Chapter II: Part 2

They strolled from saloon to saloon, but there was no sign of Black Mora nor his two men. Frenchy watched Blaze walk past game after game without interest, and wondered what had come over his partner. Somehow the games of chance did not attract Blaze now.

No one paid any attention to them, which proved that news of Black Mora’s humiliation had not reached their ears. Every one seemed intent on his own pleasures. Groups of cow-punchers drifted from saloon to saloon, singing, playing like a crowd of overgrown children; their spurs jingling over the rough floors.

Already the huge, shaded oil-lamps had been lighted over the gambling-tables, and their smoky odors mingled with the scent of alcohol and tobacco fumes. Dealers finished their shifts and made way for fresh, clear-eyed men, in shirt sleeves and eyeshades. Blaze and Frenchy sat tilted back against the wall, watching the action of the place, but taking no part in it. Finally, Blaze tilted forward and got to his feet. It was time to go.

He spoke to Frenchy and they threaded their way through the crowd and into the street. They saddled their own horses, paid the small fee and rode away. A pale moon lighted the dusty road while a film of dust cloud seemed to hang above the road, marking the swift passing of some one a short time before.

The house was easy to find, standing alone, bulking black in the dim moonlight. Not a window was lighted; not a horse nor a vehicle was in evidence.

“Must be the right place,” observed Blaze, swinging sidewise in his saddle.

The door opened and the blue-eyed man’s voice spoke--

“Would you mind leaving your horses behind the house where no one could see them from the road?”

“Sure thing,” replied Blaze, and they rode to the rear.

The door was opened for them and they stepped into a dark room. The door was closed behind them. A match flared up and they watched a man light a small oil-lamp. As the glow lighted up the room they glanced around. Sitting in a semi-circle were at least a dozen men. Blaze glanced at the window and saw that it was covered with several thicknesses of blankets. The lamp had likely been extinguished before opening the door.

The blue-eyed man stepped beside Blaze and spoke to the men.

“Gentlemen, these are the two men. One of them knocked Black Mora down in the Eureka this afternoon. His pardner would have killed Mora in another moment. They are strangers in Wolf Butte.”

A tall, rangy man got to his feet and held out his hand to Blaze.

“Pardner, I’d admire to shake your hand.”

Blaze smiled and shook hands with him. Not to be outdone, Frenchy stepped forward and offered his hand.

“Ba gosh, you shake hands wit’ good man, when you shake wit’ Blaze Carlin and Frenchy Ditteau.”

That seemed to break the tension.

“You are wondering why I asked you to come here, aren’t you?” asked the blue-eyed man.

“Feller kinda like to know,” admitted Blaze.

“You do the talkin’, will yuh, judge?” asked one of the men. “You _sabe_ the kinda stuff to say.”

The blue-eyed man nodded and turned to Blaze.

“I am Judge Whalen. These men--” indicating the semicircle of men--“these men and myself compose the vigilance committee.”

“Ba gosh, you be ashamed!” blurted Frenchy. “You hang old crippled man.”

Judge Whalen glanced at the men and back at Frenchy.

“What was that, Ditteau?”

“We buried a victim of the vigilantes yesterday,” replied Blaze. “It was an old man.”

“Another one,” said the judge sadly. “Where was this done, Carlin?”

Blaze tried to describe the place, but was interrupted by one of the men, who got to his feet.

“I know the place, judge, but I don’t know the man. It’s west of Mora’s ranch. This man has only been there a short time. I talked with him, but he had little to say. He acted kinda queer.”

“Their idea seems to be to kill, regardless of who their victim may be,” observed the judge, but turned quickly to Blaze. “I forgot that you did not know. We are the original vigilance committee, but we have not been active for over two months.

“Law and order seemed to have been established by us, after all other means had failed. Our sheriff was unable to handle the situation; so we gave him our assistance and then disbanded.

“Since then another organization has appeared, operating under our name; an organization which has undone all our good work, put us to shame, and are now terrorizing the country. Murder after murder has been done in the name of the vigilantes. Our sheriff has disappeared, perhaps killed, and his office door bears a warning from the vigilantes.

“No man knows where they will strike next. The cripple you found hanging to the tree is only one of the many they have murdered. No doubt you are aware that the law and order crowd are greatly in the minority. We were a power for a while, but that power is gone, it seems. Our investigations are useless as no man seems to want to tell what he knows for fear of vengeance.

“The bank has closed its door after a raid by the same gang, in which the cashier, one of our organization, was killed. Stores have been looted. Things have come to such a state that a decent woman does not dare be seen on the street of Wolf Butte. You have seen the reckless riding, shooting, profanity, the flaunting of morals. Each day it grows worse.”

“She sure is a stem-winder, judge,” admitted Blaze. “What do yuh want us to do?”

“You knocked Black Mora down today. It is the first time that any man has raised his hand against Mora and lived. He is the swiftest, most deadly pistol-shot in the country; a man without a shred of conscience. The men who work for him are the pick of the outlaws. There is no question but what he has spies everywhere. Five of our organization have been killed.

“You will ask why we do not remove Black Mora? He has a larger organization than we have. He knows our every move. Practically every man in our crowd is married. I am not ashamed to admit to you that we are afraid. Honest men can not be on their guard every moment. No man will accept the sheriff’s office. It is suicide. We want a man who is unafraid and who is willing to put his soul, his life into it.”

Judge Whalen’s voice was softly pitched; impassioned as if pleading before a jury of twelve instead of telling plain facts to two men. The shadows of the cattlemen bulked grotesquely on the wall, as they humped forward, listening intently to the one man among them who could tell calmly of their wrongs.

