# The Popular Magazine/Volume 85/Number 5/A Fool and Some Money

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from The Popular Magazine, 24 Sep 1927, pp. 1-43. Illustrator uncredited.
A fool fights to keep his money
$^{By}$ Bertrand W. Sinclair
A Fool and
Some Money
By the author of “In the Bad Lands, “Out of the Blue,” Etc.
   The old adage that a fool and his money are soon parted is gone into more deeply in this novel, wherein a tenderfoot buys a ranch and struggles, with the aid of his sturdy partner, to prove that he is not a fool after all.

### CHAPTER I.
#### The Lone Wolf.

The Goosebill stands like a mole on the fair face of Montana, halfway between the Marias River and Fort Benton. Nature humped her tired shoulders impatiently when that part of the world was in the making, and the hump remained permanently in the midst of a general flatness. It arrested the eye in a region where creeks, coulees, and hollows were eaten out of the vast levels as an engraver's acid eats into the copper plate. A fair landmark in clear weather, the Goosebill, breaking the sky line with its singular outline, visible thirty miles in every direction.
A wild tangle of brushy ravines on the west side had more than once sheltered enterprising cattle thieves until the range men dealt with them ex juris. It still sheltered range stock. And since a winter range for cattle is always haunted by wolves, the very cabin which had once quartered a group of determined rustlers in a hollow by a spring well screened by brush now housed an equally determined young man of unquestionable honesty, who hunted, trapped and slew the gray buffalo wolf for his own profit and the welfare of the range.
Charlie Shaw hadn't taken up wolfing with any philanthropic motive. He was a tall, sinewy, able youth when he came into Montana with one of the first trail herds from the south not so long before. Half a decade changed many things on the American frontier. The tempo of those times was almost modern in its rapidity. Charlie had done a good deal of rolling, and having scattered his moss lightly, found himself that fall minus a job because of a jocular disposition which went unappreciated by the range boss of the Seventy Seven. That incident contained a germ of drama in itself, the first in a long period of semimonotony. It was only important as it gave Charlie added stature among his fellows. But his difference with Elmer Duffy certainly deprived him of a job. Lacking better opportunity, he turned to wolfing, since a man must live, until spring brought green grass and another round-up.
Charlie had spent a lonely but fairly profitable winter. He was hardy, persistent, keen eyed. He had played hob with the wolves. Every scalp was worth ten dollars to him. There was rather more to Charlie's undertaking than merely passing the time and keeping himself in food and tobacco until spring.
He had, so to speak, come face to face with himself, in a chilly October, and he didn't like the picture. He was twenty-six years of age. If the range gave degrees, Charlie could have written master of cows, horses, and a good many men after his name. He had done postgraduate work all the way from the Rio Grande to the Canadian Northwest. He stood five feet eleven in his socks. He was no Adonis, but he did have pleasant blue eyes, tawny hair with a wave in it, and a cherubic smile, which had deceived unthinking persons here and there. He could ride anything that looked like a horse. He could do anything with a fifty-foot reata that had ever been done with such a rope. From the time he left Texas until this winter's day when he was looking out from the door of his cabin behind the Goosebill, Charlie had worked his way up the trail when Panhandle herds took six months between Texas and Montana, had been two years on the pay roll of one cow outfit, nearly four years with another, one year in his last employment—and he had had to run his face for a grub supply in Fort Benton when he started wolfing in the fall. Got his grub on credit—which was perfectly good in Fort Benton for groceries, whisky, or whatever he desired—and took possession of an abandoned log cabin for a winter home.
Charlie liked neither solitude nor poverty. He had plenty of the first. It gave him time to consider the second, and how it might in the future be avoided.
He stood outside the door, staring at the Goosebill, dim in the waxing force of a March blizzard. He had just finished tacking a fresh wolf pelt on the outer wall to dry. For many weeks he had pursued wolves with the same untiring patience with which a placer miner hunts pay dirt—and for much the same reason. Instead of comfortable, idle days in a big, cheerful bunk house, with congenial company, and regular wages for simply being on hand, he lived the dawn hours and the dusk abroad with a rifle—and his own cooking for pastime.
“No way to live,” Charlie muttered with disgust. “When this storm blows out I'll take a little pasear to Fort Benton. Got to break out of solitary confinement once in a while.”
He looked at the fresh wolf pelts tacked on the log wall. He had a dozen more prime ones stretched and dried and hung within. Between bounty and fur prices, he could cash over two hundred dollars. He could pay his debt and have money left. And he would clear another couple of hundred by mid-April, if he were lucky at locating lairs.
So he whistled as he stirred up coals in the rough fireplace and fried the eternal bacon and warmed up the equally eternal but serviceable beans. Charlie was very adept at a number of things, but as a cook he had no aspirations. He fed himself and let it go at that, without any frills. And just as dusk fell in a driving swirl of fine snow, with Boreas chanting full lunged his own seasonal death song, Charlie, brooding by the fire, heard the thump of horses' feet, and the creak and jingle of saddle gear outside his door for the first time in weeks.

### CHAPTER II.
#### Too Good to Be True.

He hardly believed it, but he rose and undid the latch. His ears hadn't fooled him. The form of a man stood in the whitish murk of the night, behind him a saddled horse and one with a pack.
“Hello, there,” Charlie greeted. “This is a hell of a night to be out in the world. Come on in.”
“I surely will,” the stranger answered heartily. “Perhaps you have a place of some kind I can put my horses. Between snow and dark, I hardly know where I am, nor how I got here. Didn't see either fence or stable. Was just going it blind and came slap on your light.”
Charlie took the lantern that stood on his table.
“This way,” said he. “It ain't no livery barn, but it's better than the pasture for lathered horses. There's a little last year's hay.”
Back in the cabin the stranger shed a short fur coat, his cap, and a pair of very new chaps, thrust his feet to the fire, and rolled himself a cigarette.
“I shouldn't be surprised,” Charlie said, “if you could eat, eh. It's a long way between ranches.”
“I can,” the fellow admitted. “I could eat the off hind leg of a government mule, since you remind me. I didn't carry anything in my pack. I will next time I travel this country in winter.”
“You wont get no Delmonico spread.” Charlie rose and set on the coffee pot. “But I got bacon an' beans an' sour-dough bread.”
“Sweetest song I've heard since I left the TL Ranch this morning,” the other smiled. “You feed me those items and I'll reciprocate with tenderloin smothered in onions first time I see you where there's a café.”
Charlie laughed and set out the food. They talked. Smoke from joint cigarettes eddied about the blackened ridge-poles of the old cabin. The wind rattled decrepit windows, blew streaks of snow like sifted flour under the door.
“This flat country is tricky when you don't know it,” the man said over his second cup of coffee. “I should have some one along that knows the lay of the land. I suppose you know it like a book?”
“I ought to,” Charlie answered. “For seven years I've rode round-up, run wild horses, hunted wolves over every square rod within a hundred miles of here.”
“You know the Seventy Seven and the Maltese Cross then?” the other asked.
“I come into the country before either of 'em,” Charlie told him, “You mentioned the TL. I came up from Texas with old man Parke—first herd to locate north of the Missouri. Pretty soon I'll be able to pass for an old-timer.”
“You've had plenty of experience?” It was a comment as much as a question.
“Yeah. Plenty. If I could cash in on my experience for what it was worth,” Charlie said flippantly, “I could buy me a cow outfit and have money left.”
“And if I were to buy a cow outfit, which is what I'm thinking of doing,” the man said reflectively, “probably by the time I had acquired the necessary experience, I'd have the experience and somebody else might have my money.”
Charlie looked at him with frank curiosity.
“So long as you know that, you're pretty safe,” he remarked. “Generally it's the feller that thinks he knows it all, when he don't know nothin', that loses out in the cow business—or any other business, I reckon.”
“A man can lose money in the cattle business?”
“Can he?” Charlie grinned. “I'd tell a man, if he gets off on the wrong foot. Sometimes he can't help it. Old Parke drove three herds, near eight thousand head, to the Marias. One winter cleaned him to less than six hundred. Course that was darned bad luck. Not so much a question of judgment. You got to gamble on weather. I've known men that started in the cow business on a shoe string and made a hundred thousand dollars in ten years. And I've seen men put a hundred thousand into cattle and go broke in half that time. It all depends.”
“You've sort of taken notice of things, haven't you?” the man mused. “You know the game.”
“I was raised at it,” Charlie stated simply. “It's all I do know.”
“And I expect you've been successful.”
“For other people,” Charlie drawled. “Cattlemen make money. Cow-punchers make wages. I'm a cow-puncher.”
“Still, a cow-puncher can save his wages and put his money into cattle and become a cattleman, can't he?” the stranger suggested.
“Sure. If he takes that kind of notion,” Charlie admitted. “One does, here an' there. Most of 'em don't care a whoop. Come day, go day, God send Sunday. I never thought about it myself much—not till recent.”
“Do you sort of consider changing your ways, then? Take on the last part of Horace Greeley's advice to young men?”
Charlie grinned. He knew what the fellow meant.
“Well, I have growed up with the country an' I didn't have to come West to do it because I was born West,” he said reflectively. “I don't know. I never thought much ahead till this winter. This is the first time I've been off some cow outfit's pay roll more'n two weeks since I was eighteen. I shot a winter's stake in a big poker game last fall. Then I lost my job. I had to borrow money. I've been wolfin' all winter to pay my debts an' have a few pesos left over. An' a wolfer sure earns his money. It's kinda struck me that I'm about due to quit throwin' money I work for to the birds, even if I do like the tune they sing.”
“Reaching years of discretion,” the man laughed. “I've been making the rounds of these ranches on the Marias. I wonder if you aren't the man 'Rock' Holloway told me about. Does your name happen to be Shaw?”
Charlie nodded.
“My name's Brock—Terry Brock. I've got a proposition to make you, but it'll keep till morning,” the man said. “I'm too sleepy to talk business. Riding in that cold and wind has just about got me. My tummy's full of your grub. If you can give me a shakedown, in two jerks of a dead lamb's tail I'll be asleep. Probably snoring. Heave a boot at me if I do.”
Two single bunks occupied separate corners of the cabin. Brock's pack disgorged blankets. A layer of brush and dry grass made a serviceable mattress. Charlie piled pine knots, gleaned from a distant ridge, into the fireplace, and they turned in. He lay for a long time, wondering what sort of proposition this stranger out of a stormy night could have to make to him. Might be just hot air. Charlie Shaw was no cynic, but he had met men who talked big, who had big ideas, and whose talk and ideas lacked substance. Offhand he warmed to Terry Brock. He was little more than Charlie's age, certainly not over thirty. He wasn't a range man, neither in speech, action nor manner.
Before daybreak, Charlie had the fireplace glowing. When the bright blaze made a bed of coals, he fried flapjacks in a pan. They sat drinking a last cup of coffee when dawn thrust a grayness through the windows, shortly followed by brilliant sun shafts stabbing the frosty air. The Goosebill sparkled like a great sugar loaf.
In this penetrating light Charlie could see his visitor far better than by the gleam of a smoky lantern. Brock was a fair man, shorter and thicker bodied than Charlie Shaw, ruddy where Charlie's fair skin was weather brown. He wore good clothes. His entire outfit was good quality, and brand-new. Charlie wondered why a pilgrim like this was riding about the Marias and the Goosebill in stormy winter weather. And, as if his curiosity carried over into the other's mind, Brock set down his cup and looked at Charlie Shaw.
“Suppose,” said he, “you had some money and wanted to make good use of it—to make it grow into more—how would you go about it?”
“Gosh, that's a funny question to ask me,” Charlie observed. “Every man to his own trade, I reckon, is the answer.”
“You mean you'd go into the cow business?”
“Sure,” Charlie declared. “I'd know what I was doing then.”
“There's money in the cow business?”
“Just what you could notice.”
“Well, that wasn't exactly what I meant,” Brock said thoughtfully. “I know there is, myself. But I've had the impression conveyed to me in Fort Benton and elsewhere that Montana is pretty well stocked, and a man would be foolish to start a new outfit.”
Charlie snorted derisively.
“You must 'a' been listening to a bunch of them coffee coolers that lay around the Grand Union in Benton,” said he. “Whoever told you that either didn't know beans, or wanted to give you the wrong steer. Hell, there's oceans of room yet, north of the Missouri! Every new cow outfit that lays hold of a range means shuttin' off the sheep that are beginnin' to creep in—gosh darn 'em! I don't like sheep, even if I do wear woolen socks. You'd have a dickens of a time findin' a cow outfit in northern Montana willin' to sell out because they are gettin' crowded.”
“I see. Do you know a range where a man could put, say, ten thousand head of cattle, and make it go?”
“Yes. And I wouldn't have to ride a million miles to find such,” Charlie declared. “Gimme the cattle an' money to handle 'em an' I'd darned soon find a range.”
“I can do that,” Brock said deliberately. “I think I will.”
“Eh?” Charlie stared.
Brock leaned forward.
“I'm going into the cattle business. I came out here with that intention. I have some money and I want to use it. It strikes me as a clean and pleasant business, only I don't know enough about the practical end of it,” Brock said crisply. “Therefore, the logical thing is to get hold of a man who does know enough to make it a success while I'm getting hold of the technique myself, Strikes me you fill the bill.”
“How do you know?” Charlie asked bluntly. “You never laid eyes on me before.”
“You're a practical cowman, aren't you?” Brock inquired.
“Yes”
“If you were running an outfit of your own you're satisfied you could deliver the goods, aren't you?”
“Got no doubts about that whatever.” Charlie grinned. “It's simple—when you know the ropes.”
“If you were running an outfit for a man it would be to your own interest to make a success of it just as much as if it were your own, wouldn't it?”
“Naturally,” Charlie replied. “All range bosses is like that—or they wouldn't be range bosses. Only, I've never had charge of a cow outfit—except temporary.”
“Well, are you open to take on a job like that for me, and see it through? I'm willing to give you a hundred and fifty a month as wages, which I'm told is about the average for a range boss. And Ill declare you in on five per cent of the net profits over a five-year period.”
“Did you say you aimed to put in eight or ten thousand head?” Charlie asked.
Brock nodded.
Charlie did a little mental arithmetic. Then he whistled incredulously.
“A proposition like that,” he said, “sounds most too good to be true.”
“Nevertheless it is made to you as a plain business matter,” Brock retorted. “Want to take it up?”
“Hell, yes! Pronto, before you change your mind!” Charlie exploded, “When do we start?”
“As soon as cattle can be bought, a crew got together, a ranch and range located.”
“My gosh, man!” Charlie exclaimed. “I don't know what put the notion into your head to start a cow outfit an' hire me to run it; but I do say I can fill the bill. I never did suffer from modesty. I'm ripe for such an undertakin'. It sounds like a dream to me.”
“It may seem like a nightmare in spots before you're through,” Brock said tersely. “I may as well tell you there's a chance it won't be smooth as silk. There might—I don't say there will—be people interested in seeing that I don't get away with what I undertake.”
“There frequently is,” Charlie agreed. “But I can guarantee that if I run your outfit nobody will take anything from you only what they're entitled to. I ain't throwin' bouquets at myself, you understand—but when it comes to most angles of the cow business I've been through the mill. What I don't know I can pick up as fast as the other feller.”
“Then it's a deal,” Brock said. “Let's get down to brass tacks. I want you to pick as good a range as can be located. I want you to organize an able-bodied crew of riders, and I want to buy cattle. I want to do the thing right.”
“Expense, I suppose, no object,” Charlie said jocularly.
“Don't make any mistake,” Brock replied earnestly. “I don't want to organize a wild-West show. It's a business—and it's got to pay. I'm not picking on you blind, as it happens. I've been at the Seventy Seven and the Maltese Cross. I've known Rock Holloway since a long time back. I talked this over with him. I heard about you in other directions. You've got a reputation, Shaw. See that you live up to it.”
“I'm a natural-born josher,” Charlie grinned. “You'll have to get used to that. It don't hurt me none for work. I can get riders. I know darned near every cow hand north of the Big Muddy. I have a ranch location in mind. We got all northern Montana for range. She ain't really a quarter stocked yet. I'm pretty darned sure you couldn't buy cattle on the north side. They're all buyin' more, every spring. But old Al Kerr, in the Judith Basin, might let go a few thousand. I heard last fall he was gettin' top-heavy with cattle. Anyway, this undertakin' will require some plannin'. Best thing for us to do is head into Fort Benton. I got to cash in my wolf pelts. The fort is cowman's headquarters for north Montana. We can get organized there.”
Half an hour later they were joggin' south, two tiny black objects on a field of dazzling white. And Charlie Shaw, though still in his heart a trifle incredulous at his luck, had the feeling that here was a tide taken at the flood.

