Rimrock Trail

by J. Allan Dunn

  CHAPTER II

  CASEY

  The two men followed the dog across the flats, through mesquite, throughscattered sage and greasewood, mounting gradually through chaparral tobarren slopes set with strange twisted shapes of cactus. When it becameapparent that Sandy's hazard had hit the mark, as they entered thedefile that made entrance for Pyramid Pass, the only path across theCumbre Range to the Bad Lands beyond, Sandy reined in, coaxed up Grit,resentful, almost suspicious of any halt, lifting the collie to thesaddle in front of him. Grit protested and the pinto plunged, butSandy's persistence, the soothe of his steady voice, persuaded the dogat last to accommodate itself as best it could, helped by Sandy's onearm, sometimes with two as Sandy, riding with knees welded to Pronto'swithers, dropping reins over the saddle horn, left the rest to thehorse.

  "I figger we got some distance yet," he said to Sam. "Dawg was goin'steady as a woodchuck ten mile' from water. Reckon my guess wasright,--he wore his pads out crossin' the lava beds, though what in timeany hombre who ain't plumb loco is trapesin' round there for, beats me.There is some grazin' on top of the Cumbre mesa, enough for a smallherd, but the other side is jest plain hell with the lights out, one bigslice of desert thirty mile' wide."

  "Minin' camp over that way, ain't there?"

  "Was. There's a lava bed strip of six-seven miles at the end of thepass, then comes a bu'sted mesa, all box canyon an' rim-rock, shot withcaves, nothin' greener than cactus an' not much of that. There's atwenty per cent. grade wagon road, or there was, for it warn'tengineered none too careful, that run over to the mines. I was overthere once, nigh on to ten years ago. They called the camp Hopeful then.Next year they changed the name to Dynamite. Jest natcherully blew up,did that camp. Nothin' left but a lot of tumbledown shacks an' a couplehundred shafts an' tunnels leadin' to nothin'. Reckon this P. Casey is aprospector, Sam. One of them half crazy old-timers, nosin' round tryin'to pick up lost leads. One of the 'riginal crowd that called the dumpHopeful, like enough. Desert Rat. Them fellers is born with hope an'it's the last thing to leave 'em."

  "Hope's a good hawss," said Sam. "But it sure needs Luck fo' a runnin'mate."

  "You said it." Sandy relapsed into silence.

  At the far end of the pass the dog struggled to get down. They lookedout upon a stretch of desolation. Sandy had called it six or sevenmiles. It might have been two or twenty. The deceit of rarefied air wasintensified by the dazzle of the merciless sun beating down on powderedalkali, on snaky flows of weathered lava, on mock lakes that sparkledand dissolved in mirage. The broken mesa, across which ran the road tothe deserted mining camp, mysteriously changed form before their eyes;unsubstantial masses in pastel lights and shades of saffron, mauve androse. Over all was the hard vault of the sky-like polished turquoise.

  "I'll let him give us a lead," said Sandy, "soon as we hit the lava. Wecan foller his trail that fur. Sit tight, son." Grit whined but subsidedunder the restraining hands.

  "How about a drink 'fore we tackle that?" asked Sam, nodding at theshimmering view.

  "Better hold off for a while." Sandy took the lead, bending from thesaddle, reading the trail that Grit's paws had left in the alkali andsand. Cactus reared its spiny stems or sprawled over the ground morelike strange water-growths that had survived the emptying of an inlandsea than vegetation of the land. Once the dog's tracks led aside to ascummy puddle, saucered by alkali, dotted with the spoor of desertanimals that drank the bitter water in extremity. Then it ran straightto a wide reef of lava. Sandy set down the collie. Grit ran fast acrossthe pitted surface, ahead of the horses, waiting for them to cross thelava. They had hard work to get him to come to hand again, but he gavein at last to the knowledge that they would not go on otherwise.

