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"Which books that a-way," observed the Old Cattleman, "that is, story-books, is onfrequent in Wolfville." He was curiously examining Stevenson's "Treasure Island," that he had taken from my hand.
"What's new?" "We got these birds goin', looks like. In about an hour now we're allowin' to hop down into the gulch real sudden an' give 'em merry hell." Dud reported to Harshaw. The cattleman dropped a hand on his rider's shoulder with a touch of affection. He was very fond of the gay young fellow. "Thought they'd bumped you off, boy. Heap much glad to see you. What do you know?"
"Go inside, and I reckon Ira can give you some medicine fur that appetite Hank spoke about." Hazletine led the way to the small covered porch where Ira Garrison, another cattleman, rose to his feet and shook hands with the boys, expressing his pleasure at receiving a visit from them. All three of the arrivals sat down at the front, while Ira passed inside and lighted an oil-lamp.
The Old Cattleman tilted his chair back and challenged my interest with his eye. "The corrals is full of pack mules an' bull teams an' wagon-trains; an' white men, Mexicans, half-breeds an' Injuns is a-mixin' an' meanderin' 'round, a-lyin' an' a-laughin' an' a-drinkin' of Red Light whiskey mighty profuse.
A third, a fourth, and a fifth time Phil lashed out at the disfigured, grinning face. "Let's make it an even half dozen," the cattleman suggested. But Phil had had enough of it. This was too much like butchery. His passion had spent itself. He struck, but with no force behind the blow. Weaver went to the washstand, dashed some water on his face, and pressed a towel against the raw wounds.
I was about to make a disturbance, when the little cattleman, leaning over, fire in his eye and gun in hand, made it for me. Evidently he was a keener and nervier gambler than he had been taken for. There might have been gun-play right then if Steele had not interfered. "Hold on!" he yelled, leaping for our table. "Put up your gun!" "Who are you?" demanded the cattleman, never moving.
"Thought your game was called, eh?" grinned the cattleman. "Sure. I had a tidy little thing in black-jack running and was pulling in the iron boys, one after another. Why didn't you tip me off? You could have sat in with us." "Nope; I'm here on business." "Let's have it." He led the way into a back room and placed the lamp on a table littered with cards and a black bottle looming in the centre.
"Got me son!" the cattleman jerked out. Quickly the Texan tore away his shirt. He did not have to examine the wound to see how deadly it was; one glance was enough. Shot a few inches under the heart, McCay was dying on his feet. "I'm done all right," he grunted. "Listen, Tip. And you, Kid Wolf. I know yo're a true-blue friend. I want yuh to recover those cattle, if yuh ever get out of here alive.
But the others he saw only to eliminate them from suspicion. One glance at each of them was enough to give them a clean bill so far as the mystery went. They knew nothing whatever about it. Lane rode out to Olson's place and found him burning brush. The cattleman explained that he was from Wyoming and wanted to sell some registered Herefords.
Two hundred miles, Miss Majesty! An' all as clear as print! An' the sun sets behind all thet! When my time comes to die I'd like it to be on my porch smokin' my pipe an' facin' the west." So the old cattleman talked on while Madeline listened, and Florence dozed in her seat, and the sun began to wane, and the horses climbed steadily.
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