was to question the saloon keeper.
"Him?" replied Studd. "That's Nickum, Box M. Biggest outfit in Casabella. That homely mutt who looked like he's swallowed his tobacco is Haggerty, the foreman. Other man runs a range almost as big as Nickum's—Buck Manners Inherited from his dad a year back."
"When I work," reflected Clint Charterhouse cheerfully, "I work for the top dog." He went forward, facing Nickum. The old ranchman stopped and stared truculently.
"Can you use another rider?" asked Charterhouse.
It was then that John Nickum committed an error. Almost always the soul of courtesy and usually the keenest judge of men, he was this afternoon in the grip of anger, stung by trouble and perplexed with the devious politics of the county. Thus he allowed himself to be gruff and unfriendly.
"I don't know you, sir."
Nettled by this obvious violation of the range's freemasonry, Charterhouse became gravely polite. "The same can be said, I reckon, of most men you hire. I didn't ask for partnership in Box M. I just asked for a job."
"So?" snapped Nickum, hackles rising. "Are you undertaking to dress me down, sir? I know my business well enough. And I'll repeat I don't know you. I have hired strangers and probably will again, but not at a time like this. At present drifters bear a bad name in Casabella. Where did you work last?"
"Since you don't intend to hire me," replied Charter-house, increasingly formal, "I doubt if it's necessary to say. My apologies for taking your good time. It won't happen again."
The crowd in Studd's held its breath, waiting for the inevitable explosion to follow. Driver Haggerty's red little eyes glinted ominously, but Buck Manners relieved the tension with his infectious chuckle. "Damned if there isn't more powder in Angel's air today than ever I smelled before. After all, John, he's just looking for work. I don't see any horns on him." And he winked jovially at Charterhouse.
Once having taken his position, the old rancher would not back down. But his ingrained sense of propriety made a necessary concession. "If my talk seems unduly hard on your pride, sir, accept apologies. I am not hiring today."
"We will consider the incident closed," said Charter-house levelly and turned his back on Nickum. Heck Seastrom bawled an order from the rear of the saloon. "Clear a space, you dudes! Hey, Manners, I got something that's a-going to stop you now. Take a look and bust out crying!"
A lane was made, revealing the irrepressible puncher standing affectionately over his immense rock. Manners laughed. "Still trying to cook up something to best me, huh? What do I do, lift it?"
"I got a month's pay salted which says you can't," stated Seastrom roundly. "Down on your heels, one hand, and she's got to go the full length of your arm overhead."
"Another month's pay I can," said Manners, crouching in front of the rock.
"Took!"
Manners threw off his hat, the curly yellow hair shining even in this dull light. The face grew astonishingly sober and hard, reminding Clint Charterhouse of a man slipping off a mask to reveal his true lineaments. Buck's palm rested beneath the rock; he put a tentative pressure against it, swayed on his heels once and said, "Hup!" mightily, body rising, weaving, and swinging around; the muscles of his slim neck went white, like taut cables, and the rock was poised overhead. He grinned again and cried, "Watch out!" Men ducked and the rock sailed down the room and went crashing through the floor.
The crowd yelled. "Now you've busted my floor!" cried Nero Studd angrily. But he was drowned out by Heck Seastrom who flung his hat down and stamped on it.
"Busted your floor? Hell, he's busted me! Two months' wages! I'll be working for Box M the rest of my natural life! I practiced six weeks on that trick!"
"Mebbe that's why you ain't no damn good when it comes to work," jeered somebody.
Buck Manners chuckled and walked to the end of the counter. "My turn now, Heck. Come down here and try another little test."
"Nossir, not me," protested Seastrom moodily. "I done had enough. I'm content to be second strongest man in this here county. Let it go like that."
Manners was in his element, a happy-go-lucky rowdy for the moment, with all the cares of his enormous holdings forgotten. "Anybody try. Come on." His glance arrived at Clint Charterhouse and stayed there. "You try, friend. I can't get any contest out of those buzzards any more. What's the fun of it if nobody will play in my back yard?"
"Why me?" countered Charterhouse, smiling slightly.
"Give him a play," urged Seastrom hopefully. The crowd closed in, interested in this stranger who so far had consistently refused to label himself. Charterhouse saw Manners eyeing him in cool calculation. Stepping around, he faced the yellow-haired cattleman across the bar. Manners had his right elbow on the bar, forearm raised; it was the old "muscling down" test, well known to Charter-house, who extended his own right hand, They locked fingers and adjusted their elbows cagily. Manners grinned across at Charterhouse. "All set? Then—go!"
Charterhouse had braced his body against the bar, but the enormous power Manners threw into his forearm almost unbalanced him, even so. He locked his leg under a box of beer bottles, the cords of his wrist springing to the pressure. Manners had, in the first exertion of strength, pushed Charterhouse's arm slightly toward the bar, toward defeat. Charterhouse bowed his head and hurled his will into the protesting muscles. The cattleman's grip was like iron and he was using it to paralyze Charter-house's finger nerves, crushing down. A runner of weakness began to deaden his arm, hot sweat started to his face; yet his wrist came upright again, and there strained on even terms. He lifted his head, catching the glances of those packed in the saloon. Manners was grinning through the strained lines of his cheeks but his eyes stared into Charterhouse's with a flare of hot fighting spirit. And suddenly his arm gave way and fell to the bar. He drew free and swung it limply, shaking his head in mock soberness.
"That beats me, friend. First man I ever met with a better grip than mine."
"Had you stuck it out another thirty seconds," drawled Charterhouse, "you'd got the decision."
"Let's try the left hand for a change," suggested Manners.
"Agreeable," replied Charterhouse and braced himself once more.
Their fingers locked. This time Manners only nodded and instantly hurled all the power of his shoulders into his wrist. Charterhouse felt his sinews shaking along his arm and although he kept it upright during an interval of terrific effort, he knew he would soon lose. The pressure was too great; and after a recent struggle, he surrendered; his right hand was numb and he disliked having his left in the same condition. Manners showed surprise and stepped back, chuckling more freely.
"That restores some of my damaged prestige. We'll have to call it a draw. You've certainly got the best right."
"Your left hand," mused Charterhouse, dashing the sweat off his face, "is better than your right. Unusual."
"It favors me in most things," agreed Manners casually. "But why didn't you make a struggle for it?"
"Never spend my strength on a losing fight," drawled Charterhouse, reaching around for a free-lunch sandwich.
"To fight another day, eh?" suggested Manners and studied his opponent with an increased attention. "That's not a bad way of looking at
