The Night Riders: A Romance of Early Montana

by Ridgwell Cullum

  CHAPTER III

  THE BLIND MAN

  Tresler was unfeignedly glad to leave Jake Harnach behind him, but helooked very serious as he and his companion moved on to the house. Theresult of his meeting with the foreman would come back on him later,he knew, and it was as well that he was prepared. The meeting had beenunfortunate, but, judging by what he had heard of Jake in Forks, hemust inevitably have crossed the bully sooner or later; Jake himselfwould have seen to that.

  Diane Marbolt paused as she came to the verandah. They had not spokensince their greeting. Now she turned abruptly, and quietly surveyedher guest. Nor was there any rudeness in her look. Tresler felt thathe was undergoing a silent cross-examination, and waited, quietlysmiling down at her from his superior height.

  At last she smiled up at him and nodded.

  "Will I do?" he asked.

  "I think so."

  It was a curious position, and they both laughed. But in the girl'smanner there was no levity.

  "You are not sure? Is there anything wrong about me? My--my dress, forinstance?" Tresler laughed again; he had missed the true significanceof his companion's attitude toward him.

  Just for a moment the dark little face took on a look of perplexity.Then the pucker of the brows smoothed out, and she smiled demurely asshe answered.

  "Oh, I see--no," doubtfully. Then more decidedly, "No. You see, youare a 'tenderfoot.' You'll get over it later on."

  And the last barrier of formality was set aside.

  "Good," exclaimed Tresler, emphatically. "We are going to be friends,Miss Marbolt. I knew it. It was only that I feared that 'they' mightruin my chances of your approbation. You see, they've already causedme--er--trouble."

  "Yes, I think we shall be friends," Diane answered quietly. "In themeantime, come along into the house and have your lunch. It is ready,I saw you coming and so prepared it at once. You will not mind if Isit and look on while you eat. I have had mine. I want to talk to youbefore you see my father."

  There was distinct anxiety in her manner. More surely than all, hereyes betrayed her uneasiness. However, he gave no sign, contentinghimself with a cordial reply.

  "You are very kind. I too should like a chat. You see, I am a'tenderfoot,' and you have been kind enough to pass over myshortcomings."

  Diane led the way into the house. And Tresler, following her, wasstruck with the simple comfort of this home in the wilds. It was aroomy two-storied house, unpretentious, but very capacious. Theyentered through one of three French windows what was evidently auseful sort of drawing-room-parlor. Beyond this they crossed ahallway, the entrance door of which stood open, and passed into adining-room, which, in its turn, opened directly into a kitchenbeyond. This room looked out on the woods at the back. Diane explainedthat her father's sanctum was in front of this, while behind theparlor was his bedroom, opposite the dining-room and kitchen. Therooms up-stairs were bedrooms, and her own private parlor.

  "You see, we keep no female servants, Mr. Tresler," the girl said, asshe brought a pot of steaming coffee from the kitchen and set it onthe table. "I am housekeeper. Joe Nelson, the choreman, is my helperand does all the heavy work. He's quite a character."

  "Yes, I know. I've met him," observed Tresler, dryly.

  "Ah! Try that ham. I don't know about the cold pie, it may be tough.Yes, old Joe is an Englishman; at least, he was, but he's quiteAmericanized now. He spent forty years in Texas. He's really aneducated man. Owned a nice ranch and got burned out. I'm very fond ofhim; but it isn't of Joe I want to talk."

  "No."

  The man helped himself to the ham and veal pie, and found it anythingbut tough.

  Diane seated herself in a chair with her back to the uncurtainedwindow, through which the early summer sun was staring.

  "You have met Jake Harnach and made an enemy of him," she saidsuddenly, and with simple directness.

  "Yes; the latter must have come anyway."

  The girl sighed, and her eyes shone with a brooding light. AndTresler, glancing at her, recognized the sadness of expression he hadnoticed at their first meeting, and which, he was soon to learn, washabitual to her.