### CHAPTER III.
#### A Startling Disclosure.

Where's the big chief, the grand mogul of the Wineglass outfit?” Rock Holloway rested his gloved hands on his saddle horn and gazed at Charlie Shaw. They had met on a ridge two miles south of the new ranch that Charlie had located for Brock.
That young man grinned widely at his friend and replied:
“You now gaze upon him.”
“Oh, I know you're the whole works and proud as a pup with a beef bone,” Rock retorted in kind. “But I was asking about the owner.”
“According to the brand registry an' the bank account in Fort Benton,” Charlie replied, “I'm him.”
“Quit kidding,” Rock admonished. “Time you grew up since you're range boss of a regular cow outfit. Is Terry around?”
“I'm not kiddin',” Charlie stated. “An' I don't know where Terry Brock is. I ought to, seems to me. But he don't appear to think so. I haven't laid eyes on him since we brought the last herd over the river. I'm not shootin' hot air, Rock. My shoulders is bent double under a weight of responsibility. Brock puts the whole works in my name, tells me to go to it, an' vanishes. I don't know whether he's just tryin' me out, whether I'm dealin' with a philanthropic millionaire which throws around chunks like a hundred thousand odd dollars like it was nothing at all, or just a darned lunatic. What do you know about this hombre, anyhow, Rock. It was on your say-so he made me this proposition.”
“Well, I sent him to the right party, didn't I?” Rock demanded.
“Yes—but——” Charlie threw out his hands. “He's either a trustin' innocent, or he's got somethin' up his sleeve. 'Taint hardly natural for a man to pick a stranger like me an' throw off all wraps this way. Who is he? Where does he come from? Why this aimless sort of way he does business?”
“Search me—about the last,” Rock promptly answered. “Has he made any damn fool breaks in a business way?”
“Well, darn him, he leaves everything to me!” Charlie complained. “Technically, I own the darned outfit. He don't even leave me know where he is so I can consult him.”
“In other words, he's giving you an absolutely free hand,” Rock drawled. “What's wrong with that? When did you begin to shrink because you had to make your own decisions?”
“I don't,” Charlie protested. “Gosh darn it! he couldn't tell me anythin', an' likely I wouldn't let him if he could, But it's his show. An' it looks like he's forgot it. Or else somethin's happened him. He said he knew you. What do you know about him?”
“As a matter of fact, Charlie, I don't know a great deal more about Terry Brock than you do,” Rock replied. “I hadn't seen or heard of him for years, until he blew into the ranch last winter. He didn't particularly unburden his soul to me—except that he wanted to start up in the cow business, and since he was green, did I know of a smart cowman that he could trust to the limit. He sort of hinted he'd like me to take it on, But you know that between me and Nona we have a pretty good show of our own. So I sicked him onto you.”
“Let's ride along to the ranch an' get somethin' to eat,” Charlie suggested. “Go on about Brock. He sure interests me.”
They shook up their horses and went loping west toward the shallow valley of a creek that took rise in a soak-spring area on Lonesome Prairie and flowed south to the Marias River.
“No, Charlie,” Rock repeated, “I don't know so very much about Terry Brock. When my father got ambitious for me to have a real education he sent me to college in Massachusetts. I didn't finish, but that's neither here nor there. But that's how I met Terry Brock, He came in as a freshie when I was in my third year, Seniors don't flock with the frosh as a rule, but I happened to do Terry a good turn by accident. We got quite friendly. He had money—at least his folks had—because he was always flush. I remember his sister and a cousin coming up to college once to see him and they were real class. After I left, we wrote for a while. He married right after he graduated. I was in Texas then, making myself useful around cows. From that time on I never heard of Terry Brock until he rode into the ranch last March. Somehow or other he knew where to find me. He talked cattle till he was black in the face. He offered to buy me out, put in more stock, and let me run the thing on my own terms. As I said, I sicked him onto you. That's all I know.”
“Don't wise me up none,” Charlie replied. “But it's all right. If he's satisfied to leave me have full swing I'll do my best for him. It's a cinch, of course. We got a darned good bunch of stock cattle, and a location. But it's a funny thing for a man to do, just the same. Darned if I'd pick a man up loose on the range like he did me, put him in a position where he could steal my eye teeth if he wanted, and then disappear.”
They rode to the lip of the depression down which Plentywater flowed, a small, clear stream in a treeless hollow. Rock pulled up to stare at the ranch.
“By gosh, you're setting the earth afire, aren't you,” he conceded. “Good-looking buildings. Good land along that bottom. Looks like a ranch. I wondered why you didn't locate on the Marias, or go on north to Milk River. But this shows up like a good spot. Funny how a few improvements alter a place. I've rode over this often without thinking of it as a location.”
“Country's new yet. You can still pick some peaches.” Charlie grinned. “You bet I'll make it a ranch. Look. Away up above us this draw narrows in, Above and below the house there's over a thousand acres of rich bottom land. Some of it's natural meadow. We'll get enough wild hay this year to carry us over winter. I figure on putting a dirt dam in the neck up there. Figure she'll hold enough surface water to irrigate the whole works. Grow hay enough there to feed us through a hard winter—if one of them dingbusters ever hits us. This ain't the banana belt. I aim to play safe. If Mister Terry Brock follows my lead he'll be runnin' cows here when some of these hell-roarin', take-a-chance-on-bad-weather owners is gatherin' up their own remains. I'll make this outfit go with a whoop—if I get a chance.”
“You got all the chance there is,” Rock observed. “A minute ago you were sort of hinting you had a little too much leeway.”
“Oh, well, I didn't exactly mean it that way,” Charlie returned. “Come on, let's have the cook throw us some fodder.”
They dismounted at the door of a new stable. Rock looked appreciatively at the fruit of Charlie's stewardship. It was brand-new, framed, shingled, painted. When Rock and Charlie Shaw came to northern Montana, sawed lumber didn't exist north of the Yellowstone.
“Why didn't you build a frame house, too?” Rock asked when they walked toward a sprawling bunk house and messroom, with a wing for the quarters of owner and range boss. This was of ten-inch pine logs, peeled, notched and dovetailed.
“I like a house solid,” Charlie said. “I was raised in log houses. Brock, he said logs suited him. And a fireplace. Said we had to have a fireplace. So I've got these pine timbers hauled in from the Sweet Grass. An' we can toast our toes in comfort when the blizzards howl.”
“What I ambled over this way for, really,” Rock said when they had eaten and were talking over cigarettes, “was to see if I couldn't make some arrangement to throw in with you on round-up, this fall and thereafter. I haven't got enough cattle yet to justify a wagon and a full crew on the range. Same time, I'd like to have a little more say-so about how my stock is handled on my own range than I can have simply by sending reps with the Maltese Cross and other outfits. You have to muster a full crew with your wagon. Yet, you hardly need a full crew for the seven or eight thousand cattle you've put in. Suppose I put, say, six riders with your outfit, and we plan the range work to suit us both? How do you think that would strike you?”
“You certainly can,” Charlie agreed promptly. “Funny, I was wonderin' just the other day if you'd be agreeable to such a proposition. Save both outfits money. And I got to make this pay right from the jump-off. I won't be satisfied if I don't.”
“You will,” Rock told him. “You can't help it.”
A little later, as he was about to ride away, he took a last look over buildings, corrals, men busy at various tasks, and the white chuck-wagon tent fluttering on the creek below. The wrangler had bunched the remuda, bells jangling, hoofs grinding up fine dust. Riders were catching fresh horses.
“You got a peach of a layout, Charlie,” he declared. “You picked a better location than I reckoned it. With Brock's money and your sense, if you pull together, in ten years you ought to have one of the biggest and best cow outfits north of the Missouri.”
“In ten years,” Charlie muttered as he watched Rock ride south down the Plentywater, “I won't be worryin'. Gosh darn it, why should I worry now? Everything's goin' good. Anythin' outside this is his funeral.”
What Charlie Shaw meant by that cryptic remark in a resentful tone was partly due to a brief note which he took out of his pocket to peruse afresh,
Go ahead according to your own judgment. Will get back by and by. T.B.
Charlie grumbled.
“I like to run a outfit, but, by gosh, Terry Brock strikes me as a darned uncertain proposition. I like to be able to give him some idea what I'm doin' an' why. He couldn't make himself no scarcer than if he was on the dodge.”
Brock had been gone over a month, He had been with the outfit when they trailed the third and last herd in from the Judith. When they had crossed the Missouri at Fort Benton with those cattle, Brock simply disappeared. He didn't say he was going. He went. Charlie missed him, worried a little. But he did not hold up his herd. He had learned that any man in an executive position must delegate authority. He had a man picked for segundo. He put “Bud” Cole in charge of the trail outfit and sent it on. Then he cooled his heels for three days in the Grand Union Hotel, impatient, a little worried. On the third day he got this note through the mail. Whereupon he snorted and rode on to catch his outfit.
Since that day, silence. It worried him more than he cared to admit. Not that he wanted or needed an owner at his elbow. Far from it. Personally, it pleased him better to use his own untrammeled judgment.
But if Charlie had regarded Terry Brock merely as an employer and owner it would have been a joke. Considered from the cattleman's angle, he was too green to burn. When Charlie considered Terry Brock and his money falling into the hands of some men he knew, he could easily imagine a scientifically plucked tenderfoot. And the net result of Brock's implicit faith in him, the man's blind trust in his handling of important matters, burdened Charlie with a feeling of responsibility for the man himself, over and above his material interests. He hadn't bargained for that. It was silly. Charlie's practical soul informed him that he had his hands full, building a ranch from the foundation, looking after eight thousand cattle, planning ahead as a range man must, without worrying whether the owner was properly tucked in bed at night.
In Charlie's experience, cattle owners gave their range bosses a free hand and ample powers, but they kept in touch, and never let go the invisible reins of control. Brock, however, probably knew what he was doing, Charlie reflected. He was an educated man, a powerful man physically, and clever in his own way. But Charlie decided that he was certainly erratic when it came to money and business—so very erratic that Charlie wondered how Terry Brock ever contrived to hold in his own right enough money to buy eight thousand cattle and equip a ranch.
But he had it. There were the cattle, bought and paid for. The ranch was in the making. There was enough cash on deposit in the Choteau County Bank to carry the Wineglass until they shipped beef that fall. When Brock had been gone a couple of weeks without word of his whereabouts or his return, Charlie prudently began to wonder how far the check book he carried would take him. So he inquired. Mr. Terence Brock had deposited ten thousand dollars to the credit of Mr. Charles H. Shaw the very day he vanished.
“Maybe he's one of these wise gazabos that's concerned with results only, an' shrinks from the horrible details,” Charlie said to himself. “He said it was up to me; but I never thought he was goin' to pile it all on me an' then vamose. Well, I'll get him results, all right. I just naturally got to. But I'd like to augur with him once in a while. Gosh darn him, you'd think he was hidin' out from somethin' or somebody!”
That, it transpired, was precisely what Mr. Terence Brock was doing.
Rock Holloway had long disappeared below the southern horizon. Charlie had been occupying himself more or less about petty affairs. The afternoon had worn toward the thin edge of evening. He was roosting on the porch, cogitating on how soon he had better take a sweep over the range and brand what calves were born since the cattle were turned loose. A rig appeared on the brow of the hill looking down on Plentywater, rolled into the creek bottom, and drew up before the house. A livery driver from Fort Benton held the reins. Beside him sat a lawyer whom Charlie knew and heartily disliked—one Arthur J. Harrock. Two women occupied the rear seat of this double-spring wagon. One was young, one middle aged, both well dressed in what Charlie knew were exceedingly expensive garments. The younger woman had more than her share of good looks, and she eyed Charlie, the house, and the general ensemble with frank scrutiny. The elder gazed upon him with a haughty indifference that almost amounted to scorn—which amused Charlie Shaw a trifle. He decided instantly that they were mother and daughter, and he wondered what on earth such people wanted at the Wineglass, and shrewdly guessed that it had something to do with Terry.
He rose at once to offer the strangers within the gates such hospitality as range custom dictated, marking then that two riders were dropping over the bank on the rig's track. Charlie knew the mounted men even at a distance—deputies from the sheriff's office.
Harrock saw fit to address Charlie before he had time to say anything. His manner wasn't cordial. It was hardly possible for Harrock to be cordial. He had the cross-examining habit and manner even in private conversation—what Charlie Shaw and his fellows termed “the-big-I-an'-little-you” style. Harrock wasn't popular, nor in his profession particularly prosperous. He was sharp enough in law but too void of the humanities to get far in cattle-country practice.
“Is Mr. Brock about?” he asked.
“Mr. Brock's away,” Charlie answered.
“I understand that you are in charge here?”
“For once your understandin' ain't deceived you,” Charlie remarked. “But maybe you'd all like to get down an' rest for a spell an' have something to eat. Hello there, you county pirates. Got a warrant for me?”
“Wish I had,” Bob Sullivan flung back at him. “I never had the pleasure of throwin' a range boss in the calaboose yet. Did you say your cook was still on the job, Charlie?”
“Sure. Get down an' put away your horses an' sample his work,” Charlie invited.
“Them's welcome words,” the deputy grinned as he rode past. “We're more than willin' to eat, us deputies. That's one of the best things we do after ten hours in the saddle. You sure Brock ain't around?”
“I said so, didn't I?” Charlie returned impatiently. “I ain't in the habit of sayin' things backward. What do you want with him?”
“Tell you while we eat,” Sullivan said over his shoulder. “Or maybe he'll wise you up.”
This with a jerk of his head toward Harrock, who was helping the two women out of the wagon. Charlie felt uneasy premonitions stir within him; but courtesy came before curiosity. He sent the driver to the stable to put up his team; he showed the women into his own room to wash the trail dust off and primp after the fashion which Charlie knew women practiced. When the door closed on him he turned to Mr. Arthur Harrock, LL.D., and asked:
“What you want with Terry Brock?”
“Mr. Brock,” Harrock replied with considerable asperity in his tone, since he had as low an opinion of Charlie Shaw as Charlie had of him, “is legally non compos mentis. We are here to apprehend and return him to custody, to resume possession of his property on behalf of his family so that their lawful interests may be adequately safeguarded.”
“Talk United States to me,” Charlie said coldly.
Mr. Harrock abandoned his impressive verbiage for clarity.
“He's insane,” he declared. “Sullivan has a warrant for his arrest. He's an escaped lunatic. Where is he?”

