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Updated: June 6, 2025
The conductor about to take charge of the train was talking with the one just leaving. The range-rider saw them look at him and laugh as he approached. His blood began to warm. "I want you to run this train onto a siding," he said at once. "You the train dispatcher?" asked the new man satirically. "You know who I am. I'll say right now that the cattle on this train are suffering.
When they met at lunch, as they did more than once, the grizzled Westerner who had driven a line of steel across almost impassable mountain passes was simple and frank in talk. He had taken a fancy to this young fellow, and he let him know it. Perhaps he found something of his own engaging, dogged youth in the strong-jawed range-rider.
The brakeman enlisted the rest of the crew in the hunt, with the result that the range-rider found himself stranded on the desert ten miles from a station. He walked the ties in his high-heeled boots, and before he reached the yards his feet were sending messages of pain at every step. Reluctantly he bought a ticket to Albuquerque.
The clerk thought. "No, I reckon not. There was Mr. Simmons but that was most an hour since." "Nobody else?" "No. Why?" The range-rider turned to the stairs, took them three at a time, and followed the corridor to Room 217. He hammered on the door with his fist. A sleepy voice wanted to know who was there. "It's Steve Yeager, Mr. Threewit. I wanta see you."
"You've heard it." "I've heard other things, too. You're taking boxing lessons. You're going to need them, my friend." "The sooner the quicker," answered Steve evenly. "You'll cut that out, both of you," ordered Threewit curtly. "I'll fire you both if you don't behave." "I'm no school-kid, Threewit. I play my own hand. Sabe?" Harrison turned his cold eyes on the range-rider.
Ramon was busy that afternoon transferring mattresses and blankets from the ranch-house to the new, low-roofed bunk-house that Waring had built. Ramon fitted up three beds one for the cook, one for an old range-rider that Waring had hired when his men had left to enlist, and one for himself.
But the eyes of the man the terrible eyes that condemned men to their graves without a flicker of ruth were fixed on the range-rider with a steady compulsion filled with hidden significance. "Yes." Steve waited, alert and watchful. Presently he would understand what this grim, virile old scoundrel was driving at. "You fought him in the open. You played your cards above the table.
The dread that was always lying banked in the hearts of herself and her mother found voice. "What has he done now?" The range-rider chose his words carefully. "There was some trouble just across the border. He had to shoot ... and a man fell." Her face mirrored terror. "You mean ... dead?" "I don't know," he answered gravely. "Tell me all about it, please, the circumstances, everything."
"I wait on you myself on account you was a stranger to the city," he explained. The little man took a suit from a rack and held it at arm's length to admire it. His fingers caressed the woof of it lovingly. He evidently could bring himself to part with it only after a struggle. "Worsted. Fine goods." He leaned toward the range-rider and whispered a secret. "Imported." Clay shook his head.
"Ouch, I'm sore. Give me a lift, sergeant." They helped the cowpuncher to his feet. He took a limping step or two. Every move was torture to his outraged flesh. "Can you get me a taxi? That is, if you're sure you don't want me in yore calaboose," the range-rider said, leaning against the wall. "We'll let yuh go this time." "Much obliged to Mr. Jerry Durand.
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