  "I suppose so," she murmured in response. Then she roused herself, andspoke almost sharply. "What would you have done had he struck you? Heis a man of colossal strength."

  Tresler laughed easily. "That depends. I'm not quite sure. I shouldprobably have done my best to retaliate. I had an alternative. I mighthave shot him."

  "Oh!" the girl said with impulsive horror.

  "Well, what would you have?" Tresler raised his eyebrows and turnedhis astonished eyes upon her. "Was I to stand lamb-like and accept athrashing from that unconscionable ruffian? No, no," he shook hishead. "I see it in your eyes. You condemn the method, but not the man.Remember, we all have a right to live--if we can. Maybe there's noabsolute necessity that we should, but still we are permitted to doour best. That's the philosophy I've had hammered into me with thevarious thrashings the school bullies at home have from time to timeadministered. I should certainly have done my best."

  "And if you had done either of these things, I shudder to think whatwould have happened. It was unfortunate, terribly unfortunate. You donot know Jake Harnach. Oh, Mr. Tresler," the girl hurried on, leaningsuddenly forward in her chair, and reaching out until her small brownhand rested on his arm, "please, please promise me that you won't runfoul of Jake. He is terrible. You don't, you can't know him, or youwould understand your danger."

  "On the contrary, Miss Marbolt. It is because I know a great deal ofhim that I should be ready to retaliate very forcibly. I thank mystars I do know him. Had I not known of him before, your own wordswould have warned me to be ready for all emergencies. Jake must go hisway and I'll go mine. I am here to learn ranching, not to submit toany bulldozing. But let us forget Jake for the moment, and talk ofsomething more pleasant. What a charming situation the ranch has!"

  The girl dropped back in her chair. There was no mistaking thedecision of her visitor's words. She felt that no persuasion of herscould alter him. With an effort she contrived to answer him.

  "Yes, it is a beautiful spot. You have not yet had time to appreciatethe perfections of our surroundings." She paused for him to speak, butas he remained silent she labored on with her thoughts set on otherthings. "The foot-hills come right down almost to our very doors. Andthen in the distance, above them, are the white caps of the mountains.We are sheltered, as no doubt you have seen, by the almostinaccessible wall beyond the river, and the pinewoods screen us fromthe northeast and north winds of winter. South and east are miles andmiles of prairie-lands. Father has been here for eighteen years. I wasa child of four when we came. Whitewater was a mere settlement then,and Forks wasn't even in existence. We hadn't a neighbor nearer thanWhitewater in those days, except the Indians and half-breeds. Theywere rough times, and father held his place only by the subtlety ofhis poor blind brain, and the arms of the men he had with him. Jakehas been with us as long as I can remember. So you see," she added,returning to her womanly dread for his safety, "I know Jake. Mywarning is not the idle fear of a silly girl."

  Tresler remained silent for a moment or two. Then he asked sharply--

  "Why does your father keep him?"

  The girl shrugged her shoulders. "Jake is the finest ranchman in thecountry."

  And in the silence that followed Tresler helped himself to morecoffee, and finished off with cheese and crackers. Neither seemedinclined to break up the awkwardness of the pause. For the time theman's thoughts were wandering in interested speculation as to thepossibilities of his future on the ranch. He was not thinking so muchof Jake, nor even of Julian Marbolt. It was of the gentlerassociations with the girl beside him--associations he had neveranticipated in his wildest thoughts. She was no prairie-bred girl. Herspeech, her manner, savored too much of civilization. Yes, he decidedin his mind, although she claimed Mosquito Bend as her home since shewas four, she had been educated elsewhere. His thoughts were suddenlycut short. A faint sound caught h
is quick ears. Then Diane's voice,questioning him, recalled his wandering attention.

  "I understand you intend to stay with us for three years?"

  "Just as long as it will take to learn all the business of a ranch,"he answered readily. "I am going to become one of the----"

  Again he heard the peculiar noise, and he broke off listening. Dianewas listening too. It was a soft tap, tap, like some one knockinggently upon a curtained door. It was irregular, intermittent, like thetapping of a telegraph-sounder working very slowly.

