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Updated: May 3, 2025
Why should I trust you to help take a trainload of my cattle through?" "You can wire to Mr. Crawford at Malapi and ask him about me," the young fellow suggested. "How long you ride for him?" "Three years comin' grass." "How do I knew you you're the man you say you are?" "One of yore boys knows me Bud Holway." West grunted again. He knew Emerson Crawford well.
"Well, where does this trail go?" "To an old logging camp, first, then from there there is a road leading over to Malapi." Rogers lowered his hand from his ear and looked thoughtful for a moment. "Many men at the camp?" "No, I think it's been abandoned for two or three years," replied the drill runner. Rogers slapped his hand on his leg, and seemed confident again.
"And you want?" "Financial backing to put it on its feet until we can market the product." "Why don't you work through your local bank?" "Another oil man, an enemy of our company, controls the Malapi bank." Graham fired question after question at him, crisply, abruptly, and Sanders gave him back straight, short answers. "Sit down," ordered the railroad builder, resuming his own seat.
We've got to get all Malapi busy. A dozen business men have got to come down and open up their stores so's we can get supplies," agreed Emerson. Joyce, her face flushed and eager, broke in. "Ring the fire bell. That's the quickest way." "Sure enough. You got a haid on yore shoulders. Dave, you attend to that. Bob, hit the dust for the big saloons and gather men.
In a moment of nerve tension, summoning all her courage, she asked the killer from the cattle country if he would mind leaving. He smiled grimly and began to pack. For several days he had seen it coming. When he left, the expressman took his trunk to the station. The ticket which Sanders bought showed Malapi as his destination. In the early morning Dave turned to rest his cramped limbs.
Graham has instructed me to tell you gentlemen he'll look into your proposition. I am wiring an oil expert in Denver to return with you to Malapi. If his report is favorable, Mr. Graham will cooperate with you in developing the field." It was the morning after his return. Emerson Crawford helped himself to another fried egg from the platter and shook his knife at the bright-eyed girl opposite.
He was hungry for the fleshpots of Malapi. If they dropped in late at night, stayed a few hours, and kept under cover, they could probably slip out of town undetected. The recklessness of his nature found an appeal in the danger. "Damfidon't trail along, Dug." "Yore say-so about that." "Like to see my own picture on the poles. Sawed-off li'l runt. Straight black hair. Some bowlegged.
The loop of Crawford's lariat still encircled the gross neck of the convict. Crawford and Dave, with their prisoner, lay out in the chaparral for an hour, then made their way back to Malapi by a wide circuit. They did not want to meet Shorty and Doble, for that would result in a pitched battle. They preferred rather to make a report to the sheriff and let him attempt the arrest of the bandits.
"Some one steal a hawss from you?" Dave told his story. West listened to a finish. "I know a lawyer here. We'll ask him what to do," the ranchman said. They found the lawyer at the Athletic Club. West stated the case. "Your remedy is to replevin. If they fight, you'll have to bring witnesses to prove ownership." "Bring witnesses from Malapi! Why, I can't do that," said Dave, staggered.
After which he told of cheating Death in quicksand fords, of day-long battles with naked Apaches in the malapi, of fighting off bandits from the stage while the driver kept the horses on a run up Dragoon Pass, of grim old ranchmen stalking cattle-thieves by night, of frontier sheriffs and desperadoes and a wilderness that was more savage than the wild riders who sought sanctuary within its arid solitudes.
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