single snack of liquor! Hear that, Rich Ames, you Arizona gopher?”
“Shore I heah you,” said Rich, nonchalantly. “The two drinks I had yesterday will last me a spell. Gee! I thought I’d been kicked by a mule.”
“Wal, come on, an’ act like a couple of moony youngsters with their pa,” said Tanner, in conclusion.
Whereupon they went out, a quiet, amiable-appearing trio, vastly deceiving, according to Cappy’s thought. His admiration for Rich Ames grew in leaps and bounds. Any other young buck of the Tonto would get drunk and start trouble. Rich had developed depth and was the more dangerous for it. They made the round of the saloons, lounged in and out of the tavern, made odd purchases in the store, and rubbed elbows with a hundred or more of the male element. They rather avoided the women, more conspicuous and almost as numerous. Playford seemed aloof. In fact, he could not see any women. Rich was cool, careless, easy-going, almost smiling as he passed the girls, many a one of whom cast shy glances at his handsome face.
It was in Turner’s hall that Cappy’s sharp gaze set upon young men of the Tate faction, whom he had expected to encounter sooner or later. He did not need to be told that Rich had espied them first.
Turner’s hall was the largest place of its kind in Shelby. It had been decorated for the ball that night, and feminine hands had assuredly superintended the arrangement of flags, bunting, autumn leaves, and other gay accessories. This hall was used for all public gatherings. Today it served, as on most days, for the gambling prevalent in the Tonto. Turner’s bar was in the adjoining room, into which it opened by swinging doors, now concealed by curtains.
Perhaps two dozen were in the hall, most of them gambling, and others looking on. Lee Tate, with a companion Tanner did not recognize, was watching a table at which sat Jeff Stringer, the sheriff, Slink Tate, and two cowboys whom Cappy knew but could not place.
Cappy would have passed on, had it not been that Rich halted by the table, with Sam following suit.
“Howdy, everybody!” drawled Rich, in his lazy way.
Lee Tate sneered a voiceless response. He was tall, with olive-skinned face scarcely tanned, dark-eyed and dark-haired, and he looked his reputation with the Tonto women. He appeared older than his twenty-two years, and though dissipation stamped his features it had not yet marred their perfection. He wore dark clothes, high-top glossy boots, and spurs.
Slink Tate might not have been a relative of Lee’s, he was so different. He had the face of a surly hound. He lifted sunken, gloomy eyes to Ames, and accorded him a curt nod.
“Hullo, Ames!” spoke up Stringer, in dry, caustic tone. “Sober again, hey?”
“Shore am,” drawled Ames. “Reckon I want to see awful clear today.”
Cappy plucked at Rich’s sleeve and attempted gently to start him on the move. This was atmosphere charged with menace. But Rich did not take the hint.
“Powerful interested in weddin’s, hey?” queried Stringer, as he slapped down a card.
“Shore am. My sister Nesta is marryin’ Sam heah next week an’ we want to get some pointers.”
“Haw! Haw!” laughed the sheriff, interested out of his gruffness. “Wal, I’m darn glad you’ve sobered up. Was afraid I’d have to jail you.”
“Say, Jeff, there were a dozen cowpunchers roarin’ around last night,” declared Rich, sarcastically. “Why didn’t you arrest them?”
“Wal, thet’s my business. But they wasn’t no pertickler menace to the community.”
“An’ I am? Ahuh. I see the point,” returned Ames. “You shore got me figgered correct.”
Cappy had taken a swift glance at Lee Tate the instant Ames made his startling statement about Nesta. Whatever had prompted Ames to launch this retort, it certainly reached home. Lee Tate’s face turned a burning red of surprise and rage. During the byplay between Ames and Stringer he stared at Playford, slowly paling.
“Say, Playford,” he queried, sharply, in the pause that followed Ames’ caustic reply to Stringer, “are you really gettin’ married next week?”
Sam rose to the occasion. “Sure am,” he said, with innocent importance. “Didn’t Nesta tell you?—She hasn’t set the day, though. I wanted it on Monday an’ Rich compromised on Wednesday. But Nesta will likely put it off till Saturday. Worse luck. . . . Are you congratulatin’ me, Tate?”
“Not so you’d notice it,” returned Tate, sourly, and distortion of passion disfigured his beauty. “No later than last night Nesta Ames swore to me she was breakin’ with you.”
“Ha! Ha!” laughed Playford, and there was a ring of more than mirth in his voice. “Do you reckon you can make a monkey out of Nesta, like you have so many Tonto girls? Ho! Ho! . . . Tate, she was only givin’ you a little of your own palaver. Why, Nesta told me she was goin’ to.”
“The hell you say!” ejaculated Tate, growing purple.
“Yes, the hell I say,” repeated Sam, hotly.
“Well, by God! there are some things she can’t tell you!” burst out Tate, with dark and malignant significance.
Suddenly Ames leaped like a panther to confront Tate.
“There are?” he rang out. “But she’ll tell me, Lee Tate. An’ if you’ve wronged her in word or deed—God have mercy on you.”
Tate’s expression changed swiftly. Yet his intensity of amaze and rage had scarcely flashed into a gulping recognition of sinister menace when Ames struck him a terrific blow. The blood flew from his smashed nose. He fell over a table, and it, with bottles and chairs, went to the floor with a crash.
Ames backed to the door, his right hand low at his side, his blue eyes magnificently bold and bright with disdain, scorn, hate. First they transfixed Slink Tate, and seeing that he did not intend to accept the challenge they included the gaping sheriff.
“Jeffries, I’ll be waitin’ for you over by the jail,” he drawled, with the coolest of sarcasm. And the accompanying thin-lipped smile seemed assurance that the sheriff would not be there.
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