  "What's that?" he asked.

  The girl had risen, and a puzzled look was in her eyes. "The noise?Oh, it's father," she said, with a shadowy smile, and in a loweredtone. "Something must have disturbed him. It is unusual for him to beawake so early."

  Now they heard a door open, and the tapping ceased. Then the doorclosed and the lock turned. A moment later there came the jingle ofkeys, and then shuffling footsteps accompanied the renewed tapping.

  Tresler was still listening. He had turned toward the door, and whilehis attention was fixed on the coming of the blind rancher, he was yetaware that Diane was clearing the table with what seemed to himunnecessary haste and noise. However, his momentary interest wascentred upon the doorway and the passage outside, and he paid littleheed to the girl's movements. The door stood open, and as he lookedout the sound of shuffling feet drew nearer; then a figure passed theopening.

  It was gone in a moment. But in that moment he caught sight of a tallman wrapped in the gray folds of a dressing-gown that reached to hisfeet. That, and the sharp outline of a massive head of close-croppedgray hair. The face was lost, all except the profile. He saw a long,high-bridged nose and a short, crisp grayish beard. The tapping of thestick died slowly away. And he knew that the blind man had passed outon to the verandah.

  Now he turned again to the girl, and would have spoken, but she raiseda warning finger and shook her head. Then, moving toward the door, shebeckoned to him to follow.

  * * * * *

  "Father, this is Mr. Tresler."

  Tresler found himself looking down upon a remarkable face. Heacknowledged Diane's introduction, forgetful, for the moment, of theman's sightless eyes. He gripped the outstretched hand heartily, whilehe took in his first impression of a strange personality.

  They were out on the verandah. The rancher was sitting in a prim,uncushioned armchair. He had a strong, well-moulded, pale face, thesightless eyes of which held the attention. Tresler at onceappreciated Shaky's description of them.

  They were dreadful eyes. The pupils were there, and, in a measure,appeared natural except for their enormous size. They were black, jetblack, and divided from what should have been the whites by minuterings of blue, the only suspicion of iris they possessed. But it wasthe whites that gave them their dreadful expression. They were scarletwith inflammation--an inflammation which extended to the rims of thelids and had eaten away the lashes. Of the rest of the face it wasimpossible for him to form much of an opinion. The iron-gray browswere depressed as though with physical pain, and so obliterated allnatural expression. And the beard shut out the indications which themouth and chin might have afforded.

  "You're welcome, Mr. Tresler," he said, in a low, gentle tone. "I knewyou were here some time ago."

  Tresler was astonished at the quiet refinement of his voice. He hadgrown so accustomed to the high, raucous twang of the men of thesewilds that it came as a surprise to him.

  "I hope I didn't disturb you," he answered cheerily. "Miss Marbolttold me you were sleeping, and----"

  "You didn't disturb me--at least, not in the way you mean. You see,I have developed a strange sensitiveness--a sort of second sight,"he laughed a little bitterly. "I awoke by instinct the moment youapproached the house, and heard you come in. The loss of one sense,you see, has made others more acute. Well, well, so you havecome to learn ranching? Diane"--the blind man turned to hisdaughter--"describe Mr. Tresler to me. What does he look like? Forgiveme, my dear sir," he went on, turning with unerring instinct to theother. "I glean a perfect knowledge of those about me in this way."

  "Certainly." The object of the blind man's interest smiled over at thegirl.

  Diane hesitated in some confusion.

  "Go on, child," her father said, with a touch of impatience in hismanner.

  Thus urged she began. "Mr. Tresler is tall. Six feet.Broad-shouldered."

  The man's red, staring eyes were bent on his pupil with a steadypersistency.

  "Yes, yes," he urged, as the girl paused.

  "Dressed in--er fashionable riding costume."

  "His face?"

