The Heart of the Range

by William Patterson White

  CHAPTER XVI

  THE BAR S

  "_Kind friends, you must pity my horrible tale. I'm an object of sorrow, I'm looking quite stale. I gone up my trade selling Pink's Patent Pills To go hunting gold in the dreary Black Hills_."

  "I wish to Gawd you'd stayed there," said Jimmie, the Bar S cook,pausing in his march past to poke his head in at the bunkhousedoorway. "Honest, Racey, don't you ever get tired of yell-bellerin'thisaway?"

  Racey Dawson, standing in front of the mirror, ceased not to adjusthis necktie. The mirror was small and he was not, and it was onlyby dint of much wriggling that he was succeeding in his purpose. ToJimmie and his question he paid absolutely no attention.

  "_Don't go away, stay at home if you can, Stay away from that city, they call it Cheyenne_."

  "Seemin'ly he don't get tired," Jimmie answered the question forhimself. "And what's more, he don't ever get tired of dandy-floppin'himself all up like King Solomon's pet pony. Yup," Jimmie continuedwith enthusiasm, addressing the world at large, "I can remember whenRacey used to ride for the 88 and the Cross-in-a-box how he was aregular two-legged human being. A handkerchief round his neck was goodenough for him _always_. If his pants had a rip in 'em anywheres, orthey was buttons off his vest, or his shirt was tore, did it matter?No, it didn't matter. It didn't matter a-tall. But now he's gotta buynew pants if his old ones is tore, and a new shirt besides, and hesews the buttons on his vest, and he's took to wearin' a necktie. A_necktie_!"

  Jimmie, words failing him for the moment, paused and hooked one footcomfortably behind the other. He leaned hipshot against the doorjamb,and spat accurately through a knothole in the bunkhouse floor.

  "Yop," he went on, ramming his quid into the angle of his jaw, "andhe's always admiring himself in the mirror, Racey is. He pats his hairdown, after partin' it and usin' enough goose-grease on it to keepforty guns from rusting for ten years, and he shines his boots withblacking, _my_ stove-blacking, the rustling scoundrel. Scrougesouthwest a li'l more, Racey, and look at yore chin. They's a li'lspeck of dust on it. Oh, me, oh, my! Li'l sweetheart will have to washhis face again. Who is she?"

  Still Racey did not deign to reply. He placed, removed, and replaced agarnet stickpin in the necktie a dozen times handrunning. Jimmie beatthe long roll with his knuckles on the bottom of the frying-pan, andwinked at the broad back of Racey Dawson.

  "I hear they's a new hasher at Bill Lainey's hotel," pursued theindefatigable Jimmie. "Tim Page told me she only weighed three hundredpounds without her shoes. It ain't her! Don't tell me it's her! Youain't, are you, Racey?"

  Racey, pivoting on a spurred heel, faced Jimmie, stuck his armsakimbo, and spoke:

  "Not mentioning any names, of course, but there's some people roundhere got an awful lot to say. Which if a gent was to say their tonguesare hung in the middle he'd be only tellin' half the truth. Not thatyou ain't popular with me, James. You are. I think the world of you.How can I help it when you remind me all the time of my aunt's petparrot in yore face and language. Except you ain't the right colour.If yore whiskers had only grown out green."

  "We're forgetting what we was talkin' about," tucked in Jimmie thecook, smiling sweetly. "The lady, Racey. Who is she?"

  "James," said Racey, his smile matching that of the cook, "they'ssomething about you to-day, something I don't like. I dunno the namefor it exactly. But if you'll step inside the bunkhouse a minute, I'llshow you what I mean. I'll show you in two shakes."

  Jimmie shook a wise head and backed out into the open. "Not while Igot my health. You come out here and show me."

  "Oh, I ain't gonna play any tricks on you," protested Racey Dawson.

  "You bet you ain't," Jimmie concurred, warmly. "Not by severialjugfuls. I--" He broke off, cocking a listening ear.