### CHAPTER IV.
#### The Sage.

Charlie did some tall thinking as as he lay in borrowed blankets under round-up canvas while the two women occupied his comfortable room at the house. He was annoyed and incredulous and suspicious. He rose at dawn with these feelings still rampant. Breakfast over, he watched the livery rig breast the slope of Plentywater to the Fort Benton trail, Before it vanished over the rim he called to him one Bud Cole, a lathlike person with a freckled, homely face that masked a reckless courage and uncommon shrewdness behind a seemingly vacuous smile.
“I'll be gone for a spell, Bud,” said he. “You're in charge till I come back. If any strangers come inquirin', you don't know nothin' about nobody. Sabe? If I'm gone over a week—I don't reckon to be, but I might—you send these ranch laborers to town with an order apiece on the Benton Mercantile for their money. Then start round-up. Brand what calves you find. Work in about a thirty-mile circle of the ranch. There shouldn't be much stuff beyond that.”
“I got you,” Bud answered.
Charlie had kept him posted on what ranch work was in progress. Bud was as competent on the range as Charlie himself. So that was that. Charlie forged south on a good horse, and he rode fast, straight for the TL on the Marias, craving sagacious counsel. He prayed that Rock Holloway was at home.
And Rock fortunately was. Charlie dropped into the sheltered valley at mid-forenoon. The river rippled in its pebbly bed like liquid silver. Meadow larks caroled to him from swaying sagebrush and green-fringed willows on the bank. But he splashed through the river, unmindful of beauty in a spot which he seldom passed without admiring, and a minute or two later dismounted in the Holloway yard.
“Bless your heart, you cover territory like an Indian scout!” Rock Holloway greeted. “What's sitting hard on your innocent soul this lovely summer morning, 'Blondy?'”
“Lay off the funny stuff,” Charlie growled. “Do I advertise calamity on my physog that a way?”
“Don't know about calamity,” Rock said. “My experience of you is that when you face calamity you grin like a wolf. But you're wearing the well-known corrugated brow of care.”
“I got a license.” Charlie sighed. “Lissen careful, old-timer. A rig blew in from Benton after you left yesterday. That Art Harrock is along with two females. The young one claims to be Terry Brock's wife. The old one is her mother. Her own estimate of herself is she's at least a duchess. There's likewise two deputies from Tom Coats' office.
“Now, they claim Brock is a lunatic. They say he's been confined in a asylum down East, owin' to his havin' delusions about bein' persecuted, which leads him to raise Cain with his family an' pretty near kill a man, besides beatin' hell outa his wife. They say he got better an' was held in a private sanitarium for a while, an' finally gets so restored he takes charge of his own affairs.
“They claim he's crazy all the time, but foxy. He turns everything he has quietly into cash, an' blows into the unknown, leavin' his wife an' daughter strapped. His last act was to commit an unprovoked assault on two people, among which is a brother-in-law. After which he disappears. This is about eight or nine months ago. That's Brock's personal history, accordin' to them.”
“Well?” Rock paused on the interrogation.
“It ain't 'well,'” Charlie answered irritably. “Would you, from what you seen of Terry Brock this spring, say he was a crazy man?”
“No,” Rock replied. “Would you? You've seen a whole lot more of him than I have.”
“If he's a lunatic, we all are,” Charlie retorted. “However, these people claim he ain't a responsible person. They got a warrant out for him on the ground that he's dangerous to be at large. Also—which is where I come in—that he ain't competent to handle his own affairs; so they've got themselves appointed to administer his affairs in person and in toto, as that mouthy Harrock put it.”
Rock whistled.
“I see,” he commented. “They step in and throw you out on your ear and run the Wineglass to suit themselves. They're after control of Brock's property. Well, eight thousand cattle and a good ranch is worth controlling, I suppose. That's about the idea, isn't it?”
“In a nutshell,” Charlie declared.
“They haven't got Brock?”
“No.”
“You don't know where he is?”
“If I did I'd be augurin' with him instead of you,” Charlie said pointedly. “I come to you because you're smarter'n I am when it comes to mix-ups like this. But Terry's the interested party.”
“Of course, you're not interested,” Rock scoffed.
“Hell, yes! Of course I am,” Charlie admitted. “I like runnin' a cow outfit. First time I ever had a chance at a big show. I know I can make her go with a whoop. I have, up to date. I don't want to be chiseled out of my own chances. An' I don't want Terry Brock to be chiseled out of anything that's his. That's where I stand.”
“You think it is a chiseling proposition?” Rock asked.
“That bunch didn't impress me favorably ay-tall,” Charlie said decidedly. “Nor their story. Nor their attorney. Nor their eagerness to get their hooks on an outfit that, so far as I know, or they showed me to the contrary, is Brock's lawful property. I aim to protect his interests like they was my own—which they are. How'm I goin' to do it?”
“You say they've taken legal steps. Did they demand possession? Have they got possession?” Rock asked.
“They demanded about everything in sight,” Charlie told him. “At least, Harrock did for 'em. He claimed they had legal authority, but he didn't produce no documents I could recognize. He demanded that I turn everything over to 'em, render an account of all transactions to date, an' turn the balance in bank over to him on behalf of Mrs. Brock as guardian. She has a claim for maintenance. But the only real eyeful I got was a court order from some place in Massachusetts, indorsed by Judge Dudley in Benton, authorizin' the apprehension of Terence Brock on the ground of mental derangement. That's got nothin' to do with his property.”
“What did you tell 'em?” Rock inquired.
“Told 'em to go to the devil!” Charlie exploded. “I went further. I told 'em I owned the Wineglass—lock, stock an' barrel. The brand is recorded in my name. I made all the land filin's. The bank roll is mine. I sign the checks. I asked 'em how they was going to take anything away from me? I wasn't givin' nothin' away to sorrowful females an' shyster lawyers. Of course they know, same as everybody in the country knows, the Wineglass is Terry Brock's. His money paid for it. But I took that stand because I didn't know what else to do.”
“Good headwork,” Rock commented. “What did our friend Harrock say to that?”
“Oh, he got sarcastic. Said it was a provable fact that I was merely Brock's agent in any transaction. Said he would at once take legal steps to have me peeled to the bone. I believe he said somethin' about me committin' a felony in makin' such a claim. That he'd have me indicted for conspiracy to defraud the just claimants. He was pretty windy.”
“Got to prove a conspiracy. Got to prove fraud,” Rock declared. “He may be able to ball you up if he makes out a good case in court—provided this lunacy business has any grounds, Naturally, you want to fight 'em.”
“I got to!” Charlie rasped. “Until Brock himself turns up. I'd be a fine bonehead, wouldn't I, to let a bunch of strangers clamp their hooks on a outfit a man puts me in charge of? Course I'll stand 'em off, long as I got a leg to stand on.”
“Well, I tell you,” Rock said; “come up to the house. I got some high-priced brains up there which might be useful to you. Uncle Bill Sayre happens to be here. His advice is likely to be a heap sounder than mine.”
“Good!” Charlie exclaimed. “He's about the wisest old owl there is. Gosh, that's luck.”
Uncle Bill Sayre—an elderly Texan who operated a bank in Fort Worth, and sundry other enterprises in various localities, remembered Charlie Shaw perfectly, although he had not seen him for a matter of four years. Uncle Bill had a soft spot in his heart for Charlie Shaw and Rock Holloway. Between them they had broken up a gang which had put into execution a very efficient method of looting the Maltese Cross—a whopping big cow outfit on the lower Marias, for which Uncle Bill was administrator under a dead man's will. He had seen Charlie Shaw hauled home from a rustlers' fight in the Sweet Grass Hills with a very slim chance to live, and watched him cheat death in a Fort Benton hospital by the proverbial eyelash. So, without knowing anything about Terry Brock, Uncle Bill listened with keen interest to Charlie's tale.
“Without knowin' a thing about what's back of this, son,” he gave his opinion at last, “I'd be inclined fo' to think these heah folks are pressin' matters with mo' of an eye to what's in it, than fo' their relative's welfare. I sho do. Now, yo' aim, Charlie, is simply to protect this man's property till he shows up to do fo' himself, eh?”
“Exactly.” Charlie nodded.
“You got a ace in the hole,” Uncle Bill remarked, “havin' yo' own registered brand on the stock. Seems like yo' man Brock must have figured on somethin' breakin' this a way. Fo' a man judged insane that's most too clevah. Is there any written agreement between you coverin' this matter of ownership?”
“Our personal understandin',” Charlie said. “Hell, ain't that good enough between white men?”
“Mistuh Brock sho trusted you, son,” Sayre drawled. “And I'd say he done a good stroke of business doin' so. Technically, you own this Wineglass outfit. They'd have to go back of the actual fact an' discover the intention behind such an arrangement. Which is sometimes difficult in law. But that's what yo' lawyer, Harrock, will sho seek to establish. My advice is to beat him to the cou'ts. Possession is nine points of the law. If they eveh get possession, you'd have a job to oust 'em. So retain possession, an' head off their attempts to molest you. Get the sma'test attorney you know. Have him apply for a temporary injunction prohibitin' these people from interferin with yo' lawful business of operatin' this heah Wineglass cow outfit. You have a good chance of gittin' such an injunction made permanent, unless they can show sound cause why they, instead of you, are better fitted to take cha'ge of Mistuh Brock's property an' affairs.”
“Amen,” Charlie breathed in relief at something tangible. “Who is the smartest lawyer in Fort Benton either of you knows?”
“Billy Arnold,” Rock suggested.
Uncle Bill nodded. Arnold handled Maltese Cross business, Charlie knew. Arnold was young, aggressive, clever, and liked by everybody.
“Thanks, both of you.” Charlie grinned. “Now you stake me to a fresh horse, Rock, an' I'll do a Paul Revere to Benton. I can beat that livery team hours—an' beat Harrock to the courthouse. Here we go in a cloud of dust!”

