LITMIR.BIZ

      III. LORENA WYATT

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      Twice during the short ride from town San Saba swung off his trail, back-tracked a hundred yards, and listened for the sound of pursuit; and when the chuck-wagon fire of the Wyatt outfit winked across the prairie he again hesitated, seeming to weigh his inclinations. Whatever this man's actions and thoughts, he consistently surrounded himself with a wall of caution. He liked to stay in the shadows; he never rode boldly into a camp, but, as at present, stalked and circled until he was sure of what he was to find. He possessed all the caginess of an animal that once had been trapped—he perpetually looked back over his trail, no matter where or when he rode. By nature he was a taciturn, isolated creature, seldom speaking a blunt or decisive word. He talked as he moved, warily, never giving another man more than a hint of what went on in that little nutshell head.

      Thus, when a few paces from the firelight, he paused to scan the faces he saw. He knew those fellows, he recognized Wyatt's paunchy figure standing by the flame. But not until he had thus covered the group did he expose himself to the light Wyatt threw up his grizzled mane, speaking impatiently. "What took you so long?" A scattered greeting rose from the recumbent punchers.

      "It's San Saba, by Joe. Cornin' back fer to work this brand again, Red?"

      "Well, if it ain't the same smilin', sunny gent. Ain't yo' pritty far no'th?"

      There was little enough warmth in the reception. These men had worked with San Saba, and they knew him. San Saba nodded his head; a brief, sparing smile flitted across his lips. "Howdy, boys. Diamond W looks both f'miliar an' prosp'rous. Kunnel Wyatt, suh, if yo' will step away a minute..."

      San Saba retreated beyond earshot of the crew and slipped from the saddle. Wyatt followed, still impatient. "God's Kingdom, man, will you ever quit burrowin' like a groundhog?"

      San Saba's reply was flat, singsong. "A man playin' two hands ain't in no position to march at the head o' the parade, suh."

      "Let it go—let it go. Hell's pit—what brings Gillette along so fast? I had a hundred miles less to go, I started a full week earlier. Yet here he is—here you are. What about it?"

      "Suh, Major Bob is a fast traveller."

      "Meaning, I suppose, I let my cattle drag all over Satan's half acre? By the beard o' Judas..."

      "No, suh—no, suh. I meant nothin' like that. It's just that he makes us march like a troop o' cavalry."

      "It's his cursed military style! I've heard of it before. Well, what are you doing? What about all those ideas you had? San Saba, did I not know you better I would say you broke no eggs. But I know you. Now, get busy. At this rate he'll beat me two weeks to the Little Missouri. That won't do. By the gates of Paradise, it won't do!"

      "Yo'-all sent yo' men no'th to perfo'm a certain chore, Kunnel?"

      "I did!"

      "Is that chore done?"

      "How am I to know? Neither man can write a letter. I presume they did. They understood exactly what I meant, and they're old hands. Even so, supposing Gillette beats me to the spot and finds my men on it where his men should be? Think he'll take it like a Sunday-school preacher? I'll be eternally fried in mutton grease if he will! He'll shoot my men and—there you are! I have got to get there first! You start your part."

      "Oh, I'll delay the Circle G, suh. Don't worry. Plenty of time yet. You know Major Bob, pers'n'lly, Kunnel?"

      "Met him once in Austin."

      "He's a hard man, suh. He has a son, suh." Here San Saba's words grew drier. "A son like the name."

      Wyatt grunted. "I recognize the qualities of the name. But once I get my outfit established on that particular piece of range St Peter's own crowbar won't pry me loose!" The Colonel slapped his hands together, and by that token San Saba knew the interview was over. Climbing into the saddle, he followed Wyatt back to the circle of light. Somebody had been telling a yarn, but it stopped as the Circle G foreman came within hearing, and nothing more was said. San Saba appeared on the point of speaking. Whatever the sentiment, it fell back from the barrier of his thin, tight-pressed lips. Gathering his reins, he turned about.

      Hoofs thudded across the prairie. San Saba's head came up quickly and he put a spur into the flanks of his animal. But before he could get again into the concealment of the night a rider slid in front of him, blocked his path, and he had to pull aside. Colonel Wyatt planted his feet apart, grumbling.

      "Lorena, where in the name of the Twelve Apostles have you been?"

      It was a girl—a girl on that vague border across which lie womanhood. Her face, revealed by the reluctant firelight formed a small oval; her cheeks were pink where the night air had touched them, her eyes sparkled, catching flame from the chuck- wagon blaze. And that was about all of the feminine about her, for her small body was encased in the clothing of a man, she wore a man's boots and a man's broad-brimmed hat, beneath which strayed a wisp of black hair. The bright beads of her gauntlets glittered as she sprang from the saddle.

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