out of the room and returned through the stable, catching up the horse the roustabout had saddled. He left it in front of his saloon and entered. Upon the impassive, swarthy skin was not even a flimsy trace of the death sentence he had improvised and so shortly would add another weltering, grim chapter to a town already old in violence.
A faint beam of friendliness struggled through Studd's murky eyes, and the same heavy joviality was in his voice when he returned to the saloon.
"I'm giving you the claybank this time, Charterhouse. A stout horse. And, by the way, I'll pay off on your stolen rig whenever you say the word. I figured it was my fault in a way. Have another drink." Passing down the room, his foot struck a chair and he grumbled at the indolent players. "You boys have roosted here long enough. Go sleep some place else for a change."
Charterhouse, swift to detect subtle changes of human temperature, felt some strange current pass through the saloon. The men at the table rose and sauntered through the front door, leaving Studd's empty excepting for the saloonkeeper and the Box M quartet. Neither Nickum nor Haggerty appeared to draw out of their own thoughts, but Seastrom's flash of humor grew more brilliant and he dropped an eyelid to Charterhouse.
"Well, what next?"
Nickum pushed away the bottle. "Where's Wolfert?"
"Snoozing somewheres, I guess," said Studd. "No, here he comes now. Ike, step in."
Wolfert veered from the walk and stopped on the threshold. "Yeah? Hello, Nickum. Thought I heard—"
Nickum cut in brusquely. "I hear you carry a warrant for horse stealing."
Wolfert licked his lips. "That's right. Shander swore it for this gentleman"—indicating Charterhouse—"bright and early this morning."
"Going to serve it?"
"Well, John, you know I got to do what the law requires. No option on my part. I didn't swear out the warrant. Pm only sworn to carry out my duty."
Nickum snorted. "Taking your duty pretty serious lately, ain't you, Wolfert?"
"Don't like to hear you make insinuations," muttered Wolfert. "I have done my level best to cater to Box M. You got no call to say I ain't reasonable thataway."
"Charterhouse is under Box M protection," stated Nickum bluntly. "Your warrant is just a piece of paper, nothing more. Wouldn't advise you to draw it on him today or any other time."
"You're sure leaving me in a bad place, John. What'll Shander say?"
"Let him cook up another lie better'n this one. It's so rotten it stinks."
"That ain't for the to say," was Wolfert's surly response. "I ain't the judge."
Charterhouse stepped carefully away from the bar and pointed through the door. "What's the gentleman's name who's so polite as to ride my horse to town?"
"Graney, by golly," muttered Seastrom. And dead silence fell over the room. Graney rode into the saloon rack and slid idly to the ground. The black hide of Charterhouse's mount glistened under the sun and the silver corners of the fine acorn leaf saddle flashed brilliantly.
Charterhouse turned back to the group, graven-cheeked. His skin crawled with the shock of electric excitement; for the second time he found himself trying to penetrate Nero Studd's poker expression. Of the whole party, Haggerty alone seemed to display honest surprise. The foreman shifted uneasily, looking from the door back to Nickum and thence to Studd. Seastrom was rubbing the palms of his hands along the bar, producing a small squeaking sound that seemed to irritate both Haggerty and Wolfert. Both of them glowered at Seastrom, whereupon he laughed and broke the tension.
"Your horse?" challenged Nickum.
"Mine," drawled Charterhouse.
Graney had turned away from the rack and was walking off. Charterhouse, without haste, strolled out of the door and hailed the man, feeling the others come crowding after him.
"Just a minute, partner. You've got a piece of nice horseflesh there."
Graney whirled, almost too swiftly. Charterhouse's elbows crooked and stopped. Graney threw his own hands wide of his hips and growled, "Sure I have, and what of it?"
It was a pretty raw rig, Charterhouse reflected. A pretty crude way to bring on a scrap. Looking at the profusely sweating Graney, he wondered just how the cards lay. A man had popped into sight by the stable; and the men behind him were shifting. He wanted to turn and see where Studd and Wolfert were standing but didn't dare.
"Naturally," went on Charterhouse, slurring the words, "you've got a bill of sale for this gear?"
"Correct. I take a receipt for my money. If you stick around Casabella very long, you'll get that habit, too."
"A-huh. Well, let's see this bill of sale."
"What for?" demanded Graney, coming closer.
"You know the answer as well as I do," murmured Charterhouse. "But in order to play up to your game, I'll mention this is my horse and rig."
"Might have been. Ain't now."
"Beg to differ."
Graney went into his coat pocket and affected to have trouble finding a slip of paper that he finally flourished. Charterhouse took it and saw a formal bill of sale from one Ramon de Rio, signed with considerable of a flourish.
"Yeah. Legal and everything," drawled Charterhouse. "Who is this Ramon de Rio?"
Seastrom's amused reply cut over Charterhouse's shoulder. "That one, huh? Well, Beef, you sure picked a good one. Ramon's dead up in the rocks of Red Draw. He missed his shot at Nickum."
Charterhouse felt the effect of that statement. It audibly disturbed those back of him. Beef Graney dashed the sweat out of his eyes with a round oath. "What's that got to do with me? I paid for that horse. Yeah, I know it used to be yours, Charterhouse. Ramon bought it from you in town yesterday."
"Oh, you've got it worked out that complete?" said Charterhouse. "Too bad. It ain't the true facts, even if Ramon said so, which I'm inclined some to doubt."
"Be careful of your words," Graney warned him. "You'll stand accountable for them."
"Willing to," averred Charterhouse. "Now the next move seems to be up to me. Which I will make, according to rule. This is my horse. It always was, and it always will be. You've had your little ride in a white man's saddle and that's all you'll get."
"Stay away from that horse, Charterhouse!"
"Boys," broke in Wolfert. "I'll have no shooting around Angels. Take your troubles to the judge."
"Very noble," applauded Charterhouse. "Sorry I can't look around to congratulate your sentiments. Mister Graney, I intend to step slowly back to the horse, take the reins, and step aboard."
"When you touch the ribbons, you'll have to draw!" snapped Graney and tried again to clear the sweat out of his eyes. Charterhouse took a backward pace and halted. A rider came posting into Angels from the east, kicking up a high cloud of plaza dust. He cut across to the saloon and sprang down before the