Blaze got to his feet and adjusted his belt. The flickering light accentuated the bronze high-lights of his Indian-like features and seemed to intensify the white strip of hair.

“Can yuh make a sheriff without an election?” he asked.

“By appointment,” nodded the judge. “We have with us the commissioners of this county, who may, in the event of no incumbent, appoint a sheriff to serve the remainder of the unexpired term.”

“A sheriff wouldn’t have a chance in the world,” objected a grizzled cowman. “That’s why nobody wants the job.”

“I wish you’d appoint Frenchy Ditteau for sheriff,” said Blaze. “Frenchy’d make a danged good sheriff.”

“Ba gosh, I’m vote for Blaze Carlin,” declared Frenchy. “I’m----”

“Why not you?” asked the judge.

Blaze shook his head.

“Judge, you need brains in that office. Frenchy has more _sabe_ than I have. If you can make him sheriff, I’ll be his deputy.”

“It wouldn’t be quite legal,” stated the judge. “Neither of you are voters here.”

“Just came into the State,” admitted Blaze.

Another of the group got to his feet.

“Judge, I says to ---- with legality! We’re considerin’ right and wrong--not law. I dunno how these two men aims to be of a ---- bit of use to us as a sheriff and deputy, but I’m willin’ to help appoint ’em.”

“Have you any ideas of what you are confronting?” asked the judge.

Blaze laughed.

“I’ve been a gambler most of my life, judge. I ain’t never cared much for law and order until I helped cut down an old man who had been hung. He was a cripple in one knee and his old hands was twisted from disease. He couldn’t neither run nor shoot. I don’t reckon I’d ever feel good if I didn’t do somethin’ to pay back the men who done that.”

“De devil do dat job,” added Frenchy, “I’m not ’fraid from any men w’at hang ol’ men. Bimeby I’m be ol’ man, I’m t’ink, an’ I’m no lak’ to stand on wind and look up de rope, ba gosh!”

“Hirin’ Frenchy for sheriff likely won’t be legal,” stated Blaze, “but neither is hangin’ legal, when yuh do it promiscuous-like. It ain’t because we want to be sheriff, gents. Me and Frenchy are just two ordinary men and we ain’t able to do no more than any two ordinary men, but bein’ sheriff and deputy kinda gives us somethin’ to work on. We only asks one favor of yuh, and that is to let us handle it in our own way. Yuh can never do anythin’ by arguin’ with ’em, gents. If we takes this job there won’t be no questions asked nor answered.”

The judge turned to the group.

“Men, I will write out the appointment at once, if you all agree. I think it will be a good night’s work for the country.”

“She be ---- bad luck for some-bodee,” grinned Frenchy enthusiastically. “Frenchy Ditteau, sheriff, eh? I’m get scare of myself, Blaze. Ho, ho, ho! Wolf Butte get ’fraid for scare, when she’s see de sheriff. Bimeby I’m hire de cow-punch to ride herd on de outlaw, biccause I’m t’ink de jail too small. Ho, ho, ho!”

The men grouped around the table, while Judge Whalen penciled the appointment and had it signed. He handed it to Frenchy.

“This is your authority, Mr. Ditteau.”

“Meester Ditteau.” Frenchy repeated the title as he grinned down at the document, which he could not read, and then put it in his pocket.

“Ba gosh, Frenchy Ditteau got regular job now. I’m t’ink de wolf and grizzly move in close, biccause dere be plenty feed bimeby. Ho, ho, ho!”

“Please do not underrate Black Mora,” said the judge seriously. “Bully he may be, but I do not think he is a coward. He has a heart as black as his face and he wields a dangerous power. I know you do not fear him, but I ask you to respect his ability.”

“Anybody else need watchin’?” asked Blaze.

“Everybody.” The judge’s gesture even encompassed present company. “Wolf Butte has become the hangout of every outlaw from Wyoming to Canada. This railroad will bring in the scum of the earth and Wolf Butte will be their headquarters. Unless conditions change, this town will be a red hell and we’ll pay for the pitch.”

“Ba gosh, I’m lak’ dis town,” grinned Frenchy. “I’m t’ink I’m stay here and grow up wit’ her.”

Blaze and Frenchy shook hands with the men, the lamp was extinguished and they all filed outside. The moon was hidden by clouds.

“We want to wish you the best of luck,” said the judge softly.

“I--I reckon we’ll need considerable,” smiled Blaze. “It looks kinda stormy.”

“Our horses are over in the coulée,” explained one of the men, and without further conversation they filed away in the dark, while Frenchy and Blaze rode back to the blazing lights of Wolf Butte, where they stabled their horses and went straight to the sheriff’s office. The door was unlocked. Inside they found two small cots and several blankets.

Blaze barred the door and they went to bed. The street echoed with galloping hoofs, the shouts of drunken men and women. From the dance-halls came the raucous notes of an orchestra as Wolf Butte danced. Blaze stared up at the dark ceiling of the office and wondered why he did not want to join the revelry; wondered why the green cloth had no attraction for him now.

From Frenchy’s cot came a stentorian snore. The new sheriff was doing no unnecessary worrying over the morrow. Blaze grinned and stretched his full length. Men had shaken his hand and expressed confidence in him--honest men. He was no longer Blaze Carlin, gambler; he was Blaze Carlin, the right arm of the law. He flexed his supple fingers and wondered how long the arm of the law would last. At least, it would start reaching.

* * * * *

Wolf Butte was a different place in the light of the morning sun. Few men were on the street. Swampers sluiced out the saloons and gambling-houses, sweeping out stacks of torn and stained playing-cards; cleaning up for the day and night to come. Freighters’ wagons, with red-eyed, cursing drivers, creaked away from the stores, headed back to the source of supplies.