### CHAPTER V.
#### The Stranger.

Three days later, Charlie returned to the Wineglass. Warm rain out of a June sky had drenched the land that night. He rode all forenoon across a sward green as new plush. Wild roses made pleasant banks of odorous pink in the hollows where they grew. The hum of bees, the crying of plovers, the harsh squawk of long-billed curlews, the liquid song of yellow-breasted meadow larks, greeted him around every bend as he rode up the course of Plentywater. Cattle lay on the banks—Wineglass and TL and Maltese Cross cattle, and a sprinkling of other brands. Wild horses snorted and ran at his approach, and Charlie whooped at them in sheer exaltation of spirit. With that winelike air in his mouth, a good horse under him, and a temporary checkmate to a potential enemy, the world was his, and he was accordingly uplifted. Achievement is a potent brew.
In the Wineglass yard, however, he came down to earth, in a double sense. His bootheels had scarcely hit the ground before Bud Cole appeared.
“The main squeeze is here,” said Bud. “Layin' low. Nobody knows he's here but me, an' I asked no questions. You'll find him around the house somewheres.”
Charlie grunted and strode away to the ranch house. Perhaps he could get this tangle straight now. At least he wouldn't have to go it blind in a dispute over property if Terry had come home.
A man sat on the porch steps reading a newspaper. He had on overalls and riding boots, a worn Stetson, a black sateen shirt. A gaudy silk handkerchief draped his neck. His face was dirty with a heavy stubble of beard and a short, bristly, reddish-brown mustache darkened his upper lip. Charlie nodded and passed in. He went through the bunk room to his own quarters and to the room especially fitted for the owner. Lastly he peered into the kitchen. The ranch cook said “Hello!” as he plied a rolling-pin on pie crust. There was neither cellar nor attic for Brock to hide in.
Then Charlie turned at a step. The stranger from the porch steps had entered. He grinned amiably.
“Well,” said he, “a few whiskers and a change of clothes seems a good disguise.”
Whereupon Charlie grasped what Bud Cole meant when he said no one but himself knew Terry Brock was there. Brock didn't need to hide. Certainly, this was Terry in the flesh. But it took his voice, his words, and his manner to reveal his identity—even to Charlie Shaw.
“I'll be damned!” Charlie exclaimed. “I sure didn't know you. Took you for some strange cow hand.”
“That's encouraging,” Brock replied. “If you don't know me at first sight, nobody else is likely to. That's a decided advantage right now. Things are beginning to tighten, as you fellows say.”
“Just what you'd notice,” Charlie agreed.
“You had some visitors, I understand?” Brock grinned. “And they sort of surprised you, didn't they? What kind of a session did you have with my estimable wife and her very excellent mother and this legal adviser they have taken on their staff? I suppose they gave you an earful. Were they rather insistent about stepping right into possession?”
“Gosh, yes! Say, why didn't you wise me up about this?” Charlie grumbled. “They've had me worryin'. They came here an' tried to sangbagging on me. But I stood that off. An' I think I got 'em stopped for a while, anyway. What's in this, anyhow, Terry? Are you crazy, like they say? Or are you just a damn fool?”
“A fool with some money, I guess,” Brock admitted soberly. “There's a good deal more in it, Charlie, than they'd be likely to tell you, or any one else. I'll come across with a tale of woe in a minute. But what has been done? I had an inkling of some such move, but couldn't do anything. I know them. They'll go as far as they can.”
“They won't get very far for a spell,” Charlie told him. “I just got through givin' 'em somethin' that'll hold 'em for a while. Let me have it straight, Terry. These people make a lot of claims. You know what they say about you?”
Brock nodded.
“Oh, yes, of course. They say I'm insane. They want me shut up for safety. I'm a dangerous lunatic. Incompetent to handle my own business. Therefore they should be in charge of my affairs. That would be about their claims and statements. Also, they have taken certain legal steps that lend some authority to what they're trying on. What do you think about me yourself, Charlie?”
“Your judgment about some things may not be first class,” Charlie said thoughtfully. “You may be kinda uncertain in some things. But if that was a sign of insanity we'd all be candidates for the bughouse. You're my boss, an' I've undertaken quite a contract for you—which I figure I'm darn well able to carry through. You've trusted me farther than you had any license to, an' treated me white. I'm for you all the way. I didn't like that crowd's style. If they'd claimed you had embezzled this money, or robbed a bank somewhere to start yourself in the cow business I might 'a' took 'em serious, But they only claimed you was a lunatic an' dangerous, an' they was goin' to take charge of your property. I might have pointed out to 'em that this property is in darn good hands an' in no danger of goin' to ruin. But I didn't argue with 'em. You may be dangerous. I know plenty good men that are dangerous—to them that tramps on their toes. But not to their friends. I reckon myself your friend as well as your range boss.”
Brock took a turn or two up and down the room. He stopped, facing Charlie, and there was a sheepish grin on his face.
“I won't forget that,” said he. “Loyalty is one of the cardinal virtues in human relations, according to my benighted way of thinking. And I have looked a lot for it and not found much. I have taken chances on men and women before now, to my regret. But you've got to trust people, or life becomes impossible. Apparently this is one of the times I didn't make a mistake.”
“Aw, hell!” Charlie protested in some embarrassment. “You got a stack of trouble buildin' up ahead of you. I was just tellin' you where I stood.”
“All right, we won't get sentimental about it,” Brock said. “Now, while I have a clear idea what they're after, I don't know what positive steps they have taken to get their way. I know they have a warrant out for me. So I had to lay low. Tell me just what happened.”
Charlie began at the beginning and told him in detail what had transpired during that visit of the Brock family.
“Then what?” Brock inquired. “I knew they were coming here. I didn't have time to beat them here after I found out. So I waited till I knew they were gone. But when I got home you had vanished, and Bud didn't know where or why, or if he did he wouldn't say.”
“I hand-picked this bunch of riders,” Charlie said, grinning. “They're good men. From Bud Cole to that kid wranglin' horses I can bank on 'em to do what I say an' keep their mouths shut. Well, you'd been outa sight a month. I had to do somethin' about this thing they sprung on me. So I went to Rock Holloway. Rock's pretty smart. An old-timer from Texas happened to be at the TL, a man that's a banker, an' foxy as they make 'em when it comes to seein' all sides of a proposition. I told 'em what the play was. They told me what I better do. I split the breeze to Benton that day and got Billy Arnold to get out an injunction against these people interferin' with my control of the Wineglass. It stands for thirty days. So they're stopped for that length of time. Billy, an' he's a law sharp, says unless they make out a strong case, I can stand 'em off indefinitely. To get possession of this ranch an' the stock, they got to win a civil suit against me on the ground that I conspired with you to defraud. They have to prove first that this is your property. They have to prove your interest in the Wineglass—an' prove you insane before they can get themselves appointed to administer your affairs.”
“Good work. That was clever of you.”
“It was mostly Rock and Uncle Bill Sayre,” Charlie disclaimed. “I played Uncle Bill's hunch.”
“It was taking the bull by the horns without losing any time, just the same,” Brock asserted. “If I'd proceeded on the principle that when you have to fight you should beat the other fellow to the first punch, I'd have saved myself trouble. Well, there's thirty days in which they can't molest this property. That's what they're after. If they could strip me to the bone they'd do it smiling. You've got them stopped in that direction. But they'll still grab me, if they can find me.”
“They can?” Charlie frowned. “Arnold said that if you were not bughouse all you had to do was appear and knock that in the head.”
“That insanity charge is just a bluff to get custody of property,” Brock declared. “I could beat that flat footed, even with my record. Because I have been off my head, Charlie, I am not mentally incompetent now. But I did cut up rough. I very nearly killed a man who was supposed to be my friend. That is the warrant they are keen to get me on. Attempted murder is a considerable crime. They would take me back to Okhollow, Massachusetts, for trial. This man's relatives are powerful people in that part of the country. Between them and my estimable wife's intentions, I wouldn't stand much chance of personal freedom for some time to come. They didn't say anything about this felonious charge of attempted murder, you notice. They'll produce that when needed. The chances are they will try to prove it the act of an insane man with strong homicidal tendencies. And they might make it stick.”
“Was it attempted murder?” Charlie asked.
“No. But it looked like it on the surface.” Brock frowned. “I mauled him good, but I wasn't trying to kill him—or I would have done it. And I'm not going to be penalized for that if I can help it. I have a decided aversion to being confined for anything, anyway. I've spent a lot of my time the last few years trying to please other people. I am not going to be such a goat again. I hoped they wouldn't find me away out here. But since they have nosed my trail like hungry hounds and are looking for trouble I'll try to give them plenty. But I've got to keep out of their hands.”
Charlie stared at him intently for a minute.
“That means you got to stay on the dodge?” he commented,
Brock nodded.
“Look,” said 'Charlie; “I was with you pretty close for over two months. When I walked in on you to-day, after bein' told you was at the house, I didn't know you from Adam's off ox. Did Bud recognize you before you told him who you were?”
Brock laughed.
“He hardly believed me when I did tell him.”
“None of these boys that saw you around every day when we were handlin' these cattle over the river knew you either,” Charlie observed. “That beard an' mustache certainly changes your looks scandalous. If you'd change your way of speakin'—talk rough an' ready, I mean, forget you're educated—no reason you shouldn't stay right with the outfit. Sabe? We got to take a tour around the range an' brand some calves. You're a green hand learnin' the business. You'd ought to know it, anyway, from the ground up. The boys'll make allowances for you, if I put you to work. Only, I'll have to treat you like any other common hand. You'd have to try an' hold up your end. But you'd be right here on the job, where we could make medicine any time anythin' new was sprung on us. You'd be a heap safer right in your own outfit. That's the last place they'll look for you, workin' as a range hand with your own outfit. Me an' Bud'll know, an' nobody else.”
“By Jove, that's a corking good idea!” Brock agreed. “I never went a week in my life before without shaving. I do look like a rough customer. It would simplify matters if I could stay here.”
“Simpler, an' a heap safer,” Charlie said. “Nobody'll recognize you, an' they'd have a time takin' you if they did. But how's it goin' to come out in the end? How're you goin' to beat this combination? You don't want to stay on the dodge the rest of your life.”
Brock nursed his chin for a minute before replying.
“I don't intend to,” he said at last. “I don't want to spin a long-winded and very unpleasant tale, Charlie. I hate to talk about it. It's a sore spot. Eventually it will all get into a court record, I suppose, and the newspapers, and become public property. So the crux of the thing is this: I am married to a woman who hates me because I stand between her and another man. Or, to put it more correctly, she wants to eliminate me so that she can get control of my resources—which would leave her free to cut the kind of a dash she wants to cut, with the kind of a man she wants.
“Her mother abets her. Always has. It's a horrible thing to say, but it wasn't me but my money she married in the first place. Both of them are without any scruples about anything. The man in the case is even more so. And they're all darned fine people, of first-class family. They have a background, and they have brains.
“A man hates to be a goat. When it dawned on me that I was, I took it pretty hard. I did go crazy. There was nothing I could do—unless I killed somebody. They were too clever. If it had been the ordinary emotional domestic situation, we could have settled it easily. I could have divorced her or let her get a divorce, and let it go at that. But she very carefully avoided letting it come to that, because she wanted to have her cake and eat it, too. I knew all about it without having anything like legal proof. She used to taunt me, work me into a fury—deliberately, I know now.
“We have a daughter. That's another weapon. I want that kid. I don't intend to let her grow up under any such pernicious influence. I don't suppose you can understand the kind of woman who has beauty and cleverness and all that, but none of a woman's natural affection for anything or anybody. There are such, unfortunately. Perhaps not many. It happened to be my luck to get one. Stella wouldn't sacrifice a mood, an hour of her time, or one of her pleasures for her youngster. But the kid has been useful as a club on me.
“I don't look like a nervous man. And fundamentally I'm not. But a man can brood himself crazy if he has to go around with the feeling that he's a mouse helpless in a cat's claws. I finally cracked wide open. That's where they get this dangerous lunatic assertion. I did go crazy—but it was an emotional breakdown, not an intellectual one. She got me slapped in an asylum. Later I was moved to a private sanitarium, I shook off that depression. I knew I would, even when I was acting like a demented being. But when I was ready to get out into the world again and wanted to, I couldn't. I finally had to break out—with a bit of luck and the help of a couple of friends, who believed that I was myself. That sounds like a wild yarn, but it's true.
“But I did get out, and I had a hell of a battle establishing my mental competence and getting control of my own affairs again. I could tell you almost incredible things about that, only it doesn't matter. It was finally settled that I was well able to run my own show. But it was also quite obvious to me that I'd eventually go to pieces again, because the pressure began almost at once. There are some things a man can't stand up under. I offered her am equal division of all I had, to break clean and go do as she pleased. But that didn't suit her book at all. She was at me like a wasp, nagging, taunting, threatening—wouldn't leave me alone.
“I knew that if I lived long under such conditions I'd probably blow up and kill myself or her, or some such fool thing. Men do. So I quietly turned everything I had into cash and just turned my back on the whole business.
“But it happened—pure blind chance—the last sort of encounter I wanted, because I knew it was useless as well as dangerous to blow up—I came across this man under circumstances that touched me off like dropping a match into powder. I put him in the hospital. They swear I used a club on him. That's a lie. I only needed my hands. I thought I had done for him when I had sense enough to let up. And I struck her when she interfered. And I knocked a brother-in-law down and cracked a rib or two of his with my toe for good luck. I guess I was pretty savage. But a lot of steam had accumulated in my chest. And they built the fire themselves.
“But that sort of played into their hands. Before I left I'd arranged for a certain sum of money to be paid monthly for her support, and to maintain our youngster in a private school. I didn't make her allowance any too liberal. And to be deprived of a living that was very comfortable, if not actually luxurious, was naturally maddening to her.
“So between them they have cooked up this latest move. They laid a charge of attempted murder against me at once. I kept myself out of sight for a while and got what information I needed. You can see how it all dovetailed. I had been pronounced mentally deranged once, confined for more than a year in sanitariums. My actions, which of course I can justify personally, don't lend themselves to a defense in court. I wantonly attack an innocent man without provocation. I maltreat my loving wife. I assault a relative by marriage. I disappear, leaving my wife without the support to which she is entitled. I must be mentally incompetent, or I wouldn't do these terrible things. Poor, dear Terry! What a pity he has this mania. You see? If I'm insane they can put me away. If I'm not insane, then I'm a criminal—I've attempted homicide without provocation. On either count—if they can make it stick—I'll be put away and my nearest and dearest will be able to run the show prety well to suit herself. You see?”
“Gosh, sounds like a dime novel,” Charlie grunted. “You certainly been up against a hard formation, Terry. Are yet. You can't hardly imagine all that dirty work over a little money.”
Brock grinned in a wry fashion. Little beads of perspiration had broken out on his face. He wiped them away with a handkerchief.
“Tough game, accordin' to your account,” Charlie mused. “How're we goin' to beat 'em, an' fix it so you can snap your fingers at 'em?”
“This stuff is all in your name,” Brock said. “Regardless of what happens to me you hang tight. Defy them. You can. Spend it all fighting every claim they make, if you have to. You don't have to account for possession. I know something about law myself. You can keep them from getting their paws on the Wineglass. If it came to a show-down I'd rather you had it for good than that combination.”
He cursed softly under his breath, earnestly, like a man breathing a heart-felt prayer.
“This is only a starter, anyhow,” he said presently in a more natural, casual tone. “I'll tell you more about it some time, maybe. Anyway, you've put a temporary spoke in their wheel. The chief thing is for me to keep out of their hands until we can devise ways and means to trip them up for good. I don't know just how, yet. Can't even guess. I'll have to go into the whole thing in detail with an able lawyer first opportunity. But, generally speaking, if you give crooks rope enough, they'll strangle themselves.”
“Yes.” Charlie nodded agreement—and he was thinking of a clever, fearless man who fabricated a brilliant scheme for looting the Maltese Cross, and how that enterprising rascal came to grief in a haze of powder smoke, through a blunder which no honest man would have needed to make. “I've seen that happen, too. Well, cheer up, Terry. You're among friends. You'll learn for to be a cowboy on your own pay roll, and I expect the Wineglass outfit'll manage to keep you outa jails, asylums, an' the poorhouse, all right, all right.”
Upon which Mr. Terry Brock rose and vigorously shook hands with his range boss. After which he walked to a window on the other side of the room, ostentatiously blowing his nose.

