White Bluffs spokesman. [volume] (White Bluffs, Wash.) 1907-1938, 1932-06-23


as side partners at the roundup camps
and at the small tendejons of the Dor.
der towns. Their comradeship had
been a byword In the country where
they were known.
Into their lives girl had come,
Jessie Farwell, daughter of the cattle
man for whom they both worked. They
quarreled.
Stark won Jessie for his bride. The
years passed, and each left both men
more prosperous, more powerful in
the community. Their enmity was
known of all men even before their
political ambitions and their financial
interests collided. On opposing tickets
they ran for sheriff and Mccain was
elected. Their wandering herds over
Tapped. The punchers of each clashed
over water holes, over calves wrongly
branded by mistake. Charges Of rus
thing were banded back and forth, at
first out Of animosity rather than any
serious belief in their truth. Trouble
followed
Then, dramatically, the curtain rolled
up for scene Of grim tragedy. A
Circle Cross rider was found lying face
down at the bottom Of cut bank.
He had perhaps been dry-gulched, shot
from ambush, but this was not sure.
Who did it nobody knew, but at the
Stark ranch suspicion flew straight to
the Flying Wy. This had been less
than two weeks before the afternoon
when Wilson Mccain rode through
Lineup Pass to carry word to Matthew
Stark that his daughter would not be
home till late.
He was descending into a valley.
Before him were checkerboards of irri-
gated grain and pasture meadow CEN
terng around the houses of the ranch.
Cattle were browsing in the valley.
Leisurely a rider was moving across
the plain toward them. All was peace
full as old age.
Directly in front of McCann's horse
a squirt of sand flew. The crack Of
rifle shot echoed back from the walls
of the pass.
Instantly McCann's brain registered
Impressions and moved him to co-or-
dinated action. Some one had fired
at him. The V-shaped sand squirt told
him the attacker was almost dead
ahead. With only revolver against
a rifle Wilson Mccain was as helpless
at this range as child with a pop
gun. He swung Jim-Dandy as on
peg and spurred for the shelter Of
large boulder beside the trail. Before
he reached cover a second explosion
doomed.
Mccain dismounted and stood beside
his horse The second shot made it
plain that the first could have been
no chance bullet. For long minutes
he waited, every nerve keyed to ten
sion, eyes and ears alert for any sign
Of movement in the mesquite. The
ambusher might be circling round to get
at him from the rear. There might
be two Of them. The only course open
to him was to let developments occur
Out of the painful silence came
sounds the trapped man knew at once
the thud of galloping hoofs, Of
horse crashing through the brush. He
stood a moment, stomach muscles
tight, to make sure the man screened
in the chaparral was not charging
him; then flung himself, foot not touch
ing the stirrup, into the saddle and
lifted Jim-Dandy in a stride to swift
pursuit.
In the gathering dusk they raced
toward the ranch house. The am
busher had forgotten that he could use
his rifle. He was in terror Of the
swift Nemesis riding him down. He
shouted for help as his horse plunged
into the open space in front Of the big
adobe house. Even as he threw him
self from the saddle, men appeared
out of the gloom to join him-one, two,
three Of them.
The third came out Of the open hall
way of the house to the porch. He
was an elderly man, big and rangy,
bow-legged and still strong, with hard
eyes in harsh leathery face. This
was Matthew Stark.
''What's the rumpus?" he asked in
heavy voice. Then, with flirt of
brown hand toward the farther rider.
"Who is this fellow?"
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