quite mad then. I dimly remember that I rushed out upon the siding and ran up and down screaming, ‘Larry, Larry!’ until the wind seemed to echo my call. The stars were out in myriads, and the snow glistened in their light, but I could see nothing but the wide, white plain, not even a dark shadow anywhere. When at last I found myself back in the station, I saw Duke lying before the door and dropped on my knees beside him, calling him by name. But Duke was past calling back. Master and dog had gone together, and I dragged him into the corner and covered his face, for his eyes were colorless and soft, like the eyes of that horrible face, once so beloved.
“The blackboard? O, I didn’t forget that. I had chalked the time of the accommodation on it the night before, from sheer force of habit, for it isn’t customary to mark the time of trains in unimportant stations like Grover. My writing had been rubbed out by a moist hand, for I could see the finger marks clearly, and in place of it was written in blue chalk simply:
C. B. & Q. 26387.
“I sat there drinking brandy and muttering to myself before that blackboard until those blue letters danced up and down, like magic lantern pictures when you jiggle the slides. I drank until the sweat poured off me like rain and my teeth chattered, and I turned sick at the stomach. At last an idea flashed upon me. I snatched the waybill off the hook. The car of wool that had left Grover for Boston the night before was numbered 26387.
“I must have got through the rest of the night somehow, for when the sun came up red and angry over the white plains, the section boss found me sitting by the stove, the lamp burning full blaze, the brandy bottle empty beside me, and with but one idea in my head, that box car 26387 must be stopped and opened as soon as possible, and that somehow it would explain.
“I figured that we could easily catch it in Omaha, and wired the freight agent there to go through it carefully and report anything unusual. That night I got a wire from the agent stating that the body of a man had been found under a woolsack at one end of the car with a fan and an invitation to the inaugural ball at Cheyenne in the pocket of his dress coat. I wired him not to disturb the body until I arrived, and started for Omaha. Before I left Grover the Cheyenne office wired me that Freymark had left the town, going west over the Union Pacific. The company detectives never found him.
“The matter was clear enough then. Being a railroad man, he had hidden the body and sealed up the car and billed it out, leaving a note for the conductor. Since he was of a race without conscience or sensibilities, and since his past was more infamous than his birth, he had boarded the extra and had gone to the ball and danced with Miss Masterson with blood undried upon his hands.
“When I saw Larry O’Toole again, he was lying stiff and stark in the undertakers’ rooms in Omaha. He was clad in his dress clothes, with black stockings on his feet, as I had seen him forty-eight hours before. Helen Masterson’s fan was in his pocket. His mouth was wide open and stuffed full of white cotton.
“He had been shot in the mouth, the bullet lodging between the third and fourth vertebrae. The hemorrhage had been very slight and had been checked by the cotton. The quarrel had taken place about five in the afternoon. After supper Larry had dressed, all but his shoes, and had lain down to snatch a wink of sleep, trusting to the whistle of the extra to waken him. Freymark had gone back and shot him while he was asleep, afterward placing his body in the wool car, which, but for my telegram, would not have been opened for weeks.
“That’s the whole story. There is nothing more to tell except one detail that I did not mention to the superintendent. When I said goodbye to the boy before the undertaker and coroner took charge of the body, I lifted his right hand to take off a ring that Miss Masterson had given him and the ends of the fingers were covered with blue chalk.”
THE OUTLAW PILOT, by Stephen Payne
The 90 Bar outfit’s fall roundup ain’t more’n half over when High Man Jack Owens hits camp one evenin’, drivin’ a light wagon with a new chuck box built into the rear end. Settin’ aside him is a wizened old jigger with less hair on his noodle’n thorns on a quakin’ aspen, but more mustache than a Texas steer has horns—Raw Beef Oliver, a round-up cook. Forkin’ a big iron-gray hoss and leadin’ Owens’ mount is a tall stranger.
“Bill Swift,” Owens sez to me, brisk and sorta gruff-like, “I’ve sold a thousand two-year-old steers to Cap Dillingham of the 3 R Ranch, west of Cayuse Brakes, provided I can deliver ’em by the twenty-eighth of September. Today’s the twenty-first and—”
“And it ain’t nowise possible to trail cattle plum’ around them Brakes like we’ll have to, an’ get ’em thar on time,” I interrupt.
“By goin’ through Cayuse Brakes you’ll make it,” Owens snaps. “Got over a thousand young steers gathered, ain’t you?”
“Yes,” I assents. “But—”
“But nothin’!” he cuts me off.
“Here’s the man that came from Cap Dillingham with the order for the cattle and a check for a down payment on ’em,” pointin’ at the tall stranger on the gray. “Mason, meet Bill Swift, my foreman.… Mason will pilot you through Cayuse Brakes and Oliver’ll cook for you. I’ll run the round-up while you’re gone.”
I size up Mason. A cowpuncher all right, from purty nigh wore-out boots to high-peaked, old, black Stetson. Way he sets his horse; his outfit, plain, serviceable, worn; an’ his little mannerisms all show he knows his stuff. A tall, big-shouldered, long-armed jigger; lean-jawed, smooth shaven, with a queer little scar on his left cheek. Hair almost white; kinda awful, cold gray eyes that look right through yuh.
When he swings off his hoss he moves powerful lame in his left leg, so I inquires if a hoss ever fell on him. He don’t act like he heard me.
“Mason!” I sings out. Still no answer, so I step up close and touch his shoulder. Gosh! He jumps high, pivotin’ like he’d felt a hot iron. His hands drops toward his black-handled gun with its holster tied down.
“Ain’t deaf, are yuh?” inquires I. “No.”
“‘At’s funny. I spoke your name twice.” “I heard yuh,” he sez, and his thin lips part in a grin what shows white, even teeth. I’ve been bossin’ cow outfits long enough to know Mason ain’t been travelin’ long under that name.
We all get busy shapin’ up our day herd of young steers—stock we’d just been gatherin’ on this round-up—to cut that herd to an even thousand afore we bed the critters.
Owens tells me I’m to take for helpers three of our newest hands, Cal Bassett, Roper Dixon and Cash Martin. A kid name of Jinglin’ Jimmy’s to be hoss wrangler. These, with Mason and me and Raw Beef Oliver, is my trail herd outfit. Oliver’s a good cook, ’ceptin’ he always seems to figger a cowboy orter eat his beef raw, and I can depend on him. Some others I ain’t so sure of, but the High Man is cranky as an ol’ range bull, so I don’t beller about the hands he’s picked.
“Mighty important that this herd gets to Dillingham on the twenty-eighth,” says the big boss to me. “The old crank mightn’t take the critters if they’re a day late. We’d be in a heck of a fix with the cattle a hundred and thirty miles from home, all wore out and sore-footed. Get ’em through the Cayuse Brakes, Bill. This Mason strikes me as some cowhand.”
“Speakin’ of that bird,” I begins, “did he bring a written order from Dillingham?”
“Uh-huh. Written order. It’s O. K.… What you s’picious of?”
“Mason