  "Sand's too hot fo' yore pads, dawg," said Sandy, "Raise the mischiefwith that tape. Shack erlong, Pronto. Give you a slice of Pedro'sdried-apple pie when we git back, to make up for workin' you Sunday."The pinto tossed a pink muzzle and his master reached to pat the dusty,sweat-streaked neck. Alkali rose about them in clouds. Grit's trail,though blurred in the soft soil, was plain enough. The two riders wentsilently on at a steady walking gait. Talk in the saddle with men whomake range-riding a business comes only in spurts.

  "Never see a prospector with a dawg afore," said Sam at last. "An' thata sheep dawg."

  "Dawg 'ud be apt to tucker out in desert travel," agreed Sandy. "Meanone more mouth fo' water."

  He, like Sam, speculated on the kind of man P. Casey--if it was Caseythey were after--might be. If not a sheepman or a prospector, a thirdprobability made him an outlaw, a man with a price on his head, hidingin the wilds from punishment. It sufficed to them that he was a man whoma dog loved enough to bear a call to help his master.

  Slowly, the mesa ahead took on more definite shape. The shadows resolvedthemselves into ravines and canyons. They entered a gorge filled withboulders and rounded rocks, over which the sure-footed ponies madeclattering, slippery progress. Here and there the gaunt skeleton of atree, white as if lime-washed, showed that once cottonwoods hadflourished before the devouring desert had claimed the territory. Thecactus was all prickly pear, the gray-green flesh of the flat leavesstarred with brilliant blossom. Along one side of the canyon, mountingzigzag, showed the remains of a road, broken down by landslip and thefurious rush of cloud-burst waters.

  Making this, finding it free of wagon sign or horse tracks, Sandy pickedup Grit's trail once again. The collie wriggled, shot up its muzzle,whined, licked Sandy's face.

  "Nigh there," suggested Sam. Sandy nodded and let the dog get down. Gritraced off, nose high, streaking around a curve. When they reached it hewas out of sight. The road had been built up in places on the outer edgewith stones, dry-piled. They had fallen away, the grade following, sothat sometimes all that was left for passage was a ledge along which thehorses sidled carefully in single file, stirrups brushing the insidebank. The zigzags ended, the canyon narrowed, deepened. Sandy looked downto the dry bed of it four hundred feet below. The road rose at a steeppitch, cliff to the right, precipice to the left, stretching on and upto the summit of the pass.

  Suddenly Pronto shied violently, tried to bolt up the cliff, scramblinggoatwise for twenty feet to stand shivering and snorting. Sandy'sbalance was automatic, the muscles of his knees clamped for grip, hegave the pinto its head, trusting to it to establish footing. He sawSam's roan dancing in the trail, the led mare plunging, dust rising allabout them. Left-handed, a Colt flashed out of Sandy's holster, barkedtwice, the echoes tossing between the canyon walls. In the road arattlesnake writhed, headless, its body, thicker than a man's wrist,checkered in dirty gray and chocolate diamonds.

  "Git down there, you hysteric son of a gun," he said to the horse. "It'sall over." The pinto hesitated, shifted unwilling hoofs, squatted on itshaunches and, tail sweeping the dirt, tobogganed down to the road,jumping catwise the moment it was reached, away from the squirmingterror. Sandy forced him back, leaned far down, tucked the barrel of thegun under the snake's body and hurled it looping into the gorge. Sam gothis roan and the mare under control as the dust subsided.

  "More'n a dozen buttons," said Sandy. "Listen!"

  Grit, unseen, ahead, was barking in staccato volleys. There was anothersound, a faint shout, unmistakably; human. The men looked at each otherwith eyebrows raised.

  "That ain't no man's voice," said Sam. "That's a gal." He lookedquizzically at Sandy, knowing his chum's inhibition.

  Sandy was woman-shy. Men met his level glance, fairly, with swiftcertainty that here stood a man, four-square; or shiftily, according totheir ease of conscience, knowing his breed. Sandy was a two-gun man buthe was not a killer. There were no notches on the handles of his Colts.In earlier days he had shot with deadly aim and purpose, but never savein self-defense and upon the side of law and right and order. Among menhis poise was secure but, in a woman's presence, Sandy Bourke's tonguewas tied save in emergency, his wits tangled. Whatever he privately feltof the attraction of the opposite sex, the proximity of a girl produc
edan embarrassment he hated but could not help. He had seen admiration,desire for closer acquaintance, in many a fair face but such invitationaffected him as the sight of a circling loop affects a horse in aremuda.