### CHAPTER VI.
#### The Greenhorn.

The Wineglass round-up mustered fourteen riders, They had a grassy empire to themselves. The general round-up swept like a brigade of cavalry somewhere afar, a dozen outfits under a captain, combing half of northern Montana. Another year and the outer fringes of the Wineglass cattle would be scattered from the Missouri to Milk River, and from the rim of Sun River basin to the Larb hills on the east. And the Wineglass would then be a unit with the general. But as yet Brock's cattle were mostly within a radius of twenty miles. Round-up was simple—merely to bunch all cattle within a short ride, brand such calves as showed, move a few miles, and repeat the performance.
Terry Brock strove manfully. Horses bucked him off. Struggling calves kicked him in the stomach at the branding fire. Other riders caught his mounts to save the time he wasted in futile casts with a rope. He learned that horsemanship, skill with a reata, and knowledge of what wild stock will do and when, are not things bestowed on a man like legacies. He must win to them by ordeal. His own men poked broad fun at him, deviled him with practical jokes, since a tenderfoot is fair game among active men anywhere.
But he survived the long rides, the heavy-eyed hours on night guard. He learned to sit a horse more securely. His men taught him much, because he never complained. To them he was simply a greenhorn, eager and willing and good natured, and they bore with his incapacity because he took it as it came. Things that were easy, matter of fact, for them, were feats for him to accomplish. But he remembered what he was told about a multiplicity of things concerning cattle and horses and the manifold details of a cow-puncher's business, and they told him sometimes that if he held out faithfully he would make a hand yet.
June sprinkled the range with the last of its showers and July came in with electrical storms, dazzling them with lightning, deafening them with sharp volleys of thunder—storms that darkened a clear sky, drenched and roared and flashed and passed on, leaving a pleasant, temporary coolness over that dry, hot land. They made round-ups on alkali flats where the bitter dust lay like gray flour on their clothes when they finished. They worked east to where the Bear Paw Mountains loomed green with timber, north to Milk River with its gnarly cottonwood sentinels along a stream lined with quicksands and black mud. They swung back across the undulating surface of Lonesome Prairie to where the Wineglass Ranch lay in the hollow of Plentywater.
This consumed three weeks. When they were camped on spring water, one move from home, Charlie suggested to Brock that they had better find out how the wind was blowing in Fort Benton.
“I'll leave Bud run the outfit, an' slide into town from here, an' see if there's anythin' new, an' chew the rag with Arnold about your affairs—seein' you don't hanker to ride in an' do that yourself.”
“What's the use?” Brock pointed out. “I can't start defending myself until I'm attacked. And I'm enjoying myself here. It's almost like a dream, all that stuff they're springing. I've been too busy to think about it even,” he said wistfully. “This sort of life doesn't leave any room for brooding about your personal sorrows. Too much action.”
“Like it?” Charlie inquired.
“Wouldn't have missed that course of sprouts for anything,” Brock said, grinning, “now I'm getting broke in. I'm learning things about both man and beast. I begin to see the why of the cow-puncher and cattleman, apart from the fact that one is earning a living and the other is in the business to make money. The sluggard and the stupid wouldn't thrive under range conditions. It's like an army or a circus, or the operations of a big railroad system. Precision, speed, a general pride in doing the job well. Why, every rider seems to think the entire welfare of the outfit depends on him. These fellows will do anything, day or night, for the outfit. You'd think it was theirs.”
“It is,” Charlie said briefly, “long as they work for it.”
“Well, it's a great life for a healthy man, anyway,” Brock declared. “I've seen more sunrises and sunsets than I've looked at for years. It's a very impressive country. There's room to grow.”
“Sure. That's why most of us kinda like it.” Charlie grinned. “I guess you'll make a cowboy yet, Terry. It's gittin' into your blood. I can see the symptoms.”
“Who wouldn't?” Brock shook tobacco into a brown paper and stared off across the backs of a thousand cattle stringing away from the round-up ground and looked at his men stamping out the fire that heated branding irons.
“Some can't,” Charlie replied. “Some men can't ever cut the mustard, on the range. I don't know why. You got to be up an' comin' too much, I reckon. You don't find no natural boneheads workin' on round-up—nor ownin' cow outfits, either—or if they are, they don't last long. Well, I'll drift. Here's hopin' the enemy has took to cover.”
But that was a vain hope, although it endured until Charlie had talked with Attorney Arnold. He found that no further move had been made, and went forth to stroll down Fort Benton's one main street. There he met the sheriff of the county, Tom Coats, who knew Charlie Shaw of old.
“Hello, there. Has that feller Brock been around the Wineglass lately?”
Coats was an enormous man. He towered over Charlie, looking down with a whimsical glint in his eye.
Charlie shook his head.
“Funny thing about that jasper,” Coats went on. “You know anything much about him, Charlie?”
“I know he's all right,” Charlie replied promptly. “An' I'm willin' to gamble some other people are all wrong.”
“Maybe. But you got to give 'em the benefit of the doubt,” Coats replied. “They got some pretty definite proof about this party's record. Looka here, Shaw; do you own that Wineglass outfit or does he? If you own it, where'd you get the money?”
“You're gettin' too darn personal, Tom,” Charlie retorted. “Go look up the records if you want to know.”
“I suppose you would call it personal, askin' a man where he got money to do this or that.” Coats smiled. “You can put it down to curiosity. An' perhaps a natural cravin' to make a little money in the regular course of business. I suppose you know this man Brock is wanted back East?”
“What for?”
“Attempted murder,” Coats said. “Over an' above this claim that he's a lunatic with homicidal tendencies. I am privately offered a thousand dollars reward for his apprehension on either charge.”
“You reckon you'll collect that thousand?”
“If he lingers around in my county, yes,” Coats replied imperturbably. “His people are worried.”
“They must be!” Charlie scoffed. “Worryin' themselves sick, I expect, wantin' to take care of the poor demented cuss. Huh! I guess they're worried all right, to offer you a thousand dollars to bring him in on a murder charge. What do you think about it yourself, Tom?”
“'Taint my business to think,” Coats answered. “I got a warrant to serve, that's all. You know where he is?”
“Think I'd tell you if I did?” Charlie drawled.
“Well, hardly,” Coats said, laughing. “You act as if you leaned kinda strong toward Mister Brock of Massachusetts. Still—he's a fugitive. If he can clear himself why don't he come in an' face the music? What kind of party is he, anyhow, personally?”
“White man,” Charlie said laconically. “Up against a bunch of lily-handed crooks.”
“Got a fine-lookin' wife,” the sheriff mused. “Nice-actin' woman, far as I can see. She's all broke up about the way he's acted. Look out you don't get in wrong yourself, Charlie.”
“Accordin' to my understandin' of the law,” Charlie observed deliberately, “a man is presumed innocent till he's proved guilty. I've met these sorrowin' relatives of Terry Brock's. They act to me like they was out for his coin more'n anything else, if you want my private opinion.”
“Naturally, if they're entitled to it,” Coats replied. “Man that's bughouse ain't competent to handle his own nohow. He ain't got no license to give everything he's got away, and beggar his family. So McEwan says.”
McEwan was the duly elected prosecuting attorney in Coats' bailiwick. Charlie pondered over this a while.
“I suppose,” he said, “it would be their play to work up sympathy and a case against him at the same time.”
Coats shrugged his shoulders. He was a capable frontier official, fearless, genial. Charlie had always known him to be fair, even generous.
“Charlie,” he said kindly, “I done told you I got no interest in this outside of an official one—and a heap of curiosity, because it looks like some tangle. These people are pretty determined, and on the surface they got a strong case. If you claim the Wineglass with the idea of protectin' this Brock, you might get in pretty deep. McEwan says you can't make it stick. He knows law. I know a cow-puncher'll go to hell for anybody he works for. But if this Brock's non compos mentis from the start, you can't help him, an' you can burn your own fingers.”
“Maybe he is, maybe he ain't,” Charlie replied. 'An' my fingers is my own.”
Doubtless, Charlie reflected, as he rode, County Attorney McEwan did know his law. Also, doubtless, he was susceptible to the influence of a good-looking, clever woman with a tale of woe. There was a civil aspect to the struggle as well as a criminal one. Nothing in the code prevented a county attorney from practicing. civil law on the side. McEwan, Charlie surmised, was probably little averse to riding one horse for glory and another for profit.
But so did Billy Arnold know law. And Arnold said that while the law was such and such, in practice the law was full of tricks. And Billy had taken the first trick in this game of possession. He was confident they could trump any ace the opposition might lead to take the Wineglass out of Charlie's hands, and particularly positive about this so long as Brock remained at liberty. About the attempted murder charge on which Brock was wanted in the East, Arnold couldn't express an opinion until he discussed every angle of it with Brock personally. On the facts, he told Charlie, he knew what could and could not be done in Montana. Massachusetts was a different matter.
So Charlie rode home, not altogether easy, but reasonably confident against any immediate threat to his control—so long as Brock kept out of the sheriff's hands. And neither the sheriff nor anybody else was likely to pitch on a common or garden variety of stock hand in the Wineglass outfit, a greenhorn named Tom Berry, who was noticeable for nothing more outstanding than sunburn and scrubby whiskers,
When Charlie rode in to the ranch after dark the white gleam of the round-up tents showed on the creek below the corrals. He could hear the bells tinkling on the remuda leaders as the nighthawk rode herd on them somewhere beyond. He knew everybody would be tucked in their blankets, catching up lost sleep. He had a bed rolled in the wagon; but he also had quarters in the house, and there he stalked after stabling his horse. A light burned in the front window. Charlie didn't think much of that. The ranch cook who served two or three laborers ruled in one wing and he might easily be anywhere in the house with a lamp. It was part of his job to keep that place in order.
But when Charlie walked into the large, rather scantily furnished living room, off which opened his private quarters and Terry Brock's, a woman sat up erectly in a big chair by the fireplace with a tentative and disarming smile—which, however, did little to ease the shock of her presence. Although Charlie strangely found an answering smile on his own countenance he could more easily have sworn. A natural courtesy alone restrained him. For the lady was Mrs. Terence Brock.
Half an hour later Charlie went quietly into the sleeping tent of the round-up camp. He struck a match. Men's bodies were outlined under the tarpaulins that each cow-puncher used to wrap his bed. Here and there a drowsy eye blinked at the light. Charlie located Brock—alias Tom Berry—and shook him gently.
“Hey, Tom,” he muttered; “get up an' lend me a hand.”
Brock sat up, blinked, reached for his clothes. Charlie waited outside.
“Come on up to the barn,” said he, for the benefit of any open ear inside. Brock followed him silently, two hundred yards. Charlie stopped. Brock hadn't said a word.
“I just wanted to get you outa earshot,” Charlie explained. “You know who's at the house?”
“Yes. I had a look and a listen this afternoon,” Brock replied coolly. “Amused me rather. The estimable young woman looked me square in the face without dreaming who she was talking to.”
“You sure of that?”
“Positive,” Brock said. “I know every flicker of her eyes. I went out of my way to speak to her casually, just to try her out. She didn't recognize me. She won't. I'll see to that. Did you have a talk with her?”
“She talked,” Charlie growled. “For half an hour. She tells it pretty. Her poor heart aches for you in your misfortune. She's grieved and anxious. And, of course, this strange way you've gone off and left her and your kid destitute has made it very hard. It's a terrible strain on her, not knowin' where you are, nor what you're liable to do in your disordered state of intellect.”
Brock laughed.
“All roads lead to Rome,” said he. “She wants something. She can be very fascinating when she chooses. I recognize the well-known touches. What do you think, Charlie?”
“Hell!” Charlie growled. “I don't think. I just wonder what the play is.”
“Cattlemen and cow-punchers are supposed to be brave, chivalrous, kind to women, especially an unfortunate woman,” Brock murmured. “She'll work on you from the sympathetic angle, I suppose. I wonder what she has in mind?”
“She didn't show no hole cards,” Charlie grunted. “But she wants to stay here. Mama has had to go back East. She's had a hard time, and she'd like to rest in some quiet, peaceful place. Her home is broke up. She just knows that a few days here will do her good. An' Terry might turn up in his right mind, after all. Where should a wife be but in her husband's home, even if said husband has queer notions an' hasn't done right by her?”
Brock muttered a scornful epithet. A decided harshness crept into his voice when he spoke again.
“It might work, at that, if she had a free hand,” he said gloomily. “I think I see. What did you say, Charlie? What are you going to do?”
“I'll do whatever you want,” Charlie said decidedly. “I didn't say nothin', Just listened an' looked wise. I ain't a fool, Terry—nor mushy. I'm your range boss. No smart woman is goin' to twist me around her little finger. You say the word an' I'll send her down the road in the mornin' talkin' to herself.”
“Don't admit anything. Be on your guard all the time,” Brock counseled, choosing his words. “If she gets insistent tell her point-blank that you control this outfit, and stand pat on that. I don't know what she is after here, unless it's to try and get the inside track with you. It might be as well if she were not here. On the other hand, if she's here we have her under observation. She can't put the outfit in her hand bag. Use your own judgment. Tell her to get out, or let her stay, as you choose. It's all the same to me. I'm not worrying about her in any way, shape or form any more. I'm Tom Berry, a Wineglass cow-puncher, I can stagger along this way pretty well for some time. Let her do the fretting, and try all her tricks.”
“You think there's no danger of her gettin' wise to you?' Charlie asked again. “She's got a kind of a hired man here with her, you know. She may be lookin' for you to turn up, so she can identify you, an' gather you in.”
“Not a chance. She's sized up every soul in the outfit,” Brock assured him. “She blew in here yesterday. I'm safe so long as I watch my step. And I will. My liberty and a lot of money depend on my discretion. I'm sure I'm safe. I'm not so sure of you, with her around.”
Charlie snorted indignantly.
“Nobody, male or female, ever got my goat yet,” he protested. “She can't do me no harm.”
“Suppose somebody got away with you?” Brock put it bluntly. “I couldn't come into the open. What would stop them from stepping in and taking charge of the whole show?”
“Huh!” Charlie snorted again. They squatted on their heels in the grass and rolled cigarettes. Crickets chirped all about them. A chorus of frogs along the creek cr-eked in the darkness. A segment of moon showed above the edge of a far horizon. Charlie blew smoke into the shrouded night and spoke again:
“When I got anybody to fight,” said he, “I'd as soon have 'em in the open. She can't do nothin' single handed. Let her stay. If her friends show up to make medicine they might give us somethin' to go on. Gosh darn it, they ain't goin' to start in bushwhackin' me! That's too coarse. We're sittin' pretty.”
“All right,” Brock agreed. “They have made no new move in Fort Benton?”
“None, except to sort of get on the right side of the county authorities.”
Charlie told him briefly all he knew.
“Well, don't let her get on the right side of you,” Brock said lightly. “If she does I'm a gone goose.”
“Don't you make breaks like that at me,” Charlie growled peevishly, “or I'll climb your frame even if you are the owner of the Wineglass.”
Brock chuckled at that. They ground the fiery stubs of two cigarettes into the dry earth and went their separate ways to bed.

