The Project Gutenberg eBook of Blind trails

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Title: Blind trails

Author: W. C. Tuttle

Release date: May 16, 2026 [eBook #78695]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: The Ridgway Company, 1923

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78695

Credits: Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BLIND TRAILS ***

BLIND TRAILS

By W. C. Tuttle

Author of “Reputation,” “The Misdeal,” etc.

“Peace River” Parker turned from unsaddling a sweat-marked gray horse and picked up his saddle. He was a tall, gaunt-looking cowpuncher. His bat-winged chaps were polished from much usage, his thin cotton shirt indefinite of color was topped by a black muffler and atop his head rode a high-crown sombrero.

“Peace” Parker was not handsome by any manner of means. His hair was an unruly mop of almost roan color, his nose much larger than necessary and a mouth all out of proportion. But his eyes were a clear gray and set wide apart.

Now he stood in the shade of the tall, pole corral, holding the saddle by one hand, while he squinted toward the Cross L ranch-house a hundred yards away. It was a low, rambling sort of a building, with a wide veranda running across the front. It had been originally a one-room affair, painted white, with blue trimmings. But, as each addition had been built, it seemed as though the taste in decorations had changed, and each addition had a color all its own.

Behind and on the opposite side of the house grew several tall cottonwoods, while in the front yard there had been some attempt to grow a flower garden and some rose bushes, but the effort of water-bucket irrigation had been too much and the garden did not thrive.

There was a black horse tied to a corner of the veranda; a racy-looking animal, surmounted by a silver-decorated, swell-forked saddle, which flashed in the sunlight, as the black moved impatiently.

Peace Parker looked at this horse for a long time, but no hint of his thoughts was depicted on his face. He turned his head slowly and looked down at his saddle. It was as if he were trying to remember just what he was going to do with that saddle.

A slight twitch of his head, which might have been a negative answer to one of his unspoken questions, and he went slowly toward the bunk-house, a long, one-room structure, facing the same way as the ranchhouse, but farther back toward the tall barn.

As he stopped at the bunk-house door, a man came out of the kitchen, slammed the door and stood on the narrow step, looking around. He saw Peace Parker and greeted him with an upward jerk of his hand and arm as he strode down toward him.

This man was “Cross L” Marshall, owner of the ranch. He was a smaller man than Parker; a typical old-time cattleman. He was slightly bow-legged and walked with elbows bent at his sides. An enormous hunk of tobacco deformed one side of his face and caused one of his mustaches to assume a belligerent angle. His lips were slightly compressed and his blue eyes seemed to reprove Peace Parker.

“What’s achin’ yuh?” Peace smiled slightly at the older man.

Marshall did not speak for several moments. He turned and squinted toward the house, spat explosively and scratched his shoulders against the bunk-house wall. Then he shifted his tobacco and squinted at Peace.

“Achin’ me? Huh!”

He jerked his thumb toward the house.

“Whatcha think? More candy. Uh-huh. —— it, he uses vas’leen on his hair!”

“They tell me,” said Peace slowly, “that it’s good for the hair. Looks kinda slick and pretty.”

“Yeah?” A shift of the tobacco made the mustache assume a more belligerent attitude.

“Does, eh?”

“You don’t hate vaseline, do yuh?” queried Peace.

“No, but by ——!”

Cross L Marshall glared at Peace and shook his head violently.

“I don’t sabe you, Peace. Yo’re what Jim Horn used to call a en-ig-maw. Yeah, yuh are. Yo’re like some of the race horses them slickers brought here last Summer. One of ’em had a stifle, two ringbones and a broken nose.

“Couldn’t run. ’Course they couldn’t run. How in —— could that kind of a critter run, I ask yuh? Jim Horn said it was a en-ig-maw, whatever that is. I bet agin’ it and lost five hundred dollars and a span of work horses.”

Peace Parker smiled softly.

“But I ain’t got no ring-bones nor——”

“Yes, yuh have,” interrupted Marshall, “Yours are inside yore head, where they don’t show open-like. Them is the worst kind t’ have.”

Marshall spat thoughtfully and nodded his head.

“As a cow-hand, yo’re first-class, Peace. Yeah, I’d go so far as to say that you sabe the cow business, but when it comes to anythin’ else, you qualify as a first-class —— fool. What do yuh think of that?”

Marshall squinted quizzically at Peace and waited for him to speak.

“Maybe,” said Peace softly, “if I wasn’t a first-class —— fool, I might be somethin’ better than a first-class cow-hand.”

“Aw-w-w ——, I didn’t mean it that-away.”

Marshall’s tone was contrite and he grasped Peace by the arm.

“You make me so —— mad, Peace! I say things that I don’t mean, don’tcha know it? Yo’re the best danged——”

Marshall stopped and glared toward the porch.

“Peace River Parker, I—I dunno.”

Peace smiled at Marshall’s serious face.

“What do yuh reckon I better do, Marshall?”

“Do?”

The mustaches bristled again.

“By grab, if it was me, I’d go up there and—uh——”

“No, yuh wouldn’t.”

Peace shook his head.

“Now let me tell yuh about me, Cross L. Jess is of age. She can do about as she pleases. If Frank Campion comes to see her, what right have I got to object?”

Peace smiled softly and shook his head.

“He ain’t comin’ to see me.”

“My gosh, you two are engaged, ain’tcha?”

“Ye-e-es, but we ain’t married, Cross L.”

“All right, all right! None of my —— business, eh? Ain’t got nothin’ t’ say about who I git for a son-in-law, eh? This is gittin’ to be a fine country. Feller can’t have nothin’. When that Campion leaves, I’m goin’ t’ give Jess a little —— of a good talk, y’betcha.”

“You let her alone,” advised Peace coldly.

“Thasso?” Marshall squinted closely at Peace.

“Say, what in ——’s the matter with you? Don’tcha want her?”

Peace stared at Marshall for a moment and then stooped over to unbuckle one of his spurs. It took several moments to remove the two spurs, which gave him time to evade the direct question.

“That gray bronc bucked half-way to End-Gate Creek this mornin,’ Cross L. Dang near made me grab leather. Ain’t been shook up thataway for quite a while. Ought to sell him to Barney Edwards, I reckon. Barney is pickin’ up broncs for some of the Eastern rodeos, and that gray would make some of them contesters ride high and handsome, y’betcha.”

“Uh-huh,” uninterestedly. “You do it. Didja hear anythin’ new in Tarp City?”

Peace shook his head.

“No-o-o. I kinda thought I’d hear from Gus Sinks, but there wasn’t no word. Feller from Sun Prairie said that the feed was pretty good agin. They had a good lot of rain up there, he said.

“I told Gus to let me know if he got any kind of an offer for them sheep, but I don’t reckon there’s been any buyers through there lately. I’d sure like to get them off my hands.”

Cross L Marshall grunted explosively and Peace turned. Frank Campion had vaulted the porch-rail and was preparing to mount the black horse. Jess Marshall, dressed all in white, leaned across the railing and talked to him.

From his raiment, Frank Campion was either a range dandy or a “dude cowboy,” just out of college. He was dark complexioned, thin-faced and sported a tiny mustache. His hair was so sleek that it glistened in the sun like patent-leather and was of the latest approved cut.

His clothes, patterned after the range fashion, were of the finest quality, but he mounted his horse with the ease and grace of a top-hand cowpuncher.

Cross L Marshall was swearing softly to himself, as Campion galloped away toward the main road, and Peace River looked curiously at him. Jess had turned away from their sight.

“What you got against Campion?” asked Peace.

“Not a danged thing! I just hate the name, Peace. Once upon a time, I knocked —— out of a Campion. It was down in Wyoming a long time ago. I reckon it was a dirty deal, but I was kinda young and wild in them days.

“I know yuh won’t repeat it so I’ll tell yuh how it was. Me and Joe Campion was bunkies in them days. It was a lot easier to lift a bunch of cows than to work at forty a month; so we kinda helped ourselves.

“We was around the town of Searchlight, if I remember right. Anyway, me and Joe got stuck on the same girl. We had a bunch of cows tucked away on a branch of Lost Cow river, waitin’ for the right time to drift ’em across the divide.

“Then we proceeds to git stuck on this girl. I reckon we made love jist like we stole cows—kinda fast-like. If that girl had been twins, everythin’ would ’a’ been fine, but one girl ain’t enough for two gunpackin’ lovers. Anyway,” Marshall spat reflectively, “we settled it out of court and I hammered —— out of Joe.”

“Bein’ a pair of danged fools, I reckon we thought that settled which one was to get the girl. Anyway, Joe had a danged mean disposition and he goes to the sheriff and has a talk with him about me.

“’Course I don’t know this until the sheriff asks me to rattle my hocks out of town. He says that I’m suspected of covetin’ my neighbor’s property and that I’d better high-tail it out while the gate is open.

“Me and him kinda talks things over and I finds that this danged Campion is responsible. Joe decides to set the law on my trail. Then I asks the sheriff how he’d like to put the deadwood on a rustler and I finds him plumb willin’.”

Marshall laughed shortly.

“I was mad then and I’m mad yet. I told the sheriff where to find that bunch of cows, and if he watched long enough he’d find the man who put ’em there. Then I went to Joe and told him I was foggin’ out that night, ’cause the sheriff was onto me. Joe sure sympathized a heap with me and promised to split the cow money with me later on.

“And that was the last time I ever heard of the dirty pup. I never heard what happened. He sure tried to frame me into the penitentiary and beat me out of the girl I had won with m’ bare hands.”

“Didja go and tell the girl good-by?” asked Peace.

“—— no! She was the sheriff’s daughter.”

Marshall chuckled and bit off a fresh chew, while Peace leaned against the bunkhouse door and grinned at Marshall.

“I’ll bet you was a tough rooster when you was young, Cross L.”

“Dang right! Play ’em high and sleep in the street—that was me. But I had brains when it come to wimmin.’”

Peace smiled softly and shook his head.

“I don’t s’pose I have,” he admitted, “but I’ll likely tell somebody that I did have—when I get older. Lookin’ back kinda gives folks a wrong impression of what they’ve done.

“I ain’t never got the combination, Cross L. Women, to me, is a heap like a roulette wheel. I guess red and she comes black. I’ll bet on a horse, but never on a woman. I reckon that God A’mighty made ’em thataway on purpose, so that a fool man won’t get so smart that he thinks he knows it all.”

“Meanin’ that I don’t know wimmin, Peace River?”

“Yeah. And meanin’ that you know —— well yuh don’t. Want me to bring them Herefords up from the Bar X Bar tomorrow?”

“Always want to change the subject, when it’s somethin’ I know all about,” complained Cross L. “Talk cows! You don’t know nothin’ but cows, Peace River Parker. I wish t’gosh yuh knows more about wimmin. I hope that Campion gits bucked off on his vas-leen hair and skids plumb out of Chinook Valley, that’s what I wish. But—” quickly—“he sure does sabe wimmin’, y’betcha.”

The Valley of the Chinook was practically a mountain-locked stronghold of the cattlemen. It was about thirty miles in length with an average width of seven miles. At the north end of the valley several glacier-fed streams met to form the Chinook River, which wound its crooked way southward, feeding from more tributaries until it roared its formidable way out through a snake-like box cañon at the extreme south end and joined with the Fossilshell River twenty miles beyond.

Poncho Pass, a V-shaped notch in the cliffs which encircled the valley, was the only well-known entrance and exit. The road was a succession of narrow grades, climbing out of the valley to where it sloped sharply off to the shipping center, Tarp City.

Pasiooks was the only town in the valley and was situated nearly midway. At one time it had been an old French trading post, and the Indians named it with the Chinook word which meant French. Pasiooks was about thirty miles from Tarp City, which was the county seat of that particular county.

The Chinook was a cattlemen’s paradise, and many a stock-man looked with envious eyes upon the rolling hills, the many cottonwood lined streams which furnished an abundance of water and the encircling, impassable range of mountains which precluded any chance of cattle-stealing and served to break the force of Winter storms.

With Poncho Pass as the only outlet, horse and cattle thieves left Chinook severely alone. The sheep-men grumbled at the name. Their only range, the Sun Prairie country, was sheeped out and dotted with the bones of blizzard and drouth victims. To the south of them was the Fossilshell cattle range, where cowpunchers rode the dead-line, that no sheep might stray across.

But the cattlemen of the Chinook lived secure in their own tight little valley, herded their fat cattle over Poncho Pass to the loading pens at Tarp City, banked their checks at Pasiooks and waited for the next herd to fatten on the rich bunch-grass.

Bart Severn had owned the Three Dot outfit for several years and was rated as a rich man, but he hated the narrow confines of the Chinook, and when Frank Campion offered a big price for the Three Dot, Severn sold out to him.

The price was almost prohibitive, but Campion paid it willingly. He proved himself to be a plunger; a gambler who played money instead of his cards. Instead of keeping the Three Dot cowpunchers he brought in “Tiny” Bender, a giant of a man, Gus Mehl and “Blackie” Erne.

They were all capable looking men and minded their own business. Once a month they went on a “bust” in Tarp City, and Frank Campion went with them. Bender, Mehl and Erne did not associate with any of the Chinook punchers, but seemed to hold themselves aloof.

But Frank Campion was a “mixer.” He drank hard, rode wildly and was belligerent in his cups but he also danced well, sang in a ringing baritone voice and never seemed to lack for something to say. There was no denying the fact that Frank Campion was fast becoming the most popular young bachelor in the Valley of the Chinook.

Peace River Parker had been foreman for the Cross-L for a long time, and was respected by every man and woman in the valley. A few months prior to this time, Peace had just finished a prison term although innocent of the charge.

His return had stopped a sheep invasion of the valley, and ended in the death of the invaders after Peace’s innocence of the former charge had been proven.

And Peace Parker had inherited the sheep, as a payment for the years he had lost in the prison. One of the guilty parties, a weasel-faced outlaw, Gus Sinks, whom Peace had saved from the enraged citizens of Tarp City, had been sentenced by Peace to herd that particular band of sheep.

And Gus Sinks went gladly. He would have walked through burning brimstone for Peace River Parker. Sinks was a one-idea man and that idea was to serve Peace Parker regardless of what it might entail. Thereupon he trailed the big herd of bleating sheep into a land which was cursed by all cowpunchers and became a sheepherder.

And to a cattleman or cowpuncher, “Greater love hath no man shown than to turn shepherd through friendship.”

Peace Parker was engaged to Jess Marshall, but, as Peace told Cross L Marshall, they were not married yet. Jess Marshall’s mother was dead, but she had left Jess a sweet disposition and capabilities beyond those of the average girl. Jess was not a beautiful girl, as beauty standards are measured, but she was attractive and worth looking at more than once.

Peace Parker had worshiped her for years, and she had confessed her love for him, but still he hesitated over the marriage problem.

“Yuh gotta be sure, Peace River,” he told himself time and again. “I’m sure about me, but can she look across the table three times a day at this face of mine and still keep her sweet disposition? I’d hate to think she can’t, but I’d rather find it out ahead of time.”

He did not show by word or deed that he resented the visits of Frank Campion which were becoming more frequent. He did not mention it to Jess. Jim Horn and Bert Hart, the other two cowpunchers, resented it openly. They were loyal to Peace River and agreed that Frank Campion was breeding a lot of trouble for himself.

They knew that Peace Parker would fight a buzz-saw with his bare hands and that no man in that country was as swift and deadly with a six-shooter.

“I tell yuh, Campion’s goin’ to arrive home without his top-knot some of these days,” declared Jim Horn, “and old Peace River’ll be wearin’ a vaseline-slicked scalp on his belt. Yuh can jist push the old Peace feller so far and then somethin’ rips.”

“I’ve got a danged good notion to say somethin’ to Jess,” said Bert Hart. “She ought to know that she’s smokin’ her pipe in a niter-glycerin’ fact’ry.”

“You lay off that kinda stuff,” advised Jim. “She’s plumb enamored by that slickear and if you start any argument she’ll think Peace sent yuh.”

“Yeah, I reckon that’s right, Jim. I dunno what in —— Campion wants a cowranch for. If I had his money, I’d be danged if anybody could sell me a ranch. I’d go to Helena and buy me three suits of clothes, three shirts, three pairs of socks and some neckties. Yessir, I’d go plumb hawg-wild on clothes. I’d get me a derby hat; one of them flat-topped jiggers, and some heel-yuh-trope per-fume. Mamma mine, I’d sure hang on the dog! That’s the way to do when yuh got money.”

“I wouldn’t.”

Jim stretched out in the shade of the bunk-house and began rolling a cigaret.

“I’d buy me a —— of a good bronc and I’d hit for the South Sea Islands. I’m plumb sick and tired of wearin’ flannel underclothes and buckin’ blizzards in the Winter. They say that folks don’t have to wear flannels down there in the Winter, and that’s the range I’m headin’ for when I get rich.”

“You’ve got a —— of a idea of how to spend money!” snorted Bert. “Yuh don’t need money down there.”

“Tha’s all right, Bert. Anythin’ to get rid of wearin’ them danged woolly shirts. I can go there if I want to, can’t I? You ain’t tryin’ to stop me, are yuh?”

“Go ahead,” magnanimously. “Don’t let me stop yuh, cowboy. I’ll take mine to Helena and buy out a clothing store. I’ve allus wanted one of them flat-topped derby hats.”

All of which serves to give an idea of the lofty ambitions of Bert Hart and Jim Horn. In appearance they were as unlike as their ambitions. Jim was thin, dark of features and with a crooked nose, while Bert was fleshy, blond, and his fat face was decorated with a stubby nose, almost bridgeless. His eyes were set far apart and almost Oriental in contour.

But they were both top-hands in the rangeland and had been with the Cross L for more than two years.

The visits of Frank Campion annoyed Cross L Marshall. He spluttered and ——ed everybody for everything, but did not speak about it to Jess. He knew her too well for that. She was a chip off the old block, as far as resenting interference was concerned, and Cross L knew that a word from him would not be well received.

Which accounts for the fact that Cross L did not keep his word and “give her a little —— of a good talk, y’betcha.”

Peace was in his usual good humor that evening and several times he caught Jess watching him from across the supper table. He felt that she was comparing him to Frank Campion and it made him conscious of the fact that, as far as facial and tonsorial beauty was concerned, he was hardly a match.

But he felt no anger against Campion; none against Jess. Perhaps, down deep in his big heart he felt a bitter ache against an unkind fate, but he was big enough to keep it hidden.

“It’ll all come out in the wash,” he assured himself that night. “I reckon I’m playin’ for the Double O on this old human roulette wheel and there’s a lot of odds agin’ me. Mebbe the old dealer has got the thing fixed, but I’m still hopin’ to win out. If I don’t, I’m just a homely old cowpuncher, and I’ll get along—kinda.”

The next day was Saturday and pay-day, which was the big day for the cowpuncher. Hart and Horn both decided to go to Tarp City; so Peace, needing a new pair of overalls and boots, decided to go with them. Peace decided to leave the Bar X Bar Herefords until Monday, as both of his cowpunchers were eager for a fling at the Tarp City games. Just before they saddled their horses, Frank Campion, Mehl, Erne and Bender rode past, heading toward the Pass. They did not even wave toward the Cross L boys, but swept past at a gallop, looking straight ahead.

“Them jaspers need a curryin’,” growled Hart. “You’d think they was the four kings of Calcutta.”

Hart knew nothing of kings and less of Calcutta, but no one disputed his statement.

“They sure are uppity as ——!”

Jim Horn grunted an agreement as he shook out his rope.

“Mebbe,” thoughtfully, “somebody will curry ’em.”

Peace swung his saddle off the peg and looked back at Jim.

“Keep clear of that gang, if yuh know what’s good for yuh, Jim,” he said slowly. “Bender looks like he could whip a dozen men at once, and they’re all slickers with a gun, if yuh can judge by the way they wear ’em.”

“Sa-a-ay!” drawled Jim in astonishment. “You ain’t scared of that outfit, are yuh, Peace River?”

“Well,” Peace grinned softly and unfolded a gaudy saddle-blanket, “I ain’t scared—no. You fellers might drink quite a lot tonight, and whisky kinda makes a feller cover too much territory in his remarks. Whisky sure spoils yore sense of distance, direction and discretion, and I don’t want no cripples loafin’ around here.”

“We’ll get a lunch while they’re gettin’ a feast,” said Hart meaningly, but added quickly, “we ain’t startin’ no trouble, yuh understand, but we’ll be Johnny at the rat-hole if it does start.”

Peace smiled softly and led the way out to the corral. He knew that the two cowboys, after a few drinks, would not wait for trouble to start and he hated to think that they might tangle with the Campion gang.

With practically all of the cowboys from Chinook and those from the Fossilshell in Tarp City, there was no chance that a trouble hunter would not be accommodated. He knew that Buck Houston, the sheriff, would keep order as long as possible to salve his own conscience and then go home, trusting in the Lord that nothing serious would happen.

Barney McManus, the deputy, would dog Houston’s footsteps until Houston went home, and then Barney would proceed to forget that he was the sole representative of law and order and become an ordinary cowpuncher again with a cowpuncher’s idea of things as they should be.

Tarp City was a he-man’s town on payday, and Peace Parker found the hitch-racks already filled when they rode in dusty and tired from the trip. Hart and Horn immediately stabled their horses, but Peace tied his to a hitch-rack, along with a nondescript lot of broncos from the Fossilshell.

Across the street in front of the Royal saloon he saw the four saddle-horses from the Three Dot. Campion had ridden the racy-looking black, which was salty with dried sweat and looked leg-weary. Peace frowned slightly. He loved a good horse and he knew that Campion had given the black a grueling run to Tarp City and had left it in the chill winds of the street, instead of giving it a blanket and a stall in the livery-barn.

Peace and his two men had taken the trip easy and, in range parlance, had not laid a hair, but Peace had insisted on Hart and Horn stabling their horses for the night.

