Rimrock Trail

by J. Allan Dunn

  CHAPTER IV

  SANDY CALLS THE TURN

  It was a week after Plimsoll's dismissal from the Three Star premises,that one of the riders, coming back from Hereford with the mail, broughtrumors of a new strike at Dynamite. Neither of the partners paid muchattention to a report so often revived by rumor and as swiftly dying outagain. But the man said that Plimsoll had stated that he expected to goover to the mining camp in the interests of claims located by PatrickCasey in which he had a half-interest, by reason of having grubstakedthe prospector.

  "There's the thorn under _that_ saddle," said Sandy to Mormon. "That'swhat Jim Plimsoll meant by his 'deal.' I don't believe he'd stir upthings unless he was fairly sure there was something doin' oveh toDynamite. He may be wrong but he usually tries to bet safe."

  "Molly's father located Dynamite, didn't he?"

  "So she tells me. Hopeful, as he called it. Seems he picked up some richfloat. This float was where a dyke of porphyry comes up to the surfacean' got weathered away down to the pay ore. Leastwise, this was herdad's theory. He told her everything he thought as they shacked erlongtogether, I reckon, an' she remembers it. He figgers this sylvanite liesunder this porphyry reef, sabe? Porphyry snakes underground, sometimesfifty feet thick, sometimes twice that, an' hard as steel. Matter ofluck where you hit it how fur you have to go. Cost too much time an'labor an' money for the crowd that made up the rush to stay with it,'less some one of them hits it at grass roots an' stahts a real boomatop of the rush. They don't an' Hopeful becomes Hopeless. Me, I gotfo'-five chances to grubstake in that time, but I'm broke. I reckonCasey's claims, which is now Molly's claims, is the pick of the camp.Not much doubt, from what I pick up, that he was sure a good miner. Oneof the ol' Desert Rats that does the locatin' fo' some one else to gitthe money.

  "Molly ses her dad never grubstaked. She don't lie an' she was close tothe old man. Mo' like pardners than dad an' daughter. Plimsoll smellssomethin'. Figgers there's somethin' in the rumor an' stahts this talkof bein' pardners with Casey 'cause there's a strike. Me, I'm goin' totake a pasear to town soon an' I'll have a li'l' conversation with Jimthe Gambolier."

  "Count me in on that," said Sam.

  "Me too," said Mormon.

  "Can't all three leave the ranch to once," demurred Sandy.

  The half-breed came sleepily round the corner of the ranch-house andstruck at the gong for the breakfast call. The vibrations flooded theair with wave after wave of barbaric sound and Joe pounded, withawakening delight in the savage noise and rhythm, until Sandy, afteryelling uselessly, threw a rock at him and hit him between theshoulders, whereupon the light died out of his face and he shuffledaway.

  With the boom of the gong, daylight leaped up from the rim of the world.In the east the mountains seemed artificial, sharply profiled like atheatrical setting, a slate-purple in color. To the west, the sharpcrests were luminous with a halo that stole down them, staining themrose. With the jump of the sun everything took on color and lost form,plain and hills swimming, seeming to be composed of vapor, the shapes ofthe mountains shifting every second, tenuous, smoky. The air was crisp,making the fingers tingle. The riders came from their bunk-houses,yawning, sloshing a hasty toilet at a trough with good-natured banter,hurrying on to the shack, where Joe tendered them the prodigious arrayof viands provided by Pedro, who waited himself on the three partnersand the girl, at the ranch-house. The smell of bacon and hot coffeespiced the air. Sam, twisting his mustache, led the way.

  "Smells like somethin' in the line of new bread to me," he said. "Breador--it ain't _biscuits_, Molly?"

  "Sure is." Molly came in with a plate piled high with biscuits that wereevidently the present pride of her heart. "Made a-plenty," sheannounced. "Had to wrastle Pedro away from the stove an' I ain't quiteon to that oven yet, but they look good, don't they?"

  "They sure do," said Sandy, taking one to break and butter it. Theeagerness with which his jaws clamped down upon it died into ameditative chewing as of a cow uncertain about the quality of her cud.He swallowed, took a deep swig of coffee and deliberately went on withhis biscuit. Mormon and Sam solemnly followed his example while Mollybeamed at them.

  "You don't _say_ they're good?" she said.

  "Too busy eating," said Sandy. And winked at Sam.

  Molly caught the wink, took a biscuit, buttered it, bit into it.