Men were packing a bunch of horses in front of a store. A hatless, disheveled person staggered out of a saloon and started across the street. He stopped and looked up at the sky, as if amazed that it should be morning. Perhaps he was ashamed to be seen in the full light of day for he staggered back from whence he came. There was no breeze and the passing of hoof and wheel left a film of alkali dust in the air; a film through which the heat waves began to dance a devil’s jig.

Wolf Butte awoke slowly--painfully. It was useless to try to sleep in that heat.

Men began to drift from the overcrowded hotels to the saloons. Men rolled out of their blankets at the feed corrals. The loft of the livery-stable furnished lodging for those unable to secure a bed. The bare ground furnished lodging for those who were unable to secure rooms, or were physically unable to reach loft, hotel or feed corral.

Dry of throat, bloodshot of eye and silent of voice, they headed for the oases of the town where, after a few crooks of the elbow, they would revive in spirit. Breakfast might or might not be forgotten. It was all according to the degree of thirst and the amount of liquid refreshments taken aboard before the pangs of hunger had a chance to manifest itself. Blaze and Frenchy were the first ones at breakfast.

A frowsy waiter, with one side of his face purpled from temple to nostril and a smear of blood on his collar, took their order. He mumbled something about a big time last night, but Blaze and Frenchy gave him no heed. Two men came in and sat down near them. One of them was explaining that his partner had been too drunk to see.

“I tell yuh that Chuck Sales would ’a’ nailed Mex Free jist like that.” The speaker snapped his fingers. “Jist like that, but he seen that Mex had a busted arm. Chuck and Mex had a argument to settle. Seems that Mex comes in to have Doc Brenton fix up his arm, but doc’s full of morphine and ain’t worth a ---- to fix nothin’.”

“Mex would git Sales if he wasn’t hurt,” argued the other. “I’d like to know who got Mex. Must ’a’ been a accident, ’cause Mex is fast as a rattlesnake. He ain’t Mora’s right-hand man for nothin’. Somebody told Chuck that Mora’s ranch-house burned down, and of course Chuck had to make a fool remark about the vigilantes. I sure looked for some of Mora’s gang to git Chuck. Chuck’s always talkin’ funny.”

“What’s Chuck got against Mora?” asked the other.

“Jealous, I reckon. Chuck Sales don’t want nobody he can’t boss and Mora won’t have nobody he can’t boss; so it--say, him and Mora’d make a good fight.”

“Chuck would whip him.” The man spoke with conviction, but the other laughed scornfully.

“Whip him? Mora’s big enough to tie Chuck in a hard knot. If Mora ever got his hands on Chuck he’d jist squash him complete.”

“Big enough,” agreed the other, “but size ain’t everythin’, Jud. Jist between me and you, I think Mora’s shy on guts.”

The one called Jud laughed.

“Don’tcha think it, Ben. Mora’s got the guts of a grizzly, so he has.”

“In size,” grinned Jud. “Only in size. The back of his head’s as flat as that there wall. I ain’t never seen a flat-head yet what ain’t lacked that somethin’ which makes men fight to the last ditch.”

“Sh-h-h!” cautioned Ben. “Yuh don’t need to yell it.”

The two men attacked their meal. More men drifted in, growling over their meals like hungry animals. Many of them bore marks of drunken conflict. Then came a tall man, stumbling in, his arm tied in a dirty sling. He pushed a man aside and sat down heavily.

Blaze and Frenchy glanced at each other and then at this newcomer. It was Mex Free, the man whom Blaze had shot in the arm near Mora’s ranch. He glowered around the room, his left hand rattling his knife on the table-edge nervously. Suddenly he looked straight at Blaze and Frenchy.

His face seemed to set in deep lines, his eyes almost disappeared under this frowning brows. He licked his lips and his hand, still holding the knife, brushed across his brow, as he tried to fathom the mystery. Blaze nudged Frenchy with his knee and whispered without moving his lips----

“He thinks we were burned in that fire.”

Free turned away, staring around the room, but his glance strayed back to Blaze and Frenchy and without a backward glance he got to his feet and stumbled out through the door. No one paid any attention to his going except Blaze and Frenchy.

“I’m mak’ t’ink you’re right,” grinned Frenchy. “She’s t’ink she sees ghos’, ba gosh!”

They left the restaurant and went back to the office. Blaze tore the sign off the door and made another, which read--

OPEN FOR BUSINESS, and signed it FRENCHY DITTEAU, SHERIFF.

A man stopped and watched Blaze tack the sign on the door. Being unable to read and not being ashamed to acknowledge it he asked Blaze to read it aloud to him. The man made no comment, but turned and went across the street into a saloon. A few minutes later a curious crowd came over to prove the rumor that Wolf Butte had a new sheriff. It seemed to amuse them, but they withheld their laughter until they went back to the saloon where they became hilarious. Blaze and Frenchy listened to their mirth, but failed to be infected with the humor of the situation.

Blaze suggested that they replenish their supply of ammunition, and they went up to the general store, where the storekeeper welcomed them with a smile.

“I met yuh last night,” he informed them in a whisper. “Name’s McQuirk, Jim McQuirk.”

“You was with the judge?” asked Blaze and McQuirk nodded.

He furnished them with the required ammunition and refused to accept pay.

“It’s the least I can do,” he stated.

From under the counter he produced a Winchester repeating rifle, 44-40, which he handed to Blaze, along with several boxes of ammunition.

“Take this and try it out. I dunno how she shoots. It was sent to me from Helena and I ain’t never shot it. She’s faster than the Sharp’s.”

Blaze grinned.

“I _sabe_ that gun, pardner. Feller down on the north fork of the Cheyenne had one and I used it on antelope. I’m sure obliged to yuh.”