Peace met Sheriff Houston at the door of Carney’s General Merchandise Store and shook hands with him. Houston was a portly man, middle-aged and serious of mien.

“Glad to see yuh, Peace,” greeted the sheriff. “How’s everythin’ in the Chinook?”

“Kinda gettin’ along,” grinned Peace. “How’s Tarp?”

“Well,” Houston indicated the filled hitch-racks, with a flirt of his hand, “yuh can see that the census is about filled t’day. There’s a few yet t’ come from Chinook, but I reckon that most of Fossilshell is here a’ready.”

“Good business for Tarp City,” observed Peace.

“Yeah,” grudgingly, “but —— bad business for the sheriff’s office. Who owns that black race horse over there at the Royal rack, Peace?”

“Campion. That’s his reg’lar mount, I reckon. Looks like a runnin’ son-of-a-gun, don’t it?”

“Uh-huh. What kind of a feller is Campion?”

“All right, I reckon.”

“Which he ain’t,” declared Houston. “No man’s all right that runs the tripe out of a blooded animal and leaves it out that-away.”

“Mebbe he’s just thoughtless,” suggested Peace.

“Um-m-m, mebbe. Know anythin’ about his gang?”

Peace shook his head.

“No. Yuh see, they don’t mix with us much. Look like a bunch of top-hands, though, and it’s their business if they want to be lonesome.”

“Don’t you never dislike anybody enough t’ say somethin’ against ’em, Peace River? You’d say somethin’ good of the ——, wouldn’t yuh?”

“Well,” grinned Peace, “it wouldn’t hurt me none and it might do him some good, don’tcha think? Yuh can’t expect old Nick to ever do any good, with everybody down on him the way they are.”

“All right, I pass,” laughed Houston.

Barney McManus came out of the store and his wrinkled face broke into a smile at sight of Peace. Barney was one of the old Chinook Valley punchers, prematurely old in appearance, and filled with the belief that anything a cowpuncher did was the right thing.

“Ah-h-h!” grunted Barney. “The meanest man in the old Valley comes to visit us, does he?”

“Hello, you old bog-trotter,” greeted Peace.

“Bog-trotter, eh? Is that all the respect ye have for the law, Peace Parker? Will ye answer me one question by yes or no?”

“Sure,” grinned Peace.

“Well,” Barney grinned expansively, “have ye quit rustlin’ cattle for the Cross L?”

Peace looked at him blankly for a moment.

“I’ll buy the drink, Barney.”

“That makes five already today,” chuckled Barney. “Nobody seems to want to incriminate themselves. Sure, it’s a elegant question, but I’ve got to quit askin’ it. When do we accept your kind offer?”

Houston nodded to Peace’s unspoken question, and the three of them crossed toward the Royal saloon. Hart and Horn were coming down the street from the livery-stable and joined them at the saloon door.

The saloon was nearly filled with men and the games were all running full-blast. There were a number of cowpunchers from the Fossilshell at the bar, acting like a lot of kids just out of school. They fell upon Houston and insisted that the drinks were on Fossilshell. The boys from the Chinook were included in the invitation, but Gus Mehl, who had been drinking heavily, moved away from the bar.

One of the Fossilshell cowboys, evidently considering this an insult to their hospitality, said to Mehl—

“Pardner, that invite went to everybody at the bar.”

Mehl laughed crookedly and shook his head. His face was flushed from liquor and his step was none too steady.

“Thasall right,” he gulped. “I don’t mind drinkin’ with you Fossilshellers, but I ain’t drinkin’ with everybody.”

“Meanin’ us?” queried Bert Hart quickly, but Peace grasped Bert by the arm.

Mehl laughed mockingly. He was all primed for trouble, but hardly drunk enough to lose sight of the fact that the odds were against him.

“Meanin’ what I mean,” he replied slowly. “I drink with who I —— please; sabe?”

“Yo’re plumb welcome,” said Horn meaningly, shoving away from the bar, but the sheriff blocked him from Mehl.

“Wait a minute,” begged the sheriff. “This ain’t worth havin’ trouble over, boys. If the gent from the Three Dot don’t want to drink, he don’t drink. But,” he added meaningly, “the gent from the Three Dot might at least decline in a gentlemanly way.”

Houston’s manner amused Peace, who grinned widely.

“Funny, ain’t it!” sneered Mehl drunkenly. “Yo’re the notorious Peace River Parker, ain’t yuh? Understand that they think yo’re a little tin god around here. Well,” Mehl braced himself carefully, “I want to tell yuh right now that us fellers from the Three Dot ain’t worshipin’ no tin gods. What do yuh think of that?”

“Well, I think yo’re wise,” grinned Peace.

“Yuh do, eh? Pullin’ in yore horns. Blah! Somebody told me that you was a fighter. Huh! Somebody lied!”

Mehl turned and lurched away toward a roulette table, swaggering drunkenly, bumping into every one who got in his way. The crowd at the bar turned back to their drinks, but Hart and Horn continued to glare at Mehl.

“Let him alone,” advised Peace. “He’s drunk and ain’t responsible.”

But Mehl was not through yet. Campion was at the poker table and Mehl caught sight of him.

“Hey, Frank!”

Mehl’s voice was pitched high enough to be heard above the roar of conversation.

“I curried the he-buzzard of Chinook. Made Peace Parker swaller his talk, y’betcha. I betcha he’ll be good, or I’ll ride him ag’in.”

Many of the crowd looked toward the bar, but Peace did not even look at Mehl. Bert Hart fidgeted around, casting imploring glances toward Peace, who continued to talk with the sheriff. Barney nudged in closer and whispered to Peace—

“Wait’ll the sheriff sneaks home, and then yuh can have plenty of room to put a sharp point on that jasper’s head.”

Peace grinned and turned away from the bar. Mehl was still crowing loud enough for every one to hear. Bender was bucking the faro game and Erne was playing roulette, but neither of them was paying any attention to Mehl.

“Well, I reckon I’ll have to leave yuh,” observed Peace, “I’ve gotta get me a pair of boots and some overalls before the store closes.”

“Aw-w, shucks!” exploded Horn. “That hombre will think he run yuh out of Tarp City, Peace.”

“Well,” grinned Peace, “it won’t hurt me none and it may do him some good. You and Bert keep half-way sober. It looks like there might be storm and strife around here before long and you’ll be danged well off if yuh ain’t mixed into it.”

“Sure, we’ll be meek like two lambs,” agreed Horn.

Peace turned and walked out of the door. Mehl saw him go and a drunken grin wreathed his lips. He thought he had run Peace Parker out of the saloon. But he was not content. His one-idea brain pictured more honors to come; so he lurched through the crowd and followed Peace, who crossed the street and went into a general store.

Bert Hart saw Mehl leave the room and motioned Horn to follow. Campion was watching Mehl, and when Hart and Horn started for the door, Campion drew out of the game and came out behind them. Mehl lurched across the wooden sidewalk and in through the open door.

The two cowpunchers stopped just outside the saloon door, as did Frank Campion. They watched him closely, but he paid them no heed.

Suddenly the door of the store banged open and out came Peace Parker with Mehl in his arms. He walked deliberately to the edge of the sidewalk and cast Mehl into the street where he rolled over and over. Then he tossed Mehl’s gun into the dust, adjusted his own belt, turned his back and walked into the store.

Mehl got to his feet, staggered a circle and looked back at the store. Twice he tried before he could pick up his gun and then he came back toward the saloon. Both of his eyes were assuming a mauve tint and he seemed rather at a loss to know what had happened.

He halted at the edge of the sidewalk, looked back and then at Campion.

“Di’zuh see it?” he demanded.

“You are a —— fool, Mehl!” declared Campion.

“Oh, tha’ was it, eh?”

Mehl blinked owlishly through his swollen eyes and began to pity himself. Whisky tears started and he became very indignant.

“Oh, shut up!” snapped Campion. “You’re partly to blame, but he had no right to hit you when you were drunk.”

“Is—that—so?” drawled Hart. “Kinda looks to me like Peace Parker held off a —— long time. If it had been me I’d ’a’ popped him ten minutes ago. He was lookin’ for it.”

“Is this any of your business?” demanded Campion.

“We kinda act thataway, don’t we?”

Campion did not seem to have a ready reply; so he herded Mehl inside the saloon, while the two cowboys grinned gleefully and slapped each other on the back.

“Let’s go back and have another snifter,” invited Hart. “It’s worth a drink to see old Peace hoodle that bad jasper out of the store. Whoo-ee! Mehl lit settin’ down and about tomorrow he’ll be ridin’ with short stirrups.”

They went back to the bar, but did not neglect to see what was going on. Campion had gone to the roulette layout and was talking earnestly to Erne. He turned from there and strolled over to the faro table where he stopped long enough to speak to Bender.

Bender listened closely, glanced around the room and nodded. Mehl had sat down near the poker table and was holding his head in his hands. The sheriff had left the saloon, and was, no doubt, on his way home, but Barney McManus had anchored himself into a poker game and proceeded to forget that he represented the law of Tarp City.

The two cowpunchers leaned back against the bar and watched developments. Bender cashed in his chips and joined Erne who also quit playing. They came over to the bar and had a drink, but neither of them even looked at the two from the Cross L.

“We better stable our broncs,” said Bender quietly. “No use leavin’ ’em out there at a hitch-rack.”

Erne nodded and they went out of the door. Campion was watching the poker game and did not look up as his two men left the place, but the Cross L boys followed them outside and watched them lead their horses down the street toward the livery-stable.

There was nothing about their actions to excite the suspicions of any one, but Jim Horn was not satisfied that everything was all right.

“I dunno,” declared Jim. “Campion never took the trouble to go around whisperin’ to them jaspers to go and put their broncs in the stable.”

“Aw, I reckon it’s all right,” replied Bert. “Mebbe they ain’t got sense enough to do it without bein’ told. Let’s go back and enjoy the fullness of the season.”

Peace Parker completed his purchases, talked a few minutes with Bill Carney and decided to go back to the Cross L. He gave little thought to his trouble with Mehl, blaming most of it to liquor, and sorry that he was forced to knock Mehl down and throw him out of the store; but Mehl was trying to draw a gun.

“I wouldn’t never monkey with them kinda people,” declared Carney. “You didn’t learn him nothin’, Peace. My motter is to hit ’em so —— hard on the head that it’ll bust the arches of their feet.”

“He was just drunk, Bill,” protested Peace.

“Thasso? Lemme tell yuh, pardner, that a man’s disposition only shows when he’s drunk. That jasper’s a trouble hunter, but when he’s sober he ain’t got the nerve. You watch him.”

“All right, Bill.” Peace laughed and picked up his bundles. “See yuh later.”

As Peace crossed the street toward the hitch-rack he saw Campion come out of the Royal and also start for the rack. He was paying no attention to Peace. His black horse was at the nearer rack, but he passed it and went on toward where Peace’s horse was tied.

Peace expected Campion to continue on up the street, but he stopped at the rack and waited for Peace to arrive. At this moment Bender and Erne came from the rear of the feed store and approached the sidewalk beyond the hitch-rack.

Peace nodded to Campion and began fastening his purchases to his saddle. Bender and Erne came in closer and stopped near Campion.

“Didja want to see me for somethin’?” asked Peace, turning his head toward Campion.

“Yeah,” Campion nodded quickly. “I just wanted to know what was the trouble between you and Gus Mehl.”

“Oh!” Peace finished tying his bundles and turned.

“Why, I dunno exactly what was the trouble, Campion.”

“That’s what I thought. I don’t suppose you stopped to think that Mehl was drunk, did you?”

“Yeah, I know he’s drunk.”

“Well, I want you to understand that I’m not drunk.”

“No-o-o, I wouldn’t say that yuh was—but yuh ain’t far from it.”

Peace grinned widely at Bender and Erne, but only received black looks for his trouble.

“Is that so?”

Campion’s face grew tense and the muscles twitched around his eyes.

“Now, let’s be reasonable,” urged Peace softly. “Yo’re all warmed up over somethin’, and I can’t see no reason for us havin’ trouble. Mehl got drunk and tried to abuse me. I got away from him, but he follered me and tried to draw his gun. I’d ’a’ been justified in pluggin’ him, but he was too slow with his gun; so I just knocked him loose from the floor and threw him out.”

“You’re so —— fast yourself, I suppose?”

“No, I don’t claim to bust no records, Campion.”

Peace turned to his horse and prepared to mount, but Campion was not through yet. He moved in closer.

“You know what I think of anybody that’ll hit a drunk man?” he asked.

Peace turned and looked closely at the three men.

“Campion,” Peace spoke softly and without a trace of nervousness. “I don’t want trouble with you. You’ve brought two of your men with you to see that yuh don’t get hurt, and that kinda puts me in a bad hole.

“I ain’t got no quarrel with you. I didn’t want to hurt yore cowboy, but he insisted on it. Now, let it go as it lays.”

Campion laughed sarcastically.

“I looked for you to say that, Parker. You’ve got a —— of a big reputation around here, but you ain’t got the guts to protect it. We’ve heard that you are a fighter, but this part of the country must be awful shy on fighting material to speak of you that way.”

“I s’pose,” nodded Peace and turned back.

He was trying his best to avoid trouble, but Campion was in no mood to be pacified. He felt that Peace was afraid of trouble, and it made him more abusive. Campion had drunk just enough to make him reckless of words.

“You suppose, do you?” sneered Campion. “You’re a four-flusher, Parker. These two men of mine have nothing to do with this, if that’s holding you back. I think you are a big-mouthed quitter, and I’ve a —— good notion to——”

“With your gun or your hands?” Peace turned quickly, a wide grin on his face, but his eyes were not smiling.

Campion jerked back slightly. He had not expected Peace to accept his challenge, and now that it was put directly up to him, he hardly knew what to say.

Peace shook his head.

“Campion, you don’t want trouble with me. You think it over for a while and you’ll see just how foolish yo’re actin’.”

For a moment Campion only stared at him and Peace turned to reach for the tie-rope, but a wave of anger flashed across Campion’s face and he stepped in closer, grasping Peace by the arm, as though to whirl him around.

And if that was Campion’s intention, the results far exceeded his expectations, because Peace turned like a flash and his right fist caught Campion square in the face. The blow struck too high for a knock-out, but it sent Campion off his feet and he went down on the back of his neck in the dust.

The action had been so sudden that Bender and Erne had no time to assist Campion, and Peace was facing them, smiling easily, his right hand swinging near the butt of his holstered gun.

Campion struggled to his feet and stood there in sort of a daze, looking at the man who had hit him, but making no further effort to continue the battle. Bert Hart and Jim Horn were hurrying from the Royal, and several men were crossing from the opposite side of the street.

There was nothing dapper looking about Campion now. The bridge of his nose was skinned badly and one eye was fast swelling shut. He was still dazed from the blow, but fully realized what had happened and his face was white with hate against the man who had knocked him down.

Suddenly his right hand flashed toward the butt of his gun. It was an unlooked for action on the part of every one, except Peace Parker, whose hand jerked upward from his side and he shot directly from his hip.

Campion jerked sideways and his gun thudded into the dust. Whether through accident or design, Peace’s bullet had smashed into the curving butt of Campion’s gun, splintering the bone handle and cutting Campion’s fingers badly.

Bender and Erne made no move, as Campion looked down at his crippled hand and cursed wickedly. Jim Horn was standing directly behind Bender and Erne, waiting for either of them to make a hostile move. Erne glanced back at him, turned on his heel and went back toward the saloon, with Bender following him.

There was an awkward silence for several moments and Campion picked up his hat, dusted it off against his knee, his face a mixture of anger and chagrin. Then he walked to the hitch-rack, mounted his horse and rode away.

Bender and Erne watched him from the saloon door, and, in a few moments, went toward the livery-stable. Campion was heading straight toward the Poncho Pass road.

Peace shook his head at the crowd, which volleyed him with questions as to the why and wherefore of this trouble.

“Just foolishness,” said Peace, but Bert and Jim led him away from the crowd.

“It was a frame-up,” declared Jim. “We seen Campion whisper to Bender and Erne, and then they took their horses to the livery-stable—or said they was goin’ to and we seen ’em go down there.

“We didn’t see Campion go out, and Bender and Erne didn’t come back. A little later I looked out back of the Royal, and there was two of them Three Dot horses tied to that old corral fence. They’d made a bluff to stable ’em, but circled back and tied to the fence. Me and Bert fogged out to the street just in time to see yuh swat Mr. Campion.”

“Well, I dunno what they want to frame up on me for,” grinned Peace. “I never done nothin’ to them.”

“Don’t make no never mind,” Jim shook his head. “It was all framed, Peace.”

“Wait a minute,” said Bert, and bow-legged his way to the rear of the feed store.

He came back in a minute and grinned wonderingly.

“Both broncs are gone. I’ll betcha that all three of them jaspers has headed for home.”

Peace grinned thoughtfully, as he walked back to his horse and swung into the saddle.

“We’ll be home by Monday mornin’,” assured Jim.

Peace nodded and rode away slowly. It was a long, hard ride to the Cross L, but Peace was in no hurry. Ahead of him was Campion, Bender and Erne, somewhere along the high grades of Poncho Pass.

“They knew I was ready to go home,” reflected Peace, “and them pullin’ out of town thataway don’t look good to me a-tall. Cowpunchers don’t leave a saloon on payday without a danged good reason. Mebbe they’re lookin’ for me.”

The sun was setting behind the V-shaped notch of Poncho Pass and the graded road was already plunged into the shadows of evening, when Peace drew rein and scanned the country about him.

To the left was a rocky, brush-covered hog-back ridge, which broke sharply against the cliffs beyond. There was little footing for a horse and no sign of a trail, but Peace urged his horse off the road and up this ridge.

Twisting in and out of the brush, he gradually climbed until the road was far below him. Then he swung to the left through a rocky swale and along the north side of a rock-bound cañon.

There he picked up what might have been an old, old trail, which led down across the cañon and angled up the other side among the barren rocks. A bevy of blue-grouse whirred up about him, came to roost in the branches of a stunted pine and craned their necks curiously at him.

A little beyond there a mule-deer crossed the ridge ahead of him, stopped and looked him over curiously. Then it whistled and bounded heavily down the hill, disappearing in the trees.

Peace was following the marks of the old trail now, paying no attention to the back trail. This was the one secret way into the Valley of the Chinook and was only known to a few men, who guarded the secret well.

He came at last to the beetling crags which marked the timber-line, and the trail led him down over the lip of another narrow cleft, where he angled his way to the slope of the valley side. It was not a difficult pass, but no one would ever look for it at that part of the range. Those who knew of it only used it at rare times and were careful not to follow exactly the same route, except through the very pass itself.

It was fast growing dark when Peace started down the rocky slope that led to the foothills of the valley. Below him the valley seemed a huge, mystic bowl, rimmed with a jagged edge which was high-lighted with the gold of sunset.

Slowly he descended into the purple shadows. About a mile further down he came to the beginning of a well-beaten trail, where the cattle had cut deeply into the ground on their way to water.

He rode beside this trail, where his horse’s tracks would not show in the dust. It was a long way from the secret pass, but Peace did not want his horse’s track even to show up there.

He drew rein beside the trail and looked back up the dim slopes behind him. He could see only a short distance, but he had a vague feeling that something was behind him. He grinned at his own foolish imagination and began to manufacture a cigaret.

He hesitated about scratching a match. Suddenly he heard a sound. It was like the click of a shod hoof on stone. Quickly he turned away from the trail and rode further back into the jack-pine thicket, where he stopped to listen. The sound was not repeated. Unluckily he had moved too far back to catch a view of the trail.

Once he thought he heard the jingle of a bit-chain, but decided that it was his imagination. He waited for perhaps ten minutes before going back to the trail. There he dismounted, lighted his cigaret and held the match close to the dusty trail.

He examined it closely for a few moments, pinched out the match and swung back into his saddle. In the trail was the well-defined track of a horse, heading down into the valley, and the track showed that the horse was shod with thin shoes—almost as light as racing-plates.

“Campion followed me through,” reflected Peace wonderingly. “He must ’a’ swung in behind me and watched me leave the road.”

Far down in the valley an owl hooted dismally, and from the timber-line a coyote seemed to answer with a wailing howl. Peace ground the lighted end of his cigaret against the leg of his chaps, settled himself in his saddle and went slowly down the trail toward the Cross L.

Sunday was a dull day at the Cross L. Peace slept late and was only awakened by the sound of a wagon leaving the ranch, as Cross L Marshall took Jess to church at Pasiooks.

It was an ordeal for Cross L, this Sunday pilgrimage to the little church; an hour or so of misery, while he listened to the denunciation of sin, which the minister seemed to point directly to him. Cross L hated to have to do anything, and hoped for the day when Jess might have a man to take her to church, and let her tired old dad sleep late and loaf around the house in his slippers, instead of going to church in a pair of creaking, palpably new Sunday boots and a suit of black, uncomfortable clothes.

He usually salved his outraged feelings thus—

“I ante a certain amount in this here church game every year and I reckon I’ve got to play out the hand.

“The preacher says that yuh can’t go to heaven unless you’re a Christian, don’t he? He sure hammers it into us and I kinda feel uplifted when I leave the church, but it don’t stay with me longer than supper-time. I’ve either got to die between noon and six o’clock on a Sunday, or I ain’t got a chance in the hereafter.”

They had often urged Peace to attend church with them, but he shook his head.

“I’m like a Injun,” he explained. “I know that there’s a Big Spirit somewhere—somethin’ that keeps us tickin’ along. Somehow I can’t look up at the sky and figure that the Big Spirit is up there any more than it’s down here, and as far as there bein’ a punishment for sin after death, I can’t see what’s the use of it.

