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Madeline had been wavering between sobriety and laughter until Stillwell's mention of his ideal of cowboy chivalry decided in favor of the laughter. "I am not convinced, but I surrender," she said. "You have only some occult motive for driving me away. I am sure that handsome Don Carlos is being unjustly suspected.
The spy handed, in silence, to the astounded man a sealed envelope, which was the tidings of an impending Waterloo. "Miss Worthington arrived night before last, with Boardman and Warner. They came on in a special car via the Pennsylvania road. She is at A. C. Stillwell's town house on Central Park West. The lawyers are both at the University Club.
"Wal, Miss Majesty, we've gone an' made a foozle right at the start," he said, dejectedly. "A foozle? But the game has not yet begun," replied Madeline. "A bad start, I mean. It's amazin' bad, an' we're licked already." "What in the world is wrong?" She wanted to laugh, but Stillwell's distress restrained her. "Wal, it's this way. That darn Monty is as cute an' slick as a fox.
There was not any possibility of Stillwell's friends at the ranch forgetting his favorite cowboy. Stillwell always prefaced his eulogy with an apologetic statement that Stewart had gone to the bad. Madeline liked to listen to him, though she was not always sure which news was authentic and which imagination.
In two hours Arthur Ferris had made the formal toilet for a professional duel of wits. He was the first caller when the silver-haired counselor had dispatched his morning mail. Mr. Stillwell's frosty blue eyes gleamed with an Arctic light as Arthur Ferris opened his masked batteries. In all that long ride down Broadway, Ferris had arranged the "subject matter" evidently to his own satisfaction.
Next morning, true to Stillwell's prophecy, Frank Slade, Jim's bunkmate, presented himself cheerfully to Madeline and unbosomed himself of a long-deferred and persistent desire to relieve his overworked comrade of some of the house-keeping in their bunk. "Miss Hammond," said Frank, "Jim's orful kind wantin' to do it all hisself. But he ain't very bright, an' I didn't believe him.
He's fifteen miles off, and I sure wish he were a thousand. That little green square about half-way between here and Don Carlos that's Al's ranch. Just below us are the adobe houses of the Mexicans. There's a church, too. And here to the left you see Stillwell's corrals and bunk-houses and his stables all falling to pieces. The ranch has gone to ruin. All the ranches are going to ruin.
Stillwell's great bulk quivered with his rage, yet he made a successful effort to control it. "See hyar, Pat Hawe, I know what's reasonable. Law is law. But in this country there always has been an' is now a safe an' sane way to proceed with the law. Mebbe you've forgot that.
But, Stillwell, if you drive those vaqueros off, won't they hang around in the foothills? I declare they are a bad lot." Stillwell's mind was not at ease. He paced the porch with a frown clouding his brow. "Gene, I reckon you got this Greaser deal figgered better'n me," said Stillwell. "Now what do you say?" "He'll have to be forced off," replied Stewart, quietly.
Madeline heard Stillwell's voice, and evidently he was explaining that his team was to have skilled advice during the play. Suddenly there came from the center of the group a loud, angry roar that broke off as suddenly. Then followed excited voices all mingled together. Presently Monty appeared, breaking away from restraining hands, and he strode toward Madeline.
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