“You’re welcome, Carlin.”

Other men came in, but paid no attention to Blaze and Frenchy, who went out and back to their office. A crowd was congregated in front of the Square Deal saloon, and several of them laughed aloud as they watched Blaze and Frenchy go down the street.

“What’s our first move?” asked Blaze, after they reached the office.

Frenchy examined the new gun, testing the action, peering through the sights. Finally he laid it down and began filling the empty loops on his belt.

“Blaze, de notice in de livery-stable she’s to be continue.”

“Make ’em give up their guns?” wondered Blaze.

“Sure t’ing.”

“Means that we’ve got to make good a-whoopin’.”

“Jus’ like de sign say,” nodded Frenchy. “I’m be de sheriff or not. I’m say dat no man she’s can pack de gun in town. Whisky, card, female no mix good wit’ de gun. I’m no can stop de whisky, card, female, but I’m stop de gun, ba gosh! I’m go by de stable. You mak’ Frenchy Ditteau on de sign, eh? I’m tak’ de new gun, Blaze. De Sharp’s is good gun, but I’m need more fas’ shoot, mebbe.”

They went back to the stable and Blaze signed the new sheriff’s name to the order.

“Was this order ever enforced?” asked Blaze.

“No, it sure wasn’t.” The stable-man seemed greatly amused at the question. “Yuh can’t do a thing like that, pardner. Wolf Butte won’t stand for nothin’ like that and yuh can cinch your hull to that statement.”

* * * * *

Three men rode into the wide doors of the stable and got off their horses. They were a hard-looking trio, grimy from a long ride. They turned their horses in stalls and started for the door, when Frenchy called to them.

“Tak’ look,” said Frenchy pointing at the sign.

They stopped and glanced at the sign. One of them laughed and swung on his heel.

“Come on, boys; that don’t mean nothin’.”

“She’s mean w’at she say!” snapped Frenchy. “I’m de sheriff and you leave your gun wit’ me.”

The man looked at Frenchy, as if astonished. He looked at the sign again and laughed sneeringly.

“You the sheriff?”

“You leave de gun wit’ me.” Frenchy’s voice was softly pitched, as if asking a favor. His left hand swung out, as if to receive the gun, his fingers working nervously. It was as if he was crumbling something in the palm of his hand.

“Leave--my--gun? With--you?” The man’s words were widely spaced as he stared at Frenchy’s left hand.

Astonishment seemed to grip him, but indignation flashed across his eyes and his hand streaked for his gun. He was a fraction of a second too late. Frenchy fired from his hip and at the crack of the gun Blaze covered the other two.

The man’s hand relaxed from his gun which thudded to the soggy floor. Over his face came an astonished expression. He knitted his brows as if deep in thought and then sank to his knees, after which he slid softly on his face.

“De gun stay wit’ me,” declared Frenchy without emotion, reaching down and picking it up from the floor.

He turned to the astonished men and removed the guns from their holsters. Then he pointed down at the man on the floor.

“You pack de man down to de sheriff office. If you t’ink de doctor do heem any good--you call heem. I’m stay here to collect de gun.”

Without a word the two men picked up their companion and carried him out of the stable followed by Blaze who directed them. Men saw them going down the street and followed to the office, where they clustered around the door. No questions were asked and no information given.

A man came up to Blaze and touched him on the arm. He was collarless and unshaven, wearing a hat which was minus the crown, but there was a certain refinement about his face that hinted of better things.

“Have them take him to my place,” said the man hoarsely. “They know where. I--I am Doc Brenton.”

Blaze spoke to the men and they turned and followed the doctor down the street.

“I wonder what in ---- happened to Jim Clell?” said one of the crowd.

Blaze turned and looked at the speaker.

“He refused to obey orders,” said Blaze.

A man laughed.

“Somebody givin’ orders to Jim Clell?”

“The sheriff,” said Blaze.

“It was an even break,” stated the voice of the stable-man who had followed them. “Jim reached for his gun first. I never seen nothin’ like it. Jim was hit before he could grip his gun. I’ve seen guns come out fast, gents; but nothin’ like this new sheriff and his deputy drawed ’em. They could yell ‘draw,’ spit on their hands and still beat Jim Clell.”

The stable-man’s exaggeration was accepted for what it was worth, but Wolf Butte knew that Jim Clell was as good as their best with a gun.

“I don’t _sabe_ this sheriff proposition,” said one of the men.

“My pardner was appointed last night,” explained Blaze. “Wolf Butte is through runnin’ hog-wild. Yuh can pass the word that law and order is comin’ back to this country and she’s comin’ so fast that some of these snake-hunters had better hunt a hole or get run over.”

“Vigilantes failed, did they?” grinned a man.

Blaze ignored the question and went inside. The crowd split up, muttering their individual opinions, which were not at all favorable to such proceedings. Frenchy had started the ball to rolling in the right way. Luckily he had downed one of the well-known outlaws, instead of one of the rank and file. This might make others hesitate to cross him.

Blaze knew that Wolf Butte was shocked. Of course there was a danger of having the whole lawless element against them, but, again there was a chance the different factions might split in their opinions. There were at least three different gangs, who were openly hostile to each other--Mora’s, Sales’ and McKeever’s.

Black Mora had the greatest following, but there was something about Chuck Sales’ crowd which savored of cold efficiency. There was bad blood between Sales and Mora, which is the usual thing between outlaw leaders, both of whom desired supremacy. McKeever had a small following, but was known personally as a hard man to handle. He seemed content to let Sales and Mora fight it out.

Respect for the law is born in all men. There is a psychological something that gives a peace officer a slight edge over the criminal. Perhaps it is psychology of knowing that right will win. The outlaw, regardless of his ability, hides from the law, knowing that sooner or later he will pay the penalty, for down in his heart he fears the law and when fear grips him he is no match for the man who is backed by the right.