“It’s like tryin’ to scare a kid by tellin’ him goblin stories. I reckon that the Big Spirit made us intelligent critters, and He never meant us to be scared to die. No sir! I never did believe in threatenin’ folks, and I don’t reckon that the Big Spirit ever intended for us to scare anybody into bein’ good. I don’t need no preacher to tell me right from wrong, and if I do wrong I’ll get all my hell right here, y’betcha.”

“Saleratus” Smith, the cook of the Cross L, disliked church for the simple reason that he had to get an early breakfast for Jess and her father. Saleratus was an old chuckwagon cook before he took over the culinary duties of the Cross L. But Saleratus could cook. Rheumatism had unfitted him for anything except kitchen work and had caused his soul to sour against everything and everybody. He rolled voluminous cigarets out of wrapping-paper and plugcut tobacco of great strength; cigarets that were forever coming unwrapped and spilling their contents in a smoking mass. And, in case they did burn to a successful end, they scorched his scraggly mustache and caused him to emit a flow of profanity that only a lifetime on the ranges could have acquired.

Jim and Bert did not come back to the ranch until early Monday morning, and they had little taste for breakfast. They were sadder, but no wiser than when they left on Saturday. Tarp City had their month’s salary, but that was as usual and no more than they expected.

Peace was saddling his horse at the corral, and Jim and Bert were arguing in the kitchen with Saleratus, when Blackie Erne rode in and tied his horse to a corner of the porch.

Cross L Marshall was sitting on the porch and merely grunted as Erne climbed the steps and came up to him. Jim Horn looked out of the kitchen door and watched Erne leave his horse. He motioned to Bert to come out.

The horse, a Roman-nosed buckskin, had swung around until its body was hidden from those on the porch, and Jim Horn grinned gleefully as he picked up a few feet of baling-wire and motioned frantically to Bert.

Old Cross L looked quizzically at Erne, waiting for him to make known his mission.

“Is Miss Marshall to home?” asked Erne.

“I hope she is,” grunted Marshall. “Ain’t seen her this mornin’, so I’d say she was still in bed.”

Erne reached in his pocket and drew out an envelop, which he tendered to Marshall.

“Will yuh see that she gets this here note?”

Marshall squinted at the unsealed envelop, turning it over and over in his hands.

“I reckon I will,” he nodded slowly. “Ain’t nobody been took sick nor nothin’ like that, has there?”

Erne squinted back at him and shook his head, as he said:

“Not yet. Much obliged.”

“Uh-huh.”

Erne went back to his horse and swung into the saddle. He whistled unmusically between his teeth, as if glad that his mission was over. The buckskin jerked around nervously and from its hind legs came a metallic sound.

Erne turned to look back as the horse buck-jumped quickly, and caught a flash of a large tin-can hanging to the buckskin’s tail. Came the tunk! as it struck the horse’s heels, and Mr. Erne began riding high and handsome in order not to part from his saddle.

Down past the corral and out of the gate went the buckskin, bucking and bawling in a cloud of dust, while Jim Horn hugged Saleratus hysterically and Bert Hart sat down on the ground, howling with unholy mirth.

Marshall watched the unceremonious leaving of Blackie Erne and walked to the side of the porch, where he could look back at the three at the kitchen door. Marshall did not know just what was the matter with the horse, but he did know that Jim and Bert were responsible. Peace stopped saddling long enough to watch Erne disappear in a cloud of dust, shook his head sadly over the misdeeds of his men and went back to his task.

Cross L Marshall smothered a grin and turned back, looking at the unsealed envelop. He cocked one ear toward the open door as if listening. Satisfied that Jess was nowhere in sight, he proceeded to show that he was entirely without shame.

Cautiously he perused the note several times. Then he put it carefully in his pocket, bit an enormous chew of tobacco off his plug and exploded an oath that would have galvanized a dead mule into life.

He squinted down toward the corral at Peace Parker who was looping up his lariat rope, and hesitated for a moment over just what to do, made his decision and clumped down the steps.

Peace turned to him as he approached.

“What did Erne want?” he asked.

Marshall spat explosively and handed Peace the envelop.

“Brought yuh a note,” he mumbled.

“Me? Why didn’t he bring it to me, Cross L?”

Marshall cleared his throat with difficulty, as Peace drew out the missive and scanned it.

My Dear Jessie:

In a fit of anger, caused by jealousy, I think, Peace Parker took occasion to damage me to a certain extent, which accounts for my absence. But physical wounds heal quickly and I shall count the hours until I am presentable again.

Yours

Frank.

P. S.—Please say nothing to Parker. I can appreciate his feelings in this matter. F.

Peace lifted his eyes and looked at Cross L who was still having throat trouble.

“Cross L, this note wasn’t intended for me?”

“Huh! Wasn’t intended for yuh? Then—lemme see it, Peace.”

Peace folded it slowly and put it back into the envelope.

“That note is for Jess—not me.”

“The —— it was! Well, I’ll be darned! Huh!”

Cross L squinted at the note and up at Peace.

“Well, sir, I must be gittin’ hard of hearin’, Peace. I thought I distinctly heard that jasper say that it was for you. Yuh know, I wondered why he didn’t give it to you. Huh! Well, I’ll have to give it to Jess.”

He walked swiftly back toward the house; anxious to get out of range of Peace Parker’s accusing eyes. Marshall was not a gifted liar. Peace looked after him, a queer expression in his eyes. A smile flitted across his wide lips and he shook his head slowly.

“Cross L, yo’re an awful poor liar,” he reflected, “but yuh mean mighty well.”

Jess had come out on the porch and met her father, who handed her the envelope.

“Mister Erne brought it for yuh, Jess.”

He bit off a fresh chew and scratched his shoulders against a porch-post, while Jess read the missive, a slight frown between her eyes.

“Ain’t nobody sick, are they, Jess?” he asked seriously, but avoiding her eyes.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“I was just wonderin’.”

Cross L sat down on the porch and rubbed his hands on his thighs nervously.

“I was just wonderin’ why that Erne feller come here. I don’t like him, Jess. He ain’t bringin’ yuh poetry, is he?”

“Poetry?”

Jess laughed shortly and shook her head.

“Tha’sall right then, Jess. I ain’t got a bit of use for them poets. Fellers—” He reflected a moment—“Fellers that vas-leen their hair—might write poetry.”

Jess studied the back of his head for a while, and then—

“Dad, why do you dislike Frank Campion?”

“Dislike him? I never said I did.”

“But you do dislike him?”

“No, I don’t dislike him, Jess. That word’s too soft. I hate him to beat ——!”

“Why?” softly.

“Why!”

Cross L got to his feet and tried to glare at Jess.

“Yes, why, dad?”

“’Cause I don’t like him and ’cause he’s a —— liar and—and everythin’.”

“Why do you call him a liar? Did he lie to you?”

Cross L began to have throat trouble again. He felt that Jess knew he had read that note. He walked to the corner of the porch and proceeded to cough rackingly. When he turned, his eyes were filled with tears from his efforts and his voice was husky.

“Gotta do somethin’ for my cold,” he told her. “Be in m’ grave, if I don’t. Must ’a’ set in a draft. Cough m’ fool head off once in a while.”

“Especially when you don’t want to answer a question, dad.”

“What question?” Cross L fairly bristled, but started for the steps. “What’s questions got to do with runnin’ a cattle-ranch, I’d admire t’ know. Think I’m goin’ t’ stand around and let m’ business go to rack and ruin, just ’cause a fool woman wants t’ ask questions? Huh!”

He humped his head between his shoulders and headed for the corral, where Jim and Bert were leaning on the fence, still laughing over what they had done to Erne.

“Didja see what happened to that Erne feller?” asked Jim, still chuckling.

“What did yuh do to him?” asked Cross L.

“Tied a tin-can to his bronc’s tail. Man, man, but didn’t that animal respond to treatment. Ha, ha, ha, ha!”

Cross L glared at them and masticated violently.

“That’s a —— of a thing to do! Do I have t’ muzzle you pelicans to make visitin’ safe at this ranch? That was a danged mean thing t’ do, and I don’t want t’ see yuh do it ag’in; sabe?”

“All right,” said Jim seriously, “yuh won’t. And yuh won’t have to muzzle us either, old timer. There’s other ranches where they hire cow-hands.”

“M’yah!” grunted Cross L explosively, and then to Peace—

“Tell me about that scrap yuh had with Campion.”

Peace shook his head slowly—

“No, it ain’t worth tellin’.”

“Like —— it ain’t!” snorted Jim, and proceeded to tell the whole story in detail, while old Cross L masticated thoughtfully and squinted at him.

“Shot the gun out of his hand, eh? Knocked him upside down and then busted his gun-hand.”

“Well, my gosh, he had to do it!” yowled Jim.

“Didn’t have t’ shoot him in the hand, did he?”

“Well, he had to stop him.”

“Was he runnin’ on his hands?”

“Aw, you make me sick!”

“Yeah, and you fellers make me sick,” retorted Cross L. “Shoot ’em in the hands! ——’s delight! What’s a man got a body for, if it ain’t t’ shoot at? Yuh make me sick, takin’ a chance on shootin’ at his hands!”

Cross L spat viciously and glared at Jim Horn.

“How long do yuh reckon that tin can’ll stay on that bronc’s tail, Jim?”

“Quite some period,” declared Jim. “It was put on with twisted balin’-wire.”

“That’s,” Cross L squinted down the road, “that’s what I call bein’ thorough. But if yuh ever try it on that black race horse——”

He glared wickedly for a moment and then a smile wrinkled his face.

“Be careful. I’ll betcha that bronc could kick a fly out of a gallon can of axle grease and never spot his hoof.”

Cross L grunted softly to himself, tightened up his belt and went back toward the house. The three cowpunchers looked at each other and grinned widely.

“My ——, but old Cross L is plumb human!” exclaimed Jim Horn. “He’s reg’lar home folks.”

Which was not a compliment, but a statement of fact.

Three days passed without anything happening, except the usual routine of the cattle-ranch. None of the Three Dot outfit came to the Cross L. Peace and the other two punchers were busy moving a bunch of Herefords from the Bar X Bar and throwing them back into the ranges nearer the pass, but they saw nothing of Campion nor his men.

Peace avoided the ranch-house as much as possible. He had been in the habit of spending his evenings in the living-room with Jess and her father, but now he played seven-up for mythical stakes with Jim and Bert, or listened to Jim play an everlasting Spanish fandango on his guitar.

He had not changed in any way, except this. He did not sigh over his misfortunes. On the contrary, his smile seemed wider and he plunged into the ranch work with a will. Jess said nothing to her father, but she knew he missed Peace Parker at the interval between supper and bedtime.

But Cross L would not admit it except on the second night, when Peace did not join him, he flung aside his newspaper at eight o’clock and got to his feet.

“—— any man that vas-leens his hair!” he exploded and clumped off to bed, talking in an undertone to himself.

On Thursday Gus Sinks rode in at the Cross L and met Peace at the barn. Gus was a thin, wiry, wry-necked sort of an individual with the face of a ferret. There was nothing good about Sinks. He was a gun-man, ex-horse-thief and several more things. But, for the first time in his life, he was shooting square with one man—Peace Parker.

“Hello, Gus,” greeted Peace, shaking hands with him. “I been wonderin’ when you’d come in. How’s everythin’?”

“Aw right. I’d ’a’ been in before this, but I couldn’t find a honest man to leave with the sheep. I got a Basque herder, and he sabes enough United States to know that I’ll massacree him if any of them ——ed animated underwears are missin’ when I get back.”

Peace laughed and shook his head.

“I dunno how yuh stand it out there, Gus. How’s the feed?”

“Feed’s fine. I dunno how I stand it either, Peace. The other day I got to thinkin’ about it. I says to myself:

“‘Sinks, yo’re a —— fool. Why don’t yuh sell these lousy woollies and pull yore freight with the money. Nobody would be the wiser.’

“I could do it, too, Peace. There’s buyers out there that don’t care who owns the sheep. But—” Gus hooked one leg around his saddle-horn and drew out his tobacco and papers—“but I jist shut my eyes and remembered back to that night in Tarp City, when they had the rope all ready for my neck, and you stepped in and claimed that my life belonged to you. I’ll betcha—” Gus shut his eyes tight for a moment—“I’ll betcha I don’t forget that, Peace.”

“Well,” Peace smiled softly, “mebbe they wouldn’t ’a’ hung yuh, Gus.”

“The —— they wouldn’t! I had it comin’ to me, didn’t I? Don’tcha try to fool yoreself, Peace; I know Tarp City.”

“How are yuh fixed for money, Gus?”

“That’s why I came in, Peace. I don’t need no salary, but the grub’s runnin’ low.”

“You’ve got to have some salary, too, Gus.”

“Aw, I’ll get along. You forgit the salary until yuh sell them sheep. All I need is grub money.”

“Well, go right down to Pasiooks,” declared Peace. “I’ve got money in the bank down there.”

“Pasiooks, eh? I never seen that town. Have they got a bank down there?”

“Y’betcha. Yuh didn’t think that the Chinookers packed their money to Tarp City, didja? Our bank is the richest little old bank in the state, if anybody asks yuh.”

“Yeah? Oh, I’ll betcha that’s right, too. These cattlemen sure do make money over here.”

Peace got his horse and they headed for Pasiooks which was five miles away. It could hardly be called a town. The one street was hardly a block long. There was the Pasiooks bank, general store, post-office and blacksmith shop on one side of the street, and on the other was a little restaurant, two saloons and a feed store.

On the east side of the settlement was the little frame schoolhouse and at the south end of the town was the church. The schoolhouse and the church had been painted within two years, but the rest of the buildings were unpainted, or had been painted but time had worn off the color.

There were several horses tied to the saloon hitchracks as Peace and Gus Sinks rode into the town, and as they dismounted in front of the bank, Frank Campion and Tiny Bender came out of a saloon and went out to their horses.

Sinks turned and watched them mount their horses. Frank had a little trouble with his black horse, which carried him over near the bank. He looked at Sinks and his brows drew together in a quick frown. Quickly he jerked the horse around and galloped off up the road after Bender. Sinks continued to look after him, and his face registered wonderment as he turned to Peace.

“Who’s the fussy cowpuncher, Peace?”

“Feller by the name of Campion. Bought out the Three Dot outfit over here.”

“Ye-e-eah?” Sinks seemed slightly amused. “Cow-man, eh?”

“Well, I dunno about his ability, but he owns the ranch.”

“Well, that’s kinda flossy,” remarked Sinks. “Let’s go and get the dinero.”

As they entered the bank they met Chris Sorensen, the owner of the Bar X Bar. Chris was a big Norse cow-man with a mustache that looked like a pair of inverted buffalo horns, and the voice of a bull.

“H’lo, Peace,” he boomed. “I was just goin’ to ride out and see you. The boys just brought in some more of them white-faced cows and I was wonderin’ if Cross L wanted any more of them. Look fine.”

“All right,” grinned Peace. “I’ll ride back with yuh as soon as I get through with a little business.”

Sorensen waited until Peace had drawn some money and paid it over to Sinks who seemed interested in the interior of the bank. Few strangers ever came to Pasiooks and Mark Clayton, the cashier, made a memory photograph of Gus Sinks.

They went outside and Gus mounted his horse.

“I’ll see yuh ag’in in a couple of weeks, Peace. If yuh want to sell out there’s plenty of buyers goin’ through the Sun Prairie, but they don’t offer much. If we get one more rain pretty soon we’ll be all fixed and can thumb our nose at ’em. Whatcha think?”

“Well, I dunno,” confessed Peace. “I don’t want to give ’em away, Gus. Suppose we wait and take a chance, eh? If you don’t mind stickin’ out there.”

Gus spat dryly.

“Aw, I’ll stick. S’-long, Peace, and thanks for the dinero.”

Peace waved at him and went to join Sorensen at the hitch-rack. He had had his doubts about Gus Sinks, and would not have been surprised to know that Sinks had sold out the sheep and skipped the country, but since Sinks’ confession of guilty thoughts he felt that his sheep were well protected.

Somehow he had the feeling that Gus Sinks and Frank Campion knew each other. He had seen the expression of Campion’s face when he saw Sinks, and Sinks had shown too much interest for one stranger in another. But it was none of his business, he decided. It was a small world, and there was no reason why they shouldn’t know each other.

He walked over to Sorensen, where they mounted and rode out the opposite end of town toward the Bar X Bar.

Figuratively speaking, Peace Parker exploded a bombshell under Cross L Marshall the following day. Jim and Bert had ridden toward the upper end of the valley and Peace and Cross L were sitting on the porch, looking over some figures that Peace had got on Bar X Bar yearlings.

Cross L had been arguing over the prices and swearing at Sorensen for being a pirate when he happened to notice that Peace was paying no attention. The big cowboy was staring off across the hills, his mind wandering far from the business at hand.

“When yuh come back we’ll talk some more,” said Cross L humorously.

“When I come back,” repeated Peace slowly. “Yeah, that’s it, Cross L.”

“What’s the matter with yuh, Peace?”

“Nothin’; I was just thinkin’.”

“Yeah? But yuh wasn’t thinkin’ about white-faced cows.”

“No-o-o—not about cows.”

Peace turned and put his hand on Marshall’s shoulder, a whimsical smile on his homely face.

“I’m goin’ away, Cross L—goin’ to take a trip.”

Marshall eyed him closely, while he drew out his plug of tobacco and bit off a quarter-section.

“Thasso? How long will yuh be gone, Peace?”

Peace smiled and shook his head.

“I dunno. The Injuns used to say, ‘When the wind blows out through Poncho Pass, who can say when that same wind will return?’”

“——!” exploded Marshall. “Yuh don’t mean that yo’re goin’ for good!”

“For good?”—Peace rubbed his chin thoughtfully—“Mebbe. The only trip I ever had was to the penitentiary and I’d kinda like to see somethin’ beyond the hills.”

“Uh-huh,” Cross L squinted narrowly into space. “To see somethin’ beyond the hills, Peace. Yuh know, I was thataway once. I wanted t’ see the other side of the hill. But I’m old now, and I don’t care what’s over there. Right now and right here is all that interests me.”

“You ain’t old, Cross L.”

“Mebbe not, Peace. I’m sixty. And when yo’re sixty yuh don’t climb hills just to look over the other side.”

For several minutes they sat silent, each busy with his own thoughts. Then:

“I always wished I had a son,” said Cross L slowly. “Our first baby was a girl and she died when she was a little thing. Then Jess came along. Her mother didn’t live long after that, Peace.

“I had t’raise Jess m’self, and I reckon I made a —— of a mess of it. She ain’t got the sense that the Lord gave geese in Ireland. If she was a boy I could cuss him out and hammer some sense into him—but she ain’t no boy.”

“Jess,” said Peace softly, “Jess is a wonderful girl.”

“M’yah!” Thoughtfully. “Didja tell her yuh was goin’ away, Peace?”

“No-o-o. Yuh see I just made up my mind.”

“Uh-huh. When yuh goin’, Peace?”

“Tomorrow, I reckon. I’ll go to Sun Prairie and sell out them sheep and then I reckon I’ll go down into Arizona. I ain’t made up my mind just where I’ll go.”

“Uh-huh,” Cross L got slowly to his feet and sighed deeply. “I—I hope yuh have luck, Peace Parker. We’ll be kinda thinkin’ about yuh and wonderin’—I s’pose.”

“I’ll write to yuh, Cross L.”

“Yeah, I s’pose so.”

Cross L reached for his plug of tobacco, but his hand stopped short of his pocket.

A man was riding swiftly in through the ranch gate and coming toward them, while several other men, who had been with him, kept on up the main road, heading toward the upper end of the valley.

The rider jerked to a stop near the porch and dropped to the ground. It was Perry Hazelton, the blacksmith from Pasiooks. He dropped his reins and trotted up the steps.

“The Pasiooks bank has been robbed!” he panted, as he pointed up the road, where a cloud of dust still hung.

“Some of the boys have headed for the Pass, but he’s likely got away by this time.”

“Pasiooks bank!” exclaimed Cross L. “Who done it?”

“Whew! I’m all out of wind!” puffed Hazelton, “I reckon I worked harder than the horse did. We don’t know who done the job. It was about an hour ago, I think.

“There wasn’t nobody in the bank, except Clayton, when I went in and found him. He’d been hit over the head with somethin’, and was layin’ half-in and half-out of the vault. There was loose money scattered all over the floor.

“I yelled for help and we got Clayton on to a cot. He kinda roused up long enough to tell us that he’d been robbed by one man. We turned him over to Doctor Glover and then went huntin’ for the robber. If he ain’t made his getaway straight for the Pass he’s still here in the valley.”

“How much money did he get?” asked Cross L.

“We dunno. From the looks of things he’s got a lot.”

“I’ve expected this,” said Cross L quickly. “Yuh see, this bank belongs to us cowmen. We’re a queer lot, I guess. We didn’t trust the banks at Tarp City; so we started one of our own.

“We didn’t do a regular bankin’ business—much. It was more of a place to store money. And like a lot of fools we didn’t think that anybody would bother it.”

“Must ’a’ been a lot of money in there,” observed Hazelton.

“A lot? I dunno how much, but about all the money there is in Chinook Valley, except what’s wearin’ a hide and runnin’ around on four legs.”

“It probably won’t take Clayton long to find out how much is gone,” stated Peace. “Let’s go down there.”

“One of the boys will ride to Tarp City and tell the sheriff,” said Hazelton as they went after the horses. “There was Dud Le Page, Baldy Hyatt, Jud Smith and Campion.”

“Where did you find Campion?” asked Cross L.

“At the Three Dot. There wasn’t no use of everybody goin’ to the Pass; so he sent his three punchers to town to help search the South end.”

Pasiooks was a busy little place when they rode in. Bad news travels swiftly, and the robbery of the bank was mighty bad news to the Valley of the Chinook. Several groups of cowboys had already left town, searching for a sight of the robber.

Clayton, his head swathed in bandages, was in the bank, trying to check up the extent of the loss while several cattlemen stood around and annoyed him with questions.

