territory of Dakota belong to you? Not by a bag full of shot!"

      Major Bob seemed to grow calmer as the interview progressed, and Tom knew this to be an ominous sign. "I lay not claim to the territory of Dakota, Colonel Wyatt. But I most assuredly lay claim to this ground. I had my men locate it last year. I kept one man on it to hold my title. That man is here. He represents me. You will have to move, sir."

      Colonel Wyatt barked out, "Where is your man, then, eh? Where is your man, if you had one here?"

      "I do not see him, very true," admitted Major Bob, every syllable dripping formal politeness. "It may be, sir, you can produce him quicker than I could."

      "'Postles and prophets!" shouted Wyatt. "You are trespassing on my honour, sir! Now, look here. If you had any man on the ground, he ought to leave some mark. D'you see blessed sign of improvement, a single scrap to indicate. Any cabin, any sheds? You know you don't. But I will tell you something more, sir. I will tell you I had two men here these three months, waiting for me. Now, let's see what they say. Anse—Rob, step up."

      Tom's attention never left Wyatt's face. That anger might be real. Probably it was real, for the man seemed to have little control of his temper. And yet it seemed to him there was a furtive watchfulness in those shifting black eyes. When he summoned his two punchers it smacked a little of stage play, as did his examination of them.

      "Now, boys, did you see any man on this ground when you came here for me? Answer straight now. I'll have no lies out of my camp."

      One of the two took it upon himself to reply a surly, "Nope. Saw nary a soul."

      "There you are. I will not say, sir, that you had no man. But I will say that if you did have one here, he mos' assuredly skinned out. That's not my fault. I will remind you again it is free grass. First come, first served."

      He was on the point of adding more, but the appearance of the rest of the Circle G crew threw him into plain uneasiness. With one arm he motioned his own men to spread farther apart, at the same time warning Major Bob, "No more about it. I'll stand on my rights. Don't want no trouble, now. You had better withdraw your men."

      "I am going to have a look," decided Major Bob calmly. And suiting the action to the word he rode toward the river.

      Wyatt moved over, spreading his arms. "You will do no such thing. My word is good enough for you. Get off my land."

      Major Bob leaned forward with just a piece of a smile on his face. "I will ride to that river, sir, or I will blow every man in your crew to pieces. Step aside!"

      Tom had been watching the crew for the first open sign of hostility, and there was something on the remote corner of his vision that bothered him. Something to the left, beside a wagon. He ventured a swift glance in that direction, to discover the girl of the prairie, the girl who had called herself Lorena, standing with one hand grasping a pistol. And yet every line of her small and boyish figure seemed to reveal that she would never use the gun, that she hoped only to be unobserved. When she found that Tom was looking directly at her, her pistol sagged and dropped and the hand came upward by slow degrees until it rested against her bosom; her cheeks