LITMIR.BIZ

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in this."

      "I sang my song at the meetin'," returned Dave. "You heard the tune and the words."

      "Tell me straight," demanded Leverage, "what's the matter with this business that you won't touch it? Your influence has kept quite a few fellows out of it, and that ain't right."

      "I don't like to trail with a herd just to have company," said Dave. "And who do you think you're doing this dirty work for, Jake?"

      "For Yellow Hill—for the Association—for me and my family," was Leverage's sober answer.

      "And for a bunch of big fellows plenty able to shoulder their own grief," added Dave. "It don't seem right. I hate to see you draw down all the enmity of the wild bunch, which is just what will happen when you hit 'em."

      "What's right is right," responded Leverage, somewhat nettled. "I won't back out of trouble."

      "Good enough—but the big boys were damned quick to back out of it and let you inherit the grief. No, sir. I'm not buyin' any chips."

      "Is that your whole reason?" pressed Leverage.

      Denver hesitated and stared toward Grogan's, eyes narrowing down in thought. "No-no, it isn't. But I never make a statement I can't prove, and these other reasons of mine are beyond proof at the present moment. I'll just say I'm not satisfied with the layout. Let it go like that."

      "Let me tell you this," remarked Leverage earnestly. "When the scrappin' comes there won't be any neutrals. I foresee that. Black or white is the colors. And don't let your slim hunches maneuver you over to the wrong side. It'll cause you trouble."

      "In other words, I'm apt to get hazed down for mindin' my own strict business?" Denver's face darkened. "That happens to be one of the things about mob action I don't like. I'll take care of myself, and I'll see that I am let alone. That applies to the wild bunch, and that applies to any vigilante who tries to make me swap opinions."

      "That's exactly what I'm afraid of," exclaimed Leverage. "I have known you since you was a kid. You're as independent as a hog on ice. You don't bend. And I foresee difficulties. I have been through these rustlin' wars before. I know just what happens. Everybody lines up, for or against. And if you stand back somebody's going to suggest you're lined up with the rustlers. Then it's too bad."

      "The pack will howl at my heels, is that it?" suggested Denver, rugged face somber and unpleasant.

      "I foresee it."

      "Then the pack will get a dose of lead," snapped Denver. "I make no distinction between an outlaw who tries to steal my cattle and a red-eyed fanatic who tries to change my mind for me."

      Leverage shook his head sadly and turned away. "No hard feelin's, Dave?"

      "Not between you and me, Jake. I'm just thinkin' of the buzzards who will go hog-wild and want to shoot everybody on sight."

      Leverage moved away. Denver stood still, mastering his temper. Of a sudden the even thread of life had become snarled with knots. Standing aloof he became at once the target of both factions. More than that, he found himself wondering how he should deal with Jake Leverage, who was one of his best friends. He knew things Leverage ought to know for the sake of personal safety. Yet in telling Leverage he became a partisan of the vigilantes. Rather irritably he headed for Grogan's and bought a drink. Through the crowd he saw Steve sitting in at a poker game and went over to find a seat; but the table was full, and so he contented himself with looking on.

      It was an odd company. Directly across from Steve was Stinger Dann, who ventured a sullen half glance at Dave Denver and snapped his cards together. Niland and Cal Steele were in the game, and Buck Meems; and the sixth man was the newly arrived Englishman, Almaric St. Jennifer Crèvecoeur Nightingale, whose ruddy cheeks and sky-blue eyes mirrored a certain puzzlement with the game. Cal Steele, possessing under all circumstances the manners of a gentleman, laid down his hand momentarily.

      "You fellows ought to know each other. Nightingale, this is Dave Denver, owner of a spread known as D Slash. Nightingale has bought out the Bucket range from the administrator of old Lindersleeve's estate, Dave."

      Nightingale rose slowly and stretched his loose frame to substantial height. The two shook hands. Nightingale's slurred and casual "pleasure'm'sure," seemed lackluster, but his steady, square glance contained something that struck Denver pleasantly.

      "Any time you want advice or help," went on Steele, "go to Denver. I pass the information on to you because I understand how a newcomer feels. Was one myself, and I considered it a lucky break to have had Dave to steer me through the early rough spots." Then Steele smiled, fine handsome face lighting. "So if I have taken the easy and evil road it is not because I didn't have sound advice."

      "We will now pray," drawled Denver. "You'll have to learn the difference between that man's truthfulness and alleged humore, Nightingale. I see you play our pastime."

      Nightingale was dealing and doing it rather awkwardly. "Poker? Well, y'know, I heard it was the thing out here, so I took pains to purchase a book by a fella and read the rudiments. Hoyle—that was the chappie's name. I read his strictures on the game. Seems simple though entertainin'."

      Eyebrows drooped around the circle of watchers. "Call it that," grumbled Steve. "I got a different sentiment."

      "See you slopped over on your resolution," accused Dave.

      Steve thumped the table to indicate he could not open and stared at Denver. "Yeah. Debbie come to town to see the show. How in hell was I to know she was a-goin' to come? She sends for me. I goes. I gets the hide blistered off me for not bein' cleaned up and good clothes on. I asks yuh again, how was I to know? She wouldn't let me take her to the show, wouldn't be seen walkin' beside a dirty son of a gun like me. Cast me to the outer shadders. Ha!"

      Niland and Meems likewise passed, though Meems expressed audible grief that he wasn't permitted to open on four good- looking clubs. Steele shook his head; at which Stinger Dann, calculating a pile of ante chips grown healthy by several infertile rounds, shoved out a stiff opener. Nightingale studied his cards for so long a time that Stinger Dann grew heavily sarcastic.

      "Didn't Hoyle tell yuh how to read the spots?"

      Nightingale was apologetic and entered his chips with the air of a man somewhat flustered. The percentage being rather sweet, all the others took a flyer, and Nightingale slowly thumbed out the draw cards. Niland had been prospecting, and he threw down out of his turn, studying the Englishman with sharp attention as if he were finding angles of the man that intrigued his legal mind. Dann having opened, it was his first bet, and he was about to shove out a stiff one when the Englishman exclaimed plaintively:

      "These ruddy sequences and combinations elude one damnably. Let's stop a minute while I get this clear. Purely hypothetical question, y'understand. I have no such hand, but just what relative value do five of the same color and suit possess? Mind, it's purely hypothetical."

      Someone in the back of the crowd guffawed, at which Dann bellowed irately: "If some of you damned monkeys don't quit breathin' down my neck I'll bust yuh!" He drew back his tentative bet and snapped at Nightingale. "Supposin' you bet."

      "But, I say—"

      "The unique situation of which you speak," drawled Denver, deriving considerable pleasure from the scene, "is known as a flush and generally considered easy to look at. Among honest men, such as these present, it tops a straight but not a full house."

      Dann's heavy eyes flicked dangerously across Denver's face and settled on the Englishman. He, feeling the weight of both players and spectators upon him, grew plainly flustered. "But I haven't got a flush, gentlemen," he muttered and pushed a bet into the center. Meems instantly laid down with an exaggerated politeness. "I'll just take yore word for it, Nightingale. I won't contribute to no painful knowledge." Cal Steele smiled broadly and likewise threw his cards away. Dann studied the Englishman at length, more and more belligerent. In the end he hurled his cards across the table without so much as showing openers.

      "Take the pot, you!" he snapped. "I despise playin' with a beginner that's got fool luck!"

      "Do

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