Starlight Riders Boxed-Set 50 Western Classics in One Edition - Ernest Haycox

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      "So you find friendship begins to sour?" said Redmain.

      "A man such as myself deserves no friends," Steele muttered.

      "Neither deserves them nor has them," replied Redmain. "I made the same discovery tonight, Cal. So what does that leave us? Why, kick all the fine sentiment overboard and be what we were meant to be."

      Steele frowned. "The logical outcome of that belief is published notoriety and sooner or later a posse on our heels. And a cottonwood tree for a springboard."

      "They can't beat me. They've got nothing definite on me. Nor on you."

      "Nothing is secret forever," murmured Steele. "Public notoriety will do for you or Dann, but I've got enough left in me to need decent friends. Oh, well—what is the situation now?"

      "We took some beef tonight. It'll be changed over to your brand tomorrow and be kept hidden until the new burns are healed. Then we'll drive it to your range. Meanwhile I've got about thirty head ready for you now. They've gone through the aging process for two months. Tomorrow night I'll have them thrown into your upper range. Better see to it all your riders are elsewhere."

      "Be careful about that brand blotting," warned Steele. "I want no slips."

      "Gus is an expert," said Redmain. "You couldn't tell the difference with a razor and a microscope. You're safe. Better ship early this year. I need money."

      "Whose stuff did you take tonight?"

      "Fee's," returned Redmain. "Our last operation over beyond Sky Peak. We're going to work this side durin' the year. That Englishman don't know anything. I'm going to milk him dry."

      "Dirty business," grunted Steele. "I like the fellow."

      "Something you ought to've thought of a long time ago," retorted Redmain. "No chance to change now. You've got your hands soiled."

      "I think I know that better than you do," said Steele and rose to leave. "You've heard about the Association going in for vigilantes with Leverage at the head of 'em?"

      Redmain laughed. "He couldn't catch a cold. I'll run him ragged. The poor devil doesn't know—" Then he caught himself. The two men exchanged significant glances. Steele said:

      "You're a careful cuss, and you've got brains. Don't overplay your hand."

      Redmain closed one fist and spoke with a suppressed exultance. "I am going the limit, Steele!"

      "Be careful. And leave Denver strictly alone. I'll string along with you up to that point. Then I draw out. I won't be a party to any doublecross of Dave." Steele went out. Redmain stared at the other men for a long interval.

      "Get going, all of you. And keep your mouths shut."

      They departed, leaving him alone by the stove, wrapped in his dark thoughts. One by one he explored the alleys of opportunity before him; man by man he considered his outfit, the weak and the strong, the faithful and the treacherous. And from there he began to calculate the power of those ranged against him, his own individual strength set beside that of other individuals and his own outfit matched with the vigilantes. Never before had he let his mind run free as tonight, and never before had he caught so clear a view of the mastery that might be his if he were only bold enough to strike quickly and hard. It flushed him, it fed the latent ambition within him. Out of all this emerged his conclusions. "Denver I shall some day have to meet. Steele will never approve of what I aim to do. He must go down. Soon."

      WHISPERING RANGE

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      Occasionally the women of the district answered the vagrant call of social impulse, and this afternoon a dozen of them were informally gathered together in the shade of the long galleried Leverage porch. The sun, dipping westward, began to desert the emerald ridges but still made a bright yellow glare in the open prairie that rolled away from the foothills into the dazzling distance. It was high time to pack up and go, but the ladies lingered, some reluctant to depart, some waiting for the men folk to come after them.

      "Men," stated Mrs. Jim Coldfoot, biting off her thread, "are all the same and none of 'em too good. When I look about Yellow Hill and consider the specimens wearing pants I'm plumb reminded of a rummage counter with all the good cloth already took."

      The circle smiled, knowing Mrs. Jim Coldfoot well. Her heart was sound, but her inquisitive mind pried into all things, her ears missed nothing, and her tongue readily dealt in scandal.

      "Well," observed a Mrs. Roberts gently, "I dare say some of the poor dears would like to say the same of us."

      "They're scared to," observed Mrs. Jim Coldfoot acidly. "All they can do is look humble as pie, and mutter to themselves. Like I've told Coldfoot time and again, if he's got any mutterin' to do for land sakes go behind the woodshed and do it alone. You can't teach 'em anything, you can't get 'em to admit anything. And they'll lie for each other 'sif they belonged to a lodge. Strange to me women can't stick together like that. Men call it honor not to tell on the other fellow. I call it a universal sense of guilt."

      "What of it?" Mrs. Casper Flood wanted to know. "Women are free to take men or leave them alone, aren't they?"

      "We ain't got that much sense," retorted Mrs. Jim Coldfoot. "I married Coldfoot because he pestered me to death. Sometimes I think he's sorry for it, though heaven knows I'm good to him."

      One of the ladies hid her face behind a piece of quilt work and coughed delicately. Deborah Lunt, who had returned from the Sky Peak country, listened wide eyed to this devastatingly frank comment of the older women. Distinctly a pretty girl, she had a manner of drawing her mouth primly together when she was shocked or displeased.

      "I believe," said she emphatically, "a woman should not let a man be too familiar. He won't respect her."

      Mrs. Jim Coldfoot peered over her glasses with quick interest. "When you and Steve going to get married?"

      Debbie flushed. "I don't—that is, the date isn't set yet."

      "Don't let him dangle too long or you'll lose him," advised Mrs. Jim.

      Debbie's flush deepened. "I wouldn't hold him a minute if he didn't want to marry me. I'm not that kind."

      "Ha," contradicted Mrs. Jim. "I've heard lots of 'em say that. It ain't so. All of us sisters fight tooth and toe nail to get a husband. Lessee, you've been engaged six months. No, six months and a half. I recall when I heard the news. Well, that's time enough to let anybody suffer. Ought to have your mind made up by now. No matter how bad you think he is now, he'll be worse when you look at him over the breakfast table with his whiskers in the coffee."

      Debbie's deepening flush became scarlet storm signals. "There's nothing bad about him! He's a fine, good man!"

      Eve, silent thus far, broke in smoothly. "Debbie, don't let Mrs. Jim fluster you like that. She just loves to disturb us."

      "I've got ears and eyes," responded Mrs. Jim tersely. "Anyhow, with Lola Monterey back, I wouldn't trust no man around the corner. I—"

      The ladies looked at Mrs. Jim with varying expressions of warning and significance. Mrs. Casper Flood tried to change the subject. "I heard the funniest story about—"

      But Mrs. Jim had the bit in her teeth and was not to be stopped. "You can't make nothing out of nothing. Lola's the daughter of a Spanish woman and a white man, which is bad. She learned her trade in a dance hall, and that ain't any help to her. She's been all over the world singing and Lord knows that's nothing to brag about either. I'll admit she's got a way with her, but good looks and nice clothes mean nothing to me even if it does set every man under seventy on his ears."

      "I think she is beautiful," said Eve quietly, feeling the united scrutiny of the group.

      "Ain't you worried?" challenged Mrs. Jim.

      "Over what?" Eve asked innocently.

      "Well,

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