out of me. Traitors on Box M and no way of catching on who they are. Damn that brand of a yellow belly!"
"Might be used to advantage,". suggested Clint. "Let them get wind of your plans. They'll tattle. Then change your plans. For instance, the trail from Dead Man Range and from Shander's goes by Bowlus' place and through the trees into Angels. Let it be rumored you aim to station a few men there to pick off any hostile outfit that passes. Just say aloud you figure to put about a half dozen men in concealment."
"Then what?"
"Then send out your half dozen men and put them there."
"So Shander can swamp 'em, boy? He'll do that."
"Exactly," pursued Clint. "But at the last minute get about fifteen more men, take them on some wild goose chase so that there won't be any leak of information, and push them into your first bunch, then let Shander come."
Nickum grunted approval. "I don't see why I figured it necessary to show you around. But we'll hit down on Bowlus for a visit anyhow."
The country grew more seamy and undulating. They dipped and rose from one arroyo to another. A spur of the ridge reached out to meet them, but Nickum veered away to skirt the trees and keep in the open. Charterhouse swept the country with a more earnest attention; they passed stale tracks, stopped a moment to study them, and pressed on.
"Too many riders at night," muttered Nickum. "Sure sign of hell ready to bubble over. Turn a little more to the left. We're getting too close to those trees. I'd despise to die of a rifle shot."
"How big an outfit has this Manners got—and where is it?" questioned Clint.
"Northwest of me. His range runs about half as big as mine. Not so well watered and not so thrifty for stick, but—"
He was a few feet ahead of Charterhouse at the moment; in the middle of his sentence a shot cracked over the desert, breaking the sun-filled silence. Charterhouse instinctively spurred his horse around to cover the rancher on the ridge side. Nickum's face changed swiftly and he lifted his head in sudden pain toward the bright sky. Clint saw the old man's left hand reach down and press against his coat.
"The other way," panted Nickum. "He caught me from the prairie. In one of those arroyos—"
"Get down!" cried Charterhouse and crowded his horse against the rancher.
Another shot broke through the air; Charterhouse lifted Nickum bodily from the saddle and dropped him. Setting his spurs, he drove directly eastward, marking where a small dark spot stood against the rim of an arroyo a hundred yards away. As he flung himself forward he zigzagged his pony and lay flat against the horn, gun lifted. He caught the sun glinting on a rifle barrel. A distorted face lay along the butt of the gun, aiming carefully. Charter-house yelled and fired, bringing up a scatter of dust. This caused the fellow to flinch slightly and his answering bullet went wild. Losing his cold killer's poise, he pumped the lead furiously and then rose erect and reached for his revolver, while Charterhouse swept down on him with a mad recklessness.
The ambusher began to step backward, once more opening up. His lips moved and sweat poured across desperately frozen features; after one futile try he never pulled trigger again, for Charterhouse descended into the arroyo with dust rising thickly all around and plunged his lead across the point-blank interval. The ambusher coughed and sank, cursing. A choked cry for mercy came out of him; he rolled deeper into the arroyo and lay with his face pitched sightlessly to the sky.
Charterhouse reined about, staring at the dead man without pity. "Another dog dead," he muttered, hazel eyes flaring. "I've seen that mug before. At Shander's. They must have a gun artist hid in every damned prairie dog hole hereabouts." A horse stood away down the arroyo, indicating how far the ambusher had paralleled the riders before taking his chances. Charterhouse cantered on to the waiting animal, led it out of the arroyo and left it in plain sight for scouting riders to see. "Considering how shot with crookedness this country is, it won't be long before friendly pallbearers will be on the scene. Hardly before I turn my back, I reckon."
He returned swiftly to Nickum. The rancher had collapsed and lay on the sand, one elbow propping him up. Blood made a dull, irregular shield on his left side; all ruddiness was gone out of the old baron's face, and the steel-blue eyes held a glance that caused Charterhouse a stab of compassion.
"Get me on the horse...and take me home," said Nickum, straining to get the words distinct.
"Bowlus' cabin is closer," Clint suggested tersely. He winced at the unspoken hint that Nickum would never live to see the end of that journey.
But the rancher insisted. "Get me on the horse. I'll die in my own bed. Won't leave my ghost in any other man's house. Hurry up, boy. I ain't immortal."
Clint hauled Nickum into the latter's saddle with considerable effort; the rancher seemed to have lost the use of his legs, but he gripped the horn with both big hands and steadied himself. Charterhouse mounted and closed in, offering one arm.
Nickum shook his head. "Make it under my own power. You get that fellow?"
"I got him."
"Circle thataway. Want to look at his face."
They went slowly to the arroyo and halted. Nickum looked down grimly. "Elva Smith—God pity the man. Used to work for me, then he went to the wild bunch. Let's go home."
They veered, established a true course to the northeast and settled down to a slow, tedious walk. The sun's heat increased and small atmospheric waves shimmered about them. Clint watched Nickum closely for the inevitable collapse and marveled that it was so long postponed. Nickum was dredging up the last dogged remnants of strength and making them serve his will.
"So Shander got me. Knew he would some day. Don't mind dying, but I wish I could last till sunset and feel the wind come. Always had a weakness for that time 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,