  Camp-bread and biscuits, eaten in the open, garnished with thewilderness sauce that creates appetite, eaten piping hot, are mightypalatable though the dough is mixed with water and shortening islacking. As a camp cook, Molly was a success. Confused with Pedro'soffer of lard and a stove that was complicated compared to her Dutchkettle, the result was a bitter failure that she acknowledged as soon asher teeth met through the deceptive crust.

  Molly was slow to tears and quick to wrath. She picked up the plate ofbiscuits and marched out with them, her back very straight. In thekitchen the three partners heard first the smash of crockery, then thebang of a pan, a staccato volley of words. She came in again,empty-handed, eyes blazing.

  "There's no bread. Pedro's makin' hot cakes." Then, as they looked ather solemnly: "You think you're damned smart, don't you, tryin' to foolme, purtendin' they was good when they'd pizen the chickens? I hatefolks who _act_ lies, same as them that speaks 'em."

  "I've tasted worse," said Mormon. "Honest I have, Molly. My first wifeput too much saleratus an' salt in at first but, after a bit, she was awonder--as a cook."

  Molly, as always, melted to his grin.

  "I ain't got no mo' manners than a chuckawaller," she said penitently."Sandy, would you bring me a cook-book in from town?"

  "Got one somewheres around."

  "No we ain't. Mormon used the leaves for shavin'," said Sam. "Lastwinter. W'udn't use his derned ol' catalogue."

  "I'll git one," said Sandy. "Here's the hot cakes."

  They devoured the savory stacks, spread with butter and sage-honey, incomparative silence. There came the noise of the riders going off forthe day's duties laid out by Sam, acting foreman for the month. Sandygot up and went to the window, turning in mock dismay.

  "Here comes that Bailey female," he announced. "Young Ed Bailey drivin'the flivver. Sure stahted bright an' early. Wonder what she's nosin'afteh now? Mormon--an' you, Sam," he added sharply, "you'll stick aroundtill she goes. Sabe? I don't aim to be talked to death an' then pickledby her vinegar, like I was las' time she come oveh."

  A tinny machine, in need of paint, short of oil, braked squeakingly asa horn squawked and the auto halted by the porch steps. Young Ed Baileyslung one leg over another disproportionate limb, glanced at thewindows, rolled a cigarette and lit it. His aunt, tall, gaunt, clad instarched dress and starched sunbonnet, with a rigidity of spine andfeature that helped the fancy that these also had been starched,descended, strode across the porch and entered the living-room, herbright eyes darting all about, needling Molly, taking in every detail.

  "Out lookin' fo' a stray," she announced. "Red-an'-white heifer we hadup to the house for milkin'. Got rambuncterous an' loped off. Had onehorn crumpled. Rawhide halter, ef she ain't got rid of it. You ain'tseen her, hev you?"

  "No m'm, we ain't. No strange heifer round the Three Star that answersthat description." Sam winked at Molly, who was flushing under theinspection of Miranda Bailey, maiden sister of the neighbor owner of theDouble-Dumbbell Ranch. He fancied the missing milker an excuse if not anactual invention to furnish opportunity for a visit to the Three Star,an inspection of Molly Casey and subsequent gossip. "You-all air up todate," he said, "ridin' herd in a flivver."

  "I see a piece in the paper the other day," she said, "about men playin'a game with autos 'stead of hawsses--polo it was called--an' anotherpiece about cowboys cuttin' out an' ropin' from autos. Hawsses ispassin'. Science is replacin' of 'em."

  "Reckon they'll last my time," drawled Sandy. "I hear they aim to rollfood up in pills an' do us cattlemen out of a livin'. But I ain'tworryin'. Me, I prefers steaks--somethin' I can set my teeth in. Ireckon there's m
o' like me. Let me make you 'quainted with Miss Bailey,Molly. This is Molly Casey, whose dad is dead. Molly, if you-all want toskip out an' tend to them chickens, hop to it."

  Molly caught the suggestion that was more than a hint and started forthe door. The woman checked her with a question.

  "How old air you, Molly Casey?"

  The girl turned, her eyes blank, her manner charged with indifferencethat unbent to be polite.

  "Fifteen." And she went out.

  "H'm," said Miranda Bailey, "fifteen. Worse'n I imagined."

  Sandy's eyebrows went up. The breath that carried his words might havecome from a refrigerator.

  "You goin' back in the flivver?" he asked, "or was you aimin' to keepa-lookin' fo' that red-an'-white heifer?"

  Miranda sniffed.

