had swung to a higher section of the shore. Thus, if the tension was maintained, Williamson could cross dry. The doctor climbed in front of Lou Redmain; the latter rode out into the river underneath the rope. Williamson stood up, grasped the rope and swung clear, feet and arms wrapped around it.
"I bet," said Steve Steers nervously, "he wishes he was closer to his monkey ancestors."
Williamson, swinging beneath the rope, moved rapidly and by degrees reached midstream. At this point the line let him down until his pendant coat tails skipped on the surface of the racing Copperhead. Jesson, keeping the far end snubbed around his saddle horn, apparently did not dare to place too great a strain on the rope; and he seemed to have some little trouble in holding his horse steady. Williamson halted, advanced a few feet beyond the middle point, and seemed to tire. So he stopped again while the three watchers on the west shore stood profoundly silent. Then the doctor crawled on, foot at a time, passed the most dangerous spot and elected to drop down in the shallow edge of the river rather than haul himself all the way to the high bank. He waded ashore and without stopping ran into the cabin.
Lou Redmain reached for his cigarette papers, casting a short, bright glance at Denver. "Doc," he muttered, "is all right."
"They ought to name the kid after him," stated Steve solemnly.
Denver chuckled. "Half the kids in Yellow Hill are named after him already."
"What is his first name, anyhow?" asked Steve.
"Stephen Burt Williamson."
"What?" exclaimed Steve. "Hell, them names is my names!"
"Sure," agreed Denver. "And the doc brought you into this vale of tears, likewise."
"I be damned!"
Jesson cast off the rope, and it snaked into the current. Steve hauled it in. Jesson was pointing toward the south, on his own side of the river, and Denver, looking in that direction, found his horse grazing a half mile down. Jesson made some more Indian talk and rode after the pony. "I'd figured it was fifty- fifty with that brute," mused Denver. Lou Redmain idled, giving Denver an opportunity to drawl his thanks. "I'm obliged. When your loop hit me I'd took in about all the liquid I was able to stand."
"Always glad to give you a hand," said Redmain politely. "Or Williamson."
Steve wandered off to the buggy. Denver watched Redmain's face when he put his sudden question. "Not toyin' to pry into your affairs, Lou, but Stinger Dann's in Sundown this afternoon."
"Perhaps," replied Redmain enigmatically, "I sent him there. Or perhaps he went of his own accord."
"He seems to be nursin' a grudge," went on Denver.
"I never knew him to be without one," said Redmain, lip curling.
"I was just wondering," drawled Denver, "if he happened to be pointed my way."
"I haven't put him on your trail," Redmain was quick to answer.
"That's all I wanted to know."
But Redmain pressed the point. "I've got no reason or desire to cause you trouble, Dave. And if that damned fool is figurin' to get on the prod I'll yank him back into the bushes."
"Let him have his fun," said Denver soberly. "He always has considered me to be his brand of poison, and it'd be just as well to let him try his hand. I don't like to watch men circle around me."
"He'll make no play against you," stated Redmain flatly. "In the first place, he's got to do what I tell him. In the second place, he's useful to me and I don't want him shot up."
"Yeah," mused Denver, "I always felt you regarded him as a right bower."
Redmain gathered his reins. "Got to be traveling. By the way, is that opera outfit in town?"
"Lola's there," said Denver quietly, "which is what you wanted to know."
For a moment a dark, wild flash of emotion flamed in Redmain's eyes, and the narrow face became taut and pale around the nostrils: here was a killer, a man without compassion or conscience emerging swiftly from a deceptive shell of manners. But with equal swiftness Redmain recovered himself and stared inscrutably down at Denver. Then he whirled and raced away from the river, pony hoofs making a rapid tattoo over the ground. Steve had mounted. Denver threw his saddle into the buggy, took the seat, and started off. Together the partners angled into the higher land. Purple crusted shadows folded about the ridges; the team's clatter rang far along the still ravines. Night settled down, bringing with it the pervading loneliness and mystery of a country yet untamed.
This was a busy season of the year, but Denver earlier in the day had given the crew leave to hit Sundown for the show and its pursuant revelry. So when he drew into the long avenue of poplars and came by the bunkhouse he found a strangely unnatural stillness pervading home quarters. The crew had eaten beforehand and departed, leaving behind only those recluse spirits who seemed to enjoy solitude. One of these stopped his fiddle in the dead center of a weird harmony and came out to take over the team. Lights winked from the main-house, water bubbled melodiously from a spring pipe, and the spiced scent of the hills swirled across the yard. Denver left an order with the hand.
"My saddle's back of the buggy. Slap it on that gray gelding, Shad."
Going to the house, Denver and Steve ate a quick snack; then Steve stretched himself in a front-room chair while Denver shaved and changed clothes. Rather facetiously the sandy-haired puncher hailed the transformation.
"Doggone it, Dave, yore beginnin' to drift out of my class. When a man barbecues his whiskers every day he ain't common folks no more."
"Fellow ought to show a clean face at the opera house, shouldn't he? You going?"
"Well, I'm driftin' back to Sundown," opined Steve, "but I ain't goin' to the show. Not by a jugful. Debbie would raise a ruckus if she heard."
Denver chuckled over a cigarette. "For an engaged man you sure take life serious. Why not wait until you get married before assumin' this pallbearin' atmosphere?"
Steve's lazy, quizzical features were puckered solemnly. "You don't know nothin' about it. When a man's married he knows where he stands. The judge has thrown the book at him, the knot's tied, and there ain't any question about it. Which I mean when a fellow's married he's plumb arrived somewhere. But this engagement business, what is it, anyhow? You ain't one thing and you ain't another. One minute yore hot as hell, and the next minute yore cold all over. You dunno what to say, what to do, or how to act. Dave, it's awful."
"When's the ceremony going to be?"
"Hah!" snorted the perplexed Steve. "There's another item. How in hell do I know? Listen, you got a great experience Comin' to yuh, Dave. Before you pop the question yore high card. Nothin's too good. You sit in the best parlor chair, the old man hands out his best cigars, and the lady leans on yore arm as if she couldn't do without yore big, handsome carcass. But afterward—then what? All of a sudden you ain't nothin' but a future husband. The girl gets a far-off cast to her eyes and considers clothes and etiquette and such stuff; the old man considers the expenses and don't pass out no more cigars. The parlor chair's sent back to the attic, and nobody's got time to talk to yuh atall. I don't know nothin' about it. I suppose I'll get a notice some day to appear at such and such a church for the event—and otherwise I'm just hangin' out on a limb waitin' to be sawed down."
Denver