### CHAPTER VII.
#### Cornered!

Looking out over all that he had brought into being with Terry Brock's money, and which he controlled as if it were indeed his own in fee simple, Charlie felt within him a curious apprehension of inimical forces drawing close. There was a feel of a clash in the air, in his bones. He didn't know why he felt that surety. It was not a sense of alarm. Only a strange certainty that the ways of peace were at an end.
Charlie knew nothing of clairvoyance. Intuition would have required a lot of defining in him. He believed in hunches no more and no less than his fellows. But the certainty of conflict was as clear in his mind, as the course of Plentywater was clear before his vision. What form it would take he could not imagine. But it was coming. He knew that. He felt it, as the unknown is sometimes vaguely presaged before it becomes an accomplished fact.
Perhaps this woman sitting in a chair on the porch, plying a needle interminably in well-kept fingers on a piece of embroidery, radiated the subtle essence of a planned intention.
Possession, as more than one person had harped in Charlie Shaw's ears, was nine points of the law. If Mrs. Brock and her backers could establish possession? Perhaps that significant sentence of Brock's “Suppose somebody got away with you?” stirred unconsciously in Charlie's mind. His technical ownership and established possession alone stood between Brock's property and those who wished to pick Terry Brock's material bones. Men had been killed for less. Charlie did not go about in fear of assassination, He did carefully observe the man who had brought Mrs. Brock to the ranch and who remained there, eating his meals with the crew and sleeping apart in a small wedge tent. He was harmless except to fetch and carry, Charlie decided. Otherwise, he did not start at shadows.
It was bred in Charlie Shaw, and indeed in most men of his type and time, to be loyal to their salt. He would look at Mrs. Brock, listen to her talk, and try to fathom her motive in being there. For a woman of her breeding and habits the Wineglass was rough and cheerless. It suited Charlie. It suited his men, They would have been ill at ease in luxurious surroundings. But he was not guileless. No woman like that sought such a barren place alone as a refuge from grief and anxiety. Her story of destitution he put opposite Terry's statement that she was provided with three hundred dollars a month from a trust fund.
Why, then, was she here? Charlie would look at her and be tempted to tell her to move on, taking her attendant. The man might have been a potential thug. He might be a dull nonentity. He did not bear his innermost character on his face. Men are not always open books to be read at will. Some of the mildest men Charlie had ever known were deadly. He had observed brigands in visage who were utterly harmless. But the man was colorless, and his employer, embroidering on the porch, conveyed no menace. Charlie hesitated at rudely ordering them off, wondering in the same breath if he should.
Two or three days later instinct proved to have a sounder basis than reason. The proving was simple.
That spring when he purchased the Wineglass herds, Charlie, with an eye to the future, had also picked up a small herd of range horses in addition to the necessary complement of saddle stock. They ranged on an area ten miles or so west, and had located themselves about a cluster of springs. And for convenience of range work, Charlie had thrown up a stout pole corral close by this watering place.
With calf round-up over, he bethought him of this secondary interest. There were a few colts to brand, a few geldings to be broken as extra mounts, a job that would occupy the pick of his roughriders until beef gathering began.
So he sallied out in the sunrise of a July morning with most of his crew. They bunched the broomtails, labored with swishing rope and hot iron, picked their broncs for the breaking, and came jogging home with the sun at their backs, the loose horses trotting docilely ahead,
A mile back from the rim of Plentywater, Terry Brock, four cow-punchers, and the two horse wranglers met them. In his capacity as a cow-puncher addressing his boss, Brock said:
“Hell to pay down at the ranch.”
“How?” Charlie demanded.
“Bunch of hard-looking citizens rode in about an hour ago and took possession. Told us we were through. They've got guns draped all over them and they're standing guard. They took over the horse herd and told us to take our outfits and get out.”
“An' so you got out, like collie dogs with your tails between your legs!” Charlie flared. “Well, we'll go down an' take her back.”
“Easy now,” Brock answered soothingly. “I had hard work to talk these boys out of starting a row. There's only six of us and a dozen of them. And they had the drop on us. I thought we'd better wait till the whole outfit got together and you could say your say. You're the boss.”
Charlie stared at him for a second. Then he asked questions. There was no explanation. This strange crew had taken possession by sheer force. That was all.
“You fellers stay here for a while,” Charlie ordered. “I'm goin' down an' see what this means.”
“What's the matter with us all goin' down?” Bud Cole inquired.
“We'll do that later,” Charlie replied. “I'd like to know the why of this move before we ride in shootin'. I'll look 'em over myself before we start a fuss. It's up to me to do that. You ride along with me a ways, Tom.”
He moved on, with Brock beside him. Out of hearing of the grouped riders, Charlie said:
“What is it? A plain grab?”
“Apparently,” Brock answered. “They didn't make any demonstration. They didn't pretend to have any legal authority. The fellow running the show knows her. That was plain. When they started making themselves at home I took it upon myself to ask the leader what their business was. Then he grinned like a wolf and told us to get out or be run out. I persuaded the other boys and the horse wranglers to come and meet you. They told the cook to stay where he was; they needed him. Our crowd was just about ready to start a war.”
“Naturally,” Charlie grunted. “They would. They'd look at it that way. Anybody know any of that bunch?”
Brock shook his head.
“Just as we were leaving, two men rode in,” he said. “I couldn't be sure of either; but I think one was that lawyer, by his dress. It struck me that they may be trying to get hold, and have possession in their favor when that thirty-day injunction expires. That is clearly illegal.”
“Sure. But in a fight over property people don't always pay attention to law,” Charlie observed. “Man for man, nobody can take this outfit away from this bunch that's workin' for you, Brock. We won't shrink from fightin' to hold our own. Some of us has done it before. But I think I better see what grounds they got for this move. I'll ride down there. You go back an' wait with the boys.”
“Don't do it, Charlie,” Brock counseled. “Let's all ride in together.”
“Uh-huh,” Charlie demurred, “If this crowd intends to carry things with a high hand, for us to step in with the whole crew means guns poppin' before you could say 'Jack Robinson.' I can take care of myself. They ain't goin' to be alarmed by one man appearin' in their midst. In some cases it's better to talk first an' do your shootin' after, Terry.”
Thus he overbore Brock's palpable uneasiness and rode on to the ranch, The last of the sun lit up the eastern bank of Plentywater. The buildings lay in shadow. The Wineglass remuda was bunched in a corral beside the stable. Two men sat on the fence with Winchesters across their knees. Two more lounged on the threshold of the stable. Charlie counted six noses on the porch as he dismounted at the steps. Two saddled horses stood there with drooping heads.
Charlie clanked up on the porch. He glanced at the lounging men. They were range men, burned with the sun, of diverse feature, variously dressed, but all armed—gun belts on hips, rifles leaned against the log wall. They stared at him with critical appraisal, without hostility, in silence. Charlie grunted “Howdy.” One or two nodded. He passed in.
Three men were in the big front room with Mrs. Brock. Two were seated. One stood erect, watchful, both thumbs hooked in his cartridge belt. Something familiar about that face and watchful cold eyes nagged at Charlie's recollection. He knew none of the others. This man he knew, but couldn't place.
And he knew one of the men seated, The other was strange, different—a sheep in wolf's clothing was Charlie's thought as his gaze took in the flannel shirt with pearl buttons, tailored cloth trousers tucked inside patently new riding boots with incongruous nickel-plated spurs. His face lacked the tan bestowed by sun and wind. It was a good-looking face, and the eyes were keen, calculating, but they were not eyes that had squinted long over miles of windy open.
“Who's boss of this bunch of riders?” Charlie asked mildly—an outward mildness. He was boiling within—every fiber tense, every sense alert. That vague, indefinite impression of trouble had crystallized, it focused now in this room.
For, as he asked that question, Charlie recognized definitely the man facing him across the table. He knew that he was in as deadly danger as he ever stood in his life, if he made a careless, hostile move.
“I am. What about it?” the fellow asked. And his tone was a sneer, provocative, insulting—deliberately so, Charlie knew.
“If you are, you might tell me what's the idea for this invasion? I'm running this Wineglass outfit,” Charlie continued evenly. “You come in here and take possession an' run some of my men off, What for?”
Harrock clasped his hands together over one knee and answered that question himself:
“We are here solely to protect Mrs. Brock's interests,” he said with an uplift to the corners of his thin-lipped mouth that made Charlie long to slap him. “The injunction you hold expires day after to-morrow. We—ah—are merely anticipating the court procedure by a few hours. We have found Mr. Brock and placed him in custody where he properly belongs. We have secured from him an authorization to assume control of his business affairs, thus revoking his arrangement with you and permitting his wife to take charge of this property and his affairs generally. Upon the expiration of this thirty-day injunction, the Choteau County Court will confirm us in our position, if you should be foolish enough to dispute our bona fides. We have taken possession in—ah—considerable force, as you have doubtless observed, to forestall any reckless demonstrations on your part. It was very wise of you to ride in alone and discuss this amicably with us.”
“I see,” Charlie drawled. “So you've caught Terry Brock, eh? An' he's really crazy, like you claimed?”
Harrock nodded, with a supercilious smile.
“Unquestionably. Periodically insane, with a decided homicidal tendency and delusions of being persecuted,” Mr. Harrock recited with unction. “He will probably be confined in an institution for the rest of his life. So you haven't a leg to stand on, Shaw, in court or out. Not a leg to stand on.”
“I heard you the first time, Harrock,” Charlie smiled. He felt that he could afford to smile. “Would you let me see these here documents you say Brock signed.”
Harrock delved in an inside pocket.
“I think it would be as well to satisfy this simple soul's curiosity,” he said in a sarcastic aside to his feminine client. “There is also a document for you to sign, Shaw.”
Charlie heard but gave no heed to that. He glanced over the formal, typewritten paper Harrock gave him. He read it, read it with half an eye on that silent, sinister figure watching him from a position just behind the seated men. Charlie wondered how long Ed Strachan had been out of the penitentiary, how long he had been waiting for just such a chance as this. Charlie had his back to a windowless wall. He let no possibility of any move of Strachan's deft hands escape him, while he perused that paper. Its contents only interested him casually. The thing was a frame-up, the signature a forgery—like enough to Terry's writing, but signed on a date when Brock was working with the rest of the Wineglass around a branding fire on Lonesome Prairie. Harrock's ponderous statement that Brock was safe in custody would have made Charlie laugh if he had been less strung up.
But he didn't laugh. He scanned that spurious document. He wanted time to think, to organize himself. There was a trap set for him. Strachan was waiting to spring the jaws. He felt it. It did not seem in the least incredible to Charlie Shaw that this woman and this hungry shyster of a Harrock should frame a plot and leave the execution of the decisive part to Ed Strachan—Strachan was a beautiful tool for their purpose. They couldn't have got a better, a deadlier one if they had combed Montana.
Charlie considered. Strachan had not spoken after that one sneering sentence. He merely stood by, wary, cool, dangerous, and full of a definite purpose. Charlie knew that either he or Strachan would never leave that ranch alive. The man's attitude told him that. Strachan would kill him on two counts; first, because he wanted to; secondly, because these people wanted him eliminated. And Strachan could do that with a fair chance of coming clear at a trial, because self-defense would be asserted by every witness to the shooting. Strachan had promised in a whisper once, long ago, to kill him some day, and Charlie had smiled but had never forgotten. On an even break he had a very slender chance. Strachan had learned his trade when Charlie Shaw was playing with mud pies in a Texas hamlet. He was notoriously fast with a gun. And if Charlie did beat him, there was still his crew. To fight Ed Strachan, in daylight, was plain suicide. If he did get Strachan, one of Strachan's men would get him. Charlie knew he needed the friendly cover of the dark to meet this situation.
He didn't trouble about Harrock, nor this strange young man who patently did not fit his new boots, nor even the woman. He reckoned only with the problem of Strachan and his hand-picked gang. To cope with that he needed time. He did not betray uneasiness because he felt none. They had him. Nobody was going to shoot, him down in a nervous panic. That wasn't Strachan's style, nor indeed, any gunman's. These other people wanted something of him which would strengthen their undertaking. Strachan would give them their time. And time was all Charlie Shaw wanted.
He laid the agreement on the table and moved casually a foot or two, getting out his tobacco and papers as he did so. He rolled a cigarette, manifesting a frowning perplexity of deep thought nicely simulated. Despite the occupation of his hands and the apparent preoccupation of his thought, no movement of the four, nor shade of expression on their faces escaped him.
“Well,” he said after an interval, “admittin' that Brock is bughouse an' that you've got him where he's harmless, an' that he's give you authority to handle his affairs, where do I come in?”
“You don't come in.” Harrock could not forbear a sardonic triumph. “You go out.”
Strachan grinned. His lip curled. Without a word he contrived to register insult. He seemed to put the more sinister interpretation on Harrock's last phrase. Charlie disregarded that. Perhaps Harrock meant it so; but Charlie chose to take the superficial meaning. He answered the lawyer earnestly enough, but without animus.
“That's all right to say. But your agreement ain't worth the paper it's wrote on if I stand pat,” he pointed out. “I'm the legal owner of this whole show, accordin' to record. I've organized this outfit, put it on the map. How're you goin' to get around that?”
“You know very well that won't wash,” the stranger broke in for the first time, speaking in a nicely modulated, precise tone. “You can't bluff along that line. You have no more interest in your own right in this concern than your cook. Brock hid behind you, that's all. We've looked you up. A fellow that never had more than a saddle and a pair of spurs doesn't become overnight the owner of a business worth a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. If you take that tack you will ultimately find yourself in the penitentiary like any other common thief. No, my man, it won't do. We will prosecute you, and convict you.”
“On the grounds of collusion, conspiracy to defraud, wrongful conversion of moneys to your own use, and so forth,” Harrock added with evident relish. “It's no use, Shaw. We've got you over a barrel.”
“Who might you be?” Charlie asked the man—merely to prolong the discussion. Already the shadow of evening crept into the room. Another ten or fifteen minutes! “Where do you come in?”
“Mr. Holden is a friend of mine. A friend of the family,” Mrs, Brock answered for him. She leaned forward with an expression of anxiety that became her very well. “Do be sensible, Mr. Shaw. Just because poor Terry labored under those strange delusions and foolishly put himself entirely in your hands doesn't justify you in claiming everything he had. His wife and daughter have suffered enough by his irresponsibility. We don't threaten you idly. I know my rights; and you can't deprive me of them to your own advantage. You may cause us a little trouble, but you will surely suffer for it.”
“All these men around here—are they friends of the family, too?” Charlie asked facetiously.
No one answered. Mrs. Brock looked at her legal adviser. So did Holden. Harrock's eyes wandered to Strachan momentarily. Charlie tightened a little. They were getting impatient. That look was significant—as if they depended on Strachan for something. Strachan stood immobile, expressionless, outwardly indifferent. But Charlie got the impression that Strachan, cocked and primed under that indifference, was growing nervous, eager to break loose. All this palaver meant nothing to him. He was there for action.
“If you reckon you have me where you want me,” he addressed Harrock in a peevish tone, “what do you aim to do about it? I mean, do you figure I'm goin' to tip my hat an' kotow an' let it go at that. You know better'n that. You want to make some kind of deal with me.”
“Its really immaterial,” Harrock answered, but at Charlie's reluctant mention of a “deal,” a gleam came into his eyes, belying the casual assurance of his tone. “We're in possession.”
“Possession of the ranch, yes,” Charlie agreed. “That's nothin'. There's seven thousand cattle on the range. You can't put them in your pocket, or sit up nights with 'em.”
“No, but we can gather and rebrand them or sell them,” Harrock declared. “Which is what we shall do. We have a capable range man and a force of riders here, as you can see.”
“I've likewise got a pretty good crew of riders,” Charlie replied. “If you think you can pull high-handed stuff without reckoning on them you'll find out. You'd better make up your mind to treat us right.”
“That's another way of saying that you want money to leave us alone, isn't it?” Harrock demanded.
Charlie shrugged his shoulders.
“Make me a proposition,” he invited.
Harrock looked at his companions. His eyes wandered once to Strachan.
“Listen, Shaw,” he said. “Here is what you can do and avoid serious trouble for yourself. You must give Mrs. Brock a formal bill of sale of that brand, and an agreement to relinquish to her any claims you may have to this land and improvements. You must turn over to her a check covering your balance in the bank at Fort Benton. Of course, we shall allow you to hold back your wages as foreman to date, and we will be responsible for paying off your men. And—as a special concession”—Harrock paused to make this impressive—“we will allow you to retain one thousand dollars of this bank fund for yourself. You may as well make up your mind to agree to this without argument. It's your last chance to withdraw gracefully.”
The room was getting dusky. Charlie considered, nursing his chin—with his left hand. His right hung conveniently—as did Strachan's.
“Light a lamp,” he said at last. “So we can see what we're doin'. Let me see what sort of agreement you want me to give you.”
He marked the flash of relief that went across the faces of three of them. Mrs. Brock rose and went quickly to a shelf against one wall where an oil lamp stood. She set it on the table. Holden put a match to the wick. Strachan flung a sentence over his shoulder toward the partly open door. He spoke in Spanish. Charlie Shaw had been born within sight of the Mexican border. A few years of disuse hadn't lost him a language he had once known. What Strachan said was the equivalent of “Keep your eye peeled for a break.”
Under the yellow glow, Harrock produced a paper.
“I had this drawn up with the expectation that you would see reason,” he said smoothly. “And here is a blank check on the bank. Your balance there day before yesterday was twelve thousand nine hundred and eighty dollars and some odd cents. You see we have you tabbed to a gnat's eyebrow. Sign here.”
Charlie wrinkled his brows at the bill of sale.
“I gotta read this over,” he said mildly. “Might be signin' my soul away, if I don't.”
Suddenly he looked squarely at Strachan. His thigh stiffened against the edge of the table on which the lamp stood and documents lay, on which Harrock and Holden and Mrs. Brock rested their hands in an eagerness they no longer concealed. Charlie's eyes matched the gunman's unwinking stare.
“What are you waitin' for, you lantern-jawed rat!” he flung venomously in Strachan's teeth,
Various impulses registered ever so briefly in Strachan's eyes—surprise, passion, gratification that now he had a cue and provocation to act.
In that blink of an eyelid, while the impulse went swiftly from Strachan's brain along the motor nerves to the waiting fingers hovering six inches from the pistol grip, Charlie was already in action—as he had been planning to act for twenty minutes of futile talk.
His knee spilled the table with a violent jerk that sent the lamp flying. His right hand plucked the .45 from its holster. It roared across the falling table, over Holden's head—a resounding detonation within those walls.
A grunt, a scream, a peculiar thud. Scuffle of feet on the porch outside. A queer, clawing sound on the floor. Sobbing gasps. A querulous choking oath. Silence.