  He gave Sam no chance for banter. Action was forward and it alwaysstraightened out the short-circuitings of Sandy's mental reflexes towardwomankind. He touched Pronto's flanks with the dulled rowels he wore,and the pinto broke into a lope. A big boulder was perched upon the nighside of the road. Grit came out from behind it, barked, whirled andseemingly dived into the canyon. Coming up with the mare, Sam found Sandydismounted, waiting for him.

  What had happened was plain to both of them. The rotten, hastily maderoad collapsed under the lurch of a wagon jolting over outcrop uncoveredby the rains. Scored dirt where frantic hoofs had pawed in vain, tiremarks that ended in side scrapes and vanished.

  Sam got off the roan, the tired horses standing still, snuffing themarks of trouble. Far down the slope Grit gave tongue. The cliffshouldered out and they could see nothing from the broken road. How anyone could have hurtled over the precipice and be still able to call forhelp without the aid of some miracle was an enigma. They listened foranother shout but, save for the barking of the dog, there was silencein the grim gorge. In the sky, two buzzards wheeled.

  Sandy poured a scant measure of water from his canteen into thepunched-in crown of his Stetson, after he had knocked out the dust. Samdid the same, giving each horse a mouth-rinse and a swallow of tepidwater so they would stand more contentedly. Each took a swift swig fromthe containers. Sandy untied the package of food and the leathermedicine kit, Sam slapped his hip to be sure of his whisky flask. Aidedby their high heels, digging them in the unstable dirt, they worked downthe cliff, rounding the shoulder.

  A wide ledge of outcrop jutted out from the canyon wall jagged intobattlements. Piled there was a wagon, on its side, the canvas tiltsagged in, its hoops broken. A white horse, emaciated, little more thanbuzzard meat when alive, lay with its legs stiff in the air, neckflattened and head limp. A broken pole, with splintered ends, crossedthe body of its mate, a bay, gaunt-hipped, high of ribs. It lay still,but its flanks heaved, catching a flash of sun on its dull hide.

  Between the wheels of the wagon knelt a girl in a gown of faded blue,head hidden behind a sunbonnet. She leaned forward in the shadow of thewagon. Sandy caught a glimpse of a huddled body beyond her. Grit sat onhis haunches, head toward the road, thrown back at each bark. Sandyreached the ledge first. The girl did not turn her head, though hisdescent was noisy. He touched her gently on the shoulder, tellinghimself that she was "just a kid."

  She looked up, her face lined where tears had laned down through themask of dust. Now she was past crying. Her eyes met Sandy's pitifully,holding neither surprise nor hope.

  "He's dead." She seemed to be stating a fact long accepted.

  "He's dead. An' he made me jump. You come too late, mister."

  The man lay stretched out, head and shoulders hidden, his gaunt bodydressed in jeans, once blue, long since washed and sun-faded to thegreen of turquoise matrix. The boots were rusty, patched. The wagon-bed,toppling sidewise, had crashed down on his chest. Rock partly supportedthe weight of it. Sandy picked up a gnarled hand, scarred, calloused andshrunken, the hand of an old prospector.

  "Yore dad?" he asked, kneeling by the girl.

  "Yes." She stood up, slight and straight, with limbs and body justcurving into womanhood. "The hawsses was tuckered out," she said, "orDad c'ud have made it. They didn't have no strength left, 'thout food orwater. The damned road jest slid out from under. Dad made me jump. Ifiggered he was goin' to, but his bad leg must have caught in the brake.We slid over like water slides over a rock. He didn't have ahell-chance." As she spoke them the oaths were merely emphasis. Shetalked as had her father.

  Sandy nodded.

  "Got an ax with the outfit?" he asked. Then turning to Sam as the girlwent round to the back of the fallen wagon and fumbled about throughthe rear opening of the canvas tilt: "Man's alive, Sam. Caught a flirtof the pulse. Have to pry up the wagon. Git that bu'sted end of thetongue."

