Free Grass (Musaicum Vintage Western). Ernest Haycox

word of it and immediately sent San Saba and Big Ruddy up to locate suitable range. Owing to our promptness, we have got the best of the ground. San Saba came back, leaving Big Ruddy to hold it. Since then other outfits have likewise sent scouts out and are driving north. But ours is the choice of the picking."

      San Saba, hearing his name mentioned, swept the pair of Gillettes with a quick, wry glance.

      "Can Big Ruddy hold it?" questioned Tom.

      "Squatter's right," answered the Major. "It's free grass, but I shall file on the water. Meanwhile Big Ruddy has ample cartridges and a good gun. I have faith no one will try to jump the claim on him. However, I started early to avoid trouble in the matter. I believe we are the first outfit north this season."

      Satisfied, Tom reined about and walked his horse down the line. Lispenard was talking to San Saba and didn't follow.

      Onward they travelled. North, always north. Sunrise and sunset. Beans and coffee in the starlight. Night after night with the infinite heavens for a canopy and the yellow firelight playing upon Quagmire's twisted, solemn visage. Twenty-five hundred cattle trampling a broad trail across the lush earth, Roman Nose plodding to the fore, wise with years. Hot sun beating down; swift spring rains pouring out of the sky, flooding the coulees and vanishing as quickly as they came. And again the hot sun playing on the wet prairie and the steam rising up. Five miles a day, eight miles a day, sometimes fifteen miles a day. They crossed the ford of the Smoky Hill, they crossed the Saline and the Solomon. Kansas was behind, and the plains of Nebraska beckoned them north—level, limitless.

      Lispenard settled into the life with a kind of resignation. Riding pulled some of the flesh off him, the dust and hot winds erased his ruddiness. And since shaving in alkali water was no less than torture he let the stubble flourish on his face. When well kept he was nothing short of handsome; now he seemed all at once slack and untidy. The long hours in the saddle, the short sleep, the never-ending monotony of the food bore heavily on his spirit. Now and again a flash of his humour bubbled up, but rubbing elbows day by day with the tight-lipped stoics of the Circle G frayed his nerves and left him grumbling. He had not learned to lock his lips as others did.

      "How long is it going to take us to reach Dakota?" he asked, one night.

      Tom spread his palms upward. "Twenty days—forty days—sixty days."

      "And not a drop to drink," murmured Lispenard. He scanned the circle with gloomy eyes. "I begin to understand what makes you fellows look like mummies. A drop of liquid would bloat the whole crew."

      Quagmire stirred the fire. "Once was a fella down on the Brazos by name of Dode Leener who bragged he nev' had tasted water. Nothin' but whisky. One o' the boys goes out, ketches a rattlesnake, an' squirts a little venom into a cup, mixin' it with a thimbleful o' water. Takes it to Dode an' says it's the purest water in the state. Dode, he drinks it. By'n'by he sorter perks up. 'Men,' says he, 'if that's water I shore been missin' somethin' good all these years.' Nex' day he happens to ride acrost the Brazos, an' rememberin' what a treat he'd had the day before he squats down an' drinks his stummick full. Plain water."

      Silence pervaded the circle. Quagmire continued to prod the ashes with his twig.

      "Well," demanded Lispenard impatiently, "what happened then?"

      "He died," said Quagmire, voice breaking.

      Lispenard threw up his head. Grave faces looked back at him. San Saba stood on the edge of darkness, and San Saba's head jerked a trifle. Lispenard waited a little while before rising and going into the shadows. The assembled punchers sank back into the blankets one by one. Presently he came back, a transformed man. He was smiling broadly and his eyes rolled. Nobody paid him attention as he went to the chuck wagon and drew the gun from a suspended holster there. Of a sudden his voice yipped across the silence, the gun crashed twice.

      "All dam' lies! Anyhow, I know Kansas ain't dry yet! Whoooopeeee!"