### CHAPTER VIII.
#### Loyalty.

Charlie knew the interior of that house, the arrangement of furniture, as a débutante knows the layout of her dressing case. He had that advantage over these others in the dark. He moved swiftly and surely as Strachan went down. He collided with the woman and thrust her sharply aside. His foot touched an outflung hand on the floor. But he gained the door of his bedroom without hindrance.
On the wall above his bed hung a Winchester carbine, a filled cartridge belt. His hands found them. One window of that room opened on the porch, another gave on plain earth by a hinged sash. One door only, that to the living room. He had moved on his toes, making no sound. They could not know where he was. For a time no man would dare strike a light. Without vision they would not fire lest the bullet find an unseen friend. Charlie grinned. He had that much the best of it now. He himself, if necessary, could shoot at a movement—they were all enemies, actual or potential.
They knew that as well as he. For a few minutes, until they got their bearings and counted noses, they would be nervous, uncertain, circumspect in their movements.
Strachan was out of it. Charlie could hear a voice from the porch whispering. “Ed. Oh, Ed!” and the muttered reply in Holden's precise voice: “He's shot. Strike a light.”
“Light, hell!” the snarling answer came. “You want that feller to kill somebody else? Lay low till we get him located. Where'd he go?”
Again that waiting silence. Charlie slid through the open window, gently, to the ground. A new leader might rise swiftly to the occasion, but while they were temporarily paralyzed he was gone. The men outside had not the wit immediately to leap to every egress and pen him in the house.
He stole warily out of the yard. He could hear boots on the porch floor, voices calling from the stable. He dropped into the bed of the creek, moving with caution. No chance to get his horse standing by the porch. It was no more than a mile to where his men waited. Charlie smiled in the dark. By sunrise he would make that crowd wish they had never seen the place.
The Wineglass riders hadn't waited. He climbed the west bank of Plentywater. As his head came to the level of the plain that swept up to this depression he heard the thump of hoofs, the clink of bit and spur, the creak of saddle leather. He dropped in the grass to listen, to make sure. Riders in a compact group. They drew up.
He recognized discreetly lowered voices.
“Hey! Shut up, you fellers,” he commanded. “I'm here.”
“Get tired waitin'?” he asked when he came among them.
“You were so gosh darned long we got to thinkin' they'd took your scalp,” Bud Cole said. “Thought we heard a shot a few minutes ago. So we moved up—just in case.”
“You did hear a gun pop,” Charlie replied. “You'll probably hear more, before long.”
He stood, laughing a little to himself. He remembered that he had the forged agreement in his pocket, and the bill of sale Harrock had prepared for him to sign. He scarcely knew why he had snatched them from the falling table while his gun hand came into play, unless because they might be evidence of criminal intent. But quite apart from any documents, he knew what he was going to do now. He had beaten them to the first punch. The thing had gone beyond legal processes, become elemental. It was sixty miles to Fort Benton, twenty-five to the nearest ranch. They had resorted to force; let force decide. Law itself was only codified and official enforcement of the rules of the game. These people had started a fight. If they would have it that way——
“How many of you fellers got your guns on?” he asked.
All but two had Colts and full cartridge belts. Three had rifles besides, scabbarded under their stirrup leathers. Brock was one. He liked to shoot at coyotes. A six-shooter was an awkward thing in his hand; but he could use a rifle.
“Say, get down off your horses,” Charlie addressed them. “Gather round me an' let's make medicine.”
Saddles squeaked. They squatted in a ring, horses' heads looming at their elbows.
“Don't roll no pills, because you can't strike matches,” Charlie warned. “That bunch down there is buzzin' like a nest of hornets, I expect. A flash might bring 'em.”
“They're welcome,” one drawled. “We're here first.”
“Listen, now,” Charlie began. “Bud, you remember Ed Strachan, don't you?”
“I sure do,” Cole answered.
“I remember him, too,” Mark Smith put in. “I was at the Maltese Cross when they brought in what was left after that scrap in the Sweet Grass.”
“He was in on this play,” Charlie told them. “And he had a gang collected that looks like it might be tough. He was at the ranch all cocked and primed to snuff me out. When the show-down came I beat him to it. I think I got him right. Anyway, he went down an' I didn't linger to see if he was winged or finished. Now, there's nine or ten more of this gang holdin' the house an' stable. They been hired to do that by these people that are makin' the play to take Brock's whole outfit out of my hands. You fellers are working for wages. You wasn't hired to fight. If you want to let it go as it lays, all right. If you want to back me up we can take that ranch at daylight. Who's with me?”
Some one chanted lugubriously:
“Take me to the prairie an' lay the sod over me—
Oh, I'm a pore cowboy an' I know I done wrong.”
“Say that's a hell of a question to ask, Charlie,” cried another. “Name your poison an' we'll administer the dose.”
“Why wait till daylight?” another asked.
“Are you all with me?” Charlie persisted.
“Aw,” Bud Cole grumbled, “don't talk like an old woman. Tell us what you want done.”
Charlie laughed.
“You see,” he said to Brock, “I told you this bunch would go all the way an' back again. Boys, Tom Berry is Terry Brock. I got to take you out from under cover, Terry, because you're owner, an' boss when it comes to cases. Harrock's down there. An' a feller name of Holden.”
“Holden? Slim, dark. Good looking—pshaw! there's only one Holden likely to be mixed up in this. Go on, Charlie.”
“They claim they've got you under arrest, in safe custody,” Charlie chuckled. “What you think of that for a bluff? They got a sealed-and-dated document signed by you personal, authorizin' Mrs. Terence Brock to take over an' administer your affairs.”
“Well, I am certainly not in custody yet, nor have I signed any documents lately, unless I did it in my sleep,” Brock said with savage emphasis. “They are certainly overreaching themselves in their eagerness. Damn it, that's forgery! If I could get my hands on Mr. Holden it might simplify matters.”
“You will if I don't miscalculate,” Charlie promised. “I don't suppose all that gang is as bad medicine as Strachan. I'd like to know how a man that's been achin' for a chance to kill me got in with your people, Terry, but that don't matter now. I drawed first blood anyway. Right now that crowd is bound to be kinda on edge. I downed their ace in the hole an' got away. There's fourteen of us. Two ain't heeled, so it's their job to stay with the horses back here on the bench. The rest of us sneak down to that pile of tamarack posts on the creek above the barn. That gives us good shelter an' commands the whole layout. Then we cut loose with a burst of shots. After that we lay quiet an' don't shoot at all, except if we see or hear somethin'. That'll worry 'em. Come daybreak we can make it hot for 'em an' we're there to take advantage of any openin'. I don't believe they reckoned on a real fight. I'd just as soon give 'em one. I think they figured on gettin' me when I showed up to protest, which I naturally would, an' that their bluff would carry 'em through once I was out of it. But I'm still on deck an' I'm damned if a bunch of plug-uglies can walk in an' take possession of an outfit I'm runnin' an' get away with it. I could make more explanations to you fellers. Brock is here on the job himself——”
“Aw, you don't have to explain nothin', Charlie,” Bud Cole said. “Take your word for it that you're right. Them that don't can sit tight an' watch the show from a safe distance.”
“I don't want you fellows to get shot up or shoot anybody,” Brock broke in. “This is my trouble. These people have put themselves on the wrong side of the law properly by this move. I'd rather——”
“Rather let em get away with it?” Charlie interrupted softly.
“No, damn it!” Brock swore. “I've stood too much from them already. But these boys——”
“Don't you worry none about these boys,” Charlie assured him, “We're all darned well able to protect ourselves. Some of us has gone up against thieves before, tougher formations than this. Gee whiz! Our clothes is in the bunk house and tents. Our beds ain't even rolled. Nobody can take a ranch in that high-handed style an' run off a bunch of cow-punchers like they was mangy sheep dogs. If these people got a right to your property, Terry, they don't have to come at us this way. We're goin' to take that ranch, Terry, unless you absolutely forbid it. If they want to fight, we'll accommodate 'em. That's all.”
“Forbid it?” Brock echoed. “No, I'd go in there single handed rather than let them walk roughshod over me like that. I was thinking about these men. Why should they use their guns in my quarrel?”
“Because guns is made to be used when needed,” a voice out of that squatting ring told him. “Speakin' for myself, I had a sample of their high-handed way this afternoon. I don't shrink none from takin' a crack at that crowd. A man don't like to be run off his job at the point of a gun.”
Sundry grunts of agreement arose.
“That's settled. We're on our way,” Charlie said. “Peters, you an' Haig hold the horses. Lay back outa sight an' outa the way of stray lead. You fellers foller me. Keep close to me an' step soft.”