  The girl handed an ax to Sandy mutely, watching them as Sandy priedloose the part of the tongue still bolted to the wagon, getting it clearof the horses.

  "Think you can drag out yore dad by the laigs when we lift the body ofthe wagon?" he asked her. "May not be able to hold it more'n a fewseconds. May slip on us, the levers is pritty short."

  She stooped, taking hold of a wrinkled boot in each hand, back of theheel. A tear splashed down on one of them and she shook the salt waterfrom her eyes impatiently as if she had faced tragedy before and knew itmust be looked at calmly.

  The two men adjusted the boulders they had set for fulcrums and shoveddown on the stout pieces of ash, their muscles bunching, the veinsstanding out corded on their arms. Grit ran from one to the other witheager little whines, sensing what was being attempted, eager to help.The wagon-bed creaked, lifted a little.

  "Now," grunted Sandy, "snake him out."

  The girl tugged, stepping backward, her pliant strength equal to thedead drag of the body. Sandy, straining down, saw a white beard appear,stained with blood, an aged seamed face, hollow at cheek and temple,sparse of hair, the flesh putty-colored despite its tan. Grit leaped inand licked the quiet features as Sam and Sandy eased down the wagon.

  "Whisky, Sam."

  The girl sat cross-legged, her father's head in her lap, one handsmoothing his forehead while the other felt under his vest and shirt,above his heart.

  "He ain't gone yit," she announced.

  The old miner's teeth were tight clenched, but there were gaps in themthrough which the whisky Sandy administered trickled.

  "Daddy! Daddy!"

  It might have been the tender agony of the cry to which Patrick Casey'sdulling brain responded, sending the message of his will along thenerves to transmit a final summons. His body twitched, he choked,swallowed, opened gray eyes, filmy with death, brightening withintelligence as he saw his daughter bending over him, the face of Sandyabove her shoulder. The gray eyes interrogated Sandy's long andearnestly until the light began to fade out of them and the wrinkledlids shuttered down.

  Another swallow of the raw spirits and they opened flutteringly again.The lips moved soundlessly. Then, while one hand groped waveringlyupward to rest upon his daughter's head, Sandy, bending low, caughtthree syllables, repeated over and over, desperately, mere ghosts ofwords, taxing cruelly the last breath of the wheezing lungs beneath thebattered ribs, the final spurt of the spirit.

  "_Molly--mines!_"

  "I'll look out for that, pardner," said Sandy.

  The eyelids fluttered, the old hands fell away, the jaw relaxed,serenity came to the lined face, and no little dignity. For the firsttime the girl gave way, lying prone, sobbing out her grief while the twocowmen looked aside. The bay horse began to groan and writhe.

  "Got to kill that cavallo," said Sam in a whisper.

  "Wait a minute." The girl had quieted, was kneeling with clasped hands,lips moving silently. Prayer, such as it was, over, she rose, her fiststight closed, striving to control her quivering chin--doing it. Shelooked up as the shadow of a buzzard was flung against the cliff by theslanting sun.

  "We got to bury him, 'count of them damn buzzards."

  "We'll tend to that," said Sandy. "Ef you-all 'll take the dawg on up tothe hawsses...."

  "No! I helped to bury Jim Clancy, out in the desert, I'm goin' to helpbury Dad. It's goin' to be lonesome out here--" She twisted her mouth,setting teeth into the lower lip sharply as she gazed at the desolatecliffs, the birds swinging their tireless, expectant circles in thethroat of the gorge.

  "Dad allus figgered he'd die somewheres in the desert. 'Lowed it 'ud behis luck. He wanted to be put within the sound of runnin' water--he'sgone so often 'thout it. But--" She shrugged her thin shouldersresignedly, the inheritance of the prospector's philosophy strong withinher.

  "See here, miss," said Sandy, while Sam crawled into the wa
gon in searchof the dead miner's pick and shovel that now, instead of uncoveringriches, would dig his grave, "how old air you?"