Blaze knew this. He knew nothing of psychology, but he knew that he owned this slight edge over the outlaw. The shooting of Jim Clell had affected him no more than if Frenchy had shot at a target. He did not know Jim Clell. He wondered what would have happened had he and Frenchy ridden into Wolf Butte and some one had demanded their guns. Perhaps they would have done as Jim Clell did.

“She’s all in the point of view,” said Blaze aloud.

“Which is whatever,” admitted a voice at the door.

Blaze swung around. The man was hardly past thirty, broad of shoulders and deep of chest. His hair and mustache were bleached to a light-straw color and his eyes were pale blue. His face was burned to a brick-red and his nose had been broken at some distant time, which left the high bridge of the organ in such a position that it appeared to be falling over into one of the eye-sockets. One of his cheeks was filled with tobacco, the cheek on the same side as the falling nose, which gave him a peculiar lopsided expression.

“Howdy,” nodded Blaze. “I forgot I spoke out loud.”

The man came inside and looked around.

“You the sheriff?”

“No, I’m the under-sheriff,” said Blaze. “Name’s Blaze Carlin.”

The man stuck out his hand.

“I’m Chuck Sales. I kinda want to git this sheriff business straight, Carlin.”

Blaze shook hands with him.

“I heard two men talking about you this morning, Sales. You don’t like Black Mora, it seems.”

Sales stared at Blaze.

“Do you like him?”

“I can live without him,” smiled Blaze.

“I hear yuh can,” nodded Sales. “Dad Henderson tells me that yuh hit Mora in the ear with a beer glass and knocked him down. My ----, I wish I could ’a’ seen that. Seems like I never happen to be around when anythin’ pleasant is bein’ done.”

Sales seemed greatly disappointed. He walked back to the door and spat out into the street.

“Somebody told me that yuh nailed Jim Clell today. What’s the idea?”

There was nothing offensive about Sales’ question; only mild interest.

“Wolf Butte needs law and order,” said Blaze, “and we’re goin’ to supply it, Sales.”

Sales nodded and scratched his crooked nose.

“I dunno but you’re right. Wolf Butte is kinda ornery. I don’t like it m’self, Carlin. It brings so ---- many crooks here that a honest outlaw don’t have no chance to make a livin’.”

Blaze laughed, but Sales did not lose his serious expression.

“It’s a fact,” insisted Sales. “I don’t like this idea of ----in’ around in the town. I’ve lost two ---- good men lately. It’s got so’s I’ve got to watch behind and in front or git leaded.

“Yessir, it’s got so a feller has to gunfight somebody all the time to have anybody respect him. I’m a horse-thief, Carlin. This ---- town is spoilin’ my boys, don’tcha know it? I can’t git ’em sober long enough to even steal a jackass.”

Blaze laughed joyously. Here was something different in outlaws--an outlaw who was unafraid to acknowledge his profession to the law; an outlaw with a well-developed idea of humor. Sales, in spite of his crooked face, had a strong personality and Blaze wanted to know him better.

“You sure comes to a strange place to make your complaints,” grinned Blaze.

“No use goin’ to a saloon or grocery store, is there?”

“No-o-o,” drawled Blaze, “but yuh see we’ve kinda made up our minds to chase every outlaw out of the country.”

“Zasso?” Sales shifted his tobacco and squinted at Blaze. “Well, I’m bettin’ that you’ll make one ---- of a stagger at it, Carlin. You look to me like the kind of a whipoorwill what will do somethin’ except talk.

“I reckon you classes me with the rest of ’em, which is right and proper, but I ain’t goin’ to run ’til I has to. I’m willin’ to tell yuh that neither me nor none of my men will ever shoot yuh in the back. Mebbe we’ll give yuh a run, face to face--mebbe not. I know the order you’ve put out, but I’m askin’ yuh to let me keep my gun, ’cause yuh might need it.”

Blaze smiled into Sales’ crooked face and nodded.

“I reckon you can hang on to your gun--for a while.”

“Much obliged,” nodded Sales seriously and walked out.

Blaze did not understand what Sales had meant, when he said that Blaze would, or might, have need of his--Sales’--gun. Blaze had no desire to take Sales’ gun, in spite of the fact that Sales was notorious. Sales did not look, act nor talk like a fighter; yet the man in the restaurant had rated him above Black Mora.

Blaze leaned against the doorway, watching the street. Wolf Butte was beginning to warm up to the afternoon round of pleasure. A fist-fight was in progress farther up the street and the closely packed audience were cheering and jostling for a closer view. The creaking of a wagon caused Blaze to turn his head.

Coming up the street was a mismated team of mules, hitched to a wagon, on the seat of which sat a woman and a little girl. The woman’s face was hidden by a sunbonnet, but Blaze could see that the girl was a pretty, tangle-haired thing, frail as a flower. The woman drove the team to the front of a store, where she tied the mules and went into the store.

As she started into the door, two men came out. They looked closely at her, and one of them went back and peered inside. He spoke to his companion and they both laughed as they went back inside. Blaze wondered why they had watched her. He knew that she had not spoken to either of them as she passed.

Blaze shut the office door and walked to the store. The woman was leaning on a counter, talking to the proprietor. The two men were standing near her, looking down at the child, which was clinging to her skirts. Blaze heard enough to know that the woman was crying. The two men looked closely at Blaze, but he gave them only a glance. The proprietor glanced past her, his eyes filled with pity. Then he put his hand on her shoulder and said softly:

“Mrs. Wheeler, go over to my house, will yuh? My old woman will be mighty glad to see yuh and you’re welcome to stay as long as yuh like--you and the little girl.”