      Tom sprang to his feet and knocked the gun out of Lispenard's hand. Blankets flew through the air as every cowpuncher raced for his horse. Out of the distance came an ominous rustle, a sound of horns clicking and feet stamping. Major Bob ran into the light, words lashing them all.

      "Who drew that gun?"

      "Well, I did," grumbled Lispenard, quickly sobered. "Wass trouble?"

      A steady stream of profanity droned and sputtered beyond the fire. But a clear call stopped the feverish saddling. "All right—all right. It's God's mercy they ain't spooky to- night. Somebody give that gent a fire-cracker to play with."

      Major Bob said never another word, but his glance went through and through Lispenard. He swung on his heel and disappeared.

      "It only takes the snap of a finger to stampede a herd when they're restless," explained Tom briefly.

      The crew returned. Lispenard went over and dropped the gun in its holster. Tom, watching him, saw his arms wobble and knew then what had caused the trouble. He raised his eyes to find San Saba peering through the darkness, taciturn, unwinking, and at that moment a chill shot down Tom Gillette's back and he felt the hackles rise. San Saba disappeared.

      It was on the following morning that Tom, high on a ridge, saw a small herd of buffalo feeding quietly in the plain. Turning, he raced down upon the outfit.

      "Fresh meat," he called. "Buffalo boudins."

      Major Bob slackened pace. "San Saba—Quagmire, go along. Tom, better take Mr. Lispenard for the excitement."

      The quartette assembled and galloped back up the ridge. "Hold on," said Tom. "The wind's quartering away from us. We'll swing into that ravine."

      Doubling back, they crossed the ridge farther down and got below the surface of the plain. Rifles came out of their boots. Lispenard's eyes snapped. "What now?"

      "Stick with me," adjured Tom. "We could bring down meat by squatting here and taking a long shot. But it's your party, so we'll ride among 'em. Stick with me. Pick a bull and follow him down. Ready?"

      The cavalcade gathered reins and shot out of the depression. Three hundred yards off the buffalo grazed peacefully. But as the hunters came to view their heads came up and immediately they raced away. Quagmire's horse forged ahead. San Saba veered slightly and lost some ground. Tom and Lispenard pounded on, gathering up the interval. Quagmire was riding like an Indian, and his pony flung itself directly into a breach of the herd. The puncher's bull-frog voice roared across the prairie, and his lithe body bent far in the saddle.

      Lispenard seemed to find a road for himself, and Tom, aiming at a piece of open ground, shot alongside a shaggy bull. He was, of a sudden, in the midst of confusion, dust all about him. A rifle cracked at his side, and he heard Quagmire yelling again. Giving his pony loose rein, he brought up his gun and took a fleeting aim. But he never pulled the trigger. Another shot sang through the pounding, bellowing melee; his horse stumbled, went down, heels over head. Tom, wrenching himself clear, fell ten yards away. The herd roared by, sand sprayed in his face, and though the wind was out of him, he tried to find his gun. In a moment it was all over. Crawling to his feet, he saw the herd galloping westward, Lispenard still in pursuit and losing ground. Quagmire was coming back; San Saba had already dismounted and was using his knife on a carcass.

      "Gopher hole?" asked Quagmire, dropping from the saddle.

      Tom stood by the dead horse. Blood welled out of a bullet hole just above the shoulder, and Quagmire studied it with an absolutely impassive countenance. After a time his shrewd eyes rose, and it seemed to Tom that the heat of some internal fire warmed them.

      "Call it a stray shot," said Tom briefly. "The dust was high."

      "Yeah—call it that," agreed Quagmire. In a lower tone he added, "I allus did say that one-eyed steer ort to be killed. They's trouble makers enough in this outfit without him." And he turned to skin his game. San Saba had nothing to say. Silently they packed the choice meat in the hides and rode back to camp, Tom doubling up behind Quagmire.

      Five days later the Circle G lay on the north side of the South Platte, camped outside of Ogallala. They were seventeen days from Dodge,