  "Fifteen. My name's Margaret--Molly for short--same as my Ma. She's beendead for twelve years."

  "Well, Miss Molly, suppose you-all come on to the Three Star fo' a spellwith my two pardners an' me? You do that an' mebbe we can fix yoredaddy's idee about runnin' water. We'd come back an' git him an' we'llmake a place fo' him under our big cottonwoods below the big spring. Iw'udn't wonder but what he c'ud hear the water gugglin' plain as it runsdown the overflow to the alfalfa patches."

  Molly Casey gazed at him with such a sudden glow of gratitude in hereyes that Sandy felt embarrassed. He had been comforting a girl, aboyish girl, and here a woman looked at him, with understanding.

  "Yo're sure a white man," she said. "I'll git even with you some time ifI work the bones of my fingers through the flesh fo' you. Thanks don'tamount to a damn 'thout somethin' back of 'em. I'll come through."

  She put out her roughened little hand, man-fashion, and Sandy took it asSam emerged from the wagon with the tools. The bay mare groaned and gavea shrill cry, horribly human. Sam drew his gun, putting down pick andshovel.

  "Got any water you c'ud spare?" asked the girl. Sandy handed her hiscanteen.

  "Use it all," he said. "Soon's it's dark, it'll cool off. We'll gitthrough all right."

  He picked up the tools and moved toward Sam as the bay collapsed to themerciful bullet. The girl washed away as best she could the stains ofblood and travel from the dead face while Sandy sounded with the pickfor soil deep enough for a temporary grave.

  The body would have to lie on the ledge over night, nothing but burialcould save it from marauding coyotes, though the wagon might havebaffled the buzzards. The two set to work digging a shallow trench downto bedrock, rolling up loose boulders for a cairn. The whirring chorusof the cicadas drummed an elfin requiem. Now and then there came thechink of bit, or hoof on rock, from the waiting horses in the brokenroad. The sun was low, horizontal rays piercing the flood of violet hazein the canyon. Across the gorge the cliff, above the wash of shadow,glowed saffron; a light wind wailed down the bore. Lizards flirted inand out of the crevices as the miner was laid in his temporary grave,the girl dry-eyed again.

  She had brought a little work box from the wagon, of mahogany studdedwith disks of pearl in brass mountings. Out of this she produced ahandkerchief of soft China silk brocade, its white turned yellow withage. This she spread over her father's features, showing strangelydistinct in the failing light.

  "I don't want the dirt pressin' on his face," she said.

  From the dead man's clothes Sandy and Sam had taken the few personalbelongings, from the inner pocket of the vest some papers that Sandyknew for location claims.

  "Want to take some duds erlong to the ranch?" he asked Molly. "We canbring in the rest of the stuff later. Got to shack erlong, it's gittin'dark. Brought an extry hawss with us. Can you ride?"

  "Some. I ain't had much chance."

  "Don't know how the mare'll stand yore skirt. If she won't Pinto'll packyou."

  "I'll fix that." She clambered into the wagon. Before she came out withher bundle they piled the cairn, a mask of broken rim-rock heavy enoughto foil the scratching of coyotes.

  It looked to Sandy as if the girl had changed into a boy. The slenderfigure, silhouetted against the afterglow, softly pulsing masses offiery cloud above the top of the mesa, was dressed in jean overalls, awide-rimmed hat hiding length of hair.

  "I reckon I can fool that hawss of yores now," she said. "I gen'allydress thisaway 'cept when we expect to go nigh the settlements or aranch where we aim to visit. We was makin' for the Two-Bar-P outfit,where Grit came from when he was a bit of a pup. I expected that's wherehe was headin' for when I sent him off after help, but you comeinstead."

  "I was wonderin' how he come to make the ranch," said Sandy. "You seewe-all bought the Two-Bar-P, though I never figgered old Samson 'ud everown a sheepdawg. He might give one away fast enough."

  "Grit was sent him for a present by a man who summered at the ranch an'heerd Samson say he wanted a dawg," said the girl. "He was a tenderfootwhen he come, an' when he left, 'count bein' sick. Samson didn't wantto kill the dawg an' didn't want to keep him, so he gave him to Dad an'me when I was ten years old. Are you ready to start?"