  "Yeah," grinned Racey, "you hear a noise in the cook-shack, huh? I_thought_ I saw the Kid slide past in the lookin'-glass while you werestanding in the doorway."

  "And you never told me!" squalled Jimmie, speeding toward his belovedplace of business.

  He reached it rather late. When he entered by the doorway the Kid, apie in each hand, was disappearing through a back window.

  "Did you ever get left!" tossed back the Kid as the flung frying-panbuzzed past his ear.--"Now see what you done," he continued, skippingsafely out of range; "dented yore nice new frypan all up. Yououghtn'ta done that, Jimmie. Fry-pans cost money. Some day, if youain't careful, you'll break something, you and yore temper."

  "Them's the Old Man's pies," declared Jimmie, leaning over thewindow-sill and shaking an indignant fist at the Kid. "You bring 'emback, you hear?"

  "They ain't, and I won't, and I do," was the brisk answer. "Yo'remaking a big mistake, Jimmie boy, if you think they're _his_ pies.Don't you s'pose I know he's gone to Piegan City, and he won't be backfor a coupla weeks? And don't you s'pose I know them pies would be toostale for him to eat by the time he got back? You must take me for afool, Jimmie. And you lied to me, Jimmie, you lied. Just for that I'llkeep these pies, I'll keep 'em and eat 'em no matter how big a painI get, and let this be a lesson to you. Hey, Racey, Jimmie gimme acoupla pies! C'mon out and we'll eat 'em where Jimmie can watch us."

  "If I catch you--" began the angry Jimmie.

  "But you ain't gonna catch me," tantalized the Kid. "C'mon, Racey,hurry up."

  Racey came slowly and with dignity.

  The Kid stared. "Well, I bedam! Where are you goin'?"

  "Ride, just a li'l ride," was the vague reply.

  "Is that all? I thought it was a funeral or a wedding or something,an' I was wonderin'. Just a li'l ride, huh? And where might you bea-going to ride to, if I may make so bold as to ask?"

  "You can ask, of course," replied Racey, shrugging his wide shouldersand spreading his hands after the fashion of Telescope Laguerre.

  "But that ain't sayin' he'll tell you," put in Jimmie. "Bet you he'sgonna go see that new hasher of Bill Lainey's."

  "No," denied the Kid, judicially, "not that lady. Even Racey's armsain't long enough to reach round her. I--_Say_, one of these pies is a_raisin_ pie!"

  "You can gimme that one," suggested Racey Dawson, glad of anopportunity to change the subject.

  The Kid, his teeth sunk in the raisin pie, shook a decisive head andmumbled unintelligibly. He thrust the other pie toward his friend.

  Racey Dawson rode away westward munching pie. And it was a very goodpie, and would have brought credit to any cook. He regretfully ate thelast crumb, and rolled a cigarette. He felt fairly full and at utterpeace with the world. Why not? Wasn't it a good old world, and amighty friendly world despite the Harpes and Tweezys and Joneses thatinfested it? I should say so.

  Racey Dawson inhaled luxuriously, pushed back his wide hat, and letthe breeze ruffle his brown hair. He rubbed the back of one handacross his straight eyebrows, and stared across the range towardthe distant hills that marked his goal. Which goal was the old C Yranch-house at Moccasin Spring on Soogan Creek, where lived the Dalesand their daughter Molly.

  And as he looked at the hill and bethought him of what lay beyond it,he drew a Winchester from the scabbard under his left leg and madesure that he had not forgotten to load it. For Racey laboured under nodelusion as to the danger that menaced not only his own existence butthat of his friend Swing. He knew that their lives hung by a thread,and a thin thread at that. They were but two against many, andtheir position had not been aided by the string of uneventful dayssucceeding their advent at the Bar S. For their enemies were takingtheir time in the launching of their enterprise. And Racey had notexpected this. It threw him off his balance somewhat. Certainly itworried him.