The woman made some reply and turned around. She did not look at Blaze, but he could see that she was both young and pretty; but her face was gray from suffering.

“Just tie the team to the gate,” called the storekeeper. “I’ll see that they are taken care of.”

The woman nodded and went on. The two men lounged out behind her and stood in front of the building until she drove away. The storekeeper shook his head wearily and turned to Blaze.

“Carlin, my name’s Delaney. I was out there last night with the judge.”

Blaze held out his hand.

“Glad to meet yuh. What’s the matter with the woman--if it’s any of my business?”

“God knows it is, Carlin. That’s Mrs. Wheeler--Jack Wheeler’s wife. Lives down on Cactus Creek, where they was gettin’ a good start. Honest man was Jack Wheeler and he was one of our organization. Quiet, sober, minded his own business. He--wait a minute.”

Delaney turned away to sell a man some tobacco, but came back to Blaze when the man had gone.

“Last night or this morning the vigilantes took Wheeler out of his home, Carlin. There ain’t a tree within three miles of there. Know what they done? They tied his grindstone around his neck, like you’d rope a stone to a pup’s neck, and drownded him in a deep pool.

“One man was guardin’ Mrs. Wheeler and the kid, but he got interested in the murder and she and the kid got away. They hid in some weeds and heard the guard get cussed for lettin’ ’em get away. The gang hunted until daylight, but gave it up and went away. As soon as she was able she hitched the mules and drove here.”

“Reckon they wanted her?” queried Blaze.

Delaney nodded slowly.

“I reckon so, Carlin. Women--her kind ain’t plentiful.”

“Drowned like a pup,” muttered Blaze slowly. “Delaney, I don’t reckon that ---- is fit for the man who would do a thing like that. Don’tcha think the devil’s got a little honor left? Where does the soul of a man like that go to, anyway?”

Delaney shook his head.

“I dunno. Mebbe they’ll come back to Wolf Butte. It’s beginnin’ to----”

Came the dull snap of a pistol shot. Blaze rushed to the door with Delaney right behind him. A scattered bunch of horsemen threw up a dust-cloud in the middle of the street, which prevented Blaze from seeing just what was going on beyond them.

Out of the dust-cloud came a man, running, looking back and swinging a pistol in his hand. Suddenly the running man jerked sidewise, stumbled and fell sprawling, while from beyond him came the crack of a rifle.

The horsemen drew aside. Down the street came Frenchy, running carefully, the Winchester held in both hands. Straight to the fallen man he went. He picked up the man’s pistol, shoved it inside his belt and came straight toward Blaze and Delaney, ignoring the man he had shot.

Men ran into the street and picked up the disabled outlaw, taking him into one of the saloons. Frenchy had a smear of blood across his cheek and blood was running from the back of his right hand.

“De sonn-of-a-gonn, she’s fool me!” he panted. “She’s have anodder gun inside de vest. Ba gosh, I’m get dat gun, jus’ de same. Dis new gun be de good wan, Blaze.”

Frenchy trotted back to the stable, while curious eyes followed him. He had hit a running man--running through a dust cloud, at a hundred and fifty yards, and with one shot. There was something sinister about a man who could shoot like that and then ignore his victim, except to collect his pistol. It savored of an Indian killing for a scalp. Wolf Butte had become serious regarding the new sheriff.

Delaney had been watching the men carry the fallen outlaw away and now he turned to Blaze.

“Carlin, I haven’t a bloodthirsty spot in my soul, but I could do a scalp-dance right now. That was Buck Law, Bill McKeever’s pardner. Buck is part Shoshone. McKeever is one of the worst killers in the territory and he’ll sure be dancing Ditteau’s hair when he hears of this.”

Blaze smiled.

“Frenchy’s hair is on kinda tight, Delaney. He’s got the biggest heart in the world, Frenchy has. If you told him about the Wheeler family he’d be bawlin’ like a calf. Can’t stand sufferin’, somehow--not when it’s women and kids, but he does love a fight. If yuh ever see him goin’ into action, watch him close. He’s fast with a gun--fast as a streak, but it’s the speed of a fox.

“Didja ever see one of them magic fellers--sleight-of-hand? Yuh did? They ain’t so fast, Delaney, but they makes yuh look at somethin’ else while they does the trick. Frenchy is always doin’ somethin’ just ahead of his draw. I saw him do it when he shot Jim Clell.

“He said to Clell--‘You leave your gun with me,’ just like that, and all the time he had his left hand half-closed, shufflin’ his fingers like he was goin’ to crumble up somethin’ and throw it at Clell. Clell kinda talked like a man in his sleep, tryin’ to watch that hand and Frenchy’s other hand too. Clell went for his gun, but it was too late. His motion was made like he had just happened to remember it and Frenchy beat him a mile.”

“They tell me that you _sabe_ the six-gun yourself,” observed Delaney.

Blaze smiled and shook his head.

“Not too well. I need an even break, Delaney. I hate to shoot a man. It always seems to me that it ain’t right to cut a man off. When a feller fights his way up to my age, sufferin’ things and enjoyin’ things and just livin’ along it don’t seem right for a man to cut him short with a pinch of powder and a pellet of lead. I wonder if anybody deserves it.”

Blaze shook his head and continued:

“I reckon it’s got to be done though, and I also reckon that Fate wrote in the big book that me and Frenchy Ditteau was to come here and make a clean-up. I hope the big book has more pages about us after this chore is done.”

“I sure hope so,” nodded Delaney. “I sure do, Carlin. I reckon I’ll get some of the boys to go down there and help me bury Jack Wheeler. His wife dragged him out of the creek and put him in the house.”