### CHAPTER IX.
#### The Attack.

They stole downhill, a silent company, and gained the pile of posts scarce a short pistol shot above the silent buildings. No light showed. No voice sounded. The Wineglass lay hushed as if every soul had been wrapped in honest slumber after a hard day's work. But Charlie Shaw knew that eyes were peering and ears straining in the dark. A scum of clouds had drifted up to screen a sky that the moon would later brighten.
Soundlessly Charlie and his men disposed part of the pile of posts in a suitable breastwork. They lay still for a few minutes, watching and listening for sounds of the enemy.
Then, spread in a row, at Charlie's order, they flung a volley at the house, one quick burst of firing. The dark bottom of Plentywater was filled with that spiteful snapping. Red rosettes glowed briefly. Almost instant answer came from the house, from the stable. Bullets whined, went phut! in the earth about them.
The Wineglass fusillade ceased as suddenly as it began. They lay watching, not troubling to fire at the flashes here and there. And gradually the defending guns fell silent.
Charlie chuckled.
“They'll be all worked up. We sound like an army when we all cut loose. In about half an hour I'll give the word again. Four shots apiece as fact as you can pop 'em, an' all together.”
The second burst of firing brought a hoarse cry from the stable.
“Pinked somebody that time,” Charlie observed. “Make 'em think war's what Sherman said it was.”
A July night close to the forty-ninth parallel has but a brief span of darkness. The Wineglass men lay on their rifles, well pleased with themselves. They loosed at rare intervals a sharp burst of shots to keep Strachan's gang uneasy. Dawn laid a pale streak along the eastern horizon, The banks of Plentywater took form. Buildings grew from dark blurs to sharp-cut lines. Sun shafts flicked across the plains, struck on the painted roofs, making them glow like red banners. Birds began their morning song.
“Keep your eyes peeled,” Charlie instructed his men. “Don't waste lead. Lay for something alive to shoot at.”
They watched for the space of an hour, unseen behind the sheltering post pile. Once a window curtain shifted and the glass in that sash was shattered by a dozen bullets. A movement at the stable drew instant fire, and there was no more movement. Shots were flung at them, to their amusement. They commanded every avenue of approach or departure. Once or twice the Wineglass men with rifles deliberately raked windows and doors with bullets. But with the siege thoroughly established they held their fire and watched.
Silence had wrapped Plentywater for a full half hour when Charlie Shaw grunted. A single shot barked from the house, and Terry Brock, peering out beside Charlie, rolled over on his side, clasping his head in both hands, and then collapsed.
“Give 'em hell for a minute, boys,” Charlie said. He and Cole turned the wounded man over, examined him. Terry breathed. His heart pumped. Crimson splotched his face, and they found a crease over the top of his head.
“Knocked him out,” Cole muttered; “but he's a long way from a dead man. Unless it busted his skull.”
The creek gurgled in a curve behind their cover. Cole slid himself down and brought his hat full of water. It did not revive Brock, but they bound his head tight and let him lie. The war was still on and there was no ambulance for casualties. The firing had stopped again.
“Aha!” Charlie exclaimed. “They don't think so well of the undertakin' as they did. Look at that.”
A white cloth waved from a stick poked through a window, waggling vigorously.
“Anybody got a white handkerchief?” Charlie inquired.
One had. He flew it on a rifle barrel. A voice from the house called:
“Hey! Let's talk this over.”
“Walk out here an' talk then,” Charlie shouted back. “We won't shoot. But we ain't takin' chances ourselves.”
A man stepped clear of the house, came toward them with his hands aloft. Twenty feet short of the post barricade he stopped.
“I'm supposed to say my say to the boss of this outfit if he's here—feller name uh Shaw.”
“I'm him. Right side up,” Charlie answered. “How's your friend Ed Strachan, this mornin'?”
“Strachan?” the man answered. “You mean Ed Seeley. You got him proper.”
“He was Strachan when I knew him,” Charlie scoffed. 'An' a pretty hard citizen, too. What do you want, flyin' the white flag?”
“No sense in this scrap,” the man said. “Us fellers don't hardly know what it's about. Ed's dyin'. These pilgrims were workin' for claimed they had a right to take this place. Now they're hollerin' blue murder. The woman's scared stiff. Us fellers don't hanker for war. Nothin' in it for us, that we can see.”
“You'd as soon saddle up an' ride on about your business, eh?” Charlie inquired.
“A damn sight sooner.”
“I'll give you a chance,” Charlie agreed promptly. “Go back an' tell your crowd to walk out into the open an' lay their guns in a pile an' stand fifty feet away from them. Bring out that lawyer an' Holden an' the woman. Can Strachan move?”
“Ed, you mean? Naw, I tell you he's done. You hit him plumb center. He's paralyzed. Look for him to cash in any minute.”
“See that he can't reach a gun, then,” Charlie warned. “He might feel like wingin' somebody in his dyin' gasp. I know him.”
“Yeah. But look here. Where do us riders get off?” the man inquired. “We ain't disarmin' ourselves to be throwed in the Benton calaboose—not so's you could notice. We can shoot our way out if we have to.”
“Try that,” Charlie said. “See where it gets you. You make a break for the open an' we'll pot you like coyotes. Stand us off all day an' to-night an' we'll burn them buildin's around your ears an' shoot you after we've smoked you out. You surrender an' we'll give you a show.”
“Well, I'll tell 'em what you say.” The man looked doubtful.
“Go to it,” Charlie drawled. “Give you fifteen minutes. Then we'll declare the ball open again.”
When half that time elapsed, the white flag waved again. Men issued forth. They stacked their guns and stood away from them. Charlie counted noses. Eight men, over and above Harrock and Brock and the woman, who did not appear.
“Where's the other two?” Charlie yelled.
“One dead! One crippled!” they shouted back.
“Where's the two pilgrims an' the woman?” Charlie further demanded.
A ribald laugh greeted this query. Strachan's riders were nowise disgruntled over a lost cause, and they had a sense of the ridiculous.
“Scared to come out!” their spokesman yelled. “Scared you'll scalp 'em or string 'em up or somethin'.”
“Drag 'em out,” Charlie commanded. “I got to see them outside before a man here takes his eye off his sights.”
Two disappeared within. They came out, forcibly propelling Holden and Harrock.
“The female party,” they called, “is plumb loco.”
“All right,” Charlie said. “Stand where you are.”
“Markham, you come with me,” he said. “Bud, you an' the boys cover us. If they start anythin', don't waste no shells. When we get those guns you fellows walk up an' surround the house. Two of you pack Terry in when you come an' put him on a bed inside.”
Carbine in hand, its muzzle on the waiting group, Charlie rose up from behind the post pile. Flanked by Markham he moved in to accept surrender. It was complete enough. Markham emptied the cylinders and magazine of every gun in the heap and left them lying. Then Charlie waved in his men. They surrounded the house.
“Shaw, when the authorities at Fort Benton hear of this outrage——” Harrock mustered nerve to protest.
Charlie slapped him across the mouth with his open palm.
“Shut up, you crawlin' snake!” he growled. “I'll do all the talkin' here, now.”
Harrock shrank back, cowed, furtive.
“You fellers,” Charlie addressed Strachan's crew, “stay right where you are. Chances are you'll be free to take your dead partners an' the crippled one an' hit the trail. But meantime you wait where you are till I look things over.”
They shrugged their shoulders and stood in a knot, rolling cigarettes, squatted on their bootheels. Perhaps with their leader down and their employers in a panic they considered it a fight well lost. Or perhaps they had little stomach for fighting with no reward in sight.
The two men carrying Terry Brock passed inside. Charlie and Bud Cole drove Harrock and Holden ahead of them, up the porch steps.
There was, the Strachan gang had told them, a wounded man in the stable. By the window in the living room, with his head on a rolled-up coat, another lay dead. Broken lamp glass, shattered window panes strewed the the floor. Window casings were splintered by bullets. The upset table lay where it fell. A dark stain smeared a rug. But Strachan wasn't there, nor Mrs. Brock.
“Where is she? And where is Strachan?” Charlie demanded of Harrock.
“He's in there.” That worthy pointed hastily to Charlie's bedroom.
“She's in here,” said another, indicating another room.
She was, huddled in a chair, with startled eyes, and tear-stained face.
“Come outa there,” Charlie commanded; and when she came reluctantly forth he said to the men carrying Brock: “Put him on that bed, an' see if you can bring him to.”
Then he turned to his own room. Strachan wasn't dead. Alive, he was dangerous, so long as he could crook a finger. There was no yellow in Strachan. Charlie knew that. He was “bad” clear through, in the sense that the West used that expressive word. Charlie put Harrock ahead of him, making a shield for his own body out of the lawyer's angular figure. He opened the door of his bedroom with his toe. Over Harrock's shoulder he saw Strachan stretched on the bed. His hands. were on his breast, his eyes closed. Slowly he opened them.
“See if he's got a gun,” Charlie commanded Harrock.
“I'm through with guns,” Strachan whispered. “Too weak to hold one, or you'd never walk in on me like this, Shaw.”
He was weaponless, weak, palpably dying. Charlie Shaw looked at him with mixed feelings. He was sorry—yet he knew Strachan would have gloried in killing him.
“Well, I guess the round-up's made,” Charlie said. “Now we'll trim up the herd, My luck was your misfortune, Ed. Can I do anythin' for you?”
Strachan moved his head feebly. Behind Charlie a slight commotion made him turn. Holden was backing into the doorway of his bedroom, away from Terry Brock. Terry had come to consciousness with an impulse for war. He was a rather dreadful sight with his scrubby beard and stained bandages and that savage look in his eye. He followed Holden, head down, arms out. Suddenly he leaped and struck, a sweeping right-hand blow that caught Holden under the ear. Holden went down in a heap. Brock did not even open his mouth. Holden scrambled up. Brock knocked him down again.
“Let up,” Charlie said. “You're only bustin' your knuckles. I know a better way. Go an' get that scalp doctored up.”
Brock turned in the doorway. His eyes fell on his shrinking wife.
“You overreached yourself this time, Vera,” he said. The woman stared at him blankly, unbelievingly, with surprise and apprehension that grew to startled horror in her eyes. And then Brock's knees gave way under him and he tumbled to the floor. His men gathered him up once more and bore him back to his own bed.
Charlie called a couple of his riders.
“Take these two,” he indicated Harrock and Holden, “an' that woman an' keep 'em on the front porch. You stay here with me, Bud.”
Charlie closed the door. He came back to the bed where Strachan lay.
“I ain't got nothin' against you, Strachan,” he said. “I never had, except that you were in a crooked game in the old days, an' I helped put you where crooks go unless they get killed first. I didn't think you'd be foolish enough to try to make good on that old war talk you made five years back. I knew you as soon as I stepped into the room last night. You shouldn't 'a' made that play for this cheap crowd. Ain't there nothin' you'd like me to do for you?”
“I should 'a' downed you as soon as you walked into the room last night,” Strachan whispered feebly. “Too much talk. Threw me off. I told them damn fools they couldn't bluff you. No, you can't do nothin' for me—except let these boys go, what's left of 'em. You might do that. They only did what I told 'em. I'll be dead pretty soon. That ought to satisfy you.”
“Did these people, Holden an' Mrs. Brock an' this shyster Harrock, frame you up to get me?” Charlie asked. “Were you wise to what they were doin'—grabbin' this outfit?”
Strachan's face twisted in a sardonic grimace.
“You go to the devil!” he said. “You can't get nothin' outa me now.”
“I can put your gang in Deer Lodge for life for this night's work,” Charlie said reflectively. “You can square it for them if you want to by tellin' the truth. Or you can blink out, figurin' that you gave your own crowd the worst of it for a couple of slick Easterners that wouldn't look at you only when they wanted to use you.”
Strachan studied Charlie's face. His fingers plucked at the bedclothes.
“If I come through with what they framed up,” he croaked, “will you let the boys ride away?”
“I will,” Charlie promised. “Cheerful. I want these big guns, not the hired men.”
“All right. It's simple,” Strachan began to tell him in short, gasping sentences. “They said——”
“Wait,” Charlie said shrewdly. “Just a second.”
He darted into Brock's room, got a pen and ink from a desk, called in two more of his men to witness.
“Now you tell it an' Bud'll write it down,” Charlie said to Strachan. “As soon as you put your John Henry to it, you can look out the window an' watch your gang ride away.”
For ten minutes thereafter the only sound in that room was Strachan's mumbling, hoarse with pain, sometimes growing so weak the men had to bend over him to hear, and the scratching of Bud Cole's pen on paper. Then Strachan scrawled his signature.
“I should never 'a' took on a job for these people an' let them have any say about it,” he said in a strangely clear voice after a minute of silence. “Serves me right. All talk. No nerve in a pinch.”
With that he coughed sharply and shuddered once or twice—and died.

### CHAPTER X.
#### Conclusion.

Charlie Shaw sat on the front porch at the Wineglass some three weeks later, staring down Plentywater. A gang of hay diggers operated whirring mowers and clanking rakes on a meadow. Teams with great basket racks were coming and going between the field and a growing stack of hay.
The round-up tents were camped in their accustomed place, a little aside from the buildings. All sorts of activity punctuated with impatient language took place in and around the corrals. The Wineglass riders were shoeing saddle stock and breaking horses for the fall round-up, the beef gathering which would fatten the Wineglass bank roll.
Charlie wasn't quite certain whether the war was over, or merely halted by an armistice. There was still a lot that puzzled Charlie Shaw, despite the fact that he had come out on top in a fairly exciting clash. He was not worrying about raids or raiders, however, as he sat there. He had other things to ponder upon.
A four-horse team from Benton with a top-heavy load of furniture had rolled in to the ranch a day or two before. Furniture—luxurious, expensive stuff. And there had been packages for every man in the outfit, all sorts of little things that a cow-puncher uses, and prizes. Silver-inlaid bits and spurs of the finest steel and most exquisite workmanship, silky horsehair macartas, rawhide reatas from Clarence Nelson in Sacramento, a flock of special Stetson hats. Charlie smiled to himself. Was Terry Brock going to make the Wineglass a regular dude outfit in his gratitude? Gratitude was a good thing, Charlie reflected.
He couldn't figure out Terry Brock yet. The vague impression that he might be a fool with some money still lingered in Charlie's mind. But he liked him anyway.
Strachan had passed out of the picture. His crowd had vanished. The emptiness of the plains had swallowed them up. But Strachan's signed statement on top of that fight had drawn the teeth of the Mrs. Brock-Holden-Harrock combination. Harrock faced disbarment proceedings. He would probably lie out of it, Charlie cynically reflected. These family rows were miserable. Mrs. Brock and Roy Holden were at large on ten thousand dollars' bail, charged with conspiracy, forgery, aiding and abetting attempted murder, perjury. The items in the complaint which Billy Arnold had set forth in his information against them made Charlie's head swim.
Brock had surrendered himself to the Fort Benton authorities as soon as his head permitted him. They scarcely knew what to do with him, so they did nothing but release him on his own recognizance. These practical Western men were shrewd enough to see for themselves that Terry Brock was as sane as they. Billy Arnold was sanguine that, in view of Holden's late activities, Brock would never be extradited to stand trial for that old attack on Mr. Holden's immaculate person. There was too much evidence that Brock had had ample provocation. And anyway, no one from Massachusetts was pressing any charges whatsoever against Brock.
And then Terry had vanished again. He was, Charlie thought, a mighty uncertain proposition, in some ways. He merely said to Charlie one day:
“Well, you've got the Wineglass in the hollow of your hand once more. I'm going East. I'll be back by and by.”
Charlie's experience of cattle owners had never embraced any such specimen as Terry Brock. That furniture—mahogany dressers, heavily upholstered chairs, barrels of dishes, silver, draperies of silk and rich brocade.
“He's some punkins, that boss of mine,” Charlie muttered to himself. “Times I think maybe he is a little off. But he's a darned good head, an' he sure gives me a free hand. She'll be a cow outfit yet, the Wineglass will.”
Late that afternoon a double-spring buggy came over the hill into Plentywater. Charlie strolled to the house from the cook tent when the rig drew up at the porch. He arrived in time to see Terry hand out a pretty, flaxen-haired child of seven or eight. A hearty, middle-aged woman followed her.
“This is Stella, my youngster, Charlie,” Brock introduced him genially. “This is Mrs. Gault, who will try to keep her out of mischief. I've been telling Stella about you, Charles.”
The child gave Charlie her hand with a curious sort of dignity, smiling at him.
“Have you a nice pony for me?” she asked—and Brock laughed. “Daddy said you had lots of ponies here. I like to ride a pony.”
“Make her a cattle queen between us,” Brock laughed. “Eh, Charlie?”
The woman and girl bestowed themselves in Brock's bedroom.
“Got to fix up the house a bit,” Brock continued. “That furniture get here all right?”
Charlie nodded.
“Have a cigar.” Brock offered.
They sat down on the steps, puffed smoke, and looked at each other appraisingly. Brock smiled at last.
“Well, it was a sort of touch-and-go business for a while, wasn't it?” Brock remarked. “I think it's all over but the shouting. Vera and Holden have jumped their bail—gone to South America. They'll never show up here again—for trial or anything else. And I have taken steps to divorce her.”
“You sure they quit the country that a way?” Charlie asked.
“Yes,” Brock said quietly. “I set people watching them in case they had any more tricks up their sleeves. They have left the country. They didn't like the sample of wild West you showed them. They'll never try for the big stake again.”
“Seems kinda funny they were so much after you,” Charlie commented. “You told me once you offered her half of all you had. Now, she don't get nothin', What more could she expect to get—even if she'd got control?”
“A heap, my son.” Brock's eyes twinkled. “I never told you where the real joker lay. They weren't so much concerned with the Wineglass, except as a means of establishing themselves in control. This was only a flea bite.”
“You call this here outfit a flea bite.” Charlie grew almost offended. “Gosh, you put a hundred and fifty thousand dollars into it.”
Brock smiled.
“This is only a starter, Charlie,” he said. “Let me tell you something. Things will be plainer to you then. My grandfather was a very rich man. And he had ideas of his own. He left all he had to me several years ago. But I have neither interest nor principal from his estate until I am thirty. Then I get it all in a bunch—no strings attached. When I'm thirty. In a little less than one year and five months now. One million six hundred thousand dollars in cold cash—that's what they were after. That's what they wanted to get their fingers on if they could get me where they wanted me and get control of my affairs.”
“Gosh! A million and a half! No wonder they took chances,” he remarked. “Ain't it a corker what people'll do when there's a lot of money in sight?”
“It is a lot of money, when you think of it,” Brock said thoughtfully. “But she will never get her fingers on any portion of it now.”
He looked off toward the east and then to the west rim of Plentywater where the plains flowed up like a grassy sea. His gaze took in the meadows, the bunched remuda with the horse wrangler snapping a rope at them, the tents flapping a little in a vagrant breeze. And after a minute he used almost identically the same words that had been in Charlie Shaw's mind not so long before:
“We'll make this old Wineglass a cow outfit yet.”
He elaborated that after a little.
“With my money and your experience we ought to do well in the cow business, Charlie,” he said with a curious friendly twinkle in his eye. “And since you appear to have about as much surplus experience as I have surplus coin it seems to me that the best thing I can do is to take you into full partnership with me on this outfit.”
“Gosh!” Charlie grinned. His mind took a backward fling over a few months. It left him almost as speechless almost as incredulous as Brock's first proposal, in that lonely cabin behind the Goosebill with a March frost sparkling in the air.
After all, he reflected, there was something in the laborer being worthy of his hire.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1930.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1972, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 52 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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