"Great talk!" scouted Nickum. "You'd better put that star on your undershirt so folks won't see it. I'll tell you now, Wolfert, this is your last term in the office."
Wolfert flared up. "Oh, I don't know about that!" But both Graney and Shander looked at him so sharply that he stopped talking and sank back into the same morose silence. Everybody in the room caught that scene. Buck Manners' attention went up swiftly to the withdrawn Nero Studd and watched him momentarily. Nickum boomed on. "I have got something else to say to you, Wolfert. When my son was ambushed and killed in Red Draw, what did you do? You never moved out of your chair for two days. What have you done since? Nothing! Am I to believe you are making a tolerable effort to earn your money? I understand all about the petty graft you take and I am not kicking about it. But when you refuse to lift a hand to help Box M, I am forced to conclude that you got your fingers in a bigger kettle."
"Who said so?" yelled Wolfert, half rising. "Who give you license to call me thataway? Hell, I've worn my horses' shoes to paper in that damn country! If you want to know, I can't find a smell of a clue regarding who shot your son! I made an effort. Don't say I didn't. It's unfriendly for you to say I'm hooked up in any way with that affair. If I got to be blunt, Nickum, you talk to folks like they was school boys. It doesn't set straight. You hadn't ought to try to run other men's businesses for 'em. I'm able to handle my job."
"The great man," was Shander's cutting interjection, "doesn't forget he is the king-pin of Casabella. And the great man hasn't named any names yet."
But old John Nickum had straightened. He looked from the sheriff to Graney to Shander and on over to Nero Studd. "I am not crying about my loss," said he, even and cold. "I paid my just debts for fifty-eight years. I will continue to pay them—and to collect them. I was weaned on outlaws and crooked politics. I see what is going on here. I see another bright idea to hamstring Box M. It's been tried before by damned fools who think they got some original sure-thing racket. I say this, too. If those gentlemen who believe they can put me on the run want war, they shall have war!"
Buck Manners frowned. "Think it over. We ought to be able to settle this without recourse to shooting."
"Never mind, Buck," grunted Nickum. "I'm playing my hand."
"Not altogether," said Manners gently. "Remember the Manners family has strung along on your side for thirty good years and I expect to carry on my father's habits. I believe as you do, but I want to be sure we can't settle this peaceably."
"I haven't asked you to come in," was Nickum's short answer.
"No, but I'll be there with my outfit," Manners retorted.
Shander was grimly smiling. "After you, Alphonse. Virtue sure does drip over. I ain't heard any names mentioned yet."
"Were I you," said Manners coldly, "I'd take advantage of a pretty broad hint."
"Meaning what?" challenged Shander.
"Meaning this," said Nickum, taking up the thread. "The Box M draws a deadline today at its south limit, from Red Draw to Dead Man's Range. Any rider caught across that line will explain himself clearly or take the consequences."
"Answering for myself," said Shander, violently angered, "I never have had any desire to ride on your damned range and haven't now. Since you have been aiming your shots at me during this powwow, I want to say you can expect no further friendliness from myself or my men. I object to your insinuations. I hope Curly rustles you poor, curse you if I don't! Keep your riders off my range! I won't stand good for their safety from this day. And if you have any business with me, do it through a third party."
"I am glad to know," said Nickum formally, "you are willing to put yourself that far in the open. I detest a man concealing his state of mind."
"You're going too far, Nickum!"
"Meeting's adjourned," broke in Buck Manners and rose to place himself between the two men. "I guess we know where we stand. As for me, I string with Nickum any time, anywhere. I'd hate to see a range war, but I'll take care of my share of it when it comes."
"Listen," said Sheriff Wolfert, "you men are making it awful hard on me. If there's going to be ill will between outfits, there's sure to be gun play in Angels. Now I want this to be neutral ground all the time."
"I will state another fact," went on old John Nickum, "After this my men will come and go in parties, peaceably and without intent to quarrel."
Everybody waited for Shander to say as much. But he was halfway to the door and only flung a short reply over his shoulder. "My riders can take care of themselves."
The meeting broke up. Nero Studd had already gone. Beef Graney overtook Shander and they left together. Wolfert remained seated, wrapped in gloom and only roused himself to shoot a covertly unpleasant glance at Nickum as the latter went out accompanied by Manners and Nickum's vinegary foreman, Driver Haggerty.
Nickum, striding massively between the two, looked all around the Plaza, the wrath still simmering in him. "Border jumpers, professional gunslingers, knife artists—the place is full of them. Look yonder by Nero Studd's joint. See those two fellows leaning against the porch post? Curley's men, ain't they?"
"Just so," agreed Buck Manners lazily.
"Shander's asking for trouble," muttered Nickum. "And he'll get it. He ain't smart enough for an old hand like me, not for a minute. He's the man who's drawing all the crooks together. He's making a play at me. He's got Wolfert obeying his orders. He's got Beef Graney, the poor fool, under his thumb. He's probably working hand in glove with that yellow-livered, greasy-fingered Nero Studd. Studd was always a cheap and crooked politician and always will be—sees everything, knows everything I and draws the support of every outlaw in this country. And I'm betting Shander and Studd, between 'em, have got Curly lined up. A fine set of thieves—all pointing at me! Wolfert let the cat out of the bag when he same as said he'll be elected another term. Meaning he's got all the underhanded support."
Manners laughed. "I observed that Graney and Studd and Shander gave him some very dirty looks for making that break."
"You bet. Hand in glove." Nickum closed one big paw and struck at the air. "I am too old at this game to be beat now. I've licked harder men than they ever will be. They want war. I'll give 'em a bellyful of it, Buck! Who's that over there?"
He ducked his head at the ambling figure of Clint Charterhouse who, hat tilted rakishly against the burning sun, was crossing back to Studd's Saloon. Buck Manners stared intently. Driver Haggerty shifted his chew and spoke for the first time in an hour. "Stranger. Rode in a little while ago. Elegant horse with a strange brand and a heap expensive saddle."
"Strangers from now on had better declare themselves," grunted old John Nickum.
"Let's amble into Studd's for a drink," suggested Buck Manners. "Nero's probably got the man's personal history eight generations back."
"I wouldn't trust Nero behind my back in a crowded room," retorted Nickum. "Where's Sherry gone?"
"She's in Ortega's, buying a lot of notions," chuckled Manners, face lighting. Driver Haggerty's stringy countenance veered and covered Manners for a brief moment. Then all three of them passed into Nero Studd's.
Clint Charterhouse was standing beside Studd when the party entered and his attention instantly lighted on old John Nickum's imposing bulk. He knew a typical cattleman when he saw one and his reaction