“My ----!” exclaimed Blaze, “I--I reckon some men deserve worse than a pellet of lead--and I won’t feel sorry if I have to pull the trigger.”

* * * * *

Blaze turned and walked back to the office. As he walked up to the door a bullet whistled past his face and thudded into the casing. From across the street came the muffled thump of a pistol shot. One of the three front windows of the Eureka’s second story was open, but the cheap, print curtains were drawn together.

Blaze whirled on his heel and went straight toward the saloon, walking swiftly. He was deadly cool, ignoring the chance of another shot. This was no time to back down; no time for anything except swift action.

Blaze had not reached the door, when another pistol shot seemed to jar the building, but no bullet came his way. He walked inside. Men looked at him, but it was evident that none of them in the big room connected his coming in any way with the pistol shots. The room was in an uproar, as two men quarreled over a misplaced bet on a roulette combination, and it is doubtful if any one in the room had heard the two shots fired upstairs.

Blaze walked straight for the stairway, which led to a balcony. The second story of the Eureka was not divided off by a ceiling from the lower floor, but was a rectangle of rooms leading on to a balcony. Blaze trotted up the stairs and had just turned toward the front rooms when a man stepped out of a door on to the balcony. Blaze stopped and his hand dropped to his gun. The man turned his head and slowly closed the door, then turned to face Blaze.

It was Chuck Sales. Had Sales fired the bullet which almost hit him? Blaze touched the butt of his pistol ready to draw, but Sales made no move toward his gun. He glanced over the balcony rail, looking over the crowd. He lifted his head and smiled at Blaze.

In spite of himself Blaze smiled in return. There was something contagious about that humorous smile, the lopsided nose and the face overbalanced with the enormous chew of tobacco. Sales sauntered slowly up to Blaze, turned sidewise and lifted his right elbow, disclosing a heavy Colt gun which was shoved between his belt and body. Blaze lifted it out and glanced at it. One shot had been fired.

“He made a mistake,” said Sales softly. “Good shot he was, but he had to shoot left-handed. Never shoot a snake to cripple it, Carlin, ’cause yuh must remember that yuh got to kill it to ruin its fangs.”

Sales walked slowly around to the stairs and went down into the crowd. Blaze shoved the gun into the waistband of his pants and watched Sales go to the roulette layout and buy chips.

Blaze knew that there was no use going to that room. Sales had killed Mex Free; there was no question of that. Free had hid up there and tried to kill Blaze, shooting with his left hand. Blaze remembered what Sales had said about the need he--Blaze--would have of Sales’ gun.

A couple of dance-hall girls came out of a room next to the one Sales had been in. They stopped at the door and looked at Blaze, as if afraid, but Blaze smiled at them and they walked past him. To Blaze, a woman was a woman, no matter what else she was, and he lifted his hat and bowed as they went past.

One of them giggled foolishly, but the other stared at him for a moment, turned her painted face away as if embarrassed and went down the stairs. She was not a young woman, but there were traces of former beauty in her face in spite of the glaring rouge and the penciled lines. Blaze remembered her. She was the woman who laughed, when he hit Black Mora with the beer mug.

He went back down the stairs and out through the crowd. Frenchy was walking toward the office, carrying his rifle in the crook of his arm, and Blaze crossed to meet him at the door.

“Somebody she’s try to mak’ fool from me,” grinned Frenchy. “Nobody come to de stable now. I’m t’ink somebody’s tell about me--Frenchy Ditteau. Ho, ho, ho! One feller she’s git mad for me, Blaze, and she’s talk bad. I’m tie her up and teach her de sof’ language. Frenchy Ditteau she’s hedg-u-cate, ba gosh!”

Blaze told him of Free’s attempt to kill him and Frenchy listened open-mouthed to Blaze’s tale of Chuck Sales’ assistance.

“I’m hear from him,” nodded Frenchy. “De stableman she’s talk about Sales. I’m t’ink dis Sales be sonn of a gonn for fight.”

Blaze told him of the Wheeler family, and at the finish of the tale, Frenchy’s whiskers quivered with anger.

“De leetle kid, Blaze? His papa drown wit’ grandstone? De man what do dis mus’ be find. Firs’ de cripple ol’ man killed, den de hones’ papa. Frenchy Ditteau she’s on war-path, ba gosh!”

A group of horsemen rode past the office and swung over to the hitch-rack near the Square Deal Saloon. Riding in the lead was Black Mora, his ape-like shoulders hunched, looking neither to the right nor left. They tied their horses and clattered into the saloon.

Blaze stood in the doorway watching them go in. Several men came out of the Eureka, among them being Chuck Sales. One of the men spoke to Sales, who nodded and started for the Square Deal. Blaze turned to Frenchy.

“Black Mora and his men just went into the Square Deal, Frenchy. Chuck Sales is headed for there, too.”

“Ba gosh,” chuckled Frenchy, “I’m mak’ t’ink de grizzly git fed quick now. We go dere, Blaze.”

They crossed the street and went in behind Sales. The men who had been with Sales went in behind them.

Black Mora was leaning on the bar, a glass of liquor in his hand, listening to a man who was telling what Mrs. Wheeler had told Delaney. It was one of the two men who had followed her into the store. The man was finishing his story and imparted the information that Delaney was going to take care of the woman and little girl. Black Mora shrugged his shoulders.

“Why do you tell me these things?” he asked sourly and threw the glass of strong liquor full in the man’s face. The man staggered back, his arm across his face, as if warding off a blow.

“Wimmin and kids don’t interest me none!” growled Mora. “What do I care a ---- about ----”

Mora turned his head and looked full at Sales. The crowd drew away, expecting serious trouble. This was the first time that Sales and Mora had faced each other, and every one knew that there would be blood spilt when they met.