  "Black hair, steel-blue eyes, black eyelashes and brows. Broadforehead----"

  "Any lines?" questioned the blind man.

  "Only two strong marks between the brows."

  "Go on."

  "Broad-bridged, rather large nose; well-shaped mouth, with inclinationto droop at the corners; broad, split chin; well-rounded cheeks andjaw."

  "Ha! clean-shaven, of course--yes."

  The rancher sat silent for some moments after Diane had finished herdescription. His lips moved, as though he were talking to himself; butno words came to those waiting. At last he stirred, and roused fromhis reverie.

  "You come from Springfield, Mr. Tresler, I understand?" he saidpleasantly.

  "Yes."

  "Um. New England. A good country that breeds good men," he nodded,with an expression that was almost a smile. "I'm glad to be able towelcome you; I only wish I could see. However," he went on kindly,"you will be able to learn ranching in all its branches here. We breedhorses and cattle. You'll find it rough. My foreman is not exactlygentle, but, believe me, he knows his business. He is the finestranchman in the country, and I owe much of my success to him. You mustget on the right side of Jake, though. It requires finding--the rightside, I mean--but it is worth seeking."

  Tresler smiled as he listened. He thoroughly agreed with the referenceto the difficulty of finding Jake's "right" side. He endeavored tocatch Diane's eye, but she avoided his gaze. As the rancher paused, hebroke in at once.

  "I presume I start work in earnest to-morrow morning?"

  The blind man shook his head. "No; better start in to-day. Ouragreement reads to-day; it must not be broken. You take your positionas one of the hands, and will be under the control of Jake Harnach."

  "We can have tea first, though," put in Diane, who had followed herfather's words with what seemed unnecessary closeness.

  "Tut, tut, child," he replied impatiently. "Yes, we will have tea.'Tis all you think of. See to it, and bring Tresler a chair; I musttalk to him."

  His words were a dismissal; and after Diane had provided a chair, sheretired into the house, leaving apprentice and master alone. And thetwo men talked, as men will talk who have just come together from theends of the world. Tresler avoided the details of his journey; nordid the blind man seem in any way interested in his personal affairs.It was the news of men, and matters concerning the world, that theydiscussed. And the rancher's information and remarks, and keen,incisive questions, set the newcomer wondering. He watched the facebefore him, the red, sightless eyes. He studied the quiet,gentle-voiced man, as one may study an abstruse problem. The resultwas disheartening. One long, weary expression of pain was all hebeheld; no lights and shades of emotion and interest. It was the faceof one grown patient under a lifelong course of suffering. Tresler hadlistened to the bitter cursings against this man, but as the softvoice and cultured expressions fell upon his ears, the easy-flowing,pointed criticisms on matters of public interest, the broadphilosophy, sometimes faintly dashed with bitterness and cynicism, butalways sound, he found it hard to associate him with the significantsobriquet of the ranch. Tea-time found him still wrestling with theunsolved problem. But, with the advent of Diane with the table andladen tray, he set it aside for future study.

  For the next half-hour he transferred his attention to the relationsbetween father and daughter, as they chatted pleasa
ntly of theranching prospects of the country, for the benefit of their visitor.This was a lesser problem, and one he came near to achieving. Beforehe left them, he resolved that Diane stood in great awe, not to sayfear, of her father. This to him was astonishing, judging by thestrength of character every feature in her face displayed. It seemedto him that she was striving hard to bestow affection on him--tryingto create an affection that had no place in her heart. Her effortswere painfully apparent. She convinced him at once of a lively senseof duty--a sense she was carrying to a point that was almost pitiful.All this he felt sure of, but it was the man who finally baffled himas he had baffled him before. How he regarded Diane it was impossibleto say. Sometimes he could have sworn that the man's devotion to herwas that of one who, helpless, clings to a support which never failshim; at others, he treated her to a sneering intolerance, which rousedthe young man's ire; and, again, he would change his tone, till theundercurrent of absolute hatred drowned the studied courtesy whichveneered it. And when he finally rose to leave the verandah and seekout the foreman and report himself for duty, it was with a genuinefeeling of relief at leaving the presence of those dreadful red eyes.