  It was not humanly possible that Jack Harpe could be aware that OldMan Saltoun did not believe what Racey had told him. But he was actingas if he knew. Perhaps he was waiting till Nebraska Jones should beentirely well of his wound. That was possible, but not probable. JackHarpe had not impressed Racey as a man who would allow his plans tobe indefinitely held up for such a cause. There was no tellingwhen Neb
raska would be up and about. His recovery, thanks to pastdissipations, had been exceedingly slow.

  Again, perhaps the delay might be merely a detail of the plan FatJakey Pooley mentioned in his letter to Luke Tweezy, or it might bedue to the more-than-watchful care the Dales and Morgans were takingof old Mr. Dale. Wherever the old gentleman went, some one of hisrelations went with him. Certainly no ill-wisher had been able toapproach Mr. Dale (since his spree at McFluke's) at any time. Mr.Dale, to all intents and purposes, was impossible to isolate.

  At any rate, whatever the reason, the fact remained that Harpe had notmoved and showed no signs of moving. Mr. Saltoun, every time he metRacey, took special pains to ask his puncher how much twice six timestwo hundred was. Then Mr. Saltoun, without waiting for an answer,would walk off slapping his leg and cackling with laughter. Even TomLondon was beginning to take the view that perhaps his father-in-lawwas in the right, after all.

  "You been here near two months now, Racey," he had said that verymorning, "and they ain't anything happened yet."

  "I've got four months to go," Racey had replied with a placidity hedid not feel.

  Now as he rode, his eyes closely scanning the various places in thelandscape providing good cover for possible bushwhackers, he recalledwhat Loudon had said.

  "I'll show him all the happenstances he wants to see before I'mthrough," he said, aloud. "Something's gonna happen. Something's gotto happen. Jack Harpe won't let this slide. Not by a jugful."

  The words were confident enough, but they were words that he had beenin the habit of repeating to himself nearly every day for some time.Perhaps they had lost some of their force. Perhaps--

  "Twelve hundred dollars," mused Racey. "And the same for Swing. Sixmonths' work for--Hell, it can't turn out different! I know it can't.We'll show 'em all yet, won't we, Cuter old settler?"

  Cuter old settler waggled his ears. He was a companionable horse,never kicked human beings, and bucked but seldom.

  "Yep," continued Racey, sitting back against the cantle, "she's a longcreek that don't bend some'ers or other."

  And then the creek that was his flow of thought shot round a bend intothe broad and sparkling reaches of a much pleasanter subject than theone that had to do with Harpes and Tweezys and Joneses. After a timehe came to where the pleasanter subject, on her knees, wasweeding among the flowers that grew tidily round Moccasin Spring.Baby-blue-eyes, low and lovely, cuddled down between tall columbinesand orange wall-flowers. Side by side with the pink geranium ofold-fashioned gardens the wild geranium nodded its lavender blooms inperfect harmony.

  The subject, black-haired Molly Dale, rested the point of herhand-fork between two rows of ragged sailors and Johnny-jump-ups andlifted a pair of the clearest, softest blue eyes in the world ingreeting to Racey Dawson.

  "This is a fine time for you to be traipsing in," she told him, witha smile that revealed a deep dimple in each cheek. "I thought youpromised to help me weed my garden to-day."

  "I did," he returned, humbly, dismounting and sliding the reins overCuter's neck and head, "but you know how it is Sunday mornin's, Molly.There's a lot to do round the ranch sometimes. Now, this mornin'--"

  "I'll bet," she interrupted, smoothing out the smile and frowning asseverely as she was able. "I'd just tell a man that, I would. I would,indeed. I'm sure it must have taken you at least half-an-hour to shinethose boots. Half-an-hour! More likely an hour. Why, I can see my facein them."

  "And a very pretty face, too," said Racey, rising to the occasion. "IfI owned that face I'd never stop looking at it myself. I mean--" Hefloundered, aghast at his own temerity.

