LITMIR.BIZ

      STEVE

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      About a dozen of the Bucket punchers came riding into Sundown during the middle of the morning, squired by Nightingale himself and Steve Steers. Al Niland walked out of the courthouse, lines of anxiety on his face.

      "Well, heard anything yet?"

      Steve shook his head. "We came by D Slash. There wasn't only a few boys there. Denver ain't come back so far, nor any of the bunch under him. Nobody's heard a thing."

      "You know about Leverage?" queried Niland.

      "Why, we met a fella on the road that told us somethin'. He rammed into Redmain, as I got it, and didn't make out so well. And took a little lead himself."

      "Worse than that," interposed Niland. "He's halfway dead. Old Jake thought he was sneakin' up on Redmain's wild ones when Redmain smashed him just where Jake wasn't entertaining any suspicions. The vigilantes buckled up for a minute, but Jake rode right at Redmain's party, yelling for the rest to come along. He took it plenty. May live and may not."

      "Yeah, but that ain't what gets me so much. What in the name o' Judas was the matter with these aforesaid vigilantes? Redmain hit and run, didn't he? And they heard more firm' up above a ways, didn't they? They mighta known it was Denver loopin' into action. Why didn't they folla?"

      "They stopped to pick up the pieces, I hear," said Niland. "When they finally did follow there wasn't anything to be seen of anybody except one D Slash fellow some cut up.

      "Agh," snorted Steve disgustedly. "First time I lay eyes on one of these vigilantes I'm going to tell him somethin' to make his ears ring."

      "Well, we ought to hear pretty soon," said Niland and jerked his thumb at Grogan's. Steve looked to the Englishman questioningly.

      "Do as you please," said Nightingale. "I'll be over at the Association meeting for a while. If by then we have no word about Denver, we'll ride back to his ranch. And if there is still no news, I wouldn't be surprised but what we took a little jog into the country he disappeared through."

      Steers and Niland watched him amble across the street. "He's furrin," observed Steers, "but blamed if he ain't a human duck. Been a-frettin' about this business all mornin'. I spend half my time unroppin' him from the rope he essays to throw and the other half tryin' to figure if his jokes is sad or funny. He actually don't know enough about a cow to figure whether yuh carve out beefsteak on the hoof and turn the critter loose again or what. But he shore knows horses."

      "How about that drink?" suggested Niland.

      "You bet I will," agreed Steve, and turned around. In so doing his eyes fell upon a feminine figure standing by the hotel porch. Instantly something stabbed Steve Steers in the middle of the back; or such was the impression Niland gathered from the look that froze on the puncher's face. He swallowed hard, and mumbled. "That is, no thanks. Got to see Debbie." And he trotted toward the porch like a hound that had been whistled for. Niland sighed and went into Grogan's alone.

      Sundown quivered with tension. The news of Leverage's ill fortune had reached town early, and shortly after a call went out for a meeting of the Association. So now men rode in and walked the streets uneasily; drifted together to exchange news. A man had ridden down Prairie Street to scout the road. Earlier in the morning a Leverage puncher had galloped in to summon Doc Williamson, refusing to talk. And Doc had gone off with the man hurriedly.

      The practical defeat of the vigilantes shocked Sundown out of its lazy calm. Lou Redmain ceased to be a minor factor in the country; in one brief evening he had achieved notoriety, and when the gathering men spoke of him it was with a lurking doubt mixed with their profane anger. If he had whipped Leverage, if he had so recruited the wild bunch that he could stand off an organized force, who ruled Yellow Hill then? What was to prevent him from instituting a guerrilla warfare from one isolated ranch to another? The timid felt this immediately and began to fall silent, lest the red mark of destruction be placed against them and their habitations; and Sundown witnessed the drying up of casual talk, the coming of an alien reserve. For always in a land where the law goes to pieces the first rule is the rule of self- preservation.

      Al Niland was in Grogan's, brooding over this, turning other matters as well darkly around his mind. Steele's death had made a gap in the ranks of friendship that never would be filled. If anything happened to Denver—Niland rejected the thought. He simply could not tolerate the premise that disaster would ever overtake Dave Denver. Other men might weaken or blunder, other men might go crashing down to ruin and death. This was mortality. But, logical as Niland was, he somehow could never bring himself to accept Denver as ordinary. Denver always came crawling out from the bottom of the wreckage, grinning cheerfully. In short, Denver's career had created a legend of personal power that was hard to shake off. Niland was analytical enough to realize this; he knew also that nobody could look at Denver impartially. Men either hated him or trusted and followed him with a kind of fanatical zeal.

      "Good God!" grunted Niland. "I'm conductin' a post mortem. All I got to say is this'll be a sorry place if he's gone down the chute. Which the Lord forbid!"

      He turned from the bar and saw Steve Steers coming in. Steve looked harried. Niland thought, "Debbie's pushed him just an inch too far, and I'm sort of glad." Steve made straight for the bar and slapped his palm resoundingly on the mahogany.

      "Trot out the hog wash," he called. Grogan, who never liked any such reference to his product, pushed bottle and glass toward the puncher. "No law compellin' you to drink my liquor, Steers."

      Steve straightened. Honeyed softness caressed his words. "Grogan, my lad, I have observed your lordly manner some frequent, and I'm reminded of the horse that put on a shirt and tried to eat off the parlor table. I pay for your booze, and I'm entitled to pass judgment on it. If you got anything definite to say to me, let's hear it."

      Grogan stared, the rims of his eyes reddening. There was cruelty in the man, plenty of it, and he never hesitated to cuff a trouble maker out of his place. Yet he backed water in front of Steve Steers. "Somebody must've stepped on yore foot, Mister Steers."

      "Be that as it may, I feel like steppin' on somebody else's foot. Al, you drinkin' with me? I despise drinkin' alone."

      "Sure," said Niland. "But I thought you was temperamentally opposed to liquor."

      "Ha!" snorted Steve and took his jot without a quiver. "That's the trouble with me. I ain't got a mind of my own any more. I can't do nothin' without lookin' on the chart to see if it's proper. Debbie issues orders. Her old lady tells me where to head in. The old gent bites me off short. Even the eleven-year-old mutt of a Lunt kid roots me on the shins. I'd like to haul off four feet behind my breeches and spank him into next leap year. But no. I'm just the swivel-eyed ape which hangs around the Lunt house and gets pushed outa the road. Ha! Grogan, bring me a glass that ain't half plugged up with scum. I want a drink."

      "I don't know if I better leave you alone," reflected Niland. "You'll foam any minute now."

      "Hear anything new?" demanded Steers, drawing the bottle to him.

      "No. Don't even see any of the vigilantes in town."

      Steers turned to face the room. "Vigilantes? Ain't that somethin' to make yuh die laughin'? Hey, is there any of you vigilantes in these premises? I'd shore like to see what great big scrappin' hellions yuh are!"

      There was no answer. Without question he was on the warpath. One of the Nightingale riders,

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