Peace and Cross L Marshall came in and joined the group. Clayton looked up at them. His face was very white and his eyes showed that he was suffering from a raging headache.

“H’lo, Clayton,” said Cross L. “How are yuh feelin’?”

“Not very good,” faltered Clayton. “My head is all wrong for figures right now.”

He sat down in a chair and held his head in his hands.

“Any idea how much money he got?” asked one of the men.

“About all there was in the vault,” groaned Clayton. “I’d hate to even make a guess. Of course it will all check up.”

“About how much?” queried Marshall anxiously.

“Well,” Clayton lifted his head, “there was thirty thousand in currency in one box. I don’t know how much gold there was, but it was about ten thousand dollars.”

The cattlemen looked at each other seriously. It meant that they were about cleaned out. It was their own institution—their loss.

“It was a foolish idea,” said Clayton heavily. “We should have invested this money. But—well, there’s no wisdom in hoarding money, gentlemen.”

“That’s a cinch—now,” said one of the men bitterly.

“Any idea who done it?” queried Peace.

Clayton squinted painfully at Peace and nodded slowly.

“Yes, I know who did it, Parker.”

“Yuh do?” exploded Cross L. “Who was it, Clayton?”

Clayton rubbed his aching head.

“I don’t know his name, Marshall. It was the man that came here yesterday with Peace Parker.”

Peace stared at Clayton and around at the cattlemen, who were watching him, wondering what it meant. Peace went to Clayton and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Clayton, are yuh sure of that?”

“Just as sure as the world, Parker. I noticed that he was looking the place over yesterday.”

“But he was masked, wasn’t he?” queried Cross L.

Clayton nodded.

“Yes, he was masked, but that was no disguise. He was wearing an old yellow velvet vest, a gray sombrero and a wide cartridge-belt which was studded with brass rivets. I even recognized his boots with the stitched tops.”

Peace turned away and stared across the room. He knew that it had been Gus Sinks. Gus was square with him, but he was still a thief. Peace turned and looked at Cross L.

“It was Gus Sinks. I brought him here yesterday to give him some money, Cross L. He rode North when I went to the Bar X Bar with Sorensen.”

“Does that description cover him, Peace?” asked one of the men.

Peace nodded.

“Yes, that covers him.” Then to Clayton—“Tell us how he done it, Clayton.”

Clayton squinted painfully and pointed toward the open door of the vault.

“I had the vault open and was just coming out with some papers, when I happened to look up. I didn’t hear this man come in but there he stood, just inside the railing with his gun pointed at me.

“I couldn’t hardly realize what it was all about. Then he motioned for me to turn around and go into the vault. I had to do it, gentlemen. He stepped in behind me and held a gun against my back while I unlocked the strong-boxes.

“Yes, he ordered me to do it. Then he must have hit me over the head with his gun.”

Clayton rubbed his hand tenderly over his bandages.

“I don’t know how long I was unconscious, but when I woke up he was gone.

“I was so weak I couldn’t stand up; so I crawled half out of the vault, when Hazelton discovered me. I think the robber intended to lock me in the vault, because the bolts were thrown. In his haste to escape, he accidentally threw the bolts and was unable to shut the door.”

Peace went over to the vault door. The bolts were still blocking it. He examined it closely.

One of the cattlemen laughed shortly. “Lookin’ for finger-prints, Peace?”

Peace smiled grimly and shook his head.

“Wouldn’t do us any good, Pierce.”

“You wouldn’t find any,” said Clayton. “He wore gloves.”

“Well,” observed Cross L hopefully, “if he didn’t get to the Pass ahead of the boys, he’s bottled up in the valley.”

“Plenty of places to hide,” declared Peace. “He can take his time and get away. What we’ve got to do is to curry this old valley until a chipmunk couldn’t get away.”

As they started out of the door, Hazelton met them at the door, and with him was a ten-year-old boy.

“Say, this kid seen him!” blurted Hazelton. “He seen that robber after he got the money.”

“Where was he?” asked Cross L.

“Well, I seen a man, but I dunno whether he was the one,” said the boy. “This’n had his horse tied just the other side of the schoolhouse. I seen him get on his horse and he had a big bundle in his arms.”

“What did he look like?” asked Peace.

“I don’t just remember,” confessed the boy, “but I know he had on a gray hat and a fancy belt. I seen the sun sparkle on that belt. And he had a sorrel horse that singlefooted.”

Peace nodded to the men.

“That’s the horse.”

“Was the man wearin’ a mask, Buddy?” queried Cross L.

“No. I wasn’t close enough to see his face, but he didn’t have no mask on that I could see.”

“He’d take it off right away,” said one of the men. “He likely slipped it on when he went in and slipped it off as soon as he got outside.”

“Didja notice which way he went, Buddy?” asked Peace.

“He went up the valley, but he didn’t seem to go in a hurry. Just kinda singlefooted along.”

“He’s a smart son-of-a-gun,” admitted Cross L. “Didn’t do anythin’ to attract attention. Likely went —— for-leather as soon as he got out of sight. Prob’ly twisted off the road and circled into the hills. Mebbe the boys’ll beat him to the Pass. If they don’t—we’re about half-out of money around here.”

“Half-out, ——!” snorted Billy Pierce, who owned the Crescent outfit. “If they don’t nail him, I won’t have money enough to pay my two punchers a month’s salary. I might have to sell a cow or two to make a payday.”

“You’d have a —— of a time sellin’ one to me,” said Cross L sadly. “I might be able to trade, but I couldn’t buy the hole in a doughnut.”

“I reckon that about covers us all,” said another.

“It’s a hard old world, and few of us ever get out of it alive,” observed Peace seriously. “I feel that I’m partly to blame. I brought Gus Sinks here with me. Why, he didn’t even know we had a bank here.”

The cattleman smiled grimly. Peace remembered that he had told Gus Sinks that the Pasiooks bank was the richest little bank in the state and that Sinks had seemed interested in that fact.

He and Cross L stood around awhile and listened to arguments, pro and con, which arrived at nothing. Then they got their horses and headed for the Cross L ranch. There was nothing they could do just now.

“You’ll have to hire somebody to take your sheep,” observed Cross L as they rode home, “or will yuh go out and sell ’em, like yuh intended to do?”

“I dunno, Cross L,” Peace shook his head. “It kinda hurts me to think that Gus Sinks done this job to us folks. He’s an ignorant son-of-a-gun and he don’t know any better than to do wrong most of the time, but I trusted him—kinda.”

“In God we trust,” quoted Cross L. “That’s the only safe thing to do.”

Marshall went straight to Jess with the news of the robbery, but Peace did not go up to the house with him.

“We had fifteen thousand dollars in that bank, Jess,” he added, after he had explained the robbery. “It kinda crimps us.”

“But they will catch the robber, won’t they?” she asked.

“I’m hopin’ fifteen thousand dollars worth, Jess. He had a fair start, but he might ’a’ circled far enough to let the boys beat him to the Pass.”

“Who went up there?”

“Le Page, Hyatt, Jud Smith and Frank Campion.”

Jess nodded thoughtfully.

“I reckon I forgot to tell yuh that Peace is leavin’ us, Jess,” said Marshall slowly.

She looked up quickly at him—

“Leaving us?”

Marshall nodded.

“Yeah.”

“What for, Dad?”

“Well,” Marshall squinted thoughtfully, “well, he said he kinda wanted t’ see what’s on the other side of the hill. Mebbe he’s tired of the valley, Jess.”

She walked to the door and stared across the hills.

“I don’t blame him,” continued Marshall. “Sometimes a feller does kinda itch to see the other side of the hill. Says he’s goin’ down into Arizona. He ain’t much of a hand to write letters; so we won’t likely hear from him. I’m kinda glad t’ see him go, m’self.”

Cross L picked up his hat and walked quietly out through the kitchen, leaving Jess still staring out of the door. He went out through the rear entrance, slapped his hat on his head and grinned wickedly.

“I’ll betcha that’ll hold her for a while,” he chuckled and went down to the barn to find something to swear at.

It was after dark that night when Sheriff Houston and Barney McManus stopped at the Cross L on their way to Pasiooks. They had ridden straight in from Tarp City, but had left the Pass guarded.

“Gus Sinks, eh?” grunted Houston, after Cross L had told them what he knew about the robbery. “Well that gives us one man to look for. He’s likely hid out here in the valley and will wait for a chance to get out.”

“He don’t know the valley, though,” objected Peace. “Never was in here before.”

“That helps some,” grinned Barney. “Mebbe the danged fool is tryin’ to cross the range.”

“Likely tryin’ to get back on to the Fossilshell,” observed Houston. “He knows that country like a book and he’d likely get protection over there. Mebbe he’d hit for the Sun Prairie country.”

They rode on toward Pasiooks, and it was about dark when Jim Horn and Bert Hart rode in at the ranch. They had run into one of the searchers further down the valley and had spent the rest of the day riding the hills. None of their party had even the slightest clue to where the robber had gone.

“We was with Blackie Erne,” laughed Jim, “but he never mentioned the tin can. Bender and Mehl was with two of the boys from the Crescent, but we didn’t see ’em. This is the most excitin’ day I ever seen in this old valley. Whatcha think about Gus Sinks, Peace? I’ll say that he’s a real cute little jasper. I betcha he’s got more money than he could ever count.”

“I hope he stopped to count it,” grunted Cross L angrily.

For two more days the cowboys searched out every corner of the valley. In twos and threes they combed it; making a drive of the entire country, but nothing came of it. Peace had said no more to Cross L about leaving the ranch, and Cross L was careful not to mention it.

Jess had said nothing to Peace. In fact, they had not spoken half a dozen words to each other since her father had said that Peace was going away.

But in spite of the fact that there was no trace of Gus Sinks, the cowboys still guarded the Pass and stopped every one going through. There was always the chance that Gus Sinks was hidden away, waiting the time when the cattlemen would relax their vigilance.

Then Peace Parker acted abruptly. He saddled his own horse, tied his war-bag behind the cantle and went up to the ranchhouse. Cross L had seen him tie the sack to the saddle and knew that Peace Parker was leaving the Valley of the Chinook.

Peace had already told Jim and Bert good-by. They were sitting on the bunkhouse steps waiting for him to leave. Cross L Marshall got to his feet and looked awkwardly at Peace, who put one hand on the old man’s shoulder.

“Yo’re goin’, are yuh?” asked Marshall.

Peace nodded.

“Yeah, I’m goin’, Cross L. I reckon that the other side of the hill is callin’ me.”

“I s’pose,” Marshall sighed heavily and looked keenly at Peace. “You’ve got a few days’ pay comin’, Peace.”

“Thasall right. I’ll come back and collect it some day.”

“By grab, I’d keep it if I thought yuh would, Peace.”

“Keep it and see if I do,” smiled Peace, and looked toward the door where Jess was standing. He turned to her and held out his hand.

“Are you going away?” she asked slowly.

“Yeah, I’m goin’, Jess.”

They looked steadily at each other for several moments, as they shook hands. It was an awkward situation. Cross L Marshall began to have throat trouble again and Peace grinned widely.

“’S funny,” said Peace slowly, “but folks never seem to be able to say much when they’re sayin’ good-by. I reckon I’ll be siftin’ along, folks.”

He turned on his heel and went down the steps, but stopped at the bottom and looked back at Jess.

“Be good to yoreself, Jess,” he said softly, “mebbe I’ll see yuh sometime.”

He glanced at Cross L and went toward the barn, where Jim and Bert were coming to meet him. Cross L looked at Jess, his mustache bristling belligerently, but she was looking at Peace Parker.

“Aw, ——!” exploded Cross L. “That’s what vas-leen does.” He shook a finger in the general direction of the barn and spat viciously, “Vas-leen and per-fumed notes! By ——!”

He struck the porch post with a clenched fist.

“If you think for one —— minute that you—aw, ——!”

Jess had turned and looked at him, her eyes filled with tears. They looked at each other for a minute before she turned and went into the house.

Peace Parker was riding away now, and he waved back at Cross L Marshall, who looked at him and half-waved one hand as though in doubt. He glanced back at the open door and then at Peace Parker.

“I dunno,” he told himself, “I dunno which one of yuh is the biggest darned fool, but I reckon it’s horse-and-horse. Good-by, you homely son-of-a-gun. I hope yuh don’t find nothin’ on the other side of the hill and have to come back for the rest of yore salary.”

Peace went slowly up the valley road, which wound in and out of the hollows. He had no idea of where he was going after disposing of his sheep. The Valley of the Chinook was home to him—the only real home he had ever known, and it was with a dull ache in his heart that he rode up the steep grades that led to Poncho Pass and looked back down the misty length of the finest cattle range in the world.

Below him he could see the silvery flash of sunlight on the headwaters of the Chinook river, and on each side the green, rolling hills, dotted with clumps of dark trees, faded away into the blue haze of the distance. It was good to look upon and Peace Parker feasted his eyes upon it before riding on into the tall crags of the Pass which would cut off his view.

As he rode into the narrow defile which was the Pass three men stepped into the road in front of him. It was Dud LePage, “Baldy” Hyatt and Frank Campion, and each of them was carrying a rifle.

Peace stopped and grinned at them.

“Hyah, Peace,” greeted Le Page, a big, raw-boned, grizzled cowboy, grinning back at Peace.

“Hello, Dud. Still guardin’ the Pass, eh?”

LePage nodded and grounded his rifle.

“Yeah, we’re not takin’ any chances, Peace. Are yuh travelin’ or goin’ somewhere?”

“Travelin’,” grinned Peace. “I’m leavin’ the valley.”

“Naw!”

Baldy Hyatt removed his hat and polished the shiny top of the head that gave him a nickname.

“You ain’t leavin’ us for good, are yuh?”

Peace nodded quickly.

“I reckon so, Baldy.”

Frank Campion had taken no part in the conversation, and Hyatt turned to him.

“You know Peace Parker, don’tcha, Campion?”

Campion nodded indifferently.

“Yes, I know him.”

Hyatt and LePage glanced at each other quickly, but turned back to Peace.

“She don’t seem right that yo’re leavin’ us,” said Hyatt. “Cripes, I thought yuh was personal property of the Cross L.”

The inference was plain, because every one in the valley surmised that Peace was to marry Jess Marshall. Peace only grinned and shifted in his saddle.

“Yeah,” he replied. “I been thinkin’ of takin’ a trip for quite a while.”

“Well, yo’re comin’ back, ain’tcha?” asked Hyatt.

“No-o-o, I reckon not, Baldy—not for a while; so I’ll tell yuh good-by and be on my way.”

He held out his hand and shook hands with Baldy and LePage, while Campion looked on indifferently. But when Peace started on Campion stepped in front of him.

“You know why we’re here, Parker, and you know that we’re not letting any one go out of the valley without bein’ sure about them. You’ve got a bundle behind your saddle.”

“Yeah, I have,” Peace squinted at Campion closely.

“——’s bells!” snorted Hyatt. “Why Peace Parker is——”

“That makes no difference,” retorted Campion. “We’re not here for our health.”

“No, it kinda looks like you wasn’t,” agreed LePage warmly. “Do yuh suspect Peace Parker? Ha, ha! Ha, ha!”

“What is in that bundle, Parker?” demanded Campion angrily.

“A couple of shirts, a pair of socks, some overalls and a couple of blankets. Oh, yeah, there’s a necktie, too. Do yuh want to try and search it, Campion?”

Peace was leaning forward in his saddle, his right arm crooked at the elbow. Campion had seen him in that same position before, and he knew that Peace Parker was a very sudden person with a gun.

“No,” Campion shook his head, “I don’t want to search you.”

Peace nodded and rode on through the Pass, while Baldy and LePage congratulated Campion on his lack of curiosity. Campion smarted under their rough humor, but knew better than to incur their enmity.

“What I don’t sabe is why he’s leavin’ here,” complained Baldy. “I thought that him and Jess Marshall was goin’ to hook up for life.”

“Yeah, I heard they was goin’ to get married,” nodded LePage. “She could do a dang lot worse, y’betcha!”

“He is not going to marry Miss Marshall,” stated Campion.

“How do yuh know?” queried Baldy.

“Because I am going to marry her myself.”

“You are?” Baldy gasped audibly. “Whatcha know about that!”

“What I just said goes as she lays,” said LePage seriously, and added, “I reckon she’s goin’ to.”

Peace rode to Tarp City and spent the night there. Tarp City was not interested in the troubles of Chinook Valley, but Peace talked things over with Sheriff Houston who was of the opinion that Gus Sinks had got out of the valley ahead of the posse of cowboys and made his escape into the Fossilshell.

The next morning Peace saddled his horse and headed for the Sun Prairie country which was located north and east of Tarp City and about fifteen miles away.

It was a desolate, sheeped-out country of bald buttes, swept clean of verdure and smelling strongly of sheep. Bands of sheep, marked by dust clouds, were moving about the hills. The road was entirely blotted out by the passing of numberless sheep. Peace had no idea of where he might find his band of sheep, so he swung into the hills and accosted the first sheepherder he ran across.

The man confessed total ignorance. Peace explained that the herd was marked with a painted cross on their backs, but this meant nothing in the life of this sheepherder.

Peace spent the whole day, riding from place to place, but no one could tell him where the cross-marked band was located. Finally he wrinkled his long nose in disgust and headed for Tarp City.

“I reckon I just dreamed that I owned sheep,” he reflected as he swung along the side of a bald butte, which had been cultivated by the sharp hooves. Below him, a band of sheep were moving slowly southward, an indistinct mass in the clouds of dust stirred up by their passing.

Peace rode down, intending to pass them, but he happened to see his own brand on the back of a wooly straggler. The herder was a man about middle-age, gray as a badger, and with a scar running from above his left temple to a spot near the left corner of his mouth.

It gave him a leering expression, which did not belie the evil of the rest of his countenance. He carried a Winchester rifle in the crook of his arm and looked suspiciously at Peace Parker.

“Kind of a dusty job, ain’t it?” grinned Peace.

“Yeah, yuh bet it is,” agreed the man.

Peace sized him up and looked at the sheep. Surely this was not the Basque herder spoken of by Gus Sinks, thought Peace.

“Feed gettin’ pretty short, ain’t it?” asked Peace.

“—— short!”

The herder motioned a dog to pick up some stragglers, and they watched the trained sheep-dog round them up and close up the rear of the band.

“I wonder if there’s any chance to pick up some cheap woolies,” said Peace. “Must be money in ’em now.”

“Not much.” The man spat dryly.

It was dry work following that drifting herd.

“Who owns this herd?”

The herder squinted up at Peace, looking narrowly at him.

“I do,” he grunted.

“Don’t want to sell ’em, do you?”

“No. Just bought ’em myself.”

“Just?” queried Peace.

“Huh?” He squinted at Peace again.

“How long ago did yuh buy ’em?”

“Long ago?”

The sheep-herder repeated that much of the question and looked away for a moment. Then—

“What’s it to you, stranger?”

“Well,” Peace grinned widely, “yuh see, there’s been a lot of sheep-herders sellin’ off stock that don’t belong to ’em, and I’m here investigatin’.”

“I sabe. Hired by the sheep men, eh?”

Peace did not say, but the shepherd dug into the inside pocket of his vest and drew out a soiled paper.

“I reckon you’ll find that this is all right,” he said as he handed Peace the paper.

It was a bill of sale for three thousand sheep, in favor of John Smith, and was signed by Gus Sinks. Peace studied it closely and handed it back to the man.

“All right?”

The sheep-herder looked closely at Peace as he tucked the paper back into his pocket.

Peace nodded.

“Yeah, it’s made out properly, I reckon. Yuh see, we’ve got to be careful.”

“That’s right.”

The man smiled broadly for the first time and seemed at ease.

“I suppose there’s crooked work done every little while.”

“Yeah—every little while. Well, I’ve got to be movin’ on. You headin’ for Tarp City?”

“Uh-huh. Slow work movin’ sheep, but I’ll likely be in there by noon tomorrow.”

Peace nodded and rode around the band, which had belonged to him. He could still prove ownership. He had plenty of witnesses to prove that Gus Sinks was only a hired man, but he was not going to argue with this man.

He rode back to Tarp City and went to Sheriff Houston. He told Houston what had happened to the sheep, and Houston exploded over the information. But Peace merely grinned and asked Houston to do nothing.

“Well, yuh ain’t goin’ to let ’em get away with anythin’ like that, are yuh?” demanded Houston.

“It ain’t hardly ethical,” agreed Peace, “but let’s not say anythin’ about it.”

“Well, they’re yore sheep,” agreed Houston wearily. “If you want to be a Santa Claus to some —— sheep-herder, go ahead, Peace.”

As they came out to the door of the office a middle-aged man, wearing a black suit and a wide, black hat, came up to them. He was not a pleasant-looking man with his square chin and thin-lipped mouth beneath a broad, flat nose.

“I beg your pardon,” he said crisply. “I am a stranger around here—a cattle buyer—and I came here to get some information.”

“Well,” replied Houston bruskly, “we’ll listen and do our dangdest.”

A slight smile flashed across the stranger’s lips and he nodded slightly.

“Fair enough. I wanted some information on Chinook Valley. I understand that a lot of cows are shipped out of there and I wanted to find out who was handling their stuff, and whether it would be worth my while going in to talk with them.”

Houston looked keenly at him and motioned to Peace.

“Parker knows every inch of the place and he’d know.”

“Well,” smiled Peace, “I know the place, but I’m darned if I could answer yuh, stranger. I don’t reckon that any buyer has a cinch on the output, and if your prices are right yuh might do business.”

“Fair enough. Who are the big owners?”

Peace gave him the names of several cattlemen and he wrote the names in a note-book. Then he thanked them both and went back across the street.

“A husky lookin’ jasper,” commented Houston.

Peace nodded and studied the back of the man. There was a peculiar stiffness about his walk that betokened the fact that the man had spent much time in the saddle. He twisted slightly at the hips at each step, and Peace drew a mental picture of this same man in chaps and high-heeled boots.