  Diane was packing up the tea-things, and Tresler still lingered on theverandah; he was watching the blind man as he tapped his way into thehouse. Then, as he disappeared, and the sound of his shuffling feetgrew faint and distant, he became aware that Diane was standingholding the tray and watching him. He knew, too, by her attentiveattitude, that she was listening to ascertain when her father shouldbe out of ear-shot. As the sounds died away, and all became silentwithin the house, she came over to him. She spoke without pausing onher way; it seemed that she feared observation.

  "Don't forget, Mr. Tresler, what I told you about Jake. Be warned. Inspite of what you say, you do not know him."

  "Thanks, Miss Marbolt," he replied warmly; "I shall not forget."

  Diane was about to speak again, but the voice of her father, harsh andstrident enough now, reached them from the hallway.

  "Come in, child, and let Tresler go to his work."

  And Tresler noted the expression of fear that leapt into the girl'sface as she hurriedly passed into the house. He stood for a momentwrathful and wondering; then he strode away toward the corrals,reflecting on the strange events which had so swiftly followed oneupon the other.

  "Ye gods," he muttered, "this is a queer place--and these are queerpeople."

  Then as he saw the great figure of Jake coming up the hill toward him,from the direction of a small isolated hut, he went out to meet him,unconsciously squaring himself as he drew near.

  He expected an explosion; at least an angry demonstration. But nothingof the sort happened. The whole attitude of the man had changed to oneof studied amiability. Not only that, but his diction was careful to adegree, as though he were endeavoring to impress this man from theEast with his superiority over the other ranchmen.

  "Well? You have seen him?"

  "Yes. I have now come to report myself ready for work," Treslerreplied at once. He adopted a cold business tone, deeming it best toobserve this from the start.

  To his surprise Jake became almost cordial. "Good. We can do with somehands, sure. Had a pleasant talk with the old man?" The question cameindifferently, but a sidelong glance accompanied it as the foremanturned away and gazed out over the distant prairie.

  "I have," replied Tresler, shortly. "What are my orders, and where doI sleep?"

  "Then you don't sleep up at the house?" Jake inquired, pretendingsurprise. There was a slight acidity in his tone.

  "That is hardly to be expected when the foreman sleeps down there."Tresler nodded, indicating the outbuildings.

  "That's so," observed the other, thoughtfully. "No, I guess the oldman don't fancy folk o' your kidney around," he went on, relapsinginto the speech of the bunkhouse unguardedly. "Mebbe it's differentwi' the other."

  Tresler could have struck him as he beheld the meaning smile thataccompanied the fellow's words.

  "Where do I sleep?" he demanded sharply.

  "Oh, I guess you'll roll into the bunkhouse. Likely the boys'll fixyou for blankets till your truck comes along. As for orders, why, westart work at sunup, and Slushy dips out breakfast before that. GuessI'll put you to work in the morning; you can't do a deal yet, butmaybe you'll learn."

  "Then I'm not wanted to-night?"

  "Guess not." Jake broke off. Then he turned sharply and faced his man."I've just one word to say to you 'fore you start in," he went on. "Wekind o' make allowance fer 'tenderfeet' around here--once. After that,we deal accordin'--savee? Say, ther' ain't no tea-parties customaryaround this layout."

  Tresler smiled. If he had been killed for it he must have smiled. Inthat last remark the worthy Jake had shown his hand. And the lattersaw the smile, and his face darkened with swift-rising anger. But hehad evidently made up his mind not to be drawn, for, with a curt"S'long," he abruptly strode off, leaving the other to make his way tothe bunkhouse.

  The men had not yet come in for their evening meal, but he foundArizona disconsolately sitting on a roll of blankets just outside thedoor of the quarters. He was chewing steadily, with his face turnedprairieward, gazing out over the tawny plains as though nothing elsein the world mattered to him.