  But the lady smiled. "That'll do," she cautioned him. "Don't try toflirt with me. I won't have it."

  "I ain't--" he began, and stopped.

  Molly Dale continued to look at him inquiringly. But as he gave noevidence of completing the sentence, she lowered her gaze and resumedher weeding. Racey thought to have glimpsed a disappointed look in hereyes as she dropped her chin, but he could not be certain. Probably hehad been mistaken. Why should she be disappointed? Why, indeed?

  "Start in on that bed, Racey," she directed, nodding her head towardthe columbines and wall-flowers. "There's some of that miserablepusley inching in on the baby-blue-eyes and they're such tiny thingsit doesn't take much to kill them. And Lord knows I had a hard enoughjob persuading 'em to grow in the first place."

  "Wild things never cotton to living inside a fence," he told her."They're like Injuns thataway--put 'em in a house and they don't do sowell."

  "Shucks, look at the Rainbow."

  "Half-breed. There's the difference, and besides the Rainbow ain'tlived in a house since she left the convent. She lives in a tepee sameas her uncle and aunties."

  "I don't care," defended Molly, straightening on her knees to surveyher garden. "Every single plant in my garden except the pink geraniumsis wild. Look at those thimble-berry bushes round the spring, and theblue camass along the brook, and the squaw bushes round the house,and the squaw grass and pussy paws back of the clothes-lines. Some Itransplanted, the rest I grew from seeds. And where will you find abetter-looking garden?"

  Racey sagged back on his heels and stared critically about him.

  "Yeah," he drawled, nodding a slow head, "they do look pretty good.Got to give you lots of credit. But those squaw bushes now--" He brokeoff, grinning.

  "Oh, of course, you provoking thing!" cried she, irately. "Might knowyou'd pick on those squaw bushes. It is a mite too shady for 'emwhere they are, but still they're doing pretty well, considering. I'msatisfied--What's that?"

  "That" was a horseman appearing suddenly among the cottonwoods thatbelted with a scattering grove the garden and the spring. The horsemanwas Lanpher, manager of the 88 ranch. He was followed by anotherrider, a lean, swarthy individual with a smooth-shaven, saturnineface. Racey knew the latter by sight and reputation. The man was oneSkeel and rejoiced in the nick-name of "Alicran." The furtive scorpionwhose sting is death is not indigenous to the territory, but Mr.Skeel had gained the appellation in New Mexico, a region where thetail-bearing insect may be found, and when the man left the Border forthe Border's good the name left with him.

  "Oh, lookout! The bushes! The bushes! Don't trample mythimble-berries!"

  But Lanpher, heeding not at all Molly's cries of warning, spurred hissweating horse through the thimble-berry growth, breaking down threeshrubs, and splashed cat-a-corneredly across the spring, the brook,and several rows of flowers.

  The garden looked as if a miniature cyclone had passed that way.

  Midway across the garden Lanpher's horse halted--halted because aflying figure in chaps had appeared from nowhere and seized it by therein. But the horse did more than halt. In obedience to a powerfuljerk administered by the man in chaps the horse pivoted on itsforelegs and slid its rider out of the saddle and deposited hima-sprawl and face downward among the flowers.

  Lanpher arose, snarling, to face a levelled sixshooter. It did notsignify that Racey had not drawn the weapon. He was perfectly capableof shooting through the bottom of his holster and Lanpher knew it. AndRacey knew that he knew it.

  "Get out of this garden!" ordered Racey. "Take yore friend with you,"he added, tossing the horse's bridle to Lanpher. "And if I were youI'd walk a heap careful between the rows. I just wouldn't go a-bustingany more of these posies."

  Lanpher went. He went carefully. He was followed quite as carefully byRacey Dawson.

  When Lanpher was free of the neat rows he looked up venomously intothe face of Alicran Skeel who had meticulously ridden round thegarden.

  "I was wondering where you was," Lanpher remarked with deep meaning.

