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His white moleskin trousers were tucked into the tops of his Wellington boots, and a cartridge belt, from which hung a revolver and holster, was slung about his waist. His upper covering was a simple, gray flannel shirt, gaping wide open across his sunburnt chest, and his modest-hued silk handkerchief tied loosely about his neck. "Leeson Butte's getting quite a city," Buck went on presently.
"Where can I find one a lawyer, or sheriff?" she demanded with an added imperiousness. "Guess Leeson Butte's nearest." The stranger considered a moment. Beasley's eyes never left her. He had noticed the refinement of her accent, and wondered the more. "How can I get there best?" the woman next demanded. "Guess I ken let you have a team," Beasley said with alacrity. He smelt good business.
"Yes, I know; but the letter Vic brought from Henry made no mention of another boy, and there are three with that herd. But let us make the signal and see what will happen." Standing up and advancing to the edge of the butte's top, I waved my handkerchief from side to side, keeping my eyes fixed upon the three boys.
How the wolver raved to see the pack lead off in the climax of the chase, and himself held up behind. But he rode and wrathed and still rode, up to where the cañon dwindled rough land and a hard ride. As we neared the great flat mountain, the feeble cry of the pack was heard again from the south, then toward the high Butte's side, and just a trifle louder now.
To that end he first of all climbed the tallest pinon tree in sight; a tree that stood on a rise of ground apart from its brothers. From the concealment of its branches, he surveyed his surroundings carefully, noting especially the notched unevenness of the butte's rim and how just behind him it narrowed unexpectedly to a thin ridge not more than a couple of hundred yards in breadth.
If he had gone as far as he ought to you wouldn't be laying there they'd just about now be hiding your dirty carcass under six feet of 'dobe!" Sabota mumbled some guttural, unintelligible reply. "Listen, you infernal skunk," Old Heck went on coldly, "as quick as you're able to travel you'll find Eagle Butte's a right good place to get away from! You understand what I mean.
He pressed his foot on the "starter," threw the clutch into gear and turning the car about drove slowly toward the home of Reverend Hector R. Patterson, Eagle Butte's only resident clergyman. He did not speak until the car stopped at the gate of the little unpainted parsonage beside the white, weather-boarded church.
To-day the Vermejo cattleman had been worse than usual, due, no doubt, to the rotten boot-leg whisky the brute-like proprietor of Eagle Butte's rather disreputable Amusement Parlor was supposed secretly to dispense to those who had the price and the "honor" to keep sacred the source of supply. Old Heck was sore and he was ready to go the limit in backing the Gold Dust maverick.
Pending the arrival of trains he divides his time between the front steps of the old hotel and the Elite Amusement Parlor, Eagle Butte's single den of iniquity where pocket pool, billiards, solo devilish dissipations these! along with root beer, ginger ale, nut sundaes, soda-pop, milk shakes and similar enticements are served to those, of reckless and untamed temperaments.
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