  "I'm goin', soon's as I've said somethin' in the way of a word of advicean' warnin', seein' as how I happened this way. It's a woman's matter orI wouldn't meddle. But, what with talk goin' round Hereford insettin'-rooms, in restyrongs, in kitchens, as well as in dance-halls an'gamblin' hells where they sell moonshine, it's time it was carried toyou which is most concerned, I take it, for the good of the child, notto mention yore own repitashuns."

  "Where was it _you_ heard it, ma'am?" asked Sam politely.

  "Where you never would, Mister Soda-Water Sam-u-el Manning," sheflashed. "In the parlor of the Baptis' Church. I ain't much time an' Iain't goin' to waste it to mince matters. Here's a gel, a'most a woman,livin' with you three bachelor men."

  "I've been married," ventured Mormon.

  "So I understand. Where's yore wife?"

  "One of 'em's dead, one of 'em's divorced an' I don't rightly sabe wherethe third is, nor I ain't losin' weight concernin' that neither."

  "More shame to you. You're one of these women-haters, I s'pose?"

  "No m'm, I ain't. That's been my trouble. I admire the sex but I've beena bad picker. I'm jest a woman-dodger."

  Miranda's sniff turned into a snort.

  "I ain't heard nothin' much ag'in' you men, I'll say that," sheconceded. "I reckon you-all think I've jest come hornin' in on whatain't my affair. Mebbe that's so. If you've figgered this out same way Ihave, tell me an' I'll admit I'm jest an extry an' beg yore pardons."

  "Miss Bailey," said Sandy, his manner changed to courtesy, "I believeyou've come here to do us a service--an' Molly likewise. So fur's I sabethere's been some remahks passed concernin' her stayin' here 'thout achaperon, so to speak. Any one that 'ud staht that sort of talk is ablood relation to a centipede an' mebbe I can give a guess as to who itis. I reckon I can persuade him to quit."

  "Mebbe, but you can't stop what's started any more'n a horn-toad canstop a landslide, Sandy Bourke. You can't kill scandal with gunplay. Thegel's too young, in one way, an' not young enough in another, to bestayin' on at the Three Star. You oughter have sense enough to knowthat. Ef one of you was married, or had a wife that 'ud stay with you,it 'ud be different. Or if there was a woman housekeeper to the outfit."

  "That ain't possible," put in Mormon. "I told you I'm a woman-dodger.Sandy here is woman-shy. Sam is wedded to his mouth-organ."

  The flivver horn squawked outside. Miranda pointed her finger at Sandy.

  "There's chores waitin' fo' me. I didn't come off at daylight jest to bespyin', whatever you men may think. You either got to git a grown womanhere or send the gel away, fo' her own good, 'fore the talk gits soit'll shadder her life. I ain't married. I don't expect to be, but Iaimed to be, once, 'cept for a dirty bit of gossip that started in myhome town 'thout a word of truth in it. Now, I've said my say, you-alltalk it over."

  Sandy went to the door with her, helped her into the machine. Itshudderingly gathered itself together and wheezed off; he came back withhis face serious.

  "She's right," he said.

  "Mormon," said Sam, "it's up to you. Advertise fo' Number Three to comeback--all is forgiven--or git you a divo'ce, it's plumb easy oveh in thenex' state--an' pick a good one this time."

  "We got to send her away," said Sandy. "Me, I'm goin' into Herefo'dto-night. I aim to git a cook-book, interview Jim Plimsoll an' thenbu'st his bank. One of you come erlong. Match fo' it."

  "Bu'st the bank what with?" asked Sam.

  Sandy produced the ten-dollar luck-piece and held it up.

  "This. Mormon, choose yore side."

  "Heads."

  Sandy flipped the coin. It fell with a golden ring on the floor."Tails," said Sandy inspecting it. "You come, Sam. Staht afteh noon. Oilup yore gun."

  "I knowed I'd lose," said Mormon dolefully. "Dang my luck anyway."

  It was a little after seven o'clock when Sandy and Sam walked out of theCactus Restaurant, leaving their ponies hitched to the rail in front.They strolled down the main street of Hereford across the railroadtracks to where the "Brisket," as the cowboys styled the little town'stenderloin, huddled its collection of shacks, with their false frontsfaced to the dusty street and their rear entrances, still cumbered withcases of empty bottles and idle kegs, turned to the almost dry bed ofthe creek. The signs of ante-prohibition days, blistered and faded, werestill in place. Light showed in windows where fly-specked uselesslicenses were displayed. Back of the bars a melancholy array ofsoda-water advertised lack of interest in soft drinks. The front roomsheld no loungers, but the click of chips and murmurs of talk came frombehind closed doors.