  She had avoided looking toward the grave, purposely Sandy thought,talking to bridge over the last good-by, the chance of a breakdown.Suddenly she pointed down the cliff.

  "Wait a minute," she cried and disappeared, sliding and leaping downlike a goat, reappearing with her hat half filled with crimsonsilk-petaled cactus blooms, scattering them at the head of the cairn.

  "Seemed like there jest had to be flowers," she said as, with Gritnosing close to his mistress, they mounted to the road. The gray maremade no bother and soon they were riding down toward the strip of BadLands. Sandy let the collie go afoot for the time.

  The glory of the range departed, the cliffs turned slate color, thenblack, while a host of stars marshaled and burned without flicker. Thewind moaned through the trough of the canyon as they rode out on theplain. Up somewhere in the darkness the buzzards came circling down, tosettle on the ledge beside the carcasses of the two horses.

  It was close to midnight when they reached the home ranch, riding pastthe outbuildings, the bunk-house of the men where a light twinkled, thecook shack, the corrals, up to the main house. There they alighted. Allabout cottonwoods rustled in the dark, the air was sweet and cool, notfar from frost. Molly Casey shivered as she moved stiffly in hersaddle. Sandy lifted her from the saddle and carried her up the steps,across the porch, kicking open the door of the living-room where theembers of a fire glowed. There was no other light in the big room, butthere was sufficient to show the great form of Mormon, stowed at ease ina chair, asleep and snoring.

  Sam struck a match and lit a lamp. He struck Mormon mightily between hisshoulders.

  "Gawd!" gasped the heavyweight partner. "I been asleep. But there's akittle of hot water, Sandy. Where's the--what in time are you totin'? Agel or a boy?"

  "This is Miss Molly Casey," said Sandy gravely, setting down the girl."Miss Casey, this is Mr. Peters. Mormon, Miss Molly is goin' to tie upto the Three Star for a bit."

  Mormon, a little sheepish at the suddenly developing age of the girl asshe shook hands with him, recovered himself and beamed at her. "Yo'resure welcome," he said. "Boss hired you? Cowgirl or cook?"

  Sandy noticed the girl's lips quiver and he slipped an arm about hershoulders. He was not woman-shy with this girl who needed help, and whoseemed a boy.

  "Don't you take no notice of him an' his kiddin'," he said. "We'll makehim rustle some grub fo' all of us an' then we-all 'll turn in. I'llshow you yore room. Up the stairs an' the last door on the right. Here'ssome matches. There's a lamp on the bureau up there. Give you a callwhen supper's ready."

  He led her to the door and gave her a friendly little shove, guessingthat she wanted to be alone.

  "The kid's lost her father, lost most everything 'cept her dawg," hesaid to Mormon. "Thought we might adopt her, sort of, then I thoughtmebbe we'd hire her--for mascot."

  "Lost her daddy? An' me hornin' in an' tryin' to kid her! I ain't gotthe sense of a drowned gopher, sometimes," said Mormon contritely.

  "She's game, plumb through, ain't she, Sam? Stands right up to trouble?"

  "You bet. Mormon, open up a can of greengages, will ye? I reckon she'sgot a sweet tooth, same as me."

  Molly Casey was not through standing up to trouble. They coaxed her toeat and she managed to make a meal that satisfied them. Then she got upto go to her room, with Grit nuzzling close to her, her fingers in hisruff, twisting nervously at the strands of hair.

  "Do you reckon," she asked the three partners, "that Dad knows he fooledme when he told me to jump? If I'd known he c'udn't git clear I'd havestuck--same as he would if I was caught. Do you reckon he knowsthat--now?"

  "I'd be surprised if he
didn't," said Sandy gravely. "You did what hewanted, anyway."

  She shook her head.

  "If I'd been on the outside, he w'udn't have jumped, no matter how muchI begged him. I didn't think of the brake. Don't seem quite square,somehow, way I acted. Good night. What time do you-all git up?"

