LITMIR.BIZ

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the roustabout, then clicked his teeth together. He shrugged his shoulders, pointing to a sign overhead: ALL PROPERTY LEFT HERE AT OWNER'S RISK. "Too bad, mister. But there's been a powerful crowd in Angels today. I'm sorry I was away, but it wouldn't 'a' done me no good if I was here. If a fellow had wanted that horse, he could of took it and told me to butt out. Pm only working here."

      "Who owns this joint?"

      "Studd."

      Studd and Shander were crossing the plaza at that particular moment, deep in talk. Charterhouse waited until they reached the walk and then addressed the saloonkeeper curtly. "You may not be responsible, Studd, but that don't help me. Somebody's made off with around five hundred dollars of my horseflesh and gear. What do you aim to do about it?"

      Studd jerked up his head in surprise. "Stole a horse from my stable? Like hell! Corbin—where was you?"

      "I only left the place a minute to get me a snifter," said the roustabout sullenly. "I guess I got that right, when I work sixteen hours a day."

      Studd pushed the man aside and walked in. Shander's brilliant eyes skimmed over Charterhouse. "You the fellow old Nickum talked uncivil to?"

      "What of it?" retorted Charterhouse. "What's that got to do with my horse?"

      "Nothing or everything," rasped Shander. He looked like a man physically ill; and in truth his skinny body was nothing but a shell. Joints showed through his loose clothing, his pigeon shoulders were too small for his head. The very brightness of his eyes seemed unhealthy. "Nothing or everything. You'll learn a lot if you stay around Casabella much."

      "I'll stay till I find that horse, you just lay a bet on that," stated Charterhouse bluntly. Nero Studd came back in time to hear it, and he nodded.

      "I don't blame you a bit. That horse made a pretty sight. Saw him myself."

      "Well, what do you aim to do about it?" pressed Charterhouse.

      Studd assumed an inscrutable air and looked at Shan-der. Charterhouse thought some kind of signal passed between them, though there was nothing definite about it. Then the saloonkeeper turned to inspect this tall man of the range more thoroughly.

      "I can't replace your outfit. But I'll give you a good pony and good leather to sashay around and see can you find any trace of the thief. If you ain't lucky, I'll stand responsible for the difference in price. How's that?"

      "Get me an outfit. I'm going to move. Won't be the first time I've trailed. I'll find my rig if I have to settle down and raise a family in Casabella."

      Studd shifted to the roustabout. "Get the bay, Corbin, and my best leather. Hustle along, the gent wants to ride. Hell of it is there won't be no tracks to do you any good, Charterhouse. Ground's all muffled up with men coming and going today. Damned if I ain't sorry."

      "You save your sorrow for the fellow that did the rustling," Charterhouse advised him and turned after the roustabout. Five minutes later he was out again, riding the substitute.

      Studd broke off a low-pitched conversation with Shander. "Remember, I'll stand good for the difference. And if there's any favor I can do you, let me know. Sometimes I can be right useful to folks. Bear that in mind."

      Charterhouse nodded and trotted northward in the path of the Box M outfit. It was useless to seek a trail among so many scuffed prints. But up yonder in the distance was the promise of wooded country which he meant to gain. From there he might sweep the land for stray riders; and timber was itself a possible hiding place. Not daring to press his mount too hard, he settled into a steady pace. "Favors from Studd, I bet, bear a return date with compound interest. That horse of mine might be right inside Angels this minute. If so, what could I do about it? I've got to play innocent and bold my cards high."

      His last guess was dead center. No sooner had he cleared the town when Studd beckoned Corbin from the stable. "Who got the gent's outfit?"

      "Pawl and Stuke Rennert. Horse is in the vacant lodge hall."

      Studd nodded, at which Shander asked a question. "What did you do that for?"

      "Good horse," opined Studd. "And I figured it might keep this Charterhouse around Cassabella for a while. We might need him."

      "I don't intend to trust anything to a stranger," countered Shander.

      "No-o, but he might be a good peg to hang some blame on. Ever think of that?"

      "I doubt it," said Shander. "The lines are drawn too tight. What happens from now in is going to be pretty much in the open. No use trying to fool Nickum. He knows it's a case of simple and pure war. The bucket's tipped over. What he don't know is the amount of help we've got. Curly is coming to see me tonight. Curly's got thirty first-rate hands. Nickum don't savvy that."

      "What you going to do with 'em?"

      "Remains to be seen," rasped Shander. "Mebbe we'll nibble off a little chunk of Box M's stuff, mebbe we'll arrange to get some of his outfit out of call and tend to them. Mebbe a straight fight, no favors asked. But the other thing is already settled for tomorrow morning."

      "Where?" asked Studd.

      "Red Draw, same spot his lad was killed."

      "Why pick on the same location? That ain't bright. How you going to get him there?"

      "That's fixed. We got a simple, easy way of bringing him thataway. Just him and Haggerty." For some reason the two men grinned maliciously.

      Studd poked a black thumb under the brim of his hat. "Didn't I say the stranger would come in handy? Nickum burnt his nose. Everybody heard it. What's hard about laying the blame on Mister Charterhouse?"

      "What's the use of beating about the bush?" queried Shander. "We don't need any excuse. Once Nickum's gone, who is going to be interested in tracing down the reason for his killing? You run too much to this secret hocus-pocus."

      "Stood me well in my affairs, Shander. May again. I never leave any loose strings if I can help it. What's orders from headquarters?"

      "I'll know tonight," said Shander and swung away. "I'm riding home."

      As Charterhouse rode, the land gradually lifted him and he began to command a more sweeping view of Casabella's vastness. The trees advanced slowly, the burning sun packed the heat layers more thickly against the ground, and the afternoon began to shimmer and drone. To his left a trail split away from the main stem and shot into the narrow mouth of a canyon that burrowed directly into the increasing elevation. For a considerable time he paralleled this, then lost it. But as he approached the summit of the ridge and the trees stood thinly around him, he found himself halted in a beaten area and looking down two hundred feet into sunless bottom.

      Clint had often heard of Red Draw in his travels, for it was one of those natural freaks of nature worthy of more than a passing glance. Today he gave it only that and pressed on to thicker timber, finding the heat more oppressive in the shade than elsewhere. Eventually he came to a sort of knob that allowed him a full vista eastward.

      Mile after mile the land stretched away, dimming with haze, empty of life, infinitely barren. Just visible was the low, bluish outline of a sprawling set of hills which, much riding experience told him, would be also barren and shelterless. Yet it was the kind of country Clint Charterhouse loved; here was room for a man to turn around, here was solitude; in short, this was cattle land, sweeping free and trackless. On impulse he left the trail that beckoned him deeper into timber and cut down into the open. To his left about a half mile, the piece of a house was visible, but he gave it no attention.

      The suppressed, burning anger that had carried him out of town was now subsiding. Always the open trail had the power to soothe him like this, to whisper that another day would come and another chance present itself. The immense freedom of the prairie by day, the vaulted mystery by night—the appeal of it was in his blood and would be forever.

      Three months ago he had been a responsible ranch foreman in the still farther west. Seasons of hard work behind, more seasons of hard work ahead. Sitting in the shade of a corral, he had thought about the back trail and in that instant the

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