“Old time cow-man,” observed Peace to himself. “Betcha he was a go-getter in his time.”

Some cowboys were riding in from the Fossilshell and waved at Houston as they came past. Peace strolled up the street to a restaurant and went in to eat. He was short of money and wondered just what he was going to do.

His savings had all been in the Pasiooks bank and now he was unable to sell off his sheep.

“Looks kinda like I was goin’ to have to forget the other side of the hill for a while,” he reflected.

After his meal he went over to the Tarp City saloon. The strange cattle buyer was drinking with some of the men from the Fossilshell—or rather, they were drinking with him. Peace sat down against the wall and watched the activities in the place.

In about fifteen minutes Frank Campion came in. He saw Peace Parker but did not speak. One of the cowboys called to him and he joined their party. Peace heard them tell the buyer that Campion was from the Chinook Valley, and they began talking prices.

After a few more rounds of drinks Campion and the buyer went outside. It was growing dusk. Peace got up and went out just in time to see them disappear into the livery-stable. He crossed the street to the front of Carney’s store where he leaned against a post until the two men came out, leading a saddled horse. Campion went to the hitch-rack, mounted his horse and joined the cattle-buyer.

“That’s funny,” reflected Peace. “Campion came in with a thirst and the stranger was half-loaded, but they’re leavin’ it behind. I never seen a cow-man with a thirst that was so anxious to sell stock that he’d quit drinkin’ to make a sale.”

Peace swung across the street, untied his horse and got into the saddle. Without showing undue haste he rode down the street, but as soon as he was clear of Tarp City he shook up his horse and hit the Poncho Pass grades at a stiff gallop.

There was no real reason for Peace following these two men except that he was a student of cowboy nature and was following what might be called a “hunch.” It was the same feeling that causes a gambler to back a poor hand to the finish, feeling that something unforeseen will happen.

In a few minutes he reached a straight piece of road and saw Campion and the stranger ahead of him. They were riding at a stiff gallop. He drew up slightly, but did not slacken speed too much.

As he swept around a curve, going more cautiously, he suddenly jerked his horse to a standstill. Campion and the stranger had left the road and were climbing up the broken hog-back, heading toward the secret trail.

Peace turned and spurred his horse back around the curve, out of sight of the two men, in case they might look back.

“Now, what do yuh think of that?” grunted Peace to himself wonderingly. “That son-of-a-gun trailed me through that place and now he’s takin’ a cattle-buyer in the same way.”

There was no way of explaining it. As far as Peace could see there was no reason for Campion to take this man into the Valley by a route which was kept secret. It would take at least an hour longer to go in by the trail than by the road so he knew that they were not going in that way as a short-cut.

The two men had disappeared now, and Peace knew that their view of the grades had been shut off, so he spurred ahead toward the Pass, going back into the valley he had left but a short time before.

No one guarded the road now, or, if they did, they were not stopping any one going toward the valley. He topped the Pass and took it easier on the down grades. He knew he could head the two riders without any trouble.

The valley was flooded with moonlight now and his galloping horse made little sound on the dust-padded road. Mile after mile he reeled off before he came to the spot where he left the road and headed into the hills.

An examination of the old cattle-trail showed that the riders were still somewhere back in the mountains; so he took it easier. Finally he reached the narrow cañon which wound back across the summit, and dismounted.

He had reached a spot where the two riders must pass within a short distance from him. Here he had no chance of missing them, in case they came through. Farther down the slopes they might take their own direction into the valley, and he might fail to see them.

He had left his horse in a thicket and stretched himself beside a granite outcropping. Above the Pass hung the moon like a great opal ball. Somewhere a night-bird called in a shrill voice, and far down the slopes a pair of owls hooted a duet.

A wild-cat, in search of its evening meal, crossed the slope just above Peace, like a little gray shadow and melted into the jackpines. Peace grinned contentedly but wished that he might dare to roll a smoke.

Then, from a point far above him, he heard the murmur of voices, as if two men were arguing. It was impossible for him to distinguish voices or words but he knew that it was Campion and the cattle-buyer.

But they did not come on down the slope. The voices ceased and he did not hear them again. Half an hour passed and still the two riders did not appear.

Peace rubbed his chin and wondered at the why and wherefore of it all. Tired of inaction he untied his horse, swung into the saddle and headed for the rocky pass. He had made up his mind to challenge Campion for what he had already done and leave the outcome in the hands of fate.

He had almost reached the rocky defile, when he looked back down the slope. Three indistinct figures emerged from the timbered slope and came toward him. They were three mounted men.

Peace dropped off his horse and led it into the shadow of a cliff, holding a hand over its nostrils. The riders came on over the rocky edge, passing close to Peace. They were talking openly, and Peace recognized them as being Bender, Mehl and Erne.

They went past him and into the defile, traveling slowly.

“It’s a —— good thing he showed us the way in daylight,” grunted Bender. “The —— himself couldn’t find it at night.”

“And there’d be —— to pay if Chinook Valley knew that we was wise to it,” added Erne, chuckling loudly.

Peace grinned to himself. He knew that Campion had showed his men where the secret trail was located—and for some mighty good reason.

“Mebbe,” reflected Peace, “they framed up to keep me from usin’ the road that evenin’, and it was all planned to have Campion see if there was another way in. But why do they come through here?”

He waited until they had passed out of earshot and mounted again. He traveled slowly now, although he felt sure that they did not suspect his presence. Just short of the end of the defile he drew rein.

In the notch of the cañon, silhouetted against the sky, were the riders. He could see them all now. It was impossible for him to approach nearer without danger of discovery. They were evidently arguing about something, as he could see one of them waving his arms at times, and their voices came in bursts of indistinct words.

Then they seemed to group together and disappear to the right of the defile. Peace moved ahead, wondering at their intentions. They should have gone to the left to get back to the road.

He went slowly out to the edge of the defile where the eastern slope of the mountain began and watched closely. Far below him he could hear the horses moving through the brush, the sound getting more faint all the time, as the riders went down the hill.

“Goin’ down a new way so they won’t have to take a chance of bein’ seen from the road,” he decided, after thinking it over. “No reason why yuh couldn’t go that way, except that it’s a long, hard trip and a roundabout way to Tarp City. But what does it all mean?”

Peace humped in his saddle and tried to reason it out. Why should Campion take a stranger up there, he wondered? And why did Bender, Mehl and Erne meet them there?

From what Bender had said, it was reasonable to suppose that the meeting was by appointment. But why? And was the meeting of Campion and the cattle-buyer premeditated? Peace shook his head and took the left-hand side of the cañon, heading back to Tarp City.

That same night Chris Sorensen and Jim Claypool, the owner of the Wagon Wheel outfit, the last ranch at the southern end of the valley, came to the Cross L. Claypool was a dark-faced, somber-eyed sort of an individual, prone to arguments and settled in his convictions. Usually he prefaced his objections by saying, “Yeah, but—” and this habit had caused him to be known as “Yeabut” Claypool.

Since Peace Parker had left the ranch Cross L Marshall had chewed much tobacco and uttered many strange and wonderful oaths. He even swore at Saleratus who promised to feed him ground glass at mealtime. Saleratus felt as bad over the departure of Peace Parker as any of them, and he said he’d be ——ed if anybody was goin’ to rag him when he felt melancholy.

And Cross L was in no mood to enjoy visitors. Sorensen and Claypool sat down in the living-room and tried to appear at ease. Jess had wanted to take their hats, but they assured her that it was hardly necessary.

“Well, whatcha got on yore minds?”

Cross L knew that it was not merely a friendly visit so he wanted them to come right to the point.

“Well,” Claypool twisted his hat nervously and cleared his throat, “well, I been talkin’ to Chris, yuh see. Me and him has been kinda talkin’.”

“That’s fine,” agreed Cross L, a touch of sarcasm in his voice. “Shows that yuh both got vocal cords.”

Claypool squinted at Cross L, but that worthy was as serious as an undertaker.

“Yeah, we’ve been talkin’—me and Chris.”

“Well, for ——’s sake, I hope yuh didn’t come up here to brag about it!” exploded Cross L.

“It was about the bank robbery,” prompted Sorensen.

“Oh, I see.”

“Yeah, but mebbe yuh don’t see,” said Claypool, glad of the opening.

“Me and Chris got to talkin’ about the robbery. Yuh see, Peace Parker brought that Sinks down to Pasiooks. I hear that Sinks was Parker’s hired man.”

“That ain’t got nothin’ to do with the robbery.”

“Yeah, but mebbe it has, Marshall. This here hired man robs the bank, makes his getaway and we lose all our money, don’t we?”

“I did,” said Cross L dryly.

“We all did, as far as that’s concerned,” agreed Sorensen.

“Yeah, but that ain’t what I’m drivin’ at,” stated Claypool. “This here hired man does the job. It ain’t but a danged short time until Peace Parker pulls——”

“Whop!”

Cross L shot out of his chair and leaned over Claypool, who stared up at him.

“Dang yuh, don’tcha say it, Yeabut!” roared Cross L.

“Well!” exploded Claypool wonderingly. “You knowed what I meant without me sayin’ it, Marshall.”

“You said it,” corrected Marshall slowly, “but don’tcha say it agin.”

“Yeah, but what became of Sinks? Why did Parker pull out?”

Marshall squinted away and reached back for his chair. Jess was sitting in a rocking-chair beside the table, and now he looked directly at her, but she did not look up.

“Why?” Marshall shook his head. “I dunno exactly, but he said he wanted to see the other side of the hill.”

“Zasso?” queried Claypool. “I suppose that Sinks is on the other——”

“Hol’ on!” rasped Marshall threateningly. “If you make another remark agin’ Peace Parker, I’ll slap yuh to a peak and slap the peak off.”

“Izzat so!”

“Now, have a little sense,” begged Sorensen. “Fightin’ won’t get us nowhere. Let’s look at this just as though we didn’t know Peace Parker a-tall, will yuh?”

“Can’t be done,” declared Cross L. “I know him, and I’ll be ——ed if I can make m’self talk like I didn’t.”

“Yeah, but—listen.” Claypool leaned forward and cleared his throat. “Yuh got to admit the facts, Marshall. He didn’t leave here for nothin’, did he? He was yore foreman. He had some money of his own in the Pasiooks bank. I found that out from Clayton.

“Parker went away for good, didn’t he? Yeah? Then why didn’t he try to get the money that the bank owed him? He just rode away, thasall. Looks kinda queer to me. Looks kinda queer to a lot of folks, Marshall.”

“Yeah?” Marshall’s mustache bristled belligerently. “Looks kinda queer, eh? Lotsa things look queer to yuh, don’t they, Claypool? F’r instance, it looks queer to yuh that the earth is round, don’t it? That’s ’cause yo’re a slant-eyed yaller-hammer and thinks that everythin’ is flat if it ain’t got corners for yuh to feel of.”

“Naw, I ain’t no slant-eyed nothin’!” snorted Claypool. “I’ve got a lot of sabe, and this whole thing looks like it was all framed up. I ain’t got nothin’ pers’nal agin’ Peace Parker. Why, I heard that he rode out of here with a big bundle behind his saddle. Le Page, Hyatt and Campion stopped him on Poncho Pass and Campion wanted to search the bundle, but Parker bluffed him.

“Le Page and Hyatt kinda stood in with Parker and Campion didn’t want to start nothin’ alone.”

“Yuh dang well know he didn’t!” grinned Marshall. “He monkeyed with that buzz-saw once and got in a jam.”

“Well,” observed Sorensen wearily, “we ain’t gettin’ no place, Claypool,” and then to Marshall, “Cross L, you know danged well that I liked Peace Parker. He’s a —— of a nice feller, but in a case like this yuh got to put yore feelin’s behind yuh.

“I can see things like Claypool does, and—I dunno,” Sorensen shrugged his shoulders and got to his feet. “I don’t accuse nobody—nor trust ’em. If Peace Parker didn’t have no reason, except to see the other side of the hill, I’d say that we ought to kinda find out for ourselves what he aimed to find over there.”

It was a long speech for Sorensen and he was winded at the last word. Claypool got to his feet and put on his hat.

“I’m goin’ to Tarp City,” declared Claypool, “and I’m goin’ to put the facts up to Sheriff Houston. I’ve got a lot of Chinookers backin’ me in this; sabe? Goodnight.”

They turned and went out of the door, closing it softly behind them. Cross L Marshall did not look up nor speak as they went out. Their horses’ hoofs sounded hollowly on the hard ground as they rode away.

Marshall lifted his head and found Jess looking at him across the table. He started to speak, but changed his mind and got to his feet.

“Dad, why didn’t you tell ’em why he left?” she asked softly. “It might save Peace a lot of trouble.”

Cross L started for his bedroom, but turned at the door and looked back at her.

“Would Peace tell ’em why he left?” he demanded.

She did not reply. He turned and opened the door, but stopped with the knob in his hand and looked back at her.

“Say, ain’t yuh kinda takin’ a lot of credit to yourself, Jess? How do we know why he left?”

He turned quickly and went into his room, while Jess bent over her work. He had hurt her feelings badly with his two questions, but she forgave him quickly because she knew of his intense loyalty to Peace Parker, and that he had said what he did as a vent for his own anger against everything.

In a few minutes he came out, drawing on his coat, but not soon enough to conceal the cartridge belt around his waist and the heavy Colt revolver in his holster.

“Where are you going, dad?” she asked.

“Nobody’s business!” he growled. “If anybody asks yuh where I’m gone—don’tcha tell ’em, Jess.”

“How could I tell them?” wonderingly.

“Because you know I’m goin’ to Tarp City. By grab, I’m goin’ to be there when Claypool opens his trap to Houston, and I’m goin’ to ram a hot six-gun barrel down among his vocal cords. I’m lookin’ for these Chinookers who are seein’ queer things, that’s what I’m lookin’ for.”

He thumped toward the door, but Jess crossed the room and took him by the arm.

“Dad, don’t do anything to cause trouble. Peace Parker wouldn’t want you to—and he can take care of himself.”

Cross L squinted at her.

“Thasso? Think he can, eh? Lemme tell yuh somethin’, Jess: when a danged fool’s mind gets in such a shape that he goes huntin’ for the other side of a hill, just because his best girl gets stuck on a vas-leen-haired dude—he—can’t—take—care—of—himself. Leggo my arm, young lady.”

He flung open the door, stamped down the steps and headed for the barn. Jess shut the door softly behind him and went back to her work.

Cross L was not a delicate handler of horses, and Jim Horn heard him swearing at the corral. It did not take Jim and Bert long to find out why Cross L was saddling a horse. In fact, Cross L told them in glowing, if profane terms, just why he was going to Tarp City.

And without further explanation, Bert and Jim got their saddles. Old Cross L made no comment, but their hasty actions caused him to quit swearing long enough to chuckle to himself. A few minutes later they rode away from the ranch—heading toward Tarp City.

Peace went back to Tarp City and hung around the saloons until nearly daylight, but Campion and the cattle-buyer did not show up; neither did Bender, Mehl nor Erne put in an appearance.

He ate an early breakfast at an all-night restaurant and rode out of town just before daylight, heading toward the Sun Prairie country. Peace wanted to have another talk with the sheepherder. Perhaps this man might know something about Gus Sinks, he thought.

He expected to find the sheep-camp a few miles out of town, but he traveled almost into the Sun Prairie country without seeing anything of the sheep or the herder. The band had been following the road, and there was no reason for the herder to leave it. There was no chance of a short-cut, as the road ran almost in a straight line to Tarp City.

Peace reached the spot where he had talked to the herder, and turned back.

“Mebbe the son-of-a-gun recognized me and pulled out in a different direction,” he reflected uneasily.

He did not want to lose sight of his own property. But there was no place for the man to hide them.

There was no sheep range to the west, and if he drove them south or east he would encounter the line-riders of the Fossilshell. His only chance was either to keep them on Sun Prairie or ship them from Tarp City.

“Got me fightin’ my own head,” observed Peace. “Mebbe I passed ’em.”

He rode on slowly toward Tarp City, scanning the hills which were so bare of verdure that a grasshopper would have been visible at a great distance. About two miles from Tarp City he saw a rider coming toward him. He appeared to be in a great hurry and when he got closer Peace saw that it was Sheriff Houston.

He drew up beside Peace and mopped his brow with the sleeve of his shirt.

“Whatcha sweatin’ about, sheriff?” grinned Peace.

“I sneaked out of town,” declared Houston seriously.

He turned in his saddle and looked back.

“I hope nobody seen me leave there, ’cause it might look bad.”

“Looks bad when the sheriff has to sneak out,” admitted Peace seriously.

“Yeah, that’s right. Now listen to me, Peace; they’re on your trail. I don’t need to open either one of my eyes to know —— well that you’re innocent, but them danged——”

“Innocent of what?” interrupted Peace quickly.

“Aw-w-w, of havin’ anythin’ to do with that Pasiooks bank robbery. Lot of them —— Chinookers got the idea that you and Gus Sinks was in cahoots on it, Peace. They point out the fact that you never went after your money and that you’re pullin’ out for good, and—aw, ——!”

Houston stopped and mopped his brow. Peace stared at him for several moments and a grin widened his mouth.

“It does look kinda like I was tryin’ to out-smart ’em, don’t it, Houston? Reckon they’ll put me in jail?”

“—— right! That’s why I snuck out on ’em. Kinda had an idea yuh was up this way. Now,” Houston shook a finger at Peace, “you keep out of Tarp City, do yuh hear me? I’m danged if I want yuh clutterin’ up my jail. Them Chinookers will stick there in Tarp and likely get drunk. I’ll do a lot of huntin’, but —— little findin’; sabe? Now you hit the grit, you homely son-of-a-gun!”

“Buck, yo’re breakin’ the law,” observed Peace.

“Let her break!”

“Did they swear out a warrant for me?”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Uh-huh,” grunted Peace softly.

He knew that Houston had the warrant in his pocket.

“Where’s yore sheep?” asked Houston impatiently.

“I dunno, Buck. Can’t find ’em anywhere.”

“——, yuh can’t lose three thousand sheep! Here.”

Houston took out a note-book and tore out a leaf.

“You write me out an order, Peace. Date it yesterday, sabe? I’ll sell them sheep for yuh, and as soon as yuh send me an address I’ll send yuh the money.”

“Buck, yo’re plumb white, but I can’t do it, I appreciate what you’d do for me, but I’ve kinda got a reason. We’ll let the sheep alone for a while, I reckon. You hunt for me, and I’ll hunt for what I can find.”

“Well,” reluctantly, “if that’s the way yuh feel about it, Peace. I’ll swing wide and come in on the Fossilshell road. But, dang your hide, keep away from Tarp City. Adios.”

“Good-by, Buck.”

The sheriff spurred his horse and swung to the left, heading for the Fossilshell road which went into town on the east side. Peace watched him until he faded out in the distance, and rode on.

Peace reflected bitterly over what the sheriff had told him and wondered who composed the posse from the Chinook, but was forced to grin over the fact that it did look bad for him to leave there so soon after the robbery.

“And I brought Gus Sinks in there, too,” he mused. “By golly, it sure looks bad. I knowed the bank was plumb broke; so I marked my savin’s off the book, but they didn’t see things my way. Well, I reckon I’ve got to prove an air-tight alibi or go to jail.”

Peace did not know where to go so he followed practically the same route taken by the sheriff. He knew that it would only be a short time until the gang from Chinook would be hunting the country for him, and he was not in favor of giving them either a race or a battle.

He struck the Fossilshell road about two miles out of Tarp City where he turned and rode slowly in the opposite direction. To the right of him stretched the brushy slopes of the hills which led to the mountains on the western side of the valley of the Chinook.

Almost behind him and to the right he could see the spot where the secret trail—but a secret no longer—went through the high cliffs. It was miles away and hazy in the noontime heat. Suddenly he drew rein and scanned the dusty road.

A herd of sheep had crossed there—crossed to the right-hand side of the road and were somewhere back in those brushy hills. It was evident that they had crossed but a short time before as there was no track of horse or vehicle since their passing.

Peace swung off the road and followed them. It was easy to trail a band of a thousand sheep through the brush, and Peace followed them about two miles before finding them.

They were scattered along the slopes of a small creek, feeding ravenously after their long drive. Peace grinned as he noticed that they were branded with a painted cross. It was his band of sheep and they were already dangerously close to the deadline of the Fossilshell.

He knew that there was an old tumbledown ranch-house and corrals just above there in a big clearing, and that this would probably be where he would find the scarfaced herder.

He rode down through the scattered band and crossed the little creek. On the further side he rode through the fringe of brush and came out into the opening. A few sheep were feeding out there and the sheepherder was engaged at a camp-fire beside the old ranch-house.

He moved backward against the house, as Peace rode into sight, and watched him closely. Peace merely glanced toward him and looked back at the sheep. As he turned back his horse seemed to break down on one shoulder and whirl wildly, and from the old house came the whang of a rifle shot.

Peace tried to jerk the horse to a standstill and to draw his gun, but he heard the thud of the next bullet into the horse, which went down in a headlong pitch.

Peace tried to save himself by throwing himself away from the falling horse, but only succeeded in losing his six-shooter and ended up by having his left leg pinned under the animal. It was all done so quickly that he had little time to do anything.

Peace had fallen flat on his back with his leg far enough under the horse to save his ankle but he was unable to move. It was possibly two minutes later that a shadow fell across his face and he twisted his head to look up at the scar-faced sheepherder, covering him with the Winchester.

“I kinda wanted to be sure yuh didn’t have no gun.”

Thus the sheepherder explained his slowness in making an appearance. He picked up Peace’s gun and shoved it inside the waist-band of his overalls.

“It’s a good thing to be sure about,” admitted Peace calmly. “Now that yo’re satisfied—will yuh try and move that dead animal enough to let my foot loose?”