  He looked up casually as Tresler came along, and edged along theblankets to make room, contenting himself with a laconic--

  "Set."

  The two men sat in silence for some moments. The pale-faced cowpuncherseemed absorbed in deep reflection. Tresler was thinking too; he wasthinking of Jake, whom he clearly understood was in love with hisemployer's daughter. It was patent to the veriest simpleton. Not onlythat, but he felt that Diane herself knew it. The way the foreman haddesisted from his murderous onslaught upon himself at her coming wassufficient evidence without the jealousy he had betrayed in hisreference to tea-parties. Now he understood, too, that it was becausethe blind man was asleep, and in going up to the house he, Tresler,would only meet Diane, and probably spend a pleasant afternoon withher until her father awoke, that Jake's unreasoning jealousy had beenaroused, and he had endeavored to forcibly detain him. He felt gladthat he had learned these things so soon. All such details would beuseful.

  At last Arizona turned from his impassive contemplation of theprairie.

  "Wal?" he questioned. And he conveyed a world of interrogation in hismonosyllable.

  "Jake says I begin work to-morrow. To-night I sleep in the bunkhouse."

  "Yes, I know."

  "You know?" Tresler looked around in astonishment.

  "Guess Jake's bin 'long. Say, I'll shoot that feller, sure--'less someinterferin' cuss gits along an' does him in fust."

  "What's up? Anything fresh?"

  For answer Arizona spat forcibly into the little pool of tobacco-juiceon the ground before him. Then, with a vicious clenching of theteeth--

  "He's a swine."

  "Which is a libel on hogs," observed the other, with a smile.

  "Libel?" cried Arizona, his wild eyes rolling, and his lean nostrilsdilating as his breath came short and quick. "Yes, grin; grin like ablazin' six-foot ape. Mebbe y'll change that grin later, when I tellyou what he's done."

  "Nothing he could do would surprise me after having met him."

  "No." Arizona had calmed again. His volcanic nature was a study.Tresler, although he had only just met this man, liked him for hisvery wildness. "Say, pardner," he went on quietly, reaching one long,lean hand toward him, "shake! I guess I owe you gratitood fer bluffin'that hog. We see it all. Say, you've got grit." And the fierce eyeslooked into the other's face.

  Tresler shook the proffered hand heartily. "But what's his latestachievement?" he asked, eager to learn the fresh development.

  "He come along here 'bout you. Sed we wus to fix you up in pore DaveSteele's bunk."

  "Yes? That's good. I rather expected he'd have me sleep on the floor."

  Arizona gave a snort. His anger was rising again, but he checked it.

  "Say," he w
ent on, "guess you don't know a heap. Ther' ain't bin afeller slep in that bunk since Dave--went away."

  "Why?" Tresler's interest was agog.

  "Why?" Arizona's voice rose. "'Cos it's mussed all up wi' a crazyman's blood. A crazy man as wus killed right here, kind of, by JakeHarnach."

  "I heard something of it."

  "Heerd suthin' of it? Wal, I guess ther' ain't a feller around thisprairie as ain't yelled hisself hoarse 'bout Dave. Say, he wus theharmlessest lad as ever jerked a rope or slung a leg over a stocksaddle. An' as slick a hand as ther' ever wus around this ranch. Itell ye he could teach every one of us, he wus that handy; an' that'sa long trail, I 'lows. Wal, we wus runnin' in a bunch of outlaws ferbrandin', an' he wus makin' to rope an old bull. Howsum he got himkind o' awkward. The rope took the feller's horns. 'Fore Dave couldloose it that bull got mad, an' went squar' for the corral walls an'broke a couple o' the bars. Dave jumped fer it an' got clear. ThenJake comes hollerin' an' swearin' like a stuck hog, an' Dave he tookit bad. Y' see no one could handle an outlaw like Dave. He up an' letfly at Jake, an' cussed back. Wot does Jake do but grab up a brandin'iron an' lay it over the boy's head. Dave jest dropped plumb in histracks. Then we got around and hunched him up, an' laid him out in hisbunk, bleedin' awful. We plastered him, an' doctored him, an' after awhiles he come to. He lay on his back fer a month, an' never a sign o'Jake or the blind man come along, only Miss Dianny. She come, an' wedid our best. But arter a month he got up plump crazed an' silly-like.He died back ther' in Forks soon after." Arizona paused significantly.Then he went on. "No, sir, ther' ain't bin a feller put in that bunksense, fer they ain't never gotten pore Dave's blood off'n it. Say,ther' ain't a deal as 'ud scare us fellers, but we ain't sleepin' overa crazy man's blood."