  "I ain't rooting up nobody's gyarden," Alicran returned, cheerfully."And don't wonder too hard. Might strain yore intellect or something.I'll always be where I aim to be--always. You done scratched yoreface, Lanpher."

  Lanpher turned from Alicran Skeel and spat upon the ground.

  "Alicran," said Racey, holding his alert attitude, "the fi
rst falsemove you make Lanpher gets it."

  "I ain't makin' a move," said Alicran, thumbs hooked in the armholesof his vest. "I got plenty to do minding my own business."

  "Huh?" Thus the sceptical Racey, who did not trust Mr. Skeel as far ashe could throw a horse by the tail.

  "Shucks," said Alicran, out of deference to the lady, "you don'tbelieve me."

  "Shore I do," asserted Racey, "Shore, you bet you. I--_Careful,Lanpher_! I can talk to somebody else and watch you at the same time!"

  "If Alicran was worth a--" began Lanpher, furiously, and stopped.

  "You was gonna say--what?" queried Alicran, softly.

  "Nothing," said Lanpher, sulkily. "Put yore gun away," he continued toRacey. "I ain't gonna hurt you."

  "Now that's what I call downright generous of you, Lanpher," Raceydeclared, warmly. "I'd shore hate to be hurt. I shore would. But ifit's alla same to you, I'll keep my gun right where she is--if it'salla same to you."

  "That'll do, Racey. Stop this rowing. I won't have it." It was MollyDale pushing past Racey and standing with arms akimbo directlyin front of his gun-muzzle. Racey let his gun and holster fallup-and-down, but he did not remove his hand from the gunbutt.

  "Who do you want here?" Molly inquired of Lanpher.

  Lanpher's rat-like features cracked into an ugly smile. "Is yore pawhome?" he asked.

  "Father's gone to Marysville."

  "When'll he be back?"

  "Day after to-morrow, I guess."

  "Yeah, I kind of guess he'd want to spend the night so's he could dobusiness in the morning, huh?" The Lanpher smile grew even uglier.

  "He has some business to attend to in the morning, yes."

  "I kind of thought he would. Yeah. You don't happen to know the natureof his business, do you?"

  "His business is none of yours, and I'll thank you to pick up yourfeet and clear out, the pair of you."

  "Not so fast." Lanpher spread deprecatory hands, and his smile becamesuddenly crooked. "I just come down to do yore paw a favour."

  "A favour? You?" Blank unbelief was patent in Molly's tone andexpression.

  "A favour. Me. You see, yore paw's got a mortgage coming due on thetenth, and the reason yore paw went to Marysville was so he could bethere bright and early to-morrow morning at the bank to renew themortgage. Ain't I right?"

  "You might be." Molly's face was now a mask of indifference, but therewas no indifference in her heart. There was cold fear.

  Racey's expression was likewise indifferent. But there was no fear inhis heart. There was anger, cold anger. For he had sensed what wascoming. He knew that the previous winter had been a hard one on theDale fortunes. They had lost most of their little bunch of cattle in ablizzard, and the roof of their stable had collapsed, killing two teamhorses and a riding pony. Racey had conjectured that Mr. Dale wouldhave been forced to borrow on mortgage to make a fresh start in thespring. And at that time in the territory the legal rate was 12 percent. Stiff? To be sure. But the security in those days was nevergilt-edged--cattle were prone to die at inconvenient moments, and landwas not worth what it was east of the Mississippi.

  "We'll take it I'm right," pursued Lanpher, lapping his tongue roundthe words as though they possessed taste and that taste pleasant. "Andbeing that I'm right I'll say yore paw could 'a' saved himself theride to Marysville by stayin' to home."

  Oh, Lanpher was the sort of man who, as a boy, was accustomed tothoroughly enjoy the pastime of pulling wings from living flies anddrowning a helpless kitten by inches.

  Now he nodded his head and grinned anew, and put up a satisfiedhand and rubbed his stubbly chin. Racey yearned to kick him. It wasshameful that Molly should be compelled to bandy words with thisreptile. Racey stepped forward determinedly, and slid past Molly.