“Can’tcha move your foot loose?”

“Do I look like a person that needs somebody to wait on him?” retorted Peace.

“No, I reckon yuh don’t.”

The man walked away toward the house and came back in a few minutes with a coil of rope with which he proceeded to tie Peace’s arms to his side.

“I’m cautious, I am,” he declared. “She’s a lot easier to rope yuh now, pardner. Don’t have to order yuh to so-and-so; sabe?”

“You sure got the right idea,” applauded Peace. “I’d ’a’ never thought of that. But what’s it all about?”

The scar-faced man laughed but did not reply while he managed to drag the inert mass of horse-flesh off Peace’s leg. Peace flexed his knee slowly and was glad to find that it was hardly injured at all.

“What’s it about, eh?”

The scar-faced man sat down on the saddle-fender and rolled a smoke.

“You thought yuh was makin’ me believe that you was the sheep inspector, didn’t yuh? Pardner, I wasn’t born yesterday. I sabe that there ain’t no such animal. Also—” he leered at Peace, “I knowed who yuh was all the time. My old friend Gus Sinks described yuh many a time.”

“Then you knowed that these sheep didn’t belong to Gus, eh?”

“’Course I knew it,” the man laughed throatily. “Me and Gus had that all fixed.”

“Yeah?” Peace grinned widely. “Mind rollin’ me a smoke?”

“Yuh do need waitin’ on, don’tcha? Well, I’ll——”

“Untie my hands and I’ll roll my own.”

“Any old time I do! Nope, I’ll roll ’em for yuh.”

He rolled a cigaret, lighted it and put it between Peace’s teeth.

“You sure busted up my poor bronc,” observed Peace sadly.

“Yeah, but I wasn’t shootin’ at the ——ed horse.”

The man was a frank sort of a murderer and Peace grinned at his honesty.

“Well, I’m glad that yo’re a rotten shot, pardner.”

“Oh, I ain’t so bad. I kinda hurried, thasall.”

“Wasn’t lookin’ for me, eh?”

“Wasn’t I? Huh! I sure was lookin’ for yuh. I knowed you’d trail me down here. I didn’t want to down yuh out in the open.”

“Danged considerate of yuh,” observed Peace. “Whatcha goin’ to do with my sheep?”

“Your sheep! Sa-a-ay, git that idea out of yore mind. These are my sheep; sabe? Well, as soon as I fix you a-plenty I’m goin’ to herd ’em into Tarp City, throw ’em into a corral and sell out.”

“Fix me a-plenty, eh?”

“Y’betcha. What else can I do? I ain’t no —— fool and I ain’t no shepherd. These sheep are worth a lot of money, don’tcha know it? Enough to keep me a long time.”

“Pardner, I’ll make you a trade.”

Peace spat out the remnant of his cigaret and grew serious.

“You tell me where Gus Sinks is and I’ll give you a straight bill-of-sale to these sheep.”

“Whatcha talkin’ about?” incredulously.

“Just that. If you know anythin’ about me, you’ll know that I keep my word. You show me Gus Sinks and you can have these danged woolies.”

The man shook his head.

“Nothin’ like that, pardner. Gus is my bunkie and I won’t squeal on him.”

“That’s danged square of yuh,” observed Peace dryly, “and I appreciate it in yuh. Just the same, I’d make the trade with yuh.”

“Nope. I ain’t tradin’ t’day, Parker.”

“Too bad. Yuh know I trusted Gus Sinks. How long have yuh known him?”

The man reflected for a moment.

“I dunno. Anyway, it’s a long time; too long to squeal on him.”

“I see,” Peace sighed deeply. “I liked him, too. I’ve only knowed him a few months. You remind me of him a little.”

“Thasso?”

“Yeah. ’Course yuh don’t look like him, but that scar on his face is kinda like yours.”

The man felt on his face and nodded slowly.

“How’d he get the scar?” asked Peace.

“I dunno. I never asked him.”

“Got it in a fight, I know that much about it,” said Peace. “Said he lost the little finger off his left hand in the same fight. But Gus handled the truth kinda carelessly and I never believed him much. Likely lost his finger when he was learnin’ to split wood.”

The man grinned and nodded.

“That’s how he lost it. Gus told lots-a stories about that finger. I dunno how he got the scar on his face, but he likely got kicked by a cow.”

Peace laughed softly over the troubles of Gus Sinks and watched his captor closely, as he said—

“Well, whatcha goin’ to do next?”

“I dunno.”

The man seemed undecided but motioned Peace to get to his feet.

“I’ll keep yuh in the old house for a while. I don’t want to rub yuh out right away—if yuh behave. Can’t let yuh loose, that’s a cinch. I ain’t got nothin’ agin’ yuh personally—except that yo’re in my way, and when folks git in my way, I usually fix ’em a-plenty.”

“Where do you bury yore dead?” grinned Peace, stretching his long legs.

“Ne’ mind where I plant ’em. You toddle along ahead of me and be glad that I’m in good humor t’day. I ain’t no mean hombre, but I don’t let nobody stand between me and a lot of money, yuh understand?”

Peace went into the old tumble-down ranch-house and the scar-faced man motioned him to sit down in a corner. It was a dusty old place, with a broken floor, sway-backed roof and smelled strongly of pack-rats.

Scar-face proceeded to hog-tie Peace, who was unable to make any resistance. Satisfied that the job was well done, the scar-faced man went back to his cooking.

Peace squinted up at the sagging ceiling and a grin spread across his face. But Peace was not grinning over the fact that the roof sagged. Something had struck him as being funny and he chuckled to himself.

“Anyway,” he reflected when his period of mirth had passed, “that posse of Chinookers ain’t liable to find me here. Every cloud has a silver linin’, if yuh only look at it in the right way. And if that shepherd is goin’ to bump me off, I hope he don’t wait until I get hungry enough to eat a mutton stew.”

The scar-faced man shoved his head inside the door.

“Gittin’ hungry?” he asked.

Peace sniffed. There was an odor of frying mutton. He shook his head quickly.

“Not for sheep meat.”

“Huh! Before I git through with yuh, I’ll betcha you’ll be glad to eat sheep meat, Parker.”

“I’ll betcha I won’t.”

“Why won’tcha?”

“’Cause,” grinned Peace, “I’ll be so old and toothless that I can’t chaw it.”

The man laughed and went back to his fire. He was not without a sense of humor which was a lucky thing for Peace Parker.

It was early that morning when Cross L Marshall arrived at Tarp City with his two cowboys, but Claypool and his men had already been there nearly an hour. They had secured a warrant which had been turned over to the sheriff.

Houston had complained bitterly over being dragged out of bed at that time of night and had declined to make a search in the dark for Peace Parker. But as soon as they had gone he had made preparations to warn Peace, who had already gone toward Sun Prairie.

Marshall was in just the right mood to do battle with Claypool or any of his crowd, which consisted of Chris Sorensen, Mike O’Neil and six cowpunchers. Mike owned the 77 outfit and a grim sense of justice, so he brought Sam Barill and Tony Laughlin, his two punchers, who were old gun-men.

Cross L, Jim and Bert found them all in the Royal Saloon, drinking success to their affairs, with Claypool as toastmaster. He growled at sight of Cross L, and Cross L returned the growl with fair interest.

“What are you doin’ down here?” demanded Claypool.

“That’s some more of your ——ed business, I suppose,” observed Cross L.

“Yeah—mebbe it is.” Claypool felt that there was strength in numbers and had little fear.

“I don’t have to ask yuh what you’re doin’ here,” said Cross L. “You’ve done told me, Claypool. And I don’t mind tellin’ yuh that we’re here to hope real hard that yuh fall down on the job.”

“Go ahead and hope,” grinned O’Neil. “We’ve got the sheriff on Parker’s trail.”

“Lot of good that’ll do yuh,” said Jim Horn quickly. “Buck Houston couldn’t trail a load of hay through a mesquite thicket.”

“Mebbe,” said Claypool meaningly, “he won’t have to trail him. Parker was here last night and he’s here yet.”

“And you fellers ain’t went after him?”

Cross L laughed scornfully and counted them.

“Nine of yuh. Why didn’t yuh bring a dozen more and surround the town? Yuh might starve him out.”

“That’s the sheriff’s business,” said Claypool.

“And it took nine of yuh to come to see him, eh?” Thus Bert Hart sarcastically, “Yuh sure picked a swell bunch, Claypool. I s’pose it took nine of yuh to remember what yuh came for, didn’t it?”

Claypool was mad. He hated to be ragged by these three men, but he knew that if this went much further some one was due to get hurt; so he invited the three to drink with them.

This was profanely declined by Cross L who turned and led his men outside.

“Claypool, yuh better stop ’em,” advised O’Neil quickly. “They’ll get to Parker ahead of the sheriff, if yuh don’t.”

Claypool started toward the door but stopped and came back to the bar.

“Why should I stop ’em?” he asked, emphasizing the personal pronoun. “You go and stop ’em, O’Neil.”

But O’Neil turned back to the bar and poured out his drink.

“Somebody ought to stop ’em,” observed Sorensen half-heartedly.

“All right,” snapped Claypool, “you do it, Chris.”

But Chris made no move to accept the commission. Every man at the bar knew that Cross L and his two men had gone to warn Peace Parker, but none of them felt in the mood to attempt to stop them.

“I never came down here to do battle with anybody,” declared Claypool. “Marshall is one of our own people and he’s a danged old fool—but I don’t want to fight him.”

“One alibi is as good as another,” grinned O’Neil, “so what you said goes for me, too. Let’s have another, gents.”

“That’s a lot more sensible than fightin’,” observed a cowpuncher joyously.

But Cross L did not find Peace Parker. He was not at either of the two hotels, and inquiries showed that he had not kept his horse in the livery-stable that night. They went down to Houston’s house and were informed that the sheriff was not at home.

Barney McManus swore sleepily when they rapped on the door of the sheriff’s office where he slept, and disclaimed all knowledge of everything, except that he was sleepy.

“I seen Peace yesterday afternoon,” said Barney yawning. “Frank Campion rode toward the Pass with a cattle-buyer and in a few minutes Peace rode the same way. Nossir, I ain’t seen him since.”

“Peace headed back toward Chinook?” queried Cross L.

“Well, he went that direction,” declared Barney. “And what in the —— do yuh want him for so badly?”

“They think he was in cahoots with Gus Sinks.”

“With Gus Sinks? In the Pasiooks robbery? Now would yuh listen to such ——ed foolishness?”

Barney snorted his indignation.

“I think that Buck Houston is out lookin’ for him,” said Jim Horn. “They’ve sworn out a warrant for Peace.”

“Who did?”

“Aw, there’s Yeabut Claypool, Chris Sorensen, Mike O’Neil and some of their punchers. They’re over at the Royal.”

“They are, eh?”

Barney wrinkled his nose, as though an offensive odor annoyed his nostrils.

“Well, the best thing we can do is to split up the four of us and try to warn Peace. He’s some’ers around this here country. Wait’ll I git m’ pants on.”

“You can’t go and warn him, Barney; there’s a warrant out for his arrest,” reminded Bert Hart.

“Can’t, eh?”

Barney thought it over for a moment.

“Well, I can resign, can’t I? This ain’t no good job, anyway. If Buck Houston serves that warrant he’ll git a new deputy, y’betcha.”

About an hour later Buck Houston showed up. He had stabled his horse, and none of the Chinook outfit knew that he had carried a warning to the man they were after.

Cross L and Barney cornered him immediately, but the sheriff was non-committal. Then Barney tendered a verbal resignation, handed back his badge of office and went over to the Royal saloon with high hopes of talking out loud to Claypool & Co.

Houston pocketed Barney’s star, grinned widely over Barney’s emphatic resignation—and did nothing.

Claypool waxed profanely eloquent over Houston’s lack of initiative, but the sheriff did not seem to care. Not so with Cross L Marshall. He followed Claypool around and tried to annoy him into argument. Every one expected momentarily that there would be a gun-battle, but Claypool had not misrepresented his own feelings when he said that he did not want to fight with Cross L.

Finally Claypool gathered his forces and rode away toward Sun Prairie. Most of the punchers were unsteady in their saddles and in no shape to do anything, except yell and sing, but they rode away without caring where they were going or why.

As they rode out of town, Frank Campion, Bender, Mehl and Erne rode in. They stopped at the Royal saloon and it did not take them long to find out the news. Campion listened to the evidence against Peace Parker seriously.

“Well,” he announced, “Parker and I are not the best of friends; so the best thing I can do is to keep my mouth shut.”

“Then I’ll give yuh credit for havin’ a little sense,” applauded Cross L seriously.

Campion eyed Cross L, but said nothing. He realized that the old man was looking for trouble and he had heard that Cross L Marshall was not at all crippled in his gun-hand. At any rate he turned back to his drink.

“Mebbe you know where Peace Parker is,” suggested Jim Horn.

“Me?”

Campion turned and stared at Horn.

“Yeah. You and that cattle-buyer pulled out of here last evenin’, and Peace follered yuh out.”

“Eh?”

Campion upset his glass of liquor accidentally, but was too interested to right it.

“Peace Parker followed me—us?”

“That’s what he done,” declared Jim. “You two headed for Poncho Pass and Peace was right on your trail.”

Campion’s eyes narrowed and he stared down at the floor, deep in thought. His eyes flashed sideways to Bender who was watching him. Then Campion seemed to pull himself together and looked at Jim Horn.

“It’s funny we didn’t see him,” he said slowly. “We didn’t ride fast. Did he go all the way into the valley?”

“I dunno.”

Jim shook his head.

“He was around here before midnight,” thus the bartender horned into the conversation. “I seen him about that time. He didn’t play—just kinda in and out, like he was lookin’ for somebody.”

“How long before midnight?”

Campion was interested.

“Oh, I dunno. Mebbe it was eleven o’clock—mebbe later, but it was before midnight.”

“You fellers have a little drink with me?”

Campion nodded to the three from the Cross L.

Cross L was about to refuse, but Jim Horn accepted the invitation, and they joined Campion’s party. Jim gave the old man a sharp glance, and he accepted the invitation without a word.

“We rode over here to warn Peace Parker,” offered Jim, “but Claypool and his gang beat us to it. Didn’t do ’em any good, ’cause Peace wasn’t here. They’re huntin’ for him now, but they’re too drunk to last long.”

“Well, here’s to Parker,” Campion held up his glass and examined the liquor. “And may he get so far out of the country that the sheriff would have to pay ten dollars to send him a postal-card.”

“Which he won’t,” chuckled Cross L. “Peace ain’t the runnin’ kind. Nossir, he’ll play out his hand. What gets me is the fact that he was headed for Chinook Valley.”

“Why do you suppose he’s hanging around here for?” asked Campion.

“I’ll betcha he’s lookin’ for Gus Sinks,” Bert Hart seemed convinced that this was the reason. “Mebbe he’s got a hunch that Gus is still in the Chinook.”

“He’d be a fool to stay in there,” observed Campion.

“Yeah—from our point of view. Sinks may be a fool, but he’s sure fooled us good and plenty. Forty thousand dollars and a clean getaway.”

“He ain’t got away—yet,” declared Cross L. “If Peace Parker can keep away from the law long enough, I’m bettin’ he finds Gus Sinks.”

“I’m trailin’ my bet with yours,” said Jim Horn enthusiastically. “Peace Parker likes to play a lone hand and he mebbe pulled out of the valley just so we’d let him run things to suit himself. He’s a salty rascal.”

“Well, I wish him luck,” said Campion slowly. “I had no money in that bank, but I probably would have had some in there if this had happened a little later.”

“Sell off some cows?” queried Cross L.

“No, I didn’t. There was a difference of opinion on prices. These buyers want all the best of it.”

“That’s a fact,” nodded Cross L. “I’ll buy somethin’ this time.”

They all drank a good-luck to Cross L, and Campion and his men left the Royal. At the edge of the sidewalk, Campion spoke to Bender who nodded and went straight to the hitchrack where he mounted and rode back toward Poncho Pass.

Jim Horn stood beside a window and watched him leave. The other three crossed the street to the store and were in there a few minutes; when they came out each carried a number of bundles.

They came across the street, mounted their horses and followed Bender. Jim scratched his head and told Cross L what the Three Dot outfit had done. Cross L bit off a big chew of tobacco and frowned deeply.

“Whatcha suppose Bender went away ahead for?” queried Jim. “Why didn’t he stay and pack his share of plunder?”

“Jim,” Cross L’s mustache bristled and twitched violently, “I ain’t no mind-reader.”

“I ain’t either but I’ve got a hunch that somethin’ ain’t just what it ought to be. I’ll betcha that Campion knows where Peace Parker is.”

“You don’t think that Peace had a run-in with him, do yuh, Jim?”

Jim shook his head. “No, I don’t. If they had a run-in, Peace would be here and we’d be lookin’ for Campion.”

Cross L grinned and slapped his leather-chapped leg.

“That’s a cinch, Jim! Well, we’ve just got to wait and see which way the pickle is goin’ to squirt.”

Peace soon found that the sheepherder was no novice when it came to hog-tying a human being. He tried in every way to loosen his bonds but only succeeded in rubbing a lot of skin off his wrists.

Once that afternoon, Peace thought he heard voices. It was a dull murmur, as though two people were arguing; but no one came near the shack. The sheepherder had left shortly after eating his meal and it was about two hours before he returned.

He sat down in the doorway and rolled a cigaret for Peace. He seemed very thoughtful over something and talked but little.

“Have yuh run out of words?” grinned Peace.

“Not exactly. I’m takin’ the sheep to Tarp City late this afternoon and I’m goin’ to leave you here. Mebbe I’ll come back and mebbe I won’t. Anyway, I won’t be back before I sell the sheep; so you better pray for a quick sale.”

“I suppose I don’t eat while yo’re gone, eh?”

“Don’t look like it, does it? I suppose I’d save myself a lot of trouble by puttin’ a bullet into yuh right now.”

“Pleasant thing to think about,” grinned Peace.

“Well, put yourself in my place. I can’t let yuh loose to block me, can I? I can’t come back here and let yuh loose, ’cause that would give yuh a chance to trail me down. We’re both up against it, don’tcha know it?”

“Well,” grinned Peace, “I ain’t goin’ to be a hero and ask yuh to sacrifice me to save yourself. Yuh know, that proposition I made yuh still holds good. You show me Gus Sinks and the sheep belong to you.”

“Thasso? Suppose I just keep the sheep, anyway. You can’t force me to accept your proposition; yuh must remember me and Gus had this all framed. He was to lift the money from the Pasiooks bank, while I disposed of the sheep. We’re in cahoots on this, and yore offer don’t interest me none.”

“Kinda looks like a dead-lock,” said Peace seriously.

“Yep. Well, I’m goin’ to herd my sheep right now and we’ll see about the rest.”

The man got to his feet and stretched his arms. He was still carrying Peace’s six-shooter in addition to his own. He studied Peace for a moment and came over to him.

“Got to kinda look yuh over, pardner. Can’t take no chance on yuh workin’ them ropes loose.”

He rolled Peace over on his side, loosened the ropes a little and tied them off again. It eased the pressure on Peace’s arms a little for which he was thankful.

“I reckon you’ll stay put,” he remarked. “I’ll see yuh later. Adios.”

He walked away from the shack and Peace heard him swearing at the sheep as he rounded them up with the dogs. Peace could not see out of the door, but the shadows showed that it was well past mid-afternoon. The sound of the sheep and sheepherder died away and there was no sound, except the drone of insects.

Peace hitched back toward the wall and tried to sit up. He twisted at his wrists and a thrill went through him. The rope was slack enough for him to work one hand loose, and inside of a minute he had shucked the ropes from his body and got to his feet.

He took one step toward the door and stopped.

“Too easy,” he muttered. “Too —— easy! Whatcha know about that?”

He backed to the wall and frowned down at the loose rope. Had the man made a mistake in the tying, or did he do it intentionally? Peace shook his head.

“Planted the whole thing, I betcha,” he reflected bitterly. “When I walk out I get a bullet.”

Cautiously he sidled to the door and peered out. His angle was limited and he could see nothing. There was no sound. He peered a little closer. Within six feet of the doorway, leaning against the house, was that Winchester rifle.

Peace grinned, but without mirth. He knew that the rifle was there for a purpose. The scar-faced man knew that Peace would go after that rifle immediately, and Peace was just as sure that the scar-faced man was out there at that fringe of brush, waiting for him.

Peace squinted at the rifle and wondered if he dared to make a dash for it. It was a long chance.

“Betcha forty dollars it ain’t loaded,” he mused. “No danged fool would leave a loaded rifle that handy.”

He had noticed the rifle the day before and a thought suddenly came to him. Peace, like all range men, instinctively noted the caliber of a rifle and the thought suddenly struck him that this rifle might mean something to his side.

He gathered up the rope and tied a heavy knot on one end. The muzzle of the rifle was leaning against the side of the building, which precluded any chance of roping it with a loop, but Peace had an idea.

He backed to the corner and circled the room, which put him on the opposite side of the door and on the same side with the rifle. Estimating the distance to the gun, he flung out the length of rope, throwing it the opposite direction from the gun.

Then, with a jerk of his wrist, and only exposing his forearm, he whipped the rope toward the gun. He felt it strike the gun, and jerked quickly, but the knot whipped loose and the rope came back.

Quickly he tossed it again and whipped back. This time the rope was a little longer and his forward jerk captured the gun. He dragged it swiftly through the doorway, and picked it up.

A flip of the lever showed the gun to be empty, but a glance at the caliber number on the top of the barrel caused Peace to grin with joy.

The scar-faced man had Peace’s six-shooter but he had neglected to remove Peace’s cartridge belt which was studded with 32-20 revolver cartridges. The rifle was a 32-20 caliber and would chamber the revolver cartridge. Both the 32-20 rifle and revolver were fairly new to the range-land, and the Cross L had made uncomplimentary remarks anent Peace’s pop-gun. But Peace had showed them that the smaller caliber gun was more accurate and just as deadly as the more cumbersome ones. His gun was of .45 caliber frame which gave him the accustomed weight.