  "With the sun, soon's the big bell rings," said Sandy. "Good night."

  She looked at them gravely and went out.

  "Botherin' about playin' square in jumpin'," said Sandy. "That gel issquare on all twelve eidges. Sam, slide out an' muzzle that bell. She'lllikely cry herself to sleep after a bit but she'll need all the sleepshe can git. No sense in wakin' her up at sun-up."

  "How'd you come to know so much about gels?" asked Mormon.

  "Me? I don't know the first thing about 'em," protested Sandy.

  "No more'n any man," put in Sam. "'Cept it's Mormon. He's sure had theexperience."

  "Experience," said Mormon, with a yawn, "may teach a man somethin' aboutmules but not wimmen. Woman is like the climate of the state of Kansas,where I was born. Thirty-four below at times and as high as one-sixteenabove. Blowin' hot an' cold, rangin' from a balmy breeze through a rainshower or a thunder-storm, up to a snortin' tornado. Average number ofworkin' days, about one hundred an' fifty. Them's statistics. It ain'tso hard to set down what a woman's done at the end of a year, if you gota good mem'ry, but tryin' to guess what she is goin' to do has got theweather man backed off inter a corner an' squealin' for help. They ain'tall like Kansas. My first resembled it, the second was sortertropic--she run off with a rainmaker an' I hear she's been divorcedthree times since then. Mebbe that's an exaggeration. My third musthave been born someways nigh the no'th pole. W'en she got mad she'dfreeze the blood in yore veins.

  "No, sir, that feller in the po'try who says, 'I learned about wimmenfrom 'er,' was braggin'. Now, this gel of Casey's 'pears like what herdad 'ud call a good prospect, but you can't tell. Fool's gold is brightenough but you can't change it to the real stuff no matter how youpolish it."

  "Ever see the sour-milk batter Pedro fixes fo' hot cakes?" asked Sam.

  "Sure I have. What's that got to do with it?" demanded Mormon.

  "That's what you've got sloppin' inside of yore haid 'stead of brains.Yore disposition concernin' wimmen is gen'ally soured. You 'mind me ofthe man from New Jersey who come out west to buy a ranch. A hawssthrowed him five times hand-runnin'. He ropes a steer that happens torun into the bum loop he was swingin' an' it snakes him out'n thesaddle. A pesky cow chases him when he was afoot, a couple calves gits arope twisted round his stummick an' lastly a mule kicks him into a bunchof cactus. Whereupon he remarks, 'I don't figger I was calculated forrunnin' a cattle ranch,' sells out an' goes back to herdin' muskeetersin New Jersey.

  "Mormon, you warn't calculated to handle wimmen. This li'l' gel is gameas they make 'em, an' I reckon she's right sweet if she on'y gits achance. Leastwise, I see several signs of pay dirt this afternoon an'evenin' as I reckon Sandy done the same. She's been trailin' her dad allover hell an' creation, talkin' like him, swearin' like him, actin' likehim. Never see nothin' different. All she needs is a chance."

  "What's the idee in pickin' on me?" asked Mormon aggrievedly. "She's aswelcome as grass in spring. They ain't no one got a bigger heart than mefo' kids."

  "No one got a bigger heart, mebbe," said Sam caustically. "Nor none asmaller brain. All engine an' no gasoline in the tank!"

  "She's an orphan," went on Sandy. "She ain't got a cent that I know of.The claims her old dad mentioned ain't no good because, in the firstplace, they'd have been worked if they was; second place, they're overto Dynamite an' the sharps say Dynamite's a flivver. All she has insight is the dawg. Some dawg! Comes in from the desert an' takes us outto her an' Pat Casey--him dyin'. Ef it hadn't been fo' the dawg, she'dhave stayed there, to my notion. Got some sort of idee she'd desertedship ef she hadn't stuck till it was too late fo' her to crawl out ofthat slit in the mesa. She's fifteen an' she's got sense. I figger webetter turn in right now an' hold a pow-wow with the gel ter-morrer."

  "Second the motion," said Sam.

  "Third it," said Mormon.

  And the Three Musketeers of the Range went off to bed.