  Promptly she caught him by the sleeve. "Don't mix in, Racey," shecommanded with set face. "It's all right. It's all right, I tell you."

  "'Course it's all right," Lanpher hastened to say, more than a hint ofworriment in his little black eyes. One could never be sure of theseBar S boys. They were uncertain propositions, every measly one ofthem. "Shore it's all right," went on the 88 manager. "I ain't meaningno harm. Yo're taking a lot for granted, Racey, a whole lot forgranted."

  "Nemmine what I'm taking for granted," flung back Racey. "I get alongwith taking only what's mine, anyway."

  Which was equivalent to saying that Lanpher was a thief. But Lanpheroverlooked the poorly veiled insult, and switched his gaze to MollyDale.

  "I just rid over to say," he told her, "that if yore paw is still seton renewing the mortgage when he comes back from Marysville he'll haveto see me and Luke Tweezy at the 88. We done bought that mortgage fromthe bank."

  Molly Dale said nothing. Racey felt that if he held his tongue anothersecond he would incontinently burst. He sidestepped past the girl.

  "You've said yore li'l piece," he told Lanpher, "and for a feller whowas bellyaching so loud about keeping out of this deal it strikes meyo're a-getting in good and deep--buying up mortgages and all. Dunnowhat I mean, huh? Yep, you do. Shore you do. Think back. Think wayback, and it'll come to you. Jack Harpe. You know him. Bossy-lookingjigger, seemed like. Has he been a-bearing down on you lately,Lanpher? Mustn't let him run you thataway. Bad business. Might beexpensive. You can't tell. You be careful, Lanpher. You go slow--amite slow. Yep. Well, don't lemme keep you. This way out."

  He flicked a thumb westward, and stared at Lanpher with bright eyes.Lanpher's eyes dropped, lifted, then veered toward Alicran Skeel, thatappreciative observer, who continued to sit his horse as good as goldand silent as a clam.

  Lanpher turned to his horse without another word, slid the reins overthe animal's neck and crossed them slackly. He stuck toe in stirrupand swung up. He looked down at Molly where she stood dumbly, hertroubled eyes gazing at nothing and the fingers of one hand slowlyplaiting and unplaiting a corner of her apron. Lanpher opened hismouth as if to speak, but no words issued. For Racey had coughed aperemptory cough.

  Lanpher turned his horse's head toward the creek.

  "Lookit here, Alicran," the peevish Lanpher burst forth when he andhis henchman had forded the creek and were riding westward, "whatsamatter with you, anyway?"

  "With me?" Alicran tilted a questioning bead. "I dunno. I don't feel amite sick."

  "What do you think I hired you for?" Heatedly.

  "Gawd he knows." Business of rolling a cigarette.

  "Yo're supposed to be a two-legged man with a gun."

  "Yeah?" Indifferently.

  "Yeah, but I got my doubts--now. Hell's bells! Wasn't you off to oneside there when Racey pulled? Wasn't you?"

  "Wasn't you listenin' to what Racey said at the time? Wasn't you?"

  "After! I mean after! His gun was back hugging his leg after the girlslid in between. What more of a chance didja want?"

  "So that's it, huh?"

  "That's--it." Between the two words was a perceptible pause.

  "I ain't shootin' nobody in the back. I never have yet, and I ain'tbeginnin' now, not for you or any other damn man."

  "Say--" began Lanpher, threateningly.

  Alicran Skeel turned a grim face on his employer so suddenly andsharply that Lanpher almost dodged.

  "Lookit here, Lanpher," said he, quietly, "don't you try to startnothin' that I'll have to finish. I know you from way back, youlizard, and outside of my regular work I ain't taking no orders fromyou. Don't gimme any more of yore lip."

  "Aw, I didn't mean nothing, Alicran. You ain't got any call to gethet. I need you in the business."