The question now was to find the location of the sheepherder. Peace took off his coat and hung it over a short piece of the broken flooring. Then he took his hat in his other hand and projected them past the edge of the doorway. At a distance it would seem that the point of a man’s shoulder and the edge of his hat were in sight.

Whap!

Peace jerked the coat back, dropped the piece of board and flexed his fingers. The bullet had drilled a neat hole through the shoulder of his coat and splintered the board. “Mebbe that jasper can’t shoot!” applauded Peace admiringly. “What he’d ’a’ done to me would ’a’ been a-plenty. Um-hm-m-m-m! Don’t look as good as it did.”

The rear door and windows had been boarded up long ago, and to Peace it looked like a case of staying out of sight until the sheepherder decided to leave—or until it got dark. The broken floor attracted his attention. The old house had been built upon heavy log sills and there seemed to be considerable room underneath. Peace examined it closely and crawled under. The dirt banking on the sides had fallen away and he was able to crawl to the side of the building and peer out. He could not get a clear vision of that side of the clearing, but he had an even break with any one that came into view for a radius of two hundred yards.

He could not see or hear the sheep now, but he was sure that the sheepherder would not leave until things were settled between them. Peace shoved the muzzle of his rifle through the aperture and squinted closely. He had a fair idea of where the shot had been fired from.

He knew that the sheepherder would stay where he could watch the front door and this knowledge was of assistance to Peace. He watched a certain spot in the brush for some little time. Something had caused a branch to jerk—and there was no wind.

It jerked again. Peace flattened his cheek against the butt of his rifle and sent a bullet whistling into that clump. The man must have been moving away, because beyond that spot, and to the right, the bushes jerked sharply.

Twice more Peace fired but without visible results. He did not have a target but felt that his bullets were going very close. The bushes did not wave again; so he relaxed and waited for the sheepherder to make his next move.

Straight across the clearing from Peace was the brush-lined creek with high banks, where a man might easily walk without being seen from the cabin. Peace had left the rifle muzzle protruding from under the cabin, while he slid back a foot or two, as he rolled a smoke.

Suddenly the dirt bank near his head seemed fairly to explode, and to his dirt-filled ears came the snap of a high-power rifle. Peace rolled aside and clawed the dust out of his eyes. The bullet had evidently mushroomed into that clay-like dirt and had driven Peace’s mouth, nose, ears and eyes full of it.

He reached blindly for his rifle, yanked it with him and crawled farther back toward the rear of the building, while shot after shot tore through the hard dirt and filled the air with dust and fine gravel. The sheepherder was taking a chance on hitting Peace by searching the whole length of the shack.

But Peace hugged the rear of the place, while he tried to blink the dust out of his eyes and wait for the man to finish his magazine of shots.

“The danged murderer snuck up the creek on me,” reflected Peace, “and I left my gun-muzzle outside as a marker for him. That was a smart thing to do. Peace Parker, if you git killed, it’s yore own fault.”

The sheepherder’s rifle had made many apertures in the banked foundation of the shack and Peace crawled to the near corner and peered out. The man was too smart to show himself, but Peace felt sure that he was just behind the creek bank.

Then Peace saw a slight movement. It was the crown of the man’s hat and it moved in a perfectly natural way. A moment later it flipped upward from the jerk of Peace’s bullet, and almost at the same time a bullet ricocheted off the barrel of Peace’s gun and thudded into the corner of the building.

Peace rolled and slid sideways toward the center of the place and crawled rapidly toward the front, while another bullet smashed into the corner of the foundation.

“Son-of-a-gun foxed me,” complained Peace. “Hung up his old hat while he went down the creek and laid for me. But it didn’t git him any scalps.”

He crawled to the side again and peered out. This time he was careful to keep near the corner where the angle gave him slightly better protection.

Suddenly he caught a flash of a man’s body, but at an extreme angle. It was only a glimpse, but it showed that the man was running up through the brush as though to circle the shack.

Peace grinned and crawled to the opposite side, where he carefully kicked away the banking. The man had driven him away from the peep-holes and was going to circle the cabin, thought Peace.

It was the reasonable thing to do, under the circumstances, and Peace congratulated himself on having seen the man start his circle. He watched closely. Beyond him the hill sloped sharply and was a mass of brush and rocks.

The man was a long time showing up, he thought. Perhaps he was sneaking up at the rear. Peace squinted reflectively.

“Still,” reflected Peace, “he ain’t a lot better off than I am. He’s gotta peek under to see me.”

Suddenly he jerked his gun forward and flattened himself as low as possible. He had seen the man again, and this time he was apparently mounting a horse in the jack-pine thicket back on the slope.

Peace cuddled the butt of the gun carefully and squinted down the sights. Again the man came into view, spurring his horse, as though to circle back toward the rear of the house but still protected by the high brush. Peace was unable to get a clear view of either man or horse but he took a chance and squeezed the trigger.

Almost at the crack of the rifle the horse fell away headlong into the brush and the rider seemed to fairly somersault out of the saddle.

“Walk, you son-of-a-gun!” exploded Peace. “You made me walk.”

For several moments there was no sign of the man, and then Peace got a flash of him, running up the slope, dodging from rock to rock. His movements were too swift for Peace, who was in a cramped position and unable to elevate his gun-muzzle sufficiently to cover the target.

Peace grinned thankfully and began rolling a cigaret. Just why the sheepherder had decided to pull out was a mystery to him, but he was perfectly willing to have the man leave.

He was about to light his cigaret when he heard the thud of running horses and a man’s voice yelling something. They came up to the cabin, and he heard the confused murmur of voices as they dismounted.

Came a creak of the old floor as some one stepped inside, and the voices were more distinct.

“Yeah, but who in —— was doin’ the shootin’?”

It was Claypool’s voice.

Several voices joined into the argument and more boots creaked on the floor.

“Well, that’s Peace Parker’s bronc,” declared Chris Sorensen’s voice, “and it’s deader than ——”

“Let’s have a drink,” suggested another, and this was met with approval.

“You got the bottle yoreself, Barill,” stated Mike O’Neil’s voice.

There was a great shuffling of feet, as they drank from the bottle, and then all went outside. Ensued a lot of meaningless gabble in which Peace caught fragmentary sentences relating to dead horses and sheep. Then they all mounted and rode away.

Peace crawled back to the opening in the floor in time to see them disappear into the brush, heading back toward the Fossilshell road.

“Well,” grinned Peace, “that’s once that whisky helped me out. If that bottle wasn’t about empty they’d ’a’ done some lookin’ around. Hurrah for hooch!”

He walked outside and peered around the side of the shack. There was nobody in sight, but he was taking no chances on the sheepherder this time. He draped his coat on a stick and tried his same experiment again, but this time there was no response.

He tried it at the other corner, with the same results. Then he stepped out from the building, taking a chance that the man had kept on going. After a hasty glance toward the brushy slope he stepped back and jerked up his rifle.

A horse was coming down through the trees and as it broke out into the open, Peace saw that it was saddled and bridled. For several moments it stood there, shaking its head jerkily, and then came on toward him. He watched it, a quizzical expression in his eyes. The horse stopped a few feet away, and then Peace knew what had happened.

Just at the arch of its neck was a jagged furrow, where his bullet had plowed its way. The horse had been creased, or in other words, shocked momentarily by the bullet and had fallen as though instantly killed.

Peace spoke to the animal, which let him pick up the reins. It seemed slightly dazed and very docile, but Peace knew that the animal was not seriously hurt.

“Couldn’t do it in a year, if I wanted to,” he confessed to himself, “but I’m sure glad that this was my lucky day. I’d hate to hurt a innocent horse.”

He squinted at the brand and frowned thoughtfully. He knew that he had seen this horse before. Suddenly it struck him that this horse belonged to the Tarp City livery-stable and was the one that the cattle-buyer had hired the night before.

“Well, that puts a new kink in the tangle,” he reflected. “What’s that bronc doin’ over here?”

He rubbed its nose softly.

“Dog-gone yuh, I wish yuh could talk. I’d sure have a lot of questions to ask yuh, bronc.”

Pwee-e-e-e!

A bullet struck the ground between Peace and the corner of the house and went humming off into the brush. The report showed that the shooter was doing some long-range work, but Peace figured that it was too close for comfort; so he swung into the saddle, spurred the horse to the left, which would put the building between him and the rifleman, and rode away toward the brushy creek.

No more shots were fired, which proved that Peace’s calculations were correct. He drew up on the bank of the creek where he was hidden by the brush and debated whether to go away or wait and see if the shepherd would come back, but decided that the shepherd was too wise for such a proceeding, and rode away.

Peace knew that whisky and man-hunting did not mix well; so had little to fear from the Claypool outfit. They would go back to Tarp City, line up at the bar and argue over the dead saddle-horse they had found.

But this did not help Peace’s situation to any great extent. He was blocked from going to Tarp City—unless he wanted to take a chance on being arrested. To leave the country would be a confession of his guilt and also leave some work undone.

“I can’t go away and leave that sheepherder alone,” he reflected. “He’s a liar, that’s a cinch—and he tried to murder me. Still I’ve got to give him credit for bein’ gentleman enough to not shoot me while I was tied up, I s’pose. But he ain’t got no more idea where Gus Sinks is than I have—and I’ve got to find Gus Sinks.”

He traveled back to the main road and headed for Tarp City, taking care to parallel the road instead of coming out into the open. For about a mile he watched the road closely, but could not find where the sheep had come back to it. Then he turned around and went back the other way, until he had gone a mile or more beyond where they had crossed the first time. Still there was no sign of their crossing.

Peace rode back to the creek, gave his horse a drink and sat down in the shade to have a smoke and wonder deeply what had become of his sheep. It was evident that they were not heading for Tarp City nor for the Fossilshell.

But Jim Horn was not willing to follow Cross L Marshall’s advice and, “wait to see which way the pickle is goin’ to squirt.”

Jim was naturally of a suspicious nature, and, as soon as he was able, without attracting attention, he secured his horse and rode out of town, heading toward Poncho Pass. He wanted to know why Bender had ridden away ahead of Campion and his other two men.

About a mile out of town he saw a man walking down the road toward him. The man limped slightly and stopped as Jim rode up to him. It was the cattle-buyer who had ridden away with Campion, but was a stranger to Jim Horn.

The man’s clothes were torn in several places and one of his hands was badly bruised. He seemed tired and there was an angry expression in his eyes, as Jim grinned at him.

“How far is it to Tarp City?” he demanded.

“Mile or so,” said Jim, glancing back down the road.

The man swore openly and flexed his right knee.

“I lost my horse,” he explained. “I’m a cattle-buyer.”

He pointed back toward the hill.

“I went into the valley with a man named Campion—went in last night. We disagreed on prices; so I started back. Got lost, I reckon. Anyway, I got off my horse and it broke away from me.

“Horse belongs to the livery-stable at Tarp City. I’ve had a —— of a time gettin’ here.”

“Yeah, yuh sure look like yuh did,” admitted Jim. “Kinda got off the road, didn’t yuh?”

“I did. Skinned my hand and twisted my ankle.”

“Well, yuh ain’t far from Tarp City now, pardner.”

“Glad of it. What outfit are you with?”

“Cross L.”

“Over in the valley, eh? Sellin’ any beef?”

“Mebbe.” Jim turned in his saddle and pointed back down the road. “Old man Marshall is in Tarp City now. Yuh might ask him about it. He ain’t in no mood to sell cows, but he might calm down long enough to talk business.”

The cattle-buyer squinted thoughtfully and nodded.

“Much obliged. Well, I’ll be hobblin’ along. So long.”

Jim nodded and rode on.

“So this was the cattle-buyer that went away with Campion,” mused Jim. “Lost his horse and fell all over the landscape.”

At the first curve in the road he looked back. The cattle-buyer was not in sight.

“Cripple ——!” exploded Jim. “Nothin’ less than a foot-racer could get out of sight that quick.”

He turned his horse and rode back at an easy gallop, but the crippled cattle-buyer had disappeared. Jim rode boldly back to where he had talked to the man and tracked him in the dusty road for about a hundred yards.

The man had stopped, shuffled his feet as he evidently looked toward Jim, but from there the tracks were not visible. Jim stared off into the brush, a queer expression in his eyes.

“Whatcha know about that?” he demanded of the whole wide world. “He won’t find Tarp City down there in the brush. Mebbe he lost his rudder and can’t steer himself.”

But only a blue-jay’s chattering broke the stillness. Jim shook his head and rode back toward Tarp City, wondering why the man had taken to the brush.

Jim found Cross L and Bert Hart in the Royal saloon but did not tell them where he had been. Buck Houston was also in the saloon, when, according to precedent, he should be out in the hills looking for clues.

Barney McManus had looked upon the wine when it was very red and was in the proper condition to do battle with any one who dared say that Peace Parker was guilty of being anything. Buck Houston looked mildly upon Barney but said nothing. Barney was a good deputy. Houston gave no thought to Barney’s resignation.

A little later the Claypool posse rode into town and invaded the Royal. They were dusty, tired and thirsty, but triumphant, to a certain degree.

“We didn’t find our man,” explained Claypool, a trifle thickly, “but we found his horse and saddle—dead.”

“Who do yuh reckon killed the saddle?” queried Jim quickly, but Cross L shoved in closer to Claypool and demanded a detailed explanation.

With the assistance of several more of his men who all talked at once, Claypool managed to tell of how they had heard shooting and had found the dead horse. Of Peace they had seen nothing.

Cross L, Jim and Bert went outside and held an executive session. Claypool had told them where the dead horse had been found, and Cross L was in a hurry to investigate for himself.

Then Jim Horn told of his meeting with the cattle-buyer, while Cross L squinted wonderingly.

“What’s the answer?” queried Bert. “Who in —— did Peace have the run-in with, I’d like to know?”

“Mebbe Claypool and his gang shot the horse,” suggested Jim.

But Cross L shook his head.

“No, they didn’t. If Claypool had ’a’ done it he’d be braggin’ his head off over it. There’s somethin’ goin’ on that we don’t know about. Yuh say the cattle-buyer was crippled, Jim?”

“Hurt his ankle, I reckon. Didn’t look like that kind of a person either. Pers’nally, I think he’s a liar when he says his horse got away from him and he got lost. By golly, he sure took back to the woods in a hurry.”

“Yuh mean that he didn’t look like the kind of a person that’d lose his horse and go fallin’ around?”

“——, no! He ain’t a young man but he’s got a fightin’ face. Chin as square as the end of a cigar-box and he ain’t got no lips to speak about. Just a slit. And his nose kinda flares, like he’d been hit hard on the end of it.”

Cross L rubbed the back of his head and squinted down at the ground.

“Yuh say he wanted to buy some beef from us, Jim?”

“He wanted to know if we had any. I told him to come down here and see you about it.”

“Uh-huh.”

Cross L grew thoughtful as he bit off a big chew of tobacco and dangled the plug in his hand.

Tony Laughlin came out of the Royal and Cross L accosted him.

“Tony, did you see that dead horse?”

“Yeah, I seen him, Marshall. Claypool said it was Parker’s outfit. Black saddle, kinda plain-lookin’, with a rawhide-covered horn and silver rivets.”

“Gray horse?” queried Jim.

“Yeah. Branded with a Box M on the left shoulder.”

“That’s his animal,” nodded Cross L. “Who do yuh think done it, Tony?”

“Good gosh, I dunno. We didn’t see nobody.”

Tony went on across the street and the three from the Cross L sat down on the sidewalk.

“Mebbe Peace is out there in the brush shot plumb full of holes,” suggested Bert.

“Dry up!” exploded Cross L. “You ought to be a undertaker, Bert; you get such sweet thoughts.”

“Well, you try guessin’ for a while,” advised Bert. “You ain’t done nothin’ yet, except curse a lot.”

“Yeah, I s’pose I have cussed a lot, Bert.” Cross L rubbed his chin slowly and his old eyes softened. “I’ve cussed a lot t’day. But I like Peace Parker so danged much that it makes me cuss to think he’s havin’ a hard time out there alone.”

“Go ahead and cuss, if yuh feel like it,” said Jim slowly. “I’ll tell yuh a few cuss words that mebbe yuh don’t know—and it might help us both.”

“Ain’t nothin’ we can do, except cuss,” admitted Bert. “It’s goin’ to be dark pretty danged quick. Shall we go home or stay here until after supper?”

“Let’s go home,” suggested Cross L. “I ain’t got no appetite—’less you fellers want to eat.”

“I feel kinda dys-pep-tick,” admitted Jim. “Let’s hit the trail for the ranch. Saleratus’ll get us some grub, if we’re hungry.”

They went to the hitch-rack and got their horses. Claypool and his men came out of the Royal saloon, talking loudly and headed for their horses.

“Let’s not ride with that bunch of snakehunters,” said Cross L, as they mounted. “They’re half-drunk and all loco.”

The three from the Cross L left town at a stiff gallop, paying no attention to Claypool’s men, who came up the road just behind them, but seemingly in no hurry.

The sun had long since gone down behind the mountain peaks, and the wide stretches of the hills were shrouded in the gloom of twilight. The three men rode swiftly along the grades, past the place where Jim Horn had met the cattle buyer, and into the sharp curves of the higher levels.

They were nearing the spot where the rocky hog-back opened the way to the secret pass, when Jim Horn jerked up on his horse and came to a full stop. The others drew rein with him and moved back to where he was standing in his stirrups, looking toward the secret pass.

“Whatcha see, Jim?” queried Cross L.

“Danged if I know, Cross L. Looks like a camp-fire, away up there in the peaks. Don’tcha see it?”

“I see it!” exclaimed Bert. “What in —— would anybody camp up there for?”

“I can see it now,” agreed Cross L. “Looks like a fire, all right. Long ways up there.”

As they sat there watching the tiny flicker, Claypool and his men rode up and questioned them.

“I’ll betcha that’s Peace Parker’s campfire!” blurted one of the cowboys.

“Not out in the open,” replied Jim Horn. “Peace is no fool.”

Claypool moved around until he could lean close to Cross L.

“Marshall, that fire is pretty danged close to the little pass, ain’t it?”

“Yeah, I’ve been thinkin’ it is,” nodded Marshall.

“Well, I’m goin’ to find out what it is,” declared Claypool. “If it don’t affect the pass, we don’t need to show the way to the whole gang. Come on.”

Claypool whirled his horse and spoke to his men.

“We’re goin’ up there and see what it’s all about.”

He spurred his horse up the rocky point, and all the rest followed him, their horses scrambling along, kicking a shower of rocks back onto the grade. Cross L and his two men were just as anxious to find out what it meant, so they urged their horses up through the brush and mixed with the others.

The going was not easy. Darkness was fast covering the mountain slopes, and there was danger of a rider slipping over the rim of the deep cañons. Mile after mile they urged their horses, climbing higher and higher toward the tiny flame.

There was little conversation, as each rider was on the alert, and there was little sound, except the creak of saddles, jingling of bit-chains and the scraping of shod hoofs on the rocky ledges.

Peace Parker had spent considerable time on the bank of the little stream, trying to puzzle out what it all meant. His mind was jumbled with the happenings of the last twelve hours; jumbles, which, as yet, he was unable to connect close enough to plan out his next move.

The sun was going down when he got to his feet and led his horse down to the creek for a drink. Then he swung into the saddle and rode cautiously back to the shack where he had been imprisoned.

There was no one in sight around there. He swung in a wide circle, examining the ground closely for sheep-tracks. Then he found where the herd had traveled, and a pucker came between his eyes, as he squinted at the brush-covered slope of the mountains.

Back and forth he led his horse, looking closely at the tracks. Here and there a thorny bush had lifted tufts of wool from the sheep, and it was easy to follow them. They were all heading into the hills.

Then Peace mounted his horse, swung the rifle across the saddle-fork in front of him and started up the mountain.

There could be only one possible destination for that flock of sheep, and that was the secret pass.

“They’re shovin’ ’em in through the little pass!” he gasped. “They’re goin’ to make another try at puttin’ the woollies into the valley of the Chinook—and they’re hours ahead of me! Come on, bronc!”

Peace knew what it would mean to Chinook. The law had already been tested and the sheep had been given equal rights with other stock. Possession of the range—not outright ownership—and its inaccessibility had been the salvation of the cattle-ranges of the Chinook, but Peace knew that if one big band of sheep ever invaded that domain the law would follow the recent precedent and in a short time the valley would be sheeped-out.

There were no fences, except those at the home ranches—no way of stopping that gray wave of grass-destroying herbivore, if once they gained the down-slopes.

It was a long climb up that mountain side. There were no trails, nothing to guide him. But beyond and beyond was the wool-tipped brush where the sheep had climbed ahead of him.

Darkness came down, but still the jaded animal climbed up through the broken rock, brush, down-timber, while Peace urged it continually, and swore roundly when it was forced to detour around the upper cliffs.

Then he saw the flicker of the fire beyond him. It was, as near as he could judge, very close to the rocky defile which led in through the cliffs. He drew rein and listened. A breeze was sighing through the pines, and to his ears came the distant bleating of sheep.

He rode on toward the cliffs. Suddenly his horse shied and almost fell. It was a tired sheep lying on the side of the hill that frightened the horse. The sheep tried to get up, but fell back. The drive had been too severe. There were more further on, standing in a huddle against the side of a rock—a feast for the coyotes.

Peace swore softly, swung the gun in one hand and urged his horse onward. There were men around the fire and just beyond them he could see another man, who was blocking the sheep from swinging to the right, and sending them into the rocky defile.

The sheep were bleating pitifully and were hardly strong enough to clamber up the last incline. Peace tried to shout to the men at the fire, but before he could fill his lungs with air, one of the men fired a rifle.