  "Which, apparently, I've got to do," Tresler said sharply. Then heasked, "Is it the only spare bunk?"

  "No. Ther's Thompson's, an' ther's Massy's."

  "Then what's the object?"

  "Cussedness. It's a kind o' delicate attention. It's fer to git backon you, knowin' as us fellers 'ud sure tell you of Dave. It's to kindo' hint to you what happens to them as runs foul o' him. What's liketo happen to you."

  Arizona's fists clenched, and his teeth gritted with rage as hededuced his facts. Tresler remained calm, but it did him good tolisten to the hot-headed cowpuncher, and he warmed toward him.

  "I'm afraid I must disappoint him," he said, when the other hadfinished. "If you fellows will lend me some blankets, I'll sleep inMassy's or Thompson's bunk, and Mr. Jake can go hang."

  Arizona shot round and peered into Tresler's face. "An' you'll dothat--sure?"

  "Certainly. I'm not going to sleep in a filthy bunk."

  "Say, you're the most cur'usest 'tenderfoot' I've seen. Shake!"

  And again the two men gripped hands.

  That first evening around the bunkhouse Tresler learned a lot abouthis new home, and, incidentally, the most artistic manner of cursingthe flies. He had supper with the boys, and his food was hash and teaand dry bread. It was hard but wholesome, and there was plenty of it.His new comrades exercised their yarning propensities for him, aroundhim, at him. He listened to their chaff, boisterous, uncultured;their savage throes of passion and easy comradeships. They seemed tohave never a care in the world but the annoyances of the moment. Eventheir hatred for the foreman and their employer seemed to lift fromthem, and vanish with the sound of the curses which they heaped uponthem. It was a new life, a new world to him; and a life that appealedto him.

  As the sun sank and the twilight waned, the men gradually slipped awayto turn in. Arizona was the last to go. Tresler had been shown Massy'sbunk, and friendly hands had spread blankets upon it for him. He wasstanding at the foot of it in the long aisle between the double row oftrestle beds. Arizona had just pointed out the dead man's disusedcouch, all covered with gunny sacks.

  "That's Dave's," he said. "I kind o' think you'll sleep easier righthere. Say, Tresler," he went on, with a serious light in his eyes,"I'd jest like to say one thing to you, bein' an old hand round theseparts myself, an' that's this. When you git kind o' worried, use yourgun. Et's easy an' quick. Guess you've plenty o' time an' to spareafter fer sizin' things up. Ther' ain't a man big 'nough in this worldto lift a finger ef you sez 'no' and has got your gun pointin' right.S'long."

  But Tresler detained him. "Just one moment, Arizona," he said,imitating the other's impressive manner. "I'd just like to say onething to you, being a new hand around these parts myself, and that'sthis. You being about my size, I wonder if you could sell me a pairof pants, such as you fellows ordinarily wear?"

  The cowpuncher smiled a pallid, shadowy smile, and went over to hiskit-bag. He returned a moment later with a pair of new moleskintrousers and threw them on the bunk.

  "You ken have them, I guess. Kind o' remembrancer fer talkin' straightto Jake. Say, that did me a power o' good."

  "Thanks, but I'll pay----"

  "Not on your life, mister."

  "Then I'll remember your advice."

  "Good. S'long."