but you took me down and showed me that JIC cow and said he stole it, didn't you? And you complained to me that he was in the act of runnin' off your Wine-glass cows, didn't you? Well, that's the same thing, when you're talkin' to an officer."
"Well, it may be all the same, but I don't want 'im arrested. That ain't the way I do business."
"Oh, it ain't, hey? Well, what is your way of doin' business?"
"First principle is never to holler for help," replied Crittenden, grimly. "I know dam' well that little cuss over there burnt my IC cow and run off all my Wine-glasses—but I can't prove nothin' before the law, so you might as well turn 'im loose. Oh, you don't need to laugh, you little, sawed-off runt!" he yelled, addressing himself to Upton, "I'm jest keepin' you out of jail so's I can git at you myself! I'll—"
"Aw, shut up," growled the sheriff, brushing roughly past him. "Come on, boys, let's get out of this before they holler their heads off." He swung angrily up on his horse, jerked its head toward the river and took the crossing in silence, leaving the rival cattle kings to fight it out together. The time might come when one or the other of them would "holler for help," but just at that moment the Verde country was not educated up to the law.
CHAPTER XIII
WELCOME HOME
After the war of words was over and the tumult and shouting had died away, the Angel of Peace, which had been flying high of late, fluttered down and hovered low over Verde Crossing. John Upton rode back up the Tonto trail still breathing forth hostile threats; Crittenden and his men buckled on their extra guns and rode blithely out to the adventure; and the store, from being a general hang-out for noisy and drunken cowboys, became once more a shrine to Venus and a temple of the Muse, with Babe the minstrel and Marcelina the devotee. "Billy Veniro" was the theme—that long, sad tale of the far frontier—sung in tragic tenor to a breathless audience of one. She was very pretty, the little Marcelina, now that she had become a woman. The Sisters had taught her her catechism and something more—the grace and sweetness that come from religious adoration, and the quiet of the cell. The great world, too, as personated by Geronimo, had done its share; her hair was done up in dark masses, her long skirt swept the floor, and with the added dignity of a train her womanhood was complete. She sat by the door where she could watch the Tonto trail—for it was by that road that Pecos was to come—and her melancholy eyes glowed as she listened to the song.
BILLY VENIRO
"Billy Veniro heard them say, in an Arizona town one day,
That a band of Apache Indians were on the trail of death.
He heard them tell of murder done, of the men killed at Rocky Run.
'There is danger at the cow-ranch!' Veniro cried beneath his breath.
"In a ranch forty miles, in a little place that lay
In a green and shady valley, in a mighty wilderness,
Half a dozen homes were there and in one a maiden fair
Helt the heart of Billy Veniro—Billy Veniro's little Bess.
"So no wonder he grew pale, when he heard the cowboy's tale—
Of the men that he'd seen murdered the day before at Rocky Run.
'As sure as there is a God above, I will save the girl I love.
By my love for little Bessie, I must see there is something done!'
"When his brave resolve was made, not a moment more he stayed.
'Why, my man,' his comrades told him when they heard his daring plan,
'You are riding straight to death!' But he answered, 'Hold your breath,
I may never reach the cow-ranch, but I'll do the best I can.'
"As he crossed the alkali bed all his thoughts flew on ahead
To the little band at the cow-ranch, thinking not of danger near,
With his quirt's unceasing whirl and the jingle of his spurs
Little brown Chapo bore the cowboy far away from a far frontier.
"Lower and lower sank the sun, he drew reins at Rocky Run.
'Here those men met death, my Chapo!' and he stroked his horse's mane.
'So shall those we go to warn, ere the breaking of the morn,
If I fail, God help my Bessie!' And he started out again.
"Sharp and keen the rifle shot woke the echoes of the spot.
'I am wounded!' cried Veniro, as he swayed from side to side.
'Where there is life there is always hope, onward slowly I will lope.
I may never reach the cow-ranch—Bessie dear shall know I tried.
"'I will save her yet,' he cried, 'Bessie Lee shall know I died
For her sake!' And then he halted in the shadow of a hill.
From a branch a twig he broke, and he dipped his pen of oak
In the warm blood that spurted from the wound above his heart.
"From his chaps he took, with weak hand, a little book,
Tore a blank leaf from it, saying, 'This shall be my will.'
He arose and wrote: 'Too late! Apache warriors lay in wait.
Good-bye, Bess, God bless you, darling!' And he felt the warm blood start.
"And he made his message fast—love's first letter and its last—
To his saddle horn he tied it, while his lips were white with pain.
'Take this message, if not me, safe to little Bess,' said he.
Then he tied himself to the saddle and gave his horse the rein.
"Just at dusk a horse of brown, wet with sweat, came panting down
Through the little lane at the cow-ranch and stopped at Bessie's door.
But the cowboy was asleep and his slumbers were so deep
That little Bess could not awake him, if she were to try forevermore.
• • • • • • • • •
"Now you have heard this story told, by the young and by the old,
Way down there at the cow-ranch the night the Apaches came.
Heard them speak of the bloody fight, how the chief fell in the flight
And