  Sandy stopped outside the place labeled "Good Luck Pool Parlors. J.Plimsoll, Prop." The line "Best Liquor and Cigars" was half smeared out.He patted gently the butts of the two Colts in the holsters, whose endswere tied down to the fringe ornaments of his chaps. Sam stroked hisropey mustache and eased the gun at his hip. Sandy pushed open the doorand went in. A man was playing Canfield at a table in the deserted bar.As the pair entered he looked up with a "Howdy, gents?" shoving back arickety table and chair noisily on the uneven floor. The inner doorswung silently as at a signal and Jim Plimsoll came out. He stiffened alittle at the sight of the Three Star men and then grinned at Sam.

  "How was the last bottle, Soda-Water?" he asked. "You didn't have tochange your name with Prohibition, did you? Nor your habits."

  "Main thing that's changed is the quality of yore booze--an' the price,neither fo' the better," said Sam carelessly.

  "We ain't drinkin' ter-night, Jim," said Sandy. "Dropped in to hev ali'l' talk with you an' then take a buck at the tiger."

  Plimsoll's eyes glittered.

  "Said talk bein' private," continued Sandy.

  Plimsoll threw a glance at the man who had been posted for lookout andhe left with a curious gaze that took in Sandy's guns.

  "Sorry I was away from the ranch, time you called," said Sandy, sittingwith one leg thrown over the corner of the table. "Hope to be there nex'time. I hear you-all claim to have an interest in Pat Casey's minin'locations, his interest now bein' his daughter's?"

  "That any of your business?"

  "I aim to make it my business," replied Sandy.

  For a moment the two men fought a pitched battle with their eyes. It wasa warfare that Sandy Bourke was an expert in. The steel of his glanceoften saved him the lead in his cartridges. Jim Plimsoll was no fool towage uneven contest. He fancied he would have the advantage over Sandylater, if the pair really meant to play faro--in his place.

  "I grubstaked him for the Hopeful-Dynamite discovery," he said.

  "Got any papeh showin' that? Witnessed."

  "You know as well as I do that papers ain't often drawn on grubstakingcontracts. A man's word is considered good."

  "Pat Casey's would have been, I reckon," said Sandy.

  "I've got witnesses."

  "Well, we'll let that matteh slide till the mines make a showin'.Meantime, there's talk goin' on in this town concernin' the gel an' herlivin' at Three Star. I look to you to contradict that so't of gossip,Plimsoll, from now on."

  Plimsoll flushed angrily.

  "Who in hell do you think you are?" he demanded. "Who appointed youcensor to any man's speech?"

  "A _
man's_ speech don't have to be censored, Plimsoll. An' I reckon youknow who I am."

  "You come here looking for trouble, with me?"

  "I never hunt trouble, Jim. If I can't help buttin' into it, like a manmight ride into a rattlesnake in the mesquite, I aim to handle it. Ef Iever got into real trouble, an' it resembled you, I'd make you climb sofast, Plimsoll, you'd wish you had horns on yore knees an' eyebrows."

  Plimsoll forced a laugh. "Fair warning, Sandy. I never raise a fuss witha two-gun man. It ain't healthy. You've got me wrong in this matter."

  "Glad to hear it. Then there won't be no argyment. Game open?"

  "Wide. An' a little hundred-proof stuff to take the alkali out of yourthroats. How about it?"

  "I don't drink when I'm playin'. I aim to break the bank ter-night. I'mfeelin' lucky. Brought my mascot erlong."

  "Meaning Sam here?"

  All three laughed for a mutual clearance of the situation. Sandy hadsaid what he wanted and knew that Plimsoll interpreted it correctly.They went into the back room amicably after Plimsoll had recalled hislookout.

  There was little to indicate the passing of the Volstead Act in the GoodLuck Pool Room, where the tables had long ago been taken out, though thecue racks still stood in place. The place was foul with smoke and reekedwith the fumes of expensive but indifferently distilled liquor.Hereford--the "brisket" end of it--had never been fussy about mixeddrinks. Redeye was, and continued to be, the favorite. A faro and aroulette game, with a craps table, made up the equipment, outside ofhalf a dozen small tables given over to stud and draw poker.