But this did not stop Peace. He was not going to stop for anything now. The men were running toward the cleft in the rocks. Another rifle shot echoed and re-echoed among the cliffs. The sheep were running hither and yon, as Peace spurred up the last incline, swinging his rifle in one hand.

The horse stumbled and almost fell, but Peace yanked its head up and roweled it deeply, and as it sprang forward something struck Peace a tremendous blow and he fell sideways off his horse into the rocks.

He dimly realized that he had been shot, but felt no pain. He did not even feel the shock of his fall into the rocks. He heard voices—many voices—but they were so muddled that he could not distinguish a single one.

Some one was holding a light over him, and he wanted to grin, but his facial muscles seemed stiff. Then he heard Claypool’s voice saying:

“——tell yuh he tried to herd his —— sheep into the valley.”

Again the muddled roar of voices. He managed to turn his eyes enough to look up into the face of Cross L Marshall. Someone was holding a light. He wanted to tell old Cross L that everything was all right, but he could not speak.

Cross L had turned and was speaking now:

“He’s hurt bad, boys. Arguin’ ain’t goin’ to get us nowhere. Yes, they’re his sheep. We’ve got to get him to a doctor.”

“We’ll git him to jail!” It was Mike O’Neil who made this declaration. “We’ll fix that dirty pup!”

Came a sudden movement, the sound of a blow and a chorus of voices, arguing angrily. Then Jim Horn’s voice, half-crying with anger:

“Yes, and I’ll break his nose ag’in, if he opens his mouth. And if you want any of it, Barill, I’ll hand you the same dose.”

Peace grinned internally. He knew that Jim Horn had hit Mike O’Neil in the nose and was promising the same thing to Sam Barill, the gun-man. It was good to have such friends.

“All right,” said Claypool reluctantly. “We’ll tie him on in front of somebody. Mebbe he’ll live to the bottom of the hill and mebbe he won’t. Don’t make much diff——”

Claypool’s discourse was broken by a sudden splat, and Cross L’s voice crowed triumphantly:

“I’ve been goin’ to do it to you for a long time, Claypool. My foot slipped, or I’d ’a’ hit yuh harder.”

“That was hard enough, —— knows,” drawled Sorensen. “He won’t wake up for an hour. Didja hit him with a rock?”

“M’ fist!” grunted Cross L. “Mebbe it’s hard as a rock. I’ve had it doubled up all day and it’s likely petrified.”

Some one laughed nervously, and Claypool’s voice began weak inquiries, which no one seemed to think worth answering. Two of the men lifted Peace up, while another led up a horse.

“Rope him good and tight,” ordered Claypool painfully, in a weak voice.

The cowboys quickly tied Peace to the saddle, while another climbed up behind him. Peace was beginning to have more sensation of pain now. The back of his head ached throbbingly and his shoulder felt like a red-hot iron was being drawn forth and back across it.

They rode out to where the mountain sloped off into the valley, and Sorensen gave some of the cowboys orders to round up the sheep as quickly as possible and send them back through the pass.

Cross L rode close to Peace, as though to guard him from Claypool and O’Neil, who were talking in undertones of what they were going to do to Peace Parker. Jim Horn cursed them bitterly, and at times it seemed that open warfare was about to break out, but Chris Sorensen begged them to drop their quarrel for the time being.

Peace gradually recovered the use of his legs and arms and his brain became alert again, but he said nothing. He realized that the evidence was against him. Claypool and his men had not seen the men at the fire and thought that Peace was the one who had fired the shots at them.

They traveled down the long slopes to the road where they bunched and quickened their pace.

“Take him to my place,” suggested Cross L. “We can send for Doctor Glover.”

“Thasall right,” agreed Claypool, “but some of us will stay there with him, y’betcha.”

Cross L spat a curse that would make a cotton-tail attack a rattlesnake, but Claypool remained silent. He had been hit hard—too hard to want it to happen again.

They rode in at the Cross L and carried Peace into the house. Jess met them at the door and her face went white at her glimpse of Peace. His head and face were a mass of gore and his eyes were closed.

They placed him on a couch in the living-room and one of the cowboys mounted and rode swiftly after the doctor. Cross L went to Jess and put an arm around her shoulder.

“Is he hurt bad?” she whispered anxiously.

“I reckon so, Jess. We ain’t had no chance to examine him, but he sure does look bad. He ain’t spoke.”

Saleratus Smith came in from the kitchen, stared around at the circle of hard-bitted men and strode over to the couch.

“Who in —— done this?” he demanded hotly.

He turned and looked at the men. O’Neil’s nose was swollen from Jim Horn’s fist and Claypool’s right cheek and eye were an indigo in the light from the oil lamp.

“We don’t know who done it, Saleratus,” said Jim slowly. “There was several shots fired at him.”

Saleratus squinted closely at the men, but no one seemed to offer an explanation. He leaned over and turned Peace’s head slightly as he inspected the wound. His body blocked the crowd from Peace’s head, and Peace’s lips whispered a short sentence, although his eyes did not open.

Saleratus squinted closer for a moment and straightened up.

“I’m goin’ to wash him off a little bit,” he announced. “It can’t hurt him none and it’ll make him look better. That bullet burned plumb across his shoulder and knocked a hunk off the back of his head. Mebbe it didn’t go into him, but it sure looks bad.”

“Hop to it,” said Cross L. “It’s the least we can do.”

Saleratus headed into the kitchen, and Jess drew her father aside. In a few words he told her all that he knew about it.

“They’ll hang that bank robbery on to him, Jess,” whispered Cross L, after he had told of the shooting at the pass. “I’ll back him with every cent I’ve got, but it sure looks bad, I tell yuh.”

“Maybe they can’t prove it,” breathed Jess. “He left here because of Frank Campion, didn’t he? Dad, I told Frank Campion that I was engaged to Peace, but he kept coming. And—and Peace didn’t seem to care. I knew that Campion was a liar when he wrote that note to me.”

“Peace never whipped him because he was jealous. It was not like Peace. One day Frank came to see me and he had been drinking enough to make him boastful. He said that the people of Chinook Valley were too clannish for him, and that he was going to make them eat out of his hand before he got through. And I—I wanted to find out how he was going to do it, dad.”

“He said that, did he, Jess?”

Cross L squinted thoughtfully. Saleratus Smith was coming back with a basin of hot water and a towel. He placed the pan on the floor and leaned over Peace, holding the wrapped towel in his right hand.

Shielding his action as much as possible, he unrolled the towel and exposed a heavy Colt six-shooter, which he slipped into Peace’s hand. No one saw the thing done, and as Saleratus knelt down to pick up the pan of water, Peace straightened up in bed, covering the crowd with the gun.

They were too amazed to even move, as he slid off the couch, the gun tensed at his hip, and backed swiftly toward the open door.

“Peace!” gasped Cross L. “Peace you ain’t—well, I’ll be ——ed!”

“Hold still,” gritted Peace. “Claypool, if you reach for that gun, you’ll draw a harp or a shovel. Cross L, you shut the door behind me, if yuh will.”

Swiftly he backed out of the door and Cross L stumbled across the rumpled rug and shut the door. Then he stood with his back against it, laughing foolishly.

“—— you; git away from that door!” shrilled Claypool, covering Cross L with his gun. “Come on, boys; we’ll git him!”

Cross L stepped aside from the menace of Claypool’s gun, and O’Neil flung the door wide for the rush of men.

“There he goes!” yelled Tony Laughlin. “He’s headin’ down the road!”

“Yeah, and he’ll lead you snake-hunters a merry chase!” yelled Saleratus, as they mounted swiftly.

Cross L and the two cowboys joined in the chase, but not to help catch him, while Saleratus danced a jig on the rug and managed to upset the pan of hot water.

“Where did he get the gun, Saleratus?” gasped Jess.

“From me! I almost swallered m’ wisdom-teeth when he whispered for me to get him a gun.”

And without any preliminary action, Jess flung her arms around Saleratus’ neck and kissed him. He jerked back, staring at her, while his hand went uncertainly to his lips.

“That is for giving him that gun,” said Jess.

“My ——!” exploded Saleratus. “You—uh—huh! Say!”

He slapped himself on the thigh and stared at her.

“You kissed me for givin’ him that gun? For givin’ him one little solitary gun?”

“Yes, Saleratus.”

“My gosh, that’s hard luck!”

“Why what do you mean?”

“Mean?” Saleratus pointed toward the kitchen door.

“Why, I’ve got another six-gun, a rifle and a sawed-off shotgun in there—and I only gave him one little solitary six-gun!”

Saleratus slapped himself on the leg again, picked up his empty pan and bow-legged his way into the kitchen, chuckling joyfully.

Down the road swept the riders, heading toward Pasiooks, urging their tired horses to a killing pace. Peace had taken Tony Laughlin’s horse, which was reputed to be a runner, and Tony was riding double with Sam Barill.

Just beyond the Three Dot gate they met the cowboy, who had gone after the doctor. He was riding back to tell them that the doctor was at the Crescent Ranch, farther up the valley.

“Where did you meet Peace Parker?” questioned Claypool breathlessly. “He got away from us on Laughlin’s horse.”

“Got away? I never met him.”

“He left the road, that’s a cinch!” exploded O’Neil. “I’ll bet he went through the Three Dot gate.”

They whirled their horses and rode swiftly back. The Three Dot ranch-house set back about two hundred yards from the main road. A light shone dully through the shade in a front window, but the rest of the place was a black huddle of barns and corrals.

A horse crossed the road near the house and one of the cowboys whirled in close to it.

“Here’s his horse!” he called. “This is Tony’s horse!”

“Well, we’ve got him on foot,” crowed Claypool, as they dismounted.

“One of yuh stay with the horses,” ordered O’Neil. “We don’t want to lose him ag’in.”

Swiftly they walked up to the ranchhouse and O’Neil knocked on the door, which was opened by Frank Campion. He stared at the crowd of men wonderingly. In the center of the room, three more men were sitting at a table, playing cards, and some one was softly picking a banjo.

“Seen anythin’ of Peace Parker?” asked O’Neil.

“Peace Parker?” Campion’s voice sounded like he was suffering from a bad cold. “Why, I don’t know what you mean?”

“He came this way,” explained Claypool, without giving a thought to the fact that Campion had not been in any position to know what it all meant.

“He took Tony’s bronc, but we found it out here.”

“Aw, ——! He don’t know what we’re talkin’ about,” said Sam Barill who realized that Campion had not been with them.

“I sure don’t,” grinned Campion. “Wish I did.”

“Yuh do, eh?” Cross L had moved in close to the door and was looking at the card-players.

One of them was the cattle-buyer and his hands moved uncertainly on the table as he looked up and saw Cross L’s face framed in the door-way.

“Where abouts in —— did you come from?” said Cross L slowly, speaking directly at the cattle-buyer.

The man only continued to stare while the rest of the crowd outside, sensing something out of the ordinary, tried to crowd into the doorway. Frank Campion moved aside, but his right hand dropped close to his holstered gun.

“You I’m talkin’ about.”

Cross L pointed directly at the cattle-buyer. “You low-born, insignificant, bat-eared, block-jawed tattle-tale!”

Still the man did not move. The crowd moved in closer, which shoved Cross L into the room. Bender and Erne were at the table with the cattle-buyer, but now they slid their chairs slightly away.

On a couch sat Mehl, sprawled at ease, while near him sat the scar-faced sheepherder, fingering the banjo.

“Yes, yuh know me,” continued Cross L. “Yo’re Joe Campion, and if you had the guts of a chickadee you’d reach for your gun.”

“What’s it about, Cross L?” queried Jim. “You know that jasper? He’s the feller that lost his horse and fell down all over the hills. Say—” speaking to the cattle-buyer—“why didja duck into the brush, instead of going on into Tarp City?”

“He knowed I was there,” said Cross L coldly. “And he knowed I was jist kinda livin’ along, waiting for a chance to drill his dirty hide full of holes.”

“I don’t sabe how he got here,” complained Jim Horn. “Mebbe he got lost ag’in and traveled in a circle.”

“This ain’t gettin’ Peace Parker,” reminded Claypool. “What the —— do we care about Cross L’s personal affairs?”

Claypool turned toward the door, but stopped in his tracks. Just inside was Peace Parker, his face still covered with blood, but his mouth was grinning widely. He was not pretty to see. Campion sidled toward the couch, watching Peace closely.

None of the men who had been hunting him made any move toward him. Peace held a six-shooter at his side and his eyes took in the men at the table, Frank Campion and the two men on the couch. The cattle-buyer moved his feet slowly, as if getting ready to move quickly.

“Well, we’re all together at last,” said Peace slowly.

His voice sounded tired and a twinge of pain crossed his bloody face.

“It’s been quite some day, hasn’t it?” he continued. “It sure—you scar-faced person with the banjo; keep yore hands on the banjo. You ain’t even a good liar, Campion. I wondered why you follered me across the secret pass that night I shot the gun out of yore hand in Tarp City, but I found out the reason.”

“I don’t know what you mean?” Campion spoke softly.

“You knew there was another way into the valley, but yuh didn’t know where it was. Rather than have trouble with you and yore men, I went that way and you trailed me.

“Then you took that cattle-buyer in that way.”

Peace pointed at the square-jawed man at the table, and the men around Peace shuffled uneasily.

“I went through Poncho Pass into the valley and up to the secret pass from this side. I seen Bender, Erne and Mehl meet you two and yuh all rode away down the right-hand side of the mountain.”

Campion tried to smile, but it faded quickly and he assumed a belligerent attitude.

“What in —— are you talking about, Parker? This is all Greek to me.”

“He’s plumb loco,” observed the scar-faced man.

“Yeah?”

Peace’s eyes shifted to the sheepherder.

“You killed my horse and tried to kill me, pardner. You got scared of the posse that was after me and pulled out——”

Peace, without turning his head, spoke back to Claypool—“I was under that shack floor when you fellers found my horse, Claypool.”

“That’s what the shootin’ was about, eh?” queried O’Neil.

“Yeah. That scar-faced jasper shot my horse and planted a scheme to murder me in a gentlemanly manner, but his plans went all wrong. He’ll pay for that.”

“I never shot at yuh after I shot yore horse,” denied the scar-faced man whiningly. “It—uh—I took the sheep——”

“—— you, shut up!” snapped Frank Campion hoarsely.

“Anyway, he spoke his piece,” grinned Peace. “I creased his horse and he took a header into the brush. Mebbe he thought the horse was dead, but it wasn’t. It’s the one I got shot off from up in the little pass. It belongs to the livery-stable at Tarp City.”

“You—uh—say!” exploded Jim. “That must ’a’ been the cattle-buyer. No wonder he hurt himself.”

“Say, what’s it all about?” demanded Claypool.

It was all going too fast for him.

“It means,” said Peace slowly, “that they stole my herd of sheep from Sun Prairie and tried to bring ’em into the valley through the little pass. I got there just in time to get shot by you fellers.”

“And that’s Frank Campion’s father,” said Cross L, pointing toward the table. “I reckon he wanted to sheep out the valley on my account.”

“Yes, and —— you, we nearly done it, too!” rasped the elder Campion. “I’ve been layin’ for you a long time, Marshall. I served four years on yore account. That sheriff nailed me with the cattle, and you sent him.”

“Yo’re danged right I did!” exploded Cross L. “You had him hoodle me out of town and I got even with yuh.”

“But we didn’t steal your sheep, Parker.” Campion’s voice seemed stronger. “We’ve got a bill-of-sale from Gus Sinks. That lets us out.”

“Yeah?” Peace braced his legs a trifle. “Yuh say it lets yuh out? I think it lets yuh in, Campion. I read that bill-of-sale, and it’s wrote in the same hand-writin’ that was on the note you sent to Jess Marshall.”

“My ——!” exploded Cross L. “Is that a fact?”

Peace nodded quickly, and Campion’s face went white.

“You can’t cinch nobody on that kind of evidence,” he croaked.

Peace ignored him and looked at the scar-faced man who was getting uncomfortable.

“You talked too much,” said Peace. “You knowed Gus Sinks too well. Fact of the matter is, you knowed that he had a scar on his face and one finger missin’—and he ain’t got no such a thing.”

The sheep-herder swallowed painfully and looked down at the toes of his boots.

“Maybe you can prove that?” said Frank Campion sneeringly.

Peace nodded.

“Yeah, I think I can. In fact, I think that you know him well enough to know he ain’t got a scar on his face nor a missin’ finger.”

“Me?”

Campion screwed up his face, as though something pained him.

“How in —— would I know?”

“He’s about yore size,” observed Peace slowly. “That day I took him to Pasiooks, I thought he knowed you. Yuh see, yore hired sheep-herder over there with the banjo, said that him and Gus had this deal all framed, but Gus never knowed there was a bank in Pasiooks until I took him there, and the robbery was the next day.”

“What’s this got to do with me?” demanded Campion angrily. “You come here and talk like a fool and——”

“The queer part of it all is the fact that poor old Gus never got out of the valley,” continued Peace. “You helped watch the Pass, Campion; and you knew he couldn’t come out.”

“I knew he couldn’t?” Campion’s voice squeaked.

“You knowed —— well he couldn’t!”

Peace had lost his bloody grin and his mouth looked like a white scar across his face.

“You stopped him out there on the road that day he was comin’ back from the bank, Campion. You invited him in here. You knew Gus Sinks.”

“Prove it!” panted Campion. “—— you, prove it!”

Campion’s eyes flashed sideways to Bender and Erne, but they were making no move that might assist him.

“You took his clothes, gun, horse and saddle away from him, Campion,” Peace’s voice sounded as harsh and metallic as a voice from a phonograph. “You —— crook, you wore his clothes and robbed the bank yourself and threw the blame onto him. Oh, Gus!”

Came the sound of a soft step and Gus Sinks came in through the door behind them. But he was a queer looking badman. Around his naked body was wrapped a dirty horse-blanket, and beneath his matted hair grinned the pinched, drawn face of a man who had suffered deeply.

Every one, except Peace and Cross L, had turned at the sound, and Frank Campion took his long chance. His hand came up like a flash, holding his six-shooter, but Peace was looking for the move and his gun thundered from his hip.

Campion spun around, groping with his left hand for support, but still trying to pull the trigger. The elder Campion flung back his chair and tried to pull a gun from beneath his coat, but into him went Cross L Marshall, bellowing a battle-cry and they went down together in a tangle of overturned table and splintered chair.

The scar-faced gentleman flung himself backward off the couch, clawing for his gun; but Jim Horn did a high-dive across the couch and knocked all the fight out of him in a moment. Campion swayed around, still holding the gun, but did not have strength enough to pull the trigger, until Peace stepped in and took it away from him.

Bender, Mehl and Erne elevated their hands and decided to take a chance with the law. It had all happened in a very few seconds of time, and Campion had barely fallen across the couch when the cowboys were producing lariat ropes to secure the prisoners.

“My gosh, they’re still fightin’!” exploded Jim Horn. “Hey, Cross L! Ain’t you about through?”

“Go-o-o-sh dud—darn him!” panted Cross L. “I’ve waited a—long—time—for—this! Danged block-jawed, bat-eared ——! Got enough?”

Cross L got to his feet and let the battered Campion get up. Cross L had done his work well, although he had not escaped entirely. The elder Campion swayed on his feet and blinked dazedly.

“I’ve lived for this,” declared Cross L. “Yessir, I’ve clung to life just for this one moment. Dang yuh, that’s twice I’ve licked yuh. Now answer me, you quitter. Did yuh ever see that girl ag’in? The one we fought about?”

The man blinked painfully and spoke hoarsely through swollen lips:

“Yeah. She waited for me, Marshall—waited four years. She was Frank’s mother. She died—when—he—was—born.”

“Aw-w-w!”

Marshall rubbed the back of his hand across his face and shook his head slowly. Then he turned to Peace.

“Let’s go home, cowboy. Dang it all, I’m tired of fightin’. It don’t get yuh nothin’, does it?”

Peace shook his head and turned toward the door. But the men who had hunted him blocked him from the doorway and wanted to shake his hand. Gus Sinks stood apart from the rest, a pathetic figure in his dirty blanket, unmoved by what had just happened.

“Peace, I want to shake hands with yuh,” said Claypool contritely. “We come near doin’ yuh a bad wrong.”

The rest of them crowded in, but Peace made no move to shake hands.

“You didn’t have no faith,” he told them softly. “You was too willin’ to see the bad side of things. Yuh all knew me, but just the same yuh didn’t have no faith in me. Poor old Gus, over there, told me he knowed I’d come. He had a lot of faith in me, even if he was hid away and all roped up in the root-house. If I’d ’a’ lost faith in Gus, you’d ’a’ been sheeped out and I’d ’a’ been hidin’ out the rest of my life.”

“I told Campion you’d come,” nodded Gus. “But he didn’t have no faith either.”

Peace grinned widely and started for the door, with the Cross L outfit and Gus Sinks trailing behind him. At the horses, Cross L touched Peace on the arm.

“Peace, I had a talk with Jess t’night, while you was on that couch. She thinks you don’t care, I reckon. Campion got full of hooch one day and told her he was going to make this valley eat out of his hand, and so she thought she might be able to find out what he meant.”

“She wasn’t goin’ to marry him, Cross L?”

“Well, I should say not! She thought you didn’t want to marry her, Peace!”

“Uh-huh,” said Peace softly, thoughtfully. “Well, Cross L, I reckon there’s all kinds of faith in the world. I kinda doubted her and she doubted me, but when yuh straighten out a couple of real good doubts thataway—it ought to build up a —— of a lot of faith, don’tcha think?”

“I’ve got a hunch that it will,” said Cross L thankfully. “I’ve got a —— big hunch that it will, Peace.”

“Well, that’s faith. Let’s go home.”

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the November 10, 1923 issue of Adventure magazine.

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BLIND TRAILS

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