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Updated: June 6, 2025
The range-rider knew without being told that this hand had been dealt from a cold deck for the express purpose of cleaning out the boy. From the tenseness of the lithe body, which had become, as it were, a coiled spring, he knew that the lad's suspicions were stirring to life. The greedy little eyes of Culvera fastened on the boy. He made his first mistake. "How much you play back, Pheelip?"
But Overland was in the road, hat in hand, and Yuma's bridle-reins over one arm. "'Mornin', Billy! 'Mornin', Doctor! You run right up to the house. I left the gate open." Then Overland rode back, following them. Later he reappeared, minus spurs and chaps, but still clad in the garb of the range-rider. He was as proud and happy as a boy. He seemed to have dropped ten years from his shoulders.
Then in that boyish spirit that never quite leaves the range-rider, Overland Red took the tobacco and papers and cleverly rolled a cigarette with one hand. In the other he held his battered felt hat. His eyes had a far-away look as he reached forward and lighted his cigarette at the fire.
He was not thinking about his thirty-five dollars, but about the futile race into which he had allowed his little beauty to be trapped. Dave would not be twenty-one till coming grass, and it still hurt his boyish pride to think that his favorite had been beaten. Another lank range-rider drifted up. "Same here, Dave. I'll kiss my twenty bucks good-bye cheerful.
"He comes by that tough mug honestly. That's Jerry Durand." "The prize-fighter?" "Yep. Used to be. He's a gang leader in New York now. On his way back from the big fight in 'Frisco." "He was some scrapper," admitted the range-rider. "Almost won the championship once, didn't he?" "Lost on a foul. He always was a dirty fighter. I saw him the time he knocked out Reddy Moran."
The range-rider followed the boy's glance around the immediate neighborhood, noting the station agent and the two or three figures in front of the general store, who formed the sum of the visible population, and nodded. "Bein' the star performer, then," he went on, "it might be a safe bet that you was sort of prospectin' for the Double Bar J." "That was the name of the ranch," said the boy.
He was expecting to see one of his friends from below. A stare of blank astonishment gave way to a leaping flicker of fear. The crook jumped to his feet, tugging at his gun. Before he could fire, the range-rider had closed with him. The plunging attack drove Doble back against the table, a flimsy, round-topped affair which gave way beneath this assault upon it. The two men went down in the wreck.
"Miss Beatrice she's got too good judgment for that." "I ought to go away. I'm only bringing Mr. Lindsay trouble. If he just could hear from his friends in Arizona about that place he's trying to get me, I'd go right off." He looked at her wistfully. The bow-legged range-rider was in no hurry to have her go.
The camera man was nothing if not a loyal admirer of the range-rider. They talked in whispers, eager and excited with the possibility of rescue that had come. Somehow, of all the men they had known, they banked more on Steve Yeager in such an emergency than any other. It was not alone his physical vigor, though that counted, since it gave him so complete a mastery over himself.
The range-rider made a gesture of angry impatience. "You obey orders fine, don't you?" His face flashed sudden anger. "Get out. I know my plans, don't I? Pull your freight. Vamos!" "And you'll be along later, will you?" "Of course I will. I've got it all arranged. Hurry, or it will be too late." Ruth half guessed his purpose. She began to sob, but let herself be hurried away by Farrar.
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