Sales was smaller than Mora, yet Sales was by no manner of means a small man, compared with the other men in the saloon. Mora’s face was half-smiling insolently as he looked at Sales, but Sales’ crooked face did not lose its indifferent expression.

Then Sales spat deliberately on Mora’s boots. It was an unforgivable insult, yet Mora did not move. The smile faded from his lips and his eyes drew down to mere slits. Mora knew that Sales was a killer--knew that to reach for a gun would be suicide. His eyes shifted down for a fraction of a second. Sales was smiling now, his tobacco-satined teeth showing through his upcurled lips.

“I killed Mex Free, your best man,” said Sales softly, ominously. “He kicked like a chicken with its head cut off.”

Still Mora did not move. His eyes shifted for an instant, as if seeking a chance to get out of this encounter. Then Sales laughed.

“I’ve got yuh, Mora. I could kill yuh before yuh could move. My men are behind your men, Mora, and they can’t help yuh none. You need help, Black Mora. Want to run the country, eh? You big bully! You’re scared of death right now, but I’m not goin’ to kill yuh--yet. You’re bigger than I am, Mora, but I’m the better man. Take off your gun and fight like a man, you lousy, mud-colored coyote!”

It was unthinkable. Black Mora swayed away from the bar, licking his lips. His face broke into a wolfish grin. Mora had fought with his hands and knew something of his own strength; knew that he could crush an ordinary man, as a grizzly crushes a sheep.

A buzz of wonderment from the crowd. Was Sales crazy? Frenchy stepped in front of Mora and held out his left hand.

“I’m tak’ de gun,” he announced. “I’m collect now.”

Mora’s hand had dropped to his belt-buckles, but now he stopped and stared at Frenchy’s face, then at the hand before him which was opening and shutting nervously. He hesitated. Would he give up his gun to the sheriff? His hand jerked nervously away from his belt-buckle as he looked at Frenchy’s hand. Others watched the hand, but Blaze watched Frenchy’s right hand, which had gripped the butt of his pistol, ready for a draw. Then Mora shook his head.

“All right. I don’t care a ---- who takes it.”

He handed Frenchy the belt and gun, little thinking how close he had come to missing his fight with Sales. Blaze stepped forward and faced the crowd.

“Gents, this is going to be a fair fight. When a man goes down the other stays off and gives him a chance to come back. They fight only on their feet. Understand?”

Sales, stripping off his shirts, flashed Blaze a look of gratitude. It gave him a chance against this ape-man. Men threw chairs and tables aside, clearing a large space. Word of the battle traveled fast, and in a few moments there was a steady stream of men trying to claw their way inside to see the fight.

A man offered big odds on Mora, but there were no takers. Nobody considered that Sales had a chance.

“He can’t reach Mora’s head!” yelled a voice.

“Put Chuck on a chair!” yelled another. “We want to see what he looks like.”

The men stripped quickly. Mora was even more ape-like, stripped. His body was corded with muscles and his skin was a deep bronze. Sales was broad of shoulder, narrow of waist and hip and his muscles were small compared with those of his antagonist, but Blaze noticed that Sales’ muscles were long and supple, while Mora’s were corded.

There was no time lost in preliminaries. Mora was ready first, moving to the center of the cleared space. His head was hunched forward on his short neck, his big hands opening and shutting as he waited for a chance to wipe out the insult.

Sales sized Mora up and then shot a glance around the room.

“Come on!” growled Mora, like a hungry bear.

Sales laughed and stepped forward, slightly crouched, both arms swinging easily, hands half-open. His long muscles rippled easily with the swing of his arms. Mora stepped to meet him and quick as a flash Sales slapped him across the mouth with his open hand. The blow had been cat-like in its speed and it cut Mora’s lips. Before Mora could recover, Sales slapped him across the bare chest. It was as if Sales was playing tag with him.

Mora cursed and launched a mighty blow at Sales, but it passed over Sales’ head, cleverly ducked. Men crowded closer, muttering. This was not according to their calculations, but there was no cheering.

The two men were circling each other now. Blaze noticed that Sales kept a perfect balance, while Mora seemed more clumsy, top-heavy. Mora swung again, a wide sweeping smash. Sales blocked it with the point of his elbow, catching Mora’s swinging arm between elbow and wrist. It seemed to take all the power from Mora’s arm for a moment, and Sales shot a straight right to his mouth.

Mora retreated slowly, his face contorted with rage. Then he sprang forward like a tiger, seeking to circle Sales with his long arms. Instead of evading them, Sales lunged forward to meet the attack. Sales’ right hand flashed forward and upward, with the weight of his body behind it, and buried itself at the point of Mora’s breastbone.

The circling arms slithered weakly off his shoulders, as Mora lopped forward from the waist, staggering blindly. By superhuman effort he kept his feet, but his swaying face was a green mask of agony, his mouth stretched wide for air.

Sales moved swiftly, uppercutting with both hands to Mora’s face. Measuring his distance, keeping pace with the backward moving Mora, he smashed in short-arm uppercuts, with the regularity of a machine; uppercuts which did not paralyze, but cut and bruised. Sales was marking Mora for life.

He drove Mora through the crowd until he backed him against the wall. Then Sales set himself for the final punch, while Mora, sobbing, slobbering, tried to cover his face with helpless arms.

But the final blow was never struck. As Sales swung forward, a heavy bottle whizzed across the room and crashed against his head. Sales dropped like a log and over him fell Mora, blubbering for mercy.

For a moment there was silence; then the crash of a pistol shot. One of the men who had been standing on the bar went backward, clawing for support. He had thrown the bottle and some one in the crowd had seen the deed.