LITMIR.BIZ

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"Grist—there's a Gillette buried on my range. Do you see?"

      Grist nodded, thoughtfully impressed. "I admire you for it. Really I do. But here—my company wants that strip of ground. Damnably bad. I'll not mince with you. They want it. Here I stand with an offer. I'll raise the ante a clear three thousand, pay you for the beef on your own count—on your own count, mind—and give you your own estimate on the improvements. You stand to gain from every angle. You're free to prospect Dakota to the four walls. Anyhow, you've got a poor piece of range. The poorest on the south side of the river. I'm only buying you out of a bad bargain."

      "Then why should the P.R.N. want it so badly?" questioned Gillette.

      Grist smiled—an unimpressive, unrevealing smile. "Say, you can search me. I don't know. I only work for 'em. But they want it."

      "Well, just you write and tell the gentleman back East I'm not selling."

      "Persuasion and money won't do it, eh?"

      Gillette marked the added sharpness. "It won't," he agreed.

      "Listen to me," broke in Grist "I've got all the other five sewed up. Taking 'em over right down to the last can of beans. Eapley and Diggerts already gone. Rest going. Your nearest neighbour, Wyatt, will be gone before fall roundup."

      "It will leave me the less crowded."

      "There's where you are mistaken," said Grist emphatically. "I'm going to throw cows across the stream until the grass roots groan. You understand what that means?"

      "I presume you're hinting that you'll overcrowd the range. All right, my boy. But remember, when it comes to starving out beef you'll lose more cows than I—because you've got more to lose."

      "And can afford to lose 'em more than you," countered Grist. He had ceased to smile. "Maybe I'll lose ten to your one. All right. When you're out three thousand head you're ruined."

      "Now you're talking war," said Gillette, taking a grip on his temper. "Talking war to a Texan. I'll call it. Don't ever think I won't."

      "Up to your limit," agreed Grist. "Then you're wiped out. Listen, I like you and I hate to see you buck a corporation. Better take your profit. It's a big one."

      "I reckon not."

      "Why, damnation, but you're stubborn," muttered Grist, half in anger, half in surprise.

      "Do you mean to make it war?" asked Gillette soberly.

      Grist studied his man a long while. "It's got to be done," he finally replied. "I'll obey orders. Else I lose my job. There's the cards on the table. Yes, by George, it'll be war. You're foolish. Why force me?"

      "I won't. I'll let you fire the first shot. And then, God pity you, Grist. You never have seen Texans fight. It's not a pleasant experience."

      "I can muster a hundred men," snapped Grist, face muscles drawing tight.

      "Eighty-five more than I've got. I'm repeating—you don't know a Texas crew. I'm sorry for you and your job."

      "You needn't be." Grist stood a moment, an uncolourful figure who even at a moment like this could not achieve dignity. "Let it be so," he murmured, and walked away.

      Tom watched the resident agent vanish into a saloon. Forgetting about the surveyor, he bought a sack of stuff at the store and started home, following the trail of the buckboard and the horsemen to the ford. Here, he skirted the high ground before going into the water. Once across it the buckboard tracks still kept ahead of him. And when he reached the yard of the Circle G houses he knew he had visitors.

      Quagmire rose up from a corral and ambled toward him. Almost furtively he motioned toward the main cabin. "She's in there."

      "Who?"

      Quagmire stared dreamily at the sky. "Well, if it ain't an angel then my ideas o' heaven sure are scandalous wrong."

      Tom ducked through the door, almost at the same time muttering. "Christine—Kit—my Lord!"

      She was seated in a chair with her hands folded sedately in her lap and the shadows of the room adding to the soft allure of her face. As always, she seemed to have taken possession of her surroundings, to have put herself at ease. She smiled—that provocative, enigmatic smile that had haunted him for so many, many months on the trail, and her cool, half-humorous words, so gentle and yet so certain, reminded him that he was now what he had always been, an unsuccessful suitor ill at ease in the presence of a reigning beauty.

      "Well, Tommy, here I am. And you shall pay for neglecting me so cruelly. No letters, no word. Oh, well, I have swallowed my pride..." A graceful gesture of a hand finished the sentence. How subtly she conveyed meaning with those small movements, how many shades of expression she could weave into the dullest word. He went forward, took the slim hand that stretched up to him. There was the slightest pressure in it; it drew him down. "Tommy, you are the same Western barbarian. But I like you in this setting. Indeed!"

      Lispenard, upon fording the river, travelled in a direct line toward the most rugged piece of land within five miles as if making for a place well known to him. But once lost in the weblike tangle of pockets and ridges, he proceeded with an unusual amount of caution; and when the echo of a shot floated faintly over his shoulder from the rear he instinctively ducked. Then he turned about, reached a commanding summit, and dismounted. Flat on the ground he shaded his eyes against the earth's glare and waited.

      He had not long to wait. Presently he made out a figure spurring toward him, travelling as fast as horse-flesh would allow. From time to time the man fell below a ridge and momentarily was out of sight, each time reappearing at a different corner of the compass. Only a man in flight, or a man extraordinarily cagey would act like that. The Blond Giant traced him for a good twenty minutes, or until the tall and lank body had come within hailing distance. And then, though not without a certain reluctance of movement and a reassuring pat on the butt of his gun, he crawled to his knees.

      If the meeting was to take place it must be before San Saba got within good revolver range. Up stood Lispenard, one arm hailing the renegade ex-foreman.

      San Saba's horse sat abruptly on its haunches. San Saba's thin, dust-powdered face screwed into a series of ragged lines. He made no particular move toward his gun, but his voice, sharp as the edge of a skinning knife, slit across the interval. "Well?"

      "Oh, drop that," muttered Lispenard. "Don't you know a friend when you see one?"

      The ex-foreman thought on this for a spell, his free arm akimbo. Lispenard had never before realized just how searching and cruel one man's glance could be. It touched his nerves.

      "How'd yo' know I'd be here?" demanded San Saba.

      Lispenard grinned, though his lips were dry and slightly trembling. "Trailed you for a week. Didn't catch wind of me? Well, then, I guess I'm not so poor at this sort of thing. Come on, be neighbourly. I'm not out for your hide. You haven't taken any of my toys."

      For all his treachery, San Saba had grit in his make-up, or perhaps he read Lispenard well enough to understand. At any rate, he walked his horse to the top of the ridge and a little down the farther side before dismounting. Even then he was careless of the other's presence, his first attention being spent on the skyline eastward. His hard face relaxed, he squatted and rolled a brown- paper cigarette, meanwhile studying this unexpected visitor.

      "Well?"

      "Well," mimicked Lispenard. "Hell, San Saba, but you're a hard fellow to locate. Anyhow, you didn't catch on I was ramblin' across your trail."

      "Don't fool yo'self," murmured San Saba.

      Lispenard's satisfaction was destroyed. It made him irritable, a little sullen. "That being so, why didn't you meet up with me?"

      "Wanted to see what yo' game was."

      "Dam' queer you couldn't trust me," grumbled Lispenard.

      "Do—so long as yo' near at hand. Remember what I once said in Ogallala?"

      "Something—but I was too blessed drunk to catch it.

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