  Some fifty men were present, most of them playing. Many of them noddedat Sandy and Sam as they walked over to the faro layout and stoodlooking on. Plimsoll left them and went back to a table near the door,where his chair was turned down at a game of draw. He started talking ina low tone to the man seated next to him. The first interest of theirentrance soon died out. The dealer at faro went on imperturbably slidingcard after card out of the case, the case-keeper fingered the buttons onthe wires of his abacus and the players shifted their chips about thelayout or nervously shuffled them between the fingers of one hand.

  Sandy knew the dealer for Sim Hahn, a man whose livelihood lay in thedexterity of his slim well-kept fingers and his ability to reckon thebets; swiftly to drag in or pay out losings and winnings without anerror. His face was without a wrinkle, clean-shaven, every slick blackhair in place, the flesh wax-like. He held a record--whispered, notattested--of having more than once beaten a protesting gambler to thedraw and then subscribing to the funeral. As he came to the last turn,with three cards left in the box, he paused, waiting for bets to bemade. His eyes met Sandy's and he nodded. Three men named the order ofthe last three cards. None of them guessed the right one of the six waysin which they might have appeared. Hahn took in, paid out, shuffled thecards for a new deal. Sam nudged Sandy, speaking out of the corner ofhis mouth words that no one else could catch.

  "The hombre Plimsoll's talkin' to is 'Butch' Parsons. He's the killerBrady hired over to the M-Bar-M to chase off the nesters."

  Sandy said nothing, did not move. As the play began he turned and lookedat the "killer" who had been named "Butch," after he had shot two headsof families that had preempted land on the range that Brady claimed aspart of his holding. Whatever the justice of that claim, it wasgenerally understood that Butch had killed in cold blood, Brady'spolitical pull smothering prosecution and inquiry. Butch had a hawkishnose and an outcurving chin. He was practically bald. Reddish eyebrowsstraggled sparsely above pale blue eyes, the color of cheap graniteware.His lips were thin and pallid, making a hard line of his mouth. Hepacked a gun, well back of him, as he sat at the game. Meeting Sandy'slightly passing gaze, Butch sent out a puff of smoke from hishalf-finished cigar. The pale eyes pointed the action, it might havebeen a challenge, even a covert insult. Sandy ignored it, devoting hisattention to the case-keeper.

  The jacks came out early, three of them losing, showing second on theturn. A dozen bets went down on the fourth jack to win. Sandy placed theluck-piece on the card, reached for a "copper" marker, and played it tolose.

  "That's a luck-piece, Hahn," he said. "If it loses, I'll take it up."Hahn gave him an eye-flick of acknowledgment. He was used to mascots.Sandy watched the play until at last the jack slid off to rest by theside of the case, leaving the winning card, a nine, exposed. Sandy alonehad won. The luck-piece had proved its merit.

  In twenty minutes Sam borrowed a stack from Sandy's steadilyaccumulating winnings and departed for the craps table. He wantedquicker action than faro gave him. Luck flirted with him, never entirelydeserting him. And Sandy won until the news of his luck spread throughthe room. The gamblers began to get the hunch that the Three Star manwas going to break the bank. Not all at the faro layout attempted tofollow his bets. Plimsoll's roll had never yet been very badly crimped.With the peculiar paradox of their kind, while they told each other thatPlimsoll's game was square, they held the secret conviction that Hahn'sfingers would manipulate the case in an emergency so that the housewould win. And they waited feverishly for the time to come when such ashow-down would arrive.

  Sandy did not have many chips in front of him, but there were five smalloblongs of blue, markers representing five hundred dollars apiece. Hahnlaid the fingers of his right hand lightly across the top of the case,the fingers of his left hand curled about it. It had come down to thelast turn of the deal again. Every player and onlooker knew what thethree cards were--a queen, a five and a deuce. The checking-board showedthat the queen had lost twice and won once, the five had won three timesand the deuce had won twice and lost once. Most of the players shiftedtheir bets accordingly, the queen to win, the five and deuce to lose.Hahn still waited.

  "Goin' to call th' turn?"

  All eyes shifted to Sandy. No one else was going to try to name thatcombination. If the order of the three cards were named correctly thebank would pay four to one. If Sandy staked all on his call he would winover ten thousand dollars. Plimsoll would have to open his safe. Hahndid not have that amount in his cash drawer.

