LITMIR.BIZ

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and grim unpleasantness. The match went out and he leaned back to hear the small sounds of night rise from the earth. His cigarette tip glowed and dimmed, but he held it so that no tell-tale light escaped the cup of his hand. Thus he waited, never stirring.

      Nor did he move twenty-odd minutes later when the rhythmic advance of a rider sounded down the line of poplars, slacked and became a slow walk. Man and horse cut across the plaza. Steel glinted, and a tall form swayed to one side of the saddle. Charterhouse let a long, slow sigh escape him; this was the end, the climax, the tragic conclusion of Casabella's old story. Good men and bad men, strong men and weak men—Casabella took them all, touched them with its flame of unreason and tempted them to ruin through their weaknesses.

      The tall form slipped from the saddle and came into the circle of light. A hand rose and tipped back the broad- brimmed hat. A fringe of yellow hair gleamed to the light. Buck Manners' bold, reckless face stared across the flame tips.

      "I knew you'd come," drawled Charterhouse.

      Manners started, whirled, and flung himself back again. "Who is it?" he challenged.

      "Charterhouse—waiting for you."

      Manners' eyes flashed. He bulked larger, more formidable. "So? What the devil has been going on around here? I heard the shooting away off and rode like a condemned man. What happened? Good gosh, man, I have told you before I didn't believe in your policy. If you've brought on a fight—"

      Charterhouse rose and came into the light. He tossed away the cigarette like a man come to a definite conclusion. "We'll omit all the preliminaries. You can drop the curtain, Manners. I saw behind it this morning up on the ridge when you rode down to meet Shander and the others."

      Manners' face slowly hardened, slowly abandoned all the easy, reckless freedom. "You alone?" he muttered.

      "I waited for you. The rest have gone. There's just one question puzzling me. Having all the chips you ever would need, what was your idea in dealing from the bottom of the deck?"

      "Does it matter?"

      "I wondered," replied Charterhouse, seeming sleepy. "My guess is you like to be the strong man, the top of the heap. I saw it at Angels when we muscled down."

      "You're wise," droned Manners. "Too wise. You're the first to guess anywheres near right. But even you don't know what kind of hell fire and torture comes from a man's conscience."

      "I can guess," said Charterhouse. "But only a fool would expect to keep his crooked trail secret."

      "I chose my men well. Haggerty, Shander, Wolfert, Studd and Curly—they were the only ones who knew my part. The others never caught on. There isn't a man on my own outfit, nor a man on Box M, nor any other living soul in Casabella that knows. Unless you have told!"

      "I keep my own counsel."

      "I figured so. When I left Box M early this morning, before dawn, I knew you'd come on toward Carson to spy. I set Curly's men to drag the prairie and find you. When they failed I knew there was just one thing left—let you go through with your scheme of fighting. You overheard Curly's plan in Angels. You figured to have your Box M men follow you up tonight and cut into Curly after dark. I knew that. There is nothing I don't know. So I decided to let you go ahead."

      "So I'd get a bullet and forget what I'd learned?" suggested Charterhouse. "Well, there was a sense in that. Easier to catch a man by letting him go ahead with his own idea than to chase him. I will admit you had me puzzled. All this horsing around the prairie left me some dubious. Didn't know if Curly was going through with his original business or if he was going to cut behind me and hit Box M. There was just one thing that turned the scales, Manners. I'm giving you credit for one good quality. And that good quality tripped you."

      "You knew I'd never let Curly attack the house Sherry Nickum was in!" cried Manners.

      "That turned the scales," admitted Charterhouse. "So I hit back for Carson and waited. But I don't understand. Knowing what you did know, why did you let me bait the trap for Curly and Shander?"

      Manners stood like a dragoon, magnificent body stiff and square. The firelight darkened his cheeks and accented the brooding flame in his eyes. He seemed to be thinking out his answer and it came slowly. "Because they were getting beyond my control. I wanted them destroyed."

      "You succeeded," was Charterhouse's grim answer. "They're destroyed. And so is Haggerty. Which leaves Wolfert and Studd."

      "Wolfert was killed in Angels at noon. I had him killed. Studd—Studd will not talk, not if they put him in screws and crack his bones. But he will go, too."

      "And that," went on Charterhouse softly, "leaves me."

      They stood silent, the licking fire between. Manners lifted his chin. "I would rather die this minute than have Sherry know the truth about me."

      "Yet your orders killed her dad—and probably her brother."

      A spasm of pain came over Manners' face. "Didn't I tell you," he cried, "I'm answering my conscience for all that? Listen, Charterhouse. You and I are alike. Both physically strong men. Both old in the game. Yet there you are and here I am. You ought to get down on your knees and thank God you weren't born with a kink like me.

      "If you had wiped 'em all out, taken Box M, ruled the county, married the girl—you still couldn't have kept her from knowing about you, soon or late."

      "I believed I could," muttered Manners. "I believed I could. Because I love her."

      "No. There's a difference between you deeper than Red Draw. No man ever was born who could fool a woman."

      "I would rather die than have her know," repeated Manners. "You understand the answer to that?"

      "It's why I waited for you," said Charterhouse evenly.

      "Then there is no need to delay longer. If you are killed, it shall be laid to the door of a Curly man. If I am killed, any story is good enough. Only I'll ask you as a gentleman to seal your knowledge of me forever."

      "Agreed," was Charterhouse's laconic answer. "I am sorry I can't wish you luck."

      "You're a cool one," said Manners. "How shall we settle the draw?"

      "Suggest we back away from the fire to the rim of light."

      Manners stared intently over the flames; he seemed to be trying to frame a last phrase but it never came out. So he took his cue from Charterhouse and slowly stepped to the rear. They halted on the edge of light, the flickering blaze between them.

      "Can you see me?" asked Clint.

      "Clear enough," muttered the ranchman, towering full length.

      "And the signal—"

      "I need no favor from you," retorted Manners. "I will wait your draw."

      "Then," droned Charterhouse, "fire."

      The night breeze scooped the flame tips into a red curling tongue that for the instant rose between them, shutting out sight. Through this crimson film the bullets passed and the roar ran away into the eerie corners of the fort, dying with a remote whisper. There was no more firing. The flames sank and Charterhouse, never stirring, saw a yellow hatless head cushioned against the earth as if asleep. In that solitary glance he knew all there was to be known. Nor did he tarry. He slipped back the gun and strode for the sheds, found his horse and swung away from Carson. With the outline of the poplars and building behind he spoke softly to the tired beast and set it to a stiff gallop.

      "I have killed him," he said mechanically. "The man's dead. And Sherry loved him. Good or bad, she loved him. And never in a thousand years will she forget or forgive me."

      He raced by the wagon with its four accompanying riders without a hail. All the way back he seemed detached from himself, numb of mind, scarcely conscious he owned a body. There was but one throbbing, clanging idea in his head: the job was done, Manners was dead, and the girl waited for his return. Charterhouse turned square with the beckoning ranch lights and galloped into the yard, finding Fitz already arrived. He got stiffly down

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