Chapter IV: Part 4

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.]