  The rest--save Sam, now close behind Sandy, with ninety dollars winningscashed-in--watched Sandy enviously and curiously. Hahn was a wonder. Thecase might be crooked, the spring eccentric. Plimsoll himself waslooking on. Butch Parsons stood beside him for a second and thenstrolled into the front room. Another man followed him.

  Sandy shoved the markers across the board, followed by his chips.Apparently aimlessly, he hitched at his belt and the two Colts withtheir tied-down holsters swung a little to the front, their handles justtouching his hips.

  "Deuce--queen--five, I'm bettin'," he said. "_An' deal 'em slow._" Hisvoice drawled and his eyes lifted to Hahn's and rested there.

  Hahn had been mechanically chewing gum most of the evening. Now hischeek muscles bulged more plainly and the end of his tongue showed for asecond between his lips. His right hand dropped and he drew out a deuce.Eyes shifted from Sandy to Plimsoll, to Hahn. Little beads of moistureoozed out on the dealer's forehead. Plimsoll's black brows met. Sandy'sface was placid. Breaths were indrawn as Hahn paid out and raked in onthe card, his left hand covering the top of the case.

  The atmosphere was charged with intensity. Plimsoll's dark eyes wereboring through the dealer's lowered lids.

  "Move yo' fingehs, dealer, an' reveal royalty," drawled Sandy. "Thequeen wins!" His hands were on his hips, fingers touching the butts ofhis guns, his eyes burned. For all its drag there was a ring to hisvoice.

  Hahn shot one swift look at him and removed his hand. The queen showed.The room gasped. Plimsoll clapped Sandy on the shoulder.

  "You did it," he said. "Broke the bank when you called that turn.Game's closed and the drinks on the house. How'll you have it?"

  The crowd made way as Plimsoll walked across to his safe, twirled thecombination, opened the doors and took out a stack of bills.

  "Bills from a century up," said Sandy. "The odds and ends in gold--forthe drinks."

  The exci
tement was dying down. The man from the Three Star had won andhad been paid. Plimsoll's game was square. A few, reading the slightsigns of Hahn's nervousness, still held some doubts, but the games wereclosing. The drinks were brought. Two men lounged out into the frontroom after they had tossed theirs down. Sandy slipped the folded billsinto the breast pocket of his shirt in a compact package.

  "See who went out?" asked Sam in his side whisper.

  "Yep. Saw it in the glass of that picture. We'll go out the back way.Not yet." He shouldered his way through the congratulating crowd, Samclose behind him, into the front room. It was empty. The short end ofSandy's winnings still provided liquor. For a moment they were alone.Plimsoll had not followed them. Sandy swiftly socketed the bolt on theinside of the front door, turned the key and slid that into his pocket.

  "Now we'll go out the back way," he said. "I ain't strong fo' playin'crawfish, Sam, but I ain't keen on bein' potted in the dark. I'll betwhat I got in my pocket Butch is huggin' the boards to one side of thisshack. I got too much money on me to be a good insurance risk."

  Sam chuckled. Plimsoll met them just inside the door.

  "Makin' a short cut," said Sandy. "Good night."

  As the pair went out at the rear, Plimsoll jumped into the front room.Sam, closing the back door behind them noiselessly, heard the gamblercursing at the bolted door. Silently as a cat, he covered the shortdistance between the house and the arroyo of the creek and disappeared,merged in its shadow. Sandy joined him and they made their way swiftlyalong the bottom, climbing the bank where the railroad bridge crossedit, striking off for the main street, lit by sputtery arc-lamps, makingfor their ponies, still standing patiently outside the all-nightrestaurant.

  "No sense in runnin' our heads into a flyin' noose," said Sandy."Plimsoll owns the sheriff. Married his sister. We'd be wrong whateverstahted. They'd frisk me of my roll an' we'd never see it ag'in, less wemade a runnin' fight of it. Wondeh how much eddication costs nowadays,Sam? What you laffin' at?"

  "Butch an' the rest of Plimsoll's gunmen holdin' up the shack, waitin'fo' us to come out, while Plim is huntin' that key."

  "Don't laff too hard till we git home," said Sandy. "It's eleven milesto the Three Star."

  They mounted, swung their horses and loped off toward the bridge acrossthe creek. There were two spans, one built since the advent ofautomobiles, the other ancient, little used. They headed for thelatter. Passing the end of the street they saw nothing out of theordinary. The door of the "Good Luck" was open, shown by a square oflight. A group stood outside. Sandy and Sam rode off, the ponies' hoofssilent in the soft thick dust; moving shadows in the twilight, mergingwith the dark.