of day."
He shut his lips, conserving his strength; and not for an hour did he speak again. Then it was in close, small phrases. "Sherry's ranch. But you've got to stick and see it through. She'll marry Buck, but he ain't the right kind of a fighter. He's apt to go out and get his head blowed off, too. You won't. Too slick. I'll tell Sherry she's got to keep you till it's all done. Want you to sweep clean like a new broom. Promise that?"
"You've got it," muttered Clint.
"Good boy. We're almost home. I'll make it now."
Stubbornness alone brought him alive to the Box M quarters. Riders fanned out to meet them; Nickum waved all offers aside and drew up to his own house porch. Sherry ran out, crying suddenly. But Nickum, sliding into Clint's arms, gruffly rebuked her.
"No tears, girl. No tears, I don't—"
"Dad!"
"Hell, I can do anything once. Even die. Wait a minute, Charterhouse."
Clint stopped to let Nickum face the gathering crew. "Boys, it's Sherry's ranch now. I want you to mind her—and mind Charterhouse. Do what he tells you. He's going to fight it out. If you don't lick Casabella, I'll come back to haunt you, so help me."
Clint took him up the stairs and inside. Sherry opened a bedroom door and Clint put the old fighter down on the bed and stepped back.
"Home again," muttered Nickum, very pale. "Nice place to be. Sherry, you use your judgment in this matter. But give Charterhouse free rein to scrap it out the way he wants. I got a mighty big lot of faith in him. I reckon you'll marry Buck, but don't be in no hurry about it. Live a good long life and get as much fun out of it as I did. Well—"
Charterhouse turned and left the room. He knew the old man was dead before he got out of the door; Sherry had fallen beside the bed. Clint passed into the yard. It was beyond noon and Haggerty's party came racking in from their tour of inspection. A phrase ran out through the scattered hands.
"Nickum's dead."
Haggerty's sour face jerked up swiftly, darted all around and came to rest on Charterhouse. The latter saw a release of some tigerish emotion in the small, sullen eyes. Then the foreman got down and walked away.
"Mighty little sadness the news seems to cause him," reflected Charterhouse and returned to sit on the porch, waiting for Sherry to call him and meanwhile somberly thinking his way through the tangle of events.
The death of the old man had made a tremendous effect on the ranch. Charterhouse saw how moody and uncertain and dispirited the punchers in the yard were. They shifted about, collecting in knots, moving away, and collecting again. Old John Nickum's spirit had held them together and made a closely-welded, hard-riding clan out of them. Now they were lacking that inspiration and falling back to individual members, each doubting his own strength and perhaps fearing for his own safety. Box M was in danger of dissolution. Once that happened, the ranch was easy prey to marauding elements.
Yet anger and a desire for retribution were to be seen also. The happy-go-lucky Seastrom reflected it by his restlessness, and others were likewise itching to be on the move. Out of this desire something might be done. But one thing was very certain—it would not do to let the crew go slack too long or they would lose morale. Charterhouse rolled a cigarette reflectively.
"Whoever runs the outlaw bunch is slick. He knew this very let-down would happen. He is planning on it. He means to use it for his big opportunity. Now, what would the man's first move be, and how soon would it be?"
That depended, he figured, on who ran the outlaw bunch. If Curly had the final word, then Curly would attack, being aggressive and impatient. Shander, on the other hand, was a trickier man, more subtle and might use nibbling tactics, like depleting Box M range, killing off individual Box M riders, breaking up the crew and starving out Sherry Nickum. Studd was ruthless and heavy-handed, but also had a catlike caution and would move even more circumspectly. Not knowing what to expect, the wise policy would ordinarily have been to put things in order and wait out the renegades; considering the uneasy state of the crew's mind and the bushwhacking tactics so far employed, this was not possible. There was but one thing to do. Go out and attack. It didn't make much difference where. Anything to open up the outlaw ranks and provoke a general alignment of factions.
"Here I am talking like I owned this spread," he told himself. "Sherry might have different ideas. She might call everything off, sell the place or marry Manners. And that would certainly let me out. He wouldn't stand for my kind of fighting."
Seastrom and the grave, runty Fitzgibbon came over and squatted on the porch. Seastrom cleared his throat. "Who did it?"
"Nickum viewed the corpse and said it was a gent known as Elva Smith," replied Clint, conveying two pieces of information at once. He saw the men exchange a glance of tight satisfaction.
"You got him cold?"
"I got him."
"Two to your credit," grunted Seastrom. "No—three, including Graney. Seems to me you have done this outfit more good than the whole pack of us pitched together in the last two days. Elva Smith belonged to the wild bunch."
"A Shander man, too," put in Fitzgibbon who never had much to say.
Seastrom looked directly at Charterhouse. "We been talking things over with the rest of the bunch. It's general opinion that we'll string along behind you any time and place. The sooner the better and the rougher the better. That goes for all but about four boys who seem to have reservations on the subject. Naturally we ain't speaking for Haggerty. He'll have to announce himself."
"Which I guess he considers himself competent to do," replied Clint dryly. "I'm appreciating your trust in me, boys. If it was my spread, I'd move out now. But I won't say a word until I hear what Sherry's got to say—"
He broke off. Buck Manners, followed by four other riders came jauntily into the yard and drew up by the porch. The yellow- haired cattleman instantly caught the air of trouble.
"What's up?"
"Nickum in there—dead," muttered Seastrom.
Manners threw himself impetuously across the porch. "Sherry—Sherry, you poor kid." The door slammed behind him and Charterhouse heard the girl sobbing. He stared at his cigarette. "Sometimes sympathy is better kept down," he mused. "All he did was make her cry."
"If Manners takes over the place," observed Seastrom, "I dunno."
"I do," was Fitzgibbon's laconic interpection. "Palaver. More palaver. I'll quit."
The crying stopped. Man and girl were talking in there, his words running swiftly, hers very slow. Yet without attempting to eavesdrop, Clint thought her speech gathered strength as time went on. Presently the door opened and Manners nodded at Charterhouse with some impatience. Clint went inside, to find Sherry standing beside a chair, straight and white. She had fought back her weakness, meeting the grim necessities of the moment with supreme courage. Her gray eyes touched Clint and remained on his face.
"I don't see why you have to bring Charterhouse into this," Manners was saying with the least trace of asperity. "It's between us, isn't it, Sherry?"
"I can't throw aside the directions my father left, Buck."
"I suppose not," countered Manners slowly and turned his attention to Clint. "I have told Sherry
