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Updated: June 2, 2025
For branding irons do not always inquire very closely into the parentage of a calf that comes bouncing up stiff-legged at the end of a cowpuncher's rope. Nor need a maverick worry very long because he belongs to no one, so long as cowmen ride the range. Cattle would always stray into the Black Rim country from ranges across the mountains, and of these the Black Rim took its toll.
Hop a train for Boston, Mass., or one o' them places where you can take yore troubles to a fellow with a blue coat. Tha's where you belong." Up the street rolled Blister Haines, in time to hear the cowpuncher's suggestion. Already the news had reached the justice of what had taken place. He was one of those amiable busybodies who take care of other people's troubles for them.
Of course, he opined, she had only been making a fool of Red, too, but despite the old time-honored saw about misery loving company, he took small comfort in the thought, being rather disposed to harsher judgment of her for so unscrupulously playing upon that ignorant cowpuncher's fatuous credulity.
Dug Doble was chosen both starter and judge. Dave watched Whiskey Bill with the trained eyes of a horseman. The animal was an ugly brute as to the head. Its eyes were set too close, and the shape of the nose was deformed from the effects of the rattlesnake's sting. But in legs and body it had the fine lines of a racer. The horse was built for speed. The cowpuncher's heart sank.
"I do think this hat of Hawaiian straw is a success. And you well, I'm rather proud of my trail guide. Used you to dress like that in your cowboy days?" Nick laughed. "Great Scot, no! I'd have been in rags in no time. Didn't you ever see a cowpuncher's 'shaps'?" "No; I don't even know what they are. Have you kept your cowboy things?" "Oh, yes. They're knocking around somewhere.
"Jest depends on the man, I guess." There was a nasty tone in the cowpuncher's voice and trouble seemed imminent, but it was fortunately nipped in the bud by Jack McCabe. "Hello!" the butcher exclaimed excitedly, "there's a feller pushin' his plug as tho' them Injuns was on his heels.
They cross-raised the boy, working together to mulct him of the pile of chips in front of him. It was the Mexican who sat with his back to the wall that drew and held the cowpuncher's eye. He too was slender, not much past thirty, but with the youth long since stamped out of his face.
The first thing he did was to remove the automatic revolver from the cowpuncher's chaps, the second to wind the rope tightly around his legs. Steve made no comment, asked no questions. He knew that he would find out all about it in time. Just now he was not running the show. "I expect your arms must be tired grabbin' at the stars. Drop 'em down clost to your sides. That's fine.
We keep her for a ransom because that's business. But she's as safe here as she would be at the Rocking Chair. She's got York Neil's word for that." The Wolf snarled. "The word of a miscreant. That'll comfort her a heap. And York Neil's word don't always go up here." The cowpuncher's steady eyes met him. "It'll go this time." The girl gave her champion a quiet little nod and a low "Thank you."
Just as they headed again toward the bluff, Arizona gave a great yank at his reins and his pony was thrown upon its haunches. The Lady Jezebel, too, as though working in concert with her mate, suddenly stopped dead. The cause of the cowpuncher's action was a solitary horseman standing right ahead of them gazing out at the bluff.
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