  "Shore you do," Alicran declared, contemptuously. "You need me to doanything you ain't got the nerve to do."

  "I got my duty to my company," Lanpher bluffed lamely.

  "Duty bedam. You ain't got the guts for a tough job, that's whatsamatter."

  This was rubbing it in. Lanpher plucked at the loose strings of hiscourage, and managed to draw out a faintly responsive twang. "I'llshow you whether I got guts--" he began.


  "Oh, look," said Alicran. "See that wild currant bush."

  To Lanpher it seemed that the sixshooter was barely out of the holsterbefore it was back again. But there was a swirl of smoke adrift in thewindless air and the topmost branch of a wild currant bush thirty feetdistant had been that instant cut in two.

  "What was that you was gonna say?" Alicran prompted, softly.

  "I forget," evaded Lanpher. "But they's one thing you wanna remember,Alicran. It don't pay to be squeamish. It comes high in the endusually. You'll find, if you keep on being mushy thisaway, that you'llhave more'n you can swing at the finish."

  "Is that so? You leave me do things my own way, you hear? Lemme tellyou if I'd 'a' knowed all what you was up to by coming to Dale's thismornin' I'd never have allowed it."

  "Allowed it!"

  "Yes, allowed it, I said. Want me to spell it for you? Youthumb-handed idjit, if you had any more sense you'd be a damfool.Don't you know that in anything you do, no matter what, they's noprofit in unnecessary trimmings? Most always it's the extra frills ona feller's work that pushes the bridge over and lands him underneathwith everything on top of him and the job to do again, if he's luckyenough to be livin' at the finish. And yore swashing through thatgirl's gyarden was a heap unnecessary. It was a close squeak youwasn't drilled by Racey Dawson. I wouldn't have blamed him if he hadlet a little light in on yore darkened soul. Done it myself in hisplace. And yore rubbing in that mortgage deal was another unnecessarypiece o' damfoolishness. It only made Racey have it in for you more'never. And after acting like more kinds of a fool thataway in less timethan anybody I ever see before, you sit up on yore hunkers and tell_me_ I'll have more'n I can swing at the finish. Say, you make melaugh! Listen, Lanpher, for a feller that's come out second best withthe Bar S outfit as many times as you have it looks to me like you wascrowdin' Providence a heap close."

  "That's all right," sulked Lanpher, then added, with a sudden flare ofspite: "When I hired you as foreman I shore never expected to draw askypilot full o' sermons into the bargain."

  "No?" drawled Alicran, looking hard at Lanpher. "I often wonder justwhat you did hire me for."

  On which Lanpher made no comment.

  "Yeah," resumed Alicran, the fish having failed to bite, "I oftenwonder about that. Was it a foreman you wanted or a--gunman? And whatdid Racey mean about Jack Harpe a-bearing down on you so hard, huh?"

  "Nothing, nothing, nothing a-tall," Lanpher replied, irritably.

  "If Racey didn't mean nothing by it, what did yore eyes flip for andwhy didja shuffle yore feet?"

  "Whatell business is it of yores?" burst out the goaded manager.

  "None," Alicran replied, calmly. "I was just wondering. I got acuriosity to know why, thassall."

  "Then hogtie yore curiosity--or you'll be gettin' yore time. I'm freeto admit I need you, like I said before, but I can do without you if Igotta."

  "That's just where yo're dead wrong," Alicran promptly contradicted."You can't do without me. Lanpher, I like the job of bein' yoreforeman. I like it so well that if you was to fire me I dunno what Iwouldn't do. You know, Lanpher, a man is a whole lot bigger targetthan the branch of a wild currant bush."

  Frankly speculative, the eyes of Alicran travelled up and down thespare frame of the 88 manager. Which gave Lanpher furiously to think,as it were.

  "Why," said he, forcing a smile, "I guess we understand each other,Alicran."

  "Shore we do," said Alicran, cheerfully. "And don't you forget it."